Page 25 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

Thanksgiving in Brambleberry Bay arrives with all the subtlety of a turkey wearing tap shoes.

The air smells of woodsmoke and impending snow, and the sky is a bruised palette of grays that perfectly matches my mood.

The wind whips off the bay with enough force to make the festive banners along Main Street snap as if nature was offering up a round of applause—although what exactly it’s applauding remains unclear. Certainly not my love life.

After sitting through the town’s Thanksgiving parade with Cricket and Rookie, huddled on a bench while watching inflatable turkeys and Pilgrims bob down the street with unsettling enthusiasm, I’m currently dragging myself toward the Holiday Lobster House with all the energy of someone reporting for their own execution.

It’s almost three in the afternoon, and the sun—what little of it managed to pierce the thicket of storm clouds—already looks to be setting. November in Maine is pretty much where daylight comes to die by lunchtime.

She’s been moping all day, Cricket mewls from her perch inside my tote bag. This is the third sigh in five minutes. I’m keeping count.

Maybe she just needs to eat, Rookie suggests optimistically, trotting beside me with Mr. Jolly Beary secured to his back. Humans get cranky when their stomachs are empty. Like that time she hadn’t had coffee and yelled at the toaster.

Cricket chitters out a laugh. The toaster deserved it. It was being passive-aggressive with the bread settings. Her tail twitches as she remembers the event. But this isn’t hunger. This is heartbreak. I think she should dump Killion.

Not so fast! Rookie is quick to bark up a storm. He might have a good explanation.

For sneaking around with the redheaded she-devil? Cricket practically gags on her words. Please. The only explanation that would satisfy me involves amnesia, evil twins, or possibly alien mind control.

I try to tune them out as we approach the Holiday Lobster House, which stands like a weathered beacon overlooking the bay. My brother has transformed the place for Thanksgiving, managing to make a restaurant dedicated to shellfish feel festive for turkey day. And I’m pretty sure he succeeded.

Miniature pumpkins and gourds line the windowsills, corn husks and autumn leaves frame the doorways, and a hand-carved wooden sign featuring a lobster wearing a Pilgrim hat welcomes guests with alarming cheer.

Through the windows, I can see the place is packed.

Locals who didn’t want to cook, tourists without kitchens, and families too large for home dining rooms all crowd the rustic wooden tables.

The scent of butter, herbs, and roasted turkey spills out each time the door opens, along with bursts of laughter and the happy chatter of conversations running wild.

The special banquet room, with its panoramic ocean view, is where my family will be gathering.

I can already imagine them in there—my mother orchestrating the seating arrangement like a military campaign, my father pretending to understand the complexities of the wine list, Winnie and Fitz being perfect together, Neelie and Stanton displaying their May-December romance with uncomfortable enthusiasm, and Henry playing proud restaurateur while Tipper charms everyone within a ten-foot radius.

And I’ll be the sad singleton whose boyfriend is probably spending Thanksgiving with Venetta Brandt.

Perfect.

I’m about to step inside when movement on the beach below catches my eye.

Two figures stand at the water’s edge, outlined against the steel-gray surf.

Even from this distance, I’d recognize Killion’s tall frame and confident stance anywhere.

And the woman with him, her auburn hair whipping in the wind like a banner of betrayal, is none other than Venetta-the-Man-Stealer Brandt herself.

I watch frozen in place as Killion extends his hand. Venetta takes it, shaking firmly, and then—just to drive the stake deeper into my heart—she pulls him into a strong embrace.

Something inside me snaps like a wishbone being pulled apart. Before I can think better of it, I’m storming down the wooden steps to the beach with sand flying from beneath my boots like I’m personally responsible for erosion rates along the Maine coastline.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” I call out as I approach them, my voice carrying in the wind as if it didn’t want to stick around for the fun. “So nice to see you two together. Again. On Thanksgiving. How perfectly heartwarming.”

They break apart and Killion turns toward me with an expression caught between surprise and what looks suspiciously like guilt.

Venetta, on the other hand, appears amused, her crimson lips curving into a smile that makes me want to introduce her face to a snowball.

Preferably one with lots of rocks in it.

“Hattie?” Killion starts. “This isn’t?—”

“What it looks like?” I finish for him. “Funny, that’s exactly what people say when it’s precisely what it looks like.”

“Actually”—Venetta purrs—“it’s exactly what it looks like—the successful conclusion of a business transaction.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I cross my arms, partly from anger and partly because the wind off the ocean is freezing. “Well, I hope you both fall off a cliff! Preferably a tall one. With jagged rocks at the bottom. And possibly sharks.”

Go Hattie! Cricket cheers while Rookie groans by her side.

Venetta tilts her head and her expression suggests she finds my meltdown entertaining rather than intimidating.

She wrinkles her nose at me. “I can see you two have some things to discuss.” She turns to Killion.

“If things don’t work out between you two, call me.

I’ll save some pie for you tonight.” She winks his way and sashays off across the sand with the sassy stride of someone who knows they’re leaving chaos in their wake.

For a long moment, Killion and I just stare at each other as the wind howls around us like it’s providing a soundtrack to a particularly dramatic scene in a movie—a horror movie. Or more to the point, a Thanksgiving tragedy.

I shake my head at him. “Whatever explanation you’re about to give”—my chest bucks with pain—“it better be good. Olympic-level good. Or I was secretly saving orphans and puppies good.”

“I’m moving,” he says simply.

Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn’t even on the list. “You’re... moving?”

I kept the secret! I kept the secret! Rookie dances in circles around our feet with his tail wagging like a metronome on caffeine. I get a bone! I didn’t tell about the boxes or the new house or ANYTHING!

“Yes, I’m moving,” Killion confirms, running a hand through his hair in that nervous gesture I find unreasonably attractive even when I’m furious with him. “My landlord in Pelican Cove is selling the house. They’re tearing it down to build a parking lot.”

“A parking lot?” I give a half-hearted laugh, and I can feel the anger in me starting to deflate like a soufflé removed from the oven too soon.

He nods with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I found a place, right here in Brambleberry Bay.”

“You’ll be close to me!” I surge forward before I can stop myself.

“Closer than you think.” He winces slightly as if he’s about to confess to something embarrassing. “I hope you don’t mind, but I found a place in Moonlit Meadows.”

“That’s where I live!” The words burst out of me far too loud for the short distance between us.

“I know.” His smile grows at the thought. “I found a place right next door to you.”

“Right next door!” I shout, twice as loud as before, jumping up and down in a display that says I have no ability to regulate my emotions. And I think we all know that’s true. “ Wait .” I stop suddenly as confusion cuts through my joy. “What does any of this have to do with Venetta?”

“She’s been moonlighting as a real estate agent. And regrettably, I chose to employ her as such.” He’s back to wincing.

“That’s why you’ve been meeting with Venetta? She’s your real estate agent?”

He nods. “That’s right. She’s the one who showed me the cabin.

Trust me, it wasn’t my first choice to work with her, but she responded to my inquiry immediately.

I had less than thirty days, and I was desperate.

” He takes a step closer. “I wanted to surprise you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for days, but the timing kept getting interrupted. ”

“But I saw you at the cabin with her. At night.”

“She was showing me the property. The only time that worked with both our schedules was after her spa shift and my patrol.”

The pieces start clicking into place—the boxes in the photo he sent, his mysterious behavior, the secretive meetings.

“So all this time, you weren’t... I mean, you and Venetta weren’t...”

“Weren’t what?” His brow furrows in genuine confusion, and then understanding dawns. “Wait, you thought Venetta and I were... romantically involved?”

Put like that, it suddenly seems absurd. I nod sheepishly.

“Hattie.” He steps close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him despite the chill wind. “The only woman I’m interested in moving closer to is you. Although I’m starting to think even next door isn’t close enough.”

“Oh Killion, we’re not breaking up?” The question slips out before I can stop it, vulnerability cracking my voice.

“Not unless you want to beat me to the punch by pushing me off that cliff you mentioned,” he says, his green eyes crinkling with amusement.

“No way!” In a move that surprises us both, I launch myself onto him, wrapping my legs around his waist as he instinctively catches me.

Our lips meet in a kiss that could probably melt the storm clouds overhead, not that either of us notices when the rain finally starts to fall, pelting us with droplets sharp as icicles.

We break apart, laughing as we’re drenched within seconds.

“Maybe we should continue this inside,” I suggest, reluctantly unwinding myself from around him.

“Definitely,” he agrees, taking my hand. “I’m pretty sure your family is watching from the window anyway.”

Sure enough, when we glance up at the restaurant, a row of Holiday faces are pressed against the glass. But really, who could blame them? They care about me. And they care about Killion, too. Although if he was cheating on me with Venetta, they would so help me push them both off a cliff.

We trudge up the beach stairs, soaking wet but grinning like idiots as Cricket and Rookie race ahead of us.

By the time we enter the warm embrace of the Holiday Lobster House, we look like we’ve gone swimming fully clothed in November—which, in Maine, is generally considered a sign of either true love or genuine insanity. Possibly both.

The banquet room erupts in cheers and knowing looks as we make our way to the table in squeaky shoes. My mother immediately produces two beach towels, from seemingly nowhere. But then again, my mother has always known exactly what I need and when.

“Now that our dramatic latecomers have arrived”—she announces—“we can finally do what we came to do— eat !”

The meal is everything Thanksgiving should be.

The turkey is perfectly roasted, the scrumptious side dishes are abundant, and the lobster (because Henry can’t help himself) is divine.

Conversation and laughter flow as freely as the wine, and even Neelie seems less self-absorbed as she recounts the latest drama with her wedding planning. But only by a little.

“I simply told the florist that if he couldn’t provide roses that match the exact shade of Stanton’s eyes, he could forget about the contract,” she declares, causing my father to choke slightly on his stuffing.

Mom talks nonstop about wedding plans for the upcoming year, somehow managing to work in at least three mentions of how lovely June brides are.

“You know, Hattie”—she says innocently as dessert is served—“there is always room for a third wedding. The more the merrier!” She winks at Killion and me with all the subtlety of a foghorn.

“How about a fourth?” Tipper asks, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at Henry, who turns a shade of red that matches the cranberry sauce.

The table erupts in laughter, and as I look around at my ridiculous, wonderful family—plus Killion who feels every bit like family, whose hand has found mine under the table—I’m struck by how much I have to be thankful for.

It’s a happy Thanksgiving, indeed, and Brambleberry Bay is about to get a brand-new resident. One who’s currently drawing circles on my palm with his thumb and promising many more reasons for me to be thankful in the future.

Now if we can just make it to Christmas without another homicide, we’ll really have something to celebrate.

But something tells me in a town like Brambleberry Bay, murder is always in season.