Santa Clawed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Could I offer you a Christmas drink?”

  “Oh, no, thank you, ma’am. Can’t drink on duty.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “No. At first I thought it was one of the nurses, but I’ve seen the nurses. I think not,” she said in a clipped tone. “But when doctors stray, they usually do so in the confines of the hospital. It’s a closed world, a hothouse.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stood. “I’ll be on the lookout for a navy-blue Tahoe.”

  “The one thing that keeps me from picking up a shotgun and going after him myself is that it’s Christmas Eve—well, Christmas. I simply can’t believe he’d pull a stunt like this on Christmas.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Officer Doak politely took his leave.

  He had two and a half hours remaining. He’d planned to go back to headquarters. With the exception of the one drunk on I-64, there wasn’t any traffic. Usually the state police handled I-64, and they had arrived a half hour after Doak. He was close by, so he hadn’t minded heading to the Deedses’ house when he heard the call. For one thing, it staved off boredom and loneliness.

  Being unmarried and still under thirty, Officer Doak tried to imagine what he’d do if he were having an affair. If the woman was unmarried herself, he could go to her house, but most people would be with their families. Many people from other places would have been taken in by locals. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve and Christmas.

  If it was a quick rendezvous, he supposed they could park under the football or soccer stadium, in a parking lot that was hidden. He slowly circled the university holdings on the west side of business Route 29. Didn’t see a thing except snow.

  He rounded by the law school, part of a series of buildings erected from the ’70s onward and sadly out of character with the core of the University of Virginia. Not that they were butt ugly. The shape and proportion of the Darden School and the law school might have even been welcome in many a Midwestern university, but not here, where things should have been built in Mr. Jefferson’s style. Jefferson, could he have seen the new additions, would have suffered cardiac arrest.

  Officer Doak’s heart ticked fine, but he possessed enough aesthetic sense to recognize a mistake—a quite expensive one, too—when he saw it.

  Driving out of the university, he came up behind Barracks Road Shopping Center, which was still central to economic life in Charlottesville. The windshield wipers clicked as he turned into the center. One lone snow-covered car reposed in the parking lot in front of Barnes & Noble, which was a real gathering spot during business hours.

  He drove up, got out, wiped off the license plates to be sure. It was Dr. Bryson Deeds’s Tahoe, all right. He wiped off a window. No one was inside.

  Snow fell on his nose. He pulled his cap down tighter around his head, but it offered little by way of warmth. He climbed back into the squad car, his feet already cold. He drove along the main row of buildings. Even with the overhang, the winds swept snow inward. He passed the small fountain areas and noticed a lone figure wearing a Santa Claus hat sitting on a bench. He kept the motor running, got out, and identified Bryson, throat cleanly sliced.

  Doak immediately called Rick.

  The minute the sheriff heard Doak’s voice, he was wide awake. “What?”

  “Dr. Bryson Deeds is dead. M.O. like the monks.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Rick arrived in fifteen minutes. He lived up the hill behind Barracks Road but drove cautiously. “Thank God no one’s around.”

  “Right,” Doak replied.

  Rick wished he’d put on more layers. “Until the coroner examines the corpse, we can’t assume it’s the same killer.”

  “Copycat?”

  “Possible. The variation in this murder is that Bryson is not a monk.”

  Officer Doak informed him of Racquel’s call and his visit to the house.

  Rick had called the ambulance squad and managed to rouse one person from the forensics team, since the rest were out of town. He checked his watch.

  “Should I go back to his wife?”

  “Not yet. You’re off duty in an hour. I’ll do it.”

  The young man blew air from his cheeks. “Thanks, Chief. I hate that.”

  “I do, too, but sometimes you can pick up useful information.”

  Officer Doak looked at Bryson’s corpse and said, “Arrogant bastard.”

  “Could be, but he was also one of the best cardiologists on the Atlantic seaboard. I expect his fan club consisted of those he’d saved and few others. Is the Tahoe unlocked?”

  “Didn’t check.”

  Rick pushed his coat sleeve back to check the time again.

  “The coroner will have to take a crowbar to pry him off the bench.”

  Neither of them could help it—they laughed a little.

  “Want me to go through the Tahoe?”

  “In a minute.”

  The young man folded his arms across his chest, stamped his feet a little. “Coop and I were talking about the murders. The killer believes he’s unassailable, which could be dangerous.”

  Rick nodded. “Anyone that arrogant, if pinned down, will try to kill again.”

  “Or hire an expensive lawyer.”

  “Maybe,” Rick said, then continued, “but I’ve been a cop long enough to know that whoever is doing this has a gargantuan ego. The offense to that ego of being outsmarted by a ‘dumb cop’ like me or you or Coop, I’m telling you, is going to make the son of a bitch snap.”

  It was a long night on top of Afton Mountain.

  After the simple Christmas Eve service infused with Gregorian chants, the brothers wished one another the compliments of the season and most retired to their cells. A few intended to enter into the spirit of the holiday. Bottles were liberated from safe places, with toasts quietly lifted to the order, to increased happiness, and, of course, to the departed.

  Brother Morris asked Brother George to share a libation with him. The two men sat on a comfortable sofa. Brother Morris could take only so much denial of creature comforts. Given his girth, a supportive place to park was more than understandable, as was the heating pad on which he placed his aching feet. With the bulk they supported, it was a wonder he wasn’t crippled.

  “Merry Christmas, George.” He lifted his glass.

  George lifted his glass of excellent scotch. “The same to you, Brother.”

  “Can this place be any more beautiful than it has been these last two days with the snow falling? The red cardinal sat on the outstretched hand of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother. A slash of color against pristine white.” Brother Morris savored the Johnnie Walker Blue Label. “Somehow it is easier to go without the enticements of modern life when one is surrounded by such beauty.”

  “Yes, it is. Can’t help it, though, my mind goes back to my childhood Christmases. Usually snowed in Maine. We had a lot of fun.”

  “Your sisters will carry on the tradition.”

  “All except for getting dead drunk.” Brother George laughed.

  “I’m glad we have this quiet time together. I went over the books last night.”

  Brother George snorted. “Brother Luther will take offense. He balances those books to the penny.”

  “No, not those books. Our books.”

  “Oh.” Brother George’s sharp features changed, a feral alertness crept into his face.

  “We’re missing ten thousand dollars. What happened?”

  Uncharacteristically, Brother George gulped his entire drink, then poured another, knowing full well that a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue skated close to two hundred dollars a pop. “Yes, well, I was going to tell you about that after Christmas. No point in ruining a holiday.”

  “Tell me now.” Brother Morris oozed warmth and understanding.

  “Well, it’s a little embarrassing.”

  “George, are you gambling again?�
� This, too, was asked with warmth.

  “No, no. I’ll never do that.”

  “Then tell me. Ten thousand dollars is a pleasing sum, pleasing in the eyes of the Lord.” Morris smiled broadly.

  “The money was right where it was supposed to be. I got there just as the storm broke, and…uh”—Brother George stared deep into his glass for guidance—“and Harry Haristeen was bending over the toolbox. It was open, and I hit her over the head with my gun, took the box, and ran. Plus that damned dog of hers was there, and I’m scared of dogs.”

  Astonished, Brother Morris first sputtered, “It’s just a corgi, you fool.”

  “All dogs bite.”

  His composure returning, Brother Morris, not radiating warmth now, said, “Yes, of course, how brave of you to face death from the ankles down.”

  “It’s not funny. Dogs terrify me.”

  “Did you search Harry for the money?”

  “Hell, no. I ran for all I was worth.”

  “How hard did you hit her?” Brother Morris needed a second scotch himself.

  “Hard enough to coldcock her.”

  “And the blizzard was starting?”

  “Yes.” Brother George’s voice betrayed his nervousness.

  “And you left her there!”

  “What else could I do? She didn’t see me. The winds were howling. I’d come up from behind. The dog barked, and the cat was there, too.”

  “Scratch your eyes out, I’m sure. Let me get this straight. You found one of Crozet’s leading citizens bent over the toolbox. You hit her on the head with your gun?”

  “The butt of the gun.” Brother George was specific.

  “All right. She was unconscious and you left. Did you call an ambulance later?”

  “No. How could I do that?”

  Brother Morris’s face turned red. “From a phone, not yours, and you can disguise your voice.” He lowered his to a belligerent whisper. “She might be frozen to death. Jesus Christ. Murder! Two of our most productive brothers have been heinously killed and now this. Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, but I panicked. I could go down to her farm tomorrow. I could check around.”

  “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.

  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.

  “Hey. What’d you do?”

  “Oh, a little accident.”

  “Bullshit, Harry.” Susan snatched the Orioles cap off her head. “Stitches. Whoever did it was careful to shave just around the wound. But, girl, you need help. Better call Glen at West Main.” She cited a fashionable hair salon.

  “I clunked my head on a beam.”

  “None of your beams are that low.” Susan folded her arms across her chest. “Furthermore, I know you better than you know yourself. ’Fess up.”

  “I can’t.” Harry sounded morose.

  Susan knew Harry shared most everything with her, so her conclusion was easy to reach. “You’re in trouble and Rick told you to button it.” She touched her lips.

  “Well—”

  “Harry, I know you found Christopher Hewitt. Made the papers, and you told me everything. At least I think you did.”

  “I did tell you. When Dr. Gibson found the obol, I told you that, too. However, Rick and Cooper let me know I had to keep quiet about this.” She took the cap back, clapped it on her head, then walked out onto the screened-in porch.