by M E Harmon
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Candy Canes and Criminals
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Candy Canes and Criminals
M. E. Harmon
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Copyright © 2015
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
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Dear Reader,
This is a work of fiction. However, many locales named within the book are located in Manhattan, NY. Please note, I’ve taken some artistic license with certain names and places.
Enjoy,
M.
Candy Canes and Criminals
Meet Santa
Santa was royally peeved. He sprinted out of the park like a charging reindeer.
“Charlatan! This is my neighborhood. I told you to stay away!”
I leaned out the service window of my shop, HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches, located near the Brooklyn Bridge in Manhattan. Half a block away, another St. Nick had set up a donation pot dangling from a red metal tripod. He lifted his little bell like a club.
I whirled around and hollered at my partner who was in the kitchen. “Al, take over the window!”
Al almost dropped the bread pan he was putting in the oven. “Huh? Ali, what’s happening?”
“Holiday drama!” Even as I ran out the back door, I wasn't sure if I could prevent a Santa Claus brawl.
But I managed to head off Doug, the official Kris Kringle over at the park that surrounds New York City’s City Hall, just in time.
“Dude, c'mon. Persimmons told you about not leaving the park with the costume on, right?”
Doug stepped up on the curb, but that was the end of his mad dash. His cheeks glowed a cherry red. He flung an arm up and pointed at his quarry.
“You! You!” was all he could manage before his speech devolved into a stream of angry noises and grunts.
I stepped in front of him, hoping to block his view of the aberrant Claus. “Hey, hey, calm down. There are kids out here. And look at what you're wearing.”
That gave him pause. It was thirty-eight degrees out, and he noticed his bare legs with a start. Waist up, Doug was a traditional Claus, with red velour coat and hat, big belly, white beard. Waist down, he was Santa in July. His pale legs poked out of blue floral Bermuda shorts, white ankle socks, and fur-lined moccasin slippers.
We stood a few feet from my shop. The HoneyBun was a hybrid of a walk-in bakery and a gourmet sandwich stand. We had a full kitchen, and attended customers from two service windows.
The customers who'd been waiting on line (yeah, New Yorkers say on line, not in line), watched us now with barely contained looks of glee. Hey, I couldn't blame them; I liked dinner and a show, too.
I glanced over my shoulder. The other St. Nick had packed up his bell and was hauling tail in the other direction. “See? The other guy is leaving.”
“He'll be back.”
“Then we'll deal with him later.” Too bad I didn't know those words were going to come back to haunt me. “C'mon, I'll walk you back to the park. I need to replenish the snacks at my mom's booth.”
Doug looked torn between going back and chasing after St. Nick. He settled for shaking his fist at the other man. “You better stay away! This is my territory!”
I tugged his sleeve. “This way, Doug, I have to get the desserts first.”
“All right, Ali. Thanks. I shouldn't have lost my temper.”
Doug was the hired Santa for the holiday bazaar being held in the park. He had his own little red dangling pot and bell to solicit for donations. He also took photos with kids in Santa's Magic Land. Over at the HoneyBun we have a covered and heated sitting area. Doug usually took his breaks there. And I think a lot of the time he was there when he shouldn't have been. More than once his boss had found Doug lounging, chewing on a mini-cake.
Anyway, during that time I'd gotten to know him a little. Doug was fiftyish, and other than being territorial about his turf, overall was a nice guy. But I got the sense he was adrift.
I made a quick stop in the HoneyBun, updated Al what had happened, and grabbed the snacks. It was getting close to quitting time, so I left confident that Al and our employee, Oscar, could handle the evening’s customers before it was time to close.
A few minutes later Doug and I crossed through the large black wrought iron gates that lined the park. This time of year the grounds transforms into a winter wonderland...for shoppers. Yeah, yeah, there was stuff to entertain the kids like Santa's Magic Land and the Snow Elf's skating rink. But everything else was designed to sell, sell, sell!
Red and green striped tents lined the wide lanes of the park. Inside booths were set up that sold every type of bauble, knick-knack, whirly-gig, and doodad imaginable. Costumed reindeer attracted customers with free food samples from the Mrs. Claus Kitchen pavilion.
That stupid pavilion was the reason why I couldn't rent a booth and make a mint from holiday shoppers. Outside food vendors were strictly off limits in the park. All food sales were monopolized by Mrs. Claus's Kitchen. Technically, it was because of the holiday bazaar's sponsor, Troperman Foods.
Troperman's blue and white logo was everywhere. It was stamped on the Welcome to the Winter Wonderland Bazaar sign. Elves in striped blue leggings handed out candy canes wrapped in cellophane stamped with ‘Troperman Foods’. The circular logo was stenciled on the corner of every tent.
We passed a direction post topped with a blue Troperman Christmas ornament. I glanced at the signs and turned down the path that was temporarily called Gingerbread Lane.
It was seven pm and a nippy night, but the chill didn't daunt the New York shoppers. They were out in full force so much; I think the number of bodies raised the temperature inside the park.
I unzipped my parka for ventilation. “You’d think they were giving away everything for free.”
Doug's face was flushed. He'd stripped off the phony white beard but still wore the coat. “They are. Lots of free food samples compliments of Troperman Foods,” he said as he snagged a gingersnap cookie from a passing elf's tray. “Your mom still giving away free eggnog?”
“Yes, Doug she is. I'll pour you some if we ever get there.” I sidestepped around a crowd gathered around a booth selling Apple accessories.
My mother was the owner of Elizabeth's Antiques and Tea. Her booth was set up about half way down Gingerbread Lane. A woman wearing a mink jacket stepped out just as we walked in. I saw something familiar sticking out of the brown paper shopping bag she carried.
“Hi, Mom. Was that the Victorian lamp with the beaded shade?”
Mom saw us and smiled. “Hey, Ali. Yes, it was. I knew that one was going to sell.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Hi, Doug.”
“Hello, Mrs. Daniels.”
There was no other way to describe my mom than hot. She'd been doing yoga way before it was trendy and was still in w
hat I called her body-building phase. Tonight Mom was decked out in red and white leggings under a snug, green, mid-thigh tunic. She wore white fuzzy boots that stopped mid-calf with a matching cloak. Her hair was braided into cornrows that ended in a side bun.
I adjusted the piece of holly tucked into the bun. “I came to resupply your free snacks, Mom.” As chief sweets maker at HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches, I was happy to supply treats to lure customers into my mother's booth. I also liked the free advertising.
“Good timing. I just ran out. People love the cranberry crumbles, but the doughnuts run a close second.”
Mom's booth was about fifteen by fifteen feet. She'd brought some smaller items like lamps, night tables, and dolls to sell. A small display case showed off antique jewelry. An entire wall held boxes of gourmet teas from all around the world. Off to one side, near the front, was the beverage table. In the center were trays of sweets from my shop surrounded by a two huge beverage dispensers. One served a lovely green tea, the other eggnog. A large sign read: Compliments of HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches, along with an arrow pointed in the direction of my shop.
Doug beat me to the table. He bounced on his toes and looked at me expectantly.
“You can serve yourself, you know,” I said.
“Wouldn't want to be rude.”
Two men came into the booth and made a beeline for the wall of tea. Mom left to help them.
I sighed and set down the wicker basket that I'd carried over from the shop. The only things missing from the table, beside the sweets, were cups. I found a pack under the table and pushed an empty one into Doug's hand.
“Help yourself.”
I pulled a pair of plastic gloves from the basket. Then I went about arranging the bite-size samples I’d baked up especially for my mom.
Out of the batch, the cranberry crumbles were my favorite. Unlike most bakers, I loved canned cranberry sauce. So I used that combined with orange juice, cinnamon, water, and a little sugar for the filling. Then for the crumbles I add lots of butter, brown sugar, flour, and a dash of salt. Layer the filling between the crumbles, bake, cut into squares, and it's a perfectly tart and sweet treat.
I also brought my partner Al's favorite dessert, sufganiyot. They were small, bite-sized donuts filled with vanilla custard and sprinkled with ivory glitter-sugar. For those I made the dough from scratch. The pastry cream filling is a simple recipe of vanilla, egg yolks, milk, cornstarch, sugar, and salt.
And finally, I brought out the peppermint scones. This was a new recipe I was trying out. I crushed candy canes and blended them in with butter, baking powder, flour, buttermilk, salt, and sugar. After baking I dipped the cookie in a white chocolate ganache and sprinkled with edible red glitter for a touch of holiday bling.
I'd just finished laying out the scones when I glanced over at Doug. He was adding a little extra something to his eggnog from a silver flask.
I eyed the passersby. No one was paying attention to us at the moment. “You need to go easy on that, Santa.”
He scoffed. “What? It's just for flavor. Keeps me warm.” Doug twisted the cap back on, paused, twisted the cap off again, and added another long pull.
This time of year I'm a bit of a Scrooge. All of the fake cheer irked me. I didn't understand why everyone was supposed to be happy starting the fourth Thursday in November. The minute New Year's was over, all this happy-happy-joy-joy stuff goes away, and it’s back to 'hurry up and get the -bleep- out of my way' normal. Never mind all the pressure to cook, clean, and buy stuff for people you only see once a year.
Despite all of that, seeing Santa drinking just felt...wrong. “Doug. Put the booze away.”
“All right, all right.” Doug screwed the flask shut and secreted it away inside his coat.
Now that I thought about it, Doug swung by my mom's booth for eggnog quite a bit. It occurred to me this probably wasn't the first time today that flask had made an appearance. “Don't you have the toy giveaway tonight?”
“Yup. Eight pm.” He tipped his head back and chugged.
I glanced at my watch. “It's seven twenty-five! Give me that. Are you insane?” I wrangled the cup out his reluctant fingers. Too late. Most of the eggnog was gone. I crushed the cup and tossed it into the trash.
Off in the distance a clack, tap, tap sound rose above the din of the crowd. It was like metal striking concrete and was getting louder.
“Uh oh,” Doug said. “Gotta go.”
He turned and stifled a shriek, but it was too late. Standing in front of the booth was a man, tall and skeletal. He looked as if time had moved on, but he was still rooted in the early 1900s. His hair was oiled and slicked back from a widow's peak. A long black coat draped his stickly form, brushing against the tops of patent leather lace-ups. A purple ascot—yes, a genuine ascot—peeked from the lapels of the coat. To top off the look, the man clutched a silver-tipped walking stick. The lustrous matching handle was shaped like a hawk and gleamed even in the dull light of the booth.
The only modern thing about the man was a walkie-talkie radio clipped onto one of his coat pockets.
It was Mr. Persimmons, the Winter Bazaar's manager. The scowl on Persimmons' face made me take a step back. But all of the man's venom was directed at Doug.
“You. I've been looking everywhere for you. Again.” His voice was calm. It belied the expression on his face.
Doug suddenly looked deflated, as if he'd shrunk an inch in the last ten seconds. “Hey, Percy. I was taking a break. Was about to head back in now.”
The other man swelled as if his bones filled with helium. “I've expressed numerous times for you not to call me Percy.” Persimmons gritted his teeth. “I have already been reprimanded by my boss about your behavior. I will not lose employ because of your shenanigans. Come with me this instant. You need to ready for Santa's evening appearance.”
“Gotta go, Ali. See you at the giveaway?”
I nodded, reluctant to take my eyes off of Persimmons. Anger seeped off the man in fat, heady waves. I didn't want him exploding all over me.
If we weren't surrounded by shoppers, I swear the bazaar manager would've pinched the other man's earlobe like a mother correcting her child. The ear nipping might have been better than what Doug received.
Persimmons leaned over close almost touching Doug's face. “I know who you are. Yet despite every advantage life could give, you are barely a step above a vagabond. And here I am forced to deal with the likes of you.”
Doug straightened his shoulders. “Look here Percy, there's no need for all of
that—”
“I'll do as I wish. I'm your boss, and you will do as I say. The next time this happens, you will feel my wrath. Now, you will get to that pavilion and make yourself presentable for the upcoming festivities. If you do not, I will do everything in my power to—”
“—that will be enough of that.” A man stepped up and put his arm around Doug.
The bazaar's manager stopped cold. “Oh, oh, Mr. Troperman,” he stuttered, “I didn't see you there.”
The other man was Doug's height. He was dressed in a camel hair coat that was open over a navy tailored suit. “Yes, I'm sure you didn't see me. If you have something to say to my brother, you can say it to me. Now, did you have something on your mind?”
Troperman? As in the big money sponsor for this whole bazaar? Oh, ho, ho. This was getting good. The trio stood outside the booth now. I went closer to hear over the crowd. Good thing, too, because Persimmons was sputtering again.
“N-n-o, no sir. I came to collect Doug here because it’s almost time for Santa to give toys to the children.”
Doug's brother folded his arms. “I'm not your boss, but I do sponsor this event. It's my understanding your job is to manage, not treat employees as if they are children.”
Red blotches climbed like angry bugs up Persimmons' neck. I wasn't sorry to see him being put in his place.
“Yes, sir. My job description entails management yet—”
Persimmons’ cane tapped out a hyper rhythm as he nearly sprinted away. My mom came to stand by me just as he left.
Doug hugged his brother. “Thanks, bro. Here, let me introduce you to my friend. This is Ali Daniels. She owns the HoneyBun, the shop that's just outside the park. And this is her mother, Elizabeth. Ladies, this is my twin brother, Joseph.”
His twin brother? Joseph appeared ten years younger than Doug. He had a little paunch but otherwise looked to be in his prime. The annoyance I'd felt toward Doug, especially after the booze in the eggnog, melted a little. Doug had been living a much harder life than his sibling. It showed in his face, the soft round of his shoulders, the tremor in his hands when no one was looking.
Joseph took one look at Mom and bent to kiss her hand. He kissed mine, too, but I think it was only so I didn't feel bad. Whatever. Like I said, Mom was hot.
He said, “Nice to meet you both. I apologize if I made a scene.”
I shook my head. “No, you didn't.”
Mom agreed. “That guy had it coming. Persimmons goes overboard sometimes.”
“Ah, Percy just gets emotional when things aren't going his way. I could've handled him but thanks for stepping in, Joe. My little brother by seven seconds is always coming to my rescue,” Doug said.
An odd look passed over Joseph's face. If I had to guess I would've said it was indignation. The expression was gone in a flash.
He said, “It's a good thing I stopped by to check on you.” Joseph waved over a she-elf selling gourmet sugar cookies shaped like candy canes. The higher priced goodies from Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen weren’t free. He paid for two bags of cookies. “I think you've been putting Dad's old flask to good use today. Let's get something solid into your belly and then get you pretty for the kids.”