Murder at the Christmas Cookie Bake-Off

Book 2: Beacon Bakeshop Mystery

by Darci Hannah

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

Synopsis

Tucked away inside an old lighthouse in Beacon Harbor, Michigan, bakeshop café owner Lindsey Bakewellis ready to make her first Christmas in town shine bright. But her merry plans crumble fast when murder appears under the mistletoe . . .
 
With the spirit of the holidays wafting through the Beacon Bakeshop, Lindsey thinks she has the recipe for the sweetest Christmas ever—winning the town-wide cookie bake-off. Unfortunately, striving for a picture-perfect December in Beacon Harbor is a lot like biting into stale shortbread. Low on staff and bombarded by visits from family, Lindsey can barely meet demands at work, let alone summon the confidence to face fierce competition . . .
 
Self-appointed Christmas know-it-all Felicity Stewart is determined to take the top spot in the bake‑off, and she’s not afraid to dump a little coal in everyone’s stocking to do it. Just as the competition heats up, everything falls apart when the judge is found dead—and covered in crumbs from Lindsey’s signature cookie!
 
Solving a murder was never on Lindsey’s wish list. But with her reputation on the line during the happiest time of the year, she’ll need to bring her best talents to the table in order to sift out the true Christmas Cookie culprit.
 
Includes Delicious Recipes!
 

Release date: October 5, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

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.

Dressed in the warmest snow gear money could buy, I convinced myself that there was still a good hour or two of daylight left. Wellington, covered in a double layer of long, silky black fur, loved the snow nearly as much as he loved lake water. It made him the perfect outdoor companion. With his bushy tail wagging happily, he followed me to the boathouse to retrieve a ladder. Yes, I had one. No, I had never used it. Then, with ladder in tow, we were ready to illuminate.

The candy cane lights went in without a hitch. After they were all connected, I added an extension cord, set the timer, and plugged the line into the industrial outdoor power strip hidden behind a bush near the bakery entrance. Although I was summoning my inner Clark Griswold, I had no wish to blow a fuse or overload the power grid.

I took a step back and marveled at how pretty the candy cane walkway looked. “See? I can do this,” I told Wellington, filling with pride. I gave him a pat on the head, then set to work on the bushes.

The old lighthouse had been landscaped with hardy boxwoods and thick bushy yews. Although they looked battered, as if they had weathered many storms as they stood firm against the length of the lighthouse, a cape of sparkling net lights transformed them into a vision of wonder.

“Wow,” I breathed aloud, clapping my near-frozen hands in delight. “What do you think? Magical, right?” But Welly wasn’t there. He was down by the walkway chewing on a giant candy cane light. Fear shot through me. They were plugged in! Seized by visions of an electrical explosion and singed dog fur, I let out a cry and ran after him.

“No! Bad dog!”

Wellington looked my way, thought it was a game, and ran with his prized candy cane clenched between his teeth. As he dashed for the light tower, the candy canes burst from the snow one by one, trailing in his wake.

After a stern talking-to, and after trying to make the chewed candy cane look a little less eaten, I painstakingly set them up again along the walkway. Clearly, Wellington couldn’t be trusted near them. He was put on a leash for safekeeping.

My fingers were beginning to freeze by the time I tackled the bright red awning that hung over the bakery window. Using the ladder for the first time, I was determined to finish the lights. Daylight had faded, the lights were rebelling, and Welly was whining at the end of his leash. I ignored it all to hang a strand of colorful lights in the shape of hard candies. I was nearly done when I began to hear things.

Unbeknownst to me when I had purchased the historic building, it was rumored to be haunted. I didn’t believe in ghosts at the time, feeling there was always a logical explanation for peculiar happenings. However, last spring I had a personal encounter with the lighthouse ghost, Captain Willy Riggs. He was the first light keeper of the Beacon Harbor Lighthouse, and, for reasons of his own, he never left. Some might find that unsettling, but Wellington and I rather liked the fact that the captain was still on duty, guarding the old lighthouse he loved.

Cold and exhausted as I was, I thought the captain might be speaking to me. On closer inspection, however, it was just the wind coming off the lake. Although Lake Michigan never froze completely, the shoreline was covered in wave-spume icicles. The ice tinkled and chimed with the undulating movement of the waves. The singsong cadence sounded more like a woman’s voice and not a man’s.

Ignoring everything, I reached out as far as I could, gingerly trying to secure the strand of lights at the corner of the awning. They kept falling off. Infuriated, I reached out again, hanging on with the tips of my frozen glove. That’s when the voice spoke loud and clear.

“Oooo, how lovely!”

Wellington barked. It wasn’t until the ladder toppled and I found myself trapped in a snow-covered bush that I realized tying Welly’s leash to the ladder might have been a mistake.

The concerned face of my dear friend, Betty Vanhoosen, peered down at me. Hers had been the voice I’d mistaken for the tinkling ice. And, quite frankly, I was happy to see her. Betty, in her early sixties, was one of Beacon Harbor’s most vivacious residents. She owned Harbor Realty, was president of the Chamber of Commerce, and was a shameless town gossip. She came to the bakeshop every morning before heading off to work, keeping me apprised of all the latest news. I reached out a gloved hand to her then I realized she hadn’t come alone. Giggling erupted before another face appeared, this one belonging to Felicity Stewart.

Embarrassed, I waved. “Mind helping me out?”

Felicity was another shop owner in Beacon Harbor. She was tall, willowy, married, and in her mid-forties. She also owned the first shop one saw when entering the town, a year-round Christmas shop called The Tannenbaum Shoppe. How she could summon Christmas cheer all year long was a mystery to me, but she did. My lighthouse bakery was on the opposite end of town, sitting watch over the harbor and the public beach. Between us were four whole blocks of shops and eateries, hotels and summer guesthouses.

She kept giggling. “You’re in a bush!”

My inner New Yorker would have sneered at her, snapping, “No duh, Sherlock!” But the new Lindsey, the kinder, bakery-owning Lindsey, choked down the insult. Instead I offered, “Thanks for noticing. Care to lend a hand?” Because I realized that I was stuck.

“Why would you tie Wellington’s leash to the ladder? Are you hurt? Have you hung all these lights yourself? You really should have waited for Rory to help you with these.” Betty, true to form, shot out every question sitting on her tongue before making a move to help me. Honestly, the fact that she thought I needed Rory’s help was a tad more annoying than the woodsy branches stabbing my ribs. Why did everybody feel I needed his help?

I propped myself up and tried to smile but grimaced instead. With labored breath, I offered, “He’s . . . ice fishing. In the U.P. I’ll make you both a steaming mug of cocoa if you get me out of here.”

While Betty and Felicity settled at a café table, I shrugged off my coat and jumped to the kitchen. There I took out a saucepan, fired up the stove, and measured out the right amount of cocoa and sugar. Next, I went to the fridge and took out a gallon of whole milk. I added three cups of the milk to the sugar/cocoa mix, stirring over a medium flame until everything was blended. While the cocoa was heating, I poured heavy whipping cream into the mixer, added a quarter cup of confectioners’ sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla, and turned it on. While the sweet cream was whipping up nicely, I pulled a bar of milk chocolate out of the cupboard and shaved a handful of chocolate curls. Adding a dash of cinnamon to the cocoa to boost the chocolate flavor, I was ready to divide the rich mixture into three mugs. Each was then topped with thick whipped cream and chocolate curls. Welly, although no help with the lights, got a dollop of whipped cream in a dish nonetheless.

“You really should have waited for Rory,” Betty remarked again, taking her mug. I had just shooed Welly into our living quarters, where I knew he’d curl up beside the fireplace until I locked up for the night. Betty continued, “You wouldn’t have landed in a bush if you had.” After a cautionary look, she took a sip of her cocoa. A smile of ecstasy came to her lips.

I felt like growling at her remark but refrained. Instead, I took a seat and followed suit, soothing my vitriol with a whipped cream–filled swig of warm cocoa. Waiting for my limbs to thaw and the sugar to take hold, I finally replied, “I have a lot of lights to hang and thought I’d get a jump on it, but point taken. Hanging them is definitely not as much fun as throwing the switch and watching them shine.”

Felicity, sporting a whipped cream mustache, set down her mug. “As your local Christmas aficionado, I approve your efforts. It’s about time this old lighthouse got a splash of holiday cheer. Imagine our surprise when we saw you fall into that bush!” She began to laugh again.

I didn’t need to imagine; I had lived it. Then, watching her ridiculous whipped cream mustache quiver on her upper lip, I began to laugh as well.

Betty was laughing at us both. Finally, she picked up her napkin. “Your lip, dear.” She pretended to dab her own lip.

“What?” Felicity brought a finger to the area in question, touched whipped cream, and stopped laughing. Embarrassed, she grabbed her napkin. “You put far too much whipped cream on your cocoa, Lindsey. At the Tannenbaum Shoppe, we serve our cocoa with marshmallows, which is the correct way. But I don’t expect you to know that. You own a bakery. You’re hardly a Christmas aficionado like me.” She curled her Christmas-red lips into a condescending smile.

I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. I didn’t know Felicity well, but I did know that she had a tendency to be tightly wound and was a bit full of herself. But did she really think she owned Christmas? Before I could chime in, defending my cocoa and my exterior illumination, Betty piped up.

“Why, there’s no right way to make hot cocoa, just as there’s no right way to celebrate Christmas. It’s a matter of traditions and preferences. Oooo, and speaking of Christmas traditions, have we got a surprise for you. Felicity and I were at the chamber meeting this afternoon.”

With all the excitement of the Christmas lights, I had forgotten all about the chamber meeting. The town was putting the finishing touches on the Christmas festival. It was a town-wide tradition and the largest Christmas celebration in the area. This year the theme was Christmas cookies, something I could really get behind. And, being new to the town, I had already volunteered to donate sixteen dozen for the celebration.

“We figured you were busy with the bakery.” Betty waved her hand at the empty bakery cases. “Without the help of an assistant baker, I really don’t know how you’re managing. That’s why we’ve come.”

Felicity pushed her mug of cocoa away and flashed a toothy smile. “It’s the best news. I went ahead and spearheaded a little campaign of my own to get even more foot traffic in our charming downtown shops and restaurants. And tonight, it was not only approved, it was applauded.”

Gripping my cocoa with both hands to get them warm, I tilted my head and looked at her. Without enthusiasm I uttered, “Wow. Applauded. So, what did you propose?”

“A Christmas cookie bake-off!” Betty’s excitement was barely containable. Obviously, due to a scathing look from Felicity, Betty wasn’t supposed to have dropped the news. But this was Betty’s town. Oblivious that she had stepped on Felicity’s toes, Betty added, “And we’re calling it The Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off.” She waved her hand in a lofty arc as she said this. “Do you get it? It’s a parody of that delightful British baking show on television. Isn’t it brilliant? The press release has already gone out, and the banners are being printed as we speak.”

My jaw dropped in question. Was I missing something? The Christmas Festival was only nine days away. “I understand that Christmas cookies are the theme this year, but when is this bake-off supposed to happen?”

“At the festival. I know it’s short notice,” Felicity soothed, patting my hand with her finely manicured one. Her nails were Christmas red, and her diamond ring was spectacular. She was obviously on Santa’s nice list, I mused a bit darkly. She gave my hand a firm squeeze. “You’re a baker, so I’m counting on you to enter the bake-off and help spread enthusiasm about this event.”

The mere thought of a Christmas cookie bake-off sent a new wave of sugarplum visions dancing through my head. My small exterior illumination blunder aside, which I blamed entirely on Wellington, I could almost taste victory. My family would be here to see me win. Rory would be here as well. I was positively electrified by the thought of pulling off a double holiday whammy—winning the first ever. . .