Santa Clawed

They both laughed.

“I would imagine her Christmas spirit and yours are somewhat dimmed by what you saw. Rick called me, of course.”

The sheriff knew to keep Big Mim in the pipeline. There would be hell to pay if he didn’t; plus, her connections had helped him many a time. Big Mim knew everyone, and she had many, many favors she could call in.

Fair sipped his tea, a bracing Darjeeling. “No one likes coming upon a dead body. It upset Harry because she’d just talked to him that afternoon. She said he was committed to the order, to doing good in life.”

“I expect most of the brothers are making up for some perceived or real sins. And some people are cut out for the contemplative life.”

“I’m not one of them.”

“Obviously not.” She smiled.

“If Rick talked to you, then you know whoever slit his throat did so with skill and speed.”

“Yes.” She paused. “And Christopher gave no alarm.”

“No.”

“Strange. And no footprints in the snow?”

“The snow was mashed down,” he replied.

“If the killer is smart, and I reckon he is, he could have walked backward in his footsteps until it was safe to turn around.”

“Never thought of that.” Fair paused a moment. “Harry thinks there will be more killings.” He half-smiled. “You know Harry.”

“Let’s hope she’s wrong, but the fact that this had to be well thought-out and fairly quickly executed—at the back of the tree farm, which was open to the public—suggests a killer with a good mind. You know what I mean: a smart person, however misshapen his moral code, with perhaps an assistant.”

“Ah. Never thought about an assistant.”

“The work would go more quickly.” She stopped herself, then continued, “What I don’t understand is why someone didn’t hear them.”

“The element of surprise, perhaps? Then again, what if he knew his killer? Sure would simplify the process.”

“Yes.” She folded her hands together.

“And the Christmas tree farm, like any business, has peak hours of activity. In this case, people would come in the largest numbers after work. Brother Sheldon was up front. He’d occupy them.”

“Think Brother Sheldon was in on it?”

“No. He did seem genuinely distraught, and he passed out. I’ve never passed out. Must be a strange feeling.”

“I did once, in Venice of all places. Felt a little weak and woozy. Next thing I remember is waking up with Big Jim picking me up and people speaking in Italian so fast I couldn’t understand a word. It could be, just to play devil’s advocate,” she switched back to the primary subject, “that Brother Sheldon was acting or that he hadn’t anticipated how the sight would affect him.”

“The passing out was genuine. I really don’t think he was part of the murder. Of course, Harry and I were there in the dark. We probably missed things.There was no sign of struggle, but there was blood all around the tree. I know I missed a lot.”

“Anyone other than a law- enforcement officer would. And even they miss things sometimes.”

“Funny thing, though. Harry says she doesn’t want a tree now. I expect she’ll change her mind. She’ll see trees everywhere, so maybe the emotion will pass.”

“I didn’t know Christopher Hewitt. I knew him as a child. After all, everyone sees everyone else, and he was close in age to Little Mim and you all, but I didn’t know him. He wasn’t part of your crowd. I knew what everyone else knew: the insider- trading scandal. He seemed mild enough. But then, perhaps successful criminals always do—the kind that steal millions, I mean.”

“White-collar crime is so different from what I think of as lower forms of crime: assault and battery, murder, petty theft. Those crimes, I think, are committed by people with poor impulse control. Low normals, really.” He used the expression for low- normal intelligence. “White- collar crimes demand intelligence, a bland exterior for the most part, and vigilance. Constant vigilance to cover your tracks.” He thought a moment. “I suppose premeditated murder and large- scale robbery demand intelligence.”

“Murder is easier to accomplish and remain undetected than television crime dramas acknowledge. Why do you think there’s so much publicity when a murder is solved?”

Fair finished his tea. “Also fuels the illusion that you can’t get away with murder, when you can.”

“I wonder if the killer is reveling in the publicity. The greatest luxury in life is privacy.”

“That it is.” He smiled. “Another luxury is having your wife listen to you even if she’s a trifle bored.”

She smiled. “I doubt she finds you boring. But you know how she, um, becomes obsessed. If ever there was a person who shouldn’t have seen the remains of Christopher Hewitt, that person is Harry.”

As Big Mim and Fair chatted, Dr. Bryson Deeds was having lunch at Farmington Country Club with his lawyer and college friend, Bill Keelo, a man as high-powered in his way as Bryson was in his.

Seated at the next table was a group of eight who’d finished a game of platform tennis, which was played outside on a raised platform in a cage. They sweated so much the snow didn’t bother them, but it finally got so slippery everyone had to stop. Each court hosted a foursome, mixed doubles. The exhilarating exercise put everyone in high spirits, as did the holidays. Anthony McKnight, president of a small but quite successful local bank, and Arnold Skaar, a retired stockbroker, were part of the group. Both men knew and had business relations with Bryson and Bill. Arnie was in everyone’s good book because he still made them money during recessions, both mild and deep.

Bryson stabbed his salmon. “Spoke to Brother Morris this morning.”

“Me, too. He’s distraught.” Bill noticed as Donald Hormisdas, another lawyer, passed their table and waved. “Faggot,” Bill hissed.

Bryson ignored the slur on Donald, as he’d heard it so many times from Bill. “Apart from the emotional loss, Brother Morris is upset because Brother Christopher had such a good business mind.”

“He certainly was persuasive. I’d worked as their lawyer for years at a reduced fee, and Christopher convinced me to do their work for free.”

Bryson smiled slightly at Bill. “He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”

Aunt Tally entered the room, accompanied by her great-niece, Little Mim. As Tally passed each table, the gentlemen rose to greet her. For one thing, this displayed superb manners, something a fellow should consider if he wished to seduce a lady. Women noticed such things, just as most women could recall to the slightest detail what she wore the first time she met a man and what he wore last week to the basketball game. For another thing, Aunt Tally walked with a silver-headed cane. The silver head was in the graceful shape of a hound. If you didn’t stand up and say something mildly fawning, Aunt Tally would whack you. Worse, she’d tell everyone you had the manners of a warthog. You were cooked.

“Aunt Tally, how lovely you look in your red and green.” Bryson stood.

Bill, not to be outdone, lightly kissed her hand and said, “Aunt Tally, you look ravishing in any color.” He turned his attentions to Little Mim. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you,” Little Mim replied.

“Will you all be at St. Luke’s Christmas party?” Aunt Tally lived for parties and the attendant gossip.

Bryson replied, “Both our wives are on the decorating committee. We’ll be there.”

Aunt Tally smiled as though their being at the party would be the most glorious thing.

“Damned thing, that mess at the Brothers of Love tree farm.” Aunt Tally rapped her cane on the floor. “On the other hand, it does give people something to talk about. I’m sick of climatic observations.”With that, she moved on to accept her obeisance at the table of people who’d just played platform tennis.

Little Mim, wearing a pair of gold dome earrings her husband had given her as one of his twelve days of Christmas presents, winked to the men as she hurried after Aunt Tally.

Tally’s only concession to her advanced age was the cane, but the old girl could travel along with it at amazing speed.

The two men sat back down.

Bill asked, “Think there’s anything we can do for the brothers?”

Bryson shook his head. “Not really. Just help them continue to do their work.”

8

A murder such as Christopher Hewitt’s would cause a storm of speculation in any community. As it was, Crozet elevated gossip to a new art form.

Cooper’s phone rang with the usual people who felt compelled to inform her of their ideas about Christopher’s murder. Not one scrap of evidence was transmitted. She listened patiently as she marveled at the human capacity for making pronouncements without a shred of research.

“Assaulted by theories,” she had said of these calls to Rick, as he drove them up Afton Mountain. The trip revealed a beautiful view of the Rockfish Valley, which ran south of Route 64, parallel to the mountains.

“Me, too. Most of the ones I’ve been enduring insist this goes back to his bringing down people in Phoenix. It might, but he parked his ass in the slammer. Of course, a person bent on revenge for their money losses might not have had time to kill him before he was put in jail.” He thought a moment. “Haven’t had as many calls as usual with a murder. Christmas has given people more to think about than Christopher

Hewitt, I guess.”

“Biddy Doswell told me he was dispatched by aliens.”

Rick laughed. “Land in a flying saucer, did they?”

Cooper shook her head. “No. These aliens are gnomes with mole feet and human hands. They dig up out of the earth. Gopher holes are their preferred exit, so we don’t notice anything strange.”

“A gnome with mole feet and human hands, and that’s not strange.”

“Biddy says we can’t see them.”

“That’s convenient. The woman is all of twenty- five years old. Barking mad.” He sighed as they neared the top of the mountain, where they’d be turning south on the Blue Ridge Parkway. “What’s her theory about why they killed Christopher?”

Biddy had earned her name because she was the smallest of five children, a little biddy thing.

“They don’t like red beards.” Cooper shook her head in disbelief. “Red beards.”

“It’s more than we’ve got to go on.” Rick had a vision of every man with a red beard being killed.

“Her other helpful hint was that these gnomes like to have sex around the clock. They drink to excess, too.” She rooted around in her bag for a cigarette. “Wonder if her idea is wish fulfillment?”

“Take one of mine.” He pointed to a pack of Camels he pulled from the back of the visor.

She accepted the pack from him, taking a cigarette for herself and handing one to Rick. Fishing a sturdy Zippo from the glove compartment, she lit his cigarette while it was in his mouth and then lit hers. Each took a deep, grateful drag.

“Swore I wasn’t going to get hooked, but I did.” Cooper sighed.

“In our job it’s drink, drugs, violence, or cigarettes. People haven’t a clue the toll this kind of work takes on a person. I worry most about the guys who get addicted to violence. Sooner or later they cross the line, make the news, and all law- enforcement officers suffer. And in those big-city departments, they’re bombarded. Je- sus.” He drew out the name of Jesus. “We see enough right here in Albemarle County.”

“We sure do. What gets me is when we see murdered children—fortunately, very few. But we see a lot more abused children than anyone cares to admit. It’s like the whole damned country has its head in the sand.”

“Yeah.” He wanted to kill people who harmed children, preferably with his bare hands. “Ownership. Think about it. Children have no rights. Their parents own them the same way they own a car. Ah, here we are.”

“Before we deal with the brothers—do you mean that because children are chattel, owned, that people outside the family or the situation don’t want to interfere?”

“Same as spousal abuse. People know, but they don’t want to get involved. I can understand it, but, guess what, we do get involved. When that call comes, we don’t have any choice. And family situations are the worst.”

“Sure are. Well, let’s visit this big happy family,” Cooper said sarcastically, for she harbored a slight prejudice against aggressive do-gooders.

Brother George, in his mid-forties and with a trimmed gray beard, met them at the door. He ushered them into Brother Morris’s office.

“Brother Morris will be with you in a minute. He’s in the kitchen with Brother Howard.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the imposing figure of Brother Morris swept through the door. As flamboyantly as Brother Morris entered, Brother George, an attractive man yet devoid of charisma, left discreetly.

“Sit down, please.” He gracefully lowered his bulk into a large club chair with a cashmere shawl thrown over the back. Brother Morris pulled the shawl around his shoulders on the bitterly cold days, extra cold on the mountain’s spine.

Cooper pulled out her stenographer’s notebook, but before Rick could start, Brother Morris asked if they wanted a drink. They declined, although Cooper longed for a cup of hot coffee.

“Brother Morris, I know this is a very difficult time for you and the order, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. None of us will be completely free of doubt until the murderer is found. Odd, isn’t it, that one can be at peace but not at rest, so to speak?”

“Yes, it is.” Rick knew what Brother Morris meant. “I don’t want to offend you by these questions, but it is very important that you be forthcoming. Our ability to solve this case early in many ways depends on you.”

“I don’t see how it can, but I will be forthcoming, as you say.That’s a very Southern way to say, ‘Tell the truth.’”

Rick half-smiled. “Is there anyone in your order who has ever threatened Brother Christopher?”

“No.”

“Anyone who disliked him?”

“He was so easygoing. At times Brother Sheldon would get peeved. I don’t say he disliked Brother Christopher, because he didn’t, but he would get out of sorts. Brother Sheldon is quite the stickler for detail, and Brother Christopher was not, not in the least. The money from the Christmas trees would be in the desk drawer down there in the trailer. No tags, no records of who bought what so we could cultivate friendships. Used to drive Brother Sheldon mad as he’d try to figure out the money.”

“Do you think Brother Christopher was stealing from the order?”

“No. He just wasn’t detail-oriented.” Brother Morris frowned slightly. “Insider trading isn’t exactly stealing, but I know Brother Christopher repented of his misdeeds. He also repented worshipping Mammon.”

“A national affliction,” Rick smoothly said.

“I was guilty of it. That and pride.” Brother Morris warmed to his subject. “But I saw the light—literally, I saw the light—and I found my true calling. You will meet few men happier than myself.”

“You are most fortunate.” Rick waited a beat. “Who is the order’s treasurer?”

“Brother Luther. By the way, Officer Doak was very kind to Brother Sheldon. Sorry, I got off track. Well, what I was about to add is that Brother Luther is a worrywart.Then again, most treasurers are. We get by. The sale of the Christmas trees is a large part of our annual income.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “May we open for business soon?”

“Our team should be out by four this afternoon. I see no reason why you can’t open. People’s love of the ghoulish may even increase business.” Rick wanted to see Brother Morris’s reaction.

Brother Morris replied, “That’s the premise behind horror movies, I think—to watch the fearful deed from a safe distance. Of course, in Brother Christopher’s case, who is to say what is a safe distance?”

“I don’t know,” Rick honestly answered. “Brother Morris, what are the vows of your order?”

“Chastity, poverty, and obedience. We’re all human. Each man struggles with his vows—some men more than others, some vows more than others. But everyone tries.”

“Do you punish a brother if he breaks a vow?”

Brother Morris smoothly replied, “We do not judge. That doesn’t mean I don’t assign extra chores or encourage more prayer.”

“Did Brother Christopher break his vows?”

“No. Not that I know of. Why?” For the first time Brother Morris displayed how intrigued he really was.

“In breaking a vow he may have upset someone else.”

“Another brother?”

Rick replied, “Possibly. But it could have been someone outside the order.”

Brother Morris cast his eyes down at the faded Persian rug. “Did he suffer?”

“Physically, no. Now, if he knew his killer, at the last moment he might have been shocked.”

“I hate to think of it.” Brother Morris’s voice was low.

“Could he have had an affair with any women in the area?”

“I doubt it. The usual signs—going off the grounds, staying out on some nights, being preoccupied—Brother Christopher never acted like that. This isn’t to say that he couldn’t have hidden it, but I don’t think he did.”

“I would imagine that celibacy is a trial.”

“You know, that depends on a man’s experiences in life, his age, and his drive. Some people don’t have a strong sex drive.”

“Yes.” Rick pressed on. “Has there ever been money missing from the treasury?”

“No. Brother Luther is a ferocious watchdog.”

“Do you know Greek mythology?” Rick asked.

“Thanks to opera I know more Norse mythology. Why?”

“An obol was found under Brother Christopher’s tongue.”

This puzzled Brother Morris, disturbed him slightly. “Whatever could that signify?”

“I was hoping you’d know.”

The rest of the questioning continued in this vein until, frustrated by their lack of progress, Rick and Cooper left.

9

Fascinated by the obol under the tongue, Harry called the classics departments at the University of Virginia, William Mary, and Duke, where she had friends who taught the early historians.

Given the thousands of years that the myths had persisted, slight variations existed concerning Charon. The standard version of him as a somewhat disreputable ferryman held sway. If you didn’t press an obol into his palm, you’d be stuck on the shores until you could beg, borrow, or steal the small sum. Given that one was dead, this could prove difficult, so the families of the deceased took great care to include the fare with the corpse. Since Greeks often carried small coins under their tongues—unthinkable with today’s money—it was natural to put an obol under the tongue as well.

Nothing new transpired with her phone calls. Harry then called a local coin dealer, Morton Nadal, and was surprised to find a very upset man on the line.

“Why are you asking me about the obols?” he demanded.

“Uh, well, curiosity.” The small detail had not yet found its way into the ever- intrusive media. “Are you in on it?”

“Sir, in on what?”

“You’re the third person to call me about my obols. I have coins from Alexandria, Athens, Corinth, but it’s all obols.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Mrs. Fair Haristeen. I live in Crozet.”

“Hold on a moment.” After a brief interlude he again spoke: “Well, that’s a real name, but it may not be yours. The other two people gave fake names, although I didn’t check when they first called.”

“Again, Mr. Nadal, I’m sorry. I only wanted to know if you’d sold any.”

“Not a one. Some were stolen the night before last, I think, but I didn’t find out until today.” Before she could say anything, he added, his voice raised, “I’m meticulous, and no one broke in to the front of the house where I keep my collection.”

“How do you think they were stolen?” “What’s it to you?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Nadal. I can see I’m a bother. I assume you called the sheriff.” “Did.” He hung up the phone. Harry then called Cooper, relaying the conversation. “He’s a piece of work and looks just like you think he would—a large ant with glasses.” Cooper exhaled. “Two people went into his house, a woman and a man. He gave a lax description, only that they were more young than old, the man distracted him, the woman took the obols.”

“Why didn’t he find it out then?”

“She’d put fake coins in their place—same size, anyway— and I guess he was in a hurry. I don’t know. He’s a weird little thing and so excitable.”

“Nothing useful?” “Only that the man was largish, had a mustache and a big

laugh.”

“Anything else?”

“Three obols were stolen.”

“Three?”

“Three.”

10

“Who died and made you God?” Pewter, tail moving slightly, spit at Tucker.

“Jealous.” Tucker smiled, then walked away from the angry gray cat.

Tucker had stayed with Harry as Harry made all the phone calls. The cats had been in the barn.

Mrs. Murphy, irritated herself, prudently did not insult the corgi. “If you piss her off, she’ll never tell.”

Pewter, upset though she was with the idea that a mere dog could consider herself superior to a cat, hated the idea of being uninformed even more. An argument could be made that the rotund kitty lived for gossip. Pewter thought of it as news.

“You’re right.” Pewter’s admission nearly floored the tiger cat. “But I’m not going to make it up to her. You can do that.”

Sighing deeply, Mrs. Murphy walked after Tucker, who had repaired to the living room to flop in front of the fireplace.

Harry and Fair sat at opposite ends of the large sofa, a throw over their legs, slippers on the floor, each reading a book.

The aroma of burning wood pleased Mrs. Murphy, so long as the smoke didn’t invade her eyes. She sat next to the dog.

Tucker lifted her head. “Too bad we couldn’t have gone to the coin dealer. We pick up things the humans might miss.”

“Mother isn’t leaving a stone unturned about the ancient coins.” Mrs. Murphy settled down next to the dog, who had informed her of the conversations.

“Pewter still having a cow?” The dog laughed, which came out as little wind puffs.

“Given her state, I think she’s having a water buffalo.” Mrs. Murphy kneaded the rug.

“May they be happy together.”

This made Mrs. Murphy laugh so loudly that Harry and Fair looked up from their books and started laughing.

Pewter, in the kitchen, heard it all and was doubly furious. “You’re talking about me. I know it!”

“Yes, we are,” Tucker called out.

Pewter shot out of the kitchen, into the living room. Upon reaching Tucker, she puffed up and jumped sideways.

Mrs. Murphy dryly commented, “You’ve scared Tucker half to death.”

“Serves her right.” Pewter flounced next to Mrs. Murphy.

“We weren’t really talking about you,” Tucker fibbed.

This disappointed Pewter, who felt she was the center of the universe.

Quickly changing the subject, Tucker said, “Maybe whoever put the coin under Christopher’s tongue is crazy. There’s no logic to it.”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s camouflage,” Mrs. Murphy said.

Pewter gave up her anger to curiosity. “Why do you say that?”

“Humans pretend they’re crazy to cover up bad things. They get away with it, too. At least, I think they do.”

Tucker, alert now, roused herself to sit up. “Isn’t it odd how people miss so much about one another? I can understand that they can’t smell emotions—just the sweat of fear, for instance—but they listen to what people say instead of watching them.”

“Maybe they don’t want to know.” Pewter blinked as an ember crackled and flew up against the fire screen.

Mrs. Murphy, the end of her tail swishing slightly, remarked, “Could be. Then again, theft, graft, political violence—that’s human behavior. Corruption”—she shrugged—“just the way they do business, a lot of them, anyway, and it’s always the ones who make the most fuss about morals. Humans rarely kill one another over corruption or political ideas short of revolution. When they kill, it’s usually personal. When I think about Christopher Hewitt being killed, I try to find that link to another human. Something close.”

“Hmm.” Pewter watched Harry take her yellow highlighter to run over something in her book. “But isn’t that the thing about monks: they aren’t close. They’ve withdrawn from the world, pretty much.”

Tucker lifted her head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Pewter, listening intently to what Mrs. Murphy just said, replied, “I resent getting involved in human messes. I don’t give a fig about Christopher Hewitt. Harry drags us in.”

As the animals chatted, Harry’s cell rang. “Hello.”

Brother Morris answered, “Hello, Harry, Brother Morris here. In all our grief and upset over our loss, I forgot your sorrow. After all, you and Fair knew Brother Christopher longer than any of us. I am sorry you found him. I’m so sorry you’ve had to see a high school friend like that.”

Harry responded, “Thank you. We will all miss him.” She then asked, “How are you doing? I know this is hard for you.”

A pause followed this question. “It takes some time for it to sink in. I try to remember that God loves us all, even killers. I try not to hate, to judge the sin and not the sinner, but at this moment I am not successful. I’d like to get my hands on this, this—” He sputtered because he couldn’t find the right word.

“That’s only natural.”

“Well, I don’t mean to burden you with my feelings.”

“I asked. If we’re true Christians, then am I not my brother’s keeper?”

Another long pause followed. “Yes, Harry, you are. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes. We’re singing at St. Luke’s Christmas party, which you know. I look forward to it, but I’ve lost my pitch pipe. Do you have one? It would save a trip down the mountain.”

“I’ll get one. We’re going to have a huge crowd because you’re singing.”

“That’s very flattering.”

“How often do we hear a Met star?” Harry named the New York opera house where Brother Morris enjoyed his first taste of fame.

“Again, that’s very flattering, but my gift is useless if it’s not in God’s service.”

Harry kept her deepest religious thoughts to herself. She never quite trusted those who flaunted theirs. But Brother Morris was a monk, so perhaps his protestations of faith weren’t as offensive as if coming from a layperson. Still, it made her want to take a step back.

Instead, she said, “What’s wonderful, Brother Morris, is that everyone has some God-given talent. At least, I hope so.” She paused a moment and her humor took over. “Some people’s talent is to make the rest of us miserable.That way we realize how lucky we are when they aren’t around and that we’re not that kind of person. See, nothing is wasted.”

He chuckled. “Harry, you’re incorrigible. You know that talent was a form of money during Roman times. It’s interesting that a special skill demanded talent, more money. Over time we get talent in its modern form.”

“Took Latin.”

“Lucky you. When they removed Latin from the schools and as a requirement to get into college, they assigned generations to ignorance. Those who don’t know the past are doomed to repeat it, and those who don’t know Latin don’t know the past. They don’t even know their own language.”

“I appreciate that, but at the time our high school Latin teacher was such a dragon. Hated every minute of it. Do you know we had to sing ‘I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now’ in Latin?”

He laughed. “I take it your Latin teacher was elderly.”

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

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

“Will do.” “You and Fair are in our prayers.” They said their good-byes. Harry hit the end button on her cell and said to Fair, “Brother Morris needs a pitch pipe.” “Get it back from him after the party and put it on eBay. You’ll make a bundle.”

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

11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you surprised?” Pewter sarcastically snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

“Me, too.” Tucker sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the truth,” Bryson commented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry, this spring I’d like to come out and see your yearlings. You and Alicia Palmer keep the old bloodlines going.” “Sure. Love to have you.” Brother Speed then headed toward produce.

While Harry was in the grocery, Racquel was visiting Aunt Phillipa. Her oxygen bag, with a tube in her nose, helped the old lady breathe. She could speak without gasping. “Let it be,” Aunt Phillipa advised. “You’re right. I’m letting little things get under my skin.” “No man is worth this much worry.” Aunt Phillipa stopped. “You’re his wife. If he sleeps around, you still have the power. Remember that.” “Yes, Aunt Phillipa.” “You know, I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’d blow us all up.” “Not a good idea.” Racquel laughed, for she did love her old feisty aunt. Bill Keelo walked into the private room. “Merry Christmas.” “What a beautiful amaryllis.” “I remembered that you liked the white.” Bill’s tie—little Santa Claus figures against a green background—gave him a seasonal air.

“You remembered correctly.”

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

“What are you doing here?” Racquel wondered.

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

“No kidding.” Racquel was surprised.

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

“Guess so,” Bill agreed.

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

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

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

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

12

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss it?” Brother Luther bluntly asked.

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

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

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

“I never thought of that.”

“You never had to.”

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

“Indeed, Brother Luther, indeed.”

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

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

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

“We’ll all miss him. He was good with the patients, good with those who came to visit them.” Brother Morris sighed. “But as Brother George said, he is with God, and no matter how terrible the end of his mortal life, he is now rejoicing.”

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

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

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

Brother Sheldon looked up. “Yes.”

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

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

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

“I like Harry,” Brother Sheldon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I am, too. He had good ideas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

13

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

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

Harry and Susan served on the vestry board of St. Luke’s. Racquel Deeds headed the refreshments committee, and Jean Keelo acted as her second banana. It had been that way since they met at Miami University. When Racquel became president of the sorority in her senior year, Jean, naturally, served as vice president.

Harry parked her truck behind Susan’s Audi station wagon and Racquel’s sparkling new Range Rover. She hastened to the front door, picked up the pineapple brass door knocker, and gave two sharp raps.

Jean opened the door. “Harry, come on in. Cold, isn’t it?”

“Does bring a tingle to the toes,” Harry agreed as she shed her coat, which Racquel hung in the small cloakroom.

Harry then handed her hostess a small, nicely wrapped Christmas present.

“Harry, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s a small thing, but you’ll use it.” Harry had found some Crane paper with a gold pineapple on it.

Jean loved pineapples as the symbol of hospitality, plus she liked eating them.

Harry had also found some special stationery for Racquel, from the firm Dempsey Carroll. Whereas Jean’s paper was cream, Racquel’s was stark white with a green grasshopper at the top. Racquel liked drinking grasshoppers. Of late, Racquel liked drinking.

Harry would give Susan her gift on Christmas Eve.

Ushered into the dining room, which was Williamsburg in inspiration, Harry hugged and kissed everyone. Women have to make a fuss or everyone assumes something is wrong.

She handed Racquel her gift as she sat down. Her place was marked by a card executed with perfect penmanship and held up by a tiny brass pineapple.

“Jean, thanks for doing this, and at Christmas no less. Your tree is gorgeous.”

Harry noticed that Jean had put her own card next to Harry’s. As they were four and on good terms, no need for Jean to head the table. She was quite sensitive and proper about these things.

“I’ll admit this to you. I hate stringing lights on a tree, and Bill makes such a fuss... well”—she didn’t need to mention how this could sour a holiday—“this year I hired two women to purchase a tree to my specifications and to decorate it.Victorian.”

“It’s stunning.” Susan sipped her white wine. “Given that I have slave labor”—she meant her children, who were adults now—“I put them to work. What a mean mother I am.”

They laughed because Susan, a devoted mother, had proved smart enough to know when to cut the apron strings.

Lunch started with a salad. Harry loved the tiny mandarin oranges. Next came a hot potato soup in homage to the season, and that, too, was delicious. Then Jean served the main dish, which was sliced capon with a light currant sauce, wild rice, and snow peas.

The four ate with enthusiasm. Harry, although not a gourmand—a hamburger girl, really—did appreciate that such a meal took time and thought, plus it tasted wonderful.

By the time dessert came, called “the Bomb” by Racquel, life was good. The Bomb proved to be a round ball of chocolate chip ice cream on a thin brownie with raspberry sauce drizzled over it.

“Do you call it the Bomb because it looks like a cannonball?” Susan inquired.

Racquel, on her second glass of crisp white wine, laughed. “No.The calories. It will just bomb your diet to bits.”

“Honey, you don’t have to worry about that,” Susan complimented Racquel, who was five foot eight and rigorous about her appearance.

“You’re too kind. Middle age...” She paused. “Let’s just say when your metabolism changes you have to be vigilant.”

“Oh, Racquel, you’ve been dieting since college,” Jean, who was five foot two and tiny- boned, teased her. “Then when you had Tom and Sean you were sure you’d turn to fat. And look at you.”

Racquel soaked up the praise but pretended she didn’t deserve it, which she did. “We all aspire to keep trim like Harry.”

“Easiest diet in the world: work on a farm,” Harry said.

“How’s the vineyard doing?” Jean politely asked.

“Well, you can’t harvest the first year, but I had a bumper crop. Of course, without Patricia Kluge’s guidance, I think I would be sending out engraved invitations to my first nervous breakdown,” Harry said.

Susan added, “When Mother Nature is your partner, who knows?”

“Bryson and I visited Patricia’s vineyards at harvest time. I can’t believe how much she and Bill have done.” Racquel mentioned Bill Moses, Patricia’s husband.

“He always says he’s the only Jewish acolyte in Virginia.” Harry laughed.

Patricia worshipped at a small Catholic church built on the estate. Bill always attended with her. Like many people not born to the Church of Rome, he found some solace in the ritual while sidestepping the dogma.

“This entire state is in Felicia Rogan’s debt.” Racquel lifted her glass to the woman who, as imposing as Juno herself, had revived the wine industry in Virginia, an occupation begun by Dr. Thomas Walker before the Revolution.

The Revolution, the War of 1812, and finally the War between the States, sixty percent of which was fought on Virginia soil, destroyed whatever progress had been made by vintners. One remarkable woman named Felicia Rogan changed all that in the 1970s, with vision, drive, and tenacity.

“I dream about a tiny vineyard but, you know, we can never leave town. Bryson needs to be close to the hospital,” Racquel lamented.

“Do you ever miss it?” Susan asked.

“The hospital? Being a nurse?” Racquel’s large domed gold ring caught the light.

“Yes,” Susan affirmed.

“Funny you ask that. In some ways, I do. I like the operating room. The adrenaline, the tension. It sounds crazy, but that appealed to me. You can’t think of anything but what needs to be done. When you’re finished, you’re exhausted, but you feel you’ve made a small difference in the world.”

Finally, they couldn’t stand it anymore.

Racquel said, “Isn’t it odd that we spoke of Christopher Hewitt when we made the wreaths and then . . . well, you know. What could we have done?”

Susan immediately said, “He cost some people millions with the fiasco in Phoenix.”

“We may never know. Best to let the sheriff do his job,” Jean replied thoughtfully.

“I suppose.” Racquel hooted. “But, you know, what has occurred to me is that families are so vulnerable when one of their own is dying. Yes, the order does provide care and comfort. Bryson tells me about it. There may be Christian love involved but I think that order is becoming rich. I thought they took vows of poverty.”

“Never thought of that.” Harry hadn’t, either.

“Like pocketing some donations?” Susan couldn’t think of anything else.

“What an awful thought.” Jean’s hand flew to her heart.

“Cure the disease and there go the profits.” Racquel’s eyes narrowed. “If a disease is manageable, then profits soar.”

“Do you really believe that?” Harry was aghast.

“I do. Susan, you asked if I miss nursing? What I didn’t say is I don’t miss the utter corruption of medicine by pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies. And let’s not forget our precious government, which believes it, too, can dictate to medicine. Bryson can hardly practice anymore. It’s utterly insane and so corrupt it turns my stomach. And, trust me, the vested interests protect themselves just like the oil companies. There isn’t one scrap of concern for the public welfare. It’s all profit- driven.” She paused, somewhat surprised at her own vehemence. “When Tom was born I could retire, so to speak. If I’d stayed in medicine, I think one day I would have shot off my mouth and hurt my husband’s career.”

“That’s dispiriting.” Harry half-smiled.

Jean quietly surprised them all. “What I find dispiriting is that this entire society is sexualized. Sex is used to sell everything. We’re bombarded with images, suggestions, outright taunting. Add to that the fact that we meet so many more people than our parents did or those who came before. Amidst all those people, some are bound to be, uh, delicious.”

“There is that.” Racquel sighed. “Which somehow makes monks strange.Then again, the Catholic Church covered up all those pedophile priests. That’s as shameful as the Inquisition. Lying bastards.”

“It’s difficult to be compassionate when the molested were children,” Harry concurred. “Sex is irrational. The impulse in one’s self is irrational; the response to other people’s behavior can be irrational.”

“That’s part of what makes monks strange,” Jean said. “I grasp the significance of sacrificing your sexuality for the community. It’s your gift, and if you aren’t in a family then you can more easily serve others. The truth is, each of us puts our families first, and we must.”

“True.” Susan found herself intrigued by this discussion.

“We have thousands of years of evidence from every civilization this world has produced that no form of restraint, no punishment, can really alter the fact that people are going to have sex, whether with a socially approved partner or not.” Harry believed this.

“Bryson’s fooling around again,” said Racquel. “I think it’s time for me to have a retaliatory affair to make up for the past.”

“Racquel, what does that solve?” Jean had heard this before.

“Makes me feel better. I’ve been married to the man for eighteen years, and, you know, it’s really true that you don’t know someone until you live with them. I remember on our honeymoon: we didn’t exactly escalate this into an argument, but it was a pointed discussion. We stayed on the island of St. John’s in the Caribbean, a wonderful place to have a honeymoon. The bathroom needed a new roll of toilet paper. Why call the maid? Especially on our honeymoon and when there were extra rolls in the bathroom. So I put the roll of paper on the holder, with the paper drawing down from the back.” She paused for dramatic effect. “He comes in, I leave. He emerges and says, ‘Toilet paper should always have the paper pull from the front.’ I said, ‘What’s the difference?’ It’s needless to add further detail. It went on. That’s when I fully realized I had married a control freak.”

“Bill suffers a touch of that, too,” Jean observed wryly.

“Bill’s a piker compared to Bryson. I try to ignore it, but sometimes I really could kill him. And what’s with Bill’s homophobia? I swear he’s getting worse. Even Bryson noticed.”

Jean shrugged. “Middle age. He’s getting cranky. Every thing sets him off.”

On the way home, Harry thought about the tempestuous emotions that a spouse’s affair releases. She hadn’t wanted to kill Fair, she just never wanted to see him again. He had a lot to learn, but so did she. Some men are players. Many aren’t but succumb due to stress, a sagging sex life, or any number of reasons, all of them understandable, not that understanding means consent.

Then she thought about the toilet-paper discussion. If Fair had pulled something like that on their first honeymoon, she would have gotten up in the middle of the night and toilet-papered his car. Their honeymoon was spent in Crozet, since neither of them had money at the time.

A honeymoon is a honeymoon, and theirs, given the rupture and subsequent healing, was continuing on.

14

On the eve of the winter solstice, sun sparkling on the snow kept humans and animals happy. Since light was in short supply, the wildlife that hunted in the day hurried to find food before sunset. The birds wanted food to ward off the cold, too. For the humans, some were so out of touch with nature that they failed to realize how the shortening of the days affected them. Some were depressed. Others felt sleepy the minute the sun set. Many ate more, not realizing the cold spurred their appetites. However, the humans all knew there were four more shopping days left until Christmas.

As it was Saturday, December 20, Harry congratulated herself on getting her shopping done early. Wrapped presents, with cards attached, would be given to her friends after the St. Luke’s party. Since everyone would be there— well, most everyone—she’d save gas money on deliveries. Saving money was more important to Harry than to Fair. He figured you can’t take it with you, but he wasn’t a spendthrift.

“What’s she doing now?” Pewter rested on the windowsill of the kitchen window over the sink.

“Reading a recipe. Christmas demands special dishes. You know that,”

Mrs. Murphy, also on the windowsill, replied.

“Well, I wish she’d start cooking so we could get tidbits.” “Stuffed goose,” Tucker dreamily said from her sheepskin bed.

“Oyster stuffing.” Pewter purred.

“I don’t think she uses oyster stuffing for goose.” Mrs. Murphy tried to remember past Christmas meals. “Of course, she could roast a goose and a capon. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“More for us.” Pewter raised her voice.

Harry looked up from the notebook, her mother’s fine handwriting still dark blue on the lined pages. “Getting pretty chatty around here.”

Tucker shot out of her bed and raced to the kitchen door. “Intruder!”

The cats sat up to look out the window just in time to see Simon, the barn possum, scurry back through the animal hatch in the left barn door.

One minute later, Brother Sheldon, with Brother Ed in the passenger seat, rolled up in a one-ton truck.

Harry rose, saw the two monks, put on her jacket, and hurried outside. “Brother Sheldon, Brother Ed, what a welcome surprise. Please come in and have some coffee, tea, or maybe something stronger.”

Brother Sheldon smiled. “Thank you, but we’re here to drop off your tree. Brother Morris has us on many a mission.”

The two men climbed into the back of the truck and maneuvered the symmetrical Scotch pine. Once at the edge of the tailgate, they hopped off, hoisted it, then walked it inside. Harry preceded them to open the doors. The tree was placed in a corner of the living room.

“You wrapped the bucket in red foil.” Harry beamed. “That’s beautiful.” The two started to leave. “Let me pay you for the tree. I never did pay.”

Now in the kitchen, Brother Ed said, “No. It’s the broth-erhood’s gift to you.”

Harry reached into her pocket, pulled out bills, and pressed ten dollars into each man’s hand. “Please take this.”

“We don’t want anything,” Brother Sheldon protested.

“I know you don’t, but it’s cold, you’ve made a special trip, and, really, you’ve made my day.” She walked over to the liquor cabinet, which was an old pie safe, and retrieved a brand-new bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. She handed it to them. “Wards off the chill.”

“Yes, it does.” Brother Ed liked a nip now and then.

As Harry opened the kitchen door for them to leave, she noted, “You sure have a truck full of trees. You will be making the rounds all day.”

“Maybe even the night, with the traffic.” Brother Sheldon frowned. “Too much buying useless stuff.” He threw up his hands. “The bills aren’t paid off until April and half the stuff that people received is in the trash. We need to go back to the real Christmas.”

“I agree with you there. A present or two might be nice, but these days it’s a glut. Even people without much money way overspend.”

Brother Ed, who had a trimmed Vandyke, pulled out his gloves and said, “The American way. That’s one reason I joined the brotherhood. Kind of like stop the ‘merry- go-wrong’ I want to get off.”

“I understand,” replied Harry, who did.

No sooner did the laden truck leave than Cooper pulled up. The tracks were already glossing with ice.

Tucker barked again, and Harry, seeing Cooper’s well-worn Accord, put up the coffee. Harry didn’t drink coffee but enjoyed making it for others.

Cooper knocked, then came in. She took off her coat, stamping the snow off her boots. “We’re making up for the last few years of little snow.”

“Coffee will be ready in, umm, two minutes.”

“Good.” Cooper carried two medium-size presents with big shiny bows. “Don’t open until Christmas.”

“Promise. Hold on a minute.” Harry walked back to the bedroom and came out with a long, oddly shaped wrapped present. “Same applies, although once you pick it up you may know what it is.” She leaned it against the wall by the kitchen door. It was a power washer, a useful present for a country person.

“Hey, a tree!”

“Brothers Sheldon and Ed just dropped it off.”

Cooper put presents under the tree, which caused Pewter to investigate.

“No catnip?” The gray cat was disappointed.

“Will she tear open the wrapping?” Cooper cast a stern eye toward the living room. Pewter pointedly ignored her.

“You never know about that one.” Harry poured the coffee and also put out a dish of sliced cheese and apples.

“Thank God, no cookies.”

“It’s a wonder all of Virginia doesn’t go into sugar shock over the holidays.”

They caught up. Cooper, glowing, gave an account of Lorenzo. Harry hoped this was “the one” for Cooper. They talked about Big Mim, Little Mim, the fact that Fair truly needed a partner in business. They went on to political events—always dispiriting—and finally to Brother Christopher.

“It’s not a break, but it’s more information.” Cooper informed Harry that Christopher had received letters from an investor who felt Christopher should go back to work and pay off those who lost money.

“Contact the letter writer?”

Cooper half-smiled. “He was pissed that Christopher was dead. I suppose... well, I don’t know. The point is, the money is lost.”

“Somehow I think time lost is worse than money lost,” Harry thought out loud.

“Could be.” She put a piece of cheese on an apple slice, biting into it. “Any thoughts?”

“Ha. I can’t believe you’re asking me.”

“You can get in the middle of things and you’re often right, but, Harry”—Cooper shook her head—“you take some dumb chances.”

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

“Why?”

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy perked up to listen.

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

Cooper told her, “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nodded through another encore.

The two singers bowed, then left the dais.

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

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

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

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

“Now, you didn’t have to do that.” Miranda saw Aunt Tally heading for the bar and being intercepted by Big Mim. “Oh, dear, we’re about to have a contretemps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Back off, Ed.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not Harry?” Brother Ed’s eyebrows raised. “No.” Brother Morris, surrounded by fans, was attempting to make his way to the bar. With a straight face, Brother Ed said, “Here he comes with his disciples. Next performance he’ll walk on water.” Fair laughed. “We’d pay to see that.” “I’ll tell Brother Morris. He’s very eager to fill the coffers.” Brother Ed smiled. Fair returned to Harry and Susan, handing both ladies their drinks. “Where’s yours, honey?” Harry inquired. “I’m good.” He’d had one hefty scotch on the rocks, and that was enough. “I checked. The tonic water is Schweppes.”

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

“Tonight. Ned’s politicking, and I thought I’d live large.” She laughed. Her husband, Ned, was a first-term state representative, which was an exciting position, even if sometimes frustrating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One or two,” Brother Speed admitted.

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

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

“Great. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Tomorrow would be too late.

16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, me, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“People talk,” Tony replied noncommittally.

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

“Tell me what you heard,” Rick pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cooper unzipped her heavy jacket. “I’ll start calling the people who were at St. Luke’s to see who came to this party.”

“Call Doris. She’ll have a list. Save yourself time and trouble.” He named the executive secretary to the head of the real estate company, Alex Corbett.

“I’m on it.”

Rick hit the button to push his seat back farther and stretched out his legs. “I’ve searched for a connection to Christmas. The holidays are emotional land mines,” he said in a flat tone of voice. “Nothing that I can find.”

“Doesn’t seem to be, unless this ruins Christmas for people we don’t know about. Obviously, it’s ruined for the order.”

Rick watched the rescue squad remove the body. “They’ve put their hands under his legs. Good move. Better balance than tipping him back with his legs out, bent. If his eyes weren’t glassy, he’d almost look alive.” He blinked, then turned to Cooper. “There has to be a connection between Christopher and Speed, apart from being Brothers of Love.”

“Well, they’re both dead.”

“Very funny.”

“Actually, there is a connection: money troubles before they became monks.”

“Then let’s find out how many brothers also came up short.” Rick wasn’t hopeful about this line of reasoning, but it might lead to something bigger.

Four hours later, Brother Speed had thawed on the stainless-steel table. Dr. Emmanuel Gibson carefully removed the brother’s clothes, with the help of a young intern, Mandy Sweetwater. Removing them proved difficult because of the blood. Fabrics stuck together.

When the corpse was finally unclothed, Dr. Gibson began his careful inspection before making the first cut.

Mandy, on the other side of the corpse, said, “Eyes aren’t bloodshot.”

“Good.” Emmanuel smiled. “So you know he wasn’t choked to death.”

The old doctor enjoyed working with young doctors.

As he went down the body, he talked, asking Mandy questions.

Two hours later, out of his scrubs, he called Rick.

“Dr. Gibson, what have you got for me?”

“Well, Sheriff, same cut as on Christopher Hewitt, left to right, killer behind the victim. No bruises. No sign of struggle. The killer stood behind Speed.” He took a breath. “Obol under the tongue.”

17

More snowflakes twirled down as Harry mucked stalls. Outside, the horses played in the snow, kicking it up and running about. The cats cuddled on saddle blankets in the tack room, but Tucker stuck with Mom. The corgi dashed out of a stall. Harry leaned the large pitchfork against the stall and walked into the center aisle. Tucker barked, “Cooper!”

Pewter opened one eye. “Can’t that dog shut up?”

Opening the large double doors, Harry waved for Cooper to come inside the stable. Stamping her feet, Cooper walked in. “Coffee?”

“This time it’s my turn for hot cocoa,” Cooper said.

“Sounds like a winner to me.” Harry smiled as she led Cooper into the cozy room, redolent of sweet feed and leather with a hint of Absorbine, used to soothe aching muscles. “Harry.” Cooper sank into one of the director’s chairs.

“Brother Speed was found dead this morning. Same M.O. as Christopher.”

“Oh, no.” Harry put the cocoa tin down lest she drop it. Both cats opened their eyes wide now, and Tucker sat beside Cooper.

“Tony Gammell found him on the tennis courts at the Keswick Club.”

“Good Lord. I hope Nancy wasn’t at work.”

“Luckily, Nancy Holt didn’t have any tennis lessons because of the high winds and snow.”

“Well, she’s tough enough to go out in anything. I bet this upset Tony, too.”

“Did.” Harry sat down, waiting for the water to boil. “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t, either. You knew Brother Speed.”

“Sure. He was a good horseman as well as rider.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, there are plenty of people who can ride a horse, but a horseman is someone who truly knows how to care for horses as well as how to train them. Not a whole lot of those, and Speed was good. Very sensitive.” Harry appreciated that quality.

“Ever see him gamble?”

“No.”

“What about Christopher?”

“He ran football pools—pretty primitive, but it was high school.”

“Ever see or hear about either one getting in trouble with women, especially married women?”

“Christopher left Crozet to go to college, so I didn’t hear anything. Who knows? As for Brother Speed, well, a racing life is full of temptation.”

“Both gambling and sex can run away with people, like drugs and alcohol. I’m looking for any kind of motivation for murder. Welched debts or angry spouses could qualify. Some times old habits reappear.”

Harry thought about that. “I suppose it is hard to break an addiction, whatever it may be. But don’t you think the other brothers would know or at least suspect that Speed and Christopher were struggling?”

“Time for another visit to the monastery.” Cooper rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Low- pressure system. Running into walls will poop you out, too.”

“I’ve been doing enough of that,” Cooper ruefully said.

“Maybe the murderer was abused by a priest or a monk. Given the breadth of the abuse in America, it’s not a long jump to assume that there are some people in Albemarle County who were molested. Maybe not by local priests but elsewhere.” She added, “There are so many new people to the area, and we don’t know their histories. The old families you know for generations. I mean, look at the Urquharts.” She mentioned Big Mim’s maiden name. “Someone could have just lost it. Maybe the abuse started one Christmas. Who knows?”

“Once the trigger of an old, buried emotion is pulled, you can’t unpull it.” Cooper considered Harry’s idea.

“The thing about the Brothers of Love is they’d be easy to get to. They’re out with the public, at the hospice, at the tree farm. If only we could figure out the reason . . . at least it would lead to potential culprits.”

Cooper rose and walked to the hot plate. “Water’s boiling.”

“I’m not being a good hostess.”

“Hey, I’m your neighbor. You don’t have to dance attendance on me.”

Harry smiled. “Haven’t heard that phrase since my grandmother.”

“That’s what mine said. I think that generation used language better than we do. Their speech was so colorful. Now people imitate whatever they hear on TV or pick up off the Internet. Pretty boring.” Cooper poured water into her hot-chocolate powder, then poured water over Harry’s cocoa.

She returned to the director’s chair, which faced an old tack trunk serving as a coffee table.

“How nice to be waited on in my own tack room. Every time I go to Big Mim’s barn or Alicia’s, I suffer a fit of envy. My God, those tack rooms could be in Architectural Digest.” She looked around. “But this is tidy and it’s mine.”

“That’s what counts.” Cooper settled in, grateful for the hot chocolate. “Let’s go over what we do know.”

“Sure.”

“Not much,” Pewter sassed.

“Two men, late thirties, early forties. In fact, Brother Speed turned forty on December eleventh. Both of them belonged to the same order. Both raised Catholics. Both nice-looking men. Christopher was divorced. Speed never married.”

Harry jumped in. “Both ruined by money troubles.”

“Yep.” Coop’s notebook was filled with notes from questioning people. “Women just loved Speed. Probably because they could pick him up and throw him around.”