Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland

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      Chapter 5

      “Goodness me, you were out a long time,” Pamela said. “I can’t keep up with any of you children anymore. Always on the go!”

      I bumped into my mother-in-law after I’d returned and changed into something more comfortable—an oversized red sweater, black jeans, and a pair of boots I’d had since forever. She gave my casual, minimally seasonal sartorial choice a disapproving once-over.

      “It’s been a strange day,” I said.

      The comment—it seemed so innocuous—made her draw up to her full height. Pamela Claus was the only person I knew who could make five foot two look formidable. She was in a red-and-green wool suit with a skirt featuring felt mistletoe appliqués, and her gray hair was piled into a bun that added another three inches to her. “During times of crisis, it’s more important than ever to stick to routines . . . and the formalities.” She gave my outfit another jaundiced up-and-down sweep. “And perhaps stick closer to home.”

      “I went to the scene of Old Charlie’s murder.”

      “Murder?” Her voice looped up. “Who said it was murder?”

      “It was twenty below out and the poor creature melted. He didn’t spontaneously combust.”

      Her manicured hands fluttered as she mentally reached for a response she couldn’t find. There was no reason Charlie would have melted the way he did without being the victim of malicious action. “I don’t know why you should have gone out there, though. If you must play Sherlock Holmes, you can try to find Tiffany for me. No one knows where she is.”

      “Couldn’t you just look for Christopher?” Tiffany usually stuck to her son like white on rice.

      “He’s having his lessons.”

      “Wouldn’t she be in the west wing, then?”

      “Naturally, that’s the first place we looked. I haven’t been able to find her, and neither has Jingles. You might try the Old Keep. Maybe she’s wandering around there.” She shooed me off with a wave. “Tell her that we’ll have a special tea in the salon at four.”

      The prospect of tea, at least, cheered me. I hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and had only drunk a cup of coffee since.

      And yet . . . the Old Keep. The name was an understatement. The Old Keep was ancient, abandoned completely several generations earlier because it was so difficult to maintain. The stone was crumbling, all the mortar needed repointing, and bits of roof occasionally caved in. There was no way to heat it efficiently. Not to mention, the Old Keep, situated on the edge of Calling Bird Cliff, was expected to eventually tumble into oblivion as weather eroded the promontory.

      “I’m not sure I—”

      Pamela’s hand clamped down on my arm. “Just do your best. We need to look after each other now.”

      She clicked away on her sturdy two-inch pumps. Look after each other? What did that mean? It almost sounded as if she suspected Tiffany of something.

      In all my months in Santaland, Tiffany and I had spoken only rarely and we’d never had what I’d call a tête-à-tête. We sometimes bumped into each other in the morning in the empty breakfast room and shared a silent meal for a quarter hour. Usually Christopher was with her, and in that case I chatted with him while Tiffany lurked guardedly close.

      I doubted she would appreciate my spying on her.

      But to placate Pamela, I’d give the Old Keep a look-see and then come back and have my tea with a clean conscience.

      The castle consisted of four parts. The aforementioned west wing was the modern section built on the west side of the Old Keep. “Modern” in this case dated back to the 1800s. Tiffany and Christopher occupied the first floor, while Lucia, Martin, and Pamela lived on the floor above. Nick and I had our quarters on the second floor of the main part of the castle, which was several hundred years older. Below us was the main hall, and behind that was the kitchen, and Jingles’ quarters. Attached to this section was the east wing, where there were salons, and the big meeting hall. Behind all of these structures was the Old Keep, mostly hidden from the vantage of the drive up the hill and from Christmastown, except for the high, crenellated tower that rose above the main wing’s roof.

      I breezed through the modern west wing’s first floor, just to double-check Tiffany hadn’t returned СКАЧАТЬ