Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

by Darci Hannah

  CHAPTER 2

  Dressed in the warmest snow gear money could buy, I convinced myself that there was still a good hour or two of daylight left. Wellington, covered in a double layer of long, silky black fur, loved the snow nearly as much as he loved lake water. It made him the perfect outdoor companion. With his bushy tail wagging happily, he followed me to the boathouse to retrieve a ladder. Yes, I had one. No, I had never used it. Then, with ladder in tow, we were ready to illuminate.

  The candy cane lights went in without a hitch. After they were all connected, I added an extension cord, set the timer, and plugged the line into the industrial outdoor power strip hidden behind a bush near the bakery entrance. Although I was summoning my inner Clark Griswold, I had no wish to blow a fuse or overload the power grid.

  I took a step back and marveled at how pretty the candy cane walkway looked. “See? I can do this,” I told Wellington, filling with pride. I gave him a pat on the head, then set to work on the bushes.

  The old lighthouse had been landscaped with hardy boxwoods and thick bushy yews. Although they looked battered, as if they had weathered many storms as they stood firm against the length of the lighthouse, a cape of sparkling net lights transformed them into a vision of wonder.

  “Wow,” I breathed aloud, clapping my near-frozen hands in delight. “What do you think? Magical, right?” But Welly wasn’t there. He was down by the walkway chewing on a giant candy cane light. Fear shot through me. They were plugged in! Seized by visions of an electrical explosion and singed dog fur, I let out a cry and ran after him.

  “No! Bad dog!”

  Wellington looked my way, thought it was a game, and ran with his prized candy cane clenched between his teeth. As he dashed for the light tower, the candy canes burst from the snow one by one, trailing in his wake.

  After a stern talking-to, and after trying to make the chewed candy cane look a little less eaten, I painstakingly set them up again along the walkway. Clearly, Wellington couldn’t be trusted near them. He was put on a leash for safekeeping.

  My fingers were beginning to freeze by the time I tackled the bright red awning that hung over the bakery window. Using the ladder for the first time, I was determined to finish the lights. Daylight had faded, the lights were rebelling, and Welly was whining at the end of his leash. I ignored it all to hang a strand of colorful lights in the shape of hard candies. I was nearly done when I began to hear things.

  Unbeknownst to me when I had purchased the historic building, it was rumored to be haunted. I didn’t believe in ghosts at the time, feeling there was always a logical explanation for peculiar happenings. However, last spring I had a personal encounter with the lighthouse ghost, Captain Willy Riggs. He was the first light keeper of the Beacon Harbor Lighthouse, and, for reasons of his own, he never left. Some might find that unsettling, but Wellington and I rather liked the fact that the captain was still on duty, guarding the old lighthouse he loved.

  Cold and exhausted as I was, I thought the captain might be speaking to me. On closer inspection, however, it was just the wind coming off the lake. Although Lake Michigan never froze completely, the shoreline was covered in wave-spume icicles. The ice tinkled and chimed with the undulating movement of the waves. The singsong cadence sounded more like a woman’s voice and not a man’s.

  Ignoring everything, I reached out as far as I could, gingerly trying to secure the strand of lights at the corner of the awning. They kept falling off. Infuriated, I reached out again, hanging on with the tips of my frozen glove. That’s when the voice spoke loud and clear.

  “Oooo, how lovely!”

  Wellington barked. It wasn’t until the ladder toppled and I found myself trapped in a snow-covered bush that I realized tying Welly’s leash to the ladder might have been a mistake.

  The concerned face of my dear friend, Betty Vanhoosen, peered down at me. Hers had been the voice I’d mistaken for the tinkling ice. And, quite frankly, I was happy to see her. Betty, in her early sixties, was one of Beacon Harbor’s most vivacious residents. She owned Harbor Realty, was president of the Chamber of Commerce, and was a shameless town gossip. She came to the bakeshop every morning before heading off to work, keeping me apprised of all the latest news. I reached out a gloved hand to her then I realized she hadn’t come alone. Giggling erupted before another face appeared, this one belonging to Felicity Stewart.

  Embarrassed, I waved. “Mind helping me out?”

  Felicity was another shop owner in Beacon Harbor. She was tall, willowy, married, and in her mid-forties. She also owned the first shop one saw when entering the town, a year-round Christmas shop called The Tannenbaum Shoppe. How she could summon Christmas cheer all year long was a mystery to me, but she did. My lighthouse bakery was on the opposite end of town, sitting watch over the harbor and the public beach. Between us were four whole blocks of shops and eateries, hotels and summer guesthouses.

  She kept giggling. “You’re in a bush!”

  My inner New Yorker would have sneered at her, snapping, “No duh, Sherlock!” But the new Lindsey, the kinder, bakery-owning Lindsey, choked down the insult. Instead I offered, “Thanks for noticing. Care to lend a hand?” Because I realized that I was stuck.

  “Why would you tie Wellington’s leash to the ladder? Are you hurt? Have you hung all these lights yourself? You really should have waited for Rory to help you with these.” Betty, true to form, shot out every question sitting on her tongue before making a move to help me. Honestly, the fact that she thought I needed Rory’s help was a tad more annoying than the woodsy branches stabbing my ribs. Why did everybody feel I needed his help?

  I propped myself up and tried to smile but grimaced instead. With labored breath, I offered, “He’s . . . ice fishing. In the U.P. I’ll make you both a steaming mug of cocoa if you get me out of here.”

  CHAPTER 3

  While Betty and Felicity settled at a café table, I shrugged off my coat and jumped to the kitchen. There I took out a saucepan, fired up the stove, and measured out the right amount of cocoa and sugar. Next, I went to the fridge and took out a gallon of whole milk. I added three cups of the milk to the sugar/cocoa mix, stirring over a medium flame until everything was blended. While the cocoa was heating, I poured heavy whipping cream into the mixer, added a quarter cup of confectioners’ sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla, and turned it on. While the sweet cream was whipping up nicely, I pulled a bar of milk chocolate out of the cupboard and shaved a handful of chocolate curls. Adding a dash of cinnamon to the cocoa to boost the chocolate flavor, I was ready to divide the rich mixture into three mugs. Each was then topped with thick whipped cream and chocolate curls. Welly, although no help with the lights, got a dollop of whipped cream in a dish nonetheless.

  “You really should have waited for Rory,” Betty remarked again, taking her mug. I had just shooed Welly into our living quarters, where I knew he’d curl up beside the fireplace until I locked up for the night. Betty continued, “You wouldn’t have landed in a bush if you had.” After a cautionary look, she took a sip of her cocoa. A smile of ecstasy came to her lips.

  I felt like growling at her remark but refrained. Instead, I took a seat and followed suit, soothing my vitriol with a whipped cream–filled swig of warm cocoa. Waiting for my limbs to thaw and the sugar to take hold, I finally replied, “I have a lot of lights to hang and thought I’d get a jump on it, but point taken. Hanging them is definitely not as much fun as throwing the switch and watching them shine.”

  Felicity, sporting a whipped cream mustache, set down her mug. “As your local Christmas aficionado, I approve your efforts. It’s about time this old lighthouse got a splash of holiday cheer. Imagine our surprise when we saw you fall into that bush!” She began to laugh again.

  I didn’t need to imagine; I had lived it. Then, watching her ridiculous whipped cream mustache quiver on her upper lip, I began to laugh as well.

  Betty was laughing at us both. Finally, she picked up her napkin. “Your lip, dear.” She pretended
to dab her own lip.

  “What?” Felicity brought a finger to the area in question, touched whipped cream, and stopped laughing. Embarrassed, she grabbed her napkin. “You put far too much whipped cream on your cocoa, Lindsey. At the Tannenbaum Shoppe, we serve our cocoa with marshmallows, which is the correct way. But I don’t expect you to know that. You own a bakery. You’re hardly a Christmas aficionado like me.” She curled her Christmas-red lips into a condescending smile.

  I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. I didn’t know Felicity well, but I did know that she had a tendency to be tightly wound and was a bit full of herself. But did she really think she owned Christmas? Before I could chime in, defending my cocoa and my exterior illumination, Betty piped up.

  “Why, there’s no right way to make hot cocoa, just as there’s no right way to celebrate Christmas. It’s a matter of traditions and preferences. Oooo, and speaking of Christmas traditions, have we got a surprise for you. Felicity and I were at the chamber meeting this afternoon.”

  With all the excitement of the Christmas lights, I had forgotten all about the chamber meeting. The town was putting the finishing touches on the Christmas festival. It was a town-wide tradition and the largest Christmas celebration in the area. This year the theme was Christmas cookies, something I could really get behind. And, being new to the town, I had already volunteered to donate sixteen dozen for the celebration.

  “We figured you were busy with the bakery.” Betty waved her hand at the empty bakery cases. “Without the help of an assistant baker, I really don’t know how you’re managing. That’s why we’ve come.”

  Felicity pushed her mug of cocoa away and flashed a toothy smile. “It’s the best news. I went ahead and spearheaded a little campaign of my own to get even more foot traffic in our charming downtown shops and restaurants. And tonight, it was not only approved, it was applauded.”

  Gripping my cocoa with both hands to get them warm, I tilted my head and looked at her. Without enthusiasm I uttered, “Wow. Applauded. So, what did you propose?”

  “A Christmas cookie bake-off!” Betty’s excitement was barely containable. Obviously, due to a scathing look from Felicity, Betty wasn’t supposed to have dropped the news. But this was Betty’s town. Oblivious that she had stepped on Felicity’s toes, Betty added, “And we’re calling it The Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off.” She waved her hand in a lofty arc as she said this. “Do you get it? It’s a parody of that delightful British baking show on television. Isn’t it brilliant? The press release has already gone out, and the banners are being printed as we speak.”

  My jaw dropped in question. Was I missing something? The Christmas Festival was only nine days away. “I understand that Christmas cookies are the theme this year, but when is this bake-off supposed to happen?”

  “At the festival. I know it’s short notice,” Felicity soothed, patting my hand with her finely manicured one. Her nails were Christmas red, and her diamond ring was spectacular. She was obviously on Santa’s nice list, I mused a bit darkly. She gave my hand a firm squeeze. “You’re a baker, so I’m counting on you to enter the bake-off and help spread enthusiasm about this event.”

  The mere thought of a Christmas cookie bake-off sent a new wave of sugarplum visions dancing through my head. My small exterior illumination blunder aside, which I blamed entirely on Wellington, I could almost taste victory. My family would be here to see me win. Rory would be here as well. I was positively electrified by the thought of pulling off a double holiday whammy—winning the first ever Beacon Harbor Christmas cookie bake-off, while hosting a postcard-perfect Christmas. I looked at Felicity with a whole new wave of admiration. “What a brilliant idea. Where’s the entry form?”

  Felicity forced a smile. “There is no entry form.”

  I turned my palms toward the ceiling in a look of extreme confusion. “Then how do I enter?”

  “Oh, oh, let me explain!” Betty, in the grip of a sugar buzz or simply sporting her genuine enthusiasm for the town, launched right in with the details.

  According to her, The Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off was a town-wide affair. Every shop owner in town was encouraged to offer a signature cookie for shoppers to sample as they wandered up and down the quaint, artfully decorated streets of the village. The shoppers would then cast their votes for their top four favorite cookies. On Friday night the votes would be tallied and the four winning cookie-bakers would get to compete in a live bake-off, to be held during the Christmas festival on Sunday. It was a lot to take in.

  “Lindsey, dear, you look a little pale,” Betty remarked. Before I could reply, she gave my cheek a quick and unexpected pinch.

  “Ouch!” I rubbed my cheek as I looked at her. “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe you’re not. You did fall off that ladder.” She held me in a look of motherly concern.

  “I was cushioned by a layer of outerwear and two feet of snow. No, what I’m stuck on is this Christmas cookie bake-off. You want every shop owner to provide free homemade cookies during the busiest week of holiday shopping?”

  “Of course.” Felicity grinned. “It’ll inspire Christmas cheer. I thought you, a baker, would be up for this.” With both red-nailed hands, she fluffed up her curls, then pulled her lips into a clownish frown. In an odd sort of way, that frown was a challenge.

  “Ooo! Ooo, and here’s the best part!” Betty, oblivious to the silent challenge that passed between Felicity and me, announced, “Felicity has secured Chicago celebrity food critic Chevy Chambers to judge our live bake-off. Can you believe our good fortune? Chevy Chambers is coming here—to judge us!”

  Unfortunately, that didn’t sound as good as Betty had meant it to. Or maybe it was just me and my jaded view of celebrity foodies. After all, the reason I had bought a run-down lighthouse on the shores of Lake Michigan to begin with was because of an up-and-coming celebrity foodie, namely my ex-fiancé, Jeffery Plank. My distrust of celebrity chefs and food critics aside, there was something else about this town-wide cookie bake-off that had my heart pounding away in my chest like a sledgehammer. Keeping free cookies in stock would require extra baking, and I was already shorthanded. How was I going to pull it off and make it into the bake-off?

  “This is a lot of extra baking for me. When does this start?”

  “Tuesday,” Felicity stated. “The winners will be announced Friday evening. Shouldn’t be too troubling for you. We at the Tannenbaum Shoppe aren’t quaking in our boots. That’s because we serve up Christmas cheer all year round.” Her condescending grin was just begging for my inner New Yorker to come out and play, but I kept her in check for Betty’s sake.

  “Just think of all the families flocking to our little lakeside village to partake in this unique and delicious Christmas celebration. Of course, bake your best cookies, my dears, but do be gracious. I have it on good authority that Santa Claus is watching.” This Betty punctuated with a cheeky wink.

  “I think it’ll be fun,” I said, getting to my feet. They were still a bit frozen. All I wanted at the moment was to warm up a bowl of my homemade chicken and dumplings, plop down on my leather couch, and snuggle up with Welly as we watched a little TV. I had to be up early. I was getting tired. “You both have obviously put a lot of thought into this festival, and I’m sure it’s going to be a great success.”

  Felicity stood as well and thoughtlessly smoothed her well-fitting dress pants. “I’m just excited,” she stated in apology. “While everyone loves Christmas, this is, hands down, our busiest time of year. And Christmas cookies will only make it better.”

  “Everything is better with cookies,” I agreed.

  Felicity was at the door. “I need to know the name of your signature cookie by Monday. That’s when we’re printing up the ballots. Betty, are you coming?”

  Betty waved. “You run along. I just remembered that I have to place an order with Lindsey.”

  Betty waited until Felicity was out of sight before she reached into her p
urse. “Here, dear,” she said, covertly handing me a yellowed, dog-eared, food-smudged recipe card. “You know I’m not much of a baker. And even if I was, where would I find the time? This is my grandma’s recipe, bless her soul. It’s her famous raspberry linzer cookies. They’re the prettiest little things, all covered in powdered sugar with a little window of raspberry jelly. She made them every Christmas. I’d like to order twelve dozen for Tuesday morning.”

  My gaze shifted from the recipe card to her face. “Betty Vanhoosen, are you asking me to bake your signature cookie? Is that even allowed?”

  A mischievous grin played on her lips. “Well, my goodness, they never said it wasn’t. The only rule, as far as I know, is that the baker of the winning cookie advances to the live Christmas cookie bake-off competition. And this little linzer cookie is a winner. Felicity is a dear, but my money’s on you, kid.”

  “Betty, you do know that I’ll be baking my own signature cookie as well, right? I have to. The throngs of holiday shoppers will demand it,” I teased.

  “Of course. And I’m confident that it’ll be delicious. But the public will be voting, dear, and one can never count on their good taste. The public likes Twinkies, and Ding Dongs, and those nacho cheese chalupas. It’s like my dear late husband, Peter, used to say, it never hurts to have two horses in the race.”

  “Well, as long as we don’t get disqualified, I’ll have twelve dozen of your grandmother’s famous raspberry linzer cookies waiting for you Tuesday morning.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Guess what?” I said to the voice on the other end of the phone. After a quick supper and a short walk with Wellington, I was finally in my warmest flannel nightgown, snuggled in bed. It was eight thirty p.m., the bedtime hour of the elderly and bakers. My alarm would go off at three thirty in the morning, and if I wanted to function in the kitchen, I needed sleep. But I also needed to hear Rory’s voice. Welly, blissfully unaware that one of his very favorite humans was on the other end of the phone, was sleeping soundly in his own bed at the foot of mine.