Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Christmas River Cozy, Book 2)
Read Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Christmas River Cozy, Book 2) Online
Authors: Meg Muldoon
Mayhem in Christmas River
A Christmas in July Cozy Mystery
by
Meg Muldoon
Published by
Vacant Lot Publishing
Copyright 2013© 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.
Other Works by Meg Muldoon
The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Series
Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery
(Book 1)
Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 3)
Malice in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 4)
The Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series
Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery
Coming Fall/Winter 2014
:
Roasted in Christmas River: A Thanksgiving Cozy Mystery Novella
Mischief in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery
Table of Contents
Mayhem in Christmas River
by Meg Muldoon
Chapter 1
“I’m going to murder someone if I have to keep this wig on any longer!” Mrs. Claus said, stomping into my shop and ripping the curly white head piece clear off. “I can’t take this heat for one more minute!”
Mrs. Claus let her platinum blond hair fall against her shoulders in a tangled mess. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her temple, falling onto her bright red flustered face.
An 8-year-old boy sitting with his mother at a corner table looked at Mrs. Claus with an expression of utter horror.
“Let’s go to the back,” I said, trying to usher her out of my dining room before any other children had their innocent dreams of Christmas ruined.
She shook her head angrily and came around the counter.
“This has been a damn nightmare, Cinnamon,” Mrs. Claus said, leading us through the doors to the kitchen. “I can’t believe I ever let Moira Steward talk me into this. That old hag tricked me into taking over this stupid…”
She trailed off, apparently unable to settle on the right word.
She ripped her little wire frame glasses off and wiped her face with the back of her red velvet sleeve.
I leaned against the kitchen island, trying to stifle the laughter that was forcing its way out.
“Tell me again, how did she trick you, Kara?” I said.
I felt a smart-ass smile spread across my face. Her cheeks grew redder as she peeled off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves.
“Don’t you dare act snide, Cinnamon,” Kara said. “That old crook said her hip was acting up and she couldn’t be Mrs. Claus in the play. And then she started complimenting my cheekbones, and my million-dollar smile, saying that I would make a great Mrs. Claus and, well, what can I say? Maybe I’m a little vain. But I didn’t bargain I’d be wearing hose, a hot wig and a frilly velvet jacket. And I sure as hell didn’t bank on it being 97 degrees out.”
I started laughing. I knew she’d be angry at me, but I couldn’t help it.
Seeing my best friend, Kara, as a melted, pissed-off Mrs. Claus was too funny.
“Cinnamon!” she said, angrily.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hands up. “Let me get you some lemonade, all right? It’ll help cool you down.”
I went to the fridge and pulled out a batch of pomegranate blueberry lemonade I had made earlier that morning. When things got hot in the kitchen during the summer, a glass of icy cold lemonade always kept me from losing my head. Maybe it would have the same effect on Kara. But after blowing her top just now, I wasn’t sure how much of her head was left to save.
I poured some into a glass and handed it to her. She guzzled it down in one session. She stuck the glass out for more, and I poured the rest of the pitcher into it.
“Well, I saw on the news that the heat wave’s supposed to break before next week’s festivities.”
Kara wiped her mouth after downing the dredges of the lemonade.
“How does that help with the brain cells I’ve already lost to this crappy wig?” she said, holding it up like it was the head of some aristocrat beheaded during the French Revolution.
She threw it across the room for added drama.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “If Moira Stewart could stand ten years of being Mrs. Claus in the Christmas River in July Play, than you can make it one year. You’ve got what it takes. I know it.”
She sat down and the redness in her face faded somewhat. It looked like the lemonade was starting to work.
“I should really be back at the store instead of prancing around in this get-up,” she said, shaking her head. “I should be getting ready for next week’s tourist invasion.”
Next week was probably the second highest sales point of the year in Christmas River, right next to Christmas. Tourists, all decked out in baseball caps, t-shirts and plastic sunglasses, would be streaming in for the Christmas River in July festivities that started with a parade and ended with the annual Christmas River skit put on by our local theater group. I, myself, had never been a big fan of the whole Christmas-in-the-middle-of-summer idea that so many people around here loved, but it certainly helped pay the bills. When they weren’t devouring ice cream, tourists came into my shop to chow down on Moundful Marionberry, Mountain Blueberry Cinnamon, Lemon Gingercrisp, and Christmas River Cherry pies while they took a break from shopping.
“I’m sure Joann has everything under control at the store,” I said. “You should just take a moment to relax.”
The timer beeped. I pulled on a pair of mitts and went over to the oven to check on the pies. I was met with a wave of hot air that felt only a little hotter than the stifling air of the kitchen.
The air conditioner had overheated a few days earlier, and I had been left to struggle through the central Oregon heat wave until it got fixed.
“I’m sorry to come parading in here like this,” Kara said after I pulled the pan of pies from the oven. “I… just, you know, this hasn’t been my best week.”
I took my mitts off and went back to the kitchen island.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“In fact, I can’t remember the last good week I had.”
She rested her chin on the palm of her hand and got a faraway look in her eyes.
“I know,” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. You haven’t heard anything from him yet?”
She shook her head.
“Lately at night I lie awake thinking about the things that I said, and I can’t believe that those words actually came out of my mouth. I mean, Jesus. I took some low shots.”
Kara and John had had a big falling out about two months earlier. They’d been on-again off-again dating for about a year and a half, but this latest blow-up seemed to be a little more final than the others. She hadn’t heard from him in two weeks, and he’d taken a leave from his podiatrist practice.
Kara was a stormy woman with a hot temper. John was mostly easy-going, but Kara had a way of bringing out that same kind of volatile spirit in him from time to time. This latest row had been over his possessive mother, who had relocated to Christmas River a few months earlier, and who Kara didn’t get along with in the least.
“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean what you said,” I said. “He’s crazy about you. Any blind man can see that.”
She let out a long sigh.
“Yeah,” she said. “But sometimes that’s just not enough. Especially when his mother is as bat-shit crazy as she is.”
She tried to smile, but it came out weak.
I could tell that the strong façade she usually had was about ready to crack.
“I just wish things were easier,” she said. “But they never are, are they?”
I heard the front door bell jingle. Chrissy, my bakery assistant, wasn’t coming in until later, so I gave Kara an apologetic look before going out to the front to help the customer.
“I’ll be back in a flash.”
I went through the door and over to the front counter.
“What can I get for you today?” I asked, waking up the register with a tap of the keys.
“Pecan,” Sheriff Trumbow said. “And don’t try to cheat me this time. Give me a decent-sized slice.”
I struggled to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
I took his money and gave him a bigger cut of the Pristine Pecan Pie than I usually would for a normal customer. He didn’t leave any tips in the tip jar to warrant me doing that, but what could I say? I felt sorry for the sheriff… er… former sheriff.
Since the fiasco that was the Christmas River Gingerbread Junction Competition the December before last, Sheriff Trumbow had been demoted within the tiny Pohly County Sheriff’s Department, had become one of my most frequent customers at the pie shop and had gained at least thirty pounds.
I didn’t know if he kept coming in here because he felt bad about accusing me of murder and almost arresting me in front of a television crew, or if he came in because he wanted something fattening to add to his epic binge. Either way, the man was in the biggest rut I’d ever seen. I mean, I hadn’t even gotten that way after my divorce.
Despite everything that had happened, I couldn’t find it in my heart to hold a grudge against this sad, depressed man. Well, not much of a grudge, anyway. I guess if I had truly been forgiving, I wouldn’t have let him get the most calorie-laden pie in the shop. I probably would have told him he needed to get help, not more pie.