“Nothing that should be said out loud at a family friendly event,” I interrupt, shooting her a look.
It takes a full minute for me to wrestle them both off the poor man, and as I’m escorting them off the stage, I spot Nicholas Bianchi down below having what appears to be a heated argument with Stella Martinelli.
Her grandmotherly demeanor has vanished, replaced by tight lips and flushed cheeks. Before I can get close enough to eavesdrop—a skill my family considers a valuable career asset—an older, dark-haired man plucks Stella away. He turns back to Nicholas, jabs a finger in his chest, and says something that looks pretty threatening before storming off with Stella in tow.
Well, isn’t this interesting? Santa seems to have made someone’s naughty list.
The party atmosphere picks up as “Jingle Bell Rock” blasts over the speakers. Mayor Nash makes a hasty exit, taking his two naughty Mrs. Claus groupies with him.
Nicholas Bianchi climbs the steps to the stage, settling his considerable girth onto the throne. He’s finally attached a fake beard to match his Santa suit—and it’s about time he got with the program.
Suze, Lily, and I take our positions around Santa’s throne, passing out candy canes and plucking crying children from his lap once they inevitably realize this stranger in red isn’t as jolly as advertised.
“That man’s breath could strip paint,” Suze mutters after leaning in to help a toddler go over the finer points of his Christmas list. “I think he raided the eggnog—andthe bourbon.”
“Maybe he’s trying to numb himself to all these sticky fingers,” Lily suggests as a particularly enthusiastic child yanks on Nicholas’s beard.
I’m about to respond when I notice Nicholas starting to sway in his seat. His eyelids droop, and he slurs something unintelligible to the child currently perched on his knee.
“Oh my word, heisdrunk,” Lily hisses.
“Or maybe he’s just playing sick to get out of kid duty?” Suze wonders.
My guess is the sticky finger fiasco—and the booze.
Before we can solve that mystery, Nicholas lurches forward, almost toppling out of his throne. Without thinking, I jump onto his lap to steady him, blocking the view from the line of children and their smartphone-wielding parents.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I shout to the crowd like a crazed lunatic. “It looks like Santa is tired from all his toy-making!”
The photographer at the front of the stage continues to click his camera my way. “Say cheese!”
No sooner does the flash go off than Nicholas buries his face directly into my peppermint pinwheels with a groan.
“Hey.” I shove him back and slap him silly for the effort. “Drop dead, you old pervert!”
As if on cue, the community center goes silent save for my voice echoing off the walls.
Nicholas’s eyes roll back as he slides from the throne like a melting snowman, grabbing a candy cane on his way to the floor.
“Santa!” a couple of children scream from the line.
Lily rushes forward and presses two fingers to Nicholas’s wrinkled neck before her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head at me.
“Is he okay?” someone calls from the crowd as the room breaks out in murmurs.
“He’s...” I begin, but the words stick in my throat like dry fruitcake.
I look down at the dead man who took his last breath nestled between my festive chest decorations.
“To think the last joy ride he took just happened to be between my peppermint pinwheels,” I mutter. “Talk about going out with a bang.”
The room erupts in gasps and whispers. Some of the parents usher their children toward the exit while others pull out their phones to capture the holiday disaster for posterity—and probably TikTok.
The Jingle Bell Jubilee just became a silent night for Nicholas Bianchi, and I have a feeling the holiday season is only going to get deadlier from here.
Ho, ho, ho—Santa Claus is dead.
CHAPTER 3
