Canine Christmas (17 page)

“To my nephew, Algernon, I am leaving my cottage in the Algarve, the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, and my collection of snuffboxes. Dear Algie, since the house and its contents will be yours anyway, once I am upon that Higher Plain, I have little to add to your grandfather's legacy.”

The earl sat deathly still. I caught Hilda Mae's eye, and she arched one eyebrow. If her research was correct, this might spell disaster for the earl. Lady Antonia allegedly controlled the family fortune, which was considerable, and its disposition. If she left the bulk of her money elsewhere, Algernon would be stuck with a white elephant of a stately home and nothing to pay for its upkeep. One hundred thousand pounds didn't go as far as it once did. Hilda Mae, the chicken farm heiress, had just moved up to first place in the contest to become the next Countess of Wiggleton.

Lady Antonia turned her beaming face upon Percival, who sat placidly on his stool, cleaning a part of his anatomy that no true gentleman would ever expose at the dinner table. “And to my pweshus liddle man, I leave the bulk of my estate for his care. Once he is deprived of his doting mother, I want him to have the very best care available. I know that you all will do your best for him, here at Wiggleton Priory, once I am gone.”

The earl cleared his throat in the stunned silence that ensued this announcement. “Might I ask, Aunt, what happens to the money once Percival's time on this earth has come to a close?” With great admiration I noticed that he didn't sound as if he personally intended to make Percival's time on this earth as brief as possible.

Lady Antonia beamed even more. “It will go, in Per-cival's dear name, to the RSPCA, of course.”

I had heard of batty peers of the realm, but Lady Antonia should be their poster child. I sat for a moment, feeling the rage emanating from nearly everyone in the room, with the exception of Hilda Mae (giving off waves of smug satisfaction), and I speculated that the idiot woman would be lucky to live to see her solicitor.

And, of course, I was correct. Hilda Mae and I escaped the fiasco of Christmas Eve dinner as quickly as possible, after presenting our gifts to them. Later, driven by my conscience, I found myself trying to explain to Lady Antonia the deadly potential of the powder keg she had ignited at dinner. Hilda Mae was of the opinion that Lady Antonia would think me stark raving mad.

Hilda Mae obviously knew her peers better than I, because that was exactly the reaction I got from Lady Antonia herself when I spoke to her later that evening. She laughed merrily when I tried to explain that I thought she was being rash in her plan to change her will and announce it publicly. “Nonsense,” she said over and over again. I quickly gave up in disgust.

Sometimes sheer blind stupidity deserves what it gets. And thus it was, during my early morning walk, that I found Lady Antonia, the back of her head bashed in, lying facedown in the ornamental pond in the gardens. Percival sat nearby, whining piteously.

Sighing, I picked up the dog, attempting to comfort him, but he finally seemed to have registered just what I was, and he struggled to be put down. I set him down gently on the ground and went back into the house to alert the family and call the police.

Three days later, Hilda Mae and I were driving back home to Bedfordshire, thankful to get away from Wiggleton Priory and the aftermath of Lady Antonia's murder. The police had arrived promptly, and I managed to pull the officer in charge aside and explain to him my conclusions about the case. Though he was not overtly appreciative of amateur assistance, he did pay attention. When I was proven correct, he bought me a pint at the pub in the village nearest the priory.

“Once you explained your reasoning that morning, Simon,” Hilda Mae was commenting for the umpteenth time since the murderer had been taken away to be charged, “it all made perfect sense. Poor Percival was the essential clue, and he was the cause of the murder in the first place.”

“Yes, the poor mite.” Hearing us talk about him, Percival spoke up from his carrier in the backseat of the Land Rover. I turned in my seat to look at him. “Oh, do be a good boy and go back to sleep, Percival.”

Hilda Mae laughed. “I can't believe you volunteered to take him, Simon. After all, he doesn't seem that keen on you.”

I sighed. I certainly couldn't explain that one to her.

“We'll get used to each other. Eventually, I hope.” I sighed again. “But I couldn't leave the poor little fellow there. He wouldn't have lasted a week.”

Hilda Mae laughed again. “No, since the one person in that demented family—besides Lady Antonia, that is—who actually cared about him turned out to be the killer.”

“Poor Ottoline. She had good intentions. Saving Lady Antonia's fortune for her beloved Algernon before the old bat could change her will. Not that it would have done her much good in the long run, even if she had gotten away with it.”

I continued sourly, “I'm a bit surprised, actually, that you didn't want to stay behind and console the earl in his double loss.”

Hilda Mae smiled. “Not to worry, Simon, my dear. Algie is meeting me in London after New Year's.”

I groaned in mock despair. “So I guess you're going to give up the glamorous life of an assistant professor of medieval history to become the next Countess of Wiggleton.”

“Now, Simon,” Hilda Mae purred, “don't sound so censorious. Algie is rather adorable, after all.”

“But my dear,” I lamented, “those
ears
!”

She turned to flutter her eyelashes. “But Simon, don't forget! I have enough money for whatever plastic surgery it takes.”

“Something that poor Ottoline couldn't offer,” I commented wryly. “I must admit, I can't help but feel sorry for the poor dumb girl. If she'd been really clever, she would have bashed poor ol' Percy over the head with the same piece of wood she used on Lady Antonia. Then the choice of suspects would have been much bigger.”

“Being a dog lover can be inconvenient, eh, Simon?” Hilda Mae shook her head. I had the feeling that, if Hilda Mae had been the murderer, there would have been two corpses and no regrets.

“The police officer wrapped it up very quickly. He listened well, but it didn't hurt that Ottoline acted guilty from the get go.”

“Not to mention the fact that someone should have explained the concept of fingerprints to the poor girl.”

Hilda Mae was at her bitchy best. “But since horses don't have them, it wouldn't have done much good.”

“I suppose you didn't consider explaining that to her during your little chat after dinner on Christmas Eve?” And she probably thought I hadn't noticed.

Hilda Mae was not in the least disconcerted. “Why, Simon, it was just a little bit of girl talk. About weddings and such. You know the kind of thing I mean.”

“Uh-huh,” I said skeptically. “And Ottoline, who probably never had an original thought in her life, suddenly came up with the idea to do in Lady Antonia and thus save all the money for dear, dear Algie.”

Hilda Mae grinned. “Now, Simon, even someone as dim as Ottoline can have the occasional flash of inspiration. However misguided it might be.”

“And somehow be conveniently convinced that it was all her idea to begin with?” I observed.

Hilda Mae said nothing, merely smiled again, and I couldn't help but admire the ruthlessness of the woman driving my Land Rover. Probably a family trait.

As Percival complained yet again from the backseat, I said resignedly to Hilda Mae, “I think I'm going to find out just
how
inconvenient being kind to dumb animals can be.”

“Merry Christmas to you, Simon!” Hilda Mae said, then talked about wedding gowns all the way to Bedfordshire. For the first time, I heartily regretted that I couldn't turn into a bat and fly home by myself.

Psycho Santa's Got a Brand-New Bag

Deborah Adams

Macavity Award–winning short story writer DEBORAH ADAMS agreed to a blind date with a man (who later became her husband) only because he had a Saint Bernard. She currently plays mom to Clifford, a shaggy black stray who wandered into her yard and forgot to leave; Data, an abused mongrel who was abandoned near the Adamses' home in Waverly, Tennessee; and an assortment of cats and tropical fish. One of her short stories, “Building Herbert,” appears in the earlier Canine Crimes anthology.

Santa choke-slammed me to the mat and pinned me for a three count while Jericho chewed on my toes. Just another day at the Pole.

“I'll give you one more chance, Grady Elf!” the champ shouted. He grabbed my collar, hauled me to my feet, then prepared to execute a flying backflip off the top rope.

Unreasonable as it sounds, I went along with this daily ritual. You see, we've never unionized, and in this hardcore What You See Is What You Get world, there are damned few job opportunities for elves.

“Whatever you say, Boss,” I agreed. “Just let me give Jericho his kibble first.” I scooped the puppy into my arms and let him lick my face, reasonably certain that Santa wouldn't attack me and chance hurting Jericho.

The Big Guy was about to object when suddenly out on the lawn there arose such a clatter … no, wait. That's a different story. This time the distraction was caused by the arrival at ringside of an officious young elf named Hemmit.

“There's a breakdown on line three,” Hemmit announced with a superior smile. “Would Mr. Claus care to have a look?”

Santa pulled his fire-engine red spandex tights over a belly that remained ample in spite of his rigorous training. “Are you completely helpless?” he screamed at Hemmit. “Can't you handle a little thing like that without interrupting my match? I'm defending my title here! Take some responsibility, why don'tcha?”

This was strategically unwise. I knew it. Hemmit knew it. Even Jericho started to squirm and whine. I tried to provide damage control. “Santa, perhaps you—”

“Always trying to undermine my authority, aren't you?” The once jolly old elf pounded the air with his fists and jumped up and down, rattling the loose boards under the mat. His face turned bright red, making a Christmasy contrast to the snow-white hair and beard. “I! Won't! Stand! For! It!”

Santa sputtered and spewed, continuing the sort of incoherent tirade that we were growing accustomed to at the Pole. Most of the elves in the audience watched nervously, prepared to dodge flying chairs if necessary. Hemmit, though, grinned with delight, knowing his side had scored another victory.

From somewhere in the crowd I heard an elf whisper, “The old guy's a psycho. The sooner he's gone, the better for us.”

I sighed. Jericho buried his muzzle under my arm. Pro-Santa elves hung their heads; the others smacked their lips, tasting the sweet end to a vicious rivalry between Santa and Hemmit. Things did not look good for old Claus, or for those of us who tried in vain to defend his sanity and his job.

The revolution had started the day Mrs. Claus packed her electric socks and ran away to St. Thomas, claiming she was fed up with dreary winters and housework. And with Santa, of course. She wanted a younger man, someone who would make her feel what she called “the zest of life” again.

Santa was stunned, then angry. Finally he pitched into a months' long depression that left the Pole essentially leaderless. After that it was a dizzying downward spiral laced with eggnog and coconut bourbon balls.

Changing standards in the Outer World only contributed to Santa's angst. Once upon a time, the good little boys and girls had been rewarded with dollies and red wagons, and the bad little boys and girls punished for their wickedness with lumps of coal. These days over-indulgent parents have assumed Santa's role, leniently providing an abundance of expensive toys for their offspring—regardless of behavior—instead of trusting in Santa Claus. It was no wonder The Boss felt useless and redundant.

That first Christmas after the breakup went down as the single most disastrous holiday on record. Santa drove the sleigh through power lines, causing blackouts in seven cities. He missed some homes altogether while leaving an abundance of dollies and tea sets under the tree of an elderly bachelor. Worst of all, the Claus gorged himself on cookies and milk in a home in Atlanta, then upchucked in a Minneapolis living room.

The following morning Santa staggered into the workshop looking as though he'd been trampled by a herd of reindeer. The fire in Rudolph's eyes suggested that possibility had been considered.

“Helluva night, boys!” Santa had said, and dropped his bag on the floor. “I'm ready for bed.”

Kash Elf was horrified, as we all were. He hurried to retrieve the bag, then turned to me and whispered, “There's something in here.”

Obviously Kash was mistaken. You see, Santa's bag is a magic bag. How else could all the toys we make fit into it? And how else could Santa pull out exactly the right toy for each child along his route?

This being the case, it stands to reason that there is never anything left in the bag because magic is meticulous and always provides exactly the right amount of itself.

“Nonsense, Kash Elf,” I said. I took the bag from him and reached inside, only to grab a small handful of fur. “Gads! It's a dog!”

A puppy, to be more exact. It was largely brown with a few black markings on its face and a big red bow tied around its neck. This meant that somewhere in the world, a child had not gotten his Christmas puppy. Santa had broken a heart.

We had no way of rectifying the matter, since only Santa could keep track of millions of Christmas wishes and it goes without saying that he had no idea where the animal belonged.

And so Jericho joined our family. Born of the bag, he insisted on sleeping in it every night, as if returning to his mother's womb. This introduced us to an amazing property of the magic bag that we would never have discovered otherwise: each morning Jericho emerged from his sleep as if for the first time, reborn daily.

While Jericho brought a brightness and cheer to our lives that we'd never had before, there was still the overwhelming anxiety produced by Santa's mood. We elves walked on tiptoe throughout the village, always expecting the worst.