Cowabunga Christmas (3 page)

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 surprise 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.

A
bout
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.”

“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 brown
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.