Rolling his big tree on a dolly, Alex Corbett stopped for a breather near father and son. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a $100 bill, folded it in his palm, then pressed it into the father’s hand.
Before the man could respond, Alex lifted the dolly and rolled away.
Fair called out to him, “Hold up, Alex. I’ll help you load.”
The two men maneuvered the tree to the Range Rover, then with effort hoisted it into the back, tying down the rear door since the tree stuck out.
“Thanks, Fair. Brother Sheldon is on overload.” He shook Fair’s hand.
“I’ll take the dolly back,” Fair offered.
“Hey, want to bet on the Sugar Bowl?” Alex beamed.
Fair amiably refused. “No. I don’t know enough about either team.”
Fair inhaled the scent of pine and cut wood as he left the dolly by the trailer. He rejoined his wife. They’d known each other since childhood, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.
“Honey, who’s playing in the Sugar Bowl?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
Brother Sheldon, harried, tried to keep up with the customers.
Harry waited for an opportune moment to speak to him. “Is Brother Christopher here?”
“He’s supposed to be, but I can’t find him.” Exasperation oozed from every pore.
Like Christopher, Brother Sheldon wore the heavy winter brown robe. He had socks on with his sandals. In his fifties, Brother Sheldon had converted from Reform Judaism to Christianity. The other brothers occasionally teased him about Jews for Jesus, which he bore with good grace.
“I know you’re busy,” Harry said. “I picked out our tree this afternoon. I want Fair to look at it. If he likes it, we can load it up and pay for it.”
“Fine.”
“It’s one of the balled ones.”
His eyebrows came together. “I’ll need the front- end loader. Might take some time.”
“Tell you what. Don’t worry about it. It’s in the back. We’ll check it out. If it stays busy, I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Relief flooded over his pleasant, roundish features. “I hate for you to do that, but I sure appreciate it.”
“Brother, Crozet’s not but so big. Easy to come back.”
Tucker walked back with Harry at her heels. Fair recognized a client behind one of the trees that were leaning against wooden railings. They chatted about the man’s big crossbred mare.
Harry knew the fellow, too—Olsen Godfrey. After the pleasantries were exchanged, she took Fair back to see the tree.
Mrs. Murphy, who’d stayed with Fair, fell in with Tucker.
The farther away they walked from the lighted square, the darker it became. On her truck key chain, Harry had a tiny LED light. They reached the tree and she shone the light on it.
“What do you think?” “It’s a beautiful tree. A real evergreen pyramid.” Fair put his arm around his wife’s waist and said, “You have a good eye.”
Tucker lifted her nose. “Delicious.”
Mrs. Murphy inhaled deeply. “Fresh.”
The two scooted off.
“Hey!” Harry called to them.
“We’ll be right back,” Tucker called over her shoulder.
“This tree is so perfect—the apotheosis of Christmas trees.” Harry admired it.
“Even if for some reason I didn’t like it, bet you someone else would.” Fair lifted one side of the ball. “Heavy, but I think I can get it to the truck.”
“Honey, don’t. You’re strong as a bull, but maybe Brother Sheldon would let you borrow the forklift.”
“Good idea.”
They hadn’t taken two steps toward the square when Tucker ran past them. She carried her head to the side, something in her mouth.
Mrs. Murphy, in hot pursuit, called out, “I told you to leave it. You’re going to get us in a lot of trouble.”
Tucker refused to answer lest she drop her prize.
Harry yelled, “Tucker, what have you got?”
“She stole it.” Mrs. Murphy blew past Tucker and turned to face the dog, but Tucker, with corgi agility, leapt to the side, avoiding the swift paw.
Fair sprinted toward the powerful, low- built dog. “Tucker, drop it.”
Hearing that bass voice commanding her, Tucker did release her treasure. Standing over it, she kept a glaring eye on Mrs. Murphy.
“I don’t want the damned thing,” Mrs. Murphy, eyes large, hissed.
Harry shone the LED light on the coveted object. “Black rope. It’s what the monks use to tie their robes.”
Fair stood up, all six feet five inches of him. “I’ll give this to Brother Sheldon. Hate to think of a monk in undress.” He laughed. Then he picked it up. “Sticky.”
“Tucker, where’d you find this?” Harry asked.
Tucker led her two humans to the site.
“You just can’t leave well enough alone.”
“The blood smells so delicious.”
Trotting through the long rows of planted trees, Tucker took them to the very back. Leaning against a huge, perfectly pyramidal tree was Christopher Hewitt. Eyes wide open, mouth agape, he appeared to be calling out.
Harry, using her little light, faltered a moment as she took in the scene.
Fair stopped, too. Then the vet in him took over. He checked for a pulse. He shook his head.
“The body is cooling. It’s so cold out, though, I can’t really estimate how long he’s been dead. Shine that light here.”
When the light hit Christopher’s face, Harry moved it downward. She grimaced. His throat had been so neatly sliced one barely noticed it.The dark brown of the robe matched the blood stains.
Fair flipped open his cell and called their neighbor, Deputy Cynthia Cooper, who was on duty tonight.
“Smells wonderful.” Tucker lifted her nose to inhale the aroma of fresh blood.
“Poor guy. Poor guy,” Harry repeated to herself.
“At least it was quick. Who would do such a thing?” Fair had been two years ahead of Christopher Hewitt in high school and hadn’t known him well. “Shouldn’t we tell Brother Sheldon?”
“Listen, for all we know, Brother Sheldon killed him. When we hear the sirens, we can walk out. No telling what he’ll do if he is the murderer.”
What he did was pass out.
Cooper arrived not ten minutes after Fair had worried that Brother Sheldon was the culprit. Those ten minutes seemed so long to Harry and Fair, standing still in the biting cold.
Cooper, having first checked out the scene, brought back Brother Sheldon. He keeled over without even bending at the knee.
She knelt down to lift him at the shoulders.
“Coop, let me,” Fair said.
“Thanks. Get behind him to lift him, Fair. Sometimes they puke all over you.”
Brother Sheldon didn’t throw up; he simply passed out again.
“The hell with it.” Coop gave her full attention to the scene.
“Whoever did this worked fast and knew what they were doing,” Fair commented.
“How so?” Harry asked.
“It takes some power to cut through a throat.This is neat.”
Cooper, plastic gloves on, carefully checked the body. “Doesn’t appear there’s trauma elsewhere.” She pushed up his sleeves. No bruising appeared. The coroner would be the last word on this.
“He was turning his life around. He was so positive. I can’t believe this.” Harry was upset.
“Any ideas?” Cooper stood up.
“No,” they replied in unison.
“It’s bad enough to murder someone, but at Christmas.” Harry felt both sorrow and outrage.
Brother Sheldon moaned.
“He’ll come to when he’s good and ready.” Cooper shone her powerful flashlight on Sheldon’s face. “Ought to be interesting when we find the killer.”