Santa Clawed (7 page)

W
ho 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.”

O
n 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 horse-woman, 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. “Occasionally, 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.”