Santa Clawed

Murphy agreed.
    “Then she gets my mother in trouble,”
Owen said.
    “Look at it this way. No one is bored.”
Tucker had long ago resigned herself to Harry’s curiosity.
    “You all stay here.” Harry had visions of returning to the Audi to find the interior shredded.
    “I want to go with you,”
Tucker whined.
    “Brownnoser,”
Pewter said with disdain.
    “Oh, shut up, fatty.”
    The gray cat, giving her best Cheshire cat smile, purred maliciously.
“Hey, I’m not the one with my nose in the litter box, eating cat poop.”
    “That’s low.”
Owen blinked.
    “Low, but true.”
Pewter, satisfied with the turn of conversation, snuggled farther down in the rug next to Mrs. Murphy.
    “Pay her no mind, Tucker. Cats stick together.”
Owen leaned next to Tucker, who hoped she’d find a way to get even with Pewter.
    Susan and Harry walked into the elegant framing shop called Buchanan and Kiguel.
    Shirley Franklin, the good-looking and artistic lady behind the counter, peered over the customers’ heads and called out, “How are you? Good to see you.”
    “Surviving the helladays,” Harry quipped.
    People laughed. Shirley was handing out wrapped custom-framed jobs. The finished work was lined up in special bins so it wouldn’t fall over.
    “The obol.” Susan had noticed a pretty print of Aphrodite.
    “Pagan.”
    “I know that, you twit,” Harry said softly.
    “Maybe it means Brother Christopher was a fake.”
    Harry’s expression changed as she turned to look Susan full in the face. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
    “Or it’s all about money. His scandal was about money.” Susan’s curiosity now ran as high as Harry’s.
    “Or both.”
             
    Back at the sheriff’s headquarters, Cooper was glued to the computer screen, happy not to be on patrol today. The long night without much sleep had worn her down. A law-enforcement officer can’t afford to miss things or be physically slowed down. Too much can happen, and it always happens fast.
    Rick had given a statement to the media that morning. The phones sounded like a beehive, one buzz after the other.
    He walked over and leaned over her shoulder. “They’re coming out of the woodwork, these media wonders.” The side of his mouth curled up slightly. “Didn’t tell them about the obol.”
    “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that. Don’t even know where to look. I did tell Harry.”
    “She know any more than Dr. Gibson?” Rick inquired.
    “No, but she said she’d review her old college texts.”
    “Least that keeps her out of our way.”
    “You think this murder has anything to do with Christmas?”
    “Who knows? I’d like a little hard evidence. Check the airlines into Charlottesville to see if any passengers came in from Phoenix, Arizona.”
    “Will do.”
    “Grasping at straws,” he acknowledged. “But sometimes a loose, wide net does catch some fish.”

T he Queen of Crozet, elegant even in her barn clothes, watched as Fair took X-rays of her filly’s right cannon bone.
    Big Mim Sanburne adjusted her red cashmere scarf around her neck, wiggled her fingers in her cashmere-lined gloves. “Adolescence.”
    Although small, Big Mim was so called because her daughter was Little Mim.
    Paul de Silva, Big Mim’s trainer, looked on as Fair set up the plates and positioned the portable machine.
    “She’s a naughty girl.” Fair stepped back, as did the other two, and he pressed the button on the long cord of the X-ray machine.
    Fair wore lead-lined gloves. Any medical person, whether dental, vet, or human, needed to be prudent concerning X-ray equipment. No need to wind up glowing in the dark.
    Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “Least we know she can jump.”
    Big Mim found his light Spanish accent pleasing. The cadence, more singsong than English, enlivened his sentences. Then, too, he was a handsome young man, with jet-black hair, thin sideburns longer than most, and a tiny tuft of black hair under his lower lip. He was engaged to Mim’s architect, Tazio Chappars. Big Mim took credit for getting them together. There was just enough truth in this so no one argued with her.
    No one argued with her anyway, except for her late mother’s sister, Aunt Tally, and her daughter, Little Mim. Little Mim’s disagreements proved less vocal than the soon-to-be centenarian.
    “Okay, last one.” Fair positioned the machine again.
    Mim looked outside the closed barn doors, which had big windows that allowed in a lot of