Chapter 21
The Starlight Christmas Eve Gala sparkles with sugar, spice, and everything over-the-top. The air is rich with the scent of buttery cookies, dark roast coffee, pine garlands, and just a hint of designer ego, while Christmas carols float through the glass-walled space.
Snow is still falling outside the massive windows, creating the kind of magical backdrop that makes you believe in Christmas miracles—or at least expensive event planning.
Buffy and I stand huddled over our phones like two women who’ve just discovered the secret to eternal youth—or more like eternal justice.
And I have to say, what I’m seeing on my screen is making me gasp loud enough to probably disturb the dead—as in the exact dead Santa whose case I’m desperately trying to solve.
“What is it?” Buffy asks, leaning in to peer at my phone with the kind of curiosity that suggests she’s expecting either breaking news or a really good book she’d love to get her hands on. Knowing my sister, it’s the latter.
She checks out my screen, and that’s when we both gasp simultaneously, because apparently, synchronized sister shock reactions are a thing we do now. Buried deep in some obscure Southern newspaper is what looks to be a very Southern smoking gun.
The article headline reads like something from a crime drama, Local Financier David Holly Flees Country with Mystery Woman Ahead of Federal Hedge Fund Investigation.
And there, in black and white digital print, is a photo of Jennilee Holly looking devastated and described as the abandoned wife left to face potential financial ruin.
“Holy cannoli on a cracker,” Buffy breathes while reading over my shoulder. “Her husband ditched her and the country right before the feds could question him about illegal financial activity.”
“Which means she’s probably broke and desperate,” I add as the pieces click together. “And she’s working here because she needs the money, not because she’s a bored socialite with some time to kill.”
This explains so much, Fish mewls as she slinks onto the scene. Hoomans do terrible things when their resources disappear.
Like when they forget to fill the treat jar, Sherlock adds helpfully while jogging by her side. Desperation makes everyone dangerous.
Fish nods in agreement. Especially when those resources supplied a steady diet of diamonds!
We spot Jennilee across the room near one of the massive chocolate fountains, surrounded by a cluster of admirers who are probably complimenting her hostess skills without realizing they’re chatting with a potential killer.
She’s shining in that stunning gold gown that shimmers under the Christmas lights like liquid treasure—which, given her current financial situation, was probably purchased with money she couldn’t afford to spend.
She’s putting on quite the performance. Skittles gives a soft woof as she glides in next to Buffy. All that charm is just a costume.
Jennilee excuses herself from the group with perfect Southern grace and heads toward the back near the gift shop displays.
Perfect—fewer witnesses for what’s about to be either a confession or a complete denial that ends with us looking like paranoid amateur detectives. It wouldn’t be the first time. And something tells me it won’t be the last.
“Time to make our move,” I whisper to Buffy, and we start walking with the casual determination of two sisters who’ve decided to confront a killer on Christmas Eve.
Fish, Sherlock, Skittles, and Fudge fall into step with us like a furry investigation unit, apparently having appointed themselves as backup for whatever’s about to go down. And if I’m right, we just might need them.
This feels important, Fudge yips with typical Westie seriousness. The hoomans are doing their serious walking thing. Should I get little Matilda? She always seems to know what to do in just about every situation.
“Maybe not right now,” I tell him. Although, let’s face it, we may need her sooner rather than later.
“Jennilee!” I call out with cheerful enthusiasm that hopefully doesn’t scream I’m about to accuse you of homicide. “That was quite the crowd you had gathered by the chocolate fountain. You are such a wonderful hostess.” She really sort of is.
She turns with a smile that could probably charm ornaments right off a Christmas tree. “Oh, bless your hearts! Folks are just so kind with their compliments. This whole event has been such a blessin’ to coordinate, and everyone’s been sweeter than pecan pie.”
The way she says blessin’ with that sweet Southern drawl almost makes me forget that we’re here to discuss a cold-blooded murder.
“Speaking of blessings,” Buffy says with a slight grimace, “we couldn’t help but notice this article about your husband.” She holds up her phone like she’s presenting evidence to a jury.
Wow, okay. So, I probably wouldn’t have opened with that, but here we are.
The change in Jennilee’s expression is subtle but unmistakable—like watching a perfectly smooth marzipan-covered Christmas cake develop a hairline crack. And marzipan really does sound delicious right about now. I probably should have indulged in a little dessert before making my move.
“Oh, that old thing,” she says with a laugh that sounds like wind chimes in a tornado as she waves the article away. “The media just loves to blow things out of proportion, don’t they? David’s just taking an extended business trip to... explore new business opportunities.”
More like taking an extended business trip to avoid federal prison, Fish muses, and I can’t help but agree with her.
“With a mystery woman?” I ask gently, because apparently, I’m the designated bearer of uncomfortable truths. “That must be challenging for you.”
“Well, sugar, marriage has its ups and downs like a roller coaster designed by someone with questionable engineering skills,” Jennilee replies with forced brightness that suggests she’s had plenty of practice deflecting uncomfortable questions.
“A woman learns to make do with what the Good Lord provides.”
“Making do must be expensive,” Buffy points out with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Especially when you’re maintaining appearances while your financial situation is on shaky grounds.”
Jennilee’s smile becomes slightly strained, like plastic wrap stretched a little too tight. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, honey. The Lord provides, hard work pays off, and everything happens for a reason.”
I happen to glance to my left and spot Macy stalking toward us with a determined expression as if she’s just realized she’s been left out of something important—moving across the room like a missile programmed to target sister bonding activities that don’t include her.
“You’re confronting a killer, aren’t you?
” she announces without preamble, jabbing her finger at me as if this were all my fault.
She wouldn’t be wrong. “And you’re doing it with your other sister!
Well, I’ll show you how it’s really done!
” She turns to Jennilee with a growl, and all three of us lean back a notch.
“You murdered Santa!” she declares with authority as if delivering a judicial verdict.
“You did it because you’re broke and desperate, and he found out about your financial disasters! ”
Clearly, Macy has been eavesdropping longer than I suspected.
Oh, good grief, she’s gone full nuclear, the thought comes from Mom’s direction, even though she’s clear across the room. And believe me, I always know my mother’s voice. I’ve heard her in the night a time or two, and we don’t even live together.
The silence that follows in our midst could probably be used to preserve holiday fruitcake for the next century.
And just like that, Jennilee’s perfect Southern belle facade crumbles like a house of cards in a hurricane—Hurricane Macy to be exact.
“Okay, fine!” she snaps, her accent becoming more pronounced as her composure evaporates like cheap cologne.
“I did it! I killed Balthasar Thornfield, and I’m glad about it, too.
That snake had it coming, and I’m not even a little bit sorry!
He was a terrible, horrible, no-good man who deserved everythin’ he got! Including a bucket full of poison.”
Buffy and I look at each other with shocked expressions because, let’s face it, neither of us was expecting much from Macy tonight.
“She’s good,” Buffy says admiringly.
“Really good,” I agree, though I’m not entirely sure whether I’m complimenting Macy’s interrogation technique or Jennilee’s confession delivery.
“You want to know why?” Jennilee continues, her voice rising with each word like a Southern belle having a very public nervous breakdown.
“Because that pompous, blackmailing son of a biscuit figured out I was done flat broke! He knew David left me with nothing but debt and a reputation to maintain, and he used it against me like the heartless monster he was!”
Now we’re getting to the truth, Fish mewls with satisfaction. Hoomans always confess when they get angry enough to forget their manners. It’s like emotional burping—ugly, loud, and surprisingly informative.
I nod at the woman. “You were working here because you needed the money, not because you were bored. And Balthasar discovered you’d been stealing from Cordelia’s charity foundation to make ends meet.
” I have a feeling I’m looking at the phantom who was dipping her hands into Cordelia’s charity funds.
“Those programs barely existed anyway!” Jennilee protests with indignant fury. “Half of them were just tax shelters! I was just redistributing funds to someone who actually needed them!”
“And Balthasar threatened to expose everything,” Buffy adds. “The theft, your husband’s crimes, your complete financial ruin.”