Midnight in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

“I mean… it’s just an old cabin. Nothing more,” I added.

  “I’ll go up there with you for the event this weekend,” Daniel said, gently tugging on Chadwick’s leash. “I don’t mind. I’ll be… what do you call it? Like a sous chef or something. You can order me around, yell at me if I don’t do something right. Just like one of those celebrity chefs on TV.”

  I smiled. Chadwick started trotting along the path again, and we began walking. I laced my arm in Daniel’s.

  “As tempting as that sounds, Mr. Brightman, I know perfectly well that you’re not free that night. You’ve got that monster truck event at the rodeo grounds to patrol Saturday. If it’s anything like last year’s, I know you and your deputies will have your hands full. And besides — I told you: I’m not afraid of that old cabin.”

  He glanced over.

  “How long have we been married now?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know I don’t keep track of those things.”

  I shot him a mischievous smile.

  He smirked at my joke.

  “Well, by my estimation, it’s been nearly four years. And in those four years when have you ever been able to get away with telling me a lie?”

  “I’d say at least two dozen times, Mr. Brightman. Give or take.”

  He shook his head in amusement at the crack.

  “For real, Cin. I know you better than anybody. And I can always tell when something’s bothering you. And something about this catering thing’s doing just that. My guess is that it’s that old spooky cabin.”

  I kept my eyes on the trail ahead, trying to think of something else funny to say.

  But in the end, I knew Daniel would see right through it, anyway.

  He was right — he did know me better than anyone.

  “Fine. I admit it. Going up to the cabin creeps me out a little. But I know it’s all probably a lot of nonsense what people say about that place. Like the Hattie Blaylock house, remember? For generations, kids in Christmas River talked about how haunted that house was and that Hattie was a witch. But it was all just talk and there wasn’t one iota of truth in any of those old stories.”

  I knew that for a fact. A couple of years earlier, Daniel and I had worked on an old cold case that involved Hattie Blaylock. I’d come to know the old woman and discovered that everybody in town had been wrong about her. She wasn’t a witch at all — just a sad, old lady who’d lost love at an early age and had never recovered from it.

  “And besides, I’m asking Kara to come up with me to the cabin,” I said. “She’s no fan of the old place, but she’s been dying to meet Ashcroft Black. This will make her entire year.”

  A cloud passed across the face of the sun just then, plunging the forest into shadows.

  Daniel pulled me closer, leaning in.

  “Okay, Cin. But I’ll be there in two seconds flat if you need me. I’ll gladly leave all those drunk hillbillies at the monster truck rally and be by your side in a flash.”

  I smiled, a warm feeling spreading out across my chest.

  “I know you will. Thank you.”

  “But you know, my loyalty doesn’t come for free,” he whispered.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “What’s the going rate of loyalty these days?”

  He tilted his head, looking up at the sky.

  “For starters, a slice or two of that new maple pecan cocoa pie.”

  “Didn’t you get the plastic container that I put in your messenger bag this morning?” I asked. “There was a giant slice of it in there.”

  “Sure, I got it. But you can’t expect that to be enough. Not of that pie, Cin.”

  I grinned.

  “I take it the new flavor was a hit?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d walk across a snowy field in my bare feet to get to a slice.”

  I let out a laugh.

  Daniel Brightman didn’t often exaggerate. But when he did, he did it with style.

  “Hell, I’d walk across ten of those fields if you were there to serve it up to me with some of that whiskey-spiked whipped cream you make so well,” he added.

  “Tell you what — if you come back to the shop with me now, I’ll get you another slice with some of that whipped cream. No snowy walk in bare feet necessary.”

  “Cinnamon Anne Peters: you‘ve got yourself a loyal servant for life.”

  He leaned down, giving me a tender kiss that made my heart thump harder than Tiana’s did at the sight of a horror author appearing in the kitchen earlier.

  And I practically forgot all about the haunted cabin and Ashcroft Black for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter 9

  “So we’ve got that Tupperware with the goat cheese puffs?”

  “Check.”

  “And the Sour Cream Apple turnovers? We’ve got all three containers of those?”

  “Check and double check,” Kara said.

  “All right, then,” I said, starting up the engine. “Let’s get you up there to meet Ashcroft.”

  Kara, who was already buckled up tight in the passenger seat, let out a squeal that reminded me of the way her young daughter sounded seeing ponies at the Fall Festival a few weeks earlier.

  I guess the thought of meeting a famous author of Ashcroft’s status had made her forget all about her reservations concerning the Juniper Hollow Cabin and its creepy crawlies.

  As if aware of the childish tone of her voice, Kara cleared her throat and looked as me sheepishly as I pulled away from the pie shop and headed down Main Street.

  “Sorry, Cin. I’m just so excited to meet him tonight. Aside from Pam Dallas last year, I haven’t brushed shoulders with too many people in the publishing industry. And Pam doesn’t even really count anyway because she turned out to be a certifiable nutcase.”

  I nodded, remembering the last famous author who had taken up residence here in Christmas River.

  It seemed like Kara could only improve her average after that one.

  “I’m excited for you, Kara. I hope you get a chance to talk to him tonight and ask him all those questions you were hoping to ask.”

  I pulled out onto the highway that led up to the lakes. The sun was descending fast toward the horizon, and the pine trees bordering the pavement had taken on a deliciously warm autumn glow.

  I’d been sad to miss out on such a crisp autumn afternoon, being that I’d been up to my arms in flour, sugar, and recipe books all day. I wasn’t exactly an expert in cooking savory dishes — my entire professional experience in the kitchen had more or less revolved around pie. But I was pretty great at following a recipe, and thankfully, I had plenty of books with great ones. For the event, I’d settled on making spiced chicken and sweet potato kebabs, goat cheese puffs, bacon-wrapped dates, butternut squash rosemary empanadas, a creamy pumpkin dip, roasted red pepper dip, my plum fig port pie in easy-to-eat pie pop form, and of course, the Sour Cream Apple turnovers that Ashcroft had been so smitten with.

  I wasn’t sure if all the food would be to Ashcroft’s publisher’s liking, but I made plenty of it and there would be a ton of leftovers.

  Kara pulled her corduroy jacket from the backseat and slid it on as we climbed higher into the mountains. The sun danced in and out of the trees, casting long shadows on the road.

  “So is Ashcroft just the way he seems in this photo?” she asked.

  She glanced down at the picture on the back of the Sheriff Lane Graves book she’d brought. It was my copy, but after reading another chapter in the book and having trouble sleeping because of it, I decided that horror just wasn’t my genre and never would be — no matter how good the writing was. I’d given the book to Kara instead. Kara didn’t mind the spooky stuff and being a writer on the rise herself, I knew she’d appreciate it.

  “I don’t know. What do you think he’s like from that photo?” I asked.

  She pushed her lips out, studying the book.

  “Serious,” she said. “Introspective. And brooding. Like a modern-day Heathcliff.”


  “Well, I can’t say I know whether he stalks the moors, but the rest of it is about right,” I said.

  Kara studied the photo some more.

  “He strikes me as a man struggling with some sort of internal conflict,” she continued. “There’s a mournful quality in his eyes. Guilt or shame or something.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “You got all of that just from a photo?”

  She shrugged, resting the book back down on the dashboard.

  “I’m a writer — I guess I’m prone to getting carried away.” She smiled. “Anyway, it’s probably all an act. A character he plays because it goes so well with his books. I bet the real Ashcroft Black grins like an idiot all day long, only eats the sprinkles off of cupcakes, and loves nothing more than his rescue pug.”

  I shot Kara a smile, recognizing the description as one of the foolhardy supporting characters from her latest book.

  We drove along the highway for a ways, passing aspen trees that looked like they were on fire with the kiss of autumn.

  It wasn’t long before we made it to Juniper Hollow Lane. A mile in, I caught a glimpse of it through the trees.

  For a moment, I wondered if I’d forgotten the location of the place and drove up to the wrong house. The old, spooky hunting cabin was definitely not old anymore — or anything like the place I remembered riding my bike by when I was a teenager heading home from days of fishing up at the lakes. Beautiful planks of red cedar lined the outer walls. The owners had added a southern-inspired wrap-around porch to the front. An entire wall of windows had been installed on the south side of the structure, giving the cabin what must have been breathtaking views of Charity Lake and the mountains in the distance.

  It was far from a dilapidated, rundown cabin, reminding me that it had been years since I’d been here.

  Seeing it now in all of its full luxury rental glory made me feel silly for being so hesitant about catering the event.

  I pulled up to the large driveway which already had several expensive cars parked out front — including a fire-red Jaguar that made Kara’s jaw drop as we pulled up.

  “Holy Shih Tzu — would you look at that beauty?” she mumbled.

  I unbuckled my seatbelt and glanced over at my best friend. She looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Say — thanks so much for helping me tonight, Kara. It really means a lot.”

  “Are you kidding?” she said, her face lighting up like a New Year’s party. “I’m the one that should be thanking you.”

  Her eyes drifted back to that red Jaguar.

  “You never know,” she added. “Something big could happen for my writing career at this thing, Cin.”

  She let out a short, happy sigh.

  “It has all the makings of a magical night.”

  I smiled, gazing up at the cabin glowing in the dimming evening.

  I hoped she was right.

  Chapter 10

  It didn’t take long for Kara to be proved wrong.

  We stood on the porch, our arms full of Tupperware and hot plates, looking at each other, both of us not knowing what to do.

  I’d already knocked, but the tense voices had been so loud, it seemed that nobody had heard.

  “It’s obvious you don’t care about us anymore. You moved out here to get away from me, from our problems. Why is it a surprise I’m asking you this? Why can’t you sign the thing and let us both get on with our lives?”

  A woman’s voice echoed from somewhere beyond the door. It came out high-pitched and choked with emotion. I also detected some sort of accent.

  “You made a promise, Ana. That’s why I won’t sign. I won’t make it so easy for you to break your promise.”

  “But you broke your promise first, eh? Liar. And now you’re here on your high horse, lecturing me about promises when you—”

  “I gave you my answer already in New York. I won’t sign it. So if that’s all you came to discuss, then your visit has been futile.”

  Kara looked over at me, her eyes bulging.

  I couldn’t believe we were overhearing this, either.

  “You have no right to do this to me. I’ll take you to court if you don’t sign.”

  “Have at it,” The man’s voice boomed. “Bleed me dry of all my money. Drag my name through the mud. I won’t sign, Ana.”

  “Then I’ll just have to come up with another solution, won’t I, mi amor?”

  There was a sense of underlying threat in the woman’s voice when she said that.

  It was followed by a moment of silence.

  Then, a few seconds later, the hurried sounds of boots pounding against pine floors echoed from inside.

  Instinctively, both Kara and I backed away from the door. We headed over to the far end of the wrap-around porch and stood next to a few decorative hay bales.

  The cabin’s stylishly rustic front door squeaked open suddenly. A slender woman who looked like she’d just leapt from the pages of Vogue or Marie Claire or some other fashion magazine I didn’t read marched out of the cabin. She wore a black cashmere sweater, skinny designer jeans, and black boots with heels that seemed only marginally wider than a sewing needle.

  She didn’t seem to see either Kara or I as she left, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care. She swiftly walked down the steps and over to the Jaguar. We watched as she started up the car and shifted it into gear. The sports car let out a squeal as she pulled out onto the forest road.

  “Sheesh,” Kara said under her breath.

  “I know. I feel bad that we overheard any of that,” I whispered.

  “No — I mean did you see those boots she was wearing? They were Prada, probably worth thousands. What kind of woman walks around muddy Central Oregon in Prada shoes?”

  The kind that didn’t often show up in Central Oregon, I thought. That was for sure.

  “Good. You found the place.”

  I spun around, startled by the deep baritone voice.

  Ashcroft Black stood there, wearing an outfit very similar to the one in his professional portrait. A chunky knit sweater over a turtleneck and jeans. In one hand, he held the silver handle of his cane. In the other was a frosted glass of amber-colored alcohol.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Black. I hope… I hope we didn’t come too early,” I said, having a tough time concealing how sheepish I felt about overhearing the argument.

  “Not at all. You just missed my wife.”

  A sour smile crossed his face.

  “Unfortunately, she couldn’t stay for the event. She has work on the other side of the pass to tend to this evening.”

  He said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world for his wife to storm off like that.

  I forced a smile and glanced at Kara.

  “Mr. Black, this is my friend Kara Billings. She’s here helping me, but she’s also a writer and was really looking forward to meeting you.”

  Kara, who suddenly looked like she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her, reached out a hand toward the horror author.

  “It’s a… it’s a real honor, Mr. Black.”

  He left her hanging there for a while, studying her with those cold eyes.

  Then he reached forward, giving her a visibly weak and unenthusiastic handshake.

  He turned back to me without even saying as much as “nice to meet you” to my best friend.

  “You may set up in the dining room. Please let me know if you need any additional tables. Guests will arrive in half an hour.”

  He turned and headed inside the house.

  “I must get ready now.”

  When he was out of earshot, Kara crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and let out a scoff.

  “I’ll add arrogant and rude to that list of Ashcroft Black’s character traits,” she said under her breath.

  I bit my lip, feeling anger well up in my chest.

  He shouldn’t have treated her like that.

  “You know, maybe we should go,” I said. “Obviousl
y this isn’t the best time for him, and I’m sure his guests will make do with whatever he’s got in his fridge...”

  I trailed off as Kara shook her head emphatically.

  “Nope. We’ve come this far, Cin. You’re getting that nice fat paycheck he owes you. And anyway, didn’t you say something about his publisher being here tonight, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Kara gave me a slick smile.

  “Well, the night’s still young,” she said, heading for the door with a plastic container of Sour Cream Apple Turnovers in her arms. “And I’m not giving up so easily.”

  She lifted her head high in true unstoppable Kara fashion before disappearing into the cabin.

  I let out a sigh and eventually followed her inside, hoping the evening wasn’t as doomed as it felt.

  Chapter 11

  “You should be ashamed.”

  I grabbed the last of the hot food plates from the trunk and brought the door down with my free hand.

  “Sorry, did you just say something?” I asked.

  Josiah Davis stood by his van, his eyes fixed on the cabin in a death stare. He held a large carved gourd against his sizable gut. He’d been on his way up to the cabin with it when he’d stopped dead in his tracks and whispered something.

  “Josiah?”

  The pumpkin carver didn’t seem to hear me, and I wondered if all that Metallica was causing his hearing to go prematurely.

  On my last trip out to grab the rest of the food, I’d been surprised to see a white van sitting next to my Escape and a familiar face in the driver’s seat.

  Apparently, Ashcroft had commissioned Josiah to carve several massive pumpkins for display on the wrap-around porch. The pumpkins were all carvings of the covers of Ashcroft’s books, and knowing what Josiah charged for his art, it was clear that Ashcroft had spent a small fortune on the expertly carved gourds.

  I cleared my throat — the pumpkin carver was still gazing at the cabin, seemingly lost in thought.

  He finally noticed me, looking over and raising his dark eyebrows.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Did you say something, Josiah?” I asked.