Yes, everything was going splendidly, and before too long I could return to my own plans for Christmas, which included not only the giant potluck family dinner at Mother and Dad’s farm on Christmas Day, but also a quiet Christmas Eve with Michael after his one-man show was over. We’d fended off several dozen invitations from friends and family alike, and were planning to spend the evening in front of the fireplace with a glass of Shiraz and soft carols and—
“Aunt Meg!”
Eric came running up, followed by Cal Burke. They both looked wide-eyed and ashen-faced.
“What’s wrong?” I said, nearly dropping the clipboard in my alarm.
Eric swallowed hard.
“I think something’s wrong with Santa.”
Chapter 6
“Where is Mr. . . . Santa?” I asked.
“In the pig shed,” Eric said.
“Do you know what’s wrong with him?”
Eric glanced down at Cal, then shook his head.
“Not really,” he said.
But from the look in his eyes, he knew, and it wasn’t good news.
“Wait here,” I said. “If anyone shows up looking for me, tell them I’ll be right back.”
Eric nodded.
“And don’t either of you say anything to anyone,” I added. “Promise?”
Cal nodded.
“We won’t,” Eric said.
I handed him my clipboard to hold so he’d look more official, and hurried over to the pig shed.
“Meg, would you like some Christmas cookies?” someone called out as I passed.
“Later, thanks,” I said over my shoulder. What could be wrong with Mr. Doleson?
Whatever the problem, I was grateful Michael had thought to give Mr. Doleson the pig shed. It was not only private, it was somewhat out of sight of the rest of the yard, so if there was some kind of problem, perhaps we could deal with it quietly.
The shed door was closed. I heard no sounds from inside, so at least he wasn’t having another of his cursing fits.
“Mr. Doleson,” I called, as I rapped on the door.
No answer. I straightened the wreath on the door and waited another token few seconds before turning the knob.
Yes, there was definitely something wrong with Santa. He was sprawled on the back seat of the sleigh with one boot on and one held in his left hand.
His right hand clutched what appeared to be a stake stuck in the middle of his chest. From his fixed, staring eyes and the amount of blood inside the sleigh and on the dirt floor below, I had no doubt he was dead.
I stood there staring for what seemed like an hour—partly out of shock and partly out of morbid curiosity. I felt guilty about it, but I couldn’t help the impulse to drink in every detail while I could. After all, in another couple of seconds, I would call the police and Chief Burke would banish the prying eyes of civilians like me.
I glanced at my watch. Nine thirty-five. Only a little over half an hour since I’d seen him enter the pig shed. I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breath and jotted the time down.
Then I stepped out, shut the door, and looked around in all directions for someone I trusted to guard the shed while I went for help. I saw two choir members, assorted shepherds, and a very tall goose, but no one I knew well enough to guard a murder scene.
Then my luck changed. I spotted two figures strolling past. One was a wearing a bulky snowman suit while the other was my cousin, Horace Hollingsworth. At least I assumed it was Horace. All I could see was that the figure was wearing a ratty gorilla suit, but Horace came in his ape costume not only to costume parties but also whenever he could get away with pretending he thought costumes were called for.
“Horace!” I called. The gorilla turned around and stumbled in my direction while the snowman waved and continued on his way.
“Hi, Meg.”
Even muffled as it was by the gorilla head, I could tell that Horace’s voice was flat and depressed. I made a mental note to ask him later what was wrong. For now, Horace was the perfect person to stand guard. Back in my hometown of Yorktown, where Horace still lived, he was a crime scene technician for the sheriff’s department, so he of all people would understand the importance of keeping everyone out of the scene until someone competent could examine it.
In fact, he’d probably be the someone. Since Caerphilly was too small to have its own crime scene technician, York County often lent them Horace when they needed forensic help. Particularly if he was already here, as he so often was these days.
“I thought you were guarding the safe room,” I said.
“I locked it up so Sammy and I could have a snack,” he said.
“Was that Sammy in the snowman suit?” I asked. Sammy was one of Chief Burke’s deputies. “Damn, we could have used him, too.”