Death of a Christmas Tradition
By Eddie Snipes
11/2010 ©, reposted with Eddie's permission.
I knew it wasn’t going to be a
happy day when I walked into the mall. Weeping children passed, ushered away by
parents with hollow expressions. A crowd pressed into the police tape, craning
their necks, and trying to get a view of the Christmas horror at Santa’s
Workshop.
I pushed through the crowd and
flashed my badge as I ducked under the yellow tape. Elves in green hats huddled
together, occasionally taking a peek toward the big man’s workshop. Wails and
chatter filled the air. A particularly stout elf paced around with his hands on
his head while babbling between his sobs. He sounded like a chipmunk on
espresso, and I couldn’t make out a word he was saying. A police officer was
kneeling down beside a fat man in a red suit. He wrote faster than a secretary
in a board meeting.
The officer in blue looked up
as I approached, and I said, “What do we have?”
“We’ve got a 187. Probably
started as a 211, but might have been a 217. There are reports of a 653M
before—”
“Stuff those lottery numbers
back in your pocket,” I said while holding up a hand. “I didn’t take up
accounting because I’m not good with numbers. I got the 187. Murder.”
“Correct.” The officer returned
to his pen and pad.
Apparently, the guy’s head was
full of numbers, but he was at a loss for words. “Can you provide a few more
details?”
“He was murdered just as the
mall opened.” The officer returned to writing in his pad.
I pulled my hand across my face
to wipe away the frustration. “Maybe you could flip back a few pages in your
notebook, and translate the numbers into English for me.”
The officer stood up and faced
me. I finally saw his badge. Officer Valentine. His eyes examined the pages as
he flipped. A few contorted expressions flicked across his mouth as he tried to
decipher his own notes. “Okay. The guys name appears to be Chris Kringle, but
the hobbits over there call him Santa.” The officer pointed to the elves with
the eraser end of his pencil.
I nodded, wondering if he
understood the implications of his words. And if he knew the difference between
an elf and a hobbit.
The officer graciously
continued. “I was the first one on the scene. If you don’t count the hobbits.”
He thumbed toward the little men in green suits.
I couldn’t resist any longer.
“You do know these are elves, and not hobbits, right?”
He shrugged and started again.
“I was working security at the mall, and after hearing a commotion, I rushed
over. The man in the red suit was laying just as you see him now.” The
policeman reached over his shoulder and scratched his back, and then readjusted
his shirt. “By the time I got here, the little green men were running in
circles, screaming like school girls. Santa was laying beside a Yule log and
the hobbits,” he stopped and gave me a patronizing grin. “The elves were
howling Christmas carols and crying something awful. Looks like O Mr. Kringle
had a Yuletide crinkle in his noggin.”
The officer’s callousness
struck me. I’m glad I am a detective. We see enough crime to get jaded to the
scenes we investigate, but the daily life of street cops took things to a new
level. I had often heard police officers make cruel sounding jokes at crime
scenes. It was a survival mechanism. Repel the pain and harsh realities of
crime with a joke or two. But this man was too much. I hoped the weeping elves
weren’t listening to his explanation.
I excused myself, and the
officer adjusted his shirt and knelt by Santa again. When I stepped toward the
elves, I could see water puddling on the floor as they sang a tearful rendition
of Jolly Old Saint Nicholas. I walked up to the one who looked to be in charge.
“Hi. My name is Detective
Anderson. Can I have a word with you?” The elf nodded and I led him away from
the others. He sat down on a chair and I pulled out my notebook. “For the
record, what is your name?”
“Bardakin.” Songs of
lamentations drifted into our conversation, and Bardakin’s eyes began to well
up with tears. His red nose indicated he had used many tissues. I pulled a
handkerchief out of my pocket and offered it to the man, err elf.
He looked at it with suspicion,
so I said, “Just pulled it out of the wash, so it’s clean.” Bardakin smiled and
took it.
“Don’t want to take a chance on
getting a cold so close to Christmas.” Bardakin began to wail, “Oh, I forgot.
There won’t be a Christmas!”
I patted his shoulder, and he
filled the hanky with his large nose and blew. After the violent blast, he
offered it back to me. “No thanks. I’m giving it to you.”
“Mr. Uh….”
“Anderson. Detective Anderson.”
A thin smile appeared on the
elf’s face. ”Detective Anderson, we are Christmas elves. We can’t take gifts,
we can only give them. It’s one of our codes of honor.”
Bardakin held out the
handkerchief again. It hung like a wet rag. I stared without moving and he
raised his gray eyebrows as he pushed it toward me. I identified a dry corner
on the cloth and took it with the tip of my index finger and thumb. The elf
wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and I used the diversion to drop the used rag
behind me into a nearby waste bin.
“Mr. Bardakin,” I said, “I know
it’s hard for you, but I need to ask you a few questions.” The elf nodded. “Do
you know if Santa had any enemies?”
“He’s Santa. Everyone loved
him. Everyone but Peter.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah, Peter. The Easter bunny.
Peter Cottontail. But I wouldn’t say he was an enemy,” Bardakin added.
“I’m not following you. Was
there a disagreement between Santa and Peter?”
“Kinda.” Bardakin nodded.
“Well, yes. We all had an Easter celebration, and Santa brought his famous cony
stew. Cony stew is quite savory and one of our favorite springtime dishes. It
is very good, but not as good as Peter’s chocolate eggs.” Bardakin put his
finger on his lower lip and looked up. “I don’t know which I like best, the
chocolate eggs with the white sugary cream and the yellow yolk, or the ones
with the colored sprinkles and the truffle cream centers. I like the sweet
cream eggs with the yolk, but I also love sprinkles—”
“Thank you, but I don’t need
descriptions of the food. What does the stew have to do with Peter being upset
with Santa?”
“It wasn’t just stew. It was
cony stew – cony is rabbit stew. Santa apologized and assured Peter that it
wasn’t anyone related to him, but he was boiling. Haha. That’s funny. Stew,
boiling.” He looked at me, but I didn’t see the humor. “Anyway, Peter didn’t
speak to Santa the rest of the evening.”
“Did he threaten him in any
way?”
“Nope. He just stared at him
from across the room, twitching his whiskers and chewing on a carrot.” Looking
up, Bardakin said, “Peter’s a vegetarian you know. He makes delightful treats,
but he never eats them. I don’t know why. Chocolate isn’t a vegetable, but it
isn’t meat either. He might be more cheerful if he ate a few—”
“Let’s move on,” I said. It was
hard to keep this guy on track. “I need you to tell me everything you remember
about the events leading up to Santa’s attack.”
A smile eased onto Bardakin’s
face until he was beaming as if nothing bad had ever happened. I thought this
odd, and the elf must have read my expression. “I think of happy things to get
me out of my despair. It gives me a clear mind.”
“I see.” But I have to admit, I
didn’t see. The instant change gave me cause for suspicion. “Okay, now please
tell me about this morning.”
“This morning started like just
about any other morning. We all sat down for elk chops, eggs, and berries with
cream.” His eyes sparkled while he thought on his breakfast. “Mmmm. The berries
were fresh, and oh how I love elk chops. Especially with eggs—”
“Mr. Bardakin, please stay with
the facts that pertain to this case.” This guy was a piece of work. It wasn’t
hard to figure out where he got his protruding elf stomach.
“Oh, but it is relevant. We ate
around seven this morning. 7:14 a.m. to be exact. This was unusually late.
Since the mall opens at nine, it didn’t leave us enough time for our
mid-morning refection.”
“Refection?” I asked.
“Refection. It’s the meal we
celebrate between breakfast and lunch.”
My eyes dropped to his massive
belly. Of course, I should have known. I nodded. “So why did you eat so late this
morning?”
“Our cook received a call that
his wife was taken ill, and he had to rush back to the North Pole last night.
Santa hired a new cook and he had a time preparing the elk chops. We brought
the elk with us, but he didn’t seem to welcome the idea of joining us for
breakfast. You know, preparing a live elk for…” The look I shot toward him
stopped Bardakin from derailing his explanation again. He quickly wrapped up
his story. “Sorry. By the time breakfast was served, it was time for us to head
to the mall.”
“I see. But I’m still not
following how this relates to Santa’s demise.”
“Well, by the time we got here,
we were absolutely famished. It was two, maybe three hours before lunch.”
Bardakin’s tone indicated there was an important point hidden behind this
explanation.
“Go on,” I encouraged.
“Me and the guys were working
to get ready for the children and complaining about our hunger. The mall food
stores don’t open until after we need to be working, so we were pretty
depressed about missing mid-morning refection. That’s when I spotted it.”
Bardakin pointed toward the edge of the Santa’s Workshop display. “Just in view
was a cookie on the floor. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, and I rushed
over to get it.”
This guy is afraid of catching
a cold from my handkerchief, but doesn’t mind eating cookies off the mall
floor? I shrugged. “Okay, tell me what happened after you found the cookie.”
A dreamy smile emerged on
Bardakin’s face. “When I walked over to the cookie, I saw it was my favorite
kind. It was a white sugar cookie with colored sprinkles. Yum! Just like the
kind we ate at our Valentine’s dinner party last February. Actually, we have
all kinds of cookies at the Valentines dinner, but the sugar cookies with the
sprinkles are my favorite. They are so good! Almost as good as the Easter
treats, but that bunny never uses sprinkles on—”
I had to cut the elf off before
he could reminisce on another dessert experience. It was time to move this
interview along. “Please, Mr. Bardakin. I need you to keep the conversation on
track.” He licked his lips while patting his stomach, but nodded to acknowledge
my demand. “What does a sugar cookie with sprinkles have to do with Santa’s
murder?”
“Oh, yeah. When I bent down to
get the sugar cookie with colored sprinkles,” he swallowed his mouth watering
memory, “I saw another one. Then I saw a trail of cookies leading around the
corner over there.” He stood and pointed across the mall. “I said, ‘Hey guys! I
found some cookies.’ My friends came and we gathered the cookies while we ate
our way around the corner. To our delight, they extended all the way down the
hall. It was enough for all of us to have our mid-morning refection. By the
time we reached the end of the hall, we were all quite satisfied.” His eyes
dropped to the floor, and Bardakin said in a quiet voice, “That’s when we came
back and found Santa and the Yule log.”
“Did you hear anything or see
anything?” I asked.
“We were snatching up cookies
and laughing at our good fortune. It was quite noisy.”
I looked up to the ceiling,
trying to absorb the information. Stroking my chin, I asked, “Didn’t you think
it was odd to see a trail of cookies leading you to the other side of the
mall?”
Shaking his head, Bardakin
said, “I guess we weren’t thinking. We were so excited to find the food, and we
were all so hungry, all we could think about was our mid-morning refection.”
The elf licked his lips and stared off in the distance. “The cookies were so
good. Sprinkles on sugar cookies. All we needed was a little yak milk to
complete the day. You know, we don’t get this type of cookie for Christmas.
Christmas cookies usually don’t have sprinkles—”
“Thank you, Mr. Bardakin. That
will be all for now. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, call me.” I
produced the card and he took it. My words did little to snap him out of his
dream-like state. It wasn’t hard to figure out how to create a diversion with
these elves. In fact, as I talked with each of them, I had difficulty keeping
their minds off food. I combed through their food musings, trying to glean out
what few non-culinarily facts were present.
Strolling back to the crime
scene, I examined the victim. I put on gloves, and picked up the log. It fit
perfectly against the wound on the man’s head. This was definitely the murder
weapon. I took a closer examination of the log. It contained festive lettering
with the words, Eros nikao pas. Too bad it didn’t live up to its name.
I took a stroll down the
hallway where the cookies had led the elves. I stepped around the occasional
sprinkles and crumbs until I stood in front of the outdoor recreation center.
It would have been closed at the time, so I turned my attention to the
surrounding area. Near the mall exit, I spied something behind a planter.
Walking over to it, I discovered an Easter basket. Inside was shredded green
plastic and a single sugar cookie with colored sprinkles.
It looks like we may need to
bring Peter in for a few questions.
***
After I called in, officers
wasted no time picking him up. When I arrived at headquarters, Peter was
already waiting in the interrogation room. I grabbed a new pad of paper and a
voice recorder and headed to talk with Peter. I also carried a little surprise
in a plastic bag.
I sat across from him and put
the voice recorder on the table. “You don’t mind if I record this session, do
you?”
Peter just shook his head and
chewed nervously. Even though the room is under surveillance, I like to place a
recorder on the table for most interviews. It makes it clear that this isn’t a
time for games.
“I’ll get straight to the
point, Peter. Santa was found dead this morning.” Other than a twitch of his
whiskers, Peter gave no hint at an expression. He glared at me through those
beady little eyes, but sat motionless for a few moments. He returned to his
chewing. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No.”
“Is it true that you and Santa
had a little fall out last Easter?” I watched his eyes, but saw nothing.
“It wasn’t anything.” His voice
caught me by surprise. I expected it to be, shall we say, rabbit like. But his
dialect was educated and proper. This was an intelligent rabbit. Not the type
of rodent you would expect to go around clubbing jolly men with a log. But then
again, it had to be someone clever enough to trick the elves. I thought about
this for a moment and reconsidered my assumption. Anyone with an eye for
pastries could trick these elves.
“Why don’t you tell me about
it?” His whiskers twitched and I could tell something was eating at him. “Is it
true that you were upset over a dish he brought to your house?”
“It wasn’t at my house. It was
a banquet hall, and yes, I was disturbed by the obscenity of his culinary
dish,” Peter barked.
“What bothered you about it?”
A sigh escaped from Peter. “I
really didn’t want to dig up the past, but since you insist, it was rabbit
stew. He called it cony. I am offended at the sight of any animal being
slaughtered for gluttonous purposes, but even more so when it is one of my
relations.”
“The elves tell me Santa
assured you it wasn’t anyone related—”
“All rabbits are my relations,”
Peter said in a condescending tone.
“I see.” Time to rattle the
bunny’s cage. “So did you determine to get revenge at that time?”
“I wouldn’t stoop so low as to
seek revenge.”
I reached down and opened the
plastic bag. Dropping the Easter basket on the table, I said, “Can you explain
this?”
“It looks like you have been to
Junk Mart,” the rabbit said sardonically.
A smile slid onto my face. This
rabbit is good. “Where were you this morning when Santa was murdered?”
“I’m certain I was hopping down
the bunny trail. And I don’t believe that’s a crime.”
“Do you have an alibi?”
“I live alone, and I don’t
think I should need an alibi.”
Reaching into the basket, I
retrieved the cookie and laid it on the table. “Do you recognize this?”
“I recognize it as a cookie.”
He leaned forward to look closer. “A sugar cookie, I do believe.”
This rabbit was a bit arrogant
and was getting on my nerves. But I might have been a little self-absorbed too,
if children sang about me every year. As annoying as this rodent may be, I had
to admit he didn’t come across like someone who was guilty. He was either a
good liar, or an innocent jerk.
After asking several more
questions, I wrapped up the interview. I would visit him with these questions
again to see if his story changed. In the mean time, I had a few more holiday
personalities to visit.
***
A week into my investigation,
the facts suddenly came together. I gathered my notes in preparation for
confronting the murderer. After studying all the case files, it was a slam
dunk. I knew exactly which of those crafty fellows committed this heinous
murder. I sent Officers to round up my holiday friends. After placing the files
into a box, I headed to the interrogation room where the suspects awaited.
Walking in the room, I asked
Officer Valentine to ready the cuffs and wait by the table. These characters
are very capable of avoiding detection while performing their yearly duties, so
they are also quite able to escape if given the chance. I placed the officer by
the shackle ring in the floor. Once I revealed the killer, I intended to secure
him before he could attempt an escape.
“Gentleman.” I looked over to
Mrs. Claus and added, “and ladies. I know who the perpetrator is.” Each person
began looking around the room.
“Who is it?” Bardakin asked,
followed by several chattering voices of the other elves asking the same
question.
“It had to be someone with
motive, opportunity, and the ability to avoid detection,” I said. “There is
only one person in this room that fits all three. The killer had to be someone
who could hide in plain sight.”
I took a stroll through the
suspects, examining each face. I stopped before the leprechaun. “Mr. Paddy had
an airtight alibi. Several people testified to his presence in a pub in
Ireland, but we all know that leprechauns only need a rainbow and motivation,
and they can scoot around the globe. Paddy is a little guy, but these magical
creatures can be quite strong.” I turned to St. Paddy and tried to put a hand
on his shoulder. It was below my reach so I put my hand on his head instead. I
pressed a little too hard, and inadvertently pushed his hat over his eyes. “But
I know you didn’t do it. You had no motivation.”
I gave a couple of friendly
taps and stepped forward. Paddy lifted his hat, pushed out the dent where my
hand rested, and slapped it back on his little head.
“Mr. Cottontail had motive and
possibly the opportunity.” I looked at Peter and said, “But you couldn’t avoid
detection in plain sight. Rabbits are good hiders, but not on a mall floor.
There was no fur in the mall, and no cover where you could hide. You didn’t
kill Santa.” I walked to the table and held my hand out. “Officer, the cuffs
please.” He handed me the cuffs. I pushed the table away from the shackle ring.
“Elves,” I continued. “You had
opportunity, and the ability to avoid detection. In a crowd of elves, one could
easily blend in.” I looked to the elves and saw wide-eyed quivering bodies. I
paced in front of the table, dangling the cuffs. “But none of you committed
this crime. You lack motive.” I gazed at the relieved looking elves. “You guys
live for treats and food. Living with the jolly man provided a never-ending
source for food and snacks.” I looked at Bardakin’s belly for emphasis.
I bent down to examine the
ring. “Cupid is the murderer.”
Everyone gasped.
Bardakin looked around and
said, “But he isn’t here.”
“Oh, he is here.” I knelt down
to the floor. In a swift motion, I slapped the cuffs around the ankle of the
police officer and secured the other end to the ring. Pulling out my sidearm, I
pointed it at the policeman. “Don’t move. Paddy, grab his gun.”
Paddy snatched it quicker than
a pot of gold.
“What is the meaning of this,”
the officer demanded.
I looked at him and said, “Eros
nikao pas.” Fear invaded the man’s eyes and his face turned white.
“What does that mean?” asked
Bardakin.
“Love conquers all,” Peter
said.
I looked back at the rabbit.
“Very good.” Confused voices echoed across the room. “When doing my interviews,
I was never able to locate Cupid. But as I examined the evidence, it hit me.
Cupid has been in our midst all the time.” I turned to the officer and said,
“This, of course, explains why you kept playing with your back and adjusting
your shirt.” I grabbed his shirt and gave a hard yank. It tore from his body to
reveal his wings. Gasps filled the room. I held up the badge and turned it to
Cupid. “Officer Valentine. You had opportunity. You had the ability to hide in
plain sight. And you have motive. Do you want to share the motive, or would you
rather I do it?”
Cupid looked down at his
shackled leg, and began speaking to the floor. “I have always loved Delphine,”
he raised his hand toward her, “Mrs. Claus. When Kringle married you, I was
devastated. I’ve spent years trying to find someone to fill the void in my
heart, but all I could think of was you. Finally, I decided that if Santa was
out of the way, I could come to your aid and you’d fall in love with me.”
I nodded. “Mrs. Claus was the
key. When I probed into her past looking for enemies, you were the only
possibility and the only one with motive.” I walked over, and opened the door.
“You may escort him to a cell.”
The mystery was solved. When I
walked out of the room, the elves were debating the future of Christmas.
Of all the cases I’ve had, I
can’t think of a stranger group of suspects. It makes one wonder about the
holiday spirit. Somehow, the legend of Santa Claus goes on, and people still
claim to see the fat jolly guy. Rumor has it that he’s shorter than people
expected, and he has an affinity for sugar cookies with sprinkles. But we all
know that’s just rumor.
Eddie Snipes is a writer with a
well-honed funny bone. His website, Confessions of a Dyslexic Writer, has more information
on his books. He balances writing between a full-time job, five children, and
participating in professional organizations. His book, I
Call Him Dancer, is available for Kindle. Eddie says, "Did
I mention that my book is only 99 cents? You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. If you act
now, I’ll include four other emotions for the same low price. It’s holding on
to a 5 star rating. Find out why. Where else can you get that much
entertainment for less than a buck? Buy I Called Him Dancer here.
I Called Him Dancer
For a moment, Michael danced on top of the
world, but one bad choice turned his life upside down. The once promising
Broadway star now washes windshields for tips and lives among the homeless.
When his former dance partner recognizes him behind the fray of whiskers, shame
drives him away from her. Angry at God and the world, the Dancer refuses to
allow anyone into his life. When everything is stripped away, three things
remain: faith, hope, and love. The greatest of these is love.
I Called Him Dancer is a story about how one
woman’s enduring faith and unconditional love drives her to reach out to a
homeless man who has given up on life.
