Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “The second issue is was he drunk?” Betty said what they all thought.

  “If he were blind drunk, then maybe he would have simply fallen into the ditch. I’m not saying he couldn’t have been drunk, but his death was a deliberate act. I asked Sam and Gray, now you two. Did you ever think Rory could have been involved in something illegal?”

  “Rory?” Sister’s eyebrows arched upward. “Like what?”

  “Well, as an alcoholic, a former alcoholic—”

  Betty interrupted Ben. “They all tell you they are alcoholic, even if they’ve been sober for thirty years.”

  “They do, don’t they?” He nodded. “Well, as an alcoholic, who would know better where thirst is? I refer to our profitable stills in the county. If there’s one thing Virginians can do, it’s make astonishing white lightning. Load up trucks and carry it north of the Mason-Dixon Line. No taxes. Paid in cash. Quite a business.”

  “All that beautiful water cascading down the Blue Ridge Mountains. Nothing like it,” Sister said.

  “So you have sampled same?” He half smiled at her.

  “Of course not.” She smiled back. “Okay, what else?”

  “Drugs, prostitution, child pornography.”

  “Never.” Betty defended Rory. “Never. Never. Never.”

  “Horse stealing. It still goes on. Maybe doesn’t make as much money as during the last century, but it still does go on, as do theft, breaking and entering. Silver is easy to sell.”

  “If he was making money in an illegal fashion, wouldn’t we have seen some improvement in his circumstances? That old car of his was held together with duct tape.” Sister stated the obvious.

  “We’ll investigate his bank account. The usual stuff. But you’re right. One would think there would be some improvement. He lived in the little apartment over Crawford’s stable. Sam wasn’t worried about him. His car was gone and Monday is his day off. He thought maybe Rory took time after Christmas Hunt, sort of a long weekend thing. He lived simply.” Ben paused. “Yes, we’ve been through the apartment. No TV. No computer. A few books. A twin bed and a wardrobe with a couple of shirts and a decent raincoat, Barbour, a gift from Crawford to whom we’ve also spoken. He had four sweatshirts, two sweaters, one nice. A pair of work boots and two pairs of worn cowboy boots. The refrigerator contained milk, eggs, a small steak. The cupboard had two boxes of cereal and one can of McCann’s Irish oatmeal. Again, not much. No mail, no bills, no credit cards. Rory was truly off the grid. Oh, he owned a razor, shaving cream, a bar of oatmeal soap, a jar of shampoo, and a small bottle of cologne.”

  “Beloved,” Sister said.

  “How did you know?”

  “Gray gave it to him for Christmas. It’s expensive. Gray wanted him to have something nice and since he didn’t know the true cost of the cologne, he readily accepted it. He would have been embarrassed to own a bottle like that, near to four hundred dollars I think.”

  “No kidding?” Betty was aghast.

  Sister smiled. “Gray, mostly prudent, has his ways. He tells me our lives as foxhunters revolve around scent so he will give off the best scent. You should see his bathroom. He has even more cologne at Old Lorillard.”

  “Sweet of him to think of Rory.” Betty then turned to Ben. “Rory’s mother is still alive. Steel yourself. She’s awful.”

  “She is. I sent Jackie out to visit her. Women can be better at these things. She came back and said his mother asked nothing about him. She only wanted to know, or rather she wanted the county to know, she didn’t have the money to bury him. And Jackie also said she’d never seen a wastebasket so overflowing with bottles.”

  “Rory had a hard life. He made something of himself. It took Sam’s help and most people would only see a day laborer, a poor white man. I saw a success. His murder makes no sense.” Sister finished her hot chocolate, needing a pick-me-up.

  “If he were involved in something illegal, it might make sense. He was killed to shut him up or so someone else would reap all the profits.”

  “That might also apply if he found out about someone else. Rory wouldn’t tolerate something criminal. Illegal liquor, yes, but that’s a way of life here. No one thinks of it as criminal except the feds.”

  “Yes.” Ben waited a beat, then agreed.

  Betty added, “What if he came upon someone committing a crime?”

  “Anything is possible.” Ben twirled his cup in his hands. “I don’t feel good about this. Sorry that sounds odd. No one feels good about a murder, but usually we have at least one obvious suspect, other persons of interest. Not always but usually. We have nothing. Nothing but snow.” He paused. “Crawford told us Rory had been at the Carriage House with him checking on lumber. The storm came up and Rory asked to be dropped at Tattenhall Station. He said he didn’t want Sam to drive alone hauling Trocadero in that storm. I spoke to Sam, who said he never saw Rory. Knew nothing about it. All we know is he did make it to Tattenhall Station.”

  Betty, thinking out loud, asked, “Could this be related to Luckham’s disappearance?”

  Sister interjected. “Rory didn’t know Gregory Luckham. How could he be involved?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t involved, you know, part of what surely has to be a crime. But what if he saw something?”

  Sister considered this. “Anything is possible, although I don’t know how he could see something when none of us could see.”

  Ben, carefully choosing his words, said, “Betty, we are not ruling out some connection to Gregory Luckham. Sister is correct in that everyone we have spoken to so far feels certain that Rory and Gregory didn’t know each other. And all recognize either the coincidence or noncoincidence of one man missing and another found dead near where Gregory was last seen. Granted it’s about four miles from the Corinthian columns to Chapel Cross, but Rory was with Crawford at Old Paradise. He may have been closer to the event, for lack of a better word, than we know.”

  After Ben left, the two washed cups at the sink.

  “I’ll forever see him. The shock of seeing his face appear under the snow,” Sister said.

  “I wish there was something I could do.” Betty’s voice sounded hopeless.

  “There is.” Sister’s voice was firm. “We can find his killer.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The much vaunted January thaw warmed Saturday the sixth. Warm being relative, it was 46ºF, which felt marvelous the last few weeks of ferocious winter. Roads plowed meant you could actually drive from point A to point B. However, back roads and farm roads remained spotty, which forced Sister to shift New Year’s Hunt, the last of the High Holy Days, to this Saturday since more people can hunt as opposed to a weekday. As the search was still continuing for Gregory Luckham, she chose not to schedule New Year’s Hunt near the Chapel Cross area.

  Parking big rigs was possible there for the owners of Welsh Harp, well off, had snowplows, big John Deere tractors, any kind of implement a farmer or gentleman farmer could want. The new fixture also housed foxes, both reds and grays.

  The pack, deep into the Pippin apple orchard for which the property was famous in the late nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries, had lost a good line.

  Giorgio, a newer bloodline Sister was developing, raised his head. “He didn’t head into the wind. He’s not stupid.”

  Dragon agreed. “None of them are. The older they get, the smarter they get.”

  Taz, another male, moved off toward the middle of the orchard.

  “Taz, what are you doing?” Giorgio asked.

  “What if he has a disguised den in the middle of the orchard? It’s so barren, the humans wouldn’t think to look.”

  The apple trees, limbs gnarled, ice having melted, looked black, appeared fairy tale–like and, Taz was right, barren. One could imagine fairies or worse watching from the branches.

  Nose down, Taz returned to whe
re they lost the scent and cast in a wide circle. Shaker, on Hojo, ready to blow the hounds together to move on, observed. He had faith in Taz, now in his prime. Taz, steady, patient, could save the day while the other hounds could get fussy. Zane, a younger hound, followed Taz. Then his littermate, Zorro, tagged along.

  “This has to be him.” Zorro inhaled. “Faint though.”

  Rivulets of melted snow ran between the apple rows as the land tilted just slightly. The fox had run into the water, to weaken his scent.

  “It is him!” Taz was now obsessed.

  Shaker, silent, walked slowly toward and behind the three hounds. The other hounds followed, soon helping Taz, Zorro, and Zane. This scent line taunted them but hounds solve problems. The whole pack became determined.

  Diana and Dreamboat pushed. Finally they stopped at a large puddle in front of an ancient walnut tree in the middle of the orchard. This majestic tree commanded the area. The owners gave it plenty of room respecting the giant’s years.

  “He’s here,” Taz declared with authority.

  “Where?” Little Pookah, not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, wondered.

  “Get your feet wet, Kiddo.” Dreamboat teased the youngster as the larger, bold hound splashed through the puddle, deeper than anticipated.

  “Puddle, hell,” Giorgio complained.

  A visible hole at the base of the tree emitted heavy gray fox scent. Their quarry built his den in the tree and he was so clever that he could climb up inside if need be and emerge out on mighty branches as thick as other tree trunks. Some had become so heavy they bent, dipping to the ground. The interior of the walnut allowed him to create different levels, for the hollowing out wasn’t complete. Various natural levels existed inside. The gray fox, secure in his lodgings, considered going out on a branch to torment the peons below but figured they’d stay longer if he did that. Better they go away.

  Weevil had ridden up beside Shaker in case he chose to dismount. Betty and Tootie remained on their sides in case Shaker cast from the tree or the fox bolted, doubtful, but you never know with a fox. Foxes never read hunting books so they do exactly as they please, every moment being ad hoc. Drives humans crazy for humans like patterns and predictability.

  Reposing on his third floor, the gray, coat luxurious, listened to the confusion and talk outside. “Idiots.”

  “Good hounds. Good hounds.” Shaker beamed.

  Sister brought the field up closer to view the tree. What a sight they made in their formal attire contrasting against the black fruit trees, the packed-down, melting snow on the earth.

  “Just makes me want to read Aesop’s Fables tonight.” Sister grinned for she was bursting with pride at the detective work of Taz, Zane, and Zorro. She loved a stayer, human, horse, or hound. Any creature that wouldn’t give up, that pressed on despite the odds, touched her heart, and these three showed off the work ethic of those bloodlines she prized. Not that she’d brag. Sister was a lady. However, if anyone praised her hounds, he or she would receive a warm thank-you and the Master would remember someone who paid attention to hound work.

  “What do you think?” Shaker leaned toward her as he’d remounted after blowing “Gone to Ground.”

  “Everyone still looks fresh. How about you cast toward the caves?”

  “As you wish.” He teased her, using the command from a fairy tale.

  As Weevil, this being his first year whipping-in to the pack, didn’t know this territory, Sister simply pointed her crop to the west. “The caves run along the base of the mountains at this point. There’s an underground stream in there runs maybe a quarter mile, then comes out not far from the house.”

  “Thank you.” He followed Shaker as she dropped back. Then he did, too. The huntsman picked up a trot to hustle out of the orchard. A large pasture abutted the orchard and then a narrow strip of woods, mostly pines.

  Sam, riding with his brother, watched a well-fed sharp-shinned hawk. Game was plentiful here for small to medium-sized predators.

  Gray, on Cardinal Wolsey, relaxed a bit. Sam, though grieving, showed no signs of self-destructive behavior. He couldn’t bring himself to clean out Rory’s meager possessions, though, so Gray and Skiff, along with Marty, Crawford’s wife, sorted through belongings, thoroughly cleaning everything for the next occupant, no one in mind at the present.

  Bobby Franklin, bringing up Second Flight, stopped, pulled off his cap, counted twenty, then bellowed “Tallyho.”

  A fox coming out of the woods, bursting through the still nasty thornbushes, shot alongside Second Flight, heading toward the orchard.

  Shaker turned the pack, galloped to where he could see the Second Flight leader, dropped the pack along the parallel of Bobby’s arm. Within less than a minute the pack screamed for the scent, fresh, only got fresher.

  As the terrain sloped down, hilly in spots, Sister unconsciously slipped her leg a bit forward. Not show ring position but it sure could keep you in the saddle if you ran over sloping ground or took a drop jump, which loomed straight ahead. First the hounds cleared it, picture perfect, then Shaker, then Weevil, such a beautiful rider that Sister forced herself to take her eyes off him as the stout coop drew ever closer. Rickyroo, smooth, rather enjoyed drop jumps. He came up, rated by Sister, found the perfect spot, and sailed over. The landing, good, still proved a little slippery. His front legs skidded along, his hindquarters sank low, and so did Sister. Leaning back, she laughed. Rickyroo, a fabulously balanced horse, truly was worth his weight in gold, one of the reasons she rarely interfered with him. Sister usually let her mount pick the takeoff spot. Not only because he knew his job but he could feel the earth better than she. All she ever had to do was rate him if he wanted to pick up speed before she did. In her mind, why ride a horse if you don’t trust him? In his mind, why take care of a human if you didn’t love her?

  The fox, a brilliant red, put on the afterburners. He hadn’t been hunted all season. He’d become a trifle lazy. The speed of the pack pressed him so evasive maneuvers were in order. Knowing where the gray lived, he blew through the orchard, right by the walnut, hoping the heavy scent would split the pack, especially the young entry. Wrong. Hounds stuck together. As the old saying goes, “You could have thrown a blanket over them.”

  Past the tree, he flew on until he came out of the orchard and then, devil in his eye, he shot straight for the trailers. Not only did he go through the parking, he even dashed in and out of one trailer. So did the hounds. This bought him just enough time to charge by a slew of outbuildings, all painted and prim, until he popped into his den under the children’s playhouse, a replica of the main house.

  Hounds reached this charming structure about four minutes later. Shaker, long a huntsman, knew he had to get his hounds away from the little house. They were so keyed up, they’d jump through windows, smashing them, or they’d plow through gardens, which, covered in snow, still contained bulbs ready to show themselves come March or April. It was a sure bet those bulbs had been planted by the children, too.

  He blew three blasts, then motioned for his whippers-in to close in. Betty knew exactly what ran through his mind. Neither Tootie nor Weevil did but you do as the huntsman commands, so they surrounded the hounds, pushing them back from the house, while Shaker turned to ride away. Usually hounds follow the huntsman. Sister pulled up about forty yards back. The ground had been torn up enough. No point in dragging the field through it. As it was she would offer any restoration that might be needed.

  “Why is he leaving? The fox is here!” Pansy, Pookah’s sister, was aghast.

  “Yeah!” Angle, young entry, wondered.

  “Just do it,” Dreamboat ordered the youngsters.

  Doing as told, the young ones bitched and moaned as they walked, plodded really, every step a torture, toward their huntsman. Once far enough away, Shaker stopped, praised his hounds for their good work. He couldn’t
help but notice the baleful looks from the P’s and Angle.

  Sister, Shaker, Betty, Tootie, and Weevil walked them throughout the off-season, groomed them, wormed them, fed them, played with them. Their attitude was easy to read.

  “Shaker, let’s call it a day.” Sister smiled at him, both knowing it had been a decent day. Stop while you’re ahead.

  The breakfast, in the house, found everyone in a good mood, although the subject of the still missing man and the discovery of Rory somewhat muted the vigor of a decent day. Welsh Harp’s owners were thrilled to see everyone in their best kit.

  Sister apologized to the hosts concerning the grounds by the playhouse. They told her not to worry, but she whispered to Walter later that they needed to buy bulbs, lots of bulbs, and even help the kids plant them.

  Her Joint Master agreed. Walter possessed a sure touch with people. As a cardiologist, he needed it.

  Aunt Daniella and Yvonne enlivened the group along with other “muffin hounds.”

  Yvonne walked over to Sam. “A good day to start the second half of the season?”

  “It was. You’ll be out here next year.”

  “I will. Your aunt, per usual, gave me a running commentary on the history of the place. She said during the war, German P.O.W.s were held here and picked apples.”

  “Before my time but you know fifty years after the war, a lot of them came back to visit here, to see the Americans who imprisoned them but took care of them. It was quite an emotional event and they all wanted to see the orchards. A lot of tears.”

  Yvonne put her hand on Sam’s forearm, voice low. “Sometimes I forget what we mean to other people. We, as Americans. You just reminded me.”

  He nodded. “Bad news sells. If there isn’t any, make it up or drag down anyone who ever accomplished anything. You don’t read about the good we’ve done and do.”

  People interrupted them, some to express their condolences, for most of the foxhunters knew what Sam and Rory had lived through. Most of those who lived in the territory had done so, but those who traveled on weekends had not.