Going to the Bad (16 page)

From within the pharmacy bag, she removed a light green candle with the word
SERENITY
etched into the wax.

“That's him.” I waited while she raised the candle to her nose and took two long breaths. “Did something unusual happen yesterday?”

“The police asked me the same thing.” She lowered the candle. “And the answer is a giant yes.”

“When were the police here?”

“Two of them came to the house earlier tonight.” She removed the cup from the top of the Pepto-Bismol and poured herself a dose. “But they didn't say anything about not talking to the press, so I figure it's okay to tell you the same thing I told them.”

I reached for the camera. “Can I record this?”

She froze with the pink liquid halfway to her mouth. “Absolutely not. You think I want to be on TV looking like this?”

“Then how about giving me the surveillance video of the robbery last night? It's a different story, but I'd still love to have video of a backhoe driving into your store.”

“The first set of cops took it.” Her face screwed up into a grimace as she drank the thick, pink liquid. When it was all gone, she used the back of her hand to wipe away a pink mustache. “The ones who responded to the robbery last night. They were different from the ones who came this evening and asked about Bud.”

I guessed Handsome had sent the latter officers. I gave him credit for interviewing Annette and following this lead. “What did happen yesterday when Bud came to the store? Was he upset?”

“He saw a piece of old Russian jewelry and went nuts. He wanted to know where I got it.” Mrs. Claus straightened and her overall tone became more dignified. No easy feat considering how she was dressed. “But if someone pawns something, they have an expectation of privacy. We only give that kind of information to the cops. It's part of the ethics of the business.”

I leaned forward. “Was it a brooch? Maybe part of a set that was awarded as a military medal?”

“How did you know that?”

What would Bud have done if after all these years he'd seen one of the pieces Carter King had stolen? Of course he'd demand to know where it had come from. “Don't worry how I knew. What happened when you refused to tell Bud who'd pawned it?”

“He got real insistent. Offered me money to tell him. Finally crossed the line into making threats, and I told him he'd have to leave.”

“Did he?”

“Not before buying the brooch. Paid full price on a credit card.”

My mind quickly sifted through possibilities of where the brooch was now. Had Bud left it at Annette's house, or maybe his attacker had stolen it?

That's when I realized I had no idea which of the two medals it was. “Can you describe it for me? Did it have diamonds?”

She shook her head. “No diamonds, but it was real gold in the shape of a two-headed eagle. It was part of a set that used to be worn on a ribbon back in the time of the czars.”

“How do you know?”

“I researched it before I bought. The owner had no idea how valuable it was.” She shrugged. “I paid five thousand, which was a fair price for our kind of business, but it was worth twice that on the collector's market. A set of both brooches could have gone as high as fifty thousand at auction.”

“A set with diamonds?”

She whistled. “Those would be worth a small fortune. The market for that kind of historical jewelry has gone through the roof.”

There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Claus's hand shot out and covered my mouth.

“Sweetheart? Sweetheart, are you in there?” The voice belonged to a man—a man I was pretty sure had a long, white beard. “People are asking for you. The kids want to meet Mrs. Claus.”

She didn't answer.

The handle jiggled and then we both heard a key.

“Don't come in.” She jumped up and grabbed the handle.

“Sweetheart, what's wrong?”

“You know exactly what's wrong. I can't do this anymore. All year long. It never stops. You're either planning, doing, or cleaning up after.”

“Sweetheart, you're overwrought.”

Some boiling point was reached, and instead of holding the door shut, she tore it open. “You're an addict. You have no control over yourself. Every year it gets bigger. You're going to bankrupt us just like a crack addict chasing his fix.”

Santa looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard and then entered. If it had been cramped before, the space was now
claustrophobic. I held my camera close to my chest and tried to stand, but ran into Santa's round belly.

The man himself had to stoop because of the low roof. “Sweetheart, where's your Christmas spirit?”

“I'm Jewish.”

I sucked in an accusatory breath. It was one thing to love Christmas, but another thing to shove your religion down your wife's throat.

He responded to my scorn with overwhelming good cheer. “She's not Jewish.” A jolly laugh. “Her father married us in his Lutheran church.”

“I converted.” Her voice was defiant. “Last year I studied the Torah, met with Rabbi Shulman every week, and had a bat mitzvah. You can't prove I'm not Jewish.”

“Maybe I'd better go.” I tried to get up, but his stomach still blocked me.

“Sweetheart, I love you whether you're Christian or Jewish or Muslim, or whatever you want.” His good humor refused to be diminished. “Didn't I put the menorah in so you could give out chocolate coins to the children? But you don't want to do that either.”

“That's how sick you are. I converted to another religion so I wouldn't have to celebrate Christmas, and it hardly even fazed you.” She reached for the candle and inhaled. “I married you in sickness and health, but I thought that vow was referring to cancer or alcoholism. I should be so lucky.”

Meeting Mida King had made me wonder if I had what it took to stand by Rod if he got sick. Now that looked like a relatively mundane worry. What if he started dressing like Batman? What if he decided to only eat orange-colored food? If I married him, I'd have to trust that over a lifetime his personality wouldn't go off the rails in some unexpected way.

“Maybe I better go,” I said again. This time I forced my way up.

Santa stumbled back against the closed shed door, but kept
talking to his wife. “You can't honestly wish I was a drunk instead of providing all this joy and happiness.”

I reached around him and got the door open. Just as I was escaping, I heard her say, “At least then I could go to a support group or something. There's no help for a woman whose husband is addicted to Christmas.”

Christmas Eve, 8:03 p.m.

I
returned to the station. It had been two and a half hours
since our final show of the day, but I hoped Callum would still be there. I needed to tell him what I'd learned from Kelvin Hoyt and the pawnshop owner.

Inside the newsroom, Callum and Freddy sat together on the assignment desk fielding ringing phones.

“KJAY, we're on your side.” Callum paused to listen. “I'm glad you thought it was hilarious, but we're not putting it on the website.” He hung up and took another call.

I'd forgotten about the pet segment.

I turned and looked through the rows of empty desks all the way to Ted's, in the back. I didn't see him at first. He slumped low in his chair. Without moving the rest of his body or changing his facial expression, he raised a hand in greeting.

I walked straight down the aisle between desks. I reached Ted and hugged him. “I'm sorry. It's my fault. I booked the animal shelter.”

“No, it's not. You were great.”

I knelt beside him. “I know it seems bad now, but it's really not that big of a deal. Hardly anybody watches on Christmas Eve.”

“It's already on YouTube.” He looked down at the remains of his tie on the desk in front of him. The silk fabric was bloody and shredded.

I was tired and emotionally strung out but seeing Ted moved me. I wanted so badly to help him. “I'm usually the one people are giving heartfelt life-lesson-type pep talks to, so excuse me if I get this wrong.”

He smiled, and I continued, “You're a fundamentally decent person. You're loyal and kind, and you're going to be okay. This is a bump in the road that you'll be laughing about one day.”

“If only I hadn't reacted so badly when the cat first jumped at me.”

“It was ripping holes in your chest. It's hard to ignore that.” I looked around. “Where's your coanchor?”

“I don't know. Home I guess. She's not speaking to me.”

Indignation pushed me to stand. “None of this was your fault. Where was the animal-shelter guy? That was the real problem, you having to do the segment without him.”

“I don't know. He still hasn't come back. The animals are all locked up in the break room.” Ted thought of something and looked down at the floor around his desk. “Except for that little dog. He's out again, but nobody wants to find him since he keeps peeing on whoever tries to pick him up.”

“This is outrageous. The shelter may be broke, but they can't just abandon animals at the TV station.”

Ted pulled himself out of his slouch. “I'm a total jerk for feeling so sorry for myself while your uncle is lying in a hospital bed.” Ted gestured toward the assignment desk. “Do you need Callum? I can relieve him from the phones.”

“Are you sure you're ready to interact with viewers?”

He didn't answer, which meant he wasn't, but that didn't stop him from walking through the empty newsroom and right up to the assignment desk. When Callum hung up, Ted said, “I'll take over for a little bit. Lilly needs to talk with you.”

Callum hesitated, but then got up. “Okay, here's the game plan. They're going to try and hook you into an extended conversation.” He took his finger and hooked it in his mouth like a fishhook. “Don't get stuck debating facts or small details. You need to get on to the next call as soon as possible.”

Ted sat down. “I'll keep it generic and polite.”

Freddy, a few feet down the assignment desk, finished a call. The line immediately began ringing again.

Freddy looked at the device as though it were a snarling dog. “I totally can't stay much longer. I'm already late to my yuletide merrymaking, and I'm bringing the plates and cups. My bros are going to be eating and drinking with their hands.” Despite his words, Freddy picked up the receiver. “KJAY, we're on your side.”

Callum sighed. “Maybe we should think about putting the pet segment on the website, or re-airing it tomorrow. Sometimes embracing something like this is the best way to handle it. Show everybody you have a sense of humor about it.”

The phone rang. Ted looked at it with dread, but picked up. “KJAY, we're on your side.”

Callum and I retreated to an edit bay.

I set my gear bag on the floor and fished out my tape. “This is holiday video of a decorated house. I thought you might want it for the web.”

While Callum imported my video onto the computer's hard drive, I quickly related what Kelvin Hoyt and the owner of Pawn Max had told me.

Callum listened to my ramblings and then, like the experienced newsman he was, broke the story down to its essentials. “Your uncle sees a gold brooch at a pawnshop and recognizes it as half of a pair stolen by Carter King. After trying to learn who pawned it and failing, Bud buys the brooch himself. He then calls Leland Warner, the original owner, who was too sick to talk to him.”

I nodded. “We don't know who else Bud might have called or gone to see after that. The next morning he left me a voice mail saying he was meeting someone at my house and didn't want the police to know.”

“You know what's bothering me?” One side of Callum's unibrow raised. “The pawnshop getting robbed last night. It's too much of a coincidence.”

“I agree. Someone could have been after the brooch thinking it was still in the store. Maybe they tracked it to Bud and shot him to get it back.”

“If that's true, then the shooter probably has the brooch now.” Callum got up and exited the edit bay. I followed.

On the assignment desk, Ted seemed to be staying focused, but Freddy had gone decidedly off-script.

“Dude, I totally agree,” Freddy said into the phone. “It's taking way too long to clean up. Probably toxic waste or something.”

Callum waved his hands like a base coach telling a runner to stop. “Are you out of your mind? You're speaking for the entire news department now.”

Freddy sat up. “I mean, not that there's any proof,” he said into the phone. “It's probably just sludge. No conspiracy.”

Callum turned back to me. “I drew a blank on your uncle's army buddies, but I did find a known associate of Carter King with ties to Bakersfield.”

He handed me a printed page from a LexisNexis search. “He and a woman named Laurie Bogdanich were caught peddling stolen Bibles down around El Centro back in '84.”

I took the page and glanced over the information. I remembered the arrest from the police report because it was the last anyone had ever seen of Carter King. “What's Laurie Bogdanich's tie to Bakersfield?”

“In the nineties she was co-owner of the Booby Hatch.”

The Booby Hatch was an old strip club on Union Avenue. It had closed and been replaced by another strip club called Stallions ten years ago.

I returned to the edit bay and grabbed my gear bag. On my way out to the van I paused at the assignment desk. Callum had relieved Ted, but instead of retreating back to his desk, Ted had chosen to stay and continue answering calls. It was a good sign.

I returned to my van and dialed Kelvin Hoyt. I immediately regretted it, since he sounded groggy and disoriented.

“I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No,” he lied. “You think of another question?”