Cowabunga Christmas by Anna Celeste Burke Read Free Book Online Page A

of found it on the hotel intranet.”
That’s because I had sort of hacked into the internal communication
network used by hotel employees. I wanted to see what was being said, behind
the scenes, about a dead Santa. I tried to explain the reason for my hacking to
Brien who had that worried, confused look back on his face. Hacking bothers
him—even if it’s being done in the cause of justice.
    “I
didn’t find much—basic information about the incident, plus a few talking
points for hotel staff. Specific language about how to respond to questions
from guests, you know? Typical corporate-speak ‘no need for alarm,’
‘everything’s under control,’ ‘specifics are still being worked out’—avoidant
language, euphemisms, but nothing sinister. They do have a lot of Santas! More
than two dozen regulars plus a big pool of potential stand-ins. There’s Santa
etiquette too; a list of dos and don’ts when it comes to dressing, grooming,
and interacting with clients. Not that Bad Santa on the golf cart practiced
proper etiquette today. But, I digress. The thing I found most interesting has
nothing to do with Santas. There’s money missing. Not real money, but hotel
scrip. Those fake gold doubloons they gave us at check-in. A bunch of those
have gone missing.”
    “How
big a bunch?”
    “They
didn’t say, but maybe enough to get management to hang someone from the
yardarm, hardy-har-har,” I said, in my best pirate voice.
    “That’s
a good pirate laugh you’ve got there, Kim. Those doubloons would come in handy
at the resort for food and stuff. You’d have to use them a little at a time to
avoid getting noticed. It’s not like a big score.”
    “True,
but I thought it was worth mentioning. It could be more evidence that not
everyone working on the inside around here is on the up and up.”
    “That’s
true. I wonder if Mitchum has heard about it. Did they report it to the
police?”
    “If
they did, it didn’t make it onto the public record. I can’t believe the media
would have ignored it. Fake doubloons gone missing has to be almost as good a
story as a dead fake Santa.” Brien stopped abruptly and pulled me along with
him, onto a dirt trail leading into the woods. For a split second I worried Bad
Santa was after us again and we were headed for cover. I listened. No whirring
sounds. Then Brien pointed. A few yards ahead, and off to the side, there was a
makeshift wooden sign that said “Surf’s up.” An arrow drawn on the sign pointed
in the direction we were already headed.
    “Boardertown
or bust,” Brien said, picking up the pace. Brien’s ‘eagle-eyes’ must have
spotted that sign while we were still back on the paved cart path. The trail
wound through the woods, around and down a steeper slope that I could tell was
taking us closer to the beach. There were no more signs, but occasionally we
saw marks on boulders or tree trunks. They looked like hieroglyphics to me.
    “Hobo
signs,” Brien said. “Drifters and the homeless still use them. Surfers have
added their own, see?” There in front of me was an awkwardly drawn version of
the ‘shaka sign’—a closed hand with the pinkie and thumb extended. Near that I
saw another image that resembled a surfboard with an arrow pointing in the
direction we were walking. The sound of waves grew louder as we continued. I
could hear the faint sound of music, too, with a pulsing surf beat, of course.
    Suddenly
we came into a clearing of sorts, still inside a wooded area and on a slight
rise above the beach a short distance away. On one side, the clearing backed up
to the black rock that comprised the cliffs. Off to my left, I could see a path
running along the edge of that wall of rock. It gained elevation quickly, and
must lead up to the cliff-tops. The sea air competed with a mossy, earthy
smell, and someone nearby must have been smoking a joint, since I got a whiff
of that, too.
    A
group of makeshift habitats sat before us—shacks and tents, as well