Six Geese A-Slaying(6)

“Thank goodness you’re here,” I said. And thank goodness they’d stopped calling themselves the Dung Fu Fighters and other worse names. “We just had a camel incident over there,” I added, pointing to the offending spot.

Most of the troop scurried over toward the small pile of camel dung and began squabbling to see who got to shovel it up.

“It’s okay if Cal helps us, isn’t it?” Eric asked.

I glanced down at the small form at his side—much smaller than any of the other shepherds. A round brown face peered out of his hood, and I recognized six-year-old Calvin Ripken Burke, the youngest grandson of our Baltimore-born chief of police.

“As long as it’s okay with his grandfather,” I said.

Cal grinned, and ran over to join the rest of the crew.

“His brother is home sick with a cold,” Eric explained. “So Chief Burke asked me if I’d look after him. Otherwise he’d have to stay with his grandmother and march with the choir. Cal would much rather shovel . . . um . . . dung.”

“You’re a good egg,” I said. “Here—I made a list of the animals that are marching today. It would be great if you could assign a squad to follow each group.”

“Roger,” he said. “I’m going to do the elephants myself!” With that he ran off to organize his troops.

All by himself? Well, he’d learn. Then again, as the youngest of my sister Pam’s six children, Eric was always running as fast as he could to keep up with his siblings, and was doomed to become a teenage overachiever. The parade cleanup was in good hands.

And it sounded as if Clarence, reinforced by the threat of stampeding elephants, had finally resolved the piper and drummer problem. Now I could return to checking in the remaining participants and keeping them from causing too much trouble before the parade started. Which would be in . . . a little over three hours.

I glanced up at the sky. No snow yet, thank goodness. Cold as it was, any snow that fell would undoubtedly stick around.

“What’s wrong?”

I turned to see my husband, Michael, tall and resplendent in his wise man’s costume.

“Just fretting over the weather again,” I said, giving him a quick kiss. “You look very dashing. Have you got your myrrh?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving a deep, elegant salaam that went well with the vaguely Middle Eastern costume. “Not with me, of course; it’s on the prop table in the barn with the frankincense and fake gold. Your grandfather’s giving a lot of the kids camel rides, so I thought I’d see if you needed any help. So nothing’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Well, except for the fact that they keep changing their minds about when the snow will start, but there’s nothing you can do about that. Most of the participants are already here, and it’s not even nine.”

“Which means we have to put up with them for the next three hours,” Michael said, frowning.

“Cheer up,” I said. “That gives us plenty of time to send out a posse for anyone who doesn’t show.”

“Or better yet, plenty of time to round up a replacement,” Michael said. He waved at a brace of tuba players in Caerphilly High School band uniforms. “No one is irreplaceable.”

“Except possibly the camels,” I said, as I pointed dramatically to the left to steer the tuba players toward the rest of their band. “There are just two people left that I’m at all worried about.”

“Who?”

“The Virgin Mary,” I said. “For the nativity scene float.”

“The one who’s nine months pregnant.”

“Only eight,” I said. “Maybe eight and a half. The costume’s bulky. No one will notice.”

“Tell me again why we cast her as Mary?”

“Her father-in-law owns a flatbed truck,” I said. “The only one we could find large enough to hold the nativity scene.”

“She’s perfect for the role, then.”

“It’s really the truck I’m worried about,” I said. I glanced down the road again, hoping to spot it. “We can replace her, but if the truck doesn’t show up, the Holy Family will have to walk all the way to Caerphilly. And then there’s Santa. He’s only a couple of miles away, and what do you bet he’ll be the last to show up. Of course, on the bright side, at least we won’t have to put up with him for too long. Frankly, if there’s anyone I’ll be happy to see the last of when the parade’s over, it’s him.”





Chapter 3

“Oh, Mr. Doleson’s not so bad,” Michael said.