“Christmas Day,” the sheriff said heavily. “I haven’t missed it…” He threw down his script. “This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a cat in a sweater. Does no one here care about my dignity? No one at all?”
“You’re offending Hamish,” Beatrice said.
“You’re offending Hamish by making him wear that sweater,” the sheriff shot back.
“Enough, enough,” Matthew said, stepping in. “We’ll find a real child to play the part. And I’ll get the sheriff drunk before the performance. Everyone happy?”
“You mean Hamish can’t be in the play?” Beatrice said. “Look at him! He’s practically stealing the show and he can’t even talk. Why would you deny him this kind of opportunity?”
“Okay guys, please. This is a charity Christmas play, not Shakespeare,” Reggie said, standing between the onlookers and the stage. “Can we please put aside our differences?”
The sheriff, looking abashed, went back to his sight-reading and Hamish went back to assuming his non-speaking part in as dignified a manner as possible. They decided to try the scene with the next spirit where Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present go to see the home of Tiny Tim. Beatrice didn’t think the sheriff’s emotionless reading did enough justice to Tiny Tim’s dire situation, but she held her tongue in the interest of keeping the peace.
Once they had all hobbled through a few scenes, Reggie announced it was time for tea, cookies, and the Secret Santa exchange. The presents had all been piled up on a table to the side.
But no sooner after he had announced this the doors in the gym slammed open and a tall, disheveled Santa strode through holding a rifle. There was a collective gasp from the actors and then screaming as people fled towards whatever exit was closest. The cats leapt down from the stage and ran forward through the crowd, as if trying to get a good look.
“You have got to be kidding me,” the sheriff said in a decidedly non-monotone voice.
“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!” Santa boomed. “I heard some very nice people had some presents for me.”
“No,” Beatrice said, frantically looking for a place to hide. “You steal toys. These are adult presents.”
“I have some very good adult girls and boys this year too,” Santa said. He put the gun on the floor, took the sack off his shoulder, and started to shove the bright green and red packages inside. “They’ll be very grateful for your donation.”
Beatrice pulled down a table and hid behind it. “It’s not a donation if we’re not giving them willingly,” she yelled.
“Bee, let me handle this,” the sheriff said. He inched his way towards his bag, where his own gun was.
“Don’t try to talk me out of this,” Mr. Claus said, as he continued to fill his sack with gifts. “I’m a man in a red suit trimmed in fake fur stealing presents. You don’t want to mess with me. I’m deranged.”
“Yeah we got that memo, Santa,” the sheriff said, still inching towards his bag. “So kick that gun towards me and stop antagonizing these nice people. Nobody needs a bullet in the head right before Christmas.”
“No problem, I’m done anyway,” Santa said. He took a firm hold of the sack, picked up his rifle, and ran for the doors. The sheriff snatched his gun out of his bag but Santa had already banged his way out the doors. The sheriff followed in hot pursuit.
Matthew and Beatrice exchanged horrified looks. “I need a drink,” she said, her body trembling with fear. “What a night.”
But the cats didn’t miss a beat. Hamish went bounding across the floor towards where Claus had just been. He snatched up something with his teeth and went trotting back to Beatrice. She took the piece of paper from his hands and frowned.
“It’s a receipt.” Her eyes widened. “For burlap sacks! He bought them at Joe’s Hardware. Here’s the time and date and everything. Maybe he went without a costume. Or left payment details. I don’t know. We must be able to get something out of this.”
“I know Joe well, I’ll let him know you’re coming. But for now, can we please get a beer?”
“You don’t need to ask twice.”
8
“Matt, you old drunk, get up! You’re going to be late for work.”
Beatrice towered over the slumbering form of the ranger on her sofa. He stirred, snuffled, and rolled over, cuddling the blanket that Beatrice had draped over him.
“I think it’s time for Plan B,” she said to Hamish, who was sitting on the coffee table behind her. “Go get him tiger.”
The big, fluffy cat blinked, leapt onto the back of the sofa and tipsy-toed onto Matthew. He started the wake-up routine by walking back and forth, then kneading him with his long claws, and finally sat on his chest, staring into his eyes, his whiskers tickling Matthew’s face.
“Ugh, Bee. Call off the hounds.”
Hamish sneezed right in Matthew’s face, as if in revenge for calling him a ‘hound.’ Matthew coughed, wiped his face, and pushed the big cat back as he sat up. Hamish leapt down, his job done, and accepted the cat treat that Beatrice gave him.
“What time is it?” Matthew asked groggily.
“Seven. You have time yet. But I knew you’d need a bit to wake up. Get some coffee in your system.”
“I can’t even remember how many beers I had last night. Too many,” he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “And I slept here?” He looked around. “How did that happen?”
Beatrice padded away in her slippers to the kitchen. “As if you’ve never crashed here before. Like I always say, I should get you keys to the house.”
The two of them sat at the breakfast island, Beatrice in her PJs and white waffle robe, Matthew in his blue-striped PJs that he always kept at her house (further testament to the fact that he did crash there, and often). It was still dark outside, though the sun was coming up and filling the woods with that deep blue light particular to wintery mornings. The pines were dusted with snow like icing sugar.
The two friends sat over their steaming cups of coffee, hands cradling the mugs for warmth. The kitchen windows were topped with spruce bows and red ball ornaments hung from the rafters, strung up with red ribbon. It was so warm and cozy inside, Beatrice never wanted to venture out. Petunia jumped up on the breakfast table, the bell jangling on her new red collar. She stared expectedly at Beatrice, who gently patted her kitten-soft fur.
“I can’t believe Santa stole all of our presents,” Matthew said, breaking the silence. “There is just something fundamentally wrong with that.”
“Tell me about it. Way to get in the holiday spirit.”
“Speaking of presents, what do you want for Christmas?”
Beatrice frowned. Matthew’s blue eyes sparkled, as if he was enjoying a private joke. “I don’t know,” she said. “What you always get me, I guess: something from Williams & Sonoma that no one knows how to use except for you.”
“And you’re going to get me new slippers?”
She looked down at his feet. “You don’t need slippers. Yet. Maybe socks. Or some gel for that crazy hair of yours.”
Matthew ran a tentative hand through his longish gray locks. It was sticking up funny all over. “I was thinking, how about we break our tradition of practical presents? We’re both doing okay in our old age, we can afford to get each other something special.”
Beatrice took a sip of the hot coffee. The warmth of it flooded her belly. “Okay Matt, quit being coy. Just tell me if you want something: a Kindle, a new phone, some fancy-schmancy suit.”
“Nah Bee, I don’t want anything in particular. I just think we should make an effort this year.”
Beatrice didn’t have a clue where this was coming from. Usually, their discussion about presents was minimal. “Um. You’re making me nervous. What is this? You want cologne? Cuff links? A puppy with a red bow around its neck? I don’t do sentimental presents. It’s not my thing.”
Matthew reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “Well, you get what you want. But I’m going to buy something spec
ial this year. In fact, I already know what it is.”
“You really don’t have to,” she muttered, staring at the hand sitting on top of hers. It was much bigger than hers, warm, and a little rough on the bottom. She reluctantly looked up at him. He was smiling at her, but not in his usual you’re-a-weirdo-and-I-think-you’re-funny kind of way. It was more … intense. “Uh, I should go and get dressed.”
And so Beatrice spent the next ten minutes in the shower wracking her brains as to what a ‘special’ present for Matthew might be. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about! Thankfully, Lucky kept her from getting too stressed. He was obsessed with water and was always running to the bathroom, trying to get her to turn on the tap for him. He sat outside the shower curtain too, pouncing on it furiously, or hooking in his little black paw with its pink pads to bat at the droplets.
“You little monkey,” Beatrice said, flicking him with water.
Matthew went off to work and Beatrice and the cats went to the café. There were at least ten people crowded around the display case, mouths dropped open at the sights inside. Zoe was really working her magic that season.
There were airy meringues with thick nutty hazelnut chocolate cream inside. Gingerbread cheesecake, too—a little spicy and a lot creamy, with cheesecake and gingerbread loaf layers, topped in crumbled gingerbread, whipped cream, and caramel sauce.
And the crowd favorite—six-layer red velvet cake with layer upon layer of cream cheese frosting. Beatrice took snapshots of the best desserts of the day and uploaded them to the café’s social media pages.
The sheriff called soon after to set the time to go to the hardware store. Then Beatrice spent the morning slaving away in the kitchen with Zoe, making cookies for their ever-popular Christmas cookie assortment. There were chocolate caramel and pecan cluster cookies, chocolate kiss powder puff cookies, raspberry almond shortbread cookies, and lots and lots of traditional sugar cookies in festive shapes.
By lunch, Beatrice’s apron, not to mention her face and hands, were covered in flour. Icing sugar dusted her hair and she smelled like she’d been the one freshly baked.
“Bee, you look like you got in a fight with a gang of Christmas elves,” the sheriff said from behind the cat gate.
He was holding Lucky, who was trying to rub his face and purring madly. Since the sheriff wasn’t usually disposed to touch her cats, Beatrice immediately whipped out her phone, snapped a photo, and uploaded it to her Facebook page. Jake glared at her from beneath bushy eyebrows.
“Well, are we going to the hardware store or what?”
“Or what. Let’s have lunch first. I’m starving.”
Beatrice whipped up some ham cheddar turkey melts, since they were on the menu that day, and the two of them sat in the café in front of the window. A light dusting of snow was falling. It was silent outside and because of a heavy cloud cover the sky was hazy, even twilight-like. The streetlights had come on it was so dim. But inside it was bright and cheery and smelled of pine and baking. “The Little Drummer Boy” played through the speakers.
Beatrice swallowed a bite of the sweet and salty sandwich. “Jake, I’m in a real pickle. Matthew told me he wants us to give each other ‘special’ presents this year. Not the usual practical stuff. You’re a man—so what does he mean by that? What am I actually supposed to get him?”
The sheriff pulled at his moustache. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to laugh.
“I don’t know, Bee. What do you think he means?”
Beatrice took another big bite of sandwich and chewed. “Maybe he means something fun. Like an Xbox or a certificate to go skydiving.” She sighed. “Or some really special socks.”
“There you go,” the sheriff said, his eyes fixed on his sandwich, his mouth set straight as if he might burst into laughter at any moment. “Special socks.”
“I’m going to ignore the fact that you think this is a joke. Especially since I am very stressed about this, as well as our cookie orders—not to mention the Bandit Santa who won’t stop stealing things. I guess it’s too much to ask for a little compassion.”
The sheriff sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry. Really. I’ve been so wound up about trying to catch Santa, I just needed an excuse to laugh for a change. But I didn’t mean for it to be at your expense.”
“That’s okay, Jake. I think we’re all just ready for Christmas to come so we can put up our feet and relax.”
“You said it.”
When they’d finished lunch, the two friends drove over to the hardware store. It was one of those old-fashioned family-owned stores that still managed to survive in small places like Ashbrook. The Business Association in town was wary of letting in big box stores that might cause their long-standing businesses to go bankrupt. Plus, it was part of the charm of the place. Concord and other big cities were close enough, if anyone felt the need to go big box shopping.
Joe was the owner of Joe’s Hardware, fittingly enough. It had been passed on from his father, who got it from his father. It was an old wooden building, smelling faintly of cedar, with creaky floorboards and custom-made wooden shelving divided into plenty of little nooks for odds and ends. Tools were hung up on a large wall covered in cork. Long steel pendant lights hung down, illuminating the almost-windowless space. Huge mason jars contained screws, nails, and the like.
“Jake!” cried the shopkeeper.
He was a barrel of a man with big meaty hands and a red face. Striding out from behind the counter, he shook the sheriff’s hand heartily, grinning as he did so. “Happy to see you. Ms. Young.” He nodded his head respectfully in her direction. “And, I see you’ve brought some friends with you.”
The cats crept through the hardware store like lions stalking gazelles. The store was a cat’s dream—so many surfaces and places to hide, plus things to fish out of jars and bat around. Lucky shrunk back when he encountered a stray nail on the floor, crouched down, eyed it, and then pounced down on the unsuspecting thing with his full force. The nail went skittering across the floor and Lucky with it, making a mad dash after the errant piece of metal as if it might dive into a hole in the wall and disappear.
“Yeah, just ignore them,” Beatrice said. “They’ll amuse themselves.”
“Well, I got the video footage like you asked,” Joe said, ushering them into his office in the back. It was a dusty space crammed with old computer equipment. “Didn’t want to install cameras but after some bad kids held me up last year, I figured I had to. But I don’t know what you’re going to see.” He sat down behind his computer and clicked around, then swiveled the monitor towards them. “He was wearing his suit.”
Beatrice and the sheriff watched as the tall, thin Santa in the raggedy suit entered the store, milled around a bit, selected a few burlap bags, and then paid for them at the cash. There wasn’t any audio and while the footage was good enough to confirm that it was the Bandit Santa they were seeing, the beard and hat still covered him up enough that he couldn’t be identified.
The sheriff uttered a mild curse under his breath. “And when was this?”
“About a week ago. I mean, I thought it was just some mall Santa who hadn’t bothered to change after work. We didn’t talk much either. I think I cracked a joke about how it was funny to see Santa buying a sack, kind of like watching elves shop for pointy shoes. He just looked at me, paid, and took off. I didn’t think anything of it until you called me and I put two and two together.”
The sheriff sighed, took off his hat, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. There were new bags under his eyes and deep lines around his mouth. Beatrice thought, not for the first time, that he worked way too hard. “Well, here we are at a dead end once again. Who knew Santa could be so wily?”
“I guess he has to be, slipping down all the chimneys in the world in one night without being seen. Must take some skill,” Joe said.
There was a sneeze behind them. It was Petunia. She was watching Lucky, who was trying to sneak up on Hamis
h. The big tawny Maine Coon sat on the floor looking at a cabinet, gauging whether he could jump up. Lucky was right around the corner of a cabinet, creeping low to the floor, moving like he was underwater, trying not to attract Hamish’s attention. Then suddenly he bolted, racing at Hamish full force. The big cat turned around, nonchalant, and knocked Lucky back with one flick of his paw. Dazed, Lucky shook his head vigorously before scampering off.
Joe laughed. “What a riot they are! The black one’s like a little trickster elf. He kind of reminds me of a Santa I used to visit as a kid in this Concord mall. Creepy guy. Never got out of character. I heard he chased some poor girl through the mall because she accidentally threw up on him…”
An alarm as loud as a slew of fire trucks went off in Beatrice’s head. “Wait, I think you’re talking about my friend Zoe. She was chased by an angry mall Santa in Concord. Do you think he still works there?”
“Maybe. I wandered into the mall last Christmas and accidentally stumbled upon him. I don’t know if he’s the stealing type, but he definitely had a reputation for being a weirdo. A friend told me that even when he was in the break room with other Santas, elves, or staff he would still insist that he lived in the North Pole, was married to Mrs. Claus, and was stressed out by all the preparations at Santa’s workshop. He’d tell stories about getting stuck in chimneys in Turkey or about the memorial he erected in Rudolph’s memory outside his house.”
The sheriff scratched his head. “Well, that’s kind of off but I’ve heard that those mall Santas can be intense…”
“Oh!” Joe exclaimed, his eyes brightening in his shiny, red face. “I just remembered another story I heard. Apparently this guy said there was a bad Santa he called Fraus. That Fraus lived in the South Pole and he came to visit bad children. He not only left them coal but he’d haunt their rooms and scare them at night.”
Beatrice shivered. “That’s awful. Who says that to little kids? I don’t see a motive for thievery in all of that, but you never know. We must have missed him on our list because he definitely wasn’t there at the interviews—I think I’d have noticed.”
The Santa Claws Bandit (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 5) Page 5