by Meg Muldoon
Meltdown in Christmas River
A Christmas Cozy Mystery
by
Meg Muldoon
Published by Vacant Lot Publishing
Copyright 2017© by Meg Muldoon
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance whatsoever to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Meg Muldoon Collection
The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Series
Murder in Christmas River: Book 1
Mayhem in Christmas River: Book 2
Madness in Christmas River: Book 3
Malice in Christmas River: Book 4
Mischief in Christmas River: Book 5
Manic in Christmas River: Book 6
Magic in Christmas River: Book 7
Menace in Christmas River: Book 8
Missing in Christmas River: Book 9
Meltdown in Christmas River: Book 10
The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Box Set: Books 1-3
The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Box Set Books 4-6
The Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery Series
The Silence of the Elves: Book 1
The Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series
Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: Book 1
Busted in Broken Hearts Junction: Book 2
The Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series
Mutts & Murder: Book 1
Bulldogs & Bullets: Book 2
The Broomfield Bay Mystery Series (with Jools Sinclair)
Ginger of the West: Book 1
Sign up for Meg Muldoon’s mailing list by clicking here, and in addition to monthly newsletters, you’ll also get a free digital copy of Roasted in Christmas River: A Thanksgiving Cozy Mystery Novella!
And for more cozy fun, join Meg on Facebook or visit her Blog.
Meltdown in Christmas River
by Meg Muldoon
Prologue
Moira Stewart glared out the frosted window pane of her living room, watching fat flakes of snow cascade down from the dim dawn skies.
“Another dumb December, another stupid storm, and another blasted flare-up,” she mumbled.
She rubbed her bony hands together, wincing as her fingers passed over the swollen, arthritic joints.
They ached this morning, the way they always did when the first real storm of the season hit. The past few years or so, her hands didn’t stop aching until after the spring thaw, making winters a miserable affair. It was all that quilting she did. The typing she’d been doing lately didn’t help much, either. Not to mention the shoveling she had to do just to get out of her damn driveway after the storms.
In the past, her neighbors were civil, asking whether they could assist her with the snow removal. But they’d stopped asking in the last few years. When she left the house, snow shovel in hand, they’d scurry back into their homes, pretending like they hadn’t seen a poor old lady about to break her back doing manual labor.
Barbarians, she thought.
That was what the world was being overrun with. Odious people who disregarded civility and manners and the proper way things should be done. People who pretended like there were no rules. And worse, people who pretended the rules didn’t apply to them.
She shook her head, gazing out at the driveway.
It made her tired just thinking about all of it.
The snowflakes were growing chubbier now – chubby like Annie Edgewood, the gal who managed the nurse’s station at the residential home where one of Moira’s quilting club acquaintances lived. Every time Moira visited, it seemed that Annie the nurse had just about doubled in size. Annie always had a can of Ensure and a Diet Coke at the nurse’s station, feigning a health-conscious mindset. But Moira had seen the nurse sitting in her car in the parking lot once, stuffing her face with a massive slice of pie from that sugar monger downtown.
Talk about barbarity, Moira thought. Talk about people who disregarded the proper way things should be done.
If Annie Edgewood had been a young woman in Moira’s time, people would have ridiculed her so much that she’d have had no choice but to give up eating like a hoofed animal.
And the way Moira saw it, that would have served her right.
Where was the civility these days? The etiquette? The proper way of doing things?
She rubbed her arms. The flames in the fireplace behind her were starting to die down, and soon she’d have to go out in that nasty weather and shovel that blasted driveway.
After living in Christmas River her entire life, Moira finally had enough of this town.
Enough of the brutal winters that cut her right down to the bone.
Enough of getting snow tires put on her car every fall and taken off every spring.
Enough of the stupid small-town festivities.
Enough of the smiling, happy people who in the privacy of their own homes, were never smiling or happy.
Enough of foolish small-town idiots, too stupid to even keep their own dirty little secrets.
Enough of the lies they told after Moira exposed them for what they really were.
Enough of the barbarism.
Enough.
Why had she stayed here in Christmas River all of these years? Why had it taken her so long to come up with this plan to leave?
She wasn’t sure. But ever since the idea struck her, all she did was daydream about those warm Pacific waters on her aching hands, those trade-wind breezes in her hair, and those refreshing Mai Tai cocktails under that toasty tropical sun. All while watching cute golfers out the window every afternoon work on their game.
Moira reached into the pocket of her fleece vest, her fingers trembling slightly with the effort. She fished out a folded-up piece of paper and flattened it out.
She gazed at the real estate listing by the dull morning light.
“Heavenly Hamlet! Panoramic views to die for! 2 bedroom, 1.5 bath condo with an ocean-view deck that will capture your soul. Steps away from Holoholo Golf Course. Come see this Ka’anapali Coast beauty today!”
Who knew? Maybe one of those old golfers would fall in love with her and she’d get married. Crazier things had happened. And nobody liked being alone toward the end of their life.
Not even someone as tough and as set in her ways as Moira Stewart.
Her cracked lips spread into a smile as she lost herself in the photo.
The ocean was sparkling and the palm trees were swaying in one of those trade winds. The deck had just been refinished a pretty shade of cedar red. The dark wicker furniture looked like it had come straight from the pages of Pottery Barn.
If she closed her eyes and pictured it, she could almost feel the sun shining on her face.
She could almost hear the sound of the waves crashing and the gulls crying.
She could almost feel the absence of pain in her hands.
Almost.
She opened her eyes and reality, with all its bitterness, set it.
The snow was still falling.
The window pane was still frosted.
And her hands still ached something awful.
She slowly folded up the real estate listing.
She went over to the kitchen table, stuffed the paper into her red hardback n
otebook – the one she took everywhere – and slid the book into her purse. She walked to the entrance area of her small house and pulled on a weathered, down jacket, a pair of loafers, a warm hat, and gloves.
That stupid snow would be coming down all day.
The words from the real estate flyer echoed in her head.
“Come see this Ka’anapali Coast beauty today!”
She opened the front door, grabbed the old, heavy snow shovel, and began digging out.
“I’m coming, Heavenly Hamlet,” she grumbled, a thin smile on her lips as she trudged out into the storm. “Faster than a fat girl can down a pastry, I’m coming.”
Moira didn’t notice the car sitting at the end of her long driveway.
And by the time she finally did, it was far, far too late.
Chapter 1
“Tell it to me straight, Cin. And don’t you dare sugarcoat things, because if you do, then I’ll only look like a big fool in front of Pam Dallas. Which I probably will anyway, but it’ll be worse if you lie to me and send me in there thinking I’m God’s gift to romance readers. Better just give me the truth and be harsh about it – harsh like a shot of cheap tequila with no lime or salt or chaser. It’s been a long time since my one semester at college, but I can still take it. Don’t sugarcoat a thing.”
I was in the business of sugarcoating things, but I didn’t point that out to my best friend. I didn’t think she’d see the humor in it considering the state she was in.
Kara paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, sending shivers through the tile with those sky-scraper suede boots of hers. She looked tired and a little frazzled – like she’d been up all night downing espresso shots and worrying about what I was going to say.
I slipped my hands into a pair of oven mitts, opened the top oven, and pulled out a pan of hot, gooey Cranberry Pear Hazelnut Shortbread pies. I set the pan down on the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen and inhaled deeply. Thanks to these bubbling beauties, the kitchen now smelled of berries and butter and spice and everything nostalgic and good and special about the holiday season.
Kara, however, didn’t seem to even notice. She was still babbling on about cheap tequila and word choice.
She took off her glittery green holiday scarf and then finally sat down at the kitchen island next to her daughter, Laila. Kara’s cheeks were still flushed from coming out of the chilly December morning into the warm and cozy pie shop.
“…But just remember that it’s my first attempt at writing a book, okay? I want you to be honest and harsh, like I said. But remember too that new writers are sensitive and…”
I tossed the oven mitts onto the counter and gave Kara a long, blank stare.
The woman was worse than a chattering squirrel in late autumn.
She suddenly stopped talking, noticing my deadpan expression.
“Okay, Cin – speak the truth. What did you really think of The Magic Slipper?”
I drew in a staggered breath.
The hopeful look on Kara’s face fell apart faster than a tender pot roast.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but…”
She turned the color of pie dough and I wasn’t sure if she was still breathing.
I supposed it would have been cruel to keep it from her any longer.
“I’m no expert in the romance genre, Kara—”
I felt my lips spread into a bright grin.
“But I thought your book was amazing.”
“Rea…” she stuttered. “Really Cin? You…”
She was choking on her own words.
I suppose she’d prepared herself for the worst and now evidently didn’t know how to respond to the positive verdict.
“You really mean that?”
“Every word. I loved your characters and the plot was so sweet. And the romance, Kara. When Katherine runs out into the storm and Joe goes after her? I bawled that entire chapter. You can ask Daniel. He was sitting next to me in bed thinking I was having a spontaneous meltdown.”
She looked like she might pass out again. Only this time, I didn’t know what I could say to stop it from happening.
“I had no idea that your creativity went beyond ornaments, Kara. I’m just so impressed.”
When my best friend told me back in October that she was writing a romance novel, I’d been very surprised. She had always loved romance books – the shelves of her house were heavy with Nora Roberts and Debbie Macomber paperbacks. But I’d never known she’d had any desire to be an author herself.
Then shortly after Thanksgiving, she’d come to my pie shop with a thick stack of papers titled The Magic Slipper. To my amazement, she’d completed her book and wanted me to be her very first reader.
Normally, I wasn’t much for romance books – they were too soft, gooey, and unrealistic for my taste. But Kara’s had me thinking I didn’t know the first thing about it.
Kara’s book was about a 30-something woman named Katherine who owns a small ornament shop in a town called Christmas Haven. The woman, a compulsive dater, has yet to find true love. That is, until she accidentally drops a hammer on her foot and ends up in a podiatrist’s office. Sparks fly when she meets the handsome doctor, Joe Bishop, and she falls for him hard.
The book, which obviously mirrored Kara’s own life, was hands-down the best thing I’d read all year.
Kara suddenly gave me a suspicious look.
“You promise you’re not just saying all of this because you’re my best friend and you feel like you have to, Cin?”
“I won’t lie. If the book was a disaster, I’d probably say the same thing I am now, Kara. But it’s not a disaster. It’s wonderful. Really, really wonderful.”
She scrunched her face up and let out a squeal. Then she picked Laila up and started twirling the little girl around the room.
“Did you hear that, munchkin? She liked it! She really liked it! Oh, and here I was thinking they were going to make mincemeat out of me at the workshop!”
The little tot let out some squeals of her own as her mom spun her in circles, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the two of them.
I supposed this called for a celebration of sorts.
I headed over to the fridge, searching the packed shelves for a few moments before finding what I was looking for.
“You’re the first person I’ve let read the book, Cin,” she said, situating Laila in her chair and finally taking a seat again. “You’re the first person I’ve let read any of my writing, actually. John’s offered, but let’s be honest – that man doesn’t know the first thing about romance books.”
I grabbed a clean knife and cut into the chilled Hazelnut Chocolate Pie. I scooped out two big slices and one smaller slice onto some plates. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Laila watching me with large, star-struck eyes.
Kara had a weakness for citrus flavors. But her daughter was the exact opposite and loved anything and everything chocolate – a girl after my own heart.
I reached over and gently pinched her rosy little cheek. She let out a sharp giggle.
“I was worried that everyone at the writing workshop this week would think I’m an amateur,” Kara continued.
Kara had decided to hire a couple of extra employees at her ornament shop this year so she could attend the annual Dallas Lodge Writing Workshop. The event was run by Pam Dallas – a bestselling author who had settled part-time in the Christmas River area a decade or so ago. The intensive workshop was held every year up at her lodge in the mountains, and from what I heard, spots were pricey and filled up fast.
Kara’s husband John had bought her the registration as an early Christmas present – proving that although he might not know much about romance books, he did know a thing or two about romance itself.
I slid the plates of pie across the kitchen island toward my visitors. A moment later, both Kara and Laila dug into the creamy hazelnut chocolate filling with the same measure of enthusiasm.
> I took a bite of my own slice. I really shouldn’t have been eating it – here we were in the second week of December, and already, I’d gained a few pounds. Only a couple of hours before, I’d stuffed my face with a tin of snowball cookies that Daniel’s former boss Tex Stevens had sent us from Harry & David. And I knew that adding a slice of calorie-laden pie to that early morning pig-out session was just asking for trouble around the waistline.
But I broke off a sizeable chunk of the pie and brought it up to my mouth, anyway. The nutty, rich flavor of hazelnut intermingling with creamy chocolatey goodness washed over my taste buds, bringing a content smile to my face.
I went for another bite.
And then, another.
I was a wild woman out of control and had no plans of stopping anytime soon.
“So what do you do at a week-long writer’s workshop?” I asked.
Kara shrugged.
“I don’t know all the details yet. But we’re required to submit chapters from our books and critique each other’s work. There’s a lot of discussion about plotting and character development, I think.”
“Does Pam Dallas critique your work, too?”
“Yes, but not until the very end,” she said. “She gives her critique separately from the other writers. That way she doesn’t influence anybody’s opinion.”
I watched as she finished off the last bite of pie on her plate, wiping her face. Laila was doing some good work on her own plate as well, but the toddler was having trouble keeping the chocolate in her mouth. A big smear of it stained her pink, pouty lips.
Kara noticed and dabbed the tot’s mouth with a napkin.
“Someone needs to teach this girl some table manners,” she said. “And soon. Otherwise her preschool teachers are going to think she was raised in a barn.”
I let out a laugh, reaching out for their plates. Laila had just eaten the chocolate filling, as was her custom. The little girl had yet to learn about the splendors of pie crust, but she had plenty of time for that down the line.