'Twas the Chihuahua Before Christmas (2 page)

Charlotte sighed. “Okay, sorry to snap at
you. Phil Grant broke his leg and we’re scrambling to make sure
Santa makes it to the clock tonight.”

“Who’s the replacement?” Ellen asked.

“Ivan.”

Ellen burst out laughing. “Scariest Santa
ever!”

“I’m just grateful he agreed,” Charlotte
said. She heard the sound of children’s voices come over the
phone.

“Listen, I have to go,” Ellen said. “The
nieces and nephews want me to help them make paper snowflakes. The
costumes are in the workshop. You’ll find them.”

“All right,” Charlotte said. “Merry
Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” Ellen disconnected.

Charlotte went back to the workshop, this
time without Lila. It had started to snow again, fluffy flakes that
drifted slowly down in the still air. She stomped across the yard
and into the stone building. As she opened the door, she heard
scrabbling in the corner of the room by the catalog boxes and
shuddered. Mice gave her the creeps.

Ignoring the shelf, she made a thorough
search of the workshop, even going so far as to look inside boxes
of Christmas trim, in case Ellen had opened one while she had the
costume in her hand and left it inside. There was no sign of the
elf costume or the silver parka.

“I don’t have time for this.” Charlotte
rubbed her face with both hands. She had the pointy green hat, at
least. If she had to, she could pair it with a green Christmas
sweater. Lila would still look reasonably elfy. She went back to
the shelf.

The hat was gone.

Charlotte stared at the empty space. “You
have got to be kidding me.”

After fifteen minutes of frustrated
searching, Charlotte was forced to admit that the elf hat was not
in the workshop. She must have taken it into the house with
her.

“I’m losing my mind,” she muttered, as she
trudged back to the house. She met Ivan coming out, a pack of
cigarettes in his hand. “You haven’t seen Lila’s elf costume
anywhere, have you? It’s green and red, with a little pointy
hat.”

Ivan shook his head and put a cigarette
between his lips.

Charlotte gave him a stern look. “Santa Claus
does not smell like cigarette smoke, just so you know.”

Ivan lit the cigarette and shrugged. “I will
put on cologne.”

“He doesn’t smell like cologne either.”

Ivan squinted at her through the smoke
drifting in front of his eyes. “What does he smell like?”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte said, exasperated.
“Cookies and reindeer manure, probably.”

Ivan smirked. “Is that what Mrs. Claus smells
like, too?”

Charlotte stepped past him and pulled open
the back door. “If I can’t put together an elf costume, she’s going
to smell like bourbon and despair.”

Charlotte searched every place she could
think of, but Lila’s elf costume appeared to be well and truly
gone. She started looking through Lila’s other clothes, hoping to
cobble something together.

Ivan stopped by Charlotte’s open bedroom door
as she stood in front of the bed, which was covered in dog
outfits.

Lila pranced up to him, holding a tiny
cheerleader pom pom in her mouth.

“What are you doing?” Ivan asked
Charlotte.

“Trying to figure out something for Lila to
wear. I’d leave her at home, but the kids would be so
disappointed.” Charlotte pointed to a little ensemble arranged on
the bed – a pale-blue skirt with glitter snowflakes printed on it
and a white turtleneck sweater. “Does this say ‘snow fairy’ to you?
I’m going for a Nutcracker ballet look.”

Ivan nodded. ”If Tchaikovsky had written his
Waltz of the Snowflakes
for Chihuahuas, I am sure they would
have looked just like that.”

“Really?” Charlotte looked at him hopefully.
“You’re not just saying that?”

Ivan glanced at his watch. “We had better eat
lunch soon if you are going to finish everything in time.”

Charlotte’s phone rang as she and Ivan were
finishing their grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup in the
kitchen. She picked it up. “This is Charlotte.”

“Where are you?” Phil Grant asked.

“At home.”

“Didn’t Shermont tell you about my
accident?”

“Yes, and Ivan is going to take your place.”
Charlotte glanced at the kitchen clock. “But we have hours
yet.”

“The Santa costume needs to be altered,
Charlotte. Susan and I have been waiting for you and Ivan to show
up.”

Charlotte grimaced. “Shermont must have
forgotten to tell me, and I didn’t think of it. We’ll be there
soon.” She hung up and looked at Ivan. “We have to go to Phil
Grant’s house and see how the Santa suit fits you.”

Ivan pushed his chair back. “I will shower,
to get rid of the cigarette smell.”

“There’s no time for that. Let’s just
go.”

Susan Grant opened the door to them. “Come on
in.” She patted Lila where she sat in the crook of Charlotte’s arm,
then wrinkled her nose as Ivan passed her. “That’s quite the
cologne.”

Ivan gave a regal nod. “Thank you.”

Charlotte set Lila down on the floor. “How’s
Phil?”

“All hopped up on Vicodin,” Susan said. “It
was a clean break, so he should heal up fine. It’s not the first
ski injury he’s had, just bad timing.” She led the way into the
living room, where the Santa suit lay on the couch, the boots on
the floor below it. “Shall we see how it fits?”

“The boots are too tight,” Ivan said.

“They can’t be too tight,” Charlotte said
impatiently. “Phil is six-foot-two, for God’s sake.”

Ivan shrugged. “He has small feet.”

“He does not,” Susan said huffily.

Charlotte circled Ivan where he stood in the
middle of her living room. The legs of the Santa pants drooped to
the floor, completely obscuring the black costume boots. On the
other hand, the shoulders of the coat, tailored to fit Phil’s lanky
frame, stretched taut over Ivan’s broad, powerful shoulders, making
the sleeves ride up his wrists.

Susan shook her head. “We are up poo creek
without a paddle or a boat. I don’t think we even have water
wings.”

Charlotte bent and lifted one of the pant
legs. “I could cut out a section of these and fasten the white
cuffs on at the new length.”

“Don’t you cut my Santa pants!” Phil yelled
from the other room.

Charlotte let the fabric drop. “I might be
able to stuff the extra length down inside the boots.”

“Then the boots will be even tighter,” Ivan
said.

“Work with me, Ivan. It’s only for an hour,
and you’ll be sitting down.”

He lifted one shoulder. “I am just saying, it
is hard to be jolly if my feet hurt.”

Susan groaned. “No matter what you do with
the bottom half, the jacket is ridiculous.” She looked at Ivan. “Do
you have a red sweater or something?”

Ivan shook his head. “I have a white and gold
tunic, from my circus days. It is something
Ded Moroz
might
wear.”

Susan looked at Charlotte. “Does he
understand we’re talking about Santa and not someone from
Lord
of the Rings?”

“
Ded Moroz
is the Russian equivalent
of Santa,” Charlotte explained. She plucked at one of the too-short
sleeves. “Ivan, you have a black coat, right?”

“Several.”

“Then we’ll reverse the colors. Instead of a
red coat with a black belt, I’ll whip up a red belt to cinch the
black coat. I think I also have some white fake fur. I can make
cuffs and fix them to the coat with double-stick tape. With the red
Santa hat, I think it’ll pass.”

Susan nodded. “You’re absolutely right. Plus,
we’re running out of time.”

Charlotte blew out a breath. “Let’s pack
everything up so I can take it home. And don’t forget the
beard.”

Two hours later, Ivan stood in Charlotte’s
living room. Phil’s boots couldn’t accommodate the extra pants
fabric, even after Charlotte took off the fur cuffs with a seam
ripper, so Ivan brought out a pair of black leather boots from his
wolf-training days. They came up to the knee, higher in front than
in back, and had a stacked heel. Of Ivan’s three black coats, one
was full length and another had a stand-up collar that looked
vaguely military. Charlotte settled on the third, which was made by
a famous designer and looked it, even with a red vinyl strip
cinching the middle.

Charlotte plopped the Santa hat on top of
Ivan’s black hair and studied him. “You definitely look festive.”
He looked like some kind of Christmas gigolo, but she didn’t say
so. “What time is it?”

Ivan checked his watch. “Four.”

Charlotte bit her lip. “The event starts at
six. We’d better put the beard on you. I’ve never worked with one
before, and there’s no telling how long it will take to get right.”
She rummaged through the paper bag Susan had packed and came up
with the false beard and a bottle of spirit gum.

Ivan took a step backward. “You will not put
that on me.”

Charlotte looked at him in confusion. “It’s
part of the costume. Even your Santa has a beard. You said.”

“I am not talking about the beard.” He
pointed to the bottle of spirit gum. “I used that glue once before
and had a bad reaction to it.”

“How bad?” Charlotte asked. “Rash bad, or
worse?”

“I could barely breathe. We were nowhere near
a hospital. The circus master had to put a tube down my throat
until the effects wore off, so I did not suffocate.” He scowled.
“The tube had been used to siphon gas.”

Charlotte put the spirit gum back in the bag
and studied the beard. “This is too thin on the edges to work with
a wire.”

“Can we buy another beard somewhere?” Ivan
asked.

“At four o’clock on Christmas Eve? I don’t
think so.” She looked down at the beard in her hand. “We can
probably use Elmers glue. If it ruins it, I’ll buy Phil another
beard.”

Ivan shook his head. “No glue.”

“Elmers is nothing
like
spirit glue,”
Charlotte argued. “It’s just water and…something. Horse’s hooves,
maybe.”

Ivan shook his head more emphatically. “No
glue. It will kill me.”

“But, Ivan–”

Ivan crossed his arms. “You can have Santa
Claus or you can have glue. Not both.”

Charlotte raised her hands in surrender.
“Fine. I’ll cut a beard shape out of the same fake fur I use for
the cuffs, and we’ll hang it from your ears with coat-hanger wire.”
She handed him the Santa hat. “See if you can get your hair to stay
up under this.”

Charlotte put on her coat and headed outside
to the workshop. The bread crusts were gone, although the snow was
trampled as if by an animal rather than birds. Squirrels,
probably.

The keys were cold in her ungloved hands. She
unlocked the workshop door, switched on the lights, and froze.

A smear of bloody-looking liquid ran across
the linoleum floor.

“What on earth?”

As if in answer to her question, a shrill
noise came from the corner of the room with the catalog boxes –
something between a shriek and a moan.

Charlotte backed out of the workroom and ran
to the house. “Ivan!” she shouted. “Ivan, come quick!”

Ivan opened the back door before she reached
it. The Santa hat was pulled down low on his forehead, and strands
of black hair stuck out from one side. “What is it?”

“There’s some kind of animal in the
workroom,” Charlotte panted. “Lila barked at some boxes earlier and
I figured there was a mouse behind them, but now there’s this
bloody
stuff
, and it’s too much for a mouse. Maybe it’s a
rat.” She shuddered and tugged at his red belt. “Come on
.
I’m not going in there by myself.”

Ivan pulled away and opened a kitchen
drawer.

“What are you doing?”

He took out a cleaver and hefted it in his
hand. “We don’t want it to suffer.”

Charlotte stayed behind Ivan as he stalked
across the frozen yard in his knee-high boots and makeshift Santa
outfit, the cleaver dangling from one hand. She had left the
workshop door open, and the squealing sound came again as they
neared it. “Oh, God, what is it?” she whimpered.

Ivan lifted the cleaver and stepped inside.
He studied the mess on the floor for a moment. “Where are these
boxes Lila barked at?” he asked quietly.

Charlotte pointed.

Ivan walked stealthily over, the cleaver
raised. Then he put his booted foot against the bottom box and
slowly pushed it to one side.

Charlotte remained outside, peering around
the door frame. She expected a furry form to either run out or
thrash around on the floor, fatally injured. But the only thing she
saw was a ragged hole in the drywall. “It must be a rat,” she said,
shuddering again.

“Do you have a light?” Ivan asked, bending to
peer in the hole.

Charlotte went to one of the shelves and took
down a flashlight. She crept forward, arm extended to its fullest,
and handed it to Ivan.

He turned it on and pointed it in the hole.
Then he squatted and looked closer.

“Can you see anything?” Charlotte asked.

Ivan stood. “It is not a rat.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer, but walked toward the door,
leaving the cleaver on a work table.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte trotted
after him as he went out the door and followed the outside wall of
the workshop.

“To block the hole, so it can’t escape.” He
walked to the corner of the building that matched the hole, looked
around, then picked up some stones from a pile that marked the edge
of an old wall.

Charlotte watched as he wedged the stones
into a depression that had been scraped out at the base of the
workshop wall. “Don’t be cryptic, Ivan. If it’s not a rat, what is
it? Could you tell?”

“It was hard to see in the dark, but it is
too big for a rat.” He stood and brushed off his hands, leaving
dirty smears on the fleecy red Santa pants.