A YEAR WITHOUT SANTA CLAUS? BARB GOFFMAN

“S

tan, wake up.” I shook my husband’s shoulder. “Stan!” He rolled over, squinted at the clock, and groaned. Stan had been blissfully asleep for several hours, while I had been sitting beside him in bed, catching up on e-mail, making lists, and sending detailed directions to a certain staff member who needed extra hand-holding. I wished I could sleep as soundly as Stan, but my mind was always running a marathon, thinking of things that needed doing. And now a disastrous e-mail had arrived. “For God’s sake, Annabelle,” Stan said. “It’s three in the morning. What’s so all-fired important?” “God had nothing to do with this. Someone killed the Easter Bunny!” “Carl?” Stan sat up quickly, mouth hung open, pulling the comforter over his gray-haired chest as if he were a teenage girl seeking modesty. “Oh, no. Not Carl, thank goodness. As far as I know, he’s still sleeping the winter away in Bermuda. Here.” I shoved my iPad into Stan’s hands. The tablet cast a pale blue glow on his face, making him appear pastier than usual. “Look at this e-mail from Santa.” “First someone poisoned Frosty’s doppelganger,” Stan read aloud. He turned to me. “Doppelganger? Who’s he trying to impress with his fancy language?” Stan had never been a big fan of Santa’s. Something about not getting a certain potato gun he’d wanted as a kid. I sighed loudly and tapped the tablet. “Read.” “Okay, okay.” He looked back down. “First someone poisoned Frosty’s doppelganger. Then my look-alike was run down. And now someone’s offed an Easter Bunny impersonator. Shot him between the ears. New Jersey’s too dangerous for me this year. Sorry, Annabelle. Maybe next Christmas. Love, Santa.” Stans’s eyes returned to mine. “Uh-oh.” Uh-oh indeed. I shook my head. This was a catastrophe. Santa couldn’t skip out on our kids. They deserved far better. Not to mention, if he were a no-show, the blame would fall on me. I may look like a normal, middle40

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aged woman, but I’m really the director of all magical things that happen in New Jersey. The grumpy folks who suddenly fall in love come mid February? That’s thanks to Cupid, who reports to me. The leprechauns who leave money for needy people to find? That happens on my direction. The Easter eggs that kids get from Carl? That all runs through my office too. And here we were, two weeks before Christmas, our busiest season in the enchantment business. Santa simply couldn’t back out now. “Stan, we can’t let Santa skip Jersey. Think of all the children.” “Well, he does have a point. If someone’s killing mortals who dress like us, how’s Santa supposed to feel safe here?” He yawned. “But what’s this thing with the Easter Bunny? It’s December.” I clicked on the link Santa had included in his message. It led me to a newspaper article. “A local bookstore chain held a holiday costume party last night. One of their employees thought it would be a riot to branch out of the December holidays.” “Hmm. Bet he never thought he’d be hopping to the morgue.” “That’s not funny, Stan.” I poked his stomach with my elbow. “We have to find a way to change Santa’s mind. After everything our kids went through two years ago with Hurricane Sandy, and then that terrible boardwalk fire, we can’t let them miss Christmas this year.” “How ya gonna do that? You know how stubborn the man is. He’s still wearing that same outdated red suit every year. You’d think he’d try to get something snazzier. Something twenty-first century.” “Yes, well, I’m not dealing with Santa’s closet tonight. We have to focus on this problem.” I paused, considering the issue, and realized there was only one solution. “We’re going to have to find the killer. If the killer’s behind bars, surely Santa will feel safe enough to return to New Jersey.” “Find the killer? Are you nuts? First, what makes you think the same guy committed all three murders? And second, even if it is the same guy, how do you propose you catch him?” So much for husbandly support. “Stan, do you seriously doubt my abilities? I have magic in my fingers.” “Yeah,” he said, rolling over. “And you have rocks in your head. Good night, Annabelle.” I awoke a few hours later, eager to get started, having caught the few winks I needed to run at full steam. Yet the project seemed more daunting in the morning light. I’m a fairy—much taller and rounder than my famous pixie cousin who runs the California office—so I have certain charmed powers, but I couldn’t conjure up a killer’s name. I needed to attack this problem systematically. First order of business when I reached my office was figuring out how Santa had learned of these murders but I hadn’t. Sure he had his naughtyor-nice spies everywhere, but I try to keep up with the news. You’d think a murdered snowman would have caught my attention, even if he was a mortal.

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I snapped my fingers, and copies of the police files and newspaper articles on all three murders appeared on my desk, while a dusting of pink glitter floated in the air. I started with the story about the guy who played Frosty, Quinlin Breen. Ahh, that explained my ignorance. I hadn’t heard about this death because Breen died from a heart attack. Not murder. So much for Santa’s spies. Breen had two jobs at a mall in Somerset County. He managed a bookstore, The Write Stuff, and during the last few holiday seasons, he moonlighted playing Frosty, walking around the mall, entertaining kids. Breen suffered a coronary in the middle of his Frosty shift last weekend, right in front of the kids waiting in line to see Santa (not the real one, of course). How horrible. And he was only—I flipped open the police report—thirty-three. Oh. The medical examiner said an unidentified poison had induced the heart attack. So Santa was right. It was murder. The police were investigating the victim’s family members for suspects. His funeral had begun a half hour ago. Tsk tsk. Onto the Santa murder. This man, Bill Brambleton, worked a street corner up in Morris County, ringing a bell to get donations for the Salvation Army. He’d been run down three nights ago. No skid marks. No witnesses. No suspects. The police believed a drunk driver was likely to blame. Such a shame. And finally, the Easter Bunny shooting from last night. The case was splashed all over the media this morning, of course. How often does a guy in a bunny suit get murdered? The victim was named Michael Allan Mallory. Twenty-seven years old. He’d been at his company’s holiday party at a hotel in Union County and was found shot dead in the parking garage. The police thought the killer must be someone he knew because nothing was stolen. They were looking for someone with a grudge, focusing on his family, especially his ex-wife, and coworkers who were at the party. Interestingly, Mallory worked at a bookstore too. But it was a different chain than the one the Frosty actor worked at. The three murders occurred in different counties in the northern part of the state within a few days of each other. Each death was being investigated separately, with no communication between the corresponding police departments. The cops weren’t even considering that the cases might be connected. I guessed that made sense, considering that each murder had a different method, and there was no apparent relationship between the victims. But Santa thought the deaths were related, and Santa had good instincts. Ding. I picked up my cell phone to read a text message from Stuey. “I’m at the mall. Do I give a candy cane to each child before they see Santa or right after?” Another question from the newest elf on my staff. “Do whatever they tell you to,” I wrote back. “If I give them out before, it’ll make a nice photo,” he responded mere seconds later. “But then the guy playing Santa will get all sticky.”

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Heavens. I’d never had an employee who needed so much hand-holding. “Do what they tell you to do,” I wrote again. “And if they don’t care, use your best judgment.” That assumed Stuey had good judgment. Or any judgment. I waited a few moments for him to text again. When he didn’t, I blew out a breath of relief, and refocused on the murders. The police were missing the most obvious angle that would tie all three cases together—the victims may have been targeted because they were playing enchanted beings. I picked up the phone and dialed the head of my security team. “Coyote here,” he answered. “Kyle, it’s Annabelle. Has there been any hate-group activity focused on our kind here in Jersey recently?” “Nothing unusual. A couple of pickets against mall Santas for taking attention away from Jesus, calling Santa a false idol. Stuff like that.” “Anything about Frosty or the Easter Bunny?” “The Easter Bunny? No, we’ve had no Bunny problems since last spring when that white-supremacist group threw plastic colored eggs on a bunch of lawns in Newark. Remember?” “How could I forget? Easter eggs filled with hateful flyers.” I spun in my chair to face the window. Soft snow flurries were floating in the sky. “The local police handled that incident, but I don’t think they made any arrests,” Kyle said. “And I’ve never heard of any anti-Frosty groups. Is there a problem, boss?” I filled him in on the three murders and my plans to investigate. “Well, the cops are right,” he said. “Murderers are usually close to the victims. The wife or girlfriend of each guy will be their first stop.” “Yes, but they’re not seeing the big picture. The victims were all pretending to be magical beings.” “Okay. Let me dig up information on the members of the local Santa and Bunny hate groups. Maybe someone’s in both groups.” “Thanks.” “I’ll also send an alert to all employees, filling them in and warning them to be extra careful,” he said, “and . . .” “Yes?” “The Acme Company has a new trap you might find useful in your investigation, boss. It’s a rideable rocket with dynamite and glue.” I rolled my eyes. No chance anything would go wrong with that. “I seem to remember telling you not to buy from them anymore. Too many defective products.” “Yeah, I know. They just have so many cool gadgets.” I signed off, chuckling. I wished Kyle wouldn’t spend so much time with his brother Wiley, who ran security for the Arizona office. Wiley loved Acme, despite being injured time and time again. The Coyote boys were super geniuses, but sometimes you wouldn’t know it. 

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An hour later, I wiggled my invisible wings and winked, transporting myself to the parking lot beside Dooley’s Pub. Sometimes my powers were quite handy. The wake for Quinlin Breen, the Frosty actor, had already begun inside. I was certain the hate-group angle was the way to proceed in my investigation. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to learn more about Breen and the other two victims while Kyle got me information I wanted on the haters. My phone rang as I approached the front door. Speak of the devil. “Hey, boss,” Kyle said. “You were right. Two locals are members of both the Santa and Easter Bunny hate groups. I emailed you information on them.” I knew it. “Thanks. Good work.” “No sweat. Let me know if you need more help. And stay safe.” “Don’t worry about me.” I clicked off and, leaning against the cold stone building, reviewed the photos of the hate-group members. They looked like average, everyday people. A man in his mid forties. Thinning gray hair. Gaunt cheeks. Named Garner Hazelwonder. That was a mouthful. The woman, Nanette Lanche, was younger by at least a decade. She had flyaway blonde hair, pencil-thin eyebrows, and a smile that brightened her face. You’d think hatemongers would have a capital H branded on their foreheads and sneers sewn onto their faces, but they don’t. After I read the dossiers on Hazelwonder and Lanche, I went into the pub. I’d already winked here, might as well make the most of it. I stood a moment by the door, breathing in the aroma of barley and wheat, as I scanned the room. Who could I chat up to learn more about poor Quinlin Breen? Music was streaming from the far end, so I walked to the bar where it would be easier to hear. I chose an empty stool next to a dark-haired woman in all black, sweater, skirt, and tights. She was staring into her nearly full mug of beer as if it were a teacup with leaves she could read. I ordered a beer of my own, wishing that finding the answers to life’s problems were so easy. While the bartender poured my drink, I glanced around the room for the haters. They say on crime shows that the guilty party often attends the funeral, but I didn’t see either of them here at the wake. “Such a shame,” I said to my neighbor. My beer arrived. I took a sip. She lifted her head from her glass and nodded. Her eyes were watery. Purple smudges creased the skin below. “Did you know Quinn well? I don’t recognize you,” she said. Of course, the question I’d hoped not to get. I rubbed the side of my mug. “No, not well. Just from the mall.” “Ah, you’re a reader. Quinn loved his customers.” Customers? Right, he managed a bookstore. “No, I meant from his job playing Frosty. I take my kids to that mall sometimes. They adored him.” It wasn’t a total lie. I consider all New Jersey children my kids, and they all love seeing magical beings, even the pretend kind. “Oh, Quinn’s second job. He’d do anything to make kids smile.”

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I lifted my mug from the dark oak counter and took another sip. “Did anyone ever give him a hard time for pretending to be Frosty? All kinds of kooks come out of the woodwork this time of year.” “No, not that I know of.” She sighed. “Everybody loved him.” Clearly not everybody. Didn’t she know about the poisoning? “Quinn’s family must be pretty broken up about his death. I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask if you’re a member of his family.” “No. Just a friend. We’re all his friends.” She motioned to the rest of the people sitting at the bar. Most of them were staring at their beers or talking quietly. One man with a five o’clock shadow was texting. Not very mournful, but maybe he had his own Stuey who needed hand-holding. “Quinn’s family is over there.” She indicated a bunch of folks at the back of the bar. They were laughing and drinking and singing songs. I’d noticed the merriment when I walked in, but it hadn’t really registered. Now that it had, I felt uneasy. Sure this was an Irish wake, but Breen hadn’t been an old man who’d lived a full life. He’d been cut down in his prime. Well, people mourned in different ways, I guessed. It was nice his family could shake off their sorrows at such a terrible time. And at least it wouldn’t feel awkward to interrupt them to show the haters’ photos. I started with my neighbor, hit everyone at the bar, and then chatted up the rest of the folks in the pub. It took a while, but in the end my search was fruitless. No one recognized Hazelwonder or Lanche. Slightly discouraged, I decided to keep looking into the victims’ lives. I ducked out of the bar, checked that no one was around, wiggled my wings, and winked. In a blur I landed outside a cute white building with dark green trim. The Salvation Army center in Westfield. The man playing Santa had volunteered for their Red Kettle Effort. I walked inside. Brightly colored gift bags lay scattered throughout the room. Some small. Some pretty large. They all appeared to be filled with toys, books, and other presents. My heart swelled. “Can I help you?” A smiling young woman with shoulder-length red hair and bangs approached me. I could never pull that look off—my forehead’s too small—but she carried it well. “Hi. My name’s Annabelle. I read about what happened to your poor volunteer, and I wanted to make a donation in his honor.” “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” She led me to a small office. “Mr. Brambleton was such a nice man. It’s hard to believe what happened.” She sat at the desk, and I took the visitor’s chair. “Do the police have any leads?” I knew they didn’t, but I wanted to see what she’d say. “Not that I know of.” She leaned forward. “They think it was a drunk driver,” she whispered, as if it were a shameful secret. “How’s his family holding up?” “Not very well, I’m afraid. His son was against Mr. Brambleton helping with our kettle drive again this year. He thought ringing a bell on a cold street corner wouldn’t be good for Mr. Brambleton’s health. He was sixty-

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five. Just retired. But Mr. Brambleton loved playing Santa and raising money to assist families. Especially kids. He bought them gifts too.” She pointed toward the main room. “At least two dozen of those bags must have come from him.” I smiled. It was such a lovely thing to do. “I’ve heard some activist groups don’t like Santa Claus. They believe Santa is sacrilegious. Do you think one of those people might be responsible?” Her pale blue eyes widened. “We’ve never had trouble like that before.” She paused. “Granted, there are people who have issues with our organization. But hurting a volunteer because he dressed up like Santa? Oh, I pray that’s not true.” I pulled out my phone and clicked it on. The photo of one of the Santa haters appeared on the screen. I held it out to her. “Do you recognize this man?” She shook her head. “How about this woman?” I swiped to the other photo Kyle had sent. “No, I don’t.” She looked at me, eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” I patted her hand. “Just a concerned citizen.” I set fifty dollars on the desk and left before she could ask any more questions. Snow flurries landed in my hair as I walked down the sidewalk, thinking. If the haters were responsible for these murders, they weren’t going to be easy to catch. Maybe I should send Kyle to stake out their houses and help me follow them around. Maybe— Ding. I read the text message. Stuey. Again. “I’m assigned to a toy store in twenty minutes, but I’m caught in traffic,” he wrote. “Not moving. What should I do?” I blew out a breath. I shouldn’t have accepted Stuey’s transfer from Christmas Town. He wasn’t ready for a place with this many people. And cars instead of reindeer and sleighs. “Call the store and let them know you may be late. Then get there as fast as you safely can,” I wrote back. What choice did I have? I couldn’t assign another elf to take his place. We weren’t staffed for that. Besides, any replacement would take just as long to get there as Stuey would. Yeah, I could use my powers and transport him to the store in a wink, but that might encourage Stuey to ask for my help even more often. Not desirable. Refocusing on my project, I decided to keep going and check out the last victim. I stepped behind the trunk of a huge tree, wiggled my wings, and winked. I landed behind the Five More Minutes Books location where the Easter Bunny impersonator had worked. I’d have rather alighted by the front door so I could quickly go inside. Dusk was approaching, bringing with it a steep drop in the temperature that my feet didn’t appreciate. But I couldn’t land somewhere I’d be spotted. I began hurrying around the building, watching the sun disappear behind the clouds, leaving behind a smidge of red sky to fight off the impending darkness. I hoped the bookstore would be open. At any other time of year, I’d expect the store would be closed today, given that one of their employees

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had been killed leaving a company event the prior night. But with Christmas two weeks away, and the economy still tight, I figured the manager couldn’t justify closing. I was right. As I reached the front, I could see that every store in the shopping center was bustling with activity, beckoning shoppers with colored lights, garlands, and wreaths, including a big toy store and the bookstore. But shoppers weren’t the only people here. Several news vans were fanned out, their reporters apparently preparing for the five o’clock news. Nothing like a dead Easter Bunny at Christmas to goose the ratings. I went inside the overheated bookstore and wandered around, warming up. When I reached the children’s section, I picked up a bunch of books— shopping while sleuthing: a good time-management technique—and walked toward the check-out counter by the front door. The employees I passed looked drained and jumpy. I couldn’t blame them. “Find everything you needed?” the clerk behind the counter asked. She was in her mid twenties. Dark complexion. Pretty, but with an overbite just bad enough that I wondered why her parents hadn’t ever had it fixed. “Yes, I—” “Marla, how do I ring up a gift certificate?” the clerk at the next register asked. “Excuse me,” Marla said to me, then explained the procedure to her coworker. “I’m sorry,” she said when she returned her attention to me. “You were saying . . .” “I was wondering how you all are doing, considering . . .” “Yes, it seems everyone is wondering about that.” She nodded to the news vans outside. “I’m okay. We’re all okay. A bit shell shocked. Michael was a great guy. I can’t imagine who would have done this to him.” “Marla,” the clerk at the next register called to her again. “I rang up a book twice by mistake, and I can’t get it off the bill.” She rolled her eyes. “This guy’s almost as bad as Laurent,” she whispered. It seemed she was talking to herself, but she said it loud enough for me to hear. “I’m sorry. Excuse me one more minute.” Her needy coworker reminded me of Stuey. I pulled out my phone, wondering if I’d missed any more pleas for assistance. I hadn’t. A little Christmas miracle. “I’m so sorry,” Marla said, returning to her register. “He’s new.” She nodded to her coworker. “And he’s having a hard time learning our procedures.” “It’s okay. I have an employee like that too.” Marla smiled and began ringing up my purchases. “I should be grateful that he’s trying,” she said, her voice low. “We had a guy last year who screwed up all the time. Then he lied to cover up his mistakes. Between you and me, I was glad when Michael let him go.” “Michael? You mean—” I leaned forward to whisper. “—the man who died?” She nodded. “He was our assistant manager. It was the week before

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Thanksgiving last year, and our manager was on vacation, so Michael was in charge. Laurent screwed up a big special order for one of our regulars, and then he tried to blame the customer. Can you believe that?” “Wow.” Getting fired, especially right before the holiday season, might make someone angry enough to kill, I thought, as I handed my credit card to Marla. But no. That happened over a year ago. It couldn’t be related to these murders. I should focus on the hate-group members. I tapped my phone on to show their photos to Marla. Right then a woman pushed open the front door, maneuvering her baby carriage inside, and I heard the sound of chanting coming from outside. Not lovely Christmas carols. Not songs of peace and harmony. These were chants of hate. “Hey hey. Ho ho ho. Santa Claus has got to go. Hop hop. Ho ho. The Easter Bunny’s got to go.” Marla turned to look out the window. “Seriously? Picketing? That’s the last thing we need. What is wrong with people?” She gave my credit card slip to me. I signed it and grabbed my package. “I wish I knew,” I said. “Have a nice night. Merry Christmas.” I hurried out into the cold. I wanted to see these haters firsthand. Five people were marching in an oval outside the bookstore. They held alternating signs, two saying DOWN WITH SACRILEGE, two saying UP WITH JESUS, and the last sign had pictures of Santa and the Easter Bunny with bloody Xs over their faces. It was so terrible, I began shaking. The TV reporters were eating it up. One was interviewing a demonstrator who was claiming that stores with Santa actors are blasphemous, and that Michael Allan Mallory “had it coming” for wearing the Easter Bunny costume and usurping Christ’s role. How could he say such a thing? And how could these people take advantage of a murder to advance their own agenda? I was so dumbfounded that I didn’t even recognize the demonstrator at first. Gray hair. Sunken cheeks. Garner Hazelwonder, one of the hate-group members Kyle had told me about. I examined the faces of the other marchers. And there she was, Nanette Lanche, the other member. She didn’t look so nice in person, spewing her vile rhetoric. I took pictures of her and the other marchers and headed back inside to talk to Marla once more. “Hi, again,” I said when I reached the counter. She smiled. “Forget something?” “Sort of.” I thrust my phone at her with the photo of Garner Hazelwonder on the screen. “Do you recognize this man?” She shook her head. “No.” “How about his woman?” I nearly called Nanette Lanche a lady, but she didn’t deserve that appellation. Marla glanced at the photo, and her eyes bugged. Yes! I knew one of the haters had to be the murderer. “You know her?” “Not her. Him.” She pointed at a scruffy-faced man in the background of the photo. “Laurent Symmes. The scumbag who got fired last year.” She

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slammed her fingers over her lips. “I’m sorry. Please excuse my language. But how do you have a picture of him?” “He’s outside.” “He’s one of the picketers?” Marla said, her voice growing louder. “Son of a bitch.” “No. He’s not picketing. He’s watching.” Where did I know that guy from? He looked so familiar. “What a creepy jerk. He really doesn’t understand how normal people behave. He actually asked someone who used to work here for a reference a few weeks back. As if anyone who knows Laurent doesn’t realize what a slime he is.” My invisible wings tingled. “A reference?” “Yeah. One of our best employees left a few months ago to manage a bookstore down in Somerset County. Slimy Laurent told a potential employer to contact him for a reference, without even asking first. Nervy. Let me tell you, he got a reference, and it wasn’t good.” “What’s this man’s name? The one who gave the bad reference.” “Quinn Breen.” Oh, my goodness. “It’s really sad, actually,” Marla said. “Quinn just died, too, from a heart attack. I’d hoped to go to his funeral this morning, but we’re so understaffed.” And then I remembered where I’d seen the scruffy-faced Laurent Symmes before. He was Mr. Five O’clock Shadow from the pub. The one who’d been texting while everyone else was mourning Quinlin Breen. Michael Allan Mallory, who’d played the Easter Bunny, had fired Symmes a year ago from this very bookstore. And now Symmes’s former coworker, Quinlin Breen—who’d played Frosty—had just given Symmes a bad reference for a new job. Could Symmes be the killer? I fished a photo of Bill Brambleton, the third victim, from my purse. “Marla, one more question. Do you know this man?” She looked at the picture, then at me, her eyebrows raised. “I sure do. That’s Bill. He’s one of our best customers. In fact, he has a bunch of special orders waiting back here for him. He usually comes to pick ’em up right away, but we haven’t seen him in a few days.” She tapped the counter with her index finger. “Come to think about it, he has a connection to Laurent too.” I suddenly had no doubt. “Tell me.” “He was the final customer whose order Laurent messed up. When Laurent tried to blame Bill, Michael fired him.” Wow. Santa was right. The murders were all connected, but not in the way I’d expected. I’d been certain that the victims were killed because they’d each been playing magical beings. But in the end, it seemed the motive wasn’t hatred of my kind at all. It was revenge, plain and simple. All we needed to do was tell the police so they could catch Symmes. But I wanted to keep my name out of it.

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“Bill Brambleton isn’t going to be able to pick up those orders,” I told Marla. “He died earlier this week.” “Oh, no.” “It gets worse. It was murder. A hit-and-run. And I think you know who did it.” “I do?” I grasped Marla’s hand, wiggled my invisible wings, and winked. As magic flowed through my fingers, realization dawned on Marla’s face. “Laurent Symmes,” she said. “Scumbag is too good a word for him.” “I agree.” I pointed at the phone behind the counter. “Maybe you should call the police and tell them everything you know about Quinlin Breen, Bill Brambleton, and Michael Allan Mallory. I bet they have no idea these three men all had a connection to this bookstore and all had the same enemy. And tell them Symmes is here. I’ll go outside and make sure he doesn’t leave before the police arrive.” “Thank you, ma’am. I’m on it.” “No, Marla. Thank you.” Who said there’s no good customer service anymore? I hurried outside again. The haters were still marching. Parents were shielding their kids as they ran inside. A group of counter-demonstrators had started shouting down the marchers. Some high-school kids had begun singing carols. The snow flurries were continuing. It was like a circus, with the TV people filming it all. And in the background stood Laurent Symmes, watching with a smile on his scruffy face. Marla was right. He was creepy. Ding. I took a deep breath. Sometimes I hated technology. I read Stuey’s text message: “Sorry to be such a pain today. I’m going to be great at this job. I promise. I hope you know how much I appreciate that you’ve given me this chance.” Great. Stuey had now veered from needing me to hold his hand to needing me to like him, too. Ding. “In fact, I hope you don’t mind, boss, but I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you in person. This texting thing is kind of impersonal.” What? “I don’t have time now,” I texted back. Why wasn’t he working? Just then a police car raced into the lot, its light bar flashing and siren screeching. Pedestrians rushed out of the way while the carolers sang louder. The marchers got a determined look on their faces and continued shouting their message of hate. The counter-demonstrators kept up their end of the spectacle by raising their voices too. The TV people were smiling as if Christmas had come early. And then I noticed Marla had come outside and was glaring at Laurent Symmes. I saw her catch his eye. Then he began running away. Oh, no. Marla and I raced after him, but Symmes was fast. No way we’d catch him. I debated using my magic when suddenly Symmes went down,

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tumbling and cursing, grabbing his twisted left leg. The ground wasn’t that slippery. What in heaven had he tripped over? “Ow,” a small voice called. Oh my goodness. I knew that voice. Not heaven-sent at all, but still magical. Stuey! I ran to him while Marla sat on Symmes so he couldn’t get away as two police officers dashed over to them. “Stuey, are you okay?” “I think so, boss.” I grasped his mittened hand and pulled him to his feet. He’d lost his cone cap in the struggle with Symmes, but otherwise seemed all right. I bent down so we were face to face. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “How’d you find me?” “I’m on my break. I’m working at that toy store.” He pointed to a large store across the parking lot. “I saw you chasing that man, so I thought I’d help.” “By letting him trip over you?” “I don’t own any cool gadgets like Mr. Coyote does.” He shrugged. “You use the skills you have.” “Yes, you do.” I broke out laughing. “Stuey, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” At about three A.M. that night, I was sitting up in bed, reading the news on my iPad. Symmes had confessed to the police, raging over his raw deal and how Quinlin Breen, Bill Brambleton, and Michael Allan Mallory got what they deserved. Symmes claimed he’d been out of work for more than a year because of them. His own failings apparently had nothing to do with it. Symmes’s arrest on three counts of murder had been picked up by media everywhere. The angle that the three victims had died while dressed as Frosty, Santa, and the Easter Bunny was apparently too good to pass up. Although I wished it all hadn’t happened, I did appreciate the good publicity for our kind. I also liked that my name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Despite the hands-on approach I took to this investigation, I preferred to keep a low profile. An e-mail from Santa popped up on my screen. “Ho-ho-ho. Good job, Annabelle. I’m so pleased you helped catch that naughty Laurent Symmes. I’m ready and raring to return to New Jersey this year after all. See you soon. Love, Santa.” Woo-hoo! “Stan, wake up.” I shook my husband’s shoulder. “Stan!” He rolled over, squinted at the clock, and groaned. “Not again. What’s happened now?” “Santa’s coming after all. He’s not skipping Jersey. We did it!” Stan sat up and kissed my cheek. “You mean you did it.” He looked sheepish in the iPad’s pale blue light. “As I recall, I didn’t provide much assistance.”

A YEAR WITHOUT SANTA CLAUS?

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Any assistance, actually. But why quibble? “Well, it helped that I had magic in my fingers.” “Magic? Are you kidding? You figured it out using old-fashioned legwork and your brain, baby.” He smiled and grabbed my hand. I entwined my fingers with his and snuggled closer. “I can’t believe I doubted you, Annabelle. I must have had rocks in my head.”

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