Caught in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  Hearing her talk now, it seemed to me that while she might have been young, she didn’t seem to be manipulative in the least.

  Mostly, she just seemed in love.

  “So you guys decided to come here and start a bed & breakfast?” I asked.

  She nodded, stirring the pot some more. Meanwhile, I began measuring out some milk and quickly cracking eggs.

  “When we were dating, I talked about how I’d visited here once with my dad when I was kid. How I’d always wanted to have a bed and breakfast by the ocean. That’s been my big dream since… since forever. You know what Adam said after we got married? He said, Baby, it’s my mission now to make all your dreams come true. A week later, we closed on this old run-down estate by the lighthouse here and I dropped out of culinary school. The rest has been a lot of sawdust, money, sweat, and tears. But now it’s finally coming together.”

  Secretly, I couldn’t help wonder just how much money it cost Adam to buy this place and renovate it. The bed and breakfast was astoundingly beautiful. Quaint and rustic, but with modern amenities unusual for most inns on this stretch of coastline. Adam had given us the best room on the top floor of the inn, and it had a claw-foot tub, a breathtaking view of the lighthouse, and brand new rustic furniture that practically sparkled.

  I imagined it had cost a pretty penny to get this place up and running.

  And though I could be wrong, it seemed like Adam was the one footing the bill for all of it.

  I scolded myself silently as I quickly blended the eggs, milk, sugar, flour and salt together in a food processor.

  I had no right to pass judgement. After all, Angelica seemed like a perfectly nice, honest person. Additionally, Adam was a man perfectly capable of making his own decisions.

  “How did you and Sheriff Brightman meet?” Angelica asked after a long lull in the conversation.

  I began pouring the batter over the raspberries in the tart pans, submerging the bright red berries in the creamy custard.

  “It was a pretty typical love story,” I said, scraping out the remaining batter with the back of a wooden spoon. “We met in high school, but then he left and moved to California. Years later, he turned up back in town and we rekindled what we had.”

  I paused.

  “Then there was that murder.”

  Angelica stopped stirring, her eyes growing wide.

  “Murder?” she said, her tone and inflection reminding me of just how young she was.

  I grinned, getting a kick out of her reaction.

  “Yep. One of the judges for our town’s annual gingerbread competition got murdered and the local police thought I did it. Daniel helped clear my name and the rest… well, the rest is history.”

  “Wow,” she said after a long, long moment. “That’s a lot of things. But that’s definitely not your typical love story.”

  I shrugged, tossing the tart pans into the oven and setting the timer for 45 minutes.

  “I guess it’s not really,” I said. “But when you’re married to a sheriff, not a whole lot is typical.”

  Angelica smiled and began stirring the chowder in the Dutch oven again. After a moment, she turned off the burner.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Cinnamon,” she said. “I’d only been with Adam for a few weeks before I started worrying like crazy. I’d lie awake at nights sometimes, thinking of him out there on the streets, worried to death that something horrible would happen to him.”

  She shook her head slightly.

  “When he decided to leave the force, I was so, so thankful,” she added.

  I’d have been lying if I said I didn’t worry about Daniel out there. A lot, actually. I knew those kinds of nights she spoke about – the ones when the worrying got the best of you and it seemed that you were trapped there by a never-ending rotation of frightening hypotheticals.

  But I usually did my best not to think too hard about the danger.

  I took a sip of my beer. It wasn’t Geronimo Brewing Co.’s beer, that was for sure. But it wasn’t bad, either.

  I dusted my hands off on my apron.

  “All right – dessert is in the oven,” I said. “What else can I help with?”

  A grateful expression crossed her face.

  Chapter 8

  Thankfully, the other guests who had booked rooms at The Agate Inn that evening were much easier to talk to than the Parsons. After helping Angelica with dessert and the main course – a salmon chive chowder that was so good, I had to reassess my initial impression of her kitchen skills – I once again joined the other guests for dinner and drinks. I met a yoga instructor from Portland named Kathy, and her husband Jerome, a Louisiana transplant who had his own beer delivery business. The two of them were spending the weekend at the inn to celebrate their five-year anniversary. I also met a couple of elementary school teachers named Sam and Ebony from Ashland. They were both in their twenties, idealistic, and refreshing to talk to.

  Everyone seemed to be quite interested when they heard that I owned a pie shop.

  After dinner, I helped Angelica serve up the dessert. Though it wasn’t one of my trusted and true pie recipes, it was a summer dessert that my mother had taught me how to make a long, long time ago. She’d always told me that if you were in a pinch and had eggs and fresh fruit on hand, then a classic Clafoutis was the way to go. Easy to whip up, and great served warm, room-temperature, or cold, the custard and fruit Clafoutis had dozens if not hundreds of variations. My mother had loved Julia Child, and had learned how to make it from her cooking show years earlier.

  The dessert ended up being a hit, the way I knew it would be. It was gone before anybody could ask for seconds and people didn’t leave behind so much as a crumb. And though Angelica had tried to give me credit for it, I’d interrupted her and hadn’t let her say anything. I figured the inn needed as much good publicity as it could get at this early stage. And a good dessert was some good publicity, all right.

  People always remembered a good dessert.

  Afterwards, Adam invited everyone to follow the cedar staircase down to the beach for a big bonfire and s’mores – something that his mother Betty had put herself in charge of. The good food and drinks had been flowing all night, and about half of the guests decided to keep the evening going by the bonfire. Daniel and I took the opportunity to bring the pooches down to the beach for a night stroll.

  It was a beautiful windy evening. Clouds sailed fast across the face of the moon and stars twinkled brightly. Out on the horizon, the faint lights from fishing boats glowed. The lighthouse on the cliff above sent a rhythmic beam gliding over the inky waters.

  “You didn’t have to help out in the kitchen so much tonight, you know,” Daniel said as we walked, the bonfire flickering in the distance.

  “I didn’t mind at all,” I said. “I preferred it over talking to the Parsons.”

  “Yeah, I don’t blame you there,” Daniel said. “The wife, Patricia – that’s her name, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, Patricia. Anyway, she saw me out by the grill and started going on about some historic house charity she’s on the board of. At first I thought she was just making small talk. But then I realized she was actually trying to get me to donate money.”

  “See? Making dessert was a piece of cake compared to that kind of conversation,” I said.

  “Literally,” Daniel said, grinning in the moonlight and pulling me a little closer as we walked.

  After we got back to the bonfire, the day of traveling started to catch up with me. I began to yawn and my eyes started feeling heavy as I sat there in the warm glow of the flames.

  I knew I had to turn in before I passed out in the sand. So I said my goodnights and headed back up the long series of wooden steps to the inn with the dogs. Daniel insisted on coming back up with me, but I wouldn’t hear of it. He and Adam were still catching up, laughing and sharing old stories from their time on the force together. I didn’t want to get in the way.

  Besi
des – we were going to be here the whole weekend. There was plenty of time for me and Daniel to do some catching up of our own.

  By the time I made it to our stately room, my cheeks were red and wind-whipped, and I wasn’t nearly as sleepy as I had been on account of the steep, cliff side staircase. The claw-foot tub was calling my name something fierce, and before I knew what I was doing, I was drawing a hot bath.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken one. Most nights, I’d come home from the pie shop so tired, I’d just about collapse into bed.

  I slipped into a plush terry robe and pulled my hair up into a high ponytail as the tub filled.

  A few moments later, I heard the voices.

  Chapter 9

  “You don’t talk to me like that, you hear? Don’t you ever...”

  I turned off the faucet and sat on the edge of the bathtub, not wanting to eavesdrop, but having no choice but to. The bathroom shared a wall with the room next door, and the raised, slurred voices ping-ponged against the tile.

  “Why? Because I know about her or because I called her a hussy!?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You’d be finding out soon enough, anyway.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What it sounds like, that’s what!”

  I held my breath.

  I knew I shouldn’t have been listening. I should have gone into the other room and given the couple next door some privacy.

  But it was all like some sort of addictive reality show that I couldn’t seem to pull myself away from.

  “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you are gonna be so, so sorry. You do know that my father won’t let you get away with this, don’t you? When we get through with you in court, there won’t be any scraps left for that little hussy of yours—”

  “You shut your—”

  Just then, there was the sound of boards creaking under footsteps down the hallway. A moment later, keys jangled and a door opened.

  The voices stopped abruptly at the sounds.

  I heard the footsteps continue out in our room. I tied the robe tighter around my waist and stood up, opening the bathroom door.

  Daniel stood there, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The poochies were pawing at his legs and wagging their tails.

  I closed the bathroom door behind me.

  “What are you doing back so soon?” I said in a lowered voice.

  A moment later, there was the sound of a door creaking open loudly and then slamming hard – the sound came from the next room.

  One half of the arguing couple must have decided to get some fresh air.

  Daniel paused before speaking, looking in the direction of the sound. Then he returned his attention to me.

  “I decided to turn in early,” he said, a smile coming across his lips.

  I couldn’t contain my own grin.

  “What about Adam? All those stories from the glory days you guys were retelling?”

  Daniel shrugged, peeling off his jacket.

  “I know how they all end. And I realized that I still hadn’t paid off my debt with you from earlier.”

  He came over, resting his hands on my hips.

  “Unless of course the debt’s been cleared?” he said.

  I shook my head emphatically.

  “Yeah. I thought as much.”

  He made a motion like he was about to kiss me, and while there wasn’t anything I wanted more, the heated voices from earlier were still echoing in my head.

  “Daniel – do you know who’s in the room next door?” I asked.

  He furrowed his brow for a long moment.

  “The Parsons, I think,” he said. “How come?”

  “I just heard them fighting.”

  “Well, they were both hitting the booze pretty hard,” he said, shrugging. “Especially Jason. He was going through some top-shelf bottle of Glenfiddich special reserve he brought like he had a quota to meet or something.”

  I rubbed my face, thinking.

  I supposed some couples had a more heightened sense of drama than others – they drank, then fought, then later apologized profusely.

  Maybe the fight hadn’t been as bad as it sounded.

  Regardless, it really wasn’t any of my business.

  I returned my attention back to Daniel.

  “So… back to what you were saying about paying that debt...”

  Daniel let me go and went over to the large window facing the lighthouse.

  He closed the curtains shut and smiled.

  Chapter 10

  I sat by the window, sipping chamomile tea and watching the yellow beam of light swing slowly back and forth across the black waters of the Pacific.

  I hadn’t been able to sleep much. Something about being in a new place and in a bed different than our comfortable one at home had caused me to lie awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all sorts of things.

  For a little while, I’d been thinking about the Parsons’ fight that I’d heard earlier. The cruel way that they’d spoken to each other.

  Then I started thinking about Angelica and Adam and the inn. The place was beautiful and their vision for it was sound. I could see plenty of people wanting to stay here on the cliffs next to the lighthouse, overlooking this magnificent stretch of the coast. But I wondered if Angelica really knew how much she was getting herself into with this new business venture – or if Adam did for that matter. It seemed to me that running a bed & breakfast would require a massive amount of work. I couldn’t help but feel a little concerned about it all – about Angelica, in particular, trying to man the kitchen all by herself—

  Something moving across the grounds below suddenly caught my attention.

  A thin figure was walking quickly under the dusting of moonlight, heading away from the inn.

  Heading in the direction of the lighthouse.

  I sat there a while, watching. The figure moved with all the nimbleness and speed of a cat.

  Then, suddenly, the figure stopped dead in its tracks. It turned around, looking back at the house.

  She looked back at the inn with shifty eyes, as if afraid someone was watching her.

  For a second, I thought she saw me gazing out the window. But her face didn’t register anything, and after a long moment, she turned and began walking again quickly toward the lighthouse.

  I looked where she was headed, my heart thumping a little as I saw a shadow of someone else in the distance.

  I watched Angelica Colburn until she disappeared with the shadow around the large circular building, out of view.

  Wondering just what she was doing.

  And just who she was meeting at this very late hour.

  Chapter 11

  A good night’s sleep just wasn’t in the cards for me.

  “Okay, okay… here I come, pooch.”

  At the sound of my voice, Chadwick stopped clawing at the door. Instead, he started pacing the room – the Cocker Spaniel’s hallmark sign of having a full bladder.

  I glanced over at Daniel. He was sleeping soundly, his chest moving up and down in long, slow breaths. The moonlight streaming in through the curtains highlighted the peaceful expression on his face, and I just couldn’t bring myself to wake him.

  I sat up in bed. It was just past four. I had only gotten an hour or so of sleep after dozing off to the sound of the crashing waves.

  I quickly pulled on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, then slid my feet into my tennis shoes. All the commotion caused Hucks to wake up and start pacing by the door, too, and I figured the more the merrier.

  I grabbed the dogs’ leashes and attached them to their collars, then I slipped out of the room and down the hallway as quietly as possible.

  The inn was dark and empty, and I was thankful that I didn’t run into anybody with the serious case of bedhead that I was sporting. I opened the front door and descended the steps of the porch quickly with the pooches.

  The salty night air was delic
ious and mild. Back in Christmas River, the nights were always cold, even at the height of summer. But here at the coast, the evenings in the warmer months could be misty and pleasant.

  I let Huckleberry and Chadwick take the lead, letting them amble along the mushy grass. The light breeze coming off the ocean blew into the side of my face, and even though I felt tired, it was nice to be out in the fresh air. The stars sparkled like crystals across the sky, and on the horizon there was a faint blue light that hinted at the coming dawn.

  We walked toward the lighthouse.

  I remembered from a class trip to the beach back in elementary school that the Agate Beach Lighthouse was one of the oldest on the Oregon Coast. Like most old lighthouses, there were rumors about it being haunted. Supposedly in the late 1800s, the lighthouse keeper’s wife had had a miscarriage and shortly after, she started acting odd. The lighthouse keeper had gone into the nearest town to find a doctor when his wife, driven by grief and despair, threw herself off the cliff and into the surging ocean waters below. They found her body a few days later, the tide having taken her out and brought her back in a strange, morbid turn of events.

  I hadn’t made a careful study of the history behind the lighthouse, so I wasn’t sure whether the story was actually true or whether it was the type of urban legend perpetuated by generations of school children. But either way, I thought about it as I walked along the grassy cliff toward the lighthouse. I thought about how this area must have felt so remote in the old days, and how even now, this stretch of coastline maintained its rugged, wild beauty—

  Just then, Huckleberry started barking. The dog tugged abruptly on his leash, completely catching me off guard. A moment later, I watched in horror as Huckleberry bolted toward the edge of the cliff.

  Chapter 12

  “Hucks! Come back, Hucks!”

  I sprinted after the Australian Shepherd with everything I had, practically dragging poor Chadwick along behind me. Huckleberry ran toward the cliff, as if on a mission to plunge into the Pacific as fast as he could.