by Darci Hannah
At this admission, Kennedy placed a hand over her heart, mouthing to me, “I adore this woman!”
“I told her she was in a bakery,” Mrs. Nichols continued. “I suppose we could have made macaroons, had we known earlier. But it didn’t matter, anyway. She didn’t want gluten-free products. She was trying to distract me so her partners-in-crime could steal all of our signature cookies. Every blooming one of them!” To a baker like Mrs. Nichols, the shame of it had sparked another wave of helpless sobs.
I looked at Rory for support, which was a mistake. He was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
Tuck, I realized, was battling laughter, as well, as he picked up the empty plate and pretended to examine it. “It’s, ah, empty, alright. How many cookies would you say were on here?”
“Three dozen,” Mrs. Nichols replied.
Tuck, doing the mental math, said, “Thirty-six cookies.” He was about to write it down in his notepad when Mrs. Nichols corrected him.
“Thirty-nine.”
With a great show of patience, he said, “So, not three dozen then,” and went to write the new number in his notepad.
“A baker’s dozen, dear,” Mrs. Nichols corrected with the same look of patience. “Didn’t think I needed to specify that. And Wendy had just put them out too. It was all we had left.”
The reprimand nearly undid Rory. Tuck pressed his lips together as he looked at his notepad. “Three baker’s dozen cookies were stolen by three women you can’t identify, and you want to report this?”
I shook my head at the same time Mrs. Nichols cried, “Yes!”
“It was a nervy move, to be sure, but do you really think we should report this?”
“I demand justice. They were your signature cookies, Lindsey.”
Rory, on the verge of losing it, stared at Tuck. “Any guesses as to why they were taken in the first place, Officer?”
“Uhhh . . .” Tuck brought a fist against his lips, pretended to think. On closer inspection, I realized his lips were quivering. He removed his fist long enough to offer, “Laziness?”
Upon hearing the word, Rory hid his face in his hands. I pinched him, thinking that might help, but it didn’t.
“You know,” Tuck continued, his eyes silently challenging Rory. He pointed a finger at the sign above the empty plate of cookies. “The sign does say Take One.”
Kennedy, playing along, arched her perfectly shaped brow. “Are you suggesting these brigands couldn’t count, or couldn’t read?”
Tuck, barely able to speak, blurted, “Possibly both.”
Dear Mrs. Nichols didn’t see the humor in any of this. “Take one! Not three dozen!”
Realizing the recent violation was still painful for her, I pulled Tuck aside for a private word.
A moment later, after regaining his composure, he said, “So, I’ll be making a report. And, um, I’ll let you know if I find these cookie-nappers.”
This seemed to satisfy Mrs. Nichols. “Thank you, Officer McAllister. But I don’t think those women were lazy. And I know for a fact they could count. They took the Christmas cookies because they were trying to sabotage Lindsey.”
“What?” I looked at her, realizing for the first time that she might be correct.
“It’s a competition,” she explained as if we were grade-schoolers. “Lindsey’s cookie is at the top of the list. If she doesn’t have any more of her signature cookies to offer, shoppers can’t taste them, and no one will vote for her. After the women had taken all the cookies, the few customers who came in were disappointed. They were expecting a free cookie to sample, and they had their scorecards with them. Don’t you see? No cookies? Angry customers? I had to close the bakeshop early and send the kids home. Somebody doesn’t want Lindsey in the Christmas cookie bake-off.”
CHAPTER 14
Mrs. Nichols might have been correct to assume that someone was trying to sabotage me. After making a few phone calls, it appeared that the Beacon Bakeshop was the only shop in town that had been hit by the cookie-nappers that afternoon. Another suspicious twist was a recent online barrage of negative reviews targeting the Beacon Bakeshop on the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-off voting page. My cookie had been the one to beat, and somebody didn’t like the fact that I was doing well in the polls. Kennedy, thankfully, had gotten online and done a little damage control. She was also trying to figure out who was behind the e-sabotage. The names of the reviewers in question were Snap, Crackle, Pop, and Gingy.
“Those definitely aren’t Santa’s little helpers,” she remarked. “Unless he cut a deal with the Rice Krispies elves that we don’t know about.” She was being funny.
“Cute,” I acknowledged. “They could be our cookie-nappers. Then there’s Gingy.” I read her a line in Gingy’s review. “A plain, underwhelming cookie made by a professional baker who clearly has no idea what Christmas or a Christmas cookie is all about, unlike the Tannenbaum Christmas Shoppe. Their beautifully decorated sugar cookie is as delicious as it looks. Lindsey Bakewell should stick to what she knows best—anything but Christmas cookies!” I looked up from my iPhone and gave an ironic shake of my head. “Is it just me, or was naming her shop in the review a step too far?”
“Oh, the hubris!” Kennedy playfully exclaimed while placing a hand over her heart. “That’s the power of the internet. Presumed anonymity. But like Icarus, she flew too high and couldn’t resist naming herself as the best cookie baker in the village.”
I gave a little chuckle at this. She was right, it was ridiculous.
Kennedy then teased, “Are you, Lindsey Bakewell, crime-solving?”
Kennedy had been with me last summer when the Beacon Bakeshop had been the scene of a diabolical murder. At one point I had been named as a suspect and felt I had no choice but to go head-to-head with the police and track down the murderer. Kennedy, of course, had been an invaluable help in the ordeal. A cookie-napping, however, was a far cry from outright murder.
I shrugged. “I’m a little miffed somebody stole all our cookies while diverting dear Mrs. Nichols with questions about vegan and sugar-free baked goods. The woman is an old-school baker, like my grandma was. Back in their day, using any substitute for butter, sugar, or flour in a baked good was a sin. Then the bold theft of the cookies right from under her nose! The poor woman was beside herself. I don’t want to lose her. The identity of those three women remains a mystery, but I bet Felicity ‘Tannenbaum’ Stewart knows who they are.”
The next morning, the impact of the cookie-napping and the online bashing were apparent. Ginger Brooks had jumped into the lead in the polls with her delicious German chocolate sandwich cookie, closely followed by Bradley Argyle’s cookie of brown butter shortbread. Karen’s prediction had come true. The entire garden club must have voted for Bradley’s cookie. And why not? It was just about the best shortbread cookie I had ever eaten.
My signature cookie had dropped down to third place. In fact, I was in a tie with Betty Vanhoosen and her raspberry linzer for that honor. It was the first time she’d appeared in the top ten, a fact that made me smile. After all, I had baked her cookie too. What if she made it into the live bake-off and not me? The raspberry linzer was delicate and delicious, but her sudden rise in votes, I believed, had more to do with the fact that she was a very popular woman in the town. If we were still tied by the end of voting, maybe we could enter the live bake-off as a team. That would be hilarious and, very likely, disastrous as well. Betty had many admirable qualities, but baking wasn’t one of them.
The next name on the list, however, really got my heart pumping with ire. It was Felicity Stewart and her overdecorated sugar cookie. Felicity’s cookie had jumped up five places since the cookie-napping, leaving little doubt as to who was behind it. The moment the Beacon Bakeshop was closed for the day, I was going to pay her a visit.
After the cookie-napping, I had insisted that Mrs. Nichols take the day off. It was the last day of voting, and I knew we were going to be busy. My entire staff h
ad come in, every one of my employees seething with anger at having our cookies stolen. Tom, Wendy, and Aliana, however, were racked with guilt at having been at the Beacon when the incident occurred. Really, as far as burglaries went, it was pretty farcical. Hopefully in a few days everyone could laugh about it, but the damage to our pride was another matter. We were baking to win. How could our winning cookies have been stolen right out from under our noses? Without cookies to offer, we had dropped down to third place. We had all worked too hard for that.
Dad, after hearing of the cookie-napping, had thankfully come in early to help me bake. Once the bakery cases were filled, he informed me that he had promised Mom they’d go shopping. I could see that he wasn’t too thrilled with the idea. Kennedy’s plan for the day was to dress Welly up again in his plaid coat and hit the streets, promoting our winning cookie.
Our bakery cases were full, and we had plenty of our signature cookies ready to be sampled. I had just refilled the free sample tray when Felicity Stewart burst through the bakeshop door. I was surprised to see her and even more surprised to see that Sergeant Stacy Murdock was with her.
“You!” Felicity cried the moment she spotted me.
“You!” I said right back, miffed about the mean-spirited review she had posted.
“Me?” She looked affronted and came to a stop before the self-serve coffee bar. “I’m not the cheater here. You are . . . and at Christmastime, no less! What depraved egomaniac cheats to win a Christmas cookie bake-off?”
My jaw dropped as my city-girl anger began to seize me. Had I heard her right? What on earth was she talking about? Aware that there was a line at the counter and that all the café tables were full, I kept my inner New Yorker in check. New York Lindsey wanted to wring the Christmas Lady’s neck. Beacon Harbor Lindsey knew she’d spook the locals if she tried it. I motioned the sergeant and Felicity to a quiet corner where we could talk, civilly I hoped.
After flashing Felicity a look of warning, Murdock explained, “Felicity phoned the station this morning. Said there was some illegal shenanigans going on with the Christmas cookie bake-off. You know how I feel about shenanigans, Bakewell, illegal or otherwise.” Murdock, doing her best not to break a smile, stared at me from under her wispy blond bangs and crossed her arms. Apparently, the entire police force thought shenanigans at Christmastime were not funny.
“What illegal shenanigans have I been up to?” I asked the sergeant.
“How about the fact that you’re baking cookies for half the shops in town,” Felicity blurted.
My stomach clenched painfully at the accusation as thoughts of my perfect Christmas began slipping from my grasp. It was true. There was no denying that fact. But before I could confess, Wendy stopped me. She had come over to see what all the fuss was about.
“Lindsey is a baker,” she told the ladies. “We sell baked goods here and take special orders. If we’ve been asked to bake Christmas cookies for others, it’s not our place to ask what they’re doing with them. The real question is”—Wendy, anger rising to her fair cheeks, turned to Sergeant Murdock—“why would she hire three women to steal our signature cookies? That’s right. We think it was her.”
Murdock looked thoughtfully at Wendy. “Well, now, that’s a very interesting theory.” She turned her deep-set brown gaze on Felicity.
“What?” Anger rose to Felicity’s cheeks as she glared at the three of us. “I’ve done no such thing! I’m not the cheater here.” She pointed a Christmas-red fingernail at me and cried, “She is!”
Sergeant Murdock, realizing that she was in the middle of a lady-squabble and not a Christmastime shenanigan, looked troubled. I got the feeling she’d rather be kicking down doors and tackling baddies in the gutter instead of listening to our complaints.
“Beacon Harbor was blindsided by the Christmas cookie bake-off,” I calmly explained. “It was short notice. Every business in town wants to offer cookies to entice shoppers, but not everyone has the time to bake them. It’s the holidays.”
“Fair point.” Murdock nodded.
“But they have to bake their own cookies, like I do,” Felicity cried. “That’s the whole point of this bake-off. Hiring a professional baker is cheating!” She waved her hand dramatically, declaring, “You should all be disqualified.”
As Felicity listed her complaints, Murdock plucked a free cookie off the Take One tray and took a bite. Noting that Felicity had stopped talking, she finished her cookie. “Well, that doesn’t sound like a crime to me, Felicity. Sounds like Lindsey and her hardworking staff are only trying to run a business here and win a cookie bake-off.”
“Exactly,” I concurred. “And we’re not stealing the signature cookies of other shops to do it either!”
Felicity was seething. “What does that mean? You can’t blame me for that!”
“No, but it is interesting that since the cookie-napping and the barrage of bad online reviews from a person named Gingy, I’ve dropped in the polls and you’ve jumped up.”
“You can’t prove anything you read on the internet,” she said with a flair of hauteur. “And people love my Christmas sugar cookies!”
“Gingy probably shouldn’t have compared her cookie to mine,” I warned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t need to. I own a year-round Christmas shop. I’m the queen of Yuletide splendor! I know what a Christmas cookie is supposed to look and taste like. You’re just mad because you’re not on top anymore!”
Murdock, apparently realizing this little squabble had gone on too long, held up a hand. “I think you all know how I feel about these cookie shenanigans. Offering free Christmas cookies is risky, not to mention what it does to the waistline.” Although a handsome woman in her mid-forties, Murdock wasn’t what one would call trim. However, since the Christmas cookie bake-off began, it did appear that her uniform had shrunk a little. “Also, if Felicity-slash-Gingy did post a negative review online, that’s not a crime. It’s the internet, the wild, wild west of words. Most importantly, however, there is no proof linking Felicity to the cookie-nappers.”
“Of course, there isn’t. Because I didn’t do it!” Felicity’s face had turned as red as her hair. “The Tannenbaum is experiencing unprecedented crowds! I’ve been working, and decorating, and baking cookies!”
“And writing negative reviews about the Beacon Bakeshop,” Wendy added, narrowing her eyes at Felicity.
“Again, not a crime,” Murdock reiterated.
“She’s right. Besides, when in the world would I have time to steal your stupid cookies?”
“Ladies, ladies!” Murdock, reaching the end of her patience, jumped in. “Both of you, calm down. Clearly this Christmas cookie bake-off has gotten to everyone.”
“Lindsey has admitted to baking signature cookies for others. I want a list! I want her and everyone she’s baked for disqualified.”
I looked helplessly at the sergeant. “Surely you can’t arrest me for baking cookies? It’s my job!”
Murdock surprised me by chuckling. “Whoa. I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m simply here to inform you on behalf of Mayor Jeffers that Felicity has filed a move with the Christmas Festival Committee to have you disqualified from the bake-off.”
I was reeling from this news. Wendy looked angry enough to snap. That was when I felt a gentle touch on my arm.
“What’s all this about?” I was shocked to see Mrs. Nichols standing beside me. She wasn’t supposed to be here. I had no idea she’d come into the bakeshop. With a softly questioning look, she turned to Sergeant Murdock.
Felicity, glaring at my baker, said, “This bakeshop is being disqualified from the bake-off!”
A thoughtful look crossed the older woman’s face. “You own that little Christmas shop at the other end of town, am I correct?” Felicity nodded. “Then you of all people should know that Santa doesn’t abide grinches. Your job is to spread Christmas cheer, not dump coal in everyone’s stocking. You are attacking Christmas cookies,
those little sugary delights that embody the spirit of Christmas. Why would you want to ruin that for everyone? Shame on you,” she admonished, and headed for the kitchen.
CHAPTER 15
“Whoo-hoo, Lindsey?” Betty Vanhoosen called, walking into the lighthouse. Welly and the models ran to greet her.
It was after dinner. Taking a page from Bradley Argyle’s book, I had made everyone a hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps topped with mounds of sweet whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate. It had been a ridiculous day. Betty, catching wind of Felicity’s move to have me disqualified, had called an emergency meeting of the Christmas Festival Committee. Mom, Dad, Kennedy, Rory, and I were sipping spiked cocoa by the fire anxiously awaiting the news.
“You’re in the live bake-off!” she proclaimed, throwing her arms in the air.
Dad let out a hoot. Kennedy smiled and gave a proper royal soft-clap. Mom cried with joy. Rory set down his cocoa and gave me a hug, whispering congratulations in my ear.
“That’s wonderful news,” I told Betty, handing her a mug of spiked cocoa as well. “How did you pull that off?”
“It was unanimous. Everyone you’ve baked cookies for this week agreed to bow out of the competition in order to keep you in it. It was a fun idea, this Christmas cookie bake-off, but none of us really wanted to be in the live competition. Felicity fought hard to have you removed. That’s because she wants to win this darn thing so badly. But she had no ground to stand on. I actually felt sorry for her, thinking she might not have enough votes to be in the live bake-off. But once the votes were tallied, she made it. She’s going to be on that stage with you.”
“Who else made it?” I thought to ask.
Betty smiled. “The bakers in the live Christmas cookie bake-off will be you, of course, Ginger Brooks, Bradley Argyle, and Felicity Stewart. It’s going to be quite the competition!”
* * *
All four of us had only one day to prepare for the two challenges required in the live bake-off. The first was a Christmas cookie to be baked on-site. For this, Dad had given me one of Grandma Bakewell’s special recipes. It was for a frosted southern pecan cookie. I had never seen this recipe before or even heard of such a cookie when he handed me the recipe card. But I was touched and honored to know that it was one of my grandma’s favorite cookies of all time.
