The Santa Claws Bandit (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 5)

by Alannah Rogers

  They all said their goodbyes and Beatrice, the sheriff, and their three feline sidekicks tromped out into the snow. She looked back for a moment to admire Joe decorating. The old wood-paneled building had a big wreath on the door and glowing plastic snowmen on either side. A big American flag hung from the second floor and the street lamps and bushes outside were all trussed up in white fairy lights. Contributing to the overall effect was the gingerbread-house like layer of snow on the roof and long, glimmering icicles that hung from the eaves.

  Beatrice sighed happily as she tugged on her red wool mittens. “What makes Christmas so special anyway?”

  “Other than it gives me an excuse to have a drink before noon?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes, silly. Other than that.”

  He folded his arms and looked back at the general store as if trying to puzzle out a difficult mathematical equation. “Getting to eat way more than you normally should?” he finally said.

  Beatrice sighed, exasperated. Petunia came trotting up to her, her bell jangling merrily. She caught the fluffy Himalayan in her arms and hoisted her up. The sweet-faced cat immediately started to purr and put the pad of her pink paw on Beatrice’s nose playfully.

  “You know what makes Christmas special, right duckie?” she asked, nuzzling the white and tan cat. “It’s spending time with the people that matter.”

  “You’re such a softie,” the sheriff commented, holding open the car door for her.

  “Yeah, well, that’s why you all love me,” Beatrice said, getting in. “That or because I’m a consistent supply of coffee and diabetes-inducing sweets.”

  9

  There were a lot of things Beatrice liked about sleuthing, but following a suspect was her favorite. More specifically, waiting outside the suspect’s house for them to come out. She’d seem more than her fair share of cop TV shows and movies, so she knew that the primary ingredient of a good stakeout were snacks, not to mention a warm jacket.

  She and Matthew sat in her truck across from Santa’s apartment—the Santa that Zoe and Joe had mentioned. The complex was a tall, brick building on the outskirts of Concord in a not-so-nice neighborhood. The sheriff sat in his truck on the opposite side. Even though the area wasn’t quite as dressed up as Ashbrook, there were a few signs of holiday cheer—balconies wrapped in green and red lights, a huge inflatable snowman by the apartment building’s front entrance, and a really, really big cross lit up with white lights—probably from a church. It was just starting to become twilight.

  Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” played over the car radio. Beatrice was wearing her matching red knit scarf, hat, and mittens. Matthew was in a parka with the hood up, his hand dipping into an extra-large bag of barbecue chips. Beatrice’s eyes were glued on the apartment building’s front door, while her hand strayed across into the chip bag. Snow fell around them, silent and fluffy, glinting occasionally in the streetlight. Beatrice crunched methodically through her handful of carbs, pausing only to take a sip from the candy cane latte she’d brought from the café.

  The cats all sat in the back, freed from their kennels. Petunia looked completely non-plussed about the whole situation—she was tucked up in a ball, nose under her tail, snoozing away. Hamish and Lucky, on the other hand, were side-by-side, paws up on the window ledge, ears perked, eyes focused on the apartment building.

  “I never knew a stakeout could be so much fun,” Matthew commented, opening a packet of licorice. “It’s almost better than Netflix. The anticipation is killing me. I haven’t felt this excited since we started watching … what was that series, with the dragons and people in armor?”

  “Game of Thrones,” Beatrice said automatically. “You really need to get out more, Matt.”

  Her cell lit up. It was a message from the sheriff: Movement at the door.

  Beatrice’s head snapped up. Indeed, the door was opening and out came Santa, walking carefully down the icy walkway.

  “That has to be him! Tall, thin, a little bedraggled.” Beatrice went to turn on the car.

  “No, no!” Matthew hissed. “We have to be subtle. Wait until he drives away in his car before we start out.”

  “Oh right.” Beatrice snatched her hand away like the ignition was on fire. “Geez, this stakeout stuff is pretty complicated business. Good thing we’re the ultimate crime-fighting team.”

  “I think they’re the ultimate crime-fighting team,” Matthew said, jerking his thumb back towards the cats. “We’re just along for the ride.”

  Santa got in his car and took off. The sheriff drove behind him, with Beatrice bringing up the rear. Soon they were on the 93 Highway, headed towards Ashbrook. The pavement was clear and Santa didn’t drive at a fast clip, so it was pretty easy to tail him. Beatrice, who had recently discovered the joy of car chases, wished for a bit more action but wisely didn’t tell Matthew this.

  Santa took the Ashbrook exit and cruised down the mostly deserted street, before swerving off towards the big Ashbrook mall. Beatrice and Matthew exchanged glances. “He’s going for the big haul!” Beatrice hissed.

  The Ashbrook mall was the site of one of the big toy stores. The ultimate stop for a Santa bent on filling up on toys. And lo and behold, Santa parked outside the store and went in.

  The sheriff was out in a flash, the rest of them hot on his heels. The cats galloped forward with glee—they always got excited when it was time to chase a suspect. Beatrice relied on them, too: to knock guns away from the reach of suspects, jump on suspects, raise the alarm if a suspect was lying in wait. They were multi-purpose cats.

  Inside the store, everything was bright and cheery. A Justin Bieber Christmas song played over the stereo and the place was swarming with anxious looking parents packing toys into overloaded carts. Santa strode purposefully down the aisle. He went right for the Bratz doll section, pulled one off the shelf and …walked towards the cash.

  The sheriff, who was trailing him closely, froze, then ducked in the Barbie aisle. The rest of the posse almost piled on top of him as they all watched Santa rummage in his pocket for his wallet.

  “What’s he doing?” Beatrice asked.

  “I think he’s going to pay for that doll,” the sheriff said.

  “But Santa doesn’t pay for things. Where’s his gun? Where’s his sack?”

  Her questions were soon answered as the front door slammed open wildly and another Santa stepped through the doors. “Ho, ho, ho!” he yelled, brandishing a very large rifle. “Santa’s here! Better stay clear girls and boys, or else things are going to get bad fast…” He stopped in his tracks and eyed his doppelgänger, who was now in line at the cash, Bratz doll in one hand, wallet in the other.

  Santa put down the doll and strode towards gun-toting Santa without a trace of fear. “This isn’t the Christmas spirit,” Santa-with-a-wallet said. “How dare you come in here and frighten these people? Thank goodness the real Santa is here, and he’s going to teach you a lesson.”

  The other Santa tried to fire his gun but it caught and refused to go off. Law-abiding Santa took this opportunity to tackle his opponent, pulling him down by the waist, and beginning to pummel him right in the beard.

  There were screams and people who had previously been frozen in shock started running for the doors. The sheriff leapt into action, striding down the aisle, gun pointed.

  But gun-toting Santa, who will now be called by his rightful name—the Santa Bandit—managed to shove off the other Santa before the sheriff could get close enough and bolted towards the door.

  Other Santa stood up, spotted the sheriff, and yelled, “Pile in my car! I drive like a maniac.”

  As it turned out, Other Santa’s car was a lot closer so they all jumped into his car—Matthew, the sheriff, Beatrice, and the cats. The car went tearing off, weaving through the parking lot, hot on the trail of the Santa Bandit’s badly damaged car—the same wreck with rusty doors they’d seen before

  “These Santas can really drive!” Beatrice said, thrilled that sh
e was getting her car chase after all.

  “Tell me that when we’re turned over on a snow bank somewhere,” Matthew said, his hand gripping the door so hard his knuckles were white. The cats huddled at his feet, their eyes wide. Lucky let out a distressed yowl, his ears flattened back against his head. Car travel wasn’t his favorite even at twenty miles an hour, so this was his worst nightmare.

  “Okay, I’m going to blow out his tires,” the sheriff said, drawing his gun and cranking down the window.

  “Oh this is really exciting!” Beatrice said.

  Lucky dug his claws into the back of the seat in front of her and squeezed his eyes shut. Unfortunately, they hit a section of road that wasn’t plowed as well. The car started to swerve in the uneven snow. Ice glinted underneath bare patches. The sheriff started firing but the bullets kept landing in the snow. Matthew was covering his eyes with his hands.

  “I’m not ready to die yet. I’m not ready to die yet,” he kept mumbling.

  Beatrice, however, had her head out the window like a happy dog, yelling at the Santa Bandit excitedly.

  And then Other Santa’s car started to slow down.

  “Pedal to the medal,” the sheriff shouted.

  “My name’s Carl, not Santa,” Other Santa/Carl yelled. “And we’re running out of gas.”

  The sheriff cursed something furious, steadied his hand and fired off a couple more rounds just as their car ground to a dead halt.

  As soon as they stopped, the sheriff leapt out of the car and started running. Hamish followed second, bounding like an antelope on the plains. Beatrice came running along next, awkward in her puffy coat and multiple layers. Matthew brought up the rear, yelling at everyone to be careful. Petunia trotted behind as if she had all the time in the world, her fluffy tail sticking straight up. Carl brought up the rear, though he quickly ran out of breath. A terrified Lucky stayed in the car.

  Beatrice’s breath came out in great white puffs as she jogged along. The Santa Bandit’s car continued to drive ahead of them, but it was slowing down.

  “I hit him!” the sheriff cried.

  Except that the Santa Bandit immediately bailed and started running down the street as fast as possible, randomly shooting behind him as he went. Beatrice ducked behind the beat-up car with the sheriff and Hamish, then peeked out. Bandit Santa was disappearing down a lane. Matthew caught up with them behind the car, breathing hard.

  “What now?” he asked the sheriff.

  But the sheriff was off again, running as if he were a man half his age so the rest of them had no choice but to catch up.

  The lane turned out to be a narrow driveway with a mailbox at the end of it. The driveway wasn’t short or straight—it wound through the forest as if it’d had too much to drink. Snow covered the slim alders and beeches in a thin layer that sparkled in the sunlight, contrasting sharply with the dark, damp bark peeking through.

  Eventually they came upon a small Cape Cod style house with gray shingles. Icicles dripped from the eaves and a bush covered in Christmas lights blinked sporadically, half its bulbs out. The Santa Bandit ran up to the doors and tried them all, but they were locked. The windows too. With the sheriff closing in, his Santa instinct must have kicked in because next thing they knew he was scrambling up onto the porch roof, and then up onto the main one, kicking snow as he went. He stood on top of the roof and started shooting down. The sheriff ducked under the porch; Matthew and Beatrice dove behind the trees. Carl, the other Santa, was still puffing his way down the lane.

  Then Hamish started scrambling up the porch pillars, his sharp claws gripping the wood.

  “Noooo!” Beatrice yelled. “Hammy! He’ll shoot you.”

  But Hamish didn’t look concerned. He scampered up onto the roof and ran to a little overhang where he was safe from bullets. Santa went over to the chimney, fit his bulk into it, and…

  Nothing. He didn’t go down, that was for sure. He kept shooting but soon enough the gunshots stopped and all they heard was empty clicking. He was out of ammo. Which was when the sheriff hauled himself up on the roof, ran over, and pointed his gun straight at Santa’s head.

  “Get out. You’re coming with me, you good-for-nothing excuse for Mr. Claus.”

  The Santa Bandit twisted and turned furiously, then stopped.

  “I’m stuck,” he said.

  10

  Beatrice and Matthew sipped hot coffee brought to them by the deputy. He’d driven over to help the sheriff as soon as they’d gotten the Santa Bandit cornered. The flashing lights of a fire truck illuminated the forest around them with splashes of red.

  “I’ve seen a lot of strange cases but this one really takes the cake,” the deputy said, looking up at where firefighters were jackhammering the brick chimney in order to pry Santa out.

  “Well, at least this case was holiday-themed,” Beatrice said, sighing as the hot coffee went down her throat. She was chilled and exhausted. “Although that’s really not going to help with finishing my Christmas cookie order.”

  The firefighters gave a cheer as they hoisted Claus out of the chimney. He struggled at first but the sheriff cuffed him and brought him down. Thankfully, the deputy had parked nearby so they didn’t have to make the long walk down the driveway again.

  That also meant all of them had to pack into the same car. The deputy drove and the sheriff sat next to Santa, who was saying some very un-jolly things about his arrest. Once at the station, Santa was put in the interview room and Matthew and Beatrice collapsed next to each other in a couple of chairs in the waiting room. Her cell rang.

  “Where are you?” Zoe’s worried voice came through the phone. “I’m getting all these random reports of a car chase, gun shots, Santa on the run…”

  “I’m at the sheriff’s office. Everything’s okay. Santa’s in lockdown.”

  “I don’t know how comforting that is. Nobody got shot? The sheriff’s okay?”

  “We’re fine,” Beatrice said, touched. “Poor Zoe, I didn’t mean to get you upset.”

  “Yeah well, you being around people with guns doesn’t exactly make me happy. I’m bringing food over. Stay put.”

  True to her word, Zoe arrived minutes later carrying plastic bags full of disposable containers. There was slow cooked chicken with dumplings, steamed broccoli, and garlic toasts—some of Beatrice’s favorite foods. The three of them dug in hungrily, barely pausing as they stuffed themselves. They had to eat quickly because the sheriff wanted to start the interview with the Santa Bandit immediately.

  And so within fifteen minutes, Beatrice and Matthew sat behind the sheriff in the tiny interview room on rickety chairs. Hamish stood watch in the corner of the room (Petunia and Lucky were resting in the sheriff’s office).

  Santa sat behind the table, hands cuffed behind him. His ratty beard was off and laid out on the table. As it turned out he had a sallow face with hollow cheekbones, steely blue eyes, and a mostly bald head. His jaw was clenched tight and a muscle spasmed in his cheek.

  “You got no right to bring me in here,” he growled. “I’m the good guy. All I was trying to do was spread a little Christmas cheer to some kids in need.”

  The sheriff sat down across from him and folded his hands on the table. “That’s fine but it just so happens that holding stores up at gunpoint was made illegal a heck of a long time ago.”

  “Funny guy,” Santa mumbled. “You don’t know what it was like. Working at malls at those years, seeing rich brats asking for outrageous things, none of which they needed. And I’m not just talking a pony or a train set. I mean mini-Ferraris, rare dog breeds that cost thousands of dollars, custom playhouses. What eight-year-old needs that kind of stuff? When I was a kid, I was happy if I got some chocolate, let alone a toy.”

  “Well Oliver,” the sheriff said, taking a peek at the driver’s license he’d taken from the Santa Bandit/Oliver’s wallet. “I think your heart’s in the right place. I mean, the kids you gave those presents to really did need help. But there are plen
ty of ways to get toys without raising hell with a deadly weapon.”

  “It was also so not cool that you crashed our present exchange,” Beatrice put in. “Who does that? It’s not charitable.”

  “Arghhh,” Santa spat. “You could spare them. Listen, no one’s going to convict me for what I did. No one’s going to put away Santa! And I’m going to tell you exactly why…”

  This led to an hour of ranting and raving, most of it nonsensical. Eventually, the sheriff managed to get a full confession out of him and Oliver was taken to his cell to cool down.

  Beatrice and Matthew watched him go, arms crossed.

  “There’s something so sad about this all,” she commented. “He really was trying to help. But he’s obviously got some anger issues too. I guess being a mall Santa really is the worst job if it made him like that.”

  “I don’t know if it was being Santa that did it,” the sheriff said, standing next to them. “From what I’ve learned so far, Oliver was a very lonely man. No kids. No wife. No friends to speak of. His life was his work and for most of the year, except December, he didn’t even have that. I guess he was a guy who needed some meaning in his life—which was why he started playing Robin Hood. Anyway, that’s my best guess. We’ll learn more soon.”

  “Makes sense,” Beatrice said. “Though the gun-waving was taking it a bit too far.”

  “I’d say we need a stiff drink, but we already did that last night and my body can’t take more punishment,” Matthew said.

  “Ugh no.” Hamish meowed at Beatrice’s feet and she picked him up, kissing his head. “I think the only medicine that will do is a long, hot bath and an early night.”

  “Seconded.”

  11

  Christmas carols played over the loudspeaker in the elementary school gym but it was largely blotted out by the constant hum of people chattering as they found their seats and leaned over to talk to their neighbors. Others left toy donations in the already-overflowing bin.