Looking for a Little Holiday Mayhem?

DEATH UNDER THE MISTLETOE By Ashantay Peters

A Review by Robin Weaver

Looking for a holiday-themed mystery??  Look no further.  Death Under the Mistletoe is your book.  My good friend, Ashantay Peters, has served up a holiday feast of murder, betrayal, and quirky fun in this fast, furious, and fun whodunnit.

Hoping to reconcile with her former best friend, Lily Carlson agrees to maid of honor duties at a Christmas wedding. Dumb idea, right? But haven’t we all done something similarly foolish?  As you may guess, the bride-to-be is undeserving of Lily’s efforts.

Talk about tension--Ashantay creates an emotional hell before the holiday tree drops its first needles.  Imagine planning a wedding during the holidays—and as if that weren’t stressful enough, our author throws in more mayhem by hanging the groom at the altar--under the mistletoe and without pants. Yep—hanging. Sans pants!

Naturally the lovely Lily is the main suspect. Why? A)Because she’s there; the police place her at the scene during the time of the murder. B) Because she has the physical strength and technical knowledge to hoist the dead groom.  C) The groom dumped her, very publicly.  Can you say, MOTIVE?

Gray Bronson—the hero, not the groom--left town five years earlier. He’s returned to Granville Falls to act as best man, even though he hates the groom—is this a dysfunctional wedding or what? Naturally, Gray and Lily also have a history, but unlike the dead groom, Gray still craves her more than eggnog. Our best man is determined to win back the fair maiden—even if she is guilty.

I won’t spoil the ending, but I will give you a taste of this spicy mystery—here’s an excerpt.  Enjoy!

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“Lily, this is my wedding. The maid of honor is supposed to make sure everything goes well.”

Maybe that was true in a traditional sense, but Alexa’s wedding planner, Stephanie White, had made my presence irrelevant. The woman was a dominatrix with a penchant for lace veils and rose petals. She made European railroad schedules look like kindergarten attempts at slavish obedience to a clock.

My stomach flip-flopped. I inhaled and pushed out jumbled words. “Rod is . . .” I couldn’t find the words.

Alexa’s fists punctuated her hips. “He’s drunk. Great. Just great.”

I closed my eyes against Alexa’s anger. Good thing I never had to speak with victims or their families.

“Wait, what’s wrong with Rod?” She dropped onto a chair, probably inspired toward weak knees by my facial expression.

I sank to the floor beside her and, against my better judgment, took her hand in mine. She continued to watch me, her confused expression unwavering.

Somehow I found the guts to spit out the truth. “What I meant to say is, Rod’s dead.”

She shook her head.  “No. No way.”

Alexa moved faster than I could react.  Running full-out, she screeched to a stop within view of her groom’s corpse. Her faint punctuated our already crappy heart-to-heart.

 

Review by Robin Weaver

Author of Blue Ridge Fear

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