Midnight in Christmas River

  Midnight in Christmas River

  A Christmas Cozy Mystery

  With recipes!

  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)

  Midnight in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 11)

  Mistake in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 12)

  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 (Book 1)

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

  The Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery Series

  The Silence of the Elves: A Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

  The Broomfield Bay Mystery Series (with Jools Sinclair)

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

  Acknowledgement

  Thanks so much to my readers, and in particular, to those of you who have joined my Cozy Lodge Club. You guys have been absolutely amazing and I can’t express how much I appreciate your encouragement and support! This book would not have existed without your invaluable motivation.

  I would like to especially thank Phyllis May, Cheryl Shoup, Helen Edwards, Amanda C., Chip Capelli, Carol Schmidt, and Mindy Kelly. I’m so grateful for your generosity, kindness, and enthusiasm for Christmas River! Additionally, a huge thanks to Cassandra and Wendy!

  With love and gratitude, Meg.

  Midnight in Christmas River

  by Meg Muldoon

  PROLOGUE

  A Note to My Readers

  Since I started writing cozy mysteries six years ago, I’ve learned that most books take months upon months of work to get right. But other times, when inspiration strikes, some books unfold just as easily as a favorite cozy sweater on a chilly October day.

  I had only planned on releasing one Christmas River Cozy Mystery this year (Mistake in Christmas River), but then as if by some sort of magic, the mystery you’re about to read unpacked itself in less than a month, and I knew I had no choice but to release it as a full-length installment in the series.

  This means that I’ve done a little rearranging in the series order. This book — Midnight in Christmas River — is now Book 11, and the following one — Mistake in Christmas River (which is coming out this holiday season) is going to be Book 12.

  The book that you’re now reading is a standalone novel and does not take place chronologically in the series. I view it as a sort of light-hearted, enjoyable intermission before we get to the much more intense mystery featured in Mistake in Christmas River. If you’re waiting on some plot points from the last book to be addressed, you can rest assured that they will be in Mistake in Christmas River! Meanwhile, this installment is all about fun mystery, good pie, and autumn chills.

  And speaking of that, just as a minor warning: this book contains a few spooky elements that could potentially be frightening for some readers. It is still very much a cozy mystery and there is nothing gory or offensive in this story, but just in case you’re prone to getting scared I wanted to give you a heads-up! I love a good spooky story this time of the year, and if you do, too, then I think you’ll really love this new mystery.

  Thank you so much, readers! I hope you enjoy this latest chapter in Cinnamon’s story!! Look for Mistake in Christmas River (Book 12) coming later this fall!

  Sincerely,

  Meg Muldoon

  Chapter 1

  “When it was over, there was nothing but bones and ash and lost memories at the bottom of Moss Head Lake.”

  Ashcroft Black gazed up from the podium, scanning over the faces of his transfixed audience. He let the pause drag out into a long silence, his troubled eyes probing the people sitting in the front row as if he was searching their very souls.

  When he spoke again, he was no longer reading off of the hardback book on the podium, knowing the next few words by heart.

  “And in the end, there was nothing to remind anyone of lovely Lorna Larimer but the old locket hanging from the gnarled branch of the maple tree, swinging in the ragged October wind.”

  The room fell under a silence so deep, the faint sound of Meadow Plaza’s clock chiming on the other side of downtown could be heard.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up on end, and goosebumps ran roughshod over my skin as the hush dragged on like a dead body.

  For a moment, I could have sworn that besides the chimes of the clock, I heard something else: the lonesome sobs of poor Lorna Larimer herself echoing down the aisles of the small bookstore. Crying over her lost love. Over her unlived life. Over the cruel brutality of her death. Over—

  “Thwack!”

  Ashcroft Black slammed the book in front of him shut like he was swatting a blood-sucking mosquito.

  I let out a gasp, my feet lifting off the ground. When my heart finally started beating again, I glanced around, worried that someone had seen me go into orbit.

  Nervous, startled laughter echoed throughout the room, and I gathered I wasn’t the only one who’d found themselves airborne following Ashcroft Black’s dramatic ending to the reading.

  Clapping boomed throughout the bookstore. A flood of hoots and hollers from the sizeable audience followed.

  “Oh, what an absolute master of the genre.” Mavis Needleman’s voice rose over the deafening applause. “The Prince of Horror, ladies and gentlemen! The Prince of Horror!”

  People stood up from their chairs and the applause thundered throughout the small store. Ashcroft Black nodded in acknowledgement, but his bearded face remained unchanged and stoic. His sharp gray eyes were about as friendly as a stone wall.

  “The latest entry in the Sheriff Lane Graves series is called The Lady in the Glass,” Mavis said, holding up the book Ashcrof
t had been reading from for everyone to see. “Hot off the presses, it’s available for $24.99 here at The Holly Avenue Bookstore. The other five titles in the series are also available for purchase in either hardback or paperback form. Just come on down to the cash register and buy the whole lot. I promise — you’ll be glad you did.”

  Mavis, the middle-aged owner of the bookstore, wiped at a bead of sweat trickling down the side of her face as she spoke.

  Maybe it was all the people who had turned out to see Ashcroft Black that had caused the temperature to soar, or maybe Mavis had turned the heater up to counteract the chilly weather outside. But either way, the place felt like a greenhouse and I’d found myself tugging at my black cowl neck sweater several times throughout the reading.

  “Mr. Black will now sign copies of his latest book in the back by the refreshments table,” Mavis continued, nodding in my direction. “But he only has fifteen minutes before he has to leave, so please be considerate of your fellow readers and don’t take up too much of his time.”

  At that, people shot up out of their metal chairs and headed for the designated table, elbowing their way for a good spot in line.

  Mavis shook Ashcroft’s hand as if he was a conquering hero returned home.

  “Mr. Black, thank you so much for visiting The Holly Avenue Bookstore. We rarely get visits from royalty here in Christmas River. It’s been a true honor.”

  The Prince of Horror — as he was known in the literary world — said nothing in response to that, and I wasn’t even sure if he heard her. He just clutched the silver handle of his cane, his steel eyes settling on the long line forming at the signing table.

  When Mavis had called me a month earlier, asking if I could supply pies and treats for the Ashcroft Black book signing in mid-October, I’d expected that it would be a lot of work. Like she’d just said — Christmas River didn’t see authors of Ashcroft Black’s status very often, and I knew the event would draw people from all over Central Oregon.

  But it seemed that I had only been half right. Yes — it was crowded. But I’d hardly had to lift a finger the whole time. Apparently, the book lovers who had flooded Mavis’s shop that afternoon weren’t hungry for Pumpkin Gingersnap bars or Sour Cream Apple turnovers or even cider — they were hungry for Ashcroft Black’s macabre books. And more than that, they were salivating over a scribble of his pen and a chance to speak with him.

  I leaned against the back wall, watching in amusement as the line formed and several people near the front jostled for pole position. Then I eyed the untouched plate of Sour Cream Apple turnovers on the refreshment table in front of me.

  The sugary turnovers had been whispering sweet nothings to me the entire reading, tempting me with their fall-steeped flavor and rich creaminess. Beckoning me into a blissful calorie trap that more or less would cancel out all the effort I’d put into my fast trail walk with the pooches earlier that morning.

  My stomach let out a low grumble.

  And then another.

  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I reached forward, grabbed the biggest turnover, and unceremoniously stuffed it into my mouth.

  The treats delivered everything they promised and more. Luscious, decadent, and oh-so-flavorful, I was already contemplating a second one the moment I bit into it—

  “May I have one of those?”

  I looked up mid-chew to see the imposing frame of Ashcroft Black standing there in front of the refreshment table.

  “Oh, of…”

  I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  There was so much pastry in my mouth, my voice came out like my lungs were made of cotton candy.

  Reindeers in Rhode Island. I must have looked like a squirrel packing away nuts for winter. Which would have been embarrassing if it had been my grandfather standing there, let alone a New York Times best-selling author.

  I smiled sheepishly, trying to chew and swallow so I could speak.

  “Of course,” I finally managed to spit out — spit being the operative word.

  By then it was too late — I could tell by the distant, judgmental expression in those steel eyes of his that I’d lost all respectability.

  The horror author stared at me for a long minute. Then, without another word, he reached for a turnover, placed it delicately on a napkin, and moved over to the table where the long line of readers waited for him.

  Leaving me to finish chewing the rest of my own turnover, which in truth, tasted a little less delicious when you were dying a slow, painful death by embarrassment.

  Chapter 2

  I washed the treat down with a small cup of cider, decided to forgo a second turnover, and watched as Ashcroft Black took a seat and began signing books. People in line stood on their tiptoes, craning their necks and speaking in nervous anticipation as they waited to meet the esteemed author.

  I wasn’t much for horror novels, and though I’d heard of Ashcroft Black — you’d have to be living under a rock to not have — I’d never read any of his books. However, after hearing him read the excerpt from his latest novel just now, I wondered if I hadn’t been missing out all this time. It was clear that the man had a way with words and a flair for drama. I’d heard him billed as the next Stephen King, and after listening to him read today, I now saw why.

  “Marvelous, isn’t he?”

  Mavis came up to my elbow, following my gaze.

  “He’s something, alright,” I said, rubbing my arms. “I nearly jumped out of my skin when he slammed the book shut.”

  Mavis smiled, tugging absentmindedly at her earrings, which were small resin pendants of the book cover for “Crime & Punishment.”

  Mavis had a quirky, no-holds-barred librarian style like that. She wore crazy printed skirts and cardigans that often involved cats or books or goats wearing glasses. In a town where most people kept to a flannel uniform, Mavis’s fashion choices garnered a lot of attention.

  It was something I appreciated about her. Small towns needed people who marched to the beat of their own drum as much as anywhere else did.

  “I’ve seen YouTube videos of Ashcroft before, so I knew that he usually ends his readings by slamming the book like that,” she said. “The whole time, I knew that it was coming. But I have to admit — I jumped along with everybody else in the audience when he did it.”

  Her ruby-stained lips spread into a funny little smile, and I let out a laugh.

  “I guess that’s why they call him the Prince of Horror,” she added.

  Though Mavis had owned the Holly Avenue Bookstore for two decades now, I didn’t know her all that well. I supposed running a pie shop meant that I didn’t have much time for reading, and I hardly ever got a chance to visit her cozy little bookstore. But being here now, I could see why the store had developed such a loyal following and managed to stay afloat in the wake of big online retailers killing the independent bookseller industry. The Holly Avenue Bookstore might not have had the selection or low prices of an Amazon, but it did have plenty of charm. The space was warm, decorated with strands of Edison light bulbs and peppered with big, comfy furniture. There was even a small coffee bar at the back of the store where readers were welcome to pour themselves big mugs of quality joe for free as they read and decided which books they wanted to buy.

  It was that generous, warm spirit that had kept Mavis in business all of these years here in Christmas River. And I imagined it had something to do with the reason why Ashcroft Black decided to hold a reading at the Holly Avenue Bookstore in the first place. It was a widely known fact that he rarely did public readings outside of his official book tours, let alone readings in towns this small.

  Of course, there were also rumors that Ashcroft was taking up residence here in Christmas River for the fall to work on his next book, which may have accounted for why he decided to hold a reading here.

  “I feel as though I must apologize, Cinnamon,” Mavis said, watching as Betty Sunderly — the president of the Ladies of Christmas River Bo
ok Club — crossed her arms and let out a loud “Ahem!” when the man in front of her continued to carry on a conversation with Ashcroft. “I hope I didn’t waste your time. You made all of these delicious treats but it looks like everyone’s too busy trying to get their moment with a New York Times best-selling author to notice.”

  I shrugged.

  I supposed it was a testament to the kind of frenzy that Ashcroft could stir up when he was more popular than apple and pumpkin sweets.

  “I’m sure they’ll make their way over here once they get their books signed,” I said, watching as Betty nudged the talkative man in front of her out of the way to get to Ashcroft.

  “Well, regardless, thank you so much for helping with this, Cinnamon,” Mavis said.

  She rummaged around in the pocket of her cat-with-glasses printed skirt and fished out a folded check. Then she reached across to a nearby shelf and grabbed a book. She handed both to me.

  “Here’s the amount we agreed on. And I’d also like you to have a copy of Mr. Black’s latest novel. On the house.”

  The check I gladly took, but I hesitated before grabbing the book.

  “Uh, you know… I appreciate that, but I think I’m okay,” I said. “Don’t tell anybody here, but I don’t really like horror novels.”

  Mavis smiled, seemingly unfazed.

  “Oh, neither did I until I started reading these, hon,” she said, shoving the book into my hands. “But just trust me. This isn’t your typical horror series.”

  It seemed as though I had no choice.

  I took the hardback, glancing down at the abstract cover — a row of bare maple trees illuminated by a swollen orange moon.