by Carla Coupe
I made my way through the throngs of crazed shoppers and holiday decorations toward the exit nearest my car. My plan was to drop off the shopping bags then head back in to find Gigi. I’d called her cell phone but got no answer. She probably couldn’t hear it with it stuffed in her handbag.
I was almost to the exit when someone bumped into me hard. I stumbled a bit but didn’t fall, but I did lose my grip on the large shopping bags. They dropped to the ground in piles around me. Before I could dust myself off and gather up the bags, I was shoved again. This time I went down to my knees. Two people asked if I was alright. Someone else hooked a hand under one of my arms to help me to my feet.
I turned to thank my Good Samaritan only to find myself face to face with the woman who’d claimed to be a doctor. At the same time, I noticed that she had my arm in a death grip and was sticking something hard into my ribs with her other hand. I couldn’t see what it was, but past experience told me it wasn’t an umbrella.
She leaned in close. “Pick up the bags and get moving. Back that way.”
The direction she was indicating wasn’t out the door but back into the stream of shoppers. In a way, I was relieved. In spite of the gun, I felt safer inside. At least if she shot me, there would be witnesses. Then I remembered, no witnesses had come forward when Santa was shot.
“Did you kill Mr. Weinberg?”
She gave me a little shove. “Get moving, I said. And don’t try anything funny. Just act normal.”
I almost took the time to explain to her that having a gun jabbed into your ribs was in no way, shape or form normal. But then again, neither is a Jewish Santa being shot at the mall the weekend before Christmas. So I buttoned my lip, picked up my shopping bags, and moved in the direction she’d indicated.
We were walking as fast as the crowd would allow. The woman stayed to my left just a footstep behind me and directed me by poking the gun to the left or right as if I were a horse guided by kicks. Soon we were near where the real mall Santa held court and the woman directed me to the right towards the service corridor which housed the restrooms and maintenance area. Fear settled in the pit of my stomach like bad sushi. I should be home decorating my Christmas tree, getting drunk on spiked eggnog, and putting antlers on Wainwright, our dog. Not being led to possible slaughter.
As we entered the long empty corridor, I spotted the man in the trench coat and fedora.
I took a tiny step, then another. It was a hesitant two-step that just might land me alongside Santa in the County Morgue, or it might buy me time to think through a plan of escape. We were close to him now. My nose tingled as it took in the smell of his smoke.
“There’s no smoking,” I told him.
He removed the cigarette from his lips and studied it with a slow half smile. “You Americans are so intolerant when it comes to tobacco.” He leaned closer. “So what did you tell the police?”
“About what?” I asked.
“Do not play games. I do not like such things. Did Weinberg give you the merchandise?”
“You mean the dead Santa?”
The spy who came in from the mall held the lit cigarette under my nose. I could feel the heat close to my nostrils and began to worry he was going to shove it up one.
“Like I told the police, I didn’t know Mr. Weinberg.”
“You expect me to believe Weinberg simply sat down next to you, a complete stranger, and died?” He snapped his fingers as Detective Wong had. “Just like that?” For the second time that day, I found snapping fingers to be annoying. Had I not been carrying shopping bags, this time I would have snapped back, gun or no gun, cigarette or no cigarette.
“Just like that,” I replied without the desired snap. I locked eyes with the man. “I guess he didn’t want to die alone.”
He held the cigarette a bit closer. I braced myself for the burn I was sure was coming. After a few seconds, the creep withdrew it. Taking a few steps back, he flicked ash to the floor, stuck it back between his lips and took a long drag. As he exhaled, he stubbed the butt out on the No Smoking sign.
Keeping my eyes on the man in front of me, I strained my ears for sounds of other people, hoping someone would be either going in or out of one of the nearby restrooms. But all was silent. Didn’t people in Las Piernas need to pee? Then I had second thoughts. There was a gun in my back. Dollars to donuts the thug in front of me had one also. Suddenly, the last thing I wanted was some unsuspecting holiday shopper stumbling upon this little gathering.
“One more time,” the man said. “Where is the merchandise from Weinberg?”
He jerked his chin and the woman behind me pressed the gun deeper into my back, pushing me to move closer to him. My knees threatened to buckle. I could feel perspiration pooling under my arms, but forced myself to stand still and continue the eye contact.
“The merchandise?” he prompted again.
In silence, I held out the Lane Bryant bag to him. He took it and rummaged through my dirty clothing until he extracted something of interest. He smiled at me. Maybe he got off on dirty granny panties.
“Excellent,” he said as he held up a small velvet pouch in triumphant.
Opening it, he dumped the contents into the palm of his hand. Out poured three huge diamonds; bigger than any I’d ever seen in my life. The fluorescent light in the corridor danced merrily on their facets as the creep displayed them. Geez, why hadn’t the cops found those?
“Did you and Weinberg really think you would get away with this?” He held the diamonds out for my inspection.
Wide-eyed, I shook my head. “I had no idea those were in there. Truly.”
He laughed and jerked his chin again to the woman behind me. “Take care of her.”
The gun left my back. I had no idea where it was and I didn’t want to know.
“Not here, you fool,” he snapped. “Take her into one of the toilets.”
Quickly, I analyzed the situation. Even though the woman was much younger and probably stronger, she was half my size. If I could disarm her in the bathroom, I might be able to strong arm her enough to save my neck. But the minute I tried to leave, the guy would easily take me down. He might even come in after me.
The gun was back in its place, prodding me to move towards the ladies room. The man had forgotten me, focused instead on admiring his treasure. If I was to have half a chance, I would have to make a move right here. Right now.
Without warning, the door leading from the mall banged open and a custodian wheeling a maintenance cart of cleaning supplies entered the corridor. In the split second of surprise, I grabbed the remaining shopping bags with both hands and swung them with all my might in a wide circle. I struck the woman first, knocking the gun from her hand, and followed up and through into the head of the man as he reached for his own gun. The second impact caused the handles on the heavy bags to break, launching them out of my grip. I didn’t know what Gigi had purchased, but I was thankful it wasn’t bags of socks.
I took off down the corridor in the direction of the custodian. Much to my surprise, he pulled a gun of his own and aimed it at me.
“Police, freeze!”
I froze.
* * * *
Once again, I found myself seated in the conference room of the Friendship Mall Security Office. But this time I was a guest, not a detainee. Apparently, Detective Wong and his men had found the diamonds when they searched my bags earlier and left them there, hoping I would lead them to the real murderers.
Leon Weinberg, it turned out, wasn’t Santa after all, but had been a career jewel thief. He had stolen the three spectacular diamonds from a master diamond cutter, who had Russian mob connections. The two goons who killed him and grabbed me had been part of the retrieval team.
“You used Odelia as bait?” The question was directed at Detective Wong by Dev Frye. Sure I wouldn’t be able to keep out of trouble, Dev had dri
ven to Las Piernas as soon as he had hung up from our earlier call. Good man.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Detective Wong smirked at his colleague from Newport Beach.
A moment later, Dev escorted me to the door. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw that Aidan Wong was still sprawled on the floor, blood running from his mouth.
Something told me all he’d want for Christmas would be his two front teeth.
_______________
Sue Ann Jaffarian is the critically acclaimed author of three mystery series: the Odelia Grey mystery series, the Ghost of Granny Apples mystery series, and the Madison Rose Vampire Mysteries. She is also the author of the Holidays From Hell short story series available through e-books only. In addition to being a writer, Sue Ann is a full-time paralegal for a Los Angeles law firm and a sought-after motivational speaker.
MURDER ON SANTA CLAUS LANE, by William G. Bogart
“Big Ben” Slattery was at the wheel of the police cruiser, and he steered the car deftly through the heavy traffic along Hollywood Boulevard. Johnny Regan, young and lean-looking, sat slumped in the seat beside him.
For six months now, ever since getting on the force, Regan had been riding the bus with Big Ben. Slattery was a big truck-horse of a guy, jovial and easy-going. He was well established on the Force, and he had shown Regan the ropes. They got along.
But tonight was different. For the past half hour Big Ben had been whistling “Holy Night” in an off key. Suddenly Johnny Regan blurted out:
“It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house… Aw, nuts!”
Big Ben looked across at him, his Irish blue eyes crinkling.
“What’s the matter, kid?” he demanded. “Ain’t you got that old Christmas spirit at all?”
“A fine thing it is,” Regan grunted.
“Tomorrow night Christmas Eve, and what do we have to do? Spend it riding around in this crate! They ought to give every cop in L. A. a night off.”
“Sure,” said Slattery. “And have every punk crook in town having the time of his life. I had off last year. You’ll probably get off next—”
He broke off, cocked an ear as he heard the small group of young people singing on the next corner.
Slattery slowed the car, pulled toward the curb. Girls’ voices were raised sweetly in a carol, and Big Ben’s heavy face beamed. “Now, ain’t that just swell—” he started.
“Aw,” grunted Johnny Regan. “Come on.” He waved his arm impatiently. “Look at things. No lights. Dimouts! Maybe even a blackout tomorrow night. And they used to call this Santa Claus Lane!”
But nothing Regan said could dim Ben Slattery’s cheerfulness. Lights or no lights, he had the spirit, and he kept on humming:
Hark, the herald angels sing…
Their loud-speaker crackled and the voice of the dispatcher came crisply over the air:
“Car Two-nineteen, attention. An emergency call. A woman in distress. Car Two-nineteen . . .”
Johnny Regan’s gray eyes brightened a trifle.
“Maybe she’s a blond and needs help. Anything to relieve the monotony! Let’s roll!”
* * * *
Two-nineteen was their car and their call. The address given by the dispatcher was not far. Ben Slattery tramped his brogan down on the gas and they were off.
Moments later they cut down the side street of small movie studios and rooming houses—Poverty Row, as it was known in the trade.
Ben Slattery flicked on the adjustable spotlight and searched house numbers. He slowed before a house half-way down the block, stopped, and pulled on the brake.
“All right, kid,” he said. “Run in and see what the dame wants.”
He leaned back, pushed his cap to the back of his shaggy head, and started to whistle “Holy Night” again.
Johnny Regan gave his partner a pained frown and slid out of the car. He hard-heeled up the walk, was just feeling around for the bell button when the outside door was jerked open.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” a woman’s voice said with relief.
She must have been waiting for him just inside the vestibule. A dim light glowed far back in the hallway, so that Regan could not get a good look at her features. But she appeared to be young, slim-built. Probably pretty.
He grinned in the half darkness.
“What’s up, lady? We got a call—”
“My baby,” she started, voice worried:
“He’s ill. I’ve got to get down to the corner drugstore for something and I haven’t a phone.”
“I guess we could run down there for you,” Regan said.
“Oh, no,” the woman said swiftly. “I’ll have to go myself. It’s a special prescription and I want to make certain that the druggist compounds it correctly. If you could just stay with Cecil a moment— ”
She looked up at him, hopefully, then motioned to the open doorway behind her. Another light glowed dimly in there, a small night light of some sort. The woman turned and led the way.
“He’s just fallen asleep again,” she said. “If you’ll just be very quiet. It will only take me a moment.”
* * * *
Johnny Regan saw the plainly furnished room, and the open doorway to the room beyond. The woman looked up at him again appealingly, and she wasn’t bad to look at. Not bad at all.
“Just a moment, lady, until I tell my partner,” Regan said, “then I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry,” she pleaded.
He moved outside, went back to the car, was grinning when he met Ben Slattery’s inquisitive eyes.
“She was,” he announced.
“She was what?” Big Ben demanded.
“A blonde! Nice, too. Look, I got to mind her kid while she runs down to the corner a moment. The baby’s sick, and she’s got no one to leave it with.”
“What is this,” Slattery growled. “A diaper service?”
“Now, listen,” said Regan. “Only a moment, see? We’ve got to help her out.”
A limping footstep sounded behind Johnny Regan, and he turned to recognize old Peter Kelsey, watchman at Acme Features, hobbling down the sidewalk. Pete was a nice old guy. Many a night in the quiet hours before dawn they stopped by to have a cup of coffee with him in his watchman’s shack just inside the small studio grounds. Acme Features was one of the smaller Poverty Row outfits, and was located around the corner.’
* * * *
“The leg bothering you again, Pete?” Regan asked with feeling, as the elderly man came limping up.
The watchman nodded. “I guess we’re going to have rain for Christmas, looks like.” He rubbed his thigh, smiling. “I can always tell.”
From the open coupe window, Big Ben said:
“Come on, Pete. I’ll give you a lift the rest of the way.” He jerked his big thumb at Regan. “My partner’s got to play nursemaid for a bit.”
As Ben Slattery opened the door, Regan hurried back to the house. The police coupe was moving down the street as the blonde opened the front door again.
“Okay, lady,” he said. “I’ll wait here for you.”
She nodded toward the car disappearing down the block. Regan noted that she had slipped on a light sports coat and beret.
“Isn’t your partner waiting for you?” she asked.
“He’s got to run an errand,” Regan said truthfully. He hoped Ben would take his time, and that the blonde would be back before him. He thought it might be kind of nice talking to her for a while. She was the kind who could take your mind off Christmas, and the fact that tomorrow night you had to work.
“Be quiet now,” she whispered. “Don’t frighten Cecil.” She hurried out then.
Johnny Regan tiptoed into the drably furnished living room, gingerly sat down on the edge of a chair. He took off his cap, then put it on again, feeling foolish. Wh
at the blazes did you do if a baby started bawling?
He started listening for the slightest sound that would indicate the baby was waking up.
He found himself holding his breath, waiting. It occurred to him that it must be an awful strain to be a father. After a while he relaxed a little bit. No sound had come from the adjoining bedroom. Long quiet moments passed. Certainly the woman ought to be back.
He must have waited fifteen minutes, and was remembering that they had a box to pull shortly on another part of their beat when, disturbed now, Regan got up and tiptoed toward the bedroom. Maybe there was something wrong with the kid. Maybe it had—died!
The thought jerked him into swift action. Using his flashlight, Regan stepped to the doorway of the adjoining room, snapped the light briefly, stared around for the crib.
And he continued to stare.
The room contained a battered washstand, a portable clothes-closet, two straight-back chairs and a single metal bed. The bed was made up and covered with a cheap imitation chenille spread.
There was no crib and no baby.
“Well, I’ll be a son!” Regan muttered and slammed toward the hall door.
What kind of a gag was this? Why had the blonde phoned?
In the vestibule he remembered. Phoned? What a dope he was! She had said she must run down to the druggist’s because she had no phone. Then how in blazes had she phoned the police?
Reagan reached the sidewalk, was staring around looking for either the blonde or his partner, when he heard the shots. Two of them, flat and hard in the stillness of the long side street.
And they came from down there around the corner where Big Ben had headed with old Pete Kelsey!