Mariah Fredericks on her latest New York City novel, "Murder on 34th Street"
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November is around the corner, and a new mystery is adding a sinister twist to a holiday tradition.
Mary Calvi talked to author Mariah Fredericks about her new historical novel "Murder on 34th Street." In the book, it's the 1930s and a young assistant tries to save Santa from a threat at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, but she still discovers a body on the float.
Fredericks told Mary the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is one of the iconic events in the New York City calendar and that she has always loved it.
"You have 100-foot floats filled with gas, tons of kids from warm states balancing tubas and trumpets and bass drums, and the hundreds of thousands of people who come to watch all over the world," Fredericks said. "Everything has to go perfectly. And it just seemed like a terrific scenario that really belonged in a book."
Mary asked Fredericks about the book's dedication: "To Nina and Julie 70's kids sitting on a curb watching the parade go by."
"When I was, I think, 10, my best friend, Nina, lived on Central Park West," Fredericks remembered. "I lived about four blocks from the parade route. [Nina] said, my parents say if my older sister Julie comes with us, we can go watch the parade in person. And I remember getting up early and finding a spot on the curb. This was in the 1970s, and I remember the amazing sight of these hundred-foot characters that I love floating overhead, and you felt like you were in the center of the world."
The main character in "Murder on 34th Street" is Grace, an assistant who's the person employees turn to when there's a problem.
"The day before the parade, a real doozy lands on her desk when Harry Gardner, playing Santa, says, 'I've received a note that says Santa won't live to see Christmas,'" Fredericks said. "So Grace has to leap into action to protect not just Harry and Santa Claus, but the Macy's holiday shopping season."
With Thanksgiving approaching, Fredericks says the parade is part of her plans.
"I am going to try and sneak out early and see if I can find a spot on the curb," Fredericks says. "But if there is no pavement, I'll definitely be watching at home."
Club Calvi books may contain adult themes.
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"Murder on 34th Street" by Maria Fredericks
From the publisher: New York, 1932. Grace Verlander is the secret beating heart of Macy's. She's the "assistant to the assistant to the someone who's in charge", the go-to person for keeping everything running smoothly behind-the-scenes at the famous, bustling store.
It's not every day you get a letter from Santa Claus, but three days before the Macy's annual Thanksgiving Day Parade, Grace arrives at work to find a note from the store Santa Claus in her locker: someone has sent him a death threat. Shocked, Grace promises to look into it and speaks to the store detective about the parade's security, confident that they've found a solution that will keep everyone safe. But on the day of the parade, despite all their precautions, a dead body is found on one of the floats.
Using her wits and deep knowledge of the ways of the place, Grace is determined to find the killer and seek justice—not just for the dead man, but to save the reputation of this iconic store from ruin.
Mariah Fredericks lives in New York City
"Murder on 34th Street" by Mariah Fredericks (ThriftBooks) $23
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Excerpt: "Murder on 34th Street" by Mariah Fredericks
It is blue skies and a balmy 30 degrees. There are thousands of Macy's employees crowding the streets, starting at 110th and Amsterdam. Facing them from the other side of the cordon, like someone on the wrong end of a firing squad, is yours truly. Every last one of my colleagues would happily skin me alive and wear my hide for warmth. Only Jerry the Pig seems content. Sixty feet high, he bobs overhead, patiently awaiting the whistle.
Which will come the moment I hear from Detective Halsey that Santa's sleigh is unsabotaged and safe to ride.
As I step from side to side, wondering what is taking the good detective so long, one of Felix's minders growls, "When do we get to move?"
"Soon!" I trill.
"What's the holdup?" calls Lil, shivering among her fellow lollipop gals.
Andy the Alligator hisses, the sound provided by a recording of bacon frying in a pan. "The alligator." I point. "It's passing gas. Anyone got an antacid?"
Stony faces all around. Felix looms. He has it in for me, I can tell.
I hope he gets snagged on the Empire State Building.
"Miss Verlander!" Helen Schonbrun charges into view, resplendent in sable coat. "What is the problem?"
"Final checks on Santa's float. Making sure our ho ho hos are in order."
I smile, inviting Helen to do the same. She does not.
"If you persist in this tinkering," she warns, "I will not be held responsible."
"I understand." And I do. Helen is adept at shifting blame, and a wise woman realizes when she is outgunned. Tossing a hasty "Excuse me" at her and the mutinous masses, I hurry down the line, past Andy and Jerry the Pig, past the regimental marching band and the wooden cannon mounted on a wagon that will shoot lucky balloons into the crowds, past a grinning Fritz the Dachshund and Willie Red Bird, with a forty-foot wingspan, and finally to Santa's float, which stands at the end of the parade line, set back behind a rope and protected by the most fearsome balloon of all, the Terrible Tiger, a colossus of bold stripes and big teeth. Ducking under the rope, I see Stu and Stockroom Moe seated at the front of the float in the driver's seat. Stu may have worked rodeo, but Moe drove a milk wagon for years, and the horses, Jingle and Belle, seem content.
Crossing around the side, I take a moment of pleasure in Raymond's creation. Depictions of St. Nick's domain tend toward the jolly olde or outright bizarre—one year's Santa Blimp, for example. But Raymond's float conjures a child's dream of Christmas morning, if the child had just ridden the Cyclone and was feeling a bit woozy. In the center is Santa's workshop, where a dizzying array of toys loops through, around, and above the darling little building. Teddy bears and trains, baseballs and dolls dance through the air into Santa's enormous sack, which sits at Santa's feet, or rather Harry's, who is perched high on the throne at the back of the float, magnificent in white whiskers and red velvet. Thankfully, someone has laid a blanket over his legs to keep out the cold. In addition, the workshop serves as a warmth station, with more blankets and probably a flask of something. There is also a wee door with a wee window facing Harry, which means Halsey can keep an eye on him even from inside the workshop.
At the moment, the good detective is strutting around the float, kicking the wheels and pounding the floorboards. Raymond follows close behind, rage barely held in check. I have the sinking feeling Halsey is one of those people who puts more effort into looking like he's doing his job rather than actually doing it.
Stepping in front of him, I say, "All ready to go, Detective?"
Halsey has been sniffing at the underside of the float. Now he straightens. "Security takes time, Miss Verlander. Patience and time."
"Why is there an elf?" Raymond demands.
To Raymond, I say, "I'll explain . . ." Then, to Halsey, "You've had men stationed by the float all night, haven't you?"
"Yes."
Raymond interrupts, "Nobody told me about an elf."
"Last-minute decision, very high up." I point to the hut on the float. "You've checked the workshop, inside and out?"
Halsey nods. "Several times."
Irene taps her watch. "Burnt bird, Grace."
"I remember, Irene. Detective, if everything's all right with the float . . ."
"Everything's not all right," insists Raymond. "He's too tall to be an elf. The proportions are all wrong."
Raymond is correct, of course. Halsey looks ridiculous in a green jacket with a red scarf for a sash. Someone has even managed to get him into a pair of turned-up booties and a pointed elf's hat, complete with bell. But the absurdity of Halsey the elf is not my main concern.
"If the float is sound and Mr. Gardner and Mrs. O'Malley are secure . . ."
"It's my professional judgment that Santa Claus is exposed."
I'm about to say of course he's exposed, that's the whole point, when I hear my name howled. Mr. Bascomb has found me.
"Why are we standing here, Miss Verlander? We have to be in Herald Square by three thirty!"
"And I have to be in Queens by four o'clock," Irene reminds us.
"If we are not in Herald Square by three thirty, the Straus brothers will want to know why," says Bascomb. "I will have to tell them why!"
"I'd like to take a look at the sight lines one more time," Halsey announces.
Raymond folds his arms. "If the elf is on the float, he stays in the workshop."
"I don't like telling things to the Straus brothers!" shrieks Bascomb.
"Not even Mr. Herbert!"
The three men close in on me, each making his boneheaded argument. I look up at Harry, who mouths, I'm sorry. Which makes me angry. Harry is the last person who should be sorry.
"Right!" I punch the air. "Let's start the parade!"
Bascomb hurries off to give Helen Schonbrun the good news.
Raymond asks, "And the elf stays in the workshop?"
"No." Raymond's aesthetics and the aesthetics of Raymond are near and dear to my heart. But in this, I can't give way. "The elf stays where he belongs, which is by Santa's side. Isn't that right, Detective Halsey?"
Halsey jerks his jaw. He doesn't appreciate the assistant to the head of personnel, who is wearing a skirt, of all things, dictating to him in matters of security. He nods to the workshop. "Fellow's got to warm up occasionally."
"One break, five minutes, every mile. And while you're in there, you keep watch through that window, understood?"
Halsey narrows his eyes at understood. I have a feeling I have gone on some list he keeps in his head.
I'm about to tell him he needs to keep a special lookout for a scrawny balding man with brown hair and a mustache when I hear the shriek of a whistle, the blare of brass, and the sarcastic cheering of my colleagues. Slowly, a mass of nearly one thousand people begins to move. The ninth annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is underway.
Copyright © 2026 from MURDER ON 34TH STREET by Mariah Fredericks. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Press, an imprint of Macmillan Publishers