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“Bitter? Oh, not at all. In fact I’m very grateful that Jurgen—that’s the new manager’s name—Jurgen Winklevoss—was chosen to replace me. I’m sure that for the next forty years he’ll succeed in running into the ground the very establishment it took me forty years to put on the map.” He gave me a radiant smile. “Now if I might make a suggestion as to your Hampton Cove Santa—be happy.”

“Be happy?”

“Yes, be very happy, for your village—”

“Town. We’re actually an actual town.”

“Even better! Your town has just acquired the very best Santa New York has to offer, even if he is a little long in the tooth, at least according to Jurgen Winklevoss. Our loss is your gain, Miss…”

“Poole. Odelia Poole. And this is Detective Chase Kingsley.”

“Oh, you have employed an actual detective to track down Santa, eh? Leave no stone unturned and all that. Well done, Miss Poole. Bully for you. I’m sure you’ll find your Santa, and when you do, give him my warmest regards.” The Santa that was gracing his own store had just allowed his beardto be ripped off by a little girl and Mr. McCastle regarded him disdainfully. “At any rate Kris was a much better Santa than this pimpled teenager whose face has never even seen a razor blade. Mike, put that beard back on this instant! Put. The. Beard. Back. On. Right now!”

We decided to leave Mr. McCastle to his work. He looked like he was a pretty busy man. And as we left, he was just trying to restore Santa’s beard with sticky tape, drawing shocked stares from a dozen boys and girls and their parents. They were going to have a lot of explaining to do.

Chapter 10

Chase decided to pay a quick visit to his mother, in case his grandfather might have dropped by. Not that he was likely to, as Martha was not his daughter. Still, they’d always shared a great connection, even after Chase’s dad died, so maybe he’d turned to her for help in his hour of need.

“So you really think your grandfather is in trouble, huh?” I asked as we walked from the car to the brownstone where his mom lived with her sister.

“There’s no other explanation for all this secrecy. The only reason he wouldn’t confide in me would be that he’s in some kind of deep hole he feels ashamed to tell me about.”

“But what could it be? Drugs? Alcohol? Gambling debts? What?”

“I have no idea. As far as I know Grandpa was always one for clean living, and tried to steer clear of any kind of vice. Though apparently he was not above selling cigars to his neighbors.”

“Not exactly a great crime.”

“No, but what if that’s only part of the story? What if he got involved with some shady characters? Maybe as a way to supplement his pension? I just wish he’d told me. I could have helped.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder.“It’s not your fault. Your grandfather is a grown man. He knows how to take care of himself.”

“Or not.”

He rang the bell and moments later we were ensconced in the cozy kitchen of a small apartment that housed Chase’s mom and her sister. Aunt Ariadne was a forceful and voluble woman, apparently quite the opposite of Martha Kingsley. Chase had warned me his mom wasn’t exactly the life and soul of the party. After Chase’s dad died, she’d had a mental breakdown, and now lived with Ariadne, who was also awidow, though her husband hadn’t been a cop but an MTA security guard. And instead of dying from a gunshot wound, like Chase’s dad, he’d died of a coronary after a lifelong habit of enjoying all the best Kentucky Fried Chicken had to offer.

“So you finally come to see us, huh?” asked Ariadne, chopping an innocent onion on the chopping block with so much violence I was sure she was going to cut straight through the block.

“I told you, Aunt Ariadne. I’ve been busy.”

“So you say,” she snapped. “So busy you can’t even visit your own mother. Huh!”

I decided that maybe I should intervene on Chase’s behalf. “It’s true, Aunt Ariadne. Chase has been very busy. Lots of criminals to catch and all that.”

“Huh! Criminals in The Hamptons! Everybody knows they don’t have real criminals in The Hamptons! Only a bunch of teenagers crashing cars on Friday night.”

“Well, we do have our fair amount of murders.”

“Murders! A bunch of rich people killing other rich people is not what I call murder.”

“What would you call it then?” asked Chase, giving me a cheery wink.

“Good riddance! I hope they all murder each other! Every last one of them! The world would be a much better place without all those horrible excuses for human beings! Leeches, the lot of ‘em!”