Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings

by Liz Ireland

  I pictured us both bumbling around the castle, narrowly missing each other in hallways. Like a Mr. and Mrs. Abbott and Costello at the North Pole.

  “While you were up and about, did you write a note about Giblet and leave it on your desk?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember being at my desk at all that night.”

  “So you never left a note about a venomous elf on your desk?”

  His face screwed up into a perplexed look. “Why would I do that?”

  That was the question I should have asked myself. Instead, I’d let Jingles put the idea in my head that Nick had been plotting Giblet’s demise. And then I’d destroyed evidence that might actually have helped him.

  I gave Nick another hug, noting that his stomach wasn’t as big as it had been even a week ago. Stress made for skinny Santas. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “What do you have to be sorry about?”

  “I doubted you at the wrong moment.”

  He drew back and looked into my eyes. He knew what had happened after Keith’s accident, about my having to absorb a betrayal I hadn’t even suspected while my first husband had been alive. He knew, and I also saw that he understood why doubts would be hard to tamp down.

  “But you didn’t really think I’d killed Giblet and Old Charlie,” he said.

  “I knew you couldn’t have . . . and yet incriminating evidence kept popping up that I couldn’t explain.” I mentioned his middle-of-the-night walkabout, the note on the blotter, the button. “And then there was the whole question mark surrounding Chris’s murder.”

  Nick combed his hand through his thick hair and let out a ragged sigh. “I should have satisfied your curiosity about that topic instead of letting you imagine the worst.”

  “You found it upsetting to talk about. I understood that, so I spoke to Amory and I have a better handle on what took place that day. I think one of two things happened: Either Amory was too cowardly to continue on with Chris to kill the snow leopard, so he hung back and wasn’t there when Chris fell into the crevasse. Or maybe tied together, the two did go back, and when Chris fell, Amory felt he had no recourse but to cut the rope or fall over the ledge himself and then lied to cover up what he’d done. Am I right?”

  “Those were the conclusions I came to,” he said. “I wouldn’t have faulted him for either.”

  “But you thought others might,” I said. “So you swore the others to silence, even as rumors spread that you had somehow caused Chris’s death.”

  He nodded. “I grew up with Amory. I was there when the emergency workers dug his mother and father out of the snow after the avalanche. It was devastating. Amory wasn’t the same kid after that. How could he be? He has a lot of faults, but I don’t hold them against him. I know he probably wakes most mornings thinking of that avalanche. I did for years, and it wasn’t my parents who died.”

  “When Giblet hurled the accusation of murder at you, you stayed silent because you didn’t want to throw suspicion on Amory.”

  “I never blamed Amory for whatever happened on that mountain, but other people might not have been so forgiving.”

  “Other people like Tiffany?”

  “That frayed rope might have upset her,” he said. “I thought it best just to try to let it all die down.”

  I wasn’t sure I thought his attitude was the right one. He’d played policeman, judge, and jury. Perhaps because of that, a killer had escaped.

  “The only way to put the rumors to rest and all of this behind us is to catch the real killer,” I said. “Do you know who it is?”

  “I don’t have a clue.” He looked down at me with equal parts affection and amusement. “But you have this all figured out, don’t you?”

  It was the second time I said “I do” to my husband.

  He looked as if he dreaded the answer. “It will break my heart if it’s Amory.”

  “It’s not.” I sighed. “But prepare to have your heart broken anyway.”

  Chapter 22

  After Nick’s arrest, the mood in Castle Kringle took an even darker turn. Poor Pamela appeared to have lost heart. The knitting needles had stopped clicking, and she just sat forlornly on her sofa with a half-finished sweater in her lap. I understood every thought that was going through her mind, every careful gesture, yet I wanted to give her a bracing hug. I didn’t, though. We had a tacit agreement to—as she always said—keep up normal appearances.

  “How could they take Nick away?” she asked. “We’ve always been so good to the constabulary. We paid for their new vehicle last year.”

  The wagon they’d carted Nick away in, she meant.

  Even in sorrow, Lucia’s sense of ethics rose up in protest. “So because we donated money, Crinkles should just let us get away with murder?”

  She was on her third eggnog in an hour and grew more voluble in her opinions with each slug. Martin hadn’t hidden the fact that he’d spiked the nog liberally with brandy. Who could blame him? Pamela said nothing about the eggnog, and I was sticking to coffee. Now more than ever I had to keep my wits about me.

  “Constable Crinkles told me that they were holding Nick partly for his own protection,” I said.

  “And you believed him?” Lucia leveled an incredulous gaze on me. “Did you also believe your parents when they told you the dog had been sent to a farm in the country?”

  “Now, you can’t blame April for holding out hope that Nick’s not the poisoner,” Pamela said. “We all should. It would be terrible if there really was such an evil person among us in the castle.”

  But there was, and she knew it.

  As if on cue, Tiffany appeared. Gone were the sequins; she was back in head-to-toe black, her face unspeakably grave. I knew the words that were about to come out of her mouth, words no mother should ever have to say, and my heart ached for her.

  Jingles stood behind her, head bowed.

  “It’s over,” Tiffany announced.

  Pamela looked up, tears trembling in her eyes. “You mean . . . ?”

  Tiffany shook her head. Jingles lifted a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  Pamela’s straight back gave way, and she collapsed into the couch cushions, sobbing. “I can’t believe it.”

  Lucia jumped to her feet. Some people cried in grief; Lucia got blistering mad. She strode right up to me, bending to get right in my face. “If Nick did do this, I’ll never speak to him again. He can rot in that jail.” She swung toward her mom. “And I swear, Mother, if you so much as knit him a pair of socks I’ll never speak to you again, either!”

  “L-Lucia . . .” Quasar lumbered to his feet. By the time he was standing, Lucia had already slammed out of the room. Tiffany slipped out after her quietly.

  “L-Lucia is upset,” Quasar announced.

  “We guessed that,” Martin said.

  “I-I better go after her.”

  I nodded.

  Only Pamela, Martin, and I remained in the room. And Jingles, who stood silently in the corner. I tried not to look at him.

  “I can’t believe what’s happened to my family.” Pamela turned to me. “It’s as if I’ve lost three of my boys in one year.”

  “Two,” Martin said. “Chris and Christopher.”

  “Isn’t Nick lost to me, too?” she asked. “At least, the Nick I always thought my son to be.”

  Martin rose to his feet. I’d never seen his face so solemn, never heard his voice so grave. He was stepping up as the head of the Clauses, and taking up monumental duties at the most difficult time. “This is a mournful time for our family, but it’s also December. Christmas will come, and Santaland and the whole world look to us to do our jobs.” He buttoned his jacket. “I’ll do all I can, Mother, to the best of my ability.”

  She nodded, unable to speak. I squeezed her hand.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t waste any time,” he said. “I’m going to the factory to see that everything is in order. Then I’ll come back here and try to sort out Nick’s business.”

  Pame
la lifted a handkerchief to her eyes. “That’s very helpful of you, Martin.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I told him.

  He looked at me with aching sympathy. “I know this puts you in an awkward position, April. But I want you to know that no one here blames you for what Nick’s done—and we won’t forget you, either.”

  Pamela turned to me, too, with a very believable expression of hope. It was as if, on the darkest day of her life, she’d pinpointed one bright spot. “Yes, I suppose you’ll want to go back to that place you’re from. You never liked the weather here—you’re always shivering. Now you can return to that motel you run and get back to making those what-you-call-’ems—blandies? —for your guests.”

  “Blondies.” I bit my lip. “I’ll have to think about what my next step will be.”

  “No hurry,” Martin said.

  “Of course not,” Pamela agreed.

  “You’re very kind,” I said. “Both of you.”

  “Well,” Martin said, “I should get going. We don’t have much time before Christmas, after all.”

  He kissed his mother’s cheek, and she held him for a few moments before letting him go. As soon as he’d left the room, we both stood.

  Pamela’s face was strained but not unkind. Today she’d received both the best news and worst news a grandmother and mother could hear. I felt so sorry for her, but I don’t think I’d ever admired a person’s strength as much as I did hers then. She’d played her part perfectly.

  “You’d better go,” she said. “Quickly.”

  Jingles stepped forward and pulled a helmet out of a bag he’d been holding. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” he asked as he handed the headgear to me.

  I assumed his concern was more for his snowmobile than for my head. “I will.”

  He gave me a long look, and his eyes were full of something I’d never seen in them before. Was it respect? If so, I hadn’t earned it yet. “Good luck, Mrs. Claus.”

  “Thank you, Jingles.” I turned to Pamela. “Maybe you should break the news to Lucia.”

  She nodded. “It felt a dirty trick, keeping that kind of secret from her. I’ll have to make it up to her some way. I don’t know how.”

  “Lucia will think of something,” I assured her.

  * * *

  I’d wondered how Christmastown would react to Santa Claus’s arrest. I’d expected that there might be pandemonium, or another impromptu march. I’d envisioned Hollyberrys with torches storming the constabulary. But what actually happened was even more disturbing.

  The town had gone dark. Silent and dark.

  I’d never seen Christmastown without all its lights blazing. Most of the cottages and timbered houses were shuttered, so that not even candles flickered in windows. Everything was closed, even the coffee shop, the pub, and Sparkle’s Corner Store. It was a good thing the snowmobile had a strong headlight, because without the Christmas lights draped like bunting everywhere, the streets were inky dark.

  A sharp wind didn’t help. Candy wrappers blew across the snow road, along with a few Justice for Giblet flyers. My cleanup crew had given up. It looked like the whole town had.

  Giblet’s accusations had been one thing; he was a bad-tempered kook. I doubted even most of the Hollyberrys had believed him. But hearing that Santa was actually arrested for murder was the worst blow possible to Santaland’s collective psyche. Especially two days before Christmas.

  Would there be a Christmas? The elves were probably wondering. Driving past all the dark cottages, I wasn’t sure myself. I just knew I was going to do my part to make it all happen.

  When I arrived at the Candy Cane Factory, it too looked almost deserted from the outside. The windows were dark except for a corner office on the second floor. Martin’s modest sleigh, harnessed to a single depressed-looking reindeer, was parked in front. Down the block I could see the other vehicle I was looking for. I pulled Jingles’ pride and joy right up to the front of the building.

  The door was open and unguarded. To my own ears, my footsteps seemed to echo around the entire factory, which had let its employees go for the night. It still smelled strongly of peppermint candy, though. You never think of sweet as a smell until you’re in a building where sugar is boiled all day long. Just a minute in that place was all it took for the oppressive sweetness and the sharp mint to soak into my pores.

  For all that we were relatively alone in the factory, Martin didn’t hear me coming. Small wonder. I didn’t recall exactly how to get to his office, but all I had to do was follow the sound of Elvis singing “Here Comes Santa Claus” blaring down a corridor. It grew louder as I approached the closed door with Martin’s nameplate on it. I stopped and peeked in.

  There was my brother-in-law in a red Santa hat and matching coat over his black suit pants, boogying down to the King. The music was cranked and Martin sang along—“Right down Santa Claus Laaaane!”—as he shimmied around his office. He paused once to twirl around with a coatrack; then he let his ersatz partner go, spinning dizzily, wildly, laughing with joy.

  A happy dance. A victory dance.

  I stepped into the room and looked around. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, and various plaques and certificates hung on the wall. A large shellacked fish was mounted on a board—it reminded me of Boots Bayleaf, and might have been his handiwork. There were odd juxtapositions: Candy cane sample cases were displayed next to a primitive harpoonlike implement. A small collection of windup toys stood next to a well-stocked bar.

  I cleared my throat.

  Martin whirled, his eyes bugging in surprise. “April!” He lunged for the record player and hit the needle arm, which skidded across the vinyl with an ear-jarring scritch. We both winced.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, suddenly sober again.

  “Just came to talk. I never really offered condolences to you about Christopher, did I?” I looked him up and down. “But . . . you don’t seem to need them.”

  He whipped the hat off his head, as if by doing so he could erase what I’d just seen. “I was just blowing off steam. You know.”

  “Yes, I know exactly what you were doing.”

  “Everyone reacts to grief differently,” he said defensively. When I didn’t respond, he shifted gears and became the perfect host. “Well, as long as you’ve traveled all this way, come in and sit down. Would you like a drink? I don’t have any grog, but—”

  “Do I look dumb enough to accept a drink from a man who poisoned his own nephew?”

  His reaction was a perfect combination of surprise, hurt, and pity. “You can’t be in that much denial, April. You know that Nick—”

  “Nick is innocent. Of everything. But you’ve been on a months-long killing spree and setting him up to take the blame for it all.”

  He laughed. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “All right, let’s start with the death of your brother Chris. He was your first victim.”

  “Have you lost your senses? Chris died on a snow monster hunt. I wasn’t anywhere near Mount Myrrh that day. I was here, minding the factory.”

  “So you claimed. Yet I spoke to someone who said they came to see you on the day of Chris’s murder. You weren’t here.”

  He shrugged. “Well, maybe I wasn’t here the entire day—”

  “Exactly. You weren’t here the entire day. You shadowed the group up the mountain. Tell me, Martin, was there ever even a snow monster sighting, or was that a whisper campaign you started? You knew your brother, a gung-ho risk taker and sportsman, would be the first to volunteer to go up the mountain. And while you said you would stay home—good old Martin, plugging away at the factory—you followed them, and then separated Chris from the rest by imitating a snow leopard’s call.”

  “How did you come up with this wild theory?”

  “For months I’ve watched you horsing around with Christopher. You can mimic any animal. A while back, Amory told me that you used to go hunting with Chris.
Maybe you’d been on Mount Myrrh with him before, on that very pass.

  “You’d known Chris would be the one who insisted on going back to hunt the leopard, but you really lucked out when Amory was too afraid to follow Chris for that last bit. Chris found you instead, didn’t he? Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe you just managed to hide out and push him at just the right time. That’s probably more your style. Then, when the rest saw all the footprints at the place Chris had fallen, they all assumed the worst—that Amory and Chris had had some kind of tussle, or that Amory had been tied to Chris and cut the rope.”

  “Amory is a weak idiot. He shouldn’t have gone up that mountain anyway. He was always terrified of skiing and climbing after what happened to his parents. And the fact that he went back to hunt with Chris was nothing but Chris being his usual horrible self.”

  “Horrible? Chris?”

  His face reddened. “You didn’t know him! I lived in the shadow of that idiotic arrogant jock my whole life. Do you understand? My. Whole. Life.”

  “Everybody liked him.”

  A bitter laugh snarled out of Martin. “Oh sure, he was the golden boy. He played sports well, yukked it up and knew everyone’s names, and he married the pretty ice princess. Of course he was in a good mood all the time—he was born to the best job in the world. He got the suit and all the glory while Nick, Lucia, and I did all the grunt work for him.”

  “Did you look him in the eye when you pushed him down that crevasse? Or did you sneak up on him from behind?”

  “What do you think? I’m not an idiot, nor am I some snarling villain who needs to have the last word. One short, sharp shove was all it took. No fuss, no fanfare, just do the work. That’s the Martin Claus way.” He shrugged. “It was just the first step in a larger plan anyway. Nothing to gloat over.”

  “And then Nick told the others to say nothing about what happened on Mount Myrrh, which played right into your hands, didn’t it? In the void left by the lack of a police investigation, rumors started to percolate. The whispers all focused on Nick.”

  “I can’t help it that people don’t like him as much as the rest of us,” Martin said. “Nick’s never tried to be popular.”