Six Geese A-Slaying by Donna Andrews

Burke striding toward me, still dressed in his wise man’s robes and turban, and with one side of his
     flowing headcovering pulled over his mouth, as if he were fighting his way through a desert sandstorm. All I could see was
     a small patch of brown skin and a pair of dark eyes.
    “Very dashing, ch—Minerva?”
    Minerva Burke pulled the cloth away from her face and chuckled.
    “If I fooled you at ten yards, odds are I can carry it off on top of a camel,” she said.
    “But aren’t you needed in the choir?” I asked. “Not that I object to you being a wise man—person—but I don’t want to sabotage
     the music.”
    “Lord, child, we’ve got four other altos in the choir as good as me, and we’re a little short on menfolk with enough gumption
     to tackle the camel.”
    “The camel doesn’t bother you, I take it?”
    “I’ve survived Henry for thirty years, and raised those two mule-headed sons of his,” she said. “I don’t see that the camel
     will be that much of a problem.”
    With that, she headed for the camel pasture.
    Moe wouldn’t know what hit him. For that matter, neither would Dr. Blake.
    Before I had time to savor the notion, Ainsley Werzel reappeared.
    “Have you seen my camera?” he asked.
    “Not recently,” I said. “Where did you leave it?”
    “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?”
    I took a breath, discarded the first half dozen things I wanted to say as being too rude, and tried again.
    “Sorry, what I should have said was where do you last remember having it? Do you recall the last thing you took a picture
     of?”
    “No! If I—”
    “Meg, where’s the cleanup crew?” someone called. “We need them over by the elephant pen.”
    “Meg, the bagpipers have been playing ‘Away in a Manger’ for half an hour. Can you make them play something else?”
    “Meg, we need—”
    “Sorry,” I said to Werzel. “Things are a little chaotic right now. I’m sure your camera will turn up sooner or later. Why
     don’t you tell me what make and model it is and—”
    “But I can’t cover the rest of the parade without a camera!”
    “See that guy over there with the antlers on his head,” I said, pointing to Jorge. Why was Jorge wearing antlers and a sweatshirt
     with “Blitzen” stenciled on it? Had the programmers from Mutant Wizards organized some kind of reindeer-themed float they’d
     forgotten to tell me about? I pushed the questions out of my mind.
    “You think he’s got my camera?”
    “No, but if anyone can round up a digital camera for you to borrow, he can.”
    “But I need my own camera!”
    “Fine,” I said. “If I find it, I’ll let you know.”
    “But—”
    I turned away to deal with some of the other problems. Suddenly, rebel bagpipers and elephant manure didn’t seem so bad.
    But time was moving on, so I tried to deal as efficiently as possible with the several dozen participants who surrounded me,
     all shouting their questions, problems, requests, and complaints. I’d have been more sympathetic if most of them weren’t asking
     questions I’d already answered, reporting problems someone had already solved, complaining about things I couldn’t do anything
     about, or making requests they should have thought of six weeks ago.
    “No, you can’t use your loudspeakers to play ‘Let It Snow’ the whole time you’re marching,” I told the people from the Ski
     Club float. “The Caerphilly High School Band is marching right behind you, and you’ll drown them out. But I’ll ask them to
     go heavy on the snow-themed songs.”
    “Meg, can’t we be closer to Santa Claus?” one of the Caer-philly Morris Dancers asked. “We’ve worked out this great routine
     to ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town.’ It’s so perfect—the bells make it really sound like a sleigh!”
    “It’s a great idea, but we really need you toward the front of the parade,” I said. “We’re a little weak on pizzazz up there
     and—would you excuse