Santa Clawed (16 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Waffles.” She heated up the portable griddle.

“You’re spoiling me.”

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

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

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

The coffee was the perfect temperature now.

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

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

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

Harry refilled his cup.

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

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

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

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

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

Mug poised midair, Fair stood motionless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe not.”

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

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

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

Tucker lifted her head and barked,
“Intruder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes Harry could open her mouth before weighing her words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That could be said of us all.”

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

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

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

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

T
he afternoon of Boxing Day, Harry, Fair, Susan, and Ned drove to Racquel’s, where Jean and Bill Keelo greeted them. Jean had organized everything, from answering the phones to keeping a notebook with information of who brought food. Miranda Hogendobber placed food on the dining-room table and kept the coffee going. The place was jammed with people.

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

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

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

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

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

No one could answer this question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Put it on the counter.” Miranda pointed.

Harry went over to greet her two foxhunting buddies.

“There’s enough food here to feed an army.” BoomBoom unknowingly repeated Harry’s sentiments after kissing her on the cheek.

“Out-of-town people will begin arriving tomorrow and for the rest of the week. We’ll go through all of this,” Miranda informed them.

Alicia offered, “Why can’t we all take some home and then bring it back in the morning?”

“Might work. Let me check with Jean.” Miranda looked up as the kitchen door swung open and yet more food arrived.

Just then Jean pushed through the door. “How are you doing, Miranda?”

“Doing,” Miranda said, then told her of the distributing food idea.

“Yes, that ought to solve the problem.” Jean turned to leave as the doorbell rang again and she heard Bill’s voice greeting more people.

“Harry.” Miranda pointed to an overflowing garbage bag.

“That was fast.” Harry carried it out to the porch. Returning, she mentioned, “We need more garbage cans.”

Miranda said, “I’ll run by Wal-Mart. Can’t do anything now.”

“Ah.” Harry had opened her mouth to say more when a loud voice in the living room riveted all their attention.

“I don’t care!” Racquel shouted.

Harry and Susan hurried into the room to see if anything could be done.

Tom, at fifteen Racquel’s oldest son, tugged at her arm. “Mom, Mom, come on.”

She shook him off, then bore down once more on Brother Luther. “He’s dead because of you! They’re all dead because of you.”

Shocked, Brother Luther took a step back. “I thought Brother Morris—”

“I was too tired to put two and two together.” Her face turned as red as Christmas wrapping paper. “I can add now.”

“Perhaps I should leave.” Brother Luther turned and headed out of the room.

“They’re all dead because of you. Because of that damned monastery! I know it.”

Reverend Jones, who had been there for about fifteen minutes, leaned over to take both of Racquel’s hands in his. “Let’s walk for a bit.” Herb was always good in situations like this.

She allowed herself to be pulled up. Tom walked with his mother. Dr. Everett Finch, a colleague of Bryson’s, walked with them, as well. With some persuasion, the three managed to get her upstairs. Everett administered a sedative.

When the three men returned, the room was buzzing.

Tom joined his friends. They were shocked into silence and had the good sense to keep quiet. The adults proved another matter.

Alicia listened politely as Biddy Doswell offered her insights. “Phantoms. At first I thought the murders were committed by gnomes—you know, the ones who live under ground and have mole feet and human hands.” Alicia feigned fascination, so Biddy blathered on. “No, it’s phantoms of the angry dead. They are taking revenge on those of us living who resemble the humans that hurt them. Phantoms never forget, you know. Why, some are even in this room now.”

Finally, Alicia pulled herself away while Biddy lassoed another victim. Alicia hurried into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.

“That bad?” BoomBoom was wrapping food in tinfoil.

“Biddy.”

“Oh,” came the chorus from Miranda, BoomBoom, Harry, and Susan, who had returned to the kitchen.

“Gnomes again?” Harry, like everyone, had been bagged by Biddy to hear this theory.

“Phantoms now.” Alicia stifled a laugh despite the circumstances.

“Good God.” Susan threw up her hands, then asked, “What is going on up at the monastery? Maybe the phantoms are there.”

“Maybe the killer is one of the monks,” BoomBoom said logically.

“Could be. Bryson may have figured it out.” Harry tied up yet another garbage bag. “We’re going to need more of these things.”

“I’ll pick up some on the way home,” Alicia volunteered.

“The thing is”—Susan paid no attention to the garbage bags—“something is wrong up there.”

“The monks are probably making moonshine. A lucrative trade if you’re good at it,” BoomBoom said.

“Two monks weren’t killed over moonshine. Moonshine boys know how to get even, but murder wasn’t necessary. It’s something we can’t imagine. But what could have aroused this fury, this frenzy?” Harry hated not knowing something.

“The sheriff has been up there. Don’t you think if something were out of whack, he’d notice?”

“Apparently not.” BoomBoom then said, “Honey, write down who takes what. I’m going to round up the girls and have everyone take a dish or dishes. Are you ready, Miranda?”

“Until the next wagon train pulls in.”

“While you all do that, let me go let Tucker out of the truck to go to the bathroom.” Harry walked into the front hall and retrieved her coat. The cats had stayed home today, although not by choice. She was glad for the cold, fresh air as she walked carefully over the icy sidewalk.

Despite the rock salt on it, the ice was so thick that only patches of it had melted.

Just as Harry opened the door for Tucker, Brother George and Brother Ed pulled up.

When Brother George opened the door, Tucker attacked.
“You hit my mother!”

“Tucker! Tucker!”

“I’ll kill you.”

Brother George screamed as the fangs sank through his pants. Finally Harry got the corgi off, bustling her back into the truck.

“He’s the murderer! He hit you and left you in the blizzard.”

She ran over to Brother George, who had pulled up his pants leg, where blood was trickling down.

“I am so sorry. I’ll pay for any doctor bills. I don’t know why she did that. She’s never done that.”

Brother George knew exactly why Tucker had attacked. “No need, no need. Given all that’s happened, this is a small worry.”

Brother Ed, on his knees and nearly stuck to the snow, examined the puncture wounds. “You’ll be all right. Let’s go inside and see if we can wash this with alcohol.”

“Don’t,” Harry bluntly ordered them. “Racquel told Brother Luther that he was responsible for Bryson’s death, that the whole monastery is responsible. Best not to show your faces right now.”

“Where is Brother Luther?” Brother Ed couldn’t believe this.

“He must have left about twenty minutes ago,” Harry replied. “Look, it’s nuts, but she’s understandably out of it, and you…well, you all won’t be helpful at this moment.”

“Thank you.” Brother Ed propelled Brother George into the old Volvo, another of the beat-up vehicles owned by the order.

Before he closed the door, Brother George said again, “Don’t worry about this, Harry. Really.”

It was a toss-up as to who felt most relieved when the two monks left, Brother George or Harry.

After another hour of organizing, cleaning, throwing garbage into the back of trucks so people could dispose of it, Harry and Fair drove back to the farm.

She’d told him about Tucker and Brother George.

“Not like Tucker. For some reason she’s taken an extreme dislike to Brother George,” he said.

“Won’t anybody listen to me?”
the dog whined in frustration.

Back at the farm, the dog relayed events to the two cats. All three animals agreed to continue being alert.

Finally in bed, Fair breathed a sigh of relief. “Emotional scenes exhaust me.”

“Me, too. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Well, she’s drinking a lot. I expect she’s been loaded ever since the news was broken to her. I don’t know if she can control it anymore.”

“I don’t know, either, but Racquel, who’s not a shrinking violet, still isn’t the type to scream at somebody in front of everyone, no less.”

Harry flopped back on two propped-up pillows. “What else can go wrong?”

She really should have known better than to ask that question.