Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland
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voice could barely carry a tune. I didn’t even like to sing in the shower.
Have you ever played oboe?
Um, no.
We need percussion players. Anybody can play percussion.
Three months later, I was well on my way to proving that last statement wrong. Taking my place at the back of the band hall of the Christmastown Community Center, I picked up a triangle and fumbled through my music folder to find the first piece on our playlist.
Smudge, the principal percussionist of the Santaland Concert Band, noted the triangle and shot me an exasperated look. “The first song is ‘Sleigh Ride,’ April.”
“Right!” I fumbled through my sheet music. The pages never seemed to be in order. I couldn’t remember if I was supposed to be on triangle or the glockenspiel for that “Sleigh Ride.” “What am I playing on that?”
His gaze turned withering. “Sleigh bells.”
“Oh. Right.” I scooted past where he was seated at his drum kit and picked up the sleigh bells. Harder to play than you’d think, by the way. At least for someone who was as rhythm challenged as I was. Smudge, an elf who styled himself as a hipster—or as much as anyone could who had Spock ears and tucked his faded denim pants into curly-toed booties—barely tolerated my intrusion into his world. Only the dearth of volunteers and the desperate need for sound effects in Christmas music had reconciled him to my presence on the back row.
The Santaland Concert Band was comprised mostly of elves, but there were a couple of us Claus family members mixed in. A few other members were elfmen, like Luther, the conductor.
My friend Juniper, one of the Christmastown librarians, played euphonium. She turned to me as she settled into her chair in the row in front of the percussion section. “Hi, April.”
“No greeting for me?” Smudge asked, in mock hurt.
“Smudge.” Juniper’s eyes widened as if she were surprised to see him. Smudge and Juniper had dated once. Now they just snarked at each other. “I heard something the other day that made me think of you. What do you call a drummer in a three-piece suit?”
He frowned warily. “I don’t know. What?”
“The defendant.”
Luther rapped on his music stand to bring us all to attention.
Several song sheets had slipped out of my folder, and I was scrambling to gather them all up. Juniper scooped up my second page of “Silver Bells” that had landed by her chair and handed it to me. “Everything okay?”
Was she asking me because I was late arriving, or because she’d heard rumors about Giblet?
“You seem nervous,” she whispered.
The morning had unsettled me, no doubt about that. One day you’re going along, married to Santa Claus, and the next you’re worried he’s murdered an elf. It wasn’t something I could just blurt out to my friend, but apparently carrying around a strip of bells that jangled with every movement didn’t do much to mask my anxiety.
“Is something wrong back there?” Luther asked.
I jangled back to standing. “Nope! All good!”
Juniper mouthed something at me. We Three Beans later?
I nodded vigorously. I could definitely use a sanity break and some caffeine before going back to the castle. Juniper was the best friend I’d made in Christmastown, and We Three Beans was our preferred hangout.
Luther raised his baton. “Let’s begin.”
Before he could count out the intro to “Sleigh Ride,” though, Woody, our sousaphone, rose from his chair, tuba and all. “JoJo Hollyberry’s not here today,” he said. “On account of what happened to Giblet.”
Murmurs rippled through the rehearsal room. My stomach tightened into a knot.
A flute player stood. “We’re sending a card around for everyone to sign.”
“Good,” Luther said. “Thank you.” He lifted his hands again, but Woody interrupted a second time.
“There should be more than a card. It’s almost Christmas, and it’s beginning to look as if an elf has been murdered. I won’t say by whom.”
So they had heard rumors. I had the unnerving feeling that everyone’s eyes were on me, although only one person turned. Martin. He gave me an encouraging half smile and a little shrug.
“As most of you know,” Woody continued, “I’ve been working on a piece for tuba trio and orchestra for a while, and I’d like to dedicate it now to Giblet Hollyberry’s memory. I’m calling it ‘Requiem for Giblet.’ I was hoping we could play it at our next concert.”
Requiem for Giblet? Was he kidding? No one even liked Giblet!
“It’s Christmas,” Luther pointed out. “We can’t be debuting requiems when everyone feels like celebrating with carols and holiday songs.”
Across the rehearsal hall, the men and elfmen were all nodding, but the elves directed stony stares at Luther. “Not that I don’t think it isn’t a wonderful idea for a tribute, Woody,” Luther added, reading the room.
Giblet’s death, I worried, was going to tear Christmastown apart.
Smudge flicked an angry glance at me. “Stop jangling,” he hissed.
I hadn’t realized that annoying sound was coming from me. I tried to keep it together for the rest of the rehearsal. After it was over, when we were all packing up our instruments and gear, someone passing by me murmured, “Everyone heard what Giblet said to him, but no one guessed it was actually true.”
“Hear that?” Martin, coming up behind me, asked in a low voice.
I nodded.
“I was getting strange looks all through rehearsal,” he said. “I’m guessing Nick didn’t do very good PR this morning at Giblet’s cottage.”
“PR’s not his forte. But I do think Constable Crinkles will help. He seems to be on our side. Not that he’s covering up,” I added quickly, “but he is keeping an open mind. As long as nothing else goes wrong, we should be fine. Nick should, I mean.” God, I was babbling. “Have you ever heard of a snowman called Old Charlie?”
Juniper jumped in. “He’s very old.” As soon as the words were out, a red flush rose in her cheeks. “You probably guessed that, though.”
“Nick said he usually stayed near Giblet’s, but we saw him heading into town.”
Smudge frowned. “No one’s seen Old Charlie in Christmastown in a long time. He likes the country.”
“Maybe he was just restless because of all the activity going on around Giblet’s,” Juniper said.
I nodded. For a snowman used to stillness, it was probably annoying to see sleighs, skiers, and sleds whizzing by.
“Need a ride back to the castle, April?” Martin asked.
“Thanks, but Juniper and I are going for coffee.”
He looked down at Juniper and her cheeks brightened even more. She’d mentioned Martin a couple of times to me before, but it finally dawned on me why. The way she was blushing, it probably dawned on Martin, too.
“I should drop by that place more often,” he said. “Though I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”
“They have other things besides coffee,” Juniper said quickly. “Tea, hot chocolate, eggnog, soft drinks, and spritzers . . .”
Martin laughed. “Do you own We Three Beans stock?”
Her face continued on to a deep crimson hue, and I jumped in to help her out. “It’s our hangout,” I said. “We’ve