For crying out loud, the guy was practically telling me his life story, and still no one had come to my rescue. Where the hell was the Conspicuous Consumption security team?
“C’mon,” he said. “Time to take a little trip to Santa Land.”
With his gun lodged firmly in my back, he shoved me out into the mall. So bright and festive during the day, at night, with the people gone and the lights dimmed, it now had the antiseptic look of a hospital corridor.
“My original plan,” Barnaby said as he prodded me over to Santa Land, “was to slip a little poison into Scotty’s ‘hot chocolate’ thermos, but when your cat went ballistic, I decided to take advantage of the chaos and stab Scotty in the heart instead.
“Much more satisfying,” he added with a happy nod.
By now we’d reached Santa’s Workshop.
“Get in,” Barnaby said, nudging me with his gun.
Oh, dear. I didn’t like the looks of this. Not one bit.
“Whatever you’re planning, Barnaby, you’ll never get away with it. There are security cameras all over the place,” I said, waving at the cameras, hoping that whichever idiot was asleep at the wheel would finally wake up and notice me.
“Forget it, hon. The security cameras got fried by the sprinklers the day of the murder and they’ve never been fixed.”
“They’ve never been fixed?” I blinked in disbelief.
“Unfortunately the gentleman who owns Conspicuous Consumption has made some rather unwise investments and is in dire financial straights. He can barely pay the light bills, let alone fix his high tech security system.
“That’s what Corky told me, anyway, on one of her many snack breaks. Everyone always seems to confide in me. I’m so darn likeable, aren’t I?”
He smiled at me, the twinkle in his eye no longer a twinkle, but a manic gleam.
“Now get in the damn workshop!” he growled, waving the gun in my face.
I crawled into the small hideaway where Scotty had enjoyed so many tequila breaks, sick with fear. I was about to die at the hands of a nutcase Santa, all because I’d been trying to land a job at a mall that couldn’t afford to hire me in the first place.
Then Barnaby crouched in the doorway and, much to my surprise, dropped his gun.
Frantically, I grabbed it.
“Won’t do you any good, Jaine. It’s just a prop.”
“Just a prop?”
I pulled the trigger, and sure enough, all I heard was a harmless click.
“Stole it from a community theater production of Sleuth. I played the Larry Olivier part. Got fantastic reviews. Personally, I thought I gave old Larry a run for his money.”
Dammit. I’d let myself be conned by a silly prop!
“But this murder weapon is very real, my dear,” he said, whipping out a switchblade knife from his Santa boot. “Souvenir of an impromptu performance I did in a back alley in Koreatown. An ugly story. I won’t bore you with the details.”
Oh, God. The maniac was going to eviscerate me. Here—in Santa’s Workshop! And no one was coming to help.
How the hell was I going to get out of this mess?
And then I saw it. My salvation:
An empty tequila bottle, left over from one of Scotty’s binges.
As Barnaby ducked his head to crawl into the workshop, I was ready for him. The minute he came through the door, I whacked him over the head with Jose Cuervo’s finest. A satisfying crack rang out as the glass made contact with his skull. He crumpled to the ground, groaning.
Kicking him aside, I began scrambling out of Santa’s Workshop, screaming bloody murder. I’d just gotten to my feet when I felt a hand clamp down on my calf.
Oh, crud. I hadn’t knocked Barnaby out; I’d just stunned him. Now I peered down into the workshop and saw he was reaching for his knife with his other hand. Why the hell had I left it in there?
I tried to shake myself free of his grasp but it was like a manacle. Any minute now he’d be slashing my legs to ribbons.
Then suddenly I remembered The Biter—the little girl who’d come marching in to see Santa to demand a pony. I remembered how her mother had pleaded with her not to chomp down on Santa.
Pulling a page from The Biter’s book, I bent over and sunk my teeth into Barnaby’s bony arm. Chunky Monkey, it wasn’t. But it did the trick. With a piercing wail, he released his hold on me.
Taking no chances, I then stomped on his hand, and seconds later when he came crawling out from the workshop, I was waiting for him with the Giant Book of Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes, a hefty tome I’d snatched from the Tiny Tim toy bin.
As Barnaby crawled into view, brandishing his knife, I whacked him on the bean with every ounce of strength I had. Jose Cuervo may have let me down, but Mother Goose did the trick. This time Barnaby was out for good. How fitting, I thought, that he was felled by a gift from his own scuzzy charity scam.
At which point, Corky finally came rushing over.
“Jaine! What’s going on?”
“Quick!” I cried. “Call the police. Barnaby’s the one who killed Scotty!”
“Sweet little Barnaby?” she asked, peering down at his crumpled body. “Really?”
“Yes, and he just tried to kill me, too.”
“Wow,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “This sure hasn’t been our year for Santas.”
Corky got on her cell phone and minutes later the place was swarming with cops. After I told them my story and showed them Barnaby’s switchblade, they hauled the psychotic Santa off to the medical wing of USC county jail.
Somehow I managed to drive myself back to my apartment, vowing that from that day forward I would do all my Christmas shopping online.
Home at last, I collapsed onto my sofa, Prozac nestled on my chest.
“Prozac, honey. You won’t believe what happened. I was almost stabbed to death in Santa’s Workshop by a deranged Santa Claus, but thank heavens I managed to bop him over the head with a tequila bottle and a book of nursery rhymes before he could eviscerate me.”
Yeah, right. Whatever. Is that brownie I smell on your breath?
Okay, so I stopped off for that Brownie Special.
(With extra whipped cream, if you must know.)
I woke up the next morning to find a message on my answering machine.
What with my near death experience, I hadn’t noticed it blinking the night before.
I pressed the play button, and almost choked on my morning coffee when I heard:
Hello, Jaine. This is Jim Nelson calling from Los Angeles Magazine. We . . . um . . . sort of met the other night at Jason’s party. Anyhow, Jason told me about your Christmas Elf idea, and I think it would be a great story for the magazine. Why don’t we get together for lunch to talk over the details? Or dinner, if you’re free. Give me a buzz.
Holy Moly. It looked like it was going to be a Merry Christmas, after all.
One More Thing
It turns out that Greg, Lance’s Secret Santa crush, is allergic to birds. So if anyone wants a parrot who can say, Here’s looking at you, kid, just let me know.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed reading about Jaine and her rascally cat, Prozac. If so, there are plenty more Jaine adventures on tap.
So far, in her crime-fighting past, Jaine has dealt with Bridezillas, Trophy Wives, Fanatic Fashionistas, Diet Nazis, Sitcom Scoundrels, Cruise Ship Lotharios, and Neighborhood Witches. (None of them quite as scary, however, as Prozac at feeding time.)
And coming in January 2014, just in time for Valentine’s Day, Jaine will get a job writing advertising copy for a Matchmaker from Hell—a ghastly gal with a penchant for lying, cheating, and chocolate truffles. Charging outrageous fees for services rarely rendered, it’s no surprise when the chiseling cupid is murdered on Valentine’s Day, bumped off with one of her own poisoned chocolates.
When the cops zero in on Jaine as a suspect, she sets out to find the true killer, all the while fending off the advances of a b
illionaire septuagenarian who’s fallen madly in love—with Prozac!
Will Jaine find the killer? Will Prozac find true love with her billionaire AARPster? Will anyone ever send Jaine flowers on Valentine’s Day so she doesn’t have to keep sending them to herself?
Stay tuned to find out in Killing Cupid!
Laura
P.S. Don’t forget to join me on Facebook (Laura Levine Mysteries) for exciting Jaine newsflashes and free book giveaways!
Room at the Inn
CINDY MYERS
Chapter One
White was not Barbara Stanowski’s color. As a pale blonde, white washed her out and made her look like a ghost of herself.
White didn’t look so good on the rest of the world right now, either, she thought as she squinted into the swirling snow that engulfed the car. White land, white sky, white air. “How can you even tell where the road is?” she asked her husband, Jimmy.
Jimmy hunched over the steering wheel, the premature gray in his still thick hair making him look as if he’d been dusted with the same snow that covered everything else. “I can’t,” he said. “All I can see are the taillights of that truck ahead of us. If he drives off the side of the mountain, we do too.”
“Don’t even joke about a thing like that.” She pulled her mink coat (vintage, left to her by Jimmy’s late mother) more tightly around her and stared at the dull red glow of the truck’s taillights, faint beacons in the swirling snow.
“Who says I’m joking?”
She pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply through her nose. Think calming thoughts. Wasn’t that what her yoga teacher always told her? Not that Barb paid much attention; she took yoga for what it did for her body, not for the spiritual aspects. Though maybe that explained while she still couldn’t stand on her head.
Still, this seemed like a good time to remain calm and positive. She and Jimmy had made it all the way to Colorado from Houston with no problems—the weather had been perfect until just a couple of hours ago. And Jimmy was doing great, considering he’d never driven in snow before. In a little while they’d be in Eureka, with her best friend, Maggie, having lunch at The Last Dollar Café and laughing about the Texas flatlanders’ first adventures driving in a Colorado snowstorm.
“Uh oh.”
“Uh oh what?” She sat up straighter, bracing herself—for what, she didn’t know.
“We’re stopping.”
The car, which had been moving at barely a crawl, had indeed stopped, though the swirling snow still gave the unsettling impression of continued movement. The red taillights of the eighteen-wheeler they’d been following since Gunnison glowed only inches from their front bumper. “Why are we stopped?” she asked.
“I have no idea.” Jimmy switched off the key and reached into the backseat for his coat. “I’ll go find out.”
But before he had shrugged into the heavy wool overcoat that smelled of mothballs, a dark figure loomed out of the snow alongside the car and tapped on the window. Barb gasped.
Jimmy turned the key and let the window down. Icy air and needles of snow assaulted them. A black man, a gray watch cap pulled down to his eyebrows, bent to look in at them. “Road’s closed ahead,” he said. “Too much snow.”
“Any plans to get it open?” Jimmy asked.
The man pursed his lips and turned his face up to the snow beating down. “They’ll probably keep it closed until this storm passes. The wind’s drifting the snow and visibility is poor, and I hear there’s avalanches in the mountain passes. It’s not safe to travel.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Barb asked. “We’re headed to Eureka for Christmas.”
“You might not get there,” the man said. He leaned closer to look into the car. “You got water and blankets, in case you have to spend the night out here?”
“Spend the . . .” Barb’s voice failed her.
“We’ll be okay,” Jimmy said, as if he’d spent the night in a snowed in car many times. “We’ve got water and snacks and enough clothing for an Arctic expedition.”
“Most likely someone will be along in a while,” the man said. “Highway Patrol.” He patted the top of the car. “I’m in the truck just ahead of you, if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” Jimmy offered his hand. “Jim Stanowski. And this is my wife, Barbara.”
“Reuben Wright.” His beefy hand dwarfed Jimmy’s. He nodded to Barb. “You’ll be okay,” he said, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the snow as he made his way farther down the line of cars.
Jimmy rolled up the window and buttoned his coat to the throat. “I guess we’re in for a wait.”
Barb hugged her arms across her chest and pressed her chin into the soft mink collar of the coat. It smelled of the Chanel No. 5 Jimmy gave her every Mother’s Day. A comforting, familiar smell that seemed out of place in this remote, snowy world. “Go ahead and say it.”
“Say what?” He leaned over the backseat. “Do you know where my book is?”
“Say ‘I told you so.’ I know you would have rather stayed in Houston for the holiday.” Every Christmas Eve, Jimmy and his golf foursome played eighteen holes, then exchanged joke gifts over drinks, then he stopped by the Honeybaked Ham store to pick up the Christmas dinner Barb had ordered. Sometimes they turned down the air conditioning and built a romantic fire in the fireplace. It had been cold enough to warrant the fire a few times, but they certainly never had so much snow they couldn’t drive wherever they wanted.
“I didn’t mind coming to see Maggie,” Jimmy said. He straightened, paperback thriller in hand. “And it’s not as if you can control the weather.”
That was Jimmy—so calm it was practically inhuman. She was the emotional one in their marriage, but what was the use ranting about something when her words merely bounced off him with little effect?
He settled in to read his book and she stared at the falling snow. This was definitely not what she’d pictured when she’d proposed heading to Eureka for the holidays. The little mountain town where her best friend had relocated last year resembled a Victorian postcard. The holiday had offered the prospect of sleigh rides, shopping in cute little boutiques, evenings enjoyed mulled wine or cider by a roaring fire, and afternoons soaking in the hot springs, a gentle snow drifting around them.
No blizzards. No spending the night in the car on the side of the road, reduced to nibbling on energy bars and smoked almonds. She’d stashed a couple of bottles of wine in their luggage, but without glasses they’d have to swig from the bottles, like skid row bums.
She blinked hard. She would not cry. Crying was immature and useless and besides, it would ruin her makeup and make her eyes puffy and her nose stopped up.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Think calming thoughts.
At least she wasn’t back in Houston trying to pry her son, Michael, off the couch, where he spent far too many waking hours focused on some violent video game. Michael had dropped out of college after two semesters and moved back into his old room. He worked various jobs—delivering pizza or selling shoes at the mall—but none of them lasted very long. When he wasn’t playing video games, he tinkered in the garage or haunted the golf courses. Like father, like son in that respect.
Mainly, he drove Barb crazy. She liked things to have a certain order—some people might even call her a control freak, but it wasn’t that she wanted to tell other people what to do, only that she wanted to have control over her own life. Grown sons were not supposed to live at home. They were supposed to be in school or on their own, self-supporting.
She probably should have felt more guilty about abandoning her only child at the holidays, but Michael had already planned to party with friends on Christmas Eve and he would spend the holiday itself with Jimmy’s sister and her husband, who would lavish him with food and gifts and attention, so what more could he ask for?
With that comforting thought, she drifted off, lulled by the lingering warmth in the car and the steady drone of wind-blown snow. A t
apping on the driver’s side window woke her with a start. She let out a choked cry, heart hammering. She’d dreamed she was trapped in a snow globe, swimming through clouds of white glitter, trying to find her way out.
A young man in a dark leather jacket with a fur collar, a Colorado State Patrol shield over the breast pocket, peered in the window Jimmy had opened. “You folks doing all right?” he asked.
“A little chilly, but we’re okay,” Jimmy answered.
“We’ve got a place nearby for you to spend the night where you’ll be more comfortable,” the trooper said. “Grab a few overnight things and come with me.”
The thought of a welcoming fire, a stiff drink and indoor plumbing lifted Barb’s spirits. Whether their emergency shelter would offer the first two was debatable, but a woman could dream, couldn’t she? She shoved open her car door and stepped into snow up past her knees. Her feet felt like ice in the thin leather boots, but she ignored that, and floundered her way around to the back of the car, where Jimmy had opened the trunk. He handed her her makeup bag and he took the suitcase. “I guess everything else will be all right here,” he said.
“After I drop you off at the cabins, we can come back up here and get the rest of your stuff,” the trooper offered.
“Cabins?” That sounded promising. She pictured oversized log furniture, a massive stone fireplace, maybe even a hot tub. Maybe this delay wouldn’t be so bad.
“There are some vacation cabins by the lake. The owner has agreed to open them up for you all.” He took Barb’s elbow and guided her over a drift that had formed by the roadside. “I’m Officer Kates. What’s your name?”
“Barb Stanowski. Do you all have snowstorms like this every winter?”
“Sometimes. Where are you from, Ms. Stanowski?”
“Please, call me Barb. We’re from Houston. We’re on our way to Eureka to spend Christmas with a friend.” Maggie was Barb’s best friend. When her husband dumped her and her late father left her property in Eureka, she’d decided to make the move permanent. Now she had a new job, a new love interest and a new spirit that had been missing before. Barb almost envied her. No matter how happy you were with your own life, there was something so tempting about the idea of starting over from scratch.
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