Cathy came up to the apartment bright and early the next morning just as I was finishing my second cup of coffee. Since I already knew her “secret” and because I doubted I could feign surprise well enough to fool my father, I excused myself to head down to the shop.
“Liz, before you go,” she said, “Thanksgiving at our house this year again?”
“Sure!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. “But this time, you’re going to have to let me share in the cooking. Not fair for you to be saddled with all the work.”
I’d been practicing that line ever since last November. I loved the time we spent together with the family and the games we played afterward. The food, however . . . Don’t get me wrong: I love my sister-in-law fiercely, but Julia Child she is not.
“I was thinking,” Cathy said, “maybe we ought to invite Maxine over. I don’t think she has any family.”
“Good idea,” Dad said, followed by a quick intake of breath. “I hate to add to your work, but what would you think about also inviting Amanda and Kohl?” He went on to explain the relationship to Maxine.
“But they don’t know yet,” I said. “That could end up being tricky if she doesn’t tell them. Or even if she does and they don’t take it well.”
“Just a thought,” Dad said.
“It’s a good one,” Cathy said. “Thanksgiving is still a week away. We can give it a few days. Maybe see how they do before we decide. I’ll make sure I get a big enough turkey just in case.”
“Why don’t you let me do that?” I said. “We have plenty of room in our refrigerator. I can even mix up Mom’s old stuffing recipe that Parker likes and start cooking it here, so you don’t have to mess with food so early in the morning.” Appealing to her morning sickness. I’d never sunk lower. Besides, this way I could ensure that it was real turkey we’d be eating. Cathy had been known to make “creative substitutions.”
“Great, Liz. Sounds like a plan,” my dad said before Cathy could respond. She’d been tag-teamed. Before she could catch on to what happened, I hightailed it downstairs.
# # #
Cathy’s announcement buoyed Dad’s spirits, and he was in a good mood the rest of the morning. Well, most of the morning. On the fourth or fifth attempt to hire a Santa for the parade, he slammed the shop phone down and it eyed him reproachfully. “Santa’s not picking up, and he’s not returning my calls.”
“Are you sure you got the right phone number?” When Dad and I had discussed where to hire a Santa, he’d called Frank from the train show who’d referred us to his Santa service. “Or maybe he’s working somewhere else today. Unless . . . could you be on the naughty list again?”
“I want to try the address,” Dad said. “It’s not far. Want to go?”
“That depends. Do you think I’ll get to pet the reindeer? Should I bring carrots?”
“Seriously,” Dad said, “what kind of Santa turns down business?”
“Why all the fuss? You could always play Santa. I thought you’d be champing at the bit to ride the big train.”
“Yeah, but this guy was really good. And now I’m worried about him . . . and more than a little curious. I just want to swing by the place and make sure the old guy’s okay.”
“You want to see Santa out of costume.”
“Well, there’s that,” he said. “I mean, I guess I understand there’s such a thing as method acting, but that Santa never stepped out of character. Never took off the beard. Not once.”
“Maybe it’s Miracle on 34th Street all over again. Maybe they hired the real Santa, and he’s not returning your calls because he had to rush back to the North Pole and check on toy production.”
“I hope not. As you recall, that movie started out with the Santa they hired for the parade showing up plastered.”
“It just freaks you out that you never saw his face.”
“Or any real part of him. And no, I don’t like it. I watch people. It’s what I’ve always done. All I know is he’s around five seven and has a small mole next to his right eye. And considering what’s happened at this train show, I’d like to put a real face on this guy.”
“Really?”
“You were patient with me. You actually got through twenty-seven minutes of The Notebook before you dozed off. New record. I can at least humor you. And we do need to hire a Santa.”
“You’re curious, too.”
“Chip off the old block.”
# # #
Leaving Cathy running the shop on a relatively quiet weekday, Dad and I headed out again, this time to a small stretch of no-frills patio homes squeezed in on an already established street. A cheery fall wreath, decorated in orange and red flowers, hung on the door overlooking a neatly swept patio, the only thing making it different from any of the other six connected houses. “A. Werth” was hand-painted on the mailbox.
Dad knocked. All my earlier teasing aside, my stomach now twisted in anticipation of what we might find. How many doors had he knocked on when he worked for the police? How many welfare checks ended up with him finding an elderly person unresponsive, locked inside his own home? I could always tell when he’d arrived too late. He’d sit quietly at the dinner table and pretend to listen to the conversation. He’d even force himself to take a few bites of his food. But we all knew he wasn’t really there.
When nobody answered the door, Dad leaned back, almost imperceptibly, to try to look into the front window. I hoped he wouldn’t find Santa lying with a broken hip or worse: dead from a heart attack from just a few too many Christmas cookies.
The neighbor’s door opened and a woman with curly white hair stuck her head out. “I don’t think she can hear you. She’s out back.”
“Thank you,” Dad called out, and started walking down the sidewalk that led behind these units. Only one woman was out back, pulling dead plants out of a raised bed.
“Mrs. Werth?” Dad said.
When she heard his voice, I could see her back noticeably stiffen, but she spun around a moment later with a friendly smile and looked us over. “Do I know you?” She pulled off her gardening gloves.
“I might be looking for your husband,” Dad said. “A. Werth? I think he played Santa over at the train and toy show.”
By this time, the woman who’d met us out front was shamelessly peering out her window.
“There must be some mistake,” the woman said. “I have no husband. I’m Annie Werth.” She smiled at Dad, then me, then Dad again, in that same over-the-top smile actresses use in commercials when trying to convince consumers how much fun it’d be to buy their products to scrub their floors or degrease their ovens.
“That’s odd,” Dad said. “He gave this address.”
Annie shrugged, just a little too innocently. And then I saw it. A mole next to her right eye.
“You’re A. Werth,” I said.
“I just said as much,” Annie said, although she couldn’t hide the growing concern.
“You mean . . .” Dad said, doing a double-take as he squinted at her face. His eyes opened wider when he saw the mole.
Annie threw her gloves down and glanced at the neighbor’s window. “Perhaps we ought to talk about this inside.”
# # #
Just inside the patio door was a small dinette table, warmed by the afternoon sun, and we sat down.
“Yes,” she said. “I am Santa Claus.”
“Have you been doing this for long?” Dad said.
She threw her head back. “No, it’s not a job I’ve been doing for a while.” She looked up. “I think you know that. One-time wonder. The woman who runs the Santa service owed me a favor, so she let me do it.”
“Why the train show?” I asked.
She sat silently for a moment. “I’m not in trouble, am I? Are you police?”
I said no at the same time Dad said yes.
“Retired,” he added. “But I do help out.”
“Is that what you’re doing here now?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
“Actually,” I said, “we’re here to hire a Santa Claus for the parade. You did an amazing job.”
“So those were your calls on the machine,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “I am such an idiot.”
“Why were you so desperate to work the train show?” I asked.
“I have my reasons,” she said.
“Did it have anything to do with Craig McFadden?” Dad asked.
“The guy who fell?” Annie snorted. “I may have met him at the shows, but I’m not sure. Comics were never my thing. Although, I have to admit his aim was pretty good.” Her smile faded. “Sorry he died though.”
“His aim?” Dad said, then whipped his head in my direction.
“Frank?” we both asked in stereo.
“Conductor Frank W.,” Dad said.
“The W stands for Werth, doesn’t it?” I added.
Her tight-lipped scowl announced that we’d nailed it. “My ex.”