Free Six Geese A-Slaying by Donna Andrews

could keep the news from spreading until after the parade.
    “Of course,” she said. “We only want good energy for a holiday parade.”
    “Any chance you could provide some moral support for Dr. Smoot?” I asked. “The chief would really like it if he could officially
     declare the victim dead.”
    “They’re not sure he’s dead, then? That’s a relief.”
    “I found him, and I’m sure,” I said. “But the chief has to follow the law. Dr. Smoot doesn’t have to examine the body if he
     doesn’t want to, but they can’t really do anything until the body’s officially pronounced dead.”
    Odds were if Dr. Smoot wimped out of examining the body, Chief Burke would enlist my father to perform an expert if unofficial
     inspection. Dad was both a semi-retired doctor and an avid mystery fan who jumped at any chance to get involved in a real
     life crime—especially a murder.
    “Come on, Dr. Smoot,” Rose Noire said, taking him by the arm and gently propelling him along. “Let’s talk about this. Think
     what a wonderful opportunity for personal growth this offers.”
    I winced at hearing my cousin’s new catchphrase. My broken leg this past summer, the loss of Michael’s aging but still functional
     convertible to a falling tree this fall, last week’s painful dental work—to her, they were not problems but welcome opportunities
     for personal growth.
    If she used the same line when she heard that Michael’s mother was coming for a month-long visit right after the new year.
     . . .
    Still, her approach seemed to comfort Dr. Smoot. With me leading the way, she guided him back to the pig shed. A small crowd
     awaited us, but fortunately it was only police and family. Including Dad, of course. I went over to stand next to Michael.
    “How’s it going?” I whispered.
    “Werzel’s going to make us all look like complete fruitcakes in his article,” he whispered back.
    “Good,” I said. “I’m all for truth in journalism.”
    “On the bright side, he’s lost his camera,” Michael added. “It’s making him quite testy, but the chief’s relieved.”
    Dr. Smoot squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Rose Noire nodded and patted his arm encouragingly.
    “I know you can do it,” she crooned.
    Dr. Smoot took a step toward the shed. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and took out something that he was careful
     to conceal in his hand. He lifted his hand to his mouth and slipped something in.
    As if by magic, his spine straightened, his head lifted, his chest puffed out, and he began to walk calmly and confidently
     toward the shed. He stopped at the door and looked around to smile at us before ducking in.
    “Oh, dear Lord, he’s wearing the fangs,” I muttered.
    Michael winced, and we both looked over at Werzel, who was scribbling in his notebook, so perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Bad enough
     that our medical examiner had to be coaxed to the crime scene, but when his grownup equivalent of a security blanket was a
     custom-fitted set of vampire fangs—
    “Of course, the good news is that no one will believe a word Werzel writes if he puts everything in,” Michael whispered.
    “Thank God for the lost camera,” I whispered back.
    “Oh, my,” we heard Dr. Smoot exclaim from inside the shed.
    Rose Noire took an anxious step forward, then glanced at the chief and checked herself. Dr. Smoot popped out of the shed door.
     His hood was thrown back, his hair looked disheveled, his collar was askew, and if Werzel had missed the fangs before, he
     couldn’t overlook them now, because Dr. Smoot was smiling broadly.
    “You didn’t tell me about the cauthe of death!” he exclaimed.
    “No,” the chief said. “Because technically that’s what you’re supposed to tell me.”
    “It’s all preliminary, of courthe,” Dr. Smoot said, as he adjusted his collar and gathered the shreds of his professional
     dignity. “We can’t tell until we’ve done the autopthy, but—”
    “Can you lose