Pat Remick

The Holiday Parade Princess

3rd Place, 2023 Short Story Award/Winter 2024

Everyone loves a parade. But producing a successful one is more complex than you’d

expect. You’re probably thinking: “What’s the big deal? People line up and march down a street.” If only. And take it from me: wayward holiday floats and dead bodies can complicate everything.

As coordinator of my hometown’s annual December parade, which draws spectators from miles around, I spend months working on an event that typically lasts about a half-hour (and that’s if the participants are strolling instead of marching).

Before the parade steps off, I have applications to process, entry fees to collect, inquiries to answer, news releases to write, rules to decree (“throwing candy into the crowd triggers automatic removal”), parking and illegal vendors to ban, streets to close, a program to orchestrate, and pleas to offer to the weather gods.

Creating a seamless lineup is difficult enough. Entreaties for entry after the deadline and last-minute cancellations make matters worse. The principal goal is to space everything out evenly: the bands (and their holiday music), large vehicles and floats (generally flatbed trailers pulled by trucks), walking units, and yes, even beauty contestants. “Mine should go first because she’s the only one who can compete for Miss America,” one pageant sponsor complains every year. But I respect my elders and place Ms. Pennsylvania Senior America in the first section. If the other women are disappointed, you can’t tell from their perfect smiles.

There also are philosophical issues, like whether to place the peace group near the Veterans of Foreign Wars contingent. And will our audience appreciate the irony of the Pennsylvania Bureau of Liquor Control Enforcement delegation following fans of Jimmy Buffet and “Margaritaville”?

It takes all this and more to make a parade. The down jacket I wear over layers of clothing to ward off the Pennsylvania cold reads “Event Staff,” but it should say “Parade Princess.” It sounds better than “Grinch,” which is what the local cops call me since the year I proclaimed: “You may carry a gun, but I’ve got a clipboard, so call the $#!& tow truck to haul those cars away.”

The parade’s entry fees and official paraphernalia sales are major contributors to our town’s budget. To clear space for the thousands of people we want pouring into Harrington for our parade, we remove vehicles that disregard the “No Parking after 5 p.m. signs” along the route and side streets.

That process can significantly back up traffic. But the ensuing chaos is nothing compared with what happens when the trunk of a vehicle being towed springs open and parade-goers spot what’s inside.

Too far away to hear the screams and preoccupied with trying to reach Town Inspector Andy Stone to ensure he’d completed safety inspections of the floats, I didn’t notice the pandemonium—or Police Chief Mike DuBois sprinting across the square.

“Shut the parade down,” the not-so-fit chief wheezed when he reached me on the reviewing stand.

I gasped. “But it hasn’t even started.” 

“We’ve got a body in the trunk of one of the cars you had towed from Oak Street. It looks like he was stabbed. We need to process the scene.”

I’d ordered lots of vehicles taken away that afternoon, but I remembered the Maryland plates on the Oak Street ones because I’d briefly hesitated about having them taken away. We try to avoid alienating tourists.

“Canceling means dealing with about 8,000 unhappy people,” I said. “Do you really want to forfeit the entry fees and holiday souvenir profits earmarked for your evidence room equipment? Besides, those cars weren’t parked along the main route. And are you sure a crime was committed?”

It was the chief’s turn to look stunned. “Do you honestly believe someone bleeding like a stuck pig willingly climbs into a car trunk?”  

I did not, but I also didn’t want to give in to DuBois. So, I shrugged.

Mayor Lee and his wife arrived moments later, and the chief whispered in his ear. The mayor’s eyes widened. “Let’s keep this quiet for now. Act like nothing’s happened. Chief, let us know when you have more info,” the mayor said softly before the couple took their seats on the reviewing stand.

Still unable to reach the town inspector by cellphone or walkie-talkie, I tracked down his assistant, Donnie Daigle, and sent him to Float World to look for Andy and, if necessary, conduct the safety checks himself. Minutes later, Donnie radioed that there was no sign of his boss, but a nearby police officer had agreed to assist with the assessments. “Unfortunately, we’ve got another problem,” Donnie said. “The Premium Spas float hasn’t arrived. Apparently, the driver got lost.”

This threatened to be a major glitch. The Premium float is a crowd favorite because of the innovative ways the owner integrates a working hot tub into each year’s parade theme. Since this year’s was “Everyone is Santa,” we looked forward to seeing Santa hats and red and green swimsuits early in the parade.

“Can you direct him to Float World in time? Or should I rejigger the lineup and hope he arrives before the parade is over?” I yelled into my walkie-talkie to be heard over the pre-parade holiday music piped into the square.

Donnie promised to do his best to avoid a program change. I disconnected just as the mayor sidled up. “Chief DuBois called with bad news,” he said. “He’s confirmed the victim is Andy Stone and says he has no idea why anyone would kill Stone.”

I had several. Andy Stone was a jerk to anyone below him in the town hierarchy, including me, but a “good ol’ boy” to everyone above him, including the mayor. He’d also made countless residents and businesses miserable by going beyond the building and safety codes when inspecting their premises. And he had an ex-wife who hated him. Meanwhile, there were rumors the State Police planned to investigate claims that Stone demanded payoffs in exchange for favorable inspection reports—allegations DuBois vociferously rejected about his golfing buddy.

I was among many who wouldn’t shed tears over Andy Stone. But my immediate concerns were getting the floats inspected and the hot tub entry to the front of the parade in time. With minutes to go, Donnie radioed that Harrington’s Holiday Parade would proceed on schedule again this year. I was so relieved I almost forgot about Andy’s murder.

Soon the bands, floats, and marching units were making their way through the crowded square—the midway point of the parade route. A local radio station DJ announced each of them, following my carefully prepared script.

No one seemed aware that a town employee was dead. Or that his killer might be among them. The DJ didn’t mention it. Nor did the mayor, not even to the City Councilors with him on the reviewing stand.

The parade was going as planned until I spied some hucksters pushing grocery carts filled with cheap, plastic items through the crowd. I dashed across Main Street to confront them. “You have two minutes to get your non-official souvenirs out of here,” I said, motioning for a nearby police officer.

I returned to the reviewing stand in time to witness two teenage girls in festive attire weaving their garishly decorated bicycles in and out of the parade near the somber Police Department color guard. I rushed to challenge the interlopers. “You’re not part of this parade,” I roared. “Yes, we are,” one laughed. “Not anymore,” said I, with a police officer behind me.

Minutes later, I was astounded to see a seven-foot-tall chicken approach, followed by two young women wearing yellow T-shirts over their parkas. I was certain they hadn’t paid the $100 commercial entry fee. I considered jumping off the reviewing stand and tackling the chicken suit in front of thousands of people. Or grabbing the DJ’s microphone and screaming, “Leave my parade, you ‘cheep’ piece of poultry!” But neither option seemed very jolly.

The announcer adlibbed, “Here comes a really big chicken, representing . . . ” We couldn’t make out the wording on the T-shirts, but they resembled one worn by a young woman who approached me before the parade began to ask how to retrieve her friend’s towed car. I vaguely remembered that it advertised a chicken restaurant.

I needed the business name to collect the fee. I leaped from the reviewing stand and hustled to catch up with the chicken and its cluster. “Hey, where are you from?” I yelled.

The chicken-suited figure increased its speed, and the women matched its pace. I sped up. They did too. With the side streets clogged with onlookers, the fleeing flock was using the parade route to escape and zipping past the other marching units.

Soon we were racing at a full clip, but my age handicapped me. Panting, I heard someone say, “Mommy, why is that lady chasing a big chicken in the parade?”

I wondered the same thing. The entry fee wasn’t worth a heart attack. Breathless, I surrendered. But not before I got close enough to determine that the T-shirts advertised Wonder Wings Café in Baltimore, 170 miles away.

I radioed for police assistance, urging officers to be on the lookout for a giant chicken accompanied by two women in yellow T-shirts. “Is this a joke?” one radioed back. “Should we draw our weapons and demand your entry fee?” I heard snickering in the background.

“No, but there’s something fishy because they’re advertising a Maryland restaurant almost three hours from here.”

“Do you suspect f-o-w-l play?” another officer chortled.

“Very funny,” I snapped. “I’m no detective but just maybe there’s a correlation between a body found in the trunk of a Maryland car and three unverified people in my parade who also are probably from Maryland. Oh, and they’re running away from me, too.”

I struggled back to the viewing stand in time for the first truck in a procession of fire apparatus from surrounding towns. Because the departments never knew until the last minute whether service calls would prevent their participation, I had to scramble to supplement the announcer’s script before the traditional grand finale: Santa waving from atop Harrington’s largest fire truck.

Once Santa had passed by, Mayor Lee stood and said, “And thus ends another successful holiday parade, thanks to you, Barb.”

I doubted Andy Stone would agree, but I smiled graciously anyway.

When we arrived at the dignitaries’ reception, Chief DuBois was waiting. “Turns out Barb was correct. One of the towed Maryland cars is registered to the big chicken, aka Danny Molina, who happens to be a cousin of Andy’s ex-wife, Sofia.”

“Andy was killed by the big chicken?”

The chief nodded. “Molina confessed. He said he figured things might get violent when he confronted Andy over delinquent alimony payments. And they did. So, he and his two restaurant workers put Andy’s body in the trunk of their car until they could dump it. They parked on Oak Street and walked to the Exxon station to clean up and get ready for the Baltimore parade since they wouldn’t arrive until just before the 8 p.m. start. Molina thought that if they marched there, no one would suspect they’d been here.”

“They never planned to crash my parade?”

“Nope. After the car was removed, they realized the quickest way to the tow lot was the parade route, so they improvised. But we were waiting for them.”

“It's good to be right,” I said benevolently. Because that’s what a Princess does, even when she deserves to be Queen for conquering a royal mess. And if I could make a royal decree, it would be this: The next time you’re enjoying a parade, remember and respect all it takes to bring it to you.

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Pat Remick is an award-winning mystery short story author and non-fiction writer. Her short stories have appeared in various anthologies, and she has co-authored two professional development books. A veteran print, wire service, TV, and web journalist, Pat retired in 2021 from the Natural Resources Defense Council, where she was a press officer for the international environmental organization. She serves on the national Sisters in Crime membership committee and is editor of the newsletter for the Mid-Atlantic chapter of Mystery Writers of America. She recently was elected to the Board of Directors of the large Washington, D.C., co-op building where she resides with her husband--and suspects her experiences may inspire even more mystery stories. Pat’s love of travel has taken her to 48 states thus far, but her favorite locations are wherever her two adult sons are residing.