Six Geese A-Slaying

by Donna Andrews

  I slipped out of the dining room. Sammy was still reading as I closed the door behind me.

  “Seven dog collars. Three squeaky toys. Two rawhide bones, partially chewed . . .”

  Even without murder charges, Norris Pruitt was in a lot of trouble.

  I heard the front door open and turned around to see who it was.

  Ainsley Werzel.

  “No way back to town tonight,” he said. “Haven’t you people out here in the sticks heard about snowplows yet?”

  “We’ve heard about them, yes,” I said. “But considering how few big snows we get here in Virginia, the county wisely doesn’t buy a lot of expensive equipment that would spend most of its time rusting in a garage. And it’s not the snow blocking the road; it’s a giant tree that—”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Mind if I sleep in your barn?”

  Chapter 22

  Better the barn than the house, I supposed, and I was about to give permission when I remembered what else was currently in the barn.

  “You’d better bunk here in the living room,” I said. “The barn’s unheated and—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind. I’m sure you’ve got a full house. Don’t want to be a bother. No room at the inn and all that.”

  “Yes, but as I was about to say, the police are using the barn right now,” I went on. “And I don’t think they’d be too happy about civilians being in it.”

  “Well, if it’s no trouble,” he said. “I’ll take you up on that living room spot.”

  I had the feeling he could be all kinds of trouble if he tried. His small, restless eyes barely met mine before taking off to examine every detail of the hall, and his fingers twitched slightly, as if he were already mentally composing some kind of sordid exposé. I hoped he knew nothing of Michael’s long-ago career as a soap opera heartthrob and his more recent stint as an evil but sexy wizard on a cult hit TV show. Not that there was anything wrong with the fact that, unlike many actors, he’d earned a living during his New York years, but the college was more easily embarrassed. For that matter, any number of my family members had colorful pasts—or presents—that I would rather not see turning up in the Star-Tribune.Why couldn’t the man have been stranded on the other side of that blasted fallen tree?

  I waved him into the living room and was reaching to bolt the door when I heard a timid knock and opened it again.

  Horace.

  “Hey, Meg,” he said. “The chief still up?”

  “In the dining room.”

  Horace nodded and trudged toward the dining room. What was he so glum about?

  A few moments later, Sammy came out and went into the living room. I tagged along. Clarence sat staring into the fire.

  “Clarence?” Sammy said. “Chief wants to know if he can see you for a moment.”

  “I’m not talking without my attorney,” Clarence said.

  “He just wants to show you something.”

  Clarence thought for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet and followed Sammy. I tagged along again, but hung back just inside the dining room door.

  Horace and the chief were staring down at something on the table. I couldn’t see what without getting so close that the chief would notice me and kick me out.

  “I’m not talking without my attorney,” Clarence repeated.

  “You don’t have to talk,” the chief said. “I’m going to talk to you. Do you recognize those?”

  He pointed to Horace, who picked up a set of keys in one latex-gloved hand.

  Clarence peered, then shook his head, clearly puzzled.

  “You don’t recognize them? Never seen them before in your life?”

  Clarence tilted his head, perhaps sensing that there was a trap behind the words.

  “Yeah, I know you’re not talking now,” the chief said. “But when we can finally get you and your attorney together, we’re doing to do some talking together. And you can explain to me how Ralph Doleson’s keys ended up in your motorcycle saddlebags.”

  “What?” Clarence jumped to his feet. “That can’t be! I’ve—”

  Then he remembered that he wasn’t talking and clamped his mouth shut. Clearly he was tempted, though. Points to Clarence, not only for smarts, but for self-control.

  “How do you know they’re Doleson’s keys,” he asked finally.

  “We suspected they might be, from this,” Horace said. With one gloved finger he singled out and held up a small metal disk with “RAD” engraved on it. “And several of them fit his apartment, his office, and the Spare Attic’s front door.”

  “Someone could have put those in my saddlebags anytime,” Clarence pointed out. “The motorcycle was just sitting around parked at Meg and Michael’s house for hours before the parade, and then again for hours in town after the parade. And if I’d had his keys, why would we have broken into the Spare Attic? And—sorry. I’m not supposed to be talking.”

  “You’re not forbidden to talk,” the chief said. “You’re just not required to. Of course, if you want to clear this up tonight. . . .”

  “I’ll wait for my lawyer,” Clarence said.

  “Tomorrow, then,” the chief went on. “Once you’ve talked to that blasted attorney of yours. In the meantime, I think we could all use some rest.”

  Clarence, Horace, and Sammy shuffled out. I lingered and watched for a few moments as the chief gathered up his papers.

  “Of course, now Clarence has all night to invent an innocent explanation for the keys being in his saddlebags,” I said.

  He stood up.

  “I prefer to think that he has all night to come to his senses and tell the truth,” he said. “You still have a room left for me?”

  “Room at the inn? Of course.”

  I led him up to Rob’s room, on the third floor. I could see Deputy Shiffley laying out a sleeping bag outside the door of a bedroom at the other end of the hall, so I deduced that Clarence had opted for privacy over warmth and taken refuge there. I wished them all a good night and went down to see what Michael was up to.

  I found him sipping the last of his martini and putting the steaks back in the freezer.

  “‘Scrooge took his melancholy dinner,’” he quoted. “And so forth.”

  “Does that mean you’ve already eaten?” I asked. I’d grown used to Michael’s habit of speaking in scraps of dialogue when he was directing or acting in plays, but tonight I was too tired to puzzle out his meaning.

  He cocked his head for a moment, as if hunting for a bit of Dickens that fit the occasion, and then shrugged.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s an annoying habit, all this quoting.”

  “It’s interesting,” I said. “And this is much nicer than when you were quoting Who’s Afraid ofVirginia Woolf? ”

  “I’m also too tired to eat now, and I’m even too tired to think of a Dickens quote to say so.”

  “ ‘And being much in need of repose,’ ” I quoted—though not, I suspect, with complete accuracy—“ ‘Scrooge went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.’ ”

  “Oh, well done!” he said. “Though I think I can manage the undressing part. And since I expect to be in much more congenial company than Scrooge was, maybe we should rethink that falling asleep upon the instant part, too.”

  “You’re on,” I said. “We’ll see if you’re too tired to remember anything from Romeo and Juliet.”

  I peered into the living room on the way upstairs. The fire was dying down. Everyone was asleep, or at least huddled motionless in a sleeping bag, except for Ainsley Werzel. He was standing in a corner, muttering curses as he waved his cell phone around in what I could have told him was a fruitless quest for a signal.

  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.”