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As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles: A Food Lovers’ Village Mystery © 2018 by Leslie Ann Budewitz.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition © 2018
E-book ISBN: 9780738755335
Book format by Cassie Willett
Cover art by Ben Perini
Cover design by Shira Atakpu
Editing by Nicole Nugent
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Budewitz, Leslie, author.
Title: As the Christmas cookie crumbles: a food lovers’ village mystery / by
Leslie Budewitz.
Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2018] |
Series: A food lovers’ village mystery; #5
Identifiers: LCCN 2017051233 (print) | LCCN 2017054898 (ebook) | ISBN
9780738755335 | ISBN 9780738752419 (alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.U334 (ebook) | LCC PS3602.U334 A92 2018 (print) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017051233
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For the villagers, who make this place home.
Live in the moment.
Unless it’s unpleasant.
Then, eat a cookie.
—Cookie Monster
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to my friends and neighbors for their support, and for tolerating the changes I’ve made to our community on the page. Although the Playhouse is real, its history as the Bijou is not. But Decorating Day is great fun—if you find yourself in Northwestern Montana in the season, come on by and lend a hand!
It takes a village to catch a killer—and to write a book. Thanks to the retailers—booksellers, kitchen shops, galleries, and gift shops—who have championed my books, especially those in western Montana. I’ve also learned a lot by watching retailers in action. Thanks to Cathi Spence of Think Local for the story of the surprise at the back door, and Jeannie Ulrick of Roma’s Kitchen Shop, who dealt so graciously with the man puzzled by shopping bags.
Once again, my sister-in-law, Kathy Jensen Budewitz, lent me her name and her love of dragonflies and fabric. Jordonna Dores shared tales of running a Christmas shop, and regularly saves my backside during the Bigfork Festival of the Arts.
A trusted critique partner is worth her weight in double chocolate truffles. Thank you, Debbie Burke. Thanks to independent editor Ramona DeFelice Long for the insights and questions that made me dig deeper into my characters and their motivations.
The national board members and staff of Sisters in Crime have been my close friends and companions these last few years, and I love you all.
It’s unbelievably useful for a mystery writer to be married to a doctor. Thanks to Don Beans for the medical details, although as always, I can’t promise that I correctly understood everything. I also deeply appreciate the male perspective, so important here and in Treble at the Jam Fest.
Thanks to Terri Bischoff, Nicole Nugent, and the rest of the Midnight Ink crew, and to cover artist Ben Perini, for bringing the village of Jewel Bay to life.
And thanks to you, readers, for welcoming Erin and the villagers into your hearts.
THE CAST
Merry Christmas from the Murphy Clan:
Erin Murphy, manager of Murphy’s Glacier Mercantile, aka the Merc
Adam Zimmerman, Erin’s fiancé
Francesca “Fresca” Conti Murphy Schmidt, Erin’s mother, the Merc’s manager emeritus
Chiara and Jason Phillips, Erin’s artist sister and her computer whiz husband
Landon Phillips, their son, age six
Happy Holidays from the Merc:
Tracy McCann, Creative Director and Chocolatier
Lou Mary Williams Crawford Vogel, sales clerk extraordinaire
Season’s Greetings from the Thorntons:
Merrily Thornton, back in town, hoping for a second chance
Walt and Taya Thornton, antiques dealers obsessed with Christmas
Holly Thornton Muir, the local veterinarian
Ashley Larson, Merrily’s unsuspecting daughter
Brad Larson, Merrily’s estranged husband
Happy New Year from Villagers and Friends:
Sally Grimes, Puddle Jumpers Toys and Clothing for Children
Greg Taylor, Jewel Bay Building Supply
Ned Redaway, Red’s Bar, Head Elf
Wendy Taylor Fontaine, Le Panier Bakery
Kathy Jensen, Dragonfly Dry Goods
Candy Divine, Sugarplums and More
Best Wishes for a Safe Holiday:
Deputy Kim Caldwell, newly appointed Detective Commander
Undersheriff Ike Hoover, soon to be sheriff
Deputy Oliver Bello, the new guy
Deputy Oakland, solid as they come
Dreaming of Mice and Catnip:
Mr. Sandburg, a sable Burmese, king of Erin’s roost
Pumpkin, a full-figured orange tabby, challenger for the throne
One
Oh, pooh.” I pointed at the label on the big gray tub of Christmas lights at my feet. “This box goes to Jewel Bay Antiques. ’Spose they got ours instead?”
“Does it matter?” Adam, my sweetie, asked.
“Yeah. We have a wider storefront than they do. Plus ours are the new LEDs. How about you get the ladder and stretch out the garland, and I’ll go swap them for our lights.” Instinctively, I rubbed the colored stars tattooed inside my wrist for luck.
“I’ll go along to see their window,” my mother said. “Taya creates the best displays in town.”
“Don’t let Tracy hear you say that,” I replied and picked up the rubber tub.
We wound our way through clusters of Elves—the villagers of Jewel Bay, Montana, in disguise—working the magic that transforms our town every December. Elves had gathered last weekend for Bulb Turning Day to unkink strings of lights, check bulbs, and tie new red bows to replace those inevitably lost to wind and weather. Tree Elves had cut saplings to be lashed to every post and pole. Thi
s morning, volunteers ran power lifts to hoist garland up to second-story eaves and decorate our old one-lane bridge, while on the streets, each business added its own festive touches to the Christmas Village theme. Fresh-cut pine scented the air.
“Hey, Erin. Good morning, Fresca,” merchants and volunteers called as we passed by. Nearly everyone calls Francesca Conti Murphy Schmidt “Fresca,” although I sometimes mess up and call her Mom at work. At sixty-two, six months remarried after a long widowhood, she rocks a Santa hat.
In the next block, Walt and Taya Thornton stood outside Jewel Bay Antiques and Christmas Shop, studying their window. A big tub of lights stood on the sidewalk next to a pile of garland.
I set my tub down next to theirs, happy to be rid of the weight. Actually, I set their tub down next to ours—they hadn’t yet noticed Murphy’s Mercantile written on the lid.
“Oh, Taya,” my mother said, taking the elfin woman’s arm. “It’s perfect.”
She was right. Inside the Thorntons’ big front window stood an antique Father Christmas, nearly five feet tall. He wore a flowing maroon velvet robe and a fur cap so luxurious it could have been mink, trimmed with a sprig of fresh holly. Around him were gathered miniature creatures of the woodland, from a mischievous red fox and a white ermine to a pair of majestic reindeer, each so realistic I half expected them to glance up at me. Last year, my first Christmas back home in Jewel Bay, the Village Merchants’ Association had debated starting a window decorating contest, but in the end, we’d happily agreed that the Thorntons would always win, so why bother? And this display proved us right.
Tracy, my shop assistant and design expert—I’ve dubbed her Creative Director—would make sure the Merc’s double windows brimmed with good cheer. They would be bright and fun and make shoppers smile. But this—this was the display everyone would remember.
“Isn’t zee village zee most beautiful?” Our local French chef appeared on the sidewalk, bearing a tray of pastries.
“So is that,” I said, my mouth watering at the sight of a fruit-topped lemon cream tart. I am on close personal terms with all the pastries from Le Panier, my closest village neighbor. The chef’s wife, baker Wendy Taylor Fontaine, approached, the new baby in her arms sporting a tiny knitted elf hat and a green sleeper trimmed in red fleece. “Oh, that outfit is adorable.”
“A gift from Sally Grimes,” Wendy replied. Even Sally Sourpuss, owner of the children’s shop across the street, could be sweet when it came to babies.
“Ah, la bébé. Elle est si belle, quand elle dort,” her husband said. Ever since the little one’s arrival a few weeks ago, his excitement at fatherhood had increased his occasional lapses into French. But the beauty of a sleeping baby, I understood.
A shout behind me drew my attention from the pastry tray.
“Go away,” Taya Thornton yelled. “You’ve shamed us enough.”
My mouth dropped open. I hardly recognized the woman who’d been my beloved kindergarten teacher, her skin now flushed, her lips twisted. Behind her and half a head taller, her husband Walt looked confused, his kind eyes uncertain whether to focus on his wife or the fair-skinned blonde in the cherry-red ski jacket and Santa hat who stood a few feet away.
Merrily Thornton. Their daughter, a few years older than I. “I came to help you decorate.”
“We don’t want your help,” Taya snapped.
“Taya.” My mother reached out, but the other woman shook her off.
“Surely we can work this out.” Walt’s voice was thin and strained. He took off his Santa hat and ran a hand over his nearly bald head. “It’s Christmas.”
“We gave you everything, and how did you repay us?” Taya shouted. “Why couldn’t you be more like your sister?”
I felt as if I’d been slapped, and the words weren’t even directed at me. Merrily’s shoulders sank and her round cheeks fell, her eyes small behind her tortoiseshell glasses.
Fresca slipped an arm around Taya’s narrow shoulders and turned her toward the door of the antique shop. My mother is slender and unfailingly gracious, but she can be quite forceful.
Walt took a step toward his daughter, hand outstretched, palm down. “It’s best, for now, if you stay away.” He dropped his hand and shuffled after his wife.
Only then did I notice the villagers who’d stopped their decorating to watch, silent and horrified. Across the street and half a block down, Sally stood, coatless, on the sidewalk in front of Puddle Jumpers, one hand over her mouth.
I turned toward Merrily, the good cheer gone from her face, and looped my arm through hers. “Come decorate the Merc. I never say no to a good Elf.”
∞
Merrily helped me haul our tub of lights down the street. Her mother’s outburst had me rattled and I fumbled with the twine as we tied the string of lights onto the fragrant pine garland. But Merrily showed no distress as she worked beside me.
When we finished attaching the lights, Adam grabbed one end of the garland and climbed up the ladder, Merrily at the foot, ready to feed him more garland. I stepped backward into the street and flipped the pompom of my Santa hat out of my eyes. “Left, about six inches.”
My beloved, who’d stuffed his Santa hat in his hip pocket, nicely accentuating his backside, looped the wire over the first hook and moved to the second. He missed on the first try; the haphazard way the hooks had been screwed into the Merc’s soffits prevented him from actually seeing what he was doing, always a handicap in Christmas decorating.
On the next try, the wire snared the hook. For a moment, it held, then came a splintering sound and the soffit gave way. High in the air, Adam swayed. I darted forward to keep the ladder from tottering over and smashing my fiancé in the street three weeks before our wedding.
In one graceful movement, Adam let go of the garland and jumped, bending his knees and landing on his feet in one piece.
A chunk of plywood landed beside him.
He wiped his forehead with the back of one ungloved hand. “Sorry, little darlin’. I broke your building.”
I gulped down the breath I’d been holding. “Thank God you didn’t break your neck. I’ll see if my brother can patch it.”
“Are you okay?” Merrily asked. For a moment, I’d forgotten she was there.
“Yeah, thanks,” Adam replied. “Those hooks are so rusted and bent—if they hold through the season, I’ll eat a reindeer.”
“Don’t even say it.” My double great-grandfather had built this sandstone fortress in 1910. Murphy’s Mercantile had been open for business ever since, although the Merc had long outlived its days as a full-service grocery. Keeping up the structure was every bit as big a challenge as running the specialty local foods market my mother and I had created.
Owning an antique building is like playing one continuous game of pick-up sticks.
With Merrily and me holding the ladder, Adam finished attaching the garland to what remained of the soffit. I didn’t breathe easy until the job was done and his feet were safely back on earth.
Merrily scanned the bustling scene. “My daughter would love this,” she said, and I turned to her in surprise.
“Your daughter? How old is she? Where is she?”
Before she could answer, Lou Mary, my star sales clerk, emerged from the Merc bearing a tray of steaming paper cups. “I just adore Decorating Day. It’s magical, the way the whole village transforms. Cocoa, anyone?”
I handed cups to Adam and Merrily, the scent of chocolate tickling my nose. The interruption had changed the mood, and the time to quiz Merrily had passed. For now. I gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, and she gave me an appreciative look, her eyes bright.
As surely as you can count on holidays sparking family crises, you can count on cocoa.
“You want to plug it in and make sure we don’t blow the place up?” Adam asked, his tone teasing, his dark eyes dancing.
“Go ahead,” I said. It’s hard to cross your fingers in gloves, though I tried. This Decorating Day, always the firs
t Saturday in December, was chilly, but at least we weren’t trimming the town in a snowstorm.
Adam plugged in the lights and the colors shone through the thick greenery.
I clapped my hands together, my fleece gloves making a soft thumping sound. Beside me, Merrily beamed. Across the street, my nephew, Landon, let out a shriek of glee. He bounced up and down, smacking his red mittens together. My sister, Chiara—said with a hard C and rhymed with tiara—rested a hand on his shoulder, the other on her very pregnant belly. Her husband battled his own balky stretch of garland, and Adam carried our ladder across the street to give him a hand. The other artists in Snowberry, her co-op gallery, busily tied bows on trees and set up Mexican luminaria beneath the gallery’s bay window.
Lou Mary had it right: Jewel Bay’s transformation was truly magical. But magic takes a lot of work.
“Let’s get a warm-up,” I said after Merrily had swept up the pine needles and I’d set the empty tub on the sidewalk for the Storage Elves to collect.
Merrily followed me inside. “I always liked this building,” she said, glancing around at the high tin ceilings, lit by the original milk glass pendants, and the shelves brimming with the best food and drink our food-loving village had to offer. “Town’s changed so much—great to see this place thriving.”
I stepped into the commercial kitchen where Fresca, Tracy, and other vendors cook up the products the Merc depends on, and grabbed two heavy white mugs. Filled them from the vacuum pot sitting on the stainless steel counter that separates the kitchen from the shop floor. Slid a mug across the counter to Merrily, who settled on one of the red-topped chrome bar stools Fresca had scavenged from an old drugstore in Pondera—said Pon-duh-RAY, the big town, all of thirty thousand people, thirty miles away.
At the front of the store, Lou Mary watched Tracy work on the window display.
“You’re calmer than I would have been. Want to talk about it?” I asked Merrily.
She cradled her cocoa, a strand of pale hair falling across her face. “Forgiveness has never been my mother’s strong suit. Even though it’s been twenty years.”
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