"8 Minutes to Sunday" Episode 4, The Mystery of Dalton West Book 2

The tradition was that the choir directors of both Methodist and Baptist churches would gather their very best singers and put together a playlist. Anyone else who wanted to join needed to audition. The River Grove Carolers were very exclusive.
Bill Robinson, the Methodist choir director came up ,to me.

“Hey sheriff,” he said.

I cringed.

“Please, Dalton, or if you absolutely must, Mr. West,” I said.

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“Mr. Sheriff West,” Bill said. “We have got one, excuse my French, heck of a show this year.”

He laughed so hard at his own joke, he snorted.

“Okay, great,” Fred said. “Did you go over the music cues with Herb?”

Ryan walked up. He was carrying two starbuck’s cups.

“Here you go, Fred,” He said.

They kissed.

“Bill, have you met my boyfriend, Ryan?” Fred asked.

“Oh, sure,” Bill said. “I’ve met him at the hardware store.”

“He’s been my rock since, well, you know,” Fred said.

“Right, the gator thing. Horrible, just horrible,” Bill said. “Okay, so this is what?”

Bill pointed to the Santa.

“That’s the 30-foot Santa Fred wanted,” I said. “Got it today off of Amazon.”

“So, how’s your coffee,” Ryan asked.

“Perfect,” Fred said.

“Better be, that was an hour drive there and back,” he said.

“Thirty minutes,” Fred said.

“Forty-five at least,” Ryan said.

“So, we going to blow this thing up?” Bill asked.

“Spoil the surprise,” I said.

“How long’s it take to fill?” Herb asked.

He walked up with a clipboard.

“Cause if you can tell me that, I can turn it on right at the right time to make it coincide with the fireworks,” he said.

“Uh,” I said.

I looked at the box.

“Inflates in twenty seconds,” I said.

“Perfect,” Herb said. “I’ll time it with the music and the fireworks. Thanks.”

“There’s an extra cord there for it,” I said.

“Leave it to the expert,” Herb said.

He’d been orchestrating lighting, music and pyrotechnics for River Grove celebrations and festivals for decades. I had no doubt he could handle it.

The former mayor had done a lot of things wrong. In fact, she was one of the most despicable human beings I’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. But, she’d bought some really nice Christmas decorations. The square looked great.

It didn’t stop there, either. They’d gone down Mainstreet with garland and lights. The fronts of all the stores had the same festive feel. River Grove’s Christmas lighting had been an area wide event for more than a generation. They’d invested heavily in quality items and it showed.

There was so much of it, that Grover Muntz, volunteer town book keeper had wanted to inform the FBI.

“They want everything that gambling money touched. Everything,” he said.

But the rest of the town council had been adamant about keeping it under wraps.

“What are they going to do with our old Christmas decorations?” Imogene Watson asked.

“Auction them off and add it to the settlement fund for the survivors of The Farm,” Grover said.

Finally his wife had put an end to it.

“If you rat out Christmas, Grover Muntz, you can sleep by yourself this winter,” she said. “In the barn.”

People began arriving with blankets and lawn chairs about thirty minutes before seven. Herb ran the final sound check. The choir warmed up. The live nativity went to their places.

Leeanne and DJ arrived right on time. She’d brought two heavy blankets. We put one on the lawn in a spot with a great view. The other we wrapped around the three of us. I couldn’t remember ever being so happy. It was about to be cut short.

The production went off without a hitch. The choir was wonderful. The nativity costumes had been reworked by Kaye Beecher, the high school theater teacher, and the lights were hung just right. As the evening progressed, the square was lit, little by little, until it reached the huge live tree. Thousands of lights sprang alive as the tree was lit.

Everyone applauded. Then it happened.

The choir, hearing about the new santa, had added a number. It was a barbershop harmony version of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause. It was amazing.

As they reached their crescendo, the inflatable Santa came to life.

“What a sight it would have been, if Daddy had only seen…”

They never got any further. Out of the plastic crate frame, the Santa sprang. All thirty feet of him. But it wasn’t the Santa I’d ordered.

“That’s a lot of pink fabric,” Leeanne said.

Eyes widened, jaws dropped. Mothers covered children’s eyes, as Santa grew to three stories high, bent over and mooning River Grove!

“Where did you get that?” Leeanne asked.

“Amazon,” I said.

“You didn’t check it first?” she asked.

The quartet had frozen. There, towering over the baby Jesus was Santa’s butt, 15-feet wide, and wiggling as the fan worked the fabric.

“It’s a disgrace!”

“I’ve never seen anything this disgusting in all my life!”

“Heh, heh, heh, that’s funny as hell!”

“NO, it’s a sacrilege, Virgil, he’s mooning the baby Jesus!”

“Ow, don’t hit me, I didn’t do it!”

“Isn’t someone going to do something?”

I ran for the cord. I unplugged what I thought was it, but Santa kept mooning. Finally I got it, and the lights inside went out, but his butt stayed.

“Dammit Sheriff, if you can’t handle this, guess I’m gonna have to!” said Gene Ryker.

He strode to his pickup and pulled out a fully loaded shotgun which he kept in a window rack, despite being told it was illegal, regularly.
He walked up and took aim.

“Kablam!”

The shot echoed through the town. A thousand voices grew quiet as we watched in horror. Gene’s aim was true. He’d punched a neat hole, right between the giant Santa’s cheeks. Air was whistling through the hole with a “frap!”

“Heh, heh, heh, hit me if you want woman,” Virgil said. “But that’s funny right there, I don’t care who you are.”

By now, most people agreed. The Giant Santa farted his way to the ground, as the quartet fled and the live nativity evacuated to avoid being buried under the tent like structure. The crowd laughed. I felt like I was going to throw up. This had viral video written all over it.

That’s when my night took a turn for the worse.

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