“Yes, unless Macy is involved,” I agree, though I’m mostly excited about the investigation opportunities this will provide, plus the chance to watch Georgie try to steal whatever the most expensive gift turns out to be.
Hoomans and their ritualistic gift redistribution ceremonies,Fish muses.It’s almost as entertaining as their mating advice sessions and significantly more likely to end in bloodshed. But with your luck, Bizzy. You’d better watch your back.
She’s not kidding.
As we start walking back toward the ballroom, following the stream of guests who are chattering excitedly about the upcoming gift exchange, I notice Matilda’s expression shift slightly. For just a moment, the sparkle in her smile snags—like a Christmas light with a short in the wire—and something colder peeks through.
If only that meddling detective’s wife would stop asking pointed questions,the thought drifts from her with a chill that has nothing to do with the December weather outside.Some secrets are better left buried with the dead, especially when they involve things that could ruin Christmas and reputations.
The thought hits me like a snowball to the face.
Whatever Matilda Westoff is hiding, it’s something she’s willing to go to considerable lengths to keep secret. And considering we’re currently investigating a murder, that’s the kind of information that could either solve this case or land me in significantly more trouble than my mother is worried about.
But first, apparently, we’re going to exchange gifts like civilized people who haven’t been discussing murder and corporate espionage.
Because nothing says Christmas spirit quite like hunting for clues while participating in socially mandated present redistribution with a potential killer.
CHAPTER 13
If I thought the ballroom was impressive, Matilda’s grand room makes it look like a budget hotel lobby.
We’re talking about a space big enough to host a snowplow convention, dominated by what has to be a fourteen-foot Noble fir dripping in enough gold and silver to bankrupt Santa’s workshop. The tree sits in the center of the room like a glittering monument to Christmas excess, surrounded by elegant seating arranged in a perfect circle that probably required a degree in event planning to execute.
The late afternoon December light is fading outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the warm white lights on the tree look like captured starlight. Christmas carols float through hidden speakers with the kind of audio quality that makes it feel like the carolers are hiding in the wreaths, waiting to pounce, and the air is thick with the scents of pine, cinnamon candles, and what I can only assume is the collective fragrance of very expensive perfumes mixing with holiday spices.
This tree is bigger than some local towns we’ve visited,Fish mewls with awe as she takes it all in.Do rich people compete to seewho can kill the largest evergreen each year? Because if so, this woman is winning.
I happen to agree.
It’s so sparkly, my eyes are happy,Sherlock adds with puppy-like wonder.
I just hope nobody expects us to help with cleanup when these hoomans inevitably trash the place,Fudge says with the pragmatism of a puppy who’s seen family gatherings before.
“Now then,” Matilda announces, clapping her hands together as if she’s about to unveil her masterpiece, “I’ve taken the liberty of providing all the gifts myself—only the finest for our guests!”
She gestures toward the tree like a game show hostess revealing the grand prize, and I have to admit, the gift display is pretty spectacular. Elegantly wrapped packages in gold and silver paper are arranged artfully under the tree. Each package is wrapped so immaculately, it’s giving luxury boutique meets Christmas overachiever.
She bought all the gifts herself?comes from someone in the crowd, and I’m guessing it’s the same thought running through everyone’s mind at the moment.
“Because we’re all civilized people,” Matilda continues with a smile that suggests she has no idea what’s about to happen, “let’s keep the stealing to a minimum of pure chaos. Traditional White Elephant rules—draw numbers, pick gifts in order, and remember that each gift can only be stolen three times before it’s permanently locked to its final owner.”
She produces a velvet bag that probably costs more than my wedding ring and starts walking around the circle, letting everyone draw numbers.
I get number eight, which puts me squarely in the middle of what I suspect is about to become a battlefield. Buffy draws twelve, Mom gets four, and—because the universe has a sense of humor about family dynamics—Georgie draws number six while Macy gets number fifteen.
“This should be entertaining,” I whisper to Buffy.
“Define entertaining,” she whispers back.
The first few picks go smoothly enough. A nice woman in a cashmere coat unwraps what appears to be a luxury candle set, someone else scores a bottle of wine fancy enough to require its own security detail, and Mom unwraps a beautiful silk scarf and declares she’ll be happy to keep it with the kind of holiday cheer usually reserved for avoiding family drama at Christmas dinner.
That’s when Georgie’s number comes up.
“Well, hot hunks and hotter monks!” she announces, surveying the remaining gifts with the intensity of a bargain hunter on Black Friday. “So many beautiful boxes! It’s like Christmas and my birthday had a baby!”
She selects a package that turns out to be a luxury spa set complete with what appear to be actual gold flakes in the bath salts, and her face lights up like Christmas morning itself.
“Well, hubba hubba! This is gorgeous!” she exclaims, holding up various bottles and jars for everyone to admire. “Look at this packaging! I think it just winked at me in six different languages.”
