Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

by Darci Hannah

  “Trust me. I am.”

  “We’re in the middle of a Christmas festival,” I reminded him, thinking perhaps he had found another private closet for us to get lost in.

  “I’m well aware.”

  Leaving the stairwell, I saw that we were in a short hallway that ended in what looked to be another glittering Christmas paradise. The back of a puffy leather couch faced a wall of windows. On either side of the couch was an equally puffy leather chair. From past experience I knew there was a built-in bookcase along one of the walls. This was a little library for hotel guests, tucked away in a secluded corner of the building. In the summer it led to a secluded patio surrounded by a lush, fragrant garden. Guests could walk through the garden on a path that wound down to the lake. The view was still breathtaking, but this time of year the patio and the landscape beyond had been covered by a thick layer of pristine snow. Potted poinsettias and a decorated Christmas tree now filled the room. And then I spied it, dangling from the ceiling on a long ribbon before the windows. My heart stilled as all thoughts of the bake-off fizzled away. This was the reason Rory had brought me here.

  “Rory Campbell, and here I didn’t think you had a romantic bone in your body.”

  “I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind being pulled under the mistletoe for a kiss.”

  “You don’t need to find a sprig of mistletoe to kiss me.”

  “It’s not just the mistletoe,” he confided in all seriousness. “It’s a quiet room.”

  I took his meaning. We were utterly alone. Smiling, feeling giddy, we practically ran to get under the mistletoe, excited for that long-awaited kiss that had escaped us ever since the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off had begun. Spending more time with Rory had been that one Christmas wish that had escaped me. The bake-off was over. The mistletoe was in sight. There was still time. Fighting to get there, we nearly tripped over the couch. But once around that obstacle, we came to a screeching halt.

  Crumpled on the floor beneath the mistletoe was a body. The gruesome sight of it shoved all thoughts of a romantic kiss out the window.

  CHAPTER 19

  “It’s . . . it’s Chevy Chambers!” I cried, sputtering the obvious. I was in total freak-out mode. Seeing the body there had been a shock, but even more unnerving was the blood pooling around his head, matting his thick brown hair and staining the blue, patterned carpet. He also appeared to be sprinkled with crumbs—as if sneezing while eating a crumbly baked good. “Is he . . . ?” Looking at Rory, I ventured the question. The moment the body had been spotted, Rory went into action, feeling for a pulse. He removed his fingers from the prone man’s neck and shook his head.

  “He’s dead?” I squawked. “Are you sure?”

  “Do you want to check?” he offered sarcastically, already knowing the answer to that. He pulled out his cell phone and called the police.

  People often thought that by living in New York City for as long as I had, I would be used to the sight of dead bodies—like the streets were littered with them or something. Seriously? Sure, crime happened in the Big Apple, but I had never seen a dead body on the ground. Last summer in Beacon Harbor, however, I had seen two and hadn’t liked the experience one bit. I was sorry to say that one of them had even induced me to toss my cookies. I was in danger of that now, and Rory likely knew it.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I replied, taking a step back. I was sorry I had even questioned him. I was even more sorry that we had to stay with the body until the police arrived. I hadn’t particularly liked Chevy when he was alive, but even I knew that we couldn’t abandon him in death. The mere fact that he was lying on the floor in a quiet corner of the hotel, bleeding on the carpet, was a good indication in my book that somebody had done this to him. I couldn’t help myself from asking the obvious question.

  “What . . . what do you think happened?” I pointed at Chevy’s head. “Do you think it was someone from the bake-off? Do you think someone got mad that they didn’t win and killed him?”

  Rory, careful to avoid the pooling blood as he stood, shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s hard to know what to think besides the obvious. He’s split his head open.”

  “He could have slipped,” I offered. But as soon as I said it, I regretted it.

  Rory frowned. “Even if he had come in here to be alone with his thoughts and accidentally fell, there’s little in this room, besides the corner of that coffee table way over there, that would cause such a spectacular gash to his head. My best guess is that someone hit him on the back of the head with something hard.”

  The thought was ghastly. Covering my mouth with one hand, I used the other to point to the body. I lifted the hand over my mouth just enough to venture, “Are those cookie crumbs?”

  He raised a brow in question. Rory had been so busy checking the body for a pulse he must have ignored them. He knelt again to get a better look at the crumbs. “Lindsey, remind me again the name of the Christmas cookie you baked?”

  “Frosted southern pecan with penuche frosting. Why?” My heart began to pound even louder in my chest as I asked the question.

  “Was anyone else using penuche frosting?”

  “I can definitely say no to that. It’s a tricky frosting to get right,” I told him, watching as he gingerly plucked a golden crumb off of Chevy’s Christmas blazer, careful to avoid contaminating the crime scene.

  “I’ve eaten this cookie,” he said, examining the crumb. “It’s the only reason I know what penuche frosting looks like. Lindsey, these crumbs are from your cookie.”

  “What? Nooo,” I balked, in utter denial. “I mean, how can that be? Why would he be eating one of my cookies when he was . . . you know, bumped off? Are you sure it’s not Felicity’s figgy bar?”

  “Don’t know what that one looks like,” he admitted, then handed me the crumb.

  I didn’t want to touch it, but he left me with no choice. Apparently, Rory had no such qualms. And why would he when he was used to hunting animals and field dressing them on-site? My stomach heaved as I glanced at it. “Yep. It’s mine,” I affirmed, then quickly tossed it back. Unfortunately, it landed in Chevy’s matted hair.

  “Seriously?” he chided, narrowing his eyes at me.

  My response was a cringing shrug of shame. “Sorry. But why was he eating one of my cookies?” Somehow, that thought disturbed me nearly as much as the blood.

  “Good question.” Apparently, like me, Rory had no answer.

  “I have another question,” I ventured. I was now nervously wringing my hands. “Why do you suppose his left hand is balled in a fist?”

  It was the first time I had noticed it and thought that maybe Chevy was still holding on to the cookie he’d been eating when he was killed. Rory, with dark brows furrowed, stared at the hand in question. He gave a quick look around the room to see if we were still alone and reached for it.

  “No!” I cried, startling him. “Don’t touch it.” I was on edge. Opening the hand could possibly be interpreted as tampering with a crime scene, and I had already been accused of that once before by scary Sergeant Murdock. She didn’t have a sense of humor about such things. Another reason? I didn’t think I could handle seeing my beautiful Christmas cookie in the cold, stiff hand of a dead man. “I have a better idea,” I told him, pulling out my iPhone. “I’m calling Santa.”

  * * *

  “Lindsey!” Tuck had been the first officer to arrive in the secluded corner of the hotel. We hadn’t waited long. With so much traffic around the Christmas festival, I had a feeling he had been keeping an eye on things. The moment he spied me, he noted Rory and the body. Walking toward us, he spoke into his walkie-talkie, reporting the location, as he termed it, of the crime scene and calling for backup.

  “Is that . . . Chevy Chambers?” Tuck’s face darkened with recognition. “The food critic? What happened?”

  “We’re not sure,” Rory told him honestly. “Appears that someone hit him on the head. We found him like this.”

/>   Tuck’s guileless blue eyes shot to mine. “What are you two doing here—in this quiet corner of the hotel? I thought you were in the bake-off, Lindsey?”

  “I am in the bake-off,” I said a little defensively. Rory and I then proceeded to tell him about Mrs. Nichols spying the cookie-nappers at the festival and how we had both followed them. When he heard that I had gotten locked in a storage closet in the hotel basement, he shook his head in admonishment.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Voices filled the adjoining hallway. More first responders were coming to the crime scene. Shifting my attention back to the young officer, I said, “Honestly, it was just cookies.”

  “Well, it’s not just cookies anymore, is it?” After holding me in a troubled grimace, Tuck stood and faced the hallway, ready to debrief the new arrivals.

  The first man to appear was jolly old Saint Nick, or, more correctly, Dr. Bob Riggles, the county medical examiner. I had to admit, he was a fine-looking Santa as he strolled into the room with rosy cheeks glowing above his fake white beard. Betty, dressed in her Mrs. Claus outfit, trotted right beside him, obviously hearing the news. Tuck stared at the man with a quizzical look on his face. “Doc Riggles?”

  “Ho-ho, yes.” The doctor, recalling himself, stopped and shook his head. “Sorry, Tuck. Been saying that all afternoon. It’s become my mantra. So many happy children. Had a hard time getting away. Damn.” Doc Riggles’s face clouded as he stared at the body on the floor. “Is that—”

  “Chevy Chambers!” Betty confirmed, answering his question. Her face blanched, and she crossed herself.

  “Betty.” Tuck placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This is a crime scene. I’m going to ask you to stay behind those chairs.”

  Betty ignored him. “We’ve been looking all over for Chevy. He was supposed to announce the bake-off winner twenty minutes ago.”

  “He never announced the winner?” Rory and I exchanged a look. This was interesting news. I had been locked in the storage room for at least fifteen minutes before Rory and Chad came to my rescue. I was certain I had missed the big announcement.

  Betty shook her head. “No. He disappeared . . . like the rest of you.”

  “What do you mean, like the rest of us?” I asked, guiding her behind the chairs Tuck had indicated. I had stared at the body long enough and was grateful to leave such matters to the professionals.

  Betty’s red lips pulled into a frown. “Well, one minute you were all frantically decorating your gingerbread houses, and the next thing I knew, the stage was empty.” Her eyes locked onto mine, willing me to explain myself.

  “I think you know that I was the last contestant to finish,” I reminded her, remembering her telling me how the others had finished before me. I then filled her in on what had happened to me since leaving the bake-off stage.

  “That’s frightening,” she offered, casting a covert glance at the men kneeling beside the body. “But how did you and Rory come to be in the hotel library in the first place?”

  I pointed to the mistletoe hanging from the celling in answer to her question. “A romantic gesture gone awry.”

  Betty sighed as she gave a sympathetic shake of her head. She placed a hand over her heart as she looked at the man in question. “Leave it to Rory to be romantic. I mean, what are the odds of you two finding a dead body? I hope this moment doesn’t linger—you know, scar either one of you for life? That would be a pity.”

  Pity? More like a private hell. Why did she have to say that?

  Before I could banish the thought, Rory came walking over to us. He looked troubled. “Doc Riggles has just uncovered something. You were right about Chevy’s hand. There was something clenched in his fist.”

  “Don’t tell me it was my cookie?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “It was a note. It said, and I quote, Meet me under the mistletoe. Someone lured Chevy here, and I think they might have been using your cookie as bait.”

  My mouth dangled open in shock and revulsion. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Doc Riggles found a note and confirmed that Chevy was indeed eating a cookie right before he was murdered. Your cookie!” He lowered his voice. “Lindsey, I think Chevy thought he was sneaking away to this private little corner of the hotel to meet you.”

  For the second time since discovering the body, I wanted to gag.

  CHAPTER 20

  The moment Sergeant Murdock arrived on the scene the investigation began in earnest. Chevy, having been declared dead by Santa, aka Doc Riggles, had been removed to the county morgue. The suspected cause of death had been a blunt-force blow to the back of the head. In other words, Chevy likely never saw it coming. Doc Riggles, still in costume, left shortly after the body. He would follow it to the morgue to conduct a more thorough autopsy. The perimeter of the hotel was then secured, and the Christmas Festival was officially cancelled. All parents with children had been allowed to leave, while the rest of the people in attendance were asked to give a quick statement to the police. What had started out as a day of fun and festivities had swiftly degraded into a tragic and tedious affair. The silver lining to the long line of festivalgoers trying to get out the door as fast as they could was that plenty of gingerbread and punch were on hand. There would be no winner of the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off this year, not without our celebrity judge.

  “I’m told that you and Mr. Campbell found the body,” Murdock stated, looking all business in her crisp, yet slightly too tight sergeant’s uniform. She was holding a pen and a notepad. “I’d like to know what time that was. I’m also curious about why you both came to this remote hotel library during the festival?”

  “I brought Lindsey here,” Rory told her.

  “Any particular reason why?”

  Although he didn’t flinch, color rose to his cheeks. “The mistletoe,” he informed her, pointing to the ball of festive greenery dangling from the ceiling on a red ribbon.

  The sergeant looked to where he pointed, acknowledged the Christmas decoration, and nodded. “And how exactly did you know it was in here?”

  “I found it by accident,” he explained. “I was tracking one of the cookie-nappers who passed through here.”

  Murdock stared at him with her probing brown gaze. “Are you referring to the cookie-nappers reported by the Beacon Bakeshop?”

  Rory nodded. We then told the sergeant all about the three mysterious women who had shown up during the Christmas cookie bake-off. Kennedy, whom I had been texting with since the police had arrived, was brought into the room for questioning as well. She and my parents had been so busy shopping at the little Christmas stalls that they hadn’t noticed I was missing. They’d been waiting for the announcement of the bake-off winner, but it never came. When I called them, they were shocked to learn about Chevy.

  “It’s times like these I actually wish I had a child,” Kennedy confessed, envious of the parents who had gotten to leave the stuffy hotel.

  “You don’t really mean that?” I teased. “That would require you to make a commitment, first to a man, then to motherhood.”

  “It was a joke,” she snapped and rolled her eyes.

  Murdock listened intently as each of us regaled her with our cookie-napper encounter. When I told her that I’d been locked into a basement storage closet, she stopped.

  “Are you sure these were the same women who stole your signature cookies?” Her deep-set eyes had the look of a hungry bear, both curious and intimidating at once. Reflexively I shook my head.

  “I guess the answer would be no, since we never saw these women before. We were simply going off what Mrs. Nichols was telling us.”

  “Interesting.” Murdock made a note. Looking up once again, she queried, “If they had never seen you before”—she shook her pen at the three of us—“then why do you suppose they ran?”

  “Guilt?” I ventured.

  Rory raised a finger. “I second what Lindsey said. They were running bec
ause they were hiding something. Also, I wouldn’t assume that they didn’t know who Lindsey was. She was in the bake-off and owns the bakeshop they robbed.”

  Kennedy, with a straight face, offered, “I’m suggesting fear. Rory bears a remarkable resemblance to your fabled Paul Bunyan. That can scare a woman, especially those in middle age.”

  Murdock nearly cracked a smile but buried it deeper as she turned to Rory and me. “I’m not going to disagree with you. The matter of these three mysterious women is curious, but there’s nothing yet to link them to the murder of Chevy Chambers.”

  “Rory and I saw two of the women in a heated discussion with Chevy,” Kennedy offered.

  “Well, now, that is something. Can you describe the two you saw?” Murdock asked.

  “The first woman we went after was a platinum blonde,” Rory told her. “She’s the tallest of the three and the skinniest, with plumped-up lips and pumped-up breasts. She obviously has the best plastic surgeon. What?” he implored with a manufactured look of innocence. “You asked me to describe her.”

  “Cookie-napper number two,” Kennedy butted in, casting a gimlet eye at Rory, “is shorter, bigger-boned, and has rather ordinary brown hair spruced with red highlights. She wore the same trendy black leggings as her leggy friend, and a similar pair of riding boots, but number two clearly wasn’t wearing Spanx.”

  Still writing, Murdock lifted her eyes from the notepad to look at her. “Any other distinguishing features besides clothing, Ms. Kapoor?”

  “Slight middle-age spread with visible cellulite.”

  Murdock, sucking in her stomach, set down her pen. “That’s rather common in women over forty. I mean, distinguishing, like a mole or a crooked nose.”

  “She did have glasses and looked a bit like Elton John, you know, with a wee gap between her two front teeth?”

  Murdock smiled. “Excellent.” She scribbled another line and shut her notepad. “I have to let you three know that you are not to leave town until given the okay. Also, if you remember anything else that might be important, call me. We’ll get to the bottom of this murder, don’t you worry. And, Bakewell, don’t go sticking your nose into this one either. Just because you found the body doesn’t make you a detective. Got that? The same goes for you two. This is a police matter.”