Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland

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СКАЧАТЬ frowned. “Pamela doesn’t like me?”

      “Oh.” Lucia hitched her throat. “Well, you know. She worries you and Nick got married too fast, not to mention too soon after Chris’s death.”

      These thoughts had crossed my mind, too. Having someone else voicing them wasn’t helping my insecurities.

      “Anyway, never mind about Mother,” Lucia continued blithely. “She can’t disapprove of you more than she disapproves of me. She’s ferociously loyal to the Claus identity and is going to will herself to put on a cheerful front even if the castle comes down around her ears.”

      I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

      Lucia flicked a glance over at me. “Most everybody else thinks it’s a good thing Nick got married. Would’ve been strange to go through Christmas without a Mrs. Claus.”

      She made it sound as if Nick could have plucked practically any woman off the street to marry, so long as there was a Mrs. Claus in Santaland for Christmas. But it often seemed to me that there were too many Mrs. Clauses around. Three in one castle: me, Tiffany, and Pamela.

      I sank down in the seat, shivering. The sun was shining, but the cold still penetrated bone-deep. “Are we almost there? ”

      Who sounds like a kid now?

      Quasar’s nose sizzled. “C-close.”

      The most populous area of Santaland was referred to as Christmastown, but Christmastown proper was the old village at the foot of Sugarplum Mountain, just below Kringle Heights, the area where most of the Claus family and their retinue lived, which of course included the castle. Kringle Lodge was farther up at the summit of the mountain. The village was small and picturesque, with a mix of Tudor-style and shingled cottages. The immaculately plowed streets were strung with white lights all year long, but during the holiday season, the town went nuts with twinkling colored lights, wreaths, bows, and other decorations.

      We’d sped through the high street—everyone was used to Lucia’s brisk driving and dived out of our way—and then through the more sparsely populated outskirts. Now we were in part of the Christmas tree forest.

      The forest wasn’t the thick expanse of woods most people think of as a forest. According to legend, the first Claus came to the barren north and planted the evergreen seedlings that became the strip of trees that snaked around the various neighborhoods of Christmastown, dividing Tinkertown and the industrial area including the Candy Cane Factory to the south from the old village. More snaking lines of the forest provided a natural barrier to separate the many rival reindeer herds. The forest varied in density, but it was at its thickest in the ring around the entire region, providing a border between Santaland and the Farthest Frozen Reaches, where the outcasts and snow monsters lived. The trees that made our hidden corner of the north so unique were pampered, pruned, and lovingly managed by the same dedicated rangers who looked after the snowmen.

      Living at the North Pole gave me a new sense of the word permanent. Once someone created an ice sculpture, for instance, it was as permanent as Michelangelo’s David. And a few snowmen lived longer lives than humans, elves, and elfmen. They took forever to melt, although wind eroded them, and the older ones could look fairly threadbare. The snowmen were also honored, as their slow-moving lives gave them the chance to witness things red-blooded creatures rarely saw. For a snowman, moving took enormous effort and eroded his base. Restlessness, it was said, was almost as dangerous to snowmen as a heat wave.

      Giblet Hollyberry’s cottage lay outside Tinkertown, the neighborhood surrounding the Candy Cane Factory, the Wrapping Works, and the oldest toy factory, Santa’s Workshop. Most of the factory elves lived in Tinkertown; I knew that much. But Lucia turned the team onto a ragged path that circled around Tinkertown. I’d never been out here before. It felt deserted.

      “Isn’t it odd for him to be living out by himself ? ” I always thought of elves as social creatures.

      “Giblet said he got enough of other elves just being at the Wrapping Works all day.”

      A VENOMOUS ELF. Why had those words struck such an ominous note inside me? Coal in his stocking was just a general Santa term of disapproval. I doubted Nick would ever actually give a child—or anyone—a lump of coal for Christmas. He might not be the jolliest, most naturally Santa-like Kris Kringle who’d ever carried the title, but he certainly wasn’t malicious.

      The rest of the drive, Lucia and I didn’t speak anymore, just watched the path ahead and listened to the jangling bells and hooves of the reindeer against the packed snow. Pleasant sounds. After a while, Quasar’s nose blinked. “There,” he said.

      Giblet’s unassuming abode was a rustic log cabin. Three sleighs were parked outside it—Nick’s big one with a team of six, like Lucia’s, and two smaller ones each pulled by a single reindeer. There were also a couple of snowmobiles bearing the Santaland logo, with the word Constabulary stenciled below it. In addition, sets of cross-country skis and poles leaned against the cabin next to the front door. A group of elves were gathered in the snowy yard.

      “It’s like a Hollyberry summit meeting,” Lucia muttered.

      “I’ll stay outside,” Quasar said.

      Lucia nodded. “Good idea.” As if his coming in had even been a question. I doubted a reindeer could have fit through Giblet’s front door. To be honest, I wondered if Lucia would fit.

      She turned to me. “I assume you’re coming.”

      “Yes, of course.” I hopped off the sleigh, stamping my feet to coax some circulation back into them. It was said that even when a person was used to winter weather—and I definitely was not—the cold here could sneak up on you and make you as sluggish as a snowman if you weren’t careful.

      My sister-in-law strode across the snow, vigor personified. I trailed after her in my fluttering skirt, feeling inadequate and unsteady, yet blazing with curiosity about what I’d find inside the cabin. A tiny voice in my head taunted me: Are you sure you want to know?

      The Hollyberrys tracked us with silent gazes as we passed, but Lucia didn’t let this bother her. “Sorry about Giblet!” she called out to them. Then she rapped perfunctorily at the door and, ducking her head, barged in.

      The Hollyberrys turned their stares toward me. “I’m also very sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know Giblet, of course, but he seemed . . .” I struggled to find an appropriate word.

      Lucia poked her head out the front door. “Come on, April.”

      “I’m sorry,” I repeated awkwardly and hurried after her.

      I entered the low-ceilinged cottage eager to see Nick, to receive reassurance by a glance or a word that the slim suspicion scratching at the back of my mind was nonsense. I’d made mistakes over the years, goodness knows, but when it came to bad life choices, marrying an elficidal Santa would put me in a league of my own.

      We followed sounds of talking to the bedroom in the back—the cabin only had two rooms, and Giblet had died in the smaller one, beside a bed that looked child sized. The coverlet was still in a pile on the mattress, as if he’d just gotten up and hadn’t made the bed yet. Giblet lay on the floor, curled up almost with his knees to his chest. It was clear he’d been in agony.

      I looked away.

      “What’s the verdict?” СКАЧАТЬ