“That’s too bad.” I make a mental note to check out those inebriated posts asap.
She nods my way. “It is too bad. We might not have been close toward the end, but even I felt bad about the way she was coming across in the court of public opinion. Holly had control issues, which resulted in almost all of her ill actions. It cost her more friends than it was worth. And at the end of the day, she would have been alive if she never had them to begin with.” She starts to take off then backtracks and gives Pixie a tiny pat to the head. “Come to think of it, when that whole social media nightmare broke out last month, she was insistent that she didn’t post any of those remarks.”
“Who did she say did it?”
Carol tosses her hand up. “She said she was hacked. But even if she was, that was no random hacking. Whoever did it, knew exactly what they were doing.” Her lips flicker. “You have to admit, it’s a good diversion from the killer. Don’t you think?”
“Not if the killer and the hacker are one and the same.”
She gives a few rapid blinks. “I suppose you’re right. In that case, I hope they catch that hacker sooner than later. It sounds like a very scary individual.” She gives a little wink. “But I think we all know it’s not looking too good for Beauford Wright. The mayor must feel pretty desperate to start spreading rumors. It’s highly unprofessional. I guess what they say is true. People will go to any length to protect their family, no matter what they’ve done to them. Blood is blood.” Her attention is hijacked by something near the door. “There’s Regina. I’d better see how that ghost hunting excavation went.”
Carol takes off, and I quickly find a quiet corner and pull up all of Holly Wright’s social media accounts in one quick search. Kaila mentioned it was Insta Pictures, so I head there first. Sure enough, it’s blocked to new subscribers. It looks as if not only did Holly go on a social media rampage, but once the dirty deeds caught up with her, she deleted the incriminating posts and made her account private.
Carol’s avatar catches my eye. It is a red and white mug, and for some reason, it looks more than vaguely familiar.
Pixie looks up at me and sheds a soft mewl.
“It looks familiar to you, too, huh?” I give her a quick squeeze.
“Don’t worry, Pix. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, and I have a feeling we’re going to do it before Christmas."
Holly Wright’s killer better watch their back because Santa Claus isn’t the only one looking to hunt them down, but the only gift I’ll be giving them is a shiny new pair of silver bracelets.
Chapter 10
Sunday dinner.
I’ve seen Stephanie kick into gear and do her fair share before, but never like she is now. It’s the big S—Sunday. And any Italian worth their Mediterranean Sea salt knows the intrinsic importance of this sacred day.
Stephanie and I have been joining Shep at the local church on Sundays, but since my sister thought we should start cooking dinner at seven in the morning, we opted to have a TV preacher on in the background instead. Dinner isn’t until three, but she’s right, we’ve got to get a move on.
We started the mangia madness with stockpots covered with olive oil before we sweated the holy grail of Italian ingredients: chopped onion, celery, and carrots. By the time those were lucent and ready to go, the cabin already smelled glorious.
On the menu for today is spaghetti and meatballs—the meatballs of which are simmering in our Nana Rose’s meat sauce knockoff, a pretty good second if you ask me. Stephanie and I also made the spaghetti from scratch because Sunday dinner is no joke.
We found a great stainless steel pasta press at the restaurant supply store, and we’ve made yards of golden heaven with it. Pasta isn’t all that hard to make, and once you have a taste of the fresh stuff, you’ll never go back.
We’re also serving braciole, sirloin pounded out thin as a wafer and filled with parsley, breadcrumbs, and pecorino cheese. And if you think finding cheese made from sheep’s milk in Starry Falls is tough, you’d be right. Stephanie and I had to venture out to some frou-frou market in Sterling Lake yesterday to procure that dairy-riddled miracle. I told Steph we could have substituted it with Parmesan and Romano, but she said we had to pull out the big guns because the men were coming. And I’m guessing Shep wasn’t included in that testosterone-based equation. Stephanie is moving heaven, earth, Italy, and Starry Falls to make sure everything is just right for the two mobsters on their way to break bread with us.
Shep helped us haul in the elongated picnic table from outside, and we moved our sofas out of the way, transforming our living room into a veritable Italian eatery. We threw a red and green quilt over it in lieu of a tablecloth and set down red placemats and gold charges we picked up on the cheap at the thrift store last week. Steph also set out our best dishes and the cranberry glass goblets Opal let us borrow for the occasion.
And what Italian meal would be
