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difficult at one time or another. Directors of opera houses learn to deal with egos as oversize as the voices. Gender seems not to be a determining factor. Of course, there are good and bad in every bunch, and Brother Morris, known then as Morris Bartoly, gave little trouble. He never fussed over the size of his dressing room or the placement of it. He appreciated large food baskets, especially fruit, for he loved to eat, and a bracing brandy assisted the digestion. However, he never showed up drunk, was always on time, and was perfectly willing to work with other stars far less generous in temperament than himself.
    In short, he was a dream star, which made his crash all the more scandalous. Brother Morris slept with both men and women. Not that that was anything new. He often slept with them simultaneously, although how either gender bore the bulk remains mysterious. Discreet in his selections, Morris often chose partners who were married and slavish fans of opera. Few, if any, suspected his desires for threesomes. What did him in was not the number of playmates. One husband accepting Brother Morris’s attentions just so happened to take pictures on his cell phone of the star servicing his wife, or was it vice versa? The sight of this behemoth performing various acts of copulation, dressed as a ballerina from
Swan Lake,
in specially made costumes, proved too much. The pictures on the cell phone showcased a thrilling dexterity for one so large. But, alas, when the news broke and he appeared onstage, he wasn’t booed off, he was laughed off.
    Brother Morris disappeared from the scene. A downward spiral of prostitutes and recreational drugs scuttled him. His taste for costumes became even more outrageous. He found Jesus when he landed in the gutter, dressed as Cleopatra, eyes heavily made up. Eschewing all publicity, he began to perform good works instead of tantric sex. He finally came to the Brothers of Love years later, where his energy and undeniable extroverted appeal made him invaluable, especially at the bedside of the dying.
    When the founder of the Brothers of Love, Brother Price, formerly Price Newbold, died, it was a foregone conclusion that Brother Morris would become head of the order. He did. No one regretted the decision. In addition to his kindness to the dying, he showed fine managerial skills.
    At this exact moment, those skills were in use. Officer Doak, worried about Brother Sheldon’s condition, had driven him up Afton Mountain. Sheriff Shaw had given him the go-ahead to inform Brother Morris of events. It was up to Brother Morris to determine how to break this to “the boys,” as he teasingly called them.
    Brother Morris never got the chance. Brother Sheldon crossed the threshold of the monastery with such a wailing and weeping that everyone in their cells rushed out.
    A monk’s living quarters is traditionally called a “cell,” and these, while spare, did have heat and running water. No luxuries abounded, though.
    He blurted out everything in lurid detail. Brother Morris, whose cell was farthest down the hall, arrived just as Brother Sheldon reached the pinnacle of his tale: the discovery of the body.
    Horrified, he noticed the sheriff’s man heading toward him.
    “Brother Morris, could we talk in private?”
    Nodding and then flicking his forefinger at Brother George, the second in command, he ushered Officer Doak into his office, where the young man told him what they’d found, with less drama than Brother Sheldon.
    In defense of Brother Sheldon, how often do you find a man, murdered, propped up against a Christmas tree? However, Brother Sheldon flourished when his emotions expanded, so he was now in his glory.
    “My God, this can’t be true.” Brother Morris’s heavily bearded face became pale.
    “I’m afraid it is, sir—I mean, Brother.”
    Brother Morris waved his hand. “Call me what you like. Have you any suspects?”
    “No. But the investigation is just beginning. The