Santa Clawed (11 page)

D
on’t lie to me.”

“Racquel, I’m not lying to you.” Bryson felt exhausted.

“I know the signs.”

“I’m distracted, tired, and Christmas isn’t my favorite season.”

Both their sons were at the ice rink in downtown Charlottesville. Without the restraining influence of her children, Racquel let her emotions get the better of her.

“Who is she?”

“I swear to you I am not having an affair with a nurse, a secretary, a nurse’s aide, or any other woman.”

“One of those caretakers at the hospice is pretty. I noticed when I visited Aunt Phillipa.”

“I’m not.” He walked to the bar to fix himself a scotch on the rocks. “I am worried about the Brothers of Love. The murders could hurt donations. No one does what they do. They’re…well, you’ve seen the care.”

“Have.” Her eyes narrowed. “You do seem depressed. Maybe the affair is over.”

“Racquel, sometimes you make it hard to love you.”

“Ditto.” She strode to the bar. “Martini.”

He fixed her a dry one and they sat by the fire. “I’ve made mistakes. I was wrong. I can’t say more than that. How can we go forward if you mistrust me?”

“It’s hard to trust you. You’re accomplished at deceit.”

He took a long draft. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t men ever consider the damage they do for what amounts to fifteen minutes of pleasure?”

“Obviously not. But I am not having an affair. I told you that. You are the only woman in my life.”

“What would you do if I had an affair?”

“I don’t know.”

“It might be painful to have the shoe on the other foot.”

“Yes. Look, can’t we call a truce? It’s Christmas. The tension is so thick in this house you can cut it. For the boys’ sake.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thought I’d go over to Alex’s later for a poker game, but I’ll cancel. It’d be nice to have a little time together before the kids come back.”

She brightened at this and downed her martini. “Good idea.”

T
he snow-covered Leyland cypress swayed hypnotically in the wind. Harry, once again up since five-thirty, surveyed the orderly plantings of Waynesboro Nurseries’s stock on Tuesday morning. She’d arranged to have twelve of these lovely trees planted at Fair’s office as a Christmas present. Naturally, the evergreens wouldn’t go in the ground until spring, but she wanted to double-check to make certain of her decision.

Landscaping came naturally to Harry, probably because she loved it. She joked with her husband that if God gives you the skills in one department, he often leaves out another. This was by way of explaining her terrible taste in any clothing that didn’t involve equine pursuits. Once every two or three years, Susan would drag her to Nordstrom’s, often aided by BoomBoom, a clotheshorse.

After she’d conversed with Tim Quillen at the nurseries, she felt that itch to get something for herself, so she called Jeffrey Howe at Mostly Maples and ordered two good old-fashioned sugar maples, also to be planted in the spring.

She cranked the motor on the 1978 Ford, but before she could leave, her cell rang. Harry didn’t like to drive and talk on the phone, so she stayed put.

“Hello.”

“Honey, can you swing by Southern States and pick up extra halters and lead shanks? I forgot,” Fair said.

“Sure, honey.” Fair always kept extras in his truck just in case.

“How’s your day so far?” Harry inquired.

“Good, but it will be better when I’m home with you.”

When she clicked off her cell, she had a smile on her face.

In about thirty-five minutes she was back in Charlottesville, and she dropped by Bryson Deeds’s office. Harry had washed and dried Racquel’s pottery dishes from St. Luke’s Christmas party and offered to drop them off at the house, but Racquel told her to leave them at Bryson’s office. He would still be seeing patients right up to Christmas Eve, and she was doing last-minute shopping.

No one sat at the reception desk, so Harry put the dishes on the reception counter. As she walked out into the hall of the medical office building, she heard a door close behind her.

Brother Luther strode up to her.

“Merry Christmas, Brother Luther.”

His eyes darted around. “Merry Christmas to you.”

Noticing how nervous he was, she thought to console him. “If you’re a patient of Bryson’s, you’re in good hands. He’s a wonderful cardiologist.”

“Oh, I have a little heart murmur. Nothing to worry about. It’s extra fluttery. All these terrible events.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He grasped her hand. “Harry, if anything happens to me, call my brother in Colorado Springs.” He pulled a little notebook out of his coat pocket and scribbled the name.

Harry read it, “Peter Folsom. I didn’t know your last name was Folsom.” She smiled at him. “Your heart will tick along, but I promise I’ll call him. But, really, Brother Luther, don’t worry. You’ll just make yourself sick.”

He let go of her hand. “Someone out there is killing us. Our order. I could be next.”

“Maybe it isn’t about the order. Maybe it’s those brothers’ pasts catching up with them.”

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, even though no one was around. “It’s the order, and the past catches up with all of us.”

“Brother Luther, forgive me, but I can’t imagine what Christopher—I mean, Brother Christopher—or Brother Speed did to provoke such an”—she searched for the right word—

“end.”

“You don’t want to know.” With that, he scuttled down the hall.

M
rs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, upset that Harry did not take them along for her errands, sat in front of the living-room fireplace. Embers still glowed from last night’s fire, a testimony to slow-burning hardwoods.

“Low-pressure system coming in,”
Pewter drowsily announced.

“Windy now.”
Tucker could hear the reverberations at the top of the flue as well as see the trees bending outside the windows.

“Something’s behind it.”
Mrs. Murphy felt the change in atmospheric pressure, too.

“It’s cozy right here. I wish Mom would get back, to start up the fire.”
Pewter snuggled farther down in the old throw on the sofa.

“She should have taken us,”
Mrs. Murphy grumbled.
“We can’t even tear up the tree, because she hasn’t decorated it. Of course, we could shred the silk lamp shades.”

Tucker advised,
“Wouldn’t do that. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. She won’t give you your presents.”

“You’re right,”
the tiger acknowledged.
“We could go for a walk.”

“There’s a storm coming. Besides, why get your paws cold?”
Pewter enjoyed her creature comforts.

“Well, I can’t rip anything to pieces. I don’t feel like sleeping just yet. I’ll go visit Simon.”
With that, Mrs. Murphy bounced down from the sofa, walked to the kitchen, and slipped out the dog door, then through the second dog door in the screened-in porch.

“Hey, wait for me.”
Tucker hastened after her.

Pewter thought they were nuts.

Tucker caught up with the sleek cat just as she slipped through the dog door at the barn. Once inside, they both called up for Simon.

“Shut up down there, groundling,”
Flatface, the great horned owl, grumbled from the cupola.
“You two could wake the dead.”

Simon shuffled to the edge of the hayloft.
“Got any treats?”

“No,”
both replied.

The gray marsupial sighed.
“Oh, well, I’m glad to see you anyway.”

“Mom will bring you treats for Christmas. You, too, Flatface. I think she has some meat pies with mince for you,”
Mrs. Murphy called up to the fearless predator.

Flatface opened one eye, deciding that her afternoon nap was less important than hearing about her present. She dropped down, wings spread so she could glide, and landed right next to Simon, who was always amazed at her accuracy.

“Mom would even give Matilda a Christmas present if she weren’t hibernating.”
Tucker laughed, for her human truly loved all animals.

Matilda, the blacksnake, grew in girth and size each year and had reached impressive proportions. In the fall she had dropped onto Pewter from a big tree in the backyard, nearly giving the fussy cat a heart attack. Both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker were careful not to bring it up, because Pewter would rant at the least, swat them at the worst.

“What’s mince?”
Flatface asked.

“I don’t know,”
Tucker replied.

“It’s things cut up into tiny pieces,”
answered Mrs. Murphy.
“Mom makes a meat pie; the meat is minced, but she adds other things to it and it’s kind of sweet. I saw her baking pies, and I know she made a small one for you.”

“What’s she giving me?”
Simon hoped it was as good as a mince pie.

“She’s making you maple syrup icicles. She’s got a bag of marshmallows, too, and I think she’s made up a special mash for the horses. I saw her cooking it all, but I don’t know what she’s put into it. She’ll warm it up Christmas morning. Maybe she’ll give you some.”

“Goody.”
His whiskers twitched.

Flatface, not always the most convivial with four-legged animals, was feeling expansive.
“I saw something strange.”
When the others waited for her to continue, she puffed out her considerable chest and said,
“I was flying up along the crest of the mountains. Wanted to see what was coming in across the Shenandoah Valley. When I came back, I swooped down toward all those walnut trees in the land that Susan Tucker inherited from her uncle, the old monk.”
She paused, shifted her weight, then continued.
“Well, you know there are all those old fire trails leading off both sides of the mountain’s spine. I saw two men in a Jeep heading down toward the walnut stand. So I perched in a tree when they stopped. They got out and put a big green metal box next to the first set of boulder outcroppings. They opened the box—it was full of money—counted it, put the money back, and shut the box. They left it there.”

Simon stared at Flatface. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker looked at each other, then up to the owl.

“Did you know who they were?”
Tucker inquired.

“No, but a sticker with the caduceus on it was on the windshield of the Jeep.”
Flatface, with her fantastic vision, could pick out a mouse from high in the air. Seeing a sticker was easy.

Tucker swept her ears forward.
“That sounds like a lot of money.”

“Is,”
Flatface chirped low.

Mrs. Murphy, mind flying, inquired,
“Was there a lock on the box?”

“No. It’s one of those toolboxes like Harry uses. I can lift up the latch with my talon and then slip the U ring over the latch. Easy as mouse pie.”
She glanced down at Mrs. Murphy’s paws.
“Your claws are long enough to lift up the latch. Don’t know if you could pull over the U ring. Might could.”

“What did you see over the valley?”
Tucker wondered.

“Snowstorm’s building up. Be here in another two hours, maybe a little longer. It’s big. Can’t you feel it coming?”

“Sure,”
Simon piped up, then flattered the large bird.
“But you can fly up the mountain and see everything. You’re the best weather predictor there is.”

Flatface blinked appreciatively.
“Batten down the hatches.”

Their entrance covered by a tack trunk, the mice living behind the walls tittered as the two friends left the barn.

The oldest male grumbled,
“Mouse pie.”

Once outside, Mrs. Murphy turned to Tucker and said,
“Come on. We’ve got enough time.”

The cat and dog, moving at a brisk trot, covered the back hundred acres in no time. The land rose gently on the other side of the deep creek. The angle grew sharper as they climbed upward. At a dogtrot, the walnut stand lay twenty-five minutes from the barn. The animals knew the place well, not only because Susan and Harry routinely checked the walnuts and other timber but because a large female bear lived in a den in one of the rock outcroppings. They knew the bear in passing, often chatting with her on the back acres or commenting on her cubs.

As they reached the walnut trees, the wind picked up a little. At the edge of the big stand—acres in itself—they saw the green metal box, which had been tucked under a low ledge just as Flatface described it.

Tucker put her paw behind it and pushed it away from the huge rock.

“I can pop it.”
Mrs. Murphy exposed her claws, hooked one under the small lip, lifted up the latch, then hooked the upper U latch and pulled it over.

“I can press the release button.”
Tucker hit the metal square button in the middle of the latch.

The latch clicked and the lid lifted right up. Thousands of dollars, each packet bound by a light cardboard sleeve, nestled inside.

“Wow,”
Tucker exclaimed.
“That’s a lot of Ben Franklins.”

“Why put the box here? All this money?”
The tiger was intrigued but confused, as well.

“Why are there dead men’s faces on money?”
Tucker touched her nose to the money.

“It’s supposed to be a high honor.”

“Murphy, how can it be an honor if you’re dead? Benjamin Franklin doesn’t know his face is on a bill.”

“I don’t know. Humans think differently than we do.”
Mrs. Murphy thought it was odd, too.
“Tucker, carry one of these packets back. I’ll put the lid down.”

The corgi easily lifted out the packet. Mrs. Murphy pushed the lid down, and the tongue of the latch fit right into the groove. She didn’t bother to flip the U over the top of the latch.

The two hurried back down the mountainside. Every now and then Tucker would stop and drop the packet to take a deep breath. She was getting a little winded and needed to breathe from her mouth as well as her nostrils.

By the time they reached the back door, Harry’s 1978 F-150 sat in the drive. They burst through the two dog doors.

“Where have you two been? I’ve looked all over for you.”

Pewter sat beside Harry. The gray cat was as upset as Harry. Lazy as she could be, she didn’t like being left out, and they had taken off without telling her.

“Busy,”
Mrs. Murphy replied as Tucker dropped the money.

“What have you got?” Harry reached down and picked it up, her jaw dropping as she flipped through ten thousand dollars. “What the hell!”

To hold ten thousand dollars in cash in her hand took her breath away. She sat down hard in a kitchen chair and recounted the money.

“There’s more. You’ll be rich!”
Tucker wiggled her tailless rear end.

“Think of the tuna that will buy,”
Pewter purred.
“Let’s go get the rest of it.”

“We can’t do it without Mom,”
Mrs. Murphy advised.
“The rest of it is in a metal toolbox.”

“You carried that. We should all go, and we have to hurry because a storm is coming. We could bring it here. Think of the food, the catnip!”
Pewter displayed a rare enthusiasm.

Harry peered down at her friends. “Where’d you get this?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”
Tucker walked to the door, then looked over her shoulder at Harry.

Over the years, Harry had learned to pay attention to her animals. For one thing, their senses were much sharper than her own. Then, too, they had never let her down, even Pewter, who grumbled far too much. She’d followed Tucker and the cats before, so she knew the signs and, clearly, Tucker had a mission.

“All right.” She rose, pulled her heavy coat off the peg, wrapped a plaid scarf around her neck, and took the cashmere-lined gloves from the pockets.

“How far is it?”
Pewter inquired.

“Walnut stand,”
Tucker answered.

“Mmm, well, since she’s got the message, I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Pewter, you are so lazy,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
“You were the one who said, ‘Let’s go get the rest of it.’”

“It’s cold. And there really is no reason for all of us to go.”
With that, she turned and sashayed back into the living room, where Harry had restoked the fire.

“Can you believe her?”
Mrs. Murphy was incredulous.

Tucker laughed.
“Right, she volunteered to carry money.”

“You’re talking about me,”
Pewter called from the living room.

“Because I’m so fascinating.”

Harry opened the door, then the screen door, and stepped out to see a rapidly changing sky. Clouds rolled lower now, dark clouds piling up behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. Wouldn’t be long before they’d slip over. She could just make out gusts of snow in some high spots. If only the dog and cat could talk, she’d take the truck. She started walking behind the two, who were already shooting ahead of her. The Thinsulate in her boots sure helped, as did the wool-and-cashmere-blend socks. Much as Harry refrained from spending money, she had sense to spend it on good equipment and warm work clothes.

The remnants of the last snow crunched underfoot. By the time they all reached the creek, she followed the two over the narrowest place, her heel just breaking the ice at the edge. She didn’t get wet, though, so she smiled and picked up her pace, since the animals had started trotting.

“Sure hope we can get up and back before this hits.”
Mrs. Murphy sniffed the air.
“It’s higher up there, so I bet the flurries are already swirling.”