Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland
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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.
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