“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 h
im 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.”
I could see his eyes glaze over. Good; we were safely back in quaint again. Maybe he’d skedaddle back to Washington after the parade and the county’s unemployed and working poor could collect their turkeys and warm coats in privacy.
I turned to greet the delegation from the nearby clown school, which involved receiving multiple joy buzzer handshakes and having innumerable coins pulled out of my ears. I heard Werzel’s camera clicking, and cringed.
But when I’d dispatched the clowns to their staging area, I turned and found that Werzel was snapping pictures of the Dickens float. Mother and her fellow Victorians certainly were elegant. I smiled approvingly as Werzel snapped shots of the float from various angles. Another triumph for Mother’s decorating skills, not to mention her ability to appear completely impervious to both summer heat and bitter cold like today’s weather.
Unfortunately, when Mother saw I was free, she furled her parasol and came over.
Six Geese A-Slaying Page 3
