A knock on the door rescued me from the onslaught of teasing and suggestions for my beauty regimen. I headed to the kitchen door and opened it to see Ty Dempsey standing there with Coach Mulder and a bottle of wine.
I did a double take. What was my grouchy tree farm boss doing here?
"Penny said you'd invited me over for dinner, and I hope you don't mind that I brought along Coach. He's all alone this year." His words explained things, but his eyes told the real tale. Coach Mulder had really loved Ms. Strength, and he was in pain this year.
His note had turned out to be a final plea for her love and not really a threat. Something to the effect of "if he couldn't have her in this life then maybe the next life," and while poorly worded, the fact remained that he'd lost her to unforeseen circumstances, and no one deserved to be alone at Christmas.
"Sure, come on in." I gestured to the men, and Ty mouthed the words thank you to me as he handed me the wine.
"Hey, coach, we could use some help in here with these lights," Sundae called, and soon Coach was in there coaching the girls about the best way to decorate.
Pickles took up his place at Ty's thigh and got his favorite ear-rub. I opened the bottle of wine.
"Now, none of that for young Paget, okay?" Ty teased from nearby.
My face heated. Yet another thing I'd never live down. Letting my sister get into the potent General Lee's Eggnog while I'd tried to solve the case and diffuse the Suzette situation in the bathroom—well I wasn't trying to solve it so much as to survive the Hoot's investigative methods.
"Yeah, yeah. It's been a wild few days. But now that the contest is over, were you ever able to confirm that my unwelcome visitor was, in fact, harmless? Who left the tree note on my bed?"
Ty stuffed a piece of turkey in his mouth that he'd swiped from the serving tray. He answered around it, "Yep, it was just another misunderstanding. It wasn't left there by Parker, the church treasurer, as Ms. Lanier had predicted."
"Who left it, then?" My curiosity was killing me.
"Believe it or not, it was left by Ms. Strength's niece." Ty reached for another piece of turkey but pulled his hand back when Ms. Lanier raised her kitchen towel to give him a pop.
"Who is Ms. Strength's niece, and why would she threaten me?"
He shrugged. "Her name is Macy Deats. She showed up this morning to claim Ms. Strength's body. She admitted to leaving you the tree and said to apologize. She'd just wanted Ms. Strength to win the trophy one last time. And she wasn't threatening to hurt you. She claimed that she was letting you know that if Ms. Strength could be killed over a trophy, who knew what would happen to you if you chose wrong. She apologized and asked me to pass this along to you. Said she saw you at the Nog party and tried to tell you but wasn't able to chat with you there."
An image of a young woman with dark brown eyes danced through my mind. She'd been trying to speak with me when Suzette was dragging me across the room. And she'd looked familiar because she favored her aunt.
"I told her I'd ask if you wanted to press charges for trespassing. I don't know if I can swing a breaking and entering charge because you left the house unlocked." He gave me a stern you-know-better-than-that look.
I looked over at Paget and Sundae decorating the tree and Coach Mulder on the floor working with the lights. I looked at Penny and Ms. Maimie clinking their wine glasses together on the sofa and Ms. Lanier pouring herself a glass as she joined them in the den.
I shook my head. "No. No. Let her off. She's lost her aunt, and the whole thing was senseless. How much trouble is Suzette Granger in anyway?"
Ty leaned back against the counter and watched the scene in the den with me.
"I doubt the prosecutor will press charges. She didn't actually lay a hand on her. It really was just an accident. Dr. C. confirms that the death was due to a heart attack and not the fall. Although, Suzette will always have to wonder if her threat instigated the heart attack. I'm sure she'll always blame herself."
"How sad. All of that over a trophy and a recipe." I saw the happiness in Paget's face as she hugged Sundae, and I knew that family was really the recipe for true happiness. But…
"Whatever happened to that eggnog recipe?" I asked, not sure that I ever wanted to see that stuff again. But, then again, it had had a certain special aftertaste that was addictive.
"Well, we have the index card down at the station—it is technically evidence—but I heard that there was a copy of it posted on the front page of The Mainstreet Mile this morning."
"You don't say…" I said, as I turned to Ty with a smile on my face. "I guess some things are just too good not to be shared."
"Oh, I totally agree with that…" He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out something that looked a lot like a twig of mistletoe. He held it up over his head and stepped toward me.
Fa la la la lah…
General Lee's Eggnog
12 eggs
1 pound sugar (2 cups)
1/2 quart bourbon whiskey
1/4 pint Jamaican rum (1/2 cup)
1/4 pint brandy (1/2 cup)
1 quart whole milk
1 quart whipping cream
1/8 tsp. of vanilla
1 tiny splash of almond milk and a pinch of nutmeg (the secret ingredients)
Separate eggs and refrigerate whites. Beat yolks until light yellow, slowly beat in sugar, and then very slowly add whiskey while beating constantly. Continue beating while adding rest of ingredients, except egg whites. Pour into quart jars (4 or 5) or a one-gallon milk container. Cover, refrigerate, and allow to mellow for 2 days. When ready to serve, pour mixture into a serving bowl. In a separate bowl, beat egg whites until they form soft peaks, then fold into rest of mixture.
**Note: This recipe's liquor amounts have been reduced by half to make it palatable to the average partygoer. Use the full amounts at your own risk. :)
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerri Nelson survived a fifteen year career in the legal field and then took her passion for crime solving to the page. But her journey to become a mystery author took a decade long detour into the world of romance where she penned twenty two novels and novellas in various sub-genres.
Born and raised a true southern belle, Kerri holds many useful secrets: how to bake a killer peach cobbler, how to charm suspects with proper batting of the eyelashes, and how to turn your parasol into a handy weapon.
Kerri is an active member of both Sisters in Crime and International Thriller Writers, and as a mentor to other authors, Kerri has successfully developed her popular Book Factory Method and assisted dozens of authors achieve publication via pitches crafted in her Pitchworthy class.
She also edits professionally through her freelance editorial service, Deep Cover Edits, and as a staff editor for two small presses. Her latest writing adventure is the new #1 Bestselling Cozy Mystery series "The Working Stiff Mysteries" now available wherever books are sold.
To learn more about Kerri Nelson, visit her online at: http://www.kerrinelson.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY KERRI NELSON
Working Stiff Mysteries:
Remote Consequences
Worked to Death
Ornamental Danger (holiday short story)
Other works:
Cross Check My Heart
Vegan Moon
Making the Ghost of It
Double Take
Kissing the Bull
Falsify
CHRISTMAS CANAPÉS & SABOTAGE
a Culinary Competition Mysteries short story
by
JANEL GRADOWSKI
* * * * *
Experiencing how it felt to be an arctic explorer wasn't on Amy's to-do list for the day…or her lifetime. She shoved her hands farther into her coat pockets and decided to distract herself from thoughts of being stranded on an iceberg by studying the Christmas tree standing between the registration tables as she waited in the slow-moving line. The branches were tipped with cu
t crystal teardrops and spires that sparkled and bobbed every time the front door of Halo Restaurant opened. Frosty blue and matte silver ball ornaments were nestled on the branches. Tiny twinkling lights and a garland made of downy, white feathers completed the decorations. She dubbed the style North Pole Chic, and it would look perfect in her living room.
She scooted forward as the line shifted, happy to be a little farther away from the door. The line of contestants now stretched outside, and the front doors of the restaurant were mostly being held open by the half frozen crowd. The wind, which had earned a dangerous wind chill warning from the National Weather Service, was free to torture the people crammed into the entryway. It ruffled the messy, loose curls that she had hoped would fare well in the wind. Her husband said she looked like a blonde angel before she left. He knew how to get on her good side. There would definitely be snow for Christmas—something that didn't always happen in southern Michigan—but it didn't need to be so cold in order for the white stuff to stick around for a few more weeks. The fabulously decorated tree had been studied and committed to memory, so Amy was more than ready to get through the check-in process and take shelter in what would hopefully be the warm interior of the restaurant. Trying to eat while wearing a heavy winter coat and mittens was about as practical as wearing sunglasses at night.
A woman wearing a bulky cabled Fisherman's sweater tried to smile at Amy from her seat behind one of the registration tables. It looked more like she was gritting her teeth in frozen agony. "Name and division please."
"Amy Ridley. Amateur division."
A grunt that sounded like an Abominable Snowman mating call came from somewhere behind her. She turned to find the perennially pissed off Rayshelle Applebee smirking at her. Amy hadn't seen her for a few months, and for that she was grateful. Rayshelle's special variety of unpleasantness tended to linger long after encounters with her were over. Her hairstyles were difficult to forget, too. The skunk stripe hair color scheme that she'd sported at the Kellerton Summer Festival had been replaced by a red hue that made a holly berry look pale and washed out. Amy had been a hairstylist for twelve years before leaving the profession to concentrate on cooking competitions. Finding the perfect variety of honey to add to a cake recipe had replaced finding the perfect shade of honey blonde for a picky client, and she couldn't be happier.
"You are not an amateur." Rayshelle waggled her pointer finger back and forth. "Go to the professional division where you belong, and leave us real amateurs alone."
The gaze of the woman behind the registration table ping-ponged between Rayshelle and Amy. She wrinkled her nose and asked, "Do you own or work for a restaurant, bakery, or catering company?"
"No."
"Then you're in the correct division."
Rayshelle huffed and grumbled as the second woman checking in contestants shuffled through a stack of envelopes. She pulled one out and handed it to Amy. "Welcome, Ms. Ridley. This is your copy of the contest rules, along with the numbers that need to be affixed to your sample boxes, which you can pick up when you leave. They'll be on a table near the exit doors. Please go into the restaurant and find a seat. Enjoy."
"Break a leg. Literally," Rayshelle said as Amy maneuvered around the table. Word play? Not the usual, straight-to-the-point insults that Rayshelle often lobbed at people.
Amy shook off the sour grapes comment and walked into the main restaurant area. The space was decorated for the holidays in the same white, light blue, silver, and sparkles theme as the tree in the entrance. Swags of pine boughs arced from the crown molding, and wreathes were hung on the white paneled walls. Flickering candles, housed in opaque white glass cylinders, sat in the center of the round dining tables. In the corner of the room, Bea Perkins waved to get Amy's attention. When had Amy made it across the labyrinth of tables, the owner of The Breakfast Spot pointed to an empty chair. "I saved you a seat."
"Thank you for choosing a spot far away from the door," Amy said as she shrugged off her long, cream-colored wool coat and draped it over the back of the chair. "The poor women that are checking people in. I hope they wore long underwear."
"Old Man Winter can ease up any time now. It isn't even Christmas, and I'm tired of the deep freeze. I think the girl who handed me my registration packet had blue fingernails, and the color wasn't from nail polish." Bea leaned closer as Amy sat down. Her pink rhinestone nose stud sparkled as she shook her head. "I don't want to catch any of the breeze from outside either, but the real reason I snagged this table is so we can check out the buffet."
Amy nodded in appreciation of her friend's tactics. Ignorance was not bliss in cooking contests. It was always a good thing to know what and who you were up against. Bea had positioned them perfectly to check out the work of one of the competition's judges, the chef of Halo. The brunch buffet was bountiful and beautiful. The chef knew how to set up a gorgeous food display and could possibly be a harsh judge. The tables lined up in front of the restaurant's wall of French doors were crammed in a rolling landscape of skewered mini breakfast sandwiches, small bowls full of glistening fruit salads, and miniature muffins studded with chunks of chocolate. The theme for the Holiday Celebrations Competition was Finger Foods Fantasy. By presenting each brunch dish in two-bite individual portions, instead of in the more common, self-serve giant metal pans, the chef of Halo was quite effectively saying, "Game on! Show me what you've got." Amy didn't know about anybody else, but she was more than ready to compete. The prize money for placing well would pay for a lot of very nice presents for her friends and family.
Soon the dining room was filled with the sounds of conversations and silverware clattering on plates. As Amy nibbled on a triangle of French toast filled with sweet cream cheese and dried currants, she eavesdropped on some of the conversations around her. Almost everybody was impressed with how pretty and tasty all of the items were. She wondered how many people were contemplating altering their recipes. Not a good idea considering the samples that were to be judged for taste needed to be turned in just over twenty-four hours later.
Once all of the competitors had filled their plates, the event coordinator, the director of the Presents For Kids charity that would benefit from the event, took her place behind the podium at the front of the room. Bridget Mahoney's red dress with a flared skirt and tiny rhinestones around the scoop neckline was elegant yet festive. A fashion concept that Rayshelle could use some help understanding. The clown-haired crank was sitting a few tables away and had garnered raised eyebrows from many people as they shuffled around her on the way to the buffet line. Her leopard-print gold lamé pantsuit looked like it came from a clearance rack, circa 1985, at the lingerie store where Rayshelle worked. Apparently the horrific outfit came with a force field, since no one else had dared sit at the table set for six. People snatched chairs and place settings to wedge themselves into friendlier tables.
Amy multi-tasked by listening to the schedule of events and trying to figure out what spices had been used in the cream of tomato soup she was sipping out of a tiny espresso mug. By the time the speech was over Amy had decided on two things. One—she would need lots of coffee to get through the two-day competition and not fall asleep during the final judging stage on Saturday evening. Two—garam masala was the spice giving the tomato soup the slightly exotic flavor.
Once the presentation was complete, the wait staff began clearing empty plates from the tables. The crowd noise roared again as people began collecting coats and purses. Everybody seemed excited to begin cooking. The first step would be setting up the non-edible parts of the tablescape that evening.
As Amy pulled on her coat a scream silenced the random chatter in the room. "Fire!"
She spun around. About ten feet away the table full of teapots was on fire. Each pot sat on a wire platform over a lit candle to keep the tea warm. A pool of fire on the white tablecloth grew larger by the second, originating from an overturned candle in the middle of the ring of pots. Bea pushed past Amy, grabbed a pot full of green te
a, and doused the flaming tide. Everybody applauded as several waiters rushed out of the kitchen carrying fire extinguishers. Seeing that the threat had already been taken care of by cool-headed Bea, they decided to blow out the rest of the candles. There was now no need to cover the table and nearby people in fire-retardant foam. Bea calmly replaced the teapot on its stand and walked back to the dining table to stand next to Amy.
"That was awesome!" Amy said as she patted her heroic friend on the back. "I was ready to run for the emergency exit along with pretty much everybody else. You have nerves of steel. You're like a foodie super hero, saving the masses with a pot of tea."
Bea shrugged. "I tried putting real candles on the tables at my restaurant last Christmas…for about a week. I'll just say I have quite a bit of experience putting out little, unexpected fires." She bent and retrieved her purse from under the table. "This one was kind of weird, though. The candles under the teapots are in wide, shallow bowls, I'm sure to prevent them from being knocked over easily. How the heck did an overturned candle end up in the middle of the table?"
Amy spent the rest of the day deciding on table props with a mental side dish of wondering if the fire was a malicious act instead of an accident. Once all of the table accessories were finalized, she packed them up and headed across town. There was a mini traffic jam ahead when she pulled Mimi the Mini Cooper, her car that was so adorable she gave it a name, into the turning lane. Several cars were stopped ahead of her. She could see a man with a fluorescent yellow safety vest, reflective stripes flashing in headlights, standing in the entrance to the K Hotel convention center parking lot. Darkness by dinner time was another downright depressing cruelty of winter. Amy turned up the heat, to counteract the invasion of cold air that would occur when she rolled down her window to talk to the guy. Living in a giant freezer all winter didn't exactly make her want to do a happy dance either. The car's interior was toasty, bordering on balmy, by the time it was her turn to chat with the man.
Cozy Christmas Shorts Page 33