I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claws

By Amity Allen

Interior designer, Shelby Nelson is looking for a new start. She gets a lucky break when she's hired to help decorate the homes in a wealthy subdivision for the holidays.

But not everyone is thrilled with being forced to follow the strict rules set by the Homeowners' Association. And the person they're angriest with is Heather Redstone, the president of the HOA.

So when Shelby is found standing over Heather's dead body under the Christmas tree, she quickly becomes the prime suspect. To clear her name, she’ll need to find the killer, which won’t be easy since the dead woman was at the top of everyone's naughty list.

With time running out, Shelby must use all of her sleuthing skills to clear her name and find the real killer. But with a long list of suspects, it won't be easy. And to complicate matters, she'll have to do it all with a mischievous kitten by her side.

This cozy mystery is full of twists and turns that will keep you guessing until the very end. Pick up your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bad Baby Press
• Release date: Dec 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781958649114

Amity Allen

Amity grew up reading every mystery she could get her hands on, burning through everything by Agatha Christie in record time and wanting to be Nancy Drew when she grew up. After writing books in other genres for the past few years, she's finally come home to her true love - cozy mysteries. Amity and her husband live in L.A. (lower Alabama) with a houseful of teenagers and a half dozen pets. Besides books, Amity's favorite things are football, needlepoint, fried shrimp, and sweet tea.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The meeting ended with a clang of the president's gavel, though the discussion that started with her announcement was far from over. Murmurs instantly rose up around the Lakewood Estates community center, angry residents rising from their chairs along with them.

I got out of my seat as well, but not to crowd around Heather with my grievances. Unlike everyone else at the Homeowner's Association meeting, I wasn't upset about her decoration decree. If anything, it was good news for me.

Rather than joining the catty gossipers, I made my way to the cookie table. I always knew it was really Christmastime when the pumpkin spice had to take a bow to ginger and peppermint. The latter I could do without, but gingerbread? I'd take it in cakes, cookies, lattes, scented candles—I'd even picked out my gingerbread man earrings for the meeting. It was a bit of an obsession, but I only had a few weeks a year to indulge.

There were three different gingerbread cookies and a plate of gingersnaps among all the other cookies. I didn't need chocolate chip or frosted sugar cookies. I could leave those for everyone else—after the way the meeting had gone, they could all use a few cookies.

Heather meant well. Lakewood Estates was a newer community, and there were still a number of empty houses with For Sale signs. As the HOA president, she took the task of attracting new residents very seriously, and as far as she was concerned, mandatory Christmas decorating was the least everyone else could do to support her efforts. But this year she thought holding a contest for the best décor would inspire some enthusiasm.

I couldn't blame people for being upset—Texans rarely liked being told what to do—but there was a part of me that was just tickled about Heather's new rule. After finishing my degree in interior design, I'd been trying to get my business off the ground, but it had been slow-going so far. Without much of a portfolio, it was difficult to attract new clients. Without clients, I couldn’t build a portfolio.

I was at the point where I’d take anything I could get. Christmas decor wasn't exactly my niche, but beggars couldn't be choosers. It could be just what I needed to get my foot in some doors. The decorating contest was a good opportunity to prove myself too. The residents might resent being told what to do, but that wouldn't kill their competitive spirit.

Hey, superstar, Ginger said, reaching past me for a chocolate cookie that had bits of candy cane on top. Ginger being my favorite spice and the name of my best friend was purely a coincidence, no matter how much my mother's teasing implied otherwise. Are you ready for a full plate?

I glanced down at my modest pile of cookies. I think I have enough...

"Your work plate, she clarified with a laugh. I've been talking up your skills to all of my clients. There are already a few people ready to talk about hiring you to decorate for the holidays."

My jaw dropped. She sure worked fast. I shouldn't have been surprised anymore, though. That kind of quick networking was what made Ginger such a dynamite real estate agent. She had an incredible knack for identifying a need and finding a way to satisfy it.

She was also ridiculously charming, which was an awfully useful trait for a salesperson. Ginger was one of those people who could sell ice to Eskimos in a snowstorm, so it'd be pretty bad for me if she couldn't convince people to give me a shot. I'd been friends with her for over a decade, and even I couldn't resist her; that was how I'd ended up with a house in Lakewood Estates to begin with. One ill-conceived starter marriage and subsequent divorce, and I found myself in need of a place to live. With Ginger's help, I got in on one of Houston's newest gated communities before the prices exploded. These days I probably wouldn't have been able to afford my own house if I was shopping. I had trouble making mortgage payments as it was, but I had hope that my business would soon take care of that.

You're the best friend a girl could ask for, I told her, leaning in for a one-armed hug so that neither of us had to relinquish any cookies.

I know, she answered with the same trademark grin that Houstonians saw all over town on bus ads.

"Don't even talk to me about sacrifices, came a loud voice from the crowd. Ginger and I both glanced over to see one of the residents looming over Heather, his neck starting to flush with anger. I made my sacrifices so I'd have the freedom to do as I damn well please with the house I spent my hard-earned money on."

Nick was generally a pretty quiet guy, the kind who kept to himself, so it was surprising to see him so animated. I'd never realized how loud he could get—or how scary his volume was. Heather shrank back, muttering something that we couldn't hear as all eyes turned toward the disturbance.

The attention didn’t faze Nick. He didn’t stumble before continuing to barrage Heather with his vitriol.

You decided to do a job no one else gives a shit about. That doesn't give you the right to go on a power-trip and start dictating our lives, Nick added, getting some murmurs of agreement from the other residents. We should be able to choose if we wanna participate in your silly contest or not. Trying to force us is insulting as hell, and I won't stand for it. You’re gonna regret this. He wagged a finger at her as he started to back away, his eyes blazing with indignant fury.

I glanced at Ginger to see if she was getting the same chills I was. She looked disappointed but was eager to turn her attention away as Nick stormed out of the community center clubhouse.

For a long moment, no one said anything. No one moved. It seemed like no one was breathing, but slowly we all resumed what we were doing as if nothing had happened.

I think I know who to talk you up to next, Ginger joked with a gleam in her green eyes that spelled trouble.

I laughed, but she didn't join. "You're not serious, are you? He's the last person who's going to want professional decorating help."

"Au contraire, Ginger said, grinning mischievously, someone who wants nothing to do with the whole thing is precisely the kind of person who will gladly pay someone else to handle it. He might not like being forced into it, but Nick's a soldier. He knows how to fall in line for the good of the whole."

I laughed again, but for a different reason this time, shaking my head. You really can turn anything around into a positive, can't you?

She shrugged, always modest. It's a gift.

Mr. Newmar approached the cookie table and unceremoniously reached between us for the first cookie he could grab.

Evening, ladies, the old man said, clearing his throat as he took a step back. Shelby, isn't it? he asked, looking my way.

That's right. I nodded, suspicions rising.

Ginger here was telling me that you have a real eye for design, he supplied, taking a large bite out of a soft peanut butter cookie.

I graduated somewhat recently, I confirmed, glancing toward Ginger. I appreciated her support, but I hoped she wasn’t talking me up too much, setting expectations I could never meet.

Bet you're excited for the competition, he said, brushing crumbs out of his white mustache. "To tell you the truth, I think Nick's right about all these new rules, but he shouldn't have acted that way. Mr. Newmar glanced over to the door Nick had stormed out of, his mouth a hard line of judgment. I don't have the first clue how to decorate. Do you think you could help me out? I could sure use your expertise. I don't want anything that'll attract too much noise."

As much as I wasn't looking forward to working with a grumpy old Grinch like Patrick Newmar, I knew my portfolio could use all the padding it could get.

I'm sure we'll be able to figure something out, I reassured him. I do have one client ahead of you, though. If you don't mind, I need to go speak with her, I said, spotting a window of opportunity with no one around Heather for a moment.

The community clubhouse was crowded—more for the cookie exchange than the HOA meeting if I had to wager—so I had to weave past groups of people, keeping my eyes on Heather until I was stopped dead in my tracks. I staggered back, nearly falling over as the stranger collided with me. He seemed just as surprised as I was; neither one of us had been looking where we were going, but where I immediately went to apologize, he took a different tack.

Watch it, he said, pushing disheveled hair back from his forehead. He looked dirty, like he'd come right from work without a chance to shower, and his worn-out store-brand sneakers told me he probably didn't live in this neighborhood. Not everyone in Lakewood Estates cared about name-brand clothing, but no one else was walking around with holes in their soles.

He was in too much of a hurry to stick around for the rest of my half-hearted apology, but he still had time to give me a look as he was leaving that made me suddenly feel the need to shower.

I'd barely taken two steps away from where I'd crashed into that guy when I nearly collided with one of my neighbors I did recognize.

Oh gosh! Merry exclaimed, clutching her chest as she stumbled backward. You really should be more careful where you're going, she said, putting a steadying hand out on my shoulder, though I wasn't sure if it was for her sake or mine.

Sorry 'bout that, I muttered, apologizing yet again for something I wasn't sure was entirely my fault.

That's all right, hon. I know you've been through a lot, bless your heart, she said with a smile sweeter than the tea on offer. You've met my husband Bob, haven't you? she asked. I nodded to be polite, but I wasn't sure I had. The only reason I knew Merry was because she’d fought a ruthless campaign for HOA president shortly after I'd moved to the neighborhood. Heather had won by a considerable margin, and I wasn't convinced Merry had ever gotten over it.

"Bob, this is the girl who moved into 145. Remember I told you about her? The divorced one?" she added with a whispered hiss behind her hand that was still crystal clear over the collective noise.

I fought not to roll my eyes. In most of the developed, modern world, no one had a problem with divorces anymore. But in the South? In a tight-knit community like Lakewood Estates? No one would say it, but I was seen as damaged goods. There had to be some reason my husband didn't want me, right? No one ever imagined maybe it was I who decided I didn't want him.

Not that it was anyone's business.

That wouldn't stop the gossips from speculating. After barbecuing, it was probably the most popular pastime around here.

Thankfully, Bob didn't seem the least bit interested in making small talk or pretending he cared about his wife's prattle.

It's nice to see you again, I said through a clenched smile. I hate to cut this short, but I was just on my way to talk to Heather—

Merry reached out and grabbed me by the forearm, her grip tight enough to make dimples in my sweater sleeve.

Be careful with her, Merry warned. "I heard you're going to be doing some work for her... She's tough to work for, and she has a real