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 ne
ws 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 StarTribune.”
“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.”
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 twen
ty 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.
Six Geese A-Slaying Page 5