Secret Santa Murder: A Charlie Kingsley Mystery
Chapter 1
“Charlie, thank goodness you’re here.” Pat immediately ushered me into her foyer, taking my coat off before she had even shut the front door. “It’s already falling apart, and the party has barely even started.”
“How can a Secret Santa party fall apart?” I asked, trying to juggle the three Tupperware containers full of homemade Christmas cookies and my wrapped Secret Santa present. The sounds of laughter and holiday music floated in from the back of the house, and I grimaced. I didn’t like to be late, especially to one of Pat’s parties, but at the last minute, I had decided to bake a batch of gingerbread cookies to go along with my famous Merry Christmas Butter Cookies and Pecan Fingers, and it took longer than I anticipated. “It’s just friends and family members, right?”
Pat gave me a frazzled look. “That was before half the guest list bailed on me. Now, I have people here I barely know, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to feed them. I already burned the baked brie.”
“You made baked brie?” As far as I knew, Pat had never even attempted to bake before. She was more into eating food than preparing it.
Pat looked at me in exasperation. “What part of ‘burning’ don’t you understand? No, I didn’t make baked brie! It’s burnt! That’s why I need your help!”
Pat was a good decade or so older than me, and the best way to describe her was round—plump, with a round face, round black-rimmed glasses, and short, no nonsense brown hair that was turning grey. She had been one of my first tea customers and had become a good friend.
“Of course. Whatever you need,” I said as soothingly as possible while simultaneously wondering if there was time for me to run home to get some of my extra-strength calming tea. If anyone needed it, it was Pat, but I had a feeling if I tried to leave, she might work herself into such a state that even a gallon of my tea wouldn’t make a dent in her anxiety. “But I don’t understand why there’s no food. Isn’t this supposed to be a potluck?”
Pat threw up her hands. “Yes! That’s exactly what it was supposed to be! But no one brought anything!”
“Wait, people came to a potluck without bringing anything?” The sound of little nails clicking against the hardwood floors momentarily distracted me from the food issue, as Pat’s tiny, teacup poodle burst into view, wagging her tail and jumping up on my ankle. She wore a festive green and red sweater with a giant Christmas tree on it and matching green and red ribbons above her ears. I bent down to greet her, noticing that Pat was wearing a similar Christmas sweater, sans the matching ribbons. “Hi Tiki! You look ready for Christmas.”
“Of course she’s ready. She doesn’t have to do anything other than look cute,” Pat grumbled as Tiki licked my face. “And no, other than you and Claire, no one brought anything. And Claire just brought a seven-layer salad. How can I serve a salad for dinner? This is a Christmas party, for heaven’s sake, not a beach party. This is the time of year where you’re supposed to indulge, not try and lose weight with a skimpy salad.”
I refrained from saying that a seven-layer salad was hardly skimpy. They were typically loaded with cheese, bacon, and rich salad dressing, and I seriously doubted any of that would be on a weight-loss menu. On the other hand, I could see Pat’s point. One seven-layer salad would hardly count as dinner. “I still don’t understand. Why wouldn’t people bring a dish to a potluck?”
