Six Geese A-Slaying(34)

“You said ‘If I catch one more person messing with my stakes,’ ” the chief said. “Have other people been around here pulling up these tent stakes, or pegs, or whatever you call them?”

Rufus nodded.

“Yes, sir, “ he said. “All night long. It was the guys sleeping in the modern tents. They can lose a peg or two and it’s not that big a problem, but with this thing, if you don’t get all the stakes in the right way, it sags and leaks.”

“Has anyone stolen any of your stakes?” the chief said. “Not just pulled them out but taken them away completely?”

“No, sir.” Rufus shook his head. “They’re all there, see. Well, they were until just now,” he added, frowning at Horace.

“Sorry,” Horace said.

“You don’t have any spares?” the chief asked.

“No, sir,” he said. “It’s not something you lose that easily, unless someone’s playing a joke. I don’t know about the guys in the other tents.”

“You mind if we borrow the rest of the handmade stakes for a while?” the chief asked. “I realize that will inconvenience you, but we’d be glad to move your gear to one of the other tents.”

“Yes, sir,” Rufus said.

“Chief?” It was Sammy. “The geese are rebelling.”

“Rebelling how?”

“They’re all saying that if six of them are allowed to march in the parade, the rest of them are marching, too,”

“Not in costumes, they aren’t,” I put in.

“How soon will the damned bus get here?” the chief asked, with an annoyed glance at me.

“Well, that’s part of the problem, sir,” Sammy said. “We’re having trouble rounding up a driver, and it’s going to be a bear getting it through the crowds until after the parade, so if we just let the geese march themselves to town . . .”

The chief strode off, with Sammy trailing behind him.

“Let’s get Rufus moved,” Horace said. “And let the chief deal with the geese.”

“Right,” I said. “Unless—Rufus, would you like to come inside where it’s warm? You’re welcome to stay in the house.”

Rufus looked wistful.

“I’d appreciate that, ma’am,” he said. “But I’m sort of supposed to be guarding everyone else’s stuff.”

Horace and I helped him relocate not only his stuff but the stuff the other scouts had left behind in the two deerskin tents. Then we trudged back up to the house. Horace peeled off at the barn. I looked around and realized that I’d left my clipboard, the outward and visible sign of my office, in Eric’s hands.

I pushed through the crowd, looking for Eric. Fragments of carols, hymns, and spirituals echoed from every corner of the yard, as the various choirs, bands, and strolling musicians rehearsed.

I walked past one of Mother’s brainstorms—what I called Charity Alley. It had been my idea to invite a handful of charity and social service organizations to set up temporary stands here at the staging ground, but having them on either side of the path everyone had to take to get to the Porta Potties was definitely Mother’s idea. From the looks of it, a fairly successful one.

Some people, though, could resist even the most heartwarming of causes. I saw Ainsley Werzel dashing down Charity Alley as if it were lined with piranhas and saber-toothed tigers instead of harmless souls like the uniformed Marine staffing the Toys for Tots booth and the cheerful Salvation Army women with their bells. He spotted me and hurried over as if seeking protection.

“So what’s with all this charity stuff?” he asked. “You’ve got the Salvation Army, Goodwill, Toys for Tots, America’s Second Harvest, Kiva, Oxfam—what gives, anyway?”

“ ‘At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time,’ ” I quoted.

“The town doesn’t look that bad off,” he said. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve got a lot of poor people here in Caer-philly?”

“No,” I said. “I’m trying to quote Dickens. We just thought it would be nice to give people a chance to remember the true meaning of Christmas.”

“Nice?” Werzel said. “Every time I turn around, someone’s got their hand out. Anyway, I’ve been looking for someone who can answer a few questions.”

“Glad to answer anything I can,” I said, though I don’t think I managed to feign much enthusiasm.

“So how come it’s the town police chief who’s doing all this investigating?” he asked. “I thought Virginia counties had sheriffs.”