Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  Maybe, I thought, as I headed out the door.

  Or maybe she got them from Scotty, trying to defend himself as she stabbed him to death.

  Chapter Eleven

  After my tête-à-tête with Molly, I made a beeline for the food court for a quick corn dog. And, if you must know, a side of fries. (Okay, two sides. A gal can build up quite an appetite working as an undercover detective elf.)

  I was just chowing down on my last fry, when I glanced up and saw Corky, strolling side by side with the muscle-bound co-worker I’d seen her with the day she blew up at Scotty.

  Now her ruddy face was flushed with pleasure, her sparse ponytail bobbing merrily behind her. I watched as she gazed into Mr. Muscle’s eyes with the kind of gooey-eyed adoration normally found in puppy dogs and Viagra commercials.

  She was in love, all right.

  I couldn’t help thinking that with Scotty and his nasty comments out of the way, her romance could proceed unimpeded.

  Indeed, she and Mr. Muscle looked quite chummy strolling along, Mr. Muscle’s hand just millimeters from Corky’s ample tush. Finally, he gave her a pat on said tush and stepped on the escalator, bidding her a fond adieu.

  Which was my cue to leap into action.

  “Hey, Corky,” I cried, scurrying to her side. “I wanted to thank you for trying to rescue my cat the other day.”

  “No problem,” she replied. “That’s some little monster you got there.”

  Hey! I’m the only one who’s allowed to call my little monster a monster. But somehow I managed to rein in my annoyance.

  “So how’s it going?” I asked.

  “Pretty good,” she replied. “Except for the damn shoplifters. They’re out in droves at Christmas. Figure they can get away with it, with the stores so crowded. Gotta watch for the ones with the big totes,” she said, eyeing a tiny brunette with an enormous purse.

  “Just yesterday I caught some gal with a KitchenAid mixer in her bag. Said it must’ve fallen in when she wasn’t looking. She actually expected me to believe her. And here’s the crazy thing. Turns out she was married to some gazillionaire movie director out in Malibu. Can you beat that? She could’ve bought seventeen of those mixers without batting an eye.

  “The worst offenders,” she said with a knowing wink, “are always the rich ones.”

  “Speaking of crime,” I said, in an effort to wrench the conversation away from mall theft, “I still can’t get over Scotty getting killed the way he did.”

  At the mention of Scotty’s name, Corky’s spine stiffened.

  “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”

  Spoken like a woman who might have done the job herself.

  Once again I remembered her threat to Scotty:

  Call me “Porky” one more time, and you’re a dead man!

  Had Scotty called her “Porky” one more time? And had Corky made good on her threat?

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “I didn’t kill him. I sure as heck wanted to. But I’m no murderer.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea who did it?” I asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “Did you notice anyone near him after the sprinklers went off?”

  “Just you.”

  Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.

  “Sure you didn’t see anybody else?”

  “Say, what’s with all these questions, anyway? You some sort of reporter?”

  “Actually, I’m a private eye.”

  “You? A private eye?”

  She blinked in amazement. Can’t say I blamed her. Standing there in my pointy elf shoes and striped tights, I was not exactly the image of a hard boiled dick.

  “I work part-time, semi-professional,” I explained.

  “Wow.” She gazed at me with new-found respect. “I’ve always wanted to be a detective. I tried to join the L.A.P.D. But they turned me down because of the time I spent in juvie.”

  “You were in juvie?”

  Now it was my turn to be shocked. Corky, our genial security guard, had once done time in a kiddie correctional institution!

  “Yeah, I had some anger issues when I was growing up. I’ve always been on the chubby side. Got bullied a lot in school. One day some kid went too far, and I beat the stuffing out of him. Just my rotten luck I busted a couple of his ribs. Spent six months in juvie. They sent me to a shrink to help me get a handle on things.

  “But that’s all behind me now,” she added with a toss of her ponytail.

  I wasn’t so sure about that. For all I knew, history had just repeated itself in Santa Land.

  By now, we’d reached the employees’ locker room, and I followed Corky as she headed for her locker.

  “I’m just grateful Molly gave me a break,” she was saying, “and hired me here at Conspicuous Consumption. It’s not easy getting a job when you’ve got a record.”

  She opened her locker, revealing a monumental stash of M&M’s on her top shelf, as well as a locker door plastered with photos.

  There was a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his Pumping Iron days. Another of Bruce Lee. And another of Corky, decked out in a kimono, assuming a karate pose.

  Clearly the woman had a thing for brute force.

  “So you know karate?” I said.

  “You bet.” She nodded.

  No doubt about it. Corky certainly had the strength to have rammed that snowflake in Scotty’s heart.

  “I graduated second in my class at the Kung Pow Academy of Martial Arts,” she said, pointing to another picture, a group shot of about a dozen men and women, all in karate garb. Sure enough, Corky was in the back row, grinning with pride.

  And then I noticed someone standing in the row in front of her. A thin wiry woman with mousy brown hair.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, squinting at the photo. “Is that Molly?”

  “Sure is. She’s the one who graduated first in the class. You should see that woman chop her way through a cinder block.”

  Holy Moses. First those scratches on Molly’s arms. Now this.

  Just a few seconds ago, I was convinced Corky was my Number One Suspect.

  But now, thanks to the Kung Pow Academy of Martial Arts, it looked like Molly was back in the running.

  Later that night I was at my dining room table, writing out my Prozac-free Christmas cards. Alongside me on the table was a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of Oreos. Well, technically there was no plate. I was munching on them straight from the bag. Things tend to be a tad informal here at Casa Austen.

  Somehow I’d managed to nibble my way through a frightening number of the chocolate beauties, and I now decided to save the last one as a reward for when I finished my cards.

  I spent the next twenty minutes diligently sending XOXO’s to friends and relatives and was just putting the stamp on my last card, when I heard Lance’s familiar knock on my front door.

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by for days,” he said, breezing in, “but it’s been crazy busy at work—Mmm, an Oreo!”

  Without so much as a “Do you mind?” he scooped up my Reward Oreo and shoved it in his mouth.

  “Hey! I was going to eat that!”

  “You’ll thank me in the morning, hon. I’ve just saved you scads of unsightly calories which would’ve gone straight to your thighs. Whereas I, on the other hand, will zap them away at the gym before they even know what hit them.”

  He did not lie. The man spends so much time at his gym, they’ve practically named a StairMaster in his honor.

  “So,” he said, plopping down next to Prozac on the sofa. “I heard some nutty cat set fire to your mall—”

  Prozac sat up and preened.

  That would be moi.

  “—and that one of the Santas got killed.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “I was there when it happened.”

  “Omigosh!” His eyes lit up with excitement. “Tell all! Don’t leave out a single detail!”

 
I told him. How Prozac stole the corn dog and jumped on the Christmas tree. How Corky knocked the tree over onto the roasted chestnut stand. How the umbrella caught fire and set off the sprinklers. And how someone had taken advantage of the pandemonium to kill Scotty with a Christmas tree ornament.

  “Wow,” Lance said when I was through. “A Christmas tree ornament, huh? I thought about getting one of those for Greg for his Secret Santa gift.”

  “Forget about the damn Secret Santa gift, Lance! The point is, a murder has been committed, and the cops won’t let me leave town till the case is solved. Technically I’m one of the suspects.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” he said, “I’m sure they’ll find the killer. If worse comes to worst you can always spend Christmas with me and my family and watch my uncle Delmar fall head first into the candied yams after his fifth martini. That’s always good for a chuckle.”

  “Sounds delightful,” I replied with a wan smile.

  “Try not to worry, hon,” he said, taking my hand. “Everything’s going to be okay. Just promise me you won’t go chasing after the killer yourself. Really. That stuff is dangerous.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing! I know how you get the minute you sniff a corpse. You’re like a bloodhound in elastic-waist pants. For once, promise me you’ll leave everything to the police.”

  “I promise,” I lied.

  “That’s my girl,” he said, wrapping me in a hug. “And remember. You’ve always got my dysfunctional family to come home to at Christmas.”

  Lance may be a royal pain at times, but when I’m in a fix, he’s always there for me with a hug.

  “By the way, honey,” he said, “I’ve got a weeny favor to ask.”

  I should’ve known there was a catch to that hug.

  “Neiman’s having a crisis down at their Newport Beach store. A couple of their top shoe salesmen got food poisoning at a Christmas party. I need to go down there to pitch in for the next few days. So would you mind taking in my mail while I’m gone?”

  “Is that all? No problem.”

  “One more thing. I need you to watch over Greg’s Secret Santa gift.”

  “You need me to watch over a box of Godiva chocolates?”

  If you remember, class, when last we left Lance, that’s what he’d decided to buy.

  “Oh, no,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I didn’t get chocolates. That’s so passé. I thought of a much better idea. Wait! I’ll go get it.”

  He zipped out the door and minutes later returned with a canvas-covered dome.

  “What on earth is that?” I asked.

  “The perfect Christmas gift!”

  He whipped off the cover and revealed an ornate wrought iron bird cage. In the center of which was a bright green and orange parrot.

  Prozac looked up eagerly from the sofa.

  Oh, goody! Dinner!

  I blinked in amazement. “You’re giving a parrot as your Secret Santa gift?”

  “Not just any parrot. A Christmas parrot! Look. His wings are red and green!”

  “They’re orange and green.”

  “Close enough. Anyhow, his name is Bogie. I bought him on Craigslist for only thirty bucks! His owner says he talks, but so far he hasn’t said a thing.”

  “I can’t keep a bird here, Lance. Not with Prozac.”

  “Don’t be silly. The bird’s in a cage. What harm can Prozac possibly do?”

  Prozac’s nose twitched with anticipatory glee.

  Don’t worry. I’ll think of something!

  “Just cover the cage at night so Bogie can sleep.”

  Then he dashed outside, only to come back seconds later with a bag of bird seed and a stand for the cage.

  “Thanks, Jaine, sweetie! You’re an angel.”

  “But, Lance—”

  Before I could get in another word, he was off and running.

  Gritting my teeth at the prospect of guarding Bogie the Parrot for the next few days, I put the birdcage the one place I knew Prozac was least likely to go—inside the bathtub. She has not ventured inside that tub since the one and only time I tried to give her a bath—a harrowing experience featuring much hissing, scratching, and decibel shattering wails.

  (And Prozac wasn’t too crazy about it, either.)

  Bogie fluttered his wings a bit, then gazed at me with bright beady eyes.

  “If you want anything,” I said, striking a pose against the doorjamb, “just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you, Bogie? Just put your upper and lower mandibles together, and blow.”

  Then, after that very poor Lauren Bacall impersonation, I returned to the living room where Prozac was staring dreamily off into space.

  I knew just what she was dreaming about.

  “You leave that bird alone,” I warned her. “For your information, parrots happen to be one of nature’s most treasured creatures.”

  She looked up at me with sly green eyes.

  Especially with ketchup.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gigi was subdued in the days following Scotty’s death. Gone was the spring in her step and the sparkle in her eye. She led her charges up to Santa’s chair with all the joie de vivre of a condemned man tootling off to the electric chair.

  Rumor had it she was seeing a shrink.

  I tried to question her about Scotty’s murder, hoping she could provide me with a valuable clue. After all, she was on duty with him when he was killed. But every time I tried to talk to her, she seemed to be in a hurry somewhere—to her acting class, to her gym, to her aromatherapist . . .

  If I didn’t know better I’d say she was avoiding me.

  Well, she wasn’t going to lose me that easily.

  With a quick trip to Molly’s office, and a fib about wanting to send Gigi a Christmas card, I was able to obtain her address.

  I planned to pay her a visit in person. Nothing like a face-to-face chat to wring the truth out of a witness.

  I waited till the following Saturday when the weekend Santa Land crew had taken over and neither of us was working. Then I called her to make sure she was home, using a pay phone at the public library so she wouldn’t see my name on her caller ID.

  She answered the phone with a weary “hello,” and I immediately hung up and dashed to my car—eager to zip over to her apartment for our long-delayed chat.

  Gigi Harris lived in Westwood, in one of the many courtyard buildings that dot the neighborhood around UCLA. I walked up the front path to a security gate, and peering inside, saw a tiny pool, surrounded by rusty lounge chairs. An abandoned volleyball bobbed forlornly in the turquoise water.

  Unwilling to ring Gigi’s buzzer and risk having her blow me off, I waited at the gate, examining the names on the intercom, until at last one of the tenants came out, a lanky guy toting a backpack and wheeling his bike. After he pushed the gate open, I held it out for him, and then scooted inside.

  Safe in the courtyard, I trotted over to Gigi’s apartment and knocked on her door.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  “It’s me. Jaine Austen, from work.”

  I heard footsteps shuffling and then the door opened a crack.

  Gigi peered out at me with glazed eyes, her uncombed hair sticking out in messy spikes. Yet somehow she still managed to look cute.

  Life’s sure not fair, is it? When my hair sticks out in messy spikes, I look like Medusa on uppers.

  “How did you get past the security gate?” she asked.

  “It was open,” I fibbed.

  “Well?” she said, making no move to let me in. “How can I help you?”

  “Look, I know you’re unhappy about what happened to Scotty, but I really need to talk to you. Can I come in for just a minute?”

  “Oh, all right,” she sighed.

  She opened the door, and I almost gasped when I saw that she was standing there in a long, white wedding dress, nipped in at the waist, with acres of tulle cascading from her slim hips.

  “Scot
ty bought this for me,” she said, doing a half-hearted pirouette. “Today was supposed to be our wedding day.”

  I followed as she led me to her tiny living room, furnished in Early Starving Actor—rump-sprung sofa flanked by worn director’s chairs, steamer trunk coffee table, and cinderblock book cases. Up on the wall above her sofa, Gigi had sandwiched a framed glamor shot of herself in between posters of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe.

  At least she was aiming high.

  She picked up a bottle of opened champagne from the coffee table.

  “Want some?” she asked, holding it out to me.

  Not at 10:30 in the morning, I didn’t.

  “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

  “All the more for me,” she said, slumping down onto her sofa and taking a big slug.

  “Sit.” She gestured for me to take a seat in one of the director’s chairs.

  “Round about now,” she said, checking her watch, “I was supposed to be picking up Scotty. We were going to drive to Vegas and get married in one of those corny Elvis chapels. The best laid plans, huh?”

  Another slug of champagne.

  I looked over and saw that about half of the bottle was gone. Gigi was well on her way to being snockered. I needed to hurry and get in some questions while she was still lucid.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to Scotty,” I tsked. “Such a tragedy.”

  Of course what I really wanted to tell her was that she was better off without him, that he was a sleazebag of the highest order, and that he’d only have made her life miserable in the end.

  But of course I said none of this.

  Instead I just murmured, “I know how unhappy you must be. And I’m sure, more than anyone, you’d like to see the killer brought to justice.”

  She nodded in agreement, picking at the foil on the neck of the champagne bottle.

  “So I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the murder.”

  “Go ahead. Shoot. Corky tells me you’re some kind of detective.”

  “Part-time, semi-professional.”

  “Who woulda thunk it?” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  I get that a lot. For some strange reason, most people tend to underestimate the investigative skills of a woman in elastic-waist pants and a Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt.