Santa Clawed (6 page)

“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.”

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. Jesus.” 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.

F
ascinated 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.”