Christmas Candy Corpse

Book 3: Courtney Archer Mystery

by Rosemarie Ross

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

Synopsis

Christmas has come early to the beautiful Poconos resort that's the setting for the American Baking Battle's holiday special, where chef Courtney Archer is on hand to sample festive fare—and lift the lid off a killer . . .



Six ambitious bakers are competing for glory and a grand prize, showcasing their most delicious candies, cookies, and desserts. Courtney detects some on-set grinchiness from her coworkers, especially judge Shannon Collins, but she's hoping the sweet treats will restore everyone's festive spirits. That Christmas wish swiftly fizzles when assistant director Kinzy Hummel is found strangled—with an apron from Shannon's new product line . . .



Shannon insists she's innocent. Meanwhile, Kinzy had been under pressure from a disgruntled attorney to settle her late grandfather's estate. But could that be a motive for murder? The show must go on even as Courtney sifts through competitors and crew for likely suspects. But unless she can quickly get to the truth, there'll be another helping of homicide amid the pinwheel cookies and fruitcakes . . .

Release date: November 30, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Merry Christmas, Courtney!” Quintin Shepherd, the producer of The American Baking Battle, greeted me with outstretched arms. “Welcome to the kickoff mixer for the Christmas show.”

I hesitated a moment at his out-of-character welcome. He stood between me and the entry to the grand ballroom in Coal Castle Resort, once a private home built in the Gilded Age by a coal magnate. I leaned toward him. Without making body contact, I air kissed his cheek. He dropped his arms and followed my lead. Our lack of physical contact had little to do with him being my boss and everything to do with me being camera ready. We both knew wrinkled clothes and smudged makeup didn’t make for good filming.

“You look fantastic and festive.”

“Thank you.” I heard the surprise in my voice and quickly returned Quintin’s smile.

The skirt of my evergreen sheath grazed the top of my knee. The sequined neckline and my metallic pointed-toe pumps shimmered in the chandelier lighting. I’d tucked my straightened hair behind my ears to show off the emerald studs adorning my lobes.

I studied his face. The lines around his eyes and mouth seemed softer. Did he seem happier because he landed a Christmas special for the baking competition? Or something else? I realized the silence had stretched to an awkward level, so I said, “You do too.” The Christmas red cummerbund and bow tie against his black tux created a striking ensemble.

He sobered. “Thank you for being flexible and rearranging your schedule.”

This time I checked my disbelief before it showed on my face. An astute businessman, Quintin worried about the bottom line. I’d never received a compliment or thank you from him. He’d hired the talent and expected us to fulfill our contract duties. I wanted to ask if I or anyone else had a choice. A clause in our contracts stated that when the show was ready to film, the talent reported to set. It’s one of the reasons I had to tape few episodes of my weekly show, Cooking with the Farmer’s Daughter, on location in the past. In those instances, we’d had plenty of time to prepare and adjust our normal schedules. Not this time.

The call came on the Monday before Thanksgiving with instructions to arrive by late afternoon on Black Friday. My eat-and-run Thanksgiving dinner left my cousin Caroline alone for the remainder of the holiday. Both single lonely-onlys with busy parents, we celebrated holidays together. She insisted she understood, yet I saw the disappointment on her face.

“My securing a Christmas special for this year took you away from something important?” Quintin interrupted my thoughts.

I nodded. “Not only did it shorten my Thanksgiving holiday, it leaves my cousin Caroline on her own to kick off a hospital toy drive.” A registered nurse, she’d worked extra emergency room shifts to get the four-day holiday weekend off so we could organize the fundraiser like we did every year. Illness doesn’t take a holiday and the hospital ensures Santa makes a stop in each child’s room on Christmas Eve. I’d promised I’d pull double duty on my fundraising efforts when I returned to Chicago.

“Well.” Quintin smiled. “I want to make it up to you and Caroline. The show will pay for a spa weekend whenever it works in your schedule and we’ll make a generous donation to your organization. Okay?”

What? Had I stepped into a Dickens novel? Had Quintin been visited by three ghosts? Like Scrooge, Quintin was a penny-pincher. His expectant expression told me I needed to reply, I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Yes! The donation’s enough.”

“Nonsense. We’ll cover both. I’ll have my accounting manager contact you.”

The door to the ballroom opened. “There you are.” Kinzy Hummel, assistant director for the show, poked her head out looking first at Quintin, then at me. “Since Courtney has arrived, are we ready to start the party? Should I have them bring in the contestants?”

“Yes,” Quintin said.

Kinzy pushed the door wider to allow me to enter.

“Wow!” I stopped short and looked around the room.

Christmas had arrived at Coal Castle Resort. I’d thought the lobby decorations were beautiful. They’d gone all out on the ballroom. A floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree stood in front of double doors that, I guessed, led to a balcony with a spectacular view of the Pocono Mountains. Old-fashioned bubble lights lit the floor-to-ceiling long-needled pine. Artificial red poinsettia blooms decorated the branches. A white ribbon flecked with gold started at the illuminated starburst tree topper and wound the circumference of the tree, giving it a polished finish.

Evergreen swags, twisted with multicolored lights, bordered the walls in scallops. Starched red cloths covered the tables. Matching bows tied pristine white slipcovers to the chairs. On the stage a small string quartet softly played carols and popular songs of the season.

A mahogany bar was tucked into a far corner of the room with a large mirror, edged in stained glass, mounted behind it. Cocktail tables dotted the area around the bar. Shannon Collins, a judge on the baking competition, stood beside one and sipped an amber liquid from a clear mug. Bourbon, I presumed.

I swallowed hard, remembering the burn of the alcohol the one and only time I drank it. It was my penance for misleading my new friend. Shannon, like my viewers, had thought I was really a farmer’s daughter. Thank goodness, my network allowed me to clear the air on that myth.

It’d only been eight weeks since I’d seen Shannon, but I’d missed her. Text messages and emails weren’t the same. Shannon and I became fast friends during the taping of the first show.

“Shannon!” I couldn’t wait to share her excitement. The show was featuring her new line of aprons. What a boon for sales!

She looked up and waved. I hurried over. We wrapped each other in a loose hug. When I pulled free, I checked my surprise. Shannon had gained some weight. Stretched to the limits, her black form-fitting cocktail dress flattened her breasts. When she tugged at the fabric, I flicked my gaze to her face.

Pretending I didn’t notice her weight gain, I asked, “Are you over the moon to have your aprons featured on the show?” I laid my evening clutch on the table beside her drink.

“I guess.” She lifted her mug.

Her voice lacked the enthusiasm I’d expected.

“Wait.” I touched her hand. “Let’s toast your apron line.” I cranked my neck looking for a waiter carrying drinks with plans to wave them over.

“No one’s serving. If you want a drink, you must go to the bar. Quintin’s so cheap. He didn’t spring for servers. It’s the least he could do since we had to disrupt our lives to film this special.” Her words hissed out in a catty tone I’d never heard her use before.

Momentarily taken aback, I shook it off. “Give me a quick second.” I made a mental note to keep Quintin’s offer of a spa weekend for Caroline and me a secret as I made my way to the bar. I ordered a mulled wine for me and a bourbon for Shannon.

She was sipping from her mug when I got back to the table. She cast a glance my way. My disappointment must have shown. “We can still do a toast,” she said.

“I know. I bought you a bourbon.”

Shannon looked at the glass and licked her lips. “Thanks.” She took the drink, set it on the table, then lifted her cup. “I’ll just toast with my apple cider.”

Her snippy response didn’t encourage me to do a celebratory toast, yet I’d suggested it, so I needed to make the toast. “To product lines!” I clinked my glass to her mug and pushed a smile to my lips.

“Here, here!” Shannon said, sounding like her old self. “Any update on your knives?”

“Yes. The company’s working on a prototype of the eight-piece set. I hope sometime next year we’ll be toasting my product line.” I sipped my spiced wine. Wait. Did Shannon say she was drinking apple cider and not a cocktail? “When did you become a teetotaler . . . ?”

“Is it hot in here?” Shannon interrupted. She tugged at her sleeveless dress.

“I’m comfortable.”

“I’m going to find someone to adjust the heat.” Shannon drained her mug and took off with a determined stride, which caused the blond curls cascading down her back to bounce.

I stood beside the cocktail table and watched her brush past Harrison Canfield, a renowned chef and judge on the show, and Skylar Daily, my cohost, with barely a greeting before she zoned in on a waiter preparing a banquet table.

“What’s with her?” Skylar asked, joining me at the cocktail table.

“She thinks it’s warm in here.”

Harrison shrugged. “I’m comfortable.”

“Me too. We’re both dressed warmer than the ladies in their lovely party dresses,” Skylar said, laying on his charm. It’s the reason he was on the baking competition. He was popular and handsome.

Harrison wore his standard three-piece designer suit. His choice of a silver-gray necktie with the black suit and shirt made a vivid statement. Skylar sported a brown and green tweed jacket over a green Oxford shirt, open at the neckline, with khaki-colored trousers. It tickled me that the judges and cohosts unknowingly twinned their counterpart without the assistance of wardrobe.

“Everyone!” The familiar clap of our director Brenden Hall’s hands followed his voice. Cast and crew stopped talking and gathered around him near the stage. He signaled the quartet to stop playing. “Before we bring in the contestants, I want to cover changes in filming regarding the Christmas special.”

“First, I’d like to thank everyone for rearranging their schedules to accommodate filming,” Quintin interrupted.

“Yes.” Brenden nodded. “We appreciate it. And thank you to Quintin for his stellar negotiations to get us a Christmas special airing this year.”

Everyone, except Shannon, clapped. Quintin gave a slight bow.

“Now,” Brenden said. “Things are a little different for this show. We have seven days to film the special. The Christmas show is culled down to three two-hour specials showcasing six bakers. The first episode will have a one-person elimination, the second a double elimination.” Brenden paused when the crowd murmured their surprise. “The third segment is the finale where the remaining three contestants compete for the top prize of fifty thousand dollars.”

“Wow!” Harrison called out.

“Well, it’s Christmas!” Quintin’s response coaxed others to voice their surprise.

The buzz of conversation grew loud until Skylar whistled loudly to quiet them. “Was there anything else, Brenden?” Skylar asked.

“Yes. We’ve just finalized themes. Each episode will have three competitions based on past, present and future recipes. The first day is for Christmas candy. The second day is Christmas cookies. The finale is Christmas desserts. Tonight, for the meet and mingle, we’ve planned a fun activity to break the ice with the contestants. The talent will stand by a cocktail table. There’s a basket of small gifts. The contestants will choose a present and open it. It will have a surprise kitchen utensil for them and a conversation starter question. It’s going to be a great way to get them over being starstruck or nervous. We’re filming the entire evening for use to advertise the show. I think we’re ready to meet the contestants. Could someone signal . . .”

“You can’t go in there.” A deep voice carried through the door when it burst open.

Everyone’s attention turned toward the door. A woman, tall and sturdy, stood in the frame of the doorway. Her posture, designer clothing and trendy asymmetrical bob screamed chic and sophisticated. Her platinum hair sparkled under the lights, giving her a haloed effect. Her gaze searched the room and landed on Brenden. She stepped further into the ballroom, letting the door close on the warning from the guard from Nolan Security, a private security company hired by the show.

“Surprise!” With her eyes riveted on Brenden, she lifted her arms to the air and smiled.

“Mother?” Brenden hurried to her. “What are you doing here?”

They clasped hands and held each other at arm’s length.

“I came to watch you work and spend some time with my only child. It’s the holiday season when family should be together.” She released his hands.

“Yes, well . . .” Brenden turned. He seemed more flustered than surprised. “Everyone, this is my mother, Victoria Hall. Please introduce yourselves after the meet and mingle with the contestants. Harrison, Shannon, Courtney and Skylar, please take your place by the table. Kinzy has briefed the contestants. Mother, let’s get you a drink.” Brenden escorted Victoria to the bar.

Once we were in place, Quintin opened the door and Kinzy led the group of contestants into the ballroom.

I flashed my most welcoming smile and it hooked an older woman who’d make an excellent Mrs. Claus except for her flaming red hair. She walked straight to my table.

“Hello.” I extended my hand.

“Nice to meet you.” She grabbed my hand and shook. “I’m Carol Thlunaut. I’m part Tlingit and run a candy company in North Pole, Alaska. I watch your show all the time back home.” She started to rummage through the basket of colorfully wrapped boxes.

I didn’t think this woman needed a conversation starter.

“What kind of candy do you make?”

“Chocolates of all kinds, caramel filled, vanilla nougat, mint, cherry, molded in Christmas images, Santa, reindeer, snowmen. Tourists eat them up.” She grinned and winked.

“I bet they do. Do you have a website?” I might have found my stocking stuffers.

“Yes.” She looked over her shoulder. “I’m not allowed to give it out.”

“Of course.” Certain I could find it via an internet search, I asked, “What was in the gift?”

“A carving knife.” A young man hovered nearby so she moved on to Skylar.

“Dylan Smyth,” the twenty-something-year-old contestant introduced himself. “My mom and I make and distribute frozen cookie dough. It’s a regional company.” He focused on unwrapping his gift, held up a melon baller, then read the question. “Ask Courtney what her favorite Christmas candy is.”

“Coconut brittle. What’s yours?”

He pushed thick plastic-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I never thought about it. Candy cane?” With a wave, he was off.

“Mya Brooklyn.” A young woman extended her hand. “I take my food seriously.”

“Me too,” I said as we shook hands. Tall and slender, Mya appeared to share the same generation as I. Her light brown hair, cut into a classic bob, framed a girl-next-door face. Her hazel eyes sparkled with kindness.

She drew out and opened a gift. “A citrus zester.” She held it up for me to see, then read the note inside. Looking up, she asked, “Who’s your favorite chef?”

“Tough question. I’ll say Chef Russo. He runs a small Italian restaurant in Chicago. His eggplant parm is to die for. Do you have a favorite chef?”

Her olive skin darkened with a flush. “It’s you.”

“Thank you.”

Nodding, she said, “You’re welcome. I’d better go.”

“Good luck,” I called, realizing she never gave me her baking or cooking background. Something I’d have to find out in the course of filming.

“Tim Scott.” A beefy man with dark skin and a shaved head stepped to the table. “I don’t need a conversation starter. I’m not the starstruck kind.”

“Nice to meet you. You still get a gift.”

He chose a slender package, unwrapped and revealed a small offset spatula. He read the question to himself then grunted. “Do you really want to tell me what your favorite holiday side dish is?”

“I don’t mind.”

“I don’t care. Here’s what you need to know. I’m a baker who specializes in infusing liquor into my baked goods,” he said, then walked away.

Lucky for me, I only had two to go. I saw Shannon had finished meeting the contestants. I hoped she’d been pleasant.

“Hi. I’m Marley Weaver.”

I pulled my gaze to the man standing in front of the table. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt. He’d pulled his long salt-and-pepper hair into a ponytail. He looked at me through thick-lensed round wire rim glasses.

He lifted his fingers into a peace sign, then chose a gift. He smiled when he held up tweezers. “Perfect for sitting pearls on my cookies.” He pinched the ends together repeatedly. “I work part-time in a grocery store bakery. I want to start my own cookie company.”

“Wonderful.” I waited for him to read the paper and ask the question.

“Cool.” He stared at me a few minutes then turned and walked away.

Focused on watching his abrupt departure without asking the question, I didn’t see Skylar loop behind me. He whispered, “Yep, the old hippie did the same thing to me.”

I giggled and playfully slapped his arm. “I’m sure he’s just starstruck or nervous.”

Skylar winked. “I know.”

“Excuse me.” A meek voice drew my attention back to my duties.

“Hello. I’m sorry for that interruption.”

“Don’t be.” The young woman, in her early twenties at best, watched Skylar walk away. Appreciation shone in her baby blues. She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. “I’m Brystol Olivette. I specialize in cheesecakes. I have a good business and need to expand out of my small kitchen space. I’m so glad I was chosen as a contestant.”

“Nice to meet you. Sorry, you’re stuck with the last gift.”

“It’s okay.”

Intent on watching Brystol tear the paper from the box, my body jerked when the door to the ballroom burst open and knocked against the wall.

My gaze flew to the door. Sheriff Perry stalked into the room, followed by Drake Nolan, Head of Security, along with a man I didn’t know. Sheriff Perry cranked his neck from side to side.

Quintin stepped in front of him. “Can I help you, Sheriff?”

“Yes, we need to speak with Kinzy Hummel.”

“Who’s we?”

“I see her,” the stranger said. He pushed through Quintin and Sheriff Perry and stomped toward Kinzy. “Miss Hummel,” his voice roared through the room. “Don’t you care that your grandfather’s dead?”

“That attorney really put a damper on last night’s festivities.” I took the to-go cup of coffee Skylar offered me. Shannon, Harrison, Skylar and I sat in our makeup chairs waiting for our stylists to arrive.

“I’ll say. He went for drama with his announcement.” Skylar swiveled his chair with his toe.

“Or humiliation,” I said. I sipped the coffee. Skylar had had the forethought to hit Castle Grounds, the resort’s coffee shop, before our ride arrived, and had bought us all peppermint mochas. As yummy as the mocha tasted, it didn’t hit the spot like my normal hazelnut latte.

With the approach of winter, the brisk air and darkness made it a risk for the talent to walk to the workshop where we were filming, so the show provided six-seater electric carts to transport us, though the carts’ hard tops did little to protect us from the elements. We’d had strict orders from Kinzy to catch our lift at the main door of the resort at exactly six forty-five for our seven o’clock call time. Obviously, since our stylists were nowhere to be found, they weren’t on the same transport schedule. Or maybe they had to walk?

“I think Kinzy should’ve decked him.” Shannon spat out the words. “Who delivers bad news in the manner he did? Blurting out in front of everyone that her grandpa died. He should be ashamed. I was heartbroken when my Pawpaw passed away.”

“I agree. I found the whole scene odd and upsetting, like he had an agenda. Did anyone find out his name?” Harrison asked.

“Yes, it’s Leon Chapski. I’m telling you. He gives cowboys a bad name.”

Shannon’s cowboy reference pertained to Leon’s attire, a Western-cut brown suit complete with bolo tie, leather boots and a brown Stetson. Given Shannon’s mood, I refrained from saying his choice of clothing didn’t really make him a cowboy. Once Sheriff Perry ushered Leon and Kinzy out of the ballroom, we’d learned from Drake that he was an attorney from Montana.

“He ruined the party vibe,” Skylar said. “I feel bad for the contestants. The show throws those shindigs to help them relax. They’re nervous enough about the competition. I’m sure the shocking scene last night ramped up their edginess.”

“I agree.” I took another sip of my coffee.

“Say, I bought the peppermint mochas for us to make a toast to the Christmas special and holidays in general.” Skylar held his cup out.

We started to raise our cups when our stylists breezed through the door with a morning greeting, an apology for being late and a direct request to get into the costumes hanging in our dressing rooms. Obeying their instruction, we left our coffee on the counter beside our mirrors and headed to wardrobe up.

I finished changing in record time. The short-sleeved sweater I wore under a winter white pantsuit had diagonal red and white stripes. To round out the Christmassy look, I’d slipped into red pumps. My stylist pinned a glittery candy cane brooch to my lapel. Matching earrings dangled from my earlobes. I entered the common area to find Harrison ready and waiting in his swivel chair.

“Ah, you’re a candy cane. My stylist told me we’re all candy themed today in honor of the competition.”

I almost giggled at his inflection, which I knew meant he’d voiced his displeasure at his wardrobe to his stylist. Harrison didn’t like dressing in costume for the wedding-themed show. He was more comfortable in his suits or. . .