From the back cover:
The private detectives of Sammy and Marni's agency are happily engaged in collecting delinquent child support on a pro bono basis. But since Sammy can't refrain from opening his wallet to every struggling parent he meets, Marni is forced to tighten the purse strings.

Whereupon Sammy discovers another income opportunity in ghostwriting a handbook on crime for Christian celebrity Anne Paget. Wading through the seamy underside of Christian ministry is disconcerting, but Sammy is not truly devastated until his dad, who is working for wealthy Dallas socialite Dolly Threlkeld, decides to marry her.


CHAPTER ONE

Now, this was painful. Oh, sure, Sammy had endured plenty of pain in his 35 years of life, especially during his career as a cop. There was the time gangleader Miles tried to kill him by pumping him full of heroin. More recently was when his temporary office assistant, Coely, threw him around the room when he prevented her mauling Pam, his mother-in-law. Pam had been in the process of exorcising Coely, and—well, it's a long story.

Yet those incidents paled in comparison to the present crisis, for nothing pained Sammy as much as awkward personal situations, and this was a doozy. But at least he was not alone in his distress.

Pam had pulled out her best china and linens for today's Thanksgiving dinner. But at the moment, silver forks hung suspended from limp fingers in midair; crystal stemware sat untouched.

Sammy's wife Marni, sitting next to her mother and across from him, looked at him with widened eyes and glanced down the table, her lips parted in surprise. Samuel, Jr., soon to be two, sat in his high chair between Mommy and Grandma, playing very quietly in his cranberry sauce in the hopeful assumption that he could do what he wanted as long as he was discreet about it. Marni's father Clayton, seated at the other end of the table, opened his mouth to say something diplomatic, but blanked out.

The creators of this consternation sat in blissful ignorance. Sammy's father, Sam Watterson (not the actor), reached out to spear a slice of honey ham from the serving platter. Across from him sat the wealthy socialite, his erstwhile employer and lover, Dolly Threlkeld, who had about ten years on him, although her age was well camouflaged by the best plastic surgery money could buy.

Sam had started working for Dolly some two years ago as her chauffeur. When they had gotten a little too cozy, so that Dolly had started making wedding plans, Sam had bolted on his motorcycle to parts unknown. Once his money ran out, he had come to stay with Sammy and Marni until Sammy, sick of the sight of him, dragged him back over to Dolly's mansion, where he had resumed work as her chauffeur. That was almost a year ago.

"Well." Pam cleared her throat to make a belated reply to the sudden announcement. "I wish you would let us give you a reception, at least." She was a young grandmother, with brown hair lightly fluffed and swept back from her face.

"Oh, no." Dolly waved carelessly, tossing a misty-eyed glance at the handsome man across the table. The three generations of Samuels in this room were startlingly similar in appearance but for the difference in ages—the same blue-black hair and the same bright blue eyes (although the elder Sam's hair was liberally sprinkled with gray and his eyes were cloudy). "I promised Sam that he wouldn't have to endure any of my social events or my friends," Dolly explained.

"Then—how long have you—have you been—" Sammy began stuttering.

"We had a judge perform the ceremony about three weeks ago," Dolly said, beaming. "I didn't bother you about it because that was about the time Marni was in that terrible car accident. So we just made it a little family affair with Stan and Jessica, and Hellier and Mary, of course."

Sammy lurched up from the table. "Dad, could I—would you come to the next room, please?" he said with great restraint.

"Sure, Sammy," the elder acquiesced mildly. Dolly blew him a kiss as he got up, and Sammy's stomach rose, too.

They went to the gameroom, safely out of the hearing of those in the dining room. Stroking his brow in agitation, Sammy turned to his father. "Dad, what—what gives? What possessed you to marry Dolly?"

"Well, gee, Sammy, she's practically family, anyway. And it made her happy," Sam explained in his sweet, artless way.

"But—you—you said you didn't want to be tied down. For pete's sake, the last time she even talked about it, you just took off!" Sammy protested.

"Yeah," Sam acknowledged.

"Dad, have you thought about this? I mean, her family's not crazy about you. Her son Stan made it pretty clear that he didn't want you messing in the family business," Sammy pointed out.

"Oh, yeah, I know. I signed a prenuptial agreement," Sam offered.

"Look, Dad, that's all well and good," Sammy said, raising his hands, "but I'm not sure you know what you're getting into. The last time you ran off, it just about killed Dolly. If you break her heart again, it's going to be up to me and Marni to pick up the pieces again. We—we can't be cleaning up after you forever. You gotta take the heat for your own decisions," Sammy lectured.

"Sure." Sam nodded vacantly, and Sammy sighed.

They returned to their seats at the dining room table, and Sammy smiled grimly at his wife. Pausing to assess her pale face, he whispered, "Are you okay?" It was a question he asked a lot lately, as Marni was two months' pregnant with their second child, and he wanted all he could get (of children and what led up to them).

"Yes," Marni said hesitantly. Being eleven years younger than her husband, she was pretty hardy, but marriage to Sammy provided almost more stress than she could handle at times. Today, she had resorted to makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes from a succession of sleepless nights. Her left arm was still in a cast from the accident, and it still bothered her.

"I wish we had known about the marriage earlier," she said, glancing at her mother. "About a week ago, when we were at the mall, we ran into . . . Carla Bowers."

Sammy blanched, but Clayton asked, "Who is that?"

Marni turned to him. "It's Sammy's mother, Daddy. He saw her for the first time, like, three years ago. It's all too long and involved to go into now, but—"

"We weren't never married," Sam said placidly. They had been teenage lovers, and when Carla's pregnancy was discovered, Sam had been sent to prison on a false rape charge. He had not met his son until Sammy was in his thirties.

"Well," Marni resumed with effort, "Carla didn't recognize me until I spoke, but she asked about Sammy, and I told her about baby Sam, and then she said that . . . she had some papers and old photos that Sammy might want, so. . . ."

Sammy groaned, "You didn't."

Pam spoke up, unwilling to let her daughter take the blame. "I told her that you all would be here today and invited her to come. She declined dinner, but indicated that she might drop by."

"You told her I would be here?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

"Yes. With your employer," Pam clarified. Unperturbed, she picked up the basket of rolls to hand to him. Sometimes God allowed these things to happen, and you just had to roll with them.

Sam took a proffered roll. "You told her I would be here, and she still wanted to come?" he repeated. She had never answered his letters from prison, and when Sammy had presented her with the opportunity to assist in obtaining a pardon for Sam, she had refused.

Pam paused. "I believe she wants to see her grandbaby, Sam."

"Yeah," he muttered. "I guess so."

Dinner resumed under the weight of wariness as five people at the table sat waiting for the doorbell to ring. (Neither baby Sam nor the elder Sam appeared particularly disturbed over the prospect.)

Pam heroically carried on the conversation: "The city is opening a new Santa's Village at the library near here. I understand there will be a petting zoo and sleigh rides. It looks like something Sam would really enjoy." She meant the toddler, of course, but the elder Sam looked up with a noncommittal shrug.

Marni brightened. "Yes, I heard about that! The northwest police substation is sponsoring the Santa's Village jail. Sammy agreed to play Scrooge next Saturday."

He looked at her in surprise. "I did?"

She blinked at him. "That's what Dave told me." Dave Pruett, Sammy's best friend, was legendary for his practical jokes.

"Be happy to," Sammy said grimly, reaching for the gravy ladle. "I'll be Scrooge, and Pruett will be Tiny Tim, of course." Pruett, of course, stood at about six-foot-two.

"You're coming to my Christmas Gala Saturday evening, aren't you?" Dolly asked Sammy in a wounded tone.

He looked up in apprehension. Weren't you supposed to enjoy some peace at family gatherings in the company of people who supposedly cared about your feelings? Did Dolly not yet have a clue about how badly her society set treated Sam and his trailer-trash family? At her parties, Sammy felt as welcome as the last time he showed up uninvited at a drug house, and it never crossed his mind that his lottery winnings would make an iota of difference.

Just four months ago Sammy had picked up as trash a winning lottery ticket for 35 million dollars. With the proceeds, he had quit the police force to establish a detective agency with Marni at its head. After Sammy, Pruett had been one of Marni's first hires.

Sammy attempted to cover himself: "Uhh—your Christmas Gala?"

"I sent out invitations a month ago," Dolly said, affronted.

"Of course we'll be there, Dolly," Marni said soothingly. It was not necessary for her to glance at Sammy's guilty face to know that he had tossed out the invitation without replying.

"You won't have to mess with all them society people, Sammy," his dad assured him. "You just come on out to the garage with me and have a look at my new bike."

"Your new bike," Sammy repeated dully. "What happened to your Heritage Softail?"

"Oh, I still have it. But I also got a VRSCA V-Rod. It's so sweet—got a 115-horsepower, 1130 cc, fuel-injected engine, dual overhead cams and 4-valve head, 2-into-1 exhaust—loaded, man. You come take a spin and see if it don't blow your mind," Sam promised.

"That had to set you back a bundle," Sammy remarked, not looking at Dolly. Sam shrugged.

"It was nothing compared to the race car he bought," Dolly smirked. "Gave Stan fits when he saw the bill of sale."

"Race car?" Sammy asked his dad sharply, his black brows arching up.

"It's a beauty, Sammy—456M GT Ferrari, 12 cylinders and a 2+2 Gran Touring configuration. Friend of mine at Texas Motor Speedway is gonna let me open it up on the track and see what it'll do," Sam said in satisfaction.

Glancing at Pam, Sammy swallowed the first few comments that came to his lips. Her presence restrained his replying according to the coarsest inclinations of his flesh—that is, the pre-Christian Sammy that showed up in moments of social uncertainty, ready with buckets of sarcasm.

"I'll deploy a flip cam," he finally muttered.

Pam glanced up with an appreciative smile at his toothless rejoinder, and he felt a little righteous, if not satisfied. You couldn't beat the satisfaction of a real zinger. But that would likely be lost on his dad, anyway.

"Your front spoiler's cracked, Sammy," his dad mentioned.

"I know," Sammy muttered in irritation. "Somebody hit me in the parking lot and took off." By "me," he meant his prized 1966 Mustang. "I just haven't had time to go find another one, what with all the parties and all."

"There are only a few people you need to meet at the Gala," Dolly reassured him.

"Who?" Sammy asked, his heart sinking.

"Oh, just a few people who can help you professionally," Dolly tossed off.

"I don't need any help, except with Pruett, and anybody who can help me with him is not likely to show up at some social event where one lady's outfit costs more than his annual salary," Sammy vented, and several people paused to decipher the complaint.

"Dave was good at the Officers' Wives Club Fashion Show," Clayton said, finally finding a safe comment, so he thought. But Sammy cringed, for any mention of anything having to do with fashion called to mind that underwear ad he'd done which seemed to never die.

The doorbell rang. Sammy sucked in his mouthful of dressing and began to choke violently. While he excused himself incoherently in the direction of the bathroom, Pam rose from the table and departed toward the front door. The others sat in tentative silence.

Moments later Pam reappeared, alone. Smiling, she sat and said, "That was a neighbor's child collecting for charity."

"You can come back, Sammy. It was a false alarm," Clayton called.

Only mildly offended, Sammy returned to his seat. "People should not oughta hit up their neighbors on Thanksgiving."

"It's a tradition, like the game—" Clayton suddenly looked at his watch and stood. "Which I do believe is about to start. Mother, would you bring our pie to the TV room?"

"With whipped cream," Sammy added, rising to join him. Sam popped up from his chair, leaving three women and one toddler to clear the table. Baby Sam began wailing in his abandonment, so Pam released him from the high chair.

Dolly was not averse to helping, but having no clue how to pick up dishes, she did nothing until Pam came out of the kitchen to hand her a plate of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. "Here is Sam's."

So Dolly took it to him, and when Marni entered the game room some minutes later with pie for Clayton and Sammy, Dolly was snuggled up next to Sam on his right. Intent on the opening kickoff of the Dallas/Washington game on the television to his left, he ate his pie without suffering any inconvenience from her affections at all.

"Thanks, baby," Sammy said as he took the small plate Marni handed him. Glancing at the cast on her arm, he started guiltily. "Uhh—do you need a hand in there?"

Marni sighed. Theoretically, it was possible to wrest him away from the game, but under compulsion Sammy could be about as helpful as baby Sam—or the elder Sam, for that matter. "No, Sammy, Mom and I have it covered. Enjoy the game."

Whereupon his blue eyes locked on the large-screen TV in indication of his intention to do just that. Sam, Jr., was parked beside Grandpa in his lounger, accepting bites of pie with the contentment of entitlement.

Marni returned to the dining room to carry a few plates back to the kitchen on her good right arm, balancing them gingerly with her left hand. "Last year you swore you were going to use paper plates from now on," she observed, setting the china carefully on the counter next to the sink, where her mother was hand washing a large stack.

"I know, but with Dolly coming, I just couldn't bring myself to," Pam murmured.

"She wouldn't care, Mom," Marni assured her.

"She wouldn't say anything," Pam agreed. Glancing at her daughter, she asked, "Would you like to lie down?"

"Do I look that bad?" Marni winced, glancing at her reflection in the microwave oven as she fluffed her honey-blond bangs (bleached).

"No, but I can tell when you're not feeling well. I've been your mom all your life," Pam noted.

Marni shrugged as she turned back to the dining room. Coming back into the kitchen with another armload of plates, she set them down and observed, "That was weird, running into Sammy's mother like that."

"Yes, it was," Pam allowed. "But I suppose it had to happen sometime, since she's been living in north Dallas all these years. We may have seen her numerous times before without knowing who she was."

"Right." Marni nodded. "When Sammy and I went to see her, she didn't mind talking about Sam, but just froze up when Sammy suggested anything that might lead to contact with him."

"And that was three years ago?" Pam asked.

"Yeah. Do you think she might have changed her mind? Like, from thinking about him all this time?" Marni asked.

"Maybe," Pam said. "I do know that there are no coincidences. God allows for possibilities that are either played out or not, depending on the obedience—or disobedience—of the people involved."

"Whoa," Marni muttered apprehensively, glancing toward the gameroom.

Dallas lost, 27-10.


The following weekend, Sammy was appropriately aggrieved to discover that he would indeed be required to perform as Scrooge on Saturday afternoon before attending Dolly's gala that night. His bitter complaints went unheeded while Marni happily assembled his costume for Santa's Village. Somehow, somewhere, she had found an old stovepipe hat to crown the drab brown waistcoat, tattered pants, and moth-eaten woolen scarf.

While he dressed, he vented, "You're enjoying this. You like to see me humiliated. You're the one who found the white tail for me to wear as a reindeer that year."

"No, that was Kerry," Marni said absently, referring to Dave's wife. Marni had her hands full with Sam at the moment. It was difficult enough dressing a two-year-old when she had two good arms, but now she had to hold the squirmer between her knees to put on his little pants, coat, and newsboy cap. Sam, not Pruett, would accompany Sammy as Tiny Tim. Since Sammy was complaining so much about going, she did not ask him to dress Sam, too.

When the characters were fully costumed, they drove to the city's Santa Village in Sammy's lovingly restored 1966 Mustang convertible, lime green, with a white top. The Village was located in the plaza of a branch library. Brightly painted 10-by-15-foot structures represented Santa's Workshop, the North Pole Post Office, the Elves' Pet Shop, and so forth.

Marni departed in exploration while Sammy, carrying Sam, arrived at the Winter Wonderland Jail to spring the Grinch, who looked to be dressed in green shag carpeting. The Grinch glanced up from his prison bench behind cardboard "bars" and stood, exhaling in relief.

"Watch out for the bigger kids," he muttered on his way out. "They throw stuff."

"Which I'll throw back," Sammy promised, and the Grinch left shaking his head.

Sammy entered the jail, set Sam on the wooden floor, and plopped onto the bench. Sam wandered around the barren little cell for some minutes, then experimentally pushed on the door, which gave a little.

Thus encouraged, he was applying his full body weight to the door when Marni appeared with hot cocoa, cookies and small freebies from other booths around the Village. Sam settled down with his treats, but Sammy warned her, "I don't know how long he's gonna last. He's perfectly capable of knocking this box on its side."

"Then I'll be back real quick for him. The Dallas Symphony Orchestra is out there performing right now," she said, handing him the cell phone he never remembered to carry.

To placate him, she also bestowed a perfunctory kiss. But she was wearing a white rabbit jacket that evoked Playmate of the Month in Sammy's mind, so he caught her around the waist and held on to kiss her.

She murmured, "So you like being Scrooge after all, huh?"

"It's not that," he scoffed. "You should know by now that all cops have these fantasies about jail cells."

She rolled her eyes. "At a children's park, yet. Get a grip, Sammy. I'll be back." She left, and Sammy slumped to the bench while Sam played on the floor.

When the kids began drifting in, Sammy found the part not so hard to play, after all. He didn't have to sing or dance or even get up—all he had to do was grunt, "Bah, humbug!" and they'd run off shrieking in delight.

Sam liked the game so much that he began growling at the childish faces peeking through the bars. Sammy had to instruct him, "No, Sam, you look sad. Make them feel sorry for you." But Sam preferred being surly.

One little guy wandered in who was barely older than Sam. Taking one look at the dark-haired menace glowering at him from under the black hat, he turned and ran out in a blind panic.

Remorseful for terrorizing the child, Sammy stood to hear his mom talking to him outside the jail. Presently the little guy stuck his head in and roared like a lion at Sammy, who laughed.

After that, the boy popped in frequently to roar, and Sammy waved at him from the bench. "Go away, kid; you bother me." By the fourth or fifth visit, Sammy was urging him, "Go bother Santa. Go find a girl. Get a job!"

By this time Sam was restless at being cooped up in something that so resembled a playpen when he badly wanted to follow the children who ran laughing outside. Marni arrived just in time, as Scrooge was having to hold Tiny Tim on his lap to keep him from tearing apart the cardboard bars. Sammy was beginning to worry that if enough people saw him restraining his kicking, squealing son, he might wind up sitting behind real bars on suspicion of child abuse. Parents who disciplined their kids could get paranoid nowadays.

But Marni took the squealer off his hands. "When do you get paroled?" she asked.

Sammy checked the time on his phone. "Not for another hour and a half."

"Okay. We'll be back to pick you up," Marni said.

"Wha—? You leaving? In my car?" Sammy asked.

She paused, holding Sam's hand. "I wasn't exactly thinking of walking home, Sammy."

"But—your arm! Can you drive?"

"Of course I can," she said in a tone that conveyed, I don't know, but I'm going to, anyway. Before he could object, she reached through the door for another kiss.

They were observed. "Ew! She's kissing Scrooge!" A prepubescent girl wrinkled her nose in disgust, but there was a lingering fascination in her eyes. Marni glanced back, smiling, on her way out with Sam.

Sammy dropped listlessly onto the bench. "Have a heart," he complained to his youthful judge. "It's Christmas."

A teenager, evidently the older sister of the girl, leaned into the jail. "C'mon, Megan, we're leaving."

Megan turned to tattle. "Scrooge was kissing a lady. I saw them!"

Megan's sister glanced at Sammy, who looked over indifferently. "Yeah?" the teenager asked in mild interest, and he grew mildly alarmed.

She came over to the bars, thrusting out her hips in her low-rider jeans. Sammy stayed where he was on the bench. "What's up, Scrooge?" she asked in a tone both provocative and confrontational.

Sammy coolly looked away. "Bah. Humbug."

She flipped her hair at him and turned, uttering, "Scrooge you." Sammy raised his black brows in contemplation.

More kids came and went, and Sammy began to really feel like a prisoner in the cramped little cell. Besides, it was unheated, so he was obligated to get up and move around to stay warm. He comforted himself by muttering, "Which collection case is Pruett working this week? Eh, I can't remember. Doesn't matter. I'm gonna find every blank form in the office and make him fill them all out, regardless what they're for." This was a serious threat, as much as Pruett despised paperwork.

Sammy had settled back onto the bench, blowing on his hands to warm them, when the jailhouse door opened again. He glanced over at a little girl and paused. He knew this kid. He knew he had seen her before. She studied him with large eyes, trying to decide whether to be frightened or not. But no matter how hard he stared at her, he couldn't seem to place her. She was about seven, with straight brown hair. But it was her eyes. . . .

A boy about two years older than the girl entered behind her. Seeing the two of them together suddenly placed them in context. Sammy, standing, instinctively grasped a flimsy cardboard bar. He swallowed, then murmured, "Hello, Brittany. Do you remember me?"

She frowned. "How do you know my name?"

"I came to your grandma's house to see her about three years ago, and you were there. You've grown so much I hardly recognized you, but for your eyes," he said thoughtfully.

She was evaluating this little speech when the jailhouse door opened again. The woman who entered exclaimed, "Brittany! Jeremy! Don't ever run off like that again. I—"

"Grandma, this man says he knows me," Brittany said, pulling on her hand. The woman then turned to scrutinize Sammy, and her face paled only slightly less than it did three years ago, when she had seen him for the first time since he was a child.

"Hi, Mom," Sammy said.


© 2011 Robin Hardy

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