The gingerbread man was dead in the lobby.

This was the ultimate surprise in an afternoon of unexpected events. I honestly thought we’d already awarded shock of the year, but by anyone’s account, the demise of Noel Schlessinger topped them all.

Here’s how it went down.

It was a crisp Friday afternoon in mid-November and I was in the Battened Hatch, the Scottish pub attached to the inn misleadingly named MacTavish’s Seaside Cottages Misleading because there is no sea and there are no cottages. There was, however, a MacTavish, scion of the family who’d run the inn for over one hundred years. The inn itself is magnificent and woodsy and one-of-a-kind. It pours out of the hockey-rink-sized lobby in three directions, hallways meandering the hills of Tranquility, New York, an Adirondack town that had twice hosted the Winter Olympics.

Though the cavernous lobby is made of dark wood, light floods it both from skylights and a back wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, which provide a panoramic view of a small lake encircled by old-growth forest. A huge statue of downhill skiers, seemingly whooshing from one of the skylights, bestows upon the lobby a feeling of movement and excitement. Near the statue stood a maroon circular sofa, known in bygone days as a banquette settee. Its center pillar anchored a ring of seats facing outwards, perilously close to the skiers’ path— giving the impression that unwary loungers could easily be whacked by the skiers.

We’ll get back to that settee.

On the far side of the lobby are two doors. One is chrome and glass, usually set wide open, welcoming all comers. It leads into a restaurant named Pepper’s, a cheery, pricy, upscale place that overlooks the lake and caters to the tourist trade.

To the right of this entrance is an undistinguished wooden door. The small, painted pub sign above it features a masted sailing ship cutting through waves above the words That Ship Has Sailed.

Through that door is a dark hallway that smells of wood polish and leather. It is the only working time machine I know of. At least, it functions as one for me, leading back into a past that doesn’t normally exist; a past in which mahogany bars were lined with larger-than-life characters sipping extraordinary concoctions, alcoholic or not, created by the local barkeep and mixologist.

In this case, that would be me.

Those in the know call the pub by its local nickname, The Battened Hatch.

That’s where I stood that autumn afternoon, along with Marta Layton, my assistant manager and bartender-in-training. While teal-colored hair came and went from everyone else’s fashion statements, Marta’s highlights stayed firm.

In front of the bar sat a blonde woman.

She had said hello to me and I answered in kind as she slipped onto a comfortable, cushioned bar chair. As she sat, so did a large gentleman—in his early sixties was my best guess. He had a face with animated features highlighted by male pattern baldness, and the squarest forehead I’d ever seen. He wore a tan jacket. “Hey,” he said, in a way that implied he had now arrived and any other patrons or conversations could wait. “Hey. Gimme a hot chocolate and bourbon.”

As he spoke, the door from the kitchen swung open behind me and Stormie Edwards, Chef Angelica Dormer’s sous chef, bounced through. “Avalon!” she said, “Have you heard who’s here—”

Stormie’s eyes landed on the woman in front of me and she screeched to a halt. “Um,” she pivoted, “the first contestant has arrived. For the gingerbread house competition. It’s real, and it’s happening!”

As she turned back around, she gave a silent scream which could be seen only by Marta and myself. It was clearly referencing said woman.

“When does the competition begin?” I asked, partly to help bolster her flimsy cover story, partly to torture her by not allowing her to escape her proximity to the actor whose fame had her hobbled, partly to postpone my own interaction with said movie star.

“The contestants arrive today and tomorrow. Filming starts on Saturday night.”

“Filming?”

“Well, technically ‘digitally recording’ for the network. Yes, it’s not like the National Gingerbread Competition at the Grove Park Inn in North Carolina. There, anyone can enter and the gingerbread creations arrive fully built. Ours only has half a dozen pre-selected competitors, and they have to put the structures together here. They also have to incorporate some gingerbread they’ve cooked here on site. It’s all being filmed—recorded–for the Delicious Network.”

“They have to cook here? Where?”

Stormie nodded back toward the door she’d just come through.

“Angelica’s kitchen?” I asked. “Strangers cooking in Chef Angelica’s kitchen?”

“That’s why it’s a good thing she’s away at the Brewster Competition, isn’t it?”

“Chef doesn’t know?”

“The local health inspector has signed off on it,” she said quietly. “They’ll use it in one-hour segments, overnight on Saturday. It will be pristine by Sunday morning.”

As I continued to stare at her, she protested, “Mr. MacTavish is thrilled, you know that. Think of all the publicity it’s bringing! And the hotel rooms will be full of contestants and television crew.”

“This was your doing?” Truthfully, it was pretty impressive. And, as she said, Chef Angelica was away. I wondered sometimes if Sous Chef Stormie was a better fit at Pepper’s than Chef Angelica. Did Stormie sometimes wonder that, too?

“That’s why I’m here, Missy,” said Mr. Hot-Chocolate-and-Bourbon. “I love to follow gingerbread competitions this time of year. They’re so creative—and I love the drinks that come with them!”

I turned back around to the patron who had dared rename me Missy.

Okay, okay, yes. I was aware there was a Welcome to Gingerbread Land banner outside, and cards with the times of events and listings of gingerbread-themed drinks.[Sd1]

Which didn’t mean I was ready for it to begin. I knew the contest had to be over before Thanksgiving so the houses could be on display starting Black Friday and running through the holiday season as a tourist draw.

That didn’t mean I had hot chocolate at the ready. In my mind, that came after Thanksgiving, as we entered the Christmas/ski season. They weren’t really planning to get this competition edited and running before Christmas, were they?

“You follow gingerbread competitions?” I asked my patron.

“Yes, indeed. I’m proudly known as the Gingerbread Man in some circles.”

“How are you known in other circles?” I asked.

“Noel. Noel Schlessinger.” I could detect a Long Island childhood in his accent. He reached out a beefy hand and gave mine a strong shake.

As we’d been discussing the cooking competition, staff and guests from around the hotel had been peeking in to get a gander at our famous guest, quietly seated next to Mr. Gingerbread. Some of them nonchalantly found tables, others just piled into each other, Keystone-Cop style, at the end of the entry hall.

“Can you go into the kitchen and see what the hot chocolate situation is?” I asked Marta.

“Mom?” she whispered, referencing my earlier address of the celebrity seated before us. “You said, ‘Hi, Mom?’”

I hoped she hadn’t heard, or noticed, my shocked greeting. I’d hoped–and continued acting as if—no one did. Apparently, I was not so lucky.

I turned her around and shoved her through the swinging kitchen door.

“Coming right up,” I said to Noel.

Then, with no further excuses for stalling, I turned to the A-list actor before me.

“Can I get you a drink?” I asked. “Or would you like to go somewhere and talk?”

“Sure,” she said. “The second one.”

“Back this way,” I said.

She stood and Noel Schlessinger realized for the first time who he’d been seated next to. His jaw dropped. He sputtered, trying to talk, reaching out, but she was already beyond his grasp.

I led the way to the back wood-paneled hall. Did I mention I was wearing a cast? It was a walking cast and I told myself I was good at walking in it, but still, if you were trying to nonchalantly stride somewhere, it added its challenges.

I hobbled as quickly as I could.

Across from the restrooms was the bar’s storeroom. No one had followed us—yet. Everyone in the bar was surely thinking of a reason they had to use the restroom. We had approximately ten seconds to disappear, by my reckoning.

I unlocked the storeroom door and we bolted inside, shutting and relocking it behind us. Not turning on the lights, I led us towards the back of the room, to keep our voices out of earshot. The storeroom is large, with two rows of shelving in the middle and a heavier version against one wall. A refrigerated unit nestles across the other.

The room smelled faintly of fake lavender from a floor-cleaning product. There is no back window to allow in sunbeams and dust, only semi-darkness softened by the green letters of the exit sign and a light-sensitive nightlight I plugged in for occasions such as this.

In fact, I’ve had so many private conversations in the storeroom that in that moment, I decided to get a couple of chairs, a lamp and a tufted rug. Beige, probably.

Dear God, I was thinking anything not to have to deal with the chiseled perfection in front of me.

“Avalon, what happened?” she nodded to the cast.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Anna Nash. “What happened?”

We looked at each other. I remembered almost dying once and being sorry I hadn’t made things right with her. I was so brimming with emotions—every single one ever invented—that their only escape route was a single tear, a warm streak down my cheek.

“I jumped off a building,” I said. “It was on fire.”

She pulled me to her. I didn’t have the strength to fight her embrace. Even though I was in my late twenties, fitting into the space of my mother’s arms, the familiar scent, the soft warmth of her sweater, the safety and danger promised there, I wept.

I am not an emotional person. I’ve been through a heck of a lot without losing my cool. Ask Mike Spaulding of the state police.

Mom always makes me lose my cool.[Sd2]

“Can you tell me what this is about?” she asked, referencing my outburst.

I shook my head. “Too much to go into.”

She nodded. We moved to stand in the back corner by the nightlight so we could see each other. She wore jeans and a beige sweater. Her natural blonde hair was a shade lighter than mine, brushing against her shoulders, molding her into a Nordic warrior. She worked out faithfully—she had to, it was part of the job. Her muscles were honed but not sharp. She wasn’t tiny and elfin, she was statuesque, five eight, maybe? I’d never asked. But she gave off an aura which made her seem larger than life.

There is a ditty amongst the Nordic sisterhood which starts:

I am my mother’s savage daughter,

The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.

I am my mother’s savage daughter,

I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.

Those lyrics alone bring me strength in difficult situations. The thing is, there is nothing savage about my mother. She is kind. She is brilliant and brilliantly talented. She is funny, compassionate, willing to wade in to help in any given situation.

She is perfect.

Which makes it impossible to be furious with her, as, by definition, the problem has to be someone else’s. Problems are for imperfect people.

Like me.

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hands.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together at your mormor’s funeral,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about, to do with changes in the family. Is there a time that would be good? After work, maybe?”

“I’m not closing tonight. I’ve promised to work a show at a local art gallery.”

“After that? What time will you be done?”

“The show is seven to nine. I’ll likely be done by nine-thirty. Is that too late? Will you still be here?”

“I’m here to talk to you,” she said.

I knew what I should say next. I should offer her the guest room in my cottage. I should invite her into my life. The life I’d worked so hard to build here. The life where I was Avalon Nash, bartender and friend, not Avalon Nash, daughter of Anna Fucking Nash.

Not inviting her was quite obviously keeping her at arm’s length. Worse, it amounted to throwing her to the public and the adoring fans.

“Do you have a place to stay?” I finally said.

“Yes. I have a room reservation here. I’m checking in under Anna Karenina,” she smiled. She loved to borrow the monikers of famous Annas when she stayed in hotels. “But you have my number. We can text.”

“I do,” I said. “Will you be all right? People seem to have discovered you. Rise O’Connor was just here,” I said, referencing a childhood friend who was now a well-known actor. “He had some challenges with people stalking him.”

“Rise, really? How is the kid?”

“Complicated. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Okay. And don’t worry. I can handle myself. When you act normal, people usually settle down.”

Good luck with that, I thought.

“Text me when you’re done,” she said. “Quaint town. Think I’ll look around.”

“Okay. But Mom, be careful.”

“I promise.”

“Should I see if the coast is clear?” I asked, heading for the door.

“Naw. It’s usually best to walk through and be gone before they realize you’re there.”

She put her hand on the doorknob. We nodded to each other. She opened it, stepped out – head high, smile on her face – and walked resolutely toward the exit door to the pub.

It worked. Everyone she passed stopped, as if turned to stone in her wake. And then she was gone.

Marta was at the bar, overseeing the influx of drink orders. I stepped back to help her.

“Mom?” she said again. “Hi, Mom?”

“Now you know,” I said.

The next few hours flew by, as orders continued even though the unexpected guest had departed.

Things finally quieted down just before supper time, which was when Sous Chef Stormie reappeared from the kitchen behind me. She pulled me back away from the bar.

“I think we have a situation,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Mr. Schlessinger, the guy who was sitting here, who called himself the Gingerbread Man? I saw him sitting in the lobby and I went to sit next to him to ask if he would enjoy being interviewed for the Delicious Network show.”

“And?”

“He wouldn’t answer me.”

“Did he say maybe?”

“No, I mean, not at all. I think…I think he’s dead.”

I THINK WE HAVE A SITUATION

Ingredients

Cocktail (batch recipe)

3 qt saucepan

6 cups of milk of your choice (preferably whole milk)

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 tablespoon of honey

1 vanilla bean

6 oz Bourbon (your choice); set aside

Raw honeycomb or fresh loose honey for garnish

4 Cocktail Mugs

Whipped crème

1 large mixing bowl

3 cups of heavy whipping crème

3 tablespoons of loose honey

Remainder of vanilla bean seeds

Method

Hot Chocolate

Add milk to sauce pan and stir until you have a gentle boil, continue stirring while adding the honey and semi-sweet chocolate chips. Slice vanilla bean down the center and scrape half of the seeds out and put into milk mixture in saucepan. Retain the rest for whipped crème. Continue to stir until all ingredients are mixed and then turn the heat down to low and let simmer for about 5 minutes stirring occasionally. Turn hot chocolate mixture off.

Whipped cream

Add all ingredients to large mixing bowl and whip (by hand or blender) until you havesoft fluffy peaks.

Cocktail

Add 1 1⁄2 oz of Bourbon to each cocktail mug, ladle hot chocolate mixture into each mug, leaving a space at the top for whipped cream. Add a few nice large dollops of whipped cream to top of hot chocolate bourbon mixture and finish with a small piece of fresh honeycomb or drizzle some fresh lose honey on top of crème.

Keep reading on Kindle! https://www.amazon.com/Death-Fine-Art-Mystery-Bartenders-ebook/dp/B0DRW9GRL2/ref=sr_1_1? crid=174RFR1VMDQBZ&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6yH2Znw05GgQu4585cIuzkWSRBfhkmQXmv50tUkaqJ1jYuCP8kfZ-rqe-Xfty0Lh.h9lSCDi9ZitIlGxtc4t0fqXFAr5ulCXoleVBksVN9sU&dib_tag=se&keywords=death+as+a+fine+art+linnea&qid=1736375561&sprefix=%2Caps%2C145&sr=8-1

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Sharon Linnéa is the author of the bestselling Eden Thrillers, Chasing Eden, Beyond Eden, Treasure of Eden and Plagues of Eden with Army Chaplain (Col) B.K.Sherer. She has written award-winning biographies of Raoul Wallenberg, the young Swedish architect who saved over 150,000 Jews in World War II and of Hawaii’s Princess Kaiulani. She started the Bartender’s Guide to Murder series after falling in love with the Olympic mountain town of Lake Placid, New York.

Jamielynn Brydalski is an internationally award-winning mixologist. She travels the world but met Sharon while bartending in Lake Placid, New York. More than 20 of her recipes are featured in the book.