Six Geese A-Slaying(8)

“Mission accomplished,” Michael said, reappearing at my side.

If—”

“Professor Waterston?”

Michael turned to see a short, plump, elderly woman dressed in a Mrs. Claus outfit, holding something wrapped in red foil and trimmed with green ribbon.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” Mrs. Claus said. She handed him the parcel and tripped away.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“The dean’s wife, I think. More to the point, what’s in this?”

“Another fruitcake,” I said. “Do you like fruitcake?”

“Not particularly,” he said, frowning as he teased open one end of the foil to verify its contents. “Why?”

“Someone has it in for you, then. There’s a rumor going around town that you do.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I know how that got started. Professor Braintree’s holiday tea.”

Dr. Edith Braintree was the chair of the committee that, in a few months, would decide whether to offer Michael tenure at Caerphilly College. If they turned him down, he’d have a choice between settling for a lower-paid adjunct position for the rest of his career or looking for someplace else to start another seven-year tenure quest. Thus the committee had much the same power over our future as the jury has over the defendant in a criminal trial—though at least no one expected accused felons to have tea with the jurors, lose to them at racquetball, and buy cases of Girl Scout cookies from their daughters.

“She seemed so pleased when I took a slice,” Michael went on, “I got a little carried away and said it reminded me of my mother’s fruitcake. And before you ask, no, Mom never made fruitcake that I can remember. I don’t know what came over me.”

I knew perfectly well—tenure fever. I hadn’t told Michael, but tenure fever was the real reason I’d gotten stuck with organizing the parade. If the mayor had called up and tried to charm me into the job, I could have managed to keep saying no until he gave up and went looking for another victim. But when Dr. Braintree called, full of flattery and enthusiasm, implying that not only the town but the college would be so grateful if I’d agree to take the post. . . .

“I suppose we can manage to eat up a fruitcake eventually,” Michael was saying.

“Can we eat up seven of them?” I said. “Apparently there’s a large hidden cult of fruitcake bakers in town, all eager for new converts.”

“Oh, dear,” he murmured. “Probably not. Don’t any of your family like fruitcake?”

“Good idea,” I said. “We’ll regift them to out-of-town relatives.”

“What a devious idea,” he said. “I like it. I’ll leave this one with you, then, and if you don’t need me for anything I’ll go help your grandfather with the camels.”

“Have fun,” I said. “And—”

Just then we heard a shout from the pig shed.





Chapter 4

Michael and I both started running toward it, as did several other people nearby, but before any of us reached the door, it slammed open and a small black and white furball sailed out, propelled by the toe of Ralph Doleson’s boot.

“Keep that damned rodent away from me or I’ll sue!” he bellowed. “I’m bleeding, dammit!”

Yes, he was bleeding ever so slightly. Nothing that wouldn’t stop in a few seconds if he held his wounded finger up and wrapped something around it instead of holding it down and waving it around vigorously.

The rodent in question was our family dog, Spike—eight and a half pounds of pure meanness wrapped in a deceptively cute and furry exterior. He’d landed outside with a yelp, and took a few seconds to catch his breath, but then he launched himself toward Mr. Doleson, who swore, and slammed the door so hard the wreath fell off. Spike barked furiously at the door for a few seconds, then retreated so that it wouldn’t hit him in the face when it opened and lay down with his head on his paws to wait for his enemy to emerge.

It would have been cute if I didn’t know how serious Spike was about revenge. And if I hadn’t been so tempted to help him. I strode over and knelt down to check him for wounds—wondering, as I did, who had been brave or foolish enough to decorate Spike’s collar with a red-and-green velvet bow the size of his head.

“What a jerk,” Rob said. I was so focused on Spike that I started at his voice.

“Spike might have bitten him first,” Eric said.

“You know he hardly ever bites strangers unless they bother him first,” I said. “And even if Spike started it, Doleson seriously overreacted.”

“I think we should report him for cruelty to animals,” Michael said, in what someone who didn’t know him might think was a calm and unemotional voice. I could tell he was furious.