RANDOM ACTS OF SCROOGE
A HOLLY ANNA PALADIN CHRISTMAS NOVELLA
CHRISTY BARRITT
RIVER HEIGHTS
CONTENTS
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Also by Christy Barritt
RANDOM ACTS OF SCROOGE
By Christy Barritt
Copyright 2015 by Christy Barritt
Published by River Heights Press
Cover design by The Killion Group
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
I finished placing the last string of garland on my front porch, and I stepped back to admire my hard work. The evergreen twisted with white Christmas lights mirrored the bright stars overhead. The whole scene reminded me of a Christmas card.
Chase had helped my mom and me decorate for Christmas. My family liked to go all out. We had three Christmas trees every year—one in the formal living room, one in the everyday living room, and one in the office. We were late this year in getting the decorations up, but life had been incredibly busy.
I firmly believed that Christmas decorations weren’t meant to be rushed or to be put up without thought or pleasure. They were meant to be enjoyed. The process was a time for memories to be indulged in, and, most of all, for the true reason for the season to be celebrated.
Chase’s hand slipped around my waist. “I think we did a good job.”
I nodded, coming back to the moment. “I’m inclined to agree. I’m feeling very . . . Christmas-y at the moment. What do you say we grab some peppermint hot chocolate and listen to Bing crooning about a white Christmas?” My breath puffed into white frosty air in front of me.
Chase grinned. “I say that’s a great idea. Do you think your mom wants to join us?”
“Probably not. She’s writing her Christmas cards. But maybe we can make some sugar cookies.”
“If that would make you happy.”
“And we can look on Pinterest and find some kind of craft. We can make ornaments this year.” The ideas exploded in my head and rippled out with excitement. I loved all of the Christmas traditions. Loved them. In my defense, I came from a long line of people who went crazy over the holiday. My uncle and aunt even set up acres upon acres of Christmas displays at their home in West Virginia that people came from all over the state to see.
“You really trust me with a glue gun and glitter?” Chase asked.
Chase hadn’t had the chance to experience a Paladin family Christmas yet. Boy, was he in for a treat this year.
“Glue guns and jingle bells and red ribbons—I think you’ll handle them all just fine,” I told him. I put my gloved hand in his, ready to indulge.
We’d only taken one step toward the house when I heard a car door slam behind me. I turned and saw my neighbor, Mrs. Signet, trudging toward the sidewalk. At the sight of her, a bit of my jolly disappeared.
Something was wrong.
Mrs. Signet’s shoulders sagged, and, I couldn’t be sure, but her eyes appeared red like she’d been crying. Her hair, which was usually a delicate blonde poof that strangely mimicked her physical build, hung lopsided.
I paused, unable to let the image go. I hated to see people hurting. It was my kryptonite, I supposed.
I excused myself from Chase and started toward her, pulling my red scarf more snuggly around my neck as a brisk wind swept across the lawn. Christmas was only two weeks away, and the weather felt every bit like December should in Cincinnati: cold and brisk. There was no snow—not yet, at least, but I hoped we might get some soon.
“Mrs. Signet, are you okay?” Her family had experienced more than their share of heartaches lately, and I’d been making an effort to check on her as often as I could. She was in her late sixties and had been a widow for probably fifteen years. Living alone was a struggle for her at times.
She dabbed her eyes with a well-used tissue that had been balled in her hands and shook her head. “No, nothing is right. I just got back from visiting my daughter. It’s a mess, Holly.” Her voice sounded soft and scratchy with age.
I held my breath, waiting to hear what she would say. Her daughter and son-in-law had been in a car accident a few months ago. Both were recovering, but the debt they’d incurred afterward were pushing them toward bankruptcy. I knew they were on the verge of losing their home, and collection agencies were haunting them like the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.
Someone had started a campaign to raise money to help offset the costs, but I understood it was a long road ahead.
“What’s wrong? Is your daughter okay?” I instinctively reached out for Mrs. Signet and squeezed her arm. It felt bonier than I remembered. Had Mrs. Signet been eating enough lately? I needed to bring her more meals and less cakes, I decided. I mentally added that to my checklist.
Chase came to stand behind me. I could feel his body heat emanating from beneath his leather jacket and jeans. It made me want to snuggle up to him and get cozy. He still vaguely smelled of evergreen, and I wanted to lean closer and take in a deep whiff of the scent. But I had other more important matters at hand right now.
“The canisters have been stolen.” Mrs. Signet shook her head like that was the most terrible thing in the whole world.
I blinked, her revelation unexpected. “What canisters?”
I imagined heirloom tins of flour and sugar on a kitchen counter. Maybe they were antique and valuable? Maybe they had sentimental significance? I had no idea—I only knew that my neighbor was upset that they’d been stolen.
“The canisters that were left at several of the stores in the area for donations. There was a nice little note attached to them explaining what happened, as well as a picture of Greg and Babette.” Mrs. Signet shook her head. “Someone stole three of them. We’re guessing there was close to a thousand dollars inside.”
“Wow. I’m so sorry.” I shook my head in disbelief. “How could someone do this? It’s the most un-Christmas thing ever. It’s like . . . like Scrooge himself has come to Cincinnati.”
“It may not seem like a lot of money to some people, but Greg and Babette really need that cash. Their children have been through so much, but to possibly lose their house at Christmastime . . .” She shook her head. “It just seems like tragedy upon tragedy.”
“I agree.” I stole a glance at Chase and saw the troubled look on his face. He practically bristled as he brought his hands to his hips and furrowed his eyebrows.
“Did you call the police about the matter?” he asked.
Mrs. Signet nodded. “We did. Well, the storeowners did. The police made it sound like there wasn’t much they could do. I know there are killers on the loose and more serious offenses to pursue. But that money was going to make a difference to one family, and that one family is important to me.”
“Every family is important,” I assured her, some kind of mama bear instincts rising in me.
My heart ached with compassion. Greg and Babette Sullivan had four children: seventeen, fifteen, thirteen, and nine years old. It had been hard enough on the kids to see their parents in the hospital, but now to have to deal with this . . . Someone should be very ashamed of themselves for doing such a thing.
“We’ll get that money back for you, Mrs. Signet,” I announced, determination solidifying in my gut. I raised my chin higher and subtly rolled my shoulders back in somewhat of a Supergirl pose.
Her eyes brightened. “Would you, Sweetie? That would mean the world to us. I just don’t know if I can handle much more stress. This old heart isn’t the best anymore. My doctor keeps warning me to take it easy.”
“I’d be more than happy to help.”
“You’re such a dear.” She patted my hand. “Now I’m going to get inside and sit down for a minute. Here’s Bryan’s number. He’s Greg’s cousin, and he’s overseeing the fundraising efforts. He’ll be happy to talk to you.”
“Can I just talk to Babette?”
“They had to cut back on their expenses, so they got rid of their phones.” Mrs. Signet let out a sad sigh. “I’m just so heartbroken over this, I don’t know what to do.”
I took the number and shoved it in the pocket of my white wool coat as Chase walked Ms. Signet up the steps and into her home. When he joined me again on the sidewalk, he had a far-off look in his eyes. I stepped in front of him and waved my hand in front of his face, pulling him out of his daze.
“It sounds like things have been really rough on them,” Chase said. “I know how hard the holidays can be when you’re struggling.”
Chase had a difficult upbringing. His mom died when he was young, and his dad had never been much of a father. Chase had largely been on his own. I imagined he hadn’t had very many happy Christmases, but I was determined to change that this year.
“All these years I’ve just wanted a normal Christmas, the kind you see on those cheesy Hallmark movies.”
“Cheesy?”
He half-shrugged. “They’re not exactly guy flicks.”
“I concur. I’m hoping you’ll have a cheesy—and happy—Christmas this year.”
He smiled down at me. “With you, I’m sure I will.”
“But first I’ve got to help Greg and Babette.”
“How did I know you were going to get involved in this?” Chase eyes sparkled.
I shrugged, purposefully overdoing an innocent persona. “Beats me. It’s so unlike me stick my nose in other people’s business.”
He stepped closer, still glowering down at me because he knew good and well my words weren’t true. Shivers rippled through me at his nearness. Nearly a year of dating, and he still made me feel giddy.
“It’s exactly like you to see someone who needs help and jump in with both feet.” He rested his hands on my waist and pulled me toward him.
“It’s like I can’t help myself.” I tapped my chin, as if the concept stupefied me.
“I’ll help you try and figure out what happened,” he offered.
My eyebrows shot up. Chase usually encouraged me to stay out of things like this, but he must have thought stolen donation canisters would be safe enough for me to investigate. I’d gotten myself into too many pickles where I’d almost been killed. I had a knack for it, apparently.
“You’ll help?”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “It’s Christmas. Why not do something that will bring good cheer on my time off? Besides, Mrs. Signet is right—everyone’s super busy at the station right now. We’ve had three murders in this area in the past ten days, plus two bank robberies, and four houses that have been broken into. It’s not that we don’t care. It’s just that we’re understaffed and only have so many hours in our day.”
“You’re going to help me?” I repeated, surprise still rippling through me.
“Of course, I’ll help.” He let out a warm chuckle that sent another burst of shudders down my spine.
“That’s the spirit!” I reached on my tippy toes and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “Now, let’s go call Bryan. We don’t have any time to waste.”
Chapter 2
Twenty minutes later, I hung up with Bryan Sullivan and turned to Chase. I’d written a page full of notes while sitting at the dining room table and chatting on the phone with him. Chase had kindly made me some coffee and explained to my mother what was going on as I gathered information.
Despite my change of plans, I’d still managed to get in a few of my holiday favorites. Bing crooned in the background, Christmas lights blinked on a tree in the other room, and the whole house smelled like cinnamon from the snickerdoodles I’d made earlier.
Chase munched on one now. He always complained he was going to gain twenty pounds from dating me and all the baking I did. Sugary treats were like fairy dust—they always made people feel better. That’s why I often found myself in the kitchen.
“I have a list of the places the canisters were left and which ones were stolen,” I announced, raising my steaming coffee mug. “We can go talk to the storeowners and see what we can find out. The money was all stolen earlier today, and I have to guess the canisters were taken by the same person. I mean, what are the odds they weren’t?”
Chase sat across from me, his frame making the table look small and dainty. He took a sip of his coffee. He’d found the biggest mug we owned—it looked like a tree trunk. Someone had given it to my dad before he passed away.
“What’s strange is, if that’s true, someone was specifically targeting this family,” Chase said. “Why would they do that? Why would some target a family who’s already suffered so much?”
I started to respond when he raised his hand.
“I don’t really want an answer,” he said. “Believe me. I’ve seen the depravity of the human soul. Sometimes things just surprise me, though.”
“We’ll never have any answers if we don’t start by asking questions, right?”
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Maybe you should have been a detective, Holly.”
I smiled. “Can you really imagine me going through the police academy? Besides, I couldn’t wear all of these great dresses if I was a cop.”
It wasn’t that I was prissy. Not really. I just loved dressing up and fixing my hair and makeup. I liked to feel like a lady. I always told people I was born in the wrong era. It wasn’t that things were perfect back in the 1950s, but they’d certainly seemed simpler. The pace of life today, the overwhelming distractions, the ease of abandoning relationships in favor of electronics . . . well, all of that bothered me.
Another reason I couldn’t ever become a cop was that I also wasn’t very athletic, and the one time I’d punched someone—that someone being a bad guy, at that—I’d felt guilty about it for weeks. No, I’d make a terrible cop.
“I probably wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I thought you were out on the streets seeing some of the things I’ve seen,” Chase said, lowering his voice. I knew he worried about me, and I appreciated his concern.
“I’ve seen a lot of those things,” I reminded him solemnly. I had been a social worker and witnessed some of the worst sides of society. I’d been in the middle of taking kids away from abusers—often people they considered loved ones. It never got easier. Nor did I want it to. Mourning other people’s losses made me human.
“Let’s not talk about those things. Let’s go do some good deeds instead.” He reached for my hand. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Ten minutes later we pulled up to a convenience store located down the street. I lived in an area called Price Hill. At one time, the neighborhood had been where the upper crust lived. But it had gone downhill as those upper crust moved out into the suburbs and the poor had moved in.
I still thought the place was a treasure, even though it was a shell of what it had once been. But beneath that shell were stories of a time when life here was grander, cleaner, maybe even prettier. The people who
lived here now were no less worthy. They just had different kinds of stories to share.
“Could we speak to the store owner, please?” Chase flashed his badge. The teenager behind the counter nodded and disappeared into the back. A moment later, a man of Indian descent emerged. He was probably fifty-something, and he smelled faintly of curry.
“I am Amar Kumar. How can I help you, Detective?” His words sound clipped and tight, broken from the cultural divide between his home country and the new life he’d forged.
“I’m looking for some information about the donation canister that was stolen from your store earlier today.”
Amar frowned. “I am sorry to report that is true. It was here one moment, and the next it was gone. No one saw anything.”
“Do you have security footage?” I asked.
The man looked me up and down as if trying to surmise if I was Chase’s partner. I supposed my red dress and knee-high black boots didn’t look too professional. Not for a cop, at least. The man finally turned his nose up at me and looked back at Chase.
“Yes, I do have cameras. But I have not had time to review any footage. Sorry—I have been short-staffed. If I do not maintain my business, people will be setting out donations canisters for me.”
“Can we take a look at that footage?” Chase asked.
“Yes, of course.” Amar waved. “Follow me. Excuse my office.”
The scent of sewage and something else I couldn’t identify wafted through my senses as we entered the dark, dirty office located right beside a nasty-looking public restroom.
Papers and trash were everywhere. Calendars, sales reports, and memos were taped to the walls. Half-eaten chips, peanuts, and tubs of food were scattered about.
My stomach turned with revulsion.
For a moment—and just a moment—I was tempted to clean up while Chase found the proper spot in the video footage. However, I didn’t think Amar would appreciate it if I rearranged his paperwork. But the temptation was strong. Very strong.
“Don’t do it, Holly,” Chase muttered after Amar left us alone.
Random Acts of Scrooge: a Christmas novella (Holly Anna Paladin Book 4) Page 1