Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off Read online

  MURDER AT THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE BAKE-OFF

  Leaving the stairwell, I saw that we were in a short hallway that ended in what looked to be another glittering Christmas paradise. The back of a puffy leather couch faced a wall of windows. On either side of the couch was an equally puffy leather chair. Potted poinsettias and a decorated Christmas tree filled the room. And then I spied it, dangling from the ceiling on a long ribbon before the windows.

  “Rory Campbell, and here I didn’t think you had a romantic bone in your body.”

  “I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind being pulled under the mistletoe for a kiss.”

  “You don’t need to find a sprig of mistletoe to kiss me.”

  “It’s not just the mistletoe,” he confided in all seriousness. “It’s a quiet room.”

  I took his meaning. We were utterly alone.

  Smiling, feeling giddy, we practically ran to get under the mistletoe, excited for that long-awaited kiss that had escaped us ever since the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off had begun. Fighting to get there, we nearly tripped over the couch. But once around that obstacle, we came to a screeching halt.

  Crumpled on the floor beneath the mistletoe was a body...

  Books by Darci Hannah

  MURDER AT THE BEACON BAKESHOP

  MURDER AT THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE BAKE-OFF

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Murder at The Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

  Darci Hannah

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MURDER AT THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE BAKE-OFF

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  RECIPES FROM THE BEACON BAKESHOP

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Darci Hannah

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3173-9

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3176-0 (ebook)

  For Ron Hilgers

  Because of you, I embrace the ridiculous, believe in the unknown, marvel at everything around me, and attempt in my own small way to share our love of baked goods with the world.

  Our childhood was magical.

  Until we meet again, my brother, God bless.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Years ago, when I started out on this fickle career path, I never thought I’d end up writing cozy mysteries. Yet somewhere along the line I got the bug and attempted to write one. Although it was a new genre for me, I was enchanted with the process. Then divine providence directed me to Sandy Harding. Sandy, who is not only a great agent but a brilliant editor, saw something in that first manuscript and believed that she could make a cozy mystery writer out of me. Well, I think she has. For her devotion and unwavering belief, I am forever grateful. I would also like to thank my wonderful editor, John Scognamiglio, for taking a chance on the Beacon Bakeshop and working his magic. And to Rebecca Cremonese, Larissa Ackerman, and the entire team at Kensington, you guys are the very best!

  I would also like to thank my talented friend Robin Taylor, who has never wavered in her support for the books I write. And a huge thanks to my friend Tanya Holda for her incredible wisdom and for all the long walks during a difficult time; you are a godsend. And to Tanya, Sue Hanson, and Margaret Bingham, for raising a mug of coffee with me around a campfire and sharing your incredible handmade gifts during the lockdown. We shall never forget how much friendship matters. And to Jane Boundy, my dear friend who never fails to make me laugh.

  This book could not have been written without the support and encouragement of my wonderful family. To my dear husband, John, and our boys, Jim, Dan, and Matt, you are my everything. To Jan and Dave Hilgers, my wonderful parents, your love and encouragement made me who I am today. And to my brother, Randy, thank you for all the phone calls and for being amazing. Love you!

  And to my late brother Ron, who once bought a bakery on a whim and taught me what it meant to be a real baker. Those few short years in our late twenties live on in my memory. Such adventures! Such hard work! And those smiles of genuine delight when a customer took their first bite of a delectable baked good! Those crazy times were the inspiration for the Beacon Bakeshop Series. I hope I have done it justice. Although I miss you, every time I visit Beacon Harbor I know I am not alone. That is a true gift.

  And to you, dear reader, thank you for joining me on this adventure. I am truly grateful.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sugarplum visions. Mine tormented me every year in the form of a ludicrous yet tantalizing belief that I could actually pull off the perfect Christmas. From past experience I had begun to doubt there really was such a thing. Sure, I’d heard tales of others having done it. Heck, the seasonal books, magazines, and movies made an industry of selling the idea and making us believe that the perfect Christmas was within our grasp. But we Bakewells were a special brand of idealists. We have a reputation of being risk takers with grand visions. Some risks, admittedly, look better on paper—like the year Dad bought Mom a real partridge in a pear tree. The moment she unveiled it in front of a room full of company, the poor bird startled and flew off in the direction of the kitchen. There it flopped around leaving no morsel of food unscathed. By the time Dad caught it, our only option had been to order Chinese takeout for
fifty.

  Our holidays were synonymous with chaos. My own had been no better. The first year I hosted Christmas Eve, my oven went out before the roast went in. The next year my Christmas tree fell over, breaking every glass ornament and causing a small fire. One year I’d been so busy that I hadn’t realized Mom (a former eighties fashion model) had gained weight. I had bought her a skirt two sizes too small. Her silent tears still haunt me to this day! My annual Christmas party had been thwarted by ice storms and snowstorms, and once it had even been the scene of my best friend Kennedy’s nastiest breakup to date. And just last year, Wellington, my giant Newfoundland dog, had done a little counter surfing when my back was turned and ate half the Christmas cake that had taken me two days to make.

  And yet there was just something about Christmas—the smell of fresh-cut pine, the lights, the decorations, the presents, the food, the cravings for cookies, and the gathering of family and friends—that inspired me to reach for the sugarplums.

  It might have been helpful if I actually knew what a sugarplum was.

  The idea of them had been with me since childhood, when I had learned that children of yore had visions of them dancing in their heads. I remember thinking that I liked plums, and that I really liked sugar, so they must be the pinnacle of Christmas delights.

  Even in my adult life they had gotten the best of me, and not just at Christmas. They had given me the courage to walk away from a lucrative Wall Street career to open a bakery in an old lighthouse on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was risky, and it hadn’t even looked sane on paper. But it was my sugarplum vision, and I wasn’t at all sorry I had embraced it.

  This year, I silently thought as I watched the UPS truck rumble up the lighthouse drive, my sugarplum Christmas was within my grasp. Manhattan and Christmas pasts were behind me. I was now the proud owner of the Beacon Bakeshop. Although our grand opening had been a little rough, the Beacon had swiftly become the heart of Beacon Harbor.

  I was hosting Christmas this year at the lighthouse, and I couldn’t have been more excited. My folks were flying in a week early for the town Christmas festival, and my best friend, Kennedy, was coming as well. I had made lots of new friends in the village and was even dating my hunky neighbor, Rory Campbell. All the stars were aligning. Clutching the bright red mug between my hands, I took a sip of my gingerbread latte and smiled. Sugarplum delicious!

  My latte bliss was momentarily broken by a series of loud barks coming from the other side of the lighthouse door. The Beacon Harbor Lighthouse was a large structure, housing both my spacious living quarters and the Beacon Bakeshop. The door that separated the two was a historic wonder of six-paneled oak. Although original to the lighthouse and beautiful, it wasn’t entirely soundproof. Welly had heard the UPS truck, which meant that Hank was visiting. And whenever Hank appeared at the lighthouse, it meant a treat for Welly. It was five minutes until closing, and the last customers had left ten minutes ago.

  For obvious reasons, drool being a close second to shedding fur, my giant, loveable pup wasn’t allowed in the bakeshop during business hours and was permanently banned from the kitchen. However, during the warmer weather, all dogs were allowed in the Beacon’s outdoor pup café. Warmer weather was a far-off dream, and Welly was whining.

  “Does anyone mind if I release the hound?” I looked at the two young people working behind the counter.

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth replied. She poured another measure of milk in the steam pitcher and glanced out the window. “Poor Hank. He’s got to be the busiest man in Beacon Harbor this time of the year.”

  “I agree. Why don’t you two make him one of these.” I raised my mug, then set it back on the counter as I opened the door for Welly.

  “Wow, why so many boxes?” Tom, measuring espresso for another latte, lifted his brows in question.

  Tom Porter was one of my full-time baristas. After a rocky opening last May, I realized that I was going to need more help with the bakery. I had already hired two fabulous young ladies, Elizabeth and Wendy. Both grew up in the town and were recent high school grads. Alaina, their friend, was hired shortly thereafter, completing what I commonly referred to as the three amigos. Then, just to spice things up, I hired two young men in late summer, Ryan and Tom. Ryan, who was taking online classes at a local college, had a passion for computers and making sandwiches. Tom, on the other hand, was a college grad with a degree in history and a passion for coffee. He also knew his way around an espresso machine. Another remarkable fact was that on the days Tom opened, the girls were never late. Similarly, on the days Tom opened, there was a steady stream of young female customers who lingered a bit longer than usual in the café. His tawny good looks, easy smile, and genuine sincerity were a winning combination. The truth was, all my staff at the Beacon got along exceptionally well, which made for a happy workplace. The only thing I was sorely in need of was an assistant baker. I had hired and lost three already, never realizing it would be such a hard position to keep filled.

  “They’re either Christmas decorations or presents for us,” Elizabeth teased, adding a grin. Tom didn’t smile. He appeared troubled by all the boxes Hank was unloading.

  “Elizabeth is partially correct. All those boxes contain my new Christmas lights.”

  “What?” Tom looked up from the gingerbread latte he was making. “How many did you order?”

  “Enough to cover the lighthouse. It’s a big building.”

  “Not that big.”

  While Wellington waited patiently at the door, I went to retrieve my latte. Taking a sip, I asked, “Have either of you two ever seen the movie Christmas Vacation?” Trying to make a joke, I was greeted by a pair of blank stares. “No? Well, it’s a classic. I’m no Clark Griswold, mind you, but these boxes represent my first attempt at exterior illumination.” Again, they had no idea what I was talking about. I was in my mid-thirties, but their clueless stares were making me feel much older. Obviously, we were going to have to have an after-work viewing of my favorite Christmas movie.

  “I get it,” Elizabeth chimed in. “Not the old movie,” she clarified, “but what you’re doing. You’re trying to outshine the competition during the Christmas festival.”

  “It’s not about lights,” Tom reminded her. “The theme this year is Christmas cookies.”

  “Exactly! But it’s hard to find lights that look like Christmas cookies. I’m going with a candy shop theme.” Apparently, they both thought I was crazy. But I wasn’t. I was simply creating my sugarplum vision.

  “I want to spread holiday cheer,” I continued. “I want this old place to shine brighter than it ever has!” Grinning, I left the counter and joined Welly at the door, opening it for the delivery.

  Tom and Elizabeth came with me. “That’s ambitious,” Tom remarked with an anxious glance at my delivery. “You’re going to wait for Mr. Campbell, right?” He took hold of a box, helping Hank unload his hand truck.

  He was referring to my boyfriend. Truthfully, I was a little offended that he assumed I needed help. Rory had his own charming log home to take care of.

  “What makes you think I need Rory to help me with these? They’re lights. You hang them up and plug them in. I have plenty of extension cords, light hooks, and timers. I watched a video on YouTube. I should be fine.” As I spoke, I caught the grin Hank exchanged with Tom.

  Tom paused. His face was flushed, whether from exertion or embarrassment I couldn’t tell. “It’s just that . . . well, there’s a lot of lights here, and Mr. Campbell has—”

  “Military experience?” I offered, placing my hands on my hips. “These are Christmas lights, not guns.”

  “No, a ladder . . . and coordination.” This last remark he slipped in, like an extra comma in a confusing sentence. And, like that extra comma, it wasn’t going to help him. My inner New Yorker was threatening to pounce. Thankfully, Elizabeth pounced instead.

  “Whoa, fella. You should have stopped at ladder.”

  “I’m staying out of this,
” Hank declared, raising a hand. He then slipped Welly a dog cookie. After ruffling my pup’s head, he handed me his clipboard to sign. “Anyhow, isn’t Rory in the Upper Peninsula ice fishing?”

  I penned my signature and returned the clipboard. “He is. I’m planning on surprising him.”

  Tom cast a wary eye over all the boxes littering the café floor. “Oh, he’ll be surprised, alright.”

  “Be back with another load.” Hank flashed a conspiratorial wink and headed out the door with Welly leading the way.

  Elizabeth turned to Tom. “Maybe you’d better stay and help. I’ll finish making the latte then clean up.”

  “Look, stop worrying, you two. I’m not doing the entire lighthouse myself. I’ve hired Bill Morgan and his son to wrap the light tower in red and white lights. With any luck it’ll look like a giant candy cane when they’re done. They’re also framing the roofline in white lights. I’m doing the rest.” I cut open one of the boxes and pulled out a three-foot red-and-white-striped candy cane. “Isn’t this darling? I’m lining the walkway with these. There are wreaths for the windows and net lights for the bushes. And that big box over there should be a giant blow-up gingerbread man. Sure, it’s a lot of work, but I don’t think it requires Herculean amounts of coordination.”

  Elizabeth folded her hands and pressed them to her lips in an effort, I suspected, to keep from bursting out in giggles. “Oh my. The Beacon is sure going to turn some heads.”

  Before closing for the day, Elizabeth reminded me about the bakery orders for tomorrow.

  There were six coffee cakes, eight fruit pies, two French silk pies, and fifteen lunch boxes to be made along with the bakery’s staple items. I’d put Ryan on the lunch boxes when he came in tomorrow. Wendy could help me frost donuts and prep mini quiches. The rest was up to me. I looked at the boxes of lights and sighed. It was going to be another long night.