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Authors: Anna Celeste Burke
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to fix things. I
have a sneaking suspicion he did.”
“Wow,
if Mick squealed on Owen, he got him killed. That’s not live and let live. What
if Mick was in on killing Owen, too?”
“I
can’t see Mick as a murderer. What I can imagine is that when Owen trashed
their weed garden that was the last straw. Mick had a Sheriff Taylor moment of
his own. He could have gone to the police about Owen’s involvement with the
pirates of Corsario Cove, but went to the runners instead. He seemed genuinely
surprised to learn the dead Santa turned out to be Owen, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,
and he was really shook up about it. At one point he stopped talking about
surfing and said, ‘I can’t believe they killed Opie.’ It’s like he was feeling
this deep pain about Owen’s death. Guilt, too, if he committed the heinous deed
you’re talking about.”
“I
don’t believe he meant to get Owen killed—he just wanted him out of Sanctuary
Grove. If he did put the bad guys on to Opie, that means Mick knows who they
are. That might not be such a good thing for Mick. As much as I hate to do it, Brien,
we need to call Detective Mitchum and tell him what we’ve discovered. The list
of potential suspects is getting longer—runners in the cove and others in the
counterfeit ring, Owen’s auction site partner or anyone else who knew where
Opie stored his merchandise, and angry villagers in Sanctuary Grove. That’s quite
a long list for such a young guy. We don’t have one bit of hard evidence. It’s
all based on hearsay and speculation, unfortunately.”
The
thought of calling Mitchum killed my Christmas spirit. Not that I had a whole
lot left after all the talk about our crafty, but not too bright, and very dead
Santa. At least we hadn’t been accosted by Bad Santa on the way back to the
hotel. I didn’t feel any better after leaving a message for Detective Mitchum,
but took solace from the fact that I didn’t have to speak to the grouch.
Bah
humbug! Not even the glorious holiday lights at the hotel, Christmas music from
carolers strolling about in vintage costumes, or the happy chirping of manic
kids splashing in the pools, playing tag, or dueling with fake pirate swords could
break through the Christmas Eve funk that had settled on me. An old familiar
feeling , I thought. The cynical, despairing Grinch-that-stole-Christmas
side of me took over as it had year after year—before my liberation from Mr. P
in LA-LA land, and before Brien loved me.
What
had Owen been thinking? Who was I kidding? He was young and dumb, and thinking
that way. I knew it well, having done it myself for too many years. Brien
sensed my mood. Once we were on the elevator headed up to our room, he grabbed
me, pulled me to him, and kissed me. That kiss set off a surge of joy that sent
the Grinch packing. Mr. Grinch took Scrooge with him, too, as the milk of human
kindness swamped me. Heck with those dinner reservations, I intended to share a
little Christmas spirit with Brien.
And so
I did. I raced Brien to the bedroom that had been cleaned while we were gone.
Fresh pine boughs exuded a Christmassy fragrance. My eyes flitted from a
startling arrangement of fresh flowers to a basket of fruit and candy—more
Champagne, too. We didn’t even notice the note on the floor until later.
Showered, dressed, and with about two minutes to get to dinner on time, we
found it.
9 Leave It Alone
O n the
way to dinner we called and left a second message for Detective Mitchum asking
that he please call us as soon as possible. We could have called hotel security
about that note except that Brien and I were both too spooked by the possibility
that a member of security was in on the counterfeit ring. If Owen knew what he
was talking about and this began as a way to skim money from the resort, a
staff member pretty high up in management had to be involved. More
have a sneaking suspicion he did.”
“Wow,
if Mick squealed on Owen, he got him killed. That’s not live and let live. What
if Mick was in on killing Owen, too?”
“I
can’t see Mick as a murderer. What I can imagine is that when Owen trashed
their weed garden that was the last straw. Mick had a Sheriff Taylor moment of
his own. He could have gone to the police about Owen’s involvement with the
pirates of Corsario Cove, but went to the runners instead. He seemed genuinely
surprised to learn the dead Santa turned out to be Owen, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,
and he was really shook up about it. At one point he stopped talking about
surfing and said, ‘I can’t believe they killed Opie.’ It’s like he was feeling
this deep pain about Owen’s death. Guilt, too, if he committed the heinous deed
you’re talking about.”
“I
don’t believe he meant to get Owen killed—he just wanted him out of Sanctuary
Grove. If he did put the bad guys on to Opie, that means Mick knows who they
are. That might not be such a good thing for Mick. As much as I hate to do it, Brien,
we need to call Detective Mitchum and tell him what we’ve discovered. The list
of potential suspects is getting longer—runners in the cove and others in the
counterfeit ring, Owen’s auction site partner or anyone else who knew where
Opie stored his merchandise, and angry villagers in Sanctuary Grove. That’s quite
a long list for such a young guy. We don’t have one bit of hard evidence. It’s
all based on hearsay and speculation, unfortunately.”
The
thought of calling Mitchum killed my Christmas spirit. Not that I had a whole
lot left after all the talk about our crafty, but not too bright, and very dead
Santa. At least we hadn’t been accosted by Bad Santa on the way back to the
hotel. I didn’t feel any better after leaving a message for Detective Mitchum,
but took solace from the fact that I didn’t have to speak to the grouch.
Bah
humbug! Not even the glorious holiday lights at the hotel, Christmas music from
carolers strolling about in vintage costumes, or the happy chirping of manic
kids splashing in the pools, playing tag, or dueling with fake pirate swords could
break through the Christmas Eve funk that had settled on me. An old familiar
feeling , I thought. The cynical, despairing Grinch-that-stole-Christmas
side of me took over as it had year after year—before my liberation from Mr. P
in LA-LA land, and before Brien loved me.
What
had Owen been thinking? Who was I kidding? He was young and dumb, and thinking
that way. I knew it well, having done it myself for too many years. Brien
sensed my mood. Once we were on the elevator headed up to our room, he grabbed
me, pulled me to him, and kissed me. That kiss set off a surge of joy that sent
the Grinch packing. Mr. Grinch took Scrooge with him, too, as the milk of human
kindness swamped me. Heck with those dinner reservations, I intended to share a
little Christmas spirit with Brien.
And so
I did. I raced Brien to the bedroom that had been cleaned while we were gone.
Fresh pine boughs exuded a Christmassy fragrance. My eyes flitted from a
startling arrangement of fresh flowers to a basket of fruit and candy—more
Champagne, too. We didn’t even notice the note on the floor until later.
Showered, dressed, and with about two minutes to get to dinner on time, we
found it.
9 Leave It Alone
O n the
way to dinner we called and left a second message for Detective Mitchum asking
that he please call us as soon as possible. We could have called hotel security
about that note except that Brien and I were both too spooked by the possibility
that a member of security was in on the counterfeit ring. If Owen knew what he
was talking about and this began as a way to skim money from the resort, a
staff member pretty high up in management had to be involved. More
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