All That Glitters (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries)

by Donna Ball

  He was a thin man in his late thirties with a prominent Adam’s apple and lank brown hair falling over his eyes. He wore muddy work boots and faded jeans that were just this side of being threadbare. His jacket wasn’t nearly warm enough to keep out the kind of cold we were expecting over the next few days. He was clearly such an amateur thief, and so clearly caught dead-to-rights, that I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him.

  “I wasn’t breaking in,” the man repeated, starting to sweat. “I know this looks bad but I can explain.”

  “Maybe you can start by explaining this,” Buck, invited, nodding at the money on the floor. “And where did you get that cash in your hand there?”

  “Well, it wasn’t from the tithe box,” said the secretary, looking both alarmed and slightly pleased with herself. “At least I don’t see how it could be. I emptied it at one o’clock, just like I do every Wednesday, and unless we’ve had more drop-ins in the last half hour than we’ve had all week, this money didn’t come from the box.”

  The pastor confirmed her claim, and the suspect practically sagged with relief. “I’m trying to tell you, I wasn’t taking money out. I was trying…” His voice fell, and he looked embarrassed. I would have been embarrassed too, if I’d had such a lame story. “I was trying to put it back in.”

  My aunt and I exchanged a look. Even she, who always saw the best in everyone, wasn’t buying this one. I felt so bad for the guy I couldn’t even look at him, so I knelt down and started picking up the scattered bills. They were mostly ones, with a few fives here and there, exactly the kind of denominations you’d find in a donation box.

  Buck said politely, “You want to explain all the money on the floor, Mr. …?”

  “It’s Jacobs. Jim Jacobs,” he said miserably. “Look, I don’t expect you to believe me, but there’s a hundred and ten dollars altogether, with what I dropped and what I still have.” He opened his hand and Buck took the money he offered. I added my pile to it, and Buck passed the money to the pastor.

  “I found it last night in my mailbox bound up in a rubber band with a note that said ‘From your Secret Santa’,” Jacobs went on. “ And when I heard on the radio this morning that the church had been robbed…”

  Buck said, “You heard it on the radio?”

  Now the pastor looked embarrassed. “Lenny Fox is the church treasurer,” he explained. “Of course we called him first thing.” Lenny Fox was also the morning announcer for our local AM station.

  Jim Jacobs nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The thing is, times have been a little rough for us since the plant closed, and we got the final notice on the electric bill, and my oldest boy, now I’m not saying he’s no angel, but he’s never been in any serious trouble with the law, but he must have heard us arguing about it, my wife and me—you know how folks do when times are bad—because he banged out of the house the other night saying something about how he was going to fix things, and the next I know there’s this money in the mailbox, which is exactly what it would take to keep the lights on, so what am I supposed to think? He never would admit it, but I’m telling you , Deputy, we’re an honest God-loving family and no son of mine is going to stand before his Maker with this on his conscience. So I came here to give the money back, only…” A dull flush crept up his collar. “The slot was too small and I was afraid if I stood here long enough to put it all in one bill at a time somebody would come by and see me, and wonder where I got that kind of money to give to the church so I tried to pull up the lid just enough to push the money through, but the hinge broke, and then…” His voice trailed off pitifully. We all knew what had happened next.

  I felt compelled to speak up.“Listen, Buck, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but he might be telling the truth about the Secret Santa thing.” I told him about my experience with the propane truck driver, and a look of speculative interest lit the faces of everyone in the room—except Jim Jacobs, of course, who just looked miserable.

  The pastor said, “Well, I for one am pleased to think there’s a philanthropist in our midst, whether it’s technically true or not.” He offered the cash to Buck, neatly stacked and counted. “A hundred and ten dollars, just like he said. And I don’t know of any law that prosecutes a man for trying to give money to the church.”

  Buck glanced down at the money. “I’m guessing you don’t want to press charges for the broken box.”

  “You guess correctly.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Buck released Jacobs’ arm. “I’m going to want to talk to your son. Meantime…” He inclined his head toward the cash the pastor still held. “Looks to me like that belongs to the church.”

  That’s the way things are handled in a small town.

  My aunt surveyed the perpetrator, who had not yet completely grasped the fact that he was free, thoughtfully, “Jacobs. Are you the James Jacobs with two children who lives out on Blackberry Mountain?”

  He answered cautiously, “Yes ma’am.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re on our list!” She turned to me and repeated, as though that explained everything, “He’s on our list.” She reached for his hand. “Come downstairs and have a hot cup of coffee and some cookies. We’re going to fix up a box for you to take home to those children.”

  Like I said, that’s the way things are done in a small town.

  Over the next several days stories began to pile up about the Secret Santa. At least a dozen of the recipients of our food baskets had also received a gift from Secret Santa— an envelope filled with cash for some; for one it had been a new water heater after being unable to replace the broken one for six months; one elderly woman who lived alone in a drafty old house had found a beautifully wrapped package containing an electric blanket on her porch—along with a note that read “from your Secret Santa.” More than one family with small children had discovered that wrapped gifts with their children’s’ names on them had been left by their door overnight, and the tag on each one read “from your Secret Santa.” An excited buzz of speculation and anticipation started to build throughout the town as everyone tried to guess the philanthropist’s identity... and secretly hoped they might be the next object of his generosity.

  “It’s like that billionaire in Kansas City who went around giving hundred dollar bills to the homeless.”

  “Or that fellow in L.A. who dropped cash from a helicopter.”

  “Or that guy that travels to a different city every Christmas, handing out cash in the Projects.”

  My aunt did not think it was any of those. “One person couldn’t do all of this, “ she maintained. “It simply has to be a group, like the Boy Scouts or the Knights of Columbus.”

  I said, “I wonder how he knows what everyone needs.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine it would be that difficult,” observed Maude. “All one would need is a glimpse at the case file from one of any number of charitable organizations.”

  Maude, Aunt Mart and I were on our way home from the Women’s Club Christmas Gala, at which a lot of cheese puffs had been eaten and a lot of fruit punch consumed, an endless list of thank-yous had been read and a program involving the middle school chorale had been presented. I am not a member of the Women’s Club and their meetings are usually the kind of thing I’d fake a case of the flu to avoid attending, but my aunt had invited me as part of her Keep-Raine-Busy campaign, and I just didn’t have the energy to refuse. Maude, who was a member of the Women’s Club but rarely actually attended meetings, had come along for moral support.

  Naturally, Secret Santa had been a subject of gossip and speculation at the meeting. Everyone had a story; no one had a clue. My favorite theory, however, was the one involving the head of the textile plant who had suddenly found Jesus/a conscience/a desperate need to redeem himself after putting so many people out of work and plunging the county into a premature economic depression.

  I said with a sigh, “Well, whoever he is, I sure wish he would pay me a visit.”

  My aunt, who was drivin
g, laughed lightly. “Honey, don’t we all? Why, only the other day…” Suddenly she hit the brakes so hard that my seat belt locked. “Good heavens, are those foxes?”

  “No,” said Maude, twisting in her seat to look out the window. “They’re puppies.”

  But I had already unfastened my seat belt and was scrambling out the back door, hurrying toward the two small gray forms that were gamboling along the side of the road and into the path of traffic. I scooped up the pups before they could make a fatal mistake, and I recall the amusement in Maude’s tone as she observed, “Maybe he already has.”

  A couple of hours later two gorgeous blue merle Australian shepherd puppies were making themselves at home in the hay- lined stall next to the young collie. They were mirror opposites of each other—one with a patch over the left eye, the other with a patch over the right; both perfect little females about twelve weeks old. “I can’t believe people sometimes,” I said, fuming. “Just look at those pups. Natural bobbed tails, perfect fold on the ears… who would just toss them out? I mean, look at them!”

  “Gorgeous,” agreed Maude. “But times are difficult for everyone. Perhaps whoever abandoned them was hoping they were setting them free to find the perfect home.” She looked at me meaningfully.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I gave an impatient shake of my head. “I told you, I’m not ready for a dog.”

  “When will you be ready?” asked Maude reasonably.

  I frowned uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Maybe never.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment.” Maude’s gaze was steady and compassionate. “Raine,” she said, “you are punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. Cassidy lived a full long life, and it was her time to go. Someone else chose to end your marriage; you didn’t. Your father would not have wanted you to keep this place like a museum to honor him; he would want you to live in every inch of it. You need to get on with it.”

  She was really starting to annoy me on the subject. “Look, I can barely take care of myself, much less a dog,” I told her. “If I read my own application on a pet adoption form I’d turn it down. Besides, you know what they say… when the time is right, the right dog will appear.”

  “A collie and two Australian shepherds have already appeared,” she pointed out. “What more do you want?”

  I blinked back a surprising hotness in my eyes, and the anger in my voice was both unexpected and embarrassing. “I want Cassidy back,” I said tightly. “I want to have Christmas dinner with my dad one more time. I want my husband to keep his marriage vows. And right now I want to find a home for these puppies.” I turned on my heel and walked away.

  I advertised the dogs on the radio and in the paper. I had several calls about the Aussie puppies, but most people wanted only one and the pups were so obviously attached to each other—not only littermates, but twins—that I hated to break up the pair unless I absolutely had to. A couple of people were interested in the collie, but when I interviewed them I knew that she would just be going to sit atop another dog house in another muddy ten-by-ten pen. Perhaps the hardest thing I had to do was to turn people down because they couldn’t afford the adoption fee, which was just enough to cover the cost of shots and spay/neuter surgery, which our vet performed at his own cost. In the case of the puppies, that came to sixty-six dollars and fifty cents each; for the collie, it was slightly less. On more than one occasion I was tempted to waive the fee, but the humane society had a strict policy and I had to honor it—particularly since I was the one who had written the policy. Besides, I was as unemployed as everyone else in the county, and I couldn’t afford to pay the fee out of my own pocket.

  And then I had an excited call from a young mother who had wanted to get one of the puppies for her ten year old son but who, upon learning of the fee, had hung up in disappointment before I could even add that I was looking to place the puppies together. “It’s a miracle,” she exclaimed, barely pausing to remind me who she was, “an absolute Christmas miracle! I mean, I heard about that woman that got her rent paid just when she was about to be kicked out on the street, and you heard about Craig Killian’s transmission going out and him with no way to get to work over in Wilford and then the very next day he got four hundred eighty five dollars in the mail—which is just what it was going to cost to fix his car! I know it’s happening all over town, but I never expected it to happen to me—to us—to Nick. All he’s been asking for all year was a puppy for Christmas, and when I told him we couldn’t afford the fee he was so disappointed that I just didn’t know what we were going to do. Johnson tried to get extra shifts down at the gas station, and I started asking around to see if somebody didn’t need their house cleaned for Christmas but you know how it is this time of year, nobody has any extra cash… until I looked in the mailbox this morning and what did I see but an envelope from Secret Santa with—this is the miracle part!—exactly sixty-six dollars and fifty cents in it!”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “That is a miracle.”

  “And even though Johnson says we could buy Nicky a lot of Christmas toys for that much money, what he wants is a puppy, so I knew I had to call you back. The only thing is, we were hoping to get something with a little less hair, and Nick has always wanted a dog like Snoopy. I don’t guess you’d have any beagles, would you?”

  I told her I wasn’t sure, but gave her the telephone number of our foster home coordinator, secretly a little glad that she hadn’t taken one of the Aussies, after all. Like I said, I hated to break them up.

  I was still puzzling over the whole thing—sixty-six dollars and fifty cents exactly – as I drove into town to meet my uncle for our annual lunch and shopping trip to pick out Aunt Mart’s Christmas present. And it wasn’t just the adoption fee. What was it about the story about Craig Killian’s transmission that was bothering me?

  By the time I reached my uncle’s office in the Public Safety Building, I thought I had it figured out.

  There was a fruit studded wreath on the front door and garlands over the doorways, courtesy of the Hanover County Beautification Society, but otherwise it was pretty much business as usual at the Sheriff’s Department. I greeted the girl at the front desk and said hello to Wyn, Buck’s partner, who was typing up a report. They told me I could find my uncle in the meeting room. I started back, and then hesitated. “Is Buck around?”

  “He’s taking some personal time,” answered the receptionist, and then held up a finger as she took a call. “Sheriff’s Department.”

  “He said he was working on a Christmas present for someone special,” volunteered Wyn from her computer station, and then immediately looked embarrassed. We both knew that, this year, that someone special would not be me.

  I spoke quickly over my own discomfort, trying to sound casual. “Say, Wyn, did you work the church case with Buck? You know, the cantata robbery?’

  She shook her head and swiveled her chair toward me, eager to make amends. “I was on desk duty that day, trying to catch up on the paperwork. I swear, I’ve never seen such a Christmas for robberies and petty theft. Why? Something I can help you with?”

  “I was just trying to remember how much was taken, exactly.”

  She turned to her computer and typed a few keys. “Four hundred eighty five dollars,” she said. “Apparently the offering plate was left unattended in the church office for about ten minutes while the usher took pictures for the church bulletin.” She scrolled down a screen. “The thief didn’t get it all, though. He must have heard someone coming and skedaddled.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Nah. There were almost three hundred people there that night. They had Santa Claus for the kids and a big buffet supper afterwards…I hate this kind of case. It could have been anybody.” She looked up from the screen. “How come?”

  “Nothing really, just an idea I had. Thanks, Wyn.” Thoughtfully, I went in search of my uncle.

  I found him in the meeting room, as directed, standing in front of a
white board with his hands clasped behind his back. The board was filled with sloppy squares, pointy stars and looped arrows, which I gradually began to understand was a diagram of some sort, and my uncle was gazing at it with studied absorption.

  I said, “Hi, Uncle Roe. About ready for lunch?”

  He gave a small shake of his head. “I just can’t see it. There’s got to be a pattern, but I can’t figure it out.”

  I moved closer to the board as he pointed. “The Salvation Army kettle outside Hanson’s department store—hit twice. Three ladies had their wallets emptied—not credit cards, just cash—from the Cash ‘n’ Carry. Cash registers hit all over town, not just once, but randomly over the past month. And these guys are smart, too-- they don’t take everything at once, but leave a little behind so the robbery isn’t noticed right away. All the churches have been hit. And the hospital fund and the Red Cross collection boxes. And…” his voice rose in indignation, “just last night The Empty Stocking Fund, if you can believe that. They got sixty-six dollars—“

  “And fifty cents,” I said softly, and he turned to look at me sharply. “Uncle Roe, I think I know who the thief is.”

  “So Secret Santa is actually Robin Hood,” said Maude with a small shake of her head. “Whoever would have guessed?”

  “Robin Hood, my eye,” replied Sarabeth Potts with a sniff. “Robin Hood took from the rich to give to the poor. I don’t know what you call somebody who takes from churches and Salvation Army kettles.”

  “Do you mean besides a thief?” said someone else, and we all laughed a little, though without much humor.

  There were five of us setting up the Humane Society’s adoption corner for the town Christmas party, which was really just an excuse to get shoppers downtown on this last weekend before Christmas in hopes that a little more cash would find its way into the hands of local businessmen. All the shops were gaily decorated and offering cookies and hot cider all day long, along with today-only discounts and door prizes. There were carolers and raffles and special performances by the various choirs , as well as scheduled appearances by Santa Claus around town. Uncle Roe had a full contingent of deputies working security for the event, and though he was usually a stickler for maintaining the dignity of law enforcement, on this occasion he had bowed to the pressure of the Downtown Business Association and had issued red Santa Claus hats to all his officers.