Santa Goes Bananas: A Cozy Christmas Mystery Page 3

  At this, Santa shook his head vehemently, muttering through gritted teeth. “Never gonna’ happen,” he answered.

  The point-blank refusal prompted another shrug. “Then maybe it’d be better for you, and for everyone, if you left the van in the garage, big guy? Face it, you’ve got enough on your plate without another night of epic gift-giving. Take Amka, for example – chances are you won’t even get to see her this year. The likelihood is she’ll be spending Christmas shacked up in bed with her new boyfriend. Not that you can blame her – that boy is hot stuff!”

  As he made this last point, the gross phantasm puckered up his cherry-red lips and performed a crude grinding motion with his fifty inch waist.

  Totally incensed, Santa lurched forward and tried seizing his enemy by the throat, but for a massively overweight man, he proved annoyingly nimble on his feet. In a blind rage, Santa tore after him, but there was no laying a finger on the twinkle-toed fugitive. Again and again Santa stampeded forward, only to be sidestepped with the greatest of ease, the obscene joker laughing and leering at him.

  Five minutes of this and Santa was out on his feet, wearied beyond belief, blowing hard for air. Watching him gasp for breath, the elusive fat man shook his head in conclusion, chuckling as he did so.

  “Beaten to the punch again . . . Take my word for it, bro, it’s time you hung up your boots and let the Jon Morans’ of this world get on with it.”

  Shattered by his efforts, Santa didn’t even have the strength left to deny it. And it was in this deeply troubled frame of mind, still huffing and puffing, that he finally resurfaced from the nightmarish vision and snapped awake.

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later, Amka and Kyle were in the back of a taxi, headed towards Fifth Avenue and the grand unveiling of Bzaah’s new flagship store. Until then, the company had been strictly an online concern, but now, with this massive retail space in the very heart of Manhattan, it was putting itself on the physical map in a big way. Telling the world that Bzaah had arrived, and that Jon Moran had arrived with it, and that they were both here to stay.

  For all these reasons, tonight was hugely important for the company’s founder and reigning CEO. His preparations for it had been exhaustive and painstaking and no expense had been spared in creating a lavish event for the enormously rich and the incredibly powerful. But despite the glittering guest-list, there was one person, more than any other, whose presence Jon Moran considered to be of the greatest importance. And that was Kyle Moran, his only son and heir, groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps from the word go.

  No wonder then that Kyle’s phone was being flooding with text messages as he made his way to the opening, especially as he’d turned down his father’s offer of a town car the day before. As a result, Jon Moran had been demanding progress reports ever since Kyle had set off from Cambridge and taken the bus to 30th St. Now, as a yellow cab ferried them into Manhattan, the young man’s Samsung Galaxy vibrated again and both he and Amka looked down at the display.

  Latest ETA? It read.

  “Latest ETA!” Kyle exclaimed. “Why that would be the same as it was five minutes ago.”

  “It’s a big night for him,” answered Amka.

  “And don’t I know it.” Looking out the window, Kyle gave himself over to brooding.

  Amka’s hand was already in his, but now she gave it a meaningful squeeze and returned her boyfriend to the moment.

  Turning around, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Listen to me. Five minutes in the Big Apple and it’s like my nerves are already plugged into the main grid.”

  “You and me both,” Amka answered. “I feel like I’ve been mainlining espressos for the last half hour.”

  Looking at her concernedly, it was Kyle’s turn to give Amka’s hand a firm squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. We can do this. And there’s no point waiting any longer – it’s definitely time to get the introductions out of the way.”

  “I get that. But you’re really sure me turning up unannounced is the best way forward here?”

  “Trust me. It’s as good a time as any to break the ice. Dad’s going to be seriously distracted this evening, which means he won’t get to train his laser-guided sights on you.”

  “That’s not exactly comforting,” Amka told him.

  But being of comfort was obviously important to Kyle Moran, as the impassioned look on his face made clear: “Look, we’ve discussed this already, there’s nothing any of them can do to separate us. No number of threats or any amount of harassment is going to cut it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for you – that’s the bottom line here.”

  Moved by her boyfriend’s declaration, Amka felt her heart go out to Kyle as it so often did. Equally inspired, she brought her right hand to his cheek and used it to draw him forwards and kiss him tenderly. And in those moments she felt almost invincible as befitted a young woman who was very much in love. And though it still amazed Amka how deep that love was already, she was in no way sceptical of it. Her heart was convinced, 100%.

  From the very beginning, it had felt like a done deal. Even before they’d so much as talked, there’d been something startling and powerful about the moment of connection, no sooner had their eyes first met. This was in Burden Hall, during week one of their degree course, and Amka had not needed to wonder at the stranger’s identity. Everyone on campus knew who Kyle Moran was – the only son of Jon Moran, and hence the heir to the Bzaah fortune – and yet he showed not the slightest trace of self-consciousness. It was one of those things that had first attracted her – the way he carried himself as lightly as he did, with a kind of understated confidence, keeping a low profile without retreating into his shell.

  And then, demonstrating that same naturalness, Kyle had struck up a conversation with her on Day 3 as they headed out the classroom and continued along the corridor. Both deciding, by the time they’d reached the corner of it, to keep on going and grab a coffee together and get to know each other some more.

  From that point onwards, Kyle and Amka had never looked back. And even after they’d opened up to one another – and the astonishing truth had lain revealed – there’d never been any question of their bowing to the obstacles. If their fathers were spoiling for a fight, and set on a collision course, that was entirely their own affair. The young lovers wanted no part of the bad-tempered clash.

  As their cab took a right onto Times Square, another reminder of these obstacles was waiting for them. At ground level, the sidewalk was packed with a vast swathe of shoppers going about their seasonal business, weighed down with many armfuls of bags. But above the shoppers, and the extravagant store displays, Jon Moran’s message to Santa Claus was once more in evidence, bigger and bolder than ever before.

  “Don’t look now,” Kyle murmured.

  But as he said it, Amka’s head was already turned in the same direction, staring up at the gigantic display hanging off the side of the Marriott Marquis building. There, for the viewing pleasure of the massive crowds below it, her father was being mercilessly lampooned yet again. It was the same advert that appeared to be on constant rotation, anywhere you cared to look, taking up the full spectrum of TV channels and every last nook and cranny of the world wide web. Given how commonplace it was, Amka had known it was only a matter of time before her father chanced upon the savage mockery; and after speaking with him earlier that morning, she’d understood that it had finally hit home.

  Sensitive to the point of clairvoyance, Amka been able to hear it in her father’s voice – the added injury. Without doubt, he was reeling from the provocation. The worst possible kind of distraction with Christmas Eve on the near horizon, looming large as could be.

  All of this had made Amka anxious in turn. Anxious and not a little guilty for adding to Santa’s worries by postponing her homecoming until the very last minute. Aware, also, of just how much worse it would be if he only knew where she was headed right now, and who she was headed there with. Siding with the enemy an
d betraying her own kinfolk in the process, at least to her father’s way of thinking. But although, on one level, she knew this to be a nonsense, something of the charge stuck and made her feel conflicted. It was a result of the great love she had for her father and the tribal loyalty that went with it. Which was why, despite everything, it still felt kind of treacherous – her being there tonight.

  Chapter Nine

  Jon Moran was talking with the mayor of the city, the CEO of Apple, the head of a multi-billion hedge fund, and the biggest box office star on the planet when his son arrived at long last. Although, like the expert multi-tasker he was, the founder of Bzaah didn’t break off from his anecdote for a second or show any other sign of neglecting his high-powered guests. Still he caught Kyle’s eye the instant he walked in and gestured him over with a slight nod of the head. Relieved and delighted in equal measure to finally have his boy here.

  But these happy sensations had barely registered with Jon Moran before they were complicated by the presence of a young woman who was walking over to him also. Herself and Kyle Moran very much in step. And although there was little for the businessman to go on as yet, he already understood – as a keen student of body language – that the two young people were a pair.

  Bringing his anecdote to a premature close – his audience laughed at it anyway – Jon allowed the Mayor to take over and regale them with stories of City Hall. Then he turned and watched the young woman closely as she crossed the marble floorspace and navigated the star-studded event.

  She was tall, dark, graceful, alert looking. These were his initial impressions. As such, it was easy to see the attraction immediately. What she wasn’t was a known quantity and this felt vaguely insulting somehow. Yes, he thought it a little underhanded of Kyle to spring her presence on him this way – without prior warning. It was not something his son would have done even one year ago. As such, it was another sign that he was evolving in ways that Jon Moran didn’t think much of and which he’d already resolved to correct.

  But despite the silent disapproval, there could be no disputing the great pleasure Jon took in embracing his only son once he’d stepped inside arm’s reach. Afterwards, he pulled back and put a hand on each of Kyle’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. At the same time, introducing his flesh and blood to the rest of the group.

  “My boy, Kyle. Lately of Harvard Business School.”

  Respectfully, Kyle took another step forwards and shook each of the men’s hands in turn, but there was only one thing on his mind as his father could see. Turning to his companion, Kyle swept one hand out, trying to make the gesture seem casual.

  “Dad. This is Amka,” he said.

  Turning to face her also, Jon Moran smiled and said nothing for a few moments. Then he said, “Well, well, well.”

  She didn’t shrink underneath his gaze, or shirk it either, but nor was it exactly welcomed by her. Still, the young woman called herself to order, took a step forward, and offered her hand to him.

  “Hello, Mr Moran.”

  With practiced deftness, he took a step forward, ignored the offered hand, took hold of her elbow and planted a light kiss on her cheek. A greeting that slightly startled this young woman, just as it startled his own son. The fact was Jon Moran could wrong-foot anyone when he had half a mind to. It was, as much as anything, how he’d risen up in the world from very humble beginnings and made the long unlikely voyage from an impoverished English childhood to these improbable heights.

  “A fellow undergraduate?” he asked Amka, retreating half a step.

  “That’s right. Another business major,” she answered him.

  “Amka’s on a full scholarship,” Kyle added, not a little proudly.

  Jon Moran found himself nodding at the achievement. “Is that right? Well good for you.” The brains he’d already sensed in her. It was a quality that enlivened her features. The young woman was nobody’s fool and there was nothing to be gained by taking her for one, either.

  “And where do you hail from, Amka, may I ask?

  “The Far North of Alaska.”

  “Alaska, I see, and you’ll be heading back there to spend the holidays with your folks?”

  “I will.”

  “That’s a shame. I mean not the family part – we wouldn’t have you an orphan – but that you won’t be able to join our own clan for the yearly shindig. Although I’m not be the biggest fan of Christmas, as you might have heard, my family keep me in line and make sure that it’s served up with all the trimmings.”

  “Thanks. That’s very kind of you. But I’ll be heading back tomorrow,” Amka asserted.

  Undaunted, Jon Moran tried throwing her off balance once more. “Then what about New Year’s Eve?” he asked. “We’ve booked a musical line-up that wouldn’t look out of place at Madison Square Gardens.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll have to see . . .” Smiling politely, the young woman kept her composure and refused to be drawn on the subject.

  Now Kyle tried running interference for her.

  “I saw the latest advert up in Times Square on the way over here,” he said.

  Despite himself, Jon Moran’s face lit up at the mere mention of the advertisement, and the reminder that it was hanging there, in the beating heart of Manhattan, broadcasting 24/7. Then he laughed at the content, once more reminded of it, which meant that Jon Moran was laughing at his own joke in essence. For he was the one who’d come up with the idea.

  “You should really lay off Santa,” Kyle said.

  Mistaking the comment for a joke, Jon offered another laugh, but his son kept on looking sad and serious. Puzzled by the strange criticism, he shook his head and sought to defend himself from it. “Why? Do you think I’ve hurt his feelings or something?”

  Kyle shrugged awkwardly. “It’s just that you’re undermining the magic of Christmas, don’t you think? I mean what are the little kids of this world going to think when they see an ugly caricature like that?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, and readjusting the position of his feet, Jon Moran readied himself for debate. “Well, you might start by telling me how it helps anyone to imagine that a jolly fat man is going to come down the chimney and fulfill your heart’s desire? That creates a hell of a lot of expectations, any way you care to look at it. Expectations that the world’s long-suffering parents are already finding it awful hard to meet . . .”

  Pausing to let his opening argument sink in, Jon Moran pushed on with it.

  “At least by making these toys affordable and keeping costs down for the consumer, Bzaah is offering practicable help. In fact, I’d go so so far as to say that Bzaah is a better friend to these needy children than Santa ever was or ever will be. If there’s any magic here then it’s the magic of deep discounting – that’s the real cause for Christmas cheer.”

  Although Jon Moran had not raised his voice once, or otherwise betrayed any sign of emotion, these beliefs were close to his heart. Moreover, he was speaking from bitter personal experience, having been a writer of long lists to Santa Claus as a small boy back in the West Midlands. Lists that had never once been answered or otherwise acknowledged by the seasonal bigwig. His every last fervent request turned down flat, despite the sincerity of them. An experience that had colored Jon Moran’s dismissal of Christmas, just as other bleak experiences from his unhappy childhood had led him to write off other institutions and authorities that were thought sacred and held dear.

  Despite the soundness of the argument, Kyle looked down at the floor, almost as if he was embarrassed by his father and what he’d just said. This puzzled Jon Moran a second time. Was this just a side-effect of young love – a consequence of the overblown sentimentality that went with it? Or was it a sign of some even greater derangement?

  Either way, it did not bode well.

  Now Jon looked to the girlfriend again to see what she made of their disagreement. But she was looking down at the floor also, equally discomfited by his little speech. The two youngsters clearly
in synch, united in this as in much else besides. And seeing them stood that way, on the same page, Jon Moran couldn’t help but blame Amka for all those changes he’d detected in his son of late.

  “Where’s Mom?” Looking up and away, Kyle scanned the room for her.

  Jon Moran nodded off at the adjoining room. “Talking to his holiness, the Archbishop, the last time I saw her.”

  “Well I’d better go tell her I’m here.”

  “All right, son. You do that. And as for Father Christmas, let no man say I’ve written him off completely. After all, he’ll be making an appearance later on tonight.”

  Chapter Ten

  Santa was in his upstairs study, stood before a large global map that took up one wall, staring at an incredible number of tiny red pins stuck into it. Taken as a whole, the vast spread of them represented this year’s delivery route – all those children who were in line for a festive miracle and destined to find one waiting for them at the foot of the bed.

  The aim was to ship just under a million and a half presents this Christmas Eve. No mean feat until you put it in perspective and compared it to the level of gift-giving practiced by Santa’s father, grandfather, and earlier forebears. It was, in point of fact, another all time-low. Yet more proof of a year-on-year decline. A further grim reminder of just how little magic was still left in the tank.

  There was no knowing for sure the precise reason why the magic was ebbing away. Santa had his theories, as did each of the elves, but whatever the true nature of it, they were locked in a struggle to preserve as much as they could of the precious energy for as long as was possible.

  It was in an effort to do exactly that – by staying focused and keeping his spirits up – that Santa had modified his habits these last few days, and cut out those ones that didn’t do him any good. In particular, he’d made a point of avoiding all media – social and otherwise – in an effort to get his head straight. No TV, web browsing, radio or newspapers. Just a dozen or so pages of a John Grisham paperback before he went to bed.