Lone Star Santa

by Heather MacAllister

  Talk about a change of pace. Now here was the thing. When a gorgeous woman demanded that Mitch undress, he generally did as he was told. So it was kind of automatic that he’d drop his laser doohickey, grasp the hem of the hoodie and haul it over his head.

  Kristen’s gaze wandered over him. “Ah,” was all she said. But she nodded when she said it. “You can put your shirt back on now.”

  Not the response for which he’d been hoping, but realistically, they were standing outside next to one of the main streets in Sugar Land. And it was breezy wearing just the knit shirt. So he put his sweatshirt back on. “What was that all about?” he asked as the sweatshirt popped back over his head.

  “I was checking your bod.”

  Hello?

  She went on. “You seem like a nice, decent guy and I thought we might hang out together while we’re both redirecting our lives, so to speak.”

  This was so far beyond what he’d dared to hope…

  “I don’t meet too many nice, decent guys either in acting or in the investigation business. Now call me shallow, but I like guys I’m with to have a nice body. Yours isn’t bad. Some people might even say it’s hot—but it’s not hot enough to make up for the fact that you apparently do not have a brain in your head!”

  Mitch picked up his laser measure. “I think I’ve been complimented and insulted at the same time.”

  “Don’t strain the one brain cell you’ve got trying to figure it out.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Get a lawyer.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it! I’ll give you some names.”

  “Wait until I get paid at the end of the week.”

  Kristen stood in the center of the sidewalk and looked skyward. “Have you priced lawyers lately? The kind of lawyer you need gets as much per hour as you’ll make in a week.”

  “I know that. I need the paycheck so I can afford to take you out to dinner while you’re giving me the names.”

  She gave him a look. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

  “I intrigue you.” He recorded the last of his measurements and headed toward the truck.

  She followed. “Oh, really!”

  He smiled to himself. “Yes. Because you think I’m worse off than you are.”

  “Trust me. You are.”

  “And that makes you feel superior.”

  “If you think that, then why do you want to be around me?”

  Mitch opened the door of the truck and retrieved his laptop. “Because you intrigue me.”

  Chapter Four

  “Thanks so much for your contribution.” Patsy Donner took the envelope Barbara Zaleski handed her.

  Barbara waved her words away. “Thank you for coming by. It’s been crazy this morning. I hated to ask you to make the trip over because I know how busy you are with the parade. I really admire you for taking it on.”

  Patsy smiled. “It’s fun and really gets me in the Christmas spirit.”

  “You mean—alcoholic spirit?”

  “Well, that, too!”

  They both laughed.

  “Seriously,” Patsy continued, “Robert and I are at a place in our lives where we can give back. Sugar Land is our hobby. We want to retire here and anything we do now will make Sugar Land just that much better for us.”

  “And I can tell you that the parade and all the rest you do in the community has certainly increased the property values. People come for the parade and they like what they see of the city.” Barbara’s smile widened. “And being in the real estate business, I have no argument with that!”

  Patsy lingered. She knew Barbara was busy. She was busy, but she and Barbara had something in common, something Patsy wanted to discuss. “I hear Kristen is home for the holidays.”

  “As is your Mitch.”

  “Yes.”

  A look passed between them. “Is it as awful for you as it is for me?” Barbara burst out.

  Patsy exhaled in relief. “Possibly worse. It’s as though he never left. He just…” She waved inarticulately. “It’s not as though I’m not happy to see him, but he expects me to…”

  “Cook? Do his laundry? Cater to him?”

  Patsy closed her eyes. Someone else was going through it, too. Someone else understood. “I don’t think it’s dawned on him that we’re actual people and not just his parents.”

  “Exactly.” Barbara leaned against her desk. “Look at me. Do you see Betty Crocker here?”

  Patsy shook her head. “He hasn’t done laundry since he’s been home. Some days he doesn’t get dressed. I refuse to be blackmailed into cooking for him, but if I don’t, he’ll drink soda and eat chips and he leaves the empties in his room. A room that was our home office, I might add, and now is video game central.”

  “Kristen is carb loading and watching the shopping channels on cable. I don’t dare ask when she plans to go back to California because I don’t think she has any plans at all. Frankly, with that many carbohydrates in her, she can’t be thinking clearly.”

  “But you said Kristen is working for her father. At least she’s doing something. Mitch is playing computer games. He has a business to run in Dallas. What is he doing here?” Patsy didn’t really expect an answer.

  “Have you asked him?”

  “No! I’m afraid to find out!”

  Barbara laughed and groaned at the same time. “The horrible thing is, that makes perfect sense to me. I don’t know about you, but having another adult in the house, even one you’ve given birth to is, um, limiting.”

  They exchanged another look. Patsy knew what she meant. “Yes. Frustrating and limiting. I don’t know how to say, ‘Hey, look. We’ve changed.’”

  “‘Our lives aren’t revolving around you anymore,’ right?”

  “Exactly.”

  They were silent for several moments. Patsy knew she should get on with her day and let Barbara get on with hers, but it was such a relief to find someone to talk to without feeling guilty for not wanting Mitch around all the time. He was her son, after all.

  Patsy glanced up to see Barbara studying her. “Patsy,” Barbara began in a voice that telegraphed her intention to ask a favor.

  Patsy braced herself.

  “Do you think you could persuade Mitch to ask Kristen out for a movie or dinner? Maybe both? It’s just… Carl and I haven’t been alone in the house for weeks.”

  “Reverse babysitting?”

  Barbara nodded. “They go out and we stay home.”

  Patsy thought about Robert and the hopeful twinkle in his eye when he’d left this morning. She was pretty sure she’d had the same twinkle. She was pretty sure she was twinkling now. Or maybe it was a twitch. “I like it. And I’ll admit that I’ve kinda nudged Mitch in Kristen’s direction already.”

  “Nudge harder.”

  “Gotcha.” Patsy exhaled. “Thanks again for the check and the talk.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Barbara chuckled. “Or I hope it will be.”

  WELL, THAT WAS…intriguing, Kristen decided, sticking with the word of the day. She liked that look Mitch had given her just before he printed out an estimate and drove off in The Electric Santa truck. Not easy to pull off a look of self-confident interest under the circumstances.

  Some people might be fooled by the dorkmobile, but Kristen, having spent years living in the land of professional fakes, knew the real thing when she saw it. And any man who could not only drive a red truck with a Santa torso on the hood, but also honk a ho ho ho horn as a goodbye, had no masculinity issues whatsoever.

  “Embrace the kitsch!” Kristen called just after he’d honked.

  Mitch actually seemed like a nice guy in the good-nice way and not the only-his-mother-loves-him way. He might possibly be a little on the plain vanilla side for her, but sometimes a girl’s just gotta yen for smooth vanilla after a run of Rocky Road.

  She watched until the truck turned the corner. Definitely time for a break from Rocky Road.

  Kristen climbed the steps, p
ulled open the etched glass door and nearly ran into her father.

  He was shrugging into a leather jacket and had left his overcoat and fedora on the brass coat tree.

  “Ooo, surveillance.” Kristen knew the signs.

  Her father smiled gently. “Nora Beckman. She just left the house to go Christmas shopping.”

  “Oh.” Nora was a recovering alcoholic and the holidays were difficult. Her husband, Ralph, hired them to discreetly head her off at the town liquor store. To Kristen, it was a touching, face-saving gesture. He trusted his wife, but was providing support in case she needed it. “In that case, I hope you don’t find her.”

  “I hope I don’t, either.” But her father didn’t look too hopeful.

  Kristen thought wistfully of the kind of love Ralph Beckman had for his wife. It was rich with an understanding ripened by time, the kind of love nice, decent, emotionally mature men had for their life partners. Oddly, the same kind of men who wouldn’t mind driving red trucks bearing plastic Santa torsos when the situation called for it.

  Not that Kristen was having any such thoughts about Mitch for herself, because she could stand only so much vanilla before she needed to crunch on some Rocky Road.

  Kristen returned to her desk and started to work on the routine background investigations her father assigned to her.

  A significant portion of Noir Blanc’s business came from women investigating the background of men they were dating, a practice Kristen heartily endorsed after being burned a few times herself. Besides, she discovered that she really enjoyed snooping. Yeah, she was ready to call it character research for her acting in case anyone asked, but no one did.

  Noir Blanc had a few male clients, as well, but they were a definite minority. Kristen didn’t know if men were more trusting in the dating scene, but from what she’d seen, they shouldn’t be. Maybe the men only hired Noir Blanc when they were already suspicious because Kristen had discovered way too many women out there giving the sisterhood a bad name.

  And speaking of trust, Mitch sure trusted his partner. Yeah, friendship and loyalty and all that were admirable but Kristen didn’t think Mitch’s situation was anything like the realistic trust Ralph Beckman had for his wife. Maybe she was just overly cynical. However… However, it was none of her business. Literally.

  She ran the routine checks and didn’t find any red flags, which would guarantee a nice holiday for their clients. Everybody was on the up-and-up this season. Good will toward men and all that. After writing the reports, she printed them out and put them on her father’s desk.

  Finished. All done. Phones silent. Computer humming. Lipstick fresh. Nails filed. Thumbs twiddling.

  And so Kristen did what she knew she’d been going to do ever since Mitch had honked the ho ho ho horn. She ran a background check on him.

  KRISTEN ZALESKI’S LIPS exactly matched the red Christmas lights The Electric Santa used, so naturally, Mitch thought about her the rest of the day. Stringing lights didn’t exactly require deep thought—other than remembering how many lights he’d strung together so he didn’t overload the circuit—which meant Mitch had plenty of time to think. About Kristen. And her lips. And other body parts.

  He tried to recall any high school memories, but the Kristen that came to mind bore no resemblance to this Kristen, and that was fine with him. He liked this Kristen better.

  On the way home, Mitch stopped at a video rental store and wandered down the classics aisle. He identified the film noir movies by the actresses on the cover of the case—they looked just like Kristen, except that they were in black-and-white and Kristen, or rather her mouth, was in living color. Christmas red, to be precise.

  Mitch picked a handful of videos with names like KISS ME DEADLY, DARK PASSAGE and THE BIG SLEEP, added a few packs of microwave popcorn and a two-liter bottle of Coke with lime—just in case there was a trace of vitamin C in it—and headed for home.

  NOT ONLY WAS HE plain vanilla, he was white bread. Cream of wheat. Macaroni and cheese—hey. Macaroni and cheese. Yum. Kristen had never been a mac and cheese eater as a child, but the idea of warm, creamy goodness suddenly appealed.

  They were running out of potatoes, anyway.

  But back to Mitch. Yes, he was macaroni and cheese. No outstanding warrants. No arrests. No unpaid traffic tickets—or paid ones, either. No ominously sealed juvenile records. Paid his credit cards off every month, no glitches in the credit rating, except—what the heck was this? A big, old, fat bar, that’s what it was. A big, old fat bar that turned into a wall. Even the best software programs Noir Blanc had couldn’t get past it.

  Wow. Mitch had mentioned something about his accounts being frozen, but this was subzero. Kristen backed up and tried to check out last month’s information, but couldn’t get into that, either.

  So she went fishing. Back to the credit reports. This time, she studied which cards he had and which companies had requested his file.

  Anderson Personnel was on top. They’d requested his file last March. Now why was a personnel company requesting Mitch’s personal credit report? His company’s profile, sure, but why Mitch’s own data? Was Mitch job hunting back then? And why would he job hunt when he owned his own company?

  Kristen searched for info on Anderson Personnel and discovered it was a holding company. Okay, what and who were they holding? Texas Rhinestone Corporation. Rhinestones needed a corporation? Maybe not, because TRC turned out to be Longhorn Entertainment’s parent company. And Longhorn Entertainment owned… Kristen searched and clicked. Fruit? The Coconut Club. Big Bananas. Tutti Fruiti. Miss Melons. Cherries Jubilee.

  Somehow, Kristen didn’t think she was looking at fruit-of-the-month clubs. Beefsteaks. Whipped Creme. Oh, how nice. They’d branched out into other food groups.

  Her stomach growled. She ignored it.

  Adult clubs. Had to be. Something about rhinestones and entertainment pointed Kristen in that direction. Frankly, she had a live-and-let-live attitude toward the adult entertainment industry as long as it didn’t live too close—or try to pawn off burlesque as family entertainment.

  She briefly wondered if the sushi and salsa place was connected—that was food, wasn’t it?—but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of researching. She’d stick with the fruits.

  Now, where were these places? And how were they connected with Mitch? One of his ick-factor clients?

  Why did “ick factor” immediately bring to mind Jeremy Sloane? Was it because “ick” rhymed with “slick”? She only had a high-school-aged memory, but she’d bet he looked about the same—slick in a carefully styled young-businessman-at-a-prayer-breakfast-with-the-boss kind of way.

  He’d been the student council vice president, a member of the mixed chorus, the football team manager—a position reserved for those who couldn’t play but wanted to pretend they were a part of the action. Kristen had a sudden vivid memory of Jeremy handing out water to the players on the sidelines. She’d been on the drill team and they always lined up early behind the team to prepare for their halftime show. The players, oblivious to anything but the action on the field, had tossed the plastic squirt bottles and cups to the ground and dirty water had splashed onto some of the drill team’s white boots.

  Kristen remembered their lieutenant yelling at the players about it. An assistant coach—the hot one they all had a crush on—sent an annoyed look first at them, and then at Jeremy. Yeah, it had been Jeremy. She remembered his carefully parted hair. And then she remembered how he took a towel and went down the line wiping their white boots as they stood at attention.

  Kristen had only been relieved to get the splashes of mud off but now she wondered how he’d felt. No big deal? Or the ultimate humiliation?

  She hadn’t seen his expression because they’d been trained to keep motionless and their eyes forward. And, frankly, until this moment, Kristen hadn’t given the incident—or Jeremy Sloane—a second thought.

  Now she did. He was on the short side in high school, if Kristen recalled
correctly. With the experience of years, she figured that he must have had short-man syndrome even then. It was easy to find a current picture of him on the Internet. Lots of pictures of him, as a matter of fact.

  Kristen clicked through them, noticing the ritzy locales, the parties, the women and all the props men with inadequacy issues surrounded themselves with to feel important. Oh, she so knew the type.

  Or, again, she could just be overly cynical.

  However, unless he was dating only six-foot-four models, he was still short. Good-looking, though, if a woman went for the carefully groomed, capped teeth, buffed nails type rather than the could-use-a-haircut-red-Santa-hoodie-wearing type.

  Hypothetically.

  And because it was easier to investigate Jeremy than Mitch, Kristen did so.

  Within ten minutes, Kristen had figured out their working relationship. Mitch was not in a single one of the “see and be seen” pictures. Jeremy was clearly the people person and brought in their business. Mitch must be the brains. Since in Kristen’s opinion, he was currently acting pretty brainless, it was a scary thought.

  But if it worked for them, great. Only not so great if Mitch was being investigated and Jeremy wasn’t. Jeremy could make a good case for denying any knowledge of what Mitch had been doing. Whatever that turned out to be.

  Kristen reached into her file drawer and removed the bottle of water she kept out of sight. Plastic bottled water didn’t fit with the decor. After taking a swig, she put it back and stared at her computer screen. Tapping her Revlon Red nails—a new habit she kinda liked—Kristen considered her next move.

  She wanted access to the private stuff about Jeremy Sloane, except there were ethics involved here. She could justify investigating Mitch because of her personal involvement with him. Or potential personal involvement. But investigating his business partner was a stretch. Mitch would have to hire Noir Blanc and Kristen knew he wouldn’t do that. There needed to be paperwork to document an investigative request and if they were subpoenaed—not likely—that paperwork would be examined.