Santa Clawed

take only so much denial of creature comforts. Given his girth, a supportive place to park was more than understandable, as was the heating pad on which he placed his aching feet. With the bulk they supported, it was a wonder he wasn’t crippled.
    “Merry Christmas, George.” He lifted his glass.
    George lifted his glass of excellent scotch. “The same to you, Brother.”
    “Can this place be any more beautiful than it has been these last two days with the snow falling? The red cardinal sat on the outstretched hand of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother. A slash of color against pristine white.” Brother Morris savored the Johnnie Walker Blue Label. “Somehow it is easier to go without the enticements of modern life when one is surrounded by such beauty.”
    “Yes, it is. Can’t help it, though, my mind goes back to my childhood Christmases. Usually snowed in Maine. We had a lot of fun.”
    “Your sisters will carry on the tradition.”
    “All except for getting dead drunk.” Brother George laughed.
    “I’m glad we have this quiet time together. I went over the books last night.”
    Brother George snorted. “Brother Luther will take offense. He balances those books to the penny.”
    “No, not those books.
Our
books.”
    “Oh.” Brother George’s sharp features changed, a feral alertness crept into his face.
    “We’re missing ten thousand dollars. What happened?”
    Uncharacteristically, Brother George gulped his entire drink, then poured another, knowing full well that a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue skated close to two hundred dollars a pop. “Yes, well, I was going to tell you about that after Christmas. No point in ruining a holiday.”
    “Tell me now.” Brother Morris oozed warmth and understanding.
    “Well, it’s a little embarrassing.”
    “George, are you gambling again?” This, too, was asked with warmth.
    “No, no. I’ll never do that.”
    “Then tell me. Ten thousand dollars is a pleasing sum, pleasing in the eyes of the Lord.” Morris smiled broadly.
    “The money was right where it was supposed to be. I got there just as the storm broke, and…uh”—Brother George stared deep into his glass for guidance—“and Harry Haristeen was bending over the toolbox. It was open, and I hit her over the head with my gun, took the box, and ran. Plus that damned dog of hers was there, and I’m scared of dogs.”
    Astonished, Brother Morris first sputtered, “It’s just a corgi, you fool.”
    “All dogs bite.”
    His composure returning, Brother Morris, not radiating warmth now, said, “Yes, of course, how brave of you to face death from the ankles down.”
    “It’s not funny. Dogs terrify me.”
    “Did you search Harry for the money?”
    “Hell, no. I ran for all I was worth.”
    “How hard did you hit her?” Brother Morris needed a second scotch himself.
    “Hard enough to coldcock her.”
    “And the blizzard was starting?”
    “Yes.” Brother George’s voice betrayed his nervousness.
    “And you left her there!”
    “What else could I do? She didn’t see me. The winds were howling. I’d come up from behind. The dog barked, and the cat was there, too.”
    “Scratch your eyes out, I’m sure. Let me get this straight. You found one of Crozet’s leading citizens bent over the toolbox. You hit her on the head with your gun?”
    “The butt of the gun.” Brother George was specific.
    “All right. She was unconscious and you left. Did you call an ambulance later?”
    “No. How could I do that?”
    Brother Morris’s face turned red. “From a phone, not yours, and you can disguise your voice.” He lowered his to a belligerent whisper. “She might be frozen to death. Jesus Christ. Murder! Two of our most productive brothers have been heinously killed and now this. Are you out of your mind?”
    “No, but I panicked. I could go down to her farm tomorrow. I could check around.”
    “Idiot!” Brother Morris raised his voice, which even at a stage whisper could carry unmiked.
    Brother George sank farther into the sofa. “I’m sorry. I am truly sorry. What can I do?”
    “How about the Stations of the Cross?” Brother Morris sarcastically cited a ritual of deep penance.
    “I don’t even know what they are.”
    “Some Catholic you are.”
    “I’m not a Catholic. I’m a Methodist, and you know it.”
    “The Methodist Church has a lot to answer for if you’re a product.”
    Helplessly, Brother George pleaded, “What do you want me to do?”
    “Nothing.