Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) (25 page)

Though Santa’s area was colorful, the real centerpiece of the mall courtyard was the giant Christmas tree, towering at least two stories above us. Festooned with twinkling lights, toys that actually moved and huge artificial candies, it kept the baby blessedly occupied. Other children didn’t find it so fascinating, and my heart went out to several mothers who had to deal with a variety of child-sized meltdowns.

We rounded the tree and Santa’s throne came into view at last. Only about eight mothers left in line. I watched with amusement as three boys, all under the age of five, scrambled like monkeys over Santa and his chair. The photographer had a time getting them to settle down.

I watched Dr. Stickley’s reaction to the melee and was surprised. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, laughing heartily at the children’s antics. As the mother consulted with the photographer about which shots she wanted to buy, he reached behind his chair, pulled out a vacuum coffee mug and took a sip.

He had definitely mellowed in his latter years, as Alec had said. I couldn’t imagine the stern, stiff-necked professor I’d studied under actually enjoying this. Certainly he didn’t need the money, with his inheritance and all. And the rest of the family was scattered to the far winds.

Could this jolliness be senile dementia? I’d read that some of the diseases that plagued old age brought about changes in personality, but did it make one jolly? Who would have ever thought that Stickley the Stickler would use the word
kiddies
or say between you and
I,
a clear mistake in grammar? I hefted Janet to my other arm. Strange. It was definitely strange.

All at once, it was our turn. I scanned the courtyard for Lily. She’d hate to miss this. It was all her idea, after all. But the photographer beckoned impatiently to us, and I stepped forward, carrying the treasure of my life in my arms, preparing to hand her over to a relative, albeit jolly, stranger.

Just before he reached for her, Santa took another swig from his coffee mug and replaced it.

I handed a surprisingly compliant Janet into his arms and said, smiling, “Was that Earl Gray?”

Santa opened his eyes wide and hefted Janet on his shoulder. “Earl who?”

“You know, your signature drink, Earl Gray tea—never mind.” I backed away, out of the line of the camera, preparing to encourage the baby to smile.

But Santa wasn’t smiling. He was staring at me.

And all at once, facts, ideas, random thoughts crowded my head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle:

Between you and I

Kiddies

Earl Gray

Between you and I

Earl who?

Kiddies

The professor I knew would never enjoy playing Santa Claus.

Santa sat frozen with my baby in his lap.

Our eyes locked. He had the same piercing blue eyes that had often skewered me in the classroom. But they were softer, somehow . . .

I shuddered and my mouth dropped open. “You’re not Dr. Stickley!” I said with a gasp.

All at once, Santa shot out of his seat and ran straight at us, the photographer and me. I reached for Janet, who seemed to be enjoying the ride, but he shoved me roughly to the ground.

I picked myself up and began chasing him.

I could hear a collective, shocked groan run through the assembled crowd as Saint Nick ran across the courtyard, carrying an infant—my infant—like a football. Someone shrieked. Several children began crying again.

It was clear where he was headed: the exit doors beyond the food court.

Without regard for anyone in his path, Santa pushed people aside, knocked over displays and jumped over obstacles. Bags full of gifts flew into the air. Shoppers stumbled and fell. Everyone seemed too surprised to stop him.

As I ran desperately, the thought flashed through my mind in less than a second:
How could I ever have thought this man was Dr. Stickley?

In the distance, I saw Lily, entering the mall with the umbrella stroller in her hand. I screamed her name. It was a helpless heart’s cry. Obviously, my small-boned friend was no match for the juggernaut that was speeding her way.

Please!
I prayed.
Please! It’s my baby!

All at once, there was a metallic rattle, a huge thump and the heart-tearing sound of a baby crying.

I ran, my chest heaving, tears streaming down my cheeks, in the direction of the doors.

Somewhere at home, I owned an illustrated child’s Bible. The scene I came upon was reminiscent of several of the pictures: David, standing triumphant over a defeated Goliath and Miriam, lovingly holding the infant Moses in her arms.

Several men, including a uniformed security guard, were vigorously restraining Santa, whose legs were tangled in the ruined umbrella stroller. Lily walked forward with my screaming little girl in her arms.

“The woman’s a hero,” one of the men called out to me. “She threw that contraption at him and caught the baby like it was a forward pass.”

“I can’t take all the credit,” Lily whispered to me as she handed over Janet, who was sobbing and hiccoughing. “Janet upchucked on the floor right in front of him and he slipped.”

Sure enough, the bodice of Janet’s lovely Christmas outfit was coated with the familiar white liquid.

Lily stroked her hair. “Brave girl,” she said. All of a sudden she looked around. “Whew! My legs are giving out! Let me sit down!” She took a seat at one of the food court tables. Feeling none too steady, myself, I joined her.

Dorothy O’Brien, Meaghan in tow, approached carrying my diaper bag. “Here you are. Gosh, I’m sorry that happened. What got into that guy?”

“He wasn’t who he seemed,” I said absently.

“You mean he wasn’t the real Santa?” Meaghan observed. “I already knew that!”

~~~

Needless to say, it was quite a while before anything felt faintly normal. By that time, Gil had returned home from his convention and we three were back at our snug lakeside house, preparing for Christmas.

I had answered scores of questions about the incident at the mall: Did I know the identity of the man in the Santa suit? No. Did I know why he would want to run away with my baby? No. Why was I in the mall in the first place? The questions went on and on in this vein until the officials were satisfied.

A week later, with much groaning and gnashing of teeth, Gil set up our artificial Christmas tree. I had put Janet to bed and was popping corn to string on the tree when there was a knock at our door. I looked through the peephole and jumped back as though scalded.

“Honey, what is it?” Gil joined me at the door.

A muffled voice called, “Miss Prentice, please, it is I, Dr. Willard Stickley.”

I heaved a huge sigh of relief. “It’s the real one. Let him in.”

Gil frowned. “How do you know?”

“I just do,” I said impatiently and pulled the door open. “Dr. Stickley, it’s good to see you doing so well after your ordeal.” I extended my hand to be shaken.

“I came to thank you,” he said as he took a seat on our sofa. “I understand that were it not for your perception, my brother would have usurped me.”

“You mean—”

He nodded and his snowy eyebrows dipped into a frown. “That’s correct; my own flesh and blood. I’d sought him out with the help of a private detective. It was a requirement of my father’s will. William came to stay with me. We weren’t compatible, I must say. He’s a slovenly individual. And he wanted to get a cat!” The professor shuddered. 

“Sir, why did you volunteer to be a substitute Santa?” Gil asked, his reporterly instincts on alert.

“That was all William’s doing. I had no knowledge of it until the mall people called him to come in. I adamantly refused to allow him to participate in such a ridiculous charade.” Dr. Stickley straightened his posture and continued, “All at once, he shoved me into a closet and locked the door. It’s my belief that the man planned to do away with me and take my place in this community.” The eyebrows shot up his forehead, creating a curiously vulnerable expression.

“Did he actually say so?” I asked, shocked.

The vulnerability immediately disappeared and Dr. Willard Stickley resumed the frosty tone I remembered so well. His piercing blue eyes narrowed. “Not in so many words, but it is certainly a logical assumption.”

Gil leaned forward, and I could tell that his fingers itched to hold a pad and pencil. “What happens now, sir?”

“I presume he’ll stand trial. Obviously, he has forfeited any claim to my familial affection or, for that matter, any portion of the inheritance.”

“Does he have a lawyer?” I asked, thinking of Santa’s warm chuckle as he played with the children.

The temperature in the room dropped a few more degrees. “I have no idea. Certainly there are public defenders available.”

“Are there no prisons, no workhouses?”
I recalled the words of the pre-ghost Scrooge.

He stood. “Well, I must take my leave. Again, I must thank you for recognizing the difference between us. My brother claims he had forgotten there was a baby in his hands. I trust your infant has sustained no vestigial trauma.”

“No,” I said, “she’s fine.” We escorted Dr. Stickley to the door.

From the bedroom, sounds of the aforementioned infant were heard.

“Stay here.” Gil patted me on the back. “I’ll see about the kid. G’bye, sir.”

Stepping out onto our front porch and replacing his alpine felt hat on his white head, Dr. Willard Stickley turned to me. “I understand you have made a career of teaching English.”

“Yes,” I said, gratified by the recognition.

He held up a gloved finger and his eyes bored into mine. “Then I trust you will hasten to instruct your husband in the proper definition of the word
kid
. Good evening.”

Incomplete Sentence . . .

Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series

Book 4

By

E. E. Kennedy

Coming Fall 2015