by Darci Hannah
Offering a disarming smile, he introduced himself as the host of Windy City Eats. “We’re filming backstory for the Christmas cookie bake-off.” As he talked, he signaled to his cameraman to pan around the café, shooting the interior and the crowd of people waiting in line. When the camera came back to him again, he said, “If you make it to the bake-off, gorgeous, I could make you a star.”
Only because Kennedy was watching, I smiled. “Try a lemon-ginger sandwich cookie,” I replied and dropped one in his hand.
Cranking up the charm, he grinned and took a bite. The expression on his face changed. “Damn. That’s sensational. I mean, really good. Wherever did a nice girl like you learn to bake?”
The man was a cad. “My grandparents owned a bakery in Traverse City,” I told him, trying to keep the interview on a professional level. I gave him a little background on the bakery and my former career as a Wall Street investment banker. Chevy was impressed. However, seeing that I wasn’t about to flirt, he turned his focus on Kennedy.
After raking her with his eyes, he remarked, “What a nice piece of real estate.”
Kennedy, an exotic English beauty of half-Indian descent, leaned in as well. “Would you be referring to me or this old lighthouse, darling?”
Without flinching, he replied, “Both. Are you available for dinner?”
Kennedy was good. She was pouring on her English charm. “Not tonight, darling. But I’ll take your card in case I get bored later in the week.”
Chevy asked a few more questions about the bakery and my signature cookie. I kept the interview focused, while Kennedy kept flirting with him to keep his interest. It was wrong on so many levels, and yet it was highly entertaining to watch. There was no doubt that Chevy Chambers knew his way around a kitchen. However, he was also a narcissistic, egotistical food critic with an eye for the ladies. Chicago was a big city and could handle his ego, but in a small, close-knit community like Beacon Harbor, I had to wonder at what mischief he would drum up. One thing was certain, I didn’t want him hanging out at the Beacon. Thankfully, I was able to end the interview and get back to work.
I was ringing up customers again when Mrs. Nichols appeared from the kitchen. I didn’t know how she did it, but she was bringing out another tray of freshly baked Christmas cookies.
“I just had an interview with Chevy Chambers, the cookie judge for the bake-off. He was impressed with our cookie.”
Mrs. Nichols looked across the counter. Chevy and his crew were leaving the bakeshop.
Her round eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Very naughty, that one. Coal. Coal is all he ought to get in his stocking!”
The way it was spoken, with a motherly look of disapproval, made me chuckle. I never thought to ask why she had said it.
CHAPTER 11
“I love this old place. I had almost forgotten about it.”
Dad was thrilled that Rory had suggested we eat at the Moose, although I was doubtful one could ever really forget it. It was one of Beacon Harbor’s most popular restaurants, and one that really embraced the whole “Up North” theme. It was a vision in pine paneling and antler décor. And while I wasn’t too keen on dining beneath the taxidermied remains of a twelve-point buck, I did have to admit that antlers made great hooks for Christmas lights. In fact, the Christmas decorations in the Moose were awe-inspiring. In the center of the dining room stood a large, illuminated evergreen, swaddled in red-and-black buffalo plaid ribbon, and hung with charming ornaments of woodland animals. The heads on the walls either sported wreaths or twinkling lights, but all were in the same red, black, and hunter green theme. As we took our seats, I had the surreal feeling of being in some magical Christmas forest with the animals peering in at us from the safety of the trees. It was easier to think of them that way rather than the unfortunate wall art that they were.
“I knew it!” Kennedy proclaimed, staring up from her iPhone. “Chevy Chambers is talking up your cookie. Your lemon-ginger sandwich cookie is surging ahead of the competition! You’re going to be in the live bake-off.”
“Congratulations!” Dad grinned and held out his fist for a fist bump. “Of course, we all knew it. You have a real winner with that cookie.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s true.” Mom leaned in and gave a nod of approval. After a lifetime of dieting and waging war against fatty, sugary carbs, Mom had finally embraced the fact that I was a baker and that she loved what I made. Although still attractive, Mom was allowing herself to age gracefully, which in her case meant not sweating the extra few pounds she was carrying. It was part of the inspiration that drove her to start her own line of clothing—one that was stylish yet forgiving.
We were all celebrating the good news when Karen, our waitress, sauntered up to the table.
“Congrats on the cookie, Lindsey. Saw that you’re ahead of the competition. Don’t mean to burst your bubble, but that new fella over at the Harbor Hotel Restaurant makes the best shortbread I’ve ever tasted. Like you, he’s a professional.” Her remark was meant to remind me that I had an unfair advantage over the others, being a professional baker. All that aside, she was right. I had almost forgotten that the Harbor Hotel Restaurant had entered the bake-off. Their new head chef, Bradley Argyle, was incredibly talented. I had eaten there several times, and everything I had ordered had been top quality. Of course, he’d have an amazing cookie.
“What kind of shortbread did he make?”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “Brown butter shortbread with a chocolate drizzle. Scrumptious. It was a tough choice, mind you. Ginger at Harbor Scoops has a winner with that German chocolate cookie. Then there were those peanut butter cup cookies at the theater. I ate three of those little yum-balls. Who doesn’t love a good peanut butter cup? Honestly, there are so many good cookies in town it’s no wonder folks are clamoring to visit. We’ve had crowds here all day.”
Kennedy set down her phone and locked eyes with the waitress. “And what about Felicity Stewart’s cookie?”
Karen met her gaze and shrugged. “Sugar cookies. Pretty little things, and tasty, but nothing special. The usual bottle of wine, Ms. Kapoor?” I was tickled that Karen remembered my friend. Then again, Kennedy had a way of making an impression.
“Why not,” Kennedy replied. “And thanks for the info.”
“Had to go with the shortbread,” Karen added, finishing our drink order. “And here’s a little heads-up for you, Lindsey. The Garden Club has their Christmas luncheon at the Harbor Hotel tomorrow. After that group has been wined and dined, my guess is that they’re going to cast their votes for Bradley’s shortbread. You might be in for some stiff competition.”
Kennedy waited just long enough for Karen to leave. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Linds. And if you are, just flirt with Chevy.” She flashed a challenging smile at Rory. “He was totally into you.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Rory countered.
“Says the man who fishes over a hole in the ice.” Kennedy rolled her eyes.
“Don’t listen to her,” he advised me. “I’d say she’s had too much to drink, but her bottle hasn’t arrived yet.”
Although Kennedy and Rory genuinely liked one another, they were from two different worlds and seldom saw eye to eye. I knew that Kennedy enjoyed torquing my boyfriend up a bit, just as I knew Rory delighted in challenging her. It was entertaining, but Kennedy was also brand savvy. Flirting was part of her job, but not mine.
“Do put your ego in check, Rory, darling. This isn’t about you. It’s about Lindsey winning the Christmas cookie bake-off. That little victory will be publicity gold for the Beacon’s reputation. After she wins, you can swoop back in and mark your territory like the alpha male you are.”
Rory, fuming with pent-up frustration, was about to reply when a bottle of wine was plopped between them, startling everyone.
“Looks like everyone could use a glass of Christmas cheer about now. Shall I pour?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I looked up at Karen. “Impecca
ble timing, as usual.”
CHAPTER 12
With a modest lead in the polls and Karen’s sage advice about the stiff competition I was facing, Rory, Kennedy, and I decided to have lunch at the Harbor Hotel Restaurant.
Due to an unprecedented number of customers visiting the bakeshop, I was hesitant to leave for lunch. Noting that we were running low on cookies, I told Mrs. Nichols I was going to call Rory and take a raincheck. I had just mixed up another batch and was getting ready to send them into the oven.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Nichols scolded. She knew as well as I did that the other shops in town were experiencing the same rush of customers. Frantic phone calls had been coming in all morning. Cookies were running low all over town, and the shoppers were beginning to complain. “Go. I have everything under control,” she insisted. “It’s the holidays. Have lunch with that nice young man of yours, dear. He’s a keeper.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
It was a pleasure to eat lunch at the Harbor Hotel Restaurant with Rory and Kennedy. They were getting along surprisingly well, which was a miracle. To top off the perfect meal of salmon roulades stuffed with wild rice and mushrooms then topped with a zinfandel reduction, and two glasses of wine, Chef Bradley Argyle came to our table with a plate of cookies. Bradley, unlike the other chefs I had known, was humble about his abilities. He looked to be in his late thirties and was on the taller side, with short auburn hair, brown eyes, and a pleasant smile. He had gotten his start in Chicago before moving to the small, touristy town of Beacon Harbor, or so Betty had informed me.
One bite of the brown butter shortbread cookie with a chocolate drizzle and I knew Karen had been right. The cookie was divine.
“So delicious,” I told him, still chewing. “Congratulations on an amazing cookie.”
Bradley blushed at the compliment. “Actually,” he began, “I came out to congratulate you on your signature cookie. Betty Vanhoosen brought some over the other day for me to sample. What a fabulous flavor combination.”
It was my turn to blush. After a short conversation, he glanced around the dining room. Then, in a lowered voice, he offered, “Want to see the ballroom? They’re getting it ready for the bake-off.”
We followed the chef through the kitchen and out a door that opened onto the hotel ballroom. It was a grand room with a vaulted ceiling and exposed wooden beams arching across the top. The room was perfect for large conferences, weddings, and special events, but today it was being transformed into a Christmas wonderland.
A group of workers were standing on ladders, putting the finishing touches on a huge, decorated Christmas tree, the focal point of the room. Wreaths adorned the walls. Large ornaments dangled from the vaulted ceiling on fishing line. Groupings of potted evergreens wrapped in twinkling lights flanked the main entrance and stood in the corners. A stage had been erected along the back wall near the door we had come through. There was a flurry of activity on it as workmen were assembling the four cookie baking stations. Closer to the front of the stage stood four long butcher-block tables, perfect for rolling dough on. Each had a set of mixing bowls, measuring cups, baking trays, and a KitchenAid mixer. Behind the tables and closer to the wall stood two professional double ovens in stainless steel. Not only were they impressive, but each baker would have their own oven to bake in. I had never been in a live bake-off before, but I wanted to now. The Christmas setting was magical, and I could hardly wait until Sunday for the festival to begin.
As I was dreaming up another winning cookie, a shrill voice called me to my senses.
“Why aren’t these ovens hooked up yet? There are wires! Stop staring at me with those blank eyes and install these properly!”
Bradley cringed at the sound of the voice. “That’ll be Felicity. Quite the taskmaster, but she sure knows her Christmas decorations. I’ve been bribing the volunteers all week with cookies and cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps.”
“Good man,” Rory said, running a cautious eye over the stage.
A moment later Felicity popped up from behind the ovens with a handful of loose wires. I had nearly forgotten that she had taken on the task of decorating for the Christmas Festival.
“Well, I best get back to the kitchen before she spots me,” Bradley said. “We’re technically not supposed to be in here. Good luck to you, Lindsey. I hope we both make it to that stage.”
“Me too,” I told him honestly.
Kennedy, fascinated by the woman who owed a year-round Christmas shop, was eager to talk with Felicity Stewart, but I was dreading the encounter. I never realized how competitive she was about Christmas, or how annoying she could be. Besides, I needed to get back to work as well. We had already spent far too long at lunch.
“Come on,” I said, and motioned for us to leave. I was about to slip through the door when Kennedy stopped me.
“She’s not interested in you,” Kennedy said. “Our celebrity judge has arrived.”
Sure enough, Chevy Chambers had just walked through the main entrance. Felicity spotted him and waved excitedly.
“Phew. Crisis averted. Come on.”
“Has it been?” Kennedy questioned and pointed to the main entrance. Felicity was hugging Chevy Chambers. “Nothing good can come of that. Looks like our celebrity flirt has found a taker after all. Wonder if he promised to make her a television star too?”
“Felicity’s married,” I informed her. “She’s the one who got Chevy Chambers to come here in the first place. They’re probably old friends.”
“Smart woman. She owns a Christmas store, gets the town to host a Christmas cookie bake-off, and brings in a celebrity food critic to generate interest. All she needs to do is pull off a win for publicity gold. You could learn a thing or two from her, Linds.”
I almost laughed. “I don’t have to. I have you. And Felicity still has to make it into the live bake-off. Bet she wasn’t counting on such stiff competition.”
It was a short drive back to the Beacon. I had been gone for two hours, was slightly tipsy, and was beginning to regret it. Spying Felicity with the cookie judge, I had the feeling that Kennedy might be correct. The whole Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off might have been a setup. I was growing a little miffed, until the sight of flashing lights brought me to my senses. A police car was parked outside the Beacon Bakeshop.
“Oh my God!” I cried, as Rory parked his pickup truck behind it. “Mrs. Nichols! Something terrible has happened!”
CHAPTER 13
I thought my heart would burst with fear as I ran up the walkway through the giant candy cane lights. The Closed sign had been hung on the door. Tom, Wendy, and Alaina had all been working with Mrs. Nichols when I left. Now all of them appeared to be gone and the shop empty. What had happened?
“Tuck,” I cried, spying Officer McAllister the moment I walked through the door. He was near the coffee bar staring at an empty plate when he saw us.
“Oh, hi, Lindsey, Rory . . . Kennedy.” His eyes lingered a bit too long on my friend. Had I not been overcome with worry, I might have remarked on it.
“What’s happened?” I asked. “Where’s Mrs. Nichols?”
Just then a heart-wrenching sob came from the kitchen.
Rory dashed around the counter and disappeared through the kitchen door. A moment later, he returned with Mrs. Nichols on his arm. Her face was bright red as tears streamed from her eyes. The woman was a blubbering mess.
“I’m . . . so sorry,” she hiccupped, wringing her hands. “We’ve . . . we’ve been robbed.”
“Robbed!?” It had been the furthest thing from my mind. Certainly, it was a terrible violation, but I was relieved to see my assistant baker on her feet. I ran to help her, feeling guilty for having left her and the Beacon for as long as I had.
“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”
She sniffled. “Only my pride, dear.”
“Where are the others?” I thought to ask.
“I sent them home,” she confided with a sniffle
. “Af . . . after the robbery, there was no reason for them to stay.”
“But they left you alone. They shouldn’t have left you alone.” I looked at Rory for support. He nodded and helped me get Mrs. Nichols to a chair at a café table.
“Robbed, you say?” Kennedy stood beside Tuck, mimicking his thoughtful expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was pretending to be a cop. That thought was confirmed when she crossed her arms and addressed the room . . . as if she knew what she was talking about. “The gangsters!” she theatrically proclaimed. “It was bound to happen. The Beacon grew too big, too fast. I liken it to the proverbial cash cow—a Guernsey with bloated udders just waiting to be milked! How much was taken?”
Mrs. Nichols, like Rory, had momentarily been stunned to silence. Rory furrowed his brows at the same time Mrs. Nichols gasped. “All of it!” she cried, a red wave of anger rising to her cheeks. “The entire plate!”
“Excuse me?” I looked at Mrs. Nichols. “Plate?”
“This one,” Tuck said, holding up the plate in question.
“Why are you holding a plate?”
“Apparently, Lindsey, the Beacon Bakeshop has been the scene of the county’s first ever reported cookie-napping.”
It was hard not to laugh, although doing so would have been cruel to Mrs. Nichols. The poor woman had been scarred by the incident. Apparently, around one o’clock in the afternoon, three nicely dressed, seemingly innocent women had entered the bakeshop. At the time, Tom had been out on a delivery, Aliana was out to lunch, and Wendy was in the back boxing up a couple of cakes for a special order. Mrs. Nichols was at the counter when one of the three women came up to her, asking after gluten-free, sugar-free, and vegan products.
“She was causing a scene,” Mrs. Nichols confided. “She was very rude and smug about it too, stating that we should have gluten-free products and things for people who can’t eat sugar, butter, eggs—even honey. I’ve never heard of such a thing!” Tears were brimming in her bloodshot eyes.