Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (18 page)

My jaw nearly hit the floor.

John and Kara?

I wouldn’t have put them together myself in a million years.

But once the initial shock wore off, it started making sense.

I could see the qualities that each of them would be drawn to. John was serious and down to earth. Kara was vibrant and full of energy and life.

“You see, I’d seen her a few times in your shop before,” he said, his voice quaking a little. “And… well, we talked a few times and we hit it off. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t mind, though.”

I was silent for a moment, processing it all.

It was still hard to believe, but the more and more I thought about it, the more… the more it seemed right, in some sort of strange way.

John stared at me intently, waiting for my reply.

I smiled.

“John, I’m not her father or anything,” I said. “You don’t have to ask me my permission. But I appreciate you doing it.”

He let out a long sigh of relief.

“And I hope… I wish you all the happiness in the world. Truly I do,” I said.

I held my hand out across the table to meet his.

“Friends?” I said.

He took it after a moment.

“Friends,” he said, gripping my hand sternly. 

I got up from the table.

“But I warn you,” I said. “You’ve better start getting some new clients at your practice. Strawberry rhubarb pie’s a lot cheaper than the ornaments Kara sells at her boutique.”

He laughed.

“And not nearly as tasty, either,” he said.

I grabbed the slice of uneaten pie from the table.

“Does this mean I can stop making this flavor for you?” I said. “You’re about the only one who orders it these days.”

“Well, I guess,” he said. “But don’t count me out completely. I’ll still stop by from time to time if that’s okay with you.”

I smiled at him before leaving his table to go in the back and check on the cherry pies baking in the oven.

“Of course it is,” I said. “My door’s always open to my friends.”

He got up and tried to pay, but I wouldn’t have it.

His money was no good here.

Chapter 48

It was Christmas Eve day, and after making a fresh batch of pies, I closed up the shop early and went for a long walk in the woods.

It felt like I’d spent the entire month slaving away in front of a hot oven, baking pies and rolling dough and building houses that all eventually crumbled to the ground.

The sky had a cold, steely looked to it, and the air smelled like snow. Christmas lights and wreaths hung from bannisters as I left downtown, and took the footbridge over the river and got to Shevlin Trail.

I dug my hands deep in my coat and tried to think about everything I was thankful for, as I always tried to do on Christmas Eve.

I was thankful for my family. For Warren, who I could always go to for anything. For Kara, who always had my back, no matter what.

I thought about her now. She’d been as embarrassed as I’d ever seen her when I told her what John had said to me. She’d said she was going to ask me herself as soon as everything settled down. It almost seemed as though she felt bad about it. But there was no reason to.

As long as she was happy, so was I.

And she did seem to be happy. When she talked about John, it wasn’t in that same humorous, condescending way she usually talked about men. She respected him.

It made me so happy to hear it. It had been ages since I heard her talk that way about any man.

Things seemed to have worked themselves out. John and Kara, Bailey and Evan. Everyone seemed to have gotten exactly what they deserved.

Maybe I had too.

I walked deeper into the woods, listening to the sound of my boots crunching against a layer of old snow. Listening to the trees creak in the wind and feeling the cold wind blowing against my cheeks. Birds were whistling in the branches, their song filling up the forest.

I was strong, though. I would move past it. I’d had plenty of experience with broken hearts. I knew that after a little while, the noose of pain would loosen its grip around my throat. I knew that one day this would all be a distant memory. One day, I’d find someone new and learn to love again.

Until then, I would just do the best I could.

So much of life seemed to be about loss. About people coming and going out of your life. Of the empty voids they left behind when they did.

I thought about Daniel, even though I told myself not to. I thought of little Huckleberry, even though I told myself not to.

I hoped both of them were safe. Warm and safe with full hearts and stomachs.

In the end, that was all I could do. Hope.

I walked through the forest with a heavy heart until the sun started sinking low in the sky.

Then, I popped over to the Christmas River Catholic Church. The one that my mom used to take me to when I was a kid. When she died, I stopped going.

I went inside, opening the giant doors, and I walked down the long aisle up to the altar. The church was mostly empty, save for a few volunteers readying the pews for Christmas Eve mass.

I went to the row of candles flickering on the table, and I lit one for my mom. Thinking about how much I still missed her.

After I left the church, I went back to the shop and loaded up a shopping bag full of the meat pies I had made earlier.

I would deliver them to the humane society after I picked Warren up from the store and dropped him back home. The dogs would have them for Christmas morning.

Because even dogs deserved to have a merry Christmas.

Chapter 49

“I’ve got the eggnog under control, Cinny,” Warren said as we drove along the cold and frozen streets. “You just get yourself home before eight.”

He had a bagful of groceries at his feet. He’d walked to the store a few blocks from our house for his daily exercise, and I was giving him a ride back home.

“Okay,” I said. “You fellas just pace yourself, though, okay? It’s a long ways until midnight.”

Warren was having a few of the boys over for some eggnog and to play some poker before watching the Vatican’s Christmas Eve mass on TV.

Leave it to Warren to drink, gamble and watch the Pope ring in Christmas all in the same night.

It was a tradition he’d had for years, though. Ever since Grandma Mae passed, he’d spent the eve before Christmas surrounded by his buddies, and me. This year, Kara was going to stop by too for a little while. But she had Christmas Eve dinner with her folks, so she wouldn’t be able to stay long.

I pulled up to the house and Warren got out.

“Hey, one thing,” he said, leaning into the car. “I’ve got one more guest on the list tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, raising my eyebrow.

I’d thought that he’d already invited all his friends from the tavern, but maybe he’d missed someone.

“Yeah,” he said, hesitantly. “Her name… it’s Catherine.”

“Oh?” I said. “Catherine Harris? The new barmaid at the Pine?”

Catherine was new to town, in her mid-60s, and worked at the tavern on the weekends to supplement her social security checks. She was a widow whose husband had died about ten years earlier.  

“I think she prefers the term
bartender
,” Warren said.

“Oh… so it’s like that, is it?”

Warren’s face broke out into a giant smile.

“If I’m lucky,” he said.

“That makes me real happy,” I said. “I look forward to seeing her later.”

I laughed at that big grin on his face.

“You old dog,” I said. “Get out of here already.”

“Okay, but you hurry home now,” he said, winking at me.

He was laughing as he shut the car door and walked up the steps to the house.

I watched, making sure he was safely in. Then, I drove back over to the shop.

The streets were deserted. As deserted as they ever got in Christmas River. It was ironic. The night before the biggest holiday, and Christmas River felt like a ghost town.

The lights were on everywhere, but the shops were dark. Soft snow was starting to come down from the sky, but it wasn’t magical. It was bleak and cold and empty.

I sighed and got out. I went in the shop and grabbed the bag of meat pies, and walked a few blocks to the humane society.

The lights were on, but the door was locked. I knocked on it several times, but nobody answered.

“Damn it,” I muttered out loud.

I knew someone was in there caring for the dogs, but they didn’t seem to want to answer the door.

I sighed, the shopping bag of pies feeling heavy in my hands.

Finally, I set it down on the doorstep and walked away down the icy steps.

The dogs would eventually get the pies.

But it didn’t leave me with that warm and cozy feeling I’d been searching for. That feeling of doing something good for someone, or something.

It left me feeling cold and empty, like a hollow chocolate Santa.

I walked slowly back to the shop, through the thick falling snow, not caring that I was getting drenched.

Chapter 50

I walked into the shop, not bothering to stomp off the snow that had collected on my boots.

I took my jacket and scarf off, and hung them up on the coat rack.

There was still a load of dishes left to do before I could close up. I thought for a moment about just leaving them until the day after Christmas, but knew that they’d be even more of a pain to do then.

I stood over the sink, scrubbing out bowls and utensils, and placing them in the dishwasher.

It was no good, though. Doing dishes just led to my thoughts wandering all over the place.

And that, inevitably, led to thoughts of regret.

I felt the lump growing in my throat and my eyes starting to grow heavy and waterlogged.

I wanted to pretend it was just the steam from the hot water causing it to happen, but who was I kidding? There was no one left to kid. Just me, alone, scrubbing dishes on Christmas, miserable and alone, and probably having years and years of the same scenario to look forward to.

I wasn’t sentimental. I wasn’t sappy or soft or gooey.

But I was human.

And I was sad. And lonely. A kind of loneliness that all the spiked eggnog in the world wouldn’t make go away.

I placed a handful of forks and knives in the dishwasher, and shut it. I took off my apron, and sighed, glancing at my reflection in the dark window pane.

Another Christmas.And soon another year.

And soon, 34.

And every year here on out, it would just get wors—

Suddenly, there was a loud noise from the back porch.

The sound of something scratching at the window pane.

My heart jumped in my throat.

I placed my face up to the window, and cupped my hands around my head to see past the reflection.

I looked down.

And that’s when I saw him.

He was healthy and happy-looking. His fur, which had once been matted and dirty, was now shiny and smooth. The tear stains from around his eyes were gone. He no longer had that look of hunger in his little brown eyes.

And he was at the door, bringing his paw up to it, and scratching to come in.

My heart suddenly broke free of the basement it’d been stored in since we had met on the bridge, and he told me goodbye.

And it soared, breaking through walls and ceilings as it ascended higher and higher.

I opened the door. Huckleberry came rushing in. I kneeled down and he started licking my face and whimpering, as if greeting an old friend.

I wrapped my arms around him, holding onto his silky fur and kissing his sweet soft head.

“I’ve missed you so much, Hucks.”

He nuzzled me behind my ear, tickling me. I started laughing.

Finally, after a few moments, I stood up and stepped outside. It was snowing hard now, big flakes coming down from the red-tinted sky, blanketing the trees with a fresh white coating.

I couldn’t see anything, but suddenly, over the breeze and the swaying of the trees, I heard something.

Music.

A soft sound at first.Quiet and distant.

The strumming of guitar strings. Then a voice. Hushed at first, but then it started rising.

Louder and louder, I squinted in the snow storm, looking at the silhouette coming toward me. The wind carrying the song to me.

I bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears as the figure stepped into the warm glow cast by the kitchen light.

It was him.

I couldn’t believe it. For a moment, I just stared at him, stunned.

He was wearing his buffalo plaid jacket, the same one he’d worn when he ended up on my back porch that night. He wasn’t wearing his hat, and flakes were gathering in his dark hair. The soft glow of the kitchen light fell on his face, illuminating it, making him look like an angel troubadour, descended from heaven to save my broken heart.

His eyes reached for mine. He smiled. A smile filled with everything I’d been missing in my life these past few years. Hell, these past 16 years. Ever since that night standing at the banks of the lake, when he made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.

A tear slid down my face, and I knew I was cooked.

I was.

I was sentimental. I was sappy. I was soft and gooey.

The walls came crashing down around me.

He turned all my hard edges into soft ones. All my cynicism into optimism. All my despair into hope.

Daniel Brightman, singing an Otis Redding song to me about how strong his love was on a snowy Christmas Eve ruined the cold, empty person that I had been.

He came to the end of the song, and my face was melted with tears.

“Cinnamon,” he said, putting down the guitar. “If I could take back these past 17 years, I would. I would go back to that lake with you and never want anything else.”

He took my hand in his, and stared down at me. I fell deeper and deeper into those green eyes. 

“But I can’t do that,” he said. “All I can offer you is what I am today. My heart, damaged as it is. And a promise to never leave you ever again.”