Read Online Six Geese A-Slaying by Donna Andrews - Free Book Online

might be a
     hip, new synonym for “kick the bucket.”
    “Santa had a close encounter with Spike,” I said.
    The chief closed his eyes and shuddered. He’d met the small evil one before. Then he opened his eyes again.
    “We need Smoot, damn it,” he said.
    “You need what?” Werzel asked.
    The chief frowned but didn’t answer him.
    “It’s a who, not a what,” I said. “Dr. Smoot is the county’s medical examiner.”
    “Acting medical examiner,” the chief said. “Any idea where he is?”
    “He’s over there on the Dickens float,” I said, pointing.
    The Caerphilly Clarion, our local weekly, was taking its turn at photographing the Dickens float. Not surprising—thanks to Mother’s decorating skills,
     it was one of the highlights of the parade. It featured an enormous Victorian Christmas tree at one end and a London street
     scene, complete with mountains of fake snow, at the other. Mother and the rest of the improbably well-dressed Cratchits were
     seated in a pair of velvet sofas at the foot of the Christmas tree, toasting each other with plastic champagne flutes and
     pretending to open elaborately wrapped presents. At the other end stood Scrooge, surrounded by the Ghosts of Christmases Past,
     Present, and Yet-to-Come. The Cratchits may have gone upscale, but the ghosts’ costumes more or less matched the book—Christmas
     Past was a tiny blond child in a choir robe; Christmas Present was an enormous robed figure with a crown of holly, and Christmas
     Yet-to-Come was a specter whose face was hidden in the shadows of his hooded black robe. Okay, the text did say that Yet-to-Come
     was “shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one
     outstretched hand.” But couldn’t Dr. Smoot have found a way to look a little less like the grim reaper? I’d always thought
     the costume at odds with the holiday spirit of the parade—though strangely appropriate for our present problem.
    “I don’t see Smoot,” the chief said.
    “In the hood,” I said.
    “Oh, good grief,” the chief muttered and strode over toward the float.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Werzel asked,
    “We don’t get a lot of crime in Caerphilly,” I said. “Chief Burke takes it very seriously and very personally when someone
     breaks the peace in his county.”
    I didn’t see him taking notes.
    “Right,” he said. “I mean what’s wrong between him and this Dr. Smoot?”
    I shrugged and tried to look puzzled by the question. I knew exactly what was wrong. The chief was a very by-the-books guy,
     and Dr. Smoot had recently developed an active interest in the supernatural. There was no way the chief or the town council
     would offer a permanent appointment to a medical examiner who, in addition to determining the manner and means of death, would
     occasionally venture an opinion on the likelihood of the deceased’s return as a ghost, vampire, or zombie. But since the job
     paid almost nothing, none of the county’s other medical personnel had shown the slightest interest in doing it. The way things
     were going, the chief could be stuck with Dr. Smoot as acting medical examiner for the rest of his career.
    And the chief was still mad about what happened when Dr. Smoot, hearing that one of the New Life Baptist deacons had a severe
     garlic allergy, took it on himself to determine if the deacon was one of the undead. Apparently Dr. Smoot had seen too many
     movie vampires cower from a single drop of holy water. Unfortunately, the New Life church wasn’t equipped with holy water
     fonts and the closest equivalent was the pool used for full immersion baptism. The chief might have forgiven Dr. Smoot a little
     sooner if the Caerphilly Clarion hadn’t printed a picture of the would-be vampire slayer and his victim being rescued from the watery deep.
    Still, the chief was polite enough as he conferred with the sinister, hooded figure at the snowy end of