CHRISTMAS CANAPÉS & SABOTAGE

Part 1

Experiencing how it felt to be an arctic explorer wasn't on Amy's to-do list for the day...or her lifetime. She shoved her hands farther into her coat pockets and decided to distract herself from thoughts of being stranded on an iceberg by studying the Christmas tree standing between the registration tables as she waited in the slow-moving line. The branches were tipped with cut crystal teardrops and spires that sparkled and bobbed every time the front door of Halo Restaurant opened. Frosty blue and matte silver ball ornaments were nestled on the branches. Tiny twinkling lights and a garland made of downy, white feathers completed the decorations. She dubbed the style North Pole Chic, and it would look perfect in her living room.

She scooted forward as the line shifted, happy to be a little farther away from the door. The line of contestants now stretched outside, and the front doors of the restaurant were mostly being held open by the half-frozen crowd. The wind, which had earned a dangerous wind chill warning from the National Weather Service, was free to torture the people crammed into the entryway. It ruffled the messy, loose curls that she had hoped would fare well in the wind. Her husband said she looked like a blonde angel before she left. He knew how to get on her good side. There would definitely be snow for Christmas—something that didn't always happen in southern Michigan—but it didn't need to be so cold in order for the white stuff to stick around for a few more weeks. The fabulously decorated tree had been studied and committed to memory, so Amy was more than ready to get through the check-in process and take shelter in what would hopefully be the warm interior of the restaurant. Trying to eat while wearing a heavy winter coat and mittens was about as practical as wearing sunglasses at night.

A woman wearing a bulky cabled Fisherman's sweater tried to smile at Amy from her seat behind one of the registration tables. It looked more like she was gritting her teeth in frozen agony. "Name and division please."

"Amy Ridley. Amateur division."

A grunt that sounded like an Abominable Snowman mating call came from somewhere behind her. She turned to find the perennially pissed off Rayshelle Applebee smirking at her. Amy hadn't seen her for a few months, and for that she was grateful. Rayshelle's special variety of unpleasantness tended to linger long after encounters with her were over. Her hairstyles were difficult to forget, too. The skunk stripe hair color scheme that she'd sported at the Kellerton Summer Festival had been replaced by a red hue that made a holly berry look pale and washed out. Amy had been a hairstylist for twelve years before leaving the profession to concentrate on cooking competitions. Finding the perfect variety of honey to add to a cake recipe had replaced finding the perfect shade of honey blonde for a picky client, and she couldn't be happier.

"You are not an amateur." Rayshelle waggled her pointer finger back and forth. "Go to the professional division where you belong, and leave us real amateurs alone."

The gaze of the woman behind the registration table ping-ponged between Rayshelle and Amy. She wrinkled her nose and asked, "Do you own or work for a restaurant, bakery, or catering company?"

"No."

"Then you're in the correct division."

Rayshelle huffed and grumbled as the second woman checking in contestants shuffled through a stack of envelopes. She pulled one out and handed it to Amy. "Welcome, Ms. Ridley. This is your copy of the contest rules, along with the numbers that need to be affixed to your sample boxes, which you can pick up when you leave. They'll be on a table near the exit doors. Please go into the restaurant and find a seat. Enjoy."

"Break a leg. Literally," Rayshelle said as Amy maneuvered around the table. Word play? Not the usual, straight-to-the-point insults that Rayshelle often lobbed at people.