by Liz Ireland
He turned in surprise, almost offended. “We were never arm in arm.”
“Okay, when you arrived with your arm crooked and her hanging on to you like a barnacle. Why did you arrive with Therese in the first place?”
“I ran into her on the way to the lodge. I swung around to the Candy Cane Factory to speak to Martin. He’d already left, but Therese was there. Her vehicle broke down on the road.”
“What was she doing outside of Tinkertown?”
“She told me she was going to apply for a job at the factory to earn her Claus stipend.”
I tried and failed to imagine Therese toiling alongside the elves at the Candy Cane Factory. “She chose a nice interview outfit. What job was she going to do?”
“Receptionist, I think.” He coughed in the way he did when he had something to say that he didn’t relish telling me. “Actually, I recommended her for the job. Or I would have, but Martin wasn’t there.”
“So you were trying to arrange a job for Therese, were going to speak to Martin on her behalf on the same day she was coming in for an interview, and it just so happened that her snowmobile broke down in front of the Candy Cane Factory?”
“There’s no reason in the world to be jealous, April. I would never do anything to hurt you. I’m not a Keith.”
No, he wasn’t like my first husband. Nick didn’t have a devious bone in his body. “I’m not jealous; I’m just irritated by Therese’s campaign to upstage me all the time. Next time, tell her to find another arm to drape herself on. And while you’re at it, tell her not to cause scenes in my favorite coffee shop.”
“She did that?” At my nod, he said, “You didn’t say anything to me about it.”
“It was just before Old Charlie was found. When I saw you that day, I had other things on my mind.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the reindeer rumps ahead of us. “It’s been an unusual few days. Everyone’s acting a little peculiarly.”
From what I could gather, Therese’s behavior was perfectly in character. “Just so I know you’re not going to throw me over for Miss Santaland Psycho.”
He laughed. “No plans to do so at the moment.” He took my gloved hand in his and gave it a bracing squeeze. “You’re freezing,” he observed.
I was always cold. “I’m fine,” I said, and returned the pressure on his hand. There was so much I wanted to ask him—and here we were, in perfect privacy if you didn’t count reindeer. I doubted they were interested in what we had to say; besides, their jangling collars probably kept them from hearing us. “I need to talk to you about something difficult.”
He looked over at me warily.
I rushed on, “About the snow monster hunt. I’ve been wondering what happened that day.”
His shoulders stiffened. “You know what happened. Chris died. It was horrible.”
“I’m so sorry to dredge up a bad memory. It’s just that there’s been talk, and if I could just piece together the events leading up to—”
He dropped my hand. I’d never seen Nick in a fury, but I was pretty sure that’s what I was witnessing now. It wasn’t red-faced, blustering rage, but something still and cold, like the world around us. The brittle silence before he spoke again was like a shaft of ice working its way up my spine.
“Why should you be trying to piece together what happened that day?”
“Because people are still saying—”
“I know what they’re saying,” he interrupted. “They’re wrong. Don’t you think they’re wrong?”
“Yes, but I want to prove it. What if Chris’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“It was, April—a tragic accident, and not one I care to relive.”
“I know.” And here I was asking him to relive it. “I’m sorry, but what if—”
“You don’t have to insert yourself into gossip or investigations,” he said, cutting me off. “Nosing around is Jake Frost’s business, not yours. We have to focus on Christmas now. That’s the family business.”
I understood that. He had worries—worries that had been heaped on him unexpectedly when his brother died. As he tackled his first Christmas, the last thing he wanted to do was revisit that devastating event. Asking him to wasn’t being kind, or supportive, or particularly helpful in healing up the little rifts and secrets that seemed to have crept into our relationship since the night after the ice sculpture contest. But nothing would strain our marriage like my husband being convicted of multiple murders and spending the rest of his life in the Santaland slammer. How could I explain that to him without sounding as if I actually suspected him?
His jaw set, and he pulled the reins taut to steer the final downhill curve toward the rear of the castle. With sleighs, sledding, skis, or anything involving ice, down was always more treacherous than up. The runners beneath us skidded and I braced myself. Sleighs, like murder investigations, seemed to take on runaway momentum all their own. And no amount of disapproval from Nick or anyone else would change my determination to steer toward the truth and steer the Clauses away from disaster.
Chapter 12
It was impossible to insinuate the snow monster hunt and Chris’s death into conversations with my in-laws. If Nick wouldn’t talk to me about Chris’s death, I doubted anyone else would open up to me, either. So I spent a day inserting snow monster questions into my interactions with various elves around the castle. Most of them thought I was as mad as Tiffany and sidled away from the subject, and me, as hurriedly as they politely could.
But with the gardener, Salty, I hit pay dirt.
“If you want to know about tracking snow monsters, there’s only one elf you need to talk to,” he said as he fixed a light on one of the trees in front of the castle. “That’d be Boots.”
“Boots?”
“Boots Bayleaf. He was born in the Reaches. He knows all about abominables. He’s led every hunt since I’ve been alive. It’s what everybody says around here: ‘Snow monsters? Ask Boots.’ ”
“Does he live in the Reaches now?” I asked.
Salty tugged his ear. “I don’t know where he lives, exactly. He just shows up during troubles. He knows all about snow monsters, bears, snow leopards. That kind of thing. I’m sure he has a cottage somewhere, but I don’t know where. I don’t know who would—except Santa, of course. Your husband would know.”
I couldn’t ask him, though. He’d see through me at once, no matter how subtly I dropped Boots Bayleaf’s name into conversation.
But I bet someone else in the castle knew how to locate the snow monster hunter.
I found Jingles in his lair, the butler’s pantry, polishing silver. Most people in charge of a castle of staff would have hated this menial chore, but to Jingles, hiding himself away to rub valuable tableware to a sparkling shine was akin to meditation. Fat headphones covered his ears and he was rocking back and forth with a vigor that made me suspect he was not listening to Perry Como.
I tapped on his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
The earphones were whipped off, a pulsing sound screeching out from the headphones before he managed to jab his finger at his smartphone screen and turn off the music.
I raised a brow at the headphones. “Cheery holiday tunes? ”
You’d have thought I’d caught him doing something disgraceful. “I’m not a subversive.”
I got it. “Everybody needs to flush the sugary residue of Christmastown out of their system occasionally,” I guessed. It didn’t seem very elf-like to listen to death metal, but then I remembered what Punch had told me about Jingles’ mixed heritage.
He assumed his usual proud stance. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
I entered the narrow space—it was more of a deep closet than an actual room—and closed the door. “I need to find someone named Boots Bayleaf.”
He nearly dropped the gravy boat he’d been polishing. In the blink of an eye, his manner turned apprehensive. “What do you want with him?” He gulped. “Has there been a
sighting?”
“No, but he led the snow monster hunt last summer.”
“Are you still worrying about that?”
Jingles hadn’t been very helpful when I’d raised this subject with him when he’d brought me my coffee this morning. If only he’d told me about Boots, it would have saved me a couple of hours of pestering the rest of the castle help.
“Boots might be able to tell me a little more about how Chris died.”
“I thought you were looking into Giblet’s death.”
“Maybe Chris’s accident relates to that. Tiffany seems to think so, and someone needs to check out her story. Giblet accused Nick of killing Chris. Until it’s proved that didn’t happen, he’ll always have a cloud over his head.”
“And you think you’re the best someone to exonerate him?”
“Who else?”
“Well . . .” Reluctant didn’t begin to describe the distaste with which he spoke the next words. “I could do it.”
I remembered wondering why he’d sent me off with Quasar yesterday. He hadn’t answered my questions about the snow monster hunts this morning, either, except with a vague shrug and to tell me he’d never been on one. Why would he want to question Boots in my place?
As if reading my mind, he said, “If it gets out that Santa’s wife has been hunting down a character like Boots, people might start to ask questions. Elves would think you’re trying to buy his silence about what happened on Mount Myrrh that day.”
Maybe he had a point, but as long as I picked a time when I had no appearances to make, prizes to give out, or rehearsals to attend, no one would notice if I left for a few hours, much less that I’d met with Boots.
If I could find Boots.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but hopefully no one will hear about my visit to Boots. I’m free tomorrow until the Reindeer Bell Choir rehearsal.” This time I’d double-checked my schedule. “I just need to know where to find Boots Bayleaf. That’s what I thought you might be able to help me with.”
He nodded. “I know where to look.”
Stealthily, we made our way to Nick’s office. Outside the door, Jingles tapped lightly. When there was no answer, he cracked it open, peeked in, and then turned back to me, beckoning with his hand. The office was empty, but our being in there felt sneaky and wrong. I couldn’t help thinking of the last time I’d come in here with Jingles and burned the message Nick had scrawled on the paper. A VENOMOUS ELF. That note, almost as much as Giblet’s murder itself, seemed to be the beginning of this troubled time.
Jingles went straight to a corner of the room where a map was, and a table with a few large books below it. I took a detour by Nick’s desk and grabbed a gumdrop from the bowl he kept there.
“For most places, Santa relies on the internet and GPS,” Jingles explained, “but in Santaland we still find people the old-fashioned way.””
He reached into a cabinet and brought out what looked like the Santaland White Pages. It had been a while since I’d seen anything like it. He thumbed along the Bs until he reached Bayleaf, and then he started scrawling the address down. “This won’t mean much to you,” he grumbled. “I’ll need to draw you a map.”
“Thanks.” I kept one eye on the door. If Nick walked in now, what would I say to him? I supposed I could tell him I was looking up Juniper’s house, but after our talk in the sleigh yesterday I doubted he’d believe me. That was the sad state of affairs between us. In order to save my marriage, I worried I was wrecking my marriage.
“Okay, pay attention.” On the map, Jingles pointed out the route I should take, his manner as serious as a toy shortfall. “This cottage is out almost to the border. It will take over an hour. The terrain is hilly, and if you get lost you might end up out of phone range to get directions home.”
It didn’t look that far, but I took his word for it and paid closer attention, leaning in as he determined where the trouble spots would be.
After Jingles had finished telling me the directions, it occurred to me that I had a bigger problem than not getting lost. How was I going to get there?
“I don’t have a sleigh,” I said. “And I would rather not have the entire castle staff know what I’m up to, which they would if I asked for a sleigh from the castle stables.”
His lips turned down as he considered my dilemma. “I suppose you drove in your home country, before you came here?”
“Well, yes. But the conditions weren’t exactly the same.” Were any conditions like these, outside of Siberia?
“Good driving record?” he asked.
“Completely clean, except for a few parking tickets.” What was he getting at?
Jingles hesitated before saying, “I might be able to help you out. If you promise to be very, very careful.”
I wasn’t sure what he’d come up with this time, so it was with curiosity and trepidation that I followed him down to his private quarters at the rear of the main wing. The little suite had its own entrance, next to which a small shed had been installed. He went inside the shed and then backed out a sleek new snowmobile, painted electric blue. The way the fat body of the thing hunched behind the protruding skis gave it the appearance of a mechanical grasshopper. Jingles ran his thumb along the shiny paint job and radiated smug satisfaction when his digit came away dust-free.
“Oh my,” I said. That Jingles would be harboring such a vehicle—the Porsche of snowmobiles—amused me. It was clearly his pride and joy.
“What do you think?”
“It’s . . . quite a machine.”
He beamed like a proud parent. “I saved up for it for years,” he explained. “It’s got a power-boosting regulator, high-performing shocks, a comfort seat, and a fourteen-gallon fuel tank.”
It definitely beat a pokey sleigh, but I’d never driven one of these contraptions. “Are you sure you want to lend it to me?”
His expression said he wasn’t sure at all, but he swallowed his reluctance and said, “It’s for a good cause. Our investigation. And I know you’ll take good care of her.” He caressed the metallic haunch, then frowned. “You will take good care of her?”
I assured him I would bring the vehicle back safely. It would save me time, that was for sure. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning early. I shouldn’t have any trouble getting back in time for the bell choir rehearsal.”
Jingles gave me a brief demonstration and took me on a practice ride. It was like driver’s ed on skis, with Jingles as a very nervous instructor. But I got the hang of it enough to feel that I could manage an hour-long trek.
* * *
I set off the next morning after breakfast, which would allow me ample time to find Boots Bayleaf’s shack and get back in time for bell choir rehearsal. It was entirely possible that no one would even know I was gone, since Jingles instructed me to go out the castle’s service road, which bypassed the main artery down to town. I skirted around Santaland altogether, passing few sleighs or other snowmobiles. Jingles had also lent me his helmet, so chances were no one would have recognized me anyway. The people who were familiar with Jingles’ vehicle would have assumed it was Jingles behind the handlebars.
The snowmobile was fun to drive, but every once in a while I would feel it slide a little on the terrain and was reminded of the dangers of traveling cross-country over ice. In the course of investigating Chris’s death, I didn’t want to become a fatality myself. I sat stiffly, concentrating on the path ahead, looking for landmarks Jingles had alerted me to, and winced anytime I heard a rock or chunk of ice hit the undercarriage. I needed to bring the vehicle back to Jingles in pristine condition.
Most of the time I was more worried about the snowmobile than I was about the route I was taking. I lost my way when a road forked and didn’t realize my mistake for almost a mile. Once I’d doubled back and corrected that mistake, however, it seemed Jingles’ directions were fairly clear. It seemed that way, except when I got to the place he’d indicated Boots’ cottage should be there was no cottage, ju
st a barn. I buzzed by a few times before deducing that this was the only building in the area.
I stopped the snowmobile in front of the barn and approached it guardedly. There was no door at the front, except the timbered barn door. I knocked.
For a moment no one answered. Then I found myself in a bright spotlight. A voice directly above called out, “What is it? A bear?”
I craned my neck, squinting into the light. I could make out a man leaning out a window directly above me. He was wearing a down coat and holding a rifle. I took off my helmet.
“I’m a person,” I said.
He snorted. “I know you’re a person—I heard you buzzing by my house three times. You think I’m a bloomin’ idiot? What is it you want to hunt?”
“I’m not here to ask you to hunt for anything, Mr. Bayleaf. I just need information.”
He squinted down at me, then looked over at the snowmobile and whistled. “Holy macaroni! Is that a Snow Devil 1100?”
I followed his pop-eyed gaze to Jingles’ vehicle. “I, uh, think so.”
“Fourteen-gallon tank, Gator-gripper treads, and whisper-pro shocks?”
“And optional comfort seat.” I was especially grateful for that padded seat after my hour-and-a-half ride.
He whistled again. “That’s a fine machine.”
“It got me here.” I tried to turn his attention away from the snowmobile. “Mr. Bayleaf, I need to talk to you about the snow monster hunt earlier this year.”
He frowned down at me. “What are you, some kind of journalist?”
“I’m the new Mrs. Claus. I married Nick Claus several months ago.”
“Oh!” That gave him a jolt, and he lowered his rifle and tucked it out of sight. “ ’Scuse me—I didn’t know. I’ll be down in two shakes. Just let me get some pants on.”
“Thanks.” I certainly didn’t want to interview an armed, pantsless man.
Boots took his time, and when he appeared again he did indeed have on pants and was still wearing his coat. The coat indoors struck me as odd until he beckoned me inside. The room was freezing and also, when he turned all the lights on, startling. The entire space was filled with taxidermy creatures—snarling wolves and ferocious polar bears, moose heads and snow leopards, and a large, sad-looking walrus head sitting atop a workbench. I couldn’t help thinking of Norman Bates from Psycho.