Santa Clawed

by Rita Mae Brown

  Susan, hot on her tail, said, “Listen, I don’t want to have this conversation in front of Fair, but if you’ve stuck your nose into the two monks being killed, the killer must have found out.”

  “I haven’t. I swear I haven’t.”

  “Then who hit you on the head hard enough to split it open like that?”

  “I don’t know. He—or she, but I think he—came up behind me as the blizzard started.”

  “On the farm? That person came here?” Susan was aghast.

  “No.” Harry slipped her arm through Susan’s as she opened the screen door. “I can’t tell you any more, even though I’m dying to.”

  “It’s the dying I’m worried about. Is that why you didn’t want me to tell anyone I’d talked to you?”

  “Yes.” Harry walked slowly as they navigated the cleared path, now turned to ice. “Forgot the treats. Wait a minute.”

  She carefully walked back to the house, pulled out a small Tupperware full of mince pie, and grabbed molasses icicles from the freezer and a bag of marshmallows from the pantry.

  On returning, she handed the Tupperware to Susan. “Now, if we hold hands, we’ll be in balance. We each have something to carry with the other.”

  “Sure.” Susan smiled at her.

  “And, Susan, I’m not scared much, but I’m scared enough. No point in pretending otherwise to you.”

  “What kind of person would show up in a snowstorm? A desperate one, I think.”

  “I don’t know. But if it is Christopher’s or Brother Speed’s killer, why didn’t he kill me?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m exceedingly grateful.”

  They entered the barn, the horses nickering a greeting. Fair was sweeping up the center aisle.

  “Merry Christmas.” He leaned the big push broom against a stall and kissed Susan.

  “Those were some presents you gave your wife.”

  He grinned. “Seen the Honda yet?”

  “No.”

  “Four hundred horsepower, much of which translates into torque, as opposed to on a motorcycle. What a difference it will make on the farm, and it burns less gas than one of the trucks.”

  “I cleaned up this Christmas.” Harry looked at the ladder to the hayloft just as Simon was looking down. “Simon, merry Christmas.”

  “Goody.” He smelled the molasses, for she’d unzipped the plastic bag.

  “You wait one minute while I put out the owl’s present.” She handed the bag to Susan, and Susan gave her the Tupperware container. She climbed the ladder, which was flat against the wall and well secured.

  On reaching the hayloft, she pulled the top off the container and put it on a high hay bale. As she turned to reach for the offered Ziploc bag from Susan, she heard a slight whoosh as the predator opened her wide wings to glide down. Harry didn’t look back at the owl, letting her pick her treats in peace.

  “We got good presents, too.” Tucker loved gifts.

  “All right, Simon, just another minute.” Harry reached into the Ziploc and took the icicles from it. She also dumped the marshmallows on the loft floor.

  “Think gelato started this way in ancient Rome?” Susan eyed the icicles.

  “They had everything we do but without machines. They had ice, gelato, better roads than ours, interesting architecture, cooling gardens, running water. If you had money, life was sweet.”

  “Like today.” Fair picked up the broom to finish his job.

  Susan joked, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  Simon waited a respectful distance away, but the minute Harry backed down the ladder, he grabbed one molasses icicle, eagerly devouring it. Next he selected a marshmallow.

  “I got catnip. And a fleece bed.” Pewter thought some attention should be paid to her.

  “Me, too.” Mrs. Murphy liked having her own bed.

  “I got a new collar and leash and a big fleece bed.” Tucker happily recounted her gifts. “Dog bones.”

  As the three humans and three animals left the barn, Cooper came down the long drive. She parked, flung open the door, and hugged Harry, then Fair.

  “Merry Christmas.” Fair hugged her back.

  “What a great present! A power washer. I am so excited. I can clean the squad car, the outside of the house. I can’t believe it.”

  “Oster clippers are pretty special. You conferred with Susan, didn’t you?” Harry smiled as she mentioned a powerful brand of clippers favored by horsemen.

  “Did.”

  “Come on in. We’re having a party. Susan escaped the home fires for a little bit,” Fair told Cooper.

  “On my way to the morgue.”

  “Why?” All three stared at her.

  “Because I’m free this Christmas. When Mom and Dad moved to New Mexico this spring, that solved the Christmas to-do. Rick has Helen, so when he called me, I told him to go home.” She realized she’d said too much, as they didn’t know about Bryson, so she hastened to add, “Probably one of the drunks froze at the mall. Still, I’d better check.”

  “You wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important. Has there been another murder?” Fair asked.

  Cooper kept mum, which told them everything.

  Susan jumped in. “Another Brother of Love?”

  “Oh, all right. The family has been notified and it will be in tomorrow’s paper. Bryson Deeds.”

  “What!” Fair exclaimed.

  “Throat slit.” Cooper got back in the squad car. “I’ll know the rest of it after the autopsy. God bless Doc Gibson, because he came in to do this.”

  The corpse had been thawing since three in the morning. Dr. Gibson and Mandy Sweetwater straightened the limbs and examined the body before cutting Bryson open.

  A patient soul, Dr. Gibson was a bit irritated that the dead monks’ tissue samples he’d sent to the Richmond lab still hadn’t been examined. Granted, it was the holiday season, but sometimes, if very lucky, a DNA sample will match one already on record.

  Cooper noted what the older doctor dictated. Mandy, interning in pathology, also made a few comments.

  Although Bryson’s jaw was a bit tight, Dr. Gibson pried it open, retrieving an obol.

  Cooper put down her notebook. She felt a nagging sense of failure. And what was the significance of the obol?

  Boxing Day, December 26, was one of Harry’s favorite days. Both Harry and Fair, accustomed to early rising, watched the eastern sky send out slivers of gray, which brightened to a dark periwinkle blue with the first blush of pink outlining the horizon.

  “Did you call the huntline?” Fair, groggy until a huge coffee mug was placed before him, asked.

  “Honey, I did last night before we went to bed. There’s no Boxing Day hunt, because many of the secondary and tertiary roads remain unplowed. Also, the footing will be so deep in spots, we’d have to paddle our way through.”

  Both foxhunted, which was prudent considering Fair’s practice. They wearied of telling people not accustomed to country life that, no, the fox was not killed. Couldn’t do it even if they wanted to, thanks to the animal’s lightning-fast intelligence.

  For any couple, sharing activities keeps the flame bright, yet each partner should have one or two activities that belong to him or her alone. That activity for Harry was growing her grapes, although Fair helped when asked. For him it was golf, a game he had taken up five years ago. Fair couldn’t decide if the relaxation outweighed the frustration. Harry kept her mouth shut about it.

  “Oh.” He tested the coffee, still a bit too hot.

  “Waffles.” She heated up the portable griddle.

  “You’re spoiling me.”

  “That’s the point.” She flashed a grin at him. “You don’t have to do the chores. I’m fine. And I’m packing my thirty-eight.”

  “We’ll do them together. Not on call until tomorrow. Boy, it’s great when I have Christmas off. So many Christmases I’ve been on call.”

  “Well, once you started swapping weekends with Greg Schmi
dt”—she mentioned a highly respected equine vet, and one fabulous horseman to boot—“life did pick up. I keep telling you this, but how about for a New Year’s resolution: find a partner. Maybe two.”

  The coffee was the perfect temperature now.

  Fair chugged half the big cup, then replied, “I know, I know. Give me a day to think about making that New Year’s resolution.”

  “Okay.” She poured the batter onto the griddle, the sizzle alone enticing the three extremely attentive animals on the floor.

  “All right, you beggers.” Fair knocked back his coffee and rose to feed Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.

  Harry refilled his cup.

  “I like my bowl better than yours.” Pewter’s new ceramic bowl had “Diva” in large letters around it.

  “Good. Then you’ll keep your fat face out of mine,” Mrs. Murphy replied as she bit into her favorite beef Fancy Feast, an expensive cat food.

  Tucker kept eating. That was more important than talking. Her bowl, larger than the kitties’, read “Fido,” for faithful. Mrs. Murphy’s read “Catitude.”

  Fair picked up his cup, took another big swallow, then turned on the small flat-screen TV on the kitchen wall. Harry didn’t like having TV in the kitchen, but once she realized that watching her beloved Weather Channel here proved more convenient than running into the bedroom, she accepted it.

  Fair clicked on the early-morning local news. Before he could sit down, the somber face of Sheriff Rick Shaw speaking from his office was intercut with clips of a snowy Barracks Road Shopping Center, empty except for the Tahoe. Then clips of Bryson’s office were shown as the latest shocking murder was revealed.

  Mug poised midair, Fair stood motionless.

  Harry left her griddle to stand next to him. Both of them were shocked and very upset.

  Fair finally spoke. “The Tahoe in the parking lot makes it…I don’t know, real. Worse somehow.”

  “It’s like a killing frenzy.” Harry put her arm around his waist. “The other two were monks. None of us felt in danger. I thought the key was that the victims were monks.”

  “Guess we can all throw that key out the window.” He returned to his chair, sitting with a heavy thump.

  The three cohorts on the floor said nothing but had listened as intently as the humans.

  Harry turned off the griddle, flipping the contents onto a big plate. The syrup and honey sat on the table along with butter, utensils, and two plates. She poured herself a second cup of tea and sat across from Fair.

  “Maybe not.”

  Fair drenched his waffles with honey. “Maybe not what?”

  “Monks may still be the key. Bryson treated some of them, you know.”

  Fair cut his waffles into neat squares before spearing one. “Right. It’s a wonder he didn’t take out an ad in the paper to announce his pro bono work. He made sure we all knew of his charitable deeds, that being one. I never liked the man, but I didn’t wish him dead, especially like this.”

  Tucker lifted her head and barked, “Intruder.”

  Fair rose, then went onto the porch to open the door. “Brother Morris, come right on in.”

  Fair, like just about every Southerner you will ever meet, acted as though this unexpected visit was the most natural thing in the world and a big treat.

  Brother Morris, who hadn’t worn a coat because the distance to the door from his car was short, stepped inside.

  Harry had already poured his coffee. “Sit down, Brother. How good to see you.”

  His visit meant others would know she was alive. Susan would keep her secret until the workweek started, but she couldn’t tell Brother Morris to do so.

  “I apologize for dropping by without calling. Oh, thank you.” She put the half-and-half and cubed sugar before him.

  “You know the news, I assume, since the TV’s on.”

  “We just watched it. You mean Dr. Deeds’s murder?” replied Fair, who rose to turn off the TV.

  Having a TV on when a guest is in the room is considered rude in Virginia, unless they are there to watch with you.

  Harry placed waffles in front of Brother Morris, who knew he should wave them away but they smelled so delicious. He weakened immediately.

  “Fellows, I’m making more, so don’t hold back.” She turned the griddle back on and poured more batter. “Brother, what in the world is happening?”

  “I don’t know. Sheriff Shaw called me at six yesterday. I must pay a call to Racquel and the boys today. The Deedses have been so supportive of our order. I thought I’d stop by here first, because you’re on the way but also because you know—I should say knew—Bryson in another context than I did. St. Luke’s, I mean.” He looked over to Harry at the counter. “I thought maybe you had some insight. I feel like I should put up barriers to the monastery.”

  “Unless it’s someone within,” Harry blurted out as Fair tried not to drop his head in his hands.

  Sometimes Harry could open her mouth before weighing her words.

  “Never. I’d know. Can you think of anyone or any reason?” Brother Morris didn’t take offense.

  “I can’t. Fair and I were just discussing that.”

  Fair carefully placed his fork on his plate. “Whoever is doing this can’t live far. How would they get to Crozet or Afton Mountain with the weather? Brother, this person may not be in your brotherhood, but it must be someone with an intimate connection.”

  At the word “intimate,” Brother Morris raised his dark eyebrows. “I’ve sat with Brother George and Brother Luther, our treasurer. We’ve gone over the list of people who have supported us. We’ve even made lists of delivery people. No one jumps out at us, and no one has even had cross words with any of us. It’s baffling and frightening.”

  “Maybe it’s someone who’s mentally ill.” Harry flipped more waffles onto a plate.

  “Perhaps.” Brother Morris sounded mournful, even though he’d just inhaled two waffles.

  Harry had never seen food disappear so quickly in her life, and Fair could eat a lot himself.

  “I wish we did have some ideas,” Fair said.

  “Ah, well, it was a hope that maybe you knew something of Bryson’s character that I didn’t.”

  “The only thing I can say about Bryson is that his exceedingly high opinion of himself grated on some people,” Harry said. “But he also had some close friends, like Bill Keelo. Some people could take him and some couldn’t.”

  “That could be said of us all.”

  After finishing his waffles, Brother Morris thanked them profusely, and he thanked Harry again for the pitch pipe. When he reached the door he appeared to notice Harry’s deep cut for the first time as her baseball hat, a bit loose so as not to irritate the wound, slipped a little.

  “Harry, what did you do to your head?”

  “Low beam,” she replied with half a smile.

  “I thought that was something on a car,” he replied, half-smiling to himself as he left.

  The afternoon of Boxing Day, Harry, Fair, Susan, and Ned drove to Racquel’s, where Jean and Bill Keelo greeted them. Jean had organized everything, from answering the phones to keeping a notebook with information of who brought food. Miranda Hogendobber placed food on the dining-room table and kept the coffee going. The place was jammed with people.

  Bill Keelo and Alex Corbett made sure people had enough to eat and drink. They acted as unofficial ushers, in a sense.

  Susan carried a large casserole, while Harry had made a huge plate of small sandwiches. The two Deeds teenagers had their friends there. Everyone must have realized that teenagers eat a lot, because there was enough food to feed the entire high school senior class.

  After handing over the food, the next thing that the Haristeens and the Tuckers had to do was properly visit the new widow. Racquel sat by the fireplace in the living room. Tears flowed, but that was natural. Upset as she was, vanity probably saved her. What does a new widow wear? In Racquel’s case it was a suede suit, a heavy gold nec
klace, and small domed gold earrings to match her domed ring. Flanked by her sons, who didn’t quite know what to do, Racquel accepted proffered hands and kisses on the cheeks. Racquel did rise to greet Harry and Fair, Susan and Ned behind them.

  “Please don’t get up.” Fair gently seated her.

  “What was he doing at Barracks Road? What?”

  No one could answer this question.

  Susan bent low to say, “Racquel, I am so terribly sorry.”

  Ned kissed her on the cheek, while Harry and Fair shook the boys’ hands and hugged them, too.

  The contrast of the house—all red and gold for Christmas—with the emotional misery only underscored how awful everyone felt.

  A new stream of classmates entered. Harry knew they’d be at sixes and sevens, too. It takes some time to learn how to handle these events, but the good thing was, the boys would be surrounded by their friends. In years to come, they would remember who came to console them.

  Both Harry and Susan went into the kitchen, where Miranda was in command.

  “Dreadful! Dreadful!” Miranda wrapped her arms around Harry, then Susan.

  “Frightening.” Susan began garnishing a huge plate of sliced ham with parsley.

  These women had attended those who were bereaved many times. They worked hand in glove.

  Harry pulled the overflowing trash bag out of the can, tightened the drawstring, and walked it out to the porch to place it in one of the large garbage cans.

  On reentering the kitchen she said, “Remind me to take the trash when I go.”

  “Thank you, Harry. I was beginning to worry about that.” Miranda deftly stacked biscuits on a plate. “There will be a few runs to the dump today.”

  “There’s enough food here to feed an army.” Harry glanced around at the incredible abundance.

  “That’s problem number two.” Miranda kept stacking biscuits. “I don’t know where to store all this food. She’s going to need it.”

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang and another flood of people washed through the front door. BoomBoom helped carry the largesse into the kitchen. Alicia, also burdened, followed behind her.