Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 111, No. 1. Whole No. 677, January 1998

Strangers on a Sleigh by James Powell

©1997 by James Powell

It is only rarely that a year goes by without a Christmas story by James Powell. The holiday seems to set his imagination alight and provide a showcase for his talents as a satirist and creator of fantastic plots. In 1995 one of Mr. Powell’s Christmas stories, “Breakout from Mistletoe Five” (EQMM Mid-December), won a nomination for the Arthur Ellis Award. May he fare as well this year!

“Homey,” approved Drucker from the other leather chair, making a scoop with his head which took in the living room and the house itself. “Nice.”

“Thank you,” said George Seton cautiously. He tugged at the ends of the flamboyant bow tie hidden behind his full gray beard and looked out at his brother-in-law from beneath sceptical eyebrows.

Drucker’s words were a considerable turnaround from his last visit three years before when, watching another Saturday afternoon football game in that same chair, the man had pronounced Seton’s house a dump. At the time Seton had insisted the place, though modest, was quite suited to their needs. But he admitted the neighborhood had seen better days. This mild concession hadn’t been enough to shut Drucker up. Years of working in the gutter press had filled the man with pry and nastiness. “The neighborhood’s a slum,” Drucker had insisted, adding that he’d been nosing around and, with a job like Seton had, he should be earning real big bucks.

In fact, his brother-in-law was right. Considering the cover the Concern had given him — Seton was supposed to be a stock analyst for Yonder Star, a mutual fund that specialized in small toy companies with growth potential farther down the road — he should be earning considerably more than he was. “Our bonus system’s out of skew,” tried Seton, hoping a partial truth might satisfy.

“Skew?” Seton could still remember the contempt in Drucker’s voice when he repeated the word and batted it out of the air with his hand. “Know what I think?” the man continued. “I think you’re cheating on my little sister. I think you’ve got some bimbo set up in an apartment somewhere. That’s why Estelle has to live in a dump in a slum.”

Seton had protested, but not very much. The Concern put great stock in anonymity. Better his brother-in-law believe he had a woman shacked up somewhere than know the truth.

All that had been three years ago. And now Drucker was back and as nice as pie, with no talk of bimbos or dumps. Seton wondered why.

“Let me freshen your drink,” he said when the game went to a commercial break. Seton took their glasses back into the kitchen and made two more drinks. His wife was fixing dinner. She looked at him and smiled, happy her brother had started visiting them again. Seton smiled back. Estelle put up with a great deal. His career, his read career with the Concern, certainly hadn’t worked out the way he expected.

Back in the living room, Seton found his brother-in-law across the room admiring a landscape print above the drop-front desk. “Nice,” said Drucker.

“Estelle tells me you’ve come up in the world,” ventured Seton when they’d taken their seats again.

Drucker looked pleased with himself. “No more cheap tabloids for Mrs. Drucker’s boy Harold,” he said. “My new outfit’s top of the line. I called your office a couple of times to fill you in.”

“I’m away from the desk a good bit.”

“So they told me,” said Drucker, adding with a smile, “Anyway, why don’t we set up something for lunch? I’ll come by and pick you up. I’d like to see the place.”

“Yonder Star? Not much to see. Just somewhere to hang my hat,” insisted Seton and, turning his head, he pretended to give all his attention to the television screen, where the action had started up again.

Seton left the house early the next morning, driving out to Holly Boughs Hall, the Concern’s compound in the country. The autumn day was cloudy and warm. The rough-hewn face in the guardhouse window raised the barrier and smiled him through. He followed the cobbled road up past the brick stables and the exercise field and parked in his space beside the large house whose corner towers had conical roofs somewhat in the Norman style. A trio of gardeners raking leaves greeted him as he got out of the car. Seton waved back and headed for the front steps. On the gravel walkway it occurred to him that Quintillian might be scowling down at him from the second floor line of French doors where the council chamber was. He did not look up. He’d see Quintillian soon enough.

The security officer on the door politely reminded him he’d be late if he didn’t hurry. Seton hurried, stopping only for a moment at the cashier’s window to drop off his expense account for last week. When he reached his cubicle he changed into his uniform. It was full kit for a meeting like this. He checked himself in the mirror behind the door, adjusted his belt so the buckle was centered under the line of tunic buttons, and sprinted for the stairs in a squeak of boot leather.

“Come.” The voice was Quintillian’s. Seton took a deep breath, opened the heavy oak door, and stepped inside. The Council of Elves was seated around a long, low table of polished wood. Each member wore a smartly tailored forest-green uniform with epaulets and a peaked hat. No one acknowledged Seton’s presence. They continued their discussion, which involved Santa-clone training for the coming year. Minor Brothers department stores, Seton’s old alma mater, was still sponsoring the program. Seton listened and watched.

When it came to elves the word “knee-high” leaped to mind, not just because that was how tall they were but because each of their large, bald, blunt-featured heads sitting atop a bull neck looked like a sturdy if battered knee atop a sturdy leg.

Seton’s dream had always been to work with elves to make the world a better place by rewarding the good little boys and girls at Christmas. He remembered standing grade-school proud in the curly-toed shoes and pointed plastic ear-tips of a Santa’s Little Helper, j. g. In high school he headed up the local Teens for Santa club, leading the YFS bully-boys when they stomped through the Big Bunnyites’ Easter Egg hunts, shouting San-ta! San-ta! His efforts had not gone unnoticed. After high school the elves had offered him a scholarship to Holly Boughs Hall.

All that had been years ago. And now here he was Santa. How bitter the name sounded.

“Now for the next item on the agenda,” said Quintillian. Every eye turned upward and every eye scowled. Seton stood there in the stony silence. As always, their concentrated gaze made him feel clumsy and gross, his hands and feet gigantic. What were they waiting for? Then Quince, the closest thing to a friend Seton had on the council, rolled his eyes upwards. Seton remembered he was still wearing his red cap with the white tassel. He snatched it off and clutched it to his chest. Damn.

After a moment Quintillian leaned back, locked his fingers behind his head, and said, “This has become something of an annual event, gentlemen. Once again Claus here comes before us with a request for an increase in salary. You will find a copy of his letter in your folders.”

While the council elves hunted out the letter, Quintillian asked Seton, “Didn’t you know what the salary was when you signed on for the job?”

Seton struggled to keep his temper. These arrogant little bastards liked to put it to the big guy. But Quintillian was the worst of all. “Yes, sir, Mr. Quintillian, sir,” he admitted. “But I was counting on the piecework bonuses to get by. You know, as the number of good little boys and girls grows and I deliver more presents, I make more money.”

“So what’s your complaint?”

“The number of good little boys and girls isn’t growing.”

“Is that our fault?” demanded Quintillian.

Seton hung his head, shuffled his feet, and ran the hem of his cap through his fingers.

“Know what your problem is, Claus?” demanded Quintillian. “You’ve got this attitude thing. That’s your problem. Every dumb clown who puts on a Ronald McDonald suit may think he rims a fast-food empire. But he doesn’t. You swagger around here in your getup like you own the place. Well, think again. It’s elves who pay for those toys you scatter about so freely. It’s elves who pay for the clothes on your back.” Quintillian curled his tiny lip and struck the table with his tiny fist. “And don’t you ever forget it!”

“No, sir, Mr. Quintillian, sir.” In fact, Seton had to hand it to the elves. Their ingenious sales promotions and licensing scheme for the Santa and Santa’s little helpers paraphernalia line bankrolled the whole Christmas business.

Quintillian pointed a warning finger. “In these difficult economic times there may well have to be corporate belt tightening. I’ve already asked the elf council to double up on their duties. I’d be less than frank if I didn’t tell you that the Concern is considering downsizing Santa.”

“Downsizing” was the elves’ buzz word of the moment. “But how do you downsize Santa, sir?” asked Seton. “You’ve only got one.”

“Maybe we go to two part-time Santas. Minimum wage, no health care, no pension, no paid vacations.”

“Would that mean two Mrs. Clauses?” asked Seton, his tone slipping into sarcasm. “Or would the part-time Santas share one?”

“Actually,” said Quintillian, “we’ve been talking about eliminating Mrs. Claus completely.”

Seton’s jaw dropped. “Celibate Santas?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Quintillian sourly. Then he turned to Seton’s letter. “I call the council’s particular attention to the next to last paragraph where Claus here implies he’ll walk out on his contract if we don’t give him a raise. Now, gentlemen, I consider myself a good judge of manflesh. Frankly, I don’t think he’s got the guts to leave us. Why don’t we just see.”

Quintillian looked back up at Seton. “Assume the position,” he ordered.

Seton swallowed. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But it had. He pulled his left pant leg out of its boot until the elasticized cuff was above the knee.

While the other elves watched with interest, Quirt, the elf technology chief, came over to Seton’s bare leg, turned the visor of his hat to the back, and stood at Seton’s kneecap like a U-boat captain at his periscope. Elves believe the kneecap is a deep porthole into the soul where they can read every man’s hopes and fears. “Ready,” announced Quirt.

Quintillian smiled and said, “Now, Claus, come clean. Will you really leave us if we don’t give you a raise?”

Seton took a deep breath. I’ll beat them this time, he told himself. Out loud he said. “I’ll take a hike, sir.” And he repeated this phrase over and over again under his breath like a mantra.

Quirt stared deep into the kneecap. A moment later he denied Seton’s words with a curt shake of his head.

Damn, thought Seton. They got me again.

Quintillian pursed his bps and said, “All right, Claus, enough of this foolishness. You’ll do your job under the terms of your contract. Now, fix your clothes.”

Beaten, Seton pulled down his pant leg and waited to be dismissed.

“Isn’t there something else you want to tell us?” asked Quintillian.

When Seton shook his head, the elf sighed and said, “In that case, I think Mr. Quoin has something the council should see. Mr. Quoin?”

Quoin wore the rubber-lugged footprint epaulets of elf security. Back before television security, elves would stand on each other’s shoulders to peek through keyholes during the naughty-or-nicing check, or “norning,” as the elves called it. Today they used a “norn” chip installed inside every television set to monitor children’s behavior. Quoin slid a tape into the VCR component of the council chamber television.

Seton’s living room appeared on the screen as if viewed through yesterday’s football game. There was Drucker in his chair. There was Seton, heading for the kitchen to freshen their drinks. Before he could protest this invasion of his privacy, Seton saw his brother-in-law cross furtively to the small drop-topped desk and rifle through the papers there. As he watched, the man took out a small camera and photographed the same expense account Seton had just delivered to the elf cashier. Then, hearing his brother-in-law returning, Drucker closed the desk and pretended to admire the landscape on the wall.

“Who is this person?” demanded Quintillian.

“He’s my brother-in-law,” said Seton.

“A hotshot reporter for Night Soil,” added Quoin.

“The evening scandal sheet?” asked Quintillian.

Quoin nodded gravely. “We hear they’ve got a debunking-Santa issue in the works. AN ELF FATHERED MY CHILD, SAYS SPINSTER LIBRARIAN. That sort of thing.”

“She should be so lucky,” muttered Quintillian, his mind elsewhere. After a moment he looked up at Seton and said, “You know our traditions. Santas are like hangmen. Nobody’s supposed to know their real identity. I’d advise you to stop your brother-in-law. If he names you in a Santa expose, we’ll send you back to the Minors or trade you to the trolls so fast you’ll get there a week before your beard does. Do I make myself clear, Claus?”

Seton left the meeting angry, humiliated, and desperate for a cigarette. But smoking wasn’t allowed in the main building. The elves were dead against it. “Afraid it’s going to stunt your growth?” he always wanted to ask. But you don’t say “stunt” around elves. Seton headed for the front door, meaning to grab a smoke outside on the steps. But it was raining smartly. So he sprinted over to the stable. Standing inside the large open doorway, he lit up and watched the rain.

The wet exercise field reminded Seton of his own basic training there, doing sit-ups and push-ups in threes with his fellow classmates, shouting out a ho-ho-ho cadence to deepen their laughter. He remembered sitting out there at attention on folding chairs, after the lectures on flue theory and reindeer aerodynamics, while the elf drill sergeants walked among them shouting, “Laps, gentlemen! Laps!” as they sucked in their stomachs to accommodate the maximum number of invisible children on their knees. He remembered the graduation ceremony, when he led the other cadets past the reviewing stand to the swirl of the elves’ massed bagpipe bands.

After graduation Seton worked several years in the Minors as a department-store Santa. The elves’ scouting reports on him were good. Woodley, the Santa of the moment, looked and smelled like a beer barrel and had lectured Seton and the others on jollity from under an immense hangover. When the old guy wore out his welcome at Holly Boughs Hall by getting blotto at the after-Christmas office party and patting Quintillian on the top of his head, Seton was chosen to replace him. How happy he’d been when the elves signed the warrant permitting him to grow the full beard, the mark of the real Santa! How proud Estelle had been, even though she was a retiring person and the Mrs. Claus end of things was a considerable burden on her.

But being Santa Claus wasn’t anything like Seton expected. He’d never figured the elves would be so hard-nosed. Considering their history, perhaps he should have. During the Great Celestial Disharmony when Lucifer and his saxophone-playing minions had tried to drown out the very harps of heaven and had been cast down into hell for prideful discordance, the elves had chosen to keep themselves and their bagpipes above the fray. For this musical haughtiness they were banished down to earth and admonished to learn humbler ways. And the average elf — the stable elf, the gardener, the gatekeeper — had. But when it came to middle management and the council, all Seton could remember was the saying that the higher the monkey goes up the tree, the more you see of its ass. And the worst of all was Quintillian. Seton winced, remembering the Ronald McDonald crack.

Anyway, so what to do? He thought of confronting his brother-in-law, admitting who he was, and begging him, for his sister’s sake, not to publish the story. But he knew Drucker would only laugh in his face.

For a moment Seton’s mind turned to a handgun he’d picked up a couple of Christmases back. This guy must have heard the thump of reindeer on the roof, thought cat burglar, and gone for his gun in the bedside table. Then he lay there, waiting for the intruder to show himself and get blown away. But by the time Seton got down the long chimney the guy’d fallen back asleep with the handgun on his chest. Seton figured he’d better take it. What if the guy rolled over in his sleep and shot himself?

So now Seton had a handgun. But he wasn’t going to use it. He was Santa, after all.

Flicking the cigarette butt out into the rain, Seton went back to the reindeer stalls. He spoke to the animals by name and fed them macaroons from a stash he kept up in the rafters, away from the stable elves, who liked their sweets.

Then he went into the deeper darkness of the carriage house, where the sleighs were, and swung himself up onto the driver’s bench of Santa One. Listening to the rain on the tin roof, he lit up another cigarette. By match light he saw he was not alone. A young, clean-shaven man in a Santa suit sat at the other end of the bench watching him. Oh great, thought Seton, realizing who the young man was.

“Mr. Seton, my name’s Dave Muncie. I really like your work.”

“You my replacement?” said Seton, ignoring the outstretched hand.

“Your understudy, you mean, sir? I guess. They brought me up from the Minors, you know, just in case. So I’ve been practicing my chimney work and getting to know the reindeer. Hey, they sure like those macaroons.”

Seton grunted.

“I guess it’s bad luck, our meeting like this,” said Muncie.

Seton shrugged. The Concern had a tradition that Santas and their replacements never meet. But it didn’t look like he was going to be Santa much longer.

“I admire the dignity you’ve brought to the part,” said Muncie. “And I’m not just being nice. Oh, I know the belly-shaking-like-jelly bit is that new silicon gut. But that thing you do with the eyes, nobody can fake that.”

Seton looked over at the young man. After a moment he smiled and offered his hand. “I call it a twinkle,” he explained. “What I wanted to capture was the way a kid’s face lights up on Christmas morning as reflected in Santa’s eyes.”

“Wow!” said Muncie in an admiring voice.

“I worked damn hard to get it down pat,” said Seton.

The two of them sat there, staring forward into the shadows for a while. “The money’s lousy, you know,” said Seton.

“You’re telling me,” laughed Muncie. “No problemo. I inherited a bit. Not much. But enough to get by.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Maybe not. I never figured the background check would be this thorough. I’m not going to make it. The truth is, my wife doesn’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Kid,” explained Seton with a smile, “Mrs. Claus isn’t about belief. All the elves want is a Mrs. Claus who’s a good role model, a family type.”

“I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” said Muncie. “I mean my wife doesn’t believe there is a Santa Claus. So awhile back, when I told her I was making a career change and starting Santa courses at night out here at Holly Boughs Hall, she says, like sure, Santa Claus. She figures I’m handing her a line. She figures I’m playing around with another woman. So she starts seeing other men. A lot of other men. Right about now I guess she falls about as short of Mrs. Claus material as she can get.”

“What about a divorce? Lots of Mrs. Claus types out there ready to snatch up a bachelor Santa.”

Muncie shook his head. “My lawyer says the divorce settlement would clean me out. And I just can’t get by on Santa wages. So today I thought I’d come out here one last time to sit and dream about what might have been. It’s tough losing out when you’ve come this close.”

“Tell me about it,” said Seton. And then, to his surprise, he found himself explaining his own predicament with his brother-in-law. He even told about the handgun, adding a rueful, “I wonder if I’m the first Santa who ever thought about murdering his brother-in-law?”

“Don’t take it so hard,” said Muncie. “Murder crossed my mind a couple of times, too. But I couldn’t go through with it. The husband’s always the first one they suspect.”

“Or the brother-in-law,” said Seton. “And you know what the cons do to Santas in prison.”

Muncie shuddered. He knew. “So the secret’s not getting caught, right? What a guy with a handgun needs to pick up is a silencer.”

“Yeah, sure,” laughed Seton drily. “Santa doesn’t travel much in those kinds of circles.”

“Funny thing,” said Muncie, “one year we had this substitute shop teacher, Mr. Ferguson, and silencers were all he had us make. When the mob gunned him down in the parking lot, the headlines said he was Joey-the-Rat Rattoni, late of the Federal Witness Protection program. Funny thing, you, you’ve got a handgun. Me, I’ve got a great tool shop in the basement and could make us a silencer overnight. You, you’ve got a brother-in-law. Me, I’ve got a wife. What does it all add up to?”

For several long moments they looked ahead into the darkness as if each was imagining his last ride on the wonderful sleigh. Then they both started talking at once.

The plan was simple enough. Muncie would kill Seton’s brother-in-law. Seton would kill Muncie’s wife. No one could connect them. No one even knew they knew each other, not even the elves. They would never meet again. Each would warn the other beforehand so solid alibis could be established.

The only question that remained was which one of them would kill first. They decided to flip a coin. Seton lost the toss.

Heading back home in his car, Seton began to have serious doubts. Not about the plan or the fact that he had just arranged to have his brother-in-law killed. Seton had never cared much for the man. At the same time, considering the difficulty of finding work at Seton’s age in the current job market, Drucker’s expose posed a serious threat to his life and livelihood. Nor was he bothered that Drucker’s murder would hurt his wife deeply. She was already long-suffering, and if anyone was equipped to take on more tragedy it was Estelle.

What really bothered Seton was killing Mrs. Muncie, a woman he had never met and who, whatever her morals, had never done him any harm. He was Santa, after all, and murdering her came close to crossing the line between nice and naughty.

But in spite of these misgivings, Seton stopped at a shopping mall where he had never gone before and wrote down a number from the brace of public telephones to one side of the supermarket door. Then he drove home.

Estelle smiled up at him from the couch where she was watching a television game show. He could smell the casserole in the oven. He poured himself a stiff drink, something he rarely did during the week, and sat down by the phone. To pass the time until Muncie called he watched Estelle’s program. After a minute he sat bolt upright and eyed the screen suspiciously. Were the elves watching him? Was he being “norned” from behind the spinning game wheel? Seton jumped to his feet. “I’m expecting a call,” he told his wife. “I’ll take it in the kitchen. I haven’t taken a call in the kitchen for a long time.” A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Muncie. They exchanged phone booth numbers and worked out times for future communications.

Seton returned to the living room. “That was Mr. Quintillian, dear,” he felt obliged to explain. “He wanted to go over some toy purchase numbers with me.”

“I’m so happy you two are getting on better,” she replied. “Such a nice little man.”

That evening Seton slept very badly. After midnight he went downstairs to sit in the darkness with a drink and struggle with his moral dilemma. Murder was one thing. But now a new element had entered the equation. Conspiracy by its nature breeds suspicion. And suspicion breeds treachery. So Seton had to ask himself what assurance he had, if he murdered first, that Muncie would carry out his end of things. Why should he? If Seton was in Muncie’s shoes what would he do? Seton’s answer to this question did not reassure.

The next night, at the time arranged, Seton visited the shopping mall and dialed the number Muncie had given him. “I’ve thought over our little business and I don’t want to go through with it.”

Instead of the argument Seton expected, Muncie said, “Hey, no problemo. Crazy idea, right? Let’s forget the whole thing.”

Left off balance by this lack of resistance, Seton explained, “Maybe they’ll only send me back to the Minors or trade me to the trolls.”

“The Minors don’t sound too bad,” Muncie agreed.

Seton stroked his beard. Not to you, you little rat, he thought. You’re next in line to be Santa if you can get somebody else to kill the Missus or find the guts to do it yourself. Out loud he admitted, “I’m not crazy about the troll part.”

“Yeah, like wearing gauze wings and a tutu,” agreed Muncie. “And you’d have to shave your legs.”

During the Great Celestial Disharmony the trolls had been cast down to earth because of their down-to-earth sins of belching and scratching as well as their ungodly attachment to accordion music. For centuries they had lived here in obscurity, feeding on billy-goat meat and sheltering themselves under bridges until one day a prophet arose among them proclaiming they must seek redemption by working for the betterment of others. Take inspiration from your beloved bridges, he told them. Go into charity work in the dental field. This admonition led to the formation of the troll accordion orchestra, which played at wakes and weddings fronted by a human female-impersonator vocalist dressed up as the Tooth Fairy. All profits from these performances went to the Tooth Fairy Pillow Fund.

After a pause Muncie asked, “So how about this? Would it make you feel any better about our little arrangement if I murdered first? You know, as a sign of good faith.”

The next day Seton wrapped the handgun in plastic and left it in the hollow tree in the park as they had agreed. By mid week Muncie phoned. Seton was to have an alibi set for the following Monday evening.

As he left the phone booth Seton noticed that the mall had a travel agency. Why not make a vacation of it? One perk of being Santa was the use of the small hunting lodge in Scotland where the elves went for rest and recreation. The elves felt very much at home in the land of the bagpipe and the kilt, that kneecap-gazing paradise where they could wander among innocent Scottish dreams of oatmeal, haggis, and sheep. In fact, out of uniform, elves preferred plaid slacks. No office party was complete without two elves in plaid slacks stripping to the waist, standing side by side with their legs together, holding a plaid lamp shade over both their heads, and claiming to be Rob Roy’s bottom half.

So Seton maxed out the credit cards and the next day Thistledown Air was carrying him and his surprised wife to Scotland. On the fourth day a polite, uniformed officer came to the hunting lodge door with the news that Mrs. Seton’s brother had been murdered. The Setons returned home on the next flight.

According to the police, on the evening in question Drucker brought a woman, a gutter-press groupie, back to his apartment and surprised an intruder who shot and killed them both. There was no sign of forced entry, which puzzled the police, Drucker being known as a careful man who always locked his door. Seton wasn’t surprised they didn’t think of the chimney. Policing wasn’t the kind of work you went into if you believed in Santa Claus.

With Drucker dead, Seton’s ethical dilemma took on a different shape. Muncie had lived up to his side of the bargain, could Santa do any less? But then the police arrested the husband of Drucker’s dead companion and charged him with the double homicide. It seemed the man, suspecting his wife was having an affair, had threatened her before witnesses.

Seton waited, hoping Muncie would step forward to confess and save an innocent man from being tried for his crime. It was, Seton decided, what Santa would have done in Muncie’s case. When Muncie did not, Seton had to shake his head at the thought that such a man might one day succeed him as Santa Claus. However, a deal was a deal. With a sigh Seton prepared to kill Muncie’s wife.

He knew from Muncie that she rendezvoused with her current boyfriend at his place on Mondays and Thursdays, which were Muncie’s bowling nights. Either night would be an ideal time to do the deed because Muncie would have his whole bowling team as an alibi. Seton drove by the address once or twice, the last in a line of row houses across from a city park. He decided the job was going to be a piece of cake. Then he contacted Muncie and set things up for the next bowling night. The following morning he recovered the handgun and the silencer from the hollow tree where Muncie had placed it.

On the night in question Seton, dressed in soot-gray sweats and ski mask, parked in the next street over from the boyfriend’s. The last row house was separated from an old brick Queen Anne by a narrow passageway out to the street. It was like chimney work. With his back on the row-house wall and his feet on the Queen Anne, Seton pushed himself all the way up to the roof.

While he waited there on the shingles beside the chimney, Seton thought he saw someone across the street in the darkness of the park. It was the figure of a child in a raincoat standing at the edge of the dim circle of light from a lamppost. Seton frowned. But just then Mrs. Muncie pulled up and his mind went elsewhere.

After a moment the lights came on in the bedroom beneath him, reflecting on the tree in front of the house. Seton waited for things to begin. There was nothing like passion to conceal chimney noise. Santas know such things.

When the time was right, Seton slid down the chimney to the living room fireplace. He listened at the steps up to the bedroom and, assured that there was still a lot going on, he went over to the bar and made himself a drink. He was in no hurry. Let them have this final fun. When he’d finished, he wiped the glass and the bottle carefully, put the gun and silencer together, pulled the ski mask down over his face, and moved quietly up the steps.

From then on things moved pretty fast. He kicked in the bedroom door and snapped on the light. She was the first to untangle herself. “What the...” she said before he shot her twice. “Who the...” the man said. Seton could have let him live. But there was something about his chest hair and thick neck chain that offended. Seton shot the man twice. After all, Muncie had killed two. Santa didn’t want to be accused of giving short measure.

Seton had planned to leave by the front door if the coast was clear. But when he cracked it open to peek out he saw the kid in the raincoat again, pacing back and forth under the lamppost across the street. Was there a familiar arrogance in that strut? Quintillian? Here? Had this been Muncie’s dirty little plan all along, to set Seton up for murder with elves looking on? Even elves couldn’t tolerate a homicidal Santa. Was that it? Seton meant to find out.

He went through the kitchen and out the back door of the house. The small yard was surrounded by a three-foot-high chain-link fence which he vaulted, tearing a trouser leg in the process. Then he hurried out to the street and crouched down between two parked cars. When the pacing elf turned his back, Seton dashed across to the darkness of the park and came up on him in a crouch from behind. He caught Quintillian’s neck in the crook of his arm and stuck the gun to his temple. “What are you doing here, you little bastard?” he hissed.

After his initial surprise, the elf looked back over his shoulder and said with casual contempt, “Oh, it’s only you, Claus. Well, if you must know, I’m helping with the background check on the wife of your replacement. I told you we were all doubling up on our duties. If it’s any of your business, she isn’t really up to our standards. In fact, I’d have to say she’s a whore. So if you stop your ham-fisted ways and let go of me you might just stay in your job for another Christmas.”

Seton blinked and did what he was told.

Quintillian straightened his clothes. “You’re a lummox, Claus. All brawn, no brain. And for heaven’s sake, stop waving that gun around. You’re not going to use it, you gutless wonder. That’s really why I find you so repellent.”

“Goddamn you!” shouted Seton. Stuffing the handgun into his armpit, he grabbed the elf by the lapels of his raincoat and hurled him to the ground under the streetlight. Then he ripped his torn pant leg all the way up to his knee and, pointing the gun at his knee and then at Quintillian, he said, “I’ll show you gutless wonder! I’m Santa, damn it! Get up here and see what you’ve made Santa into.”

His face as red as a sprained knee, Quintillian glared at Seton and dusted off his clothes. “I don’t like being manhandled,” he said indignantly. “But yes, I’ll look. I could use a good laugh.” With these words the elf put his eye to Seton’s kneecap, to the porthole to Seton’s soul. In an instant the color fled the elf’s face. Quintillian swallowed and looked up beseechingly. “Santa, please,” he said.

Until that moment Seton hadn’t known what he was going to do. But Quintillian’s eyes told him. “Sure,” he said. “Now it’s Santa.” Then he pulled the trigger.

Seton ran until he reached his car, where he sat breathing hard, trying to get his head together. I’m Santa and I’ve just murdered an elf, he told himself in mournful disbelief. But then he forced his mind to focus on more practical matters. Seton would be the elves’ prime suspect when Quintillian’s murder came to light. They all knew how much he hated the council chairman. And he didn’t have a shred of an alibi for the time of death. What was he going to do?

When the answer to this question finally presented itself, it seemed a trivial act after all Seton had done recently. Some might even call it poetic justice.

In the parking lot beside the bowling alley, Seton identified Muncie’s car from the Holly Boughs Hall decal on the windshield. He tossed the gun and silencer under the front seat, crossed to a phone booth, and called the police. He waited there until the police car pulled into the lot. When he saw them find the weapon he dialed the bowling alley and asked for Muncie. When Muncie came on the line Seton, faking panic, told him there’d been a real foul-up and it was every man for himself.

The police had drawn their weapons and were starting their cautious approach to the bowling alley’s front door just as Muncie burst through it. When he tried to run, the police called out to him to stop. When he didn’t, they fired.

When Seton drove out to Holly Boughs Hall the next morning the headline on the newspaper on the seat beside him read: SANTA WANNABE KILLS PROMINENT ELF. By the afternoon edition, sidebar headlines read: ELF KILLER MURDERED WIFE AND BOYFRIEND, TOO. MADE LOVE-NEST ENTRY DOWN CHIMNEY.

Only the proximity of Christmas prevented the elves from coming apart completely over Quintillian’s murder. Under Quince’s direction they set about in the busy weeks that followed to complete preparations for the annual distribution of presents, working with numb efficiency. But the strain was great. On Christmas Eve, for example, the makeup elf who whitened Seton’s beard became hysterical and had to be led away in tears.

That was the first Christmas sleigh ride when Seton encountered barrage balloons in municipal skies to discourage rooftop landings.

After Christmas Seton heard promises of more money. But nothing materialized. That spring Minor Brothers department stores backed off from sponsorship of the Holly Boughs Hall courses for Santa clones and enrollment dropped precipitously. To keep the program going the elves had to admit candidates they would not normally have considered. Halfway through the course, the elves and Santa got another black eye when several trainees were arrested as part of a shoplifting ring working department stores. That was the end of the training program.

It wasn’t turning into a good year for Seton’s private life either. His wife, who had never recovered from the death of her brother, filed for divorce and ran off to an ashram. Seton lost the house and had to move into an efficiency apartment above a shoe-repair shop. He had a vision of becoming a swinging bachelor Santa and playing the field. But in spite of all the bad publicity, the singles bars were still full of guys dropping hints that they were Santa Claus to make it with the girls. So he stayed home a lot. But since he couldn’t watch television without imagining the dead Quintillian “norning” him, he spent long hours sitting in the dark, brooding over the whisky bottle.

He had reason to brood. The following Christmas Seton noted a marked fall-off in toy quality. Even the elf loaders and packers looked downcast and ashamed. That was the year razor-wire chimney liners became popular. Seton lost much time tossing pebbles up at children’s windows so he could show them where he was leaving their presents.

By the end of January Quince reported to the elf council that advance orders on Santa and Santa’s little helpers gear were far below projections. “That Muncie kid really did a job on us,” he admitted. But he assured them it would all blow over.

By February it was common knowledge that for next year the toy manufacturers were calling for their money up front. There were rumors the elves would consolidate their business into a small mail-order operation focusing on selling ear-tip prostheses to the Trekkie market out of a warehouse in a low-rent district. According to some, the trolls would buy Holly Boughs Hall as the site of Tooth Fairyland, a dental theme park/beer garden combination where parents could go and hoist a few while the kids roamed the rides and exhibits.

The same day in March when Quince assured him Tooth Fairyland would never, never happen, Seton was crossing the compound when a stretch limo pulled in through the gate and a half-dozen trolls in shiny suits and clipboards got out and walked around waving their arms, talking about where they’d put the palace of Flossy, Queen of the Tooth Fairies, and where they’d put Davy Jones’s Chopper Locker, the six-story-high aquarium built like a giant water glass with an immense denture resting on the bottom through whose smile marine life would sport and frolic.

Seton went back to his cubicle, cracked open the whisky, and, drink in hand, started clearing out his desk. Later, when he looked out the window, he saw a stable elf leading out the reindeer and trotting them around in a circle in front of the admiring trolls. He wondered what was going on. Then he remembered reading somewhere that the meat of macaroon-fed reindeer resembled goat. By the time Quince came to tell him the bad news, there was nothing to tell.

A week later, a hungover Seton in full kit took the salute standing knee to head with Quince as the whole elf contingent, led by lamenting bagpipes, slow-marched out of Holly Boughs Hall. When Seton and Quince followed behind them they were almost run over by vans filled with trolls careening into the compound. The trolls waved their beer mugs, jeered at Seton and the elves, and made rude gestures. The vans were followed by a flatbed truck carrying the troll orchestra and their mother-of-pearl accordions. (You’ve never really been mooned until a troll does it to you from the back of a flatbed truck.)

Seton had parked farther down the road, beside a line of buses waiting to pick up the elves. When they reached his car Quince looked up at him and said, “Well, good luck. I hope things work out for you, you big lug,” and he made a mock roundhouse punch at Seton’s kneecap. “You were the best. And, hey, never lose that eye thing you do.”

“I call it a twinkle,” Seton said, and started to explain what he had tried to capture. But he stopped. That part of his life was over.

Just then a bus driver honked. The vehicles were loaded and ready to go. Quince hurried toward the bus door. Then he turned and said, “Hey, I almost forgot. I hear the Big Bunnyites are hiring. You might look into it.” Quince opened his mouth as if to add something else. Then he shook his head. Naw. “Keep the Santa suit,” he called. Then he vanished inside the vehicle and the buses moved off.

Seton stood there by the side of the road watching the elves go. The late morning lay warm on his face. But the breeze still carried a touch of winter. Seton went over to his car. There was two inches of whiskey in the pint bottle in the glove compartment. Seton stood in the road and drank it in one gulp. Then he threw the bottle away. It made a mellow plop in the green water in the ditch beside the road, startling a red-winged blackbird from the reeds.

Seton wiped his mouth on his red sleeve and came around the car to the driver’s seat. Okay, so the Big Bunnyites were hiring. Maybe he’d drop by. Maybe. But they’d better be looking for egg decorators or chocolate molders because he sure wasn’t going to put on the big ears. No, sir, not him. He’d been Santa, after all. And he wasn’t going to turn himself into a carrot-eating geek in a bunny suit, not for anything or anybody.