Hounded in Christmas River Read online

  Daniel was sitting at the cedar picnic table on the back deck of our house, finishing up a late dinner. Meanwhile, I was sitting nearby on the porch steps, a needle and thread in my hands. Out in the distance, the pooches meandered through the backyard meadow, exploring the golden grasses to their heart’s content.

  It was past 7:30 p.m., but because it was August and because we were here in Central Oregon, the sun was still shining orange in the sky and there was plenty of light. A warm breeze rustled through the tall grasses, and as with most summer nights out here in the meadow, the frogs were warming up for their evening symphony. I had an old John Hiatt record playing from the speaker inside, and the sound of his acoustic guitar intermingling with the frog ribbits made for a lovely late summer soundtrack.

  It was the picture of contentment out here, made all the nicer by the fact that I was getting to enjoy it with my husband. Between our busy work schedules, we hadn’t been able to spend an evening like this together in weeks.

  “I told Aubrey she should go in and make an official report,” I said, glancing back at him. “I even offered to drive her down to the sheriff’s station. But she said she had her schedule completely booked with the Pooch Parade preparations today. Things that couldn’t be cancelled with the event so soon, she said. But she promised she’d be there at the station first thing tomorrow morning to make a report about the stalker.”

  That didn’t seem to ease Daniel’s mind much. I could still see the concern in his eyes as he sat there, looking off into the hazy glow smudging the mountains in the distance.

  Of course, we were all probably jumping the gun a little by using the word “stalker” like that. Aubrey herself wasn’t even sure if she was really being stalked, or if she was overreacting to a series of strange incidents.

  Daniel reached across the picnic table for another slice of the tomato basil tart I’d made for dinner. He’d already had a healthy serving of the tart and another one to boot. But it seemed that the sheriff had lost all self-control when it came to the summer-steeped flavors of juicy roasted heirloom tomatoes and fresh home-grown basil bubbling in a buttery cornmeal-dusted crust.

  I couldn’t blame him on that score. I’d had a couple of slices too many myself, and I had the unhappy rumbling stomach to prove it.

  Daniel took a bite from the new slice, looking deep in thought and falling silent. I focused my attention back on the project that had consumed my life for the past month or so, grabbing the needle and pushing it through the thick suede fabric several times before tying a knot in the thread.

  I wasn’t much of a seamstress – in fact, when it came to something as simple as a cross stitch, I always somehow found a way to make it harder than rocket science. But we’d already received plenty of sponsorship dollar pledges for Huckleberry’s and Chadwick’s participation in the Labor Day Pooch Parade – which was being operated just like a fun run except instead of folks sponsoring runners in the event, they were sponsoring the dogs. And with all that money at stake for the Humane Society, I couldn’t let some clumsy needlework get in the way.

  Still, lately I’d been feeling as though I may have bitten off more than I could chew with this pet parade business. I wondered if I should have just gone down to the PetSmart in Redmond and found some run-of-the-mill costumes instead.

  “So tell me again what Aubrey said,” Daniel said, breaking his silence. “Everything about those mystery phone calls and that Pooch Brew controversy.”

  I set my sewing project down – glad to have an excuse to let my fingers rest.

  “Well, a couple weeks ago, Aubrey wrote one of her editorials for the newspaper. It was about Redfield Brewing’s new Pooch Vitamin Brew product. You know the drink they make from the brewery’s spent grain for dogs?”

  The brewery, which was run by a man named Connor Redfield, was more about product marketing and flash than it was about quality beer. Nonetheless, tourists flocked to the small brewpub on the east side of downtown. The brewery had a comprehensive behind-the-scenes tour, and because of their slick marketing and product design, they did fairly well when it came to selling merchandise. It wasn’t unusual to see tourists during the summer, fresh off of a tour and walking the streets of downtown wearing the brewery’s hallmark red and white baseball caps.

  Recently, the brewery had released a new product – one that was meant to appeal to the dog lovers who visited here. The product was billed as vitamin water for canines made from the brewery’s spent grain, and it came in a fancy can that was especially geared to portability for hiking. The brewery claimed the drink not only provided unparalleled energy for pooches, but also said it had 21 different vitamins dogs needed for a long and healthy life.

  It sounded like the perfect product.

  But not everyone had been swept up in the Pooch Vitamin Brew fever. Namely, Aubrey Berg.

  “Did you end up reading her editorial?” Daniel asked, finishing off the last bite of tart.

  “I looked it up on the Register’s website after she left my pie shop,” I said. “Aubrey sure didn’t pull any punches – she wrote that the Pooch Vitamin Brew was basically the equivalent of sugary cereal for dogs and that it offers none of the supposed benefits that Redfield Brewing claims. She said the only reason the brewery’s getting away with such blatant lies is because food regulations are looser for dogs than humans. And she also said that in her opinion, anybody who bought Connor Redfield’s product and gave it to their dog for an extended period of time was putting their dog’s health in jeopardy.”

  “So it was shortly after the editorial ran that Aubrey began receiving the mysterious calls at the Humane Society?” Daniel asked.

  I nodded.

  “Apparently, the calls come in on her work phone. Always early in the morning or late at night. When she answers, there’s nothing but silence on the other end. At first she thought they were prank calls. But this has been going on for two weeks now. And she said she’s alarmed.”

  I let out a sigh.

  “Especially after the call yesterday.”

  “And tell me again about that call,” Daniel said, looking at me.

  “Well, Aubrey said yesterday morning’s call was different. After the usual silence on the other side of the line, a man’s voice finally came on. She didn’t recognize it, but she said it sounded deep and threatening. All it said was ‘If you keep on, you’re gonna get hurt, Aubrey.’”

  Daniel shook his head slightly, letting out a long breath.

  “I just don’t like the sound of that,” he said.

  I didn’t either when Aubrey had told me about it. In fact, her description had caused my skin to break out in goosebumps. It made me think of an old movie I’d seen once about a serial killer who liked to harass his soon-to-be victims by phone.

  “Well, whoever’s behind the calls, maybe they’re just trying to scare her,” I said. “Maybe there’s nothing else to it than that.”

  “Could be,” Daniel said. “But then again, maybe there is more to it than that.”

  Those words lingered for a long moment, and even though the lazy glow of the evening sun had left the deck warm and toasty, I felt a hard chill pass through me.

  If I was in Aubrey’s shoes, I’d be worried by those phone calls, too. It had to be scary having someone angry with you and not knowing what they were capable of.

  The sun slipped behind the mountains in the distance, and the meadow abruptly fell into blue shadows.

  I rubbed my arms. Daniel stood up, pushing the full bottle of Apricot Ale aside.

  “Do you think Aubrey’s still at the Humane Society?” he asked.

  “She said she had a meeting out in Redmond with some parade sponsors this evening,” I said.

  Daniel nodded, a sudden yet familiar look of determination in his eyes. He reached for his cowboy hat on the table, pulled it down over his forehead, and started making motions to head inside the house.

  “We need to get her statement on the record as soon as possible.
Time is important in these kinds of cases.”

  He was about to open the sliding glass door when I jumped up, making a beeline for it. Before his hand could reach the handle, I had wedged myself between him and it.

  “Wait,” I said.

  He tilted his head back and gave me a surprised look.

  “I didn’t take you for being a lawbreaker, Mrs. Brightman.”

  “And just how am I breaking the law, Sheriff?”

  “This here could be construed as obstruction – getting between a lawman and his duties.”

  I rested my arms on his shoulders and gazed up into his eyes.

  “And what you just did there?” he said, touching my arms lightly. “A stricter lawman might consider that assault.”

  I smiled, pushing his hat back some on his head.

  “Well if it eases your conscience, go ahead and arrest me, Sheriff. But the sun’s going down and you’ve been working double shifts for the past week. And I don’t see why you can’t get Deputy Billy Jasper to track Aubrey down and take her statement instead. He’s on duty tonight, isn’t he?”

  Daniel paused, then nodded.

  “I think I make a good point,” I continued. “Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s been working hard these past couple of weeks, Sheriff. I’ve been sewing dog costumes from sun-up to sun-down and damn near bleeding out from pricking my fingers so much with those blasted needles.”

  Daniel smiled, reaching for one of my hands and looking at it in the dimming light.

  There were Band Aids on three out of five fingers – a testament to my bull-in-a-china shop seamstress skills.

  He brought my fingers up to his lips, kissing each one gently, his green eyes resting on mine.

  I felt a round of goosebumps break out across my skin – the very best kind.

  “That any better?” he whispered.

  “Only thing that helps.”

  He smiled, letting my hand go. Then that serious business expression drifted back across his face. He pulled his hat down over his forehead again and started reaching for the door handle. He began moving past me like I was chopped liver and a juicy filet mignon was waiting beyond me inside the house.

  “Where in the heck are you going?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Daniel Brightman!?”

  I was about to blow my top like Mount St. Helens.

  Then, suddenly, he turned and pulled me to him, planting a fiery kiss on my lips that just about knocked me all the way back to Sparks Lake with its intensity.

  He let go after a few moments, leaving me with stars circling my head.

  He smiled.

  “I was just going to get my phone and call Billy – that’s all,” he said. “Ask him to track down Aubrey. And after I hang up with him, I’m coming back to take you into custody, Mrs. Brightman. Can’t have lawbreakers like you roaming Christmas River, now can we?”

  A second later, he stepped inside, closing the sliding glass door behind him.

  All I could see was my reflection and a ridiculous, elated grin spreading across my face.

  Even after all these years together, Daniel Brightman still knew exactly how to sweep me off my feet.

  Chapter 5

  I was whisking.

  I was stirring.

  I was rolling.

  I was mixing.

  I was sweating.

  To put it in a phrase that my best friend Kara used – often with a mischievous twinkle in her eye – I was working my buns off.

  But even with all that, and even with Tiana helping me in the kitchen, it wasn’t enough.

  “We’re running low on the Peach Vanilla Cookie Swirl pies, Cin,” Tobias said, peeking his head back in the kitchen. “And folks are fighting over the marionberry like the last life raft on the Titanic. We’re going to be all out of that flavor within the next five minutes.”

  I felt my eyes grow wide as I looked over at Tobias.

  “Wait – we’ve almost sold out of ALL of the Marionberry?”

  Tobias nodded without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Well… I’ll be a… a… a pickled Turducken,” I mumbled in disbelief – the absurd phrase the only thing I could come up with to describe the shocking situation.

  With it being a local specialty, Marionberry was always our most popular flavor in August, which meant that I always made sure to have an ample supply on hand. Anticipating a busy day at the shop today, I’d made three times as many pies as I usually did to prepare for the tourist onslaught.

  But I supposed that I had underestimated just what that onslaught would look like.

  “Well, I guess there’s nothing left to do but to make some more,” I finally said. “Thanks for letting us know, Toby—”

  “Excuse me, sir? Sir!?”

  A nasally, whiny shout echoed from the dining room.

  “I’ve been waiting in line for half an hour already, and when I finally get to the front, you turn your back and ignore me!” the man’s voice echoed. “What kind of establishment is this? The guidebook said it was a gem in the mountains, but this is more like a bad day at Disneyland!”

  Tobias – ever sweet-natured despite the ornery tourists – wiped at his brow and nodded at me.

  “I best get back, miss.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Tobias. And don’t take any nonsense from anybody up there, okay?”

  He nodded before disappearing behind the swinging door.

  I glanced at Tiana. She was in the middle of a crucial moment while stirring a batch of soon-to-be creamy lemon curd. Meanwhile, Ian was taking a quick five minute break on the back porch, talking to his mom long distance in Scotland.

  So that meant it was up to me to go and help alleviate the tourist bombardment.

  I drew in a deep breath and followed Tobias out into the dining room, which was more packed than a tin of sardines.

  Noticing that the coffee pot at the station in the corner was empty, I went over and made up another batch of brew. As it sputtered, I assisted Tobias, doling out several slices of Mountain Cherry, Strawberry Lemonade, and the remaining Marionberry Pie to a family that looked like they’d all gone on a rafting tour down the Christmas River and forgotten to wear any sunscreen. After helping a series of elderly ladies who were carrying bags from the nearby quilting store, I saw that the coffee was ready to serve. I grabbed the pot and began walking around the room, filling up half-empty mugs with the fresh hazelnut brew and asking folks how the pie was.

  Despite the long wait time, the majority of the tourists seemed to be in good spirits, perhaps on account of the nice weather. Temperatures had been mild the last week, and the first whispers of fall could be felt in the cool of the evening air. The wildfires, typical of Central Oregon in late summer, had been fewer than usual, meaning the skies were clear blue. I felt lucky for it all – sometimes in August, when temperatures flared and the wildfires muddied the skies with smoke, customers lost it. They often became criminally short on patience as they stumbled into the pie shop, sweat dripping down their sun-burned faces.

  I was glad to not have to deal with that kind of familiar scenario today.

  I stopped at a table of middle-aged women, noticing that their ceramic diner mugs were looking dangerously low on coffee. I refilled the mugs with fresh brew.

  “Oh, thank you!” they all said practically in unison.

  I smiled.

  “You ladies having a nice time visiting Christmas River?” I asked.

  Maybe it was presumptuous of me, but it was easy to see that the four of them were from out of town. The first giveaway was that I didn’t recognize them – I recognized most people in Christmas River or at least had a passing knowledge of what family they were from. Additionally, the ladies were all wearing clothes that were this side of wrinkled – as if the items had been folded up in suitcases not too long ago. And finally, the big tip-off that they were tourists came in the form of the brand new Redfield Brewing Co. bucket hats they were all wearing. I co
uld even see the marks on the hats where the price stickers had just been, now collecting errant lint and particles.

  “Oh, yes,” one of the ladies with cat-eye glasses said, nodding. “It’s been a fabulous visit so far. We’ve done so much already, and we’ve only been here a day.”

  The others nodded together in agreement.

  If they didn’t look so different, I would have thought they were all sisters.

  “I take it you gals just came from Redfield Brewing Co.,” I said.

  One of them with faded auburn hair dropped her mouth in disbelief after I said that.

  “Now how did you know…” she started saying.

  “Because, Helen,” the one in the cat eye glasses said between gritted teeth, tugging at the hat on her head. “We’re all wearing the hats.”

  The woman who was Helen looked down sheepishly when she realized.

  “Oh, of course,” she mumbled, picking at the slice of Lemon Gingersnap pie on her plate. “I feel foolish. For a minute I thought you might have been a psychic.”

  I smiled good-naturedly.

  “It’s probably just the altitude getting to you,” I said, trying to make her feel better. “Lots of folks come to Christmas River and start feeling a little off being so high up in the mountains here. Heck, some of the locals still aren’t quite right. Half the population here believes we’re neighbors with Sasquatch.”

  I grinned big and they all laughed heartily at my joke.

  I was glad to see Helen join in, too.

  “So what’d you ladies think about Redfield Brewing?” I asked.

  “Oh, it was marvelous,” said one of the gals who hadn’t spoken yet. “The brewmaster himself showed us around. We’re going to go back to the restaurant for lunch this weekend.”

  “Yes, yes,” the woman with the cat eye-glasses said. “The brewery tour was thoroughly enjoyable. I must say, there were so many samples that I got a little tipsy. I think I still have a buzz!”