The silence that follows has the same energy as a fruitcake re-gifted five years in a row—heavy, awkward, and full of judgment.
“Oh my,” Cordelia says, her smile becoming strained in the way that suggests she’s trying to figure out whether her insurance coversacts of Georgie. “Well, these things do happen at social gatherings.”
That ornament probably costs more than Georgie Conner is worth in this life and the next,floats from somewhere in the crowd, along with what feels like collective financial anxiety.
“I am so sorry!” Georgie exclaims, dropping to her knees as if she’s about to pray for forgiveness and possibly a loan. “I’ll pay for it! How much could one little ornament cost? Fifty dollars? A hundred? Maybe we could put it on my Westoff tab?”
Only Georgie would have a running tab to cover the damage she’s caused to personal property over the holidays.
The look on Cordelia’s face suggests that Georgie really doesn’t want to know the answer to that question.
“Please don’t worry about it,” Cordelia says with the kind of gracious recovery that suggests she’s dealt with social disasters of this fiscal magnitude before. “It’s just a thing. Christmas is about people, not possessions.”
Easy to say when you can afford to replace it without checking your bank balance,Mom thinks to herself, even though she’s nodding sympathetically.
My mother is definitely someone who understands the pain of expensive accidents. And my siblings and I have made sure she’s had many of them.
The photographer, meanwhile, is still trying to get his perfect shot, but the combination of crying babies, broken ornaments, and general chaos has made his job roughly equivalent to herding cats while juggling flaming torches.
“Perhaps we could try one more time?” he suggests with far too much hope, clearly earning his fee today.
We regroup for another attempt, but this time, baby Matilda decides to give him directions on how to get the best shot.
“That girl is amazing for her age,” Cordelia points out, and I notice she’s making mental notes about something. Probably calculating the publicity value of having a genius baby in her charity photos.
“She certainly is,” I agree, glancing down at Ella, who’s chosen this moment to fall asleep in her carrier, completely oblivious to the competitive parenting anxiety happening around her.
At least one of us is handling this pressure well,I muse to myself, watching my daughter sleep peacefully while chaos erupts around her.
The photography session finally concludes after approximately seventeen attempts, forty-three near-misses with expensive decorations, and enough digital storage to document Georgie’s complete social destruction of a billionaire’s home.
As we finally conclude the photo session, Cordelia claps her hands together with renewed hostess energy.
“Now then, everyone, please do help yourselves to refreshments!” she announces, gesturing toward what appears to be a professionally catered spread that puts most restaurant buffets to shame. “We have fresh coffee, traditional eggnog, and a dessert table laden with French pastries that were flown in specially for today’s tour.”
Wonderful.
The French pastries will have to wait because this is a perfect opportunity to separate from the group and get some alone time with my suspect.
I watch as everyone begins to move toward the refreshment area with the enthusiasm of people who’ve survived a chaotic photo session and deserve sugar-based rewards.
As the crowd disperses toward the promise of imported pastries and caffeinated salvation, I catch Buffy’s eye and give her a subtle nod.
She understands immediately—it’s time to make our move.
CHAPTER 17
The Deck the Halls Home Tour at Cordelia Goldleaf’s estate is hitting its stride as everyone migrates toward the promise of French pastries and imported coffee like refugees fleeing the photography disaster.
Mom jumps in front of me. “I’ll take her,” she announces, practically stealing Ella from me with the efficiency of a professional baby snatcher who’s been waiting for this exact grandmotherly opportunity since birth. “Just promise me you won’t do anything that requires me to identify your body at the morgue.”
“Wow,” I muse, watching my baby disappear into Mom’s custody faster than wrapping paper on Christmas morning. “We’ve reached a new low in maternal confidence. What’s next? A betting pool on how long I’ll survive the investigation?”
“I’m just being realistic about your track record,” Mom shoots back with far too much brutal honesty. Sure, she’s watched me stumble into more crime scenes than a CSI investigator, but that’s beside the point. “Between your supernatural knack for stumbling over corpses and your talent for turning any gathering into a code red, someone’s got to track the body count.”
“I have no response.”
She gives a satisfied sniff my way. “When I’m right, I’m right.”
