Antiques St. Nicked Read Free

no matter how un-precious it might be.
    Dan gave me a big, multicolored grin. “Wonderful turnout for the Stroll, isn’t it?” He cupped his hand to his mouth so no one would overhear, then whispered excitedly, “Boy, the Dumpsters’ll be overflowin’ by the end of the night.”
    â€œLike a stocking Christmas morning,” I said.
    â€œI’m sure to find something of value for you and your mother.”
    â€œWell, if you do, feel free to stop by the shop.”
    â€œOh I will, I will!”
    I moved on to the cash register and, after making my purchase, found Sushi in the dog-food aisle, confabbing with a miniature schnauzer. On the way out of the store, she tried to wrangle a second treat from Alura, and succeeded due to the general Christmas spirit, but possibly setting a bad precedent.
    Sushi and I made several other stops for gifts. At Artists’ Alley I bought Mother a piece of pottery that she collected (support your local artisans!), and at Meerdink’s Men’s Clothiers I got my special guy a navy sweater; and at the Hall Tree, I bought myself a present, a black cashmere sweater, just in case Mother’s gift to me was a dud.
    Final stop was the gourmet popcorn store, which made the most delicious caramel corn along with a dozen other flavors; the cagey owners piped the delicious aromas outside, so only someone with a terminally stuffed-up nose could resist and walk on by.
    Many of the shops had either entertainment, live Christmas music of some sort, or free food stuffs, most often Christmas cookies and punch. I had to reluctantly avoid most of these seasonal temptations or Sushi would have begged for samples with a diabetic catastrophe in the offing.
    By the time I’d finished shopping, the Stroll was winding down. Most of the outside events—choirs, bands, and bell-ringers—had already dispersed because the snow was coming down heavier, the wind gaining some bite.
    I called Mother on my cell, and she texted me to meet her at Simon’s display. So I trudged the four blocks through gathering snow, carrying Sushi along with my packages (she’d managed to lose all but one bootie) (why do we humans insist on trying to clothe canines?).
    Arriving at Simon’s stand at the same time as Mother, we found the throne empty, a sign on the chair reading, “ SANTA IS CHECKING ON HIS ELVES .” A forlorn-looking Rudolph stood with his magnificently antlered head bowed against the blustery wind.
    Mother said, “It’s not like Simon to close before the Stroll is officially over.”
    I set Sushi down. “Who could blame him?” I shivered. “It’s getting nasty cold.” The last word came out “told.”
    â€œDear, remember—neither rain nor snow nor sleet!”
    â€œThat’s mail carriers, Mother, not Santa. And that hasn’t been true for them for yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-years.”
    Sushi, kicking off a final bootie, trotted over to the reindeer and barked. The caribou lifted its massive head with rack of horns and made a sound more suited to a pig oinking.
    Soosh then trotted over to the workshop shed and began scratching at the door.
    Now I might have gone over and snatched Sushi up into my arms and scolded her; but the dog had instincts that rivaled the two human sleuths in the family.
    So we went over and Mother pushed open the door. Using the small but powerful light on my key chain, I mini-light-sabered around the dark interior . . .
    . . . illuminating Simon, in full Santa regalia, sprawled on his back, eyes staring upward, unblinking.
    Mother knelt over him, fingers going to his throat.
    â€œOh dear,” I said. “Is it a heart attack?”
    She shook her head, then held up fingers coated in red. “No, a different sort of attack altogether.”
    I gasped just as she sighed, saying, “I’m afraid this good man has been murdered.”
    Like the Ghost of Christmas Future pointing to