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the Dickens float.
     Then the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come climbed awkwardly down from the float and headed our way at a brisk trot.
    “That’s just wrong,” Werzel said, shaking his head as his gaze followed the running figure. “Phantoms should glide.”
    Yes, scurrying didn’t exactly enhance a sinister ghost’s image, but what unsettled me more was the undignified sight of the
     chief trotting after him. Clearly the chief didn’t trust Dr. Smoot not to say something the press shouldn’t hear. At any rate,
     he beat Dr. Smoot to the door of the pig shed. After a brief whispered exchange of words, he held open the door.
    “In here,” he said.
    “Oh, dear,” Dr. Smoot said. “Inside?”
    The chief closed his eyes, and if I could have read his mind, I bet I’d have heard him counting to ten.
    “Yes, in there,” the chief said. “That’s where the body is.”
    “It’s just that it’s a very small shed,” Dr. Smoot said. He crept a few inches closer to the shed and peered into the door.
     Which anyone who knew him would realize was incredible progress. At one time his claustrophobia would have sent him running
     away at the mere thought of being forced to look into an enclosed space.
    “It’s bigger than it looks,” I said. “And if you like, we could open up the windows. You’d hardly know you were in a building
     at all.”
    “I don’t see why we can’t have more outdoor homicides,” Dr. Smoot said. He turned sideways to the door and began inching toward
     the shed door in crab fashion.
    “You might want to leave the robe out there,” came a voice from inside the shed. Only Cousin Horace’s voice, but at the sound,
     Dr. Smoot let out a loud shriek, jumped a foot, and then turned and fled.
    “Damn the man,” Chief Burke muttered.
    “I’m sorry,” Horace said, emerging from the shed. “I didn’t mean to startle him.”
    “What is he afraid of—ghosts?” Werzel said.
    “No, he likes ghosts,” I said. “He’s afraid of small spaces.”
    “A claustrophobic medical examiner,” Werzel said, with a chuckle.
    “Claustrophobic acting medical examiner,” the chief repeated. “Horace, what—”
    Then he looked at Werzel, frowned, and leaned over to whisper in Horace’s ear.
    They made quite a picturesque tableau—the gorilla and the wise man. Werzel grinned and reached inside his brown shepherd’s
     robe—for his camera, no doubt. He frowned, took his hand out, and began patting his pockets, while leaning over to whisper
     to me.
    “Why is he dressed as a gorilla?” he asked.
    “I’ve forgotten offhand,” I said. “But I’m sure it’s connected with one of the floats.”
    I mentally crossed my fingers as I said it. Maybe Werzel would buy the parade excuse and not keep asking other people the
     same question until he found out that we had cousins who didn’t know what Horace looked like as a human.
    “Damn,” Werzel said. “Where’s my camera? I had it right here.”
    A wave of impatience suddenly seized me.
    “I’ll go bring Dr. Smoot back,” I said, turning to go.
    “Good luck,” the chief said. “The fool is probably halfway back to town by now. We won’t find him for days.”
    “I’ll manage,” I said over my shoulder.
    I had a sneaking suspicion where I could find Dr. Smoot. I checked my clipboard and wound my way through the crowd of participants
     to the sheep pasture across the road from our house, where the shepherds keeping watch by night had been assigned to abide
     with their flocks until parade time.
    Clustered near the fence where they could observe what was going on were about thirty prize Lincoln sheep belonging to Seth
     Early, our neighbor. I also spotted Ernest, the llama I’d given Michael for Christmas. I wondered if Michael was still trying
     to sneak Ernest into the parade with the sheep. If I had time, I’d have a word with Seth. He could care less that there had
     been no llamas within five thousand miles of Bethlehem at the time