Meltdown in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  But my grandfather was aiming to make that miracle happen. When he heard about the food shortages, he just couldn’t stand by and do nothing. The thought of his neighbors and fellow Christmas Riverites going hungry was something Warren just couldn’t abide. So immediately after reading about their problems in the local weekly, he made an announcement: Geronimo Brewing Company would host a big fundraiser for the food bank this December. All proceeds from the evening would go directly to the organization, with the goal that no Pohly County family would go hungry this December.

  I’d been helping Warren organize the event – which seemed to have snowballed into one of the biggest soirées that Christmas River had ever seen.

  “I think we’ve got the fundraiser under control so far,” I said. “But maybe we’ll need your help the night of. How are your beer pouring skills lately?”

  “Well, like you said, my job description says I protect and serve. Being bartender for a night shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “But seriously, whatever you guys need – I’m there. I know I talk some nonsense about the old timer, but—”

  “Oh, it’s more than some, Daniel.”

  He grinned mischievously.

  “All right, maybe more than some. But I think it’s a real nice thing that Warren’s doing. I admire the old man for stepping up like that.”

  “Was that a compliment about Warren I just heard? Or did I misunderstand it somehow?”

  “I guess I’m just warming up for the New Year,” he said.

  He gazed up at me, falling silent. He looked like he was thinking about something. Something that had him smiling contentedly to himself.

  “What’s that smile about?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothin.’”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “No, really. What?”

  “I told you. It’s nothin.’ Just…”

  He pulled me down into his arms then and let out a happy sigh.

  “It’s been a really, really special autumn, Cin. That’s all.”

  I brushed a stray hair off of his forehead, pushing it back. There was a familiar tingling in my chest.

  It had been special – this fall had been full of short days.

  And long nights.

  “It’s going to be a special winter, too, Cin,” he said. “That trip to Ireland’s going to be the cherry on top.”

  “I can’t wait,” I whispered.

  I suddenly felt a claw graze my leg, followed by a low, desperate whimper.

  I looked down.

  Huckleberry and Chadwick were both gazing up at us, long threads of drool dripping down from their open mouths. Eyes full of hope as they locked on the last remaining bits of pie in the plastic container.

  Daniel let out a chuckle, reaching down, rubbing each of their heads. Then he divided what was left between them. They licked at the crumbs until all evidence of the pastry was completely gone.

  Daniel looked back at me.

  “So aside from getting Bertie Mayweather’s wallet back, what have you been up to today?” I asked.

  He shrugged, but I noticed that the content, easygoing smile that had been on his face had disappeared.

  “Oh, you know. The usual. Corralling fence-jumping goats and pulling over speeders. But, uh, listen, Cin, there’s something—”

  He leaned back in his chair, looking past me up at the ceiling.

  “Remember how I said I was going to see if I could get Christmas Eve and Christmas off this year?” he said.

  I nodded, knowing already where this was going by the gloomy tone of his voice.

  “Well…” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “It looks like I’m gonna have to work a double shift on Christmas Eve and a regular one on Christmas Day.”

  I felt my heart sink.

  “Oh.”

  I looked away, trying not to let on how disappointed I was.

  It was hard to imagine celebrating any part of Christmas without him. Even though I knew the county needed Daniel and that I’d been lucky these past few years by getting him all to myself for the holidays, I guess I was just greedy. I wanted him home for Christmas, not out in the cold, driving along dark roads and dealing with belligerent people.

  “I’m sorry, Cin. But even with the new hires, we don’t have enough deputies for the season. And you know how crime sky-rockets during the holidays. Family quarrels and too much drinking and wintry weather all adds up to a recipe for disaster—”

  I shook my head, putting on a cool, indifferent front.

  “It’s fine, Daniel. It’s just your job. And anyway, I knew this might happen. It’s no big deal. Really.”

  “I’m sorry all the same. There’s nowhere else I want to be on those days but with you.”

  I squeezed his hand.

  “We’ll make it work, okay?” I said. “We’ll have our own make-up Christmas the week after.”

  And make-up anniversary, I thought.

  I didn’t say that part out loud, though. I didn’t want to make him feel worse than he already did.

  He brushed his thumb against my hand, and I tried to think of something else other than his empty chair at the breakfast table this Christmas.

  “You done at the shop for the night?” he asked.

  “Naw, I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

  “Well, let me drive you back,” he said, getting up and grabbing his keys off the desk. “It’s too dark to be walking that trail now.”

  I didn’t argue.

  Daniel driving me back meant that we’d get to spend a few extra minutes together – which in the hectic holiday season, wasn’t so easy to come by.

  I went for my coat and grabbed the dogs’ leashes. Then we headed down the hallway and out past the reception desk.

  “Hey, Liv – I’ll be back in 15,” he said. “When you have a second, would you mind getting me a print-out of the Morrison case file? Thanks.”

  Liv looked up from her computer and nodded curtly.

  And that’s when I noticed it.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough.

  A crack in that stoic façade of hers.

  A few pie crumbles sat there, dusting her keyboard like freshly-fallen snow.

  I stifled a smile and barely looked at her as we passed the desk.

  Chapter 5

  I had just pulled out a fresh batch of billowing Apple Cinnamon Green Chile pies when I heard a frantic knock coming from beyond the dining room.

  The Apple Cinnamon Green Chile pies were perhaps my most unique offering here at the shop. The combination of tart apples and New Mexico green chiles in a sweet pie didn’t exactly sound appealing to a lot of customers. But once they had a bite, the complex, earthy flavors and mild heat blew away any preconceived notions. We’d been offering them at the shop and at the two food carts, and the apple green chile had been our most requested flavor this fall. I attributed its popularity to the hipsters, who were always willing to try unique and off-beat flavor combinations. Say what you will about hipsters – they sure were open-minded when it came to food.

  The knocking sounded again and the dogs scrambled toward the dining room.

  I set the pan of pies down on the kitchen island block, slid off my oven mitts, and headed toward the noise. I wondered who wanted in at this hour.

  I walked through the darkened dining room, but then stopped and hesitated for a moment. It was late, after all, and though a few months had passed since the front window of my pie shop had been vandalized, I was still cautious about being here alone at night.

  The rap came again from the darkness. I caught a glimpse of the person standing out there on the sidewalk and felt a surge of relief as recognition set in.

  I unlocked the door and stuck my head out. The cold, damp air bit at my cheeks.

  “Hey, Brad. What’s up—”

  “I can’t do it, Cin,” he said, his voice choked with panic. “I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve spent hours
and hours trying. But I just can’t…”

  He trailed off.

  Then, he showed me the palms of his hands.

  I sucked in a gasp.

  Oh.

  No.

  “Come inside,” I said, motioning behind me toward the shop. “Oh, you poor thing. Come inside.”

  Chapter 6

  Once upon a time, Bradley Houston was the coolest-looking turkey in our quaint little mountain town.

  He dressed in black leather jackets, wore ripped-up jeans, and rumbled around on a vintage Harley-Davidson. He’d hang out by the Christmas River Burger Shack, giving tourists and locals alike hard, angst-filled looks. He played Rebel Without a Cause so well, it was a wonder that he didn’t drive that Harley all the way down to Hollywood and become the second coming of James Dean.

  The whole bad boy shtick had driven Kara crazy back when we were all in our early 20s, and she and Brad had been an item for a while. She followed him around in those days like a barn owl after an injured mouse, and she almost went clear out of her mind when he picked up and moved to Portland.

  But that was a long, long time ago, and though he still had his looks, Brad was an almost completely different person now. Or I guess, to put it more accurately, that James Dean wannabe character had been a completely different person. These days, Brad was a kind, gentle father of two who dressed like a wool-obsessed hipster instead of a motorcycle gang member. And who also, as it turned out, was gay and owned an interior design business with his partner, Will.

  These days, Brad was also calm and even-keeled. Which was why finding him out on the sidewalk in such a state of hysteria was so worrisome.

  I watched now as he sat at the kitchen table, bringing the hot cup of pomegranate tea to his lips, looking thoroughly shaken.

  His hands, which were now clean after I’d insisted he wash them, had been messier than Laila’s after an intense finger-painting session. They’d been covered in dried buttercream frosting and food dye that captured every color of the rainbow. There had also been brown cookie crumbs stuck to his palms – a tell-tale sign of what he’d been up to.

  My hands usually looked that way this time of year, too. Only the mess rarely came with so much panic.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He nodded herky-jerky style, taking another sip of tea. Some color had come back into his cheeks, but he still looked a little washed-out.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, Cin,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, I know I’m good at crafting, right? I can mix up a bag of potpourri or make an ornament or put together a pretty floral arrangement. I do a decent job with that kind of thing, you know?”

  I’d seen Brad’s crafting skills in action and I knew he had a real knack for it. He’d helped Kara put her wedding together and had done a phenomenal job.

  “But I had no idea…”

  He sighed deeply and gazed out the window. I waited for him to speak for what seemed like forever.

  “Building gingerbread houses, Cin,” he said quietly, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. “I had no idea they were so fricking hard. I spent all day today just trying to build a rudimentary house. Four walls and a few sprinkles – nothing fancy. It should have been easy. My 8-year-old daughter can do it – so why not me? I was in the kitchen for hours constructing it. And do you know what I got for my trouble?”

  I bit my lip to suppress a smile that I knew had no place in this conversation.

  But I couldn’t help it.

  I saw what was coming.

  “A full-scale disaster, Cin. That’s what! I was gluing on the roof, thinking I’d finally gotten the hang of it when POOF! The cookie walls all cracked and it was just a big pile of buttercream, jagged gingerbread, and gumdrops. Crumpets – our dog – wouldn’t even go near it. It was a catastrophe, Cin. And I’m not even going to tell you the part that happened before when I burnt a whole batch of gingerbread and almost set the house on fire.”

  The grin that had been creeping across my lips finally broke through the surface.

  Brad noticed and paused, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “Easy for you to smile about,” he said. “You’re the reigning queen of The Junction. You were born with gingerbread and frosting running in your veins.”

  I started laughing.

  Brad’s disgruntled expression lifted a little, and for a second, I thought maybe he would join in, too.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said, getting a hold of myself. “It’s just – I think you’re taking all of this a little too seriously.”

  “Too seriously? Too seriously! This coming from the woman who the cops thought murdered a judge because she was so obsessed with winning the competition.”

  I shot Brad a deadpan look.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Kara told me all about it.”

  “Well, I was only suspected of murder,” I said, getting up and going over to the fridge.

  “Of course I know that.”

  I pulled out a tin of Pumpkin Gingersnap Pie, knowing that Brad had a weakness for everything pumpkin-flavored.

  “Killing a judge really isn’t the best way to win the competition, anyway,” I said, jokingly. “In case you’ve gotten any ideas about that.”

  Brad smirked a little.

  “Ha, ha. But c’mon, Cin. Don’t pretend you don’t know how important this competition is. The whole Northwest is watching, and I can’t afford to make a fool of myself.”

  “How come you want to participate in the first place?” I said, cutting a big hunk of the pie and doling it out onto a plate. “You never showed much interest in it before.”

  I pushed the slice along with a fork toward him.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, rubbing his thick beard and sighing. “But for now, the short answer is that I’m doing it for our design business.”

  A couple of years ago, Brad and Will had brought their interior design business here to Christmas River from Portland. From what I understood, Brad was the brains behind the operation, and Will was the designer. Together, they were responsible for some of the most beautiful home interiors in the area. They’d moved on from designing just children’s rooms to specializing in rustic Western style design. For Kara’s birthday this year, the two of them had redone her living room. I’d been wildly jealous of it ever since.

  “We’re up for this big contract,” he said. “A businessman named Phil Reister is building this very cozy and exclusive resort-style chalet up near Charity Peak. He thinks this area could be like some sort of Aspen of the West Coast. He’s considering our company to design all the room interiors. It’s a huge contract for us, Cin. I mean, it’s a life-changing amount of money we’re talking about here. Our company is in the running, but we’re competing against some pretty big Portland firms for this. And since we’re still a relatively new business, Phil has raised concerns about whether we have the experience to take on a project of this magnitude.”

  “Wow, Brad. Sounds exciting.”

  “Yeah, it could be,” he said, nodding nervously. “I mean if we get it, it really could be.”

  I waited for more, but he just took a long sip of his tea.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Um… maybe I misunderstood something, but what does The Gingerbread Junction have to do with getting the design contract?”

  He drummed his hands nervously against the kitchen island.

  “Phil Reister’s wife is a chef and she’s one of the Gingerbread Junction judges this year. Phil will be at the competition, too. And I know it sounds silly, but I thought if I could build a gingerbread house that would show the Reisters our vision for their resort, then maybe that would be the extra push they need to select our firm.”

  He let out a sigh.

  “Only I can’t exactly show them my vision if my house looks like it’s been through the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake.”

  I stifled back a laugh, but I didn’t succeed very wel
l.

  “There goes the Gingerbread Junction queen laughing at me again,” Brad said, picking the fork up off the plate. “Well, I guess it serves me right for blowing into your shop like this.”

  Brad gave me a grumpy look, then dug into the pumpkin pie.

  I stood back, taking a sip of my pomegranate white tea. I watched him sad-eat for a while, which involved a lot of scarfing and sniveling. Then I cleared my throat.

  “You know, contrary to popular belief, Brad, I wasn’t born with gingerbread and frosting running in my veins.”

  “Coulda fooled me,” he said, the words smothered by pumpkin and buttery crust.

  “No, really. I had to learn through lots of trial and error. Just like everybody who builds gingerbread houses when they start out.”

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  “Are you saying it’s normal to set off all the smoke detectors in the house and cause your neighbors to call 9-1-1?”

  “Been there,” I said. “I was 17 and old Mrs. Encell across the street saw smoke coming out of the windows of our house after I burnt a batch. It was a windy day, and she came out screaming that the whole neighborhood was going to go up in flames.”

  He seemed surprised.

  “Everyone starts where you are, Brad. And the way I see it, you’ve got two options here.”

  “What are those?”

  “You can either sit around crying over smeared frosting and call it quits. Or you can come back here tomorrow morning with your game face on and learn how to make a cookie house.”

  He stopped chewing, looking up at me with a sudden hopeful expression.

  “I can’t impose on you like that, Cin. I mean, I know you’ve got your own business to run and—”

  “That’s for me to worry about,” I said.

  He chewed and looked like he was mulling it over.

  “So? What’s it going to be?”

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  “Okay. But I’m warning you, Cin. I have zero skills. I mean, like less than zero. I might be a decent crafter, but I’m completely useless when it comes to—”

  “That’s the first rule of my kitchen,” I said, interrupting. “No knocking yourself. This is a positive environment only. If you’re going to go all negative, then I’ll have to ask you to take it outside.”