Free Elvis and the Blue Christmas Corpse by Peggy Webb

poking his nose into every corner of the dressing room, and the hairs on the back of my neck are starting to rise. Not a good sign. If you want to know the truth, I probably have more psychic ability than Bobby, even though both my eyes are the same color.
    “What’s up, boy?” When Elvis looks up at me and whines, I’d swear he is humming “Fools Rush In.” I squat down to give him a reassuring pat. “We’d better hurry, boy. The kids will be getting restless.”
    The sign on Santa’s Court says it opens precisely at ten-thirty. Since the only fanfare was on opening day, and the mall manager is nowhere in sight, it’s up to me to make sure we start on time.
    Still, I can’t forget my premonition. Glancing around, I try to see if anything is amiss. In spite of Rudolph’s untimely end, there’s a huge crowd of children already screaming in ear-splitting decibels. The Christmas cookie lady is back, and when she sees me, she gives a big smile and waves. I wave back, then check to see if Wayne is in his place on the throne.
    He gives me a thumbs-up sign. Once again I’m startled at how realistic he looks, as if he’s been the mall’s regular Santa for years.
    Everything looks normal. Even Elvis is behaving. Always a good sign.
    “Ready?” I ask. When Wayne nods, I turn the C LOSED sign to read S ANTA’S C OURT I S N OW O PEN , then unsnap the velvet rope guarding the entrance. Within seconds I’m mobbed by little kids all vying to be first to spill their secret wishes to Santa.
    Selecting a cute, curly-haired cherub in a ruffled, red-velvet dress, I take her by the hand and lead her through the entrance.
    “What are you going to tell Santa, honey?”
    “I don’t want no baby bruvver for Thrithmath.”
    “Well, honey, just think what fun you’ll have when your brother is old enough to play with you.”
    “No! Thend him back.”
    As I guide the reluctant big sister onto the red carpet, Santa’s throne lights up like a Christmas tree. This can’t be happening again.
    I jerk the little girl into my arms and stumble backward as Santa Claus topples from his throne. He’s not moving, not a twitch. I can’t get over there to help him because I’m too busy having my hearing permanently damaged by a screaming toddler who hates baby brothers and now is going to hate Christmas.
    But I don’t have to take his pulse to know: Wayne was dead when he hit the floor.
    All bedlam breaks loose. Lovie races over, screeching Wayne’s name, the mother snatches her little girl from me, and Santa’s Court starts filling with paramedics and police. Holding onto Lovie, I watch as Wayne’s sheet-draped body is carried out on a gurney.
    “I can’t believe this.” Lovie looks shell-shocked.
    Neither can I. First, Steve Boone and now Wayne. With one Santa Claus and the favorite reindeer both dead, nobody in his right mind will be calling the first death an unfortunate accident.
     
    A detective who looks younger than my favorite tennis shoes—Carter, his badge says—approaches me and says, “Ma’am? I’d like to ask you some questions.”
    Holy cow. Since I was the one closest when Rudolph and Santa died, I’m up to my neck again in murder.
    “Did you see anything suspicious?”
    “No.” In this crowd, what would constitute suspicious?
    “Did Steve Boone or Wayne Hunter act agitated before entering the court?”
    “I couldn’t tell about Steve. He was late arriving. But Wayne was in a jovial mood.”
    “Did the alleged victims have contact with anyone before they came into Santa’s Court?”
    “I don’t know about Steve, but Wayne and I were at the dressing room together right before we entered Santa’s Court.”
    “Do you have a beef against either of them?”
    “Me?” Holy cow! All I wanted was to help give the orphans a good Christmas. It looks like I’ve ended up on the hot seat for murder.
    The only good thing I can say is this line of questioning shakes my cousin out of her love-lost stupor. She