Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  Betty, knowing what was going through her best friend’s mind, clarified her position. “Well, I am the senior whipper-in. I am happy to continue in my position. I don’t want to hunt the hounds and really I don’t think I should.”

  “Betty, hounds love you. They’ll do whatever you ask.” Tootie admired Betty, had learned a great deal from the older woman.

  “Tootie, that’s sweet. I do love the hounds and I hope they love me back, but I am better where I am. I never had a desire to carry the horn. I think I would be an indifferent huntsman. I’m a decent whipper-in. I should stay where I’ll do the most good. We have to keep the transition as smooth as possible.”

  “The field would do as you ask. What good does it do them to complain?” Weevil piped up.

  “Not a thing, but people will be people. Whoever hunts our hounds while Shaker recuperates will be subject to intense scrutiny, what my mother called ‘the searching eye.’ I’m not the least bit worried about our hounds,” Sister forcefully stated.

  “Well, I, too, would like to decline.”

  “Tootie, you’re young. This club needs youth.”

  Betty had always wanted a female huntsman, or at the very least to whip-in to one at some point in her hunting career.

  “You have no ambition to carry the horn?” Sister directly asked her.

  “Not exactly. Of course, I dream about it, but I’m still in school and after this there will be vet school. I have to put my studies first. They don’t need lots of people hunting them. At least, I don’t think they do. Consistency. Hounds need consistency.”

  Sister smiled, for indeed Tootie had learned a great deal in her time with Jefferson Hunt. She’d started at sixteen, coming over from Custis Hall. Seeing her grow, deal with the vicissitudes of youth, of her father’s treatment of her mother and her, Sister felt protective and proud of Tootie. She also believed you let people make up their own minds.

  Nodding at Tootie, smiling, she then turned those penetrating eyes on Weevil. “And?”

  He blushed. “I would be honored to hunt the hounds. I’ve dreamed of it, watched everything when I whipped-in to Toronto–North York, watched Shaker. If you’ll take the chance on me, I’ll try.”

  The three women, silent for a moment, then all began telling him he’d be good, a period of adjustment but he’d be fine.

  “That’s settled then.” Sister rose, walked into the library, opened her desk drawer, pulled out an old, bent horn with a bit larger than average bell, returned, and handed it to Weevil. “My husband’s.”

  Couldn’t help himself, Weevil put the slightly overlarge horn to his lips and blew “All on.”

  Golly, on the counter, of course, immediately protested. “That’s awful. Shut up.”

  Raleigh and Rooster lifted their heads and howled.

  “Sorry.” Weevil blushed again.

  “Good lungs.” Betty laughed.

  “Tuesday. Muster Meadow. Tootie, pull up the map on your computer. Weevil, it’s on the other side of Cindy Chandler’s, maybe two miles down the road toward town. Much easier territory than anything around Chapel Cross or even here. The other good thing is there won’t be a lot of people. If you suffer from jitters, it won’t last long.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Betty chimed in. “It’s called Muster Meadow because when men were called to the militia for Virginia to fight the British, they came to be mustered in there. The meadows are flat enough for drills. Hence Muster Meadow.”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “I must learn more American history.”

  “As long as you know we won.” Sister teased him.

  “Oh, I think he knows that, but I suggest we write Her Majesty to see if she’ll take us back. We aren’t doing such a hot job of it.” Betty exploded in laughter.

  “I am shocked. Shocked.” Sister stared at Betty, then she, too, roared with laughter. How good it was to laugh, considering all that had happened.

  Sometimes people need to blow off steam or just be silly.

  Weevil shook his head and laughed as well.

  “Come on, Weevil. Let me pull up those maps. I know where some dens are and I can show you where the property lines are, too.” Tootie rose, touched him on the shoulder.

  Weevil stood up, horn clasped to his chest. “I will do my best. I wish I could think of more to say but I’m a little overwhelmed.” He held out the horn. “I will cherish this.”

  As they left, Sister and Betty could hear them talking as they lifted their coats off the hooks in the mudroom. Then the door opened and closed.

  “Janie, he will try his best. I can’t believe you gave him Ray’s horn. That horn is over one hundred years old. I remember when he found it.”

  “England.” Sister reached for her friend’s hand to hold. “It wasn’t doing any good in my desk. You know, I think Weevil will learn quickly and I believe he is our future. I do.”

  A long, long pause followed this. “I do, too. And Tootie, although it will take her longer. Vet school isn’t a piece of cake and then she has to do a residency. Might be years.”

  “My prediction is she will ace it all. Greg Schmidt has been making noises about retirement now.”

  Betty interrupted. “He’ll never retire. His clients will kidnap him.”

  “Well, here is what I predict. Tootie, as we all know, is frighteningly smart. When Tootie graduates, summa cum laude no doubt, Greg will snap her up. She’ll be right here in the county and she will be learning from one of the best. This county teems with terrific vets but Greg has an eye, I can’t explain it, he can see things.”

  Betty nodded for he was her vet, well, Outlaw and Magellan’s vet. “You have an eye, too.”

  “Oh”—Sister trailed off—“I can see talent. I can’t necessarily see a problem before it starts.”

  The two sat there, Raleigh and Rooster now asleep. Golly wide awake feeling she should be coddled after that piercing blast offended her tender ears. She jumped off the counter and onto Sister’s lap.

  “We should go to Shaker.” Betty changed the subject.

  “Yes. This is a face-to-face discussion. He’s still a little loopy. They jammed him full of drugs. Walter suggested both he and I speak with him tomorrow. If you could come, that would be wonderful. He’d have his old pals around him.”

  “Do you think Walter will tell him about the hand?”

  “Not right away. He has enough to process. He did ask if Showboat was all right. Walter said he had to put his ear right to Shaker’s lips but he told him Showboat was fine, the hounds were fine, everyone sends their love. Oh, Skiff was there and Walter said she was a godsend. She’s able to keep him calm because his drugs started to wear off a little and he became anxious. She beeped the nurse, according to Walter, got him more painkillers.”

  “Why would two out-of-line vertebrae cause pain?” Betty wondered.

  “Walter said it’s the headache. Once that fades away because he did take a thump on the head, remember, there won’t be a lot of pain but Walter said, as soon as he is able, we’ve got to get him into rehab. Even for walking in a straight line.”

  “Why in the world—”

  Sister filled her in. “Walter said he’ll get out of alignment. His body will compensate for whatever Shaker does to favor the injury. And then, let’s say he’s out of the brace in a month or only has to wear it during the day, Walter said his muscles might go into spasm, especially his back.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “I know. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  Betty got up, poured herself more tea because the pot was on the stove. Sister made tea the English way, rarely using a tea bag. She sat back down.

  “It will be hard to see someone else hunt the hounds.”

  Sister agreed. “He loves the hounds and despite that, seeing them run to another person,
he will do everything he can to help Weevil. Shaker has a big heart.”

  “You know something, I think Weevil does, too.”

  Sitting there in silence, listening to the fire crackle in the large kitchen fireplace, Golly purring, content in each other’s company, Sister finally spoke.

  “The cadaver dogs are at Whiskey Ridge. Didn’t want to bring it up during our discussion.”

  Betty grimaced. “I don’t know how people can do that, although I’m glad they do.”

  “Ben has divided the area into quadrants. He told me they will work their way back to Chapel Cross, knowing this will take days. I asked him why head north? He said it’s a hunch but he thinks Gregory was killed near the crossroads. So wherever the body was or was stashed, even if temporarily, he doubts the killer came as far down as Whiskey Ridge or into the land between that and Skidby, Little Dalby.”

  “Makes sense.” Betty smiled at Golly. “I’m glad I didn’t see the hand.”

  Sister laughed. “Well, it was bigger than King Stephen’s hand in the reliquary at St. Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest. Looks like a little wizened monkey’s paw with rings on the fingers. When Ray and I were in Hungary, it was Communist then, but he’d gotten us permission to go, I never asked how. The basilica is stunning and then there’s this reliquary with a hand in it. That was bad enough but there are enough pieces of the true cross in Europe to build a city. Our medieval forebears appear to have been quite gullible when it came to body parts, the nails of the cross, all that stuff.”

  “Maybe the people were gullible but I don’t think the priests and kings were. A holy relic cast legitimacy upon the king, the Church, you name it. What do we have? Nothing.”

  “You know, Betty, I never thought of that. We have the Liberty Bell, we have copies of the Constitution, but it’s not the same. Today, by the way, is Saint Thomas Aquinas’s Saint’s Day.”

  “Well, I think they all have a lot to answer for, whether it’s Saint Augustine or Saint Thomas. When it comes to women they were awful.”

  “M-m-m.” Sister returned to the search. “Betty, if the dogs find anything, how do we know it won’t flush the killer out?”

  “Isn’t that what we want? This has to be someone we know. I hate to think it but I have come to that terrible conclusion.”

  Sister thought a bit. “Finding a corpse or part of it if they do doesn’t mean it will point to the killer.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no, but I would put money on the fact that it will unnerve him unless he has some other plan.”

  CHAPTER 25

  A plume of blue smoke soared straight up into the cold night sky. Gray smoked a cigarette. He’d smoked a lot while in Washington, then worked hard to give it up. Every now and then he needed a puff. This was such a time.

  Uncle Yancy watched from the family graveyard. His den there, perfectly comfortable, was not as comfortable as living in the mudroom. The two brothers paid little attention to the mudroom, eager to be inside. A pile of old rags, folded, along with a cardboard box, small, with fabric scraps, partially covered an entrance into the mudroom from outside. The red fox could easily slip in and out, then climb up to the handy ledge over the door into the kitchen. Warmth crept out from the kitchen as well as good smells. Eventually, Uncle Yancy believed he would find a way into the kitchen, eat leftovers, food dropped on the floor, then exit to the mudroom. Now he waited for Gray to finish his cigarette so he could go into the mudroom.

  The temperature, 25ºF, accentuated the brilliant sky, almost the end of the month. Scarf pulled around his neck, a short, heavy, suede jacket lined with lambskin, warm no matter what, allowed Gray to enjoy his rebellion. Fleece-lined gloves helped, too, and his boots, Thinsulate, kept his feet warm. A lumberjack cap took care of his head.

  Summer skies, hazy, while pretty, lacked the hard lines of the winter sky, the stars brilliant, the moon looming two days from full. He looked at the graveyard, Uncle Yancy behind a tombstone. The simple headstones, drenched in silver, always consoled him as a child. He thought, These are my people. And they were.

  One last long puff, he crushed the red tip underfoot, looked up again, took a deep brisk breath, turned, opened the door to the mudroom. While not nearly as warm as the kitchen the change in temperature felt welcome. He unwound his scarf, hung up the expensive coat, put his gloves in the pockets. The minute he opened the door to the kitchen Uncle Yancy crawled up, slightly moving the rags. Never one to waste time, the fox jumped up on a side shelf and thence to the shelf over the door. One small window in the mudroom allowed him to keep tabs on the weather. He flopped on the shelf, pulling his gorgeous tail over his nose.

  Gray walked into the small living room where his brother was reading The Winter’s Tale.

  “Perfect night for this.” Sam smiled, the odor of hardwood filling the room.

  Gray, lifting his feet onto the hassock in imitation of Sam, folded his hands over his chest. “I need a good book to read but I can’t make up my mind.”

  “You have to be in the mood. I swore I would read Henry Adams’s The Degradation of the Democratic Dogma but I wasn’t there. Know what I mean?”

  “I do. You were always the brainy one. I was happy with John le Carré.”

  “Yeah, but he’s really good. Sometimes you just have to be taken away from the day.” Sam folded the play.

  “I’ve been thinking about Saturday’s hunt. So far no reports from our sheriff. He calls in to Sister. She calls me.”

  “Are you worried about her being there alone?”

  “No. Tootie’s not far, Raleigh and Rooster would take care of anyone. And I’ll be there Wednesday. I don’t see how she can be in danger.”

  “And no embezzlement?”

  Gray shook his head. “Soliden is a well-run company, which is why this public relations mistake over the pipeline is so out of whack. But Freddie and I worked nonstop given that two lives are snuffed out. Obviously, the details are not for public consumption but really, Soliden is a tight ship.”

  “M-m-m. You liked working with Freddie?”

  “Did. It’s one thing when you hunt with someone. You get a good idea of their character, their ability to tolerate risk, but this is different. She’s sharp.” He shifted in the old well-upholstered chair. “So what do we know?”

  “Rory was bashed in the head. Dragon found a hand. Left or right? I didn’t notice.”

  “Me neither, but then I wasn’t that close. So here’s what I’ve come up with. The snowstorm presented an opportunity to commit a murder that had to be in the killer’s mind.”

  “Right,” Sam replied.

  “We know roughly the area in which the killing had to take place. From the sight of the Corinthian columns to the trailers. Right?”

  “Not necessarily.” Sam sat up straighter. “What if Luckham was knocked unconscious himself or thrown down in a manner where he could neither speak nor move. He may not necessarily have been dead,” Sam continued. “What if he was left to be picked up later?”

  “In that storm?”

  “It presents a major problem. My other thought was what if he was dragged either dead or wounded? If whoever did this moved a bit to the side of the main group, who would have seen him? So he drags the body, drops it where he can find it even in a snowstorm, stores it, so to speak, until he can dispose of it.”

  “And in the bitter cold, no decay.” Gray rubbed his chin.

  “He knows the territory. When the time is right, he dumps it or he partly buries it. There are possibilities including dismemberment. I’m thinking how a hand wound up where it did.”

  “Right. Not near Chapel Cross but not really that far. A body could be dumped in the middle of the night some miles away. Animals tore it up, the hand was carried. This has to be one very cool customer.”

  “Yes and no. If he or she, and I doubt it’s a woman, knows exactl
y where he is, knows the lay of the land and where it is inhabited and not, thanks to hunting, the difficult part would be retrieving the body or even dragging it into your trailer.” Sam stopped. “Granted that’s also a big if, but what if Rory saw part of it? Think about that. We still have no idea whatsoever why Rory would be killed. What if he came over to help, sees a limp body shoved into a trailer, and wham. Then he’s dragged across the street as everyone is frantically trying to get out of there. It’s possible.”

  “Okay. Let’s say it is. I left a bit early to get the house ready because I figured Sister would have people there. It would be easier to do a caravan. I was out of there. You were not. You couldn’t see, could you?”

  “No, but I could hear.”

  “Talk? Horses loading?”

  “Right. I knew that Kasmir and Alida were still there. Makes sense since they were closer to their stable than anyone else and, if necessary, they could have put their horses in one of the Tattenhall outbuildings and stayed in the station. So they were there. I heard Freddie. I heard Dewey’s voice as he helped load the Bancroft horses and I only know that because I heard Tedi thank him. Then I heard a truck motor start up. I assumed it was Dewey after he’d helped the Bancrofts. The snow just came faster and harder. I heard trailers pull out as I was loading Trocadero. Then I heard one go in the opposite direction, the wrong direction I thought about that. I didn’t think anything of it. I was one of the last ones out except for staff and then I heard the trailer return. I think it must have been the same trailer once whoever was driving figured out he or she was going the wrong way.”

  “You never heard Rory’s voice?”

  Sam shook his head no. “I expect by the time I was untacking he was gone. And I had no idea he was there to help.”