Christmas in Port Scuttlebutt: Double Barrel Mysteries, #4

By Barbara Ellen Brink

At the grand opening of the Port Playhouse, Shelby Gunner directs her first Christmas play to a packed house. Spirits are high after the show, and amid the hubbub and excitement, someone leaves a baby outside her dressing room door.

The same night, a young woman and her newborn are discovered missing. As snow piles up and the temperature drops, time is of the essence to bring them safely home.

A suicidal man, found unconscious near Lake Superior, may be the last person to have seen them. Ironically, he can't help because he made a wish... that he had never been born.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lapdog Books
• Release date: Dec 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540119681

Barbara Ellen Brink

Barbara Ellen Brink is a multi-published author, supported financially by a loving husband who just happens to have a better paying job. She is the author of the Fredrickson Winery mysteries, Entangled, Crushed, and Savor. She is also the author of an award winning thriller, Split Sense; inspirational suspense novels; and a young adult series, The Amish Bloodsuckers.She grew up on a small farm in Washington State, but now lives in the mean “burbs” of Minnesota with her husband and their dogs, Rugby & Willow. With her kids now pushed out of the nest and encouraged to fly, Barbara spends much time writing, motorcycling with her husband in the summer, and hiking through the snow with the dogs in the winter.

Book preview

Other Novels by this author

Double Barrel Mysteries:

Roadkill

Much Ado About Murder

Midsummer Madness

A Man Can Die but Once

Fredrickson Winery Novels:

Entangled

Crushed

Savor

Split Sense

Second Chances Series:

Running Home

Alias Raven Black

Trial by Fire

Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy:

Chosen

Shunned

Reckoning

Christmas in Port Scuttlebutt

Chapter 1

The excitement in the air was so thick he felt as though he might choke on it. People laughed and talked, jostling past him and through the double doors. Cold air gusted inside with them, playing havoc with the newly installed overhead heat vents. Upbeat Christmas music played from hidden speakers, encouraging ticket holders to hurry along to their seats. He followed the crowd and found his way to the stairs that would take him to the balcony overlooking the stage.

The program he’d been handed at the door stated that The Christmas Proposal was an original holiday play, written and directed by Shelby Gunner. He shifted the gym bag to his left hand and lingered outside the restroom doors as though he were waiting for someone. The theatre slowly filled, and ushers began shooing stragglers to their seats at five minutes to show time.

He climbed to the balcony and looked around. His seat was in the last row, closest to the wall. Good. All the seats in his section were already filled. He sat, carefully positioned the bag between his seat and the wall and hoped the ticking wouldn’t bring him any undue attention. As lights dimmed, he glanced at the elderly gentleman to his left. Wouldn’t have to worry about him. He wore a large bulky hearing aid and was already dozing before the curtain rose on scene one.

The play was cheerful, funny, and sweet. The actors may not have been professionals, but it didn’t matter because they were Port Scuttlebutt’s heroes tonight. Nothing short of the roof caving in would dampen the audience’s Christmas spirit. They hung on every line, clapped, laughed, and teared up at all the appropriate places.

When the last curtain fell, nearly the entire assembly rose to their feet and gave the cast of The Christmas Proposal a standing ovation, intermingled with whistles and shouts. Finally, a pretty brunette in an emerald green sequined dress and heels stepped out onto the stage.

I want to thank all of you for coming out tonight. This has been a dream of mine for some time and I’m so very happy to be able to share this passion of theatre with all of you. She put out a hand to indicate someone in the front row. A very special thank you goes to Evelyn Jones for her generous donation of this building and the cost of the renovations to give Port Scuttlebutt our very own playhouse.

Applause, although a little less enthusiastic, rippled across the auditorium again.

On behalf of the cast and everyone involved in this production, we want to wish you a very merry Christmas! Goodnight... She waved and smiled, one hand caressing the jeweled necklace at her throat. ...and God bless you, everyone!

That was the audience’s cue to vacate the premises. He remained in his seat at the back of the balcony, eyes cast down in an effort to discourage conversation from those around him as they picked up their coats and shuffled toward the stairs.

The play may have ended, but the town was bursting with pride at the success of fellow citizens and family members who were a part of the night’s entertainment. After Mrs. Gunner’s words of thanks, no one could be ignorant of who financed this place, but they were obviously choosing to put it out of their minds. Nothing good could come from Evelyn Jones or her despicable son. His situation was proof of that.

He waited in the wings until nearly all the people had left the building. Staying on the periphery, keeping to the shadowed alcove area, he carried the ticking bag in his arms like a medic transporting a viable heart in a cooler.

A few stragglers still lingered beneath the glittering chandelier in the entrance hall, chattering with friends and neighbors, but most had already slipped out to snow-dusted cars. He glanced around before turning down the dark hallway. Navigating the odd set item or box of props, he wended his way backstage. Laughter and voices drifted from behind closed dressing room doors where the cast changed out of costumes and makeup.

The last door at the end of the hall was marked with a small paper sign taped to it that read, DIRECTOR. He paused, noting a light glowing from beneath the edge. She was still here. There was no one about, so he quickly set the bag in front of her door, slipped the envelope beside the ticking clock, and walked away before he could change his mind.

Outside in the blowing snow he tugged his stocking cap over his head, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his wool pea coat and hurried to his vehicle. He’d been lucky to find an empty space a block away in a church parking lot earlier, but now most of the spaces were empty and the old gray van he’d borrowed sat alone under two inches of heavy snow.

He swiped a coated arm across the windshield, knocking most of the snow away before pulling out his key and manually unlocking the dented passenger door. The hinges creaked in protest, but he managed to jerk it open wide enough to slide across to the driver’s seat. He settled behind the wheel and closed his eyes for just a moment.

It was done. There was no going back. Life. Death. Love. Hate. The words burned past his mind’s eye like a flashing billboard of conscience. Unable to wait around and watch the unfolding outcome, he twisted the key in the ignition. The van shook to life, coughed a couple of times in protest, and finally settled into a steady hum.

He pulled onto the street and drove back the way he’d come, past the renovated bank building now brightly lit by Christmas lights and lampposts. The newly-installed theatre marquee announced the opening of THE PORT PLAYHOUSE. A handful of people still lingered outside chatting with friends, their breath hanging heavy in the night air.

Earlier, a full moon had reflected off the surface of the Great Lake like a shiny gold coin, shimmering and tossed about by a gentle undertow. Now the moon was hidden behind thick cloud cover and the wind was kicking up what looked like five or six-foot waves. He drove with purpose, following the curve of the coast, needing to be near the water but far from town. Lake Superior sprayed the rocks and receded, a steady rhythm that fed his need for the only constant in his life. He was told he’d been born by this body of water, had worked and lived his whole life on or near it, and expected to die and be buried beneath it one day. This morning when he woke, he would have said that day was a long way off. Now... he just didn’t know.

Chapter 2

Aburst of laughter erupted from the hallway outside her door. Shelby smiled at her reflection in the mirror and shook her head. The cast of The Christmas Proposal should have all left by now. She’d hugged each one as they returned backstage and gathered in the hallway earlier where Sid poured them all a glass of sparkling white grape juice and toasted their performance with words that nearly brought her to tears. Apparently, some of the cast still lingered, too excited and filled with adrenalin from their first performance to call it a night.

"Remember those days, Shel? When it was you high as a kite after opening night?"

Her friend and former director, Sid Dillon, lay stretched out on the couch beside her dressing table. He’d taken off his tuxedo jacket and tie and was absently twirling the ends of the bowtie material around one finger while he watched her reapply lipstick. He sounded a bit down and more introspective than usual.

Shelby stood and grabbed her coat from the stand beside the door. I remember. And you were the one who got me through it, showed me how to channel that energy into making the next night’s performance even better. 

You were my star pupil. He sat up, pushing the tie into the pocket of his jacket draped neatly over the back of the couch. Standing slowly, he stretched up on his toes and yawned before slipping the jacket over his slim frame. I always knew you had it in you, girl. I guess you just needed to get out into the big bad woods in the middle of nowhere to follow your dream.

Port Scuttlebutt is not the middle of nowhere. This is the jewel of Lake Superior. A diamond in the rough. The...

...littlest metropolis south of Canada? He laughed and threw his hands up in mock fright. I’m kidding. Don’t go all angry momma on me.

Really? She raised one brow, a hand cupping the small curve of her belly beneath her long wool coat. You’re already pulling the pregnancy hormones card for me? I’m barely showing.

White teeth gleamed from his full hipster beard in a dazzling smile. Don’t worry, you’re showing in all the right places.

Gee, thanks.

He gave a slight bow and opened the door. I’m here to please. Now let’s get out of here. I’m starving. Please tell me there is a late-night bar and grill somewhere nearby where we can get a salad and fresh sea bass. Alice may serve up a great breakfast in the morning, but as you know, I’m really more of a late-night kind of guy and I need to be recharged for my drive back to the city later tonight.

I have just the place, she said and stumbled over something left in front of the door. Sid grabbed her arm to steady her as she gazed down at the large duffel bag at her feet. It was unzipped, and she could see a fuzzy blue blanket poking out the open flap. She leaned closer, tugging on the opening. What in the world?

A baby – bundled like a tiny mummy in the blanket, pink cherub face the only thing showing – slept peacefully in the padded depths of a gym bag as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. What was that? A ticking baby?

Trish and Zoe, two high school girls she’d managed to snag lead parts in the Christmas Proposal, stepped out of the dressing room next door and waved. Have a good night, Shelby.

Hold on. Do you know who this baby belongs to? she asked, her newly acquired motherly instincts on high alert. Was it possible one of the people visiting the cast backstage would leave a child behind and not realize until they got home? But what sort of parents carried their child around in a duffel bag? She frowned. Lisa didn’t bring her kids tonight, did she?

Trish shook her head with a curious glance at the bag. I didn’t see anyone with a baby. I was just out here a few minutes ago and the hallway was empty.

Okay. Thanks. Never mind. I’ll take care of it.

Blake was coming down the hallway and passed the girls with a few words of praise for their performance and a goodnight. His grin slanted sideways, and his blue eyes were lit the way they’d been ever since she’d announced they were having a baby. He leaned across the bag and kissed her cheek. A puzzled frown put a crease between his eyes for a second as he glanced down and noticed the blue blanket. What’s up with the baby stuff? Someone already jumping the gun on gifts?

We just came out and it was here, Sid said, buttoning his coat and wrapping a silk scarf around his neck. I’ve heard of people throwing flowers on the stage, but apparently the audience was so enthralled with Shelby’s directing that they gave her a baby.

Blake squatted beside the duffel and pulled wide the opening. You weren’t kidding. Whose is it? He picked up the windup alarm clock positioned beside the sleeping infant. Why is there a giant ticking clock in here? Is this a thing I should know about? Babies and clocks?

Shelby had to laugh at his expression. I don’t think so. None of the baby books I’ve read mentioned clocks.

"Maybe his parents think he’s da bomb." Sid’s quip was lost amid a high-pitched wail.

Brown eyes popped open and moisture immediately leaked out as arms flailed and legs kicked.

Blake shot to his feet, still holding the clock. What’s wrong with him?

I don’t think he likes you, Gun. Especially since you stole time. Sid took the clock from Blake and set it gently back beside the baby. The child slowly quieted