Santa Clawed

what I think of as lower forms of crime: assault and battery, murder, petty theft. Those crimes, I think, are committed by people with poor impulse control. Low normals, really.” He used the expression for low-normal intelligence. “White-collar crimes demand intelligence, a bland exterior for the most part, and vigilance. Constant vigilance to cover your tracks.” He thought a moment. “I suppose premeditated murder and large-scale robbery demand intelligence.”
    “Murder is easier to accomplish and remain undetected than television crime dramas acknowledge. Why do you think there’s so much publicity when a murder is solved?”
    Fair finished his tea. “Also fuels the illusion that you can’t get away with murder, when you can.”
    “I wonder if the killer is reveling in the publicity. The greatest luxury in life is privacy.”
    “That it is.” He smiled. “Another luxury is having your wife listen to you even if she’s a trifle bored.”
    She smiled. “I doubt she finds you boring. But you know how she, um, becomes obsessed. If ever there was a person who shouldn’t have seen the remains of Christopher Hewitt, that person is Harry.”
             
    As Big Mim and Fair chatted, Dr. Bryson Deeds was having lunch at Farmington Country Club with his lawyer and college friend, Bill Keelo, a man as high-powered in his way as Bryson was in his.
    Seated at the next table was a group of eight who’d finished a game of platform tennis, which was played outside on a raised platform in a cage. They sweated so much the snow didn’t bother them, but it finally got so slippery everyone had to stop. Each court hosted a foursome, mixed doubles. The exhilarating exercise put everyone in high spirits, as did the holidays. Anthony McKnight, president of a small but quite successful local bank, and Arnold Skaar, a retired stockbroker, were part of the group. Both men knew and had business relations with Bryson and Bill. Arnie was in everyone’s good book because he still made them money during recessions, both mild and deep.
    Bryson stabbed his salmon. “Spoke to Brother Morris this morning.”
    “Me, too. He’s distraught.” Bill noticed as Donald Hormisdas, another lawyer, passed their table and waved.
    “Faggot,” Bill hissed.
    Bryson ignored the slur on Donald, as he’d heard it so many times from Bill. “Apart from the emotional loss, Brother Morris is upset because Brother Christopher had such a good business mind.”
    “He certainly was persuasive. I’d worked as their lawyer for years at a reduced fee, and Christopher convinced me to do their work for free.”
    Bryson smiled slightly at Bill. “He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”
    Aunt Tally entered the room, accompanied by her great-niece, Little Mim. As Tally passed each table, the gentlemen rose to greet her. For one thing, this displayed superb manners, something a fellow should consider if he wished to seduce a lady. Women noticed such things, just as most women could recall to the slightest detail what she wore the first time she met a man and what he wore last week to the basketball game. For another thing, Aunt Tally walked with a silver-headed cane. The silver head was in the graceful shape of a hound. If you didn’t stand up and say something mildly fawning, Aunt Tally would whack you. Worse, she’d tell everyone you had the manners of a warthog. You were cooked.
    “Aunt Tally, how lovely you look in your red and green.” Bryson stood.
    Bill, not to be outdone, lightly kissed her hand and said, “Aunt Tally, you look ravishing in any color.” He turned his attentions to Little Mim. “Merry Christmas.”
    “Merry Christmas to you,” Little Mim replied.
    “Will you all be at St. Luke’s Christmas party?” Aunt Tally lived for parties and the attendant gossip.
    Bryson replied, “Both our wives are on the decorating committee. We’ll be there.”
    Aunt Tally smiled as though their being at the party would be the most glorious thing.
    “Damned thing, that mess at the Brothers of Love tree farm.” Aunt Tally rapped her cane on the floor. “On the other hand, it does give people something to talk about. I’m sick of climatic observations.” With that, she moved on to accept her obeisance at the table of people who’d just played platform tennis.
    Little Mim, wearing a pair of gold dome earrings her husband had given her as one of his twelve days of Christmas presents, winked to the men as she hurried after Aunt