The Mystery of the Vanishing Vasilopita: A Snowy Arachova Christmas Whodunit

It was the Christmas of 2019, and Arachova—perched high on the Greek Mountain of Parnassus—was blanketed in the kind of snow that makes you want to break out into spontaneous caroling, or at least eat an unreasonable amount of melomakarona. I had rented a small, delightfully draughty chalet for the week, determined to experience a “proper” Greek winter.

On Christmas Eve, the village square shimmered under fairy lights and the intoxicating aroma of roasting chestnuts. I was on my way to buy a last-minute gift (having procrastinated until the eleventh hour) when I noticed a peculiar commotion outside the local kafeneio. The villagers had gathered, muttering and gesticulating in ways that would have made Poirot’s mustache tremble with anticipation.

“Someone has stolen the Vasilopita!” cried Mrs. Papadopoulou, the bakery owner, her cheeks redder than the pomegranate seeds atop the missing cake. The Vasilopita, the traditional New Year’s cake with a hidden coin, was to be the centerpiece of the midnight feast.

Never one to resist a delicious mystery (or a delicious cake), I inserted myself into the throng. The suspects were quickly assembled: Nikos the ski instructor (suspiciously dusted with flour), Eleni the innkeeper (her apron crusted with icing sugar), and Mr. Stavros, the postman (who looked as if he’d eaten the evidence).

Determined to get to the bottom of the matter—and secure my slice of Vasilopita—I began my investigation. I questioned Nikos, who claimed he had been waxing skis. I asked Eleni for her alibi; she insisted she’d been decorating her guesthouse, but a trail of powdered sugar led directly from her door to the bakery. Mr. Stavros, meanwhile, could not stop sneezing—each sneeze emitting a cloud of cinnamon.

Just as I was about to declare the case unsolvable, a small, shaggy dog bounded into the square, trailing cake crumbs and a rather shiny coin from its mouth. The villagers erupted in laughter. It seemed the real culprit was Fido, the baker’s dog, who had mistaken the Vasilopita for a very large treat.

All was forgiven (except perhaps by Mrs. Papadopoulou, who gave Fido a stern talking-to), and a backup cake was quickly produced. As midnight struck, we all shared a slice—though I kept a wary eye on Fido, who eyed my piece with the intensity of a true gourmand.

The case of the Missing Vasilopita in snowy Arachova—a case of canine cunning, confectionery, and Christmas cheer—was solved.