Christmas Stalkings Page 13

  “But, Santa,” the boy said. “I haven’t finished yet”

  “Don’t worry, Son,” Burns said, trying to be jolly. “You’ll get everything you want. Trust me.”

  “But how do you know what I want? I didn’t have time—”

  “Write me a letter,” Burns said, jostling past the other kids in the line. The woman was already out the door, and he was afraid she would be in her car and gone before he got there.

  She was only half in the car, however, with one foot still planted on the ground, when Burns tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Ma’am?” he said. “Excuse me, ma’am.” He had no idea what to say next What did you say to a shoplifter?

  “It’s Santa, Mom!” the little boy on the other side of her screamed. “It’s Santa!”

  The woman looked at Burns. “Whatcha want?” she said.

  She was big, Burns realized, almost as big as he was, and he was wearing padding.

  “I, ah, I think you might have taken something in there.”

  The woman stared at Burns, then got slowly out of the car. The boy followed her out. He was very excited to see Santa. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, “but Mom said we didn’t have time. I want a pony for Christmas.”

  “Be quiet, Larry,” the woman said. She stared at Burns. “Whaddya mean about me taking something?”

  “I, ah, well, if you’d just let me look in your purse, I’m sure we could clear this up,” Burns said. He’d decided that she’d slipped whatever she’d taken into her oversized purse. It had to be there.

  “You some kinda creep?” the woman said.

  The little boy was, shocked. “Don’t say that, Mom! It’s Santa!”

  “Santa’s ass,” the woman said. “It’s some kinda creep.” She hugged her purse to her ample bosom as if it contained something precious. “He’s one o’ them creeps that steals a woman’s purse from her at Christmastime.”

  “No, no,” Burns said. “You’ve got the wrong idea. It’s just that I’ve been—”

  “Help!” the woman screamed. “Police! Fire! Rape!”

  Burns hadn’t noticed until then that there were other people in the parking lot. Now it seemed as if the entire population of Pecan City had arrived at just that moment to do a bit of shopping. Curious faces turned to see what was going on, and two people started walking rapidly in Burns’s direction. Burns started to sweat, though the temperature couldn’t have been much above freezing.

  The little boy didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it. He looked as if he might cry at any second.

  “Help!” the woman screamed. “Police!”

  Burns looked around, wishing that he had never seen Napier or Elaine Tanner. It was their fault that he was in this mess, though he knew he had been stupid to follow the woman out of the store. He had no idea how to handle the situation, and he should simply have allowed her to leave.

  He turned back to the woman, intending to apologize and forget the whole incident.

  She swung her purse and hit him in the side of the head. The purse was so heavy Burns thought it might have a compact car inside it.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the little boy kicked him in the shin. “You leave my mom alone!” he yelled.

  Burns bent to look at his shin, and the woman hit him with her purse again, in the back of the head this time. The fur-rimmed cap protected him to some extent, but Burns went down to his knees on the parking lot.

  He heard the horrified voice of a little girl. “That woman’s killing Santa!”

  The voice did not deter the woman. She hit Burns again.

  “What’s going on here?” Boss Napier said.

  Burns had never thought the Chiefs voice could sound so good. He stood up, his right hand pushing the cap out of his eyes.

  “This creep was trying to take my purse,” the woman said.

  “He’s a bad Santa,” her boy said.

  “I was just trying to do what you told me,” Burns said.

  “I didn’t tell you to go picking on solid citizens like Mrs. Branton,” Napier said. He looked around at the crowd of curious onlookers. “Everything’s all right here now, folks. Just a little Christmas misunderstanding.

  “That woman tried to kill Santa,” the horrified little girl said.

  “Santa’s fine. Isn’t that right, Santa?”

  Burns rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah,” he said. He didn’t even try to be jolly. “Santa’s just fine.”

  As the crowd drifted on into the store, many of them pausing to look back over their shoulders, Burns said to Napier, “You know Mrs. Branton?”

  “Right. Mrs. Roy Branton and her fine son Larry.” He smiled at the boy, who was watching Burns suspiciously. “This has all been a big misunderstanding, Larry. Santa wasn’t trying to take your mother’s purse.”

  “Yes he was,” Mrs. Branton said.

  “No, no,” Napier said, must jollier than Burns had ever seen him. “He’s working for me. It was just a mistake. Really. It won’t happen again.”

  Mrs. Branton didn’t look convinced. “He looks like a creep to me.”

  Napier got even jollier. “Well, he’s not. You can take my word for it. Right, Santa?”

  “Right,” Burns said, grinding his teeth.

  As Napier explained to Bums later in the storeroom while Burns was getting out of the Santa suit, Mrs. Branton was the ex-wife of one of Napier’s best officers. She had quite a reputation around town for her fierce temper and for one other thing—her honesty.

  “She’s the kind of woman who wouldn’t tell a lie even when it would be better than the truth,” Napier said. “The kid, Larry, found a ten-dollar bill on the street one day, and she made him give it to Harve—

  Harve’s her ex—so Harve could turn it in at the station. We kept it for three weeks, and when no one claimed it, she let Larry have it She wouldn’t steal anything, Burns. She wouldn’t even let the kid keep the ten dollars, not at first.”

  Burns stripped off the itchy beard. “I don’t see how you can be so sure about her. I’ve read that shoplifting is like a disease. You never know who might have it. And since we’re doing A Christmas Carol, I’ve been thinking about Dickens. She’s probably a Fagin.”

  “What’s a Fagin?’

  “Who. Who’s a Fagin. He’s a character in Oliver Twist. He has a bunch of kids who do his thieving for him.”

  “You think Larry is doing the lifting?”

  Burns shook his head. “Not really. To be honest, she’s the only one I saw today who even looked the least bit suspicious. There’s just no way anyone could be stealing stuff from this store.”

  “Sure there is,” Napier said. “You just haven’t given it enough time.”

  “Yes I have,” Burns said. He threw the red cap on top of the pile he had made of the Santa outfit. “I’ve found out I don’t have a flair for investigative work after all. I quit.”

  The first performance of A Christmas Carol was very well received. Many of the prominent members of the community were in attendance, including Franklin Miller, the president of Hartley Gorman College, who took the time to congratulate Burns on his reading.

  “Excellent, Burns, excellent,” Miller said, shaking Burns’s hand. “This has been just wonderful for college-and-community relations.”

  His remarks didn’t make Burns feel any better. Elaine had been ignoring him ever since the episode at Cameron’s, though Burns had tried to put the best face possible on things when he explained to her why he had given up the job. He could tell that she was disappointed in him, however, and there was no telling what Napier might have said to her about why Burns was off the job.

  Burns looked over the departing audience and saw several other people he knew. There was Marion Everson, editor of Pecan City’s almost-daily newspaper; Gene Vale, president of the Chamber of Commerce; and several HGC faculty members, including Mai Tomlin and Earl Fox.

  Even Jay Cameron was there. It was eight-thirty
, and the store owner would just have time to get to his place of business before closing time for one last check of the premises. The shoplifters still had not been caught. Cameron, however, had not been sorry to see Burns resign as Santa. It was as if he was more willing to suffer his losses than to have Burns make another scene. Burns didn’t blame him for feeling that way.

  Then Burns had a thought. He walked over to where Napier was graciously accepting the congratulations of an admiring Elaine Tanner and several others for his sensitive interpretation of Tiny Tim.

  Burns waited until Napier looked his way and indicated that he would like a word with the Chief. Napier shook a few more hands, laughed, and made his way to Burns, looking back to smile at Elaine over his shoulder.

  Burns tried not to grind his teeth. “I think I’ve cracked the case,” he said when Napier reached him.

  “What case?” Napier said.

  “You know what case.” “Oh, that case. I thought you quit.” “I did, but I’ve been thinking about it.” “Thinking about it. You cracked it by thinking about it? Like Sherlock Holmes?” Burns smiled. “More like G. Auguste Dupin.” Napier thought about that. “Who?” he said. “Never mind,” Burns said. “Just meet me at Cameron’s at nine o’clock.”

  “Tonight?” Napier said, looking at his watch. “Right. In fact, why don’t we go in your car?” “You’re not going to make more trouble, are you?” “Who, me?” Burns said. “Of course not.” “You better not,” Napier said. “If you do, I’ll sic Mrs. Branton on you.” “Ha ha,” Burns said. But he wasn’t being jolly.

  Burns and Napier sat in the squad car. Not wanting to alert anyone to their presence, Napier refused to leave the motor on and run the heater. He even rolled his window down a half inch and made Burns do the same so the windows wouldn’t fog over.

  Burns was freezing. He rubbed his hands together and stuck them between his thighs to warm them.

  Napier hummed the theme from “Hawaii Five-O,” tapping on the steering wheel to keep time.

  “I wish you wouldn’t hum that song,” Burns said. “It bothers me.”

  “Those Five-O guys are my heroes,” Napier said, thinking of warm surf and swaying palm trees. “You better be right about this, Burns. You know that?”

  “I’m right. How much did you say the store lost the day I was there?”

  “Four thousand. Little more. You stretch that out over three or four weeks, it mounts up.”

  The last customers left the store. Mrs. Branton and Larry. This time Mrs. Branton was carrying a bulging shopping bag. A salesclerk locked the door behind her.

  “There she is,” Burns said. “She sure does have a heavy purse.”

  “But she’s not a thief,” Napier said.

  “I know that now,” Burns said.

  They waited in the car while balances were checked against the stock, Cameron no doubt moaning over his latest losses. The clerks began to trickle out.

  Finally Cameron himself came out. The store was dark now, and Cameron carefully checked the door before he started across the parking lot to his car. He was wearing a bulky topcoat over his expensive suit.

  “Now?” Napier said.

  “Now or never,” Burns said, opening his door and getting out.

  They met Cameron just as he reached his car.

  “Good evening, Chief, Dr. Burns,” Cameron said. “I enjoyed your performance this evening.”

  Napier thanked him.

  “And what brings you my way?” Cameron said.

  “Well,” Napier said, “Burns has this crazy idea that he knows who’s been stealing from your store.”

  “He does?” Cameron said. “That’s good news.”

  “Not so good,” Napier said. “He thinks it’s you.”

  Cameron seemed to pale under the glow of the lamps that lighted the parking lot. “Me?” he said.

  “You,” Burns said. “Chief Napier said it couldn’t be your employees. You were too careful for that. And I sat there all day and never saw anyone take a thing. I thought I did, but I didn’t And neither did any of your

  professionals. So if no one was taking anything, that left only one person, one person who visited every department and had every opportunity to take whatever he wanted. You.”

  “I don’t see how you could think such a thing,” Cameron said, tucking his coat around him.

  “Why don’t you show us what’s under the coat?” Napier said. “If there’s nothing, then Burns was just wrong. Again.”

  “Of course he’s wrong. I never heard of anything so outrageous. Why would I steal from my own store?”

  “Money,” Burns said. “The store’s in trouble, but if you stole from yourself, you could collect twice. Once from the insurance company and once from the fence you sold the merchandise to. It makes sense to me.”

  “Me too,” Napier said. “Open the coat.” He reached out as if to pull open the front of the topcoat, and Cameron jerked away. A small bag dropped on the asphalt of the parking lot.

  Burns grabbed it before Cameron could bend down. He opened it and looked inside. “Watches,” he said. “Did you remember to pay for these, Mr. Cameron?”

  Napier didn’t appear interested in the watches. “Got anything else under that coat, Cameron?” he said.

  Cameron looked at Burns, then at Napier. His face set itself for a second, then collapsed. He opened the coat to reveal several other sacks of merchandise tucked here and there.

  Napier shook his head. “Looks like you were right, Burns. I hate to admit it, but maybe you do have a flair for this kind of thing, after all.”

  Burns smiled. “Book him, Tim-o,” he said.

  PATRICIA MOYES - FAMILY CHRISTMAS

  It started when she broke her leg. There she was in the Italian Dolomites with nothing to read while her companions were out skiing. So she thought up a mystery to entertain herself and wrote it down.

  That was the start of something beautiful. Since then, Patricia Moyes has written enough excellent mysteries (seventeen at last count) to set her among the greats in traditional mystery fiction. Not bad for someone who never set out to be a serious writer.

  Born in County Wicklow, Ireland, Patricia Moyes has been a flight officer in the WAAF, company secretary to Peter Ustinov Productions, has written movie scripts and an adaption of Jean Anouilh’s Time Remembered, which was successfully produced in London and New York. She has lived in Britain, Switzerland, Holland, Washington, D.C., and now lives in the British Virgin Islands. Perhaps it’s not too surprising that, after such an eventful life, she’s written us a story about a housewife who just sits quietly at home and does needlepoint.

  Good King Wenceslas looked out

  On the feast of Stephen . . .

  The young voices were ragged and precariously off-key, but all the same Mrs. Runfold found them touching. She laid down her needlepoint embroidery and said, “Poor little things. They must be perishing with cold out there at this hour of night. I shall ring for Parker and tell him to give them five pounds and some hot soup.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” replied her husband. He rustled his newspaper angrily. “They’re nothing but a confounded nuisance, and it’s not even Christmas Eve yet.” He got up from his chair by the fire and pressed a bell. This produced, before the end of the carol, an extremely correct and unhurried butler.

  “You rang, sir?”

  “Yes, Parker, I did. Give those damned children fifty pence, and tell them to go away and not dare come back.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Parker bowed slightly and withdrew. The voices straggled into silence as the big front door closed. Mary Runfold sighed and resumed her embroidery. She had learned, after thirty years of marriage, not to argue with her husband. Besides, Dr. Carlton had warned Robert against getting upset or angry, because of his heart condition. Mrs. Runfold changed the subject.

  “How nice,” she said, as her needle flicked deftly in and out of the canvas, “to think that all the family will
be home for Christmas.”

  “You think so?”

  “Well, of course, dear. It will be lovely to see the girls and their husbands.”

  Robert Runfold snorted. “I suppose you realize, Mary, that either one of those young men would cheerfully kill me if he thought he could get away with it?”

  The needle stopped in midair. “Robert! What a terrible thing to say! How can you even think such a thing?

  “Don’t be silly, Mary. You know I’m right.”

  Timidly, Mrs. Runfold said, “Well, dear, perhaps if you were to advance them just a little money ...”

  “You know perfectly well that on principle I don’t believe in giving young people money. Let them stand on their own feet.”

  “Yes, dear.” The needle resumed its activity.

  Defensively, Robert Runfold said, “They’ve both had expensive training and should be able to support themselves and their wives. All right, so Derek wants to buy his own pharmacy and have Anne give up her job and start a family. Let him, by all means. It’s no concern of mine.”

  “But—”

  “And as for Philip, it’s absolutely disgraceful the way he’s allowed himself to get into debt. Veterinary surgeons are very well paid these days.”

  “He’s been giving free treatment to pets of people who can’t afford his regular fees, Robert.”

  “More fool he. Alison should have stopped him. Shown a little common sense.”

  In the silence that followed, the grandfather clock in the big drawing room struck nine, and a glowing log tumbled slowly down into the fire basket.

  Runfold went on. “Which reminds me, Mary. I’ve been meaning to say this. I want you personally to supervise everything I eat and drink over Christmas.”

  “Well, naturally, dear, I discuss all the menus with Mrs. Benson—”

  “That’s not what I mean. Derek and Philip both have access to prohibited drugs. They both know about my shaky heart. It would be perfectly easy for either of them to slip something into my food—or my glass.”

  Mary Runfold gave a little nervous laugh. “Oh, come now, Robert You don’t seriously believe that either of them would do such a thing.”