Menace in Christmas River (Christmas River 8)

by Meg Muldoon

I turned off the burner, letting the melted chocolate cool slightly. Then I went over to the refrigerator and pulled out one of the Lemon Gingersnap pies that I had made earlier along with a bowl of freshly-whipped cream. I made my way back to the center island and grabbed a knife out of the woodblock. I cut a big slice of the sweet and tart pie, and placed it on a plate with a fork. I topped it off with a healthy dollop of whipped cream, and pushed it toward my best friend.

  “If you think a slice of that pie is going to make up for—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupted, hoping those two little magical words would put the issue to bed, the way they usually did in these situations. “You’re right, I should have told you last night. Because we are besties.”

  “Damn right you should have told me first,” she said, grabbing the fork and digging into the lusciously smooth and creamy pie in one sweeping motion. “You being a judge at the Chocolate Championship Showdown? And not only that, but judging alongside the Cliff Copperstone? Well, that’s the biggest news to hit Christmas River since… since…”

  She stuffed a giant forkful of pie into her mouth.

  “Since ever,” she said, sounding like a competitor in the final round of Chubby Bunny.

  I chuckled.

  “I wouldn’t say ever,” I said, smiling. “But I guess it is a pretty big deal.”

  “Seriously, Cin. You need to have your heart rate checked,” she said, going in for another bite. “I’d be losing my mind if I were you right now.”

  She reached across and playfully pushed my shoulder back.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

  Tiana’s eyes grew as big as a pair of beach balls at Kara’s aggressive movement. A moment later, she had quickly exited the kitchen, going into the dining room with a stack of fresh blueberry pies.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” I grumbled, watching the dividing door swing back and forth. “You scared Tiana away. And probably all the guests in the dining room, too, for that matter.”

  Kara was unfazed.

  “So how did they ask you to judge?” she said, moving on. “Did they call you or—”

  I shook my head.

  “They asked me to their committee meeting last night up at the Lone Pine Resort.”

  “Ooh!” Kara said, her eyes lighting up. “Fancy.”

  “You know Julie Van Dorn? The lady who used to do PR for the county?”

  “You mean that floozy who went to the Children’s Benefit last year dressed like a brothel madam?”

  Floozy might have been taking it a little far, and saying she looked like a brothel madam was mighty harsh. But I wasn’t going to argue with my best friend on those finite points.

  “Well, she has her own public relations firm now and was hired to handle the publicity and some of the event planning for this year’s Chocolate Championship. Her assistant came here to the pie shop last night and told me that the committee wanted to see me,” I said. “The Bundt cake lady had to pull out because of an emergency at home.”

  Kara finished the last of the pie, and I could tell that she was going to need another slice.

  She never could resist the Lemon Gingersnap, and it was a rare occasion when she stopped at just one helping.

  I grabbed her plate and lopped on another serving of the creamy, pale yellow pie.

  “When did you find out that Cliff Copperstone was going to be one of the judges?” she said.

  “When I saw him at the meeting last night.”

  Kara’s mouth dropped open in complete shock.

  “He was there? You actually met him?”

  I handed her the plate and nodded.

  “Cinnamon Anne Peters!” she shouted again in a shrill tone, but this time there was a bright smile on her face.

  “Oh my gosh… What’s he like? Is he as handsome as he looks on TV? Does he have those cute dimples in real life too? Is that neck tattoo as sexy as it looks on…”

  Kara launched into a barrage of giddy questions. So many, that I didn’t even know where to begin.

  I struggled to answer her.

  “He’s… uh… he’s…”

  I scratched my chin, leaning forward on the kitchen counter.

  “Well…”

  I couldn’t exactly say the man was nice. Nor could I say that he wasn’t nice. In fact, I’d been so star-struck, I wasn’t sure if I’d actually been breathing the few times he’d said something to me.

  Kara let out a frustrated grunt.

  “Use your words, Cinnamon Peters!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the rabidity in her tone.

  “Okay, I guess to answer the first question, he looks exactly like he does on TV.”

  “You mean he’s good-looking.”

  “I guess you might say that.”

  “And what else?” she said, lifting her eyebrows.

  “And… and his neck tattoo is there… ”

  Kara and I had two different perspectives on the tat. She seemed to think it added to his good looks. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure.

  Kara waited for more, but when she realized that was all I had, she let out a long, dissatisfied grumble.

  “That’s it?” she said.

  I shrugged.

  “His teeth are shiny,” I added. “He didn’t smile, but he almost smiled when we shook hands, and when he did, his teeth shone.”

  Kara clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  “That’s the worst description of a man I’ve ever heard in my life, Cin,” she said. “Shiny teeth? What do I care about shiny teeth?”

  I had thought my description had been pretty good given the situation I’d been in, but I supposed it wasn’t up to Kara’s standards.

  “Well, you can see for yourself on Sunday,” I said, going back over to the melted dark chocolate, and adding a good helping of butter and heavy whipping cream to it. “You’re still coming, right? Even though I won’t be competing?”

  “Of course,” she said. “And doubly of course if I get to meet Cliff Copperstone.”

  Then, as if it had just sank in, her face scrunched up and she made a little squealing sound.

  “Ooh!” she said. “I’m so excited! Here I thought it was just going to be a bunch of stuffy, boring cooks in white hats. But suddenly here I am, about to meet a real life celebrity chef.”

  I smiled to myself, shaking my head slightly.

  “Do you know if he’s married?” she said, her eyes as big as pizza pies.

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “But you are.”

  She grinned coyly.

  “I was just wondering,” she said. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize everything I have. Not when I’m so happy with my life.”

  “I know,” I said. “I was just joking.”

  “Still…” she said, feigning a faraway, dreamy look in her eyes.

  I clicked my tongue against my mouth. But then smiled at her.

  She finished off the last bite of pie. Then she began pressing the back of her fork against the plate, getting every last cookie crust crumb.

  “Okay, Cin,” she said. “You’re forgiven. But don’t let something like that happen again, all right? I’m the first person you call when you have news. Especially if it involves a celebrity chef here in Christmas River. And especially when it’s a looker like Cliff Copperstone. Agreed?”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “From now on, you’ve got a monopoly on all my headlines. Happy?”

  Her lips curled up into a smile.

  “Now, is that too much to ask?”

  Sometimes, I wondered if Kara wasn’t trying to give old Moira Stewart a run for her money and become the town’s premiere gossip.

  She licked the back of her fork some more and then I went over to the freezer and pulled out several bags of frozen cherries for the second layer of the HubbaHubba Pie.

  When I had returned, another slice of the Lemon Gingersnap had magically appeared on Kara’s plate.

  I
put the cherry bags down and watched her.

  She was halfway through her third piece of pie before she noticed.

  “What?” she said, her voice muffled by the pastry and creamy lemon filling. “I haven’t eaten anything all day, and it’s a damn sight windy outside, and you’re supposed to eat hearty during the winter to keep warm.”

  “You don’t need to explain,” I said.

  “And besides,” she said. “You started all this. Putting a plate of Lemon Gingersnap in front of me like that. What did you expect to happen? I’m no pillar of willpower, Cinnamon. It’s your own fault I ate half the pie.”

  I smiled and watched as she demolished the rest of the slice, amused as amused could be.

  I think I could have walked the earth for a thousand more years, and I still wouldn’t have been able to find a friend as loyal, fun, and entertaining as Kara.

  Chapter 8

  The bitter wind howled after me as I opened up the heavy brewpub door and stepped inside the cozy and familiar confines.

  I sucked in a deep breath of beer-tinged air, feeling its warmth circulate through my cold lungs. Then I stamped out the snow from my boots and untied the scarf from around my neck. Bits of the white stuff clung to the fabric, and I did my best to shake them out away from the pub’s hard wooden floor where they would melt and create more work for myself later in the evening.

  Things were starting to get downright nasty outside. Though there had been snow in the forecast, I hadn’t heard the weather man say anything about the gusts. Or about the severe drop in temperature.

  As I made my way through the crowded pub, I felt the color come back to my cheeks and felt them grow hot after being whipped so harshly by the wicked wind.

  It was Scottish Saturday at the pub – an idea that Warren had had to help trump up business during the long nights of winter, and as a way to win points with his Scottish wife, Aileen. And by the looks of the crowded house, Warren’s idea seemed to have been a good one. The place was jam-packed with folks in Scottish plaid looking to warm themselves up with some tasty Pacific Northwest beer and some friendly conversation. The Waterboys blared from the speakers, and the pub emanated a warmth that had as much to do with the crackling fireplace and good brews as it had to do with the fine folks running the establishment.

  At the moment, Geronimo Brewing Co. was what Warren would call hip-happening.

  “Cin, you look like you’ve just jumped out of the oven,” Warren said as I came around behind the bar and draped my jacket on the coat rack. “Your cheeks are redder than Rudolph’s nose!”

  “Yeah, they feel it, too,” I said.

  Warren craned his neck to get a better view of the front window that faced Main Street.

  He shook his head.

  “I smelled it coming all day,” he said.

  “Smelled what coming?”

  I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed an apron from beneath the counter.

  “The storm,” he said. “Weather folks think it’s going to be just a little guy. But I saw those clouds this morning. They were the color of blood and smelled like trouble. And what’s more, they were conspiring together.”

  He shook his head again.

  “I haven’t seen clouds quite like those in a long, long time,” he said. “I’d say we’re in for some pretty nasty weather these next few days. I just hope that the flight doesn’t get cancelled tomorrow.”

  A glum look came across my grandfather’s face.

  Warren had planned a special Valentine’s Day trip for him and his sweetie to Phoenix for a few days, and their flight was set to leave tomorrow morning.

  I glanced out the window past a row of customers into the dark night. Big, ominous clumps of the white stuff swirled beneath the glow of the streetlamps.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, trying my best to reassure him. “Once you get up out of the clouds tomorrow, it’ll be just pretty blue skies from here to Arizona.”

  He rubbed his chin, still looking out the window.

  “I wish I had your optimism, Cin,” he said. “Though I guess if our flight gets cancelled, then we’ll get a chance to see you judge at the Chocolate Showdown tomorrow.”

  He winked at me.

  “Aw, if I were you, I’d take some sun and quality pool time over the Chocolate Championship any day of the week,” I said.

  He put an arm around my shoulder and kissed the top of my head.

  “Did I tell you how proud I was of you?”

  I grinned, patting his back.

  “Yes, only about two dozen times or so,” I said.

  He chuckled some.

  “Well, I can’t help that I’m going senile,” he said. “But just so I remember this time, we’re so proud of you, Cinny Bee.”

  I felt myself practically beaming.

  “Thanks, old man,” I said. “It means a lot coming from you.”

  Good old Warren.

  After a moment of basking in the feeling, I tied the apron securely around my waist, preparing to get down to work.

  “How’s business been tonight?” I asked.

  “Hip-happening,” he said in a sing-song tone. “Folks around here love their Scottish Pub Nights.”

  I grinned.

  “Thanks again for helping out, Cinny Bee,” he said. “Gives Aileen a chance to make one last batch of the Spruce Stout before we head out tomorrow.”

  “It’s not a problem at all,” I said. “You know I’m always happy to help.”

  I saw a middle-aged man make googly eyes at me from across the bar the way customers tended to do when they’d been trying to get the bartender’s attention for a while.

  “Speaking of which, I better start helping out,” I said to Warren, nodding to the customer.

  “Just don’t work too hard, darlin,’” Warren said, grabbing a couple of pint glasses from behind the bar. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  I gulped hard at the thought.

  The nerves had already started in.

  Chapter 9

  I had never heard the brew pub so deathly quiet.

  In fact, I didn’t know if I’d ever heard any drinking establishment so quiet.

  But I supposed I had never been in any bar or pub when a famous person walked through the front doors.

  The Proclaimer’s “Over and Done With” filled the hushed void that the patrons’ evaporating voices had left, and it seemed that every pair of eyes in the pub – including mine – were fixed on Cliff Copperstone.

  He sauntered slowly into the room, either oblivious to the stares, or used to such attention by now. Dressed in a long wool coat and a hipster designer collared shirt buttoned up to the neck, he threaded his way through the crowd, taking a seat at the only available barstool in the house. He casually flipped through the beer menu, and everybody watched him intently as if he was about to reveal the coordinates of the Fountain of Youth.

  I glanced over in the direction where I had last seen Warren. He appeared to be busy filling up pint glasses and was the only person in the place not paying the celebrity chef any mind.

  I supposed it was up to me to take the man’s order.

  I walked over, just as conversations in the small brew pub finally started to flow again.

  “Uh, hi there,” I said, wiping my sweaty palms off on my apron.

  He cocked his head to one side, and that neck tattoo of his made an appearance, peeking out from beneath his collar.

  “Do you run all the businesses in this little town?” he asked.

  I forced a smile.

  “Mostly just the pie shop,” I said. “But I help my grandfather with his brewpub here on occasion.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “So, how’s Christmas River been treating you so far?”

  “Not too good,” he said, taking off his jacket and draping it over his lap. “I hate the cold, and these mountain winds up here are the worst I’ve ever seen. Maybe except for that one time I got caught up in a snowstorm skiing i
n the Alps.”

  He let out a long breath, and I could tell that Geronimo Brewing Co. hadn’t been his first bar stop of the night.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cold out there. That’s for sure,” I said.

  He didn’t respond to my poor attempt at small talk. Instead, he turned his attention back to the menu. He retrieved a pair of black-framed, square-shaped glasses from the pocket of his coat, and put them on to get a better look.

  “How about a nice pint to stamp out the chill?” I said.

  “What do you recommend?”

  I paused for a moment, trying to think of a good answer.

  I wasn’t any beer expert, as was abundantly clear to just about everybody else in the brewpub. But I did have my own personal choices when it came to Warren and Aileen’s delicious beer selections.

  “Me? I’d go with the Spruce Stout,” I said. “It’s dark and rich, but it’s got a clean freshness to it that you don’t often find in stouts. And with its 6.5 percent alcohol content, I’d say it’s a good choice for a cold, stormy night in February. It’ll help you forget all about those mountain winds out there.”

  “Sure,” he said, the tone of his voice making it clear that he didn’t much care one way or the other for my description. “Whatever gets the job done is fine by me.”

  I went over to the draft station and filled up a pint glass for him with the dark, rich liquid, watching as a nice layer of foam formed on top. Then I went back over to him, about to set the pint back on the bar, when I noticed something strange.

  It was in his expression. As if I’d caught him in a moment of deep recollection. It was as if a shadow had suddenly passed across his face, and I was the only person in the place who saw it.

  He looked troubled, somehow.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling as though I was intruding on a private moment.

  “Here’s the Spruce Stout,” I said, placing it on a coaster and setting it in front of him.

  He handed me an American Express black card.

  I had never seen one in real life before, as nobody in Christmas River made the amount of money it would take to qualify for one.

  “Uh…would you like to close it out or open a tab—”

  “Leave it open,” he said, cutting me off.