Trouble Under the Tree (A Nina Quinn Mystery) (3 page)

“Hold you back?”

She nodded, her eyes filled with
intensity.

“I think I can manage.” I was fairly sure I’d
lifted bags of mulch heavier than her. She was a tiny thing, maybe
one hundred pounds. Wet. If that.

I followed her upstairs, her stilettos
clicking on the curved faux-stone tiled stairs. I’d met Glory a few
times already, and my first impression of her was that she was a
complete ditz. It had been my second and third impressions as
well.

As we passed the Magic Reindeer Food kiosk on
the second floor, I waved to Lele McCorkle, who shyly waved back. I
couldn’t believe how different, personality-wise, she was from her
sister.

“How come the sprinklers don’t go off every
time the fire alarm does?” I asked Jenny.

“Don’t tell, but we had to disconnect the
system because of Glory.” Her cheeks reddened. “I’ve just about had
it with her.”

“Isn’t that...dangerous?” Hello,
understatement.

“Very,” Jenny said. “It has to stop, or else
I have to fire her, and I really don’t want to do that. Early
surveys from the soft open indicate Glory’s shop is a customer
favorite.” She glanced at me again, the intensity back. “You don’t
know how to bake gingerbread, do you?”

I shook my head. It was easier than admitting
that I could, in fact, bake a mean gingerbread man, but the scent
of molasses made me gag. It wasn’t pretty, trust me.

She groaned.

“Have you had your blood pressure checked
recently, Jenny?”

“I don’t want to know, Nina. I really don’t
want to know.” She smiled and nudged me. “You don’t happen to know
CPR, do you?”

Actually, I’d learned after one of my
surprise makeovers had gone terribly, terribly wrong. “I do, but I
don’t think it will help if you have yourself a stroke.”

“I’ll be fine after Christmas is over and
things settle into a steady rhythm around here.”

I watched the way she marched and had the
feeling she was deluding herself. I hadn’t seen her often since
graduating high school, but whenever I did, she exuded such
high-intensity it was hard to be around her for any great length of
time. She was the type that could find stress in any situation,
whether it was running out of creamer for her coffee or a speck on
her expensive shoes.

Hazy smoke filled the area in front of The
Gingerbread Oven, but as soon as we reached the doorway, the fire
alarms stopped blaring. Jenny stormed inside the shop. I followed,
wondering just how serious she’d been about holding her back.

The Gingerbread Oven was divided into two
parts. One was retail-oriented, where a shopper could buy all the
supplies she needed to make a gingerbread house on her own—or
purchase one ready-made (to pass off as her own—not that I’d ever
done that. Not me, Nina Colette Phony-Baloney Gingerbread House
Maker Ceceri Quinn). The other half of the space was set up as a
demonstration kitchen. Here, shoppers (adults and kids alike) could
create their own gingerbread house under Glory’s expert
guidance.

Benny was already in the kitchen with a fire
extinguisher when we arrived. Glory stood waving her oven-mitted
hands as the smoke slowly cleared. A tray of charred gingerbread
men sat on one of the stainless steel counters. Poor little guys
were burnt almost beyond recognition.

“I’ve got it under control,” Benny said,
putting the extinguisher down.

I didn’t see any foam, so it didn’t look like
he had needed to use it.

“What happened? I thought you were going to
set the timer from now on?” Jenny asked Glory.

Glory tittered and lifted a shoulder in a
shrug. She was a tall woman, and her Marge Simpson hairdo gave her
even more height. Long wild curls tilted precariously atop her
head, secured with a clip that looked like it could pop off at any
moment and take out a bystander’s eye.

I backed up a step. I liked my eyes.

“I forgot?” she said.

Jenny scowled. “I might forget to pay you
next time this happens, got it? In fact, I might forget you work
here and ask security to escort you out. Get my drift?”

I was pretty sure the place had no security
yet but that was beside the point.

I’d never seen Jenny angry, but she was
furious now. I stepped closer to her in case I did, in fact, have
to hold her back.

Glory crossed her arms over her enormous
chest. “I dare you to find someone better than me.”

Okay, maybe I’d been wrong. The biggest part
of her might be her ego. But she did have a point. At fifty-three,
she was the best gingerbread artist within a five-hundred-mile
radius. What she could do with gingerbread houses was astounding.
And her cookies (maybe with the exception of the scorched little
men on the table) were the best I’d ever tasted.

Jenny lunged. I made a grab for her and
pulled her back. She was tiny, but strong as she struggled against
me.

Glory was up for the fight. She jumped
forward, her oven-mitted hands looking like boxing gloves. “You’re
playin’ with fire, Jenny Christmas.”

Benny stepped in between the two of them.
“Now, now, even though I love a good cat fight, let’s not get
carried away, ladies.”

I thought he might have a death wish.

“Obviously, you like fire,” Jenny snapped
back, ignoring Benny completely. She snatched a crispy gingerbread
man and hurled it. It smacked Glory in the forehead just as she
peeked around Benny’s big form. “You like things so hot they
burn!”

“
Argh
!” Glory’s hands reached around
Benny’s back, clawing air.

“Let me go, Nina!” Jenny cried, arms
flailing.

Jeez. Thank goodness for Duke, my scary
personal trainer, or I might have been flat on my ass by now.
“No!”

“It was an accident,” Benny said loudly.
“They happen.”

Jenny immediately stopped struggling at the
word “accident,” and I imagined she was thinking of his
accident—the one that nearly killed him.

Despite his injuries, Benny was as big and
strong as ever. His clothes strained to fit his muscular body. He
didn’t seem to mind Jenny’s anger—which was probably a good thing
for their marriage.

I let her go.

She straightened her dress. “Fine.”

Glory brushed crumbs from her face as she
peered around Benny. “Fine.” She smoothed back a strand of hair
that had escaped from the straining clip.

“Just so long as it doesn’t happen again,”
Jenny said, reaching out and cupping Benny’s jaw. She squeezed his
cheeks and narrowed her intense eyes. “I’ve got enough to deal with
right now thanks to a drunken Santa and a horny Mrs. Claus. Get a
handle on this, Benny. Hear me?” She spun around and stormed
off.

I held back a smile at the Mrs. Claus
comment—I recognized a reference to Fairlane when I heard one.

“Good riddance,” Glory exclaimed when Jenny
was out of earshot, then dumped the rest of the gingerbread men in
a trash can.

Benny dragged a hand down his face. His looks
hadn’t changed at all since high school. Big, tall, beefy. A
blond-haired, brown-eyed boy next door—but one who knew how
good-looking he was and used it to his every advantage. “Glory,
you’ve got to stop setting those alarms off. I’m reconnecting the
sprinkler system this afternoon.”

She lifted a thinly plucked eyebrow. “Maybe
if I didn’t have so many distractions.”

Distractions? What distractions? “What
distractions?” I asked.

They both looked at me as if wondering why I
was still there.

“Never you mind, Nina. How about a cookie?”
Glory plucked a frosted gingerbread man from a rack nearby.

My mouth watered, and I bit off his head (and
didn’t feel so much as a blip on my guilt-o-meter).
“Delicious.”

Glory smiled like a proud mama.

One thing Jenny said on her way out was
bothering me. “Is Santa really drunk?” Was an inebriated Santa why
Riley had called Kevin? After all, Riley worked closely with Santa
yesterday—had he picked up on it?

Benny gave me a weak smile. “Shades of
Miracle on 34th Street
, don’t you think?”

Glory tittered as if his comment was the
funniest she’d ever heard.

“Why not fire him?” I asked.

“No backup. Besides, Santa is Jenny’s uncle
Dave. Drunk Dave as we call him in the family. If Jenny fired her
aunt Olive’s husband, holidays would be really awkward.”

Glory tipped her head. “I thought his name
was Kris Kringle?”

Oh boy. “I’ve got to go check on my crew and
make sure everything’s set for the opening.”

As I walked out, I heard Glory say, “Really,
isn’t it Kris Kringle?”

I went in search of Riley. I wanted to find
out what he had told Kevin last night. Curiosity was killing
me.

Crossing over the Santa Express train tracks
that circled the bottom floor of Christmastowne, I headed for
Santa’s Cottage. I was halfway there when my cell phone rang. I
checked the readout and wavered on whether to answer.

It was my mother. Again.

It was the sixth call this morning. I’d
ignored all the others—and she hadn’t left any messages. There was
only so far I could push my luck—ignoring a seventh call might
prove hazardous to my health.

I decided to finally find out what she
wanted. “Hi, Mom.”

“Don’t ‘
Hi Mom
,’ me, young lady.
You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I ignored her
calls a lot. “I’m working.”

“Something terrible has happened!”

My chest tightened. “Is Dad okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Maria? Nate?” Maria was my baby sister—the
drama queen of the family. Nate was her husband—they were still
newlyweds.

“Fine. Just fine. Though, now that you
mention it Maria has been acting strangely lately.”

“Mom!”

“What,
chérie
?”

“What’s so terrible?”

“Oh! I awoke to the most horrendous sight
this morning.”

“I’m sure Dad wouldn’t appreciate you saying
so.”

She laughed. I loved her laugh—warm and
genuine.

“Not your father, though some mornings that
would be an apt description. Did I ever tell you how he sleeps with
his mouth open? The drool alone would scare most wom—”

“Mom!”

“Oh. Right. It’s my lawn.”

“What’s wrong with your lawn?”

“There’s a—” she took a deep breath “—a giant
inflatable snow globe out there. Snoopy, I believe. And that little
bird friend of his.”

“Woodstock?”

“That’s him.”

“Cute,” I said, squinting to see if I could
spot Riley amongst the elves in Santa’s Cottage. Honestly, even up
close they tended to look alike.

“Not cute! Not even close.”

“Then why’d you put it out there?” I
shouldn’t have answered the phone. I still had a checklist of items
to cross off before the doors opened at eleven. I really didn’t
even have the time to talk to Riley, but sometimes my nosiness got
the better of me.

“I didn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell
you,” she said with more condescension than I thought necessary.
“Someone put it out there while I was sleeping.”

I held in a laugh. “Who would do that?”

“As if I would know. Hooligans, no doubt.
I’ve unplugged the thing, but I don’t know what to do with it. It.
Has. To. Go.”

Ah. The real reason she called. She needed my
truck.

“I’ll take it.” I’d always had a fondness for
that cute little Woodstock.

“You do not need another lawn decoration.
Perhaps you can donate it.”

“There’s always room for more,” I said.

“Whose child are you?”

“I ask myself that often.”

“Fresh.”

“I’ll be over after the big
tree-lighting.”

“What do I do with it until then? I can’t
leave it out there on the lawn. The neighbors might see.”

“They probably already saw it.”

“Lord have mercy,” she murmured. “How am I
going to explain?”

I laughed. “Have Dad drag it into the garage.
I’ll be there soon.”

I hung up before she could sneak in another
word and walked over to Santa’s Cottage. Here, Jenny’s ingenuity
really came to life. She literally had a cottage built inside
Christmastowne. It was a small one-story cabin, decked out in
Christmas lights, faux snow, and even faux smoke coming out of the
faux chimney. It was absolutely adorable.

Outside the cottage, a small picket fence
cordoned off the area and also provided a queue for eager little
kids waiting their turn to see the big guy. There was a reindeer
pen off to one side, and Jenny was still trying to get real
reindeer to put in it for a petting zoo along with a few other
barnyard animals.

A copse of faux snow-dusted pine trees, holly
bushes, and dozens and dozens of (kill me now) poinsettias added a
nice touch of outdoors. Through a snow-crusted picture window, I
caught a glimpse of Santa’s big velvet chair—which was empty.

During the off-season Jenny planned to turn
the space into Santa’s workshop and have Santa hang around
all-year, so kids would still be eager to come to the village to
get a peek at the toys he was making. It was genius.

I followed the empty queue to the open front
door of the cottage. I peeked in and saw Nancy Davidson,
Christmastowne’s photographer, fussing with her camera equipment,
which was set up next to a fireplace that had stockings hung
(embroidered with “Mr. Claus” and “Mrs. Claus”) by the faux fire
with care. Riley stood next to a toy chest—another of Jenny’s
brilliant ideas. Families who wanted their pictures taken with
Santa could spend a fortune on the photos—or they could drop an
unwrapped present into the chest and have the shot for free. The
toys were then donated to a local children’s charity.

Even though most of the donated presents cost
more than the picture fee, it fostered the spirit of giving and
Riley commented this morning that people had responded
enthusiastically. He had to empty the toy chest hourly to keep up
with the flow.