Meltdown in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  Death had a way of putting you in a “straight-up” kind of mood.

  “I don’t know where she would even come up with a rumor like that, Cin. I mean, Moira’s always embellished her rumors a little bit. But she used to have a better average, you know? Most of her gossip had some truth to it – like those tabloid magazines. But lately she’s batting zero. The one about Daniel and Liv was completely off the wall.”

  “I have a feeling she did it out of spite,” I said.

  “Spite? What did Moira have to feel spiteful about?”

  I rubbed my face.

  I wasn’t planning on telling her about it, but it seemed like I had no choice now.

  “I did something stupid, Kara.”

  She stopped sipping her bourbon and looked at me intently.

  “After you told me about how she ruined your writing workshop, I got upset. I knew how much that workshop meant to you. I also knew how expensive it was and how much John had to fork over for it. It just didn’t seem right. So yesterday morning I went over to her house and asked if she could somehow fix things. Maybe take back what she said to the other writers about you.”

  I drew in a deep breath.

  “But I guess my visit must have touched a nerve with her or something. Maybe she didn’t like being confronted.”

  Kara set her glass down.

  “You really did that for me, Cin?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes glazed over, and I didn’t think it was from the bourbon.

  All afternoon I’d been regretting sticking my nose in Moira’s business, but seeing how touched Kara was by the gesture reminded me why I went over there in the first place.

  “That nasty old hag,” she said after a long spell. “It all makes sense now – why she spread that rumor about Daniel and Liv. I know Moira and I—”

  She cleared her throat.

  “I mean, I knew Moira...” she said quietly, correcting herself.

  A deathly silence fell over the kitchen as Kara left her thought unfinished.

  “I can’t believe it really happened,” I finally said, shaking my head. “I mean, one minute she’s going about her nasty ways, spreading rumors, and the next minute she’s…”

  I gulped hard, gazing out the window past Kara’s shoulder.

  The storm was still blowing hard out there. The trees were drooping like weary giants under the thick frosting of snow, and flakes continued to sail down from the angry afternoon skies.

  “…She’s dead,” I said. “And not just dead. I mean, somebody murd—”

  Once again, I couldn’t bring myself to utter the dreaded word.

  “I guess that part is a shock in some ways, Cin. But in other ways...”

  Kara paused for a long moment.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this,” she said, sucking in a deep breath. “But Moira wasn’t a nice person. That’s the truth, whether she’s dead or not. She made a lot of people angry, and not just you and me. She had eight decades in this town to piss people off.”

  A hard gust of wind railed against the building and the Christmas bulbs hanging from the eaves outside bounced around wildly.

  The lights in the pie shop flickered.

  Kara shook her head.

  “Maybe she’s been tempting fate for a long, long time, Cin. Maybe her number was just finally up—”

  Just then, the oven timer went off.

  The mug of tea slipped out of my hand and shattered all over the kitchen floor.

  Chapter 29

  “You just never get used to it, do you?”

  I stared into the crackling fire, feeling Daniel’s strong arms around me. It must have been a toasty 79 degrees in the house, but the chill was still holding onto my bones like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff for dear life. The thick wool blanket I had draped over my shoulders hadn’t helped warm me up any. The warmth coming off of Chadwick’s little body as he sat curled up on my lap wasn’t helping much, either.

  I’d known this chill before. I wished I hadn’t. But I did.

  It was the same chill that struck me after finding Mason Barstow’s dead body behind my shop a few years earlier.

  “No, you don’t ever get used to seeing somebody dead like that,” Daniel said. “You learn how to deal with it on the outside. After a while, you learn how to keep a straight face and do what needs to be done. But deep down, it never really gets easier. When you go home at night, the images are still with you. The feeling’s still with you, too.”

  He paused.

  “But if you’re lucky, you’ve got someone at home to hold onto,” he said. “To help see you through to the other side.”

  He held me closer.

  “I’ll always see you through, darlin.’ No matter what happens. You know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  We both stared at the fire for a long while, the feeling of death lingering in the air around us like cigarette smoke.

  After a while, Huckleberry, who was stretched out near the hearth warming himself, let out a few big dog snores.

  I felt the corners of my mouth turn up a little at the funny moment.

  The pooches always had a way of lifting my spirits, even when I was feeling really low.

  “Say,” Daniel said, looking down at me. “You never asked me.”

  “Asked you what?”

  “If the rumors were true,” he said. “If I really stole that money and was planning to run away with Liv.”

  I shrugged nonchalantly.

  “I guess I forgot to.”

  He let go of me and nearly jumped off the sofa.

  “Forgot to? You forgot! I don’t know how to take that, Cin. Am I really so predictable already? You know, I think I might just be offended.”

  At the start of the day, I wouldn’t have ever expected that Moira’s nasty little rumor would actually provide a bright spot of humor.

  That was an indication of the kind of day it had been.

  “Well, I don’t see why you would be offended,” I said. “It’s a compliment. I’m a changed woman. The Cinnamon from a few years ago would have grilled you like a flank steak after hearing that scandalous rumor.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know better. Because I know who you are, Daniel Brightman.”

  He gazed down at me, a little bit of sparkle in his eyes.

  It was a special moment. One of those that comes every once in a while in a great marriage.

  But the moment was fleeting.

  The boards of the house groaned in another howling gust of wind, reminding me that the darkness of the day was still with us.

  You could insulate yourself in life. You could go about your day, keeping to your routines with religious precision, pretending like those routines would protect you somehow.

  But in the end, death could always find you.

  One way or another.

  “You never asked me, either,” I said quietly.

  “Asked you what, darlin?’”

  “Whether I did it,” I said in a hoarse voice. “Whether I… Whether I really killed her.”

  I searched his eyes, scared of what I might find there.

  Scared that he had some doubt.

  After all, right now, I was the prime suspect in the investigation. I had motive. I had been inside her house. And I had also told at least two people that I was heading out to take care of some business.

  I might have even suspected me.

  But instead of doubt, all I saw was a calm, content look in his eyes.

  “I guess I forgot to ask,” he said. “Because I know who you are, too, Cinnamon Peters.”

  He kissed the top of my head and pulled me a little closer to him.

  I suddenly didn’t feel so cold anymore.

  I leaned back into his arms, feeling the weariness and exhaustion of the last 12 hours take hold.

  It wasn’t long before I was snoring louder than Huckleberry.

  Chapter 30

  “Santa in
Seattle, Cinny Bee, if you don’t have some bad luck when it comes to finding dead bodies.”

  He shoved a big heap of the gooey Butter Pecan Cinnamon Pie into his mouth. A little bit of the filling missed the mark and ended up on his plaid shirt instead.

  The old man didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he didn’t care.

  “I mean, I understand maybe if it happens once,” he continued. “You’re allowed one freak occurrence like that in your lifetime. But twice? In just a few years? And here in little ol’ Christmas River of all places?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s like that Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes song. Just bad luck, Cinny Bee. Bad luck all around.”

  Warren had come by the shop yesterday afternoon as soon as he heard that I’d been the one to find Moira’s body, and was here first thing this morning again to check in on me. Today, he’d brought over some freshly-baked cinnamon swirl bread from The Harvest Bakery down the street. He himself, however, didn’t partake in it.

  When at all possible, my grandfather preferred to stick to pie.

  “So how’re you really holding up, Cinny Bee? Tell old Warren the truth.”

  I shrugged, quickly rolling out some dough rounds.

  “I think I’ve OD-d on carbs this morning thanks to that bread you brought over. But other than that, I’m hanging in.”

  Daniel’s talk the night before had helped me feel better. So had some good sleep and the blue skies shining this morning. Christmas River was now under several feet of snow on account of the storm, but the sun was shining and the birds were starting to chirp again. All signs pointed to the storm having passed.

  I was glad that Warren was spending the morning with me at the shop. He always had a way of taking my mind off of whatever was troubling me. For a few moments this morning, I had even been able to forget about what I’d found the day before in that long driveway.

  “Is Lars Claus still in a dark place?” I asked.

  He finished off the last bit of pie and rested his chin on his hand, chewing glumly.

  “‘Fraid so,” Warren said. “I had hopes to get him fixed by Christmas. But I’ve done everything I can think of to fix that dern electrical box, and he’s just not responding. I don’t know. Maybe he’s done for, Cinny Bee.”

  He stuck his bottom lip out in a full-on pout.

  “Well, maybe he’s just resting and saving it all up for the big day,” I said, pressing the dough into some aluminum pie tins. “That old Santa was always one for drama. Remember a few years ago when he nearly fell off the roof of our old house in that windstorm? You ran out into the rain and started yelling “Hold on, old friend! Hold on!’”

  Warren cracked a smile at my deep-voiced impression of him.

  “Yeah, we’ve been through quite a lot, Old Lars Claus and myself. Storms of every kind.”

  He pushed the empty plate away and took a sip of his hazelnut coffee, staring out the window. He squinted a little – the snow out there was blindingly bright in the morning sun.

  “So they’re really sure old Moira was murdered?” he asked. “She didn’t just slip and fall or something while trying to shovel the driveway?”

  “Daniel said the contusions on the back of her head weren’t consistent with a fall,” I said. “They found blood on the snow shovel nearby and it’s pretty clear that that was the murder weapon. No prints, though. And no witnesses yet, either.”

  Warren crossed his arms, settling back into the barstool.

  “I always thought Moira would outlive us all,” he said. “She had enough mean spirit in her to last two centuries at least if someone hadn’t interfered.”

  “Was she always like that? I mean, mean-spirited?”

  Warren shrugged.

  “I don’t know. She was a few years behind me in school, and I was off in Korea during what you might call her formative years. I didn’t know the Stewart family hardly at all. They had a reputation for being good, church-going people, but we were Catholics and they were Baptists. Oil and water back then.”

  He scratched his chin.

  “I do recall her having a sister, but I don’t know what happened to her – left town before I got back from the war. I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess that the sister was the nice one of the two.”

  I’d never known that Moira had a sister. Kara never mentioned it.

  “You two were never friends?” I asked.

  Warren smirked.

  “Hell, no. The best thing to do with a gossip is stay away. It’s like making friends with a cobra. Sooner or later, you’re bound to get bit.”

  Warren paused.

  He ran a hand over his non-existent hair.

  “Still… cobra or not, Moira going comes as a shock. I guess she’d become a mainstay in Christmas River. Like that July parade she was always in. Or the annual tree-lighting ceremony. Or the Easter egg hunt in Meadow Plaza.”

  He fell silent and rested his chin on his hand. I wondered if he was thinking of something else other than Moira’s death.

  The old man was getting up there in age, and though he had the energy and wit of a man thirty years younger, the facts were the facts. Warren was only getting older with each passing day.

  I knew he was thinking about that because I’d had thoughts like that, too.

  It was a well-traveled road – one I went down occasionally late at night when I couldn’t sleep and my thoughts ran wild.

  It was a place I didn’t care to go if I could help it.

  “How about another slice of pie?” I asked.

  My grandfather looked back at me, patting his gut.

  “Aileen said I’ve already gained too much weight this holiday season. She said if I gain anymore, she’s going to sign me up for a gym membership.”

  “That’s what they invented January for,” I said, going for the tin of pie and cutting him another slice.

  I winked at the old man.

  He smiled.

  “Well, when you put it that way, it seems like I’d be a fool not to enjoy the holiday season to the fullest.”

  I slid the slice of fresh pie to him on his plate, and watched contentedly as he scarfed it down.

  Chapter 31

  I froze in place by the coffee station, feeling everyone’s eyes stick to me like I was made of Velcro.

  My cheeks flushed under the stares. My hand began to tremble as I gripped the pot of fresh coffee. When a little bit slopped over onto the counter, I quickly wiped the liquid away with a dish rag.

  I could almost hear their thoughts – almost see them above their heads like word clouds.

  I knew that I probably should have stayed out of the dining room all day. Hell, maybe I should have stayed out of the dining room for the rest of the year. At least until Moira’s killer was caught.

  But I didn’t like hiding – especially in my own pie shop. And besides, I figured the sooner that I showed my face and let it be known that everything was all right, the sooner the town would put the rumors that I might have had something to do with Moira’s death to bed.

  That was my plan, anyway.

  But I didn’t know just how hard it would be to face all of them.

  I felt the heat of a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Chet Baker’s Winter Wonderland blared from the speakers, and I wondered whether I should say something – it seemed like they were all waiting for me to.

  Did they want to hear it from my lips? That I didn’t kill Moira Stewart yesterday morning? Is that what they were all waiting for me to say?

  That I wasn’t the murderer?

  I cleared my throat.

  But before I could speak, the chattering picked up again, filling the crowded dining room with noise.

  I let out a sigh of relief as I wiped down the rest of the coffee station and organized the mugs.

  First, the conversations were about things you might expect to hear this time of year. How The Old Hitching Post down the street was having a sale on Christmas wall décor. How the highway
was still dicey in some sections on account of what the storm left. How the weatherman said that the recent arrival of a high pressure system meant we were in for single-digits tonight.

  But it wasn’t long before the conversations turned to something else – the topic I suspected most of them had been on before I walked in and caused the whole room to fall into a hush.

  “I heard that she was frozen solid when they found her.”

  “They say the killer used Moira’s own snow shovel against her. Can you believe that?”

  “I heard it was a burglary gone wrong. Franny said that her purse was missing.”

  “What about that red book she always carried? You know, the one she was always writing things down in?”

  “I heard that was missing, too.”

  “Oh, Lord help us.”

  “Who do you think might have killed her?”

  “If you ask me, she’s got a pretty good motive with all the things Moira had been saying about the Sheriff and that mistress of his. And I bet she could get away with it easy enough since she’s the Sheriff’s wife. In fact, the more that I think about it, it’s obvious that she’s the one who—”

  I cleared my throat loudly as I refilled Judy Hadley’s mug with the fresh coffee.

  Judy, a librarian at the Christmas River Public Library who ran the Shakespeare in the Park program during the summers, did some throat-clearing of her own when she realized I’d overheard what she’d just said.

  “Oh, hi Cinnamon,” she said, glancing away self-consciously. “I didn’t… I didn’t see you standing there.”

  She nervously ran a hand through her auburn hair. Judy’s friend sitting across from her in the booth looked out the window, clearly embarrassed.

  “How’s the library these days, Judy?” I asked.

  “Oh, just fine. It’s crowded with school being out for winter vacation. The kids are having a reading of The Winter’s Tale next weekend. If you can make it, we’d love to see you there.”

  Judy smiled at me warmly. As if she hadn’t just accused me of killing a helpless old lady only seconds earlier.

  “Thanks for the invite, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time,” I said.