Santa Claus, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mysteries book #4.5 - Novella) (The Amber Fox Murder Mystery Series)

by Sibel Hodge

  As the holdall popped free of the locker, I grabbed one of the handles, knocking her off balance with surprise. The only trouble was her head connected with my nose, sending a shooting pain straight up my sinuses. Fuzzy black-and-white stars flashed in front of my eyes. I staggered back a few steps, and she swung around and pulled on the handle she still had a grip on.

  I pulled the bag tighter towards me. She pulled it back.

  Our gazes met—hers all narrow-eyed and dark pupils, mine watery and blinking rapidly after the nose incident.

  She yanked as hard as she could, yelling, “It’s mine!”

  “You’re not having it!” I clenched my teeth and tugged on my handle with both hands. I heard the material ripping and just hoped it was her handle.

  “Get…off!” she said breathlessly, the effort of holding on making her eyes bulge.

  More ripping sounds.

  “No chance!” The material dug painfully into my palm, but I wasn’t letting go for a second.

  She tugged harder and pulled me through an archway past the toilet cubicles and towards the shower area. Someone was singing loudly behind one of the shower curtains.

  “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a subscription to Elle Magazine!” the woman belted out her alternate, and definitely better, version of the Christmas carol.

  “No one else wanted it!” Margaret hissed. “I went to all the trouble to save it! I deserve to get the money for it!”

  “That’s not…in…the spirit of…Christmas!” I puffed out.

  She pulled me past the last shower towards another doorway.

  I pulled her back towards the toilets with all my might. Who knew a tug of war could be so aerobic? I seriously needed to exercise, which was a weird déjà vu thought because, in fact, the only time I ever think about exercise is when people are trying to kill me and they’re getting the upper hand. And, anyway, exercise should be banned. Apart from sex, of course.

  “On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to meee, two chocolate bars, and a subscription to Elle Magazine!”

  With one hard yank, I crashed backwards through the disability toilet door, still holding on tight, straining with the effort. I seriously hope I don’t get a hernia from all this!

  Margaret stumbled into the room with the bag still in her clutches, where we resumed tug-of-war duty, each on either side of the toilet. Margaret grabbed hold of the metal assistance handrail on the wall on her side of the toilet, and I felt the handle slipping from my grasp.

  “Grrr!” I pulled and pulled, but the handle slipped further along my fingers.

  Come on, Amber! You can’t lose Santa now!

  Then I had a brain wave. I planted my foot firmly on the toilet seat for extra leverage then heaved hard, my face going hot and tingly with the effort of trying to pull her off balance.

  Margaret’s grip on the handle loosened. She lashed out, kicking my knee with her hard walking boot.

  “Oi!” I cried, wobbling. I couldn’t kick back, or I would fall in the toilet.

  “Bitch! Give it back!” she spat, a spray of spittle landing on my face.

  Ew! Gross. Toilet seat germs and spit germs! I would need a decontamination pressure wash at this rate.

  She kicked me again, really hard this time, right on the kneecap. It was like banging my funny bone with an iron bar, but a squillion times worse. I’m not exaggerating. I would love to say I stayed strong and held onto the bag at that point, but I’m afraid it was just too painful. I let go in a hurry, and my foot slipped into the toilet.

  Double gross! I am so jinxed!

  I’d had these Ugg boots peed on by a nasty voodoo cat once before, but this really took the piss. I was so going to have to throw them away when I got home.

  “On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to meee, three solitaire diamond rings!”

  Margaret shot off towards the lockers with the holdall as I tugged my soggy boot out of the toilet pan and squelched across the floor, dripping water. She was a couple of metres away from the door that led to the gym when I grabbed her coat and pulled her backwards. She slipped on the wet floor my boots had left. Karma, or what? Then she landed on her back with a loud “Ooof,” the handles of the holdall still tight in her grasp.

  “Four bottles of Chardonnay, three solitaire diamond rings, two chocolate bars, and a subscription to Elle Magazine!”

  It didn’t keep her down for long, though. God, this woman is fit! She twisted over on the floor—in the pissy water. Ha ha! If I am going to get icky germs from it, so can she!

  I jumped in front of the doorway to the gym to block her exit. “You’re not going anywhere, so you might as well give it up.”

  We stared at each other for a while, panting, each weighing up the other. Then she ran back through the shower and toilet area towards the other doorway.

  I chased after her.

  “Five spa days, four bottles of Chardonnay!”

  Trying to open the door slowed her down, and I reached her before she disappeared through it. I grabbed a handle of the holdall and tugged. I heard more fabric ripping and the zip undoing a bit this time.

  She swung around and kicked out at me again, but this time I managed to avoid a boot to the leg and held on for dear life. I gained some traction, dragging us back towards the shower cubicles while she tugged on her end.

  I inhaled deeply, yanked as hard as I could, and stomped on her foot with my boot.

  She lost her grip, falling backwards through the door with momentum and landing on her backside in front of a steam room. The zipper had ripped open, and I could see a large wooden box inside, but before I had the chance to react and do a runner with it, she was on her feet again, flying through the air towards me, arms flailing wildly. Her elbow smacked me straight in the tendon on my right shoulder.

  Ouch! Crappinghell, that hurt!

  The pain took my breath away, and my grip on the bag weakened before I finally dropped it on the floor. I bent over, rubbing my shoulder, trying to summon a breath, but ended up taking a huge gasp of air and choking. By the time I could finally breathe, Margaret was tugging the holdall back towards the steam room.

  “Six vibrating love eggs, five spa days, four bottles of Chardonnay…”

  I screamed through the pain and launched myself onto her.

  We crashed through the steam room door, much to the amazement of two women who were having a relaxing chat. The bag went flying through the air with another ripping sound, and the large wooden box inside fell out and crashed to the floor, landing on its side. The steamy mist parted, and the lid of the box flew open. St Nicholas’s skull fell out and rolled across the floor. Hollow eye sockets stared back at us.

  The women screamed, trying to scoot up in the corner away from us and the skull.

  “Ohmigod, there’s a dead person in here!” one of them cried. “It’s like a horror film!” She dropped her towel in shock and ran naked out of the steam room, arms flapping.

  I slid across the slippery tiled floor on my stomach, towards the skull, and grabbed it in one hand.

  The other woman let out an even bigger scream. “Argh! She’s holding a dead person! She’s crazy! She’ll kill us!” And she made a quick exit, too.

  When I turned around, Margaret had picked up the box and was running out of the steam room, disappearing into the changing room.

  Crappity crapping crap-crap! What good was St Nick’s skull without the rest of his body?

  I tucked the skull under my good arm and legged it after her, but she was obviously a bit of a sprinter, as well as a tug of war champion, in her spare time, and she was flying through reception by the time I got past the end of the swimming pool.

  I ran past the naked woman, who was trying to cover up her bits and bobs with an A4 leaflet and a stapler, and her friend, jumping up and down and screaming at the receptionist. The male gym instructor had bug eyes, taking in the scene, his jaw hanging open with a mixture of horror and awe on
his face. Maybe he’d asked Santa to bring him a naked lady for Christmas, and he couldn’t quite believe his wish had come true.

  The receptionist picked up the phone, yelling to the emergency operator for the police then mentioning something about two psychos on the loose fighting over a dead body. I didn’t hear any more then because I hurtled through the double doors and into the car park, running as fast as I could towards Margaret, who was heading for her car.

  Under normal circumstance, it would’ve been funny to watch a mad-looking woman in odd shoes running with a wobble on, if she hadn't been trying to make off with some priceless artefacts. Still, it was the shoes that were her downfall in the end, since none of the laces were done up.

  The trainer shot half off her foot, tripping her up and sending her sprawling to the floor. The box skittered out of her reach, and before she could get to her feet again, I sat down heavily on top of her, winding her as the breath whooshed out of her lungs. That was exactly where Brad found me a few seconds later when he pulled up.

  God, that was definitely enough exercise for a whole year. I so deserved the rest of my mince pies.

  Chapter 7

  I rang Alistair on the drive over to the museum while Brad waited for the police to arrive and arrest Margaret. Luckily, Romeo was off duty. By the time I arrived, Alistair was already waiting for me outside the brand-new door.

  I’d carefully replaced St Nicholas’s skull back inside the fabric-lined cushioned wooden box, successfully reuniting all of him again, although there was a bit of fluff from my black jumper that seemed to be stuck on one of his teeth—oops! I didn’t want to tug it too hard for fear I might pull the tooth out. But hopefully, no one would notice.

  As I jumped out of the car, Alistair hopped from foot to foot, a bright, sparkling smile on his face.

  “Is that what I think it is?” His eyes widened at the box.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he still in one piece?”

  “He appears to be.” I didn’t mention the skull incident. Shhh, that’s just between us, OK?

  “Well, come along. Let’s not delay! I want to check that everything is present and correct.” He pushed open the museum door, locked it behind us, and led me downstairs to his office. Flicking on the light, he swept a hand towards his messy desk. “Anywhere will be fine.”

  “Okey-dokey.” I set the box down and looked at Alistair, who had paused, standing very still.

  “You know, I fear most of the collection is now lost to us forever, hidden away in some private art collection that the public will never see. It is a true crime, really, not to see any of it again. But the icons and the statues are really just things…material things. The bones of St Nicholas, they’re something else. They’re the very spirit of Christmas. The heart of compassion and goodness. Lover of the poor, patron saint of children. The real inspiration of peace and goodwill to all.” His eyes watered with tears. “We need to restore the spiritual connection with Christmas, and St Nicholas’s kindness is a model on how we should all live.”

  I nodded. “Well said.”

  “So, I hope…I really hope, that all the bones are still in here to carry that message into the future.”

  I squeezed his hand, feeling my eyes water, too. Give me an eggnogaccino, quick, before I blub!

  He took a deep breath and picked up the box. The top was carved with an ornate pattern of olive trees. He clutched it to his chest. “St Nicholas.” His voice cracked with emotion as he opened the lid to reveal the plush interior. Nestled inside were the aged, greying bones of the true Santa Claus.

  He wiped at a tear away and smiled at me. “Your passion for finding St Nicholas again, even though it didn’t benefit you or your insurance company, is true altruism. So thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  It was my turn to blush then—RazzleDazzle Red lipstick. “You’re so welcome.” I gave him a hug. “Happy Christmas, Alistair.” And I left him to bask in happiness.

  ~~~~

  Right about the same time Alistair was being reunited with St Nick, Margaret was singing like a Christmas caroller high on sherry. When I got back to Hi-Tec, Brad told me, Tia, and Hacker all about it as we gathered round the reception desk.

  “In the beginning, Margaret really was concerned for the safety of the collection and wanted to make sure it was secure. Since there’d been an attempt to steal it before, she knew their museum with its lack of sophisticated security would be a prime target. She created a big fuss, but no one would stump up any extra money to pay for it.

  “She got angry then, as she felt the bones were too important to let them disappear forever, so she hired Colin to steal the bones, but swapped the real ones with the bones of a lesser-known priest held in the archives at the London Museum. She didn’t have the time or resources to fake the icons and other exhibits because people would recognize them straight away if they knew what they were looking for, but the bones were easy to replicate at short notice, and she thought she would be protecting the most important thing.”

  Tia gasped. “Wowzer.”

  “When she went up to London to speak to the museum director, she recognized Colin from when her husband was representing him,” Brad carried on. “Apparently, she’d seen a photo of him in her husband’s files when she accidentally knocked it off his desk one day. That’s when she suddenly got the idea to steal the relics to teach them all a lesson and make them look incompetent.”

  “But if she was doing it to save the bones, why didn’t she let anyone know it was only the fakes that were stolen and the real ones were really safe?” Tia asked.

  “Because at some point, her motivation changed, and greed got the better of her,” I said. “The whole reason she wanted the bones to be stolen was because she was jealous of Alistair. She felt she’d been wrongly passed over for promotion to curator and thought it would make him and everyone else look like idiots if there was a burglary after she’d warned everyone so publicly. Then she could save the day by producing the real bones, and she was hoping Alistair would be sacked so she could step up into his shoes. But after she got away with substituting the fake relics, Margaret then realized she could make a fortune out of it, so she decided not to give them back.”

  “And no one knew they were fakes, except Colin’s buyer, who must’ve somehow found out.” Hacker raised an eyebrow. “Which is why Colin was killed.”

  “The buyer probably thought Colin switched them himself to try to double-cross them,” I said.

  “Margaret said she had a buyer lined up herself, and she was keeping the bones in her gym locker until the heat died down and she could sell them on,” Brad said. “But after your warning earlier, she was going to take them to her buyer straight away so the thugs that killed Colin’s wouldn’t find them in her possession.”

  “Did the police find any evidence at Colin’s house?” I asked.

  “Apparently so,” Brad said. “A partial fingerprint was found at the scene that belonged to a known associate of Grigor Volkov.”

  I whistled. “That Russian billionaire art collector who now lives on a remote island in Scotland? Isn’t he supposed to be a recluse?”

  “Yes. That’s him.”

  “Well, the bones are safe now.” I grinned. “And I don’t think they’ll be out of Alistair’s sight until they’re handed back to the Antalya Museum.”

  “Yay!” Tia clapped her hands together. “And I have something to help us celebrate!” She rushed off into the staff kitchen and returned with a tray of four reindeer-shaped glasses containing thick, gloopy creamy liquid. “Ta da!” She held out the tray.

  I took one and sniffed, a beaming smile curving up my lips. “Eggnoggaccino?”

  She nodded so hard, I thought her head might actually shoot off. “Yep! I’ve been working on the recipe all day. It’s heavy on the whiskey. Thought you’d like it.”

  “Like it? I love it! You so have to sell this recipe to Starbucks.”

  “Happy Christmas, everyone!”
Brad clinked our glasses.

  “Happy Christmas!"

  If you enjoyed Santa Claus, Lies, and Murder, read on for more Amber Fox Mysteries…

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