Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland

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СКАЧАТЬ 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!”

      Delighted to see his uncle, Christopher ran over and hopped on Martin’s back. Laughing, the two of them loped across the room. Martin’s good spirits were infectious, and I laughed along with Christopher’s whoops of glee. Martin could mimic anything, and his snorts sounded more authentic than an actual reindeer’s.

      Christopher was never so happy around Nick, I couldn’t help thinking regretfully. But Nick and Martin were different people. Born to don the suit? That was Martin. It was just unfortunate that he’d been born the youngest of three brothers. Because of this accident of birth order, his destiny would probably be to run Santaland’s candy cane factory for the rest of his life.

      Although he’d be the first to assure anyone it wasn’t a bad life at all.

      “The important thing to remember when we visit the Hollyberrys,” Pamela continued, “is to be supportive and, most of all, cheerful.”

      “That’s just what people want when someone’s died,” Martin said. “A good laugh.”

      “I’m not suggesting we troop through their cottages like merry jokesters,” Pamela insisted. “But of course they will want cheer.”

      Martin glanced at me with restrained mirth in his eyes. “What do you say, April? Got any good one-liners for the Hollyberrys?”

      I smiled back. I needed coffee. I hoped Jingles or Waldo would remember to bring some. I was one of the few in the castle who drank it.

      Martin dropped his nephew down on a chair with a plunk and then gave my dark outfit a closer examination. “Are we supposed to wear mourning for cranky elves now?” he asked. “Even the ones who slander Santa Claus?”

      Christopher’s forehead pillowed. “What’s slander?”

      “Something unpleasant,” Pamela said.

      “Like when Giblet called Uncle Nick a murderer?”

      “Christopher!” The call from the doorway turned all our heads, and at the sight of the woman in black standing there a pall fell over the room. Tiffany, petite, slender, and pale, greeted none of us but spoke directly to her son. “Plato’s waiting for you in the library. You shouldn’t be late for your lessons.”

      Christopher СКАЧАТЬ