The Christmas Tree by Nancy L. Eady

I wasn’t sure why Father Patrick decided to host a blessing of the animals two weeks before Christmas. He had just taken over the parish at the beginning of November, Father McCarthy and his wife having lain their charge down after forty years. But since he had, I brought the whole menagerie with me – Frances on her leash, Sarge on my shoulder and Scout in his carrier. Scout protested his imprisonment the entire five-minute drive up the street from my house to the church.  (I found out later an old carol about animals in the stable kneeling at Christmas was a favorite of Patrick’s mother, which is why he does a blessing of the animals every December in her honor.) 

I wasn’t late, but the church’s parking lot was almost full, with a couple of spots in the back available. As any well-behaved golden retriever would do, Frances waited patiently, sitting once I left the car, allowing me time to give Sarge a seed from my pocket and to open the back door to retrieve Scout’s carrier. Scout’s yowls didn’t stop when we left the car, either. It’s hard enough to carry Scout when he’s still; he’s a huge cat. I’m glad I didn’t speak cat; even though he has some Maine Coon cat in him, Scout was originally found in an alley, and I suspect he was using words not appropriate for church.  

When I reached the lawn in front of the church steps, I knew Scout was not alone in his disdain of carriers. Several other cat carriers had even louder occupants. Dogs younger than my five-year-old Frances acted like they’d never been out in public before, and poor Minnie, the aged schnauzer that lived next door, couldn’t stop shaking even while Dorreen Conover held her. 

Father Joseph checked his watch and cleared his throat. I blushed when Sarge loudly said, “Atten-shun!” Sarge knows better, but he likes to show off. It’s something African Gray parrots do. 

Father Patrick, a smile twitching at his lips, spoke solemnly in a sonorous voice that lifted over the assorted barks, growls, hisses and yowls. I wondered if that was part of his seminary education. 

“Let us begin the procession of the animals.” Procession was a loose description.  Straggling in a rough line would have been more accurate. At least we made it into the church without incident. 

When the service was over, the church emptied faster than it had filled. I was one of the last to leave; my leg was giving me more trouble than usual, and I didn’t want other people to see me if I struggled with the carrier or had to adjust my prosthetic.  I never liked the reminder of why I was unable to continue working as a school resource officer.  

When I reached Father Patrick, his face brightened. “Vanessa, I’m so glad you could come today. And you were able to bring your entire crew.” He bent over to scratch Frances’s ear, telling her, “Frances, you’re looking well.” Typical golden; a little praise went right to her head and her tail waved madly. Scout turned around in his carrier, unimpressed, and went to sleep. Sarge, unwilling to be ignored, announced, “Blessings, Father, blessings.” Father Patrick’s lips twitched even more as he straightened up. He looked younger and more approachable with his eyes twinkling. 

“I wonder if I could impose upon you to meet with me in my parish study for just a minute before you go? Your animals are welcome, too.” 

“Why?” 

“I need some advice and help if you have time,” Father Patrick answered. 

“Okay, Father.” 

“Please, call me Patrick.”

I blushed again. A poker face was not in my repertoire.  “Patrick.” 

“Go on into the study, and I’ll be there shortly.”  

I picked Scout’s carrier back up and walked through the entryway into the study. I was surprised to see someone already in there once we got in—a young boy, in a chair in the corner, frowning with his shoulders slumped. As we entered, he looked up. 

“You’re not Father Patrick,” he announced. 

“No, I’m Vanessa Handley, but Father Patrick should be here in a minute. And you are?” 

The kid flashed me a look, shrugged, then said, “Jim.” 

“Well, hello Jim.” As I sat down, I pointed toward the parrot on my shoulder. “This is Sarge,” Ever the showoff, Sarge fluffed up his feathers. I then lifted the carrier up briefly before putting it back down. “This is Scout.” And then as Frances sat beside me, I introduced her as well.

The boy looked a little more interested, studying the carrier. “That cat is wicked big, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, he’s got some Maine Coon in him.” Jim gave me a blank look. “Maine Coon cats are particularly big house cats. I rescued Scout from an alley, and he adopted me.” 

“It must be nice to have animals. Mom says we’ll have some again one day.” He was quiet for a second. “Do you think – I mean, is it okay if I pet your dog?” 

Frances didn’t wait for me to answer but walked over and put her head on his knee. I laughed as her tail wagged.  “Frances never met a stranger.” 

“She’s beautiful,” he said. “We had a dog once, but he died and then Dad…” He stopped as abruptly as he started. 

He was silent for a minute, stroking Frances, then asked, “Do you think I can pet your cat, too?” 

“I can’t really let him out of the carrier,” I answered, “But let’s try opening this hatch on the top and see what kind of a mood he’s in.” 

Jim came over to me and lifted the top hatch, which was just big enough to let Jim put his hand on Scout’s head and rub his ears. Scout started purring, and Jim pulled the carrier with him back to his seat, steadily petting both animals.   

As soon as Patrick walked in, Jim slumped back in his seat. 

Patrick took a seat behind his desk, his eyes no longer twinkling and a furrow on his brow. 

“Vanessa, I need your help…” 

Dorreen Conover burst through the door, her gray hair windswept, and her aged schnauzer still nestled in her arms, shedding grey over the long-sleeved black sweater she was wearing. It hadn’t seemed that cold but everyone’s internal thermostat is a little different. She gave me a quick dismissive nod, glanced at Jim, deeming him beneath formal recognition, and then rounded on Patrick. 

“Father Patrick, I must protest!” 

“About what, Mrs. Conover?” Patrick said, with polite interest. 

“About the trees, Father, about the trees.” 

Since I was on the Christmas decoration committee, I asked, “What trees, Dorreen?” 

“The ones on the outside walk. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed!” 

“Noticed what?”

“There are six trees on the right hand side of the walkway into the church, and only five on the left hand. You know how dear Mrs. Conover” (Dorreen was referring to her husband’s mother) “liked things to be symmetrical. Harold will be beside himself when he notices.” 

Patrick answered, “Mrs. Conover, I apologize. I was not aware how important symmetry would be to your family…” 

I started to interrupt, to tell Dorreen I was on the vestry committee and I knew darn well that we had bought and decorated twelve trees for the church walkway, but I noticed Jim hunching over to make himself smaller, and his hand clutching Scout’s fur instead of stroking it. Based on my experience at the elementary school, he was the perfect picture of a boy about to be caught. 

Patrick continued, “I was not aware how important the symmetry of the trees was to your family.” 

“Oh, but Father, the symbolism of the twelve trees is sacrosanct, based on the twelve days of Christmas!” 

I wanted to explain to her that the Twelve Days of Christmas was a secular carol but chose not to. She and I had a rocky enough relationship because of Scout’s tendency to slip out of the house and wander through her yard. She particularly despised it when he left paw marks over the cars they kept outside. I tried to keep him inside, but he was an escape artist.  At least he always came home. 

“Again, all I can do is apologize for the oversight, Mrs. Conover, and be sure it does not happen next year. Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

“Well, thank goodness Harold’s mother isn’t here to see this! I will do my best to explain the situation to him,” she huffed, and then stormed out of the room. 

Once she was out of the room, Jim relaxed, then tensed up again as Patrick and I both turned to look at him. Patrick motioned at me to start. 

“Jim, is there anything you might want to tell Father and me?” 

He shook his head, then answered quietly, “No ma’am.” He kept petting Scout as if his life depended on it. 

“It certainly would help us to know what happened,” Patrick said. 

Jim’s eyes filled with unshed tears, but he shook his head no again. 

Patrick tried again. “Look, I’ve noticed how you’ve been hanging around the church ever since December 1st picking up leaves and trash off the grounds and the parking lot, and I really appreciate it, but the missing tree is important as well. Are you sure you don’t know anything about that? 

“No sir,” Jim answered, looking at his feet, “I don’t.” 

“We’ll have to leave it at that, then. Could you stay here for a moment?” Patrick said, as he motioned for me to follow him into the hall. 

“Jim, could you hold Frances’s leash and watch Sarge and Scout for a minute?” 

His eyes got wide as I handed over the leash and settled Sarge on his shoulder. “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled his hand out of the top of Scout’s carrier, closed it, grabbed the leash and started petting Frances while trying to study Sarge through his peripheral vision. 

Leaving him thus occupied, I stepped out into the hall with Patrick. 

“Vanessa, I hope I’m not bringing up painful memories, but I’m a little at a loss here. Several members of the congregation told me that you used to work as a School Resource Officer at the elementary school.” 

“Is that all they told you?” 

He was still for a second, then said, “No, they told me why you stopped working at the school and how proud they were of you, but it’s your experience with children that I need your help with, since I have zilch.” 

Relieved I didn’t have to rehash my past, I said, “I’ll help, if I can.” 

“Like I said in the study, ever since December 1st, Jim has been hanging around the church once school gets out, trying to do chores.” He paused. “November 30th was when the tree disappeared.” 

“So you want to know if I think Jim had something to do with it?” 

“Yes. I think so, but I have no proof.” 

“It’s not proof, but based on his expressions, I have to say yes, he does.” 

Patrick sighed. “I was afraid of that.” 

“Do you know anything else about him?” 

“Not much, besides his name and address. I don’t even know who his parent or guardian is. And the thing I find puzzling is that he’s still hanging around here even though the tree is gone.” 

“That part’s easy,” I said, “He feels guilty about the tree, and he’s trying to make amends.” 

“So now what should I do? I don’t think it will help him if I just look the other way, but this isn’t a matter for the police, either. He’s so young and he seems like a nice kid otherwise.” 

I laughed. “Yes, he scarcely looks like a hardened criminal. What I would suggest is that you take him to his home to try and meet his parents and see what his living situation is. He won’t want to do it, but he probably won’t turn you down if you ask him to let you drive him home.” 

“I’m pushing it, and I know I am, but do you think you could come with me? I don’t know what I’m walking into, and I’d like an impartial witness with me to be sure no misunderstanding arises. 

“I guess that makes sense. When were you thinking about doing it?”

In an unconscious imitation of Jim, Patrick hunched his shoulders as if to ward off a blow. “Do you think we could do it now?” 

“Because I have nothing better to do?” I asked bitterly. 

Patrick’s eyebrows lifted. “Not at all. Because as a former school resource officer and a respected hero in the community, you would carry a lot of weight with whoever is responsible for Jim.” 

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for on my part.” I started to tear up, turned away for a second, then turned back. “It’s just that I do miss the job, very much.” 

“And there’s no way you can return?” 

I shrugged, then answered his earlier question. “I can go with you now, but I need to get my animals home first.” 

“Perfect,” Patrick said, “Why don’t we and Jim take your animals back to the house? He seems enamored by them.” 

“The animals like him, too, and they’re good judges of character.  But you’ll be pulling cat fur and golden retriever hair out of your vehicle for months.” 

“I’m willing to risk it,” Patrick said, smiling. “Then once we get them set in your house, we can tell Jim we need to run one more errand and stop at his house. When we’re done there, I can drop you back here to pick up your car.” 

“Deal.” 

Jim gave me a big smile when I asked for his help in returning my menagerie back to the house. 

“Why don’t I sit in the back seat and hold Frances’s leash and put Scout’s carrier beside me so I can pet his head?” he asked. 

“Fine with me,” I answered. 

Scout seemed to really like Jim; Scout was much quieter on the way back to the house than he had been going forward. Because the carrier was so heavy, Patrick insisted on carrying it into the house. He was so matter-of-fact about it, I didn’t resent the offer like I did sometimes, such as when a person stared at my leg, realized I knew they were staring and then abruptly asked if I needed help.  Even when I was wearing slacks, some people noticed the prosthetic. Jim insisted on walking Frances, while Sarge remained on my shoulder. 

When I let Scout out of his carrier, instead of wandering off to a bedroom to hide like he normally did, he stopped to rub Jim’s ankles and purr. Jim was fascinated by Sarge’s cage, and the fact that I left the door open to it. 

“Won’t Scout bother Sarge?” 

“Not hardly. Sarge won that fight the first day Scout arrived.” 

When we got back into the car, and headed back out, Jim was quiet for a second then said, “We’re going to my house, aren’t we?” 

Patrick looked at me, asking me to answer. I decided not to lie to him about our destination. 

“Yes, we are.” 

Jim nodded, then crossed his arms across his chest and scowled the rest of the trip. 

Jim didn’t live far from my house, in a faded old Georgian two-story house that had been divided into four apartments. He lagged behind Patrick, and I followed him as we walked to his apartment on the bottom floor. Once Patrick reached the door, he knocked. Jim immediately rushed past him, unlocking the door with his key, then running in and yelling, “Don’t get up Mom! It’s just me and two visitors.” 

We heard a metal clicking against the worn, hardwood floor, and a young, brunette women hesitantly using a walker appeared in the doorway. 

“Mom, I told you not to get up!” 

“Yes, Jim, but you know it’s just as important for me to move around as it is for me to sit still.” She looked past Jim to Patrick and me. “Hello, I’m Monica Sewell.” 

I introduced myself, but when Patrick introduced himself as the pastor of our church, her face lit up. 

“I am so happy to meet you. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. Please come in.”

Without waiting for an answer, she began walking back into her sitting room. We walked behind her patiently, then sat down when she gestured for us to do so. Pointing to a corner of the room, she said, “Thank you again for the beautiful tree. Jim told me how you agreed to let him have it in return for doing afternoon chores around the church.” Patrick and I exchanged a glance.  She turned to Jim. “Jim, honey, would you mind checking on Amy? It’s almost time for her to get up from her nap.” 

Waiting until Jim was out of the room, she continued. “Amy is my three-year-old.  I wanted to explain to you while Jim was out of the room why this tree was such a godsend.” 

Patrick nodded. “I’d like to hear more about it. Obviously, you have a disability?” 

She frowned. “Yes. I was in an accident in October with a hit and run driver and broke my femur. My husband and I… I mean, I owned a cleaning business but obviously I can’t work right now until my femur heals. The doctors say I might be able to go back to work in another month.” 

“I certainly understand that,” I said, gesturing at my leg, “I had a major leg injury two years ago, so I have an idea of how difficult your recovery must be.” 

Monica put her hands up to her face. “Oh! Vanessa Handley! I am so sorry; I didn’t put your name together with the news story. My husband and I had just moved here when you were shot. It’s such an honor to meet you. There’s no telling how many lives you saved at the school that day because you reached the shooter before he could get past the front desk.  And one of those lives was Jim’s.” 

I shied away from remembering that day; the few minutes before I could make sense of what I was seeing, the panic and rage that filled me when I realized the man was about to start a shooting rampage at the elementary school over his divorce, and the terror that I wouldn’t be able to stop him before someone got killed. Since a revolver usually won’t win an argument against a AK-47, I wouldn’t have been able to stop him, except that he was trying to shoot out the security cameras when I walked in.  Even distracted, he still managed to shoot my upper leg before my bullet entered his chest. 

I shrugged. “I don’t talk about it much, but I’d love to know more about you and your husband.” 

Her face clouded. “Dan, my husband, died a year ago from cancer that we caught too late. He left me some life insurance, enough to carry us through, until I got hurt. Now that I can’t work, I am limited to essentials only.” Then she brightened again. “That’s why the Christmas tree from Father Patrick was so welcome. When we had to move after Dan died, we had to get rid of our Christmas decorations except for the box with the Christmas stockings and a few special ornaments because we had no room. I had planned to get more decorations this year, but …” She gestured helplessly. “Even if I can’t afford presents, I appreciate having a tree.” 

Patrick stood up. “You are more than welcome. Is Jim done with school now until the New Year?” 

“Yes, they are on Christmas break.” 

About that time Jim returned, holding a little girl’s hand. She broke loose from him and went to hug Monica. Jim admonished her, “Amy, remember to be careful.” Amy stopped just shy of the couch and nodded. “Yes, Mama has an ouch in her leg.” Then she gently reached out her hand to touch her mother’s hand. 

Patrick turned to Jim. “Jim, your mother was explaining how grateful she was for the Christmas tree.” 

Jim looked at Patrick and me, his eyes pleading. 

Patrick continued, “Since you are on Christmas break, how about meeting me at the church tomorrow at 9 so we can see what else you can do?” 

I added, “And when you’ve finished whatever Father Patrick needs you to do, would you like to come over and visit my animals for a little bit?  You can bring Amy and your mother if you’d like.” 

Jim swallowed and looked at both of us gratefully. “Yes, thank you.” 

As we turned to leave, I saw Patrick’s face and knew three things. One, the Sewell household was about to have a better Christmas than they expected. Two, my animals were going to be spoiled until school started again.  Three, a dinner invitation lay in my future, and for the first time in two years, I was ready to say yes. 

The End 

A Calico Christmas by Annette Dashofy

A soft, cold drizzle provides a dark backdrop for all the merry lights decorating the homes and lawns along our Christmas Eve drive from Vance Township to my parents’ house in Marsdale, Pennsylvania. Hopes for a white Christmas diminished with each weather forecast over the past week. Precipitation? Yes. But with highs in the upper forties and lows just above freezing, Santa would need to replace his sleigh’s runners with wheels. 

I’m not looking forward to the Baronick family gathering. I even offered—okay, begged—to work the holiday, but Chief of Police Adams wouldn’t hear of it. “You worked Thanksgiving,” he said. 

To avoid the Baronick family carving of the turkey too, but I didn’t mention that. 

“I won’t have my junior officer stuck working all the holidays,” the chief said with a smile. 

I’d have been happy if he’d ordered Seth to work instead. He didn’t. The chief and everyone else in the Vance Township Police Department knows Officer Seth Metzger and I are dating. So does my brother, Monongahela County Police Detective Wayne Baronick. And so do my mom and dad. Hence the problem. If Seth and I both show up, we’re going to be pelted with questions and comments. 

“Seth, did you get Abby a ring for Christmas?” “When are you going to make an honest woman of her?” “When are you two getting married?” And the real kicker, usually coming from my mom: “When are you going to give us grandchildren?” 

At least that last one would also include a dirty look shot in Wayne’s direction. My brother, Mr. Love-’em-and-leave-’em, will have his own accusatory gauntlet to navigate, since he’s already hit the Big 4-0 without bringing home a wife, a fiancée, or even a steady girlfriend. 

The last girlfriend he exposed to our parents was five years ago, and she broke up with him before the evening was over. 

Seth assures me he can handle the familial interrogation. He is a cop, after all, and can give as good as he gets. The problem is my dad is retired law enforcement. I grew up hearing how he made suspects break down in tears after being subjected to his questions. 

It isn’t a suspect but my mom who’s in tears when we arrive. Not expected. And slightly terrifying. Especially since she’s standing on the front porch sobbing as we step out of Seth’s car. 

I run to her. “Mom, what’s wrong? Is Dad okay?” 

She waves the tissue she clutches. “Dad is fine. It’s Callie.” 

“Your cat?” I imagine the sweet calico ball of fur choking on a turkey bone or having gotten hold of a toxic poinsettia, although Mom is ultra-cautious about such things. 

Mom presses the tissue to her mouth and nods. “She’s gone.” 

My heart breaks. “She’s dead?”

 “No.” Mom’s sobs turn into a wail. “Oh, dear God, I hope not. Wayne left the door open when he arrived, and Callie slipped out. I called and called, but she’s gone.” 

I feel a little more relieved. I also know Wayne is in serious hot water. Nothing but coal in his stocking this year. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably hiding in the bushes nearby.” 

“She’s scared to death, poor thing. You know I never let her outside.” 

I knew. The last time Mom had an indoor/outdoor cat, it got hit on the road. She swore she’d never let her kitties roam free again. “Where’s Dad? And Wayne?” 

“Out canvassing the neighborhood.” Mom hasn’t lived the bulk of her life surrounded by cops without picking up some of the terminology. 

“We can put up fliers in the morning,” I say. 

More wailing. “Morning? Oh, no. I can’t bear the thought of poor Callie outside all night. Did I tell you? We’ve been hearing coyotes howling out in the woods.” 

She had not. This isn’t good. 

Seth touches my shoulder. “Let’s get our packages inside, and then we can start looking for her.” 

I thought Mom was going to hug him. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” 

While Seth places our gifts under the tree, I tell Mom to bring Callie’s litterbox and food outside. I’ve heard that lost cats will return if they pick up on their own scent. If nothing else, it gives Mom something to do. 

Seth grabs a pair of flashlights from the car, then he and I leave Mom bundled in a parka and sitting on the front porch, keeping a watchful eye on the litterbox. She dumped a can of stinky tuna in Callie’s bowl and has it sitting out there too. I don’t know which smells worse, the fish or the litter. Every few minutes, Mom calls out, “Here kitty, kitty!”

 We find Dad and Wayne standing at the end of the block. They look up at our approach. 

“I gather you heard,” Dad says, sounding downtrodden. He loves Callie almost as much as Mom does. 

I look at Wayne. Part of me wants to harangue him for being the cause of all this, but one glimpse at his face changes my mind. He clearly feels guilty enough without me adding to it. 

“What can we do to help?” Seth asks. 

“We’ve knocked on every door between here and home,” Dad says. “Not everyone is home tonight. Those who are, haven’t seen her but are keeping an eye out.” 

Wayne points back toward our family’s house. “Why don’t you two take the street going the other way. Dad and I will split up. I’ll take the next block this way.” He points to the right. “Dad, you take the one that way.” He points to the left. 

We backtrack, calling for Callie and shining flashlights in bushes and under cars. 

Most of the neighbors on whose doors we knock are concerned and promise to let us know if they hear or see Mom’s cat. A few even put on coats and come outside to search around their own lawns. 

Only one neighbor, in the house diagonally across the road from Mom and Dad’s place, refuses to answer the door. Mr. Porter has always been stand-offish, even when I still lived at home. Tonight, I know he’s in there. The lights are on. A car sits in front of the closed garage. I hear voices before I knock. They fall silent after. When salesmen used to come to our door, Mom would whisper, “Pretend we’re not home.” I imagine Mr. Porter doing the same thing. Except Seth and I aren’t selling anything. 

For the next several hours, we spend our Christmas Eve knocking on doors. Being told no one had seen or heard Mom’s cat. Wishing them happy holidays. 

No Callie. 

We finally converge back at Mom and Dad’s house. Mom has cried herself to exhaustion and announces she doesn’t feel like following our family tradition of opening gifts that night. She has already cooked a big meal but claims she isn’t hungry. After changing out of our wet clothes, Seth, Wayne, and I heat up the now cold food and serve it. We eat in glum silence with Mom jumping up every five minutes to run to the door, thinking she hears something. Whatever she hears isn’t Callie. 

Normally, we would bid our farewells around midnight and head back to our own abodes. This year, Wayne and I decide we’ll spend the night and resume our search in the morning. Mom wants to sleep in the living room in case Callie scratches at the door. Since I knew neither she nor Dad would be happy about Seth and I bunking in my old room, the two of us agree to keep watch—me on the couch, him on the recliner—so Mom can at least attempt to sleep in her bed. 

It’s a long night. I don’t think any of us got any rest. Before daybreak, I put on coffee. Wayne shuffles downstairs and looks around. “Did she come home?”

“No,” I say. 

“I got up and checked every half hour or so, but the litterbox hasn’t been touched,” Seth reports. 

“You did?” I ask, looking at my handsome boyfriend. 

He sips his coffee and nods. “It started snowing around three.” 

I hadn’t heard him moving around. I guess I did get some sleep after all. I really love this guy. I look outside, surprised to see a coating of white. “I didn’t think we were supposed to have a white Christmas.” 

“Right now, all I want for Christmas is for Mom’s cat to come home,” Wayne says. 

Sufficiently caffeinated, the three of us bundle up and head out. Soft flakes drift through the air. Any other Christmas morning, I’d be enchanted by the snow globe effect. Today, I can only think about how it might help us track the cat. 

We circle the house, looking for pawprints. Nothing. We spread out and search the neighborhood, watching as lights come on in one house and then another. I imagine children waking up, eager to see what Santa delivered. Neighboring homes filled with joy and laughter. 

After an hour, we return home. No Callie. No pawprints. Nothing.

 “She’s holed up somewhere,” Dad assures Mom as we gather in the kitchen for more coffee. 

Dark-circled eyes offer proof I’d been right about Mom getting no sleep. She looks horrible. 

Wayne and Seth shoo us out of the kitchen and cook a big breakfast of eggs and bacon. I figure Wayne is paying penance for letting Callie escape. Seth has nothing to make up for but is just being Seth.

 

We eat in silence, listening for mews outside. Despite Mom’s protests, Dad insists we open gifts. I confess, I’ve been dreading the whole gift thing. I anticipate Mom and Dad—especially Dad—needling Seth about giving me a ring. They don’t know he and I have already talked about it and agree we aren’t ready yet. I know he loves me, and he knows I love him. For now, that’s enough. 

Around eleven o’clock, the doorbell rings. Mom jumps up, as if Callie might have somehow figured out how to reach the button. Needless to say, it isn’t the cat. Even more surprising, it’s Mr. Porter, the neighbor who refused to come to the door last night. Usually, he looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon. This morning, though, his expression hints more toward lemonade although lemonade that still needs more sugar. 

“Craig,” Mom says without much enthusiasm. “Merry Christmas.” 

Mr. Porter has a first name? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before. 

He doesn’t return the greeting. Instead, he says, “I need you to come over to my house.” Without waiting, he turns and walks away. 

We exchange puzzled looks. He has never invited us to his home before. Judging from Mom and Dad’s faces, they’re as stunned as I am. 

We grab our coats on the way out. I spot Mom checking out the unmarred litterbox. Mr. Porter waits on his stoop for us to catch up. He pauses, his hand on the knob. 

“You may not be aware, but I have a granddaughter,” he says, his voice gruff. “She’s six.” He wipes a hand across his mouth. When he continues, his voice is even gruffer. “And she’s dying.” 

Mom gasps. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s been rough on all of us. Bailey—that’s her name—has been holding up well, but her oncologist gave her and her mom the news earlier this week. The treatment isn’t working. He gave her maybe two more months.” 

Seth slips an arm around my shoulders, and I realize my lashes are damp. What a horrible thing to learn especially at Christmastime. 

Which is almost word for word what my mom says to him. 

He nods in thanks. His gaze shifts to me and Seth. “I heard you knocking on my door last night, looking for your cat. I’m sorry I didn’t answer.” 

Of course, I understand and would’ve said so, but he turns his back to us and steps through his front door. 

“Please. Come in.” 

Although the exterior of the house lacks the lights and garland of many on the block, the foyer looks like Christmas has exploded all over the place. Greenery, red ribbons, and twinkle lights decorate the banister, the doorframes, the chandelier, and a mirror. Bubbly little-girl giggles float from the room to the right, which is the one Mr. Porter leads us into. A tall tree adorned by every imaginable ornament sits in one corner. Unwrapped gifts surround it. But what immediately draws my attention—and Mom’s too, I’m certain—is the frail child seated on the floor with Callie nestled in her lap. 

Mom lets out a little cry. For a moment, I think she’s going to run over and snatch up her cat. I think Mr. Porter fears the same thing. The little girl looks up at us with robin’s-egg blue eyes and the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. 

“Santa brought me a kitty,” she says. “I asked and asked for one, but Mama told me Santa couldn’t carry kitties in his sleigh.” The girl looks at the young woman seated in a plush armchair. “Mama was wrong.” 

Mr. Porter clears his throat. “This is my granddaughter, Bailey. That’s my daughter, Sherry.” He gestures at us. “These are my neighbors.” He gives her a knowing lift of an eyebrow. “The ones I told you about.” 

Translation. The ones who were looking for their lost cat. 

Sherry stands and crosses to us, her hand extended. Mom shakes it and introduces all of us. 

“Can we talk?” Sherry asks, tilting her head toward the foyer. 

“Yes, of course,” Mom says. 

Sherry glances at her father. “Dad, can you keep an eye on Bailey please.” 

With the little girl petting a very content-looking Callie and Mr. Porter claiming a seat on his sofa, the four of us and Sherry retreat to the entryway. 

She folds her hands as if in prayer. “Last evening, I went to the door to get something from my car and your cat was on the stoop. She just strolled in as if she owned the place. Bailey spotted her and smiled for the first time in a month. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her like this. Happy. Like she was before…” 

Mom pulls her into a hug. I notice Dad’s eyes glistening. Or maybe it’s the tearful veil I’m gazing through. 

When Mom releases her, Sherry sighs. “I know she’s your cat. I’m sorry we didn’t answer the door last night and return her then.” 

Mom dismisses the apology with the flutter of a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine. I’m so glad she’s indoors and safe.”

“Bailey and I will be going home after dinner. I know it’s asking a lot, but if you wouldn’t mind letting her keep your cat until then, I would be ever so grateful.” 

Mom leans to the side, looking beyond Sherry and into the room where Callie basks in Bailey’s adoration. Bringing her eyes to meet Sherry’s, Mom asks, “Where are you from?” 

“Grantsville,” Sherry replies. “Near Harrisburg.” 

Mom purses her lips. I almost hear her thinking. “Your house…or apartment…are you allowed to have pets?” 

“Oh, yes. And I know what you’re going to say. Bailey has wanted a cat so badly, I should’ve gotten her one. But bringing a kitten into our home right now wouldn’t be fair. So much of my attention has to be on Bailey’s health. There are doctor’s appointments and treatments. I wouldn’t be able to properly care for a young cat.” 

“What about an older one? The shelters are full of them.” 

“I realize that, but it’s the same issue. Finding an adult cat with the right temperament can be a challenge, and I simply can’t tackle any more challenges right now.” Sherry smiles sadly and turns to watch her young daughter. “Your cat is an absolute doll. I wish I could be guaranteed to find one just like her.” 

Mom’s gaze follows Sherry’s. “She’s one in a million for sure.” 

I know then and there what my mother’s going to do next. 

Mom takes both Sherry’s hands. “You’ll need Callie’s carrier for the drive home. I’ll bring it, her food, some of her toys, and her favorite bed over for you.” 

Sherry’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry…what?” 

Mom turns her so they’re both watching Bailey and Callie. “I’ve always thought Callie should be a support animal. You know, I should take her to hospitals to visit and comfort the patients. She’d be a natural. Your little girl needs Callie right now. She’s low maintenance, well behaved, absolutely no trouble at all.” Mom gives Sherry a gentle shake. “Look at them. I don’t think Callie slipped out last night merely because the door was left open. I think she was drawn over here. To where she knew she was needed.” Mom smiles. “Or maybe Santa really did have a hand in it.” 

“But…she’s your cat. I couldn’t possibly—” 

“Borrow her? Of course, you can. What you can’t do is expect Bailey to understand why she can’t keep her new kitty. I’m loaning her to you. Indefinitely.” Mom gives Sherry a hug. “You might need her as a support animal too.” 

Sherry draws back and studies Mom’s face as if searching for any hint of second thoughts. I know my mother. There are none. 

I step in. “You might as well accept Mom’s offer. Trust me. If you don’t, she will get in the car with Callie and follow you back to Grantsville.” 

Sherry chokes a laugh and gives me a big smile before turning it on Mom. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. We’ll take the best care of her. You said her name is Callie?” 

“Yes, but if Bailey wants to call her something else, I’m sure Callie won’t mind. As for taking good care of her, I know you will.” Mom again glances at the little girl and her cat. “I know Callie will take good care of you too.” 

# 

Back at my parents’ house, Mom merrily put together a feast of leftovers from last night’s somber dinner, humming Christmas carols the entire time. I feared Callie’s absence might continue to cast a pall over the Baronick clan. Such is not the case. Every so often I glimpse a sheen of tears in Mom’s eyes, but the smile never leaves her face. 

Although Mom’s generosity and the memory of the smile on that sick little girl’s face definitely bathe our family in the Christmas spirit, one thing continues to concern me. As Seth loads his car with our gifts, I draw Mom aside. 

“Are you going to be all right?” I ask. “I mean, what if Sherry decides to keep Callie even after Bailey…” I can’t say the word. 

“Honey, don’t you remember what we’ve always told you? Never loan something you can’t afford to lose. If Sherry doesn’t return Callie, it’ll be because she needs her more than I do.” 

I throw my arms around my mom and hold her tight. “You are an amazing woman,” I whisper. “I’m proud to be your daughter.” 

We stay like that, sobbing into each other’s hair for quite a while. I notice Wayne come around the corner, spot us, and do a U-turn.

 Finally, Mom and I let go. She thumbs away a tear on my cheek. “You don’t know how much that means to me. Someday, when you have kids, you’ll understand. And now that you mention it—” 

I haven’t mentioned anything. 

“When are you and Seth going to get married and give me grandchildren?” 

 

  

Secret Santa by Annette Dashofy

Every square inch of Golden Oaks Assisted Living was decorated with fake pine garlands, fake poinsettias, colorful bulbs, bows, Santas, and reindeer. In the front room, a group of high school carolers entertained residents in wheelchairs and on walkers. Attired in his civvies, Police Chief Pete Adams passed a brightly decorated Christmas tree. The last time he’d been here, paper angels with handwritten requests for socks, blankets, and toiletries had hung from the branches. Now, the angels graced gift-wrapped boxes under the tree. 

Pete made his way through the crowd to the receptionist’s desk. The petite dark-haired woman was all but hidden by a stunning wood-carved Nativity scene. 

She stood and gave him a professional smile. “Hello, Mr. Adams. I believe he’s in his room.” 

Pete thanked her. She reclaimed her seat, promptly disappearing behind the manger. “You need to find a better place to display that,” he told her. 

“Don’t I know it,” she said with a sigh. 

Strains of “We Three Kings” grew faint as he climbed the stairs and headed down the second-floor hallway. He found his father seated in one of the public gathering areas near his room looking dour despite the presence of Barbara, his neighbor and object of his affections. 

“Hey, Pop.” Pete took the chair across from the older Adams. “Barbara. You look lovely as always.” 

A flush of pink colored her wrinkled cheeks. “Thank you, kind sir.” She patted Pete’s father’s hand. “Harry, look. It’s your son.” 

Harry pulled his hand away. “I know who he is.” 

She met Pete’s gaze and shrugged. “It’s not a good day.” 

“You got that right.” Harry made a fist and thumped the table once. “There’s a thief in this place. Took my favorite pocket watch.” He looked at Pete. “The one that once belonged to President Dwight Eisenhower.” 

Pete knew the watch well. He’d been with his pop the day he bought it at a flea market. The seller swore by the Eisenhower story although even as a kid, Pete had his doubts. Harry had overpaid for the piece. Especially since it never kept the right time. Years later, it quit altogether. “I’m sure you just misplaced it.” 

“I did no such thing.” Harry’s sour expression grew darker. “You people all think I’ve lost my marbles. Well, I’m here to tell you, that watch has been stolen. And it’s not the only thing to go missing around here.” 

Barbara appeared equally downtrodden. “I’m afraid he’s right about that.” 

Harry’s Alzheimer’s often clouded his perception, but his lady friend was sharper than most. If she was agreeing with him, there must be something to the allegation. “What else is missing?” Pete asked her. 

“Little things mostly. Evelyn Downey claims she can’t find the broach her late husband gave her. But she could’ve simply lost it. The clasp hasn’t worked well for years. The last time she wore it to dinner, it fell in her lap. If I hadn’t pointed it out, she’d have dropped it on the floor when she stood up.” 

Pete relaxed. Barbara was probably right. “I’ll check with management and see if anyone has turned it in.” 

“She already did.” Barbara rested her hands on the tabletop. “No one has. If someone found it, they must think finders keepers.” 

Harry looked at her. “That old fart with one leg had his bank robbed.” 

Pete scowled. “What?” 

Barbara shook her head. “His name is Mike.” 

“He’s an old fart.” 

She gave Pete an apologetic smile. “It’s true, he isn’t very pleasant.” 

“What about a bank?” Pete asked. 

“Not a real bank.” She held her hands apart to show the size. “It was an antique mechanical thing. Cast iron, I think. A little man with a rifle supposedly shot a penny into a slot in a tree or something.” 

“William Tell,” Harry corrected her. 

Barbara lowered her hands to her lap. “I only saw it once and not close up. Mike was trying to show it off to a bunch of us but couldn’t get it to work. Still, he was quite proud of it.” 

“Old fart,” Harry muttered. 

Misplacing a cast-iron mechanical bank would be harder than losing a broach or a pocket watch. 

“And then there’s my music box.” 

Pete brought his focus back to Barbara. “The one you keep on your dresser?” He remembered chatting with her in her room once and seeing the dainty gold box, its lid open to reveal intricate inner workings and an ethereal dancer painted inside. 

“Yes. I overwound it years ago and must have broken the spring. But it was so pretty. And it was a gift from my mother, so I couldn’t throw it away.” 

A missing pocket watch, Pete could write off, especially considering it was his father who misplaced it. A lost broach with a faulty clasp? He could accept that as well. But add the mechanical bank and the music box? Harry might be right about a thief roaming the halls of Golden Oaks. 

But Harry’s eyes had glazed over, that all-too-familiar lost look he wore more and more frequently. Pete reached across the table to place a hand on Barbara’s. “I’ll talk to management. See if anyone else has been complaining to them about lost items.” 

“That would be lovely.” She gave him a wry smile. “They don’t pay much attention when we report such things. They just think we’re old, you know?” 

Pete grinned. “I’ll be sure and set them straight.” 

Harry blinked. “Pete? When did you get here?” 

“Just now, Pop.” 

He banged his fist on the table. “Someone stole my Eisenhower pocket watch.” 

*** 

Downstairs, the carolers had concluded their concert and were headed toward the doors. The residents were wheeling and walkering their way to the elevators creating a slow-moving traffic jam. Pete located Connie Smith standing outside her office, chatting with a woman he assumed was a family member. He waited until they finished their conversation and the woman strode away before approaching Connie. 

“Chief Adams.” The case manager smiled brightly. “It’s good to see you.” Her smile faded when she noticed his stern expression. “Is everything okay with Harry?” 

Pete glanced around at a group of residents chatting loudly a few feet away. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.” 

She ushered him into her office and closed the door. “Please. Sit.” Once they were both settled, she picked up a stray pen and asked. “What seems to be the problem?” 

He told her what he’d learned. Her expression transformed from tolerant when he mentioned the lost pocket watch and broach to concerned when he mentioned the bank and music box. 

“Oh, my. That does seem like a lot to simply dismiss.” Connie fingered her hair. “Especially considering what I just heard. The daughter of one of our residents asked me to keep an eye out for her mother’s book. It’s a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird.” 

“That has to be worth a pretty penny.” 

Connie shrugged. “Probably not as much as you’d think. She really loves that book and has literally read it to pieces. The spine is broken, and the pages are loose. At first, I thought she probably carried it with her and left it somewhere around the facility. But her daughter insists her mother never took the book out of her room because it is so fragile. Once I thought about it, I realized she was right. The only time I’ve ever seen it was on her bedside table.” 

“If someone took it, they had to have entered her room.” 

“So it would seem.” Connie absentmindedly drummed the pen on the table. “Apparently, we have a thief.” 

“Several of the items are too large to hide easily. You shouldn’t have too much of a problem locating them.” 

Connie blinked. “You’re assuming the culprit is one of our residents?” 

Pete had to admit, he had been. “If a visitor had taken the cast iron bank, I’d think someone would’ve noticed.” 

“Not necessarily.” Connie set the pen down. “Family and friends are in and out of here all the time. Especially this time of year, they bring gifts and carry tote bags. We don’t search them for contraband.” 

“How about your security cameras?” 

“I don’t have the staff to go back over all the footage.” She fixed him with a hopeful gaze. “But I’d be happy to let you take a look if you like. As you know, there aren’t any cameras in the rooms, but you might see something suspicious in the hallways.” 

Sitting in front of a monitor, searching security footage for a burglar, wasn’t how Pete had anticipated spending Christmas Eve. But he thought of his pop and Barbara and the other Golden Oaks residents losing treasured possessions and knew there was no other place he should be. 

*** 

Harry and Barbara had eagerly accepted Pete’s invitation to look through the videos. They’d had a taste of sleuthing once before when Zoe had enlisted their help to find a killer. This was safer—but duller—by comparison. 

Pete set them both in chairs in the security office and faced his father. “Do you know when your watch went missing?” 

Harry didn’t answer, and his eyes had that blank look again. 

Pete turned to Barbara. “What about your music box?” 

She brought a wrinkled but elegant finger thoughtfully to her chin. “I know it was there on Sunday. I had company. Some ladies from my old church stopped by and were admiring it. I didn’t notice it was missing though until Tuesday.” 

“Good.” Pete tapped the keyboard, pulling up the footage from the camera in the hallway near both Barbara’s and Harry’s rooms and set it to replay Sunday afternoon’s recording. “I’m going to put this on fast forward, so we aren’t here until New Year’s. If you spot anyone coming or going who shouldn’t be, call out and I’ll freeze it.” He shifted his attention to his father. “Got it?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry flipped a hand impatiently. “Roll it.” 

The image played across the screen, showing Barbara’s church ladies scurrying out, which brought a chuckle from her. “Those gals have never moved that fast.” 

“Just let me know if anyone else shows up.” 

Leaving them to watch one monitor, Pete pulled up footage from another camera in the hallway near the resident who’d lost his cast iron bank. 

After twenty minutes, Harry grew impatient. “What are we looking for?” he asked. 

Pete clicked pause on his own video and turned toward them. “Someone coming out of your room or Barbara’s. Someone you didn’t invite or maybe carrying something that doesn’t belong to them.” 

“Some no-good thief stole my Eisenhower pocket watch.” 

“I know, Pop. That’s why we’re doing this.” 

Another twenty minutes passed with an assortment of people zipping down the hallways. The only ones who entered the room Pete watched were nurses, aides, and one of the cleaning crew. His eyes were starting to fog when someone else veered into the room. Pete hit pause, rewind, and play at normal speed. When the visitor exited, he faced the camera, and Pete froze the image. 

“Pop. Barbara. Do you know who this is?” 

Both turned toward him. Barbara adjusted her glasses. “That’s Daryl.” She looked at Harry. “Right?” 

“I don’t remember his name, but we play cards.” 

“And bingo.” Barbara looked at Pete. “Yes. It’s Daryl, but I don’t know his last name.” She pointed at the screen she and Harry had been watching. “He dropped by to visit both of us too. I think he stops in at everyone’s room at least once a week. He’s what you’d call a social butterfly.” 

“You say he visited both of you?” Pete tipped his head toward the video still running on their monitor. “Recently?” 

“Oh, yes. But only when we’re there.” Barbara frowned. “At least I think so.” 

Pete studied the still image on the screen. Daryl was using a cane and his other hand was clearly visible in the frame. If he’d taken anything as large as a cast-iron bank from the room, it wasn’t during this particular visit. Pete looked at Barbara. “Have you seen anything else suspicious?” 

“No.” She gave a disappointed sigh. “The only people in and out of our rooms are those who are supposed to be there. Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize.” She’d given him a solid lead. A social butterfly, if not the thief, might very well know who was. “Do you know which room is Daryl’s?” 

# 

Pete lucked out and found Daryl at home rather than flitting about on his visitation rounds. Pete introduced himself as Harry’s son. 

Daryl smiled broadly. “The police chief.” 

So much for being inconspicuous. “Yes, sir, that’s right. Mind if I come in?” 

Daryl shuffled to one side and waved with his free hand. “Please. I enjoy company.” 

Pete tried to not be too obvious as he scanned the room. Daryl had an extensive collection of wood carvings decorating every available surface. Wildlife, birds, and one extremely realistic-looking turtle drew Pete’s interest. “These are incredible.” 

Daryl beamed. “Thank you.” 

“You did these?” 

He held out his hand which trembled like a dry leaf in a stiff wind. “Back before my son got afraid I’d cut off something vital.” Daryl thumped his cane which was also masterfully embellished. 

“Nice work. I do a little carving myself. Gunstocks mostly. But nothing as intricate as these.” 

“Ha. You should see the stuff I’ve given away. These are my rejects.” 

“I noticed a wooden Nativity scene on the front desk when I came in. More of your handiwork?” 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But no, I can’t claim that one.” 

Pete forced his attention from the carvings to subtly scan the rest of the room. None of the missing items appeared in plain view. Coming back to the wooden menagerie, he asked, “None of your work has turned up missing recently, has it?” 

Daryl scowled in puzzlement. “No. Why?” 

Pete kept his expression relaxed. “Some of your neighbors have reported personal items as lost.” He watched Daryl and added, “Or stolen.” 

The old man’s face went blank. “That’s horrible.” 

Pete’s internal BS detector started screaming. Still, nothing about Daryl suggested criminal intent. Perhaps Pete had been in law enforcement too long. He saw lies everywhere. “Tell me something, Daryl. Do you play poker?” 

“Used to.” He grinned. “Around here though, the only card games are bridge or pinochle.” 

Pete took another survey of the room and nodded. “You should talk to my pop. I’m sure he’d be happy to scare up a poker game if there’s enough interest.” Pete patted the old woodcarver on the shoulder and let himself out. 

# 

The light dusting of snow on Christmas morning was just enough to add to the holiday atmosphere without endangering anyone on the roads, freeing Pete from his policing duties for a few hours. Since Zoe also had some rare downtime, he brought her with him to Golden Oaks. 

Aides attired in elf hats and ears were gathered around the angel tree, collecting and sorting the gifts. Zoe rushed over to them. “Wait.” She placed two more packages under the tree. 

One of the young women smiled and thanked her. “We had quite a bit of participation this year. Look at all these presents.” 

“That’s wonderful.” Zoe smiled back at her and rejoined Pete. “I’m glad to see all these gifts. It seems like a lot more than last year.” 

He shifted his father’s package to his other arm. “See? You didn’t need to worry.” He knew if she had her way, she’d buy something for every resident in the facility. She’d already delivered cookies to the staff on a previous visit. 

They climbed the stairs and headed down the hallway to Harry’s room where they found him seated in his favorite chair, arms folded and a glum look on his face. 

Zoe crossed to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Harry.” 

As always, her presence brought a sparkle to his eyes. “Hello, Sunshine. Is it Christmas?” 

“It sure is.” Pete held out the brightly wrapped box to him. “Santa left this for you at our house.”Harry snorted but accepted the package and gave it a quick shake. “It doesn’t rattle. And it’s light. You got me a box of air.” 

Zoe took a seat on the edge of his bed. “Open it.” 

He ripped into the gift wrap and deposited it on the floor. Pete helped him open the box and watched his eyes grow wide as he pulled out a black and gold Pittsburgh Steelers lap quilt. 

Harry tossed the box on top of the discarded wrapping paper and laid the quilt across his knees. “Maybe they’ll win the Superbowl this year.” But his grin quickly faded. 

“What’s wrong, Pop?” 

“There’s a thief around here. Someone stole my Eisenhower pocket watch. You remember it, don’t you, son?” 

Pete glanced at Zoe who’d taught him to go along with Harry’s repeated tales rather than remind him they’d already covered this ground. “I remember, Pop.” Pete had asked Connie to keep an eye on Daryl regarding the missing items but hadn’t heard back. Considering the holiday, he didn’t expect to for a few days. 

One of the elfin aides appeared in the doorway with a stack of boxes—two larger and one small one. “Ho ho ho.” She entered the room and held out the gifts to Harry. “You must’ve been very good this year.” 

He accepted them with a snort. “You don’t know me very well.” 

The aide winked at Pete and left. 

Zoe rose from the bed and leaned over to examine the tags. “What do we have here?” 

Harry shook the small box. Nothing rattled but he scowled. “This one is heavier than it looks.” 

Zoe met Pete’s gaze. “The big ones have the angel tree tags on them. This little one only has Harry’s name on it. Nothing saying who it’s from.” 

“Open it, Pop.” 

Harry ripped into the colorful paper revealing a generic white box with tape keeping the lid closed. He refused Zoe’s offer of help and picked at the tape until he managed to peel it off. He lifted the lid, removed some crumpled tissue paper, and choked a laugh. “It’s my Eisenhower watch.” He studied it closer. “And it’s running.” He pressed it to his ear and then held it out to Pete. “Listen.” 

Pete could hear the soft tick, tick, tick from where he stood. Before he had a chance to give the suddenly reappeared and resurrected timepiece a closer look, an exuberant cry from across the hall drew his attention. A moment later, Barbara appeared in the doorway on her walker. 

“Come see what I got,” she said, tears glistening. 

Harry set his gifts on the floor as Pete handed him his cane. All three of them crossed to Barbara’s room where gift wrap was folded neatly on her dresser, next to her music box which was playing a soft melody Pete had never heard before. 

Barbara stood over it, a hand pressed to her cheek. “It works. It’s been broken for years, but now it works.” 

Zoe picked up the gift wrap and looked at the tag. “Doesn’t say who it’s from, but the handwriting matches Harry’s.” 

Pete met her gaze and wondered if she was thinking the same thing. 

A smile spread across her beautiful face. “Who had the bank and the broach? And the book?” 

He gestured to her. “Come on. Let’s go see if they received mystery gifts too.” 

# 

It didn’t take long to discover that the secret Santa had struck elsewhere as well. The William Tell bank was back in one-legged Mike’s room and was firing pennies into the slot for the first time in more than a decade. Evelyn Downey was happily wearing her broach which now had a new clasp keeping it secure. And one ecstatic reader was showing off her newly rebound copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.

According to reports shared throughout Golden Oaks, several other residents had received personal items they’d thought were long gone and which were now as good as new. 

The elves were as clueless about the source of the “gifts” as the residents were. Pete, however, had his suspicions. He took Zoe’s hand and drew her down the hall. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Following a hunch,” he told her. 

He found Daryl standing in his open doorway, chatting with a young man Pete had seen around the place, usually pushing a cart loaded with a trash can and cleaning supplies. This time, Pete noticed a strong resemblance between the two, as if the janitor was a much younger version of the woodcarver. When they spotted Pete and Zoe’s approach, the janitor started to walk away. 

The final puzzle piece fell in place. Pete called out to him. “Hold up a minute. I want to talk to both of you.” 

The janitor’s eyes took on that deer-in-headlights look common in guilty parties. Daryl, on the other hand, only looked smug. 

“What’s going on?” Zoe whispered. 

“Just wait,” Pete whispered back. He pointed from Daryl to the janitor. “Let me guess. Grandfather and grandson?” 

They exchanged glances. 

The younger man swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” 

“AKA Santa and Santa’s helper.” Pete didn’t need to pose it as a question. He knew. 

Fifteen minutes later, Pete, Zoe, Daryl, and his grandson, whose name was Levon, gathered around the woodcarving collection after sharing their story. Daryl had come up with the idea after learning about all the broken treasures his neighbors possessed. Levon had the opportunity to sneak those items out of the rooms while cleaning, hiding the harder to conceal pieces in the trash can. 

“Levon has helped me in my workshop since he was a wee tyke.” Daryl’s pride was evident in his smile as he spoke. “He got to be better than me. That Nativity scene you asked about. That’s his handiwork. And he’s not just skilled at carving but at fixing stuff too. I don’t think there’s anything he can’t make work again.” Daryl patted his grandson’s shoulder. “Kid’s got…how do you young folks say it? Crazy skills.” 

Levon lowered his head but not before Pete spotted the crimson flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. 

“Let me get this straight.” Pete looked at Daryl. “You located the broken personal items.” Pete shifted his focus to Levon. “You stole and repaired them.” 

“And wrapped and put them under the tree,” Daryl added. “‘Stole’ is such a harsh word.” 

Levon lifted his gaze to Pete’s. “Are you gonna arrest me?” 

At his side, Pete heard Zoe choke back a laugh. “I don’t know,” he said. “Did you keep any of the loot for yourself?” 

Levon’s eyes widened. “No, sir.” 

“Did you sell any of it for profit?” 

“No, sir. Not for profit or for nothing. I only fixed the stuff and gave it all back. Honest.” 

Pete couldn’t maintain his stern cop face any longer and smiled. “Well, then, I don’t see any reason to arrest you.” 

Levon exhaled so hard, Pete feared the kid’s knees might buckle. 

Daryl raised a finger. “Can I ask one favor?” 

Pete nodded. 

“Could we keep this just among us? We might be playing Santa, but I’d like to keep it a secret Santa if you don’t mind.” 

“No problem.” Pete shook hands with both men. 

As Pete and Zoe walked hand-in-hand back to Harry’s room, it seemed every other conversation they overheard revolved around the joy of having a beloved memento back and like new. Daryl and Levon had been busier than Pete had realized. 

“I think all the comforters and socks and robes from under the angel tree are being ignored because of the cool toys.” Zoe made air quotes around her last two words.

“Maybe, but I doubt any of the angel tree gifters will mind.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Right?” 

She snuggled closer against him. “Right. After all, people like Daryl and Levon? They’re real angels on earth.”