Murder at the Bearpaw Lake Berryfest: A Ginny Jomes Alaskan Cozy Mystery Series, #2

By Bebe Steiner

LIARS AND PIE CRUSTS AND BEARS – OH MY!

In the picturesque town of Moose Peak, Alaska, where mountains loom and secrets simmer, Ginny Jones–that's Jomes with an "M"–finds herself knee-deep in another captivating mystery. Just as the annual Bearpaw Lake Berryfest kicks off, disaster strikes when the mystery judge is poisoned, and Ginny's friend and fellow maven Ruth Smithers becomes the prime suspect.

Determined to clear Ruth's name and salvage the beloved festival, Ginny embraces her role as the town's silver-haired sleuth. Armed with her sharp intellect and the unwavering support of her quirky book club known as the Moose Peak Mavens, Ginny embarks on a thrilling quest to unmask the true culprit.

But the path to justice is riddled with perilous challenges. From navigating treacherous lies to unearthing hidden motives while avoiding unexpected encounters with bears and a persistent stalker, Ginny must summon all her courage and wits to stay one step ahead. With the invaluable assistance of a retired and debonair U.S. Marshal and the steadfast companionship of her trusted miniature dachshund, Ginny is determined to crack the case before time runs out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bebe Steiner
• Release date: Aug 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223817710

Bebe Steiner

Bebe Steiner grew up devouring Encyclopedia Brown Boy Detective novels and wondering where the books were that depicted girl detectives. From her home in Anchorage, Alaska, where she has lived for almost two decades, she now writes books that depict women detectives that look like the women she knows with an added dash of humor and Alaskan authenticity. You can find her at https://bebesteiner.comAnd connect with her on FB at https://www.facebook.com/bebesteinerauthor

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T hese crowds are murder, I groan to my best friends. Donna, Ruth, Barb, and I are affectionately self dubbed the Moose Peak Mavens—master mystery solvers.

Dodging and weaving through the throngs of people at the Bearpaw Lake Berryfest, I glance down and just manage to avoid stepping on a smashed, mustard-covered reindeer dog.

Thump!

Ginny Jomes, that’s assaulting a police officer! A familiar whiny voice warns.

I look up to find I’ve crashed into Miller Mullins, the new Moose Peak chief of police.

You need to watch where you’re going, he lectures me as he wipes the powdered sugar from his face that his blueberry donut left behind.

I grit my teeth and force a smile onto my face. At least he said my name correctly for a change. He often calls me Jones, prompting my well-worn retort. It’s Jomes, with an M.

Mullins, it’s nice to run into you, I respond sarcastically, knowing he won’t get the pun. He’s not exactly known for his smarts.

My husband, affectionately known as Chief Mel, had been the Moose Peak chief of police for decades until his murder two years ago. It’s a loss I still grapple with every day. My heart wrenches as I remember how Mel barely slept or ate, putting in extra hours during the festival to be available when anyone needed him. Standing there with Mullins in my face, who is more interested in the treats than in policing, it galls me that he now wears the unearned title of chief.

Our illustrious new police chief often takes his policing cues from watching crime shows on television, as demonstrated by his wrongful arrest of my closest friend, Donna Matthews, for murder during the last summer solstice. I also barely escaped getting caught in his crosshairs. He has the job because he’s married to Mayor Simpson’s daughter—of which our whole town is painfully aware.

Watch where you’re going from now on! Mullins scolds me, then shoves the rest of the donut into his mouth before he strides off. I stare after him momentarily, my mouth gaping open as I stifle the snappy comeback on the tip of my tongue—not that he’d even hear me over the din of this crowd.

His over-the-top utility belt slides down his hips, prompting him to hitch it up every few steps. I settle for an eye roll at how ridiculous he is, but inside I always worry Mullins will find himself in charge of some future investigation. I shake off my concern. There’s nothing I can do about that right now. It’s time to have some fun.

Needing to catch up with the Mavens, I search the crowd for Barb’s flame-red hair. The festival committee has done a spectacular job turning the park next to the lake into a small carnival for the annual Berryfest held on the long Labor Day weekend. It’s one of my favorite town events. I weave my way through vendors offering an assortment of tasty berry treats; salmonberry cakes, wild blueberry ice cream, and double chocolate chunk raspberry stuffed cookies beckon. Sprinkled among the food vendors are a variety of local artists selling their creations. Everything from hand-painted moose antlers to homemade soaps. A colorfully lit Ferris wheel lights up the sky, anchoring the edge of the sprawling green.

Events throughout the weekend include chef demonstrations of various berry recipes, a berry wine and beer tasting for the adults, and a pie-eating contest—no hands allowed! The weekend culminates with the award for the best wild berry pie. It’s a coveted title that brings with it the adoration of Moose Peak residents, and the winning baker gets an entry into the National Best Berry Pie Contest. In short, it is everything berry.

I spot the Mavens outside Agatha Moss’s booth and thread my way through the crowd. Agatha owns Re-read, our local independent bookstore, and I adore its quaint charm. She carries a delightful mixture of new and secondhand books and I always leave her store with a huge pile of to be reads. Nothing compares to holding a book in your hands and feeling the rough pages between your fingers as you turn page after page of a story you can’t put down.

Agatha, this is incredible, I remark, inspecting the booth with admiration. Shelves line the walls of the twelve by fourteen-foot pop-up tent, filled with titles that all tie into berries in some way or another. A few steps inside reveal a section devoted to fiction novels with captivating titles like The House on Blueberry Lane, The Lights of Sugarberry Cove, and Berries in my Bathwater. A comfy chair awaits in the corner, outfitted with a reading light and a side table showing off a delicate china tea set. An ottoman sits in front of the chair stacked with cookbooks focusing on berries. Yet more bookshelves embrace a fireplace and mantle. The insert gives the impression of flames flickering in their midst, completing the effect. It looks just like a cozy book nook, I express in awe.

Thanks, Mrs. J., Agatha beams. I’ve been so excited about this year’s festival. I want the space to evoke the feeling of being wrapped in a warm hug as you curl up with a good book.

You’ve definitely nailed it, I assure her.

I can’t believe how packed the festival is, Donna comments. Ruth, you’ve done a stupendous job as the president of the festival committee this year.

Is it true you have a mystery judge lined up for the pie baking contest? Barb prods.

It sure is, Ruth confirms. We’ve got two big names, and our mystery judge is ready to get knee-deep in berry pies. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Oh, how exciting! Barb claps her hands, and a raucous sound emerges from the bracelets on her arm.

Thanks to Ginny, we are extremely fortunate to have Conrad Marks as one of our judges. Ruth gives me a wink.

I just love his Harlan Spitz mystery novels, Barb coos.

Conrad and I have become close friends since we were involved in solving two murders at the Summer Solstice Sleuthfest a few months ago. He agreed to judge at my request.

We also have Laura Stone, the Pie in the Sky restaurant owner, judging the wild berry pie baking contest, Ruth tells us.

I’m not familiar with who Ruth’s talking about.

Give us a hint. Who is the mystery judge? Barb nudges.

Ruth leans in and whispers, If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you. She laughs. And don’t you go trying to find out, Barb Haines. I’ve sworn all the Berryfest committee members to secrecy.

Obviously trying to distract Barb, who can be like a dachshund with, well, quite frankly, any food, Donna changes the subject. The lodge is completely booked. And I don’t mean just for Labor Day weekend. We’ve been full for the entire week leading up to it and into next week as well.

Donna owns the Moose Peak Mountain Lodge, a gorgeous hotel that is the economic lifeblood of our little town. Her wrongful arrest for murder earlier in the summer put the lodge in jeopardy, and we’re all grateful things have bounced back.

The festival committee worked hard promoting the event to draw the tourists to Moose Peak, Agatha says. And with Ruth as our fearless leader, things have fallen right into place.

Ruth deflects the compliment with a swish of her hand. It took everyone’s hard work.

That’s our Ruth, always spreading the credit around so everyone feels like a winner. By the throngs of people here, it sure looks like you all succeeded. I gesture to the crowd outside the booth.

Are any of you ladies thinking about entering the bake-off? Agatha inquires.

Not me. I shake my head.

I can’t believe you’re not entering your famous blueberry rhubarb pie, Ruth scolds.

It’s not good enough to win a pie baking contest, I protest.

The Mavens look at each other and then Barb proclaims, Ginny Jomes, your blueberry rhubarb pie is to die for.

Best darn pie I’ve ever had! a deep male voice echoes in the booth behind me.

CHAPTER 2

C onrad! I didn’t expect you to arrive until later this evening. His eyes twinkle with a hint of mystery, and I can’t help but smile.

I caught an earlier flight. After what you said about the Berryfest, I wanted to make sure I had plenty of time to enjoy it.

Mr. Marks, thank you for agreeing to judge the pie bake-off, Ruth shakes his hand. It’s good to see you again.

He takes her hand in both of his, the ends of his bushy white mustache turning up as he smiles. Please, call me Conrad.

Ruth peers past us towards the front of the booth. I hope my nephew Stu gets here soon. He’s a huge fan of your books. Oh, there he is now.

A tall, muscular man with blond hair and blue eyes strides into the booth. He spreads his arms wide. Aunt Ruthiiiieee! He scoops her up in a bear hug, spinning around as she swats at him to let her go. He gives her a smooch on the top of her head before finally setting her down. Ruth stands at five feet, seven inches tall, but next to Stu, she looks tiny.

She beams with pride. Mavens, Conrad, meet my nephew, Stuart Binder—my sister’s boy. He’s a wildlife trooper and has just been transferred here after working out in the Bush for a while.

Glad to meet you. Conrad sticks out his hand. Conrad Marks.

Stu shakes it vigorously. Mr. Marks, I’m a huge fan of your work! And those adventures when you were a US Marshal—incredible.

Just call me Conrad. Say, may I ask you something?

Yes…anything, Stu replies eagerly.

Can I get my hand back?

Stu looks down, his ears flushing red as he realizes he’s still holding on to Conrad’s hand. Uh, sorry about that, sir.

Thank you, son. I’d sure love to hear about what Wildlife Troopers do. Could make for a great character in one of my books.

You want to hear about my work? Stu sounds flabbergasted.

I sure do. Conrad gives him a huge grin. Maybe I can buy you a cup of coffee and we can chat some time?

I’d, yeah, that’d be cool. I’m free right now.

Ladies, Stu and I are off in search of pie. Would you care to join us?

We shake our heads in unison, Thanks for the offer, Conrad, but we Mavens have a beer and wine tasting to get to—we need to get going if we want a good table! I tap at my watch for emphasis.

image-placeholder

Still, I can’t understand why you won’t compete in the baking competition, Barb interjects, sipping on her glass of blueberry wine as we sit at an outside table and bask in the last of the summer sun for the season.

"I’m a volunteer journalist for the Senior Sentinel; it would be unethical for me to submit an article about the competition if I’m also one of the contestants," I reply.

That’s a logical point, Ruth agrees.

At that moment, a loud screech interrupts our conversation. Looking past the fence separating the beer garden from the booth, I see a tall blond woman loudly berating a bald man with tufts of yellowish blond hair around his ears. He looks like a rockhopper penguin in all black clothing. A signet ring on his pinky finger glints in the sunlight. Men with pinky rings always give me creeps.

The woman towers over him as she shrieks. He hunches his shoulders up to his ears to avoid contact with her.

I don’t know what you think, but you are wrong, he stammers.

I know exactly what you are, she hisses. And I’ll kill you before I let you ruin me.

Throwing furtive glances at the couple, several customers hastily put down the objects they were inspecting and evacuate the booth, clearly not wanting to get caught up in their scuffle.

Ma’am, are you alright? Is there some sort of issue here? Neal Stuffings steps between the couple.

Nothing that involves you, she snaps.

Sir, are you bothering— Neal turns to address the man, but he had used the interruption to scoot off and disappear into the crowd.

The woman flings her head back, brushes her hair behind her ears, and strides off before Neal can turn back around to speak with her. He ends up standing alone in his booth, looking dumbfounded in the wake of the explosion.

Rising to my feet, I walk to the small fence separating the beer garden and taxidermy booth. What was that all about?

Darned if I know. All I caught was her screaming at that odd-looking man. But they drove every last customer out of my booth. He sighs, surveying the space now devoid of customers.

Neal’s booth is brightly lit and lined with glass cases displaying stuffed animals of various sizes. In one corner stands a ferocious grizzly bear, its thick golden mahogany-colored fur coat glossy under the lights and its claws are outstretched as though it is still alive, reaching for its prey. A case holds a collection of birds perched on branches. An enormous black raven stands on the trunk of a Sitka spruce tree, poised for flight.

And I was in the middle of a possible sale of Ellie. Neal points to the large raven I was just admiring.

Before I can respond, a young man in his early twenties appears from behind a curtain at the back of the shop. He’s holding a full-face helmet and places it under the display counter.

Neal catches the movement and gestures him over. Ginny Jomes, this is my son Brandon.

Nice to meet you. He waves. His curly brown hair is in a tangle on his head from the helmet. Dad, I’ve got to run out to the restroom. I’ll be right back.

Didn’t you just— Neal starts, but Brandon is already outside the booth, his heavy work boots clomp along the gravel path as he strides quickly in the opposite direction of the bathrooms.

I didn’t know your son was in town, I say.

He’s been away at school, but he’s come home to help me with the taxidermy business, Neal gestures to the sign Stuffings and Son Taxidermy.

That’s nice. Is he home for good?

That’s hard to say. He didn’t do very well last semester. I’m afraid he only passed one class. Neal hangs his head. He still hasn’t gotten over his mother’s death. They were very close. He’s going to take the next semester off and see how it goes. I hope working with me will help him move forward.

It must have been very hard on him to lose his mom. I know Josh was devastated by Mel’s death. I reach out and place a hand on Neal’s arm. How are you doing?

Well, you know… he trails off. Some days I’m fine, and some days I’d like to murder the rodent who killed her. He smacks his fist into his hand.

Startled, I sputter, Oh! I’m, er, I didn’t know—

Neal focuses his attention back on me. No, I didn’t mean— His gaze wanders somewhere over my head and his expression becomes melancholy. My wife had this little restaurant. It was her life’s dream. This food critic blogger wrote a horrible review of the place, an awful hit piece. Business dried up after that. Tears glisten in Neal’s eyes and he looks down at his hands, avoiding my gaze. We had to file for bankruptcy.

My heart aches for him, and I give a comforting squeeze of his arm.

When he finally meets my eyes, his face is etched with pain. We didn’t have any insurance after that and when she began feeling ill, she put off going to the doctor. To save money, you know? His voice wavers as he fights back his tears. Anyway, by the time she went, it was too late. They say it was cancer. He shakes his head as though he disagrees. She died of a broken heart.

It’s very hard to lose a spouse. I miss my Mel every single day. The pain never goes away, it’s true. But it lessens over time.

Thanks, Ginny. Neal wipes his hands on his jeans. I know you understand what we’re going through.

Anyway, enough doom and gloom. I’ve made this new start with my dad’s old business. He gestures to the booth. Ethical taxidermy. I won’t work on any animal that died solely for the sake of bagging a trophy.

Is business going well?

I have to work harder to find jobs since I won’t work for the hunters, he explains. But it’s picking up. And I just got the museum as a client to update some of their dioramas.

That’s wonderful. I glance over my shoulder, back toward the beer garden. Barb and Donna are beckoning me back to the table. I spot Ruth coming back into the beer garden and wonder where she went off to while I was chatting with Neal. I better get going. Good luck. I nod towards the new group of customers entering the booth.

Neal smiles his goodbye before greeting the folks entering his booth.

Everything alright? Donna asks Ruth.

Yes. Some of the volunteers had a shortage of safety vests crisis. All handled. Ruth sits back in her chair.

What was that all about? Ruth inquires, gesturing towards Neal’s booth.

It sounded to me like the woman threatened that man who looks like a rockhopper penguin. I explain.

Do you know who that woman is? Barb stares at me with an expectant look on her face.

Not having a clue, I give her a blank look.

That’s Laura Stone! she says.

The name sounds familiar but doesn’t click.

The perplexed expression on my face prompts Barb to continue. Come on, you know. She’s the pie baking judges Ruth mentioned earlier. Owns the Pie in the Sky restaurant in Anchorage.

Oh. That’s who you were talking about? I crane my neck to look for her, but of course she is long gone.

Who do you think the man is? Donna asks.

I don’t know, I shrug. "But she threatened