A Classic Case of Murder

Book 3: Literary Dining Mystery

by Daryl Wood Gerber

Genres: Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Personal chef and caterer Allie Catt combines her love of fiction with her love of food in the scenic North Carolina mountains—but amid her latest themed event, based on Dickens’s beloved classic, A Christmas Carol, a rare-book expert’s goose is cooked…

In the charming town of Bramblewood, not far from Asheville, Allie’s preparing for a special seasonal soiree: a literary-themed dinner party that’s a tribute to Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. It’ll take place at the Amber Lantern, the quaint inn recently opened by her best friend’s mother, Noeline—and the holiday spirit has even led a Scroogelike local businessman to lend his prized first edition of the nineteenth-century novella for the event.

With the voices of carolers ringing in the air and the community theater staging a special performance, it looks like it will be a happy Christmas—until the priceless book disappears and someone murders the expert who authenticated it. And if the police have their way, Allie’s lawyer friend Freddy will be dragged away in chains like Marley’s ghost…

The crime has also cast a shadow over Noeline’s fledgling business, so Allie feels doubly obliged to find the real killer among the gathered guests and local visitors—and put an end to this nightmare. It’s time to investigate them all, every one . . .

Release date: October 27, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

“You are murdering it, Allie,” I muttered to myself as I tried to inscribe the word Merriment on the ginormous sheet cake. “C’mon. It’s not difficult. You’ve written words like these dozens of times. Start over.”

Standing at the marble island in the ghost kitchen where I prepared most of the items I created for customers, I knifed off the offensive icing mess and began again with the piping bag appropriately tilted. This time my pressure was perfect. The sentiment—Merriment is being married to you. Happy Anniversary!—was legible. Yay!

The tribute from Freddy Bobb to his beloved wife was almost ready to be delivered to Legal Eagles, where Freddy worked. With regularity, the law firm, one of my steadiest clients, celebrated its employees’ successes and special days, but this one was personal. Freddy had handled a number of property matters for my parents. I adored him. All I had left to do was box up the cake, insert it into the van, and finish up the rest of the orders.

I set the piping bag aside, leaned against the island, and reflected on my life as I hummed along with the instrumental holiday music playing through a speaker. What brought me joy and made me merry? Baking and reading, without a doubt. Music, for sure. Bringing smiles to my customers’ faces, check. The idea of marriage? Nope. Not yet.

“All in good time,” I could hear my nana say. How I missed her.

To be honest, I’d intended to get married a few years ago. I’d been engaged, but my fiancé proved to be a louse. Thankfully, his rejection drove me to abandon my dream of becoming an English professor, and I moved home to Bramblewood to launch my catering business. I delighted in providing delicious treats for my customers. I reveled in their happy smiles. And then, as an added bonus for a book lover like me, whenever I’d completed my deliveries, I tootled to Feast for the Eyes, the town’s premier bookshop, to help out.

Yep, I was happy and content and didn’t want for anything. Merry? You bet I was.

I eyed the other items I’d been constructing since five a.m. Gingerbread cupcakes for Blessed Bean. Mini cheesecakes for Big Mama’s Diner. Oversized peppermint cookies for Perfect Brew.

Just another busy Friday, I mused.

A raucous bulletin tone echoed through the kitchen. Weather alert, snowstorm coming flashed on my cell phone.

Yeah, right. Bramblewood, North Carolina, didn’t have snowstorms. Like nearby Asheville, we received around two inches of snow a year, but two measly inches in one fell swoop could slow traffic everywhere.

I cleared the alert.

At the same time the rear door swung open, and Vanna Harding stumbled in, losing her footing and dropping the crateful of strawberries she was carrying. “Yiii-ahhh,” she cried. “Darned heels.”

The strawberries went flying and tumbled toward the walk-in refrigerator.

My tuxedo cat, Darcy, safely nestled in his cat carrier in the corner of the kitchen, yowled at the intrusion on his nap.

“Oof,” Vanna muttered. “Sorry, Darcy. I’ll buy you more produce, Allie.”

“No time.” The strawberries were meant to be décor on a large batch of heavenly vanilla cupcakes meant for Ragamuffin. “I’ll change the recipe and use crushed peppermint as a topping. ’Tis the flavor of the season.”

“The owners won’t mind?”

“They understand snafus.” Ragamuffin was a lovely place located in a courtyard connecting Holly Street and Elm Street. The café’s baristas were some of the best around, excelling in preparing and serving specialty coffees, teas, and more.

“Well, I apologize again for the mess.” She bent to scoop up the strawberries. “Say, we could rinse these and make them into jam. Boiling them will remove any taint.”

“Good idea.” Though I wouldn’t serve the jam to my clients. It would be for personal use only. “Where are you off to?”

“Huh?”

“Why the heels?” Having cooked alongside me for a little over five months, Vanna knew I advised wearing flats.

She did a quick spin and assessed herself from her toes to frilled collar. “I plan to secure a new deal.”

“New deal?” Both she and I were caterers in our own right. She had individual clients, as did I. A few weeks ago, she’d wanted to stop working with me—we’d hooked up so we could both expand our businesses—but after the mayor reneged on his proposition to promote her solo business, somehow she kept offering to help me, and for some reason I kept saying yes. Primarily, we worked together to host the literary dining parties with Feast for the Eyes.

“Yes. New, as in big.” She patted her chignon to make sure she hadn’t disturbed its perfection with the assessment twirl and smiled slyly.

At times she could be as stoic as a poker player holding a hand of aces. Knowing this about her, I didn’t give her the satisfaction of asking for more information.

After five long seconds, she said, “Okay, a bit ago I told you I intended to become a one-woman show again. And I know I haven’t followed through on the plan. But if I can secure this gig, it’s done. You’ll be free of me. I’m on pins and needles.”

“I don’t need to be free—”

“Hey.” She cut a look at Darcy in his carrier. “Why is he with you today?”

“I’ve opted to stay at your mother’s new inn tonight with Tegan so we can help with the display and details for Saturday’s soiree.” Noeline Merriweather was the mother of my best friend, Tegan, as well as Vanna, who were half sisters. “I didn’t think I’d have a chance to return home,” I added, “and you know me. I never feel good leaving my sweet feline alone for hours upon hours.”

“Mother’s new inn,” Vanna said. “We tried to talk her out of buying it, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Well, I’m glad she did since that’s where we’ll have the party.” For the holidays, Tegan, Vanna, and I had landed on the brilliant idea—okay, Tegan had come up with it; Vanna and I had concurred—to throw a literary dining party with a Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol theme. “The inn is absolutely beautiful and so centrally located.”

Vanna made a dismissive sound. “What kind of name is the Amber Lantern anyway?”

“A companion name for the Blue Lantern, natch,” I said. Vanna was a smart cookie, but at times she could be obtuse. “The structure was built by the same designer who built the Blue Lantern and has the same floor plan.”

Years ago, Noeline had purchased the Blue Lantern in nearby Montford, which was now a premier bed-and-breakfast. Two months ago, she’d considered investing in a second inn in Montford. When that sale didn’t come to fruition and while she was still eager to own two properties, she’d bought this inn, located in Bramblewood, not far from the lake. Both Tegan and Vanna had been against the purchase, but their mother had a mind of her own. Because she always decorated the Blue Lantern to the nines during the yuletide season, this year, to boost the Amber Lantern’s name recognition, Noeline had opted to dress it up as well. I couldn’t wait to see the décor. She prided herself on creating a modest Biltmore-type experience for her guests. For those who aren’t tuned in, the inn on Biltmore Estate in Asheville was known for its lavish Christmas displays.

“Your mother is very excited about hosting the party,” I added. “She’s an avid fan of Dickens.”

Noeline read across genres, but a few months ago I’d noticed an array of Dickens’s works on the shelves in the Blue Lantern’s office and had asked her about them. She said she’d fallen in love with his books the moment she’d read A Tale of Two Cities.

“Dickens. Yeah. Whatever.” Vanna wasn’t a bibliophile, though she was reading more now than she had six months ago. She deposited the recovered strawberries in a colander before focusing on Darcy. “Hello, handsome.” She traipsed to the cat carrier and bent down. She didn’t reach in, but she scratched the mesh. “Hi, hi, hi.” She adored him, and though he wasn’t a true people cat—he was a dedicated observer, like me; I participated when necessary, but most often I liked to absorb life around me—he had taken to Vanna. She wasn’t the warmest human being, but she was a fan of animals.

“Ooh, look at that cake!” Vanna exclaimed, taking in the kitchen while washing her hands. “Who ordered it?”

“Freddy Bobb at Legal Eagles for his and his wife’s fifth anniversary.”

“Aw. I wish I had someone special in my life.”

“Any prospects?” I asked.

She offered a wry smile. “Mine to know.”

Surprisingly, I couldn’t pry anything more out of her while we completed the orders.

Before heading out, I changed from my baking duds into my standard black jeans and crisp white blouse attire. I tamed my unruly red curls into a messy knot at the nape of my neck and dabbed on a swath of lip gloss. I wasn’t a makeup kind of person unless absolutely required, and I constantly worked to present myself against stereotype. After all, I might be curvy and had what some dubbed saucy green eyes, but I was one hundred percent girl next door, right down to a genuine smile.

After making the rounds to all my other customers, I tootled to Legal Eagles. I parked my Ford Transit on the street, unloaded the trolley holding the anniversary cake, and pushed it inside.

I was immediately greeted by a festive atmosphere. An elegant Christmas tree stood in the corner, festooned with shimmering gold and silver ornaments, twinkling white lights, and a star perched on top. Around the base of the tree sat gifts wrapped in gold and silver metallic paper. The reception desk held an arrangement of red poinsettias in a gold vase and flickering LED candles. Subtle holiday scents of cinnamon and pine lingered in the air. Instrumental holiday music was playing softly in the background, creating a serene atmosphere.

The firm, which was one of many concerns owned by Erwin Scroggie—who wasn’t a lawyer but was a crusty businessman who preferred to be addressed by his surname—handled a variety of legal matters, including corporate law, criminal law, real estate law, and more. The Scroggie family had dwelled in the area for nearly two hundred years. Before the construction of the famous Biltmore Estate in 1895, the town of Asheville, and thereby Bramblewood, got a boost when a road from Tennessee opened in 1828. The influx of people was incredible and included Scroggie’s ancestors. Scroggie, as far as I knew, was named for his great-great-grandfather, Erwin. Freddy, one of Scroggie’s nephews, wasn’t named after anyone in particular.

I strode to the front desk.

“Happy Friday,” the receptionist said, offering a toothy grin. “Felicity will be awestruck.” Felicity was Freddy’s beloved. “I’ve set up plates and such in the boardroom and pulled the drapes. Let me alert everyone.” She motioned for me to proceed.

Garlands of pine boughs decorated with bundles of silver bells swooped from one end of the boardroom to the other. At the far end of the room hung a banner thanking Felicity for five years of bliss. Below the banner stood a rectangular table draped with a lush red cloth upon which lay a cake knife, plates, forks, furled napkins, and a stand of champagne glasses plus a chilled bottle of champagne.

Freddy Bobb slipped into the room, quietly closed the door, and took in the cake. “Wow, Allie, perfection.” In his late thirties, he was lean with a constant five-o’clock shadow, as if he couldn’t shave often enough to keep the fuzz at bay. His tie was askew and his suit slightly rumpled. “Your parents sure raised a talent. How are they?”

“Fine. Traveling.” As always.

The first time I met Freddy, I was impressed by his ability to listen attentively. He’d expertly advised my parents about some real estate issues. When I’d come to the firm to make the pitch for Legal Eagles’ business, he’d sat in on the meeting. His uncle Scroggie had taken the consultation with me because, thanks to Freddy, he’d heard great things about Dream Cuisine. After my pitch, Scroggie had addressed Freddy, “What do you think?” Freddy had looked flabbergasted to be asked his opinion. He’d sputtered, “She’s great. Her business is great.” His uncle had frowned and banged his lion’s head cane against the floor. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Think, man, think. What are the plusses and minuses? You are the lawyer, not I. Give me an oral argument.” Freddy had taken his time formulating an answer. Once he had, he’d laid out all the positives—the daily deliveries, variety of selections, and ease with which I’d presented myself had given him complete confidence. In the end, he’d said he had no negatives, to which his uncle had roared with laughter. “Freddy, you’ll make a superb judge one day.” He was wrong. Freddy would never become a judge. He enjoyed practicing real estate law.

A knot of lawyers and assistants tiptoed into the room. Many quietly admired the cake.

A minute later, the receptionist escorted Felicity in, and everyone yelled, “Surprise!”

“Oh, Freddy.” Felicity covered her mouth with her left hand. Her right arm was in a cast. “I’m … I’m …” She hurried to him and embraced him with her good arm. Even with her feet tucked into platform heels, she was petite beside him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you will love me until the day I die.”

Her pale blue eyes sparkled with humor. “I will, you big oaf, but you’d better not die before me, or I’ll kill you.”

Everyone laughed.

Then Freddy knelt on one knee and pulled a small jewelry box from the pocket of his suit jacket. He held it up to her. “If I could, I would buy you a new piece of jewelry every day.”

Her eyes widened. “Freddy, you shouldn’t have. We can’t afford—”

He leaped to his feet. “We can, and I did. Open it.”

She lifted the rim. “It’s beautiful.”

“For a beautiful woman.” He embraced her gently. “FYI, it’s fake. Merely a placeholder until I can give you what you deserve after putting up with me for five years.”

Tears bloomed in her eyes.

I cut the cake, and Freddy poured the champagne.

When everyone was served, Felicity waved to me. As she lowered her arm, the frayed edges of her cast snagged on the bodice of her red dress. She struggled to free it.

I hurried to help.

“Isn’t Freddy the best?” she gushed. One-handedly, she flicked her shoulder-length blond hair off her youthful heart-shaped face.

“He’s a keeper. What happened to your arm?”

“Ack. I had a fall a few weeks ago. I was climbing with Freddy near Looking Glass Falls and slipped on some wet rocks. Rookie mistake. I’ve been a klutz my whole life. Why, when I was a girl, I broke my other arm shinnying up a tree. Well, not shinnying up. Falling off.” She shook her head. “The upside is I make Tinsley feel like a superstar.”

Tinsley, a button of a girl with severe asthma, was Freddy’s ten-year-old daughter from his first marriage. Sadly, when his wife died, he had to take over all of Tinsley’s care. Trips to doctors, to emergency rooms, and more.

“Is Tinsley clumsy?” I asked.

“No, but sometimes when she suffers a fit of sneezing, she stumbles like she’s inebriated.” She jutted out her cast, which boasted a riot of colorful swirls and red flowers. “Do you like her gel pen artwork?”

“Cute.” I’d seen Felicity with Tinsley. They were quite close.

“By the way, I’m so excited to take part in the festivities at the Amber Lantern this week. We won the firm’s package for a mini staycation. Freddy’s former mother-in-law will watch Tinsley.”

“That’s nice.”

“I heard you’ll be catering. I’m so pleased. I love your food. And I’ve already read the novella.”

For our literary dining parties, we encouraged guests to read the book beforehand so we could discuss it at the gala. Most participants joined in the fun. Many were regular bookshop customers.

“Friends and colleagues,” Freddy said in a booming voice, “please raise a glass to my beautiful bride, and to me, the luckiest man in the world.”

When he clinked his champagne glass with a fork, the glass shattered.

The ensuing silence was deafening.

He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares, long, long, forgotten.

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

When I arrived at the Amber Lantern in the late afternoon, the snow was beginning to fall. Calling it a storm was a bit of an exaggeration—so far, we had received a mere half inch of white powder—but it did make the inn, with its white exterior and sunflower-colored vergeboard trim, look magical. The steeply pitched roofs were dusted with white, as were the lanterns hanging from shepherd’s hooks. The front porch spanned the entire width of the house. A pair of live fir trees stood in sepia-toned containers, their twinkling fairy lights charming.

The gardens in the spring, summer, and fall were always in bloom—Noeline had made certain the landscaper planted seasonal plants—but now they lacked flowers. In their stead, Noeline had draped blankets of lights on the evergreens and the porch railing. A quartet of life-sized singing mannequins in Victorian garb stood to the right of the steps leading to the front door. For the party, I’d rented a costume that was nearly identical to the mannequin’s on the left, complete with muff, red jacket, red-and-green plaid skirt, caplet, and bonnet with plaid bow.

I parked in the guests’ parking lot, climbed out of my van, lifted Darcy in his cat carrier, and gathered the gift I’d wrapped for Noeline. After all, she had willingly offered the inn for the literary dining party. She deserved something special.

Entering the foyer, I was struck by the heady scent of pine and in awe of the Christmas tree decked out with gold balls and mini lights. An arrangement of honeycomb angels graced the reception desk. A candle in a tiny brass holder bedecked with holly stood on the table between two brocade chairs.

In the living room to the left, a majestic tree decorated with miniature gnomes in red hats, green vests, brown pants, and leather boots brought a smile to my face. Four-foot-tall gnomes clustered in the corner were grinning as if they approved of the décor.

The tinkling notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” emanated from the player piano in the parlor to the right. That room was where I found my best friend, Tegan, standing on tiptoe atop an antique stepping stool, doing her best to hang mistletoe in the archway. She teetered. Her white blond pigtails flopped.

Quickly, I plunked Darcy and the gift on the hardwood floor and steadied Tegan before she toppled. “Your half sister has already taken a spill today, and Felicity at Legal Eagles recently broke her arm. No near disasters on my watch, okay, pal?”

Tegan and I had known each other over twenty-one years. We met as kindergartners. We didn’t finish each other’s sentences, but we were bonded in lots of ways. We loved to read and eat. We laughed easily. And we were darned good at pranking one another, though she was definitely better in that regard.

She stepped to the floor, righted her pigtails, and tugged down the hem of her yellow Pikachu hoodie, which had risen up. When not working or reading futuristic novels, she was a video game nerd. “What do you think of the decorations?” She positioned the stepping stool to the right of the piano and pivoted to admire her handiwork.

I surveyed the room alongside her. “Good job.”

The Amber Lantern, like its sister counterpart, offered nightly food- or wine-tasting events in the parlor. Therefore, it required a variety of seating arrangements, which included two vintage gold damask settees and pairs of plaid chairs, each positioned on area rugs around distinctive coffee tables. Holiday pillows featuring reindeer adorned the settees. Freestanding bookshelves provided books for guests of the inn to read. The luxurious oak dining table nestled against the wall by the window often held goodies that the guests could consume. For now, the table was merely draped with a pine-themed quilted runner. A Christmas tree strung with twinkling lights and covered in Victorian house ornaments stood to the right of the table. To the left was a comfortable-looking chair plus end table, and beyond that, a square-topped Doric pedestal upon which sat a large glass box.

“Welcome, Allie.” At sixty-one, Noeline Merriweather had a presence that commanded attention the moment she walked into a room. Her bobbed hair perfectly framed her jawline, and her smile radiated warmth and authenticity. I’d known her since I was a girl and felt blessed to be able to call her my second mother.

“I have something for you.” I lifted the gift and handed it to her. “Open it now.”

“What is it?” she asked. “It’s heavy.”

“You’ll see.” I stole a glance at Tegan, who gazed at me with curiosity. I hadn’t told her about the purchase.

“Rip it open, Mom,” Tegan demanded.

Noeline was not the kind of person who would tear off wrapping paper. Ever. She oozed decorum, in a good way. She lifted each strip of tape carefully and peeled back the paper, keeping it intact.

“C’mon. Rip it.” At Feast for the Eyes, Tegan was the modicum of self-restraint, but right now she reminded me of the impatient imp I’d first met when she was wrestling a dark-haired girl for the chalkboard eraser.

Noeline set the box on the dining table and opened the lid. She withdrew a bust of Charles Dickens and hooted. Literally, hooted. At the top of her lungs. “Allie, I can’t believe it. Wherever did you find this? I love it. It’s amazing.”

“It’s only fiberglass.” I’d asked our local pawn shop guy to see if he could locate something for me. It was sixteen inches high and finished with antique stone. Though inexpensive, it expertly captured the shoulders and head of Charles Dickens, including his distinctive beard. “I know how much you admire Dickens.”

“It’s a keeper.” She deposited the bust on top of the player piano and took a step back. “Perfection. Thank you so much. And, Tegan, my darling, than. . .