Santa Clawed

by Rita Mae Brown

“Yes. She was pickled in high-grade bourbon, but she never let a declension slip.” Harry laughed, too. “Do you need the pitch pipe before the party? Sorry, Brother Morris, I do that all the time, just switch from one subject to another. I mean, do you need me to run the pitch pipe up to you tomorrow?”

  “No, I can do without. If you’d be so kind as to give it to me when we arrive at St. Luke’s, that would be sufficient.”

  “Will do.”

  “You and Fair are in our prayers.”

  They said their good-byes. Harry hit the end button on her cell and said to Fair, “Brother Morris needs a pitch pipe.”

  “Get it back from him after the party and put it on eBay. You’ll make a bundle.”

  Harry smiled at him. “Good idea, but I don’t think I’ll ask for it back. And he wanted to talk about Christopher, but he wasn’t maudlin. He was solicitous about us since we knew Christopher from high school. Very kind of him, really.”

  On Thursday, December 18, the temperature plunged into the mid-twenties, quite cold by Virginia standards. A swirl of snow heightened the sense that it truly was Christmas. Try as she might, Harry couldn’t get into the spirit. She turned off the Christmas carols on the radio as she drove. They irritated her, and she usually enjoyed them.

  Harry thought about body language. How the body told the truth, whether it was Tucker’s extra alertness and sweet expression when the biscuit tin was opened or whether it was Fair swearing he wasn’t exhausted when she could see his six-foot-five-inch frame sagging from the hard physical work an equine vet must perform. The hours were unpredictable. A call would come in at three in the morning. He’d jump out of bed, get in his truck, and drive. She’d drag herself out of bed and make him a thermos of coffee in the time it took him to put on his flannel-lined coveralls. One of her unspoken fears was that he’d be so dead-tired he’d drive off the road. The last of foaling season ended in July, so by that time things would calm down. Then they’d both say a prayer of gratitude.

  Drivers on Route 250 were usually more sensible than those on the interstate, who would fly along above the speed limit in wretched weather. The old Three Chopt Road, one branch of which was Route 250, was more used by locals and proved safer in the snow.

  At the top of Afton Mountain, she swung right, the remnants of an old Howard Johnson hotel still in pathetic evidence. She slowly drove down the steep grade into Waynesboro. Charlottesville, especially now during the holidays, was strangled with traffic. She loathed it. So many outsiders now lived in Albemarle County, and they brought their ways with them, which included rudeness behind the wheel of a vehicle. One would hope the Virginia Way would rub off on the heathens, but it appeared to be going the other way ’round. People she knew would lean on the horn, give someone the finger while cussing a blue streak. She flat-out hated it.

  The additional appeal of Waynesboro, a modest town with no pretensions, was that prices were cheaper than in Charlottesville, the land of the truly rich and famous. Not that she had anything against rich and famous people, except for one thing: their presence drove prices ever upward.

  A little music store squatted just over the bridge at the base of Main Street. She parked by the curb, feeling lucky to get a space, dashed in, and brought three pitch pipes: one for Brother Morris, one for St. Luke’s, and one for herself. Funny, Morris thought he’d have to go down the mountain in bad weather. Clearly he didn’t shop much in Waynesboro. Harry was a good driver. She enjoyed this little foray.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker had snuggled up on the sheepskin throw on the truck bench. The cab of the old 1978 F-150 was warm, but if the engine wasn’t on, it cooled fast enough.

  “She’s got that look,” Mrs. Murphy announced.

  “Are you surprised?” Pewter sarcastically snorted.

  “No,” the tiger replied. “I’m surprised that it took her this long to get it.”

  “She was upset at seeing the body,” Tucker sagely noted. “You know Mom, she doesn’t show much emotion, but the murder affected her. Then, too, I think emotions are closer to the surface around Christmas. She’s full of memories.”

  “Better pray to the Great Cat in the Sky, because she’s back to her old self,” Mrs. Murphy said. “The worst part of it is, she has no clues.”

  “What’s so bad about that?” Pewter wondered.

  “She’ll blunder into something or set someone off. If she had even a hint of what’s going on, I’d feel better.” The tiger cat snuggled closer to Tucker.

  “Me, too.” Tucker sighed.

  Harry returned to the truck and drove up Main Street, turning left at the light where Burger King, McDonald’s, Rite Aid, and a BP station clustered. Traffic proved heavier now. She finally turned into the parking lot of Martin’s, a good supermarket. Fortunately, she didn’t have a lot of shopping, but she never looked forward to any kind of shopping.

  Once inside, she grabbed a cart and headed for produce. She threw in carrots and apples—for the horses as well as for herself—varieties of lettuce and oranges, then she raced to the meat department.

  She slowed when she noticed Brother Speed and Bryson Deeds at the far end of the meat section. Putting her new vow into practice, she studied their body language. They looked like two people who knew each other very well. She racked her brain to think how these two disparate souls would know each other. Bryson, not a horseman, couldn’t even be induced to attend the steeplechase races, a social event above and beyond flat racing at Colonial Downs. She knew Bryson treated the brothers pro bono. She hoped Brother Speed didn’t have heart problems, although the handsome jockey appeared the picture of health. Given that they both worked at the hospice, they’d had plenty of opportunity to take each other’s measure.

  Fascinated, she watched these two as they leaned toward each other in deep conversation.

  She remembered Brother Speed’s compact body when he was in racing silks. His monk’s robe covered up everything.

  She wouldn’t have minded squeezing Brother Speed’s buns back in his racing days, not that she wanted to go to bed with him, but he was once so cute. It occurred to her at that very moment that she lived in a culture where most forms of touching were taboo. She wondered what it would be like to live in a culture where people didn’t have mental body armor.

  Bryson’s body displayed the signs of a middle-aged man. Well fed. A potbelly sagged over his pants. Not bad, but no six-pack, that was for sure. He was a tad under six feet, reasonably well built. Had he been fit he would have been better-looking. His face’s strong features gave him a commanding look. His dark brown eyes were deep-set. His hair, receding, showed signs of gray at the temples. The color, also a dark brown, suited his complexion, somewhat olive. She could see his wedding ring, plus another ring on the pinky of his right hand, probably a family crest. She hadn’t noticed it before. An expensive Rolex Submariner watch, gold with a blue bezel, flashed just enough money spent that an observant person would take that into account. Plus, Bryson gave off the air of a man accustomed to getting his way, not unusual in a doctor.

  Brother Speed stepped aside as an elderly man pushing a half-full cart careened dangerously close. When he did so, he saw Harry. His face registered pleasure at her presence, then he smiled, said something to Bryson, and the two men walked toward her.

  “Christmas dinner?” Bryson asked. “I don’t see the goose.”

  “Maybe you’re looking at her,” Harry joked. “I’ve been called a silly goose.”

  “Not you.” Brother Speed smiled again, for he liked Harry above and beyond the fact that she was a true horse-woman, as opposed to just being a rider.

  “You’re too kind. You all doing the same thing I am?”

  “Racquel gave me a short list and told me that I had to stop at Martin’s on the way back from Augusta Medical. Only Martin’s will do.” He showed Harry the list. “I think I can get this stuff, but I’m not sure about the plum pudding.”

  “If they don’t have it, try Foods of All Nat
ions, if you can even get near it.”

  “That’s the truth,” Bryson commented.

  “Whole Foods.” Brother Speed mentioned another upscale market.

  “I never knew you were interested in food.” Harry recognized the sacrifices jockeys made.

  “I’m not. Brother Morris is, and he often gives me the shopping job because Brother Howard can’t be trusted not to dip into the bags on the way home.”

  “Come to think of it, what a wise decision.” Harry laughed, for Brother Howard was as round as he was tall.

  “We’re having a service tomorrow, just among the brothers, and Brother Morris wants the reception to be a feast of celebration, to remember Brother Christopher’s remarkable journey.”

  Bryson’s dark eyebrows came together for a moment. “Harry, is his family doing anything? Haven’t heard a peep, but under the circumstances it may take them more time.”

  “Oh, Bryson, that’s one of the things that makes this so sad. His family disowned him when the scandal broke in Phoenix.” She looked at Brother Speed. “I don’t know if he ever talked about it.” When Brother Speed shook his head, she continued. “His father, president of a bank that has been gobbled up like most of them, just turned his back on him. In a way I can understand it, because Mr. Hewitt believed passionately that anyone who dealt in money, whether a banker or a broker, had to be above reproach. Two years after the scandal, Christopher’s mother died. He was in jail, and his father didn’t even send him an obituary. He found out when Reverend Jones sent one to him after trying to persuade the old man to heal the wound with his son, given their mutual deep loss.”

  “Poor fellow,” Bryson, a man of high feeling as well as self-regard, said.

  “I had no idea.” Brother Speed shook his head. “Occasionally, Brother Christopher spoke of his ex-wife. A trophy wife, as near as I could tell, and when times got hard, she sailed on.”

  “That’s about it,” Harry said. “You two are coming to the St. Luke’s party. I’ll see you there. I want to knock this out in case the mountain gets worse.”

  “Good idea.” Bryson looked at Brother Speed, then clapped him on the back and rolled his cart down the bread aisle.

  “Harry, this spring I’d like to come out and see your yearlings. You and Alicia Palmer keep the old bloodlines going.”

  “Sure. Love to have you.”

  Brother Speed then headed toward produce.

  While Harry was in the grocery, Racquel was visiting Aunt Phillipa.

  Her oxygen bag, with a tube in her nose, helped the old lady breathe. She could speak without gasping.

  “Let it be,” Aunt Phillipa advised.

  “You’re right. I’m letting little things get under my skin.”

  “No man is worth this much worry.” Aunt Phillipa stopped. “You’re his wife. If he sleeps around, you still have the power. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Aunt Phillipa.”

  “You know, I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’d blow us all up.”

  “Not a good idea.” Racquel laughed, for she did love her old feisty aunt.

  Bill Keelo walked into the private room. “Merry Christmas.”

  “What a beautiful amaryllis.”

  “I remembered that you liked the white.” Bill’s tie—little Santa Claus figures against a green background—gave him a seasonal air.

  “You remembered correctly.”

  Alex Corbett stuck his head in the room. “Two good-looking women.”

  “What are you doing here?” Racquel wondered.

  “Bill does the hospice’s tax work. I’m looking for a larger piece of land down here for them.”

  “No kidding.” Racquel was surprised.

  “You can depend on dying. When the boomers start to go, it will be a bonanza.” Aunt Phillipa put on her glasses to better admire the amaryllis.

  “Guess so,” Bill agreed.

  “Shame about Brother Christopher.” Aunt Phillipa was focused on dying. “He didn’t work here as much as the others, but he was a bright penny.”

  “Yes, he was,” Alex concurred. “We’re all upset. Bryson, too.” He nodded to Racquel.

  “He did mention it was a loss. I think doctors harden themselves to the inevitable. Although Brother Christopher’s inevitable came early.”

  “In which case,” Aunt Phillipa honestly stated, “I have nothing to complain about.”

  Two white five-foot tapers stood vigil next to the altar, the light from their flames making the huge brass stands glow. Two smaller white candles graced the altar, and the sconces on the wall flickered with candles. The monastery, built before electricity, had sconces throughout all the halls, as well.

  Life may not have been easier before electricity, but people certainly looked better in candles’ glow.

  The service for Brother Christopher, conducted with dignity, left all the brothers in tears, most especially Brother Sheldon. Brother Ed, standing next to Brother Howard during the service, noted that Brother Sheldon could weep buckets at a sentimental commercial. His whisper brought a stare from Brother Luther, who was in charge of the service.

  Brother Morris sang “Ave Maria,” a cappella. The beauty of his voice filled the chapel as the flames leapt higher.

  Brother Howard’s reception, also by candelight, allowed the men the chance to tell Brother Christopher stories, citing his peculiarities such as a fondness for Sour Balls. Such tiny things helped soothe the shock, the loss.

  Brother Speed watched as the others drank wine donated by Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard.

  “Miss it?” Brother Luther bluntly asked.

  “Sure.” Brother Speed nodded. “But drink and drugs gave me a ticket to hell. Can’t do it.”

  “Takes a lot of discipline,” Brother Luther complimented him.

  “Not if you know it’s going to kill you,” Brother Speed replied.

  “I never thought of that.”

  “You never had to.”

  “You’re right. My journey was different. Bland. Boring even.” He looked Brother Speed in the eye. “All paths lead to God, even ones as different as ours.”

  “Indeed, Brother Luther, indeed.”

  Brother Sheldon, sitting in a straight-backed chair, tears flowing as freely as the wine, stiffened up as Brother Morris and Brother George came over.

  “He is with God,” Brother George, a note of unctuousness in his voice, said.

  Brother Sheldon may have been a candidate for the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, given his ability to change his emotions at breakneck pace, but he knew when he was being patronized. “Thank you, Brother.”

  “We’ll all miss him. He was good with the patients, good with those who came to visit them.” Brother Morris sighed.

  “But as Brother George said, he is with God, and no matter how terrible the end of his mortal life, he is now rejoicing.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Brother Sheldon said dryly.

  He believed it, but they hadn’t seen Brother Christopher’s body. He had. Awful though that was, he did have special status because of it.

  “I’d like you to do something.” Brother George leaned over.

  Brother Sheldon looked up. “Yes.”

  “Take a beautiful Christmas tree to Harry Haristeen. It seems the least we can do.”

  Brother Sheldon brightened. “I will. When would you like me to deliver it?”

  “Tomorrow.” Brother Morris stepped in. “I know she’ll be pleased to see you up and about, so to speak.”

  “I like Harry,” Brother Sheldon said.

  “We all like Harry.” Brother Morris smiled. “She’s a straight shooter.”

  “Anyone ever see her in a dress?” Brother George wondered.

  “Where did that come from?” Brother Morris was amused.

  “I don’t know. I’ve only seen her in jeans. I like to see women…you know.” His hands made a curving motion.

  “I expect she’ll wear a dress to the St. Luke’s Christmas party.”
Brother Morris smiled. “And you know, Alicia Palmer and BoomBoom Craycroft will be there, too. They’re more your type, I think, Brother George.”

  Brother George laughed at himself. “Oh, those days are long gone, but I can dream. A man’s still a man.”

  The two left Brother Sheldon, who now received Brother Ed and Brother Speed. The waterworks turned on again.

  As the head of the order and his second in command walked toward the door, Brother George whispered in a low voice, “I really am going to miss Brother Christopher.”

  “Yes, I am, too. He had good ideas.”

  “I’m willing to bet this is all about financial ruin and revenge.” Brother George folded his hands behind his back.

  “I don’t know. He was always hatching plans for our financial advancement. Far-fetched as some of them were, I’ll miss his bright mind and spirit.”

  Brother George lowered his head and nodded. “I hope we don’t lose support because of—”

  “I’m sure the people who have been so generous to us in the past will continue.”

  Brother George smiled slightly. “You’re right. I need to push my fears back.”

  “Trust in the Lord.” Brother Morris smiled broadly.

  Shining baby blue because of the snow, the Blue Ridge Mountains cast a benevolent presence over the rolling foothills of central Virginia. At this point the clear sky heightened the beauty of the scene. Occasional small squalls popped up, and the weatherman predicted a major storm within the week. One of the joys—or not, depending on one’s temperament—of living in this blessed part of the world was the variability of the weather.

  Harry thought about that as she headed east from Crozet, arriving at Jean Keelo’s house in the attractive and expensive subdivision next to the Boar’s Head Inn. Originally, Harry, Susan, Racquel, and Jean had planned to gather at the South River Grill, off Route 340 in Waynesboro. They could have lunch without seeing too many people they knew and therefore could stick to business. However, going over Afton Mountain, even when the roads were passable, seemed imprudent. No matter how hard crews worked, the roads iced over, given the elevation. Invariably some fool would fly by at seventy miles an hour, lose control, and spin around—if they were lucky. If not, they crashed into other cars or sailed over the guardrail to the depths below.