Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  Sister, on Midshipman, hunting him for the first time thanks to Weevil’s work, looked west and wondered did Americans truly know their own history anymore? She listened to the lap, lap of the waterwheel, knowing that cornmeal, grains kept those early settlers alive. That and being a good shot, bringing down deer. And sometimes bringing down each other.

  Being Tuesday, the field was small. Walter always hunted his place and since doctors put in their schedules early, he could do it.

  Weevil walked down the farm road, casting hounds behind the mill. James heard the commotion, stayed put. So hounds regrouped heading down the farm road, two large pastures on either side of the solid fencing. Interest here and there but nothing special. On they walked until finally just at woods’ edge, Pansy opened. A short run, a couple of bracing jumps, but this was a pick them up, put them down kind of day. Scent just wouldn’t carry.

  Weevil worried that he wasn’t doing enough, didn’t know enough, but he was wise enough not to push or scold.

  Finally, into the woods, steep decline toward Shootrough, the back of the farm, hounds screamed. Betty kicked it into high gear as did Tootie, who saw a large black shape in front of her. Iota snorted but kept going, closing the gap. A black bear, easily four hundred pounds, rumbled, the whole pack at his heels.

  Being no fool, the bear climbed a pin oak, the branches thick so he half positioned himself on one of the big ones, looking down at the hounds.

  “I got ’em. I got ’em,” Dragon bragged on his hind legs.

  His sister, no fan of her brother, sat looking upward. “You idiot. If he backs down he’ll use your head for a step.”

  Tootie, close to the hounds, waited for Weevil.

  Weevil, swinging his leg over Hojo as the horse skidded to a stop, ran to the base of the tree. “Come away. Come away, hounds.”

  The field, now thirty yards from the action, held their breath. Sister wasn’t worried. Yes, a big bear could break a hound or human’s neck with one swipe, but usually black bears want to be left in peace. The only time she ever worried was if hounds picked up a momma and baby.

  “Come away.”

  “I don’t want to come away,” Dragon sassed.

  The pack left Dragon, who, disgusted, dropped to all fours and joined them.

  Tootie, now holding Hojo’s reins, smiled as Weevil mounted. Tootie, quiet, as soon as Weevil was secure, moved off to her position, which she thought of as ten o’clock on the clock dial whereas Betty was at two o’clock and Weevil was the button on the clock face.

  Weevil calmly walked away toward Shootrough. The bear watched, climbing backward once the field disappeared.

  Shootrough, once a hunting part of the farm for grouse, had been planted in switchgrass, which grows high, offering good cover for birds, bunnies, foxes. Where the open land met the woods, Walter had planted South American maize in a few rows, which also offered cover but something different to eat.

  The switchgrass swayed. He urged hounds to go in. They did, but nothing. The sway was a slight wind. Often Grenville would give them a good run, finally diving into his den at the storage shed. But today Grenville stayed in, feeling lazy.

  After two hours of searching, Weevil lifted the hounds, walking back to the mill.

  Sister thanked him, Betty, and Tootie for their efforts, which she did after every hunt. Dismounting, she patted Midshipman, removed his bridle and martingale, tossed a blanket over him, finishing with cookies. “What a good boy you are.”

  “Thank you.” Midshipman ate his cookies.

  Betty, performing the same things for Outlaw standing next to Midshipman, said, “That was some bear.”

  “Don’t they give off a distinctive odor?” Sister asked.

  “Strong.” Betty agreed.

  Once inside Walter’s house, Sister sat down, a cup of tea in her hand. People pulled chairs up as sitting seemed like a good idea. Sometimes a slow day makes you more tired than a fast one. Then again, cold wears you out.

  “Everyone have their Valentine’s gifts in order?” Betty reminded everyone just as Yvonne and Aunt Daniella came through the door. “It’s a week and a day away.”

  “Did you miss us?” Aunt Daniella asked.

  “I’m getting used to you all following by car.” Walter offered to fetch a drink for the ladies.

  “Well, I overslept,” Yvonne confessed.

  They all caught up with one another, spoke of the bear, the hanging tree at the February third hunt, the unsolved murders, the stress of it all.

  The door opened again. Ben Sidell arrived. He could have sent the membership an email and he would, but first he wanted to ask about the ring to the hard core, which is how he thought of the weekday hunters. He trusted his powers of observation. Maybe someone would falter for a split second.

  After asking about the hunt, he tapped a spoon on a glass. “Folks, a minute. Liz Luckham, Gregory’s widow, has asked for his ring. We didn’t find one with the evidence we have, but by any chance might one of you have or have seen a Saint Hubert’s ring?”

  As Yvonne had shown the ring to a few people at After All’s breakfast, a few eyes fell on her.

  “Saint Hubert?” Yvonne asked.

  “Yes. The stag with the cross between his antlers,” Ben answered.

  She slipped the ring off her third finger, walked up to him, and dropped it into his palm. “Tootie and I found it in the dog box at Beveridge Hundred.”

  Sam, having seen the ring and heard the story, said to Ben, “She feeds a fox there. He was playing with it.”

  People couldn’t help themselves. They wanted to view the ring so Ben kept his hand open.

  Alida picked it up. “How beautiful.”

  Dewey, his hand open, studied it as Alida dropped it into his. “How did this ring get to Beveridge Hundred?”

  “I don’t know. But the fox was playing with it in the doghouse. I put toys in there for him.”

  Ben, hand under Yvonne’s arm, took her to the other room to ask questions, ring once again in his possession.

  “I don’t suppose there could be more than one Saint Hubert ring?” Dewey asked.

  “Not likely.” Sam kept his eye on the room in case Yvonne might become upset.

  “At least, no body today.” Dewey exhaled.

  “For which I am very grateful,” Sister responded. “We might recall that all that has been found up until that gruesome Saturday’s hunt has been in the Chapel Cross area. Including the ring.”

  Weevil spoke up. “Tootie and I have been going over the maps. There are miles between where the hands were found, but that’s not inconsistent with animals carrying prizes, edible prizes. What we can’t understand is”—he stopped—“well, sorry, it’s gross.”

  “No, go on.” Dewey encouraged him.

  “Why cut off hands?” Weevil finished.

  “In ancient times and even up to the twentieth century in the Mideast, a thief had his right hand cut off or both hands,” Tootie added.

  Kasmir considered this. “Maybe Gregory Luckham was a thief of some sort. No matter how you look at it, it’s bizarre and, well, primitive.”

  “I say this is the work of a nut,” Dewey pronounced.

  “I just want it to stop,” Betty forcefully said. “How do we know someone else isn’t marked? We don’t know what this is about. Two people have been killed, one with hands cut off, boots missing, and one killed by a blow to the head. We have no idea why.”

  “No.” Weevil surprised some of the members by his thoughts. “Tootie and I researched the eighteen men who were executed at the hanging tree. Ten had committed murder, two of those killed were stabbed, the others shot. Six stole horses or money. And two had committed rape.”

  “Serious offenses in any century.” Ben, who had rejoined them along with Yvonne, sat down himself.

&n
bsp; “Now you hire a big-time lawyer and, well, money talks”—Sam shrugged—“although occasionally justice is done.”

  “Oh, all you have to do is say the killer was mistreated by his mother. It’s always the mother’s fault.” Betty grabbed a sandwich. “It is,” she added for emphasis.

  “Do you think all murder is circumstantial?” Sister asked.

  “I can answer that.” Ben’s voice rose. “No. There literally are criminal minds. Granted, I have to be careful what I say, but you all know there are people born without a conscience. That doesn’t mean they will kill, but if they do, no remorse. None. Most people feel something, especially if the act was done in the heat of the moment.”

  “Isn’t revenge an exception to that?” Yvonne asked.

  “Yes.” Ben nodded. “That person feels justice was miscarried or justice will never be carried out. They must redress the balance. Not only is there no remorse—often there is jubilation. But apart from these examples, I believe there is a criminal mind. Obviously, Al Capone had one. Such individuals are usually highly intelligent.”

  “But are they killers?” Sam asked.

  “Some are. Some aren’t. But killing usually enhances power or profit. There’s no thrill killing. It’s business.”

  “I think that applies to Gregory Luckham. It was business,” Sister said.

  “Well, what I’ve been thinking”—Weevil backed up his Master—“is the same thing but in a slightly different way. Hangman’s Ridge served as a warning. You can see the tree from Soldier Road if you’re looking for it. The hanged were left there, were they not? As a warning?”

  Sam, who read lots of history, piped up. “In the earliest part of the eighteenth century they were left as a warning. As time went on, the family was allowed to claim the corpse for a proper burial, except for the two cases of rape. They were left to be picked clean.”

  “Wonder if it stopped anyone?” Alida mused.

  “We’ll never know. Why would anyone tell?” Sister smiled at Alida, whom she very much liked.

  Sam looked at Weevil and Tootie. “You two did good research. Did you Google it?”

  Betty half-laughed. “Of course they did, Sam. They were born with a computer in their cribs.”

  This lightened the mood.

  CHAPTER 35

  The U.S. Geological Survey maps, old, edges torn and frayed, covered the kitchen table. Sister, Gray, Tootie, and Weevil bent over them. The maps, forty years old, still proved accurate with topo lines, roads, creeks, and rivers. The maps of the westernmost territories, Chapel Cross, remained unchanged. The ones closer to the so-called home territories were out of date thanks to more roads and development, but still geologically correct.

  “Used to be one of Farmington’s best fixtures.” Sister pointed to a spot on an easternmost map where her territory adjoined Farmington Hunt Club’s. “Now, of course, it’s a high-end housing development but when Port Haeffner was alive you could ride for miles and miles over lush pastures, some woods. Well, this is progress. So they say.”

  “I remember the cockfights at the back of Port’s farm. My grandfather bred fighting chickens. Illegal now—fighting. You can still breed them.” Gray laughed. “I was too little to go in and also a little black boy wouldn’t have been there unless he was handling the fighting chickens, but I remember people turning into the drive wearing tuxedos and evening gowns. A different time.”

  “People dressed up for cockfights?” Tootie couldn’t believe it.

  Sister pulled over another map. “Did. I was never much for it myself, but at least the fighting cock has a chance. A Perdue chicken never does. Now look here.”

  Three pairs of eyes followed her finger. Four if you count Golly on the table as she felt her insights would be precious. The dogs flopped on the floor.

  “Site One.” Weevil put his finger next to Sister’s, which stayed on the spot where Rory was found.

  Weevil then moved his finger to where Shaker hit his head, Dragon carried the right hand. “Site Two.”

  Gray’s finger on the Carriage House, which of course was clearly visible on the old map. “Site Three.”

  “Site Four.” Tootie fingered the place just behind the dependency at Beveridge Hundred.

  “Close enough. I’m not counting Hangman’s Ridge right now. Too far. It’s Chapel Cross we need to figure out. For one thing, I believe the body had to be there at least for a time.”

  “Under the snow?” Weevil asked.

  “Possibly. I think Gregory was either retrieved, very difficult given conditions, maybe killed near the crossroads. One could somewhat follow the roads if going very slow,” Sister posited.

  Gray, arms across his chest, studied the four sites. “If the body was left under the snow, which remained for the better part of a week, it would be preserved.”

  “It would.” Tootie agreed. “But wouldn’t the killer have to come back and get it? In daylight? How could he find it in the dark under the snow?”

  “Good question. It might be possible with a ski pole, something like that. Let’s say he had a rough idea where the body was and punched around for it or it was inside something. He would still risk being seen. With the workers at Old Paradise, your mother and the Van Dorns driving in and out of Beveridge Hundred, plus Kasmir and Alida at Tattenhall Station, no way could this be done in the daytime.”

  “Nighttime would be dicey. People do go out at night. A car or a truck parked off the road might be seen and a person poking around near the crossroads with a ski pole would be a dead giveaway. Forgive the pun.” Sister put her finger smack on the crossroads. “I say the body was moved during the blizzard.”

  “That’s taking a hell of a chance.” Gray sat down and the others did likewise.

  “Yes. So whoever this is is very bold, but we were all in that snowstorm. Nature definitely was on his side. If he retrieved the body that fell near the crossroads, he’d need to carry it back to the trailers. He had nowhere else to go,” Sister said.

  “Tattenhall Station.” Weevil threw that out. “Open a door, throw the body in, come back for it later. There have to be places to hide a body in there. We know there’s a huge freezer in there.”

  “You’re right.” Gray nodded. “Kasmir outfitted that whole kitchen for the club, but we’d moved the breakfast to Boxing Day so he locked Tattenhall.”

  “Right.” Weevil was disappointed, as he thought he’d found the answer.

  “Why couldn’t the killer drag the body into his trailer? No one was poking around trailers. Then he could take it home or to a freezer somewhere or even bury it under snow at a safer place.” Tootie, like everyone, tried to think of all possibilities.

  “Given the rate of snowfall, he wouldn’t even need to bury the body. He could dump it somewhere and the blizzard would take care of the rest. He’d have to dump it where he could dig it up without prying eyes.” Gray considered where to dump a body so no one would know.

  “I think we’re getting close. So I think either he threw the body in the woods where we found the first hand, came back later. It would be easy to get up there and easy to hide your truck or whatever. The owners live in New York. If a truck drove up that rutted road in the woods, who would know? That’s where we found the first hand. Or as Tootie said, he stashed Gregory in his trailer, then off-loaded him to a large freezer.” Sister again pointed to those places on the map.

  “Chapel Cross really is the hub of it.” Gray exhaled. “And I think Rory saw some of this, which makes me believe the body was put onto a trailer. He never made it.”

  “I think you’re right.” Sister agreed.

  Weevil, head in his hands for a moment, lifted it up. “We all agree you couldn’t see the hand in front of your face, speaking of hands.” The others nodded and he continued. “What if he wounded or silenced Gregory in some way close to the crossr
oads. Rode next to him as Gregory and Pokerface were behind Ronnie. As they all approached the chapel, he pulled Gregory off the horse. Pokerface walked with Corporal to the trailer. So did the killer, who then put his horse up as the snow kept everyone occupied, wanting to get out. He crossed the road, dragged the corpse to the almost empty lot, and threw him inside the trailer. We were all together and staff always parks in the same place. He knew where we were. He knows the drill.”

  “Yes, he does.” Sister quietly agreed.

  “Which makes this more confusing and frightening. Why cut off Gregory’s hands?” Tootie wondered.

  “If we knew that, we’d know why he was killed, I think, but we might not know who killed him,” Sister added.

  Weevil spoke up as Golly patted his hand with her paw, hoping he might rise and get her a treat. “Maybe we have this a little backward. Maybe the hand in the cotton glove, the left hand, was originally at Beveridge Hundred. The ring came off or was pulled off. An animal dragged it to Old Paradise.”

  A long silence followed this.

  Gray then said, “Well, it is more logical that a hand with flesh would be carried than a ring or that the ring would be stripped off at the Carriage House and carried back. I can’t think of a wild animal that would carry a ring. Then again, foxes can be peculiar or birds who like bright things might.”

  “Do you think my mother should be alone in the house? Sam should come over and stay with her. The Van Dorns’ house is far enough away that someone could sneak in and out and she doesn’t have a dog.” Tootie worried.

  Sister, who had risen to fetch treats for Golly, the spoiled rotten cat, said, “Yes. That’s a very good idea. Would you like to call her or would you want one of us to do it?”

  “I think she’ll listen to me.” Tootie then pulled out her cellphone. “But if she doesn’t, I’m handing the phone to you, Sister, and if she still doesn’t listen, Gray will talk her into it.”