Cowabunga Christmas

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “Scutwork,” I corrected him. “You mean scutwork, don’t you Brien? Although it does sound like Owen Taylor was skulking around. Why was he in the bar while it was closed?”

  “The security guys weren’t sure, but they thought he had been booted out of Boardertown. That’s what the non-surfers call the place where the surfers hang out with their boards. Boardertown as in boards—get it?”

  “Yes. Cute. I get it.”

  “A local saw the lights on in the bar and reported someone roaming around in there in the middle of the night. When the police got there, Owen was asleep in one of the booths. The cops took him in for breaking and entering. Nothing was missing from the bar so the owners didn’t press charges. They also gave Owen the boot, so he was out of a job after that and no longer welcome in Boardertown.”

  “Booted out of Boardertown, huh? So, Santa was a surfer as you thought!”

  “Could be. That’s what I hope the surfer dudes will tell us when I use my skills to work in a question or two about Owen during our conversation about the waves.”

  “What is an out of work, homeless surfer dude doing in an unauthorized Santa suit at the hotel, I wonder? Did they find the room where Santa got murdered?”

  “Yes! From the way they described the location, it was on the floor right above the balcony where I saw the hanging plant that’s crooked. I mentioned that, by the way, and they thanked me. They’re going to tell Mitchum’s team about it. The idea of finding evidence the cops missed made them happy. Mitchum’s been nasty to the hotel security staff.”

  “That I can believe! Presuming Detective Mitchum was on his best behavior with us as hotel guests, I can only imagine what he’s like when he feels free to be nasty. What did they say about that crime scene?”

  “The room was a big mess, Kim. They figure that’s where the killer worked Santa over, and then shot him.”

  “Killers,” I suddenly realized—feeling quite sure throwing Santa off the balcony was a two-person job. I said as much to Brien. He agreed.

  “The police checked to see who was registered in the room at the time and it turns out the room should have been unoccupied. Guests had checked out around noon, and the room had been cleaned. It had been reserved, by special request, for new guests that don’t arrive until tomorrow.”

  “What do you want to bet they change their minds about that room being special?”

  “You’re right, Kim. I doubt the cops will be done in there. Even if they are, that room’s going to need work.”

  “Yuck! How did they all get in there?”

  “They don’t know yet, but Santa and whoever was up there with him, must have had a helper or two on the inside. Guests leave their keys in the room when they checkout, so it’s easy enough to pick one up and pass it along. Someone in housekeeping, or at the front desk, could have handed a key off to Santa or his assassins, along with the room number.”

  “Yikes, someone in security even. It’s no wonder Mitchum hasn’t acted all warm and fuzzy toward hotel security. Okay, so let’s say Santa and his killers meet up in an empty hotel room, using a key provided to them by a hotel insider.”

  “Uh, Kim, I hate to say it, but the hotel insider could have been one of the killers.”

  “That’s a good point,” I murmured, getting creeped out.

  “Well, it’s not a good point... ” Brien interjected. He must have been creeped out too because he took a quick look over his shoulder as we kept walking.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, they were meeting—about what, we don’t know, nor do we know why Owen was attending the meeting in a Santa suit. The meeting goes terribly wrong and Santa takes a beating and ends up dead. If there was a fight why didn’t someone hear Santa hollering? What about the shooting? Nobody reported a brawl or gunshots?”

  “Security says no, but Mitchum’s team is still tracking down hotel guests and asking questions. It’s possible somebody heard something. The only call security got was the one telling them there was a dead guy in the pool—before the dead guy was actually in the pool. Owen was bound and gagged at some point. He wouldn’t have been able to do much hollering after that.”

  “We didn’t hear anything, either. What if the shots were fired earlier—during the hotel fireworks display? In that case, Santa was dead a while before he hit the water. The autopsy should clear that up. It was late by then, so I can believe it if no one saw a dead Santa being thrown off the balcony. What’s weird is that somebody who knew what was happening, or about to happen, called it in. Odd for a cold-blooded killer to report the crime, isn’t it?”

  “You know what Detective Hernandez always says: ‘Crime is stupid. Criminals are stupid, even the smart ones.’ Stupid makes about as much sense as anything.” Detective Hernandez is with Cathedral City homicide out in the desert near Palm Springs. A surly detective, a lot like Mitchum, he’d been pulled into the vortex of heinousness that surrounds Jessica Huntington on more than one occasion.

  “Stupid might explain it.” I shrugged. “Who knows how the mind of a murderous crook works? I sure don’t. Maybe the hotel insider called the police in order to get that cleanup done quick, hoping to create less of a spectacle. Can you imagine what would have happened if a guest had found a dead Santa floating in the pool?”

  “Yeah, it could have been videoed on a smartphone, uploaded, and might have gone viral by now.” I had actually been focused on startled hotel guests making that gruesome discovery, followed by loud shrieking.

  “Sad, but true. I hadn’t even considered that angle. Speaking of video, isn’t there one of Santa getting into the elevator or going into that room last night?”

  “Uh, that’s a problem, Kim. Mitchum about blew a gasket when he saw the lobby video. Santas wander in and out all day, but not one of them is in flip-flops. Then there’s a shift change around dinner time and Santas are cruising the lobby. Lots of them coming and going, in and out. Santas are getting on and off the elevators, mixing with the guests and the hotel staff, too. There’s so much traffic they can’t sort out who’s who, or who’s talking to who... ” I interrupted.

  “Whom. Who’s talking to whom, Brien?”

  “Whom, yeah, sure. Anyway, they figure that has to be when Owen went up to the room. Police are still rechecking the video, so maybe they’ll spot him. How many Santas wear Rainbows?”

  “What about the cameras on the floor where they located the crime scene?”

  “That’s an even bigger problem. Another clue that an insider was involved—the video footage is missing.”

  “No way!”

  “Way! Somebody wiped it from the video storage. There’s a big chunk missing.”

  “Doesn’t that mean the inside person has to be a member of the security team?” Brien grew quiet for a moment, pondering my question.

  “It makes it more likely, but it doesn’t have to be, Kim. A member of management could have access to the video storage equipment, for sure. I doubt others on staff, like guys in maintenance or at the front desk would have too much trouble getting into the central control room either. Especially as late as it was when Santa took that dive off the balcony. Whoever called the cops could have dumped the video footage first then called the cops. Or the culprit could have done it while the rest of hotel security and the cops were fishing Owen out of the pool. It would have been easier for a member of the security team who not only had access, but was already familiar with the equipment.”

  “Eek, Brien, that’s not good. That means you could have been playing twenty questions with one of Santa’s assassins.” I came to an abrupt stop as that revelation hit me.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I didn’t tell them I was investigating the crime or anything like that. I just said I was curious since I’m in the security business myself and came so close to having Santa drop in on me.”

  “Could you tell if they believed you?” Brien stared at me without blinking. I could almost see his brain processing thoughts in those big brow
n eyes of his.

  “Yes, I think so. They seemed totally cool about the whole thing—not suspicious or shifty or anything like that.”

  “Let’s hope if the word gets around about your questions they add the part about you just being curious.”

  “Good point. What about you Kim, what did you find out?” Moving again, I filled him in on what I had learned.

  “The local news has already released information about a dead man being found in the pool at the resort. No name yet. They’re using that line about ‘the victim’s name being withheld pending notification of next of kin’. The media’s making merry with the dead Santa bit, if you can believe that! More salacious than humorous, but it’s still sad. That got out there real quick. A hotel spokesman has already gone on camera making the same point Barbie made—that the dead Santa is not one of their Santas. It still has to be a PR nightmare.”

  “Yeah, Kim, resort management must be seriously interested in finding out who killed Santa. I bet they’ve put the screws to Detective Mitchum to get to the bottom of this fast.”

  “Except for the fact that a member of the hotel staff must have been involved. Getting to the bottom of it means outing one or more of their own employees as a homicidal maniac or an accomplice. They can’t be happy about that.”

  The whirring of a golf cart suddenly came into earshot. It was moving at a good clip, too. We had been walking along the winding cart path almost down the middle of it. The two of us scooted to one side, trying to get out of the way. None too soon, either, as the cart bore down on us fast.

  The Santa at the wheel made no effort to warn us or avoid us. In fact, he veered in our direction! Brien grabbed me and dove, pulling us completely off the cart path. We rolled a couple times through the rough between the cart path and a cluster of trees. Brien kept me low to the ground as he scanned the path and then the woods nearby. Perhaps he was gauging whether we could make it to cover before Santa stopped, turned around, and came after us.

  “Bad Santa!” I said. “What the heck is going on with the Santas in this place? Have they all gone rogue?” Brien shushed me as he got up on his knees.

  “Stay down,” he said, “I want to make sure Santa’s hurried on his way.” He winked as he whispered those words before taking off in the direction Santa had fled in that golf cart.

  7 Boardertown Or Bust!

  “Bad Santa,” I said, again, as Brien pulled me to my feet and helped brush me off. My cute little white capris were stained with green from the grass and brown from the dirt. I would have to tell Jessica to add ‘don’t wear white while snooping,’ to her advice on what not to wear to a crime scene.

  “Are we there yet?” I asked Brien when I was recovered enough to try to make sense of what had just happened to us, and wondered how long a trek we had undertaken. If it took much longer to get to Boardertown I worried we might be making the return trip to our hotel room in the dark. The idea of being stalked by Bad Santa in the dark did not appeal to me.

  We would also be walking uphill, and it would be chilly, too, once the sun went down. I know I shouldn’t put whining about mild physical discomforts on par with being pursued by Homicidal Santa behind the wheel of a golf cart. That’s how my mind works, what can I say? I noted that Bad Santa had morphed into Homicidal Santa as adrenalin pulsed through my veins. I recognized it as another aspect of my oddly out-of-whack, paranoia-prone mind.

  “I don’t think it’s much farther. We’re almost at the woods now. There’s supposed to be a trail off to the right up ahead that leads through the woods to Boardertown. Maybe you should finish telling me what else you found out today. We need all the facts we can get, Kim. As long as you’re okay—you’re not hurt are you?”

  That handsome face of his registered worried confusion or confused worry. A whole lot of concern for me, anyway. I stood on my tiptoes and planted a big kiss on his luscious lips. That put a smile back on his face. Hand-in-hand we walked on as I continued.

  “I should tell you a couple more things. There’s been a rash of burglaries the past couple months—odd things stolen like diving gear, a spear gun, and a marine tracking device, but personal items, too. The article didn’t say what, but I’ll bet they were small items that can be pawned easily. Most were lifted from boats at the dock, but a dinghy from a local sport shop was stolen, too.”

  “A dinghy? Hmm, any stories about drug busts or anything else that’s drug-related in the news? Maybe the cove is still a haven for pirates, Kim, and our dead Santa got mixed up running drugs. The marine tracking device could be used to locate a load of drugs dropped from a plane or thrown off a boat out in the cove.”

  “That’s an interesting idea, Brien. The thought had crossed my mind that Santa’s troubles could be drug-related.” I had plenty of reason to think that way. In California, as in many states, marijuana is a major cash crop. The plants don’t need a lot of water, so even the recent drought isn’t much of a deterrent. Most efforts to thwart illegal marijuana growing had centered on counties farther north than here in the central coast.

  “There have been several minor busts over the past few months involving marijuana; pills, too, and a little crystal meth. San Albinus seems to be dealing with the usual drug problems facing small towns all over the country. Nothing big.”

  “You got a lot done in an hour, Babe. When it comes to computers, you do have skills.” He put his arm around me and pulled me closer. He’s right. I do have skills.

  “There is one other thing I should mention. I sort of found it on the hotel intranet.” That’s because I had sort of hacked into the internal communication network used by hotel employees. I wanted to see what was being said, behind the scenes, about a dead Santa. I tried to explain the reason for my hacking to Brien who had that worried, confused look back on his face. Hacking bothers him—even if it’s being done in the cause of justice.

  “I didn’t find much—basic information about the incident, plus a few talking points for hotel staff. Specific language about how to respond to questions from guests, you know? Typical corporate-speak ‘no need for alarm,’ ‘everything’s under control,’ ‘specifics are still being worked out’—avoidant language, euphemisms, but nothing sinister. They do have a lot of Santas! More than two dozen regulars plus a big pool of potential stand-ins. There’s Santa etiquette too; a list of dos and don’ts when it comes to dressing, grooming, and interacting with clients. Not that Bad Santa on the golf cart practiced proper etiquette today. But, I digress. The thing I found most interesting has nothing to do with Santas. There’s money missing. Not real money, but hotel scrip. Those fake gold doubloons they gave us at check-in. A bunch of those have gone missing.”

  “How big a bunch?”

  “They didn’t say, but maybe enough to get management to hang someone from the yardarm, hardy-har-har,” I said, in my best pirate voice.

  “That’s a good pirate laugh you’ve got there, Kim. Those doubloons would come in handy at the resort for food and stuff. You’d have to use them a little at a time to avoid getting noticed. It’s not like a big score.”

  “True, but I thought it was worth mentioning. It could be more evidence that not everyone working on the inside around here is on the up and up.”

  “That’s true. I wonder if Mitchum has heard about it. Did they report it to the police?”

  “If they did, it didn’t make it onto the public record. I can’t believe the media would have ignored it. Fake doubloons gone missing has to be almost as good a story as a dead fake Santa.” Brien stopped abruptly and pulled me along with him, onto a dirt trail leading into the woods. For a split second I worried Bad Santa was after us again and we were headed for cover. I listened. No whirring sounds. Then Brien pointed. A few yards ahead, and off to the side, there was a makeshift wooden sign that said “Surf’s up.” An arrow drawn on the sign pointed in the direction we were already headed.

  “Boardertown or bust,” Brien said, picking up the pace. Brien’s ‘eagle-eyes’ must h
ave spotted that sign while we were still back on the paved cart path. The trail wound through the woods, around and down a steeper slope that I could tell was taking us closer to the beach. There were no more signs, but occasionally we saw marks on boulders or tree trunks. They looked like hieroglyphics to me.

  “Hobo signs,” Brien said. “Drifters and the homeless still use them. Surfers have added their own, see?” There in front of me was an awkwardly drawn version of the ‘shaka sign’—a closed hand with the pinkie and thumb extended. Near that I saw another image that resembled a surfboard with an arrow pointing in the direction we were walking. The sound of waves grew louder as we continued. I could hear the faint sound of music, too, with a pulsing surf beat, of course.

  Suddenly we came into a clearing of sorts, still inside a wooded area and on a slight rise above the beach a short distance away. On one side, the clearing backed up to the black rock that comprised the cliffs. Off to my left, I could see a path running along the edge of that wall of rock. It gained elevation quickly, and must lead up to the cliff-tops. The sea air competed with a mossy, earthy smell, and someone nearby must have been smoking a joint, since I got a whiff of that, too.

  A group of makeshift habitats sat before us—shacks and tents, as well as hammocks and tarps strung between trees. It wasn’t quite like walking into a tribal village—too chaotic for that. There was a sense of a center almost directly in front of us, where a big fire pit sat. It resembled those found at campgrounds or on SoCal beaches. This one had been rigged up to work as a grill, apparently. A wire grate, tipped up on its side, leaned against the rocks outlining the pit. Planks of wood, set on cinder blocks, served as seating around the pit. I could see a row of surfboards lined up at the edge of the woods—standing upright, stuck in the sand. The beach and sea beckoned beyond. Colorful items hung from the trees, Hawaiian leis, garlands of various kinds, even a pirate flag! I felt like we had stumbled into Never-Never Land. Peter Pan was preferable to Deliverance as the script for this little adventure we were on.