Book Review: The Soprano Sorceress

Title: The Soprano Sorceress
Series: The Spellsong Cycle
Author: L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Publisher: TOR
ISPN: 0-812-54559-1

This was my second time reading this book. I recall my first time, about ten years ago, reading being a fast paced romp. I wish I could say the same on this read through. Instead I found myself growing agitated at the protagonist and putting off reading as it became a chore. But let's start at the beginning.

At its most basic the story is that a music professor from our world is yanked into a world where magic is music based and due to her immense training she is the most powerful sorceress there. So we have a fish-out-of-water, boy-meets-world scenario going. Okay, now we get complicated. The protagonist, Anna Marshall, is a heart-broken divorcee who also just recently buried her eldest daughter. Upon being transported to the new world she recoils at the politics and situations she has been thrust into, even more so at the medieval worldview at pertains to woman's role which is to say subservient and of less apparent worth. Anna is trapped in the new world and so begins plotting her survival and winds up saving a nation from invasion[1] on two fronts. In doing so she forces her worldview upon her new world; women are equal, central formalized education (at least for the elite), accounting, germ theory, et cetera.

One problem, the main one, I found on this reading was that it was more a vitriolic lecture on the chauvinism of men as a gender. At almost every turn Anna blames men for power games, politics, war and violence. She outright lectures supporting characters in exposition that seems more like the author lecturing the reader. She treats almost everyone as if they are intellectually inferior and morally. And yet in the end she was guilty of every crime she laid at the feet of men. I found her to be an overly judgmental female chauvinist and an “ugly American”.[2]

Oddly, I still like the story, however I don’t like the telling of it.  One person I discussed this book with offered some interesting opinions; one in particular was worth looking into: that the story was promoting feminism[3]. So I went to L. E. Modesitt’s website, via a quick web search, and he had a blog post on the subject. He seemed a little befuddled that his portrayal of a woman in a book “which depicts a woman in a fantasy world fighting against situations such as [the one Anna finds herself in], it’s called by some feminist propaganda or ultra-feminist[4].“[5] However, I don’t think it’s so much her actions that give the novel a ultra-feminist bent, I think it is more her thoughts that tip the scales towards ultra-feminism. 

Numerous times, it appeared to me that Anna thought that women were socially better than men. But in the end she was just as bad… So yes it is a feminist, quasi-ultra-feminist novel.[6]

It occurs to me that I’m harping on the subject, so I’ll draw to a close. It’s a good enough story, but it can be a trying read.

---

[1] Okay technically she stops one invasion and one incursion or occupation.

[2] “an American in a foreign country whose behavior is offensive to the people of that country” – definition courtesy of Merriam-Webster.com

[3] “the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities” – definition courtesy of Merriam-Webster.com

[4] “Ultra-feminism is like feminism but with the belief that women are better than men.” – definition courtesy of Urban Dictionary.com

[5] Modesitt, L.E., “Feminist Propaganda?”, http://www.lemodesittjr.com/2011/04/22/feminist-propaganda/, Paragraph 4, Retrieved: April 16, 2014

[6] I’d give examples to support my ideas. But I didn’t take notes while reading and finding specific examples for a review of a book and not an analysis just isn’t worth the extra effort.

Replay

I have lived this before. I have lived it all before. Too many times to count. Each time is a bit shorter, but the end is always the same. My life repeats right up to my suicide.

I always believed in an afterlife, and for years that stayed my hand. But it wasn't enough, and I never expected this. 

I see it all play out again. I hear my thoughts echo from the past. I feel my body move. And though ice cream and strain, I can't change course. I'm a spectator tour to every detail of my life.

Each time start a little later, I've noticed. I used to look forward to it. Now… now it scares me. What happens when there is nothing left to repeat? Will I think to oblivion? Be held for eternity in the moment of my death? Or something else?

Too late. I feel the knife. It's ending! Oh, it's ending!...

I have lived this before.

End.

Apples

I know this land; I grew up here. I know it all, and it is real. But this portion, the portion I seek today, it exists outside time, in a fold of space and reality. This is a land that denies it's nonexistence and belies its simplicity.

I have been to this land before. A year prior, I found the fence. It stretches from horizon to horizon, beyond is another geography, another reality. I have traveled there. I have taken friends and family.

Today however is different. Today I go to harvest apples. I planted the trees months ago between a shed in my reality and the fence. In mere months the trees have fully grown and are now laden with fruit. They were baring fruit on my last visit, but now they are ripe to the point of rotting.

Apples are scattered on the ground. I know they are not edible, but they are valuable. I ignore the black viscous liquid leaking from them and drop them in a narrow but deep pit. The morass seethes, but I know its power.

I call others and show them the power I have gathered in the pit. I do this simply and directly by jumping in. I pass without event or delay beneath the dark surface only to reappear among those I had just left. The apples' blackness conveys a person to any locale to they choose.

We begin to gather the apples. The ripe ones are sweet to the taste and hold no power beyond the nutritional. But the ones on the edge, the ones tipping past ripe, a bite unleashed the blackness from their red shell and moving the person.

Such power is needed and to be shared. This is why I brought others, but my time is short and I am thrust unwilling back to reality.

Silk Harvest

"I hate this," Acorn said. He kicked at the walnut armor on the floor. His transparent wings fluttering slowly with his agitation. Acorn was glowing softly red.

"It's not that bad," Stump said. His golden glow was blocked by the bulky armor he wore.
"Besides it's useful."

"Ha!" Acorn said. He didn't want to go harvesting silk. It wasn't fun. Now honey harvesting that was fun. Acorn's head ached at the thought, but he couldn't think of why.

"You're scared!" Stump exclaimed with a laugh. "Acorn's sacred of spiders!"

"I am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not! I'd just rather get honey, is all."

"All you think about is honey." Stump rolled his eyes. He picked up the armor and held it out to Acorn. 

"Fine," Acorn grumbled. The walnut armor, though skillfully carved made Acorn look like a bulky doll. "I hate this."

"You said that already," Stump said.

Acorn chased him out of the burrow and into the glen.

The sun was bright and and the air clear. A gentle breeze made the trees rustle their leaves in song even as the flowers bobbed their heads. It was a day for play, not a day for work. And Acorn felt the worse for it.

Strung between the flowers and bushes, shining like gossamer hung glistening spirals of spider webs. As the flowers bobbed, the webs would bow like a ships sails. And darting here and there among the flowers were bees.

"Bees! We can ditch this and follow them to their for honey," Acorn said. 

"No," said Stump. Stump was Acorn's friend but he was a stick in the mud.

"Fine," Acorn groused.

A matronly sprite flew towards them leading a small group of walnut protected  fellows. She lighted before Acorn. She studied him a moment before giving a heavy sigh. 

She turned to the gathered sprites and waved them close. When everyone was close enough to hear clearly, she said, "Okay, you all know what to do. This is important. Be careful out there."

The sprites all flew off. Acorn moved to jump skyward but the woman stopped him.

"Acorn," she said "Please, no games today. Just be careful."

Acorn stared at her with affronted innocence even as Stump laughed himself silly.

She shook her head and flew up to keep an eye on the proceedings.

"I'm always careful," Acorn said.

This spurned Stump to new levels of mirth.

Acorn took to the air. He could see pairs of sprites throughout the glen busily at work. And on the far side of the glen was the largest spider-web Acorn had ever seen. 

It stretched between two trees and criss-crossed completely blocking the path. It was immense. It was terrifying. It was a tease. Acorn had to harvest it.

"Let's get that one," Acorn said speeding across the glen.

Stump flew after him. "It's too big!" he shouted.

"We can finish sooner that way," Acorn called back.

Acorn hovered before the spider-web. It was larger than he had thought. Quick as thought, he drew his needle sharp sword and sliced free a thread. He caught the free floating thread and began to wind it into a ball. He'd get plenty of silk, and then he could go back to doing what he wanted.

"I don't like this," Stump said. But he darted his own sword out and freed another thread. Soon his own ball of silk was growing.

Acorn's thread shook gently as he wound it. Then it went taunt. Acorn grimaced and worked harder to wind the silk.

"Uh, Acorn," Stump said.

Acorn ignored him. The sooner he finished the sooner he'd get honey.

"Acorn, look down," Stump said.

Acorn looked. Climbing the thread that he was winding was huge black and green spider. Panicked Acorn flew back and forth trying to shake the spider free. 

The spider just clung to the thread and worked it's way steadily towards Acorn.

Acorn screamed and tried to fly straight up. But he hadn't been paying attention and hadn't noticed that the web was now above him. He flew right into the spider's web and was stuck.

Acorn struggled to get free but the more he struggled the faster the web held him.
"Let go!" Shouted Stump. "Let go of the the thread!"

Acorn let go of the ball of silk, before he even realized he still had held it. The ball fell drawing the thread and spider after it.

"Get me off of here," Acorn said.

"I don't know," Stump said flying over. He held his completed ball of silk. He carefully placed it in a bag. "I think you're more useful there. You'll distract the spiders."

"That's not funny," Acorn said.

Laughing Stump cut Acorn loose. Acorn flew a short distance away, turned, and then stuck his tongue out at the spider's web.

Stump flew over to Acorn, and then, while humming innocently, began to pluck the remaining threads from off Acorn.

"What are you doing?" Acorn asked.

"Gathering silk," said Stump with a smile.

"Not funny."

"Yes, it is." Stump flew back to the web and snag another thread. "Come on, we've got to finish."

"Alright," Acorn said. He didn't want to. He'd had a traumatic experience that could only be soothed by the liberal application of honey. He began to gather his own thread.

"Look a spider," said Stump.

Acorn jumped back from the web, releasing his thread to the wind. There was no spider.

"You're never going to finish at this rate," Stump said between laughs. 

Soon enough the web diminished in size and the sprites bags bulged with silk. They returned home to find the matronly sprite waiting for them. She took one look at Acorn and just sighed heavily.

End.

Water Dancing

It was twilight and fireflys spun through the air.

"Hey look, Acorn," Stump said. His wings were glowing a pale blue in anticipation. "Let's catch one."

Acorn briefly flashed a bright red. He tried feigning disinterest but broke into a wide grin. "Last one to - " 

Stump was already gone darting through the air. Small shouts of joy making their way back to Acorn.

"HEY! Wait for me! You never wait for me! Why didn't you wait for me? Is it glow envy? I bet it's glow envy!" Acorn said. He dashed out after Stump. His small pixie body passing easily under leaves and through gaps in bushes.

The night darkened and the pixies chased the fireflies quickly forgetting their goal. Soon they took to chasing each other, like twin comets  spinning through the air.

With the suddenness of nature's magic, the moon broke free of the clouds. Its light bathed the area, and the pixies stopped, floating in mid air.

The moon's glow revealed a slow flowing river below. The rippling water making the moon's light seem to dance on the water, like liquid light. 

"Acorn, we should head back," Stump said. "Owls will be out. Acorn?"

Acorn was looking down at the water. His red glow mingled with that of the moon upon the water. "Pretty," he said.

"Acorn?"

"I bet we could put on a show. One that would make the girls mouths hang open. Look at that light. Some honey, a girl, and the light . . ."

"Acorn, let's head back."

Acorn dove for the river. He spun in a loop squealing with glee. He flitted above the water, leaving trails of ripples on the suface. He was loosing himself in his dance.

Stump rolled his eyes. It did look fun. Soon he joined Acorn. His pale blue glow joining with Acorn's red.

They skittered and dodged. Dove, rolled, rose, swerved, and paused. Created ever more complicated steps.

It was only after the moon hid behind the clouds did they realize they had an audiance. All along the shore, glowing faintly, floated dozens of pixies. Their colors shaming rainbows.

A golden glow darted out to them. It flew straight to Stump and resolved itself into a beautiful girl.
"May I have the next dance," She asked and blushed.

"Su - " Stump started to say.

"Hey it was my idea!" Acorn said shoving Stump aside. "Why don't you dance with me?"

"I like blue," she said grabbing Stump's hand and flying off.

"What?! Red's far better the blue! I - " Acorn was shouting after them.

"I'll dance with you," said a raspy voice behind Acorn. 

With trepidation he turned around, and saw an elderly pixie. Acorn shivered. "Uh, I don't want to dance? That's it. I. . . uh . . . hurt my foot. Yeah! Ow! Oh.... I better sit this one out..."

"Cute," the crone said and took his hand. The dance had begun.

END.

Raiding the Hive

Acorn studied the beehive hanging high above in the top of old elm tree. To his right his friend, Stump, was humming tunelessly while tossing rocks in a puddle. Acorn flapped his semi-transparent wings and floated a few inches off the ground. He was so excited he was glowing a dull red. Stump hooted for joy as one of his rocks managed a double-skip on the small pool. 

"We can do it," Acorn said. His eyes were glued on the hive. 

"Let it rest, Acorn," Stump said. He was already searching for another pebble to throw. "Collecting honey is dangerous." 

"Only if the bees catch you." Acorn waved away Stump's objection. "And besides honey is always better fresh." 

"I'm not going." Stump shook his head, gave up his search and flew to the other side of the clearing beneath a blackberry bush. He reached up and began eating the ripe berries. 

"Some friend," Acorn muttered. He flew a little closer to the hive. He could smell that wonderful honey. He hesitated then flew full force at the hive. He landed on it and drove his tiny dagger into the papery surface, sawing himself a hole. He was so close, the idea of all that honey was intoxicated him. 

Bees began to pour out of the hive and surround the little pixie. Acorn didn't hear the incessant hum of their wings and continued to saw at the hive with single-minded determination. Seconds pass and the bees' droning rocked the air with increasing intensity. 

Acorn looked up from his work and took in all the bees crowding the air around him. He worked his throat a little, "Uh . . . hi." He floated away from the hive as still more bees poured out of it and headed for him. 

Acorn turned in mid-air and flew across the clearing as fast as his wings could carry him. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Murder! Bloody murder!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"
Barely staying ahead of the ever increasing swarm of bees, Acorn crisscrossed back and forth across the clearing hoping the swarm would tire. 

"Stay where you are, you honey-hoarders!", he shouted even as he increased his speed to stay ahead of them. Looking back to check his distance, he missed seeing the tree in his path and flew full speed into it. His little body rebounded off the tree and fell to the ground to lay hidden beneath a clump of crabgrass. 

Hours later Acorn woke up feeling sore from head to foot, seated nearby was his friend Stump eating something golden by the fistful. Acorn sat up and scanned the sky for the angered bees. 

"Want some?" Stump asked with a hiccup as he held out his sticky hand. 

Acorn focused his eyes on the offered hand and realized that it is covered in honey. "Where'd you get it?" He said in a worshipful voice. 

"I snagged it while the bees were chasing you." Stump reached his hand into a pot by his side and pulled it out thick with oozing honey. 

Laughing Acorn reached into the pot and began his own feast. "Is there anything better than honey?" he asked before he shoved his sticky hand his mouth. 

Stump's only answer, being drunk on honey as he was, was a gentle snore, as he had passed out.

Frosty No More

My name is Rolf. I’m an elf. I live at the North Pole. I’m a cop.

And Frosty the Snowman was missing. All anyone could find were his hat, his scarf, a carrot, and some coal. This case was sure to leave me cold.

The crime scene was a public restroom with all the taps on hot and the drains clogged. Water was everywhere.

I suspected foul play, but with no body I was in hot water. Worse yet all my clues had been washed clean. I was working from scratch on this one.

I bent and picked up the tattered top hat. It was soaked through and was utterly magicless. Someone had punched a hole through the top.

I turned to my crime tech, Rudolf. Sure he was a reindeer of some fame, but he didn't let his nose go to his head. He'd needed a steady job to fill his time during the slow season, and had followed his nose to the crime lab. He'd become jaded since working here, but then life couldn't always be reindeer games.

Rudolf was busily scooping water into a test tube. He'd have my answers soon. The water in the tube turned blue. Rudolf looked at me and nodded.

It was Frosty. The poor sap.

I left Rudolf to his job and splashed my way from the room. I had to move fast, before this became a cold case.

To make matters worse, the perp had taken Frosty’s arms. Either as grisly mementos or firewood.

In the hall I found Jacques “Jack” Frost giving his statement on how he found the body. He was Frosty’s long time partner and friend. They’d gone all over the Pole advertising their ice creams and frozen treats. Jacques was one silver tongued salesman, I could tell; my wallet was shivering in fear.

Jacques locked his ice hard gaze on me and gave the officer he was with the cold shoulder.

I decided to start small and play nice. "Did you defrost the snowman?" I said.

Jacques's eyes widened and his face reddened with heat; a neat trick for the King of Cold.

"Frosty was my partner, why would I melt him?" Jacques demanded.

"I don't know; maybe to get the business to yourself. Maybe the snowman was skimming cream off the top and you didn't like it. Maybe you thought he was getting slushy and didn't want him dripping on the carpet. I don't care," I said. I was lying; I did care, carpets were hard to clean. "I do know you're going to spill."

"We were going to expand," Jacques said bitingly. A sudden chill in the air bit at my nose. "He was handling the Antarctic campaign. I needed him."

"Then who offed him?" I asked.

"You're the cop, you figure it out," Jacques said.

I was itching to run him in, but ever since last year I'd been on a tight leash. Santa hadn't liked the attention I brought down on him and had used his influence to get me on the naughty list. I had to tread carefully.

Jacques knew it too. I could tell from his frosty demeanor.

"Stay in town," I said.

Jacques smirked and I knew he'd be lawyered up before I made it to the parking lot.

As I wormed my way through the crowd of press crying out in dismay at the lack of a body and fabricating tantalizing tidbits to draw in the viewer, I spied a tidbit of my own; a slight elf with tears in her eyes. She was on the outer edge of the crowd, but not trying for a view of the sodden aftermath. She knew something.

I hotfooted it to her. I caught her as she was blowing her nose. She was inked with snowflakes on her cheeks and hands; a Frosty groupie. My feet quickly chilled as I realized that my hot lead was just snuffed.

"You a cop?" she asked.

I was surprised she couldn't tell by the five-o'clock shadow and rumpled overcoat, but I badged her anyway. "Detective Rolf," I said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Her eyes glistened as she met my gaze. I'd be lucky to get anything coherent from this popsicle.

"It's true, isn't it?" she said with a catch in her voice. "Frosty's dead?"

I didn't see the point in hiding the truth; she'd find out soon enough anyway. "It looks that way."

She broke down sobbing again, and I regretted my impulse to pick her brain. It was becoming obvious that that particular organ had suffered frostbite some time ago.

"What's your relationship to Frosty?"

She blew her nose. It sounded like a foghorn. "I'm his girlfriend. I was meeting him here."

She'd paused slightly there. She was lying. I almost wished her pants would catch fire; I needed the warmth.

"You're his stalker," I said.

"It's not like that," she said a bit too quickly. It was true.

"Right. Did you see what happened?"

She shook her head. "It's a restroom."

I had no doubts that she'd violated the sanctity of that particular room several times in her fervor. But that she hadn't this time meant that she'd thought she'd get caught. Someone else had been in there and she knew it. I gave her the silent treatment with a heavy stare. Guilty minds can't abide silence.

She broke like a glacier sliding home.

"He wasn't alone alright!" she blurted.

"Who else was in there?"

"I don't know, but he was dressed in a tux." She broke down crying again. She was worse than a faucet.

I called an officer over and set him to taking the lady's info and keeping tabs on her. My leads were quickly drying up faster than Frosty.

I turned back to the restroom to take one more look in hopes something would bite me when I saw a flash of black and white darting into the crowd.

Since I didn’t think it was a newspaper blowing in the wind, I gave chase.

It was a short chase.

I caught the suspect trying to waddle its way to a storm drain. Penguins don’t move fast.

It was an Emperor penguin with a complex, I could tell; he was wearing a tux.

“I didn’t do anything!” squealed the penguin in a falsetto. It was a she.

“Sure you didn’t,” I said slamming the penguin to the pavement. “That’s what everyone says when they run away from a crime scene.”

“If I had iced the snowman, why would I stick around?” the penguin said.

“Because you’re a perv and you get your jollies watching your crime. I don’t care.” It was true; I never cared for the motive, just catching the scumbags. “If you didn’t do it, why’d you run?”

“So he wouldn’t see me?”

“He who?”

“You’ve killed me!” the penguin said. She started bucking. Her beak took a nasty swipe at my hand.

I let my knee slip into her gut, hard.

She grunted and I caught a whiff of sour herring. I’d have to be careful or I’d be in a fishy situation.

“PETA’s going to get you for this,” she snipped at me.

“PETA supports putting down man killers,” I said.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

“Then spill. What were you doing here?”

“I had a meeting with Frosty,” she said.

“In the men’s room? I see.”

“No, you prick; in the restaurant. We were going to sign the deal for him to endorse Penguin Pies.”

“Why would he need a deal? He’s an ice cream mogul in his own right.”

“I don’t know. He just said that things had gotten warm between him and his partner. He was looking to liquidate.”

I backed of the floored dame and let her regain her feet. Equal rites said I didn’t have to help her up. ‘Sides she’d tried to bite me. “So Frosty was leaving Frost?”

“That’s the impression I got,” she said. She was looking flighty. Something had spooked her.

“Who were you trying to avoid?” I asked.

Her attention snapped back to me with her beady little eyes shooting frozen cod into my soul. I hate fish.

“The Whale,” she whispers. And before I can ask anything else she belly-slides into the storm drain. I hear her tux rip, but figured that’d be the least of her problems.

This could be bad; I didn't speak Whalish. But then I didn't need to. Crime sounds the same in any language. Jack had thought that Frosty was expanding the business south of the equator, but he'd really been expanding his own horizons. And the overdressed penguin was here as part of it. But where'd the Whale come in? Who'd hired him?

I had no doubt as to which Whale she'd been referring. Willy was pursuing a career in film. Great White was geriatric. And Shamu was doing time in Florida. The only other whale of any fame was adequately known as "Killer". If he was in town, it was as a hired gun for someone else.

A chill in my gut told me it was Jacques Frost, but I had no proof. I had to catch Killer and make him turn stool pigeon.

There weren't many places a whale could hide at the pole, so I headed to the Fishing Hole, a trendy little club. There in the back sucking down shrimp cocktails was a whale in a blue silk shirt.

I know what you're thinking, and it was an all-you-can-eat menu. Hitmen are cheap.

I cornered him in his booth and shooed of the girls sticking to him like flies. I noted that he too was in a tux. It must be a sea critter thing.

Killer turned his head and eyed me. "Get lost copper."

"You killed Frosty," I said. "I can prove it."

"If you could, I'd already be blubber nuggets."

He'd done it and knew I couldn't prove it. He was taunting me.

"I've got a witness that can place you," I said.

"What do penguins know? Especially ones with eggs to hatch?" He smiled exposing rows of sharp teeth.

"That's all bluster. Come clean and I'll do what I can for you with the District Attorney," I said.

"I'm not saying I did it, but if I had, I was paid to."

"And if you were paid to, who paid you?"

"It was a chilly relationship," he said with a laugh.

"Jacques Frost?" I asked. I knew the answer, but I needed to hear him say it.

"Is that what he's calling himself these days? Used to be Old Man Winter."

"So Frost hired you to flush Frosty? Why?"

"I didn't say he did. And I wouldn't ask those questions."

"But you'd find out to cover your own fin if nothing else."

He was drawing this out like the cold fish in the back of my freezer.

"I certainly would. Frosty was double dealing and leaving Frost out in the cold. Frost didn't like it, and didn't want the bad press their breakup would give the business."

"And I suppose, you'd keep a way to prove it was him who hired you?" A death machine like Killer would; it'd be his surefire way out of trouble.

"I would," Killer said. He pushed up from the table and towered over me.

Our interview was over. I knew who'd done it, I knew why, I just didn't have any proof.

I grabbed Killer's dorsal fin and plied pressure. I don't think he felt it. "Help out the law. Favors can be repaid."

"And ruin my rep? Get real." With that he dove through the ice and was gone.

Frosty wasn't going to get justice. But I could keep my eye on Frost. He'd screw up something sooner or later and I'd get him for that.

I dropped hints with the insurance company. The red tape tied up Frost from collecting. But over the week the stock for the business went through the roof; I doubt Frost missed the insurance money.

I could feel him gloating and it burned me.

The next day, I found a package on my desk. It was a couple of sticks, Frosty's arms, and a USB jumpdrive with some pictures of Frost handling the sticks and paying Killer, and a sound file of Frost ordering the hit. There was a card. It read, "You owe me."

I smiled. Frost had enjoyed his season long enough, spring was coming.

The End.

Murder At The North Pole

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