Six Geese A-Slaying(42)

“Roger,” Horace said.

I left them to it.

Outside, the air was bitter and snow was falling down in earnest—little tiny flakes, but so dense that they seriously reduced visibility. Maybe going to town wasn’t such a great idea after all.

Of course, if I didn’t go to town, Michael would have no way of getting home. And if I was going to be snowbound someplace—which looked increasingly more probable—I wanted it to be with Michael.

I took the truck.





Chapter 16

Luckily the Shiffleys’ snowplows and the parade traffic had kept the road to town relatively clear—so far. But I wasn’t used to driving on snow, and my heart raced every time I hit the slightest patch of ice. Not seeing more than a few feet beyond the windshield was unnerving. I was relieved to think that Michael would insist on driving home.

I caught up with the parade just as Dad made his triumphant entry into the town square. They’d set up a massive throne on the portico of the town hall, and the crowds cheered hysterically as Dad raced up the two flights of marble steps and then jogged back and forth through the snow along the edge of the portico, fists upraised, looking like a Yuletide Rocky Balboa.

Then several volunteers dressed as elves emerged from the courthouse dragging fake sleds full of real presents, announcing the next part of the festivities. More elves began marshalling the assembled children into orderly lines and marching them up the courthouse steps for their moment with Dad.

I could see volunteers leading the last of the sheep off in the direction of the college barn. Everyone without children or animals in tow headed for the food. I didn’t think any of the kids in line were likely suspects or witnesses, so I followed the rest of the crowd.

Every church and civic group in Caerphilly and Clay counties was selling some kind of food or drink. The New Life Baptists and the Clayville Congregationalists had rival barbecue pits. Caerphilly Presbyterian was roasting turkeys, Trinity Episcopal had baked hams, and St. Byblig’s Catholic Church was dishing out its justly famous potato-leek soup. In the interests of ecu-menicism, I abandoned my diet for the day.

I ended up in the Garden Club’s dessert tent, sampling half a dozen kinds of cakes and cookies, accompanied by a mug of hot chocolate. Everywhere I went I’d been congratulated repeatedly on the success of the parade. The few people willing to talk about the murder were more interested in picking my brain than giving me useful information. Most people seemed to think I was weird, wanting to talk about murder this close to the holidays.

So once I’d filled my dessert plate, I found a place in a back corner of the tent where I could analyze the day’s events in relative peace and quiet. And keep an eye on Dad—if I craned my neck just right, I could look past the trash barrels behind the tent to the snow-filled town square beyond. I couldn’t quite see him, but from the length of the line leading up to his throne—not to mention the happy faces of the children and parents as they left the square for the refreshment tents—I could tell he was a success.

Just then a figure blocked my view—someone putting something in one of the trash cans. He lifted the lid, dislodging an inch or two of snow. Then he stuffed a pale blue paper bag into the trash. He looked around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed and I recognized him. Jorge Soto. Then he hurried off.

How odd. What was Jorge so eager to get rid of? If he’d just walked up and lobbed the bag into the trash in a matter-of-fact way, I’d never have thought twice about it, but his conspicuously furtive manner caught my attention immediately.

So I’m nosy. I finished my hot chocolate and went out to raid the trash can.

I could ignore the cans whose lids had more than a slight layer of snow, but four of them had been recently opened. The first two I inspected held only plastic bags full of discarded paper plates and cups, but in the third I found the blue bag. Inside was a gray sweatshirt with “Blitzen” stenciled on it. I remembered seeing Jorge wearing it before the parade. It seemed in perfectly good condition—almost brand new. Why had Jorge discarded it?

Could it have anything to do with the dark stains on the front, near the hem? Only a few small spots but still—

“What’s wrong, Meg?”

I jumped, even though I realized it was only Deputy Sammy. On impulse, I showed him the sweatshirt.

“Is that blood?” I asked, pointing to the spots.

He peered at it.

“I’m no expert,” he said, finally. “Could be. Or it could just be chocolate. Does this have anything to do with the murder?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Here, take it.” I stuffed the sweatshirt back into the blue bag and shoved it at him. “Have Horace test those stains, will you?”