In which NaNoWriMo continues and there's a small clue here somewhere

Claus of Death:  a murder mystery

Anna had not cried.  She hadn’t yelled, or screamed insults.  She hadn’t even vomited—she was quite proud of that.  She’d felt like puking over Alex and Finn and Seamus and everyone else.  But she hadn’t.

When the brawl had roiled out of the kitchen to where people were gathered around the dining table, she’d looked over at Seamus on the bodhrán and the others on the step-up stage with her. 

Seamus had grinned that easy grin at her, and, without turning to face the rest of the band, raised his thumb up over his head—the signal to pick up the already brisk pace of “The Rocky Road to Dublin”.

Jimmy on the flute gave a whoop and immediately sped them up, and Anna went with the others where the beat led them, Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road and all the ways to Dublin, whack follol de-dah….

Down on the floor, she saw more fighters jump onto the dogpile, while a few of the sensible ones—mostly moms with small kids, Anna noticed—grabbed up and away from the bubbling mass of kicking legs, punching fists, and other violent body parts.  "Hurrah me soul" says I,   me Shillelagh I let fly,  Galway boys were by and saw I was a hobblin'…

She heard another whoop from the flute player, felt the tune lurch in a new direction, and bent her head down over her violin, bow arm sawing, fingers flying to catch up.  With a "lo!" and "hurray!" they joined in the affray...

She heard somebody yell, an obscenity she didn’t recognize, probably another of the xwiTs’ivsuu insults involving reindeer, and then she felt a rush of air just before the fast-moving clenched fist appeared in her vision, between her face and her instrument.  Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky ro--…

And then, a yank, a clang, a crash and a crack like the rupture of a great tree trunk felled by wind.  Suddenly, the band went silent, and the crowd noise coasted down to a hush.

The party of fighters, singers, and dancers, eaters and drinkers skidded to a sloppy halt as well, as all faces in the room turned to Anna and the violin that now dangled, shattered like an ancient bone, from her hand. 

Finn was on the floor at her feet, and Alex, who had been aiming for the smaller man’s nose, stood before her.  His bloodied right hand was limp now, no longer clenched, and his left was raised up to her in supplication.

“Anna, your fiddle, oh, Anna!”

Was he talking?  Was he saying words that she knew?  He might be speaking  xwiTs’ivsuu, for all that she could tell.  She could hear his voice, alone.  Nobody else was saying anything. Nobody was even moving.

She stood there, the limp instrument lifeless in her hand. 

s nose, stood before her, his hand bloody from the slashe

She did not cry.nna, your---nched, and his left was raised up to her in supplication.