The Santa Claws Bandit (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  Matthew’s eyes widened considerably.

  “Not helping,” Beatrice hissed at the sheriff. “Yeah, I was just trying to detain him…” she began but stopped when she saw the pained look on Matthew’s face. “Look Matt, everything’s okay. Mr. Claus got away but we’re all in one piece. Here, I got you a toffee nut latte with caramel sauce. I know you like them.”

  Matthew took his bribe reluctantly and slurped at it, the whipped cream sticking in his whiskers. Beatrice took a tissue and delicately wiped it off. Though they’d drifted apart when Matthew had married his second wife and had kids, after his wife had passed on they’d found themselves spending a lot of time together. When two people have such a long shared history, it seemed natural to be friends, good friends.

  “How was your day, Matt? I missed having our usual brunch this morning.”

  “Got called in for an extra shift. Just a half day, though. Did you at least get your shopping done?’

  “That son of a reindeer stole the last Skate and Sing Elsa! If I don’t get Jacqueline that toy, I’m going to be in deep do-do. But it’s sold out everywhere!”

  Matthew smiled. “Well, I’m getting her a pair of skates. Thank heavens they don’t sell out.”

  “I’m going to get that doll if it’s the last thing I do…” Beatrice muttered.

  “Time to start the practice!” Reggie yelled from the front.

  The cats were already at on the stage. Petunia ran up to Reggie and looked at him expectedly, as if waiting for him to assign her a part. He peered down at her through Coke-bottle glasses. “Now Petunia, you know this play is for humans only.”

  The fluffy Himalayan flattened her tan ears against her head and hunched down, the very picture of misery.

  “Surely Scrooge would have cats?” Beatrice said. “Can’t they just play the part of his pets? You know, mill around, look cat-like?”

  Reggie peered at the script clenched in his hands. “I don’t know, it doesn’t say anything about animals in here…”

  “Well, we all know this isn’t Dickens. It’s an adaptation. And in this adaptation we can have cats, if we want. Right Scrooge?” she asked the sheriff.

  The sheriff, who wasn’t that fond of cats in the first place, looked like he was about to disagree so Matthew said: “Everyone in Ashbrook knows these cats. Just think, they could be a great marketing tool. Put in the ad that the cats will be in the show and we’ll sell twice the tickets we normally could.”

  The idea of increased sales appealed to Reggie deeply. This was his first foray into the world of directing and he was determined to prove himself. A full house at the local school gym was exactly what he wanted.

  “Alright. Beatrice, you’re in charge of getting them costumes and providing stage direction.”

  “Costumes?” the sheriff sputtered. “It’s bad enough I need to be a mean old man who sees ghosts. Now I’m a mean old ghost-seeing man surrounded by cats in tutus?”

  “Silly, they won’t be in tutus. This isn’t a ballet,” Beatrice said, laying a soothing hand on his arm.

  “Places everyone!” Reggie called out. “Let’s start from the beginning.” He looked around at all the scripts his actors were holding. “No one has memorized their lines yet? No? Well, okay, let’s try this anyway. Fred and Scrooge, positions.”

  Beatrice, Matthew, and the rest of the cast who weren’t in that particular scene sat on folding chairs in front of the stage.

  Scrooge’s nephew Fred was played by Ryan Jackson, a guy in his early 30s who managed the Ashbrook Old Fashioned Grocery Store. He frequently helped Beatrice with her cases. Though Ryan was an easy-going guy at work, acting reduced him to a shell of a man.

  He stood on stage clutching his script with sweaty hands, his tall, thin frame hunched over it as if the piece of paper might possibly hide him from everyone else. Hamish sat next to him in moral support.

  “A merry Christmas, uncle. God save you,” he said in a whisper.

  “A little louder, if you please,” said Reggie.

  “Bah! Humbug!” yelled the sheriff, in a voice like he was about to kill the grocery manager.

  “Not you,” Reggie said. “Ryan.”

  “Christmas—a humbug, uncle! You don’t mean that, I am sure?” said Ryan, talking to his shoes, in a voice slightly elevated above a whisper.

  “Can’t hear you!” roared Matthew from his chair. Ryan peered out from behind the paper, his watery blue eyes radiating desperation.

  “Stop antagonizing him!” Beatrice hissed, nudging her friend. “Can’t you see he’s nervous enough?”

  “Bee, this play is going to be a disaster no matter what.” Matthew looked down at her with his clear blue eyes. “None of us are professional actors. In fact, we’re not even passable amateur actors. People are going to be paying to throw popcorn at us.”

  Beatrice crossed her arms. “Now that’s not the Christmas spirit, Matt. I’ve never known you to be so cynical. Plus, I am really good at this acting stuff. I have a natural dramatic flair.”

  A smile spread over Matthew’s lips. “Alright then, you’ll be the star of the show.”

  “Scrooge is the star of the show. But I’m going to be the best darn Ghosts of Christmas Past you ever saw!”

  Ryan and the sheriff struggled through the rest of the scene, the sheriff shouting and Ryan mumbling his lines. The cats wound around them, distracting the sheriff, who kept trying to give them the evil eye to stay away. But the three felines were far too excited by the proceedings to care about the grumpy sheriff. They were on stage! With people! They’d never be able to beat the level of attention this opportunity afforded.

  Finally, it was time for Beatrice’s grand entrance as the first spirit. She stumbled onto the stage like a zombie, arms outstretched, making eerie ghost noises.

  “I am the Ghost of Christmas Paaaaaassstt!” she intoned.

  Reggie studied the script frantically. “Bee, you have to wait for Scrooge’s line.”

  “I don’t need to say anything,” the sheriff said. “She can take the lead.”

  “But that’s not the way it is in the script!”

  The sheriff shrugged. “The less I say the better, frankly. I’m in too many scenes as it is.”

  “You’re the star! You have to be in all the scenes!” Beatrice said, lowering her arms.

  “Heaven help us all,” the sheriff muttered.

  “Let’s go again!” Reggie called out.

  They struggled onward until they got to the part where the spirit takes Scrooge to revisit his childhood school, where he was a lonely child.

  “Can you try to cry?” Reggie asked.

  The sheriff looked at him like he’d just asked him to take a leak in the middle of the stage. “I don’t cry,” he said firmly.

  “I can mist your face with water,” Beatrice said helpfully.

  “Sure.”

  “Oh no,” Reggie said, script clutched tight in his hands. “We need a boy. Scrooge’s childhood self. I forgot to recruit children!”

  “Hamish can be the boy,” Beatrice said. “He’s almost big enough. Hammy, go sit there where the desk is going to be. Yes, there.” The muscular Maine Coon sat diligently on the spot marked with an X in tape, his fluffy tan tail standing up behind him like a big feather. “Perfect. Look! Doesn’t he look like a little Scrooge?”

  “The deputy is never going to let me forget this,” the sheriff muttered, pulling at his salt-and-pepper moustache in distress.

  “Alright, alright, let’s finish this,” said Reggie, sounding increasingly desperate. “Hannah, you’re up.”

  Hannah Moore, the local legal assistant, came striding onto the stage, still in tall black pumps and dress pants, her blonde hair immaculately coiffed. She stopped dead when she saw Hamish. “Okay, we all know that this is a speaking part, right?”

  “I’ll speak for Hamish,” Beatrice said, raising her hand.

  “Okay, okay. Fine. This is a temporary fix. Go ahead,” Reggie said.
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br />   “I have come to bring you home, dear brother!” said Hannah, staring down at a very serious Hamish.

  “Home, little Fan,” Beatrice said in a high-pitched voice.

  A burst of laughter came from the floor. Matthew, red in the face, tried to stifle his laughter by biting his hand. It wasn’t working.

  “This isn’t a comedy,” Reggie said stiffly.

  “I don’t know about that,” Matthew said, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Why can’t Matt be Scrooge?” the sheriff demanded. “Since he can actually cry. I haven’t cried since I was five years old when I stepped on a rusty nail in our old barn.”

  “You’re the Scrooge everyone will be coming to see,” Beatrice said soothingly. “Anyway, we’re doing this for charity. No one’s going to care if you can cry at the drop of a hat. Hamish! Stop that. Not dignified little boy behavior.”

  Hamish was sniffing Petunia’s behind. The sweet-looking Himalayan stared vaguely off into the distance, as if this was a common occurrence. Matthew swallowed another laugh and started choking instead. Reggie stood there, shoulders slumped, a look of utter despair on his face.

  The actors went through the motions of finishing the scene before Reggie called it a night. Everyone took off quickly but the sheriff, Beatrice, and Matthew lingered behind, standing together in the school parking lot in the dark under a sky full of glittering stars. Their breath came out in misty puffs in the low light.

  “That was the most fun I’ve had in years,” Matthew said.

  “Easy for you to say, your character appears in a quarter of the scenes I’m in,” the sheriff said. Matthew was Marley’s ghost, Scrooge’s former business partner.

  “Matthew has to make all of those weird ghost sounds. That’s way more embarrassing,” Beatrice said.

  “Thanks for that, Bee. Anyway, what’s with the Santa Bandit?” Matthew asked

  Beatrice and the sheriff exchanged looks. “Good question,” the sheriff said. “The good news is that he didn’t hurt anyone. He just fired his gun into the ceiling at Clyde’s—wanted to scare everyone and get them out of his way. Bad news is that park staff didn’t catch him after he took off. It’s like he disappeared into thin air. They had all the roads covered too.”

  “He probably took his sleigh,” Beatrice said.

  “Sure, and my name’s Ebenezer Scrooge.” The sheriff sighed. “Looks like I’m going to be interviewing some surly mall Santas tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” Beatrice said, mitten-covered hands clasped together.

  The sheriff took off and Matthew turned to his friend. “Bee, are you okay? You worry me sometimes.”

  “I’m fine. It was just some bad luck that I was exactly where Santa decided to get his stash.”

  Matthew crossed his arms. “And it was bad luck that you took off after him in a car chase?”

  “Did I mention that he had Skate and Sing Elsa?”

  “Jacquie can do without Skate and Sing Elsa,” Matthew said quietly. “But I can’t do without you.”

  He stepped forward and wrapped Beatrice in a big bear hug. Surprised, she stiffened for a moment. Matthew wasn’t normally a super huggy guy. He hadn’t even been that demonstrative when they were married. Displays of affection weren’t his style. But she guessed that old age was cracking through his reserve.

  She took advantage of the opportunity and put her arms around his waist best she could, given that he was wearing a puffy coat. It was like hugging a spongy tree—he was so tall and broad. He kissed her temple—another surprise—and opened the car door for her where the cats were waiting, already tucked into their carriers.

  “Call me when you get home, okay?”

  She shoved him lightly. “Okay, worrywart. I will.”

  4

  Zoe Murphy was wearing a Santa hat with her chef whites when Beatrice entered the Cozy Cat Café’s kitchen the following Tuesday. The cats sat reluctantly behind the gate that separated the café from the kitchen. They still wouldn’t accept that Beatrice would dare separate them from a food source.

  “Hey chief!” the pastry chef said as she took a tray of gingerbread out of the oven. She was a slight woman with dark hair in her early twenties who Beatrice had taken under her wing. The kitchen was heavily perfumed with the scent of cloves, allspice, and ginger.

  “I knew you were a tough cookie, but I didn’t know you’d have the guts to take on Santa.”

  Since Beatrice hadn’t told Zoe anything about the Santa Bandit, her reluctant gaze went to the newspaper on the table. Brent, the local reporter, had written about her hijinks before. Lo and behold, there was a fuzzy cellphone shot of Santa with his two full sacks of toys getting into his car. She wasn’t in the headline or even the deck but in the story were the words: “Local sleuth lady Beatrice Young and her crime-solving cats bravely took off after the Santa Bandit to try to reclaim the toys. Sources report she was unsuccessful in her attempt.”

  Beatrice slapped the paper down. “Okay, he can really stop calling me a ‘sleuth lady.’ At this rate I’m going to get quite the reputation.”

  Zoe snorted as she positioned a pastry bag full of icing over a tray of cooled cookies. “You already have a reputation. But don’t worry, it’s a pretty good one.”

  “I don’t have time to worry about my reputation anyway.” Beatrice started checking the fridges and cupboards for supplies. “It’s only eight days until Christmas and I’m planning on making a killing in takeaway cookies, plum puddings, and trifles.”

  She pulled up the current number of requests on her smartphone. “Our orders are up ten percent this year. Just tell me what I need to do to help you, hun.”

  Zoe sighed dramatically and wiped her hands on her pants. “Well, we’re going to have to pull some long nights to get it all done and I only have two hands. I’m not a trifle-making factory.”

  “Sure. Let’s have a baking party tonight. I’ll get a bottle of wine,” Beatrice said. “We’ll make custard and caramel sauce until our fingers fall off our hands.”

  “How was play practice the other day, by the way?” Zoe asked as she dabbed icing on the cookies.

  “Don’t ask. You should come to the performance, if just for the comedic factor.”

  “I didn’t think A Christmas Carol was a funny play.”

  “This version is.”

  Beatrice went out into the main café space—a lofty space with big windows and cozy arrangements of easy chairs, lamps, and stacks of books. There was the gentle hum of conversation coming from the full tables. The weak winter light spilled onto the rough floorboards and everywhere wool jackets, mitts, and hats hung on the back of chairs and up on hooks. Wet footprints criss-crossed the floor.

  What made Beatrice the happiest, through, were the holiday decorations. Every year she had a different theme and this year it was ‘A Very Meowy Christmas.’ Zoe thought it was corny but then again she was practically a teenager, so what did she know?

  There were stuffed cats wearing Santa hats, dangling glass ornaments with cats painted on them, a huge fresh evergreen decorated with paper paw prints, and more. Hamish was sitting on a ledge staring down a big stuffed Maine Coon that looked a lot like him.

  “I’ll get you a hat too, Hammy,” Beatrice said.

  She took some quick snaps of the scene to upload to the café’s Facebook page and casually looked around, trying to see what people were ordering. Looked like the pomegranate chocolate bark, red velvet brownies, and white chocolate peppermint fudge were popular. A lot of people had ordered candy cane lattes and the panettone bread pudding with amaretto sauce, which was nothing if not sinful. Those were pricey items so that made her happy.

  Best of all was the sense of giddy joy in the air. People looked happier than usual. It was the anticipation of a day or so off, the chance to tuck into a big holiday feast, spend time with family, and put their feet up. Christmas truly was Beatrice’s favorite time of year.

  Even the cats looked br
ight-eyed and bushy-tailed. Lucky was chasing a stray piece of ribbon across the floor and Petunia was trying to fit herself into a Santa hat that had fallen down. Hamish watched her, amused.

  Zoe came out with a tray of gingerbread and transferred them to the display case with tongs.

  “Speaking of planning, you got everything lined up for your Christmas brunch?” she asked.

  Since Beatrice didn’t have family of her own, not anymore, every year she hosted a Christmas brunch at her house. Usually Matthew and his family came, plus Zoe, and anyone else who wanted to join in. Beatrice served food, they opened presents together, relaxed with a drink or three, and then some of them headed over to volunteer at the church’s Christmas dinner for needy families. Beatrice knew that she was lucky to have plenty, so she always made sure part of her Christmas was spent helping others who didn’t have as much.

  The charity dinner was expensive to put on, which was exactly why Reggie had come up with the idea of a Christmas play to help fundraise. It’d seemed like a brilliant idea—at the time.

  “Yeah, I have the house decorated, tree up, menu planned. I’ve got the whole routine down,” Beatrice said, snapping a couple more photos. “I’m more worried about the café. I know I was the dumb-dumb who actively wanted to advertise our takeaway Christmas desserts. I had no idea so many people would put in orders.”

  “Beatrice, you have over a thousand Instagram followers who are rabidly waiting for your next photo. Your desserts are legendary in Ashbrook. Why would anyone bake some crappy, burnt sugar cookies when they can could order your plum pudding with caramel sauce and go straight to heaven?”

  Beatrice laughed. It felt good to laugh—it relieved the stress. “What would I do without you Zoe?” She went behind the counter and threw her arms around the skinny little cook.

  “Since when did you get so huggy?” Zoe asked, squirming.

  Beatrice grinned. “Since I realized how good it feels to receive them. Alright, alright, I’ll stop bothering you.”

  She went into her office and sat at her white desk in front of the tall windows. It was a relaxing place with pretty gauze curtains, neat white shelving lined with recipe books, and cushy pastel-green rugs. Hamish settled into the window seat cushion with Petunia. They curled up together and he began to methodically clean her head. This was Petunia’s favorite activity. Her ears went flat, her blue eyes closed, and her whiskers quivered with delight.