All That Glitters (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries) (6 page)

I told her I wasn’t sure, but gave her the telephone number of our foster home coordinator, secretly a little glad that she hadn’t taken one of the Aussies, after all.  Like I said, I hated to break them up.
 

I was still puzzling over the whole thing—
sixty
-six dollars and fifty cents
exactly
– as I drove into town to meet my uncle for
our annual
lunch and
shopping trip
to pick out
Aunt Mart
’s Christmas present
.  And it wasn’t just the adoption fee.  What was it about the story about Craig Killian’s transmission that was bothering me?   

By the time I reached my uncle’s office in the Public Safety Building, I thought I had it figured out.

There was a fruit studded wreath on the front door and garlands over the doorways, courtesy of the Hanover County Beautification Society, but otherwise it was pretty much business as usual at the Sheriff’s Department.  I greeted the girl at the front desk and
said hello to
Wyn,
Buck’s partner, who was typing up a report.  They told me I could find my uncle in the
meeting
room.  I started back, and then hesitated.  “Is Buck around?”

“He’s taking some personal time,” answered the receptionist, and then held up a finger as she took a call.  “Sheriff’s Department.”

“He said he was working on a Christmas present for someone special,” volunteered Wyn
from her computer station
, and then immediately looked embarrassed.  We both knew that, this year, that someone special would not be me.

I spoke quickly over my own discomfort, trying to sound casual. “Say, Wyn, did you work the church case with Buck?  You know, the cantata robbery?’

She shook her head and swiveled her chair toward me, eager to make amends. “I was on desk duty that day, trying to catch up on the paperwork
.  I swear, I’ve never seen such a Christmas for robberies and petty theft.   Why?  Something I can help you with?”

“I was just trying to remember how much was taken, exactly.”

She turned to her computer and typed a few keys.  “Four hundred eight
y
five dollars,” she said.  “Apparently the offering plate was left unattended in the church office for about ten minutes while the usher took pictures for the church bulletin.”  She scrolled
d
own a screen.  “The thief didn’t get it all, though.  He must have heard someone coming and skedaddled.”

“Any suspects?”

“Nah.  There were almost three hundred people there that night.  They had Santa Claus for the kids and a big buffet supper afterwards…I hate this kind of case.  It could have been anybody.”  She looked up from the screen.  “How come?”

“
Nothing really, just an idea I had.  Thanks, Wyn.”   Thoughtfully, I went in search of my uncle.

I found him in the meeting room, as directed, standing in front of a white board with his hands clasped behind his back.   The board was filled with sloppy squares, pointy stars and looped arrows, which I gradually began to understand was a diagram of some sort, and my uncle was gazing at it with studied absorption. 

I said, “Hi, Uncle Roe.  About ready
for lunch
?”

He gave a small shake of his head.  “I just can’t see it.  There’s got to be a pattern, but I can’t figure it out.”

I moved closer to the board as he pointed.  “The Salvation
A
rmy
k
ettle outside  Hanson’s department store—hit twice. 
Three ladies had their wallets emptied—not credit cards, just cash—from the Cash ‘n’ Carry.  Cash registers hit all over town, not just once, but randomly over the past month. And these guys are smart, too-- they don’t take everything at once, but leave a little behind so the robbery isn’t noticed right away.  All the churches have been hit.  And the hospital fund  and the Red Cross collection boxes.  And
…
” his voice rose in indignation
, “just last night The Empty Stocking Fund, if you can believe that
.
  The
y got
sixty-
six
dollars—“

“And fifty cents,” I said
softly
, and he
turned to look at me sharply.
“Uncle Roe,  I think I know wh
o the thief is.”
 

“
S
o Secret Santa is actually Robin Hood,”
said Maude with a small shake of her head. “Whoever would have guessed?”

“
Robin Hood,
my eye,
”
replied S
arabeth
Potts with a sniff.
“Robin Hood took from the rich to give to the poor
.
  I don’t know what you call somebody who takes from churches and Salvation Army kettles
.”

“Do you mean besides a thief?” said someone else, and we all laughed a little, though without much humor.

There were five of us
setting up the Humane Society’s adoption corner for the town Christmas party, which was really just an excuse to get shoppers downtown on this last weekend before Christmas in hopes that a little more cash would find its way into the hands of local businessmen.  All the shops were gaily decorated and offering
cookies and hot cider
all day long,
along with today-only discounts and door prizes.  There were carolers and raffles and special performances by the various choirs , as well as scheduled appearances by Santa Claus around town.
Uncle Roe had a full contingent of deputies working security for the event, and though he was usually a stickler for maintaining the dignity of law enforcement, on this occasion he had bowed to the pressure of the Downtown Business Association and had issued red Santa Claus hats to all his officers. 

The Humane Society was always given a prime spot  on the town square next to the Christmas tree, and this year we had also been able to book a photographer for a “Have your pet’s picture taken with Santa”
session.
In the spirit of the event, all the volunteers wore jaunty elf hats and “Spay or Neuter Your Pet”  buttons in Christmas colors.  We were the last stop for Santa photos before the big day,
and
we
had already sold thirty tickets
at $5.00 a  pop
.   

“Anyway,” I added, “keep your eye on the c
ollection jar
.
Knowing
what
he is isn’t the same as knowing
who
he is.  The sheriff’s department has been trying to interview everyone who got a gift from Secret Santa, but so far no suspects.”

“Does that surprise you?”
said Ca
llie
Anders, the photographer, who was busy setting up her faux-painted foam-core Christmas backdrop  while the rest of us lugged heavy wire cages an
d
ex-pens across the street
to the town square. When I looked at her with what may have been a skeptically raised eyebrow, she explained,  “I mean
,
really, the sheriff’s department expects these people to give up the person who saved their
Christmas
? Even if they did know who it was, they wouldn’t tell.”  

To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought about that.  Now I did.

“Merry Christmas, ladies!”  A strong gloved hand fell on my shoulder, and on the shoulder of the
woman working next to me.  I twisted around to look into the twinkling blue eyes of Santa Claus.  He had a strong booming voice and an electric presence that, I had to admit, took me aback for a moment.  “You know Santa has a special place in his heart for those who take care of his smallest elves, don’t  you?”

Okay, that made me smile.  I transferred the two wriggling Australian shepherds into their temporary straw-lined  pen and replied, “I hope that means Santa has already found a home for these puppies.”

When I straightened up from placing the pups in the pen, he was sm
i
ling at me
kindly.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “When
the time is right
, the right dog will appear.”

I felt a tingly sensation all over, and for a moment I couldn’t think of what to say.  Ca
ll
ie came up and t
ouched his shoulder
,
pointing out the sheet-draped chair where he would be posing for photo with the pets,
and I grabbed Maude’s arm.  “Did you tell him to say that?” I demanded , half-whispering.

She had
a
black mutt
on a leash
in
one hand and a pointer/hound mix tugging at the leash on the other, and she looked mildly baffled.  “Tell who to say what?”

I whirled around to point at Santa but he had moved off into the crowd.  I muttered something unintelligible and hurried off with my head down to help unload the rest of the animals for adoption into the display

W
e adopted six animals—four kittens and two puppies—to new homes, and had a steady stream of pets and pet owners lined up to have their pictures taken with Santa Claus.
The mother and son who had called me about their Christmas miracle came by to have their beagle-mix puppy’s picture taken with Santa, and left an extra $2.00 in the donation box.  The beagle would probably grow up to be a coon hound, but the young boy loved it, and in this business that’s all that matters.
We collected over two hundred dollars from the photos, and everyone who stopped by would stuff another dollar or two into our plastic dog-shaped collection jar.  As busy as I was, I made sure that jar was never out of my sight, or the sight of one of the volunteers
, and at the end of the day I counted three hundred twenty six dollars in bills and another twenty or so in change.  I left the change in the jar and slipped a rubber band around the bills,
handing
it all over Sarabeth
Potts
, our treasurer
.

“If  you leave now you can get this to the bank before it closes,” I told her.  “We‘ve only got a few more pictures with Santa, and then we’re going to start packing up.”

She tucked the envelope into
her purse and
zipped it up securely.  “Okay, give me five minutes to give Santa a hand with that little
dachshund
. He already tried to bite one of the girls.”

I grimaced.  “Santa or the dog?”

“Very funny.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I’ve got it,” she called back over the sound of excited high-pitched barking, and moved to Santa’s station to calm the sharp-toothed dachshund.

The picture was taken without incident, and Sarabeth reported that Santa had been a good sport about the whole thing as she hurried off to the bank.  The rest of us congratulated ourselves on a successful day as we started to pack up.
The crowds had begun to thin, the apple cider and hot chocolate was running low, and the setting sun painted the sky overhead a dusky orange.
The temperature had started to drop and, despite their warm  beds filled with shredded newspaper and the furniture pads that shielded the crates from the wind, I didn’t want to keep the animals out in the cold much longer. 
There were only a couple of people left in line for Santa photos,  and wh
ile Cassie set up her last shots
I started to break down the adoption station.