Six Geese A-Slaying (3 page)

“Nothing,” I said. “Well, except for the fact that they keep changing their minds about when the snow will start, but there’s
nothing you can do about that. Most of the participants are already here, and it’s not even nine.”

“Which means we have to put up with them for the next three hours,” Michael said, frowning.

“Cheer up,” I said. “That gives us plenty of time to send out a posse for anyone who doesn’t show.”

“Or better yet, plenty of time to round up a replacement,” Michael said. He waved at a brace of tuba players in Caerphilly
High School band uniforms. “No one is irreplaceable.”

“Except possibly the camels,” I said, as I pointed dramatically to the left to steer the tuba players toward the rest of their
band. “There are just two people left that I’m at all worried about.”

“Who?”

“The Virgin Mary,” I said. “For the nativity scene float.”

“The one who’s nine months pregnant.”

“Only eight,” I said. “Maybe eight and a half. The costume’s bulky. No one will notice.”

“Tell me again why we cast her as Mary?”

“Her father-in-law owns a flatbed truck,” I said. “The only one we could find large enough to hold the nativity scene.”

“She’s perfect for the role, then.”

“It’s really the truck I’m worried about,” I said. I glanced down the road again, hoping to spot it. “We can replace her,
but if the truck doesn’t show up, the Holy Family will have to walk all the way to Caerphilly. And then there’s Santa. He’s
only a couple of miles away, and what do you bet he’ll be the last to show up. Of course, on the bright side, at least we
won’t have to put up with him for too long. Frankly, if there’s anyone I’ll be happy to see the last of when the parade’s
over, it’s him.”

Chapter 3

“Oh, Mr. Doleson’s not so bad,” Michael said.

“Compared to whom?” I asked. “Scrooge? The Grinch? W.C. Fields with a hangover? Attila the Hun?”

“I admit he’s a total grouch and can make ‘Good morning’ sound like a mortal insult,” Michael began.

“Not that I’ve ever heard him say anything as polite as ‘good morning,’ ” I muttered.

“But at least he’s a reclusive grouch, so we don’t have to see him more than once or twice a month.”

“Wish we could say the same for some of my family,” I grumbled. “I can’t remember the last time we had dinner for two. But
Ralph Doleson’s not my idea of a proper Santa.”

“I don’t think he’s anyone’s idea of a proper Santa,” Michael said. “But he’s practically the only guy in town with the requisite
white beard and round belly who’s also short enough to fit into the existing costume. You know how cheap the town council
is—they would never pay to replace a perfectly good costume that’s only used once a year.”

“Well, at least it’s only once a year,” I said. “And—speak of the devil.”

The short, round, rather toadlike figure of Ralph Doleson was slouching our way. He was lugging a garment bag and a battered
canvas duffel that I assumed contained his costume. He’d obviously made an effort for the occasion. He had on a clean pair
of overalls. And in an unprecedented fit of vanity, he appeared to have shampooed his beard. Though not his long, stringy
hair—a good thing he’d be wearing the Santa hat. His face wore its usual surly expression.

I glanced casually at my watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. He might be lacking in social graces, our Santa, but at least he
was punctual. Anyone who arrived from now on was officially late, and would receive the faint frown, the stern scowl, or an
actual lecture, depending on how late they were and how penitent they seemed.

“Morning, Mr. Doleson,” Michael said.

Doleson looked up, scowling as if Michael had hurled a string of insults at him.

“Do you expect me to get dressed in that barn of yours?” he snapped. “It’s full of children and animals.”

A Santa who hated children and animals? I was about to snap back that the barn was the only men’s dressing room we had and
he could change in plain sight if he liked, but fortunately Michael stepped in.

“Of course not,” Michael said. “We’ve cleaned out one of the more private outbuildings for you. Wouldn’t do for the kids to
spot Santa changing into uniform, now would it? Here, let me help you with your luggage.”

Doleson snorted, but surrendered the garment bag and the duffel and shambled off in Michael’s wake.

“One of the more private outbuildings?” I repeated. Maybe elegant estates had outbuildings. We had sheds, in various states
of disrepair. Though they looked better than usual at the moment. Mother’s decorating crew had gift-wrapped the more disreputable-looking
ones for the season, with green plaid paper and perky red bows, and decorated the rest with wreaths, evergreen garlands, and
fake snow that would soon become superfluous.

I managed not to break out laughing when Michael bowed and gestured grandly toward the door of the pig shed. Michael must
have done a good job of charming the old reprobate. Mr. Doleson peered through the door, nodded brusquely, and stepped in.
Trust Michael to save the day and restore my good mood.

The pig shed was the perfect place for Santa. We didn’t have any pigs, so the shed was rarely used. We’d stashed Santa’s sleigh
there overnight in case the snow started slightly earlier than the weatherman predicted. The sleigh was an old horse-drawn
wagon with boards nailed along both sides to hide the wheels. The boards were painted to look like runners, and I’d spent
several hours the night before scraping off peeling paint, touching up the design, and then literally watching the paint dry—I’d
had to run several space heaters to get the air warm enough for it to dry, and I didn’t think it was safe to leave them untended.

Most years having a fake sleigh on wheels worked better than a real one, given how rarely we got a white Christmas in central
Virginia. But how well would our ersatz sleigh work if the snow got very deep before the end of the parade? I shoved the thought
out of my mind. The Shiffley Construction Company was on call for snow removal duty, standing by with snowplow attachments
on all their trucks and tractors. If that wasn’t enough—well, there was nothing more I could do now.

With the sleigh crammed into it, the shed wasn’t exactly palatial quarters but it was extremely clean—I’d made sure of that
before we shoved the freshly painted sleigh inside. Mr. Doleson would have enough room to change in privacy, and he could
spend the rest of the time until the parade began in the relative comfort of the sleigh’s padded back seat. Since Michael
reappeared without him, I assumed Mr. Doleson was satisfied, and I stamped a particularly heavy-handed holly leaf beside his
name on the participants’ list.

“Mission accomplished,” Michael said, reappearing at my side.

If—”

“Professor Waterston?”

Michael turned to see a short, plump, elderly woman dressed in a Mrs. Claus outfit, holding something wrapped in red foil
and trimmed with green ribbon.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” Mrs. Claus said. She handed him the parcel and tripped away.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“The dean’s wife, I think. More to the point, what’s in this?”

“Another fruitcake,” I said. “Do you like fruitcake?”

“Not particularly,” he said, frowning as he teased open one end of the foil to verify its contents. “Why?”

“Someone has it in for you, then. There’s a rumor going around town that you do.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I know how that got started. Professor Braintree’s holiday tea.”

Dr. Edith Braintree was the chair of the committee that, in a few months, would decide whether to offer Michael tenure at
Caerphilly College. If they turned him down, he’d have a choice between settling for a lower-paid adjunct position for the
rest of his career or looking for someplace else to start another seven-year tenure quest. Thus the committee had much the
same power over our future as the jury has over the defendant in a criminal trial—though at least no one expected accused
felons to have tea with the jurors, lose to them at racquetball, and buy cases of Girl Scout cookies from their daughters.

“She seemed so pleased when I took a slice,” Michael went on, “I got a little carried away and said it reminded me of my mother’s
fruitcake. And before you ask, no, Mom never made fruitcake that I can remember. I don’t know what came over me.”

I knew perfectly well—tenure fever. I hadn’t told Michael, but tenure fever was the real reason I’d gotten stuck with organizing
the parade. If the mayor had called up and tried to charm me into the job, I could have managed to keep saying no until he
gave up and went looking for another victim. But when Dr. Braintree called, full of flattery and enthusiasm, implying that
not only the town but the college would be so grateful if I’d agree to take the post. . . .

“I suppose we can manage to eat up a fruitcake eventually,” Michael was saying.

“Can we eat up seven of them?” I said. “Apparently there’s a large hidden cult of fruitcake bakers in town, all eager for
new converts.”

“Oh, dear,” he murmured. “Probably not. Don’t any of your family like fruitcake?”

“Good idea,” I said. “We’ll regift them to out-of-town relatives.”

“What a devious idea,” he said. “I like it. I’ll leave this one with you, then, and if you don’t need me for anything I’ll
go help your grandfather with the camels.”

“Have fun,” I said. “And—”

Just then we heard a shout from the pig shed.

Chapter 4

Michael and I both started running toward it, as did several other people nearby, but before any of us reached the door, it
slammed open and a small black and white furball sailed out, propelled by the toe of Ralph Doleson’s boot.

“Keep that damned rodent away from me or I’ll sue!” he bellowed. “I’m bleeding, dammit!”

Yes, he was bleeding ever so slightly. Nothing that wouldn’t stop in a few seconds if he held his wounded finger up and wrapped
something around it instead of holding it down and waving it around vigorously.

The rodent in question was our family dog, Spike—eight and a half pounds of pure meanness wrapped in a deceptively cute and
furry exterior. He’d landed outside with a yelp, and took a few seconds to catch his breath, but then he launched himself
toward Mr. Doleson, who swore, and slammed the door so hard the wreath fell off. Spike barked furiously at the door for a
few seconds, then retreated so that it wouldn’t hit him in the face when it opened and lay down with his head on his paws
to wait for his enemy to emerge.

It would have been cute if I didn’t know how serious Spike was about revenge. And if I hadn’t been so tempted to help him.
I strode over and knelt down to check him for wounds—wondering, as I did, who had been brave or foolish enough to decorate
Spike’s collar with a red-and-green velvet bow the size of his head.

“What a jerk,” Rob said. I was so focused on Spike that I started at his voice.

“Spike might have bitten him first,” Eric said.

“You know he hardly ever bites strangers unless they bother him first,” I said. “And even if Spike started it, Doleson seriously
overreacted.”

“I think we should report him for cruelty to animals,” Michael said, in what someone who didn’t know him might think was a
calm and unemotional voice. I could tell he was furious.

“Wait till after the parade,” I said. “Then we’ll get him.”

“I’ll talk to the chief about it,” Michael said.

I nodded. Spike seemed okay, so I began jotting down the names of the potential witnesses in my notebook-that-tells-me- when-to-breathe,
as I called my giant, spiral-bound to-do list. Apart from Rob, Michael, and me, at least half a dozen respectable citizens
of Caerphilly had witnessed Mr. Doleson’s act. Not to mention Ainsley Werzel, who was staring at the door of the pig shed
with an outraged look on his face. Maybe Werzel and I had just gotten off on the wrong foot. I made a resolution to be particularly
friendly and helpful next time I talked to him.

“It’s my fault,” Rob said. “I put Spike in there because I thought it would be safer than the barn, and you know how he hates
being confined. I’ll put him in his crate.”

“Get Clarence to check him out first,” I said. “I didn’t see any blood or obvious injuries, but it’s possible he’s broken
a bone or two and is so fixated on his prey that he just hasn’t noticed yet.”

“And don’t be silly,” Michael said to Rob. “Your failure to crate the small evil one does not give Ralph Doleson the right
to drop kick him across the yard. I’ll find Clarence and send him over.”

I returned to my post to continue checking in stragglers, though I kept walking over to look at Spike until Clarence arrived.
He examined the patient, and gave me a thumbs up before leading Spike off to the safety of his crate in the kitchen.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Spike wasn’t technically our dog. Michael’s mother had dumped him on us several years ago when
her doctor advised her to see if a trial separation helped her allergies. We’d become resigned to the fact that he was with
us for the long haul. But I knew Mrs. Waterston would have a fit if she heard that anything had happened to Spike.

For that matter, I’d developed a grudging fondness myself for the small evil one, as we’d nicknamed Spike. He had more guts
than sense, and was not only capable but fond of biting the hands that fed him. On at least one occasion, though, he’d accidentally
saved my life. Ralph Doleson had not heard the last of this.

“Let me know if he tries to file charges,” a voice said. I looked up to see the tall form of Jorge Soto, one of the programmers
who worked at Mutant Wizards, my brother’s computer game development company.

“Thanks—I’ve already got you on my list of witnesses to the dog-kicking.”

“Not the first time he’s done something like that,” Jorge said. “I live at the Pines, you know.”

I nodded. Ralph Doleson owned the Whispering Pines, a former hot sheets motel that was now a grungy garden apartment building.
Rob technically lived there, too, although for the last couple of months he’d been spending most of his time in one of the
unused bedrooms on the third floor of our house.

“He doesn’t like dogs,” Jorge went on. “We’ve had a couple of cases at the Pines where people who had dogs found out Doleson
was teasing and mistreating them till they tried to bite him, and then calling the police on them.”

“What a jerk!” I said.

“Yeah. I mean, if he doesn’t like dogs, he should just put in a no-dogs rule. He owns the place; no one could argue with him.
But I think he likes causing trouble.”

“I wish we could fire him as Santa,” I said. I tucked my notebook away and headed for the refreshment stand. The adrenaline
charge induced by Spike’s encounter with Doleson had faded, leaving me feeling suddenly tired and in need of warmth and caffeine.

“Why don’t you fire him?” Jorge asked, falling into step beside me.

“Hard to find a replacement on short notice,” I said. “Especially one who can fit into the tiny costume.”

“Can him anyway,” Jorge said.

The lady at the refreshment stand smiled and handed me a black coffee without my even asking for it. Maybe I’d been hitting
the coffee a little too often this morning.

“How can we possibly have a Christmas parade without Santa?” I asked.

“Holiday parade,” he said, with a grin. Obviously he’d heard my knee-jerk correction to other people.

“Holiday, yes; but still—without Santa?”

“In my country, Santa’s optional.”

“Santa doesn’t bring you presents?” I took a deep gulp of my coffee.

“No, in Costa Rica, Baby Jesus brings the presents.”

“So you don’t have Santa at all?”

“No, we have him,” Jorge said. “Santa—St. Nicholas, that is—brings Baby Jesus. He’s like the chauffeur.”

“I never knew that.”

“When my parents were little, they didn’t have Santa at all. But once we kids started seeing a lot of American Christmas movies,
they had to have some way to explain to the kids what the fat guy in the snow suit was all about. Not sure if it’s just my
parents or if it’s widespread in Costa Rica, but that’s how I was brought up.”

“I wish we were having a Costa Rican holiday parade, then, but I think around here the kids would be heartbroken if we didn’t
have a Santa.”

“Yeah,” Jorge said. “I guess they don’t know that behind that beard is the meanest man in town.”

With that he waved and wandered off. I finished my coffee and could already feel my energy level rising. I’d crash later—I’d
been running on four or five hours of sleep a night for the past week—but for now, I was okay. I squared my shoulders and
turned back just in time to see the long-awaited arrival of the flatbed truck for the nativity scene.Ourheavily-pregnant Virgin
Mary waved cheerfully at me from its passenger window. Things were looking up.

Clarence had even stopped the piping and drumming, thank goodness. I could see the musicians straggling across the road in
small groups, heading for the cow pasture. Followed by several tourists with cameras. Well, the musicians were a picturesque
sight—the drummers and fifers in their red, white, and blue Revolutionary War uniforms and nearly every one of the bagpipers
wearing a different plaid with his full-dress kilt. Given the temperature, all of them probably had matching blue knees by
now—should I have someone check them for signs of frostbite?

“There you are!” My father bounced into view, his round face beaming. His exuberance erased whatever last bits of stress I’d
been feeling. Dad adored Christmas—adored holidays generally in fact, and was in seventh heaven at being able to help with
the annual holiday parade. No present I could possibly have given him would have made him happier. Well, okay, maybe announcing
the prospect of another grandchild would have beat the parade, but Dad was one of the few family members who took it on faith
that Michael and I had been working on that project since our Memorial Day elopement, and he had never demanded periodic updates
on our progress.

He was carrying his black medical bag. I hoped this meant that he was prepared for any emergency that might need his medical
skills, and not that we’d already had one.

“Where do you want the boom lift?” he asked.

“I don’t know that I want a boom lift at all,” I said. “Who brought it, and why? Does one of the floats need repairing or
something?”

“It’s going in the parade, of course!” he exclaimed, and from his expression I could see that he was clearly astonished at
my lack of enthusiasm for the boom lift. “The Shiffleys brought it. Don’t you have it on your list?”

I flipped through the pages of my checklist, baffled. Had I, in a moment of mental derangement, approved the addition of a
boom lift to the parade? Perhaps decked in holly, evergreen, and red ribbon, and carrying a banner saying “Merry Christmas
from the Shiffley Construction Company”?

“There it is,” Dad said, pointing to an item on my list. “The Clayville Congregational Church Choir.”

“I thought they were just marching and singing,” I grumbled.

“They’re calling it ‘Angels We Have Heard on High.’ They’re all wearing angel costumes, and they’re going to have the soloists
up on the platform, scattering confetti. Biodegradable confetti, of course. Don’t you remember?”

“Silly me,” I said, although this was the first I’d heard of the Congregationalists’ plans. “How about putting the boom lift
over there by the side of the road? Just beyond the elephants.”

“Elephants? We’ve got both of them, then? Splendid! That means I get to ride one!”

Dad scurried off, and a few minutes later, I saw the boom lift chug slowly by, with Dad twenty feet in the air on the platform.
It appeared to be driving itself, unless the person standing up on the platform with Dad was the driver. I’d been wrong about
the holly and red ribbon—they’d covered up as much of the boom lift’s industrial orange frame as possible with sky blue crepe
paper, and stuck several giant cotton clouds to it at random intervals.

The choir members followed in the boom lift’s wake in twos and threes, most of them already wearing white choir robes, white
wings made of cotton batting and silver glitter, and glitter-coated halos.

And there went Werzel, the reporter, stumbling along in pursuit of the choir, snapping away with his tiny camera. So much
for our image as an erudite, cosmopolitan community. Maybe I should be glad he’d already pegged us as quaint. Quaint was an
improvement over barmy.

Since Werzel’s camera looked like the same inexpensive model that I used to take family snapshots, we could always hope that
his photos didn’t turn out good enough for the
Trib
to use. Where was the promised professional photographer, anyway?

I double-checked my participants list to make sure I had the waiver from the choir absolving me, the Caerphilly Town Council,
and the immediate world of responsibility for anything that might happen to the high-flying angels during the parade. Reassured,
I stamped the choir in as present and accounted for.

“Not bad for a small town.”

Ainsley Werzel had returned. I had to smile—the reporter was clearly struggling to maintain his former air of cool superiority.
Score one for the elephants.

I waved and just nodded to him—at the moment, I was busy welcoming Miss Caerphilly County. Werzel stood by with surprising
patience while I admired the beauty queen’s hair, earrings, nails, makeup, dress, and shoes and gave her directions to the
women’s dressing room—the living room and library in Michael’s and my house.

“So how far is Tappahannock from here?” he asked.

“Forty-five minutes to an hour,” I said.

“You’re an hour away,” he shouted into his cell phone. “I said west of Tappahannock, not in it.” He snapped the cell phone
closed.

“Photographer’s still lost,” he said. “So how come you guys have this shindig only two days before Christmas? Most towns have
their Santa parade at the beginning of the shopping season so the parents can hear their kids’ gimme lists. And the stores
can make more sales.”

“Caerphilly’s parade started out as an event to give presents to the town’s poor children.”

“You mean poor as in economically disadvantaged?” Werzel said.

“A hundred years ago, when the parade started, people mostly just said poor,” I answered. “But yes. And then when the Great
Depression came, everyone was economically disadvantaged, and they started the tradition of giving every kid in town a present.
So that’s what has happened for the last eighty years or so.”

He nodded and scribbled some more. I considered telling him that while our curmudgeonly Santa was handing out small presents
to all the children, regardless of economic status, in the public ceremony, many of the families who were quite genuinely
poor would be picking up additional presents, not to mention food and warm clothing, from stations set up by the various churches
and community service organizations.

I decided against telling him. If he bothered to use the information, it would make Caerphilly look good, but I doubted he
would mention it. And more important, most of those proud, struggling country families were embarrassed enough at having to
accept handouts. It would be the last straw to have some reporter from a big city paper taking intrusive pictures of them
doing so.

“And there’s a big festival,” I said instead. “Baked goods, barbecue, craft sales, lots of raffles, judging the quilting and
cooking contests, performances from many of the local musical groups and church choirs—sort of like a big church bazaar and
a county fair rolled into one.”