The coat was roomy enough for two bed pillows under the belt, although snug through the shoulders and under the arms. The sleeves could be lengthened by adding more fake fur to the cuffs, the women assured him. They seemed to know what they were talking about... Everything would work out just fine!... No problem!... He would make a wonderful Santa!
With that matter settled he applied his attention to the situation in Florida and telephoned Celia Robinson without waiting for the discount rate. "Did you enjoy Thanksgiving, Celia?" he began.
"Oh, yes, it was very nice. About thirty of us went in the bus to a real nice restaurant. We had a reservation. It was buffet."
"Did Mr. Crocus go with you?"
"No, he didn't feel like it. He remembers last Thanksgiving when Mrs. Gage was with us and read a poem. She wrote it herself."
"I promised to send him a book of hers but got sidetracked because of the Big Snow. How does he spell his name?"
"I think it's C-r-o-c-u-s, like the flower."
"Are you sure? It could be K-r-o-k-u-s, you know. What's his first name?"
"Gerard. He has a shirt with GFC embroidered on the pocket. Mrs. Gage gave it to him, and he wears it all the time."
"Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured. Reluctantly he abandoned the long-lost-lover theory. Mr. Crocus was not WBK. "Did you ask him if he'd speak with me about Mrs. Gage?"
"Yes, I did, Mr. Qwilleran, but he said it wouldn't be in good taste to talk to the media about a dear departed friend. I don't feel that way. I'd like to see you write a beautiful article about her, and if there's anything more I can do - "
"You've been a great help, Celia, and - yes, there is more you can do. I believe I've uncovered something in the Park of Pink Sunsets that's a bigger story than Euphonia Gage."
"You don't mean it!" she said excitedly. "Is it something nice?"
Qwilleran cleared his throat and planned his approach before replying. "No, it isn't nice, as you say. I believe there's activity in your community that is highly unethical, if not illegal."
With sudden sharpness she said, "You reporters are always trying to dig up dirt and make trouble! This is a lovely place for retirees like me. Don't call me any more. I don't want to talk to you. You told me you were writing a nice article about Mrs. Gage! I don't want anything more to do with you!" And she slammed the receiver.
"Well! How do you like that?" Qwilleran asked the bookshelves.
"Yow!" said Koko from his reserved seat in the safe. "Did I strike a raw nerve? Celia may be part of the ring - a simple, fun-loving grandmother, mixing with the other residents and singling out the likely victims. Now that she knows we suspect their game, what will she do?"
He thought of phoning Junior. He thought of by-passing Junior and calling Wilmot. Then he decided to wait and see.
The day of the parade was sunny but crisp, and Qwilleran wore his long underwear for the ride in an open sleigh. He assumed it would be a sleigh and not a convertible with the top down.
At the theatre, where he went to get into costume, he found the breeches lengthened and equipped with stirrups, which made them rather taut for comfort, but Carol said he would get used to the feeling. She strapped him into his two bed pillows and helped him into his coat. The sleeves had been extended with white fake fur from elbow to wrist.
"I look as if I had both arms in a cast," he complained. Trussed into the stuffed coat and taut breeches, he found it difficult to bend over. Carol had to pull on his boots.
"How is the fit?" she asked. "They run large to allow for thick socks."
"I feel as if I'm wearing snowshoes." He was hardly in a jolly mood. "Is this belly supposed to shake like a bowlful of jelly? It feels like a sack of cold oatmeal. Has Larry ever worn this getup?"
"Many times! At church and at the community Christmas party. He loves playing Santa!"
"Why does the old geezer have to look seventy-five pounds overweight? Even as a kid I doubted that he could come down a chimney. Now I question why the heart specialists don't get after him. Why aren't the health clubs coming forward?"
"Would you ruin a thousand-year-old image, Qwill? Come off your soapbox. It's all in fun." Carol powdered his moustache, reddened his cheeks, and adjusted the wig and beard before adding a red hat with a floppy pointed crown.
"I feel like an idiot!" he said. "I hope Polly won't be watching the parade from an upstairs window of the library."
They drove north in the Lanspeak van along Pickax Road, the sun glaring on the snowy roadbed and snowy landscape. Qwilleran had left his sunglasses at the theatre, and the scene was dazzling. Already the parade route was filling up with cars, vans, and pick-ups loaded with children. "This is all very exciting," Carol said. "Pickax has never had a Christmas parade before. The welcoming ceremonies will be in front of the store, and when you arrive, Hixie's secretary will meet you and tell you what to do."
"Speaking of stores," Qwilleran said, "could you suggest a Christmas present for Polly? Jewelry, perhaps. She likes pearls, but she says she doesn't need any more."
"How about opals? I think she'd like opals, and there's a jeweler in Minneapolis who'll send some out on approval."
They were approaching the Dimsdale Diner, where vast open fields were covered with glaring snow. "It's incredibly bright today," he said, feeling as if his eyeballs were spinning.
"Yes, a perfect day for a parade," said Carol, who was wearing sunglasses.
"What kind of conveyance do you have for jolly old St. Nick with two arms in a cast?" he asked.
"Oh, didn't Hixie tell you?" she said, eager to break the news. "We've arranged for a dogsled with eight Siberian huskies!"
Parade units were gathering around the snowy intersection: floats, a brass band on a flatbed truck, a giant snowplow, a fire truck, a group of cross-country skiers, and a yelping dogteam.
"We meet unexpectedly," Qwilleran said to Nancy. He assumed it was Nancy; the glare was distorting his vision.
"No one told me you were going to be Santa," she said with delight. "I thought it was going to be Mr. Lanspeak. There's a bale of hay in the basket for you to sit on, and I covered it with a caribou skin. I think it'll work. We won't
be going very fast. Where are your sunglasses?"
"I left them in town," Qwilleran said. "Santa with shades seemed inappropriate."
"Isn't this exciting? I've never been in a parade. I wish my mom could see me now - driving Santa Claus in a dogsled! She died before I even started dog-sledding. Today would have been her birthday... It looks as if they're getting ready to start."
The band struck up, the sheriff's car led the way, and the parade units fell into place, with the dogsled bringing up the rear - Nancy riding the runners, Qwilleran in the basket. She drove the team with one-syllable commands: "Up!... Go!... Way!"
All along the route the spectators were shouting to Santa, and Qwilleran waved first one arm and then the other at persons he could not clearly see. Both arms were becoming gradually numb as the tight armholes hampered his circulation. When they turned onto Main Street the crowds were larger and louder but just as blurred, and he was greatly relieved when they reached their destination.
Lanspeak's Department Store was built like a castle. An iron gate raised on heavy chains extended over the sidewalk, providing a marquee from which city officials could review the parade.
As the dogsled pulled up to the store, Nancy leaned over and said to Qwilleran, "I'll take the dogs behind the store until you've finished your speech."
"Speech! What speech?" he demanded indignantly.
"Mr. Qwilleran, sir," said a young man's voice coming out of the general blur.
"Wilfred? Get me out of this contraption! I can't see a thing!"
"They're waiting for you up there," said the secretary. "I'll hold the ladder."