Menace in Christmas River (Christmas River 8) (2 page)

“Oh, thank you,” she said, smiling a taut smile. “But I’m not actually here for pie or coffee.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise as she stepped farther into the space, her uncomfortable-looking heels hitting the kitchen’s new tile floor with purpose.

“You see, my name is Holly Smith,” she said, walking toward me with an outstretched hand. “I’m Julie Van Dorn’s assistant. She’s the public relations director and events coordinator for the Chocolate Championship Showdown.”

I felt my stomach tighten slightly.

“Sure,” I said. “I know Julie.”

I looked down at my chocolate-covered hands, and then held them out in a sheepish kind of way so she wouldn’t think that I was being rude by not shaking hands.

“I’m sorry – you’ve caught me at a… uh… well, at a messy moment.”

A big smile lit up her face.

“That’s perfectly okay,” she said, lowering her outstretched hand.

Her eyes drifted over to the pile of chocolate that a few moments earlier had been a half-completed chocolate cupid.

“I understand,” she added.  

I wondered if she could tell that I was in over my head, too.

“How, uh, how can I help you, Ms. Smith?” I asked.

“Well, Julie Van Dorn sent me to ask you to attend the Chocolate Championship Showdown Committee’s meeting tonight,” she said.

“Me?” I said, having trouble concealing my surprise. “Uh… was something wrong with my application?”

The application to enter the Chocolate Championship had been about three times as long as the Gingerbread Junction’s usual entry form. It had required not only a written essay, but a resume as well with references. Part of the reason that the application was so intensive was because the competition was a very established and well-known event in the professional culinary world. Each year, the chocolate artistry affair was held at a different location on the West Coast, favoring big cities as well as small towns. Somehow, someone on the committee had caught wind of little ol’ charming Christmas River, and our quaint town had been notified last year that it had been selected to host the event.

In the year since, the local culinary institute, which had been in the process of constructing a new, state-of-the-art auditorium, completed the building and the Chocolate Championship Showdown would be the first large-scale event to take place there.

The top prize for the championship matched the application process: it was epic. The winner would receive $5000, two plane tickets to Paris, and would have their chocolate artistry featured in a popular regional food and travel magazine.

It was just about as high-stakes as a culinary competition could get.

“I’m not at liberty to tell you why the committee wants to see you, Ms. Peters,” the young woman said. “But the committee would be very grateful if you could attend tonight’s meeting. It’s going to be held in a conference room at the Lone Pine Resort.”

“The Lone Pine Resort?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise, yet again. “Tonight?”

She nodded.

The resort was a twenty minutes’ drive from downtown Christmas River, and was nestled up in the mountains not far from some of the Cascades’ best skiing spots. It was practically brand new, having only been built last year. And while I hadn’t been up to see it myself, I did know that it cost an arm and a leg to stay there, and that folks in Christmas River were divided over its presence. Some thought it could only bring good things to our little economy, while others believed having a resort that upscale only brought in more wealthy, arrogant, and obnoxious tourists.

But since I hadn’t seen the place for myself, I hadn’t decided one way or another about it.

I searched Holly Smith’s bright and earnest blue eyes for a hint as to what she knew, but they betrayed nothing.

“Well, I won’t lie to you,” I said. “I’m not particularly keen on driving up there at night without knowing why I’m going in the first—”

“I can drive you if that’s the issue, Ms. Peters,” she said, interrupting me.

It wasn’t the only issue. The other part had to do with the fact that I’d be losing valuable time, and that wasn’t something I could afford if I was going to save any face at this weekend’s competition.

But I couldn’t deny that something about her persistence intrigued me.

“The meeting starts in an hour and will be held in the Holiday Brook Room of the resort,” she said.

There was a sudden bossiness in her tone that I didn’t much care for it.

But then, as if realizing she had overstepped a line, she cleared her throat and shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sometimes I can be a little rude when I’m under pressure like this.”

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Ms. Peters, my mother always told me that when opportunity knocks, don’t leave it waiting long. Do you understand what I mean by that?”

I didn’t. Not in relation to this situation.

“Would you like a ride up there?” she offered again.

“No thank you,” I said.

I preferred to drive myself up so I was free to leave the moment I wanted to.

“That’s fine,” she said. “Just… just please be there. Ms. Van Dorn wants you to know that it’s quite important.”

There was a strange sense of urgency in her voice when she said that.

I watched her exit through the dividing door, utterly confused.

Opportunity? What opportunity?

A moment later, the front door jingle rang as she left, followed by a cold blast of February air that wound its way back through the kitchen.

I looked down at the counter that held the broken and battered chocolate remnants of Cupid, and let out a sigh.

I supposed the next chocolate catastrophe could wait a couple of hours.

Chapter 2

The streets of Christmas River were as devoid of people as a mining town after the silver had run out. And it was about as dark as an abandoned mining town, too, for that matter.

Though Christmas River purported to keep the holiday spirit burning 365 days a year, it couldn’t be denied that a certain hangover atmosphere fell over the small town in the months of January and February, much the way it did in other parts of the country. With most of the Christmas tourists long gone, and with the short days and long nights, the place felt almost as want of Christmas Spirit as any other town in February. Because it was Christmas River, plenty of folks left their Christmas lights up year round. But rarely did the homeowners or shopkeepers turn them on anymore, generally electing to resume the tradition only when the tourists returned in the summer.

I hooked a right on Mirth Street, approaching a small house that apparently hadn’t gotten the
Christmas is over
memo and had their lights on.

However, as I passed the house, I realized that they weren’t Christmas lights at all – they were pink, red and white lights in celebration of Valentine’s Day.

I smiled to myself, glad to see the bright, nostalgic bulbs glowing in the dark winter’s night.

Like a lot of people, I liked having another holiday in the dead of winter to look forward to. And Valentine’s Day always seemed like such a nice one.  

I let out a short little disappointed breath as the thought of the actual day crossed my mind.

January and February were generally the most sluggish months of the year at the pie shop. Many folks on their New Year’s resolution kicks often swore off sugar, and there was a noticeable dip in sales. Generally, the only day of the two months that was any good was Valentine’s Day, when the pie shop would once again be flooded with folks going off their health programs to celebrate the day of love. And while that was good for business, it meant that I generally didn’t have a moment to spare on the big day, and that by the end of the madness, I was usually exhausted beyond my breaking point. Most years, a hibernating bear was a more attentive Valentine’s Day date than I was.

Over the years, Daniel had graciously accepted that fact, and we didn’t often celebrate the occasion much beyond a bottle of champagne and some chocolate hearts. Some years, I’d been able to sneak out a chocolate hazelnut pie from the shop. But all and all, the day was mostly a bust. And while I was planning on letting Tiana, Tobias, and Ian helm the madness at the pie shop this Valentine’s Day, that didn’t mean I’d be kicking up my heels and spending the day with my true love this year. In fact, this Sunday would follow even more in line with the usual tradition of low-key celebrations, seeing that I was going to be competing in the Chocolate Championship.

I had hoped that the first place prize of $5,000 and two tickets to Paris might go a ways toward making it up to Daniel.

Though in light of my shattered chocolate Cupid, I now saw just how farfetched that hope was.

I sped down the dark highway that led up to the resort, feeling the stiff February wind claw at the car, causing it to rock slightly.

I reached for the heater and turned it up higher. I clicked on the radio and flipped through the scanner until I found some oldies soul music to ease my nerves.

Though I didn’t much like being summoned by the Chocolate Championship Committee this way on a dark and windy night, maybe this would be a good opportunity to pull out of the competition. I’d probably still have to eat the entry cost, but at least I’d be able to save face and not make a complete fool of myself. Additionally, if I pulled out, then maybe for the first time ever, Daniel and I would be able to have a proper Valentine’s Day with champagne, a fancy dinner, and a crackling fire.  

No more melting chocolate. No more forming it into shapes, hoping that it was tempered correctly. No more piping decorations. No more attaching chocolate wings only to have them break apart in front of your eyes.

“The Cinny Bee that I know isn’t a quitter
…”

I grumbled as Warren’s voice popped into my head, the way it often did whenever I was faced with anything that remotely had to do with character, ethics, or morals.

My own conscience sounded a lot like an 80-plus-year-old man with a devilish wink and a fondness for IPAs.

“The Cinny Bee I know does what she says she’s going to do, even if she doesn’t have a chance at winning….”

I glanced up in the rearview mirror for a quick second, catching my eyes.

“Trying is always more important than succeeding. It’s the effort you put into it that counts. That’s what true character is… Doing your best, even if you know you might not get rewarded for it.”

“Okay, okay!” I said out loud, giving myself a harsh look in the mirror before fixing my eyes back on the highway. “You made your point. I’ll make another damn chocolate Cupid.”

Just then, the first signs for the Lone Pine Resort appeared in the sharp glow of my brights.

I didn’t know why the committee wanted to see me tonight, or why they had me drive all the way up to the Lone Pine Resort for it.

But I did know one thing for sure:

I wasn’t going to quit the competition.

My conscience wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I did.

Chapter 3

I blinked hard, sure that the wind-lashing my eyes had suffered during my walk across the parking lot had somehow severely distorted my vision.

Though, maybe it wasn’t my vision that was to blame. After all, what I saw sitting at the far end of the large boardroom meeting table was more akin to a hallucination than an eye issue. Maybe it was my mind that was the problem. Maybe all that time melting and cooling and melting and molding and breaking chocolate over these past few weeks had cracked my brain more than the chocolate cupid back in my pie shop.

I closed my eyes again, a last ditch effort to come back from the brink of insanity. But when I opened them, he was still sitting there.

I must have clear lost my marbles.

“
Cinnamon
. Thank you so much for coming.”

I tried to look in the direction of where the woman’s voice had come from, but I found that I was unable to. My eyes stayed glued to the hallucination sitting at the boardroom table.

“I… uh… I…” I stammered.

The man in the t-shirt and blazer with the distinct neck tattoo of two crossed chef’s knives glanced up from the folder in front of him and looked directly at me.

I felt my stomach do a wild somersault as our eyes locked.

Then I heard a sharp, nervous laugh coming from the same woman who had just greeted me.

“I see that you’ve found out our big secret already,” she said.

I felt my eyes bulge slightly.

So my mind wasn’t cracking, after all.

It really was him –
the
Cliff Copperstone. A Portland restaurateur who not only ran several successful and lucrative restaurants and bakeries in the city at the young age of 38, but was also a bonafide celebrity chef. He was a regular judge on a competition-based reality program that aired on the national
Foodie Network
, and was arguably the Pacific Northwest’s most famous chef at the moment. Or so the most recent edition of
Bon Appetit
magazine had said.

But why celebrity chef Cliff Copperstone was here in the meeting room of The Lone Pine Resort, in the middle of the Cascade Mountains on a dark night in February, was a mystery as big as the Pyramids of Giza to me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, turning finally to the woman who had spoken to me. “I, uh, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

I immediately recognized her.

“Well, first of all, let me introduce myself,” she said, standing up from her seat.

She stuck out her hand.

“You probably already know who I am, like I know who you are, but we haven’t properly met. I’m Julie Van Dorn. The Chocolate Championship Showdown Committee has hired my firm to handle its publicity matters and event planning this year.” 

She smiled a curt little smile at me, clearly proud with her new gig.  

Julie was about 5’6 with long, wavy, raven-black hair, and a low, scratchy voice that always sounded forced to me. Tonight, she was wearing a smart-looking suit and short skirt combination, the style of which was completely out of place in a small mountain town like Christmas River. She also wore high heels, which were also totally out of place.