Santa Clawed

send out slivers of gray, which brightened to a dark periwinkle blue with the first blush of pink outlining the horizon.
    “Did you call the huntline?” Fair, groggy until a huge coffee mug was placed before him, asked.
    “Honey, I did last night before we went to bed. There’s no Boxing Day hunt, because many of the secondary and tertiary roads remain unplowed. Also, the footing will be so deep in spots, we’d have to paddle our way through.”
    Both foxhunted, which was prudent considering Fair’s practice. They wearied of telling people not accustomed to country life that, no, the fox was not killed. Couldn’t do it even if they wanted to, thanks to the animal’s lightning-fast intelligence.
    For any couple, sharing activities keeps the flame bright, yet each partner should have one or two activities that belong to him or her alone. That activity for Harry was growing her grapes, although Fair helped when asked. For him it was golf, a game he had taken up five years ago. Fair couldn’t decide if the relaxation outweighed the frustration. Harry kept her mouth shut about it.
    “Oh.” He tested the coffee, still a bit too hot.
    “Waffles.” She heated up the portable griddle.
    “You’re spoiling me.”
    “That’s the point.” She flashed a grin at him. “You don’t have to do the chores. I’m fine. And I’m packing my thirty-eight.”
    “We’ll do them together. Not on call until tomorrow. Boy, it’s great when I have Christmas off. So many Christmases I’ve been on call.”
    “Well, once you started swapping weekends with Greg Schmidt”—she mentioned a highly respected equine vet, and one fabulous horseman to boot—“life did pick up. I keep telling you this, but how about for a New Year’s resolution: find a partner. Maybe two.”
    The coffee was the perfect temperature now.
    Fair chugged half the big cup, then replied, “I know, I know. Give me a day to think about making that New Year’s resolution.”
    “Okay.” She poured the batter onto the griddle, the sizzle alone enticing the three extremely attentive animals on the floor.
    “All right, you beggers.” Fair knocked back his coffee and rose to feed Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.
    Harry refilled his cup.
    “I like my bowl better than yours.”
Pewter’s new ceramic bowl had “Diva” in large letters around it.

    “Good. Then you’ll keep your fat face out of mine,”
Mrs. Murphy replied as she bit into her favorite beef Fancy Feast, an expensive cat food.
    Tucker kept eating. That was more important than talking. Her bowl, larger than the kitties’, read “Fido,” for faithful. Mrs. Murphy’s read “Catitude.”
    Fair picked up his cup, took another big swallow, then turned on the small flat-screen TV on the kitchen wall. Harry didn’t like having TV in the kitchen, but once she realized that watching her beloved Weather Channel here proved more convenient than running into the bedroom, she accepted it.
    Fair clicked on the early-morning local news. Before he could sit down, the somber face of Sheriff Rick Shaw speaking from his office was intercut with clips of a snowy Barracks Road Shopping Center, empty except for the Tahoe. Then clips of Bryson’s office were shown as the latest shocking murder was revealed.
    Mug poised midair, Fair stood motionless.
    Harry left her griddle to stand next to him. Both of them were shocked and very upset.
    Fair finally spoke. “The Tahoe in the parking lot makes it…I don’t know, real. Worse somehow.”
    “It’s like a killing frenzy.” Harry put her arm around his waist. “The other two were monks. None of us felt in danger. I thought the key was that the victims were monks.”
    “Guess we can all throw that key out the window.” He returned to his chair, sitting with a heavy thump.
    The three cohorts on the floor said nothing but had listened as intently as the humans.
    Harry turned off the griddle, flipping the contents onto a big plate. The syrup and honey sat on the table along with butter, utensils, and two plates. She poured herself a second cup of tea and sat across from Fair.
    “Maybe not.”
    Fair drenched his waffles with honey. “Maybe not what?”
    “Monks may still be the key. Bryson treated some of them, you know.”
    Fair cut his waffles into neat squares before spearing one. “Right. It’s a wonder he didn’t take out an ad in the paper to announce his pro bono work. He made sure we all knew of his charitable deeds, that being one. I never