Gingerbread, Garlands, & Gunshots

Book 42: A Camper and Criminals Cozy Mystery

by Tonya Kappes

Genres: Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Welcome to NORMAL... where nothing is normal!

Tucked deep in the heart of Kentucky lies the charming town of Normal, home to the Happy Trails Campground—where small-town gossip runs wild, murder is always in season, and the sweet tea flows faster than the gossip.

Each book in A Camper & Criminals Cozy Mystery Series can be read as a standalone, filled with quirky characters, heartwarming moments, and all the cozy mystery tropes readers love: a determined amateur sleuth, a tight-knit community, pets with personality, and just enough mayhem to keep you guessing.

Now in development as a Hallmark Channel Original Series, this bestselling series is perfect for fans of feel-good mysteries with a Southern twist. So pull up a camp chair, pour yourself a mason jar of sweet tea, and get ready to solve a mystery—because in Normal, the only thing you can expect... is the unexpected.

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Release date: December 5, 2025

Publisher: Tonya Kappes Books

Sample

Chapter One

The snow drifted down in lazy flakes, catching on the bare limbs of the old oak trees that lined Normal’s Main Street. Before long, the grassy median in the center of town would be covered in a soft blanket, just in time for the Winter Festival.

“It’s so pretty, isn’t it?” Cheryl Paisley breathed out a dreamy sigh as she stepped back from the Stitchin’ Post’s front display window. She was arranging a knitted nativity scene surrounded by little yarn snowflakes. Her honey-blond hair, brushed into soft waves with silver streaks woven through, caught the glow from the window lights. Her pale-blue eyes were sharp but softened with carefully brushed-on shadow and mascara. Cheryl always looked polished and wore some sort of fashionable piece of clothing she’d knitted.

“I could do without all the white stuff,” Dottie Swaggert muttered. She rocked back and forth in one of the rocking chairs in the classroom area just off to the right of the actual shop. Her knitting needles clacked together in a steady rhythm. “I miss my shorty shorts and flip-flops.”

“And when has winter ever stopped you?” Queenie French teased from a rocking chair across the circle. She tugged her own half-finished blanket into her lap.

“This is exactly why I needed this group.” Margo Teght gave a small smile as she cast on a row of stitches. Margo had joined us back in the fall when Cheryl put a notice in the Normal Gazette asking for volunteers to knit baby blankets for the hospital. This had become an annual project for Cheryl, and the ladies in our community always showed up.

Now, they might’ve come for the gossip, but in the end, they finished with hundreds of baby blankets. So maybe the good outweighed the bad.

Since then, Margo had slid right into place like she’d always been there, quiet, steady, always making sure the yarn was untangled and the cocoa pot full. She was the one behind the scenes of everything, whether it was running the cocoa booth, organizing raffle tickets, or telling folks where to hang garland for the festival. People hardly noticed her until they needed her.

Entering the Stitchin’ Post was like stepping into a Christmas card. The shop sat in an old stone-fronted cottage right in downtown. A little bell jingled on the door whenever someone came in, letting a quick bite of frosty air rush inside.

A couple of customers were going through the shelves that lined the walls all the way to the ceiling. They were stocked with every color of yarn you could imagine, from butter yellow to peppermint red, from snowy white to a green you’d usually only find on fir trees.

The smell of fresh coffee from Trails Coffee, which Cheryl always bought for us, mixed with the earthy scent of wool, the combination wrapping around you the moment you walked in.

Warm lighting bounced off the colorful skeins, making the whole place seem bright with life.

A long wooden table sat right in the middle of the shop, its surface scattered with open pattern books, half-finished scarves, and a couple of cookie tins Cheryl had set out for anyone who wanted a nibble. Tapestries and framed photos of smiling customers lined the walls, while an oversized mirror near the door reflected the bustling, homey scene.

While Cheryl helped customers, the knitting ladies and I sat in the classroom, in the rocking chair circle, with our baskets full of practice yarn and needles sticking out like porcupine quills.

A chalkboard propped against the wall promised half-off beginner classes in January and reminded everyone to sign up for the Christmastime elf-crafting event. And Tilly, Cheryl’s cat, had curled up in a basket of yarn.

The old radiator sent out a wave of heat that chased away the winter chill with a groan and a pop. The sound of knitting needles at work blended with the low murmur of voices and the occasional slurp of coffee.

I leaned back in my chair to watch what Cheryl was doing.

She was still standing in the display window, putting the finishing touches on her very creative nativity scene.

“It looks beautiful,” I told Cheryl when I noticed she appeared to be second guessing her display for the season. “I don’t know anyone who can crochet a nativity scene.”

“It’s easy once you get the hang of it.” She walked over to the opening where the shop ended and the classroom began, just a hop and skip from the window.

She offered me a smile and patted me on the shoulder before she walked around to see how the rest of our group was doing.

“I’ve been at it for a couple years now,” Dottie said, setting her project in her lap and looking up at Cheryl. “How much longer until the hang of it comes?”

Before Cheryl could even answer, the door jingled, taking Cheryl and her attention to the shop.

As I leaned back in the rocker again, I saw Christine Watson sweep inside, her cheeks pink and her freckled face glowing with her usual sunshine smile. Her brown hair was pulled back in a bun, silky wisps curling loose, and her high-top Converses squeaked across the floorboards as she hugged a big red tin close to her chest.

“Sorry I’m late, ladies,” she called, her voice as bubbly as ever. “But I brought enough to make up for it.”

She popped off the lid, and heaven itself seemed to roll right out of that tin.

Neat little rings of cookies had been arranged on parchment paper. There were gingerbread men dusted in powdered sugar, chocolate crinkle cookies cracked just right with snowy tops, and glossy jam thumbprints that looked like stained glass jewels. The rich scents of warm spice and chocolate made the Stitchin’ Post smell like Christmas morning.

“Well, don’t just stand there holdin’ ’em, honey,” Dottie barked from her rocking chair. She shoved her knitting aside and reached out with her bright-red nails. Today her hair was “freshly fluffed” into an abundance of red curls. A cigarette pack peeked out of her rhinestone-studded Christmas tree pocket. “Pass ’em around before I waste away.”

Christine laughed, the sound so warm it could’ve melted snow, and began making her way around the circle. She offered the tin first to Abby Fawn Bonds.

Abby looked cute as a button, her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that swung when she moved. She was already tugging her phone out from her knitting bag, probably itching to snap a photo and caption it “cookie bliss” with a hashtag to match.

“These are so going on my social right now,” she said, carefully selecting a raspberry jam thumbprint. “Hashtag sweet heaven. Hashtag Cookie Crumble magic.” She took a bite, her eyes fluttering shut. “Mmm. Christine, you’re a genius.”

“Now, this is what Christmas tastes like,” Betts Hager said, her wavy brown hair bouncing as she reached into the tin, choosing a gingerbread man. She bit off the arm and gave Christine a smile.

Betts brushed the crumbs off her cardigan and then her skinny jeans. She always had a calm, steady way about her. She was both a laundromat owner and a house-cleaner, and she still somehow made comfort food for half the county.

“Tell Harper Stewart that.” Christine’s sunshine dimmed just a shade. “She had the audacity to accuse me of using a prebaked gingerbread kit for the gingerbread contest,” she said softly, still holding the tin. “Right in front of everyone at the committee meeting this morning.”

A collective gasp filled the Stitchin’ Post.

Queenie French nearly dropped her knitting. Dressed head to toe in neon spandex with a bright headband holding back her short blond hair, she looked ready to break into a Jazzercise routine at any moment. “Accused you?” she yelped. She stood and did a quick toe touch, like her energy just couldn’t be contained. “Of cheating? You?” Her head popped back up. “That’s like accusing me of eatin’ fried Twinkies. Never happened. Never will.”

“Yet,” Dottie muttered under her breath, making Queenie roll her eyes.

Mary Elizabeth Moberly, my adoptive mom, who was perched beside Abby, pressed a hand to her cheek. “Christine, honey, everyone in town knows you bake from scratch. Harper’s just stirring the pot.”

“I told her she’s welcome to come by the bakery anytime.” Christine kept her sweet smile as she moved the tin toward me. “There’s flour on my counters, dough under my nails, and not a kit in sight.”

“That Harper’s been picking on everyone for years.” Betts clucked her tongue. “But going after you?” She looked around the circle, shaking her head, the movement a full sentence all on its own.

“Mm-hmm,” Margo added, cookie crumbs on her lip. “If Harper walked through that door right now, I’d stuff one of these gingerbread men into her mouth just to shut her up.”

Queenie snorted, and the fire popped in the stove, filling the pause with a warm crackle. The cookies were sweet, the laughter was rich, but Harper’s name lingered sharp in the air, bitter as burnt coffee.

“Well, don’t you mind her. You sit right here next to me and let’s gossip about her,” Mary Elizabeth said. The comment was so out of character, sweet Mary Elizabeth hardly ever said a mean word about anybody, that we all burst out laughing.

“Careful now,” Dottie wagged her finger. “If Mary Elizabeth’s fixin’ to gossip, you know it’s well-earned. That woman don’t sling words unless Jesus Himself would nod along.”

Mary Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, her chin tipped with that soft, prideful grace she always carried. “Well, I do believe the Good Lord don’t mind when the truth needs speakin’. And Harper Stewart needs someone to remind her she’s not queen of Normal, Kentucky.”

That sent another ripple of laughter through the circle, the kind that warms a room as much as the stove fire crackling in the corner.

Queenie cackled, her neon headband slipping as she leaned back in her chair. “Honey, if gossip about Harper Stewart was a sin, we’d all be hell-bound years ago.”

Christine shifted uncomfortably but gave a small nod, her smile never quite leaving her freckled face.

Betts, steady as ever, folded her napkin into a neat square before she spoke. “Still, Harper’s not just stirring trouble for Christine. This year’s her first time chairing the Gingerbread Gala, and she’s making sure everybody in town knows it.”

“That’s the truth,” I said, setting my own knitting down. “She’s been strutting around like she invented gingerbread. Partnered up with Coke Ogden over at the Old Train Station Motel to host the whole thing in her new barn venue. You can’t pass the courthouse square without seeing one of those flyers plastered on a lamppost.”

Abby’s pen was already flying across the page of her little sleuthing notebook, the corner of her mouth curled in excitement. “Hashtag Gingerbreadgate,” she whispered. “I swear, I can practically smell the drama already.”

“Barn venue or no, Harper’s got her claws in deep this year,” Margo said.

“Meanwhile,” Queenie added, crossing one leg over the other and pointing a toe at me, “our Mae here is the one who actually makes these festivals work. Don’t think we don’t notice, sugar. Between runnin’ Happy Trails, sittin’ on that big ol’ park committee, and scoutin’ trails with Hank, I don’t know how you even have time to brush your hair.”

“Queenie.” I laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “That’s why I keep it pulled up most of the time.”

My whole head of hair was a mess of frizzy honey-colored curls that I had given up on a long time ago when I became the owner of Happy Trails Campground here in the Daniel Boone National Forest. I’d quickly realized that guests in my campground didn’t care if I had perfectly styled hair and painted nails when they needed help with a stopped-up camper toilet.

Queenie was right about my work on the National Park Committee. It had kept me busier than I could have ever imagined.

When Judge Gab Hemmer had appointed me, I figured it would be a good excuse to spend more time alongside my husband, Hank, who was a ranger, since my job on the committee was to check out potential new trails. i

“Still,” I admitted, “Harper’s been waiting years for this chance to chair the gala, and now she’s got it. She’s not letting anybody forget it, either.”

Betts tilted her head, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the problem. Sometimes, the higher the pedestal, the harder the fall.”

A hush settled over the Stitchin’ Post for just a beat, the fire popping and the wind rattling the old cottage windows softly.

Then Dottie leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Well, if Harper keeps on, she’s liable to tangle herself up in that garland she’s so fond of and save the rest of us the trouble.”

The whole circle erupted into laughter again, though I couldn’t help but notice the way Christine’s smile flickered just a little.

“I do hate to cut my time short, but,” I said and glanced out the frosted window just in time to see Hank’s truck easing up to the curb. “My ride’s here, and there won’t be a tree lighting tomorrow night if we don’t go and cut down a tree from Yelland Farm.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Dottie leaned forward in her rocker. “Is that… is that Bev Sharp sittin’ in Hank’s truck?”

The whole circle froze.

“Bev?” Queenie’s voice popped like a firecracker. She stepped in a grapevine pattern all the way to the window and pressed her nose to the glass. “As in Hank’s mama, Bev?” Her neon headband finally slipped clean off her blond hair.

“It does look like her,” Mary Elizabeth offered a sympathetic smile.

Bev had always lived here in Normal, never more than a stone’s throw away, but she and Hank kept a polite, arm’s-length distance that suited them both. He didn’t invite her into his life, and she didn’t seem to notice or care, not unless she had something sharp to say about me.

“Mae, is everything all right?” Betts’s brows drew together, and her steady voice lowered into the hush that fell over the room.

I forced a smile that felt about as stiff as frozen tinsel. “Guess I’ll find out.”

But inside, my stomach twisted like the yarn in Cheryl’s skeins.

 

end of excerpt