Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

by Darci Hannah

  My third and final reason to be hopeful was Mrs. Nichols. She had appeared in the nick of time and seemed like she knew how to bake. Once in the kitchen, I could better assess her baking skills. But, oh, who was I kidding? She could possess two left thumbs and I’d still be thrilled. Just having another body working beside me at this point was better than nothing.

  I walked into the bakery attempting to whistle “Jingle Bells” and doing a poor job of it. But I didn’t care. Rory had returned, and I had just hired an assistant baker the week of the Christmas cookie bake-off. I was itching to get to work. I opened the kitchen door and froze, the discordant tune dying on my lips. “What in the name of—”

  CHAPTER 8

  It was hard to reconcile the sight that confronted me. I had left the kitchen a mess, too tired to tackle the pile of dirty dishes and pans the night before. And yet they were all gone—washed, dried, and put back on the shelves in their proper places. The kitchen counters sparkled; the stove had been scrubbed to a mirrored sheen. But what really had me flummoxed was that whatever prep work I had set out to do had already been done. How was that possible? And stranger yet? Dozens of freshly baked cookies sat cooling on wire racks. Others had been decorated and placed on bakery trays. I had the surreal feeling of being the proverbial shoemaker visited by busy elves in the night. But there were no elves in sight. The kitchen was empty.

  Honestly, I was a bit spooked by the sight confronting me. Had I walked through a time portal? Had I been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Future and was now glimpsing what my kitchen could look like if I wasn’t so crabby and tired all the time? Maybe I was still dreaming? Breathing a bit heavily, I kept staring at the cookies. Cookies? They looked too perfect. Who had baked them? I was about to walk out of the empty kitchen, retracing my steps through the lighthouse door to try it again—just to see if I’d get the same results—when a perfectly whistled rendition of “Jingle Bells” stopped me in my tracks. I scanned the kitchen to see where it was coming from, thinking that maybe the captain was playing a trick on me.

  “Hello?” I ventured, growing uncomfortable. I had burnt a tray of coffee cakes the day before. Was I being punished?

  Just then the door to the walk-in refrigerator creaked open, and the whistling grew louder. I was about to bolt out the door when I heard, “Oh, hello, dear.”

  Mrs. Nichols appeared, carrying an armload of butter.

  Stunned, I stammered, “How . . . how did you get in?”

  She smiled. “You gave me a key, remember?”

  Had I? I didn’t remember. But it was remarkable. The woman herself was neat as a pin. “Did you bake all this?”

  “I keep baker’s hours. Always have. Thought I’d pop in and get to work. Hope you don’t mind. Try a cookie.” Mrs. Nichols set down the butter and picked up a tray of perfectly baked butter cookies. They were a pleasing pale yellow, round, and perfectly piped with crisp edges. Some had bright red cherry jelly in the center; others were dusted in powdered sugar. I selected one that had been dipped in chocolate and rolled in sprinkles.

  The cookie was melt-in-your-mouth delicious. “Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I don’t have a butter cookie recipe. Is this yours?”

  Her high cheeks had a rosy glow as she nodded. “People love butter cookies, especially around the holidays. These are so easy to make, and so festive. Doesn’t hurt to have plenty on hand along with your signature cookie.” Her jovial face brightened with excitement as she held up a finger, indicating that I wait as she walked out the kitchen door. A moment later she popped back in, carrying one of our small red bakery boxes. She carefully lined the box with white parchment, then plucked a selection of butter cookies off the trays and arranged them in the box. “All it needs is a pretty bow, and you have a delicious, thoughtful gift.”

  Who was this woman? I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but refrained. “Brilliant,” I uttered, marveling at the cookies in the box. Why hadn’t I thought of it? Probably because I’d been too tired to think at all.

  “When customers sample your cookie,” she continued, “they’ll want to buy dozens of that one too. That’s why we should be prepared.” Mrs. Nichols leaned in, her face animated by curiosity. “Now, Lindsey Bakewell, what kind of cookie were you thinking of?”

  I lost track of time working in the kitchen alongside Mrs. Nichols. For a woman of her age and roundness, I was surprised by her agility. She appeared to glide around the kitchen, from counter, to mixer, to oven, with the ease and grace of a figure skater. The fact that she was neat as a pin only added to her charm. I pulled out my binder of cookie recipes, and we whipped up batch after batch of unique and delicious treats. Mrs. Nichols’s vast collection of recipes, I realized, was stored in her head. The woman had a remarkable memory for ingredients and measurements. I had just taken a bite of our latest batch, a lemon-ginger sandwich cookie. The sweet, spicy ginger cookie blended so well with the tangy lemon cream that I started dancing with excitement as I chewed.

  “This is it!” I proclaimed. “This is the one! Oooo, it’s perfect!” Just then, Rory walked through the kitchen door. He was grinning.

  No one could deny that Rory Campbell was a handsome man, standing six-foot-four inches, with hair the color of darkly roasted coffee beans and eyes as bright and blue as the Caribbean Sea. Defined cheekbones graced his face, as well as a strong jawline. But it was his smile that I found most attractive. Rory was ex–Special Forces, and although he had retired to write military thrillers, he still dabbled in matters of national security from time to time. He was also quite an accomplished woodsman and liked to hunt, something this Manhattan girl couldn’t relate to but respected. Kennedy lovingly referred to Rory as Sir Hunts-A-Lot. It was a fitting name, but I never called him that to his face.

  “Not the greeting I was expecting,” he teased, “but I’ll take it. Did I just hear you say that I’m perfect?”

  “This cookie,” I corrected, returning his smile while I held one up for him to inspect. I was a little taken aback at how much I had missed him.

  “Oh, well, can’t compete with one of your cookies.” Still grinning, he turned to Mrs. Nichols. “I’m sorry, but we haven’t met.”

  After introductions, and bringing him up to speed on the bakery, I made Rory sample a lemon-ginger sandwich cookie. The look on his face was reminiscent of the day we had met. He had come to the lighthouse and had sampled one of my donuts. His expression was a mixture of appreciation and bliss. I didn’t know why, but I found his look of extreme appreciation sexy.

  “Damn,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Lindsey.”

  “Didn’t you ice fishermen do any baking while holed up in that fishing shanty?” I teased.

  “Baking, no. But we ate some excellent fish.” He patted his trim stomach as he said this. “However, man lives not on fish alone.”

  “I believe the quote, dear, is ‘bread alone’,” Mrs. Nichols corrected with a pointed look. “Man needs Christmas cookies too!” She winked, making us all laugh.

  After making dozens of scrumptious cookies, and with our signature cookie settled upon, I was going to stay and help my new assistant baker clean the messy kitchen. She’d done enough already. But she insisted I leave with Rory and Wellington to cut down my Christmas tree at the tree farm. She was shooing me out of my own bakery kitchen! It was very reminiscent of my beloved Grandma Bakewell. And when Grandma Bakewell shooed me out of her kitchen, there was no arguing.

  The next few days were picture-perfect, thanks to the help of Mrs. Nichols, Rory, and the Beacon’s staff. I finally cut down a fresh Christmas tree—two, in fact, one for the bakeshop and one for my living room. Sure, it wasn’t easy. I nearly froze my toes off, and tree trunks, even on seven-foot fir trees, are tough buggers to get a saw through. But we did it. Sticky sap was another problem. Also, it had started snowing . . . a lot. A blizzard struck, but we still managed. Rory had brought a sled, and I brought Welly’s harness. With a little ingenuity, gumption, and plent
y of doggie treats, we somehow got both Christmas trees through the snow and into the bed of Rory’s pickup truck. It was a Norman Rockwell moment. And that moment continued back at the lighthouse as we decorated both trees, drinking peppermint mochas and nibbling on Christmas cookies. We were just about to sit down for a romantic dinner of fresh fish that Rory had prepared when Wellington rushed the front door, barking excitedly.

  Mom, Dad, and Kennedy had surprised me by arriving early. They came bearing presents, a mound of luggage, and Mom’s two West Highland terriers, Brinkley and Ireland. Mom, a former fashion model and quite famous in the eighties, had named them after her rivals, Christie Brinkley and Kathy Ireland. We simply referred to her pooches as the models. Although the two adorable Westies looked nearly identical, they could be told apart by their rhinestone collars, Brinkley with the pink, and Ireland with the emerald green.

  Although my family’s timing wasn’t the best, I was overjoyed to see them. Chaos descended as everyone began talking excitedly at once. Welly, spying his two friends, barked with joy and chased them around the lighthouse. I turned to Rory with an apologetic smile.

  “You owe me, Bakewell,” he whispered teasingly before slipping out the back door. He was off to his log home to get more fish.

  I did owe him, I thought, turning the romantic table for two into a party of five. I then added more lettuce and veggies to the salad bowl, more red potatoes to the pot of boiling water, and threw a par-baked loaf of French bread into the oven. As Dad carried the luggage up the stairs to the guest rooms, I thanked my lucky stars that the lighthouse looked beautiful bedecked in Christmas lights, and that I had given the place a thorough cleaning.

  “Open this,” Mom nearly demanded, thrusting a big, beautifully wrapped present with a large, sparkly bow into my hands. We were halfway through dinner, yet I could tell there was something terribly exciting bubbling on the lips of Mom and Kennedy.

  “Mom, it’s not even Christmas yet,” I protested.

  “Open it,” Dad calmly advised. Taking his cue, I unwrapped the present.

  “Oh my!” I exclaimed, spying the pile of thick fleece in black-and-red buffalo plaid. “Cute blanket,” I remarked. But when I pulled it out of the box, I realized that it wasn’t a blanket at all. It was a long, hooded cape with a giant matching dog coat in Welly’s size. It was adorable and totally something Mom would get me. She had a thing for wearing matching outfits with her dogs. I guess during the holidays it was going to be my thing too.

  “I love it, Mom,” I told her honestly. “Welly and I will definitely turn some heads in our matching coats.” Hearing his name, Welly’s giant head popped above the table, looking hopeful. He was so busy staring at my plate that he didn’t see the doggie coat in my hands. Before he got wind of what I was about to do, I slipped it over his head. That’s when Kennedy chimed in.

  “Look at the tag.”

  It was Welly’s lucky day. I took off his coat and looked at the fabric tag, noting the brand name, Ellie & Company. “What?” I remarked, casting Mom a curious look.

  With wineglass in hand, Kennedy said, “Surprise! Your mom is starting a clothing company, and I’m her business partner.”

  I dropped my fork, the dogs started barking, and Rory burst into laughter.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mom and Kennedy were starting a clothing company! It was a huge surprise, and the more I thought about it, the happier it made me. It was right up Mom’s alley—a women’s clothing line with matching selections for dogs of all sizes. Dad, no doubt, was handling the finances, and Kennedy, one of the most sought-after influencers in fashion, was her public relations guru. What a Christmas bombshell! It made my measly announcement of entering the Christmas cookie bake-off pale by comparison. But my family had been thrilled with the news.

  Once announced, excitement for the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off had spread like wildfire through the county. Curious shoppers flocked to the town to partake in the cookie sampling and voting. The Beacon Bakeshop had never seen such crowds. It was inspiring—and even more inspiring was Mrs. Nichols.

  By Wednesday morning, we knew the routine. The moment our doors were opened, the crowds came, snapping up baked goods, sampling our signature cookie, and buying plenty to take home. Officer Tuck McAllister and Sergeant Stacy Murdock would arrive at eight o’clock for their morning latte. Officer Tuck, in his late twenties, was easy on the eyes, and easy to talk to as well. Sergeant Stacy Murdock, well, about all I could say was that she was warming up to me. I likened my relationship with the sergeant to reading a thousand-page novel. The cover was compelling, the title impressive, and although the beginning had been confusing and slow, there were glimmers of something profound and enjoyable there. Like that epic novel, I was still working on Sergeant Murdock. She admired my baking—point for me!—and had come to sample my signature cookie.

  “Not bad, Bakewell. Not bad at all.” She gave a reflective nod, sending her wispy blond bangs fluttering.

  “So, you’re going to vote for me?” I asked hopefully. Her answer was a wink, a click of the tongue, and a finger-gun pointed right at me. Although utterly noncommittal, I took it to be a yes.

  Tuck, on the other hand, was a Beacon Bakeshop devotee. The only thing he loved more than my donuts was filling me in on the local gossip. According to him, Felicity Stewart was the one to beat. As Tuck described her cookie to Kennedy and me, Mrs. Nichols appeared from the kitchen with a tray of warm gingerbread muffins. It was hard to ignore the heavenly scent that filled the café.

  “Look, Mommy. It’s Mrs. Claus!” A little boy, standing before the bakery case, pointed his finger at her.

  The entire crowd looked, causing Mrs. Nichols to blush. Peering through the bakery case, she winked at the boy. With a nod to the officers, she disappeared once again through the kitchen door. Elizabeth and Wendy, filling orders, followed her with their eyes as she left.

  “There’s no better Christmas cookie baker in the world as Mrs. Claus,” Elizabeth told the child. “We’re lucky to have her working with us at our bakeshop. Here.” She reached across the counter and handed the boy a cookie. He was enchanted. She had him on the hook, and closed with, “Make sure your parents cast their vote for the Beacon Bakeshop!”

  Kennedy turned from the counter where she’d been chatting with Officer Cutie Pie, to look at Elizabeth. “Shameless,” she said, “and yet brilliant. You should consider a career in marketing.”

  “Hey!” I chided, as Elizabeth grinned at the compliment. “Don’t steal my employees.”

  Kennedy came to the bakeshop every morning, but not to work. She claimed she was working out a marketing campaign for my signature cookie, but I knew her better than that. It was more the matter of a hot, small-town cop who was infatuated with her. As for her marketing campaign, it consisted of dressing Wellington in an Ellie & Company Pup-Coat original and marching him up and down Main Street.

  “And here I thought Mrs. Nichols was the Mary Poppins of bakeries,” Kennedy continued, “after the way she swooped in with her book of biscuits and saved our Lindsey from a nervous breakdown. But this Mrs. Claus angle is even better. Fits the season. Do you suppose she’d make a fuss if we asked her to come to work in a red dress and frilly white bonnet?”

  I rolled my eyes while putting the finishing touches on a gingerbread latte for another customer. Tom had premade the spicy gingerbread syrup, blending cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg with molasses and simple syrup. The mixture was then blended with hot milk and poured on top of a shot of espresso. The drink was finished off with steamed milk, whipped cream, and shaved white chocolate curls. The last of the curls went on, and I handed the drink to the customer. Only then would I address her.

  “We’re not going to make her dress in a costume, and we’re not using her to win. Our signature cookie stands on its own. We either get in the bake-off due to merit, or not at all.”

  “Well, you’re off to a great start,” Kennedy said and pointed toward t
he door. “You’re nearly out of cookies, and you’ve got a special visitor.” She grinned as she shifted her gaze to the bakery door.

  I turned to see what had grabbed her attention. Big mistake. My jaw dropped as icy fingers of dread ran up my spine.

  CHAPTER 10

  I had plenty of experience with celebrity foodies to know that this man was the cookie judge Felicity had spoken about. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-forties, but looks could be deceiving. He was handsome in a prep-school sort of way, and taking a fashion risk, I mused, staring at the newsboy-style cap he wore in bright Stewart plaid. But the real harbinger was the small camera crew that followed him as he pushed his way into the bakeshop, demanding the crowd part to let him through. Irrational fear seized me as he made his way toward the counter.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m needed in the kitchen.”

  “That man has a camera,” Kennedy admonished in a whisper, grasping my arm. “You know my motto.”

  “Never date a man who thinks he looks cool on a Vespa scooter? I don’t see how that’s relevant here.”

  She closed her eyes in annoyance and shook her head. “My other motto. The never pass up a photo op motto. That man is publicity gold. Besides, he’s infatuated with Welly. We met him yesterday. I told him that if he wanted to taste the winning cookie, he should pop down to the Beacon Bakeshop & Café. Smile.” She thrust me to the end of the counter where Chevy Chambers was waiting.