Nightmare on Elf Street
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Synopsis
A delightful holiday cozy mystery which originally appeared in the Fern Michaels holiday collection, Secret Santa, is made available as an e-book single for the very first time!
Aside from the mortifying costume, how bad can a gig as a mall Santa’s elf be? Jaine Austen finds out when she’s teamed up with the Santa from Hell. But things go from bad to worse when he’s found murdered on the job—and Jaine is a suspect. Now all she wants for Christmas is to find the real killer . . .
Release date: October 1, 2023
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 112
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Nightmare on Elf Street
Laura Levine
“Pumpkin face,” I pleaded. “Just think how adorable you’ll look.”
But she just glared at me balefully.
I’m already adorable. And don’t call me pumpkin face.
I was on my knees that late November morning, begging her for the umpteenth time to let me put the antlers on her stubborn little head when the phone rang.
Wearily I picked it up to hear:
“Fabulous news, Jaine! I’ve just spent the past forty-five minutes fondling the feet of a fabulously wealthy Malibu blonde.”
No, you haven’t stumbled on a foot fetish novella. The voice on the other end of the line was my neighbor Lance Venable, who happens to fondle feet for a living as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus.
“She wound up buying five pair of Jimmy Choos,” Lance was saying. “And guess what? It turns out her husband owns that new mall out in Santa Monica—Conspicuous Consumption Plaza.”
Of course that wasn’t what it was really called. I’ve changed the mall’s name to protect the innocent—namely moi—from a lawsuit.
“It seems they’re looking for someone to write their ads, and I told her all about you and your award-winning campaign for Apple computers.”
“But Lance, I’ve never worked for Apple. My biggest client is Toiletmasters Plumbers. And the only award I’ve ever won is the Golden Plunger from the L.A. Plumbers Association.”
“A mere technicality, honey. The bottom line is you’ve got an interview with their HR gal tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
I have to admit I was excited. How nice it would be to have something glamorous to write in between toilet bowl ads.
“Oh, Lance. You’re an angel!”
“Try to remember that when shopping for my Christmas present—Oops. Gotta run. Trophy Wife over by the Ferragamos. Damn. Looks like she’s got bunions.”
I hung up the phone in a much better frame of mind than when I’d picked it up, my head spinning with visions of all that a new job could buy: A high-def TV. New slipcovers for my sofa. Maybe even a lifetime membership in the Fudge-of-the-Month Club.
“Fabulous news, Pro!” I said, whirling around in a happy glow. “I’ve got a job interview!”
To which she merely rolled over on her back, her paws poised daintily in the air.
And I’ve got a belly that needs scratching. So hop to it.
“No belly rubs for you, young lady,” I said, marching straight past her to my bedroom. “Not after your churlish behavior with those felt antlers.”
Okay, so I didn’t march straight past her.
I may have stopped to give her belly a teeny scratch. But I swear it wasn’t for more than two minutes. Five, tops.
Okay, twenty, if you must know.
Conspicuous Consumption Plaza was an upscale mall with valet parking, froufrou boutiques and stocking stuffers that cost more than my Corolla.
To fool the Human Resources gal into thinking I actually belonged there, I showed up in my one and only Prada suit and one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks. I’d blown my mop of unruly curls reasonably smooth, and was now clacking along on the mall’s travertine marble floors on my way to the executive offices. Shiny baubles glistened in shop windows, lush garlands hung overhead, and the air was redolent with the scent of cinnamon spice and new money.
All the glitz came to a screeching halt, however, when I walked through the door to the staff offices. Suddenly everything was linoleum and fluorescent lights.
I found Molly Grover, the head of Human Resources, in a no frills cubicle down at the end of a corridor.
I’d been expecting a kamikaze fashionista straight from the pages of Vogue, but instead I found a somewhat frazzled thirtysomething woman in a wrinkled pantsuit.
She gazed up from a pile of papers, her face pale and pasty, her mousy brown hair hanging in limp clumps on her shoulders.
“Have a seat.” She gestured vaguely to a cracked plastic visitor’s chair. Then, with a hopeful smile, she said, “I hear you’ve written for Apple.”
Oh, gulp.
“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix up. I haven’t actually handled any computer accounts. Although some of the septic tanks sold by one of my top clients, Toiletmasters Plumbers, do come with a computerized control panel.”
“Is that so?” she said, her smile rapidly fading. “Well, let me take a look at your samples anyway.”
I handed her my book of writing samples, and she began leafing through them. Every once in a while she paused to gaze at me intently, then back to the book.
Finally she slammed the book shut, shooting me one last penetrating look.
“You’re perfect!” she exclaimed.
Wow. Talk about your dream interviews.
I’d been there less than five minutes, and already I’d landed the job.
“Here.” She reached down under her desk and pulled out a shopping bag. “Try it on.”
“What is it?”
“Your elf suit.”
“My elf suit?”
“Yes, one of my Santa’s elves just quit and I’m in desperate need of a replacement.”
“But what about the writing job?”
“Oh, that. I like your samples, very impressive. You’re definitely on the short list. But let’s just say you’d be a lot higher up on that list if you helped me out and worked as Santa’s elf for a few weeks.”
“In other words, you’re bribing me.”
“Not in other words. In those words. Put on the elf suit,” she commanded, suddenly tough as a marine drill sergeant, “or you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the writing gig.”
Well! If she thought I was the kind of person who would sacrifice my dignity and self-respect just to better my chances at landing a job—she was absolutely right. It had been a long time between toilet bowl ads, and I needed the bucks.
“So how about it?” she asked. “Are you game?”
If I’d known what was in store for me, I would have grabbed my sample book and skedaddled straight to the food court. But I knew nothing of the disastrous events waiting in the wings. So with hope in my heart, and a pair of curly-toed shoes in my hands, I said yes.
A mistake, I would soon learn, of monumental proportions.
But those godawful red and green striped tights! That was truly the fashion accessory from hell. Those damn stripes added at least five extra pounds to my thighs—which had all the poundage they needed, thank you very much.
But on the bright side, I reminded myself, I’d actually managed to squeeze into an elf costume. For those of you who don’t know me, I am not ordinarily considered the elfin type. Far from it, as my scale will be the first to assure you.
To tell the truth, when Molly said I’d be perfect for the part, I’d actually been a tiny bit flattered. But my bubble was quickly burst when, back in Molly’s office, she looked at me and beamed, “Oh, marvelous! The costume fits you so much better than it fit Kenny.”
“Kenny?”
I was wearing a guy’s elf suit?
“Yes, the elf you’re replacing. He quit to concentrate on his Weight Watchers classes.”
I was wearing a fat guy’s elf suit?
Ouch.
At which point, there was. . .
But she just glared at me balefully.
I’m already adorable. And don’t call me pumpkin face.
I was on my knees that late November morning, begging her for the umpteenth time to let me put the antlers on her stubborn little head when the phone rang.
Wearily I picked it up to hear:
“Fabulous news, Jaine! I’ve just spent the past forty-five minutes fondling the feet of a fabulously wealthy Malibu blonde.”
No, you haven’t stumbled on a foot fetish novella. The voice on the other end of the line was my neighbor Lance Venable, who happens to fondle feet for a living as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus.
“She wound up buying five pair of Jimmy Choos,” Lance was saying. “And guess what? It turns out her husband owns that new mall out in Santa Monica—Conspicuous Consumption Plaza.”
Of course that wasn’t what it was really called. I’ve changed the mall’s name to protect the innocent—namely moi—from a lawsuit.
“It seems they’re looking for someone to write their ads, and I told her all about you and your award-winning campaign for Apple computers.”
“But Lance, I’ve never worked for Apple. My biggest client is Toiletmasters Plumbers. And the only award I’ve ever won is the Golden Plunger from the L.A. Plumbers Association.”
“A mere technicality, honey. The bottom line is you’ve got an interview with their HR gal tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
I have to admit I was excited. How nice it would be to have something glamorous to write in between toilet bowl ads.
“Oh, Lance. You’re an angel!”
“Try to remember that when shopping for my Christmas present—Oops. Gotta run. Trophy Wife over by the Ferragamos. Damn. Looks like she’s got bunions.”
I hung up the phone in a much better frame of mind than when I’d picked it up, my head spinning with visions of all that a new job could buy: A high-def TV. New slipcovers for my sofa. Maybe even a lifetime membership in the Fudge-of-the-Month Club.
“Fabulous news, Pro!” I said, whirling around in a happy glow. “I’ve got a job interview!”
To which she merely rolled over on her back, her paws poised daintily in the air.
And I’ve got a belly that needs scratching. So hop to it.
“No belly rubs for you, young lady,” I said, marching straight past her to my bedroom. “Not after your churlish behavior with those felt antlers.”
Okay, so I didn’t march straight past her.
I may have stopped to give her belly a teeny scratch. But I swear it wasn’t for more than two minutes. Five, tops.
Okay, twenty, if you must know.
Conspicuous Consumption Plaza was an upscale mall with valet parking, froufrou boutiques and stocking stuffers that cost more than my Corolla.
To fool the Human Resources gal into thinking I actually belonged there, I showed up in my one and only Prada suit and one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks. I’d blown my mop of unruly curls reasonably smooth, and was now clacking along on the mall’s travertine marble floors on my way to the executive offices. Shiny baubles glistened in shop windows, lush garlands hung overhead, and the air was redolent with the scent of cinnamon spice and new money.
All the glitz came to a screeching halt, however, when I walked through the door to the staff offices. Suddenly everything was linoleum and fluorescent lights.
I found Molly Grover, the head of Human Resources, in a no frills cubicle down at the end of a corridor.
I’d been expecting a kamikaze fashionista straight from the pages of Vogue, but instead I found a somewhat frazzled thirtysomething woman in a wrinkled pantsuit.
She gazed up from a pile of papers, her face pale and pasty, her mousy brown hair hanging in limp clumps on her shoulders.
“Have a seat.” She gestured vaguely to a cracked plastic visitor’s chair. Then, with a hopeful smile, she said, “I hear you’ve written for Apple.”
Oh, gulp.
“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix up. I haven’t actually handled any computer accounts. Although some of the septic tanks sold by one of my top clients, Toiletmasters Plumbers, do come with a computerized control panel.”
“Is that so?” she said, her smile rapidly fading. “Well, let me take a look at your samples anyway.”
I handed her my book of writing samples, and she began leafing through them. Every once in a while she paused to gaze at me intently, then back to the book.
Finally she slammed the book shut, shooting me one last penetrating look.
“You’re perfect!” she exclaimed.
Wow. Talk about your dream interviews.
I’d been there less than five minutes, and already I’d landed the job.
“Here.” She reached down under her desk and pulled out a shopping bag. “Try it on.”
“What is it?”
“Your elf suit.”
“My elf suit?”
“Yes, one of my Santa’s elves just quit and I’m in desperate need of a replacement.”
“But what about the writing job?”
“Oh, that. I like your samples, very impressive. You’re definitely on the short list. But let’s just say you’d be a lot higher up on that list if you helped me out and worked as Santa’s elf for a few weeks.”
“In other words, you’re bribing me.”
“Not in other words. In those words. Put on the elf suit,” she commanded, suddenly tough as a marine drill sergeant, “or you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the writing gig.”
Well! If she thought I was the kind of person who would sacrifice my dignity and self-respect just to better my chances at landing a job—she was absolutely right. It had been a long time between toilet bowl ads, and I needed the bucks.
“So how about it?” she asked. “Are you game?”
If I’d known what was in store for me, I would have grabbed my sample book and skedaddled straight to the food court. But I knew nothing of the disastrous events waiting in the wings. So with hope in my heart, and a pair of curly-toed shoes in my hands, I said yes.
A mistake, I would soon learn, of monumental proportions.
But those godawful red and green striped tights! That was truly the fashion accessory from hell. Those damn stripes added at least five extra pounds to my thighs—which had all the poundage they needed, thank you very much.
But on the bright side, I reminded myself, I’d actually managed to squeeze into an elf costume. For those of you who don’t know me, I am not ordinarily considered the elfin type. Far from it, as my scale will be the first to assure you.
To tell the truth, when Molly said I’d be perfect for the part, I’d actually been a tiny bit flattered. But my bubble was quickly burst when, back in Molly’s office, she looked at me and beamed, “Oh, marvelous! The costume fits you so much better than it fit Kenny.”
“Kenny?”
I was wearing a guy’s elf suit?
“Yes, the elf you’re replacing. He quit to concentrate on his Weight Watchers classes.”
I was wearing a fat guy’s elf suit?
Ouch.
At which point, there was. . .
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