3 Madness in Christmas River

Madness in Christmas River

A Christmas 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

Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery

Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas in July Cozy Mystery

Madness in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

Chapter 1

“Jesus Christ in Christmas River!”

I jerked my hand away from the wickedly hot metal of the oven. The plastic turkey baster dropped out of my hand, hit the floor and splattered gravy all over, turning the kitchen into a meaty rendition of a Jackson Pollock painting.

The painting not only included the cabinets, countertops, and oven door, but also my red cowboy boots, the apron I was wearing,
and
my white silk blouse.

The blouse that I had made a special 45-minute trip for to the only Macy’s in central Oregon a month earlier. The one that I had bought especially for today. The one that was so new, it still smelled of the department store’s perfume.

Now, it was destined to only ever smell of gravy.   

I let out a frustrated sigh.

Dammit.

I should have known that it had been too early to change into my dressy outfit when there was still so much cooking left to do.

But at the moment, the stains on my shirt were the least of my problems.  

I ran to the other side of the kitchen, flipped the sink handles to full blast, and stuck my reddening hand under the lukewarm water.

I could have sworn that I saw steam rising off of the burn.

Obviously, I had cooked more than just the turkey so far today.

I bit my lip to stop from muttering some unpleasant obscenities. 

My hand stung like a—

“Did the bird get you?” a familiar, deep voice said from behind.

He placed a hand on my back and leaned over my shoulder to inspect the damage.

“Yeah,” I said, holding up my singed hand. “Son of a gun turkey has teeth. Sharp, fiery teeth.”

“I should have made sure that bird was dead before we stuck it in the oven,” he said. “My bad.”

I smiled at his joke as best I could through the pain. My hand was now throbbing and growing redder by the second.  

“Hold tight,” he said, leaving the kitchen.

He came back after a few moments with a small first aid kit from the medicine cabinet.

“Is it really bad?” he asked.

“I’d say it’s a medium level burn,” I said. “But it’ll be okay. I’ve had a lot worse at the shop.”

He turned off the faucet and took my hand in his. I leaned against the counter, and he gently rubbed some antibacterial lotion on the burn. He then carefully wrapped a bandage around it.

“Where’d you get so good at that?” I asked.

“Back in my days as a double agent,” he said, putting the lid on the lotion. “Burns were common out in the field. And going to a hospital was out of the question. That would have blown our whole cover.”

I grinned.

“You know, you
really
shouldn’t joke about a thing like that with less than a month to go before the wedding,” I said. “I just might get cold feet.”

“I’ll just have to take that chance, I guess.” 

He lightly patted my wrap and then glanced over at the oven.

“I can finish up here,” he said. “I’ve basted a few turkeys in my time. And you’ve been in this kitchen for almost two days straight.”

“Naw,” I said. “I think I’ll see this through to the end, Special Agent Brightman. Besides, I think the biggest casualty in all of this is this blouse here.”

I looked down at the brown gravy stains, already set in the silk. Probably would be for all eternity, now.

It was really a shame. I had this outfit planned for weeks. Now I’d have to rummage through my closet for something else to wear.

“I can help you with that blouse, too,” he said, giving me a mischievous smile.

“I think I can handle it. Thanks for your concern,” I said. “But, you never know. I just might need some help later.”

I winked at him, and then took my apron off before climbing the staircase up to my bedroom.

My hand was still throbbing, but thanks to the ointment and bandage, the pain was starting to lessen.

I was thankful it wasn’t that bad of a burn. I knew from first-hand experience that a kitchen burn could put you out of commission for days. And that was something I just couldn’t afford when 17 people were depending on me for Thanksgiving dinner.

I opened my closet door and stood there for a moment, staring at the clothes hanging from the racks.

I hadn’t planned on having so many people over for Thanksgiving, but it had somehow snowballed this year into a massive guest list. Kara, my best friend, was coming, along with her boyfriend John and his elderly mother, Mrs. Billings. Warren, my grandfather, had invited his poker buddies and some of their wives. Daniel had invited a couple of the young deputies from the station who didn’t have any family here in Christmas River. And one of our cousins on Warren’s side, who I grew up calling Aunt Marie, was coming, the way she always did every Thanksgiving.

All of this meant that I had been slaving away in the kitchen for the past two days, preparing for the big feast.

I drummed my fingers against the edge of the closet, looking back and forth between a grey turtleneck and a V-neck black sweater.

I decided to go with the black sweater—perhaps a little more forgiving in case more gravy was spilled.

I pulled the sweater down from the hanger, untucked my blouse from my suede skirt, and traded them out for each other.

When I finished changing, I smoothed my dark brown hair down and stared at myself for a second in the mirror.

I was struck by one of those unexpected moments of joy that kept creeping up on me lately.

Of course, Daniel would also be at this year’s Thanksgiving meal.

Daniel. My soon-to-be husband.  

When he had proposed during the summer, I’d been hesitant, to say the least. I’d been married before, and the way that marriage had ended was a nightmare from hell. I didn’t think I would ever say “I Do” again.

But here I was, a month away from our wedding.

Happy as a clam.

I heard the chime of the doorbell ring throughout the house, and quickly adjusted my skirt before leaving the bedroom and heading downstairs.

I had a feeling that all the hard work I’d been putting into this meal would be worth it.

It had all the promises of being the best Thanksgiving ever.

Chapter 2

“I simply can’t have that, dear. Do you want my heart to give out right here in front of all your guests?”

At that moment, the answer was a resounding
yes
.

I wouldn’t have minded one bit if Mrs. Billings took a face plant in her Thanksgiving plate.

I repressed a frustrated sigh and shot a glance at Kara, who was silently shaking her head.

I had just been grilled by her boyfriend’s 89-year-old mother about the contents of the savory fig bacon goat cheese hazelnut pie I had made to accompany the rosemary turkey, gravy, ginger cranberry sauce, brown butter biscuits, cornbread stuffing and maple syrup glazed yams.

When I got to the butter content of the savory pie, her eyes narrowed behind her thick bifocals, and a disgusted look spread across her face.

“That’s just asking for trouble,” she said, eyeing the pie.

She reached across the table to the dish she brought to the meal, which had been mostly untouched by the rest of the guests. It was comprised of flabby, mud-colored green beans from a can and some ungodly mixture of cream of mushroom soup that made me gag just looking at it.

“The rest of you ought to follow my lead,” she said. “Grab yourself another helping of this scrumptious green bean casserole I made. Your heart will thank me for it.”

I suddenly realized why Kara had nearly broken up with John last summer on account of this woman. She was a handful, all right.

“Everyone’s allowed to make their own decision,” Kara said, giving Mrs. Billings a dirty look.

Mrs. Billings squinted back with a nasty expression.

“You mean
his
own decision, dear,” she said, glaring at Kara. “Or did they not teach you proper grammar in school?”

Kara’s face turned bright red and I knew that if Mrs. Billings didn’t mind her step, she’d be in more trouble than my buttery pie could ever give her.

John cleared his throat loudly.  

“What my mother means to say is that she’s on a diet,” he said, sheepishly. “She has to watch what she eats. She has a heart condition.”

Mrs. Billings had a heart condition all right—the doctors couldn’t find it.  

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, forcing myself to be a gracious host. “She’s right. This does have a lot of butter in it.”

John gave me a grateful nod.    

I skipped over Mrs. Billings and served Deputy Owen McHale a portion. Then I heaped a small slice of the piping hot pastry onto Warren’s dish, and started to move over to Aunt Marie.

Warren stopped me, holding up his plate.

“Build my gallows high, baby,” he said, winking at me.

I laughed and scooped another slice of pie onto his already very full plate.

Warren always had a special way of cutting through the BS.

And despite Mrs. Billings’ sour attitude, I couldn’t help but be pleased with the way the meal was going so far. The food looked and smelled phenomenal. The pumpkin beer, provided by Warren, was like fall in a bottle—the perfect blend of spices and warm pumpkin flavor. Thanks to Kara’s crafty ways, the table was decorated beautifully with candles and pumpkins and garlands of glittery fall leaves. Frank Sinatra’s classic, reassuring voice floated through the room. Save for Mrs. Billings, everyone was getting along great, and there was plenty of laughter erupting from all ends of the table as they shoved heaps of food into their mouths.

Just the way guests should at Thanksgiving.   

When I had finished serving the pie, I went into the kitchen and fixed up Huckleberry’s food bowl. He sat at my feet as I mixed it for him, wagging his little nub and whimpering softly with anticipation. A few dribbles of drool dropped from his chin.

I laughed.

“We’re almost there, Hucks,” I said.  

I cut some dark turkey meat into chunks, added it to his bowl, and poured some gravy over it. Within moments of placing it on the floor, he started devouring his Thanksgiving feast.  

I patted his soft head and then went back out to the dining room.

I finally took a seat at my chair. My feet were throbbing and just about every muscle in my body ached from preparing the meal.

“John’s mother over there is right, you know,” Daniel said under his breath.

He reached for the bowl of maple glazed yams, serving himself up a second helping.