by Joanne Fluke
“Heavens, no. That was most annoying. But it’s not why I killed him. You see, when Scotty said I was a fraud, he wasn’t just talking about my acting. He was talking about the Tiny Tim Project.”
“The Tiny Tim Project?”
“It’s a complete scam, sweetie. I keep every dime I collect from my corporate sponsors. And I sell the toys on eBay.” He actually seemed proud of himself. “Somehow Scotty found out about it and was threatening to turn me over to the cops.”
His bushy brows furrowed in consternation.
“I couldn’t let that happen, could I? After all, nobody wants to see Santa go to jail. Think of how disappointed all the kiddies would be.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded, hoping to get on his good side with a little faked sympathy. “I understand totally.”
“So I went to the movies and made a point of talking to the ticket taker and the other people on line. I purposely chose a movie I knew wouldn’t be crowded. Once in the theater, I sat in the back row by myself and slipped on a wig and a jacket I’d brought along in a shopping bag. Then I sailed back out again, a completely different person, and hurried home to disguise myself as the Crazy Old Lady. So many costume changes that day. My, it was fun!”
“I’ll bet,” I said, doing my best to fake a smile.
For crying out loud, the guy was practically telling me his life story, and still no one had come to my rescue. Where the hell was the Conspicuous Consumption security team?
“C’mon,” he said. “Time to take a little trip to Santa Land.”
With his gun lodged firmly in my back, he shoved me out into the mall. So bright and festive during the day, at night, with the people gone and the lights dimmed, it now had the antiseptic look of a hospital corridor.
“My original plan,” Barnaby said as he prodded me over to Santa Land, “was to slip a little poison into Scotty’s ‘hot chocolate’ thermos, but when your cat went ballistic, I decided to take advantage of the chaos and stab Scotty in the heart instead.
“Much more satisfying,” he added with a happy nod.
By now we’d reached Santa’s Workshop.
“Get in,” Barnaby said, nudging me with his gun.
Oh, dear. I didn’t like the looks of this. Not one bit.
“Whatever you’re planning, Barnaby, you’ll never get away with it. There are security cameras all over the place,” I said, waving at the cameras, hoping that whichever idiot was asleep at the wheel would finally wake up and notice me.
“Forget it, hon. The security cameras got fried by the sprinklers the day of the murder and they’ve never been fixed.”
“They’ve never been fixed?” I blinked in disbelief.
“Unfortunately the gentleman who owns Conspicuous Consumption has made some rather unwise investments and is in dire financial straights. He can barely pay the light bills, let alone fix his high tech security system.
“That’s what Corky told me, anyway, on one of her many snack breaks. Everyone always seems to confide in me. I’m so darn likeable, aren’t I?”
He smiled at me, the twinkle in his eye no longer a twinkle, but a manic gleam.
“Now get in the damn workshop!” he growled, waving the gun in my face.
I crawled into the small hideaway where Scotty had enjoyed so many tequila breaks, sick with fear. I was about to die at the hands of a nutcase Santa, all because I’d been trying to land a job at a mall that couldn’t afford to hire me in the first place.
Then Barnaby crouched in the doorway and, much to my surprise, dropped his gun.
Frantically, I grabbed it.
“Won’t do you any good, Jaine. It’s just a prop.”
“Just a prop?”
I pulled the trigger, and sure enough, all I heard was a harmless click.
“Stole it from a community theater production of Sleuth. I played the Larry Olivier part. Got fantastic reviews. Personally, I thought I gave old Larry a run for his money.”
Dammit. I’d let myself be conned by a silly prop!
“But this murder weapon is very real, my dear,” he said, whipping out a switchblade knife from his Santa boot. “Souvenir of an impromptu performance I did in a back alley in Koreatown. An ugly story. I won’t bore you with the details.”
Oh, God. The maniac was going to eviscerate me. Here—in Santa’s Workshop! And no one was coming to help.
How the hell was I going to get out of this mess?
And then I saw it. My salvation:
An empty tequila bottle, left over from one of Scotty’s binges.
As Barnaby ducked his head to crawl into the workshop, I was ready for him. The minute he came through the door, I whacked him over the head with Jose Cuervo’s finest. A satisfying crack rang out as the glass made contact with his skull. He crumpled to the ground, groaning.
Kicking him aside, I began scrambling out of Santa’s Workshop, screaming bloody murder. I’d just gotten to my feet when I felt a hand clamp down on my calf.
Oh, crud. I hadn’t knocked Barnaby out; I’d just stunned him. Now I peered down into the workshop and saw he was reaching for his knife with his other hand. Why the hell had I left it in there?
I tried to shake myself free of his grasp but it was like a manacle. Any minute now he’d be slashing my legs to ribbons.
Then suddenly I remembered The Biter—the little girl who’d come marching in to see Santa to demand a pony. I remembered how her mother had pleaded with her not to chomp down on Santa.
Pulling a page from The Biter’s book, I bent over and sunk my teeth into Barnaby’s bony arm. Chunky Monkey, it wasn’t. But it did the trick. With a piercing wail, he released his hold on me.
Taking no chances, I then stomped on his hand, and seconds later when he came crawling out from the workshop, I was waiting for him with the Giant Book of Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes, a hefty tome I’d snatched from the Tiny Tim toy bin.
As Barnaby crawled into view, brandishing his knife, I whacked him on the bean with every ounce of strength I had. Jose Cuervo may have let me down, but Mother Goose did the trick. This time Barnaby was out for good. How fitting, I thought, that he was felled by a gift from his own scuzzy charity scam.
At which point, Corky finally came rushing over.
“Jaine! What’s going on?”
“Quick!” I cried. “Call the police. Barnaby’s the one who killed Scotty!”
“Sweet little Barnaby?” she asked, peering down at his crumpled body. “Really?”
“Yes, and he just tried to kill me, too.”
“Wow,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “This sure hasn’t been our year for Santas.”
Corky got on her cell phone and minutes later the place was swarming with cops. After I told them my story and showed them Barnaby’s switchblade, they hauled the psychotic Santa off to the medical wing of USC county jail.
Somehow I managed to drive myself back to my apartment, vowing that from that day forward I would do all my Christmas shopping online.
Home at last, I collapsed onto my sofa, Prozac nestled on my chest.
“Prozac, honey. You won’t believe what happened. I was almost stabbed to death in Santa’s Workshop by a deranged Santa Claus, but thank heavens I managed to bop him over the head with a tequila bottle and a book of nursery rhymes before he could eviscerate me.”
Yeah, right. Whatever. Is that brownie I smell on your breath?
Okay, so I stopped off for that Brownie Special.
(With extra whipped cream, if you must know.)
* * *
I woke up the next morning to find a message on my answering machine.
What with my near death experience, I hadn’t noticed it blinking the night before.
I pressed the play button, and almost choked on my morning coffee when I heard:
Hello, Jaine. This is Jim Nelson calling from Los Angeles Magazine. We . . . um . . . sort of met the other night at Jason’s party. Anyhow, Jason told me about your Christmas Elf idea, and I th
ink it would be a great story for the magazine. Why don’t we get together for lunch to talk over the details? Or dinner, if you’re free. Give me a buzz.
Holy Moly. It looked like it was going to be a Merry Christmas, after all.
One More Thing
It turns out that Greg, Lance’s Secret Santa crush, is allergic to birds. So if anyone wants a parrot who can say, Here’s looking at you, kid, just let me know.
Hi, there!
I hope you enjoyed reading “Nightmare on Elf Street” as much as I enjoyed writing it. I had so much fun squeezing Jaine into those ghastly striped tights.
Those of you familiar with my books already know what crazy scrapes I put Jaine through. Not only is she constantly stumbling over dead bodies, she’s kissed more frogs than me and Miss Piggy combined.
One of these days, after we’ve shared a margarita or three, you must remind me to tell you about the time my date tried to toss me off the Santa Monica pier. Happy to report I survived, only to see the guy show up on TV a few days later as a staid stock market analyst!
But that’s a whole other story, one I’m saving for my memoirs, and my therapist.
Until then, I’m focusing all my attention on Jaine.
Since her nightmare on Elf Street, Jaine has solved murders at a health spa, a teen beauty pageant, and a faraway Pacific island (where, amid swaying palms and Godzilla-sized water bugs, a native island king is determined to make Jaine his twelfth bride).
My intrepid heroine has tracked down killers on cruise ships and weddings; and dealt with murder weapons as diverse as designer shoes, a chocolate yule log, and—in her very first adventure, This Pen for Hire—a Thighmaster. She’s crossed paths with so many dead bodies, she’s practically got an honorary crypt at the L.A. County morgue.
In Jaine’s latest outing, Death of a Gigolo, she gets a job ghost-writing a romance novel for a wealthy society matron. When the woman’s boy toy—a sleazy nogoodnik loathed by one and all—is murdered, Jaine sets out to find the killer—all the while trying to impress the new love in her own life.
Yes! For once, Jaine is dating someone she actually likes! Unfortunately, Prozac doesn’t share Jaine’s enthusiasm and mounts an aggressive campaign to sabotage their budding romance.
Will Jaine find the killer? Will she master the art of romance writing? And, most important, will she foil Prozac’s dastardly attempts to come between her and her hot new honey?
The answers to these and other burning questions are waiting to be revealed in Death of a Gigolo.
Until we meet again (I hope!)—
Laura Levine
P.S. Whatever you do, stay away from guys who want to take you for an after-dinner stroll on the Santa Monica Pier!
THE CHRISTMAS THIEF
LESLIE MEIER
Chapter One
“That bag is to die for.”
As a graduate of the Cavendish Hotel chain’s Guests Come First program, Toni Leone was too well trained to point, but Elizabeth Stone followed her colleague’s gaze, which was fixed on a Chanel-style handbag made of silver quilted leather with a long, woven leather and chain strap. The woman carrying the bag was dressed in tight black jeans, stiletto heels, and a fluttering silk tunic. Her hair was bleached blond and she was hanging onto the arm of an extremely muscular man.
“It’s probably not real,” Elizabeth replied, speaking in a whisper. The two young women were wearing matching forest green blazers and standing behind the reception desk at the very posh, very expensive Cavendish Palm Beach Hotel. It was strictly against hotel policy to comment on the guests, but the staff members all did it, especially during the quiet times. The hotel was a historic landmark and attracted the rich and famous from around the world. Located right on the beach, the pink stucco building had eight restaurants, four pools, a spa, and recreational options ranging from tennis courts and an eighteen-hole golf course to paddleboats and shuffleboard. It was also steps away from Worth Avenue, which was lined with designer boutiques such as Gucci, Armani, Ralph Lauren, and Cartier.
“Of course it’s real,” Toni replied, giving her wavy blond hair a toss. “I saw it in the window at the Chanel store. I can tell the difference between a genuine Chanel bag and a knockoff and I’m surprised you can’t.”
Elizabeth shrugged and tucked her short, dark hair behind her ears. “If it’s real, it’s the only genuine thing about her. Her hair’s bleached, and I bet she’s had quite a bit of work done.” She gazed across the vast, luxuriously appointed lobby—where a round gilt and marble table with an enormous display of pink poinsettias was centered beneath a fabulous crystal chandelier—and through the glass doors, where the sun was shining brightly on a flower bed filled with colorful tropical plants. She shook her head. “I’ve been in Florida for almost six months and I’m still not used to this weather. Eighty-two degrees and sunny—can you believe it’s almost Christmas?”
“Uh, yeah,” Toni said, winding a lock of hair around her finger. “They put the poinsettias and amaryllis plants in the lobby weeks ago.” She’d lived in Florida her entire life and didn’t find the climate the least bit odd, unlike Elizabeth, who had grown up in Tinker’s Cove, a small town located on the coast of Maine. “Don’t tell me you miss the snow—most people come to Florida to get away from the cold winters up north.”
Elizabeth hit a few keys on her computer and went to a favorite site. “It’s twenty-five and snowing in Tinker’s Cove,” she said. “Looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas.”
Toni looked over her shoulder at the live-cam image showing a lighthouse with snow swirling all around it and rough surf crashing on the rugged gray rocks below. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why do you want to go there for Christmas?”
Elizabeth smiled. “It’s home. There’ll be tree trimming and carol singing. . . .”
“You can do that here.”
“It’s not the same,” Elizabeth said. “You have to go caroling in the snow and have hot chocolate afterward, in front of a roaring fire.”
“I’d rather have a chilled martini on a deck overlooking the ocean, watching the sunset.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That’s nice, too, but Christmas is about family. I miss my mom and dad and my sisters and my brother and especially my little nephew, Patrick. He’s almost three now and he’s very excited about Santa Claus.”
“Well, you’ve only got to wait a little more than two weeks and you’ll be on your way, flying north.” She shivered. “Personally, I think you’re crazy to take your vacation in December. The hotel’s really busy at Christmas and I’m going to be keeping an eye out for Mr. Right.”
“Tell me, again, what makes him Mr. Right?” Elizabeth urged.
“Well, he has to be tall, and good-looking, and sweet, really considerate,” said Toni, just as a very ugly, very short man came through the revolving door, dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren resort wear and sporting an enormous gold watch on a very hairy wrist. “But I’ll be willing to overlook all that if he’s rich,” she added, under her breath as she pasted on a smile. “Welcome to the Cavendish, Mr. Moore. It’s so nice to see you again.”
“It’s nice to be back,” he replied. “This place feels like home. I don’t know how you do it but I know I’m going to find my bags waiting for me in my room, there’ll be an extra-firm pillow on my bed with a sugar-free chocolate, and my favorite low-cal beer is going to be in the minibar.”
“That’s our little secret,” Toni said. “Is it the same Visa account?”
“No, no.” Mr. Moore produced an American Express platinum card. “I’ve got a new one.”
“Very well.” Toni was clicking away at her keyboard, adding the new information to the extensive database the Cavendish chain maintained about all its customers. That database, envied throughout the entire hospitality industry, allowed Cavendish employees to provide top notch service personally tailored to every guest, and was the reason why Mr. Moore found that extra-firm pillow, sugar-free chocolate, and
light beer waiting for him in his room. “Have a pleasant stay,” Toni said, handing him the key card. “Room three-oh-five, overlooking the pool.”
“See?” he asked Elizabeth, holding up the key card. “My favorite room. You guys take better care of me than my wife does.”
“It’s our pleasure,” she said. “Just give us a call if there’s anything we can do for you.”
“Right-o,” he said, giving them a little salute with his key card and making his way to the elevator, pausing here and there to admire the blooming orchids and other holiday decorations.
“You know why he likes room three-oh-five, don’t you?” Toni asked.
“The view of the pool?” Elizabeth suggested.
“Think again. It’s not the pool, it’s the women in skimpy swimsuits.”
“So Mr. Moore is a bit of a voyeur,” said Elizabeth, giggling, just as the hotel manager, Sergei Dimitri, came out of his office, which was located behind the reception desk.
Mr. Dimitri was a neat, middle-aged man with slicked back hair, a small mustache, and a pronounced French accent. Guests adored him, frequently commenting on his warm smile and accommodating nature, but staff members had a somewhat less favorable opinion of him. “Ladies, ladies, how many times must I warn you not to talk about the guests? They pay your salaries, remember that.”
“Of course, Mr. Dimitri,” Toni said with an innocent expression.
His gaze rested on Elizabeth. “I’m surprised at you, Elizabeth. I don’t want to have to place you on probation.”
Elizabeth didn’t like the sound of that—employees who were on probation could not take vacation time. “Oh, please no, Mr. Dimitri,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry.”
Mr. Dimitri’s eyes were hard, like round black buttons, and his mustache bristled. “You’ve been warned. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Oh, it won’t,” she said. “I promise.”
