“Is, ah, that woman going to be part of the experience?” His wariness had returned.

“Which woman?”

“The tiny, frightful one with the large wooden spoon.”

“Mrs. Buzzard. And no. I figured it’d just be the three of us.”

Though suddenly I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. I was going to have a marble rolling pin at my disposal and every reader of true crime knew that did not mix well with seething resentment.

A blissfully ignorant Arthur relaxed. “I’ll let Auntie know of the plan so she doesn’t accept another invitation.” He took out his phone and shot off a text.

“Like, what other invitation would she get?” I asked, trying and failing not to sound belligerent. “She’s supposed to be here with you.”

“True, but she is an adult and she seems to get along well with your father and grandmother. They were all up quite late last night, chatting in the back courtyard.”

So that’s who was in the shadows under the heat lamp! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how much interaction had they already had? At least Grandma Jo had been there to chaperone. Though she seemed to like Esha, too.

Was it possible, given whatever was happening between my parents, Grandma Jo was pushing Arthur’s aunt toward my father?

Before I was able to plummet too far into that particular rabbit hole, Arthur snapped his fingers twice in front of my eyes. “Earth to Finley.”

“Yep, yep.” I nodded like I hadn’t zoned out into the land of poisonous imaginings. “We, um, need butter, nutmeg, and icing bags.”

“Ice bags?”

“Icing bags.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“No. You said ‘ice.’ ”

“What are those?”

“You don’t know what icing bags are?”

“You act as if they are common knowledge.”

“For making cookies, they are.”

He crossed his arms. “Do I in any way, shape, or form strike you as the sort of person who has experience making cookies?”

I jabbed my index finger at his chest. “You’re wearing a sweater with a reindeer vomiting Christmas tree ornaments in the middle of a town dedicated to that very same holiday, so maybe some, yeah.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Hmmm.” Then he dropped his arms. “You make a logical argument. But no. I’ve never before made cookies, Christmas or otherwise.”

“Fine. Let’s find some icing bags.”

“And where would they be?”

A singsongy voice behind Arthur said, “Aisle three.”

Arthur turned and we both saw another shopper—Mrs. Gowdy, who owned the local nail salon and, as her brightly lacquered talons indicated, was also her own best customer—smiling at us though she and her overflowing cart were clearly blocked by our presence in the aisle.

“Terribly sorry,” Arthur said, stepping farther aside to give her free passage.