The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

ANABELLE

Santas: 1, and he’s in jail!!!

Emotional breakdowns: Does it count as more than one if it lasts for longer than a few hours?

“He did what?” I squeak, sitting up in the bed. Saint Nick yowls, and I gather him up in my arms, needing the reassurance of his soft orange fur.

Joe must have called Cynthia, because she’s standing by the bed with him. She’s wearing a too-big sweatshirt that has to be Jeremy’s, and her hair is a mass of messy curls. I have no idea what time it is, or about anything but the emotions throbbing inside me—so many of them, I can’t hope to untangle them. The overall feeling is a sense of deep unease. Of everything being horribly wrong and so messy there’s not a broom in existence that could clean it up.

Cynthia shoves a glass tumbler at me, and I don’t question her—I grab it and slug down a mouthful, cringing a little at the earthy bite of the whiskey. But it pools needed warmth in my stomach. She takes the glass back from me, her expression pinched.

Joe rubs his face nervously. “I’m trying to think of a nice way to say this, Anabelle.”

I’m brought back to the beginning of the month, when I said much the same thing to Ryan about my grandmother. I often take pleasure and reassurance in echoes, but I don’t feel that way at the moment as I repeat Ryan’s line back to Joe: “There probably is no nice way.”

He furrows his brow. “Yeah…I guess not. So…I don’t think Craig was behind this at all.”

“No one believed Craig was behind it,” I mutter numbly.

“Weston made an appearance, and he was a dick. It was super obvious he’d arranged the theft, so Ryan punched him in the face. It was awesome actually. I mean, damn, Ryan is really strong. I think he broke Weston’s nose. But he did it in front of the cop, and the cop put him in handcuffs, arrested him, and dragged him off in his squad car.”

“Oh my God,” I say, new fear engulfing me like a cocoon. First, I thought I might have lost Joe, just like I lost Grandma Edith a few months ago, and then I found out someone had taken the collection I’d spent years piecing together, not to mention every last ornament except the one that we’d hidden. But losing Ryan…that’s unthinkable. Even worse to imagine him in some jail cell by himself. Three days before Christmas.

I’ve never truly hated anyone before now, but I hate Weston. I hate him. The memory of having ever touched him with anything but the intent to injure is so completely repulsive to me.

Tears run down my face, and in this moment, I hate myself too. If I hadn’t melted down earlier, then Ryan wouldn’t have gone downstairs alone. I could have held him back. I could have kept him from playing Weston’s stupid games, the way I had in the past.

“It’s okay,” Cynthia says, leaning in and rubbing my shoulder. She probably means to do it gently, but I suspect Cynthia doesn’t know how to do anything gently. “My dad’s a defense lawyer, and he brought Jeremy with him as his assistant. They’re down at the police station working to get Ryan out on bail.”

“Your dad went with Jeremy?”

It’s a stupid detail to latch onto, but she smiles. “Yeah, so we’re all screwed, I guess.”

I smile for half a second, which is all I have in me. “I’ll cover whatever it costs, of course.”

I don’t have a lot of money in my bank account, especially after replacing the pipes and wiring, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll sell the ornament if I have to. I’ll strip the inn of any antique that’s worth more than a few bucks. I’m going to get Ryan out, and I will not, under any circumstances, allow Weston to win.

“We’ll all chip in,” Cynthia says firmly, rubbing my shoulder again. It’s still uncomfortable, but I appreciate the sentiment behind it too much to tell her to stop. “Ryan’s important to all of us.”

A rush of warmth fills me as Joe nods in agreement. I can tell they mean it—and I know how much it will mean to him to realize he’s so loved by all of us.

Joe blurts out, “There’s more, Anabelle.”

“More?” I ask, my voice coming out weakly.

“Someone was outside taking photos of Ryan being walked out. It was a total setup, and photos are already circulating online.” He gulps air. “There are kids reposting them, telling the police department to free Santa . Someone tagged Curio.”

More emotion blasts through me. Ada loves Ryan, but I suspect she’ll have no choice but to fire him. Even if he’s released in time for his shift tomorrow. No parent will want to send their kid to sit on the lap of a Santa who spent the night in lockup.

“I hate Weston,” I seethe.

“Oh, you’re preaching to the choir,” Cynthia says, “but don’t you worry. We’re not going to let ole Westie ruin Christmas for everyone. My dad will get Ryan out. Weston’s not permanently injured. Simple assault is a misdemeanor. And once we prove Weston’s behind the theft, he’s the one who’ll be wearing the orange jumpsuit.”

Fresh tears flood my eyes at the thought of Ryan behind bars. He hates being cooped up. He’ll go crazy.

She glances at the clock on the wall. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep, honey? I’ve got Xanax.”

“I won’t go back to sleep until he’s home. I need to see him with my own eyes.”

“That may not be until tomorrow,” Cynthia says gently.

“So I’ll stay awake until tomorrow.” I swallow, realizing I’ve been neglecting my job on top of everything. I’ve been lying up here, frozen, for hours. Doing nothing. Fixing nothing. I bury my hand in Saint Nick’s fur, needing it. “I forgot all about the guests.”

“Of course you did,” Cynthia says, stroking my hair with the same rough affection she gave my shoulder. “You had a shock. A couple of them checked out online after the kerfuffle. Stanley and that couple that smells like beets.”

Horror rips through me as the pieces join together to form a picture.

Stanley was behind this.

Stanley, who checked in at the last minute.

Stanley, who was so interested in my Santa collection he did the scavenger hunt twice.

Stanley, who seemed like such a sweet and charming man.

The “inspector” was sent to find the easiest way in, which was why he spent so much time testing all of the windows. But when we redid all the locks, Weston had to pivot.

So he sent someone inside…

Stanley did this for Weston.

My gaze shoots to Joe. “Stanley took that room at the last minute.”

He gapes at me, his face full of the same betrayal I feel. I don’t need to take a moment to interpret his expression—I feel it down to my bones. “He pretended he was so interested in Christmas,” he says scathingly. “Ugh, yeah…it had to be him. He had a key, and he knew where all the scavenger hunt Santas were hidden. All he’d have to do was walk around and throw everything into a box.”

“Oh goodness,” I say, petting Saint Nick again, “let’s pretend he tucked the Santas in gently. I’m anxious enough.”

“You’re right.” His gaze falls on the little cup of candy canes on my desk, and he hurries over and grabs one, practically stuffing it in his mouth before he unwraps it. Apparently, he’s so overcome he no longer minds the flavor of frankincense and myrrh. “Anyone else?”

“I prefer alcohol,” Cynthia says.

“Candy canes make me think of Ryan,” I confess. Although, truthfully, everything in this inn, even my two dear friends, makes me think of him. He’s only been here a month, but he’s become infused into everything.

I swallow and try to bolster myself, because Ryan needs me to be strong. I pick at the problem from different directions, and recall the couple who cancelled their room reservation at the last minute after learning about the rebranding of the B&B.

I gasp. “The couple who cancelled…do you think…could Weston have found out they had a reservation and paid them to cancel? Their note was strange, don’t you think?”

“Send them a message,” Cynthia says.

I set down Saint Nick and grab my phone from my pocket. The first thing I notice is that it’s just after eleven p.m. What are the odds that Ryan will be released tonight? Or that the Capitalist Christmas couple will be fussed to answer my email?

The second thing I notice is a message from Weston:

I’ll drop the charges if you sell me the B&B.

My fingers curl so tightly around the phone, the edges hurt, and I shove it toward Cynthia, not able to speak yet.

“Oh, that jerk. He all but admitted to setting this up.”

“It’s not enough,” I say softly, my voice gruff.

She pouts at the phone. “No, I guess not. Can we tell him to fuck off?”

“You’d better not,” Joe says, glimpsing the message. “We don’t want to play our cards too early.”

He’s right, unfortunately, so I reclaim my phone and search for the couple’s message. I quickly draft a note to them, my heart beating fast as I press send.

I will them to answer quickly. Because if they don’t, I’m going to have to do something unthinkable in the morning and call them on the phone.

“This is good,” Cynthia tells me, helping me up off the bed. “We’re putting the pieces together, Sherlock Holmesing this shit, and it’s definitely to our benefit tonight that my father is an asshole. He’ll take care of business. I’m going to call him and tell him about that Stanley guy. Maybe they can send a police officer to find him. Do you have the information he used to check in and out?”

“A credit card and name,” I confirm. “It’s on my computer downstairs.”

“That’s not nothing. I’ll send the information to my dad.”

“We need to work with a different police officer,” Joe says, sucking on his second candy cane. “That cop knew Weston. They were talking like old friends.”

“This was all a setup.” I shake my head, feeling hopeless, but also pissed off enough to do something about it. If Weston had done something awful to me, I might have let him get away with it to avoid an uncomfortable conflict. But this is different. He went after someone I love and stole my most precious belongings. He needs to be stopped.

“I’m not going to sleep until Ryan comes home either,” Joe declares.

Cynthia sighs. “Same.”

“Let’s go watch Christmas movies in the parlor and drink,” I tell them as I finally get up from the bed. I reach into the closet and pull on a sweater. It’s freezing in here, suddenly, as if someone ripped a hole in the outer wall.

“Honey, I don’t know if you should go down there,” Cynthia says. “It’s not the same.”

We’ve moved around my Christmas collection, but the nexus was still the parlor. Bracing myself, I step toward the door. “I can do it if you and Joe are with me.”

It does hurt to see the parlor, empty of my little, red-suited men, and the tree, glowing but devoid of ornaments. Still, it doesn’t hurt as much as missing my Santa.

I send Cynthia the information I have about Stanley, and then I settle in to do my least favorite thing.

I wait.