4 Malice in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  Growing up, I always thought that Kara would be the next Martha Stewart. Maybe she would still be, one day.

  But for now, I was glad, rather selfishly, that she was a small business owner in Christmas River. Just a stone’s throw away from my own shop.

  “Son of a bitchin’ bronco!”

  Glass shattered from somewhere in the backroom.

  “Owwww…”

  The noise sounded like it was coming from a dying animal.

  I stopped marveling at Kara’s creations and quickly weaved my way through the displays and plastic tree branches to the back.

  Kara sat hunched over at the large table in her craft studio, holding her thumb and making low groaning sounds.

  “My God, are you okay?” I said, rushing over.

  A small pile of broken glass lay on the floor, and there was a decidedly singed smell tainting the air.

  “Water,” she mumbled through gritted teeth.

  I went over to the sink, grabbed a plastic cup, and filled it up quickly. I brought it back over. Kara dunked her forefinger in it, and I could have sworn I heard sizzling when she did.

  She let out a small grunt of relief.

  I noticed the glue gun on the table was bleeding a dribble of steaming glue. I went over and unplugged it.

  “These damned industrial strength glue guns,” she said after a few more moments of pained silence. “I should really know better by now. You get some of that glue on your skin, and it hurts worse than the devil’s hot poker.”

  “Is it really bad?” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “No, I’ll be okay,” she said. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

  I went over to one corner of the room and grabbed a broom leaning against the wall. I started sweeping up the broken glass into a dustpan, and dumped it in the trashcan under the sink.

  “Just another day in paradise,” she mumbled.

  “Can I get you anything?” I said.

  She shook her head again and didn’t speak.

  I nodded, and then quickly jaunted back into the front of the store, grabbing the muffins and mochas.

  I thought the sight of decadently rich sugary treats would cheer her up, but as I looked into her face, I realized that it did almost the opposite.

  “That’s nice of you Cin,” she said, her finger still plunged in the water. “But I just started this juice cleanse. I can’t have any processed sugar for a month.”

  I furrowed my brow.

  For as long as I’d known Kara, she’d been like an evil Keebler Elf. I’d always been the one to go on diets, and she’d always been the one trying to tempt me with tasty food that was bad for me. Kara had a lightning-fast metabolism and had always been able to maintain her wire-thin frame while eating all sorts of junk food.

  Now here we were, our roles reversed. I was the evil Keebler Elf. And here she was talking about cleanses.

  She sighed, noticing my confusion.

  “It’s just, this weather’s been making me feel grumpy,” she said. “Hell, I don’t know. I guess it’s my life that’s been making me feel grumpy. I thought going on a cleanse might put me in a better frame of mind, you know? Those celebrities are always going on and on about it in those entertainment magazines I read. Maybe they’re onto something.”

  I nodded, pulling the mocha and muffin back to my side of the counter.

  “Sure,” I said, slightly disappointed.

  “But you go ahead and have yours. Don’t let me ruin it for you.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s not as fun being bad alone,” I said.

  She smiled, but it faded quickly, and then an awkward silence settled over the conversation.

  I took a deep breath, gathering up enough courage to address the elephant in the room.

  “What’s going on, Kara?” I asked. “I mean, what’s really going on with you? It seems like more than just the weather.”

  Her eyes dropped, and she pulled her finger out of the cup of water and stared at it.

  She shrugged, then sighed.

  “Do you ever stop and look at your life, Cin, and think that maybe you shortchanged yourself?”

  I studied her face. Her eyes were still downcast, and the edges of her lips were turned downward into a depressed expression.

  “Are you feeling that way?” I asked.

  She bit her lip.

  “I just wonder if staying here in Christmas River wasn’t a mistake all these years,” she said. “Like maybe I should have gone to college and given myself a chance at something bigger.”

  “But, Kara, look at all you’ve done,” I said. “You’re a successful business woman. And you’re doing what you love, right? Your work is phenomenal. I mean it. I’ve never seen anything quite like your ornaments.”

  “But that’s what I mean,” she said. “Why am I here in Christmas River if I’m so good at what I do?”

  She sighed. Her eyes began to get glassy. I got up and grabbed a Kleenex from a box on one of the counters and handed it to her.

  “Hon, you can do anything you put your mind to,” I said. “But when I look at your life, shortchange just isn’t a word that comes up. You work for yourself, you have a beautiful home, and you’ve got a guy who’s crazy about you.”

  She made a strange little noise at that last part.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  I thought the storms between Kara and John had subsided for good last summer, but maybe I was wrong.

  “Sometimes I think he might love his work more,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with the Kleenex.

  I placed a hand on her shoulder again.

  She let out a big old emotion-laden sigh.

  “I guess it’s just that I’ve had this vision of myself,” she said. “When I got to this age, I just expected more, you know? I thought I might be more successful than I am. Like that I might work for some fancy New York house and home magazine. Or maybe I’d even have…”

  Big fat tears came spilling out over the rims of her eyes.

  “I just think sometimes, it’s not enough. You know, Cin? The way I’m going, the life I’m leading, it’s just not enough.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her.

  I didn’t really know what to say.

  Living in a small town like Christmas River for a while could make a person feel stir crazy. Warren had his own case of that last year and took off to Scotland.

  Maybe Kara needed something big like that too.

  Which, if I was being honest, scared me.

  I knew it was selfish. But Kara was my best friend. And it would be tough not having both Warren and her around.

  “It’s all okay, Kara,” I said. “I promise it’s all going to be okay.”

  We sat there like that for a little bit while the ice in the mochas melted and the muffins stayed untouched. Me not knowing what else to say.

  A moment later, there was a sharp dinging sound of a bell being rung out in the front.

  “Excuse me? Anybody home?” an old lady’s voice echoed. “I have a question about one of these snow globe ornaments.”

  Kara wiped away the tears.

  “Sorry, Cin,” she said. “I’ve been a mess lately.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “As you know, I’ve had my share of mess in my time.”

  She forced a little smile.

  “How about a girls’ night one of these days?” I said. “Rom coms and ice cream – well, I guess rom coms and juice, since you’re on your cleanse.”

  She nodded.

  “Thursday?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Then I remembered that Thursday wouldn’t work.

  I was going to Laurel’s.

  “Uh, no actually. I’ve got something. What about Friday night? After the first day of the Rodeo?”

  “I’ve got something Friday. Maybe Saturday?” she said. “What do you have Thursday?”

  “Laurel McSween invited me over to her ranch,” I sa
id. “She said she wanted to apologize for the article.”

  Kara’s right eyebrow shot straight up.

  “Really?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Well, that’s—”

  “Excuse me! I can hear you back there!”

  The old lady wasn’t going away.

  Kara gave me a deadpan, frustrated look before rolling her eyes.

  “I better get to work,” she said, sighing.

  She took off her crafting apron with one hand, holding her singed one above her head, and went out into the front. I heard her apologize and greet the old lady in an enthusiastic voice, like everything in the world was just peachy and not a thing was wrong.

  I sighed, wishing there was some way I could help my best friend.

  Chapter 13

  George Hardin, a balding, pudgy man who worked as a school resource officer most of the year but took on crowd control duties at the fairgrounds for the extra cash during the summer, tossed the third of the heavy folded tables onto the ground next to me.

  “Here’s the last of them, Mrs. Brightman.”

  He leaned over, trying to catch his breath. He pushed his thick bifocals farther up on the bridge of his nose. They began to fog with sweat.

  “Thanks for your help, George,” I said, crawling over to the table and pulling out its legs.

  George was an occasional customer at Cinnamon’s Pies. He’d sometimes be one of the first customers in the morning, coming in before school started to grab himself a slice of pie for his lunch later in the day. George wasn’t a bad sort. He was your typical small-town, lower-level law enforcement type. He had a mustache and a beer belly, and on weekends, you could find him shooting beer cans out in the woods, recanting whoever was around with stories from his glory days back in the Marines.

  I always got the impression that George sort of just thought of me as the pie lady. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a woman who made her living in the kitchen, something I had a feeling he probably approved of. But I’d noticed that ever since I married the Sheriff of Pohly County, George had become infinitely nicer to me. He called me Mrs. Brightman, instead of Cinnamon, even though I hadn’t changed my maiden name to Brightman yet. When he came by the shop, he actually left tips. He even held the door open for me once when I ran into him at the Shell gas station convenience store.

  And now here he was, helping me set up my pie booth ahead of the Christmas River Rodeo set to start tomorrow. The Rodeo fairgrounds were swarming with vendors and fairground folks, most of whom could have used more help than I did. Still, George had made it a priority to make sure I got more assistance than I needed.

  Extra effort didn’t seem typical of George. And I half wondered if he thought being nice to me would get him some sort of in with the Sheriff’s Department.

  And not that I didn’t want to see folks move up in the world, but leaving a couple of dollars in a tip jar and shuffling around some tables wasn’t going to buy anything for him.

  I started lifting the fold-out table, pushing it over on its side. In less than a second, he was there to lift it up and put it in place.

  “Can I help you with anything else today, Mrs. Brightman?” he asked.

  “I think I’ve got it from here,” I said, draping a blue checkered cloth across one of the table tops. “Thanks for your help, though. I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem,” he said.

  He continued to linger, taking off his cowboy hat and squeezing it in his hands.

  “Sure is smoky today, isn’t it?” he said, squinting out across the fairgrounds and into the hazy film that had turned the sky the color of steeped tea.

  “Sure is,” I said.

  It was the small talk that everyone in Christmas River had been having for the past two months. About the smoke and the oppressing heat.

  “I heard they were evacuating the Cultus Lake area on account of another fire,” he said. “Sure’s been a wicked summer with all these fires.”

  “Sure has,” I said, smoothing out the table cloths. I started hanging the banner that said “Cinnamon’s Pies” in a twisty and playful font.

  George cleared his throat and shifted his weight between his feet.

  “So, uh, do you think the Sheriff’s Office has enough manpower for the Rodeo?” he asked.

  I knew it.

  So George was trying to get an in with the Sheriff after all. And he thought little ol’ impressionable Cinnamon Peters was gonna help him punch his ticket,

  I kept my answer vague, even though in all honesty, Daniel probably could have used extra help. Owen McHale, his right-hand deputy, was on vacation for a few weeks. He was taking Chrissy, my bakery assistant who he had met and become smitten with last winter, back home to Pittsburg to meet his family.

  That left Daniel with just a handful of deputies, including Trumbow, the former sheriff of Pohly County.

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I think they’ve got enough manpower, George,” I said. “They’ve got everybody working the event and running DUII patrols. Been planning for it a while now.”

  “Well, you just tell your husband that if he needs any extra help, that I’m his man,” he said, tapping his chest. “I’d be more than happy to help keep folks behaving well. I mean, that’s what I do for a living anyway, so if Sheriff Brightman needs me, I can be there like that.”

  He snapped his fingers and smiled a greasy smile.

  “That’s kind of you, George,” I said, trying to sound nicer than I felt. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to the Sheriff.”

  “Can I give you my number to give to him?” he asked.

  “I don’t think it’s necessary,” I said. “I’m sure he knows where to find you.”

  He smiled again.

  “That’s right,” he said. “He is the Sheriff.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer Mrs. Brightman. You have a lovely day.”

  George walked away, weaving in between vendor stands and people, heading over toward the corrals.

  I felt relieved to be alone again.

  Like I said. George wasn’t a bad sort. But I’d been used enough for one week. And I had better things to do this weekend than to lobby George’s case with Daniel.

  I started setting up the poles to hang up the awning, which would also eventually hold the menu sign. I was planning to serve my classics at the Rodeo. Mountain Cherry, Blueberry Cinnamon, Whiskey Apple, and Peach Blueberry. Full-proof classics that I hoped would be a hit with the rodeo crowd looking for some downhome authentic Christmas River comfort food.

  “Seems like you’ll sell a lot of pies this weekend.”

  The low voice immediately sent the hairs on the back of my neck on end.

  It was the same voice that had first spoken to me several weeks ago, asking if I’d be interested in having a story written about my pie shop and the classes I’d been offering.

  I turned around, the words escaping me as I peered into Erik Andersen’s face.

  He had his sandy blond hair slicked back, and he was wearing his usual silver-rimmed glasses. He was neatly shaven, and wore a collared shirt and a buttoned-up velveteen blazer that made him look like Dustin Hoffman, but looked positively dreadful in the September heat

  He had his trademark notepad in one hand.

  I couldn’t even pretend to be polite to this pip-squeak.

  “Did you get my messages?” he asked, stuffing the notepad into one of his blazer pockets.

  A trickle of sweat dribbled down the side of his face.

  “I didn’t listen to them,” I said. “There couldn’t have been anything worth listening to. Just more lies, I figured.”

  He looked away and sucked in some wind.

  “It wasn’t my intention to—” he started, but then trailed off. “What I mean is that I’m still going to write about your pie shop and the classes. But what happened between Mrs. Pugmire and Mrs. McSween that night was something that my editor wanted me t
o write up because of its relevance to the election. I had no choice but to write that story.”

  I shook my head.

  “We always have a choice, Erik,” I said, tying the other side of the banner to the awning pole. “You just chose to be an ass.”

  He paused before answering.

  “I never lied to you,” he said. “It happened, and it was news, Ms. Peters. And I think the people have the right to know about this rift between the wives of their mayoral candidates.”

  I just shook my head.

  I wasn’t any sort of expert in the field. But city councilor’s wives going head to head during a pie baking class seemed like a lot of tabloid hogwash to me. No matter how Erik justified it to himself.

  “You know, don’t bother writing that story about my pie classes,” I said. “I don’t want it. I don’t want anything more from you, Erik.”

  He was quiet for a moment. I adjusted the banner, trying to ignore him.

  “Well, that’s all then, I guess,” he finally said.

  I turned back to look at him. His expression was as cold as ever, but there was a hint of something in his eyes.

  Something like regret maybe? I didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter anyway.

  He should regret doing what he did.

  I turned back around.

  I heard the soft patting sound of his dress shoes against the dusty ground as he stalked away toward the rodeo arena. A few moments later, I glanced back after him. A man in a cowboy hat greeted him, and they started walking. The man was waving his arms, like he was showing the reporter around. Erik was taking notes.

  I sighed.

  I didn’t like being mean to people. It wasn’t really my nature. I’d become a pie baker not just because I loved pastry, but also because I loved comforting people. I kind of saw myself as a foodie psychologist sometimes. Helping people by providing them a little bit of love and soul in the form of comfort food. I didn’t listen to their problems, but my pie sure did. And I think sometimes, it went a ways toward solving those problems. More than an hour at a shrink’s office probably did.

  I hated being prickly and unpleasant to people. But Erik had brought that out in me. And he had it coming to him after what he’d done.