Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings

by Liz Ireland

  “What happened after you separated from the others?”

  “Well, at first we just seemed to trudge forever, backtracking. Then Chris took us around a ledge that seemed too treacherous to me. He was always taking foolish chances! Yes, he had courage, but he was also a daredevil. Reckless and overconfident.”

  “So you reached a point on the mountain where you disagreed about continuing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you quarreled,” I guessed.

  “I tried to start a quarrel, for all the good it did me. I might as well have been talking to the glacier. Chris never listened to me.”

  “So he made you both go ahead.”

  He shook his head. “That’s the thing that haunts me. I didn’t go. He left me behind.”

  I shook my head. “He left you, or you insisted on staying where you were?”

  “Okay, it was mostly the latter. But he could have listened to me, you know. I was right! The way he chose was too dangerous. It killed him.”

  Something in his story I couldn’t quite buy. “You mean you were nowhere near Chris when he fell?”

  “No, I wasn’t. When he didn’t come back for me, I went looking for him, following his tracks. I thought I’d found where he fell, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “The person I spoke to said there were a mess of your footprints at the edge of the crevasse.”

  “Maybe there were. I was frantically trying to find my cousin. I wasn’t being careful to lead a tidy line of prints. Do you have any idea how hysterical I felt that afternoon?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No you can’t. I’m sorry, but you really can’t. Not only was Chris gone—the most beloved Claus of our generation—but I knew how it would look to everyone. Like I’d killed my cousin. But why would I do such a thing? I liked Chris, on the whole. He could be a nitwit, and overly enthusiastic and sporty. It was like having Teddy Roosevelt for a cousin. But he was so likable, everyone forgave him his few faults. And they really were few.”

  “Were you ever jealous of him?”

  “Honestly? Yes. But I never kidded myself that I would ever be Santa. Not really. Even if Christopher hadn’t come along, Chris had two brothers who came before me in the pecking order. And frankly, I think Lucia probably would have tried to seize power and be the first female Santa before she ever let me near that red suit.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I had every reason to want Chris to stay alive. I knew all along that Nick had insane ideas about forcing us distant Clauses to work for our stipends. Believe me, if I could have climbed down into that crevasse and dragged Chris back up, I would have.”

  Everything he said made sense. Except one detail. “Your rope was frayed, someone said. As if you’d cut it.”

  “But not because I’d cut Chris loose and let him fall to his doom. When Chris and I unhooked ourselves, we noticed the rope around the catch had frayed. It was useless—dangerous, even—so he told me I’d be better off with bare rope rather than keeping a hook that wouldn’t hold. After all, another person might not notice it, and use it at their peril. So I cut it off while he was gone. It gave me something to do.”

  Maybe that was plausible, but I still found Amory’s actions suspect, if not on the mountain, then at least in the months since. “All this time, you must have known rumors were swirling around concerning Nick, and yet you said nothing to quash them.”

  “Why should I stick my neck out for Nick?” he asked. “What’s he ever done for me?”

  “He prevented an investigation into your actions that day. Otherwise everyone would be whispering that you killed the last Santa.”

  He grumbled at that. “Apparently some people are anyway. Someone blabbed a bunch of innuendo and lies to you, didn’t they?”

  “Someone told me the bare facts as he saw them up there,” I corrected.

  “And made it easy for you to extrapolate my guilt.” He crossed his arms. “Sometimes I think Nick’s insistence on silence that day was partly to undermine me.”

  “How?”

  “He knew I felt guilty. Maybe he thought I was guilty. He might have assumed it would all come out in a whisper campaign against me.”

  “Any whisper campaign seems to be directed at Nick. You couldn’t have put any of those rumors to rest?”

  Amory crossed his arms. “He swore us all to silence. He didn’t say ‘everybody but Amory.’ ” At my steady gaze, he bristled. “Do you think any of this has been easy for me? Imagine the guilt I’ve been living with. Not for Chris’s death itself, but the fact that I wasn’t there when he might have needed me.”

  “If it was an accident—”

  “It was!” He thumped his fists on his armrests. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  I raised my hands in surrender to calm him. “Since it was an accident, you have no reason to feel guilty.”

  He shook his head at my innocence, or ignorance, or both. “You don’t know anything about how I feel. If I’d gone with him, he might be alive. We would have been tied.”

  “With a fraying rope?” I remembered what Boots had told me. “You might have both ended up at the bottom of that crevasse.”

  He slumped in his chair. “Maybe I would have been better off dying that day. All I’ve felt since is remorse, and anger, and doubt.”

  “Doubt?”

  He banged his fist on the desk. “What good had it done to go back? Who knew if there really was a leopard stalking us? Chris said he’d heard one, and maybe one other person did, but we never saw tracks. No one did. That’s why I thought going back was crazy. We should have all stayed together.” He stood up and began to pace. “And all right, I shouldn’t have let Chris go off alone, but he also left me alone to face that leopard.”

  “You just said there might not have been a leopard.”

  “Chris thought there was.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t look at me like that!”

  “How?”

  “Like Nick, that day on the mountain. Like I really was guilty.”

  Maybe every syllable of his protestation of innocence was true, but he was as much of a wreck as he would have been if he had pushed Chris into that crevasse, or cut the rope. I felt sorry for him. A circular firing squad had set itself up in his conscience.

  I stood up, and for a moment Amory ceased wearing a hole in the carpet. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said. “I just needed to know. Nick would never have told me about what happened on the hunt.”

  “So you say.”

  “He wouldn’t have. Nick isn’t your enemy, Amory. People are blaming him for Chris’s death, not you.”

  That fact didn’t soothe Amory. “Nick, the martyr. Taking the blame.”

  I sighed. “Don’t let this eat you up inside.”

  “I’m not,” he said in a defensive tone. “What gives you that idea?”

  “Your voice, your pacing, and the way you were when I came in, sitting in this dark, bare room, brooding. At least let some daylight in, for Pete’s sake.” I walked over and pulled the cord on the drapes before he could stop me. The drapes swung open, revealing a perfectly breathtaking view.

  Of Mount Myrrh.

  Chapter 14

  “Nice ride,” Jake Frost said, startling me out of my wits.

  I’d been lost in thought when I’d left the Plumbing Works, so it might have seemed natural that I didn’t see him. Except how could you miss a man—or whatever he was—dressed head to toe in black in a snow-covered drive? Where had he come from, and when, and why was he here?

  All my antennae were up as he circled Jingles’ snowmobile. He was obviously as impressed with it as Boots had been, but he was too cool to let too much enthusiasm show. Whoops and exclamations weren’t his style.

  “How long have you had this?” he asked.

  “It belongs to Jingles. And I’ve already regretted letting one person take a joyride on it today, so don’t ask.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got my
own.” He nodded to a black-and-white machine not far away, a less souped-up Snow Devil.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I was wondering the same thing about you.”

  “I’m here to talk to Amory Claus.”

  I smiled. “What a coincidence. I just left him.”

  He buried gloved hands in his coat pockets. “Visit your husband’s cousin often at work?”

  “Nope. First time.”

  He studied me. I didn’t avert my gaze. Nor did I offer up any more information.

  “Did this visit have anything to do with what you learned on your outing this morning to see Boots Bayleaf?”

  My jaw dropped. “How did you know about that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Sources, or sorcery? Both possibilities made me uncomfortable. “I don’t like the idea of spies in the castle.”

  “That makes us even, because I don’t like the idea of someone running a shadow investigation when I’m trying to track down a killer.”

  “Am I getting in your way?”

  “People get weary of answering questions—if too many people come knocking, they can clam up. Also, there’s the element of surprise. You lose that if you’re the second person to question someone.”

  “Then you shouldn’t let a mere amateur detective get the jump on you.”

  “Is that what you think you are? Nancy Drew in a snowmobile instead of a blue roadster?”

  I laughed.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’ve just had a vision of a young Jake Frost cozying up with a stack of Carolyn Keene books. Was that the origin of your brilliant career?”

  “Dabbling in police work is no joke, April. We need to discuss this.”

  I swung my leg over the snowmobile seat. “Sorry, can’t talk now.” I turned the key and the motor buzz sawed to life. “I’m due at the Reindeer Bell Choir rehearsal in Mistletoe Park.”

  “After rehearsal, then!” he said, having to yell over the Snow Devil’s motor.

  I made no promises before I zoomed off toward town, but it didn’t seem to matter. I knew he’d materialize again.

  The Reindeer Bell Choir was Lucia’s baby, and the only reason she would involve herself in anything musical. Reindeer were almost exclusively interested in food, the never-ending Reindeer Games, and keeping track of an always-shifting hierarchy among the herds. They were an energetic species, I had to give them that. But there were some reindeer who just weren’t into the Reindeer Game culture, and for them Lucia had created the choir.

  “They’ve got to have some way to connect with Christmas,” she told me.

  Walking up the hill where they were rehearsing, I was impressed by the gathering of twenty reindeer, all wearing “uniforms” of scarlet red and vibrant green that draped over their shoulders and backs. The white pom-pom balls edging their outfits bounced when an animal moved or twitched. The reindeer looked fantastic.

  Looked was the key word.

  The trouble was, they didn’t seem to have any musical talent. Granted, “The Little Drummer Boy” was never one of my favorite songs, but this version seemed to go on and on, with a crescendo longer than Ravel’s Bolero. The reindeer controlled the bells with their mouths or by having a bell strapped on their foreleg, but the rhythm was so off, the tune so muddled, I had a difficult time keeping my expression neutral as I listened to the slow but sure massacre of what little melody there was. Bells would be ringing in my ears for days.

  I was so focused on the reindeer that I didn’t see the flyer until a small gloved hand shoved it right at me. I looked down and read it:

  JUSTICE FOR GIBLET

  A march down Turtle Dove Lane will be held December twenty-third to voice our concerns about the lack of progress in the investigation into the murder of Giblet Hollyberry.

  Join us for this important, solemn vigil. Let’s raise our elven voices for justice!

  A march? Through Christmastown? Were the Hollyberrys truly upset, or were they just trying to make trouble? The march was on the same night as the Skate-a-Palooza. They had to have planned it that way.

  A whistle blew, and the elf who’d handed me the flyer stiffened in alarm. He looked behind him to see Constable Crinkles raise his fist. “Stop!”

  The elf tore off.

  Crinkles gave his nephew a push. “Run after him, Ollie!”

  The deputy gave chase, but I doubted the malefactor would be caught. For that matter, I didn’t see what the elf had done wrong. I approached Crinkles.

  “Disgraceful!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry you’ve come at this time, ma’am. Anyone would think we’re . . .” He tugged at his chin strap. “Well, one of those places where people have marches.”

  “They’ll calm down when there’s an arrest.”

  “Yes, but until then, we’ll have unrest—on streets that up to now have only seen happiness and parades. Santalanders haven’t ever behaved like this before.”

  “They’re just worried,” I said. “Think of it as an Anxiety Parade.”

  He sighed. “I guess I better see where Ollie went off to. Dollars to donuts he let that rascally elf get away.”

  When he was gone, I tried to focus on the music again. The reindeer were finishing their last piece, a “Jingle Bells” that really stuck to your eardrums.

  Lucia raced over to me as soon as the rehearsal broke up. “What did you think?”

  She looked honestly interested in my opinion, which was a switch.

  “Those outfits are fantastic,” I said, wanting to be positive. “They really make the group stand out.”

  She smiled modestly. “I called in a favor with somebody in the order of seamstresses.”

  “Totally worth it,” I said. “They sparkled.”

  “What about the music?”

  I swallowed. “I could hear it all perfectly. I mean, wow! They were good and loud.”

  She crossed her arms, unsatisfied. “You came late—you missed ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ That’s our best number.”

  “Darn.”

  “It’s only two nights before Skate-a-Palooza, April, and we still haven’t been given our spot. What’s the holdup?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy with what?”

  I ignored the question. “I’ll try to give them a good spot. But you know how many acts there are.”

  She buried her mittened hands in her pockets and kicked her toe in the packed snow under her feet. “Everyone just wants to hear Figgie and the Nutcrackers.”

  The local rock group had a big following. They were going to be the headliners. All the other acts had to open for them . . . or be tucked in after, when most everyone would be filtering out of the park.

  “All the money goes to charity,” I explained, “so we want a lot of people to come out.” Figgie and the Nutcrackers would attract more ticket sales than the Reindeer Bell Choir, though I didn’t want to make it sound as if all my calculations were financial ones.

  “Why were you late?” Her gaze traveled down the hill to the spot where I’d parked the snowmobile. “And how did you ever convince Jingles to let you drive that thing?”

  “How did you know it was his?”

  “Are you kidding me? He spends most of his days off polishing it. It’s his baby—he barely even drives it himself for fear of its getting scratched. I can’t believe he lent it to you.”

  “I needed to get somewhere fast.”

  “And he was probably trying to suck up to the wife of the new Santa.” Her mouth twisted. “I wouldn’t get too thick with him, if I were you.”

  “Who, Jingles?”

  “I’ve had him turn on me. Who do you think squealed to Mom when Quasar’s antlers got stuck in the curtains?”

  “Wouldn’t she have noticed anyway?”

  “I’m just saying. Jingles isn’t on anybody’s side but his own.”

  “I never thought he was on my side,” I said, but even as the words came out I knew they were fal
se. I’d trusted Jingles enough to let him witness me destroying evidence and to confide in him about my investigation. “He’s always been nice to me.”

  “Like I said . . .”

  Sucking up. But why suck up to me? Before a few days ago, he always acted a little wary of me, as though I weren’t worthy of my position. He called me you or nothing, not Mrs. Claus. Mrs. Claus was still Pamela to him.

  To be fair, she was still Mrs. Claus to almost everyone, including me.

  Why had he helped me at all? I thought back to when he showed me the note Nick had written that first morning after Giblet had died. I’d assumed Jingles’ action had been out of allegiance to the family. But he could easily have burned the note on his own, without calling me into the library.

  He’d wanted to make sure I saw it.

  “You’ll learn.” Lucia glanced over my shoulder and her frown deepened. She lowered her voice. “Don’t panic, but trouble’s on its way and it’s looking right at you.”

  I knew what I’d see even before I turned around. Jake Frost.

  “You missed all the fun,” I said to him in greeting.

  “We couldn’t have talked during the performance anyway.”

  I pivoted to Lucia to say something about her bell choir, but she was walking away. I ended gesturing awkwardly at her retreating back.

  Jake watched her go. “Your sister-in-law seems to be in a hurry.”

  Yes, she did.

  “But it was you I wanted to talk to,” he continued. “We can go to We Three Beans if you’d be more comfortable there than outside.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” The question answered itself, because the man in front of me seemed as comfortable wearing his loosely buttoned coat in the sub-zero weather as I used to feel walking around Oregon in a T-shirt and jeans. Was he immune to the cold? Did they bleed ice water out in the Reaches?

  “I take it that’s a yes,” he said.

  My eyes narrowed. “How did you know I liked We Three Beans?”

  “I’m a detective. It’s my job to find things out.”

  I wasn’t comfortable being detected, though.

  We Three Beans didn’t have many people in it when we went in, and we were able to find an empty corner table. Nat King Cole sang “The Christmas Song,” which went a long way to soothe the edginess I felt from having Jake Frost dogging my movements. I grabbed a gingerbread muffin to go with my latte. Jake ordered black coffee.