Silent Night Read online

  “Gone.”

  “I may be old, not as old as you, thank God, and my eyesight’s not what it used to be, but that fact didn’t escape me. Did someone take him to change his swaddling clothes?”

  I must also point out that Charles’s sense of humor and approach to life has been considered a tad off center. Because of his disheveled appearance, unshaven face, and thinning hair that flowed to the beat of a different eclectic style, combined with his never failing to befriend the most downtrodden individual, others often assumed he wasn’t among the, how shall I say it, intellectually elite. In reality, he was a textbook example of you can’t judge a book by its cover. And speaking of books, he owned and claimed to have read, more books than are shelved in many small-town libraries.

  “It was stolen.”

  Charles stared at the manger. “Burl will be heartbroken.”

  “He already is.”

  I explained about the preacher and the police already being here and that Cindy’s guys had started canvassing the city for the statue.

  Charles moved closer to the manger. He removed his Tilley hat and held it over his heart. “The statue’s priceless. He must be devastated.”

  “Do you know its history?”

  “Sure,” he said, like who didn’t. “He told me when I was helping build this.” He waved his cane around the barn.

  Charles had become a regular at the First Light services after Melinda Beale, his elderly aunt and last living relative, passed away. Before that, he had avoided churches for most of his life.

  He appeared lost in thought, so I didn’t say anything until he returned his hat to its rightful spot on his head. “He asked me to find it.”

  Charles grinned and waved his cane toward the center of town. “What are we waiting for?”

  At some point in Charles’s reality-challenged life, he’d decided he was a private detective. His total experience receiving a payroll check had consisted of landscaping and an assembly line job at a Ford plant in his native Michigan. Those jobs had ended during Ronald Reagan’s presidency. Since then, he had picked up a few cash-only jobs helping restaurants clean during their busy season, provided a couple of extra hands for local contractors, and delivered on-island packages for the surf shop. He was also the unofficial executive sales manager for Landrum Gallery, a photo gallery I had opened, and after losing thousands of dollars a year, was closing. Regardless of plus or minus zero experience in the field of detecting, he had decided after watching countless whodunit television shows and reading more than countless detective novels, there was nothing he didn’t know about his chosen field of work.

  For the next five hours, Charles and I got a month’s worth of exercise, walking each street within a mile of the manger. Most of our walk was east and west since we were limited on the south by the Atlantic Ocean and on the north by the Folly River and the marsh separating the island from the contiguous United States. The statue could have been taken off island, but there was little we could do about it. And, if Cindy was correct about it being a prank, Baby Jesus was probably on our seven-mile long, half-mile wide piece of land.

  All that resulted from our efforts were four sore feet and two red faces from the increasingly brisk winter winds blowing off the ocean. We ended our search at Charles’s small apartment, and I limped the remaining seven blocks to my cottage beside Bert’s Market. I was exhausted, and it was only three-thirty. A nap was next on my agenda until I was interrupted by a knock on the door, and found two teen-agers on the porch, hands in their pockets, their coat collars pulled up around their necks.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Landrum,” said the taller of the two. He was my height at five-foot-ten, sixteen years old, trim but muscular, and answered to Samuel Perkins. I had met the longhaired, young man my first week on Folly Beach. We had become reacquainted a year ago when he had come to me after he had seen a woman being abducted. Because he’d witnessed the crime, his life had been put in danger, but through luck and the help of friends, I was able to save him.

  “Hi, Samuel. Hi, Jason.” Even in their heavy James Island Charter High School jackets, they were shivering.

  Jason Lewis was the other visitor. He was a couple of inches shorter than Samuel and wasn’t as skinny and didn’t appear as athletic. I had known Jason nearly as long as I had known Samuel, although for different reasons. I had dated Jason’s mom, Amber, for a couple of years, until she broke off our dating after I had exposed Jason to a murder victim. Amber felt it was too dangerous for her son to be associated with me, but despite that, she and I had remained friends. Amber was also the best waitress the Lost Dog Café had ever had and was ground central when anyone wanted to know the latest rumors.

  Jason said, “Hello, Mr. Landrum.”

  “Come in.” I waved them toward the living room. “What brings you out?”

  Jason looked at Samuel, who said, “Mr. Landrum, we heard stories in school today that somebody sort of took Jesus.”

  I nodded and wondered how the word was already around. “How did you hear it?”

  Samuel turned to Jason, who looked at the floor, and said, “My friend Hector’s mom texted him during lunch. He told us.”

  Samuel interrupted, “She told him some kids sort of took it.”

  I looked at Samuel and turned to Jason. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Us?” Jason inhaled. “No, Mr. Landrum. That’s why we came to see you.”

  Jacob, Jason’s father, had told me his son had a tendency to exaggerate. While it may have been true, during my talks with Jason a year ago, the young man had been honest and accurate in whatever he had said.

  They kept looking down at the floor and failed to make eye contact with me. I offered them a drink to calm them down.

  Each declined, and I said, “I’m confused, why did you come to see me?”

  Samuel looked at me. “Mr. Landrum, we want to help find the kid, umm, the Jesus statue. If a teenager took it, he could sort of go to our school. Jason said maybe we should go to the police and offer to look around for them. I told him the cop’d say something like, ‘Now son, we’ll take care of it. You all go back to your studies.’” He rolled his eyes. “I knew how you caught the killer, you know, the one the cops didn’t think was real. You were a stand-up adult, and are good at finding bad guys, so I told him we should come see you and sort of offer our help at school.” He smiled. “Here we are.”

  I returned his smile and waved for them to follow me to the kitchen and pointed at the chairs. They sat, and I again offered them a drink. They unzipped their coats and were warming up; warming up enough to say a Pepsi would be nice. I was pleased with their decision since water, wine, beer, and Pepsi were the only choices.

  “The first you learned about the missing statue was after Hector’s mom texted?”

  Samuel said, “That’s sort of what we said.” He turned to Jason for confirmation.

  Jason nodded. “You don’t think we did it?”

  I shook my head. “Not for a second. I asked because if someone at school knew it before you said Hector did, that person might have known it before the police were called.”

  Samuel pointed a finger at me. “Oh, I get it. That person could’ve swiped it.”

  “Yes. What can you do to help?”

  Jason and Samuel alternated telling me their plan which amounted to “sort of casually” talking to classmates and see if they knew anything, and to “snoop around” to see if anybody in the other grades had any information.

  They were right about what the police would have told them, but I also didn’t want them snooping. If one of their classmates took the statue or knows who did, Jason and Samuel could end up in danger.

  “It’s great you want to find the thief, and it could be helpful if you kept your eyes open. But guys, it could be more than a prank and if the person who took it finds out you’re looking, you could get in trouble.”

  Jason leaned forward. “Oh no, Mr. Landrum, we’ll be careful. All we’ll do
is keep our eyes open. Our history teacher says we need to be more, what’s the word, Samuel?”

  “Vigilant.”

  “Yeah, vigilant. He said good citizens need to do that in these dangerous times.”

  “Your teacher’s wise. If that’s all you do, it could help. The statue means a lot to many people, and it would be terrible if anything happened to it.”

  “I knew you’d know what we should do,” Samuel said. “Vigilant, that’ll be it.”

  I looked at each of them. “Promise me one thing. If you learn anything, call the police. If they don’t take you seriously, call me. Think you can do it?”

  Jason said. “Yes sir, Mr. Landrum.”

  Samuel nodded.

  “And you won’t confront the person who took it or try to get the statue back?”

  They nodded.

  4

  I grew up in Middle America where Christmas was wrapped in traditions galore. Mistletoe was prevalent in nearby oak trees, and dad made the most of it by taping pieces to each doorway, and a double dose over the door to my parents’ bedroom. Mom took advantage of his strategic placing of the kiss motivator. We lived where stockings were actually hung from the chimney with care, although we didn’t have a chimney, so our stockings were hung on a knickknack shelf over the television—with care.

  Unlike most families, a fact I learned years later, Santa not only left presents under our tree, but he decorated the large, live fir that sat unadorned in the living room until the jolly one made his overnight visit. He earned the chocolate-chip cookies mom had baked for him. Santa had enough time to decorate the tree because he didn’t wrap my presents, but staged them in their ready-to-play state for when I first laid my sleepy eyes on them.

  It wasn’t as often as I would like to remember, but a glance outside a few Christmas mornings revealed the ground covered with the white stuff depicted in many popular Christmas songs. Sleds had an immediate playground to slide across. Bicycles came with promises to be ridden once the snow melted. And, although there weren’t any in our small, three-person family, little girls could begin playing with their dolls and easy-bake ovens as soon as the lights came on.

  The birth of Jesus was never far from my parents’ thoughts, although to my young eyes, Christmas was the tree, the presents, candy that was seldom available the rest of the year, and smiles of joy on mom and dad’s face. We had a tabletop, ceramic Nativity and on Christmas Eve, dad read the Christmas story and mom tried to lead dad and me in singing hymns. Between my thoughts drifting to what might appear under the tree the next morning, and thinking our singing sounded more like a harmonizing trio made up of a screech owl, an alley cat, and a toad, the true meaning of Christmas was lost on me.

  In the following years, Christmas ebbed and flowed in my thoughts. When I was living at home, I attended church with my parents. Santa stopped coming in the back door of our chimneyless house. Mistletoe appeared in fewer and fewer places, although dad and mom didn’t need the seasonal incentive to kiss. For that we were thankful. The live trees that had enveloped much of the living room were replaced by a slim, artificial one which didn’t need to be large, since underwear and socks didn’t take up as much room under it as had bicycles and an electric train.

  During the twenty years I was married to my high school sweetheart, Christmas was a time for a few days off work, a time for us to spend Christmas Eve with my parents and one cousin, and for visiting my wife’s family Christmas day. We remained childless and never experienced the joy of helping Santa agonize over the some assembly required gifts that included instructions written in thirty-seven languages, none of which were English.

  My wife and I attended Christmas Eve midnight service a few years but felt guilty because with the exception of funerals, those were the only times we stepped in a house of worship. After the divorce, I failed to see anything positive about church and organized religion. I was a spiritual person and believed in a higher power, but the trappings of the church did nothing for me. I expressed my need to help those who weren’t as lucky as I by donating to organizations that helped feed, clothe, and bring hope to those without the means to survive. I spent several evenings each holiday season serving food to the needy, and being thankful I was fortunate enough to have a good job, and a safe, comfortable home.

  Over the last year, I had spent numerous hours with Preacher Burl. Some of the time I thought he could be a killer and wondered how I would prove it. Thankfully—and in his words, thank God—he wasn’t guilty. The rest of the time with him, I saw the hope, joy, and happiness he brought to his flock and most everyone else with whom he came in contact. He didn’t smack people in the head with the Bible, but taught by example, combined with weekly lessons from the Good Book he translated into terms, which could be understood by all.

  As he stood over the manger this morning, I had seen hurt in his eyes and defeat in his slumped shoulders. His hands had trembled as he caressed the side of the wooden crib, and his eyes watered for what was no longer there.

  Was the theft of Baby Jesus simply the work of bored pranksters and the missing statue would turn up soon? And, if it was pranksters, they had little or no idea how the loss would affect others.

  What if it was more? What if the statue not only had spiritual significance, but a significant amount of worldly worth, and was taken to be sold, or to go in the collection of someone who needed a valuable centerpiece for his or her Nativity? Or, was someone trying to make a negative statement about Christianity?

  What could I do beyond what the police were doing to bring Baby Jesus home to be enjoyed as a symbol of all that is Christian?

  I fell asleep wondering.

  I awoke to a weather report indicating today’s temperature would reach seventy, only four degrees shy of the record high set a century ago. It would be a good day to join the search for the statue, but before I headed out, I wondered if the police had already found it or if someone had turned it in. A call to the chief was in order.

  She answered. “No, Chris. We haven’t found it.”

  I hated caller ID.

  “Why do you think that’s what I wanted? Couldn’t I be calling a good friend to see how her day was going?”

  “No. First it’s seven thirty, so my day hasn’t been going long enough for me to know how it’s going. Second, you’re the second nosiest person I know, and it’d give you an ulcer if you had to wait longer to find out if the swaddling-clothed youngin’s turned up.”

  “Guilty.”

  Cindy chuckled. “Shame I can’t throw you in the hoosegow for that confession.”

  “Well?”

  “Okay, okay. I repeat we haven’t found it. Sorry.”

  “Hate to hear it. I know how much it means to Burl.”

  “I do too,” Cindy said. “He told me each time he called last night. I had to tell him if we found it, I would come to his door, regardless of the time, and let him know. Then my wonderful hubby got on my case. Said the manger was on his store’s property, so he felt responsible, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d better find the kid.”

  I told her I was going to look for the statue and asked if there was anywhere her officers hadn’t had time to search. She reminded me the island covered more than a few zillion square miles of water surrounded three square miles of land, and that off-island the rest of the United States covered “more square miles than there were words to count them.”

  I thanked her for the geography lesson and with an overabundance of sarcasm she thanked me for pestering her.

  “One question, Chris.”

  “Anything for you.”

  “If the little statue is so valuable, according to the preacher, priceless, why in “Blue Christmas” blazes did he leave it in the manger, in a deserted area, and guarded by a passel of plastic people and a herd of fake animals?”

  “I wondered the same thing, Cindy, but seeing what condition Burl was in yesterday, I didn’t ask.”

  Cindy said, “Hmm,” and was gon
e.

  The temperature may reach seventy, but it had a way to go, so I put on a light jacket and my Tilley to keep my balding head warm. I figured the police would have done a good job covering the downtown area, so I walked closer to the beach and headed away from town. I had made it a block when I saw Dude and his puppy skipping along the side of the road. Dude was skipping; his Australian terrier, Pluto, was running as fast as his little legs could carry him. Dude had told me a while back he had read that skipping had the health advantages of jogging, but at a slower pace. I didn’t know where he had read it, although I doubted it was in Astronomy Magazine.

  They pulled up beside me and I stooped to greet Pluto, named after the dwarf planet. He licked my hand, more in appreciation for me slowing his master rather than for being glad to see me.

  Dude waited for me to finish my bonding moment with his dog, and said, “Surfer buds say you be cool for a geezer.”

  That surprised me since the number of words in my conversation with his young friends could be counted on two hands. “Really?”

  “Yep, the Finleyster and Teddyetress be quick deciders about peeps. Say you be okeydokey.”

  I couldn’t think of much to say, so I limited it to, “Good to know.” I also realized Dude wasn’t as nosy as some of my friends so he might not know about the missing statue. “Did you hear about the missing Baby Jesus?”

  He said he hadn’t, so I told him what I knew.

  “Terrible. Preacher man be devastated. Dude be riled.”

  He kicked the gravel, Pluto jumped, and I was surprised how angry my friend was. He had been involved in the problems with First Light earlier in the year, and had attended several services. He had told Burl he worshiped the sun god, but enjoyed Burl’s services because they were outside and he could see the sun while hearing the words of wisdom from Burl. Of course Dude didn’t use that many words, but I think it’s what he’d meant.