Chapter 19 #2
Buffy, meanwhile, has chosen a warm burgundy dress with a simple A-line silhouette that’s elegant without being showy, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and she’s wearing what appears to be vintage pearl earrings that have that family heirloom glow about them.
She looks beautiful and comfortable, which is apparently driving Macy to the brink of insanity.
“Oh, Buffy,” Macy says with a smile that could freeze champagne mid-pour and probably kill houseplants at fifty feet, “that’s such a... practical dress. Very budget-conscious of you. How refreshingly economical.”
“Oh my word,” I gasp as I make my way over.
And here we go, Jordy thinks with resignation. Someone needs to change the subject before she really gets going.
“Buffy, I think you look great,” Jordy says to his own peril.
Really? That’s his solution to defusing his girlfriend? Complimenting another woman? The sister she apparently can’t stand, no less?
Both Macy and Buffy gasp because, let’s face it, we can all see the vengeful writing on the wall.
“What the fresh hell?” Macy gapes at Jordy, and suddenly the poor guy’s face turns colors as he realizes the depth of the violation he just committed.
“I will deal with you later,” she says through gritted teeth before turning back to Buffy and baring her fangs.
“But yes, you look adorbs—even my boyfriend has a sudden crush on you.” She stomps on his foot, and he quickly retracts it with an audible ouch.
“Um, thank you?” Buffy replies with genuine warmth, completely missing the verbal stiletto that just got aimed at her heart. “I found this dress at an adorable little boutique in town. The owner said burgundy was perfect for holiday parties.”
“Did she now?” Macy’s voice drips with false interest usually reserved for relatives she only sees once a year and pretends to like.
And sadly, Buffy might just qualify. “Well, I suppose not everyone can afford actual designer pieces that weren’t assembled by underpaid workers in someone’s basement.
This gown is from Milan, naturally.” She holds up her arms to showcase the red number she’s encased in like a sausage.
“Custom fitted by people who actually understand their way around fabric and the human anatomy. I realize you have limited resources.”
“Macy,” Jordy says quietly, as he tries to pull her close, “maybe we should—”
“Macy,” I snip, but Buffy holds up a hand as a small crowd begins to gather.
“Limited resources?” Buffy gives a solid blink in Macy’s direction.
“Oh, you know.” Macy waves a manicured hand dismissively like she’s swatting away poverty itself. “Shopping local, finding deals, making do with what’s available in your price range. I admire people who work within such... challenging financial constraints. It builds character.”
“Oh, come on, Macy.” Mom steps up. “You owe your sister an apology, and not the passive-aggressive kind you wrap in sarcasm and call festive.” She’s going for blood tonight like a well-dressed vampire with a fashion degree, Mom huffs to herself while watching a car accident in designer clothing.
“Buffy looks beautiful tonight.” She turns back to Macy.
“And frankly, she deserves to enjoy this party without being verbally accosted to death.”
“What? I’m being supportive!” Macy protests with mock. “Not everyone can have unlimited shopping budgets and personal stylists. Some people have to be more creatively frugal. It’s inspiring, really.”
Oh, good grief, Georgie thinks while looking straight at me. She’s going to make that poor girl cry on Christmas Eve. Step in, Bizzy, or I’ll be forced to. The only reasonable way to put a stop to this is with a duel—with chocolate swords in keeping with the theme.
Anything but that.
“I think we all look wonderful,” I interject quickly, recognizing the signs of another impending verbal massacre. “It’s amazing how the whole town cleaned up for tonight.”
“Yes, well,” Macy says, finally turning her attention away from Buffy long enough to survey the crowd with the critical eye because we all know she’s judging the masses for their holiday fashion choices, “some efforts are more successful than others. Though I have to say, Bizzy, that navy gown is quite ambitious for you. Very sparkly.”
The way she says ambitious makes it sound like I’ve attempted to become an astronaut using only duct tape and wishful thinking.
“Come on,” Jordy says firmly while extracting his girlfriend before she can inflict more psychological damage on innocent bystanders. “Let’s check out those chocolate fountains before someone calls the fashion police.”
“Thank God for that man,” I mutter, watching him guide Macy away as if he’s clearly had practice managing my sister’s social disasters. “Buffy, you look fabulous. And for the record, I bought this dress at a thrift store.”
She belts out a genuine laugh. “Same,” she says, and we share a fist bump. “I’d better go track down Skittles and see what kind of trouble she’s getting into now.”
“Let me know if that trouble involves my four-footed cuties,” I call after her.
Ben swoops in and leads Mom and Georgie by proxy over to the dessert table. And I’m about to hunt down my handsome husband when I spot Jennilee Holly coming this way.
Jennilee is once again the perfect hostess, gliding through the crowd with Southern grace and making sure everyone feels welcome.
She’s wearing a stunning gold gown that shimmers like champagne, and she’s managing the logistics of this event with the kind of professional efficiency that makes me wonder if she moonlights as a party planner.
“Bizzy, honey!” she calls out, appearing beside me with a champagne flute and that trademark smile. “Isn’t this just magical? I’m so glad y’all could make it!”
“It’s absolutely stunning,” I tell her, and I mean it, too. “You’ve really outdone yourself with the decorating.”
“Oh, thank you, hon. I do try.” She laughs and raises her glass at the joke. But she didn’t just try, she succeeded.
“Well, you’re certainly in your element tonight,” I say.
She tips her head at the thought. “Let’s just say, playin’ hostess suits me much better than playin’ employee.”
I’m about to say something else when we spot Matilda Westoff whisking into the room and immediately handing out those missing posters of poor Jellybean.
And behind her is a small army of people doing the same as they quickly hand them out to every and anyone they can as they quickly canvas the vicinity.
One of them lands in my hand, and I glance down at that adorable black and white face and the staggering two hundred and fifty thousand dollar reward amount in letters large enough to be read from the International Space Station.
I was already privy to that rather large reward, but just seeing it on paper makes my heart skip once again.
Apparently, Matilda’s campaign to find her missing cat has reached epic proportions, because half the conversations I overhear seem to involve people discussing search strategies and potential sightings.
“Poor Jellybean,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe she’s still missing. I know for a fact she knows her way around Cider Cove.” I crane my neck in the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hammie Mae. “I just can’t believe someone would take her.”
Jennilee shakes her head. “Well, if they did, they have two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to give her back.”
“True,” I say. “Here’s hoping the reward works.”
“Have you seen the crowds at your inn?” Jennilee asks with a touch of sympathy. “Poor Matilda is beside herself with worry. I really think this reward will have half the county convinced they’re going to be the one to find little Jellybean.”
“It’s been like a treasure hunt,” I confirm. “We’ve had pet psychics, professional trackers, and someone who claimed they could communicate with cats through dreams.”
The hoomans have lost their collective minds over one missing feline, Gatsby woofs as he sniffs the floor for an errant snack. Though I have to admire the marketing campaign. I’d like to think they’d do the same if one of us were missing.
If Gatsby were missing, Emmie and Leo would rent a blimp, hire a psychic, and bribe Santa for intel. All things that Matilda has tried, for sure.
I still think she’s hiding somewhere warm and laughing at all the fuss, Skittles adds, sniffing right alongside him.
Someone calls for Jennilee, and she raises her glass of champagne and belts out a howl in response.
“I’ll catch up with you soon enough, Bizzy.” She winks my way before taking off.
I head into the crowd myself, determined to find that handsome man with the light gray eyes that I used to sleep next to at night—when I was still participating in the act of sleeping, when someone glides an arm around my waist.
“Care to dance?” Jasper appears beside me with champagne flutes and the kind of smile that makes me forget we’re investigating murder at the victim’s workplace while surrounded by enough chocolate to kill a small village.
Jasper is polished to perfection with his dark hair slicked back, his eyes shining like Christmas stars, and that body made to deflect steel happens to be wrapped in an inky dark suit, punctuated with a shiny red tie. Perfection personified.
“Dance? I thought you’d never ask,” I reply, letting him lead me to the dance floor where couples sway to carolers and the entire room glitters in red and green.
The moment his arms close around me, the party fades into a romantic magic that feels like a gift in and of itself.
We move together to the music, and despite murder investigations, the chaos that would make circus performers nervous, and general mayhem that follows us everywhere like a persistent stalker, this is exactly where I want to be.
“That dinner was incredible,” I murmur against his ear while trying not to drool on his tuxedo. “I’ve never seen anything like that seafood tower, and the chocolate desserts—all six sweet courses will be the direct reason my pants size is about to change.”
“Mine, too.” A laugh strums through him. “Brings new meaning to growing old together.”
“Who are you calling old?” I tease, mock-socking him on the arm.
“The venue’s not bad either,” Jasper replies, spinning me gently so I can take in the full scope of winter wonderland excess around us.
“But I have to admit, celebrating Christmas Eve here after its owner was murdered less than a week ago feels surreal even by Cider Cove’s standards of dysfunction. ”
“You know what would be even less surreal? You, me, our cottage, and significantly fewer clothes. Just saying.” I waggle my brows to drive my point home. Like I said, no one is sleeping at our house, so we may as well find something else to do until the sun comes up.
“Keep talking like that and we’re going to have to make up an excuse to leave in less than ten seconds.”
I’m about to make his excuse-loving dreams come true when Jasper’s phone buzzes like a mood-killing electronic mosquito. He glances at it, expression shifting into professional mode faster than Santa can down a cookie tray on Christmas Eve.
“Leo needs me for something,” he says with reluctance and what sounds like genuine regret. “I have to step away for official business, but don’t go anywhere, and for goodness’ sake, don’t lose your train of thought.”
“Official business on Christmas Eve? What could possibly be more important than dancing with your devastatingly beautiful wife?” I tease.
“You are most devastatingly beautiful,” he says, landing a steamy kiss on my lips. “Keep out of trouble while I’m gone, okay? And I mean that literally—no investigating, no snooping, no accidentally solving crimes. I’ll need you in one piece for the things I have planned for us later.”
I scoff his way. “When do I ever get into trouble?”
“Do you want the chronological list organized by year, or just this week’s highlights arranged by severity?” He replies with a tick of his head. “Fair warning: you might not recognize me when you see me next. Don’t ask questions; just go with it.”
Before I can ask what that cryptic comment means or whether I should be concerned about identity theft, he disappears into the crowd like a well-dressed magician, leaving me standing on the dance floor with significantly more questions than answers and a growing sense of impending doom.
I’m about to make my way back to my family, who appear to be engaged in animated conversation near one of the larger Christmas trees.
Georgie is still conducting her elf appreciation seminar, Mom is trying to pretend she doesn’t know her, Buffy is attempting some sort of an intervention, and Macy is providing running commentary on everyone’s behavior—mostly Buffy’s—with the precision of a social etiquette referee.
But it’s Matilda Westoff who catches my eye from across the room, holding her tiny namesake and looking significantly less put-together than usual.
Her normally immaculate appearance shows signs of stress—her hair isn’t quite as perfectly styled, her makeup isn’t as flawless, and she’s cradling her granddaughter with the kind of protective intensity that suggests she’s not letting go anytime soon.
I bet she’s afraid of losing everyone in her life that means something to her. My heart just breaks for the woman.
But then again, she is still on my suspect list.
This might just be the perfect opportunity for a little investigative conversation.
After all, what’s Christmas Eve without a little snooping to go with the champagne and carols?