Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

“The later the better.”

“Well,” Frank said, thrusting his hand into a swaying tower of paper almost 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 Martha Ortmann,” 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 into the house.”

Mrs. Claus shuffled the letter to the bottom. “I don’t think we need to worry about Martha. Now how about this next one? Steve Hockensmith?”

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. “Gina McIntyre?”

“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 puppy,” 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. “Bill Reeves?”

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 thirty-seven 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. To be specific, 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.