Babes in Toyland II

by Aspen Mountain Press Authors

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  Aspen Mountain Press

  www.aspenmountainpress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Various

  First published in 2007, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Warning

  This e-Books contains material that may be considered objectionable by some including graphic scenes of violence, sex and adult language. Please store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

  Babes in

  Toyland

  II

  Maura Anderson, Jeanne Barrack,

  Raine Delight, Melissa Glisan,

  Wayne Greenough, Michelle Hasker,

  Dawn Montgomery, Skylar Sinclair

  Aspen Mountain Press

  Babes in Toyland II

  Copyright © 2007

  Gift of the Holly King, Maura Anderson; The Game, Jeanne Barrack; Devon Falls: Sticky Magic, Raine Delight; Festival of Lights, Melissa Glisan; Who Offed Holiday Spirit, Wayne Greenough; Heart's Desire, Michelle Hasker; Christmas Belle, Dawn Montgomery; Christmas Ink, Skylar Sinclair

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

  Aspen Mountain Press

  PO Box 473543

  Aurora CO 80047-3543

  www.AspenMountainPress.com

  First published by Aspen Mountain Press, November 2007

  www.AspenMountainPress.com

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and / or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-60168-074-7

  Released in the United States of America

  Editors: Maura Anderson, Christine Harris, Sandra Hicks, Nikita Gordyn, Louise Sabre

  Cover artist: Jinger Heaston

  Dedications and Acknowledgments

  To my wife, June, who always makes the holiday season a joyous occasion.

  Wayne Greenough

  To Dr. J. Rose and Dr. Perry Halman whose many tales and interesting sermons inspired this story and that is all this is—a story.

  Melissa Glisan

  For Melissa

  Dawn Montgomery

  For Aline who prompted me to combine my love of everything Irish with my love of vampires and write Adhamh's story. Thank you.

  Michelle Hasker

  For my husband who managed to buy the first copy of my first fiction book. And for Laura and Jo—who DID tell me so!

  Maura Anderson

  Who Offed Holiday Spirit

  Wayne Greenough

  Chapter One

  I love Christmas. As I look outside my office windows, smiling people are packing presents as they go from store to store. The street lights came on about an hour ago, twinkling brightly in the gently falling snow, adding to the festive air that is hovering over the city. No matter where I look there are presents, all wrapped in bright, cheerful colors. Hopefully there will be enough presents for everybody to celebrate this very special month of December.

  Like I said, it's snowing. Children are playfully throwing snowballs at one another, being mildly scolded by their parents who then laugh uproariously as they join in the fray, energetically tossing a snowball or two. There are Santas ringing bells as they yell out various season's greetings interspersed with the obligatory ‘ho, ho, ho'. Their pots are being filled by the usually miserly inhabitants of this city. Christmas is a testament that good will still exists.

  Bill posters on every lamppost advertise the city's Theatre Guild production of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. The Carolers from the play are walking up and down Main Street in costume, singing Christmas carols. It's a great show. Be sure to pay special attention to the actor who plays Marley's ghost. Yes, it's me under all that stage makeup. A Christmas Carol has always been a favorite read with me. When I read the Theatre Guild was going to perform it, I decided to try out. After convincing the director I was a walking hearse only when I was on a murder case, he tossed a play booklet at me in challenge. “All right Blake, read some pages from the script.” Much to my surprise, I got the part.

  Every store I can see from my office showcases a Christmas theme. In one section of the street, a fifty foot Christmas tree decorated with brilliant ornaments and thousands of blazing lights towers above the hustle and bustle. It was a fascinating sight to behold as city engineers slowly put the tree up into position. When it was time for the tree to be decorated, I talked the decorators into letting me help. Yes, I kept my feet firmly planted on the ground.

  December is a special month for me. During this time, when I look up into a clear night sky, I see all the bright lights of creation and know there is a God. This is when I feel He is the closest to me.

  I finished decorating my office, keeping to the theme of festive frivolity. When I was a kid in school we made paper chains. I still make them to this day. They're made from the bright colors of the rainbow, hanging all over my four walls and from the ceiling, giving the impression of a marquee. I had finagled a small Christmas tree from a friend and borrowed some ornaments and a string of lights from my mother. Whistling a happy tune as I joyfully created my Christmas masterpiece, I stood back to view the results of my efforts. I love it. The smell of pine needles lent to my feeling of satisfaction, the red, green, blue, yellow and white ornaments sparkled under the string of white lights, all twenty-five of them glowing happily. And so did I.

  I heard the call of my rye bottle and settled myself down at my desk, my feet propped up, a shot glass in my hand as I started to sing. “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride—"

  "Are you Mr. Thanet Blake?” A small voice came from the front of my desk.

  I looked beyond the shot glass full of rye, held tantalizingly close to my lips, and didn't see anybody. When it occurred to me to look downward, I saw a cute blue-eyed kid with a scared look on his face. He couldn't have been older than seven, maybe six months shy from eight. On his head he sported a faded blue baseball cap that didn't quite cover his black, curly hair. He's wearing a dark-blue heavy jacket that resembles a Navy coat and covers him down to his waist. It almost matches his black jeans and athletic shoes.

  I put my rye down on my desk and smile. “Yeah, I'm Thanet Blake. What's your name?"

  "I'm Jimmy MacWilliams. My dad has talked about you lots of times; he told me where to find your office. And he was right."

  I sighed and hoped his father had the sense not to tell him the usual jokes about me; it's not the sort of thing a little kid should hear. Why was this kid here to see me anyway? And more importantly, why was he alone? This may be the season for good will toward others, but that didn't mean there weren't unscrupulous people waiting to take advantage of the innocent. Maybe I was being scammed. Maybe the scammer sent an innocent kid, a kid who couldn't possibly know the straight skinny of the deal, to set me up. Maybe I'm too cynical. It was time I found out immediately or,
if possible, sooner. “Well hi there, Jimmy. Are your parents nearby?"

  "Mom's shopping at the big store about a block away. I told her I was going to see you."

  I came to the conclusion that the store he was referring to was Macy's. Would his mother have heard him over the din of bargain hunters? “I'll tell you what, Jimmy MacWilliams. If your mother doesn't show up soon, we'll go looking for her. What do you say to that?” At the brief nod of agreement, I asked the question that burned foremost in my mind. “Now, can you tell me why you left the safety of your mother's side to come visit me?"

  "My dad said you were a real cheap gumshoe. I want to hire you."

  I didn't exactly know how to take that comment. My wallet is always flat and I'm once again behind on my office rent. But because it's the Christmas season, my landlord has been feeling mellow and my door still says I'm a private detective instead of a dickhead, or something even worse.

  "Are you for hire, Mr. Blake?"

  I looked hard at the kid. The expression on his face pleaded for me to say yes as tears welled in his big blue eyes. I'm a lollipop for tears. I wanted to cry myself—in sympathy, mind you. Yeah, this wasn't a scam. Whatever was going down was on the up and up.

  "Before I can answer that, I'd like you to tell me what the trouble is, Jimmy.” There was something wrong with my voice. It didn't sound hardboiled.

  Tears streaked his face and his voice cracked with emotion. “Holiday Spirit is missing. He can't be found by anybody."

  "Holiday Spirit, Jimmy? Is that your cat, a dog, or maybe a horse?"

  Between heavy sobs Jimmy said, “No, Holiday Spirit is a man at our church. We love him and now he's gone."

  Finally the name struck me like a bullet between my eyes. Holiday Spirit was the guy who always came to visit this city during November and December. Although I never had the pleasure of meeting him, I had heard great things about him.

  I directed Jimmy to sit down in my one and only chair for clients. Once he was seated, I walked to my mini-refrigerator, grabbed a can of Coke, opened it and gave it to him along with a box of tissues. He dried his tears, drank some pop, and slowly explained why Holiday Spirit was a special guy at church.

  "He's Santa Claus at our church. He gives gifts to everybody. He makes everybody happy and now he's disappeared. No one knows where he is, not even the police. I want you to find him, Mr. Blake. Please say you will."

  Jimmy looked at me, desperation in his eyes. “I can pay you, Mr. Blake. I have money."

  Before I could respond, he shoved his hands into his front pockets, pulled out some money and dropped it on my desk. I counted $3.95 and two gumballs. “Is that enough, Mr. Blake? That's all I had in my superhero bank."

  I looked at the kid and sensed the unfamiliar lurch of my heart. I almost cried. It took two swallows before I could talk again. “It's a little too much.” My voice was hoarse and I had to cough to clear my throat. “It just so happens that today I have a special running. On Tuesday's I do all my detective work for the price of one gumball. I'll take the white one. Put your money and your other gumball ball back in your pockets."

  As he pocketed his money and gumball, a harried-looking woman showed up. This, I surmised, was Jimmy's mother. She was almost completely buried under a mound of packages, ranging from every size, shape and color. How she managed to carry such a load was beyond me. I managed to catch a glimpse of her face as she looked furtively around my office. She was white, breathing heavy and obviously scared to the point her voice sounded as one worried and angry.

  "Jimmy! What are you doing here?"

  "Didn't you hear me, Mother? I said I was coming here to see Mr. Blake."

  Mrs. MacWilliams dropped her packages on my floor, fell to her knees and held her arms wide open to Jimmy. The boy ran into her embrace and she hugged and kissed him for a full minute. Tears shimmered in her eyes as her love for her offspring saturated my office. The pesky lump I thought I had swallowed down threatened to choke me and I had to cough.

  "I was so frightened for you. I looked in every store and you weren't in any of them. I was asking about you on the street when a Santa Claus told me he saw a boy enter this building."

  As I stood there silently watching the scene in front of me, I swear I saw some black hair on her well-combed head turn gray. Minutes ticked by before she finally focused her blue eyes on me. “Mr. Blake, I'm so sorry he bothered you."

  "He hasn't been any trouble at all, Mrs. MacWilliams. In fact, he has hired me to find Holiday Spirit."

  Jimmy's mother sighed. “We can't afford to hire you, Mr. Blake. December always stretches our budget."

  "Please, call me Thanet. I've already been hired and paid in full. What's the name of the church you attend?"

  "It's the Assumption Church. You can find it in the old part of the city, on Elridge Street."

  "Okay. Jimmy, I'll start eyeballing for Holiday Spirit first thing tomorrow morning."

  I helped Mrs. MacWilliams collect her packages and ushered mother and son through the door as they left. I sat back down at my desk and slowly poured my shot of rye back into the bottle it came from. I spent a few seconds looking at the half-full rye bottle; I was thirsty. But I am now in the employ of one very special client, one I liked immensely. I smiled as I pictured that cute little guy in my head. Thinking of him made me feel warm and wishful. I pulled out a picture from my drawer, the only one I had of my wife, and gently put it on my desk. I looked at it and tried very hard to keep tears from flooding my eyes. It was a losing battle. Dru is dead and I am alive. We should have had more time together; we should have had years of marriage and swell kids like Jimmy. I didn't need any booze, I need Dru. I need a family and an end to my loneliness. I shoved the rye bottle and the well-used shot glass back into my desk.

  Once again I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on top of my desk when I spotted the neglected gumball. I picked it up and popped it into my mouth. Peppermint. It was the best-tasting gumball I had in a very long time.

  Chapter Two

  Because I have respect for all religious leaders—face it folks, trying to convert sinners into do-gooders has got to be one very hard and thankless job—the next day I substituted my usual three shots of rye breakfast for one containing mush, sausages, eggs, toast and coffee. I refrained from smoking in spite of my body screaming for that compulsory nicotine hit. I even put on my best dark-blue suit and shined my shoes. Let me tell you, it was a struggle to look good this early in the morning without my rye and cigarettes.

  The Assumption Catholic Church was further downtown in the city. From the phone call I made the previous night, my appointment with Father Sidney Anderson was set for eight in the morning. It was the only time he had free. I hope he has some useful information about the guy people know as Holiday Spirit.

  The church was comprised of aging brick covered with ivy. When I first laid eyes on the building, the immediate impression was one of longevity, stability and welcome. It was evident the old structure was lovingly maintained. I was surprised to see a nativity scene outside that had Christmas lights surrounding it. Apparently nobody had made an attempt to pilfer the items—yet. As I opened the outside door I was greeted by the man I wanted to see. The first impression I had of Father Anderson was that he believed in the idea that there is true goodness in every human being. That belief oozed from him like an aura.

  He shook my hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “I've heard about you, Thanet, and know that deep down in your heart you are truly a good man. I do hope I can use your first name. May I?"

  I nodded as I looked at his smiling face, searching for any hidden secrets behind his persona. Is there more to this naturally-friendly religious person, who was flattering me by using my first name, than meets the eye? His hair was gray and carefully groomed. He was no more than six inches above five feet, slightly rotund, and wore a black suit with a roman collar that identified him as a Catholic priest. His blue eyes twinkled and gave me the impression t
hey were peeking into my soul.

  "I know you've come to ask me questions about Holiday Spirit and I hope I can help you. But first, let us find somewhere comfortable to sit."

  In a matter of minutes we were seated in his office. A glance around his small, comfortable private quarters revealed walls filled with books, a mahogany desk with neatly-arranged items spaced exactly a couple of inches apart, a computer and printer to the desk's right, a leather chair behind the desk, and one in front. I sat in the one in front. Father Sidney Anderson's warmth was ingrained in the room, in everything in it. It oozed the man's friendliness, his kindness, caring and desire to help everybody. There was no doubt in my mind that sometime in the future I would be back to see him.

  "Ask away, Thanet."

  "Before I start, Father, do you have a photograph of Holiday Spirit?"

  Father Anderson frowned as he sought his memory. “Sadly no, I don't. And to my knowledge, no one else does either. We do have many drawings of him, but they are done by the children.

  "Without failure, Holiday Spirit would walk through the church's front door on the first day of November at exactly eight in the morning, and always at that same time every single day until December thirty-first. Then he would be gone. He insisted absolutely no one must photograph him. All granted his request."

  "That's odd. Do you have any idea why he requested that?"

  He shook his head, a rueful grin turning the corners of his mouth. “Sadly no, I don't. Do you think he may be a wanted man?"

  "No, I have no reason to believe that at the moment. Did he have any outstanding features you can recall?"

  "I would say his face. Definitely his face. It is round—chubby—and he has a heavy, pure-white beard. Picture the commercial version of Santa Claus. To me he is identical to that. He isn't tall, I would say no more than three or four inches over five feet, and he has a chunky build. His constant friendliness—his whole demeanor—brings joy to all who gather around him."