Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

by Darci Hannah

  “Hold up a second, Tex.” Kennedy, embracing her phony American accent, wiggled her finger at him. “Are you suggesting that our sweet Mrs. N is a clever, diabolical murderess?”

  “I’m just pointing out that, unlikely as it seems, it’s not out of the realm of possibilities.”

  A self-deprecating huff escaped me. “I knew her sudden, timely appearance seemed too good to be true. I guess tomorrow at the bakeshop I’ll have to confront her.”

  “What? No.” Rory closed his laptop and gave me the full heat of his vibrant blue stare. “She could be dangerous, Lindsey. Don’t let on that you suspect her.”

  “Dangerous? She’s an old woman.”

  “One who knows how to use a rolling pin.” Kennedy pointedly raised a brow before draining the hot cocoa from her mug. “Also, do try to get her address.”

  “What, so you can give it to Tuck?”

  “Goodness, no.” She feigned innocence. “This is our lead . . . well, it will be once you get it.”

  “Alright. I’ll try,” I said, although the mere thought of prying into Mrs. Nichols’s private affairs gave me an unsettling feeling. As if reading my thoughts, all the flameless candles around the window flickered and went black.

  Kennedy gasped. “What just happened? How could they all just go out at the same time?” She fumbled for the flashlight app on her phone. “This isn’t funny!”

  “Probably just my subpar batteries,” I said, hoping to console her. However, Rory and I knew that the sudden blackout had nothing to do with batteries. A subtle scent of pipe smoke indicated that we were not alone.

  “Did you just pull out a pipe?” She turned to Rory. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t smoke,” he told her, packing up his laptop bag.

  The candles flickered back on. Kennedy spun around, her large eyes wildly inspecting the candles. “What the heck?”

  “Time to leave,” I said, casting Rory a covert glance. “It’s late, and I have to get up in a few hours. Those donuts don’t make themselves.”

  It was either something we said, or we had overstayed our welcome. Either way, Captain Willy Riggs had arrived to stand the graveyard watch.

  CHAPTER 29

  What was Mrs. Nichols doing meeting Chevy Chambers in that remote hotel library? It was this question that robbed me of sleep. The gingerbread showstoppers had been about to be judged, arguably a hard job. Everyone, including Felicity, had created an amazing and delicious work of art out of cookie dough, frosting, spun sugar, and candy. Adrenaline had been running high, the baking competitive. And Chevy had been flitting about, flirting with the contestants, and disappearing to parts unknown. So much had been going on around me during the Christmas cookie bake-off that it was hard for me to make sense of it all.

  I was trying to quiet my careening thoughts, but it was proving hard to do. I was worried about Mrs. Nichols and the fact that I’d been so trusting of her. For instance, every other employee that I had hired had been required to fill out the proper paperwork, the W-4s and the I-9s, including a full name, address, and date of birth. There was a process to running a business, and it had all gone out the window when Mrs. Nichols appeared. She had started right in, taking over my kitchen like a tidy tornado. I knew she lived with a friend but had never bothered to ask after her friend’s name, or an address. We had never discussed salary. Friday morning, when my entire staff had their checks electronically deposited, I counted out cash and gave it to Mrs. Nichols in an envelope. Dear God! I had paid her under the table! What the devil was wrong with me? I tossed and turned under the blankets, cursing my sugarplum visions. They had taken control and had clouded my judgment to the point of negligence. I would have to make it right.

  After a night of restless sleep, I woke up realizing that I had overslept. I rushed through my morning activities, trying to make up the time. I was doing a good job of it, too, until the moment I let Wellington out of the lighthouse. Knowing that I was in a hurry, he took matters into his own paws and disappeared behind a large snowbank, chasing after some unseen creature. I threw on a coat and chased after him, calling his name in a loud whisper. Ten minutes later, I found him waiting before the door of the bakery kitchen, his tail wagging with delight.

  “Thanks for coming when you’re called,” I admonished sarcastically, knowing my snappy wit was lost on his fluffy, puppy-dog brain. I stroked his cold black fur. As if not to be bothered by my petty complaint, he tossed me a glance, then focused all his canine energy on the back door.

  Wellington and I seldom used this entrance. It was mostly used for deliveries and employees. I didn’t have the key on me but figured Mrs. Nichols had arrived and hadn’t locked it. I was given to understand that people from up north weren’t in the habit of locking their doors. Generally, Beacon Harbor was a safe place to live, but there was a murderer on the loose.

  I made a quick survey of the dark driveway and parking lot, noting that there wasn’t a car in sight. I blamed myself for not knowing how the woman got to work. I shook my head and opened the door.

  The lights were on. It was a cold morning, but the kitchen was warm, indicating that the ovens had been on as well. And the most telling sign of all was the smell of fresh baked cinnamon rolls that hit me as we came through the door. That comforting yeasty, sweet bread smell was something I would never grow tired of. I called out her name as I entered the kitchen, but pulled up short when I realized that she was nowhere in sight.

  I relaxed and told myself it wasn’t the first time. I then marveled at the woman’s productivity. Mrs. Nichols had already baked the gingerbread muffins and all the cinnamon rolls and pecan rolls. There were two trays of her scrumptious Christmas butter cookies, and on the back counter sat five round layer cakes, each one decorated like a glorious Christmas present.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Nichols,” I said to the room at large. Wellington, knowing that the kitchen was off-limits, had pushed through the kitchen door. I followed him out and spied the treat she had left for him on his mat behind the bakery counter. It was a gingerbread dog cookie. Lucky dog, indeed. As Welly gobbled up his cookie, I mentally berated myself for ever thinking that this generous and thoughtful woman could be involved in murder.

  “Mrs. Nichols,” I called out again, thinking it odd she hadn’t replied, or at the very least, hummed her favorite holiday tune. Seized with a sudden, irrational fear, I threw open the door to the walk-in refrigerator.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. The refrigerator, aside from a vast number of dairy products, eggs, and produce, was empty. I tuned back to the counter. It was then I spied a note tucked under one of the beautiful cakes.

  Sorry to have to leave so abruptly, but I have a matter to attend to. The donuts are in the proofing oven. Carol

  The note was vague, perhaps by design, and I wondered if I’d ever see the old woman again. From my short time with her, she had always been punctual and professional. Leaving such a note seemed odd, and yet it really didn’t. My entire experience with the woman seemed, well . . . odd. I half-wondered if she’d caught wind that we knew she was seen talking with Chevy right before he was murdered. But then why had she come back to the Beacon Bakeshop this morning? Duty, perhaps? Maybe the cakes and muffins were her way of saying good-bye. Either way, I found the whole affair a bit sad, especially since I didn’t have a way to reach her—no address, no phone number, and maybe not even her real name. A derisive huff escaped me as I thought it was probably better this way. If she was somehow involved in Chevy’s murder, my ignorance where she was concerned would save me the embarrassment of being the one to rat her out.

  I cringed at the thought. No one who baked like she did could be evil. It made no sense. Yet I had little time to dwell over the note or Mrs. Nichols’s sudden disappearance. I had a bakery to run.

  * * *

  “She what?” Kennedy blurted.

  It was past eleven o’clock in the morning—well after my short staff meeting where I
assured everyone that I was not a murder suspect this time, and after the morning rush, where gossip and wild theories about Chevy’s murder had abounded. Kennedy, leisurely strolling in for her complimentary gingerbread latte and muffin (she was my houseguest, after all), had just heard the news about Mrs. Nichols.

  I put my finger to my lips to keep her from bursting out again. Elizabeth, Wendy, and Tom were working with me. They were all very fond of the older woman. I didn’t want them to worry.

  As it was, Tom cast me a questioning look at her outburst before handing Kennedy her latte. She waved it off with a look indicating that I was the crazy one and shoved a fifty-dollar bill in the tip jar.

  I lifted a brow at her. “Generous of you. Why don’t you pick up your latte and muffin and come back to the kitchen with me?” She didn’t need to be asked twice.

  “What are you talking about—she just left a note?” Kennedy looked troubled by the news. “How are we supposed to find her now? And isn’t it illegal in this county to employ someone without documentation?”

  “She was in her trial phase,” I said, knowing it wasn’t a viable excuse, and handed her the note.

  Kennedy ran her curious gaze over the words. “Well, we know she’s not a psychopath. Her handwriting is so round and neat. I hear that’s clearly a sign that one is not crazy.”

  I took the note from her. “You read that off the internet,” I chided. “There’s a lot of garbage floating around online. You’re not being helpful. If Rory, with all his professional training, couldn’t find any information on her, how are we supposed to?”

  Kennedy took a sip of her latte and shrugged. “I’m sure somebody knows something about her.” She took another sip and, as if a light bulb went off in her head, slowly set down her cup. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I think I know.” As if being stuck with a hot poker, she popped off her stool and headed for the door. “I’m going to need to pinch a couple of donuts,” she warned, then ran back and grabbed her latte, leaving her muffin on the countertop untouched. “Be a dear and save that for me.”

  An hour later, Kennedy came strolling back into the bakeshop, looking like a cat that had lapped up all the cream before going for the dog’s food as well. I couldn’t say the look suited her.

  “And here, I always thought you were the clever one,” she said, handing me a folded piece of paper.

  “Should I be impressed?”

  “With my tactics, no. But my result speaks for itself. Go ahead. Open it.”

  To my utter surprise, an address of sorts had been scribbled on the paper. I say “of sorts” because all it said was Candy Cane Cottage, Tall Pine Way. The shocking part of it was that the note had apparently come from the desk of Sergeant Stacy Murdock. I looked at my friend. “I don’t mean to pry, but did you really bribe the noble Sergeant Stacy with donuts?”

  Kennedy blinked. “Of course not. The woman scares me.” She then made a theatrical motion with her hand. “Follow me if you will. I remembered that everyone who was at the Christmas festival had to give a statement to the police. A statement naturally contains contact information. I then remembered seeing Tuck talking with Mrs. Nichols. I put two and two together and went to see if he couldn’t be moved to scribble an address down for me.”

  “Oh. So, you bribed him with donuts.”

  “The donuts, Lindsey dear, were not a bribe. They were for a much-needed energy boost. Don’t ask any more questions. Just rejoice that I have an address for that cookie vixen, Mrs. Nichols.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Rory studied the address in his hand and grunted. “This sounds totally made up. It’s the type of nonsense somebody gives when they don’t want to be found. There’s no address, just a name, Candy Cane Cottage. It doesn’t appear on Google Maps or any other GPS system. This is garbage.” His eyes shot to the rearview mirror, where they met the equally dreamy blue gaze of Tucker McAllister. Rory’s look, however, was gently rebuking. He then crumpled the note and tossed it in the back seat at the man who wrote it.

  As Rory drove his truck down the highway, looking for Tall Pine Way, Tuck leaned his boyishly handsome head over the seat. He wasn’t smiling. “You think taking statements at the Christmas Festival was a walk in the park? It was crowded, hot, and let me tell you that when murder happens around a room full of kids, parents aren’t in a chatty mood. They want to get the hell out of there. Also, I think I have a good read on people. I can tell when someone is lying to me. I’ll bet my badge that Mrs. Nichols wasn’t lying. She held me in a look that reminded me of my grandma and said . . .” Tuck did his best granny impersonation, launching in with, “I’m staying with a friend at Candy Cane Cottage. Do you know it? It’s just off Tall Pine Way, dear.” He cleared his throat. “She said it like I should have known it. And I kinda do. I mean, I know Tall Pine Way, so it has to be here.”

  “I love your confidence, Tucker darling. But there’s no need to bet your badge. Rory’s just a bit chafed his technology has failed him. Technology is his sword and shield. Without it, he feels naked.”

  Rory, bless him, showed an impressive amount of self-control and didn’t take the bait. Besides, Tuck wasn’t even wearing his badge. It was late afternoon, and he was in street clothes, wearing jeans, a down jacket, and a skull-fitting knit hat. After giving Kennedy the address, Tuck had made her promise not to investigate without him. She hadn’t revealed that little nugget to me until later—when Tuck showed up at the bakeshop. For him, it was a strictly off-duty outing since Sergeant Murdock wouldn’t have approved. She was a by-the-book kind of cop, he explained, a fact I was well aware of. The sergeant was methodically going through statements and interviewing suspects, Felicity and Stanley Stewart being at the top of her list. I found that very interesting. However, the fact that I still hadn’t heard a word from Mrs. Nichols had put my nerves on edge.

  Tuck directed Rory to Tall Pine Way, an unpaved road a few miles out of town that wound through a thickly wooded area. It was a typical access road for vacation homes and secluded cabins. Each property had a cute little sign indicating the name of the cabin or the family who owned it. However, most properties had addresses as well. We drove up and down the road once, failing to spot a driveway leading to the Candy Cane Cottage. Tuck, sweating a bit in the back seat, asked Rory to make one more go at it. Rory agreed, and that’s when I saw a little white sign partially obscured by a huge, snow-covered pine tree. The lettering had faded, but the candy canes, crossed like swords at the top, were, I felt, a pretty good indication we had found the right cottage.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Rory uttered, and turned his big truck down the partially hidden, snow-packed driveway.

  “I never knew this place existed,” I said, catching my first glimpse of the dwelling.

  “Neither did I,” Tuck marveled, sitting easy now that he could keep his badge.

  At the end of the long, winding driveway sat a tidy, turn-of-the-century cottage with plenty of curbside appeal. It was a small, two-story dwelling with a steeply pitched roof, a quaint second-story balcony, and gingerbread work at the eaves. The cottage had been painted white with green shutters, red trim, and a red front door. Flanking the door were two identical seven-foot red-and-white-striped candy canes, the arch of each one curving away from the door. They had been constructed out of plywood, yet the effect was charming and whimsical. Another pretty touch was that under every window was a flower box overflowing with poinsettias. Fresh greenery and wreaths added to the Christmas charm. In a funny way, it was exactly the kind of house I had pictured Mrs. Nichols living in.

  Rory parked the truck, and the four of us walked up the wide steps to the front door.

  I had no sooner knocked than the door opened, revealing my assistant baker. If she thought it odd that we had come to pay her a visit, she didn’t show it. Instead, she smiled and ushered us inside as if she had been expecting us.

  “I’m so glad you found the place,” she said, whisking us toward the kitchen. “I just put the kettle
on for a pot of tea.” She pulled up a bit and turned around. “Or perhaps you would like coffee? I can make that too.”

  We assured her that tea would be fine. As we walked to the small kitchen in the back, I marveled at all the little touches of Christmas that held the eye, adding to the coziness of this cottage in the woods. My eyes lingered on the long, built-in bookcase that sat beneath a row of windows in the living room. The shelf on top provided space for a miniature Christmas village, a grouping of reindeer, Christmas candles, and a collection of Santas. There was a love seat and two plump chairs near the fireplace that reminded me of chintz-covered clouds. The curtains were white lace, and the fresh tree by the window had been wrapped in gold ribbon, hung with old-fashioned ornaments, and lit by tiny white lights. The room was like a nostalgic snapshot in time, and I found that I loved everything about it. I knew that Kennedy admired it too. The look on her face said it all.

  “I never thought it possible, but this place reminds me of my gran’s cottage in the Cotswolds, only without the moldering thatch roof.”

  The moment we were seated around the little kitchen table, I felt like a traitor. And the feeling didn’t lessen any as I watched our kindly hostess pour freshly steeped tea into fancy teacups. The tea smelled like Christmas, I thought as I took a sip from my own dainty cup. It was a delicious blend of dark tea leaves, orange rind, cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves, with just a hint of honey.

  Because she was a baker, I knew she couldn’t resist the impulse to set out a plate of cookies for us to go with our tea. This she did without hesitation, and they were delightful in their variety—iced sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, chocolate crinkles, Swedish sandwich cookies with currant jelly, lace cookies, orange-cardamom crisps, shortbread, Mexican wedding cakes, macaroons, peanut butter drops with chocolate kisses, Mississippi mud bars, lemon bars, and my personal favorite, seven layer bars. With her baking schedule at the Beacon, I silently marveled at how she had managed it.