Рита Браун - Santa Clawed

“Murder is easier to accomplish and remain undetected than television crime dramas acknowledge. Why do you think there’s so much publicity when a murder is solved?”

Fair finished his tea. “Also fuels the illusion that you can’t get away with murder, when you can.”

“I wonder if the killer is reveling in the publicity. The greatest luxury in life is privacy.”

“That it is.” He smiled. “Another luxury is having your wife listen to you even if she’s a trifle bored.”

She smiled. “I doubt she finds you boring. But you know how she, um, becomes obsessed. If ever there was a person who shouldn’t have seen the remains of Christopher Hewitt, that person is Harry.”

As Big Mim and Fair chatted, Dr. Bryson Deeds was having lunch at Farmington Country Club with his lawyer and college friend, Bill Keelo, a man as high-powered in his way as Bryson was in his.

Seated at the next table was a group of eight who’d finished a game of platform tennis, which was played outside on a raised platform in a cage. They sweated so much the snow didn’t bother them, but it finally got so slippery everyone had to stop. Each court hosted a foursome, mixed doubles. The exhilarating exercise put everyone in high spirits, as did the holidays. Anthony McKnight, president of a small but quite successful local bank, and Arnold Skaar, a retired stockbroker, were part of the group. Both men knew and had business relations with Bryson and Bill. Arnie was in everyone’s good book because he still made them money during recessions, both mild and deep.

Bryson stabbed his salmon. “Spoke to Brother Morris this morning.”

“Me, too. He’s distraught.” Bill noticed as Donald Hormisdas, another lawyer, passed their table and waved. “Faggot,” Bill hissed.

Bryson ignored the slur on Donald, as he’d heard it so many times from Bill. “Apart from the emotional loss, Brother Morris is upset because Brother Christopher had such a good business mind.”

“He certainly was persuasive. I’d worked as their lawyer for years at a reduced fee, and Christopher convinced me to do their work for free.”

Bryson smiled slightly at Bill. “He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”

Aunt Tally entered the room, accompanied by her great-niece, Little Mim. As Tally passed each table, the gentlemen rose to greet her. For one thing, this displayed superb manners, something a fellow should consider if he wished to seduce a lady. Women noticed such things, just as most women could recall to the slightest detail what she wore the first time she met a man and what he wore last week to the basketball game. For another thing, Aunt Tally walked with a silver-headed cane. The silver head was in the graceful shape of a hound. If you didn’t stand up and say something mildly fawning, Aunt Tally would whack you. Worse, she’d tell everyone you had the manners of a warthog. You were cooked.

“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.”

8

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. Je- sus.” He drew out the name of Jesus. “We see enough right here in Albemarle County.”