The Kid Who Stole Christmas Read online

She took his hand. “Come on, Lionman. Let’s hit the cafeteria. I need a cup of coffee.”

  Leo holstered his weapon and nodded. “I know what you mean,” he agreed sagely. “Some chocolate milk would go down pretty good right now. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re all long days before Christmas.”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  Although Shannon loved the season, it did increase her work load. In addition to doing the decorations, and making sure they had enough stock on all the right toys, she was also in charge of hiring and watching over the department store Santas.

  There was one main jolly old elf who had worked for the Lyon family for years, so that was never a bother—or hadn’t been until recently. He was getting on in years and needed a lot more breaks, a tall order since it was a Lyon’s tradition to have a Santa on duty from open to close the entire month of December. There was a time when Shannon had had to turn away Santa applicants. But they had thinned out over the past few years, and this year she had been having trouble finding anyone at all.

  Or at least anyone she felt was worthy of representing such a venerable old department store as Lyon’s.

  For over fifty years, there had been a Lyon’s in downtown Denver. Opened in the late forties by Johann “Pop” Lyon, a German craftsman, Lyon’s began as a toy emporium. All the toys were made by Pop’s own hand, the mainstay being his whimsical stuffed animals. His bestseller was a scraggly king of the jungle he dubbed Leopold, or Leo the Lion, a name he liked so much, he gave it to his firstborn son, who later passed it on to his own son.

  Over the years, Lyon’s gradually expanded, first adding a line of fine chocolates, then children’s fancy-dress clothing and eventually other related sundries, until it became a full-fledged department store. There had been many changes and problems, but Lyon’s held its own by maintaining a dedication to value and service. Today, it was a fixture in the downtown area, taking up one whole corner of a city block in a building four stories high. There was still a fine toy department, and even a lion or two, although they were now made by others.

  In this, the age of the megamall and computer shopping, Lyon’s had of course been forced to evolve. Pop no longer did much hands-on management, preferring to delegate authority to the heads of each individual department. Eventually, if he were so inclined, Leo might take the helm. Until then, the store would operate like the family unit it nearly was. Pop made the major decisions, those with seniority made the lesser ones as a group and everyone else simply did their own jobs.

  Shannon was proud to be a part of it all, and proud of her department. To make her Santa Claus team, a man had to be kind, jovial, warmhearted and genuinely fond of children. Unfortunately, he had to be all that for a bargain-basement wage, since her budget was minimal after paying the main Santa’s salary.

  Each year, the pickings had gotten slimmer. Santa school graduates asked for too much money, as did employment agency clients. While city labor pools were fine for part-time help in the shipping department, the average day laborer didn’t quite have what it took to hold a steady stream of fidgety children in his lap one after the other, seven days a week.

  For the last couple of years, Shannon had been forced to rely on the friends, relatives and acquaintances of employees, and on occasion the employees themselves, scouting their ranks for any able-bodied male who happened to have some free time, a kind heart and the need of a little extra cash.

  But this year, just this past week, in fact, even a couple of those last resorts had canceled out. So Shannon was now quite desperate. And everyone knew it. When she came into the cafeteria with Leo in tow, any man with even the hint of a twinkle in his eye finished his cornflakes and was off like a startled reindeer. The more portly among them were already long gone, having formed an early-warning network.

  Which was why she nearly fell on her knees and kissed Madge Hensen’s suede boots when the accountant came up to her and said she’d found a candidate. Or as she put it, a lamb to the slaughter.

  “He’s a bit eccentric, though,” Madge added.

  Shannon’s eyes narrowed. “How eccentric?”

  “Oh, you know,” the other woman said vaguely. “The usual. He’s an artist or a musician or something bohemian like that.”

  “Just how well do you know this person?”

  “He’s my sister’s cousin’s nephew. I think.”

  “Oh, jeez.” Shannon groaned. “In other words, it could be Jack the Ripper, for all you know.”

  Madge started to walk away. “Fine. I did try...”

  “Wait!” Shannon motioned the woman back. “Okay. I’ll give the guy an interview at least. What’s his name?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. Roy or Roger, something like that. He’s taking me to lunch. I’ll send him down to see you after.”

  Leo, who thought this entire conversation was much more fascinating than his nearly empty bowl of sugar-frosted cereal, decided it was time he joined in.

  “Is he bringing Trigger?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Roy Rogers,” Leo returned.

  Madge smiled at him. “Isn’t that a little before your time, sweetie?”

  “I’m into the classics,” the boy informed her sagely.

  Madge walked away, shaking her head. Shannon was doing her best to keep a straight face. “Good one, Leo,” she said.

  He grinned. “Thanks.” After a long pull on his box of chocolate milk, he asked, “Can I help you interview Santas?”

  Each year, Shannon had feared Leo would figure the whole thing out. Undoubtedly, it wouldn’t be much longer. But so far, his innocence was intact. He had come to grips with the duplicate department store versions of Santa a few seasons ago by considering them to be emissaries of a sort, servants to the big man himself. To his mind, they were men who received the calling, like priests. This helped explain why some of them were better than others and why still others didn’t make the grade at all. Many were chosen, few could answer.

  But all of them had an inside track to the big guy himself, and were to be treated with deference until proven incompetent, at which time they were fair game.

  “Actually, Leo, I don’t think there’ll be much of an interview. It’s only six more days to Christmas, so he’ll probably do just fine.”

  “Unless he’s a raving maniac,” Leo interjected.

  “Right. Or really does ride in on a horse. Too messy.”

  Leo giggled. “Gross!”

  When Leo was in the store, it wasn’t unusual for him to follow Shannon around as she went about the daily business of running her department. And if he wasn’t with her, he could usually be found “helping” someone else. All the employees were accustomed to having him around. He rarely got underfoot. In some cases, he actually was of help. Though the boy didn’t press the issue, most of them got the feeling he considered himself an executive-in-training. Pop said he had retail in his blood.

  Whatever his function, he was most certainly the center of attention wherever he went. And Leo thrived on it. It was small compensation for the loss of both his mother and father, but it must have helped, because he did seem to be a fairly normal boy in most respects. A bit advanced for his age, perhaps, especially his speech, but that was the result of his spending so much of his free time around adults.

  In fact, the only aspect of his personality that caused anyone much concern was his habit of concocting wild, highly detailed fantasies. His alter ego, Lionman, was only one of several multilayered melodramas he’d developed to give vent to his imagination. But even these were harmless. Usually.

  * * *

  “HE’S AT IT AGAIN,” Paul Sanchez said.

  Shannon looked up from the inventory printout she was studying. Paul was one of the store security guards. She liked the burly, dedicated older man.

  “Leo, you mean?” she asked.

  “Who else?”

  After breakfast, she and Leo had ret
urned to the toy department, where Shannon went about her business while Leo compared Christmas lists with some of the children there to see Santa Claus. His extensive knowledge of Lyon’s stock on hand was of great interest to them, if a source of consternation to their parents. Shannon had assumed he was still at it.

  She looked around the busy department, not seeing the boy. “Where is he?”

  “Sneaking around on the second floor somewhere,” Paul returned with a vague gesture of one big hand. “But it’s not what he’s doing. It’s what he’s saying.” He shook his head. “Kid’ll drive me loony, I swear.”

  “He’s Lionman today, I believe,” Shannon said. She saw no problem with Leo’s inventiveness. Her own childhood had been full of vivid fantasy games. “That one can get a bit strange.”

  “It’s not that, either.” Paul waved her comment aside impatiently, then leaned on the counter between them, speaking quietly. “It’s the spies. They’re back.”

  Shannon arched her eyebrows. “Oh.”

  “He says they’re watching him. I wish you’d talk to him.”

  “I see.” She leaned on the counter now, as well, and used the same conspiratorial tone. “I already talked to Leo, Paul. He explained the whole thing. They’re after the plans.”

  “Plans?” Paul was confused. “What plans?”

  “To the secret underground bunkers.” Shannon looked around, making sure there was no one near. “That’s where we’re keeping the Arnie the Arachnid shipment.”

  “Arnie the Arachnid!” the guard exclaimed.

  “Shh!” Shannon looked around again, this time in genuine alarm. “What are you trying to do? Start a riot? I was just pulling your leg, for heaven’s sake!”

  Arnie the Arachnid was the newest, hottest toy on the market—or more correctly, on television. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, none had been shipped yet. But the black, six-inch-long squiggly plastic spiders had most certainly been advertised, relentlessly, since the first of December.

  Supposedly made of a new heat-sensitive, nontoxic material that reacted safely with human skin, Arnie the Arachnid would temporarily bond himself to any body part warm enough to cause the reaction—a temperature easily attained by the squealing, hyperactive children shown dashing around in the ads. Evidently, adults terrified of spiders would generate the same amount of heat, because they were shown in the ads, as well, at the mercy of those same hyperactive children. Once a person calmed down, causing his or her skin temperature to drop a degree or two, then Arnie would drop off, as well.

  Every child in the nation wanted one. Almost every adult did, too. However, the toy developer would only provide them on its own terms; a limited number of select outlets would be supplied on a percentage-paid basis, with delivery just before Christmas. Even a small cut of Arnie would be a fortune, and Lyon’s was to be the only supplier in the Denver Metro area.

  But so far, no store, anywhere, had received even one. The media was in a frenzy. Children were fixated. Parents were hounding merchandisers. There were outrageous offers being made in private newspaper ads, with nary an Arnie to be found—though police had arrested some counterfeiters.

  It was a stroke of marketing genius. Such toys were typically flash-in-the-pan fads that disappeared as soon as the novelty wore off. A week after Christmas, remainder bins were full of them, with few takers. But this way, every Arnie was virtually sold already. Demand would stay high.

  Provided that any were delivered. Which was why Shannon was so concerned that Paul Sanchez keep his voice down. “We’re waiting for Arnie just like everybody else. That’s probably why Leo concocted this story about spies,” she said quietly.

  The guard straightened and cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I wish you’d tell him to stop. It makes me edgy.”

  She smiled. “Why do you think he does it, Paul?”

  Finally, Paul smiled, as well, and then chuckled. “Can I help it if the kid’s clever?”

  “He is that. But it’s just another of his tall tales,” Shannon assured him. “There’s no one after him. Really.”

  Chapter Two

  A lot of things had troubled Rick when he had been forced to adopt what he euphemistically termed a low-profile life-style. Relying mainly on public transportation was one. Drifting from job to job was another. But the part that had taken him the longest to get used to was the way most people treated him. As if they were scared. Or annoyed.

  It just didn’t make any sense. He was clean, as were his clothes, though admittedly a bit shabby. His thick, brown hair was long around the edges, but that was mere carelessness, not a statement of any kind.

  Granted, he was a big man, six foot, with a strong build, and had done a lot of physical work in the last few years, but there was little else about him that he considered threatening. Maybe he scowled a lot. But then, so did a good portion of the human race these days, especially members of the working class.

  Perhaps that was the answer. A bumpy economy made people aware of how illusory their own security was. Anyone could fall from grace. Or perhaps there was something about an obviously well-bred, highly educated man living the life of a nomad that insulted their sense of order. At thirty-nine, he was supposed to look settled and steady, not like a rough-hewn rebel-without-a-cause. Little did they know.

  Whatever it was, Charlie said it showed in his eyes. He was probably right, considering the way some people looked into them and then immediately looked away. Rick had to take his friend’s word for it; these days, he barely recognized the man he saw in the mirror each morning.

  The security guard standing just inside the entrance to Lyon’s Department Store certainly gave him the once-over as Rick came through the door. He must have not liked what he saw, either, because he kept an eye on him all the way to the toy department. Rick was aware of this scrutiny. In a way, he supposed he couldn’t really blame the guy. He had his job to do, and so did Rick.

  Though the Lyon’s building was old, architecturally the design had returned to favor so that it seemed quite modern. There was a large central area, open all the way to the fourth-floor ceiling with its ornate iron-braced skylight. More gold-and-green-colored ornate ironwork decorated the balustrades running around each descending level, over which customers could peer down onto the first floor. In the middle of this central space was the toy department, with its picturesque dollhouse and giant old-fashioned toys. And there, the centerpiece of the season, was the twinkling Christmas tree.

  Looking down on all this from the second level, another man was watching Rick’s progress across the sales floor. He was pudgy and quite nearly bald. His companion, thinner, with a head of wild, curly blond hair, stood only a few feet away, covertly studying some lacy red lingerie displayed on a curvaceous mannequin.

  “Hey, Irv,” the bald one called softly. “Come here.”

  Irv sighed and stepped over to the railing. “What’s up, Joey? You spot him?”

  “No, something else.” Joey indicated the direction with a motion of his head. “See that guy down there in jeans, just passing the perfume counter?”

  “Yeah,” Irv said, barely sparing a glance. “So what?”

  “Quit ogling the plaster ladies and take a good look.”

  Irv glared first at his partner, then toward the man in question, who had been forced to take a detour around the line of children waiting to see Santa Claus.

  He frowned. “I know that guy. Who is that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, mop-head,” Joey said disparagingly. He thought for a moment. “Got it! Put a few pounds on, roll back the mileage... It’s Rick Hastings!”

  “Who?” Irv asked.

  “Rick Hastings, Her Ladyship’s ex-husband.”

  “Nah!” Irv dismissed that suggestion with a wave of his hand. “He’s dead. Drank himself to death back in Phoenix.”

  Joey was shaking his head uncertainly. “No, he’s not the type to hit the skids. And if so, he’s risen from the ashes.”
/>   “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” Joey told him. “But if it is Rick Hastings, I don’t like it. Let’s get this done. Get on up to the third floor, I’ll finish down here.”

  * * *

  AROUND ONE in the afternoon, Shannon realized she wasn’t going to make it to lunch again today, or at least not until it was closer to the dinner hour. Luckily, she kept a stash of candy bars in the storeroom for just such occasions. She’d just stuffed about three quarters of one into her mouth, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “I understand you’re looking for a Santa?”

  “Mmmph!” Startled, Shannon spun around, eyes wide. She swallowed thickly. “What are you doing back here?” she demanded. They were in the corridor leading to the storeroom, a spot that was narrow, ill-lighted and not at all conducive to such chance encounters. “This is off limits!”

  “Sorry.” Rick held up his hands and backed out the way he had come, through a curtain that covered the opening to the corridor. “But one of the clerks said it would be okay.”

  Shannon followed him through the curtain, glaring at him. Now that they were back in the light and he could see her face more clearly, Rick smiled, then chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Shannon demanded.

  He pointed to her mouth. “Domestic or imported?”

  She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. But then she touched her cheek and felt something sticky. A glance in a nearby mirror confirmed it. When he’d startled her, she had smeared chocolate from her mouth up toward one ear. She looked ridiculous.

  “Oh, for the love of...” Shannon let her words trail off and pulled a tissue from the pocket of her slacks. As she cleaned up in front of the mirror, she glanced at the man who had caused all this. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Rick. Rick Hastings. I’m here about the Santa job.”

  “Oh.” Satisfied with her appearance, Shannon turned to face him. “Roy Rogers.”

  “Pardon?”

  Shannon chuckled. “Sorry, Rick.” She held out her hand. “Shannon O’Shaughnessy, toy department manager.”