by Meg Muldoon
“Marla – if you know something, you have to tell Daniel,” I said. “It could be important to the case.”
Tiana, who had just returned from delivering a batch of freshly-made Hazelnut Chocolate pies to the dining room display case, looked over at me with a concerned expression.
“I’m not under any obligation to reveal my source if they request anonymity, Cinnamon,” Marla said. “Not even to The Sheriff of Pohly County himself. Now tell me the truth – what did Moira have on that man? What made him kill her?”
I’d heard of journalists like Marla Browning before. In fact, she was a walking stereotype of what most people thought of when they heard the word “reporter.” But in real life, I had never actually met one like her. I’d talked to several journalists in the last few years, and for the most part, they had all turned out to be honest people working in the public’s best interest.
But Marla Browning didn’t have anyone’s interest at heart but her own headline-grubbing ones.
“You’ll be hearing from Daniel soon,” I muttered.
“I look forward to his conversation, but tell him that he shouldn’t expect a thing from me—”
I hung up before she could finish her sentence.
The hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up on end.
Chapter 58
“She could have just been making things up – trying to get you to say something, Cin. Marla’s got all sorts of tricks up her sleeve.”
I was pacing outside the auditorium, watching the Gingerbread Junction contestants carry their creations across the windy parking lot. The asphalt had turned into a small lake with the warming temperatures.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said into the phone speaker, watching a short woman balance a gingerbread castle that towered over her by at least three feet. “But what if she knows something? Maybe Moira was blackmailing people. That feeling you had about something being wrong with the case? Maybe this is it. Maybe Moira blackmailed the wrong person, Daniel. Didn’t you say something about Moira making a big deposit a month before she died?”
Daniel didn’t say anything, and I could hear the whooshing of passing cars in the background.
I gathered that he was driving.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” I said.
“It is possible, Cin. But at this stage, I don’t think Lt. Delgado will see the blackmail angle as a priority.”
“Why not?”
“Because Kent Utley confessed to Moira’s murder this morning.”
I stopped pacing.
“He confessed?”
“He’s writing an official statement back at the station as we speak. Cin – he’s claiming to be Moira Stewart’s nephew.”
I bit my lower lip.
“So he really… he really did it? Do you believe him?”
Daniel didn’t answer right away. I watched a group of older women laughing as they crossed the lot together. They squinted hard in the bright mountain sun, and their shoes made soft slapping sounds against the deep puddles.
“Most people don’t confess to crimes they didn’t commit,” he said. “Kent Utley admitted to hating Moira. He admitted to stalking her. The wallet and checkbook in his possession place him at the scene of the crime. And now we’re getting a detailed confession from him. Barring any other evidence that turns up, this is a slam-dunk. They don’t get more clear-cut than this.”
Maybe it really was clear-cut.
But I couldn’t help notice that Daniel seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as me.
“I’ll still look into the blackmail angle and talk to Marla about her source,” he said. “It could still be important somehow. But as of this moment, there’s nothing to say that Kent Utley didn’t go over to Moira Stewart’s house that morning and kill her with her own snow shovel.”
The sound of somebody tapping the mic inside the auditorium sounded loudly from the speakers overhead.
The Gingerbread Junction was about to start and Brad would be wondering where I was.
“Listen, Cin. Let’s talk more about this later. Are you at The Junction now?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
I let out an unsteady sigh.
Maybe I was out of my depth.
Maybe I just wanted to believe that I hadn’t really been alone in my car with a multiple murderer so badly, I was willing to believe anybody’s half-baked theory.
“Enjoy yourself today, okay?” he said. “And tell Brad I said to break a leg.”
Just then, I caught sight of a woman in a Picasso-style print scarf and cat-shaped glasses hurrying across the parking lot with a clipboard in her hands.
I narrowed my eyes at her.
Mrs. Arnold looked almost exactly the same as she did when I was in middle school. The only thing that had changed was the color of her hair, which was now a salt and pepper gray.
“Yeah, I’ll tell him. It’s about to start, so I probably should get going—”
“Wait – before you go, Cin.”
He cleared his throat.
“Remember how I let you open that present last night?”
I felt a smile creep across my face.
“Well, just so you know, that was a one-time thing,” he said. “Don’t think you can take advantage of my good nature again tonight. Because it’s not going to happen.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said. “These socks are great, by the way. They’re keeping my feet nice and toasty in all this snowmelt.”
I wiggled my toes in my boots.
The gift from Daniel that I’d opened last night was a pair of fuzzy, cozy socks with little images of pies on them. I’d been wearing them all day and it felt like I’d been walking on clouds.
“I’m glad to hear they’re working out. But that’s it. No more gifts until Christmas. You hear?”
I smiled again.
“We’ll see.”
Chapter 59
Brad looked paler than a bucket of fresh milk.
Like at any second, he might lose consciousness and take a hard face-plant into the auditorium floor.
“Are you okay, Brad? You look really… ill.”
He gulped hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a pelican. His gaze drifted past me, scanning the hordes of spectators – the likes of which had never been seen at any Gingerbread Junction before.
Maybe it was the warmer weather, or a better publicity campaign, or the increasing popularity of Christmas River as a premier tourist destination for the holiday season, but this year’s attendance numbers were through the roof. If people didn’t stop pouring in soon, the event was going to be in danger of getting shut down by the fire marshal.
“I’m fine,” Brad finally squeaked out. “Just a little nervous. Did you see that one lady with the gingerbread castle? Did you see how good it was? Jeez.”
He tugged at the collar of his wool sweater, craning his neck and looking at the judges, who were now only a few cookie houses down.
His eyes zeroed in on Mrs. Arnold.
The art teacher was silently shaking her head in disappointment as she gazed at a particularly lopsided gingerbread lighthouse.
Brad seemed to stop breathing after he saw that.
“That castle was impressive,” I said. “But if you ask me, yours is better.”
“You really think?”
“It doesn’t have the level of detail that your chalet has,” I said. “Plus, the turret looked too small for the rest of the structure. I’m sure the judges noticed that.”
He tugged at his collar again. The judges moved closer.
“You got this, Brad. You’ve already done the hard part – you’ve made your masterpiece. Now you just have to let things fall where they will and try to enjoy yourself.”
I couldn’t deny that being in The Junction atmosphere again, with the smell of frosting and spice cookies and heated competition hanging thick in the air, made me feel alive. I almost regretted not entering this year, but then rem
inded myself that my time had been put toward a better cause – helping Brad overcome his demons.
“I keep thinking – what if it happens all over again?” he said, a dribble of sweat dripping down the side of his pale face. “What if she tears me down to nothing? What if my house isn’t up to snuff? What if—”
“Brad,” I said, cutting through his spiral of self-doubt. “You’re not in middle school anymore.”
He gulped hard again.
“You’re a successful interior designer who’s about to get a life-changing design contract.”
He nodded like he was strapped into a car with only three tires heading down a gravel road.
“Yeah,” he said in a quiet, breathless voice. “You’re right.”
“What was that?” I said, motioning to my ear. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
He looked over at me then.
And that’s when I saw it.
Something flickered in his eyes.
Something I hadn’t seen from him the whole time he’d been working on the gingerbread house.
Confidence.
It was as if he suddenly remembered that he was no longer that awkward, confused, shy 13-year-old.
“You’re right,” he said in a strong voice.
Just then, the judges started walking to Brad’s station.
The big moment was here.
I reached out, squeezing his shoulder.
“You’re a winner, Brad. No matter what they say. You’ve already won. Remember that.”
He sucked in a deep, anxious breath.
A minute later, Mrs. Arnold was at Brad’s station, glaring hatefully at the cookie chalet and grilling him like a fat burger on the Fourth of July.
Chapter 60
Despite looking like he’d just seen the Ghost of Christmas Past, Brad had done remarkably well talking to the judges.
Donna Reister – the professional chef and lodge builder’s wife – had seemed positively smitten with the cookie chalet. And save for one question about the technical construction that had been posed by none other than Mrs. Arnold herself, Brad had managed to answer the judges’ inquiries with smart, witty responses.
Interestingly, it didn’t even seem like Mrs. Arnold remembered Brad at all. And when Brad mentioned that he’d attended Christmas River Junior High, she’d given him a shrug and said something to the effect of “Sorry, but you don’t ring a bell.”
She apparently had no recollection of the way she shot him down all those years ago. It made me wonder just how many kids’ dreams she’d killed over the years without even realizing it.
After the judges passed by his house, Brad was relieved for the first few minutes. Will had come up and given him a big hug, telling Brad how proud he was of him and that he was sure they would win the interior design contract after his amazing work. Kara had arrived with Laila, too, and had seemed beyond impressed with Brad’s amazing cookie house.
I could tell that all of our support meant a lot to him. But as the judging dragged on, and after there was nothing much left to do but wait for the results, I could tell something wasn’t right. He seemed to be distant and lost in thought. Like maybe he was disappointed by how he’d done.
I was about to say something to try to lighten the mood when Kara nudged my arm.
“Hey – is that woman over there Liv from the station?” she whispered.
Kara was holding Laila on her hip, looking up toward the entrance of the auditorium. I followed her gaze, my eyes settling on the disheveled, nearly unrecognizable woman standing in the doorway.
Liv was wearing a large barn jacket over some sweats, and the bottom of those sweats were sloppily tucked into a pair of bulky snow boots. Her red hair was piled high on her head and gave new meaning to the term “messy bun.”
In the months that I’d known her, I’d never seen as much as a single strand of hair out of place on that head.
Liv was standing at the entrance, hurriedly scanning the room, like she was looking for somebody.
“Seems like someone forgot to look in the mirror before leaving the house this morning,” Kara cracked.
Will laughed. Brad didn’t seem to hear.
And meanwhile, I had the feeling that this was no laughing matter.
“I’ll be back, you guys.”
I left them standing there, weaving my way through the masses, past news cameras and people oohing and awing at the rows of immaculately constructed gingerbread houses.
After a few minutes of squeezing past the whole town and then some, I made it to the top of the auditorium.
She didn’t see me until I was right in front of her.
She looked relieved when she did.
“Is the Sheriff here? He’s not back at the office and I really need to talk to—”
“I think he’s out on a call right now.”
She looked crestfallen when I said that.
She started backing away, like she was going to leave.
But I wasn’t going to let her get out of it so easily this time.
“C’mon,” I said, following her. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 61
Liv took a drag off of a freshly-lit cigarette and let out a puff of smoke. Then she eyed me, chewing absentmindedly on one of her dark gray-lacquered nails.
“I came here wanting a fresh start. I’ve got a kid now to look out for. I’ve got a responsibility to give him a stable life. I can’t afford to make bad choices anymore.”
Snowmelt poured down from the roof’s scuppers, hitting the pavement in small waterfalls around us.
“But I was wrong to think I could ever get away from myself. Trouble sticks to people like me. It’s like I’m walking around with a big sign on my back, inviting it to find me. And no matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, I can’t get away from it.”
She sucked in a deep breath of smoke and looked away.
“My ex-boyfriend is a real piece of work, Cinnamon – a sterling example of one of my many poor choices. He’s bad, bad news. He was abusive and cruel, and it took everything I had to work up the courage to leave him and press charges for what he did to me. The day he went away to prison, I thought that all of my problems were over. But looking back now, I was naïve to think I could ever get away from him in the first place.”
I realized that this was the most I’d heard Liv speak the whole time that she’d been working at the Sheriff’s Office.
“I didn’t know anything about it, but before going to prison, my ex had gotten into a lot of debt with these loan sharks back in Tahoe. He can’t pay up from prison, but they don’t care about his situation. They still want that money, and they’ll do anything to get it.”
She shook her head.
“They found me. Here in Christmas River, Cinnamon. They said that if I don’t pay them interest on the loans each month, they’ll hurt me. And worse, they’ve threatened to…”
Her voice cracked.
“To hurt my son – Austin.”
The indifferent, steely façade that she’d had ever since arriving in Christmas River was crumbling right before my very eyes.
“Oh, Liv – I’m so sorry. I had no idea this was happening.”
She took another drag off the cigarette.
“I’ve been killing myself making these outrageous payments. Working at the Sheriff’s Office, waitressing in Redmond at night, taking out loans and credit – trying to feed my son and pay these greedy bloodsuckers at the same time. I thought I was making it – it was hard, but I was making those payments. Then…”
She drew in a deep breath.
“Austin came down with appendicitis just after Halloween. He was in the hospital. The bills were killer – even with insurance. And the hospital made me pay for a big chunk up front and…”
She closed her eyes again and stopped speaking.
A single solitary tear trailed down her face.
I bit my lip.
I suddenly realized what was going on.
Liv wasn’t just telling me all of this to get my sympathy.
She was making a confession.
“It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, Cinnamon,” she said. “But the money was just sitting there and I was thinking about Austin and how it would keep a roof over his head. I was gonna pay it back – and I thought nobody would find out in the meantime. But then Billy noticed the money missing and he knew I was the only other one with access to the account and he...”
She trailed off.
“He wanted to know why I did it, and I had to tell him. I thought he was going to report me to the Sheriff, but he didn’t.”
She flinched suddenly as the cigarette in her hand burned down to the stub and the embers reached her fingers. She dropped it and stamped it out with her large boot.
“Instead of turning me in, Billy’s been working on a way to get these loan sharks paid off. I tell you – no man has ever done anything like that for me before. Billy had no reason to help. No reason to do anything but to tell on me.”
She shook her head.
“Nobody’s ever been there for me like that.”
She looked off into the distance.
“Anyway, it seemed like everything was going okay – like maybe no one would notice that seven-thousand missing. But then...”
She paused.
“Moira,” she finally whispered.
“Moira?”
She nodded.
“She saw us one morning on a lunch break at one of the picnic benches in the woods behind the station. I don’t even know what she was doing walking out there in the first place. I was talking to Billy about how to replace that missing money, and she overheard us. She pretended like she didn’t hear anything, but then the next day, we found out that she heard plenty.
“She—”
“She tried to blackmail you,” I said, finishing the sentence for her. “She wanted you to pay her in exchange for keeping her mouth shut.”
“Yes,” Liv said, closing her eyes. “Yes.”
Marla Browning had been right. For as much as I disliked the editor, she’d been on the money with this one.
