Santa Clawed (10 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, me, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“People talk,” Tony replied noncommittally.

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

“Tell me what you 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 resisted riding any of them, as she was afraid. “She says he’ll be ready to go next season. Says he’s really smart.”

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

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.”

M
ore 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. Sometimes 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 grand mother.”

“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.”

“Ha.” Harry appreciated that. “Wouldn’t that be fun? I can barely get Fair’s feet off the ground, and he even helps by standing on his tiptoes. He can bench-press me with one hand.”

“He is one big, strong man. Good thing, too. His patients outweigh him by about a thousand pounds.” Cooper returned to the murders. “Both men had good personalities. People liked them. The calls I made to Phoenix—despite what Christopher did, people mentioned over and over again how likable he was. Can you think of anything I missed?”

“Both were estranged from their families.”

“Right. Forgot that. They were likable but not to their folks.”

“I expect they were still likable to them, but when you go through alcoholism and drug abuse with someone, I think a lot of times the family gets burned out. Plus, they don’t believe anything the addict tells them. Too many lies. Christopher’s family couldn’t handle the scandal,” Harry added.

“Anything else?”

“Their manner of death appears to be the same. Killed from behind. I take it there was no sign of struggle with Speed?”

“We’ll know more after the autopsy, but no apparent sign of struggle.”

“And I assume Brother Speed was killed quickly, too. You’d think someone would have missed him up at the monastery.”

“Rick called. Brother George said they figured he’d stayed overnight in town, given the roads and the fact that the party rolled on. George was scared.” She paused. “You know, when we catch the killer, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets off somehow.”

Harry nodded. “Everything’s backward. We punish the victim. We give money to people who won’t work. Old men sit in the legislature and send young men and women to their deaths. It’s all backward.”

“You and I aren’t going to fix it.”

“I think we can, but it’s going to take more than just us. Like these murders. We can’t bring back the dead, but if we use our wits and have a bit of luck, we’ll get him.”

“Think it’s only one person?”

“I don’t know. You’d know better than I do.”

“I’m not sure. If only I could figure out the Brothers of Love connection.”

“Doesn’t seem to be coincidence.” She frowned. “We don’t know what we don’t know.”

“Yep.” Cooper drained her hot chocolate. “Mind if I make another?”

“Course not.”

“Need more?”

“I’m good.”

Cooper filled the teakettle. Harry always kept a couple of bottles of distilled water in the tack room for that purpose.

“I’ve even tried to make odd connections. For instance: facial hair.”

“No connection. Speed was clean shaven and Christopher had that flaming beard.”

“I know.” A note of irritation crept into Coop’s voice.

“I’m saying that I’m looking at everything. The things that are important to a killer are not immediately obvious.”

“I understand that. Kind of like the serial killer who kills women who resemble his high school crush who rejected him.”

“Exactly.” Cooper stood over the teakettle.

“A watched pot never boils,” Harry intoned the old saying.

“Right.” Cooper flopped down in the director’s chair.

“They were both nice-looking. So far no ugly brothers have been killed,” Harry said.

“Well, that’s something.”

“See, I told you they don’t know a thing,”
Pewter said smugly.

“Crabby Appleton.”
Mrs. Murphy used the childhood insult.

“They know a lot. Didn’t you listen?”

“She only listens to herself talk.”
Tucker rolled her eyes.

“I am sick and tired of being insulted by one snotty cat and one bubble butt.”
Pewter showed her claws for effect.
“It’s someone who hates Christmas.”

Her idea was as good as anyone else’s.