Hounded to Death

by Rita Mae Brown

  “We’ll have our work cut out for us here.” Sister sighed.

  The work of keeping present territory open, as well opening new territory, never ended, taking many hands. Sister had a knack for finding willing volunteers, but coordinating schedules was a full-time job. How much easier it would have been to hire laborers, as the very wealthy clubs did. But Jefferson Hunt members watched the pennies, especially Ronnie Haslip, who hovered over the account books. Ronnie was just what a club wanted in a treasurer, although Sister might fret at times over his tightfistedness. They walked under a cliff overhang, cool from the huge rock outcroppings.

  “Heading toward the scene of the crime.” Sister laughed.

  Tootie, who’d ridden on the day the field came upon Arthur DuCharme’s illegal still, smiled. “At least it won’t explode.”

  “I took care of that.” Ben, also on the hunt that day, had given Arthur a deal. He’d destroy the still and Arthur, recovering from cancer, had to promise not to reopen for business.

  “He’s a sharp one,” Sister commented dryly.

  “You mean because he made liquor all those years and didn’t get caught?” Tootie asked, a sweat bee suddenly finding her quite interesting.

  “That, too, but with Arthur you have to listen to every single word. He won’t lie to you, but you have to read between the lines,” Sister replied.

  “Glad Margaret’s not like that.” Ben was dating Arthur’s niece.

  “Did Arthur put the still back here because it’s hard to reach?” Tootie thought making moonshine a touch romantic, rebellious.

  “Partly, but you need a place where the water is good. It’s sweet here,” Sister answered. They rounded the last great hunk of rock, which hung out like a dislocated monster’s jaw.

  “Jesus H. Christ on a raft!” Sister exclaimed.

  Ben, trotting up behind her, was speechless.

  Tootie simply said, “Looks like Arthur broke his promise.”

  The three quickly rode down to the still, which was far larger and grander than the original.

  Ben dismounted while Sister held the reins. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and went inside.

  Tootie said, “Isn’t it kind of stupid to build a still where we hunt?”

  “Not necessarily.” A trickle of sweat was sliding down Sister’s back. The mercury had already climbed to the low eighties. “The time we rode up on Arthur’s Glenlivet factory”—she winked—“he had no idea we’d gotten permission from Franklin Foster. He’d been undergoing cancer treatment and wasn’t up to speed. He knew we’d be hunting Old Paradise, but the chances of us winding up all the way here were pretty slim.”

  “But why build here now?”

  “Tootie, Arthur’s a countryman and he’s smart. On days we might hunt Foster’s land, all he needs to do is drag a trail of fresh blood in a huge circle around the still, say at a quarter-mile radius. The hounds will be baffled by the fresh blood. A fox can run through to foil scent, too. It’s an easy ruse. My money’s always on Arthur. I’ve known him all his life.” She paused. “He’s not worthless, he’s just—um, disinclined to pay taxes.”

  Ben emerged, walking quickly up to Lafayette. He led the Thoroughbred to a slight depression in the ground to mount up, for Lafayette was taller than Nonni.

  Once up he said tersely, “I’ll kill that son of a bitch. He lied to me.”

  “Arthur wouldn’t lie, Ben, though he might talk sideways.”

  “Well, he damn well lied this time. You should see that setup. Huge copper kettles! It’s a real distillery, not a couple of glass beakers and coils. He spent big money on this.”

  “Ben, don’t jump the gun.”

  “I’m not.” The sheriff was fuming. “I’m going to arrest him and throw his lying butt in jail!”

  Sister decided to let him cool off a bit on the ride back to the trailers. She continued to look for boar tracks, any tracks really.

  When all three had squeezed into the cab of the dually, Sister, cranking the motor, said calmly, “I called Binky before we came out here.” This was Arthur’s brother. The two did not speak to each other. “I also called Arthur and Margaret. Granted, I asked permission to ride over Old Paradise only to flag any work we might need to do to prepare for cubbing. If Arthur thought we were heading to Franklin Foster’s land, he gave no indication.”

  “Of course not.” Ben, window down, reached up and held the top of the window frame, feeling the air on his hand.

  “But if he was worried, he would have given some hint or tried to head us off.”

  “That setup is too big to hide.”

  “True.” She pondered this. “He could throw us off when we were hunting, but he couldn’t really throw us off now. Still, I think I’d sense it if he was concerned. I know Arthur.”

  Not to be dissuaded, Ben allowed Tootie to clean up Lafayette for him, jumped in his personal vehicle, not a squad car, tore back to Old Paradise next to the Foster land, and strode into Arthur’s workshop.

  Arthur gave him a big hello. He’d been making a chest of drawers.

  Ben wasted no time. “You lied to me.”

  “I did not.” Arthur, full head of hair still mostly brown, big walrus mustache, stood to his full six feet.

  “I rode back to the old still site, and Arthur, what you’ve got there is four times as big as before, plus it’s full of damned expensive equipment. You’re stepping up in the world.”

  “I did not rebuild my old still.” Arthur’s voice was level, his demeanor calm.

  “Oh, come on. Who else knew about that location?”

  “Sit down, Sheriff.” Arthur pointed to a stool by the workbench.

  “I’ll stand.”

  “All right, then. For one thing, when you set fire to my still, everyone out Chapel Cross way saw the flames and heard the explosion.”

  “Sure they did. That’s why I called the fire department and told them not to worry, I was on the scene. I kept everyone away.”

  “You think they didn’t know?”

  “What, that I blew up your still? When I threw in that torch, hell, the whole damn place sounded like a V-Two rocket hitting London. But they didn’t know it was a still.”

  “They did. You haven’t considered, Sheriff”—Arthur paused for effect—“that most of these folks were customers of mine. When everything went to hell, they knew, all right. Didn’t have to tell them.”

  This was sinking in. “Had anyone been back to the still while you operated it?” Ben asked.

  “I’m not going to incriminate my neighbors.”

  “All right, all right. You got an ATV?”

  “I do.”

  “Then we’re going back in.”

  It took them twenty-five minutes—the two men had to get out and walk around the massive rock outcroppings—but Arthur’s eyes about popped when he saw the still.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Don’t play me, Arthur.”

  “I’m not.”

  They hurried down. Ben threw open the door, and Arthur walked in like a kid in a candy shop. “This is beautiful. Beautiful.” He touched the copper kettles and sniffed the charred barrels. The fragrance of alcohol in the cradle excited him.

  “Sheriff, you’ve got folks here who really know what they’re doing!” Arthur walked over to a full cask, pulled out the stopper, grabbed a small bottle and allowed some liquid to fill it, then quickly jammed the stopper back in. He held it to his nose.

  “Well?”

  “Trying to fake age, by the depth of the char in the barrel.” He took a sip and held the bottle toward Ben. “Try it.”

  Reluctantly, Ben sipped. “Burns a little.”

  “Yeah. High alcohol content, but that will come on down. They’ll cut it, obviously, or they’d kill their customers.” Arthur laughed. “They’ll cut it down to eighty proof. That’s what I think.”

  “But I thought one of the attractions of moonshine was the potency.”

  “Not moonshine, country water
s,” Arthur corrected him. “For the uninitiated, sure, they want that full mule kick in the pants. For the connoisseur, it’s the smoothness, the flavor, the lingering taste on the tongue. Good country waters are as good as anything you’ll get from a major distillery and a damn sight more individual.”

  “I almost believe you didn’t know about this.”

  “I didn’t, but I can tell you a few things.” He looked around. “Whoever is making this hasn’t been back here for maybe two months, give or take.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Dust. Someone who cared would keep the place spotless and still probably have some grain fermenting. Here the process has stopped. The barrels are full, except for one.” He pointed to a deeply charred white-oak barrel. “Maybe they got scared off.”

  “With this much money invested? I doubt it.”

  “Well, whoever is making this knows a good bit about the process. He’s done this before, with other country people. Maybe he even once worked at a distillery.”

  “Kind of stupid to come back here.”

  “No. There’s a ready market here and many ways to lead you-all off when you’re hunting. All anyone has to do is let a fox go.”

  “Never thought of that.”

  “Sheriff, you’re not country. Furthermore, you’re from Ohio. No offense intended.” He closed his eyes and lifted the bottle to his nose again. “Another thing. Coloring agents.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ve got someone making cheap bourbon here and passing it off as high grade, I reckon.”

  “Jesus H. Christ on a raft!” Ben echoed Sister’s earlier exclamation.

  Arthur stroked his fulsome mustache. “Boy, you got a little country in you after all.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “A perfect match.” Sister held the paper sample next to a Maker’s Mark label. She found the samples in Hope’s office. She asked Dan for them saying she liked paper. He didn’t care if Sister cleaned out all of Hope’s desk. He was on overload.

  The big Webb press hummed in the printing room at Franklin Press.

  Bobby Franklin, fighting weight gain, feeling bulky, held up both papers to the light. “The ink’s a match, but you can see the paper isn’t the same as the real Maker’s Mark.”

  Betty said, “Corporations must find ways to distinguish their product just like the government does with money, ways that aren’t obvious to a buyer. You know, like the silver thread they’re using now.”

  “I confess when the new bills were issued I tore one open to pull out the thread.” Sister took the sheet of black paper held out to her by Betty. “Okay, what’s this?”

  “Jack Daniels Number Seven. Black Label. In this case, the paper is just about right but it’s tricky, because the information isn’t printed, it’s a color block on the label.”

  “What do you mean?” Sister rubbed the black paper between her fingers.

  “The paper is white. It’s set up on computers—it’s all computers now—so the paper is printed and the lettering stands out in white. Think of it as a dye. Easier that way.”

  “Like waxing the part of an Easter egg you wish to paint a different color.”

  “Exactly.”

  One of Bobby’s workmen approached. “Mr. Franklin, will you check the first runoff here?”

  “The wedding job?”

  “Right. That silver ink is a whistling bitch.”

  “Be right back. Why don’t you girls go into the office?” Bobby always called Betty and Sister girls, and that was fine with them.

  Once inside the main office, paneled in a lovely pecan that was hard to find this far away from Alabama’s pecan groves, the two women pored over paper samples and ink colors on the large smooth table.

  Bobby came back in and Betty glanced up. “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” He sat down next to Sister. “Silver ink, any metallic ink, is more difficult to work with. Clogs more often and may not give the crisp impression you want. Sometimes, depending on the job, we have to run the paper through twice, and that is dicey. Then people fuss because we charge more for metallic inks. If you look at the label of a George Dickel bourbon bottle, let me tell you, that is one damned expensive print job.”

  “Hope didn’t have that one.” Betty matched up colors with bourbon labels.

  “She stuck to Kentucky bourbons, except for Jack Daniels. The Japanese know about Jack Daniels.” Sister rested her chin in the cup of her hand, elbow on desk. “I’m surprised and appalled.”

  “I’m pretty surprised, too.” Betty sighed.

  “Larceny.” Bobby shrugged. “The lure of Mammon just grabs hold of some folks. Obviously she wasn’t worried about getting caught. Betty found the ink numbers written on scraps of paper in the glove compartment of Hope’s Volvo.”

  “But Hope Rogers? Who would have thought?” Betty shook her head. “She made a good living. What more did she need?”

  “Ask that of all the people living in McMansions,” Sister chimed in. “Bet there never was an aunt who died and left her money at all. She was raking it in on this.”

  “I underestimated Ben.” Bobby was breathing heavily; he really did have to lose the fat. “He had everything in that still checked for fingerprints, and he did it fast. Hope’s prints were all over the place.”

  “Here it is just three days from when we rode back in there, and the pieces of the puzzle are falling together.” Sister lifted her chin from her hand. “Okay. She was making illegal bourbon or fake bourbon or whatever you call the stuff, and she obviously sold it overseas where palates aren’t as sophisticated as ours regarding bourbon. I still don’t think she killed herself.” She paused. “She had a partner. She had to.”

  “Why? She did her research. She had the ink colors exactly. Paper is harder to duplicate, but she came up with close substitutes if she couldn’t match it exactly. You know, specialty papers demand a lot of chemistry and a bit of art.” Bobby appreciated high-quality work.

  “If Hope had a partner, why didn’t he or she go back to the still? Ben and Arthur said no one had been there in maybe two months.” Betty drummed her fingers on the table, her habit when working out a problem.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Bobby replied. “If she did have a partner—and I’m not sold on that idea—he or she needed Hope. She was the distiller. She was the one who had organic chemistry in college. You can’t be a vet or a doctor without it.”

  “And she was the one who did all the research in Kentucky. Fascinating, really—her account, I mean. I think you’re right, Bobby. Hope was the distiller. Her partner would be a marketing person.”

  “She could have done it by herself,” Betty said, “although it’s hard to imagine Hope hauling those large copper kettles back in there. So even if she didn’t have a true business partner, someone else knew.”

  “Arthur.” Bobby folded his hands over his stomach. “Bet you bottom dollar.”

  “He’s sly. He could have helped her out and taken something for it,” Sister agreed, “I’ll give you that. But on the other hand, he did make a deal with Ben to give up the business when Ben caught him the last time.”

  “That’s not the same as saying you’ll never help anyone else.” Bobby laughed. “Arthur can find the slightest hole and slip through.”

  “Ben will work him over.” Betty, like Sister, felt something was missing.

  “No, he won’t. Because of Margaret,” Bobby stated simply.

  “Well, there is that.” Sister nodded. “But Margaret will find out from her uncle herself. I’d bet my bottom dollar on that.”

  The three close friends sat there looking at the papers, the ink, and one another for a time.

  Bobby finally said, “Blackmail.”

  “What?” Betty’s voice rose.

  “That’s why she killed herself. Someone found out. She couldn’t take the shame.”

  “Wouldn’t she just pay him off ?” Sister thought paying was the reasonable course until one could figure out how to ge
t rid of the blackmailer.

  “How much for how long?” Bobby shrugged.

  “Bobby, Hope Rogers wouldn’t kill herself over blackmail. She’d kill the blackmailer first.” Betty’s voice had the ring of a wife speaking to a dense husband.

  “Mo Schneider?” Sister wondered, then checked herself. “But she was already on her way home.”

  “You don’t know that,” Betty said.

  “Hell of a way to kill the jerk. Be a lot easier to pull the trigger,” Bobby said.

  “Yeah, it would.” Sister reached over and touched Betty’s hand. “I truly believe Hope was murdered. Whether it was because of this illegal operation, I don’t know, but I do know who-ever killed her is walking around free, probably right in this community. Think about it.”

  “Doesn’t add up. The whistle was going to be blown and she panicked.” Bobby’s voice sounded authoritative.

  “Honey, I disagree but I don’t want to be disagreeable.” Betty smiled sweetly, already feeling a trifle guilty for her manner toward him a few moments ago. “Like Sister, I believe she was murdered. And I agree with you: Things don’t add up. We’re still only seeing part of the picture.”

  “Right.” Sister backed up Betty. “But the more I think about all this, the worse I feel.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “That heat beats down like a hammer.” Mitchell Fisher rested his pole saw against the big poplar tree and wiped his brow.

  “The anvil outlasts the hammer.” Sister, one handkerchief tied around her forehead and another around her neck, each filled with ice cubes, was managing the heat better than Mitch. She withheld her advice about ice in a neckerchief, however, because Mitch, like many doctors, betrayed an arrogance that left him unable to learn from others.

  He was smart but not that smart. Then, too, physicians and academicians confuse intellect with wisdom. The two are poles apart, something Sister learned from her days teaching at Mary Baldwin. Some of the biggest idiots she knew paraded their expertise about one thing. Oddly, many people were awed by someone’s knowing more and more about less and less.