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A North Pole murder

Not a murder OF the North Pole - that would be silly. And this is very serious stuff here. Very. I wouldn't keep saying "very" if it wasn't true.

By Lloyd FarleyPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 5 min read
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Detective Biggles surveyed the area. The room had been thoroughly trashed and laying there in the middle was the body of Scampy, manager of the electronic toy division. Biggles walked over to where the elf lay. The elf’s back was riddled with sharpened candy canes. The detective leaned in to get an even closer look. “Hm,” he thought to himself, “very sloppy, amateurish… this was someone’s first stab at murder.” Officer Nettles sidled up to the detective. He had taken Nettles under his wing, sensing real potential in her as a detective on the North Pole Police force. “What do you see, Nettles?” Detective Biggles asked. “I think Scampy was targeted,” she posited, “but this was clearly not a professional hit.” Biggles allowed himself a smile. “Good eye,” he complimented as he stood back up, “Now what?”

“Scan the area for evidence,” the young officer answered as she scanned the room, “like that, right there.” The detective turned to see what had caught Biggles’ eye. “That shovel?” he questioned, “I already looked it over – it’s of snow use to anyone here.” Undeterred, Nettles continued her search, settling on a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. “What about these, sir?” she asked, “Final notices – gas company, utilities, rent…” Biggles walked over to the officer. “Could be related,” he mused, “but then again, it could be something different altogether.”

“Could be related, but then again it could be something different,” the pair said in unison.

They pored over every inch of the room but were unable to find any further clues. Biggles looked out the window. “Nettles, over here,” he beckoned, “the reindeer stable, across the street. Maybe one of them saw something.”

The pair stepped out into the cold air and into the stables. “Let’s start with this one,” the detective said, “the one that’s prancing all over the place. Prancing here, and there, prancing everywhere in here.” “Oh,” said Nettles, “Blitzen.” They walked over to the gentle beast. “Blitzen, I was hoping you might be able to help us,” the officer asked. “Sure thing,” the reindeer replied, “how can I help?” Biggles pointed out the window. “In that house over there,” he began, “elf named Scampy was murdered. Did you see anything?” “Hmm,” Blitzen mused, “I remember seeing Scampy last night, and then someone running out the door to the right.” “Did you see a face, coat, anything that might help?” Nettles asked. “No,” Blitzen replied, “just the elf.” “So how did you see the elf, and not anyone else?” Biggles added. “Whoever ran out was much taller than the elf. I’m short-sighted,” Blitzen confessed.

They thanked him for his time and proceeded to question the others, to no avail. They stepped back out into the street. “Well, the only thing they agreed on is that a suspect ran off to the right,” Biggles summarized, “so let’s head that way.” Biggles and Nettles started from the door and walked slowly to the right, scanning the ground for clues. “Sir,” Nettles exclaimed, “just up ahead. Footsteps, and what look like peppermint shavings.” They ran forward, where the detective knelt down to pick up one of the shavings. “Candy cane,” he confirmed, “we’re definitely on the right track.”

Continuing to follow the footsteps they rounded the street corner, when suddenly the footsteps disappeared. “Damn,” the detective muttered, “okay, let’s hit every place on this block.” They proceeded door to door, asking for accounts of the previous evening. Everyone was accounted for at the bank. They got what they kneaded from the bakery. The stories rang true from the library. The barber provided an alibi, although put out so he was a little snippy. The restaurant had been closed once the last patron left, sometime after ate. The owner of the gas station thought they were fuelish for asking but also had an alibi. They almost made it to the end of the street when they were attacked from behind and rendered unconscious.

“Sir, sir, wake up,” Officer Nettles pleaded. Detective Biggles slowly opened his eyes. They had been placed on two kitchen chairs and bound together. “Nettles, Biggles, so glad you could drop by,” a voice hissed from the adjoining room. The voice sounded familiar, and as a figure entered the room they knew right away who it was.

“Frosty the Snowman,” Biggles stated. “You don’t sound surprised at all, detective,” Frosty quipped. “I had a feeling it was you,” Biggles spat, “a little hunch back at Scampy’s... before that little hunch back had to go ring the bells at Notre Dame.” “Very good, very good,” Frosty smirked, “you got me, or is it I who has you?” “Why’d you do it, Frosty?” Officer Nettles inquired. “That miserable little elf had the gall to call me flaky,” the large snowman explained, “I tried to play it cool, to put my nose up as if to say I didn’t carrot all. Yeti wouldn’t stop, so I had enough and killed him in cold blood.” “You’re a monster!” Nettles barked. Frosty’s coal black lips twisted into a smile. “I am,” he smirked, “and now I’m going to leave you here to die while I travel to Antarctica, after I get some cash by pawning this festive, yellow and black Christmas garb from India…”

“Yule bee sari,” Nettles said angrily.

“Ta ta and goodbye… forever,” Frosty sneered.

“Not so fast, Frosty!” a voice bellowed from behind.

“Santa!” everyone exclaimed. “That’s right,” Santa said firmly, “and Frosty, you’ve made it on the naughty list in permanent marker. Take him in, boys.” The North Pole Police swarmed in from behind Santa and took Frosty into custody while Santa freed Biggles and Nettles. “How did you know?” Detective Biggles asked in awe. “When Scampy didn’t make it to the elf help group this morning I knew something was wrong,” Santa explained, “and I knew Frosty had that edge to him, so I kept a Claus eye on him. Too late for Scampy, unfortunately, but thankfully in time to save you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Nettles blubbered. “Tosh, nothing to say,” Santa chuckled, “I’m just glad you two are alright. The safety of the North Pole is in good hands with you two on the job. Now let’s say we go grab some hot chocolate.”

“We go grab some hot chocolate,” they all said in unison.

FIN

Humor
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About the Creator

Lloyd Farley

Dashing, splendid, genius, awesome, and extremely humble - I am a 52 year old born and raised Calgarian, with a passion for bringing joy and writing humour, particularly puns.

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