Chapter 17
The Deck the Halls Home Tour at Cordelia Goldleaf’s estate is hitting its stride as everyone migrates toward the promise of French pastries and imported coffee like refugees fleeing the photography disaster.
Mom jumps in front of me. “I’ll take her,” she announces, practically stealing Ella from me with the efficiency of a professional baby snatcher who’s been waiting for this exact grandmotherly opportunity since birth.
“Just promise me you won’t do anything that requires me to identify your body at the morgue. ”
“Wow,” I muse, watching my baby disappear into Mom’s custody faster than wrapping paper on Christmas morning. “We’ve reached a new low in maternal confidence. What’s next? A betting pool on how long I’ll survive the investigation?”
“I’m just being realistic about your track record,” Mom shoots back with far too much brutal honesty.
Sure, she’s watched me stumble into more crime scenes than a CSI investigator, but that’s beside the point.
“Between your supernatural knack for stumbling over corpses and your talent for turning any gathering into a code red, someone’s got to track the body count. ”
“I have no response.”
She gives a satisfied sniff my way. “When I’m right, I’m right.”
She’s got me there.
She takes off with the baby as I catch Buffy’s eye and give her the subtle sister nod that means create a diversion while I go investigate suspicious behavior and hopefully don’t get myself killed in the process.
She understands immediately and starts herding Mom and Georgie toward the dessert table because, let’s face it, in just a few short months, she’s learned exactly how to keep those two occupied with sugar-based distractions.
Cordelia is hanging back near her charity foundation display, adjusting awards and straightening already-perfect promotional materials with the kind of obsessive nervous energy usually reserved for people who’ve just committed felonies and are trying to look casual about it.
And I wonder if that’s exactly what’s happening here.
Perfect opportunity for some amateur detective work, assuming I don’t accidentally confess to crimes I didn’t commit or somehow manage to incriminate myself in the process.
“This foundation display is really impressive,” I say, approaching with what I hope looks like casual admiration instead of an amateur sleuth conducting an investigation while internally panicking about whether I’m talking to a cold-blooded killer.
Thank goodness someone appreciates all the work I put into this presentation, Cordelia thinks to herself as she turns around with a smile. Though I hope she’s not going to ask too many detailed questions about the programs. She’s a nosy one.
I gasp at the slight.
“Thank you,” Cordelia replies with genuine warmth. “It’s so important to showcase the foundation’s work, especially during the holiday season when people are feeling most generous and least likely to ask for receipts.”
We share a quick laugh.
“You must be so proud of everything you’ve accomplished,” I continue, studying the photos and testimonials with what I hope looks like innocent interest. “These children’s Christmas programs sound wonderful.”
If only you knew how wonderful they are on paper, she thinks to herself, though her smile remains perfectly professional. Sometimes the best charity work is the kind that maximizes tax benefits while minimizing pesky things like actual expenses and real children.
My brows furrow at the woman. What in the world is she confessing to?
“Oh, Christmas programs are wonderful,” she says brightly as if she were proud of a rather successful magic trick. And I’m beginning to wonder if that’s exactly what this is. “We’ve been able to help so many families this year. Of course, the foundation has faced some challenges recently.”
“Challenges?”
“Well,” she says carefully, her fingers moving to adjust a perfectly straight picture frame, “we lost a potential major sponsor unexpectedly. Balthasar Thornfield was supposed to support several of our initiatives, but then...” She trails off with the kind of meaningful pause that suggests tragedy has struck her charitable endeavors along with the rest of Cider Cove.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to him,” I say, watching her reaction carefully. “It must have been such a shock.”
More of a relief than a shock, she thinks to herself, with the kind of honesty that probably shouldn’t be shared with someone who has a proven track record of solving murders. That man was becoming a serious problem that required a permanent solution.
“Yes, it was terrible,” she says aloud, though something flickers across her expression like someone trying not to smile at a funeral. “Such a loss to the business community.”
“Were the two of you close?”
“Professionally, yes. Balthasar was always very thorough in his business dealings. Sometimes more than any sane person should ever have to be.” Her smile becomes slightly strained.
“He had a tendency to dig deeper into financial details than most sponsors require. Or deserve. Or have any legal right to, frankly.”
The man was like a bloodhound when it came to following money trails, she thinks with irritation.
Of course, there was some light theft from who knows where, but name a charity where there’s not a phantom dipping their hands in the funds.
But despite the fact if he hadn’t been so obsessed with examining every program budget, none of this would have been necessary.
My jaw goes slack. What wouldn’t have been necessary? Murder?
“That sounds frustrating,” I offer sympathetically.
“It was challenging,” she admits. “Some people don’t understand that charitable operations require a certain amount of... well, creative accounting. There are administrative costs, overhead expenses, operational flexibility that needs to be maintained.”
The way she says creative accounting makes it sound like an art form rather than potential fraud. I could probably pick up a tip or two from her when it comes to the inn.
“I’m sure running a foundation is complicated,” I agree. “Did Balthasar understand that complexity?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Cordelia’s composure slips slightly.
“He kept insisting on seeing detailed breakdowns of program expenditures, meeting with supposed beneficiaries, and visiting facilities that were still in the planning stages. The man had no appreciation for the delicate balance required in foundation management.”
He wanted to see actual children benefiting from children’s programs. She rolls her eyes at the thought. As if physical evidence were more important than properly documented tax deductions.
Oh wow, this sounds terrible.
“That does sound demanding,” I say. “I imagine that kind of scrutiny could put pressure on your working relationship.”
“Pressure is an understatement,” Cordelia replies, her professional mask slipping a notch further. “Balthasar became increasingly insistent about transparency. He seemed to think that his potential sponsorship gave him the right to audit our entire operation.”
“And when you couldn’t provide what he wanted?”
“Oh, I could have provided it,” she says quickly, then catches herself. “I mean, everything was perfectly legitimate, of course. It’s just that some business arrangements require confidentiality agreements, privacy protections for beneficiaries, that sort of thing.”
What I couldn’t provide was evidence of programs that actually existed, she thinks with growing agitation. The man wanted to shake hands with children who were purely theoretical.
Oh my word! I’m pretty sure she should be arrested for that alone!
I clear my throat, trying my best not to look miffed. “So, you two didn’t part on the best of terms?”
“Let’s just say our business relationship became strained to the point where restraining orders seemed like a reasonable possibility,” Cordelia says, her ice-blue eyes hardening as if she spotted a particularly annoying insect that needs squashing.
And I’m getting the feeling she squashed the bug in question.
“Balthasar had a tendency to make threats when he didn’t get his way.
Completely unprofessional behavior that would make a mob boss blush. ”
“Threats?”
“Nothing physical, of course,” she says quickly. “Just ultimatums about exposing supposed irregularities unless I agreed to make him a full partner in Goldleaf Enterprises. Complete nonsense, naturally, but the kind of harassment that can damage a foundation’s reputation regardless of merit.”
The bastard was going to destroy everything I’ve built unless I handed over half my company, she thinks to herself. Twenty years of carefully constructed success ruined by one man’s obsession with his type of accountability.
“That must have been incredibly stressful,” I cringe as I say it because that confession going off in her mind is making me very uncomfortable.
“Stress is part of running any successful enterprise,” Cordelia replies with forced composure. “Though I have to say, if you’re looking for someone who had real problems with Balthasar, you should talk to Matilda Westoff.”
And there it is—the deflection I’ve been waiting for.
“Matilda?”
“Oh yes,” Cordelia says with relief at changing the subject. “Those two had a business rivalry that went back years. Matilda was absolutely furious about Balthasar’s competitive tactics, and frankly, I think she was desperate enough to do something drastic.”
Thank goodness I can point suspicion toward someone with equally compelling motives, she thinks. Matilda’s chocolate business problems should provide excellent cover for my own difficulties.
“What kind of competitive tactics?”
What kind of difficulties is what I really want to ask!