“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. Nothing.” He uttered the second “nothing” softly. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Maybe I could drum up a contribution to make up what I lost?”
Brother Morris stared at him as though he were five years old with an ice-cream cone about to drip on the sofa.
“Forget it.”
“I could go to Bryson for money.”
“No. Anyway, he’s made a contribution, and that is Brother Luther’s job.”
“Maybe Racquel would like to give something. We could put her name on something.” Brother George was desperate. “When I stopped by his office, Bryson mentioned that Racquel is interested in what we do. He also mentioned that she thinks he’s having an affair. He was a little worried. His marriage is important to him.”
“Given the social status she brings him—old blood—I guess it is. Listen to me.The money is gone. Ten thousand dollars isn’t worth you making a bigger mess of things. I seriously doubt Racquel would give us money, especially if she doubts her husband and we are his main charity, not her.”
“Actually, I think he loves her.”
Brother Morris shrugged. “Perhaps. I’ve never been able to untangle love from dependency. She all but wipes his ass for him.” A hint of venom escaped Brother Morris’s lips.
“I’ve let you down. Please let me make it up.”
“At this point, you’d screw up a two- car funeral. Do nothing. Say nothing. Well, you can pray.”
“Yes. I’ve grown to like praying.”
“Then get on your knees and pray that Harry Haristeen isn’t dead. If she is, there will be hell to pay.”
“But no one knows I hit her.”
“Not now and maybe not ever, but murder is a terrible crime.You know”—he wiggled his toes on the heating pad— “so many of the operas I’ve sung involved the consequences of dreadful deeds. I believe it.”
“Yes, well.” Brother George never thought of himself as a murderer.
“And we are under scrutiny because of the deaths of Brother Christopher and Brother Speed. We can’t afford a misstep. When the sheriff or his deputy come back, make yourself scarce. I don’t trust that you won’t give yourself away.”
“I won’t say anything. I know you think I’m an idiot, but I’m not that stupid.”
“It’s not what you say. It’s how you act. Don’t give them a chance to read you.”
“I’ll try.” He then asked, “I do wonder who killed those two. They were lovely men. Lovely.”
“If I ever get my hands on who did it, I’ll risk going to jail myself.” He looked at Brother George. “Perhaps there was no other way to retrieve the money. She wouldn’t have left it there, but to leave a woman in the snow, in the cold, a storm brewing—Goddamnit, the least you could have done was call someone. Me, for instance.”
“I panicked. I told you, all I thought of was protecting our interests.”
Wearily, Brother Morris said, “Leave me. Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you suffer. George, you made a mistake, let’s leave it at that.”
After Brother George slunk away, Brother Morris killed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.
27
“You are too much!” Susan threw open the kitchen door and yelled.
Harry, in the living room, contemplating wrapping paper strewn all over the floor, heard her best friend’s voice. “So are you!”
They collided in the kitchen with the hugs, kisses, and usual screams of Southern women who adored each other and had been apart anywhere from twenty- four hours to twenty- four years.
“Where’s handsome?”
“In the barn. One of my Christmas presents was that he would do all the chores. Did them yesterday, too. Want to feed Simon and the owl with me? They get Christmas treats.” Harry wore a baseball cap to cover her wound.
“Sure.” Susan walked into the living room. “I can see your crew has had a big Christmas.”
“Tearing up the paper—that’s okay. It’s when they climb the tree that there’s a problem.” Harry surveyed the scene, deciding the hell with it. “I love my present.”
“Love mine, too. Whatever possessed you to buy me a rotisserie?”
“Whatever possessed you to buy me a vacuum for the horses?”
At this they burst out laughing, realizing that for the last year each of them had repeatedly mentioned how much the rotisserie and the vacuum would ease their respective chores.
“What’d your honey- do husband get you?”
Susan clapped her hands together. “He bought me season tickets to the Virginia Theater in Richmond and a day at the spa, but, best of all, look!” She held out her right arm, on which dangled an intricately wrought bracelet of eighteen-karat gold. “Can you believe? At today’s prices, no less.”
“That’s gorgeous.” Harry held Susan’s arm, pretending to unlock the bracelet.
Susan slapped her hand. “How about you?”
“A huge thermos so I can make his coffee the nights he’s on call. He says I need my sleep and, much as he loves me getting up to hand him a thermos, he wants me to sleep. There’s the thermos.” She pointed under the tree. “I mean, you could water a platoon with that.”