Oh God, wouldn’t she. Annie flashed to the dowdy Mrs. Claus that Julia and she dealt with at Westside Mall. The actress playing her was crabby (who wouldn’t be after dealing with Kenny Klausen) but at least her costume was modest. The whole gig seemed rather benign. Simple. She’d stay and decorate the cupcake tree dressed as Mrs. Claus. What could possibly go wrong?
“Actually, I would,” Annie said. “Where’s the costume? Time’s a ticking.” She eyed the fashionably attired crowd trickling into the ballroom, accepting drinks and chatting amongst themselves. Maybe they could be noshing on her delicious cupcakes and pulling out their checkbooks. Maybe she could re-open her bakery business, give it a new name and get back to doing what she really loved. Maybe Christmas really was magical and wishes could come true.
“You’re right. Tonight’s our big night. We make more money tonight than the rest of our entire year. Follow me.” Lisette motioned and strode off.
“You coming?” Annie asked Grady.
“Nah. I have an idea.” Grady stroked his chin and stared into space. “I’m staying here. Going to check the place out, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure,” Annie said. She had no idea what he meant, and right now didn’t have the time to figure it out. She maneuvered her way through the crowd yards behind Lisette, whose sparkly, green heels clacked on the polished wooden floors. They passed the massive, stone fireplace decorated with Santa’s sleigh. It was pulled by his reindeer with Rudolph in the front, leading them: his shiny nose lit up with a giant light bulb that strobed dark red light into the ballroom.
Derrick materialized and walked alongside Annie. “This means you have to deal with Kenny Klausen.” He checked out the Furball guests who were swarming like locust into the event, tasting hors d’oevures, sipping cocktails and glasses of wine, checking out the silent auction items, and adding their names. A few cooed at the animals up for adoption in the crates. Volunteers enthusiastically removed kittens and dogs for the serious adopters to pet and hug.
“Pfft!” Annie said. “Let that tool of a man give me his best shot. He can say something lascivious, flash me his red velour clad privates, or try and cop another feel. I do believe the worst has happened in my relationship with Kenny Clausen.”
“Did you notice that lovely, late forty-something divorceé with the Labrador Retriever-mix service dog?” Derrick asked. “I do believe Patty and I met years ago during an Obama or Clinton or Bush political campaign fund-raiser and we totally fell for each other. Not the dog, but Patty the woman. Perhaps I could reach out to her and—”
“Might I remind you? You’re incredibly dead,” Annie whispered.
“What did you say?” Lisette turned and eyed Annie.
“Your dress is incredibly red,” Annie said. “Totally festive. Jewel tones look lovely on you.”
A metal clothes rack packed with outfits stood in the corner of a tiny room filled with ornaments, signs, ribbons, bows and wrapping paper. The hangers screeched across the rod as Lisette sorted swiftly through them one at a time. “Angel. Angel. Devil. Witch,” Lisette said. “No. No. No. No. Virgin Mary. Baby Jesus. A Wiseman. A Wisewoman. Cupid. An Elf. President Lincoln. A scary ghost.”
“Hah!” Derrick said. “You could play me!”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Annie said.
“Bill O’Reilly?” Lisette frowned. “Must have been a Fox News gig here. More nos. A cupcake—”
“I can totally be a cupcake,” Annie said.
“No, wait—here it is! Mrs. Claus’s costume!” Lisette pulled the outfit covered in a sturdy garment bag from the rack and handed it to Annie.
Annie unzipped it, pulled out its contents and stared at them confused. She picked out each piece and held it up in the air: a long, red, form fitted bustier lined with fake white fur? A red bell shaped mini-skirt? A red and white Santa hat and candy cane hose? This outfit looked like something a stripper would be peeling off, one piece at a time, as customers stuck dollar bills down her disappearing costume in a thinly-veiled attempt to fondle her at a high-priced men’s club. This definitely wasn’t Annie’s look. “Where’s the rest of Mrs. Claus’s costume?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Lisette asked.
“That’s one of the things I love about you cupcake,” Derrick said. “For the most part, you’re optimistic.”
“Like seriously, where’s the rest of Mrs. Claus’s costume: the white wig, her long red coat, the wide black belt, the black snow galoshes?”
“You, Fannie Graceland, have an eye for detail!” Lisette said. “I can’t believe I forgot the…” she rummaged around in a few boxes on the bottom of the clothing rack.
Annie wiped her brow. Phew, she thought. She totally dodged a bullet on that one.
Gingerbread Cupcakes with Cinnamon Cream Cheese Frosting
(Donated by Laura DeVries from Cupcakes-A-Go-Go in Madison, Wisconsin)
Prep Time: Around 25 minutes
Baking Time: 18 – 22 mintues
Yield: 18 cupcakes
INGREDIENTS:
1.5 cups stout beer
1 tsp. baking soda
1 small box vanilla instant pudding mix
1 cup sour cream
1/3 cup dark molasses
1.5 cup light brown sugar
.5 cup granulated sugar
3 cups all purpose flour
3 tbsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp salt
.5 tsp. ground cinnamon
.5 tsp. finely ground black pepper
4 eggs
2/3 cup vegetable oil
2 tbsp. finely grated fresh ginger
DIRECTIONS:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place baking cups into cupcake pans.
2. Bring the stout to a boil in a medium saucepan over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Remove fromt he heat and stir in the baking soda (mixture will foam up). When foaming subsides, stir in molasses, brown sugar and granulated sugar until dissolved; set aside.
3. Whisk flour, ground ginger, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, pepper and pudding mix together in a large bowl. Set aside.
4. Transfer the stout mixture to a large bowl. Whisk in the eggs, oil, sour cream and grated ginger until combined. Whisk the wet mixture into the flour mixture in thirds, stirring until completely smooth after each addition.
5. Fill baking cups 2/3 full and bake 18 – 22 minutes. Cupcakes are done when a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
6. When cupcakes are completely cooled, top with cinnamon cream cheese frosting.
Cinnamon Cream Cheese Frosting
INGREDIENTS:
1 package 8 oz cream cheese, softened.
4 tbsp. butter softened
1tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 pkg. (16 oz.) powdered sugar
1- ½ tsp. ground cinnamon
DIRECTIONS:
Using a hand mixer or stand mixer, beat cream cheese and butter until smooth. Add vanilla and cinnamon. Add powdered sugar gradually and beat until light and fluffy.
7
Naughty or Nice
Kenny Clausen was taking his first break of the night. He’d fled from the animals, their enthusiastic owners and the wide-eyed and overly-solicitous Furball volunteers. He wheezed and reached in his pocket for his inhaler. No inhaler. Crap! He’d forgotten his inhaler.
Because Kenny Clausen wasn’t just scared of animals. He was also allergic to them. That’s why he backed away from dogs. Never adopted a cat. Didn’t even think about a gerbil. He’d taken the Furball Santa gig for several reasons. One—he needed some extra holiday cash. He figured he’d pop a couple of Benadryl, pack his inhaler and tough it out. The pay was more than good. Maybe they’d like him enough to ask him back for their events next year.
He paused at the over-sized pantry doors at the far end of the modern, industrial Bauerfeld Foundation kitchen. It had been fifty minutes since his last cocktail—even though it was his third of the evenin
g—and he was beyond parched. He’d had a few bubbly waters and a couple eggnogs (not spiked, dammit!) He wondered about the super-fine, perhaps urban-legend, liquor cabinet that the Bauerfeld Foundation housed on their posh facility on Santa Monica, California’s gorgeous beach.
Kenny had no special places to visit on Christmas day. No kids, cousins, aging parents or beloved aunts or uncles to hunker down with, shoot the shit, watch football and complain that the mashed potatoes were too lumpy, or creamy. His sister had to put up with him most of the year, so she studiously avoided him on actual holidays. He really couldn’t blame her. So when this last minute, decent-paying charity gig became available, despite Kenny’s deep-seated fear of animals, he reluctantly said yes.
Tonight at the Furball, the second draw for Kenny Klausen was the gossiped-about fine-liquor treasure trove. Even though he might have no place to go for Christmas, if he found the liquid Bauerfeld jewels, he wouldn’t be spending the holidays lonesome and bereft. He’d pilfer a thirty-year-old five hundred dollar bottle of single malt scotch. And while he might be alone for Christmas—with that scotch he simply wouldn’t care.
Kenny spotted a small, unassuming door located at the far end of the kitchen. Could be a broom closet. Or could be the ticket to hitting the jackpot. He walked toward the entry, gripped the knob and turned it as his knuckles blanched white. But the knob didn’t move.
What the? He tried to turn it, again and again, but—it still wouldn’t budge. Kenny slumped back against the door, slid to the ground until his bony behind hit the floor. He knew in his tipsy, fake, Santa Claus bones that there was primo booze locked behind that door. He had played Santa for so many years that, at times, he actually wondered what it would be like to be the miracle man. Maybe he too could fly through time, the air, cross continents and create joy for every girl and boy—if he could just find the magical, dark golden elixir.
He spotted a grocery-store bottle of cooking sherry on the countertop next to the stove and sighed. “Bonsoir, ma chèrie.” Kenny collected his disappointment and slowly rose to his feet. “Perhaps it is you and I together again on yet, another, lonely Christmas. Nothing fancy. Nothing unusual. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary.” He lumbered toward the bottle of sherry before some heartless soul stole it.
Kenny heard a short string of squeaks followed by a longer creak. “Um. Hey?” He put his hands up in the air. “No harm, no foul. Just stopped by the kitchen for a cup of joe.” He swiveled and looked around—there were no coffee pots brewing in the kitchen—he frowned as he remembered they were all lined up on a banquet table in the main room next to the dreidels and the angels and the big dogs dressed up as reindeers.
“Oh, Santa,” someone whispered. “Ask me if I’ve been naughty or nice?”
Kenny hacked and clutched his chest. He couldn’t afford to get busted. Perhaps it was the event organizer—the woman with the skinny eyebrows furrowed together like thin, mating centipedes—she’d tracked him down. He really needed this gig. But he also didn’t have the energy to pretend he was interested in Eyebrow Lady. Santa fantasies were not that uncommon in middle-aged persons. He needed his single malt scotch. He needed his paycheck. He needed to ditch this joint, these do-gooder people, the smelly animals and get the hell out of North Pole Dodge.
“I don’t really care if you’ve been naughty or nice because I’m not really Santa, you know.” Kenny swept the room with his eyes. “Santa’s a mythological figure. Made up. Not real. I just play the dude at malls and charity events. No coffee here. I’m helping myself to a mineral water. Can I get you one too?” He glanced at the sherry reluctantly, then opened the door to the fridge and poked his head inside to complete his ruse.
There were actually about five types of mineral water in the fridge. Which God-awful one should he choose? He pulled out two. One for himself and one for the weirdo asking the questions. And he wondered—besides Lisette the event organizer—who else would be here to bust him?
Because Kenny could not, would not lose his primary source of income—playing the beloved fat guy in a red suit—over his desire for a delectable bottle of scotch. “Delightful!” Kenny said. “Seems I have my choice of mountain spring, something tropical, a fresh concoction with vitamins and something tasty and…” he lifted one eyebrow, “smart. I will pick the smart one, because one can never be too smart.”
“Good choice,” the gender-neutral voice with no face said.
He grabbed the water bottles from the fridge, unscrewed the tops, took a big swig from one and grimaced at its chilly blandness. “Color me refreshed. Can I help you with something? Your water’s here. I need to get back to playing Santa. Nothing else I’d rather do. Have a very, merry holiday. Ho-ho…” He turned around. But there was no one there. No one! What the?
And Kenny wondered if he’d been hallucinating: talking to himself, seeing things, hearing things. He stared at the bottle of kitchen sherry and fumbled with the buttons of his Santa coat. He discretely nabbed the bottle and tucked it into a padded pocket on the inside of his jacket. “I don’t forget my old friends during the holidays, ma chèrie.”
Kenny hummed a Christmas song, buttoned up his coat and ambled out of the kitchen and took one last wistful glance at the door to the perhaps infamous, Bauerfeld liquor cabinet. It was cracked open. Holy sweet miracle of the joyous holiday season!
He tip-toed a few steps toward it, swiveled his head as he looked for the anonymous person who belonged to the mysterious voice. But there was nobody except for he and his chèrie.
Kenny paused in front of the entry, could barely control his excitement and reminded himself to breathe deeply. Get a grip, Kenny, he reminded himself. You play Santa all the time. What would Santa do? He poked his head inside the smallish, dark alcove. “Ho-ho-ho and happy holidays,” he whispered. “Is anyone there?” His hand fumbled up the wall searching for a light switch. He found it, flipped a knob up and glanced around. He froze in his tracks and inhaled sharply like a five-year-old boy looking at the presents under the tree at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning.
He was in a pantry surrounded by racks and racks of liquor. There was a section for liquors that needed to be aged. A small division for priceless liquors. Kenny picked up a bottle of scotch and his breath caught, somewhat reverently, in his throat. Like he was holding a priceless objet d’art or possibly a baby Jesus doll taken from his crib in a holiday crèche.
Kenny was done. He’d tolerated the aging doyennes flirting with him as they plucked on his sleeves and whispered saucy suggestions into his ears. He’d dealt with the children jumping on and off his lap with no regards to the health and well being of his private parts. He’d held his breath in fear as the dogs pawed at him and caged, creepy felines screeched in the background.
After all he’d been through, it was crazy, but he believed he’d found his Christmas miracle. There would be a real Christmas for Kenny Dale Klausen. He’d celebrate the holiday with his comfortable mistress, ma chèrie and a new exciting date, single malt Glenberry St. Claadgh.
When the light in the Bauerfeld pantry shut off. Kenny squinted as he heard someone humming “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” in a falsetto. “Naughty or nice? Naughty or nice? Come on Santa. Answer the question.”
Kenny grabbed the bottle of scotch, and hid it behind his back. He still had a chance he could get out of here with it. “Hello,” Kenny said. “I heard a scary sound and hid in here. Are you the same thirsty person who wanted the water back in the kitchen?”
“Yes. I saw you staring at the pantry. I figured out where the key was hidden and so I—”
“You opened the door. In answer to your question, you, my friend, are nice. Happy holidays and may all your Christmas wishes—” Kenny felt a sharp stab in his back.
The pain was intense and Kenny stumbled. “Ooh, I think I might have thrown my back out.” And suddenly he felt more than a little scared. “What’s a little back pain.” Oh jeez it was killing him. “I’ll be getting back to the job, pron
to. Time waits for no one. Not even Santa—oof!”
Another piercing stab sliced through his ribs and twisted through his body. He pitched forward and landed on his knees. He placed a protective hand over his chèrie and rasped for breath. “Changed my mind. Definitely naughty. It is not polite to assault Santa. You’re in big trouble. I think you need to call the paramedics or 911 because I might have cracked a rib or experienced mild angina. Or perhaps you could crack open one of the pricier bottles in this place and pour me a thimble-full. Go ahead and have one yourself. My holiday gift to you. I insist.”
When something sharp pierced Kenny’s chest. “Oh!” His hand flew to his heart, he collapsed forward and rolled onto his side on the cold, concrete floor. “Oh!” His chest burned something fierce and he sensed an odd, trickling sensation down his ribs onto his tummy, soaking his Santa jacket and the front of his trousers. “Oh, ma chèrie. I fear I’ve broken you. We’re broken…” The room grew darker as Kenny Dale Klausen collapsed on the hard floor, took his last breaths and died.
8
Ten Lords a Leaping
“No, seriously, where’s my real Mrs. Claus costume?” Annie asked as she looked in the full-length mirror at the red, stretchy, strapless, fake-white-fur lined bustier and miniskirt that she wore, along with the cheesy Santa hat that tipped over her forehead and bopped her eye.
“This is her costume.” Lisette fussed over Annie’s makeup. “This is all we have. Our actress who played Mrs. Claus always opted for the sexy version. She wasn’t into the dowdy, play-it-safe look.”
Pamela DuMond - Annie Graceland 04 - Cupcakes, Paws, and Bad Santa Claus Page 4
