Read Online Don't Call Me Christina Kringle by Chris Grabenstein - Free Book Online Page A

snug little shop. They all had their shoes off so the air inside the tiny shop was starting to smell. Sort of cheesy. Like a laundry hamper filled with old socks. The crowd pushed and shoved and backed Mr. Bailey, the banker, into a corner where he clutched his briefcase tightly to his chest and tried not to breathe through his nose.
    â€œWait a minute, wait a minute,” said Giuseppe. “What is wrong with your shoes?”
    â€œNothing,” said the lady holding up her strappy high heels. “They’re fine. But, we saw what you did to that other man’s shoes.”
    â€œWhat other man?”
    â€œMe!” shouted Mr. Trench Coat as he strode triumphantly into the store carrying a pillar of a dozen shoeboxes stacked one on top of another. He also had a box of fresh-baked French pastries that smelled like they had just come out of a warm oven. The crowd parted as everyone gasped and gawked down in awe at his twinkling, wondrous shoes.
    â€œI want you to fix all my shoes the way you fixed the first pair!” He proclaimed. “And, to show my gratitude, I brought you fresh-baked Christmas cookies!”
    Giuseppe’s eyes lit up like a little boy. “I like Christmas cookies.”
    The woman quickly plopped her strappy shoes on the counter and stuck out a fistful of one-hundred-dollar bills.
    â€œConsider this my deposit.”
    Giuseppe didn’t know what to do. So, he took her money. His hands trembled when he tried to remember where the one-thousand-dollar key might be on his cash register.
    When the money door slid open and the tinny bell pinged, the stockbroker stepped forward with another wad of bills.
    â€œTake as many as you like!” he said. “But make my shoes look better than hers!”
    When Giuseppe took the dozen one-hundred-dollar bills the stockbroker offered, the man insisted he take another.
    â€œAnd,” he said, “I’ll be sending over two pounds of those fancy French cookies this afternoon to sweeten the deal!”
    Then the woman, who didn’t want to be outdone, tossed five more fifties on the counter. She promised to bake Giuseppe oatmeal-raisin chocolate-chip cookies from scratch.
    Soon everybody in the shop was tossing money at Giuseppe. One-hundred-dollar bills. Fifties. One man even tossed in a thousand-dollar bill (it had President Grover Cleveland’s face on the front).
    So much money was being tossed toward the counter, the bills fluttered around Giuseppe like autumn leaves, except these leaves were green instead of brown.
    Happier than he had been in years, Giuseppe rang up the deposits on his rickety register, nibbled on cookies in between ding s, and handed out claim checks.
    â€œMr. Bailey,” he shouted merrily to the banker, “you come back Wednesday morning. Maybe I have your money for you. Maybe I have it all!”

Twenty-five
    Christina slipped out the back door of the crowded shoe shop, headed up the alley to the street, then strolled down the sidewalk and headed for school.
    Her backpack was slightly heavier than usual.
    Not much. Just a couple pounds. Just the weight of the two nine-and-a-half-inch brownies who had still been in the workroom nibbling on cookies and sipping cream when she peeked behind the curtains to see if she had been dreaming on Saturday night. Fortunately, none of the customers mobbing Grandpa’s store had seen what Christina had seen.
    â€œOkay,” she whispered over her shoulder, “I guess you guys are real. You’ll keep helping Grandpa, right? Because he just got a ton of new customers!”
    â€œNot to worry,” came the muffled reply from Professor Pencilneck.
    â€œYou keep bringin’ us cookies,” said Nails, “we’ll keep knocking out the clodhoppers, wing tips, and wedges.”
    â€œSo,” Christina said to the backpack, “this Mister Fred you used to work for. I’ll bet he’s looking everywhere for you two. I mean