Date: 2018-10-26 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Vacant Lot Publishing

Midnight in Christmas River

A Christmas Cozy Mystery

With recipes!

by

Meg Muldoon

Published by Vacant Lot Publishing

Copyright 2018© by Meg Muldoon

All rights reserved. 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.

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

The Meg Muldoon Collection

The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Series

Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 3)

Malice in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 4)

Mischief in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 5)

Manic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 6)

Magic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 7)

Menace in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 8)

Missing in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 9)

Meltdown in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 10)

Midnight in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 11)

Mistake in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 12)

The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Novella Series

Roasted in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 1)

Caught in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 2)

Crushed in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 3)

The Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series

Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 1)

Busted in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 2)

The Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series

Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

Bulldogs & Bullets: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

The Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery Series

The Silence of the Elves: A Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

The Broomfield Bay Mystery Series (with Jools Sinclair)

Ginger of the West: A Witches of Broomfield Bay Mystery (Book 1)

Acknowledgement

Thanks so much to my readers, and in particular, to those of you who have joined my Cozy Lodge Club. You guys have been absolutely amazing and I can’t express how much I appreciate your encouragement and support! This book would not have existed without your invaluable motivation.

I would like to especially thank Phyllis May, Cheryl Shoup, Helen Edwards, Amanda C., Chip Capelli, Carol Schmidt, and Mindy Kelly. I’m so grateful for your generosity, kindness, and enthusiasm for Christmas River! Additionally, a huge thanks to Cassandra and Wendy!

With love and gratitude, Meg.

Midnight in Christmas River
by Meg Muldoon

PROLOGUE

A Note to My Readers

Since I started writing cozy mysteries six years ago, I’ve learned that most books take months upon months of work to get right. But other times, when inspiration strikes, some books unfold just as easily as a favorite cozy sweater on a chilly October day.

I had only planned on releasing one Christmas River Cozy Mystery this year (Mistake in Christmas River), but then as if by some sort of magic, the mystery you’re about to read unpacked itself in less than a month, and I knew I had no choice but to release it as a full-length installment in the series.

This means that I’ve done a little rearranging in the series order. This book — Midnight in Christmas River — is now Book 11, and the following one — Mistake in Christmas River (which is coming out this holiday season) is going to be Book 12.

The book that you’re now reading is a standalone novel and does not take place chronologically in the series. I view it as a sort of light-hearted, enjoyable intermission before we get to the much more intense mystery featured in Mistake in Christmas River. If you’re waiting on some plot points from the last book to be addressed, you can rest assured that they will be in Mistake in Christmas River! Meanwhile, this installment is all about fun mystery, good pie, and autumn chills.

And speaking of that, just as a minor warning: this book contains a few spooky elements that could potentially be frightening for some readers. It is still very much a cozy mystery and there is nothing gory or offensive in this story, but just in case you’re prone to getting scared I wanted to give you a heads-up! I love a good spooky story this time of the year, and if you do, too, then I think you’ll really love this new mystery.

Thank you so much, readers! I hope you enjoy this latest chapter in Cinnamon’s story!! Look for Mistake in Christmas River (Book 12) coming later this fall!

Sincerely,

Meg Muldoon

Chapter 1

“When it was over, there was nothing but bones and ash and lost memories at the bottom of Moss Head Lake.”

Ashcroft Black gazed up from the podium, scanning over the faces of his transfixed audience. He let the pause drag out into a long silence, his troubled eyes probing the people sitting in the front row as if he was searching their very souls.

When he spoke again, he was no longer reading off of the hardback book on the podium, knowing the next few words by heart.

“And in the end, there was nothing to remind anyone of lovely Lorna Larimer but the old locket hanging from the gnarled branch of the maple tree, swinging in the ragged October wind.”

The room fell under a silence so deep, the faint sound of Meadow Plaza’s clock chiming on the other side of downtown could be heard.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up on end, and goosebumps ran roughshod over my skin as the hush dragged on like a dead body.

For a moment, I could have sworn that besides the chimes of the clock, I heard something else: the lonesome sobs of poor Lorna Larimer herself echoing down the aisles of the small bookstore. Crying over her lost love. Over her unlived life. Over the cruel brutality of her death. Over—

“Thwack!”

Ashcroft Black slammed the book in front of him shut like he was swatting a blood-sucking mosquito.

I let out a gasp, my feet lifting off the ground. When my heart finally started beating again, I glanced around, worried that someone had seen me go into orbit.

Nervous, startled laughter echoed throughout the room, and I gathered I wasn’t the only one who’d found themselves airborne following Ashcroft Black’s dramatic ending to the reading.

Clapping boomed throughout the bookstore. A flood of hoots and hollers from the sizeable audience followed.

“Oh, what an absolute master of the genre.” Mavis Needleman’s voice rose over the deafening applause. “The Prince of Horror, ladies and gentlemen! The Prince of Horror!”

People stood up from their chairs and the applause thundered throughout the small store. Ashcroft Black nodded in acknowledgement, but his bearded face remained unchanged and stoic. His sharp gray eyes were about as friendly as a stone wall.

“The latest entry in the Sheriff Lane Graves series is called The Lady in the Glass,” Mavis said, holding up the book Ashcroft had been reading from for everyone to see. “Hot off the presses, it’s available for $24.99 here at The Holly Avenue Bookstore. The other five titles in the series are also available for purchase in either hardback or paperback form. Just come on down to the cash register and buy the whole lot. I promise — you’ll be glad you did.”

Mavis, the middle-aged owner of the bookstore, wiped at a bead of sweat trickling down the side of her face as she spoke.

Maybe it was all the people who had turned out to see Ashcroft Black that had caused the temperature to soar, or maybe Mavis had turned the heater up to counteract the chilly weather outside. But either way, the place felt like a greenhouse and I’d found myself tugging at my black cowl neck sweater several times throughout the reading.

“Mr. Black will now sign copies of his latest book in the back by the refreshments table,” Mavis continued, nodding in my direction. “But he only has fifteen minutes before he has to leave, so please be considerate of your fellow readers and don’t take up too much of his time.”

At that, people shot up out of their metal chairs and headed for the designated table, elbowing their way for a good spot in line.

Mavis shook Ashcroft’s hand as if he was a conquering hero returned home.

“Mr. Black, thank you so much for visiting The Holly Avenue Bookstore. We rarely get visits from royalty here in Christmas River. It’s been a true honor.”

The Prince of Horror — as he was known in the literary world — said nothing in response to that, and I wasn’t even sure if he heard her. He just clutched the silver handle of his cane, his steel eyes settling on the long line forming at the signing table.

When Mavis had called me a month earlier, asking if I could supply pies and treats for the Ashcroft Black book signing in mid-October, I’d expected that it would be a lot of work. Like she’d just said — Christmas River didn’t see authors of Ashcroft Black’s status very often, and I knew the event would draw people from all over Central Oregon.

But it seemed that I had only been half right. Yes — it was crowded. But I’d hardly had to lift a finger the whole time. Apparently, the book lovers who had flooded Mavis’s shop that afternoon weren’t hungry for Pumpkin Gingersnap bars or Sour Cream Apple turnovers or even cider — they were hungry for Ashcroft Black’s macabre books. And more than that, they were salivating over a scribble of his pen and a chance to speak with him.

I leaned against the back wall, watching in amusement as the line formed and several people near the front jostled for pole position. Then I eyed the untouched plate of Sour Cream Apple turnovers on the refreshment table in front of me.

The sugary turnovers had been whispering sweet nothings to me the entire reading, tempting me with their fall-steeped flavor and rich creaminess. Beckoning me into a blissful calorie trap that more or less would cancel out all the effort I’d put into my fast trail walk with the pooches earlier that morning.

My stomach let out a low grumble.

And then another.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I reached forward, grabbed the biggest turnover, and unceremoniously stuffed it into my mouth.

The treats delivered everything they promised and more. Luscious, decadent, and oh-so-flavorful, I was already contemplating a second one the moment I bit into it—

“May I have one of those?”

I looked up mid-chew to see the imposing frame of Ashcroft Black standing there in front of the refreshment table.

“Oh, of…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence.

There was so much pastry in my mouth, my voice came out like my lungs were made of cotton candy.

Reindeers in Rhode Island. I must have looked like a squirrel packing away nuts for winter. Which would have been embarrassing if it had been my grandfather standing there, let alone a New York Times best-selling author.

I smiled sheepishly, trying to chew and swallow so I could speak.

“Of course,” I finally managed to spit out — spit being the operative word.

By then it was too late — I could tell by the distant, judgmental expression in those steel eyes of his that I’d lost all respectability.

The horror author stared at me for a long minute. Then, without another word, he reached for a turnover, placed it delicately on a napkin, and moved over to the table where the long line of readers waited for him.

Leaving me to finish chewing the rest of my own turnover, which in truth, tasted a little less delicious when you were dying a slow, painful death by embarrassment.

Chapter 2

I washed the treat down with a small cup of cider, decided to forgo a second turnover, and watched as Ashcroft Black took a seat and began signing books. People in line stood on their tiptoes, craning their necks and speaking in nervous anticipation as they waited to meet the esteemed author.

I wasn’t much for horror novels, and though I’d heard of Ashcroft Black — you’d have to be living under a rock to not have — I’d never read any of his books. However, after hearing him read the excerpt from his latest novel just now, I wondered if I hadn’t been missing out all this time. It was clear that the man had a way with words and a flair for drama. I’d heard him billed as the next Stephen King, and after listening to him read today, I now saw why.

“Marvelous, isn’t he?”

Mavis came up to my elbow, following my gaze.

“He’s something, alright,” I said, rubbing my arms. “I nearly jumped out of my skin when he slammed the book shut.”

Mavis smiled, tugging absentmindedly at her earrings, which were small resin pendants of the book cover for “Crime & Punishment.”

Mavis had a quirky, no-holds-barred librarian style like that. She wore crazy printed skirts and cardigans that often involved cats or books or goats wearing glasses. In a town where most people kept to a flannel uniform, Mavis’s fashion choices garnered a lot of attention.

It was something I appreciated about her. Small towns needed people who marched to the beat of their own drum as much as anywhere else did.

“I’ve seen YouTube videos of Ashcroft before, so I knew that he usually ends his readings by slamming the book like that,” she said. “The whole time, I knew that it was coming. But I have to admit — I jumped along with everybody else in the audience when he did it.”

Her ruby-stained lips spread into a funny little smile, and I let out a laugh.

“I guess that’s why they call him the Prince of Horror,” she added.

Though Mavis had owned the Holly Avenue Bookstore for two decades now, I didn’t know her all that well. I supposed running a pie shop meant that I didn’t have much time for reading, and I hardly ever got a chance to visit her cozy little bookstore. But being here now, I could see why the store had developed such a loyal following and managed to stay afloat in the wake of big online retailers killing the independent bookseller industry. The Holly Avenue Bookstore might not have had the selection or low prices of an Amazon, but it did have plenty of charm. The space was warm, decorated with strands of Edison light bulbs and peppered with big, comfy furniture. There was even a small coffee bar at the back of the store where readers were welcome to pour themselves big mugs of quality joe for free as they read and decided which books they wanted to buy.

It was that generous, warm spirit that had kept Mavis in business all of these years here in Christmas River. And I imagined it had something to do with the reason why Ashcroft Black decided to hold a reading at the Holly Avenue Bookstore in the first place. It was a widely known fact that he rarely did public readings outside of his official book tours, let alone readings in towns this small.

Of course, there were also rumors that Ashcroft was taking up residence here in Christmas River for the fall to work on his next book, which may have accounted for why he decided to hold a reading here.

“I feel as though I must apologize, Cinnamon,” Mavis said, watching as Betty Sunderly — the president of the Ladies of Christmas River Book Club — crossed her arms and let out a loud “Ahem!” when the man in front of her continued to carry on a conversation with Ashcroft. “I hope I didn’t waste your time. You made all of these delicious treats but it looks like everyone’s too busy trying to get their moment with a New York Times best-selling author to notice.”

I shrugged.

I supposed it was a testament to the kind of frenzy that Ashcroft could stir up when he was more popular than apple and pumpkin sweets.

“I’m sure they’ll make their way over here once they get their books signed,” I said, watching as Betty nudged the talkative man in front of her out of the way to get to Ashcroft.

“Well, regardless, thank you so much for helping with this, Cinnamon,” Mavis said.

She rummaged around in the pocket of her cat-with-glasses printed skirt and fished out a folded check. Then she reached across to a nearby shelf and grabbed a book. She handed both to me.

“Here’s the amount we agreed on. And I’d also like you to have a copy of Mr. Black’s latest novel. On the house.”

The check I gladly took, but I hesitated before grabbing the book.

“Uh, you know… I appreciate that, but I think I’m okay,” I said. “Don’t tell anybody here, but I don’t really like horror novels.”

Mavis smiled, seemingly unfazed.

“Oh, neither did I until I started reading these, hon,” she said, shoving the book into my hands. “But just trust me. This isn’t your typical horror series.”

It seemed as though I had no choice.

I took the hardback, glancing down at the abstract cover — a row of bare maple trees illuminated by a swollen orange moon.

“All right. I’ll give it a try. Thanks, Mavis.”

The bookstore owner smiled knowingly and winked at me before going back to the cash register, where a new line of readers wanting to buy more books had formed.

By the end of the event, Mavis had sold out of every Ashcroft Black novel in her quaint store.

Chapter 3

Sheriff Lane Graves stood at the edge of the lake, watching the first rays of a cold metal dawn ripple across the glassy waters. The bitter October air filled his lungs, smelling of damp earth and mildew and dead things churning back into soil.

The scent reminded him of Octobers past in the sleepy town of Cave Creek. Of the days before the accident, before his Maggie’s demise, before the curse. An innocent time when he didn’t know the dark world that lay beneath.

There were days when he actually used to smile. And now, as he remembered that, he could feel the ache of that phantom pain in his face. In the muscles that now only knew the heavy pull of a perpetual grimace.

Perhaps it was his thoughts of Maggie, of her death, that drew the spirit to his side that morning by Moss Head Lake.

Even before he saw her lanky, mangled figure, he felt Lorna Larimer’s presence.

When one of them appeared, it was as if the very air itself buckled. Like the way a mattress sagged under the weight of a broken-hearted lover.

Sheriff Graves felt the air buckling now behind him, and that was how he knew — how he knew that her spirit was here.

She had come to speak to him.

To ask for justice.

And if need be, for revenge—

“How was the book signing event earlier, Cin—”

“Ahh!”

Ashcroft Black’s book slipped out of my hands and for the second time that day, I grazed the ceiling.

“Mrs. Claus in Maine, Kara!” I said when I’d come back down. “You scared me half to death!”

I spun around to look at her, startled, but glad that it was my best friend and not the ghoulish spirit of a vengeful murder victim standing behind me.

Kara’s face was fixed in a confused, worried expression, as if she was truly concerned she’d caused some sort of harm.

After a moment, she removed the nutmeg-colored scarf from around her neck and set it on the counter. She reached down and picked the book up from off the ground.

“Judging from this, I take it the event went well,” she said, studying the cover of The Lady in the Glass. “I’m surprised, Cin. I didn’t take you for a horror fan.”

“I’m not… usually,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck — the hair was still standing up. “But Mavis gave me a free copy and… I guess I had trouble putting it down.”

It was probably foolish of me to do such a thing, considering that I was all by myself in the pie shop and it was the perfect October evening for getting the bejeebers spooked out of you.

It was a cold, frosty night, and outside, a stiff mountain breeze was shaking the wind chimes and scraping dried, crinkly leaves across the quaint downtown streets of Christmas River. A swollen crescent moon hung low in the sky. The pungent aroma from leaf fires tainted the air, the smell drifting into the shop every now and then.

Picking up that book on a night like this was just asking for trouble.

But when I’d finished making up a batch of Pumpkin Gingersnap pies and tossed them in the oven, I’d found that the book — which had just been sitting on the counter all afternoon — was impossible not to crack open and start reading. And once I did that, it was like my hands were glued to it. I couldn’t put the novel down.

Like I said — Ashcroft Black had a way with words and he had a gift for being able to paint crystal clear images in a reader’s mind. It was like some sort of magic — Ashcroft seemed to have the ability to conjure whole worlds using only ink and dull white pages.

Kara took a seat on one of the barstools.

“Jeez, I really wish I could have made it to the reading today,” she mumbled, eyeing the book’s back cover — which featured a large portrait shot of Ashcroft.

Kara hadn’t been able to go because there’d been a large delivery at her ornament shop that afternoon, and she’d needed to be there to sign for it. The last delivery had been full of broken ornaments, and Kara wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again.

“It’s not like I’m really even into horror, either,” she continued. “But I would have loved to hear about Ashcroft’s writing process. He’s so prolific — I have no idea how he does it.”

Kara, a budding romance writer on the side, gazed starry-eyed for a long moment into nothing as the oven timer went off.

I grabbed the pair of mitts off the counter and opened the door. A wave of sugary pumpkin-spiked air hit me, and for a moment, I closed my eyes and breathed in deep.

There was nothing quite like pumpkin pie, and more than that, there was nothing quite like pumpkin pie on a frosty, windy night in October.

I pulled out the pan, setting it down on the marble countertop. Then I slid off the oven mitts.

“Well, if the rumors are true about Ashcroft Black staying here in Christmas River to write his next book, then you still might get a chance to ask him about his writing process,” I said.

“Do you think they are? I mean, the rumors being true?”

“That’s what Gertrude Olson said, and she’s turned out to be a pretty reliable gossip. She said Ashcroft leased the Juniper Hollow Cabin through the winter.”

Kara’s face scrunched up.

“Juniper Hollow? Ugh, you couldn’t pay me to stay in that old place,” she said. “I don’t care how nice they say it is now.”

She shivered visibly and rubbed her arms.

The Juniper Hollow Cabin was a former hunting lodge on the way up to the mountains that had catered to well-to-do hunters back in the 1970s. The place eventually shut down after its owner fell into financial ruin, and the cabin remained abandoned for several decades until it was purchased by a couple in the late 90s. The new owners recently renovated the place, and these days, it served as a popular vacation rental that went for a rather steep price per night.

But for all its upscale finishes, the owners couldn’t quite seem to dispel the cabin’s less than savory reputation. Rumors about the old lodge being haunted had plagued the property for decades. People said a hunting accident had taken place not too far from the cabin in the 70s, and that they had brought the injured hunter back to the lodge where he died before help could come.

People said his spirit still lingered there to this day.

People also said the accident hadn’t been an accident at all. That it was his friend who shot him on purpose that day over a woman. And that was why his spirit never found any rest.

Of course, all these stories had been circulating so long in Christmas River it was hard to tell anymore where reality began and where the legend took over.

“Creepy…” Kara said, shaking her head.

“So you think it’s really haunted?”

“Oh, I don’t know about any of that,” she said. “But what I do know is that there’s got to be tons of spiders up there this time of year. Spiders and bats and who knows what else.”

She rubbed her arms again.

“Ewww…”

I smiled.

I supposed that when it came to that old cabin, our priorities differed some.

“Anyway, if Ashcroft is actually staying there, maybe you’ll still have a chance to meet him if he comes into town. He’s a hard man to miss.”

I held up the book, studying the photo of Ashcroft on the back. There was that same indifferent look in his eyes in the photo. He was dressed in an Irish wool sweater which, combined with his dark beard, made him look like a sea captain. The look gave him an aura of someone much older than his 39 years.

“Yep — if that’s how he dresses, he’ll stick out like a palm tree in a row of Douglas fir here in Christmas River,” Kara said, looking over my shoulder at the photo. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for him. And anyway, maybe I’ll luck out. Maybe he’ll wander into my shop one of these days.”

I nodded in agreement but secretly thought there was a slim chance of that happening. Ashcroft didn’t strike me as the sentimental type.

“Speaking of the shop, I really ought to get back and close up,” Kara said. “I’ve got to pick Laila up from Edna’s soon. It’s bingo night, you know. John’s coming home late and—”

She stopped speaking, her eyes drifting over to the freshly baked pumpkin pies cooling on the counter.

“Pumpkins in Prague, those look good.”

“Yeah. They just came out of the oven though. Still too hot to eat.”

Her expression did a little avalanche tumble when I said those words.

Eleven months out of the year, Kara Billings was a lover of all things lemon-flavored. But the month of October, all that changed when pumpkin treats came back into fashion.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” she said, standing up and collecting her scarf off the table in a sad, dejected kind of way.

I smiled, heading over to the fridge. I rifled around until I found the Pumpkin Gingersnap pie I’d made earlier and set aside on the off chance that Kara stopped by today.

I came back over with it and a bowl of freshly whipped cream.

Her eyes lit up when she saw it, and she sank back down into the barstool with obvious glee.

“Oh, Cin. You know me so well.”

I grabbed a knife and carved out a big, generous slice.

“I ought to after all this time,” I said, smiling.

Chapter 4

“Wait, a sec… that’s not accurate. No way would he go in there alone without backup. That’s the very first thing you learn at the police academy.”

I stopped reading, lowering my glasses and shooting Daniel a sharp look. He was lying in bed next to me. His fingers were laced behind the back of his head as he stared up at the ceiling and listened to me read a chapter from The Lady in the Glass — I still hadn’t been able to put it down.

“That entire horrifying scene with the ghost and the storm and the premonition, and all you can say is that it’s not accurate?”

Daniel shrugged, looking over at me.

“What can I say? I’m a stickler for the truth. I know it’s fiction, but it’s hard to buy into any of it with an error that obvious.”

He let out a long yawn.

“And anyway, I didn’t really find any of it all that horrifying. I mean — I’ll hand it to the guy. He’s a good writer. But I don’t know… all that ghostly business? It seems like a lot of nonsense to me.”

I reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the cup of hot salted caramel cocoa I’d just made, and took a long sip. Then I raised an eyebrow at my husband.

“Nonsense? Forty-five percent of Americans believe in ghosts. Did you know that?”

Ashcroft had said the line earlier to the audience before his reading, and I was only regurgitating it now. But it seemed like a convincing enough fact.

“So?” Daniel said.

“So a lot of people find this stuff scary,” I said. “Myself included.”

I set the hot chocolate down on the nightstand and then stared at the flames crackling in our bedroom fireplace. It was nice being inside by a fire on a night like this. Every once in a while, a stiff wind would blow outside, causing the fire to flicker and shoot embers up into the chimney.

“Are you saying you really believe in ghosts, Cin?” Daniel asked, turning toward me and propping his head up on the palm of his hand.

I looked down at the book for a long moment.

“I think things happen sometimes that can’t be explained,” I finally said. “I’ve had a few moments like that before.”

I trailed off, remembering a cold, windy night just like this over twenty years earlier. It had been a few weeks after my mom’s funeral. I’d woken up from a bad dream, scared and alone in my bedroom. And I swore that in the darkness of that night, I heard my mom’s voice saying my name softly, almost like a lullaby.

In the daylight, I’d explained the moment away as something that had been part of the dream. But sometimes, when I thought about it late at night, I wasn’t so sure if it had been a dream at all.

I glanced over at Daniel, who seemed to be deep in thought.

“You’ve never had anything inexplicable happen to you?” I asked.

He shook his head immediately as if he’d expected the question.

“Nope. Can’t say that I have.”

He gazed into the fire for a second.

“I’m not completely close-minded about ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call ‘em, Cin. But I’d hate to think what Ashcroft Black writes is anything but fiction. It seems like murder victims suffer enough without having to become ghoulish spirits wandering the earth for all eternity until someone avenges them.”

He let out a short sigh, looking up at the ceiling.

“Just wouldn’t seem fair.”

A wicked gust caused the boards of the house to creak loudly. A shiver ran through me.

Huckleberry, who was sleeping at the edge of the bed, lifted his head and looked at us sleepy-eyed for a long minute, as if we were responsible for the noise.

I patted the dog on the back, letting him know it was okay.

He let out a big, exhausted sigh before letting his head drop again into the soft folds of the comforter.

I smiled at the silly pooch.

Daniel gently took the book out of my hands, placed the aspen leaf I’d been using for a bookmark between the pages, and set it aside on his nightstand.

“I say it’s too spooky of a night to be reading this kind of stuff, darlin,’” he said. “What do you think?”

I wiggled under the covers, moving closer to him.

“You know — my fingers were getting cold from turning those pages, anyway.”

He reached over, grabbing my hands and rubbing them between his.

“Come here and let me warm you up.”

A serene feeling came over me as I gazed into his loving green eyes, listening to the fire crackling and the sound of the dogs peacefully snoring.

“Word on the street is that you’ve got a new fall pie in the works these days,” he said. “Something about maple or another?”

“Word sure travels fast in this town.”

“Only when there’s something worth talking about. Now, give me the rundown on this new one of yours, Cin. Is it a chess pie? You pairing some fruit with this maple, or is it chocolate?”

“If you’re that curious, I’ll bring you a slice tomorrow,” I said.

“My fiery pie baking beauty — I thought you’d never ask.”

I let out a laugh, holding him tighter as another stiff breeze howled against the house.

“I swear, Daniel Brightman. Some days I wonder if you married me for me or for my pies.”

“I’d think the answer to that is obvious,” Daniel said.

“Let me hear it anyway.”

“Fine. If you insist, Cin, I married you for—”

Daniel stopped speaking and looked up at the ceiling, as if truly contemplating the question.

He rubbed his beard.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I did marry you for—”

I pushed his shoulder playfully before he could finish the sentence, knowing by the goofy expression on his face that he was planning on teasing me some.

“Daniel Brightman!”

He reached forward, wrapping his arms around my waist, giving me a rakish smile.

“I’m just playing with you, Cin. You know the real reason I married you. Because I couldn’t live another day without you as my wife. Because you set my soul on fire. Because I’d be a pile of ash without you.”

“That’s more like it,” I said.

“And also because nobody on earth makes a pie like you, Cinnamon Peters.”

My lips curled up into a smile.

When he put it that way, I couldn’t possibly stay mad at him.

The cold wind blew hard the rest of that night.

But I fell asleep feeling warm and cozy in Daniel’s arms.

Chapter 5

When I opened the door to the old red barn, I was met by such a sonic blast of air in the form of James Hetfield’s growl, I was surprised my hair didn’t stay fixed in a Bride of Frankenstein updo for the rest of the day.

I was tempted to just turn around and run down the leaf-scattered country lane to where I’d left the Escape, but then I summoned my courage, reminding myself that occasionally, my own pie shop kitchen got this loud with music when I was in a stormy mood.

Of course, I was usually playing Otis or Townes Van Zandt – not Metallica.

But to each his own.

I let the door close behind me. The barn was a big, rustic-looking space, and it took me a second to locate the man who I assumed was Josiah Harris.

I took the long walk over to the large table in the corner as Hetfield let loose a howl. Josiah hadn’t heard me on account of the loud music and because he appeared to be intently focused on scooping out a heap of pumpkin guts from a gourd that must have weighed as much as a fourth grader.

“Excuse me?”

Josiah didn’t look up. Lars’ wild drumming was winning out over the speakers.

“Excuse me, Mr. Davis!?”

The man with the dark beard and tattoo sleeves up and down his arms finally glanced up. He didn’t seem to be surprised in the least to see somebody standing in his barn.

He calmly reached for a small stereo control and clicked it several times. The music receded like a wave going back out into the ocean.

Sweet sonic relief.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, tossing the control down. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you Josiah Davis of Punkin’ Pumpkin Art?”

“That’s me,” he said, gruffly, nodding to the workbench littered with saws and pumpkin seeds.

“Great. I’d like to order a few carved pumpkins for Halloween.”

It wasn’t as if I had lots of money to throw around on art that would eventually mold and rot, but there was something special about Josiah’s work. Something that compelled me to come here today.

Josiah lived on a farm a short distance from Christmas River, and he’d started offering his pumpkin carving services to local businesses at the beginning of October. I’d first seen Josiah’s pumpkins at the annual rodeo the month before. He’d carved individual portraits of the rodeo stars that had been on a large display. The portraits were mind-blowing, and while the rodeo had faded from my memory, the images of those expertly carved pumpkins stayed with me long after the event was over.

Josiah’s business was new, but he already had a strong social media presence, and I’d been following his humorous and entertaining posts regularly.

Josiah charged a lot for his custom pumpkins, so it was a bit of an indulgence for me to order some. But I figured part of the fun of life was splurging on something special now and then. Plus, being a local business owner myself, I liked supporting folks trying to follow their dreams.

“I’d like to order four pumpkins,” I said.

“What size? I’ve got small, medium, large, and extra-large,” he said, pulling out a paper pad and a pencil from one of the work bench drawers.

“One medium, two large, and one extra-large, please.”

He scribbled the details of my order down while I told him what I wanted exactly on the pumpkins.

“When do you want these ready?”

“The week of Halloween. Does that work?”

He nodded again. I pulled out a checkbook from my bag and wrote him a check for half of the price. The full amount, he said, was usually forked over after the pumpkins were delivered to ensure that the customers were happy with the result.

“I’ll have them delivered to your shop on the 29th,” he said in a monotone, unfriendly voice.

I nodded thanks, glancing around the old barn once more and taking a peek at a few pumpkins sitting in the corner that were already carved. Josiah had carved a set of lopsided faces into the pumpkins, and mushy, seed-studded pulp was oozing out of the side of their mouths.

He looked up and caught me smiling.

“Wanna see them lit?”

I nodded, and he went over, turning on a few flameless candles and dropping them inside the hollowed-out pumpkin cavities before going over to the light switch and turning the lights in the barn down low.

The pumpkins sprang to life. Their grotesque features flickered in the candlelight, and their queasy expressions were so realistic, it reminded me of the time I caught a bad stomach flu the autumn before and couldn’t leave the house for three days.

“Wow… Amazing,” I said, shaking my head.

In the dim light, I could see a weak smile spreading across Josiah’s lips.

“I call this one Bourbon Street: The Next Morning.”

I let out a laugh.

Josiah’s art wasn’t for everyone — that was for sure. But despite its graphic nature, there was something about it I couldn’t help but like. His pumpkins had a kind of unique style you didn’t see too often. There was a true artistic sense there that I found impossible not to appreciate.

“Are you from New Orleans?” I asked.

I didn’t know much about the pumpkin carver, but I gathered from the way he looked and his creative profession that he was part of the new wave of young hipster types who had found their way to Oregon over the past few years. Drawn by the state’s pristine nature, fresh air, and no end of craft beer, Christmas River had seen a rather large population increase recently.

“No — I did live in Louisiana for five years, though,” he said. “Lived in a lot of places. But I was actually born a few towns over in Redmond.”

“So you’re a local in disguise, then.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Josiah said, going to the light switch and turning the lights back on. “But I will say of all the places I’ve lived, this area is the only one that ever felt like home.”

I smiled.

Central Oregon had that effect. It was the kind of place that got into your heart and soul and didn’t let go easily.

“So how did you get into pumpkin carving?”

“Well, for a while, I had this high-intensity job in the corporate world,” he said, going back over to his current works-in-progress on the work bench. “But when my dad passed earlier this year, it was like this big wake-up call for me. I realized that I couldn’t spend one more minute doing something I didn’t love doing.”

He glanced around the ragged beams of the old barn.

“I’d always carved pumpkins as a hobby, and I realized that there wasn’t anything else I wanted to do more. It’s not much of a living, doing this kind of thing. But I’d rather be out here than wearing a suit and a tie and being trapped inside a skyscraper all day.”

“Amen to that,” I said.

He glanced up at me, his lips spreading into a slight smile again.

Then he cleared his throat a little awkwardly. As if he regretted saying any of it.

“So, uh, so I’ll have your pumpkins out to you on Halloween week,” he said, his voice going back to that monotone, unfriendliness.

I nodded, trying not to take it personally.

I knew some people didn’t trust all that easily.

“Great. See you then.”

I left the barn, heading out into the brisk afternoon. I walked down the country lane, passing by the fields of ripe gourds. A crisp wind shook the cottonwoods, and shimmering, crinkly leaves floated down all around me like gold confetti.

I paused for a moment, standing in the middle of the lane, taking in a deep breath of the fresh country air, savoring the moment like a sip of freshly pressed apple cider.

There was nothing like autumn in Christmas River.

Chapter 6

I should have realized by the hush that had fallen over the dining room that something big was up.

But as it was, I’d had a frazzled, humdinger of a morning. A shipment of baking goods that was supposed to have come in was two hours late. There had been a small fire in one of the ovens when the fillings for the cranberry hazelnut pies bubbled over and dripped down into the bottom. And on top of all of that, we were short on pumpkin pie today — a result of me underestimating the number of tourists who would be here on a Wednesday in mid-October.

It seemed that I’d been doing more and more of that lately — underestimating the number of people who came through our doors. Christmas River was a regular tourist hotspot, and though traditionally the flood came in after Halloween, the tourist season seemed to come earlier and earlier each year.

A little before lunch, I went out into the dining room to check on Tobias and Ian — making sure they were doing okay handling the surging masses of flannel-clad shoppers.

It occurred to me while I was placing pies behind the pastry display case that the Chet Baker number playing over the speakers seemed a little loud.

But I didn’t put it together that the music was loud because people had stopped talking.

I finished adding the pies to the display case and started heading back into the kitchen when I heard a voice.

“Excuse me?”

I glanced over my shoulder, glimpsing a flash of those steely eyes.

I nearly jumped back into the wall, I was so startled.

It was a foolish reaction, but looking into Ashcroft Black’s face, I could tell that he was used to people reacting this way around him.

Since reading the first few chapters of his latest book, I couldn’t help but associate him with the lonesome, livid ghost of Lorna Larimer.

“May I speak with you a moment?” he said.

“You want... you want to speak to…”

I pointed at myself and he nodded.

I swallowed hard, gazing past his shoulder, realizing that everyone’s eyes in the dining room were on me.

A lot of authors could probably come in and out of shops without getting recognized. But Ashcroft Black was not one of those authors.

“Um… yeah… sure,” I said, flustered. “Just… follow me.”

I led the way, glad to get out of the dining room away from all those probing eyes. I heard the tapping of Ashcroft’s cane as he followed behind.

When we entered the kitchen, Tiana was peering into one of the ovens, her back to us.

“I scraped the burned bits out as best I could, but it’s still smoking a little, Cin,” she said, hearing me come in. “Hopefully it’ll stop before we get the next batch of pumpkin pies in there.”

Tiana turned around and marched across the kitchen with one of the offending cranberry pies that had caused the fire.

When she looked up and caught sight of Ashcroft Black, her eyes grew wide.

Then came the scream and the squishy sound of pie hitting the cold tile floor.

Chapter 7

“I apologize for scaring your assistant,” Ashcroft said, gingerly taking a seat on the barstool that faced the window. “That was not my intention.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, taking out a pan of freshly baked Whiskey Apple pies and setting it down on the counter. “Tiana’s tougher than she looks. She’ll be just fine.”

I said the words, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure if she’d be just fine. Seeing Ashcroft Black appear out of the blue had jarred Tiana something good. Her scream had been so loud, it caused Tobias to come running back into the kitchen. He’d been sure that something horrible had happened to his wife.

When the color came back into Tiana’s face, she explained to us that she’d borrowed the latest Ashcroft Black book from the library earlier in the week. She was only halfway through the book, but admitted that it scared the willies out of her. She’d been having nightmares all week about Lorna Larimer.

So imagine her surprise when the author himself — the man glowering from the back cover of the book — suddenly appeared in her workplace without any warning.

If I was her, I might have screamed, too.

Ashcroft took a sip from the cup of black coffee I’d just poured him and gazed out the window past my shoulder. He was dressed in a plaid blazer and a black turtleneck in a style that reminded me of something a man in a thriller heist movie from the 1960s might wear.

He rubbed his dark beard for a long moment, looking down into the mug pensively.

“So… what can I help you with, Mr. Black?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” he said, as if being snapped out of some dark thought. “The reason I’m here. Mavis gave me your name and the location of your shop. I very much enjoyed that apple delight I tasted at the reading.”

“Wow, uh, thanks…” I stammered, feeling my cheeks grow red with bashfulness. “It’s, uh, it’s based on one of my mother’s pie recipes.”

I nervously shifted my weight between my feet.

“My mom used to make a Sour Cream Apple pie every single October when I was growing up. Her pies were the best. She was actually the reason I got into baking in the first place. I wouldn’t have opened this pie shop if she hadn’t…”

I could see Ashcroft’s eyes glaze over with boredom as my babbling trailed off into nothing.

I felt my cheeks darken even more.

I’d met a few famous folks in my day. But it always took me a while to get over my nerves when I was around them.

He cleared his throat.

“Yes. You see, Ms. Peters, I’m having a small writer’s workshop at the cabin this weekend. It’s nothing particularly impressive — just some hopeful young writers and my publisher. But I would like you to cater the workshop Saturday evening.”

I raised my eyebrows, taken aback for a moment.

First with elation at being asked to cater an event held by Ashcroft Black.

But then, something else occurred to me.

“Oh… I…”

Ashcroft Black’s slate-colored eyes studied me.

“I, uh… this event is at the Juniper Hollow Cabin?”

“Yes. Do you know how to get there?”

I nodded.

Everyone in Christmas River knew exactly where that cabin was.

“So are you available?” he asked when I said nothing else for a long moment.

Chills broke out across my back as all the rumors I’d heard about that place during my three-plus decades living in Christmas River came back to me.

Rumors about bad deeds, sinister plots, and restless, angry spirits.

“I’ll pay you double your going rate,” he said. “And I’ll cover your gas expense to get up there. But the food needs to be good, Pacific Northwest regional fare. My publisher will be there, and he’s quite the gourmet.”

I drew in a deep breath.

What was I doing? Getting all worked up over some silly stories about that cabin being haunted and foolishly stalling an exciting opportunity.

The money was good. The event was prestigious. I had Saturday free. And when I thought about it, there was no real logical reason not to cater the event.

I couldn’t let fear — especially fear of some old rumors — play a role in how I ran my business.

“I’d be very happy to cater your event, Mr. Black.”

He nodded matter-of-factly.

“Very well. I’ll be requiring hor d’oeuvres and dessert for fifteen or so individuals. Keep in mind that these are writers, so please make plenty of food. Additionally, I will require some—”

Ashcroft stopped speaking.

His face turned the color of frost as his eyes fixed on something past my shoulder.

Those eyes of his — always so cool and unaffected — suddenly showed emotion.

I stared at him, feeling my eyebrows knit together in confusion. Then I glanced back, following his gaze.

A soft wind was blowing outside, and the aspen trees that lined the side of the shop were swaying gently, a few of their golden leaves drifting across the window. It was a perfect blue day, and the sun was shining, casting everything in a warm, hazy autumn glow.

I turned back to look at Ashcroft. All the color had drained from his face now.

“Mr. Black?”

But it was as if he hadn’t heard me. His eyes remained fixed on something in the distance.

I glanced back out the window once more.

There was nothing out there but a beautiful fall mountain scene worthy of a Bob Ross painting.

“Is everything all right?” I said, turning toward him again.

This time, he seemed to hear me.

“I… uh… did you just see that?”

His voice came out in a strange, almost-otherworldly tone.

“See what?”

He didn’t answer. He stroked his beard absentmindedly.

I cleared my throat.

“Was it an animal of some sort?” I asked.

This time of year deer often wandered past the window, grazing on berries and shrubs as they prepared for the lean months ahead.

But Ashcroft shook his head.

“You know, there’s a walking trail that runs back there,” I said. “It’s pretty popular.”

He nodded, but his face was as pale as ever.

“Yes,” he finally said, his tone still strange. “It must have just been a hiker.”

His eyes remained fixed on the forest.

A moment later, Ashcroft stood up and collected his cane as if nothing had happened.

“Very well, I’ll have my assistant in New York send you a money order for your rate. Please discuss it with her and any other questions you might have about the event. She will call you later this afternoon.”

I watched as he quickly stalked across the kitchen toward the dining room.

“See you Saturday, Ms. Peters.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black. See you th—”

But he’d left before I could finish my sentence.

Chapter 8

“It was really weird. He went completely pale. And it was like… like he saw something out there that frightened him. Something I couldn’t see.”

I strolled along the dirt path, giving Hucks plenty of slack on the leash to explore the brush bordering the trail. I took a sip of my Christmas River Coffee Shack caramel cider as a cool breeze that smelled of damp earth and smoke blew into us.

“Maybe he’s not well,” Daniel said, stopping as Chadwick investigated the low branches of a juniper with his small snout. “Ashcroft Black’s holding a cane in that photo on the back of his book, isn’t he?”

“He was carrying one at the bookstore event, too,” I said. “But I don’t know if he really needs one. I thought it was part of his horror author act. He’s pretty young to be carrying a cane, and he didn’t seem to have any trouble walking.”

I ran a hand through my hair and took in a deep breath, gazing out into the woods.

What had Ashcroft seen out here?

Maybe nothing. Maybe Daniel was right — that Ashcroft wasn’t well.

Or maybe he was just prone to acting strange.

Either way, I had bigger fish to fry.

With very limited catering experience, I’d just signed up to cater an event for one of the most successful and well-known writers in the country.

And that event was taking place in less than three days.

At a haunted cabin.

“Cin?”

I glanced over to find Daniel peering at me.

By the tone in his voice, I could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d said my name.

“Oh, sorry.”

“You doing all right? You look a little pale yourself, darlin.’”

I shook my head, forcing a smile, trying to ignore the chill running up and down my spine.

“No. I was just spacing. Sorry.”

“Is it that old cabin?” Daniel asked.

“What?”

He stared at me for a long spell.

“You’re nervous about catering an event up there. Because people say it’s haunted, right?”

“No. I don’t care about any of that,” I said.

But my voice came out weak like a cup of poorly brewed coffee.

“I mean… it’s just an old cabin. Nothing more,” I added.

“I’ll go up there with you for the event this weekend,” Daniel said, gently tugging on Chadwick’s leash. “I don’t mind. I’ll be… what do you call it? Like a sous chef or something. You can order me around, yell at me if I don’t do something right. Just like one of those celebrity chefs on TV.”

I smiled. Chadwick started trotting along the path again, and we began walking. I laced my arm in Daniel’s.

“As tempting as that sounds, Mr. Brightman, I know perfectly well that you’re not free that night. You’ve got that monster truck event at the rodeo grounds to patrol Saturday. If it’s anything like last year’s, I know you and your deputies will have your hands full. And besides — I told you: I’m not afraid of that old cabin.”

He glanced over.

“How long have we been married now?” he asked.

“Oh, you know I don’t keep track of those things.”

I shot him a mischievous smile.

He smirked at my joke.

“Well, by my estimation, it’s been nearly four years. And in those four years when have you ever been able to get away with telling me a lie?”

“I’d say at least two dozen times, Mr. Brightman. Give or take.”

He shook his head in amusement at the crack.

“For real, Cin. I know you better than anybody. And I can always tell when something’s bothering you. And something about this catering thing’s doing just that. My guess is that it’s that old spooky cabin.”

I kept my eyes on the trail ahead, trying to think of something else funny to say.

But in the end, I knew Daniel would see right through it, anyway.

He was right — he did know me better than anyone.

“Fine. I admit it. Going up to the cabin creeps me out a little. But I know it’s all probably a lot of nonsense what people say about that place. Like the Hattie Blaylock house, remember? For generations, kids in Christmas River talked about how haunted that house was and that Hattie was a witch. But it was all just talk and there wasn’t one iota of truth in any of those old stories.”

I knew that for a fact. A couple of years earlier, Daniel and I had worked on an old cold case that involved Hattie Blaylock. I’d come to know the old woman and discovered that everybody in town had been wrong about her. She wasn’t a witch at all — just a sad, old lady who’d lost love at an early age and had never recovered from it.

“And besides, I’m asking Kara to come up with me to the cabin,” I said. “She’s no fan of the old place, but she’s been dying to meet Ashcroft Black. This will make her entire year.”

A cloud passed across the face of the sun just then, plunging the forest into shadows.

Daniel pulled me closer, leaning in.

“Okay, Cin. But I’ll be there in two seconds flat if you need me. I’ll gladly leave all those drunk hillbillies at the monster truck rally and be by your side in a flash.”

I smiled, a warm feeling spreading out across my chest.

“I know you will. Thank you.”

“But you know, my loyalty doesn’t come for free,” he whispered.

I raised my eyebrows.

“What’s the going rate of loyalty these days?”

He tilted his head, looking up at the sky.

“For starters, a slice or two of that new maple pecan cocoa pie.”

“Didn’t you get the plastic container that I put in your messenger bag this morning?” I asked. “There was a giant slice of it in there.”

“Sure, I got it. But you can’t expect that to be enough. Not of that pie, Cin.”

I grinned.

“I take it the new flavor was a hit?”

“Are you kidding? I’d walk across a snowy field in my bare feet to get to a slice.”

I let out a laugh.

Daniel Brightman didn’t often exaggerate. But when he did, he did it with style.

“Hell, I’d walk across ten of those fields if you were there to serve it up to me with some of that whiskey-spiked whipped cream you make so well,” he added.

“Tell you what — if you come back to the shop with me now, I’ll get you another slice with some of that whipped cream. No snowy walk in bare feet necessary.”

“Cinnamon Anne Peters: you‘ve got yourself a loyal servant for life.”

He leaned down, giving me a tender kiss that made my heart thump harder than Tiana’s did at the sight of a horror author appearing in the kitchen earlier.

And I practically forgot all about the haunted cabin and Ashcroft Black for the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter 9

“So we’ve got that Tupperware with the goat cheese puffs?”

“Check.”

“And the Sour Cream Apple turnovers? We’ve got all three containers of those?”

“Check and double check,” Kara said.

“All right, then,” I said, starting up the engine. “Let’s get you up there to meet Ashcroft.”

Kara, who was already buckled up tight in the passenger seat, let out a squeal that reminded me of the way her young daughter sounded seeing ponies at the Fall Festival a few weeks earlier.

I guess the thought of meeting a famous author of Ashcroft’s status had made her forget all about her reservations concerning the Juniper Hollow Cabin and its creepy crawlies.

As if aware of the childish tone of her voice, Kara cleared her throat and looked as me sheepishly as I pulled away from the pie shop and headed down Main Street.

“Sorry, Cin. I’m just so excited to meet him tonight. Aside from Pam Dallas last year, I haven’t brushed shoulders with too many people in the publishing industry. And Pam doesn’t even really count anyway because she turned out to be a certifiable nutcase.”

I nodded, remembering the last famous author who had taken up residence here in Christmas River.

It seemed like Kara could only improve her average after that one.

“I’m excited for you, Kara. I hope you get a chance to talk to him tonight and ask him all those questions you were hoping to ask.”

I pulled out onto the highway that led up to the lakes. The sun was descending fast toward the horizon, and the pine trees bordering the pavement had taken on a deliciously warm autumn glow.

I’d been sad to miss out on such a crisp autumn afternoon, being that I’d been up to my arms in flour, sugar, and recipe books all day. I wasn’t exactly an expert in cooking savory dishes — my entire professional experience in the kitchen had more or less revolved around pie. But I was pretty great at following a recipe, and thankfully, I had plenty of books with great ones. For the event, I’d settled on making spiced chicken and sweet potato kebabs, goat cheese puffs, bacon-wrapped dates, butternut squash rosemary empanadas, a creamy pumpkin dip, roasted red pepper dip, my plum fig port pie in easy-to-eat pie pop form, and of course, the Sour Cream Apple turnovers that Ashcroft had been so smitten with.

I wasn’t sure if all the food would be to Ashcroft’s publisher’s liking, but I made plenty of it and there would be a ton of leftovers.

Kara pulled her corduroy jacket from the backseat and slid it on as we climbed higher into the mountains. The sun danced in and out of the trees, casting long shadows on the road.

“So is Ashcroft just the way he seems in this photo?” she asked.

She glanced down at the picture on the back of the Sheriff Lane Graves book she’d brought. It was my copy, but after reading another chapter in the book and having trouble sleeping because of it, I decided that horror just wasn’t my genre and never would be — no matter how good the writing was. I’d given the book to Kara instead. Kara didn’t mind the spooky stuff and being a writer on the rise herself, I knew she’d appreciate it.

“I don’t know. What do you think he’s like from that photo?” I asked.

She pushed her lips out, studying the book.

“Serious,” she said. “Introspective. And brooding. Like a modern-day Heathcliff.”

“Well, I can’t say I know whether he stalks the moors, but the rest of it is about right,” I said.

Kara studied the photo some more.

“He strikes me as a man struggling with some sort of internal conflict,” she continued. “There’s a mournful quality in his eyes. Guilt or shame or something.”

I raised my eyebrows at her.

“You got all of that just from a photo?”

She shrugged, resting the book back down on the dashboard.

“I’m a writer — I guess I’m prone to getting carried away.” She smiled. “Anyway, it’s probably all an act. A character he plays because it goes so well with his books. I bet the real Ashcroft Black grins like an idiot all day long, only eats the sprinkles off of cupcakes, and loves nothing more than his rescue pug.”

I shot Kara a smile, recognizing the description as one of the foolhardy supporting characters from her latest book.

We drove along the highway for a ways, passing aspen trees that looked like they were on fire with the kiss of autumn.

It wasn’t long before we made it to Juniper Hollow Lane. A mile in, I caught a glimpse of it through the trees.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d forgotten the location of the place and drove up to the wrong house. The old, spooky hunting cabin was definitely not old anymore — or anything like the place I remembered riding my bike by when I was a teenager heading home from days of fishing up at the lakes. Beautiful planks of red cedar lined the outer walls. The owners had added a southern-inspired wrap-around porch to the front. An entire wall of windows had been installed on the south side of the structure, giving the cabin what must have been breathtaking views of Charity Lake and the mountains in the distance.

It was far from a dilapidated, rundown cabin, reminding me that it had been years since I’d been here.

Seeing it now in all of its full luxury rental glory made me feel silly for being so hesitant about catering the event.

I pulled up to the large driveway which already had several expensive cars parked out front — including a fire-red Jaguar that made Kara’s jaw drop as we pulled up.

“Holy Shih Tzu — would you look at that beauty?” she mumbled.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and glanced over at my best friend. She looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Say — thanks so much for helping me tonight, Kara. It really means a lot.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, her face lighting up like a New Year’s party. “I’m the one that should be thanking you.”

Her eyes drifted back to that red Jaguar.

“You never know,” she added. “Something big could happen for my writing career at this thing, Cin.”

She let out a short, happy sigh.

“It has all the makings of a magical night.”

I smiled, gazing up at the cabin glowing in the dimming evening.

I hoped she was right.

Chapter 10

It didn’t take long for Kara to be proved wrong.

We stood on the porch, our arms full of Tupperware and hot plates, looking at each other, both of us not knowing what to do.

I’d already knocked, but the tense voices had been so loud, it seemed that nobody had heard.

“It’s obvious you don’t care about us anymore. You moved out here to get away from me, from our problems. Why is it a surprise I’m asking you this? Why can’t you sign the thing and let us both get on with our lives?”

A woman’s voice echoed from somewhere beyond the door. It came out high-pitched and choked with emotion. I also detected some sort of accent.

“You made a promise, Ana. That’s why I won’t sign. I won’t make it so easy for you to break your promise.”

“But you broke your promise first, eh? Liar. And now you’re here on your high horse, lecturing me about promises when you—”

“I gave you my answer already in New York. I won’t sign it. So if that’s all you came to discuss, then your visit has been futile.”

Kara looked over at me, her eyes bulging.

I couldn’t believe we were overhearing this, either.

“You have no right to do this to me. I’ll take you to court if you don’t sign.”

“Have at it,” The man’s voice boomed. “Bleed me dry of all my money. Drag my name through the mud. I won’t sign, Ana.”

“Then I’ll just have to come up with another solution, won’t I, mi amor?”

There was a sense of underlying threat in the woman’s voice when she said that.

It was followed by a moment of silence.

Then, a few seconds later, the hurried sounds of boots pounding against pine floors echoed from inside.

Instinctively, both Kara and I backed away from the door. We headed over to the far end of the wrap-around porch and stood next to a few decorative hay bales.

The cabin’s stylishly rustic front door squeaked open suddenly. A slender woman who looked like she’d just leapt from the pages of Vogue or Marie Claire or some other fashion magazine I didn’t read marched out of the cabin. She wore a black cashmere sweater, skinny designer jeans, and black boots with heels that seemed only marginally wider than a sewing needle.

She didn’t seem to see either Kara or I as she left, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care. She swiftly walked down the steps and over to the Jaguar. We watched as she started up the car and shifted it into gear. The sports car let out a squeal as she pulled out onto the forest road.

“Sheesh,” Kara said under her breath.

“I know. I feel bad that we overheard any of that,” I whispered.

“No — I mean did you see those boots she was wearing? They were Prada, probably worth thousands. What kind of woman walks around muddy Central Oregon in Prada shoes?”

The kind that didn’t often show up in Central Oregon, I thought. That was for sure.

“Good. You found the place.”

I spun around, startled by the deep baritone voice.

Ashcroft Black stood there, wearing an outfit very similar to the one in his professional portrait. A chunky knit sweater over a turtleneck and jeans. In one hand, he held the silver handle of his cane. In the other was a frosted glass of amber-colored alcohol.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Black. I hope… I hope we didn’t come too early,” I said, having a tough time concealing how sheepish I felt about overhearing the argument.

“Not at all. You just missed my wife.”

A sour smile crossed his face.

“Unfortunately, she couldn’t stay for the event. She has work on the other side of the pass to tend to this evening.”

He said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world for his wife to storm off like that.

I forced a smile and glanced at Kara.

“Mr. Black, this is my friend Kara Billings. She’s here helping me, but she’s also a writer and was really looking forward to meeting you.”

Kara, who suddenly looked like she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her, reached out a hand toward the horror author.

“It’s a… it’s a real honor, Mr. Black.”

He left her hanging there for a while, studying her with those cold eyes.

Then he reached forward, giving her a visibly weak and unenthusiastic handshake.

He turned back to me without even saying as much as “nice to meet you” to my best friend.

“You may set up in the dining room. Please let me know if you need any additional tables. Guests will arrive in half an hour.”

He turned and headed inside the house.

“I must get ready now.”

When he was out of earshot, Kara crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and let out a scoff.

“I’ll add arrogant and rude to that list of Ashcroft Black’s character traits,” she said under her breath.

I bit my lip, feeling anger well up in my chest.

He shouldn’t have treated her like that.

“You know, maybe we should go,” I said. “Obviously this isn’t the best time for him, and I’m sure his guests will make do with whatever he’s got in his fridge...”

I trailed off as Kara shook her head emphatically.

“Nope. We’ve come this far, Cin. You’re getting that nice fat paycheck he owes you. And anyway, didn’t you say something about his publisher being here tonight, too?”

“Yes.”

Kara gave me a slick smile.

“Well, the night’s still young,” she said, heading for the door with a plastic container of Sour Cream Apple Turnovers in her arms. “And I’m not giving up so easily.”

She lifted her head high in true unstoppable Kara fashion before disappearing into the cabin.

I let out a sigh and eventually followed her inside, hoping the evening wasn’t as doomed as it felt.

Chapter 11

“You should be ashamed.”

I grabbed the last of the hot food plates from the trunk and brought the door down with my free hand.

“Sorry, did you just say something?” I asked.

Josiah Davis stood by his van, his eyes fixed on the cabin in a death stare. He held a large carved gourd against his sizable gut. He’d been on his way up to the cabin with it when he’d stopped dead in his tracks and whispered something.

“Josiah?”

The pumpkin carver didn’t seem to hear me, and I wondered if all that Metallica was causing his hearing to go prematurely.

On my last trip out to grab the rest of the food, I’d been surprised to see a white van sitting next to my Escape and a familiar face in the driver’s seat.

Apparently, Ashcroft had commissioned Josiah to carve several massive pumpkins for display on the wrap-around porch. The pumpkins were all carvings of the covers of Ashcroft’s books, and knowing what Josiah charged for his art, it was clear that Ashcroft had spent a small fortune on the expertly carved gourds.

I cleared my throat — the pumpkin carver was still gazing at the cabin, seemingly lost in thought.

He finally noticed me, looking over and raising his dark eyebrows.

“Sorry, what?”

“Did you say something, Josiah?” I asked.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Because I could have sworn that you said—”

“Do you need any help there?” he asked, nodding to the stack of plates in my hand.

I smiled, shaking my head.

“No, I got it. This is the last trip.”

He nodded, then quickly walked toward the cabin. I watched as he set the pumpkin down on the porch and then sprinted back to the van, grabbing the next one. He was back at the van again by the time I got to the front door.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?” I heard him shout from the van.

I turned around — he was shutting the back door and was walking toward the driver’s seat with a marked intensity in his step.

“Can you tell Mr. Black I have somewhere to be right now, but to have his assistant send me the check instead?”

“I’ll tell him, but he’s just in the living room now and you could probably—”

“No, that’s okay. It’s easier this way.”

Josiah jumped into the van and started it up.

“See ya,” he shouted from the window.

“Yeah, see you—”

But by the time I finished my sentence, Josiah Davis was already pulling out of the driveway in the same crazed, speedy way the Jaguar had done only minutes earlier.

Maybe this place wasn’t the old haunted cabin I thought it was.

But it was clear there was something about it that repelled people just the same.

Chapter 12

“Ashcroft Black’s success proves that if you’ve got the talent, the passion, and the hunger, then the sky’s the limit, kids. He’s a self-made man of the highest order, and though few — if any of you — will attain his level of success, take a page from his book and aim high.”

Don Wharton, CEO of one of the most successful publishing companies in the country — as he reminded us repeatedly in his long speech — readjusted the baseball cap on his head as he spoke.

“You know that old saying: Shoot for the moon. If you miss, you’ll land on the stars? Well, it’s all a big crock of B.S. that soft, woo-woo people have sold you on, kids. The truth is, if you miss the moon, you’ll land into a void of dark, hopeless failure. But you know what? At least you’ll be able to look at yourself in the mirror and have pride — knowing you weren’t some coward too afraid to try.”

He took one more look around the room at the small group of aspiring writers.

“And when it comes down to it, having your pride is more important than book sales, bestseller lists, or TV deals. When it comes down to it, it’s all about this.”

Don made an unseemly gesture toward his nether regions.

“Cojones. That’s what it’s about, ladies and gentlemen.”

I shot a look at Kara. Her arms were crossed and her eyes had narrowed like she was looking at one of those old school Magic Eye illusion coffee table books.

I could tell that Don Wharton hadn’t exactly impressed her with his speech. Or with that crude gesture, for that matter. He might have been a big shot publisher, but what he said didn’t make much sense and more than that, there was a vein of condescension throughout his speech to the group of young writers. One I didn’t much care for.

But then again, it wasn’t really my place to care. It was my place to make sure everyone at the writer’s event was well-fed, and luckily, aside from Ashcroft and Don Wharton, everyone else there was down-to-earth, kind, and easy-going. I’d been expecting a grim group of goth-inspired people, considering they were all horror authors. But to my surprise, they were the exact opposite of grim. They laughed and smiled easily and seemed to love the food I’d brought. And even though I’d made quite a bit of it, the way things were flying off of hor d’oeuvre plates, I wasn’t sure if there would be leftovers.

I felt Kara’s hand on my shoulder as Don Wharton’s profanity-laced speech wound down to its finale.

“Hey — I’m just going to step outside and call John,” she whispered. “You need me right now?”

“Tell him I said hi,” I whispered back.

I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for Kara. I wondered if she regretted coming out here with me. The people she’d been excited to meet weren’t exactly living up to her expectations.

Once Don Wharton’s speech ended, the dozen or so people in the room began clapping wildly. Ashcroft stood up and shook his publisher’s hand. But his face remained locked in its usual unhappy glare and it was hard to tell whether the high praise meant anything at all to him.

But then again, maybe he’d just been having a hard night.

I’d been thinking about earlier and the way he’d snubbed Kara. And though I still felt upset about it, I’d also been thinking about the argument we’d overheard. It was clear that his marriage was on the rocks, and I knew from experience with my first marriage that things could get really ugly at that stage.

Maybe Ashcroft was just having a hard night and didn’t mean to snub Kara the way he had.

And maybe I ought to have had a little more compassion for the troubled writer.

“Hi, there. Can I please have one of those pie pops?”

I glanced up — people were scattering across the room in small groups, carrying stacks of paper in their arms.

A woman in her late twenties with heavily lined eyes, a round face, and red hair was standing in front of me.

“Of course,” I said, reaching for the platter with the pie pops. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Uh, I’d take one of those apple turnovers, too. Ashcroft told us they were the best thing he’s tasted since he left New York.”

I tried not to let that go to my head, but I felt my cheeks flush a little at the roundabout compliment.

Although when I thought about it — I wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment at all. It sounded more like an insult to the Pacific Northwest and to Christmas River’s culinary offerings.

In the end, I tried not to over-think it. I fixed the red-headed woman a generous plate. She took it from me, nodding thanks. Then she glanced back behind her, looking around the cabin.

“I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this place,” she said. “Do you think it’s really haunted?”

“I don’t know, but a lot of people in Christmas River sure do.”

I followed her gawking gaze.

The interior of the cabin looked like a spread in the October edition of a Martha Stewart Living magazine. Its pine boards were painted a shade of chic country white and the floors were a dark-stained mahogany. A modern-looking concrete fireplace that was framed on both sides by spindly willow branches anchored the room. Abstract paintings of elk and deer grazing in dark forests hung from the walls — a nod to the cabin’s former life as a hunting lodge.

I returned my attention to the young woman in front of me. Though I’d handed her the plate, she had made no motion to leave. She still stood next to the catering table, off to the side, watching the rest of the workshop participants as they spoke amongst themselves.

I sensed a kind of hesitation in her, and I gathered that perhaps she didn’t feel all that comfortable here yet.

“What do you write?” I asked, knowing that was probably a stupid question considering that this was a workshop for aspiring horror authors.

She glanced back, taking a bite of the turnover.

“Psychological horror with a feminist edge,” she said with a giddy smile. “I mean — that’s what I’m working on, anyway. When I’m not doing marketing for the local theater here in Christmas River. I haven’t gotten anything published yet, but I’m hoping my book will get picked up when it’s finished.”

She eyed Don Wharton.

“Didn’t you love Mr. Wharton’s speech? I tell you — if he decided to publish my book, it’d just be like...”

Her eyes went wide, and she trailed off at the prospect of it all.

“I mean, it’d be like... making it,” she added. “In the biggest sense of that term. I think I could die happy if he published my book.”

I smiled.

The young woman struck me as a little naïve, but there was something about her I couldn’t help but like. She seemed funny and genuine and unafraid to sound enthusiastic.

“Well, I wish you luck,” I said. “What was your name again?”

She stuck a hand out.

“Cordelia Corso,” she said. “I mean, that’s going to be my pen name. My real name is Mary Lou Anderson.”

I cracked a smile — her real name sounded the picture of innocence, and I could see why she needed a pen name for her genre.

“Well, nice to meet you, Mary Lou. I’m Cinn—”

But I didn’t get a chance to finish my introduction.

It was cut short by a howl that turned my blood to a glacial flow.

“SHE’S OUT IN THE TREES! SHE’S COMING FOR ME!”

Chapter 13

“One moment, Ashcroft is standing there making small talk. And the next… the next he’s staring out into the woods and acting like he’s just seen the devil himself.”

Kara rubbed her arms and shivered visibly, watching as the paramedics carried Ashcroft Black on a gurney down the steps and toward the ambulance.

“Then he screams like that and just… just collapses.”

We watched as Don Wharton followed the paramedics. He ran down the steps, shaking a pill bottle at them.

“He has a heart condition,” Don shouted. “Here’s the medication he’s on. Is he going to be transferred to Portland? Because I don’t want any backwoods redneck doctor working on him. This here is precious cargo, and he needs the best of the best medical professionals.”

Normally, an insulting comment like that aimed at my hometown would have made my hair stand on end. But I guess I was still in a state of shock, and I couldn’t seem to feel anything but a strange numbness.

I wasn’t alone. The writers were all standing out on the porch in the frosty October night alongside us, gazing on in solemn shock as their idol was loaded into the ambulance.

Kara had been the only one to see what happened.

Once Don Wharton’s speech was over, Ashcroft slipped out to the porch to smoke a cigar. Kara was there, just ending her call to her husband when she saw him. She said Ashcroft had actually spoken to her and apologized for brushing her off so rudely earlier. That he was feeling under the weather, and that had caused him to act “in an unbecoming manner.”

Kara said she’d been in the middle of asking him some questions about the publishing industry when, out of the blue, something in the woods seemed to catch his eye. A moment later, he let out the scream that all of us heard and collapsed.

Luckily, one of the writers had a day job as a nurse and had monitored Ashcroft until the ambulance arrived.

Now, all of us watched in silence as that ambulance pulled away into the dark night, leaving only the pumpkin carvings of Ashcroft’s novels to flicker on the railing in the bitter autumn breeze.

Chapter 14

Even though it was now morning, the murky feelings left over from the events of the night lingered around me like smoke from leaf fires.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it all.

And more than that, I couldn’t seem to stop hearing Ashcroft’s horrible, haunted howl.

And those words.

She’s coming for me!

I shook off a round of chills as I rolled out some sour cream hazelnut dough for a batch of pies.

“Kara said she didn’t see anything in the woods,” I said. “But you should have heard Ashcroft scream, Daniel. It was…”

I trailed off, stopping what I was doing and looking up at him.

“I’ve never heard anybody scream like that,” I whispered.

Another tsunami of chills traveled down my spine, and I thought about going over to the kitchen’s thermostat to turn the temperature up even higher — something I’d already done twice that morning.

Daniel rubbed the stubble on his chin, gazing out the window.

He’d stopped in to make sure I was doing okay after what happened. Daniel had gotten home late the night before on account of having to be at the monster truck rally, and I hadn’t had a chance until now to tell him the full story.

“Maybe it was connected to his medical condition, Cin. You said his publisher told the paramedics he had a bad heart, right?”

I nodded.

Despite what I had thought initially, it was clear now that the silver cane Ashcroft carried around wasn’t just part of an act.

“Well, hallucinating might be a side effect of the medication he takes for his condition,” Daniel said. “Maybe he got his dosage wrong or something. That kind of thing happens a lot more than you might think. Just ask Wes Dulany — the fire department’s always getting calls from folks who took too much medicine by accident.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I guess that might be. But I don’t know, Daniel. I…”

I trailed off.

There was something I’d been thinking about all night, though I felt foolish about admitting it.

I’d been wondering about places, and about whether putting a fresh coat of paint on the walls and adding chic furniture changed anything. The bones of that cabin were still the same, even if it was masquerading as a modern home.

Maybe the place really was haunted and whatever Ashcroft had seen had something to do with that.

Daniel looked at me for a long moment as if reading my thoughts.

“We don’t know that Ashcroft hasn’t had episodes like this before, Cin,” he said. “This probably started long before he moved into the cabin. And when you really think about it, we don’t know much about him at all. He might have a history of illness.”

Daniel had a point — we knew very little about Ashcroft. Hell, Ashcroft probably wasn’t even his real name.

“When you told me the other day that you were going up to cater the workshop at the cabin? I went and did a little digging, trying to find out if that story about the murdered hunter was true,” Daniel said. “I wanted to look into it for you.”

I stopped rolling out the pie rounds and glanced up with raised eyebrows.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“What did you find out?”

“Well, I wanted to come back and tell you that nothing happened up there — that it was just an urban legend. But it turns out there was some truth to it. A hunter did die in that cabin back in the 70s. Man by the name of Melvin Shackelford. But the stories had it wrong. He didn’t get shot by his friend over a woman.”

I took a seat across from Daniel, cupping my hands around a mug of steaming hazelnut coffee.

“How’d he die?” I whispered.

“It was a stroke,” Daniel said. “In his sleep. Melvin had just turned 92 years old. His grandsons took him up to the lodge to celebrate. He died peacefully by all accounts.”

I raised my eyebrows again.

“So that’s it? No murder or evil deeds?”

Daniel shook his head, taking a sip of the coffee I’d poured him a few moments earlier.

“That’s all that was on file. There were a few other incidents over the years — drunken altercations, things of that nature. But nothing about a murder and no other deaths. I’m not sure exactly how the Juniper Hollow Cabin got a reputation for being haunted, or how kids around here got such crazy notions. But there’s nothing sinister in the police reports from that era.”

I furrowed my brow, deep in thought.

I didn’t know whether to feel relieved that the cabin wasn’t haunted, or to feel silly I had ever entertained the prospect that it was.

But regardless, it did sort something out.

That whatever Ashcroft Black’s problem was, it wasn’t related to the cabin being the home of a disgruntled or angry ghost.

Daniel took another long swig of his coffee then stood up, coming around to me. He put his arm around my shoulder and smiled.

“Stay warm in here today, my pie baking beauty. There’s one of them arctic weather systems blowing in this afternoon.”

He glanced out the window, gazing at the trees swaying in a brisk wind.

“You stay warm, too, Sheriff. And if you’re lucky, I might just brave the cold this afternoon to bring you a slice of this Sweet Potato Hazelnut Pie I’m making.”

“Wish you hadn’t told me. Now I won’t be able to think of anything else all morning.”

I grinned.

“Say, what do you want to do for Halloween next week?” he added.

In past years, we’d thrown a Halloween bash for family and friends at our house. But since my grandfather opened Geronimo Brewing Co. in downtown Christmas River, most everyone in town would show up at the brewery’s annual rip-roaring Halloween party anyway, and we no longer felt the need to host our own party.

Which was actually kind of a nice thing. We could leave the party anytime we wanted, and we didn’t have to deal with Deputy Trumbow drinking too much zombie punch and passing out in our backyard meadow, or Mayor Pugmire’s long-winded rants about what was wrong with the voting system in our county.

“Well, how about we put in an appearance at the brewery Halloween night,” I said. “Then maybe we could come home, build a fire out back, make up a big cauldron of hot cider, and hand out candy to trick-or-treaters. Sound good to you?”

He leaned down pecking me on the nose.

“Sounds like my kind of Halloween, Mrs. Brightman.”

He reached for his cowboy hat sitting on the counter and adjusted it on his head.

“So what time should I expect my pie delivery?”

“I’d say about 12:30. That work for you?”

He let out a groan.

“I guess… I’m not sure if I can manage until then, Cin.”

He patted his abs, which in truth, had become a little less defined in the last month or so on account of his love for my fall pies.

“Oh, you’ll manage just fine, Daniel Brightman. You’re one of the tough ones.”

“Usually. But when it comes to pie, even the toughest man turns into a helpless fool.”

I glanced at the clock on the far wall, doing some quick math in my head.

“In that case, I might be able to make that noon instead of 12:30,” I said.

His answer to that came in the form of a smoldering kiss that knocked me all the way back to Labor Day.

Then, without another word, Daniel Brightman walked out the back door of the pie shop, down the steps, and away toward Main Street.

I smiled, basking in the glow of that kiss.

Trying not to think any more about Ashcroft Black or that scream.

Chapter 15

A week later, I found myself standing outside the Juniper Hollow Cabin again, gazing up at its wrap-around porch on a windy, overcast day.

Even though I now knew the stories about the cabin had been fictionalized, there was still an air of spookiness about the place. Things like that from childhood were tough to shake off, I reasoned. And I supposed that even if they turned the place into an amusement park full of happy people, I’d still mistrust something about it.

I drew in a big breath. Then I grabbed the container of homemade butternut squash bacon soup from off the passenger’s seat and shut the car door behind me. I made my way along the driveway and up the front steps to the door where I knocked tentatively a couple of times.

Maybe I had no real reason to be back here. But when Daniel told me earlier that Ashcroft had been released from the hospital, I immediately started making up a batch of soup to bring him.

I felt the need to check on him — maybe for his own good as much as for mine.

I hadn’t been sleeping well lately. I’d been having nightmares, waking in a full-on panic several times since the writer’s workshop.

I couldn’t get the haunted look in Ashcroft’s eyes out of my head.

Or that scream.

But there was more to my restless nights than just that.

Earlier that week, Tiana had told me she finished Ashcroft’s latest book, The Lady in the Glass. And though maybe I shouldn’t have, I asked her for a synopsis.

It had only gone to feed my nightmares.

Apparently, while the main character Sheriff Lane Graves solved the mystery of who murdered Lorna Larimer, her spirit still wasn’t appeased. She’d wanted more than for the Sheriff to solve the mystery of her demise and arrest the man responsible — she’d wanted an eye-for-an-eye kind of justice. She’d wanted the Sheriff to kill her murderer.

The Sheriff had a moral code, though, and wouldn’t do it. At the end of the book, Lorna was still haunting the lake where she had died, appearing to innocent fishermen and vacationers before causing terrible accidents to befall them.

I shook off a shiver as I stood there on the cabin’s porch, thinking about it all. I was about to knock on the imposing door a second time when it suddenly squeaked open.

I had to force down a gasp at the sight of him standing there.

Ashcroft’s face was as pale as freshly fallen snow and there was a kind of unkempt wildness to his dark hair and beard. The skin around his eyes was a sickly pink color. He wore a long flannel robe and sweats and stood in his bare feet. His left hand gripped the silver cane, and he breathed deeply — obviously winded.

I wasn’t sure how I was expecting someone just released from the hospital to look, but his unhealthy appearance still caught me off-guard.

“Mr. Black, I, uh, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

He said nothing in response. He stepped forward, craning his neck, his eyes scanning the woods behind me.

I glanced back, following his gaze.

There was nothing but pines.

I cleared my throat.

“I, uh, I wanted to drop this off,” I said, lifting up the container of soup. “I heard you just got home and—”

“Please come inside, Ms. Peters,” he said suddenly.

He made a sweeping motion with his hand, directing me into the foyer of the cabin.

There was something in his eyes as he did.

The stone wall had crumbled, and what remained was only panic.

Wild, blind panic.

Maybe Daniel was right.

Maybe he was suffering from some sort of mental health issue.

“Quickly, please,” he said, the terror now in his voice, too. “I’ll explain it all. But you must come inside now. You simply must.”

Maybe I should have just left the soup and driven back to town.

The man was clearly unwell.

But in the end, I did as he asked, stepping inside the Juniper Hollow Cabin to hear his story.

Chapter 16

“Are you all by yourself here?” I asked, glancing around the messy living room.

Ashcroft added a small log to the fireplace and took a seat in one of the birch-white wing-backed chairs nearby. I watched his movements as he did, and though his face belonged to someone no older than 40, the way he carried his body was more akin to an elderly person. Not even Warren moved like that, and he was pushing 90.

Ashcroft Black was an unwell man, indeed.

“Yes, I’m alone. My wife and I aren’t exactly on good terms these days as I’m sure you overheard the other evening.”

I took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

I didn’t know the full extent of their marital problems. But it seemed a rather cold thing to not be there for your spouse after they’d just been released from the hospital.

“Well, what about your publisher? Don. Why isn’t he here?”

A sour smile crossed Ashcroft’s lips.

“He put on a good show that night, didn’t he?”

I pulled at my forest green flannel scarf and set it down on my lap.

“What do you mean?”

“All that talk about my success and how much he respects me and my work… It’s all smoke and mirrors. The real truth is Don doesn’t give a rat’s a—”

He stopped talking, gazing at me and backtracking.

“What I mean is Don Wharton doesn’t care about me. His only concern now and forever more will be his cut of my talent. And as soon as book sales start to dip, the praise stops and the bullying begins. Which I’m not too modest to say has already started, considering my latest release hasn’t done nearly as well on the charts as the previous one.”

Ashcroft shook his head, turning his attention toward the small fire.

“I think of those young writers who were here for the workshop, and sometimes I think the best advice I could give them would be stop. Cut your losses now and don’t go any further in this industry. Whether you never make it or you make the bestseller lists with your debut, it doesn’t matter — the path is ugly. There’s only heartache and jealousy and vampires looking to suck you dry in this profession.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

It was interesting the way things looked from the outside versus the way they really were. It made me think about Mary Lou Anderson — the writer I’d spoken to at the workshop. There she’d been, dreaming of one day being as successful as Ashcroft Black. Thinking that if she could only get to his level, life would be cake and roses.

But obviously, that wasn’t how Ashcroft felt about his life, despite all of his accolades.

“How are you feeling?” I finally asked when he said nothing more on the subject.

“A little shaky, but I’ve been like this before. I was diagnosed with this heart condition in my teens. It’s probably why I became a writer in the first place. I would have wanted to play baseball professionally if I could have. Alas...”

He kept his gaze on the fire and gripped the handle of his cane.

“Nobody outside of my immediate circle knows that I suffer from this condition. I haven’t had an incident like this for quite some time,” he said. “However, I fear that this isn’t the end of it.”

He met my eyes suddenly.

“I’m afraid there’s going to be another episode very soon, Ms. Peters. And I don’t know if I will survive that one.”

The wild panic returned to his steel grays.

“What makes you say that?”

He took in a deep breath.

“Because, my dear — I am being haunted.”

His voice had taken on such an odd tone that at first, I thought he was joking.

But he didn’t say anything more for a long moment, and the seriousness in his expression made it very clear that this was no laughing matter.

“Haunted?” I finally said in a low voice.

He nodded.

The flames of the fire flickered in his eyes.

“By Lorna.”

I felt my mouth go dry.

“Lor…?”

The name turned to ash in my mouth.

“Yes, Ms. Peters,” he said. “Lorna Larimer. The evil spirit from my latest novel.”

Chapter 17

“Well, that’s all nuttier than a slice of pecan pie with hazelnut toffee and pistachio ice cream on the side.”

“I won’t argue with you there, old man. But Ashcroft insists that Lorna Larimer’s ghost is haunting him.”

My grandfather shook his head, then climbed the ladder that overlooked the large copper brew kettle. When he got to the top, I heaved the large burlap sack of fragrant Cascadia hops up to him. He grabbed it from me and then slowly added the hops to the kettle, stirring the bubbling liquid with a massive wooden paddle before climbing back down the ladder.

Warren might have been pushing 90, but when he was in the Geronimo Brewing Co. brewhouse, in his domain, anybody might have mistaken him for a 30-year-old.

He dusted his hands free of hops residue and then rubbed his chin.

“I’ve heard a lot of things in my time. But a horror author being haunted by his own characters? Poor fella must be a few drumsticks short of a picnic.”

I had trouble not cracking a smile at my grandfather’s colorful self-expression.

“Maybe so. Ashcroft says he’s seen her three separate times. Once just after his book reading at the bookstore. Once in the woods behind my pie shop. And the night he had his heart incident, he saw her just beyond the driveway in the woods.”

Warren scratched his head, then grabbed the paper cup of hazelnut coffee I’d brought him from a nearby work table.

“So he’s saying these, uh, these hallucinations only just started when he moved into the Juniper Hollow Cabin?” Warren asked.

I nodded.

Ashcroft had told me that before he took up residence here in Christmas River, he’d had no run-ins with spirits of any kind. He said he didn’t even believe in their existence, despite what he wrote in his books. He’d also told me that he wasn’t on any drugs other than his prescribed heart medication. And seeing ghosts was most definitely not listed in the side effects for that medication.

“Hmm,” Warren muttered.

“But Daniel said all those stories kids used to tell about the cabin were false,” I continued. “The only person who ever died there was an elderly man of a stroke. There was never any murder.”

Warren took off his apron, hanging it on a hook on the far wall. Then he motioned for me to follow him out of the chilly brewhouse and into the pub. I did, and a moment later, I was sitting on a burnished leather stool at the pine bar. Warren went around the back side of the wooden slab, grabbed a fresh pint glass, and filled it from the draft station.

A moment later, he slid the glass of beer across the bar toward me.

“Say… it’s only two o’clock, old man,” I said.

“That’s right,” he retorted. “Perfect hour for a pint of pumpkin ale, don’t you think?”

I tilted my head and then smiled after a long moment, finally taking the beer.

I supposed that I had nowhere I needed to go until much later in the evening. And anyway, it would be rude of me to turn away such a perfectly poured pint of beer.

I took a sip, and the very essence of fall danced on my taste buds. Fresh hops and roasted malt and spices intertwined together in a delightful moment of autumnal bliss.

My grandfather was a true artist.

“Daniel’s right about nothing sinister ever happening at the hunting cabin,” Warren said, smiling a little as he watched me take such delight in drinking his beer.

He gazed out the window that faced Main Street.

“But then, those kids weren’t completely wrong about that place being haunted, either.”

I set the pint glass down on the bar top.

“What do you mean?” I said in a breathy voice.

Warren tilted his head up to the ceiling, as if pulling old memories down from the beams.

“Well, before they built the cabin, there was another structure on the property. An old shack. Back in the fifties, this shack belonged to a man who went by the name of Ted Gallagher. Ted was the town recluse. He came to Christmas River during dust bowl times. Sorta just blew in with the wind and never left.”

Warren paused, seemingly deep in thought.

“Yep. I remember Ted. Not a friendly fella. Only came into town for supplies once in a blue moon. Mostly kept to himself. None of us gave too much thought to the man. But then one day, in 1956 I think it was, a cop came to town asking questions about him. Turned out that Ted was suspected in the death of his wife — Ruth Gallagher — in whatever little town he’d come from twenty years earlier. They’d finally tracked him down. But when the cop drove out to Ted’s cabin, he found a startling sight.”

Warren paused again, letting a long silence drag out.

“What’d he find?” I said, unable to take the suspense any longer.

“There’d been a fire during the night, and Ted’s small house had burned clear down to the ground. They found Ted inside. He was still in bed, like he might have just fallen asleep. But there was something else strange in the ashes — the only thing that survived the fire.”

I gripped my beer, feeling a chill work its way down my spine — a sensation I’d been getting all too familiar with lately.

Warren leaned across the bar and lowered his voice.

“They found a woman’s scarf. Navy blue silk with golden threads running through it. A highly unique scarf. And the thing was, you know that cop that came looking for Ted? Turned out he was the dead wife’s brother. And you know what else? This cop swore that that scarf — the one that had miraculously survived the fire — had been the exact same one that Ted’s murdered wife had been buried with twenty years earlier.”

I gazed at Warren, my jaw practically on the pine table top.

“No,” I whispered.

But Warren just nodded.

“True story, Cinny Bee. That one’s too scary for even the kids around here to tell.”

Maybe Ashcroft had been confused. Maybe it wasn’t really the spirit of Lorna Larimer he was seeing.

Maybe it was the spirit of this dead woman — Ruth Gallagher. Maybe she was still haunting the grounds where she killed her husband.

It took everything I had not to start shivering like a newborn rabbit.

It was an even worse story than the rumors about the not-so-accidental hunting accident, proving that fact was by far crazier and scarier than fiction—

All of a sudden, Warren started wheezing like he’d just inhaled an ashtray.

He leaned against the counter, crow’s feet tugging at his eyes, his whole body convulsing.

At first, I was horrified that he was having some sort of seizure.

But then, I realized that it wasn’t any kind of emergency — unless a person could die from tugging somebody’s leg too hard.

I felt my cheeks flush.

I reached across the bar, lightly pushing his shoulder.

“Old man!” I said. “How could you?”

That only seemed to make him laugh even more.

All I could do was sit there and watch him wheeze, feeling the color in my cheeks turn to a shade of beet salad.

“Casper in Coos Bay, I’m sorry Cinny Bee,” he eventually squeaked out as a tear trickled down his cheek. “I just didn’t think you’d ever be so gullible. I thought you’d call me out the moment I brought up the scarf.”

At that, I swear I could feel steam coming out of my ears.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Ah, don’t be angry. I was only having a little fun.”

“Fun?” I said, snapping my head back. “You think it’s fun to scare the daylights out of your only granddaughter like that?”

He stared busting up again, and it was all I could do to shake my head.

“Aren’t we all entitled to a little fun around Halloween?” he wheezed.

“Don’t you dare go and use that old Halloween excuse. You’re not getting out of this so easily, old man.”

He smiled, the laughter piping down.

“All right. Maybe I got carried away. My apologies.”

I crossed my arms tighter against my chest.

“Anyway, I didn’t make the whole thing up,” he continued. “Some of it was true. The police were after Ted for a hit and run. He’d laid some poor young man up in the hospital after running him over. Ted was also the town drunk, you see. But before the cops could arrest him, Ted fell asleep in the cabin while smoking tobacco and the whole place went up in flames. Ted made it out alive, somehow. Served some time for the hit and run and then died of a heart attack a few years later. So you see, I only embellished the part about his wife and that ghostly scarf for your entertainment, Cinny Bee.”

I looked at him skeptically.

“Honest — that’s the whole truth. I’m not pulling your leg anymore.”

“Well, it’s a heck of a thing to do since I’m going back up there to Juniper Hollow later and spending the night,” I said.

The old man raised his bushy white eyebrows.

“Come again?”

“You heard right. Daniel and I are going to stake it out tonight. Ashcroft asked for our help, and we’re going to help him. He doesn’t know if he’s going crazy or if there really is a ghost, but he asked if Daniel and I could watch the cabin and see if Lorna Larimer appears.”

“And Daniel’s going along with this tomfoolery?” Warren said.

I shrugged.

“He wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to help.”

Warren rubbed his chin again, a worried expression coming across his face.

“What’s that look about?” I said, taking a sip of my beer. “Don’t tell me you think the place is haunted now.”

“No, it ain’t the dead I’m worried about out there, Cinny Bee,” he said, a note of seriousness in his voice. “I just don’t like the idea of you in the woods at that hour. You might not find a ghost, but you could run into some unsavory character.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” I said. “Daniel won’t leave my side. And the last thing any of those unsavory characters you’re talking about wants is to cross paths with the Sheriff of Pohly County.”

That seemed to ease his mind a little, but I could tell the prospect of us out there still concerned him.

“Well, you two be careful in those dark woods, nonetheless. Bundle up because it’s gonna be a cold one tonight.”

He grinned, his eyes lighting up with mischief.

“And give my regards to Ruth Gallagher’s murderous spirit for me while you’re there,” he said with a rakish wink.

I shook my head.

“This beer better be on the house, old man.”

“Always is, Cinny Bee. Always is.”

Chapter 18

“Are you actually reading his book?”

Daniel raised his eyebrows and glanced at me over the edge of a new hardback copy of The Lady in the Glass.

“It’s part of my research.”

“Research?”

Daniel lowered the copy and gazed out the windshield at the darkening woods.

“Yeah. I’m trying to research just how many marbles this guy has left and whether I ought to call a psychiatrist and save us a cold night in the woods.”

“Daniel Brightman,” I rasped. “He’ll hear you.”

I fixed my eyes on the cabin. Through one of the massive windows, I could see Ashcroft Black sitting at a handcrafted juniper desk, hammering away studiously on an antique typewriter.

Apparently, writing on an old-fashioned typewriter was another one of the author’s eccentricities.

“Doesn’t look like he heard anything to me,” Daniel said, letting out a bored sigh.

He returned his attention to the book, holding up his phone and using the flashlight app to pore over the pages.

“Look, I know how crazy this all sounds,” I said. “I don’t even really believe any of it. But you know what I do believe, Daniel? That Ashcroft is scared, alone, and needs help. Now, I don’t know him very well, but I’ve never turned away anybody who asked for my help before. And I’ll be a turkey on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving if I’m gonna start now.”

I noticed there was a hint of a smile on his lips as I ranted.

“What?” I said.

“You don’t have to explain any of it to me, darlin,’” he said, his voice softening. “I knew your sense of philanthropy is so strong, you’d come up here by yourself to stake out the cabin if it came down to it. I only came along because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being out here alone in the cold.”

He gave me a gentle smile that made my heart melt a little.

I reached over, squeezing his hand in a gesture of appreciation.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “And anyway, I couldn’t have my wife turning into a turkey on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, now could I? What would the neighbors say?”

He said the last part in a teasing tone, but I let it go on account of him willing to spend the night in a cold car.

I looked back at the cabin, watching Ashcroft. He was about the most studious-looking person I’d ever seen, and it seemed as though nothing would be able to break his concentration.

I supposed that was part of what made him so prolific.

“Do you think he’s really crazy?” I asked.

Daniel shut the book, tossing it on the dashboard. He pocketed his phone, shifting in his seat.

“I don’t know. But meeting him just now hasn’t exactly convinced me of his sanity.”

We’d arrived about half an hour earlier and I’d introduced Daniel to Ashcroft. The author hadn’t necessarily been unfriendly, but not overly friendly, either. He was still wearing that old flannel robe and his face was pale and haggard. He seemed a little guarded and on-edge and answered Daniel’s questions with curt responses — something that surprised me considering how candid he’d been with me earlier. And the fact that he’d asked us for help in the first place.

But when I had a chance to think about it, I wondered if the fact that Daniel was a real sheriff put Ashcroft on edge. With Lorna Larimer seemingly leaping off the pages of his books into reality, maybe seeing a real-life Sheriff who might have looked vaguely similar to the main character in his series had shaken him.

Ashcroft had invited us to stay in the living room of the cabin, but Daniel declined, saying we’d get the best view of the woods from out in the car.

“I am willing to consider that Ashcroft believes he’s seeing a ghost,” Daniel said, digging his hands into the pocket of his jacket. “Now, he said earlier that he got the initial idea for Lorna Larimer’s character from a dream he had about a young woman at the bottom of a lake. What’s to say he’s not dreaming this apparition up now? Maybe it’s some form of daydreaming gotten out of hand. You know how those creative types are. They act different sometimes.”

“I guess that could be,” I said.

I hoped it was, in fact.

“What I don’t understand is how come he just doesn’t leave here?” Daniel said, reaching for the canister of hot coffee that I’d brought and filling two small camping mugs with the liquid. “If it all started when he moved into the cabin, why not just leave Christmas River?”

“He told me when I was here last time that he’s got nowhere else to go. Apparently, he and his wife just sold their home in New York. She’s living with a friend right now or something — they’re going through some marital troubles. Plus he’s on a tight deadline for his next book. He said he doesn’t have the time to just pick up and move.”

Daniel took a sip of his coffee, gazing at Ashcroft typing.

“See? All of that amounts to a lot of pressure right there,” Daniel said. “And stress can cause people to act crazy sometimes.”

A sharp gust suddenly railed against the car, and the pines all around us shook in the growing darkness.

“Looks like we’re in for a cold night, Cin,’” Daniel said, looking up at the sky through the windshield. “You know, we could always call it quits and go home anytime you want.”

I made a scoffing sound.

“Speak for yourself, Sheriff. A little cold never bothered me none.”

Daniel looked over, a sparkle in his eyes.

“All right, partner,” he said. “I can stand it if you can.”

I smiled.

Daniel poured me another cup of coffee and we waited for the ghost of Lorna Larimer to appear.

Chapter 19

It turned out that despite my big talk, I wasn’t much for stake-outs.

I woke up around midnight to the sound of Daniel quietly talking on the phone.

I didn’t know exactly how long I’d been asleep for, but I’d still been awake when Ashcroft left his typewriter and shut off all the lights in the cabin for the night. I imagined that he had gone to bed after that.

“No, no. It’s fine, Billy. I can be there in half an hour if you need me.”

I sat up straight, feeling a sharp pain in my neck — I’d fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position.

“All right, well let me walk you through it at least,” Daniel said.

I looked over at him and silently mouthed the words “What’s going on?”

He pressed his hand against the speaker of the cell phone.

“Accident on Highway 20. A DUII driver wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Turns out he was trafficking a sizable amount of prescription meds. Billy and Owen caught the call and have a few questions about procedure.”

“You sure you don’t need to go out there?” I said, my voice coming out scratchy.

“They’ll be fine. I’m just gonna talk them through a couple of things. You get back to sleep, Cin.”

He popped open the truck door and started getting out.

“Daniel, you don’t need to—”

But before I could finish the thought, he’d slipped out, shutting the door gently behind him.

I watched in the rearview mirror as he went around the back of the truck, pacing a little in the faint glow of the cabin’s porch light as he talked into the phone.

I sat up straighter and rubbed the back of my neck. The tip of my nose was about as cold as a freezer-burned Popsicle and the rest of my body wasn’t much warmer. I brought the heavy wool blanket I was under tighter around my shoulders and fought off a few shivers.

I scanned the woods in the distance, looking for any sign of movement or of anything out of the ordinary.

There was nothing unusual. Just darkness and more darkness.

I looked back at the time on the car dashboard. It glowed 12:01.

I let out a long sigh.

Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe what Ashcroft really needed wasn’t us sitting out here in a car, waiting to see a ghost. Maybe what Ashcroft needed was a psychiatrist. Somebody to help him with what was most likely a mental health issue.

I glanced at his book, still on the dashboard. I picked it up, staring at his photo on the back.

In addition to his failing marriage and his upcoming book deadline, I imagined that his life in general — the part about being a famous author — might have caused continuous, grinding stress. I thought about what he’d said the day before. About how if he could give those young writers any advice, it would be to stop writing.

Those were the words of a bitter man — a man who no longer felt good about his work or his life.

Maybe this apparition business was the beginning of a nervous breakdown.

And maybe me giving any sort of credence to this hallucination by being out here was the most unhelpful thing I could do for Ashcroft Black—

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move.

My blood turned cold.

And then… it turned to ice.

I blinked hard for a moment, sure that my eyes were lying.

But when I opened them up again, she was still there.

Pale skin, dark hair — a scowl on her face that reminded me of a starved wolf. Dressed in a billowing white lace gown — just the way Ashcroft described her in the book.

She walked through the woods, the porch light illuminating her figure.

It was her.

Lorna Larimer.

She was real.

Chapter 20

With trembling hands, I popped the car door open and stepped out into the frigid night air. I could hear the faint sound of Daniel still talking somewhere behind the truck, but I barely registered it.

It took everything I had not to scream.

I watched in choked terror as she weaved through the pines toward the cabin. Her skin was paler than moonlight, and her long black hair was tangled with what looked to be wet seaweed.

All I could seem to do was stand there, watching as she got closer and closer to the house.

She made no noise as she walked — almost as if she was a swan gliding across a placid lake.

I swallowed hard, my mouth drier than graveyard dirt.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening...

But it was.

She approached the cabin, walking up to the bedroom window where Ashcroft was sleeping.

She seemed to know exactly where he would be.

Lorna stepped up to the window. She curled her hand into a fist and held it up, ready to knock on the glass.

“Daniel!”

My voice came out as a hellish cry and reverberated throughout the woods.

Lorna Larimer snapped her head to the side, looking dead at me.

Her face twisted into an angry glower.

I nearly screamed again.

Daniel ran up beside me. I gripped his arm.

“Cin, what’s—”

His voice cut out abruptly.

He saw her, too.

“What the hell—”

A moment later, Lorna Larimer was running away from the cabin like a wild animal.

Chapter 21

I stopped running, leaning forward, sucking in freezing forest air.

“I don’t understand,” Daniel said, coming back toward me. “We were right on her heels, and it’s like… like she just—”

“Vanished,” I choked out.

Daniel held out his flashlight, spinning it around the dark woods, looking for any trace of the spirit.

Lorna had been fast. Wickedly fast. She’d had a good head start on us, but despite that, we’d made up the distance. We’d nearly closed in on her when she ran behind a stand of pines and seemed to disappear into thin air.

But then again, what would you expect from a ghost?

I swallowed hard, staring at the frozen ground.

Had this really just happened?

I had seen it with my own two eyes, and so had Daniel. But seeing something and actually believing it were two different things. And as I stood there, sucking in wind and trying to catch my breath, I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around what had happened.

“You saw all that, right?” I said, needing to hear some sort of confirmation that it was real. “You saw the ghost of Lorna Larimer?”

I peered at my husband in the dark, unable to make out his facial expression. But his silence said it all.

“I can’t believe it,” I said when he didn’t answer. “I can’t believe Ashcroft’s really being haunted.”

I watched as Daniel walked a few feet away from me, shining his light in the distance, still trying to find her.

I swallowed hard.

My heart was still doing double time.

How could such a thing be possible?

It didn’t make any sense. But there was no doubt in my mind that I had just seen Lorna herself.

Daniel walked back toward me, the beam of the flashlight illuminating the area in front of him.

“Ashcroft’s being haunted, all right,” he said coming up next to me.

He brought the flashlight up, showing me something in his left hand.

I felt my mouth drop slightly.

I reached out, touching the small swatch of ragged fabric, feeling its rough edges.

Cheesecloth.

The kind you might find at a craft store.

Or maybe a Halloween costume store this time of year.

I looked back up at Daniel.

“Only I don’t think it’s a ghost doing the haunting, Cin.”

Chapter 22

“Who would want to hurt you, Mr. Black?”

I held my frozen hands in front of the crackling fire in the hearth and watched Ashcroft’s face as Daniel asked the question.

Ashcroft was holding the piece of cheesecloth we’d found on a sharp branch in the woods, stroking it and crumpling it up in his hands, as if the cheap fabric somehow held the key to the question.

It felt good sitting beside a warm fire now. I was tired and could have used a hot shower and a warm bed after our long stakeout. But at least the time spent in the cold hadn’t been wasted.

Dressing up as a ghost and scaring somebody might have been chalked up to a harmless Halloween prank in most circumstances.

But dressing up as a ghost and purposefully trying to harass a man with a heart condition was a lot more than just some Halloween shenanigans.

In some books, it might even be called attempted murder.

Ashcroft didn’t answer Daniel’s question for a full minute. He gazed into the fire, stroking his dark beard.

I would have thought he’d been happy to find out it wasn’t really a ghost haunting him.

But I supposed knowing that someone was after you was still a frightening prospect, and he seemed to be just as troubled as he’d been before.

“I don’t know,” he finally muttered, not looking at Daniel. “I really… I mean, I’ve had people who hate my books. I’ve had some fundamentalists write death threats to my publisher because they’re convinced I’m doing the devil’s work by writing about the supernatural. But I’ve never given much weight to those letters. They’re a given for authors in my genre.”

“What about someone closer?” Daniel asked. “Someone you might have crossed or somehow upset?”

Ashcroft gazed into the fire, not answering.

I cleared my throat.

“Where’s your wife right now, Ashcroft?”

He looked over at me with a wounded expression, and I wondered if I should have phrased it in a more delicate way.

But it was a practical question. The argument that Kara and I overheard had ended with Ashcroft’s wife implying she would use other means to get him to sign papers. Most likely divorce papers.

It seemed to me that gave her a motive for wanting to scare him — and possibly to do more than scare him. She also knew he was staying at the cabin, and she could have easily hired an actress to play Lorna.

“My wife’s working in Portland,” he said in a grim voice. “And I know what you’re thinking and why you might think it, Ms. Peters. But Ana wouldn’t do this to me. There’s no reason to drag her into this.”

He looked from the Sheriff to me.

“It’s got to be somebody else.”

“Well, then who?” Daniel said.

Ashcroft scratched his face absentmindedly.

“I don’t know. But perhaps you scared them off, and this is the end of it.”

He stood up and then grabbed his cane, walking slowly over to his writing desk. He rifled around in the drawer for a long moment, coming back with a checkbook and an elegant fountain pen.

“How much do I owe you for your trouble?”

Daniel and I looked at each other at the same time, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

“We’re not looking for any payment, Mr. Black,” Daniel said, speaking for us both. “That’s not why we’re out here tonight.”

“Nonsense. Everyone’s looking for a payment. Name your price, sir.”

“There’s no fee,” I said. “We just wanted to help, Ashcroft.”

He looked at me like I’d started speaking Greek.

“Fine. Then I’ll come up with a number myself,” he mumbled, the fountain pen scribbling across the checkbook.

“You know this won’t be the end of it, don’t you?” Daniel said, standing up. “Someone out there is looking to hurt you. And maybe this Lorna acting bit won’t hold up anymore, but you know they’ll try something else next time. And they might not stop until…”

Daniel trailed off, looking hard at the author.

“We still need to find out who’s responsible for this.”

Ashcroft ripped the check from the book and stuck it out toward Daniel. When he refused to take it, Ashcroft sighed and folded it before putting the check in the pocket of his robe.

“Well, if you won’t take payment, then I can’t offer you anything else. I feel comfortable ending things here. Thank you for your help, Ms. Peters, Sheriff Brightman. I’ll see you to the door.”

I let out a scoff.

“You can’t be serious, Ashcroft. Didn’t you just hear what Daniel said? This person’s out to get you—”

Ashcroft made an abrupt motion with his hand, signaling us toward the front of the cabin.

“Please,” he said in a curt tone.

I looked over at Daniel.

He was putting on his cowboy hat, shaking his head.

I supposed he was right — there didn’t seem to be any talking Ashcroft out of it.

I stood up. Then I grabbed my coat and followed Daniel toward the door.

We were about to close it behind us when I heard Ashcroft’s voice.

“And Ms. Peters?”

I turned around.

“Thank you for the soup yesterday. I’ll recommend your shop to my friends should they ever pass through Christmas River.”

I sighed, nodded, and then shut the door behind me.

Wondering why, despite being more afraid than he was before, Ashcroft Black was turning us away.

Chapter 23

“Well, you know what they say,” Kara said right before cramming in a massive bite of Honey Apple Pie dolloped with ginger ice cream. “Famous people are crazy.”

The last part came out muffled and practically unintelligible behind all that pastry, but somehow, I managed to understand what she was saying.

I stood over the stove, stirring a pot filled with cranberries, sugar, apple cider, vinegar, and apple slices. I turned up the heat a little, watching as the juicy liquid turned to a sunset shade of pink.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, looking up and staring out the window at the rain dripping down from the angry skies overhead. “Still, I can’t stop thinking about it all. I guess it’s really none of my business anymore. But I can’t help it. I’m worried about him. I’m worried that one of these days, Daniel’s going to get a call from paramedics saying that Ashcroft...”

I trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

Kara paused, chewing and thinking.

“Well maybe it’s not as serious as you guys are making it out to be, Cin.”

“What do you mean?”

She cleared her throat of phlegm in a fashion that might have been un-lady like, but which I appreciated.

I always enjoyed that about Kara — that she ate the way her hunger dictated and didn’t give a hoot whether people were watching.

“I mean, what if it is just a prank? Maybe there are kids behind it. Everyone in town knows Ashcroft’s renting the cabin for the fall. Maybe some kids read his books and are just pranking him, the way kids do. It’s kind of a Scooby Doo thing to do anyway, right? Dress up as a ghost to scare somebody?”

“Yeah, but this goes way beyond TP-ing a house, Kara. I mean think about it — to dress up as a character from one of Ashcroft’s books and try to scare him? Knowing he has a heart condition?”

Kara shrugged.

“Maybe they don’t know he’s got a heart condition. I didn’t know until I heard Don Wharton say it at the cabin that night. Most of the town still thinks he was hospitalized last week with a bad stomach virus.”

People in town thought that because it was the official story from Ashcroft’s publisher concerning the incident. The news media had then spread the misinformation.

For some reason, Ashcroft and his publisher wanted to keep his heart condition a secret.

“Maybe whoever’s behind this is thinking it’s all in good fun and doesn’t realize that Ashcroft’s an ill man,” Kara added.

The tea kettle whistled. I went over and turned off the burner, then poured the piping hot water into two cups containing chai tea bags.

“No,” I said after a while. “I saw that woman pretending to be Lorna. And it didn’t look like an innocent prank to me, Kara. There’s maliciousness there.”

I looked out the window again, sighing.

“I just wish I could figure out who’s behind it. It’s really bugging me.”

I supposed that was something that had changed in me since getting married to Daniel. These days I found it hard to leave a mystery unresolved.

“Well, if you want to know my opinion, I say let it go, Cin,” Kara said, standing up and wrapping her cozy knit scarf around her neck. “Forget Ashcroft Black and that slime ball publisher of his and move on. I know I have. No way would I ever publish any of my books with that guy. I don’t care how successful he claims to be.”

Something suddenly struck me when she said that.

I flashed on what Ashcroft had said earlier — about how publishers loved you until your book sales started falling. Then they became bullies.

And about how Ashcroft said that was already beginning to happen with his latest book release — that sales weren’t as good as they had once been.

I rubbed my chin, thinking.

Don Wharton had heaped praise on Ashcroft that night of the workshop like it was going out of style. But had it all been for show?

Could this Lorna Larimer business be some kind of bullying tactic?

I couldn’t see the motive or all the details yet, but one thing I did know.

I didn’t get a good feeling from Don Wharton.

And I wouldn’t trust him if my life depended on it.

“Cin?”

I glanced up. Kara was peering at me with a funny little smile on her face as if she’d been trying to get my attention for a while.

“I was saying that—”

Just then, there were footsteps on the back porch. The door opened, and a man who looked no better than a drowned rat threw himself inside.

“Daniel, what in the—”

“Woo-eee, it’s raining pumpkins and black cats out there!”

He took off his hat and shook out his jacket, dripping water all over the floor. I grabbed a towel, soaking it up.

“Ah, shoot. Sorry about that, Cin.”

“Here, let me take your jacket—”

“No, I’m not staying long.”

Kara nodded to Daniel, then looked out the windows at the gray skies dumping water like there was a shortage of it around here.

“Well, I’m going to make a break for it back to the shop,” she said, bringing her scarf up over her head and sliding on her sunglasses — which gave her the look of a celebrity trying to avoid being spotted. “Thanks for the pie as always, Cin.”

“And thanks for the talk, as always, Kara.”

She grinned at me, then nodded again at Daniel before quickly heading out the swinging dividing door and into the dining room.

I returned my attention back to Daniel.

“So what’s so important you had to dodge gourds and bad luck for?”

“Well, I was just coming by to see if you had six or so hours to spare this afternoon.”

“Six hours?” I said, raising my eyebrows, trying to think of what would take so long.

“Yeah. Six hours for a scenic drive, a Burgerville pumpkin pie milkshake, and a chance to solve a mystery or two. What do you say?”

I felt the edges of my mouth turn up a little.

Even though I didn’t know all the particulars of Daniel’s proposition, I knew the closest Burgerville location was about a hundred miles or so in a northwesterly direction. Additionally, I had a feeling the mystery he was talking about might have something to do with Ashcroft Black.

I went over to the window and gazed up at all that rain.

“But in this weather? It’s not going to be too pretty going over the pass.”

“I’m already ahead of you, Cin. The weather radar shows that the rain will let up as soon as we make it past Redmond. Which is luck, if you ask me. Usually it’s Portland that’s getting drenched while we’ve got clear skies. And I already called Warren to see if he could let the dogs out at 5 and feed them dinner. Now the only question is whether you’ve got the time to spare. What do you say? Think Tiana and Toby can take over the rest of the day?”

I didn’t have to think about it too long.

We were almost out of pie, anyway, and as it so happened, I’d been considering closing the shop early today.

“I think I can swing it,” I said, turning off the burner before going over to the coat rack and grabbing my rain slicker.

Daniel smiled.

I supposed he had trouble letting go of an unresolved mystery just as much as I did.

Chapter 24

Just as the weather station had predicted, once we passed Redmond and got out toward Madras, the rainy clouds parted and made way for brilliant rich cobalt skies. The three-hour drive flew by in piles of fire-colored leaves, pie, laughter, and bad country music.

There wasn’t anything quite like driving Oregon highways in the autumn — the fresh smell of the forest air, the changing leaves carpeting the road, and if you were lucky, a few drops of sunshine here and there.

Before I knew it, we were heading into the city and trying to find parking.

Daniel had told me back when we were driving through Redmond about the plan. He’d said he’d gotten Ashcroft’s wife’s name by reading a few news articles. She was a producer for a successful independent movie studio in New York, and just like Ashcroft had said, she was working in Portland this month on a horror movie shoot. Daniel tracked down the boutique hotel where the higher-up executives for the movie were staying — a place in Portland’s Pearl District.

There might have been a lot of people who could be after Ashcroft. But considering the argument that Kara and I had overheard between the horror author and his wife and the thing she wanted him to sign at all costs, she was obviously our first suspect.

Maybe this was all a lot to do for a man who more or less asked us to stay out of his business. But I knew Daniel, and I knew his approach to crime was to try to stop it before it happened. I could see that this situation with Ashcroft worried him a lot — Daniel didn’t want to see Ashcroft end up getting injured in another bizarre ploy. And additionally, I imagined that Daniel was already thinking several steps ahead. God forbid if something should happen to Ashcroft in Christmas River, our little town would become an all-out freak scene of reporters and horror fans and who knew what else. And with Ashcroft’s level of fame, the reverberations of such a thing may have lasted for decades in Christmas River.

It was what made Daniel such a good Sheriff — he wanted to protect the town and the county not only today, but into the future as well.

After driving around for a while, we finally found a spot a couple of blocks away from the hotel. Daniel parallel parked the truck, and I stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was crowded with all types of people — professional hipsters, nine-to-fivers dressed in business suits, restaurant industry folks, and shoppers in designer clothes.

Though I visited Portland a lot these days, being that my pie food cart was here, it wasn’t often that I got out to this part of town. It was more upscale, and the items featured in the shops were way out of most working peoples’ price ranges. The boutique stores were mostly for tourists and people who lived up in the West Hills — the very expensive part of town. And as I stood there on the sidewalk in my old rain jacket and scuffed-up boots, I suddenly became very aware that I stuck out like a sore thumb in this area of town.

Luckily, my knight in shining armor wasn’t far behind. Daniel took my arm, not noticing at all that we were in a sea of stylishly dressed, wealthy Portlanders. He pointed to a tall building in the distance.

“That’s The Greenbuilt,” he said. “Hopefully Ms. Black isn’t out on the movie set.”

Daniel had tried to contact Ana Black via the production studio, but he’d been sent straight to voicemail several times.

But he said that was okay — he liked having the element of surprise. It would jar most people if a sheriff showed up at the place they were staying, he said, and it might cause something to slip if she was indeed the one behind the Lorna Larimer prank.

We walked down the street and headed inside the revolving door of the hotel. When we stepped inside, my eyes were assaulted with a swirl of chartreuse, lime green, and black pinstripes.

The lobby had plenty of upscale mahogany furniture and an abundance of haughty style. It just wasn’t my style, and as if walking into a room full of bright lights, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the garish color.

“Jeez. I guess they weren’t joking when they called it The Greenbuilt,” Daniel said, cracking a smile. “I’m just going to talk to the concierge and see if they can help us find her. Be back in a minute.”

I nodded and watched as he went over to a nearby desk and rang a little silver bell. A man in his late twenties dressed in a green velvet suit appeared from a back room and greeted Daniel with a curt nod.

I stayed where I was, looking around the lounge some more. A few of those upscale Pearl District types were sitting on some chez lounges by a big fire, the flames of which leapt up from crystal fire glass. The room was decorated with several museum-style gold frames which showcased oil paintings of English fox hunting scenes from the past.

The Greenbuilt struck me as a great place to attend a Halloween bash, but not the kind of place I’d want to spend the night. It reminded me of the parlor in The Spider and the Fly. Or what it might feel like if you suddenly tripped and fell into a bottle of absinthe.

“No, I understand your policy, sir. And I’m not trying to make you break it. All I’d like to know is if you’d be able to pass a message on to Ms. Black for us. Just to let her know we’re here,” I overheard Daniel say.

I glanced over. The young man in the green velvet suit had a sour look on his face and didn’t seem at all impressed by Daniel’s sheriff badge. In fact, he seemed defensive and uncooperative.

I dug my hands into the pockets of my jacket and glanced at the elevators just as a big group of people entered the lobby from the street. I wondered if there was something I could do to help find Ana while Daniel argued with the concierge. But I didn’t know which room number she was staying in, and short of going and wandering the halls, hoping for some blind luck, there really wasn’t much I could—

I suddenly caught sight of something in the crowd of people that had just walked in.

Boots.

Sharp, ice pick-heeled Prada boots. I followed those up to a woman with black hair, sunglasses, and impossibly pale skin.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was running after the group. They stopped at the elevators, and I weaved my way through them, realizing now that many of them were carrying cameras and filming equipment. I reached out, tapping her gently on the shoulder.

“Ana Black?”

The woman with dark hair turned around. Several of the people in the crowd looked at me, too, when I said her name.

“Yes?”

Her accent came out strong and thick with just a hint of a lisp. It reminded me of the accent my freshman year Spanish instructor in college had, and she’d been from Madrid.

I cleared my throat.

“You don’t know me, but I’m—”

“Wait…” she said, lifting her sunglasses, revealing a pair of striking green eyes. “I do know you. You’re that caterer, aren’t you? The one at Ashcroft’s cabin—”

She trailed off, looking away and biting on the end of her sunglasses.

“Has something happened to Ashcroft?” she said, her eyes taking on a panicked look. “It’s his heart, isn’t it? Has he had an incident?”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “I mean, not since the one last week.”

Her eyes bulged.

“Last week? What are you talking about?”

She fished around in her black wool coat and pulled out an iPhone.

“I must talk to Ash,” she said, scrolling frantically through the screen.

I knew I had to stop her before she finished the call.

“Look,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’ll explain everything if you just come over and talk with us.”

I nodded back to Daniel, who was still arguing at the front desk.

“But… but who are you people? What do you—”

“We’re trying to help your husband.”

She hesitated, looking hard at me.

For a moment, she looked like she was going to make a break for the elevator.

But she must have seen something in my face. Something that she trusted.

“All right,” she said. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Chapter 25

“Hijo de…”

Ana Black crumpled up the Kleenex in her hand with malicious intent.

“I’m glad he survived because now I have a chance to kill him myself. How could he not tell me about this? I might not want to be his wife anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

I shot a sideways glace at Daniel as Ana spoke, trying to figure out what he was thinking, and whether he believed she was being honest.

We were sitting in a cluster of green leather furniture by the fire in the hotel lobby. I couldn’t help but notice the concierge that Daniel had been dealing with a few moments earlier keeping an eye on us, like we might just run off with one of the gold-framed paintings at any moment.

“Ms. Black, I don’t mean to pry, but—”

“Please don’t call me that. I never took Ashcroft’s name. Call me Ms. Bayon if you have to, but I prefer Ana.”

Daniel nodded.

So far, I was thinking that this trip might result in a dead end. It was still possible that Ashcroft’s wife might have been lying, pretending she knew nothing about the incident at the writer’s workshop. But I didn’t think so. When I told her he’d been in the hospital, she’d been genuinely distraught and panicked about the well-being of her husband.

I didn’t think that reaction could be easily faked. And if it was real, it almost certainly ruled her out as the person trying to scare Ashcroft.

Of course, we still had to ask our questions. And there was still a chance she knew more about all of this than she was saying.

“So you haven’t talked to or seen Ashcroft since the night of the writer’s workshop?” Daniel asked.

She shook her head. Then she glanced at me.

“No. As I’m sure you overheard that evening, Ashcroft and I are not on the best of terms these days. We haven’t been for a long time, honestly. He’s always loved his work more than he loves me. I knew that going into the marriage. I wasn’t a fool. Or so I thought at the time…”

She let out a sigh and gazed into the fire.

“I shouldn’t be speaking to you about this. It’s personal and—”

She looked from Daniel to me then, as if trying to figure out whether we were trustworthy people.

Then she drew in a deep breath.

“Don’t repeat this to anybody else,” she said, lowering her voice. “It’s a private matter, and frankly, if word of this gets out, it would be catastrophic for Ashcroft. And while I would do almost anything to get him to sign the divorce papers, I wouldn’t go as low as this. Not ever.”

I felt my eyebrows draw together. Daniel looked over at me and then back at Ana.

“You have our word,” I said. “You can trust us.”

She bit her lip and leaned in closer to us.

“As I said, I knew going into the marriage that I would always come second to Ashcroft’s work. I came to terms with that. But then I discovered something a few months ago.”

She shook her head.

“You see, all these years, it wasn’t his work I was taking a back seat to.”

I gazed into Ana’s distraught face, not understanding.

“What do you mean?” Daniel finally asked.

She closed her eyes.

“My husband is a fraud, Sheriff. A lying fraud.”

Chapter 26

“Ash had been in a miserable way for months. But the thing that pushed me over the edge — that finally gave me the courage to leave — happened back in July. I came home one night from work and found Ash drunk, blubbering about some old writing professor of his that passed away. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then he kept talking and…”

Ana stopped speaking for a moment as a large group of people came from the elevators, dressed in crisp, fashionable clothes, clearly headed for a long night on the town. When they left through the front doors, Ana looked back at us and lowered her voice.

“He kept talking. And he told me how much this professor meant to him. Ash said he showed him what it took to be a writer. A real writer, he kept saying. Ash said that he attributed all of his success to this man, but that in the last few years of his life, this mentor stopped talking to him. And Ash couldn’t get over it. It ate him up inside. He blamed the worsening of his heart condition on the deterioration of this relationship.”

Ana bit her lip.

“Then I asked him something I wish I hadn’t…”

She drew in a deep breath, meeting my questioning eyes.

“I asked him what happened — why this mentor of his stopped speaking to him. And you know what Ash told me?”

She scoffed with disgust.

“‘Because I stole his book.’ That’s what he said. The idea for the Lane Graves series wasn’t my husband’s — it belonged to this man. Ashcroft told me the professor had been working on the first book in the series for the majority of his life. And that one day, Ash broke into the professor’s computer to read it. Ash stole it, reworked it, and sold it to a publisher under his own name.”

I stifled back a gasp.

Ana stared into the flames, her eyes turning to glassy mirrors.

“I don’t even know if Ashcroft remembers telling me any of this. We didn’t speak of it afterwards. But I knew it was more than the ramblings of a drunk man. I knew he was telling the truth — perhaps for the first time.”

She glanced up at us, her eyes lingering on me and my shell-shocked expression for a long moment.

“That was the straw that broke the back for me,” she said, missing the ‘camel’ part of the idiom. “I could take a backseat to his work, to his passion. I understood that. But when I discovered it wasn’t his work at all, I couldn’t have it anymore. It’s not just me he betrayed, either. It’s all of his readers as well. I had to leave him on principle.”

She stopped speaking, and a silence settled over the conversation.

I almost couldn’t believe it — that Ashcroft had done such a despicable thing. But when I looked into Ana’s devastated face, I knew she was telling the truth.

“I’m sorry we dragged all this up for you tonight, ma’am,” Daniel said, breaking the silence.

She rubbed her face.

“Que pesadilla. Ashcroft won’t talk to my lawyers. He sends back the divorce papers ripped in half. He won’t listen to reason, and he’s pushing me further and further away. This isn’t a marriage anymore. It’s a nightmare.”

We both gave that statement some room. Ana rubbed her arms, looking despondent and tired.

Daniel glanced over at me.

It was time to wrap this interview up.

“Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt your husband?” I asked.

“Hurt? What do you mean?”

As yet, we hadn’t told Ana about the ghost of Lorna Larimer. She seemed genuinely in the dark about the whole thing, which helped prove her innocence.

“Does he have any enemies?” Daniel continued. “Other people he might have upset recently?”

Ana stared at the green ceiling for a long moment.

“We’ve been leading separate lives for months now,” she said. “But Ashcroft doesn’t spend enough time in the world to have enemies. He hardly associates with anybody at all. He’s at his typewriter all day and all night.”

“Ana, do you know the name of this writing mentor Ashcroft stole the book from?” Daniel asked.

She shook her head.

“No. I didn’t want to know anything more about it. I never asked.”

She furrowed her brow, leaning forward in the leather chair.

“Is he in some kind of danger, Sheriff?”

Daniel glanced at me.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am.”

Ana shook her head again, leaning back and crossing her arms, her eyes fixed on the flames.

“He should have never left New York,” she mumbled.

Chapter 27

I took a big sip of my pumpkin shake, savoring the delicious creamy flavors as they danced on my tongue.

The shake was so good that I kept sipping and sipping until my straw hit air, causing a loud slurping sound to echo throughout the car.

Daniel laughed.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he said.

I chuckled as he hooked a right and sped through Gresham — a suburb of Portland that we drove through to get to the pass.

The sun was going down, and we were in for a dark drive. But the good weather appeared to be holding, and the heater was working overtime, making the inside of the cab warm and cozy.

We’d just stopped at Burgerville where we’d eaten a couple of bacon cheeseburgers and gotten some of the franchise’s famous milkshakes to-go. We hadn’t had a chance to talk much about the conversation with Ashcroft’s wife. But now that we were on the road headed home, I wanted to hear Daniel’s thoughts on it.

As if reading my mind, he started talking.

“Do you believe Ana’s story?” he asked. “That she doesn’t know anything about this Lorna Larimer business?”

“Yes,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. “I believed her. About that, and about the rest, too.”

Daniel kept his eyes on the road and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Imagine — building your whole life on someone else’s hard work. Ashcroft must have made millions off of his writing professor over the years. And the whole time, he’s taken all the credit.”

I nodded, still feeling a little shocked by the scandalous revelation.

I guess I had thought Ashcroft to be a lot of things.

But I hadn’t pegged him as a liar.

Or as a thief, either.

“Well, I guess that means we can cross his wife off the list of suspects,” Daniel said. “So that leaves—”

“You still want to pursue all of this?” I interrupted.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“But… but why? Ashcroft’s a liar. And he clearly doesn’t want us investigating this anymore. For all we know, this could be some sort of publicity stunt for him — for the next book. He might have paid the actress out there and faked the heart incident.”

Daniel didn’t answer right away, keeping his eyes on the road.

“It’s possible,” he said. “But what if it’s real, Cin? What if someone really is trying to scare him to death? I can’t in good conscience stand by and let that happen. And anyway, I don’t take my orders from him. He’s in my county, and I have the law to uphold.”

Daniel fell silent, and after a moment, I felt the edges of my lips curl up a little.

He glanced over, catching me smiling.

“What?”

I shrugged.

“Nothing, Sheriff. Just… Ashcroft Black should count his lucky stars that he ended up in your county. Any other Sheriff might wash their hands of all of this after hearing Ana’s side of the story.”

A faint smile drifted across Daniel’s face.

He shrugged.

“I don’t have any choice in the matter. Ashcroft might have done bad things in his past, but it doesn’t change the fact that somebody else is breaking the law by trying to hurt him. And they need to be held accountable.”

I guess sometimes when you were Sheriff, you didn’t always have the luxury of protecting only the innocent.

“So where do we go from here?” I asked.

Daniel finished the last of his shake, then set it down in the cup holder before turning the heater up to full blast.

“I liked your idea about the publisher,” he said. “Seems like he might have some sort of publicity angle worth investigating. Additionally, I want to look more into that old mentor, just to rule out the possibility that it might have something to do with the plagiarism issue. I think tomorrow morning, we should pay Ashcroft another visit.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Though I’m not expecting him to be too happy to see us.”

“Tough luck for him — we’re showing up, anyway. Isn’t that right, Detective Peters?”

I took the little joke as a compliment.

“Damn right, Sheriff.”

He reached over, squeezing my hand.

After a little while, I turned the radio on and flipped it to some old country station. The radio signal weaved in and out as we climbed higher and higher toward the pass. Night fell, and the inky shadows of the towering trees lining the highway closed in around us.

I gazed out the window, thinking about Lorna Larimer.

And about how even though I now knew she wasn’t real, the thought of seeing her ghost somewhere out here in this dark forest still sent hard chills down my spine.

Chapter 28

As it turned out, I didn’t need to go to the Juniper Hollow Cabin the next morning to see Ashcroft Black.

He came to see me at the shop.

And as I predicted, he wasn’t too happy.

About an hour after I’d arrived, there was a strong, hurried knock at the front door. I left the batch of Caramel Pear Quince pies I’d been working on and went through the dining room to see who it was.

I guess when I really thought about it, I wasn’t all that surprised to see his angry face peering at me from the other side of the glass.

Not wanting to make a scene on Main Street and give the gossips something to talk about, I’d asked him to come around back and meet me in the kitchen. He did as I requested, storming in and pacing the tile floor with his cane like a madman.

I wondered if I should have called Daniel.

Ashcroft was nearly blue in the face.

“I told you I didn’t want you two involved in this anymore! I never gave you permission to speak to my wife! I never gave you permission to tell her about my hospital visit!”

I gathered that shortly after we left The Greenbuilt, Ana must have called Ashcroft to make sure he was okay.

“Please, Mr. Black,” I said in a calm tone. “Take a seat and lower your voice. We were only trying to—”

“I didn’t ask for this! I told you to leave it be!”

“I know, but—”

“You don’t know anything!”

Ashcroft damn near shouted, and I could see the veins bulging out from his neck.

But I wasn’t scared of him and I held my ground.

I crossed my arms, watching as he paced some more.

“If it’s the plagiarism you’re concerned about, Ashcroft, you should know that we don’t plan to tell anyone—”

Ashcroft Black spun around and looked at me with wide, horrified eyes.

He stood petrified like that in silence for what felt like an eternity.

For a second, I regretted uttering the dreaded P-word.

I imagined saying something like that to a writer was akin to throwing a dart at their chest.

Finally, Ashcroft Black sank down into one of the barstools at the kitchen island.

He covered his face, and all the anger that had been spewing out of him moments earlier vanished.

“She told you,” he whispered in a defeated tone.

“She told us,” I confirmed quietly.

He didn’t speak for a long time after that.

I drew in a deep breath.

Then I went over to the coffee pot, poured a fresh cup, and brought it over to him.

I figured he would need it for the storytelling session that lay ahead.

Chapter 29

“Over the years, I rewrote the history of it all,” he said, pressing his large hands around the mug of coffee for warmth. “As any writer might do, really. I convinced myself that the Sheriff Lane Graves series came completely from me. After all — I was the one who got the manuscript into shape, wasn’t I? And I’m the one who continued writing the series. All the books that followed the first once came from my pen, and my pen alone. I did the work. I deserved all the success.”

He let out a gut-wrenching sigh.

“That’s the lie I convinced myself of, anyway. But in July, when I heard that Grant died of liver cancer, things began to… they began to stir within me. And I started to question what I’ve been telling myself for all this time.”

I leaned against the counter, listening intently.

“I grew up in Central California, poorer than desert soil. Most of my classmates in high school ended up either in the military or in prison. That would have been my fate as well. Except I had this gift. I loved reading. It was all I wanted to do, day and night. When I began writing in high school, I received an enormous amount of attention. I won a prestigious national writing award and got a full-ride scholarship to Hemmings College in upstate New York — one of the finest liberal art schools in the country.”

I wondered if that was where he learned to speak the way he did — with an air of superiority running through every carefully selected word.

Ashcroft stared out at the woods through the window. The sun had just come up and the trees, still damp from yesterday’s rainfall, sparkled in a golden hazy light.

“I stuck out like the uncouth, poor boy that I was the entirety of the first semester,” he continued. “I almost quit. I would have, too — if not for my writing professor.”

Sorrow crossed Ashcroft’s face.

“He was kind. He always wanted us to call him by his first name — Grant. He taught creative writing, and after the class was over for the term, he agreed to mentor me. Grant was an excellent teacher — an excellent human being, too. He inspired in me such a love for the craft, I’ll always be indebted to him for it. Over the years, he read my work and encouraged me to continue even when I wasn’t making any money and kept getting rejected by publishers. He always helped me when I asked.”

Ashcroft rubbed his face.

“We became friends, you see. Grant was always talking about this opus he was working on. But as the years passed by, the book was still left uncompleted and he became lost. His mother died, and he was fired from his teaching job shortly after that. Grant began taking pain medication — too much pain medication, you understand? I knew the key to his salvation was that book. But he refused to let anybody go near it. He wouldn’t let me so much as read the first sentence.”

Ashcroft looked at me, meeting my eyes.

“One night when I was in my last year of graduate school, I received a call from the police station. Grant had gotten into a fight at a bar and needed someone to pick him up from the drunk tank. I retrieved him and drove him home. He fell asleep. And that’s when…”

He paused, as if searching for the words.

“I saw his computer. His book was just there on a Word document left open — as if crying out to be read. So I sat down, and I stayed. I spent the entire night reading his opus.”

Ashcroft shook his head.

“It was magnificent,” he continued. “Completely different from the novel that I imagined it to be, but magnificent nonetheless. It just needed an ending. So I sent a copy of it to myself and began work on it that week. Within two months, I had the whole story, completed. And what a story it was. The next time I saw Grant, I handed him a jump drive with the completed manuscript. I thought I’d hear from him soon. I’m not sure what I was expecting his reaction to be, but I thought it would be somewhere on the positive side of the spectrum.”

The oven timer let out a ding, but I didn’t make any motion to move. I was too absorbed by the story.

“I was quite wrong, however,” he said. “When I heard from Grant again, he wasn’t lucid but he was furious. He said I had no right to do what I’d done. He said the story wasn’t mine to tell. It was his. And that he could never respect me again.”

Ashcroft rested his chin on the palm of his hand, staring down at his coffee cup.

“I suppose it was a stupid, thoughtless thing for me to do. I see that now. But back then, I was still young. And I just thought… I just thought if I could finish the book for him, then he could sell it and get his life back. I just wanted to assist him. But you see, Ms. Peters, sometimes trying to assist people is the very worst thing you can do.”

I bit my lip.

“So how did the book get published under your name?” I asked.

Ashcroft ran a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

“Grant stopped talking to me, but I heard that his pill habit continued to worsen. His adult son moved away and cut off all communication with him. He had nobody. And he refused help of any kind. Meanwhile, I had this great book he’d written in my hands, just sitting there, gathering dust. I still thought it could be his salvation. So I began looking for a publisher. Don Wharton was the first one that I sent it to and within a week, I was in talks to get the manuscript published. I told him I wanted to write it under a pen name – and I was honest about it being a collaboration. But Don said I had the face of a best-selling writer, and convinced me that we needed to keep the co-authorship silent. Books with two authors generally don’t sell as well.”

Grant closed his eyes.

“I told you how people like Don Wharton are. If they see profit in something, nothing will come between them and their money. They’d throw their own mothers under a bus if there was even a minor payday involved.”

He paused, as if deep in thought.

“Of course, I’m deflecting responsibility, aren’t I? I can’t blame it all on vampires like Don. I should have seen how this would unfold. How I would become Ashcroft Black — the best-selling horror author behind the hit series. And how Grant, the artist and the true architect of Sheriff Lane Graves, would become pushed aside and forgotten. I let it happen willingly, dazzled as I was with the prospect of such fame.”

He eyed me, as if trying to detect whether I was judging him for doing what he did.

After a long moment, he continued.

“You know, when I began seeing the spirit of Lorna, I truly believed that it was Grant haunting me as some sort of payback for what I’d done. You see, Lorna was a character from the first book — one of Grant’s characters. But during edits, we cut her out for clarity purposes and decided to put her aside until later in the series.”

He left the cooled cup of coffee on the table and gripped his cane, which had been leaning against one of his knees.

“Truthfully, I’m still not wholly convinced that Grant isn’t haunting me. Had I been he, I’d have wanted revenge.”

The words sent unexpected chills down my spine.

I rubbed my arms.

A deep silence settled over the kitchen then.

I didn’t know exactly what to make of Ashcroft’s story.

On one hand, I could understand that he’d been trying to help his mentor during a tough time. And while it might not have been very considerate to take his book and add an ending, I could see that he’d done it with good intentions.

But on the other hand, Ashcroft had willingly gone along with Don Wharton’s suggestions, cutting out the original author of the series like it wasn’t any big deal. Not even paying him any profits, the way it sounded.

But maybe the worst part of it all was that Ashcroft hadn’t just done this shady thing — he’d kept the charade going for years and years.

That was the part that I had trouble with.

Maybe that was the part that Ana had trouble with, too. That it had taken all this time for Ashcroft to confess to what he’d done.

I cleared my throat, looking down at the floor.

“But we know now that it’s not a ghost behind the Lorna Larimer charade,” I said. “You saw that piece of fabric — it’s a living person behind this.”

I drew in a deep breath.

“Do you think it could be Don Wharton trying to scare you?” I asked.

A strange, amused look came across Ashcroft’s face, as if I’d just made a joke in bad taste.

“Unlikely,” he said. “I’m the cash cow. Even with declining sales, Don still needs me to complete the next book. Putting me in the hospital would be the very last thing he’d want to do. He’d be shooting himself in the foot if he did.”

The wind went out of my sails a little at that — Don had been our next real suspect.

“I don’t have the slightest idea who would do this to me, Ms. Peters,” Ashcroft said, standing up. “But perhaps there’s justice in it. Perhaps I deserve this.”

He leaned against his cane.

“Just like I deserve Ana’s scorn. If I had any self-respect, I’d stop writing altogether.”

I struggled to come up with some response to his self-loathing, but found that I couldn’t think of anything to say in time.

He started heading toward the back door, walking with sluggish steps.

“But I suppose we all serve something,” he said despondently. “In my case, I am bound by my own vanity. And I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do about it.”

He opened the door and was about to step outside.

“Ashcroft?”

He looked back. A stiff morning wind wound through the kitchen.

“What was your writing professor’s full name?”

Ashcroft let out a long, pained breath.

“Grant Davis,” he said quietly. “Professor Grant Davis.”

He closed the door, and I watched him walk slowly down the back steps and around the pie shop toward Main Street.

I was halfway through making another batch of pear pies before I put it together.

Chapter 30

I got a strong hit of déjà vu when we walked into the old barn.

James Hetfield’s guttural howls bounced off the ceiling beams. Once again, Josiah Davis stood hunched over the large work bench overflowing with pumpkins of every variety and shape. He held an electric saw in his hand and seemed to be unaware that the Sheriff of Pohly County and his wife had just stepped into his work space.

“Mr. Davis?” Daniel shouted.

Josiah didn’t look up from his pumpkin. His head bounced along to the music.

Daniel shot a glance at me just as Lars launched into a decibel-shredding drum solo.

“Josiah!” I said.

My voice came out louder than I intended. Josiah reacted to the noise the way a person scared of spiders might if they woke up one morning to a black widow crawling across their pillow.

The electric saw crashed to the concrete floor.

Josiah gazed at us with eyes as wide as pumpkin pies.

He shook his head. Then he went over to the music system in the corner and hit a button.

My ears rang in the sudden silence of the barn.

“Guess my mother was right,” he mumbled, turning off the saw. “I ought not to listen to music so loud.”

I smiled weakly, studying the pumpkin carver.

It had taken me a little while to make the connection — that Ashcroft’s writing professor shared the same last name with Josiah Davis. But once that came to me, the evidence continued to pile up.

Ashcroft had mentioned that Grant Davis had had a son. The son could have been around Josiah’s age. Josiah had only moved back here to Christmas River recently, and said he’d lived in a lot of different places over the years. He also mentioned that his father had passed on earlier this year — which lined up with what Ashcroft said about the professor passing away this summer.

Additionally, I remembered something else — something I’d overheard Josiah say under his breath as he was delivering the pumpkins on the evening of Ashcroft’s writing workshop.

Josiah had been staring at the cabin, a dark look on his face — and he’d said the words:

You should be ashamed.

At the time, I thought I’d heard wrong.

But now, I didn’t think I had.

And I was now convinced that Josiah Davis was behind the Lorna Larimer haunting. And that he’d paid an actress to dress up as the forlorn spirit as some sort of revenge for his father.

“What, uh, what can I help y’all with?” Josiah said, wiping his hands on a rag. “You have questions about those pumpkins you ordered, Cinnamon? I picked out a few real choice ones for you. Some of the best gourds I’ve seen this season. And I’ve got the patterns on my computer if you wanted to take a look at ‘em before I start cutting.”

“Thanks, Josiah — but we’re not here about pumpkins today.”

He gave me a puzzled expression, then glanced from me to Daniel.

Josiah gulped hard.

“Official business?” he asked.

Daniel nodded.

There was a resigned look on the pumpkin carver’s face, and the normalcy of it made me realize something.

Josiah had had dealings with the police before.

If I’d been pretty sure before that it was him behind the haunting, now I would have bet the farm on it.

“Look,” he said, scratching his head. “I don’t know what you might have heard about me, but I don’t do that anymore. I gave it up. So with all due respect, it’s probably best if you leave now.”

I furrowed my brow, not understanding exactly what he was talking about.

Daniel took off his hat.

“All due respect, we’re not gonna leave until we get some answers,” Daniel said, stepping farther into the barn.

Josiah crossed his arms defensively.

“What part didn’t you understand, Sheriff?” he said.

“Tell us about your dad, Josiah,” I said. “Tell us about what happened to him. And what you’re really doing here in Christmas River.”

Josiah scratched his head again, looking around the barn for a long moment.

“My dad? Well, he passed this year. I think I told you that already, Cinnamon. Back in March, he was working on a stretch of highway out in the southwest part of Louisiana — worked for the department of transportation his whole life. A man driving a pickup was texting and driving that day. He went off the road through the work zone and struck my dad. I moved here to Christmas River shortly after he died.”

Sorrow washed over his face as he spoke.

He was obviously as good an actor as the woman he’d hired to play Lorna Larimer.

“C’mon, Josiah,” Daniel said. “You don’t have to lie about it. We know you’re after Ashcroft Black for what he did to your actual father. And maybe I can even see why you would be. But just come clean and tell us, all right?”

Josiah scoffed.

I felt my stomach tighten into a big knot.

The pumpkin carver reached for his phone on the work table and began scrolling through it. A moment later, he came over, sticking the phone out for both of us to see.

It was a photo of Josiah and a man in his early 60s standing on the side of a highway. The older man was wearing a fluorescent construction vest and work boots.

“I don’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Sheriff. This is my dad. His name was Josiah Richard Davis the second, and as far as I know, he never even heard of Ashcroft Black, let alone met the guy.”

I gulped hard, feeling my cheeks flush.

What had once seemed like the undeniable truth was now crumbling in spectacular fashion, and I was beginning to feel as foolish as a wild turkey that had wandered onto a farm Thanksgiving week.

Davis was a very popular surname after all. And the rest of those connections, which had seemed so solid only moments before, could be chalked up to coincidence.

Daniel looked at me for a split second, then back at Josiah.

“So you haven’t been paying someone to dress up as a ghost to intentionally scare Ashcroft Black?” Daniel asked.

The supremely confused look on Josiah Davis’s face said it all.

A Tsunami of embarrassment washed over me.

“No. Even if that was something I wanted to do, I wouldn’t have had time for it this month. I’m swamped with all of the work pouring in.”

Josiah glanced at the table full of gourds.

Daniel nodded, placing his hat back on.

“Our sincere apologies, Mr. Davis. We’re just trying to solve a crime and because of your last name, we thought you could be involved. But it’s now clear as day that we’re wrong. Thanks for—”

“Wait — why did you say that the night of the writing workshop, then?” I asked, cutting Daniel off.

It was the only thing that still didn’t make sense to me.

“Huh?” Josiah said.

“I heard you. You were standing outside, looking at the cabin. And you said ‘You should be ashamed.’ Remember?”

Something flickered in Josiah’s eyes when I said that.

“What did you mean by that, Josiah?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. He stared past our shoulders with a vacant expression.

“It was nothing. I was thinking of something else when I said it.”

For the first time in this whole conversation, I sensed what was an obvious lie.

I could tell Daniel sensed it, too.

“Just tell us, Mr. Davis, and we’ll be able to check you off our suspect list for good,” he said.

Josiah hesitated.

“What I meant was…”

He shook his head.

“I was talking about Ashcroft. I meant that he should be ashamed for what he does. For what he writes. The way he portrays the spirit world, making ghosts seem like these evil, malevolent beings that only want revenge. For the way he scares people. For...”

I wasn’t following, and for a moment, I wondered if Josiah was one of those fundamentalists that sent death threats to horror authors.

Josiah trailed off.

“You really haven’t heard of me before?” he said.

“Heard of you?” Daniel said. “Why would we have heard of you?”

Josiah let out a staggered breath.

“I, uh… I’m Josiah Davis," he mumbled. “The guy who helped the cops find that missing girl in Baton Rouge last year? The suit with the gift, the police called me.”

I glanced at Daniel. There was a blank expression on his face which was about where I was with that last statement, too.

Josiah closed his eyes.

“You see I…”

His voice cracked.

“I can… I can talk to the dead,” he whispered.

My mouth went drier than bone dust.

Chapter 31

“No way. Christmas River has a real life medium now?”

“He didn’t exactly call himself a medium, but I guess it’s the right term for it,” I said.

I opened the oven and pulled out a pan full of bubbling Sour Cream Apple pies. The flavor was one of my most-requested ones in the fall, and I could see why it was so popular. Tender apples combined with a good helping of cinnamon and sour cream in piping hot pastry was the ultimate fall indulgence, and as I pulled out the pan of pies, I had to fight the urge to cut myself a slice and put it in the freezer to cool down quickly.

The recipe — which was the same one I used for the apple turnovers I’d served at both the bookstore event and the ill-fated writer’s workshop — had come from my mother. Growing up, she’d make this pie every fall for Warren and me.

Of course, after she passed away when I was 13, nobody made this pie. It wasn’t until years later when I was rifling through one of her old recipe books and found the hand-written recipe for it that I remembered and started making the flavor again in her honor. I had made a few changes to it, such as adding a hit of whiskey and more cinnamon then the original recipe called for. But overall, it was the same.

“What’s Daniel’s take on all this mediumship business?” Kara continued right before inhaling another large bite of Bourbon Cider Chess Pie.

“Daniel was polite, but I don’t think he could really bring himself to buy into what Josiah claimed,” I said. “Josiah went on this long rant — how Ashcroft Black’s depiction of the spirit world isn’t accurate and how it’s caused masses of readers to become deathly afraid of ghosts. Josiah said this fear has put them in a place where they can’t hear messages from their loved ones.”

Kara furrowed her brow as she listened intently, hanging on every word.

“Josiah said real spirits aren’t scary. That our loved ones are on the other side and that they sometimes try to communicate with us — to help us in certain situations. But if we’re in a state of fear, we’re cut off to any communication with them and we can’t hear what they’re saying.”

Kara stuffed another bite of pie in her mouth.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

I wasn’t sure if I actually believed Josiah, but his past seemed to confirm that he was at least not your average con artist. He said he’d worked on a few cold cases with law enforcement authorities back in Louisiana. He helped solve a missing persons’ case when he worked as a lawyer, hence the nickname “The Suit with the Gift.” And Daniel was able to confirm his involvement by talking to a police commander in Baton Rouge. But the police commander had been unable to provide many details about Josiah’s role in finding the missing girl, as the case was going to trial soon.

“Do you think he does readings?” Kara asked.

Just then, the sound of a fire truck turning on its sirens blasted down Main Street. I waited for it to pass before speaking again.

“Readings?”

“Yeah, like, do you think he’d be able to talk to my grandma and tell me where she left the emerald ring that mysteriously disappeared right after she died?”

I smirked.

I loved that my friend so readily believed in the existence of spirits and that she was already onto the next step of how they could help her find a long-lost fashion accessory.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if Josiah does that stuff anymore. He said he stopped working with the police because the negative energy surrounding some of the cases made him ill. But maybe you should ask him yourself—”

Just then, my phone buzzed from my apron pocket.

I dusted my hands off and reached for it. A number I didn’t recognize came up.

I answered on the third ring, ready to hang up if I so much as got a whiff of a marketing call.

But I soon realized that it wasn’t any marketing ploy.

“Okay. Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll be right there.”

I hung up, slid the phone back into my pocket, and quickly grabbed my coat.

“Hey — what’s going on—”

“I have to go, Kara. It’s Ashcroft.”

A moment later, I busted through the back door and down the steps, running around the pie shop and heading for my car.

Chapter 32

The three of us stood a ways down the dirt driveway, watching white smoke curl up into the sky as the firefighters continued to douse the Mercedes Benz with water.

Ashcroft was lucky — the fire truck arrived before the burn got too out of hand. It even seemed like there was the odd possibility the pricey vehicle could somehow be salvaged.

Ashcroft’s health, on the other hand, was on much shakier ground.

He leaned hard on his cane, his other hand gripping the trunk of a thin pine tree. His skin was almost as pale as the actress playing Lorna Larimer’s was.

With haunted eyes, he watched the firefighters kill the last of the embers.

“What happened, Ashcroft?” I asked.

He hadn’t said so much as a single word since we’d arrived. His phone call from earlier had been full of desperate words. But now, those words were gone, and all that was left was shocked silence.

“Maybe you ought to sit down,” Daniel said, gently taking ahold of his arm and trying to guide him to a nearby tree stump.

Ashcroft just shook his head.

“No. I’m capable of standing. I…”

He gulped hard.

“Every afternoon at three o’clock, I lie down for an hour of rest,” he said. “But this afternoon, I was awakened part-way through my rest by a noise. I got up and went into the living room. I saw flames leaping up from the hood of my vehicle in the driveway.”

He gulped hard.

“I ran outside to put it out, but the flames were already growing. And that’s when I saw something… something inside the fire…”

Ashcroft’s large frame began to tremble.

“It was my latest book,” he said in a shaky voice. “Someone had set it on fire and placed it on the car for me to find. Someone…”

He trailed off, and we watched in silence for a long while as the firefighters packed up the truck. Their work was, for the most part, done.

“Did you see the woman pretending to be Lorna again?” Daniel asked.

Ashcroft shook his head.

“Whoever did this was long gone by the time I got out here,” he said, gripping his cane. “Almost like… almost like a spirit.”

Ashcroft grabbed a hold of Daniel’s jacket suddenly. His eyes turned feral-looking.

“I’m sorry for acting the way I have. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I…”

He looked at me.

“I need your help. Please don’t let Grant get me. Please don’t…”

Ashcroft’s eyes grew damp.

“Please don’t leave me alone.”

Though Daniel and I knew it had to be a living person behind these incidents, Ashcroft was obviously still under the illusion that his old mentor was haunting him.

The fire captain nodded at Daniel, leaving the investigation in the Sheriff’s hands, and tapped the horn of the truck before starting it up.

The noise almost caused Ashcroft to collapse in fear.

I glanced over at Daniel, seeing the compassion in his eyes.

“It’s okay, Mr. Black,” he said softly. “It’s okay. We’ll find out who’s behind this. I give you my word. And we won’t leave you alone either. All right?”

Ashcroft nodded, a single tear spilling down his cheek.

Minutes later, Sheriff’s deputies were combing the woods around the Juniper Hollow Cabin, searching for evidence that would lead to whoever set the fire.

Chapter 33

Twilight was settling across the woods and a bank of fog had rolled in when the white van appeared in the driveway.

Ashcroft had spent the remainder of the afternoon on the sofa nearest to the fireplace, lying under a flannel blanket while staring up at the ceiling with a vacant expression.

He was shivering and didn’t seem to be able to stop, no matter how much wood I added to the fire or how high I cranked the thermostat.

I’d been half worried that it was a result of his heart condition, and while I went about preparing dinner, I checked on him regularly to make sure he was okay.

He hadn’t asked me to, and I knew I didn’t have to make him dinner. But he looked like he hadn’t eaten in some time. I’d rummaged around his fridge, finding an unopened box of Omaha steaks in the freezer. It seemed like just the kind of strength-giving meal he needed.

As I cooked the steak up, Daniel called, letting me know they’d found tire marks on an old country road about a mile away from the cabin that looked fresh. They were making a cast of the treads and he felt it would more than likely lead to something promising.

It was a few minutes after I’d gotten off the phone with him when I’d seen the headlight beams graze the kitchen wall behind me.

I turned off the burners and then went out into the living room to find Ashcroft sitting straight up on the sofa, looking out the window.

I recognized the van immediately, despite it being shrouded in fog.

“I’ll go see what he wants,” I said to Ashcroft.

The horror author said nothing.

I grabbed my coat and headed out into the darkness.

“I need to see him,” he said, shutting the van door behind him.

“Josiah — what are you—”

“I’ve tried to ignore this one. But it’s too important. Mr. Black has to hear this.”

Chapter 34

I handed Josiah a cup of tea and took a seat at the juniper dining table across from him. Ashcroft sat next to me, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His face was still pale as birch bark.

By Josiah’s request, I had turned the lights down low in the dining room. The light of the fire flickered on the walls all around us, casting the room in a warm glow.

I wasn’t exactly comfortable with what was unfolding here. In fact, I was having serious doubts about all of this — about Josiah even being here at all, considering how much he despised Ashcroft.

But my gut was telling me to stay out of it. To let things happen without interruption.

I nervously waited for Josiah to speak.

The pumpkin carver closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“There are several spirits in this cabin, but the one that came to me this afternoon isn‘t connected to the property — he’s connected to you, Mr. Black.”

Ashcroft’s eyes grew wide, and I noticed that he was gripping his cane so hard, his knuckles were turning as white as his face.

“Who… who…”

Ashcroft’s voice came out as shaky as a three-legged chair.

“It’s an older man,” Josiah said. “He was in his mid-60s when he passed. And that passing took place very recently.”

My blood turned to ice when I heard that.

I could only imagine how Ashcroft felt.

And I couldn’t help but worry that it might just send him over the edge.

“Josiah — Ashcroft has a heart condition, and I don’t think this is—”

“I understand, Ms. Peters. But he needs to hear this.”

Josiah kept his eyes closed as he spoke.

I glanced at Ashcroft. He nodded ever so slightly.

Josiah continued.

“This man was something of a father figure to you. You valued his opinion. And you were close. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

Ashcroft’s eyes grew glassy. He nodded, but no words came out.

“He’s attached himself to you,” Josiah said. “He’s here with us right now.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up on end.

I might have run then if my legs hadn’t become the consistency of pumpkin puree.

I rubbed my arms, afraid to take my eyes off of Josiah. Afraid that I might catch a glimpse of the spirit that he said was in the room with us.

“I knew it,” Ashcroft whispered in a ragged voice. “It‘s because… because of what I did, correct? Because of how I betrayed him. He’s haunting me for the egregious way in which I treated him.”

Josiah opened his eyes, looking at Ashcroft with a peaceful, calm expression.

“No. You misunderstand the situation, Mr. Black. The way you’ve misunderstood the entire spirit world. This man isn’t here because of a grudge. He’s here… he’s here trying to protect you.”

Ashcroft’s eyebrows knit together and he lost the grip on his cane. It crashed to the floor, and I nearly jumped out the back window as the noise echoed through the house.

“I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t follow,” Ashcroft said.

“He’s not holding a grudge over anything,” Josiah said. “However you hurt him when he was alive — he wants you to know he doesn’t care about that anymore. He forgave you the moment he passed on to the other side. It’s not the way it is in your books, Ashcroft. Spirits don’t come back seeking revenge. They come to help the people that mattered to them in life. They come back to us because of love — which survives even after they’ve died.”

Ashcroft looked at me with an expression that resembled confusion.

“He says Stacks is the one behind your recent scares,” Josiah said.

“Stacks?” I repeated, surprised at the shakiness of my own voice.

“Yes. Stacks,” Josiah said. “He keeps saying the name over and over. When he appeared to me earlier in the barn, he said I needed to come here and tell Ashcroft to watch out for Stacks. Stacks has become misguided. That’s what he said.”

I peered at the horror author, hoping to see some hint of recognition.

“Stacks,” Ashcroft mumbled, scratching his beard. “Stacks…”

He finally shook his head.

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“That’s the name he keeps saying. That’s what—”

Just then, an ice-cold burst of air wound its way through the cabin.

I almost let out a little scream, thinking it was the spirit of Grant Davis making his presence known.

But the cold air was followed by the sound of familiar boots on the wood floor.

“Cin?”

I put a hand over my chest, relieved.

“In here!” I said.

Josiah shook his head.

“I’m sorry. The spirit left.”

“Left?” Ashcroft said. “But where—”

“What’s going on?” Daniel said, stepping into the low-lit room, glancing from Ashcroft to Josiah.

Josiah stood up, barely acknowledging Daniel, his eyes still on the horror author.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where they go when they vanish like that. But that was the message he wanted me to deliver to you, Mr. Black. The rest is yours to figure out.”

Josiah looked at me and nodded.

Then he grabbed his beanie, pulled it on, and headed out of the cabin into the foggy night.

“What was he doing here?” Daniel said after a long moment.

But when I tried to answer him, when I tried to explain it, I found that words were hard to come by.

I looked at Ashcroft. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

But they weren’t the frightened kind, like the ones earlier.

“He’s forgiven me,” he whispered, a small smile on his face.

He glanced up at us.

“He’s forgiven me.”

Chapter 35

A few days later, I was still thinking about what Josiah said and if it was all really true.

Whether spirits actually existed.

Whether it was the way Josiah claimed it was — that they came back to help people they loved.

And whether he spoke to the spirit of Grant Davis that night in the cabin.

Just thinking about it still caused goosebumps to break out across my skin. And as I worked on a batch of Maple Bacon pies that morning a few days before Halloween, small fingers of fear clawed at my heart.

I had always believed in the afterlife and that when we died, our souls moved on to somewhere else. Somewhere better, maybe. Or at least a place that made more sense. But it felt like up until now, my belief had been more of a hope. I’d never had any concrete evidence to know for sure.

But now… after being at the cabin that night, I felt more certain than I ever had before that part of us really did live on after death.

And for some reason — one that made no sense at all — this new knowing scared me.

I fought off a shiver and then tossed the pan of Maple Bacon pies into the oven before dusting my hands off. I went over and poured myself another cup of hazelnut coffee. I stared out the back window at the woods for a while, lost in thought.

But then again, maybe I’d been so awed by what Josiah had to say, I wasn’t really questioning the validity of his abilities. For example, we’d told Josiah about Grant Davis the morning we’d gone over to talk to him. He knew parts of the story — which he could have used as a base to build lies on during the medium session with Ashcroft.

I’d heard that was just the kind of thing that con artists did.

Additionally, there was something about what Josiah said that still didn’t add up. The message the ghost wanted to pass on continued to be shrouded in mystery.

Ashcroft still didn’t know who Stacks was. He said he’d known nobody by that name and began questioning whether it was really a name at all. I’d checked on Ashcroft at the cabin the day before, and he said that he’d been pouring over all the books in his series, thinking maybe “Stacks” was some reference to the key being buried in the stacks of books he’d written. So far, to my knowledge, Ashcroft had found nothing that helped solve the mystery of who was trying to scare him and who had set his car on fire.

Daniel and I hadn’t done much better in that regard. The tire marks the deputies had found on the country road a mile away from the cabin had been a popular make of tire, and currently, Daniel was sifting through car registrations and calling auto stores, trying to track down the make and model of the car the tires belonged to. It was tedious work, and Daniel had his plate full with a hit-and-run case that had just gone to trial. Because of that, I wasn’t expecting us to crack the case before Halloween.

Or maybe ever.

There was nothing more that had happened at the cabin as far as Ashcroft said, and I wondered if there would be. The activity had seemed to quiet down.

Maybe whoever was playing this game had had their fun.

And maybe Kara was right — maybe it had all been less serious than we thought. Maybe Stacks was the name of some punk kid who got his kicks frightening horror authors.

I sighed, then set my coffee mug down. I grabbed a pan of Sour Cream Apple pies off the marble countertop and headed into the dining room with them.

The place was bustling with people today. All week, my pie shop had been packed with locals and tourists looking to savor the flavors of fall. The Pumpkin Gingersnap pies had been flying out of the case and we’d been struggling to stay open until our usual closing time lately.

If this was any sign of the holiday season ahead, it looked like I’d need to hire some seasonal help lickety-split.

“How’s everything out here, Tobias?” I asked, sliding the fresh pies in the display case.

“‘Jest fine, Cinnamon. Glad you brought more of that Sour Cream Apple. Folks can’t get enough of it. Harry Pugmire stood in that big ol’ line twice for another slice.”

I smiled.

It was Monday, and Mayor Pugmire often held unofficial meetings here at the pie shop on Mondays to start his week off on a good note. I’d noticed that since he’d started doing that, his girth had increased some.

I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or guilty about that.

“Well, I got a batch of those Maple Bacons going now,” I said. “Should be ready in a couple hours.”

“I expect folks around here are gonna be happy to hear that, too,” Tobias said with a sweet grin. “Maple Bacon’s a close second in popularity to the Sour Cream Apple.”

I smiled back and was about to head into the kitchen for more pies when something through the front window caught my eye.

Or more like someone.

Sometimes, you just get gut feelings about things in life, and even though it doesn’t exactly make sense at the time, you’ve got to follow them.

Which was why I took off my apron, weaved my way through the big crowd, and headed outside onto Main Street to follow her.

Chapter 36

“Mary Lou, right? Or is it Cordelia?”

At the sound of her name, the short red-headed woman spun around, clutching the stack of papers she was carrying close to her chest. She studied me, evidently unable to place me or understand how I knew both her name and her pen name.

But then, recognition drifted across her face and her purple-stained lips curled up into a smile.

“Mary Lou. I’m still not used to being called Cordelia yet. You’re the pie lady from the writing workshop, right?”

I nodded and stepped aside as a big pack of older gals with shopping bags emerged from the quilting store we were standing in front of and rustled down the sidewalk.

“That’s me, all right,” I said. “The pie lady.”

She nodded, lifting one of the sheets of paper in her hands and stapling it to a community bulletin board right next to the quilting shop.

“I, uh, I saw you pass by and wanted to say hi,” I said. “How’s the writing going?”

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure why I had run after her the way I had when I saw her stapling flyers across the street. But here I was now, and I figured I might as well make some small talk.

“Oh, it’s going all right,” she said. “But I was really bummed about what happened to Ashcroft that night at the workshop. We all got a refund, so I guess I can’t complain. But I was so excited for the workshop. Do you know how he’s doing, by the way?”

“He’s hanging in,” I said. “They released him from the hospital and he’s still at the cabin, so—”

I stopped speaking as my eyes fell on the flyer Mary Lou had just stapled to the cork board.

I reached forward, ripped it down, and peered hard at it.

“Oh…” she mumbled, her tone making it clear that my sudden violent action startled her. “I, uh, I can just give you one, if you want. Actually, take a bunch and give them to your friends.”

She handed me a small stack, but my eyes stayed fixed on the copy in my hands.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I do PR for the local theater company — I think I told you. Anyway, Halloween night, this really cool acting troupe from Portland is performing Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven. It’s this very talented group, and it was really hard to get them to come out here to do a Halloween performance. But luckily, one of the actors is from Christmas River originally and talked them all into it.”

I was having trouble keeping my mouth closed as I gazed at the flyer — which showed a photo of the acting troupe in full Victorian garb.

I couldn’t take my eyes off one of the actors, in particular.

A woman — tall, slender, with sharp eyes, dark hair, and a grimace that was a little too familiar.

I’d seen that grimace before.

Out in the woods, a week earlier.

Lorna.

Lorna Larimer.

It was her.

I tapped the picture.

“Do you know who this woman is?” I said in a quivering voice.

Mary Lou’s eyebrows knit together as she studied the photo.

“Oh — that’s her. The actor who’s from Christmas River.”

My mouth went bone dry.

“Do you… do you know her name?”

“Oh, yes. She’s a real up-and-comer in the Portland scene. Her name’s Melinda. Melinda Needleman.”

Chapter 37

The door to the Holly Avenue Bookstore let out a gentle chime as Daniel and I stepped into the cramped, carpeted entrance. My eyes immediately zeroed in on the cash register.

Mavis stood behind the counter, ringing up a customer. She smiled as she stuffed Ashcroft’s latest book into a bag and handed it to the elderly woman who looked like one of the quilting ladies I’d seen earlier.

I overheard Mavis saying the same line she’d said to me at the book signing.

“Trust me — this isn’t your typical horror novel. This series is all the rage right now. We actually just had the author speak here at the bookstore.”

The older lady puckered her lips, impressed.

“But a word of advice? If you read this before bed, just make sure to leave a nightlight on,” Mavis added with a wink.

The customer giggled her way through an “oh, my” before buttoning her jacket and heading toward the shop’s front door.

I glanced over at Daniel.

Then I took in a deep breath, and we both headed over to the cash register.

“Mavis?”

She glanced up.

“Oh, hello, Cinnamon,” she said, nodding. “And hello, Sheriff Brightman. Haven’t seen you in here for a long while now. Not since you needed that book about dog training for the police K-9 a couple years back. Don’t tell me you’ve been ordering your books through one of those soulless online retailers trying to take over the world.”

“Uh, no, ma’am," Daniel said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Actually, we’re not here for—”

“Oh, you really ought to make more time for reading, Sheriff," Mavis continued. “You know, I just got a shipment of these fantastic new detective novels I think you would love. Here, let me show you where they—”

“Thanks, but we’re not here for any detective novels, Mavis.”

Daniel pulled out the folded flyer from his pocket and flattened it down on the counter in front of her.

He tapped on the photo of the woman with black hair.

“We’re here to find her.”

As if being preyed upon by an invisible vampire, all the color immediately drained from Mavis’s face.

Chapter 38

“You have to… you have to promise me you won’t involve my daughter in this,” Mavis said as she lifted a cigarette to her mouth. “Melinda… Melinda didn’t know what she was doing. She was only playing the role because I asked her to. I’m the one who drove her around. It was all my idea.”

Mavis lit the cigarette and took a long drag off it. The frosty wind carried the smoke away into the pale blue sky.

We were sitting outside at a small wrought-iron table in the back of the bookshop. Mavis had insisted coming out here, not wanting any of her customers to overhear the details of what would more than likely end up being a scandal for her.

“I can’t make that promise,” Daniel said, bluntly. “Your daughter trespassed on private property. It’s not up to me to decide what happens to her.”

Mavis’s hands shook visibly when he said that.

“But the more you tell me, the better it’ll be for her, Mavis. It’s in everyone’s best interest that you tell the truth and not leave out any details.”

Mavis sucked in some smoke, shaking her head.

She closed her eyes.

“I don’t expect either of you to understand,” she said quietly. “You’re not artists. You don’t know what it’s like to put your entire life into something. You don’t know what it’s like to bleed for something — to sacrifice everything you have for… an idea.”

She fell silent.

“I don’t follow,” Daniel finally said. “You’re going to have to give me a lot more than that.”

The bookstore owner let out a deep sigh.

“I met him my junior year at Hemmings College,” she said, staring off into the distance as she spoke. “Nearly thirty years ago. He was my professor, but there was this… this instant connection. We both felt it, and even though he knew it could cost him his job, we began seeing each other romantically.”

She bit her lip, looking at us.

“It sounds wrong. I know how it sounds. But he was only a little older than me and it was love. Pure and perfect love.”

Daniel cleared his throat.

“For the record, you’re talking about Grant Davis, correct?”

She nodded, tapping some ashes from her cigarette into a ceramic ashtray.

“Yes. Grant Davis. Professor Grant Davis.”

She smiled an odd little smile, as if enjoying the way his name sounded.

“We had to keep the relationship a secret for obvious reasons. And we had several happy years together before it ran its course. I moved away for grad school, and Grant stayed back east. But we remained friends over the years. Grant was the steadiest thing in my life. Through my own marriage and its disintegration and through his, we constantly wrote back and forth. I was the only one he ever shared his work with.”

She lifted her face up to the sky and closed her eyes.

“I believe Grant Davis was my soulmate. We weren’t able to make it work, but our spirits — that connection — that never died.”

I felt goosebumps break out across my skin when she said that, though I couldn’t account for why.

“Grant was a complicated man. That was part of the reason it didn’t work between us. He gave everything to his writing. He was a true artist. And sometimes, true artists give so much, they leave nothing for themselves. Grant was like that. His problems with pills took a severe turn right around the time he was nearly finished with the first draft of the Sheriff Lane Graves book. I told him many times he needed to get help, but he refused to listen. Right around the time that… that so-called friend of his stole his book, Grant’s drug-use had gotten so bad, he didn’t seem to care about anything anymore.”

I shuddered when she said the word “friend.” There was so much venom in her tone.

“Grant stopped writing. He shut himself off from the world. It took years for him to pass away, but in many ways, he died back then. The knowledge that he was in such pain all this time killed me. He was such a vibrant spirit. And to see him devolve like that into nothing left me in such a profound state of grief, I can’t find the words to describe it…”

She looked away.

“So you can imagine how I felt six years ago when the first Sheriff Lane Graves book came out — not under Grant’s name — its proper creator. But under the name of a man called Ashcroft Black. I tracked him down and discovered that he was Grant’s former student — the friend who stole his manuscript. It enraged me. I wrote a long letter to the publisher of the book, accusing him of plagiarism. But I never heard back from them, and I realized they would never admit such a thing. Not with the series being so successful. It would create a scandal.

“I tried to let it go. But when I heard about Grant’s death this past summer, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. Ashcroft couldn’t get away with what he’d done. It just wasn’t right.”

She stubbed her cigarette out angrily.

“So I wrote Ashcroft. I didn’t tell him who I was. I just invited him to speak here at the bookstore. And I mentioned the Juniper Hollow Cabin as a place that might pique his interest considering the subject matter of his books. I didn’t expect him to stay here in Christmas River so long, but when he took up the lease for the autumn, I was glad of it. Glad to have the time to…”

She trailed off.

“To torture him,” I said quietly, finishing the sentence for her.

She shot an angry glare in my direction.

“Wrong, Cinnamon. Not torture. Give him a deserved taste of his own medicine. There’s a difference. Torture isn’t noble. Justice is.”

“So you got your daughter to dress up like Lorna Larimer and follow him?” Daniel said.

Mavis nodded.

“Melinda enjoyed the opportunity to act and came back from Portland to do it. The character of Lorna was originally in the first book — the one that Grant wrote — the copy I read. She was his character. It seemed only fitting that it should be her to haunt the man who wronged her original creator.”

Mavis cleared her throat, leaning forward toward us.

“This is all my doing, and I take full responsibility for the consequences. I have no regrets for what I did. I confess to trying to scare Ashcroft. I also confess to burning books on his car. Do with me what you will, Sheriff. I’m proud of my actions and if I had the chance to do it all over again, I would. Because I did it out of respect for a man I deeply loved.”

She turned her nose up, crossing her arms against her chest in defiance.

“So just to be clear, Mavis: for the record, you’re telling me you’re proud of trying to kill a man?” Daniel said.

The rebellious look on Mavis’s face faded a little.

“Kill a man?” she said in a hoarse voice. “How can you possibly construe what I did as trying to kill someone?”

Daniel looked over at me.

I could see what he had just done — dropped that little bombshell to see whether Mavis knew the full scope of the matter.

If her reaction was to be believed, she didn’t.

“You don’t know about Ashcroft’s condition, do you?” I said.

Mavis’s eyes grew wide.

“What condition? What are you talking about? The man was hospitalized with the stomach flu. Nothing more.”

Daniel stood up.

“Your ignorance might just save you, Mavis. But I think you ought to come down to the station with me now and make a full statement.”

I could see in her face that the severity of all of this was only now starting to sink in.

She hadn’t expected to get caught.

Mavis finally stood up and straightened out her book-print skirt.

“I did nothing wrong…” she muttered. “He’s the one who should be giving a statement. He’s the thief. The liar. The fraud.”

Daniel didn’t say anything to that.

Maybe he couldn’t.

Because like me, maybe he thought Mavis might have had a point.

She had done something wrong — that was clear as day.

But so had Ashcroft.

Something he would probably never make right.

Mavis followed Daniel, and we all walked through the bookstore and then out to the street.

I watched as Daniel opened the door of the truck for Mavis and helped her inside. He went around and got into the driver’s seat, starting the engine up.

Mavis gazed out the windshield at me with vacant eyes. I was about to walk back to the pie shop when something occurred to me.

One final loose end.

I went up to the passenger’s window and tapped on the glass. She unrolled the window with obvious reluctance.

“Mavis — does the word Stacks mean anything to you?”

The look on her face when I said that sent a surge of goosebumps across my skin.

It was an unmistakable look of nostalgia.

“Grant used to call me that," she whispered. “Because I loved reading so much, I always had stacks and stacks of books all around my apartment.”

The haze of nostalgia on her face wore off and she glared at me.

“But how could you possibly know that?”

I looked over at Daniel then.

In all the years I’d known him, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen my husband shocked.

And that afternoon, out in front of the Holly Avenue Bookstore, was one.

Chapter 39

A few days later, I was working alone in the pie shop kitchen when I heard someone calling my name.

Or more like something.

I let out a sigh, gazing at the plate of Sour Cream Apple turnovers I’d baked and arranged nicely on a plate a few minutes earlier. I had plans on taking the pastries over to Josiah Davis’s barn as a thank you for his help with the investigation. And maybe as an apology, too, for thinking he might have been behind the haunting.

But the turnovers were whispering sweet nothings to me while they cooled, and it wasn’t long before my stomach was plotting other plans for those tasty treats.

I couldn’t even hold out for fifteen minutes.

I glanced around behind me, making sure nobody was watching. Then I reached forward, grabbed the biggest one, and promptly stuffed it in my mouth.

A moment later, I was in pure bliss. A vanilla-floral hit of whiskey cut through the natural sourness of the apples, bringing out their deep caramelized flavor. The crust was flaky, buttery perfection. The flavors were so well balanced, so perfect, so utterly autumn, it wasn’t long before I finished that turnover and reached for another.

I had just taken a mammoth bite of the second one when I heard a knock at the back door.

I turned around to see a pair of steel-gray eyes peering in through the blinds.

And that was about all I recognized in the face staring back at me.

I paused a moment, trying to quickly chew and swallow enough to be able to talk. Then I went over to the back door and opened it.

“I’m sorry — I hope I’m not—”

I shook my head, chewing some more. Then I motioned him to come inside.

I was happy to see that he wasn’t nearly as judgmental about my table manners this time.

Chapter 40

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said, washing the rest of the turnover down with a swig of coffee.

He rubbed his chin — the place where that thick, dark beard of his used to be — and smiled slightly, as if pleased.

Without the beard, Ashcroft Black looked about ten years younger — closer to his actual age. He looked fresh — renewed somehow. Lighter.

Hardly like the forlorn horror author I’d come to know these past few weeks.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“No, I must be on my way shortly,” he said. “But thank you.”

He still talked like Ashcroft, at least.

I dug my hands in the pockets of my apron.

Daniel had told me the day before that Ashcroft decided not to press any charges against Mavis Needleman or her daughter. He’d also convinced the owners of the Juniper Hollow Cabin to not press charges, either. He’d told them it had all been a practical joke that had been taken too far.

At first, I thought it was a noble thing for Ashcroft to do. But then Daniel pointed out that if Ashcroft pursued charges, it would have most likely come out in court that he’d plagiarized the first book in his series. Meaning that dropping the charges was really in his best interest.

“So, um, what can I do for you, Ashcroft?”

He smiled a little sadly.

“Well, first you can stop calling me that.”

He leaned forward, reaching a hand out toward me.

“My real name is Travis,” he said. “Travis Leeland.”

Travis.

The name was so mundane and run-of-the-mill, it struck me as funny.

I took his hand and shook it.

“Nice to meet you finally, Travis. What can I—”

“I have little time, Cinnamon,” he said, cutting me off. “I’m leaving Christmas River today. I decided to skip out on the lease early.”

“Really?” I said, a little surprised.

“Yes. I think it’s for the best. But I wanted to stop by and thank you for your help this month,” he said. “For your husband’s help, too. I know that… that I wasn’t easy to work with.”

“It’s okay. We were just glad to help.”

He smiled again, fighting with the muscles in his face, as if he’d forgotten how to do it.

“So, uh, what are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I have a flight out of PDX to New York this morning,” he said. “And I have a meeting with Don Wharton.”

He gazed at me for a long, silent moment.

“I’m telling him, Cinnamon. I’m telling them all. The truth about the series. And if the publishers won’t help me make it right, then I’m going to the press and telling them.”

A surge of relief swept through me.

“It’s the right thing. I see that so clearly now. They need to know about Grant. They need to know that it’s his genius in these books — not mine.”

I reached forward, squeezing his hands.

“That’s a brave decision, Ashcroft.”

“Travis,” he corrected.

“Travis,” I said.

A moment later, I heard the faint sound of a honk coming from Main Street.

“That’ll be my ride,” he said. “Thank you again, Cinnamon. Your assistance was… What I mean is that you really helped me.”

The horror author backed away, heading out the door, down the back steps, and around the side of the pie shop.

Curiosity got the better of me. A moment later, I was running through the dining room, heading for the front window.

I peeked through the blinds, watching as Travis slid into the passenger’s seat of a red Jaguar.

I smiled.

I didn’t know whether the two of them were still on the track to divorce.

But I did know that now at least they might still have a chance.

A few seconds later, the Jaguar pulled away down Main Street.

And Ashcroft Black was gone for good.

Chapter 41

I stepped into the barn, blinking hard as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights.

Though the building looked exactly the same as the previous two times I’d been here, there was something different about the place this time. For a while, I couldn’t figure out what it was.

But then it came to me.

Metallica still played from the speakers, but the guitar thrashing was turned down low and wasn’t shredding my ear drums like before. The music had been lowered to a reasonable decibel.

I scanned the room, my eyes falling on Josiah.

He was standing over the workbench, a fine-tooth saw in his hand. He was carving a sizable gourd, and his tongue was sticking out of the side of his mouth in such a way that reminded me of how young he actually was.

I headed toward the table, carrying the aluminum foil-wrapped plate at my side. He heard my footsteps and glanced up.

“Oh, hey, Cinnamon. I was just heading over to your shop this afternoon with the pumpkins. I hope there wasn’t any confusion about—”

“No, no — I just thought I’d save you the trouble and pick them up myself,” I said.

I walked over, standing next to him, looking at the pumpkin he was working on.

“Is that one of mine?” I asked.

A child-like grin illuminated his face.

“Here, I’ll show you.”

He grabbed a lighter and lit a couple of tea light candles inside the gourd. Then he went over to the far wall and turned off the lights, plunging the old barn into darkness.

I couldn’t say anything for a full minute after seeing the glowing pumpkin.

Because it wasn’t just a pattern carved into a gourd — it was a true work of art. Josiah had carved a view of my pie shop from across Main Street, including the homey sign over the door, the front window display filled with pies, and the aspen grove right outside. He’d even included a woman who looked just like me standing out front in an apron, holding a pie and smiling.

The level of detail was astounding.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I think this is the best pumpkin I’ve ever seen, Josiah,” I said, still winded. “You’re an artist, you know that?”

He didn’t say anything, but when he went over to the far wall and finally hit the light switch, I could see his cheeks had turned rosy.

“I’ve got your other ones over here,” he said. “I’ll load them into your car.”

I nodded, glancing down at the plate in my hands.

The pumpkin had so floored me, I’d just about forgotten why I’d come here in the first place.

“Oh — that reminds me — I brought you these,” I said, handing him the plate.

It wasn’t quite as many Sour Cream Apple turnovers as I’d planned on bringing. But I figured he’d appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

“I wanted to thank you for your help with Ashcroft Black,” I said. “And, uh, also to apologize for accusing you of being involved.”

He took the plate, nodding.

“I appreciate it,” he said. “But I hardly did anything. It was the spirit that helped. Not me.”

I didn’t know if it was the gust of wind that wound its way through the barn at that exact moment or what Josiah had said about the spirit, but the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end.

“It must be… it must be hard,” I stammered. “Doing what you do.”

“I was born with this… whatever you want to call it. Gift,” he said. “It’s the only way I know how to live. I’ve been dealing with it my whole life.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“And you’re right — it has been hard. That’s why I stopped helping the police. But seeing the spirits isn’t the difficult part for me. That part’s easy. It’s no different than talking to a live person.”

He drew in a deep breath, looking down at the ground.

“What’s hard for me to accept are the things that happened to these spirits when they were alive. Hearing their stories… there’s so much brutality in the world, Cinnamon. So much pain. And from what I’ve seen in my life, so little justice.”

He hesitated before speaking again.

“You know, part of the reason I moved here was to get away. To hide from all of it. I isolated myself in this barn, trying to keep them out. But I’ve been thinking maybe it’s not my decision to make. And maybe I’m judging things without seeing the whole picture. Maybe my job isn’t to judge.

“Maybe my job is just to help.”

I paused, thinking about it for a long moment.

Then I nodded.

“Maybe in the end, that’s all any of us can do, Josiah,” I said. “Try to help others with the gifts we’ve been given.”

His lips turned up just a little at that.

An awkward silence fell over the barn then, and I cleared my throat.

I felt foolish about it, and even a little scared, but there’d been something I’d come to the barn today to ask Josiah. Something that had been on my mind ever since Mavis confirmed his abilities.

Something personal.

“I…”

I stuttered, searching for the words.

I gulped hard. Josiah gazed back at me, waiting to hear more.

I cleared my throat, shifting my weight between my legs. Trying to ask the question.

But in the end, I chickened out and didn’t ask about her.

“I… I bet that Daniel would be glad to have your help,” I said. “You know, on Sheriff’s Department cases. He was really impressed with your abilities.”

Josiah’s eyes lingered on me for a long second. Then he smiled.

“Tell him if he needs me, I’ll be here.”

I smiled back weakly, then nodded.

Maybe there would be another time for that question.

“Well, I guess I better get going.”

“I’ll take these to your car,” he said, picking up the first of the carved pumpkins.

We walked out of the barn into the bright October sunshine, and I led him to the Escape parked on the lane. He placed the pumpkin in the trunk and then shuttled the three others to the car. I closed up the trunk, shook his hand, and opened the driver’s door.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said.

“Sure thing. And don’t be a stranger, Josiah. Come down to the pie shop some time. There’ll be a slice of pie waiting there with your name on it.”

I slid into the driver’s seat, starting up the engine

“Sounds nice,” he said, resting his hands on the edge of the unrolled window. “But to tell you the truth, I’m just excited about those apple turnovers you brought me. I’ve heard great things about them — that they’re something to really be proud of.”

Word sure got around fast in a small town, I thought.

“Well I hope they live up to the praise,” I said. “And I hope to see you soon, Josiah.”

I smiled one last time at him, then pulled away down the country lane.

It wasn’t until I was halfway back to the pie shop that I understood what he was really trying to say.

And what it meant.

I smiled, feeling my eyes flood with tears.

I hadn’t had the courage to ask it, but he’d answered my question, anyway.

Chapter 42

“Krampus drinking Kolsch, you gave me quite a fright, Cinny Bee!” Warren said, sucking in a deep breath and clutching his chest. “Just what in the heck are you doing prowling around back here in that get-up?”

I stepped out of the brewhouse freezer room, lugging a keg of pumpkin beer along with me.

I supposed if I’d been in Warren’s shoes, I might have given myself a scare, too. After all, finding a skeleton in your brewhouse wasn’t exactly something you came to expect.

“Sorry about that, old man. I was just trying to help. Aileen said you guys needed another keg up at the front.”

It was early in the evening, with the sun starting to sink low in the sky, and folks were just beginning to show up to the pub in their Halloween garb. Daniel was on his way and would be here any minute.

It’d been the perfect Halloween day — warm and windy, with colorful leaves blowing all over the place.

I set the keg down for a moment and peered at my grandfather.

“Did I scare you bad?”

“No, no. Just didn’t expect anybody to be back here, is all. And anyway, I suppose it’s payback for that little leg pulling about the Juniper Hollow Cabin that I gave you a couple weeks ago.”

I smiled, and he peered at me.

“Say… nice costume, Cinny Bee. You look great.”

Usually, every Halloween I dressed up as a witch. But this Halloween, I felt like coming to Warren’s brewpub party as something a little different. I settled on a sort of Day of the Dead-inspired skeleton lady. It wasn’t an original idea, but I’d had plenty of fun painting my face and dressing up. The costume was a nice change for me, and I was glad I’d decided to try something new.

“Thanks, old man. But just what are you supposed to be?”

Warren was wearing his usual flannel shirt, jeans, and beige boots. There wasn’t a lick of Halloween anywhere on him — something unusual for him considering he enjoyed celebrating the holidays to their fullest.

“You can’t tell?”

I furrowed my brow, then shook my head.

“I’m a 25-year-old in an old man’s body,” he said with a rakish grin.

I laughed.

“But that’s not a costume, that’s your everyday life, old man.”

He shrugged, reaching forward and picking up the keg so expertly, it gave me pause to wonder if there really was a 25-year-old in there.

“I guess you’re right at that, Cinny Bee.”

We headed out of the brewhouse and into the pub which was getting increasingly crowded with each passing minute.

“Say, I meant to tell you — the neatest thing happened to me this morning,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?”

He set the keg down behind the bar and leaned toward me.

“Yeah. I came downstairs this morning, and what do I find sitting here on the bar top but this pumpkin.”

He nodded to the extra-large gourd sitting at the end of the bar now for all to see. It glowed with the words “Geronimo Brewing Co.” carved in horror movie-style lettering, along with an image of Warren holding up a pint of beer.

It was uncanny how well Josiah had captured Warren’s likeness.

“I mean, at first it creeped me out a little — it showing up here like that out of the blue,” Warren said. “But it’s just so neat looking. You wouldn’t know anything about where it came from, would you Cinny Bee?”

Warren eyed me, and I could tell that he already knew the answer to that.

But I played dumb anyway.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about it.”

Warren stared long and hard at the pumpkin.

“Well, it’s obvious what that means, Cinny Bee.”

“What does it mean, old man?”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“That your old grandpappy has got himself a secret admirer, that’s what!”

I laughed, taking a seat at the bar.

He had an admirer, all right.

I just wasn’t so secret about it most of the time.

Chapter 43

“I lied to you, Cin.”

Daniel filled my mug with another helping of hot whiskey cider and handed it to me before taking a seat in the Adirondack chair. He gave Chadwick, who was lying in the grass at his feet, a few good pets.

“About what?” I said, reaching forward and stoking the fire with a gnarled twig.

After staying at the brewpub for a while and enjoying the ghoulishly fun festivities, Daniel and I had snuck out early to come home and enjoy a nice evening in with the pooches. The trick-or-treaters were petering out, and though it had been fun answering the door and seeing all of their wonderful and creative costumes, I’d been looking forward to this part of the night. The part when we could just sit by our backyard campfire in peace, drink cider, eat dessert, and spend quality time together.

“Well, remember when you asked whether anything paranormal had ever happened to me before?”

I nodded.

Daniel rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

“And remember how I said no? That nothing had ever happened?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Well, that wasn’t true.”

I leaned forward in the wood chair, resting my chin on the palm of my hand, ready to listen. My movement caused Huckleberry to adjust his sleeping position at my feet.

Daniel paused, as if he was trying to find the right words. The fire crackled, and a series of embers shot up into the velvet blue night sky.

“It was about 17 years ago,” he said, gripping his mug of hot cider. “You know that convenience store where my brother was killed?”

I bit my lip and then nodded.

Daniel’s older brother Jared had been shot and killed in a convenience store in California when Daniel was a teenager. Jared had gone in to the store, not knowing he was walking into a robbery going wrong.

“Well, the fastest way to the police academy from where I lived back then meant passing the gas mart where Jared was murdered. Which meant that every morning and every night, I went about ten minutes out of my way to and from school just to avoid the place.”

Daniel stroked the stubble on his chin, staring at the fire for a long while.

“But I remember this one morning, on my way to the academy, I was just driving kind of absentmindedly. And I suddenly realized that I had taken the fast way — the way that passed by the convenience store. I nearly did a U-turn across six lanes of rush hour traffic when I realized that, but then I decided, no — I needed to suck it up and face that place like a man. I needed to stop avoiding it like I was scared. Because I guess on some level, I was. I was afraid of facing my emotions about Jared’s death.”

From somewhere out in the woods, an owl let out a low hoot, as if on cue.

I pulled the soft fleece blanket I was under tighter around my body. I stroked Huckleberry’s fur.

“So I get to the block where the gas mart is, and I take in a big breath and hold back from jamming my foot against the pedal. And I’m about to pass the convenience store when…”

Daniel paused again, the color fading from his face slightly.

He shook his head.

“I swear, Cin. To this day I don’t know what really happened. But right as I’m passing the store, in the oncoming lane, I see…”

He trailed off again, his voice growing thick with emotion.

“I see a blue Chevy truck — same as the one Jared used to have. And in the driver’s seat, I swear to you, I saw—”

My heart skipped a beat.

“I could have sworn it was him. It was Jared, Cin. Same dark hair and same thick eyebrows and same nose as me. And you know what else? He was smiling. Like… like he didn’t have a care in the world. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen him that happy before.”

I felt my whole body convulse in a shiver.

Daniel shook his head again.

“And after seeing that, I did do a U-turn across six lanes of traffic. Nearly got in an accident for it. And I followed that truck all the way to this office building. I waited for the driver to step out. I was so excited, I thought I might just throw up. I remember thinking maybe the coroner got it wrong somehow. Maybe it wasn’t Jared who died in the convenience store that day.”

He glanced over at me.

“But the man who stepped out of the truck that morning? It was a bald guy in his fifties with big bug-eye glasses and a briefcase. There was nobody who even remotely looked like Jared in that truck.”

He let out a sigh.

I reached out, gripping his hand and squeezing it.

“Now, for years, I convinced myself that what I saw that day was just a product of not getting enough coffee that morning. But I’ve been thinking about it lately. I guess this whole Ashcroft Black situation brought it up. And even though it doesn’t make any sense at all, even though I can’t explain it, I know now, in my gut, that I saw clearly that day.”

I watched as Daniel’s eyes grew glassy in the firelight — a rare sight.

“I think it was Jared,” he said in a low voice. “I think he was trying to let me know he was okay. And that I didn’t need to worry about him anymore.”

I leaned over, resting my head on his shoulder. We sat in silence for a long while as the fire crackled.

“Maybe he was trying to save you time on your drive, too,” I finally said.

I looked up. Daniel was smiling a little. He sniveled and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, maybe he was. Anyway, I guess it comes down to me being a hypocrite. I know I told you I thought all that ghost business was a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But I guess that’s not really true. Because when I think about it, I really do believe that things exist beyond what science can explain. Because I saw Jared that day. I know that now.”

I smiled, gazing at him.

“It kind of makes me feel good — the thought that spirits exist,” I said. “You know? At first it scared me. But I find the idea that our loved ones are still around us a comforting thought.”

Daniel looked up at the blanket of stars overhead.

“Sometimes I think about my mom,” I continued. “And I think about all the time I missed out on with her. And about how I still miss her so much. But sometimes I have this feeling. I can’t explain it. But it’s like…”

I trailed off, following Daniel’s gaze up into the heavens.

“Like she’s never really left my side, you know? Like she’s still here somehow. It doesn’t always feel like that, but when I’m at my happiest and feeling my best, I can feel some part of her with me. I can still feel her love.”

I paused.

“I don’t know… maybe none of that makes sense.”

Daniel gripped my hand, looking over at me.

“No — it makes sense, Cin. Perfect sense.”

He smiled.

“Makes me feel good, too, to think that,” he added.

He didn’t speak for a long while. Then he leaned over, kissing me on the cheek.

“Anyway, there’s my big lie. Sorry I wasn’t truthful with you.”

“I’m just glad you told me.”

“Want another mug of cider?”

“I’d love one,” I said. “And let’s break into the candy bowl. I don’t think we’ll be getting anymore trick-or-treaters tonight.”

“Sounds good. But just so you know, all the Milky Ways in that bowl are mine.”

I dropped my jaw in feigned shock.

Daniel very well knew that Milky Ways were my favorite candy.

“What kind of man are you, Sheriff Daniel Brightman? Taking all the good candy like that before his wife even has a chance to choose?”

Daniel stood up.

“A man who knows what he wants, I reckon.”

I stood up, too, letting my blanket drop to the ground.

“Well if you think I’m gonna stand for such barnyard behavior, you’re in for a lesson.”

“Is that right, Mrs. Brightman?” he said, a sparkle in his eye.

“That’s right, Sheriff.”

I smiled.

A second later, I took off for the candy bowl sitting on the back porch steps, Daniel closing in at my heels.

We laughed the rest of that Halloween night, enjoying our lives to the fullest.

And not once did either of us mention the name Lorna Larimer ever again.

Continue reading for six scrumptious fall party recipes from this mystery!

CHRISTMAS IS COMING…

Pre-order your copy of Mistake in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 12) today!

An old cold case.A violent robber on the loose. And a dark small town secret scandalous enough to kill over – the latest installment in the Christmas River series is the most explosive one yet. Hitting digital shelves this holiday season!

Pre-order your copy today and get the sale price of $3.99!

PLUS don’t miss the GRAND OPENING of Meg Muldoon’s Etsy Shop! Opening fall 2018.

Inspired jewelry, heartwarming ornaments, and meaningful Christmas gifts with cozy flair all lovingly handcrafted by Meg! Mailing list subscribers get a coupon, so be sure to sign-up!

Did you enjoy MIDNIGHT IN CHRISTMAS RIVER? Please let others know by leaving a review on Amazon. Reviews are greatly appreciated by the author. Thank you in advance, dear reader!

And if you’ve been enjoying these Christmas River mysteries, consider signing up for Meg’s Patreon Cozy Lodge page! For as little as $1 a month, you’ll get books, novellas, card art, and fun anecdotes from Meg’s cozy world. Come on down to the lodge and see what’s cooking!

For cozy contests, giveaways, and recipes, join Meg Muldoon on Facebook or visit her Website.

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The Meg Muldoon Collection

The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Series

Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 3)

Malice in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 4)

Mischief in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 5)

Manic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 6)

Magic in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 7)

Menace in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 8)

Missing in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 9)

Meltdown in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 10)

Midnight in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 11)

Mistake in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 12)

The Christmas River Cozy Mystery Novella Series

Roasted in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 1)

Caught in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 2)

Crushed in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery Novella (Book 3)

The Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series

Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 1)

Busted in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Book 2)

The Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery Series

Mutts & Murder: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

Bulldogs & Bullets: A Dog Town USA Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

The Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery Series

The Silence of the Elves: A Holly Hopewell Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

The Broomfield Bay Mystery Series (with Jools Sinclair)

Ginger of the West: A Witches of Broomfield Bay Mystery (Book 1)

Hot Cider, Christmas River Style

(Serves 6)

From Cinnamon: When you have good-quality cider on hand, you don’t need to dress it up much to get an amazing beverage. Just add a little orange, a little cinnamon, and a kick of bourbon, and you’ve got yourself the perfect drink for a crisp fall evening.

60 oz. of Honey Crisp apple cider

1 orange

2 cinnamon sticks, plus extra for garnish

8 to 10 oz. of quality bourbon (optional!)

Pour apple cider into a pot and place on stove. Cut four thin slices of the orange and add to apple cider along with two cinnamon sticks. Bring to boil, and let simmer for five minutes. In the meantime, cut orange peel strips from the remaining orange, and create six curly twists.

Divide apple cider among mugs. If you’re using bourbon, add one to two ounces of bourbon to each mug for a nice kick (depending on how strong you’d like your cider). Garnish with orange twists and cinnamon sticks.

Sit by the fire, and watch the leaves fall.

Cinnamon’s Sour Cream Apple Pie

From Cinnamon: This pie represents the way in which recipes transcend their ingredients to become something magical and meaningful. Whenever I have a bite of this pie, it always takes me back to the crisp fall days of my childhood in Christmas River. Carving pumpkins with my mom on our back patio on October weekends, watching classic scary movies together on the couch of our old house, and baking tasty treats in the kitchen. That’s a lot for sugar, pastry, and a few apples to conjure up! But therein lays the magic of baking. It can transport you somewhere else and remind you of what really matters in life.

I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I have over the years!

Crust

2 1/2 cups flour

5 tablespoons sugar

3/4 teaspoon salt

1 tsp cinnamon

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

6 tablespoons shortening

6 tablespoons apple cider

Combine flour, sugar, salt, and cinnamon in a large bowl. Cut in butter and shortening with a pastry cutter until the mixture becomes pebbly. Add apple cider to the mixture until the dough begins to stick together. Add more cider if necessary. Gather up into a ball, and wrap in plastic wrap. Let it chill in the fridge for at least two hours.

Bring the dough out from the fridge, and divide in half. Roll out one half of dough, and press it into a pie dish. With a fork, place some breathing holes in the crust, then place the pie dish in the freezer for twenty minutes (freezing it before baking helps ensure that the crust will keep its shape!) Meanwhile, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees. After twenty minutes, remove the pie dish from the freezer and bake for ten minutes. Remove from oven, then let cool.

Filling

7 Granny Smith apples

3 tablespoons butter

2/3 cup sour cream

1/3 cup sugar

1/4 tsp salt

2 tsp whiskey

3 tablespoons flour

Dash of cinnamon

Peel and cut apples into eighths. Meanwhile, in a large sauce pan, melt the butter over medium heat. When the butter is melted and starts bubbling, add the apple slices. Sauté for about 10 to 15 minutes over medium heat, making sure not to burn the apples. When ready, the apples should be a nice golden shade and should be slightly tender. Remove from heat, and let cool.

Meanwhile, in a bowl, combine sour cream, sugar, salt, whiskey, flour, and cinnamon. Pour mixture over cooled apples, and toss until well-covered. Spoon filling into pre-baked pie crust.

Topping

3 tablespoons brown sugar

3 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 cup walnuts, chopped (optional)

In a small bowl, combine all ingredients. Dust mixture evenly over the apple filling before baking.

Roll out remaining half of crust dough, and cut even lattice strips from it. Weave them atop the pie filling. Bake the pie at 400 degrees for 10 minutes, then lower temperature to 350 degrees and bake for another 40 minutes or so. If the crust starts browning too much, cover with aluminum foil.

Let cool, then enjoy a slice with whipped cream, ice cream, or even a hunk of good-quality cheddar cheese.

Halloween Red Pepper Dip

(makes 1 ½ cups)

From Cinnamon: Mmm, mmm, mmm is all I can say about this one! This dip is a tried and true party hit that can be made earlier in the day and kept in the fridge until the celebration begins.

½ cup of sliced almonds

½ cup sun-dried tomatoes in oil, drained and oil reserved separately

3/4 teaspoon minced garlic

1 teaspoon minced orange zest

1 tablespoon olive oil

¾ cup chopped roasted red peppers from a jar

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

2 tablespoons orange juice

¼ teaspoon salt

Pita chips

Pre-heat the oven to 375. Roast the almonds on a baking sheet for about 4 minutes until golden and fragrant. Let cool.

Combine the drained sundried tomatoes, garlic, orange zest, and cooled almonds in a food processor. Process for about a minute until smooth.

Add the oil drained from the tomatoes, the olive oil, roasted red peppers, vinegar, orange juice, and salt to the processor and process entire mixture until smooth. Chill mixture for about half an hour before serving. Serve with pita chips and enjoy!

Bacon-wrapped dates

From Cinnamon: This is a crowd pleasing hor d’oeuvre if there ever was one. These sweet and salty treats are easy as pie to make and always vanish lightning fast when they come out of the oven. So if you want them to last until your party guests arrive, be sure to keep snackers and food thieves out of the kitchen!

8 slices of thin bacon

16 dates

4 oz. of goat cheese

Toothpicks

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Slice the dates lengthwise on one side and remove the pit. Using a spoon, stuff a small amount of goat cheese into each date and press the sides together to close.

Cut the bacon slices in half and wrap each date with a half-slice of bacon. Secure the bacon to the date with a toothpick.

Arrange on a baking sheet and bake for 10 minutes. Remove the toothpicks and flip the dates over so they get cooked fully on each side and leave in oven for another 7 minutes or so. Remove from the oven when the bacon is fully cooked and place on a paper towel-lined plate. Let stand five minutes before serving.

Geronimo Brewing Co.’s Toasty Rosemary Hazelnuts

From Cinnamon: On some windy, stormy October nights in Christmas River, even the hazelnuts on the trees get cold! This recipe remedies that, and is an excellent way to get any fall soirée started. Warren has bowls of these appetizers on tables throughout the Geronimo Brewing Co. pub as they go exceptionally well with a fresh pint of beer and good conversation.

2 ½ cups hazelnuts, skins removed*

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, finely chopped

1 tablespoon brown sugar

½ tsp cayenne pepper

2 teaspoons sea salt

½ teaspoon black pepper

1 ½ tablespoons real maple syrup

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Place the nuts in medium bowl and add brown sugar, cayenne, and black pepper. Set aside.

In a sauté pan over low heat, melt the butter. Stir in the rosemary and cook for about a minute until fragrant. Remove from heat and stir in the maple syrup. Add the nuts to the sauté pan and coat completely.

Transfer the seasoned hazelnuts to the parchment-covered baking sheet. Bake about 10 minutes (keep a close eye on them so they don’t burn!), tossing once halfway through baking. Remove from oven and allow to cool for 5 minutes before serving.

Enjoy!

*I find that hazelnuts are usually expensive, but you can find good deals on large bags of them at Trader Joes. If you can’t find any that have the skins removed, toast the hazelnuts at 375 degrees for about 7 minutes before making this dish, then rub them with a towel until the skins peel off.

Tempting Pumpkin Gingersnap Cheesecake Bars

(makes 24)

From Cinnamon: In my book, you can’t have a fall celebration without some sort of pumpkin-inspired treat. This one is exceptionally creamy and delicious and is the sort of thing that starts speaking to you as soon as you pull it from the oven. Whispering sweet nothings, tempting you to try a little, and then a little more. Be careful around these is all I can say!

Crust

40 pre-bought gingersnap cookies

2 tablespoons sugar

5 tablespoons butter, melted

Filling

8 oz package of cream cheese

1 cup brown sugar

1 can of pumpkin puree (15 oz.)

2 eggs

1 can evaporated milk

2 tablespoons pure maple syrup

1 teaspoon bourbon

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon ginger

¼ teaspoon salt

Pinch of cloves

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9 by 13 inch baking pan and line with parchment paper (have it overhang the side of the dish just slightly.)

The crust: In a food processor, pulse together the gingersnaps and sugar into fine crumbs. Add the melted butter and pulse a few more times until well combined. Press the crumbs evenly into the bottom of the prepared baking pan. Bake for 10 minutes.

The Filling: Beat together the cream cheese and brown sugar until smooth, about three minutes. Add the pumpkin and mix, then add the eggs one at a time until well incorporated. Add the evaporated milk, maple syrup and bourbon. Mix, then add the spices and salt and beat until everything is smooth and well-combined.

Pour the filling into the prepared crust and bake until the center is set, about 30 to 35 minutes. Let cool (bars can be served room temperature or chilled.)

Have a wonderful autumn, readers!!

About the Author

Amazon Bestselling Author Meg Muldoon loves writing cozy mysteries. A former small town news reporter, Meg has always had a special place in her heart for lost dogs, homeless cats, and feisty old locals. She enjoys bourbon bread pudding, red cowboy boots and craft glue guns.

Originally from Central Oregon, Meg lives in Arizona with two Great Pyrenees and a cattle dog named Huckleberry.

For more about Meg and her upcoming books, join her on Facebook or visit her Blog.

To sign up for the Meg Muldoon new book alert mailing list, and to get Meg’s Cozy Corner newsletters, click here.