by Sarah Fox
I tried not to think about that as I took Gilda’s and Betty’s orders for Lord of the Fries, Paradise Lox, and two Evil Stepmother mocktails. Christmas was one of my favorite times of year, but I was already feeling stabs of loneliness whenever I thought about spending it alone. The likelihood that I wouldn’t have any family with me made me miss my dad even more than usual. He had passed away a few years ago and I didn’t think I’d ever truly get used to not having him around. He’d loved Christmas as much as I did, and he was the one who’d instilled a love of books and reading in me at a very early age. I knew he would have loved the Inkwell and he would have been proud of what I’d done with it. I just wished he could be there to see it and to enjoy the holiday with me.
When Damien arrived, Aunt Gilda and Betty were still finishing up their appetizers, so I took the opportunity to grab a chair from an unoccupied table and join them for a short chat.
“Are you coming to the chili supper tonight?” Betty asked me.
I glanced around the pub. “I guess that depends on whether I can get away.”
“You should try to,” Aunt Gilda said. “You need to eat, and the chili supper is a Winter Carnival tradition.”
I snagged a fry from her plate. “I’m not one to pass up free food if I don’t have to. What time will you two be there?”
“We’re planning to eat around seven. Should we save you a seat?”
“Please do,” I said. “I’ll try my best to be there, but I’ll text you if I can’t get away.”
Beneath the chatter of the pub’s patrons, the sound of quiet crying drew my attention. At a nearby table, a thirty-something woman with chestnut brown hair wiped her eyes with a tissue while another woman put an arm around her shoulders and spoke to her quietly.
Gilda and Betty had also noticed the crying woman.
“Poor Penny,” Betty whispered with a shake of her head.
“What’s wrong with her?” I kept my voice low too.
Aunt Gilda leaned closer to me. “She got the brush-off from Freddy Mancini earlier.”
I had several questions I wanted to ask, but I bit them back as Penny and her companion got up from their table. Penny had stopped crying, but her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked as though her tears could start up again at any moment. Talking quietly together, she and her friend bundled up in their coats and scarves and headed for the door.
Even once they were gone, I spoke barely above a whisper. “What’s Penny’s connection to Freddy?”
“They were high school sweethearts,” Aunt Gilda said.
“I have a hard time imagining Freddy as anyone’s sweetheart at any point in time,” I said.
“Ah, so you’ve met him.”
“Not exactly. But I saw him out on the green when the sculpting was getting underway. He walked around with his nose in the air and he wasn’t exactly charming to his personal assistant.”
“That fits with what Gretchen Dingle told me this morning when I was doing her hair.” Betty took a sip of her drink. “It also fits with what happened between him and Penny once his star was on the rise.”
Aunt Gilda nodded. “This was before I moved to Shady Creek, but I’ve heard the story. Penny followed Freddy to Boston so he could train as a chef. After he finished culinary school, he got a job at a hotel restaurant. About a year or so later, he got on one of those TV chef competitions and won. Right after, he dumped Penny.”
“Told her she wasn’t sophisticated enough for him,” Betty added.
“What a jerk!” I felt sorry for Penny.
“He got too big for his britches,” Aunt Gilda said. “Poor Penny was gracious enough to approach him and wish him luck in the competition today.”
“He pretended he didn’t recognize her and told her he didn’t need luck,” Betty finished.
I frowned. “It doesn’t sound like he’s worth crying over.”
“Few men are,” Betty said. “But definitely not Freddy Mancini. That doesn’t stop it from hurting, though.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I’d done plenty of crying after breaking things off with my ex the previous summer, even though he’d lied to me repeatedly over the years and had stolen my credit card to use for online gambling. Hearts weren’t always sensible.
I pushed that thought aside. My ex had been murdered in October. Even though our relationship had been over for several months by then, it still hadn’t been easy to accept that he was dead, and it wasn’t something I liked to dwell on.
Aunt Gilda pushed back her chair and reached for her scarf. “Betty and I promised to help with the setup for the chili supper, so we’d better be on our way.”
“I’m glad we had a chance to chat,” I said. “And hopefully I’ll see you later.”
Both women pulled out their wallets.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said quickly. “Your food and drinks are on the house.”
Aunt Gilda pressed several bills into my hand. “Honey, you can’t keep doing that.”
“You give me free haircuts,” I reminded her as I tried to return the money.
We’d had this argument before. It was one I usually lost, but that didn’t stop me from trying to press the issue now and again.
“You only get a few haircuts a year. Betty and I are in here every week.” She closed my fingers around the money.
Betty handed over some bills of her own. “Gilda’s right. You’ve got to let us pay.”
“At least let me give you a free drink now and then,” I said.
“Now and then.” Gilda pulled me into a brief hug and kissed my cheek. “But not today. We’ll see you later.”
I saw them to the door and then got back to serving customers. Not long after Aunt Gilda and Betty left, there was a lull in business. A few patrons remained at the tables scattered around the pub, but they all had food and drink before them and didn’t need any attention just then. I took the opportunity to slip behind the bar and speak with Damien for a moment. Although he’d arrived at the Inkwell bundled up in outerwear, he was now in his usual outfit of jeans and a short sleeve T-shirt that showed off the tattoos on his arms.
“Did you stop by the green on the way here?” I asked him.
“I did. And I talked to Mel. She says things are going well so far.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I really hope she wins.”
“She’s got some tough competition, but I reckon she’s still got a good chance.”
Originally from England, Damien had lived in Shady Creek for close to twenty years and was raising two teenage daughters on his own. His wife had passed away from cancer when their girls were little more than toddlers. I didn’t know if he had a woman in his life at the moment. Like Mel, he wasn’t one to talk much about his personal life.
Damien and Mel had both worked at the pub before I bought it, and I counted myself extremely lucky that they’d wanted to keep their jobs when the business changed hands. They’d both proved invaluable on many occasions as I navigated my way through the choppy waters of running a business for the first time. I didn’t know what I would have done without them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone settle on a stool at the far end of the bar. I turned that way, a smile on my face, ready to greet whoever it was. Before I could get any words out of my mouth, my stomach did a funny little hop and my tongue tied itself up.
“Evening,” Grayson Blake said, a hint of amusement in his blue eyes. “Expecting someone else?”
I was glad he’d mistaken my reaction for simple surprise. I didn’t need him to know the effect he had on me.
I pulled myself together quickly. “No. I’m just not used to seeing you here.”
Grayson owned the Spirit Hill Brewery and was my eastern neighbor. Our relationship—not much more than an acquaintance, really—hadn’t started off on the best foot when I’d arrived in Shady Creek, but we’d smoothed things out since then. Mostly, anyway.
He still had a tendency to push
my buttons and get me riled up. I served his award-winning beers at the Inkwell, but several weeks had passed since I’d last seen him in the pub. He could have free beer whenever he wanted at his place, so maybe he didn’t see the point in coming by the Inkwell very often. If I were completely honest with myself, though, I’d been disappointed by the infrequency of his visits over the last couple of months. Not that I’d tell him that.
I had to admit—only to myself and my best friend, Shontelle—that Grayson was easy on the eyes. His dark hair was stylishly tousled and his eyes were a gorgeous shade of blue. He had a day or two’s worth of stubble on his jaw, which made him even more attractive than usual.
I took a deep breath to calm the renewed fluttering in my stomach.
“I thought I’d get into the carnival spirit,” he said. “I had a walk around town but now I need to warm up.”
“Can I help you with that?”
Fire burned in my cheeks when I realized how that sounded. Grayson apparently realized it as well, seeing as he was grinning.
“With a drink!” I said in a rush. “I meant, can I get you a drink?”
He looked like he was holding back a laugh, but to my relief he picked up the menu I slid across the bar to him. “I’ve been wanting to try out one of your literary cocktails,” he said as he scanned the list of drinks.
“You have?” For some reason that pleased me. I hadn’t expected him to be interested in the cocktails I’d created, each one inspired by a book, author, or fictional character.
“The Malt in Our Stars sounds good,” he said, his gaze still on the menu. “But I’m thinking the Count Dracula might be just the thing for a cold winter’s evening.”
I beamed at him. “I think it’s the perfect winter evening drink.”
“Then I’ll give it a try.”
“Any food to go with it?” I asked as he handed the menu back to me.
“I hear the fries are good.”
“They’re excellent. I’ll have some for you in a minute.”
I relayed Grayson’s order for the Lord of the Fries appetizer to Teagan before mixing his drink. The Count Dracula cocktail was made from blood-orange juice, cranberry juice, cinnamon syrup, and coconut rum. It was a drink I’d already enjoyed a couple of times in front of a toasty fire since the winter weather had descended on Shady Creek.
“Did you check out the ice sculptures yet?” I asked as I placed a coaster in front of Grayson and set his drink on top.
“Right before I came here. It’s amazing what the competitors can do with blocks of ice.”
“It really is. I can’t wait to see the final products tomorrow.” I glanced around the pub.
Two men had signaled for refills of their beers, but Damien was looking after them.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” I continued, returning my attention to Grayson, “the Inkwell’s hosting a literary trivia night as part of the carnival.”
Grayson nodded. “I saw a poster for it the other day.”
I held my breath as he tried his drink. Relief washed over me when he smiled.
“You’re right. The perfect drink for warming up.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I said with a smile of my own.
I heard a ding from the kitchen signaling that Grayson’s fries were ready.
I excused myself and fetched the plate from the kitchen, carrying it over to Grayson. I had to leave him alone for a few minutes while he ate. Two patrons had recently left the pub, so I cleared and cleaned their table. As I did that, a group of half a dozen tourists arrived and I spent several minutes taking orders and mixing cocktails.
By the time I was able to focus on Grayson again, he was almost finished with his fries and his drink.
“Will you be signing up?” I asked, picking up our conversation where we’d left it.
“For the trivia night?”
“Yes. Maybe you could make up a team with some of your employees from the brewery.”
“Actually, I won’t be able to make it, though I can’t speak for my employees.”
“Oh.” I tried to stem my disappointment. Maybe literary trivia wasn’t his thing. “Not much of a reader?” I guessed, the thought only adding to my disappointment.
He swallowed the last of his drink and grinned. “If you think that, you didn’t snoop far enough, Parker.”
I sputtered, but he didn’t give me a chance to tell him off for using that nickname. He slapped some bills on the bar and got up off his stool. “I’ll see you around.”
He was heading for the door by the time I’d recovered enough to send an icy glare his way.
* * *
I was still irked by Grayson’s last comment when I donned my winter jacket twenty minutes later. I never appreciated it when he called me Parker, because it was short for nosey Parker. Making reference to the time when he’d caught me peeking through the windows of his house didn’t exactly help my mood either. Maybe I had been a bit nosey at the time, but in my defense I was trying to figure out who’d murdered my ex. I’d been on the police suspect list and Grayson had been on mine, so I’d been attempting to learn more about him. Getting caught in the act wasn’t my proudest moment, though. It probably ranked up in the top ten of my most embarrassing ones.
I mulled over what he’d said to me, aside from calling me Parker. What did he mean I hadn’t snooped far enough? Not knowing the answer to that question only vexed me further.
Grayson Blake might be handsome, and he might be a talented craft brewer, but he could be so aggravating at times.
With a harrumph of annoyance, I pulled my hat down over my ears and stuffed my feet into my boots before clomping down the stairs and heading out the mill’s back door. I tried my best to put Grayson out of my mind, but it wasn’t so easy, in part because I was still smarting from the nickname he’d used and in part because it wasn’t all that easy to forget about his blue eyes, even if the amusement that had lit them up had been at my expense.
I followed the shoveled pathway around the old gristmill and across the footbridge. I stopped at the edge of Creekside Road to wait for a car to pass by, its headlights cutting through the darkness. A light wind had picked up since I was last outside, and the temperature had plummeted. Two minutes hadn’t yet passed since I’d left the pub and already I was shivering beneath my layers of winter clothing. The thought of sitting down with a steaming bowl of chili in the warmth of the town hall kept me going through the cold.
Despite the fact that my cheeks were already going numb, I stuck with my plan to check out the ice sculptures before heading over to the town hall at the western end of the village green. It had quieted down since I was last there. Gone were the spectators and the reporters. Even some of the competitors were missing. Two people I guessed were part of the event’s organizing committee were huddled beneath the canopy, which was lit up by a string of twinkle lights, chatting with each other as they stomped their feet and rubbed their arms in an effort to keep warm.
Several spotlights illuminated the work areas, allowing me to see that competitors were at work at the two stations closest to the canopy. Another was chipping away at a block of ice at the midway point between the canopy and the bandstand, but I couldn’t see anyone else. Mel’s station was blocked from my view by the bandstand, but Freddy’s half-finished sculpture was within sight, its creator absent.
I paused by his station to check out his work. It appeared as though he was carving an eagle caught in mid-take-off from a log. He had the general shapes roughed out, the details yet to come. Even so, I could tell that his sculpture would be impressive. I crossed my fingers inside my mittens, hoping Mel’s work of art would have an extra wow factor. I’d wanted her to win the competition as soon as I’d found out she was taking part, but now that I knew what Freddy was like, I really didn’t want him to place ahead of her.
The snow crunched beneath my feet as I rounded the bandstand. I smiled when I saw Mel standing before her sculpture, but the expression slipped from
my face when she ran her gloved hands over her hair in a motion fraught with frustration.
“Mel? What’s wrong?”
She spun around at the sound of my voice.
I noticed that something was missing. Several somethings, actually.
“Where are your tools?” I asked.
“Gone,” Mel said, a mixture of disbelief and anger in her voice. “Somebody stole them.”
Chapter 4
“Who would steal your tools?” I asked, shocked.
“I don’t know,” Mel said. “One of my fellow competitors?”
It was clear from her face that she didn’t like that thought.
I scurried after her as she marched around the bandstand. When all the other carving stations were in view, she stopped and slowly swept her gaze from one to the other. It didn’t appear as though anyone had extra tools lying around, but it wasn’t as if I was qualified to judge that. Mel didn’t storm over to any particular station, though, so I figured she’d come to the same conclusion as I had.
“There aren’t many people around,” I observed.
“Most people are over at the chili supper, grabbing a bite to eat before getting back to carving. That’s where I was, but only for half an hour. Apparently that was long enough for someone to steal my tools.” She pulled a knitted hat from the pocket of her jacket and crammed it down over her short hair. “I’d better ask if anyone saw anything.”
She struck off across the snow-covered green toward the canopy where the two organizers were still huddled. I jogged to keep up with Mel’s long strides. When we reached the canopy, she told the man and woman about her missing tools. They were suitably shocked, and neither had seen anything suspicious, although they pointed out that Mel’s carving station was the hardest to see from their vantage point.
