The Gingerbread Bump-Off Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Recipes

  Author’s Note

  Other Fresh-Baked Mysteries by Livia J. Washburn

  Cookie Crumbs . . .

  For a second, Phyllis thought that someone had rung her doorbell and then run off, the classic prank that neighborhood children used to play before they all became too ironic and postmodern for such innocent high jinks.

  Then she saw the dark, huddled shape lying on the front porch.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried as she threw open the storm door and rushed out past the giant wreath hung on the wooden door. The storm door bumped the person lying on the porch. Shards of shattered ceramic crunched under Phyllis’s feet. The glow from the white icicle lights washed over the crumpled shape, and the multihued lights on the decorations in the yard cast brilliantly colored slashes of illumination over the scene. Phyllis’s eyes widened in shock and horror as she gazed down at the body of a woman surrounded by the broken remains of the gingerbread man that had been dressed as Mrs. Claus.

  It took only a second for that ghastly sight to soak into her. Then she opened her mouth and screamed . . .

  PRAISE FOR THE FRESH-BAKED MYSTERIES

  “A delicious whodunit.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Delightful, [with a] realistic small-town vibe [and a] vibrant narrative . . . A Peach of a Murder runs the full range of emotions, so be prepared to laugh and cry with this one!”

  —Romance Readers Connection

  Other Fresh-Baked Mysteries by Livia J. Washburn

  The Pumpkin Muffin Murder

  Killer Crab Cakes

  The Christmas Cookie Killer

  Murder by the Slice

  A Peach of a Murder

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd. ) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2011

  Copyright © Livia J. Reasoner, 2011

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Washburn, L. J.

  The gingerbread bump-off: a fresh-baked mystery/Livia J. Washburn. p. cm.

  “An Obsidian mystery.”

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54577-5

  1. Newsom, Phyllis (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Retired teachers—Fiction. 3. Women—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Christmas stories. 5. Baking—Fiction. 6. Weatherford (Tex.)—Fiction. I. Title PS3573.A787G’.54—dc22 2011026920

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Maureen Johnson.

  Thanks for suggesting the Candlelight Tour.

  Chapter 1

  Phyllis Newsom lifted her head and frowned as she heard the unmistakable strains of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” drifting through the house.

  A baking sheet full of German chocolate cookies ready to go into the oven sat on the kitchen counter in front of her, but she left them sitting there as she walked out to the living room, wiping her hands on a towel as she went.

  Sam Fletcher stood in front of the stereo system that rested on a shelf next to the television. His hands were tucked in the hip pockets of his jeans, and his head moved slightly, in time with the music. He was tall and slender, in keeping with his background as a basketball player and coach, and although his rumpled thatch of hair had a lot more white in it now than gray, he still didn’t really look his age.

  “Sam,” Phyllis said, “you know I don’t really like that song. It just doesn’t seem very . . . Christmasy to me.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought with you out in the kitchen it might not bother you.” A smile spread across his rugged face. “I’ve got ‘Jingle Bells’ by the singin’ dogs, if that’d be better.”

  She was about to tell him that it wouldn’t be, when she realized that he was joking. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had almost fooled her, so she just waved a hand casually and said, “Play whatever you want. I really don’t care.”

  With that, she went back to the kitchen. By the time she got there, the music had stopped, as Sam had ejected the CD. A moment later, Nat King Cole started singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Phyllis smiled. That was one of her favorites.

  She looked down at the cookies on the baking sheet. The base was a dark chocolate cookie, each with a thumb-sized depression in the middle that Phyllis had filled with a mixture of German chocolate, grated coconut, and crushed pe
cans. The oven was ready, so she opened the door and slid the baking sheet onto the rack. If these cookies turned out well, she would make another batch. With any luck, this recipe would be her entry in the local newspaper’s annual Christmas cookie recipe contest.

  The past two years, Carolyn Wilbarger, who also lived in the big house in one of Weatherford’s tree-shaded old residential neighborhoods, had won that contest, with Phyllis finishing as runner-up both times. That was fine with Phyllis—she enjoyed just coming up with recipes and sharing them with people—but it might be nice to really give Carolyn a run for her money this year. Not that there was any money at stake, Phyllis reminded herself, only prestige, and she didn’t really care all that much about that, either. She had a good life here, with a lovely son, daughter-in-law, and grandson, and three good friends who were retired teachers, as she was, to share the house with her.

  But that comfortable, well-ordered life was about to be shaken up, and although she knew she ought to be happy about the circumstances, she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

  “Everyone, meet Roy Porter,” Eve Turner had said when she brought the silver-haired stranger to the house on Thanksgiving. “Roy and I are engaged. Do you believe it? We’re going to be married!”

  That news had been a bolt out of the blue. None of Eve’s housemates had had any idea she was seeing anyone. It shouldn’t have been that surprising. Eve had been married several times before and always had her eye out for an eligible bachelor of the proper age. She had even pursued Sam for a while after he moved into the house to rent one of the vacant rooms. But she certainly had been more discreet about her courtship this time.

  “We met on the Facebook,” Eve had explained. “It turns out we have mutual friends. We started writing on each other’s door—”

  “Wall, dear,” Roy had corrected gently.

  “On each other’s wall,” Eve went on, “and, well, one thing led to another.”

  With Eve it usually did, given half a chance.

  Thanksgiving hadn’t necessarily been the best time to break the news of an engagement, but to be fair, when Eve and Roy came in, Eve didn’t know that Phyllis had just solved one murder and prevented several more from occurring. That had turned out to be a very busy Thanksgiving, indeed.

  Now Christmas was coming up, but before then, a bridal shower on Christmas Eve, to be followed by the wedding itself on New Year’s Eve. An abundance of Eves, including the bride, Phyllis thought as she stood there in front of the oven for a long moment, thinking about everything that was going on this holiday season.

  “Well,” she said aloud, “at least nothing else—”

  “Don’t say it,” Sam interrupted sharply from behind her.

  She turned her head to look at him. “Don’t say what?”

  “You were about to say that with all you’ve got goin’ already this year, at least nothin’ else can happen,” Sam said in a warning tone. “Don’t you know that’s the surest way to jinx things?”

  “Oh, goodness gracious. I’m not superstitious. Anyway, you just said it.”

  “Yeah, but that’s all right. I can say things like that without all heck breakin’ loose. You’re the one who can’t.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Sam shook his head. “Fair’s got nothin’ to do with it,” he said with a solemn expression on his face. “It’s just the way the cosmos is. Some folks seem to attract trouble to start with. You don’t want to go makin’ the odds even worse.”

  “Well, that’s just silly.”

  But despite what she said, Phyllis had to wonder whether there might not be something to Sam’s idea. There had to be some explanation for why she seemed to keep getting mixed up in murder cases these past few years.

  That thought was going through her head when the doorbell rang.

  Sam spread his hands. “See? There you go. Trouble at the door.”

  “Oh, hush,” Phyllis said. She took her apron off and thrust it into his hands as she went past him. “Keep an eye on those cookies. Don’t let them burn.”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t know anything about bakin’ cookies—”

  “Take them out if they start to burn,” Phyllis told him over her shoulder.

  “But . . . they’re chocolate. How will I know?” Sam asked as Phyllis went out of the kitchen and up the hall to the living room.

  She patted her graying brown hair to make sure it was in place as she went to the front door. It was the middle of the afternoon and she wasn’t expecting anyone. Her son, Mike, who was a Parker County deputy sheriff, dropped by unexpectedly sometimes, and so did Mike’s wife, Sarah. Carolyn was out somewhere, and so was Eve. Neither of them would have rung the doorbell anyway. This big old house was their home now.

  When Phyllis looked out one of the narrow windows that flanked the door, she saw that the visitor wasn’t family or one of her housemates. Definitely a friend, though. She opened the door, smiled, and said, “Hello, Georgia. Please, come in. What brings you here?”

  December weather in this part of Texas could range anywhere from summerlike heat to snowstorms and wind chills well below zero. Today was on the warm side, but the air still had a pleasant crispness to it that came into the house with Georgia Hallerbee.

  Georgia was what people once called “a handsome woman.” She was about Phyllis’s height, and well shaped despite her age. Her hair was dark brown, and she insisted she didn’t color it. Phyllis believed her. Georgia wore a dark blue skirt and a matching blazer over a white blouse. She was an accountant and tax consultant and was also very active in civic affairs.

  “How are you, Phyllis?” she asked as Phyllis closed the door behind her.

  “I’m fine. How are you?” They had known each other for at least ten years, and while they had never been close friends, Phyllis was always glad to see Georgia.

  “Busy, as always,” Georgia replied with a smile and a sweet drawl in her voice. She wasn’t a native Texan, having grown up somewhere in the Deep South, possibly even the state that bore the same name as she did. Phyllis didn’t know about that.

  She ushered the visitor into the living room and said, “Have a seat.” As Georgia sat down on the sofa, Phyllis stepped over to the stereo to turn off the CD.

  “Oh, let it play,” Georgia said. “Don’t turn it off on my account. I love Christmas music.”

  “So do I.” Phyllis settled for turning down the music to a level that wouldn’t interfere with their conversation. She sank into one of the armchairs and went on, “What can I do for you?”

  “Maybe I just came by to visit,” Georgia said.

  Phyllis shook her head. “You said it yourself. You’re one of the busiest women I know. You’re always up to your elbows in some project or other.”

  Georgia smiled and tilted her head. “You know me too well,” she said. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you. You may know that I’m in charge of the Jingle Bell Tour this year.”

  The Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes was an annual tradition in Weatherford, and in many other Texas towns, for that matter. Each holiday season, a dozen or so homes would be selected and beautifully decorated—some might even say extravagantly decorated—both inside and out. Then, on one night a few weeks before Christmas, people could pay a small fee to go on a tour of these houses, with the proceeds going to one of the local civic organizations. There would be caroling, hot cider, and snacks at the homes on the tour, and it was a gala evening for everyone concerned . . . except perhaps for the homeowners, who had to go to the trouble of decorating and then opening their homes to the public.

  “I did know that,” Phyllis said. “I’m looking forward to it, as always. There are such beautiful decorations every year.”

  “Yes, there are,” Georgia agreed. “And I’m hoping you can give me a hand this year.”

  “You mean in organizing the tour? I assumed all that was done already—”

  “It was. Or at least, it was supposed to be. But this year we have
a . . . situation.”

  Phyllis frowned slightly. “Whenever someone says ‘situation’ like that, they’re usually not talking about anything good.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Georgia said with a sigh. “One of the homeowners had to drop out. Doris Treadwell was diagnosed with cancer yesterday.”

  “Oh, no.” Phyllis recognized the name but didn’t actually know Doris Treadwell. Still, it was a terrible thing to hear about anyone, especially at this time of year, when everything was supposed to be festive.

  Georgia nodded. “She’ll be starting chemo right away, and then radiation, of course. And naturally she’s not going to feel like participating in the tour.”

  “Of course not,” Phyllis said. An uneasy suspicion stirred in the back of her mind. “But you’re not asking me to—”

  “To take her place, yes,” Georgia said, nodding. “We’d like for this lovely old house of yours to be part of the Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes this year.”

  Phyllis sat back, surprised and unsure of what to say. Georgia was asking her to take on a big responsibility on short notice. Plus there was the notion of allowing strangers to troop through her house, and with the bridal shower to get ready for . . .

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Sam said from the door between the living room and the foyer. “I hate to interrupt, Phyllis, but those cookies are startin’ to smell a little like they might be gettin’ done . . .”

  Phyllis got to her feet. “I’m sorry, Georgia, I really need to check on that.”

  “Of course—go right ahead. I wouldn’t want to be to blame for ruining a batch of Phyllis Newsom’s cookies.”

  On her way out of the living room, Phyllis fluttered a hand in Sam’s direction and said, “I don’t know if you two have met . . . Georgia, this is my friend Sam Fletcher . . . Sam, Georgia Hallerbee.”

  Sam nodded, smiled, and said, “Pleased to meet you,” then followed Phyllis down the hall to the kitchen.