Caught in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  She brushed away a few tears that had begun to trickle down her wrinkled face.

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was so afraid what it would mean for all the hard work Adam had put into this place. I knew if it came out, it would ruin him. So I… I came back to the house, got back into bed, and didn’t tell anybody. I thought I’d pushed him all the way over. I didn’t know he was on that cliff ledge below. If I’d known that, then I wouldn’t have…”

  She shook her head.

  “My whole life, I thought I was a good person. But now I see that I’ve been wrong. A man almost died because of me and what did I do? I crawled back into bed and pretended like none of it had happened.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Good people don’t do things like that,” she whispered.

  I glanced over at Daniel. His lips were locked in a deep frown and there was pain behind his eyes.

  “You didn’t mean it,” I said softly. “You just got scared.”

  A few more tears streamed down her cheeks and she nodded.

  “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Mrs. Colburn,” Daniel said in a gentle voice.

  Just then, we heard the sound of tires on gravel. We watched as Adam pulled up with Angelica in his truck.

  I was glad to see that they hadn’t had to stay too long at the police station.

  Betty brushed away her tears.

  “How am I going to tell Adam?” she said, watching as her son got out of the truck.

  “We’ll help you,” Daniel said. “And everything’s going to be all right, Betty. Okay? Don’t worry.”

  The old woman nodded, smiling sadly.

  Chapter 29

  “Reindeers on the River Styx, can you guys go anywhere without having to solve some epic mystery?”

  I let out a laugh, sliding in a large batch of Raspberry Clafoutis tarts into the oven.

  Though they weren’t technically pies, I had decided to put them on the menu for the summer months at the pie shop. People seemed to love the French custard tart, and they were easy to make, refreshing, and showcased the bright flavors of the season.

  I went over, refilling Kara’s glass with some more lemonade.

  “You do have a point,” I said. “Mysteries seem to just follow us around everywhere we go.”

  Kara took a sip, smiling slightly.

  A week had passed since our beach vacation, but Kara had just gotten back from visiting her mother out in South Dakota. I’d just gotten done telling her about what happened at the inn during our visit, and about how Jason Parsons had been released from the hospital the day before.

  Adam had called Daniel earlier to update him about everything. Because of the unsavory circumstances surrounding his fall, not to mention many eyewitnesses who could attest to his intoxication, Jason Parsons had decided not to pursue charges against Betty Colburn. The police had talked to Betty and gotten her side of the story. They had even told Betty she had the option of pressing charges against Jason if she wanted – seeing as how he had started the physical altercation in the first place.

  All in all, it looked like the whole incident was going to be in the rearview mirror soon. Jason Parsons had left Agate Bay after being released from the hospital. His wife, Patricia, had left days before, abandoning her husband while he recovered.

  I imagined that divorce wouldn’t be too far behind for the Parsons.

  Despite the scandal, Adam had said that business seemed to be unaffected. The inn was fully booked this weekend, and every weekend all the way through October. People, it seemed, were beginning to catch on about the place – about the beautiful views, cozy rooms, and delicious food.

  Earlier in the week, I had received an email from Angelica. She’d written, apologizing that the weekend had turned into such a disaster. She’d invited us to come back anytime, saying how much Daniel meant to Adam and how lucky he was to have such a good friend. She said she’d been so happy to meet me, too, and that she hoped we’d become good friends as well.

  I responded right away, sending along the Clafoutis recipe and telling her that I hoped we’d be good friends, too. I thanked her for the standing invitation and said that if the Colburns ever got tired of all that sand and surf, there’d be a room waiting for them at our home here in Christmas River.

  “Well, I guess all’s well that ends well,” Kara said when I finished telling her about the trip. “Still, it’s too bad you guys had to deal with all of that on your vacation.”

  I let out a yawn and nodded.

  I had been thinking that very thing this past week – thinking that I really could have used a vacation from my vacation—

  Just then, a loud rap erupted from the back door of the pie shop.

  Chapter 30

  I opened the door and immediately started laughing.

  The man standing on the back steps had on big sunglasses, a floppy hat, a loose-fitting collared shirt, shorts, and a thick layer of sunscreen on the tip of his nose.

  He looked more like the Sheriff of Huntington Beach than the Sheriff of Pohly County.

  “Santa in South Beach, what the heck are you—”

  But before I knew it, the man in the floppy hat had picked me up and was carrying me away around the side of the building.

  “But I’ve got a pie shop to run!” I cried out.

  “Nope. I’ve called in sick for you today. Tiana and Tobias said they had it covered.”

  “What? But I can’t just—”

  But before I could say much more, I was sitting in his truck and we were heading on the road back home.

  Chapter 31

  “All right. You can open your eyes now,” he said.

  I lowered my hands from my face, taking in the scene in front of me.

  My mouth popped open.

  We were standing on the sandy shore of the lake behind our backyard meadow. On the thin stretch of pebbly sand, there were two lounge chairs, an umbrella, a cooler full of Geronimo Brewing Co. beer, and supplies for all the s’mores a person could ever want.

  Huckleberry and Chadwick splashed around in the water. The lake shimmered in the bright summer sun, and the glaciers on Charity Peak gleamed in the distance.

  “This is… You didn’t need to do this, Daniel,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, I did,” he said. “I told you we were going to have a beach vacation, and I’ll be damned if I’m not a man of my word.”

  “Still, this is…”

  I trailed off as I looked up into his sparkling green eyes.

  “So thoughtful,” I whispered.

  “Aw, it was nothing,” he said, bashfully. “Besides, I figured I had the last of my debt to work off with you. This should just about do it.”

  “Hmm. I think that’s my call, isn’t it?” I said.

  He laughed. I reached up, pulling him to me and kissing him tenderly.

  Some days, I didn’t know how I’d ever gotten so lucky.

  We spent the rest of the day laughing, lying out in the sun, drinking pale ales, toasting marshmallows, and building s’mores.

  I couldn’t remember a better day at the beach.

  The End

  Did you enjoy this novella? Find other seasonal cozy mysteries as fun as the ones in this book on Meg’s Cozy Lodge Patreon page! For as little as $1 a month, you get a new cozy mystery short (just like the ones featured in this book) every month featuring characters from Meg’s books plus a brand new cozy recipe! The mysteries can be downloaded straight to your Kindle App, and it’s cheaper than buying these stories at online eBook retailers. You’ll also get plenty of other fun bonuses for joining – including past stories! You can also cancel at any time with no further obligation.

  Come on down to the Cozy Lodge and see what’s cooking!

  Agate Inn’s Raspberry Clafoutis

  Like Cinnamon says, the great thing about this dessert is that it can be served warm or cold. It also doesn’t need to be a dessert – it works just as well as a sweet breakfast treat. And if you
don’t have raspberries on hand, you can easily substitute cherries or other fruit. This dessert is awfully fun to say out loud, too (cla-foodt-ee).

  1 ¼ cups whole milk

  ⅔ cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

  3 eggs

  1 tablespoon vanilla extract

  ⅛ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup flour

  1 lb fresh raspberries

  Butter (for buttering the pie dish)

  Powdered sugar (for sprinkling at the end)

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a pie dish and spread the raspberries out evenly in a layer over the bottom.

  Add the whole milk, ⅔ cup sugar, eggs, vanilla, salt, and flour to a food processor or blender. Process until well-blended and smooth.

  Pour the custard mixture over the berries in the pie dish. Sprinkle evenly with the two tablespoons of sugar.

  Bake for 45 to 55 minutes until the Clafoutis is puffy and golden. Remove from oven and let cool. When ready to serve, dust each slice with powdered sugar.

  Enjoy!

  Warren & The Sparks Lake Mystery

  A Christmas River Cozy Mystery Novella

  Recipe included!

  by

  Meg Muldoon

  Published by Vacant Lot Publishing

  Copyright 2018© by Meg Muldoon

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance whatsoever to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warren & The Sparks Lake Mystery

  by Meg Muldoon

  Author’s Note: Chronologically, the “present day” part of this story takes place before Warren’s trip to Scotland and marriage to Aileen.

  Chapter 1

  Warren Peters placed the two bouquets of freshly picked wildflowers on the passenger’s seat next to him. He put the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over. The old green Chevy coughed and rumbled, the way it always did after a cold night. Warren pulled out of the parking spot in front of the house and headed down Main Street – stopping several times for packs of tourists as they sluggishly strolled along the crosswalks.

  The old man headed west, following the street until it eventually widened and began climbing. The quaint buildings of downtown Christmas River dropped away, replaced with towering spruce trees and junipers that cast long shadows across the road. After a couple of miles, he passed the large wooden sign – the one that had stood there for as long as his memory went back. It read “Christmas River Highway: Now Open.”

  Warren unrolled the window. Fresh mountain air tinged with the dampness of melting snow filled the cab of the truck and he took in a deep, greedy breath of it. The bright sun felt good as it warmed his ancient shoulders.

  The smell of that mountain air in May never got old. Neither did the feeling of this highway beneath the truck’s wheels. Even though Warren had first started coming up to these lakes over seven decades earlier, spring in the mountains always was and always would be a magical thing to him.

  Warren drifted along the highway, passing lakes that sparkled in deep shades of emerald and sapphire under the clear spring sky.

  After a few winding switchbacks, Warren finally saw it.

  He slowed down a little as he approached, gazing at the small, decrepit shack. Its roof had more or less caved in, the front door was missing, and it seemed like even the smallest breeze might cause the whole structure to collapse.

  But the sign was still there, even after all these years, having survived yet another brutal winter.

  “Sparks Lake General Store, est. 1946. For all your fishing needs and more.”

  Warren felt the corners of his mouth turn up slightly as he passed by.

  Seeing that old shack always made him a little sad, but a little happy, too.

  Chapter 2

  May, 1951

  Etta Peters came out of the kitchen dressed in her Sunday best, carrying the silver platter between her arms with pride. Like every Sunday, the platter was loaded down with corned beef, roasted potatoes, and big slabs of homemade cheese bread, the smells of which had been tortuously lingering in the Peters household all day long.

  The silver platter was a family heirloom that Warren’s grandmother had brought with her on the boat from Ireland. Warren’s mother said that the platter dated back generations in her family, and she treated it with reverence, only bringing it out for Sundays and special occasions.

  Warren’s family wasn’t rich, meaning they usually ate the same as most of the other middle class families in Christmas River. But Etta made sure to save a little money each week to eat a good, proper meal on Sundays. There would always be a roast on the table, potatoes, and billowy braided bread made with fresh Tillamook cheese that took her all day to make. Etta believed deeply in the sanctity of Sunday, and that it was a time for the spirit and for peace to reign over the household.

  But while Warren’s mother believed in the holiness of Sunday, others at the table often didn’t respect the day as much as Warren knew she would have liked.

  Or as much as Warren would have liked, for that matter.

  “Do you have something to say for yourself, young man?” Warren’s father, Martin Peters, said, picking up a bread knife and grimly slathering fresh butter on a fat slice of the cheese bread.

  Warren had been supremely enjoying the bread himself, but he felt its fine flavor turn to ash in his mouth at his father’s stern words.

  Warren gulped hard.

  “Well… I don’t know, sir,” the teenager finally said. “Is there something I ought to be sorry for?”

  Warren knew by the harsh flicker in his father’s eyes that what lay ahead wouldn’t be any fun.

  Whenever Warren had done something to his father’s disliking, the man would rarely come outright and say what his son had done. He’d usually let Warren sweat a little before he revealed what the transgression was.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t get along with his father. But Warren was 17 now, taller than Martin, and opposite to him in many ways. Martin Peters was a hard worker right down to his bones. Every morning, he’d get up earlier than he had to and go to Clayton Mill – the place where he worked. He’d always come home later than he had to, also. Martin had been through the Depression, and he liked to tell Warren that having a job wasn’t guaranteed, so you had to fight to keep in good standing with the company you worked for.

  On the other hand, Warren, while not necessarily a loaf-about (he did have a job after school at the Sparks Lake General Store), wasn’t exactly what most people would call a hard worker. Warren liked to fish in his free time. He liked sitting by the lakes with his buddies Larry, Quail, and Sully, drinking beer, talking about fishing and all the things they would do after they graduated from Christmas River High.

  Martin Peters set down the piece of bread he’d been buttering.

  He stared hard at his only son.

  “Your mother and I ran into Mr. Stanley at the grocery today,” Martin said. “He tells us that you’re failing English. He says hardly has he ever seen a student who applies himself so little.”

  Warren felt his cheeks burn red. The huge appetite he’d had after smelling the aroma of stewing meat and fresh bread baking all day completely vanished.

  He couldn’t deny what the English teacher had told his parents. Warren had all but given up on getting a good grade in Mr. Stanley’s class. Not only had it been hard to concentrate with Mr. Stanley droning on about Whitman and Emerson, but there was something else about English class that Warren had
found distracting.

  Her name was Mae Reed, and she was just about the prettiest girl that Warren had ever set eyes on.

  He knew he should have been applying himself, the way Mr. Stanley told him to. But instead, Warren found himself stealing glances during class at her, hoping that one day she’d notice him.

  “Martin,” Etta Peters said in a low voice. “Perhaps now is not the time for this conversation. Let’s sit down in the living room after dinner and—”

  “No, Etta. It needs to be spoken about now. This is serious business. Our son’s work ethic is deplorable.”

  Martin looked across the table at Warren.

  “You’re lucky to live in a country where hard work means something, son. Where you can change your situation by applying yourself. But here you are, wasting the good opportunity that God gave you.”

  “Martin,” Warren’s mother rasped as she nervously played with the locket around her neck. “Let’s just enjoy our meal and—”

  “If he doesn’t learn the value of hard work now, then he’s never going to learn.”

  Martin’s voice had taken on a sullen, disappointed tone that made Warren’s stomach ache.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll apply myself from now on,” Warren said quietly.

  But the answer didn’t appear to be good enough.

  Martin shook his head, looking out the front windows of the small house.

  “Words don’t mean anything if there’s no action to back them up, Warren. We all know you’re good at talking, but I don’t know if you have what it takes for real change.”