by Cleo Coyle
“Celebratorio’s that big party planner, isn’t he?” I asked.
Tucker’s boyfriend, Punch, nodded. “It’s being sold to the press as a fund-raiser for New York’s public libraries, but it’s really a PR event for that big-selling children’s book they just turned into a movie.”
“Ticket to the North Pole?” Esther said. “Isn’t that whole thing set in Santa’s workshop or something?”
Tucker nodded.
“So you’ve basically hired a bunch of actors to play Santa’s elves?” Esther pressed.
Tucker sighed. “The money’s excellent, but when you get right down to it, my job’s essentially—”
“Head Elf,” Esther finished with a smirk.
Tucker shrugged. “Like I said, I should be in the holiday spirit, but the material’s just so cheesy.”
That’s it, I thought. I can’t take any more. “Santa Claus is not cheesy!” I cried.
Dead silence ensued.
“You’re all forgetting what this season is really about!”
Everyone stared. I’d just become Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas.
“Well?” Esther finally said. “What’s it about, boss?”
I threw up my hands. “Giving! Selfless giving! That’s what we’re celebrating! The Christ child’s birth is a gift of love to a weary world! All these symbols—the tree, the lights, the carols—it all comes down to love!”
No one moved as my words reverberated off the restored tin ceiling and echoed through the newly decorated shop. For a full minute, we actually had a silent night.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at the flabbergasted expressions around the room. After all, this was the age of irony, when cynicism was the conventional norm, which was why a blasphemous string of curses would have gone over without a batted eyelash. The truly radical act these days was sincerity. Consequently, our silent night continued—until a single voice boomed—
“. . . all right, Breanne! I heard you! Don’t come, then!”
Matt had been striding into the main room from the back pantry area. Suddenly he stopped.
Yes, Matt, the entire tasting party just overheard the unhappy end to your personal call.
His cheeks, no longer ruddy from the frosty outdoors, began reddening again for an entirely different reason. Then his pleading eyes found mine—a search for rescue—and I immediately clapped my hands.
“Hey, everyone!” I shouted with forced cheer. “You know what this Taste of Christmas party needs?”
All eyes now abandoned Matt and turned to me.
“What, Clare?” Tucker asked. “What does it need?”
“Santa Claus!”
THREE
UNFORTUNATELY, Santa was late.
Earlier in the day, I’d invited St. Nick to drop by our Fa-la-la-la Latte tasting, but he hadn’t shown.
“I can’t believe Santa would stiff you,” Esther said. “Not with his daughter coming.”
Santa’s daughter happened to be my ex-barista, Vicki Glockner. And Santa Claus was really Alfred Glockner, our local sidewalk Santa, also known as—
“Alf?” Matt said. “Are you talking about Alf?”
I nodded.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew—and loved—Alfred Glockner. Even without his long white beard and Traveling Santa suit, Alf was a huggable guy. On the slightly paunchy side, he wore his graying hair in a retro sixties ponytail and his salt-and-pepper mustache in a slightly walruslike David Crosby-esque style. His ruddy face was close to jack-o’- lantern round, his vivid hazel-green eyes completely lit it up, and for the past month he’d been using the Blend to take a bathroom break or warm his bones.
Because his daughter had once worked as a barista here, I could see why he felt at home in my coffeehouse; and because he was collecting for groups that helped the city’s homeless and hungry, I was more than happy to supply all the free lattes the man could drink.
It was a fair exchange, too. Every time Alf came into the Blend, he’d work our customer line, making even our most jaded regulars laugh, then dig into a pocket to give a little. (And, believe me, getting a coffee addict to laugh before he gets his caffeine fix is no mean feat.)
One of my favorites of his shticks was Santa as urban rapper. He’d ho-ho-ho to a prerecorded hip-hop beat, then start old-school break-dancing in his padded costume. His retro moves included the Robot topped by a Michael Jackson moonwalk. Out on Sixth and Seventh avenues, I’d seen him warm up the coldest crowds, getting them to laugh, applaud, and finally dig out that loose change in their pockets and handbags.
“Alf’s a real trip,” Dante said. “Did you hear his joke this morning?”
“Was it another homeless-dude joke?” Esther asked.
“Homeless dude camps out in front of a Manhattan day spa,” Dante recited. “‘Ma’am,’ the guy says to the first woman who comes out, ‘I haven’t had a bite to eat in two days.’ ‘Wow,’ says Spa Lady. ‘I wish I had your willpower.’ ”
Everyone laughed—just like my customers did this morning. It was a dark joke, but it was funny. And according to Alf, whenever he told his homeless-dude jokes to the men in the city shelters, they laughed the hardest of all.
On one of the many days I sat down with Alf on a latte break, he told me the Traveling Santa thing was “a great gig” for him because he was also working the comedy club circuit. Not only did the Santa act pay him a regular salary, it helped him hone his stand-up routine.
Twice a week, he even made time to bring his Santa act to soup kitchens and homeless shelters. “Those places can give a person a bed or a hot meal,” he’d told me, “but what they need even more is laughter—a leavening of the life force, you know?”
He truly did embody the spirit of Christmas.
Matt stepped up and pulled me aside. “I saw your Santa on my way here.”
“Where?” I asked. “Close by?”
Matt nodded. “He was pushing his sleigh down Hudson.”
Unlike the Salvation Army, whose bell ringers staked out permanent locations throughout the city, the Traveling Santas lived up to their name by roving the busy streets. They pushed small wheeled “sleighs” in front of them while cheerfully coaxing pedestrians to throw money into “Santa’s bag.” As Alf himself said, the gig was made for him.
“So he was heading for the Blend?” I assumed.
“He might have been. But it looked to me like he was making a stop at the White Horse.”
“He must have forgotten about my invitation,” I said. “I’m going to get him.”
Matt held my arm. “Let me, Clare. The weather’s bad out there—” Just then Matt’s cell went off. He checked the Caller ID and scowled.
“Breanne?” I guessed.
He nodded. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I shrugged and headed for the back pantry to get my coat. Take all the time you need, I thought. The West Village was a small neighborhood. Alf and his cheery ho-ho-hos would be easy to find.
As Matt quickly strode to a corner to continue arguing with Breanne, I zipped up my parka. Alf will lighten up my griping baristas, I thought, put things in perspective.
As I headed for the door, I saw Tucker opening it, setting off our festive new jingle bells once again.
“You’re not closed, are you, Tuck?” boomed an impressive male voice from beyond the threshold.
I stepped closer to see an attractive man standing there. I’d seen him in the Blend a few times before, often chatting with Tucker. His fair hair and complexion were a stark contrast to his pitch-black overcoat and scarf. His boyish “look” was the kind I used to see on my daughter Joy’s teen magazine covers—cute dimples, a golden shag, trendy chin stubble—only this guy was way beyond his teen years. My guesstimate was thirty-five, maybe older.
“It’s a private party,” Tuck informed the man. “But you can join us.”
“Great ’cause I’m freezing my butt off out here!”
“And a very nice butt it is.” Tucker laughed.
“Who’s this?” I asked, stepping closer.
Tucker introduced us. “Shane Holliway, Clare Cosi.”
“Charmed.” Shane threw me a wink.
“Shane was in my cabaret last summer,” Tucker explained. “We met when I was on that daytime TV show—before the writers killed my character! Shane played the suave private investigator with an eye for the ladies.”
Shane shook his head. “Those were the days, weren’t they, Tuck? Easy lines. Big paydays. Gorgeous females using shared dressing rooms—of course, that was a perk for me more than you.”
I raised an eyebrow. So Shane’s straight, I thought, and a soap actor. No wonder he’s so good looking.
Tucker snapped his fingers. “No doubt.”
“Now what’s this I hear about your putting a show together for Dickie?” Shane asked.
“You mean the Elf extravaganza?” Tucker smirked. “Come on in and we’ll dish.”
“As long as there’s a part for me,” Shane said.
Tucker laughed. “You want to play a dancing elf?”
Shane shrugged. “I could use the gig. Dickie mentioned you needed another dancer and—”
“Nice to meet you,” I told Shane, moving out the open door as his big boots clomped in. Then I caught Tucker’s eye. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I promised as I flipped up my hood, “with our Christmas spirit.”
OUTSIDE the heavy snowfall was tapering off into light flurries. The occasional icy flake pelted the hood of my white parka, then fell to the ground to join its brethren, but for the most part the storm appeared to be over. The glistening blanket it left behind, however, now draped every inch of the historic district—the cobblestone streets and narrow sidewalks, the parked cars and town house roofs.
There was nothing like walking through the Village on a snowy winter night. The few vehicles on the slippery street crept along no faster than horse-drawn carriages. Every surface appeared flocked with white; the pungent smell of active old fireplaces floated through the air; and bundled couples hurried past dark storefronts, eager to get back to their warm apartments or inside a cozy pub for a glass of mulled wine or mug of Irish coffee.
As I passed by St. Luke’s churchyard, the whole world seemed to go silent, save the icy flurries that still pecked at my parka and the crunch, crunch, crunching of my winter boots. At one intersection I stood alone, watching a traffic light provide a signal for crossroads that had no traffic. Hands in pockets, I waited half-amused as the bright red light flipped to green in an unintentional Christmas display just for me.
Suddenly I was a little girl again, back in Pennsylvania, slipping away from my grandmother’s house and carrying my cheap little red plastic toboggan to the dead end of her street. The other kids were tucked in for the night, but the snowfall was fresh, not a mark on it, and the vast, empty hillside was all mine.
That kind of exhilarating privacy was rare in Manhattan. Snow almost always melted to rain upon entering the heat and intensity of this crowded island. But tonight—for a little while, anyway—the world was mine again, a blank canvas, fresh and clean for me to mark as I pleased. And block after block, I did make my mark, each footfall breaking through the frozen crust to leave its momentary print in the soft powder.
When I finally reached the corner of Bank and Hudson, I sighed, stamped the snow off my boots, and reluctantly rejoined civilization. The White Horse Tavern was crowded despite the weather, and I knew Alf often stopped here for a burger or Coke. (Being an ex-alcoholic, he told me he no longer drank alcohol, but he still loved the atmosphere of pubs.) Unfortunately, I didn’t see him inside.
I chatted with the bartender, who told me he’d served Santa a cranberry juice. “He came in to get warm, wait for the snow to ease up, you know? And we were just hanging out, shooting the breeze when he jumped up all of a sudden and left in a big hurry.”
“Which way did he go?” I asked.
“West,” said the man, pointing. “Toward the river.”
That sounded wrong on a night like this, but I didn’t say so. I simply thanked the bartender, left the tavern, and returned to the chilly sidewalk. Moving off the bright main drag, I headed purposefully down the side street. Within two blocks, however, my firmness faltered.
The picturesque charm of the officially designated historic district was gone now. This close to the river, there were no more legally protected Italianate and Federal-style town houses. The buildings here were mostly remnants of the nineteenth-century industries that once supported the working waterfront.
Protected or not, however, the location of these former factories, garages, and warehouses put them right next door to a real estate bonanza. With the West Village commanding some of the highest rents in all of New York City, developers had taken advantage over the years, converting these old white elephants into residences for new money.
To make matters worse, the flurries started changing back into serious snowfall again. The clouds had thickened once more, and the icy flakes were getting heavier and more frequent. Even the halogen streetlamps were straining to cut through the returning blizzard.
With a shiver, I flipped up my parka’s hood. But my mood didn’t get any warmer. Traffic was nonexistent on this stretch, and the few commercial businesses I’d passed were shuttered. Uneasy on this desolate street, I was about to throw in the towel and abandon my search when I spied a familiar sight a little farther up the block: Alf’s bright green Traveling Santa sleigh!
For a moment, I was elated. Then I saw that the green sleigh was parked alone on the sidewalk, its red wheels propped against the curb, white powder piling up on its surface.
Okay, this makes no sense.
Under the weak glow of a streetlamp, I could see that the cash box was still on Alf’s little cart. The box was really a round plastic container about the size of a large soup pot. The top of the container was molded to look like a pile of presents, and it slid into a much larger plastic case on the sleigh that was shaped to look like Santa’s big red bag. Pedestrians threw their cash donations through a small hole at the top of the cash “present” box. Because it was removable from the sleigh by a hidden handle, Alf always brought the plastic cash box into the Blend with him. He never let it out of his sight. So there was no way he’d leave it unguarded on the street like this.
Alarmed now, I approached Alf’s sleigh along the slippery sidewalk. The structures on this street were mostly brick, their ground-floor windows either curtained or shuttered, emitting little light. The sleigh had been left at the mouth of a narrow alley between two seven-story apartment buildings—twin century-old warehouses that had been gutted and remodeled into high-priced lofts.
Reaching the sleigh, I finally saw that Alf’s plastic cash box was broken open, only a few coins left inside. More coins were on the ground, making little round sinkholes in the snow. There were footprints in the powder—two sets of prints. Both led away from the sleigh, into the alley. Only one set of footprints came out again. They continued down the sidewalk in the direction of the river.
Those can’t be Alf’s footprints, I decided. Why would he head toward the river and leave his sleigh behind?
I decided to follow the other tracks of footprints in the snow, the ones leading into the shadowy alley. I had to make sure Alf wasn’t lying at the end of those prints, hurt, bleeding, even unconscious.
I couldn’t see much as I moved toward the narrow passage between the buildings, just a gunmetal gray garbage Dumpster. But as I moved farther in, I realized the alley eventually opened up into a snow-covered courtyard.
“Alf?” I called. A wind gust suddenly howled, swallowing my voice. I called out again, stronger this time, but there was no reply, no movement.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out my keychain flashlight. The beam was weak, but it was better than the dingy dark. I stepped forward, paralleling the two sets of snow prints that led into the alley. Both sets of tracks were larger than my own small boots, and I took car
e not to disturb either one.
As my flashlight beam glanced along the white surface, a flash of cheery red color suddenly made me stop. I pulled the light back and saw the Santa hat.
“Hello!” I shouted, more urgently than before. “Alf! Are you here?”
Again no one answered.
I stooped to pick up the hat, and that’s when I saw the shiny black boots. They were sticking out from behind the gray Dumpster.
For a moment, I stood still as a gravestone, staring at Alf’s boots, vaguely aware of St. Luke’s bells ringing the hour. The church wasn’t far—not physically—but in that frozen flicker of time those clear, innocent, beautifully pure peals sounded as if they were coming from another world.
A second later I was down, kneeling over my red-suited friend sprawled in the snow. “Alf, can you hear me? Alf!”
He couldn’t. Choking back a scream, I realized Alfred Glockner was dead.
FOUR
IN the frigid air, my breath was still forming little pearl-colored clouds. No steam was coming from Alf’s lips or nose because there was no surviving the gaping hole in his chest or the amount of lost blood pooled around his body.
Despite the clear evidence, I went through the motions, checking for any way to help him. I played the flashlight across his wide, unfocused eyes, looking for a reaction. There was none. His wrist had no pulse; neither did his neck.
I pulled out my cell and dialed 911. The call was answered immediately by a female operator who took down all the information. She told me to remain at the scene in order to speak with the investigating officers. Finally, the woman asked if I wanted to stay on the phone with her until the officers arrived.
“No,” I said. “I need the line.”
I was still kneeling, the cold, wet snow soaking through the legs of my jeans. I didn’t care. I hit speed dial. When I heard the reassuring timbre of Detective Mike Quinn’s gravelly voice, I started ranting—only to realize I was talking to his prerecorded message telling me to leave my name and number. When the tone sounded, I took a breath.
