Mystery for Christmas and Other Stories

Kelso’s Christmas by Malcolm McClintick

Someone had murdered a Santa Claus.

The body, rotund and clad in the traditional red suit, lay in a corner behind the gift wrap section, in the basement, hidden from the view of passing customers by a counter and stacks of cardboard boxes. He still wore his long white beard and mustache, but the hat had come off and lay a foot from his head, revealing black hair with a bald spot on top.

George Kelso looked down at the body, then at Detective Sergeant Meyer. It was ten A.M., three days before Christmas, in one of the larger downtown department stores.

“Okay,” Meyer said, “let’s get this area cleared so the lab boys can get to work.” He sounded tired. Kelso understood that it wasn’t fatigue, but depression. Every year at Christmas Meyer, a small dark Jewish man, became depressed and usually withdrawn. It was no good talking to him about it, it was something Meyer had to live with and work out for himself, at least until he became willing to confide in his associates at the police department.

“I was supposed to go shopping this afternoon with Susan,” Kelso said to nobody in particular. “I suppose that’s out of the question now.”

“I suppose it is,” Meyer replied. “All right, Kelso, why don’t you take the offices upstairs and I’ll check with the clerks. The other guys are talking to customers to see if anybody noticed anything unusual.”

“I’ll go talk to the business staff,” Kelso agreed. When Meyer was in his Christmas funk, it was best to agree with whatever he said. The store’s music system was playing “Winter Wonderland” over the noise and confusion of shoppers, and a few feet away, a little boy was screaming and trying to kick his mother, who looked flustered.

Kelso headed for the elevators.

Kelso himself became somewhat depressed at Christmas, but not for the same reasons as Meyer. For one thing, he found himself constantly thrown in with relatives at this time of year, and none of them especially liked him. Being unable to understand what had possessed him to seek a career as a police detective, they tended to regard him with suspicion and hostility. One of his more enlightened uncles had once referred to Kelso behind his back (but within easy hearing distance) as “that fascist,” and a younger niece had often called him a pig. He had been forbidden to bring his gun to the various family dinners, though it was the last thing he would have brought, and whenever he entered a room everyone stopped talking and stared as if, he thought, expecting him to make an arrest.

For another, Christmas jarred his nerves. He had been brought up in a deeply religious family and the season had been the highlight of his year. It had seemed magical, with its aura of good cheer, its feeling of universal peace. Then he’d grown into adulthood to find all of that shattered by the reality of global conflict, mass murders, tough cynicism, and his own rapidly fading belief in anything magical. Ultimately, had come to view Christmas as an elaborate hoax perpetrated on a gullible public by department store managers, advertising executives, and toy manufacturers.

And now someone had killed Santa Claus.

But the dead man wasn’t really Santa Claus. Kelso rode up to the eighth floor executive offices, going over the victim’s particulars in his mind. Arnold Wundt, fifty-five, in charge of accounting, divorced, wife and kids on the west coast, quiet and bookish, nondrinker, nonsmoker, rarely dated, few friends. Who would want to kill such a man? Someone had wanted to.

Someone, at about nine thirty that morning, according to the coroner’s man, had cornered Arnold Wundt behind the gift wrapping counter and shoved a long thin knife directly into his plump body, angling it upward from just below his ribs and penetrating his heart, killing him almost instantly. That someone had left the knife in the bloodstained corpse and was now back at work, or shopping for presents, or on a plane bound for the Bahamas. It was anybody’s guess.

“May I help you, sir?”

Kelso had entered the manager’s outer office and stood looking down at a receptionist’s desk, suddenly realizing where he was, as if he’d awakened abruptly from a dream. He found his unlit pipe in one hand, his overcoat in the other.

“Sergeant Kelso,” he said. “Police department. I wonder if I could talk to Mr. Anderson?”

“Oh, is it about the murder?” The girl was under twenty-five, blonde, cheerful, blue-eyed, slightly plump. She was the kind of healthy, well-fed girl who’d have been a cheerleader at some midwestern university. Ohio State, Kelso thought. Or Purdue.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, noticing a gold band on her ring finger.

A big, healthy smile. “Just a minute, sergeant.” She got up and went through a door behind her desk, returned almost immediately with another smile. “Go right in. Mr. Anderson’s out right now, but his assistant, Mr. Briggs, will help you.”

“Thanks.”

Mr. Briggs was short, probably five seven or so, heavy, with oversized glasses that greatly magnified his round, staring eyes, making him look like some sort of surprised bug. His wide lips were fixed in a permanent smile. A surprised, happy bug. He held a large sandwich, trying to stuff oversized bites of it into his wide mouth. There were reddish stains on the sleeves of his white shirt, and a piece of lettuce on his pants leg.

“Stupid cafeteria,” he said around a mouthful, and dabbed with a napkin at his sleeve. “They always get too much ketchup on these things. I must’ve told them a hundred times.” He swallowed, finally, and glared. “Can’t finish it. Too messy.” He wrapped the remains in a paper napkin and dropped it into a wastebasket, then held out a small pale hand. “Glad to meet you, Sergeant Kelsy.”

“Kelso,” he corrected, and sighed.

“Right. Kelso. Glad to meet you. Been shopping, sergeant? We’ve got some terrific deals on suits.” The bug cast a critical eye at Kelso’s battered corduroy suit. “Fix you right up. No? Well, I guess it’s business, isn’t it? Terrible about poor Wundt.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Briggs.” Kelso took out his notebook and ballpoint, putting away his pipe and dropping his overcoat onto a chair. “Could you tell me—”

“Listen, sergeant.” The bug’s manner became suddenly confidential. He hurried across the office to the door, seemed to make certain it was tightly closed, and scurried back behind the polished desk. “I’d better tell you something. I don’t know how much it’s got to do with poor Wundt, but you’d better know about it. Sergeant—” Briggs glanced left and right in a comic imitation of some movie character about to reveal The Big Secret “—someone in this store’s been embezzling money.”

The words alone were normal enough; Kelso had encountered numerous embezzlers. It was the exaggerated way in which Briggs had spoken the words — his pop-eyed stare, his stage whisper, his air of a little kid confiding something about men from Mars to his best friend.

“Embezzling?” Kelso scribbled in his notebook. Fortunately Briggs couldn’t see it, because Kelso had written: “Comic book character.”

“Embezzling, sergeant. Somebody’s been skimming money right off the top. It amounts to over a hundred thousand to date. And not only that, I think I know who it was.”

Kelso allowed a theatrical pause before asking, “Who?”

Briggs leaned closer, looking immensely satisfied with himself, and whispered loudly: “Arnold Wundt.”

“Wundt?” Kelso frowned, not even pretending surprise.

“Right. Listen, sergeant. Wundt was an accountant, and a good one. He was, in fact, in charge of accounting. But as the assistant manager, and I’ve got a degree in accounting myself—” he cleared his throat loudly “—I’m not only qualified but also duty-bound to check Wundt’s work. And I caught him at it, sergeant. Now, if you ask me, someone else caught him at it, too. Someone who maybe tried to blackmail him and then, when he couldn’t bleed him any more, got rid of him.”

Kelso nodded slowly, as if considering what Briggs had said.

The little bug was a waste of time. It was too hot in the office and he was hungry for lunch.

“You don’t happen to know where Mr. Anderson is, do you?” he asked, trying to sound polite.

“I think he was going to meet with Wundt about something,” Briggs said, smiling his bug-smile. “I haven’t seen him since about nine thirty, when he left to go downstairs. Come to think of it, he said he was on his way to gift wrap. Yes, I’m certain. Gift wrap. About nine thirty.” Briggs seemed to emphasize the last words, and gave Kelso a meaningful look.

Suddenly Kelso realized what Briggs reminded him of. Not a bug at all, but a toy he’d gotten one year for Christmas, a rubber or plastic likeness of Froggy the Gremlin, pop eyes, leering smile. Briggs was Froggy the Gremlin with oversized glasses. And probably about as bright.

“I appreciate your help,” Kelso told him, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Well, have a nice day.”

“Merry Christmas, sergeant,” said Froggy. “A very merry Christmas.”

Kelso winced and left the office. The blonde cheerleader beamed at him and said, “Merry Christmas, sergeant.”

“Same to you,” he replied, as though returning an insult, and hurried for the elevators.

“I wasn’t able to find out a damn thing,” Detective Sergeant Meyer said. “As far as anybody knows, Wundt reported to his office in accounting this morning at nine sharp, as usual. He works alone. Nobody saw him or noticed him again till the gift wrap girl found his body behind her counter at a quarter to ten, when she was coming back from the ladies’ room.” The small detective shrugged. “That’s it. Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything. Everybody liked Wundt, but not very well. Nobody disliked him. He was a nothing, a zero.”

“He was a Santa Claus,” said Kelso.

They sat in the store’s cafeteria, the noon crowd chattering and munching around them. Meyer glared at his meatloaf and said:

“Yeah, he was a Santa Claus. Why can’t people make meatloaf any more? My grandmother used to make delicious meatloaf. This stuff is still red in the center. Don’t they cook it?”

“I thought you only ate kosher.”

“Nuts. I eat anything. Jewish food happens to taste better, but that doesn’t mean I can’t eat what I want. I’m enlightened.”

“Ah.” Kelso nodded. “I wonder if Arnold Wundt’s playing Santa had anything to do with his murder.”

“He was scheduled to fill in for the regular Santa this morning,” Meyer said. “The store’s been having Santa in a booth for the kids every morning at ten and every afternoon at two and five, each shopping day till Christmas. What a zoo. I’m glad I don’t have kids. All my friends with kids are raising schizophrenics. All of them have split personalities — half Jewish, half Christian. I tell you, it’s hell having a kid in this country if you’re a Jew at Christmas.”

“Schizophrenic doesn’t mean split personality,” Kelso pointed out. “I’ve taken some psych courses. It means—”

“Forget what it means.” Meyer stabbed at his meatloaf.

Over the hubbub drifted the faint sounds of “Sleigh Ride.” At a nearby table two little girls sang “Jingle Bells,” egged on by their overweight mother, who seemed to think her mission was to entertain the other shoppers with her offspring and their whining voices.

“Who was supposed to have been Santa this morning?” Kelso asked.

“Huh? Oh, you mean whose place did Wundt take?” Meyer thought for a moment. “The assistant manager. Guy named Briggs.”

“Froggy the Gremlin,” Kelso murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. So Briggs was supposed to have been Santa Claus.”

“I’m taking this meatloaf back. It’s inedible. You’d think with all their peace on earth and good will they could cook a piece of meatloaf enough to make it edible.” Meyer got up and carried his plate through the milling crowd to the food line, and returned a few minutes later with the same plate, scowling.

“What happened?” Kelso asked.

“They told me to eat it,” he said. “They told me I ordered meatloaf and I got meatloaf. They told me Merry Christmas.”

“Greetings of the season,” Kelso told him.

Meyer muttered something under his breath. The two little girls sang “Deck the Halls” at the top of their lungs.

Meyer became convinced that the murderer was the gift wrap girl, a tall brunette named Claudia Collins. She stood several inches taller than Meyer, something which, Kelso knew, infuriated him; she was sullen, even while wrapping customers’ gifts, which infuriated everybody; and she was the only employee who would admit to having been in or near the gift wrap area at or about the time of the murder, nine thirty that morning.

“I’m going to question her some more,” Meyer announced as he and Kelso left the cafeteria.“I’m not letting some dumb broad spoil my holiday. If she stabbed that accountant, I’ll get it out of her.”

“By the way,” Kelso said, resisting the urge to light his pipe. “When I talked to Briggs this morning, he accused Arnold Wundt of embezzling over a hundred thousand dollars from the store.”

Meyer shot him a dark look. “You’re kidding. How would Briggs know that?”

“He says he’s got an accounting degree, and checked Wundt’s work.”

“Huh.” Meyer’s wheels turned. They stopped turning. “Claudia Collins probably found out about Wundt’s embezzling. She probably tried to extort some money from him. He pulled a knife on her, and she managed to stab him with it. Well, I’m going to find her. You check around the store. Keep your eyes and ears open, and let me know if you hear anything else.”

“Have a good time,” Kelso said.

Meyer nodded solemnly, as though it had been a serious wish. “I will.”

They parted. Kelso watched the detective shove his way into the crowd until it engulfed him; then someone grabbed his arm.

“George!”

He turned. Susan Over street’s wide brown eyes smiled at him. She was running one hand through wavy blonde hair and using the other to hold a shopping bag crammed with packages.

“Hi.”

“Isn’t this hectic? I’ve already got five of the things on my list. Listen, go with me to the children’s department, up on three, so we can find something for Peggy and Timmy. Then—”

“Hold on a minute, Susan. I can’t—”

“Did you find that aftershave for your uncle? There’s a sale in men’s stuff. By the way, tonight we’ve got the eggnog party at my Aunt Eleanor’s house, and she says—”

“Susan!”

“Huh? What is it?”

“I can’t go shopping with you. Haven’t you heard about the murder?”

“Murder! What murder?”

“One of the employees, the head of accounting. They found him this morning, stabbed, in a Santa Claus suit. I’m on duty till further notice.”

“But you had the afternoon off.”

“I know. But now I don’t.”

“Well, darn.”

A tall gray-haired man in an expensive suit and tie stepped out of the crowd. “Sergeant Kelso?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m James Anderson, the store manager.” He offered a firm hand. “Sorry I missed you this morning.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Anderson.” He glanced at Susan. “This woman’s been following me around the store, but I don’t think she’s done anything illegal. Did you pay for those items, miss?”

Susan smiled sweetly. “This man seems to think he’s a policeman, Mr. Anderson, but I’ve seen him following other women around the store. I think he may be dangerous. Excuse me.”

Kelso smiled blandly at the manager’s quizzical look. “Just a little joke, Mr. Anderson. Uh, could we talk in your office?”

“Certainly.”

They took the elevator up to eight, passed the cheerleader, and entered the office where Kelso had interviewed Briggs. Anderson sat down behind the polished desk and folded his hands. “Have you come up with anything, sergeant?” He looked grave.

Kelso started to answer, then hesitated. The office door was slightly ajar. By moving a little to his left he could just see the toes of someone’s shoes.

“We haven’t come up with anything officially,” he said.

Anderson looked interested. “But, unofficially?”

“Unofficially, Mr. Anderson, I believe we know who murdered Arnold Wundt.” Kelso took out his pipe and some matches. There was an ashtray on the manager’s desk. “At least, I believe I know who murdered him. He was to have played Santa Claus this morning, right?”

“No, I believe that would have been Mr. Briggs.”

“But apparently Wundt took his place for some reason.”

“Oh. Right. I remember now. Briggs had a meeting to attend. But who was it, sergeant? Who killed Wundt, and why?”

Kelso got his pipe going and puffed at it a couple of times. “I’ve sent some of my men over to Headquarters to get an accountant for me. When they get back, the accountant will check some things, and then I’ll make an arrest. I really don’t want to name names till the accountant gets here.”

“I see.”

The door opened and Briggs stepped into the office, eyes popping behind his thick lenses. “Mr. Anderson — oh, excuse me, I didn’t know you were with someone. Oh, hello, Sergeant Kelso.”

Kelso nodded. His pipe went out.

“What is it, Briggs?”

“It’s about Santa Claus this afternoon, Mr. Anderson. The customers are really upset about missing him this morning, and it’s one thirty now. They’re already lining up for the two P.M. Santa.”

“Can’t you do it, Briggs?” Anderson’s tone was sharp.

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. That is, I’d very much like not to. It’s occurred to me that it might be dangerous.”

“What?”

“I mean, sir — suppose the killer knew I was to play Santa at ten this morning. Suppose the killer found Santa behind the gift wrap counter. Everybody looks alike in that outfit, with the pillow and whiskers and all. The killer would have assumed it was me, and stabbed him. But by now he probably knows it was the wrong person.”

“Is that possible, Sergeant Kelso? Could the murderer have been after Briggs here, instead of Wundt?”

“It’s possible,” Kelso said, trying hard to suppress laughter. He was imagining a coldblooded killer stalking Froggy the Gremlin.

“Well, who are we going to get? We’ve got to have someone.”

“I’ve played Santa at the police Christmas party a few times,” Kelso said. “I could do it.”

Anderson stared, then slowly nodded. Briggs smiled his face-breaking smile, his pop eyes dancing with delight behind his glasses.

“It’s not exactly in the line of duty for a police officer,” Anderson said. “But we could certainly use you.”

“I’d be glad to help out. I tend to put on a few pounds over the holidays.” Kelso patted his stomach. “I won’t even need much of a pillow.”

“Good.” The manager stood up, all business. “Briggs, get Sergeant Kelso a Santa suit and show him the booth. Thank you, sergeant, I won’t forget this.”

Kelso let himself be led away by the assistant manager. When they were out in the hall he said:

“Excuse me, is the Santa Claus outfit at the booth?”

Briggs nodded. “Yes, down on the main floor.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Kelso said. “I’ve got to go the men’s room.”

Briggs nodded, beaming, and Kelso hurried down the hall.

The killer stood in line, waiting for Santa. With his left hand he held the hand of a little boy whom he’d talked into standing in line with him, a third grader named Kevin whose mother worked in Credit and Lay away. The killer had paid Kevin five dollars and told him he wanted to talk to Santa but, as an adult, was embarrassed to go without a child. Kevin had taken the money and agreed to help.

In front of the killer and Kevin stood a fat woman whose two small girls had just finished singing “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” in strident voices and were starting “Silent Night,” encouraged by their mother. Ahead of them an attractive black woman waited her turn, whispering to a frightened little boy. Just inside a white cardboard fence surrounding a cardboard sleigh and eight cardboard reindeer, a jolly Santa sat on a red chair, holding a small girl on his knee while the girl’s mother, presumably, looked on. There was so much noise in the store, with all the talking and laughter and music and the whining of the fat lady’s daughters, that the killer couldn’t make out what was being said by the jolly Santa and the small girl, but it didn’t matter to him.

The killer’s other hand was inside his suitcoat pocket, gripping the handle of a small automatic pistol, fully loaded. He smiled as if thoroughly enjoying himself and nodded once in a while at little Kevin, who kept chattering something about a Star Wars toy. He wanted to tell little Kevin that he was an obnoxious brat, but he kept smiling and pretended to be having a good time.

The killer’s name was Briggs.

For over a year he’d been embezzling money from the department store, but last week that fool, Arnold Wundt, had caught him at it. Wundt had threatened to go to the police unless Briggs replaced every cent he’d taken. He’d had to kill him, of course.

And now this detective, this Kelso, seemed to have gotten wise to him. An accountant was coming. Kelso would manage to link the embezzlement to Wundt’s murder. Briggs couldn’t let that happen.

He hadn’t planned to kill Wundt in the Santa suit; it had just happened that way. But now the cops, except Kelso, were looking for a Santa Claus connection. He’d kill Kelso in the Santa suit and add to the confusion.

His fingers tightened on the automatic as the attractive black woman stepped forward and boosted her little boy onto Santa’s knee.

“Ho ho ho,” said the jolly Santa in a strangely rasping voice, but Briggs wasn’t fooled by the disguise.

Next in line were the two singing brats; then it would be the killer’s turn.

Briggs watched little Kevin step up to the red-painted chair.

“Ho ho ho,” rasped the voice.

He had to admit that the disguise was good — with the full white beard and drooping mustache, the red hat pulled low over the forehead, steel-rimmed spectacles on the nose, and the padding in the suit, the character bore little resemblance to Sergeant Kelso. But Briggs knew it was.

He stepped forward, drew the automatic from his pocket, and held it close to his chest, aimed at the Santa suit. The gun was between his body and Santa’s, invisible to the waiting shoppers.

“That’s enough, Kevin,” Briggs said, smiling. “Get down now, and let me have my turn.”

Kevin nodded, slid down, and walked away.

The eyes behind the spectacles widened slightly.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” Briggs said, smiling. “But I will. Believe me, I will. Take a break now. I’ll tell them Santa has to take a break.” He jabbed with the gun.

Santa stood up. Briggs hid the gun and turned to face the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, old Santa has to take a short break, but he’ll be right back.’ He turned. “Get moving, Kelso. We’re going to the basement. If you do what I say, maybe you’ve got a chance.”

He would kill him in the basement No one would hear the shot over this bedlam. They walked through the crowd.

“Keep walking,” he said.

It was taking too long. He couldn’t shoot Kelso here in the middle of the main floor. If they didn’t get to the basement before something happened, he’d have to turn and run from the store. He felt confused. The plan no longer seemed nearly as workable as when he’d first thought of it. Kelso is the only one who’s sure, Briggs had thought. Get rid of Kelso and everything will be all right. But now it occurred to him that some of those women and children might remember him, remember that he’d gone off with Santa. He’d have to kill Kelso, if he could, and leave town immediately with what money he had. His chances were limited. He was sweating.

It was too late to turn back now. He’d made his move.

Briggs held one of Santa’s arms, steering him around a corner and along a narrow corridor that led to a basement stairway, aiming the gun with his other hand. Briggs was short; for some reason Kelso seemed shorter than he had earlier. Just as his face went hot with the realization that something was wrong, a hand came from nowhere and gripped his wrist painfully, twisting it so that he dropped the pistol. Powerful hands grabbed him and shoved him hard against the wall of the corridor.

“You’re under arrest,” said George Kelso. Kelso stood in the middle of the hall in his corduroy suit, flanked by three uniformed cops with drawn revolvers. “The charges are embezzlement and murder.”

Briggs stared. “Kelso! Then who the hell...”

The Santa person pulled the beard and mustache away and removed the hat. Briggs saw a smiling, attractive girl with blonde hair and brown eyes.

“Are you all right, Susan?” Kelso asked.

“Ho ho ho,” said the girl.

Kelso, Meyer, and Susan Overstreet sat at a table in the store’s cafeteria. “Silver Bells” played from the speakers, and shoppers at neighboring tables laughed and rustled their packages.

“Look at this meatloaf,” said Meyer, poking at it with his fork. “Now they’ve practically burned it.”

“Actually, mine’s not too bad.” Kelso took a bite. “I was starving.”

“So how did you make the switch with Susan?” Meyer asked.

“I went to the men’s room,” Kelso said. “When I was sure nobody else was in there, I let Susan in and we put the Santa outfit on her.”

“Incredible,” Meyer shook his head. “You’re lucky nobody walked in on you.”

“I was leaning against the door.”

“Sergeant Meyer?” Susan smiled at the detective. “Would you like to come over to my aunt’s house tonight for some eggnog? If you wouldn’t be uncomfortable. I mean, we won’t sing any carols or anything, and Aunt Eleanor doesn’t have a tree this year, just a few lights in the window.”

“Trees are too expensive for people on fixed incomes,” Kelso said, trying not to sound angry.

“So, will you come? We’d like to have you.”

Meyer put down his fork and cleared his throat. “Nobody’s ever invited me to have eggnog before,” he said quietly. “Tell your aunt I’d like to come.” He stood up. “I can’t eat this stuff. I’ll leave you two alone.” He started away, then added: “Take the rest of the afternoon off, Kelso.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kelso glanced at his watch. “All forty-three minutes, huh?”

“Well,” Susan said, eyeing him closely, “are you going to tell me how you knew?”

“Knew what?”

“Don’t do that. How you knew it was Briggs.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Briggs made a couple of mistakes. He tried to convince me that Anderson, the store manager, had gone down to gift wrap at nine thirty. He kept emphasizing nine thirty. But why? I was the first one to question him, and only the other cops knew about the coroner’s estimate of nine thirty as the time of the stabbing. But the murderer would have known. That was one thing.”

“Hmm. What else?”

“He was too eager to tell me about the embezzlement, and to blame it on Arnold Wundt. If he’d been so certain, why hadn’t he exposed Wundt himself, earlier? So I wondered if maybe Briggs was the embezzler, and not Wundt. Maybe Wundt had found him out, and Briggs had killed him to keep him quiet.” Kelso shrugged. “Turns out I was right.”

Susan blinked and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s it? That’s all? I put on a Santa suit and risked my life for nine thirty and some talk about an embezzlement?”

“Well, there was one other thing...”

“Tell me.”

“Well, when I visited Briggs in Anderson’s office, he was eating a sandwich of some kind. He kept dabbing at his shirtsleeve and complaining about how the cafeteria always put too much ketchup on the bread. But after I left him in the hall, I went back to the office and found his sandwich in the trash. There wasn’t any ketchup on it.” Kelso paused. “That stuff on his sleeve was blood.”

“Yuk.”

“Incidentally, can’t your aunt really afford a tree this year?”

“It’d be tough. She buys a lot of presents. You’re coming tonight, aren’t you? Do you think Meyer will come?”

“Sergeant Kelso—” A tall, well-dressed man hurried up to their table. It was Anderson, the store manager, looking breathless. “Finally found you.”

“Don’t tell me something else has happened,” Kelso said.

“We’re supposed to have another Santa session in fifteen minutes, sergeant. With Wundt dead and Briggs in custody, there’s nobody to do it. So I was wondering...”

It wasn’t fair, he thought. He was almost off duty. He was tired. He wanted to go home and relax. He needed a bath, and he was sick to death of the chatter of mothers and children, the tinny music, the announcements of sales in this or that department.

Susan had done it once. She’d looked cute in the padded red suit and whiskers. He turned a pleading glance in her direction, trying to look desperate. She smiled, but slowly shook her head no.

“What do you say, sergeant? Will you help out? Please?”

It wasn’t fair. He sighed heavily in resignation. He nodded.

“Good man,” said Anderson.

“That’s the Christmas spirit,” Susan said.

Kelso scowled.

Kelso met Meyer at the door. Outside it was snowing. “Come in. You’re late.”

“I could leave,” said Meyer testily.

“Nonsense. Susan’s aunt wants to meet you, and there’s still plenty of eggnog. You’re letting in the snow.”

Meyer came in dragging a small, well-shaped tree and a paper bag.

“What’s this?” Kelso asked suspiciously.

“Some sort of festive plant.” Meyer frowned. “Silly lights and ornaments to hang on it. Somebody killed a tree so you people could celebrate.”

Kelso was moved. He stood for a moment, feeling a little of the old magic.

“Happy holidays, Meyer,” he said.

Meyer nodded. “Merry Christmas, Kelso.”

There was much cheer in the house that night.