Six Geese A-Slaying (5 page)

“He wants to be Woodward and Bernstein for the new millennium, and they’ve got him stuck in the Style section, writing human
interest stories. So he tries to turn every assignment into a new Watergate.”

“But there’s no possible scandal he can find connected with our parade,” Minerva said. “Is there?”

“No, but that just means he’ll drive us crazy trying to find the smoking gun, and when he fails he’ll sulk and try to make
us look like lunatics.”

“Oh, dear,” Minerva said. “Yes, we’d be all too vulnerable on the lunacy angle.”

“You should see the article he did on a group of little old ladies up in Loudoun County who make bears for sick children in
disasters. He spent most of the article making fun of their accents and their clothes and then toward the end made it sound
like he suspected they were using the bears to smuggle drugs or launder money or something. He’s trouble with a press pass.”

“We can’t let him stay!” she exclaimed. “It’ll kill Henry if we have more negative publicity. His stomach was in knots for
weeks after that nasty business over the summer.”

Nasty business? Rather a mild term for a murder and the breakup of a major drug smuggling ring. But perhaps her years in Baltimore,
where Chief Burke had been a homicide detective, had made her jaded about the crime level in our more sedate rural community.

“We can’t very well chase a reporter away,” I said aloud. “The parade’s free to the public, as I had to explain several times
to that ninny who asked us to give Werzel a VIP pass. And if we tried too obviously to shoo him, he’d get suspicious and really
make our lives miserable.”

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on him, then,” she said, and strode away—probably to enlist the rest of the New Life Baptist
choir in the surveillance. I wondered if it would make Werzel nervous, being constantly under the stern eyes of at least a
dozen dignified black women in majestic burgundy choir robes. I hoped so.

I was, for the moment, blissfully unbothered. Slightly chilled, but unbothered. No one was standing in front of me, demanding
private dressing rooms, complaining about their unsatisfactory place in the marching order, or asking where to find the rest
of their party. Most of the people with nothing better to do were either lining up to get elephant rides or staring down the
road waiting to see how many wise men were still in their saddles when the camels returned. I glanced around to see if Clarence
had come back, but either he hadn’t or he’d put his goose head back on—I couldn’t tell which of the far more than six identical
geese was him. His height should have been a clue, but either many of the SPOOR members were unusually tall or the goose heads
added a lot of height. I made a mental note to drop over there before too long to find out what SPOOR had against Santa and
whether it was likely to cause any problems during the parade. And possibly to confiscate all the surplus goose costumes,
just in case.

Maybe I could channel the SPOOR members’ energies into fixing up the two bird-themed Christmas trees flanking the front walk.
When Mother had given Dad and his SPOOR comrades leave to decorate them, I think she’d envisioned the ten-foot spruces festooned
with artificial birds, feather garlands, and perhaps a wee tinsel nest or two. It never occurred to her that the SPOOR thought
of the trees as for the birds rather than about them. The garlands of nuts, berries, and popcorn were decorative enough, and
the little seed balls were not unattractive, but no amount of red ribbon could possibly make large, droopy net bags of suet
look festive. And since the SPOOR members had finished decorating them two days ago, the birds had been demonstrating their
appreciation by systematically eating the trees clean. They now had that ratty, picked-over look of store counters on the
last day of a really good sale. Yes, I should definitely enlist the SPOOR members to replenish the trees. Maybe I could even
donate our surplus fruitcakes to the cause.

But not now. For now, everything was under control. I glanced over at my clipboard and saw that only a few bit players had
yet to check in. I stuck my clipboard under my arm, stuffed my chilled hands in my pockets, leaned gratefully against one
of our front fence posts, and drank in the fantastical sights and sounds around me.

And they were fantastical—even at my busiest, I realized that. I could have been enjoying it all so much more if I didn’t
have to feel responsible for it. I felt a brief twinge of resentment at that, and banished it with the thought that by nightfall,
my term as Mistress of the Revels would be over. And surely, armed with the memory of this year’s experience, I could gather
the gumption to refuse if they asked me again. So next year I could take a small part and enjoy the festivities. Maybe I’d
learn to juggle or at least get a medieval costume and march with Michael’s colleagues who attended every year as jesters.
Or help Mother’s garden club friends with their traditional flower-themed float. Or maybe just stand at the roadside and be
part of the audience.

Yes, everything was going splendidly, and before too long I could return to my own plans for Christmas, which included not
only the giant potluck family dinner at Mother and Dad’s farm on Christmas Day, but also a quiet Christmas Eve with Michael
after his one-man show was over. We’d fended off several dozen invitations from friends and family alike, and were planning
to spend the evening in front of the fireplace with a glass of Shiraz and soft carols and—

“Aunt Meg!”

Eric came running up, followed by Cal Burke. They both looked wide-eyed and ashen-faced.

“What’s wrong?” I said, nearly dropping the clipboard in my alarm.

Eric swallowed hard.

“I think something’s wrong with Santa.”

Chapter 6

“Where is Mr. . . . Santa?” I asked.

“In the pig shed,” Eric said.

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

Eric glanced down at Cal, then shook his head.

“Not really,” he said.

But from the look in his eyes, he knew, and it wasn’t good news.

“Wait here,” I said. “If anyone shows up looking for me, tell them I’ll be right back.”

Eric nodded.

“And don’t either of you say anything to anyone,” I added. “Promise?”

Cal nodded.

“We won’t,” Eric said.

I handed him my clipboard to hold so he’d look more official, and hurried over to the pig shed.

“Meg, would you like some Christmas cookies?” someone called out as I passed.

“Later, thanks,” I said over my shoulder. What could be wrong with Mr. Doleson?

Whatever the problem, I was grateful Michael had thought to give Mr. Doleson the pig shed. It was not only private, it was
somewhat out of sight of the rest of the yard, so if there was some kind of problem, perhaps we could deal with it quietly.

The shed door was closed. I heard no sounds from inside, so at least he wasn’t having another of his cursing fits.

“Mr. Doleson,” I called, as I rapped on the door.

No answer. I straightened the wreath on the door and waited another token few seconds before turning the knob.

Yes, there was definitely something wrong with Santa. He was sprawled on the back seat of the sleigh with one boot on and
one held in his left hand.

His right hand clutched what appeared to be a stake stuck in the middle of his chest. From his fixed, staring eyes and the
amount of blood inside the sleigh and on the dirt floor below, I had no doubt he was dead.

I stood there staring for what seemed like an hour—partly out of shock and partly out of morbid curiosity. I felt guilty about
it, but I couldn’t help the impulse to drink in every detail while I could. After all, in another couple of seconds, I would
call the police and Chief Burke would banish the prying eyes of civilians like me.

I glanced at my watch. Nine thirty-five. Only a little over half an hour since I’d seen him enter the pig shed. I pulled out
my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breath and jotted the time down.

Then I stepped out, shut the door, and looked around in all directions for someone I trusted to guard the shed while I went
for help. I saw two choir members, assorted shepherds, and a very tall goose, but no one I knew well enough to guard a murder
scene.

Then my luck changed. I spotted two figures strolling past. One was a wearing a bulky snowman suit while the other was my
cousin, Horace Hollingsworth. At least I assumed it was Horace. All I could see was that the figure was wearing a ratty gorilla
suit, but Horace came in his ape costume not only to costume parties but also whenever he could get away with pretending he
thought costumes were called for.

“Horace!” I called. The gorilla turned around and stumbled in my direction while the snowman waved and continued on his way.

“Hi, Meg.”

Even muffled as it was by the gorilla head, I could tell that Horace’s voice was flat and depressed. I made a mental note
to ask him later what was wrong. For now, Horace was the perfect person to stand guard. Back in my hometown of Yorktown, where
Horace still lived, he was a crime scene technician for the sheriff’s department, so he of all people would understand the
importance of keeping everyone out of the scene until someone competent could examine it.

In fact, he’d probably be the someone. Since Caerphilly was too small to have its own crime scene technician, York County
often lent them Horace when they needed forensic help. Particularly if he was already here, as he so often was these days.

“I thought you were guarding the safe room,” I said.

“I locked it up so Sammy and I could have a snack,” he said.

“Was that Sammy in the snowman suit?” I asked. Sammy was one of Chief Burke’s deputies. “Damn, we could have used him, too.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone killed Santa—Mr. Doleson,” I said.

“Have you called 911?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said. I decided not to mention that I hadn’t yet pulled myself together enough to even think of it.

“I’ll do it, then,” Horace said. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket—well, that was new. The gorilla suit never used
to have pockets. Unless Horace had learned to sew, perhaps someone with sewing skills been helping him improve it. That could
be good news—Horace’s love life lately had been even worse than usual.

“Great, and don’t let anyone in the shed,” I said. “I’m going to find Sammy, or Chief Burke, or one of his officers.”

Horace nodded.

“Debbie Anne?” I heard him say. Good, he’d reached the police dispatcher. I strode off toward where I’d last seen the camels.

I was in luck. The wise men were returning in stately procession. Ainsley Werzel was busily snapping pictures, and several
amateur videographers were following the procession’s path with their handheld cameras.

I felt bad about ruining the photo op, but they still had the whole parade to go. I ran out to meet the wise men and fell
into step beside the chief’s camel.

“I have bad news,” I said.

“Something I’m going to have to get down off of this fool camel to deal with?” he asked. He sounded eager.

I nodded.

“Hang on a minute, then. Dr. Blake, how the blazes do you park this thing again?”

“Tell him to s-t-a-n-d,” Dr. Blake said.

“Stand!” the chief barked. Curley stopped, and Dr. Blake pulled up beside him.

“Stand, Moe. Now tell him to ‘Hoosh!’ And lean back while you do.”

“Hoosh!” the chief shouted.

The chief’s camel stood motionless, while Dr. Blake’s beast obediently began the awkward looking process of folding first
his front legs and then his back legs.

“Blast it!” Dr. Blake grumbled. “Moe’s rather badly trained, and Curley’s a little too eager. Try it again. And lean back,
hard.”

I began to wonder if I should have told the chief my news while he was still on the camel. Ralph Doleson’s rigor mortis would
probably have set in by the time the chief finally got back on solid ground.

“Hoosh! Hoosh, dammit!” the chief shouted, and leaned back so far I thought for a moment he’d fall off. But when Moe’s front
legs abruptly folded, I realized the chief had, accidentally or on purpose, gotten it right. Now that Moe was kneeling, the
chief was upright.

“Now lean forward again, quick!” Dr. Blake ordered.

The chief leaned forward, grabbed the front of the saddle, and hung on for dear life as Moe’s back end hit the earth with
an audible thud.

“Meg, put your foot on his front leg,” Dr. Blake said. “Moe’s front leg, that is, not the chief’s.” I complied, a little nervously,
because I couldn’t remember if Moe was the one who bit.

“Put some pressure on it!” Dr. Blake said, as he reached for Moe’s reins. “The idea is to discourage him from trying to get
up again while the chief is dismounting.”

I leaned on Moe’s leg, and the chief slid off.

“I’m good,” he said. “You can take your foot away if you like. Now what’s the problem?”

I glanced around. Plenty of people were watching us, most of them either videotaping the camel dismounting demonstration or
pointing their fingers and laughing. But only Dr. Blake and Michael were within earshot, so I decided this was as good a place
as any to talk.

“Someone’s murdered Ralph Doleson,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“If he’s not dead, he’s a hell of an actor, and I don’t think he could possibly have done it to himself,” I said.

The chief closed his eyes for a second as if gathering strength, then sprang into action.

“Right,” he said. “Where?”

“In our pig shed.”

“You didn’t just leave him there?”

“I found Horace and left him to guard the scene,” I said.

He nodded grudgingly.

“Show me.”

“Okay,” I said. “You might want to look a little happier. Or at least more nonchalant. I don’t see him right now, but odds
are that reporter’s still lurking around here somewhere, and I bet you don’t want him to figure out something’s wrong and
follow us.”

The chief frowned for a moment, as if trying to decide whether I had an ulterior motive or not. And I did, of course, but
he quickly deduced it was the same one he had: not letting Ainsley Werzel make Caerphilly look completely ridiculous. His
face broke into a slightly forced smile.

“Great idea,” he said, rather loudly. “Let’s just go and do that while I’m thinking of it.” In an undertone, he added, “I’d
appreciate it if you could find some way to distract that damned news-hound when he turns up.”

“Roger,” I said.

I strolled over to where Dr. Blake and Michael were standing, holding the camels’ reins and posing for the photographers.

“Go away,” Dr. Blake said. “You’re spoiling the pictures.” I ignored him.

“Bad news,” I said to Michael. “Santa’s dead.”

“Who?” Dr. Blake asked.

“Santa,” I repeated. “Though I assume Ralph Doleson was the intended target.”

“Oh, dear,” Michael said. “No bite marks on him, I hope.”

“No new ones, anyway. He was stabbed—no way they can blame it on Spike. Look, both of you—keep it under your hat for now.
And the chief would really appreciate it if we could keep anyone from finding out for as long as possible. Especially that
reporter.”

I had spotted Werzel now. If he’d donned the brown shepherd’s robe to be unobtrusive, it was a miscalculation. He was so thin
that he could almost have wrapped the robe around him twice, but it barely came below his knees, revealing an awkward two-foot
expanse of blue denim and a pair of ratty anachronistic brown shoes. And, damn it, he seemed to be watching us.

“We could offer him a camel ride,” Michael suggested. “Good publicity for the zoo, you know. He’s from
The Washington Star
Tribune
.”

“Excellent idea!” Dr. Blake exclaimed. Bashfulness was not one of his failings. He strode over toward Werzel and stuck out
a deceptively gnarled hand. He seemed to consider shaking hands a competitive sport—if not a form of hand-to-hand combat—and
I’d seen stronger men than Werzel wince after Dr. Blake had greeted them.

“Lovely to see you!” he was saying, as he mauled Werzel’s hand. “Meg tells me you might be interested in a camel ride!”

I rejoined Chief Burke and led him over to the pig shed.

“Hey, chief,” Horace said as we strolled up. “We’ve got a bad one.”

“You’ve been inside?”

“Just far enough to see if he needed medical assistance,” Horace said. “And Meg’s right—he’s definitely dead. No pulse, no
respiration, eyes open and fixed.”

The chief opened the shed door, peeked inside, and nodded.

“We’ll need the medical examiner to pronounce before we can proceed, of course, but I have no doubt you’re right. Any chance
you can help us out with this one?”

“Be glad to,” Horace said, nonchalantly, though I could tell from his expression that he was dying to work the case. Perhaps
because he was still relatively new at forensic work, and enjoyed working what he called a “nice, grisly crime scene.” After
twenty-five years with the Baltimore Police Department, Chief Burke looked as if he’d rather see anything else.

“Meg,” the chief said. “Keep an eye open and let me know if anyone’s heading this way. Any thoughts on whether he was killed
here or just stashed here?”

The last bit, I realized, was directed at Horace.

“Almost certainly here,” Horace said. “If he’d been killed elsewhere and brought in here, where’s the blood trail?”

The chief nodded.

“Another interesting thing—” Horace began.

“Trouble,” I said. “Ainsley Werzel’s riding his camel this way.”