Cowabunga Christmas (4 page)

“
B
ad
Santa,” I said, again, as Brien pulled me to my feet and helped brush me off.
My cute little white capris were stained with green from the grass and brown
from the dirt. I would have to tell Jessica to add ‘don’t wear white while
snooping,’ to her advice on what not to wear to a crime scene.

“Are
we there yet?” I asked Brien when I was recovered enough to try to make sense
of what had just happened to us, and wondered how long a trek we had
undertaken. If it took much longer to get to Boardertown I worried we might be
making the return trip to our hotel room in the dark. The idea of being stalked
by Bad Santa in the dark did not appeal to me.

We
would also be walking uphill, and it would be chilly, too, once the sun went
down. I know I shouldn’t put whining about mild physical discomforts on par
with being pursued by Homicidal Santa behind the wheel of a golf cart. That’s
how my mind works, what can I say? I noted that Bad Santa had morphed into
Homicidal Santa as adrenalin pulsed through my veins. I recognized it as another
aspect of my oddly out-of-whack, paranoia-prone mind.

“I
don’t think it’s much farther. We’re almost at the woods now. There’s supposed
to be a trail off to the right up ahead that leads through the woods to
Boardertown. Maybe you should finish telling me what else you found out today.
We need all the facts we can get, Kim. As long as you’re okay—you’re not hurt
are you?”

That
handsome face of his registered worried confusion or confused worry. A whole
lot of concern for me, anyway. I stood on my tiptoes and planted a big kiss on
his luscious lips. That put a smile back on his face. Hand-in-hand we walked on
as I continued.

“I
should tell you a couple more things. There’s been a rash of burglaries the
past couple months—odd things stolen like diving gear, a spear gun, and a
marine tracking device, but personal items, too. The article didn’t say what,
but I’ll bet they were small items that can be pawned easily. Most were lifted
from boats at the dock, but a dinghy from a local sport shop was stolen, too.”

“A
dinghy? Hmm, any stories about drug busts or anything else that’s drug-related
in the news? Maybe the cove is still a haven for pirates, Kim, and our dead
Santa got mixed up running drugs. The marine tracking device could be used to
locate a load of drugs dropped from a plane or thrown off a boat out in the
cove.”

“That’s
an interesting idea, Brien. The thought had crossed my mind that Santa’s
troubles could be drug-related.” I had plenty of reason to think that way. In
California, as in many states, marijuana is a major cash crop. The plants don’t
need a lot of water, so even the recent drought isn’t much of a deterrent. Most
efforts to thwart illegal marijuana growing had centered on counties farther
north than here in the central coast.

“There
have been several minor busts over the past few months involving marijuana; pills,
too, and a little crystal meth. San Albinus seems to be dealing with the usual drug
problems facing small towns all over the country. Nothing big.”

“You
got a lot done in an hour, Babe. When it comes to computers, you do have
skills.” He put his arm around me and pulled me closer. He’s right. I do have
skills.

“There
is one other thing I should mention. I sort of found it on the hotel intranet.”
That’s because I had
sort of
hacked into the internal communication
network used by hotel employees. I wanted to see what was being said, behind
the scenes, about a dead Santa. I tried to explain the reason for my hacking to
Brien who had that worried, confused look back on his face. Hacking bothers
him—even if it’s being done in the cause of justice.

“I
didn’t find much—basic information about the incident, plus a few talking
points for hotel staff. Specific language about how to respond to questions
from guests, you know? Typical corporate-speak ‘no need for alarm,’
‘everything’s under control,’ ‘specifics are still being worked out’—avoidant
language, euphemisms, but nothing sinister. They do have a lot of Santas! More
than two dozen regulars plus a big pool of potential stand-ins. There’s Santa
etiquette too; a list of dos and don’ts when it comes to dressing, grooming,
and interacting with clients. Not that Bad Santa on the golf cart practiced
proper etiquette today. But, I digress. The thing I found most interesting has
nothing to do with Santas. There’s money missing. Not real money, but hotel
scrip. Those fake gold doubloons they gave us at check-in. A bunch of those
have gone missing.”

“How
big a bunch?”

“They
didn’t say, but maybe enough to get management to hang someone from the
yardarm, hardy-har-har,” I said, in my best pirate voice.

“That’s
a good pirate laugh you’ve got there, Kim. Those doubloons would come in handy
at the resort for food and stuff. You’d have to use them a little at a time to
avoid getting noticed. It’s not like a big score.”

“True,
but I thought it was worth mentioning. It could be more evidence that not
everyone working on the inside around here is on the up and up.”

“That’s
true. I wonder if Mitchum has heard about it. Did they report it to the
police?”

“If
they did, it didn’t make it onto the public record. I can’t believe the media
would have ignored it. Fake doubloons gone missing has to be almost as good a
story as a dead fake Santa.” Brien stopped abruptly and pulled me along with
him, onto a dirt trail leading into the woods. For a split second I worried Bad
Santa was after us again and we were headed for cover. I listened. No whirring
sounds. Then Brien pointed. A few yards ahead, and off to the side, there was a
makeshift wooden sign that said “Surf’s up.” An arrow drawn on the sign pointed
in the direction we were already headed.

“Boardertown
or bust,” Brien said, picking up the pace. Brien’s ‘eagle-eyes’ must have
spotted that sign while we were still back on the paved cart path. The trail
wound through the woods, around and down a steeper slope that I could tell was
taking us closer to the beach. There were no more signs, but occasionally we
saw marks on boulders or tree trunks. They looked like hieroglyphics to me.

“Hobo
signs,” Brien said. “Drifters and the homeless still use them. Surfers have
added their own, see?” There in front of me was an awkwardly drawn version of
the ‘shaka sign’—a closed hand with the pinkie and thumb extended. Near that I
saw another image that resembled a surfboard with an arrow pointing in the
direction we were walking. The sound of waves grew louder as we continued. I
could hear the faint sound of music, too, with a pulsing surf beat, of course.

Suddenly
we came into a clearing of sorts, still inside a wooded area and on a slight
rise above the beach a short distance away. On one side, the clearing backed up
to the black rock that comprised the cliffs. Off to my left, I could see a path
running along the edge of that wall of rock. It gained elevation quickly, and
must lead up to the cliff-tops. The sea air competed with a mossy, earthy
smell, and someone nearby must have been smoking a joint, since I got a whiff
of that, too.

A
group of makeshift habitats sat before us—shacks and tents, as well as hammocks
and tarps strung between trees. It wasn’t quite like walking into a tribal village—too
chaotic for that. There was a sense of a center almost directly in front of us,
where a big fire pit sat. It resembled those found at campgrounds or on SoCal
beaches. This one had been rigged up to work as a grill, apparently. A wire
grate, tipped up on its side, leaned against the rocks outlining the pit.
Planks of wood, set on cinder blocks, served as seating around the pit. I could
see a row of surfboards lined up at the edge of the woods—standing upright,
stuck in the sand. The beach and sea beckoned beyond. Colorful items hung from
the trees, Hawaiian leis, garlands of various kinds, even a pirate flag! I felt
like we had stumbled into Never-Never Land. Peter Pan was preferable to
Deliverance as the script for this little adventure we were on.

A tanned,
well-muscled man was making a fire. He looked up and Brien gestured using the
shaka sign, the Hawaiian ‘hang loose’ greeting.

“Aloha,
Bro, ‘tsup?” The sandy-haired man stood up. His Pendleton plaid shirt fell
open, revealing a nice set of abs. Not as good as Brien’s. The shirt was worn
over the long surfer shorts Brien calls ‘boardies.’ It occurred to me that we
were both overdressed, not to mention disheveled from that tumble we had taken
dodging Bad Santa. I wasn’t the only one wearing dirt smears and grass stains.
Brien either didn’t notice or didn’t care that his clothes were stained.

He
moved forward, lowering his voice, perhaps not wanting to yell and disturb village
dwellers that had appeared out of nowhere. I noticed movement in other places
around us and realized, here and there, hammocks held occupants and so did the
tents. As the fire-tender spoke to Brien, his eyes were on me. He gave me the
once over more than once. His eyes came to rest on that tattoo on my arm.

“Hey,
Man, I’m Brien and this is Kim.”

“Mick,”
fire-tender replied. He finally took his eyes off me without any acknowledgment
at all.

“We’re
staying at the resort, and I’m hoping to catch a few waves in the next few
days. Who can give me the dope about surfing around here?” Brien’s face lit up
with anticipation. I wondered if he had already lost track of the other reason
for our visit.

“I can,
but hang on, Dude. We heard they got a dead Santa up there at the Sanctuary.”
Okay, so no problem getting back on track. Perfect!

“Don’t
we know it, Bro? Owen Taylor almost dropped in on us while we were taking a
moonlight swim.”

“No
way, you almost got axed by Santa?” He shook his head as he went back to
setting out the wood to build a fire. “Owen Taylor, huh? I know that name,” he
said, raising his eyes to meet Brien’s. I heard murmurs from the Greek chorus
that surrounded us. I could have sworn they were chanting something that
sounded like ‘Opie.’

“We
didn’t call him Owen. Opie, that’s what we called him. That freckle-faced kid
was big on fishing but a real Barney on the boards. We let it slide, since he
kept us supplied with fresh fish. Then a couple weeks ago he went all Sheriff
Taylor on us.” Mick stopped talking and blinked at Brien for a moment.

“Opie,
Barney, and Sheriff Taylor,” I said, before I could stop myself. “It sounds
like he brought the whole town of Mayberry with him.”

“Uh,
no Aunt Bea,” he retorted, and then laughed at his own joke. Snort, snort, big
snort, the chorus closing in around us chuckled too. “Good one, huh, Bunny?”
Mick asked, giving me a wink. Bunny, as in beach bunny, sounded snide as it
rolled off his lips. Mick was starting to grate.

“What
happened that brought out the Sheriff Taylor in him?” I asked, fighting my urge
to add ‘jerk’ to the end of that question.

“I’m
not sure—he just went dark. Got all eggy, hard to take, you know? When he tried
to tell people what to do we told him to live and let live, or leave. He left.”
Mick shrugged. “Man, I do miss all that good fish, um, um, um.” Shades of
Mayberry! Mick was um-um-umming like Andy Griffith.

“How
did he do his fishing? In a dinghy or something?” Brien asked.

“Nah,
mostly spearfishing while he was out snorkeling. He had a favorite spot—away from
the crowds at the beach. They spook the fish.”

“Too
bad he didn’t let you in on his secret fishing spot before he left.” I tried to
keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Yeah,
it is too bad. Hey, Willow, where are you?” At Mick’s bellow a wafer thin young
woman with her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail stepped from the
shadows near us. She wore a t-shirt and jeans with a brightly-colored shawl wrapped
around her thin frame.

“Willow,
show the girl-with-the-dragon-tattoo around. I’m going to enlighten Brien,
here, about our little surfing paradise, okay?” I felt like growling,
it’s
not a dragon, jerk!
Mick essentially dismissed us without waiting for a
response to that question. Brien could tell steam was about to blow out of my
ears. He took a step toward me.

“I’ve
got this jerk,” he whispered as he pulled me into his arms.
Fine minds
,
I thought at his use of the word jerk. His touch calmed me right down. “Thanks,
Willow, for showing Kim around. I’m sure she’s going to find it really
interesting and informative.” He looked directly into my eyes as he said that. I
got the message. The jerk had done us another favor. I realized what a great opportunity
this was to snoop around Boardertown, once I refocused on the main purpose for
our visit. Brien leaned in, kissed me on the lips, and beamed that smile of
his. Then he headed over to the fire circle where Mick had gone back to
fire-building.

“So,
I’m sure you brought your wettie, right bro? It is frigid out there...” Willow
spoke so I missed the end of that sentence. I bristled at the question. Of course
Brien had brought his wet suit. Did Mick consider him an idiot? Grr! Willow
must have noticed.

“Don’t
mind Mick,” Willow said. “He likes to think he’s the big Kahuna around here,
but he’s not.” As she said that, she pointed to one of the larger shacks.
Unlike a lot of the other makeshift structures around us, this one had walls
that were actually straight and was made of wood held together with real nails.
It had a tin roof and windows fitted with glass. Above the door that hung a
little crooked, there was a sign with the word Kahuna written on it.
Shades
of Beach Blanket Bingo—or one of those old movies
, I thought.
As if
Moondoggie and I have room to talk.