I gasp at the curly-haired pooch for even going there.
“How about we change subjects before you two start researching infant PhD programs?” Jasper suggests as if he needs to redirect the conversation before it spirals into complete insanity.
“Excellent idea.” Leo settles beside Emmie with his beef and broccoli. “We know you ladies invaded the Goldleaf estate today. Cordelia is a prime suspect. What intelligence did you gather from enemy territory?”
I clutch my chopsticks like I’m brandishing weapons of mass destruction. “Are you insinuating that we would conduct a murder investigation with our innocent children in tow during a perfectly legitimate holiday home tour? The audacity.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Jasper replies with the dry humor of a man who’s watched me solve murders while simultaneously changing diapers and attending social events. Not that he approves.
“Fine,” I say, digging into my chicken with the satisfaction as if I were about to deliver classified intelligence. “Here’s what I’ve learned about our three main suspects in this yuletide assassination.”
I tell them about Matilda’s business rivalry with Balthasar, her financial desperation, and her very public threats about what she’d like to do to the man who was systematically destroying her chocolate empire with the efficiency of a corporate serial killer.
Then I cover Jennilee’s helpfulness and Southern charm, emphasizing how genuinely nice and innocent she seems. And most certainly charming enough to make hardened criminals confess their sins and ask for her cookie recipes.
“And Cordelia?” Leo asks, clearly saving the best for last.
“Now Cordelia is where things get interesting,” I say, pausingfor dramatic effect while I rescue a piece of chicken that’s trying to escape my chopsticks. “Turns out, our charitable foundation queen has been running what amounts to a tax shelter disguised as children’s Christmas programs.”
I explain the fake charity programs that would impress a seasoned con artist, Balthasar’s discovery during their business meeting that probably felt like Christmas morning for a blackmailer, and the extortion situation that had Cordelia facing complete social and financial ruin by Christmas Eve.
“So we’ve got clear motives for both Matilda and Cordelia,” Emmie observes while expertly twirling lo mein like she’s conducting an orchestra of carbohydrates. “Business desperation versus charity fraud exposure. It’s like choosing between financial death and social annihilation.”
“And opportunity,” I add. “Both had access to him the night of the home tour and knew Balthasar personally.”
Jasper sets down his fork with the expression that means he’s about to drop a professional bombshell into our cozy domestic crime-solving session.
“Speaking of professional bombshells, the toxicology results came in this afternoon.”
The room goes quiet except for the soft Christmas carols playing in the background and the crackling of the fire.
“Balthasar Thornfield was poisoned with cyanide,” Jasper continues. “And we found the same compound in the residue of the eggnog cup he’d been drinking that night.”
Well, that’s festive,Fish mewls dryly.Nothing says merry Christmas quite like poisoned holiday beveragesserved with a side of premeditated murder.
The silence that follows is filled with the weight of confirmed murder and the realization that someone we probably met up with today is a cold-blooded killer who used Christmas eggnog as their weapon of choice. Because apparently, even murder has gone seasonal.
The conversation drifts to lighter topics as we demolish our Chinese feast, but I can’t shake the image of Balthasar’s final moments. Somewhere in that glittering Christmas crowd, someone looked him in the eye, handed him that poisoned eggnog with a smile, and watched him drink his own death while probably wishing him happy holidays.
In Cider Cove, Christmas magic is real, and miracles happen daily. But this year, someone is using all that holiday spirit and good cheer to hide a heart darker than a lump of coal.
Sometimes the most traditional holiday treats make the deadliest weapons, and I’m wondering if whoever poisoned that eggnog is already planning their Christmas Eve encore.
CHAPTER 19
“Ican’t believe we’re celebrating Christmas Eve at a chocolate factory,” I announce to no one in particular after what was one of the most extravagant dinners I’ve had in my life. The meal is done, and bodies are mingling about as Christmas carols filter through the speakers and the scent of chocolate overwhelms our senses in the very best way possible.
The cavernous room we’re standing in looks as if the Ghost of Christmas Cocoa came back with a vengeance and a decorating budget.
I really can’t believe it’s finally Christmas Eve. It feels like just a few seconds ago I was at the inn hosting my night of the Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour with Balthasar Thornfield—AKASanta—planted between my boobs in what has to be the most inappropriate murder victim positioning in the history of Cider Cove. Now here I am, dressed in a sparkling navy gown, standing in what can only be described as chocolate paradise.
At adeadman’s chocolate factory, Fish corrects from somewhere near my feet.Though I question the wisdom of celebrating in a murder victim’s workspace. It’s like hosting a wedding reception in a cemetery—technically possible, but questionable all around.
I nod her way. And ironically, we’ve been to a wedding in a cemetery before. Needless to say, that didn’t end well either.
“Details,” I mutter, adjusting my sparkling gown that makes me feel like I could host my own Christmas special if Christmas specials involved amateur murder investigations, family dysfunction, and enough chocolate to fill every advent calendar from here to Mars.
The dessert buffet alone could probably solve world hunger if we converted it to actual nutrition instead of pure decadent bliss. We’re talking ten different chocolate fountains, each one flowing with a different type of liquid heaven—dark Belgian, milk Swiss, white Madagascar vanilla, salted caramel, mint-infused, raspberry-laced, orange-scented, espresso-enhanced, champagne-bubbled, and something calledmidnight trufflethat’s so dark it probably absorbs light.
