Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori

streets, no cheesy Santas in grotty grottoes. . . .”
    Vaguely comprehending that her favorite icon was being unjustly slandered, Damp gave a small squeak.
    â€œNo, dear,” agreed Mrs. McLachlan. “Though I hardly think downtown Auchenlochtermuchty can compete with the horrors of Christmas shopping on Oxford Street, but I’m sure that you’re right.” Clutching her handbag, Mrs. McLachlan bore Damp off upstairs to dress her for the excursion.
    On their way through the hotel grounds ten minutes later, Mrs. McLachlan and Pandora saw Latch taking the beasts out for their morning exercise. Tock bolted across the vast manicured lawn, his webbed claws leaving a trail of prints on the white frosted grass. The crocodile halted under a skeletal oak and began to dig frenetically with all four paws. Silver frost turned to green grass and then to dark earth as Tock clawed downward.
    Assuming incorrectly that this was standard procedure for reptiles about to off-load the previous night’s dinner, Mrs. McLachlan’s party strolled on past the earthworks. They failed to grasp the significance of the black armband tied round one of Tock’s front legs. By the time they reached the main road, they were too far away to notice Tock pause in his labors, reverently place a small brown leathery object in the recently dug hole, and then begin to fill it back in again.
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    Auchenlochtermuchty was not given to extravagant flights of Christmas decorations. Strung across the main street were some rather haphazardly spaced strings of colored lightbulbs, and in the window of the hardware store, a tatty sign blinked a myopic greeting of M Y C RI TMAS . Each of the four banks had posters displayed in their windows encouraging passersby to MAKE THIS CHRISTMAS ONE TO REMEMBER , if only for the level of debt incurred. The mini-market demonstrated that the rogue apostrophe was alive and well in Auchenlochtermuchty, with banners offering FREE - RANGE TURKEY ’ S , FINE WINE ’ S , and, oddly, FRESH ASPARAGU ’ S .
    And a Merry Christma’s to you, too, thought Pandora, pushing open the door of the shop in order to admit Mrs. McLachlan and Damp in her stroller.
    Two hours later, they had finished. The parcel tray on the stroller sagged under the weight of stripey carrier bags from the mini-market and the packages from the hardware shop. Mrs. McLachlan decided that lunch was overdue and led her charges into the lounge bar of the Quid’s Inn. They settled in a battered leather snug and, after a brief consultation, ordered two chickens with fries and a bowl of tomato soup for Damp. The baby had fallen asleep and now lay sprawled across her stroller, pink-cheeked and snoring faintly. Mrs. McLachlan and Pandora happily examined their purchases, comparing notes on the suitability or otherwise of their various gifts.
    â€œWhat on earth is that thing?” Mrs. McLachlan held a tiny bundle of string and twigs up to the light, turning it around, trying to work out what it might be for.
    â€œThe man in the hardware store said that it was a spider ladder. Here—let me.” Pandora unfolded the bundle, which did, indeed, reveal itself to be a miniature ladder, complete with tiny wooden rungs. “I thought Tarantella might find it useful for hoisting herself out of baths. I couldn’t find anything for Tock, though, could you?”
    Mrs. McLachlan dug deep in a stripey carrier bag and produced a trio of plastic bath ducks.
    â€œPerfect!” said Pandora, unwrapping one of her brown-paper packages. “And look what I found for Knot.”
    Mrs. McLachlan peered at the bottle in Pandora’s hands. “‘Organic hair detangling conditioner,’ ” she read. “What a good idea—that yeti’s fur defies every hairbrush ever in-vented. . . . What’s that, dear?”
    â€œIt’s a ‘Handy Motorist’s Fire Extinguisher,’” said Pandora, reading