Six Geese A-Slaying (15 page)

Chapter 23

December 24, 7:50 A.M.

Ding-dong merrily on high

In heaven the bells are ringing

Ding-dong verily the sky

Is riv’n with angels singing.

Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria

Hosannah in excelsis!

Glo-o-o-o-o—

“Arg,” I muttered, from under the covers. “Don’t those angels know what time it is?”

“It’s almost eight,” Michael said, with a yawn. “I expect most angels get up at dawn for choir practice, and think we’re pretty
lazy, not being already awake to hear them carol.”

I stuck my nose out from under the covers and realized that if I kept it out I’d risk frostbite. The odd gray color of the
light peeping in through the break in the curtains meant we had not only plenty of snow covering the ground but also more
snow lurking in the clouds overhead, waiting to fall.

“Inconsiderate angels,” I said. “You’d think there might be at least one seraph thoughtful enough to say, ‘Hey, between the
parade and the murder and having a dozen houseguests dumped on them in the middle of the night, they had a hard day yesterday.
Let’s let them sleep in.’ Are there no night owls in heaven?”

“In heaven, certainly.” Michael slid out of bed and went over to peer out one of the front windows. “But not, apparently,
in the Baptist section. It’s Minerva with the New Life choir.”

“Someone must have found a chainsaw and cleared the road, then.”

“Thank goodness,” Michael said. “I was beginning to worry about my show tonight.”

I opened my mouth to point out that the predicted second round of snow was a much bigger threat to Michael’s one-man Dickens
show than even the most enormous fallen tree. But I thought better of it. For all I knew, the meteorologists might have changed
their forecasts again. And Michael was already showing subtle signs of pre-performance jitters. Why remind him that he might
be getting worked up over a show destined to be snowed out?

I put a pillow over my face. The choir boomed one final, glorious, five-part “Hosannah in excelsis!” into the skies and then,
after a brief pause, launched into “We wish you a merry Christmas.”

“You don’t suppose they’re really expecting figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer,” I muttered. “I thought your history professor
friend said that historically accurate wassail would be mulled beer.”

“I’ll put on the coffee,” Michael said, heading downstairs. “I rather think that would be the suitable Southern Baptist equivalent.
Especially before noon.”

“Before noon? Try before dawn.”

I pulled on my robe and stumbled over to the window. The singers were standing in a circle around our doorstep, their maroon
robes brilliant against the snowy yard. Every syllable they sang came out as a separate little white puff, so when the whole
choir got going, it looked as if they were sending up smoke signals. It was easy to tell that a couple of the choir members
were just mouthing the words.

I could see my own breath, too, which meant that either the power was still off or it hadn’t been on long. I flicked a light
switch back and forth a few times. Nothing.

The idea of a cold shower in a cold house didn’t appeal to me, so I threw on several layers of clothes and followed Michael
downstairs.

He had pulled out our camping stove and was heating two enormous pots of water.

“We’ll have to give them instant coffee,” he said.

“I imagine they won’t care as long as it’s hot.”

Roused by the carolers, our guests were waking up and either gathering at the front windows to appreciate the music or stumbling
into the kitchen in search of caffeine. Except, of course, for Clarence, who went outside leading Spike—probably to take his
mind off his legal problems with another canine behavioral therapy session.

Just as the water came to a boil, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” gave way to a solo rendition of “Rise Up, Shepherds, and
Follow.” I selfishly grabbed one of the first cups of hot water, stirred in the instant coffee, and inhaled the steam as I
blew on the top of the cup.

Okay, it was still too early, but the alto voice doing this solo was worth waking up for. I closed my eyes to enjoy both the
music and the steam and jumped when someone spoke at my elbow.

“Is Henry up yet?”

Minerva Burke, resplendent in her maroon robe, billowed into the kitchen.

“Not yet,” Michael said, handing her a cup. “I’ll start working on breakfast for our guests,” he added to me.

“He cooks?” Minerva said. “No wonder you married him. Henry burns toast. Speaking of Henry . . .”

“He’s up in Rob’s room,” I said. “Third floor. Want me to show you the way?”

Minerva nodded, Michael handed her a second mug for the chief and I led the way. But when we reached the second floor landing,
she stopped.

“Can I have a word with you?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. I leaned against the banister. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s this murder investigation.”

Had the chief asked her to warn me off?

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If I think of anything else important, I’ll call the chief, and I won’t interfere with his investigation
by trying to dig up information myself.”

“Well, I wish you would.” She took a quick sip of her coffee. “I’d like him to spend at least part of the Christmas holiday
with his grandchildren, and the way things are going, that’s looking less and less likely.”

“The investigation’s not going well?”

“I have no idea if it’s going well or badly,” she said. “Not having seen the man since last night. But from the number of
messages coming in, clearly it’s still going. Someone has to keep working on it, and he’s not going to ask anyone to do what
he won’t do himself. The more he works on it, the higher his blood pressure will rise. As it is, I can’t in good conscience
give him a piece of my sweet potato pie, and you can’t imagine how much Henry loves that pie.”

I made a sympathetic noise.

“I picked up tickets to that show of Michael’s tonight,” she continued. “But the way things are going, I’ll be by myself.
Again. I was used to doing without him on holidays back in Baltimore. Big city like that, you’re bound to have a few people
mean enough to shoot each other on Christmas or New Year’s. But here—well, I expected better.”

She shook her head as if sadly disappointed by the inconsiderate behavior of the local criminal classes.

“I’m not asking you to interfere,” she went on. “But in a small town, people talk to each other more than to the police. Henry
should learn to work with that. If you hear something he needs to know, please tell him.”

I nodded.

“And if he won’t listen, tell
me
. He in the room at the end of the hall?” she asked.

I nodded again and left her to wake the chief. I strolled downstairs and followed the intoxicating smell of cooking bacon
into the kitchen.

I heard the chief and Minerva coming back downstairs again. Outside, Horace was handing out steaming cups of coffee, and I
could hear cheerful voices chattering and car doors slamming. The New Life choir was moving on in search of new audiences.
In the kitchen, I found Rob sitting at the table, wolfing down a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Michael had both burners
of our camping stove going and was frying up more eggs and bacon.

“I made it!” Rob announced, as if reporting a major triumph.

“Are the roads bad, then?” I asked.

“Horrible,” he said, through a mouthful of egg. “They’re pretty full up over at Mother and Dad’s. I had to sleep on the couch.
By the way—look at this.”

He held up his iPhone, which showed a rather nice picture of Michael on the camel.

“That’s great,” I said.

“Here, look through them,” he said, handing me the phone.

I paged through his photos. Rob was getting to be a half-decent iPhone photographer. Quite apart from the good shots of Michael,
I wondered if any of his photos might help with the murder investigation. If I could see them full size, that is.

“Can you give me copies of those?” I asked. “Not just the ones of Michael, all of them.”

“Sure,” he said. “Let me have that for a second.” He took the iPhone back and began tapping on the screen. “There. I e-mailed
them to you.”

“You’re getting signal?” Michael said, his hand reaching to the pocket where he kept his own cell phone.

“For now,” Rob said. “Out here in the boondocks, it’ll vanish again when the new storm gets going.”

“That’s right—you have Internet access on that thing,” I said. “Can I borrow it back for a few minutes? I really want to see
what the papers are saying about the murder.”

“You just want to see if anyone said anything nasty about your parade,” he said, but he handed over the iPhone. “Use it all
you like. Snow makes me want to hibernate. I’m going upstairs to take a long nap.”

He slouched out of the room.

“So, if the roads are open, will the chief and his troops be leaving soon?” I asked.

“No idea,” Michael said. “Sammy thought they’d want to use our barn for a while. At least I assume that’s what he meant when
he said they were still maintaining their incident command center.”

“The chief must have sent him to some kind of training class,” I said, as I fumbled my way to the Internet. “Horace always
talks that way for a week or two when he’s had some new kind of training.”

I wasn’t as deft at iPhone navigation as Rob—probably because I hadn’t spent every waking minute of the last year playing
with the thing. But I opened a browser and navigated to the
Trib
’s Web site.

I winced to see that the story about our parade was the third one down on their home page. Did that mean it was on the front
page of the print edition? With the headline SANTA SLAIN IN RURAL VIRGINIA PARADE?

“That’s awful,” I said aloud.

“What’s awful?” Michael asked. He slid a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and leaned over my shoulder.

“What if some kid sees this?” I said, pointing to the headline. “Couldn’t they at least say ‘Santa Impersonator’?”

“Too long for a headline,” he said, peering at the tiny screen. “And I guess they figure anyone old enough to read it doesn’t
have to be protected.”

“That’s true,” I said. He returned to his cooking and I figured out how to scroll down the article with one hand while eating
with the other.

“Just our luck to have a
Trib
reporter here for the murder,” I grumbled, through a mouthful of eggs.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“Could be worse,” I said. “And maybe I misjudged Werzel—this is certainly not the slash job I expected from him.”

“Probably because it’s not his byline.”

I scrolled up to the top of the article again.

“You’re right,” I said. “Good eyes; I didn’t even notice that. Who’s this Keating person?”

Michael shrugged.

“He must have shown up after Werzel called about the murder. Or maybe wrote it from the facts Werzel phoned in.”

“Good grief,” I said. “You should see what it says at the bottom of the article: ‘Staff writer Ainsley Werzel contributed
to this report.’ I feel sorry for him. He hung around all day, had to rough it in our unheated living room overnight, and
all he gets is ‘contributed to this report.’ That’s not fair!”

“Maybe that’s why he’s still hanging around again today,” Michael said.

“Werzel? Damn,” I said. “Sorry for him doesn’t mean I want him around. Maybe he just doesn’t know the road is open.”

“I think four or five people have already made a point of telling him,” Michael said. “He says he’s looking for his camera,
but I suspect he’s on the prowl for dirt.”

“Has he reported the camera?” I asked. “Maybe he didn’t lose it after all—maybe Norris Pruitt lifted it.”

“Not sure he’s officially reported it, but I’m sure the chief knows it’s missing,” Michael said. “Maybe when they catch Norris
Pruitt, they’ll find the camera.”

“True,” I said. “It wouldn’t be in the stuff they seized from Norris’s bin; Doleson was holding that hostage for several months.
But unless Norris has undergone a miraculous transformation, he’s probably filching things and stashing them somewhere.”

Michael nodded. He slid the last of the bacon into a covered dish and turned the camping stove off.

“That should do it,” he said. “Werzel just went outside—maybe I should keep an eye on him.”

“Or maybe just tell him now that the road’s open he should hit it?” I suggested.

“Never wise to antagonize the press,” he said. He topped off his coffee cup, put on his heavy jacket, and went outside.

The idea that Norris might have filched Werzel’s camera cheered me no end. Odds were that by the time Werzel got his camera
back, the parade, if not the murder, would be old news and whatever embarrassing or unflattering photos the camera contained
would never see the light of day, much less the Style section of the
Trib
. Still—perhaps I should ask Clarence and Caroline, if they found it first, to give me a few minutes alone with its delete
button.

If Clarence was still outside, maybe I could have a private word with him. I threw on my own wraps and went outside myself.
I was still standing on the back porch, adjusting to the cold and looking around for Clarence, when I heard Michael’s voice.

“This is Ernest,” Michael was saying. “Our first llama.”

First llama? I’d been referring to him as “the” llama. And while I had to admit he wasn’t much trouble—far less than most
human visitors—I wasn’t ready for an entire herd of Ernests and Ernesti-nas grazing in our tiny pasture. Though I feared Michael
was.

I started to say so and stopped. Not a discussion I wanted to have in public, and especially not in front of a reporter. But
I made a mental note that we needed to have that discussion soon. Meanwhile, I crunched through the snow to the pasture. Michael
was leaning against the fence, gazing proudly at Ernest. Werzel looked grumpy, so I assumed he’d seen the “contributed to”
credit. And he obviously wasn’t enjoying Michael’s discourse on the joys of llama ownership.