Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland

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СКАЧАТЬ protested.

      Nick grabbed my elbow. “Never mind, April.”

      But I wasn’t about to stand accused without defending myself. Better to nip this malicious rumor in the bud. I took a step toward Noggin Hollyberry. “I certainly don’t travel with black widows in my suitcase.”

      Noggin squinted. “How do you know it’s a black widow spider?”

      “We have them in Oregon.” From the way he crossed his arms, I could tell he thought I’d incriminated myself. “It’s preposterous. I haven’t been south of Santaland in months. Do you honestly believe I was keeping this spider in reserve on the off chance that someone had an argument with my husband? Over an ice sculpture contest, of all things?”

      The elf grumbled, “I don’t know.... There’s something fishy about the whole situation, if you ask my opinion.”

      “No one did.” Crinkles juddered himself between Noggin and me. “Opinions are useless to us now anyhow. What we need are what-ya-call’ems.”

      “Facts?” I suggested.

      He snapped his fingers. “Facts! That’s it!”

      Have I mentioned yet that Santaland law enforcement didn’t inspire confidence?

      “Wait till you have facts before you start throwing accusations around,” the constable lectured Noggin. “Doc Honeytree will look at Giblet’s body. More than likely he’ll be able to tell whether or not your cousin died of a spider bite.”

      “I want to be there when he does his tests,” Noggin said.

      “A scientist now, are you?” Crinkles asked.

      Noggin glared at him. “Who do you represent, Constable—the elf community or the Claus family?”

      Poor Crinkles looked as if he were about to lose control. The jowls over his chin strap quivered with the effort to keep his voice calm. “I represent the law. For everybody.”

      Noggin threw back his head. “We’ll see about that.” Turning on his heel, he stomped out of the room.

      The rest of us stood stunned for a moment, until Deputy Ollie broke the silence. “Perhaps we should be getting Giblet along to Doc’s office,” he suggested to Crinkles.

      “Yes.” He looked apologetically at Nick. “I’m sorry about all this. You know how Hollyberrys are.”

      “It’s been a shock to them. My family was going to pay condolence calls, but perhaps we’ll hold off on that.”

      “Good idea,” Crinkles said. “They’re in a fighting mood.”

      “If you need me, I’ll be at the castle,” Nick said.

      Nick, Lucia, and I left the cottage together. The gazes of the gathered Hollyberrys followed us in silence. Say something, Nick. It would have been a good moment for him to rise to the occasion with soothing words about sorrow, and wanting to find the truth, and if necessary, pursuing justice for Giblet. Yet Nick, after a slight hesitation in which he looked as if he might say a few words, strode off the porch without comment. He had to duck to avoid banging his head on the porch overhang, which gave him the unfortunate appearance of skulking away.

      His late brother would have made a speech. I hadn’t even known Chris, but I felt it in my bones. Worse, I was sure everyone there, including Nick, was thinking the same thing.

      Nick eyed Lucia’s sleigh, with Quasar’s flickering muzzle leaning over the bench seat.

      “Why don’t you come back with me, April,” he said.

      It was more an order than a question.

      Seeing my hesitation, Lucia raised a brow at me. “Not a bad idea,” she said. “Quasar and I are going to check on the Reindeer Rescue’s paddock. And since now we aren’t on the hook for condolence visits, I need to be there at the reindeer dash. Might be a while before we could get you back to the castle.”

      She was right. And if there were no calls to be paid on the Hollyberrys, then I should go to my band rehearsal in Christmastown.

      I headed back toward our sleigh, where the reindeer team idled. The sleigh was not the sleigh—that was only used for ceremonial purposes and on Christmas Eve. This one was impressive, though. It was larger than average, and the carriage was made of wood carved into swirls around an intricate depiction of winter scenes on both sides. The back had a C in a calligraphy so ornate it had taken me a month to realize what it was. The whole carriage was freshly painted every year in bright colors, and cleaned and polished regularly.

      One of the two lead reindeer looked up when he saw Nick. “All well?”

      “Nothing to trouble the herds about,” he said.

      That seemed to satisfy the reindeer. They lived in their own world most of the time—an outside world of fitness, contests, and horseplay. If I’d been born a reindeer instead of a human, I’d have been chucked out to the Farthest Frozen Reaches long ago, and probably ended up on a spit over some snow monster’s fire.

      When we’d pulled away from Giblet’s cabin, Nick shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

      His words startled me. I was thinking of the note. “Seen what?”

      “What happened back there. The violence.”

      “How did the spider get here, do you think?”

      I watched him closely, but he just shrugged. “No idea. It’s certainly not normal.”

      A laugh escaped me. “In a world of elves and talking reindeer, what’s normal?”

      “I don’t see anything to laugh about.”

      Of course not. He’d grown up in this world. He didn’t have to shake himself occasionally to verify he wasn’t dreaming. “It’s all so just different than what I’m used to.”

      “I did warn you.”

      “Sure, but being told that Santaland is real is one thing; actually experiencing it is a different matter entirely.” We were crossing a section of the Christmas tree forest, but I spotted a snowman drifting down a bank, a fat gauge in the snow marking his slow progress.

      “Is that Old Charlie?” I said, pointing.

      Nick barely glanced in that direction. “Could be.”

      “Looks as if he’s on the move. Is that safe for him?”

      “A snowman as old as he is knows what he’s doing.”

      He certainly looked old. He wore a stovepipe hat, like Abe Lincoln, and a red vest that had faded to a salmon pink. He wasn’t just missing an eye; he’d also lost a stick arm somewhere.

      “Shouldn’t we stop to help him?” I asked. The snowman seemed to be going our way—headed toward town—but Nick didn’t even slow down.

      “You can’t move snowmen in a sleigh, СКАЧАТЬ