Claus for Celebration

by Laura Durham

  "How could that be good news?" Kate asked.

  Reese rubbed a hand down his scruffy cheeks. "The guy who was tied up runs a seedy strip club. We've suspected him of using the club as a front for drug trafficking for years, but have never been able to get anything to stick."

  "Why do you look so conflicted?" I asked, knowing my fiancé's expression.

  "Not so much conflicted as perplexed," he said. "The guy was wearing a Santa suit when they found him."

  Chapter 20

  I checked my phone again before dropping it onto the couch next to me. No text from Reese, although I didn't really expect one. I knew he was busy processing a murder scene, and I cringed as I thought about the body pulled from the river. Then I thought about the man found in a Santa suit, and wondered about all the criminals turning up decked out in suits or hats. First Kris Kringle Jingle goes missing, then his suit is found and the guy who found it goes missing, then criminals start turning up wearing Santa garb. Either someone had a thing against Santa or a weird Santa fetish. Reese had made us all promise not to read too much into it, making me swear I wouldn't take this as a reason to get more involved in the case.

  "You don't have to tell me twice," Kate had told him as he'd left for the waterfront and the dead body they'd pulled out. "I've had enough of floaters, thank you very much."

  Fern had agreed with her, looking a bit green as we'd walked him out to one of his stylist chairs.

  I wanted to remind them the one body we'd found floating in a pond could hardly have been considered a floater since she'd barely been in the water for half an hour before we'd spotted her, but I thought it best not to remind my fiancé about the latest murder investigation we'd meddled in. Like Kate and Fern, I'd promised Reese to leave this case to the DC police and had given him a quick kiss as he'd dashed out the door. And I'd meant it. Of course, that was before I had so much time to mull things over.

  Sinking back into my couch, I let out a deep sigh, soaking up the quiet. For the first time in days, there was no one in my apartment but me, and the silence was blissful. As bad as I felt about my fiancé being called to a murder scene, I was grateful for the rare moments of solitude. I didn't even have an urge to think about why Kris was still missing.

  It wasn't that I didn't love living with Reese. I did. But after living by myself for so many years, I was still adjusting to having someone around who never left. My evenings watching trashy TV while I caught up on paperwork had fallen by the wayside, and I never ate cupcakes for dinner anymore.

  Propping my bare feet up on the coffee table, I glanced at the alphabetized rehearsal dinner place cards stacked next to the ceremony programs all folded and tied with ivory ribbon. Not only did I finally have the place to myself, Kate had helped me knock out most of the weekend's wedding prep before she'd dashed off to meet her mystery man for dinner. The panic that had been fluttering in my stomach all week had lessened somewhat after we'd finished some of the tedious work that always took hours the week of a wedding.

  We'd both learned our lessons years ago and would never dream about leaving place card alphabetizing and program tying until the last minute. It was bad enough when clients gave us changes to the seating the day of the wedding, but after being burned by one too many procrastinating brides and being forced to stay up until the wee hours the night before the wedding, we now insisted on their seating plans a full week before the wedding day. It made my heart sing to see the neat stacks of paper products all ready to go for the weekend.

  "One down," I said to myself, knowing we still had plenty to do to plan the New Year's Eve wedding and pull together my engagement/Wedding Belles holiday party.

  A quick peek out the darkened windows told me it was later than I'd realized, and my growling stomach reminded me that I'd survived the day on snacks and champagne. I didn't bother checking the fridge as I contemplated what type of takeout I should order and pulled my phone out of my pocket.

  Would Reese be back in time to join me? My mind wandered to the drug dealer dressed up as Santa. Was it possible the man was connected to Kris?

  I knew I was under strict orders not to get involved in the case, but I couldn't help wondering why someone would put the low life in a Santa suit and dump him for the police to find. I seriously doubted the strip club owner happened to be dressed as Santa before he was tied up, but what if he was? Was someone out to get Santas in DC? I thought about what Fern had told us. Kris had been involved in covert ops in Vietnam. Was it possible that Kris wasn't a victim? Could he be some sort of Santa vigilante? But what about Stanley? No one saw him actually find the bloody suit. What if he had been trying to ditch it when the cop appeared, and he’d had to pretend he’d found it? He might have knocked off Kris—either accidentally or in the heat of the moment—and gone on the run out of fear and guilt.

  Shaking my head, I stood up. No way. I much preferred to think Kris had snuck into Fern’s storage room than a killer was on the loose.

  As I put the neatly stacked place cards and programs back in their boxes, I heard a sharp rap on the door. So much for my peaceful evening. I resigned myself to the high probability of it being Leatrice fully dressed in a Santa suit and eager to pump me for information on the murder she'd no doubt heard about over her police scanner. I opened the door and blinked a few times.

  "Richard," I said as he pushed past me into the apartment. "Did we have plans?"

  "Not per se." He dropped his man bag on the couch and set a paper bag with handles on the floor. Hermès spilled out of the leather bag and began scampering from one end of the couch to the other, sniffing vigorously.

  "Do I smell food?" I inhaled the savory aroma that seemed to be emanating from the paper bag.

  "I'm assuming you haven't eaten yet, am I right?" Richard answered my question with one of his own, his eyes flitting to my boxes of paper products on the coffee table.

  "You assume correctly. Kate and I were knocking out some of the work for the wedding, and you know my rule about food and drink near paper products."

  Richard picked up the paper bag and headed for the kitchen, giving me a quick look over his shoulder. "You mean the rule I taught you? Yes, I'm familiar with it, darling."

  "Right." It was hard to remember all the things Richard had taught me over the years, since he'd taken me under his wing from almost the moment I'd moved to DC and opened Wedding Belles, sharing all his tips and tricks for surviving the world of events.

  His dark choppy hair appeared over the divider between the kitchen and living room. "Fern told me that our detective was called out to a murder. I knew that meant you'd be left to your own devices for dinner, and we all know what that means."

  Our detective? I wondered when my fiancé had become our detective, but I decided not to say anything. The bromance Richard had going on with Reese was better than the thinly veiled hostility he used to have for the man he'd once considered his usurper.

  "You know I'm fully capable of feeding myself," I said, perching on the back of my couch and petting Hermès absently on the head as he settled into a spot.

  Richard snorted from the kitchen. "I've seen your refrigerator, Annabelle, and it's barely changed since you started cohabitating."

  "We both work a lot," I said, in my own defense.

  "You know I'm not one for gender stereotypes," he said, coming out of the kitchen wearing a pink toile apron and carrying two pasta bowls. "But one of you two is going to have to learn how to cook. I thought it might be the detective, but I didn't take into account his erratic schedule and how often you'd be solo.”

  I followed him to the dining table, breathing in the rich scent as he set down the bowls. "Maybe you can be our live-in cook?"

  He arched a perfectly coifed brow at me. "Not with the way you keep house."

  "And we might not have room for PJ, as well," I said, referencing the significant other we'd met for the first time at Leatrice's wedding.

  Richard's cheeks colored, and he hurried back to the kitche
n. "If three's a crowd, four would be a disaster."

  "You are bringing him to the party on Sunday, aren't you?" I asked as I sat down in front of one of the steaming bowls of pasta.

  Richard returned with a tiny ceramic dish he placed on the floor, and Hermès immediately leapt from the couch and rushed over, while Richard bustled back to the kitchen, skillfully dodging the eager dog and my question.

  I leaned over and peered at the contents of the dish. "Your dog eats pancetta?"

  "He has very discerning taste," Richard said as he emerged from the kitchen again, this time with two wine glasses and an opened bottle. "Tell me if the nutmeg is too much in the carbonara. Nigella swears by it, but she is British."

  I decided not to call Richard out on changing the subject, as I swirled my fork in the lightly sauced spaghetti. I suspected he was keeping his personal life close to his chest because he didn't want PJ getting a sense of how crazy our crew was and running for the hills. Not a bad plan. I'd been lucky Reese had a high tolerance for crazy.

  "I didn't know you and Fern talked often," I said. "What else did he tell you?"

  Richard shrugged as he filled my glass halfway with white wine. "Just that he'd had a break-in, and Reese had been called away early because they'd found a body."

  "Did he tell you about the other guy they found?" I took a bite and savored the rich flavor of the crunchy pancetta.

  "Some lowlife club owner tied up like he'd gotten on the wrong side of a dominatrix." Richard wrinkled his nose. "Fern's words, not mine."

  "He was found wearing a Santa suit."

  Richard's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "That explains it."

  "Explains what?"

  "Why Fern called me and was so insistent I come over here and keep an eye on you. He kept saying it was his fault that you were going to be sucked back in like Michael Corleone in The Godfather III."

  I swallowed a too-hot mouthful and washed it down with a cold gulp of wine. "He compared me to the Godfather?"

  "I thought it was a bit much considering our latest run-in with the mob, but now I get it." He eyed me. "Frankly, I'm surprised you're sitting here so calmly."

  I rolled my eyes. "I promised Reese I wouldn't meddle."

  "And you were serious about that?"

  "Of course," I said, twirling spaghetti around my fork. "I've turned over a new leaf. Besides, Reese is still looking for Kris, so I know it's in good hands. And if there's a connection with all the other Santa crimes, he'll find it."

  As if on cue, the door opened and my fiancé stumbled inside, his clothes disheveled and dirty.

  Richard's mouth dropped open. "You didn't personally drag the body out of the Potomac, did you?"

  Reese didn't even register surprise at seeing Richard in our apartment as he collapsed onto the couch, and Hermès scampered over and began licking his hand.

  Richard sucked in a sharp breath. "Hermès! You do not know where that's been."

  "You were saying something about his discerning taste?" I said, earning myself a pointed look as I got up to join Reese on the couch.

  "You look like you need some pasta," Richard headed for the kitchen, wagging a finger at the little Yorkie who followed him. "And now you need a good teeth brushing, young man."

  "How did things go with the body?" I asked, sitting next to Reese and brushing a loose strand of dark hair off his face.

  "Well, it wasn't an accident." Reese rubbed a hand across his forehead. "The guy was strangled before he was tossed into the river."

  My stomach turned. "What about the drug dealing Santa?"

  He shook his head. "It's not my case."

  "But shouldn't you be involved since it might be connected to the other Santa cases?"

  Reese sighed. "The way things are going, I won't sleep if I take on all the cases with a Santa element to them."

  "But what if the Santa crimes are connected?" When he didn't answer, I shook my head. "Someone needs to be working that angle."

  Richard let out a tortured breath behind us. "Why do I feel like I know who that someone will be?"

  Chapter 21

  “He has a point, you know," Kate said as we walked along M Street the next day.

  I'd insisted we spend the morning wrapping up the details for Saturday as well as calling potential vendors for our New Year's Eve wedding, then Kate had convinced me that we needed a break to stretch our legs and do some holiday shopping. As usual, I'd been too caught up in work to find presents for anyone, and, as of that morning, Kate had added a Secret Santa present to my long list.

  "Who has a point?" I asked, glancing at a brightly decorated store window flocked with white paint to make it look like snow. Ironic, since I was almost sweating in the spring-like weather, even though I only wore a white button-down and jeans.

  "Richard, of course. If Reese isn't working all the Santa cases, aren't you going to be tempted to connect them yourself? I know it’s already killing you that Stanley is missing and we don’t know why."

  I shook my head as I dodged a group of giggling college students attempting to take a selfie while they walked down the sidewalk. "I do have some self-control, you know."

  "Mmmhmm." She sounded far from convinced. "Have they given up looking for Kris?"

  I shrugged. "Reese hasn't, but I think only as a favor to our friends. They haven't made much headway with that, although I want to side with Fern. He's not dead even though he hasn't turned up."

  "But another guy in a Santa suit has turned up. And some in Santa hats."

  "Yep," I said. "I guess it could be a coincidence, but that seems unlikely."

  "But what's the connection, aside from both being Santa? A homeless vet and a dodgy club owner don't seem like a likely pairing. And then a couple of thieves?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine," I said. "Maybe this club owner was involved in whatever Kris saw that made him freak out enough to go into hiding. Kris could be hiding to avoid falling victim to the same fate. Maybe someone is picking off Santas one by one."

  “And you think that someone is Stanley?”

  “Well, I hadn’t before, but now I do.”

  She spun on me. "See? I knew you'd been thinking about it."

  "Thinking about it? Sure. But I don't have the time to do anything about it. Our to-do list is a mile long. When would I fit in a murder investigation?"

  Kate gave me a sidelong glance. "You're very resourceful, Annabelle. And sneakier than you look."

  "Thanks, I think."

  "We did get a lot done today," she admitted. "Once our New Year's Eve bride signs the contracts we requested, it’s only a matter of confirming details."

  "We got lucky she was so burned out from working with Brianna that she gave us carte blanche in picking vendors."

  Kate held up one palm. "Do not say that name again. I still haven't come up with the proper retribution for that tire slasher."

  I wanted to tell her that we weren't 100 percent positive Brianna had been the one to pop her tires, but not even I believed that. "Maybe we should put the brakes on this feud. I think we've come out on the losing end, so far."

  "So far," Kate said, her eyes narrowed.

  I sighed. I guess we weren't going to take the high road, so I decided to change the subject. "I have no idea what to get for Secret Santa this year. It's so hard to find something that anyone from our group would like, and now we're going to have a bunch of cops in the mix."

  Kate paused in front of The Paper Source, tapping her chin. "I forgot about the extra guests for the engagement party. Maybe we should do the Secret Santa just for our crew after the party."

  "That's a good idea," I said, glancing at the large paper nutcrackers and ballerinas perched atop shiny, gold boxes in the store window. "I'd hate to invite Reese's friends to an engagement party and ask them to bring a Secret Santa gift, too. That seems like a lot."

  "Agreed." Kate held open the tall glass doors framed in pink. "I don't know how you're going to top the Llamanoes you ga
ve last year."

  We walked into the store, the usual tables of gifts piled high with holiday-themed offerings--a stack of mistletoe tea towels next to a red, felt pom-pom Christmas stocking, and an entire table devoted to colorful advent calendars, some of them three-dimensional and one of them featuring “Twelve Days of Christmas” socks. Instrumental holiday music played overhead, and the store smelled like paper and cinnamon air freshener.

  Kate stopped at the end of the ramp leading into the shop. "I may have found something to beat the Llamanoes." She held up a box featuring a June Cleaver look-alike. "An inflatable turkey."

  "What if Richard ended up with that?" I asked.

  She frowned. "Good point. He might not be amused. He's never appreciated food humor." Her expression brightened. "But here's a set of tea towels of dogs dressed in pajamas."

  "He might like that too much."

  Kate grinned at me. "Another good point. We probably shouldn't encourage the dressing the dog like a human thing."

  I picked up an inflatable set of antlers with rings to toss over them, labeled "Reindeer Games." "I'd say this might be fun if I didn't think Leatrice would want to wear them twenty-four seven.”

  "Then it's down to the Screaming Goat." Kate held up a box that contained a plastic goat standing on a plastic stump, pressing a button that made the thing let out a high-pitched scream.

  I gave her a look.

  "What?" She pressed the button again. "I feel like this goat every time Meltdown Maddie calls."

  One of our spring brides had a tendency to overreact about everything and often ended up hyperventilating over the phone while we listened to her hunt for a paper bag. "Maybe we should go with something less hysterical."

  Kate looked at the goat. "You're right. It sounds too much like Richard when his waiters fold the napkins wrong."

  I caught a glimpse of a pair of fully dressed Santa Clauses walking past the store, but quickly realized it wasn't Kris and felt a pang of sadness. The Salvation Army Santas still worked in Georgetown, and it was most likely a couple of them. I remembered what Jeannie had said about the jealous Santas, and a shiver went through me. I hated thinking of every chubby man in a red suit as a potential murderer. It really put a damper on my Christmas cheer.