Save Me, Santa: A Chirstmas Anthology of Romance & Suspense (22 page)

“What do you think?”

She swiped at the screen of the cell and held it to one ear. “Hello?”

“This is Bertram Grant phoning for my son, Ross.”

“Hello, Mr. Grant. This is Mo Tuttle.”

“I know who this is,” he said in a haughty tone. “
I
telephoned
your
number. I'm not senile. Put my son on the line, if you please.”

“Yes. Well… “ She could think of nothing to say to that. Nothing polite anyway. “Here's he is.”

“Father.” Ross got out of bed “I'm late for the set. I'll phone you later.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed before heading off to the bathroom.

“What did he want?” Mo called after him.

“No idea.” Ross's voice came along with the sound of running water in the sink.

The Love Boat theme trilled again. This time the caller ID showed Harriet Hutson. Harry was Mo's former boss at the Incredible Love private investigation firm. Three months ago, Mo had quit before she could be fired for disobeying her boss's orders. Orders she had to break to protect Ross.

“Harry,” Mo answered the call. “It's been a long time.”

“I know,” Harry replied. “Too long. I wonder if you could come by and see me at the office this morning, in about an hour.”

“I don't know… I… “ Just then a beeping in the phone indicated another call. Mo glanced at the phone's face. Ross's father again. “Oh cranberry sauce! All right. I'll see you then, Harry. Gotta go.”

Bertram Grant didn't wait for her greeting when she clicked over to answer. “Please place an appointment on my son's calendar. I'll be visiting him in the States for Christmas. I'll arrive on Christmas Eve and depart three days later.”

“Great,” Mo said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “That will be fantastic.”

“Flight 487 arriving at 12:30 p.m., Eastern Time, U.S. Have someone fetch me from the airport.”

She wanted Ross's father to like her, so she avoided a snarky comeback. “I'll let him know. I look forward to see—”

He ended the call before she could complete the nicety.

“—Seeing you.” Perhaps Bertram Grant thought she and Ross wouldn't be together by Christmas. Maybe that was why he acted so snotty. And if this were any other guy but Ross, she'd stage a strategic breakup to avoid meeting his family. Then they could reconcile—with some great make-up sex—after the holidays were over. But she couldn't chance a mock fight with Ross. He was too important to her. Besides, six months would give her time to prepare herself so she could meet Bertram Grant with confidence.

Mo headed into the bathroom where Ross had finished brushing his teeth and was about to get into the shower. As he stepped into the tub, she admired his gorgeously nude body before he pulled the plastic curtain closed.

“Your dad called again,” she said. “He wanted me to tell you he's visiting for Christmas. He'll be here on Christmas Eve.”

He swept aside the curtain to peer out. “I beg your pardon?”

“He'll be here for Christmas.” She laughed. “He certainly likes to plan ahead. Couldn't he have waited a few months?”

“I hate to tell you this, but it's not that far off.” Ross's lips quirked into a smile and then he ducked back into the shower, closing the curtain.

“December 25th is over six months from now,” Mo shouted.

“Yes. But my father is a historian and an astronomy buff,” Ross shouted back over the blasting water sound.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“He refuses to celebrate Saturnia on December 25th. That's a pagan holiday, according to him. Instead, he celebrates Christmas on a more historically accurate date for Jesus's birth.”

“So when is that?” Mo asked.

The water shut off and Ross climbed out of the shower. His black hair glistened with wetness and the beads of water on his body made her salivate.

Holy snow cone.
Each time she saw him, Mo had to fight the urge for her jaw to drop.

Ross grabbed a towel and began drying off his chest. His blue eyes sparkled as he said, “June 17th.”

“No!”

“That's right. If he said he's arriving on Christmas Eve, then that means my father will be here tomorrow.”

“Son of a candy cane.”

Ross chuckled and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

* * *

“So this should be like a real Christmas?” Mo asked, turning the car's wheel to avoid a pothole. “Complete with tree, dinner feast, presents… “

“Theoretically, yes,” Ross said, gritting his teeth and gripping the dashboard with one hand—he hated for her to drive. “But I don't think you should bother about all that. My father must bloody well know not to appear at the last minute and expect a big hoopla.”

“No. No,” Mo assured him. “I want to make a good impression. I want him to like me.”

“Forget that, love. I like you. That's all that's important.” His voice held a pronounced smirk.

“You sound as if you don't think he'll like me.” She glanced at him and then back to the road, before taking a right.

“Well… You
are
a bloody Yank.”

“I was born in the South. I'm not a Yankee,” Mo said, her tone escalating an octave.

“Not Yankee. Yank.” Ross chuckled. “You're all Yanks this side of the pond.”

Not exactly something Mo could change.

“What does he like?” she pressed Ross. “Give me ideas. I need to buy him a gift from you and me.”

After considering for a moment, Ross said, “Father has a wicked sense of humor. Anything you don't think is funny, he probably will. He likes to play pranks.”

“That's hardly helpful.” Mo pulled her Mini Cooper to a screeching stop at the barricade blocking the street where Ross and company were scheduled to film that day.

“Right,” Ross continued. “He loves chocolate but only if it's mixed with nuts. Father also enjoys books, particularly old history tomes.”

Hmmm. She could probably work with that.

Ross tapped his forehead. “Actually, last week I was in that antiquarian bookshop on Liberty Street and saw a rare astronomy book I thought he might like. The owner is holding it for me. You could pick that up.”

Ross opened the door, disentangled his long legs from under the Mini's dash and hopped out. “Bye, love.”

“Wait,” she called, stopping him. “How much for that book?”

“Two hundred.”

Mo swallowed hard. “Dollars?”

“No. Sardines. Of course it's dollars.” He stuck his head back into the car. “Do you need money for all this Christmas nonsense?”

Yes
, she thought. Her checking account was practically at zero. But Mo refused to take money from Ross. She felt weird about even allowing him to contribute to the rent. But if he didn't, she and her brother, Leo, would be evicted. Ross had insisted that, because he was living there, he should pay.

“No, I don't need money,” she answered. “Just a kiss.”

“Not without mistletoe,” he teased, giving her a wink. With that he was off.

* * *

“Incredible Love,” the receptionist said, answering the phone.

When Mo walked in the door to the agency and heard the agency name, déjà vu struck her like a shot of spiked warm cider.

“No,” the receptionist said into the phone. “Not a dating service. We're a private investigation firm.”

Mo did a double take. The receptionist, a pretty, twenty-something black woman with high cheekbones and a wide smile, wore a headdress like that of a pharaoh. It was black and gold with a serpent head sprouting from the forehead.

Miss Pharaoh hung up the phone. When she spotted Mo, the young woman jumped up from her seat and came around the desk to tower over Mo by a good five inches. “You must be Mo Tuttle. I've heard about you. I'm Trayanne Jackson. Harry is expecting you.”

“Mo,” Harry called from behind her office door. “Thank goodness you're here. I'm desperate.”

After casting a wry smile at the receptionist, Mo hurried inside. “Harry, you haven't changed a bit.”

Harriet Hutson—a pretty, buxom red-head of about fifty-five, with a timeless quality—rose from her chair to wrap Mo in a hug. “Honey, it's so good to see you. If you weren't thirty, I'd say it was like the return of the prodigal daughter. But, obviously, I'm way too young to be your mother.”

“Great to see you too.” Mo was shocked to realize she meant the sentiment.

Harry held Mo at arms-length, her gaze traveling from head to toe over Mo's brown hair worn in an upsweep, simple black sheath dress and black sandals. “You look beautiful. Like a young Audrey Hepburn.”

With an arched eyebrow, Mo wagged a finger at her former boss. “Okay, Harry. You're slathering me with more butter than a cornbread biscuit. What's up?”

“You know me so well, dear.” Harry laughed as she offered Mo a seat with the sweep of an arm. After taking her own chair, Harry's expression turned serious. “I'm in a pickle. I've got an assignment from a big law firm in town. If I don't deliver a fast result, they won't use Incredible Love again.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Mo asked. She suspected what Harry was about to say. It might be petty, but Mo wanted Harry to admit she needed her. The fact that Harry would have fired her—if Mo hadn't quit—still hurt.

“I've got two operatives and they're both out with the beach flu. There's nobody but me to do this assignment. I've tried, but I'm just not gonna be able to get it done.”

“The beach flu?”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a disgusted huff. “The kind of flu young people get when they want to spend a couple weeks sunning themselves at Tybee Island.”

Mo laughed.

“Anyway, I'd like to re-hire you.”

“I don't know,” Mo replied, shaking her head.

“You aren't working full-time anywhere else, are you?”

“No, but… “ Aside from the caffeine-like jolt to her ego that coming back would provide, Mo really didn't want to return to the agency. Her dream was culinary school, and for many years she'd drifted along at Incredible Love without really pursuing her life goals. She didn't want to get trapped again. On the other hand, she needed the money.

“Honey.” Harry leaned forward in her chair, her eyes pleading. “I really am sorry about how we parted ways.”

“I know,” Mo said. “But it was probably for the best.”

After a few seconds of silent thinking, Harry said, “How about if I hire you as an independent contractor for just this one assignment? Five hundred for a successful completion.”

That kind of money could pay for the all the Christmas shitake, even that ludicrously expensive book gift for Ross's father. “I could agree to that—”

“Great!” Harry clapped her hands together.

“But you also have to come to a Christmas dinner I'm having on June 17th and bring a plus one.” Bertram would be fooled into thinking Mo had friends if she got enough people around the table.

“
Christmas
in June?”

“It's a long story,” Mo said. “Will you come?”

“Are you serving Turkey and stuffing?”

“You bet.”

Harry held out a hand. “You've got a deal.”

* * *

The assignment: personal service of a summons and injunction on Aristotle Kafakis.

Sitting in her parked car, Mo glanced again at the photo and bio of her quarry. Kafakis was a thirty-eight-year-old man with a swarthy complexion, stubbly beard, brown eyes, and greasy medium-length, dark hair.

Mo's gaze went to the single-story, cement block building across the street. According to the bio, Kafakis worked for the business in that building: Perfect Party. He had no known home address.

She took one last glance at the photo to memorize Kafakis's features before stuffing it into her messenger bag next to the manila envelope containing the service packet. Then Mo got out of the car.

The day was a typical ninety plus degrees, and by the time she'd crossed the street, Mo felt like a sugar cookie that had been left too long in the oven. The sun blazed above in a cloudless sky, glaring off the windows of the building and making it impossible to see inside.

“Ham hock!” Kafakis could be in there and I'd never know it from here.

According to Harry, the guy's ex-girlfriend wanted to keep him away from her and their kids. The judge in the case mandated personal service and Kafakis was being particularly slippery. At least her prey didn't know what she looked like. But Mo knew she had only one chance to surprise Kafakis.

Inside the shop, she found rows of assorted party supplies. A clerk with a shock of blue hair sat behind a counter running along the back wall. The clerk was hunched over a magazine spread out on the counter before him.

“Take a look around,” he called to her. “Let me know if I can help you.”

“Thanks,” she answered, her attention caught by the photos on the wall to the left of the entrance. Examining them more closely, she saw men and women in various costumes under the title
Perfect Party Performers
. Her gaze quickly scanned the wall and found a familiar face: Kafakis dressed as Uncle Sam. Under each photo was a compartment containing business cards.

She took a card from beneath Kafakis's photo and read, “Ari, the man of a thousand faces. How original,” she grumbled and kept reading. “Performance artist, actor, singer, tap dancer, juggler, fireworks expert and magician.” She shook her head. “He should be billing himself as 'the man of a thousand talents'.”

Turning away from the wall, she stuck the business card in her bag and walked to the counter. The space was neatly organized. Bags, gift boxes, ribbon, and a tape dispenser sat next to the cash register at one end of the counter. A crystal vase, with at least a dozen orange roses, was placed at the other end, next to the clerk and his magazine.

Flowers,
Mo thought.
I need to get some flowers to pretty up the house before Ross's father arrives.
She wondered if the florist would have anything remotely Christmas-like at this time of year. Real poinsettias were probably out.

“I'm interested in your performers,” Mo said.

The clerk's head jerked up. Instead of the emo-hipster she'd expected from the hair, this guy had white skin, a huge bulbous red nose, and a round mouth. Just under his chin was an Elizabethan, ruffled collar atop a cream colored silk tunic with big red buttons.