“Yeah, he’s not the only rough one. Some of the missing children are straight off the Wikipedia page for Juvenile Delinquent. Not all of those photos were in a family album—a few are from mug-shot files.”
“Some of the disappearances could just be runaways,” I suggested. “Visiting some nice old lady’s gingerbread house in the forest.”
“For the record, Shamble, she wasn’t a nice old lady—I worked on that case,” McGoo said. “Not all of the missing kids have records. We’ve got grieving parents or foster-parents who want to find their missing little angels. I don’t know if the cases are related, or just a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” I said, wondering if this might also have something to do with the stolen Naughty and Nice list. “But I didn’t believe in Santa Claus either, and now he’s my client. Let me know if you get a lead on my case. I’ll do the same if I hear anything about the missing kids.”
McGoo nodded. “The Quarter’s getting nervous—put your mind to it, see what you come up with. You’ve got a lot of space in that big empty head of yours.”
I tapped the bullet hole in the middle of my forehead. “A little extra space maybe, but it’s not empty.” I tipped my fedora at him and left.
My first order of business was to figure out who would want to steal the Naughty and Nice list, and what anybody would use it for. In order to brainstorm, I invited Sheyenne to lunch.
3
Being a ghost, Sheyenne doesn’t eat, not even their special “ephemeral” plate, and I don’t need much sustenance. (I’ve avoided brains, because I don’t want to turn into one of those zombies who are an embarrassment to the rest of us.)
The Ghoul’s Diner, though, was a place to hang out, and Sheyenne likes it when we go out on lunch dates. Strolling down the sidewalk toward the Diner, we free-associated. Sheyenne wore a bright smile as always, and those blue eyes could make a man’s heart stop beating, or start beating, depending on which condition he started from.
I wondered aloud that maybe the Big Uneasy had made the Grinch manifest as well, but Sheyenne doubted he’d reached a worldwide cultural status similar to vampires or St. Nick. I disagreed, because I had grown up on the Grinch; still, I conceded that he seemed too obvious a cartoon villain.
I then postulated that the perpetrator could be a Lorax with self-esteem issues, upset that Arbor Day didn’t have the stature of Christmas, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, New Years … or even Kwanzaa, for that matter. I didn’t know if Loraxes were real, either. I seemed to be in a Seussian rut.
A light dusting of snow came down, reminding me that I had to find Santa’s list before Christmas Eve, or he would suffer a worldwide toy-distribution crisis. Festive decorations were already strung up in the streets of the Quarter: barbed-wire tinsel looped along windowpanes and awnings, colorful wreaths hung from nooses on gallows lampposts.
Before we reached the Diner, Sheyenne and I stopped on the street where crowds had gathered and traffic halted for an early holiday parade. And it sure wasn’t the type hosted by Macy’s.
Elves capered and danced at the front of the parade, diminutive creatures dressed in pointed floppy caps and bright red outfits trimmed with white flocking. The costumes resembled a traditional Santa’s elf suit, but these were cheap knockoffs that fit poorly with seams showing and with some of the white trim missing.
These elves were not the cute, smiling, industrious workers who stocked Santa’s shelves and made the North Pole a cheery, if formerly imaginary, place. No, these elves came from the G-side of the family, having more in common with gremlins, goblins, and gnomes—pointy, stretched-out features, gray skin, and long ears that looked as if they had gotten caught in industrial picking machinery. When they smiled like good elves should, they showed alarmingly pointed teeth.
Behind the prancing elves came a bizarre motorized sleigh crawling along at pedestrian speed so everyone on the sidewalk had an appropriate opportunity to wave. Palm trees adorned the back of the sleigh. On a big wicker chair sat an elf with all the usual elf features (from the G-side of the family), but he wore a white rhinestone-studded jacket, trimmed in Christmasy green and red. He had slicked-back black hair, sideburns that extended halfway down his pointed chin, big garish sunglasses, and oddly out-of-place blue suede shoes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to Sheyenne.
“He’s for real, Beaux. That’s Elfis—I’ve seen his ads. You know, ‘Santa Claus is coming to town, but Elfis will get there faster?’ He’s a celebrity on the cable-access channels.”
I’m a decent enough detective, but I can be clueless about pop culture.
Elfis waved at the crowd and picked up a handheld Vegas-style silver microphone. “Thank ya very much. Santa’s got competition this year, boys and girls, naturals and unnatural. The holidays should be for everybody, not just kids who pass some arbitrary naughty-or-nice test. Even naughty kids deserve presents, don’t they?”
From the sidewalk crowds, a smattering of natural and unnatural children cheered—kids who knew they were included in the Naughty column, no doubt.
“Santa Claus has had a monopoly on the Christmas season for far too long—but I intend to undercut his position. Elfis Industries has wider distribution, more fairness, and less discrimination. More transparency in holiday gift-giving! We’re going to expose all those ‘secret admirer’ gifts for what they are. And no more bribery with milk and cookies. Everyone deserves a present, and I’m the one to give it to them. It’s time to put the kitsch back into Christmas!”
His elves began handing out candy canes, traditional red-and-white striped ones, blood-red ones, and black ones. A witch dressed in a midnight-blue gown and pointy cap stood by her young son who looked as if he might grow up to be a powerful necromancer. The boy ran forward to take a black candy cane, but his mother scolded him. “I told you not to take candy from strangers!”
The boy pouted. “He’s not a stranger, Mom—that’s Elfis!”
“Oh,” the witch said, and handed him back the cane.
The motorized sleigh rolled by, with Elfis in his sequins and sunglasses waving from under his palm trees. He called out, “Who needs the cold? I have nightmares about a white Christmas! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow—but somewhere far away! Stick with me, and the holidays will have a warm and sunny glow.”
After the parade passed, Sheyenne leaned close to me. “So that’s why Santa is so worried. He’s got competition this year. And if his rival does a better job satisfying the customers …”
“Then Santa Claus won’t be coming to town anymore,” I said. “We might have our first suspect. Elfis has a motive to sabotage Santa’s work. I better go talk to him and find out if his intentions really are as pure as new fallen snow.”
I could tell this case was going to spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
4
After Sheyenne and I had a quick lunch at the diner (pink slime was on special), I went off to continue my investigation.
The headquarters for the competitive holiday operation was an office building in front of a fenced compound of airplane-hangar-sized structures, no doubt where Elfis manufactured and stored all the toys he planned to distribute ahead of his business rival. According to Sheyenne, Elfis’s ads promised delivery by Christmas Eve Eve.
The sign at the front entrance had giant letters painted like candy canes, surrounded by yellow suns: “North Pole South: We’re Better Because We’re Closer to the Equator.” Around the doorway was strewn blue sand or fake snow, which seemed incongruous … until I remembered “Blue Christmas.”
When I entered the front door of North Pole South, I heard many busy bodies working in the back, but the reception counter was empty except for a fist-sized fake rock sitting on top of an index card that said “Ring bell for service.” I picked up the stone and realized it was hollow. When I shook it, a tinkling chime rang out.
A female elf receptionist scurried out of the back, smiling sweetly with her pinched face. �
�I see you found our Jingle-Bell Rock,” she snickered. “Very clever, don’t you think? Elfis came up with it himself.” She shuffled papers and handed me a temporary-employment application. “Looking for part-time holiday work? Many positions available.”
I shook snow from the brim of my fedora. “That would be a conflict of interest. I’ve been retained by Santa Claus.”
The receptionist’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll let Elfis know you’re here.” She took back the Jingle-Bell Rock and punched an extension on her phone. “He told us to expect an overture from Mr. Claus.”
“Overture?” I asked. “I can barely hum a tune.”
Elfis agreed to see me, probably out of curiosity; at least it got me through the door.
The chief elf’s back office was bright and stiflingly hot. A large tropical mural covered the far wall. Wearing only a towel around his waist, Elfis lay back on a chaise lounge under a pair of heat lamps that could have been used to keep food warm in a restaurant. Standing on either side, a pair of Egyptian mummies gently fanned him with palm fronds.
Elfis lifted his sunglasses and sat up to regard me. “Dan Chambeaux, Private Investigator … that seems an odd choice for Santa, but I knew he’d send a representative before long. He has no option but to open negotiations. I suppose he wants to suggest some kind of merger and keep a token title for himself? Frankly I’d rather just buy his operations outright.”
He waved for the mummies to back away. “Would you like some refreshment? I can get one of my boys to make you a mai tai or piña colada. Or, if you want to be more traditional, I have chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”
Chestnuts weren’t the only things roasting. “I’m surprised you keep it so hot in here,” I said, tugging at my collar—and zombies don’t perspire.
Elfis explained, “I want to change the paradigm of the holiday season. It’s too cold, too snowy, too wintry. You really think shepherds prefer to watch their flocks in the snow? They’d rather be skiing. And if I want something frozen, I order a frozen margarita.” He laughed, but it sounded more like heh-heh-heh than ho-ho-ho.
“Now then, let’s talk about sending old Saint Nick into retirement. Here’s my offer: I take over all his operations, but I let him keep his North Pole annex. He and Mrs. Claus get a nice pension, run their bed-and-breakfast, maybe do a few public appearances for old times’ sake, but I license his likeness and the brand. I’m dreaming of a profitable Christmas.”
“There’s been a misunderstanding, Mr. Elfis. That’s not why I’m here.”
The elf slicked back his hair, adjusted his position on the chaise lounge. The mummies came forward again to fan him vigorously with the palm fronds. “Well, then, I’m all ears.”
“Santa Claus hired me as a detective because something very valuable was stolen from him.”
Elfis seemed completely uninterested. “Really? And what would old St. Nick find valuable? Can’t he just wiggle his nose and make another of whatever it was?”
“It’s more of a matter of administrative records gone missing,” I said. “I’m investigating the theft.”
Elfis snickered. “You must mean his list. Anal-retentive, if you ask me.” He slid his sunglasses back down on his face, scratched his sideburns. “And you think I had something to do with it? Why in the world would I need a list like that? I explicitly don’t discriminate. I give presents to all kids, without scoring them on social behavior. What gives Santa the right to make a subjective decision about who’s Naughty and Nice? Judgmental jerk, if you ask me.” He sniffed. “I plan to take discrimination out of Christmas gift-giving, make it equal for all. What would be my motive for stealing the list?”
I did have a theory. “You’d hamstring Santa’s activities, make him look incompetent, while gaining brownie points for yourself.”
“I don’t have brownies, Mr. Chambeaux. I have elves. There’s a difference.”
“That doesn’t address my theory.”
“Look around you, Mr. Chambeaux. I’m sabotaging Santa’s work by perfectly traditional means—undercutting prices, faster distribution, more transparency in my operations. I don’t need a list for that.”
One of the mummies served him a cool drink in a hollowed pineapple, complete with a colorful umbrella. “Thank ya very much.” Elfis took a long refreshing sip. “Tell Santa if he wants to come to terms, I’m having a holiday special. His decision. Either way, it’s time he faced some competition.”
Elfis reached down beside his chaise lounge and pulled out a baseball-sized knot of thorny leaves, like a wadded tumbleweed studded with berries. “Here, Mr. Chambeaux—have a free sample. Part of my effort to put the kitsch back into Christmas.”
He tossed it to me, and I caught it. “What’s this?”
“Our new McMistletoe. Cheaper to manufacture, no preservatives needed, non-poisonous, non-habit-forming.” He spoke at such a fast pace that my ears could barely keep up. “It’s not intended to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease. These claims have not been evaluated by the FDA.” He grinned. “But our McMistletoe is just as effective as real mistletoe. Try it out, you’ll see.”
I pocketed the mistletoe in my jacket’s other pocket, because it didn’t seem right to tuck it beside the jingle bell that Santa Claus had given me. “I’ll try it,” I said, though I doubted Sheyenne would be impressed.
5
I was already disturbed about the missing children McGoo was investigating, but I didn’t see the actual pain until the Tannenbaums came into our offices.
Mrs. Tannenbaum buried her face in her husband’s broad chest. “Our baby boy!”
Both of them were werewolves—the Monthly variety, so they passed for normal except on full-moon nights. They seemed like a nice couple with modest lives, middle-income jobs, probably had a home that was not extravagant but one they were proud of.
Robin hurried forward to comfort them. “Tell us what happened.”
Mr. Tannenbaum pulled a wallet from his pocket and showed us a snapshot. “This is our son Buddy.” The kid was of the full-furred persuasion, the type of werewolf who maintained a long muzzle, sharp fangs, moist black nose, and facial fur throughout the month.
“That’s his school portrait,” Mrs. Tannenbaum said with a sniff. “He was just about to graduate sixth grade.” Sheyenne flitted in with a tissue for the grieving woman.
I studied the snapshot. Buddy Tannenbaum’s black lips were curled in what I assumed was a smile, but might have been a snarl. What kid didn’t make a goofy face when sitting for a school portrait? “Not much family resemblance. Adopted?”
Mrs. Tannenbaum snuffled loudly. “He came from an abused home, and we took him in. Poor Buddy! We wanted to show him all the love and affection he deserved. But one day after school, he didn’t come home to do his chores.”
Her husband continued, “He often gets preoccupied with friends—he has a strong social life. And what’s a chore or two around the house? No need to bother the boy with them. I can do the vacuuming and take out the garbage while my wife cooks dinner.”
“On the night he disappeared, I made a fleshloaf with tomato sauce and onions. Buddy’s favorite!” Mrs. Tannenbaum wailed, which came out as a trailing howl. “We had to eat it ourselves. We had leftovers for two days.”
“Two days? Your son vanished and you didn’t report it for two days?” Robin shot me a look, and I saw that furrow of concern on her brow.
“We thought he might be staying at a friend’s house,” said Mr. Tannenbaum. “He sometimes does that. We try not to be overprotective. A boy needs his space and … a wolf has to run free.”
“Can you find him?” Mrs. Tannenbaum said. “We didn’t want to go to the police because … because we want to keep his record clean. He’s going to go to college someday, and it’s really a private matter.”
“You can count on our discretion, Mr. and Mrs. Tannenbaum.” I doubted Buddy’s disappearance was unrelated to the other children who had vanished.
“Can you g
ive us the names of his friends, or places where he liked to spend time?” Robin asked.
Mrs. Tannenbaum considered. “He likes to hang out at the comic-book shop. Just Dug Up Collectibles, I think it’s called.”
“I know the place,” I said. “I’ve been there.”
In a fit of nostalgia, I had gone in to browse some of the old comics I’d bought and guarded so lovingly when I was a kid. One day, while tidying up my room, my mom gave them all to a thrift shop, and they sold for a nickel apiece before I could run down there to save them. A few months ago, when I looked in Just Dug Up Collectibles and saw the outrageous prices those issues were now selling for, I left the shop in despair and never went back.…
“Is there anything else I should know? Anything that might help?”
The Tannenbaums looked at each other, as if uncomfortable, hesitant, then both shook their heads.
Sheyenne whisked in and made several color photocopies of Buddy’s photo before returning the snapshot to Mr. Tannenbaum, who lovingly tucked it back into his wallet. “I’ll also submit this to the Talbot & Knowles blood bars,” Sheyenne suggested. “They can include it with the other photos of missing children.”
Mr. Tannenbaum looked uncomfortable. “I’d prefer to keep this out of the public eye.”
“We already talked to the blood bars,” snuffled Mrs. Tannenbaum. “They said they were overbooked for the next two months until … until …” She began sobbing.
Mr. Tannenbaum completed the sentence. “Until Christmas.” He patted his wife on the shoulder. “Please find him soon, Mr. Chambeaux. We have very important Hanukkah traditions, and Winter Solstice, too.”
She sniffled again. “The holidays just won’t be the same without our dear Buddy. Please find him, Mr. Chambeaux. Such a dear, dear sweet boy.”
6
“That kid is an unholy terror!” said Adric the comic-shop owner. He barely glanced at the picture of Buddy Tannenbaum. “He and his friends are monsters—and I don’t mean that in a good way.”
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