Page 22 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

I still don’t understand human formal events, Cricket muses from her hiding spot under one of the elaborately draped tables. They dress in uncomfortable clothes, make small talk they hate, and then brag about how much fun they had.

But the food! Rookie counters, his little nose peeking out beside her. They drop so much food! It’s like living in a magical land where treats rain from the sky.

Cricket grunts. You have the culinary standards of a garbage disposal.

And you’re just grumpy because Mr. Jolly Beary is getting more attention than you from that little girl in the green dress.

He’s an inanimate object! Cricket’s mental voice rises to a shriek. He doesn’t even appreciate it!

The Gilded Gratitude Gala has transformed the Brambleberry Bay Country Club’s grand ballroom into what can only be described as Thanksgiving’s fever dream—and to Peyton’s chagrin, maybe new money.

Every surface gleams with either gold leaf or candlelight, reflecting off crystal chandeliers that hang from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls.

Sprays of autumn flowers—rust-colored chrysanthemums, golden sunflowers, and deep burgundy dahlias—burst from towering arrangements on gilded pedestals.

In the centerpiece of the room, commanding attention is a magnificent ice sculpture of a turkey carved with such precision that each feather seems to shimmer with glacial life as champagne flows from its beak.

Its proud, frosty head surveys the gathering of New England’s elite as they circle the appetizer buffet like expensively dressed vultures.

And, well, it may have sprung a leak from its behind because it is most definitely an ice-carved defecating turkey.

I try not to focus on the fact there are actually two of them in the room. It’s bad enough I’ve inspected one of them.

That buffet, I have to admit, is a masterpiece of culinary artistry.

Tables draped in cream and gold linens stretch the length of one wall, laden with bite-sized morsels designed to impress rather than satisfy—tiny lobster rolls topped with edible gold flakes, shot glasses of pumpkin bisque with foamed maple cream, miniature Yorkshire puddings filled with rare beef and cranberry compote.

At the far end, the dessert table practically buckles under the weight of pumpkin-spiced everything, from macarons to crème br?lée to chocolate truffles dusted with cinnamon.

Along the opposite wall, silent auction items gleam under strategic lighting—weekend getaways to Martha’s Vineyard, custom jewelry from Boston’s finest artisans, a private yacht cruise, and even a dinner prepared by a celebrity chef who apparently has a summer home nearby.

Wealthy patrons drift between the displays, sipping champagne and casually adding zeros to bid sheets like they’re jotting down grocery lists.

A string quartet sits in one corner producing elegant background music that nobody seems to be listening to, while waitstaff in crisp white shirts and gold vests weave through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes so full they defy the laws of physics.

And the guests. Half the Northeast’s elite have turned out in their finest plumage.

Women in gowns that cost more than some cars glide across the marble floor, dripping with jewelry that could fund a small country’s infrastructure.

Men in tuxedos cluster in groups, discussing stock portfolios and yacht maintenance with the serious expressions of surgeons discussing complicated procedures.

My own ruby-colored gown—a floor-length number with a modest slit and just enough sparkle to suggest I put in effort without looking like I’m trying too hard—feels suddenly understated among the peacocking wealth.

But I didn’t have time to shop between solving murders and questioning suspects, so it’ll have to do.

My entire family has turned out in force tonight and I couldn’t be happier. My mother looks resplendent in a midnight blue gown while holding court near the champagne fountain, already three glasses in if her laugh is any indication.

My father hovers nearby where he tugs uncomfortably at his bow tie as if it’s slowly strangling him, which, knowing my mother’s propensity for overly tight knots, it just might be.

Winnie and Fitz make the perfect golden couple, she in a shimmering champagne-colored dress that complements her caramel hair, and he in a tuxedo that was probably tailored while he was still in the womb.

They’re deep in conversation with a couple who look important enough to have buildings named after them and probably do.

Neelie and Stanton present a more, well, controversial image.

Neelie looks so young compared to her fiancé Stanton.

She looks hardly old enough to legally drink the champagne she’s downing, while Stanton looks old enough to have invented it.

His silver hair and distinguished wrinkles might be attractive on someone who wasn’t dating a woman three decades his junior.

The diamond on Neelie’s finger is large enough to sink a cruise ship—such as the one Stanton’s ex-wife happens to live on.

And then there’s Henry, my sweet brother, looking surprisingly comfortable in formal wear as he canoodles with Tipper in a quiet corner.

Her brassy blonde hair is piled elegantly on her head, and she’s wearing a dress the color of ripe pumpkins that somehow works perfectly with her complexion.

I have to admit, I’m warming up to them as a couple.

They have the easy familiarity of two puzzle pieces that unexpectedly fit. So very unexpected.

“Hattie!” My mother’s voice cuts through the noise. “There’s our event coordinator extraordinaire!”

Then just like that, I’m surrounded by Holiday family members, all of whom are talking at once.

“Everything looks magnificent,” my father says, giving me an awkward one-armed hug.

“The ice sculpture is a stroke of genius,” Winnie gushes. “Although I’m still not sure about the champagne dispensing through its... um...”

“Anatomically incorrect beak,” Fitz supplies helpfully. Among other parts. What is this country club thinking?

I give a little shrug his way because sometimes I wonder that myself.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Henry adds, giving my shoulder a brotherly squeeze. “And don’t forget we’re all meeting tomorrow at three at the Holiday Lobster House for our Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I assure him. “Although after all this food prep and planning, I may never want to see another turkey again.”

“Speaking of turkeys”—Neelie nods toward a particularly pompous-looking gentleman holding the fort near the bar—“the mayor has already complained about the temperature of the room, the size of the shrimp, and the color of the napkins.”

“I’ll add it to my list of pressing concerns, right after world peace and discovering the scientific mystery of why matching socks disappear in the dryer,” I reply.

They all laugh, and for a moment, I bask in this rare familial harmony. Then they disperse like autumn leaves in a strong wind, drawn back to their respective social circles at all corners of the room.

I’ve barely had time to snag a flute of champagne before I’m flanked by Clarabelle and Peggy, who have interpreted formal attire in their unique way.

Clarabelle sports a pantsuit in a shade of metallic copper that makes her look like a particularly festive penny, while Peggy’s dress features enough sequins to be visible from three counties over.

“This shindig puts the swank in swanky,” Clarabelle declares, eyeing the room with approval. “Though I’m not sure about those ice-cold turkeys. They look like they’re judging every single one of us.”

“That’s just your conscience finally catching up with you,” Peggy shoots back, already on her second glass of champagne. “Besides, I think they’re elegant. Nothing says class like frozen poultry with beverage capabilities.”

“If the next body we find has been bludgeoned with a turkey ice sculpture, I’ll know who to question first,” I mutter. I’m thinking Peyton.

Speak of the devil… Peyton materializes beside us like a corporate specter in her sleek black gown, tablet in hand, and expression that looks as if it’s trying hard to conceal her stress.

“Nice job so far, Hattie,” she concedes, and her tone suggests she’s surprised I haven’t burned the place down yet. Honestly? So am I. “I’ll give you your holiday bonus early if you leave the corpses off the menu.”

Before I can formulate a suitable corpse-free response, she strides off, already barking instructions into her headset regarding the auction.

“That woman needs either a vacation or an exorcism,” Clarabelle observes. “Possibly both, and in that order.”

I’m about to agree when I spot Meredith Thorne and Autumn Harrington approaching, each carefully carrying small plates of appetizers as if they’re transporting explosives. The two competitors, both suspects in our ongoing investigation, offer tight smiles as they join our little circle.

“Meredith! Autumn! So glad you could make it,” I say, trying my hardest to channel my inner hostess. “And thank you both for contributing to the food spread. Everything is wonderful.”

Meredith belts out a hearty laugh. “Well, butter my biscuit and call me breakfast. I wouldn’t miss this shindig for all the tea in China,” she drawls the words out and her Southern accent is thick as molasses.

She’s dressed in a burgundy gown that complements her auburn curls, her vintage cat-eye glasses replaced with a more formal pair for the evening—black frames lined with rhinestones.

Autumn sheds an easy smile. “Well, at least it’s for a good cause tonight,” Autumn adds, dressed in an elegant champagne-colored sheath that makes her honey-blonde hair glow under the chandeliers. “Although I have to say, your dessert table puts mine to shame.”

“Your breakfast spread puts most dinner parties to shame,” I counter truthfully. “And for the record, I love both of your pumpkin waffles equally.”

We all share a laugh that sounds more genuine than I expected.

“Though if y’all are looking for recommendations”—Peggy jumps in, leaning toward Meredith with her hand next to her mouth—“I’d suggest adding a splash of bourbon to your batter. Works wonders for waffles and first dates.”

“And cardiac arrests,” Clarabelle adds.

We all share a laugh at that one.

Over Autumn’s shoulder, I spot a familiar figure entering the ballroom, and my heart attempts a daring escape from my ribcage that would impress even Houdini.

Killion looks devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, the formal wear emphasizing his broad shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. His dark hair is slightly tousled, as if he ran his fingers through it in that nervous habit that I find unreasonably attractive.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to the group, already moving toward him like a compass finding north. And face it, Killion is so my north.

Cricket and Rookie materialize at my heels and follow along with the loyalty of Secret Service agents—if Secret Service agents were primarily motivated by dropped hors d’oeuvres. And let’s be honest, I bet some of them could be swayed by an hors d’oeuvres or two.

Killion’s eyes find mine across the room and his smile makes my knees temporarily forget their job description. For a moment, I almost forget the suspicion that’s been gnawing at me since I saw him with Venetta. Almost.

Killion and I close the gap between us in three seconds flat.

“You look beautiful,” he says, the sincerity in his voice threatening to melt my carefully constructed wall of doubt.

“You clean up pretty well yourself, Detective,” I manage, willing my voice to remain steady. “Although I’m not sure the criminals of Eagle County would be properly intimidated if they saw you now.”

“I don’t know.” He grins. “This bow tie feels like it could double as a weapon of mass destruction in a pinch. That or a torture device.”

We share a laugh, and for a brief moment, it feels like us again. Like the easy rhythm we had before Venetta and secrets and mysterious boxes popped up on the scene. But mostly, this is Venetta’s fault. Although if Killion is running around with her, he’s equally to blame, if not more.

And why does he have to run around with her, anyway? Why can’t he control himself?

Sure, she’s beautiful, but she’s not me.

On second thought, maybe that’s the point.

And what’s wrong with me ?

Maybe I’m too busy here at the club, or maybe I’m too busy at the murder club. Or maybe he sees me for the bad luck charm I really am. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care for me prying into his gray matter. I could understand that. My little gift, or curse as it were, is asking a lot from a partner.

His expression turns serious. “Hattie, there’s something important I think we should discuss. I have something I need to tell you, something that can change things between us.”

My heart plummets faster than the temperature in Maine in January. This is it. The breakup speech. On Thanksgiving Eve. At a charity gala that I organized. In front of ice-carved champagne-defecating turkeys.

Oh geez. This isn’t at all how I envisioned this.

Wait a minute… maybe I’ve somehow accidentally manifested this.

Before I can prepare myself for the blow, his phone bleats from his pocket. He grimaces, checks the screen, and sighs.

“It’s the precinct. I have to take this.” The regret in his eyes looks genuine, but at this point, I don’t know what to believe. “Promise me you won’t do anything tonight regarding the case. We’ll talk later.”

“I promise,” I say automatically, the lie slipping out with surprising ease.

He squeezes my hand, then strides away, already answering his phone in that clipped, professional tone he uses for work.

I watch him go, a hollow feeling expanding in my chest. Across the room, near the magnificent ice turkey sculpture that’s slowly dripping champagne from its rear end, I spot Meredith Thorne standing alone, examining the frozen creation with a pensive expression.

My promise to Killion echoes in my mind, but it’s quickly drowned out by the memory of his words—“something that can change things between us.”

He’s probably off talking to Venetta right now, reassuring her he’s going to break up with his girlfriend on the night before Thanksgiving, of all days. What a cad he’s turned out to be.

Well, if he can break a promise to me, then I can break a promise to him.

Decision made. I straighten my spine and adjust the bodice of my ruby gown before striding purposefully in Meredith Thorne’s direction.

After all, a turkey isn’t the only thing getting roasted this Thanksgiving.