Crushed in Christmas River

  Also by Meg Muldoon

  Christmas Cozy Mystery Novellas

  Caught in Christmas River

  Crushed in Christmas River

  Christmas Cozy Mystery Series

  Roasted in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery

  Cozy Matchmaker Mysteries

  Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery

  Crushed in Christmas River

  A Christmas River Cozy Mystery Novella

  Recipes included!

  by

  Meg Muldoon

  Published by Vacant Lot Publishing

  Copyright 2018© 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.

  The Meg Muldoon Collection

  The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Series

  Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

  Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

  Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 3)

  Malice in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 4)

  Mischief in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 5)

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

  Magic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 7)

  Menace in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 8)

  Missing in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 9)

  Meltdown in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 10)

  The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Novella Series

  Roasted in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 1)

  Caught in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 2)

  Crushed in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 3)

  The Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series

  Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 1)

  Busted in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 2)

  The Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series

  Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series (Book 1)

  Bulldogs & Bullets: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series (Book 2)

  The Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery Series

  The Silence of the Elves: A Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery Series

  The Broomfield Bay Mystery Series (with Jools Sinclair)

  Ginger of the West: A Witches of Broomfield Bay Mystery (Book 1)

  Crushed in Christmas River

  by Meg Muldoon

  Author’s Note: This story is told from the perspective of Cinnamon Peters’ best friend, Kara Billings.

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, no, no. No, you don’t. Don’t you dare come near me with that wig and those little wire frames.”

  Gertrude Baxter either didn’t hear me over the squeaking of her wheelchair as she rolled across the pine floorboards of my ornament shop, or she pretended not to. She stopped just short of the cash register where I had been poring over my quarterly business taxes. I’d been doing my best to wade through profits and losses for what had been an irritatingly sluggish quarter.

  Thank goodness it was July and this was Christmas River. Running an ornament shop in a town called Christmas River meant that you could make up for a slow year in a matter of months once the season of giving arrived.

  Gertrude's wheelchair let out a squeak so loud and unpleasant to the ears, it sent shivers down my spine.

  I leaned over, looking at the plaster cast on her leg.

  I’d heard about her accident — the way the whole town had heard within an hour of it happening. Small towns were like that, you know. Everybody in everybody’s business all the time. Knowing the news of a thing before any reporters or news anchors ever did. It was all cute and charming until you did something that maybe you weren’t exactly proud of. Then suddenly, living in a small town wasn’t cute and charming anymore.

  “That blasted dog,” Gertrude mumbled. “I told Benjy – any breed but a St. Bernard. They drool, they’re always leaking gas, and they shed too much. But Benjy’s got his head where the sun don’t shine ever since retiring, and he went out and got himself a St. Bernard anyway. And now I’m the one that’s gets to pay the price.”

  Gertrude gestured at the plaster cast.

  There really wasn’t anything funny about what happened to her, but I found myself stifling back a laugh anyway.

  I’d heard the story about a million times by now from everyone else: Gertrude had been in the middle of cooking a skillet of bacon when she’d stepped away from the stove for a moment. The Baxters’ new dog, Pancho, had been patiently waiting in the kitchen at Gertrude’s feet while she was cooking up the bacon, doing what any dog of his breed might do when faced with the prospect of juicy delicious pork fat.

  Gertrude was too preoccupied on her way back to the stove to notice the giant puddle of drool that had formed on the floor. She ended up stepping right in the middle of it, slipping, knocking over the pan of bacon, and doing a splits worthy of any gold medal winning gymnast. Then her right leg hit the kitchen island with such force, it broke in two different places.

  Gertrude lay there for an hour before a handyman working next door heard her wailing. The poor woman had been unable to get up and reach her phone to call for help.

  But at least she hadn’t been completely alone during the ordeal. Local gossip said that Pancho the dog had stuck by her side the whole time, just like a loyal canine should.

  That is – after he’d helped himself to the entire pan of bacon.

  “I was sorry to hear about your accident, Gertrude,” I said, taking my eyes off her cast and glancing back at my papers. “I can only imagine how much that hurt and what an inconvenience all this must be.”

  Gertrude was retired and she led a very active social life in Christmas River these days. She was the treasurer of the city beautification board, the organizer of the yearly Veterans’ Food Drive, and — perhaps most impacted by her recent accident — an avid ballroom dancer with her husband, Benjy.

  She also just so happened to be an actor in this year’s upcoming Christmas in July Play and Parade.

  Which was the main reason I wasn’t all that happy to see Gertrude come rolling into my ornament shop that morning.

  I mean, jeez. I wasn’t a fool. I saw that white-haired wig and matching wire-frame glasses peeking out of her purse the moment she appeared out on the sidewalk in front of the shop.

  And if she thought she was going to rope Ms. Kara Billings into playing Madame Claus in this year’s play and parade, kooky old Gertrude had another thing coming.

  Because I’d found myself in this exact situation a few years earlier. Only that time, it had been Moira Stewart coming to me with a bad hip, asking me to fill in for her as Mrs. Claus. I’d been naïve and foolish back then and I’d said yes. By the end of the event, my shop had burned down and I’d nearly lost the most important relationship of my life.

  Needless to say, I wanted nothing to do with the Christmas in July Play and Parade ever again.

  “I hate being in this chair,” Gertrude mum
bled, a sour expression coming across her face. “I’m just not a sit-still kind of person. Benjy and I were supposed to be in that big ballroom dance event at the end of the month, too. Isn’t that a shame?”

  “I’m not filling in for you as Mrs. Claus, Gertrude,” I said, cutting to the chase. “So unless you’re planning on buying an ornament, you might as well roll yourself out the way you came.”

  She pretended to be shocked by my bluntness.

  Then she let out a long sigh.

  “Look, sugar pie: I wouldn’t have come to you if it wasn’t an emergency. But we’re only a few days away from the Christmas in July Play and Parade. You know it’s the biggest tourist draw of the summer. But it ain’t going to happen if somebody doesn’t step up and play Mrs. Claus.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and it was clear who she meant by “somebody.”

  I closed my binder of taxes and looked over the counter at her.

  “I’m touched that you’d think of me. Really. But I’ve got my hands full this month. Laila’s got a dance recital next week, I’ve got the second book in my romance series to write, and the shop is hopping with tourists.”

  Gertrude looked around.

  “I don’t see any tourists,” she said.

  “Well, July just started, didn’t it?” I snapped. “They’ll be here soon enough. You’ll see.”

  Gertrude looked down at her cast for a long moment.

  “I knew this would be a tough sell,” she mumbled, laying the sad act on thicker than frozen peanut butter. “I just knew this would be a waste of my time. And here I wheeled myself all the way down here.”

  “Well, you could have called instead.”

  “You’re right, of course. I should have called.”

  She paused dramatically, and I suddenly felt sorry for Gertrude’s two children. They were adults with kids of their own by now, but it was obvious that their mother was a master manipulator when she wanted to be.

  She sat there, looking sad and frustrated and like she might wail and let loose a few tears.

  I drew in a deep breath.

  I pretended to be all tough and no-nonsense on the outside, but the truth was I had a heart somewhere deep down. And seeing Gertrude sitting there pouting and looking like a balloon leaking air tugged at heartstrings I wish I didn’t have.

  “I really just don’t have the time for the play,” I said, my protests sounding weaker with every passing second. “If you’d asked me two weeks ago, maybe I could have done it. But things are way too busy now…”

  I trailed off. She kept her head low and her eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Of course. I understand,” she mumbled. “I’m sure the other small business owners in this town will, too, when the number of tourists visiting their stores drops off because there’s no parade or play this year.”

  Gertrude wheeled slowly toward the front of the ornament shop, weaving her way through several rows of Christmas trees.

  “We all understand,” she mumbled in a barely audible voice. “The local children will, too, when their parents explain to them why there’s no parade this year. Why there’s no Santa and Mrs. Claus tossing candy at them like usual.”

  I scoffed.

  “Gertrude, that’s not fair. How is any of that my fault?”

  She wheeled around to face me.

  The grand actress had actually managed to shed a few tears.

  “I didn’t say it was,” she said. “But the fact remains, Kara: we can’t do the play or have the parade without Mrs. Claus. So if nobody steps up, the event is off.”

  She looked at the ground again.

  “Blasted dog,” she mumbled. “If only Benjy had listened to me.”

  A moment later, she was rolling around and heading toward the door.

  I watched as she struggled to prop it open and wheel out. A young man passed by outside on the sidewalk. He glanced over at Gertrude, who was struggling, but did nothing to help her. Instead, he opted to pull out his phone, stare at the screen, and walk on by like she wasn’t even there.

  People today. Sheesh.

  In her flailing attempts to back up the wheelchair, Gertrude knocked over her purse. The wig and wire frames went sliding across the floor of the shop.

  I already knew by the time I got over there and picked them up that I wouldn’t be handing them back to her.

  I was a damn sucker.

  Chapter 2

  “Blasted heat wave!” I shouted, taking a seat on the barstool and kicking off my stupid clunky heels that were no better than blocks of concrete attached to my legs. “Why does there always have to be a heat wave before this stupid event?!”

  There was a hint of a smile on Cin’s lips as she watched me.

  “I can’t believe you got roped into doing this again,” Cin said, pouring a big bowl of bright red cherry filling into several prepared pie crusts. “Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

  I ripped off the curly white wig, my scalp breathing a sigh of relief as I did. I dropped it on the counter and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

  “Of course I remember what happened last time,” I grumbled, unbuttoning the top of the hot velveteen vest that made the blouse under it stick to my skin like I was made of honey. “But Gertrude made it seem like if I didn’t step up, the event would be off this year and then every local store owner in town would hate me forever for ruining their tourist season.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cin said, picking up the big pan of pies and heading over to the ovens with them. “I mean, the parade and play are a nice draw, but those tourists will be in town with or without the event going on. I doubt it’d really make a big difference for local business owners if it got cancelled.”

  My cheeks darkened.

  I loved my best friend dearly. But that was the wrong thing to say to me in that moment.

  She turned around, dusting her hands off on her red gingham apron, noticing my expression.

  “I mean… that came out all wrong,” she stammered. “What I meant to say was that the Christmas in July Parade and Play is very important to this town.”

  She smiled sheepishly.

  “Some might call it an institution,” she added.

  I let out a sigh, feeling more dejected than angry.

  Cin was right – how had I gotten roped into this nonsense again?

  Why had I believed Gertrude?

  It was the second morning of two-a-day rehearsals for the play, and I was badly regretting that I hadn’t stuck to my guns with Gertrude earlier that week. The director and playwright was a woman named Doreen Hamlin – a local theater teacher who at first blush seemed perfectly nice and reasonable. She thanked me for stepping in at the last minute and seemed deeply grateful. But the second the rehearsals got underway, she’d become a bulldog. She barked out orders and treated us all like we were professional actors who didn’t have jobs or lives outside of the production. She also required us to be in costume during every rehearsal so that we could “get a sense of our characters.”

  When my phone let out a ring during a scene, she’d given me a stern, disapproving look. Then she’d told me that cell phones were strictly prohibited and that if I hadn’t been new to the production, she would have ripped it from my hands and dropped it into her mug of hot coffee without a second thought.

  The whole thing was a nightmare, and I wasn’t even talking about having to memorize all those lengthy, ridiculous lines, either.

  About the only good thing in all of it were my fellow actors. Well, one fellow actor in particular, if I was being honest. Riley Dugan – a firefighter with the Christmas River Fire Department, was playing Eddie Claus – Santa and Mrs. Claus’s son. And let’s just say that Riley was the kind of guy who would have made a perfect main character for one of my romance novels. He had dark puppy dog eyes that you could swim in for days and jet black hair and a smile that lit up a room. Not to mention fireman muscles that would make any warm-blooded girl want to pull th
e fire alarm and feign a fainting incident.

  Of course, I didn’t seriously think of Riley in any romantic terms. I was a married woman and over a decade older than Riley, anyway.

  I was suddenly brought back to the room by the smell of lemony sugar.

  I glanced down at the plate that Cin had just slid in front of me.

  A creamy, pale yellow slice of Lemon Gingersnap Pie – my very, very favorite flavor – sat there along with a big glass of Marionberry iced tea.

  Cin might not have always known the right thing to say when I was in one of my stormy moods – but she did always know the right thing to do.

  I dug into the pastry, feeling the hotness in my cheeks fade with the cool pie and icy drink.

  “I’m a dang fool, aren’t I, Cin?”

  “Not a fool. Just someone who cares about this town and the people in it. There’s a difference.”

  She smiled at me, and I had to admit that it made me feel a little better.

  “Just keep in mind, Kara – by this time next week, this will all be over. And you can get back to making your beautiful ornaments and forget all about the play and parade.”

  I nodded, inhaling another bite of pie.

  Though I never shared my thought on the subject with her, sometimes I believed Cin had magic powers when it came to baking. I’d seen a movie once about a magical cook in Mexico whose emotions and feelings ended up going into her dishes. If she was sad while cooking, the people who ate her food ended up crying at the end of the meal. If she was happy, they’d be filled with such joy, they could hardly contain themselves.

  Cin’s pies were magical like that too. I couldn’t remember ever having had a slice of the Lemon Gingersnap and not feeling better afterwards. It always worked to calm me and made me feel more grounded and centered.