Рита Браун - Santa Clawed

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? How ever, 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.

5

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.