“Please, she’s lucky to have a mama like you.”
“And she’s lucky to have her father, too,” I say with a laugh. “He’s a keeper, unlike most of the men I dated.”
She belts out a laugh. “You know, honey,” she says with a smile that reaches her eyes for the first time today, “I’ve learned that life is like a jar of pickles—sometimes you get the sweet ones, sometimes you get the sour ones, but you gotta keep reachin’ in that jar if you want to find anythin’ worth eating.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s quite the philosophy. I take it you’ve had your share of both sweet and sour?”
“Oh sugar, I’ve had more fellas than a barn has hay bales,” she says with a wink that suggests she’s not entirely sorry about it. “But findin’ one worth keepin’ is like findin’ a needle in a haystack made of fool’s gold.”
This woman has more metaphors than every country song ever written,Fish mutters.
“What about chocolate versus men?” I ask with a grin, genuinely curious about this woman’s priorities, and not only that, but it’s a good segue to the deceased. “If you had to choose between working in a chocolate factory and the male species, which wins?”
Jennilee throws back her head and laughs. “Honey, chocolate never leaves the toilet seat up, never forgets your birthday, and always makes you feel better when you’re having a bad day. Plus, when chocolate melts in your hands, it’s actually a good thing.” She winks. “Though I’ll admit, chocolate can’t take out the trashor reach things on high shelves, so I suppose there’s still a place for men in this world.”
We both dissolve into giggles, and I find myself genuinely liking this woman despite the fact that she might be a killer. There’s something refreshing about her honesty, even if I suspect she’s not being entirely honest about everything.
“What about little ones?” I ask, adjusting Ella’s position. “Any children of your own?”
“Never did get around to having any little ones,” Jennilee says, her expression softening as she watches Ella nurse. “I kept getting distracted by all those handsome roosters in the henhouse, if you know what I mean. But I sure do love babies. That little angel of yours is just precious as pie.” She presses her lips tight. “I can’t wait until David and I have an entire tribe of littles of our own.”
She’s being genuine about that,Fish mewls.No lies detected, just your usual hooman chaos with a ribbon on top.
“So,” I say, transitioning into investigative mode with what I hope sounds like casual girl talk, “how did you come to work for Balthasar? Obviously, you seem well off, so I’m guessing it’s a labor of love?”
“Oh, it is, honey!” Her face lights up brighter than a Christmas tree on steroids. “He owns a chocolate factory—need I say more? It’s like working in heaven with a paycheck attached and dental benefits!”
She twitched when she said paycheck,Fish mewls.That’s the hooman version of blinking in Morse code.
Jennilee shakes her head. “Balthasar Thornfield—Santa—well, that man could turn cocoa beans into pure gold, I swear on my grandmother’s secret biscuit recipe,” she continues with enthusiasm. “Working there is sweeter than finding money in your winter coat pocket. Every morning, I wake up thinking,Jennilee, you get to spend another day surrounded by chocolate—life could definitely be worse.”
“How did you two meet?” I ask, keeping my tone lighter than meringue in an effort to match hers.
“He swept into a charity fundraiser like a tornado in Armani—all charm and expensive cologne,” she says with the kind of admiration usually reserved for movie stars. “That man could sell ice to polar bears and make them write thank-you notes. I was working the event, and he just had this way about him, you know? He made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room.”
She keeps glancing toward the hallway,Fish points out.It’s as if she’s afraid someone might take off with that big wedding picture of hers.Though I do the same thing with my food bowl, so maybe I shouldn’t judge.
I bet she’s itching to get back to her guests, which means I’m almost out of time to quiz her properly.
“I would love to work around chocolate, but neither I nor the chocolate would be safe,” I say, and we share a quick laugh. “But you’re well off, it’s obvious it’s a genuine labor of love for you to help out at the shop.”
“Well off is relative, sugar,” Jennilee adds quickly when she notices me studying her expression. “I just believe in keeping up appearances. Presentation is everything in the South. My mama always said, ‘Dress like you’re going to meet your future husband, even if you’re just goin’ out to feed the chickens.’”
We share another laugh.
“Your mama sounds wise,” I say. “Did Balthasar have any enemies?” I ask, making the question sound like idle curiosity. “Anyone who might have had something against him?”
Jennilee’s expression shifts, becoming more animated. “You mean Santa? Honey, nobody calls him anythin’ but that around here. And let me tell you somethin’, he might have been Santa, but he had more enemies than a skunk has stink!”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Really?” I encourage, shifting Ella to my other arm. “Like whom?”
“That Cordelia Goldleaf has been gunning for him since day one,” she says, leaning forward like we’re about to share state secrets. “Rich as Fort Knox and twice as ruthless—that woman could charm the devil out of his pitchfork and then use it to start her own barbecue business. She’s got more money than common sense and a temper hotter than asphalt in August.”
She’s telling the truth about Cordelia being angry,Fish mewls,but I get the feeling there’s something she’s not saying about her own connections.
“And don’t get me started on Matilda Westoff,” Jennilee continues, warming to her subject like a cat in sunshine. “That woman holds grudges longer than winter. She’s been madder than a hornet in a honey jar ever since Santa started cutting into her chocolate business. I swear, those two could start a fight in an empty church.”
