Meltdown in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  The old woman’s eyes flickered for a millisecond, but then the poker face was back.

  “Yes, I’m afraid they were quite harsh. I tried to say a few nice things about Kara’s work, but the other writers were savage with their criticism. You see, they were upset because of all the nasty things Kara had been saying behind their backs about their own writing. I felt just terrible for poor Kara. Just terrible.”

  She looked dead into my eyes.

  “Karma is no fun at all,” she added.

  I fidgeted with the sleeves of my sweater.

  The old woman was never going to admit what she’d done.

  She was never going to say that she’d tried to sabotage Kara.

  And trying to get her to would only be a waste of time.

  I had to approach it differently.

  “I came here to ask if you could talk to the other writers and put in a good word for her,” I said, taking care not to let any of the anger I felt seep into my tone. “It’s the season of giving after all, Moira. And despite your recent differences, you and Kara were once good friends. You know that she doesn’t have a mean spirit. You know that she’s a good person.”

  “Oh, sure. I do,” she said, glancing at the thin watch on her wrist. “Despite those nasty things she said, I know your friend only means well.”

  I bit my lip to keep from saying something less than tactful.

  Moira stood up and went over to the table where a quilted purse was sitting. She grabbed a couple of leather-bound, hardback notebooks – one black and one red – and stuffed them into the slouchy, handmade bag.

  “I can’t make any promises, dear,” she said, not looking at me. “Your friend got herself into quite a mess talking the way she did. It’s really a lesson for us all about civility and manners.”

  I felt my cheeks flush.

  But I had to play along with her little charade if there was any chance that she’d undo the damage she’d done.

  “I would sure appreciate anything you could do,” I said, putting a little good-natured twang into my tone. “I know it would mean the world to Kara.”

  Moira didn’t answer. She walked over to a mahogany-framed oval mirror by the entryway and began swiping her cracked lips with a tube of colorless ChapStick. Her old hands trembled slightly with the effort.

  I let out a short sigh.

  I guess that was a not-so-subtle hint that she was finished with this conversation.

  I stood up and began heading for the front door.

  “Will you and the Sheriff be at your grandfather’s fundraiser tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be selling pies there. Will you be going, Moira?”

  I already knew the answer to that, but asked anyway.

  She smiled slyly.

  “I may just put in an appearance,” she said.

  I opened the front door, seeing myself out. A cold blast of below-freezing air greeted me.

  “Cinnamon, dear?”

  I paused and looked back at her.

  “Thank you for the pie,” she said. “People so rarely come by these days.”

  She let out a long breath.

  “And I will… I will see what I can do about helping your friend.”

  I was caught off-guard by the sincerity in her tone.

  “I’m sure the other writers will forgive her,” she added. “Once I tell them what a nice person she really is.”

  I smiled warmly and nodded.

  “Thank you, Moira.”

  I left, closing the creaky old door behind me and heading down the long driveway.

  Maybe I had broken through to her somehow. After all, Moira had to have a heart somewhere deep down, didn’t she? She couldn’t have been all bad. Before retiring, she’d worked in education – a field that usually attracted people who wanted to help and make a difference. Maybe she’d just lost her way a little in the last few years.

  Maybe she really would clean up the mess she’d made. Maybe she—

  I suddenly felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end.

  I stopped in my tracks at the end of the long driveway. Then slowly, I turned around to look back at the house.

  One of the curtains in Moira’s front window fluttered.

  I lingered there for a long while, a strange, inexplicable feeling coming over me.

  Chapter 13

  Between the short time it took to load the trunk with pies and drive the six blocks over to Alpenglow Assisted Living, the weather had taken a sudden, nasty turn.

  Dense, low-hanging clouds the color of soot had rolled in, and icy shards had started falling from the ominous skies. As I pulled up into the parking lot, bits of ice started bouncing off the windshield with growing intensity.

  I took a spot close to the front of the building and parked. I checked the time. The fundraiser was in less than two hours, and I would need to skedaddle through my weekly visit to the facility if I wanted enough time to set-up my pie table at the brewpub.

  I got out of the car and Huckleberry jumped down from the passenger’s seat, following close at my heels. I went around back as the pellets drilled into the side of my face, opened the trunk, and pulled out a small stack of pink boxes. I headed for the front doors, my boots grinding de-ice pellets into the concrete as I walked.

  I was out of breath before I got inside.

  I really shouldn’t have had that second slice of Christmas Flynn Pie for lunch. I knew it at the time, but it seemed like my willpower was in short supply this holiday season.

  January 2. That was when I’d cut back. Spinach, treadmills, weights, spandex pants – the whole New Year’s Resolution nine-yards.

  The front doors slid open and Huckleberry trotted out ahead of me into the nursing home, wagging his nub happily.

  The pungent smell of old soup and sickness filled my nostrils, but I didn’t pay it much mind. After three months of coming here, I’d become accustomed to the less-than pleasant aroma and it no longer bothered me.

  I made my way to the front desk, passing Ike Morton and Jessup Turner. Both men were slowly ambling down the hall, pushing their walkers across the nursing home’s outdated carpeted floors. Jessup had plastic breathing tubes coming out of his nostrils connected to an oxygen tank at his hip.

  “Hey, is that all for me?” Ike said, his eyes growing wide at the sight of the pink boxes.

  “Now why would a pretty lady like Cinnamon want to make an old ugly fool like you a stack of pies for?” Jessup snapped back, sucking air in between breaths.

  “Because she’s an angel, that’s why,” Ike said, not missing a beat. “And anyway, don’t be calling me ugly. I’ll have you know that back in high school, I was voted the senior ‘most likely to make it in Hollywood.’”

  “Yeah, well, these days, you’re just a plain senior. No Hollywood about it. Don’t you think, Cinnamon?”

  The two old men seemed perfectly content to spend their last few years on earth trading insults like a couple of prize fighters.

  “Now boys, you’re both pretty and you know it, so stop your squabbling.”

  Jessup and Ike both gave me denture-heavy grins.

  “What’d you bring this time, Cinnamon?” Jessup asked.

  “Well, I’m a little light today on account of all that pie I’m bringing to the food bank fundraiser tonight. But I’m coming by here again later this week to make up for the shortage. Today, I’ve got a Pumpkin Pecan, a Cranberry Cinnamon, and a —”

  “Marionberry?” Ike chimed in hopefully.

  The old timer was addicted to that flavor, as he reminded me every time I came by.

  “Yup – You got it, Ike. Marionberry.”

  His eyes danced in his head like he was seeing circling stars.

  “Oh, boy, oh boy. I sure am glad you started dropping these pies of yours off here, girly. They’ve become my very reason for getting up out of bed in the morn.’”

  Ike rubbed his hands together, and for a second, all the years he carried in his face melte
d away and I caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like at age 10.

  I let out a chuckle.

  I was also glad that I started dropping pies off at Alpenglow Assisted Living once a week. The nursing home wasn’t the kind of place most people wanted to spend much time in, but I always felt good visiting and came away feeling like I was making a difference of some sort.

  After meeting Tom Bullock this past summer following the Wes Dulany incident, something had happened to me. I hadn’t exactly found religion in the traditional sense of the phrase, but ever since meeting the Good Samaritan and hearing him talk about what was really important in life, something had changed inside of me. My heart felt bigger somehow. I’d been inspired to do more in the way of charity work – to love more, to help those in need more, and to be an all-around better human being.

  After reading an article in the local weekly about elderly depression around the holidays, I’d decided to start dropping pies off at the nursing home and spending time with the residents. Not all of them could eat pie because of various dietary restrictions, but the staff let those who were in good health and those who were nearing the end of their life indulge once a week. Usually when I had more time on my hands, I’d bring Huckleberry and Chadwick to visit, too. The residents loved the sweet little pooches, and the canines seemed to love them right back.

  I nodded goodbye to Ike and Jessup and I headed up to the front desk. I passed a lean man in a gray wool coat sitting in one of the sofas by the window. He seemed to be in his mid-sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a thin nose, and deep-set eyes that had a hollow quality to them. I didn’t know his name, but I’d seen him in here a few times before, and it always looked like he was waiting for someone.

  I gathered one of his parents must have been a resident of the home.

  I set the pastry boxes down on the counter of the reception desk. Annie Edgewood, the on-duty nurse, looked up from a stack of files.

  “Oh, thank goodness you came, Cinnamon,” she said. “Folks were saying that you might not come today because of your grandpa’s charity event.”

  “I wouldn’t miss stopping by,” I said. “I am a little short on pie and time today, though, so I don’t think I’ll be able to take Huckleberry around. But I’ll come back later this week and make it up to you guys.”

  “No worries, Cin. So long as folks get some pie, they’re happy.”

  She leaned in, lowering her voice.

  “I swear, that pie you make really is magic. You wouldn’t believe how much happier people are after a slice. Grumpy residents who normally throw their lunch at the staff suddenly start being kind.”

  She leaned in even closer.

  “Which makes the staff a heck of a lot happier, too, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “I know it’s not easy work that you guys do.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t.”

  She took a sip from a can of Ensure that had been sitting at her desk.

  I didn’t know Annie that well, but what I did know of her I liked. She was always kind to me when I came in, and even though I sensed the job gave her a lot of stress, she was always polite and nice to the residents, too.

  “Well, I best be on my way. Take it easy, Annie, and make sure you get yourself a slice of that pie.”

  Annie let out a snort.

  “Fat chance of that happening with this crowd.”

  I let out a short laugh, and then I called to Huckleberry. The Australian shepherd had wandered over to the man sitting on the sofa and was nuzzling his leg, trying to get a few pets. I smiled at the man in the gray coat, calling Huckleberry a second time. The pooch seemed reluctant to leave, but finally listened and followed me out.

  I headed into the icy afternoon.

  And like always, I left the nursing home feeling like I’d done something good.

  Chapter 14

  I stopped in the middle of the street, peering up through the snowflakes.

  It was like I was living in the movie Groundhog Day.

  “Dammit, old man, I thought we talked about this!”

  In the dimming late afternoon light, Warren looked down from his perch near Lars Claus on the roof. This time he was dressed just like his pal, with an oversized Santa cap, suspenders, flannel, and a fake white beard crowding his chin.

  He looked party-ready.

  Only I wanted to make sure he’d actually get to the party.

  “I think I almost have it,” the old man shouted down, waving a screwdriver in the air. “Just a few more minutes and Lars will be good as new.”

  I let out an unsteady sigh.

  “You’ve only got an hour until the fundraiser’s set to start and you’re going to get drenched in this snow,” I said, readjusting the tall stack of pastry boxes in my arms. “And anyway, I’m sure Lars will start working again when he’s ready to—”

  My sensible advice was cut dramatically short as a loud honk blared in my ear.

  The sound ricocheted through my skull like a stray bullet, and I jumped back.

  The pastry boxes in my arms began to wobble at the sudden motion.

  Then, they began to do more than wobble.

  The top box slid off. A second later, it did a series of flips through the air like a seasoned Olympic diving board champion.

  Splat!

  I sucked in a sharp breath.

  I didn’t know if there was a sadder sound than the one a perfectly-latticed Marionberry pie makes when it hits the concrete face-first.

  I gazed down at the fallen box. Then over at the car that had been the reason for it.

  The 1990s dark green Subaru idled a few feet away from me, its exhaust pipe crackling in the cold air.

  I peered beyond the sharp glare of the windshield at the driver.

  He was a middle-aged man with stringy gray hair and big hands that gripped the wheel. There was a deep gouge between his eyebrows and his mouth was fixed in a frown that would have given The Grinch a run for his money.

  He was glaring at me impatiently.

  I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  I didn’t like being honked at or losing a pie in such a fashion, but I could see clearly that I was the one in the wrong. I’d been standing in the middle of the street – not even in a crosswalk – blocking traffic.

  I was probably lucky he stopped at all.

  I gave him an apologetic expression, then I quickly crossed the street, leaving the fallen pie on the ground where it was.

  Vrooooooom!!

  The car suddenly zoomed by with an insane burst of speed. A massive whoosh of air hit me, and for a second, I thought his outside mirror might have grazed my back.

  I rushed over to the sidewalk and stood there, stunned, watching as the car and its blue and white Washington state plates rumbled down the street.

  “Bastard!” I heard Warren shout angrily from the rooftop. “Impatient bastard!”

  A second later, Warren was standing beside me, having scurried down the ladder in record time.

  “You okay, Cinny Bee?” he said, taking the stack of remaining pies out of my hands and peering at me with a concerned expression. “Did he get you? Because if he did, then I’ll sue that SOB so fast, he won’t even know—”

  “No, I’m okay,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “But that was closer than I would have liked.”

  Warren glared down the street, following the car with his eyes until it disappeared down Holly Avenue.

  “There’s a fella who could use some Christmas spirit,” he said. “Or maybe something a little stronger. A stiff kick in the pants is more in line with what he deserves.”

  Warren clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His face contorted like he was silently arguing with the driver in his head.

  I let out a sigh, gazing at the pink pastry box in the middle of the street.

  The box was now crushed and beginning to bleed dark purple marionberry filling all over the asphalt.
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  But in the big scheme of things, I supposed it could have been worse. That could have easily been me crushed and bleeding on the pavement instead of the pie.

  “Let’s get inside before we both freeze out here, old man.”

  “You sure you’re okay, Cinny Bee?”

  I forced a smile.

  “Right as snowflakes. Now, c’mon. We don’t have time for people who are short on holiday spirit. We’ve got a county to feed.”

  Warren didn’t stop grumbling about the rude driver until the fundraiser was well underway.

  Chapter 15

  A frigid mountain wind was howling outside and the streets were turning to ice rinks. But inside the crowded brewpub, it might as well have been a sauna in Hawaii during a heatwave.

  Just about the entire town had shown up for Warren’s fundraiser, flooding the humble brewpub until the structure was wall-to-wall people. Folks were throwing back frosty pints of holiday IPAs, eating fried fare, and singing along to the oldies Christmas music blaring from the speakers. A few couples had even started dancing in the middle of the pine floor.

  Everywhere I looked, I recognized family, friends, and neighbors.

  Tobias and Tiana were there. Kara and John, too. So were Wes Dulany and his wife, Angie – who after the fiasco this September had gotten back together and were now going strong. Brad and Will were at a corner table, poring over some design sketches. Harold from The Pine Needle Tavern was sitting at the bar, talking Warren’s ear off. Judy Hadley, a librarian at the Christmas River Public Library, sat with a friend, discussing a new fiction book of some sort. Marla Browning, the editor of the local weekly, was talking to Aileen and scribbling something in a notepad. Vicky Delgado, a former Portland police sergeant who Daniel had recently hired for an open lieutenant position at the Sheriff’s department, was in a heated conversation about the Portland Trailblazers with Lt. Owen McHale near the front door.

  Even Kara’s writing group had come, sitting at one of the tables in the far corner. The group included Pam Dallas herself, a few out-of-town writers, and of course, none other than Moira Stewart, who I noticed was wearing rose-colored lipstick for the occasion. From what Kara had told me, makeup was something Moira rarely – if ever – indulged in. The old woman often commented that makeup had no place on a virtuous woman and was a manipulative tool best reserved for ladies of the night.