Santa Clawed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I know,” Harry admitted. “Actually, I have thought of a few things. I believe that Christopher knew his killer.”

  “Why?”

  Tucker and Mrs. Murphy perked up to listen.

  “No sign of him running away. No sign of struggle. If he’d fought, the snow would have been kicked up. No torn clothes, no bruises. Nothing knocked over.”

  Cooper told her, “Right.”

  “Another thing: if he’d run through the cut trees and the ones already in pots, he might have knocked some over. I believe he knew who killed him and didn’t fear harm from whoever did it. The killer brought him down. Fast.”

  “It seems he didn’t fear whoever cut his throat. I wonder how they could have walked behind him, though. Most of us are uncomfortable with someone directly behind us.”

  Harry spoke slowly. “It’s a Christmas tree farm. Any ruse might work. For instance, the killer is there to buy a tree but wants Christopher to measure its height. If he stood behind him measuring, it wouldn’t be so strange.”

  “It sure makes you wonder if you ever really know anyone.” Cooper sighed.

  “It’s hard enough to know yourself.” Harry smiled.

  Lush dark-green pine garlands were wrapped around stairwells and adorned the top of the hand-blown twelve-pane windows. At either end of the great hall at St. Luke’s, a magnificent magnolia grand flora wreath greeted celebrants as they opened three main doors to stand inside the vestibule with its coatroom, which was also decorated.

  Alicia Palmer and BoomBoom Craycroft had knocked themselves out as heads of the decorating committee. They were decorated, as well. Alicia wore a shimmering dress of Christmas red, while BoomBoom wore a long white dress with expensive green bugle beadwork on the shoulders and arms. Stunning as they were separately, they were unbelievable standing side by side.

  The Reverend Herbert Jones beamed at the lovely decorations and the crowd of people clearly enjoying themselves. He looked at Alicia and BoomBoom with gratitude for their work. When Alicia and BoomBoom had first announced their love, some church members pitched a fit. Most thought about it, questioned themselves in their hearts, and accepted it. That’s what Herb had hoped for. What good is a Christian who doesn’t think, change, and depend on compassion from one’s sisters and brothers?

  Resistance flowed from Bill Keelo. He had even left the church for half a year, but his wife and children missed their friends, the wonderful programs, and, most of all, they missed Herb, who practiced what he preached.

  While Bill was civil to the two ladies, no one could accuse him of being accepting. A few others remained implacable, as well. They also opposed women as ministers. Dr. Bryson Deeds was an interesting case. Love between women made perfect sense to him. Love between men did not, and he voiced this one too many times. After all, some of his patients were gay men, and he visited the AIDS patients, too. On a one-to-one basis, he was a caring and fine doctor, but he assiduously avoided gay men as a group. His friendship with Bill Keelo seemed to be reinforced by their mutual dislike.

  Bryson liked Brother Morris but was appalled by the brother’s time of disgrace. Racquel just laughed when Bryson had wondered how any man could carry on the way Brother Morris once had. And who would sleep with such a fatty?

  St. Luke’s reflected Herb’s outlook. Big Mim with her millions was as welcome as old Hank Malone, poor as a church mouse—not that Cazenovia, Elocution, and Lucy Fur would countenance mice in their domain. Rich, poor, intelligent, not so intelligent, old, young, all nationalities, all manner of pairings: Herb threw open the church doors for all.

  His philosophy was that St. Luke’s was a workshop for sinners, not a haven for saints. And Herb believed in saints, those people who suffered for others or who quietly helped throughout their lives to no fanfare.

  Not that people didn’t already know, but tonight demonstrated that his embrace of all drew many to him and ultimately to one another.

  The fireplaces blazed at each end of the hall, which was jammed with three hundred people, give or take a few. An ebony Steinway built in 1928 was positioned between the windows in the middle. The rich tone of the big grand, rebuilt in 1989, thrilled people who loved music. This was all the accompaniment that Brother Morris, selected brothers, and the St. Luke’s choir needed.

  After an hour of socializing, the program began, with rousing carols interspersed with special hymns like “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”

  When Miranda Hogendobber stepped up to the dais with Brother Morris, the place fell silent with expectation. Although untrained, Miranda possessed a remarkable instrument that could melt a heart of stone. Her voice blended perfectly with the famous tenor’s as they sang duets.

  The magical effect added even more to a glorious night. When the program was over, the applause rolled on. The two returned for an encore, performing “O Come All Ye Faithful” first in English and then “Adeste Fideles” in Latin.

  Susan Tucker, favoring her right foot, which she’d twisted slightly slipping on ice, came up next to Harry and whispered, “Best Christmas party yet.”

  Harry nodded through another encore.

  The two singers bowed, then left the dais.

  Harry and Susan made their way through the crowd to congratulate Miranda.

  “Thank you.” The older woman beamed. “What an honor to sing with him.” She leaned forward to whisper, “I was worried that he’d be imperious, but he wasn’t.”

  “Who could be imperious with you?” Susan complimented her.

  “I put your present in the Falcon.” Harry loved that Miranda drove the old Ford from the ’60s, just as she drove her old truck.

  “Now, you didn’t have to do that.” Miranda saw Aunt Tally heading for the bar and being intercepted by Big Mim.

  “Oh, dear, we’re about to have a contretemps.”

  Harry and Susan looked in the direction that Miranda was looking.

  “Well, the old girl has a right to her martinis.” Harry laughed. “Probably why she’s lived so long.”

  “Right. She’s pickled,” Susan remarked.

  Miranda laughed. “Pickled or not, Aunt Tally is a handful.”

  Resisting her niece, whose hand gripped her elbow, Aunt Tally burst into a smile as Bill Keelo walked toward her. “Bill, to my rescue.”

  “Beg pardon.” He pushed his black-rimmed spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

  Under her breath, Aunt Tally hissed, “Unhand me, Mimsy, or I’ll crack you over the head with my cane, and I mean it.”

  “You’ve had enough,” Big Mim whispered back.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” As Bill offered her his arm, Aunt Tally purred, “Wasn’t that the most beautiful singing?”

  Big Mim conceded defeat—rare for her—turned on her heel, and bumped into Brother Speed. “I’m sorry.”

  The wiry fellow replied, “I’ve had worse bumps than that.”

  “Haven’t we all,” Big Mim agreed. “Do you ride anymore?”

  “Funny you should mention that, because I was thinking about getting a job riding young horses. As long as I give back fifty percent to the brotherhood, I can work outside. It’s all I know, and I’m not much good at the jobs Brother George finds for me.”

  “Come by the barn. Paul could use a part-time rider.”

  “Thank you.” Brother Speed felt elated. “That is a Christmas present.”

  Quite a few horse people would be at the Corbett Realty Christmas party at Keswick Club. Brother Speed planned to go there after this party to see if he could find more part-time work. In fact, quite a few people would be braving the roads to go to the eastern side of the county. The Corbett party could get quite frolicsome.

  Bill waited patiently at the bar while Aunt Tally stood to the side. Brother Ed jostled him, not intentionally.

  “Back off, Ed.”

  “Sorry. I was shoved from behind,” Brother Ed mildly replied.

  “Right.” Bill’s voice dripped with sarcasm, which Brother
Ed ignored.

  As Bill left to hand Aunt Tally her drink, Fair, also waiting, said to Brother Ed, “Bill’s been touchy lately.”

  “Prima donna.” Brother Ed shrugged. “He’s always accusing Bryson of being a prima donna, but I say it takes one to know one.”

  “Guess so,” Fair genially replied. “The prima donnas in my life are the cats.”

  “Not Harry?” Brother Ed’s eyebrows raised.

  “No.”

  Brother Morris, surrounded by fans, was attempting to make his way to the bar.

  With a straight face, Brother Ed said, “Here he comes with his disciples. Next performance he’ll walk on water.”

  Fair laughed. “We’d pay to see that.”

  “I’ll tell Brother Morris. He’s very eager to fill the coffers.” Brother Ed smiled.

  Fair returned to Harry and Susan, handing both ladies their drinks.

  “Where’s yours, honey?” Harry inquired.

  “I’m good.” He’d had one hefty scotch on the rocks, and that was enough. “I checked. The tonic water is Schweppes.”

  “Aren’t you the best?” Harry squeezed his hand, then stared at Susan’s drink. “When did you start drinking daiquiris?”

  “Tonight. Ned’s politicking, and I thought I’d live large.” She laughed.

  Her husband, Ned, was a first-term state representative, which was an exciting position, even if sometimes frustrating.

  “Bill Keelo surprised me up at the bar,” said Fair. “He was curt, borderline rude, with Brother Ed. I’ve never seen Bill like that.”

  “That’s because Brother Ed used to be gay.” Harry shrugged. “Bill works on my mood with this. I don’t know what’s happened to him, but I don’t remember him being this homophobic.” She turned to Susan. “What do you think?”

  She dismissed it. “Oh, he’s going through male menopause. The old midlife crisis. He’s been irritable to everyone.”

  Fair waved at a client across the room. “Maybe something’s come up in the family.”

  “Who knows?” Harry’s attention was on Brother Speed, who was talking to Paul de Silva.

  Then Brother Speed joined them, excitedly telling them about his hopes to work part-time at Big Mim’s.

  “Ever met a horse you couldn’t ride?” Harry wondered.

  “One or two,” Brother Speed admitted.

  On the way home after the party, Harry mentioned that if Brother Speed could help her with the yearlings for a month or two, it would be good. “I didn’t want to open my mouth without asking you.”

  “Great idea. We ought to be able to afford him.” Fair smiled, since he knew Brother Speed wouldn’t charge much.

  “Great. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow would be too late.

  December 22 dawned overcast and cold, with gusty winds. Harry consoled herself with the idea that once on the other side of the winter solstice she’d gain about a minute of sunlight a day. She’d been up at five-thirty, and now, at seven, she’d broken the ice on all the outside water troughs and turned out the horses. In summer this routine was reversed. The horses would be in the barn now, fans cooling them, and turned out at night.

  She picked stalls and threw some cookies up for Simon, the possum who lived in the hayloft along with a great horned owl and a huge blacksnake. Matilda, the snake, hibernated in the back hay bales and could give one a start, but between her, the owl, and the cats, the rodent population remained satisfyingly low.

  On the other side of the county, Tony Gammell, huntsman for Keswick Hunt, performed his morning chores. The kennels sat across a paved road from the Keswick Club, which was a beautiful and exclusive haven for golfers, tennis players, and anyone who wanted to sit on the veranda to enjoy the setting. Not that anyone would be sitting out today. Last night, the same night as the St. Luke’s party, the club had hosted Corbett Realty’s Christmas party. Some people, either due to business or being indefatigably social, attended both parties.

  When Tony walked out of the kennels after feeding the hounds, he thought to check the fence lines. No matter what he or anyone else dealing with hounds did, sooner or later one of the dogs would try to dig out. He didn’t notice it at first, being intent on his fences, but on the way back he saw a lone figure on the tennis court, sitting against the chain-link fence. Anyone driving into the club by the main entrance wouldn’t notice. Tony stopped. Knowing that Nancy Holt, the tennis pro, wouldn’t be out in the cold, and no one else would even attempt to play in this wind, he sprinted across the lightly traveled road to the fence. As he was on the outside, he knelt down and then grasped the fence as he nearly fell over from the shock. Brother Speed, legs spread out, back against the fence, appeared to be dead. Blood covered the clay court where the body sat.

  Tony rose, shaking, and ran to the other side of the court. He opened the door and hurried to the body. An intelligent man and a quick thinker, Tony knew not to touch the body. Upset as he was by the sight, he looked carefully. Brother Speed had frozen, so he’d been there for hours. His throat was slit. Taking a deep breath, Tony ran to the main office of Keswick Club, a separate entity from the hunt club. No one was at work yet, as it was only seven-fifteen. He ran back to the kennel, a bit more than a quarter mile, and grabbed his cell, which he’d perched on a ledge. He dialed 911, gave accurate information, and was told to wait where he was. He then dialed his wife, Whitney. Tony didn’t realize how shaken he was until he heard his wife’s voice. She, in turn, was so upset she told him to stay where he was, she’d be right there.

  Within fifteen minutes Deputy Cooper drove onto the grounds of Keswick Club. She’d pulled early duty this Monday, which was fine with her. Not ten minutes later the sheriff showed up, as well.

  Cooper, thin rubber gloves on her hands, already knelt in front of the handsome jockey’s body. The wound, one tidy, deep cut, looked like Christopher Hewitt’s wound. Photographs had to be taken and then the ambulance squad could take him away. As he was frozen stiff, he’d be sitting in the back. The thought of the corpse sitting or lying on his side in a sitting position struck Cooper as macabre.

  Rick joined her. “Looks like the same M.O.”

  “Yes.” She stood up, peeled off the gloves, and stashed them in her heavy jacket. She quickly retrieved her heavy gloves, as her fingers already were throbbing from the cold.

  Rick carefully observed the corpse. “Doubt he was killed right here. No blood splattered about.”

  “Boss, we’ve got someone killing monks.” Cooper put her gloved hands in her armpits.

  “Two men, relatively young, from the same order.” His nose felt cold so he rubbed it. “Coop, this case is beginning to really worry me.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “All right. Let’s go to the dogs.” Rick said “dogs” instead of “hounds.”

  She nodded and hopped in his squad car. They drove out of the tennis-court area, turned left, and within a minute had parked behind the old Keswick Hunt Club wooden clubhouse. They walked into the kennels, where the hounds notified Tony and Whitney that two strangers had entered.

  “All right, lads,” Tony called to the dog hounds, the proper designation for a male foxhound. “That’s enough.”

  Cooper flipped open her notebook as Rick asked Tony to tell him what he saw.

  When Tony finished, Rick asked, “Did you know Brother Speed?”

  The tall, thin man responded, “Yes. He’d come to our point-to-point races and also the steeplechase races at Montpelier. People told me he was once a jockey, a good jockey, made a lot of money—and I guess lost a lot, too.” Tony thought a moment. “I liked him.”

  Whitney added, “He was a good hand with a horse. He always wanted to be helpful.”

  “Did you ever hear why he retired from being a jockey?” Cooper asked. “Other than losing money?”

  “People talk,” Tony replied noncommittally.

  Whitney added, “We didn’t believe it.”

  “Tell me what you hea
rd,” Rick pressed.

  “That he threw a race for big money. The Arkansas Derby.” When Rick and Cooper looked blank, Tony added, “It’s one of the important races leading up to the Kentucky Derby.”

  “Follow the horses, do you?” Rick inhaled the odor of clean hounds, heard their claws click and clack as they walked on the concrete.

  “Not really. Know a bit more about ’chasers. I just know the basic big races here because some of the hunt-club members have horses on the track, down at Colonial Downs, mostly.”

  “Did he seem to you to be a dishonest man?” Cooper kept scribbling.

  A surprised look crossed Whitney’s pretty features. “No. No. In fact, he would tell us sometimes—not preaching, just kind of like conversation—that we should pray, trust in the Lord. Guess he was pretty messed up on drugs back in his racing days. That will screw up anybody’s judgment.” She grimaced slightly. “Excuse my language.”

  Rick laughed. “We hear worse. In fact, we say worse.” He turned to Tony. “Did you see any car lights late last night?”

  “Big party across the street. We’re far enough away so we didn’t hear too much, but we could see cars drive in and out. We fell asleep—well, I fell asleep—at one.” She looked at her husband. “He was already dead to the world. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, I could see cars still leaving at one.”

  “Odd place to put a body,” Tony commented.

  “Convenient if the killer and the victim were at the party,” Cooper said.

  “You’ve been very helpful. If we think of anything else, we’ll call.” Rick shook Tony’s hand, then Whitney’s.

  Tony asked, “Officer Cooper, is Harry going to hunt the Saddlebred that movie star—I forget her name—gave her?”

  “Shortro.” Cooper knew all Harry’s horses but had resisted riding any of them, as she was afraid. “She says he’ll be ready to go next season. Says he’s really smart.”

  They drove to the tennis courts, then sat in the car. The heater provided comfort, since the wind would tear one to pieces.