Kat gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "That's just the way Graham is. He doesn't have anything nice to say about anything."
"So he's just a troll?" I wiped moisture from the corner of my eye.
"Exactly." Kat smirked. "He's the trolliest troll who ever trolled. And everybody knows it."
"Then why did we book him to judge the Battle of the Bands?"
She shrugged. "Every good music competition has to have a Simon Cowell-type on the judge panel. It ups the entertainment factor."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "So if you weren't upset about Graham earlier, then what happened?"
"Oh, that." Kat looked embarrassed. She reached under the neckline of her dress and wriggled her cell phone free.
I blinked at her. "You've been keeping your phone in your bra?"
Kat shrugged. "This dress doesn't have pockets." She held the phone out to me. "That's why I was angry before," she said.
Biting back a snarky comment about boob sweat, I took the phone. I squinted at the small screen and burst out laughing. It was a picture of Kat's boyfriend, Chad Egan. He played guitar for Royal Flush, the band Amelia was currently traveling with on their summer tour. Chad normally had a mop of bushy, red hair. In the picture on Kat's phone screen, his head was as bald and shiny as a cue ball.
"I can't believe he shaved off his hair," Kat groaned. "All of it. He looks like Mr. Clean!" Her bottom lip poked out.
"That's why you were upset?" I stared at her.
"I may have overreacted a tiny bit," she admitted, her cheeks glowing.
"You think?"
Kat blew out a breath and took her phone back. "Okay, okay. More than a tiny bit." She gave me a pointed look. "But at least I didn't jump to conclusions and accuse my boss of trying to poison someone."
I grimaced. "Sorry about that."
"You're forgiven—this time." Kat winked. The music suddenly stopped as Sleigher ended their set. "That's my cue," Kat said. She turned and hurried across the backstage area, waving to the crowd as she stepped up to the mic. "Give it up for Sleigher!" she called. The noise from the crowd swelled, and I noted there were quite a few boos cutting through the applause. It seemed there weren't too many metal fans in attendance.
As the judges began their commentary, I slunk toward the edge of the platform and sat down on the steps leading down into the grass. Well, there goes the last name on my suspect list, I thought, simultaneously relieved that Kat was innocent and frustrated that I was back to square one. I shifted to one side and let the band go by. Four pairs of identical black boots stomped past me on the stairs. I looked up at the members of Sleigher, all drenched in sweat from rocking out dressed in Santa Claus suits and fake white beards. The cluster of Kringles made their way down to the white tent that was set up behind the stage as an outdoor artists' lounge.
The shortest of the Santas stalked straight toward the refreshment table underneath the tent, stooping to grab a bottle of Dasani water from the drink cooler. As I watched, the man removed his fake beard and wiped the sweat from his chin. I recognized him—he'd been talking to Graham at the judges' table earlier that afternoon. I focused on him with renewed interest.
The beardless Santa carried his bottled water toward the edge of the tent, turning his back to the other musicians who were milling about in the shade. He reached into the pocket of his red jacket, and a cold feeling traveled to my core as he crumbled something green into the water. He closed the cap and began shaking the bottle. My heart pounding, I watched the man duck under the crowd barrier, headed straight for the judges' table. His icy gaze was fixed on Emily.
Beardless Santa was the would-be killer—and he was about to strike again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Stop that Santa!" I shouted, leaping to my feet. My words were drowned out by the beginning of the fifth band's performance. Feeling helpless, I watched the man stalk toward Emily. What kind of sicko tries to poison a pregnant woman? I'd never reach the sinister Santa before he gave her the toxic water.
Looking wildly around for a way to get Emily's attention, my gaze landed on the front man of the punk band Clothing Room Casualty. He was shirtless, sweat glistening on his scrawny chest as he staggered about the stage. I zeroed in on the microphone gripped in his hand, and a light bulb went off in my brain. There was one thing I could do to warn Emily about the not-so-jolly old elf. I sprinted through the backstage area, making a beeline for the singer. "Out of my way," I yelled, skittering around the band's bass guitarist.
The musician turned just as I whooshed past him. His fingers slipped, striking at the wrong strings on his instrument. A horrible discordant noise reverberated from the bass player's amp. "Hey!" he protested.
"Sorry," I called over my shoulder. I reached the singer during an instrumental break in the band's cover of "Deck the Halls." His back was to me as he danced across the front of the stage, the red-and-green striped tie around his neck swinging back and forth. I caught the end of the tie and whirled the man around. "I need your mic," I yelled over the music.
"What the hell?" he sputtered, ripping the tie out of my grasp.
"It's an emergency." I gave him an apologetic look as I jerked the microphone cord. The mic flew out of his hand, and I ducked out of the way when he swiped for it. "Emily, look out!" I cried into the microphone. My words boomed through the large speakers in front of the stage, filling the courtyard with my voice.
The crowd didn't seem to understand that it wasn't part of the performance. They whooped and hollered, and a drunk guy near the stage yelled, "Take off your clothes!" I ignored him, my gaze focused on Emily. At the mention of her name, the petite woman's head snapped toward the stage. Good, I have her attention. "That man is trying to poison you," I said, pointing at Beardless Santa. Nearly half the crowd turned in the direction of the judges' table.
Emily's face paled. She looked from me to Beardless Santa, who had just set the tainted bottle of water on the table in front of her. For a few moments, he stood frozen, his lips parted in surprise. Then he turned and bolted through the crowd. "Somebody grab him," I called into the mic, gesturing at the running man.
"Uh, can I have my mic back now?" the man in the tie asked impatiently. "We've got a contest to win." He snatched it back before I could answer and turned to his band. "Change of plans, guys," he said, and then he called out a new song title. The drummer counted off, and Clothing Room Casualty launched into a punk rock cover of "Here Comes Santa Claus." The crowd went nuts.
I remained on the stage, scanning the fist-pumping crowd in search of the fleeing Kringle. Trying to spot him amid the sea of Santa hats, tinsel, and lights was like searching through a Christmas-themed Where's Waldo? picture.
"Bron, what are you doing?" Kat's voice boomed from my headset. "Get off the stage."
"Didn't you hear me?" I asked. "I'm trying to catch the jerk who poisoned Graham. He nearly did the same to Emily." I squinted, my focus honing in on a figure moving hurriedly through the crowd. "Found 'im!" I exclaimed. "He's headed for the exit." The sense of urgency that filled me grew as I watched Beardless Santa push his way through the mass of moshing people.
I hope this works. Before I could talk myself out of it, I backed up a few steps and then rushed forward, taking a flying leap off of the stage. There was a collective roar of approval as I sailed through the air for a few feet before landing in the outstretched arms of someone in the crowd. People held their hands over their heads, pushing me upward. I had to admit, aside from being groped by one overzealous fan, it was pretty freakin' cool. I crowd-surfed for nearly fifty yards before a tall man dressed as Father Christmas set me down on the grass. "Thanks, pops," I said, giving him a high five.
Unfortunately, now that I was on the ground, I was too short to spot Beardless Santa. I pushed my way through the sea of people, breaking into a run as the crowd around me thinned. I nearly collided with two skinny blonde girls dressed in slutty Santa costumes. They staggered out of my way at the last second, shout
ing obscenities after me. Dashing through the hoes, I thought, a brief smirk curling my lips. It vanished a moment later, and I stopped in my tracks, panting. Beardless Santa had made it out of the courtyard and was sprinting around the side of Castle Rock. If he disappeared around the front of the building, he'd get away.
A hand closed over my wrist, and I jumped in surprise. Looking up, I was flooded with relief at the sight of Reese. "We have to stop him," I said, pointing to the retreating Santa. "I'll explain everything later."
Reese nodded and turned to race after Beardless Santa, and I followed. My boyfriend had the body of a linebacker and used to run cross-country in school, so he quickly left me in his dust. When I finally reached the front of Castle Rock, I skidded to a halt and rubbed my eyes to be sure what I was seeing was real. Either I was having a heat stroke or Reese was chasing a red, metallic sleigh the size of an army tank. On foot. Beardless Santa was in the driver's seat of the massive vehicle. Other drivers swerved and honked their horns as he pulled out into traffic on North Avenue.
Unfortunately for this Santa, his sleigh didn't come equipped with flying reindeer. The vehicle barely moved faster than a crawl, and Reese easily caught up to him. I cheered as he hauled himself into the passenger's seat and punched the sinister St. Nick in his beardless face. The shorter man slumped over in his seat, and the large sled lurched to a stop in the middle of the road. Reese shoved the unconscious man sideways and slid behind the wheel, halting traffic as he slowly turned the vehicle around.
While Reese navigated the large chrome sleigh back onto the gravel in front of Castle Rock, I slid my phone from the inside of my right boot and pressed the number one on my speed dial. After two rings, Atlanta's finest police sergeant answered. "Hello, pumpkin."
"Hey, Dad," I said, my mouth stretching in a wide grin. "Can you send a couple of your men over to Castle Rock? Reese and I just busted a bad guy!" After a quick explanation, I promised the Sarge I'd let Reese handle keeping the perp detained until the police arrived. Then I hung up and skipped happily toward the sleigh as it rolled to a stop.
"Wooo!" Reese pumped his fist in the air and grinned down at me. "Damn, that was fun." He patted the steering wheel. "Bump up the horsepower a bit, and I'd almost consider trading in my truck for one of these bad boys." Reese removed the keys from the ignition and glanced down at the passenger seat, making a face. "I must not know my own strength—this guy's still out cold."
I beamed up at him. "Babe, that was incredible." I scaled the side of the massive sleigh and leaned in for a kiss. Kat's voice exploded through my headset, and I jerked back, nearly falling to the gravel.
"Bronwyn, get over here! Something's wrong with Emily."
CHAPTER NINE
A cold fear gripped me. "I'll be right there," I said into my radio. I looked at Reese, feeling panic rising in my chest.
He nodded grimly. "I heard her. Go—I'll stay and keep an eye on our friend here." He glanced at the unconscious Santa Claus on the seat next to him.
With trembling hands, I climbed back down the side of the large sleigh. Adrenaline pumped through me as I raced back toward the courtyard. Emily was hunched over, one hand on the table to brace herself and the other clutching her belly. Her breathing was shallow, and a look of fear and agony twisted her pale face. Was I too late after all? "Has she been poisoned?" I asked Kat, my stomach knotting with worry.
"No." Emily let go of the table. She sucked in a breath and the let out a painful cry. After a few moments, her face relaxed a fraction. "The baby's coming," she moaned.
"Oh." I blinked at her, the meaning behind her words not sinking in right away. When my brain caught up to my ears a few seconds later, I did a double take. "Oh my God. Now? But you said she wasn't due for another few weeks."
"She's early," Emily said, wheezing. Another contraction sent her doubling over, hugging her belly and screaming. Sweat poured down her pale face.
"Call 9-1-1," Kat instructed me. "I'm going to call her husband."
I nodded and slipped my phone out of my boot again, walking a few feet away to try to hear over the music. Clothing Room Casualty ended their second song just as the emergency operator answered. While I was giving him our address, I saw Kat hand her phone to Emily and then dash toward the stage to address the crowd. The contest! In all the chaos of chasing Beardless Santa and discovering Emily was in labor, I'd completely forgotten about the Battle of the Bands. Now we were one judge short again. I looked up just in time to see Ryan Hartley and the other judge, Andy, slinking toward the exit. Make that three judges short. Where are they going?
"There you have it, folks," Kat said into the mic as I hung up my call. "We're going to take a quick break before the judges give their scores, but let's give another round of applause to Clothing Room Casualty!" The crowd showed their enthusiasm, but the band looked disappointed.
"The other contestants got their scores right after their performances," the singer protested hotly. "You've gotta tell us how we did. It's only fair." He folded his arms over his chest and scowled at Kat. If you ask me, homeboy was just begging for a low score.
I'd rejoined Emily and was easing her gently into her seat to wait for the paramedics. Looking up, I found that nearly a thousand heads had swiveled to stare at us both and also at the two empty seats to our left. Crap. Thankfully, we were saved by the bell—or, in this case, the sirens. Whether it was the EMTs or the boys in blue, I couldn't tell, but at that moment, the wailing was music to my ears.
The crowd's attention turned to the ambulance pulling up to the edge of the courtyard. "Again?" asked someone nearby. "Jeez, these judges are droppin' like flies."
"There's no cause for alarm," Kat told the crowd. "We're going to take that quick break." She shot the singer a look of apology and added, "We'll be back shortly to determine Clothing Room Casualty's score and announce who will be advancing to the second round."
There was a mass exodus from the center of the lawn, and people filed into lines at the bar tents. Others gathered near the table to watch the paramedics tend to Emily. I walked alongside her as she was helped toward the ambulance. "Do you want Kat or me to come with you?" I asked, my stomach doing back flips.
Emily squeezed my hand then grimaced as another contraction came. They were happening less than five minutes apart now, and I was worried poor Em would birth the kid here in the grass if she didn't get into the ambulance pronto.
"I'll be fine," she said breathlessly when the pain had passed. She handed me Kat's phone. "Jeff is meeting me at the hospital. I'll have him call Kat and let you know when the baby is here." She gave me a weak smile, her brown eyes tearful. "Thank you. You might have saved our lives earlier—at the very least, you saved the baby's. I don't know if I can ever thank you enough."
I winked. "Just be sure to tell Amelia how much of a badass I was while she was out of town, and we'll call it even. That, and I may list you as a reference since I'm totally putting 'baby rescuer' on my resume."
"Deal." Emily gave a chuckle that morphed into another squeal of pain. I watched the EMTs load her into the emergency vehicle and zoom back onto the street, sirens blasting. I turned and started back toward the judges' table.
"Yo, Bron? Kat? Anybody there?" Derek's voice sounded through my headset. "The police are out front with Reese, handcuffing Sleigher's guitarist, and I just learned some pretty interesting news from the homeboy's band mates. You're gonna want to hear this."
"I'm here," Kat's tired voice crackled over the speaker. "What fresh hell can this be? I'm almost afraid to ask."
"Well." Derek cleared his throat. "Turns out those two deejays, Ryan and Andy, took bribes from the guitar player. He gave them a hundred bucks and a case of beer each to fix the Battle of the Bands so that Sleigher would win. Apparently he tried to work out the same deal with Graham, but he turned it down."
"Really?" My mouth fell open. Graham Sullivan actually has a shred of integrity in his greasy, sleazeball body? Maybe he isn't such a jerk after
all.
"Yeah," Derek replied. "Apparently Graham said his vote couldn't be bought for less than five hundred—so the guy slipped something in his drink as payback. Then he did the same to Emily. He wasn't able to get her alone to try to bribe her, and he was ticked when she gave Sleigher a six out of ten."
I pursed my lips. Nevermind. Graham's still a greedy loser. "Well, that explains why Ryan and Andy bailed," I said.
"They what?" Kat squawked. She let loose a string of curse words that made even me blush. "This is a disaster," she moaned. "What are we going to do about the Battle of the Bands?"
"Hey, Kat," I said, a plan beginning to form. I glanced down at the cordless microphone on the table in front of me. "Do you trust me?" I asked her.
"Do you want me to answer that honestly?"
I rolled my eyes. "Just say yes. I have an idea."
There was a distorted puffing noise in my headset as Kat blew out a breath. "Yeah, I do. What's the plan?"
I grinned. "Follow my lead." I climbed onto the top of the judges' table so that I could see most of the crowd. Stooping to grab the cordless mic, I turned it on and tapped it to make sure it was still working. The beats from my fingertips emanated over the crowd from the large speakers up front. "Listen up," I began, waving my free hand to pull attention my way.
"Take your clothes off!" called a voice near the stage. I arched a brow. Jeez. Does that guy know how to yell anything else?
"Is that a leprechaun?" someone else shouted.
I ignored the hecklers and addressed the whole crowd. "The members of Sleigher have been disqualified for bribing two of the judges." I paused for a few moments while several dozen people booed. When the protesting died down, I shrugged my shoulders. "Sorry, folks. What can I say? Cheaters never win." I pointed to the empty chairs below me. "The winner of Battle of the Bands shouldn't be determined by a couple of hack DJs or a hypercritical music blogger anyway. It should be up to the fans. You guys know what you like, so who better to choose the winner than all of you? Let's reset the scores and get the crowd's vote for each band's performance. What do y'all say?"
Cozy Christmas Shorts Page 13