“They were both nice-looking. So far no ugly brothers have been killed,” Harry said.
“Well, that’s something.”
“See, I told you they don’t know a thing,” Pewter said smugly. “Crabby Appleton.” Mrs. Murphy used the childhood insult.
“They know a lot. Didn’t you listen?”
“She only listens to herself talk.” Tucker rolled her eyes.
“I am sick and tired of being insulted by one snotty cat and one bubble butt.”
Pewter showed her claws for effect. “It’s someone who hates Christmas.”
Her idea was as good as anyone else’s.
18
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Racquel, I’m not lying to you.” Bryson felt exhausted.
“I know the signs.”
“I’m distracted, tired, and Christmas isn’t my favorite season.”
Both their sons were at the ice rink in downtown Charlottesville. Without the restraining influence of her children, Racquel let her emotions get the better of her.
“Who is she?”
“I swear to you I am not having an affair with a nurse, a secretary, a nurse’s aide, or any other woman.”
“One of those caretakers at the hospice is pretty. I noticed when I visited Aunt Phillipa.”
“I’m not.” He walked to the bar to fix himself a scotch on the rocks. “I am worried about the Brothers of Love. The murders could hurt donations. No one does what they do. They’re... well, you’ve seen the care.”
“Have.” Her eyes narrowed. “You do seem depressed. Maybe the affair is over.”
“Racquel, sometimes you make it hard to love you.”
“Ditto.” She strode to the bar. “Martini.”
He fixed her a dry one and they sat by the fire. “I’ve made mistakes. I was wrong. I can’t say more than that. How can we go forward if you mistrust me?”
“It’s hard to trust you. You’re accomplished at deceit.”
He took a long draft. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t men ever consider the damage they do for what amounts to fifteen minutes of pleasure?”
“Obviously not. But I am not having an affair. I told you that. You are the only woman in my life.”
“What would you do if I had an affair?”
“I don’t know.”
“It might be painful to have the shoe on the other foot.”
“Yes. Look, can’t we call a truce? It’s Christmas. The tension is so thick in this house you can cut it. For the boys’ sake.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thought I’d go over to Alex’s later for a poker game, but I’ll cancel. It’d be nice to have a little time together before the kids come back.”
She brightened at this and downed her martini. “Good idea.”
19
The snow-covered Leyland cypress swayed hypnotically in the wind. Harry, once again up since five-thirty, surveyed the orderly plantings of Waynesboro Nurseries’s stock on Tuesday morning. She’d arranged to have twelve of these lovely trees planted at Fair’s office as a Christmas present. Naturally, the evergreens wouldn’t go in the ground until spring, but she wanted to double- check to make certain of her decision.
Landscaping came naturally to Harry, probably because she loved it. She joked with her husband that if God gives you the skills in one department, he often leaves out another. This was by way of explaining her terrible taste in any clothing that didn’t involve equine pursuits. Once every two or three years, Susan would drag her to Nordstrom’s, often aided by BoomBoom, a clotheshorse.
After she’d conversed with Tim Quillen at the nurseries, she felt that itch to get something for herself, so she called Jeffrey Howe at Mostly Maples and ordered two good old-fashioned sugar maples, also to be planted in the spring.
She cranked the motor on the 1978 Ford, but before she could leave, her cell rang. Harry didn’t like to drive and talk on the phone, so she stayed put.
“Hello.”
“Honey, can you swing by Southern States and pick up extra halters and lead shanks? I forgot,” Fair said.
“Sure, honey.” Fair always kept extras in his truck just in case.
“How’s your day so far?” Harry inquired.
“Good, but it will be better when I’m home with you.”
When she clicked off her cell, she had a smile on her face.
In about thirty- five minutes she was back in Charlottesville, and she dropped by Bryson Deeds’s office. Harry had washed and dried Racquel’s pottery dishes from St. Luke’s Christmas party and offered to drop them off at the house, but Racquel told her to leave them at Bryson’s office. He would still be seeing patients right up to Christmas Eve, and she was doing last-minute shopping.
No one sat at the reception desk, so Harry put the dishes on the reception counter. As she walked out into the hall of the medical office building, she heard a door close behind her.
Brother Luther strode up to her.
“Merry Christmas, Brother Luther.”
His eyes darted around. “Merry Christmas to you.”
Noticing how nervous he was, she thought to console him. “If you’re a patient of Bryson’s, you’re in good hands. He’s a wonderful cardiologist.”
“Oh, I have a little heart murmur. Nothing to worry about. It’s extra fluttery. All these terrible events.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He grasped her hand. “Harry, if anything happens to me, call my brother in Colorado Springs.” He pulled a little notebook out of his coat pocket and scribbled the name.
Harry read it, “Peter Folsom. I didn’t know your last name was Folsom.” She smiled at him. “Your heart will tick along, but I promise I’ll call him. But, really, Brother Luther, don’t worry. You’ll just make yourself sick.”
He let go of her hand. “Someone out there is killing us. Our order. I could be next.”
“Maybe it isn’t about the order. Maybe it’s those brothers’ pasts catching up with them.”
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, even though no one was around. “It’s the order, and the past catches up with all of us.”
“Brother Luther, forgive me, but I can’t imagine what Christopher—I mean, Brother Christopher—or Brother Speed did to provoke such an”—she searched for the right word— “end.”
“You don’t want to know.” With that, he scuttled down the hall.
20
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, upset that Harry did not take them along for her errands, sat in front of the living-room fireplace. Embers still glowed from last night’s fire, a testimony to slow- burning hardwoods.
“Low- pressure system coming in,” Pewter drowsily announced.
“Windy now.” Tucker could hear the reverberations at the top of the flue as well as see the trees bending outside the windows.
“Something’s behind it.” Mrs. Murphy felt the change in atmospheric pressure, too.
“It’s cozy right here. I wish Mom would get back, to start up the fire.” Pewter snuggled farther down in the old throw on the sofa.
“She should have taken us,” Mrs. Murphy grumbled. “We can’t even tear up the tree, because she hasn’t decorated it. Of course, we could shred the silk lamp shades.”
Tucker advised, “Wouldn’t do that. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. She won’t give you your presents.”
“You’re right,” the tiger acknowledged. “We could go for a walk.”
“There’s a storm coming. Besides, why get your paws cold?” Pewter enjoyed her creature comforts.
“Well, I can’t rip anything to pieces. I don’t feel like sleeping just yet. I’ll go visit Simon.” With that, Mrs. Murphy bounced down from the sofa, walked to the kitchen, and slipped out the dog door, then through the second dog door in the screened- in porch.