Chapter 12
Before I can get to Matilda Westoff, right here in her marble ballroom, Mom intercepts me near the refreshment table with the kind of efficiency that suggests she’s been planning this maneuver since we walked in.
“Give me that baby,” she says, reaching for Ella’s stroller with all the grandmother authority she can muster. “Go do whatever investigating you’re planning, but don’t get arrested before Christmas dinner. I’m making my famous ham, and it would be a shame to waste it on visiting you in jail.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I reply, handing her the stroller.
“I’m just being practical,” Mom says, already cooing at her granddaughter. “Besides, Georgie is probably going to need bail money after whatever she’s planning with that waiter, so the family legal fund can only stretch so far.”
Your mother has excellent priorities, Fish points out. Food first, family legal troubles second, looking fabulous third.
“Did you see her slip that poor boy her phone number?” Mom continues, shaking her head. “It was written on a napkin with little hearts drawn around it. The woman has no shame.”
“At least she’s consistent,” I say, watching Georgie chat up another tuxedoed server near the chocolate fountain like she’s conducting a very important job interview for the position of boy toy.
Buffy falls into step beside me as we make our way toward the corner of the ballroom where Matilda stands alone near what can only be described as the Christmas tree that ate Manhattan.
This thing has to be twelve feet tall and probably required a small crane to install.
It’s decorated with gold and crystal ornaments that catch the ballroom’s chandelier light like tiny disco balls, and I’m pretty sure the angel on top is wearing actual diamonds because apparently even the tree toppers need to match Matilda’s net worth.
The tree sits in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the estate grounds, and the late afternoon light streaming through creates the kind of magical Christmas glow as if the room itself is wrapped in holiday cheer and lightly dusted with cinnamon.
Matilda looks up as we approach, and her face lights up with the kind of genuine delight that suggests she’s just spotted her next victims—er, clients.
“Now,” she says, clasping her hands together as we approach, her face lighting up like she’s just spotted fresh prey, “which one of you is looking for some premier relationship advice? I could tell during the session that you both had questions you were too polite to ask publicly.” She gives Fish a quick scratch behind the ears and an appreciative nod as well.
Oh great, Fish mutters. She’s still in professional consultation mode. This should be more entertaining than watching Georgie flirt with men young enough to be her grandsons.
This should be great. Grandma always gives the best advice, Fudge adds, settling down near the Christmas tree with the resigned air of a cute kitty who’s about to witness a train wreck. And seeing that he lives with Matilda, I’m betting he sees them weekly.
“Well, I’m married,” I say matter-of-factly, watching her expression like a hawk. Matilda knows I’m married to Jasper, doesn’t she? Well, if not it might bode better for my investigation.
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises toward her hairline in a gesture that suggests she doubts the quality of my matrimonial union.
“I’m single, but like I mentioned during the Q&A, I’ve been burned before,” Buffy admits with just enough vulnerability to make Matilda’s eyes light up like she’s just discovered oil on her property.
Matilda looks my way and frowns. I bet Bizzy is having trouble in paradise and is too embarrassed to inquire publicly about what to do next, she thinks to herself with the kind of smugness that suggests she thinks she’s solved a challenging puzzle.
She did just give the man a child—she probably feels trapped and is wondering if the grass is greener elsewhere.
Classic postpartum relationship crisis. I’ve seen it a million times.
A million? It almost sounds as if the odds are stacked against me. I wonder if I’m having more problems than I’m aware of? Maybe Jasper and I are on the brink of divorce, but I’ve been too preoccupied with homicide investigations to notice?
Her gaze shifts to Buffy and she frowns.
And this poor dear already confessed to dating from the clearance rack of the romance department, continues Matilda’s internal monologue as she studies my sister.
She probably keeps falling for broke artists and unemployed musicians who think passion pays the bills.
Someone needs to teach her that chemistry doesn’t cover the mortgage or buy designer shoes.
She glances down at Buffy’s footwear and sniffs.
Apparently, she’s painfully aware of that part.
Thank goodness Buffy can’t read minds, because that assessment would probably send her straight back to whatever rock she was hiding under before we found each other.
“Marriage is like a business partnership, dear,” Matilda says to me with the authority of a woman who’s never been wrong about anything. “Make sure you’re getting equal ROI on your emotional investment. Have you considered a prenup review?”
Did she just reduce my marriage to a financial transaction?
“A prenup review?” I blink. “But we’ve been married for years.”
“It’s never too late to renegotiate terms,” she says seriously.
“Think of it as relationship maintenance, like getting your car serviced, but more expensive and with better jewelry.” She lifts her chin.
“If he’s not appreciating what he has,” she continues, warming to her theme, “perhaps it’s time to remind him that quality wives have options.
Never let a man think he’s irreplaceable—that’s how you end up doing all the emotional labor while he watches sports. ”
Your husband watches detective shows, not sports, Sherlock points out as he scampers his way over. And he does most of the cooking. Plus, he’s pretty good-looking for a hooman.
I give a slight nod because that he is.
I don’t think those details matter to the relationship guru, Fish replies.
And sadly, I don’t think so either.
“And you, sweetheart,” Matilda turns to Buffy with the kind of sympathetic expression that precedes either genuine help or complete character assassination, “need to stop dating potential losers and start dating actual winners. A man’s dreams don’t pay for dinner, vacations, or that cute little sports car you deserve. ”
Buffy nods politely, though I can see her trying to process this advice.
“If he talks more about his art than his 401k, run,” Matilda continues with increasing enthusiasm. “The phrase money isn’t everything is usually said by people who don’t have any. Why settle for struggling romance when you could have comfortable love with a nice jewelry allowance?”
She’s basically telling your sister to become a gold digger, Fish meows with fascination. This is like watching a nature documentary about predatory dating in the wild—of Wall Street.
“Speaking of relationships,” I say, deciding it’s time to steer this conversation toward more productive territory, “I’m so sorry about the loss of your friend, Balthasar Thornfield.”
The transformation is immediate and somewhat spectacular. Matilda’s face goes from sympathetic relationship counselor to something that could probably scare gargoyles off cathedral walls.
“Friend?!” she practically shrieks, her voice climbing toward frequencies that could probably shatter her own crystal ornaments and summon dogs from three counties. “FRIEND?! That man was not my friend. He was a demon masquerading as Santa Claus with better marketing!”
Several guests near the refreshment table turn to stare, and I notice Mom giving me a look that clearly says, this is why we can’t have nice things.
Well, that escalated quickly, Fudge says with the understatement of the millennium.
“He was systematically destroying everything I’ve worked for!” Matilda continues, her polished facade cracking like ice in a heat wave. “Underhanded, sneaky, corporate espionage tactics that would make Wall Street blush!”
Her voice is gaining volume with each word, and I’m starting to wonder if we’re about to witness the first recorded case of someone exploding from pure rage.
“That man would have sold his own mother for chocolate market share!” she declares, gesturing wildly enough to endanger nearby ornaments and possibly small pets.
I’m keeping an extra tight hold on Fish.
“He called himself Santa while being the Grinch of the chocolate industry with worse fashion sense!”
She’s really worked up about this, Sherlock points out unnecessarily.
Either she’s a fantastic actress or she genuinely hated the guy. Knowing Matilda, it’s probably both.
“If you want to know about enemies,” Matilda says, suddenly switching from volcanic eruption to ice-cold calculation like she has an emotional thermostat, “look at Jennilee Holly. Sweet as pie on the surface, but I heard there was some sort of sharp disagreement between them—quite heated, from what I understand. That girl has more layers than a wedding cake.”
My detective instincts perk up like Sherlock’s ears when he hears the treat jar opening.
“Jennilee?” Buffy asks with surprise. “But she seems so sweet and bubbly. Like everyone’s best friend wrapped up in a bow.”
“Oh, she is sweet,” Matilda agrees with an ice-cold smile. “She’s sweet as sugar until you cross her business interests. Then that Southern charm can turn into Southern strategy real quick.”
“How do you know that?” Buffy asks, apparently developing her own investigative skills.
“My dear friend Cordelia Goldleaf told me all about it,” Matilda replies with satisfaction as if she’s just dropping a particularly juicy piece of gossip.
“Cordelia sees everything that happens in this town, and apparently, Jennilee and Balthasar had quite the public spat at the chocolate festival planning meeting. Something about crossing boundaries and contract disputes or something of that nature. That sweet Southern belle act doesn’t fool everyone, you know. ”
Mental note: talk to Cordelia Goldleaf next. She seems to be the town information broker with better intel than the CIA.
A series of melodic chimes rings through the house—probably custom-installed throughout the mansion because why settle for a simple ding-dong when you can have a full-blown musical number.
Matilda’s expression instantly transforms back to gracious hostess mode with the kind of speed that suggests she’s had years of practice switching between personalities.
“Time for the grand finale of our tour!” she announces brightly, as if she hasn’t just spent the last five minutes describing someone as the chocolate industry equivalent of a Bond villain. “Presents for one and all! Everyone, back to the ballroom for our White Elephant gift exchange!”
“Oh, I love gift exchanges!” Buffy exclaims with genuine excitement. “It’s like Christmas morning but with more strategy and fewer family feuds.”
“Yes, unless Macy is involved,” I agree, though I’m mostly excited about the investigation opportunities this will provide, plus the chance to watch Georgie try to steal whatever the most expensive gift turns out to be.
Hoomans and their ritualistic gift redistribution ceremonies, Fish muses. It’s almost as entertaining as their mating advice sessions and significantly more likely to end in bloodshed. But with your luck, Bizzy. You’d better watch your back.
She’s not kidding.
As we start walking back toward the ballroom, following the stream of guests who are chattering excitedly about the upcoming gift exchange, I notice Matilda’s expression shift slightly.
For just a moment, the sparkle in her smile snags—like a Christmas light with a short in the wire—and something colder peeks through.
If only that meddling detective’s wife would stop asking pointed questions, the thought drifts from her with a chill that has nothing to do with the December weather outside.
Some secrets are better left buried with the dead, especially when they involve things that could ruin Christmas and reputations.
The thought hits me like a snowball to the face.
Whatever Matilda Westoff is hiding, it’s something she’s willing to go to considerable lengths to keep secret.
And considering we’re currently investigating a murder, that’s the kind of information that could either solve this case or land me in significantly more trouble than my mother is worried about.
But first, apparently, we’re going to exchange gifts like civilized people who haven’t been discussing murder and corporate espionage.
Because nothing says Christmas spirit quite like hunting for clues while participating in socially mandated present redistribution with a potential killer.