Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland
Fife times two.”
He stared at me, uncomprehending. “Who times two?”
My husband hadn’t grown up watching The Andy Griffith Show reruns, or any other TV shows, except the few who made it on to North Pole television, which from what I could tell was mostly weather, Lawrence Welk reruns, and weather. Satellite dishes had changed things a little, but entertainment to Nick’s generation had been elf clogging recitals, the Elfmen’s Chorus, and umpteen Christmastown Little Theater productions of A Christmas Carol. Most pop culture—aside from a few toy tie-ins needed to do his work—was as much a mystery to him as things like proms and pep rallies. We came from two different worlds, and I had blithely eloped to Santaland thinking I could fit in, when even my name marked me as an outsider.
But my name and fitting in were the least of my problems today. “Where did you go after dropping me off at rehearsal? ” I asked.
He glanced over at me. “Why are you asking?”
More interestingly, why wasn’t he answering? “In case Constable Crinkles ever asks me, I should know.”
“In case I become a suspect, you mean.” His mouth turned down.
“You’re already a suspect. That button . . .”
“That button could have come from anywhere. It might have been stolen from one of the Santaland seamstresses who make our clothes, or it could have been a hand-me-down donated to the charity store in Tinkertown. Or it might simply have fallen off one of my coats somewhere else.”
“And was planted at the scene of the murder.” The idea that someone had planted a clue to implicate him made me uneasy.
It didn’t sit well with Nick, either. “Who would have done that?” he asked. “A Santa hater, in Santaland?”
“The Hollyberrys didn’t seem very friendly toward Clauses.”
“They’re grieving, April.”
It was so frustrating. “Would you stop being understanding? I’m trying to think of things that could clear you.”
He laughed. “You should wait till I’ve been accused to worry about that.”
“By the time someone is accused, the minds of a lot of people are already made up.” Also, I couldn’t help noticing Nick was still avoiding telling me where he’d been. “So after you dropped me off . . .”
“My brother’s grave,” he said, almost resentfully. “I went to be near Chris. I do that sometimes. And after this morning. . .”
The reminder of his grief chastened me. What was wrong with me? Ever since Jingles woke us this morning, the craziest thoughts had been flitting through my mind. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been such a strange day.”
“For everyone.” He looked straight ahead as he drove. “That’s why we need to keep our spirits up and present a calm, united front.”
That was what Pamela had said.
“United against what?” I asked.
“Against suspicions, gossip, and hysteria. Those things can sweep through Christmastown quicker than a blue norther. You don’t know this place like I do.”
“I wasn’t trying to fuel hysteria. I was just trying to find out what happened.”
“That’s not your job.”
Right again. “Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t have a job.”
Shocked, he turned toward me. “You’re Mrs. Claus.”
The words almost made me laugh—the way he said it made it sound as if being the wife of Santa Claus was as responsible a position as that of the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. “I’m a Mrs. Claus. Your mother runs Castle Kringle. And Tiffany . . . well, she’s also Mrs. Claus, and everyone respects her as Chris’s widow.” Or at least they stayed out of her way. “Meanwhile, I wander around in an overcarbohydrated funk and play the triangle.”
“You do more than that.”
Sure. I had an Excel file of musical acts I kept up with. I was like a one-person talent agency. Although there was a lot of busywork involved, being Musical Events chairwoman didn’t feel as fulfilling to me as running the Coast Inn. “I know, but it’s not . . .”
I couldn’t bring myself to finish. I was used to running a business, handling staff, juggling accounts, barely getting everything done by the end of the day. I sometimes forgot how wearying that had been. How I’d wake up at three in the morning worrying about what would happen if I stopped getting enough guests, or if I got too many at once and had turn them away. I worried about repairs, and guest complaints, and taxes. There were always taxes. And repairs. And whiny guests.
My phone pinged inside my purse. Grateful for the distraction, I checked my messages. As if the universe had known I needed a reminder, a long email popped up from Damaris Sproat, owner of the Pacific Breeze bed-and-breakfast down the road from my inn. I laughed. In fact, it might have come out as a demented cackle.
Nick glanced over nervously. “What’s up?”
“Damaris Sproat’s latest email. You have to hear this.
“TO: APRIL
FROM: DAMARIS
SUBJECT: CLOUDBERRY BAY CHRISTMAS REGULATIONS
“April, I’m afraid you might have forgotten the ordinance (506.C) passed by the town council last year pertaining to holiday decorations within the Cloudberry Bay business district corridor. To wit, all businesses within said corridor must display appropriate holiday decor to attract and appeal to seasonal tourists. Naturally, I understand that you are still with your new in-laws; however, when I checked at City Hall yesterday I discovered you had not applied for a variance.
“This puts you in violation of 506.C, which of course carries a fine. Unless, of course, you intend to remedy the situation. Right now there is a black hole in our Cloudberry Christmas Lights Walk where your inn is.
“I have never stuck my nose into your personal business, April. Perhaps you’re one of those Christmas-hating heathens. I will hate to see you fined, but I’m sure you’ll agree that no one—newlywed, heathen, or otherwise—is above the law.
“Sincerely,
Damaris”
After finishing reading it aloud, I laughed. “A Christmas-hating heathen!”
Nick frowned. “They can penalize you even if you’re not there? ”
“Evidently.”
I’d forgotten all about the ordinance. The last thing a person thinks about when they’re eloping in the summer is stringing up holiday lights and setting them on a timer.
Nick’s jaw worked, his desire to take my side warring with his natural revulsion at an undecorated house at holiday time. “What will you do?”
I snapped my phone cover closed and dropped it back into my bag. “Pay the fine. What else?”
He sagged in relief. “I was worried you were going to say you wanted to go back to Oregon.”
“To string a few colored lights across my porch? Irksome as it is to hand Damaris a victory, I’m not insane. Not yet, at least.”
He laughed, and I joined in.
It was easy to laugh then. Neither of us knew what was coming.
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