Chapter 9
Ibarge through the cottage door like I’ve just gone twelve rounds with holiday shoppers, a chandelier-swinging Georgie, and a murder-solving compulsion that apparently doesn’t believe in vacation days—which, unfortunately, is the closest thing I have to a holiday tradition.
“There are my girls,” Jasper says, rising from the couch where he’s been waiting with the kind of patience that suggests he’s been tracking my location on his phone, possibly lighting candles to various saints, and maybe browsing online therapy options for spouses of amateur detectives.
He takes baby Ella from my arms and plants a gentle kiss on her forehead, then turns to me with a considerably steamier version that makes my toes curl despite my exhaustion and the fact that I probably smell like a combination of Jennilee’s expensive perfume and her cigarettes, a murder suspect interrogation, and whatever it is that anxious sweat smells like.
“You were out late,” he murmurs against my lips, and there’s definitely a question mark floating around that statement like a suspicious punctuation mark that’s been taking detective lessons from me.
“I went and did a little light shopping after the home tour,” I say innocently, dropping my bags by the door like they contain nothing more dangerous than holiday decorations and maybe some therapeutic chocolate.
His eyebrows do this thing where they climb toward his hairline in slow motion.
“How was the home tour?” Jasper’s voice takes on that particular tone he uses when he’s trying really hard not to laugh while also being genuinely concerned.
“Wonderful.” I leave out the word informative for now.
He’s already reaching for his phone with his free hand, while baby Ella is still contentedly nestled in his other arm as if she’s completely unbothered by her mother’s tendency to turn social events into crime scenes.
The man can multitask as if he’s juggling candy canes, a bucket full of ornaments, and a ticking fruitcake bomb.
“And what did you see?” He arches a dark brow my way and manages to look twice as handsome in the process.
“Oh, you know…” I wave my hand vaguely while trying to edge toward the kitchen, where hot chocolate might provide moral support, liquid courage, and possibly an alibi.
“It was just your average fare for The Deck the Home Halls Tour thing. Very festive. Lots of Christmas spirit and... decorations. Educational, really. I learned so much about Victorian architecture.” And murder motives, but I leave that part out.
Jasper’s fingers fly across his phone screen, and I can practically see the exact moment he puts two and two together and gets “my wife is investigating again” with a side of “she took our three-month-old along as her adorable little accomplice.”
“It says here Jennilee Holly’s house was one of the homes on the tour’s agenda for the day,” he looks up at me with that mixture of exasperation and affection that I’ve come to recognize as peak Jasper.
“You were investigating, weren’t you?” Both eyebrows reach maximum elevation, possibly achieving orbit.
“And you took our daughter along as your tiny wingman.”
“Wing woman,” I correct and cringe.
“Bizzy.”
There’s no anger in his voice, just genuine concern wrapped up in that slightly amused tone that means he loves me but thinks I’m one step away from needing professional intervention and that he might need a very strong drink.
“You took Ella to investigate a murder?”
“She was undercover,” I protest. “She wore her Silent Night, Violent Night onesie and everything,” I’m only half-teasing. The onesie does exist; she just didn’t have it on at the time.
Before Jasper can begin his Lecture of Loving Concern, the doorbell rings like an actual Christmas miracle.
“Saved by the bell,” I whisper, bolting to the door like a woman dodging both judgment and accountability.
I’m pretty sure there’s a naughty list that Santa has for people who use their babies as detective accessories, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Expecting someone?” Jasper asks, though his tone suggests this reprieve is purely temporary and we will definitely be returning to this conversation, possibly with visual aids and a PowerPoint presentation about appropriate uses for infants.
“Not exactly.” I practically cling to the door like it’s dispensing free chocolate and pardons for questionable parenting decisions. And at this point, it may as well be.
To my surprise and utter delight, Emmie stands on my doorstep holding baby Elliot, with Leo behind her carrying what looks like missing cat posters. Behind them, two very excited dogs are doing that pre-entry dance that means my peaceful cottage is about to become a four-pet demolition zone.
“Hope you don’t mind the impromptu invasion,” Emmie says, already pushing past me because she’s been my best friend long enough to know that my door is always open, especially when I need saving from awkward conversations with my husband about my investigative so-called hobbies. “We brought chaos.”
“You know your brand of chaos is always welcome here,” I say, giving baby Elliot a kiss on his chubby little cheek.
The second Cinnamon and Gatsby cross the threshold, my cottage transforms into the Westminster Dog Show meets WWE SmackDown. All four pets immediately launch into what can only be described as the Zoomies Olympics.
PARTY! Sherlock barks, racing figure-eights around the coffee table like he’s been injected with pure joy and possibly some kind of canine energy drink.
Did someone mention treats? Because I definitely heard the word treats! TREATS! Cinnamon bounces off the couch like a curly-haired missile with springs for legs and a one-track mind.
I smell Christmas cookies! And coffee! And possibly world peace! Gatsby adds, his golden tail whipping everything within a three-foot radius and threatening the lives of several houseplants, a lamp, and my sanity.
And here I thought this evening couldn’t get more ridiculous, Fish mutters, leaping onto the mantle to avoid the chaos.
“I’ve been playing poster boy all day,” Leo announces, handing missing cat flyers to Jasper and me with the weary expression of a deputy who just distributed approximately six thousand pictures of a cat in a pink bow.
Jellybean’s sweet face stares up at us, looking impossibly cute and probably plotting world domination from her secret hideout while laughing at our feeble human search efforts.
Either that or she’s truly been catnapped. “I figured I’d spread the joy.”
Jasper shakes his head. “Matilda showed up at the precinct this morning demanding we put out an APB on a cat. She wanted FBI involvement, threatened to hire a psychic, and I’m pretty sure she mentioned calling in the National Guard and possibly NASA.”
My heart squeezes. “Poor little Jellybean. Who knows where she could be. This isn’t like her.”
We’ll track her down, Sherlock promises, pausing mid-zoom to look serious for approximately three seconds before getting distracted by his own tail.
That cat knows every hiding spot in Cider Cove, Fish adds. If she’s out there, we’ll find her. If she doesn’t want to be found, good luck to all of us.
“We called in pizzas at the cafe,” Leo says with a smile because, let’s face it, food solves most of life’s problems. “Jasper, want to help me wrangle them? I ordered enough food to feed a small army, which should be perfect for this crowd and our pets’ inevitable begging campaign.”
Jasper transfers Ella to my arms, giving me a look that clearly states, this conversation about your detective activities is absolutely not over, just temporarily postponed until after we feed this circus.
The moment the men disappear out the front door, Emmie’s face lights up with the kind of dangerous enthusiasm that should probably come with a warning label and possibly require a permit from the local authorities.
“Okay,” she says, pulling a suspiciously bulging shopping bag from behind her back. “I may have had a slight educational emergency at the baby store today.”
“Funny you should mention educational emergencies,” I say, retrieving my own bag of shame from behind the door. “Great minds think alike. Terrifyingly, obsessively, probably-need-therapy alike.”
We dump everything onto the coffee table like we’re preparing for baby genius warfare, complete with battle plans, educational ammunition, and what appears to be enough guilt about our parenting choices to stuff a thousand stockings with self-doubt.
Emmie’s haul includes: Baby Einstein’s First Quantum Physics (because apparently, regular physics is for slackers), flashcards promising Advanced Calculus for Infants (with cute little cartoon derivatives), a musical mobile playing three different classical composers simultaneously (creating what sounds like a very cultured nervous breakdown), and something called tiny baby dumbbells that I’m pretty sure violate several child safety regulations and possibly the laws of common sense.
My collection features—Shakespeare for Babies (because nothing says naptime like existential crisis), a yoga mat promising cognitive enhancement through infant meditation (for when your three-month-old needs to find their inner peace and possibly their inner Einstein), a DNA double helix teething ring (because why settle for boring old circles when you can chew on the building blocks of life), and a Future CEO onesie complete with briefcase rattle that actually makes business-meeting sounds when you squeeze it, including what sounds suspiciously like a very tense merger negotiation.
“Latin language CDs,” Emmie announces proudly, like she’s just discovered the cure for any educational delay. “Because you never know when they might need to translate ancient texts, impress college admissions officers, or possibly communicate with time-traveling Romans.”