I make a face her way before shrugging at Buffy. “It’s true. It happened about a million years ago. Vegas, an Elvis impersonator, and some hard liquor were involved. Hux helped dissolve it with his shiny new law degree.”
“Wow.” I can tell she’s holding back a smile. “I learn something new about you every day.”
I like Jordy, too,Fudge adds approvingly.He smells like sawdust and common sense. Also, maybe a little bit like pine trees, which is festive.
“We’d better clear the area, too,” I say to Buffy, ready to usher us out of the room, when Jennilee Holly steps forward, gasping and covering her mouth as she takes in her friend now lying on the floor.
“Oh my goodness,” she says softly, her dark eyes wide with genuine shock and sympathy. “Poor Balthasar! Oh, and Bizzy,” her gaze shifts to me, “I am so sorry this happened at your beautiful party. This must be just awful for you.”
“Not as awful as it is for him,” I say mournfully.
“Is there anything I can do to help? I could call people, or help coordinate things, or just... I don’t know, make coffee? I always feel better when I’m doing something useful during times like this.” She moves closer with the kind of graceful concern that suggests she’s the type of person who brings casseroles to grieving families and remembers everyone’s birthday.
“No, no,” I’m quick to assure her. “The best thing we can do is leave the area.” A thought occurs to me. “Unless there’s something helpful you can add. Did he happen to mention if he was feeling unwell earlier this evening?”
Buffy shoots me a look.Really, Bizzy? Starting the investigation a little early, are we?she teases, coming just shy of a wink.
“Well, actually,” Jennilee says, leaning in like she’s about to share the juiciest church potluck scandal of the year, her drawl syrupy as pecan pie. “I saw Mr. Thornfield havin’ words with a lady earlier—real frosty-lookin’ thing with platinum hair thatsaiddon’t mess with melouder than her rhinestone brooch. Looked to be in her sixties, give or take a facelift. They were hoverin’ near the punch bowl, and honey, that wasn’t small talk. You could feel the tension from across the room like heat risin’ off a blacktop in July. And the way they were starin’ at each other? Let’s just say they had history—and not the scrapbookin’ kind. I happen to know who she is and she’s intimidatin’ to say the least.”
And speak of the actual devil—the older blonde emerges from the crowd like she’s making a grand entrance at some high-society charity auction where the highest bidder gets to name a wing after themselves. Tall, imposing, and perfectly put-together in her silver gown, she surveys the scene with a cool assessment not usually reserved for homicide scenes.
“That’s her,” Jennilee gasps. “Cordelia Goldleaf. CEO of Goldleaf Enterprises, you know, luxury holiday resorts, Christmas ornament manufacturing, high-end gift retailers. She runs the Goldleaf Foundation charity. And she has a sprawling estate, which I hear will be the crown jewel of our holiday tour.”
“I can hardly wait,” I say and mean every word.
The woman looks down at Balthasar’s lifeless form and smirks, eliciting a gasp from both Buffy and me. Although Jennilee doesn’t seem all that surprised. And soon enough, a full-blown smile pushes through on her lips.
Wow, Buffy muses my way without saying a word.If gloating had a fragrance, she’d be wearing it. She looks like she just won a front-row seat to her rival’s most humiliating moment. Bizzy, if this man was murdered, we might just be staring at our killer.
I give a covert nod her way. I’ll admit, it’s not a good look on Cordelia’s part.
“Let’s go,” I say, hooking my arm to Buffy’s, and we don’t get three steps before an errant voice drifts from somewhere in the room.
I couldn’t be happier to see that Santa was slayed, and just in time for Christmas.
I gasp, my eyes scanning the crowd of faces around me. Someone here is thinking about murder, and they’re absolutely thrilled about it.
I look over at Cordelia, but she’s whispering to one of the deputies now. I guess it could have been her, but unless I’m standing right in front of someone, I can’t really tell who the thought came from. And not just that, but they can sound a bit androgynous if I’m not aware of who it came from.
Finally, the old buzzard got what was coming to him. Too bad it wasn’t more painful and drawn-out.
I gasp again because that voice was equally, if not more, bone-chilling.
Not only is someone here celebrating Balthasar’s death, but multiple people are practically doing mental victory dances over the poor man’s demise.
Ho ho ho, the fat man is dead,yet a third voice muses.And I’m glad I’m the one who sent him to the big workshop in the sky. I guess I’ve permanently secured my spot on the naughty list.
And there it is. A confession by the killer, no less. My eyes scan the crowd at a million miles an hour, but not a single face is giving away their secrets.
The killer is standing right here, among the Christmas decorations and horrified Deck the Halls Home Tour attendees, while probably offering condolences and maintaining an innocent expression that would fool a jury of saints.
This is why I stick to tuna,Fish mewls my way.Much less complicated. Much less murder-y. And they don’t require festive outfits and Santa hats. Lucky for me, my hat has gone missing.
Speaking of missing things,Fudge gives a soft woof, taking on a note of genuine concern,where is Jellybean? She’s usually front and center when it comes to crime scenes and snacks—and seeing that there are cookies nearby, this qualifies as both.
I saw her near the cookies.Skittles is quick to out the feisty feline.She wasn’t showing any restraint either. I bet she’s rolling around under a table somewhere, regretting her butter-rich choices.
Oh no,Sherlock Bones whimpers.What if she ate all theChristmas cookies, and there aren’t any left for me? You know how she gets around sugar. Remember the Easter Incident of Unprecedented Destruction?
