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forensics team will return at dawn since it’s so dark now. I’m sorry, but we have to keep the Christmas tree farm closed for at least one more day.”
    “Small matter.” He folded his hands together, bowed his head, then looked up. “What can I do to help you? We all loved Brother Christopher. Please let us help.”
    “We’ll be back tomorrow to ask questions. That’s a help, a beginning.” Doak was soothing.
    “Of course. Of course.” Brother Morris’s voice shook slightly.
    “We will be questioning everyone involved.” Officer Doak leaned forward slightly. “I know you are suffering a terrible shock, but I have a few questions now.”
    “I understand.”
    “Did Brother Christopher have any enemies in the order?”
    Shaking his head vigorously, Brother Morris responded, “No, no, he was loved by all.” He smiled slightly. “We are the Brothers of Love, but as you know, Officer, people do have trouble getting along. Not Brother Christopher. He was an easy fellow, and the love of Christ shone through him.”
    “Did anyone from the Christmas tree farm ever complain? A customer perhaps?”
    “Not that I know of, but I will ask the other brothers.”
    Officer Doak rose. “Someone from the department will return tomorrow. I am sorry for your troubles, sir. We will do everything in our power to apprehend the murderer.”
    “I know you will. Go with God, Officer.” A tear ran down his apple cheek into the grizzled beard. Doak passed through the long hall.
    Once the officer left, in the front hall the noise had grown louder. Emotions ranged from stunned catatonia to Brother Sheldon ripping his shirt and fainting again. Brother Morris watched as Brother George fanned him.
    “Brother Ed, go to the infirmary and fetch the smelling salts.” Brother Morris stood to his full height of six foot two inches and said, “Brothers, horrible as this is, remember that Brother Christopher has gone home. He is with Christ, and we celebrate his release from this mortal coil. Brother Luther, you’re in charge of a service for him, Friday. Brother Howard, you’re in charge of the reception. Now”—a long pause followed—“does anyone have any ideas, know anything that might contribute to our understanding this loss?”
    Blank looks met his request.
    A tiny brother, a handsome former jockey who had hit the skids, piped up, “Maybe he didn’t spend all the money.”
    “Say what?” Brother Morris seemed confused.
    “Insider trading,” Brother Speed, the jockey, replied. “He lost a lot of money for people. Have you ever heard of anyone who did such a thing not squirreling away a large bundle for themselves?”
    Shocked, Brother Morris said, “He would have given it back.”
    Brother Speed, who knew a thing or two about crooks and scumbags, calmly stood his ground. “Now, Brother, I want to agree with you, but my hunch is that this all gets back to his stock-market days. There has to be a pile of money somewhere.”
    “Then why stay in the order?” Brother Luther was puzzled.
    “For a cover. Maybe.” Brother Speed shrugged. “I’m not saying this is the case. You asked for ideas.”
    Brother Morris stroked his beard. “Brother Speed, I hope you’re wrong, but under the circumstances not one of us can rule out the possibility. If each of you would go jot down observations and thoughts, perhaps some pattern will emerge. In the meantime, I charge each of you to pray for Brother Chris’s soul and to remember the love.”
    Brother Sheldon came to with a wail. Brother Morris sighed deeply, wishing Brother Sheldon was less histrionic. He’d lived through enough of that at the opera.

D r. Emmanuel Gibson searched his memory for a similar case. Nothing came to mind. The seventy-five-year-old was a repository of pathology’s secrets; younger doctors frequently consulted him. He was in good shape, with sharp skills, as he was usually called in when the regular coroner was unavailable.
    Dr. Gibson examined the