Menace in Christmas River (Christmas River 8) (6 page)

The Proclaimer’s
“Over and Done With” filled the hushed void that the patrons’ evaporating voices had left, and it seemed that every pair of eyes in the pub – including mine – were fixed on Cliff Copperstone.

He sauntered slowly into the room, either oblivious to the stares, or used to such attention by now. Dressed in a long wool coat and a hipster designer collared shirt buttoned up to the neck, he threaded his way through the crowd, taking a seat at the only available barstool in the house. He casually flipped through the beer menu, and everybody watched him intently as if he was about to reveal the coordinates of the Fountain of Youth. 

I glanced over in the direction where I had last seen Warren. He appeared to be busy filling up pint glasses and was the only person in the place not paying the celebrity chef any mind.

I supposed it was up to me to take the man’s order.

I walked over, just as conversations in the small brew pub finally started to flow again.

“Uh, hi there,” I said, wiping my sweaty palms off on my apron.

He cocked his head to one side, and that neck tattoo of his made an appearance, peeking out from beneath his collar.

“Do you run all the businesses in this little town?” he asked.

I forced a smile.

“Mostly just the pie shop,” I said. “But I help my grandfather with his brewpub here on occasion.”

I cleared my throat.

“So, how’s Christmas River been treating you so far?”

“Not too good,” he said, taking off his jacket and draping it over his lap. “I hate the cold, and these mountain winds up here are the worst I’ve ever seen. Maybe except for that one time I got caught up in a snowstorm skiing in the Alps.”

He let out a long breath, and I could tell that Geronimo Brewing Co. hadn’t been his first bar stop of the night.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cold out there. That’s for sure,” I said.

He didn’t respond to my poor attempt at small talk. Instead, he turned his attention back to the menu. He retrieved a pair of black-framed, square-shaped glasses from the pocket of his coat, and put them on to get a better look.

“How about a nice pint to stamp out the chill?” I said.

“What do you recommend?”

I paused for a moment, trying to think of a good answer.

I wasn’t any beer expert, as was abundantly clear to just about everybody else in the brewpub. But I did have my own personal choices when it came to Warren and Aileen’s delicious beer selections.

“Me? I’d go with the Spruce Stout,” I said. “It’s dark and rich, but it’s got a clean freshness to it that you don’t often find in stouts. And with its 6.5 percent alcohol content, I’d say it’s a good choice for a cold, stormy night in February. It’ll help you forget all about those mountain winds out there.”

“Sure,” he said, the tone of his voice making it clear that he didn’t much care one way or the other for my description. “Whatever gets the job done is fine by me.”

I went over to the draft station and filled up a pint glass for him with the dark, rich liquid, watching as a nice layer of foam formed on top. Then I went back over to him, about to set the pint back on the bar, when I noticed something strange.

It was in his expression. As if I’d caught him in a moment of deep recollection. It was as if a shadow had suddenly passed across his face, and I was the only person in the place who saw it.

He looked troubled, somehow.

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling as though I was intruding on a private moment.

“Here’s the Spruce Stout,” I said, placing it on a coaster and setting it in front of him.

He handed me an American Express black card.

I had never seen one in real life before, as nobody in Christmas River made the amount of money it would take to qualify for one.

“Uh…would you like to close it out or open a tab—”

“Leave it open,” he said, cutting me off.

“
Please
,” he added after a moment.

I nodded.

I half wondered if I shouldn’t leave Cliff Copperstone alone with his thoughts. But then, I thought better of it.

Generally, folks didn’t come into a pub looking for solitude. If the man had wanted peace and quiet, he could have easily gotten a six pack and spent the night alone in whatever fancy hotel room the committee had put him up in.

“So are you looking forward to the Chocolate Championship tomorrow?” I asked.

He rubbed his eyes and rested his elbows on the bar.

“Sure,” he said in a distant, unenthusiastic tone.

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

“Why, I’ve never heard anybody so excited in all my life,” I said sarcastically. 

He scoffed, then took a sip of his beer.

“It’s just a beauty contest,” he mumbled. “A bunch of chefs who think they’re real hot stuff building things out of chocolate. It’s not even about how it tastes. Just about how it looks. What’s there to be excited about? Besides which, the Valentine’s Day theme is
so
two decades ago.”

“I guess you’d probably think the same thing about The Gingerbread Junction, then,” I said.

“You mean that gingerbread house contest they hold every year here?” he said. “That one’s even worse. In that one, they’re just a bunch of amateurs building cookie houses. It’s absolutely ridiculous.”

I gasped.

“Blasphemy, sir!” I said in a voice that was perhaps a few decibels too loud.

He looked up at me, the edges of his mouth curling up slightly at how obviously offended I was.

“I know you’ve won that competition many times. But don’t tell me you actually think it’s—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Copperstone?”

He stopped what he was saying and glanced over in the direction of where the voice had come from.

Bethany Reid stood a few feet away from his elbow, looking as terrified as a prairie dog about to get mowed down by a semi.

But there was also a hopeful glint in her eyes as she gazed at the larger-than-life celebrity chef.

“
Yes
?” Cliff said, leaning back on the barstool.  

“Um, do you, um, do you think I could take a picture with you, Mr. Copperstone? You’re like… you’re like my favorite judge on
Foodie TV
.”

Bethany, who had nearly run me over accidently in the Pine Needle Tavern’s parking lot back in October, chewed on her lip nervously as she waited on a reply.

Cliff gave me a deadpan, put-out look, and then turned back toward the young woman.

“I’m in the middle of a conversation right now,” he said, giving her a sharp glance. “Come back in twenty minutes, and we’ll see.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat at the severity in his tone.

Bethany’s expression of hopefulness died faster than fresh green leaves in a blizzard. Her eyes became glassy, and a moment later, she scurried away back to her table and her friends, looking like the definition of crestfallen.

“What it is we were talking about?” Cliff said, turning back toward me. “Something about the honor of The Gingerbread Junction, I believe.”  

I felt my cheeks burn red with anger.

“Was that really necessary? She didn’t want anything more than a moment of your time.”

He shrugged like he hadn’t just crushed the girl’s dreams.  

“When everybody wants a moment of your time, it starts adding up,” he said, taking a long, long swig of the beer. “A man’s generosity can only go so far before it’s less like generosity and more like being taken advantage of.”

I bit my lip and did my best to keep from shaking my head.

Bethany hadn’t been looking to take advantage of him, and he knew it.  

I didn’t know why I was surprised by any of it. I knew that a lot of times, famous people turned out to be this way in real life. While they were all smiles on camera, they could often be petty and mean in the real world, acting as though they were superior to everybody else.

He drained the rest of his beer.

“Would you like another?” I asked coldly.

He nodded.

I poured him another stout, but this time, I didn’t linger around to talk.

It was better to leave somebody like that alone with his own conscience.

Chapter 10

Warren looked at the man hunched over the bar, scratching the rough white stubble on his chin.

“And you say this fella’s a real big deal?” he said.

I nodded.

“He don’t look like a big deal,” Warren said, befuddled. “The man can’t hold his liquor worth a damn.”

“If I were to guess, I’d say that he’d gotten an early start tonight before he got here,” I said, letting out a sigh. “He only had three pints of the Spruce Stout. Unless Aileen spiked that with vodka during the brewing process, it shouldn’t cause
this
kind of reaction.”

The brew pub was completely empty, as it was well past 10 p.m.: Closing time, according to city ordinance. Everybody knew the rule and had politely cleared out. Everyone, but a certain celebrity chef, who remained stooped over the bar, more or less half-present.

Warren observed the figure, and scratched his chin again.

“Well, Cinny Bee, what should we do?” Warren said. “Should we shutter up the place and leave him here overnight? We can’t very well toss him into that mess out there.”

Warren nodded to the window. Snow had piled up on the sill, obscuring part of the view. What little view there was wasn’t too pretty, either. The wind wailed and large flakes of snow ran sideways with it.

“No, we very well can’t toss him out,” I said, in agreement.

As much as he might deserve it
, I thought.

I glanced over at my grandfather. He was looking worn-out from the long night of bartending, and I knew that he still had to get upstairs and pack for the Pheonix trip.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said.

“No, Cinny Bee, you don’t have to do that.”

The stooped man let out a short groan and lifted his head. But a moment later, his face was back on the bar.

“He’s my responsibility, in a way,” I said. “We can’t have the visiting celebrity chef found frozen to death tomorrow morning after a night of too much drinking, now can we?” 

“The man is responsible for himself,” Warren said. “But if you’re set on seeing the poor soul home, then I’m gonna call that husband of yours to come over and help you out.”

Warren headed for the old-fashioned phone on the wall.

“The weather’s too bad out there for you to be driving by yourself, let alone having to take care of this fella.”

I waved him off.

“Oh,
pish-posh
, old man,” I said, going for my coat and scarf on the coat rack. “You know I’ve been driving in Christmas River winters all my life. I know you’re just looking out for me, but you don’t need to go disturb Daniel over this. I can hold my own perfectly well on those roads.”

“Sure, Cinny Bee, but even good drivers can’t always—”

“I’ve got four-wheel drive, studs, and sandbags in the trunk,” I said. “I’ll go real slow, Grandpa.”

He started saying something else, but I interrupted him. I pecked him quickly on the cheek, and looped my soft, fuzzy knit scarf around my neck several times.

“But, Cinny, I—”

I shook my head.

“I’m going now,” I said.

“Well, at least let me help you get this here big deal out to the car,” Warren said in a defeated tone.

“If you insist.”

The old man went over to where the celebrity chef was stooped, hooking an arm under his shoulder and standing him up on his own two feet.

“
Some fella he is
,” Warren grumbled.

A moment later, the two of us were helping Cliff Copperstone out to my car, squinting through the driving snow.

Chapter 11

“It’s not all my fault, you know,” he said for what had to be the fifth time since we’d escorted him from the brewpub and strapped him in the passenger seat of my car.

I bit my lower lip and slowed as the highway became slicker with the heavy, dense white stuff.

If I’d known that the Chocolate Championship committee was putting Cliff Copperstone up at the Lone Pine Resort too, I most likely wouldn’t have been so gung-ho back at the brewpub to help the man get home. But as it was, I didn’t find out that little fact until several minutes into our drive, when Cliff finally located his hotel keycard and made out the words on it.

He’d had a few too many to remember on his own where he was staying.  

But despite being out here on a desolate road in the middle of a snowy night, I took solace in the fact that I was saving Christmas River from a big embarrassment by making sure Cliff got back to his hotel safe and sound. Imagine how bad it would look if he didn’t show up to the competition tomorrow? The town already had enough fiascos what with all the scandals that the Gingerbread Junction had brought over the years. Christmas River didn’t need anything to go wrong with something as big and prestigious as the Chocolate Championship.

“It’s not all my fault,” he muttered again, leaning his head against the cold window of the passenger’s seat.

“What’s not your fault?” I asked, yet again.

Maybe this time I would get an actual response that made sense.

“I hate this time of year,” he said, ignoring the question. “Chocolate hearts and red roses and stupid couples rubbing it all in your face. It’s a senseless holiday, don’t you think?”

I shook my head.

The man couldn’t hold a train of thought to save his life.

“What does that have to do with whatever isn’t your fault?”

Yet again, he didn’t answer the question.

“I don’t know how I ended up here,” he said.

It was hard work conversing with a drunk person.

“Well, that old man back there at the brew pub?” I said, glancing over at him. “He’s my grandfather. He helped me get you into the car. Which is how you ended up here.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said.

“Then what
are
you talking about?” I said, slowing to turn on the road that led up to the resort.