Jingle

  “Yeah, what a crab,” Darren added. “He’s got insurance, right? Think of all the zeros that check is going to have!”

  “Well, it’s not just the money,” Tiffany put in. “After all, you can’t go to Walmart and pick up a new Star of Prague. My mom says it’s one of the earliest examples of stained glass not built into a castle or cathedral.”

  Darren yawned. “And I should care about this because …?”

  Instead of being insulted, Tiffany laughed again.

  “I’ll be out of here soon,” Russell went on as if no one else had spoken. “The minute my parents’ plane lands at LAX, I’ll be on the next flight west. Christmas should be spent on the beach, not freezing your butt off.”

  “But we’ll be friends forever, right, Russ?” Darren held out his fist.

  Russell bumped it. “You bet, man. You saved my life in this little dump of a town. Friends forever.”

  “Darren,” Tiffany spoke up. “My mother’s theater group is having their holiday party on the twenty-second and I’m allowed to bring a guest. Want to go with me?”

  “No can do,” Darren replied readily. “Full schedule.”

  “I’m free that night,” Logan volunteered eagerly. What a golden opportunity to schmooze not just with Tiffany and her mother, but with the entire cast and crew of the North Shore Players! And, obviously, to keep an eye on Mrs. Boucle for Operation Starchaser.

  “Yeah, about that,” Tiffany said uncomfortably. “No offense, but my mother kind of told me to stay away from you.”

  “That would still be okay,” Logan insisted. “I could go to the party, and you could stay away from me there.”

  Darren brayed a laugh. “Good one, Kellerman. Way to look desperate.”

  Russell seemed confused. “Are you for real?” he asked Logan.

  “I’m an actor,” Logan replied readily. “Being real is my business. And business is booming.”

  “Here’s an idea,” Darren suggested. “Go boom someplace else.”

  Naturally, Tiffany thought that was hilarious.

  Luthor recognized the motorcycle right away and began to bark excitedly, craning his neck as he looked around for its owner.

  It took all of Savannah’s strength to pull on his leash and drag him out of the open to their hiding place around the side of the shabby apartment building. “Quiet, sweetie,” she admonished. “The whole point of a stakeout is nobody’s supposed to know you’re there.”

  She reflected that maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to bring her dog on this mission. His affection for the former Santa made it impossible for Luthor to control himself. It was one of the most wonderful things about the Doberman—he had so much love in his heart.

  Yet already Luthor had proved valuable. Look at how quickly he had detected Crenshaw’s scent on the old motorcycle—even when it was mixed with other smells, like gasoline and burnt oil.

  Of course, Savannah truly believed there was no way Dirk Crenshaw could be guilty of stealing the Star. Her faith in Luthor as a judge of character was absolute. Honestly, she had never seen the Doberman take to a stranger so quickly. A sensitive and intelligent animal like Luthor could never be so wrong. That was why she’d volunteered for this part of Operation Starchaser. She was going to prove beyond any doubt that Dirk was innocent. And then Luthor and the former Santa were going to share a joyful reunion.

  They had gotten the address from Melissa, who had hacked into the e-mail accounts of the six suspects. Savannah smiled. No place in cyberspace was safe from the shy tech whiz.

  According to Melissa, Dirk Crenshaw barely used e-mail at all. He seemed to believe in face-to-face communication. That would explain all the debt collectors who showed up at the Colchester mansion to hassle him about the money he owed. Maybe that was why he lived in such a crummy apartment. The Royal Flamingo Suites were not in the nicest part of Cedarville. In fact, they were right by the railroad tracks, so the clatter and roar of commuter trains went on day and night. The building reminded her of a motel her family had been forced to stay in a long time ago when every other room in five counties had been booked. Mom had bought a bottle of bleach and scrubbed down the entire place, and when Savannah and her dad had tried to use the ice machine, a sickly green liquid had dribbled out that reminded her of chilled pea soup.

  Living in a bad place doesn’t make you a bad person, Savannah reminded herself.

  At that moment, the screen door was kicked violently open, and a cloud of smoke wafted outside. Crenshaw stepped into the swirling haze, puffing on the stub of a cigar.

  Savannah’s animal radar sensed that Luthor was coiled like a spring beside her, about to pounce. It would take all her dog-whispering skills to keep him from giving away their presence. She locked her arms around the Doberman’s muscular neck, leaned in close to his ear, and murmured, “Shhh, sweetie. I know you want to say hello to your friend—and you will. But not just yet. Stay, Luthor. I’m right here.”

  She felt her dog tense up in her arms. But he did not move or bark.

  Crenshaw started up the walk. He paused in front of his parked motorcycle, took a final pull of his cigar, and flicked the butt onto the driveway.

  Adding littering to the long list of character traits that make him gross, Savannah concluded. But, she reminded herself, Luthor loved him, and that meant a lot.

  The short end of the cigar, its ashes still glowing, bounced along the blacktop, coming to a rest only a few inches from Luthor’s front paw. The Doberman began to tremble with excitement, yet still he made no sound.

  Crenshaw climbed onto the bike, jumped the engine, and tore off down the block. That used up all the restraint Luthor had. He exploded out of Savannah’s embrace and galloped down the sidewalk in pursuit of his beloved Santa, his deafening barks drowned out by the roar of the chopper.

  “Luthor—sweetie—come back!” Savannah’s cries had no effect on the Doberman, who was at full throttle by now. In desperation, Savannah abandoned her cover and began to sprint down the road after him. But even at top speed, she stood no chance against either a motorcycle or a flying dog. Crenshaw disappeared first. Then Luthor was out of sight, too, popped into nothingness on the horizon.

  “Oh, no! Oh, no!” Now Luthor was lost, and she had no way to find him. She couldn’t even be sure he would catch up to Crenshaw on the motorcycle. What was she going to do?

  She pulled out her phone and dialed The Man With The Plan.

  My butt is frozen to the seat,” Ben complained.

  “It’s not the cold; it’s the wind,” Pitch insisted. “It cuts right through your coat down to your guts. You really have to bundle up in this kind of weather.”

  The team, bedecked in coats, hats, and gloves, had taken to their bikes as soon as Savannah had sounded the alarm. Now they were peddling up Ninth Street to rendezvous with their friend and join the search.

  “I don’t know what you guys are complaining about,” Logan said bitterly. “For you it’s just miserable. For an actor, getting a scratchy throat could be a career-ender. If I lose my voice, I’ll have no chance of impressing Tiffany and her mother and joining the North Shore Players.”

  “You’ve got it backward,” Pitch informed him. “Losing your voice is only going to help you with Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany might not be the best judge of character,” ventured Melissa. “After all, she has a crush on Darren.”

  “Quit shivering, Ferret Face,” Ben ordered. “You’re the one with the fur coat, not me.”

  “Okay, you guys, I’m cold, too,” Griffin admitted. “But if Luthor got lost supporting the plan, then it’s part of the plan to help Savannah find him.”

  “What a surprise,” Pitch commented sarcastically. “We’re all totally suffering, thanks to a plan. Go figure.”

  Savannah was waiting for them in front of the Royal Flamingo Suites, her huge eyes still staring down the road where she had last seen Luthor.

  At this point, she was nearly frantic and out of breath from runni
ng. “My poor sweetie!” she gasped. “I was always afraid that he would follow his big heart into trouble!”

  “His big heart isn’t the problem,” Pitch snapped. “It’s his small brain that gave him the idea to fall in love with a Harley-riding Santa.”

  “Never mind why he did it,” Griffin interrupted. “We have to find him. Which way did they go?”

  Savannah pointed east along the train line to the industrial area that connected Cedarville with Green Hollow.

  The group fanned out, combing the grid of streets, eyes peeled for Dirk Crenshaw’s beat-up old motorcycle. Savannah jogged alongside Melissa, stopping every now and then to call, “Luthor!” She was exhausted and winded, but she always found the breath to call for her sweetie.

  Ben whizzed up a cross street and came face-to-face with Griffin.

  “Is it just me or is this area really scuzzy?” Ben asked in a low voice.

  Griffin shivered. “It isn’t just you. All the more reason to believe Dirk Crenshaw hangs out here.”

  At the same instant, both their cell phones pinged. It was a group text from Logan. Found him. Corner of F Street and Keele Avenue.

  The group converged at that intersection. There was Logan, his bike parked in the shelter of an ancient brick building. It housed the only business on the block that wasn’t a pawnshop, a check-cashing place, or an auto body works. A battered sign read:

  THE MUG’S MUG

  BAR—GRILL—DARTS

  Outside, leaning against a NO STANDING sign that had been spray-painted over, were several motorcycles, Crenshaw’s among them. All were in various stages of disrepair. Only one had a license plate that hadn’t already expired.

  “Whoa,” said Pitch. “I don’t know where the other Santas hang out in their spare time, but this definitely isn’t the North Pole.”

  “Where’s Luthor?” Savannah persisted.

  Stealthily, Griffin approached the ancient brick building and peered in the flyspecked window. A dense cloud of smoke hung like a fog, obscuring the view of a poorly lit tavern filled with beat-up and mismatched stools, chairs, and tables. About a dozen patrons were spread out between the long bar and a line of dartboards at the near wall.

  Ben sidled up to him. “Which one is Crenshaw?”

  Griffin shrugged. “They’re all Crenshaw to me.” He couldn’t quite explain it—the customers at the Mug’s Mug didn’t look alike exactly. Yet they were all one person: large, tough men with loud voices and bad posture. And they shared the same facial expression—ticked off.

  Logan breathed deeply, as if he was standing in a garden of hyacinths. “Wow, look at this place. Talk about gritty reality—sawdust on the floor, human tragedy in the air. These are the life experiences that every actor needs!”

  Savannah started for the front door. “If Luthor’s in there, I’m going to get him out. It’s no place for an innocent animal.”

  Pitch grabbed her by the arm. “Are you kidding? Luthor’s the only one of us with half a chance to survive in that joint!”

  “Besides,” added Ben urgently, “kids aren’t allowed in bars. If my mother caught me in there, I’d be grounded till the next millennium.”

  “Well, I’m going!” Savannah pulled herself free of Pitch and barreled in through the graffiti-covered door.

  The others shared a desperate look, then ran in after her.

  Savannah strode purposefully across the tavern, her sneakers kicking up sawdust. “Sweetie! Luthor!”

  It caused a stir among the clientele. The Mug’s Mug didn’t attract many middle schoolers.

  At a corner table, a black-jacketed Dirk Crenshaw looked up from a plate of cheese fries. He was surrounded by several companions. The team recognized them from their comings and goings during the former Santa’s cigar breaks at the mansion. One of Crenshaw’s biker buddies reached down and held out a cheese fry to a familiar expanse of black-and-tan fur.

  “Don’t eat that!” Savannah called sharply. “It’s not good for you!”

  She was too late. Luthor wolfed down the offering in a heartbeat.

  “Luthor!” As Savannah rushed to admonish her beloved dog, she stepped right in front of a dartboard. One of the players let fly.

  Luthor came out from beneath the table like a missile launched from an underground silo. His leap carried him directly into the dart’s path, and he snapped it out of the air with bear-trap jaws mere inches before it would have struck Savannah in the side of the head. He hit the sawdust rolling, then got up and trotted to the player, dropping the dart at his feet as if all this had been a game of fetch.

  Griffin and the team stood frozen like statues, barely daring to believe what had nearly happened to their friend. The rest of the customers, though, found it the most hilarious thing that had ever happened at the Mug’s Mug.

  The two dart players were embroiled in a heated argument over whether this counted as a miss or a do-over. Phones came out. Official rulebooks were googled.

  “Hey, kid!” Crenshaw called to Savannah. “The mutt is yours, right? He keeps following me!”

  “Fried foods and heavy cheeses are not good for a dog’s digestion,” Savannah lectured Crenshaw and his friends.

  “And that’s my problem?” Crenshaw demanded. “Keep a leash on him!”

  “We’d better grab Savannah,” Ben murmured to Griffin, “before we all end up with darts in our skulls!”

  “Are you kidding?” crowed Logan. “This place is awesome! I can feel my dramatic range expanding every minute!”

  Melissa’s curtain of hair stood straight up, her normally beady eyes wide as saucers. She saw something that the others didn’t. The darts argument had been growing more and more heated, until the contestants dropped their phones and started throwing punches at each other. A haymaker to the jaw sent one man sprawling into Crenshaw’s table, which collapsed. Outraged, Crenshaw and his friends charged into the melee. In seconds, an enormous brawl raged throughout the room.

  Griffin and the team dropped to their hands and knees in an attempt to avoid the flying fists. It was no less dangerous down there. Heavy biker boots stomped and broken furniture crashed.

  “Luthor!” Savannah admonished. “Get away from those cheese fries!”

  “Never mind the cheese fries!” Pitch hollered. “Head for the door! Hurry!”

  As the fight raged above and around them, the six middle schoolers crawled through the sawdust and spilled drinks toward the exit. At first, Savannah struggled to keep Luthor with them. The big Doberman seemed concerned about his friend Dirk. Soon, though, it became apparent that Crenshaw’s talents included self-defense. Santa Claus could handle himself in a rumble.

  They wriggled under a line of mismatched chairs and scrambled to their feet for the run to the exit.

  They almost made it.

  The door was thrown open, and the Mug’s Mug was flooded with police officers.

  Griffin looked up and found himself face-to-face with Detective Sergeant Vizzini.

  So what you’re saying,” Vizzini leaned over his desk and regarded the six young arrestees seated before him, “is that you weren’t barhopping. Your dog was.”

  Savannah spoke up. “He’s my dog. Well, actually, I don’t own him. We’re co-equal family members.”

  “The dog isn’t the problem,” the policeman informed her. “Dogs can’t be underage—like the six of you. Kids aren’t allowed in any bar, much less one of the toughest dumps in all of Long Island.”

  “That’s where Luthor comes in,” Griffin explained reasonably. “Luthor loves Mr. Crenshaw, so he followed him to the Mug’s Mug. Meanwhile, Savannah called us to help her look for her lost dog, and that’s where we found him.”

  Vizzini frowned. “And how does the dog know Crenshaw?”

  “That’s easy,” Logan explained. “Mr. Crenshaw was Santa Claus in the Colchester Holiday Spectacular. And Luthor was his reindeer.”

  “They bonded,” Savannah added.

  “Luthor has a very big heart,
” Ben supplied, echoing Savannah’s words. “You know, along with a very big everything else.”

  “Are we in a lot of—I mean, how bad is this?” Melissa asked timidly.

  Vizzini scribbled in his ring-bound notebook for what seemed like an eternity. “The part that concerns me,” he said finally, “is that the Mug’s Mug, in addition to being a cesspool, is also a popular meeting spot for people who buy and sell stolen goods. And we happen to have a stolen good—a nearly priceless one—that just went missing in a place where the six of you were all employed. I’d be interested to hear your take on that.”

  Griffin was horrified. “We didn’t steal the Star!”

  “That has yet to be determined,” the officer informed them. “The first thing you learn at the police academy is that everyone’s a suspect until they’re not. And so far, nobody’s not.”

  The team exchanged agonized glances. Operation Starchaser was supposed to prove that they were innocent. And all it had done was bring even more suspicion down on them.

  They took turns calling home and were picked up by very upset parents. It was one thing to be mixed up in the incident that had brought down the beloved Holiday Spectacular. But getting arrested in the middle of a bar fight at the notorious Mug’s Mug was a whole new level of trouble. Blaming it all on the dog would only go so far.

  “I’m dead,” Ben predicted mournfully. “We’re not even allowed to keep Mountain Dew in our house. When my mother finds out I was in a bar, she’s going to spray me down with pepperoni juice and feed me to Ferret Face.”

  At the mention of pepperoni, the little ferret emerged from Ben’s collar, looking around hopefully.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Griffin said stoutly. “We searched for a lost dog, that’s all. This is no big deal.”

  But when it was Griffin’s turn to call home, there was a lot of yelling on the other end of the line. He held the receiver away from his ear.