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December 25, 2025

“Scents Of The Season”

A Longmire Christmas Story

by Craig Johnson

The entire staff was there at our first Christmas Eve office party, including our Basque contingency Santiago Saizarbitoria and his wife Maria and even Double-Tough had ventured up from our distant substation in Powder Junction to sit on the bench by the stairs of our converted Carnegie Library and covertly feed Dog cookies. As the phone continued to ring, we all stared at my dispatcher as she paused, pouring Vic Moretti a cup of punch. Sighing, Ruby reached over the counter and picked up the receiver, punching line 1. “Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, can I help you?” Listening, I could hear the hysterical voice on the other end as Ruby extended the phone to me. “The Dead Mayor’s Wife.” Thom Graff had been dead for six years, but everybody still referred to his surviving wife Barbara as The Dead Mayor’s Wife mostly because she still acted as if she held the town of Durant, Wyoming in the iron grip of her oven mitt. Taking a sip of her punch, Vic sighed. “Don’t answer it.” With a shrug, I took the receiver and held it to my ear. “Sheriff Walt Longmire.” The phone crackled. “Get... over... now!” I took a sip of my own punch. “Howdy Barb, merry Christmas. How are you?” More crackling as she shouted back, portions of the call dropping out. “I have a... In my dining room... How I am!” “I’m losing you here, Barb. Are you on a cell phone?” The line continued to crackle. “A skunk... Skunk in my house!” “A skunk you say. Well, that’s not in our line of work, maybe call Game & Fish?” Crackling. “...calling you...” The line went dead. Taking the phone from my ear, I glanced at Ruby. “Do you have a number for Jim Nelson over at Game & Fish?” She pointed to one of the numbers listed on the laminated sheet of paper taped to the surface of her counter and I dialed it and glanced at my staff, putting the receiver back to my ear. “I guess Barb Graff has an uninvited guest at her annual holiday dinner party.” The phone rang and an affable voice answered. “Hello?” “Jim, it’s Walt Longmire and I’ve got a problem or more specifically The Dead Mayor’s Wife has one.” “Barb Graff?” “Yep, hey she’s got a skunk in her dining room, how long will it take you to get over there?” There was a pause. “About seventeen hours and thirteen minutes, we’re down in Scottsdale visiting with my in-laws.” “Well, who’s on call?” “Nobody, our department doesn’t do nuisance animals. She’d have to get a private pest control company; I think there’s one in Casper?” “That’s not gonna be much help tonight.” I listened as he readjusted the phone in his ear, long distance. “And you say this skunk is in her house?” “Yep.” “Doesn’t she have a big party on Christmas Eve?” “Social event of the season, or so I hear.” “That’s not good.” There was another pause before he spoke again. “This is the time of year that skunks go into a torpor, not exactly a full-blown hibernation but they usually aren’t out wandering around in a residential area and especially into a crowded house full of people, lights, music and everything?” “Rabies?” “Sorry Walt, that’s the only explanation I can come up with.” There was a pause. “It’s in a house full of people and it hasn’t sprayed anybody?” “Not that I’m aware of.” “That’s definitely odd.” There was another pause. “Well, we’ve got special traps you can borrow but I doubt The Dead Mayor’s Wife is gonna to wait around for that and if it is rabid then you’ve got to get it out of there pronto.” I leaned against the counter, feeling the energy draining from my body as Dog, sensing something was wrong, joined me and nudged his head under my hand. “And do what, shoot it?” “That’s about all you can do but it’s gonna spray if it’s injured or stressed...” “Well, that best describes the two responses I generally summon up whenever I get shot.” “Your best odds are a low-caliber weapon like a .22 or something like that, but it’ll probably spray anyway.” “Great.” “Hey, let me know how it goes...” “Oh, no, you’re getting out of this that easy. I’m keeping your cell number for when we get over there and you’re going to talk me through this.” I hung up the phone and sipped my punch, looking down at Dog and then at my staff adopting my best John Mills wartime gravitas. “I have a dangerous mission, a suicide mission in fact and the chances of survival are pretty slim. I’m looking for a volunteer...” My stalwart and fearless staff, collectively, looked at their shoes and nobody stepped forward. Vic shook her head. “You guys suck.” * * * “I think it was good idea to leave Dog at the office.” I glanced over as Vic worked the bolt-action of the old .22 rifle and then examined the blue-tips of the rounds in her hand. “I’ve never seen a bullet this small, what are these funny-looking points?” “Rat-shot.” “Is that what it sounds like?” “Yep, extremely small shot in a regular cartridge.” “Like a shotgun.” She held up the Winchester, examining it. “And where did this antique flintlock come from?” “It was mine, a Christmas gift from my grandfather, Lloyde.” I navigated the thin layer of snow on the road as we drove on to our odiferous doom. “When I was a kid out on the Powder River, my father used to give me two rounds in the morning and then tell me that I better come back with two rabbits.” Propping the small rifle between her thighs, she looked back at me as I made the turn onto The Dead Mayor’s Wife’s Street. “What’s the range on a round like this?” “About ten or twelve feet.” “That’s not very far, considering our quarry.” I pulled into the driveway of the fully decorated Victorian house festooned with colored lights, boughs of roped cedar and festive array. “Nope, it’s not.” Fortunately, it was relatively warm as the attendees gathered on the wraparound porch sipping their drinks and eating canapes as paid high-school students in black slacks and white shirts shivered and circulated, refilling their glasses from magnums of champaign. Reaching the steps, Vic followed me with the diminutive firearm cradled in her arms as I petted Buster, a wagging and wiggling Golden Retriever. “Well, it took you long enough.” I looked up to find the Barbara Graff standing over me with her hands on her hips, her breath emitting clouds from her nostrils like a dragon. “Hi, Barb.” She stuck an accusatory finger at me. “There is a skunk in my dining room.” “Yep, I got that. Is there anyone else in the house?” “Of course not.” “Good.” I got the attention of one of the passing servers and acquired two glasses of bubbly for both Vic and I, handing one to my second in command and then took a sip of mine. “How did it get in there?” Infuriated that I was taking my time, The Dead Mayor’s Wife redirected her wrath at the Golden sitting on the top step, still wagging as a tiny girl in a red velvet dress about two years of age with a pile of matching golden curls came over and started petting the dog. “Buster brought it in.” I stared at her. “The dog? How?” “What do you mean, how?” “Well, did he lead him in?” The Dead Mayor’s Wife huffed. “No, he just carried him.” I started to take another sip but then paused a few inches from my lips. “In his mouth?” “Yes, that’s what I said.” I leaned forward, smiling at the little girl and sniffing the dog but smelling nothing. “He picked up a skunk in his mouth and it didn’t spray him?” “Buster has a very gentle mouth.” I glanced at Vic, who like me, was speechless. Barb placed a hand on the little girl’s blonde head, pulling her to her thigh. “This is my granddaughter, Beverly.” “Hi, Beverly.” She smiled up at me. “Peaches.” I glanced up at Barb who shrugged. “That’s her new word; she’s been saying it all night.” Glancing back at little Beverly, the child confirmed by repeating. “Peaches.” “Beverly gave Buster a new squeeze toy for Christmas...” Barb fingered the curls on her granddaughter’s head. “And it looks like a skunk.” Vic looked at Barb, little Beverly and then Buster in turn. “You’re shitting me.” Cutting off any further remark, I asked The Dead Mayor’s Wife. “And you think Buster here mistook the live skunk for the toy?” She crossed her arms. “Are you people going to go in there and do something about this or what?” I reached down and petted Buster, who licked my hand. “And he didn’t get sprayed?” Barb stepped back, raising an arm as if entreating us to enter the house. “No, I told you. Now, why don’t you people...” “That’s not good.” “What do you mean by not good?” I took the last step up and peered over her shoulder and through the glass-paneled front door into the entryway of the opulent house. “It means that any normal skunk would’ve most certainly cut loose if picked up in a dog’s mouth.” “So, the skunk is abnormal?” “To say the least, and to say the most it could potentially be rabid.” The Dead Mayor’s Wife’s penciled brows rose as her eye’s widened. “Did you just say rabid, as in rabies?” “Potentially.” Her voice rose to match her eyebrows. “Get that thing out of my house, now!” I reached over and took the .22 from Vic. “We came prepared for that eventuality, but I have to warn you that that skunk is going to spray when I shoot it.” “I don’t care.” “You will when your whole house stops smelling like gingerbread and cinnamon and starts smelling like dead skunk for the holidays.” She thought about it. “What other options are there?” “None, really. If it’s rabid it has to be disposed of.” Tucking the rifle under my arm, I reached down and booped the little girl in the nose with the tip of my finger. She smiled up at me. “Peaches!” I then petted the dog as I glanced at Barb. “No matter how gentle of a mouth Buster here has, if that skunk didn’t spray him then it’s likely the animal is infected.” The Dead Mayor’s Wife raised her arm again. “Get that creature out of my house, now.” I nodded, pulling the bolt-action on the Winchester and then handing Vic my glass and holding out the same hand in which my undersheriff deposited one of the blue-point, rat- shot rounds. “Just for the record, my department is not going to be held responsible for any damage done by said skunk or by the disposal thereof, got me?” The Dead Mayor’s Wife said nothing but continued to point as I moved past her and toward the front door with Vic close behind. There must’ve been a good two dozen people on the porch drinking, eating and talking but I noticed that the conversation had come to a complete halt as we stood there at the front door, all eyes on us. Vic gave them a quick nod, passing off the two empty glasses to a thoughtful high- schooler’s tray. She then thumped a fist to her chest and held it aloft in a gladiatorial salute. “For those of us about to die, we salute you.” Shaking my head, I turned the knob and opened the door just enough to stick my nose inside, sniffing but smelling nothing besides the intoxicating fragrance of roast turkey, oyster stuffing and cranberry sauce. Say what you wanted about the Dead Mayor’s Wife, she knew how to lay out a spread. There was music playing as I inserted one of the tiny rounds in the bolt-action, entering and sweeping the area like a veteran swat member, clearing the entryway and stepping inside. Vic followed with her Glock unholstered, aiming through the doorway leading to the parlor to the left as Peggy Lee crooned Winter Wonderland throughout the house. Trying desperately to remember the layout of the Victorian from the few visits I’d made previously, I knew the kitchen was directly ahead and that the dining room, which I assumed had to be where the invader was, was to the left. Motioning with my chin toward the parlor door, I watched as Vic crept to the side of the doorway and trained her 9mm on the entire room before stepping inside where there was a loud squeak and I watched as my undersheriff did something I’d never seen her do before, leaping back with a muffled yelp and slamming into the door jamb with the semi-automatic aimed at the floor, a look of stark terror on her face. We both stood there unmoving as she finally glanced at me sheepishly and then stepped in the same direction, picking something up from the expensive carpet and squeezing it -- the toy skunk. Moving past her, I continued on toward the door at the other end of the room. “Keep it, maybe we can use it as a decoy.” Getting to the other end, I gently pushed the swinging door open and stuck my head in, taking in the entirety of the glittering dining room. There was huge, crystal chandelier overseeing the festivities with an ornate sideboard overladen with appetizers, side dishes and desserts. Chairs were overturned around the extended table and napkins, and a few spilled glasses lay on the floor giving credence that the interloper had first been discovered in this very room. Raising the barrel of the Winchester, I trained it to the left and could now see the massive outlaying of untouched food on the elongated table where a massive turkey sat at center on a silver tray -- moving. The big bird wasn’t actually stirring as much as being moved, the bulk of its body twitching a bit and then jostling to one side as if being adjusted. About at the limit of my range with the rounds and weapon in hand, I aimed at the turkey, only to find a half-dozen partygoers in the window behind the table, they’re hands cupped against the glass as they leaned in, peering at the drama unfolding in the grand dining room. Pulling back, my eye once again rested on the turkey at the center of the table, and the skunk that now had raised his head, chewing and looking back at me. He was an odd looking fellow for a skunk, first looking at me and then at one of the partygoers who was now tapping at the glass. Slowly closing the door, I turned to Vic. “Go out there and get those people away from the dining room window and out of the line of fire, please?” Rolling her eyes, I watched as she tiptoed from the parlor, and I turned back to push open the door again. The bird was still jostling on the tray, but the skunk had repositioned himself so that he was now standing on a leg and glancing up at the window where the crowd still stood enjoying the spectacle. He didn’t have the usual, single stripe, but rather a patchwork of patterns swirling in black and white like a Van Gogh. Staring at the window, I watched as he stamped his feet and then adopted a strange u-shaped position with his head and rear end pointed at the window as the people there scattered and disappeared. He stayed like that for a moment and then went back to eating the turkey as I silently closed the door and turned to find Vic. “Have you got Jim Nelson’s number on your cell phone?” “Yes.” She pulled the device from her pocket, thumbed a few buttons and then handed it to me before retreating to the window and motioning people away. I listened as the thing rang and then heard the Game Warden answer. “Jim, it’s a weird looking skunk with a crazy patchwork of black and white...” “Spilogale Gracillas, it’s a Western Spotted Skunk, those are rare.” “Well, they’re about to get a lot rarer.” “There’s a conservation concern with that species, Walt.” I stared at the phone in my hand. “What?” “Yeah, the population has decreased dramatically, and it’s been listed by various agencies as endangered, threatened or of concern.” Moving to where Vic now stood, I sat on an ornate loveseat, resting the rifle on my knees. “Are you saying I can’t shoot it?” “Is it rabid?” “How the heck should I know?” “Well, after you shoot it cut off the head and save it for us, would you?” “I’m going to cut off your head if you don’t start giving me some straight answers.” He laughed. “Is it aggressive?” “It’s doing a number on a turkey at the center of the dining room table right now.” There was a pause. “It’s eating?” Vic sat beside me, attempting to listen in. “Very much so.” “They don’t usually do that. Is it uncoordinated, staggering or having seizures?” “No.” “Foaming at the mouth?” “Kind of hard to tell with all that turkey in there.” “They just don’t eat and drink when they’ve got rabies, Walt, and you’re saying this one is chowing down and they certainly don’t do that.” I was distracted as Vic suddenly stood and started past me, pointing to where the two- year-old Beverly Graff had appeared out of nowhere and now stood at the dining room door, smiling at us before proclaiming her signature word of the evening. “Peaches!” Vic took another step toward her, holstering her sidearm and extending her hands. “Honey, honey you don’t want to go in there...” Pushing the swinging door open, the little girl did just that and then disappeared into the dining room before either of us could move. “Jim, I’ve got to go.” Handing Vic her phone, we both rushed to the door as it swung shut. Holding for only an instant, I carefully swung the thing wide to watch in transfixed horror as little Beverly clambered onto one of the chairs and then reached out to grab the skunk by the tail and drag it toward her, scattering dishes and drinkware as she scooped the animal up and held it cradled in her arms as the skunk contently chewed more turkey. Lowering her face, she gave the Western Spotted Skunk a kiss on the top of its head and then held it out toward us with a beatific smile, rocking back and forth. “Peaches!” * * * “You do know that Peaches is an endangered species, right?” Sitting in the shop of Mister Samual Pegler, we watched as he smoked his pipe and then reached down and petted the skunk. “Well, there’s nothing that says you can’t have ‘em, right? I found her on the side of the road to the golf course about a year ago, freezing to death and starved. So, I brought her home and started feeding her, first with a bottle and then with whatever I had around but she loves fruit, and peaches best of all.” Vic sat on a bench beside the old man. “How did Buster get to know Peaches?” Pegler glanced up at me, questioningly stroking his silver beard as I clarified. “The dog.” “Oh, when the Dead Mayor’s Wife lets him out in the morning and he bounds over to say hi to Peaches, they’re friends.” Nonchalantly handing the skunk off to Vic, who took it, but didn’t look completely happy about it, the elderly man wandered over to the window of his shop, looking at the enclosure outside. “And Beverly?” He turned to look at me, his azure eyes twinkling. “The Dead Mayor’s Granddaughter? She came over this summer whenever the family were cooking out in that gazebo they’ve got. She wandered over with... What’d you say the dog’s name was?” “Buster.” “Buster.” He took the pipe from his mouth. “Right, Buster and her came over a few times, so I introduced her to Peaches. The family waved and said it was okay after I called out to them, but I think they thought it was a kitten.” I reached out and petted the animal, now snuggled in Vic’s arms. “Well, you’re going to have to keep a closer tab on Peaches, here Mister Pegler.” He turned, once again looking out at the enclosure. “Can I be honest with you, Sheriff?” I joined him at the window. “I would hope.” “That little girl let Peaches out.” He glanced up at me. “When I came out here, I found the latch and the gate between the properties open. She didn’t know she was doing anything wrong; she just comes over here with... What’d you say the dog’s name was?” “Buster.” “Buster, right. Her and Buster come over here and got their friend and took Peaches over to the party.” “Sounds feasible, but you might want to put a lock on that enclosure.” “I will be.” I turned back to where Vic had softened and was now petting the skunk. “Well, Mister Pegler I’ll go to bat for you with the Game & Fish, but I’ve got a Game Warden friend, Jim Nelson who I’m thinking would love to be introduced to Peaches, here.” “Happy to.” “I guess they don’t have a lot of data on this Western Spotted Skunk, especially one like Peaches that’s been tamed and de-scented.” He continued to puff his pipe. “Oh, she’s not de-scented.” Neither Vic nor I moved. “Excuse me?” “Never saw any sense in it.” He plucked the pipe from his mouth, pointing the stem at the skunk, still in Vic’s arms. “She does that silly handstand and that u-shape like she’s gonna spray, but she never has -- at least not yet.” * * * It took three full blocks before my undersheriff spoke to me, Dog constantly sniffing at her as we drove. “Do I smell like skunk?” I couldn’t help but smile. “No.” “Honestly.” Turning the corner on Main Street, I headed home for the night. “Honestly, if you did, I’d be the first to tell you.” She continued to look at the big beast, who persisted in giving her the what’s-over. “Your dog thinks I smell like skunk.” “No, he doesn’t. He thinks you smell like Buster, or a turkey dinner or if he does think you smell like a skunk it’s just skunk in general, not like you’ve been sprayed.” “You’re sure?” “Yep.” She settled back in her seat as Dog once again began sniffing at her elbow. “So, tell me, if the old guy hadn’t come over and taken Peaches from my lap, what would you have done?” I gave it some thought. “Ran like hell.” We drove under the highway overpass and into the stars that glittered like diamonds where people found peace in the voices of angels in an early morning Christmas, as Victoria Moretti formulated a predictable response. “You suck.”

Previous Post-Its

• May 2025 - Return To Sender • Christmas 2024 - “Starter’s End” • November 2024 - North To Alaska • May 2024 - Twenty For Twenty • March 2024 - Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle • Christmas 2023 - “Recidivism”

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December 25, 2025

“Scents Of The Season”

A Longmire Christmas Story

by Craig Johnson

The entire staff was there at our first Christmas Eve office party, including our Basque contingency Santiago Saizarbitoria and his wife Maria and even Double-Tough had ventured up from our distant substation in Powder Junction to sit on the bench by the stairs of our converted Carnegie Library and covertly feed Dog cookies. As the phone continued to ring, we all stared at my dispatcher as she paused, pouring Vic Moretti a cup of punch. Sighing, Ruby reached over the counter and picked up the receiver, punching line 1. “Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, can I help you?” Listening, I could hear the hysterical voice on the other end as Ruby extended the phone to me. “The Dead Mayor’s Wife.” Thom Graff had been dead for six years, but everybody still referred to his surviving wife Barbara as The Dead Mayor’s Wife mostly because she still acted as if she held the town of Durant, Wyoming in the iron grip of her oven mitt. Taking a sip of her punch, Vic sighed. “Don’t answer it.” With a shrug, I took the receiver and held it to my ear. “Sheriff Walt Longmire.” The phone crackled. “Get... over... now!” I took a sip of my own punch. “Howdy Barb, merry Christmas. How are you?” More crackling as she shouted back, portions of the call dropping out. “I have a... In my dining room... How I am!” “I’m losing you here, Barb. Are you on a cell phone?” The line continued to crackle. “A skunk... Skunk in my house!” “A skunk you say. Well, that’s not in our line of work, maybe call Game & Fish?” Crackling. “...calling you...” The line went dead. Taking the phone from my ear, I glanced at Ruby. “Do you have a number for Jim Nelson over at Game & Fish?” She pointed to one of the numbers listed on the laminated sheet of paper taped to the surface of her counter and I dialed it and glanced at my staff, putting the receiver back to my ear. “I guess Barb Graff has an uninvited guest at her annual holiday dinner party.” The phone rang and an affable voice answered. “Hello?” “Jim, it’s Walt Longmire and I’ve got a problem or more specifically The Dead Mayor’s Wife has one.” “Barb Graff?” “Yep, hey she’s got a skunk in her dining room, how long will it take you to get over there?” There was a pause. “About seventeen hours and thirteen minutes, we’re down in Scottsdale visiting with my in-laws.” “Well, who’s on call?” “Nobody, our department doesn’t do nuisance animals. She’d have to get a private pest control company; I think there’s one in Casper?” “That’s not gonna be much help tonight.” I listened as he readjusted the phone in his ear, long distance. “And you say this skunk is in her house?” “Yep.” “Doesn’t she have a big party on Christmas Eve?” “Social event of the season, or so I hear.” “That’s not good.” There was another pause before he spoke again. “This is the time of year that skunks go into a torpor, not exactly a full-blown hibernation but they usually aren’t out wandering around in a residential area and especially into a crowded house full of people, lights, music and everything?” “Rabies?” “Sorry Walt, that’s the only explanation I can come up with.” There was a pause. “It’s in a house full of people and it hasn’t sprayed anybody?” “Not that I’m aware of.” “That’s definitely odd.” There was another pause. “Well, we’ve got special traps you can borrow but I doubt The Dead Mayor’s Wife is gonna to wait around for that and if it is rabid then you’ve got to get it out of there pronto.” I leaned against the counter, feeling the energy draining from my body as Dog, sensing something was wrong, joined me and nudged his head under my hand. “And do what, shoot it?” “That’s about all you can do but it’s gonna spray if it’s injured or stressed...” “Well, that best describes the two responses I generally summon up whenever I get shot.” “Your best odds are a low-caliber weapon like a .22 or something like that, but it’ll probably spray anyway.” “Great.” “Hey, let me know how it goes...” “Oh, no, you’re getting out of this that easy. I’m keeping your cell number for when we get over there and you’re going to talk me through this.” I hung up the phone and sipped my punch, looking down at Dog and then at my staff adopting my best John Mills wartime gravitas. “I have a dangerous mission, a suicide mission in fact and the chances of survival are pretty slim. I’m looking for a volunteer...” My stalwart and fearless staff, collectively, looked at their shoes and nobody stepped forward. Vic shook her head. “You guys suck.” * * * “I think it was good idea to leave Dog at the office.” I glanced over as Vic worked the bolt-action of the old .22 rifle and then examined the blue-tips of the rounds in her hand. “I’ve never seen a bullet this small, what are these funny-looking points?” “Rat-shot.” “Is that what it sounds like?” “Yep, extremely small shot in a regular cartridge.” “Like a shotgun.” She held up the Winchester, examining it. “And where did this antique flintlock come from?” “It was mine, a Christmas gift from my grandfather, Lloyde.” I navigated the thin layer of snow on the road as we drove on to our odiferous doom. “When I was a kid out on the Powder River, my father used to give me two rounds in the morning and then tell me that I better come back with two rabbits.” Propping the small rifle between her thighs, she looked back at me as I made the turn onto The Dead Mayor’s Wife’s Street. “What’s the range on a round like this?” “About ten or twelve feet.” “That’s not very far, considering our quarry.” I pulled into the driveway of the fully decorated Victorian house festooned with colored lights, boughs of roped cedar and festive array. “Nope, it’s not.” Fortunately, it was relatively warm as the attendees gathered on the wraparound porch sipping their drinks and eating canapes as paid high-school students in black slacks and white shirts shivered and circulated, refilling their glasses from magnums of champaign. Reaching the steps, Vic followed me with the diminutive firearm cradled in her arms as I petted Buster, a wagging and wiggling Golden Retriever. “Well, it took you long enough.” I looked up to find the Barbara Graff standing over me with her hands on her hips, her breath emitting clouds from her nostrils like a dragon. “Hi, Barb.” She stuck an accusatory finger at me. “There is a skunk in my dining room.” “Yep, I got that. Is there anyone else in the house?” “Of course not.” “Good.” I got the attention of one of the passing servers and acquired two glasses of bubbly for both Vic and I, handing one to my second in command and then took a sip of mine. “How did it get in there?” Infuriated that I was taking my time, The Dead Mayor’s Wife redirected her wrath at the Golden sitting on the top step, still wagging as a tiny girl in a red velvet dress about two years of age with a pile of matching golden curls came over and started petting the dog. “Buster brought it in.” I stared at her. “The dog? How?” “What do you mean, how?” “Well, did he lead him in?” The Dead Mayor’s Wife huffed. “No, he just carried him.” I started to take another sip but then paused a few inches from my lips. “In his mouth?” “Yes, that’s what I said.” I leaned forward, smiling at the little girl and sniffing the dog but smelling nothing. “He picked up a skunk in his mouth and it didn’t spray him?” “Buster has a very gentle mouth.” I glanced at Vic, who like me, was speechless. Barb placed a hand on the little girl’s blonde head, pulling her to her thigh. “This is my granddaughter, Beverly.” “Hi, Beverly.” She smiled up at me. “Peaches.” I glanced up at Barb who shrugged. “That’s her new word; she’s been saying it all night.” Glancing back at little Beverly, the child confirmed by repeating. “Peaches.” “Beverly gave Buster a new squeeze toy for Christmas...” Barb fingered the curls on her granddaughter’s head. “And it looks like a skunk.” Vic looked at Barb, little Beverly and then Buster in turn. “You’re shitting me.” Cutting off any further remark, I asked The Dead Mayor’s Wife. “And you think Buster here mistook the live skunk for the toy?” She crossed her arms. “Are you people going to go in there and do something about this or what?” I reached down and petted Buster, who licked my hand. “And he didn’t get sprayed?” Barb stepped back, raising an arm as if entreating us to enter the house. “No, I told you. Now, why don’t you people...” “That’s not good.” “What do you mean by not good?” I took the last step up and peered over her shoulder and through the glass- paneled front door into the entryway of the opulent house. “It means that any normal skunk would’ve most certainly cut loose if picked up in a dog’s mouth.” “So, the skunk is abnormal?” “To say the least, and to say the most it could potentially be rabid.” The Dead Mayor’s Wife’s penciled brows rose as her eye’s widened. “Did you just say rabid, as in rabies?” “Potentially.” Her voice rose to match her eyebrows. “Get that thing out of my house, now!” I reached over and took the .22 from Vic. “We came prepared for that eventuality, but I have to warn you that that skunk is going to spray when I shoot it.” “I don’t care.” “You will when your whole house stops smelling like gingerbread and cinnamon and starts smelling like dead skunk for the holidays.” She thought about it. “What other options are there?” “None, really. If it’s rabid it has to be disposed of.” Tucking the rifle under my arm, I reached down and booped the little girl in the nose with the tip of my finger. She smiled up at me. “Peaches!” I then petted the dog as I glanced at Barb. “No matter how gentle of a mouth Buster here has, if that skunk didn’t spray him then it’s likely the animal is infected.” The Dead Mayor’s Wife raised her arm again. “Get that creature out of my house, now.” I nodded, pulling the bolt-action on the Winchester and then handing Vic my glass and holding out the same hand in which my undersheriff deposited one of the blue-point, rat-shot rounds. “Just for the record, my department is not going to be held responsible for any damage done by said skunk or by the disposal thereof, got me?” The Dead Mayor’s Wife said nothing but continued to point as I moved past her and toward the front door with Vic close behind. There must’ve been a good two dozen people on the porch drinking, eating and talking but I noticed that the conversation had come to a complete halt as we stood there at the front door, all eyes on us. Vic gave them a quick nod, passing off the two empty glasses to a thoughtful high- schooler’s tray. She then thumped a fist to her chest and held it aloft in a gladiatorial salute. “For those of us about to die, we salute you.” Shaking my head, I turned the knob and opened the door just enough to stick my nose inside, sniffing but smelling nothing besides the intoxicating fragrance of roast turkey, oyster stuffing and cranberry sauce. Say what you wanted about the Dead Mayor’s Wife, she knew how to lay out a spread. There was music playing as I inserted one of the tiny rounds in the bolt-action, entering and sweeping the area like a veteran swat member, clearing the entryway and stepping inside. Vic followed with her Glock unholstered, aiming through the doorway leading to the parlor to the left as Peggy Lee crooned Winter Wonderland throughout the house. Trying desperately to remember the layout of the Victorian from the few visits I’d made previously, I knew the kitchen was directly ahead and that the dining room, which I assumed had to be where the invader was, was to the left. Motioning with my chin toward the parlor door, I watched as Vic crept to the side of the doorway and trained her 9mm on the entire room before stepping inside where there was a loud squeak and I watched as my undersheriff did something I’d never seen her do before, leaping back with a muffled yelp and slamming into the door jamb with the semi-automatic aimed at the floor, a look of stark terror on her face. We both stood there unmoving as she finally glanced at me sheepishly and then stepped in the same direction, picking something up from the expensive carpet and squeezing it -- the toy skunk. Moving past her, I continued on toward the door at the other end of the room. “Keep it, maybe we can use it as a decoy.” Getting to the other end, I gently pushed the swinging door open and stuck my head in, taking in the entirety of the glittering dining room. There was huge, crystal chandelier overseeing the festivities with an ornate sideboard overladen with appetizers, side dishes and desserts. Chairs were overturned around the extended table and napkins, and a few spilled glasses lay on the floor giving credence that the interloper had first been discovered in this very room. Raising the barrel of the Winchester, I trained it to the left and could now see the massive outlaying of untouched food on the elongated table where a massive turkey sat at center on a silver tray -- moving. The big bird wasn’t actually stirring as much as being moved, the bulk of its body twitching a bit and then jostling to one side as if being adjusted. About at the limit of my range with the rounds and weapon in hand, I aimed at the turkey, only to find a half-dozen partygoers in the window behind the table, they’re hands cupped against the glass as they leaned in, peering at the drama unfolding in the grand dining room. Pulling back, my eye once again rested on the turkey at the center of the table, and the skunk that now had raised his head, chewing and looking back at me. He was an odd looking fellow for a skunk, first looking at me and then at one of the partygoers who was now tapping at the glass. Slowly closing the door, I turned to Vic. “Go out there and get those people away from the dining room window and out of the line of fire, please?” Rolling her eyes, I watched as she tiptoed from the parlor, and I turned back to push open the door again. The bird was still jostling on the tray, but the skunk had repositioned himself so that he was now standing on a leg and glancing up at the window where the crowd still stood enjoying the spectacle. He didn’t have the usual, single stripe, but rather a patchwork of patterns swirling in black and white like a Van Gogh. Staring at the window, I watched as he stamped his feet and then adopted a strange u- shaped position with his head and rear end pointed at the window as the people there scattered and disappeared. He stayed like that for a moment and then went back to eating the turkey as I silently closed the door and turned to find Vic. “Have you got Jim Nelson’s number on your cell phone?” “Yes.” She pulled the device from her pocket, thumbed a few buttons and then handed it to me before retreating to the window and motioning people away. I listened as the thing rang and then heard the Game Warden answer. “Jim, it’s a weird looking skunk with a crazy patchwork of black and white...” “Spilogale Gracillas, it’s a Western Spotted Skunk, those are rare.” “Well, they’re about to get a lot rarer.” “There’s a conservation concern with that species, Walt.” I stared at the phone in my hand. “What?” “Yeah, the population has decreased dramatically, and it’s been listed by various agencies as endangered, threatened or of concern.” Moving to where Vic now stood, I sat on an ornate loveseat, resting the rifle on my knees. “Are you saying I can’t shoot it?” “Is it rabid?” “How the heck should I know?” “Well, after you shoot it cut off the head and save it for us, would you?” “I’m going to cut off your head if you don’t start giving me some straight answers.” He laughed. “Is it aggressive?” “It’s doing a number on a turkey at the center of the dining room table right now.” There was a pause. “It’s eating?” Vic sat beside me, attempting to listen in. “Very much so.” “They don’t usually do that. Is it uncoordinated, staggering or having seizures?” “No.” “Foaming at the mouth?” “Kind of hard to tell with all that turkey in there.” “They just don’t eat and drink when they’ve got rabies, Walt, and you’re saying this one is chowing down and they certainly don’t do that.” I was distracted as Vic suddenly stood and started past me, pointing to where the two-year-old Beverly Graff had appeared out of nowhere and now stood at the dining room door, smiling at us before proclaiming her signature word of the evening. “Peaches!” Vic took another step toward her, holstering her sidearm and extending her hands. “Honey, honey you don’t want to go in there...” Pushing the swinging door open, the little girl did just that and then disappeared into the dining room before either of us could move. “Jim, I’ve got to go.” Handing Vic her phone, we both rushed to the door as it swung shut. Holding for only an instant, I carefully swung the thing wide to watch in transfixed horror as little Beverly clambered onto one of the chairs and then reached out to grab the skunk by the tail and drag it toward her, scattering dishes and drinkware as she scooped the animal up and held it cradled in her arms as the skunk contently chewed more turkey. Lowering her face, she gave the Western Spotted Skunk a kiss on the top of its head and then held it out toward us with a beatific smile, rocking back and forth. “Peaches!” * * * “You do know that Peaches is an endangered species, right?” Sitting in the shop of Mister Samual Pegler, we watched as he smoked his pipe and then reached down and petted the skunk. “Well, there’s nothing that says you can’t have ‘em, right? I found her on the side of the road to the golf course about a year ago, freezing to death and starved. So, I brought her home and started feeding her, first with a bottle and then with whatever I had around but she loves fruit, and peaches best of all.” Vic sat on a bench beside the old man. “How did Buster get to know Peaches?” Pegler glanced up at me, questioningly stroking his silver beard as I clarified. “The dog.” “Oh, when the Dead Mayor’s Wife lets him out in the morning and he bounds over to say hi to Peaches, they’re friends.” Nonchalantly handing the skunk off to Vic, who took it, but didn’t look completely happy about it, the elderly man wandered over to the window of his shop, looking at the enclosure outside. “And Beverly?” He turned to look at me, his azure eyes twinkling. “The Dead Mayor’s Granddaughter? She came over this summer whenever the family were cooking out in that gazebo they’ve got. She wandered over with... What’d you say the dog’s name was?” “Buster.” “Buster.” He took the pipe from his mouth. “Right, Buster and her came over a few times, so I introduced her to Peaches. The family waved and said it was okay after I called out to them, but I think they thought it was a kitten.” I reached out and petted the animal, now snuggled in Vic’s arms. “Well, you’re going to have to keep a closer tab on Peaches, here Mister Pegler.” He turned, once again looking out at the enclosure. “Can I be honest with you, Sheriff?” I joined him at the window. “I would hope.” “That little girl let Peaches out.” He glanced up at me. “When I came out here, I found the latch and the gate between the properties open. She didn’t know she was doing anything wrong; she just comes over here with... What’d you say the dog’s name was?” “Buster.” “Buster, right. Her and Buster come over here and got their friend and took Peaches over to the party.” “Sounds feasible, but you might want to put a lock on that enclosure.” “I will be.” I turned back to where Vic had softened and was now petting the skunk. “Well, Mister Pegler I’ll go to bat for you with the Game & Fish, but I’ve got a Game Warden friend, Jim Nelson who I’m thinking would love to be introduced to Peaches, here.” “Happy to.” “I guess they don’t have a lot of data on this Western Spotted Skunk, especially one like Peaches that’s been tamed and de-scented.” He continued to puff his pipe. “Oh, she’s not de-scented.” Neither Vic nor I moved. “Excuse me?” “Never saw any sense in it.” He plucked the pipe from his mouth, pointing the stem at the skunk, still in Vic’s arms. “She does that silly handstand and that u-shape like she’s gonna spray, but she never has -- at least not yet.” * * * It took three full blocks before my undersheriff spoke to me, Dog constantly sniffing at her as we drove. “Do I smell like skunk?” I couldn’t help but smile. “No.” “Honestly.” Turning the corner on Main Street, I headed home for the night. “Honestly, if you did, I’d be the first to tell you.” She continued to look at the big beast, who persisted in giving her the what’s- over. “Your dog thinks I smell like skunk.” “No, he doesn’t. He thinks you smell like Buster, or a turkey dinner or if he does think you smell like a skunk it’s just skunk in general, not like you’ve been sprayed.” “You’re sure?” “Yep.” She settled back in her seat as Dog once again began sniffing at her elbow. “So, tell me, if the old guy hadn’t come over and taken Peaches from my lap, what would you have done?” I gave it some thought. “Ran like hell.” We drove under the highway overpass and into the stars that glittered like diamonds where people found peace in the voices of angels in an early morning Christmas, as Victoria Moretti formulated a predictable response. “You suck.”

Previous Post-Its

• May 2025 - Return To Sender • Christmas 2024 - “Starter’s End” • November 2024 - North To Alaska • May 2024 - Twenty For Twenty • March 2024 - Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle • Christmas 2023 - “Recidivism”