Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland
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a courteous yet forced smile to the reindeer limping toward the fireplace. “Good morning, Quasar.”
His head dipped, nose fizzling like a dying neon sign. “G’morning, ma’am.”
Martin leaned toward me. “Don’t forget rehearsal.”
It took a moment to recollect that the Santaland Concert Band was meeting this morning. I’d been given the job of chairperson of the Musical Events Committee, so it wasn’t good for me to miss practices, even though I had a lot on my plate this week. All the upcoming activities kept me up night, worrying. There would be Kinder Caroling here at the castle, a tea with entertainment at Kringle Lodge, the Reindeer Hop, and, most worrisome of all, the Skate-a-Palooza at Peppermint Pond. I still hadn’t set the schedule for the musical acts for that last event yet; there were far more people who wanted to play than slots to fit them into, and I hated to disappoint anyone. I felt like groaning just thinking about it. And now all this business about Giblet’s death, and calls to be paid to the Hollyberrys . . .
“Will we have time?” I asked Martin, who was in the concert band with me. He played a pretty good tenor sax.
“I’m sure the band will understand if you can’t make it,” Pamela said. “Anyway, you’re not really musical, are you, April?”
“I play percussion.”
“Exactly. They probably just felt they needed to include you in something, because of Nick.” Knitting needles flew as she spoke. Clack, jingle, clack, jingle.
“If she’s not there they might think she doesn’t want to show her face,” Lucia said. “Because of that scene yesterday. And now Giblet . . .”
“Well, I’m going to rehearsal,” Martin said. “I won’t waste my time lugging food baskets to Hollyberrys.”
Lucia crossed to the sofa, flopped down next to her mother, and propped her feet on the massive low table in front of the couch. I envied her unvarying wardrobe of long wool sweaters and fleece-lined pants. She always looked warm and comfy, even if she did exude a soupçon of reindeer musk. She was the official Claus liaison with the reindeer herds and presided over all sorts of animal activities, including the never-ending Reindeer Games. “There’s a big race today, too. I can’t miss that.”
Jingle, clack, jingle, clack. “Surely they can do without you this once,” Pamela said. “You’re not racing.”
Martin snorted. “Don’t disillusion her, Mother. She thinks she’s part reindeer.”
Lucia chucked a pillow at him. She had a special affinity for animals, especially reindeer, although her relationship to the honored beasts of Santaland could also be contentious. She’d founded the Santaland Reindeer Rescue, which got some reindeer’s antlers in a twist. No one was crueler to reindeer than other reindeer. Sorry to say, what happened to Rudolph the First wasn’t an anomaly. The animals weren’t forgiving of flaws in their own kind, and castoffs were often sent to the misfit herd in the Farthest Frozen Reaches to do their best among the snow monsters, polar bears, and hunters. The lucky ones, like Quasar, caught Lucia’s attention before they were exiled.
Lucia let out an irritated breath. “What a mess. I suppose there’ll be even more whispers about Nick now.”
“Whispers?” Pamela squinted in concentration at the jangling sweater beneath her fingers. “No one’s been whispering in my hearing. Giblet’s death was unfortunate, of course, but it was nothing to do with Nick.”
“Mom, Giblet as much as called Nick a murderer, and the next day he’s dead? ” Lucia’s lips twisted. “Not a good look for the Claus dynasty.”
“Nonsense!” Needles clacked more frantically. “It will all blow over. Little kerfuffles like this usually do. Imagine throwing a hissy fit over losing an ice sculpture competition! It’s Christmas—who has time for all this nonsense?”
“Elves always have time for nonsense,” Martin pointed out.
“We’ll pay condolence calls this morning,” Pamela insisted. “All of us. Smooth things over. Everything will be fine. We must be helpful, sober, and cheerful.”
Martin smirked. “Solemn and jolly. Nothing weird about that.”
Clack, jingle, clack, jingle. “Keeping up appearances is always important, especially this time of year.”
“You’re putting a lot of faith in food baskets.” Lucia stood. “But I’m not. I intend to go see for myself what happened to Giblet.”
I was on my feet in an instant. “I’ll go with you.”
All gazes turned to me. I sensed they’d forgotten I was there, much the same way they didn’t see Quasar nibbling the pine boughs over the mantel.
Before anyone could speak again, however, Jingles moved silently into the room, stopping next to me. “I’ve left your letters and your coffee in Santa’s office,” he said in a low voice.
“The post has arrived?” Pamela asked. She had ears like a bat.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jingles acknowledged her with a bow. “There were just a few things for April. One letter in particular looked rather urgent”—he leveled a significant look on me—“so I thought she might want to tend to it right away.”
“I’ll be right there.” I turned back to Lucia. “Can you wait for me? I really want to go to Giblet’s cottage.”
She gave my outfit a once-over. “Don’t worry, it’ll take me some time to get a sleigh ready. You obviously can’t ride in that getup.”
I followed Jingles out, but once we were in the hall I practically had to sprint to keep up with him. “I’m sorry for the subterfuge.” He looked back at me and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what I’ll say to Mrs. Claus—the dowager Mrs. Claus—when the post really does arrive.”
“There’s no letter?”
“Of course not. I was just doing some straightening in your husband’s office when I found the strangest note on his desk. I thought I should show you before one of the servants saw it. I would have destroyed it, but it’s not my place.”
Nick’s study had framed world maps on one wall and floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the two walls adjacent to the door. His mahogany desk took up the space before a large picture window that overlooked the grounds around the castle, which were dotted with snow-dusted evergreens and embellished with ice sculptures that had probably stood for years. Lights on the trees provided the only illumination outside. Dawn was still hours off.
The room was scrupulously tidy except for two overstuffed sacks of mail piled in a corner. Santa letters—the tough ones. They kept Nick up at night till all hours sometimes and often preyed on his mind. Maybe that’s what he had been doing last night. Even a bulletin board full of lists was arranged neatly. Looking at them made me feel a rush of love for my Type A husband. Santa was supposed to make a list and check it twice, but Nick would make a hundred lists and check dozens of times.
As I hovered over his desk, a piece of paper on the desk blotter caught my eye. I knew in an instant that this was what Jingles had brought me here to see. The note was printed in large capital letters in red ink:
A VENOMOUS ELF. COAL IN HIS STOCKING?
And that was all.
I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“ ‘A venomous elf ’—Giblet,” Jingles interpreted for me. “ ‘Coal in his stocking.’ His stocking—Blitzen said they’d found something in Giblet’s stocking, remember?”
“But that’s—”
Lucia’s warnings of the gossip about Nick came back to me, and I understood why Jingles was worried. If Giblet’s death was ruled suspicious, this note might strike people as a damning clue.
It looked like Nick’s printing,