Chapter 2 #2
Her timing is impeccable, stepping in just as Matilda was about to unleash what I’m pretty sure would have been verbal warfare that could have made international headlines.
“Jennilee Holly,” she introduces herself with a smile that could charm ornaments off a Christmas tree.
“I just had to come over and tell y’all how absolutely magical this place looks!
Bizzy, honey, I just heard you were the owner, and you’ve created something truly special here.
It feels like stepping into a Christmas fairy tale! ”
“Why, thank you,” I manage, though I’m still processing the near-miss of what could have been the Great Chocolate War of the year.
“Jennilee works at my chocolate shop,” Balthasar says with smug satisfaction. “She manages our boutique gift store with remarkable efficiency.” Another useful pawn in my empire, he muses to himself. Soon, I’ll own half this pathetic little town. Starting with that Victorian mansion.
“My Victorian mansion is on tomorrow’s tour,” she continues with excitement, her voice just a touch too bright, like someone trying really hard to sound cheerful.
But well, ’tis the season. “I’m just beside myself with anticipation to host the entire town!
My husband’s away on business in China right now, but he would just love this party! ”
“Well, I for one can’t wait to see your home,” I tell her. And honestly? I could listen to her charming Southern accent all day long. In fact, it might just be the soothing backbeat I need to get me through Christmas.
“Well, sugar, if my foyer doesn’t scream bless your heart in twenty-three shades of toile, I’ll eat my own centerpiece. And I hope y’all like glitter and Jesus, ’cause my mantel’s got both in aggressive quantities.”
I have a feeling her home is the kind of place where the tea is sweet, the gossip is sweeter, and the throw pillows judge you silently. But before I can mentally untangle all that, Georgie arrives like the holiday tornado she is, dragging Mom.
“Did I hear a deliciously yummy country-fried accent over here?” Georgie’s voice cuts through the ballroom like a candy cane machete as she barrels toward us. “Because, honey, I am like a moth to a flame when it comes to Southern charm. I can’t help myself—it’s like catnip for my soul!”
Mom trails behind, looking slightly windblown but amused.
“Georgie heard the accent from three conversations away and practically trampled a group of carolers to get over here.” Okay, so she flattened the choir, but I don’t dare tell Bizzy.
It looks as if she has enough drama to deal with for one night. Or a decade.
“Guilty as charged.” Georgie grins, completely unrepentant as she zeroes in on Jennilee as if she were designed to locate charm and destroy it with enthusiasm. “I’m Georgie, and this is Ree, and we simply must know everything about you because that accent is pure magic!”
“Jennilee Holly,” our newcomer says, extending her hand with Southern grace, with a voice so smooth it could butter biscuits from across the room. “I was just telling everyone how absolutely gorgeous this inn looks for Christmas.”
“Jennilee,” Georgie repeats, clearly charmed. “What a pretty name! And that accent—my guess is South Carolina.”
“Charleston, born and raised,” Jennilee confirms with a smile that seems more genuine now, like she’s found her tribe. And if that tribe has Georgie in it, we all might be in trouble. “Moved up here about ten years ago after I got married.”
“How exciting!” Mom exclaims. “What does your husband do?”
“Import-export,” Jennilee says, waving the thought away. “It’s boring as sin, and certainly shouldn’t be the topic in such a grand room.” She nods my way. “Tell me about this wonderful tour! I’ve been so nervous and excited about having my home included.”
“Oh, don’t you worry one bit, Toots,” Georgie says warmly. “I’m sure your place is absolutely beautiful. What’s the place got going on for itself?”
“Well, it is Victorian,” Jennilee says. “It’s got all the original gingerbread trim and wraparound porches. I’ve decorated every room with period-appropriate Christmas displays—it’s taken me months to get everything just perfect.”
“That sounds absolutely magical,” I say and mean it. “Victorian homes at Christmas are the stuff fairytales are made of.”
Buffy nods. “And you know what makes this inn special for the holidays? The way Bizzy has preserved all the original details while making it comfortable for modern families. Every room tells a story.”
I shed a quick smile in my sister’s direction.
It turns out, Buffy is my biggest cheering section, and I’m so here for it.
Macy once accused her of kissing up, but everything about Buffy is genuine.
Not to mention for every compliment Buffy gives, Macy gives three sassy remarks—mostly putdowns. And believe me, those are genuine too.
“That’s exactly what I was hoping to achieve!” Jennilee exclaims, clearly lighting up at the thought of showing off her home tomorrow. I know all the nerves an event like that can bring.
All the non-stop cleaning, the preparation, and anticipation might be half the fun, but it’s also half the misery.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice booms across the room with the unmistakable authority of a person who’s accustomed to being heard and obeyed immediately. She’s spoiled that way. “Could I have Santa’s attention in the main hall? The photographer is ready for some promotional shots!”
I turn to see my sister-in-law, Mayor Mackenzie Woods, standing near the ballroom entrance in a power suit that somehow manages to be both festive and intimidating.
The entire Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour was her idea—a brilliant way to showcase Cider Cove’s cozy charm while raising money for charity.
Leave it to Mackenzie to turn a simple house tour into a full-scale marketing campaign.
Santa straightens his custom Santa costume with a touch of satisfaction, like a peacock preening before an audience. “Duty calls!” he announces. “Can’t keep the photographer waiting. Image is everything in business!”
He reaches into his oversized gift bag and pulls out what appears to be an endless supply of chocolate candy canes before tossing them to everyone within reach like yummy confetti.
“A little sample of Thornfield’s finest,” he says with that predatory smile. “I think you’ll find the quality speaks for itself.”
Everyone accepts their chocolate loot politely—everyone except Matilda, who looks at the offered sweet treat like it might spontaneously combust and take half the room with it.
“I wouldn’t eat those if I were you,” she snorts, loud enough for everyone in the ballroom to hear. “I wouldn’t put it past him to poison the entire town. He’s just that wicked.”
Well, that’s not ominous at all, Fish notes dryly.
Those smell like betrayal, Jellybean sniffs.
You say that about beef jerky, Fudge adds.
Because it does! Jellybean shoots back. You know I don’t have the teeth for that.
Balthasar’s smile doesn’t waver, but something cold flickers in those steel-blue eyes. “Always such a jokester, Matilda. That’s what I’ve always admired about you—such a delightful sense of humor.”
The way he says delightful makes it sound like a threat wrapped in velvet.
With that, he struts off like a Broadway villain headed for his solo number. And I could so see that happening. After all, people have been breaking into song all night—albeit holiday-appropriate carols.
Matilda watches him go with the expression of a woman contemplating various forms of justifiable homicide, then stalks off in the opposite direction with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests she’s either going to commit murder or slam a door just to make a point.
“I’d better go after her,” Hammie Mae sighs, shifting baby Matilda to her other hip. “She gets like this whenever Balthasar’s around. Something about that man brings out her... competitive side.”
That’s one way to say homicidal.
Hammie Mae hurries after her mother as the Christmas carols seem to get louder and more festive, and several couples have started dancing near the far end of the ballroom. The party is definitely shifting into high holiday gear.
“Well,” Jennilee says with a nervous laugh, “this certainly is a lively crowd! I should probably go mingle. I want to meet everyone before tomorrow’s tour.”
And with that, she flutters off into the crowd like a nervous Southern butterfly, leaving me with Mom, Georgie, and Buffy, plus a few pets who are probably judging my hosting skills.
“That was interesting.” Buffy cringes as she looks my way.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say as the party swirls around us in increasingly boisterous Christmas chaos. “One thing is for sure, it’s never boring in Cider Cove.”
The evening finally hits its stride now—people are singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock,” the eggnog is flowing like water, and the dessert table is being demolished with the efficiency of a locust swarm with a sugar addiction.
Everyone seems to be having the kind of magical Christmas evening I was hoping for.
So naturally, my alarm bells start going off like a smoke detector with a four-alarm fire.
“I should check on things,” I say to Buffy, suddenly feeling the need to make sure all the tour preparations are running smoothly.
Mom and Georgie are already back at the dessert table claiming three of everything.
And believe me, I’m going to be joining them very, very soon.
“You know, make sure the displays are holding up and everyone’s having a good time. ”
“I’ll come with you,” Buffy offers, and I’m grateful for the company.
We make our way through the increasingly festive crowd, checking on the various displays—the Santa’s village set up near the reception area, the Frosty and friends snow white glittery surprise in the library, and the old-fashioned Christmas-inspired dining room, complete with rows of lit candles and pomegranates and oranges spiked with cloves hanging on the spruce by the crackling fire.
“Everything seems to be running perfectly,” I say to Buffy. “It’s almost too good to be true.”
We’re about to move to the next room when we spot Balthasar—Santa suit and all—mid-heated argument with an older platinum blonde just outside the ballroom doors, one hand gesturing wildly, the other clutching a glass of eggnog like it’s giving him courage.
I can’t help but make a face. If you’re going to dress up as Santa to a Christmas party, the least you could do is be amicable with everyone.
Some of us are still clinging to any shred of holiday magic regarding the big man in the fluffy red suit.
You know what they say about things that seem too good to be true, Fish meows sharply from somewhere near my feet.
Sherlock nods and gives a soft woof. They usually end up with someone dead.
Why is it always someone dead? Fudge whimpers, his cute little white ear pointed straight at the ceiling. Can’t it just be that someone is embarrassed for once? Or someone with a little food poisoning?
Buffy and I exchange a look and hold back a smile. A little food poisoning here at the inn would cost me more than a little revenue. I’m not emotionally prepared for a health inspector and a holiday meltdown in the same week.
Because we live in Cider Cove, that’s why, Jellybean says to Fish matter-of-factly. Dead bodies follow Bizzy around like we follow the scent of fresh fish.
We’re making our way through the increasingly festive crowd when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find Balthasar swaying slightly behind me, his face flushed and his steel-blue eyes looking unfocused.
“Mrs. Wilder,” he says, his voice slurring just a bit. “Such a lovely...lovely party.” He stumbles forward, catching himself by spinning me around in what might have been intended as a dance move but feels more like controlled falling.
“Are you all right?” I ask, alarmed by how unsteady he seems.
Instead of answering, he staggers us toward one of the plush burgundy velvet chairs positioned near the inn’s entrance—away from the main crowd but still visible to anyone passing by. He practically collapses into the chair, then with zero warning, he pulls me onto his lap.
“Mr. Thornfield!” I protest, trying to stand up, but his grip is surprisingly strong for someone who seems to be having some kind of medical episode—that or the spiked eggnog is finally taking effect.
He raises one trembling hand as if he’s about to say something important, and his mouth opens to speak, but not a sound comes out. His eyes are wide, almost panicked, as if he’s trying to warn me about something.
But then his hand drops to his side, and his head falls forward, landing squarely right between my boobs.
“Oh my goodness!” I shriek, finally managing to jump up from his lap. “Buffy! Help!”
Buffy rushes over, along with several other guests who heard my scream. Balthasar remains slumped in the velvet chair, his Santa hat askew, his silver beard disheveled, and his eyes now staring vacantly ahead.
He’s definitely not just drunk.
Told you, Fish says with what sounds suspiciously like satisfaction.
Called it! Jellybean adds with feline smugness. Do we get treats for being right about the dead guy?
This is not the time for treats, Sherlock whimpers.
There’s always time for treats, Fudge argues hopefully.
And just like that, my perfect Christmas gala has turned into something that would make the Grinch himself cackle with glee.
Balthasar Thornfield is dead.
Ho ho ho indeed.