Someone had deliberately knocked off Santa at my parade. Someone who hadn’t cared that the dead body could be—and was—found by two innocent children. Someone who hadn’t cared that Ralph Doleson was about to do the one genuinely worthwhile thing he did all year. Someone who couldn’t just wait until the parade was over and Mr. Doleson had gone back to his daily routine. Okay, the murderer hadn’t done it to inconvenience me, but he—or she—did it on my watch. I had to do something.
Instead of crossing off “Find Santa,” I changed it to “Find Santa’s killer.”
Chapter 11
As I strode outdoors again, I flinched slightly as the cold air hit me, and then forgot abut it as I dived back into parade preparations. I felt more like my usual self again. Better than usual. As I stalked through the yard, I dispatched problems, answered questions, settled arguments, and calmed attacks of stage fright, almost without thinking. I was looking for a particular person. I headed toward the barn, where I’d last seen the six geese a-laying and all the surplus geese.
There were at least two dozen SPOOR members still wearing forbidden goose suits, which meant I had to keep my eye on them. It occurred to me that if they organized themselves in groups of six and each group slipped into the parade at a different point, it would take me a while before I could tell for sure that I wasn’t seeing the same six geese bumbling into the wrong part of the parade by mistake.
Then I realized that Chief Burke would solve that particular problem for me. He’d undoubtedly confiscate all the goose costumes so he could figure out which one had shed the tail feather found at the crime scene. If he didn’t, I’d do it myself, and tell SPOOR I was doing it on his orders.
I smiled slightly as I scanned the geese, who were happily milling around, unaware of how close they were to being plucked. From a distance, they all looked alike, but when you got a little closer, you could see subtle differences in their forms. Some were taller or shorter, fatter or thinner, neatly groomed or covered with haphazard, flyaway tufts of feathers. Slightly apart from the rest I spotted a goose that was taller and more angular than most. Its costume seemed more professional—the feathers all lying neatly and elegantly as they should. Including, I couldn’t help noticing, a seemingly complete set of tail feathers.
When I got a couple of steps closer, I could see that this particular goose was reading a paperback book.
“Ms. Ellie?” I called. “Is that you?”
The goose turned, and took its head off. I was right. It was Ms. Ellie Draper, the town librarian.
“Good guess,” she said, tucking the headpiece under her arm. I tilted my own head, almost instinctively, to see what she was reading. I was startled to see that the book’s cover art was of a skeleton wearing a Santa suit.
“Rest You Merry,” she said. “Charlotte MacLeod. It’s a lot of fun—I must remember to thank your father for recommending it.”
I nodded. I hoped the chief wouldn’t find out that Dad was recommending Christmas-themed murder mysteries. In the chief’s current frame of mind, he’d find it highly suspicious, forgetting that Dad was always recommending seasonally, geographically, or professionally appropriate mysteries to anyone who would listen.
“Anything wrong?” Ms. Ellie asked.
“That depends,” I said. “What can you tell me about SPOOR and Ralph Doleson?”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “They’re not threatening to boycott the parade again, are they?”
Again? I’d heard threats of protests, but this was the first I’d heard of a SPOOR boycott.
“Not that I’ve heard,” I said aloud. “But it’s important anyway.”
“Or is Ralph Doleson complaining about us again?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” I repeated. “But why would he? Spill. Please.”
“Why do I think someone’s been making trouble?” she said. “Okay, this happened while you and Michael were in—where was it you went this summer?”
“Nice try,” I said. “But Michael and I still aren’t telling anyone where we went on our honeymoon. Something happened in June, then.”
“We heard that a pair of bald eagles had built a nest in a large oak tree down by Caerphilly Creek. You can imagine how excited we were!”
I didn’t have to imagine—when Pam, Rob, and I were children, Dad dragged us to view any number of nests belonging to rare or interesting birds. To us, of course, this usually meant spending an hour or so gazing at lumpsof twigs at the top of trees, in the forlorn hope that the nest’s elusive maker would put in an appearance.