by Meg Muldoon
I let out a chuckle at her exuberance.
“And look at what we got at the gift shop!” Helen said, reaching under the table and pulling out a plastic bag. “In addition to these great hats and some T-shirts for our grandsons, the brewmaster gave us a deal on these.”
Helen set the bag on the table, then lowered the plastic to reveal several fancy-looking 40-ounce cans with lots of trendy typeface on the side.
Even before really looking at them, I knew what they were.
“I just can’t wait to give some to my Buster,” Helen continued. “He’s going to go crazy for it. Connor the brewmaster said that it’s all-natural and they use the brewery’s spent grain to make it.”
“He said it was like a super-green drink for dogs,” the fourth woman who hadn’t spoken yet, chimed in. “That adding this to their diet substantially increases their overall health and vitality.”
I peered at the bottle for a long moment, studying the dog silhouette and bold lettering that announced itself as the best thing for dogs since Frisbees.
It also had a long list of benefits written out – including shinier fur, healthy joints, a disposition to longevity, and an overall happier and healthier way of being thanks to the vitamin-infusion.
I felt my eyes bulge when I saw the price tag sticker.
“Was it really $30 for a single can of this?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Helen said, smiling. “Connor gave us a discount. It was only $28.99 a can.”
I bit my lip to keep from letting out a yelp as I gazed at the ten or so cans in the bag.
A week of feeding this to Hucks and Chadwick would put me in the poorhouse.
“Really quite a steal,” the woman with cat eye glasses agreed. “Considering all the health benefits for our four-legged friends.”
The others nodded in unison.
I was about to say something – about to tell them what Aubrey had written about the Pooch Vitamin Brew – that not only were the health benefits a big fib, but that it wasn’t any good for dogs.
But then, I decided to hold my tongue.
I didn’t know all the facts yet. And if I’d just spent close to $300 on a product, hearing that it was a big mistake from the pie lady down the street probably wouldn’t have made me feel any better.
So instead, I put a smile on my face and decided to gently nudge the gals in a better direction for the rest of their time in Christmas River.
“Do you ladies have any plans for tonight?”
They all shook their heads.
“Well, if you go south from here for a few blocks, there’s a great pub called Geronimo Brewing Co. If you think the beer at Redfield’s was good, you’re going to love it at Geronimo. Great food, ice-cold beer made by a true craftsman, and it’s a real authentic Christmas River hangout. And if you tell Warren I sent you, he’ll give you a great discount.”
A real one, I thought to myself, as opposed to Connor Redfield’s pathetic offering.
The ladies all smiled and seemed to like the idea.
I started moving from their table, but stopped for a second.
“Oh – and don’t forget Kara’s Ornate Ornaments across the street. She’s out of town this week, but she’s got her assistant filling in on the cash register. And I guarantee you won’t find any better handcrafted ornaments in the state.”
The ladies seemed to really take to that one.
“We’ll be sure to stop by,” Helen said. “And delicious pie, by the way, miss. Absolutely delicious.”
The one mind kicked in again as they all nodded in agreement.
“I’m so glad to hear you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for stopping by, ladies. Come back anytime.”
I smiled graciously before moving on to the next table.
Maybe I was no better than Connor Redfield – pushing the tourists in lots of directions where they could spend their hard-earned cash.
But at least with me, they were getting their money’s worth.
Chapter 6
“So Connor said that he didn’t have anything to do with those phone calls?” I asked, pressing the phone to my ear as I quickly walked down Main Street.
I took a sip of the iced Cinnamon Chocolate Mocha I’d just bought at the Christmas River Coffee Hut, then crossed the street at a bustling intersection.
“Yep – that’s what Connor said,” Daniel’s voice broke over the speaker. “But I’m not buying that yarn just yet. It was obvious he was sore about the editorial Aubrey wrote. When I brought it up, he looked like he wanted to punch something.”
I cut around a tourist in flip-flops stopped in the middle of the sidewalk staring at a map on his smartphone. The GPS app was saying “Your destination is on the left,” but the man just looked utterly befuddled.
Maybe I should have stopped and asked if I could help direct him, but my time was limited. Things at the pie shop were still busy and I’d taken a short break, leaving Tobias, Tiana, and Ian to hold down the fort. It was nice of them to cover for me – but I didn’t want to test their kindness any longer than was necessary.
“So did Billy find Aubrey last night and take her statement?” I asked.
“Yep,” Daniel said. “The written report was waiting on my desk when I got to the station this morning. Seems the same as what you told me. Just those strange calls and that voice with the threat. There’s not a whole lot we can do at this stage, but we’re going to keep an eye on it. If it is Connor Redfield, then hopefully he’ll come to his senses after our chat earlier.”
“Yeah, I hope so,” I said, coming up to a large, industrial-style building at the corner of Mistletoe Avenue and Charity Lake Way.
“So how’s your day going at the shop?” Daniel asked.
“Feels like every tourist on the West Coast has stopped by. I really should have hired another assistant baker this season. But I guess we’re almost out of summer, so we’ve got that going for us. Anyway, how’s your day been?”
“Similar. Feels like every tourist in town has parked illegally or gotten themselves into trouble somehow.”
I smiled.
We might have joked about them, and it couldn’t be denied that the tourists clogged up the streets, slowed down our traffic, and occasionally drank too much and disturbed the peace. But overall, it was hard to complain.
The tourists kept Christmas River thriving. And additionally, many of them were pleasant souls, just like the four ladies I’d spoken to back at the pie shop. Plenty of locals in tourist towns liked to complain when their streets became flooded with outsiders. I knew of some residents here in town who put passive aggressive bumper stickers on their cars that said things like “My life is better than your vacation,” and “Native Oregonian.” But to me, it always seemed like poor manners to treat the visitors badly or complain about them. They were guests of sorts, after all. And they allowed many of us in Christmas River to keep on living in such a beautiful place the rest of the year.
“Well, I hope you won’t be too busy for dinner tonight,” Daniel said, bringing me out of my thoughts. “I’ll be serving steak and my world-famous blue cheese potato gratin at home later.”
My stomach let out a little grumble at the very thought of such a delicious meal.
“My, oh my – you’re pulling out all the stops tonight, aren’t you, Mr. Brightman?”
“Seems only fair to return the favor, darlin,’ after that meal you made last night. I swear, it was so good, I couldn’t control myself. Nearly ate my weight in tomatoes, I think. ”
I grinned.
“Glad to hear it, Sheriff. I’ll bring the wine to tonight’s feast. Sound good?”
“Deal.”
A moment later, I hung up and slipped the phone into the pocket of my jeans. Then I finished the rest of my mocha, tossed it in a nearby trash can, and pulled back the large steel door of the Redfield Brewing building.
Chapter 7
I stood in front of the sizeable Pooch Vitamin Brew display, which featured several
rows of large cans shining on a massive free-standing steel shelf. On the ground in front of the display were several cardboard cut-outs of adorable smiling golden retriever puppies in oversized baseball caps. It was a marketing image that was so sweet and likable, those puppies could have sold bermuda shorts to a North Pole elf.
I reached forward and picked up one of the white cans from the display rack, inspecting it closely.
Admittedly, I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing here. I knew Daniel and the Sheriff’s Office had the stalking situation under control and didn’t need me to get involved. But after talking to the four ladies at my shop who had spent nearly three hundred dollars on dog vitamin water, I felt the need to come down here to Redfield Brewery and see it all for myself.
I knew that I was probably being a little bit of a hypocrite. I was notoriously bad about sneaking Hucks and Chadwick snacks and leftovers – things I knew that Aubrey would probably write me up in an editorial for if she knew. But the difference was that I made sure I also walked the pooches regularly, fed them the healthiest food in their day-to-day regular diet, and made sure to curb the treats before they got too out of hand.
I didn’t go around pretending the treats had super healing health benefits or that they somehow contributed to the dogs’ well-being.
“Coming through, miss,” an elderly woman said, squeezing by me and walking slowly but with purpose toward the crowded entrance of the brewpub.
I glanced around, surprised at how busy the place had suddenly gotten.
The small room, which served as the gift shop for Redfield Brewing as well as the launching point for the brewery tours and waiting room for the attached brewpub, was full of visitors. The line to the cash register cut right through the room like a river, and the numerous people waiting had their arms full with t-shirts, hats, stainless steel growlers, and of course, the Pooch Vitamin Brew.
I rarely ever worried about the well-being of Warren and Aileen’s brewery. Geronimo Brewing Co. obviously had much more going for it than this place and was the favorite spot among locals and anyone who had decent taste in beer. But seeing how crowded it was here at Redfield Brewing, I began wondering if I should be a little concerned for my grandfather’s business. It was clear that Connor Redfield was getting more tourist dollars coming in than Geronimo.
“Lemme guess… a beagle and a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”
I glanced back, looking at the person who had just spoken to me.
He was a man of sizeable girth who I guessed was probably just a little older than me. He had a thick red beard, deep-set eyes, and he wore a trucker’s cap with the brewery’s logo.
He looked familiar, and from his shock of red hair, I gathered he might be one of the McClure brothers. The McClures had been in the Christmas River area a long time, and were notable for their flame-colored hair and because most of the men in the family seemed to look like Vikings.
“Sorry, what was that?” I said, confused.
“I got a talent for guessing what kind of dog breed a person owns,” he said with a big smile. “And I’d bet money that you’ve got a beagle and a King Charles Cavalier at home. Am I right?”
Normally, the arrogant line might have rubbed me the wrong way. But the man had a generous, well-meaning smile on his face when he said it, and I didn’t take offense.
“Good try,” I said. “But no cigar.”
“Aw, Scooby snacks,” he said. “Must be off today. You’re the fifth person I’ve gotten wrong since we opened.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you were right about the number of dogs,” I said. “I’ve got two of them.”
“Well, that’s great, ma’am. Because they’re gonna love this Pooch Vitamin Brew,” he said, nodding to the large display. “We steep the spent grain from our beer here in some fresh mountain water and pump it full of vitamins to create the healthiest dog beverage around. And thanks to our top-of-the-line canning system, you can easily bring the Pooch Brew out on hikes, camping, on road trips, or wherever you and Fido see fit to go.”
He picked up one of the cans, handing it to me.
“Believe me. Your dogs are going to thank you. This stuff is so good, our brewmaster Connor is getting it patented. When that happens, prices are going to go through the roof, so you really should get this while it’s on sale.”
The man with the red beard was good at his job – it was obvious he was giving me the hard sell, but he was friendly and likable enough that it didn’t really feel that way.
I eyed the price tag on the can again, my eyes bulging slightly.
“Have you guys been selling a lot of these lately?”
The red-bearded man nodded.
“You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s actually our top-selling product. People can’t seem to get enough of it, and with good reason. Dogs love it. There was this wealthy-like lady who came in here yesterday and nearly cleaned us out of our stock. She said her dogs refused to eat or drink anything but the Pooch Brew. They were crazy for it.”
He cleared his throat.
“So how many can I pack up for you today? You said you had two dogs, right?”
He started to collect an armful of the cans.
In my head, I heard the sound of a cash register cha-chinging several times and I began to feel woozy.
“No, no” I said, a little too over-eagerly. “Not for me.”
The salesman stopped what he was doing, looking at me with a confused expression.
I cleared my throat.
“Um… what I mean is that while I’m sure the Pooch Vitamin Brew is very tasty, I read an article the other day that said maybe it’s not really that good for dogs after all. And I’d like to know a little more about what’s in it before buying.”
The man with the beard furrowed his brow a little, then smiled good-naturedly.
“No problem. I understand and I—”
But his response was suddenly cut short by a booming voice.
“You know as well as I do that you can’t call what that woman wrote ‘an article,’ Cinnamon.”
I looked over the salesman’s shoulder to see a beefy, thick-necked man in a backwards cap standing there – a man who looked like he could lift a semi-truck just for fun.
Connor Redfield.
He crossed his arms over his puffed-out chest and glared at me.
“An article implies there was some truth or fact-finding involved. Which there wasn’t.”
I swallowed hard, setting the can in my hand back down on the display shelf.
“Aubrey Berg was slanderous with that editorial,” Connor continued, clearly still livid about the whole matter. “I’ve already contacted my lawyers about it, and I won’t stand for anybody else spreading rumors like that around. Pooch Vitamin Brew is a perfectly healthy drink for dogs. And anybody who says different is flat-out lying.”
As Connor Redfield spoke, his voice became so loud, the tourists around us were staring.
But I wasn’t afraid of him.
I kept eye contact the whole time, and I didn’t back away when he started stepping toward me and getting in my space.
“Look – I was just asking a question, Connor,” I said in a clear voice. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
“You didn’t,” he said between gritted teeth.
“Sure looks that way to me,” I said.
Connor snarled his upper lip and gave me a sharp, hard stare.
For a moment, I wondered if he might turn into a werewolf.
But then he let out a scoff and shook his head.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Cinnamon,” he said, a phony smile plastered on his face as he backed away. “I’ve got a million-dollar business to run and I don’t have time to deal with any baseless accusations from either you or your husband.”
He gave me one last glare. Then he quickly walked through the crowded room and out the main door.
I continued watching through the front window as he unlocked the driver�
�s door of his car and slid inside.
After a moment, I noticed that the red-bearded salesman was looking at me.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he said in a low voice, clearly a little embarrassed. “Mr. Redfield’s real sensitive about that Pooch Brew editorial.”
The SUV let out a deafening squeal as it pulled away onto Mistletoe Avenue.
“Real sensitive,” he mumbled again.
Chapter 8
“So the body snatchers got you, eh?”
“Huh?”
I looked up from the suede vest I was hand-stitching and saw one of my very favorite people in the world staring down at me with a thoroughly skeptical expression.
“What do you mean, the body snatchers?” I said, taking advantage of the interruption to reach for the icy pint of Marionberry Mountain Stout sitting on the picnic table in front of me.
It was late afternoon, and I was sitting on the small back patio of Geronimo Brewing Co. We’d clear sold out of pie at the shop by 2 p.m., so I’d closed up and decided to take a few hours off before the long evening of pie baking that lay ahead of me. I headed on down to my favorite pub, which was packed this afternoon with a healthy mix of locals and tourists.
It was so crowded that I almost couldn’t get a table.
But luckily, I knew the owners.
“What I mean, Cinny Bee, is that you’re the very last person I’d expect to see sewing a dog costume,” my grandfather said, tossing a bar towel over his shoulder and taking a seat across from me. “So the only reasonable explanation is that aliens from outer space must have taken over your personality, like that Invasion of the Body Snatchers movie. Next you’ll probably be meeting strange folks at the city hall and organizing a fleet of trucks to deliver more pod people to cities around the country.”
I couldn’t help but crack a grin at Warren’s long-winded, science fiction-infused analogy.
But I suppose he did have a point. I’d never been one for putting canines in costumes, let alone hand-sewing those costumes, and I was acting pretty far out of character. I’d always thought of dog costumes as cruel and unusual punishment for a pooch, because most of the time, you could see that the dog was downright miserable in whatever ridiculous get-up they’d been put in.
