Page 3 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year

Her dog ran away when she was thirteen. When she was sixteen, their car caught fire and the next day all the presents disappeared out from under the tree. A week later, the car was running again and Maggie never asked a single question.

Her senior year of high school, theydidhave snow, but it knocked out power to half the state and Maggie spent the holiday huddled around the fireplace with her parents, hoping the water didn’t freeze.

Of course, at the time, she didn’t know that was the last Christmas they’d have together. She’d joked about how next year would be better—telling her parents they had to wait untilshe was home from college to put up the tree and wrap the presents.

But twelve months later, her parents were gone and Maggie was alone and...

“I need to go.”

Deborah pushed her into a chair then moved to the other side of the desk. “You need to sit.”

“Look”—Maggie started to stand—“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m really not good at parties, so let’s catch up after the new year, okay? Let’s—”

“Sit. Down.” Deborah didn’t raise her voice. Deborah didn’t have to. When she was nothing but a nineteen-year-old intern, Deborah had pulled the greatest crime writer to ever live out of the slush pile, so when Deborah whispered, people listened. Even people who hated the smell of peppermint and eggnog and pine.

“I have a surprise for you.” Deborah eased into her leather chair then tossed something onto the stack of manuscripts that rimmed her massive desk. It was just an envelope, square and the color of eggshells, but for some reason Maggie was almost afraid to touch it.

“Oh. I’m afraid I... uh... didn’t do cards this year.”

“You never do cards and neither do I. That’s not from me.”

The card was heavy in Maggie’s hand when she reached for it. The paper was smooth and soft and— Money. The envelope felt like money in every sense of the word. Her name was scrawled across the front in the most pristine handwriting she’d ever seen.Ms. Margaret Chase.

“Well. Open it,” Deborah dared, and Maggie turned the envelope over to break the wax seal on the back. The card inside was even softer.

You are cordially invited to—

“No.”

“You haven’t even read it!”

Maggie couldn’t help but whine, “You tricked me into coming to one party just so you could invite me to another one?”

Deborah’s laugh was almost maniacal.“Oh, that’s no invitation, sweet Charlie. That is your ticket to the chocolate factory.”

Maggie had known Deborah for almost nine years, but she’d never seen her look like she looked then: giddy and sly and almost ravenous. She imagined that’s how nineteen-year-old Deborah must have looked when she’d pulled Eleanor Ashley’s first manuscript from the pile on the mail room floor. Like a woman whose evil plan was just getting started.

“You’ve been invited to the home of your biggest fan for Christmas.”

“Deborah—”

“In England!” Deborah said with a flourish, as if that made everything better and not infinitely worse. “All expenses paid. Now before you tell me I’m crazy—”

“You’re crazy! Do I need to remind you that I write mysteries?”

“So?”

“So my fans like murder! And murderers! And—”

“Your last book was about a woman whose cat could smell poison.”

“Hey!The Purrrrfect Crimesold very well in Brazil,” Maggie said, but Deborah was determined. There was no teasing glint in her eye, no mischievous twinkle.

“I can personally vouch for this particular fan. And I’m telling you”—she lowered her voice—“youwantto get on that plane. You are positivelydyingto get on that plane.”

Maggie ran a finger over the heavy paper. It really was a lovely card. “I don’t want to spend Christmas with strangers,” she admitted and Deborah’s eyes went soft.

“Then who are you spending Christmas with? Because you know I’m a heartless old crone but when I think of you rattling around that tiny apartment all by yourself...”