Six Geese A-Slaying(13)

Werzel fell in step with me as I headed toward the house with my armload of placards. He even nudged a couple back into place when I began to lose my grip on them. It would have been nice if he’d offered to take a few, but he had his notebook out and he was scribbling madly.

“So, you don’t approve of this SPOOR thing?” he said. He’d probably taken a few shots of the SPOOR rebellion. I made a note to see if I could borrow his camera, once the parade was over, and accidentally delete anything really embarrassing.

“I thoroughly approve of SPOOR,” I said. “It’s a wonderful organization. My father’s the current president, and I’ve joined in some of their protests myself. They’re doing good work to protect the bird population. But I told everybody from the start that we weren’t allowing any political signs or gestures as part of the parade. Not even for political causes I agree with. It’s a holiday parade.”

Just then, I noticed that one of the geese had followed us and was hovering nearby, clearly waiting for a chance to talk. A very tall goose—Clarence? I looked around for someone to handle the placards and spotted my brother.

“Rob,” I said. “Put these somewhere. In the safe room.”

“Sure thing,”

“Safe room?” Werzel repeated.

“Our pantry,” I said. “It’s got a lock on the door. We have a lot of strangers wandering around the house and grounds today, so anyone who wants a safe place to leave a purse or a laptop can check it in the safe room.”

“Good idea,” he said. “There’s always a klepto in every crowd.”

Especially if the crowd included Mother’s side of the family. We had several relatives who suffered from what Mother referred to as “a little problem.” Michael liked the phrase “insufficiently developed understanding of the concept of private property,” but I suspected in at least half the cases in my family the so-called kleptomaniacs were actually drama queens with an unquenchable thirst to be the center of attention. Not that I was going to mention this to a reporter.

“And while you’re in the house, give Spike a bathroom break, okay?” I said to Rob.

“Roger.”

Jorge Soto came up to help Rob with the placards and I turned back to the goose.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

The goose took its head off, revealing Clarence’s shaggy mane.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ve been telling them repeatedly that signs were completely inappropriate. Not that they’ve been listening.”

“I understand,” I said.

“It’s just that—”

He glanced at Werzel, who was holding his pen poised over his notebook as if waiting to take dictation.

“Can we have a little privacy here?” I asked.

Werzel cocked his head as if he didn’t quite understand what I was saying.

“Beat it,” Clarence said, his voice an octave lower than usual. He scowled at Werzel, and tried to cross his arms to assume a menacing posture. Of course, the goose costume wasn’t designed for arm crossing, and it looked more as if he was trying to fold his wings in prayer, but Clarence still looked remarkably menacing. Werzel got the message and hurried off. Clarence turned back to me.

“Look,” he said. “I just wanted to give you a heads up about something. Feeling is running rather high among some of the SPOOR members.”

“About the protest signs? Don’t they understand—”

“No,” he said. “About Santa.”

“Is there something environmentally unsound about the concept of Santa?” Staying politically correct seemed to get harder every year.

“Not Santa in general, just your Santa.”

“You mean the Santa the Town Council foisted on me,” I said. “I would never have cast Ralph Doleson as Santa.”

“No, you’ve got more sense,” he said. “But remember what happened with him this summer? Oh, wait—it was while you and Michael were on your honeymoon, so I suppose you didn’t hear. Well, in late June—oh, look!”

I turned to see what he was pointing at. The wise men were taking their camels for a test ride. The camels alone would have been worth staring at—they were stately and majestic and wore the most elaborate and brightly colored leather saddles, bridles, and other accoutrements I could ever remember seeing. They were even more impressive with the elaborately robed wise men riding them. I looked around, but Ainsley Werzel had wandered off someplace. Ah, well—with luck, none of the photos he took would be used for the article anyway, and the camels would still be around when the photographer eventually showed up.