Chapter 23 #2
“Where is she?” Matilda demands, scanning the room with intensity as if conducting a military operation. “Where’s my sweet angel who’s been giving me heart palpitations, sleepless nights, and possibly an ulcer?”
“Right here,” I say, stepping aside so she can see Jellybean’s cozy setup behind the clock that looks like something from a Christmas card.
The sound Matilda makes could charitably be described as a sob of pure relief mixed with Christmas joy, maternal hysteria, and possibly a small nervous breakdown from stress relief that’s been building for days.
She drops to her knees beside the makeshift nest and reaches out to gently stroke Jellybean’s head.
“You beautiful, brilliant, absolutely infuriating girl,” she whispers as if addressing a beloved family member who’s just put them through the emotional wringer.
“You had me scared out of my mind, probably took years off my life, and made me question my sanity. And look what you’ve been doing while I was worried sick and posting missing cat flyers all over the county. ”
She was being a good mother, Fudge barks with approval. Protecting her babies until they were strong enough for public appearances and family chaos.
“Jellybean has babies!” little Matilda announces with the kind of wide-eyed excitement that suggests she fully understands the significance of this furry discovery. “Christmas miracle! Very exciting! Much better than presents!”
Smart baby, Fish mewls. Smart but scary. I’d sleep with the lights on if I were Hammie Mae.
Hammie Mae kneels beside her mother, both of them gazing at the kittens with the kind of wonder usually reserved for royal weddings or really good chocolate.
“Four kittens,” Hammie Mae counts softly. “Two boys and two girls, from the looks of it. And they all look exactly like their mama, like tiny carbon copies designed by someone with excellent attention to detail.”
“They’re perfect,” Matilda says, sniffing back tears. “Absolutely perfect little angels who were worth every moment of worry and every sleepless night.”
The rest of us stand around watching this reunion with the kind of warm satisfaction that makes Christmas feel like exactly what it’s supposed to be—a time when everything works out right, families come together, and miracles happen in the most unexpected places.
Best Christmas surprise ever, Skittles says from her spot near Buffy. Much better than finding socks under the tree or another ugly sweater—even though both Bizzy and Buffy seem to rather enjoy those. It must be a sister thing.
I nod her way. A sister thing that clearly skipped Macy. She seems to be allergic to ugly sweaters.
Matilda looks up from the kittens with tears in her eyes.
“Bizzy,” she says with the kind authority you’d need while making a royal decree, “you found my precious Jellybean. The reward is yours—all two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Macy gasps so loudly she nearly inhales her false lashes. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?! Bizzy, that’s—”
“Very kind of you,” I interrupt. “But I have enough to live comfortably without developing champagne tastes on a beer budget. If you don’t mind, I’d like to donate it to the Cider Cove food kitchen.
They could really use the funding more than I need another shopping spree or the ability to buy things I don’t actually need. ”
Jasper nods my way. I wholeheartedly approve.
Matilda’s face lights up with what looks like joy. “That’s exactly what I would expect from someone with your character and moral compass,” she says warmly. “The food kitchen is incredibly lucky to have such a thoughtful benefactor who understands the difference between wants and needs.”
Macy grunts. My sister is an idiot, she thinks to herself with what looks like genuine pain at watching that much money get donated instead of claimed.
Who turns down a quarter of a million dollars?
That’s more than most people make in five years!
She could buy a small country with that money, or at least a really nice car and enough designer shoes to fill a small warehouse!
More importantly, she could have given it all to me if she didn’t want it.
I bet if Buffy even hinted at the money, it would already be in her bank account.
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Georgie appears from the kitchen, clutching a glass of eggnog that’s probably spiked with enough alcohol to make family gatherings significantly more tolerable.
“We’ve got ourselves a bona fide Christmas miracle!
Kittens on Christmas Day! This is the kind of cheer even the grumpiest elf could get behind. ”
“Yes,” Mom says with a laugh. “The kind of Christmas miracle where everything works out perfectly and nobody gets murdered, arrested, or involved in chocolate fountain disasters,” she adds with relief and what sounds like genuine prayer for continued peace.
“My absolute favorite kind of Christmas story.”
“Well, almost nobody,” I mutter, still stunned that Christmas Eve wrapped up with Santa tossing someone in cuffs like it was just another festive tradition between eggnog and gift exchanges. “Although this year’s body count was relatively low for our family standards.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Emmie warns with maternal superstition that could probably ward off evil spirits and bad luck.
“We still have several hours left of Christmas Day for things to go completely sideways, for someone to find a body—namely you—or for Hot Santa to make another arrest.” She winces over at Leo and mouths the word sorry.
“Plus, there’s always New Year’s Eve,” Jasper adds with cheerful optimism as if he’s learned to expect chaos whenever his wife is involved. He is a smart man. “We haven’t had a New Year’s murder in at least two years. We’re probably due.”
The entire room groans in unison.
As I watch Matilda gently counting tiny kitten toes while baby Matilda provides running commentary and the rest of my family crowds around to admire the newest additions to our extended animal family, I can’t help but think that this is exactly the kind of Christmas ending that makes all the chaos worthwhile.
Sometimes the best gifts come wrapped in fur and hidden behind grandfather clocks, delivered by mothers who know that timing is everything and Christmas Day is always the perfect day for miracles.
That’s when we hear it—a distant but unmistakable “ho ho ho!” echoing across the snow-covered grounds of the Country Cottage Inn, followed by the magical jingling of sleigh bells that seems to float on the winter air like a Christmas song come to life.
Everyone freezes, even the kittens, as if we’ve all been touched by the same holiday magic.
“Did you hear that?” Emmie whispers, clutching baby Elliot closer as the sound of bells fades into the peaceful winter afternoon.
“Santa!” Baby Matilda squeals and claps. “Real Santa! I want Santa!” And for once, she sounds like a child—just the way she’s supposed to—at least on occasion.
We all look at each other with the kind of wonder that Christmas afternoon brings out in even the most practical adults, and by some unspoken agreement, we migrate toward yet another pile of unopened gifts still scattered around the Christmas tree.
“I think that was our cue,” I say, settling back into my armchair with Ella and reaching for the nearest wrapped package. “Christmas isn’t officially over until every present is opened.”
The next hour is a flurry of flying ribbons, squeals of joy, and the kind of festive mayhem you only get when friends and family cram around a Christmas tree and the babies decide the real gift is chewing on the paper—even little Matilda.
But as we sit surrounded by the remnants of our perfect Christmas Day—empty plates from dessert, sleepy babies, and contented pets—I can’t help but think about how this peaceful moment follows so closely after the chaos of murder and mayhem that seems to find us every holiday season.
“You know,” Jasper says, pulling me closer with that grin that still makes my knees weak, “most men worry about their wives shopping too much during the holidays. I worry about mine collecting suspects like Christmas ornaments.”
“At least I’m consistent,” I point out.
“Consistently irresistible,” he murmurs against my ear. “Even when you’re covered in chocolate fountain evidence and interrogating potential killers. Especially then, actually.”
“You have very specific tastes, Detective Wilder.”
“Only for brunettes who solve murder.”
The snow continues falling outside, coating Cider Cove in the kind of pristine white blanket that screams innocent small town while completely ignoring our track record.
But I know that come the new year, our charming coastal town will probably find itself dealing with fresh mysteries and new dangers, because in Cider Cove, murder has a way of arriving with the seasons—and we’ll be ready for whatever dark surprises await us in the months ahead.
Including murder.
Thank you for reading!