Six Geese A-Slaying

by Donna Andrews

  Deputy Sammy came over to talk to me.

  “The chief wants to know if you have any trash bags we can borrow,” he asked. “We don’t have any evidence bags large enough to hold the goose suits.”

  “There’s a whole case of them right inside the barn,” I said. “The Boy Scouts were going to use them in their post-parade cleanup.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  And speaking of the Boy Scouts, if Chief Burke was going to confiscate all the goose suits and perhaps detain all the SPOOR members for questioning, perhaps I should find them and see if they really were prepared enough to fill in as the six geese a-laying.

  Though why should they have to? An idea occurred to me, and I followed Sammy out to the barn.

  “The trash bags are over there,” I said, pointing to the corner where they were stored. Rather unnecessarily, since Sammy had already spotted the giant box with TRASH BAGS printed on it in two-inch letters.

  “A school bus will be fine,” the chief was saying into his cell phone. “How soon can you get it here?”

  “A school bus?” I echoed.

  “He’s taking us to town to be interrogated,” Ms. Ellie said.

  “Interviewed,” the chief said. “Okay, we have thirty-seven SPOOR members here. Is that all of you?”

  “Thirty-eight counting Mrs. Markland,” several geese chimed in. The chief scowled at his officers.

  “And where is this Mrs. Markland?” he asked.

  “Since I wasn’t her pastor, I couldn’t tell you,” Ms. Ellie said. “But I can assure you she wasn’t here murdering Mr. Doleson.”

  The chief blinked.

  “That’s the late Mrs. Markland,” I put in.

  “She’s dead, then?” the chief asked.

  “As a doornail,” Ms. Ellie said.

  “ ‘I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade,’ ” I quoted.

  The chief and Ms. Ellie both turned to frown at me.

  “Sorry, total Dickens immersion,” I said. “Just ignore it.”

  “We’ve found the trash bags, thank you,” the chief said. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

  Coming from him, it was a relatively subtle dismissal.

  “Great,” I said. “But I need something from you.”

  “What?”

  “Six geese,” I said.

  “The geese are all—”

  “Only six,” I said. “Look, you can’t possibly talk to all thirty-seven at once. Why not take thirty-one of them to town in your school bus, and let the remaining six take themselves there by marching in the parade?”

  “The costumes are evidence.”

  “We’ve got more costumes,” one of the geese said.

  “More?” The chief turned to frown at the speaker. “Where?”

  “Not here,” the goose said, backing off slightly. “But they’re over at Dr. Langslow’s farm. They don’t look the same. They’re left over from another event. We could send someone for them.”

  “You mean the white duck costumes?” a second goose asked.

  “They always looked more like geese than ducks anyway,” the first goose said. “They’re still better than anything the Boy Scouts could whip up on this short notice.”

  “I’ve got a key to the farmhouse,” I said. “I’ll send someone to fetch six of the white goose costumes. If it’s okay with you.”

  The chief frowned. He didn’t like the idea, but he also knew how important the parade was to most of the town.

  “And you could have some officers march right behind them to make sure they get to town,” I suggested.

  “My officers are rather busy.”

  “You could deputize someone. How about asking some of the campus police? I’m sure they’d be happy to help out.”

  The chief narrowed his eyes. The Camcops were probably already fuming with resentment that the crime had taken place so far off campus that there was no conceivable reason they could use for barging into the chief’s investigation. Though that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try.

  “Oh, yes,” Ms. Ellie said. “Such a good idea for promoting interdepartmental cooperation. You know how important that is to the town council.”

  “And the college administration,” I added.

  The chief had to struggle not to scowl at that. He was all for interdepartmental cooperation as long as it took the form of the Camcops accepting that their role was to give out parking tickets on campus, ride herd on fraternity parties, and stay out of his department’s way when any real crime occurred. Unfortunately, the Camcops wanted to claim jurisdiction over any crime committed on campus or in which any of the victims, perpetrators, or witnesses were students, faculty, or employees of the college. Their notion of interdepartmental cooperation was that eventually they’d get around to telling the chief what they were up to.

  “Of course, it’s a long march,” Ms. Ellie said. “Do you think the Camcops are up to it?”

  A sudden smile lit the chief’s face.

  “Yes, that’s an excellent idea,” he said. Clearly he liked the notion that by asking the Camcops to guard the geese, he was dooming them to a tedious, footsore day. “Sammy, see if you can arrange that.”

  With that, he disappeared into my office, with Horace and Dad close behind him.

  I handed Sammy my key to the farmhouse and he dispatched a deputy to fetch the spare goose suits.

  “Now take off the costumes,” he ordered. “All of you.”

  Some of the geese obeyed immediately, but others seemed strangely reluctant to shed their feathered suits. As Sammy and the other officers continued to chivvy them, the reason became clear. The suits were made of heavy polar fleece and covered with a thick layer of feathers. Despite the cold weather, the geese who emerged from their costumes were sweating profusely, and it quickly became evident that the recalcitrant geese were wearing little or nothing under their thick downy suits.

  Someone should organize this, I thought. We could borrow a few garments temporarily from the bins where people had been leaving their donations for the clothing drive. Set up separate dressing rooms for the geese and ganders. Guard the exits so none of the geese would attempt to flee. Someone should—

  Someone should mind her own business and get back to the parade she’s already organizing, I told myself.

  But the least I could do was make my suggestions to the chief.

  Chapter 12

  I popped into the chief’s temporary office and found that he, Dad, and Dr. Smoot were studying the murder weapon that Horace had placed on my desk—on a piece of plastic, thank goodness.

  Horace was frowning.

  “I’ve seen sticks like that before,” he said.

  “On Buffy the Vampire Slayer, they normally use something shorter and a bit more elegant,” Dr. Smoot said. “And in Dracula—”

  “I mean I’ve seen sticks like that in real life,” Horace said. “Not being used as a stake, either,” he added, quickly, as if afraid Dr. Smoot might have real-life observations of vampire-slaying stakes to share.

  “Holly’s a very common wood around here,” Dad said. “There must be hundreds and hundreds of small holly trees in those woods.” He waved his hand in a sweeping gesture at the window. The chief contemplated the woods with a frown, as if assessing an entirely new roster of suspects.

  “Are you suggesting the killer went out into the woods, whittled himself a stake, and then came back to kill Mr. Doleson?” he asked.

  “No, no,” Dad said. “The holly stake’s not fresh. It’s had some time to season. A few months at least.”

  “So we’re back to premeditation,” the chief said. “Someone knew Ralph Doleson would be here, prepared a stake several months ago, and smuggled it in here today to kill him with.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble when you’d have so many promising weapons already here,” Dad said. “Here in the barn alone you have shovels, pitchforks, hoes, crowbars, a
xes—”

  “And a whole bunch of other weapons that the killer turned up his nose at,” the chief said. “But I don’t think Meg was keeping a bunch of sharpened stakes in her barn, so unless you can show me someone who was—”

  “The Boy Scouts!” Horace exclaimed. “They did it!”

  We all stared at him.

  “You think the Boy Scouts killed Santa Claus?” the chief asked, finally.

  “No, but they made the stake! Meg and Michael let the troop camp out here last night, you know. And some of them are doing this whole project where they make their own tents from deerskin, and tent ropes from deer sinew, and so on. They’ve been whittling tent pegs just like this!”

  We all looked down at the two-foot-long stake.

  “Well, almost like this,” Horace said. “Except a little shorter. But if one of them was sharpening one end of a holly stick to make another tent peg and just hadn’t cut it down to the right length yet, it would look a lot like this.”

  The chief considered this for a few moments, with his head cocked to one side. Then he turned to me.

  “You still have these Boy Scouts on the premises?”

  “As far as I know,” I said. “They were going to spend another night in our field and help with the post-parade cleanup.”

  “Show me.”

  I led the way to the campground. It was fairly neat and tidy. Probably a lot tidier than the same boys’ rooms were at home. Some of the tents were ordinary modern tents made of faded canvas in various shades of green and khaki. But there were also three teepees made of leather—presumably deerskin. They were painted in reds, blues, and greens in what I gather were supposed to be authentic Native American designs of eagles, deer, buffalo, and other animals. I couldn’t help noticing that several of the buffalo looked remarkably like Homer Simpson. The Christmas wreaths over the tent flaps were a nice touch, but I wondered if I should tell their scoutmaster about the accompanying mistletoe.

  “I find it hard to believe that the Boy Scouts had anything to do with this,” the chief muttered.

  “Me, too,” I said. “I mean, I know the Boy Scouts have it in for the Easter Bunny, but as far as I know they’ve always been on good terms with Santa.”

  The chief just ignored me.

  We followed Horace around as he methodically inspected all the tents. The modern ones mostly had mass-produced tent pegs, but the deerskin tents did have hand-made pegs.

  “See, they’re larger than the commercial tent pegs,” Horace said.

  “But still a good deal shorter than our murder weapon,” the chief said, leaning over to inspect the peg.

  “I’ll get it,” Horace said. He put on his gloves and pulled one up, causing the tent with the Simpson buffalo on it to sag alarmingly.

  “Hey, watch it!” came a voice from inside the tent. We all started, and turned to see the round deerskin tent-flap flip open. A scruffy shepherd began to crawl out.

  “If I catch one more person messing with my stakes—” the shepherd began. Then he caught sight of us and stopped not only in mid-sentence but in mid-crawl, with one leg still inside the tent.

  “See!” Dr. Smoot exclaimed. “They even call them stakes!”

  “Who are you?” the chief said, training his frown on the shepherd.

  “Rufus Shiffley, sir,” the shepherd said.

  “Wilfred’s youngest?” the chief asked.

  Rufus nodded, and the chief’s frown faded.

  “Come on out, son,” he said.

  Caerphilly was still the sort of small town where you carried your family tree around with you, for good or bad. All I knew from their exchange was that Rufus was part of the vast Shiffley clan who lived in the more rural parts of Caerphilly County and neighboring Clay County. Clearly the chief had pegged Rufus, and not unfavorably.

  Rufus crawled out, and we could see that he had a cast on one foot. That answered my next question—why Rufus was here sulking in his tent instead of cleaning up after the elephants like the rest of the troop.

  “You said ‘If I catch one more person messing with my stakes,’ ” the chief said. “Have other people been around here pulling up these tent stakes, or pegs, or whatever you call them?”

  Rufus nodded.

  “Yes, sir, “ he said. “All night long. It was the guys sleeping in the modern tents. They can lose a peg or two and it’s not that big a problem, but with this thing, if you don’t get all the stakes in the right way, it sags and leaks.”

  “Has anyone stolen any of your stakes?” the chief said. “Not just pulled them out but taken them away completely?”

  “No, sir.” Rufus shook his head. “They’re all there, see. Well, they were until just now,” he added, frowning at Horace.

  “Sorry,” Horace said.

  “You don’t have any spares?” the chief asked.

  “No, sir,” he said. “It’s not something you lose that easily, unless someone’s playing a joke. I don’t know about the guys in the other tents.”

  “You mind if we borrow the rest of the handmade stakes for a while?” the chief asked. “I realize that will inconvenience you, but we’d be glad to move your gear to one of the other tents.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rufus said.

  “Chief?” It was Sammy. “The geese are rebelling.”

  “Rebelling how?”

  “They’re all saying that if six of them are allowed to march in the parade, the rest of them are marching, too,”

  “Not in costumes, they aren’t,” I put in.

  “How soon will the damned bus get here?” the chief asked, with an annoyed glance at me.

  “Well, that’s part of the problem, sir,” Sammy said. “We’re having trouble rounding up a driver, and it’s going to be a bear getting it through the crowds until after the parade, so if we just let the geese march themselves to town . . .”

  The chief strode off, with Sammy trailing behind him.

  “Let’s get Rufus moved,” Horace said. “And let the chief deal with the geese.”

  “Right,” I said. “Unless—Rufus, would you like to come inside where it’s warm? You’re welcome to stay in the house.”

  Rufus looked wistful.

  “I’d appreciate that, ma’am,” he said. “But I’m sort of supposed to be guarding everyone else’s stuff.”

  Horace and I helped him relocate not only his stuff but the stuff the other scouts had left behind in the two deerskin tents. Then we trudged back up to the house. Horace peeled off at the barn. I looked around and realized that I’d left my clipboard, the outward and visible sign of my office, in Eric’s hands.

  I pushed through the crowd, looking for Eric. Fragments of carols, hymns, and spirituals echoed from every corner of the yard, as the various choirs, bands, and strolling musicians rehearsed.

  I walked past one of Mother’s brainstorms—what I called Charity Alley. It had been my idea to invite a handful of charity and social service organizations to set up temporary stands here at the staging ground, but having them on either side of the path everyone had to take to get to the Porta Potties was definitely Mother’s idea. From the looks of it, a fairly successful one.

  Some people, though, could resist even the most heartwarming of causes. I saw Ainsley Werzel dashing down Charity Alley as if it were lined with piranhas and saber-toothed tigers instead of harmless souls like the uniformed Marine staffing the Toys for Tots booth and the cheerful Salvation Army women with their bells. He spotted me and hurried over as if seeking protection.

  “So what’s with all this charity stuff?” he asked. “You’ve got the Salvation Army, Goodwill, Toys for Tots, America’s Second Harvest, Kiva, Oxfam—what gives, anyway?”

  “ ‘At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time,’ ” I quoted.

  “The town doesn’t look that bad off,” he said. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve got a lot
of poor people here in Caer-philly?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m trying to quote Dickens. We just thought it would be nice to give people a chance to remember the true meaning of Christmas.”

  “Nice?” Werzel said. “Every time I turn around, someone’s got their hand out. Anyway, I’ve been looking for someone who can answer a few questions.”

  “Glad to answer anything I can,” I said, though I don’t think I managed to feign much enthusiasm.

  “So how come it’s the town police chief who’s doing all this investigating?” he asked. “I thought Virginia counties had sheriffs.”

  “We do,” I said. “But Sheriff Price is getting along—I think he must be ninety by now. He can’t do as much as he used to, so when the town hired Chief Burke, the sheriff appointed him assistant sheriff. The police officers and the deputies all report to him. In fact, it’s really all one force, so they all get to choose whether they’d rather be called ‘deputy’ or ‘officer.’ ”

  “So this is just a temporary situation, then?” he asked.

  “No, it’s been going on for five years.”

  “Five years? Isn’t the sheriff an elected official? You haven’t had elections in five years?”

  “We had them, yes,” I said. “And reelected Sheriff Price.”

  “You reelected a guy who doesn’t do anything?”

  “A lot of voters do that,” I said. “At least we know we’re doing it. And he doesn’t do anything wrong, which is more than most places can say about their elected officials.”

  Werzel shook his head.

  “I’m guessing he ran unopposed.”

  “No,” I said. “There were two other candidates. But everyone liked Sheriff Price’s campaign platform better.”

  “And just what was his campaign platform?”

  “That if elected he’d reappoint Chief Burke as assistant sheriff and stay out of his way,” I said. “About the only people who had a problem with that were the felons the chief has put away, and they don’t get a say anymore. It was a landslide.”