Mistake in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

But I was already shaking my head long before he finished speaking.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Honest. And this isn’t about me. This is about finding out what happened to those girls.”

  Daniel sucked in some air, looking a little concerned.

  “Cin – I want to be sure here. Don’t feel pressured just because—”

  “I don’t. Honestly? I was already looking into Amelia’s disappearance before Vicky asked me to go with her to see Sully.”

  Daniel snapped his head back and gazed at me with a puzzled expression.

  “What?” he said.

  I settled farther into the sofa and turned to look at him.

  “After Vicky left that picture at my shop, I started looking at some old stories about the disappearances. You know Rex Dawson? Turns out that once upon a time he was a reporter for the Redmond Register. He covered the Greyhound Girl disappearances. I talked to him about it. We even went to the truck stop where both women were last seen alive.”

  Daniel’s mouth dropped farther as I spoke.

  “I don’t know what surprises me more,” he said after a moment. “That you were already looking into this before Vicky asked you to get involved, or that Rex used to be anything other than the foolish weatherman that he is.”

  “I was surprised to find that out, too,” I said. “But you know, I think we’ve had Rex pegged all wrong. I saw a serious side to him. He was talking about how he got so obsessed with the women’s disappearances and how he felt like he failed by not figuring out what happened to them. He quit his job over it and he said his marriage nearly fell apart.”

  “Huh. Never would have thought there was anything more to old Rex than bad jokes and pleated khakis.”

  Daniel stared at the TV for a long moment, seemingly deep in thought.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked finally.

  “I’m thinking that you’re giving me a run for my money, Mrs. Brightman. And that maybe come next election, you ought to run for Sheriff.”

  “Aw, I couldn’t be Sheriff,” I said. “You know why?”

  “Why?” he said, looking down at me with a loving expression.

  I felt my lips spread into a smart aleck smile.

  “I’m no Speed Demon Brightman, that’s why.”

  I started laughing, and a moment later, Daniel was tickling my ribcage something fierce.

  The light moment almost took my mind off of the darkness that loomed ahead of us.

  Chapter 37

  Warren sat at the kitchen island the next morning, pushing around the slice of Maple Apple Puff Pie I’d doled out to him in a very uncharacteristic fashion.

  The only time the old man didn’t scarf down one of my pies was when he was feeling troubled about something. And it was obvious that this was the case now.

  “I admire people who stand up for what they believe in. I really do. It’s an admirable quality to stick your neck out like that, especially when your views are unpopular. But goll-ee, Cinny Bee, I don’t like being accused of being evil for following my dream and making a good beer.

  “We don’t prey upon people’s weaknesses, or whatever that robber fella said. We don’t hurt anybody, either. At Geronimo, we make a real point of never over-serving our customers. We cut them off right away. And if somebody looks like they’ve had too much to drink, we call them a cab and make sure they don’t drive home. That’s our policy, and as long as we’ve been open, we’ve never strayed from it. We only want people to have good, clean fun. That’s all.”

  I pat Warren’s wrinkled, aging hand.

  “No need to tell me, old man. You run Geronimo the way you’ve run your whole life – with honor and morals.”

  The local news had just broken the story that the Booze Bandit wasn’t just a robber looking to get rich quick, but that he’d left a manifesto at the sight of the robbery in Broken Hearts Junction the night before. Warren had been highly troubled by the whole thing, resenting the implication that he was somehow morally corrupt because he was a beer brewer.

  “I know that overserving’s a serious problem at a lot of bars. And I know that alcohol abuse is a big issue that doesn’t get enough attention. I support change and reform and a better system of accountability. But heck – robbing local people isn’t going to make any of that happen.”

  I nodded emphatically, going back to whisking up a batch of filling for the Lemon Gingersnap Pies.

  He pushed the pie around on his plate some more before dropping his fork.

  “Aw, sorry to come over here and bring your morning down like this, Cin. I should just keep my complaints to myself.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m so happy that I dropped in.”

  Warren looked as though he hadn’t heard me.

  “Now what’s going on with that slice of pie there?” I said, nodding at that plate. “Apple not to your liking anymore, old man?”

  “No, no, Cinny Bee. Apple’s fine. I guess you could say I’m just in a pickle of a mood and—”

  Warren’s voice was suddenly drowned out by raised voices coming from out in the dining room.

  “Jest give me a minute, sir, to tell her that you’re here and—”

  “No. I don’t wait for anybody.”

  “I don’t want to get mean, sir, but I will. I don’t like your tone and I don’t believe you have any right to—”

  “Oh, get out of my way.”

  My heart skipped a beat, and a moment later, I heard the pitter-patter of boots on the wood floor growing louder. I looked up to see Frank Longworth pushing open the dividing door.

  A flustered-looking Tobias was right behind him, still telling him he couldn’t come in.

  I felt my eyes grow a little wide at the wild commotion.

  “Uh… Mr. Longworth, what are you—”

  “I told you, didn’t I? I told you that you could use the kitchen as long as you kept it orderly.”

  His gruff voice cracked halfway through, and anger stained his face red.

  “Yes… I remember.”

  “Then explain to me why I arrived this morning to find nearly every dish in the place dirty?”

  I felt my mouth drop.

  “What?”

  Mr. Longworth’s face grew redder.

  “You heard me. You left nearly every dish in the place caked in flour in the sink. I never gave you permission to use my dishes or utensils, and I made it clear that you were not to leave any mess in my—”

  “Look – there’s been some misunderstanding,” I said in a strong voice. “When I left last night, the place was in perfect order. I made sure of it. And I didn’t use any of your dishes or utensils, either.”

  Mr. Longworth crossed his arms tighter against his chest and eyed me harshly.

  “Don’t lie to me, missy,” he asked. “I was the first one in this morning, and you were the last one there last night. Doesn’t take a physicist to figure out who the responsible party is—”

  “I left the place in sparkling condition,” I said, feeling some righteous anger of my own. “I’ve been nothing if not respectful of your kitchen, sir. You’ve made a mistake.”

  Mr. Longworth scoffed and just shook his head.

  “You’re lying. You’re the only one who could have—”

  “Hey!” Warren said, shooting up in his seat and stepping toward Frank. “If Cinny said she left the place sparkling, then she did. End of story. You listen and treat her with respect, you hear?”

  Mr. Longworth shot a sharp look at my grandfather. Then he looked back at me, ignoring him.

  “I only had one rule – don’t make a mess,” he said. “I won’t abide people who don’t respect my rules. I want the key to the kitchen back. And I don’t want to see you there again.”

  The room started spinning.

  Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day – one of the busiest days of the year.

  And there was no way I could serve all my customers on one oven alone.

  “Mr. Longworth – this has to be some sor
t of—”

  But the man just stuck his hand out toward me, his palm facing up, waiting for the key.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  “Shame on you, sir,” Warren said, shaking his head at the man. “Shame on you for acting this way.”

  But Mr. Longworth’s face remained unchanged.

  He was so sure I was responsible, but the place would have passed even the sternest food inspector’s standards of cleanliness when I had locked up last night.

  There hadn’t been as much as a fork out of place.

  But I could tell by the way that Mr. Longworth was looking at me that he had made up his mind.

  And nothing I said now was going to change it.

  I went for my purse hanging up on the coat rack. I grabbed my key chain, finding the square kitchen key that Mr. Longworth had given me.

  I slid it off and tried my best not to slap it angrily into his hand.

  “You’ve got it wrong, Mr. Longworth. That’s all I can say.”

  He didn’t respond.

  He turned and then he left.

  “Don’t you think about showing your face here or at Geronimo Brewing!” Warren shouted after him. “Or I’ll show you what a real mess looks like, you old bitter fool!”

  They were strong words coming out of Warren’s mouth, but I sensed that Frank Longworth was completely unaffected by them.

  “The bastard can’t go around accusing innocent people of wrongdoing,” Warren mumbled when he was gone. “He can’t do that to my Cinny Bee.”

  I bit my lip, letting out a shaky, nervous sigh.

  It looked like Mr. Longworth just had.

  Chapter 38

  I didn’t want to do it.

  But I could see no other way around it.

  For the first time ever in the history of Cinnamon’s Pies, the shop would have to be closed on Valentine’s Day.

  Traditionally, it was one of the biggest sales days of the year. But with only one functioning oven, we wouldn’t be able to make enough pies to see us through 10 a.m.

  It wasn’t in my nature to throw in the towel when I was up against tough odds.

  In fact, I’d faced plenty of difficult odds over the years. Like the time when the air conditioner in the kitchen broke during a heatwave in July. Or the time at the Gingerbread Junction all those years ago when I’d built an entire gingerbread house ranch from scratch in a single night after mine had been destroyed by a saboteur.

  But the difference was that in those instances, I’d faced the odds with a positive attitude, knowing that if I put my mind to it, I’d be able to overcome anything.

  But today, I just couldn’t bring myself to view things in such a positive light.

  I was tired. Tired in my very bones.

  I knew that part of it had been the dreary weather. Another part of it had to do with the prospect of seeing Sully Coe again. And it also had to do with the sting I still felt after getting chewed out by Frank Longworth so severely over something I didn’t do.

  But there was more to it than that.

  Something I’d been grappling with silently for a while now.

  Something that had me tired of fighting.

  I leaned across the wooden gate, petting Old Crabtree a couple more times, much to the donkey’s delight. After Frank’s visit, I’d decided to take my lunch early and get some fresh air.

  I was in bad need of some.

  Elise didn’t appear to be home and I was actually glad of it – I’d come here to see Crabtree and to think things through.

  And, as I realized on the way up here, to do something that needed to be done.

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through my call log, finding the number with the Philadelphia area code.

  My hand was shaking as I hit “send.”

  I brought it up to my ear.

  It rang several times, and as the ringing continued, I began to relax.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to do this today. Maybe—

  “Hello?”

  My mouth went dry.

  It was a woman’s voice.

  Not his voice – like I had expected.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  I couldn’t find the words. They seemed to have all but vanished into the fog.

  I had prepared a speech to say to him.

  But this strange woman’s voice caught me completely off guard.

  I was about to hang up.

  “Cinnamon,” she said in a low voice. “Is that you?”

  “I…” I stammered.

  I hated how weak and unsure I sounded.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  The woman’s voice was tinged with a kind of hope now. As if she’d been waiting for my call but hadn’t allowed herself to expect it.

  All I could do was press the phone to my ear, my throat thick with emotion.

  “I can only imagine how hard this is for you right now,” she said when I didn’t respond. “But I called you before because it’s important. I don’t want to scare you, but I think it would be a good idea to come here soon and—”

  “Who is this exactly?” I blurted out.

  I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice.

  The woman hesitated before answering.

  “I’m… I’m your dad’s wife. Francine.”

  I closed my eyes.

  I should have known right away.

  And there was no reason for it to affect me so deeply.

  But all I could do was think of my mom crying the weeks and months and years after he left.

  So many bitter tears.

  So much pain.

  I drew in a deep breath.

  “I called to…” I trailed off.

  I swallowed hard.

  “I called to tell him that… that I’m not coming.”

  There was a long silence from the other end of the line.

  “I understand why you feel that way,” she finally said in a gratingly calm voice that reminded me of how a school counselor might talk. “I really do.”

  I swallowed back the anger shooting up my throat.

  What did this woman know about it?

  “Just… please take my word for it,” she continued. “One day, you may look back and regret this decision.”

  I gulped hard.

  “He lost his chance years ago. You understand? He can’t undo things just because...”

  “I know, Cinnamon. But if you would just—”

  I hit the “end call” button before she could finish.

  I was done with it.

  I wanted to cry then, but I held the tears back.

  I stroked old Crabtree’s ears, staring into the eyes of that beautiful wise animal for a long while.

  Then I wiped my nose, said goodbye, and headed back down the trail into town with new resolve.

  I was going to open the pie shop tomorrow, dammit.

  Even if it meant begging every commercial kitchen owner in town to let me use their ovens tonight.

  Chapter 39

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to beg every commercial kitchen owner in town.

  In fact, by the time I got back to Cinnamon’s Pies, I had already gotten a call from Hal Metz over at Hal’s Grill on the south side of town, offering to let me use their ovens tonight.

  I was shocked when I heard the message, wondering if old Gertrude – the heir apparent to Moira Stewart’s gossip throne – had somehow bugged my pie shop kitchen and had spread the news of the argument I’d had with Frank.

  But then I remembered that the owner of Hal’s Grill had recently done a deal to have Geronimo Brewing Co. beer on tap at the restaurant, and I realized that Warren must have been behind it all.

  That old man was something special, all right.

  The kitchen at the grill wouldn’t be as nice as the Harvest Bread Bakery’s kitchen, but it would do quite well, I reckoned.

  Especially since I wouldn’t have to deal with Frank Longworth.

  I still couldn�
��t quite wrap my mind around what had happened there. I thought that I’d made some headway when it came to building up some sort of friendship with Mr. Longworth. Well, maybe friendship was the wrong word. Camaraderie, maybe, was closer to what I meant. Our conversation had been short that night he’d come back to feed the sourdough starter, but I could have sworn he was starting to warm up to me.

  But obviously, I had been wrong.

  Very, very wrong.

  And it left me to wonder what happened.

  I headed over to Hal’s Grill later that night and got down to work. I tossed a massive batch of Hubba Hubba Chocolate Cherry pies into the oven and set the timer, struggling with the unfamiliar oven dashboard.

  It was half past ten and it was only the beginning of what was most likely going to be an all-nighter. Tiana and Ian were over at the pie shop kitchen, finishing up a few more batches of cherry pie. Meanwhile, I was alone here at the grill, working hard, listening to Chet Baker, and thinking about the woman on the phone earlier.

  She’d said my name with such familiarity, it made me uncomfortable to even think about it.

  Had she always known about me? Had she known about my mom?

  Did she know about how he’d abandoned us?

  How could she be married to somebody like that?

  I closed my eyes, regretting that last thought.

  Everyone deserved to be loved – I truly believed that. Even people who did bad things.

  But that thought was somehow easier in hypothetical theory than it was in practice—

  Just then, I heard the clicking sound of the front door to the diner, followed by a voice.

  “Mmm… Is that Hubba Hubba Chocolate Cherry Pie I smell?”

  My heart soared at the sound of his voice.

  A moment later, he appeared in the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen.

  “Good nose, Sheriff,” I said, unable to pull my eyes away from what he was carrying in his hands.

  I couldn’t help but grin foolishly at the silky red blooms and powder-white baby’s breath peeking out from the pink cellophane.

  “And is that a bouquet of Valentine’s Day roses that I see?”

  “It is,” he said, glancing around the kitchen “Though I don’t suppose they’d have a vase in joint like this.”