Deadly Traditions, page 12
Candlelight flickered from the life-sized menorah and kinara that flanked each side of the tree, and a rotund Kris Kringle, who looked an awful lot like Bert Phelps, roamed the interior, handing out candy canes and Ho-Ho-Hos! to children as they scurried past.
Dina spotted me from her perch at the far end. She and her husband Grizzy were trying — and failing — to referee a contentious game of dreidel between a gang of miniature Santa’s elves who had descended into full-on sugar highs. Through the chaos, I spied their own kids Bear and Olivia behind the disguises’ cartoonish costumes. My best friend gave me a sad, helpless wave.
I pushed toward the enormous crowd amassed in front of the judging table. The contest’s sole judge and my most loyal customer, Orville Johnson, sat upon his throne, holding court while we peasants awaited his final vote on the year’s best cookie.
“Best” didn’t exactly come with a clear-cut matrix of criteria, though. That designation was subject to Orville’s whims from one year to the next. Three years ago, he catapulted anything containing mint to the top slots. Two years back, it was cloves. Rumor had it that a legendary spreadsheet circulated around town, documenting the top three cookies each year since 1971. It didn’t seem to help anyone, though.
“Marnie has an unfair advantage,” Amber Easton pouted aloud as I made my way through the sea of people. Pairs of suspicious eyes trained on me. “Orville eats at her restaurant every day. She knows exactly what he likes!”
I contemplated whether to respond to my least grateful customer when a shock of gray cropped hair atop a white coat scurried by me.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Prudence Harrington called out to nobody in particular, her short legs making a mad dash toward the entry table. She waved a large Tupperware in one hand and a fistful of dollars in the other.
At least I wasn’t the very last person to arrive.
The tidy pharmacist pushed her way to the front of the line and dropped one inviting sugary creation on the judging platter and shoved the money and container into the arms of volunteer Celeste Edwards. Then, without grabbing a Baker’s Choice slip, Pru turned and sped away just as quick as she’d arrived.
“One day, the pharmacy will give me time to eat a real lunch!” The older woman threw her hands up in the air as she ran.
“Marnie!” Celeste leaned over the entry table and wrapped me in a hug. Her greenhouse, Fine Vines, had graciously donated a sleigh-full — okay, a Subaru-full — of red and white poinsettias for the event. “I was wondering when you’d arrive with your—”
My distant cousin took the aluminum carrier from my hands and examined the contents. Her lips twitched with the hint of a frown.
“The nostalgia!” She forced the corners of her mouth upwards. “I used to beg my mama to get these whenever they started showing up at the supermarket.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t bear to look at her.
“Y’know, everyone’s been talking about the salted caramel linzers an anonymous baker left in the Methodist Church’s Little Free Pantry. One of the Rotary ladies tried one and can’t stop raving about them.”
An unseasonable heat crept up my neck and spread across my cheeks as I recalled the perfectly cut treats I left in the pantry before an early morning shift last week. “Oh?”
“We’ve all been waiting to see if the baker would show up and submit them.” She tilted her head low to find my eyes. “Y’know, I kinda suspected you.”
A boisterous, nervous laughter erupted from me. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I do food, Celeste, not baked goods.” My baking proficiency wasn’t something I felt prepared to debut. Not now. Maybe not ever. A bit of shame over a pathetic entry was a heck of a lot better than pressure to perform.
“Well, get to tastin’ then.” She handed me a ballot then waved me on down the line.
The Baker’s Choice competition emerged five years earlier as a grassroots rebellion against Orville’s dictatorial tendencies. Expanding the court of judges was out of the question; nobody wanted to risk Orville blowing a gasket at the suggestion. So a secondary competition was born to put some power back into the hands of the people.
I stepped into line and started loading the plate with one of each cookie.
“Competition gets steeper every year.” I turned to greet the sweet voice behind me, only to come face-to-face with a crazed-looking reindeer with googly eyes staring back at me from its spot-on Maggie McHugh’s ugly Christmas sweater. The reclusive librarian’s presence was a testament to the contest’s rich tradition in this town. Nobody missed it.
“Where do people even get the ideas for these things?” I plucked a particularly impressive homemade Mallomar concoction and examined it from all angles. Every cookie on the table was more impressive than the last.
“Netflix.” She winked at me as we loaded up side-by-side.
“We ought to be gettin’ back, Maggie.” A deep voice drawled behind us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I identified Greg Johnson’s lean silhouette. One part inventor, one part sleazeball odd jobber. A few years back, a rumor went around town implicating him in the disappearance of the pit boss at the casino. He was also my mother’s ex-something. I mean, did he really get to qualify as an ex-boyfriend if he’d been secretly married while they lived together?
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Maggie swatted a hand in his direction. “We haven’t tried a single cookie yet! Plus, don’t you wanna see your uncle pick his winner?” Maggie jerked her head in Orville’s direction.
“That old bag hates peppermint.” The irritation in his voice matched his squirmy body language. A blizzard of sadness came over me. Most of Orville’s loved ones were dead, and clearly he wasn’t close to his living family, either. “He ain’t picking your white-chocolate-whatever.”
“White chocolate peppermint cookies are a holiday classic.” Maggie smoothed a fuzzy antler on her sweater.
“You two got somewhere better than this to be?” My words came out with more of an edge than I’d intended.
“Greg’s been helping me out with all those dang computers we bought for the library. He needs the money and I need the help. But we’re taking a paid lunch to enjoy the festivities.”
With full plates, we watched Celeste make the final adjustments to Orville’s clip-on mic before he dug into his first taste.
“Ugh, gingerbread.” He forced a single bite down and discarded the headless body. “Next.”
A worried murmur filtered through the crowd. The judge was going to be tougher than usual to please today.
The old man lifted the pillowy concoction Prudence dropped off and chomped in. Everyone waited with bated breath.
“Hmmm.” He chewed and considered the flavor profile. “Licorice. Interesting. It’s like a licorice sugar cookie, but fluffier. Subtle, sweet, and just a touch salty. A perfectly balanced, but bold cookie.” Orville settled his spectacled gaze on the audience as he took a second, rather large bite. “And I like a bold baker.”
A buzz circulated. A few onlookers tossed their hands up in defeat. If this was any indication, the old man favored strong, unique flavors this year. He lifted a spiral notebook close to his face to scribble a thought.
“Yeeeeow!” He screamed into his microphone, shaking his hand like it was a Yule log on fire. “Celeste, grab my clottin’ powder from my coat pocket!”
As the townsfolk scurried into action, I spotted a trail of blood rolling across his palm. Maggie ran to his side with her phone’s keypad lit up.
“Aw, calm down.” Orville snapped. “It’s just a dang paper cut.”
Celeste sprinkled a few drops of powder onto the cut and delicately wrapped a small bandage around the finger. Once finished, she leaned over and whispered something in his ear.
“Heck yeah, I’m fit to continue!” The crisis averted, several hoots and hollers encouraged him on as he lifted the next cookie.
“Maggie, time’s wastin’. I really need to run that update or the entire network’s going to be trash.” Greg tapped his foot with a scowl. “Plus, I hate cookies. And the holidays.”
“And fidelity,” I muttered low.
“You got something to say, Tipton?”
“Alright, alright, quit yapping.” Maggie stepped in between us. “I need to prepare for this evening’s special holiday edition of Miss Maggie’s Hour of Magic and Mischief, anyway.”
Watching her sagging shoulders as they made their way out of the hall, I wondered when her next opportunity to escape the confines of her book stacks would be.
I turned back to watch Orville work his way through the gigantic platter of cookies. With every bite, he offered his public commentary.
“Too tough.”
“The caramel sticks to my teeth.”
“Brown butter anything is a winner in my book.”
“This supposed to be some joke?” He held out my misshapen attempt at an entry and received a few laughs in response.
When one last cookie remained, Orville dusted off his plaid shirt, and smoothed the napkin draped from his collar. Then he waved the cookie at the crowd and flashed a wide, streaky red grin.
The audience traded looks of concern.
“Hey, Orv, that notebook get yer gums, too? They’re bleedin’!” A voice shouted out from the front.
“Huh?” Orville looked outward with vacant eyes. “Well, uh, maybe those dang toasted coconut concoctions must’ve cut ‘em up.” His words slurred together.
Then this town’s biggest Scrooge began to sway from side-to-side in his seat. Before he said another word, a stream of blood oozed from his nose and dripped right onto the last cookie.
A few shrieks sounded around the Pavilion.
“I just need a minute…” Without another word, Orville darted from his seat and towards the restrooms.
Ken Marshall emerged from the crowd and rushed after him, a wad of napkins clutched in his fist. I fished my phone from my pocket, dialed those three trusty numbers, and followed Ken.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance out at Coyne Pavilion.”
“Oh dear,” the operator on the other end sighed. “You didn’t hear about the big pile-up out on the highway? A quarter-inch of ice is covering the bridge and all our vehicles are out there. Tons of injuries. I can try to pull one of them off, but it could be a while.”
I poked my head into the men’s restroom. “You gotta drive him to the hospital.”
Ken nodded and quickly helped a pale, shaken Orville back out into the hallway.
“Stay here and keep everyone calm. I’ll call you when I know more.” Ken ushered Orville out a side door, so he didn’t have to contend with concern from every direction.
“Let everyone know he’s going to be okay,” I asked Celeste when I re-entered the main room.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Her hand fell to her heart and released a deep sigh. While she spoke my words into the microphone, I whispered a silent hope that it wasn’t a lie. I’d never seen him look so small and helpless.
In my brief absence, the Baker’s Choice Competition had taken on new importance. Suddenly, without Orville around to make his final judgment, the bakers were intoxicated with their newfound power. Whoever’s entry they chose would be this year’s de facto winner.
Some protected their ballots from wandering eyes by finding a quiet corner table to taste each treat individually and carefully mark their choices. Others formed small groups with other bakers tasting the same cookie together.
“This one has to be a joke.” Amber’s perfectly manicured hand held up a half-burnt, half-undercooked clump I recognized as my own entry and displayed it to the others.
“I’m sure it tastes better than it looks.” Dina defended my offering like the loyal friend she was. She bit into it and chewed, smiling all the way through, refusing to give Amber the satisfaction of being right.
But my appetite had disappeared. When all the cookies had been eaten and all the ballots submitted, people started trickling out from the Pavilion back onto the icy streets of Clear Springs.
“Any cookies left for us?” Bill Jenkins and his sons lumbered over from the live nativity, where two sheep and one goat from their own farm were snoozing beside the manger.
“We’ve got a few volunteer plates back here.” Celeste’s eyes twinkled as she handed a loaded plate to the family. Without waiting another beat or bothering to wave goodbye to the crowd as they filed out the main door, the three men dug into their mountain of desserts.
A warm nudge against my thigh interrupted my train of thought. Two beady black eyes with a streak of menacing chaos flashing through them blinked up at me. Before I could react, the very awake sheep bolted, making its great escape to the opposite end of the pavilion.
“Sheep!” I screamed, chasing after the farm animal. “Sheep on the loose!”
But it was too late. The other sheep had already made its escape from its bed of hay, and the lone goat followed suit.
I nearly secured my arms around one sheep’s midsection when my phone buzzed in my back pocket.
“Marn?” Ken’s concerned voice cracked through the speaker.
“What’s the update? Orville ready to come home?”
A pregnant pause took up space on the line. “Doc says it’s more than a simple sickness.”
I released the sheep.
“What do they think it is?”
“Don’t panic, but he thinks Orville was exposed to a toxin. They’ve ordered a bunch of tests but are going to keep him for now.”
“Toxin? Like… poison?” I performed an immediate body scan. Orville fell sick while eating cookies. Cookies that I and the rest of this city chowed down on.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Ken’s overly rational nature kicked in. “You’re not feeling sick, right? Nobody else fell sick?”
I checked to ensure I was still upright. Whatever got Orville hadn’t taken me down yet. Or anyone else, for that matter. I scanned the near-empty pavilion whipped into a frenzy by non-human shenanigans.
But if nobody else was sick, that made Orville a target. And who in Clear Springs would want Orville dead?
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Chapter 2
“Relation?”
The receptionist at Valley Green Hospital awaited my response with casual indifference. It was difficult to take him seriously with the reindeer antler headband and blinking red foam nose.
“Daughter… in-law.” My back straightened with conviction. Confidence in delivery is the difference between a white lie and an obvious lie, right? At least that’s the story I told myself.
“Fill out your name tag and check-in time. Room 239.” He shoved a clipboard toward me and resumed a video of a cat chasing its own tail on his desktop screen.
I walked the long stretch to Orville’s room. Light, upbeat instrumental holiday music filtered through hallway speakers, almost drowning out the sounds of beeping heart monitors and low chatter at the nurses’ stations. For a hospital, the place felt eerily deserted. A few well-placed wreaths and stockings gave the environment some much-needed cheer.
The door to Orville’s room was ajar, inviting me to enter. What greeted me once inside, though, rendered me momentarily breathless. There, unconscious in the bed, was Orville as I’d never seen him before. His larger-than-life personality was nowhere to be found, just a frail body alone attached to a smattering of machines.
Everyone deserves to have people looking out for them.
Orville had looked out for me more than a time or two, especially when I was just getting my bearings as a restaurateur after Stu’s death. Figuring out who was responsible for this was the least I could do to repay him for being such a loyal customer. And, on his more generous days, maybe even a friend.
“Excuse me, may I help you? Only immediate family is supposed to be in here.”
Myra Singh stood in the doorway in her hospital scrubs, arms folded across her chest and eyes daring me to lie to her face. She was every bit as intimidating as she’d been as a pint-sized Girl Scout in Troop 305.
Busted.
“Myra,” I coughed in surprise. It’s one thing to hear about people you grew up with going on to successful careers, doing amazing things like saving lives. It’s another thing to be confronted with the reality of them. “So great to see you. Please… I can explain.”
She narrowed her eyes at me and shifted into a more rigid stance. After a few beats, she cracked, doubling over in laughter.
“You should’ve seen your face,” the nurse cackled, her thick brown ponytail swinging back and forth. “Like I was about to throw you in hospital jail. I’m just glad someone came to check up on the poor guy. It’s good to see you, Marnie.” My old acquaintance patted me on the back and moved to the patient’s bedside. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I slumped onto the hospital-issued couch.
“Is he going to…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question.
“I know this looks scary, but we just have him sedated and are giving him blood and a coagulating agent.” Myra’s response was professional and confident. Was she faking it the same way I had five minutes earlier?
“So he’s going to… make it?”
“The sedatives will wear off soon. We’ll know more when we get the labs back.”
After Myra was satisfied with the information on all the monitors, she jotted a few notes on her clipboard. Her ease navigating the situation helped me relax into the couch.
“Another man brought him in. Ken Marshall? Do you know if he’s still around?”
“Said he received word that a lot of people were gathering at The Pumphouse and wanted to swing by to reassure everyone that Orville was stable. Hey, I hear you’re running that place these days, huh?”
“Sure am.” I checked my phone to see if any mayday calls had come in from Piper with the sudden influx of traffic. “I should probably call my staff to make sure they’re surviving. Is it alright if I sit with him a bit?”
