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“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU got us into this, Viola Roberts.” My best friend and fellow author, Cheryl Delany, stood on a step ladder glaring down at me. There was a smudge of dust on her forehead and I was pretty sure -I saw a cobweb in her spiky, brown hair. She clutched a string of white Christmas lights in one hand and a box of black wall clips in the other. Her job was to string enough lights across the ceiling of the banquet hall that no one would notice the ghastly off-white acoustic tiles with their large, rusty stains. Fat chance, but it was worth a shot. The Masonic Lodge was the best and only place for a holiday party.
“I didn’t, exactly. It was the mayor. He annoyed me into it.” I frowned at the tangled ball of multi-colored lights I was holding. Why was it that regardless of however carefully you stored Christmas lights they always ended up in a hot mess?
Cheryl snorted. “Sounds like him.”
Charlie Bayles was the mayor of Astoria, Oregon. He had lots of Very Big Ideas. Unfortunately, he was mostly inept and managed to rope other people into doing the dirty work. Like yours truly. Because I didn’t have a book to finish or anything.
“This is an important event,” I said, dumping the ball of lights back into their box and walking over to wrestle with the tree stand. Charlie had promised the local Elks would be delivering the Christmas tree at noon and it was a quarter 'til. “The library is an essential part of this community and the funds raised at this party will ensure it stays that way.” At least, that was Charlie’s idea. I was cautiously optimistic.
“I’m still annoyed he didn’t think we were a big enough draw that he had to bring in other authors.” She pouted a little as she clipped up a strand of lights and moved on to the next.
I laughed. “A hero is never appreciated in her hometown; don’t you know that?”
Cheryl was a thriller writer and I was a historical romance writer. I wouldn’t say either of us were famous. Not Nora Roberts or Stephen King famous anyway, but we both made a very good living at our chosen profession. That, however, wasn’t good enough for Mayor Bayles. He wanted a Big Name Author. Someone who would draw in the masses and convince them to spend fifty bucks a head to attend this little shindig. I was fine with it, frankly. I could only handle so many signings and whatnot before I needed a break.
At the last romance novel signing I’d attended, the author at the table next to me brought her cover model. Now I am not averse to handsome men showing up at signings, but I draw the line at them removing their shirts while a couple dozen women old enough to be my mother scream at the top of their lungs for him to take it all off. Planning a Christmas party was just the change of pace I needed.
With the tree stand finally up, I turned my attention to the desserts table, selecting a red tablecloth and green and gold serving plates. “I can’t believe the mayor talked me into baking persimmon pudding.” Persimmon pudding was a Christmas tradition in my family. When I’d mentioned it during a planning meeting for the Christmas party, the mayor had jumped all over the idea. Apparently, he thought it was “whimsical and British sounding.” Which, for the mayor, translated into “posh and expensive.” So, I’d made three, including a gluten free one.
“Pudding seems a weird choice,” Cheryl said. “I mean, walking around with spoons.”
“It isn’t actually pudding,” I explained. “It’s sort of like a steamed cake. Very moist, rich, and delicious. You don’t need spoons. And,” I grinned, “there’s a secret ingredient.”
“Oh! What’s that?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you let the mayor talk you into baking all those cookies, too. Six different kinds?” She shook her head. “What does he think you are? A bakery?”
“And that’s why I got Sandy down at Bakeology to donate all those cookies. Good promo for her, and I don’t have to stay up all night baking.” I was inordinately fond of Sandy’s baked goods and visits to her bakery were a semi-regular thing. Why the mayor hadn’t just asked Sandy to put on this shindig was beyond me. Other than the fact he seemed bound and determined to get me involved in town events, for some reason.
Cheryl laughed. “Aren’t you the clever one? She does make some awfully tasty cookies, our Sandy. Who did he invite, by the way? As the guests of honor, I mean.”
I knew she was back on the subject of the other authors again. “He invited Lucas, but he’s off to the East Coast for a conference.” Lucas Salvatore was a big-time thriller writer and my semi-sort-of-boyfriend. The mayor had thought my connection would mean Lucas was a shoo-in. He’d been wrong, which had peeved Charlie-boy no end.
“It would have been nice to have him here. I wouldn’t be so irked if it was someone we knew.” She eyed me from her perch on the ladder. “Do we know them?”
“Er...” I hesitated.
She glared at me. “Come on.”
“We know of them,” I admitted. “Here. Try this.” I handed her a clipping of fake mistletoe complete with little plastic berries.
She glared at it. “Like there’s anyone here to kiss.” She sighed as she tacked up the sprig. “Tell me. Get it over with.”
I laughed at her tone of martyrdom. “Petula LeMar and Venus Alton.”
She blinked, nearly dropping the box of clips on my head. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not.”
“But those two hate each other.”
“I know. Apparently, the mayor missed the memo.” It was hard not to be amused by the whole thing.
“Hoo-boy. Does Charlie know what he’s getting into?”
I laughed. “I have a feeling he doesn’t.”
The mayor had proudly informed me he had invited two of the most successful romance authors in America and that they’d accepted. I’d been surprised, thinking he’d invited someone like Nora Roberts. When he’d told me the names I’d nearly died. Surely he’d had no idea he was inviting erotica romance authors. Not that there was anything wrong with that, in my opinion, but I was pretty sure the mayor would pass out from the shock if he knew.
“How do you suppose he came up with those names?” Cheryl asked as she descended the ladder and started rooting through the tree ornaments.
“I’m pretty sure he cruised the best seller lists and then called around until he convinced somebody to play along.” I shook my head. “I can hardly wait until he finds out.”
Cheryl giggled as she started piling silver balls onto a nearby chair. “Can you imagine?”
“Yes. Yes, I can. And it’s glorious.”
Once the Christmas tree was finally delivered, I left Cheryl in charge of decorating it while I disappeared into the kitchen, my sneakers squeaking on the freshly mopped tile floor. Three large pots sat empty on the counter, ready to be filled with water. I hadn’t been able to find a pudding mold big enough to serve everyone from a single pudding, so I’d gone with three large ones and hoped it would be enough.
I carefully placed each batter filled mold into a pot, filled it partway with water, and set the pots on the stove. I had just enough time to get home and change for the party. By the time I got pack, the puddings would be ready to remove from the pots and cool. During the party I’d put the puddings on fancy serving dishes, surrounded by holly just as the mayor ordered. I could only hope nothing went wrong.
The Poison in the Pudding is available NOW in ebook, audiobook, and paperback.