Deadly Traditions, page 1
Deadly Traditions
A COZY MYSTERY CHRISTMAS ANTHOLOGY
JUSTINE MAXWELL
MOLLIE COX BRYAN
ERIN SCOGGINS
ESTELLE RICHARDS
ELLIE BALLARD
SAM CHEEVER
GAYLE LEESON
SHEENA MACLEOD
DIANNE ASCROFT
MELICITY POPE
WENDY H. JONES
SAGE SO
Copyright © 2022 by Justine Maxwell, Mollie Cox Bryan, Erin Scoggins, Estelle Richards, Ellie Ballard, Sam Cheever, Gayle Leeson, Sheena Macleod, Dianne Ascroft, Melicity Pope, Wendy H. Jones, and Sage So
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design By: Jess Mastorakos
Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and situations are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to real people, places, or things is purely coincidental.
In loving memory of Ritter Ames
Contents
Larceny and Gingerbread Lattes
Justine Maxwell
Killing the Carol
Sam Cheever
O Deadly Night
Estelle Richards
Silent Snickerdoodle
Ellie Ballard
Santa Claus Is Not Coming To Town
Sage So
Have Yourself a Scary Little Christmas
Gayle Leeson
A Pickle in a Pear Tree
Erin Scoggins
Mrs Claus Saves Christmas
Wendy H. Jones
A Christmas Dinner to Die For
Sheena Macleod
Christmas Card and Feathered
Mollie Cox Bryan
A Little Christmas Villainy
Melicity Pope
Mistletoe and Murder
Dianne Ascroft
You’ve made it to the end!
Larceny and Gingerbread Lattes
JUSTINE MAXWELL
When her town’s annual gingerbread house competition erupts into chaos, coffee truck barista and amateur sleuth Hazel Hewitt can’t help but stick her nose in. Who is responsible for this Christmas calamity? And is there a bigger mystery afoot?
Chapter 1
“One large hot cocoa and one small gingerbread latte for me, please. Decaf, of course,” Eleanor ordered, grinning up at me from the sidewalk outside the Pine Lakes Community Center. Puffs of white floated from her wrinkled lips as the chilly mountain air meshed with her breath as she spoke.
I started the latte and then began pouring cocoa from one of two massive vats on the counter of my coffee truck, peering down at her wryly. “And who is the large for?”
“Mr. Branson is with me tonight,” she replied. “He deserves a large. He’s so skinny, that man.”
I chuckled and traded her the drinks for cash, thanking her when she told me to keep the change. As the next customer stepped up, I caught Eleanor handing her beau-of-the-week his drink. His eyes widened like he wasn’t sure how he’d ever drink so much hot cocoa. Maybe he was so skinny because he wasn’t used to eating or drinking anything in a large container of any kind. Though, what did Eleanor expect? Pine Lakes Retirement Home wasn’t exactly known for serving massive portions to its residents, as Eleanor should know since it’s where they both resided.
I made quick work of the next order and tendered the sale, then thanked the woman profusely for the rather large tip she deposited in my Frosty the Snowman tip jar on my coffee bus’s ledge. Decorating my converted VW Bus for Christmas was what made this my favorite time of year. I’d hung colorful Christmas lights all around the roof and large serving window. There were wreaths, gingerbread houses, bows, and even fake snow on the windows and windshield. Something that Nico, my brother’s grouchy partner on the Pine Lakes police force, had given me a stern talking to about since he feared it would interfere with my ability to drive. Eye roll.
That man, I swear.
Nico and I had gotten along like oil and water when he’d first rolled into town and thought me a murderer when my high school ex-boyfriend had been poisoned after visiting my mobile coffee bar. It wasn’t me in the end—obviously, since I’m standing here serving cocoa outside the community center and not rotting away in prison—and I’d even helped him find out who’d actually committed the murder.
I’d almost thought we’d moved from enemies to friends during that whole ordeal, but in the months since, he’d dialed back his smiles quite a bit. Sure, he still gave them, but not nearly as willingly as I’d thought I was going to receive them. Especially considering how worried he’d been about me when catching the killer got a little hairy. But that’s a story for another day.
“Are you excited to see what people come up with this year for their houses?” my mom asked as she entered the bus through the side door with another sleeve of paper cups and plastic lids.
We’d had quite the turnout tonight. Everyone was here for the Pine Lakes Annual Gingerbread House Competition, and since this was the first year Bean Around Town was operational during the holiday season, we’d had no idea what to expect as far as sales. Next year, we’ll have a lot more cups at the ready and order a few extra containers for cocoa. But with my mom running back and forth between here and our brick-and-mortar store, the Busy Bean, for supplies, we were doing all right.
“I’m very excited to see something new,” I said sardonically as I handed off another round of cocoa and lattes. “But I have a feeling we’re in for the same old same old as far as the winning house.”
My mom chuckled as she set out the fresh cups. “We’ll see. You never know. Maybe someone else will win this year.”
I snorted and continued helping customers. The same batty old woman, Betty Nichols, had won first place in the gingerbread house competition for the last nine years, and she had her sights set on a decade straight of grand prizes. I wasn’t even sure why anyone else would enter considering her streak and the fact that no one had even come close. But here we were.
Just as I was about to ask the next customer if they wanted whipped cream on their cocoa, a flash of a pale white hand reaching into my Frosty the Snowman tip jar caught my eye. I scowled at Ronald Draper, a teen at Pine Lakes High known for having fingers so sticky you’d think he’d been dipping his grubby mitts in my backstock of caramel sauce.
“Ronald,” I hissed, eyes wide. “Dropping in a tip before you’ve ordered?”
He snatched his hand back with a chuckle and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. “Yeah, I’m big on tipping ahead of service.”
“I’m sure you are. Get out of here before I call Ryan,” I ordered, jerking my chin. He knew my brother was a detective—and not just because Pine Lakes was a small town and everyone knew everyone, but because he had experience with him.
Ronald’s face contorted into a mixture of chagrin and annoyance before he stalked away to join Clarence Draper—one of his slimy uncles—in the shadows near the door.
With a shake of my head, I looked down at Mr. Sampson, another resident of the jam-packed retirement home. “Would you like some whipped cream, sir?”
“Yes,” he replied gruffly, watching Ronald’s retreating form. “I always knew that kid was trouble. His dad was trouble before him, and his granddaddy was the most trouble of all. Don’t even get me started on those uncles of his. That side of his family is full of bad apples that don’t fall far from their rotten tree.”
I handed over his drink and accepted his card, running it through my machine and handing it back with a grin. “No worries, Mr. Sampson. Maybe he can still turn himself around. He’s only fifteen.”
Mr. Sampson eyed me dubiously over the rim of his cocoa. “Fat chance, sweetheart. People don’t change.”
I shook my head as he walked away and kept my smile in place for the next round of Bean Around Town lovers to place their orders. It was almost time for the competition to start, so I’d better hurry up with this line unless I wanted them to give up so they could go inside for the big event. But that was the trouble with running a mobile coffee cart in a town like this. Stopping for conversation was part of the charm in running this business, and not doing that would remove a bit of the soul behind it. If that meant fewer sales or tips for me, so be it.
Chapter 2
As was tradition, the annual gingerbread house competition began with an extensive speech from Mayor Kingston while we all sat in folding chairs in the center of the room or stood packed in like sardines along the back wall. Long tables surrounded us on three sides, each one holding a masterpiece created by someone in the town.
There were no requirements to enter the competition. They could be a child of only five who did the whole thing themselves and therefore never won because the judges weren’t the sentimental types. They could be professional bakers and decorators from our local bakeries or restaurants, like my best friend, Lexi, who owned Mountain Sugar, a bakery on Main Street below the apartment we shared. Or they could be any old amateur gingerbread house enthusiast, which was the category our nine-years-in-a-row winner fell into. A fact that she loved to boast about. Being a self-taught champion had always been a point of pride for her.
After the speech, we were released to wander around the room and check out the numbered houses. We’d picked up a small notecard and a pen at the door to record our favorites and would vote by dropping it into a gingerbread house-shaped box with a slit at the top on our way out. Then we’d mingle outside, and I’d serve more cocoa and coffee while the judges deliberated.
Usually, the city set up tables of black coffee and cocoa from a store-bought mix, and it was a self-serve situation. But allowing Bean Around Town to set up shop this year had definitely elevated this event, and it was fun to hear people say so as I moved through the room and assessed the houses to find my favorite.
“Have you picked one yet?” a smooth-as-butter voice with its telltale New York accent asked from behind me.
I didn’t need to turn to know it was Nico, my brother’s partner. I kept my eyes trained on the absolute horror show of a kid’s creation as I answered dryly. “I think I’m going for this one.”
“You should. No one says you can’t vote for your own house, right?”
Now, I did turn to face him. “Very funny, Baretti.”
“So, you’re saying you didn’t make it, then?”
“No. I don’t enter these contests. My thing is coffee, and my artistic skill begins and ends with being able to draw something that kinda looks like a heart in the foam of a latte.”
“I’ve seen you try that,” he said with a tilt of his head, “and I don’t think it looks much like a heart at all. Maybe a diamond, though, so good job there.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Realizing this was a strange place for him, considering he was relatively new to our town—having moved here from New York earlier this year for reasons I still didn’t know—I quirked a brow at him. “Why are you here? Pine Lakes Annual Gingerbread House Competition doesn’t really strike me as your thing.”
He scoffed. “Are you kidding? Who wouldn’t want to analyze the creative talents of our townspeople in a way that doesn’t matter at all, only for them to be awarded prizes that are likely not even worth as much as they spent on the ingredients to build these things? Not to mention the time investment.”
We meandered along the row of houses on the left side of the room, and I chuckled darkly. “Like I said. Not your thing. So why are you here?”
“Your grandma made me come.”
I shot him a look. “No, she didn’t.”
“She did. She said she would die if I didn’t come, and I didn’t want to risk that. What if she really croaked, and somehow you wound up looking like the murderer? We’d find ourselves squaring off in an interrogation room again, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
Memories flooded my brain of the last time he’d had me in that monochromatic box, questioning me about a crime I hadn’t committed. It’d been horrible and unjust at first—well, all around—but there had also been some surprising moments of warmth that had stabbed into my gut and an attraction to him that was probably the worst idea on a planet full of bad ideas. No, I wouldn’t want to find myself in that room being questioned for murder again; but being in there with him in general didn’t sound as bad as it should. Not by a long shot.
“This one is actually pretty impressive,” he commented as we made it to the old biddy’s prized entry.
“Ah, yes. I’m glad even you can appreciate its beauty. It’ll probably win actually.”
“You think so? We’re only a third of the way through them.”
I shrugged. “She always wins.”
“How do you know who made it? None of them are labeled.”
“A couple of reasons. First of all, I know this one was made by Betty Nichols because it looks like the last nine she’s done—and they’ve all won first place. She’s hoping this year will be number ten.”
His brows shot up. “Wow. Even more impressive.”
“If you like a monopoly kinda vibe about the whole thing,” I returned under my breath, teasingly wrinkling my nose at one of Betty’s friends when she scowled at me from the other side of the table.
“What about the others? Can you tell who made them too?”
I scanned the houses on the next table. “Yeah, some. When you’ve been to enough of these, you can start to tell people’s styles. This one here was made by old Mr. Jenkins. He buys every single package of Rolos at the grocery store during the month of November because he uses so many of them.”
Nico looked down at the house with its Rolo walkways, driveway, roof, and edging around the entire base. There was even a back patio made of the circular chocolate candies. “Nice. What about this one?”
“Ah, this one is Lexi’s. Obviously, I’d know that since we live together, but come on.”
He chuckled. “I take it there are no rules about the gingerbread house being a residence as opposed to a mini bakery?”
“Nope.”
“Are you going to vote for Lexi’s?”
I blinked up at him, intending to make a sarcastic remark, but then accidentally got mesmerized by the deep-chocolate brown of his eyes that reminded me a little of the Rolos we’d been looking at. Except they were so dark right now, you could hardly see his pupils. Nico was Italian, like my family and me, so his olive skin and dark-brown hair and eyes were striking and warm. Despite the often chilly quips we exchanged, he exuded warmth.
“Did I lose you?” he asked, stepping closer so I could smell the clean scent of his cologne that also held a note of clove.
I shook my head to clear it. “Um, yes, I’m gonna vote for Lexi’s. I always do, but again, Betty will probably win.”
“You never know,” he replied as we came upon a massive house that caused both of our steps to falter as we approached. “See? Look at this beast.”
Chapter 3
“Beast?” Mrs. Daniels asked, her chin raised while thin red lips pursed into an annoyed oblong shape that should have made them look fuller but instead had the opposite effect. “It’s not a beast. It’s a masterpiece.”
We stared at the house as she held her arms out with pride. It was two stories high—a first for this show—and was an exact replica of the house my friend Cory had lived in since he was a kid. Even though we were almost in our thirties now, he still lived in the basement of his parents’ magnificent home. Long story short, he’d had a rough go of it thanks to that slimy ex of mine who’d been murdered recently. But now that he had a girlfriend he loved and a new job, I was sure he’d move out soon.
“Hi, Mrs. Daniels,” I said cheerfully. “You’re right. It’s great. I had no idea you were such a gingerbread artist.”
She waved a hand with a mocking laugh. “As if, dear. I hired it out. Everybody knows that.”
Nico and I exchanged a look. Then I turned back to her with my face pinched in confusion. How had I not heard about this? “You can do that?”
“There’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t,” she replied high-handedly.
I thought about all the times I’d heard the rules repeated for the guests before the show. I’d been coming to this event since I was a kid, so I’d heard the spiel countless times. But I’d never read the handout with the official rules for the contestants because I hadn’t wanted to enter once I realized kids never won, and my skills hadn’t advanced beyond what a child could do. Maybe she was right. Who cared if it was hired out as long as it was yours to enter? Eh, no. I didn’t like it. But since this wasn’t my circus or my monkeys, I didn’t comment.
