Six Geese A-Slaying by Donna Andrews Page A

end hit the earth with
     an audible thud.
    “Meg, put your foot on his front leg,” Dr. Blake said. “Moe’s front leg, that is, not the chief’s.” I complied, a little nervously,
     because I couldn’t remember if Moe was the one who bit.
    “Put some pressure on it!” Dr. Blake said, as he reached for Moe’s reins. “The idea is to discourage him from trying to get
     up again while the chief is dismounting.”
    I leaned on Moe’s leg, and the chief slid off.
    “I’m good,” he said. “You can take your foot away if you like. Now what’s the problem?”
    I glanced around. Plenty of people were watching us, most of them either videotaping the camel dismounting demonstration or
     pointing their fingers and laughing. But only Dr. Blake and Michael were within earshot, so I decided this was as good a place
     as any to talk.
    “Someone’s murdered Ralph Doleson,” I said.
    “You’re sure?”
    “If he’s not dead, he’s a hell of an actor, and I don’t think he could possibly have done it to himself,” I said.
    The chief closed his eyes for a second as if gathering strength, then sprang into action.
    “Right,” he said. “Where?”
    “In our pig shed.”
    “You didn’t just leave him there?”
    “I found Horace and left him to guard the scene,” I said.
    He nodded grudgingly.
    “Show me.”
    “Okay,” I said. “You might want to look a little happier. Or at least more nonchalant. I don’t see him right now, but odds
     are that reporter’s still lurking around here somewhere, and I bet you don’t want him to figure out something’s wrong and
     follow us.”
    The chief frowned for a moment, as if trying to decide whether I had an ulterior motive or not. And I did, of course, but
     he quickly deduced it was the same one he had: not letting Ainsley Werzel make Caerphilly look completely ridiculous. His
     face broke into a slightly forced smile.
    “Great idea,” he said, rather loudly. “Let’s just go and do that while I’m thinking of it.” In an undertone, he added, “I’d
     appreciate it if you could find some way to distract that damned news-hound when he turns up.”
    “Roger,” I said.
    I strolled over to where Dr. Blake and Michael were standing, holding the camels’ reins and posing for the photographers.
    “Go away,” Dr. Blake said. “You’re spoiling the pictures.” I ignored him.
    “Bad news,” I said to Michael. “Santa’s dead.”
    “Who?” Dr. Blake asked.
    “Santa,” I repeated. “Though I assume Ralph Doleson was the intended target.”
    “Oh, dear,” Michael said. “No bite marks on him, I hope.”
    “No new ones, anyway. He was stabbed—no way they can blame it on Spike. Look, both of you—keep it under your hat for now.
     And the chief would really appreciate it if we could keep anyone from finding out for as long as possible. Especially that
     reporter.”
    I had spotted Werzel now. If he’d donned the brown shepherd’s robe to be unobtrusive, it was a miscalculation. He was so thin
     that he could almost have wrapped the robe around him twice, but it barely came below his knees, revealing an awkward two-foot
     expanse of blue denim and a pair of ratty anachronistic brown shoes. And, damn it, he seemed to be watching us.
    “We could offer him a camel ride,” Michael suggested. “Good publicity for the zoo, you know. He’s from The Washington Star Tribune .”
    “Excellent idea!” Dr. Blake exclaimed. Bashfulness was not one of his failings. He strode over toward Werzel and stuck out
     a deceptively gnarled hand. He seemed to consider shaking hands a competitive sport—if not a form of hand-to-hand combat—and
     I’d seen stronger men than Werzel wince after Dr. Blake had greeted them.
    “Lovely to see you!” he was saying, as he mauled Werzel’s hand. “Meg tells me you might be interested in a camel ride!”
    I rejoined Chief Burke and led him over to the pig shed.
    “Hey, chief,” Horace said as we strolled up. “We’ve