She moans as she takes them in. “Aw, they look just like Mistletoe and Holly.” Mom adopted a pair of kittens last Christmas, and I’ve never seen her so attentive to any living being before. Now that her kids are grown and gone, those cats really filled a void I don’t think either of us knew she had. “But I’m afraid I can’t take on any more. What are you going to do with them?”
“God only knows,” I say.
She lifts a finger. “Come into the ballroom and we’ll figure this out. Oh, and I want to know all about your latest murder!” she trills as she speeds that way. “Your sister told me about the body you found. You really have a knack for that!” She gives a thumbs-up as she falls in line with the thicket of other women drifting in the same direction.
“Good grief.” I cringe. My mother can make anything I do sound like a budding accomplishment newsworthy to brag to her friends about. But let’s face it, I haven’t exactly given her much else to brag about.
I’m about to head that way when my brother strides in looking rather miffed, and by his side is an equally sour-faced Mackenzie Woods. Although, her cranky disposition is much more perennial than his is—or at least it used to be. Now that Hux and Mackenzie are the real deal, it wouldn’t surprise me if I saw a steady decline in his jovial state.
Mackenzie Woods can make a grown man cry. I’m just hoping that grown man doesn’t turn out to be my brother.
Mackenzie laughs at the sight of me. Her hair is spun into a tight bun, and she’s donned a cranberry power suit, her go-to wardrobe essential.
“Well, if it isn’t the little killer who could,” she muses. “You really are trying to outdo yourself, aren’t you? I can hardly wait to see what carnage you have planned for Cider Cove this Christmas. A double homicide, perhaps?” She bubbles with laughter, but neither Hux nor I join in. Here’s hoping Georgie and that ex-convict of a daughter are involved on the receiving end of that one.
“Not funny,” I say. “What’s going on?” I take a moment to scowl at the two of them. Neither of them has any business at the inn.
Mack gives the cute little kittens in my arms the stink eye. “What’s with the sewer rats? Don’t answer that.” She gives each one a gentle scratch over the ears and bites the air as if threatening to eat them. “I’m here because Hux promised me waffles out by the sea.” She sniffs. “And don’t forget, the Founders’ Day concert at the cove is in a week. We’re counting on the inn to provide refreshments and maybe some more of those donuts you used to kill your latest victim—the town will be hoofing the bill. Try not to kill any members of Sugar Shack. They happen to be my favorite band.” She gives Hux a kiss on the cheek. Let’s hope Bizzy doesn’t slaughter one of us in our sleep. It’ll most likely be me. “I’ll go order those waffles.” She takes off in haste, clip-clopping her way toward the café, and Sherlock gives a quick bark in her wake.
She’s never given me bacon, Bizzy. Not once.
Huxley offers Sherlock a quick pat on the back. “Macy’s heading over and we’re going to talk about this mess she’s gotten herself into. You do realize the best friend of the woman who died is accusing Macy of doing the deadly deed. Someone wrote the word killer over her shop window this morning.”
“Oh no, that’s terrible.”
“That, my sister, is defamation,” he corrects. “Macy wants to sue Willow Taylor, the surviving partner of that shop that opened up across the way for slander.”
A groan evicts from me. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, I would.” Macy crops up, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and ready for revenge on whoever thought it was a good idea to deface her storefront. Her blonde hair looks almost snow white in the light, and she’s donned a denim jacket with matching blue jeans. “I won’t be called a killer when I didn’t harm a hair on that ridiculous woman’s head.” I wanted to, but that’s beside the point.
“Macy.” I wince as I give a quick look around. “You can’t call her a ridiculous woman. Don’t speak ill of the dead. It will only make you look bad.”
Huxley nods. “Or like the killer.”
The three cute little kittens in my arms begin to mewl at once.
She’s a killer!
Oh, we’re all dead.
Sherlock, help us! We’re too young to die!
“Now look what you’ve done,” I say. “You’ve scared the kittens.”
Huxley chuckles. “Don’t feel bad, little ones”—he pats them on the head—“Macy Baker has the capability to scare grown men.”
Emmie whips by with a giant platter of fresh apple cider mini donuts, and the three of us helplessly head in that direction as the sugary scent casts its spell on us.
Inside, the ballroom is light and bright. The floor is heavily carpeted with a leaf motif. There are over two dozen round tables set out, with a mountain of fabric over them, and a sewing machine dots them all like a mechanical centerpiece.
We load up on donuts before heading to where Georgie and Mom have their goods laid out.
“What do you think?” Georgie holds her arms out. “We’re calling it the Crazy Quilt Lady Club.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “You’re calling it that. The rest of us are calling it the Cider Cove Quilting Guild. Apparently, they’ve been meeting for years in an old renovated barn. Come to find out, they like the ballroom much better.”
Georgie waves her off. “They’re just jealous because my wonky quilts are selling like hotcakes.” She pulls one off the table with its black and orange patches that make it look perfect for fall.
The trio of kittens in my arms cranes their heads that way and mewls with approval.
Georgie sighs as she drapes it around her shoulders. “I just can’t
