Hounded to Death

by Rita Mae Brown

  “He’ll come around. Where’s Gray?”

  “Over there talking to Pamela Rene’s parents. Her mother doesn’t want her to go to Ol’ Miss, and I guess her father isn’t too thrilled either.”

  “Good for her.” Marty liked a kid with spunk. “The farther she gets from Momma’s talons, the better.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Betty and Bobby joined them. “We miss you,” both said.

  “And I miss you guys.” Marty, being from Indiana, did not use the southern plural, you-all.

  “Wasn’t Felicity’s speech good?” Betty enthused.

  “Yes. She’s a very accomplished young lady,” Marty replied. A pause followed. “I haven’t spoken to anyone for such a long time. All the construction on the farm is time-consuming, and then we took a trip to Vienna, which I adore, but when I came back and heard about Hope Rogers, I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Terrible thing.” Bobby started to change the subject, feeling it best on this special occasion to focus on positive things.

  Before the old friends could continue, Tootie came over with her parents, Jordon and Rebecca Harris.

  Everyone said their hellos, and Jordon, impeccably dressed in clothes obviously made for him, beamed. “Thank you for taking such good care of our girl, Master. She speaks of you and the club constantly.” He fished for a moment; then the name came. “Mrs. Franklin, Tootie says you’re a wonderful . . . uh—”

  “Whipper-in.” Tootie finished the sentence for him.

  “That’s very flattering.” Betty loved the praise.

  “See, she doesn’t talk about me at all.” Bobby teased. “Never glances back at second flight.”

  “Mr. Franklin, you have the hardest job of all.” Tootie liked having her parents with the other adults she admired.

  “Why is that?” Rebecca, diminutive like her daughter and ravishingly beautiful, asked.

  “He gets green horses, green riders, and sometimes both together. It’s not a pretty picture, Mom.” Tootie laughed. “But he straightens them out, and pretty soon they’re fine.”

  Val bounced up. “Princeton, here we come!”

  Tootie smiled but clearly viewed this prospect with less enthusiasm than the class president and salutatorian. “Black and orange.”

  “You’ll look so-o-o good in those colors,” Val teased.

  Tootie’s parents laughed. They knew Val. She’d visited on holidays and Tootie had gone to Val’s home. Since their dangerous adventure at Mill Ruins back in March when a mentally unstable hunt club member had threatened their lives, the two had drawn even closer.

  Felicity joined them, Howie in tow, which always irritated Val although she tried to cover it. “The kitty has come to a grand total of $1,022. One dollar even came from Sister.”

  “No shit!” Val exclaimed.

  “Make that $1023,” Felicity said.

  Everyone laughed, but Val did reach up under her robe to pull a dollar from her shorts pocket. She’d worn shorts just for the hell of it, but Pamela, to everyone’s surprise, had outdone Val by wearing a bathing suit under hers.

  “Where are you girls going to have your thousand-dollar party?” Bobby asked. The Jefferson Hunt people all knew about the kitty, a dollar bigger each time one of the girls swore.

  Val surprised everyone. “Let’s not have a party.”

  “What?” Tootie put her hands on her hips.

  “Felicity’s the business brain. I vote for letting her invest the money. Ten years from now let’s see what we’ve got.”

  “Will you do it?” Tootie asked Felicity.

  “Yes.”

  “How simple is that?” Val smiled.

  All three shook hands.

  After the group dispersed, Gray escorted Sister back to his car, a big Toyota Land Cruiser and his pride and joy.

  “Memories.” He held her hand as they walked along the path lined with Victorian streetlamps.

  The Custis Hall buildings were a mix of Federal and Victorian architecture. To the credit of those headmistresses who held the reins after World War II, none of the buildings looked overly modern. Every new structure conformed either to the Federal or to the Victorian style, so the campus seemed timeless, warm and very inviting.

  Also to the credit of those headmistresses, including Charlotte Norton, the emphasis still remained on a strict education, not fads. A girl had to take a minimum of two years of Latin plus a modern language to graduate from Custis Hall. She had to study math all the way through solid geometry and trigonometry; a calculus course was available for those with further interest. The strongest emphasis was on character. A Custis Hall girl was expected to take responsibility for her actions, to help others, and to participate in her community. A bronze plaque on the wall of Old Main listed the names of those girls who had died in the various wars, usually as nurses but one as a transport pilot in World War II, two who died in Desert Storm, and three in Iraq, second war. Those girls had been killed in combat.

  Although she had missed the wars, too young for World War II and Korea, too old for Iraq, the values of Custis Hall remained Sister’s values. In the back of her mind she always wished she had gone to war: an odd wish, perhaps, but in keeping with her spirit and her curiosity to know if she would withstand it.

  “Memories,” Gray whispered again.

  “So many.” Her eyes glistened. “Field hockey. The show-jumping team. Hunting with Jefferson Hunt as a teenager. The huntsman was Garland Valentine; God how we flew. Garland looked like Cary Grant. I was a little too young to appreciate what an advantage that bestowed upon him with the ladies, single and married.” She laughed.

  “I bet. Most of your classmates are still around. The ceremonial dinner you-all had last night, class by class at tables, was damned impressive.”

  “The old girls look good, and some of their husbands don’t look bad either.” She watched a milk butterfly dance in the air. “My teachers here pounded on us. I’m grateful. We were taught to think for ourselves.”

  Suddenly Tootie, robe flapping behind her, raced up to Sister, flung her arms around her, and burst into tears.

  “Honey, what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t want to go to Princeton. I want to stay here. Oh, Sister, I want to learn to be a huntsman!”

  Neither Gray nor Sister made light of this. Some people are born to be with animals regardless of other gifts. Remove them from their deepest love and they never blossom fully, although they might be very successful in the outside world.

  Gray put his hands on Tootie’s heaving shoulders. “Tootie, maybe there’s a compromise.”

  She released Sister, who prudently fished in her handbag for a handkerchief.

  “Really?”

  “Have you mentioned this to your parents?” Gray, ever practical, asked.

  “No. My father would kill me. He’s set on me going to Princeton. Val would kill me, too.”

  “What about your mother?” Sister inquired.

  “I’ve kind of mentioned it, but only a little. She’s more flexible, but I know she’d be disappointed. I’ll be the first one in our family to go to an Ivy League school.”

  Gray wrapped his arm around her waist. “How about this: Go to Princeton for one year, even if you hate it like milk of magnesia. Give it one full year. But this summer, work for the hunt club.” He glanced at Sister. “The budget can handle it, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll see that it does, if I have to sit on Ronnie.”

  Ronnie Haslip, the treasurer, guarded the hunt club money the way Cerberus is said to guard the passage to the Underworld.

  “I’ll have to ask Mom and Dad.”

  “Tell you what. We’ll go with you.” Sister sounded encouraging, so Tootie wiped her eyes.

  They found Mr. and Mrs. Harris chatting with other parents at the tent housing the bar, which was becoming a bigger draw as the day went on.

  Gray quietly suggested that they slip away for a moment. Then he presented To
otie’s case as Sister watched in admiration.

  Jordon listened intently. “Tootie, pardon my French, but what would you learn cleaning up dog shit? And I’m nervous about what’s been happening at the hound shows. I want you safe.”

  Tootie fought her emotions. Her father respected logic; he was uncomfortable with emotion. “Dad, we aren’t going to any more hound shows. I’d be right here. I’m safer here than in the city.”

  “She can learn quite a bit with us, Mr. Harris.” Sister’s deep alto already had a soothing effect. “First she would learn responsibility. You two have drummed that in her head but she’d learn even more. She would learn how animals communicate; they do have languages. She’d learn some accounting, because she’d have to keep track of expenses. She’d ride the green horses. And she’d fall in bed each night exhausted, so there’d be no danger of partying.”

  Rebecca was tuned in to her daughter in ways that her husband, good man that he was, was not. “Is it possible for her to keep up with her German?”

  “Of course,” Sister replied. “One of our whippers-in, Sybil Fawkes, is fluent in German. And if she needs lessons, Sybil will find the right person.”

  Jordon’s mind was moving along. “Isn’t she the daughter of the philanthropist Edward Bancroft?”

  “She is.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Where would she live?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’d be happy to have her live with me, as long as she doesn’t play loud music in the house.” Sister laughed.

  “And what would her board cost?” Jordon’s mind rarely strayed far from money.

  “Mr. Harris, not a penny. And the club would pay her minimum wage so she would be learning to manage her own money.”

  Jordon stalled. “It’s dangerous, riding green horses.”

  “Well, what about seven dollars an hour?” Gray had Jordon’s measure. “That’s quite good for a young person just starting out.”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Sweetheart, what do you think?” The father had the great good sense to ask his wife before announcing his decision.

  “She loves it, Jordy. And Tootie’s not one to vegetate intellectually. She’ll keep studying.” A meaningful pause followed. “She’s her father’s daughter. That mind never stops.”

  This had the desired effect. Jordon was caught between three beautiful women, one of whom was his wife. He did what any smart man would do; he agreed.

  “Oh, Daddy, I love you!” Tootie threw her arms around her father and then hugged her mother.

  “We’ll take good care of her,” Gray said in a low aside to Jordon. “You can be sure of that.”

  As Gray and Sister once again walked toward his car, about a half mile away in the large soccer parking lot, Sister mused, “Val will pitch a fit.”

  “Honey, she’ll wind up on the farm, too.”

  “She has a very good summer job.”

  “My money is she won’t last a month.”

  “We’ll see.” They walked along, both of them pleased to have made Tootie so happy.

  “Damned shame about Felicity’s parents,” said Sister.

  “That kid’s learning hard lessons early. She’ll be stronger for this. If nothing else, she knows who loves her for herself.”

  “Before Tootie came up I was thinking.”

  “Yes?” He smiled slightly.

  “Mo Schneider, Hope Rogers, and Grant Fuller—I’m assuming he’s dead, too. Despite all the searching by police, there’s not a trace of him, and it’s been a week.”

  “He could have amnesia,” said Gray.

  “Possibly. Let’s set Grant aside; maybe he’ll show up in Aruba. But Mo and Hope each had connections to the hunt world and to the Thoroughbred world. So did Grant.”

  “Thousand and thousands of people fall into one of those categories. Fewer into both, I’ll give you that.”

  “I think these terrible events are connected.”

  Gray shrugged. “Janie, people do commit suicide. As for Mo—well, he got what he had coming. But Grant missing? That’s bizarre.”

  “He must have known something.”

  “The question is, What did he know?”

  CHAPTER 13

  The Bryn Mawr Hound Show fell on the same weekend as the Custis Hall graduation. Missing it disappointed Sister, for if the Virginia show was all trumpets and cymbals, Bryn Mawr was mellow woodwinds. But she couldn’t be in two places at the same time, and after the events at the last two hound shows, she was almost relieved to stay home.

  On the Monday after graduation, Tootie, with help from Val, moved into RayRay’s bedroom at the end of the long upstairs hall. How wonderful it felt to have life back in that room!

  Tootie didn’t want to unpack, she wanted to get right to work, but Sister told her to get her things in order first; they’d have plenty to do tomorrow. Val would be driving back home, and she thought the two friends would like time together.

  Usually, chore day was Thursday but Sister had odds and ends that wouldn’t wait, so she hopped in the car, hit up Southern States and Whole Foods, stopped by Keller & George to drop off an old watch for repair, and lingered over new watches.

  Arriving at the little café early, Sister drank an ice cold Co-Cola and read yesterday’s Times of London, her favorite newspaper despite its steep subscription rate (close to two thousand dollars a year) but worth every penny for the pleasure.

  “Ah.” She looked over the top of the paper, removing her reading glasses.

  “Sorry, I’m late.” Ben Sidell sat opposite her.

  “You’re not. I was early. Chaos at home. I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.” She filled him in on Tootie’s moving in and Val’s help. Felicity and Howie were also moving into the vacant Demetrios farm, closer to Sister, that Crawford Howard had purchased because it abutted his land.

  “Sounds like everyone’s settling in.” He smiled.

  “And there will be a marriage ceremony the last weekend of June.”

  “Good.” His brown eyes were merry. “Better to be married than not, I think.”

  “In Felicity’s case, certainly.” She smiled.

  “In general.” Ben leaned back. “Studies show that men who marry live longer and are happier than men who do not.”

  “And women?” She arched a silver eyebrow.

  “As it happens, the statistics are not the same. Single women appear to get along just fine.”

  “Sure, because they don’t have to do double the housework.”

  “Don’t more men do housework now?” Ben rubbed his chin. Judging by the light brown stubble there, he had left home this morning without shaving. “They must. Women are making more money, so they don’t have to put up with deadbeats anymore.”

  “Well, I hope so. Ray wouldn’t do laundry if he had to go naked.” She laughed. “He did do the dishes, though.”

  Ben noticed the sports page sticking out from under the Sunday paper. “May I?”

  “Sure.” She slipped it to him.

  After they ordered he commented wryly, “A lot of cricket photos. I don’t know as I will ever understand that game. It takes forever to finish a match.”

  “Can you imagine living when people had enough time for games to last three days? Remember, cricket started out as a kind of farm sport, or perhaps I should say a sport of the lower orders. I actually quite like it.”

  He pushed the paper back. “You never cease to amaze me. Speaking of which, here’s the background on Grant Fuller.” He handed her a sheet of paper.

  Their sandwiches came, and a refill of Sister’s Co-Cola.

  “Tennessee, Indiana, North Carolina, West Virginia.” She tapped the side of her plate once with her knife and then put it down quickly, realizing what she’d done. “He was expanding the business.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Just socially, and even then I saw him infrequently. The dog food he gave me to test was quite good.”

  “After you called
me last night I got to thinking about all this. The three people seem to have nothing in common—mind you, I believe that Hope did kill herself—but then I thought, ‘Well, the Silver Fox’”—he used one of Sister’s nicknames—“‘told me to put my nose down.’ What I did find is that both men had been charged with cruelty to animals.”

  “Grant?” This surprised her.

  “That’s why he sold his slaughterhouses. The newspaper report quotes him as saying he didn’t know any easy way to kill large animals, and they performed this act as humanely as possible. Of course, the poor animals can smell the blood, the panic. They die in dreadful fear; we all know that. Much as I hate it, I’m not going to stop eating beef, pork, or lamb chops. Still, there ought to be a better way.”

  “I’m sure there is, if we’d apply ourselves to finding it. And I expect in future there will be less meat-eating because it’s cheaper to get the calories from grain. This assumes that humans continue to breed like flies, outpacing the food supply.”

  “Um—well, Sister, as you know there’s nothing I can do about that. My job takes effect after the act, not before.”

  She studied the states and dates again. “West Virginia. The date is the same as that terrible storm. Charleston, West Virginia. The same as the night Hope died.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, nothing. Coincidence.” She opened the small jar of mustard served with her sandwich. “Were there any other charges of cruelty against Grant?”

  “No, the animal rights activists stuck to the slaughterhouse issue.”

  “If Grant Fuller is ever found, maybe we’ll be closer to the truth. He certainly never struck me as a brutal man—unlike Mo.”

  “No break in that case yet.”

  “Too many people are still cheering.” She smiled. “Thank you for going to the trouble of getting this information on Grant from the sheriff in his county.”

  “Turns out Grant is a meticulous record keeper. Once Grant’s wife filed a missing person’s report, his secretary handed the sheriff his desk daybook. It listed all his purchases. The sheriff said Grant must have had a hollow leg.”

  “Really?” Sister’s voice rose. “I saw him exceedingly happy a few times but never bombed.”