Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

"It is, but if half the board weren't women, we men would waste time over pecking order, who's on top."

"You."

He laughed. "Yes and no. But men are different. Women make men work better together, and if a man finds the right woman, life is richer."

"You must feel so alone sometimes, Herb. I'm sorry I haven't been more sensitive to you. I know you grieved and all that, but I don't know what it's like to lose a life partner. Forgive me for not being a better friend."

He reached over for her hand. "Sweetie, you're young. And you are a good friend. I was a lucky man to have a good wife, and I'm starting to go out in the world again. It takes time."

"What becomes of men without women? Straight men, I mean."

"Gay men need them, too. I reckon three things happen: a man becomes bitter and hates women, blaming them for his failings; a man becomes morose and withdraws from the world, he thinks he can't win a woman or he's not worthy; or, the third possibility, a man looks inward and recognizes he'd better change. Naturally, the third possibility is the one I see the least. People are amazingly resistant to change, even when it's in their best interests." He finished his port.

"The Greyfriars aren't a mystical order. Whatever their reasons for withdrawing, for living without women, creating a false miracle is out of keeping. I mean, that's my conclusion after a cursory study of the monastic life," Harry said.

Herb shifted his weight. "By virtue of being a force in Western life for over two thousand years, the Catholic Church has witnessed its share of frauds, forgeries, hoaxes. The shroud of Turin is one of the better fake reliquaries. It was painted sometime between 1260 and 1390. The bishop reported to Pope Clement that the artist who did it was cunning, clever."

"People want to believe these things. The more downtrodden they are as a group or as individuals, the more they have need of miracles, seems to me."

"My favorite is the preserved bodies of saints. Some have been tampered with, others dried out into mummies, and those buried in limestone soil fool everyone. The limestone turns the body fat into hand soap, which doesn't decay. Presto! A miracle."

"Maybe something like a noncorrupted corpse would inspire an individual to change his life, dedicate himself to God. Personally, I'd run in the other direction. I don't want to be around dead bodies regardless of condition! I mean, I have, but I want to get away as soon as I can!" Harry shuddered.

"Few of us look our best." Rev. Jones chuckled.

"So you don't believe in the Miracle of the Blue Ridge?"

"No."

"Me, neither."

"That's a given." He smiled.

"For whatever reason, I think Brother Thomas—a believer, most likely—and Nordy are connected to the tears, the statue."

"It's possible. Killed by..." He paused, holding his palms upward.

"Killed by a brother," Harry said with assurance. "Both of them. I don't think Brother Thomas was killed for his land. He willed Susan the Bland Wade tract. She told me yesterday, and I expect she's with Sheriff Shaw even as we speak. Given that we now know her great-uncle was killed with a morphine injection—I'd guess it was shot into him—she figured Rick should know she stood to gain by his death."

"She told me the day after Thanksgiving. Susan"—he paused— "is circumspect. She thinks long and hard about moral issues. Many people see only her social side. You and I see that she's really a thinking person."

"She'll be a suspect, she thinks. Anyway, I caught her yesterday right after she'd gotten the news and she was going to go up to Afton to raise holy hell, excuse the expression."

"Not wise."

"No. But she was upset. It's understandable. Anyway, I hauled her back to her kitchen. She finally calmed down. We talked things through. The killer is one of the brothers, I just know it. I don't know why."

He drummed the arm of the sofa with his fingers. "No one is going to kill over the Bland Wade tract no matter how lucrative a sale might be. For one thing, Harry, it's too obvious."

"That's what I think, too."

"Brother Thomas, over his long life, saw many things, heard many things. As for Nordy, I expect he stuck his nose in it."

"I keep thinking this has something to do with eyes. I guess because of the statue and the way Nordy died."

"Literal."

"What?"

"You're literal. What do eyes do but bear witness?"

Harry's cell rang. She picked it out of her fishing-gear bag. "Susan. Maybe I better take it."

"Go on," he said indulgently.

"Hi. I'm with Herb."

"Harry, Rick sent someone to take another blood sample from the statue. Coop took one, and, well, hers came back type O. This one has come back type A."

"Jesus!" Harry exclaimed.

34

A thin blue plume of smoke curled upward as Sheriff Shaw sat opposite Brother Andrew. He offered the monk a cigarette; Brother Andrew refused. Rick offered not to smoke, but the physician monk told him to please go ahead; after all it was the Sheriff's office. He could do as he pleased.

As Rick gratefully drew on the unfiltered cigarette, Brother Andrew inhaled the secondary smoke.

"Are you sure you don't want one? I can call out for filters if you'd prefer?"

"No. It's an indulgence I understand only too well, but I can luxuriate in your smoking."

"No one smokes up there?" Rick was incredulous.

"Uh, in theory, no. In practice, yes." Brother Andrew folded his hands on the small metal table, which rattled with each touch.

"Must be like high school, sneaking cigarettes." Rick smiled, remembering his days at old Lane High School, when he and his friends would duck behind a car in the parking lot to light up.

"Yes. Those of us in thrall to nicotine would usually hide our stashes where we worked. For instance, I locked mine in the medicine cabinet in the infirmary. Brother Prescott—well, I shouldn't rat on a brother, should I?"

"Stays here."

"He keeps his on a thin ledge behind a bookshelf. It's funny, really."

"Booze?"

"Oh, yes." Brother Andrew nodded. "We aren't in prison, Sheriff. We can go to town."

"I thought you took a vow of poverty."

Brother Andrew held up his palms. "We do, but one earns a little pocket money here and there. Some have access to family money. We have few earthly pleasures, if you will, although watching the sun rise from the top of the mountain is certainly a large one."

A knock at the door diverted the conversation for a moment.

"Coop?"

"Yes," came the voice on the other side of the door. "May I come in?"

"Do you mind if Deputy Cooper takes notes? She's much better at it than I am."

"No, not at all." Brother Andrew welcomed the opportunity to be in a woman's company, even if the circumstances were strained.

"Come on in."

"Hello." Coop entered, took a seat slightly behind Rick so she wasn't right up at the table. She carried a stenographer's notebook.

"It's nice to see you again, Deputy." Brother Andrew liked Coop.

"You know, it's nice to see you, too, and I regret the circumstances."

"Yes," he quietly replied.

"Did Brother Thomas smoke?" Rick questioned.

"He did up until his eightieth birthday, and then he gave it up. Cold turkey. I teased him about that." Brother Andrew gestured with his right hand. "Why renounce something that soothed his nerves at eighty? He said, 'I want to see if I can do it.' That was a challenge, so I bid the weed good-bye myself. We became quite close after that."

"Did Brother Thomas have enemies?"

"No."

Rick leaned forward, the bottom of the chair legs scraping the floor. "Brother Andrew, you know that Brother Thomas had both chloroform and morphine in his body, the latter killing him. You and Brother John are the only two people with access to those substances." Rick stubbed out his cigarette. "Legally."