Meltdown in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  Kara drew in another ragged breath.

  “Well, I read Moira’s chapters – some crazy story about this compulsive liar who kept duping everyone to get what she wanted. It was really out there, Cin. Whackadoodle. And the writing was really cliché and bad. But I was nice about it. I found good things to say. I pointed out a few things I thought could be improved, but that was it. I didn’t say one negative word.”

  A few more tears slid down Kara’s red cheeks.

  “And then… then today it was my turn to be critiqued.”

  She looked down at the stack of papers in her hands – the ones she’d shown me earlier with the red marks all over them.

  “They hated my chapters, Cin. They picked my writing apart like it was a platter of crab legs at an all-you-can-eat buffet in Vegas. They—”

  She bit her lip, shaking her head.

  “They said it was trite and short-sighted and that I didn’t know the meaning of a good metaphor…”

  She trailed off.

  “They all thought it was terrible. And they were really, really cruel about it, too.”

  I felt my cheeks catch fire and a surge of white-hot anger crawled up the back of my throat.

  “They’re wrong, Kara,” I said. “I read your book, remember? And I thought it was magnificent. I might not be a writer, but I can read just fine. I hate romance books usually, but I loved yours.”

  She nodded, brushing away a few tears.

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Cin. After that soul-destroying morning session, I was getting into my car and heading back here to check in on the store, and one of the other writers in the workshop came up to me. Her work hasn’t been critiqued yet. But she said she heard what I’d said about her chapters and that she couldn’t believe anybody could be so rude and insensitive to say such mean and nasty things. She was so angry at me.”

  I furrowed my brow.

  “Wait… what? What did you say about her chapters?”

  “I didn’t say anything about that woman’s chapters, Cin. But someone told her that I did.”

  Kara paused, waiting for me to put it together.

  And then, after a long moment of thinking it through, I figured out what had happened.

  What always happened whenever Moira Stewart was involved with something.

  Gossip.

  Rumors.

  Lies.

  “Moira.” I said.

  “Moira,” she echoed, saying the name with all the venom of a black widow.

  I let out a sigh.

  “I don’t have real proof, Cin. But when it comes to Moira, I don’t think you need any. She must have taken offense at my suggestions for her crazy opus. I think she’s been whispering to all the other writers about me, telling them that I’ve been saying terrible things about their work. That’s probably why they were all so mean during my critique. It was just a backlash to the things they thought I’d said.”

  Kara looked up at me with sorrowful eyes.

  “So you see? It’s ruined. This whole workshop is completely ruined.”

  She gazed out the window, staring into nothing and looking completely devastated.

  “I was so excited for this, you know? I thought it might be the beginning of a big writing career for me. Something for Laila’s college fund down the line. But now…”

  Her voice became as thick as a pie filling with too much corn starch, and she trailed off.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tobias swing into the kitchen, deftly grabbing a few more pies. He swung out just as quickly.

  Tiana must have told him to steer clear for a while.

  “The worst part is I don’t know for sure if Moira’s nasty rumors had anything to do with them hating my chapters,” she said. “I mean, maybe my writing stinks. Maybe they would have just said those things regardless. Maybe I really don’t know anything about a good metaphor or character development or—”

  “What did Pam Dallas say about your chapters?”

  “She doesn’t give her opinion in the group critiques, remember? She waits until the last day of the workshop to tell people her thoughts.”

  “Your writing is great, Kara. I know it. You know it. And I know Pam Dallas will see it, too.”

  Kara sniveled a little bit, staring down at her cup of steaming tea.

  “You really think, Cin?”

  I nodded.

  An angry expression suddenly drifted across her face.

  “I still feel like smashing that old hag’s mailbox or covering her house in toilet paper or something,” she said. “I mean, this workshop was my Christmas present from John. Do you know how much he spent on it? And to have that mean, bitter old woman ruin it for me is just…”

  I thought I saw a flash of murder in her eyes again.

  At least she’d stopped crying. I supposed it was better to feel murderous than sad.

  “Well, if you need a wingman to take down some mailboxes, I’m your gal,” I said. “I can swing a baseball bat pretty good.”

  “But how are your TP-ing skills these days?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to brag, but I can hurl a roll of toilet paper as good as the next girl.”

  She let out a laugh, and a feeling of relief swept through me.

  I hated seeing Kara so upset.

  “What about a slice of Lemon Gingersnap Pie?” I said. “I think I’ve got one cooling in the fridge somewhere.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’d love to, Cin, but I should get back to the Dallas Lodge.”

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at it.

  “We only get an hour before the next session. And I’m afraid I burned through most of it driving here and sobbing all over your kitchen.”

  I got up, going for the fridge anyway.

  “Well, just remember, Kara, you can leave the workshop anytime. Come back here if you want. I’m going to be baking pies past sundown for Warren’s fundraiser. We could put on some oldies Christmas music, break out some whiskey, and make a real night of it.”

  “Sounds tempting, Cin. But I can’t quit now. Moira would think she’s won. And I can’t let that happen.”

  I brought out a tin from the fridge and cut it up quickly. I slid a big slice of the creamy pale yellow pie into a small pastry box and handed it to her.

  “I’ll get some ice going in the freezer for that whiskey just in case,” I said.

  Kara smiled warmly at me, reaching forward and squeezing my shoulder.

  She wiped under her eyes with the back of her hand, and was about to leave when she stopped suddenly.

  “I meant to ask – did Brad end up stopping by the other day?”

  I nodded.

  “He sure did. I’m helping him with The Junction this year.”

  “That poor guy is a genius when it comes to hot glue guns and bows, but cheese and crackers, is he a disaster when it comes to gingerbread.”

  “Oh, he’s not that bad. He just needs...”

  The image of Brad building a gingerbread house alongside Frankenstein crossed my mind and I had to stifle down a mean laugh.

  “A little direction. That’s all,” I said.

  I topped the statement off with an optimistic smile.

  But Kara just raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.

  “He didn’t tell you about the seventh grade, did he?”

  “Seventh grade?”

  Kara let loose a mean smile of her own.

  “What about it?” I said.

  But she just shook her head.

  “That’s his story to tell. But let’s just say he’s gonna need a hell of a lot more than a little direction if he’s going to have any chance at winning The Junction this year. I’d say he’ll need nothing short of a miracle.”

  “What are you talking about—”

  “Thanks for the pie, Cin. And for the pep talk. Maybe I’ll surprise us both and not murder Moira during the afternoon session today.”

  “Yeah, but what about Br
ad—”

  Before I could finish the rest of my question, Kara had disappeared out the back door.

  A few minutes later, Tiana poked her head into the kitchen.

  “Is it over?” she whispered.

  Chapter 11

  I stood at the end of the long driveway in the morning frost, staring at the small yellow house, thinking that the sensible thing to do would be to turn around and leave.

  It had been a long night of mixing, blending, pouring, tasting, pulling pans from ovens, and listening to nearly every soul and country Christmas song out there. By the time I was finished baking, it was so hot in the kitchen, I was forced to bring a dusty fan out from one of the closets and to change into a tank top I hadn’t worn since August.

  The hours ticked by as I worked, my mind wandering to various things, the way it usually did when I worked alone. I thought about the Christmas shopping that I still needed to do. About Warren’s fundraiser and whether I was making enough pies for it. About the storm the TV weatherman said was going to come barreling down from the mountains in the next couple of days – the first significant snowstorm of the season. About Daniel and the fact that he’d be working out in it, driving the icy roads.

  But of all the thoughts I had to occupy my mind with, I kept going back to the same one.

  How could Moira Stewart have done something so spiteful and malicious to Kara?

  Every small town had a gossip – a person who relished knowing other people’s secrets and telling tall-tales to anybody who had ears.

  And in addition to her decades-long stint playing Mrs. Claus in the annual Christmas in July Parade and Play, Moira Stewart had filled the role of town gossip in Christmas River for as long as anybody could remember. Most of the time, her rumors were of the somewhat harmless variety. For example, Moira said that Benny Tate, A local attorney, allegedly cheated on the LSAT back when he was a pre-law student. Also according to Moira, a local restaurateur named Mary Bisbee supposedly spent her weekends in Warm Springs gambling herself into deep debt. Moira also claimed that Rex Pantano, a middle-aged dentist who ran Pantano Dental with his wife, was apparently in love with a hygienist in his office twenty years his junior.

  But this latest escapade of Moira’s had taken things to a whole new level. It appeared that she no longer even cared whether her rumors had any truth to them whatsoever. She was just flat-out lying now for the fun of it.

  I knew how much this writer’s workshop meant to Kara – I knew how hard she’d worked on her book.

  And to have it all tainted by Moira Stewart’s pettiness and jealousy made me so angry that when I began dwelling on it during my long night of work, I didn’t hear the timer go off, and I nearly burned a whole batch of Krisp Kringle Chocolate Gingersnap pies.

  It wasn’t my fight and Kara hadn’t asked me to intervene. But that didn’t stop me from getting up early the next morning, bundling up, and walking the eight frozen blocks to Moira Stewart’s little yellow house.

  However, instead of brandishing a baseball bat or an industrial-size package of Scott’s toilet paper, I carried in my hands a still-warm tin of Christmas Flynn Pie.

  Because that was another thing that my great-grandmother had taught Warren, and consequently, taught me.

  You always attract more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  Even if the flies you’re trying to attract are little lying gossips who could use a lesson or two in manners.

  There was smoke coming out of the yellow house’s chimney, climbing high up into the misty morning.

  I drew in a deep breath and then began walking down the long driveway, minding my step around a series of treacherous ice patches and Moira’s red Hyundai. After successfully navigating the walkway, I stepped up to her porch and lightly knocked on the door a couple of times.

  The response was lightning fast.

  As if she’d been waiting for me.

  The door creaked open, revealing a wrinkly bulldog face. That was followed by the overwhelming aroma of roses.

  It was Moira’s signature perfume. The times she came to the pie shop with her quilting group, I could practically smell that perfume from all the way back in the kitchen.

  “Hi, Moira.”

  She was dressed in a black turtleneck, dark slacks, and conservative black loafers. As usual, her short gray hair was teased and fluffy, and reminded me of cotton candy if somebody dropped a handful of ash into the spinning machine.

  She gave me a slightly puzzled look.

  “I’m sorry about the hour,” I said forcing a smile. “I know it’s early.”

  “I hardly sleep anyway these days, Cinnamon,” she said, stiffly. “Too much to think about.”

  Moira rubbed her blue-veined hands together. Then she glanced past my shoulder.

  “Any snow yet?”

  “No. Just a little bit of ice on the streets.”

  “Hmm. They say we’re in for a real big one tomorrow,” she said, letting out a small sigh and looking up at the milky skies. “It’d be nice if they were wrong, but my gut tells me they’re not.”

  She looked back at me matter-of-factly.

  “Well, you might as well come in, dear. I have to get going to my workshop soon, but I have a few minutes to spare. And we wouldn’t want you catching cold in this nasty weather. Your Sheriff beau would never forgive me for it.”

  She waved me into her house, but I hesitated in the doorjamb before stepping inside.

  “What’s that there? Some pie?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “For me?”

  I nodded again.

  “Oh, aren’t you thoughtful,” she said.

  A strange, sickly-sweet smile came across her thin lips.

  I felt a shiver run down my spine.

  I didn’t trust that smile as far as I could throw the pie in my hands.

  Chapter 12

  But then again, maybe I didn’t know Moira Stewart as well as I thought I did.

  Sure, she came into my pie shop once a month with her quilting club. I also saw her at Ray’s Grocery on occasion. And Moira was also a sure bet at nearly every community event in Christmas River.

  But for the most part, I’d avoided Moira as much as humanly possible over the years. Unlike Kara, I wanted no part of her nasty gossiping.

  But maybe there was more to Moira than that.

  Maybe she wasn’t all bad.

  “That grandfather of yours sure is something else,” she said, taking a seat in the well-worn Pepto-Bismol-colored rocking chair across from the old brick fireplace. “I hear he’s been working day and night getting ready for the fundraiser. I’m told it’s the must-attend event of the decade here in Christmas River.”

  I took a sip of the coffee Moira had just brought me in a delicate tea mug. The brew was weak and flavorless, but it felt nice having something hot after the cold trek over here.

  I grabbed another cookie off the silver tray on the table – the coffee was bad, but these shortbread cookies were tasty. Buttery and salty, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever had shortbread as good. I wondered if this was how Moira lured many of her gossip “sources” into spilling their secrets.

  “Yep, we’re all hoping the fundraiser will be a success,” I said.

  I set my tea cup down on one of the doily coasters that peppered the tables of the old living room – the place looked just like I imagined it would. Doilies, glass figurines, tea sets, no end of floral wallpaper, and a massive antique grandfather clock that announced each second with a dragging tick.

  It was all very Moira Stewart.

  “Um, listen, Moira,” I said, dusting some crumbs off of my red holiday sweater. “I actually came here to talk to you about—”

  “Did your grandfather get Lars Claus to work yet?” she asked.

  My eyebrows jumped.

  “How did you…?”

  A knowing smile came across Moira’s lips and I thought I caught a twinkle of self-satisfaction in her eye.

  “I know
everything that goes on in this town, dear,” she said, pushing her loafers against the scuffed wood floor and rocking slightly in her chair. “Nothing gets by me. I heard your grandpappy had a pretty close call the other day up on that rooftop. He should be more careful, especially with that achy hip of his. At his age, a fall like that would surely do him in.”

  I felt another shiver roll down my spine.

  Moira had feelers out everywhere in Christmas River.

  “Well, um…” I mumbled, unsure how to respond. “I— I was actually here because I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in the mushy sofa.

  “It’s about the writing workshop at the lodge. It’s just that…”

  The fire behind her crackled, and I noticed that there was a puzzled expression on her face.

  She was playing dumb, like she couldn’t possibly figure out why I’d be here or what she could help me with. Even though I knew she probably figured it all out the second she saw me standing on her porch.

  Moira was a lot of things, but stupid she wasn’t.

  “Kara has been looking forward to that writing workshop for months now. Did you know that her husband bought the registration for her as an early Christmas present?”

  If Moira was flustered or ashamed about any of what she’d done, she didn’t show it. She kept her expression unchanged.

  “Kara did well when she married that podiatrist,” she said. “For a while there, I thought she’d turn out an old maid, the way she burned through men and threw them out like yesterday’s garbage. But I’m glad she proved me wrong.”

  I wondered if she was purposefully trying to insult my best friend, or if she was just being her usual gruff self.

  “Yeah… So I heard yesterday that some of the other students in the writing workshop were… not very nice to Kara. And that maybe some of them had gotten the wrong impression about her. Would you know anything about that, Moira?”