North Pole: Confidential
Chapter 1
Climate lag and introduction
to the man known as Santa Claus
Jackson Frost sat on a red and green striped quilt in his temporary bedroom, and wondered how the hell he’d ended up at the North Pole. Sure, he knew the factual information. He’d been contacted by an old friend in the bureau about a case they wanted handled quietly and unofficially. That kind of thing happened once in a while. He had travelled by train through Canada to an end-of-the-line station in the middle of snowbound-nowhere and been picked up by a guy with pointy ears, an annoyingly pleasant expression, and a bad case of verbal diarrhea. This perky, pointy-eared chatterbox drove him in a sleigh to the small country airport where another pointy-eared man, this one blessedly quiet, flew them to “the base.” After that it had gotten weird.
For a while he’d thought this was some kind of elaborate joke, but it was becoming clear to Jackson that this was all too real—hard to believe, but real nonetheless. He did not have time to sit around thinking about the surreal qualities of reality; he had a meeting at the N.P.P.D. in twenty minutes. Motor-mouth would be there, along with his less loquacious sergeant—apparently the guy had a reputation for being taciturn. Given a choice between them, Jackson would take sergeant surly over officer smiley any day.
Jackson stood and donned the protective outerwear he’d picked up at the mall—a mall at the North Pole, for crying out loud—just one more detail that baffled the detective. He headed for the door, zipping up the goose down parka, and almost forgot to grab his notebook and pencil. The pretense of being an old school writer would be hard to keep up if he forgot the props. He was pretty sure the police sergeant would know who he really was, or at least why he was really there, but others might take note if he slipped up on something so basic. He’d learned during his years with the bureau to be thorough to the point of anal-retention.
By the time he blew in through the door of the police station, Jackson was one quarter frozen. People kept telling him he would acclimate but he didn’t believe them. His electronic thermometer had taken one reading of the air in this place and promptly died. “Coffee,” he managed to say through his scarf.
“Sure thing.” Officer smiley answered. He poured the steaming, fragrant liquid into a snowman mug and handed it to their visitor. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Frost.”
Jackson just nodded as he drank. The heat seeped into him and he unwound the scarf from his neck. “Is Sergeant O’ Hurley here? He’s supposed to take me on a tour this morning.”
“Oh, he’s around somewhere. Can’t think where he’s got off to though. See, if it was me taking you on the tour, I would have been ready and waiting when you got here, but the sergeant has his own way of doing things. Also, he’s not as friendly as you and me, sir.”
“Shut up, Petrovski.” Sergeant O’ Hurley spoke with a hint of irritation as he entered the room and plopped a file on a desk. He made for the coffee and spared a barely curious glance for the newcomer. “You must be Frost. I’m Sergeant Dennis O’ Hurley and I’ll be your tour guide for the day.” He slammed the coffee pot down with the unconcern of an elf who had repeated the same action multiple times a day for years, and had no fear of breaking either vessel or machine. “We’ll make our way over to headquarters first. The boss wants to meet you. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave right away.”
“But,” Officer Petrovski began, “if you leave now, you’ll miss the Chief.”
Sergeant O’ Hurley made a face of mock sadness. “Oh, what a shame. Let’s go, Frost.”
“Don’t you need a warmer coat?” Jackson asked.
“What for?” the sergeant replied, his hand already on the doorknob. “It won’t get cold ‘til January.”
Mutual silence was in effect as they trudged through the snow to the main office. It was located in a large red brick building covered by evergreen vines that had been trained to grow around the doors and windows. A few red bows were scattered amongst the greenery, and a fresh dusting of snow completed the look. It was solid, comforting, and cheerful, yet the sergeant’s slightly sullen expression did not change as he mounted the steps and waited for his charge to catch up.
Jackson thanked the cop for opening the door and stepped into the welcome warmth of the lobby. He left his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves with a receptionist and followed Sergeant O’ Hurley down the hall and into a room that was empty except for three individuals: a young female elf with short, wavy purple hair; a much older and grumpy-looking male elf; and a pretty young woman who was leaning on the latter’s desk. The young woman and the older elf seemed to be having a disagreement.
“Bill! You cannot put the pope on the Naughty List!” the woman burst out.
The young elf swung around in her chair, revealing multiple piercings in her right ear, and one in her nose. “I tried to tell him.”
“Why not?” Bill demanded.
“First of all because the list is for children, which you know,” she crossed the name off, “and second, because even if it wasn’t, that guy with the red suit—remember him—would never allow it. You know his girlfriend is Catholic.”
“And what would the pope say about that?” Bill the elf countered.
Noticing that they had an audience, she put the list down and pointed a finger at Bill. “What do you care? You put him on the Naughty List.” She turned to address their visitors. “Hey Sergeant.”
“Hi Angel.” The sergeant almost smiled…almost.
Angel put her hands in the pockets of her puffy white vest and rocked on the balls of her feet. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
O’ Hurley remembered to take his hat off at that point. “This is that writer from the States. The boss wanted to see him.” Turning to Jackson he made introductions. “Frost, this is Angel. Angel, Frost.”
“Jackson.” He added, and offered his hand to the lady.
She shook it firmly and looked him square in the eyes. “Nice to meet you, Jackson. Frost, huh? Any relation to Robert Frost?”
“No…at least not that I know of.”
“Huh. Well,” she turned to address the sergeant. “Dad’s not in. He may be working from home today.”
“Dad?” Jackson wasn’t sure he had heard right. “You’re Angel…Claus?”
Angel gave him a questioning look, as if bracing herself for some smart remark. “That’s right.”
“I’m sorry,” He apologized, wondering what he was apologizing for. “I wasn’t aware that Santa had a daughter.”
“Well, if it helps, I’m adopted.” She turned to the closest desk and picked up a cell phone, pushing a series of keys and then waiting for about three rings. “Yeah, this is Angel. Is Dad there? Uh-huh. That writer guy is here.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Did you guys have an appointment? No, Donna they didn’t make an appointment. O’ Hurley brought him. Ok. Yeah, no. No problem. Sure. Ok, see you in a few.” Angel folded the phone and put it in her vest pocket. “She said I should bring you guys to the house.”
Sergeant O’ Hurley unconsciously took a step back toward the door and started fiddling with his hat. “Would it be all right if I went back to the station? I uh…need to consult with the chief on…something.”
“I thought you were my tour guide.” Jackson protested, mildly amused at seeing the tough-as-nails sergeant uneasy about anything.
O’ Hurley took another step back and swallowed nervously. “Yeah, well we can meet up later and resume the tour. Around lunch time maybe?” He turned and put his hat on.
“Uh, sergeant?” Jackson questioned. “Where?”
“Where?” the cop asked over his shoulder.
“Where should I meet you?”
“Oh, um, Frosty’s. Angel can show you where it is. Bye.” And with that he was out the door.
Angel grabbed a red hat and a pair of purple gloves and gestured toward the lobby. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way.” Jackson said, but he stepped in front of her to open the door as they left the building. She smiled at the gesture, but said nothing. In fact, she kept silent for so long that he began to wonder if he’d inadvertently offended her somehow. He glanced over to where she was walking, about two feet away from him, and found her studying him curiously. He thought about asking what she was thinking, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Instead, he asked about the jumpy sergeant. “Why was O’ Hurley so anxious to avoid going to your father’s house?”
“I don’t really know.” She shrugged, and the collar of her vest moved up to cover her ears, conspicuously un-pointy compared to most of the locals he had met in the last twenty-four hours. “I’m not sure if anyone knows. You might try asking him some time.” She watched him for a few seconds. “Cold?”
Jackson nodded. “I’m used to warmer temps than this.”
“You’ll acclimate. In a few weeks you won’t even feel it. That is, if you’re still here in a few weeks.” She added hastily, looking down at the snow her boots were moving with each step.
“I may be here, but I can’t imagine getting used to this.” The sound of their boots crunching in the snow was at once soothing and irritating. “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay.” She said without looking over at him.
“I’ve noticed that the…workers around here are about normal height…” he trailed off, unsure how to finish what she might consider an unenlightened and quite possibly racist and stereotypical question.
Instead of being offended, she burst out laughing and turned to him. “They’re elves, not dwarves. Did you expect them to all have scraggly beards and names like Snowflake and Jinglebum?”
“Well, no, it’s just that all the stories…” He stopped talking, feeling foolish.
“Are stories.” She finished for him, and then resumed walking. “You’re a writer—you should know not to believe everything you read. Some of the things are true, or used to be, but a lot was just made up because it sounded good.”
“You must know the history pretty well, being in the Claus family.” He noted, as they turned to walk down Pine Avenue, past the bowling alley which sported a bright sign that read Santa Claus Lanes.
Angel shrugged again. “You could say that. Dad knows more of it than I do. Which reminds me...” She stopped again and waited for him to face her. “Dad doesn’t know that I know about him and Meredith—his girlfriend, so if you could kind of not mention that, I would appreciate it.”
Jackson nodded. “Sure. Out of curiosity, don’t you think you should tell him you know?”
“I will…just not yet. I don’t want him to feel embarrassed. He’s tried really hard to keep it quiet, and I think that’s mostly because he wants to protect me.”
Looking at Angel as the sun broke through the clouds, seeing her cold-air-frosted cheeks, her hair that looked almost brown until the sunlight set it on fire, and innocent gray-green eyes, Jackson understood why her father would want to shield her from some of life’s less pleasant realities. She had to be at least twenty-five, but she seemed untouched by the harshness and brutality of the world. He nodded and they pushed on in companionable silence.
Jackson made note of the look of the town as they walked. It wasn’t what he had expected, but then very little about this place had been. Instead of gingerbread houses trimmed with frosting and candy he saw neat cottages, a few large houses that bordered on mansions, apartment buildings and quaint shops. They passed an elementary school where a snowball fight was in progress during recess. Finally, they reached the end of Main Street and he looked up to see “the house.”
House was not the word he would have used. It was more like a castle, albeit a small one. He had the sensation of having stepped back in time as he gazed at the stone façade, trimmed in greenery, golden ornaments, and red bows.
“Let me guess.” Angel brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Not what you pictured.”
“Not quite.” He agreed.
“Come on. Once the surprise wears off, you’re likely to start shivering.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him up the steps to the big wooden doors, each adorned with a simple wreath, and announced their presence by pounding one of the plain, oiled-bronze knockers.
The door swung open immediately and a pretty, smiling face appeared. “Come right in, Angel. And who is this handsome friend of yours?”
Jackson offered a gloved hand and introduced himself. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Claus.”
To his surprise the woman started laughing and seemed unable to stop for a minute. “Oh, I’m not Mrs. Claus. I’m Donna, reception specialist and communications director for Santa. But don’t you worry about it. I won’t tell Mrs. C that you got us mixed up. Once you’ve met her, I don’t think you’ll be getting that wrong ever again. Nothing personal, Angel.”
“Don’t worry about it, Donna. Can Dad see us now?” The sound of breaking glass punctuated her question. “Ah, he’s um…talking to Mom, isn’t he?”
A door slammed and a female voice shrilled “Ogre!”
The door opened and an equally resonant voice shouted back “Slut!” before the door was slammed again.
A woman with elegantly coiffed silver hair and high spots of color on her cheeks turned and saw the three of them watching her. She smoothed her expensive outfit and pasted half a smile on her face before moving toward the little group. “Angel, darling!” She embraced her daughter and spared an angry glance for the door of the room she had left. “Your father is in one of his moods.”
“Yeah, I uh, heard. Mom, this is Jackson. He’s here to interview Dad for a story for, which newspaper was it?”
“Oh, it’s not a newspaper. I’m doing research for a book, and there’s an online magazine that offered to foot the bill for my trip if I wrote an article for them.” Jackson removed his gloves and offered his hand to Mrs. Claus. When she responded in kind, he raised her hand to his lips.
A genuine smile lit her eyes. “Oh! It is so nice to meet a gentleman. They’ve become so rare these days.” She patted her hair. “I must look a sight.”
Behind Mrs. Claus’ back, Donna rolled her eyes and mimicked a throat cutting motion. Acting quickly before the object of the elf’s mockery turned, Jackson blurted out “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Claus.” He caught the barest hint of a wince at the name.
“Oh please, call me Liz. Everyone does.” She smiled. “Sorry to rush out, but I must go. I’m terribly busy this morning. Angel, bring this young man of yours around to dinner.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek and left without listening to the protests.
“He’s not my young man.” Angel muttered to the air where her mother had been. She turned to Jackson. “I would apologize, but I’m not sure how, or even where to start.”
Donna patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, honey. He understands, don’t you, Jack?”
“Jackson.” He corrected firmly, but gently. “And yes, I understand… at least, I think I do. Any chance I could meet the big guy now?”
“Ooh.” Angel winced. “Don’t call him that.”
“He hates it?” Jackson guessed.
“No, but I hate it on his behalf. And if you want to see him, you have to go through me.”
Jackson leaned against the counter in front of what looked like a rather disorganized desk. “Or I could just cozy up to Donna here.”
Donna grinned. “I love two things: coffee and chocolate. But I wouldn’t mind a date with a handsome man either.”
“Whose side are you on?” Angel demanded playfully.
“Everyone’s.” Donna replied sweetly as she went to start a new pot of coffee.
Angel sighed. “Come with me.”
“You sure you want to do this now? I could come back some other time.” He offered.
“No, you’re already here. Let’s just get this over with.”
He didn’t understand her martyr-like attitude until they walked into her father’s study. First there was the quick exit of someone who was either cleaning up the broken glass or was the not-so-secret girlfriend, possibly both. Then, the look of momentary confusion, replaced almost instantly by a calculating gleam as the old man looked between his daughter and the visitor. Jackson hoped Mr. Claus would be more subtle than his wife had been.
“Angel!” Santa opened his arms wide to embrace his daughter. “You haven’t been here in a while. Who is this fine young man you’ve brought to see me, hmm?”
Smiling in spite of herself, Angel hugged him back. “Dad this is Jackson Frost, the writer you agreed to meet with.”
“Oh yes, of course!”
Jackson reached his hand out and was startled to be pulled into a bear hug. He patted the older man’s back awkwardly and glanced to Angel for help.
She shrugged. “Dad, not everyone’s a hugger.”
Santa turned, his gaze darting between the young people. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forget that sometimes. Up here we’re all quite friendly, you know!”
“That’s quite all right, sir.” Jackson offered, slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t been hugged like that in years, and the sensation felt foreign. “Would you mind if we get started right away?”
“Not at all, not at all.” Santa said. “Here, have a seat, son.”
Angel backed toward the door. “I’ll just leave you guys to it then.”
“Oh no,” her father burst out. “You should stay. Angel knows more about the business than I do at this point. She’s a real smart girl, you know. Why, I bet she could run the whole thing without me.”
“Dad, you’re exaggerating. You know this place wouldn’t be the same without you. And I couldn’t run it either.” It was her turn to be embarrassed. “He likes to brag about me.”
Her face was almost as red as her hat, which Jackson noted she was still wearing. “Actually sir, if you don’t mind, I would like it to be just be you and me.” Sensing some hesitation on the older man’s part, he continued. “Just to start. I’m sure I’ll have questions later that your daughter could help with.” He sent Angel a weak smile.
“Well, all right then. We’ll talk man to man.” Santa smiled. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
“Um-hm. Bye Dad.” When she was sure her father wasn’t looking, Angel mouthed “thank you” to Jackson, then slipped out the door.
“So,” Santa rubbed his hands together. “What would you like to know first?” He gestured to a large, leather-covered arm chair. “Can I get you anything? Food? Some coffee?”
Jackson sat. “No thank you, sir, I’m fine. First off, what should I call you? Do you go by Santa? Mr. Claus? Saint Nick?”
The man chuckled and his eyes twinkled, just like in all the stories. “Call me Chris, and if it’s all right with you, I’ll call you Jackson.”
“Fine by me, sir.” Jackson flipped open his notebook and started jotting down a few things. “So, your name is Christopher?”
“Christophe. Christophe Augustus Kringle Claus. The Kringle is for my mother. Her name was Sara Kringle. My father was Noel Claus.” Christophe sat back and listened to the scratching of pencil on paper, and the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Jackson looked up briefly. “Any siblings?”
“Two sisters—twins, eight years younger than I: Natalie and Noelle.”
The younger man looked up when his subject stopped talking. “Where are they now, if I may ask?”
Christophe looked into the fire for a moment before answering. “Noelle died of pneumonia the year they were twelve and I was twenty.”
“And Natalie?”
“No one knows where Natalie is, least of all me.” He looked back to his visitor, sorrow in his eyes. “She disappeared a long time ago. We heard from her once. She wrote to say that she was sorry, but she got scared and couldn’t face mother and father if they found out about the baby. I’ve tried to find her, find out what became of her and the child, if she even had the child, but…” He shook his head sadly.
“You never found any trace of her.” Jackson finished for him. “We can do this another time, if you want.”
“No, no.” Santa said quietly. “I need to talk about it once in a while. Does me good to get it out. And anyway, what are joy and happiness without a bit of sorrow to make us appreciate them? Go on son, what’s your next question?”
They went through about twenty minutes worth of surface discussion before Jackson flipped his notebook shut and asked about his real reason for being there. “I heard something about somebody having gone missing lately.”
Christophe frowned. “Yes, it’s most puzzling. My executive vice president, Stanley Whittle—my right-hand elf, you might say. He went over to the mainland one day and just never came back. Didn’t leave a note or mention anything to his wife, hasn’t sent word. It’s troubling. Makes me think of my sister too. I sure hope they come back, both of them. It’s no good being apart from the people you love.” He glanced at the door through which someone had quickly gone earlier. “But I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got other places you’d like to go and people you want to talk to.”
Jackson took the hint and stood. “I was wondering if there was a camera shop in town maybe? I’m sort of an amateur photographer and I have a fondness for film. I thought I might take a few pictures to go with the article, but I don’t have a place to develop them.” He already knew the answer but it was important to see what kind of reaction he would get from the locals if he brought up the idea.
Christophe scratched his beard and thought for a moment. “Well, we don’t have a camera shop anymore, no, but…Stanley dabbled in photography himself and he had a dark room built onto his house. You might stop by and ask his wife if you could work there. Donna can get you the address.”
“Thank you, sir, and thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
“Oh, no trouble, son. Say, you should come to dinner some time. I bet Angel would be glad to see you.” Christophe smiled meaningfully.
“As a matter of fact, your, uh, Liz, invited me to dinner.” Jackson was immediately sorry he had mentioned it, as the smile melted from the other man’s face.
“Ah, well… We don’t exactly live together anymore, Liz and I. It’s kind of a long story and, well…”
“I won’t mention it in my project.” Jackson assured him. “I’m strictly interested in the business side of things. In fact, you’re a pretty minor character in my story so far.”
“Well now, you’ve gone and wounded my pride, young man.” Chris joked, smiling once more. He took his guest’s arm and steered him toward the door gently. “Tell you what, stop by again tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk some more.”
“I will, thank you, sir.”
“Chris—I insist.” Santa smiled as they entered the hallway. “Oh Donna, Mr. Frost here needs an address. Would you be so kind as to help him?”
“Certainly, Santa.” Donna called from behind the largest coffee mug Jackson had ever seen. “Whose address do you need?”
Jackson put his notebook down on the counter. “Stanley Whittle’s.”
Donna’s eyebrows arched up. “You’ve heard about Stanley’s…”
“I know he’s out of town right now, but Mr. Claus said maybe I could use his dark room. Would you happen to know his wife’s name?”
“That would be Trina, and the address is 251 East Gingerbread.” Donna provided. “It’s a big Victorian painted bright neon green, with pink and purple trim. You can’t miss it—you couldn’t even if you wanted to. That house practically glows in the dark. Trina is the dearest thing but she is just not good with colors. Is there anything else you need?”
“How about a map of the town?”
Donna took another sip of coffee. “Try the Chamber of Commerce. It’s right on Main Street, in that new modern, sterile-looking building.”
“The one with the revolving door in front?” Jackson asked. He’d been surprised to see something like that in such a chilly climate.
“That’s it,” Donna sighed in exasperation. “I can’t even tell you the number of people who got stuck in that stupid thing the first few weeks. Listen, anytime you’re free, come on over here and I’ll tell you what really goes on in this town.”
Jackson nodded and thanked her quickly and was on his way. He checked his watch and decided he had time to do some cautious exploring before meeting up with Sergeant O’ Hurley for lunch at Frosty's.
For a while he’d thought this was some kind of elaborate joke, but it was becoming clear to Jackson that this was all too real—hard to believe, but real nonetheless. He did not have time to sit around thinking about the surreal qualities of reality; he had a meeting at the N.P.P.D. in twenty minutes. Motor-mouth would be there, along with his less loquacious sergeant—apparently the guy had a reputation for being taciturn. Given a choice between them, Jackson would take sergeant surly over officer smiley any day.
Jackson stood and donned the protective outerwear he’d picked up at the mall—a mall at the North Pole, for crying out loud—just one more detail that baffled the detective. He headed for the door, zipping up the goose down parka, and almost forgot to grab his notebook and pencil. The pretense of being an old school writer would be hard to keep up if he forgot the props. He was pretty sure the police sergeant would know who he really was, or at least why he was really there, but others might take note if he slipped up on something so basic. He’d learned during his years with the bureau to be thorough to the point of anal-retention.
By the time he blew in through the door of the police station, Jackson was one quarter frozen. People kept telling him he would acclimate but he didn’t believe them. His electronic thermometer had taken one reading of the air in this place and promptly died. “Coffee,” he managed to say through his scarf.
“Sure thing.” Officer smiley answered. He poured the steaming, fragrant liquid into a snowman mug and handed it to their visitor. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Frost.”
Jackson just nodded as he drank. The heat seeped into him and he unwound the scarf from his neck. “Is Sergeant O’ Hurley here? He’s supposed to take me on a tour this morning.”
“Oh, he’s around somewhere. Can’t think where he’s got off to though. See, if it was me taking you on the tour, I would have been ready and waiting when you got here, but the sergeant has his own way of doing things. Also, he’s not as friendly as you and me, sir.”
“Shut up, Petrovski.” Sergeant O’ Hurley spoke with a hint of irritation as he entered the room and plopped a file on a desk. He made for the coffee and spared a barely curious glance for the newcomer. “You must be Frost. I’m Sergeant Dennis O’ Hurley and I’ll be your tour guide for the day.” He slammed the coffee pot down with the unconcern of an elf who had repeated the same action multiple times a day for years, and had no fear of breaking either vessel or machine. “We’ll make our way over to headquarters first. The boss wants to meet you. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave right away.”
“But,” Officer Petrovski began, “if you leave now, you’ll miss the Chief.”
Sergeant O’ Hurley made a face of mock sadness. “Oh, what a shame. Let’s go, Frost.”
“Don’t you need a warmer coat?” Jackson asked.
“What for?” the sergeant replied, his hand already on the doorknob. “It won’t get cold ‘til January.”
Mutual silence was in effect as they trudged through the snow to the main office. It was located in a large red brick building covered by evergreen vines that had been trained to grow around the doors and windows. A few red bows were scattered amongst the greenery, and a fresh dusting of snow completed the look. It was solid, comforting, and cheerful, yet the sergeant’s slightly sullen expression did not change as he mounted the steps and waited for his charge to catch up.
Jackson thanked the cop for opening the door and stepped into the welcome warmth of the lobby. He left his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves with a receptionist and followed Sergeant O’ Hurley down the hall and into a room that was empty except for three individuals: a young female elf with short, wavy purple hair; a much older and grumpy-looking male elf; and a pretty young woman who was leaning on the latter’s desk. The young woman and the older elf seemed to be having a disagreement.
“Bill! You cannot put the pope on the Naughty List!” the woman burst out.
The young elf swung around in her chair, revealing multiple piercings in her right ear, and one in her nose. “I tried to tell him.”
“Why not?” Bill demanded.
“First of all because the list is for children, which you know,” she crossed the name off, “and second, because even if it wasn’t, that guy with the red suit—remember him—would never allow it. You know his girlfriend is Catholic.”
“And what would the pope say about that?” Bill the elf countered.
Noticing that they had an audience, she put the list down and pointed a finger at Bill. “What do you care? You put him on the Naughty List.” She turned to address their visitors. “Hey Sergeant.”
“Hi Angel.” The sergeant almost smiled…almost.
Angel put her hands in the pockets of her puffy white vest and rocked on the balls of her feet. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
O’ Hurley remembered to take his hat off at that point. “This is that writer from the States. The boss wanted to see him.” Turning to Jackson he made introductions. “Frost, this is Angel. Angel, Frost.”
“Jackson.” He added, and offered his hand to the lady.
She shook it firmly and looked him square in the eyes. “Nice to meet you, Jackson. Frost, huh? Any relation to Robert Frost?”
“No…at least not that I know of.”
“Huh. Well,” she turned to address the sergeant. “Dad’s not in. He may be working from home today.”
“Dad?” Jackson wasn’t sure he had heard right. “You’re Angel…Claus?”
Angel gave him a questioning look, as if bracing herself for some smart remark. “That’s right.”
“I’m sorry,” He apologized, wondering what he was apologizing for. “I wasn’t aware that Santa had a daughter.”
“Well, if it helps, I’m adopted.” She turned to the closest desk and picked up a cell phone, pushing a series of keys and then waiting for about three rings. “Yeah, this is Angel. Is Dad there? Uh-huh. That writer guy is here.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Did you guys have an appointment? No, Donna they didn’t make an appointment. O’ Hurley brought him. Ok. Yeah, no. No problem. Sure. Ok, see you in a few.” Angel folded the phone and put it in her vest pocket. “She said I should bring you guys to the house.”
Sergeant O’ Hurley unconsciously took a step back toward the door and started fiddling with his hat. “Would it be all right if I went back to the station? I uh…need to consult with the chief on…something.”
“I thought you were my tour guide.” Jackson protested, mildly amused at seeing the tough-as-nails sergeant uneasy about anything.
O’ Hurley took another step back and swallowed nervously. “Yeah, well we can meet up later and resume the tour. Around lunch time maybe?” He turned and put his hat on.
“Uh, sergeant?” Jackson questioned. “Where?”
“Where?” the cop asked over his shoulder.
“Where should I meet you?”
“Oh, um, Frosty’s. Angel can show you where it is. Bye.” And with that he was out the door.
Angel grabbed a red hat and a pair of purple gloves and gestured toward the lobby. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way.” Jackson said, but he stepped in front of her to open the door as they left the building. She smiled at the gesture, but said nothing. In fact, she kept silent for so long that he began to wonder if he’d inadvertently offended her somehow. He glanced over to where she was walking, about two feet away from him, and found her studying him curiously. He thought about asking what she was thinking, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Instead, he asked about the jumpy sergeant. “Why was O’ Hurley so anxious to avoid going to your father’s house?”
“I don’t really know.” She shrugged, and the collar of her vest moved up to cover her ears, conspicuously un-pointy compared to most of the locals he had met in the last twenty-four hours. “I’m not sure if anyone knows. You might try asking him some time.” She watched him for a few seconds. “Cold?”
Jackson nodded. “I’m used to warmer temps than this.”
“You’ll acclimate. In a few weeks you won’t even feel it. That is, if you’re still here in a few weeks.” She added hastily, looking down at the snow her boots were moving with each step.
“I may be here, but I can’t imagine getting used to this.” The sound of their boots crunching in the snow was at once soothing and irritating. “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay.” She said without looking over at him.
“I’ve noticed that the…workers around here are about normal height…” he trailed off, unsure how to finish what she might consider an unenlightened and quite possibly racist and stereotypical question.
Instead of being offended, she burst out laughing and turned to him. “They’re elves, not dwarves. Did you expect them to all have scraggly beards and names like Snowflake and Jinglebum?”
“Well, no, it’s just that all the stories…” He stopped talking, feeling foolish.
“Are stories.” She finished for him, and then resumed walking. “You’re a writer—you should know not to believe everything you read. Some of the things are true, or used to be, but a lot was just made up because it sounded good.”
“You must know the history pretty well, being in the Claus family.” He noted, as they turned to walk down Pine Avenue, past the bowling alley which sported a bright sign that read Santa Claus Lanes.
Angel shrugged again. “You could say that. Dad knows more of it than I do. Which reminds me...” She stopped again and waited for him to face her. “Dad doesn’t know that I know about him and Meredith—his girlfriend, so if you could kind of not mention that, I would appreciate it.”
Jackson nodded. “Sure. Out of curiosity, don’t you think you should tell him you know?”
“I will…just not yet. I don’t want him to feel embarrassed. He’s tried really hard to keep it quiet, and I think that’s mostly because he wants to protect me.”
Looking at Angel as the sun broke through the clouds, seeing her cold-air-frosted cheeks, her hair that looked almost brown until the sunlight set it on fire, and innocent gray-green eyes, Jackson understood why her father would want to shield her from some of life’s less pleasant realities. She had to be at least twenty-five, but she seemed untouched by the harshness and brutality of the world. He nodded and they pushed on in companionable silence.
Jackson made note of the look of the town as they walked. It wasn’t what he had expected, but then very little about this place had been. Instead of gingerbread houses trimmed with frosting and candy he saw neat cottages, a few large houses that bordered on mansions, apartment buildings and quaint shops. They passed an elementary school where a snowball fight was in progress during recess. Finally, they reached the end of Main Street and he looked up to see “the house.”
House was not the word he would have used. It was more like a castle, albeit a small one. He had the sensation of having stepped back in time as he gazed at the stone façade, trimmed in greenery, golden ornaments, and red bows.
“Let me guess.” Angel brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Not what you pictured.”
“Not quite.” He agreed.
“Come on. Once the surprise wears off, you’re likely to start shivering.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him up the steps to the big wooden doors, each adorned with a simple wreath, and announced their presence by pounding one of the plain, oiled-bronze knockers.
The door swung open immediately and a pretty, smiling face appeared. “Come right in, Angel. And who is this handsome friend of yours?”
Jackson offered a gloved hand and introduced himself. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Claus.”
To his surprise the woman started laughing and seemed unable to stop for a minute. “Oh, I’m not Mrs. Claus. I’m Donna, reception specialist and communications director for Santa. But don’t you worry about it. I won’t tell Mrs. C that you got us mixed up. Once you’ve met her, I don’t think you’ll be getting that wrong ever again. Nothing personal, Angel.”
“Don’t worry about it, Donna. Can Dad see us now?” The sound of breaking glass punctuated her question. “Ah, he’s um…talking to Mom, isn’t he?”
A door slammed and a female voice shrilled “Ogre!”
The door opened and an equally resonant voice shouted back “Slut!” before the door was slammed again.
A woman with elegantly coiffed silver hair and high spots of color on her cheeks turned and saw the three of them watching her. She smoothed her expensive outfit and pasted half a smile on her face before moving toward the little group. “Angel, darling!” She embraced her daughter and spared an angry glance for the door of the room she had left. “Your father is in one of his moods.”
“Yeah, I uh, heard. Mom, this is Jackson. He’s here to interview Dad for a story for, which newspaper was it?”
“Oh, it’s not a newspaper. I’m doing research for a book, and there’s an online magazine that offered to foot the bill for my trip if I wrote an article for them.” Jackson removed his gloves and offered his hand to Mrs. Claus. When she responded in kind, he raised her hand to his lips.
A genuine smile lit her eyes. “Oh! It is so nice to meet a gentleman. They’ve become so rare these days.” She patted her hair. “I must look a sight.”
Behind Mrs. Claus’ back, Donna rolled her eyes and mimicked a throat cutting motion. Acting quickly before the object of the elf’s mockery turned, Jackson blurted out “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Claus.” He caught the barest hint of a wince at the name.
“Oh please, call me Liz. Everyone does.” She smiled. “Sorry to rush out, but I must go. I’m terribly busy this morning. Angel, bring this young man of yours around to dinner.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek and left without listening to the protests.
“He’s not my young man.” Angel muttered to the air where her mother had been. She turned to Jackson. “I would apologize, but I’m not sure how, or even where to start.”
Donna patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, honey. He understands, don’t you, Jack?”
“Jackson.” He corrected firmly, but gently. “And yes, I understand… at least, I think I do. Any chance I could meet the big guy now?”
“Ooh.” Angel winced. “Don’t call him that.”
“He hates it?” Jackson guessed.
“No, but I hate it on his behalf. And if you want to see him, you have to go through me.”
Jackson leaned against the counter in front of what looked like a rather disorganized desk. “Or I could just cozy up to Donna here.”
Donna grinned. “I love two things: coffee and chocolate. But I wouldn’t mind a date with a handsome man either.”
“Whose side are you on?” Angel demanded playfully.
“Everyone’s.” Donna replied sweetly as she went to start a new pot of coffee.
Angel sighed. “Come with me.”
“You sure you want to do this now? I could come back some other time.” He offered.
“No, you’re already here. Let’s just get this over with.”
He didn’t understand her martyr-like attitude until they walked into her father’s study. First there was the quick exit of someone who was either cleaning up the broken glass or was the not-so-secret girlfriend, possibly both. Then, the look of momentary confusion, replaced almost instantly by a calculating gleam as the old man looked between his daughter and the visitor. Jackson hoped Mr. Claus would be more subtle than his wife had been.
“Angel!” Santa opened his arms wide to embrace his daughter. “You haven’t been here in a while. Who is this fine young man you’ve brought to see me, hmm?”
Smiling in spite of herself, Angel hugged him back. “Dad this is Jackson Frost, the writer you agreed to meet with.”
“Oh yes, of course!”
Jackson reached his hand out and was startled to be pulled into a bear hug. He patted the older man’s back awkwardly and glanced to Angel for help.
She shrugged. “Dad, not everyone’s a hugger.”
Santa turned, his gaze darting between the young people. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forget that sometimes. Up here we’re all quite friendly, you know!”
“That’s quite all right, sir.” Jackson offered, slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t been hugged like that in years, and the sensation felt foreign. “Would you mind if we get started right away?”
“Not at all, not at all.” Santa said. “Here, have a seat, son.”
Angel backed toward the door. “I’ll just leave you guys to it then.”
“Oh no,” her father burst out. “You should stay. Angel knows more about the business than I do at this point. She’s a real smart girl, you know. Why, I bet she could run the whole thing without me.”
“Dad, you’re exaggerating. You know this place wouldn’t be the same without you. And I couldn’t run it either.” It was her turn to be embarrassed. “He likes to brag about me.”
Her face was almost as red as her hat, which Jackson noted she was still wearing. “Actually sir, if you don’t mind, I would like it to be just be you and me.” Sensing some hesitation on the older man’s part, he continued. “Just to start. I’m sure I’ll have questions later that your daughter could help with.” He sent Angel a weak smile.
“Well, all right then. We’ll talk man to man.” Santa smiled. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
“Um-hm. Bye Dad.” When she was sure her father wasn’t looking, Angel mouthed “thank you” to Jackson, then slipped out the door.
“So,” Santa rubbed his hands together. “What would you like to know first?” He gestured to a large, leather-covered arm chair. “Can I get you anything? Food? Some coffee?”
Jackson sat. “No thank you, sir, I’m fine. First off, what should I call you? Do you go by Santa? Mr. Claus? Saint Nick?”
The man chuckled and his eyes twinkled, just like in all the stories. “Call me Chris, and if it’s all right with you, I’ll call you Jackson.”
“Fine by me, sir.” Jackson flipped open his notebook and started jotting down a few things. “So, your name is Christopher?”
“Christophe. Christophe Augustus Kringle Claus. The Kringle is for my mother. Her name was Sara Kringle. My father was Noel Claus.” Christophe sat back and listened to the scratching of pencil on paper, and the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Jackson looked up briefly. “Any siblings?”
“Two sisters—twins, eight years younger than I: Natalie and Noelle.”
The younger man looked up when his subject stopped talking. “Where are they now, if I may ask?”
Christophe looked into the fire for a moment before answering. “Noelle died of pneumonia the year they were twelve and I was twenty.”
“And Natalie?”
“No one knows where Natalie is, least of all me.” He looked back to his visitor, sorrow in his eyes. “She disappeared a long time ago. We heard from her once. She wrote to say that she was sorry, but she got scared and couldn’t face mother and father if they found out about the baby. I’ve tried to find her, find out what became of her and the child, if she even had the child, but…” He shook his head sadly.
“You never found any trace of her.” Jackson finished for him. “We can do this another time, if you want.”
“No, no.” Santa said quietly. “I need to talk about it once in a while. Does me good to get it out. And anyway, what are joy and happiness without a bit of sorrow to make us appreciate them? Go on son, what’s your next question?”
They went through about twenty minutes worth of surface discussion before Jackson flipped his notebook shut and asked about his real reason for being there. “I heard something about somebody having gone missing lately.”
Christophe frowned. “Yes, it’s most puzzling. My executive vice president, Stanley Whittle—my right-hand elf, you might say. He went over to the mainland one day and just never came back. Didn’t leave a note or mention anything to his wife, hasn’t sent word. It’s troubling. Makes me think of my sister too. I sure hope they come back, both of them. It’s no good being apart from the people you love.” He glanced at the door through which someone had quickly gone earlier. “But I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got other places you’d like to go and people you want to talk to.”
Jackson took the hint and stood. “I was wondering if there was a camera shop in town maybe? I’m sort of an amateur photographer and I have a fondness for film. I thought I might take a few pictures to go with the article, but I don’t have a place to develop them.” He already knew the answer but it was important to see what kind of reaction he would get from the locals if he brought up the idea.
Christophe scratched his beard and thought for a moment. “Well, we don’t have a camera shop anymore, no, but…Stanley dabbled in photography himself and he had a dark room built onto his house. You might stop by and ask his wife if you could work there. Donna can get you the address.”
“Thank you, sir, and thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
“Oh, no trouble, son. Say, you should come to dinner some time. I bet Angel would be glad to see you.” Christophe smiled meaningfully.
“As a matter of fact, your, uh, Liz, invited me to dinner.” Jackson was immediately sorry he had mentioned it, as the smile melted from the other man’s face.
“Ah, well… We don’t exactly live together anymore, Liz and I. It’s kind of a long story and, well…”
“I won’t mention it in my project.” Jackson assured him. “I’m strictly interested in the business side of things. In fact, you’re a pretty minor character in my story so far.”
“Well now, you’ve gone and wounded my pride, young man.” Chris joked, smiling once more. He took his guest’s arm and steered him toward the door gently. “Tell you what, stop by again tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk some more.”
“I will, thank you, sir.”
“Chris—I insist.” Santa smiled as they entered the hallway. “Oh Donna, Mr. Frost here needs an address. Would you be so kind as to help him?”
“Certainly, Santa.” Donna called from behind the largest coffee mug Jackson had ever seen. “Whose address do you need?”
Jackson put his notebook down on the counter. “Stanley Whittle’s.”
Donna’s eyebrows arched up. “You’ve heard about Stanley’s…”
“I know he’s out of town right now, but Mr. Claus said maybe I could use his dark room. Would you happen to know his wife’s name?”
“That would be Trina, and the address is 251 East Gingerbread.” Donna provided. “It’s a big Victorian painted bright neon green, with pink and purple trim. You can’t miss it—you couldn’t even if you wanted to. That house practically glows in the dark. Trina is the dearest thing but she is just not good with colors. Is there anything else you need?”
“How about a map of the town?”
Donna took another sip of coffee. “Try the Chamber of Commerce. It’s right on Main Street, in that new modern, sterile-looking building.”
“The one with the revolving door in front?” Jackson asked. He’d been surprised to see something like that in such a chilly climate.
“That’s it,” Donna sighed in exasperation. “I can’t even tell you the number of people who got stuck in that stupid thing the first few weeks. Listen, anytime you’re free, come on over here and I’ll tell you what really goes on in this town.”
Jackson nodded and thanked her quickly and was on his way. He checked his watch and decided he had time to do some cautious exploring before meeting up with Sergeant O’ Hurley for lunch at Frosty's.
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