Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime (4 page)

A quick introduction to Missy: Imagine, if you will, a six-foot two-inch Amazon with kabuki makeup, five-inch stiletto heels and hair teased up so high the Swiss Family Robinson could build a tree house in it. Now imagine that said Amazon fancies herself to be quite the on-the-go career woman. Now imagine me puking every time I had to deal with her.

I poked my head into Missy's office, and of course she was barking into the phone, deep in wheeler-dealer mode.

"Have you been over to River Valley Mall, Charlie? They've got real elves over there!
Real elves
! Oh, you know what I mean—midgets, dwarves, hobbits, 'wee people,' whatever they're called."

Her mascara-encrusted raccoon eyes caught sight of me in the doorway and went all squinty. She flapped one of her big hands at me, shooing me away.

"How am I supposed to compete with real elves?" she said, still glaring at me and flailing her hand. "Tell me. Huh? How?"

I put up a finger. My
index
finger, meaning I just needed one minute of her time.

"Hold on, Charlie," Missy growled. She cupped a hand over the receiver. "Are you quitting?"

"No."

"Has somebody been hurt?"

"No."

"Somebody feel you up?"

"Uhhh, no. But I am concerned about something."

Missy pointed at a black plastic tray on her desk. It was overflowing with memos and Post-Its and old newspaper ads.

"Put it in writing."

Then she spun her chair around so she faced the wall.

"Why should people come here when they can go to River Valley and see real elves? I'm telling you, Charlie, I need more money."

End of conversation, obviously. I couldn't count on Missy Widgitz for squat. So I found an empty stall and began plotting.

Now, it just so happens that my roommate's boyfriend is a kleptomaniac. He's in a band, so I think she just sees it as one of the cute little character flaws she has to put up with in order to date a guitar player. I just see it as pathetic. Anyway, whenever I come home from school, I play it safe and pack up everything of value I own. So stashed away in the back of my '84 VW Rabbit was a toaster, a CD player, an almost-empty jewelry box, an Aran sweater, a little TV and the old voice-activated tape recorder I use to record lectures.

Obviously, the toaster wasn't going to do me much good in this situation. Same with the CD player, the jewelry, the TV and the sweater. But the tape recorder—that I could use.

The next morning, I did the unthinkable: I showed up for work early. I needed time to find the best place in Santa's Workshop to hide a tape recorder. It had to be close enough to Santa's throne to pick up what Big Buck was saying, but not so close that Big Buck or Kev would see it or hear it when it clicked off. I thought about hiding it with the fake presents under a Christmas tree, but that was too far away. Same with the fake stockings hung over the fake fireplace and the fake toys on the fake worktable.

Fake fake fake. Which made me think. What about Santa's "throne"? It looked big and boxy and, you know,
solid
. But if it was as bogus as everything else in the Workshop, wouldn't it be hollow?

I tipped the throne over—it was surprisingly light—and found that I was right. So I reached under and left the tape recorder there with the voice-activation thingy turned on. I'd be pulling a Patriot Act on Big Buck right under his nose . . . or
butt
, to be more accurate.

The rest of the day passed like every other work day—slowly. Two things broke the monotony: my fear that Kev or Big Buck would find the tape recorder and put two and two together (though, knowing them, they might get five) and a surprise visitor.

Right before our first break, I noticed that someone had parked a mummy in a wheelchair not far from Santa's Workshop. Though its entire body was covered in bandages and plaster, it had a human head—one belonging to a girl about my age. She was watching us with a strange, blank expression on her face, almost like she'd been hypnotized. When it was finally time to "feed the reindeer," Arlo went up and started talking to her. I wasn't going to enjoy my serial killer thriller that day—I was too nervous about Big Buck to worry about
fictional
psychos—so I decided to introduce myself to the human statue.

"So what are you on? Codeine?" Arlo was saying as I walked up.

"Nuh. Vicodin . . . and thome other thtuff," Mummy Girl mumbled. She looked even more glassy-eyed close up. "It helpth."

"Got some you could spare?"

Mummy Girl stared at him a moment, then turned her hollow eyes toward me.

"Oh, hey, Hannah," Arlo said. "Becky, this is Hannah, the new elf."

"Hi, Becky."

"Huh," Becky said. I think that was as close as she could get to "Hi."

"Becky just got out of the hospital," Arlo said.

No duh
, I thought.
I figured she just came from the gym
.

What I said was, "Really?"

"Yeah. She was in a really bad car wreck. Some nut cut her off and forced her into a telephone pole. Right, Becky?"

Becky tried to nod, but ended up just wincing.

"Umm-hmmm," she hummed.

And finally, it dawned on me. This was
the
Becky—the first greeter elf of the year, the one who'd been in an accident with Santa Claus. Arlo had probably forgotten he'd already told me about her. (His long-term memory, like his short-term memory and his everything-in-between-memory, wasn't too good.) So I played dumb.

"Was there anybody else in the car with you?" I asked.

"Umm-hmmm." Becky moved her dazed eyes to Arlo again. "That'th why I'm heah. I wanted to tell you in perthon, Ahlo. Mistah Haney ith dead. He nevah came ou' of hith coma."

"No way," Arlo said.

"Yeth. I'm thorry. I know you two wuh clothe."

"We were what?"

"Clothe."

"Huh?"

"Close," I snapped at Arlo, barely resisting the urge to smack him upside the back of the head. Sure, Becky sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger on 'ludes, but still—
context
, dude! "You two were
close
."

"Oh. Right. Sure." Arlo frowned. "We were?"

"Mr. Haney cahed about you, Ahlo," Becky spoke-moaned. "He wuh even planning an intuhven- — "

"Well, ho ho ho!" someone bellowed.

We all jumped—even Becky, who paid for it with another wince.

Big Buck came swaggering up with Kev not far behind.

"If it isn't my favorite little elf!" Big Buck boomed.

"You two know each other?" I asked Becky.

"Oh, we're old friends," Big Buck answered for her. "I dropped by to see Kev a couple times before they asked me to strap on the beard myself. I had to see the elf princess my buddy here kept jabberin' about. Man, he made Santa's Workshop sound better'n Hooters!" He leered at Becky as if her bandages were something from Victoria's Secret. "So . . . how ya' doin', Betty?"

Becky looked as though she wanted to shrink into her body cast like a turtle into its shell.

"Fine," she whispered.

Big Buck leaned over and stroked her leg cast.

"Good. You just keep healin' up, Betty. Then come see ol' St. Nick again when you're feelin' more limber." He winked at her, then turned and gave me a wink, too. "Maybe we'll make us a Santa sandwich with two slices of elf!"

He let out a wheezy laugh—a hoarse, course, phlegmy sound that made me want to rip off his beard and stuff it down his fat throat.

"Mr. Haney's dead," I said instead. I guess I was trying to embarrass him. I should've known that was impossible. You have to be capable of
shame
to be embarrassed.

He stopped laughing, but his eyes still twinkled with cruel glee.

"Oh, that's too bad. You hear that, Kev?"

Big Buck's little sidekick nodded silently, suddenly looking shifty and nervous. The news actually seemed to shake him, which surprised me. Before that, I'd never seen anything on his ferret face but sneers and leers.

"Well,
this
Santa's gonna be a lot more careful who he hitches a ride from," Big Buck said, giving Becky one last pat. "Bye now. Break-time's over."

He walked away singing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," Kev trailing him like a broken-spirited dog.

Something about the conversation bothered me—something beyond the fact that Big Buck was a repulsive old letch. It wasn't a suspicion, really. Just an uneasy tingle, like the vague feeling of dread I get when I'm taking a test and I know I just wrote down the wrong answer . . . without knowing what the right answer
is
. The clue phone's ringing, but I can't find the phone, let alone pick it up.

"So, Becky," I said, "did they ever catch the guy who ran you off the road?"

"Nuh. The copth think it wath thome joy-riding kidth. They found the car not far from where we crashed. It had been thtolen."

I put in a little more strained chit-chat out of the spirit of Christmas charity, then said goodbye to Becky and let Arlo get back to wheedling for prescription medication. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman appeared carrying a bunch of boxes and bags. She piled them up on top of Becky and wheeled her away.

"That Becky's mom?" I asked Arlo as he trudged back towards Santa's Workshop, obviously unsuccessful in his mission and not too happy about it.

"Yeah. I was
this close
to scoring some Demerol and then whoosh, here comes momma."

"Demerol? Geez, Arlo, can't you just say no?"

"Man, I can't even say 'maybe.'"

A goofy grin creased his droopy-eyed face, and my heart sank. I'd been thinking about telling him what I was up to, trying to enlist him as a partner, a sidekick. But could a guy like Arlo be trusted? He'd be like Tonto with a bong, a brain-damaged Dr. Watson, Robin the Boy Wonder with Attention Deficit Disorder.

No thanks. This elf was on her own.

The last seconds of our break melted away, and the usual assortment of squirmy, mouthy kids and testy parents lined up again. Big Buck assumed the throne and gave me a nod—and another disgusting wink—and I began leading the little lambs to the slaughter.

"Just go up the stairs and tell Santa what you want," I told the first victim when we reached the gingerbread man. She stumbled up the steps shyly. As I turned to go, I heard Big Buck let out a "Ho ho ho" and ask, "What's your name, little girl?"

And then
brrrrrring
, there it was again—the clue phone. And this time I actually picked up.

Names. A few minutes before, Big Buck couldn't get poor Becky's name right, and her he'd met. But when I had told him "Mr. Haney's dead," he didn't bat an eye. He knew exactly who I was talking about. Why should he remember the name—or even know it in the first place? All his pal Kev had to tell him was the last Santa got hurt and he'd better get his résumé ready stat . . . assuming Missy Widgitz would have even bothered with résumés when she had a red suit to fill fast. I'm guessing all you'd have needed to land the job would be a big gut and low standards.

Sure, the "Mr. Haney" thing was pretty thin, I knew that. There's Becky/Betty in a wheelchair, and we tell Big Buck somebody's died—who else would we be talking about? Context, right? But, still, it ate at me.

I couldn't wait to get my hands on that tape.

But I
had
to wait. Hours and hours, each one crawling by like the week before spring break. Finally we roped off the entrance, hustled the last few kids through and called it quits for the day.

Usually, Kev and Big Buck would blast out of there so fast you'd think they'd been shot out of a cannon. Not tonight, of course. They were hanging out next to the throne—next to the tape recorder—talking and throwing ominous looks my way. It was like they weren't just ogling me anymore. They were sizing me up. I killed a little time chatting with Arlo, but he had a big Christmas party to go to and couldn't stay long. It was actually sort of a relief when he left: Keeping a conversation going with Arlo's kind of like trying to play chess with a cat. You end up getting a lot of blank stares.

Once Arlo took off, I didn't have any excuse to hang around, so I went to the restroom and used my regular stall—I felt like I could start having mail delivered there—and changed out of my elfwear. I tried to polish off another chapter of my book, but Big Buck's evil grin kept muscling the words out of my head. After rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time, I threw the paperback into my shoulder bag and stood up. It was
Mission: Impossible
time.

When I got back to Santa's Workshop, Kev and Big Buck were finally gone. There were still plenty of shoppers around—the mall would be open for another hour—so I did a slow circuit around the Workshop, pretending to window shop at some of the crapeterias nearby: Big Lots and Lady Bug and Monkeyberry Toys. Once I was sure no one was watching me, I hopped over the faux-velvet rope, hurried up the path to Santa's throne and fished around underneath for the tape recorder.

It was still there. I quickly stuffed it in my bag and motored, congratulating myself on my nerve as I scurried to the nearest exit and headed out to the parking lot.

But then I heard something that knocked the nerve (and scared the bejesus) right out of me.

"Well, hello there."

Yeah, I know. It's not exactly "Caught you, you sneaky bitch" or "Die! Die! Die!" followed by the sound of gunfire. But hey—it was Big Buck's voice, and that was bloodcurdling enough.

I turned to find a burly, fifty-ish man in a green parka lurking in the shadows just beyond the doors. His beard was gone, replaced by a stubby cigarette that jutted from his curled lips, and he wasn't wearing his red and white suit. But there was no mistaking that smarmy voice and those bright, smirking eyes.

I stopped and caught my breath. The cold air stung my lungs.

"Geez, Buck. You scared me."

"Scared you?" He seemed to like that. "You ain't frightened of ol' Buck, are you?"

I chirped out a little chuckle as fake as a plastic snowman.

"No, no, of course not. But, you know, some guy's behind you in the dark . . .? It's creepy."