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The Highland Havoc Caper

By Sally Carpenter

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Chapter 1: Christmas in California
Southern California
Christmas Day 1993
The jubilee of Christmas music on my car radio was rudely interrupted by a news bulletin about a horrific murder the night before. What a rotten way to start the best day of year: December 25, my birthday and the birthday of Jesus Christ. I don’t consider myself on par to our Lord, although my fans do.
The announcer said the beaten body of Angus Glendenny, age 46, was found in the alley behind the Bonnie Prince Pub, a popular Scottish watering hole in a quiet, respectable neighborhood in Encino. The victim still had his wallet and watch, so the police ruled out robbery. No suspects at this time. A horrible shame, but the victim was nobody I knew, hench no reason for me to get involved. I’d promised my girlfriend that in the new year I’d lay off amateur sleuthing, a dangerous hobby of mine.
Inside my 1964 poppy red Mustang four-on-the-floor convertible (due to the cold weather, the white top was up), I twisted the dial until I found more holiday music, and I continued driving to the annual gathering of the herd at my parents’ house. Christmas morning was a formal affair for the Farmingtons, so beneath my brown coat I wore a dark suit and white shirt, but the rebel in me added a bright red tie with elves and reindeer. ‘Tis the season. My long, blond hair was, as usual, tied back in a ponytail. Stanford Farmington, my father, still sported a healthy crop of white hair, so the curse of male pattern baldness might pass me by. But I was turning 39 years old today, almost time for my midlife crises.
Traffic was heavy on the westbound 101 Freeway, with people like me heading off to see their clan. I focused my baby blue peepers on the vehicles as I changed lanes to gain speed. I tapped one hand on the steering wheel to the music and sang along, feeling chipper about the big announcement I was about to unload on the family. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would the news turn my parents into jolly Santas or mean Grinches? But I was relieved that, at least for today, I could drop my Sandy Fairfax stage persona and just be Ernest Farmington, a regular guy.
I crossed the county line from Los Angeles County into Ventura County. In the city of Thousand Oaks, I stopped by my ex’s house just long enough to pick up my two kids and their presents. I don’t know how Becka Farmington Greer did it, but she’d wrestled our 13-year-old son, Chip, into a sport coat and an unwrinkled open collar shirt. No tie yet, but we’re working on it. Dark haired, ten-year-old Robin was a doll in a cute dress. After I deposited the kids at my parents’ house a few miles away in the small, rural town of Conejo Hills, I doubled back into T.O. to my girlfriend’s condo. As always, she looked like a dream: dark blue velour dress, silver belt, black heels and crystal snowflake earrings. Her long black hair was swept up in a formal do. My parents knew I was bringing a guest, but I didn’t say who.
My parents’ living room was awash in fresh garlands and wreaths. Lit votive candles scented with cloves, berries and orange gave off a spicy aroma. The towering live Christmas tree, the branches bending under the weight of ornaments and tinsel, stood guard over a mountain of wrapped presents. A fire crackled in the fireplace. In such a pleasant setting, the nasty radio news report fell out of my mind. My mother, Opal, were doling out cups of hot apple cider. My sister, Celeste, was seated in a chair with her guide dog, Lucy, at her feet. My kids were talking to her, their favorite aunt. My brother, Warren, and his wife were corralling their three kids away from the gifts. Christmas is my time of year.
I took Cinnamon’s coat and hung up hers and mine in the hall closet, and then we stood beside the Christmas tree. I cleared my throat. “Can I have everyone’s attention please?” The others stopped jabbering and stared at me. “I have an announcement to make. All of you have met Cinnamon Lovett. I gave her one of her presents a couple of days ago. Why don’t you show them what you got, honeybun?”
With a sly smile Cinnamon raised her left hand and flashed her platinum, diamond-encrusted engagement ring.
Mother was the first one to react. Women pick up on these things faster than male Neanderthals. She ran to Cinnamon and hugged her. “How wonderful, dear! I’m so happy for you!”
Cinnamon was taken back. My parents are not known for wild displays of emotion. “Thank you, Mrs. Farmington. That’s kind of you to say so.”
“Must we be so formal? Call me Opal. We’re family now.”
Then Mother embraced me. She looked like the former big band singer that she once was, decked out in a beautiful long-sleeved dress, pearls and short, silver hair in tight permed curls. “Ernest, I’m so proud of you. She’s such a lovely girl. I hope the two of you will be very happy.”
My father shook my hand and congratulated me—that’s how he expresses his approval. He shook my fiancée’s hand too. So far, so good. With the fallout of my first marriage behind me, I wasn’t sure if my parents would welcome me back into the bonds of matrimony.
Warren, put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, big brother, we’ve finally made an honest man out of you.”
“It’s all do to your good influence, little brother.”
He chuckled. “May I kiss the bride-to-be?”
“By all means. Mother always said we should share and share alike.”
He endowed Cinnamon with a chaste peck on the cheek. His moustache and neatly trimmed beard must have tickled. “Welcome to our nutty family.”
She laughed. “Oh, Warren, the Farmingtons are not so bad.”
“Now that you’re stuck with this guy, will you do me a big favor?”
“Of course, if I can.”
He jerked his thumb at me. “Can you keep this wannabe Columbo away from dead bodies?”
“That’s a tall order, but I’ll do my best.”
I put my arm around Cinnamon. “You needn’t worry, Warren. I’ve changed my ways. From now on, I’m a responsible, settled-down family man and faithful husband. No more games of Clue for me.” I held up my fingers in a salute. “Scout’s honor.”
Warren eyed me. “You were never in Boy Scouts. I was the one who made Eagle rank.”
Even on Christmas Day, nothing changes. Warren still had to one-up me.
Before I could fire off a snappy comeback, my sister shouted from her upholstered chair across the room. “Hey! What’s going on?”
Cinnamon, the more astute of the two of us, carefully stepped around the guide dog and stood by my sister’s chair. She took Celeste’s hand and placed it on her own. “Your brother gave me an engagement ring.”
Celeste ran her fingers over the jewelry. “Wow! This rock is huge! Ernest, how much did you pay for this?”
I joined the ladies. “With all of my heart.”
“It’s awfully flashy. Cinnamon, can you even lift that stone?”
My fiancée said, “It was very sweet of Ernest to give it to me.”
“See?” I said. “Cinnamon likes it, and that’s what counts.”
“Although my dance students noticed it right away. It’s beautiful, but just a tad pretentious.”
“I know, honeybun, but when I saw it at the jeweler’s, I couldn’t resist. So, Sis, you’re finally getting a sister. Well, a sister-in-law.”
“It’s about time,” Celeste huffed.
Cinnamon patted my sister’s hand. “I hope you and I can spend a lot of time together.” The gals knew each other, as they had met when Celeste and I had performed some concerts aboard the SS Zodiac cruise liner.
Celeste quipped, “Hopefully without my dorky brother hanging around.”
Before I responded to her wisecrack, something disturbed me. My kids were starting at me in shock and anger. What a dope I’d been. I should have spoken with them first about my engagement. I excused myself and herded my kids into the empty dining room for a private chat. The dining room table, with extra leaves added, was festive with a red tablecloth and centerpieces of pine cones and holly. The gold placemats were set with Wedgewood plates, sterling silver cutlery and crystal goblets. The children were relegated to a smaller table in the nearby family room.
I pulled three chairs away from the table, and we all sat down. I took a deep breath. “Cinnamon and I are getting married. Do you have any questions?”
“Why?” asked my blue-eyed, smarty-pants son. His blond hair hung to his shoulders. He resembled me so much that we called him Chip (off the old block) instead of Stanford Ernest Farmington III.
“Because I love Cinnamon, and she loves me, and we want to live together.”
“Do you love her more than you love us?” Robin stuck her thumb in her mouth, the signal she was confused, afraid, upset or all three.
“No! Of course not! It’s a different kind of love. It’s like the love between your mommy and stepdaddy. They love you, and they love each other.”
“With all that smoochy stuff added,” Chip remarked.
“Yes, that’s part of it.”
“Do we have to live with you and your girlfriend?” he said.
“No, we’ll leave the arrangement the way it is, although I hope you two will visit me more often. Your bedrooms are always ready anytime you stop by. And Robin, please take your thumb out of your mouth.”
Robin removed the offending digit, but only long enough to say, “Does this mean I have two mommies?”
“I guess you do. You already have two daddies. Now it balances out.”
She fussed. “I don’t want another mommy! I love the one I got!
Chip said, “Do I have to call your girlfriend mom?”
“She’s your stepmom. Why is this a problem? I thought you two liked Cinnamon.”
Chip shrugged. “That was when she was just your thing. She wasn’t our thing.”
“Nothing’s going to change—much,” I said.
“Your girlfriends don’t stick around for long,” Chip said. That’s all I needed, a kid keeping track of my love life.
“This one is different. Cinnamon is permanent.”
“It won’t be the same with another mommy,” said Robin.
I patted her hand. “I’ll make daddy time with just the two of us, punkin. I promise.”
Mother stepped into the room. “Excuse me, am I interrupting? It’s time for dinner.”
“No, we’re finished.” I stood up and pushed my chair back into place. “You two go and find a spot at the kids’ table.”
“Why can’t I eat with the big people?” Chip whined. “I’m thirteen. I’m too old to sit with the babies.”
“Because the adult conversation will bore you, and all the chairs are filled.”
“That’s ‘cause your girlfriend is taking up the extra space.”
I sighed. My kids were seven (Chip) and five (Robin) years old when Becka and I divorced. They’d spent half of their young lives with me mostly out of the picture. Now I was back in the game—along with unexpected company. My kids didn’t view Cinnamon with the same starry-eyed affection that I did.
My parents had given their cook the day off to spend with her family, so the food was served buffet-style on the kitchen island. Mother and Lil, Warren’s wife, went into the kitchen to warm up the pre-cooked food. Cinnamon tagged along, begging to help and win points with my family. Lil seemed annoyed by her presence, but Mother graciously let Cinnamon set out the glass bowls of eggnog: one bowl with a rum for the big folks, and a second bowl holding a mild version for the kiddies.
Chip spotted me ladling the kids’ nog into a glass cup. “Hey dad, if you’re sitting at the adult table, why are you drinking the kid eggnog?”
“You know why. And don’t go dipping your cup into the rum nog, or Santa’ll take back your presents.” Chip had told me that some of the older boys at his school had started drinking, and I was busting my gut to keep him from repeating my mistakes with alcohol.
After we’d all filled our plates and took our seats, Father said grace and we stuffed ourselves with clove-and-pineapple-spiced ham and all the trimmings; dessert would come later during my birthday celebration. After dinner, in the family tradition, the Farmingtons gathered around the baby grand Steinway in the living room. Warren tickled the ivories as we crooned Christmas carols. Then the kids made a mad dash to the fireplace mantel to take down their individual felt stockings full of trinkets and treats, followed by the adults, who were just as greedy. My parents, bless their hearts, had added a stocking stuffed with doggie treats and chew toys for Lucy.
Cinnamon, with envious eyes, watched as the rest of us emptied our stockings. Mother said to her, “Next year we’ll have a stocking for you too, dear. Ernest didn’t tell us whom he was bringing today.”
My loved one shot me a look. Served me right for being secretive.
The adults took their seats around the living room—Cinnamon and I snagged the two-person loveseat—and the kids took turns handing out the presents from beneath the tree. Cinnamon adored my gift of cashmere sweaters. But I was anxious about her present to me—Cinnamon had refused to drop any hints. Was it something silly that would embarrass me in front of my parents? Something I didn’t want? Would her gift look cheap in comparison to the expensive presents? Did she feel obligated to spend her life savings on me?
At long last Robin handed me a large box smothered in foil wrap. “For you, daddy. It’s from stepmommy.”
My fiancée looked confused. “Stepmommy?”
“The kids and I are a package deal,” I said.
“I haven’t yet wrapped my mind around the fact that I’m marrying into a ready-made family.”
Warren was exasperated. “Ernest, will you open your gift already!”
I glared at my brother, but held my tongue. After all, one must be nice on Christmas. I held the box to my ear. “I don’t hear ticking.” I gently shook the package. “Looks too big for a tie.”
“It’s a box of ties,” said Cinnamon.
If she’d given me a tie, her ring would be back in the store tomorrow.
The curiosity was killing me. I ripped off the paper, yanked off the cardboard lid, and pulled out a scrapbook—of me. I flipped through the pages. Dozens of newspaper clippings, ticket stubs, promotional fliers and magazine articles were neatly pasted onto clean white leaves embellished with colorful ‘70s-era art. The items were arranged chronologically, 1975 through 1979, covering my Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth TV show, concerts, personal appearances, interviews and album releases. A wave of memories washed over me.
“This is fantastic!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”
“I made it,” said Cinnamon.
“That’s impossible. This would take hours to put together.”
“It did, but I didn’t mind. I got to know that Sandy Fairfax guy a little better.”
“Where did you find this stuff?”
“Remember the day I was at your house and you showed me a big box of clippings you never had time to organized? You went off to take a phone call, and I slipped the box into my car.”
“I wondered what happened to that box.” I’d have to keep an eye on this girl—she was sneaky.
Cinnamon added, “The president of your fan club gave me some of her extra clippings as well.”
“You called Bunny?” Cinnamon had met Bunny during the ocean cruise.
“Your agent gave me her phone number. Bunny’s a very sweet girl. I sent her a photo of the scrapbook for the next issue of her fanzine. I hope you don’t mind.”
I should have been furious at Cinnamon for not consulting me first—I kept a tight rein on how much of my personal life I shared with my fans—but I was proud of her ingenuity in creating such a remarkable gift.
“I thought I was getting a wife, but now I have a press agent. Thank you, Cinny. It’s wonderful. I’ll look at it tonight. I don’t remember half of what I did back then.” I kissed Cinnamon, but kept the smooch brief as the others were watching. I pulled away and smoothed my hair. “So, who gets the next gift?”
Eventually Warren’s daughter gave Chip my present for him. I held my breath as I waited for his reaction.
Chip opened the box, looked inside, and frowned. “You got me a dress?”
(chapter 2: What Chip has is a kilt in the family tartan)


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