Cowabunga Christmas (6 page)

“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 worrisome
was the fact that security patrols monitored the grounds of the resort at
night. Surely, runners loading a truck at the dock would have been nabbed
unless the guard on duty was in on it, too.

I felt
like I had dodged a bullet when I made the first call to the detective and got his
voice mail instead of speaking to him. Now, after finding that note, I wanted
to talk to him. Sooner rather than later!

“Why
do you suppose he doesn’t call us back, Brien?”

“It’s
Christmas Eve, Kim. Even cops get time off to spend with family. We have to be
patient. He might not even check his messages until tomorrow, or the day after.
It could be another day before Mitchum picks up the messages we left. Don’t
worry, we can always call 911 and get the cops out here pronto if anyone
hassles us. I’m sure management has them on alert if there’s any sign of trouble
here at the resort.” Brien reached out and took my hand. “Besides, if anyone
tries to get to you, they’ll have to get past me first!”

“I
know that, Brien.” I squeezed his hand. He was so handsome in his silk Aloha
shirt and black slacks—another of the outfits Jessica had helped him pick out. It
was obvious Brien had a say in this one. The Aloha shirt had Santas on
it—surfing Santas. I couldn’t help but smile, despite my uneasy feelings about that
note.

“
Leave
it alone if you want us to leave you alone
.”

Short
and to the point, the message was clear. Scrawled on a plain piece of paper, the
note had been placed in an envelope with the hotel logo on it and slid under
the door. Brien had opened the envelope and pulled the note from it before
realizing it contained a threat. I had gone immediately to the bar area in our
sitting room and taken a clean, unused little plastic bag from the ice bucket.
We stashed the note and envelope in the bag until we could pass it along to
Mitchum.

Sitting
across from Brien in the glow of candlelight, amid the clatter and chatter of
the Christmas Eve crowd, I had this moment of clarity about our good fortune. I
felt certain that encounter earlier in the day with Bad Santa had been intended
to send a similar message to the one in that note. Back off. Get out of the
way. Let it go—or else! We were lucky the warning had not been delivered more
ruthlessly.

“Why
is it bad guys always see more crime as the solution to getting away with the
crime they’ve already committed?” I wondered aloud.

“Once
you cross a line, it’s easy to cross it again, Kim. It’s like a snowball
rolling downhill.”

“What?”
I asked, sipping the champagne that had been poured shortly after we sat down.

“Think
about the first crime as this little snowball you make.” He wadded up his
napkin in a little ball about the size of his fist.

“You
plan to throw it to cause a little mischief, but it’s not like it will kill
anybody or anything, right? So you give it a toss and it starts rolling.” I
watched as he became more animated. He made these circles with his fingers.
Then he stretched his hands farther and farther apart as he continued to speak.

“It
gets bigger and bigger and starts smashing things as it rolls. Soon, if you
have any sense you’re like, ‘Oh no, Man, what have I done?’ You get out, right?
Most of these guys don’t have any sense, Kim and they start acting like
Godzilla or King Kong—a big, ugly monster like that.” He was now snarling, swinging
his arms, and making motions like Godzilla or King Kong attacking the Empire
State Building. I was fascinated. So were kids at several tables seated around
us.

“Then,
boom!” he said, slamming his fists on the table top causing it to rattle,
shaking everything on it and making a resounding noise. Loud enough to be heard
above the steady hum of background sounds, including Christmas music being
piped in—Oh Holy Night. A hush fell, and much of the motion in the room ceased.
My quick, surreptitious scan of those around us picked up astounded faces,
mostly on the children. One of the youngest kids—who knows how old since I’m no
good at guessing baby’s ages, sat close to us. She looked stunned, then her
bottom lip quivered and she opened her mouth to wail. All hell was about to
break loose at the Abbey of the Sanctuary on Christmas Eve.

“Ho,
ho, ho! Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!” I jumped out of my skin—more shocked by
that cry than when Brien had smacked our table moments earlier. Santa had
entered the building! All eyes shifted to him. Santa dropped his bag to the
ground and began pulling presents from it. Stuffed baby reindeer, snowmen,
angels, Disney princesses, and other toys like that began to get oohs and aahs
from the kids in the room. Baby girl wasn’t sure she liked bellowing Santa any better
than table-slamming Brien. She buried her face in her mother’s arms, taking
alternate peeks at Santa and Brien, keeping tabs on both of them. I tried not
to laugh. I felt relieved.

“Saved
by Santa,” I muttered to Brien.

“What?”
he asked, apparently oblivious to the scene about to unfold before Santa had
stepped in to save the day!

“Never
mind. Don’t start pounding the table again, but tell me what you mean by boom.”
I just had to hear the end of Brien’s story.

“The
army surrounds Godzilla and they smoke him. Or when it comes to Corsario Cove’s
pirates, they send in the Coast Guard or a S.W.A.T. team. The end.” Brien
grabbed the last of the breadsticks that he had been working his way through
since we sat down. He flipped open the menu. “Wonder what’s good here.”

I
mulled over Brien’s analogy of the rolling snowball. It had merit, apart from
the sheer entertainment value I derived from his animated delivery of the tale.
The pace of events had begun to gather momentum on day two of our most recent
venture into the vortex of heinousness. Clearly, we were on someone’s radar. I
doubt it had anything to do with our official profile the resort was creating ‘to
anticipate our every need.’ No, this was more like ‘anticipating our every
move.’ A wave of paranoia hit me. I scanned the room to see if anyone was staring
at us. Silly, given moments earlier all eyes had been on Brien.

My
mind went into rampant speculation mode. Brien’s questions must have garnered
more attention than he thought. Or maybe it was enough to have attracted the
interest of Detective Mitchum. If the detective thought we knew something,
someone else might think so too. The one-two punch of the warning from Bad
Santa on wheels and the message in that note had me reconsidering our plan to
solve the mystery of a dead Santa at Corsario Cove.

“What
if we do as they suggest in that note, Brien, and leave it alone? It is our
honeymoon after all. It’s not like we don’t have plenty to do. We haven’t even
begun to take advantage of the amenities this place has to offer. Who knows
when we’ll have time off again to enjoy sun, surf, spas, or explore the resort
and the town... ” I sounded like a pitch artist for the resort.

“Kim,
whatever you want to do is fine with me. After talking to Mick, I can’t wait to
surf in the cove and give you that lesson.” He smiled sweetly as he spoke those
words before looking around the room. “What does a guy have to do to get a
little attention around here?” I almost choked on my fizzy champagne. I put the
glass down.

“What
kind of attention do you want?”

“I’m
hungry. I want to order an appetizer—this baked brie with puff pastry and
cranberries sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes
and very Christmassy. This is a slow food place, Brien. You have to signal a
server when you’re ready to order.”

“Uh,
okay.” He went back to perusing the menu and I picked up the subject of murder
and mayhem once again.

“It’s
not like we haven’t done a lot already. If Mitchum follows up with Willow and
Mick and others at Sanctuary Grove, I’m sure he’ll get a lead or two that will
get him closer to finding out who killed Owen.”

“I
hear you, Kim. I agree.” He leaned in over the table and dropped his voice. “We’ve
already done plenty, Doll. Enough to blow this case wide open, see? The fuzz
can take it from here, see?” I think he was trying to do James Cagney or DeNiro
doing Cagney... I couldn’t tell for sure. His silliness was more disarming than
his promise to use all that burly brawn of his to protect me. Accent aside,
Brien had the right idea. I broke out in a smile. I was ready to give the
Christmas Eve menu my full attention. Mm, porcini and chestnut soup... that
sounded so good. I looked up from the menu.

“I’m
with you, Dude, see? We’ll let the fuzz handle it from here, see?” My Cagney
was as bad as his. The decision made, I held out my glass and clinked Brien’s.

“Here’s
to letting it alone!” Then I switched gears and poured on the sweetness. “Eat
hearty, Surfer Boy. You’re going to need your strength later.” Brien’s face lit
up with a grin more dazzling than a whole string of Christmas lights.

“I’m
ordering two of everything.” He did. I watched in awe as he put away a feast
fit for a king or two. The servers were astonished as they brought him food and
more food. The Abbey did not disappoint, living up to its five star rating.
Every item they set in front of us was exquisite—fresh local ingredients,
perfectly prepared. Imaginative combinations of ingredients, too, a feature
that always appeals to me.

I
didn’t order two of everything, but I did sample Brien’s choices. That baked
brie was amazing. So was my porcini and chestnut soup. I even tried one of the
raw oysters Brien ordered as a second appetizer. Harvested year round at nearby
Morro Bay, it was surprisingly delicious. It was a first for me, since I tend
to graze on the vegetarian side of the foodie fence. I had already cheated with
that Wagyu beef bacon we ordered for breakfast, so what the heck?

Brien’s
paella, a house specialty, was fabulous too. The rice had that wonderful saffron
flavor, but was infused with a smokiness having been prepared over an open
grill. Paella Mixta, it combined meat and chorizo sausage that I skipped, with
fresh seafood that I tried. Awesome! The only thing I couldn’t bring myself to
taste was the venison tenderloin Brien ordered as his second entree. Having
grown up around Disneyland, with early memories of Bambi’s mother’s fate, I drifted
toward vegetarianism. My occasional faithlessness did not let me cross the line
to eat venison.

I
ordered fresh, handmade ravioli in colors of the season. Each color was filled
with a different delight. Little pockets of bliss stuffed with pumpkin, wild
mushrooms, or cheese sat atop a spicy, sage brown butter sauce. A side of winter
vegetables accompanied the dish, roasted in a savory blend of herbs and garlic.
Monk’s bread, too, of course—a mainstay at the Abbey. Supposedly, based on a
secret recipe obtained from the monastery, it was soft, dense bread with a crunchy
crust. Brien was a convert.

As our
desserts arrived, I wondered what on earth would be added to our resort profile
about this meal. Brien was the center of attention all evening as he turned our
slow food event into a marathon. He even received a visit from the chef who
must have come to see the eating machine for himself.

My
Pumpkin Crema Catalana, Spanish custard similar to crème bruleè, was heavenly.
A seasonal variant on another recipe revealed to the resort kitchen from the
cliff-top monks. The servers, that made frequent visits, kept up a running
commentary on the food we ordered. They didn't always have such enthusiastic
gourmands on their hands, or so they intimated.

I
watched Brien as he unselfconsciously downed a pecan tart—the Abbey’s version
of pecan pie, after raving about the gingerbread men he had already devoured. “Almost
as good as Bernadette’s Marrinitos,” was high praise indeed. Jessica’s wonder
woman sidekick, Bernadette, was a phenomenal cook. She had prepared the scrumptious
piggy-shaped Mexican gingerbread cookies for our Day of the Dead celebration in
November. Brien was especially charmed by the Santa hats made of icing that his
gingerbread men wore. The cookies intended to delight the children who visited
the Abbey with their parents, were a big hit with Brien.

In
between the food and drink, and visits from the Abbey staff members, Brien told
me all about the surfing at Corsario Cove. He was animated, although thankfully,
we didn’t have another of those table-shaking incidents. Stoked, as he put
it—excited and enthused, he embodied the Christmas spirit.

After
dinner, I had an epiphany. Brien was still buzzing about how fortunate he was
to surf the cove before its ‘legend-worthy righteousness’ became better known.
We had taken a moonlit stroll down to the beach, using the more direct route
from the hotel to the cove area this time. The full moon bathed us in its
silvery light. Our arms wrapped around each other, we gazed at the surf and the
magic of the place stole over me. I had bought him a Christmas present, more
than one, in fact. In that moment, I knew exactly what he was going to get
tomorrow morning to make this a Christmas to remember!