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‘Twas the Chihuahua Before Christmas

  By Esri Allbritten

  Copyright 2011 Esri Allbritten

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  Author’s Note

  I wrote this story as a gift for Chihuahua lovers and fans of my mysteries. It features characters that appear in my full-length mystery, Chihuahua of the Baskervilles, published by St. Martin’s Press. If you read this story before that book, it may influence your experience slightly. I did my best to keep it from being too much of a spoiler. You might also be interested to know that Manitou Springs, Colorado, is a real town, and having Santa appear under the town clock on Christmas Eve is a real event. Any differences in the way I’ve portrayed it are for plot purposes.

  ‘Twas the Chihuahua Before Christmas

  On the morning of Christmas Eve, Charlotte Baskerville woke to enthusiastic doggy kisses on her right cheek. Until recently, two soft little muzzles had licked her awake. She quelled a sense of loss and opened her eyes. Lila, her long-haired black Chihuahua, stared at her from inches away. Charlotte stroked her sleek head. “You have to love me twice as much now that Chum is gone, don’t you?”

  Chum, another Chi, had died in his sleep about a month ago, at the grand old age of 19. He hadn’t done much in his last years except snooze and grace Charlotte with gap-toothed smiles, but she still missed him.

  Lila bounced around on the covers, long habit causing her to avoid the place where Chum used to lie. She paused and sniffed the spot, then looked up questioningly.

  Charlotte’s eyes teared up, but she pushed back the covers and made her voice cheerful. “Come on, let’s get up. That Mrs. Claus costume won’t finish itself, and we still have to decorate the tree.”

  Lila ran down the carpeted stairs that led from the high bed to the floor and stood expectantly, her silky tail waving gently.

  Charlotte followed more slowly. At seventy years old, she ran an extremely successful dog-clothing business, Petey’s Closet, and volunteered extensively, but that didn’t mean she ran around like a teenager. Slow and steady got the job done.

  She went to the window to check the weather, the floor chilly under her bare feet. The Victorians had built elegant houses, but weren’t much for insulation.

  Outside, four inches of fresh snow hid the brown grass under a blanket of white – unblemished except for lines of animal tracks that crossed and recrossed the yard. Charlotte squinted. Those didn’t look like squirrel or rabbit tracks, and they were spaced too close together for fox. They looked a lot like Chihuahua tracks, but Lila used a potty pad and hadn’t been outside since before the snow.

  “Must be a cat,” she muttered to herself. Most people knew better than to have outdoor cats in Manitou Springs, Colorado. Coyotes, mountain lions and hawks made meals of unattended pets in the foothills of the Rockies. “Maybe someone new moved in and they don’t know any better. I’ll ask around.” She pulled a quilted robe over her flannel nightgown and stuck her feet in slippers.

  Lila frisked around, nipping at the toes of Charlotte’s slippers and making her laugh. She led the way to the bottom drawer of the dresser and pawed at it impatiently.

  “Who wants to look pretty?” Charlotte asked.

  Lila stood on her hind legs and pawed the air impatiently, then stuck her nose in the opening of the drawer as Charlotte pulled it open.

  Tiny, colorful outfits filled the drawer. Most of them were from Petey’s Closet and had been available to the public at some point, but a few were one-offs or gifts from friends. Charlotte chose one of these – a hand-knitted pink sweater with a Christmas tree of silver yarn on the back. Fluffy turquoise balls decorated the tree, and a bow sat at the top, right at the neckline. She dressed Lila in it, praising her squinty little face as it emerged from the neck hole. “What a beautiful girl you are!”

  Lila sat as soon as she was dressed, and Charlotte rewarded her with a treat from a jar on the dresser. “Come on, Lila-loo.”

  They went into the hall and downstairs, to the main floor of the house. A pre-lit artificial Christmas tree stood in the parlor next to the entryway, surrounded by boxes of ornaments.

  In the large kitchen, Ivan Blotski sat at the table, staring at a mug between his hands. Ivan was Russian. His first career was as a wolf trainer with a traveling Siberian circus, until an affair with the circus owner’s wife resulted in a move to the United States. Then he worked at a wolf sanctuary until someone poisoned the wolves, leaving him jobless. At that point, Charlotte hired him to work with her dogs, and gave him a room in her large house.

  Having a live-in dog trainer might be a little unusual, but Charlotte found his exoticism entertaining, and his training made her dogs fantastic models. Dog, she corrected herself. She should really get another, but didn’t feel ready.

  “Morning, Ivan.” She opened a cupboard and got out a coffee mug printed with a picture of Lila in a fairy costume.

  As usual, Ivan had pulled his glossy black hair into a ponytail. His clothes – charcoal-colored slacks and a silky shirt in dark purple – were a little slick for Colorado, though they made him popular in the nearby casinos of Cripple Creek.

  Ivan reached down and fondled Lila’s head as she put her front legs on the rungs of his chair. “It is getting colder. It’s a good thing Lila’s elf costume has long sleeves, but she should still not be outside for too long.”

  Charlotte nodded absently as she picked up the coffee pot. “They have those outdoor heaters. Did you see the tracks in the back yard this morning? They don’t look like the regular wildlife.”

  Ivan got up and went to the large windows that looked out on the back yard. He grunted. “Stray cat, maybe. It won’t last long.”

  “Poor thing,” Charlotte murmured. The phone rang, and she put down her coffee to answer it. “This is Charlotte.”

  “We have a problem.” It was Shermont Lester, one of Manitou Springs’ civic pillars. “Phil broke his leg skiing moguls.”

  “That’s not good,” Charlotte said. Every Christmas Eve, the Manitou Springs Volunteer Fire Department delivered Santa Claus to the town clock in an antique fire truck. Phil Grant, a genial man in his sixties, usually played Santa. Charlotte was going to be Mrs. Claus this year, and weather permitting, Lila would be dressed as one of Santa’s elves. “Those baggy red pants will hide a cast, won’t they?” Charlotte asked. “It’s not like Phil has to walk for the role.”

  “And what about kids bouncing up and down on his lap?” Shermont asked. “It’s not very festive if Santa screams and passes out.”

  Charlotte sighed. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’d fill in, but I’m getting on a plane in four hours,” Shermont said.

  “What about Alex?” Charlotte asked.

  “Already left to see family in Phoenix.”

  “Paul?”

  “In-laws are visiting, and he’s the only one who can deep fry the turkey.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and rubbed one temple with her free hand. “Did you call just to share the bad news?”

  “Actually,” Shermont said, “we were wondering if Ivan would do it.”

  Charlotte choked out a laugh. “You want Ivan to play Santa?” She heard a chair push back and turned.

  Ivan stood as tall as his five feet six inches allowed. “I will do it.”

  She looked at his straight black brows, high cheekbones and olive complexion. “Um.”

  Shermont spoke in her ear. “Did I just hear him say he’d do it?”

  “Hold on.” Charlotte covered the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. “Does Russia have Santa Claus? I mean, are you familiar with the legend?”

  Ivan waved a dismissiv
e hand. “We have someone very close. He and his granddaughter, the Snow Maiden, carry presents and an evergreen tree in a sleigh pulled by three horses. They bring gifts to the children in person. There is none of this chimney business.”

  Charlotte started to uncover the phone. “Do you call him Santa Claus?”

  “We call him Ded Moroz.”

  Charlotte stared at him. “Ded Moroz? That doesn’t sound very jolly.”

  Ivan stared back. “No one in Russia is jolly.”

  Charlotte studied Ivan, trying to see him as children might. Although only in his mid-thirties, his face was weathered from time with the circus. In addition to his habitual serious expression, he had a scarred patch under one ear from where a wolf had challenged him for dominance – and lost. “Does Ded Moroz have a beard?” she asked.

  “A long white one.”

  She lifted the phone to her mouth. “Shermont? I guess you have a Santa.”

  After breakfast and a shower, Charlotte dressed, then put on her coat and Lila’s. She also pulled rubber booties on Lila’s feet, to keep the fur from icing up between her toes.