Chapter Nine
“I had to find someone to be the second leprechaun,” Claire said to rationalize her change of heart as we waited for Spritz to finish dressing.
When he emerged from the back room of the Santaland-Scoop, it was hard to keep from smiling. The velvet suit had been laundered since Crumble’s accident, but the way it hung on Spritz’s thin frame was almost comical. The hat was two sizes too large, as were the stockings drooping around his ankles.
“You look incredible!” Juniper said, tugging the hat back so it didn’t fall over Spritz’s eyes. “Just remember to keep your pants up.”
The elf tried to view himself in the chrome siding of a cabinet. It was probably just as well that he couldn’t see his reflection. “There’s so much to remember,” he said worriedly.
“You’ll be fine,” Claire assured him. “You’re just taking tickets. Butterbean will be the one actually taking customers up in the balloon.”
Juniper and I were there to help Claire ferry the last of her supplies out to Peppermint Pond. Jake and Butterbean were already at the park working on getting the balloon inflated. Claire had come back for the large wood placard displaying her menu and prices that would hook onto the side of the ice-cream cart. Juniper and I were going to pull a little wagon full of other supplies.
The Santaland Scoop was going to serve Claire’s Saint Paddy’s Day mint milkshakes, cones in several flavors, and shamrock pops—pistachio popsicles shaped like a four-leaf clover.
“I was up half the night making sure I had enough,” Claire said, double-checking that she had everything before we set out to the park. I peered into the supply wagon. In addition to cups, napkins, and straws, I spied several cartons of Spritz Sodas.
Curious, I eyed the menu board again. Two drink offerings had been added: a Rainbow Fizz and an Irish Float.
“What are those?” I thought I’d tried everything on the Santaland Scoop’s menu.
“Two late additions,” she explained. “Spritz and I came up with them last night—one’s a float made from rainbow sherbet mixed with Ginger Fizz, and the other’s a more traditional float with vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, soda, and a shot of Irish cream.”
“Your cart is going to be very popular,” Juniper predicted.
“I worried about competing with Sniffle’s Grog Wagon,” Claire said, “but he said he wasn’t worried about losing business.”
Sniffles had good reason to feel confident. Nothing lured elves away from their grog.
I could see now why the normally proud Spritz had agreed to don a leprechaun suit. He had sold several cases of his sodas to Claire, whose cart and balloon ride were going to be the sensations of the Saint Patrick’s Day event. If the specialty floats went over, she might decide to invest in his soda business.
Just how big a sensation the Santaland Scoop would be that day became clear when we turned the cart into the parkway and saw Butterbean’s hot-air balloon rising above the evergreen trees around Peppermint Pond. The balloon was decorated like a vanilla ice-cream cone, with a Santaland Scoop logo on the cone. Elves crowded around to watch the bursts of flame inflating the balloon, and a few were already queued up to take a ride. Brave souls.
Elves were also waiting for milkshakes, including a familiar face. I gave Juniper a nudge. “There’s Smudge.”
“Really? I didn’t notice.” She folded her arms.
From the line, Smudge glanced over at her, smiled sheepishly, and waved.
The balloon aside, there was so much going on in the park, it was hard to take it all in. The Swingin’ Shamrocks were in the band shell playing “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”—the first of many times we’d be hearing that tune, I imagined. Their rendition had the crowd singing and swaying. As we helped Claire get her cart ready, Juniper and I looked around at all the other booths. All the treats of Santaland were represented, along with booths selling novelty toys, crafts, and the ubiquitous leprechaun hats. Along the fringes of the park, elves were practicing their various artistic skills in advance of the talent show, which was going to take place on a specially built platform under a huge banner announcing SANTALAND’S GOT TALENT! If the elf next to me juggling multiple sparkling pins was anything to go by, Jingles was going to have some stiff competition this afternoon.
“We couldn’t have asked for a better day.” Shading her eyes with her hand, Juniper looked up at Butterbean’s balloon against the blue sky. Two thick ropes tethered the balloon’s basket to the ground. The balloon passengers would only go to the top of the treetops and back down again, but even that prospect seemed exciting to the elves, especially when Butterbean, at his most exuberant, was promising, “Who knows? You might find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”
He was like a pint-sized P. T. Barnum, and the crowd loved it.
“Will you go up?” Juniper asked me.
I laughed. “You know me better than that.”
“I think I’ll go up later.” She checked the time on her cell phone. “Right now I want to relieve Candy at the library booth. We’re displaying children’s artwork. You should come by.”
“I will, but I’m going to run by the hospital first. I thought I’d take Nurse Cinnamon a milkshake.” I also wanted to see if Crumble had recovered any memory of his attack.
And, to be honest, the thought of Crumble alone in that hospital with Nurse Cinnamon made me uneasy.
I stood in line, bought a mint shake, and set off. Wobbler, who was waiting on a side street off the park, moved toward me. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’m going to the hospital, but you don’t have to bother. I’ll walk.”
“Walk?”
You’d have thought I’d said I was going to walk on my hands.
“It’s not far.”
“I know, but what will people think if I let you walk?”
“They’ll think I felt like stretching my legs. Just chill out. Would you like me to find you a lichen brownie? I’m sure someone’s selling around here somewhere.”
“I don’t need to eat on the job.”
“You’re a ruminant,” I reminded him. To show how free he was, I undid the buckles that attached Wobbler’s harness to the sleigh. “There.”
He seemed paralyzed, as if I’d undressed him in public. “You just want me to stand around, cooling my hooves?”
“Yes. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
Asking Wobbler to relax was akin to asking him to tap dance. Walking away, I sensed his eyes following me. I felt like a mother dropping her forlorn toddler off at daycare. Was it so bad to want to walk somewhere?
Before heading through town, I turned back to look once more at the park. Even more elves had arrived. Butterbean was loading his first passengers into the balloon’s basket. Across Peppermint Pond, I could just make out the snowman ice shelter rising in the shade of two tall cedars on the sloping bank in the distance. The snowmen who summered there would have an incredible view of the park and the town.
I hoped Ham and Scar were working out. Getting the shelters finished would take a load off Nick’s mind. Lucia’s too.
In contrast to Peppermint Pond, the area of town around the hospital seemed very quiet, almost deserted. Most businesses either had closed for the day or were operating with a shoestring staff.
The hospital was also quiet. On the way in, I passed Jolly, one of orderlies, taking an eggnog break outside. He looked wistfully out toward Peppermint Pond. “I can see the balloon from here,” he said.
He was right. The giant ice-cream cone was up in the air, hovering above the trees. I could make out Butterbean in green, and three passengers waving down at friends on the ground.
Inside the infirmary, Nurse Cinnamon was sitting at reception reading a magazine called Elf Health Today. The lead article was “Getting More Refined Sugar in Your Diet.”
“I can help with that,” I said.
Nurse Cinnamon looked up at me, noting the Santaland Scoop to-go cup I was holding out to her. “For me?” she asked, as if no one had ever given her anything in her life.
I nodded. “How’s the patient today?”
She sighed. “Still headachy. He’s finally resting peacefully, though, and his color’s better. Doc gave him a sedative to help him sleep.”
“Has he recovered any more memory?”
“Not so far. These things just take time.” She took a tentative sip from the cup’s straw.
I looked down the hallway at an orderly going into Crumble’s room. “Funny when there are two orderlies for every patient,” I said.
“No, just one today,” she replied. “This milkshake is delicious.”
I frowned. “I talked to Jolly outside, but someone I don’t recognize just walked into Crumble’s room.”
Nurse Cinnamon was on her feet instantly, and both of us ran toward Crumble’s room.
As we opened the door, an elf wearing hospital scrubs and a ski mask was standing with a pillow over Crumble’s face.
“Stop!” Nurse Cinnamon called out.
Seeing us, the imposter elf dropped the pillow and bolted for the door. The nurse rushed to check on Crumble. I ran after the elf.
The fake orderly was half a corridor ahead of me. I was gaining on him though, and he was headed for the hospital entrance, where I hoped I could engage the help of Jolly to catch him.
At the entrance, however, the two elves met at the exact moment the door opened. The imposter plowed right into Jolly, knocking him to the ground. The orderly groaned, writhing on the linoleum.
“What was that about?” he said, sitting up and cradling one hand to himself painfully. “That lunatic elf broke my wrist.”
“Nurse Cinnamon’s in Crumble’s room,” I said. “She’ll see to you.” I took off running again.
The collision had put the elf a half block ahead of me. I kept running, although the terrain was more slippery out here than in the infirmary. Elves were more agile on the mix of ice and snow on Santaland sidewalks than I was. He was getting away from me. Worse, he was heading for Peppermint Pond, probably hoping to lose himself in the crowd there.
Halfway to the park, I passed Wobbler standing at the ready. He had evidently not followed my advice to chill out.
Now he trotted down the street, parallel to me. “What’s happening?” he called out.
My lungs were already tired, and I had to shout between huffs, “Crumble’s assassin! Ahead!”
We’d reached the edge of the park, which was twice as crowded now as it had been when I’d left. The sleigh buses had brought loads of elves from Tinkertown, and there was yet another one unloading right in front of us, which stopped Wobbler and slowed me down considerably. I threaded through the disembarking elves, but as I stood on the sidewalk at the edge of the park, I worried I’d lost the elf I was chasing. Then I saw a ripple of disturbance—elves turning in annoyance and shouting at someone running. I plunged back into the chase.
“Mrs. Claus! Be careful!” Wobbler called after me.
I probably should have heeded his warning. Although I yelled, “Stop him!” as I ran after the elf, my yelling just made elves turn toward me, not the elf who was deftly zigzagging through the many booths and clusters of visitors. Whoever this was, he was definitely in good shape. He moved through the crowd like an agility dog going through an obstacle course. I, on the other hand, was colliding with elves and half slipping on the packed snow underfoot. At one point I nearly plowed into a snowman in a leprechaun hat.
“Watch it!” the snowman shouted after me.
“Sorry!”
I was tiring out, but I knew the elf couldn’t escape. There was nowhere for him to go.
Nowhere but up.
Spritz was just letting passengers into the basket for the next balloon ride when the fake orderly yanked the boarding elf out and slammed the basket door closed. He pulled a knife on a terrified Butterbean, whose blue eyes bulged in fear. He had no option but to let out a blast of air, and the basket began to rise.
“No!” I yelled. He was getting away.
Spritz, shocked, tried to hop to get hold of the basket, but he was too short to make it. I took a running leap and managed to grab hold and swing my leg up over the side.
It was not the wisest thing I’ve ever done.
Even though he was trapped in a basket with a knife-wielding maniac, Butterbean pulled me in. As I flopped onto the basket’s floor like a beached fish, he whispered, “Why did you do that? He can’t get away—we’re tethered.”
“Not for long.”
I nodded to the masked elf, who was unhooking the clasp of one tether.
“Oh crumbs,” Butterbean said.
On trembling legs, I rose to my feet, hugging the side of the basket. Now that he’d seen Butterbean do it, the elf released another blast of hot air from the canister, causing both Butterbean and me to jump. In response, the basket swayed, and Butterbean and I grabbed hold of each other.
Because it was only tethered on one side now, the basket was tipping as it rose. Also, the sides had been constructed with elves in mind, so I had to crouch to keep from feeling as if I was about to pitch over the side. I was practically on my knees.
I peeked over the basket’s lip. The crowds below were a receding mass of gaping, upturned faces. Once our hijacker unclipped the other rope, the balloon would soon be on its way across Santaland, headed toward who only knows where. I could see beautiful Castle Kringle on Sugarplum Mountain, and I was pierced with a sharp longing to be there, back in my toasty bedroom with Nick. Yet the light breeze seemed to be drifting the other way, which would carry us toward the distant, craggy peaks of Mount Myrrh. Was that where we would end up, off in the wilds of the Farthest Frozen Reaches? Assuming that any of us could manage to land this thing.
My stomach roiled.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked the masked elf.
“Shut up.” He worked to get the second tether unhooked before the basket ended up being overturned by the imbalance.
That voice struck a chord in my memory. I’d spoken with this elf before today. “You’re Wick,” I guessed.
“Shh.” Through tightly sealed lips, Butterbean whispered, “He told us to be quiet.”
The rope was finally unclamped, the basket pitched, and the hijacker elf turned back to us, whipping off his mask. It was Wick, all right. I should have guessed it was an iceball player by the way he’d tackled Jolly and then moved through the crowd.
“I’m only doing this to escape, Mrs. Claus.”
“But why hurt Crumble? He’s your former teammate.”
“Right. And I wanted to keep him former. Without him, we finally had a shot at winning this year—my last year—but he wanted to come back.”
“Wanted to,” I said in disgust. Was that what all this had been about? Winning the Golden Bootie? As the balloon started to float over Peppermint Pond, I couldn’t bring myself to care about abstract ideas like patient confidentiality anymore. “Doc told Crumble that he couldn’t play. Ever. You attempted murder for no reason at all.”
The elf’s face fell. “Doc said he couldn’t play?”
“Yes—but even so, was a stupid trophy really worth someone’s life to you?”
“I’ve been playing my whole life,” he argued. “We finally had a shot with those two wild elves. They’re really good.”
“So you followed Crumble that night and decided to kill him.”
“No! I’d gone back to the stadium because I forgot my gym bag. I saw Crumble skating. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
Spur-of-the-moment attempted murder I could almost believe. “There was nothing spur-of-the-moment about your trying to smother him today, though.”
He hung his head. “I talked to Doc this morning. He was saying Crumble was bound to start remembering more. Crumble might have seen me at the arena. I couldn’t risk it. Then I would have been out for the rest of the season.”
“Guess what. Looks like you’re out anyway.”
That obvious, salient point hadn’t seemed to occur to him. As it sank in, his eyes looked even more frantic, and he let out another blast of fiery air. Seeing flames shooting up toward a swath of canvas holding our little basket in the air made my stomach flip. I knew that was how balloons worked, but I couldn’t stop the mental vision of the whole thing going up like a match, or the Hindenburg.
Butterbean groaned. It was a sound that said We’re doomed.
I had to think. Talk Wick down.
“It’s lucky for you that Crumble is going to be okay,” I said. “You didn’t murder him, Wick. There’s a way out for you.”
“Yeah, I found a way out. This is it.”
“I mean, you could go back and turn yourself in. I know Judge Merrybutton. He’ll be merciful.”
He snorted. “He exiled an elf for selling reindeer.”
“Because it was barbaric,” Butterbean blurted out.
I glared at Butterbean. He wasn’t helping, even though he was correct. Hunting or trapping reindeer and selling them was considered an unforgiveable crime in Santaland.
I was at a loss for what to do next. Could Butterbean and I overpower Wick? Probably not . . . or we might die in the attempt.
“Mrs. Claus!”
At the sound of the disembodied voice close by, Butterbean and I exchanged confused glances. That sounded like . . . Wobbler?
I turned and leaned over the side to look down. Unfortunately, so did Butterbean and Wick. The imbalance almost caused me, the tallest, to tumble out. I grabbed hold of the basket and bent my knees further to lower my center of gravity. My legs ached, but I barely noticed. I had hope again.
Below us, Wobbler was flying, and just behind him, Nick, dressed in his best Santa suit for judging the talent contest, was at the reins of his everyday sleigh pulled by a team of elite reindeer. My heart leapt at the sight of them, although I couldn’t imagine how on earth they were going to rescue us. Especially Wobbler. I worried he might get hurt.
Not to mention, having a reindeer-drawn sleigh flying toward us like a missile was slightly terrifying.
Like a rodeo cowboy with a lasso, Nick spun a rope over his head, and as soon as he got close enough, he let it loose. The rope had a pick at the end of it, a piece of emergency equipment that could secure rope in ice or some other surface to achieve purchase. The pick landed on the floor next to us, and Butterbean and I immediately fell on it to hook it to the edge of the basket. Nick and his reindeer team began towing us back toward the earth. The pressure was tipping the basket so that we all had to cling to the edges.
“Let that go.” Wick made a lunge for the pick.
But as he did, Wobbler let out a yell and looked as if he was going to dive-bomb us from the other side. Butterbean and I screamed, and Wick whirled. But of course Wobbler didn’t hit us. He just buzzed around us like a mosquito, distracting Wick.
My heart lifted. We were really being rescued—I wasn’t going to die on the crags of Mount Myrrh.
It took all the effort of Nick’s team to tug us down, and as we approached solid ground, we were far from where we’d taken off. For a moment, it looked as if we were headed for a crash landing on the snowman shelter. We would have to get ready to jump off as soon as it was safe.
Wick had the same idea, except he decided to take one last dash for freedom. When the basket was twenty feet from the ground, he leapt over the side. He plummeted like a stone, hit the ground, and then rolled back to his feet. He was hop-running; he’d obviously hurt his leg. Before I could take in what was happening to Wick, Butterbean unhooked the rope, took control of the pressure valve again, and pulled something that eased us down the rest of the way. It wasn’t a soft landing, but the abruptness of it wasn’t enough to break any of our bones. It just left me rattled.
I looked out at Wick running—he was heading north on foot now. He passed close to the snowman shelter. As he came even with it, two elves streaked out and tackled him in the snow. Ham and Scar had caught him.
Lucia strode out with a rope and bound Wick’s hands behind his back.
After parking his sleigh, Nick hurried to find me. “April.”
I threw my arms around him and buried myself in his solid, woolly warmth. I’d never been so happy just to have my feet on the ground. Standing with my arms around Nick was unbearably sweet.
Beside us, Butterbean fell to his knees and looked as if he might just kiss the snowy ground. I knew exactly how he felt. I kissed Nick instead. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“You should be thanking Wobbler,” he said. “It was his quick thinking that came up with the idea of lassoing the runaway balloon.”
I wasn’t going to kiss Wobbler, but I gave him a huge hug and made a mental note to make sure he had the swankiest digs the Santaland stables could provide.
“I didn’t choke,” the reindeer said, amazed at himself.
“Of course you didn’t. You were a hero.”
He shook himself modestly. “It was nothing. I guess I just tapped into that courage you were telling me about.”
The Christmastown Constabulary’s snowmobile buzzed up, and Crinkles and Ollie got out to make the arrest. I’d never seen Constable Crinkles looks so shaken as when he had to take his team’s oldest player and captain into custody.
“Why did you do it, Wick?” Crinkles asked. The anger in his voice was the constable speaking, the hurt was pure coach.
Wick hung his head. “This felt like our big chance to finally leave our mark in iceball history.”
I couldn’t predict what would happen with the Twinklers this season—no one could—but Wick certainly had left his mark. Unfortunately, it was a black one.
After the constables hauled Wick away, the two wild elves, heroes of the hour, were taken back to the festival to cheers. The hubbub over the balloon hijacking didn’t die down so much as shift gears into a celebration. Ham and Scar were given a mosh pit lift as the Swingin’ Shamrocks did a rousing version of “The Irish Rover.”
This was the Santaland I loved—the one that, as Christopher had said, worked hard but enjoyed festivals and frivolity.
“I can’t believe there was so much conflict over a game that’s supposed to be fun,” I said, shaking my head.
Juniper, standing with Smudge, seemed to have put aside at least one iceball conflict. “One bad snailfish doesn’t spoil the whole bucket, April.”
Apparently snailfish were the opposite of apples.
Smudge nodded as he watched the new star players being feted by the crowd. “Now that Wick’s going to be out of the iceball game forever, it means we have even more of a need to keep Ham and Scar on the roster. Maybe our team really will win this year.”
Juniper poked him. “Our team?”
His shoulders lifted in a sheepish shrug. “My heart never was with the other side.”
She nodded in understanding. “Once you’re a Twinkler, it’s hard to shut off that twinkle light.”
Luckily, Juniper wasn’t an elf to hold a grudge—even against someone who’d temporarily gone over to the dark side of Ice Beavers fandom.
“And now,” Christmastown’s Mayor Firlog announced through a megaphone, “it’s time for our Saint Patrick’s Day talent show!”
The crowd went wild with renewed cheers.
Nick, who had been in the same celebratory mood as everyone else, suddenly looked less enthusiastic. In all the excitement, he seemed to have forgotten that he still had to judge the talent show.
“Smile,” I told him. “There are bound to be some great acts.”
As I said it, though, the elf clogger company was climbing onto the stage, all in green, ready to do their version of Lord of the Dance.
Claire looked at him in sympathy. “Here, Nick. I’ll make you another milkshake with Irish cream in it.”
Behind us—yet close enough to be conspicuously within earshot of Nick—Jingles spritzed his throat and warmed up with an off-key scale.
I laughed. “You’d better make it a double, Claire.”