Free Santa Clawed by Rita Mae Brown

puffs.
    “Given her state, I think she’s having a water buffalo.”
Mrs. Murphy kneaded the rug.
    “May they be happy together.”
    This made Mrs. Murphy laugh so loudly that Harry and Fair looked up from their books and started laughing.
    Pewter, in the kitchen, heard it all and was doubly furious.
“You’re talking about me. I know it!”
    “Yes, we are,”
Tucker called out.
    Pewter shot out of the kitchen, into the living room. Upon reaching Tucker, she puffed up and jumped sideways.
    Mrs. Murphy dryly commented,
“You’ve scared Tucker half to death.”
    “Serves her right.”
Pewter flounced next to Mrs. Murphy.
    “We weren’t really talking about you,”
Tucker fibbed.
    This disappointed Pewter, who felt she was the center of the universe.
    Quickly changing the subject, Tucker said,
“Maybe whoever put the coin under Christopher’s tongue is crazy. There’s no logic to it.”
    “Maybe. Maybe it’s camouflage,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
    Pewter gave up her anger to curiosity.
“Why do you say that?”
    “Humans pretend they’re crazy to cover up bad things. They get away with it, too. At least, I think they do.”
    Tucker, alert now, roused herself to sit up.
“Isn’t it odd how people miss so much about one another? I can understand that they can’t smell emotions—just the sweat of fear, for instance—but they listen to what people say instead of watching them.”
    “Maybe they don’t want to know.”
Pewter blinked as an ember crackled and flew up against the fire screen.
    Mrs. Murphy, the end of her tail swishing slightly, remarked,
“Could be. Then again, theft, graft, political violence—that’s human behavior. Corruption”
—she shrugged—
“just the way they do business, a lot of them, anyway, and it’s always the ones who make the most fuss about morals. Humans rarely kill one another over corruption or political ideas short of revolution. When they kill, it’s usually personal. When I think about Christopher Hewitt being killed, I try to find that link to another human. Something close.”
    “Hmm.”
Pewter watched Harry take her yellow highlighter to run over something in her book.
“But isn’t that the thing about monks: they aren’t close. They’ve withdrawn from the world, pretty much.”
    Tucker lifted her head.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
    Pewter, listening intently to what Mrs. Murphy just said, replied,
“I resent getting involved in human messes. I don’t give a fig about Christopher Hewitt. Harry drags us in.”
    As the animals chatted, Harry’s cell rang. “Hello.”
    Brother Morris answered, “Hello, Harry, Brother Morris here. In all our grief and upset over our loss, I forgot your sorrow. After all, you and Fair knew Brother Christopher longer than any of us. I am sorry you found him. I’m so sorry you’ve had to see a high school friend like that.”
    Harry responded, “Thank you. We will all miss him.” She then asked, “How are you doing? I know this is hard for you.”
    A pause followed this question. “It takes some time for it to sink in. I try to remember that God loves us all, even killers. I try not to hate, to judge the sin and not the sinner, but at this moment I am not successful. I’d like to get my hands on this, this—” He sputtered because he couldn’t find the right word.
    “That’s only natural.”
    “Well, I don’t mean to burden you with my feelings.”
    “I asked. If we’re true Christians, then am I not my brother’s keeper?”
    Another long pause followed. “Yes, Harry, you are. Thank you for reminding me.”
    “Anything I can do for you?”
    “Yes. We’re singing at St. Luke’s Christmas party, which you know. I look forward to it, but I’ve lost my pitch pipe. Do you have one? It would save a trip down the mountain.”
    “I’ll get one. We’re going to have a huge crowd because you’re singing.”
    “That’s very flattering.”
    “How often do we hear a Met star?” Harry named the New York opera house