“Official business on Christmas Eve? What could possibly be more important than dancing with your devastatingly beautiful wife?” I tease.
“You are most devastatingly beautiful,” he says, landing a steamy kiss on my lips. “Keep out of trouble while I’m gone, okay? And I mean that literally—no investigating, no snooping, no accidentally solving crimes. I’ll need you in one piece for the things I have planned for us later.”
I scoff his way. “When do I ever get into trouble?”
“Do you want the chronological list organized by year, or just this week’s highlights arranged by severity?” He replies with a tick of his head. “Fair warning: you might not recognize me when you see me next. Don’t ask questions; just go with it.”
Before I can ask what that cryptic comment means or whether I should be concerned about identity theft, he disappears into the crowd like a well-dressed magician, leaving mestanding on the dance floor with significantly more questions than answers and a growing sense of impending doom.
I’m about to make my way back to my family, who appear to be engaged in animated conversation near one of the larger Christmas trees. Georgie is still conducting her elf appreciation seminar, Mom is trying to pretend she doesn’t know her, Buffy is attempting some sort of an intervention, and Macy is providing running commentary on everyone’s behavior—mostly Buffy’s—with the precision of a social etiquette referee.
But it’s Matilda Westoff who catches my eye from across the room, holding her tiny namesake and looking significantly less put-together than usual. Her normally immaculate appearance shows signs of stress—her hair isn’t quite as perfectly styled, her makeup isn’t as flawless, and she’s cradling her granddaughter with the kind of protective intensity that suggests she’s not letting go anytime soon. I bet she’s afraid of losing everyone in her life that means something to her. My heart just breaks for the woman.
But then again, she is still on my suspect list.
This might just be the perfect opportunity for a little investigative conversation.
After all, what’s Christmas Eve without a little snooping to go with the champagne and carols?
CHAPTER 20
The Thornfield’s Premium Christmas Confections gallery continues to buzz with Christmas Eve magic—champagne glasses clinking like tiny bells, the rustle of silk and velvet as elegantly dressed guests move through the space, and the intoxicating blend of pine garland, chocolate from the dessert buffet, and expensive perfumes creating an atmosphere so festive it could probably melt even the Grinch’s frozen little heart.
Carolers are still making their rounds, their voices floating over the crowd with perfect harmonies that make you believe in Christmas miracles, while twinkle lights wink like captured stars against the glass walls. Chocolate plus Christmas equals dreamy every single time.
I make my way across the room toward Matilda Westoff, who’s standing near one of the towering Christmas trees, looking significantly less put-together than her usual perfection. She’s wearing an elegant deep forest green gown that coordinates beautifully with baby Matilda’s tiny matching dress—because apparently, even infants need to be fashion-coordinated at formal events.
The little one is wide awake and alert in her grandmother’sarms, taking in the party atmosphere with those bright eyes that suggest she’s cataloging every detail for future reference. And I have no doubt she is.
“Matilda,” I say warmly, “you both look absolutely stunning tonight. That green is gorgeous on you.”
“Oh Bizzy.” She blinks my way. “Thank you, dear.” She gives a forlorn smile. “Little Matilda insisted on matching her GiGi tonight, didn’t you, sweetheart?”
“Matilda and GiGi matching!” the baby announces with perfect diction that makes me question everything I thought I knew about child development and possibly the entire educational system. “Pretty dress! GiGi is pretty, too!”
That six-month-old just gave a compliment and served a look. Meanwhile, I barely remember where I parked my car.
“Wow, your grandbaby just complimented your dressandused correct syntax? Is she applying to law school next?” I tease, not really teasing at all.
“She is precocious,” Matilda said primly. “If you’re not careful, she might sue you for slander.”
We both shed a laugh, mine far more nervous than hers, because I have a feeling little Matilda is perfectly capable of legal maneuvers.
“You are both very pretty tonight,” I tell the little one before studying Matilda’s face for signs of stress—and they are there in number. “How are you holding up with everything that’s been happening?”
“Oh, you know,” Matilda says carefully. “It’s been a challenging week. Between the missing cat situation and all the business complications...” She sighs hard, but not a guilty thought streams from her mind.
Drats. Not that I want her to be guilty. But I would love to find a little justice underneath my Christmas tree come tomorrow morning.
Business complications seem like a delicate way to describe systematic corporate sabotage, so I decide to cut to the chase.
“I know Balthasar was systematically destroying your chocolate business as if he had made it his life’s mission,” I say, watching her reaction like a hawk studying prey that might suddenly develop homicidal tendencies. “The bribed inspectors, stolen contracts, false contamination rumors. The whole nine yards of corporate sabotage that would make mafia bosses proud. I think I know where that may have led you to poison someone that night at my inn.”
Matilda’s chin lifts sharply, and baby Matilda immediately mirrors the gesture with the precision of a child who’s been taking notes on family pride since birth.
“Are you accusing me of murdering a man in front of my very bright, very intelligent granddaughter?” Matilda asks with the kind of icy dignity that could probably freeze the chocolate fountains. “That’s not very nice of you, Bizzy. In fact, you might land on the naughty list because of it.”
I gasp at the thought.
