My name’s Rolf. I’m an elf. I live at the North Pole. I’m a cop.
And I was looking at a confirmed case of pastricide. Some one had bitten the head off the Gingerbread Man. Some days people just make you sick.
The crime scene was hot enough to be a sauna. Ginger had been offed in the kitchen. Crumbs were everywhere. There was even a glass of milk out. He’d been tortured first, poor kid.
Mrs. Claus had been sweeping up when she found him. Half the floor was still covered in floury footprints but that didn’t mean much. It was a kitchen after all, flour went with the territory.
The perp had been swift. No one had seen a thing.
The kitchen had been busy. Christmas was coming and there was quota to meet. Cookies had to be made, candy canes spun, and tarts baked. Who’d notice anyone taking a snack.
But someone should have heard something. Ginger had been a cookie. His voice would have been sugary sweet. Mrs. Claus told me that he sang in the Polar Chorus. No, someone heard.
And that meant I had a witness somewhere.
But first things first, I snagged a cooling sugar cookie and pondered the scene. I could tell just by looking fingerprinting would be a waste of time. The whole of the North Pole would have passed through here. And that glass was definitely clean.
So was the table.
Someone had cleaned up.
I had my first suspect, but that could wait, there was a bit of ribbon poking out from under the stove. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe it was.
I pocketed a few more cookies and stuck a candy cane in my mouth before handing the scene over the boys from downtown. They’d give the place a through once over and let me know what they found. I doubted they could even find Mrs. Claus’ cookbook, but it was worth a try.
In the hall, I decided to interrogate my first suspect; Mrs. Claus. The old matron may have been all sugar and spice in public, but I knew she had a naughty side. She was sobbing tears too real to be genuine.
I dismissed the officer who was trying to comfort her. She didn’t need it. She knew what had happened. A woman like Mrs. Claus notices everything that goes down in her kitchen. Especially snacks.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” I said, rolling the candy cane from one side of my mouth to the other.
Mrs. Claus dabbed at her eyes and sniffled. “I was just cleaning up before the midnight shift - We have a double order of macaroons this year, you know – and that’s when I saw him-“ She broke off sobbing.
“Can it sister, you cleaned the joint. Who were you protecting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t see a thing!”
“Yeah, right. You just happened to sweep the floor and clean half the table before you noticed Gingy.”
“He is a cookie, we have lots of cookies.”
“But you don’t do ginger bread.”
Mrs. Claus stopped sobbing an shot me a nasty look. And not the nice kind of nasty.
“In fact you’re allergic, aren’t you sweetheart?” I said.
Mrs. Claus looked like bull cornered in a china shop; something was going to break.
She raised her chin. Then she shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose. I ignored the finger she used. “That crumb deserved it,” she spat. “He didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”
“So you offed him?”
“No, I don’t know who did that.”
“The why did he deserve it.”
“He found out I was skimming cookies off the top for the Girl Scout trade. He was going to report me to Santa.”
“So you decided to silence him for good, eh?”
“No. I was paying him. He just wanted more. Always more.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
I called officer back and had him take Mrs. Claus in for booking. We didn’t have anything to hold her, but she’d be handy to have around just in case.
Just then the intercom buzzed. “Rolf, report to the head office. Rolf to the head office, please.”
I was making someone nervous. This was a prestige case, if Mrs. Claus was involved. Santa could have word of her dealings leaking out. It’d take the shine off the whole shebang.
It wasn’t long before I stood before the golden doors themselves. Santa had a personal interest. But that didn’t keep him from taking his time. He couldn’t let a lowly elf be seen bossing Santa around. People would talk.
The fat man wasn’t so fat anymore. He’d lost weight and gained muscle. He obviously didn’t do it on a diet of milk and cookies. He’d even had his clothes tailored to show off his physique. Just what the world needed a South Beach Santa.
It was clear he wasn’t getting his cookies from Mrs. Claus anymore.
“Good of you to come,” Santa said.
That twinkle in his eye had a hard enough edge I could shave with it.
“Pleasure,” I said. The candy cane in my mouth wasn’t the only thing that was pointed. It was time to hit him hard, before he got his story straight. “Where were you five hours ago?”
Santa laughed, but his bowl of jelly had dried up. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with this?”
“You? No, but Mrs. Claus could use and alibi.”
“She was with me. All night.”
“Doubtful. Christmas is almost here. She’d be pulling all nighters to be ready in time. Especially with this year’s special order.”
Santa was taken aback. “What special order?”
“Don’t play coy with me, you haven’t the face for it. The double order of macaroons. Nobody eats that many.”
Santa was quiet. Maybe he didn’t know about the order. Maybe it was part of the Mrs.’s black-market dealings. But then he did know the naughty from nice, and when I was sleeping. I doubt much was hidden from his bespeckled eyes.
“So you didn’t know. Maybe Gingy found out about her little deals and threatened to blab. Maybe she didn’t like that. Maybe she bit his head off.”
“No! She’s allergic!”
“So I’m told. But maybe that’s a sham. Maybe she’s just cleaning up the mess for someone like she always does. The good little housewife. Is she covering for you? Are you ready to sail her up the glacier?”
“I didn’t touch that glorified breadstick!” Santa shouted. He was red faced and sweating. Not a complimentary look.
“No, of course not, a man in your position could snap his fingers and have had a dozen elves scarfing cookies. You’d keep your hands clean.”
“My hands are clean. I didn’t have the cookie crumbled.”
“But you wanted to, didn’t you. What did he have on you, Santa? It wasn’t Mrs. Claus’s extracurricular activities. No, that wouldn’t make you sweat. What was it?”
“He found out something I’d rather not be known. That’s all.”
“But that’s not all, is it, Santa? You were held over a gingerbread barrel with Mrs. Claus. The two of you worked this out didn’t you?”
“No! I only sent him to the kitchen! I didn’t…”
“You didn’t know? You didn’t know that she was going to she was going to dunk him milk until he was so soggy his head fell off? I doubt that.”
“I didn’t! Mrs. Claus wouldn’t!”
“She didn’t. His head was bitten off. But you didn’t know that. Where’s your all seeing eye now, Santa? Go conveniently blind?”
“It doesn’t work that way. I can only tell if children are sleeping or awake, naughty or nice. I can’t do anything more.”
“Some secret but not what’s baking you is it?”
Santa was silent but I wasn’t worried. Guilty consciences play more than puppies in wrapping paper. He’d talk.
Then I remembered the ribbon. Mrs. Claus wouldn’t let wrapping in her kitchen. How’d it get there?
“You’ve been dipping your cookies in someone else’s milk,” I said.
Santa went pale. I’d hit the nail on the head. Now to see if this stocking would hang.
“You’ve been dining behind, Mrs. Claus’s back, and Gingy knew. That’s what he had on you.”
“It’s not what you think,” Santa said. He was resigned now. He’d sing. I could have him sing Ave Maria if I tried. “Yes, I’ve been seeing an amateur chef from the wrapping department. But Mrs. Claus knew. She encouraged it. The more cookies I got elsewhere the less she’d have to bake.”
That wasn’t right. Santa was too thin. I could see right through him to the Caesar salad truth. “You’ve been dieting with this elf, and using padding for the public. What? The world can’t take a thin Santa? What’s her name?”
“She only wanted to talk to him. I just arranged a meeting. She wouldn’t do it.”
“I think she did. And Mrs. Claus cleaned up to cover for you. What’s her name? I can just go in the department and start snagging skirts. Eventually she’ll unwrap.”
“No! The scandal…”
“Then give me her name and we’ll keep this quiet.”
“Ift. Georgia Ift.”
Santa was done. I wouldn’t get anymore from him. So I left.
Gift Wrapping wasn’t far. I just had to follow the chorus of “Put your finger here,” to find it.
Wrapping paper was flying through the hands of elves, shielding boxes from prying eyes. Gift bags were being laced and fluffed with tissue paper. And puppies trained not to eat their bows. The toughest job at the pole.
I found the shift supervisor. He kindly loaned me his office after only a little pressure. I had the impression that he’d fold under the lightest touch.
Ms. G. Ift was escorted in. She was dimpled and shining. It was easy to see why the big man found her cooking attractive. She could burn water and make you think it was soup.
Her big green eyes held the kind of innocence that comes only from playing poker with a bad hand. She knew the jig was up, but she was going to try and stiff the piper.
“Why’d you do it? Surely not for Santa,” I said. I was almost out of candy cane. This had better end fast or my sweet personality would sour.
“That pig?” she said with a laugh. It was a nice laugh. It could put the merry in Christmas. “I was just using him to get ahead. Every chef needs a backer, and he was going to back me right into my own kitchen.”
“Then why’d you do it? Was the cookie going to ruin your chances for getting into cooking school if your relationship with Santa was exposed?”
“It’s so hard to get in a good school. You wouldn’t understand.”
“So you had Santa arrange a meeting so you could shut him up, eh? Too bad we caught you.”
“I wasn’t going to kill him. I just wanted to shut him up.”
“How were you going to do that? What could keep a gingerbread man quiet?”
“I’d found out that he was the leader of P. L. F.—”
“The Pastry Liberation Front?”
“Right. He was their leader, and if that got out his whole house of cards would come tumbling down.”
“So you were going to blackmail the blackmail. Pretty sweet. What went wrong?”
“He was stale on the idea. He said it didn’t matter, no one could catch him anyway.”
“But you did.”
“I did.”
“And you bit his head off.”
“He deserved it, the crumb.”
“What about Mrs. Claus?”
“She caught me. When she saw what I’d done, she chased me out of the kitchen. She probably thought she was covering Santa.”
“But the midnight shift arrived too early, and she got caught.”
“Is this it?” she said. She batted her eyes at me. She was looking at me like a kid eyes a cake.
“Sorry, sister. You’re baked,” I said. “You’re going to have to pay.”
I picked up the phone and called for an officer. When they came I handed her over. She was going directly to jail without passing go.
She flipped her hair and looked at me before leaving. She said, “He was all artificial sweeteners anyways.”
I watched go and pondered how a tart like her had turned. Christmas makes for strange treats.
The End. Merry Christmas. J
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