Meltdown in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  I thought of how much I enjoyed his company these days, and what a good, kind person he was. And how if I hadn’t helped him, he might have been just like the person out there tonight. Trying to survive in arctic weather.

  Being smart was good.

  But it wasn’t everything.

  I went over and turned off the burner, pushing the cranberry mixture over onto the cool countertop. Then I grabbed my coat and hat, pulling both on quickly. I slid my phone into my pocket, making sure I could reach it easily if I needed to.

  Huckleberry and Chadwick noticed the commotion and their ears pricked up almost in unison.

  “You guys hold the fort down here,” I said, slipping my hands into a pair of mittens. “I don’t want your paws getting frozen out there.”

  Huckleberry tried to follow, but I closed the door behind me before he could.

  I took in a breath and the brutally cold air stung my lungs.

  The person out there wouldn’t survive more than a few hours in these temperatures.

  Someone needed to help them.

  I gripped the phone in my pocket and then quietly made my way down the porch and into the woods, heading for the fire.

  Chapter 34

  A thin figure rocked back and forth in the firelight, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

  I stopped walking, hanging a ways back in a stand of trees, holding tightly onto the phone in my pocket.

  His voice was muffled by the mist and smoke.

  “Because… Because. I needed to. She couldn’t get away with it. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair…”

  I couldn’t see his face, but from his build and the drag in his voice, he seemed to be middle aged. The man was only wearing a long sleeve shirt, a pair of jeans, and some sneakers. There was no jacket to speak of, and he was shaking hard.

  “I know. I know. The blood’s on my hands. You don’t have to keep saying it. But why couldn’t you just hold on a little longer? Why didn’t you wait for me? I loved you.”

  I hoped he was speaking into a cell phone and that I just couldn’t see it, but I had the feeling that that wasn’t the case.

  I knew that many homeless people suffered from mental issues, and though I couldn’t be certain, this man appeared to fit into that category.

  He needed help. Without it, he was going to freeze to death out here.

  I stepped out from the trees and cleared my throat softly so as not to scare him.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  The man stopped rocking and froze in place.

  But he didn’t turn around.

  “My name’s Cinnamon. I, uh, I saw your fire from my shop and I thought that maybe you might need some help.”

  His back remained rigid and I wasn’t sure if he heard what I’d said.

  I cusped my hand around the cell phone in my pocket, ready to dial Daniel at a moment’s notice if need be.

  Being a Good Samaritan wasn’t always the most comfortable road – that was for sure.

  “It’s only 6 degrees out here right now and it’s going to get even colder tonight. I’m worried that that fire’s not going to be enough to keep you warm, sir. If you want, you can come to my shop and warm up, or I could take you to the local shelter and—”

  Suddenly, without warning, the man snapped his head back to look at me.

  The words became lodged in my throat.

  His piercing blue eyes caught the glint of the fire and seemed to burn like coals in his head.

  There was something familiar about those eyes. And as I returned his gaze, I noticed a small unnatural mark under one of them.

  A moment later, he leapt up and bolted past the fire and out into the woods.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  I started running after him, slipping and sliding on the icy layer of snow.

  “Come back!”

  I didn’t get very far before a patch of ice got the better of me. I slid too far in one direction and ended up sinking down into a tree well up to my thighs.

  It took me a full minute to get out of the powder and back up to my feet. And by then, the homeless man was long gone, having vanished into the night.

  “I’m not going to hurt you!” I shouted into the dark woods.

  There was no response.

  No sound at all.

  Dammit.

  I had just scared that poor soul away from his only source of warmth.

  I shook my head, walking back toward the dying embers of the campfire, feeling frustrated.

  I probably should have just left him alone altogether. I should have done what I knew Daniel would have wanted me to do – wait back at the pie shop. If I had, then the poor man would still be sitting here by his fire. It wasn’t much, but it was something, at least. And on a night like tonight, it was probably his only chance at surviving.

  I looked around the encampment, hoping there would be something that told me who he was.

  There was nothing – no backpack, no kindling materials, no personal possessions whatsoever.

  Just the dying fire.

  I looked around in all directions, squinting, hoping that maybe he’d changed his mind and decided to come back.

  But I could see nothing out in the mist.

  I stared into the flames, grumbling to myself.

  I’d completely blown it. I’d—

  That’s when I saw it.

  Something in the embers.

  Something that had no business being there.

  I reached forward, plucking the book from the flames.

  It was blackened and burned, but some of it had survived intact.

  Enough of it.

  I pressed the glowing edges of the notebook into the snow, stamping out the sparks that had settled in its pages.

  I flipped the cover back to reveal the inside.

  The lettering was in calligraphy. Delicate, perfectly-proportioned letters that—

  I felt my eyes bulge.

  “Property of Moira Elizabeth Stewart. If found, call 541-598-8804…”

  My stomach plummeted like a roller coaster car off of a ripped-up track.

  Chapter 35

  Living in Christmas River, I’d gotten used to certain things.

  I’d gotten used to getting a seasonal latte down at the Christmas River Coffee Shack in Meadow Plaza every Friday afternoon.

  I’d gotten used to flipping over the “open” sign to face Main Street at exactly 7 a.m. every morning.

  I’d gotten used to Freddy from Frederickson’s Delivery dropping off ingredients at my pie shop twice a week.

  I’d gotten used to the way the air smelled right before a snowfall.

  But what I’d never get used to in Christmas River, not so long as I lived here, was coming face to face with a murderer.

  “Can you describe the man, Ms. Peters?”

  Lt. Vicky Delgado stood near the back door of the pie shop kitchen, keeping her distance. She held a pen to a small notepad and stared intently at me, waiting for a response.

  Vicky looked perfectly at ease as she stood there, and it seemed to me that the 45-year-old lieutenant was used to getting calls in the middle of the night about murder suspects.

  I supposed she’d had some practice at this back in Portland.

  Through the window behind her, I could see the flashlights from the other deputies as they circled the area where the campfire had been.

  “I didn’t get a very good look,” I said. “It was dark. I just saw his eyes. They were blue, I think. Almost translucent. And there was something…”

  I trailed off, feeling a violent shiver take hold of my bones.

  “What is it, Ms. Peters?”

  I rubbed my arms, shooting a look at Daniel, who was sitting next to me at the kitchen island.

  Since the police had arrived, I’d been trying to figure it out myself. But as of yet, I hadn’t come up with any reason why the man seemed familiar to me.

  It added another chilling layer to the whole thing.

 
“Something about him seemed familiar,” I said. “I don’t know why. I don’t think I ever met him before.”

  Vicky scribbled something on her notepad.

  “Could he have been a customer in the pie shop? Or maybe you’ve seen him somewhere else in town recently?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to picture the man’s face, hoping my mind would make some sort of connection.

  But it didn’t.

  I shook my head again.

  “What about build?” Vicky asked, flipping to a new page. “You say you saw him running away from you.”

  I nodded, staring into my mug of hot cider like I was reading tea leaves.

  “He was thin. Wiry. Could have probably used a meal, from the looks of it. Maybe about 6 feet tall, weighing 160 or 170. He ran fast, too. And I think… I mean, I can’t say for sure, but I think there was a tattoo under his eye. It was small. Or maybe it was just a mole.”

  “Good,” Vicky said nodding and scribbling quickly. “That’s very good. How about an age?”

  “Fifties or sixties, maybe. I’m just judging that from the way his voice sounded.”

  “But you said he didn’t speak to you,” Vicky said sharply, looking up from her notepad.

  I swallowed hard.

  After what had just happened, I didn’t think that I’d be a person of interest in the case anymore. But the way Vicky had just said that made me think I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  “No, he didn’t speak to me. But when I approached him, I heard him talking.”

  “On the phone?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t think so. I think he was talking to himself. I think he might have been mentally… unwell.”

  “What was he saying exactly?” Daniel asked, leaning forward on the table.

  “Mostly gibberish. Something about it not being fair and…”

  I trailed off.

  “Oh, God.”

  “What is it?” Vicky said.

  I gulped hard, looking from Daniel to her.

  “He said something about… blood on his hands.”

  Vicky shot Daniel a long, meaningful glance.

  “Can you tell me anything else, Ms. Peters? Anything that might help us?”

  I thought it through, closing my eyes again for a long minute, trying to replay the split second when the man glanced back at me.

  “He might have had gray hair,” I said. “Kind of shaggy. He didn’t have a jacket. That’s why I went out there in the first place. I knew he’d freeze tonight if someone didn’t help him.”

  Vicky nodded.

  “If we had you talk to a sketch artist, do you think you could describe him better?”

  I bit my lip, staring back down at my mug of cider.

  “I… uh… I don’t know.”

  My hands were trembling. I pushed them under the table, trying to cover it up. But Vicky had already seen it.

  “Ms. Peters, I did have one other question. A follow-up from our interview yesterday.”

  I looked up at her, nodding.

  “Someone told me that your friend Kara Billings had her own bone to pick with Moira Stewart,” she said. “I was told she made threats about hurting Moira a few days before you found her body. Would you know anything about this?”

  Vicky’s cool eyes drilled into mine, and I knew that she was searching for something.

  I held in a breath, flashing on that afternoon Kara stomped into the kitchen, talking about doing something dreadful to Moira.

  I looked at Vicky.

  Then I slowly shook my head.

  “I know Kara and Moira haven’t been on the best of terms lately, but I don’t know anything about any threats.”

  I gulped hard.

  “It doesn’t sound like something Kara would do,” I added.

  “Hmm,” Vicky mumbled in a hard-to-read tone.

  She stared at me for half a second longer.

  Then she folded up her notebook, stuffing it in the pocket of her shirt.

  I didn’t like lying, and I knew that it was a dangerous thing I was doing.

  But Kara had nothing to do with Moira’s murder and I wasn’t about to rat her out for things she’d said in a moment of anger.

  Warren always told me that it was important to tell the truth. But that there were a few circumstances, especially when it came to being a loyal friend, where lying was acceptable.

  “Okay then,” Vicky said, letting out a sigh. “We’ll put out an APB based on your description. See if somebody doesn’t come across this guy tonight. We’ll have patrol cars out looking for him, too. Tomorrow, we’ll have a news conference and ask for the public’s help in catching him. Sound good, Sheriff?”

  “Sounds good, Lieutenant,” Daniel said.

  “In the meantime, we’d appreciate it, Ms. Peters, if you didn’t tell anyone outside of the department about the details of tonight,” Vicky said. “It’ll help us with the investigation.”

  “Of course.”

  I watched as Vicky picked up the evidence bag off the kitchen island – the one containing the black Moleskine-brand notebook I had found in the fire. She started heading for the back door.

  Daniel stood up.

  “Uh, Lieutenant?”

  She stopped and looked back.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but the contents of that notebook are… well, they could have the potential to affect a lot of people in this town. We have to be very careful and ensure that things are handled properly.”

  Vicky nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Good. Thanks for your hard work on this.”

  Lt. Delgado touched her cap and then opened the back door, stepping out. A freezing blast of air swirled around the kitchen in her wake.

  In the background I could hear the voices of Billy, Owen, and Trumbow as they investigated the crime scene.

  I looked over at Daniel.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I said. “That I shouldn’t have gone out there in the first place. That I should have stayed inside and not put myself in danger like that.”

  I knew he’d been thinking those things because I’d been thinking those things, too.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” he said. “I know better than to try and talk you out of saving somebody’s life.”

  He gazed at me for a long, long moment.

  Then he wrapped his arms around me and let out a deep sigh of relief.

  “But next time, try to be more selfish,” he whispered.

  Chapter 36

  “Breaking news this morning – The Pohly County Sheriff’s Office is holding a press conference in front of its headquarters in downtown Christmas River. The Sheriff’s Office did not divulge the subject of this morning’s news conference, but we believe it has something to do with the violent murder of Christmas River resident Moira Stewart that took place earlier this week.”

  The anchor woman’s heavily-lined eyes were practically dancing as she spoke, and I could tell that she was fighting hard to suppress a grin.

  It was a strange response to someone’s violent demise. But I guess I couldn’t blame the newswoman for her enthusiasm – stories this big didn’t happen all that often here in little ‘ol Christmas River. They hardly happened in Redmond for that matter – the slightly bigger town down the road that the news station was based out of.

  “Now for more, we go live to the steps of The Pohly County Sheriff’s Office.”

  The newsfeed cut to a scene outside of the familiar beige building.

  “Ooh, doesn’t Daniel look handsome in his uniform?” Kara said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I think he must be the best-looking sheriff on the West Coast. Don’t you think, Cin?”

  I felt my lips curl up slightly and I shot a sideways glance at my friend. Maybe it wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say, considering that we were all gathered around the television in the pie shop kitchen waiting to hear updates about Moira’s murder.
But Kara’s comment helped ease the tension some, and I was glad that she was here with me this morning. Pam Dallas had decided to end the writer’s workshop early out of respect to Moira, which meant that Kara was free for the rest of the week.

  We stared at the television as Daniel stepped in front of the building to the flashing of cameras. Behind him, a row of deputies stood, including Lt. Delgado, Owen, Trumbow, and a somber-looking Billy Jasper.

  Though it had been a few days since I’d seen Billy at Warren’s fundraiser, it looked as though the young deputy still had a touch of a hangover on him. He seemed a little green around the gills, though perhaps it had more to do with being on TV than anything else.

  “I’m going to make a brief statement and then I’ll open the floor to a limited number of questions which can be addressed to Lt. Vicky Delgado – the lead investigator on this case,” Daniel said.

  He raised his voice.

  “At approximately 9:30 p.m. last night, a man we believe to have been involved in the murder of Moira Stewart was seen in the woods near the 400 block of Main Street. A witness spotted this person near a small campfire. When approached, the man ran into the woods, leaving behind an item which we later confirmed belonged to the recently deceased Stewart. The suspect in this incident is believed to be 6 feet tall and weighs about 160 pounds with light blue eyes and gray hair. It’s possible that he may have a small tattoo on his face. If anyone sees a man fitting this description, we ask that you immediately call the Sheriff’s—”

  “400 block of Main Street? Isn’t that behind Cinnamon’s Pies, Sheriff?” a woman’s gravelly voice interrupted from somewhere off screen.

  My heart skipped a beat at the mention of my store.

  Daniel stopped talking and his eyes zeroed in on where the voice had come from.

  “Yes, among several other stores,” he said. “Including Babes in Toyland, Christmas River Souvenirs, and—”

  “But your wife – the owner of Cinnamon’s Pies – was the witness who saw the suspect last night. Isn’t that correct?”

  It was the same voice interrupting again, and this time I noticed that it had a distinct East-Coast accent.

  Something faint and hardly noticeable passed across Daniel’s face. It would have been unreadable to most people, but I knew what that look meant.