Outfoxed

by Rita Mae Brown

  Ben was incredulous. “You’re telling me you know this fox?”

  “Yes.” Sister folded her arms across her chest.

  “Course we know our foxes, man. I’ve been hunting this red family for three decades.”

  “You can actually recognize them?”

  “Can’t you tell the difference between dogs?” Sister tried to lower the hostility level between Shaker and the sheriff.

  “Sure, but a Lab looks a lot different from a Chihuahua!”

  “Foxes vary in size. Their markings, too. You see this fellow is still thinnish because he’s young. There’s tons of game so he’d only be thin if he were sick or young and as you can see this was a fine, healthy fox. He had only a bit of a white tip on his brush whereas his father has a wide white tip,” Sister told the young sheriff.

  “What’s a brush?”

  “The tail,” Shaker said as the ambulance’s back door closed.

  “I see. All right. You know this fox and, I take it, his father.”

  “Was a fine litter. They all lived.” Shaker admired Target and his get. They ran him ragged sometimes.

  Sister began to feel exhausted. The shock was seeping in. “Sheriff, the death of a red fox is to be lamented. The death of a good gray, too. We don’t want our foxes killed. Whoever killed this beautiful young male no doubt killed Fontaine as well.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he laid a drag, man!” Shaker exploded.

  Before the sheriff could respond Sister quietly added, “Your killer created a scent line, fresh and fresh with blood, too, which would inflame the hounds. This way they would turn away from the hunted fox to this line. The pack split. The killer knew Shaker and I would stay with the pack on the hunted fox. By the time we got the pack back together the deed would be done.”

  “You know that, too?”

  “Yes.” She again spoke in a soothing tone. “But we can be fooled just as you can, Sheriff.”

  “One more question.” He flipped through his notes. “Doug Kinser heard one shot. It would have taken two. The fox is shot, too. Right?”

  “Doesn’t mean we would have heard that shot. Hounds were giving tongue. The hoofbeats would drown out most noises. It would be easy not to hear a shot,” Shaker said with conviction.

  “Sheriff, we want to help you find whoever killed Fontaine. But, please, we’re tired. Our horses are tired. You know where to find us but let us get our boys back to the stable,” she requested. “Let me make a suggestion. Ask a good veterinarian to perform an autopsy on this fox. He may not have been recently killed.”

  “What?”

  “He could have been killed, frozen, thawed when needed.”

  “Ah.” This was a new thought to the sheriff, who let it sink in before asking, “Do you have a list of who hunted today?”

  “The field secretary will have a list of caps—those are the fees paid by nonmembers. With a good night’s rest I think we can reconstruct who was with us today, mounted and on foot.”

  “Thank you.” Ben smiled, a nice smile. “I apologize for detaining you.”

  Once back to the stable Doug ran up to help both Sister and Shaker.

  “Have Betty and Cody gone into the house?”

  “Yes, but they swore they wouldn’t say anything until you came home.” Doug had already slipped the saddle off a grateful Lafayette.

  “Well—they’ve had the best opening hunt we’ve ever had until this. They’ve had an hour and a half to eat, drink, and make merry. I guess I have to tell them.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Shaker thanked Doug for taking care of his horse and the two friends trudged up to the house.

  As they walked through the mudroom and into the kitchen the aroma of ham, biscuits, gravy, grits, roasted turkey, and candied yams assailed them.

  The caterers continued to replenish the main table and the dessert table.

  Sister had braved spoon bread despite the caterer’s warnings. Another large tray, perched on a young man’s shoulder, was being carried through the swinging doors.

  The caterer, Ted, glanced up from his labors. “Ah, Mrs. Arnold, we’re down to half the champagne.”

  “Good.” She smiled reflexively, then turned to Shaker, who put his hand quietly on her shoulder.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well, I guess I’m going to have to spoil my own party.” She dropped her gaze to the uneven-width heart-pine flooring, then looked up at him. “Here goes.”

  When she pushed through the swinging doors people at first didn’t notice. The packed dining room hummed. The living room, too, was overflowing with people. Many of them knew something had happened to Fontaine but no one as yet had guessed the truth.

  Raleigh threaded through the people to be by Sister’s right side. Shaker was on her left.

  Golly reposed on a bookshelf above all. Rooster, attending with Peter Wheeler, ensconced in a club chair by the fireplace, noticed Sister flinch for a split second.

  One by one the parties, hunters, quieted, glasses poised in midair as they turned toward Jane Arnold.

  People parted like the Red Sea. Betty moved toward Sister, as did her husband.

  “Are you all right?” Betty asked.

  “I think so,” Sister answered.

  Bobby tapped his wineglass with a spoon. People had begun to stop talking. Now they quieted completely.

  Shaker staunchly beside her, Sister nodded to her guests, then took a deep, long breath.

  “Friends, this opening hunt was one of the best opening hunts we’ve ever had. May we all remember its glory.” She searched for the right words. “It is my duty . . . to inform you, with sorrow, that Fontaine Buruss was killed today. Shaker found him at the hog’s back. Fontaine was shot. We know nothing more than that. Please cooperate with Ben Sidell in any way you can and please assist Sorrel and the children in any way you can. Thank you.”

  A horrified silence enveloped the room. Then a low murmur, like a wind from the west, moved through as it accumulated power.

  Hours later the last person, Peter Wheeler, with Rooster, had left. Sister paid the caterer, who cleaned up then left. She’d fed the pets, taken a shower, and called Shaker and Doug to make sure they were doing okay.

  When she hung up the phone a longing for Raymond filled her with stale grief. He would know just what to do even in this most improbable of situations. His deep voice would have filled the gathering with authority. He would have handled the sheriff with the correct mixture of assistance and personal power. He would have put his strong arm around her and whispered, “Steady on, girl.”

  Ray Junior would be in his thirties now. He would have been much like his father.

  Like most women of her class and her generation, Jane had motored through life without fully realizing how much her husband had shielded her from the unsavory aspects of life. She was always grateful for his economic acumen but the emotional buffer Ray provided was not clear to her until he was gone.

  Golly snuggled on the pillow beside Sister, who tried to read. Raleigh lay at the foot of the bed.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello,” a weary Sister answered.

  “Mrs. Arnold, it’s Walter Lungrun. I seem to be forever calling you late and I apologize.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I hope I will be able to help in some small way. I know the coroner and I will get the report but more importantly, if you’ll take me to the place where you found Fontaine I might be able to, well—help.”

  “Thank you, Walter.”

  “The earlier the better. Might I meet you at six-thirty in the morning?”

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Uncle Yancy, Grace, and Patsy had been the first foxes to the hog’s back. Yancy waited until Shaker blew in all the hounds. With a split pack he wisely didn’t show his face but as he heard the one hound group swing around, he popped out of the hidden entrance under the big walnut. His nieces followed.<
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  They crept toward the hog’s back, not even stopping to hide themselves as the remainder of the field rode on the farm road.

  As a few humans stood on the meadow, the hog’s back between them and the foxes, Yancy remained in the woods. Although Shaker was there, he didn’t trust Dragon, the hound that broke off from Cora and the main pack, taking young entry with him. By then, one o’clock, the scent had risen so that a mounted human could smell it but scent was safely over hounds’ heads. Still, why take a chance.

  The three reds waited. The ambulance roared down the rutted path. Then came the squad car. They strained to catch part of the conversation. It wasn’t until Reynard was hoisted up by the sheriff that they realized their brother, Yancy’s nephew, had been murdered.

  Yancy raised his head as St. Just circled the meadow. The crow didn’t see the foxes. But Yancy knew St. Just was in some way responsible for this dolorous occasion.

  Finally the humans, hounds, and horses left. The sheriff put Reynard in a plastic bag, placing him in the back of the squad car.

  Patsy ran to find Target and Charlene. She was surprised to discover Butch and his family loping over the meadows to help. The outright killing of a fox outraged all foxes.

  Throughout the night under the noctilucent clouds, the foxes moved in circles. Inky, down a ravine about a mile and a half from the hog’s back, found a rope—not just any rope but a special rope for bringing down steers at full tilt. The strands, braided, were impregnated with wax.

  By the time she returned at sunrise, everyone had gathered again at the jump. The foxes didn’t need to see the sun to know it was up despite low Prussian blue clouds.

  “I found a rope in the rock ravine. Hoofprints, too.”

  Buster, who had climbed one of the trees to the side of the hog’s-back jump, said, “Did the humans find the marks on the tree? High. High enough to catch Gunpowder.”

  “Yes,” Yancy replied. “The sheriff and his people found the marks on the bark, slight but perceptible. They performed the basics but they missed a lot. They missed the hoofprints along the fence line on the woods side.”

  “Could have been one of the whips coming in to fetch hounds.” Target, sorrowful at the loss of his handsome son, could still think clearly.

  “Yes, but it could have been his murderer, too,” Charlene, eyes filling with tears, added.

  “What a pity we were stuck at the walnut tree!” Yancy yipped. “If nothing else, we could have smelled which horse it was or even caught sight of the killer. That split pack cost us dearly.”

  “Clever. One doesn’t expect a human to be that clever. Almost foxlike,” Butch murmured. “And you’re sure the last time you saw Reynard was day before yesterday?” he asked Target again.

  They’d gone over it again, everything they’d initially said to one another when they gathered at the jump yesterday. Everyone was tired, footsore, and depressed.

  The only thing new was the rope.

  “I have an idea,” Inky said in a low, respectful voice. Her elders turned to her. “If someone will come with me to the kennel tonight maybe we can talk to some of the hounds and tell them what we’ve found. Next hunt we can agree to go there.”

  “Dumb,” was all Grace said.

  “You underestimate hounds, Gracie. You’ll pay for that someday,” Yancy corrected her.

  “I’ll go with Inky,” Aunt Netty volunteered. “Cora has sense. I can talk to her. I think Archie will listen, too.”

  “What if Raleigh’s out?” Comet wondered.

  “Raleigh’s main concern is Sister Jane. It’s the damn cat I worry about.” Target grimaced.

  “She’s too spoiled and fat to chase us.” Patsy sniffed.

  “She’s not too fat to scream at the top of her lungs and get the kennel in an uproar,” Comet said.

  Aunt Netty’s tail waved to and fro slightly. “Well, I’m willing to chance it. Reynard must be avenged. Only a coward shoots a fox and only a cad would use the carcass as a drag.”

  “Hear, hear,” the others agreed.

  “That Raleigh is fast,” Charlene warned, “if he has a mind to chase you.”

  “The only animal faster than myself is a cheetah,” Netty boasted.

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking of you exactly. I was thinking of Inky. No offense, Inky, but I don’t know how fast you are.”

  “Not as fast as Aunt Netty.” She called the red “Aunt,” which was what all the young animals called her. “But I can climb a tree if I have to.”

  A low flutter hushed them. Athena glided down, tail used as a brake, to sit on the top railroad tie of the hog’s back. “I’m very sorry,” she said swiveling her head to the reds. “St. Just is behind this. Whoever killed Reynard, he led them straight to him.”

  “Leave St. Just to me.” Target crouched low, baring his fangs.

  The others agreed that they would.

  “When will the hunt meet at this fixture again?” Comet asked. His gray fur, soft as the clouds, lightened a bit.

  “Not for another two weeks,” Yancy said. “The only way the hounds can get to the rope is if someone bolts during hound walk.”

  “That’s a big risk for them. Ratshot in the rear if they keep going.” Charlene frowned. “What are we to do?”

  Patsy and Grace said at the same time, “Bring the rope here.”

  “No,” Aunt Netty sharply replied. “The humans need to find the rope where it was dropped or thrown. That will tell them where the human killer was. They must be led to the rope. As it is, by the time we get them there the tracks could be gone, especially if it rains.”

  “We need Raleigh.”

  “Sister, Shaker, and Doug may not follow Raleigh,” Grace said to Comet, who’d proposed the idea.

  “If he goes on hound walk, which he often does, he can help convince the humans. If a hound bolts, even a hound as respected as Cora or Archie, the humans will crack the whip and then finally use ratshot. That’s their job. They’ll think the pack is going to hell. If Raleigh makes a commotion and the hounds honor him, I think the humans will follow. We have to try it, as it’s our only hope.” Yancy listened. “Is it settled then?”

  “Yes. We’ll go tonight.”

  The foxes and Athena silently melted into the forest about an hour before Sister, Shaker, Walter, and Doug emerged on the other side of the meadow. They reached the jump in a few minutes, peering into the woods as a twig crackled.

  They combed the scene. The sheriff and his deputies trained in crime detection were good but they weren’t hunters or country people.

  “There are so many hoofprints here.” Walter ran his fingers through his blond hair.

  “Let’s divide up. Walter and Shaker head south down the fence line, one on either side. Doug and I will head north. Shaker, give a toot, I will, too.” Sister always carried an extra horn, a lesson learned when Shaker fell hard from his horse years ago, squashing the bell of his horn.

  Twenty minutes later Doug, on the forest side of the fence line, found tracks. “Look.”

  Sister climbed over the fence, dropped to her hands and knees. “Yes. Could have been a whip coming in. Betty, maybe. These look like number one shoes, smallish feet. Could be Arts.” She mentioned the other popular shoe.

  “Not a quarter horse. Not round enough.” Doug, too, was on his knees. “God, Sister, that’s half the horses in the hunt field. There were horses yesterday we’d never seen before.”

  “I know. I know.” She stood up, put the horn to her lips, and let out a steady, one-note blast. The hounds heard it, two and a half miles away. They replied, which sounded faint and far away on this cool, overcast morning. “Good hounds.” Sister smiled weakly, for she remained terribly distressed.

  Doug leaned against the fence. “You’ve bred them. They can hold their own against any pack.” A touch of pride crept into his light baritone.

  Walter and Shaker joined them within seven minutes.

  “What took you so long?” Doug asked.
/>   “We were clipping right along.” Shaker hunkered down. “Ah. Number one.”

  “Maybe Arts,” Sister said.

  “No. Number one.” Shaker stood back up. “If only there’d been a bar shoe or a weighted shoe, a little dog to the inside. Number one. Standard. Well. Let’s follow it.”

  “It might not be the killer,” Sister calmly said.

  “No. But then again it might.” Shaker put his head down and followed the tracks over the fallen leaves. The pine needles carpeting the earth nearly threw them off, but they picked up the tracks again once out of the pine stand.

  They lost them at the flat-rock outcropping and even though they each took a different direction off the flat rocks, they were soon brought up short by a tremendous thunderclap overhead. With no warning the heavens opened. Cascading heavy rain drenched them to the bone.

  By the time the four reached the stable they were all shivering. The tack room, toasty, warmed them as Sister made a fresh pot of coffee on the hot plate. She offered clothing—she’d kept shirts and sweatshirts around for just such a purpose—but the men stood by the gas stove. Slowly they began to thaw out and dry out.

  “See the body?” Shaker asked.

  “Yes. I went down to the morgue.” Walter’s eyebrows furrowed for an instant. “The bruises on his left side were apparent. He’d been hit cleanly in the chest. Right through the heart, I would say. Apart from whatever emotions he felt at the fall I’d guess his death was swift. I suppose that’s a kind of mercy. Can’t jump to conclusions. I’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report. Except whoever shot him was a good shot. Dead-on.” He realized his pun. “Sorry.”

  “You know I never liked that son of a bitch, so I can’t pretend I’m sorry.” Shaker opened a small cigar box, offering the men a smoke.

  “I’ll take one. I need something soothing.” Sister reached in, grabbing a thin cigar.

  Shaker cut the end for her with his round cutter, then held a flame. As she inhaled the end glowed scarlet and gold and he said, “Funniest damn thing, though. I would have bet you dollars to doughnuts that Crawford would be murdered. Not Fontaine.”