Out of Hounds

by Rita Mae Brown

  Her cellphone, on the kitchen table, beeped. She couldn’t get into the habit of carrying a phone with her but she did remember to put it into the car when she drove.

  “Hello?”

  “Sister, Marion.” Marion Maggiolo’s distinct voice filled her ear.

  Marion owned Horse Country in Warrenton, Virginia, a store filled with treasures, be it old silver or a tweed coat that could protect you from the wind on those bye days.

  “Good to hear your voice.”

  “O.J. called me about the theft of the Mrs. Oliver Filley painting. That makes three.”

  “Without any idea what’s going on.”

  “I called Nancy Bedford first.” She named the head of the Museum of Hounds & Hunting. “She said she’d talked to each of the painters that the museum highlighted in 2018. Larry Wheeler, Linda Volrath, Booth Malone, Sally Moren, Reverend Michael Tang, Christine Cancelli, Joanne Mehl, Morgen Kilbourn. Just out of curiosity she wanted to talk to working artists. The one idea that seemed to be paramount was given the price of Munnings’s work, this has to be about money. She also asked did they know of modern sidesaddle paintings.”

  “And? You are so smart, I wouldn’t have thought of that.” Sister was so often surprised by Marion’s creative intelligence.

  “The Andre Pater one. It’s quite large, of Catherine Clay-Neal on her horse, Dude. He’s 18.1 hands.”

  “Wish there were more modern sidesaddle paintings,” Sister said.

  “Yes, but then again, nobody is selling their work for millions.” A pause followed this. “Linda mentioned Heather St. Clair Davis, the late English painter. Given that Davis passed in 1999, Linda did say her works were fetching higher prices. No surprise, but also no sidesaddle. All those wonderful hunting scenes but no focus on a lady riding sidesaddle.”

  “Not many paintings of people driving carriages either.” Sister walked to the stove to turn on water for tea. “That is a beautiful sport. Can you imagine the cost for the tack and harness alone, much less the carriage?”

  “That’s why only rich people do it.” Marion laughed. “You know the rich are going through a period of being demonized, but so many old beautiful things are saved by people with great resources. You’d think others would have the sense to be grateful.”

  “Envy is a low emotion.” Sister pulled a heavy mug out of the cupboard. “Envy and spite, which reminds me, before I forget: Someone is putting up posters against foxhunting.”

  “There are people out there against just about any sport involving animals.” Marion laughed. “Back to the thefts. Do you know anyone at Sotheby’s? They might have an idea?”

  “No, but I’ll tell our sheriff. They’ll talk to him and I expect someone on Sotheby’s staff knows these works well, an early twentieth-century expert, sporting art expert. They have everything. Gives me an idea. I’ll ask O.J. to call Cross Gate, the art auction house in Lexington.”

  “I’ll call The Jockey Club, I have an old friend there, and you call your sheriff and then O.J. There has to be some tiny idea, some odd fact that can help us figure it out.” Marion’s brain was spinning. “Well, who is getting the most money right now? Sporting art, I mean?”

  “Munnings.”

  “Sorry, Sister, I meant a living painter. Horses, not dogs, although some of those paintings are rising in value. I guess that’s why the American Kennel Club now has a museum. I really don’t know.”

  “A living painter.” Sister thought. “Andre Pater. Much of his work, depending on the size of the canvas, sells for six figures. His draftsmanship is superb, as is Heather St. Clair Davis’s, but that’s my response, someone else might differ.”

  “Andre Pater paints silks that look as though you could touch them. Kind of like the great Renaissance painters. They all were in thrall to fabrics.” Marion relished fine painting and fabrics, especially fabrics, which is why she made two trips a year to Europe, for fabrics.

  “Booth Malone is pretty good with silks, but you know more than I do, Marion. For one thing, everyone comes into the store. But you know the first theft was that extraordinary painting of Munnings’s wife, standing next to Issac, the dappled gray. And it was owned by Crawford Howard, who unfortunately bragged about it. Whatever this is, it started right here in central Virginia.”

  “If it had simply been Crawford, I would hazard a guess that he offended someone so this would be elegant revenge, but now we’re up to three. Whoever this is has impeccable connections. One has to know where treasures rest.”

  “Marion, if this were just money, why not steal one of those breathtaking Munnings of the racetrack? Why sidesaddle?”

  “It is peculiar. Well, let me track down my calls, you track down yours. Get O.J. to go over to Cross Gate. Those gallery owners surely have some ideas.”

  “Right. Hey, if you have a navy blue stock tie with tiny white bird’s-eye dots, send it down.”

  “Okay.”

  Sister hung up, poured the hot water over the tea ball she’d filled with the phone tucked under her chin, no mean feat.

  Raleigh and Rooster curled in their large fuzzy beds. Golly patrolled the counter.

  “Yellow Bronco. Betty,” the cat announced.

  Not three minutes later, Betty opened the mudroom door, knocked on the kitchen door, then opened it. “Your favorite person.”

  “Indeed.” Sister walked back to the stove to boil the water, which was still hot. “English Breakfast? Irish? Name it.”

  “Whatever you’re having.” Betty opened the cabinet, took out a mug with a rabbit painted on it. “Where did you get this?”

  “Ashland Bassets; Diana Dutton sent it down.”

  Once seated, Betty wrapped her hands around the cup. “Spring is close but it’s so cold.”

  “ ‘O, wind, if winter comes/can spring be far behind’?” Sister quoted Shelley.

  “Do they teach Shelley in English anymore? I read him twelfth grade.”

  “Something tells me if it’s difficult or exceptionally beautiful, no, it won’t be taught; then again, we should ask Charlotte Norton at Custis Hall. Anyway, you aren’t here to talk about poets or spring. What’s cooking?”

  “News.” Betty beamed. “Will be on the news tonight but I have my sources.”

  “I’m sure you do, which means you ran into Ben.”

  “Don’t spoil my moment.” Betty took a sip. “The oaf that was killed at Showoff had a criminal record.”

  “Did Sabatini know?”

  “That’s who told Ben when he questioned him. Sabatini hires former prisoners, nothing vile, but stuff like petty theft, growing dope, stealing cars. No armed robbery or murder.”

  “And shall I assume his record will be discussed or printed in the paper?”

  Betty nodded. “Illegal gambling. Cards. Betting on football games, the spread, that sort of thing. Anyway, he served his time. That’s the story, or that’s the story I heard.”

  “Was he married?”

  “No mention of that or next of kin.”

  “What about the severed fingers?” Sister’s curiosity was climbing.

  “Now, that’s what is perhaps significant, or what Ben knew but kept from others until he spoke to Sabatini.”

  “Betty, as our sheriff he is not obliged to tell us anything.”

  Betty thought about this. “No, but he does have to ask questions and he did. It seems the amputated fingers may be what one did as a young man once accepted into a gambling gang. It was the mark of belonging, so they always wore gloves. Gangs often have some mark or tattoo.”

  “If gambling had been his road to prison, you think he might have made money or the gang would take care of him. Those crime families do take care of their own, I think in the old days and maybe even today.”

  “You would think so, but Mr. Sabatini…I can’t get used to
calling a man Gigi…anyway, he believes this is a warning. He never mentioned Parker Bell except to Ben.”

  Neither woman spoke, then Betty said, “So maybe he fell back into illegal betting? Being choked to death is violent. Whoever kills you has to get close.”

  Sister grimaced. “Get close and carry a lead shank.”

  “Maybe it was someone who knows horses.”

  “Maybe, or maybe he grabbed one off a stall hook. Parker Bell could have been killed in the morning or anytime, and the person who did it could have gotten away easily. Like our coyote, maybe he slipped through the woods. And what if the killer wore a hoodie? Wouldn’t see his face. If a person has time to plan a murder I expect it’s easily committed. Again, all those TV shows about killers being caught makes for good TV, but I think the number of unsolved cases is…well, still unsolved.”

  Betty nodded then took another long sip. “Ben had to thoroughly question Kasmir, of course.”

  “Dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Don’t you think so much of police work is tedious?”

  “It would be for me, but I do think we won’t be hunting from Welsh Harp anytime soon.”

  “No,” Sister agreed, then relayed her conversation with Marion.

  “Certainly seems to be an eventful February.” Betty shook her head. “Fortunately, neither Crawford’s painting or Bell’s murder have anything to do with us.”

  “No,” Sister again agreed. “It is a little unnerving that these events have happened here. So close.”

  CHAPTER 13

  February 18, 2020 Tuesday

  Pattypan Forge, thick stone walls still intact, the windows long ago broken, had stood since the end of the eighteenth century and would stand for many more. The forge was in use until shortly after World War II, when roads improved dramatically as well as needs changing. Fewer and fewer Virginians, or Americans wherever they lived, needed a wheel well beaten out or a broken axle either replaced or made anew in the heat of the huge furnace. The hand skills, the ability to fix such large objects, faded.

  The forge, part of After All Farm, remained untouched. The woods grew around it. The old farm road could be discerned mostly because those deep old wagon-wheel ruts also survived the centuries. The forge provided good living for owls, nesting birds, and one older vixen, Aunt Netty, who had transformed the huge interior to her liking. Exits and entrances both inside and from the outside to the inside dotted the floor, for portions of the slate floor had cracked up. Thick slate can withstand weight but harsh weather damaged the floors under those huge windows. Aunt Netty, fastidious, pulled old towels, some stolen dog toys, and even turkey feathers into her underground rooms. The wind might slide through the trees, rain blow through the broken windows, but that well-built roof and the thick walls made Pattypan desirable. Her towels and other finds kept her den warm.

  Sister Jane thought Pattypan Forge a brooding presence. The story-high paned windows provided light critical before electricity. A few still had the heavy shutters to protect them.

  Those shutters kept out rain, snow, and wind. This was the most desirable place to have a nest or a den. Most of the broken windows were on the west side, the glass bits long pulverized. The sound of wind slicing through the windows sounded like an eerie whisper or scream depending on the force.

  The path to the forge, even though opened at the beginning of hunt season, right after Labor Day, closed up quickly enough thanks to creepers that grew while one slept, fallen branches, whatever was blowing in the wind, literally.

  Sister never liked Pattypan Forge, it reminded her of how good work can be forgotten, and she didn’t like it much today as she sat on Matador, a former steeplechaser. He’s seen it all and done it all. They got along famously.

  Diana, nose down in one of Aunt Netty’s entrances, chided her. “Come out, Aunt Netty. We can talk.”

  “You can jump out that far window. I gave you a run. I’m not giving you another.”

  The pack, surrounding the entrance, sniffed; Tinsel dug a bit.

  Weevil, dismounted, stood over the hole and blew “Gone to Ground!”

  “Stop that infernal noise!” the old red vixen complained.

  “Good hounds. Good hounds.” Weevil tucked his horn between the top two buttons of his heavy coat, walked out, the pack following.

  Dreamboat turned and yelled, “You’re a step slow, Aunt Netty. Better watch out.”

  “I can outrun you, but you all are stupid. I will always win.”

  “You are mean as snakeshit,” the dog hound cursed her.

  Fast as a flash, Aunt Netty popped her head up and spit at Dreamboat.

  It so surprised him, he turned and quickly rejoined the pack as Weevil called. He kept his humiliation to himself.

  The small weasels…minks, really…observed all this from their dens.

  Aunt Netty heard them giggling. “Why don’t you all go back to Hangman’s Ridge? It was so quiet when you moved out.”

  Hangman’s Ridge, the high plateau behind Sister Jane’s farm, she owned it, was where the colonists hanged those convicted of serious crimes: murder, rape, or large theft. The minks thought of it as their summer home. The forge offered better quarters during the winter.

  Weevil, mounted, pointed toward Broad Creek, which would take a bit of bushwhacking to reach. The trail, narrow, finally opened onto a wide, cleared trail above the creek, flowing vigorously thanks to the recent rains and snow. He turned the pack south, toward the big estate’s mansion and outbuilding. He’d hunt the hounds back to the trailers, all parked on the far side of the covered bridge. This fixture, full of game, proved a treasure, plus the Bancrofts, the owners, having hunted for most of their eight decades, appreciated hunting. After All was a fox-friendly fixture. Rabbits, skunks, bobcats liked it, too, along with the occasional traveling bear.

  “Get your fox,” he called in his deep baritone, a sonorous voice.

  Pansy moved with more determination, her tail flipping. Trident, next to her, mirrored her behavior. Within a minute all the hounds pressed but didn’t open. A huntsman’s hopes are raised with this behavior, so, too, for the riders who know hunting. Hounds have something, but what? Is it a fading line that grows stronger? Is it fox scent or something else? Foxhounds can and do hunt coyote, bobcat. Deer, rabbits, skunks, raccoons, and groundhogs should be ignored. A bear presents a judgment call. While legitimate game and game that can move faster than a city person, one would think that bear can climb a tree, fine but not so fine; bear can also stop, wait for hounds, and then swing. The creature is so powerful it can snap a neck with one blow, break a human’s rib cage with one blow. Best to respect bears.

  When hounds do not speak but continue with determination, the huntsman must follow. No one truly knows what hounds are tracking until the hound opens. Then the line is heating up, the game is legitimate. Off you go.

  Sister watched a few “J” youngsters out today doing great, working with the pack. She allowed time for mistakes in the first season. Same as first-graders missing a letter in the alphabet, you calmly wait. They’ll get it right.

  “A visiting fox. Let’s go.” Cora pushed Pansy and Trident on, as they were still a bit hesitant.

  Trotting forward, the hounds moved as one. Just where this was leading was anybody’s guess; but then, it’s always anybody’s guess.

  Nothing enticing, as all rode along the creekbed. Reaching the covered bridge, hounds stopped then dropped down to Broad Creek.

  “Maybe a half hour,” Diana stated as a first snowflake lazed down.

  All, noses down, worked to decide in which direction the fox, Comet, who they knew, was traveling, for he had doubled back.

  Finally, Trident called out, “Heading home.”

  This meant the hounds’ home as well as Comet’s, who had a den under the dependency in which Tootie lived.

  Hounds open
ed, now on the west side of Broad Creek. Weevil trotted through the covered bridge, dropping down to the right onto the pasture. He squeezed Midshipman, a young Thoroughbred he was training for Sister, a gorgeous fellow with a sensible mind and that great Thoroughbred heart, and they surged.

  Sister followed through the bridge, waited a moment for Weevil to decide whether to follow closely behind his hounds or to follow the farm path through this pasture, which then turned into a cleared path in woods abutting Roughneck Farm, Sister’s property. At that point a stiff hog’s back jump allowed one to get over handily into her wildflower meadow, all dormant now but decent footing.

  If he followed hounds closely he’d wind up in the woods, fighting his way through. Hounds knew they were on Comet but Weevil did not. As three foxes lived at Roughneck Farm in relative splendor, there were three destinations. The young huntsman felt certain it had to be a Roughneck fox but he wouldn’t know which one until hounds hit the wildflower meadow. One fox lived in the apple orchard behind the kennels, Inky. Comet luxuriated under Tootie’s small house. Georgia would go over Hangman’s Ridge to the schoolhouse at Foxglove Farm if she had time. Hangman’s Ridge creeped out everyone, even the foxes. But if weather impeded progress or high wind came out of nowhere, and it seemed to do that around Hangman’s Ridge, Georgia would race to the back porch at the main house, under which there was a den for just such purposes. The problem with that was it set off the hounds in the kennels, the two house dogs carried on, and the cat sat in the window discussing canine shortcomings at a high decibel level.

  One time, a friend of Georgia’s during cubbing miscalculated the territory and hounds’ speed, having been asleep under one of the apple trees when hounds came out of the kennels. Knowing the den, he made straight for it, but not before running through the garden shed by that porch. Tools fell off the walls, a wheelbarrow was knocked over, and a few highly motivated hounds smashed right through the paned-glass windows.

  Much as a huntsman tries to keep his or her mind on hounds, such memories or stories of same do intrude. No one wants hounds with cut pads, or worse, a wrecked building that belongs to your boss or any landowner.