Six Geese A-Slaying(22)

“Come on, Dr. Smoot,” Rose Noire said, taking him by the arm and gently propelling him along. “Let’s talk about this. Think what a wonderful opportunity for personal growth this offers.”

I winced at hearing my cousin’s new catchphrase. My broken leg this past summer, the loss of Michael’s aging but still functional convertible to a falling tree this fall, last week’s painful dental work—to her, they were not problems but welcome opportunities for personal growth.

If she used the same line when she heard that Michael’s mother was coming for a month-long visit right after the new year. . . .

Still, her approach seemed to comfort Dr. Smoot. With me leading the way, she guided him back to the pig shed. A small crowd awaited us, but fortunately it was only police and family. Including Dad, of course. I went over to stand next to Michael.

“How’s it going?” I whispered.

“Werzel’s going to make us all look like complete fruitcakes in his article,” he whispered back.

“Good,” I said. “I’m all for truth in journalism.”

“On the bright side, he’s lost his camera,” Michael added. “It’s making him quite testy, but the chief’s relieved.”

Dr. Smoot squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Rose Noire nodded and patted his arm encouragingly.

“I know you can do it,” she crooned.

Dr. Smoot took a step toward the shed. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and took out something that he was careful to conceal in his hand. He lifted his hand to his mouth and slipped something in.

As if by magic, his spine straightened, his head lifted, his chest puffed out, and he began to walk calmly and confidently toward the shed. He stopped at the door and looked around to smile at us before ducking in.

“Oh, dear Lord, he’s wearing the fangs,” I muttered.

Michael winced, and we both looked over at Werzel, who was scribbling in his notebook, so perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Bad enough that our medical examiner had to be coaxed to the crime scene, but when his grownup equivalent of a security blanket was a custom-fitted set of vampire fangs—

“Of course, the good news is that no one will believe a word Werzel writes if he puts everything in,” Michael whispered.

“Thank God for the lost camera,” I whispered back.

“Oh, my,” we heard Dr. Smoot exclaim from inside the shed.

Rose Noire took an anxious step forward, then glanced at the chief and checked herself. Dr. Smoot popped out of the shed door. His hood was thrown back, his hair looked disheveled, his collar was askew, and if Werzel had missed the fangs before, he couldn’t overlook them now, because Dr. Smoot was smiling broadly.

“You didn’t tell me about the cauthe of death!” he exclaimed.

“No,” the chief said. “Because technically that’s what you’re supposed to tell me.”

“It’s all preliminary, of courthe,” Dr. Smoot said, as he adjusted his collar and gathered the shreds of his professional dignity. “We can’t tell until we’ve done the autopthy, but—”

“Can you lose those things?” the chief asked.

Dr. Smoot blinked in confusion for a second. The chief gestured slightly at his mouth.

“Oh, thorry,” Dr. Smoot said. He reached into his mouth and extracted the fangs. “As I was saying, we won’t know till we’ve done the autopsy, but my preliminary opinion is that he died from a loss of blood resulting from a wound to the heart inflicted by a sharp wooden object.”

“Someone killed him by shoving a stake through his heart?” Werzel asked.

“We won’t know for sure until the autopsy,” Dr. Smoot said. “But essentially, yes.”

Werzel glanced at Horace and then back at Dr. Smoot.

“I love this town,” he murmured.

“Do you want me to—” Dr. Smoot began.

“Thank you, Dr. Smoot,” the chief said, with a glance at Werzel. “And now why don’t we leave Horace and Sammy alone to get on with it.”

“With what?” Werzel asked. “An exorcism, maybe?”

“Their forensic analysis of the crime scene. Horace, you carry on. Sammy, you stay with him and make sure the crime scene stays secure. Meg, do you mind if we use your old office in the barn for our incident center? We’ll move operations over there.”

Werzel watched as Sammy and Horace stepped inside and Sammy pulled the door firmly shut. Then he glanced around.

“You’ve done so well,” Rose Noire said to Dr. Smoot. “I should get back to the sheep. Just come find me if you start feeling stressed again.”

“And I should get back to the camels,” Michael said. He went over and began untying Moe’s and Curley’s reins.