Chapter 13
If I thought the ballroom was impressive, Matilda’s grand room makes it look like a budget hotel lobby.
We’re talking about a space big enough to host a snowplow convention, dominated by what has to be a fourteen-foot Noble fir dripping in enough gold and silver to bankrupt Santa’s workshop.
The tree sits in the center of the room like a glittering monument to Christmas excess, surrounded by elegant seating arranged in a perfect circle that probably required a degree in event planning to execute.
The late afternoon December light is fading outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the warm white lights on the tree look like captured starlight.
Christmas carols float through hidden speakers with the kind of audio quality that makes it feel like the carolers are hiding in the wreaths, waiting to pounce, and the air is thick with the scents of pine, cinnamon candles, and what I can only assume is the collective fragrance of very expensive perfumes mixing with holiday spices.
This tree is bigger than some local towns we’ve visited, Fish mewls with awe as she takes it all in. Do rich people compete to see who can kill the largest evergreen each year? Because if so, this woman is winning.
I happen to agree.
It’s so sparkly, my eyes are happy, Sherlock adds with puppy-like wonder.
I just hope nobody expects us to help with cleanup when these hoomans inevitably trash the place, Fudge says with the pragmatism of a puppy who’s seen family gatherings before.
“Now then,” Matilda announces, clapping her hands together as if she’s about to unveil her masterpiece, “I’ve taken the liberty of providing all the gifts myself—only the finest for our guests!”
She gestures toward the tree like a game show hostess revealing the grand prize, and I have to admit, the gift display is pretty spectacular.
Elegantly wrapped packages in gold and silver paper are arranged artfully under the tree.
Each package is wrapped so immaculately, it’s giving luxury boutique meets Christmas overachiever.
She bought all the gifts herself? comes from someone in the crowd, and I’m guessing it’s the same thought running through everyone’s mind at the moment.
“Because we’re all civilized people,” Matilda continues with a smile that suggests she has no idea what’s about to happen, “let’s keep the stealing to a minimum of pure chaos.
Traditional White Elephant rules—draw numbers, pick gifts in order, and remember that each gift can only be stolen three times before it’s permanently locked to its final owner. ”
She produces a velvet bag that probably costs more than my wedding ring and starts walking around the circle, letting everyone draw numbers.
I get number eight, which puts me squarely in the middle of what I suspect is about to become a battlefield. Buffy draws twelve, Mom gets four, and—because the universe has a sense of humor about family dynamics—Georgie draws number six while Macy gets number fifteen.
“This should be entertaining,” I whisper to Buffy.
“Define entertaining,” she whispers back.
The first few picks go smoothly enough. A nice woman in a cashmere coat unwraps what appears to be a luxury candle set, someone else scores a bottle of wine fancy enough to require its own security detail, and Mom unwraps a beautiful silk scarf and declares she’ll be happy to keep it with the kind of holiday cheer usually reserved for avoiding family drama at Christmas dinner.
That’s when Georgie’s number comes up.
“Well, hot hunks and hotter monks!” she announces, surveying the remaining gifts with the intensity of a bargain hunter on Black Friday. “So many beautiful boxes! It’s like Christmas and my birthday had a baby!”
She selects a package that turns out to be a luxury spa set complete with what appear to be actual gold flakes in the bath salts, and her face lights up like Christmas morning itself.
“Well, hubba hubba! This is gorgeous!” she exclaims, holding up various bottles and jars for everyone to admire. “Look at this packaging! I think it just winked at me in six different languages.”
Mom rolls her eyes. She thinks everything is winking at her, she muses to herself.
Georgie has excellent priorities, Sherlock points out. But I’d have a tough time choosing between food and fancy bath products. It’s a real struggle.
Unlike Fish, Sherlock does appreciate a good bubble bath.
Several more people take their turns, and the gift selection continues peacefully until we get to number twelve—which belongs to a perfectly coiffed woman who takes one look at Georgie’s spa collection and moves in for the kill.
“I’m so sorry, hon,” she says to Georgie with the kind of smile that suggests she’s not sorry at all, “but I simply must have that spa collection. I have such sensitive skin, you understand.”
Georgie’s expression shifts from delight to betrayal to something that could probably be classified as a natural disaster.
“Well,” she says with dangerous sweetness. “I suppose I’ll just have to find something even better, won’t I? Game on, sister.”
She surveys the opened gifts with newfound determination and selects a package of what appears to be a set of genuine crystal ornaments, each one looking far too fragile to be handled by mere mortal hands.
“These will look perfect on my tree,” she announces loudly enough for the spa thief to hear. “I can appreciate quality craftsmanship. Unlike some people who clearly don’t.”
The game continues, and I’m starting to see why people get addicted to this particular form of socially acceptable theft. There’s something oddly thrilling about watching perfectly respectable adults engage in legalized larceny over luxury bath products.
Macy’s number finally comes up.
“Oh boy,” I mutter to Buffy. “Brace for impact.”
She surveys the situation with calculating precision as if she’s been planning this moment since she drew her number, and her gaze lands squarely on Georgie’s crystal ornaments.
“Those ornaments are absolutely stunning,” she says with the kind of cultured appreciation that suggests she knows good crystal when she sees it. “I simply must have them for my collection.”
“Spoiler alert,” I whisper to Buffy, “Macy doesn’t have a crystal collection. Yet.”
The sound Georgie makes could most accurately be described as a wounded water buffalo.
“Macy Louise Baker!” she gasps, clutching the ornament box like it contains the crown jewels. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“I most certainly would,” Macy replies with the cool efficiency of a woman who’s just executed a perfectly planned heist. “After all, I do appreciate fine crystal more than some people.”
Oh, this means war, Fish mewls with fascination—and a touch too much glee. I’ve seen both Macy and Georgie get more territorial over things than a dog with a bone. It’s going to be delicious.
Georgie is forced to select another gift, and she unwraps what appears to be a designer handbag that looks like it should come with a velvet throne and a tiara. For a moment, I think she might be satisfied with this consolation prize.
“At least this is practical,” she mutters, examining the bag with what looks to be a grudge.
But then the spa thief decides she wants the handbag, too.
“I hate to do this again,” the woman says, not sounding sorry at all, “but that bag would go perfectly with my winter wardrobe.”
The expression on Georgie’s face could melt steel beams.
“That’s it!” she declares, marching over to reclaim her crystal ornaments from Macy. “Age before beauty, sister!”
“That’s not how the rules work!” Macy protests, but Georgie is already clutching the ornament box with both hands.
“Rules schmules,” Georgie shoots back. “I picked these first, and I’m taking them back!”
“If Georgie Conner wants something, Georgie Conner is going to get it,” Mom muses under her breath. “And that goes for gossip, glitter, and apparently, crystal ornaments.”
Matilda looks like she’s watching her elegant Christmas gathering unravel faster than a cat with a roll of yarn.
“Ladies,” she says with the kind of strained cheerfulness that suggests she’s one candy cane away from snapping. “Perhaps we could all remember the spirit of Christmas giving?”
“The spirit of Christmas giving says finders keepers,” Georgie announces, apparently having developed her own unique interpretation of holiday traditions.
The next few rounds devolve into what can only be described as genteel chaos.
Gifts change hands with the frequency of a stock market crash, alliances form and dissolve based entirely on who has what someone else wants, and the Christmas carols playing in the background create the most ironic soundtrack possible for what’s essentially become a luxury gift battle royale.
By the time we reach the final rounds, the chaos has reached epic proportions.
Georgie clutches her latest acquisition—a gourmet chocolate selection—like it contains the secrets to eternal youth. “These are Belgian truffles!” she announces to the room. “Hand-dipped by monks or something equally impressive!”
“Actually, they’re Swiss,” Macy corrects from across the circle, adjusting her newly acquired cashmere throw with smugness as if she’s just won a corporate takeover. “And they’re machine-made. I can tell by the consistency of the chocolate drizzle.”
“Oh, excuse me, Professor Chocolate,” Georgie retorts, hugging her box tighter. “I didn’t realize we had a candy expert in our midst. Tell me, does your vast confectionery knowledge come with a degree, or did you just Google it?”
Macy’s smile could freeze hot chocolate. “Some of us simply appreciate quality when we see it.”
“And some of us appreciate not being pretentious about candy!” Georgie fires back.
But then the unthinkable happens. Macy makes a grab for Georgie’s chocolates.
“Those would pair perfectly with my evening wine,” she says, lunging forward.
“OVER MY DEAD BODY!” Georgie shrieks, clutching the chocolate box and dodging backward.
Right into the Christmas tree.
The fourteen-foot Noble fir sways ominously, ornaments jingling like warning bells. For a moment, it looks like it might recover. Then gravity takes over with the enthusiasm of Newton himself.
“TIMBER!” someone yells as the tree crashes down in a shower of gold and silver ornaments that explode like glittery grenades across the marble floor.
Georgie, still clutching her chocolates, trips over a fallen branch and goes sliding across the polished floor like she’s surfing on pine needles.
“GET BACK HERE, YOU CHOCOLATE THIEF!” she bellows, scrambling to her feet and chasing Macy around the wreckage.
Macy, hampered by her cashmere throw, tries to escape by climbing onto a velvet chair, which promptly tips over, launching her toward one of the massive chandeliers. She grabs on with both hands, swinging like a very elegant Tarzan.
“HELP!” she squeaks, dangling twenty feet above the chaos.
Meanwhile, the spa thief—apparently, not content to let Georgie and Macy have all the fun—makes a desperate grab for someone else’s gift and ends up sliding into the overturned furniture.
She, too, grabs for the nearest chandelier, leaving both women swinging from the crystal fixtures like very expensive Christmas ornaments themselves.
“MY CHOCOLATES!” Georgie wails, diving after her scattered truffles as they roll across the floor like edible marbles.
The remaining guests scatter like startled deer, some slipping on chocolate, others dodging falling ornament shards that tinkle and crash like a symphony of destruction.
This is the best entertainment I’ve seen all year, Fish chitters with a laugh. I take back everything I said about hoomans being boring.
Matilda stands in the center of her destroyed grand room, her perfectly coiffed hair now resembling something a tornado might produce, watching chocolate-covered Georgie army-crawl across her marble floor while two women dangle from her chandeliers like human pinatas.
“EVERYBODY OUT!” she shrieks, her elegant hostess facade finally cracking. “OUT, OUT, OUT! AND TAKE YOUR DERANGED FAMILY MEMBERS WITH YOU!”
“But my chocolates!” Georgie protests, still on her hands and knees, collecting truffles.
“NOW!” Matilda roars, pointing toward the door with the authority of a woman who’s had enough Christmas spirit to last three lifetimes.
Mom grabs Georgie by the back of her sequined sweater and hauls her toward the exit while Buffy and I help extract the chandelier-clingers with a stepladder someone miraculously produced.
“Well,” I say to Fish as we’re unceremoniously escorted out into the cold December air, stepping over scattered ornament debris, “that was—”
“NEVER COME BACK!” Matilda slams the door so hard that the windows rattle.
Hoomans are so weird, Fish concludes with satisfaction. But I have to admit, they sure know how to make an exit.
Unfortunately, she’s absolutely right.
A few wrong moves, and that’s how we got permanently banned from high society—one chocolate truffle at a time.
And somewhere out there a killer is planning their next move, too.