Buy One Murder For The Price Of Two

'Twas the Saturday before Christmas when throughout the gym not a creature was stirring, not even brother Smith who was dead as a mouse who got into the arsenic coated candy canes Santa had left behind in the children’s stockings. Drifting deflated balloons which had lost their spirit as lifeless as the dead body clung to the floor slightly drifting back and forth with the air from the vents like wandering drunks searching for their next throw back. Too bad brother Smith threw back some of those candy canes or he’d be at home right now. Party’s over, dude.

Santa flung himself through the narrow church hallways, clutching his red-soaked chest, which was as crimson as Christmas chrysanthemums or as bright as the jolly old man’s used beat-up suit he bought for a good old dime at the thrift shop. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The smell of the stain was putrid. Of all the dinners in all the world why did they have to serve spaghetti that night and why did some kid have to vomit his guts out on him like a burst of neon confetti at a black-tie affair, turning the elegant soirée into a technicolor catastrophe? All he could do was to try not to touch it, but His chest throbbed with an erratic rhythm, as if his heart had declared independence and was staging a rebellion within his ribcage.

His palms grew damp with sweat, as if his body were desperately trying to expel the overwhelming surge of emotions. Every breath he took felt shallow and labored, as if his lungs were being constricted by an invisible force. The weight of his emotions bore down on him, causing his shoulders to slump and his legs to feel weak and unsteady.

As the erratic rhythm of his heart persisted, a tingling sensation crept up his neck, spreading like wildfire across his face. His cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson, betraying the turmoil he was desperately trying to hide. It felt as though a thousand tiny pinpricks danced across his skin, a physical manifestation of the internal struggle he was experiencing.

The rebellion within his ribcage intensified, each beat of his heart echoing loudly in his ears. It was as if his heart had taken on a life of its own, pounding against his chest walls, demanding to be heard. He could almost feel the weight of his emotions physically pressing against his chest, making it difficult to breathe, as if his heart were fighting against the boundaries of his own body.

His hands trembled involuntarily, a visible testament to the battle raging within him. The turmoil in his chest seemed to radiate outwards, causing a subtle quiver in his voice as he tried to speak. It was as if his entire being was consumed by the rebellion, his body a mere vessel for the overwhelming surge of emotions.

In that moment, he realized that suppressing his feelings was futile. The physical manifestations of his emotions served as a reminder that they could not be ignored or contained. His heart had declared its independence, and he knew he had no choice but to confront the emotions that were threatening to consume him.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, frantically feeling through his suit for his safety alert button to squeeze for his last breath as his heart attack shamelessly took his body. His ghost rent into the thin Christmas air like Scrooge on one of his maiden voyages out to haunt the world. Out for revenge. Out for retribution. But at the end of his recourse will he find salvation and atonement for what he did on Earth or will he find punishment and will proper justice take its course? That’s something a mere man cannot answer.

The ambulance speeds past brightly lit houses deck’d out with all the proper shebang and like Rudolph their red lights lead the way to the little church building with Santa’s sleigh - I mean car- parked out front in the handicapped zone. While charging into the building, they tripped over brother Smith’s legs like unyielding barricades, a grim reminder of the perils that awaited them inside. They were as stiff as a tombstone and his face was as pale as Santa’s fake beard.

A little while later, the coroner showed up and hauled the bodies off in bags like Christmas presents. The autopsies were her favorite part of the holidays. She could never tell what was inside a package until she cracked one open. It was more refreshing than a cool drink of eggnog!

“My husband would never pass around tainted candy.” Sister Miller said, or should I say, Mrs. Claus, over the phone. Her voice was raspy and cracked more than once. Her salty tears gave her plump cheeks a glisten like icicles dangling delicately from dangerously pitched rooftops, the kind Santa would most definitely slip off and crash to his death from. The receipt for the special swirled sweets snug as a bug in a rug, or as a humbug in this case, tucked neatly in her purse pocket.

“Regardless, we have to investigate.” Said Mr. Martinez, the criminal investigator assigned to the case of a Santa gone rouge. Maybe Brother Smith was on his naughty list? Either way, Mr. Martinez is going to have to check his facts about the case twice; once for each body.

“I have the results of our jolly old fellow’s autopsy,” the coroner reported to Mr. Martinez. “It seemed he suffered a natural heart attack. I think the shock of seeing the other dead body was enough to kill him.”

“I’m sure his little elves miss him.” Mr. Martinez said, holding a pencil to his forehead like a loaded gun. “Any idea about the other body?”

“Arsenic.” She reported back. “Nobody else at the party was affected, just Mr. Smith.”

“So he was clearly targeted.” Mr Martinez noted. “Now it’s my job to figure out why.”

“There’s just one other thing.” The coroner said before they hung up. “Santa had a secret pocket in his santa suit.”

Martinez looked up at Mrs. Miller’s latest transactions. She went to the craft shop and made a small purchase. Something which hadn’t showed up on her bill before. It was a list he didn’t need to check twice. Someone had been very naughty.

Mr. Martinez sat down across from Mrs. Miller in the interrogation room. He was grilling her like he would a hearty steak on the grill on his day off, nice and slow and applying heat and pressure gradually. Mrs. Miller, on the other hand was melting like a snowman in August. 

“No one else was supposed to get hurt.” She was sobbing into her hands like someone had snapped her prized gingerbread man in half. “Just John.” She referred to her fallen husband whose angel wings had taken to a better place.

“He was always giving our money to people. Donating to things. We were destitute. I could make more on his life insurance if he killed over, and I wouldn’t have to deal with his badgering.” She lamented. “I put arsenic coated candy canes in a special pocket he wouldn’t find. I called him when the party was over to tell him about it, as a special treat for him. But he must have given them away…”

Why did Mr. Martinez solve the case of the Santa Claus murder? Because he had “sleigh” instincts!