Yule Log Eulogy

by Addison Moore

  “Did you?” I don’t miss a beat taking Rudolph up on his suggestion, only it doesn’t sound as cute as when Charlie said it. It sounds darn right crass.

  She belts out a laugh, and I sigh with relief. That could have gone either way.

  “I didn’t do it.” She bats her lashes so fast, it’s as if she’s trying to blow out a candle with them. “But whoever did it sure did have a pair of jingle bells to do it right there at the party—at her party.”

  “When you think about it, a full house is the perfect venue for murder. A plethora of suspects, the mild chaos, and confusion a party like that can induce in a boisterous crowd—it must have been easy for the killer to move in and about the property unnoticed.”

  “Now that you put it that way, I really do think you’re the killer.” She gives a cheeky smile. “I’m kidding. Believe me when I say there were far more people in that room qualified to kill Larson than you.”

  “Qualified? As in, they had a motive?”

  “If only they had one. Every person in that room had ten or twelve.”

  “Wow, I didn’t realize she was so reviled.” Okay, so I could surmise as much. But if I had to put a bet on who would be offed that night, my money would have been on Cressida. However, that might have just been wishful thinking on the part of my apparently dark, dark murderous heart.

  “She was hated with a capital everything,” she pants it out breathy. “More by some than others.”

  That sounds terrible. And as terrible as this sounds, it sounds about right.

  “Her sister, Shelly, didn’t sound too pleased with her at the bar the other night.”

  Her mouth falls open. “You were there? Yeah, she was ticked. But Shelly’s just mad because Larson was Daddy’s favorite. Larson was able to coerce her dad into giving her access to the full amount of her trust fund. Shelly has to wait until some ridiculous ancient age like thirty until she gets a livable wage. She’s destitute at the moment, but her father thinks it’s good for her. Larson actually convinced him to do it.”

  “How’d she do that?” And since when is thirty ancient? I haven’t thought that thirty was old since I was about twelve. And now that I’ll be staring down the barrel of that “ancient” age in a couple of years—I’m convinced thirty is the new twenty.

  Charlie winces. “You didn’t really know Larson if you have to ask. What Larson wanted, Larson got.” She leans in. “Her ex, Hook Redwood, was there that night, and rumor has it, she was gunning to get him back.”

  My mouth falls open. “I thought she was just doing that to make Kippy jealous.” I marvel for a second over the fact I was able to use the word Kippy in a complete sentence.

  Charlie shakes her head. “Larson was greedy. One man was never enough for her.”

  “So, she was gunning for two?” I ask just as Keelie snorts to my right. I have no doubt she’s listening in. Keelie has always been the biggest snoop in the world. And it’s actually one of the things I appreciate about her. There is no handier sidekick for an amateur sleuth.

  Rudolph leans in. “I’ve heard stories about you, Lottie. According to Carlotta, you’ve got a couple of eager caribou locking antlers to take you back to their pen.”

  I can’t help but avert my gaze. Freaking Carlotta.

  She’s right, but still. It would figure she’s spending her time gossiping about me to dead caribou and a couple of criminal Canellis.

  Britney blows her whistle again just as the music slows to a more pleasing pace.

  Charlie pants out a hard breath. “Larson was aiming to have an entire collection of men. Her father is the same way with women.”

  “You mean after her mother died?”

  “After, before, during. Cumberland Rosenberg was never what you would call faithful.”

  “That’s too bad. Did Larson tell you that?”

  “No, it’s just something everyone has known. My father knows firsthand. He caught Cumberland and my mother. It was ugly. For a while they were pretty serious. I guess if Larson’s father could have an affair, her mother figured she could, too. And she picked my father to do it. There was talk of a marriage at one point. And after Larson’s mother, Isabelle, died, Larson came up to me the very next week and said, ‘I’m glad she’s dead. That way I’ll never need to feel the embarrassment of having you as family.’”

  A choking sound emits from me. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s more. Our friend Tilly? She edits for a publishing house called Spice. And don’t think for a minute that Larson didn’t have something to do with that. Tilly was on her way to becoming a top editor at one of the big five publishing houses, but Larson didn’t like having someone who tested her intelligence in our circle, so she made sure not only to demote her but to land her at the sleaziest tabloid-like house there was. Larson not only wanted to make sure to keep her employed, she wanted to make sure there was a touch of shame in the endeavor, too.”

  “Lovely. What made you want to maintain any level of friendship with her?”

  “Revenge.” She shrugs it off as Britney blows the whistle, and we come to a stop. “But I didn’t kill her. I was too busy trying to steal Kippy.”

  “You were trying to steal Kippy? I thought Larson stole him from Buffy?”

  Boy, Everett’s friends are more complex than a soap opera storyline.

  Charlie makes a face as she mops the sweat off her brow with her wristband. “Buffy is my friend. My real friend. And in a fit of foolishness I thought I’d hurt Larson. But I only ended up hurting Buffy.” Her shoulders sag as she slumps over the handlebars. “Larson always did say that I couldn’t do anything right.”

  Wait a minute… Wasn’t Larson going into business with Charlie?

  I glance to Rudolph as if asking for help.

  “Don’t look at me.” He shakes his head, and I could swear I hear the jingle of delicate bells. “I’m just here for the whiskey. And where would they keep that, my love?”

  I roll my eyes. Leave it to Carlotta to turn one of Santa’s finest into the world’s first inebriated specter.

  A thought comes to me. “I think you’re wrong about what Larson thought of you. In fact, I might be wrong”—most likely because I am totally making this up—“but I overheard Larson saying she was looking forward to going into business with you.”

  Charlie’s chest bounces with a laugh. “She was lying.” She shrugs. “Or not. Her plan wasn’t so much a partnership as it was making me do all the work while she watched the money roll in. It was going to be something along the lines of a silent partnership. She was putting up all the money, and I was going to do all the work. And, of course, she would have all the say. Not so silent, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll catch you later,” she says, hopping off the bike. “Probably at the funeral. Cressie is planning on pulling out the big guns.” She shakes her head. “It’s going to be quite a show.” She takes off, and I try to process what just happened.

  Charlie had every reason to despise Larson—and perhaps Larson’s mother, too. For all I know, Isabelle could have broken up their family.

  I’ll have to tell Noah.

  Speaking of which, Keelie and I had better get back to the bakery before either Noah or this group of sweaty Betty’s beats us across the street. Britney is notorious for sending her clients to my bakery afterwards to reload on the calories they’ve just lost. It’s been an arrangement that’s worked out fiscally for the both of us for a while now.

  I hop off my bike. “Come on, Keelie. We’d better make tracks. I’ve got an iced peppermint mocha latte with our names on it.”

  Keelie swings her leg over the side, and just as she tries to stand on her feet, she begins to melt into a puddle. I reach out and catch her just as her eyes roll into the back of her head.

  “Keelie?” I shout, but she doesn’t answer. “Keelie? Wake up,” I cry as a crowd begins to gather. “Oh my God, someone call 911!”

  Chapter 9

&nb
sp; She fainted.

  The fire department showed up first, and she was fully conscious before they ever entered the building. Forest was on duty and he tried getting Keelie to go to the hospital for a quick checkup, but she insisted she was fine. It was unnerving to the say the least, but Britney did say that it’s happened before with what she’s dubbed “weekend warriors”. But it’s neither the weekend nor is Keelie out of shape. Nevertheless, Bear picked her up from the Honey Pot and spent the rest of the day pampering her—as he should.

  It’s the next evening, the night of the Candy Cane Mix and Mingle Jingle—and Noah helped me schlep all of my sweet treats out to Fallbrook, to Royce Bentley’s not-so-humble estate. It turns out, Cressida’s daddy owns vast acreage right here in Vermont, and if you follow a long winding road long enough, eventually, you’ll come upon a structure that can rival Hearst Castle.

  The mansion itself is monolithic in width and girth, and the inside is far more opulent than any fancy hotel I’ve ever seen. The kitchen—the entry Noah and I were asked to use—is a cavernous space filled with every luxury appliance known to man. There’s a dedicated waitstaff, all dressed in black and white formal attire—tuxedos for the men and short black dresses with frilly white aprons for the women. And they help distribute the desserts to the designated refreshment stations with all the emotion of a herd of robots.

  The grand ballroom is decorated to the hilt in a winter wonderland theme, with lavender lighting, baby blue twinkle lights, white evergreens that sparkle like jewels, and there’s even a throne at the front of the room with a man dressed as Santa. Of course, there is a long line of grannies eager for a quick romp on Santa’s lap, which makes perfect sense since this soiree is specifically designed to host people of a certain age.

  The music is thumping—loud Christmas carols that half the room seems to be singing along to, and the bodies are swirling, each of them looking far more dapper and glamorous than the last. But let’s call a spade a spade. The men look to be a fit version of whatever age they are, mostly in their late seventies, I’m guessing, with gray hair (if any), paunches, and pinkie rings with a diamond snug in the middle to act as a homing beacon to the silver panthers that abound. The women, however, are a thing of beauty. They all look impeccable, each one looking as if she could give any woman my age a run for their nonexistent money.

  Noah leans in as we take in the crowd. “Any sign of your mother?”

  I shake my head with dismay. “And, believe me, I’ve checked that line for Santa twice. But I know she’s here. She texted earlier and let me know she arrived.”

  My mother is still a stickler for check-ins. And even if my sisters and I are slow to comply, she likes to lead by example. And I’m glad about it, too. Miranda Lemon has proven to be a handful these past few years, far more than my sisters and I ever were in our teens.

  Noah grunts as he points to a cloister of women, “What do you think that’s about?”

  “I don’t know, but it looks as if they’re slowly moving in our direction.”

  The boil of women makes their way over, and a tall, dark, and shockingly handsome man emerges from their midst.

  “Everett,” I say as my entire person brightens at the sight of him.

  “Lemon.” He pulls me into a quick embrace and about ten of the silver panthers that were in hot pursuit offer me a sour look before scuttling back into the crowd.

  Both Everett and Noah look dapper tonight with their dark inky suits, their hair slicked back, and the dark peppering of stubble on their cheeks.

  “My mother is here.” Everett frowns hard as he glances to the crowd. “She says she can hardly wait to try your Yule log.”

  A supernatural burst of light emits to my right, and I gasp as I take up both Everett and Noah’s hands. I’m not sure why, but I seem to act as a conduit for the dead. If someone is holding my hand, they tend to hear them, too.

  Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer shows up in all his undead glory, shining like a supernova as his enormous antlers move right to left as he inspects the vicinity.

  “That Yule log should come with a hazard warning.” A visible shiver rides through him as he says it, and both Everett and Noah chuckle.

  “Not funny,” I say.

  Rudolph lifts his chin and brandishes his teeth my way as if he were smiling. “It does go rather well with whiskey.”

  I click my tongue. “Is Carlotta still plying you with liquor?”

  “No,” he grunts. “It turns out, Cat and Connie don’t like to share.”

  I drop Everett and Noah’s hands like a couple of hot potatoes.

  What in the heck was I thinking linking them up to this walking, talking Canelli informant?

  Noah leans in, his brows drawn over his forehead in a neat straight line, a vexingly sexy look on the already devastatingly sexy detective. And, don’t for a minute think his good looks have been wasted on the senior sect. Noah’s cane has somehow upped his value in this place. He’s already been asked to go upstairs twice. I can only surmise that a little holiday hanky-panky is taking place upstairs. He was instructed to follow the garland to the red room to the right if he ever changed his mind.

  “Lottie?” Noah’s holly green eyes bear hard into mine. “What did he mean by Cat and Connie?”

  I try my best to wave it off. “I think he said that catatonic doesn’t like to share. Of course, Carlotta doesn’t like to share her booze.” I cringe inside because now I’m forced to lie to both Everett and Noah.

  Darn Carlotta. And darn those catatonic Canellis for always trying to weasel their way out of the law.

  “Have I mentioned the dead can eat and drink now?” I make a face. “Oh, Everett, if your father ever gets to come back again for another round, I’ll let him eat his way through my bakery.” I flatten the front of my navy velvet dress down with my hands.

  I went to the Scarlett Sage boutique this afternoon, and she just so happened to have a beaut of a gown just for me. A sweetheart neckline, a modest slit up my right leg, and long, fitted sleeves. It’s a stunner if I do say so myself.

  “Rudolph”—I say, leaning in—“just wait until you see all the Yule logs I’ve brought with me. And guess what? They’re right next to the spiked eggnog and the holly jolly punch.” Aka trashcan punch. I’ve never seen a group of seniors so eager to get snockered than that of those hovering around the refreshment table. Rudolph takes off that way, cantering straight through the bodies in our midst, before he takes flight and floats over the crowd as if he had a little of the jolly elf’s magic in him after all.

  “Lemon,” Everett says it like a reprimand.

  “I’d love to stay and answer your questions, but I really should go and say hello to my mother first.” I crane my neck into the crowd until I spot a sight that makes my skin crawl. “In fact, I think I see Cormack and Cressida speeding their way over. Perhaps the two of you should meet them halfway lest they push, claw, and break a couple of hips on their way to paw you.” Don’t get me started on the stray oxygen tanks being wheeled around this place. Cormack is liable to turn one into a missile and accidentally aim it at poor Noah. Dear God, she’ll probably really do him in one day.

  I ditch into the crowd myself.

  I’ve got a horny hunch that I should follow the garland to the red room of pain at the top of the stairs if I want to see my mother’s not-so-innocent face.

  It takes a good five minutes to get to the base of the stairs, and I take them up two at a time. I think it’s odd that I’m the only one ascending the stairway to seven minutes in heaven—longer if you have a faulty ticker—that is, until I reach the top and spot three different elevators engulfed in jovial bodies that are coming and going.

  A bustling crowd lingers to my right, and they all seem to be draining in through a pair of double doors. There’s a man standing out front facing the crowd, silver hair, body of a linebacker, sunglasses on, and I can’t help but think he looks like a bouncer.

  I muscle my way to the entry, an
d he sticks his arm out in front of me.

  “No entry for you.” His voice is deep and steady, and his head is still facing forward toward the crowd in an unnerving manner.

  “What do you mean no entry for me?” I try to push his arm out of the way, but it proves unmovable.

  “I mean no kids. This is a grown-up event. It’s past your bedtime. Skedaddle.”

  “Skedaddle?” I scoff. “Quite frankly, I’m affronted by your ageist attitude.”

  What was I supposed to say? I’m here looking for my mother? Although, I bet I wouldn’t be the first frantic child to drop that line.

  I peer inside the cavernous room before me, segmented off into what looks like a maze—a sexual maze, I’m betting. Red lights abound and there’s a fog machine blowing pink mist all over the place so I can’t read what the signs say. The crowd is just as thick up here as it was downstairs, and the music seems to be the same cheery holiday renditions of every song I grew up listening to. So help me God if they taint this music for me forever because of the lascivious behavior I’m about to witness in this red room of pain, there will be pain, all right. First, for my mother, once I have a conservatorship placed over her, and secondly, for Royce Bentley, the twisted oldie but not goodie who had the wherewithal and financial backing to bring an all new meaning to fifty shades of gray.

  “Step to the side.” The bouncer gently moves me to the left with his iron arm just as a spray of supernatural light spasms beside me.

  “Rudolph!” I cry out just as his ghostly frame begins to take shape. “Take me with you!” But that stubborn caribou meagerly offers me a chocolate laden smile before sauntering off into the red room as if he knew his way around. And something tells me I shouldn’t be too surprised if he did. This is quickly turning into a December I wish I didn’t have to remember.

  The bouncer turns his head my way. “Did you just say Rudolph?” He leans in as if to affirm this.

  The logical side of me shouts, deny, deny, deny. But the illogical, and thus far more prevalent to be right, side of me suggests I go with it.