‘Tony, I’m going to have to talk to them.’ Dan Dunham, Santa Louisa’s chief of police and Mary’s nephew by marriage, faced Tony Mendosa and sighed.
Tony was out of breath from his sprint to St Mark’s and back, but he had enough left to flatly refuse to allow Dan to talk to Dalia and Ronaldo. ‘They’re little. They don’t know anything and all you’ll do is scare them to death.’
‘Tony.’ Mary didn’t think she’d ever heard Dan’s voice more patient. ‘We have to know why the kids left the choir room and what time they came out to the manger scene. Was anyone there … Was Cliff already … Did they touch him? We have to know what they saw. You and Luanne can be there the whole time.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Will you come? The kids love you.’
Mary didn’t know what to say. The Mendosa family lived only two houses down from her, and the Mendosa children visited her kitchen often. They seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to cookie baking day, but she was still needed out on the street. The posada hadn’t turned the corner yet. Many of the other displays were just getting started and she still didn’t know where that blasted cow had gone.
‘I can’t. You can’t have the kids yet, either.’ She looked around. A crowd had started to gather to watch the posada appear, only now they stared at the police stringing yellow crime-scene tape that cordoned off the church lawn around the manger and started murmuring among themselves. The word would go out any minute that something not scripted was happening at St Theresa’s, and Maple Street would be deserted. Every person able to squeeze anywhere close would be over here, wanting to know what happened. Not a good idea. ‘We need to finish the posada and all the other events, find that damn cow and get this crowd out of here without completely overwhelming your crime scene. The kids are waiting for Luanne. Tony needs to go back there. I need to be back on the library steps and try to make sure nothing else goes wrong. The way things have gone so far, that doesn’t seem likely. When this is over, Luanne, Tony and the kids can all come to my house. We’ll wait for you. Bring Ellen. I’ll make coffee.’
‘You better have more than coffee.’ Dan’s face was grim but he nodded. The kids could wait. ‘Tony, don’t let them out of your sight. I have no idea what they saw, but if they caught even a glimpse of whoever did this … Don’t leave them alone for a moment.’
Tony visibly paled.
Mary’s heart pounded. If those children saw the killer … No. They couldn’t have. They saw Cliff in the manger, though, and they saw the puppy. Where had it come from, anyway? Thoughts of the puppy vanished as a new noise intruded. What was that? Mary listened. The posada? The singing was close, too close. This wasn’t the posada; it was another noise – laughter. A lot of laughter.
Mary glanced at Dan. It seemed he’d also heard it. They walked toward the front of the lean-to. A Jersey cow leisurely trotted down the street, swinging her head, making the broken lead rope hanging from her halter sway. She looked with seeming curiosity at the crowd gathered around the yellow police tape, loudly wondering what had happened in the manger scene. Almost as one, they turned their attention to the cow.
‘You’d think they’ve never seen a cow before.’
‘Some of them probably haven’t, and I’ll bet no one has seen one leading a posada.’ For that was exactly what was happening. The cow ambled down the center of the street, turning right on cue toward St Mark’s. Rounding the corner, right behind her, came the St Theresa’s Children’s Choir, halos swaying, flashlights making their faces glow like angels in an antique Bible, belting out ‘We Three Kings’ with gusto. Mary, perched precariously on her donkey, Joseph right beside her, came next, followed by four shepherds trying to keep a band of six sheep together with the help of Ben McCullough’s black-and-white Border collie. The Three Wise Men, mounted on Irma’s Arabian mares, were close behind, followed by a crowd of what Mary supposed were pilgrims, most of them in medieval costumes, singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ at the top of their lungs. They paused as they got to St Theresa’s, puzzled when the cow, Joseph, Mary, the donkey and the angels headed toward St Mark’s. Most looked over toward Mary, who waved them on. It wasn’t until Sister Margaret Anne appeared, arm raised in a forward motion, that they obediently fell back into rows and, with only furtive glances at the police occupying the lean-to, disappeared around the corner.