Around ten, the snow began again. At first only a few scattered flakes came down at apparently random intervals, like advance scouts. Then, all of a sudden, as if the scouts had sent back particularly good reports, the flakes began coming down more heavily. And not big, damp flakes that promised a wet, sloppy, but short-lived snow. These were tiny, earnest little flakes that meant real accumulation if they kept it up for a while. Which, according to the weather reports I could get on my battery-operated radio, they would.
I didn’t tell Michael. He could look out the window for himself, and if he hadn’t, no need for me to upset him.
As the snow arrived, the remaining police officers departed, although before they left, they wrapped a few more rounds of crime scene tape around the pig shed, the barn, and several unidentifiable snow-covered lumps in other parts of the back yard.
I wrapped presents, muttering along as Michael rehearsed. Then I packed the borrowed Boy Scout equipment, still muttering.
About noon, I heard the noise of heavy machinery outside—probably the Shiffleys’ snow plow going by at close range.
Michael strolled into the kitchen and put the teakettle on the camp stove.
“Maybe we’ll make that show after all,” he said. So he had been peeking.
A few moments later, I heard the strains of “Good King Wenceslas” out in the yard.
“More carolers?” Michael asked.
“No,” I said peering out. “It’s the Boy Scouts. Come to fetch their camping gear, I assume. And looks as if they’re starting their cleanup, even though the litter’s buried under the snow. They’re caroling while they work.”
“Excellent,” Michael said. “I’d go and help them if I didn’t have to rehearse some more.”
“Will they bother you?” I asked, suddenly anxious. “I can tell them to keep it down if you need to concentrate.”
“What more perfect background music could I have for rehearsing A Christmas Carol?” he said. He took his coffee cup and his script and headed back toward his office. I put on my coat, hat, boots, and mittens; picked up my coffee; and went outside.
I had to admire the Boy Scouts’ dedication. It was still well below freezing and as in the carol, the snow was deep and crisp and even—three inches of it and counting. It covered everything, including the trash they’d come to pick up. I’d have been tempted to postpone the cleanup until warmer weather. But the Scouts were rummaging all through the yard and up and down the road, excavating even the smallest lump under the snow to fill the huge black plastic trash bags they were dragging behind them.
Randall Shiffley, who owned the construction company and served as one of the scoutmasters, had apparently used his tractor not only to plow snow but also to drag over a Dempster Dumpster, which stood at the end of our yard closest to town. Some of the older Scouts were dusting off the temporary trash barrels we’d scattered throughout the yard, gathering them up, emptying them into the Dumpster, and finally loading the trash barrels onto a big Shiffley Construction Company truck. I was relieved to see that the Scouts gave the various objects festooned with yellow crime scene tape as wide a berth as if they were radioactive.
Randall was sipping coffee from an insulated mug and observing the action with an approving look on his face.
“I had to come out anyhow, to pick up the camping gear, so I thought we might as well make a start,” he said. “Get the trash cans out of your way; do what we can. We’ll need to come back after the snow melts for the final policing, of course.”
“That’s great,” I said. “You think they’d like some hot chocolate, or maybe some cider?”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate either one,” he said. “It’s a cold day, and this is thirsty work.”
“I’ll go make some if you’ll help me carry it out,” I said. “And I’ve got a lot of their gear inside—we borrowed it for our unexpected houseguests.”
“That’s fine,” he said. He followed me back to the kitchen and sat at our kitchen table, sipping his coffee, as I heated the milk and cider over the camping stove.
“By the way,” I said, “I heard you might be one of the people who isn’t entirely broken up by Mr. Doleson’s death.”
“You heard right,” he said. “You probably also heard about when I tried to punch his lights out.”
“Over the eagle’s nest thing?”
Randall nodded.
“I didn’t realize you were that much of a bird lover,” I said.
“Well, I guess I like birds as well as the next guy. But this wasn’t just any bird. It was a bald eagle. Our national bird.”