“Now, now,” she chided, but loved it. “Drink?”
“You know what, I’m going to fix myself a cup of tea.You stay seated.”
“Then I’m not much of a hostess.” She watched as he rose to go to the small kitchen area.
“You’re the best hostess in the county and the best fundraiser, too.”
“The second-oldest profession.” She put her feet up on a hassock after removing her paddock boots, which were slip-ons.
Fair turned on a faucet specially designed to produce water just a hair under boiling. “I keep meaning to ask you where you got this and then I forget.”
“The boiling-water tap?”
“Yes.”
“Most plumbing supplies have them.”
“Think I’ll get one for Harry for Christmas. No, I’ll get two. One for the house and one for the barn.”
“She’ll like that.”
“Got her a necklace to match the ring I bought her when we were in Shelbyville.”
“She’ll like that, too. Harry is a very good-looking woman. It just takes a miracle to get her out of her jeans and into a dress.”
“Actually, Big Mim, I like getting her out of her jeans.”
They both laughed.
“I would imagine her Christmas spirit and yours are somewhat dimmed by what you saw. Rick called me, of course.”
The sheriff knew to keep Big Mim in the pipeline. There would be hell to pay if he didn’t; plus, her connections had helped him many a time. Big Mim knew everyone, and she had many, many favors she could call in.
Fair sipped his tea, a bracing Darjeeling. “No one likes coming upon a dead body. It upset Harry because she’d just talked to him that afternoon. She said he was committed to the order, to doing good in life.”
“I expect most of the brothers are making up for some perceived or real sins. And some people are cut out for the contemplative life.”
“I’m not one of them.”
“Obviously not.” She smiled.
“If Rick talked to you, then you know whoever slit his throat did so with skill and speed.”
“Yes.” She paused. “And Christopher gave no alarm.”
“No.”
“Strange. And no footprints in the snow?”
“The snow was mashed down,” he replied.
“If the killer is smart, and I reckon he is, he could have walked backward in his footsteps until it was safe to turn around.”
“Never thought of that.” Fair paused a moment. “Harry thinks there will be more killings.” He half-smiled. “You know Harry.”
“Let’s hope she’s wrong, but the fact that this had to be well thought-out and fairly quickly executed—at the back of the tree farm, which was open to the public—suggests a killer with a good mind. You know what I mean: a smart person, however misshapen his moral code, with perhaps an assistant.”
“Ah. Never thought about an assistant.”
“The work would go more quickly.” She stopped herself, then continued, “What I don’t understand is why someone didn’t hear them.”
“The element of surprise, perhaps? Then again, what if he knew his killer? Sure would simplify the process.”
“Yes.” She folded her hands together.
“And the Christmas tree farm, like any business, has peak hours of activity. In this case, people would come in the largest numbers after work. Brother Sheldon was up front. He’d occupy them.”
“Think Brother Sheldon was in on it?”
“No. He did seem genuinely distraught, and he passed out. I’ve never passed out. Must be a strange feeling.”
“I did once, in Venice of all places. Felt a little weak and woozy. Next thing I remember is waking up with Big Jim picking me up and people speaking in Italian so fast I couldn’t understand a word. It could be, just to play devil’s advocate,” she switched back to the primary subject, “that Brother Sheldon was acting or that he hadn’t anticipated how the sight would affect him.”
“The passing out was genuine. I really don’t think he was part of the murder. Of course, Harry and I were there in the dark. We probably missed things.There was no sign of struggle, but there was blood all around the tree. I know I missed a lot.”
“Anyone other than a law- enforcement officer would. And even they miss things sometimes.”
“Funny thing, though. Harry says she doesn’t want a tree now. I expect she’ll change her mind. She’ll see trees everywhere, so maybe the emotion will pass.”
“I didn’t know Christopher Hewitt. I knew him as a child. After all, everyone sees everyone else, and he was close in age to Little Mim and you all, but I didn’t know him. He wasn’t part of your crowd. I knew what everyone else knew: the insider- trading scandal. He seemed mild enough. But then, perhaps successful criminals always do—the kind that steal millions, I mean.”
“White-collar crime is so different from 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.