Four Fatal Flying Fruitcakes

By Carolyn L. Dean

Not everyone loves Christmas fruitcake but, then again, not everyone was killed by one, either.

In the picturesque town of Ravenwood Cove, the Christmas festival is a sparkling affair of lights, laughter, and the aroma of holiday treats. But when a flying fruitcake fatally strikes a man amidst the festivities, the cheer turns to shock. Was it just a tragic mishap, or was this confectionary conundrum an act of cold-blooded murder?

Dive into a cozy yuletide mystery, where secrets are wrapped tighter than gifts under the tree!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freeform Publishing
• Release date: Mar 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224222193

Book preview

Four Fatal Flying Fruitcakes:

A Ravenwood Cove Mystery

By Carolyn L. Dean

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Four Fatal Flying Fruitcakes is copyright 2023 by Carolyn L. Dean. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Thursday morning

Chapter 2 – Friday

Chapter 3 – Saturday morning

Chapter 4 – Saturday early afternoon

Chapter 5 – Saturday late afternoon

Chapter 6 – Saturday later afternoon

Chapter 7 – Sunday morning

Chapter 8 – Sunday afternoon

Chapter 9 – Sunday late afternoon

Chapter 10 – Sunday late afternoon (still)

Chapter 11 – Sunday evening

Chapter 12 – early Monday morning

Chapter 13 – Monday morning

Chapter 14 – Monday

Chapter 15 – Monday noon

Chapter 16 – Monday afternoon

Chapter 17 – Tuesday morning

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

THANK YOU

MERRY MISCHIEF and MAYHEM: Chapter 1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR - Carolyn L. Dean - USA Today Bestseller

Chapter 1 – Thursday morning

"Y ou’re going to do what at the Christmas festival?"

I’m going to kill some fruitcakes, and I’m going to enjoy doing it. Amanda Landon smiled smugly across the coffeeshop’s table at her friend, Lisa. She was staring back at Amanda with wide, serious eyes.

Excuse me?

Come on, Lisa, you know how I feel about fruitcake, Amanda said as a tiny smile played around the corners of her mouth. All that work to make ‘em, and they’re terrible. She gave a melodramatic shudder. My mom used to torture me with her version every Christmas. It was always this dense, smelly doorstop of a cake no one actually wanted to eat. She used to make it with chunks of pretend fruit in it. You know, those colorful, plastic-looking things which might have been fruit sometime in the distant past. Or recycled Legos, maybe.

Mrs. Granger, Amanda’s ancient friend, was sitting at the table, perched on the plastic seat of her metal walker and working her way through an enormous cinnamon roll as she pretended not to hear the conversation in front of her. The old lady’s ability to eavesdrop and pretend deafness or senility had given her a well-deserved reputation for knowing everything that happened around Ravenwood Cove. Her granddaughter Meg was standing behind her and facing toward the bustling coffeeshop’s doorway in case someone new came in and wanted their morning caffeine. She was wearing a confused expression and an apron with the word CUPPA embroidered in swirling letters across the bib. 

Okay, I don’t like fruitcake either, Meg admitted, but you’re going to have people... throw them?

Amanda shook her head. Not exactly. Well, kind of. Have you ever seen those YouTube videos of people flinging pumpkins? You know, the ones where the guy who throws it the farthest gets a prize?

Punkin’ chucking? Meg said. Isn’t that what’s called, where they use those big crane-like things?

She got a nod in return. This is going to be kind of like that, just not big at all. I’m not wanting people to throw them too far. When I started thinking about fruitcakes, I set up the competition so people could throw the cakes themselves, kind of like a shot putt. When I told James about it the other night, he brought up the idea of another event, if people want to try throwing them a bit further.

Meg’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion again. What sort of further are we talking about?

Before Amanda could open her mouth to reply, Lisa leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. James brought it up, huh? If I didn’t know better, Amanda, it sounds like you and your detective hubby want the people of Ravenwood Cove to build catapults or trebuchets or slingshots or such.

Welllll, Amanda drawled, looking a little bit guilty, not the big ones. We just thought it would be fun to have something smaller. James and George measured everything out at the town square to be sure we’ll have enough room, and anyone who’s bringing some sort of ... machine... to throw fruitcakes has to have it checked for safety. They have to test it out in front of one of the police force and get it approved as being safe to use at the festival. James said they’ve got at least four people who want him or an officer to come by tomorrow and okay what they’re bringing to the festival on Saturday.

To Amanda’s surprise, Meg clapped her hands together and gave a little shimmy of excitement. "Oh, this sounds like fun! I’ve never heard of anyone doing something like that before. A fruitcake fling. Just think: Ravenwood Cove will be the first! I hope it’s a huge hit!"

Lisa leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. Yeah, I hope so, too. This Christmas festival is in two days and after the one last year, we need a great event this time. That last one, with the Santa competition, was a disaster. A total disaster.

That’s not fair, Amanda said, then pressed her lips together firmly and shook her head. Dozens of people dressed up like Santa to compete. It wasn’t really a disaster. The event went just fine. Everyone got to go through their paces as Santas and no one got hurt.

Mrs. Granger cleared her throat. And Grace TwoHorses won the whole kit and kaboodle, she piped up helpfully as she smacked her lips to clear away any bits of her breakfast sticking to her dentures. I loved that part. All those dozens of guys dressed in Santa costumes, going through their paces tossing gifts and doing obstacle courses, and Grace kicked their backsides. That gal deserved to win.

Okay, let’s be honest. It wasn’t actually the Santa competition that was the problem, was it? Meg said, rolling her gaze back over to Amanda. Maybe it was that whole armed-bank-robber-in-a-Santa-suit thing, and the fact he wound up dead as a lump of coal at the same time the festival was running.

Yeah, that’s not exactly good press, Lisa commented as she folded the last few crumbs of her now-devoured raspberry scone in her napkin and nodded in agreement. People had come here for a holiday in a quaint beach town, and they got a murder. I hated printing it in the paper, but I had to. It wasn’t the festival itself that was the problem, but people do remember what they read in the newspaper and online, no matter how factual I try to be. You can’t deny that having as many murders as we’ve had here in Ravenwood Cove has impacted people’s impression of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if it made them think twice about whether to stay here and visit the beach or not.

Amanda was just about to offer up a rebuttal when Mrs. Granger gave a loud huff of irritation. Poppycock! There are people who come to Ravenwood Cove just because of the number of murders we’ve had in the news. She looked at Amanda. You’ve even called them ‘murder tourists’ when you told me about them, haven’t you?

It felt a bit like an accusation, but it was the truth. Every once in a while, a guest at Amanda’s bed-and-breakfast would admit they were in town to learn more about some crime they’d heard of, or to write a tell-all true crime book. It wasn’t anything Amanda liked or even understood, but as long as the guests paid their bills, followed the laws, and didn’t annoy too many people, she was fine with them gawking at sights around town and spending their money in the local shops.

Okay, so maybe some people showed up to find out why we’ve had so many killers here, but this new Christmas event isn’t going to have anything to do with that. What’s in the past is in the past, she said firmly. Last year’s festival was a Santa competition, to see who could be the best Santa ever. This year is nothing like that.

Meg raised one blonde