Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (7 page)

I cleared my throat.

“Well, what tipped you off, Sherlock?” I said.

He grinned. I noticed that he looked pretty good for someone who should have had a hangover. If it had been me, I would have looked like a hot mess with dark rings around my eyes. But Daniel looked relaxed, easy, content. No sign of a hangover whatsoever.

“Well, I went through all the years that I lived here, going through the people I knew in each grade level of school,” he said. “It took me until about three in the morning to get to the summer after junior year, but I got there in my own good time.”

“That memorable, huh?” I said, raising my eyebrows and placing a hand on my hip.

“No, it’s not that at all,” he said. “Just… my memory works differently. And most the time I try not to think about the past. For a while, I tried to forget a lot of my growing up years. Some not so good memories there. But then when you block it all out, you lose some of the good, too.”

I nodded. I guess that made sense. Maybe.

On my end, it hadn’t taken nearly as long to remember him.

I thought back to his earlier question.

Was he a fool?

The verdict was still out on that one.  

“But I remember you, Cinnamon,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I forgot about that night by the lake.”

I could see John moving his head around at his table, trying to get a better eavesdropping angle.

I shifted my feet uncomfortably.

I really wished that Daniel would’ve come in at a different time.

“You know I called you,” I said, clearing my throat. “You know that, right?”

He nodded solemnly.

“I wasn’t in a good place then,” he said. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” I said, lying. “I was okay.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You seem to have done pretty good for yourself here.”

I smiled.

“So, professional pie-taster, what in the hell are you doing back here? I thought I’d never see you again, the way you tore out of town.”

“Well, my dad died three years ago,” Daniel said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

Daniel’s father had left Christmas River shortly after Daniel had, moving back east where his people were from. They still kept the house here, though, and occasionally, his dad would come back in town during the summer to go fishing. Three years ago, Walter Brightman’s obituary ran in the Christmas River Times. I heard there was a memorial for him here for some of his friends, but that he was buried back east.

“Well, I haven’t gotten a chance to take care of things here… you know, the house and everything. So I figured now was as good a time as any.”

“How long are you here for?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “As long as it takes, I guess.”

I was just about to ask Daniel where he’d been living and what he did now, when I saw John stand up and pull his beanie on.

He came over to us, walking up with a strange, aggressive gait.

“You let me know about tonight, Cinnamon,” he said in an irritated tone, talking over Daniel. “Come over to the practice around 5 o’clock. Maybe we could do dinner first.”

I nodded, and he walked away quickly and, I sensed, a little angrily.

We watched him open the door, walk out, and let the wind slam the door behind him. A cold gust ran through the dining room.

Daniel looked back at me.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he said.

I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “It was nothing. So you don’t know how long you’re staying?”

“Through the holidays at least,” he said. “But we’ll see then. See where the road takes me.”

“Do you have a job to go back to?” I asked.

The door jingled, and an army of old ladies with shopping bags suddenly entered the shop.

I sighed. I really wanted to talk more with him. I wanted to find out what he did, where he’d been all these years, and what he planned to do now that he was back here.

But I knew that the army of old ladies were going to squash any hope of catching up with Daniel Brightman.

He must of seen my exasperated expression.

He smiled at me. A warm smile that sent chills up my spine.

“Perils of the pie business,” he said, nodding to the ladies behind him.

“Listen,” he said, leaning across the counter. “I’d really like to repay you for your kindness last night. I probably would be face down in the snow right about now if you hadn’t rescued me. What about a drink tonight?”

My heart beat hard in my chest.

“That is, if you’ve forgiven me.”

“Ma’am, does this blueberry pie have nutmeg in it too? Or just Cinnamon?” one of the old ladies said in a raised voice, pointing at the glass case.

I looked back at Daniel, who was running a hand through his dark hair, waiting for me to answer.

“No. It’ll be a long while before I forgive you, Daniel Brightman.” I said.

His face fell a little bit and part of me enjoyed the moment. It was a little taste of his own medicine, but I didn’t let it last too long.

“But… I’ll let you make it up to me.”

It only took me 1.2 seconds to decide that I was going to say yes to his offer.

No hesitation at all. No doubt. Nothing.

He tapped his cowboy hat on the counter and grinned.

“You’re a kind woman,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at five?”

“Make it five thirty,” I said.

“Ma’am?” the old woman said. “Can you give me an answer?”

Daniel winked at me, put on his hat, and walked out the front door.

And left me with the old women to tend to.

But I didn’t mind them. I didn’t even mind them calling me “Ma’am.”

Chapter 14

John had left the majority of his strawberry rhubarb pie on the plate.

I felt a little guilty about the way Daniel had waltzed in here and stolen the show. I recognized that John had probably spent all year building up his courage, trying to work out a way to ask me out. He had finally found a moment when we were alone, and an innocuous way to spend time with me and ask me, and it had all been dashed.

I felt bad, but at the same time, I hadn’t liked that tone he’d taken with me. Telling me to be there at his practice at five when I hadn’t even said yes to his offer of help.

He’d said it in a petit tone, and it bothered me.

Yes, he’d been a regular customer, coming into my shop for a year now. But that didn’t mean he owned me. I wasn’t his property, which is the sense I got in his tone when he stomped out of here.

I told myself this, but it didn’t help much with the guilt. Because no matter how I spun things, there was one thing that was true.

When John had asked me out, I hesitated. I hesitated because of the feeling in my gut that told me that I didn’t like him that way, and that I most likely never would. No matter his kindness, or profession, or good looks, Dr. John Billings didn’t elicit any feelings from me. No matter how much he wanted it.

On the other hand, when Daniel had asked me for a drink, I didn’t even have to think about it. I hadn’t seen him in 17 years, but the answer was the same.

Yes.

That said something right there. That said that even if Daniel hadn’t come into the shop this afternoon, I still shouldn’t have accepted John’s invitation to dinner.

There was no future there. That was clear now.

I would have to tell him that evening before Daniel stopped by. John might be angry, he might never come into my shop again, he might hate me.

But I needed to be honest with him. I owed him that much.

All was fair in love and war. That’s what Kara had said, and she was right. I knew that, better than anyone. I’d been on the other end before.

And I owed myself what little happiness I could get. I’d been through hell in the past two years.

I talked myself into this as I waited for another batch of pies that I had made that afternoon to finish baking. They were meant to replace the burnt ones. It was late afternoon, and the long line of customers had all been helped, and the shop was mostly empty.

I had called Kara and told her that we’d have to work on the gingerbread mansion tomorrow rather than tonight. She said she understood and asked if I needed a girls’ night. I thanked her, but told her that I had other plans. By the tone of her voice, I knew she wanted to ask more about those plans, but she dropped it, seeming to sense that I didn’t want to talk about it. At least not yet.

Now, all I had to do was finish up baking the pies and cleaning up the shop, and then I’d go over to John’s office and tell him.

My stomach turned just thinking about it. But that was what an honest, respectful person would do. He might hurt some, but it would save him some heartache in the long run.

I stopped for a moment, looking out the back window of the kitchen to admire the sunset.

It had stopped snowing briefly, and it was one of those early winter sunsets that turned the sky a flaming shade of pink and gold, and made the snow glow.

Whenever I started wondering about whether or not I should be living in a bigger city, and from time to time I did, I’d have a moment like this and realize that I was exactly where I should be.

Christmas River was a beautiful place to live. Nestled in the heart of the pristine Cascade Mountains, the woods and lakes around here were some of the loveliest in the country. And to me, the world.

I knew a lot of people who grew up in small towns only wanted to run away from them, but not me. Maybe it was the death of my mother at an early age that changed my view of that, but these woods were my home. My base. As a child, it was the place that comforted me when my world was turned upside down. As an adult, these woods still comforted me when I had heartbreak or sadness or depression. They reminded me of who I was, of where I came from. They grounded me.

Suddenly, I heard a noise below the window. I looked down and saw Huckleberry there, eating away at the tin pans of burnt pie.

He was looking older and more haggard. His fur was wet with melted snow. He was shaking, and eating at the tin pans feverishly.

I watched him as he slopped away at them, standing still so as not to scare him. In a matter of moments, he had finished off both tins.

I expected him to dart away into the woods, the way he usually did. But he didn’t. He looked up at me, and started whining.

It was a heartbreaking little whine.

Poor little Hucks.

Maybe he was ready. Maybe he was ready to trust me now.

I slowly turned the knob to the backdoor and opened it. I was met with a burst of frigid air.

“Come here, Huckleberry,” I said, quietly. “Come inside, poochie.”

He leaned back on his paws defensively, but stayed there. A good sign, I thought.

“Come here,” I cooed again.

He started moving toward me. Slowly. Closer to the door.

I started smiling. Maybe he was finally going to trust me.

He got to the door threshold, and then placed a paw over it.

“It’s okay,” I said. “C’mon.”

Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed through the kitchen, pushing the front door of the shop open, and slamming it shut with a loud crash.

I saw fear flash across Huckleberry’s eyes. He backed away and took off, running back into the woods.

“Damn it,” I muttered, watching him run.

But then he did something strange.

He didn’t disappear. Not like he usually did, deep into the woods.

This time he sat there, waiting. Looking at me.

A crazy thought crossed my mind as I saw him gazing at me from the woods.

Did he want me to follow him?

I thought back to what Daniel had said about him. That he felt like the dog wanted him to follow him.

Was that true now? Did Huckleberry want more than just a few pieces of pie? Did he want something else?

It didn’t take me too long to decide. I quickly took off my apron and went to the coat rack to grab my jacket. As I put it on, I went to the front of the shop to make sure there were no other customers. There weren’t. I turned the sign around to say closed, and zipped up my down jacket.

When I went to the back door, Huckleberry was still in the same spot in the woods, still gazing at me.

I went out the door, closing it behind me. I walked down the steps, and out into the woods, trudging through the thick snow as the skies above me turned red with the dying sun.

Chapter 15

He ran out ahead of me, but not so far that he lost me.

The deeper I walked into the woods, the more I felt like Huckleberry had a purpose, a reason for doing this.

He wasn’t just a starved stray looking for a meal. There was more to it.

The snow was deep and I was breathing hard as I made my way through it. With each step, my foot would fall through several layers of the powdery white stuff. I almost stumbled a few times, falling down to my hips once, but I kept going.

Suddenly, I saw Huckleberry up ahead. He had stopped. He was waiting for me.

I tried to pick up the pace to get to him. He had started whining again.

“I’m coming,” I yelled.

By the time I got to where he was, I was sucking in deep breaths of frosty air that stung my lungs.

“I’m right he—” I started saying, but then stopped mid-sentence.

Huckleberry was pacing around something. Something I couldn’t make out. Something covered by a layer of snow.

Then, my eyes fell on something that looked like a log sticking up out of the snow. A form that had previously just blended into the field of white.

I stood frozen for a moment, putting it together. Putting it together, but unable to process it.

Then, I understood. 

I put my hand over my mouth and stifled the scream that traveled up my throat, looking for a way out.

The form in the snow.The outline. The pale purple color of it. 

In the dying red light, I finally understood what it was.

A hand, sticking up from the blanket of rosy snow.

A frozen hand.

Chapter 16

I left Huckleberry barking around the hand and stumbled through the deep snow, back to the shop, back to a phone.