Page 8 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price
HATTIE
Jolly Beary loves me best. It’s not even a competition,Cricket mewls while her tail twitches with a feline certainty as she perches atop the marble reception counter.
That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.Rookie gives a soft woof from his spot on the polished floor with Mr. Jolly Beary secured to his back via his special carrier.He literally rides around on MY back all day.
Out of pity,Cricket meows.That’s because he feels sorry for you.
Does not!
Does, too! Just last night he told me your fur smells like old tennis balls.
Rookie perks up.Hey, I like old tennis balls!
I suppress a smile as I pretend not to hear their quasi-friendly squabble. The fuzzy brown teddy bear in question stares blankly ahead as if he were the Switzerland of stuffed animals, refusing to take sides in this ongoing custody battle. They’ve had Jolly Beary for a year now and they still play tug-of-war with him each night. I can’t say I blame them. That little bear is downright adorable.
It’s the very next day after Vivian Maple’s untimely demise, and I’m standing behind the massive marble reception counter in what everyone calls the heartbeat of the Brambleberry Bay Country Club—the Cottage House. Despite its quaint name, there’s nothing cottage-like about this behemoth structure. Its stone façade and ivy-covered walls might exude old-world charm, but inside it’s all polish and pretension, making it the perfect watering hole for the local elite.
The reception area has been transformed into a veritable autumn wonderland as elegant arrangements of burgundy and gold chrysanthemums burst from copper vases, while artfully arranged gourds and mini pumpkins—all sourced from some organic farm that charges by the ounce—line the counter. An enormous cornucopia spills its bounty of artisanal fruits across the marble surface, forcing me to constantly shift my paperwork to avoid a grape casualty.
From the rotunda, where massive wreaths of preserved maple leaves and cinnamon sticks hang between each column, the scent of fresh brewed coffee and cinnamon-sweet baked goods wallops me with the force of a sugar-seeking missile, making my stomach rumble and tumble. Honestly, lunch can’t get here soon enough.
A grand chandelier dangles overhead like a crystal octopus, dripping with more bling than a rapper’s teeth. And even it hasn’t escaped the seasonal treatment, with tiny pumpkins and fall leaves somehow woven into its crystal strands by one of Winnie’s staff decorators who just so had the patience of a saint and the nimble fingers of a pickpocket.
Winnie owns the Crafty Treehouse in town and I hire her to do all of the décor here at the country club. It might sound like nepotism at its finest, but Winnie really is the best when it comes to holiday décor.
To the right sits Seabreeze, a restaurant so exorbitantly priced I’d have to offer up my firstborn as an appetizer just to afford a steak. But thankfully, to the left is the Cottage Grill, where mere mortals like me can stretch their paychecks far enough to score a decent burger without selling a kidney—there is no staff discount at the country club.
The country club itself is a mini village of seven opulent buildings scattered across manicured grounds like expensive toys tossed by a giant trust fund baby. There’s a world-class golf course where the wealthy pretend to enjoy walking, several Olympic-size swimming pools that see more cell phone selfies than actual swimming, a spa offering treatments with ingredients I can’t pronounce, more fancy restaurants than I have fingers, and, of course, the sweet nectar of exclusivity that comes with a membership fee higher than the GDP of small nations.
Fun fact: Killion is about to squeeze through the gates here thanks to his job at the sheriff’s department, and his mother is one of the jewel-encrusted socialites who rules this kingdom with an iron fist in a velvet glove—monogrammed, naturally.
My phone vibrates against the counter, lighting up with notifications that pop like kernels in hot oil. It’s the dreaded Double Wedding Group Chat my mother created, because apparently planning one wedding wasn’t enough torture for the Holiday family. I guess she’s coming around when it comes to Neelie and Stanton. And she’s coming around a lot faster than I care for.
Mom: DOUBLE WEDDING PLANNING COMMENCE! Both my girls getting married is a blessing from heaven! Let’s coordinate EVERYTHING!
Winnie: Mom, no to the double wedding. As much as I love Neelie, Fitz and I are having a small gathering of friends and family at Willoughby Hall.
Neelie: A “small gathering” at a hall built to host all of England? Fitz’s wealth really is wasted on you. I’m having the BIGGEST wedding in the history of big weddings, right at the country club, the way the good Lord intended! Think diamonds, pearls, and lots of money—and that’s just the décor for the wedding cake.
Mom: I just wanted to get this group chat going because we have SO MUCH to plan! Not to mention that the holidays are here already! Please tell me you’re both having spring weddings, or perhaps late summer? That will give us more time!
Winnie: June 21st. I’ve always wanted to be a June bride.
Neelie: Valentine’s Day, obviously! The most romantic day of the year! I’m already begging Stanton for rose petals to be flown in from Ecuador. Nothing but the best!
Mom: VALENTINE’S DAY?!!! That’s only THREE MONTHS from now!!!
Before I can typea response to my mother’s emoji avalanche, my boss, the formidable Peyton Blakey, bustles through the rotunda like a hurricane in designer heels. Her chestnut-colored hair swings in a perfect glossy curtain down her back, complementing her perennial tan—the kind that screams, “I vacation in places you can’t afford to Google.” Her dark eyes zero in on me, revealing an even darker soul lurking beneath her polished exterior, but I’m well aware of the devil that lurks within. At twenty-eight, she’s hardly a year older than me but wields her authority as the manager of this place as if she’s been appointed by divine right.
“Holiday,” she snaps, clicking to a stop in front of my desk. “Please tell me you’re not wasting company time texting when the Gilded Gratitude Gala is less than a week away.”
I quickly flip my phone over. “Just confirming some vendor details.”
“With heart emojis?” Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises with enough judgment to fill a courtroom.
“Those weren’t mine.”
She takes a moment to glare at me. “Listen carefully. This gala is the social event of the season. Half the Northeast’s elite will be here raising funds for the community center’s Thanksgiving dinner. If anything—and I meananything—goes wrong, your employment here will end faster than that romantic entanglement you’re in with that cop.”
