Santa Clawed Page 4

  Mrs. Murphy and Tucker excitedly told Pewter everything.

  Seething with envy, the gray cat grumbled, “You lie.”

  Brother Morris, head of the Brothers of Love, was so filled with the milk of human kindness that he almost mooed. Would have been a big moo, too, since Brother Morris tipped the scales at 310 pounds. Now forty-eight, he attracted devotees due to his own story. Once a major tenor in opera, specializing in German roles, he had fallen from grace. Given his weight, it was a wonder he didn’t create a pothole in New York’s streets big enough for three taxis to disappear altogether.

  Most stars prove difficult at one time or another. Directors of opera houses learn to deal with egos as oversize as the voices. Gender seems not to be a determining factor. Of course, there are good and bad in every bunch, and Brother Morris, known then as Morris Bartoly, gave little trouble. He never fussed over the size of his dressing room or the placement of it. He appreciated large food baskets, especially fruit, for he loved to eat, and a bracing brandy assisted the digestion. However, he never showed up drunk, was always on time, and was perfectly willing to work with other stars far less generous in temperament than himself.

  In short, he was a dream star, which made his crash all the more scandalous. Brother Morris slept with both men and women. Not that that was anything new. He often slept with them simultaneously, although how either gender bore the bulk remains mysterious. Discreet in his selections, Morris often chose partners who were married and slavish fans of opera. Few, if any, suspected his desires for threesomes. What did him in was not the number of playmates. One husband accepting Brother Morris’s attentions just so happened to take pictures on his cell phone of the star servicing his wife, or was it vice versa? The sight of this behemoth performing various acts of copulation, dressed as a ballerina from Swan Lake, in specially made costumes, proved too much. The pictures on the cell phone showcased a thrilling dexterity for one so large. But, alas, when the news broke and he appeared onstage, he wasn’t booed off, he was laughed off.

  Brother Morris disappeared from the scene. A downward spiral of prostitutes and recreational drugs scuttled him. His taste for costumes became even more outrageous. He found Jesus when he landed in the gutter, dressed as Cleopatra, eyes heavily made up. Eschewing all publicity, he began to perform good works instead of tantric sex. He finally came to the Brothers of Love years later, where his energy and undeniable extroverted appeal made him invaluable, especially at the bedside of the dying.

  When the founder of the Brothers of Love, Brother Price, formerly Price Newbold, died, it was a foregone conclusion that Brother Morris would become head of the order. He did. No one regretted the decision. In addition to his kindness to the dying, he showed fine managerial skills.

  At this exact moment, those skills were in use. Officer Doak, worried about Brother Sheldon’s condition, had driven him up Afton Mountain. Sheriff Shaw had given him the go-ahead to inform Brother Morris of events. It was up to Brother Morris to determine how to break this to “the boys,” as he teasingly called them.

  Brother Morris never got the chance. Brother Sheldon crossed the threshold of the monastery with such a wailing and weeping that everyone in their cells rushed out.

  A monk’s living quarters is traditionally called a “cell,” and these, while spare, did have heat and running water. No luxuries abounded, though.

  He blurted out everything in lurid detail. Brother Morris, whose cell was farthest down the hall, arrived just as Brother Sheldon reached the pinnacle of his tale: the discovery of the body.

  Horrified, he noticed the sheriff’s man heading toward him.

  “Brother Morris, could we talk in private?”

  Nodding and then flicking his forefinger at Brother George, the second in command, he ushered Officer Doak into his office, where the young man told him what they’d found, with less drama than Brother Sheldon.

  In defense of Brother Sheldon, how often do you find a man, murdered, propped up against a Christmas tree? However, Brother Sheldon flourished when his emotions expanded, so he was now in his glory.

  “My God, this can’t be true.” Brother Morris’s heavily bearded face became pale.

  “I’m afraid it is, sir—I mean, Brother.”

  Brother Morris waved his hand. “Call me what you like. Have you any suspects?”

  “No. But the investigation is just beginning. The forensics team will return at dawn since it’s so dark now. I’m sorry, but we have to keep the Christmas tree farm closed for at least one more day.”

  “Small matter.” He folded his hands together, bowed his head, then looked up. “What can I do to help you? We all loved Brother Christopher. Please let us help.”

  “We’ll be back tomorrow to ask questions. That’s a help, a beginning.” Doak was soothing.

  “Of course. Of course.” Brother Morris’s voice shook slightly.

  “We will be questioning everyone involved.” Officer Doak leaned forward slightly. “I know you are suffering a terrible shock, but I have a few questions now.”

  “I understand.”

  “Did Brother Christopher have any enemies in the order?”

  Shaking his head vigorously, Brother Morris responded, “No, no, he was loved by all.” He smiled slightly. “We are the Brothers of Love, but as you know, Officer, people do have trouble getting along. Not Brother Christopher. He was an easy fellow, and the love of Christ shone through him.”

  “Did anyone from the Christmas tree farm ever complain? A customer perhaps?”

  “Not that I know of, but I will ask the other brothers.”

  Officer Doak rose. “Someone from the department will return tomorrow. I am sorry for your troubles, sir. We will do everything in our power to apprehend the murderer.”

  “I know you will. Go with God, Officer.” A tear ran down his apple cheek into the grizzled beard. Doak passed through the long hall.

  Once the officer left, in the front hall the noise had grown louder. Emotions ranged from stunned catatonia to Brother Sheldon ripping his shirt and fainting again. Brother Morris watched as Brother George fanned him.

  “Brother Ed, go to the infirmary and fetch the smelling salts.” Brother Morris stood to his full height of six foot two inches and said, “Brothers, horrible as this is, remember that Brother Christopher has gone home. He is with Christ, and we celebrate his release from this mortal coil. Brother Luther, you’re in charge of a service for him, Friday. Brother Howard, you’re in charge of the reception. Now”—a long pause followed—“does anyone have any ideas, know anything that might contribute to our understanding this loss?”

  Blank looks met his request.

  A tiny brother, a handsome former jockey who had hit the skids, piped up, “Maybe he didn’t spend all the money.”

  “Say what?” Brother Morris seemed confused.

  “Insider trading,” Brother Speed, the jockey, replied. “He lost a lot of money for people. Have you ever heard of anyone who did such a thing not squirreling away a large bundle for themselves?”

  Shocked, Brother Morris said, “He would have given it back.”

  Brother Speed, who knew a thing or two about crooks and scumbags, calmly stood his ground. “Now, Brother, I want to agree with you, but my hunch is that this all gets back to his stock-market days. There has to be a pile of money somewhere.”

  “Then why stay in the order?” Brother Luther was puzzled.

  “For a cover. Maybe.” Brother Speed shrugged. “I’m not saying this is the case. You asked for ideas.”

  Brother Morris stroked his beard. “Brother Speed, I hope you’re wrong, but under the circumstances not one of us can rule out the possibility. If each of you would go jot down observations and thoughts, perhaps some pattern will emerge. In the meantime, I charge each of you to pray for Brother Chris’s soul and to remember the love.”

  Brother Sheldon came to with a wail. Brother Morris sighed deeply, wishing Brother Sheldon was less histrionic. He’d lived
through enough of that at the opera.

  Dr. Emmanuel Gibson searched his memory for a similar case. Nothing came to mind. The seventy-five-year-old was a repository of pathology’s secrets; younger doctors frequently consulted him. He was in good shape, with sharp skills, as he was usually called in when the regular coroner was unavailable.

  Dr. Gibson examined the wound.

  “There don’t seem to be signs of struggle,” Rick said.

  “I need to send tissue samples off; haven’t removed the organs yet.” Dr. Gibson looked up from the corpse. “It’s possible he was drugged—no struggle then.”

  Cooper nodded. “Like the date-rape drug.”

  Dr. Gibson examined the underside of the forearms to see if Christopher had warded off blows. “No marks. The severed jugular might have obscured fingerprints. If he was choked, his eyes would be bloodshot, and you’ll notice they aren’t.”

  Rick looked at the glassy, staring eyes. He couldn’t quite get used to that, although he’d seen plenty of corpses. Those opened eyes always seemed to him to be silent witnesses.

  “Can you hurry the drug report from Richmond?” Cooper mentioned the location of forensic research.

  “It’s Christmas. No one will be in a hurry, but, Sheriff, you can try to prod them a wee bit.” Dr. Gibson’s curiosity rose higher as he considered again the clean cut at the throat.

  Rick crossed his arms over his chest. “Used a sharp blade.”

  “Yes, no ragged edge. The wound is quite neat and clean.”

  Cooper flipped her notebook shut for a moment. “No struggle. Drugs unknown at this point. Either he knew his assailant or the killer snuck up on him.”

  “Definite possibility.” Dr. Gibson started to hum as he worked.

  Rick understood how methodical most coroners were, especially Dr. Gibson. “I don’t want to interrupt your procedure, but I am curious.”

  “I appreciate that,” Dr. Gibson answered as he continued his exam.

  “I’m curious, too. Seems to me that type of cut had to be made by someone who knew what they were doing.” Cooper was always fascinated by murder.

  “Takes work and skill, which you know. If you pull the head back, it’s easier to cut the jugular.”

  “Dr. Gibson, we’ll leave you to it, and I thank you for coming down here at night,” Rick said.

  The old pathologist smiled. “House full of grandchildren. I needed the quiet.”

  After bidding the good doctor good-bye, the two work partners and friends drove to headquarters. Cooper followed Rick into his office, where he shut the door.

  “Search back ten years to see if there’s been any killing of priests, nuns, monks.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you sure you want extra duty over Christmas?”

  She nodded in the affirmative. “My holiday will start New Year’s Eve, when Lorenzo visits.” She mentioned her boyfriend, whom she had met in the fall and was now home in Nicaragua. The romance was budding.

  He looked at the large wall clock. “How’d it get to be two?”

  “The earth just keeps revolving on its axis.” She smiled, feeling ragged.

  “Hey, go home. Get a good night’s sleep. I will, too. You know, sometimes if I give myself a problem to solve before I go to sleep, I wake up with the answer. Try it.”

  “I will.”

  “One more thing. See if you can keep Harry out of this. Bad enough she and Fair found the body.” He rubbed his palm on his forehead as if to banish cares.

  “Boss, I’ll try, but don’t hold your breath.”

  He laughed. Cooper left.

  Rick did not take his own advice. He started searching for similar cases, even though he’d assigned the task to Cooper.

  The phone rang at three-thirty.

  Dr. Gibson’s light voice was on the line. “Figured you’d be up. Sheriff, I found a curious thing in his mouth. Under his tongue there was an ancient Greek coin, an obol.”

  Rick, not having read much Greek mythology, blurted out, “What the hell could that mean?”

  “Oh, the meaning is quite clear, Sheriff. He needed an obol to give to Charon, who pilots the dead across the River Styx to the underworld. If he doesn’t have the coin, he wanders in limbo, a cruel fate.”

  “That is odd. He’s murdered, but the killer wants him in the underworld.”

  “Not quite so odd, Sheriff. For one thing, it’s a slap at his proclaimed Christianity. The killer is paying homage to the old gods. The other thing is, there may be someone waiting for him on the other side. Someone who will do even more damage.”

  Rick hung up the phone, knowing he needed sleep or a drink or both.

  Tuesday, December 16. A light snow covered the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but only a few swirling flakes traveled to the valley below. Still, those glistening rounded mountains, once the largest peaks in the world, looked perfect when the sun came out.

  Susan drove Harry and herself in her Audi station wagon, a purchase she had never regretted. In the backseat, along with Christmas packages and a large fuzzy rug, sat Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, Pewter, and Owen, Susan’s corgi and full brother to Tucker. When Susan’s kids, now in college, reached the stage where she became a taxi, her corgi breeding fell by the wayside. She hoped to pick it back up, since it fascinated her.

  “If I hear one more Christmas carol, I’m going to scream,” Susan grumbled.

  “Scream what?” Harry loved to tease Susan.

  “How about, ‘Jesus was born in March, why are we celebrating in December?’ That ought to get their knickers in a knot.”

  “You know why as well as I do. We sat through six years of Latin. Too bad we didn’t go to the same college. I kept on and you didn’t.”

  Harry referred to the fact that the Roman winter-solstice festival, Saturnalia, was so popular the Christians couldn’t dislodge it. Since they lacked a winter festival, they fudged on Jesus’s birth, killing two birds with one stone.

  “Ah, yes, Latin. I switched to French so I could order French food cooked by American chefs who pretend to know what they’re doing.” She braked as a Kia pulled out in front of her, the young man behind the wheel yakking away on a cell phone so tiny it was a wonder he could find it much less press in phone numbers.

  “Ever notice that the people who take the most chances in the world are always in cheap cars?”

  “No.” Susan switched back to French cooking. “Actually there are some extraordinary French chefs now. I mean Americans who can cook.”

  “All men. If a man cooks, he’s a chef. If a woman cooks, she’s a cook.”

  “Harry, you’re being ever so slightly argumentative.”

  “Me?” Harry responded with mock surprise.

  “You, lovie.”

  Harry stared out the window at the jam-packed lot to Barracks Road Shopping Center. “Can’t get Christopher out of my mind. Such a waste for him to die.”

  “When you called me, I couldn’t believe it. We’d just been talking about him.” Susan sighed as she began the hunt for a parking space. “Obviously no one has come forward to lay claim to the deed.”

  Harry smirked slightly. “Coop’s keeping something from me. I can always tell.”

  “Harry, she can’t tell you everything.”

  Harry shifted in her seat. “I know, but it drives me crazy.”

  “Not a far putt,” Susan, a good golfer, teased her.

  “She did tell me one thing this morning when I talked to her. Christopher had an obol under his tongue.”

  Susan, after the years of high school Latin and hearing about the myths, knew what that meant. “Aha. My parking karma is working.” She slid into the space, popped the car in park, cut the motor. They sat still for a minute. “An obol for the ferryman. Some kind of symbolism, apparently.”

  “It’s just so odd, but at least we have an educated killer.”

  “It is odd.”

  Harry shook her head. “He’s fired up my curiosity.”

 
; “God help us,” Pewter piped up.

  “She gets these notions and we have to bail her out,” Mrs. Murphy agreed.

  “Then she gets my mother in trouble,” Owen said.

  “Look at it this way. No one is bored.” Tucker had long ago resigned herself to Harry’s curiosity.

  “You all stay here.” Harry had visions of returning to the Audi to find the interior shredded.

  “I want to go with you,” Tucker whined.

  “Brownnoser,” Pewter said with disdain.

  “Oh, shut up, fatty.”

  The gray cat, giving her best Cheshire cat smile, purred maliciously. “Hey, I’m not the one with my nose in the litter box, eating cat poop.”

  “That’s low.” Owen blinked.

  “Low, but true.” Pewter, satisfied with the turn of conversation, snuggled farther down in the rug next to Mrs. Murphy.

  “Pay her no mind, Tucker. Cats stick together.” Owen leaned next to Tucker, who hoped she’d find a way to get even with Pewter.

  Susan and Harry walked into the elegant framing shop called Buchanan and Kiguel.

  Shirley Franklin, the good-looking and artistic lady behind the counter, peered over the customers’ heads and called out, “How are you? Good to see you.”

  “Surviving the helladays,” Harry quipped.

  People laughed. Shirley was handing out wrapped custom-framed jobs. The finished work was lined up in special bins so it wouldn’t fall over.

  “The obol.” Susan had noticed a pretty print of Aphrodite.

  “Pagan.”

  “I know that, you twit,” Harry said softly.

  “Maybe it means Brother Christopher was a fake.”

  Harry’s expression changed as she turned to look Susan full in the face. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Or it’s all about money. His scandal was about money.” Susan’s curiosity now ran as high as Harry’s.

  “Or both.”

  Back at the sheriff’s headquarters, Cooper was glued to the computer screen, happy not to be on patrol today. The long night without much sleep had worn her down. A law-enforcement officer can’t afford to miss things or be physically slowed down. Too much can happen, and it always happens fast.