Six Geese A-Slaying (12 page)

Chapter 17

I awoke, as I had for weeks, to the sound of Michael declaiming Dickens. Though normally he did it at the other end of our
house, not in my ear when I was fast asleep.

“ ‘It was cold, bleak, biting weather,’ ” he declaimed. “ ‘Foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside
go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm
them.’ ”

“That bad, is it?” I sat up and shoved my hair out of my eyes. I had a crick in my neck. However inviting it had seemed when
I lay down on it, the courthouse bench wasn’t a particularly comfortable mattress.

“ ‘The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already,’ ” he said, more conversationally, as he sat down
beside me.

“Actually, it’s nearly six,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I slept a whole hour.”

“You needed it,” he said, abandoning Dickens for the time being. “What do you say we go home and start broiling those steaks?”

“The power went out just before I left.”

“Okay, grilling the steaks on the back porch.”

“Perfect.”

We headed back for the truck. The snow had stopped, but the temperature had plummeted into the teens after sunset and the
only people left on the square were a couple of church groups packing up their kitchens and striking their tents. Luckily
all the Christmas lights and the glowing shop windows made it easy to find our way back to where I’d parked the truck.

“So why did Chief Burke round up the whole SPOOR membership and haul them down to the police station?” Michael asked as we
were dusting the accumulated snow off the truck.

I sighed, and as he eased the truck carefully onto the road and drove slowly home, I gave him a rundown on the goosefeather
found at the scene and Ralph Doleson’s reputation as a despoiler of eagles’ nests.

“That explains it,” Michael said. “Though if I were the chief, I’d take a close look at Doleson’s tenants, too.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure they have all kinds of motives for killing him. Of course, that only shifts the investigation from
Dad’s friends to Rob’s. Doesn’t anyone we don’t know or don’t like look the least bit suspicious?”

“There were hundreds of parade participants, and thousands of spectators, all milling around today,” he said. “I imagine when
the police start sifting through his papers and checking his background, they could come up with a few more suspects.”

“Like maybe a posse of parents who thought Doleson’s surly behavior was ruining their kids’ Christmases?” I asked. “Just how
did Ralph Doleson get the role of Santa to begin with? He’s not my idea of a proper Santa.”

“Nor mine,” Michael said. “But at least he was an improvement on the last two Santas.”

“What was wrong with them?”

“That’s right, it was all before you came to town. My first Christmas here, Wilmer Pruitt had the role.”

“Wilmer? Isn’t he—”

“Serving time down in Richmond for shoplifting, yes,” Michael said. “They fired him as Santa a couple of years before. The
police department got tired of stationing a burly armed elf on either side to keep him from pilfering the present bag or picking
the children’s pockets. After they fired Wilmer, the Shiffleys got one of their clan chosen.”

“Figures,” I said. The Pruitts and the Shiffleys were the two oldest families in town. The Pruitts were rich and treated the
town and the college as their personal fiefdom. The Shiffleys had cornered the Caerphilly market in plumbing, carpentry, and
every other skilled or unskilled angle of the building trade. The two families weren’t exactly Montagues and Capulets, but
there was no love lost between them.

“Orville Shiffley was a very popular Santa until the year he showed up completely blotto ten minutes before parade time.”

“Shades of
Miracle on 34th Street
.”

“Not the first time he’d appeared less than completely sober,” Michael said. “That alone wouldn’t have disqualified him. A
very cheerful drunk, Orville. But they had to find a replacement Santa in a hurry when Orville fell off the 4H Club float
and broke his leg.”

“Bet Orville wishes he’d stayed in the sleigh,” I said. “What was he doing on the 4H Club float?”

“The can-can, apparently. Anyway, Doleson filled in at the last moment, and after that we were stuck with him.”

“Doesn’t sound as if either previous Santa’s a viable suspect, then,” I said. “Even knocking Doleson off wouldn’t get back
their jobs.”

“No,” Michael said. “After today, I think your father has a lock on the job for next year, if he wants it.”

“He’d love it,” I said. “I hope someone got a few pictures of him.”

“Werzel’s photographer did. Which reminds me—I’ve got your camera in my pocket. Had to find someone to burn Werzel’s pictures
on a CD before he’d give it up, but I figured if we let him go back to D.C. with it we’d never see it again.”

“Has he gone back to D.C.?” In front of Michael, I didn’t have to disguise my eagerness.

“No idea,” he said. “Let’s hope so.”

As we pulled in, I saw almost no cars around the house. The few left belonged to relatives who were over at Mother and Dad’s
farm having an enormous potluck supper. Even the police had gone, though they’d left a padlock on the pig shed door and several
miles of yellow crime scene tape wound around it. Given the snow drifts and the arctic cold, I didn’t think too many people
would drive by to see the crime scene tape, but doubtless it made the chief happy to know it was there.

We went in through the kitchen, to avoid tracking too much snow and mud into the front hall, and I noted with delight that
someone—probably Horace—had tidied the kitchen back to normal. Possibly cleaner than normal, if Horace had been involved.
Ever since he’d become a crime scene technician, he didn’t consider a room clean if he could find any trace evidence in it.

“Nice,” Michael said. “Let’s see what your mother’s minions have accomplished in the rest of the house.”

Mother had volunteered to decorate the interior as well as the exterior. She’d had her crew doing the decorations all morning,
and we’d both been too busy to check the results. Mother’s taste and mine didn’t always agree, so I braced myself as we stepped
out into the front hall.

“Oh, my,” Michael said. “She’s done a fabulous job.”

I had to agree. Mother had continued the evergreen and red velvet bow motif from outside into the hall. Garlands ran up and
down the banisters and around the door and window frames, with sparkly gold bells here and there as accents. Nests of candles
surrounded by sprigs of holly decorated every horizontal surface, and an intricately woven ivy globe with a sprig of mistletoe
inside hung from the central light fixture.

Evidently she’d rejected our eight-foot artificial tree as highly unsuitable, and substituted a twelve-foot real spruce. She’d
probably raided every chic Christmas boutique in the state to find enough glittering baubles to cover it, but I was touched
to see a few familiar favorite ornaments that usually graced the family tree tucked in between the sparkly glass balls, gilded
cherubs, feathered birds, and other brand-new finery.

The evergreen boughs draping the living room walls were festooned with the holiday cards we’d received from friends and family.
I tried not to think how many. I was using the parade as my excuse to send out holiday cards after Christmas. After all, that’s
why I called them holiday cards. New Year’s was also a holiday. So was Valentine’s Day. Maybe even St. Patrick’s Day.

Michael flipped our stockings up onto the mantel and lit the fire before we checked the dining room. Mother had done it up
in a food motif, accessorizing the ubiquitous evergreen boughs with gold-painted carved apples, pineapples, pomegranates,
grapes, strawberries, and bananas. More gilded fruit formed a centerpiece on the table, surrounded the candles in the windows,
and nested between the dishes and glasses in the built-in china cupboard. King Midas would feel right at home.

She had also dug out all our wedding present silver and arranged the serving pieces in a nest of holly and ivy on the sideboard,
giving the impression that if you lifted the covers you’d find an elegant feast.

My stomach growled at the thought.

“It’s fabulous,” Michael said. “We’ll thank her tomorrow. Let’s grill.”

He went out to the kitchen to find the steaks. I started to set the table—with the good china. Mother’s décor deserved it.
I was opening the silverware drawer when I heard an odd sound, and went to the living room to look outside.

“Is that what I think it is?” Michael asked, sticking his head out of the kitchen.

“If you think it’s sirens, then yes.”

A police car raced by with its lights flashing. As they passed our house, they cut the sirens. How odd.

“Where do you suppose it’s going?” Michael mused.

A second police car passed, followed by a car that could have been the chief’s. It was hard to tell through the tall hedge
that separated us from the road, not to mention the fact that they were all going so fast. Dangerously fast, considering the
condition of the roads.

“They’re going down to the Pines,” I said.

“You don’t know for sure.”

“Where else?” I asked. The road meandered past half a dozen farms, then deadended at Caerphilly Creek, where Ralph Dole-son
had transformed an abandoned textile factory into the Spare Attic and a run-down motel into the Whispering Pines. “And I bet
it’s something about the murder.”

“I suppose we’ll find out in the morning,” Michael said, looking wistfully at the fire.

“Or we can follow them, and find out now,” I said, heading for the hall closet.

“That’s crazy,” he said. “What if we get stuck in the snow?”

“It would take a lot to stop the truck. And it’s only a few miles. We could walk home if worst came to worst. ‘Walking in
a Winter Wonderland,’ like in the carol.”

Michael didn’t argue that hard for staying in, which meant his curiosity was as bad as mine. We threw on all our warm clothes,
climbed into the truck, and set off down the road at a considerably slower pace than the police cars had gone.

Chapter 18

We had to pull over twice on the way to let faster-moving vehicles pass. One was another police car, and the other was a car
with D.C. license plates.

“Could that be what’s-his-name?” Michael asked. “The reporter?”

“Werzel,” I said. “More than likely. I bet he’s got a police scanner and overheard whatever’s going on.”

When we reached the end of the road, we found that the police cars were all clustered in the parking lot of the Spare Attic.
All the Pines residents were out in force, watching—some of them with coats thrown hastily over pajamas.

“Maybe you should park the truck by Rob’s unit,” I said. “We can always say we came to visit him.”

“Not that we’ll fool anyone,” Michael said. “Like, say, the chief, if he asks us what the blazes we’re doing here.”

But the chief wasn’t visible. I assumed that he and most of his officers were inside. The only one I could see was Sammy,
who was outside arguing with Ainsley Werzel.

Sammy wasn’t really doing much arguing—just standing in front of the entrance with his arms crossed, shaking his head, and
saying a few words now and again. Werzel was yelling and gesturing histrionically, like a coach disputing an umpire’s bad
call in the World Series.

I spotted Jorge Soto in the crowd. Had Horace tested the sweatshirt yet, I wondered. Surely the stains would only turn out
to be chocolate. Or maybe barbecue sauce. Or—

Jorge saw me looking his way, left the group he was standing with, and came over. I moved a little closer to Michael.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Burglary, we think,” he said. “We heard sirens, and then all the cops in the county showed up. There’s a humongous truck
parked on the other side of the Spare Attic—you can’t see it from here. We figured someone must have tried to break in. Stupid
thing to do. Like there’s any doubt that it’s related to Doleson’s murder.”

“Related how?” Michael asked.

“If they catch the burglar, isn’t it almost certain they’ll have the killer?”

“Maybe someone just tried to take advantage of Doleson’s death to burgle the place for some reason unrelated to the murder?”

Jorge shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said. “I guess there could be more than one person wanting to break in there. After all, that’s obviously where
he keeps the dirt.”

“Dirt?” I echoed.

“Stuff he was blackmailing people with.”

“Doleson was a blackmailer?” I asked. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

“He was a blackmailer, yeah,” Jorge said. “And I’m very sure, because he tried to blackmail me.”

“About what?” I asked. “Sorry—maybe I shouldn’t ask but—”

“He threatened to turn me over to Immigration if I didn’t pay up.”

Oh, dear. Was Jorge illegal? Not only did I like him, but he was a key employee at Mutant Wizards. Could the company get in
trouble for having him on staff? Even though he’d passed a background check before hiring? Would the police scrutiny surrounding
the murder cause a problem for him? Could Rob somehow arrange to sponsor him legally? It would be a small disaster if the
company lost him. Then again, if he’d lied about his immigration status . . . and there was that damned sweatshirt.

He must have guessed from my face some of what was going through my mind.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m legal,” he said. “Got my green card, working toward naturalization.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“But I figure Doleson snooped around in my room—we all know he does it—and found some of the papers I had there. In my spare
time, I do volunteer work at the Latino Community Center, helping people cope with the ice.”

“The ice?” I repeated, looking down at the snow, slush, and ice at our feet. Surely immigrants had bigger problems to cope
with than adjusting to the normally mild Virginia winters.

“Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE,” he explained. “We don’t get many illegals at the center, but even people who are
legal need help dealing with the bureaucracy—it’s hard enough to do if English is your first language. People who need help
getting their working permits renewed. People who are legal but want to apply for citizenship. People in danger of losing
their green cards over some minor brush with the law, like a traffic offense. My English is good enough to decipher the forms.
And I’m no lawyer, but I know when to call one in.”

“That’s great,” I said. And I meant it; particularly since, given how busy the programmers at Mutant Wizards were, he didn’t
have all that much spare time to begin with. I hoped I was suspecting him unjustly.

“You pay it forward,” he said, with a shrug. “Anyway, I guess when he saw all the immigration information I had, he jumped
to the conclusion I was illegal, and thought he’d try to squeeze me.”

“Did you report him?”

“I thought of it,” he said. “But he was a real vindictive guy. Might try to do something to get back at me.”

“What could he possibly do?”

Jorge looked uncomfortable. I saw him glance over to where Werzel was still pacing back and forth like a caged tiger in front
of Sammy’s guard post. Yeah, smart to make sure the press was out of earshot before talking about blackmailable secrets.

“Before I found out he was spying on his tenants, I sometimes invited the people I was helping over to my apartment,” he said.
“I don’t always know their status when they first come to see me. If they’re illegal, I tell them that there’s not much I
can do and refer them to an immigration lawyer I know. But what if Doleson spotted someone who turned out to be illegal? He
could report me and I’d lose my green card like that!”

He snapped his fingers and shook his head sadly.

“It’d be your word against his,” I said.

“Yeah, but he’d have his digital photos,” Jorge said. “Hard to explain those away.”

“Digital photos?”

“He’s always taking pictures of people coming and going,” Jorge said. “He’s been doing it for years—no idea why.”

“I can guess,” Michael said. “Up until five or six years ago, the Pines was the sort of motel couples went to if they didn’t
want to be seen together.”

“Yeah, it always was a dive,” Jorge said, wrinkling his nose as if remembering a bad smell. We all glanced back at the ramshackle
building. With several inches of snow softening its contours and hiding some of the shabbiness, it looked almost habitable.

“And it was the only motel like that in Caerphilly County,” Michael went on. “So everyone knew where to look for their cheating
spouses.”

“You mean people were still stupid enough to go there?” Jorge asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Michael said. “Not everyone was smart enough to take their infidelities out of the county. But what
really did Mr. Doleson’s business in was when people found out he used his digital camera to take pictures of everyone who
came there. And sold the evidence for a hefty fee.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.

Michael shook his head.

“He’d been doing it for years. Of course, until the last few years he used Polaroids. When people learned that he’d supplied
evidence in a few bitterly contested divorces, his business disappeared completely. That’s why he converted the place to apartments.”

“Lucky he did,” Jorge said. “Or I’d still be sleeping on someone’s couch.” Caerphilly’s chronic housing shortage was legendary.
“Anyway, even if he didn’t have anything to blackmail me with, just reporting me would cause a major hassle. I know people
who have spent years trying to clear up completely bogus accusations.”

“But you think he was blackmailing other people?” I asked.

Jorge nodded.

“Everyone assumed his blackmail business folded when he converted the Pines to an apartment building,” Michael said. “I guess
everyone underestimated him.”

“You know,” I said, “this could explain why they kept Dole-son on as Santa. Maybe he was blackmailing someone on the town
council.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Michael said.

“When they seize his blackmail files, they’ll find out,” Jorge said. “I’m sure that’s what the burglary is all about.”

“You think he kept his files at the Spare Attic?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Jorge said. “Most of the bins have walls made of chain link.”

“I know,” I said. “We still have a bin there.”

“But Doleson’s own storage place is a room with reinforced walls and a huge, fancy padlock on the outside.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Not myself, but I’ve talked to guys who have,” he said. “And it stands to reason he wouldn’t keep anything really valuable
in his unit here at the Pines. The walls are like cardboard.”

“Like?” I said. “The walls are cardboard, period. One night, when his neighbors were making a racket, Rob tried to pound on
the wall and ended up putting his fist through it.”

“So the killer is someone Doleson was blackmailing,” Jorge went on. “And then the killer came to steal the incriminating evidence
before the police have a chance to find it. This could break the case wide open!”

“Or confuse it,” Michael said. “After all, if Doleson was blackmailing a lot of people, the killer would be only one of multiple
people desperate to remove incriminating evidence.”

Maybe Jorge believed his theory that the burglar had to be the killer or maybe he wanted us to believe it because it diverted
suspicion from anyone who wasn’t the burglar. Telling us about Doleson’s attempt to blackmail him could be another very clever
way to divert suspicion. I was suddenly glad I’d turned over the Blitzen sweatshirt to the police.

Michael and Jorge were so caught up in their discussion that they didn’t notice the sudden flurry of activity at the door
of the Spare Attic.

The police were leading out their suspects: Clarence Rut-ledge and Caroline Willner.