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“Um, Rosebud,” I said and reached for her arm. She slapped me away and lit into Cane again.

“Your dying words better be that I was the best thing that ever happened to you and that you were stuck on me like spit to a stamp. I looked good for you, Cane. I wore hose! I made the effort to make you feel like the big, big elf! A girl doesn’t slap on the war paint to be second best to something pulled by dogs, so you better change your tune before I make it so you whistle it out of your—”

“Rosebud!” I shouted. “The man’s dying and we still don’t know what’s going on!”

“You’re skating on thin ice at the equator, Gumdrop Coal, so shut your pudding hole if you know what’s good for you!” she said and then whirled back on Cane. “Now, Charles ‘Candy’ Cane, spill every bean you got before Death’s Kelly Girl here sings your final lullaby. Tell us who else is in this crazy scheme with you? Who set Gumdrop up? What are they planning to do to Santa next? What were you going to do with all these toys? And finally, tell of your great love for a crackerjack reporter with a great brain, bedroom eyes and the gams of a Rockette. You’ll start with the last first, if you have any sense.”

Cane looked scared stiff because he was a stiff. Even in his weakest moment, the elf would have answered Rosebud’s questions, or at least blinked, but Cane was as still as a church.

“He went early,” Ghost said. “That’s strange, but perfectly agreeable. I wanted him to snap things up, but you never really expect them to go before their assigned time. Of course, I can’t hardly blame the sot, what with Jezebel here making staying so utterly frightening.”

“He’s dead?” Rosebud said. She gave Cane a frantic poke that would have sent most into the fetal position.

“Rigor mortis has taken up residence early and has its feet in recline,” Ghost said.

“You say it’s unusual for most to check out before their time?” I asked. Something was squirrelly.

“Oh, quite,” said Ghost. “Most all hang on to dear life for dear life like something primeval would cling to a shank of protein, but Mr. Cane released a full five minutes early. Five more minutes he could have spent with his beloved Rosebud.” If Ghost had had a face, you would have seen him smirk at that.

The nonsled Rosebud wheeled around and gave the phantom the evil eye. “You’re quite the chatterbox, bub,” she said to him. “I don’t remember Dickens letting you yap so much. Now I know why. You’re nothing but a big blabbermouth!”

“Sticks and stones, my truffle,” Ghost said. “If Chuck would have let me meet and converse frankly with Ebenezer in the beginning, his masterpiece could have gone on the back of a menu. I could have illuminated quite clearly what awaited in Scrooge’s future and booked his epiphany on an earlier train, but Dickens was paid by the word and wouldn’t hear of it. He convinced me my silent brooding in the final act would boost the dramatic tension and endear me to fans forever. I have, however, discovered the opposite is true. Through stage adaptations of the work, fans have experienced so much ham in Stave Four, they tend to doze or skip pages until the Cratchits get goosed. I could have waxed poetically about the wages of sin and added a dash of brimstone to make things sparkly, but no. Through my cursed silence, most associate the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come as a moody druid with arthritis. I blame them not, but how I would have loved to be allowed to speak. Or sing.”

“Singing is where I get off the bus,” Rosebud said, leaving. “Gumdrop Coal, I do not want to speak to you for a few days. I’m mad, bad mad. The idea that you could think such things about me makes me sick. The girl wants to be alone for a spell and wonder if you’re half the elf I thought you were. See you around. But if I say ‘go,’ I mean go. Momma doesn’t chew cabbage twice.”

Dingleberry watched all of this quietly. Steady, solid Dingleberry. I knew he wanted to dig a hole in the ground and hide from all of this bad business, but he would