Santa Claws Calamity (Country Cottage Mysteries Book 3)

by Addison Moore

  Two salty versions of Santa Claus have landed in Cider Cove, and they’re about to throw punches.

  Something tells me we might be in store for the scariest merriest Christmas of them all.

  Chapter Two

  A frosty breeze whips through the neighborhood, causing the twinkle lights up above to rattle like skeletons as the oaks give a violent shudder.

  Candy Cane Lane is alive with holiday hungry crowds as the streets grow thick with bodies. Cars drive bumper to bumper as kids press their noses to the windows, trying to take in all of the colorful glory this celebratory season has to offer.

  I’m huddled in my thickest winter coat on the sidewalk just outside of Lincoln Brooks’ house, a fancy two-story with a colonial feel that currently looks as if the Christmas fairy hit it hard with her candy cane-shaped wand. The entire place is lit up from the roof, the eaves, the columns, and around the door and windows. Clearly, there are more than enough lumens happening here to light up all of Cider Cove.

  Honest to God, the house glows like its very own moon. And then, there are the miles of cotton batting laid across the front lawn with tiny blue lights illuminated from underneath to give it the appeal of fresh fallen snow. It’s a beautiful sight and makes me wish the temperatures would drop just a notch or two tonight so we can have the real icy deal. But the most interesting component is the fact the lights are set to music—rather loud music that causes both the lights and the neighborhood to pulsate like a seizure as it pounds relentlessly into the night.

  But that’s not currently the spectacle that’s grabbing everyone’s attention. It’s the two dueling Santas who look ready to escalate from a war of words to a war of knuckles and perhaps a knee to the groin.

  Jasper and Dad fly up the lawn, padded with fake snow, in an effort to break up the not-so-jolly elf showdown, but the situation only seems to grow more volatile.

  A woman pops between the two men in their oversized red suits, and I lean in and squint because I’d swear on all the Christmas gifts I’ve already charged to my credit card I recognize that woman as my very own mother.

  “Bizzy!” a familiar voice croaks from behind and I turn to find Georgie running up with her gray hair wild and loose, her body wrapped in some sort of a coat that’s pieced together from every colorful strip of fabric known to man.

  Georgie Conner is one of my father’s many ex-mothers-in-law. But unlike the others, Georgie was mildly forgotten and left behind by her daughter. I like to tease that I got Georgie in the divorce. She happens to rent out a cottage that sits right behind the inn where she keeps busy by crushing glass for her extensive mosaic projects.

  “Bizzy.” She grips me by the shoulders. “Santa One and Santa Two are about to knock each other’s teeth out! We can’t let the kids see this madness. They’ll grow up to be brute beasts who’ll come to blows over anything. All of humanity will be ruined if we let this happen! Ruined, I tell you!” She jostles me so hard my necklace bounces over my chest. “We need to do something!”

  “You’re right,” I say, giving her Sherlock’s leash while placing her other hand on Fish’s stroller. “Mind these two. I’ll be right back.”

  I race up the lawn, only to find my mother trying her best to sandwich herself between the battling bloated men in cheap polyester suits.

  “Ree Baker,” I snip as I pluck my mother from the midst of the feuding Saint Nicks.

  Mom’s sandy blonde hair is neatly feathered back and her makeup is impeccably done, right down to her perfectly adhered false eyelashes. My mother always looks great no matter what age she bypasses like a seasoned pro. She has a timeless sense of style, if that time was circa 1981. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. She’s been sporting the well-dressed preppy look for as long as I can remember and has kept her iconic feathered hair trimmed just long enough to dust her shoulders as if it weren’t capable of growing another inch.

  “Mother?” I yank her back a few paces away from the melee as another woman takes her place between the two overheated hotheads. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Please.” She frees her wrist from my stranglehold and rubs it. “It’s not me who’s lost my mind. It’s Lincoln and Dexter.” She points to the two men currently being restrained by Jasper and my father.

  “That’s Lincoln Brooks and Dexter Bronson?” I squint up at the men with their sagging pants and wayward false beards. “Hey? Didn’t you date Lincoln once or twice?”

  “Yup.” She leans in my way. “And that’s Mary Beth between them.” She nods up at a woman with short black hair, and her red glossy lips are twisted in every direction at once as she shouts to the belligerent Santas between her. “She used to be married to Lincoln eons ago. But she’s been married to Dexter for years now.”

  “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize she was married to Lincoln. How weird is that? I mean, they live across the street from one another.” I glance over to the house in question across the street lit up with colorful lights. A giant blowup of an entire snowman family sits crooked to the side, and in the center of the lawn is an enormous golden throne with red velvet padding, temporarily abandoned due to the Christmas chaos underway.

  Mom waves it off. “It’s not that weird. That was originally the Brooks’ house, but Mary Beth got it in the divorce. And well, Lincoln said he liked the neighborhood so much he bought the only house available at the time.” She shrugs. “Directly across the street.”

  “That must make for interesting block parties. Hey? Did Lincoln and Mary Beth have any kids together?”

  “No, Brooks doesn’t have any. Dexter and Mary Beth have three. Two boys and a girl.”

  “I could never live across the street from my ex.” I shudder at the thought and Mom laughs.

  “Bizzy, you don’t have any serious exes.”

  “I do, too,” I’m quick to contest. “I was married once.”

  She’s right back to laughing. “For less than a day to your best friend’s brother. And you have Vegas and bad rum to blame for it. It took your brother longer to untangle you from the mess than it did for you to enjoy it.”

  “Well, I didn’t enjoy it.” True as gospel. “I spent my wedding night with my head in the toilet.”

  “You just described my marriage to your father perfectly.” Mom threads her arm through mine as she leads me back to the two men in Santa suits. They’re holding their pointed hats and curly beards in one hand, and with the other they seem to be toasting one another with a cup of eggnog.

  “What’s this?” Mom balks with a laugh in her throat. “Please tell me it’s a truce and not a new way to torment one another.”

  A tall blonde honks out a laugh. “It’s nothing a little good old-fashioned spiked eggnog can’t fix.” She gives a hard wink our way, and I can’t help but notice the layers of caked foundation on her face, crusting up like sedimented strata. Her long, thick lashes look as if she’s doubled or tripled the falsies, her lips are painted a frosty shade of pink, and her hair is pulled back into a long ponytail that touches all the way down to her waist.

  She looks as if she has ten years on me, so I’m guessing mid-thirties. She’s dressed in an adorable, yet slightly revealing, Mrs. Claus outfit—the skirt of which hardly crests her tush—and she’s paired the look with thigh-high red patent leather boots that scream they’re better suited for a street corner in the North Pole rather than Santa Central.

  She gives a little wave to my mother and me. “I’m Trixie Jolly-Golightly, Lincoln’s plus one.” She gives a hearty wink our way, and if I didn’t know she had on false lashes, I’d swear on all that was holy she has accidentally glued a couple of dead moths to her lids.

  Mom leans in my way. “Trixie Jolly-Golightly? Do you think that’s her stage name?”

  I make a face at the woman who bore me. For some reason, my mother landed on this planet without a filter on her mouth. Having her around mixed company has always been a lot like a box of chatty chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get,
and yet every bite seems to be an unwanted cherry royal pain in the rear.

  Thankfully, the talking ponytail is sidetracked with another conversation by a thinner girl, pretty in a plain sort of way with her hair in a bun and a pair of large tortoise-rimmed glasses sitting on the edge of her nose. And next to the two of them is a man standing slumped, his hands buried in his pockets as he glares over at the surly Santas before us.

  Mary Beth appears with a tray full of cups brimming with the delicious holiday concoction.

  “Eggnog for everyone!” she sings. “Our stand is just across the street. It’s cash only but, in an effort to bestow goodwill upon our neighbors, we’re willing to part with a little of the holiday favorite in order to mend a few fences.” I’ll make sure to squeeze it out of Lincoln sooner than later. Once I wrap my hands around his proverbial neck, he won’t know what hit him.

  Squeeze it? I don’t know what it is, but I’m not looking forward to the live demonstration.

  She holds the tray out, and everyone in the vicinity is quick to snap one up. Jasper hands one to both my mother and me.

  It sounds as if Mary Beth and Lincoln still have a little bad blood between them. A lot of bad blood if you count Dexter in the mix.

  “How was that for a little Christmas cheer?” Jasper hoists his cup our way as if he were toasting us.

  “Jasper”—Mom toasts him with her cup as well—“thank you for stepping up like the man you are. Let me introduce you to the clowns you were spared from arresting. Lincoln, Dexter?” she calls out and the two red-faced Santas head on over.

  Lincoln Brooks is a stockier man by nature, with a slanted forehead, heavy chin, and eyes that always look as if they’re laughing at you. I wasn’t too thrilled while he and my mother were dating. Despite the fact Lincoln is a real estate investor, and my mother was a very successful realtor, it just didn’t seem like a natural pairing.

  And Dexter is a thinner version of Lincoln, with the same thick chin and slanted forehead, albeit younger than Lincoln by about ten years. It’s clear Mary Beth has a type.

  Mom leans their way. “This is Jasper Wilder, Bizzy’s new boyfriend.” She practically whispers that last part to Lincoln as if they’ve already discussed my previous less than savory pairings.

  “Nice to meet you,” both Jasper and I chime in unison.

  Dexter nods. “Likewise.” He frowns over at us. “Now, be honest, which house do you think will take home the Candy Cane Lane People’s Choice Award this year? This pile of fake snow and that splinter-inducing nightmare he calls a throne or that delightful winter wonderland across the street? A genuine gilded throne that sits proud in the center of the yard with plush red velvet backing—and a real live reindeer as a sidekick?” Anyone with two working eyeballs knows class when they see it. And after what I have planned, they’ll know Lincoln has been rigging these spectacles to swing his way for years. The old coot won’t know what hit him—or should I say, who?

  I blink back. It’s almost the same threat Mary Beth just issued. Poor Lincoln. He really won’t know what hit him.

  Lincoln belts out a belligerent belly laugh. “The only reason your house looks half as good as it does, Dex, is because you can’t come up with a single original idea. You and Mary Beth have been stealing my concepts for years.”

  Mom, Jasper, and I crane our necks to get a better look across the street, and sure enough there seems to be some large land mammal gnawing on the flowerbed.

  I clear my throat. “Well, that alone says something. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

  Dexter rocks back in his oversized boots. “We don’t imitate.” He looks over to Lincoln, his chest puffing up with pride. “And we don’t do second class. We’re not into tasteless cheap renditions of the real thing.” He gives a sly glance toward Trixie as she breaks out into a howl of laughter while nudging at the girl with the bun. She seems blissfully oblivious that the potshot was geared toward her.

  “Hey”—Lincoln gives Dexter a quick shove to the chest—“you lay off my girl. You don’t see me badmouthing your secondhand wife, do you?”

  “Whoa.” Jasper holds out an arm. “Leave the ladies out of it. This is a family event.”

  “There are kids here,” I’m quick to point out because neither of the cranky Kringles really seems to notice.

  Lincoln laughs openly at Dexter. “You do realize I won the last three years in a row.” He looks our way. And I happen to know I’m about to win again. “This is just sour grapes—or should I say, sour eggnog?” He takes another sip from his cup and makes a face. “I don’t know how you stay in business peddling this poison. But I’ll knock it down, just like I’m going to knock you down another notch and score the W for a fourth year in a row.” He chugs the eggnog before crushing the cup against his forehead. “How do you like that?” He winces as if he doesn’t care for the taste of it.

  I think it tastes great. In fact, I’m about to knock back the rest of my own just as Mary Beth steps in with a basket of adorable fuzzy kittens. They both look identical with their matching same long gray hair and glowing green eyes, and suddenly I have a craving to snuggle.

  “Kittens!” Georgie howls as she runs on over with Sherlock in tow and Fish in her arms. I knew Georgie wouldn’t get behind the idea of keeping Fish locked up in a glorified tent for the night, and a small part of me is glad about it. “Oh! Can we keep them, Bizzy? Can we? The inn is so barren with just the one kitten running amuck.” She lands a kiss to Fish’s furry forehead.

  My sweet cat shudders as she looks my way. Don’t even think about it, Bizzy. I’m the head feline at the inn—the only feline. As it should be. It’s bad enough we have Sherlock thinking he’s a bona fide greeter now. How many beasts can one inn take before it becomes too beastly, for beasts’ sake? And I can’t share my bed. I absolutely refuse. You know I’m very particular about pet hair getting on my blanket.

  I roll my eyes at that one. Fish hasn’t slept a single night in the cat bed I bought for her. She happily sleeps in my bed. Come to think of it, that may be the bed she’s referring to.

  Sherlock licks his lips as he looks to the basket of cuteness. They look delicious, Bizzy. Can we wrap them in bacon? They’re so small, I bet I can eat them in three solid bites.

  Good grief. I all but chuckle at that one.

  “Georgie,” I say. “I don’t think Mary Beth is giving these precious dumplings away.”

  Mary Beth blinks back.

  There’s a pixie quality about her, and somewhat of a nasty streak that you can see in her beady eyes all at the same time.

  She grunts, “Please take these furballs off my hands. My kids are allergic, and I can’t stand the thought of hairballs. My sister had a litter, and I snapped up two thinking they’d be a good lure to get people to the snack stand. And let me tell you, I think I should name them Money and Bags.” She brays out a laugh, and both my mother and I recoil at the very same time. Is that a real laugh? Or is she doing her best impersonation of that donkey from Bethlehem that lived all those years ago on that holy silent night?

  Georgie produces a dollar bill from out of nowhere and wags it in the air. “Sold to the highest bidder! We’ll take ’em!”

  Georgie holds Fish up to the fuzzy gray twins trying their best to cower behind one another.

  “Oh, it’s perfect timing, Bizzy,” Georgie bleats. “Don’t you have an appointment at the v-e-t tomorrow to get Fish and Sherlock f-i-x-e-d? We can take these two cuties along for the ride and get them checked out.”

  The hair rises on Fish’s back. Why is she cutting her words down to letters? What is this appointment business?

  Sherlock lets out a little bark. Does the appointment involve bacon? I’m sensing this is a solid no.

  I’m not sure how, but the animals always seem to understand one another through no more than a growl or whimper.

  Lincoln staggers a few steps forward and nearly knocks the basket right out of Mary Beth’s hand an
d the entire lot of us gasps.

  Dexter pulls him back with a violent yank. “Watch where you’re going, old man.”

  “Who are you calling old?” Lincoln pulls Dexter in by the shirt and lets out a riotous moan in the process.

  Jasper gets between them this time just as Dad runs over once again, as well as the man who was standing near Trixie.

  “Let go.” Dexter takes a full step back. “If Lincoln wants to nail me over the face, I say be my guest. Go ahead, Linc. Hit me with your best shot.” He points to his chin, his chest puffed out as he dares him to do it. “Right here.”

  Lincoln doesn’t miss a beat. He swings—but misses by a mile. He staggers over a few feet, gripping at his stomach and letting out another riotous moan. Lincoln spins and writhes as he wraps his hands around his neck, and he seems to be struggling for air.

  Someone in the crowd screams. And before Jasper can pull out his phone to call for help, Lincoln lands facedown in the fake snow right in front of that throne he erected in his front yard.

  Jasper runs over and kneels next to him, checking his pulse at the neck. He looks my way and shakes his head ever so slightly.

  Lincoln Brooks won’t have to worry about who will win the Candy Cane Lane Christmas decorating contest. In fact, he’s decorated his house for the very last time.

  Lincoln Brooks is dead.

  Chapter Three

  “He’s dead!” Trixie Jolly-Golightly wails into the night just as a crowd rushes over in haste—and among them is an entire throng of morbidly curious children.

  Mom groans, “We need to get these kids out of here.” Instinctively, she begins herding them away. My mother may have a rock-hard exterior, but she’s a nurturer through and through.

  “I’ll help,” Gwyneth says as she nabs the nearest little boy by his ear.

  Something tells me that’s a tried-and-true move on her part as well.

  “I’m in.” Dad claps his hands. “Come on, Georgie. Let’s get these kids moving in another direction. No one’s got a voice like you do. Put it to good use.”