“Honey, that man had her backed into a corner with nowhere to go except possibly the witness protection program,” she says with what sounds like genuine concern. “When he figured out about the foundation’s...operational irregularities... well, anyone could see she was facing complete ruin and possibly federal prison time.”
“Operational irregularities?”
She nods and leans in. “Please promise me you won’t say anything to Cordelia about this,” Jennilee says urgently. “She’s been trying so hard to keep it quiet, but those children’s Christmas programs that the foundation’s so proud of? Most of them only exist on paper.”
I make a face because I just gathered that thanks to the fact Cordelia outing herself on every level—outside of murder, that is. But boy, did she ever have a motive.
“What exactly do you mean?” I bat my lashes at the woman.
“She’s been funneling business money through fake charitable programs for tax purposes,” Jennilee explains in hushed tones. “Creating programs that look good on paper but don’t actually help any real children. Balthasar wanted to meet some of the beneficiaries, visit the facilities, see the programs in action, and when Cordelia couldn’t produce any actual evidence...”
“He threatened to expose everything,” I finish.
“Unless she made him a partner in Goldleaf Enterprises,” Jennilee confirms with a sad shake of her head. “Can you imagine? That man was basically blackmailing her—either destroy her reputation and send her to prison for fraud or hand over half her life’s work.”
“That must have been incredibly stressful for her.”
“Oh, honey, she was absolutely desperate,” Jennilee says with genuine sympathy. “The deadline he gave her was coming up fast, too—right around Christmas Eve, actually. Poor thing didn’t know which way to turn.”
A deadline that took care of itself thanks to Balthasar’s death. How very convenient.
“And you knew all this, how?” I shake my head slightly because I’m fascinated by all the hot tea she has to spill—despite the fact that Cordelia spilled most of it herself.
She shrugs. “Cordelia confided in me a few weeks ago,” Jennilee admits. “She was just beside herself with worry, didn’tknow what to do. I felt so bad for her, you know? Twenty years of building that business, and one man’s obsession with accountability was about to destroy everything.”
She pauses, looking genuinely distressed by her friend’s situation.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” she continues, “but I’m just so worried about her. She’s been under tremendous pressure, and I can’t help but think that kind of stress might make someone do things they’d never normally consider.”
And there it is—a motive for murder laid out as clearly as a road map, delivered with Southern charm and genuine concern by someone who obviously cares deeply about her friend but has no idea she’s just provided a detective with everything needed to solve a case.
In a world full of people with ulterior motives, Jennilee is like a unicorn—pure, innocent, and probably too good for this earth.
As we complete the tour of Cordelia’s mansion—a master class in Christmas decorating excess—I notice the prominent placement of charity awards and recognition letters that are displayed with the subtlety of a person who wants to make sure you know exactly how philanthropic and wonderful they are.
Cordelia Goldleaf is really proud of her charity work. Every award is positioned at perfect eye level and lit like museum pieces. Although I wonder how much of that donation money actually makes it to causes versus paying for interior decorators and crystal ornament replacement funds.
We prepare to head back into the snowy evening as things finish up, and I can’t help but reflect on the events of this past week. So many houses, so many very different approaches to Christmas decorating, and so many different hostesses—each with their own secrets hiding behind the holiday cheer.
But the real question isn’t who has the most expensive ornaments, the most advanced baby, or the most elaborate charity foundation display.
The real question is which one of them killed Balthasar “Santa” Thornfield, and whether we’ll figure it out before tomorrow night’s relocated Christmas Eve Gala gives them another opportunity to strike.
Because nothing says Christmas spirit quite like a killer with a sweet tooth and a grudge.
CHAPTER 18
“Can you believe Macy basically turned Christmas shopping into the Hunger Games?” I announce as Emmie and I crash through my cottage door like pack mules who’ve discovered the holy grail of retail therapy, our arms loaded with enough shopping bags to stock a small Christmas boutique. “May the most expensive purchases be ever in your favor.”
As soon as things wrapped up at Cordelia Goldleaf’s, I invited my bestie to the mall with me in hopes of giving Santa a run for his gift-giving money. Of course, she said yes. And well, I may have invited Macy and Buffy, too. I know, Iknow. Big mistake.
Snow is falling steadily outside, creating the kind of picture-perfect winter evening that would make the North Pole movies jealous, and I’m grateful to be back in my cozy little sanctuary where the Christmas lights twinkle like tiny beacons of domestic bliss.
The cottage is exactly as warm and welcoming as I left it this morning, though it feels like approximately seventeen years have passed since then. Fresh garland drapes over the doorways, stockings hang by the fireplace in perfect symmetrical order (thanks to Jasper’s detective-level attention to detail), and my Christmas village sits on the mantel like a miniature winter wonderland populated by people who’ve never had to solve a murder during the holidays.
“The Hunger Games?” Emmie drops her bags with relief as if she’s just survived hand-to-hand combat in the designer handbag section. “More like Gladiator: The Holiday Edition. I kept waiting for her to challenge Buffy to shopping combat with credit cards at dawn.”
That sister of yours is more competitive than a reality TV show contestant fighting for the last rose,Fish mewls from her windowsill perch, watching snow fall with the disdain of a cat who’s personally offended by weather she can’t control. And I laugh a little because of it.
