Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings

by Liz Ireland

  Mrs. Claus and The Santaland Slayings

  Liz Ireland

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Bass

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2660-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2660-X (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2658-2

  Chapter 1

  The strange occurrences that threatened to upend my marriage, my adopted city, and the potential happiness of tens of millions of children started on a December morning just nine days before Christmas with a frantic pounding on our bedchamber door. The racket sounded loud enough to wake half of Christmastown.

  It was ten past six, though, so most of the town’s residents were probably up already. Elves tend to be early birds.

  Our steward, Jingles, shouted through four inches of ancient timber, “Nick!” In the excitement of the moment, he’d reverted to the name my husband went by before he’d assumed his title, but he quickly remembered himself. “Er—Santa! Awaken, sir! We have a very important messenger!”

  Nick and I trundled out of bed, he shrugging on his red coat and buttoning it quickly and I pulling on a ridiculously heavy flannel-lined boiled wool robe. The Order of Elven Seamstresses had presented the robe as a welcoming gift upon my arrival in Santaland. Though the cynic in me had silently chortled (ho ho ho) at the fire-engine-red garment trimmed with fluffy white wool and a black sash, one night in frigid Castle Kringle was all it took for me to appreciate their thoughtfulness, not to mention skill and artistry. I arrived at the North Pole as prepared for the arctic cold as someone from Kansas is prepared for a volcanic eruption. I’d moved here from Oregon, which, from the perspective of Santalanders, is so far south it might as well be equatorial jungle.

  Nick was halfway across the room as I was still adjusting my nightcap. A few months ago I’d never dreamed people still wore nightcaps. Then again, I’d never dreamed Santa Claus existed, at least not since I was five. Now I was married to the guy. Whoever coined the phrase life comes at you fast didn’t know the half of it.

  “Come in!” Nick called out, flipping the switch on an elaborate network of twinkling lights across the vaulted ceiling.

  The eight-foot-high arched door was pushed open with effort, even though Jingles and his assistant, Waldo, kept the hinges well oiled. Jingles was puffing and out of breath when he appeared and scrambled aside just in time to avoid being trampled by the messenger.

  You might wonder, as I once did, why doors in the castle should be so tall when most of Santaland’s inhabitants were elves—definitely on the short side—and the Clauses, who, whatever their varying girths, were humans of average height. You’d stop wondering the first time you saw a reindeer saunter through one, its bulk and antlers making all those oversized doorframes seem modest.

  At the sight of Nick, the reindeer stopped, dipped her heavy head, and pawed the stone floor with her right hoof in greeting. “Excuse the intrusion, sir. I have an important message from the village.”

  Though she was as stocky, furry, and snub-nosed as any reindeer, just a glance told me this was obviously a female. Most of the bucks had already shed their antlers for the winter, but females kept theirs until spring. It was one of those things that shocked me when I first came here—I’d grown up assuming most of the antlered reindeer fabled in story and song, the heroes of Christmas night, were males: all those illustrations of fantastic racks of antlers limned against the moonlit sky, pulling the sleigh. But didn’t it just figure that it was the females with the stamina and patience to haul Santa around on the world’s biggest errand run?

  “What’s wrong, Blitzen?”

  Although just months ago I’d barely known zip about reindeer, the names of reindeer who drove Santa’s sleigh were worn into that same brain groove that could call up the names of dwarves in Snow White, old soft drink jingles, and the words to pop songs I never even liked. Not just anyone had been sent galloping through the Christmas tree forest to deliver this news. All reindeer had their own reindeer names, but to people they were usually identified by their herd. Carrying the name Blitzen meant this messenger was representing one of the original chosen nine’s herds. Reindeer royalty. Something significant had happened.

  Blitzen’s deep, rasping voice was solemn when she spoke. “Giblet Hollyberry was found dead this morning.”

  Giblet. As tense silence settled over the bedchamber, a horrible scene played through my mind. Yesterday had been the Christmastown parade and ice sculpture competition, and Nick, as the acting Santa and head of the Claus family, was the judge. Giblet Hollyberry’s sculpture, The North Pole’s King, a larger-than-life rendering of Nick’s late older brother, Chris, the former Santa, had come in second. The elf, to put it mildly, had not taken defeat in stride.

  The tension in the room made it clear that everyone was thinking of Giblet’s curse that had echoed through Christmastown yesterday: You’re an abomination, Nick Claus—a man with no right to wear the robes of Santa, and a shame to your house. The day will come soon when Santaland will know you’re also a murderer!

  With those words, Giblet had tossed his second-place ice trophy in the snow at Nick’s boots and stomped down the hill toward the Christmas tree forest. Murmurs had broken out among the crowd. I’d stood stunned. Nick, a murderer? Had someone spiked the nog at the festival with crazy juice? Nick agonized over hurting anyone. He’d probably lost sleep over disappointing Giblet. He certainly hadn’t been in bed most of the night.

  And now Giblet was dead.

  Despite my suffocatingly warm robe, a cold foreboding snaked through me.

  “Giblet probably died in a fit of rage,” Jingles piped up now, breaking the silence. “I’ve never seen a grown elf throw such a tantrum. Disgraceful!” He put his hands on his hips. “In olden days, an elf who spoke that way to Santa would have been exiled to the Farthest Frozen Reaches. And good riddance!”

  Nick shook his head. “He was disappointed.”

  “Pardon me, Santa, but Giblet Hollyberry was a hotheaded nincompoop. He couldn’t even
live peacefully among his own people in Tinkertown.”

  Nick turned back to Blitzen. “How did poor Giblet die?”

  “At the moment, there is only speculation, and wild talk of something in a stocking. Constable Crinkles has been alerted and is on his way to Giblet’s cottage.”

  “I’ll go there, too.”

  “I’ll take you, sir,” Blitzen said, again slightly bowing her heavily antlered head.

  I moved forward, but Nick motioned for me to stop. “No need for you to go, April. I have to hurry, and you’ll need to lead the castle’s condolence calls to the Hollyberrys this morning. Along with Mother, of course.”

  That was me dismissed. Heat climbed into my cheeks, though I tried to appear calm on the outside. “Did Giblet have a wife or children?” I asked.

  “No, but the Hollyberry clan is large, and tight-knit.”

  Jingles crossed his arms. “Not so tight that any of them wanted to live near Giblet. Who can blame them? He—”

  “We won’t speak ill of the dead,” Nick said, cutting him off. “I need to go.”

  Jingles, remembering himself, scrambled to reach the door first and hold it open. “I’ll prepare a lantern for your journey.” He flicked a disapproving glance over my husband’s figure, which, by Christmastown standards, lacked poundage. “And a snack.”

  Nick turned back to me with an awkward glance and a brief, apologetic smile that went a little way to soothing my irritation over being left behind. “I’ll be back soon, I hope.”

  After they were all gone, I moved closer to the fire and let the warmth from the hearth penetrate my layers of flannel and wool. I’d never heard of Giblet Hollyberry till yesterday, yet his death disturbed me. Nick had been in an odd mood since the ice sculpture competition. I hadn’t seen him brood so much since we’d first met. And when I’d woken up in the night, he hadn’t been in bed. I’d gotten up and padded around the castle in search of him and had even thrown on his coat and braved the blistering cold outside to see if he was pacing around the grounds. But I never found him until I returned to bed—and there he’d been, sleeping. Or pretending to.

  Now this had happened, and my husband of three months seemed to want to get away from me. Almost as if he didn’t want me asking too many questions.

  A few minutes later, Jingles returned, and I snapped to attention, ashamed to be caught wool-gathering when there were probably things to do. Precisely what, I wasn’t sure. Castle Kringle protocol was still new to me. “I’m sorry, I’ve been lost in thought. Let me know how I can be of use.”

  “I have a castle full of elves to do my bidding.”

  Jingles didn’t seem to know what to make of me. He wasn’t used to Clauses offering to help him, and I wasn’t used to being waited on. Quite the opposite.

  “You might want to make your way to the morning room,” he suggested. “There’s a fire lit, and Mrs. Claus—excuse me, the dowager Mrs. Claus—is there, as is Christopher. More of the family will probably be congregating as the news spreads.”

  “Is it so odd for an elf to die?” I asked.

  “To die at a ripe old age, no. To die suspiciously in the prime of life . . . ?” He let the question dangle.

  I started toward the door. Jingles cleared his throat.

  When I turned back, he said, “Mrs. Claus—the dowager Mrs. Claus—has already dressed and ordered breakfast.”

  Of course she had. Nick’s mother, Pamela, still ran the castle. After my marriage, when I’d suggested I should help lighten some of her responsibilities, she’d pointed out to me that since she knew how to do everything, it made more sense for her to keep charge of the household. Though she didn’t say so in so many words, I’d caught a few looks that conveyed her belief that I wasn’t really up to managing a castle and its staff. In fact, she’d seemed astonished when I told her that I owned a successful inn on the Oregon coast, and positively flabbergasted when Nick and I announced our intention to open the inn during the lucrative tourist season from May through September.

  “But Nick can’t leave Santaland,” she protested. “He’s Santa.”

  Nick had helped me out. “Is there anything more useless than a Santa in summertime?”

  Poor Pamela. I thought she’d faint at the heresy of hinting that a Santa could ever be useless. She didn’t understand the economics of innkeeping, though. I could just afford to keep up the taxes and pay for an off-season caretaker. But without opening up the Coast Inn during the late spring and summer, I’d be forced to sell. And I wasn’t quite prepared to give up my old life entirely.

  I retreated to my dressing room and picked out a dress in a crimson so deep it was almost black, hoping it would be appropriate for the mourning calls. Then I took care getting my hair to look tidy, which wasn’t easy. My reddish-blond hair had a Jan Brady tendency to be neither flat nor curly. I pulled it back and stabbed a comb with a sprig of holly into the loose bun.

  As I checked my appearance in the mirror, I suddenly remembered how quickly Nick had dressed himself. Almost as if he’d never really undressed because he’d stayed out so late . . .

  I tried to un-remember it.

  In the spacious east-facing drawing room, a fire roared, blazing out a welcoming warmth. Facing east did the morning room little good this time of year, since the sun wouldn’t show itself for hours yet. My mother-in-law, a round, petite woman with appropriately rosy cheeks, sat on the couch, knitting at her usual breakneck pace. Her hands were never idle, especially as Christmas approached. Pamela was famous for two things. First, her holiday croquembouches, amazing towers of cream puffs covered in a shell of spun sugar that by all accounts were as incredible to look at as they were to eat. This year she was insisting that I would be her helper—co-architect, she called it—in constructing her annual edible masterpiece.

  The second thing she was famous for was the matching holiday sweaters she made for the family. This year she was working some bell theme into her pattern; I could hear tinkling and jingling along with the clicking of her needles. Great, we’re all going to sound like reindeer in harness. Also, she seemed to be favoring a metallic gray yarn that, with my pale, freckly skin, was going to make me look like a shiny holiday specter.

  Nick’s nephew, Christopher, the son of the late Santa and next in line to the position when he became an adult, jumped up from his seat by his grandmother when he saw me. “Hey, April, did you hear about Giblet?” he asked. “What do you think happened to him?”

  I was about to say I didn’t know when Pamela cut me off. “Now, how would April know anything about it? She just rolled out of bed.”

  She was smiling at me . . . but was there something judgmental in that last sentence? It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet, for pity’s sake. Maybe I was being paranoid. Living with your rosy-cheeked mother-in-law could do that to you.

  “Seems like a lot of fuss over a dead elf,” Christopher said.

  Exactly what I’d thought.

  “Death is always a tragedy,” Pamela scolded him. “Think of his family.”

  “Oh.” Christopher sank back into the sofa again. He’d lived through his own tragedy recently, losing his father to a terrible accident that took place while a group was tracking a snow monster. “I’m sorry, Grandma. You won’t tell Mama I said that, will you?”

  She patted his knee and smiled at him. “Of course not.”

  I looked around for Christopher’s mother. Tiffany, dressed in mourning, could usually be seen hovering about her son. Or when Christopher was occupied with lessons, she wandered about the castle, a sad lost soul. Her pain seemed as fresh as if the accident that had taken her husband’s life had just happened yesterday instead of seven months ago. If anything, she grew gloomier by the day, but I supposed that was understandable. This holiday probably was a poignant reminder of all she’d lost. How different last Christmas must have seemed. By all accounts, Nick’s brother Chris had been a wonderful Santa—jolly and popular with everyone. Born to don the suit, as Santalanders
put it.

  At the thought of the man dying so young—not even forty—I started to droop, too. I was a widow myself. Or had been. Was a widow who remarried called a former widow? An un-widow?

  “April, you’re pale as a ghost.” Pamela looked me over and chuckled lightly. “Perhaps it’s that dress. Not very jolly, is it?”

  Pamela was particular about appearances, although she made exceptions for Tiffany. Everyone tiptoed around Tiffany, who’d been something of a celebrity once. A former Junior World medalist in figure skating, she’d been a featured skater in an ice show when Chris had fallen in love with her. I always imagined them as a sort of golden couple reigning over Santaland, beautiful and athletic and popular. Tragedy had transformed Tiffany.

  Pamela nodded toward the long, low coffee table. “I ordered nog and crumpets, April. You should have some.”

  The frosty pitcher and silver platter of crumpets made my stomach lurch. The amount of eggnog consumed here was appalling. I’d already gained ten pounds from tucking into the carbs that were the bulk of the Santaland diet this time of year. No wonder people here had the reputation for being jolly. The entire populace was geeked up on sugar 24-7.

  “I wanted to go to Giblet’s cottage, but they wouldn’t let me,” Christopher complained. “Why didn’t you go, April?”

  Good question. “I was told there would be condolences to pay.”

  “And so there shall,” Pamela said. “They’re seeing to the food baskets in the kitchen. We must be extremely kind to the Hollyberrys.”

  “Even after Giblet said that stuff to Uncle Nick?” Christopher asked.

  “We won’t remember that,” Pamela said.

  A gale of laughter came from the doorway behind me. Nick’s younger brother, Martin, a portly man of medium height, was still laughing when I turned. “How could we forget? A curse on Santa Claus—a murdering Santa, no less! As if Nick would harm a fly!”