Missing in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Christmas River Cozy Book 9)

by Meg Muldoon

  Missing in Christmas River

  A Christmas Cozy Mystery

  by

  Meg Muldoon

  Published by Vacant Lot Publishing

  Copyright 2016© 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: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

  Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

  Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 3)

  Malice in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 4)

  Mischief in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 5)

  Manic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 6)

  Magic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 7)

  Menace in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 8)

  Missing in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 9)

  Roasted in Christmas River: A Thanksgiving Cozy Mystery Novella

  The Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series

  Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 1)

  Busted in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 2)

  The Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series

  Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

  Bulldogs & Bullets: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

  Coming Soon

  The Silence of the Elves: A Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

  Malarkey in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 10)

  Corgis & Conspiracy: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 3)

  Don’t miss out on cozy contests, giveaways, recipes, and great deals on books! Sign up for Meg Muldoon’s mailing list by clicking here.

  And for more cozy fun, join Meg on Facebook or visit her Blog.

  Missing in Christmas River

  by Meg Muldoon

  Prologue

  Leonard knew he was dying.

  You didn’t get shot the way he’d been shot and live to see the leaves fall.

  He took in a deep breath, gathered up his courage, then slid his hand up underneath his shirt, feeling the warm sticky liquid. He flinched when his fingers reached the point of impact. He gritted his teeth – the pain radiating from the wound burned like the fiery furnaces of a locomotive.

  But he couldn’t just lie down now and be done with it, as much as every muscle, organ, and fiber in his body might be begging him to. He couldn’t quit. Because there was a place up there, beyond the ridge, that he needed to get to before it was all over.

  And he had to get there. No matter what.

  Leonard was no stranger to pain. To bullets. To wounds. To running and hiding and healing-up. He was no stranger to this kind of life.

  This life, he thought.

  This life which was quickly running out of track.

  The thought overwhelmed him with sadness.

  The law man had been a good shot. The bullet he’d put into Leonard while he’d tried to escape through the forest had hit him squarely in the abdomen, firmly lodging somewhere deep inside. The bank robber knew the second it hit –he was in for a slow, agonizing, painful time of it before he’d get anything like relief.

  The sweet darkness of death would not come for some time.

  He dropped his hand from his stomach, and propped himself up higher on the rock he was leaning on. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the valley below him, searching for any sign of the deputy who’d shot him.

  But the place was void of life.

  That my last breath might be where I choose, he thought.

  He hadn’t expected to die in peace. That wasn’t the way men died in his line of work. But then again, maybe Leonard hadn’t really expected to die at all. Maybe he had fallen prey to thinking of himself as invincible. That was easy to do when people from coast to coast knew your name the way they knew his.

  He thought of the woman, the shape of her lips, the feel of them under his. Like fine silk – soft and supple and almost unimaginable out here in this rugged land. He thought of the way she had watched him leave the last time. The way her eyes had begged him not to. But her lips had said nothing. She’d remained mute that final goodbye. Almost as if all along, she knew this ending had been his destiny and that there was no use getting in the way of it.

  She had always been a practical woman.

  He wondered if the boy would inherit that from her.

  He hoped so.

  He hoped, too, that the letter he sent the week before would get to them. He didn’t expect forgiveness. But he yearned for something like understanding.

  He stood up, letting out a painful grunt as another stream of hot liquid ran down his side.

  The journey to this place would not be easy.

  But he’d make it. Come hell or high water. He’d make it.

  For them.

  The bank robber hobbled up the ridge through the deep, dark folds of the forest, the bulging saddlebag on his back heavy as the regret weighing down his heart.

  Chapter 1

  I guess I’d been floating on cloud nine too long and something bad was just bound to happen.

  Or maybe it had been all those trips over the mountain pass these last few months.

  Or maybe it was something as simple as waiting too long to get the oil changed.

  But whatever the reason why my car decided to break down, it didn’t at all change the fact that it happened.

  And that I found myself halfway down the pass to Christmas River that hot afternoon in mid-September with a car that wouldn’t start, no cell service, and a trunk full of Marionberry pies.

  “Son of Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen,” I muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  I rested my hand on the ignition and took in a deep breath, feeling a small stream of sweat trickle down the side of my face in the heat. Then I said another silent prayer as I turned the keys, hoping to hear something promising in return. Something that would mean I’d be getting back on the highway and arriving home in time for the party.

  But just like before, I got nothing from my usually-dependable Ford Escape but a half-hearted sputter that eventually turned into a harrowing death rattle.

  And then, silence.

  I was cooked.

  I sat there for a long moment, stewing in a cloud of disbelief at my current situation. The kind of half-stunned, stupefied, how-did-I-get-here? reaction that breakdowns, accidents, unexpected bills, and over-plucking your eyebrows had a way of causing.

  I glanced down at my cell phone again, staring at the big X on the screen where the service bars normally were. I held the phone up to my ear and tried to call out anyway, getting nothing but more dead silence.

  This was getting me nowhere.

  I pushed my shoulder into the door, opening it, and stepped outside into
the warm air. I headed for the front of the car.

  I’d already popped the hood a few minutes earlier after pulling off to the side of the highway when the “check engine” light began flashing at me. But after looking inside the hood, I’d come to the conclusion that the inner workings of my car was a mystery as big as the Pyramids at Giza to me. And when I now looked a second time, nothing had changed in that regard.

  I reached in, pulling out the long skinny pole that had the small image of an oilcan on it – one of the very few things I did know a little something about. I looked at the far end of the pole – the tip was covered in a slick layer of reddish-black oil.

  But it told me nothing about why the Escape was now refusing to start up again.

  I let out a long sigh, pulling my cell phone out again.

  Still no service.

  “Unbelievable,” I mumbled.

  I should have never stopped up here. I should have just kept going and pushed my luck instead. What had I been thinking?

  I leaned on the back heels of my sandals, looking up at the bright blue sky in frustration, trying to figure out my next move.

  I’d been traveling this highway a lot lately, and I’d come to know it almost as well as the back of my hand. Which meant that I knew I was still about 60 miles from Christmas River. 60 miles of nothing but wilderness.

  And while it was September and plenty of motorists still traveled this stretch this time of year, the highway wasn’t the most popular road that led to Central Oregon. It was the shorter, but slower, scenic route. One that I’d decided to take at the last minute as a small treat to myself – a way to celebrate what had happened earlier that day.

  But looking at the empty road ahead of and behind me, I was sorely regretting that decision now.

  I stepped away from the car and out from under the towering pine trees that practically swallowed both sides of the two-lane highway. I walked a little distance along the shoulder, wishing I had changed out of my interview outfit – with its strappy sandals and silk blouse – before leaving Portland earlier that morning. The outfit wasn’t meant for being stranded in the woods.

  I stood at the edge of the asphalt and listened for a long moment, hoping to hear something like the whooshing noise a fast-moving car would make.

  A few minutes later, I heard it.

  I let out an unsteady breath, feeling my mouth go a little dry.

  It was uncomfortable having to ask for help from complete strangers. But there wasn’t much I could do about it, I reasoned.

  I was stuck.

  And I needed help.

  No two ways about it.

  The bright mountain sun gleamed off of metal as a convertible barreled down the highway in my direction. I inched closer to the road. As the car rounded the bend, I raised my hand awkwardly, as if raising it in response to a question in class but being unsure of my answer.

  I caught the attention of the 40-something man driving the car. He gazed at me, and then the brunette woman in the passenger’s seat started staring at me, too.

  I smiled as brightly as I could, trying to impress upon them that I was friendly, non-threatening, and just a nice gal down on her luck. I waved, too. The friendliest flagging-down-of-a-car that there ever was.

  They continued gawking at me, both of them with a dumbfounded expression. And they kept those foolish expressions as their 2017 model Corvette whizzed by me – picking up speed as it disappeared down the highway beyond a bend.

  Leaving me with nothing but a cloud of dust to cough out.

  If my mouth had been dry before, it was Death Valley now.

  Real nice folks, I thought.

  I bit my lower lip, trying to not let the sting of rejection consume me.

  Those two were probably from Portland and on their way to Christmas River for the weekend, I thought. Typical big city fools who wouldn’t lift a finger to help another person in need. The type you would pass on the street, and wouldn’t so much as give you a hint of a smile. Folks so self-absorbed with their own little lives, they wouldn’t know the first thing about being decent and kind human beings. Folks who…

  I shook my head silently at the internal rant going on in my mind.

  I was being harsh, and I knew it. Those people who had left a helpless woman stranded on a mountain pass were probably decent, kind human beings most of the time. And for all I knew, they knew nothing about cars and probably couldn’t help me anyway. The man probably was just embarrassed by his lack of knowledge, and that was why he sped up when they passed.

  And besides, I wasn’t one to talk – I’d spent the whole summer making money off of those so-called big city folks in Portland with my new Cinnamon’s Pies food truck. And though I was momentarily frustrated by the rude Portland couple, I couldn’t complain about the Rose City’s decidedly weird, but also kind, residents. They’d treated me and my food truck very well this summer.

  The Cinnamon’s Pies food truck had been the brainchild of my business investor, Alex Rosell, who thought it could be a low-cost and possibly lucrative way to feel the market in the Willamette Valley before expanding the pie shop there. I’d spent more than half of the summer in Portland, getting the food truck up and running and shuffling pies back and forth across the pass. I’d put in more working hours probably than I had in my entire life put together. But it had paid off – the venture had proved to be a total smash hit, becoming one of the city’s most popular food trucks.

  It had been a really good few months for my career. I was gaining traction, reaching more people, and building up my reputation. There was an energy about the whole venture. I could feel it. And others could, too. The food truck, and especially our Hap-Pie Hour promotion where we discounted our pies between 1 p.m. and 3 p.m. in the afternoon, had gained a lot of local media attention. I had been featured in several articles and my pies had been recommended by celebrity chef Cliff Copperstone in a national magazine. And earlier that morning, I’d been on Good Morning, Oregon – a program that broadcasted on the state’s public television network. I’d been nervous as could be for the segment, where I taught viewers how to make my classic Apple Whiskey Pie. But all in all, it had gone smoothly, and I considered the demonstration a success.

  Of course, running the pie truck all summer and doing interviews with local media had its downside, too. I’d had to sacrifice a lot for this new aspect of my business. It’d been hard being apart from Daniel so much these last couple of months. Additionally, I’d missed out on time with all my family and friends this summer.But luckily, with the initial start-up of the food truck having gone so well, Alex and I had hired some culinary school graduates to take my recipes and run the truck for the fall and winter. Which meant that I could take a break from Portland for a while and enjoy some quality time with all the people I’d been missing this long summer.

  That was, if I ever got back home to Christmas River to do so.

  I leaned against my Escape, watching the quiet highway, listening to the sound of cicadas humming happily in the peaceful woods around me.

  At least the Escape had chosen to break down on a pretty day.

  Chapter 2

  I felt my insides twist up into nervous knots as the man emerged from the run-down, smoke heap of a pick-up truck and approached me.

  I sized him up quickly. And though I didn’t like to think of myself as someone who judged a book by its cover, in this case, I really couldn’t help it.

  The man looked to be in his mid-to-late 60s, and was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a paint-stained red T-shirt with several holes in the thin fabric. He had stringy grey hair that hung limply to his shoulders, and he wore a non-descript baseball cap pushed down across his forehead. He walked with a decided limp, favoring his right leg. And as he got closer, I noticed that he had a long, white scar running down the left side of his face, cutting into the messy stubble on his chin.

  He looked like a man who had seen some hard living, all right.

  And he had backwo
ods dweller written all over him.

  “You in some trouble here?” he barked.

  I swallowed, feeling my throat go bone dry as I glanced back at the highway, which was as good as deserted at the moment.

  “Just, uh, my car,” I said. “The ‘check engine’ light went on, so I pulled off to be safe. Now it won’t start up again.”

  The man grunted, eyeing me from beneath his beat-up hat.

  “Well, that ain’t good,” he mumbled.

  “I would call my husband,” I said. “He’s uh, the Sheriff of Pohly County.”

  I raised my voice louder as I mentioned the last part – just in case this stranger had pulled off the highway for a reason other than to help a stranded motorist.

  But if the man cared one way or another at all that my husband was Sheriff, he didn’t let on. He just readjusted his hat.

  “But, uh, my phone doesn’t have any service,” I continued, feeling my hands grow damp with sweat.

  “Yep. A lot of blackout areas around here,” he said.

  He stared at me for a long, long moment, his dark eyes locking with mine. A stiff wind blew off the highway, and I could smell the aroma of rank smoke wafting off of him. Campfire smoke, or something like it, permeated his clothes.

  And even though it was hot out, I felt a deep, blistering chill pass through my bones as the strange man looked in my direction.

  It wasn’t lost on me the kind of situation I’d found myself in.

  Christmas River was an hour away. And while this was a relatively well-used highway, at the moment, it was as good as a ghost town.

  I was a woman alone. No cell service. No way of getting in touch with the authorities. No way of calling Daniel. Just all by myself out here with a broken-down car, a trunkful of pies, and a strange backwoods man who knew I had no—