Santa Clawed Page 6

  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 o
f progress, Rick and Cooper left.

  Fascinated 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.”

  Who 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.”

&nbs
p; “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.”