Cowabunga Christmas

by Anna Celeste Burke

  Sprawled out below us was a much bigger complex of hot tubs and pools, also equipped with cabanas, chaise lounges, tables and umbrellas. A separate play area with kiddie pools and water slides, some with a pirate theme, teemed with children and their parents. Squeals and laughter floated up to us.

  Situated on that lower terrace, farther from the hotel but closer to the beach, all those amenities sat amid a golf course of perfectly manicured greens and startlingly white sand pits. A cart path at the edge of the course ran from the terrace, down to the beach, and over to a dock with a small boardwalk on the side of the cove, opposite the secluded surfer hangout. That cart path also ran up to our hotel level and off in both directions a few steps below us. At check-in they told us we could take that path into the village by golf cart, bicycle, or on foot.

  Unlike earlier this morning, the cove was placid at the moment. ‘Flat’ Brien would have said, but it could kick it at other times as it had done this morning. There wasn’t a surfer to be seen right now. A few people wandered along the beach. The Pacific Ocean is cold and this time of year the weather is often cool, too. Even though it was sunny and in the low 70s right now, most of the swimming was being done in the heated resort pools.

  “So where do you figure Santa was when he fell?” My eyes moved up, scanning rows of balconies. Each balcony featured beautifully crafted ironwork, like the veranda outside our suite on the sixth floor. The top floor—the hotel club penthouse, seemed to have an extra-long wraparound lanai with baskets of blooms hanging from it, as on the balconies below.

  “It’s hard to tell—that hanging plant is tilted—see? Maybe Santa hit it going over the rail or on his way down, but who knows for sure?”

  “Good eyes, Brien.” I really am impressed by how observant Brien can be. “I don’t suppose they could have seen that last night, in the dark. Too bad, it might have helped Detective Mitchum focus his search a little more. I bet the pressure was on to get matters squared away out here in the more public space.”

  I located our room off to my right as I searched the rows of balconies. That pressure must have taken its toll on the detective. How could he have believed our room was the scene of the crime? Santa would have needed his sleigh and at least a couple tiny reindeer to cover the distance from our balcony to the pool below.

  The fact that no one was occupying any of the comfy lounge chairs in the gorgeous patio area suggested to me that word had gotten around about trouble. Despite what must have been a near-record crime scene investigation and clean-up, keeping a lid on a story like this one would have required a miracle.

  “I wonder what buzz there is about a dead Santa.”

  “Let’s find out, Kim. You want to have a drink? Maybe we can get our server to give us the scope.” Why not? Even though it hadn’t been long since we’d eaten breakfast, the noon hour bells sounded by the monastery tower meant a drink wouldn’t be odd at this hour.

  “Scoop,” I said. “You mean ‘give us the scoop,’ don’t you Brien?”

  “Yeah, that too,” he replied, with such sincerity on his face I said no more.

  “Can we go find a spot to have that drink that doesn’t have a view of Santa’s last stand—his downfall—his Waterloo? Whatever.” I gave up searching for the right term to describe the awful fate Santa had met. I felt bad the poor schmuck had ended up like that. I also couldn’t help thinking, what if we had still been swimming when that happened? I shuddered at the close call.

  “Sure, Kim, if you explain what you mean by Waterloo... ” Brien is so concrete in his thinking I often have to stop and explain myself. I don’t mind. I reached for his hand as we left the terrace area and I tried to convey to him what I meant about Santa having met his Waterloo.

  “Oh I get it, it’s like Santa was hit by this gigantic wave, just like the massive wipe out that smacked down that Napoleon dude at Waterloo.”

  “Yes, Brien, that’s it.” He beamed. I squeezed his hand. “Let’s hope our efforts to find out who killed Santa don’t include any more close calls, and no smack downs or wipe outs.”

  “Don’t worry, Kim. I won’t let our honeymoon be our Waterloo.”

  Aw, what a guy! I sure hope he’s right, I thought. I didn’t want to dampen the spirit of conviction in that vow he made. I kept my doubts to myself.

  “I know, Moondoggie. I’m counting on it!” Brien’s eyes sparkled as he placed a protective arm around my shoulders.

  5 A Herd of Santas

  I felt better as soon as we left that terrace. It was hard to believe a murder had taken place as we wandered down one of the exterior corridors that had a monastic vibe to it. Columns placed at regular intervals supported one side of an overhang attached to the hotel. The design created a long series of archways that towered above us and repeated in front of us. In between the columns, arches framed the view of the ocean and the resort grounds on the open side of the corridor. Up ahead, the corridor wrapped around the corner of the building.

  We hadn’t walked more than a few dozen yards when we came upon outdoor seating for one of the hotel cafés. Brien and I chose a table for two and sat down facing each other. In an instant, a woman appeared wearing the classic black and white server outfit, but with a cheery seasonal red vest instead of more black.

  “Welcome. May I have your room number please?” She punched the number into the tablet-like device she carried. “Ah, Ms. Reed and Mr. Williams. Congratulations on your recent marriage. May I bring you something from the bar—a bottle of Charles Heidsieck, perhaps, or a cocktail?” I was blown away on two counts—that our server figured out who we were so quickly and that she knew so much about us, including what we had been drinking.

  “Wow, how’d you do that?” That was me talking, but sounding a lot like Brien. “How do you know we’re newlyweds and our champagne preferences?”

  “You’re hotel club level guests, here for a very special occasion. We want to take extra good care of you and try to anticipate your needs if we can.”

  “Yeah, but how do you do it?” I’ve got to get out more, since it was obvious once she explained.

  “We have the information entered when you arrived: the reason for your visit, any special requests, that sort of thing, as you know. Once you’re here your selections are logged in and added to your profile.”

  “I take it that includes a record of what we’ve been drinking since we arrived.” She nodded. Aha! A light went on. I wondered how Detective Mitchum had figured out whom to harass about a discarded champagne bottle found at the pool. Now I knew.

  “We also have information from the guest questionnaires filled out before you arrived with background about you and your preferences.” Survey, what survey? I hadn’t filled out any survey. I looked at Brien. He looked at me—as clueless as I was, apparently. As our eyes met, we were gripped by a sudden realization.

  “Jessica,” we said, in unison. The server looked puzzled.

  “No, my name is Barbie, see?” She moved the tablet device and menus she was holding so we could see the name tag she wore. That struck me as funny. Brien must have thought so too. When we looked at each other we burst out laughing. Before Brien could ask, ‘where’s Ken?’ I apologized for the outburst.

  “Sorry. Don’t mind us, we’re giddy.” I reached for one of those menus Barbie held out.

  “Not enough sleep... ” Brien said, stopping mid-sentence when he realized how that could be interpreted. He scanned the menu Barbie had handed him, averting his eyes. My surfer boy has a shy streak. You would never guess, given how outgoing he appears to be most of the time.

  “What he means is we were out at the pool late last night.” I nodded my head in the direction of the gated pool area. “I know we shouldn’t have been in the pool, but we were there when it happened.” I watched for any reaction from our server. The hint of a frown crossed her face.

  “Too bad you don’t have information about which of your guests like to dress up as Santa,” I added. Our server registered surpri
se and then glanced from side-to-side before she spoke.

  “I can tell you that he wasn’t one of our Santas.”

  “Your Santas?” I asked.

  “Are you saying there’s more than one Santa?” Brien inquired, with a disturbed look on his face. Barbie seemed lost, unable to speak. I jumped in to translate for Brien once again.

  “What he’s asking is if there’s more than one guy running around at the resort in a Santa suit?”

  “Oh sure, there’s a whole herd of them. A visit from Santa is a big favorite for kids who come to the Sanctuary this time of year. They can get their picture taken with him or parents can have Santa deliver a bag of presents to their hotel room. Our Santas have a regular round of appearances they make in places where parents hang out with their kids.” I tried to get the image of a herd of Santa’s out of my mind.

  “How do you know he wasn’t one of yours?” Brien asked. She looked around again.

  “I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

  “Hey, Santa almost dropped in on us while we were swimming in that pool!” I reminded her, without also mentioning, again, that we shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Barbie leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice.

  “I heard he wasn’t wearing the right Santa suit. I’m not sure they know who he is yet, but they checked and all our Santas are accounted for. The ones on duty today are still making merry—sad, huh?”

  “You can’t disappoint kids this time of year, can you? So dead Santa didn’t have an I.D. on him?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. Why would they get our social activities director to have a look at him if they already knew who he was?”

  “Yeah, they’d have contacted his next of kin or a family member to confirm his identity if they found an I.D. on him. That’s good thinking, Barbie. Uh, another question though, where’s Ken?” I rolled my eyes and shook my head as Brien chuckled at his own joke.

  “Not funny, Brien. Can you bring us those drinks now? Let’s stick with the champagne. It’s brought us good luck so far, hasn’t it?”

  “I’d say so—I mean you dodged death by Santa. That’s got to count for something,” Barbie said, getting into the spirit of Brien’s offbeat humor as she hustled away to get out drinks.

  “Death by Santa. That’s deep,” Brien muttered.

  No sooner had he made that statement than a guy in a Santa suit came out of the doors leading from the hotel lobby, farther down the corridor of arches in my line of vision.

  “Brien, look!” I pointed. He scooted his chair around, flat against the hotel wall so he could see without twisting in his seat. Santa had a huge sack slung over his shoulders. Before he was all the way down to the next level of pools, kids had spotted him and hollered. Cries of “Santa! Santa!” reached us.

  “Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas,” Santa hollered in reply. Once he arrived at the pool area he got mobbed. Children came running from every direction—many of them soaking wet. Santa didn’t seem the least bit phased. He dropped the sack he was carrying and began handing out gifts wrapped in shiny paper that glistened when the sunlight hit it just right. More squealing ensued as the gifts were torn open. Aquatic gear, mostly—blow up toys that had parents puffing away. Flippers and snorkels; squirt guns, too. I was beginning to think Santa had a mean streak when the loaded guns found their targets. Those poor parents! Santa was not spared, however. He let go a big hearty laugh, holding onto his belly like a Hallmark card Santa.

  When the bag was empty, or nearly so, Santa tossed handfuls of candy or gum, onto the hardscape near the pool. While the kids scrambled for the treats, Santa made his getaway. When he had nearly climbed the first set of steps leading back up to hotel level we were on, another Santa suddenly appeared. This one sat in the driver’s seat of a golf cart traversing the cart path that sat below us, but above the pool area where Santa had just unloaded his gifts.

  The two Santas waved in passing and exchanged ho-ho-hos. By the time Santa number one got back to the hotel entrance, he had passed yet another Santa—number three who headed down the steps and along the golf cart path on foot. No sooner had Santa number one reentered the hotel when Santa number four stepped out. That image of a herd had formed in my mind again. Free range Santas milling about on manicured golf greens, and ho-ho-hoing instead of mooing. Disturbing.

  “Barbie sure had it right; there are Santas everywhere,” Brien said.

  “I’m not sure this one quite knows what he’s doing.” I nodded in the direction of Santa number four. Like the other Santas he had a large sack, but he didn’t seem to know how to carry it. He struggled as it fell off his shoulder and repositioned it before moving on. Santa number four managed to get down the short flight of stairs to the golf cart path, but moved in the opposite direction from Santa number three.

  “Must be heavy,” Brien said. We watched him as he moved down the path, until he was out of view. He was still struggling so I figured Brien was right.

  “Some lucky kids must have hit the jackpot.” Just then Barbie returned with our champagne on ice. A server right behind her set a plate of nachos in front of Brien, and veggies with hot dip in front of me.

  “Compliments of the house, Brien, with regards from Ken. Enjoy!” With that he was gone. Barbie and I were grinning as the server retreated before Brien could come up with a reply.

  “Ken Waites, that is, our garde manger chef.” Barbie continued to smile as she popped the cork out of the champagne bottle and filled tall, skinny flutes with the delicious bubbly.

  “Word gets around fast here, doesn’t it?” I asked, laughing, as delicious aromas swirled around us.

  “Sure does!” Brien replied, as he shrugged and inhaled deeply. “Mm, nachos, one of my favorites!” End of discussion. Brien crunched away, scarfing down those nachos. He gave me a thumbs up—Brien’s seal of approval.

  “Artichoke dip—one of your favorites, too, right Kim? Can I get you anything else?” I wondered how much info they had collected about us. I love cheesy, baked artichoke dip.

  “This is plenty. One more thing before you go, please. How did they know the uniform Santa wore wasn’t yours?”

  “The one he had on was much cheaper—a costume not a uniform. Plus, he was wearing Rainbows—not allowed on our Santas.” Brien stopped mid-shovel, swallowed and spoke.

  “Like ours, Kim. A Santa wearing surfer dude sandals, can you believe that?”

  “Around here, it could happen. We have our share of surfer dudes, Brien.” Barbie winked, gave the champagne bottle a final twist in the ice bucket and walked away.

  “What if we do a quick check with the hotel security guys, Kim? I want to talk to them pro-to-pro, you know? Then we should wander down to the beach and let me mingle with the homies in the bro’s nest. I’d like to find out more about how the waves are breaking these days. You really won’t mind if I catch a few later in the week, will you?”

  “Not at all, Brien. I love watching you surf, as long as you don’t cradle into some sectors,” I smiled, pleased with my command of surf talk. That means hang with some hot girls, or so I thought.

  “Uh, that’s creedle, not cradle, Kim. You don’t have to worry about that anymore, I’ve got my Gidget. I’ll have you up on a board in no time, promise.” He did that slinging his hair out of his eyes thing and my heart flip-flopped. Or maybe it was the thought of getting up on a board. I’m not much of a sports enthusiast. My idea of exercise is a good brisk sit, as the old saying goes. Brien was trying to change that. I did like the idea of being his Gidget.

  “Moondoggie, that is so sweet. I’ve got an itsy-bitsy polka dot bikini to wear, on the board or not—you’re choice.” Brien gulped. I changed the subject. We still had investigating to do.

  “I’ll let you talk to hotel security. While you do that I’m going to go to the business center and spend a little time on a computer. I wonder what’s in the local news about our dead Santa—and what other naughty stuff might be going on in Corsario Cove or
San Albinus. Most papers, like the Desert Sun at home, keep tabs on local crime and publish a list of incidents on a regular basis. I want to see what turns up on the list around here.”

  “Better make sure you check it twice,” Brien quipped. I should have groaned in protest. I could not resist that smile of his, went all mushy inside and simply smiled instead. Brien reached across the table and covered my hand in his. “We already know who’s naughty and nice,” he said. I was suddenly ravenous and dove into that artichoke dip with gusto.

  6 Bad Santa

  About an hour later, Brien and I rendezvoused at the entrance to the hotel. We headed down a few steps and out onto the golf cart path. As we walked, the path we were on wound along the golf course on a downward slope toward the woods and the cove. If there were surfer shacks down there, I couldn’t see them. I’d bet money that’s the way the resort wanted it. The beach was a public one, so they couldn’t keep the surfers away. Still, I wasn’t sure how surfers could get away with squatting nearby. Brien wasn’t sure either.

  “So, Brien, did hotel security tell you anything?”

  “Yeah, they’re really cool dudes, Kim. They aren’t doing the investigating now that the police have stepped in. The hotel management made a pitch for the head of security to be kept in the loop so they do know what’s going on.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dead Santa is a local guy who hasn’t been around town long. They identified him from his fingerprints. He’s had a couple run-ins with the police. Drunk and disorderly, but he’s also under suspicion for theft. I’m not sure what that’s about because the security guys don’t have a lot of details about him or his background. His name is Owen Taylor and he had a job working at Corsario’s Hideaway, a bar in San Albinus. He bussed tables, washed dishes, cleaned up at night, you know, sculkwork, until they caught him in the place after closing.”