A Suds and Sam Christmas

by Stella Marie Alden

  Vincent pounds me on the back. “You okay, kid?”

  “Good, good.” I wipe my eyes. “Thanks for the advice. Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “While I work on my… ah… taking control of the situation, I’d appreciate y’all not fixing her up with other men.”

  He grins without any mirth in his eyes, then opens both palms. “Easy enough. The minute you marry her, I’ll back off. Capisci?”

  “I do. And I hope you won’t take it personally if I need to break the balls of anyone who tries anything.” My chin juts out and my fists clench but he fuckin’ chuckles.

  “Relax. I wouldn’t expect any less.”

  “Good. Now that’s settled…” I reach into my pocket slowly and pull out my tablet. “We think this guy might be involved in the Jesus-napping.”

  Sam’s uncle studies the thief’s profile. “Huh. I’ll axe around… See what I can find out for youz. If he’s as good as this says, he’s probably already overseas.”

  Nodding, he slides out of his chair. “Nice talkin’ to youz. Make sure you stop by for Christmas dinner, preferably with a ring on her finger.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sam

  Thursdays are slow in the hair salon and what with Christmas two weeks away, everyone is booking closer to the holidays.

  After cleaning the place from top to bottom, and with nothing else to do, I open my laptop and Google ‘lost wood carvings’. Excited, I follow the most recent trail of articles.

  Only a few years ago, a famous Renaissance statue was found. Carved by Donatello, it was sold for millions. I scroll down for images and for a minute, think I’m seeing things. The photo looks exactly like St. Thomas’ weeping Jesus. However, when I compare the dimensions, the one online is much larger.

  I email the links to Suds who texts back almost immediately.

  Sam: Close, but no cigar

  Me: Size matters?

  Suds: Damn straight.

  Me: Are we still talking wood?

  Suds: Yup.

  Me: Carvings. You didn’t let me finish. Damn.

  Suds. LMAO. Be there in five.

  Me: <3

  Suds: Me 2

  I lose the apron, fluff my hair, and apply a little makeup as Rose comes up behind me. “You think Suds will give you a ring for Christmas?”

  My heart flutters until I recall how I told him how I hated the whole concept. “Absolutely not and make sure to tell everyone to shut up about it. I mean it. I am a modern, independent woman and do not need some financial proof a man can support me before accepting a marriage proposal.”

  Her cheeks flush. “Wow. I was just asking.”

  “Sorry, hun.” I turn and give her a hug. “Too many people sayin’ the same thing and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I’m sure we’ll get married, eventually, but it’s too soon. We’ve only known each other for a few months.”

  On cue, the bell on the door jingles and Suds walks in. He strolls between the rows of beauty chairs, to the back closet, where I put on my coat.

  “Hey, Sugar. Ready?” His cool cheeks meet mine as we kiss.

  Mia, with her curling iron held high, stops her masterpiece on Mrs. Murphy’s short wiry locks. “Are you off to St. Thomas?”

  Thinking of the tropical island, I sigh. “I wish.”

  “The grade school, darlin’.” Sebastian tugs my jacket over my shoulders, grabs my computer bag, and winks at my younger cousin. “We’re going to show some mug shots to the boys to see if they can pick out the thief. Then, tomorrow afternoon we’re off to Boston to talk to an expert.”

  Rose shakes her head back and forth. “I thought the manger scene was carved by someone local, donated right around nineteen-forty.”

  Her sister nods. “Not quite. I did a report for religion in the sixth grade. The nativity scene dates back to the late eighteen hundreds and was carved by Giuseppe Lago. Then, the original infant statue was lost and a new one was donated anonymously.”

  Suds nods with lips pursed. “That might explain it. The curator in Boston seemed mighty excited we were comin’.”

  I grab my purse and wave. “See you guys tonight. Thanks again for Friday, Aunt Marion.”

  Outside, Suds stops and waits for me to look up at him. “Uncle Vinny made it a point to find me this morning.”

  “Yeah? What did he want?” I got a pretty good idea but wait to hear it, just in case I’m wrong.

  “He was wondering when we would tie the knot.”

  “I hope you told him to mind his own business.”

  He kisses me and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Actually, no. Marrying you may be the only subject we agree on but that’s not the point. I showed him the picture of our art thief, Claudio DiNapoli, and I swear to God he recognized him.”

  “How could you tell?” My brows raise and he tweaks my nose.

  “The centers of his eyes changed, a clear tell.”

  “Shit. I need to get better at reading people.”

  “Damn straight, if you want to be a private detective. C’mon. Get a move on.” He grabs my hand and rushes me past Santas, snowmen, elves, trains, and decorations so gaudy, we make a contest of finding the most outlandish. The winning yard boasts a mechanized skating couple who dances and twirls on fake ice.

  Out of breath in the principal’s office, I lean against the wall while Sebastian deals nine pictures onto a wooden table in a three by three square.

  One boy enters, picks DiNapoli out of the line up, then the other.

  “Thank you, Sister. We’ll let ourselves out.” Suds stuffs the pictures back in his pocket and I wait until we get outside to jump up and down.

  “We’re doing it! We’re going to catch a thief.”

  Suds places his hand on top of my head. “Do you think the salon can live without you tomorrow as well as Friday? I’d like to get a head start up to Boston. I could make us a reservation?”

  No cousins? No Joey. I can scream all I want?

  It’s not like I’ll lose money. Recently, my tip jar has been empty. Convinced I’m doing the right thing, I call Aunt Marion. When I explain we’re close to finding the stolen miracle, she agrees.

  My overnight bag packed, we jump in his car. He goes strangely quiet on the drive to his apartment and after a few false starts of conversation, I turn on the radio and hum along to Christmas songs.

  Thirty minutes later, we park in front of a hydrant, He punches on the flashers and I put my dad’s police card in the dash. Then, we run up four flights of stairs. On the landing, he opens the door to a long, thin apartment, reminding me of a subway car.

  The kitchen is first, the middle is the living room, and behind, a bedroom. There’s no art, no photos, and the walls are blank. The kitchen shelves contain nothing but a toaster and a blender. The microwave sits over the stove, blinking red digits, 12:00.

  “I’m never here.” He shrugs and frowns, perhaps seeing it like I am.

  In one glimpse, I understand him better than ever before. He’s an ex-military man who never fully returned home. While he packs a duffle bag, I finger the only decoration in his whole apartment, a bronze star sitting on his bed stand.

  He packs quickly and efficiently, never looking up.

  I grasp his firm bicep and shoot him an encouraging smile. “Tough guy? You okay?”

  “Sorry. Not much of a place.”

  “I get it. You’re usually guarding someone all over the planet.”

  “Ah-huh.” He finishes, puts a strap over his shoulder, and strides to the door. “Let’s go.”

  Traffic is heavy getting out of the city and the going is slow. Even so, I keep my questions to myself. About an hour into our trip, Jason calls, breaking our thought-filled silence.

  A young clean-shaven avatar, pops up on my phone. “Hello, Sam. I see that Sebastian is with you. Can I enable your speaker phone?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I analyzed the images and sent my findings to Dr. Vanderhof
f in Boston. I believe you will find him eager to work with you.”

  “Why? What else did you learn?” I grasp onto the dash and stomp my foot on an imaginary brake pedal when a cab cuts us off.

  Unaware of our brush with death, the AI unit continues, “With seventy-five percent accuracy, I confirmed the stolen statue was carved by the artist Donatello. It is most likely a practice carving of the larger piece.”

  “How much is something like that worth?” Glancing away from the road, Suds catches my eye.

  “Approximately two thousand dollars, unless it’s authenticity can be validated. At auction, such a piece would sell for two, perhaps three million dollars.”

  My mouth drops open. “Wow. Did you? Find proof?”

  The avatar blinks twice and frowns. “I checked all available databases and found nothing. However, a thief such as DiNapoli would not attempt such a bold move without good reason.”

  “He’s probably long gone.” Suds meets my disappointed gaze as Jason continues.

  “Your statement is accurate. DiNapoli arrived in Rome last Tuesday with a large, oversized suitcase. He travels under an assumed name, Mr. Cuoco.”

  “Thank you.” With heavy heart, I almost suggest we turn and go back home.

  “You do not need to thank me. I am an-”

  Suds barges in, uncharacteristically miffed. “Y’all need to delete that from your programming.”

  “Delete what?” The avatar blinks out at me from my phone screen.

  “Stop tellin’ us not to thank you. It’s not necessary and annoying as hell.” My normally laid-back boyfriend grips the wheel, passes a tractor trailer, and swings back into our lane.

  “Done. How else can I help you?” Blink. Blink. Jason waits for more input.

  “Can you keep track of DiNapoli?” Maybe, we still have a chance of finding him.

  “I can. Currently, he is staying at The Hotel Rosa near the Tiber River in Trastevere.”

  “Can you book us a flight to Rome, tonight, from Boston?” I glance over at Suds with brows raised who nods and adds his two cents.

  “We’ll want a room in his hotel.”

  “Done.”

  I look at Suds, a bit incredulously. “What, you think DiNapoli’s just going to hand it over?”

  “We’ll figure it out when we get there, sugar.”

  I shoot him a doubtful look and he winks. “Have a little faith.”

  “Huh. Not sure I’m in the clear with God. Father O’Connell didn’t say my sins were forgiven. I may need to do it all over again.” I shudder and Jason, listening into our banter, tunes into some Christian broadcast where thousands recite the rosary.

  “Will this help?” The avatar seems to be looking straight at me.

  Suds snickers and I moan. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  When the chanting stops, I ask the AI unit one last question. “Is there any other pertinent information we should be made aware of?”

  “Yes. Your Uncle Vincent has recently placed a call to Mr. DiNapoli in Rome.

  “Do you know what they said?” I get an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “The call was heavily encrypted. I would need to break into the security department of NSA in order to decode it and would need Jenna to authorize it.”

  “No, it won’t be necessary. Thank… That will be all. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye Samantha. Goodbye Sebastian. It was nice doing business with you. Please call me again if I can be of any assistance.”

  After Jason hangs up, Suds shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. I was right. Vinny’s up to something.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Suds

  “I need to call him.” Sam grabs her phone, thumbs the screen, and seconds later, Vincent’s booming voice sounds through the SUV’s speakers.

  “Bella. So nice of-a youz to call.”

  “Hi, Uncle Vinny. Did you find our art thief?”

  He chuckles. “That was fast.”

  “Of course, I’m good.” She raises her brows and I take my eyes off the road to smirk, while the mob boss settles down to business.

  “Fifteen years wid the FBI, I would hope so.”

  Vincent’s proud tone makes Sam do a double take before asking, “Is DiNapoli willing to give back our statue?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say willing, but I was able to make him a reasonable offer.”

  I mutter for her ears only. “An offer he could not refuse?”

  She punches me in the arm and shoots me a dirty look before voicing back into her phone. “How’re you getting baby Jesus back to the states?”

  “I thought youz two might want to go and get it.”

  “In Rome?”

  “I’ll have my guy send you where to pick it up. Ciao. And tell that bum to remember what I told him.”

  I shout out loud and clear. “I got this, Vincent. No worries.”

  “Perfetto. Keep in touch.” He hangs up and Sam shakes her head. “Unbelievable. Even with Jason’s help, Uncle Vinny found the statue before we did.”

  “Does it really surprise you?” I take my eyes off the road for a moment and glance over the stick shift, wishing like hell my vacation had been spent in a bedroom with her instead of searching for some lost carving.

  She stretches and when she places her hand on my upper thigh, my cock takes interest. Hopefully, after we talk to the curator, we can get some alone time.

  She fiddles with her phone and the SUV’s console until soft rock sounds from the car’s speakers. The tunes are a mix of girl bands, soul, and hard rock. As she sings along, I smile, thinking of her in my car for the rest of my life. After an hour or so, she finds some Christmas songs and I hum, happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.

  “You know almost everything about me. How come I don’t about you?” Her question comes out of the blue and at first, I’m not sure what to say.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with something easy, your family.”

  “I’m assumin’ you researched me, sugar.”

  “Of course I did, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Well, my mom up and left when I was a kid, not much older than the two we caught smokin’ in the church basement. My older sister mostly took care of me. She’s got a husband and kids now. They live down south, not too far from my dad. He remarried and I don’t much care for his wife so I don’t visit too often. What with him not likin’ to talk on the phone and me gone a lot, we don’t keep in touch. At some point, my sister has decided bein’ enlisted was me bein’ a selfish prick and I got tired of her harpin’ on me. Hell, I was trying to keep our country safe. We’re not exactly a close knit group.”

  “Sorry.” Sam squeezes my arm and leans over to place a kiss near my ear.

  “Don’t be. I was going to ask if you wanted to fly down and meet them. I honestly do miss my sister and according to my shrink, it might be good to reconnect.”

  “Thanks and I’d love to go.” By the way she smiles, I guess I done good and I relax for the long drive.

  It begins to snow as we cross the border into Massachusetts and with carols on the radio, I almost get into the spirit of the season.

  She wakes when we approach Boston and watches the traffic free-for-all with eyes wide. “Holy shit, these guys are fucking nuts.”

  “No worse than Manhattan.”

  “Hell, yeah, it is. We got rules.”

  “As in?”

  “When the light turns red, you got at least another thirty seconds to run it.” She laughs. “And, ah, no matter how many pedestrians there are in the intersection you can inch forward, unless there’s a baby stroller. Also, never glance in your rear view mirror or over your shoulder at a cab driver. He’ll see it as a sign of weakness and cut you off.”

  “I honestly did not know that.” One corner of my mouth goes up.

  “Ha! Exactly why we need to name our firm, Sam and Suds.”

  “Say it slow, darlin’, like
this. Sal-mon suds. Fish? Detergent? Not good.”

  “Samantha and Suds? Sam and Sebastian?”

  “Not the same ring. Admit it, Suds and Sam is perfect.”

  “Fine. By the way, how did you get the nickname Suds?”

  “Another story for another time. Turn up the Google lady. We’re getting close.”

  Boston is an intricate web of one-way streets and it takes all my concentration to get us to a lot near The Museum of Fine Arts. Sam calls Dr. Vanderhoff while I get a ticket from the attendant. Then we walk hand in hand into a back entrance.

  The curator, a short stout man of about fifty, greets us. After handing us both white cotton gloves, he directs us through a maze of corridors.

  Then he opens a door and motions us to sit with him. “How was your drive?”

  I shrug but Sam’s more vocal. “It was fine until we got into Boston.”

  Vanderhoff laughs. “I’m from Arizona, originally, and understand more than you might think. But, I’m guessing you didn’t drive all this way to talk about the city’s crazy traffic. I would’ve emailed some images to you but we’re not allowed. Anything damaging to the ancient parchment is prohibited.”

  He dons pristine cotton gloves, opens a book, and shows us a drawing. “Is this the stolen carving?”

  Sam’s eyes go wide. “Oh my go… sh, yes. What does it say?”

  He points to a line of Italian. “This statue was almost six feet tall and made of marble. I believe yours was his practice piece. If so, it is extraordinary. No other like it has ever survived.”

  He opens an ancient ledger and points. “The small carving is mentioned as being part of Donatello’s estate upon his death in fourteen-sixty-six.”

  He opens another larger book with gilded pages. “This is a copy of a church log in Florence. It mentions going to see Donatello to verify a miracle. According to this, a small wooden carving of the Christ child, wept real tears.

  So much for Sam’s theory of the damp basement.

  Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open as the curator opens one last book. “The miracle carving was confiscated by the dictator, Mussolini, along with many of the family’s belongings. This is the last known mention of the carving until you called me last week.”