Santa Clawed

consoled herself with the idea that once on the other side of the winter solstice she’d gain about a minute of sunlight a day. She’d been up at five-thirty, and now, at seven, she’d broken the ice on all the outside water troughs and turned out the horses. In summer this routine was reversed. The horses would be in the barn now, fans cooling them, and turned out at night.
    She picked stalls and threw some cookies up for Simon, the possum who lived in the hayloft along with a great horned owl and a huge blacksnake. Matilda, the snake, hibernated in the back hay bales and could give one a start, but between her, the owl, and the cats, the rodent population remained satisfyingly low.
    On the other side of the county, Tony Gammell, huntsman for Keswick Hunt, performed his morning chores. The kennels sat across a paved road from the Keswick Club, which was a beautiful and exclusive haven for golfers, tennis players, and anyone who wanted to sit on the veranda to enjoy the setting. Not that anyone would be sitting out today. Last night, the same night as the St. Luke’s party, the club had hosted Corbett Realty’s Christmas party. Some people, either due to business or being indefatigably social, attended both parties.
    When Tony walked out of the kennels after feeding the hounds, he thought to check the fence lines. No matter what he or anyone else dealing with hounds did, sooner or later one of the dogs would try to dig out. He didn’t notice it at first, being intent on his fences, but on the way back he saw a lone figure on the tennis court, sitting against the chain-link fence. Anyone driving into the club by the main entrance wouldn’t notice. Tony stopped. Knowing that Nancy Holt, the tennis pro, wouldn’t be out in the cold, and no one else would even attempt to play in this wind, he sprinted across the lightly traveled road to the fence. As he was on the outside, he knelt down and then grasped the fence as he nearly fell over from the shock. Brother Speed, legs spread out, back against the fence, appeared to be dead. Blood covered the clay court where the body sat.
    Tony rose, shaking, and ran to the other side of the court. He opened the door and hurried to the body. An intelligent man and a quick thinker, Tony knew not to touch the body. Upset as he was by the sight, he looked carefully. Brother Speed had frozen, so he’d been there for hours. His throat was slit. Taking a deep breath, Tony ran to the main office of Keswick Club, a separate entity from the hunt club. No one was at work yet, as it was only seven-fifteen. He ran back to the kennel, a bit more than a quarter mile, and grabbed his cell, which he’d perched on a ledge. He dialed 911, gave accurate information, and was told to wait where he was. He then dialed his wife, Whitney. Tony didn’t realize how shaken he was until he heard his wife’s voice. She, in turn, was so upset she told him to stay where he was, she’d be right there.
    Within fifteen minutes Deputy Cooper drove onto the grounds of Keswick Club. She’d pulled early duty this Monday, which was fine with her. Not ten minutes later the sheriff showed up, as well.
    Cooper, thin rubber gloves on her hands, already knelt in front of the handsome jockey’s body. The wound, one tidy, deep cut, looked like Christopher Hewitt’s wound. Photographs had to be taken and then the ambulance squad could take him away. As he was frozen stiff, he’d be sitting in the back. The thought of the corpse sitting or lying on his side in a sitting position struck Cooper as macabre.
    Rick joined her. “Looks like the same M.O.”
    “Yes.” She stood up, peeled off the gloves, and stashed them in her heavy jacket. She quickly retrieved her heavy gloves, as her fingers already were throbbing from the cold.
    Rick carefully observed the corpse. “Doubt he was killed right here. No blood splattered about.”
    “Boss, we’ve got someone killing monks.” Cooper put her gloved hands in her armpits.
    “Two men, relatively young, from the same order.” His nose felt cold so he rubbed it. “Coop, this case is beginning to really worry me.”
    “Yeah, me, too.”
    “All right. Let’s go to the dogs.” Rick said “dogs” instead of “hounds.”
    She nodded and hopped in his squad car. They drove out of the tennis-court area, turned left, and within a minute had parked behind the old Keswick Hunt Club wooden clubhouse. They walked into the kennels, where the hounds notified Tony and Whitney