by Meg Muldoon
It wasn’t as if I had lots of money to throw around on art that would eventually mold and rot, but there was something special about Josiah’s work. Something that compelled me to come here today.
Josiah lived on a farm a short distance from Christmas River, and he’d started offering his pumpkin carving services to local businesses at the beginning of October. I’d first seen Josiah’s pumpkins at the annual rodeo the month before. He’d carved individual portraits of the rodeo stars that had been on a large display. The portraits were mind-blowing, and while the rodeo had faded from my memory, the images of those expertly carved pumpkins stayed with me long after the event was over.
Josiah’s business was new, but he already had a strong social media presence, and I’d been following his humorous and entertaining posts regularly.
Josiah charged a lot for his custom pumpkins, so it was a bit of an indulgence for me to order some. But I figured part of the fun of life was splurging on something special now and then. Plus, being a local business owner myself, I liked supporting folks trying to follow their dreams.
“I’d like to order four pumpkins,” I said.
“What size? I’ve got small, medium, large, and extra-large,” he said, pulling out a paper pad and a pencil from one of the work bench drawers.
“One medium, two large, and one extra-large, please.”
He scribbled the details of my order down while I told him what I wanted exactly on the pumpkins.
“When do you want these ready?”
“The week of Halloween. Does that work?”
He nodded again. I pulled out a checkbook from my bag and wrote him a check for half of the price. The full amount, he said, was usually forked over after the pumpkins were delivered to ensure that the customers were happy with the result.
“I’ll have them delivered to your shop on the 29th,” he said in a monotone, unfriendly voice.
I nodded thanks, glancing around the old barn once more and taking a peek at a few pumpkins sitting in the corner that were already carved. Josiah had carved a set of lopsided faces into the pumpkins, and mushy, seed-studded pulp was oozing out of the side of their mouths.
He looked up and caught me smiling.
“Wanna see them lit?”
I nodded, and he went over, turning on a few flameless candles and dropping them inside the hollowed-out pumpkin cavities before going over to the light switch and turning the lights in the barn down low.
The pumpkins sprang to life. Their grotesque features flickered in the candlelight, and their queasy expressions were so realistic, it reminded me of the time I caught a bad stomach flu the autumn before and couldn’t leave the house for three days.
“Wow… Amazing,” I said, shaking my head.
In the dim light, I could see a weak smile spreading across Josiah’s lips.
“I call this one Bourbon Street: The Next Morning.”
I let out a laugh.
Josiah’s art wasn’t for everyone — that was for sure. But despite its graphic nature, there was something about it I couldn’t help but like. His pumpkins had a kind of unique style you didn’t see too often. There was a true artistic sense there that I found impossible not to appreciate.
“Are you from New Orleans?” I asked.
I didn’t know much about the pumpkin carver, but I gathered from the way he looked and his creative profession that he was part of the new wave of young hipster types who had found their way to Oregon over the past few years. Drawn by the state’s pristine nature, fresh air, and no end of craft beer, Christmas River had seen a rather large population increase recently.
“No — I did live in Louisiana for five years, though,” he said. “Lived in a lot of places. But I was actually born a few towns over in Redmond.”
“So you’re a local in disguise, then.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Josiah said, going to the light switch and turning the lights back on. “But I will say of all the places I’ve lived, this area is the only one that ever felt like home.”
I smiled.
Central Oregon had that effect. It was the kind of place that got into your heart and soul and didn’t let go easily.
“So how did you get into pumpkin carving?”
“Well, for a while, I had this high-intensity job in the corporate world,” he said, going back over to his current works-in-progress on the work bench. “But when my dad passed earlier this year, it was like this big wake-up call for me. I realized that I couldn’t spend one more minute doing something I didn’t love doing.”
He glanced around the ragged beams of the old barn.
“I’d always carved pumpkins as a hobby, and I realized that there wasn’t anything else I wanted to do more. It’s not much of a living, doing this kind of thing. But I’d rather be out here than wearing a suit and a tie and being trapped inside a skyscraper all day.”
“Amen to that,” I said.
He glanced up at me, his lips spreading into a slight smile again.
Then he cleared his throat a little awkwardly. As if he regretted saying any of it.
“So, uh, so I’ll have your pumpkins out to you on Halloween week,” he said, his voice going back to that monotone, unfriendliness.
I nodded, trying not to take it personally.
I knew some people didn’t trust all that easily.
“Great. See you then.”
I left the barn, heading out into the brisk afternoon. I walked down the country lane, passing by the fields of ripe gourds. A crisp wind shook the cottonwoods, and shimmering, crinkly leaves floated down all around me like gold confetti.
I paused for a moment, standing in the middle of the lane, taking in a deep breath of the fresh country air, savoring the moment like a sip of freshly pressed apple cider.
There was nothing like autumn in Christmas River.
Chapter 6
I should have realized by the hush that had fallen over the dining room that something big was up.
But as it was, I’d had a frazzled, humdinger of a morning. A shipment of baking goods that was supposed to have come in was two hours late. There had been a small fire in one of the ovens when the fillings for the cranberry hazelnut pies bubbled over and dripped down into the bottom. And on top of all of that, we were short on pumpkin pie today — a result of me underestimating the number of tourists who would be here on a Wednesday in mid-October.
It seemed that I’d been doing more and more of that lately — underestimating the number of people who came through our doors. Christmas River was a regular tourist hotspot, and though traditionally the flood came in after Halloween, the tourist season seemed to come earlier and earlier each year.
A little before lunch, I went out into the dining room to check on Tobias and Ian — making sure they were doing okay handling the surging masses of flannel-clad shoppers.
It occurred to me while I was placing pies behind the pastry display case that the Chet Baker number playing over the speakers seemed a little loud.
But I didn’t put it together that the music was loud because people had stopped talking.
I finished adding the pies to the display case and started heading back into the kitchen when I heard a voice.
“Excuse me?”
I glanced over my shoulder, glimpsing a flash of those steely eyes.
I nearly jumped back into the wall, I was so startled.
It was a foolish reaction, but looking into Ashcroft Black’s face, I could tell that he was used to people reacting this way around him.
Since reading the first few chapters of his latest book, I couldn’t help but associate him with the lonesome, livid ghost of Lorna Larimer.
“May I speak with you a moment?” he said.
“You want... you want to speak to…”
I pointed at myself and he nodded.
I swallowed hard, gazing past his shoulder, realizing that everyone’s eyes in the dining room were on me.
A lot of author
s could probably come in and out of shops without getting recognized. But Ashcroft Black was not one of those authors.
“Um… yeah… sure,” I said, flustered. “Just… follow me.”
I led the way, glad to get out of the dining room away from all those probing eyes. I heard the tapping of Ashcroft’s cane as he followed behind.
When we entered the kitchen, Tiana was peering into one of the ovens, her back to us.
“I scraped the burned bits out as best I could, but it’s still smoking a little, Cin,” she said, hearing me come in. “Hopefully it’ll stop before we get the next batch of pumpkin pies in there.”
Tiana turned around and marched across the kitchen with one of the offending cranberry pies that had caused the fire.
When she looked up and caught sight of Ashcroft Black, her eyes grew wide.
Then came the scream and the squishy sound of pie hitting the cold tile floor.
Chapter 7
“I apologize for scaring your assistant,” Ashcroft said, gingerly taking a seat on the barstool that faced the window. “That was not my intention.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, taking out a pan of freshly baked Whiskey Apple pies and setting it down on the counter. “Tiana’s tougher than she looks. She’ll be just fine.”
I said the words, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure if she’d be just fine. Seeing Ashcroft Black appear out of the blue had jarred Tiana something good. Her scream had been so loud, it caused Tobias to come running back into the kitchen. He’d been sure that something horrible had happened to his wife.
When the color came back into Tiana’s face, she explained to us that she’d borrowed the latest Ashcroft Black book from the library earlier in the week. She was only halfway through the book, but admitted that it scared the willies out of her. She’d been having nightmares all week about Lorna Larimer.
So imagine her surprise when the author himself — the man glowering from the back cover of the book — suddenly appeared in her workplace without any warning.
If I was her, I might have screamed, too.
Ashcroft took a sip from the cup of black coffee I’d just poured him and gazed out the window past my shoulder. He was dressed in a plaid blazer and a black turtleneck in a style that reminded me of something a man in a thriller heist movie from the 1960s might wear.
He rubbed his dark beard for a long moment, looking down into the mug pensively.
“So… what can I help you with, Mr. Black?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said, as if being snapped out of some dark thought. “The reason I’m here. Mavis gave me your name and the location of your shop. I very much enjoyed that apple delight I tasted at the reading.”
“Wow, uh, thanks…” I stammered, feeling my cheeks grow red with bashfulness. “It’s, uh, it’s based on one of my mother’s pie recipes.”
I nervously shifted my weight between my feet.
“My mom used to make a Sour Cream Apple pie every single October when I was growing up. Her pies were the best. She was actually the reason I got into baking in the first place. I wouldn’t have opened this pie shop if she hadn’t…”
I could see Ashcroft’s eyes glaze over with boredom as my babbling trailed off into nothing.
I felt my cheeks darken even more.
I’d met a few famous folks in my day. But it always took me a while to get over my nerves when I was around them.
He cleared his throat.
“Yes. You see, Ms. Peters, I’m having a small writer’s workshop at the cabin this weekend. It’s nothing particularly impressive — just some hopeful young writers and my publisher. But I would like you to cater the workshop Saturday evening.”
I raised my eyebrows, taken aback for a moment.
First with elation at being asked to cater an event held by Ashcroft Black.
But then, something else occurred to me.
“Oh… I…”
Ashcroft Black’s slate-colored eyes studied me.
“I, uh… this event is at the Juniper Hollow Cabin?”
“Yes. Do you know how to get there?”
I nodded.
Everyone in Christmas River knew exactly where that cabin was.
“So are you available?” he asked when I said nothing else for a long moment.
Chills broke out across my back as all the rumors I’d heard about that place during my three-plus decades living in Christmas River came back to me.
Rumors about bad deeds, sinister plots, and restless, angry spirits.
“I’ll pay you double your going rate,” he said. “And I’ll cover your gas expense to get up there. But the food needs to be good, Pacific Northwest regional fare. My publisher will be there, and he’s quite the gourmet.”
I drew in a deep breath.
What was I doing? Getting all worked up over some silly stories about that cabin being haunted and foolishly stalling an exciting opportunity.
The money was good. The event was prestigious. I had Saturday free. And when I thought about it, there was no real logical reason not to cater the event.
I couldn’t let fear — especially fear of some old rumors — play a role in how I ran my business.
“I’d be very happy to cater your event, Mr. Black.”
He nodded matter-of-factly.
“Very well. I’ll be requiring hor d’oeuvres and dessert for fifteen or so individuals. Keep in mind that these are writers, so please make plenty of food. Additionally, I will require some—”
Ashcroft stopped speaking.
His face turned the color of frost as his eyes fixed on something past my shoulder.
Those eyes of his — always so cool and unaffected — suddenly showed emotion.
I stared at him, feeling my eyebrows knit together in confusion. Then I glanced back, following his gaze.
A soft wind was blowing outside, and the aspen trees that lined the side of the shop were swaying gently, a few of their golden leaves drifting across the window. It was a perfect blue day, and the sun was shining, casting everything in a warm, hazy autumn glow.
I turned back to look at Ashcroft. All the color had drained from his face now.
“Mr. Black?”
But it was as if he hadn’t heard me. His eyes remained fixed on something in the distance.
I glanced back out the window once more.
There was nothing out there but a beautiful fall mountain scene worthy of a Bob Ross painting.
“Is everything all right?” I said, turning toward him again.
This time, he seemed to hear me.
“I… uh… did you just see that?”
His voice came out in a strange, almost-otherworldly tone.
“See what?”
He didn’t answer. He stroked his beard absentmindedly.
I cleared my throat.
“Was it an animal of some sort?” I asked.
This time of year deer often wandered past the window, grazing on berries and shrubs as they prepared for the lean months ahead.
But Ashcroft shook his head.
“You know, there’s a walking trail that runs back there,” I said. “It’s pretty popular.”
He nodded, but his face was as pale as ever.
“Yes,” he finally said, his tone still strange. “It must have just been a hiker.”
His eyes remained fixed on the forest.
A moment later, Ashcroft stood up and collected his cane as if nothing had happened.
“Very well, I’ll have my assistant in New York send you a money order for your rate. Please discuss it with her and any other questions you might have about the event. She will call you later this afternoon.”
I watched as he quickly stalked across the kitchen toward the dining room.
“See you Saturday, Ms. Peters.”
“Thank you, Mr. Black. See you th—”
But he’d left before I could finish my sentence.
Chapter 8
“It was really weird. He went completely
pale. And it was like… like he saw something out there that frightened him. Something I couldn’t see.”
I strolled along the dirt path, giving Hucks plenty of slack on the leash to explore the brush bordering the trail. I took a sip of my Christmas River Coffee Shack caramel cider as a cool breeze that smelled of damp earth and smoke blew into us.
“Maybe he’s not well,” Daniel said, stopping as Chadwick investigated the low branches of a juniper with his small snout. “Ashcroft Black’s holding a cane in that photo on the back of his book, isn’t he?”
“He was carrying one at the bookstore event, too,” I said. “But I don’t know if he really needs one. I thought it was part of his horror author act. He’s pretty young to be carrying a cane, and he didn’t seem to have any trouble walking.”
I ran a hand through my hair and took in a deep breath, gazing out into the woods.
What had Ashcroft seen out here?
Maybe nothing. Maybe Daniel was right — that Ashcroft wasn’t well.
Or maybe he was just prone to acting strange.
Either way, I had bigger fish to fry.
With very limited catering experience, I’d just signed up to cater an event for one of the most successful and well-known writers in the country.
And that event was taking place in less than three days.
At a haunted cabin.
“Cin?”
I glanced over to find Daniel peering at me.
By the tone in his voice, I could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d said my name.
“Oh, sorry.”
“You doing all right? You look a little pale yourself, darlin.’”
I shook my head, forcing a smile, trying to ignore the chill running up and down my spine.
“No. I was just spacing. Sorry.”
“Is it that old cabin?” Daniel asked.
“What?”
He stared at me for a long spell.
“You’re nervous about catering an event up there. Because people say it’s haunted, right?”
“No. I don’t care about any of that,” I said.
But my voice came out weak like a cup of poorly brewed coffee.