The Case Of Santa’s Cookies

She tied the sash of her dressing gown and opened the bedroom door. The hallway was dark except for a stripe of moonlight shining across the runner rug. Somewhere below, the grandfather clock gave a muffled tick. The house felt different at night - not frightening, exactly, but larger. The stairway seemed to descend farther, and every closed door appeared to hold its breath.

Nora took one step into the hall.

A soft scrape came from downstairs.

She stopped.

“Santa?” she whispered.

The word sounded silly the instant it left her mouth. Santa did not scrape around in the Bell family’s kitchen. Santa flew through the sky, came down chimneys, and knew how to open every door without making a fuss.

Still, Nora’s fingers tightened around the wooden banister as she started down.

At the bottom of the stairs, the sitting room waited in darkness. The fire had burned low, leaving red coals glowing beneath a crust of ash. The plate on the hearth was hidden from view behind the armchair.

Nora stepped toward it.

A crumb lay on the carpet.

She crouched and touched it. Gingerbread. A little crescent-shaped bite had been taken from one edge.

Her stomach gave a small, hopeful flip. Perhaps Santa really had come. Perhaps the clink had been the milk glass. Perhaps he had left something beside the plate.

She crept around the armchair.

The plate was not there.

Nora blinked. The empty space on the hearth looked brighter than the rest of the room, as if the missing plate had left a pale mark behind. The milk glass remained, untouched. The note lay beneath it.

She looked toward the kitchen.

Another crumb rested near the doorway.

Then another.

The trail crossed the rug and disappeared into the narrow back passage that ran behind the kitchen. That passage led to the old service door, the one their mother kept bolted in winter because snow sometimes blew through the warped frame.

Nora heard a faint bump from the passage.

The hopeful feeling vanished.

She turned toward the stairs and imagined waking Dad. He would come down in his slippers, switch on every lamp, and say it was probably a loose shutter or the pipes. Mum would say Nora had dreamed the noise. Milo would wake and cry because everyone else was awake.

But if Santa had come, she wanted to know.

And if someone else had taken the cookies, she wanted to know that even more.

Nora picked up the brass candlestick from the mantel. It was not much of a weapon, but it was heavy enough to make her feel less alone. She carried it into the passage.

The air changed at once. It was colder there, sharp against her cheeks. The passage was hardly wide enough for two people to stand side by side, and the walls were lined with shelves holding jars, folded tablecloths, and old boots. A thin gray light seeped beneath the back door.

Snow had pushed through the gap.

It lay in a drift across the floor, sparkling in the candlelight.

Nora stopped at the edge of it. The crumbs continued over the snow, small brown dots leading toward the kitchen. One had been pressed into the drift by a shoe or boot.

She bent closer.

There was a mark beside it.

Not a paw print. Not a bare footprint. A dark, muddy tread with a square heel.

Nora’s mouth went dry.

The back door rattled suddenly.

She jumped, and the candlestick nearly slipped from her hand.

“Who’s there?” she called.

Only the wind answered. It shoved against the door, making the latch clack. Snow whispered through the gap and scattered across the floor.

Nora took another step. Her sock sank into the drift. Cold water seeped through the wool.

The door was jammed open by the snow outside. She could see the edge of the bolt, but it would not move. Nora tried it anyway. The metal was icy beneath her fingers.

“Come on,” she muttered.

She pulled harder.

The bolt gave a sharp squeal, then stuck fast.

A gust pushed through the gap, lifting the candle flame sideways. The passage filled with the smell of wet wood and chimney smoke. Nora shielded the flame with her hand and looked back toward the kitchen.

The crumbs were still there.

So was the muddy mark.

Someone had crossed this passage.

Someone who had been outside.

She thought of the dog, Pepper, who slept in the mudroom on cold nights. Pepper could make muddy tracks, but he could not open the kitchen door. And he had been shut outside earlier while Dad cleared the front steps. Nora remembered hearing him bark from the porch before bedtime.

The thought did not make her feel safer. It made the passage seem more crowded with possibilities.

Nora lifted her dressing gown and stepped into the snow.

The drift swallowed her feet nearly to the ankles. Cold bit through her socks. She moved slowly, placing each foot beside the crumbs so she would not lose the trail. The shelves trembled when her shoulder brushed them. A jar of pickled onions clicked against another jar.

Behind her, the back door banged.

Nora spun around.

The candle flame fluttered. The door had not closed, but it had shifted farther inward, narrowing the passage. Snow spilled across the threshold in a fresh white wave.

For one second, Nora could not move.

Then she remembered the empty plate.

She tucked the candlestick under her arm, seized the door handle, and shoved. The wood groaned. The snow resisted like a heavy blanket packed against the other side.

“Stay open,” she whispered.

The door slid back just enough for her to squeeze past. She hurried forward, dragging one wet sock through the snow. The trail turned at the end of the passage, where a swinging door led into the kitchen.

The door was shut.

Nora reached for it.

A soft thump came from the other side.

She pulled her hand back.

“Is someone in there?”

No answer.

The kitchen beyond was dark. The moon shone through the high window, turning the glass white. Nora could hear the wind pressing around the house and, underneath it, a faint dripping sound.

She thought of going upstairs again. She thought of waking Dad. She thought of leaving the whole mystery for morning, when the lamps were lit and everyone was laughing and Christmas could be ordinary.

Then a crumb slid beneath the swinging door.

Nora stared at it.

It was followed by another.

Something - or someone - had moved on the other side.

She tightened her grip on the candlestick and pushed the door open.

The kitchen smelled of cold ashes, flour, and wet earth. Moonlight spilled across the flagstones. The table stood beneath the window, its chairs tucked neatly beneath it. A dish towel hung from the oven handle, stirring each time the draft passed through.

The cookie plate sat on the counter.

Empty.

Nora took a step toward it.

The gingerbread cookies were gone. All of them. Even the smallest star-shaped one Milo had decorated with far too much icing.

The milk glass was not in the kitchen. Neither was the note.

Nora set the candlestick down and leaned over the counter. A scatter of crumbs ran from the plate to the floor. They continued across the flagstones in a crooked line, darker where moisture had touched them.

Her eyes followed the trail.

Muddy tracks crossed the kitchen.

One shoe had left a deep, square-edged print near the stove. Another appeared beside the pantry door. The marks were not large, but they were too long and narrow to belong to Dad’s broad boots. They led straight toward the pantry.

Nora swallowed.

The pantry door was closed.

Its brass lock gleamed in the moonlight.

Locked.

She moved closer, careful not to step on the tracks. The mud was fresh. A damp crescent clung to the edge of one print. Beside it lay a thin smear of snow, already melting into the stone.

Someone had entered the kitchen from outside.

Someone had eaten Santa’s cookies.

And someone had gone toward the locked pantry.

Nora reached for the pantry handle. Before her fingers touched it, something shifted on the other side of the door.

A faint scrape.

Then silence.

Nora backed away, the empty plate shining behind her.

The pantry lock gave a tiny, deliberate click.

End of chapter one. 5 more chapters and about 11,572 words in the full book.