Treacherous Toys

by Joyce

  Christine passed her hand across her eyes. “I’m sorry you saw that, Jolly. But your father loved you and all the rest of us very much. He was always trying to find the perfect place. It wasn’t easy for him.”

  “But did he ever borrow money from someplace outside of a bank or other financial institution?” I was hoping to get away from Chris’s character flaws—at least from his family’s point of view. At the rate they were going, there would be nothing good left for the younger kids to remember.

  Christine thought back. “The Santa Fund loaned us money a few times. But that’s what they’re for. Sometimes it can be tough between jobs. Everyone pays in something, and then they can use it during the bad times.”

  That didn’t seem to be anything like a loan shark, which was what I’d been thinking. There wasn’t much to put in the journal. There didn’t appear to be any good reason for killing Chris.

  “Do you know anyone here in the Village?” I asked. “Chris mentioned working with Queen Olivia and King Harold. Did he have a good relationship with them?”

  Christine raised her eyebrows and shot back, “A little too good, if you know what I mean. I told you we had a few problems in that general direction, Jessie. But that was a long time ago. I’m sure your king and queen remember Chris, but I can’t imagine either of them wanting to hurt him. They probably had some input in his coming here, but certainly not to kill him.”

  I wrote Olivia’s and Harold’s names in the journal anyway. Sometimes hard feelings lasted a long time. If Chris and Olivia were messing around when he was first at the Village, anything was possible.

  I couldn’t imagine Harold sneaking down here and killing Chris—it would take a few knights to assist him—so that was probably a dead end. Livy, well, that seemed like another implausible idea.

  I was about to ask another question when the door to the workshop flew open and a crowd began to spill into the basement area.

  “Oh my heavens!” Christine put her hands to her face. “I completely forgot that the new Father Christmas was visiting the shop this morning. Quick! Everyone look busy.”

  I sat down at the nearest table and hid the journal under some thin pieces of wood. I wasn’t sure what to do to look busy, but the Christmas twins, Joy and Star, sat on either side of me and started right in making fire trucks. They were young, but they knew exactly what to do.

  “And here is my workshop.” The new Father Christmas led the way for a pack of reporters. “I enjoy spending time here making toys for the good girls and boys.”

  Chase was right. The actor Adventure Land had hired to take Chris’s place looked more like the Burger King than a Christmas figure.

  True, he wore a long red velvet cape and matching outfit, much like the one Chris had worn. His black boots were shiny, and the brass buttons on his jacket were polished. But his face looked molded, unreal. I didn’t know if they’d put too much makeup on him or what. He looked like a large plastic doll.

  Of course, the only reason a mob of reporters from the Myrtle Beach area were interested in the Village was because someone had died there under mysterious circumstances. While the new Father Christmas went on about the toys and the spirit of the holiday, the reporters were asking questions about where the body had been found. They took long videos of the children and Christine, speculating on when the police would release information on the case.

  “Do you have any problem with taking over the role from a man who was murdered just yesterday?” A reporter whose badge said she was from Charleston got right to the point.

  New Father Christmas grinned. “It’s very sad when someone dies. Believe me, I have mourned my predecessor extensively. But life is short, and there are thousands of little children who are still waiting to talk to their favorite person in the whole world—me.”

  Everyone kind of smirked at that. The reporters threw more questions at him, which he answered in ever more irritating ways. When one of the reporters asked him to comment on why he thought someone would want to kill Chris, that was enough for Christine.

  “My husband was a good man. I won’t have you defaming his name and reputation. None of you have the right to ask questions about him. You should all leave.”

  Everyone was stunned by her outburst—until they realized who she was. Then the reporters turned on her, the cameramen zooming in on her tearful face, as though she were an alien newly arrived from outer space.

  Christine, probably realizing what she’d let herself in for, jumped up and walked quickly out the door. The reporters followed her like flies buzzing after a garbage truck. She’d probably saved her children a lot of embarrassment—the reporters would’ve been happy to question them, too.

  The kids and I were left in the basement workshop with the new Father Christmas, who tried in vain to call back the reporters, promising them a show they wouldn’t forget. When he saw the reporters weren’t interested, he turned on the rest of us as his only audience.

  “I can see all of you have been hard at work.” He smiled and sounded like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school. “Father Christmas—that’s me now—will be making stops in here from time to time with visitors. Try to keep your toy making tidy, okay? We want the visitors to be happy.”

  Jolly got up and walked out. I didn’t blame him. It was bad enough they’d lost their father yesterday. They shouldn’t have had to put up with a comedian making jokes about him.

  “That elf doesn’t look very happy,” New Father Christmas said to me. “I guess that leaves you in charge since you look like the only one here over the age of twelve. How would you like to be my liaison with the elves?”

  “We’re not elves,” I flatly told him. “And these children belong to the Father Christmas you’re replacing. Have some compassion.”

  He smiled and looked around. “I guess none of you are into this today. You know what? That’s fine. We’ll all learn to get along. You’ll see. Now, you, elf liaison, you go get Father Christmas some coffee. Double shot. Nonfat milk. I’ll be upstairs.”

  “I’m not an elf,” I repeated, a little more emphatically. “I’m not your liaison, and you can get your own coffee. Go away.”

  The new Father Christmas finally convinced Merry Beth to go to the Monastery Bakery for coffee. I told her she didn’t have to go. She said she’d rather get coffee than sit there any longer.

  She wasn’t gone more than a minute before Queen Olivia, in a gold and white maternity gown, came briskly into the workshop. “Have we missed the press conference?”

  New Father Christmas shrugged. “They were here. Now they’re out there, chasing the widow, I believe.” He smiled at the queen as he took in her crooked crown and the jewels slightly askew on her bosom. “You missed the excitement, my good lady.”

  It was said in a perfectly charming voice, but one did not address the queen as my good lady. I knew there was going to be fireworks. I got the rest of the children together, and we put our arms around one another. I wished Christine would hurry back. I didn’t know a lot about taking care of young children, and the two oldest ones were gone.

  Queen Olivia’s page joined us in the workshop. Obviously the two of them had hastily garbed themselves to seek out some publicity for the Village. Too bad they were too late.

  But the page’s arrival saved us from one of the queen’s rampages. “Tell this buffoon, my royal page, that he must never address us again without proper knowledge of protocol or we will feed him to the sharks in Mirror Lake.”

  She looked very regal except for her enormous baby bump. The tone was accurate, but I could’ve sworn I saw some tears welling in her eyes. Who knew maternity would soften Livy’s nature? Apparently Chase had been right.

  But Father Christmas was fast on his feet. He made a deep bow to the queen and kissed her royal hand. “Please excuse that a newcomer such as myself would be awed by your presence, Your Majesty. Allow me to present a small token to your most wonderful self.”

  It was a little h
okey, but the queen seemed to enjoy it. Father Christmas handed her a small, wrapped gift from the pile of finished toys near the door. It could’ve been anything from a boat to a dinosaur. His choice was a good one—a pretty dolly with red hair that almost matched Livy’s own bright color.

  “You are a magician, good sir. We shall allow you to escort us from here to the Good Luck Fountain where we are judging an art show in a few moments. Page, tell the trumpeter to announce that we are ready to leave.” She looked my way and almost smiled. “We are happy to see you at this time, Lady Jessie. We hope you are enjoying your stay.”

  That was the first time the queen had ever wished me a good time. She rarely acknowledged anyone besides one of the attractive Village men. She had a thing for Chase, which annoyed me. Not much I could say since she was the queen. Better her than young, sexy Princess Isabel.

  I nodded to her. She put her hand on New Father Christmas’s arm, and they waltzed out the door together. At least that was over.

  The kids were upset. Star and Joy were both crying for their parents. I hoped Christine would realize what was going on instead of spending all her time with the media people. I knew what she’d done had been for the best—but now I was wondering what to do next. Maybe I should buy them a turkey leg.

  Garland saw his mother before I did. The children deserted me en masse and ran to her. Christine’s face was red from crying as she hugged her children.

  After a few moments, she looked up at me. “Thanks for staying with them, Jessie. And you know how you were wondering if there might be anyone here with a reason to kill Chris?”

  “Did you think of someone?” I asked as I searched for the journal.

  “Yes. You just met him. If anyone had a reason to see Chris dead, it’s the new Father Christmas.”

  Five

  Christine didn’t want to discuss the issue around the children. I didn’t blame her—although the curiosity almost killed me.

  We made some toys. Chris had left behind setups for dollhouses, rocking horses, cars, trains, fire trucks, you name it. The setups were like kits that included pieces for the toys. Basically, the pieces had to be glued, stapled, or nailed together. Then the completed toys were painted and detailed.

  It looked like there were enough setups for weeks until the fast-moving children got started. They really knew how to put things together. It was easy to see that they had been working at this their entire lives.

  Jolly came back while we were working. He and his mother had a quiet conversation as she was working on new setups. Because creating the new wood pieces required using a saw, the children weren’t allowed to participate.

  After the mother-son talk, there were some tears and lots of hugging. Eventually Jolly and his mother came to an understanding, and Jolly took over cutting the wood. I thought this might be a good time for Christine and me to discuss her accusation about the new Father Christmas. But then Merry Beth returned after delivering coffee and the whole thing started all over.

  I could only imagine what this small tribe must have been going through. Not only losing their father and husband but also having their tragedy made so public. I remembered not wanting to go to school after my parents died because people would ask about them. I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk about them without crying. I didn’t want people to laugh at me for that.

  It seemed to be therapeutic for the children and Christine to continue working here. It was what they knew, what made their lives normal. We all worked in harmony for more than an hour before Christine called a halt for lunch.

  The largest jar of peanut butter I’d ever seen was hauled out of a pantry and paired with jelly and bread. The children made sandwiches the same way they worked. Even Faith, the youngest, had a role. She spread jelly on one side of the bread while Joy and Star spread peanut butter on the other side. Holly put the two pieces of bread together.

  For a while they were just happy little kids, teasing and giggling, while they made and ate their lunch in the workshop. Their spirits had definitely improved from the unhappy, teary-faced state I’d found them in when I’d arrived that morning.

  Christine had been right about what they’d needed. It was hard to hold in all the questions I wanted to ask, but she had prepared for that, too.

  “After lunch, I want everyone to wash up and you’re going to spend some time playing outside in the Village. Jolly and Merry Beth have some money for snacks and drinks. The nice people at Adventure Land gave me passes for all of you to ride the camels, go to the joust—whatever you want to do.”

  There were eight cheers that went up from the kids, who barely waited to thank her before going to wash their faces and hands. For once, I was proud to be part of Adventure Land. Despite the board of directors’ scheming and money grubbing, Merlin’s soft heart must have prevailed.

  “Is Jolly in charge?” Merry Beth asked in a tone that said she wasn’t happy about the idea.

  “He is the oldest,” her mother said. “But I’m giving you the cell phone. Keep it in your pocket, and if there’s a problem, call me.”

  That satisfied the girl. She hugged Christine and took the badges each child had to wear to get in all the attractions for free. Seeing the family working together in this way made me tear up. Christine was a wonderful mother, able to handle so much and keep it under control. I couldn’t even imagine how hard that must be with eight kids under the age of eighteen.

  When all the kids were clean and had their badges pinned on, they kissed their mother good-bye and headed out for Renaissance fun, slamming the door to the workshop behind them. I wished I was going with them.

  No sooner had the door closed than Christine collapsed into one of the wooden chairs set at the painting table and began crying. “How am I ever going to do this without Chris?” She looked up toward the ceiling. “How could you leave me like this?”

  I hugged her even though I knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. I had no idea what to say to help ease her pain. It wasn’t like this was something that could be resolved by a hot cup of coffee or some chocolate. Those were the extent of my normal therapies.

  “I know it wasn’t his fault.” Christine wiped her eyes with her ever-present white apron. “Now that I know that Edgar Gaskin is here, I’m more sure than ever that we know who murdered Chris.”

  I dropped into the chair beside her, reaching for the journal we’d started earlier. “Edgar Gaskin?”

  “The new Father Christmas—you’ve met him now. He’s taken Chris’s job as he took his life.”

  There was so much bitterness in her voice, I had to ask why she felt so strongly about him. “It seems unlikely that he’d kill Chris and take his place here. That would be kind of obvious, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not for that man! He threatened Chris a few years back when Chris exposed him. Edgar had been stealing money from the Santa Fund. Chris caught him at it. Edgar replaced the money, but the Santa Fund board decided he could never be in a position of authority for the group again.”

  “What did he threaten Chris with?” I wrote it all down, wishing I had a keyboard instead of a pen.

  “They got into a fistfight that was all over the evening news in Chicago,” she explained. “It’s not often you see Santas brawling on the street, especially during the holidays. Edgar swore he’d get back at Chris. Nothing happened immediately. We forgot about it. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Edgar has taken Chris’s job.”

  I looked at what I’d written in the journal. “I was wondering about Olivia and Harold. I know that you and Chris knew them. Do you think they could be involved?”

  “I don’t really know them personally. But I know of them. I can’t imagine Harold still being upset about Chris sleeping with Olivia. I met them when we first arrived, and they seemed very polite. I was mad when Chris told me who Olivia was, but I got over it. That was a long time ago, before Chris and I were married.”

  I stopped writing. “Was Chris married before you?
”

  “Yes. He was divorced.”

  “Do you know her name? Does she work here?”

  “Her name is Alice. I’ve never met her. If she works here, Chris didn’t know. He would’ve said something. He was good about preparing me, like with Olivia. We had no secrets, even about the unpleasant things.”

  “I guess I was just looking for some common denominator. I’ve heard that Chris wasn’t new here. He might have known his killer.”

  “Well there’s no point in looking further than Edgar,” she told me. “If we check into his whereabouts the last few days, no doubt we’ll find out what happened.”

  I closed the journal, not wanting to cause her any more stress. And she knew Chris’s life better than I did. Edgar seemed a likely suspect—more likely than Livy, whose affair with Chris had ended years ago. I couldn’t imagine Harry even recalling the number of people either of them had slept with since they’d come to the Village.

  Their infidelities were legend. Harry flirted with the ladies-in-waiting. Livy secretly met knights outside the castle. Everyone knew about it, and it hadn’t seemed to matter to the couple—until last year.

  There had been a change between them last year that had produced their first offspring. At first, Harry had been reluctant to acknowledge the baby was his. Something had changed his mind, though even the most prolific gossips in the Village didn’t know what that was.

  Since then, they’d been the perfect couple, outfitting their royal nursery and sweetly spending their hours together waiting for their heir. No one who hadn’t known them before Livy’s pregnancy would ever guess what they’d been like previously.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about Edgar’s arrival at the Village,” I promised. “If he got here before Chris died, Detective Almond might be willing to listen to that theory.”

  “I can call the Santa Fund, too,” Christine added. “They know where any working Santa is, even between jobs. It’s how they keep in touch to help them with employment.”