Gnarly New Year (Corsario Cove Cozy Mystery #2) (2 page)

3 A crafty opie

I relished the idea of a shower as I sighed and shimmied out of my PJs. Another indulgence I’d have to forego thanks to our surprise visitor. Who knew how much more wrestling I would have to do with Mick before this was over? Taking a cue from Brien, I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Then, washed my face, ran a brush through my hair, and rejoined Brien.

Room Service Guy had already returned and hovered beside the new cart he had rolled into the suite. Impressive what a big tip will do. I could tell he was ready to cut and run. He'd left the door to our suite ajar as if to expedite his exit. Who could blame him, given the situation—whatever that was since I still wasn’t at all clear about it myself? 

Brien had been busy too. He had removed Mick’s Santa jacket and propped him up against the end of the couch. Mick had scrapes on his arms and red welts that were bound to turn into ugly bruises. Room Service Guy gawked at the now half-clad Santa.

I filled a plastic bag with some of the ice Room Service Guy brought us. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Brien. I knelt down and placed that bag of ice on Mick’s black eye. He grimaced but made no sound.

“Part of me wishes I could stick around to get the inside scoop on all this, but they need me down in room service. New Year’s Eve usually ends with a bang, but starts off quietly. Not today. You want anything else?” He was sidling over to the door, ready to make his exit.

“My bag! I want my bag!” Mick pushed my arm away, removing the ice pack I held against his face.

“Whoa! Hang on Mick. Coffee, first, and then we can talk about that bag, got it?” Brien placed a firm hand on Mick’s shoulder to settle him down. I took a chunk of ice from the bag I held and plopped it into Mick’s coffee to cool it off. Mick was annoying while sober. He wasn’t turning out to be any better as a drunk.

“Tell me something, please, are your Santas out roaming the halls this early on New Year’s Eve?” I asked Room Service Guy, trying to understand how Mick had gotten this far without creating a scene.

“Oh yeah. The Santas are out and about spreading good cheer. Some of our guests like to keep the Christmas partying going on, you know? Twelve days of Christmas or party on to Epiphany—something like that. Santas sometimes have deliveries to make at the crack of dawn, so kids wake up to find more presents and get the party started early. Our Santas don’t usually have as much of a head start on the partying as your friend. I could smell the booze when I walked in here this time.”

“I put his soggy Santa jacket in a plastic bag. That should help control the stink,” Brien said. “I’m pretty sure Mick went for a swim in it,” Brien added.

Control the stench and preserve evidence, I hope. That is if there was any to preserve after swimming in that thing. Not that I said that aloud. I didn’t want to put any more ideas into Room Service Guy’s head.

“Or surfing, maybe. That would have been something to see, huh? Santa on a surfboard?” Room Service Guy sounded like he meant that. Mick, oblivious to the speculation, said nothing. My money was on something more sinister than a swim or surfing. 

“Maybe somebody tossed another Santa into a hotel pool,” I offered, recalling my earlier impulse to do just that. Room Service Guy’s eyes widened at my remark. He edged a little closer to the door, too. “Thanks for your help, uh, Alex,” I said, after struggling to remember the name on his name tag.

“Sure. No problem.” He left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Mick sipped coffee, tentatively, with the fat lip. He held the cup in two shaky hands. When he finished, I got up and took the cup from him.

“Keep ice on that eye, Mick.” I handed him the ice pack as I left his side to pour more coffee. He took it, but when I returned moments later with coffee, he was apparently confused about how to do two things at once. Brien solved the dilemma by taking over the job of keeping ice on Mick’s eye as Mick accepted the cup of coffee I offered him.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a washcloth and towel so we can start the cleanup.” I almost ran there and back, handing the damp rag and dry towel to Brien. Mick was still concentrating on getting coffee into his mouth without spilling it. Brien put the ice pack down and dabbed, gently, at the area around Mick’s eye without saying a word.

Worry had crept onto Brien’s handsome face. I wondered if he felt our vow to “let it go” slipping away. I did. I could almost hear this sucking sound as fate tugged us back into the swirl of events courtesy of another soggy Santa. At least, this one was alive.

“I’m going to move the breakfast cart out onto the veranda,” I said in my best cheery, Rachael Ray hostess voice. I have a “nice Kim” side, too. That liquor smell was still pretty strong. “Dining alfresco on New Year’s Eve is a great way to start our gnarly New Year, don’t you think, Moondoggie?” I gave him a little wink, and that did it. Brien’s natural cheeriness took hold. A rather surprising trait, given all he had been through in his young life. He didn’t bring it up often, but there were reasons why he ended up working as a pool boy. Like me, Brien had to make his way in the world before he was eighteen.

“Whatever you say, Gurfer.”

Aw, Gurfer sounded so much sweeter when Brien said it than when it had rolled off Mick’s bloated lips earlier. An inflated male ego lurked behind the smart mouth and fat lip. Mick didn’t even have to speak to irk me. His eyes more focused, Mick followed my movements as I slid our room service cart out onto the veranda. It was the smirk on his smashed up face that grated on my nerves. The fresh air was a welcome relief. When I stepped back into the suite a couple of minutes later, Brien was trying to get Mick to move.

“Can you get up on your feet?” Brien asked.

I scanned Mick’s face that looked a little better since Brien had wiped away smears of dirt and blood. Mick’s head drooped, and he didn’t respond to that question. He just sat there as though he couldn’t decide how to answer or how to move. Brien didn’t say anything more. Instead, he slid behind Mick, put both arms under his armpits, and lifted him up off the floor in one fluid motion.

“He’s up.”

“Good, let’s shove him into the shower.” I ran ahead and turned on the water. Mick walked to the enormous master bathroom with minimal assistance. He just stared at us, though, when we told him to undress. Apparently, not all the circuits in his brain were fully connected. It was as if he had a short in the wiring somewhere.

With a bit of help, we got the rest of that Santa suit off of him. Once he was stripped down, we guided him into the enormous steam shower that took up almost an entire wall of our luxurious bathroom. Half a dozen streams of water pulsed, full-blast at Mick. He yelped when one of the sprays hit a sore spot. More scrapes and bruises were evident once we removed his clothes. I almost felt sorry for the guy who stood, head bowed, bruised and naked. Until he opened his mouth.

“No peeking,” Mick said when it dawned on him that I was standing there. That ended my pity party for him.

“Don’t get yourself all worked up about it. I’ve seen it all before, Mick.” I had too. In my servitude to a megalomaniacal, drug-addicted Hollywood music producer I had helped sober up many of his rockers and rappers. Some showed up blitzed out of their minds. Others ended up that way after a few hours in the studio with the scuzzy Mr. P. I shuddered.

At least, Mick wasn’t hurling, and he had done his brawling elsewhere. I wasn’t sure how many punches Mick had thrown. His hands had none of the telltale signs that often result from landing a well-placed punch. Oh, the things I know that I wish I didn’t.

I left Brien to tend to Mick and bagged the rest of Mick’s clothes. Another sigh escaped as I faced the fact that this episode was going to end in a conversation with our new pal in the San Albinus’ Police Department, Detective Mitchum. He was going to be thrilled to hear from us. At the very least, Mick needed to report the beating he’d taken.

Whether we found Mick’s bag or not, we needed to tell Mitchum about Mick’s claim that he had located Opie’s whatchamacallit. That was, in fact, the GPS device owned by the late Owen Taylor. Killed on Christmas Eve and found in the swanky resort pool, he had been beaten like Mick and was wearing a Santa suit. Owen’s suit had a couple of bullet holes in it, however. If I had experienced a creepier case of déjà vu, I couldn’t remember it. At least, Mick was still alive—for the time being. In a few more minutes when Brien stepped out onto the veranda, alone, I cornered him.

“I don’t want Mick to freak out, but you know where this is going, don’t you?” Brien nodded and swept me into his arms. He kissed me several times before I could feel Mick’s prying eyes on us. Brien whispered as he let me go.

“I’ve got this under control, Doll,” using his terrible version of a film noir detective voice. Try as he might, Brien could not completely vanquish the SoCal surfer accent. Sean Penn from Ridgemont High playing Phillip Marlowe is about as close as I can get to describing it. I couldn't help but laugh.

Moments later, we were all seated on our veranda with a view of the gorgeous resort grounds, golf course, and Corsario Cove. Brien and I sat at a little bistro table for two and Mick lounged on a recliner, wearing a warm spa robe, with a tray across his lap. He took small bites of toast and scrambled eggs, in between sips of coffee and water.

“Okay, Mick, tell us what happened before the local police get involved.” I gasped, audibly. I guess my concerns about freaking Mick out were unfounded. “I told Mick his life could be in danger, and we needed to do a consult, off the record, with our detective friend in San Albinus. I left Mitchum a voice mail. If that doesn’t get his attention, we’ll call him again.” I laughed.

“I’m pretty sure we’ll get his attention, Brien. I texted him. I figured if
he
called
us
, it wouldn’t go against the promise you made to Mick not to call the police. I didn’t ask him for a consult—just said we need to talk!”

“You heard her, Mick. Time to spill the beans.”

“I’ll try, Brien, but it’s not totally clear.” I could believe that. As much booze as he had in him he must have had trouble remembering his name at some point. I tried to sound sympathetic when I spoke.

“We hear you, Mick. Take it slow and tell us where you’ve been since we last saw you.” His brow furrowed, and he got this hazy look in his eyes.

“Uh, when was that, Gidget? Oh yeah, right—Christmas day on the beach, when that bogus hotel sleaze went after Willow.” He filled us in on why he had vanished that day. As I listened to his story, I moved him back to jerk, from the double-jerk category I had placed him in when he had disappeared that day at the first sign of trouble. He had a good explanation—if I believed him.

Mick had gone to look for Willow and had arrived in Sanctuary Grove just as a man with a gun confronted her. Mick claimed he had rushed toward her surfer shack and yelled, “Gun! He’s got a gun!” That part of his story was consistent with Willow's version of what went on before she ran up to the cliff tops.

According to Mick, he had no sooner shouted those words than someone decked him. When Mick came to a few minutes later, he was in Willow’s beach shack. His attackers had bound his wrists and ankles with duct tape. He was about to holler for help when he overheard some guy shouting at an accomplice, ordering him to head for a dinghy tied up at the marina in the cove.

“That guy said Willow leaped into the cove from the cliffs. She did, right?"

“Yes,” I replied. It was a miracle she had suffered only minor injuries from that mad leap into the water below.

“The dude giving the orders was furious. They were going after her. He called her ‘Taylor’s girl’ so I thought they had to be the pirates Owen had been ripping off. Stole our wetsuits, too. Low, huh?”

Mick faced bigger problems that day than stolen wetsuits. What had been the end of the story for us on Christmas day—a relatively happy one with no new dead bodies—had begun almost a week of terror and misery for Mick.

“It took a while to get that duct tape off. When I got free, I wasn’t sure what was going on. I thought those guys might still be roaming around, so I put on a disguise. When I left the shack, I ran up to the cliff tops and spotted all of you in the rescue boat. After that I headed back down, hoping to meet up with all of you at the dock.”

Click! A switch flipped in my head and a light went on.

“Hang on, hang on. Disguise—as in a Santa suit?”

“Wow, how’d you know that?” He smiled that nightmare circus-clown smile at me again.

“Apart from the fact you showed up in one today, you mean? I saw you up there. That’s how!” Despite my sarcastic tone, I felt a sense of relief that I wasn’t going nuts. On Christmas day, I had glimpsed Mick in that Santa getup, standing up there on the cliffs. I had worried poor Opie’s ghost was paying me a visit. Death in a Santa suit had been an ignominious end, even for a misguided chump like Owen Taylor. That had made it easier for my trauma-addled brain to imagine his restless soul roaming the cliffs. It never occurred to me that Mick could have pulled a stunt like that.

“Smart, huh? I bet you had no idea it was me, did you?”

“Not a clue, Mick,” was all I trusted myself to say.