“Georgie,” I whisper her way. “Let’s focus on the house.”
Georgie pulls out a notebook from her purse and starts writing with manic intensity as if conducting a scientific study. “I’m giving your entrance a solid eight-point-five for curb appeal, but I’m deducting points for severe lack of male staff. Where’s your butler? Your gardener? Your pool maintenance crew? Don’t tell me you do all this decorating yourself without any strapping young men to hold the ladder and look devastatingly handsome while doing manual labor.”
Is she seriously critiquing my staffing choices based on their attractiveness?Cordelia thinks, her smile becoming slightly strained.
“I prefer to hire based on qualifications rather than aesthetic appeal,” Cordelia answers in the kind of tone that’s been fine-tuned at country club brunches.
“Well, that’s your first mistake right there,” Georgie says, making another note. “A woman of your obvious wealth and sophistication should definitely prioritize eye candy. What’s the point of having money if you can’t surround yourself with gorgeous men who do your bidding?”
Oh good, a delusional cougar with a clipboard. Just what this event was missing,Cordelia thinks.
“Georgie,” Mom hisses, “you can’t evaluate someone’s household staff like you’re judging a beauty pageant.”
“Why not? I have standards! And those standards include men under fifty with good muscle tone and excellent customer service skills.”
Macy looks like she wants to disappear into the expensive landscaping.
I’m starting to think the landscaping might be the safest place to hide, considering there might just be a killer somewhere in our charming little group.
And here’s hoping I’m about to figure out exactly who it is.
Assuming they don’t kill me first.
CHAPTER 16
Cordelia recovers from the Georgie experience with professional grace and ushers us into her foyer here on the final stop of the Deck the Halls Home Tour, which makes every other house we’ve visited today look like they were decorated by people shopping exclusively at discount stores—blindfolded.
At least these women seem harmless enough,Cordelia thinks as she leads us inside.Though that one with the notebook might be a liability around breakable objects.
“This is absolutely stunnin’,” Jennilee says with genuine Southern warmth, appearing beside us like a Christmas angel sent to restore social normalcy. “Cordelia, you’ve really outdone yourself this year. The color coordination alone must have taken months to plan.”
Cordelia always goes bonkers overboard with these displays,Jennilee thinks to herself.But I suppose it’s all for such a good cause, and she works so hard to make everythin’ perfect.
“Thank you, dear,” Cordelia replies, and I notice there’s real affection in her voice when she talks to Jennilee. “I do try to makeeach year more spectacular than the last. It’s all about supporting the foundation’s mission, of course.”
She gestures toward what appears to be a professionally designed display featuring awards, photos, and testimonials about her various charitable endeavors.
If only they knew how much of those donations actually make it to the programs,Cordelia thinks with a slight tightening around her eyes.But what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and the publicity photos will be worth their weight in gold.
My jaw goes slack. What did she just imply?
She quickly ushers us in.
“The foundation does such precious work,” Jennilee says, her smile as sweet as pecan pie. “Those Christmas programs for underprivileged children? Just bless-your-heart wonderful.”
Sweet Jennilee always believes the best in everyone,Cordelia thinks with what appears to be genuine affection.If only she knew what really goes on behind the scenes.
This time, my mouth falls wide open. I couldn’t have heard what I think I did.
The foyer alone is enough to make Matilda’s marble palace look modest. We’re talking about Christmas trees—plural—each one themed and positioned with the kind of precision that suggests someone mapped out the optimal viewing angles. Gold and silver, red and green, winter white with crystal accents—it’s like walking into a Christmas catalog that’s been brought to life by someone with serious artistic vision and an unlimited budget.
These people look like they could afford to make some serious donations to the foundation,drifts from Cordelia’s direction as she surveys our group with what appears to be a mental calculator running behind her eyes.
“Oh my word,” Georgie breathes, immediately gravitating toward a display of ornaments that look as if they should be shielded from the public right along with the crown jewels. “Look at these gorgeous decorations! Are those real crystals?”
Why do I get the feeling the second verse is same as the first? Macy’s face shifts into damage-control mode as well, and I can tell she’s thinking the exact same thing.
“They’re Swarovski crystal,” Cordelia says with gleaming pride. “Hand-selected and custom-designed for this year’s display. Each ornament is a limited-edition piece.”
