Free Menace in Christmas River (Christmas River 8) by Meg Muldoon Page A

then paused for a long moment, as if deep in thought.
    She cleared her throat.
    “I’ll see you on the stage at 12:30, Ms. Peters,” she said. “That is, if I don’t totally lose my mind before then.”
    I smiled warmly, surprised by her attempt at humor.
    She turned and walked away toward the front doors of the auditorium, moving quicker than a sparrow in a lightning storm.
     

 
    Chapter 16
     
    It was a miracle, but somehow despite the treacherous conditions of the roads and the parking lot, just about every contestant had made it to the auditorium with their chocolate masterpieces intact.
    And as I strolled through the circular space, watching as serious-looking competitors in chef’s bibs and tall white hats set up their sweet creations, I felt my heart lift a little bit and some of the stress from earlier in the day leave me.
    There were swirly hearts, playful cupids, towering chapels, graceful swans, entwined wedding rings, dancing musical notes, and elegant figures ice skating along glassy rinks.
    All of these things had been expertly crafted out of white, dark, and milk chocolate , dyed in a variety of rich and aesthetically-pleasing colors.  
    I was astounded beyond words at the beautiful sculptures taking shape in the auditorium around me. There were some true masterpieces in the mix. I realized that I’d been spending far too much time embroiled in the politics of the Chocolate Championship and had been missing out on the big picture altogether. 
    I suddenly felt very glad to be at the event, and to have a chance to see such beautiful demonstrations of culinary artistry.
    “Well, I guess they let just anybody into this event,” a hearty, familiar voice said.
    I smiled and turned around, already knowing who was standing there.
    “Well I guess you would know, wouldn’t you?” I shot back.
    That sent the big man reeling into one of his hallmark wheezing laughing fits that just about every resident of Christmas River had heard at one time or another.
    Marty Higgins – the town’s premiere handyman, who I had called many a time whenever one of the ovens was on the fritz or the water pressure went haywire – stood there stroking his long grey beard, his eyes full-on twinkling.
    “I guess you’re right, Mrs. Brightman,” he said. “I’m not one to talk.”
    I leaned forward and gave the pudgy man a big hug, minding the tool belt circling his waist that held among other things a rather bulky hammer.
    He chuckled, his big body reverberating heartily.
    “And here I thought you’d gotten too good to give old Marty a hug, what with you being such a celebrity now.”
    I pulled away, slapping his back as I did.
    “Never, Marty,” I said, grinning.
    In his mid-fifties, Marty was the epitome of politeness, good cheer, and generosity. Additionally, the man loved pie. Meaning that sometimes in the past, he had let me pay him in Blueberry Cinnamon whenever I needed something fixed at the shop.
    “Are you here for work or leisure?” I asked.
    Marty was often called in during city events like the Gingerbread Junction – where I had first met him twenty years ago.
    “Work, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m here to assist should any of the contestants need a hand during set up.”
    He paused for a moment, then smiled.
    “‘Course, just because I’m working don’t mean I can’t have some fun too, am I right?”
    He let out a deep-throated chuckle, then tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
    “Say, I’m glad I ran into you here, because there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Cin,” he said, crossing his arms over his large gut and leaning back on his heels.
    “Shoot,” I said.
    “Did you put something special into that Mocha Pecan Pie of yours this past Christmas?”
    “Nothing that I don’t normally,” I said, shrugging.
    “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “The wife and I could have sworn there was a little magic in that pie. Best damn pecan pie I’ve ever had. And that’s not an