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Scrooge’s tombstone, Mother gestured with bloody fingers to a hammer lying on the floor, its head covered in a red just a little darker than the Santa suit.
    â€œWhy would someone kill Simon?” I asked.
    But I feared I knew the all-too-mundane answer: for the monetary contents of the red velvet donation bag discarded near the murdered man’s feet, the pouch turned inside out, as if Santa had already handed out each and every present.

Chapter Two

    â€œHere is a hammer and lots of tacks, also a ball and a whip that cracks . . .”

    T he first responder to my 911 call was Officer Mia Cordona, dark haired, early thirties, with curves not entirely concealed by unisex slacks and a bulky blue jacket.
    Mother and I had a somewhat tumultuous history with my one-time friend Mia ever since we’d unintentionally blown her cover on a drug case (we were investigating an unrelated murder, needless to say without Mia’s official status).
    Anyway, Officer Cordona was clearly not infused with holiday cheer upon seeing the two of us standing in the snow outside Santa’s workshop.
    â€œMia, dear,” Mother began, as the law enforcer approached, “might I remind you that this is a crime scene? I realize murder isn’t your specialty.”
    Mia’s cheeks, red from the cold wind, turned a deeper, not-at-all Christmassy crimson. “Might I remind you two to stay the hell out of my way?”
    Mother tsk-tsked. “Profanity is both unprofessional and unbecoming in a public servant . . . a public servant whose salary we help pay, I might add.”
    Hoping to defuse the tension, I stepped between them, and asked Mia, “Where should we go? We did discover the body, and call it in.”
    Her dark eyes shifted coldly to me. “Go. Home.”
    Mother’s eyebrows climbed over the rims of her big-lensed glasses. “What about our statements?”
    â€œSomeone will get them later . . . now leave. ”
    â€œDon’t you even want to know—”
    â€œNo.”
    And Mia headed to the shed door.
    Mother looked crushed, but as for me, I was fine with not loitering in this nasty (and getting nastier) weather, much less cooling our heels in a clammy, cold interview room at the police station.
    Handing Sushi over to Mother, I gathered my packages, which I’d removed from the workshop, and soon Serenity’s two most notorious amateur sleuths were walking to their car in decidedly unfestive silence.
    At home, in our Victorian-appointed living room, I took my time curling up on the couch with Sushi—it takes a lot of pillows to get comfy on a Queen Anne—while Mother went into the 1950s-styled kitchen to make us some tea.
    Last year Mother had come up with a nontraditional way of putting up our Christmas tree—and I do mean “putting up.” After seeing one Tannenbaum hanging upside down in a floral shop, she did that very thing with ours only to have it come crashing down one winter night, startling us from our wee little beds, shattering a host of glass ornaments.
    This year, with reinforced hooks, Mother had our tree hanging sideways (with new plastic ornaments).
    Bearing two steaming cups of tea, Mother returned, handed me one, then sat beside me.
    I eyed her closely. “How are you doing? I mean, I know you and Simon were . . . close.”
    â€œWhy I’m fine, dear,” Mother replied, sipping her tea.
    She has always been able to compartmentalize—perhaps in part a result of her medication—and I already knew her focus was on finding Simon’s killer. While she had a sentimental side, Mother also displayed a nearly cold-blooded attitude where death was concerned. To Mother, death was just a part of life.
    Car headlights stroked across the front picture window as a vehicle pulled into our drive. With a murmur of a growl, Sushi jumped down from the couch to investigate, and I followed suit, going to the vestibule and opening the