Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings

by Liz Ireland

  “Who says I have anything on my mind?”

  He shot me an amused look. “You usually do.”

  I wondered if this was a time to bring up Therese’s sneak attack in We Three Beans and her strange reference to my last marriage. On second thought, never seemed the best time to bring that up, so I focused on more recent events. “If you must know, I don’t appreciate being shut down like you did back there.”

  “When?”

  “ ‘Let’s let the constable and his deputy do their work,’ ” I said, doing a fair impression of Nick. “As if I were butting in.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “I was trying to help.”

  “They don’t need help. They’re the law.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s like Barney Fife times two.”

  He stared at me, uncomprehending. “Who times two?”

  My husband hadn’t grown up watching The Andy Griffith Show reruns, or any other TV shows, except the few who made it on to North Pole television, which from what I could tell was mostly weather, Lawrence Welk reruns, and weather. Satellite dishes had changed things a little, but entertainment to Nick’s generation had been elf clogging recitals, the Elfmen’s Chorus, and umpteen Christmastown Little Theater productions of A Christmas Carol. Most pop culture—aside from a few toy tie-ins needed to do his work—was as much a mystery to him as things like proms and pep rallies. We came from two different worlds, and I had blithely eloped to Santaland thinking I could fit in, when even my name marked me as an outsider.

  But my name and fitting in were the least of my problems today. “Where did you go after dropping me off at rehearsal? ” I asked.

  He glanced over at me. “Why are you asking?”

  More interestingly, why wasn’t he answering? “In case Constable Crinkles ever asks me, I should know.”

  “In case I become a suspect, you mean.” His mouth turned down.

  “You’re already a suspect. That button . . .”

  “That button could have come from anywhere. It might have been stolen from one of the Santaland seamstresses who make our clothes, or it could have been a hand-me-down donated to the charity store in Tinkertown. Or it might simply have fallen off one of my coats somewhere else.”

  “And was planted at the scene of the murder.” The idea that someone had planted a clue to implicate him made me uneasy.

  It didn’t sit well with Nick, either. “Who would have done that?” he asked. “A Santa hater, in Santaland?”

  “The Hollyberrys didn’t seem very friendly toward Clauses.”

  “They’re grieving, April.”

  It was so frustrating. “Would you stop being understanding? I’m trying to think of things that could clear you.”

  He laughed. “You should wait till I’ve been accused to worry about that.”

  “By the time someone is accused, the minds of a lot of people are already made up.” Also, I couldn’t help noticing Nick was still avoiding telling me where he’d been. “So after you dropped me off . . .”

  “My brother’s grave,” he said, almost resentfully. “I went to be near Chris. I do that sometimes. And after this morning. . .”

  The reminder of his grief chastened me. What was wrong with me? Ever since Jingles woke us this morning, the craziest thoughts had been flitting through my mind. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been such a strange day.”

  “For everyone.” He looked straight ahead as he drove. “That’s why we need to keep our spirits up and present a calm, united front.”

  That was what Pamela had said.

  “United against what?” I asked.

  “Against suspicions, gossip, and hysteria. Those things can sweep through Christmastown quicker than a blue norther. You don’t know this place like I do.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fuel hysteria. I was just trying to find out what happened.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  Right again. “Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t have a job.”

  Shocked, he turned toward me. “You’re Mrs. Claus.”

  The words almost made me laugh—the way he said it made it sound as if being the wife of Santa Claus was as responsible a position as that of the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. “I’m a Mrs. Claus. Your mother runs Castle Kringle. And Tiffany . . . well, she’s also Mrs. Claus, and everyone respects her as Chris’s widow.” Or at least they stayed out of her way. “Meanwhile, I wander around in an overcarbohydrated funk and play the triangle.”

  “You do more than that.”

  Sure. I had an Excel file of musical acts I kept up with. I was like a one-person talent agency. Although there was a lot of busywork involved, being Musical Events chairwoman didn’t feel as fulfilling to me as running the Coast Inn. “I know, but it’s not . . .”

  I couldn’t bring myself to finish. I was used to running a business, handling staff, juggling accounts, barely getting everything done by the end of the day. I sometimes forgot how wearying that had been. How I’d wake up at three in the morning worrying about what would happen if I stopped getting enough guests, or if I got too many at once and had turn them away. I worried about repairs, and guest complaints, and taxes. There were always taxes. And repairs. And whiny guests.

  My phone pinged inside my purse. Grateful for the distraction, I checked my messages. As if the universe had known I needed a reminder, a long email popped up from Damaris Sproat, owner of the Pacific Breeze bed-and-breakfast down the road from my inn. I laughed. In fact, it might have come out as a demented cackle.

  Nick glanced over nervously. “What’s up?”

  “Damaris Sproat’s latest email. You have to hear this.

  “TO: APRIL

  FROM: DAMARIS

  SUBJECT: CLOUDBERRY BAY CHRISTMAS REGULATIONS

  “April, I’m afraid you might have forgotten the ordinance (506.C) passed by the town council last year pertaining to holiday decorations within the Cloudberry Bay business district corridor. To wit, all businesses within said corridor must display appropriate holiday decor to attract and appeal to seasonal tourists. Naturally, I understand that you are still with your new in-laws; however, when I checked at City Hall yesterday I discovered you had not applied for a variance.

  “This puts you in violation of 506.C, which of course carries a fine. Unless, of course, you intend to remedy the situation. Right now there is a black hole in our Cloudberry Christmas Lights Walk where your inn is.

  “I have never stuck my nose into your personal business, April. Perhaps you’re one of those Christmas-hating heathens. I will hate to see you fined, but I’m sure you’ll agree that no one—newlywed, heathen, or otherwise—is above the law.

  “Sincerely,

  Damaris”

  After finishing reading it aloud, I laughed. “A Christmas-hating heathen!”

  Nick frowned. “They can penalize you even if you’re not there? ”

  “Evidently.”

  I’d forgotten all about the ordinance. The last thing a person thinks about when they’re eloping in the summer is stringing up holiday lights and setting them on a timer.

  Nick’s jaw worked, his desire to take my side warring with his natural revulsion at an undecorated house at holiday time. “What will you do?”

  I snapped my phone cover closed and dropped it back into my bag. “Pay the fine. What else?”

  He sagged in relief. “I was worried you were going to say you wanted to go back to Oregon.”

  “To string a few colored lights across my porch? Irksome as it is to hand Damaris a victory, I’m not insane. Not yet, at least.”

  He laughed, and I joined in.

  It was easy to laugh then. Neither of us knew what was coming.

  Chapter 5

  “Goodness me, you were out a long time,” Pamela said. “I can’t keep up with any of you children anymore. Always on the go!”

  I bumped into my mother-in-law after I’d returned and changed into something more comfortable—an oversized red sweat
er, black jeans, and a pair of boots I’d had since forever. She gave my casual, minimally seasonal sartorial choice a disapproving once-over.

  “It’s been a strange day,” I said.

  The comment—it seemed so innocuous—made her draw up to her full height. Pamela Claus was the only person I knew who could make five foot two look formidable. She was in a red-and-green wool suit with a skirt featuring felt mistletoe appliqués, and her gray hair was piled into a bun that added another three inches to her. “During times of crisis, it’s more important than ever to stick to routines . . . and the formalities.” She gave my outfit another jaundiced up-and-down sweep. “And perhaps stick closer to home.”

  “I went to the scene of Old Charlie’s murder.”

  “Murder?” Her voice looped up. “Who said it was murder?”

  “It was twenty below out and the poor creature melted. He didn’t spontaneously combust.”

  Her manicured hands fluttered as she mentally reached for a response she couldn’t find. There was no reason Charlie would have melted the way he did without being the victim of malicious action. “I don’t know why you should have gone out there, though. If you must play Sherlock Holmes, you can try to find Tiffany for me. No one knows where she is.”

  “Couldn’t you just look for Christopher?” Tiffany usually stuck to her son like white on rice.

  “He’s having his lessons.”

  “Wouldn’t she be in the west wing, then?”

  “Naturally, that’s the first place we looked. I haven’t been able to find her, and neither has Jingles. You might try the Old Keep. Maybe she’s wandering around there.” She shooed me off with a wave. “Tell her that we’ll have a special tea in the salon at four.”

  The prospect of tea, at least, cheered me. I hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and had only drunk a cup of coffee since.

  And yet . . . the Old Keep. The name was an understatement. The Old Keep was ancient, abandoned completely several generations earlier because it was so difficult to maintain. The stone was crumbling, all the mortar needed repointing, and bits of roof occasionally caved in. There was no way to heat it efficiently. Not to mention, the Old Keep, situated on the edge of Calling Bird Cliff, was expected to eventually tumble into oblivion as weather eroded the promontory.

  “I’m not sure I—”

  Pamela’s hand clamped down on my arm. “Just do your best. We need to look after each other now.”

  She clicked away on her sturdy two-inch pumps. Look after each other? What did that mean? It almost sounded as if she suspected Tiffany of something.

  In all my months in Santaland, Tiffany and I had spoken only rarely and we’d never had what I’d call a tête-à-tête. We sometimes bumped into each other in the morning in the empty breakfast room and shared a silent meal for a quarter hour. Usually Christopher was with her, and in that case I chatted with him while Tiffany lurked guardedly close.

  I doubted she would appreciate my spying on her.

  But to placate Pamela, I’d give the Old Keep a look-see and then come back and have my tea with a clean conscience.

  The castle consisted of four parts. The aforementioned west wing was the modern section built on the west side of the Old Keep. “Modern” in this case dated back to the 1800s. Tiffany and Christopher occupied the first floor, while Lucia, Martin, and Pamela lived on the floor above. Nick and I had our quarters on the second floor of the main part of the castle, which was several hundred years older. Below us was the main hall, and behind that was the kitchen, and Jingles’ quarters. Attached to this section was the east wing, where there were salons, and the big meeting hall. Behind all of these structures was the Old Keep, mostly hidden from the vantage of the drive up the hill and from Christmastown, except for the high, crenellated tower that rose above the main wing’s roof.

  I breezed through the modern west wing’s first floor, just to double-check Tiffany hadn’t returned to her room. Down the corridor where Tiffany and Christopher lived came the droning of one of Christopher’s teachers, but a quick look inside the doorways of that hall produced no Tiffany sighting.

  I sighed. On to the Old Keep, then.

  My footsteps slowed as I walked down the echoing corridor that led to the Old Keep’s entrance from the main castle. Evidently, the family had kept using the grand hall of the Old Keep for festive occasions up until the 1970s, when the roof had collapsed under the weight of too much ice. It was a miracle no one was killed.

  The vaulted ceiling still made me nervous, although Nick had sworn to me that it had been stabilized. I crossed the empty hall nearly at a run just so I’d be at risk of being crushed by roof tiles and ice for a slightly shorter duration. The only reason I risked it at all was because I saw a heavy door ajar across the abandoned great hall and could feel a draft coming in from it.

  The door opened on to a large stone spiral staircase. It led down to a cellar—no way was I going down there—and up to the old tower. I looked up, debated with myself, and decided to go. It was exercise; I’d earn myself a piece of cake with my tea. At this point, though, I moved slowly. The only time I’d come here before, with Nick, we’d encountered a strange wooly ice rat on these steps. My heart was still recovering.

  When she’d heard about the rat, Lucia had said she would put poison around—not to spare my worries, but because the wooly rats carried fleas that could transfer to her reindeer. Priorities.

  I moved carefully, squinting at first in the darkness, cursing myself for forgetting to bring a flashlight until I remembered my phone had one. I turned it on and almost immediately heard a squeak, followed by the scritching of tiny feet against stone. So much for Lucia’s efforts.

  As I wound up the staircase, the way became lighter and the temperature dropped. Someone had left the heavy door to the walkway along the castle tower wide open.

  I peered through it and swallowed a gasp. Her straight, narrow back to me, Tiffany was sitting on one of the crenellation’s depressions, dressed in nothing more than a dress and a wool cape, her feet dangling over the side—where there was a hundred-foot drop to the cliff. Cold wind howled around the tower walls. One strong gust could blow her petite body right off into the void.

  I stepped out, moving cautiously. I’d never felt secure on this aerie walkway, and now I also feared startling Tiffany. When I got close, though, she turned her head calmly as if some sixth sense had warned her of my presence. “Oh, it’s just you,” she said.

  As opposed to whom?

  I edged closer, leaning into an icy breeze. “Do you think it’s safe to be sitting there?”

  “Perfectly safe.” She patted the space next to her, inviting me to join her on her lunatic perch.

  I gulped. I didn’t want to be taken for a complete coward, even if I was . . . at least when it came to being blown off a tower and smashing to the rocks below like a watermelon dropped from the Empire State Building.

  I gingerly wedged myself next to her but kept my body facing the castle and my feet on terra firma. Tiffany was staring out at the distant mountains of the Farthest Frozen Reaches. From far away, the peaks looked like a picture postcard—pale winter light reflected off the snow, making the treacherous passes and glaciers resemble peaks of fondant icing. Yet those mountains held danger and tragedy. Chris, Tiffany’s late husband, had fallen into a crevasse on Mount Myrrh, whose summit loomed highest on the distant horizon. I was sure it was that mountain Tiffany had been contemplating.

  “Frightened?” she asked me.

  “N-no.”

  She tossed me a knowing smile. “It made me nervous at first, too. Chris used to bring me up here to talk, sometimes for hours. He loved the view. But Chris wasn’t afraid of anything.”

  And that’s how people die in snow monster hunts. I shook my head at the uncharitable, un-Clausian thought. Her husband had died protecting Santaland and all its elves and people.

  “What did you and Chris talk about?” I asked.

  “About our lives before we
knew each other, and the future, and our families. Our likes and dislikes . . . including people.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Chris liked everyone. Or at least everyone liked him.”

  She shook her head. “People say nice things now. I know better.”

  I squinted out at Mount Myrrh. “How often do you come up here?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, maybe it’s not the healthiest thing to dwell so much on”—I gestured with my head to the far mountains—“the accident.”

  She eyed me with scorn. “Do you really think a sportsman like my husband fell through a crevasse?”

  I blinked. The thought of Chris’s death having not been an accident had never occurred to me. The word murder had never crossed anyone’s lips—at least not until yesterday, when Giblet Hollyberry had spat the word at Nick.

  “Now today there have been more deaths,” she said. “Who else will die before it ends?”

  “Giblet’s and Charlie’s deaths had nothing to do with Chris.”

  The look she gave me was tinged with pity. “You’ve become one of them quickly, haven’t you?”

  “One of what?”

  One side of her mouth screwed into a sneer. “A Claus.”

  The malice in her voice and the way she was looking at me made me even more uncomfortable on that ledge.

  “Maybe we should go in,” I suggested. “Pamela’s prepared a special tea.”

  “A special tea for a super special day.” She laughed, which dissolved into a wrenching sound of despair. She twisted and took my arm, clamping her hand around it like a vise. Despite her Tara Lipinski build, she was surprisingly strong, and my heart thumped in my chest. If she jumped now, I’d go down with her. “Don’t you get it?” she said, her eyes crazed. “This isn’t a safe place.”

  No kidding.

  I certainly didn’t feel safe at the moment. I tried to avoid any quick movements, the way one would around a dog foaming at the mouth. A gust of air chose that moment to whip around the tower. I leaned into it, and away from her. Away from the terrifying drop she was so close to bringing us both to.