Missing in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Christmas River Cozy Book 9)

by Meg Muldoon

  “What?” I said.

  After a moment, he shook his head.

  “Aw, nothing,” he said. “It just reminds me of something your mother would have done. She wouldn’t have gotten a good night’s sleep if she thought she hadn’t properly thanked someone. It would drive her up the wall. Politeness was something she put a lot of stock in.”

  I knew that plenty of women hated it when they were told they were like their mothers. But in my case, since she had died when I was 13, it always made me feel good to hear that we were similar. Almost as if sharing those traits with her made it so her legacy continued on in some way.

  Warren leaned across the bar, and then pinched me on the cheek.

  “She’d be real proud of you, you know,” he said. “In fact, I’m sure she’s looking down from upstairs right now at her beautiful and successful daughter, just beaming with pride.”

  I felt my eyes dampen a little.

  But before it went any further, I cleared my throat and then waved my hand at him.

  “Now who’s blowing smoke?”

  He laughed, taking a swig of his beer.

  “I’d never, Cinny,” he said. “And besides, don’t you know it’s against the law to smoke in an Oregon drinking establishment?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “So if you’re not careful, someone’s going to report you.”

  He laughed.

  I had missed this banter with the old man. It seemed like it’d been far too long since we’d been able just to sit and chew the fat.

  He downed the rest of his beer and looked at my nearly-empty glass.

  “Another round?” he asked.

  “Are you trying to make me show up to work drunk, Grandpa?” I asked, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  “One of the perks of working for yourself, I should think,” he said. “You get to drink whenever you damn please.”

  I glanced back at the clock on the far wall behind me and then turned back toward him, shaking my head.

  “As much as I’d love to stay and have some more of this delicious brew, I’ve got to get going,” I said. “I promised Tiana I’d call the florist this afternoon and place a flower order.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “You know there’s always a beer with your name on it here.”

  I smiled and stood up, collecting my things. Then I went around the bar, and gave him a big hug like I hadn’t seen him in ages.

  I pecked him on his wrinkled cheek.

  “Say, what was all that for?” he asked, looking a little surprised by it.

  I shrugged.

  “Just because,” I said.

  He grinned, rubbing his cheek.

  “Well, it’s my lucky day. Just becauses are my favorite.”

  I waved goodbye, then headed for the front door. A moment later, I was out on the sidewalk, strolling back toward the pie shop, enjoying the fresh mountain breeze and the sound of locals and tourists bustling down Main Street.

  When I got back to the shop, I was surprised to find a fresh bouquet of pearly pink roses sitting in the kitchen, along with a note.

  “Love you, Pie Queen,” it read in Daniel’s distinct scrawl.

  I let out a happy sigh.

  Just becauses were my favorite, too.

  Chapter 13

  I glanced at the torn yellow paper resting on the steering wheel, and then ducked down to get a better look out the passenger’s window.

  The neglected, rusted old trailer didn’t have an address, but after idling outside the residence for a few moments longer, I concluded that this had to be the place.

  The home wasn’t much for decorations. But what decorations there were included a large, cracked, defunct Buddha fountain that sat near the front door, and several strings of faded and washed-out prayer flags straddling the small front yard.

  I tossed the piece of paper with the address next to the twine-wrapped pastry box on the passenger’s seat, then flipped the Escape, parking on the other side of the bumpy road. I sent a quick text message to Daniel just as a precautionary measure, letting him know where I was and that I would send him another text when I was done.

  Then I grabbed the box, got out of the car, and headed up to the trailer, navigating the sloped and uneven, pine needle-strewn ground as I did.

  It had taken me a couple of days to finally get my search for the Good Samaritan underway. Helping Tiana with some of her wedding planning, along with the fact that the pie shop had customers lining up around the block lately, had kept me busier than a bear in October. I’d only been able to steal away this afternoon because I’d asked Ian to come in and work a couple of extra hours today to cover for me.

  I paused for a second in front of the trailer, glancing around before going any further.

  Though the residence was only about 20 minutes south of Christmas River, it seemed as though it could easily be hundreds of miles away from any town. The place was nestled deep in the woods, and I wagered that the long dirt path that passed as a forest road during the summer was damn near impassable during the winter.

  It took a certain kind of person to live out here. A certain kind who didn’t want to be around others and who was hearty enough to live months at a time without needing anything or anyone or—

  “Don’t you move a single muscle, lady!”

  A deep, growl of a voice echoed from somewhere inside the trailer.

  Caught completely by surprise, I let out a muffled cry.

  Fear coursed through my body as I saw the flash of a rifle barrel through a window of the structure

  A moment later, the pastry box did a double back flip and hit the forest floor with a splatting sound.

  Chapter 14

  “Who are ya and what do ya want?!”

  I lifted my arms up above my head without realizing what I was doing.

  “Cinnamon Peters,” I said in a shaky voice.

  The thought of that barrel being aimed dead at me from somewhere inside the trailer made my insides tremble.

  “I think you know my grandfather – Warren?” I choked out. “You, uh, you used to work at the mill together? And, uh, I think you might recognize me too if you’d just come out here.”

  I shifted my weight between my feet nervously, internally kicking myself for coming out here in the first place on this foolish quest.

  There was a long silence from inside.

  Then, slowly, the front door creaked opened.

  I squinted into the dark doorway, catching a glimpse of the shaggy shoulder-length hair pulled back into a low pony-tail and the beard and the slim build of a man who looked to be about 5’9 or so. I saw the silhouette of the rifle as he placed it on the ground and leaned it against something.

  When he stepped out into the shadowy sunlight of the forest, I felt my spirits sink.

  “I know that old hound dog Warren, all right,” Rattlesnake Henry said, scratching his head. “But I can’t say I’ve ever met you before, sister.”

  I bit my lower lip to keep from letting out a sigh.

  Rattlesnake Henry wasn’t the Good Samaritan who’d been up at the pass that day.

  “I, uh, I thought you might be someone I was looking for.” I said nervously. “I mean, I guess I was mistaken. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  He walked down the sloped path of his front yard slowly, limping slightly and eyeing me suspiciously. As if he was deciding whether I was who I said I was, or if I was a secret government agent here to collect information on him.

  After what felt like forever, he let out a short cackle.

  “You’ve got the old dude’s nose,” he said. “I always thought that nose was foolish on him. But it’s funny – on you, it actually looks pretty.”

  I smiled a relieved smile, consciously feeling my nose flatten with the effort.

  “Well, thanks I guess,” I said.

  I supposed it was a compliment – even if it was at Warren’s expense.

  “Sorry if I scared ya,” he contin
ued. “I don’t believe in guns. But living out here, sometimes you need one. Plenty of unsavory types running around these woods.”

  I felt goosebumps at the back of my neck and a shiver ran down my spine when he said that.

  Though Christmas River was idyllic and for the most part, safe, once you got a little ways outside of town, you ran into the same problem that plagued many rural areas in the state. Meth houses were a big issue, and often the deep dark woods attracted types of folks you wouldn’t want to find yourself alone in an alleyway with.

  “Sorry to bug you, Rattlesnake,” I said. “I’ll just be on my way now if that’s okay.”

  I found that all I wanted to do was get out of there and back on the road.

  I left the damaged pie in the driveway and started walking away, trying not to betray how badly I really wanted to leave.

  I was sure I had spooked Rattlesnake by appearing in his yard unannounced. But that still didn’t mean I liked having a rifle aimed at me. Or that I wanted to stick around here any longer than I had to.

  I guess Warren’s description of Rattlesnake – that he was just a peace-loving hippy living in the woods – had caused me to let my guard down.

  “Aw, don’t go scurrying off now, lady,” he said, obviously reading my thoughts. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You see, I’m not used to surprise visits. About the only person who visits me anymore is a veteran buddy of mine who lives in town. And he’s been too busy lately to stop by much. You just caught me unawares.”

  I stopped walking and turned around.

  “Say, what’s that pink thing?” he asked, nodding to the abandoned pastry box in the driveway.

  “Well, it was a pie,” I said. “Now, though, I wager it’s what you might call pandowdy.”

  “Pandowdy?” he said.

  “That’s what they call a pie that’s ruined, but still tastes good.”

  Rattlesnake scratched his head.

  “Aw, that’s right,” he said, as if something had just occurred to him. “You’re the lady with that pie shop in town. Are you here trying to sell something?”

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I said. “Like I said, I was looking for somebody. But I got the wrong address.”

  “And you were bringing that pie for this somebody?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He frowned slightly.

  “And you dropped it on my account?”

  I shrugged.

  “Sorry,” he finally said, looking down sheepishly.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “But I think now I should be on my way—”

  “How about some Blueberry Kombucha for your trouble?”

  I paused, trying to figure out a way to get out of the offer without sounding rude.

  “Thanks, but I’m afraid I really better get—”

  “C’mon,” he said. “I want to hear what trouble that grandfather of yours is getting into these days. Is it true that he started a brewery?”

  I nodded.

  “And is it also true that he’s married a woman half his age?”

  “Not exactly half,” I said. “But that’s more or less true, too.”

  He motioned over to a couple of old vinyl lawn chairs beneath the frayed prayer flags.

  “C’mon,” he said. “I make the Kombucha myself. They call it the tea of immortality. I drink it every day and haven’t come down with a cold or the flu for 20 years. Sit a while and have some, why don’t you.”

  I bit my lower lip, glancing back at my car out on the road.

  I supposed that it wouldn’t kill me to stay and chew the fat with the man for a few minutes.

  After all, it seemed like he was a little lonely and he obviously didn’t get too many visitors.

  And lord knows, I was probably better than most at chatting it up with crazy old men.

  Chapter 15

  It turned out that Rattlesnake’s name still fit him.

  Though he no longer seemed to be a biter, he did use his mouth quite a lot.

  I glanced at the clock on the far wall of the pie shop’s kitchen and clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  Thanks to Rattlesnake Henry’s ceaseless tongue-wagging, I was going to be stuck making pies long into the evening.

  The man had warmed up and had been pleasant enough, and though his homemade Kombucha tasted a little funny, I was willing to buy into its supposed health benefits. Rattlesnake was definitely the type who marched to the beat of his own drum. And part of that marching involved plenty of long, convoluted stories that seemed as though he’d been waiting half a century to tell someone.

  In the nearly two hours that I’d been there, I’d learned plenty about old Rattlesnake’s service in the Vietnam War and how it had changed his outlook about the importance of all life, big and small. I’d also heard about how he’d traveled throughout India and China in his forties and discovered yoga and Buddhism, thereby causing him to give up Christian holidays like Christmas and Easter. I also heard all about his reasons for living the life of a recluse, and why he had elected to focus on his spiritual path.

  All in all, by the time I finally was able to politely excuse myself from the presence of Rattlesnake Henry, the sun was sitting low in the sky, and I’d had nearly two full glasses of the Kombucha – not to mention the pieces of strange homemade kale jerky he insisted I try as well. When I finally stood up and left, I had pronounced stretch marks on the back of my legs where the vinyl lawn chair had dug into me for two hours.

  It wasn’t exactly how I had expected to spend my afternoon. And that kale jerky wasn’t sitting quite right in my gut. But overall, I didn’t have much to complain about. I hadn’t gotten shot. And, I had probably brought a little bit of joy into Rattlesnake’s quiet life by taking the time to listen to his numerous stories. Maybe in a way, by searching for the Good Samaritan who had helped me up at the mountain pass, I had done some Good Samaritaning of my own.

  That’s what I told myself anyway as I shot Daniel a quick text message to let him know I’d be late tonight and that I wouldn’t be home in time to make dinner like I thought.

  Maybe Warren was right – maybe the Good Samaritan up at the pass had pulled away so quickly because he didn’t want anything in return and didn’t want to be found. Maybe I should respect that, and instead, find a way to pass that good spirit onto the next person I found in need.

  I dusted my hands off on my apron, hooked my phone up to the music system, and put on The Spinners before getting down to business and whisking up a batch of Marionberry Cream Cheese Swirl pies.

  Tiana, Ian, and Tobias had all gone home for the day, and I was all alone in the pie shop. Well, not exactly alone – Huckleberry and Chadwick were outside on the back porch, enjoying the fresh early autumn breeze rustling through their fur. I was enjoying some of that too, as I had left the back door open to let some of that cool breeze into the warm and toasty pie shop.

  Outside, dusk was falling fast as the last strokes of sunset faded. The fact that nightfall was coming so early tonight caught me off guard, the way it sometimes did this time of year.

  I hummed along to “Living a Little, Laughing a Little,” and pulled out several cartons of fresh marionberries from the refrigerator. Something about seeing the teal-colored cartons – stained with the ruby-black juice of the berries – never failed to conjure up a nostalgic, excited feeling deep within me. It reminded me of when I was a kid. How in the days before returning back to school, my mother would sometimes take me out along the forest roads up in the Christmas River wilderness to go collecting plump, juicy marionberries. Often times, we’d go home and make pies with our winnings. Or other times, we’d make batches of delicious, juicy jam that my mom saved and gave out to the neighbors as gifts at Christmastime.

  I poured the cartons of marionberries into a large bowl with some sugar and lemon juice, and started stirring the ingredients together with a wooden spoon.

  I let out a short sigh, suddenly overcome with
a sharp feeling of sadness. I felt a twinge of pain in my chest. It was an old, familiar wound – one that still flared up sometimes. One that had been flaring up often lately.

  I’d been thinking a lot about my mom over the past few months. Ever since my birthday back in June. And though I had done my best to focus on the good things I remembered about her – things like picking berries together or making jam – one thought in particular seemed to be haunting me in recent weeks.

  She had been so young when she died.

  I knew that at the time, of course. But lately, I’d come to a new understanding about it all.

  Because now, I was the same age that she was when she had her fatal accident. And the thought of her dying at this age, with still so much of life she should have had ahead of her, it just…

  I shook my head.

  I’d made fun of Kara earlier that week when she’d been talking about Laila Mae growing up so quickly, but she’d been right – life did go by so fast.

  Too fast.

  I felt that old sadness welling up inside of me, and I knew that if I didn’t stop thinking about my mom soon, I’d have trouble getting the work done that I needed to tonight.

  I cleared my throat, shook out my arms, and went over to the stereo to change the song. I returned to the bowl of marionberries, and started singing loudly along to “Mighty Love.” I brushed away a lone tear drop, and started stirring the berries quickly.

  There was no use in thinking about any of it. It had been an accident. A terribly sad, tragic accident—

  I dropped the wooden spoon in my hand suddenly as I heard a loud noise coming from the pie shop’s front door.

  I went over to the stereo and turned down the music. Huckleberry and Chadwick scrambled into the kitchen, barking ferociously at the unexpected sound.

  A second later, I heard it again. Except this time, it was much louder. And there was no mistaking that somebody was deliberately out there making it.

  I herded the dogs back outside to the deck and closed the door. Then I left the kitchen, heading for the empty dining room.

  I just hoped it wasn’t Rattlesnake, coming into town because he had another long-winded story to tell me.