Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland

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СКАЧАТЬ quickly. “Tea, hot chocolate, eggnog, soft drinks, and spritzers . . .”

      Martin laughed. “Do you own We Three Beans stock?”

      Her face continued on to a deep crimson hue, and I jumped in to help her out. “It’s our hangout,” I said. “We’ve got the menu memorized.”

      “Well, good luck getting there today,” he said. “The sidewalks were already crowding up for the race before rehearsal started.” He edged past us and left the hall.

      Juniper looked as if she might pass out. Luckily, the band hall was emptying, so few were around when she swooned into a chair. “Did I just sound like an idiot, or what?”

      “Not at all,” I assured her.

      “I did, though, didn’t I?” she said.

      “Not that anyone would notice,” I said.

      “I noticed,” Smudge said, putting away his cymbals.

      “Smudge noticed,” I said, “but Smudge doesn’t count. Martin might have noticed, but probably only in the way that you wanted him to.”

      “Right,” she said. “There’s noticing and there’s noticing.”

      “I’m positive he good-noticed you,” I assured her.

      The Christmastown Reindeer Dash drew even more interest than the rest of the never-ending Reindeer Games did. In the last contests of December, the culmination of tournaments all year long, the stakes were the nine slots of the sleigh team. To Santalanders, the final Reindeer Games were the Super Bowl and World Cup rolled into one. Last year there had been a last-minute surge by the representative of the upstart Fireball herd. Several elves had lost their cottages making bad bets.

      Juniper and I squeezed our way through the crowd to We Three Beans, placed our orders, and then claimed a corner table in the cozy timbered-ceilinged room—me, Juniper, and Juniper’s euphonium case. Juniper tried to calm my worries about the investigation. “No one thinks Santa killed Giblet.”

      “You didn’t see Noggin.”

      She rolled her eyes. “No one with any sense, I meant. Noggin Hollyberry’s been a rabble-rouser his whole life. A couple of years ago he tried to get the elves at the Candy Cane Factory to walk out two weeks before Christmas.”

      “What happened?”

      “Someone showed him Christmastown’s SSR.”

      I shook my head, clueless.

      “The Strategic Sweets Reserve. There’s enough candy stored in Sugarplum Mountain to send all seven continents into a diabetic coma. And that stuff doesn’t go bad—candy canes, especially. Those have longer storage life than uranium waste.”

      “The Hollyberrys must be quite a clan.”

      “No one will listen to them, especially if what you say is true and Giblet just got bit by a bug. Who could possibly blame your husband for that?”

      Someone who’d seen the note written on his desk.

      “The elves were awfully solemn at the rehearsal when the requiem was brought up,” I reminded her.

      “Well, most elves live to a ripe old age, you know? For that matter, it’s rare that anyone dies around here in an odd way. You should have seen the mourning commemorations after the last Santa died, this past summer. A hunting accident. That was a shock to everyone.”

      “Did they ever catch the abominable?”

      Juniper’s blue eyes widened, surprised that I had to ask.

      “It’s not a subject my in-laws ever talk about,” I explained, embarrassed by my ignorance.

      “No. A lot of men were out on that hunt. The snow monster probably saw the hunting party coming from miles off. You have to be sneaky when hunting abominables.”

      A shadow passed over us and Juniper and I looked up. My stomach roiled. As if the day weren’t turbulent enough, Therese Jollyfriend glared down at me, her eyes shooting daggers. “Maybe you should take up snow monster hunting. You seem very good at sneaking, Mrs. Claus.”

      Every eye in We Three Beans was now directed toward our table. Ever since my arrival three months before, Therese had made no secret of her belief that I’d stolen Nick from her. Apparently they’d been an item at one time, although not at the time I met Nick. Nevertheless, his marriage had caused something inside the young elfwoman to snap.

      “Give it a rest, Therese,” Juniper said in disgust, projecting her voice so that all who were listening could hear. “One date to an elf clogging show doesn’t equal a lifetime commitment.”

      The titters from the tables around us further incensed Therese. “What do you know about it? What does anyone?” She was practically trembling now, and her long black spiral curls shook, too, as her eyes narrowed on me. “Everything was fine until Nick went away and you preyed on his grief to get your claws into him. Others might not know about the destruction you leave in your wake, but I do. And now look what’s happening! You’re going to bring Nick down.”

      Pottery clattered on the tables of We Three Beans, and then the floor started shaking. Attention pivoted from Therese’s tirade as people leapt up to press against the windows or run out to the sidewalk. The first time I’d experienced anything like this, I’d thought I was about to die in an earthquake and had created a scene by doing a duck-and-cover under the nearest table. Now, though my hand was trembling, it wasn’t because of fear of natural disaster. Therese’s words had rattled me.

      When I glanced up again, though, she was gone.

      Hoofbeats thundered past, and cries and whoops went up all around us. Juniper stood on her chair, craning to see out the plate glass windows. “Cupid colors in front!” She hopped in excitement.

      I nodded, feigning as much interest as I could in a reindeer race when worries and suspicions clouded my thoughts.

      Others might not know about the destruction you leave in your wake, but I do....

      Had Therese found out about what had happened to my first marriage? That had to be the destruction she’d been referring to. But how could she have known? No one in all of Santaland knew about Keith . . . no one except Nick.

      I couldn’t believe he would have told her.

      “There’s never been a Cupid at the head of Santa’s team before,” Juniper said, sinking back down into her chair. “This will be a first, if he manages to hold on to the lead in the hurdles.”

      Hurdles for the elite class of flying reindeer meant stands of trees and small ponds. The Reindeer Hop would be the last big event of the Christmas festivities. December in Christmastown was a never-ending parade of lunches, soirees, outdoor events, and parades.

      December in Christmastown also meant more work than the inhabitants did during the rest of the eleven months of the year combined. It was North Pole life on steroids. I was already looking forward to January and hoped the questions surrounding Giblet’s death would be cleared up by then.

      Juniper’s СКАЧАТЬ