Page 46 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

RYAN

The pipe repairs areexpensive, but after Jeremy’s uncle delivers his quote in the parlor, Jeremy takes me aside and says, “It’s the best he can do, man. As it is, I had to agree to wear a sandwich board next spring and stand out on the side of the road shouting to people about cleaning their pipes. I’m probably going to get run over.”

I smile at him and clap him on the back. “I’ll be sure to tell Cynthia that, brother.”

She’s been gone all day, having driven to a casting call in Washington, D.C. Some Revolutionary War movie she should be a perfect fit for. Jeremy didn’t get a call from them, which he’s complained about half a dozen times.

He scowls at me and says, “What do I care if Cynthia knows?”

He’s a better actor than I am, but he’s still not going to win any awards.

We head back into the parlor and rejoin Anabelle and his uncle, who are talking stiffly about the weather. I can tell she’s exhausted. She spent the whole time they were in the basement wandering around the parlor, picking out the Santas for the scavenger hunt. I nominated the one who’s smoking a pipe, but she told me it was inappropriate. I was tempted to point outshe’s the one who’d bought it, but I did the rare thing and shut my mouth.

Maybe it’s time to give her the sweetgum ornament.

She could sell it to cover the cost of the repairs she’ll need to keep that dickweed away from the B&B and rebrand. Grace and Enoch are leaving tomorrow to spend a couple of days in Richmond, but he promised to let me ask him dozens of questions after they get back to the inn tonight. I’ll record our conversation, obviously, because my memory’s nothing like Anabelle’s.

Still. I should probably give her the ornament.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot, though I worry if I give it to her, she might tell me to screw off—nicely, of course—and then I won’t be able to help her with Hurricane Weston.

Besides, I don’t think she’d sell the damn thing.

I did a Google image search for some of her Santas. Don’t get any ideas—I didn’t do it because I’m interested in stealing them. I wanted to know what resources she has available, and a few of them are worth good money.

But if she won’t sell them, she probably won’t sell the ornament.

So I’m holding out for now, because I don’t trust Weston to play fair, and Anabelle’s not a dirty fighter. I am.

The Jacobses say their goodbyes, and after they leave, Anabelle turns to look at me.

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” she says in a bewildered tone.

“Do you have to do anything?” I scratch my head, feeling helpless and out of sorts.

“I have a few things to ship,” she says slowly.

“So let me help.”

I expect her to say no—I brace myself for it—but she nods several times. “Yes, please.”

There’s a grin on my face as I follow her upstairs to her room. It’s only when I walk inside that I realize I’ve made a dangerous offer. This is her space, with herbed. It smells like her and everything, from the little tree decorated in the corner to the worktable in the center of the space and small collection of her Franken-Santas sitting on top of the dresser, speaks of Anabelle.

“I’ve got to stand here for a minute just to soak it in,” I tell her. “If I immerse myself too quickly, I may drown in the holiday spirit.”

She gives me a bemused look. “We wouldn’t want that. I would prefer not to explain myself to the authorities. Something tells me they won’t believe me if I say the cause of death was Christmas.”

I’m glad she’s able to joke. I know all of this has settled heavily on her shoulders.

It’s only when Anabelle shuts the door behind me that I hear a yowl and remember her cat.

“Uh…is he going to be okay with me being in here?” I ask, staying put.

“He’ll need to learn to live with it,” she says stubbornly, giving Saint Nick a hard look as he comes slinking out from the other side of the bed. Then she heads over to the worktable and grabs a plastic snack bag from one of the drawers before handing it to me.

I open it and am blasted with a meat smell.

I pop one of the little snacks into my mouth, and Anabelle gasps. “Spit it out.”

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