by Darci Hannah
Like a trio of mindless robots, we all nodded. Although I couldn’t speak for Rory or Kennedy, I was fairly certain that I was lying.
CHAPTER 21
While Mrs. Nichols was being questioned, the three of us headed back to the ballroom to find Mom and Dad. Mom was in a state. Her face was pinched with worry, and she was wringing her hands as she leaned on Dad for support. Dad, used to the volatile nature of money and the making and losing of fortunes, was better at schooling his emotions. However, being sequestered in a crowded room had set his fingers drumming away on his jeans.
“I can’t believe you two found the body,” Mom uttered, looking ill. “What a terrible thing for you to see. The police don’t think you had anything to do with this, did they?”
“He was sprinkled with cookie crumbs from one of my cookies,” I explained. “And there was a note asking him to meet under the mistletoe. I didn’t know there was mistletoe in that room until Rory brought me there.”
“That’s what you were doing?” I didn’t like the look Dad was giving Rory. “In the middle of a Christmas cookie bake-off?”
“Dad,” I admonished. Why did I feel like a sneaky teen plotting my first romantic interlude? I was a grown woman! I ran my own business! Flustered, I uttered in my defense, “Well, we obviously didn’t do anything. Chevy’s dead body kind of ruined the mood. By the way, Rory and I are still on the suspect list.”
“But you didn’t know about the mistletoe,” Mom reminded us.
“Rory did, I didn’t. However, I can’t really prove that either. They’re just going to have to take my word for it. Sergeant Murdock is starting to warm to me, but she’s a by-the-book kind of gal. Nope, the surest way off the list is to—”
“Find the killer,” Kennedy finished for me. I noticed that her attention was on the stage. The bake-off was over, but I saw that my fellow bakers were still up there, sitting glumly by their baking stations. The woman who held Kennedy’s interest was none other than Felicity Stewart.
“Linds, we’ve given our statements. Don’t you think we should pack up your baking supplies and go home?”
“Good idea.”
Mom and Dad waited by the giant tree as we went to get my things. I waved to my fellow bakers as I climbed the steps.
“Heard you found the body.” Bradley shook his head, relaying how sorry he was, and got off his stool. “Is it true? Is it really Chevy Chambers?”
I nodded.
“Lindsey, what happened?” Ginger asked with heartfelt concern.
As I gave them all the edited version of what had happened, omitting blood, cookie crumbs, the note, and the fact that I’d been locked in a closet, I noticed that Felicity was strangely quiet. Her eyes flashed my way as she nervously picked hardened royal icing off her countertop. She would have deconstructed her entire gingerbread house, I mused, if Betty hadn’t removed them. All the showstoppers were gone. Once the police had arrived, they’d been offered up as beautiful, candy-coated fodder for the festivalgoers stuck in the ballroom. I didn’t mind. Although it had taken me a long time to construct, it was being put to good use.
“He was murdered?” Bradley looked astonished. “How? When?”
I shrugged. “You know as much as I do.”
“Do you find it a little ironic that he was murdered before the winner was announced?” Ginger looked more miffed than saddened by Chevy’s untimely death as she asked this. “Is it just me, or does anyone else think that’s crappy? We’ve been baking our hearts out all day up here, and what do we have to show for it?”
Felicity piped up. “We’ll never know who the winner is now. However, I feel that I must speak up here. I have it on good authority that I was to be the winner.”
“What?” Ginger flushed with anger. “That’s outrageous! How can you say that? I have it on equally good authority that I was going to win. You all saw my showstopper. Chevy loved it. It was a gingerbread version of Harbor Scoops. I even had little candy ice cream cones on it!”
“Lindsey, were you supposed to win too?” Bradley’s brown eyes narrowed in question. “I’m not blind, you know. I saw the way Chevy was flirting with all of you ladies. I’m the only dude up here, and I can honestly say that I wasn’t told I was going to win.”
“Well, I was. He loved my figgy bars with hard-sauce glaze. Figgy pudding is a well-loved holiday tradition—”
“Not in this country or century, sister,” Ginger cut in with a bite of pure attitude.
Felicity huffed. “I don’t expect you to know anything about holiday traditions. Stick to ice cream toppings. Chevy was a real professional. He had to rank my figgy bars fourth just to make it seem like a fair competition.”
Although Ginger and I nearly gagged, Bradley didn’t. Instead, he stared at her with rapt curiosity. “How so?” he asked.
“Because he knew that my gingerbread chalet was going to be the best showstopper. How could it not when I’m the best at Christmas cheer and holiday bedazzlement?”
Ginger held up her hand as her face pinched with disgust. “I just threw up in the back of my throat! You make me gag. Literally!”
Rory stepped forward. “Everyone, calm down. The competition is over. Did you ever think that all of you are the winners? You four are the best bakers in this village. End of story. I think it’s time for everyone to clean up and go home.”
Felicity, visibly unsettled by the thought, shook her head and walked back to her bake station. She was about to start packing up when I noticed that something on her busy countertop was missing.
“Felicity, where’s your cute rolling pin—the one with the gingerbread men on it?”
“It’s here,” she affirmed with miffed certainty and began looking around. But after a moment of searching, she couldn’t find it. “I must have misplaced it . . . unless you took it, Lindsey. I saw the way you were eyeing it.”
I raised my marble rolling pin. “I have my own, thank you.”
“No. Seriously, it’s gone.” Panic seized her. “It was an antique. That rolling pin was my grandmother’s. This isn’t funny. Did one of you take it?”
We all looked at one another. Ginger was shaking her head. “Why would someone want to steal your ugly rolling pin?” she challenged. “You must have misplaced it.”
“It was an antique,” Felicity cried, horror-struck. A helpless look crossed her face. “It’s one of a kind.”
I looked at Rory to see if he had any thoughts on the matter. It was then that we both noticed Kennedy. She was standing near the edge of the stage texting on her phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked, coming up beside her. Rory stood on her other side.
“Putting two and two together. Missing rolling pin and a murder victim with a bashed-in head?” She waved her hand, then continued texting. “Unless we are mistaken, the murder weapon was missing from the crime scene. I’m asking Tuck if the missing rolling pin could be our smoking gun.” She sent the message. A moment later, her phone beeped signaling it was answered.
“What? What did he say?” I was a little disturbed she had Tuck’s number readily on hand.
She glanced at her phone then looked at us. “It can’t be confirmed yet, but he thinks it’s a strong possibility. He’s passing it by Doc Riggles just in case. Also, Mrs. Nichols is with Sergeant Murdock. She’s been asked to identify the cookie-nappers in the line of people waiting to give statements. She hasn’t seen them yet.”
“They could still be here.” Rory came alive at the thought and turned his sights on the long line of festivalgoers waiting to leave the building. Thinking again, he shook his head. “If one of them is our murderer, she wouldn’t wait in that line.”
“Tuck wants to know if we’ve spotted them.” Kennedy, knowing the answer to this, thought to ask us just in case. “Aside from Mrs. N, we now have the dubious distinction of being able to identify them as well.” With a sarcastic smile, she said, “Ooo, lucky us.”
“We might know what they look like,” I o
ffered, “but we still don’t know who they are. What I’d like to know is, why are they targeting me for their dirty work? First, they steal cookies from the Beacon. Then I have reason to believe that one of them might have used my bake-off cookie to lure Chevy Chambers under the mistletoe. Those women are really getting under my skin.”
“You’re not the only one, Lindsey dear. Tuck believes they’ve slipped out of the hotel. There’s no sign of them anywhere.” Her large dark eyes held to mine as she shook her head. “Missing rolling pin, missing cookie-nappers, and a dead celebrity food critic? This isn’t the ordinary holiday I’d been expecting. But I like it.”
CHAPTER 22
Thoughts of the day’s events swirled in my mind as I drove back to the lighthouse with Rory sitting shotgun beside me. It was late in the day. Mom, Dad, and Kennedy had a ten-minute start on us, but I didn’t care. I needed time to think.
There was so much to consider, including the way the Christmas cookie bake-off had just ended without a clear winner. Was Chevy murdered because of the bake-off? He was, after all, an integral part of it. The celebrity food critic had traveled from Chicago to our small village to help drum up interest in the town-wide Christmas cookie bake-off and then the climactic live bake-off at the Christmas festival. Everyone had been so excited, especially Felicity. She had wanted to win. Heck, we all had wanted to win. So, why had Chevy been killed before the winner was announced? That made no sense.
If Chevy had announced the winner before he was murdered, then there might have been a motive for his death. I hated to admit it, but tensions had been running high since the bake-off had been announced. It had inspired healthy competition, and at times some not-so-healthy competition. But even now I couldn’t imagine that one of us would actually do the deed.
I thought about our village and about the three other bakers who had competed beside me. Ginger Brooks came to mind first. She was not only my friend, but she also owned a successful business in town. Her ice cream shop was a town staple, a go-to for tourists and residents alike. It was true that during the winter months she struggled. Ginger was also a single parent of a twelve-year-old daughter. Would she risk everything to kill the food critic before the winner of the bake-off was announced? Again, not very likely.
Then there was Felicity Stewart. I’d known her for a while now, and we normally got on just fine, except during the holidays, as I had painfully learned. Owning a year-round Christmas shop, her biggest season was in the fall, topping out at the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve. I couldn’t really blame her for wanting a little extra attention by luring more Christmas shoppers to town with a Christmas cookie bake-off. It had been her brainchild, after all. Of course, she wanted to win the whole thing, but would she kill Chevy Chambers—the man she’d been flirting with all week—right before the winner of the bake-off was announced? I couldn’t see it. Felicity wanted the glory of a win and bragging rights.
Then there was Bradley Argyle. He was the only man, and the person I knew the least about. What I did know was that he appeared to be a stand-up guy, and his cooking was sublime. He was a successful chef working at the hottest hotel restaurant around. Why would he jeopardize a brilliant career by murdering a narcissistic food critic—before the winner of the bake-off was announced? That would be bonkers, and Bradley didn’t appear bonkers.
Then there was another oddity to consider. Chevy had made every woman in the bake-off believe she was going to win. Felicity thought she had the competition in the bag. So did Ginger, apparently. Heck, I did too. Bradley was the only one not promised a win because Chevy wasn’t schmoozing him. However, Bradley’s Christmas cookie had won the first round of the bake-off. That suggested Chevy Chambers knew how to do his job. When push came to shove—regardless of his flirting and false promises—he had picked arguably the best cookie of the bunch. Bradley was winning. I didn’t think that was a motive for murder. Puzzled by the thought, I shook my head.
“Thinking about Chevy?” Rory asked, noticing that I was unusually quiet.
I nodded and turned my attention back to the road.
“Me too,” he said. “I’m also struggling with the very pressing fact that I’m starving. Hear that?” He placed a hand over his growling belly. “No more cookies. I need food. I never expected to be at the hotel for so long.”
“I’m sorry.” I took a hand from the steering wheel and placed it over his. “Here’s the good news. I can solve your hunger problem. I have a giant lasagna in the fridge ready to go into the oven, and a salad waiting to be tossed. Dad is making his famous garlic bread, and Mom has prepared a beautiful charcuterie board for us to nibble on while we’re waiting.”
He exhaled loudly, as if a pressing weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “You’re the best. Also, I can’t believe that my romantic efforts were thwarted again by Chevy Chambers. The moment he came to town, all anyone could think about was this crazy Christmas cookie bake-off. It’s occupied your every thought since it began. The guy has some nerve getting killed under my mistletoe.”
He was joking, of course, but there was some truth to his frustration. “Well, you did succeed in surprising me. Gave me the shock of my life,” I admitted, pulling the Jeep into the boathouse that was now my garage. Dad’s rental car already occupied the other bay. I turned off the engine and unbuckled my seat belt. “There’s no mistletoe in here, but I’m willing if you are?”
Rory offered his heart-melting grin and leaned across the center console. I leaned in too, inching my lips ever closer to his. They were about to touch when his stomach rumbled.
“We should go inside,” I offered.
“Not yet,” he said with a determined set to his jaw. He cupped my face in his hands and slowly brought his lips to mine, both of us fighting to ignore his rumbling belly. I silently wished that I could turn off my ears. That wish became void the moment the Jeep gave a violent shudder.
“What the . . . ?” Rory looked at me.
The Jeep rocked again.
“Not me. Wellington!”
Dad must have let him out when he saw my Jeep in the boathouse. Welly, prone to serious bouts of separation anxiety, was standing on his hind legs, peering at me through the driver’s side window. His doleful brown eyes were imploring me to get out and feed him. To illustrate just how much he missed me, he began to whine as he licked the frosty window, streaking it with drool.
“That’s going to be fun to scrape off once it freezes.”
“Welly, down!” I commanded and heaved a sigh of relief when my dog obeyed. I cast Rory a look of apology. Once again, our quiet, romantic moment had been thwarted, this time by a ravenous Newfie.
“I better get you both some food,” I told him, reaching for the door handle. “You are about to pass out from hunger, and Welly’s about to lick the paint off the Jeep.”
Dad, bless him, had already put the lasagna in the oven, and Kennedy was working on the drinks when we walked in. She handed us each a mug of mulled wine and slipped Welly a treat. She then shooed us to the living room. “You’ve been baking all day,” she remarked. “James has got this.”
Dad, hearing his name, looked up from the mixer and nodded. He was whipping up his special garlic herbed butter to lather on the crusty Italian loaf.
“I would say that I was helping, but this is the extent of my domestic abilities.” She lifted a mug of mulled wine.
Rory grinned and took a sip. “Aren’t you going to make someone a good mommy.” Before Kennedy could reply, I pulled him into the living room.
Rory and Welly spotted the charcuterie board on the coffee table at the same time. Rory plopped down on the couch and began helping himself, while Welly, using a tried-and-true canine strategy, sat at his feet with imploring eyes. It was certain to land him a piece of cheese, and quite possibly some fancy sausage meat as well.
Mom, looking as tired as I felt, smiled the moment we came into the room. She was sitting by the fire, cocooned in the puffy armchair with both li
ttle dogs in her lap. Brinkley and Ireland lifted their heads in greeting, then plopped back down, lulled back to sleep by the gentle touch of Mom’s hand. I sat down beside her.
“I’m sorry things got so out of hand today,” she said, mindlessly stroking each little dog. Their white fur matched her angora sweater. “You worked so hard. I was sorry to see your beautiful gingerbread lighthouse broken into pieces before anyone could properly admire it.”
Mustering a gallant smile, I offered, “True. But what is gingerbread for if not to be eaten? Although, I do have to admit it would have made a pretty awesome centerpiece for my Christmas Eve dinner. We’d, of course, have eaten most of it by the end of Christmas Day.”
She smiled at this. “Your father would have said the same thing.” She stopped petting Ireland, who was closest to the end table, and reached for her phone. “Here, I took a picture of your showstopper before they destroyed it.” She found the picture and handed me the phone. I had to admit, it was some of my best work. Seeing it on the table made me wonder what would have happened if Chevy hadn’t been killed. Would I have won? Would it have been Ginger or Felicity? There were a hundred what-ifs.
“What a marvelous job you did, Lindsey. I can’t believe it was all made out of cookies and candy. I wish you could have seen the children’s faces when they brought it out. All the gingerbread houses were truly impressive, but one little boy declared yours the best he’d ever seen.”
I looked up from my mulled wine, thinking of all the planning and hard work. “Thank you for telling me that.”
Mom placed her hand over mine. “There’s a murderer running loose in this town, Lindsey. What brazen person would strike in the middle of a Christmas festival? It rings of desperation. I’m sorry that you and Rory discovered the body, but I think you should let the police handle it from here.”
