"A man?" Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus nodded. "Yes. A midget."

"Why would a midget come all the way to the North Pole just to kill Gumdrop?"

"Oh, I don't think he would. Not just to kill poor Gumdrop, I mean."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either, Jingle. But I do know this: We haven't seen the last of the naughtiness tonight."

Mrs. Claus put a pair of elves named Mistletoe and Poinsettia in charge of guarding the bodies, then hustled out of the room, Jingle at her heels. Jangle started to follow too, but the glogg had turned his legs to rubber, and the only way to stiffen them up again was to curl up under a bench and take a nap.

Nice Management was deserted when Jingle and Mrs. Claus arrived. They found Gumdrop's jacket at his desk, lying atop a pile of statistics, graphs and pie charts a.n.a.lyzing the Naughty-to-Nice ratio of little boys who own alb.u.ms by KISS.

"Maybe Gumdrop never made it back to the office," Jingle said. "He could have been murdered anywhere between here and Carol's place."

"No," Mrs. Claus said. "I think it's much more likely he was killed right here."

She headed for the far end of the room, where Santa kept the tilted worktable he slaved over so many long hours each year. It was where he compiled The List-the ma.s.sive scroll on which he kept the names of well-behaved children who'd earned a visit come Christmas Eve.

Mrs. Claus peered down at the worktable a moment.

"Oh, goodness deary goodness," she said. "It's just as I feared."

She moved to the nearest garbage can, shook her head and pulled out two twisted, broken, ink-smeared feathers.

"What a shame. Santa loved these," she said. "Griffin feathers. So hard to come by these days. Oh, well. We have more to worry about now than Santa's favorite pens."

"That we do," Jingle said, nodding. "Uhhh . . . and what is it that we need to be worrying about, exactly?"

"Why, the name Giftwrap added to Santa's list, of course."

Jingle looked from Mrs. Claus to the feathers to Santa's worktable to Gumdrop's desk, blinking blankly. Mrs. Claus took mercy on him and explained.

"There were ink stains on the box Gumdrop was in, and on Giftwrap's sleeves, as well. And if you'll look at the table there . . . ."

Jingle followed Mrs. Claus' gaze. A black smudge marred one corner of Santa's worktable.

"Southerners aren't accustomed to quill pens and ink bottles anymore," Mrs. Claus said. ("Southerners" meant anyone who didn't live at the North Pole.) "So Giftwrap made a bit of a mess. And I can only think of one thing he might have been trying to do with a pen at Santa's worktable. Poor, unfortunate Gumdrop saw what he was up to when he came back for his jacket. And Giftwrap couldn't have that."

"Oh," Jingle said. "I see. Then Giftwrap had to make sure Gumdrop's body wasn't found until after Santa took off."

"That's right. Yet he wanted the body to be found eventually. That message on the card-it must have some special significance."

Jingle shook his head, bewildered and disgusted. "Sending a spy into the workshop, killing an elf, all just to get some kid on the Nice List. It's beyond naughty. It's nuts."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps this isn't about a child."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe someone wants to make sure Santa goes down a certain chimney tonight."

Jingle gaped at her, amazed that a woman who'd devoted her life to making children happy and hanging out with elves would have such a natural affinity for the workings of devious minds.

"You think it could be a trap?" he said.

Mrs. Claus shrugged. "You know how those toy company people feel about Santa. And the religious fundamentalists. And the Elf Liberation Front. And the Ayatollah. And Mrs. Thatcher. She still hasn't forgiven us for all those lumps of coal she received as a child. And-"

The longer the list grew, the wider Jingle's eyes became. "I never realized Mr. C had so many enemies."

Mrs. Claus's lips pulled into a small smile, sad but proud.

"The good ones always do, dear," she said.

"Well, if it's a trap, we've got to warn Santa right away!"

Mrs. Claus sighed. "I wish we could. But you know as well as I do how hard that would be."

Santa always took the fastest reindeer, naturally, so catching him by following his delivery route would be next to impossible. On top of that, he didn't really have a set delivery route. If children were still awake inside a house when he landed on the roof, he had to move on and come back later. As a result, the longer the evening wore on, the more he ended up criss-crossing the globe, perhaps alternating a drop-off in Kenya with a stop in Kentucky. That always increased the odds that he'd get lost somewhere in between. Santa would never, ever, under any circ.u.mstances stop to ask for directions, and as a result he could end up hovering confused over Antarctica or looking for Des Moines in the Amazon rainforest.

"Plus," Jingle said after they'd both ruminated on all this for a quiet moment, "maybe he's already been captured or . . . ." Jingle gulped. "Or whatever. He's been gone over an hour now."

Mrs. Claus grew pale, and an expression came to her face Jingle had never seen there before: a frown. It only lasted a second.

"Now don't you worry, Jingle," she said, the rosy glow returning to her round cheeks. "Santa's going to be just fine. In fact, I think I know how we can help him. You run and find Ribbons and Bows. I want to meet them in their office."

Jingle straightened up and saluted. "Yes, ma'am!" And off he went.

He found Ribbons and Bows downing shots of glogg at a hastily organized wake for Gumdrop. They were gruff, gnarled old elves who ran Request Processing with two little iron fists.

"Frank! Hank!" Jingle called out to them. Only the Clauses could get away with calling them "Ribbons" and "Bows." Anyone else who tried it got a punch in the nose. "Mrs. C needs you! Quick!"

They both threw back a last shot, then staggered off after Jingle. When they got to Request Processing, Mrs. Claus was already there sorting through the files on Frank's desk-an offense that would have gotten any elf a sock in the schnoz.

"What does the Missus need now, hey?" Frank asked. "You just sit back and let us dig it out for you."

"Thank you, Ribbons."

Frank's left eye twitched ever so slightly.

"We think a name was added to the Nice List at the last minute. But if someone wanted to lure Santa to a certain home-"

"They'd have to tell him what to bring, eh?" Hank finished for her.

"Exactly."

"So you'd be lookin' for requests that arrived today, hey?" Frank said.

"The later the better."

"Well," Frank said, thrusting his hand into a swaying tower of paper as tall as Mrs. Claus, "these are the last ones we got." Somehow he pulled out five letters without burying himself under an avalanche of envelopes.

"Double-rush late," Hank said. "Popped up when we thought we were all done. Barely got 'em processed in time."

"I see. Then these are the ones we want, Bows."

Hank's right eye twitched.

Mrs. Claus took the letters from Frank.

"Why, this first one's from little Karen Courtney," she said. "Santa and I know all about her. She's a little angel."

Frank nodded. "Nice to old people."

Hank nodded, too. "Kind to animals."

Even Jingle joined in. "Picks up her room. Brushes her teeth. Wipes off her boots before coming inside."

Mrs. Claus shuffled the letter to the bottom. "I don't think we need to worry about Karen. Now how about this next one? Alvin Erie?"

Frank shook his head this time. "Picks his nose."

Hank shook his head too. "Fights with his brother."

Jingle joined in. "Pouts. Cries."

"My goodness. Coal?"

"Coal," the elves sang in chorus.

"Ahhhh." Mrs. Claus moved on to the next letter. "Missy Widgitz?"

"Nice," said Frank.

"But," said Hank.

"Read the letter," said Jingle.

Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and took the letter out of its envelope. "'Dear Santa,'" she read aloud. "'I have been extra good all year long, but I do not want any dolls, games or books this Christmas. You can give my toys to a poor child who needs them more than me.'" Mrs. Claus smiled. "How precious."

"Keep reading," Jingle said.

Mrs. Claus looked back down at the letter. "'But there is something I would like-my very own . . .' Oh."

She peeked back up at the elves, who stared back at her, frowning indignantly.

"'Elf,'' Mrs. Claus read. "'I promise to feed it and take it for walks and . . .' Oh my."

"She's getting a Barbie," Jingle said.

"I see. Well, I think what we're looking for wouldn't be quite so . . . colorful." Mrs. Claus pulled out the next letter. "Like this one. This little boy wants books, games and a Farrah Fawcett-Majors poster. All very normal. What do we know about this-" She squinted at the name scrawled across the bottom of the page. "Bud Schmidt?"

Frank rolled his eyes. "Oh."

Hank rolled his eyes. "That one."

Jingle shrugged.

"Naughty?" Mrs. Claus asked.

"Eh," said Frank.

"Could be worse," said Hank.

"That's not the problem," said Frank.

"He's forty-three years old," said Hank.

"Ahhh," said Mrs. Claus. She placed the letter on Frank's desk. "Well, that is suspicious-if a bit transparent. I suppose it's the best candidate we have so far."

She flipped to the last letter, obviously hoping for something better.

Dear Mr. Claus, I am seven years of age. I have been a well-behaved child this year. Thus I consider myself deserving of reward. I think you should bring me candy and a toy truck.

I will look for the candy in my socks. You may place the truck beneath the Christmas bush. I will leave baked goods out for you to consume, as is the usual custom.

Cordially yours, Bjorn Bjelvenstam 4000 Sundquist Road (on the northernmost edge of town near the abandoned lutefisk factory-it will look dark, but do not let that be of concern) Kalmar, Sweden P.S.: There is a chimney on my house. Please feel free to make use of it in the fashion for which you have become so famous.

"Ah ha," said Frank.

"Oh ho," said Hank.

"Umm hmm," said Mrs. Claus.

"I'll get the sleigh," said Jingle.

Minutes later, he and Mrs. Claus were in the air, headed for Sweden behind a team of young back-up reindeer.

"Now, Pac-Man! Now, Disco! Now, Yoda and Vader!" Mrs. Claus called out, giving the reins a gentle snap. "On, Ford! On Carter! On, Alda and Nader!"

The reindeer strained in their harnesses, rocketing over Greenland and the Norwegian Sea toward Sweden. But they weren't fast enough.

"Oh no!" Jingle cried when they reached the outskirts of Kalmar. "We're too late!"

He stood up and pointed at the rooftops below. They were covered with sleigh tracks, hoofprints and discolored snow-telltale signs that Santa had already come and gone.

The reindeer veered to the east then, changing course so suddenly Jingle lost his balance and nearly toppled over the side. The only thing that kept him in the sleigh was Mrs. Claus's hand reaching out to snag a handful of his green tights.