Santa Clawed

down the steep grade into Waynesboro. Charlottesville, especially now during the holidays, was strangled with traffic. She loathed it. So many outsiders now lived in Albemarle County, and they brought their ways with them, which included rudeness behind the wheel of a vehicle. One would hope the Virginia Way would rub off on the heathens, but it appeared to be going the other way ’round. People she knew would lean on the horn, give someone the finger while cussing a blue streak. She flat-out hated it.
    The additional appeal of Waynesboro, a modest town with no pretensions, was that prices were cheaper than in Charlottesville, the land of the truly rich and famous. Not that she had anything against rich and famous people, except for one thing: their presence drove prices ever upward.
    A little music store squatted just over the bridge at the base of Main Street. She parked by the curb, feeling lucky to get a space, dashed in, and brought three pitch pipes: one for Brother Morris, one for St. Luke’s, and one for herself. Funny, Morris thought he’d have to go down the mountain in bad weather. Clearly he didn’t shop much in Waynesboro. Harry was a good driver. She enjoyed this little foray.
    Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker had snuggled up on the sheepskin throw on the truck bench. The cab of the old 1978 F-150 was warm, but if the engine wasn’t on, it cooled fast enough.
    “She’s got that look,”
Mrs. Murphy announced.
    “Are you surprised?”
Pewter sarcastically snorted.
    “No,”
the tiger replied.
“I’m surprised that it took her this long to get it.”
    “She was upset at seeing the body,”
Tucker sagely noted.
“You know Mom, she doesn’t show much emotion, but the murder affected her. Then, too, I think emotions are closer to the surface around Christmas. She’s full of memories.”
    “Better pray to the Great Cat in the Sky, because she’s back to her old self,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
“The worst part of it is, she has no clues.”
    “What’s so bad about that?”
Pewter wondered.
    “She’ll blunder into something or set someone off. If she had even a hint of what’s going on, I’d feel better.”
The tiger cat snuggled closer to Tucker.
    “Me, too.”
Tucker sighed.
    Harry returned to the truck and drove up Main Street, turning left at the light where Burger King, McDonald’s, Rite Aid, and a BP station clustered. Traffic proved heavier now. She finally turned into the parking lot of Martin’s, a good supermarket. Fortunately, she didn’t have a lot of shopping, but she never looked forward to any kind of shopping.
    Once inside, she grabbed a cart and headed for produce. She threw in carrots and apples—for the horses as well as for herself—varieties of lettuce and oranges, then she raced to the meat department.
    She slowed when she noticed Brother Speed and Bryson Deeds at the far end of the meat section. Putting her new vow into practice, she studied their body language. They looked like two people who knew each other very well. She racked her brain to think how these two disparate souls would know each other. Bryson, not a horseman, couldn’t even be induced to attend the steeplechase races, a social event above and beyond flat racing at Colonial Downs. She knew Bryson treated the brothers pro bono. She hoped Brother Speed didn’t have heart problems, although the handsome jockey appeared the picture of health. Given that they both worked at the hospice, they’d had plenty of opportunity to take each other’s measure.
    Fascinated, she watched these two as they leaned toward each other in deep conversation.
    She remembered Brother Speed’s compact body when he was in racing silks. His monk’s robe covered up everything.
    She wouldn’t have minded squeezing Brother Speed’s buns back in his racing days, not that she wanted to go to bed with him, but he was once so cute. It occurred to her at that very moment that she lived in a culture where most forms of touching were taboo. She wondered what it would be like to live in a culture where people didn’t have mental body armor.
    Bryson’s body displayed the signs of a middle-aged man. Well fed. A potbelly sagged over his pants. Not bad, but no six-pack, that was for sure. He was a tad under six feet, reasonably well built. Had he been fit he would have been better-looking. His face’s strong features gave him a commanding look. His dark brown eyes were deep-set. His hair, receding, showed signs of gray at the