Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

by Darci Hannah

  Dad grinned, appreciating my effort to deflect. Having lived with his wife and daughter for quite some time, he was used to our snappy banter. “Betty spotted your truck in the parking lot,” he said to Rory. “In a town overrun with pickup trucks, I thought she was working on a hunch.”

  “James,” Betty gently admonished, “not all pickups are the same, just like not all sedans are the same. There are subtle nuances, like brands, and colors, and things like doors and dangles. And even if I didn’t know that Rory drove a black Chevy Silverado, which he does, and even if I didn’t know that he and Lindsey like to dine at Hoot’s Diner, which they do, a hunch is a hunch. It’s the secret of my success. I live on hunches, gut instinct, and intuition.” Her bright pink lips pulled into a smile.

  Tuck stared at her like a deer in the headlights. “Good thing you’re a Realtor, Betty. In my line of work, instinct might save your hide, but it doesn’t hold up in a court of law.”

  Betty held him with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes. “True confession? When Ellie got that text from Lindsey, stating that she was having dinner with her friends and all, and that they should dine on their own, I had a hunch you’d be here.”

  “No kidding.” Kennedy sighed, eyeing the Realtor with manufactured hero worship. Her real hero worship, as I well knew, was reserved (this week at least) for Officer Cutie Pie.

  “But that’s not all. I also had a hunch that you four have been putting your heads together over the troubling matter of Mr. Chambers’s death. Am I right?” She looked so hopeful. To her credit, she had hit the nail on the head. Tuck, however, looked nervous. One understood why when they remembered that his boss was the unbending Sergeant Stacy Murdock.

  Tuck took a hasty gulp of his complimentary ice water. “Betty, once again, your amazing hunching powers are correct. As a police officer of this town working under the sergeant, it’s my duty to look into the matter. However, you’re wrong about them.”

  “Are we?” Mom used her own superpowers on him. I wished to God she had better instincts or hunches, like Betty had. But Ellie Montague Bakewell’s superpower was her steely-eyed, nose-in-the-air runway smirk. Rory, catching a glimpse, shivered beside me as if poked with dry ice.

  Noting that Tuck was shrinking in his seat, I jumped to his rescue. “We were just helping him make sense of everything. There was so much going on at the Christmas Festival and the live bake-off when Chevy was murdered. Tuck wasn’t there. He was on traffic duty. We were just supplying him with additional information. Isn’t that right?”

  He nodded, unable to hide the shades of guilt coloring his fair cheeks.

  Mom’s face thankfully returned to normal. “Well, then,” she said brightly, this time using her cover girl smile. “You’re going to love to hear what we have to tell you.”

  * * *

  Damn Betty and her unholy instincts, Rory typed.

  After another whirlwind day with the Bakewells and friends, Rory had retreated to his log home sanctuary, defeated but not broken, thank goodness. Defeated because he had tried yet another romantic gesture, this time in the privacy of the quiet passageway between the lighthouse and the light tower. I commended his choice. The inconspicuous door was conveniently located between my front door and the staircase. It was normally dark, quiet, and overlooked. But not, apparently, in the middle of a rip-roaring game of charades.

  She said she thought it was the front hall closet. Although I typed the words, I cringed at the memory of the bubbly platinum blonde who threw open the door and then screamed bloody murder at the sight of us kissing. Thanks to my offer of dessert and coffee at the lighthouse, and Mom’s enthusiasm for charades, our moment of romance had been thwarted the moment my lips touched Rory’s. It had gone downhill from there.

  I’ve survived midnight raids on foreign soil . . . been shot at by crazed terrorists, but nothing prepared me for the likes of Betty Vanhoosen . . . or charades with your parents.

  Betty was her own disaster. Mom’s curse had been getting the movie title, Yes Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus. Acting out “yes” had been no problem. “Virginia,” however, had really tested her acting skills. Dad, doing his best, kept guessing incorrectly, “Yes, sex?” with a puzzled look on his face. We were doing Christmas charades, for all love. Not a proud moment.

  Giving my fingers a little massage as I tried to expunge the memory, I typed, You did fine. You held your ground. I thought it best to point out that he’d been the stoic one. I, on the other hand, had screamed when Betty had screamed, which caused everyone to rush the door, hoping, no doubt, to catch a glimpse of the famed lighthouse ghost. But there was no ghost, just Rory and me looking incredibly guilty for thinking we could sneak away from the group for a moment.

  I appreciate that, he replied. But what an evening. I’m still wrapping my head around what Betty and your parents got up to.

  Quite frankly, I was too.

  Although Mom had strongly suggested that I not get involved in Chevy’s murder, it appeared there was a bit of a double standard where she and Dad were concerned. I knew they’d been up to something, just as she knew that I wasn’t about to listen to her either. So, while I had been investigating with Rory and Kennedy, Mom and Dad had coerced Betty into working with them. Betty was a natural busybody. To be fair, she was a good choice. Betty was dating the medical examiner, and she knew virtually everyone who lived in Beacon Harbor. Thanks to Kennedy, we had Tuck on our side, although he wasn’t all that comfortable with what we were doing either. But I really didn’t think Mom, Dad, and Betty had the nerve or the skills to actually pull off what they had pulled off.

  It was like watching a bad mash-up of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys live, Rory had typed.

  I chuckled the moment I read it. It wasn’t too far off the mark. There had been a wholesome quality about the hip senior trio as they told us whom they had talked to and the gossip they had gleaned from various shop owners about Chevy and his salacious dealings.

  In this scenario, who is Nancy Drew? Mom or Betty? I just had to ask.

  Ellie, of course. She’s a natural. Betty is the Shaun Cassidy to James’s Parker Stevenson.

  Wrong as it was, I was impressed he’d given it so much thought. And I was even more impressed that my parents and Betty had gone around town hunting for clues. Much of what they told us, we already knew. It seemed almost general knowledge by now that Felicity Stewart was thought to be having an affair with the cookie judge. However, Jack Johnson from the Book Nook had told them he’d overheard Stanley Stewart threatening to kill Chevy. According to Jack, it had happened in the men’s room. Jack had been insistent the threat was made before the cookies had been judged. It was a revelation for us and Tuck. It meant that Stanley Stewart had had at least two confrontations with Chevy, one in the men’s room and the other in the library, where we had discovered Chevy’s body.

  Another interesting tidbit was that Peggy Miller, whom I had baked the dog cookies for, had seen Felicity arguing with Chevy near the refreshment table. It was after Felicity had been removed from the stage by her husband. I must have been decorating my gingerbread lighthouse at the time.

  One thing I hadn’t counted on was that somebody had seen Ginger Brooks arguing with Chevy as well. According to Betty’s source, Ginger was flaming mad at the cookie judge. I didn’t like the sound of that. I also didn’t like the fact that the argument had taken place in the hallway near the restrooms. Although no one could be certain of the time, I assumed it was before the final judging of the showstopper. I recalled that I had been the last contestant to finish decorating.

  There were other things Betty and my parents had told us as well. Chevy had been seen talking with three unidentified women. No surprises there. Betty and my parents had then marched down to the police station, asking to speak with Sergeant Murdock. This had surprised Tuck. When he asked them why, Betty turned to him with an expression that was spot-on Angela Lansbury’s nosy Jessica Fletcher. With her well-padded chin confidently th
rust in the air and her round eyes locked on him, she stated, “The cameramen. We wanted to know if they had been questioned. And what of all the footage taken during the bake-off? We figured they must have captured something of interest, like who stole Felicity’s rolling pin, and the identity of the cookie-nappers.”

  Tuck, keeping his professional air, had offered, “I’m sure the sergeant told you that the two men had already been interviewed. Also, if they did happen to film the cookie-nappers, how were we to know? Only Mrs. Nichols can properly identify them.”

  He was made aware that Rory, Kennedy, and I had seen them, too, and that we’d be willing to go through the footage. But it was agreed that Mrs. Nichols had the most experience spotting them. I volunteered to approach her with the request. She always had the option to refuse, but I was nearly certain she’d be happy to help if she could.

  If anything, this little exchange had given Tuck hope. If the women had been filmed and properly identified, then recognition software might be used to get names and addresses. It was a long shot, but it was a move in the right direction.

  However, as busy as they had been, the most amazing item of interest was on Mom’s phone. Rory, as if reading my mind, typed, Still, I can’t believe they actually took a picture of that note.

  Rory and I, after noting Chevy’s tightly closed fist, had figured he’d been holding something when he was murdered. It was later that Doc Riggles confirmed it had been a note. However, even if we had pried Chevy’s fist open and read the note, it was doubtful that either one of us would have had the gumption to pull out our phones and start snapping pictures.

  I bet Doc Riggles doesn’t even know they did that, I typed back. Devious Betty diverted his attention, and Mom snapped the picture. You have to admit, it’s kind of badass.

  I’m just amazed they want to join forces. But that note is important. Someone had lured Chevy to that room with the promise of romance under the mistletoe. It could be anyone. But the writing, I’m willing to bet, is that of a woman’s. We find a match for the handwriting, and we find our murderer.

  He was undoubtedly correct, but I knew it was easier said than done. However, my tired brain was hatching a plan. I typed my good night wishes, with the addition of some tantalizing future promises. I then closed my laptop and gave Welly a big hug for being so patient. He wasn’t complaining. He’d already had his night-night treats.

  With Wellington tucked into his bed at the foot of mine, I settled down for a quick five-hour sleep. Damn my sugarplum visions! The lighthouse had been perfectly illuminated to look like a giant candy cane, and the Beacon Bakeshop buzzed with Christmas cheer. Wellington was in his glory, having furry friends to chase around the house, and my family and friends were enjoying my hospitality. I had even baked my heart out in the live Christmas cookie bake-off. During any normal year, it would be enough. My perfect Christmas was upon me—it was happening! And yet I knew that this year, those elusive sugarplums had been hijacked once again, only this time by a brazen killer. There was nothing else for it. I was going to need to up my game.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Have a holly jolly Christmas, it’s the best time of the year . . .” I was belting out the song along with Burl Ives as I danced around the bakery kitchen, adding ingredients to the industrial mixer. It was one of the best parts about early morning baking. Aside from Wellington, who was watching me from the doorway between the kitchen and the bakery, I was utterly alone. For once, I was up before my alarm had gone off. I wasn’t even that tired—because I was on a mission. I was baking up a plan that might get us closer to discovering the killer.

  Still singing along with Burl, I twirled before adding the wet ingredients—eggs, oil, buttermilk, vanilla, some white vinegar, and a shocking amount of red food coloring. It hit with a splash. I flipped on the mixer and twirled again.

  Wellington sat up and barked with joy. He wanted to dance too—I could see it in his eyes. I walked over to him and patted my chest. In a moment, he was on his hind legs, landing his giant paws on my shoulders. I laughed as his tail swished to the music. “Somebody waits for you, kiss him once for me,” I sang and kissed Welly on the nose. I then set him back on all fours. But the music was infectious. He wanted to keep going.

  “I have to add the dry ingredients,” I told him, dancing back to the mixer. I continued singing as I measured out the flour, sugar, baking soda, salt, and cocoa powder. It was all blending together nicely.

  The next song on my playlist was “O Holy Night.” It wasn’t as lively as “A Holly Jolly Christmas,” but that didn’t stop me from attempting it. I was getting my pans ready, brushing them with melted butter followed by a dusting of flour, as I sang the verse, “’Til He appears and the soul felt its worth . . .” That’s when I caught a whiff of pipe smoke.

  When the Captain arrives, it happens quickly. Wellington was on his feet, looking at me from the doorway, his great busy tail thumping with anticipation. The lights dimmed, then flickered, prompting me to stare at the ceiling. What else was I to say but “Merry Christmas, Captain?”

  Would he respond? Would he finally show himself to me? It wasn’t as if we were strangers. My answer came in the form of a chilling prickle that ran up the back of my neck. I knew with a certainty something was directly behind me.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  I screamed and spun around. “Holy mother!” I cried and dropped a pan. “Where . . . when did you arrive?”

  Mrs. Nichols looked neither frightened nor alarmed as she scooped up the pan and handed it back to me. “Did I startle you? So sorry, dear. No wonder with all the singing . . . but it was lovely,” she assured me with what I perceived was forced enthusiasm. “What are you making?” She shrugged off her coat and placed it on the hook beside the door.

  “Uhh . . .” Pausing until I had mastery over my raging nerves, I finally said, “Red velvet Bundt cakes. Gift-sized.” Why did I feel the needed to clarify that?

  She glided over to the mixer. “Looks sinful. Special order?”

  I shook my head. “Special delivery. They’re gifts I’m giving to the bake-off contestants, and a few select others.”

  That got her attention. No doubt Mrs. Nichols had her secrets, but there was something about her that demanded my trust. She might have meddled on my behalf at the bake-off, but she wasn’t a killer. And I was pretty darn certain she hadn’t written the note found in Chevy’s hand either. In order to be sure, we had checked it last night, placing the note she had written to me against the one on Mom’s phone. It wasn’t a match, and I suspected the sage woman had an inkling of what I was up to.

  “Would these gifts have anything to do with your investigation into the murder of Chevy Chambers?”

  “They do,” I admitted. “I’m using them to narrow the field of suspects.”

  I put the cakes in the oven, then turned my energies to making the Beacon’s staple items. Mrs. Nichols, without missing a beat, deftly worked beside me. As we mixed up the dough for the donuts, muffins, sweet rolls, and Danish, I confided to her my plan. I didn’t tell her that the inspiration had come from the simple note she had written to me. All I told her was that we had an image of the note found in Chevy’s hand, and if we could find a match to the handwriting, we’d know who had lured him to that remote room for a romp beneath the mistletoe.

  “You’re using red velvet Bundt cakes?” Her powdered nose wrinkled with question.

  I had just mixed up the decadent cream cheese frosting to be piped on each cake when I turned to her. “I couldn’t very well go up to everyone and demand they write me a note. They’ll know what I’m up to. I thought it would be nicer if they received a beautifully decorated, delicious Christmas cake from an anonymous source—which is me.” I grinned.

  “But you’ll be putting them in your signature red boxes. Everyone will know they’re from the Beacon Bakeshop, dear.”

  “True. But it’s not unusual that we get special orders all the time. We don’t need to tell anyone wh
o ordered the cakes . . . although it was me.” Again, I grinned.

  She deftly pulled a tray of gingerbread muffins out of the oven and placed them on a rack to cool. “Very kind of you, indeed. Yet I don’t understand how giving them one of your beautiful cakes will help you find the killer.”

  “Well, that part I’m leaving up to Ryan.”

  * * *

  My staff at the Beacon knew I was meddling in the murder of Chevy Chambers. I cared for them deeply and really didn’t want them involved in my dealings. However, during our brief morning meeting, I felt it was important to make them aware that I had talked with a few of the bake-off contestants. I also briefed them on my plan for helping the police (unbeknownst to them) by narrowing down the suspect list with my anonymous Christmas cakes.

  “That’s diabolical,” Tom had remarked with a fleeting grin. He then sobered and asked, “Rory’s helping you with this, right? I mean, comparing the handwriting. It’s not like you’re an expert at that sort of thing.” It was no secret Tom had a man-crush on Rory, but I really could have done without his Rory fandom leaking into my plan.

  “Ah . . . he’s working his own angle,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie. But the cakes were my own little baby. I would only tell Rory and Kennedy about them if my plan worked.

  “Well, I, for one, think it’s brilliant.” I could count on Wendy to have my back. “And you don’t need to be an expert at analyzing handwriting to tell if one person’s scrawl matches the other. The police will handle that.”

  “Yeah, Tom.” Elizabeth hit him with her dishcloth. Tom pretended to look offended, but the two were grinning at one another. “Since Rory’s busy, maybe you’d like to help and deliver a couple of the cakes?”

  “Good idea,” I said, looking at him.

  “But that’s Ryan’s job.” Alaina, using her expressive eyes, let them know how she felt about that. I got the feeling she might not be defending my original plan as much as the young man chosen to execute it. “He has a gift for getting people to do things they might not normally want to do.”