Six Geese A-Slaying by Donna Andrews

figure was wearing a ratty gorilla
     suit, but Horace came in his ape costume not only to costume parties but also whenever he could get away with pretending he
     thought costumes were called for.
    “Horace!” I called. The gorilla turned around and stumbled in my direction while the snowman waved and continued on his way.
    “Hi, Meg.”
    Even muffled as it was by the gorilla head, I could tell that Horace’s voice was flat and depressed. I made a mental note
     to ask him later what was wrong. For now, Horace was the perfect person to stand guard. Back in my hometown of Yorktown, where
     Horace still lived, he was a crime scene technician for the sheriff’s department, so he of all people would understand the
     importance of keeping everyone out of the scene until someone competent could examine it.
    In fact, he’d probably be the someone. Since Caerphilly was too small to have its own crime scene technician, York County
     often lent them Horace when they needed forensic help. Particularly if he was already here, as he so often was these days.
    “I thought you were guarding the safe room,” I said.
    “I locked it up so Sammy and I could have a snack,” he said.
    “Was that Sammy in the snowman suit?” I asked. Sammy was one of Chief Burke’s deputies. “Damn, we could have used him, too.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Someone killed Santa—Mr. Doleson,” I said.
    “Have you called 911?” he asked.
    “Not yet,” I said. I decided not to mention that I hadn’t yet pulled myself together enough to even think of it.
    “I’ll do it, then,” Horace said. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket—well, that was new. The gorilla suit never used
     to have pockets. Unless Horace had learned to sew, perhaps someone with sewing skills been helping him improve it. That could
     be good news—Horace’s love life lately had been even worse than usual.
    “Great, and don’t let anyone in the shed,” I said. “I’m going to find Sammy, or Chief Burke, or one of his officers.”
    Horace nodded.
    “Debbie Anne?” I heard him say. Good, he’d reached the police dispatcher. I strode off toward where I’d last seen the camels.
    I was in luck. The wise men were returning in stately procession. Ainsley Werzel was busily snapping pictures, and several
     amateur videographers were following the procession’s path with their handheld cameras.
    I felt bad about ruining the photo op, but they still had the whole parade to go. I ran out to meet the wise men and fell
     into step beside the chief’s camel.
    “I have bad news,” I said.
    “Something I’m going to have to get down off of this fool camel to deal with?” he asked. He sounded eager.
    I nodded.
    “Hang on a minute, then. Dr. Blake, how the blazes do you park this thing again?”
    “Tell him to s-t-a-n-d,” Dr. Blake said.
    “Stand!” the chief barked. Curley stopped, and Dr. Blake pulled up beside him.
    “Stand, Moe. Now tell him to ‘Hoosh!’ And lean back while you do.”
    “Hoosh!” the chief shouted.
    The chief’s camel stood motionless, while Dr. Blake’s beast obediently began the awkward looking process of folding first
     his front legs and then his back legs.
    “Blast it!” Dr. Blake grumbled. “Moe’s rather badly trained, and Curley’s a little too eager. Try it again. And lean back,
     hard.”
    I began to wonder if I should have told the chief my news while he was still on the camel. Ralph Doleson’s rigor mortis would
     probably have set in by the time the chief finally got back on solid ground.
    “Hoosh! Hoosh, dammit!” the chief shouted, and leaned back so far I thought for a moment he’d fall off. But when Moe’s front
     legs abruptly folded, I realized the chief had, accidentally or on purpose, gotten it right. Now that Moe was kneeling, the
     chief was upright.
    “Now lean forward again, quick!” Dr. Blake ordered.
    The chief leaned forward, grabbed the front of the saddle, and hung on for dear life as Moe’s back