I look down at the picture and my heart does a little flip. It’s Jellybean, her sweet black and white tuxedo cat with distinctive markings that make her look like she’s perpetually smiling. In the photo, she’s wearing a tiny pink bow and looking directly at the camera with an expression that suggests she knows exactly how cute she is.
“Oh my goodness,” I say, suddenly understanding the magnitude of the situation. “You mean she never turned up last night after the... incident?”
“No!” Matilda’s voice cracks like thin ice on a frozen pond. “She’s been catnapped! Hammie Mae has taken one side of the street, and I’ve taken the other—together, we’re going to search the entire town until we’ve found our sweet baby! We’re going to turn over every rock, check every garbage can, and interrogate every person until someone confesses!”
The wordcatnappedhangs in the air like a Christmas ornament made of pure terror, glittering with desperation and just a touch of insanity.
Several nearby shoppers stop pretending to examine quilts and start openly staring.
“Well,” Georgie says under her breath, “this just got interesting. We’ve got another case on our hands.”
“Another?” Jasper raises a brow my way, and I give a nervous smile. Caught red-handed, but then again, I have a feeling he was already two steps ahead of me.
He nods my way as if he had suddenly garnered the ability to read my mind.And that’s exactly why I tagged along this morning.He tips his head my way.Plus, the company is cute.He blows Ella a kiss.
“You’re hilarious,” I whisper with a frown.
Matilda charges at me. “I need you to get that detective husband of yours to put out an all-points bulletin!” she continues, her voice rising with each word. “I’m hiring a medium, a psychic,andthe FBI is going to get involved, too! I need my cat back, and I don’t care if I have to tear this entire town apart to find her!”
Jasper raises an eyebrow. “The FBI doesn’t typically handle missing pet cases, Mrs. Westoff. But I certainly will,” he kindly offers.
“They will for this!” she snaps, her eyes flashing with the kind of righteous fury people save for burnt biscuits on Christmas morning. “Because if Balthasar Thornfield didn’t drop dead last night, I’d kill him all over again!”
The entire store goes silent. Even the Christmas music seems to pause for dramatic effect, as if the universe is taking a moment to process what we just heard.
Did she just confess to murder?Fish’s whiskers twitch with interest.Because that sounded suspiciously like a confessionwrapped in a bow of crazy.
She’s not wrong.
“Did she just—” Mom starts.
“Yep,” I say quietly. “She sure did.”
“In front of witnesses,” Georgie adds helpfully. “Lots of witnesses and one hot detective.” She winks over at Jasper, and he winks back.
Matilda’s phone chooses that moment to chime with what sounds like a cheerful holiday reminder. She glances at it and makes a sound of pure disgust.
“The Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour is about to begin,” she announces like she’s reading her own death sentence writtenin jingle bells and candy canes. “Well, I’m not going! My home is on the schedule for tomorrow and I still have so much to do, not to mention I need to find the person that so-called Second-Rate Santa cajoled into catnapping my sweet angel, and I’m going to hang them by their toes from the nearest Christmas tree!”
“That’s very specific,” Georgie points out. “And probably illegal in several states. I’ve tried it with a few other body parts.”
“Not to mention painful,” Mom adds. “Hanging by toes sounds worse than dental surgery.” She shoots a sharp look to Georgie. “And you had better spare us any stories of what you did to who and their unsuspecting body parts.”
With that delightfully violent promise, Matilda stalks toward the door, pausing only to grab a Christmas quilt featuring a pattern of cats wearing Santa hats. Because apparently, nothing says emotional breakdown like impulse purchasing holiday-themed cat quilts during a public meltdown. But she doesn’t head for the register; she heads for the exit.
“Ma’am,” Juniper calls out from her post, “you need to pay for that quilt!”
“Put it on my tab!” Matilda shouts over her shoulder. “I’m having a crisis!”
The door chimes jingle frantically as she storms out into the snow, leaving behind a wake of stunned customers and the distinct impression that we’ve just witnessed either a grief-stricken pet owner or a woman having a complete psychological meltdown with a side of confession to murder.
“Well,” Georgie announces into the sudden silence, “that woman is wound tighter than my girdle on Thanksgiving.”
“You don’t wear a girdle on Thanksgiving,” Mom points out. “You wear sweats. And you sweat while you’re stuffing your face, too.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Georgie says with relief. “I was thinking ofyourgirdle.”
Mom shakes her head at the void left in Matilda’s wake. “Didshe just admit to murdering someone—and admit to wanting to murder them again?” Mom asks, looking around the store as if she’s checking for witnesses. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.”
