After Greg had died, I hadn’t believed that I deserved to enjoy life. I hadn’t known how to live and be happy with Greg dead. Over the years, while memories of Greg had faded and the trauma of his death had lessened, I’d turned my noble suffering into a lifelong habit of working too hard and keeping everyone at arm’s length. And twelve years ago, just as I’d begun to lighten up, Daddy’s sudden and unexpected death had driven me back into my self-imposed shell.
Enjoy myself, Bill had ordered, but old habits died hard. Having fun was a skill I needed to learn all over again.
I watched Bill at the helm, his eyes shining, fake beard blowing in the wind, a man perfectly at ease as Santa in Jimmy Buffett mode. If I needed an instructor, and I did, to teach me how to lighten up, Bill Malcolm was my guy.
Somehow, in spite of his painful divorce and his daughter’s desertion, in spite of years as a cop who had witnessed daily the worst in humanity, he’d hung on to the ability to be happy, to find joy in little moments, to see each day as an adventure. And for most of those years, he’d been my best friend, enduring my joyless outlook on life and prodding me to smile. He’d even asked me to marry him.
God knew, I loved him. But I loved him too much to impose my gloomy presence on a man who obviously loved life every breathing minute. If I wanted to spend the rest of my days with Bill, I had to learn to be happy again, to regain my sense of playfulness.
No time like the present. I pushed myself from my chair.
“Where are you going?” Bill asked.
“Below.” I put my arms around him and placed my lips against his ear. “Santa, baby, you need a wife.”
I climbed down toward the cabin to don my costume. I was determined to enjoy myself.
Even if it killed me.
Something magical happened when darkness fell. The convoy of boats, gaudy and pathetic in the harsh light of day, turned into a breathtaking spectacle of fairy lights and fantastic images that floated north in an orderly procession along the channel toward Pelican Bay. Cabin cruisers and sailboats had transformed into gigantic Christmas trees, gaily wrapped boat-size packages, sugarplum fairies, toy soldiers, teddy bears and a plethora of cartoon characters. Sound systems blasted holiday music that carried across the water to the crowds gathered on the shoreline and to those watching from boats anchored along the parade route.
In the tradition of most Christmas parades, the Ten-Ninety-Eight, which carried Santa, came last. By the time Bill docked and secured the boat in his usual slip, crowds had moved from the shore to the marina park, where the high school chorus sang “Jingle Bell Rock” in the bandstand and children and their parents gathered to meet Santa.
Bill grabbed a huge red sack trimmed with fake white fur from inside the cabin, hoisted it over his shoulder and stepped onto the dock. He offered me a hand. “Ready, Mrs. Claus?”
I took one look at the people thronging the park and fought the urge to dive back into the cabin. Calling attention to myself had always made me uncomfortable, and as a detective, I’d become adept at blending in and making myself almost invisible. Accompanying Bill, who was definitely the man of the hour, went against the grain. I consoled myself by believing that with my white wig, granny glasses and rouged cheeks, no one would recognize me.
I accepted his hand and fell in step beside him. The kids, waiting in the park, took one look at Bill and went wild. When we reached the end of the dock, the crowd parted, clearing the walkway that led to the bandstand where two gigantic thrones of gilt-painted plywood stood waiting. Bill seated me on his right, then took a seat himself. A line formed instantly of children and parents, all wanting to see Santa.
“What do I do?” I asked in a panic.
Bill took a handful of candy canes from the sack at his feet and gave them to me. “Help me distribute these.”
The time passed in a blur of young faces, some excited, others shy or tearful. Only a few stood out, in particular one snotty-nosed little blonde.
“Ain’t you got any chocolate?” she demanded. The girl couldn’t have been more than eight, with un-combed hair and rumpled clothing. No adult accompanied her.
“Sorry, no chocolate tonight. Where’s your mother?” I asked while Bill jostled a three-year-old on his knee and the parents took snapshots.
The girl jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the Dock of the Bay restaurant. “She’s over there, getting a beer. She hates this Christmas crap.”
I couldn’t turn the child loose in a crowd of strangers, so I tapped Bill on the shoulder. “We’re going to find this girl’s mother.”
He nodded, distracted by another youngster, who was requesting the entire inventory of Toys “R” Us to be delivered by Santa.
With the girl in tow, I crossed the park and entered the Dock of the Bay. I took a few deep breaths to calm my anger at her mother’s irresponsibility, sat the girl in a chair in the foyer, and ordered her not to move until I returned with her parent.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Tiffany,” she said.
“What’s your last name?”
“Harlow.” She glanced around with interest. “My mom said they don’t let little kids in here.”
Her mother was a liar. Dock of the Bay was a family restaurant. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Barbara Harlow.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I skirted the restaurant and went straight to the bar, crowded with patrons. The bartender was adding a paper umbrella to a pink concoction in a hurricane glass.
He glanced up at my approach. “Hi, Maggie. What can I get you tonight?”
So much for my disguise. “I’m looking for a Barbara Harlow. She here?”
He nodded toward a woman at the end of the bar. One word described her. Big. Big hair, big boobs, big butt, big mouth. Her annoying intoxicated laugh, audible above the jukebox, could have peeled the paint off the wall. She was batting her heavily made-up eyes at a burly man beside her and knocking back boilermakers.
I pushed my way through the crowd until I reached her, then tapped her on the shoulder.
“What the hell do you want?” she demanded.
“Your daughter’s in the lobby,” I said. “You should take her home.”
She turned her back on me and took another drink.
I tapped her shoulder again. This time, she swatted my hand away and snarled, “Get lost, Grandma, before I call the cops.”
I reached into the pocket of my muumuu, extracted my shield and thrust it in her face. “I am the cops, Ms. Harlow, and if you don’t take your daughter home now, I’m arresting you for child abuse.”
At the sight of my detective’s shield, the woman’s burly companion melted into the crowd.
Ms. Harlow was apparently too drunk to think straight. Instead of complying, she leaned toward me with booze-laden breath. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, Granny?”
“You’ve had enough spirits for everyone tonight,” I said.
I took her by the elbow and led her toward the front of the restaurant, shouting to the bartender as I passed, “Call us a cab, Bud.”
He acknowledged my request with a wave and reached for the phone behind the bar.
In the foyer, Tiffany leaped to her feet, her swagger gone, eyes wide with fright when she spotted her mother. “It’s not my fault, Mom. She made me come. I was waiting in the park, just like you said.”
The woman raised a hand, as if to slap her daughter, but reined herself in at the last minute. I was almost hoping she’d follow through, just so I could arrest her sorry ass.
“You should never leave Tiffany alone,” I said, “especially in a crowded public park at night. The world is full of creeps who wouldn’t think twice about carrying her off.”
In dismay, I found myself choking up, thinking of the children I’d never had. Between Tiffany and the rugrats visiting Santa, I’d had too many reminders tonight. This woman, who had been blessed with a daughter, had abandoned her. “Don’
t you know how lucky you are to have her?”
“Lucky?” Barbara said with a sneer. “I can’t even have a damn drink without the kid underfoot.”
So much for maternal instincts. Harlow had probably evolved from a species that ate their young.
“I’ve called you a cab,” I said. “Go home and sleep it off.”
I turned to Tiffany. “And if your mother ever lays a hand on you or leaves you alone again, call 911 and tell them Detective Skerritt said you need someone to come and get you.”
“Sure,” Tiffany said, but she avoided my eyes when she promised. The girl was obviously afraid of doing anything that would anger her mother.
I left the restaurant after putting the two in a cab. I’d asked the driver to call the station and leave a message for me if Barbara didn’t take her daughter straight home. Feeling depressed, I trudged back toward the bandstand, knowing, while I might have saved Tiffany from a mishap tonight, once they had pulled out of sight, she was at the mercy of her mother again.
“Hey, Maggie! Over here.”
I turned to see Adler hurrying toward me. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed, Observe Wildlife. Be A Cop. His wife Sharon was with him, holding little Jessica in her arms.
“Great boat parade,” Adler said. “Malcolm’s decorations were spectacular.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I said.
“We’re here to see Santa,” Sharon said. “Jessica loves the lights and music.”
“Hi, Jessica,” I said.
The child smiled and held out her arms. A warm and wonderful feeling slid through me as I took the little girl.
“How do you do that?” Sharon asked. “She’s usually really shy around people.”
“Must be the Mrs. Claus outfit,” I said.
Sharon shook her head. “Has to be you. She did the same thing when you came to her birthday party. She likes you, Maggie.”
I hugged Jessica and handed her back to her mother before I embarrassed myself by fogging up my granny glasses. I’d grown fond of this family and, if Adler landed his job with the Clearwater department, they’d soon be moving out of my life, like the other people I’d loved and lost.
“Santa’s in the bandstand,” I said. “Can Jessica have a candy cane?”
“Sure,” Adler said, “if we keep an eye on her with it.”
“See you soon.” I left them and joined Bill on the platform.
“Is the girl all right?” he asked.
I nodded. “I hope so. I sent her home with her mother.”
In a few minutes the Adlers had moved to the front of the line. Bill reached for Jessica, but she retreated into her mother’s embrace and wouldn’t let Santa hold her. Feeling smug, I gave the little girl a candy cane and was rewarded with a giggle.
“Merry Christmas, sweetie.” I couldn’t help thinking how my life would have been different if Greg had lived. I’d probably have grandchildren Jessica’s age by now. But I hadn’t traveled that road and I had no way of backtracking to reclaim what I’d lost.
Seeing all these children had to stir up feelings for Bill, too. His daughter, now married and living on the West Coast, had two children. Bill tried to visit his grandchildren as often as possible, but Melanie had made it clear she didn’t want her father in their lives. She was closer to her stepdad. That fact had to hurt him like hell.
The Adlers moved away, and Bill, as if reading my thoughts, grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. He leaned toward me and whispered, “You’re doing great, Mrs. Claus. When we’re through here, how about coming back to my sleigh for a snuggle?”
Before I could reply, Adler reappeared, cell phone in hand. “Just had a call from the station. Another burglary, this one at Al’s Attic. Can we take your car?”
“Sorry,” I told Bill. “Have to go.”
He pulled me toward him and whispered in my ear, “I’ll take a rain check on that snuggle.”
CHAPTER 11
Al’s Attic was a stand-alone building just north of Main Street. A P.B.P.D. cruiser stood in the otherwise empty parking lot when we arrived, and Steve Johnson let us in the front door.
“The alarm company called,” Steve said, “to say an alarm had been triggered. No one inside when I arrived, but things are missing.”
He was looking at me bug-eyed, but since Johnson often appeared a little squirrelly, I ascribed his expression to the same frustration I was experiencing at another burglary.
I hit several switches in the light panel by the door and fluorescent light flooded the room, a large open area filled with display cases. Glass-fronted shelves lined the walls. Al’s Attic wasn’t as ordinary as it sounded. The store stocked a variety of high-end collectibles from sports memorabilia and toy action figures to porcelain and crystal figurines, paintings, bronze sculptures and historical artifacts.
Glass from the shelf fronts and display cases littered the aisles, but I had no way of knowing what was missing until the owner did an inventory.
“Forced entry?” I asked Johnson.
He shook his head. “Everything was locked up tight when I arrived. I had to wait for Al to let me in.”
“Al’s here?” Adler asked.
“Checking her office.” Johnson pointed to the rear of the store.
“Al’s a her?” I said.
A plump young woman with tangled auburn hair, who had obviously thrown on mismatched clothes in a hurry, came toward us from the office. She stopped a few feet away, cocked her head to one side, looked at me and frowned. “And you are?”
“Detective Maggie Skerritt,” I said.
Her puzzled expression remained. “You working undercover?”
Only then did I realize I still wore the white wig, granny glasses and heavy rouge of Mrs. Claus. I must have looked like an escapee from the Golden Years Home for the Aged and Insane. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Adler biting his lip to keep from laughing, and his shoulders were shaking. I resisted the urge to ram my elbow in his ribs.
“I was taking part in the Christmas celebration at Marina Park.” I started to remove the wig, then decided my own hair, plastered to my head all those hours, would make me appear even sillier. I tucked the granny glasses in my pocket, pulled out a tissue and rubbed at my cheeks.
“I appreciate your getting here so quickly,” the woman said, but still eyed me as if I was a few beers short of a six-pack. “I’m Alicia Watkins, the owner. I came as soon as the alarm company called. Just checked my office. The door’s still locked. Looks like no one’s been in there.”
“What’s missing out here?” I asked.
Adler left the questioning to me and walked toward the rear of the building, searching for a point of entry. The crime scene unit arrived and the techs unpacked their equipment and began their survey.
Alicia did a quick tour of the aisles and examined the broken cases and shelves. “Little stuff, but all very valuable, vintage baseball cards, a Superbowl presentation football, some classic Lladro statuettes, gold coins and—that’s odd.”
She’d stopped in front of a display of action figures that sat unsecured on top of a counter.
“What’s odd?” I asked.
“At least half a dozen of these are missing, but they’re only worth a few bucks each. Why would someone steal these?”
Her question confirmed my worst fears. Our thief was most likely a kid who’d decided to take home some souvenirs.
Adler returned. “Came in through the AC system, just like the others. I asked the CSU techs to dust the ductwork.”
“We’ll need a list with descriptions and values of what’s missing,” I told Alicia. “But don’t touch or disturb anything.”
“I’ll get on it,” she said.
A pounding on the glass at the front door caught my attention. Outside stood a tall, thin, elderly man wearing bedroom slippers and a robe over his pajamas. When he caught my eye, he motioned for me to come out. I hoped he wasn’t an Alzheimer’s patient, wandering l
ost and disoriented. I’d have to send Johnson to ID him and take him home. I stepped out the door and closed it behind me.
“You a cop?” He was looking askance at my wig and the shield clipped to my muumuu.
“Detective Maggie Skerritt. What can I do for you?”
He stuck out a bony hand. “Harry Lenkowski, Nassau County, New York, P.D., retired. I live in the condo across the street.”
I shook his hand and glanced across the boulevard to the high-rise on the waterfront that overlooked the parking lot of Al’s Attic. Bright light streamed from a set of windows on the fifth floor. “What can I do for you?”
He wiped his hand over his thinning hair, then tightened the sash on his robe. “I hope I can do something for you. Looks like you’ve had a burglary.”
“We’re still investigating.”
“Your perp’s a kid on a bike.”
“What?”
“I was watching TV, and, being so high up, I leave my windows open for the view. I noticed a kid on a bike circling this place. I didn’t think too much about it, except what kind of parents would let their kids ride a bike without lights after dark. Then several minutes later, the outside alarms went off at Al’s. I looked out again and saw the kid taking off on his bike like a bat out of hell with a backpack stuffed to the gills. Nobody else in sight. I called 911, but the alarm company had already alerted the police.”
“Thanks, Mr. Lenkowski. You’ve been a big help.”
“You need further assistance?” The hunger in his eyes was embarrassing. For an instance, I felt as if I’d been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Future and saw myself retired and alone, longing for the job that had once given my life purpose.
“How about I send Officer Johnson over to your place to take a statement?” I said. “Give him any details you can remember about the kid and the bike.”
His face lit up. “That would be great.”
“Wait here.”
I went inside and told Steve to take the man home and get his statement. Then I filled in Adler on what I’d learned. The fact that I’d been right about someone using kids to do his dirty work gave me no satisfaction. It only increased my determination to catch the slimeball.
Holidays Are Murder Page 11
