Chapter 8
There are some things you expect to juggle during the holidays—cookie trays, in-law meltdowns, maybe the occasional blackout.
Solving murders while nursing a baby in a room full of porcelain teacups?
Not on the list. Yet here I am, settling into a chintz chair that probably costs so much it belongs in a safe, while Jennilee Holly makes herself comfortable across from me like we’re old friends about to dish dirt over holiday mimosas.
Jennilee Holly arranges herself across from me with the kind of elegant Southern grace that screams finishing school and lots of practice charming her way out of speeding tickets. “There now, much better than trying to manage in a crowd, don’t you think, sugar?”
Baby Ella continues to nurse happily, making those little satisfied sounds that mean I’ve got the perfect excuse for an extended interrogation session. This kid is going to grow up thinking suspect interviews are normal family bonding time.
This woman smells like expensive perfume trying to cover up cigarettes and crimes, Fish points out from her cozy spot inside my coat. Also, cookies. Lots and lots of cookies. And judging by those Christmas cookies on that plate, Sherlock is missing out on a feast.
For the first time since I met her, Jennilee’s perfect hostess facade completely dissolves. This is the real deal—still charming, but without the performance for the crowds.
“This is wonderful,” I tell her. “Thank you for helping find a nice place to nurse.”
“Please, she’s lucky to have a mama like you.”
“And she’s lucky to have her father, too,” I say with a laugh. “He’s a keeper, unlike most of the men I dated.”
She belts out a laugh. “You know, honey,” she says with a smile that reaches her eyes for the first time today, “I’ve learned that life is like a jar of pickles—sometimes you get the sweet ones, sometimes you get the sour ones, but you gotta keep reachin’ in that jar if you want to find anythin’ worth eating. ”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s quite the philosophy. I take it you’ve had your share of both sweet and sour?”
“Oh sugar, I’ve had more fellas than a barn has hay bales,” she says with a wink that suggests she’s not entirely sorry about it. “But findin’ one worth keepin’ is like findin’ a needle in a haystack made of fool’s gold.”
This woman has more metaphors than every country song ever written, Fish mutters.
“What about chocolate versus men?” I ask with a grin, genuinely curious about this woman’s priorities, and not only that, but it’s a good segue to the deceased. “If you had to choose between working in a chocolate factory and the male species, which wins?”
Jennilee throws back her head and laughs.
“Honey, chocolate never leaves the toilet seat up, never forgets your birthday, and always makes you feel better when you’re having a bad day.
Plus, when chocolate melts in your hands, it’s actually a good thing.
” She winks. “Though I’ll admit, chocolate can’t take out the trash or reach things on high shelves, so I suppose there’s still a place for men in this world. ”
We both dissolve into giggles, and I find myself genuinely liking this woman despite the fact that she might be a killer. There’s something refreshing about her honesty, even if I suspect she’s not being entirely honest about everything.
“What about little ones?” I ask, adjusting Ella’s position. “Any children of your own?”
“Never did get around to having any little ones,” Jennilee says, her expression softening as she watches Ella nurse.
“I kept getting distracted by all those handsome roosters in the henhouse, if you know what I mean. But I sure do love babies. That little angel of yours is just precious as pie.” She presses her lips tight.
“I can’t wait until David and I have an entire tribe of littles of our own. ”
She’s being genuine about that, Fish mewls. No lies detected, just your usual hooman chaos with a ribbon on top.
“So,” I say, transitioning into investigative mode with what I hope sounds like casual girl talk, “how did you come to work for Balthasar? Obviously, you seem well off, so I’m guessing it’s a labor of love?”
“Oh, it is, honey!” Her face lights up brighter than a Christmas tree on steroids. “He owns a chocolate factory—need I say more? It’s like working in heaven with a paycheck attached and dental benefits!”
She twitched when she said paycheck, Fish mewls. That’s the hooman version of blinking in Morse code.
Jennilee shakes her head. “Balthasar Thornfield—Santa—well, that man could turn cocoa beans into pure gold, I swear on my grandmother’s secret biscuit recipe,” she continues with enthusiasm.
“Working there is sweeter than finding money in your winter coat pocket. Every morning, I wake up thinking, Jennilee, you get to spend another day surrounded by chocolate—life could definitely be worse.”
“How did you two meet?” I ask, keeping my tone lighter than meringue in an effort to match hers.
“He swept into a charity fundraiser like a tornado in Armani—all charm and expensive cologne,” she says with the kind of admiration usually reserved for movie stars.
“That man could sell ice to polar bears and make them write thank-you notes. I was working the event, and he just had this way about him, you know? He made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room.”
She keeps glancing toward the hallway, Fish points out. It’s as if she’s afraid someone might take off with that big wedding picture of hers. Though I do the same thing with my food bowl, so maybe I shouldn’t judge.
I bet she’s itching to get back to her guests, which means I’m almost out of time to quiz her properly.
“I would love to work around chocolate, but neither I nor the chocolate would be safe,” I say, and we share a quick laugh. “But you’re well off, it’s obvious it’s a genuine labor of love for you to help out at the shop.”
“Well off is relative, sugar,” Jennilee adds quickly when she notices me studying her expression.
“I just believe in keeping up appearances. Presentation is everything in the South. My mama always said, ‘Dress like you’re going to meet your future husband, even if you’re just goin’ out to feed the chickens. ’”
We share another laugh.
“Your mama sounds wise,” I say. “Did Balthasar have any enemies?” I ask, making the question sound like idle curiosity. “Anyone who might have had something against him?”
Jennilee’s expression shifts, becoming more animated. “You mean Santa? Honey, nobody calls him anythin’ but that around here. And let me tell you somethin’, he might have been Santa, but he had more enemies than a skunk has stink!”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Really?” I encourage, shifting Ella to my other arm. “Like whom?”
“That Cordelia Goldleaf has been gunning for him since day one,” she says, leaning forward like we’re about to share state secrets.
“Rich as Fort Knox and twice as ruthless—that woman could charm the devil out of his pitchfork and then use it to start her own barbecue business. She’s got more money than common sense and a temper hotter than asphalt in August.”
She’s telling the truth about Cordelia being angry, Fish mewls, but I get the feeling there’s something she’s not saying about her own connections.
“And don’t get me started on Matilda Westoff,” Jennilee continues, warming to her subject like a cat in sunshine.
“That woman holds grudges longer than winter. She’s been madder than a hornet in a honey jar ever since Santa started cutting into her chocolate business.
I swear, those two could start a fight in an empty church. ”
“Who exactly is Cordelia?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve met her.”
I know who she is only by sight, but I’d love to hear more from Jennilee on the woman.
“Oh honey, she’s the queen bee of Cider Cove society—runs that big charity foundation I was telling you about last night,” Jennilee explains, adjusting her Christmas tree brooch.
“She lives in a mansion that makes the White House look like a garden shed. Throws parties that cost more than most folks make in a year. But underneath all that polish, she’s got claws sharper than a wildcat. ”
She pauses to adjust her Christmas tree brooch once again as if thinking carefully about what to say next.
“My daddy always said, ‘The fancier the frosting, the more likely the cake tastes like cardboard underneath,’” she adds with country wisdom. “That woman smiles like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but I bet she’d sell her own grandmother for the right price.”
Jennilee is about as country fried as a biscuit in a butter bath, Fish sniffs. And twice as slippery.
“What kind of charity work does Cordelia do?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Oh, all sorts of fancy do-gooder stuff.” Jennilee waves her hand dismissively. “Children’s programs, holiday assistance, that sort of thing. Though, between you and me, I think she does it more for the tax write-offs and social standing than any genuine desire to help folks.”
Baby Ella is getting drowsy, making those little sighs that mean she’s finished nursing and ready for a nap. I adjust her blanket and prepare to transfer her back to the stroller, when a tremendous crash echoes from the main part of the house like someone just dropkicked a piano.
Both Jennilee and I jump like we’ve been shot.
“What in Sam Hill was that?” Jennilee gasps as her hand flies to her chest.
That crash had Georgie written all over it, Fish points out dryly. I can smell the chaos from here.
“We should probably check on the tour group,” I say, settling sleepy Ella into her stroller and standing up with lightning speed because I happen to know a Georgie-inspired disaster when I hear it.
We rush toward the sound, which seems to be coming from the grand room where Mayor Mackenzie was giving her historical lecture. And Fish and I have a sinking feeling about what we’re going to find.
Sure enough, as we round the corner into the grand room, we’re greeted by a scene that could only be described as Georgie Strikes Again: The Holiday Edition.
The tour ladies are scattered around the room, looking shocked and slightly terrified.
Mayor Mackenzie stands with her mouth hanging open like she’s trying to catch flies.
And in the center of it all, Georgie is somehow tangled up in what appears to be several yards of antique Christmas garland, hanging upside down from a crystal chandelier like a very festive, very stuck pinata.
“Well,” she calls out cheerfully from her inverted position, swaying gently like a Christmas ornament in a breeze, “the good news is, I found out these chandeliers are a lot sturdier than they look! The bad news is, I may have discovered this information the hard way.”
And this is why we can’t take Georgie anywhere nice—or anywhere at all.
“How on earth did you get up there?” Mom asks, horrified but also looking as if she doesn’t really want to know the answer.
“I was helping with the historical demonstration,” Georgie explains, attempting to untangle herself and only succeeding in wrapping more garland around her ankles like festive bondage gear.
“The mayor was going on and on about how Victorian ladies were so proper and restrained, and I said that was probably just because they never had the opportunity to really cut loose. So, I thought I’d show everyone what a Victorian lady would do if she really let her hair down and had access to modern chandelier technology.
Apparently, Victorian ladies didn’t actually swing from chandeliers during Christmas parties. Who knew?”
I did, Fish mutters. Everyone with half a brain cell did.
“You were helping by swinging from a chandelier?” Mayor Mackenzie asks, her voice climbing higher than a soprano hitting a high note.
“It seemed perfectly reasonable at the time,” Georgie says defensively, still swaying like a human Christmas ornament. “Besides, I was being very ladylike about it. I kept my skirt down and everything. That’s more than you can say for most people who attempt chandelier acrobatics.”
I can’t watch this anymore, Fish announces. Wake me when the hoomans return to normal behavior.
This IS normal behavior for them, Sherlock points out with doggy logic. That’s the terrifying part.
“Oh, don’t look so scandalized, everyone,” Georgie addresses the group of horrified tour ladies. “At least now you’ve got a story to tell at your next book club meeting—the day I witnessed a senior citizen attempt aerial acrobatics in formal wear and lived to tell about it.”
Looking around at the horrified faces of the tour ladies, the destroyed garland, and Georgie hanging like a Christmas ornament gone wrong, I can’t help but think that this investigation just got a lot more complicated.
But at least I’ve learned some interesting things about Jennilee Holly, Cordelia Goldleaf, and the tangled web of relationships in Cider Cove’s high society. Now I just have to figure out which one of them decided that murder was the perfect way to celebrate the holidays.
Right after we figure out how to get Georgie down from that chandelier without destroying the rest of Jennilee’s Christmas decorations or causing a structural collapse.
Some days, I’m convinced that if there’s a murder to solve and a chandelier to destroy, Georgie will find a way to accomplish both simultaneously with the efficiency of a one-woman wrecking crew.