Deadly Traditions, page 24
She grimaced and lowered her chin. “And now you understand why I came out here when everyone was occupied and took the ring out of the pickle.”
Realization dawned on me slowly. “How did you know what she was hiding?”
“She has been showing a picture of the ring around town for weeks, and at least five people told me what she was planning. My hairdresser even offered to spot me the money to get out of Flat Falls. I knew it was going to happen; I just didn’t know when.”
“So when you saw her hiding something in the Christmas tree…”
“I knew this had to be it. Hampton mentioned the pickle tradition to me last week, but I didn’t put everything together until I saw her with that ridiculous ornament.”
Trying to summon my patient event planner face, I took a deep breath. “They put a lot of thought into this proposal. Why didn’t you just let it happen?”
Mia let out a very unladylike snort that matched her dramatic eye roll.
I stifled a laugh. “Eliza would bring a whole new level of disaster to the term monster-in-law, wouldn’t she? But what about Hampton? Do you love him?”
A dreamy smile replaced her frown. “I do.”
“Do you want to marry him?” I asked quietly.
She nodded, then a single tear slipped down her cheek. “But now I’ve messed things up. I just wanted Eliza to back off. This is supposed to be our day.” She scoffed. “And did you see the ring? I just want something simple and classic, and I don’t want to lug around this gargantuan beast every day.”
“I have an idea,” I said, holding out my palm.
She regarded me for a moment, then dropped the ring into my outstretched hand.
“I’ll get it back to Eliza eventually, but first I need to talk to Hampton.”
I found Hampton seated in the main salon next to Santa-the-tire-guy, and I squared my shoulders and stuck out an accusing finger. “You’re a mama’s boy, and not in a good way.”
“I beg your pardon.” He looked to Santa for backup.
Santa shrugged. “You’re on your own, man.”
I leaned in close enough that I could smell Hampton’s cedar aftershave. “Mia is a wonderful woman, and you almost blew it because you let your mother ruin your life. Do I need to remind you that you are a full-fledged adult? It’s time to cut the apron strings, big fella.” I made a scissoring motion with my fingers before sinking my knuckle into his chest.
I thought Hampton would argue, but he dropped his head into his hands instead. When he finally lifted his chin, he was nodding. “You’re right. Mia deserves better than this.”
“Three things are about to happen, Hampton. The first is that you are going to have a long talk with your mother about boundaries, and the second is that I’m going to return this ring to her.” I opened my fist and showed him the ring.
“And the third?” he asked.
“The third is that you’re going to go to the jewelry store first thing tomorrow, where you’ll pick out your own engagement ring—preferably something your mother will hate.”
“Understood,” he replied as I turned to go.
I caught Santa’s wink just before I whirled back around to face Hampton. “One more thing,” I said, heat rising in my cheeks as I realized how close Mia was to a proposal based on a brined vegetable. That’s just not something a bride would get over. “You’d better not propose to her with a pickle.”
I left the salon and pretended to take in the view for a moment while I gathered up the nerve to complete my plan. When I was sure nobody was watching me, I dropped to my knees, sliding my hand along the teak deck boards until I felt the ring lodge firmly beneath an uneven piece of wood. And then I crammed it in with so much force I practically felt the metal bend.
“Everybody!” I yelled, waving my hand in the air. “I think I found something.”
Within seconds, I was surrounded by a dozen curious guests and one police chief. “What is it, Glory?” Hollis asked.
“I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like there’s something shiny stuck between these boards.”
Hollis directed his flashlight at the boat’s deck, then withdrew a knife from his pocket and scraped it along the seam. “Hang on, I think I’ve got it.”
When he pulled out the ring, the party guests gasped, then clapped. I plucked it from his fingertips and held it up to Eliza in triumph. But just before she grabbed it, I thrust it under the light and released a gasp of my own. “Oh no. It looks like a prong is bent. It wouldn’t be safe to use it now.”
Eliza eyed me with suspicion, but I just kept smiling and brandishing the ring in the air like the trophy it was. Only this time, it represented Mia’s freedom. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”
I handed her the ring and watched as she searched the crowd for her son. “Hampton,” she called in a sing-song Southern voice. “I’ve got your ring if you want to come over here and talk to Mia.”
Hampton joined us on the lower deck, giving me an acknowledging nod before taking his mother by the elbow and leading her away from the crowd. “Mom, we need to talk.”
“Thank you,” Mia mouthed from across the boat.
“You’re welcome,” I said when I got closer. “And I hope you and Hampton have a very merry Christmas.”
“That was an exciting party,” Beverlee said as she sauntered up with a plate of food. “And since I know you can’t yell at your client for being a terrible person, I brought you the next best thing.”
Beverlee had taken her fork to the frosting on a gingerbread woman, transforming the poor cookie’s smile into a haphazard black scowl. “Looks just like her, doesn’t it?”
I grinned and picked up the spicy treat, feeling more than a bit of Christmas joy when I bit the head off first.
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About Erin Scoggins
USA Today bestselling author Erin Scoggins writes lighthearted mysteries with a sprinkle of Southern charm. Although she started her career in marketing for a Fortune 500 company, she happily traded her MBA for a life creating fictional crime scenes and feisty small-town families. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, three kids, and an enormous lap dog named Murphy.
Mrs Claus Saves Christmas
WENDY H. JONES
The elves are on strike, there’s been a murder in the North Pole, and to top it all, Rudolph’s been arrested. With just three days to go, Christmas is on the brink of disaster. With the only option being to cancel Christmas, Santa doesn’t know which way to turn next but the indomitable Mrs Claus steps in. Will millions of children wake up to empty stockings on Christmas day or will Mrs Claus solve the crime and save Christmas?
Mrs Claus Saves Christmas
“What do you mean, Rudolph’s been arrested?” The speaker paused longer than was comfortable and added, her tone ominous, “Three days before Christmas?”
Nick could tell from his wife’s crossed arms and the flash in her eyes that his already ghastly day was about to get a whole lot worse. Nicola Ariadne Karinna Claus may have been a vison in green and red, but she did not take disruptions to her schedule lightly. Especially not so close to Christmas and definitely not when it involved the incarceration of her beloved reindeer. No, this was not a good day.
It had started so well. The nightshift handed over to the day shift with a sleepy wave as machines whirred at twice the usual speed, catapulting toys into the gift-wrapping department where they were expertly grabbed and stacked. The dayshift elves got to work, singing Christmas Carols and Elvish songs, in a language only they could understand, as possibility and goodwill filled the air. The tunes echoed the rhythm of the clanking machines that churned out Christmas dreams as fast as they could turn. Demand for toys was the highest it had ever been, and everyone worked full pelt to fulfil last minute orders. No one whinged at the last-minute requests from anxious children, just worked harder to fulfil their wishes. Christmas was a serious business around these parts and not one child would find the bottom of their Christmas tree devoid of gifts come Christmas morning.
Freyja, the local postal worker, staggered in under the weight of sacks groaning with letters for Santa and dumped their contents on the pinewood floor. Chief elf, Oscar, grabbed a passing young lad by the collar.
“What’s your name?”
The lad pulled himself up as high as an elf’s stature would allow, stuck his chest out and said, “Bjorn, Sir. My mother is an Abba fan.”
“I don’t need your mother’s musical tastes just your help,” he said, his tone, never-the-less, kindly. Pointing in the direction of the letter mountain he gave orders to input all names and wishes into the computer.
Bjorn groaned but hurried over. “Aye’ Aye, Chief. Not one child will go disappointed on my watch.” He whipped a reindeer-handled knife out of the holder on his stout leather belt and set too with gusto, belting out a few Abba tunes of his own as he worked. Envelopes were chucked into a recycling bin on his left side as the pile of letters grew higher on his right. They’d be on the computer and in production in a twinkle of Santa’s eye.
“Good lad. You’ll do fine here.” Oscar cuffed the lad lightly on the head and took his leave.
Nick, who was hunched over an Apple Mac computer, red of course, paused from his task of sending email replies to children worldwide, rubbed his back, and smiled. He stretched, stumbled to his feet, took in the look from Bert, his secretary, and said, “I’m off for a walk around the workshop. Cheer the troops on and all that. Need to keep the workers happy.”
Bert, knowing his boss was off for a glass of apple cider and some shortbread, kept his council. Nick looked his age and then some. Each Christmas seemed to tell on him more and more. He watched as the man known the world over as Santa limped in the direction of the kitchen, rubbing his back.
It wasn’t surprising Nick was feeling a bit battered. It had been 282 years since he took over from his father and it wouldn’t be long before Nick Junior stepped into his own father’s size twelve boots. He sighed longingly at the thought he’d soon be off to the Christmas Lodge Village for Retired Santas. Much as he loved his job it was year-round and gruelling; one for a much younger man. Also, all this Ho, Ho, Ho, and jolly was all very well but doing it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, got harder with each passing year. Then, shaking himself, he let out a huge belly laugh and a booming Ho, Ho, Ho, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and took a side trip into the kitchen. He opened a tin festooned with a bright Christmas garland and liberated several pieces of shortbread. Nicola, knowing it was his favourite, had baked a fresh batch that morning and the buttery smell still hung in the air. He sat down in an ergonomic chair (none of this rocking chair malarkey that appeared in picture books) and stretched his feet out to the roaring fire. He chucked a few pinecones on to the flames. Sparks flew and the smell of pine joined that of the baking. He took a bite of the shortbread, and the flavour danced a samba on his tastebuds at the same speed crumbs spread across his coat. This was the life.
He was pulled from a dream of a holiday in Hawaii by the urgent sound of, “Santa. Santa, Sir. It’s ur... ur… urjen. Grandad needs you. Sir. Sir. Santa.” She tugged at his hand.
The insistent voice forced his weary eyelids apart. Benedicta, the six-year-old granddaughter of his Chief Elf, stared at him her face flushed, worry clouding her beautiful, green eyes.
He stood, picked the youngster up and said, “Whatever it is, child, Santa will sort it.”
She relaxed into his ample chest and stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyes brighter. All was now well in Benedicta’s world. Santa would never let a child down.
Santa wasn’t so sure about his own world. He had a feeling his day was about to deteriorate.
Entering the workshop, it soon became apparent that his world wasn’t right at all. Eerie silence told him not one machine was producing anything that could be considered a toy. In fact, they weren’t doing anything at all. Elves leaned against the machines or stood in a throng in front of him, each one sporting a determined look that matched every other in the room.
“Ho, Ho, Ho. What have we here?”
The looks turned mutinous, and several Elves took a step forward. Santa backed off. His usual tactic wasn’t going to cut it. He scratched his head causing his hat to fall off. He popped Benedicta on the ground, picked up the offending garment, and stuffed it in his pocket. The child scurried to her grandfather who placed a reassuring hand on her head. Youngsters were encouraged to join in everything in Santa’s Village, including the making of toys. Elf and Safety was taught young, and they were given tasks that would keep them safe whilst helping to bring toys to the children of the world. They adored it from the minute they could toddle and grew up knowing the importance of what they were born to do. They took the toy business seriously; sometimes too seriously if they thought Nick was slacking.
Until now that was. Nick pulled himself together, stood straighter and said, his tone stern, “What, in the name of all that’s jolly, is going on here? I am sure each of you is aware of exactly how much time there is to Christmas - to the second?” His gaze swept the room. Some of his employees hung their head, others shuffled their feet, but most looked him square in the eye, their backs ramrod straight. No one uttered a sound.
“Now, now, ladies and gentlemen, something is obviously bothering you. Let’s talk about it so we can all get back to work.”
After a few moments of silence so thick it could be used to butter Swedish scones, Egbert, a self-appointed union manager, shoved a young elf called Jimmy forward. Self-appointed because they didn’t actually have a union, but Egbert had watched a movie where the elves had one and decided this would be a jolly good idea.
Jimmy stumbled, caught his balance, and moved to the front. He took off his hat, held it in front of him and spoke. “We’re not putting up with it.” He turned and looked at Egbert, who nodded, so he continued, “He can’t treat us like that.”
Santa nodded and said, “I’m sure you are right, and I’ll look into it. Who is treating you badly and what have they done?”
“We’re not going back to work until you do,” Egbert added, a bullish look in his eyes.
Nick groaned and scratched his head. I’m getting far too old for this. Never in the North Pole’s history has there been a strike. He wondered briefly if his room at the home for Retired Santas was available yet.
“I’ll be able to do something more quickly if you let me know what the bally problem is.” He’d reached the end of his sleigh bell covered rope.
Egbert crossed his arms and spoke up. “Petter Brandysnap is what the problem is. We can’t do anything right.”
Another elf chipped in. “More of the toys are ending up in the reject bin than in the wrapping department.”
“Our work’s top notch and no one can say differently,” another chipped in.
“I’m not—”
“Okay. Okay. I get the message. I’ll speak to him so get back to work. Egbert, you’re in charge of quality in the meantime.” He watched the workforce as they stirred and hurried back to their posts, although disgruntled muttering could still be heard. Once he heard the reassuring whirr of machines he pulled his hat from his pocket, slapped it on his head and stomped off. This was serious stuff indeed. Actually, it was more than serious, this close to Christmas it was a disaster; stockings globally would go empty on Christmas morning. Brandysnap might be in charge of quality control but why on earth would he reject everything on the line? That was unprecedented. Even COVID didn’t stop the wheels turning and Christmas for the last two years slid along as smoothly as brandy butter on a warm mince pie.
He’d no sooner left the workshop than the first flaw in his plan slammed into him like a runaway sledge. Where in the name of all that’s Yule would he find Petter? Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen him in a while. Oh, well, despite his quality control officer’s size there weren’t that many places he could hide. Other than the cottages where they all lived, North Pole Inc. real estate was concentrated into a few key areas, although they were usually awash in people who could spot a recalcitrant elf at a million paces. He asked a few workers who scurried past, arms loaded with presents, but they all denied seeing him for several hours. He stroked his beard, turned around and hurried back to the workshop to see if Brandysnap had returned to his post. Secretly he hoped not; there was only so much anxiety a man could take in one day and him manning the barricades of quality control was not going to help Christmas progress in a timely manner. The reassuring sound of the assembly lines told him Brandysnap was still missing in action. They didn’t, however, give him any clue as to where the errant elf might be. On the off chance he went to the end of the assembly line anyway. Egbert was examining a toy train; even at a distance Nick could see it was exquisite, the design and painting of the highest quality. Some child would be lucky to have this in their stocking on Christmas morning. Just to be sure he walked up to the elf. “Can I see?”
Egbert handed it over without a word.
It was just as Nick had suspected; the toy was perfect. So, why would Petter be rejecting them. It was a puzzle indeed and Nick didn’t like puzzles; they led to headaches.
He decided on the logical approach of taking it room by room and set off at a swift pace. Doors thudded against walls as he rammed them open and stormed into the rooms. His temper grew as they yielded nothing; each in turn was cosy, cheerful and infuriatingly empty. All staff were concentrated in the workshop, wrapping, and packing areas and there was no way Petter was hiding out there. He’d be lynched or at the very least dragged in his direction to answer to his crimes. Or alleged crimes he should say.
