Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Gray, drive my truck. I’ll drive the Toyota with Sam in it.”

  “No, we’ll do it the other way around. If he comes to and pukes or gets belligerent, you won’t have to deal with it or clean it up.” He paused as snowflakes whitened his salt-and-pepper hair. “This is it. This is the last time I help him. I can no longer be my brother’s keeper.”

  “Gray,” Sister put her hand on his shoulder. “You did more than your share for him. More than your share by far.”

  Gray dropped his head, then looked up, “Getting worse, the storm.”

  “I can follow you to wherever you’re taking him.”

  “Thanks. We’ll turn left at Owensville Road, and I know you’ll go straight to get home.” Sister smiled. “Thank you, Dalton.”

  “No need.” He nodded and climbed back into his Land Cruiser, a vehicle that can get through just about anything.

  Sister followed Gray as he negotiated the twisty road, snow blowing across it as the winds intensified. She was sick at heart for Gray and for Sam, too.

  Gray helped his brother to bed at the old home place. He and Sister took off Sam’s clothes, tucked him in, and put a wastebasket by the bed in case he did get sick and couldn’t make it to the John.

  “I’m not staying with him. I’m afraid I’ll kill him when he wakes up.”

  “Good decision.” She looked down at Sam, oblivious to the grief he was causing, and felt a rustle of anger at him. “Come home with me. You don’t have to entertain me or vice versa, but tonight’s the kind of night when you need a friend.”

  He lightly placed his hand on the back of her neck. “You’re a good woman, Jane.”

  That night as the winds howled, Sister held Gray as he fell asleep. She stayed awake for another hour and thought about the miseries people inflict upon others when they won’t be responsible for themselves.

  CHAPTER 37

  China lined the two cupboards. Glasses sparkled next to them. A glass display case up front across from the checkout counter protected antique pieces. On the left side of these treasures, men’s furnishings and ladies apparel stood out from the paintings and paneling. On the right side hung hunt whips, both knob end and stag horn, professional thongs—eight-plaited or twelve-plaited— and beyond, bridles and saddles, their vegetable-tanned leather emitting a satisfying fragrance.

  A change of venue usually stimulated Sister’s brain. So that morning she took Gray and drove the ploughed-out and ever-overcrowded ribbon of Route 29 north to Warrenton, a town she loved, where the courthouse alone was worth the two-hour drive, to visit Horse Country. Fauquier County, its rolling foothills, restrained estates, was currently braving an onslaught of Washington, D.C., money. Like lemmings, Washingtonians scurried out Route 66 West, hooking left on Route 29, down to Warrenton. This trip without heavy traffic could be accomplished in an hour or even less; with traffic, it was anyone’s guess. Like Loudon County, infested with developments where verdant land used to delight the eye, Fauquier staggered and faltered. The money was too good: people sold or subdivided their estates.

  Each time Sister drove up to Horse Country to visit Marion Maggiolo and her staff, like a family really, Sister felt her credit cards burning in her pocket.

  Gray, spirits somewhat restored, rejoiced in Sister’s company. Marion, who knew Gray from his days of hunting in Middleburg, was pleasantly surprised to see how attentive he was to Sister. The two friends caught up for a while before Marion went back to her office and Sister started shopping.

  She picked out a blue tattersall vest, and a shirt off the men’s pile, then she discovered a pair of gloves that had been handmade in England. A true glover put these together: it wasn’t two or even four pieces stitched together, but over twenty. The stitching was done in such a way that the threads never touched the inside of the hand. Between the third and last fingers a special patch was sewn on, just where the reins rubbed. The soft inside palm also had another layer, cut to conform to the lay of the thumb. The spectacular gloves made of Capibara leather carried a spectacular price. Sister touched them, pressed them to her nose, put them back, picked them up.

  “Dammit!” She cursed under her breath, picking them up for the last time and placing them with her ever-growing pile on the counter.

  Gray, his own credit card in hand, perused her pile. “I thought you were just coming to visit Marion.”

  “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” She pointed to his mass of breeches, socks, stock ties, and shirts resting on the counter. “And I see that you, too, bought these gloves. Gloves that cost as much as a car payment.”

  They burst out laughing as Wendy, behind the counter and a fixture at the store, totaled up their bills.

  Charlotte strolled by, and in her hand was a lovely Moroccan bound book, its rich burgundy leather soft to the touch. She ran a bookstore; gorgeous antique hunting volumes and other equine objects were her specialty. “While you’re spending money.” She dangled the book in front of Gray.

  “Ask Momma,” he read the title aloud, a classic from the nineteenth century. “Charlotte, you’re such a temptress.”

  “Yes, everyone says that about her.” Wendy kept ringing up items.

  Gray added Ask Momma to his pile.

  Driving back down Route 29, they laughed at their impulsiveness.

  Gray took a deep breath, slapped his hands on his thighs. “I worked hard enough making it. I might as damn well spend some of it.”

  “Hard to resist those gloves.”

  “I know.” He whistled appreciatively.

  “We’ve driven all the way up; we’re driving all the way back. I can’t stand it. What did Sam say when he was restored to his senses?”

  “When he called this morning on my cell phone,” Gray paused. “First, I didn’t tell him where I was. Second, I didn’t tell him you and Dalton helped him. He’ll find out in good time. Third, do you have your seat belt on?”

  “I do.”

  “He swore he did not take a drink.”

  “What?” She was incredulous.

  “Swore on our mother’s soul!”

  “But he was blotto. Gone.”

  “He swears it. I asked him what he remembered. He said he left the AA meeting with two other men, whom he couldn’t name because he’s not supposed to tell.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Right. And the next thing he remembers is waking up in bed, head thumping, stomach churning.”

  Her voice softened. “Do you believe him?”

  “Jane, he’s lied to me for close to thirty years. It’s hard to believe him.”

  “That it is.”

  “And I didn’t feel like talking about it when we left. I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It’s just,” he rested his hands on his knees, “I’m so sick of it.”

  “I understand.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “For what?”

  “For picking me up in a snowstorm, for driving up to Garth Road, for driving back and putting Sam to bed, for putting up with me last night.”

  “I like your company.”

  He breathed in deeply, turned to her, and ran his left forefinger along her right cheek. “I like you, Jane. So much.”

  They drove in silence to where Route 29 and Highway 17 converge, 29 going south and 17 stretching on to Fredericksburg.

  Sister finally spoke. “Can’t stand it. My curiosity’s getting the better of me.”

  She punched in Ben Sidell’s number, speaking into the truck’s speaker phone when he picked up. “I’m a nosy twit, but is Donnie Sweigert’s autopsy complete?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he shot or knocked over the head or stuffed with a knockout drug?”

  “He had been in a fight shortly before his death. His neck, deep tissue, had been bruised. A deep bruise on his thigh, a cracked rib. He was most likely unconscious and then died from smoke inhalation.”

  “Do you think he started a fire with a gas
can next to him?”

  “I don’t know.” Ben cleared his throat. “The can, although mostly empty, blew up from the small amount of gasoline in the bottom. Maybe the fire got away from him. Granted, Donnie wasn’t terribly intelligent, but he didn’t appear to be that stupid.”

  “So now, Ben, three men are dead. They knew one another. They worked together sporadically. Maybe they were closer than anyone realizes.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I assume you have contacted the people Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony delivered furniture to?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have four suspects, don’t we?”

  Ben thought a moment. “Sister, you haven’t been idle. If you count Isabelle Berry, yes.”

  “I do and I don’t. Wives can go along for years and know not one thing about the business of their husbands. Not their bailiwick.”

  “True.”

  “Have you checked Dalton Hill’s background?”

  “He is what he says he is. Highly respected in his profession and in his hobby, the decorative arts of the eighteenth century. Guess that’s what you call it.”

  “It’s possible his coming here is a coincidence.”

  “I don’t know.” Ben’s voice grew louder as she drove through an area of better reception. “What I do know is that you had better keep your mouth shut. Forgive me for being blunt. For one thing, I’m piecing this together, and I don’t want you upsetting the applecart. It’s tough enough as it is, and our killer or killers don’t shy away from murdering people.”

  “Afraid he or they will fly the coop?”

  “Yes. I’m worried about that and I’m worried about someone getting in the way or another murder, if this is some sort of vendetta.”

  “Ah.” She absorbed his comment about who might become a victim. “Can you think of anyone else in particular who might be in danger?”

  “I don’t know. My hunch is that this is a falling-out among thieves.” He waited a moment as the reception cackled. “I beg you to be careful, please, Sister.”

  “We’re talking about millions of dollars, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. And people have killed for less.”

  She pressed the End button. “Shit. Excuse my French.”

  “If this is a falling-out among thieves, I’d think that Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony would have had money.”

  “Donnie flashed around an expensive rifle.”

  “He did, but if you want to know my hunch, it’s those three men who may have figured out the scam. Maybe they blackmailed the real criminals.”

  “Yes. I wonder if any of them knew how much money was at stake.” She stopped for the light where Route 28 connects with Route 29. “It’s close, this evil.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Sunny, cold, and crisp, Thursday’s hunt at Orchard Hill unfolded as though Nimrod himself had written about it. Tomorrow night’s full moon would illuminate the snowy fields. Predators, hunting in full force, pursued rabbits, field mice, even ground nesters among the avian family. Why the tempo of hunting accelerated before a full moon, Sister didn’t know. She just knew it happened. Also that people’s emotions swung higher and wilder; sexual attractions heated up, too. Artemis possessed powers, as did her twin, Apollo. His were more obvious, hers commanded study.

  On that glorious February 5, as hounds streamed across the thirty-acre hayfield, its imposing sugar maple, solemn as a sentinel in the middle of the snowy field, Sister thought how little glory remained in modern life. War, so technological and covered by reporters as an entertainment, had room for heroism, but not glory. Only sport and art retained the concept of, as foxhunters would say, throwing your heart over the fence. Professional sport—micromanaged, increasingly scientific—was like a salmon pulled out of the water: its colors were fading, and with it, glory. There’s a heedless, sunny aspect to glory, a disdain for profit and even the applause of others that appealed to Sister. Not that she minded applause or profit, but that wasn’t why she raced across the clean whiteness this morning. She wanted glory.

  The field, large for a Thursday at twenty-one, looked like a nineteenth-century aquatint; the packed snow flew off hooves like large chunks of confetti. Faces, red from cold and exertion, radiated intensity and happiness.

  The fox, a quarter of a mile ahead of the pack, swung round the other side of the hayfield, turning back toward his den not far from the simple Federal-style house.

  Sister, in her eagerness, had gotten a bit forward of her field. She soared over the black coop, snow still tucked along the planks, then paused a moment to watch others take the obstacle.

  Tedi, perfect position, arched over the coop, the sky bright blue above her. Edward followed, derby on his head, hands forward, eyes up—not as elegant as his wife, but bold. Behind Edward came Ronnie, light, smiling, another one with perfect position. Xavier followed Ronnie, lurching a bit on Picasso. Xavier really had to lose weight. It was affecting his riding. After Xavier, Clay took the jump big. That was Clay, clap your leg on the horse and devil take the hindmost. Once Clay cleared, Crawford, keen to be up front, tucked down on Czpaka and thundered over: not pretty but effective. Walter on Clemson, his tried and true, took the fence in a workmanlike manner, no muss, no fuss, all business. Sam took his fences like the professional he was, with as little interference with the horse as possible.

  She heard the horn, figured she better move along. She asked Keepsake for speed, which he readily supplied despite the snow. Keepsake had a marvelous sense of balance.

  Sister looked for brain first, balance second. Anyone could pick apart a horse, a hind end a trifle weak or a shoulder slope too straight. For Sister, conformation was a map not a destination. The way the horse moved meant everything to her. As her mother used to say, “Movement is the best of conformation.”

  Another jump, an odd brush jump, level on top, sat in the turkey foot wire fence that enclosed the back acres. Keepsake glided over, smooth as silk. They turned toward higher ground, while a soft grade upward, given the snow, burned calories.

  On top of that meadow, the 1809 house and outbuildings in clear view, Sister saw a red fox running toward the toolshed. The outermost building, its white clapboard matched all the others.

  She said nothing as hounds were speaking. It’s incorrect to call out “Tallyho” if the hounds are on.

  Viewing the fox is as good as a twenty-minute run. The field excitedly looked in the direction of Tedi’s outstretched arm, her lady’s derby in her hand. Tedi did not yell out but did the proper thing when viewing a fox. She removed her derby, pointing it in the direction of the fox. She continued this for four or five strides as there was no slowing down, then she clapped the derby on her head realizing she’d snapped her hat cord in her eagerness to confirm her view.

  “Bother!” she muttered under her breath as the hat cord swung from side to side on her neck, its small metal snap cold when it touched bare skin.

  Within four minutes the fox popped into his den, hounds marked it, Rassle turning a somersault of delight, which made the whole field laugh. Shaker blew “Gone to Ground,” praised his charges, mounted with a wince, and looked at Sister.

  Like a schoolgirl bursting with eagerness, she said, “Let’s hunt the back acres. If we don’t pick up anything in twenty minutes, we can call it a day. I mean, unless you’re hurting.”

  He shot her a baleful stare. “Who’s hurting?” He spoke softly to the hounds, “Good hounds, good hounds, pack into me now.”

  “More?” Ruthie, sleek and fit, was as eager as Sister.

  “Yes,” Cora happily told her.

  “Yay!” the young entry cheered.

  “All right, now. No babbling,” Asa gruffly instructed them, although he was as thrilled as they were. A good hound always wants to hunt. “Discipline, young ‘uns. Discipline’s what makes a great foxhound and a great fox. You’re a Jefferson hound, you know, not some raggle-taggle trash”

  They obediently quieted, but Ribot, Ruthie, and Rassle couldn�
��t help themselves. As they walked to the next cast, they’d jump up to look over the pack, to see Shaker.

  “Jack-in-the-boxes.” Tedi, alongside Sister, smiled.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Sister had tears in her eyes from the run, from happiness.

  “Yes.” Tedi rode a few paces, then said, “Pity so few people feel that way.”

  Sister, without rancor, replied, “Their own damn fault for the most part.”

  “I agree,” Tedi said, thinking back to the joy she and Edward shared when both their daughters were alive, the family following the hounds, the pace like lightning. She’d had her share of happiness and her share of sorrow, and she thanked God for both. She knew Sister did, too.