Chapter 20
The Thornfield’s Premium Christmas Confections gallery continues to buzz with Christmas Eve magic—champagne glasses clinking like tiny bells, the rustle of silk and velvet as elegantly dressed guests move through the space, and the intoxicating blend of pine garland, chocolate from the dessert buffet, and expensive perfumes creating an atmosphere so festive it could probably melt even the Grinch’s frozen little heart.
Carolers are still making their rounds, their voices floating over the crowd with perfect harmonies that make you believe in Christmas miracles, while twinkle lights wink like captured stars against the glass walls. Chocolate plus Christmas equals dreamy every single time.
I make my way across the room toward Matilda Westoff, who’s standing near one of the towering Christmas trees, looking significantly less put-together than her usual perfection.
She’s wearing an elegant deep forest green gown that coordinates beautifully with baby Matilda’s tiny matching dress—because apparently, even infants need to be fashion-coordinated at formal events.
The little one is wide awake and alert in her grandmother’s arms, taking in the party atmosphere with those bright eyes that suggest she’s cataloging every detail for future reference. And I have no doubt she is.
“Matilda,” I say warmly, “you both look absolutely stunning tonight. That green is gorgeous on you.”
“Oh Bizzy.” She blinks my way. “Thank you, dear.” She gives a forlorn smile. “Little Matilda insisted on matching her GiGi tonight, didn’t you, sweetheart?”
“Matilda and GiGi matching!” the baby announces with perfect diction that makes me question everything I thought I knew about child development and possibly the entire educational system. “Pretty dress! GiGi is pretty, too!”
That six-month-old just gave a compliment and served a look. Meanwhile, I barely remember where I parked my car.
“Wow, your grandbaby just complimented your dress and used correct syntax? Is she applying to law school next?” I tease, not really teasing at all.
“She is precocious,” Matilda said primly. “If you’re not careful, she might sue you for slander.”
We both shed a laugh, mine far more nervous than hers, because I have a feeling little Matilda is perfectly capable of legal maneuvers.
“You are both very pretty tonight,” I tell the little one before studying Matilda’s face for signs of stress—and they are there in number. “How are you holding up with everything that’s been happening?”
“Oh, you know,” Matilda says carefully. “It’s been a challenging week. Between the missing cat situation and all the business complications...” She sighs hard, but not a guilty thought streams from her mind.
Drats. Not that I want her to be guilty. But I would love to find a little justice underneath my Christmas tree come tomorrow morning.
Business complications seem like a delicate way to describe systematic corporate sabotage, so I decide to cut to the chase.
“I know Balthasar was systematically destroying your chocolate business as if he had made it his life’s mission,” I say, watching her reaction like a hawk studying prey that might suddenly develop homicidal tendencies.
“The bribed inspectors, stolen contracts, false contamination rumors. The whole nine yards of corporate sabotage that would make mafia bosses proud. I think I know where that may have led you to poison someone that night at my inn.”
Matilda’s chin lifts sharply, and baby Matilda immediately mirrors the gesture with the precision of a child who’s been taking notes on family pride since birth.
“Are you accusing me of murdering a man in front of my very bright, very intelligent granddaughter?” Matilda asks with the kind of icy dignity that could probably freeze the chocolate fountains. “That’s not very nice of you, Bizzy. In fact, you might land on the naughty list because of it.”
I gasp at the thought.
“Bizzy naughty!” Baby Matilda adds with disapproval, pointing her tiny finger at me with the authority of delivering a formal verdict.
I gasp twice as loud at that.
“GiGi nice!” Little Matilda frowns my way.
Oh, good grief. I’ve upset the baby.
I touch my hand to my lips, suddenly realizing I’ve been conducting a murder interrogation in front of a child who apparently understands every word, is taking detailed mental notes, and probably has better investigative instincts than I do.
Way to go, Bizzy. Nothing like traumatizing a genius infant on Christmas Eve.
“That’s not very nice of you!” Baby Matilda cries indignantly, glaring at me with fierce protectiveness as she defends her favorite person. “GiGi good Gama!”
Something in me warms to the fact that she said Gama instead of Grandma. There might be hope for the rest of us yet.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Matilda says with satisfaction, then turns back to me with renewed steel in her voice. “Isn’t it bad enough that you outright accused me of murdering my husband last spring? Is this some sort of homicidal holiday tradition you’re starting up with me?”
Oh right, there was that whole thing where I thought she poisoned Hamish.
“Although I could have done that man in,” Matilda continues with the matter-of-fact tone of a woman discussing tomorrow night’s holiday menu. “And I could have done the same to Balthasar Thornfield, but I didn’t.”
“But I didn’t!” baby Matilda echoes with perfect timing, pointing a tiny, accusatory finger at me. “Bad lady asks bad questions! Very bad!”
I’m starting to think she’s right.
Even the baby thinks I’m terrible at this interrogation business, which is probably a new low in my investigative career. I give a grim smile, watching the miniature version of Matilda defend her grandmother with the determination of a tiny legal advocate.
“Look, Bizzy,” Matilda says, her voice softening slightly, “contrary to popular opinion, I do have a heart. Instead of resorting to violence like some people might assume, I chose legal recourse. I already had my legal team draw up the papers to serve Balthasar with a lawsuit right after Christmas.”
“Legal papers!” baby Matilda snips my way, apparently having absorbed enough family business meetings to understand litigation concepts better than most law students. “No murder!”
Oh my word. This kid is going to be running corporations before she’s potty-trained, which is both impressive and slightly terrifying.
“I believe in handling business disputes through proper channels,” Matilda continues with growing irritation.
“I already had my legal team draw up the papers for a civil suit—breach of contract, defamation, and business interference. All perfectly legal ways to destroy someone without resorting to homicide. Since you obviously don’t believe me, and seem determined to paint me as some kind of holiday serial killer, I’ll have copies sent to the inn tomorrow so you can see for yourself that some people actually use lawyers instead of poison. I’ll even giftwrap them for you.”
“Very smart, GiGi!” baby Matilda declares, clapping her tiny hands. “Lawyers are so good!”
I have to admit, her story makes more sense than my accusation. Someone planning to file a lawsuit probably wouldn’t commit murder the week before serving papers—that would be like burning down your house right before collecting insurance money.
“But since you’re so determined to play amateur sleuth and clearly enjoy accusing innocent grandmothers of heinous crimes,” Matilda leans in as if we were about to gossip, “you might want to look more closely at some of your other suspects. Like really, really closely with perhaps some actual investigative skills.”
“Such as?”
“Well, sweet little Jennilee Holly isn’t just working here because she’s a socialite with time to kill and a passion for chocolate,” Matilda says with a nod.
“That woman could charm the scales off a snake, talk her way out of a speeding ticket, and probably convince people to confess their deepest secrets over sweet tea. She’s absolutely delightful, sweeter than sugar, and more charming than a Southern belle at a cotillion, but there’s more to her story than that adorable accent and her legendary cookie recipes. ”
Hmm. Even Matilda thinks Jennilee is wonderful, which makes it hard to imagine someone that sweet and charming being capable of murder.
She’s like everyone’s favorite aunt who brings homemade cookies and never forgets your birthday.
But there’s more to her story? And she’s not just working here because of her passion for chocolate?
That would be the only excuse I would need.
“And as for Cordelia Goldleaf,” Matilda continues, “we share the same accountant, which means I hear things that would make your hair curl. And you’d be surprised what people confess over spiked eggnog when they think no one important is listening.
Those children’s Christmas programs she’s so proud of and constantly bragging about?
Most of them exist only on paper, like fictional characters.
She’s been funneling business money through fake charitable programs for tax purposes and personal gain, and the funds have been disappearing faster than cookies at a church bake sale. There are no children.”
“No children!” baby Matilda shouts with harsh disapproval. “Fake programs are very bad!”
Even the baby understands charity fraud better than most adults, and probably has a stronger moral compass than half the people in this room. Although I was already privy to that info about Cordelia myself.
If only that girl could use her sleuthing skills for good for once, Matilda frowns at me with the thought. Like finding my poor missing cat instead of accusing innocent grandmothers of murder.
“Please, Bizzy,” Matilda says, leaning closer with genuine urgency. “If you hear anything—and I mean anything—about Jellybean, let me know immediately. I’m beside myself with worry, and haven’t slept in days. That cat means absolutely everything to me. She’s not just a pet, she’s family.”
“Find Jellybean!” baby Matilda demands, apparently having strong opinions about the family cat situation. “Jellybean home! Please! Please!”
Before I can respond, Matilda sweeps away with an air of dignity as if she just delivered a master class in suspect deflection, leaving me standing alone with significantly more questions than answers and the distinct feeling that I’ve just been outmaneuvered by someone carrying a six-month-old legal consultant.
Buffy appears beside me with the perfect timing that sisters develop for witnessing explosive conversations and social disasters.
“That looked intense,” she says, watching Matilda retreat into the crowd. “Is everything okay?”
“I think I just crossed Matilda off the suspect list with all the grace of a bulldozer in a china shop,” I admit, still processing the conversation and my apparent complete failure at interrogation techniques around children.
“She had legal papers prepared to sue Balthasar, which suggests she was planning to handle their business dispute through proper channels rather than cyanide cocktails and Christmas Eve murder schemes.”
“Plus, that baby is scary smart,” Buffy says as she cringes slightly.
“Did you hear her defending her grandmother? I’m pretty sure she comprehended everything, not to mention she was lecturing you about ethics.
She holds on to details like a true detective.
She basically has better investigative instincts than both of us combined. ”
“Amen to that,” I say with a sigh.
“So, who else is on your rapidly shrinking list of potential holiday killers?” Buffy asks, pulling out her phone with investigative efficiency that suggests she’s actually good at this research thing and more than ready to conduct a serious digital investigation.
“Jennilee Holly and Cordelia Goldleaf,” I reply, reaching for my own phone like it might contain magical answers to my investigative incompetence.
“And according to Matilda, there’s more to both of them than meets the eye.
Although honestly, Jennilee seems too sweet and charming to hurt a fly, let alone poison someone with cyanide at a Christmas party. ”
“Time for some research?” Buffy suggests with a newfound enthusiasm of a bookworm who’s discovered a new hobby.
“Time for some research,” I confirm, grateful to have a sister who’s willing to help me solve murders via a smartphone investigation on Christmas Eve.
After all, nothing says holiday family bonding quite like conducting joint background checks on potential killers while Christmas carols play in the background.