A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess

registers jangled in kiosks in the middle of the promenade.
    â€œI don’t know if I can do this,” I said to Luanne as we elbowed our way through the teeming masses, at least one of whom was yearning to go home and spend a quiet, uneventful evening with a novel.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous.”
    She scooted around a line of swaggering adolescents, forcing me to trot after her. The crowd coagulated as we neared the food court, and our progress slowed to a maddening crawl. New odors assaulted us. I was amazed that anyone could eat in such a raucous environment and not succumb to terminal indigestion.
    Luanne grabbed my wrist. “It’s down this way.”
    After a few more minutes of weaving through a maze of humanity, we found Santa’s Workshop in a pavilion in front of a department store. It was delineated by a two-foot-high picket fence and festooned with twinkling lights, faux icicles, and blankets of cotton strewn with glitter. Plastic elves grinned maniacally from strategic points. On a stage partially surrounded by lattice sat the man himself; below him was a camera on a tripod and the invincible Mrs. Claus. There must have been forty or even fifty children in line, each held in place by a parent. A few of the children were smiling, but most of them were pouting or whining. Their parents reminded me of soldiers being briefed on the eve of a critical campaign.
    Luanne and I wormed our way closer to the gazebo, and finally caught a glimpse of the two reindeer in their tunics and antlers. Both appeared to be exhausted but determined to keep the line moving (and the bonus money flowing). While Inez consulted Mrs. Claus, Caron took a sobbing child by the hand, hauled him up the two steps, and deftly deposited him on Santa’s lap. Thirty seconds later, she removed the child and Inez fetched the next victim.
    â€œI can’t make out his age,” said Luanne, gazing thoughtfully at Santa. “Do you think he’s padded or really that pudgy?”
    â€œYou’ll have to fork over fifteen dollars for the answer to that,” I said. “Furthermore, I don’t suggest you try to cut in line. Those mothers are probably packing designer pistols in those imported leather handbags.”
    â€œI’ll ask Caron about him. She and Inez look cute in a goofy way, don’t they?”
    â€œDon’t tell her that,” I said, watching as yet another child was positioned on Santa’s lap. Mrs. Claus remained hunched over the camera, raising her head only to announce she was ready to take a photograph. All I could tell about her was that she had white hair (possibly a wig) and an ample rump (probably her own). As Luanne had said, it was impossible to make out Santa’s features under the bushy beard, equally bushy white eyebrows, and fur-trimmed hat.
    A girl of five or six, dressed in a red velvet party dress, ran up to the head of the line. “I’m next!” she screeched in a voice that imperiled the vases in a nearby jewelry store.
    Caron rolled her eyes and said something to the girl, who in response shoved the boy next to her with enough force to send him sprawling onto the cotton. Mrs. Claus straightened up and gave Caron a stern look.
    â€œI want to go now!” the girl repeated, stamping her foot with each word. It sounded as if this were a familiar assertion in her home, whether the issue was a glass of milk, a cartoon show, or a basic demand of nature.
    â€œWait your turn,” said a mother in the middle of the line.
    The girl’s face was pink and her chin trembling. “I don’t want to wait! I hate to wait!”
    Luanne nudged me. “Guess who’ll be getting coal and switches in her stocking.”
    Caron seemed nonplussed as angry mutters from those in line grew louder. Santa and the child on his lap stared at the crowd as if it were a mob in the making. The little boy who’d been pushed began to wail as his mother yanked