“Bizzynaughty!” Baby Matilda adds with disapproval, pointing her tiny finger at me with the authority of delivering a formal verdict.
I gasp twice as loud at that.
“GiGi nice!” Little Matilda frowns my way.
Oh, good grief. I’ve upset the baby.
I touch my hand to my lips, suddenly realizing I’ve been conducting a murder interrogation in front of a child who apparently understands every word, is taking detailed mental notes, and probably has better investigative instincts than I do.
Way to go, Bizzy. Nothing like traumatizing a genius infant on Christmas Eve.
“That’s not very nice of you!” Baby Matilda cries indignantly, glaring at me with fierce protectiveness as she defends her favorite person. “GiGi good Gama!”
Something in me warms to the fact that she saidGamainstead of Grandma. There might be hope for the rest of us yet.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Matilda says with satisfaction, then turns back to me with renewed steel in her voice. “Isn’t it bad enough that you outright accused me of murdering my husband last spring? Is this some sort of homicidal holiday tradition you’re starting up with me?”
Oh right, there was that whole thing where I thought she poisoned Hamish.
“Although I could have done that man in,” Matilda continues with the matter-of-fact tone of a woman discussing tomorrow night’s holiday menu. “And I could have done the same to Balthasar Thornfield, but I didn’t.”
“But I didn’t!” baby Matilda echoes with perfect timing, pointing a tiny, accusatory finger at me. “Bad lady asks bad questions! Verybad!”
I’m starting to think she’s right.
Even the baby thinks I’m terrible at this interrogation business, which is probably a new low in my investigative career. I give a grim smile, watching the miniature version of Matilda defend her grandmother with the determination of a tiny legal advocate.
“Look, Bizzy,” Matilda says, her voice softening slightly, “contrary to popular opinion, I do have a heart. Instead of resorting to violence like some people might assume, I chose legal recourse. I already had my legal team draw up the papers to serve Balthasar with a lawsuit right after Christmas.”
“Legal papers!” baby Matilda snips my way, apparently having absorbed enough family business meetings to understand litigation concepts better than most law students. “No murder!”
Oh my word. This kid is going to be running corporations before she’s potty-trained, which is both impressive and slightly terrifying.
“I believe in handling business disputes through properchannels,” Matilda continues with growing irritation. “I already had my legal team draw up the papers for a civil suit—breach of contract, defamation, and business interference. All perfectly legal ways to destroy someone without resorting to homicide. Since you obviously don’t believe me, and seem determined to paint me as some kind of holiday serial killer, I’ll have copies sent to the inn tomorrow so you can see for yourself that some people actually use lawyers instead of poison. I’ll even giftwrap them for you.”
“Very smart, GiGi!” baby Matilda declares, clapping her tiny hands. “Lawyers are so good!”
I have to admit, her story makes more sense than my accusation. Someone planning to file a lawsuit probably wouldn’t commit murder the week before serving papers—that would be like burning down your house right before collecting insurance money.
“But since you’re so determined to play amateur sleuth and clearly enjoy accusing innocent grandmothers of heinous crimes,” Matilda leans in as if we were about to gossip, “you might want to look more closely at some of your other suspects. Like really, really closely with perhaps some actual investigative skills.”
“Such as?”
“Well, sweet little Jennilee Holly isn’t just working here because she’s a socialite with time to kill and a passion for chocolate,” Matilda says with a nod. “That woman could charm the scales off a snake, talk her way out of a speeding ticket, and probably convince people to confess their deepest secrets over sweet tea. She’s absolutely delightful, sweeter than sugar, and more charming than a Southern belle at a cotillion, but there’s more to her story than that adorable accent and her legendary cookie recipes.”
Hmm. Even Matilda thinks Jennilee is wonderful, which makes it hard to imagine someone that sweet and charmingbeing capable of murder. She’s like everyone’s favorite aunt who brings homemade cookies and never forgets your birthday. But there’s more to her story? And she’s not just working here because of her passion for chocolate? That would be the only excuse I would need.
“And as for Cordelia Goldleaf,” Matilda continues, “we share the same accountant, which means I hear things that would make your hair curl. And you’d be surprised what people confess over spiked eggnog when they think no one important is listening. Those children’s Christmas programs she’s so proud of and constantly bragging about? Most of them exist only on paper, like fictional characters. She’s been funneling business money through fake charitable programs for tax purposes and personal gain, and the funds have been disappearing faster than cookies at a church bake sale. There are no children.”
“No children!” baby Matilda shouts with harsh disapproval. “Fake programs are very bad!”
Even the baby understands charity fraud better than most adults, and probably has a stronger moral compass than half the people in this room. Although I was already privy to that info about Cordelia myself.
If only that girl could use her sleuthing skills for good for once,Matilda frowns at me with the thought.Like finding my poor missing cat instead of accusing innocent grandmothers of murder.
“Please, Bizzy,” Matilda says, leaning closer with genuine urgency. “If you hear anything—and I mean anything—about Jellybean, let me know immediately. I’m beside myself with worry, and haven’t slept in days. That cat means absolutely everything to me. She’s not just a pet, she’s family.”
“Find Jellybean!” baby Matilda demands, apparently having strong opinions about the family cat situation. “Jellybean home! Please! Please!”
