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“Freddie Lee,” Bird says with an undertone of excitement.

“Did you see him with the present?” I ask.

“No, but he was there last night drinking. At the same bar where you found the present.”

“Probably mulled wine,” Scarlett says, her eyes brightening. “No wonder it was in the riddle. Top of mind.”

“Cleaners came in overnight when it was closed, and I’m sure they would’ve found anything left behind. Maybe he was scouting out the place for a later drop,” Bird analyzes.

Or Sadistic Santa had someone else drop off the present.

“Have you talked to the cleaning company?” I ask.

“It was the regular crew,” Bird says. “No names match any of the Santa Wannabes. We called each cleaner. No one was asked to leave a present, and they didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious.”

“But Freddie was there,” Scarlett says, glancing at me.

“Freddie was there,” Bird confirms. “Up until closing time. That should help expedite our warrant request for Freddie’s phone records.”

Scarlett puffs her cheeks out and releases a gusty sigh. “Okay, good. Thanks for the update.”

Before Bird hangs up, he adds, “Last thing. Off-site looked through the toy store’s camera footage. No judges on it, but they did see Cameron there a few days ago wandering from aisle to aisle. Spent four hours there. Came and left with a large tote bag.”

Scarlett gives me a look. “We’ll look into her,” she says before ending the call.

But first, Freddie. “He’s got to be on other cameras,” I say. “You know how many times we’re being photographed moving around the city? Hundreds.”

Scarlett paces. “The man’s not an actual ghost. He’s leaving letters, riddles, and presents out in the open… He’s bound to get caught sooner or later. If we could find out who else was at the Lodge that night, maybe someone caught him on their phone. He could be in the background of a photo?”

“We could direct resources to getting the Lodge’s credit card receipts, contacting each guest, and asking to see photos. But we’d need warrants. And thousands of people go through that Christmas market every day. That’s me underestimating.”

Scarlett nods. “You’re right. There’s no time for that.” She scrolls through PennyThoughts on her phone. “Not to brag, but I got a shout- out on social media.”

“Oh yeah?”

“My sparkles are catching attention, which, I’m realizing, might not be such a good thing,” she fills me in. “Photographs well at least. Look at us.”

On her screen is a picture of us caught in a present-wrapping moment. I’m giving her a teasing grin, eyebrow cocked. She’s mid-laugh, closer to me than I remember her being.

Still not close enough.

“And look what someone said about Cameron,” she says, pointing to a series of posts.

I scan the posts. “So if no one wins, she keeps her title—and her sponsorships. What better reason than a bomb threat to have a finale shut down and no winner declared?”

Scarlett thinks on this. “It’s a fast way to do it, sure, but then why have an FBI agent compete in the events?”

“Involving us invests us early,” I hypothesize. “Calling in a threat at the finale, a couple days before Christmas, wouldn’t necessarily prevent a winner from being crowned or from the Con being put on hold. But if we’re already here…”

There’s frustration in Scarlett’s eyes. I feel it, too. We need to be crossing people off our list. Instead, the names are growing.

“Hey, we got this, okay? Things are starting to add up. We’re getting warmer on motives.” I nod toward the store. “I’ll go grab us some food. We need fuel.”

“Thanks. Good idea.”

I head upstairs to where sandwiches and chips are laid out for us. Because this isn’t being filmed, most people have taken off their beards, hats, and gloves.

“’Sup, Curly?” Clifford says next to me.