4 Malice in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  It felt like I was falling more in love with Daniel each day, if that was even possible. Like the more I found out about him, the more I realized just how lucky I had been that he’d wandered into my shop that cold and snowy night two and a half years ago.

  The only thing was that it sometimes felt like I didn’t see him as much as I wanted to. Sometimes he wouldn’t get home until 8 or 9 at night. And given my early hours at the pie shop, I was practically dead to the world by then.

  Other times when he was at home, his mind would be elsewhere. He was always on call, always ready to drive out to an incident if need be.

  We’d squeeze in lunches here and there during the day, but summer had been rough on the Sheriff’s Office. Lots of vandals and hikers needing help in the area kept Daniel busy pretty much all the time.

  But I’d been busy too, what with the pie shop being as popular as it was with the tourists and the locals. And once the weather cooled off and we got to autumn, I knew that we’d both have more time to spend together.

  Plus, we had a little thing called a honeymoon we were going on next week. Like a lot of working couples these days, we’d delayed it several months after the wedding. At the time I’d been a little disappointed about that. But it had given me something to look forward to the entire summer.

  I pulled down our gravel driveway and parked in front of the house.

  The swollen sun sat low in the smoke-curtained sky and bathed the meadow in front of our home in a rich orange hue. The evening calls of meadow larks echoed across the grassy expanse.

  I stood for a moment against my car, admiring the peaceful scene.

  I never had a view like this at my old house.

  The beauty of it almost distracted me enough to make me not notice that Daniel’s car wasn’t in the driveway.

  Again.

  I sighed, fishing my keys out of my pocket.

  I opened the door and a hurricane of black and brown fur hit me full force.

  I laughed and rubbed Huckleberry’s sweet little head.

  Daniel may not have been home yet, but at least I wasn’t all alone.

  I walked in, kicked off my shoes, and headed for the kitchen to cook us up some steaks.

  I still got goose bumps when I walked into our beautiful new home.

  Hell, I still got goose bumps calling it our beautiful new home.

  Chapter 4

  “Damned, blasted technology,” he muttered.

  The sound of wrinkled fingers hitting plastic in vain broke across the speaker.

  “I don’t even know what the point of it is if it’s only going to work 25 percent of the time. I mean, is it really worth the aggravation for that 25 percent? I say we throw this technology back to where it came from and bring back the old fashioned telephone. Say what you will but the telephone never let you down the way this piece of cr…”

  Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew that his cheeks were starting to turn rosy with frustration, the way they tended to when technology got the better of him.

  Though my grandpa was young at heart in many ways, in other ways, he was your average old man. Especially when it came to him trying to get Skype to work.

  He ranted a little more as I tried on my end to fix the stream.

  The sharp rays of an early morning summer sun filtered through the blinds of the pie shop kitchen. I’d come in early to talk to Warren and to get a head start on my day: something I definitely needed with all the tourists in town. Chrissy was on vacation and Tiana, my other baking assistant, wasn’t in yet. I was all alone in the shop, save for my grandfather, who was keeping me company 4,600 miles away.

  “You could depend on a telephone in my day,” he went on. “We may not have had them everywhere we went like you youngin’s today, but by golly, at least they wor—oh, hey! There you are, Cinny Bee. I can see your pretty face now clear as day.”

  I smiled as Warren’s old wrinkled face illuminated my laptop screen. Just as I thought, his cheeks had turned a shade of strawberry from his frustrations with technology, but the color was fading now. He was looking healthy, and he was smiling a great big old signature Warren grin.

  “It sure is good to see you, old man,” I said.

  Even though we had just Skyped last week, it felt like ages since I talked to Warren.

  “We’ve been missing you terribly around here,” I said. “Everyone agrees that Christmas River just isn’t the same without your poker nights.”

  He waved his arm in a shooing motion.

  “Aw, get out of town,” he said. “Those boys are glad to see me gone. I’ve been cleaning them out for years.”

  He grinned and his eyes grew small with the effort. He was joking, but I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was missing all of us too.

  In January, Warren, my beloved grandfather who was more of a father to me than anything, had done something completely unprecedented. He left behind just about all his friends and family to study craft beer in Scotland for a year with his friends Larry and Sheila.

  It was something I admired the old man to no end for. To be his age and to do something that outside his comfort zone was a point of real bravery in my opinion.

  But nearly seven months into his stay, it was still tough not having the old bugger around. I had plenty to keep me busy these days, but sometimes, it was like I’d get hit with a strong wave of sadness, realizing that he was so far away. I missed chewing the fat with him. I missed hearing all about his brewing exploits. I missed trying those brewing exploits.

  Warren and I were close. And this was the farthest apart we’d ever been.

  Plus, I tended to worry a lot about him. He wasn’t a spring chicken by any means, and though I had never been there, Scotland seemed to me like a lot of cobblestone, narrow alleys, and flights of stairs, all of which offered possibilities of injury for someone of Warren’s advanced age.

  “So what’s new?” I said. “You still painting the town red every night?”

  “Cin, you wouldn’t believe the brew I tried last night,” he said, his eyes growing wide. “It was… I mean, there were flavors I hadn’t ever tasted before. This brewery’s been making beer since the 1600s. Can you believe that? The 1600s! The Wee Heavy was masterful. You wouldn’t believe the rich…”

  I grinned as he trailed off.

  “Goodness, me,” he said. “I was ranting again, wasn’t I?”

  I laughed.

  It seemed like every time we talked like this, Warren would launch into a long description of the beer he had just tried and why it was hands-down the best in the world.

  Listening to him talk like that always made me happy, even if he was a little long-winded. It reminded me that I needed to quit worrying so much about him because he was enjoying himself so much over there.

  “You were ranting,” I said. “But you won’t hear any complaints from me.”

  He grinned.

  “No, I won’t bore you with the details,” he said. “Let’s hear about things on the home front. How’s married life?”

  “Wonderful,” I said, leaving it there.

  Like Warren’s beer, I was pretty sure if I had the time, I could start ranting about how great it was being married to Daniel.

  But I spared the old man the details.

  “Good to hear. And the shop?”

  I wiped away a trickle of sweat that had slid down the side of my face, and glanced over at the batch of Cinnamon Blueberry pies that were baking in the oven.

  “Also, wonderful,” I said. “Plenty of work, as always, but things are moving really quickly lately. The line’s been out the door most days. It’s hard to keep up. We’ve even been selling out.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” he said.

  “And uh, you know the paper out of Redmond?” I said. “They’re doing a story on me.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Warren said, stroking his beard. “That’s great news! Haha, get it – great news?”

  I laughed at his
silly pun.

  “Good for you, Cin,” he said. “Good for you. You know, I always knew that you’d be a great business woman. You’ve got that rare combination of artistic genius and tenacious bullheadedness.”

  I smirked.

  “The newspaper can quote me on that if they like,” he said.

  “Well, I never would have put it in such colorful terms, but you’ve got a point there, Grandpa.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “But enough about things here. Tell me more about that beer you tried.”

  Warren’s face lit up, and he launched into a long story about open fermentation and the variety of flavors that different types of yeast lent to beer. I had trouble keeping up, what with the fancy terminology he used. But I didn’t mind falling behind. He was happy to talk, and I was happy to listen, even when I didn’t fully understand what he was talking about.

  I sure missed him. And even though we had our Skype sessions, they never quite seemed enough.

  Before I knew it, the oven timer went off. Warren paused.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” he said.

  I sighed.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said, glancing over at the oven.

  The pies were done, and someone was going to have to take them out and replace them with a new batch. And being as I was the only one in the shop at the moment, that duty fell to me.

  Warren and I had talked for over an hour. But like I said. The Skype sessions never quite felt long enough – no matter how long they actually were.

  “What flavor are you making?” he asked.

  “Cinnamon Blueberry.”

  He took in a deep breath.

  “I swear. I can almost smell it from here,” he said. “Hot damn, I miss you a heck of a lot, Cinny Bee. But I just might miss your pies a little bit more.”

  “I feel that way about your beer,” I said, grinning.

  “Touché,” he said.

  We both started laughing. He rubbed his eyes.

  “Well, okay. I don’t want to keep you from your business. Just make sure to save a slice for me, would ya?”

  “I will,” I said, sadness tugging a little bit at my heart, the way it always did when our conversations came to an end and it hit home just how far away he really was. “You be careful over there, okay? Enjoy yourself.”

  “You don’t need to tell me twice,” he said, winking into the camera.

  “Love you, Grandpa.”

  “Love you too, Cinny.”

  I waved goodbye and then forced the cursor over the “end call” button. A moment later, Warren was gone, and the screen was once again black.

  I sighed heavily.

  Even though I’d been living a blissful, beautiful life these past eight months since getting married, there had been something missing from it.

  That something being a wisecracking, technology-challenged old man who liked playing poker and droning on and on about brewing beer.

  At least we had passed the halfway mark of his trip, I thought. At least he’d be home soon.

  I got up, pulled on a pair of mitts, and opened the oven door. The blueberry pies were bubbling and gurgling beautifully, and the lattice had turned a soft golden brown under the heat.

  I sighed again.

  I wished Warren was here to have a slice.

  Chapter 5

  I pulled my arm back and flicked my wrist, the way Warren had taught me how growing up. I watched as the silver thread of the fishing line floated through the air before the bob and tackle hit the water several yards away.

  “Nice one,” Daniel said before tossing his own line out into the calm and placid lake.

  “Not so bad yourself,” I said, looking over and winking at him.

  The dying light of the day danced on the ripples of the water, reflecting back up onto our faces. We were at Sparks Lake, only about a mile’s walk away from our house on Sugar Pine Road, spending the evening fishing. For the first time in weeks, Daniel had gotten off of work at a reasonable hour, and we had decided to make the most of it.

  There was nothing like fishing this time of year. Being outdoors, watching the sun fall and dusk settle in over the lake, the forest air and the sound of the frogs bellowing out their night song… it made you feel so good, so right inside. A kind of peace that was hard to find anywhere else.

  Of course, sharing all of this with Daniel only made the evening that much more special.

  But he’d been quiet tonight, ever since he’d gotten home from work. A little more quiet than usual, and I felt a small pang of worry in my gut as I noticed the concerned expression on his face while he gazed out across the lake.

  He caught me looking at him, and then he forced a weak smile. He wedged the fishing pole between two logs and went over to the cooler, grabbing a couple of Oktoberfest ales. He cracked the tops off of them, and handed me one.

  “Is something on your mind?” I asked. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  He picked the pole back up and spun the reel a couple of times, bringing the fishing line a little farther in.

  He shrugged.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just stuff at work. It’s been a busy couple of days.”

  Most of the time, Daniel talked about his day pretty candidly. But every once and a while, he’d go quiet like this and wouldn’t tell me anything about his day. I never liked when it happened. Usually, a short time later, I’d hear on the news whatever made him get this way. A drowning on the river or a car accident critically injuring somebody.

  It worried me sometimes that he didn’t talk about it. That he stuffed all those feelings and emotions he must have been having deep down.

  But then again, maybe that was the only way to deal with some of the things he saw in his line of work.

  “You can tell me, you know,” I said. “I can take it.”

  He put his free arm around my shoulders.

  “I know,” he said. “But there’s no reason to ruin such a beautiful night. Besides, it’s not a big deal. Don’t worry.”

  “But if something’s bothering you, I wish that you’d—”

  Just then, the line of his fishing pole started running as the tip bent toward the water.

  He took his arm back from around my shoulders and started to work the reel. His tongue poked out one side of his mouth, and Daniel suddenly looked like a little kid as he pulled and reeled and pulled some more. There was an expression of pure excitement on his face.

  It always tickled me to see him this way.

  “God almighty, this is a big one,” he said, struggling with the pole.

  Out on the lake, I could see the fish thrashing just under the surface as it was pulled closer to shore. It slapped the water in its struggle, the sound echoing across the still and quiet lake. A few ducks that had been gliding by in the distance flew off, quacking angrily at the disturbance of their peaceful sunset.

  A second later, there was a loud snap.

  The thrashing noises suddenly stopped.

  Daniel clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and that thrilled expression dropped from his face faster than a rock could drop to the bottom of an empty swimming pool.

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  The broken line floated in the air. The fish was gone.

  “That was going to be the biggest of the summer,” he said, shaking his head. “I felt it.”

  He reeled in what was left of the line slowly.

  “Aw, I’m sorry, babe,” I said.

  “You saw how big it was, right?” he said, his face still like a little boy’s, except now, it was a frustrated, disappointed little boy.

  “I did,” I said, keeping down a smirk. “It was a monster.”

  “It was gonna be the…” he trailed off, glancing over. His eyes lingered on me for a few seconds.

  He smiled, put down his fishing pole, and then unexpectedly wrapped his arms around me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You know wh
y?”

  “Why?” I said, tossing my own pole to the ground.

  “Because no matter what, I’m coming away from this lake with the biggest catch of ‘em all.”

  He started tickling me in a spot under my ribcage that always brought me to uncontrollable giggles. I laughed and squirmed for a few minutes, pushing at his arms until he finally stopped.

  “Aw, you’re just a big cheese ball tonight, aren’t you?” I said, out of breath.

  He leaned down.

  “Admit it,” he said. “You love this big cheese ball.”

  He planted a long and slow kiss on my lips and then rested his hands on my hips.

  “I can’t wait for this week to be over,” he whispered in my ear. “And to be away with you. Just you and me, and the bright blue Pacific.”

  “Me too,” I said. “We’re almost there, Daniel. Just got to get past this Rodeo and we’re home free.”

  He groaned.

  “That’s right the Rodeo,” he said, unenthusiastically.

  I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  “What kind of cowboy are you, Daniel Brightman? What kind of attitude is that to have about our regional pastime?”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ against the Rodeo,” he said, pulling out a Garth Brooks accent. “I just have something against all the mess it causes. Remember last year? Remember my boots?”

  I stifled a laugh and nodded.

  Last year, Daniel had spent an hour after the Rodeo ended on Saturday night convincing Wyatt Rasmussen not to drive home drunk. It had been generous of Daniel to do that, being as he probably could have just hauled Wyatt down to the station by force and thrown him in the drunk tank. But instead, Daniel tried to help Wyatt avoid a second DUII. When he finally convinced him not to drive, Wyatt got out of his car, shook Daniel’s hand, and then blew chunks all over Daniel’s well-worn and well-loved work boots.

  Even though we hosed them down and scrubbed them until they sparkled more than the bald head of Mr. Clean, Daniel hadn’t so much as touched those boots since the incident. They’d just been sitting on his side of the closet all year, looking sad and lonesome for their old buddy.