Six Geese A-Slaying (6 page)

Chapter 7

“I thought you had someone distracting him,” the chief grumbled.

“So did I,” I said. “But I guess Michael and Dr. Blake underestimated the power of the press.”

“Are there any other doors to this shed?” the chief asked.

“No, but I suppose someone could try to get in or out through the windows,” I said. “In’s more likely; they’re shuttered on
the outside.”

“Go in and guard the crime scene,” the chief said to Horace. “And can you call Debbie Anne and tell her to send Dr. Smoot
over?”

Horace nodded and slipped inside.

Ainsley Werzel appeared around the corner of the barn and reined in his camel about ten feet away from us.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’ll have to ask you to leave,” the chief said. “And take the camel with you.”

“What right have you—” Werzel began.

“You’re about to contaminate a crime scene,” the chief snapped. “Now take that thrice-blasted beast someplace else.”

Werzel’s eyes grew large, and he opened his mouth. Then he shut it again.

“Hut-hut!” he said, kicking the camel. They disappeared around the corner of the barn.

“That was too easy,” the chief said.

In the distance, we heard Werzel shouting, “Hoosh! Hoosh!”

“He’s not going away,” I said. “He’s just dumping the camel.”

The chief muttered something indistinguishable.

Sammy Wendell, one of the chief’s deputies, appeared from the other side.

“Debbie Anne paged me and said to meet you here,” Sammy said. “What’s up?”

“Homicide,” the chief said. “Keep that damned reporter at bay while we work the scene, will you?”

Just then Werzel appeared from around the barn, notebook in hand.

“I’m sorry, sir, ma’am,” Sammy said. “You’ll have to watch from behind this line.”

Sammy held out his hands to define an imaginary line about twenty feet from the shed door. The ma’am, I realized, was directed
at me. I went over and stood behind Sammy’s line, with an ostentatiously cooperative look on my face. Werzel didn’t like it,
but he followed suit. For now, at least—if I were the chief, I’d keep my eye on him.

“What happened?” Werzel asked.

“Homicide,” the chief said.

“Whoa!” Werzel exclaimed. “Someone offed Santa?”

“The name of the deceased is being withheld, pending notification of next of kin,” the chief said. “What makes you think Santa
Claus is involved?”

“Stands to reason,” Werzel said. “That’s the shed where I saw Santa kicking the dog,”

“What do you mean by ‘kicking the dog’?” the chief asked. From his frown, I realized he thought “kick the dog” might be a
hip, new synonym for “kick the bucket.”

“Santa had a close encounter with Spike,” I said.

The chief closed his eyes and shuddered. He’d met the small evil one before. Then he opened his eyes again.

“We need Smoot, damn it,” he said.

“You need what?” Werzel asked.

The chief frowned but didn’t answer him.

“It’s a who, not a what,” I said. “Dr. Smoot is the county’s medical examiner.”

“Acting medical examiner,” the chief said. “Any idea where he is?”

“He’s over there on the Dickens float,” I said, pointing.

The
Caerphilly Clarion,
our local weekly, was taking its turn at photographing the Dickens float. Not surprising—thanks to Mother’s decorating skills,
it was one of the highlights of the parade. It featured an enormous Victorian Christmas tree at one end and a London street
scene, complete with mountains of fake snow, at the other. Mother and the rest of the improbably well-dressed Cratchits were
seated in a pair of velvet sofas at the foot of the Christmas tree, toasting each other with plastic champagne flutes and
pretending to open elaborately wrapped presents. At the other end stood Scrooge, surrounded by the Ghosts of Christmases Past,
Present, and Yet-to-Come. The Cratchits may have gone upscale, but the ghosts’ costumes more or less matched the book—Christmas
Past was a tiny blond child in a choir robe; Christmas Present was an enormous robed figure with a crown of holly, and Christmas
Yet-to-Come was a specter whose face was hidden in the shadows of his hooded black robe. Okay, the text did say that Yet-to-Come
was “shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one
outstretched hand.” But couldn’t Dr. Smoot have found a way to look a little less like the grim reaper? I’d always thought
the costume at odds with the holiday spirit of the parade—though strangely appropriate for our present problem.

“I don’t see Smoot,” the chief said.

“In the hood,” I said.

“Oh, good grief,” the chief muttered and strode over toward the float.

“What’s wrong with him?” Werzel asked,

“We don’t get a lot of crime in Caerphilly,” I said. “Chief Burke takes it very seriously and very personally when someone
breaks the peace in his county.”

I didn’t see him taking notes.

“Right,” he said. “I mean what’s wrong between him and this Dr. Smoot?”

I shrugged and tried to look puzzled by the question. I knew exactly what was wrong. The chief was a very by-the-books guy,
and Dr. Smoot had recently developed an active interest in the supernatural. There was no way the chief or the town council
would offer a permanent appointment to a medical examiner who, in addition to determining the manner and means of death, would
occasionally venture an opinion on the likelihood of the deceased’s return as a ghost, vampire, or zombie. But since the job
paid almost nothing, none of the county’s other medical personnel had shown the slightest interest in doing it. The way things
were going, the chief could be stuck with Dr. Smoot as acting medical examiner for the rest of his career.

And the chief was still mad about what happened when Dr. Smoot, hearing that one of the New Life Baptist deacons had a severe
garlic allergy, took it on himself to determine if the deacon was one of the undead. Apparently Dr. Smoot had seen too many
movie vampires cower from a single drop of holy water. Unfortunately, the New Life church wasn’t equipped with holy water
fonts and the closest equivalent was the pool used for full immersion baptism. The chief might have forgiven Dr. Smoot a little
sooner if the
Caerphilly Clarion
hadn’t printed a picture of the would-be vampire slayer and his victim being rescued from the watery deep.

Still, the chief was polite enough as he conferred with the sinister, hooded figure at the snowy end of the Dickens float.
Then the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come climbed awkwardly down from the float and headed our way at a brisk trot.

“That’s just wrong,” Werzel said, shaking his head as his gaze followed the running figure. “Phantoms should glide.”

Yes, scurrying didn’t exactly enhance a sinister ghost’s image, but what unsettled me more was the undignified sight of the
chief trotting after him. Clearly the chief didn’t trust Dr. Smoot not to say something the press shouldn’t hear. At any rate,
he beat Dr. Smoot to the door of the pig shed. After a brief whispered exchange of words, he held open the door.

“In here,” he said.

“Oh, dear,” Dr. Smoot said. “Inside?”

The chief closed his eyes, and if I could have read his mind, I bet I’d have heard him counting to ten.

“Yes, in there,” the chief said. “That’s where the body is.”

“It’s just that it’s a very small shed,” Dr. Smoot said. He crept a few inches closer to the shed and peered into the door.
Which anyone who knew him would realize was incredible progress. At one time his claustrophobia would have sent him running
away at the mere thought of being forced to look into an enclosed space.

“It’s bigger than it looks,” I said. “And if you like, we could open up the windows. You’d hardly know you were in a building
at all.”

“I don’t see why we can’t have more outdoor homicides,” Dr. Smoot said. He turned sideways to the door and began inching toward
the shed door in crab fashion.

“You might want to leave the robe out there,” came a voice from inside the shed. Only Cousin Horace’s voice, but at the sound,
Dr. Smoot let out a loud shriek, jumped a foot, and then turned and fled.

“Damn the man,” Chief Burke muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Horace said, emerging from the shed. “I didn’t mean to startle him.”

“What is he afraid of—ghosts?” Werzel said.

“No, he likes ghosts,” I said. “He’s afraid of small spaces.”

“A claustrophobic medical examiner,” Werzel said, with a chuckle.

“Claustrophobic
acting
medical examiner,” the chief repeated. “Horace, what—”

Then he looked at Werzel, frowned, and leaned over to whisper in Horace’s ear.

They made quite a picturesque tableau—the gorilla and the wise man. Werzel grinned and reached inside his brown shepherd’s
robe—for his camera, no doubt. He frowned, took his hand out, and began patting his pockets, while leaning over to whisper
to me.

“Why is he dressed as a gorilla?” he asked.

“I’ve forgotten offhand,” I said. “But I’m sure it’s connected with one of the floats.”

I mentally crossed my fingers as I said it. Maybe Werzel would buy the parade excuse and not keep asking other people the
same question until he found out that we had cousins who didn’t know what Horace looked like as a human.

“Damn,” Werzel said. “Where’s my camera? I had it right here.”

A wave of impatience suddenly seized me.

“I’ll go bring Dr. Smoot back,” I said, turning to go.

“Good luck,” the chief said. “The fool is probably halfway back to town by now. We won’t find him for days.”

“I’ll manage,” I said over my shoulder.

I had a sneaking suspicion where I could find Dr. Smoot. I checked my clipboard and wound my way through the crowd of participants
to the sheep pasture across the road from our house, where the shepherds keeping watch by night had been assigned to abide
with their flocks until parade time.

Clustered near the fence where they could observe what was going on were about thirty prize Lincoln sheep belonging to Seth
Early, our neighbor. I also spotted Ernest, the llama I’d given Michael for Christmas. I wondered if Michael was still trying
to sneak Ernest into the parade with the sheep. If I had time, I’d have a word with Seth. He could care less that there had
been no llamas within five thousand miles of Bethlehem at the time of the Nativity, but if I even hinted that Ernest would
take the spotlight off his beloved sheep, that would do the trick.

First things first, though. Finding Dr. Smoot was more important than preserving the historical accuracy of the parade.

The shepherds were all seated on the ground, just as the carol described, except for Seth himself, who was standing in the
midst of his flock, wearing a brown homespun shepherd’s robe, holding a rough-hewn shepherd’s crook, and staring over the
fields, seemingly unaware of the dozen tourists snapping his picture. I couldn’t blame them—he was attractive in a weathered,
forty-something way, and he certainly had his shepherd act down cold, possibly because he was a full-time sheep farmer in
real life.

I just wasn’t sure it was such a good idea, his planning to march in the parade with a flock of thirty sheep.

“Can’t you just bring a couple of sheep?” I’d suggested when I heard about his plans.

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night,” he’d said. I
couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a yes or a no.

“Right,” I’d said. “But couldn’t you just keep watch over two?”

“Two? We’re not reenacting Noah’s ark. Two sheep are not a flock.”

“How about three, then?”

Of course he’d ignored me. He’d learn. Seth’s sheep were an adventurous lot. Even when he left them in the pasture, they spent
a large portion of their time finding ways of slipping past the fence so they could roam the countryside. And he wanted to
take them traipsing halfway across the county? He’d be hunting down stray sheep for days.

But that was his problem, not mine. I glanced in the direction he was frowning and spotted my cousin Rosemary Keenan, or Rose
Noire, as she now preferred to be called. She was also dressed in a homespun shepherd’s robe—doubtless handwoven out of sustainable
organic cotton, since Rose Noire had become a leading light in Caerphilly’s environmental and New Age circles. She was patting
what at first looked like a heap of black fabric wrapped around her legs.

I’d found Dr. Smoot.

Chapter 8

“Now, now,” Rose Noire was saying. “Don’t let this undo all the progress you’ve made!”

I sighed. Rose Noire had been practicing therapy without a license on Dr. Smoot, trying to cure his claustrophobia by encouraging
him to act out his related childhood terror of vampires. He was a little less claustrophobic than he had been, but the so-called
therapy had sparked his new obsession with the supernatural. Not what I’d call real progress.

“It’s just so small and dark,” he said.

“Dr. Smoot,” I called.

“I’m not going back,” he wailed, clinging tighter to Rose Noire.

“You don’t have to go in the shed,” I said. “We can open all the doors and shine some really bright lights in there, and you
can examine the body from outside.”

“Oh, dear, there really is a body, then?” Rose Noire asked. “That’s terrible. Such negative karma for the whole parade.”

“Not to mention a real bummer for the victim,” I said. Rose Noire didn’t appear to notice my sarcasm.

“I’m going to do a blessing for everyone in the parade,” she 68 said, spreading her hands out as if to embrace the immediate
world and then waving them around like a conductor.

“Great,” I said. I meant it. I wasn’t entirely convinced that having my cousin walk around burning sage and trying to beam
positive thoughts at everyone would do any good—but if it didn’t work, at least it did no harm, and if it did work, I wanted
as much of it as possible for today’s star-crossed parade. “But please don’t tell anyone the reason you’re blessing things,”
I added. “The chief wants to keep it pretty quiet for now, so he doesn’t have a crowd control problem at the crime scene.”

I was in favor of keeping it quiet, too. If only we could keep the news from spreading until after the parade.

“Of course,” she said. “We only want good energy for a holiday parade.”

“Any chance you could provide some moral support for Dr. Smoot?” I asked. “The chief would really like it if he could officially
declare the victim dead.”

“They’re not sure he’s dead, then? That’s a relief.”

“I found him, and I’m sure,” I said. “But the chief has to follow the law. Dr. Smoot doesn’t have to examine the body if he
doesn’t want to, but they can’t really do anything until the body’s officially pronounced dead.”

Odds were if Dr. Smoot wimped out of examining the body, Chief Burke would enlist my father to perform an expert if unofficial
inspection. Dad was both a semi-retired doctor and an avid mystery fan who jumped at any chance to get involved in a real
life crime—especially a murder.

“Come on, Dr. Smoot,” Rose Noire said, taking him by the arm and gently propelling him along. “Let’s talk about this. Think
what a wonderful opportunity for personal growth this offers.”

I winced at hearing my cousin’s new catchphrase. My broken leg this past summer, the loss of Michael’s aging but still functional
convertible to a falling tree this fall, last week’s painful dental work—to her, they were not problems but welcome opportunities
for personal growth.

If she used the same line when she heard that Michael’s mother was coming for a month-long visit right after the new year.
. . .

Still, her approach seemed to comfort Dr. Smoot. With me leading the way, she guided him back to the pig shed. A small crowd
awaited us, but fortunately it was only police and family. Including Dad, of course. I went over to stand next to Michael.

“How’s it going?” I whispered.

“Werzel’s going to make us all look like complete fruitcakes in his article,” he whispered back.

“Good,” I said. “I’m all for truth in journalism.”

“On the bright side, he’s lost his camera,” Michael added. “It’s making him quite testy, but the chief’s relieved.”

Dr. Smoot squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Rose Noire nodded and patted his arm encouragingly.

“I know you can do it,” she crooned.

Dr. Smoot took a step toward the shed. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and took out something that he was careful
to conceal in his hand. He lifted his hand to his mouth and slipped something in.

As if by magic, his spine straightened, his head lifted, his chest puffed out, and he began to walk calmly and confidently
toward the shed. He stopped at the door and looked around to smile at us before ducking in.

“Oh, dear Lord, he’s wearing the fangs,” I muttered.

Michael winced, and we both looked over at Werzel, who was scribbling in his notebook, so perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Bad enough
that our medical examiner had to be coaxed to the crime scene, but when his grownup equivalent of a security blanket was a
custom-fitted set of vampire fangs—

“Of course, the good news is that no one will believe a word Werzel writes if he puts everything in,” Michael whispered.

“Thank God for the lost camera,” I whispered back.

“Oh, my,” we heard Dr. Smoot exclaim from inside the shed.

Rose Noire took an anxious step forward, then glanced at the chief and checked herself. Dr. Smoot popped out of the shed door.
His hood was thrown back, his hair looked disheveled, his collar was askew, and if Werzel had missed the fangs before, he
couldn’t overlook them now, because Dr. Smoot was smiling broadly.

“You didn’t tell me about the cauthe of death!” he exclaimed.

“No,” the chief said. “Because technically that’s what you’re supposed to tell me.”

“It’s all preliminary, of courthe,” Dr. Smoot said, as he adjusted his collar and gathered the shreds of his professional
dignity. “We can’t tell until we’ve done the autopthy, but—”

“Can you lose those things?” the chief asked.

Dr. Smoot blinked in confusion for a second. The chief gestured slightly at his mouth.

“Oh, thorry,” Dr. Smoot said. He reached into his mouth and extracted the fangs. “As I was saying, we won’t know till we’ve
done the autopsy, but my preliminary opinion is that he died from a loss of blood resulting from a wound to the heart inflicted
by a sharp wooden object.”

“Someone killed him by shoving a stake through his heart?” Werzel asked.

“We won’t know for sure until the autopsy,” Dr. Smoot said. “But essentially, yes.”

Werzel glanced at Horace and then back at Dr. Smoot.

“I love this town,” he murmured.

“Do you want me to—” Dr. Smoot began.

“Thank you, Dr. Smoot,” the chief said, with a glance at Werzel. “And now why don’t we leave Horace and Sammy alone to get
on with it.”

“With what?” Werzel asked. “An exorcism, maybe?”

“Their forensic analysis of the crime scene. Horace, you carry on. Sammy, you stay with him and make sure the crime scene
stays secure. Meg, do you mind if we use your old office in the barn for our incident center? We’ll move operations over there.”

Werzel watched as Sammy and Horace stepped inside and Sammy pulled the door firmly shut. Then he glanced around.

“You’ve done so well,” Rose Noire said to Dr. Smoot. “I should get back to the sheep. Just come find me if you start feeling
stressed again.”

“And I should get back to the camels,” Michael said. He went over and began untying Moe’s and Curley’s reins.

“Elephants for me,” Dad added, turning as if to go.

Chief Burke was frowning at something in his notebook.

I studied my clipboard and turned to leave.

“Where’s your barn?” Werzel asked.

I pointed. He made another reflexive grab for his camera, swore under his breath when he came up with empty air, and headed
over toward the barn, pulling out his cell phone as he went.

Michael stopped untying the camels. Dad returned to the chief’s side. Sammy popped the door open again.

“Coast clear?” he asked.

“Clear,” the chief said. “Round up the rest of the officers and maybe a few reliable volunteers and secure the damned perimeter
of my crime scene.”

“Yes, sir!” Sammy loped off.

The chief turned back to Dr. Smoot.

“So did the stake kill him, or was it done after he died?” Chief Burke asked.

“I can’t tell you till I do the post mortem,” Dr. Smoot said.

“I assume the time of death—”

“Impossible to say anything until after the post mortem!” Dr. Smoot exclaimed.

“Impossible for you maybe,” I said. “But I can pin it down to a half-hour period.”

They both looked at me.

“I was checking people in for the parade, remember?” I said. “I happened to notice that Mr. Doleson arrived almost precisely
at nine. I remember thinking he was the very last person to arrive on time. And I looked at my watch immediately after I found
him, and it said nine-thirty-five. I wrote it down in my notebook, just in case. So allowing a few minutes for Eric and Cal
to find me—”

“Admirable precision,” the chief said, with a faint smile. “Of course, given the number of people with easy access to the
crime scene during the window of opportunity, I doubt if this case will hinge entirely on the time of death, but you never
know.”

I nodded. No, odds were the time of death wouldn’t crack the case. But it might give alibis to some of the people I didn’t
want to see suspected. And I realized that Spike, bless his evil little heart, had accidentally prevented Michael from being
the last person to see the victim alive. Maybe I was overreacting, but I recalled that in the mystery books Dad read by the
bagful, the last person to see the victim alive was always a key suspect. But between the time Mr. Doleson had kicked Spike
out of the shed and slammed the door and the time I’d shown up to find the body, Michael was alibied not only by several dozen
parade participants but by the chief himself. I made a mental note to give the small evil one a whole handful of treats next
time I saw him.

“The time of death’s not the important thing anyway,” Dr. Smoot was saying. “Clearly someone thought he was a vampire!” He
sounded downright happy about it.

“Halloween’s over,” the chief said, with an involuntary glance at Horace’s gorilla suit. “And while I’ve heard half a dozen
people just today call Mr. Doleson a bloodsucker, do you really think anyone takes that literally?”

“You see a whole lot of those college students running around wearing black,” Horace said. “Black clothes, black fingernails,
black lipstick.”

“That just means that they think they’re cool, and goth,” I said. “Not that they literally think they’re vampires.”

“Perhaps the stake’s intended to be a symbolic gesture,” Michael said. “Suggesting that the killer considers Mr. Dole-son’s
business practices no better than commercial vampirism.”

“That sounds more likely to me,” the chief said.

“I still think you should assign someone to infiltrate the local occult community,” Dr. Smoot said. He sounded as if he wanted
to be recruited for the job.

“We have a local occult community?” the chief asked.

“Oh, yes,” Dr. Smoot said. “You’d be amazed at some of the things that go on in a seemingly quiet town like this.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the chief muttered.

An idea struck me.

“Dad,” I said. “What kind of wood is the stake made of?”

“Now that’s an interesting question,” Dad said. He turned to the chief. “May I?”

The chief frowned slightly and tightened his lips. I had the feeling that the only reason he was putting up with what he would
normally have called interference from civilians was that we’d all been moderately useful, especially in fending off the press.
But this was pushing his limits. Finally he nodded.

“But don’t touch anything,” he snapped. “We haven’t fingerprinted that thing yet.”

“No, no,” Dad said. “Of course not!”

He placed his hands ostentatiously behind his back, stepped into the shed, and peered at the stake, both through and over
his glasses. And then he pulled out a magnifying glass to reinspect the wood. He paid particularly close attention to the
areas where the bark still clung.

“Probably holly,” he said, as he stood up. “Very light color, close-grained. I’d say
Ilex opaca
—the American holly. Is that significant?”

“ ‘Out upon merry Christmas!,’ ” I declaimed. “ ‘What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a
time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer.’ ”

The chief and most of the other bystanders were looking at me as if they thought I’d suddenly lost my mind, but Michael joined
in on the rest of the quote.

“ ‘If I could work my will,’ said Scrooge indignantly, ‘every idiot who goes about with “Merry Christmas” upon his lips should
be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.’ ”

“
A Christmas Carol
!” Dad exclaimed. “Of course!”

“Christmas Carol?” the chief echoed. “Like ‘The Holly and the Ivy’?”

“It’s a quote from Dickens’s book,
A Christmas Carol
,” I explained. “Something Scrooge says.”

“So you think the murderer was making a statement about Christmas, not about Mr. Doleson’s character?” the chief asked. He
was scribbling frantically in his pocket notebook.

“No idea,” I said. “Maybe it just struck the killer as appropriate. After all, Scrooge was a miser, and Mr. Doleson was no
philanthropist.”

“I still think you should look at the local occult community,” Dr. Smoot muttered.

“Or maybe the murderer just thought he was being clever,” Horace said. “Using a weapon that fit in with the theme of the Christmas
parade.”

“Holiday parade,” I said, out of reflex. “You know what it does prove?”

Chief Burke frowned, but paused his scribbling and looked up at me warily.

“This was premeditated,” I said. “The killer had to cut that stake from a holly tree and sharpen it. Or at least deliberately
bring it here.”

“It’s not something connected with the parade?” the chief asked.

“Most of these people can’t be relied on to march in the right direction,” I said. “Do you think I’d trust any of them with
sharp sticks? No, sharpened holly stakes are not a part of the parade.”

“Didn’t think so,” the chief said. “But you never know. Dr. Smoot, perhaps you could—”