Menace in Christmas River (Christmas River 8)

by Meg Muldoon

  I hooked a right on Mirth Street, approaching a small house that apparently hadn’t gotten the Christmas is over memo and had their lights on.

  However, as I passed the house, I realized that they weren’t Christmas lights at all – they were pink, red and white lights in celebration of Valentine’s Day.

  I smiled to myself, glad to see the bright, nostalgic bulbs glowing in the dark winter’s night.

  Like a lot of people, I liked having another holiday in the dead of winter to look forward to. And Valentine’s Day always seemed like such a nice one.

  I let out a short little disappointed breath as the thought of the actual day crossed my mind.

  January and February were generally the most sluggish months of the year at the pie shop. Many folks on their New Year’s resolution kicks often swore off sugar, and there was a noticeable dip in sales. Generally, the only day of the two months that was any good was Valentine’s Day, when the pie shop would once again be flooded with folks going off their health programs to celebrate the day of love. And while that was good for business, it meant that I generally didn’t have a moment to spare on the big day, and that by the end of the madness, I was usually exhausted beyond my breaking point. Most years, a hibernating bear was a more attentive Valentine’s Day date than I was.

  Over the years, Daniel had graciously accepted that fact, and we didn’t often celebrate the occasion much beyond a bottle of champagne and some chocolate hearts. Some years, I’d been able to sneak out a chocolate hazelnut pie from the shop. But all and all, the day was mostly a bust. And while I was planning on letting Tiana, Tobias, and Ian helm the madness at the pie shop this Valentine’s Day, that didn’t mean I’d be kicking up my heels and spending the day with my true love this year. In fact, this Sunday would follow even more in line with the usual tradition of low-key celebrations, seeing that I was going to be competing in the Chocolate Championship.

  I had hoped that the first place prize of $5,000 and two tickets to Paris might go a ways toward making it up to Daniel.

  Though in light of my shattered chocolate Cupid, I now saw just how farfetched that hope was.

  I sped down the dark highway that led up to the resort, feeling the stiff February wind claw at the car, causing it to rock slightly.

  I reached for the heater and turned it up higher. I clicked on the radio and flipped through the scanner until I found some oldies soul music to ease my nerves.

  Though I didn’t much like being summoned by the Chocolate Championship Committee this way on a dark and windy night, maybe this would be a good opportunity to pull out of the competition. I’d probably still have to eat the entry cost, but at least I’d be able to save face and not make a complete fool of myself. Additionally, if I pulled out, then maybe for the first time ever, Daniel and I would be able to have a proper Valentine’s Day with champagne, a fancy dinner, and a crackling fire.

  No more melting chocolate. No more forming it into shapes, hoping that it was tempered correctly. No more piping decorations. No more attaching chocolate wings only to have them break apart in front of your eyes.

  “The Cinny Bee that I know isn’t a quitter…”

  I grumbled as Warren’s voice popped into my head, the way it often did whenever I was faced with anything that remotely had to do with character, ethics, or morals.

  My own conscience sounded a lot like an 80-plus-year-old man with a devilish wink and a fondness for IPAs.

  “The Cinny Bee I know does what she says she’s going to do, even if she doesn’t have a chance at winning….”

  I glanced up in the rearview mirror for a quick second, catching my eyes.

  “Trying is always more important than succeeding. It’s the effort you put into it that counts. That’s what true character is… Doing your best, even if you know you might not get rewarded for it.”

  “Okay, okay!” I said out loud, giving myself a harsh look in the mirror before fixing my eyes back on the highway. “You made your point. I’ll make another damn chocolate Cupid.”

  Just then, the first signs for the Lone Pine Resort appeared in the sharp glow of my brights.

  I didn’t know why the committee wanted to see me tonight, or why they had me drive all the way up to the Lone Pine Resort for it.

  But I did know one thing for sure:

  I wasn’t going to quit the competition.

  My conscience wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I did.

  Chapter 3

  I blinked hard, sure that the wind-lashing my eyes had suffered during my walk across the parking lot had somehow severely distorted my vision.

  Though, maybe it wasn’t my vision that was to blame. After all, what I saw sitting at the far end of the large boardroom meeting table was more akin to a hallucination than an eye issue. Maybe it was my mind that was the problem. Maybe all that time melting and cooling and melting and molding and breaking chocolate over these past few weeks had cracked my brain more than the chocolate cupid back in my pie shop.

  I closed my eyes again, a last ditch effort to come back from the brink of insanity. But when I opened them, he was still sitting there.

  I must have clear lost my marbles.

  “Cinnamon. Thank you so much for coming.”

  I tried to look in the direction of where the woman’s voice had come from, but I found that I was unable to. My eyes stayed glued to the hallucination sitting at the boardroom table.

  “I… uh… I…” I stammered.

  The man in the t-shirt and blazer with the distinct neck tattoo of two crossed chef’s knives glanced up from the folder in front of him and looked directly at me.

  I felt my stomach do a wild somersault as our eyes locked.

  Then I heard a sharp, nervous laugh coming from the same woman who had just greeted me.

  “I see that you’ve found out our big secret already,” she said.

  I felt my eyes bulge slightly.

  So my mind wasn’t cracking, after all.

  It really was him – the Cliff Copperstone. A Portland restaurateur who not only ran several successful and lucrative restaurants and bakeries in the city at the young age of 38, but was also a bonafide celebrity chef. He was a regular judge on a competition-based reality program that aired on the national Foodie Network, and was arguably the Pacific Northwest’s most famous chef at the moment. Or so the most recent edition of Bon Appetit magazine had said.

  But why celebrity chef Cliff Copperstone was here in the meeting room of The Lone Pine Resort, in the middle of the Cascade Mountains on a dark night in February, was a mystery as big as the Pyramids of Giza to me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, turning finally to the woman who had spoken to me. “I, uh, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  I immediately recognized her.

  “Well, first of all, let me introduce myself,” she said, standing up from her seat.

  She stuck out her hand.

  “You probably already know who I am, like I know who you are, but we haven’t properly met. I’m Julie Van Dorn. The Chocolate Championship Showdown Committee has hired my firm to handle its publicity matters and event planning this year.”

  She smiled a curt little smile at me, clearly proud with her new gig.

  Julie was about 5’6 with long, wavy, raven-black hair, and a low, scratchy voice that always sounded forced to me. Tonight, she was wearing a smart-looking suit and short skirt combination, the style of which was completely out of place in a small mountain town like Christmas River. She also wore high heels, which were also totally out of place.

  But despite her not looking like a local, I was well-familiar with Julie Van Dorn. For several years, she had worked in the public relations department of Pohly County. In her role, she often had to work with Daniel and the Sheriff’s Department in various capacities.

  Though Daniel rarely said a bad thing about anybody, he did tell me that Julie could come on a little strong sometimes.

  And though he had never said anythi
ng about it, I got the sense that when Julie left the county last year to start her own public relations firm, he hadn’t been all that sad.

  I met her outstretched hand. She had a crushing handshake that almost took my breath away.

  “We actually have met,” I said, correcting her. “At the County’s Children’s Benefit last year. Just before you left Pohly County, actually.”

  The benefit, which was an annual event to raise money for local children in need, was held every spring and always attended by myself and the Sheriff to show our support.

  This past spring, Julie had come to the benefit stag wearing a sheer, low-cut, red dress that had town gossips like Moira Stewart wagging their tongues for months afterwards.

  “Really?” Julie said, furrowing her brow slightly. “My memory must be bad. I don’t recall meeting you at all that night.”

  Another thing about that evening – Julie had been hitting the punch bowl pretty hard.

  She cleared her throat, as if reading my mind there. Then she tossed her raven hair back non-chalantly.

  “I know this is all a little bit out of the blue,” she said, glancing at Holly Smith, who was sitting in a chair next to her boss, smiling modestly. “But we really appreciate you coming on such short notice, Cinnamon.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Was, uh, was there something wrong with my application?”

  I felt my stomach twist in knots as I noticed that Cliff Copperstone was looking at me again.

  I still wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not. It seemed like this was just the kind of incident that was typical of a strange, head-scratcher of a dream. Finding yourself in a luxurious resort with the likes of a celebrity chef seemed like it fit the bill, all right.

  Julie smiled at me, revealing two rows of bleached-white teeth that could have given Julia Roberts a run for her money.

  “Ha!” she said, tilting her head back self-consciously and laughing. “Heavens no, there was nothing wrong with your application, doll. Please, won’t you take a seat?”

  She gestured toward one of the empty chairs across from Cliff Copperstone. I hesitated for a moment, my eyes drifting back toward him.

  “Uh…” I said, dumbly.

  Julie smiled knowingly again.

  “Cliff has this effect on a lot of people,” she said, coming over and putting an arm around my shoulder. “But don’t worry. Despite what you might have seen on TV, he doesn’t bite. I promise.”

  “Not unless you present me with a piss-poor plate of food,” Cliff said, looking down and smiling a sarcastic smile. “Then I might.”

  The rest of the committee members at the table, which numbered about ten or so, laughed nervously. I recognized one of them as being an old stalwart of the Christmas River City Council: Eleanor Tunstall. It had been announced the month before that she would serve as an honorary judge in the competition.

  I eventually did as Julie said, feeling flustered as I took a seat in the buttery leather of the boardroom chair.

  I felt as though I had stumbled into some sort of alternate universe.

  “Well, as you’ve probably put together by now, you’ve discovered what we’ve been trying to keep quiet for months now, Cinnamon,” Julie said, taking a seat next to Cliff across the table. “The Chocolate Championship snagged a real life celebrity chef to help judge this year’s event. Which I’m sure I don’t have to tell you is not only a real boon for the competition, but for the town of Christmas River itself.”

  I had to keep my mouth from dropping open.

  She looked over at Cliff, her eyes practically dancing as she continued.

  “Cliff, this is Cinnamon Peters,” she said, nodding to me.

  Cliff Copperstone nodded in my direction.

  Then after an awkward pause, he stiffly stood up and reached across the table, sticking out his hand.

  I nearly fell over myself trying to meet it – my insides were trembling something terrible from nerves.

  He shook my hand firmly and very briefly, then sank back down in his chair.

  I smiled a tight, stressed smile.

  “It’s really great to meet you,” I squeaked out. “I, uh, I’ve seen you on the TV.”

  I’ve seen you on the TV… Jeez, I sounded like a damn hillbilly. But if Cliff thought that too, he didn’t let it show. He just nodded back, reservedly.

  I was sure he was used to such nervous utterances by now.

  “Cinnamon runs a very successful pie shop here in town,” Julie said. “And on top of that, she’s won several Gingerbread Junction titles, including this past December’s. I suppose you could say that she’s the closest thing Christmas River has to a celebrity chef.”

  Everybody chuckled slightly at that, and I found myself surprised by Julie’s glowing description of me.

  My cheeks grew red from all the attention.

  “I don’t know if you could call me that,” I said, sheepishly. “I mean, I bake pie. That’s about it.”

  “Nonsense, Cinnamon,” Councilwoman Eleanor Tunstall said, leaning back in her chair. “You’re much more than that to this community, and you know it.”

  The councilwoman was in her mid-fifties and had served nearly three terms on the city council. She favored black-framed eyeglasses, cropped orange hair, and bright, scarlet lipstick. She also had a fondness for Mountain Cherry Pie, and had been a loyal customer of Cinnamon’s Pies since I first opened the shop. Occasionally, she would conduct bi-monthly meetings with her Women Entrepreneurs of Central Oregon group at the shop, bringing me even more business.

  “Did all of you know that this lady makes the best cherry pie this side of Timbuktu?” she said, nodding to me.

  The committee chuckled at the outlandish statement.

  One of the reasons the councilwoman had been reelected to her seat so many times was on account of her talent at flattery.

  “And she’s also an upstanding citizen,” she continued. “Married to the Sheriff of Pohly County, no less. This town is real proud of her.”

  All the compliments and attention were setting my cheeks on fire.

  “Please, Ms. Tunstall, you’re embarrassing poor Cinnamon,” Julie said abruptly.

  It wasn’t lost on me that Julie Van Dorn’s face had darkened slightly at the mention of the Pohly County Sheriff.

  Julie cleared her throat, turning toward me.

  “Cinnamon, we’ve asked you to come to this meeting tonight because the committee has found itself in a bit of a pickle.

  “You see, we’ve been lucky enough to have Cliff agree to help judge this year. And as you already know, it’s customary to have a member of the town’s government be on the judging panel as well in this competition. But unfortunately, we received a very disappointing phone call from the woman who was to be our third judge. Trixie Curtis – the owner of the All About That Bundt chain? She was supposed to judge this weekend. But because of a family emergency, she’ll be unable to make it out here to Christmas River for the event.”

  Julie glanced around the room, and then paused for a long moment, looking at me as if that should mean something.

  I cleared my throat and wiped my balmy hands off on my jeans.

  “Jeez, I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said. “I hope everything’s all right with her.”

  Julie stared at me blankly, as if I’d just said something wrong.

  I swallowed hard and looked around the room at the other committee members. They had similar expressions.

  Julie let out a deep, exasperated breath.

  “You see, Cinnamon, that means—” she started, but was abruptly interrupted.

  “We want you to be the third judge, Cinnamon,” Councilwoman Tunstall said bluntly.

  I felt the wind go right out of my lungs.

  Chapter 4

  I swallowed hard.

  “Me?” I finally squeaked out.

  Eleanor Tunstall nodded.

  “You’re the perfect third judge,” she said. “A local girl who’s become a real succe
ss story. You’ve pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, kid. And not only that, but you know these kinds of competitions better than almost anyone. You’ve been a Gingerbread Junction competitor since you were a teenager. And you’re known in this community to be honest and trustworthy. Why, I can’t think of a better judge for something like this.”

  I took in a deep breath, glancing around the room at all the expectant faces.

  If Julie’s assistant had told me beforehand that this was the reason I’d been summoned up to the resort, I would have laughed in her face, thinking she was pulling my leg.

  But nobody was laughing now.

  “If I’m a judge, does that mean I can’t compete in the Championship?” I asked.

  “The bylaws don’t allow for a judge to compete as well,” Julie said. “But we could return the entrance fee to you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  I rubbed my chin.

  It wasn’t what I was concerned about at all.

  I cleared my throat and paused for a long, long moment.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to disappoint the committee or the councilwoman or anybody else for that matter.

  But they were all overlooking one glaringly obvious fact.

  “Wow… this is… this is all very flattering,” I said.

  I swallowed hard.

  “But I don’t think I can do it.”

  Julie’s eyes grew large – my response had clearly not been the one she’d expected.

  I adjusted in my seat as everyone looked at me. Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe the way I felt.

  “You see, I’ll concede that I’m pretty good at building gingerbread houses,” I said. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’m at all qualified to judge a competition at this level.”

  I heard what sounded like a scoff escape Cliff Copperstone’s mouth.

  “Well neither am I, honey,” Councilwoman Tunstall said. “But you don’t see me advertising it.”

  I smiled at her.

  “I’m afraid from the get go, I’ve been in over my head with this competition. And I just wouldn’t feel right judging others’ work when I am unable to do it very well myself—”