Chapter 5 #2
Elliot babbles like he’s dictating his autobiography.
I reach over to coo at Elliot appropriately, because there’s something about babies that makes even the most stressful family situations seem temporarily manageable.
He responds with a gummy grin and what sounds like an attempt at saying hi, though it comes out more like gah gah gah.
“He’s adorable and he knows it,” I say, giving him a gentle tickle under his chin. “And he’s one baby that’s acting his age, unlike Macy. Speaking of babies, did you see Hammie Mae’s daughter, little Matilda, last night at the event?”
“Oh my word, yes!” Emmie’s face goes through a series of expressions that start with confusion and end somewhere around existential horror.
“I overheard little Matilda asking for a cookie last night.” Her voice drops to a whisper as if she’s confessing to witnessing something supernatural.
And honestly, she sort of is. “Bizzy, she asked in perfect English! As in—she spoke in full sentences. Like actual vocabulary words arranged grammatically.”
I gasp at the thought, but I don’t know why. I witnessed the oddity myself in the flesh.
“What else did she say?” I ask, because if we’re talking about baby genius territory, I need all the details for my own competitive parenting anxiety.
“Well,” Emmie says, glancing around like she’s worried someone might overhear us discussing infant prodigies and report us to the Inadequate Parent Police, “she also asked her grandmother if she could please have some of that delicious-looking eggnog and commented that the Christmas decorations looked quite lovely this evening. Six months old, Bizzy. She’s six months old, and she’s talking like she’s auditioning for a scholarship to Harvard. It was freaky!”
“She’s six months old!” I parrot.
“Exactly,” Emmie cries. “It was like watching a horror movie. Baby Einstein meets The Omen.”
“Ella still thinks giggling is an Olympic sport,” I say, wondering if it’s too soon for SAT flashcards. “Hammie Mae told me little Matilda was a prodigy—said the pediatrician told her so.”
Emmie and I look at each other with the dawning realization that we might be raising academically inferior children, which is the kind of competitive parenting panic that can drive perfectly reasonable women to do completely unreasonable things like enrolling newborns in Advanced Placement classes.
“We can’t sit back and watch our babies fall behind scholastically,” Emmie says with the determination of a mom who’s just decided to take action against an invisible enemy.
“We can alter their destinies if we just push a little harder. I mean, if little Matilda can speak in full sentences, surely we can get our kids up to speed with the right educational intervention.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say, because apparently I’ve lost my mind and decided that turning baby-rearing into an academic competition is a perfectly reasonable response to feeling inadequate.
“I’ll get classical music for tummy time, Baby Einstein DVDs for constant educational stimulation, infant foreign language apps, because why shouldn’t three-month-olds be bilingual?
Also, those educational mobiles with mathematical equations dangling over their cribs, and flashcards for basic vocabulary building. ”
“And I’ll get flow charts,” Emmie adds with enthusiasm as if she’s just discovered the secret to child genius. “We’ll start with colors and shapes and work our way up to basic literature. Maybe some beginning algebra if we’re feeling ambitious.”
The hoomans have lost their minds, Fish all but scoffs at our academic efforts.
Should we be concerned? Should we call someone? Sherlock asks with the kind of worried tone usually reserved for natural disasters and empty treat containers.
Only if they start trying to teach us fractions, Fish says with a chittering laugh.
Very funny. I shoot her a wry look for even going there. She knows this is serious.
Emmie’s phone buzzes with a text, and she glances down with the efficiency of a mom who’s perfectly capable of managing multiple communications while holding a baby and maintaining a conversation about competitive infant education.
“Leo’s mother is out front,” she says, already heading toward the exit with a purposeful stride that suggests she’s eager to escape before our conversation about baby geniuses gets any more intense.
“I’d better go hand off this little guy before he decides to take a cue from Macy and demonstrate his vocal range for the entire café. ”
No sooner does Emmie disappear through the door than Mom and Georgie materialize, pushing baby Ella from the sunroom where they’ve apparently been waiting for the family drama to conclude before making their reappearance.
Mom has that satisfied expression that suggests she thoroughly enjoyed watching the entertainment from a safe distance, while Georgie looks like she’s just witnessed the most horrific social experiment in recorded history.
“Well,” Georgie says, fanning herself. “That was more exciting than The Nutcracker with live rats.”
“Speaking of drama,” Mom adds with the practical tone as if she’s decided it’s time to move on to more pressing matters, “shouldn’t we be figuring out who killed Santa Claus? I mean, I’m all for family bonding through public feuds, but we do have a murder to solve.”
She’s absolutely right. Between family feuds, competitive parenting panic, and all the peppermint-scented chaos, I’ve almost forgotten that we’re in the middle of a homicide investigation that threatens to ruin not just Christmas but also the inn’s reputation and possibly my own life if Mayor Mackenzie follows through on her threats.
“You’re right,” I say, snapping into sleuth mode like it’s a jacket I wear on weekends. “Let’s start with Matilda Westoff. She had a lot to say about the man while he was still alive. I’m sure the fact he’s dead makes him twice as interesting to her.”
Georgie’s fingers immediately start flying over her phone screen with speed and precision as if conducting a very important digital investigation.
And a few seconds later, her eyes widen with the expression of a detective who’s just discovered something either very convenient or very suspicious. Probably both.
“You’re not going to believe where she is,” Georgie titters with a laugh as she says it.
“Try me.”
“Two Old Broads.”
Of course. Two Old Broads is the boutique that Mom and Georgie own and operate just a hop and a skip down Main Street.
Where fashion meets gossip, and absolutely no one leaves without giving up their deepest secrets.
The shop that specializes mostly in wonky quilts but also in what they call age-appropriate fashion for women of distinction—which really means clothes for women who refuse to dress like their grandmothers just because they qualify for senior discounts.
“Perfect,” I say. “Let’s go interrogate her over seasonal scarves and candy cane accessories. We’ll chat about chocolate candy canes, business rivalries, and whatever else she might know about our dearly departed Santa.”
Let’s just say one thing is painfully clear from previous murder investigations— the best way to get information out of someone is to corner them while they’re distracted by shopping for age-appropriate fashion and last-minute Christmas gifts.
And if there’s one thing I know about Two Old Broads, it’s that absolutely nobody leaves that shop without being thoroughly interrogated about every aspect of their personal life.
Because nothing says cozy Christmas murder investigation like grilling your prime suspect between racks of glittery holiday ugly sweaters.
This should be interesting.
And it might just get ugly indeed.