Рита Браун - Santa Clawed

“Idiot!” Brother Morris raised his voice, which even at a stage whisper could carry unmiked.

Brother George sank farther into the sofa. “I’m sorry. I am truly sorry. What can I do?”

“How about the Stations of the Cross?” Brother Morris sarcastically cited a ritual of deep penance.

“I don’t even know what they are.”

“Some Catholic you are.”

“I’m not a Catholic. I’m a Methodist, and you know it.”

“The Methodist Church has a lot to answer for if you’re a product.”

Helplessly, Brother George pleaded, “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” He uttered the second “nothing” softly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Maybe I could drum up a contribution to make up what I lost?”

Brother Morris stared at him as though he were five years old with an ice-cream cone about to drip on the sofa.

“Forget it.”

“I could go to Bryson for money.”

“No. Anyway, he’s made a contribution, and that is Brother Luther’s job.”

“Maybe Racquel would like to give something. We could put her name on something.” Brother George was desperate. “When I stopped by his office, Bryson mentioned that Racquel is interested in what we do. He also mentioned that she thinks he’s having an affair. He was a little worried. His marriage is important to him.”

“Given the social status she brings him—old blood—I guess it is. Listen to me.The money is gone. Ten thousand dollars isn’t worth you making a bigger mess of things. I seriously doubt Racquel would give us money, especially if she doubts her husband and we are his main charity, not her.”

“Actually, I think he loves her.”

Brother Morris shrugged. “Perhaps. I’ve never been able to untangle love from dependency. She all but wipes his ass for him.” A hint of venom escaped Brother Morris’s lips.

“I’ve let you down. Please let me make it up.”

“At this point, you’d screw up a two- car funeral. Do nothing. Say nothing. Well, you can pray.”

“Yes. I’ve grown to like praying.”

“Then get on your knees and pray that Harry Haristeen isn’t dead. If she is, there will be hell to pay.”

“But no one knows I hit her.”

“Not now and maybe not ever, but murder is a terrible crime.You know”—he wiggled his toes on the heating pad— “so many of the operas I’ve sung involved the consequences of dreadful deeds. I believe it.”

“Yes, well.” Brother George never thought of himself as a murderer.

“And we are under scrutiny because of the deaths of Brother Christopher and Brother Speed. We can’t afford a misstep. When the sheriff or his deputy come back, make yourself scarce. I don’t trust that you won’t give yourself away.”

“I won’t say anything. I know you think I’m an idiot, but I’m not that stupid.”

“It’s not what you say. It’s how you act. Don’t give them a chance to read you.”

“I’ll try.” He then asked, “I do wonder who killed those two. They were lovely men. Lovely.”

“If I ever get my hands on who did it, I’ll risk going to jail myself.” He looked at Brother George. “Perhaps there was no other way to retrieve the money. She wouldn’t have left it there, but to leave a woman in the snow, in the cold, a storm brewing—Goddamnit, the least you could have done was call someone. Me, for instance.”

“I panicked. I told you, all I thought of was protecting our interests.”

Wearily, Brother Morris said, “Leave me. Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you suffer. George, you made a mistake, let’s leave it at that.”

After Brother George slunk away, Brother Morris killed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

27

“You are too much!” Susan threw open the kitchen door and yelled.

Harry, in the living room, contemplating wrapping paper strewn all over the floor, heard her best friend’s voice. “So are you!”

They collided in the kitchen with the hugs, kisses, and usual screams of Southern women who adored each other and had been apart anywhere from twenty- four hours to twenty- four years.

“Where’s handsome?”

“In the barn. One of my Christmas presents was that he would do all the chores. Did them yesterday, too. Want to feed Simon and the owl with me? They get Christmas treats.” Harry wore a baseball cap to cover her wound.

“Sure.” Susan walked into the living room. “I can see your crew has had a big Christmas.”

“Tearing up the paper—that’s okay. It’s when they climb the tree that there’s a problem.” Harry surveyed the scene, deciding the hell with it. “I love my present.”

“Love mine, too. Whatever possessed you to buy me a rotisserie?”

“Whatever possessed you to buy me a vacuum for the horses?”

At this they burst out laughing, realizing that for the last year each of them had repeatedly mentioned how much the rotisserie and the vacuum would ease their respective chores.

“What’d your honey- do husband get you?”

Susan clapped her hands together. “He bought me season tickets to the Virginia Theater in Richmond and a day at the spa, but, best of all, look!” She held out her right arm, on which dangled an intricately wrought bracelet of eighteen-karat gold. “Can you believe? At today’s prices, no less.”

“That’s gorgeous.” Harry held Susan’s arm, pretending to unlock the bracelet.

Susan slapped her hand. “How about you?”

“A huge thermos so I can make his coffee the nights he’s on call. He says I need my sleep and, much as he loves me getting up to hand him a thermos, he wants me to sleep. There’s the thermos.” She pointed under the tree. “I mean, you could water a platoon with that.”

“He’ll need both hands to carry it. What else?” Susan’s eyebrows raised expectantly.

“A necklace to match the ring he bought me last summer when we visited the Shelbyville Saddlebred show.” Harry knelt down, lifting up a luxurious presentation box. “Look at this.”

“Spectacular. He really does have good taste.”

“But here’s the best present of all. I can’t believe he bought me one.” She breathed in deeply, as if to contain her excitement. “A Honda ATV. I mean, this thing is four hundred horsepower. And, thank God, he didn’t buy one in camouflage. It’s a pleasing shade of blue. I can go seventy miles an hour on it if I want and through anything.”

“If you go seventy miles an hour on that beast, I will beat your ass with a wooden spoon. Where is it?”

“In the shed. Come on.” Harry walked back to the kitchen, pulled a coat off the peg.

Susan, who’d thrown her coat on a kitchen chair, zipped it back up. As Harry tried to slide the baseball cap down against the weather, Susan noticed the edge of the nasty cut, plus some bare scalp.