Chapter 18
“Can you believe Macy basically turned Christmas shopping into the Hunger Games?” I announce as Emmie and I crash through my cottage door like pack mules who’ve discovered the holy grail of retail therapy, our arms loaded with enough shopping bags to stock a small Christmas boutique.
“May the most expensive purchases be ever in your favor.”
As soon as things wrapped up at Cordelia Goldleaf’s, I invited my bestie to the mall with me in hopes of giving Santa a run for his gift-giving money. Of course, she said yes. And well, I may have invited Macy and Buffy, too. I know, I know. Big mistake.
Snow is falling steadily outside, creating the kind of picture-perfect winter evening that would make the North Pole movies jealous, and I’m grateful to be back in my cozy little sanctuary where the Christmas lights twinkle like tiny beacons of domestic bliss.
The cottage is exactly as warm and welcoming as I left it this morning, though it feels like approximately seventeen years have passed since then.
Fresh garland drapes over the doorways, stockings hang by the fireplace in perfect symmetrical order (thanks to Jasper’s detective-level attention to detail), and my Christmas village sits on the mantel like a miniature winter wonderland populated by people who’ve never had to solve a murder during the holidays.
“The Hunger Games?” Emmie drops her bags with relief as if she’s just survived hand-to-hand combat in the designer handbag section. “More like Gladiator: The Holiday Edition. I kept waiting for her to challenge Buffy to shopping combat with credit cards at dawn.”
That sister of yours is more competitive than a reality TV show contestant fighting for the last rose, Fish mewls from her windowsill perch, watching snow fall with the disdain of a cat who’s personally offended by weather she can’t control. And I laugh a little because of it.
“I offered both sisters the chance to join us—that’s where the error in my judgment was,” I explain, kicking bags out of the way like I’m clearing a crime scene.
“Macy’s initial response was hilarious. ‘Christmas shopping? I’ve had my gifts wrapped since October, thank you very much.
’ Because apparently, being prepared is now a competitive sport. ”
Emmie bubbles with a laugh. “Let me guess,” Emmie says, wrestling our babies into their playpen like she’s defusing adorable little bombs, and Sherlock rouses from his sleepy state to sniff them both. “The nanosecond Buffy mentioned needing gifts...”
“Macy’s tune changed faster than a diva realizing there’s mistletoe and she forgot her lipstick. Suddenly, she had her purse and coat like she’d been planning to join us since the dawn of commerce itself.”
Emmie snorts. “And that’s when the bloodbath began. Don’t hate me, but I thought it was sort of beautiful.”
“Oh, it was beautiful in the most terrifying way possible. Every time Buffy picked up something nice, Macy swooped in like a retail vulture. “Oh, that’s lovely, but have you seen this cashmere version that looks like it was woven by elves on a couture payroll?’ And when Buffy admired a reasonably priced gift set, Macy would materialize with something twice as expensive and announce, ‘I shop here regularly—let me show you where they keep the really good stuff.’ Poor Buffy thought it was sisterly bonding time.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d walked into a financial war zone. ”
Hoomans have the strangest bonding rituals. Sherlock gives a soft woof, still pressing his nose to the netting of the playpen. Especially when Aunt Macy’s involved—it’s like watching a holiday-themed nature documentary starring one very stylish peacock.
“She actually tried to outspend Buffy at the checkout as if there was a medal for Most Money Blown on Christmas Stuff,” I continue, spreading our purchases across the floor like evidence of our own financial crimes.
“The cashier looked terrified. I think she thought she was witnessing a mental breakdown. And she might have been.”
“Speaking of financial crimes.” Emmie eyes our shopping explosion with the horror of a mother calculating college tuition costs. “You don’t think we’re going overboard with all this stuff, do you?”
“No way. Besides, educational toys are investments in her intellectual future—”
We’re just getting the babies settled in their playpen—where Ella and Elliot seem perfectly content to drool on toys that cost less than the educational marvels we purchased today—when Jasper and Leo arrive like the cavalry, armed with enough Chinese takeout to feed a small army.
“Perfect timing,” I say as Jasper kicks the door closed behind him, his arms full of bags that smell like heaven. “We were just about to collapse from post-shopping exhaustion.”
As if my cottage knows it’s showtime, the fireplace roars to life the moment Jasper crosses the threshold, filling the room with the kind of warm, crackling ambiance that makes everything feel like a Christmas card come to life.
Cinnamon and Gatsby bound in behind the men, clearly delighted to be part of the evening’s festivities.
Finally, someone with actual priorities, Sherlock barks with glee, his tail wagging a million miles a minute because he knows he’s about to have a bite from everything.
Finally, someone with decent takeout timing, Fish mewls approvingly as well. I was beginning to think we’d have to survive on whatever those babies dropped from their bottles.
Okay, it’s true. She gets a bite out of just about everything, too.
“General Tso’s chicken, beef and broccoli, shrimp lo mein, vegetable spring rolls, pork fried rice, sweet and sour pork, and crab rangoon,” Leo announces like he’s unveiling the menu at a royal Christmas feast. And honestly, this is close enough.
“Because apparently, we’re feeding two women who’ve survived retail warfare. ”
“Or two women who’ve been shopping for supplies to turn their babies into miniature Einsteins,” Emmie dives into lo mein because she has definitely earned every bite of carbohydrates through combat shopping.
Jasper surveys our gift explosion with an expression that says he’s trying to calculate whether our mortgage can handle this level of educational enthusiasm. “Please tell me most of this intellectual boot camp isn’t for Ella.”
“Educational toys are investments in her cognitive development,” I defend, though even I have to admit our pile of baby genius supplies could stock a small university.
“Looks like Leo and I are on the naughty list this year,” Jasper says with a grin, opening a container of sweet and sour pork that makes my stomach growl with anticipation.
“You might get a gift or two,” I say, shooting him a sly smile. “That is, if you’re nice.”
Mmm. Chicken. I accept this offering. Place it gently on the floor, and no one gets hurt, Sherlock muses. It’s been a very long day cooped up with Fish.
Fish hisses his way, and both babies stop gurgling with glee long enough to look at her.
“Be nice,” I say as I pull a few of the goodies I just purchased closer to me.
“You boys need to check this out,” Emmie says.
“We got advanced puzzles that would challenge a NASA scientist, alphabet blocks carved from sustainable bamboo, counting games designed by child psychologists, flashcards that probably cost more than my first car, classical music scientifically proven to enhance infant brain development, and learning apps that require a PhD to operate,” she lists with the enthusiasm as if she’s discovered the secret formula for creating the next Nobel Prize winner.
“Plus, shape sorters that could probably solve world hunger and a baby piano that plays in seventeen different musical keys.”
Leo pauses mid-bite of spring roll. “They’re babies. They literally have so much time before they have to bother with school.”
Both Emmie and I turn to stare at him with the kind of horrified expressions usually reserved for people who’ve just suggested that Christmas should be canceled.
“It’ll be too late by then!” Emmie cries out as if she’s defending the fundamental laws of the universe. “Everyone knows the foundation years are crucial! Early childhood development starts the second they exit the womb! We’re probably already behind schedule!” She nods my way. “Way behind.”
“You should have seen what baby Matilda was doing today.” I settle cross-legged with my General Tso’s like I’m about to deliver a lecture on infant superiority.
“Critiquing Victorian architecture and offering photography composition advice. Meanwhile, our babies are still discovering they have hands and occasionally remembering to breathe.”
Your babies are perfectly normal and happy, Cinnamon points out sensibly. Maybe the problem isn’t their development, but your completely unrealistic expectations and mild hysteria.
I gasp at the curly-haired pooch for even going there.
“How about we change subjects before you two start researching infant PhD programs?” Jasper suggests as if he needs to redirect the conversation before it spirals into complete insanity.
“Excellent idea.” Leo settles beside Emmie with his beef and broccoli. “We know you ladies invaded the Goldleaf estate today. Cordelia is a prime suspect. What intelligence did you gather from enemy territory?”
I clutch my chopsticks like I’m brandishing weapons of mass destruction. “Are you insinuating that we would conduct a murder investigation with our innocent children in tow during a perfectly legitimate holiday home tour? The audacity.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Jasper replies with the dry humor of a man who’s watched me solve murders while simultaneously changing diapers and attending social events. Not that he approves.
“Fine,” I say, digging into my chicken with the satisfaction as if I were about to deliver classified intelligence. “Here’s what I’ve learned about our three main suspects in this yuletide assassination.”
I tell them about Matilda’s business rivalry with Balthasar, her financial desperation, and her very public threats about what she’d like to do to the man who was systematically destroying her chocolate empire with the efficiency of a corporate serial killer.
Then I cover Jennilee’s helpfulness and Southern charm, emphasizing how genuinely nice and innocent she seems. And most certainly charming enough to make hardened criminals confess their sins and ask for her cookie recipes.
“And Cordelia?” Leo asks, clearly saving the best for last.
“Now Cordelia is where things get interesting,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect while I rescue a piece of chicken that’s trying to escape my chopsticks. “Turns out, our charitable foundation queen has been running what amounts to a tax shelter disguised as children’s Christmas programs.”
I explain the fake charity programs that would impress a seasoned con artist, Balthasar’s discovery during their business meeting that probably felt like Christmas morning for a blackmailer, and the extortion situation that had Cordelia facing complete social and financial ruin by Christmas Eve.
“So we’ve got clear motives for both Matilda and Cordelia,” Emmie observes while expertly twirling lo mein like she’s conducting an orchestra of carbohydrates. “Business desperation versus charity fraud exposure. It’s like choosing between financial death and social annihilation.”
“And opportunity,” I add. “Both had access to him the night of the home tour and knew Balthasar personally.”
Jasper sets down his fork with the expression that means he’s about to drop a professional bombshell into our cozy domestic crime-solving session.
“Speaking of professional bombshells, the toxicology results came in this afternoon.”
The room goes quiet except for the soft Christmas carols playing in the background and the crackling of the fire.
“Balthasar Thornfield was poisoned with cyanide,” Jasper continues. “And we found the same compound in the residue of the eggnog cup he’d been drinking that night.”
Well, that’s festive, Fish mewls dryly. Nothing says merry Christmas quite like poisoned holiday beverages served with a side of premeditated murder.
The silence that follows is filled with the weight of confirmed murder and the realization that someone we probably met up with today is a cold-blooded killer who used Christmas eggnog as their weapon of choice. Because apparently, even murder has gone seasonal.
The conversation drifts to lighter topics as we demolish our Chinese feast, but I can’t shake the image of Balthasar’s final moments.
Somewhere in that glittering Christmas crowd, someone looked him in the eye, handed him that poisoned eggnog with a smile, and watched him drink his own death while probably wishing him happy holidays.
In Cider Cove, Christmas magic is real, and miracles happen daily. But this year, someone is using all that holiday spirit and good cheer to hide a heart darker than a lump of coal.
Sometimes the most traditional holiday treats make the deadliest weapons, and I’m wondering if whoever poisoned that eggnog is already planning their Christmas Eve encore.