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can’t say I’m not entirely surprised that tractor of George’s finally went on strike.”
    I’d decided not to tell anyone about the suspected sabotage. For now anyway. George was mighty handy with an engine, but even he could make a mistake.
    I put the trays on the long table in the center of the room. One platter of untouched treats remained. “These look pretty special.”
    Vicky made plain cookies, just good gingerbread cut into fun shapes. The only decorations were on the reindeer, who were given tiny red candies for noses. She didn’t believe in elaborate icing on cookies. Too much work, she said, and it detracted from the pure flavor of the cookie.
    But these cookies were works of art. Edible art. The Santa suits had been painted in bright red icing, with a strip of licorice for the belt, chocolate ganache boots, and a white icing beard. The brightly costumed people had pink icing smiles and black licorice-piece eyes, and the sleigh was piled high with candy gifts. The cookies rested on a bed of coconut arranged to look like snow. The biggest and most beautiful cookie was painted with a thick layer of white icing, topped with colored icing to show a bespectacled man wearing a frock coat and a tall hat, carrying a book. I leaned over and peered closely in order to read the delicate writing painted onto the book.
A Christmas Carol.
    â€œIt’s Charles Dickens!”
    â€œI decided to do something over the top for our special guest,” Vicky said. “I hope he likes it. It was a heck of a lot of work. You’re just in time. I’m about to present it. I asked your mom to make sure Mr. Pearce stayed until the end.”
    She hefted the tray and handed it to me. “You take it.”
    â€œI can’t! You deserve the credit.”
    â€œI’ll get the credit, you can be sure of that. But you’re dressed for the part, Mrs. Claus. Come on, let’s go.”
    Her helpers stopped working to watch. The door washeld open for me, and I proudly carried the tray of cookies into the room.
    â€œWhat have we got here?” Dad boomed. “Ho, ho, ho!”
    Mom launched into the “champagne” song from
Die Fledermaus
.
    â€œFor our distinguished guest,” Vicky said as everyone gathered around. Most of the tourists had left after checking their watches and muttering about reservations or getting children to bed. It was now time for the town to congratulate itself on a job well done, to pat itself on the back, and to relax . . . for about five minutes. Then we headed back to work to get ready for another busy day that was Christmas Town in December. The only outsiders remaining were Nigel Pearce and the people from Muddle Harbor. (The Muddites, we called them. They called us those blasted deer people.) Nigel snapped a photo of the gingerbread cookie display. Then he took another shot of a beaming Vicky beside the tray. Vicky indicated that she wanted me in the picture, but Nigel called for Jackie. Giggling and protesting that she had nothing to do with it, all the while shoving people aside, she snatched up a Santa and pretended to take a big bite. Her boyfriend, Kyle, hadn’t dropped his scowl all evening. He clearly wasn’t about to start now.
    Russ, who regularly did triple duty as photographer and the paper’s lead reporter as well as editor in chief, snapped a picture of me with an expression on my face that would frighten small children.
    â€œFor our English visitor,” Vicky said once the cameras had stopped clicking. “I created a cookie in honor of his countryman who popularized many of the Christmas traditionswe enjoy today.” She smiled at Nigel and made a sweeping gesture toward the treats.
    We all applauded and Nigel Pearce, looking quite pleased with himself, stepped forward. He picked up the elaborate Dickens cookie and bit the head off in one big bite. We applauded again.
    The mayor cleared his throat