Don't Call Me Christina Kringle (12 page)

She shrugged. “I have connections.” In fact, Gustav and Gizmo, the two new brownie brothers, had whipped them up in two minutes flat.

A woman sipping holiday punch out of a red plastic cup came over to the baked-goods table. “Excuse me. How much are the cookies?” she asked Christina.

“Whatever you care to donate.”

“Did you bake them?”

“No. Some friends of mine did. But, I tasted them and, take my word, they're the most awesome Christmas cookies in the world.”

“Is that so?” the customer said with a laugh. “In that case, I better try one.”

“Go right ahead.”

The woman took one bite of a snowman. Christina recognized the expression of amazement on her face; it was the same one she had when she first tasted the minty-fresh flavor of new-fallen snow Flixie had somehow worked into her recipe.

She handed Christina a fifty-dollar bill.

“I'll take a dozen.”

Word spread.

Thirty minutes later, the cookies were all gone. People were using adjectives like
amazing
,
fabulous
, and
astounding
. No one had ever tasted Christmas cookies so heavenly, scrumptious, or yummy.

Christina had over one thousand dollars in her money box. They'd be able to buy a bunch of new toys for all the kids her dad used to visit on Christmas Eve.

As the carolers finished “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Captain Dave moved to the center of the room and raised his cup to make a toast.

“Merry Christmas, everybody!”

“Merry Christmas!” the crowd shouted back, Christina included.

“I just wanted to thank everybody for coming out tonight and being so generous. You folks are gonna make a whole lot of kids a whole lot of happy on Christmas morning!”

The crowd applauded.

“This year, Engine Company 23's gonna dedicate our annual Christmas Eve Run to the finest firefighter it was ever my privilege to serve with. The guy who started it all, my buddy, Captain Nicholas Lucci. Jolly Ol' Saint Nick!”

Everyone raised their plastic cups. “To Nicholas Lucci!”

“The man who taught me the true meaning of the day: it is in giving that we receive.” Emotion gripping his face, he turned and gestured to the carolers. “Come on, you guys. I'm not much on makin' speeches. Help me out here. Let's have another song!”

The small choir regrouped. The leader pulled out a pitch pipe and gave everyone their first note. Christina wished she had brought her violin. Well, actually, at Christmas time, her dad always called it her fiddle. Said she was just like the fiddler of Christmas Past who played at the Fezziwigs' party when Ebenezer Scrooge was a young apprentice in Dickens'
A Christmas Carol
.

And then the choir started singing.

The absolutely wrong song.

The one Christmas carol Christina Lucci absolutely did not want to hear this close to the first anniversary of her father's death: “Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Christina smiled faintly. She wanted to believe that the words in the song could come true. She wanted her heart to be light, her troubles and grief out of sight. She was so tired of being so sad.

She looked over to the portrait of her father propped up on an easel next to the glittering Christmas tree. The singers sang the line about dear, faithful friends who were gathering near.

Not always,
she thought.

Her father was nowhere near to her right now. He was dead. Gone.

See, that was the problem with Christmas carols.

They took on a whole different meaning when those who were dearest to you had no way of showing up! Sure, God could give rest to the merry gentlemen, but what about the twelve-year-old girls who were miserable?

Enough!

Christina was up out of her seat before they sang about hanging a shining star on the highest bough.

She took her money box over to Captain Dave.

“Here. I gotta go.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She headed for the door.

“Hey, Christina?” Captain Dave called after her. “Christina Kringle?”

She whipped around.

“Don't call me that!” she screamed. “I hate that name! I've always hated it. So, don't ever call me Christina Kringle again!”

Donald McCracken paced around the circle of merchants sitting on empty crates in his dingy warehouse.

They were his best customers. Mister Fred, who ran the fancy shoe boutique. Chef Pierre, from the expensive French bakery. Tony Scungilli, owner of King Tony's Toy Castle. Mr. Kasselhopf, from the candy-cane factory. A dozen others.

Back hunched, McCracken puffed out his pudgy lower lip and loped around the circle of whining shopkeepers.

“My two little shoemakers ran away!” cried Mister Fred.

“I am ruined! Ruined!” wailed the baker.

“I had the hottest toys in town,” groused King Tony. “Now I can't sell a stinking tiddly wink!”

McCracken had heard enough.

“Ye belly-aching little babies!” he roared in his thick Scottish brogue. “Ye sniveling, spineless nincompoops! Ye make me sick!”

The assembled shopkeepers grew suddenly silent.

“I import the world's finest brownies,” McCracken continued, marching around the circle of grumbling money grubbers. “They come here from the old country and work their little hearts out for ye. And then, you go and ruin their fun by giving them silly sweaters and poofy hats and paying them money? Ye crush their giving spirit?”

“Can the lecture, McCracken,” snarled King Tony. “How do I get Gustav and Gizmo back in my basement before Christmas Eve?”

“Oui!”
said Pierre the pastry chef. “There are only two of the shopping days left. I need Trixie and Flixie.”

“And I need Nails and Professor Pencilneck,” said Mister Fred.

“We all need our brownies,” shouted another shopkeeper. “Or Christmas is ruined!”

“Oh, ye want 'em back, now, do ye?” said McCracken with an evil grin.

“Cut to the chase,” snapped King Tony. “What's it gonna cost?”

“Ten thousand dollars. From each and every store. Even the ones that couldn't be bothered coming here tonight!”

Several shopkeepers pulled out their wallets and checkbooks.

“Are you certain you can find them all?” asked Mister Fred, his pen poised over a blank check.

McCracken laughed. “Find them? Why, laddy, I already know where they are.”

Christina had her violin tucked under her chin and dragged the bow slowly across the bridge, sending up a mournful wail that would have made the most melancholy alley cat to ever have his tail stuck in a door sound cheery by comparison.

She filled the shoe shop with her woefully slow, sad version of “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” The fiddle droned through the minor chords, wrenching despair and misery out of what was supposed to be a bright and bouncy tune.

“So,” said Professor Pencilneck, “how was the party?” He was sitting on the counter, trying not to sob in time to the music. However, the moisture welling up in his eyes was fogging his glasses. “Did you have fun selling the cookies?”

Christina answered with another woeful stroke of heartbroken strings.

“You know,” said Nails, who stood at the top of the cellar stairs, “we could teach you how to fiddle a jaunty little jig.”

Christina shot him a gloomy glance and scraped her bow backwards across the strings.

“If … you're ever interested,” said the professor.

“Yeah,” said Nails.

Now the alley cat, from somewhere in the back room, howled along with Christina's doleful solo.

“Okay,” said Nails. “I can't take this no more. Where's that new guy?” He hollered down the steep steps. “Yo? Smoothie. Get up here. We need to ask you a few questions!”

The professor moved to the edge of the counter so he could look Christina in the eye.

“We think this new fellow Smoothie might be able to remember more details about what he saw last Christmas Eve at the firehouse. Perhaps, with some prodding, he might recall enough to help us help you find your missing gift!”

Finally, Christina stopped dragging her bow across the quivering strings.

The professor's face brightened immediately.

“Could you kindly snap on that lamp?” he asked.

Christina nodded and flicked on the small but very bright gooseneck lamp.

“Bring up Smoothie!” the professor shouted down to Nails. “It's time for his, eh, interview!”

Christina sat mesmerized.

The smug little man with the slicked-back black hair sat on a spool of thread under the intense light circle cast by the intensely bright lamp while Professor Pencilneck and Nails walked around him playing good cop/bad cop.

“You gotta remember something else!” shouted Nails, who, naturally, took on the role of the bad cop.

“I can't, I tell you!” said Smoothie, sweat trickling down from the edge of his hard-packed hair. “I can't.”

“Maybe a little cream would refresh your memory,” said the professor.

“Maybe my fist would, too!” said Nails.

“Easy, Nails,” said the professor, waggling his walking stick. “You are upsetting our guest.”

“Yeah?” Nails balled up his fist. “Well if our ‘guest' don't start remembering real quick, I'm gonna upset his stomach, too!”

“All I remember,” said Smoothie, “is he had a big wrapped box.”

“Think harder,” said the professor gently. “Close your eyes and try to reconstruct the scene.”

Smoothie closed his eyes.

“Look for details. What color is the wrapping paper?”

“Red. No—green.”

“Which one?” said Nails. “Red or green?”

“Both,” said Smoothee, squeezing his eyes tighter. “The wrapping paper is red, but the shopping bag is green!”

“There's a shopping bag?” said the professor eagerly.

“Yeah. I forgot about the shopping bag,” said Smoothie.

Now Christina leaned forward. “Was anything written on the side of the bag?”

Smoothie scrunched his eyelids even snugger. “It was so long ago. …”

“Try to remember,” said Christina, practically begging.

“Yeah. Okay. I can see it. The writing on the side: ‘Ye Olde Christmas Shop-pee.' I think that's how it's pronounced. It's spelled with two
P
s and an
E
at the end.”

Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe.

The store next door!

The next morning, December 23, Christina went over to see Ms. Dingler at ten o'clock sharp, which was when she opened her store.

“Well, if it isn't Christina Kringle!” the bubble-headed blonde gushed.

Christina let it go. One more Kringle wouldn't kill her. Besides, she needed information.

“Um, Ms. Dingler …”

“You know,” the shopkeeper butted in, “I was hoping you'd drop by today. I wanted to give you this.” She quickly grabbed a plastic-wrapped peppermint out of a candy bowl shaped like a sleigh. “Merry Christmas!”

“Thanks.”

“Did you get the angel I sent over?”

“The one with the fire hat?”

“Yes,” Ms. Dingler gushed.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Did you write your father's name on the parchment scroll and slip it under the wings?”

“Not yet. I'm saving that for Christmas Eve.”

Ms. Dingler nodded wisely, as if she understood. “By the way, Christina dear, I've noticed that your grandfather has been quite busy.”

“Yeah.”

Ms. Dingler giggled weirdly. “Shoe repairs. Who knew that's what people wanted for Christmas.”

Christina shrugged. “Guess shoes go with stockings.”

“Hmmm?”

“Nothing. Let's just say, Grandpa got his groove back.”

“Is that so? Interesting. I had heard he was about to lose his lease.”

“He came close,” said Christina, “but, well, I guess it was one of those Christmas miracles like you see in the Christmas movies on TV every year.”

Ms. Dingler smiled. It looked like it hurt. “Isn't that marvelous?”

“Ms. Dingler?”

“Yes, dear?” Now Ms. Dingler's smile was straining her face so much, her eyelids were fluttering.

“Do you remember last Christmas?” Christina asked.

“Of course, dear. I remember them all.”

“Did my father buy me a gift here?”

“Why, yes. He certainly did! And then, he told me he was going to this address.” She quickly pulled out a sheet of green notepad paper trimmed to look like a pine tree.

Okay. That was odd.

“You wrote it down and saved it for a year?”

“I save everything, dear. Cherished memories. Isn't that what Christmas is really all about?”

Christina stared at the address. 44 Warren Street.

Why on earth would her father take her Christmas present all the way down there?

There was only one way to find out.

“Thanks, Ms. Dingler!”

Christina needed to visit 44 Warren Street!

Donald McCracken watched the young girl hurry out of Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe and scamper into Giuseppe's Old World Shoe Repair Shop.

Everything was going according to plan.

McCracken was sitting in front of a bank of TV monitors in the back end of a black van with Pete's Pesky Pest Patrol painted on the sides. He was parked across the street from the shoe shop and the hidden camera mounted on the roof of the van in an opaque dome was zoomed in on the line of customers snaking out the front door of old man Giuseppe's place.

“No wonder business is so brisk,” he mumbled. “Ye got the wee ones working on your wing tips, don't ye, ye old coot?”

He chuckled a wet and rumbling little sniggle and pushed a button to change the camera feed on the main monitor.