Christmas Fruitcake (Story) (Patreon)

I wanted to get this done by Christmas, but I got a little sidetracked with novel edits. Then stuff related to Christmas took up my time. I wrote the first draft of this last year, and it was a very different piece then. I wasn't happy with that version, so this received extensive rewrites before the version you see here came about. Initially, this was called "Before the Jazz" and dealt with a speakeasy, but during editing, it turned into a Christmas story when the fruitcake part was added. Hopefully you enjoy it.

“Why are you giving me these horsefeathers, Zachary? Do you want us both to get arrested?” Charlotte growled.

The fossa across from her shifted his weight uncomfortably. It was often hot in the office of the 7thStreet Bakery, even in winter, because it was located behind the ovens. Charlotte also didn’t open the windows for conversations like this, but the heat wasn’t what was making Zachary uncomfortable; the badger’s glower had that effect on people.

“I took precautions,” the fossa said, his long tail wrapping around the base of the chair.

The badger sighed and ran her handpaw over her face. All this started because she wasn’t going to make bad fruitcake, and now here she was with orders stacking up, unable to get the materials she needed. “First, you can’t get the liquor I ordered, and now you’re having it sent straight here via train with my name on it. The station agent is going to take one look at that and call the police.”

“I didn’t put your name on the crates.” The fossa held up a slip of paper. “You just need to send someone to pick it up and have them pass this over to the agent.” He handed over the slip of paper to her, then checked his pocket watch. “If the 4 o’clock train came in on time, it’s already here.”

Charlotte looked over the invoice. “It says 7th Street Bakery on this.”

The fossa smiled sheepishly. “I need to put something on it.”

“Plausible deniability, Zachary. I thought you were smarter than this. What happened to sending the goods by car?”

“Someone keeps nicking my shipments and tipping off the cops about them. I needed to get creative to keep them from intercepting this.”

The badger spread her paws out. “And that’s my problem how? It’s ten days till Christmas, and I’ve got orders to fill I can’t make.”

“I realize that, but someone is trying to put the squeeze on me.”

“Who?”

Zachary sighed. “I have no clue. That’s the problem.”

“So, what do you expect me to do here?”

“Pick up the shipment?”

Charlotte glared at Zachary. “I paid for you to bring it here.”

“Look, if you’ve got someone else who can sell you quality liquor, get them to ship it to you. At this rate, I’m not going to be in business much longer.”

The badger sat back and drummed her fingers on her desk. “Both crates are on the train?”

“They’re supposed to be.”

She pulled open her desk and pulled out a small evening bag. “You know, I really like baking, and that’s how I prefer to get my hands dirty, right?”

The fossa nodded. “Your fruitcakes are legendary in this town.”

She smiled. “It’s the alcohol,” she sighed. “You can’t make a fruitcake and rum cookies without liquor, but prohibition had to go and mess that up.” Charlotte picked up the evening bag and stood up. “Come on, let’s go to the station.”

“You don’t need me,” said the fossa.

“I paid you to ship it to me, and my bakery assistants have already gone home for the day. The least you can do is help me carry the crates in. Plus, I ain’t letting you stiff me on this. I need that liquor to start baking for Christmas.”

#

Charlotte’s Model T runabout sat out back behind the bakery parked next to a snowdrift. The small trunk of the two-seat car had been replaced with a large wooden box for holding deliveries with the name of the bakery painted on the side. Zachary took one look at the lettering and frowned. “This is not very discreet.”

“Not at all, but it’s not like I have another runabout just sitting around for committing malefactions and rum-running,” remarked the badger.

The fossa just grumbled and got into the T. Charlotte shook her head and climbed in. She checked her brake and adjusted the spark and throttle before she stepped on the ignition button built into the floor. The motor turned over and quickly roared to life. After adjusting the spark, she released the handbrake to put the car in gear.

The car puttered down the alleyway out onto the street. At the end of the road, she took Water St. to follow the river. Even though it was cold out, Zachary leaned to the side so he could catch some of the wind on his face fur as the car rolled down the road. Charlotte opened up the throttle and shifted the car into high gear as it bounced down the street to give him a stronger breeze.

The station sat just outside of the downtown part of Winthrop. When they’d built the depot forty years ago, it had been out of town a ways, but already the city had grown to meet it. Charlotte pulled into a spot in front of the station next to the baggage area and a few spots away from another Model T. This one had two rows of seats and the words “State Police” painted on the side of the door.

Charlotte didn’t immediately turn off the engine and looked at the car. “So, any idea on why they’re here?”

Zachary stared at the car. “It’s a coincidence.”

“Uh-huh. And are you sure they’re not here for the shipment?”

“We don’t know why now…” He glanced toward two officers walking out the door of the baggage area carrying a wooden crate. “Back up slowly,” Zachary whispered, slinking down in his seat.

Charlotte didn’t remark, just shifted the Model T into reverse, and checked for traffic. A Chevrolet Superior went by, and she then slowly backed onto the street as the police officers, a wolf and a raccoon, loaded the crate into the back of their car. As they pulled out, the fossa glanced out the rear window, trying to get a good look at the car.

“I thought so,” he snarled, his long tail lashing behind him. “Make the block.”

“What!” said Charlotte. “You want to get arrested?”

“Those aren’t cops. I know that wolf. He works for the boss down in Hitchens.”

The badger let the Model T come to a stop at the next intersection and looked at the fossa. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She stuck her left hand straight out and then took a left, bumping down the road, claws digging into the wheel. “You realize this has risks,” she remarked.

“I’m not the one making illicit breads. If you want to keep doing that, we need to find out what’s going on, otherwise, you are going to need to go buy from someone else.”

She shifted the car into high gear. “Fine,” she growled, “but let’s not be dumb about this. There’s a double-barrel derringer in my purse,” she said, pulling it out from her side of the bench seat and dropping it in the middle.

“I appreciate your concern for safety, but I’ve got a revolver on me,” said the fossa, loosening his jacket.

“I should have just given up on making good fruitcake,” she muttered, making another left.

The fossa put his hand to his chest. “You’re just a modern suffragette looking to make her mark in the world.”

“Don’t make me push you out of the car, Zachary,” the badger said in a low rumble.

He laughed. “That might be the best solution.”

They took the next two turns in silence before they came back to the station. By then, the police vehicle was already leaving. Charlotte waited for them to pull out and then tailed the other Model T, trying to let them get ahead. The car took a right and headed into the part of town away from downtown.

“So, who did you piss off?” Charlotte asked.

The fossa scratched at an ear. “Not sure. There were a few poker games where I took some people’s money, but that’s just how the game goes sometimes. I was doing well, and it’s possible someone wants to muscle in on my turf.”

They were now coming to the outskirts of town, and the police vehicle was heading out into the country. Charlotte pulled off to the side.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“They’ll notice if we follow them from here.”

“Maybe, but they’re going to get away.”

“No they won’t. There’s nothing down that road but some houses and the old cotton mill. Unless they’re going to drive through someone’s field, there’s no place they can go. The road ends at Fall Brook, where the bridge washed out last year. The city is still trying to get it replaced.”

The fossa scratched at an ear in contemplation. “Who owns the mill?”

“I don’t know. It’s been shuttered since before the war.”

“Well, we’ll have to go check it out.”

Charlotte looked at Zachary. “Can’t I just wait for you?”

“What do you expect me to do? Drag the liquor down the street?”

“They’re not going to just give it to you.”

“No, but I’m certainly not getting it by myself.”

She sighed and shifted the Model T back into drive. “Why am I doing this for you again and not asking for a refund?”

He shrugged. “I imagine it’s the same reason you carry a derringer in your purse.”

She frowned. Maybe there was a part of her that wanted the traditional confines of life, but she saw an opportunity with her bakery, and she was seizing it. Since the end of the Great War, it was a new era in America, and she was not about ready to let it go.

“So, is there a way to get my shipment back?”

“I believe so, but we need to be smart about this. I’ve got a plan.”

#

The cotton mill sat a ways out of town. It had been built back in the 1850s to take advantage of the drop in elevation of Fall Brook, letting the landowner set up a mill running on hydropower. While it had run for a number of years, the creek never had enough power to support a large operation, and it had folded long before the war, the factory being stripped of all usable equipment. The building had sat vacant since then.

They drove past the mill first, noticing the car sitting outside. It had been parked so one couldn’t see the words on the side of the car from the road. They went down to where the bridge used to be. Charlotte turned around the Model T and parked.

“I’ll start back up the road in fifteen minutes,” she said, checking her wristwatch.

Zachary pulled out his pocket watch and made a note of the time. “If my guess is right, they’ll have left the crates in the back of the car.”

“And if they’re not?”

“I’m out for the long count, and you’re going to have to make your fruitcake with bathtub gin.”

Charlotte made a gagging sound. “Good point, but please try not to do something stupid.”

He climbed out of the car and smiled. “At this point, that might be all I’ve got. If you don’t see me at the copse of trees after the mill with the product, keep driving.” With that, the fossa took off, jogging up the road toward the mill. Charlotte shook her head and waited. Maybe she should just give up on fruitcake, but it was good, and the alcohol helped bring it together. It wasn’t like you could get fresh fruit during Christmas anyway.

When fifteen minutes passed, she started the Model T back up and headed up the road. After a few turns, the old mill came back into view. The car was still there, and Zachary was there too, but he was lying in the middle of the road in front of the mill.

Charlotte swore and closed the throttle and retarded the spark so the car slowed down enough that she could use the brake. Zachary was lying face down in the middle of the road fifteen feet in front of her, his hands and feet tied up.

She balled up her fists against the wheel, feeling the claws dig into her pads. Then Charlotte reached down and pulled the handbrake before she got up. She left the motor running, in case she had enough time to attempt an escape. The badger then got out with her purse.

“Hello?” she called out. They had to be somewhere, and she was right. The wolf she’d seen at the train station appeared from around the car. “There’s someone in the road, and I think they’re hurt,” Charlotte said.

The wolf frowned and walked toward her. “What’s a dame like you doing out here?”

Well, that was strike one in Charlotte’s book. “Oh, just going for a drive.”

The man looked around. “Where’s your husband?”

Strike two thought Charlotte, tightening her grip on her clutch. “I drove myself.”

The wolf was coming toward her, but he stopped, looking at the car. “Wait, you with the bakery on 7thStreet?” he said cautiously.

Two strikes would have to be it for today. He was about ten feet away and appeared to be unarmed. He probably wasn’t. The wolf was taller than her, but she was stockier. She sprang at him quickly, pushing off and dropping her shoulder to slam herself straight into him. He was about her weight, but she had a lower center of gravity, and both she and the thug went down.

They scrambled across the ground, but she rolled away, still holding the clutch. Before the wolf was on his feet and pulled his gun, she had the purse out in front of her with her hand in it. “Oh no you don’t,” she said and shook her hand. The clutch fell to the ground, but the derringer she’d had in it didn’t.

“Whoa whoa… let’s not get hasty, lady,” said the wolf, glancing at the gun.

“I believe you have two crates that belong to me.”

There was a clicking sound behind her. “I was wondering who was following us, and now I know. So, you’re the buyer.”

Shit, there were two of them, weren’t there? She turned. The raccoon stood there holding a shotgun. He’d been behind the car watching. “I am,” said Charlotte.

“There’s no need to resort to violence here,” said the raccoon. “I’ll be happy to sell you the hooch.”

“I already paid your friend over there,” she said, pointing a thumb toward Zachary.

“He ain’t in business no more.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“He thinks he’s smart and stuff, but this is our turf now.”

How bad was the fruitcake going to be if she used the bathtub gin? That stuff was barely palatable as alcohol, and she didn’t want her cake to taste like that garbage you could order in the catalogs, but she wasn’t getting anything right now. “Then I best be going,” she said, lowering the gun.

“See, that’s easy,” said the raccoon lowering the gun. “Now, about the price.”

“Find someone else to buy,” said the badger.

“You don’t want the liquor?” he said, surprised.

“Not from you.”

The raccoon gave her a look. “So, I’m not good enough to buy from, but that Joe Zilch out there lying in the dirt is?”

“I ain’t double paying,” remarked Charlotte. She reached down and picked up her bag, dusting the snow off. “You can find another mark for that.”

They looked at her, and she looked back at them.

“You’re some tough dame,” said the wolf.

There was strike three. She should have ripped his suit when she tackled him. “I’m taking Zachary with me,” she said, turning around and starting back towards the road.

“Who said you could leave?” asked the raccoon.

She didn’t bother to turn around. “I did. There’s no point in making a deal with you.”

They didn’t say anything but watched her trudge back over to the road. Zachary was looking at her where he was lying, gagged with his hands and feet tied. She knelt down and loosened the gag so he could spit it out. “They’re staring at you,” he whispered.

“Let them. Also, you got a real shiner there.”

“Eh, it’s what I get for being smart. Nice tackle, by the way.”

She shrugged and undid the bindings. “He doesn’t know how to talk to a lady, so I gave him a piece of my mind.”

Zachary got up and started knocking snow off his clothes. Charlotte walked back to the T and got in. She waited, and the fossa got back in, and she shifted the car into gear.

“Are we leaving empty-handed?”

“Do you want to get shot for fruitcake? I sure as hell don’t want to.”

“No…”

She glared at him and opened the throttle up on the Model T. “So let me repeat a question from earlier. Who did you piss off?”

The fossa sighed. “They were shortchanging me, so I kept some cash for myself to cover what they owed me.”

Charlotte let up on the gas and let the car slow down naturally. “You’ve been skimming, haven’t you?”

“It was only for a few sawbucks. They blew it out of proportion. I only did it after people underpaid me.”

She growled. “You are as dense as a fruitcake if you think you could do that, and no one would notice.”

He sighed. “Rent was due, and I needed money. Now I’m broke and ain’t even got a wooden nickel to my name.”

“Yeah, well now I can’t fill my orders for Christmas,” she snarled. “I’m going to be short money myself.”

They’d reached the town again, and Zachary made a motion. “Just pull over and drop me off,” he said. “I can walk. I can save you the bother of having me around.”

Charlotte pulled the car to the side of the road. “You think that makes it better?”

He shook his head and opened the door. “No, but I won’t darken your mood with my presence. We both have people we owe things to we can’t deliver, so it’s best I go figure out how I’m going to make this work.”

He started to get out, and she put her hand on his shoulder. “Look, we all got problems, but I’ve got a solution. You any good in the kitchen?”

He looked at her in the fading light. “I used to help me mum. Why?”

“Close the door.” The fossa complied, and Charlotte put the car in gear. “I’m in need of a baker’s assistant tonight. I can give you a few bucks for your trouble.”

“I can help.”

“Good. Let’s go bake some fruitcake.”

Zachary looked at her, confused. “I thought your recipe called for liquor.”

She grinned. “It does.”

#

It took a couple hours, but Charlotte baked her fruitcake without the liquor. The results were awful. Absolutely awful. Without the booze, it came out tasteless. She’d compensated for the lack of liquid by adding water, but the resulting cake still tasted dry to the badger. A lot of the flavor had been lost since the dried fruit hadn’t been soaked in alcohol.

It was already getting late when the resulting bread was ready. With the first step of her plan completed, she had Zachary wrap the fruitcakes while she wrote two short notes.

“Why are you delivering this to people if it’s not any good,” the fossa asked, once they’d loaded the car up.

“It’s only for a few people,” she said as she got in the car. Zachary climbed into the other side. The T didn’t want to start immediately since the temperature had dropped, but she got the car going. It was late now, and she’d normally be turning in for the night to get up early to start the baking. Even people who didn’t have to be up early were curled up at home now, but Charlotte had a destination in mind. When the police station came into view, she pulled up and parked the car out front.

“Time now for stop number one,” she said, turning off the car and getting out.

Zachary gave her a look as his ears gave a nervous flick back and forth. “We’re delivering to the police station?”

“I’ve got a few standing orders here for Christmas,” she replied. “Grab a tray and follow me. Also, let me do the talking.”

The fossa shrugged, pulled out a tray of fruitcake, and followed Charlotte up the steps of the police station and through the front door. The officer on duty looked up and smiled at her. “Miss Clark. Can I help you?”

“I’m making a delivery for Chief Thompson.”

“Oh? He’s already gone home for the day.” The cougar sniffed. “Is that fruitcake I smell?”

“Yes, but there was a bit of a problem with this batch.”

The officer tilted his head, but Charlotte put a furred digit to her lips. “It’s in the letter. Tell the chief I’m sorry.”

“Of course, Miss Clark,” said the officer, taking the letter and two wrapped fruitcake bundles. “He’s been looking forward to this. We all are.”

“Oh right, you do have an order, don’t you?” She took another fruitcake off the tray and handed it to the cougar.

“Indeed,” he took the package and sniffed at it. He gave her a puzzled expression. “It smells different than last time.”

“It’s in the letter,” said Charlotte. “I’m sure the chief wouldn’t mind you reading it too. I have a few more to deliver.”

“Of course,” the office replied. “Goodnight, ma’am,” he said as she walked out.

“Goodnight, Officer Thomas,” she said, heading out into the night followed by Zachary. They put the tray back in the trunk and got in the car. Charlotte started the Model T back up and headed toward her next destination.

“What just happened there?” asked Zachary. There was an inquisitive look in his eyes, and his ears were focused on her.

“We delivered what they ordered.”

“And now?”

“We go to the mayor’s house.”

“The mayor?” Zachary whistled. “That’s who the other letter is for?”

She patted the fossa on the back. “You’re learning.”

“You know those fruitcakes are awful.”

Charlotte smiled in the dark. “Of course, that’s the point.”

#

There was a loud knocking at the side door of the bakery just after 6 AM that came while Charlotte was putting the day’s bread into the oven. She met a man she’d never seen at the door, thanked him politely, and let him go about his business. Zachary came at 9 AM as directed while Charlotte was laying out scones.

“Good news,” she said. “I hear you’re back in business.”

The fossa gave a start. “What do you mean?”

She waved him into the back of the store and pointed to two open crates sitting on a table. Zachary walked over and pulled out a bottle of rum, looking over the label. “How?”

“Just a little pressure in the right spots. I imagine you can read about the bust in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

“Who got this for you?”

“Who do you think? The fruitcake we made yesterday was awful, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I tried some. It was dry.”

“I put in my letter why it was awful, and that was going to be the best I could do this Christmas. I wrote down why. No liquor, no moist fruitcake.”

“So, the police got the liquor for you?”

She smiled. “It’s cold, the nights are long, and Christmas is in df days. You can’t get fresh fruit this time of year, and people get a longing for summer. That’s exactly what fruitcake was made to help ease. To do that though, you need the secret ingredient, otherwise it’s dry and awful.”

Zachary laughed. “You showed them the fruits of prohibition.”

“Exactly.”