Six Geese A-Slaying(9)

“Wait till after the parade,” I said. “Then we’ll get him.”

“I’ll talk to the chief about it,” Michael said.

I nodded. Spike seemed okay, so I began jotting down the names of the potential witnesses in my notebook-that-tells-me- when-to-breathe, as I called my giant, spiral-bound to-do list. Apart from Rob, Michael, and me, at least half a dozen respectable citizens of Caerphilly had witnessed Mr. Doleson’s act. Not to mention Ainsley Werzel, who was staring at the door of the pig shed with an outraged look on his face. Maybe Werzel and I had just gotten off on the wrong foot. I made a resolution to be particularly friendly and helpful next time I talked to him.

“It’s my fault,” Rob said. “I put Spike in there because I thought it would be safer than the barn, and you know how he hates being confined. I’ll put him in his crate.”

“Get Clarence to check him out first,” I said. “I didn’t see any blood or obvious injuries, but it’s possible he’s broken a bone or two and is so fixated on his prey that he just hasn’t noticed yet.”

“And don’t be silly,” Michael said to Rob. “Your failure to crate the small evil one does not give Ralph Doleson the right to drop kick him across the yard. I’ll find Clarence and send him over.”

I returned to my post to continue checking in stragglers, though I kept walking over to look at Spike until Clarence arrived. He examined the patient, and gave me a thumbs up before leading Spike off to the safety of his crate in the kitchen.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Spike wasn’t technically our dog. Michael’s mother had dumped him on us several years ago when her doctor advised her to see if a trial separation helped her allergies. We’d become resigned to the fact that he was with us for the long haul. But I knew Mrs. Waterston would have a fit if she heard that anything had happened to Spike.

For that matter, I’d developed a grudging fondness myself for the small evil one, as we’d nicknamed Spike. He had more guts than sense, and was not only capable but fond of biting the hands that fed him. On at least one occasion, though, he’d accidentally saved my life. Ralph Doleson had not heard the last of this.

“Let me know if he tries to file charges,” a voice said. I looked up to see the tall form of Jorge Soto, one of the programmers who worked at Mutant Wizards, my brother’s computer game development company.

“Thanks—I’ve already got you on my list of witnesses to the dog-kicking.”

“Not the first time he’s done something like that,” Jorge said. “I live at the Pines, you know.”

I nodded. Ralph Doleson owned the Whispering Pines, a former hot sheets motel that was now a grungy garden apartment building. Rob technically lived there, too, although for the last couple of months he’d been spending most of his time in one of the unused bedrooms on the third floor of our house.

“He doesn’t like dogs,” Jorge went on. “We’ve had a couple of cases at the Pines where people who had dogs found out Doleson was teasing and mistreating them till they tried to bite him, and then calling the police on them.”

“What a jerk!” I said.

“Yeah. I mean, if he doesn’t like dogs, he should just put in a no-dogs rule. He owns the place; no one could argue with him. But I think he likes causing trouble.”

“I wish we could fire him as Santa,” I said. I tucked my notebook away and headed for the refreshment stand. The adrenaline charge induced by Spike’s encounter with Doleson had faded, leaving me feeling suddenly tired and in need of warmth and caffeine.

“Why don’t you fire him?” Jorge asked, falling into step beside me.

“Hard to find a replacement on short notice,” I said. “Especially one who can fit into the tiny costume.”

“Can him anyway,” Jorge said.

The lady at the refreshment stand smiled and handed me a black coffee without my even asking for it. Maybe I’d been hitting the coffee a little too often this morning.

“How can we possibly have a Christmas parade without Santa?” I asked.

“Holiday parade,” he said, with a grin. Obviously he’d heard my knee-jerk correction to other people.

“Holiday, yes; but still—without Santa?”

“In my country, Santa’s optional.”

“Santa doesn’t bring you presents?” I took a deep gulp of my coffee.

“No, in Costa Rica, Baby Jesus brings the presents.”

“So you don’t have Santa at all?”

“No, we have him,” Jorge said. “Santa—St. Nicholas, that is—brings Baby Jesus. He’s like the chauffeur.”