Manic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Christmas River Cozy Book 6) (23 page)

He furrowed his brow, the look of confusion still on his face.

“But, miss, I—”

Just then, the front door jingled loudly as somebody walked in. A moment later, the lady of the hour appeared through the swinging dividing door.

“Well, hi there,” Tiana said, looking a little startled.

She sensed she had walked in on something.

I smiled back at Tobias.

“You know, I’m getting a hankering for a Marionberry Muffin,” I said. “I think I’ll go on down to the Coffee Shack for a couple of minutes. Can I get anybody anything?”

They both shook their heads.

I winked at Tobias before going for my purse. Then I walked out the door and into the bright morning sunshine.

I couldn’t be sure, but I had a feeling that soon, Tiana wouldn’t be reading so many of those romance novels.

Chapter 56

“I hope you’ll be honest and tell me what you really think, Mrs. Brightman,” he said, quietly. “I want your true opinion. It’s crucial, so please don’t sugarcoat anything.”

He placed the plate in front of me, along with a fork wrapped up in a cloth napkin. The slice of Marionberry pie was perfectly-latticed, with the dark purple berry filling just peeking through the lovely golden brown pastry. The slice sat atop an artistic drizzle of berry syrup and lime curd swatches that reminded me of a cubist painting.

I was saddened to disrupt the plate, the visual art of it was so utterly stunning.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what I think,” I said, unrolling the fork from the napkin. “On one condition.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You have to stop calling me Mrs. Brightman,” I said. “We’re family now, and we call each other by our first names.”

He smirked, then nodded in agreement.

“Okay, Cinnamon.”  

I took the fork and carefully cut into the pie. I broke off a piece, and swirled the bite around the plate, picking up the lime curd and the berry syrup. Then I lifted it up to my mouth, and tasted it.

The sour and creamy lime curd danced in perfect harmony with the bright sweetness of the berries. The crust flaked apart just right. The filling texture was neither too runny, nor too condensed. And there was something else… a fresh, bright flavor in the mix. One that I hadn’t expected in the least.

“Is that candied mint?” I said.

He nodded, a deathly serious and anxiety-ridden expression on his face.

I pursed my lips, letting the aftertaste linger for a spell.

“It’s too overpowering, isn’t it?” he said, unable to take my silence. “I thought as much. It drowns out the other flavors. The mint’s too aggressive.”

I looked away, still processing what I had just tasted.

He let out a long, sad sigh.

“I suppose I was in over my head thinking that I could add mint to a pie. It’s too unusual, isn’t i—”

I shook my head, and he stopped speaking.

The pie wasn’t perfect. It needed just a dash more sugar to balance out the tartness, and it could have used a few more sprinkles of salt for my liking, but overall…

“Ian,” I said. “These flavors are
beautiful
.”

He met my eyes hopefully.

I went in for another bite.

“It’s so unique. I’ve never quite…”

I trailed off, unable to formulate words to describe the way my taste buds were dancing.

The kid was an artist.

He just needed a little bit more guidance.

And I knew, right then and there, that I’d go through any hoops whatsoever to get him to stay and work in my pie shop.

Daniel and I had already been working to that end: Ian didn’t know it yet, but we were buying his girlfriend Alice, the one back in Scotland, a ticket to Portland this month. I considered it back payment for all the good work he’d been putting in lately.

“Uh, miss?”

I turned around. As I expected, Tobias’s head was sticking out from behind the swinging doors.

“There’s a young fellow here who wants to talk to you.”

I lifted my eyebrows.

“Do you know who it is?”

Given everything that had happened in the last few weeks, I felt a twinge of unease anytime Tobias told me there was someone here to see me.

“Don’t know his name,” he said. “But he’s that one fella who’s always in here. You know, the one in the flannel shirt and them square glasses?”

I knew immediately who he was talking about.

But why The Plaid Hipster wanted to talk to me was unclear.

“Well, tell him to come on in,” I said, standing up.

Ian took that as a cue to take his break.

“I’ll be back in 15, Cinnamon,” he said.

“Okay, but don’t expect much of your pie to be left when you return. It’s dangerous leaving something this delicious lying around a kitchen.”

He smiled.

The kid was practically floating on air.

Chapter 57

“Is this a bad time?”

The Plaid Hipster sported a short sleeve blue flannel shirt today. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his black glasses were polished to a gleaming sheen. He carried a muddy-brown messenger bag across his chest that looked like he’d picked it up in a vintage shop in Portland.

“Not at all,” I said. “Come on in.”

It occurred to me I didn’t know exactly what I was inviting into my humble pie shop kitchen. After all, I hadn’t the slightest clue what The Plaid Hipster wanted, or who he even was, for that matter.

“I’m Alex, by the way,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Alex Rosell.”

“Cinnamon Peters,” I said.

“I know,” he said, smiling mysteriously.

He had a firm, no-nonsense handshake.

“What can I help you with, Alex?” I said. “Oh, and would you like a slice of Marionberry pie? My cousin just made it. And let me tell you, you’ve never tasted a pie quite like this one before.”

I was surprised how the term ‘cousin’ just sort of popped out like that, without me giving it a second thought.

It seemed right somehow, though.

“I’d love some, but I’ll be upfront with you, Ms. Peters: I’m not here today for a slice of pie.”

He pulled out a large notepad from his bag.

“You’re not trying to sell me on some kind of religion, are you?” I said. “Because I’m afraid I’m not looking for—”

He grinned.

“No, no. I’d be the last person to do something like that,” he said. “But I am trying to sell you something.”

I stifled the sigh that was making its way up my throat.

I wasn’t exactly in the mood to hear about baking products or pastry delivery services or kitchen appliances.

But turning The Plaid Hipster out seemed the epitome of poor manners, especially given how good of a customer he’d been these past months.

“Go on,” I said.

He played with the snapping mechanism on the pen he was holding and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, Ms. Peters. I’ve been coming to your pie shop now for over two months. Ever since I read about it in
Sunrise Magazine
. And I have to say, it’s lived up to everything that’s been written about it and more. Not only is every variety of pie exceptional – believe me, I would know –”

He patted his tummy for the effect, which did indeed seem a little larger than it had been since he’d first started coming into the shop.

“But,
Cinnamon’s Pies
also has a great atmosphere. A certain
je ne sais quoi
that feels… I don’t know. It feels like… like home.”

I smiled politely.

The guy sure was giving me the hard sell.

Only I was still in the dark as to what he was selling exactly.

“Well, that’s nice of you to say,” I said. “But—”

“Ms. Peters, have you heard of
All About that Bundt
?”

I stopped speaking and looked at him quizzically.

All About that Bundt
was a pastry shop chain with several locations in the Pacific Northwest. It was started by Trixie Curtis, a Tacoma pastry chef with a rags-to-riches story. Not that I kept up with those things, but the pastry shop chain had been mentioned in
Bon Appetit
the year before, and last I read, Trixie was opening up several new locations in the Midwest.

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” I said.

“Well, I’m one of the company’s principal investors.”

I felt my heart suddenly quicken.

Did this… was this what I thought it might be?

“I’ve been looking around for another project, though,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Because as much as I love the Bundt cake, it’s not for everyone. I’ve been yearning to take on something that has more potential. For a long time now, I’ve been studying the market, trying to figure out what the next big thing might be.”

I wasn’t entirely sure that I wasn’t dreaming all of this.

“From my market research, I’ve learned that while pie was out of fashion for many years, it’s experiencing a renaissance. You see, I think people in this day and age are faced with long commutes, sterile offices, and co-workers and bosses who don’t understand who they are. They’re faced with misunderstandings, cold shoulders, heartache, and sadness. It’s a cruel world out there, Ms. Peters. People are looking for comfort wherever they can find it.

“And to walk into a place where things finally make
sense
, where there’s always coffee brewing, and the smell of butter and sugar in the air. Where they can always count on a warm smile and a delicious slice of pie. Where it always feels like
home
. The kind of home that everybody wished they had. To have a place like that to go to… well… I see it as something that’s priceless.”

I thought my heart was going to break free of its ribcage jail and burst clear on through.

Alex was echoing my own thoughts exactly. Even though hardly anybody in Christmas River had to make a long commute, and even though we didn’t have any tall office buildings to speak of, folks around here still felt those things he was talking about. It was a problem of the modern world. A feeling of disconnectedness and discontent. Because the world was a cold place, and so many times, home – that true feeling of home – was nowhere to be found.

I had always thought of
Cinnamon’s Pies
as a place where you could come and recapture some of that feeling.

“You’ve got quite the way with words, Alex,” I said, smiling.

“I have a way with growing a business, too,” he said. “And that’s what I want to do with yours, Ms. Peters. I see it as having unlimited potential.”

Unlimited potential
.

I stifled a strange giddy noise that was trying to crawl up the back of my throat.

“Now, I’m not trying to sell you on creating this big chain. I’m thinking we can start small. If that goes well, then I’d like to see a second location in Portland, maybe Seattle. And from there, well…”

He adjusted his glasses again.

“The sky’s the limit, Ms. Peters.”

I could hardly believe it.

I hadn’t even asked. I had hardly let myself entertain the idea, feeling that expansion was too grand, too out of my depth, beyond my capabilities as a small business owner.

Yet opportunity had come knocking, seemingly out of thin air.

He waited for me to say something, but I couldn’t find the words.

He seemed to understand that I was in a state of shock. He rummaged around in his messenger bag, pulling out a business card and sliding it across the table to me.

Then he collected his things and stood up.

“I know you might want some time to consider the prospect,” he said. “I can provide you with any credentials you may need in regards to who I am and what I’m offering. When you’re ready, please give me a call and we can discuss numbers.”

My jaw practically hit the floor.

He nodded politely, and then headed for the dividing door that led to the dining room. But before he went through it, he stopped dead in his tracks, turning around suddenly.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind a small slice of that Marionberry pie, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said.

I smiled.

“It’s no trouble at all.”

He smiled back.

I had the funny feeling that it was the beginning of something big.

Chapter 58

I tightened my grip on the stack of pastry boxes in my arms and slipped inside the brew house door. I was hit with the bright, fresh, intoxicating aroma of Northwest hops.

“Anybody home?”

Warren popped his head out from behind a tank like a prairie dog from its den.

His eyes immediately found their way to the pink pastry boxes I was carrying.

“Are those
all
for me?”

His eyes grew wide as he stepped out from behind the kettle. He wiped his hands off on a rag.

“You just hold your horses now, old man,” I said. “These are for your patrons. For tonight’s second grand opening.”

Warren’s face fell a little bit.

“Well in that case, I might as well start eating them pies now,” he said, glumly. “I’m not expecting too many folks to show up for something called a ‘Second Grand Opening.’”

After being closed for nearly three weeks on account of the murder, Geronimo Brewing Co. was finally set to open its doors again. It had taken a lot of work to get the place back up to speed after the disastrous Fourth, but it finally seemed back to normal. The atmosphere was the way it had always been – cheerful and hospitable, much like the personalities of both Warren and Aileen.

Warren had rebounded and was back to his usual self, too. Rattling on about the various histories of the IPA and the vices and virtues of the craft beer movement in America. His old spark was back – but it seemed there was just one thing that he still hadn’t regained:

His confidence.

“Now what kind of thinking is that?” I said, setting the pies down on a table near the pub area. “Where’s that world-famous optimism of yours?”

He sucked in a deep breath.

“It’s just, there’s a lot riding on tonight. More than there was on the Fourth of July. With us being closed for so long, it’s do or die, Cinny. Tonight’s got to work, otherwise Geronimo Brewing’s just going to be another small-time brewery that bites the dust.”