Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

by Darci Hannah

  “You found an assistant baker,” he guessed.

  “Well, that would be nice too. But no. Felicity Stewart came to the Beacon with Betty this evening to tell me that there’s to be a Christmas cookie bake-off in Beacon Harbor.”

  “Felicity Stewart, the Christmas lady? Bet she’s been cooking that one up all year. Poor woman has got to occupy her mind somehow, surrounded by all those weird elves on the shelves, an army of jolly Santas, ornaments galore, and her own herd of plastic reindeer. Did I tell you I made a visit to Tannenbaum last August?”

  The thought made me smile. “No. Do tell.”

  “I was about to go fishing, and I needed live bait. All the tourists had bought out the bait shops, so Bill Morgan tells me that Tannenbaum sold bait as well, the jokester. Dummy me, I believed him. It was a hundred degrees out, and the moment I walk into the shop I was nearly knocked to the floor by a fug of frankincense—at least that’s what I think it was. Then,” he continued, his deep voice full of animation, “the moment my eyes adjust to the forest of fake firs covered in bright blinking lights, Felicity hands me a cup of hot cocoa covered in sticky marshmallows . . . and with a candy cane poking out. A candy cane! I was sweating buckets, and she hands me hot cocoa? Clearly, she wasn’t selling bait.”

  I was giggling. “You never told me that story.”

  “Because it’s embarrassing.” I could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke.

  He brought me up to speed on his ice fishing excursion with the boys, while I told him about the bake-off. “I’m getting up at three to spend some quality time in the kitchen. I have to fill the bakery cases and get a jump on my holiday orders.”

  “Ouch, that’s early. Three in the morning’s the witching hour, Linds,” he teased, referring to that eerily quiet time between two and four in the morning, when paranormal activity was supposedly at its peak. It was either that or people were just groggy from lack of sleep and believed every odd noise was a banshee. All that aside, Rory knew my lighthouse was haunted, and I didn’t appreciate the suggestion. It wasn’t that I was afraid of my resident ghost, I just didn’t like to be surprised.

  “The captain and I have a peaceful coexistence. I don’t want to see him, and he doesn’t want to see me. I keep to the lighthouse in the wee hours, and he keeps to the tower. We like it that way.”

  “You might want to tell him that. Isn’t he the reason you can’t find an assistant baker?”

  It was only a half-truth, but Rory was correct. My dad, James Bakewell, had grown up in a bakery in Traverse City and had come to my rescue during the Beacon Bakeshop’s second grand opening. Dad and Mom had been invaluable help that first month, but they had their own busy lives to get back to down in Palm Beach, Florida. Before they left, I had hired a promising young man named Fred Nagel. Fred was a thirty-year-old hipster, and supposedly, to use his own words, “loved the vibe the old lighthouse was giving off.” Although not a baker by trade, he was like me, a baking enthusiast. I spent a good month teaching him some of my techniques and how to perfect my prized recipes. Then, out of the blue, Fred up and quit at the end of September. Apparently, he ran off to Colorado with his girlfriend, leaving me once again without an assistant baker. Kennedy, my best friend, was miffed about the whole ordeal. She located Fred a month later and told me that he and his lover were in Boulder, Colorado, operating a mobile bakery called Crunchy out of a modified transit van.

  Shucking off the slight feeling that I had been used, I next hired an older woman from the next town over, Monica Harlow, thinking that I had finally found a baker I could trust. Monica claimed she could bake, and she could, on the days she decided to show up for work. She also tended to step outside for a smoke when baked goods were in the oven, setting off the fire alarms on more than a few occasions. Burnt bread, scorched pies, and singed cookies were becoming a common occurrence. I knew I was going to have to fire her, but the captain handled the matter for me. The girls and I were getting the café ready to open for the day when we caught a whiff of something burning—just before the fire alarm started to blare. I was about to run into the kitchen when we heard a bloodcurdling scream. Monica burst through the kitchen doors, crashed into the café door, fumbled with the lock, and dashed out of the building. When I finally caught up to her, she was trembling.

  “He was there,” she said, her face white as a sheet, “the old dead captain, and he was casting me the evil eye!”

  Monica quit that morning. Apparently, old Captain Willy Riggs wasn’t keen on the thought of his lighthouse burning down. Either that, or he was growing tired of the smell of burnt cookies.

  I stifled a yawn, knowing that my days were about to get even longer without an assistant baker. The special holiday orders were already piling up, and now I was committed to baking my own signature cookie as well as Betty’s. “Well, there’s very little I can do about hiring an assistant baker if no one will answer my ad. I keep posting it and keep hoping for the best. I guess I should add it to my Christmas wish list.”

  “You have a Christmas wish list?” I could tell by the sound of his voice he was tickled by the thought.

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “I have only one wish, and that’s spending more time with you.”

  My heart fluttered to hear him say it. “That was on the top of my list too,” I admitted. “But for that to happen, I need an assistant baker I can trust. And you need to be a little closer than a fishing shanty in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’ll be home Sunday. Don’t make any plans. You’re having dinner with me. As for that assistant baker, I’ll let Santa know. The North Pole is just over yonder.”

  I gave a sleepy giggle. “You’re in the U.P., not the North Pole.”

  “It’s pretty much the same thing. Can’t imagine it getting any colder than this.”

  We said our good nights and I fell asleep, dreaming of sugarplums, Christmas cookies, and Rory Campbell.

  CHAPTER 5

  It felt like I had just laid my head on the pillow when my alarm went off, jolting me from a dreamless sleep. December nights in Michigan were cold, long, and dark. I knew it wouldn’t change much during the months of January and February. Even March was a downer. “Urgh,” I growled, and left the warmth of my bed to stumble into the shower. I stood beneath the steamy water until I felt nearly human again. Then I got dressed and left the lighthouse with Wellington to take a short walk along the night-dark beach.

  Bundled in a long, puffy coat, mittens, and a thick hat, I followed Welly as he bounded along the icy shoreline, chomping on chunks of ice as he went. His black fur blended so well with the darkness that he was often hard to see. The snow and icy shore of winter, however, made him stand out a bit more. The winds coming off the lake were brutal. Sane people, I mused, didn’t suffer such torture. But this was Wellington’s happiness—our early morning walks along the lakeshore. I watched as he left the water’s edge to trot over the snowy dunes. He stopped, sniffed, then shoved his nose deep into the snow, rooting for some unseen critter. He pawed at the snow, buried his head deeper, and finally gave up, shaking the white flakes off his big, fluffy head. I called him back, and we headed home.

  As we rounded the beach between the lake and the light tower, I looked up at the lantern room. It was a habit of mine. I couldn’t help it. And every time I did, I wondered if Captain Willy was on duty. Once I had seen the ghostly light up there myself. Rory had explained to me that they were a portent of danger. Unbeknownst to me then, the ghost lights of Beacon Harbor were legendary. Thankfully, all was dark and quiet in the lantern room now. I saluted the tower nonetheless, out of respect for the old keeper. I then put Wellington in the lighthouse with a bowl of his favorite kibble and headed for the bakery kitchen.

  There was something comforting about the quiet room with its pristine stainless-steel countertops and wire bakery racks full of bowls and pans waiting to be put to work. Although I longed to have someone assisting me, I found mornings alone in the kitchen
to be peaceful and full of possibility. No crowded commute here, no crazy lines at a trendy coffeehouse—I was brewing my own pot at the moment—no hallway of elevators with a press of people waiting for the right one to open. I didn’t have a secretary with a list of clients to be handled, or a computer bursting with loads of important spreadsheets and emails. Instead, I had an industrial mixer, a proofing box, a commercial oven, and a book of recipes. It was Saturday morning, our busiest morning of the week. Beginning every morning as I did without an assistant baker, I took out my recipe for sweet roll yeast dough and began the process. We had added scrumptious cinnamon rolls and gooey caramel pecan rolls to the bakery cases, and our customers loved them.

  I took out a large saucepan and heated the appropriate amount of milk for the yeast. When the milk was warm, I poured it into the bowl of the mixer, adding melted butter and sugar. After a good stir, I sprinkled the yeast on top, allowing it to sit for one minute. The warm, sugary mixture was the perfect environment for activating yeast, which was the key to light, tender dough. After a short rest, I added most of the flour and started the mixer.

  The trick to a perfect cinnamon roll or pecan roll was not to overwork the dough. Overworking dough at this stage would make it tough and chewy. To avoid this, I kept the mixer on low until all the flour had been gently mixed in. The sticky, wet dough was then covered with plastic wrap, and put in a warm place to rise.

  While the yeast dough was doubling in size, I turned on the deep fryer and went to work on the two types of dough needed for the donuts we served: cake and yeast. Donuts had become second nature to me. In no time my yeast dough was rising, and I had all the cake donuts made and ready to be frosted by the time my sweet roll dough was ready for part two, adding the last few cups of flour, the baking powder, and salt. I turned my attention from the donuts to finish the sweet roll dough, which was ready for kneading.

  The few quiet hours of the morning went on like a well-orchestrated dance. I rolled dough, made fillings, cut donuts, and rolled cinnamon rolls and pecan rolls. I proofed dough, baked dough, and fried dough. When all the donuts and sweet rolls were made, I set to work on three variety of Danish, using premade laminated pastry dough. I had toyed with making my own, but without an assistant baker, who was I kidding? Pastry dough was too time-consuming.

  After the Danish went into the oven, I poured another cup of coffee and started on my giant gingerbread muffins. I had worked out a new recipe for a fragrant, warm, moist, spicy muffin that tasted like Christmas morning. This was the morning they were making their holiday debut, giant muffins the size of softballs. As I whipped up the batter, poured them into the greased giant muffin tin, and put them into the oven, the entire kitchen came alive with the heavenly scent of ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves.

  As the bakery cases were filling up, I was just about to start on our savory options, the mini quiches. Every morning I made a dozen spinach and bacon quiches, a dozen ham and Gruyère, and a dozen tomato, basil, and Swiss. What didn’t sell by morning usually sold by lunchtime. As I rolled pie dough for the mini pie tins, Wendy and Alaina came bounding through the door. Dear heavens, was it was six thirty already? I had lost track of time. The bakery would open in half an hour.

  “Morning, Lindsey!” the girls chimed. I smiled and gave them a coffee-cup salute.

  Wendy inhaled sharply. “It smells like Christmas! You made the giant gingerbread muffins!” Her eyes grew wide with desire as she looked at them.

  “I saved one for you two to split.” I pointed to a warm muffin that was nearly the size of the plate it sat on. “Grab a cup of coffee and come on over. The Christmas season is upon us. I want to tell you about some of the special things we’ll be doing at the Beacon.”

  As the girls went over to the sink to wash their hands before taking down their personal coffee mugs, I stood up straight and massaged my lower back. I had to admit that my three solid hours of baking had been productive, if not exhausting.

  Wendy and Alaina each tied on a bright red Beacon Bakeshop apron. When constructing the bakery café, I had wanted to give it a modern, sophisticated feel while honoring the local lighthouse lore. I went with the original hardwood floors, which were gorgeous, black granite countertops for the bakery counter, and white shiplap walls tastefully decorated with pictures of sailboats, lakeside landscapes, nautical décor, and a smattering of lighthouse history. Red was our accent color, and we splashed it liberally.

  “I don’t know how you baked all of this,” Elaina remarked, looking at the bakery trays bursting with tasty delights.

  I grinned. “I found that miracles happen when a proper caffeine buzz collides with extreme time optimization.”

  “What?” A look of confusion crossed Wendy’s face. “I get the caffeine buzz, but still, this is a crazy amount of stuff. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I found her look of concern rather sweet. “I’m fine, thanks. But things are likely to get busier. I don’t suppose you two have heard the big news.”

  “The Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off!” Alaina’s eyes grew wide with excitement as she sliced off a hunk of the gingerbread muffin. It was still warm, emitting fine wisps of steam into the air that comingled with the steam from her coffee. “O . . . M . . . G!” she mumbled, waving a hand excitedly across her mouth as she savored her first bite. She swallowed and proclaimed, “Amazing!” She indicated for Wendy to take a bite before continuing. “The bake-off is the talk of the town. We’re in it, right?”

  Wendy nodded approval as she chewed. “I know you’ve been baking all morning, but you might want to whip up another batch of these. Also”—she cast a cautious look around the kitchen—“don’t want to spoil the party, but you did get the special orders I wrote down yesterday?”

  My heart thudded. Yes, I had got them, but I hadn’t had time to address them. Panic struck as I thought about the Christmas lights still dangling from the awning. I still had a few boxes in the café. I needed to get those into the lighthouse before we opened. Sheesh! There was so much to be done. The morning meeting was going to be quick.

  “I’m starting on those now,” I assured the girls. “Wendy, I need your help to frost some donuts.” Wendy nodded.

  “Alaina, since you’re our resident artist, can you add our new festive holiday drinks to the menu board? Tom and Elizabeth perfected them last night. We’re now serving a gingerbread latte and a peppermint mocha to go along with our regular list of favorites.”

  “No problem, Lindsey. But I think I’ll get the coffee brewing first. Ryan should be here any minute.”

  Ryan, although always a few minutes late, was a hard worker. “That reminds me, I’ll have to show you both how to make our new coffee drinks. But first I’m going to move some boxes. I had a delivery of Christmas lights last night. As you can see, I’m still working on them.”

  * * *

  I turned from the kitchen workstation and headed to the café, thinking about all the work left to do. I needed to finish hanging Christmas lights, I still needed to decorate the café, I needed to bake six specialty coffee cakes, eight fruit pies, two French silk pies, and make fifteen lunch boxes. And all the while I was thinking of what needed to be done, visions of whipping up the winning Christmas cookie began swirling in my head.

  As Wendy addressed the unfrosted donuts, getting down a carton of sprinkles and whisking the lush chocolate frosting I had made earlier, Alaina took one more bite of her muffin and followed me out the kitchen door.

  “So, about the Christmas cookie bake-off,” she began, “you’re going to come up with a signature cookie, right?”

  “I am,” I assured her with a grin. “But with so many delicious Christmas cookies, I’m going to have to give this one some thought.”

  “Well, don’t think too hard. The cookie tasting is just four days away. It starts Tuesday.”

  As if I needed a reminder. I was already beginning to feel a prickle of panic, but then I made the mistake of glancing out the doo
r. Unlike a normal, lazy Saturday where customers trickled in at a leisurely pace, the crowd waiting outside for the Beacon to open was larger than usual. What in the world was going on?

  CHAPTER 6

  “Lindsey,” Ginger Brooks called, waving me to the side of the bakery counter. Ginger was one of my good friends. She was the owner of Harbor Scoops, the town’s famous ice cream shop. One look at Ginger, and I could see she was agitated about something. Ryan was hard at work on the espresso machine. Wendy had just brought out a tray of beautifully frosted donuts. And Alaina and I were filling orders. I finished the transaction and met Ginger at the self-service coffee bar, where she filled her mug with our fresh-brewed Christmas blend.

  She lowered her voice. “You’ve heard about the Christmas cookie bake-off?” I nodded as she nervously stirred cream into her coffee. She threw the stir stick into the trash bin and frowned. “You weren’t at the meeting last night. Didn’t know how you’d feel about more baking to add on top of your baking.” She arched a brow. “I, for one, love the idea of a town-wide event that will bring more holiday shoppers to Beacon Harbor. An ice cream shop, even one as beloved as Scoops, doesn’t do so well in the winter, you know.”

  “Too cold for tourists,” I commiserated. “But you do well enough to stay open.”

  “It’s mostly hand-packed take-away pints these days and jars of homemade ice cream toppings.” I nodded knowingly. Ginger’s ice cream and toppings were the best. I had my own stockpile of Rocky Road and Butter Pecan pints jammed in the freezer waiting for Kennedy’s arrival.

  “No one wants to order a waffle cone to go,” Ginger added, making a face as she pretended to shiver. “I’m excited for the cookie bake-off, but not everyone in town is. Keeping homemade cookies in stock for the week is not only a time commitment, but it can get costly. There were quite a few objections. Not everyone was so keen on the idea. But you should have seen Felicity. She was like a crazed dance mom, pushing her half-baked idea on stage. I get that this is her time of year,” she complained, “but the nerve of her springing a celebrity food critic on us like that. There was no backing out. She’d already told him it was a done deal. Chevy Chambers is coming to town, and he’s arriving this week to start filming.”