Santa Clawed

Santa Clawed

RITA MAE BROWN SNEAKY PIE BROWN

ILLUSTRATIONS BY MICHAEL GELLATLY

BANTAM BOOKS NEWYORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

A Bantam Book / November 2008

Mom and Dad always told me to work with the best. I do. Therefore, this book is dedicated to my editor, Danielle Perez.

Acknowledgments

Surround yourselves with good people. Every day John Morris Sr. and John Morris Jr. (Toot), along with Robert Steppe, come to work on the farm. They are a joy. Dana Flaherty, professional whipper-in, also manages the farm, and she frees me from many of the small burdens so I can concentrate on the larger. The hunt club members (we don’t kill foxes so don’t get your knickers in a knot) are the best people I know, and they carry me along.

But in many ways the deepest acknowledgments must go to my cats, dogs, horses, and hounds, for I connect often more intensely with these friends than I do with most humans. Perhaps I know their language better, who is to say? If there aren’t cats, dogs, horses, hounds, and, of course, foxes, in heaven, I’m not going. Then again, I might not be going anyway. Curious, isn’t it, that even in the afterlife humans have created an uptown and a downtown?

I couldn’t live without my four- footed friends, and I couldn’t write, either.

Cast of Characters

Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen—Formerly the postmistress of Crozet, she now is trying to make a go of it with farming. She turned forty in August and doesn’t seem to mind.

Pharamond “Fair” Haristeen, D.V.M.—Harry’s husband is an equine vet, and he tries to keep his wife out of trouble, with limited success.

Susan Tucker—Harry’s best friend since cradle days, who often marvels at how Harry’s mind works, when it works. The two of them know each other so well that, if they wished, one could finish the other’s sentences.

Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber—Miranda observes a great deal but keeps most of it to herself. She’s in her early seventies, devoutly Christian, and mothers Harry, who lost her own mother when she was in her twenties.

Marilyn “Big Mim” Sanburne—The Queen of Crozet sees all and knows all, or would like to, at any rate. She despotically improves everyone’s lot but is good-hearted underneath it all.

Aunt Tally Urquhart—This wild woman, in her nineties, must be a devotee of the god Pan, for she’s in her glory when pandemonium reigns. She’s Big Mim’s aunt and delights in shocking her prim niece.

Deputy Cynthia Cooper—Harry’s neighbor, she, like Fair, tries to keep Harry out of trouble when she can. She’s smart and likes law enforcement.

Sheriff Rick Shaw—He’s the dedicated public servant, insightful but by the book. He wearies of the politics of his position, but he never wearies of bringing criminals to justice. He likes Harry, but she gets in the way.

Olivia “BoomBoom” Craycroft—She was widowed in her early thirties and, being quite beautiful, always trailed troops of men behind her. One of them was Fair Haristeen, who had an affair with her when he was separated from Harry. He and Harry have since divorced and remarried. BoomBoom can be forceful when necessary.

Alicia Palmer—A great movie star, now in her fifties, she’s thrilled to be back on the farm in Crozet. She’s also thrilled that she’s found BoomBoom, for they truly connect.

The Really Important Characters

Mrs. Murphy—She’s a pretty tiger cat with brains, speed, and a reasonably tolerant temperament. She knows she can’t really keep Harry, her human, out of trouble, but she can sometimes get her out once she’s in a mess.

Tee Tucker—This corgi, also devoted to Harry, has great courage and manages to live with two cats. That says a lot.

Pewter—The gray cannonball, as she does not like to be known, affects disdain for humans. However, she loves Harry and Fair. If it’s possible to avoid a long way or trouble, she’s the first to choose that path.

Simon—Living in the barn with all the horses pleases this possum. He also likes Harry, as much as he can like humans. She gives him treats.

Flatface—Sharing the loft with Simon, this great horned owl looks down on earthbound creatures, figuratively and literally. However, in a pinch, Flatface can be counted on.

Matilda—She’s a big blacksnake and the third roommate in the barn loft. Her sense of humor borders on the black, too.

Owen—Tee Tucker’s brother belongs to Susan Tucker, who bred the litter. He doesn’t know how his sister can tolerate the cats. When in feline company, he behaves, but he thinks the cats are snobs.

Since Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter live on a farm, various creatures cross their path, from bears to foxes to one nasty blue jay. They love all the horses, which can’t be said for some of the other creatures, but then, the horses are domesticated. Pewter declares she is not domesticated but merely resting in a house with regular meals.

Santa Clawed

1

St. Luke’s, a beautiful stone church on the outskirts of Crozet, Virginia, appeared even more stunning than usual given the fresh snow on the rooftops, the windowsills of the parish office, and the pastor’s living quarters across the now- white quad. Plumes of smoke rose from the great hall, which formed one side of the quad, and smoke spiraled from the parish office. The church was built in 1803, and it was clear that those early Lutherans needed many fireplaces. Over the centuries the buildings had been wired, vented, and plumbed. The modern conveniences served to enhance comfort. The structures had to last for centuries and no doubt would endure more improvements over ensuing centuries.

As Harry Haristeen walked across the large quad to the great hall, her two cats and corgi behind her, she wondered if people today could build as securely as our forefathers did. Seemed like things were built to fall apart. Grateful that she lived in an old farmhouse built about the same time as the church, she paused on her way to the work party long enough to make a snowball and throw it up in the air.

Tucker, the corgi, jumped up to catch it. As she did, the snowball chilled her teeth, so she dropped it.

“Dumb!” Pewter, the portly gray cat, laughed.

“I knew it would do that, but if she throws a ball, I have to catch it. That’s my job,” Tucker defended herself.

Harry decided to sprint the last two hundred yards to warm up.

The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, shot past her. The shoveled walkway was covered with inches of fresh snow but easily negotiable.

Pewter, hating to be outdone, couldn’t get around Harry so she leapt onto the snow, where she promptly sank.

Tucker, trotting on the path, called out, “Dumb.”

A snow triangle like a coolie hat on her head did not cool down Pewter’s temper. She shook off the snow hat, plowed onto the path. Running right up to Tucker’s butt, she reached out and gave the dog a terrific swat.

Tucker growled, stooped to whirl around.

Harry commanded over her shoulder, “That’s enough, you two.”

“You’re lucky she saved your fat rear end.” Pewter flattened her ears to look extra mean.

“Ooh la.” The dog now ignored the cat, which was far more upsetting than a knock- down/ drag- out to Pewter, who felt the world revolved around her.

Upon entering the great hall, Harry inhaled the fragrance of oak burning in the two fireplaces, one at either end. The aroma of a well- tended fire added to winter’s allure. Harry loved all the seasons. Winter’s purity appealed to her. She loved being able to see the spine of the land, loved popping into a friend’s house for a hot chocolate or serving the same. Born and raised here, she was buoyed up by close friendships. People might feel alienated in big cities, but she couldn’t imagine that emotion. Tied to the land, the people and animals that inhabited it, Harry knew she was a lucky soul.

“Look at those hardworking women,” she called out as she removed her coat, hat, gloves, and scarf.

Alicia Palmer and BoomBoom Craycroft, both great beauties, moved a long table near the eastern fireplace. The large room cost so much to heat that the thermostat stayed at fifty-two. The fireplaces helped considerably. Sitting near one kept one’s fingers from stiffening, and they’d need their fingers today.

Alicia, a former movie star, now in her fifties, was in charge of decorations for the Christmas party, which was little more than a week away. Each season St. Luke’s hosted a large party that brought parishioners and neighbors together in a relaxed setting. Reverend Herb Jones, the pastor, constantly came up with ways to strengthen the community.

Susan Tucker, Harry’s best friend from cradle days, and the breeder of Tucker, put grapevines on the table.

Racquel Deeds and Jean Keelo, two former sorority sisters from Miami University in Ohio, laid out gorgeous dried magnolia grand flora blossoms along with the large, shiny dark-green leaves.

BoomBoom brought bay leaves and gold-beaded strands.

Harry carried dried red roses along with strands of cranberries.

Once the women settled down at the table to make wreaths, the cats and dog volunteered to help.

Mrs. Murphy, on the table, played with the gold beads. “Aren’t these the same kind of beads that men throw to women at Mardi Gras if the women expose their glories?”

“Sure won’t be flashing anything in this weather.” Tucker, on the floor, laughed.

Pewter batted around a lovely red rosebud. “I will never understand why humans pitch a fit and fall in it if someone shows their breasts or if a man shows his equipment. I mean, everybody has them.”

“Genesis. Remember when the angel comes to the Garden of Eden after Adam eats the apple and Adam and Eve realize they are naked?” Mrs. Murphy read over Harry’s shoulder, not that Harry knew the cat could fathom it.

“Ha. Adam was taking money under the table from the garment industry.” Pewter swept her tail over the table, knocking rosebuds on the floor.

“If you don’t behave, missy, you’re going on the floor,” Harry chided Pewter.

“If you give me treats, I’ll be an angel.”

“Liar, liar, your pants are on fire,” Mrs. Murphy sassed.

That fast, Pewter charged the tiger cat, the gold beads entangled between them. The two boxed. Harry stood up, separating the cats to save the beads.

Off the table, the two chased each other around the room.

“Anyone bring Valium for cats?” asked BoomBoom.

“Remind me next time to stock up,” Harry replied.

Racquel and Jean had married best friends, and both couples had moved to Crozet when Bryson Deeds took a slot in the cardiology department at the University of Virginia hospital. He’d gone on to become one of the leading cardiologists in the country. Bill Keelo, his best friend, specialized in tax law. He, too, flourished. Both men earned very good money, and their wives reflected being well- tended. Of the two, Racquel was obsessed with her looks and appearing young.

While both wives were very attractive, any woman paled next to Alicia or BoomBoom. The funny thing was, neither of these great beauties fussed over themselves all that much, which only made them more alluring.

Harry, good-looking but not drop- dead gorgeous, lived in jeans. Since she farmed, this was as it should be, but every now and then Alicia, BoomBoom, and Susan would gang up on her and drag her to stores to find dresses. It took three of them to make her do it.

Although Racquel and Jean had not grown up with everyone, they had lived in Crozet for twenty years, fitting right in.

“You know, this really is lovely.” Susan held up a wreath of magnolia leaves, white magnolia blossoms, red rosebuds, and gold beads wrapped diagonally around the wreath.

“This looks pretty good, too. A little more plain, perhaps.” Harry held up the bay leaf wreath with cranberries wrapped around it, set off with large pale-green bows and speckled with tiny gold stars.

“The odor. That’s what makes the bay leaf wreaths so special.” Jean adored the fragrance.

“What are we going to do with the grapevines?” Susan was twisting some, now pliable from being soaked in water, into lovely wreaths.

“Well, I thought we could put one big bow on the bottom and tie in the wooden carved figures from that plastic carton.” Alicia pointed to the carton.

Susan asked, “Want me to do that now?”

Alicia answered, “No, let’s make the wreaths for the outside doors. By that time we should be able to handle the two huge wreaths for in here.”

“How huge?” Harry wondered.

“Three feet in diameter,” Alicia replied.

“That is huge.” Harry was surprised.

“It will take two of us to make each one, then hang them over each fireplace, but they will look spectacular.” Alicia felt confident about that.

One of the outside doors opened. Rushing in were the three Lutheran cats, Cazenovia, Elocution, and Lucy Fur, followed by Herb Jones, wearing no coat.

“Rev, you’ll catch your death.” Harry called him Rev.

“Oh, I just ran over from the office.” He glanced at the few finished wreaths and the pile of materials on the table as the cats, now five in number, roared through the great hall. “These are so pretty.”

“Thought about adding walnuts, but I don’t think they’d last long.” BoomBoom pointed to the grapevine wreaths. “Alicia’s come up with other ideas. She’s the boss.”

“I’m grateful to you girls for doing this.” Herb smiled at them. “Do you all need anything? Food? Drink?”

“Brought it,” Jean replied. “Dip into either of those coolers. You’ll be happy.”

Rarely able to resist food, Herb flipped up both lids. “Are those your famous turkey and cranberry sandwiches?”

“The same,” Jean replied.

Herb picked out one, as well as a Coca-Cola. “I’m going to eat and run. Actually, I’ll eat in the office. Oh, Racquel, how’s Aunt Phillipa doing?”

“Thank God for the Brothers of Love Hospice. Her mind remains clear, but I doubt she’ll make it to spring. Emphysema takes you down.” Racquel looked up at him.

Jean added, “The brothers have been wonderful. Apart from the work they do with the dying, it’s inspirational to learn each monk’s history. Everyone is there to atone for some wrongdoing.”

Racquel said, “Atoning twice. Some have been in jail.”

“Do you really think a leopard can change his spots?” Harry, ever the questioner, said.

Herb replied in a deep voice, “Some can and some can’t. I doubt it’s easy, and as I recall most of them were first corrupted by greed or lust.”

“Women and song pushed them on the path,” Susan good-naturedly suggested.

Herb turned to leave, noticing the cats carrying on like sin. “Jean, a turkey sandwich, if you have an extra, might settle these hellions down.”

“Brought plenty. Would you like another?”

“No, this is fine.” He left to dash back across the quad.

Alicia rose to throw more logs onto the fire, the fireplace being quite large to accommodate the big room. “Harry, I’d like to think people can change.”

“I would, too, but it seems to me that some corruptions are more easily overcome than others.” Harry selected a deep-red rosebud.

“Sex. That’s harder to fix than greed. Or should I say lust?” Racquel said.

“Really? I think money trumps everything in our culture,” Susan replied.

“I don’t think so.” Racquel offered her argument in the best sense of the word. “Lust is irrational. The desire for money is rational.”

“But aren’t the seven deadly sins all irrational? I mean, when it gets to that level of an obsession.” BoomBoom, like most people among friends, didn’t mind taking a bit of grammatical license.

Important as good grammar can be, it can also be stultifying in free- flowing conversation.

“Okay. How do you know when it’s reached the level of obsession?” Harry liked to talk about ideas, not people.

“Maybe it’s different for each person,” Jean offered.

BoomBoom, whose husband died young, had entered into a string of affairs with men, one of whom was Fair Haristeen, D.V.M., Harry’s husband. They were separated at the time, and Harry subsequently divorced him. He worked on himself, kept after her for years once he recognized his error, and finally won her back. Nothing happens in a vacuum. Harry had to realize that she contributed to his wandering by focusing on whatever tasks presented themselves to her. She could have focused on him a little more. She was learning.

“Wouldn’t a sign be if you knew you should slow down but you speeded up?” The corgi added canine conversation to this topic.

Just then, led by Mrs. Murphy, the cats leapt onto the table, running from end to end. Grapevines hit the floor; rosebuds skidded off the table. BoomBoom quickly secured the magnolia blossoms, as they were more fragile. Beads clattered.

“I’m sorry. I should never have brought these monsters,” Harry apologized.

“Oh, the Rev’s cats would have done the honors.” BoomBoom, an animal lover, laughed.

What was a little cleanup compared to watching animals love life?

“We would not. We’re Christian cats,” Lucy Fur protested, prudently jumping off the table.

“Ha.” Pewter jumped off, too. “Lucy Fur, you’re the most Christian at dinnertime.”

“You should talk, lard- ass.” Cazenovia, the long-haired calico, now chased Pewter.

“May I?” Harry got up and opened the cooler.

“Under the circumstances, I think it imperative.” Jean smiled.

Once the torn- up sandwich was on the floor, paper towels underneath, the cats settled down. Tucker received half a sandwich, too. Water was put out for them.

The great hall boasted a kitchen good enough for a fancy restaurant; it had running water, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, a big Viking stove, and other items to delight a chef.

Back at the table, Harry plopped down.

“Those sandwiches smell good.” Susan’s remark encouraged the ladies to take a food break.

“You mentioned that Aunt Phillipa’s mind is clear. How is she taking this?” Alicia asked Racquel.

“With fortitude. She’s eighty-six. She’s ready to go. Fighting to breathe robs any delight one might harbor. But she amazes me. So do the brothers. I didn’t think I’d much like them hovering about, but they’ve been good. Well, Christopher Hewitt isn’t too good. Brother Morris,” she mentioned the prior, “says he has to do some hospice work.

Mostly Christopher runs the Christmas tree farm. He knows how to make money. Bryson is there more than I am, so Aunt Phillipa receives lots of attention. He has two elderly patients there, as well.”

BoomBoom, who’d gone to high school with Christopher, as did Harry, Fair, and Susan, said, “I haven’t seen Christopher since he joined the brotherhood. Not that we were bosom buddies before.”

“Heard he became a brother after he got out of jail in Arizona. Money led him down the garden path. I am going over to the Christmas tree farm later, and maybe he’ll be there.” Harry was looking forward to picking out a tree.

Susan spoke to Alicia, Racquel, and Jean, who did not go to Crozet High School. “Christopher was a year behind Harry and me. He was handsome. And he was always elected treasurer of whatever group he was in.”

“Good training.” BoomBoom laughed.

“That comes back to my question,” said Harry. “Can a leopard change his spots? I don’t know all of the details, but Christopher was a stockbroker, became involved in insider trading, losing millions of clients’ money. I just wonder.”

“Well, I changed my spots.” BoomBoom laughed again, at herself this time.

“Oh, you were never that bad.” Susan liked her school chum, although she sided with Harry during the affair, which was natural.

“Bad enough.” Harry laughed, too. “But isn’t it funny how things turn out? All three of us have grown closer.”

BoomBoom became serious. “The truth is I didn’t know what love was until I met Alicia. I was running on empty and running from man to man.”

“You sweet thing,” Alicia said.

Racquel, not one to hold back, asked, “Think you were always gay?”

“No. Not for a second. I don’t even know if I am now, but I love Alicia. If that makes me gay, I’m happy to claim it. But, Racquel, I never once thought about another woman that way.” She turned to Jean. “Which reminds me, I’m surprised Bill allows you to work with Alicia and me.”

Jean rolled her eyes. “He’s gotten worse. He’s not as bad about two women as two men, but he’s really become a bigot. The other thing that sets him off is illegal immigration.” She looked around at the others. “The man I married was purposeful but fun. I don’t know—he entered his forties and now he’s such a crab. I hasten to add that he’s good to me. But he really loathes anything and everything about gay men. I just don’t know what to do about it, because there are gay men in our social groups. He avoids them.”

“Not a thing you can do.” Racquel shrugged, then tossed a rosebud at Harry. “The leopard and his spots. I worry about Bryson. He says he’s changed, but I don’t know. These last few months I kind of get the feeling he’s slipping back. I’ve checked the new nurses. None is his type.”

“Racquel, there hasn’t been a whiff of gossip, and you know that the hospital is a hotbed of it. If he were sleeping with a nurse, we’d know.” Jean wanted Racquel to be happy.

“I’d have heard.” Susan did hear a lot, plus her husband—a lawyer—served as a representative in the Virginia legislature and was on the hospital board.

“I don’t know.” Racquel appeared glum for a minute. “I swear to you, if he is fooling around and I catch him, that is one man who will be singing soprano in the choir.”

All the women laughed at this, each knowing, however fleetingly, that thought of revenge. Pewter and the others had been listening. “I’m not changing

my spots.” “You don’t have any spots.” Tucker laughed at her. “You know what I mean.” Pewter stared crossly at the dog. “That you think you’re perfect,” Tucker said. “I’m glad you recognize that.” Pewter beamed as the other cats laughed.

2

A string of red and green lightbulbs, supported by four poles, formed a square shining down on rows of freshly cut Christmas trees. The Brothers of Love kept a tight grasp on the wallet. No need to squander funds on fancy lights or even a crèche. The Christmas tree farm provided the brothers with half their annual income.

The square rows of Scotch pines undulated, roots balled and in large pots. Other trees, still planted, would be dug up after the shopper selected one. A forklift put the pots of freshly dug trees into truck beds. Sliding a potted tree into a station wagon proved more difficult, since the root balls were quite heavy, but after ten years the brothers had it down to a science.

People flocked to the tree farm because the trees were symmetrical and the prices fair. One also left the farm feeling smugly virtuous, since the money did fund their hospice. Back in the early 1980s, when even some medical personnel wouldn’t touch AIDS patients because the transmission of the disease was not fully understood, the brothers formed to nurse the sick and comfort the dying. Their commitment to all patients regardless of disease won them respect and support. The order wore monks’ habits, a black rope tying them tight around the middle. This outward display of their vows, in these secular times, pushed some people away from them. Others rushed toward them, eager to bare sins. By starting the hospice, perhaps the brothers wished to spare themselves such repetitive boredom. What each brother learned over time was that there are no original sins.

Harry Haristeen walked through the trees outside the square. Sticking close to her were Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, both nimbly stepping over garlands and wreaths that had been laid to the side, SOLD tags attached to them.

Popping out from an aisle of trees off the small main square was Alex Corbett, head of Corbett Realty.

“Harry, find a tree?”

“Not yet. You?”

“A big one. Need an impressive specimen for the annual company party.”

“Same night as St. Luke’s. Bad timing.” She smiled.

“Oh, Harry, people party all day and night. Half of the St. Luke’s people will come over to Keswick Club. I’m counting on you and Fair to add to the celebration.”

“Alex, we’d love to, but I’ve got to help clean up.”

His sandy mustache twitched upward. “Well, I’ll see you at Spring Fling, then.” He waved good-bye as he walked to his new Range Rover and drove off.

She said to her animals, “Real estate has been tanking for two years and yet that man rolls in the dough. Wish I had his brains for money.”

“You have a good brain,” Tucker complimented her.

As it was two in the afternoon on December 15, she had the farm all to herself once Alex left. The high volume of shoppers would fill the place after work. The other women at the work party had their trees up already, but Harry, like her mother, waited until ten days before Christmas.

Tucker patiently examined each tree. Had to smell right.

“Pine”—Pewter sniffed—“all smells the same.”

“Does not,” the sturdy dog replied.

“I don’t want to hear about your superior nose. My nose is every bit as good as yours.”

Although Tucker knew she was being goaded, an activity at which Pewter excelled, she couldn’t help herself. She rose to the bait. “My nose is superior. Why, I can track a cow on a three- day- old line.”

“Ooh la.” Pewter tossed back her head. “Even a bloodhound can’t do that. Furthermore, what do you want with a stinky cow? The cud breath could gag a maggot.”

The fur on the back of her neck fluffed up as Tucker responded, “You don’t know anything about canine noses.”

“Well, I know all I need to know about canine butts, you tailless wonder.” Pewter giggled.

Tucker whirled around, ready for a fight. The dog had endured five lunatic cats at St. Luke’s. Her feline fun meter was pegged.

Mrs. Murphy stopped to face them as Harry walked on, and said with an authoritative voice, “Can it.”

Rarely did Tucker oppose the tiger cat. They were good friends. Besides, Murphy could unleash those claws and tear her up.

Pewter, while not wishing to tangle with the tiger, didn’t want to look as though she’d backed down. “Who died and made you God?”

Upset at her phrase, Tucker said, “You shouldn’t talk like that. We just came from St. Luke’s. Besides, there are brothers around.”

Mrs. Murphy couldn’t help but laugh at Tucker’s seriousness. “Since when do humans understand our language? Even our own human doesn’t get it.”

“Right.” Pewter seized on what she took to be a tiny bit of support from Mrs. Murphy. “Furthermore, most of the brothers are mental. They’re making up for something. You know, atoning for sins. Why would anyone want to sit with the dying? It’s not normal.”

“Pewter, you’re hateful.” Mrs. Murphy turned to follow Harry, who was attractive even in a dirty, smeared Carhartt work jacket.

“I tell the truth. Why is that being hateful?” Pewter yelled to the two animals leaving her. “They’re a bunch of whack jobs.”

As Tucker padded along next to Mrs. Murphy, she said, “Her nose gets out of joint because she doesn’t like the cold. Does she stay in the truck? No. She lives in fear that she’ll miss something and then all she does is bitch and moan.”

A gray cannonball shot past them. Pewter turned to face them after skidding to a stop, sending pine needles flying. “You’re talking about me!”

“Egotist,” Tucker fired back.

“As it happens, we were. We were discussing how you hate the cold but you won’t stay in the truck,” said Mrs. Murphy.

“Ha. You were saying ugly things about me. Un- Christian things.”

“Pewter.” Both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker said the same thing at the same time while laughing at the cross kitty.

Harry, hearing the chatter, called to her friends, “Come on, you all, keep up.”

“It’s her fault.” Tucker petulantly pointed the paw, so to speak, at Pewter.

Pewter hopped sideways, stiff-legged, toward the dog.

Then she swatted the corgi.

“That’s enough,” Harry commented. “Look at this one.”

“Very nice.” Tucker admired the twelve- foot tree, which would look good in the old farmhouse with its high ceilings.

“Can’t wait to climb it,” Pewter said.

“Have to wait until it’s decorated. Maximum damage,” Mrs. Murphy gleefully ordered.

“Where is everybody?” Harry wondered out loud.

“Ought to be a brother around here somewhere.”

“Probably in prayer and penance.” Pewter sarcastically giggled.

Harry misinterpreted Pewter’s remarks, thinking the cat wanted to be picked up. She bent over, hoisting the large cat. Given that a free ride beat walking, Pewter didn’t fuss. Tucker raced down the row of trees, reached the end, and raced back in another tree lane. She continued running up and back while the others returned to the square.

Just as Harry and the cats reached the lighted open square, she noticed an SUV pulling away. She walked to the small trailer and knocked on the door.

“Just a minute,” a male voice called from inside.

The flimsy door opened. Out stepped a man in his late thirties, wearing the winter habit, a heavy brown wool robe. His red beard and mustache were offset by bright blue eyes.

Harry paused, finally recognized who it was behind the beard, then said, “Christopher Hewitt, we were just talking about you.”

He smiled. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you, Harry. And who’s ‘we’?” She hugged him, then let go. “The decorating committee at St. Luke’s. You remember Susan Tucker and BoomBoom Craycroft. They were there. I don’t think you know the other ladies.”

“You know what Mae West said? The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. So what did they say?”

“That you’d joined the brotherhood after being in the slammer.”

“Heard I made the papers back home.” He ruefully smiled. “Took my vows a year ago plus a few days. I needed to completely change my life. I’d made a terrible mistake. Anyway, I give myself to service. Perhaps, in time, the good I do will outweigh the bad.”

“It will.” She reassured him.

“We all make mistakes.”

“Mine cost other people millions.”

“Yes, well”—she laughed—“that is a major mistake.”

“I don’t do things halfway.” He pulled his hands back into the heavy sleeve. “Would you like to come into the trailer? Warm.”

“Thanks. I want to buy a tree. Can you tag it for me?”

“Sure.”

They walked to the perfectly shaped tree that Harry had marked. Chris pulled a red cardboard tag from a pocket in his robe. “There you go.”

“Aren’t your hands cold?”

“Yes. I try to keep to the tradition—no gloves, no shoes—but I surely wear gloves and shoes when it’s cold.”

“No shoes?”

“Sandals. We can wear sandals, but I cheat and wear Thinsulate-lined boots when it’s this cold. Really is cold, too. I think we’ll have a white Christmas.”

He stepped back to admire the tree. “Remember old Mr. Truslow, who used to show White Christmas every year in assembly? I thought it was the most boring movie I’d ever seen, but at least we were out of the classroom.”

“Really? I liked it.” She paused. “I think he showed it to us because he was in the war. The idea of a reunion and all that.”

“Maybe. Want me to put the tree in your truck?”

“No, thanks, because Fair can’t get here until about nine. I want to make sure he likes the tree. Half of making a marriage work is letting your spouse in on every decision.”

“Another mistake I made. My wife bailed when the scandal broke about insider trading. I wished she’d loved me enough to stick it out, but I can’t say that I blame her.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. I was a fool. How much is enough? Made millions, Harry, millions, and I wanted more. I was a fool. Like I said, I hope the good I do now will make up for what I did then.”

“Will.” She walked back to her old truck.

“These old Fords go and go. When did you get it?” He walked around it, noticing the good condition of the F-series truck.

“When I graduated from Smith, in 1990.”

His gaze ran over the ’78 Ford again. “I miss my Porsche.” He shrugged. “Funny how you can love an inanimate object.”

“Makes sense to me.” She opened the truck door.

The cats hopped in, but she had to pick up Tucker.

“Good to see you, Harry. I’ll be here until ten. If you and Fair run late, call.” He waved as she drove off.

Heading toward the farm, she thought that the leopard could change his spots if he truly was motivated.

At least that’s what she figured.

“Where are we going?” Pewter wanted a nap.

“We’re here,” Mrs. Murphy said as Harry drove down the alleyway behind the old post office, where she used to work.

Once parked in Miranda Hogendobber’s driveway off the alleyway, she paused to notice that even in the snow, Miranda’s gardens, symmetrically laid out, still pleased the eye.

“Knock knock.” She opened the back door.

“Come on in. I’m in the living room,” Miranda, Harry’s surrogate mother and former workmate at the post office, called out.

The animals dashed in to be rapturously greeted, followed by Harry, who received a big hug and kiss.

“Wow.” Harry admired Miranda’s tree.

“Thought I’d do something different this year.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

A Douglas fir, reaching the ceiling, bore evidence of Miranda’s highly developed aesthetic sensibility. Plaid bows, shot through with some gold thread, were tied in place of balls. A lush gold garland wrapped around the tree. On the top, a single thin gold star finished the picture.

“You really like it? I haven’t been too severe?”

“I love it.”

“Sit down. Tea?”

“I’m on the run. Just wanted to stop by. We made the wreaths today. Are you nervous?”

“A little.” She chuckled. “A lot.” “You’ll be fab.” Miranda, a stalwart at the Church of the Holy Light, had agreed to sing at St. Luke’s Christmas party on the winter solstice. Her partner would be none other than Brother Morris, formerly a major tenor in the opera world.

“We’ve practiced. Brother Morris puts me at ease, but, Harry, that voice.” She threw her hands heavenward. “A gift from God.”

“So is yours.” “Now, now. Flatterer.” “Miranda, people wouldn’t have asked you to sing with

Brother Morris if you didn’t have the stuff.” “Oh, Herbie asked me.” “He’s a good judge.” She changed the subject. “Visited Phillipa Henry. Sinking fast.”

Racquel’s aunt had moved to the area when Racquel and Bryson did. Childless, the woman doted on her niece and Racquel’s two sons.

“Racquel said as much.” “You know, I’ve never been to the Brothers of Love

Hospice before. They do God’s work.” “I believe they do.” Harry told her about seeing Christopher Hewitt. They caught up on odds and ends, the glue of life in the country and small towns.

“Another thing.” Miranda returned to Aunt Phillipa. “Bryson was there. He stops by and visits Phillipa. Brother Luther was there, too, and says that Bryson makes a point of visiting each of the people in their care. I was impressed with how tender he was. I mean, since he’s . . . uh”—even though she was with Harry, she still paused, since a Southern lady is not to speak ill of anyone— “full of himself.”

“He is that.” Harry laughed. “But I guess to be really successful at anything, you need a big ego.”

“I conclude he’s very successful.” They both laughed, then Miranda added, “He seemed distant and tense. Not with the patients but in general.”

“Racquel’s suspicious.”

“I hope that’s unfounded.” Miranda shook her head. “Truly.”

“Me, too. How do people find the time for affairs? One man is all I can do.”

“Me, too.”

“Tell me what you think. We got into a discussion at St. Luke’s. Started about the Brothers of Love, how each man is trying to change, to make up for past sins. Do you think the leopard can change his spots?”

“Of course. One asks for Christ’s help, but, of course, Jesus represents change. Rebirth.”

“Never thought of it that way.”

“Honey, you’re a good woman, but you don’t have a religious turn of mind.”

“I don’t need it. You do it for me.”

They laughed again, then Harry kissed her on the cheek and went on her way.

3

The air was cold. The sun had long set, so the cold intensified. The tiny square of red and green lights appeared more festive than it had at two in the afternoon. Eleven people, three of them children, studied the cut Christmas trees with varying degrees of seriousness.

Pewter elected to remain in the truck, where she snuggled into an ancient cashmere throw. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker tagged along, little puffs of frosty air streaming from their nostrils.

A child’s shrill voice asserted, “Daddy, get this one.”

Harry looked to see the source.

A child, perhaps ten, wanted a beautifully shaped Scotch pine. From the look of his clothing and the expression on his father’s face, the tree must have been beyond the budget.

The economy was tanking and the high gas prices pinched pocketbooks. Harry felt a pang that the child had selected a lovely tree that his father couldn’t afford. She thought for a moment to buy the tree for him. On second thought, no.The kid had to learn about money. Better sooner than later.

Rolling his big tree on a dolly, Alex Corbett stopped for a breather near father and son. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a $100 bill, folded it in his palm, then pressed it into the father’s hand.

Before the man could respond, Alex lifted the dolly and rolled away.

Fair called out to him, “Hold up, Alex. I’ll help you load.”

The two men maneuvered the tree to the Range Rover, then with effort hoisted it into the back, tying down the rear door since the tree stuck out.

“Thanks, Fair. Brother Sheldon is on overload.” He shook Fair’s hand.

“I’ll take the dolly back,” Fair offered.

“Hey, want to bet on the Sugar Bowl?” Alex beamed.

Fair amiably refused. “No. I don’t know enough about either team.”

Fair inhaled the scent of pine and cut wood as he left the dolly by the trailer. He rejoined his wife. They’d known each other since childhood, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

“Honey, who’s playing in the Sugar Bowl?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Brother Sheldon, harried, tried to keep up with the customers.

Harry waited for an opportune moment to speak to him. “Is Brother Christopher here?”

“He’s supposed to be, but I can’t find him.” Exasperation oozed from every pore.

Like Christopher, Brother Sheldon wore the heavy winter brown robe. He had socks on with his sandals. In his fifties, Brother Sheldon had converted from Reform Judaism to Christianity. The other brothers occasionally teased him about Jews for Jesus, which he bore with good grace.

“I know you’re busy,” Harry said. “I picked out our tree this afternoon. I want Fair to look at it. If he likes it, we can load it up and pay for it.”

“Fine.”

“It’s one of the balled ones.”

His eyebrows came together. “I’ll need the front- end loader. Might take some time.”

“Tell you what. Don’t worry about it. It’s in the back. We’ll check it out. If it stays busy, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Relief flooded over his pleasant, roundish features. “I hate for you to do that, but I sure appreciate it.”

“Brother, Crozet’s not but so big. Easy to come back.”

Tucker walked back with Harry at her heels. Fair recognized a client behind one of the trees that were leaning against wooden railings. They chatted about the man’s big crossbred mare.

Harry knew the fellow, too—Olsen Godfrey. After the pleasantries were exchanged, she took Fair back to see the tree.

Mrs. Murphy, who’d stayed with Fair, fell in with Tucker.

The farther away they walked from the lighted square, the darker it became. On her truck key chain, Harry had a tiny LED light. They reached the tree and she shone the light on it.

“What do you think?” “It’s a beautiful tree. A real evergreen pyramid.” Fair put his arm around his wife’s waist and said, “You have a good eye.”

Tucker lifted her nose. “Delicious.”

Mrs. Murphy inhaled deeply. “Fresh.”

The two scooted off.

“Hey!” Harry called to them.

“We’ll be right back,” Tucker called over her shoulder.

“This tree is so perfect—the apotheosis of Christmas trees.” Harry admired it.

“Even if for some reason I didn’t like it, bet you someone else would.” Fair lifted one side of the ball. “Heavy, but I think I can get it to the truck.”

“Honey, don’t. You’re strong as a bull, but maybe Brother Sheldon would let you borrow the forklift.”

“Good idea.”

They hadn’t taken two steps toward the square when Tucker ran past them. She carried her head to the side, something in her mouth.

Mrs. Murphy, in hot pursuit, called out, “I told you to leave it. You’re going to get us in a lot of trouble.”

Tucker refused to answer lest she drop her prize.

Harry yelled, “Tucker, what have you got?”

“She stole it.” Mrs. Murphy blew past Tucker and turned to face the dog, but Tucker, with corgi agility, leapt to the side, avoiding the swift paw.

Fair sprinted toward the powerful, low- built dog. “Tucker, drop it.”

Hearing that bass voice commanding her, Tucker did release her treasure. Standing over it, she kept a glaring eye on Mrs. Murphy.

“I don’t want the damned thing,” Mrs. Murphy, eyes large, hissed.

Harry shone the LED light on the coveted object. “Black rope. It’s what the monks use to tie their robes.”

Fair stood up, all six feet five inches of him. “I’ll give this to Brother Sheldon. Hate to think of a monk in undress.” He laughed. Then he picked it up. “Sticky.”

“Tucker, where’d you find this?” Harry asked.

Tucker led her two humans to the site.

“You just can’t leave well enough alone.”

“The blood smells so delicious.”

Trotting through the long rows of planted trees, Tucker took them to the very back. Leaning against a huge, perfectly pyramidal tree was Christopher Hewitt. Eyes wide open, mouth agape, he appeared to be calling out.

Harry, using her little light, faltered a moment as she took in the scene.

Fair stopped, too. Then the vet in him took over. He checked for a pulse. He shook his head.

“The body is cooling. It’s so cold out, though, I can’t really estimate how long he’s been dead. Shine that light here.”

When the light hit Christopher’s face, Harry moved it downward. She grimaced. His throat had been so neatly sliced one barely noticed it.The dark brown of the robe matched the blood stains.

Fair flipped open his cell and called their neighbor, Deputy Cynthia Cooper, who was on duty tonight.

“Smells wonderful.” Tucker lifted her nose to inhale the aroma of fresh blood.

“Poor guy. Poor guy,” Harry repeated to herself.

“At least it was quick. Who would do such a thing?” Fair had been two years ahead of Christopher Hewitt in high school and hadn’t known him well. “Shouldn’t we tell Brother Sheldon?”

“Listen, for all we know, Brother Sheldon killed him. When we hear the sirens, we can walk out. No telling what he’ll do if he is the murderer.”

What he did was pass out.

Cooper arrived not ten minutes after Fair had worried that Brother Sheldon was the culprit. Those ten minutes seemed so long to Harry and Fair, standing still in the biting cold.

Cooper, having first checked out the scene, brought back Brother Sheldon. He keeled over without even bending at the knee.

She knelt down to lift him at the shoulders.

“Coop, let me,” Fair said.

“Thanks. Get behind him to lift him, Fair. Sometimes they puke all over you.”

Brother Sheldon didn’t throw up; he simply passed out again.

“The hell with it.” Coop gave her full attention to the scene.

“Whoever did this worked fast and knew what they were doing,” Fair commented.

“How so?” Harry asked.

“It takes some power to cut through a throat.This is neat.”

Cooper, plastic gloves on, carefully checked the body. “Doesn’t appear there’s trauma elsewhere.” She pushed up his sleeves. No bruising appeared. The coroner would be the last word on this.

“He was turning his life around. He was so positive. I can’t believe this.” Harry was upset.

“Any ideas?” Cooper stood up.

“No,” they replied in unison.

“It’s bad enough to murder someone, but at Christmas.” Harry felt both sorrow and outrage.

Brother Sheldon moaned.

“He’ll come to when he’s good and ready.” Cooper shone her powerful flashlight on Sheldon’s face. “Ought to be interesting when we find the killer.”

“Why? I mean beyond finding out who did it?” Harry wiggled her toes in her boots, because even with Thinsulate they were cold.

“Brothers of Love. Right? Can they forgive the killer?”

Fair smelled that odd metallic tang of blood. “Better find him first. Then we can worry about forgiveness. It’s a crying shame, really.”

They heard the sirens. In the still of the night, sound carried. The sheriff’s squad car and the forensic team’s car had just driven under the railroad overpass and were now heading north.

“How do you know the people you told to stay here won’t leave?” Harry considered the shoppers standing in the lighted square.

“If they go, they’ll be suspect, which I made abundantly clear. I also took the precaution of punching their license plates into my computer.” Cooper kept a laptop in her squad car, as did the other officers.

“Smart.” Fair nodded.

“Procedure. Get as much information as you can as fast as you can without being obvious. People like to complain about the department, but then, people like to complain, period. We’re well trained.”

Brother Sheldon, laid out like a log, nearly tripped Sheriff Rick Shaw, whose eyes immediately darted to the tree, then back to Brother Sheldon.

“Is he dead?” Rick asked about Brother Sheldon as three other law- enforcement people walked with him, one with a camera.

“No. Where’s Buddy?” Cooper meant the regular crime-scene photographer, who was a freelancer.

Well prepared as the department was, the struggle for an adequate budget did create problems.

“Doak will do it,” Rick said, then added, “Why would anyone take out a monk?”

Doak called out from behind his camera. “Shine more light here, will you?”

The other members of the sheriff’s department focused their flashlights on the corpse.

Rick crossed his arms over his chest. “Doak, when you’re finished with the pictures, go get statements from the people up front. It’s cold, and they’ll want to go home.”

“Any of them find the body?” Doak answered.

“No,” Cooper responded. “Harry and Fair found it. Fair said the other person here who left with a tree was Alex Corbett. I’ll question him later.”

“I found it.” Tucker puffed out her chest.

“Actually, Tucker and Mrs. Murphy found the body.

Tucker brought the rope that tied his robe,” Harry corrected the deputy.

“I really am going to have to put that dog and cat on the payroll.” Rick smiled down at the two animals, then sighed. “Gang, looks like we’ll be working harder than usual this holiday.”

“I don’t mind pulling extra hours,” Cooper volunteered.

Rick looked down at Brother Sheldon. “Guess we’d better get him up. We need a statement.”

Fair again hoisted up the brother, who weighed two hundred fifty pounds, much of it fat. Life was good at the monastery.

“Oh-h-h.” Brother Sheldon’s eyelids fluttered, then popped open.

“Gonna puke?” Rick asked.

“No.”Tears rolled down the portly man’s cheeks.

“I know this is difficult, but I must ask you some questions.”

Brother Sheldon nodded.

“Do you need a drink or anything?” Fair asked. He usually carried a cooler in his truck, as he never knew how long he’d be on a call.

“No.” Brother Sheldon shook his head.

“When was the last time you saw Brother Christopher?” Rick asked with a reassuring voice.

“Breakfast. He wasn’t here when I arrived at six. At first I thought he was digging up trees, balling them or putting them in buckets. We like to have a few that can be planted ready to go.”

“Did you hear equipment?”

“No. The place filled up with people, so I didn’t look too hard for him.” Brother Sheldon cried. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it.”

“Do you have any ideas who might have done this?” Rick asked.

“Sheriff, he was relatively new to our order. A year, perhaps a few months more. He was in pain for having caused pain. When he came to us and accepted Christ, truly accepted Christ in his heart, he began to heal. He was such a likable man.”

“He was. I can vouch for that, what I knew of him,” Fair commented.

“You knew him from the monastery?” Rick continued scribbling in his open notebook.

“High school. He was two years behind me, a year behind my wife.”

“Has anyone shown up at the monastery to speak to Brother Christopher that you hadn’t seen before?” Rick kept prodding Brother Sheldon.

“No. People don’t usually go up the mountain. Especially in winter. Roads are treacherous. If someone visits us, it’s usually down at the hospice. Keeping the monastery separate allows us contemplation.”

“I see. Brother Sheldon, go home.” Rick patted him on the back. “Someone from the department will be up tomorrow to”—he chose his words carefully—“enlist help from the brothers. We will find whoever did this. I promise you, we will.”

Tears again filled Brother Sheldon’s eyes. “Think how this will upset children. Christmas is such a happy time, and the media will... well, you know how they are. Children don’t need to know such things.” He emitted a long, sorrowful sigh. “They’re not allowed their innocence anymore.”

“I agree, Brother, I agree.” Rick patted him on the back again while giving a slight nod to Doak, who had returned from getting customers’ statements.

Doak knew his boss’s messages well. He gently put his hand under Brother Sheldon’s elbow. “Come on, Brother. I’ll take you to your car.”

“I have to close up the place first.”

“I’ll help you. And if you need someone to drive you home, just tell me. A shock like this can make you wobbly.”

“It can. I never imagined such a thing.” The floodgates opened, and Doak walked with the brother back toward the lighted square.

Fair watched the slumping figure as the two men walked away. “Taking it hard.”

Rick looked up at the tall vet. “Any ideas?”

“Only the obvious.”

“Which is?”

“The killer is safe and sound and very effectively camouflaged.”

“What makes you say that?” Cooper trusted Fair as a levelheaded person.

“Either he’s miles down the road or he’s sitting at home in Crozet, pleased with himself. This is a very cool customer. He walked right in here, killed quickly and silently, and walked right out without attracting notice.”

“You’re right.” Rick smiled at Fair. “You might make a cop, know that?”

“Couldn’t do it. But I’m a vet and I’m trained to observe without emotion if possible. Took some effort in this circumstance.”

“It’s always a shock when you know the victim,” Rick repeated his earlier feeling.

Once back in the truck, Harry realized that they hadn’t brought the tree. She’d lost her taste for it.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker excitedly told Pewter everything.

Seething with envy, the gray cat grumbled, “You lie.”

4

Brother Morris, head of the Brothers of Love, was so filled with the milk of human kindness that he almost mooed. Would have been a big moo, too, since Brother Morris tipped the scales at 310 pounds. Now forty-eight, he attracted devotees due to his own story. Once a major tenor in opera, specializing in German roles, he had fallen from grace. Given his weight, it was a wonder he didn’t create a pothole in New York’s streets big enough for three taxis to disappear altogether.

Most stars prove difficult at one time or another. Directors of opera houses learn to deal with egos as oversize as the voices. Gender seems not to be a determining factor. Of course, there are good and bad in every bunch, and Brother Morris, known then as Morris Bartoly, gave little trouble. He never fussed over the size of his dressing room or the placement of it. He appreciated large food baskets, especially fruit, for he loved to eat, and a bracing brandy assisted the digestion. However, he never showed up drunk, was always on time, and was perfectly willing to work with other stars far less generous in temperament than himself.

In short, he was a dream star, which made his crash all the more scandalous. Brother Morris slept with both men and women. Not that that was anything new. He often slept with them simultaneously, although how either gender bore the bulk remains mysterious. Discreet in his selections, Morris often chose partners who were married and slavish fans of opera. Few, if any, suspected his desires for threesomes. What did him in was not the number of playmates. One husband accepting Brother Morris’s attentions just so happened to take pictures on his cell phone of the star servicing his wife, or was it vice versa? The sight of this behemoth performing various acts of copulation, dressed as a ballerina from Swan Lake, in specially made costumes, proved too much. The pictures on the cell phone showcased a thrilling dexterity for one so large. But, alas, when the news broke and he appeared onstage, he wasn’t booed off, he was laughed off.

Brother Morris disappeared from the scene. A downward spiral of prostitutes and recreational drugs scuttled him. His taste for costumes became even more outrageous. He found Jesus when he landed in the gutter, dressed as Cleopatra, eyes heavily made up. Eschewing all publicity, he began to perform good works instead of tantric sex. He finally came to the Brothers of Love years later, where his energy and undeniable extroverted appeal made him invaluable, especially at the bedside of the dying.

When the founder of the Brothers of Love, Brother Price, formerly Price Newbold, died, it was a foregone conclusion that Brother Morris would become head of the order. He did.

No one regretted the decision. In addition to his kindness to the dying, he showed fine managerial skills.

At this exact moment, those skills were in use. Officer Doak, worried about Brother Sheldon’s condition, had driven him up Afton Mountain. Sheriff Shaw had given him the go-ahead to inform Brother Morris of events. It was up to Brother Morris to determine how to break this to “the boys,” as he teasingly called them.

Brother Morris never got the chance. Brother Sheldon crossed the threshold of the monastery with such a wailing and weeping that everyone in their cells rushed out.

A monk’s living quarters is traditionally called a “cell,” and these, while spare, did have heat and running water. No luxuries abounded, though.

He blurted out everything in lurid detail. Brother Morris, whose cell was farthest down the hall, arrived just as Brother Sheldon reached the pinnacle of his tale: the discovery of the body.

Horrified, he noticed the sheriff’s man heading toward him.

“Brother Morris, could we talk in private?”

Nodding and then flicking his forefinger at Brother George, the second in command, he ushered Officer Doak into his office, where the young man told him what they’d found, with less drama than Brother Sheldon.

In defense of Brother Sheldon, how often do you find a man, murdered, propped up against a Christmas tree? How ever, Brother Sheldon flourished when his emotions expanded, so he was now in his glory.

“My God, this can’t be true.” Brother Morris’s heavily bearded face became pale.

“I’m afraid it is, sir—I mean, Brother.”

Brother Morris waved his hand. “Call me what you like. Have you any suspects?”

“No. But the investigation is just beginning. The forensics team will return at dawn since it’s so dark now. I’m sorry, but we have to keep the Christmas tree farm closed for at least one more day.”

“Small matter.” He folded his hands together, bowed his head, then looked up. “What can I do to help you? We all loved Brother Christopher. Please let us help.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow to ask questions. That’s a help, a beginning.” Doak was soothing.

“Of course. Of course.” Brother Morris’s voice shook slightly.

“We will be questioning everyone involved.” Officer Doak leaned forward slightly. “I know you are suffering a terrible shock, but I have a few questions now.”

“I understand.”

“Did Brother Christopher have any enemies in the order?”

Shaking his head vigorously, Brother Morris responded, “No, no, he was loved by all.” He smiled slightly. “We are the Brothers of Love, but as you know, Officer, people do have trouble getting along. Not Brother Christopher. He was an easy fellow, and the love of Christ shone through him.”

“Did anyone from the Christmas tree farm ever complain? A customer perhaps?”

“Not that I know of, but I will ask the other brothers.”

Officer Doak rose. “Someone from the department will return tomorrow. I am sorry for your troubles, sir. We will do everything in our power to apprehend the murderer.”

“I know you will. Go with God, Officer.”A tear ran down his apple cheek into the grizzled beard. Doak passed through the long hall.

Once the officer left, in the front hall the noise had grown louder. Emotions ranged from stunned catatonia to Brother Sheldon ripping his shirt and fainting again. Brother Morris watched as Brother George fanned him.

“Brother Ed, go to the infirmary and fetch the smelling salts.” Brother Morris stood to his full height of six foot two inches and said, “Brothers, horrible as this is, remember that Brother Christopher has gone home. He is with Christ, and we celebrate his release from this mortal coil. Brother Luther, you’re in charge of a service for him, Friday. Brother Howard, you’re in charge of the reception. Now”—a long pause followed—“does anyone have any ideas, know anything that might contribute to our understanding this loss?”

Blank looks met his request.

A tiny brother, a handsome former jockey who had hit the skids, piped up, “Maybe he didn’t spend all the money.”

“Say what?” Brother Morris seemed confused.

“Insider trading,” Brother Speed, the jockey, replied. “He lost a lot of money for people. Have you ever heard of anyone who did such a thing not squirreling away a large bundle for themselves?”

Shocked, Brother Morris said, “He would have given it back.”

Brother Speed, who knew a thing or two about crooks and scumbags, calmly stood his ground. “Now, Brother, I want to agree with you, but my hunch is that this all gets back to his stock- market days. There has to be a pile of money somewhere.”

“Then why stay in the order?” Brother Luther was puzzled.

“For a cover. Maybe.” Brother Speed shrugged. “I’m not saying this is the case. You asked for ideas.”

Brother Morris stroked his beard. “Brother Speed, I hope you’re wrong, but under the circumstances not one of us can rule out the possibility. If each of you would go jot down observations and thoughts, perhaps some pattern will emerge. In the meantime, I charge each of you to pray for Brother Chris’s soul and to remember the love.”

Brother Sheldon came to with a wail. Brother Morris sighed deeply, wishing Brother Sheldon was less histrionic. He’d lived through enough of that at the opera.

5

Dr. Emmanuel Gibson searched his memory for a similar case. Nothing came to mind. The seventy-five-year-old was a repository of pathology’s secrets; younger doctors frequently consulted him. He was in good shape, with sharp skills, as he was usually called in when the regular coroner was unavailable.

Dr. Gibson examined the wound.

“There don’t seem to be signs of struggle,” Rick said.

“I need to send tissue samples off; haven’t removed the organs yet.” Dr. Gibson looked up from the corpse. “It’s possible he was drugged—no struggle then.”

Cooper nodded. “Like the date- rape drug.”

Dr. Gibson examined the underside of the forearms to see if Christopher had warded off blows. “No marks. The severed jugular might have obscured fingerprints. If he was choked, his eyes would be bloodshot, and you’ll notice they aren’t.”

Rick looked at the glassy, staring eyes. He couldn’t quite get used to that, although he’d seen plenty of corpses. Those opened eyes always seemed to him to be silent witnesses.

“Can you hurry the drug report from Richmond?” Cooper mentioned the location of forensic research.

“It’s Christmas. No one will be in a hurry, but, Sheriff, you can try to prod them a wee bit.” Dr. Gibson’s curiosity rose higher as he considered again the clean cut at the throat.

Rick crossed his arms over his chest. “Used a sharp blade.”

“Yes, no ragged edge. The wound is quite neat and clean.”

Cooper flipped her notebook shut for a moment. “No struggle. Drugs unknown at this point. Either he knew his assailant or the killer snuck up on him.”

“Definite possibility.” Dr. Gibson started to hum as he worked.

Rick understood how methodical most coroners were, especially Dr. Gibson. “I don’t want to interrupt your procedure, but I am curious.”

“I appreciate that,” Dr. Gibson answered as he continued his exam.

“I’m curious, too. Seems to me that type of cut had to be made by someone who knew what they were doing.” Cooper was always fascinated by murder.

“Takes work and skill, which you know. If you pull the head back, it’s easier to cut the jugular.”

“Dr. Gibson, we’ll leave you to it, and I thank you for coming down here at night,” Rick said.

The old pathologist smiled. “House full of grandchildren. I needed the quiet.”

After bidding the good doctor good-bye, the two work partners and friends drove to headquarters. Cooper followed Rick into his office, where he shut the door. “Search back ten years to see if there’s been any killing of priests, nuns, monks.”

“Right.”

“Are you sure you want extra duty over Christmas?”

She nodded in the affirmative. “My holiday will start New Year’s Eve, when Lorenzo visits.” She mentioned her boyfriend, whom she had met in the fall and was now home in Nicaragua. The romance was budding.

He looked at the large wall clock. “How’d it get to be two?”

“The earth just keeps revolving on its axis.” She smiled, feeling ragged.

“Hey, go home. Get a good night’s sleep. I will, too. You know, sometimes if I give myself a problem to solve before I go to sleep, I wake up with the answer. Try it.”

“I will.”

“One more thing. See if you can keep Harry out of this. Bad enough she and Fair found the body.” He rubbed his palm on his forehead as if to banish cares.

“Boss, I’ll try, but don’t hold your breath.” He laughed. Cooper left. Rick did not take his own advice. He started searching for similar cases, even though he’d assigned the task to Cooper. The phone rang at three- thirty. Dr. Gibson’s light voice was on the line. “Figured you’d be up. Sheriff, I found a curious thing in his mouth. Under his tongue there was an ancient Greek coin, an obol.” Rick, not having read much Greek mythology, blurted out, “What the hell could that mean?”

“Oh, the meaning is quite clear, Sheriff. He needed an obol to give to Charon, who pilots the dead across the River Styx to the underworld. If he doesn’t have the coin, he wanders in limbo, a cruel fate.”

“That is odd. He’s murdered, but the killer wants him in the underworld.”

“Not quite so odd, Sheriff. For one thing, it’s a slap at his proclaimed Christianity. The killer is paying homage to the old gods. The other thing is, there may be someone waiting for him on the other side. Someone who will do even more damage.”

Rick hung up the phone, knowing he needed sleep or a drink or both.

6

Tuesday, December 16. A light snow covered the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but only a few swirling flakes traveled to the valley below. Still, those glistening rounded mountains, once the largest peaks in the world, looked perfect when the sun came out.

Susan drove Harry and herself in her Audi station wagon, a purchase she had never regretted. In the backseat, along with Christmas packages and a large fuzzy rug, sat Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, Pewter, and Owen, Susan’s corgi and full brother to Tucker. When Susan’s kids, now in college, reached the stage where she became a taxi, her corgi breeding fell by the wayside. She hoped to pick it back up, since it fascinated her.

“If I hear one more Christmas carol, I’m going to scream,” Susan grumbled.

“Scream what?” Harry loved to tease Susan.

“How about, ‘Jesus was born in March, why are we celebrating in December?’ That ought to get their knickers in a knot.”

“You know why as well as I do. We sat through six years of Latin. Too bad we didn’t go to the same college. I kept on and you didn’t.”

Harry referred to the fact that the Roman winter- solstice festival, Saturnalia, was so popular the Christians couldn’t dislodge it. Since they lacked a winter festival, they fudged on Jesus’s birth, killing two birds with one stone.

“Ah, yes, Latin. I switched to French so I could order French food cooked by American chefs who pretend to know what they’re doing.” She braked as a Kia pulled out in front of her, the young man behind the wheel yakking away on a cell phone so tiny it was a wonder he could find it much less press in phone numbers.

“Ever notice that the people who take the most chances in the world are always in cheap cars?”

“No.” Susan switched back to French cooking. “Actually there are some extraordinary French chefs now. I mean Americans who can cook.”

“All men. If a man cooks, he’s a chef. If a woman cooks, she’s a cook.”

“Harry, you’re being ever so slightly argumentative.”

“Me?” Harry responded with mock surprise.

“You, lovie.”

Harry stared out the window at the jam-packed lot to Barracks Road Shopping Center. “Can’t get Christopher out of my mind. Such a waste for him to die.”

“When you called me, I couldn’t believe it. We’d just been talking about him.” Susan sighed as she began the hunt for a parking space. “Obviously no one has come forward to lay claim to the deed.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Coop’s keeping something from

me. I can always tell.” “Harry, she can’t tell you everything.” Harry shifted in her seat. “I know, but it drives me crazy.” “Not a far putt,” Susan, a good golfer, teased her. “She did tell me one thing this morning when I talked to

her. Christopher had an obol under his tongue.”

Susan, after the years of high school Latin and hearing about the myths, knew what that meant. “Aha. My parking karma is working.” She slid into the space, popped the car in park, cut the motor. They sat still for a minute. “An obol for the ferryman. Some kind of symbolism, apparently.”

“It’s just so odd, but at least we have an educated killer.”

“It is odd.” Harry shook her head. “He’s fired up my curiosity.”

“God help us,” Pewter piped up. “She gets these notions and we have to bail her out,” Mrs. Murphy agreed.

“Then she gets my mother in trouble,” Owen said. “Look at it this way. No one is bored.”

Tucker had long ago resigned herself to Harry’s curiosity. “You all stay here.” Harry had visions of returning to the Audi to find the interior shredded.

“I want to go with you,” Tucker whined.

“Brownnoser,” Pewter said with disdain.

“Oh, shut up, fatty.”

The gray cat, giving her best Cheshire cat smile, purred maliciously. “Hey, I’m not the one with my nose in the litter box, eating cat poop.”

“That’s low.” Owen blinked.

“Low, but true.” Pewter, satisfied with the turn of conversation, snuggled farther down in the rug next to Mrs. Murphy.

“Pay her no mind, Tucker. Cats stick together.” Owen leaned next to Tucker, who hoped she’d find a way to get even with Pewter.

Susan and Harry walked into the elegant framing shop called Buchanan and Kiguel.

Shirley Franklin, the good-looking and artistic lady behind the counter, peered over the customers’ heads and called out, “How are you? Good to see you.”

“Surviving the helladays,” Harry quipped.

People laughed. Shirley was handing out wrapped custom-framed jobs. The finished work was lined up in special bins so it wouldn’t fall over.

“The obol.” Susan had noticed a pretty print of Aphrodite. “Pagan.”

“I know that, you twit,” Harry said softly.

“Maybe it means Brother Christopher was a fake.”

Harry’s expression changed as she turned to look Susan full in the face. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Or it’s all about money. His scandal was about money.” Susan’s curiosity now ran as high as Harry’s.

“Or both.”

Back at the sheriff’s headquarters, Cooper was glued to the computer screen, happy not to be on patrol today. The long night without much sleep had worn her down. A law-enforcement officer can’t afford to miss things or be physically slowed down. Too much can happen, and it always happens fast.

Rick had given a statement to the media that morning. The phones sounded like a beehive, one buzz after the other.

He walked over and leaned over her shoulder. “They’re coming out of the woodwork, these media wonders.”The side of his mouth curled up slightly. “Didn’t tell them about the obol.”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that. Don’t even know where to look. I did tell Harry.”

“She know any more than Dr. Gibson?” Rick inquired.

“No, but she said she’d review her old college texts.”

“Least that keeps her out of our way.”

“You think this murder has anything to do with Christmas?”

“Who knows? I’d like a little hard evidence. Check the airlines into Charlottesville to see if any passengers came in from Phoenix, Arizona.”

“Will do.”

“Grasping at straws,” he acknowledged. “But sometimes a loose, wide net does catch some fish.”

7

The Queen of Crozet, elegant even in her barn clothes, watched as Fair took X-rays of her filly’s right cannon bone. Big Mim Sanburne adjusted her red cashmere scarf around her neck, wiggled her fingers in her cashmere- lined gloves. “Adolescence.”

Although small, Big Mim was so called because her daughter was Little Mim.

Paul de Silva, Big Mim’s trainer, looked on as Fair set up the plates and positioned the portable machine.

“She’s a naughty girl.” Fair stepped back, as did the other two, and he pressed the button on the long cord of the X-ray machine.

Fair wore lead-lined gloves. Any medical person, whether dental, vet, or human, needed to be prudent concerning X-ray equipment. No need to wind up glowing in the dark.

Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “Least we know she can jump.”

Big Mim found his light Spanish accent pleasing. The cadence, more singsong than English, enlivened his sentences. Then, too, he was a handsome young man, with jet-black hair, thin sideburns longer than most, and a tiny tuft of black hair under his lower lip. He was engaged to Mim’s architect, Tazio Chappars. Big Mim took credit for getting them together. There was just enough truth in this so no one argued with her.

No one argued with her anyway, except for her late mother’s sister, Aunt Tally, and her daughter, Little Mim. Little Mim’s disagreements proved less vocal than the soon-to-be centenarian.

“Okay, last one.” Fair positioned the machine again.

Mim looked outside the closed barn doors, which had big windows that allowed in a lot of light, as did the continuous skylight running on both sides of the roof seam. “Coming down now.”

“Sure is.” Fair clicked the photo. “We need the snow.”

“Not much last winter,” Paul agreed.

“There are so many people drawing off the water table now in Albemarle County that we’re all going to be in trouble in a decade or even less.” Big Mim and her husband, the mayor of Crozet, were particularly concerned about the environment.

“All over. The human animal will suck this planet dry.” Fair carefully put the plates in a special pouch. “Mim, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s popped a splint. I’ll know more after I examine the X-rays, of course, but chances are it needs to reattach. She’ll have a bit of jewelry there, so that’s the end of strip classes.”

Bone splints are not uncommon in horses. Usually the fragment does grow back to the main bone. Occasionally it doesn’t, which causes the animal pain and then the vet has to surgically remove it. Like any surgery, it runs up the bills, and the recovery time bores the bejesus out of the horse, especially one as young and full of herself as Maggie, her barn name.

“Oh, well.” Big Mim waved her hand. “I can live without strip classes. I leave those to Kenny Wheeler.”

A strip class is a conformation class wherein the animal is stripped of tack.The judge bases his ribbons on the makeup of the animal, not performance. It’s a beauty pageant. Kenny Wheeler, a famous horseman, won those classes all over the United States.

“He’s got some good ones.” Paul appreciated Mr. Wheeler’s acumen.

“He has more money than God.” Big Mim laughed.

“So do you,” Fair teased her.

Most people were afraid of Big Mim and would never tease her, but Fair, knowing her since childhood, could get away with it. The fact that he was incredibly handsome helped.

“Maybe St. Peter. Not God.” She laughed at herself, then told Paul, “How about putting her back in her stall? Let’s not turn her out until we get the full report.”

“Yes, madam.” He touched his lad’s cap and walked the bright filly back to her stall.

Fair carried the X-ray equipment and plates out to his truck. Like most vets, this was his mobile office. People had no idea how expensive it was for an equine vet to be properly equipped. The special truck cover alone cost $17,000.

Fair returned to Big Mim’s large office. “Sit down.” Big Mim motioned for Fair to sit by the fireplace.

The granary- oak floor shone. The sofa and chairs, covered in a dark tartan plaid, added color. A gorgeous painting, a hunt scene by Michael Lyne, hung over the fireplace. The walls, covered in framed photographs, bore testimony to Big Mim’s successes in the show ring and the hunt field. She also had a photograph of Mary Pat Reines jumping over a fence in perfect, perfect form. Ever since she was young, this photo had prodded her on. She’d look at it and vow to ride more elegantly. Mary Pat had been Alicia Palmer’s protector and lover when Alicia was in her twenties. Big Mim had never realized how a fierce rival pushes one to excellence until Mary Pat passed away. She missed her socially and truly missed her in the show ring. In some ways, the world had come full circle. Big Mim struck terror in the hearts of younger competitors because she was as elegant over fences as Mary Pat had been. And Alicia had come home from Hollywood once again to be part of the community.

“Fire feels good. Nothing quite like it, the hardwood odor, the flickering glow.” Fair gratefully sank into the deep chair.

“In the old days, a small wood- burning stove would often be put in the tackroom. Not the safest solution. I remember the barn rats—what my father called ‘the grooms’— huddled around the potbellied stove. There they’d be, wiping down the tack, breaking apart the bridles. In those days the bits were sewn into the bridles. Looks better than how it is today.” She paused a moment, then smiled. “The vice of the old, recalling the golden years that correspond to one’s youth.”

“Your golden years never stopped.” Fair complimented her, and in truth, Big Mim looked marvelous for a woman in her seventies.

“Now, now,” she chided, but loved it. “Drink?”

“You know what, I’m going to fix myself a cup of tea.You stay seated.”

“Then I’m not much of a hostess.” She watched as he rose to go to the small kitchen area.

“You’re the best hostess in the county and the best fundraiser, too.”

“The second-oldest profession.” She put her feet up on a hassock after removing her paddock boots, which were slip-ons.

Fair turned on a faucet specially designed to produce water just a hair under boiling. “I keep meaning to ask you where you got this and then I forget.”

“The boiling-water tap?”

“Yes.”

“Most plumbing supplies have them.”

“Think I’ll get one for Harry for Christmas. No, I’ll get two. One for the house and one for the barn.”

“She’ll like that.”

“Got her a necklace to match the ring I bought her when we were in Shelbyville.”

“She’ll like that, too. Harry is a very good-looking woman. It just takes a miracle to get her out of her jeans and into a dress.”

“Actually, Big Mim, I like getting her out of her jeans.”