Hoppy Holiday Homicide

Chapter Three

After getting our photo snapped at Santa’s sleigh, we made our way over to the extreme cocoa station. Here, festivalgoers could order crazy custom concoctions with more flavor and mix-in varieties than even made sense for a cup of hot chocolate.

Seeing as we’d arrived at the very start of the festival, the crowds were still sparse, and that came with the added bonus of no lines. Mags and I stepped right up to the outdoor counter and ordered the unicorn drink made with white chocolate and swirled with raspberry, rainbow marshmallows, pink drizzle, sprinkles, and a gold-and-white candy cane horn. We watched in awe as the barista whipped up our order.

Nan took this opportunity to shout a quick goodbye and then disappear on the arm of a comely silver-haired gentleman I don’t think I recognized. Nan knew everyone both in town and outside of it, but she hadn’t dated a single soul since my grandpa’s death more than a decade earlier. Judging by her coquettish laughter and sparkling eyes, I’d definitely have to learn more about this mysterious new friend of hers.

For now, however, I’d simply focus on this special time spent with my cousin and our two favorite animal companions as downtown Glendale did what it does best—celebrate the season.

“There you are,” my mother crooned, rushing over to saddle both me and Mags with giant warm hugs. “Merry Christmas! Happy Holiday Spectacular!”

“Merry Christmas Eve, Mom,” I said, grabbing my freshly delivered unicorn cocoa from the pop-up table and dropping a tip in the barista’s gift-wrapped jar. It felt a bit odd to be wishing her a happy eve when it was hardly even ten o’clock in the morning.

The Spectacular ran from ten in the morning to ten at night, giving people all day to drop by and enjoy the festivities. Most favored the night hours because of the majesty and wonder added by the light displays, but I knew the committee was working hard under Mr. Gable to get more folks coming out early and spreading a steady stream of business out over the entire day.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked, then took that first decadent sip of my sugary drink. Mmm.

Mom studied her reflection using her camera’s selfie mode and fluffed up her hair as she answered. “The first reindeer game is about to begin, so naturally he’s covering it for the station. It’s the three-hooved race, sure to be a lot of fun.”

Dad did the sports report for the local news while Mom was an anchor. She covered a lot of human-interest pieces around Maine, especially now that their broadcasts were viewed regionally, thanks to her role in solving the beloved Senator Harlow’s murder.

And, naturally, the Holiday Spectacular had been big news since it first started. Tourists now came from out of state to celebrate the season with us, and each year, the festival became bigger and bigger, thanks in part to Mom’s ace coverage of the event and to the expert leadership under Mr. Gable.

“I need to get back,” Mom said, glancing back over her shoulder toward the games field. “But I saw the two of you from across the way and figured I’d dash over to ask a quick favor.”

“We’d be happy to help,” Mags said as she held Paisley tucked under one arm and the steaming souvenir mug filled with cocoa in her other hand. “Just tell us how.”

“Great. It shouldn’t take too much of your time, but it is really important. I’m afraid the judges for the ice sculpture competition are no-shows. Would the two of you mind filling in?”

“Not at all,” Mags said, shaking her head so hard, some of her cocoa splashed onto the freshly shoveled street below. “Oops! Sorry about that. It sounds like a lot of fun judging, though. I’d be happy to help, if Angie is up for it.”

“Wonderful. We have over thirty entries, if you can believe that, but you don’t need to write up score cards or anything. Just pick first, second, and third place, and text me with what you decide. The ice sculpture garden is at the far end of our setup near the bridge and the little park. Think you can find it?”

“I know we can,” I answered, taking a step toward Mom but being unable to go any farther without yanking my stubborn cat who refused to move from the spot. “Now go get back to Dad before you miss out on that race.”

“Will do,” Mom said, already jogging back in the direction from which she’d come. “Thanks again, girls.”

“What do you say? Should we go now?” Mags asked, then took that first tentative sip from her half-emptied unicorn cocoa. Her eyes grew wide and her head shot back. “Wow, that’s a lot of sugar.”

I took another swig of mine and moaned in pleasure. “If you ask me, it’s exactly right. Then again, you probably don’t eat Nan’s homemade baked goods every day of the week.”

“I wish I did, though!” Mags enthused as we wound our way through the fancifully adorned streets.

We strolled past a number of local craftsmen and women peddling their wares, and I spied a particularly eye-catching necklace that I wanted to make sure we came back for once our judging duties were behind us.

Mags stopped dead in her tracks and gasped with glee. “Whoa, are those live reindeer?”

I laughed at the look of wonder that overtook my cousin. I’d been coming to the Holiday Spectacular since it was first founded twelve years ago, but I was sure seeing it all for the first time would make anyone drop their jaws to their chests like Mag was now.

“Yup, eight of them. There are also sheep, goats, pigs, and even a camel. It’s a full petting zoo. Part Santa’s workshop and part little town of Bethlehem.”

“We’ve gotta come back.” Mags grabbed my hands and gave one last longing look toward the animals. “I’m petting every single thing they’ve got in there.”

“I promise we will,” I said, squeezing both of her hands then letting go.

“I’d rather not spend my precious time around stinky, sweating cattle,” Octo-Cat groused.

Well, too bad for him. He’d complain about whatever we did, and Mags was truly excited to come back and spend time among the reindeer.

We strode past more pop-up restaurants, merchants, and local groups manning their booths, progressing nearly a full block in our trek before Mags ground to a halt once again. “Candles!” she cried. “Oh my heart!”

I nodded toward the pair of women sitting outside the tent. Mags had already disappeared inside where it was dark, save for the glow of tealight candles set up carefully around the inside.

“She makes candles for a living,” I explained to the ladies sitting outside the tent. I felt odd standing here with them while Mags was inside but knew better than to take my cat and dog into a space with open flames. “Yours are beautiful. How much are they?”

“We’re not selling the candles,” the younger of the two women explained with a kind smile. “We make and sell menorahs. Other members of our synagogue are also set up selling potato latkes a few booths down.”

“Oh, for Hanukkah. I’ve never celebrated myself but have always loved the story about the Maccabees and the miracle of the oil.”

“It’s not just a story,” the older woman said. “It’s God working miracles. He still does that to this day, you know.”

“How much is this?” Mags asked, rejoining us with a small silver menorah in her hands.

The women told her the amount, and she handed over a couple twenties. “Thank you. I will cherish it always. Happy Hanukkah.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” the women called after us as we continued toward the ice sculpture garden.

“They have a bit of everything here. Don’t they?” Mags asked.

“You have no idea,” I said with a giggle. “Just wait until we check out some of the reindeer games.”

“I’m glad we got here nice and early. There’s so much to do, I’m afraid we won’t have time for it all.”

“Well, here’s the ice sculpture garden. Let’s make sure we give each contestant fair consideration, then pick our winners and get back to the streets.”

We crossed the road and entered the park where rows of enormous and intricately carved ice statues stood in a spiral configuration. A sign at the beginning of the path read: “Start here and follow the path until you reach the center. Once there, follow the red ribbon for a shortcut back to the start. Enjoy!”

“It’s like the Guggenheim,” I said, thinking of the fantastic museum I’d studied during my humanities coursework. “You never have to turn or think about where to go next, freeing you up to enjoy art for art’s sake.”

“Look at this one!” Mags cried, already a few sculptures down the path and admiring the carving of a swan splashing into water with wings spread wide. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“How about this one?” I said pointing to a giant, elaborate snowflake. “It must have taken so much time to get all the details exactly right.”

“It’s sad that this gorgeous art is all going to melt away.” Mags stood in front of the statue of a woman wearing a gorgeous flowing gown now. “And it’s going to be very hard to pick just three to win.”

“Let’s start by just looking. Then when we reach the center, instead of taking the shortcut out, we can walk through again and try to make a short list of our favorites.”

Mags nodded. “So far, everything is my favorite.”

“It may take a few back and forths,” I agreed. “So let’s get started.”

We walked through the spiral, admiring sculptures of animals, people, nature, and even abstract creations. Hardly any time had passed at all before we wound up in the center, and a swatch of bright red caught the corner of my eye. I turned toward it, expecting to see the promised ribbon that would guide festivalgoers out of the garden and prevent traffic jams.

Instead I saw deep pools of crimson marring the otherwise pristine snow. Blood.