Menace in Christmas River (Christmas River 8)

by Meg Muldoon

  “I’ll see you on the stage at 12:30, Ms. Peters,” she said. “That is, if I don’t totally lose my mind before then.”

  I smiled warmly, surprised by her attempt at humor.

  She turned and walked away toward the front doors of the auditorium, moving quicker than a sparrow in a lightning storm.

  Chapter 16

  It was a miracle, but somehow despite the treacherous conditions of the roads and the parking lot, just about every contestant had made it to the auditorium with their chocolate masterpieces intact.

  And as I strolled through the circular space, watching as serious-looking competitors in chef’s bibs and tall white hats set up their sweet creations, I felt my heart lift a little bit and some of the stress from earlier in the day leave me.

  There were swirly hearts, playful cupids, towering chapels, graceful swans, entwined wedding rings, dancing musical notes, and elegant figures ice skating along glassy rinks.

  All of these things had been expertly crafted out of white, dark, and milk chocolate, dyed in a variety of rich and aesthetically-pleasing colors.

  I was astounded beyond words at the beautiful sculptures taking shape in the auditorium around me. There were some true masterpieces in the mix. I realized that I’d been spending far too much time embroiled in the politics of the Chocolate Championship and had been missing out on the big picture altogether.

  I suddenly felt very glad to be at the event, and to have a chance to see such beautiful demonstrations of culinary artistry.

  “Well, I guess they let just anybody into this event,” a hearty, familiar voice said.

  I smiled and turned around, already knowing who was standing there.

  “Well I guess you would know, wouldn’t you?” I shot back.

  That sent the big man reeling into one of his hallmark wheezing laughing fits that just about every resident of Christmas River had heard at one time or another.

  Marty Higgins – the town’s premiere handyman, who I had called many a time whenever one of the ovens was on the fritz or the water pressure went haywire – stood there stroking his long grey beard, his eyes full-on twinkling.

  “I guess you’re right, Mrs. Brightman,” he said. “I’m not one to talk.”

  I leaned forward and gave the pudgy man a big hug, minding the tool belt circling his waist that held among other things a rather bulky hammer.

  He chuckled, his big body reverberating heartily.

  “And here I thought you’d gotten too good to give old Marty a hug, what with you being such a celebrity now.”

  I pulled away, slapping his back as I did.

  “Never, Marty,” I said, grinning.

  In his mid-fifties, Marty was the epitome of politeness, good cheer, and generosity. Additionally, the man loved pie. Meaning that sometimes in the past, he had let me pay him in Blueberry Cinnamon whenever I needed something fixed at the shop.

  “Are you here for work or leisure?” I asked.

  Marty was often called in during city events like the Gingerbread Junction – where I had first met him twenty years ago.

  “Work, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m here to assist should any of the contestants need a hand during set up.”

  He paused for a moment, then smiled.

  “‘Course, just because I’m working don’t mean I can’t have some fun too, am I right?”

  He let out a deep-throated chuckle, then tapped me lightly on the shoulder.

  “Say, I’m glad I ran into you here, because there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Cin,” he said, crossing his arms over his large gut and leaning back on his heels.

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “Did you put something special into that Mocha Pecan Pie of yours this past Christmas?”

  “Nothing that I don’t normally,” I said, shrugging.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “The wife and I could have sworn there was a little magic in that pie. Best damn pecan pie I’ve ever had. And that’s not an easy thing, since it was already the best damn pecan pie I’ve ever had to begin with.”

  I grinned.

  “Aw, now you’re just blowing smoke, Marty,” I said. “Trying to win brownie points with the judge, no doubt.”

  I winked.

  “Maybe I am, but it don’t mean that I’m blowing smoke,” he said.

  “I appreciate the compliment, Marty,” I said, letting out a sigh. “Let’s just hope I’m as good at baking pies as I am at judging.”

  “Are you kidding, girl?” he said. “You’re as fair as they come. And frankly, as far as I’m concerned, you’re the one who’s the celebrity chef at this here event. Not that Cliff what’s-his-name.”

  “Copperstone.”

  “Yeah… Copperstone. He don’t hold a flame to you, cupcake. And I’m sure I’m not the only one in this auditorium who feels that way.”

  Marty Higgins was just about the only person who could call me cupcake and get away with it. Mostly because I knew he didn’t mean anything demeaning by it, and I also knew that his heart was in the right place.

  “There you are – blowing smoke again, Marty,” I said wryly.

  He shrugged his big shoulders.

  “I told you, I don’t do that,” he said. “As you dang well know, I quit smoking fifteen years ago.”

  I kept smiling.

  He looked over my shoulder suddenly, then got that look that I’d seen him get when he saw something that needed fixing.

  “Well, Cin, I better get back to work here,” he said, patting his tool belt. “But you knock them dead like you always do, all right, cupcake?”

  “Thanks, Marty.”

  He nodded, giving me another smile before passing by and heading toward the back of the auditorium.

  Even as he left, I was still beaming.

  Marty Higgins just had that kind of effect on people. He could lift your spirits with just a nod. In a lot of regards, he reminded me of a younger version of Warren.

  And for some reason, I suddenly felt a lot better about being here, judging the competition.

  Like maybe some of what he’d said was true.

  Like maybe I really did belong at the judges’ table.

  Of course, once I saw the time, that good feeling quickly faded.

  The clock on the far wall of the auditorium was ticking to the tune of 12:37, and as I squinted at the stage, I could see Julie, Holly, Cliff, and Councilwoman Tunstall standing up there, waiting impatiently for the third judge to show up.

  I pulled on my vest and weaved my way through the crowded auditorium.

  Maybe I imagined it, but I felt as though Cliff and Julie were glaring at me the entire way.

  Chapter 17

  “This has absolutely no originality at all. A five-year-old with limited motor skills could do a better job than Ms. Babcock did with her sculpture,” he said, leaning back. “Additionally, it’s quite clear that this woman didn’t have the foggiest idea about how to temper chocolate properly.”

  He scoffed.

  “Frankly, I’m amazed that she even had the gall to enter this in the Championship.”

  I bit my lip, feeling a surge of anger rising up in my chest as Cliff Copperstone ripped apart local chef Lucy Babcock’s “Love in the Time of Snow” chocolate sculpture like he was a grizzly bear coming out of hibernation.

  I knew that part of judging was critiquing the work. But Cliff was going past critiquing and into levels of nastiness that were completely uncalled for.

  When I’d finally made it to the stage at 12:38 and had joined Julie, Holly, and the judges, Cliff had given me what could only be described as the cold shoulder. Whether it was out of embarrassment for his actions the night before, or out of indifference, he had barely acknowledged my existence. Instead, he preferred to make mean and cruel comments under his breath about each chocolate sculpture as we made our way around the auditorium.

  “I completely agree, Cliff,” Councilwoman Eleanor Tunstall said quietly, scribbling something
on her clipboard’s scoresheet. “It just doesn’t look like Ms. Babcock was able to execute her idea properly.”

  Perhaps because she was in a world somewhat foreign to her, or perhaps because she was trying to win points with Cliff Copperstone, the councilwoman appeared to have lost her backbone since the judging began. She agreed with nearly everything Cliff said, and hadn’t come up with one original thought of her own since we started.

  “I’m giving it 2.1 out of 10 in total,” Cliff rasped to us, while simultaneously smiling at a visibly thrilled and star-struck Lucy Babcock. “Utterly uninspired.”

  So far, I hadn’t said anything to disagree with Cliff and his cruel musings. But I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer.

  “I don’t think you guys are seeing the amount of work that Lucy put into her sculpture,” I said. “Do you see the loving expressions on the faces of the snowman and snowwoman? The way they’re looking at each other, completely lost in each other’s eyes? It’s not easy to create so much detail with something as tempermental as chocolate.”

  Cliff’s eyes flashed, and he leaned forward toward me

  “One thing you learn when you get to a certain level, Cynthia, is that it doesn’t really matter how much time and energy you put into something,” he said in a low voice. “If something’s bad, it’s just plain bad. And even though Ms. Babcock might have spent a good deal of time on this doesn’t mean she should just be handed the first place award.”

  I thought I could feel steam coming out of my ears.

  Cliff’s condescending turn of phrase made my hands curl up into fists at my sides.

  “I disagree,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking with anger. “And if you call me Cynthia again, Cliff, we’re going to have a bit of a problem.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, smugly. “I’ve never been good with names. Remind me, what is it again?”

  I was certain he already knew it and was calling me Cynthia just to irritate me further.

  “It’s Cinnamon.” I said. “And you better—”

  “Come, come,” Eleanor said, stepping between us as if we were about to brawl. “This is all in the spirit of fun, remember? We can have our different opinions without fighting, can’t we?”

  I met Cliff’s eyes again. That smug smile was still plastered across his face.

  “Let’s move on, Cinnamon,” he said.

  The way he said it made me want to do something wild, like smack a celebrity chef across the face in front of hundreds of people.

  But before I let things get out of control, I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes for a split second, and tried to calm down.

  Eleanor was right: this was just supposed to be in the spirit of fun. It was just a competition. A competition I wasn’t even competing in, nonetheless.

  There was no reason to take it so seriously.

  When I opened my eyes again, Cliff was no longer standing there, having moved on down the line to the next chocolate piece.

  And I had found a much better face to look at.

  Across the room, staring at me from the crowd of spectators, was none other than Sheriff Daniel Brightman.

  His cheeks were bright red on account of having just come in from the cold, and his hair was somewhat disheveled, but none of that bothered me none.

  Like Aloe Vera on a sunburn, seeing Daniel’s face cooled my frustration.

  He gave me a soft smile and a nod when our eyes met, and I suddenly felt a peaceful sense of ease take its place.

  I hadn’t expected to see him here, what with all the problems the storm had caused out on the highways. I knew that the Sheriff’s Office was most likely swamped with calls. But somehow, Daniel had managed to carve some time out to come see me judge the competition.

  And damn, if that didn’t mean a lot to me.

  And damn if it didn’t mean a lot to me seeing the lady standing near him, too, here to support me as well.

  Good old Kara.

  I smiled back at both of them, then marked a 7.5 out of 10 on my scorecard for Lucy Babcock’s “Love in the Time of Snow” chocolate sculpture.

  I might not be able to stop Cliff from being rude and cruel to the contestants.

  But I could do everything in my power to be fair and honest and true in my own judging.

  And that was just going to have to suffice.

  Chapter 18

  “Now this… this is something special.”

  Cliff circled Chef Ryan Cooley’s white chocolate castle like he was a smitten art collector.

  “I completely agree, Cliff,” Eleanor said, without missing a beat. “This is a beauty.”

  I chewed on the end of my ballpoint pen, studying the work for a long, long time.

  The chocolate castle sculpture, entitled “Once Upon a Time…” was beautiful. Ryan, a San Diego pastry chef, had managed to create three chocolate stories, complete with two elegantly-crafted turrets that I knew from first-hand experience couldn’t have been easy to construct. Additionally, two figures which looked like a king and a queen, stood in front of the castle, holding chocolate hands as they surveyed their kingdom.

  But as I gazed at the piece, something about it just didn’t click for me.

  It took me a moment to figure out what was wrong with it.

  I glanced at Ryan Cooley – the short, intense-looking 20-something-year-old who didn’t seem to know how to smile. Then I looked back at his art piece.

  It was beautiful and artistic to be sure. I agreed in that sense with Cliff and Eleanor.

  But there was just something missing.

  It lacked the main ingredient that was a requirement of every single art piece, whether it was made by an amateur or a seasoned veteran.

  Ryan’s chocolate castle lacked heart.

  It just looked too perfect. Too architectural. Too much of a cliché about what love was supposed to be.

  And much like its name, the piece just didn’t have enough originality.

  “Well done, Mr. Cooley,” Cliff said.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, puffing out his chest with pride. “That means a lot coming from someone as esteemed and well-respected as you.”

  He smiled for the first time, but only at Cliff.

  It was clear to me that Ryan Cooley was trying to brown-nose the celebrity chef, and for some reason, that made me dislike his chocolate work even more.

  “It really is quite spectacular,” Eleanor added. “I don’t know if I’ve seen anything like it before.”

  I saw Cliff make a few notes, and then saw Eleanor follow suit.

  I would have bet fifty bucks that the two of them had given Ryan’s chocolate sculpture a full 10 out of 10.

  I gazed at the castle a few moments longer, trying to see what it was that the other two judges saw.

  But try as I might, I just couldn’t believe that this was the winner.

  I quickly filled out the ballot, giving him a total of 7.5 points out of ten. The same as Lucy Babcock’s “Love in the Time of Snow” sculpture.

  Because while that one hadn’t been executed nearly as well, I could see at least that Lucy had put some heart into it.

  “I don’t want to jump the gun before we’re done judging every work,” Cliff said quietly to us. “But I think we may have found our winner here.”

  Not if I have a say in it, I thought, moving on down the row while Cliff and Eleanor continued to ogle the cliché castle.

  Though I knew that the sad truth of the matter was that I would most likely be overruled. As long as Cliff and Eleanor were in agreement, it was quite possible that Ryan Cooley’s castle would be declared the win—

  I stopped mid-thought as my eyes fell upon the next contestant’s sculpture.

  “Oh, wow,” I said, the exclamation escaping my mouth without me having any real say in the matter.

  Two beautifully-sculpted, ornately-detailed, pure white horses trotted along on a velvety white chocolate road speckled with red and pink hearts. A chocolate man and
woman sat atop the horses. The woman was dressed in a silvery-dyed chocolate gown and wore a silver chocolate crown to match. The man was dressed in what looked to be a dark chocolate pirate’s outfit. The figures’ hands gripped the reins of their horses as they both leaned in toward each other, engaged in a perfect, sultry, beautiful, passionate chocolate kiss.

  The emotion conveyed in the lovers’ faces was so heartfelt and deep, I could almost feel the love radiating from the sculpture.

  And as I studied it further, I realized it wasn’t just a typical kissing scene either.

  Something about the princess’s expression was different. It looked both full of passion, and somehow full of anguish as well.

  And I suddenly noticed that there was a small chocolate tear running down her face.

  I had trouble keeping my mouth from dropping open in complete and utter astonishment.

  The sculpture must have taken ages to make, not to mention the number of specialized chocolate candy molds it must have required. And more than that, the amount of skill that it took to create something as spectacular as this was—

  “I’m so sorry I was away,” a woman’s voice sounded from somewhere over my shoulder. “I thought I had time for a quick bathroom break. But boy, you judges are really moving fast!”

  The woman cleared her throat.

  “I’m Samantha Garner, by the way. I’m a homemaker from Tacoma, Washington.”

  I pulled my eyes away from the stunning art piece. Standing there, taking ownership of the work, was an unassuming woman with large, deep-set eyes. Her dark hair was thrown up in a sloppy, makeshift pony tail, and while I was no fashionista by any stretch of the imagination, the woman was dressed messily too, clad in an oversized olive green barn coat over an ill-fitting faded white t-shirt and a pair of light-colored jeans. She also wore a pair of tennis shoes that were faded and cracked and had clearly seen better days.

  She stood in stark contrast to the majority of the contestants, who were dressed in iron-pressed chef’s jackets.

  But as it was, this wasn’t Project Runway. It was the Chocolate Championship Showdown. The woman could have been dressed in her pajamas, and her creation would still have been hands-down the most beautiful, well-crafted, heartfelt chocolate sculpture in the auditorium.