Read Online Bubbles All The Way by Sarah Strohmeyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Strohmeyer
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probably thinking about the unfettered scam, me trying to analyze what made that a rhetorical question. Why did they call it a question if you weren’t supposed to answer it? I couldn’t see the point.
Also, I thought about Debbie. She was certainly shaping up to be a far cry from the self-satisfied, perfect wife and travel agent I’d known for years as my neighbor and client. Yet Ern, being drunk, a criminal and dressed in a slim-fitting Santa suit, wasn’t what one called a “reliable source.” Plus, he smelled really, really bad.
“I’m confused,” I said. “What, exactly, was this scam? Did it have something to do with her travel agency?”
He jerked his chin to a car across the street. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”
He was right. Though it was dusk and traffic was whizzing by, it wasn’t hard to miss the shiny black late model Mercedes. Foreign cars are cars you don’t see much in Lehigh. We don’t like them, nor do we trust them. We don’t have mechanics to service them because buying one is right out of the question. Foreign cars push local people out of jobs. That was why the Mercedes kind of stood out.
Along with the fact that behind the wheel was a hulking man dressed in a Santa suit, a pair of what might have been either binoculars or night-vision goggles held up to his eyes.
“He’s Santa Claus,” I said, under my breath. “Just like you!”
“ ’Tis the season.”
The Santa Claus dropped his binoculars to take a cell phone call. Still, he kept his gaze on Ern.
Or was it me?
“If I were you,” Ern said, sounding surprisingly sober, “I’d get real interested in buying a Christmas tree before that guy gets a bead on your head.” Ern retrieved the bell from the gutter, gave it a shake and returned to his clanging. “Christmas trees. Get your Christmas trees here. Ho . . . ho . . . ho. Cheap.”
My pulse was now racing. I stole another quick peek at the Mercedes. Santa was still on his cell phone, and I observed as I walked away, his gaze was focused one hundred percent on me.
Shit! What was going on? Why would I be followed for asking questions about what a few hours ago had appeared, by all accounts, to have been an accidental death from a latex allergy?
I zigzagged crazily to the lot entrance, where a man in blue overalls sat on a metal folding chair, smoking and tapping his foot to Elvis Presley’s bluesy “Merry Christmas, Baby.”
“I’d like to buy a Christmas tree. Fast.”
“Saw you talking to my mascot over there,” the Christmas tree salesman said, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “What were you up to?”
Panic. He might be in cahoots with the Mercedes. All this talk about Debbie’s paranoia had rubbed off on me. “Oh, nothing.” Crap. My voice was shaking. “Just asking for tree advice. You know, which ones smell good, which ones hold their needles, which ones last the longest.”
“He don’t know squat about trees. What were you really talking about?”
“Honest. Trees. He said I should get that blue spruce.” I pointed to a mangy one—well, they were all pretty mangy—propped up against the fence. “That’s the one he suggested.”
“That’s not a blue spruce. That’s a pine.”
How could he tell with his sunglasses on? And wasn’t a spruce a pine anyway? “I don’t care. That’s the one I want, please. And could you tie it to the top of my car?”
I glanced over my shoulder. The Mercedes was gone. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried.
“That’ll be twenty bucks, plus a buck for rope.”
Rip-off! At the prospect of being swindled, I momentarily forgot my stalker.
“That’s not worth twenty bucks. The bottom branches are brown and it’s almost bare of needles. You should be thanking me for taking it off your hands. That thing’s a fire hazard.” I was not Lulu Yablonsky’s daughter for nothing. Just because some fancy Santa was tracking me in the midst of a murder investigation
Also, I thought about Debbie. She was certainly shaping up to be a far cry from the self-satisfied, perfect wife and travel agent I’d known for years as my neighbor and client. Yet Ern, being drunk, a criminal and dressed in a slim-fitting Santa suit, wasn’t what one called a “reliable source.” Plus, he smelled really, really bad.
“I’m confused,” I said. “What, exactly, was this scam? Did it have something to do with her travel agency?”
He jerked his chin to a car across the street. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”
He was right. Though it was dusk and traffic was whizzing by, it wasn’t hard to miss the shiny black late model Mercedes. Foreign cars are cars you don’t see much in Lehigh. We don’t like them, nor do we trust them. We don’t have mechanics to service them because buying one is right out of the question. Foreign cars push local people out of jobs. That was why the Mercedes kind of stood out.
Along with the fact that behind the wheel was a hulking man dressed in a Santa suit, a pair of what might have been either binoculars or night-vision goggles held up to his eyes.
“He’s Santa Claus,” I said, under my breath. “Just like you!”
“ ’Tis the season.”
The Santa Claus dropped his binoculars to take a cell phone call. Still, he kept his gaze on Ern.
Or was it me?
“If I were you,” Ern said, sounding surprisingly sober, “I’d get real interested in buying a Christmas tree before that guy gets a bead on your head.” Ern retrieved the bell from the gutter, gave it a shake and returned to his clanging. “Christmas trees. Get your Christmas trees here. Ho . . . ho . . . ho. Cheap.”
My pulse was now racing. I stole another quick peek at the Mercedes. Santa was still on his cell phone, and I observed as I walked away, his gaze was focused one hundred percent on me.
Shit! What was going on? Why would I be followed for asking questions about what a few hours ago had appeared, by all accounts, to have been an accidental death from a latex allergy?
I zigzagged crazily to the lot entrance, where a man in blue overalls sat on a metal folding chair, smoking and tapping his foot to Elvis Presley’s bluesy “Merry Christmas, Baby.”
“I’d like to buy a Christmas tree. Fast.”
“Saw you talking to my mascot over there,” the Christmas tree salesman said, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “What were you up to?”
Panic. He might be in cahoots with the Mercedes. All this talk about Debbie’s paranoia had rubbed off on me. “Oh, nothing.” Crap. My voice was shaking. “Just asking for tree advice. You know, which ones smell good, which ones hold their needles, which ones last the longest.”
“He don’t know squat about trees. What were you really talking about?”
“Honest. Trees. He said I should get that blue spruce.” I pointed to a mangy one—well, they were all pretty mangy—propped up against the fence. “That’s the one he suggested.”
“That’s not a blue spruce. That’s a pine.”
How could he tell with his sunglasses on? And wasn’t a spruce a pine anyway? “I don’t care. That’s the one I want, please. And could you tie it to the top of my car?”
I glanced over my shoulder. The Mercedes was gone. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried.
“That’ll be twenty bucks, plus a buck for rope.”
Rip-off! At the prospect of being swindled, I momentarily forgot my stalker.
“That’s not worth twenty bucks. The bottom branches are brown and it’s almost bare of needles. You should be thanking me for taking it off your hands. That thing’s a fire hazard.” I was not Lulu Yablonsky’s daughter for nothing. Just because some fancy Santa was tracking me in the midst of a murder investigation
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