Chapter 10 #2
“This way, everyone!” Matilda announces, leading our group through what appears to be a formal living room decorated with enough Christmas trees to reforest a small state. “We’ll be gathering in the ballroom for our little chat.”
Did she just say ballroom? Sherlock asks. Like, an actual ballroom?
Apparently, rich people need entire rooms just for dancing, Fish replies. Though I suspect this one’s about as warm and inviting as a meat locker.
It’s true, but at least the acoustics are good for howling, Fudge adds pragmatically.
We wind through room after room of Christmas excess—a dining room featuring a table that could seat a small army, a library with leather-bound books that look like they’ve never been opened, and a conservatory filled with enough poinsettias to supply a small Christmas market.
Finally, we arrive at what can only be described as an actual, honest-to-goodness ballroom.
White ladder-back chairs are arranged around small white marble tables (because apparently, even the temporary furniture needs to match the overall marble theme), all facing a small stage that’s been set up with what looks like professional lighting equipment.
Either someone is getting married or we just walked into a glitter bomb support group, Fish mewls as we take our seats.
If there’s no cake involved, I’m leaving, Sherlock sniffs.
Or at least stealing a cookie, Fudge adds reasonably.
Almost immediately, the army of tuxedoed waitstaff appears with silver trays bearing floral teacups of hot cocoa that smell like they were crafted by angels, and Christmas cookies that look like tiny works of art.
Each cookie appears to have been individually decorated by someone with both artistic talent and way too much time on their hands.
“Hubba, hubba, and a side of washboard abs,” Georgie whispers, practically batting her eyelashes at a particularly handsome waiter.
“Young man, could you tell me where you learned to carry a tray with such hunky precision? Are you single? Asking for a friend. And I’m the friend.
” Maybe if I act interested in the service quality, he won’t realize I’m old enough to be his grandmother.
Possibly his great-grandmother, she muses that last bit to herself.
Mom kicks her under the table. “Behave yourself. We’re guests here.”
“I am behaving,” Georgie protests. “I’m behaving in a very friendly, socially appropriate manner. It’s called networking.”
Macy leans toward Buffy and me. “Some people clearly don’t understand the concept of age-appropriate behavior,” she says in a voice loud enough to carry. “And I’m one of them.”
The three of us share a laugh. Did Macy just extend an olive branch to Buffy by way of humor? Time and impending prison sentences will only tell.
At least I have some dignity left, comes from Macy’s direction, though I notice she’s eyeing the waitstaff with almost as much interest as Georgie.
Matilda takes the stage with the poise of a socialite about to light the town Christmas tree and declare the start of the season—festive, fearless, and fully aware she has everyone’s attention.
I hope she breaks into carols. I could use a little holiday magic right about now.
“My dear friends,” she begins, her voice carrying easily through the ballroom’s acoustics like she’s been training with opera coaches, “I want to thank you all for coming today, especially during this difficult time for our family. As many of you know, our beloved Jellybean has gone missing, and Hammie Mae, little Matilda, and I are absolutely heartbroken. She’s not just a pet—she’s family. ”
She pauses with one hand pressed to her heart in a gesture that would make Shakespeare proud.
“We are heartbroken indeed. Which is why I’m announcing a reward of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for her safe return, no questions asked.”
The collective gasp from the audience could probably be heard in the next county, and possibly the next state.
Two hundred and fifty grand for a cat? Fish practically squeaks. I’m in the wrong profession—and so are you, Bizzy. Get on it!
That’s more than most people make in five years, Sherlock adds, equally stunned. And by most people, I mean Jasper.
Either that cat knows where the bodies are buried or there’s something seriously weird going on, Fudge gives a soft woof. Or both. Knowing Jellybean, it’s probably both.
“I’m begging all of you—please, comb every square inch of Cider Cove,” Matilda continues, dabbing at her eyes with what appears to be a monogrammed handkerchief, and I have to admit, if this is an act, it’s a darn good one.
“Check your sheds, your basements, anywhere a frightened little cat might hide. Bring our sweet angel home.”
The horror in her voice, the sheer desperation—there’s no way this is an act.
“But,” she continues, brightening a notch as she shifts into what I can only assume is professional mode, like a switch being flipped from grief-stricken pet owner to business mogul, “while we’re all gathered here, I thought we might make the best of this difficult time by sharing something positive. Something hopeful.”
And there it is—the transition I’ve been waiting for.
“I’d like to offer you a free holiday romance & lifestyle Q&A—right here, right now. Ask me anything and I’ll be sure to feature insights from my upcoming book, Sleigh Bells & Wedding Bells: How to Land Your Perfect Christmas Catch, which is available for sale tomorrow!”
Oh, this is going to be good, Fish purrs with anticipation as if she were watching a bird feeder and getting ready to pounce.
Define good, Sherlock replies nervously.
The entertaining kind of disaster, Fudge clarifies helpfully. The kind where we get to watch from a safe distance and judge. Then have snacks.
SNACKS! Sherlock gives a sharp bark at the thought, and I shoot him a look.
I settle back in my chair, adjusting Ella’s stroller and preparing for what I suspect is about to be either the most entertaining or most horrifying relationship advice session in the history of Cider Cove.
Possibly both.