Excitement bubbled over along with the coffeepot.
Few mentioned Iffy. She hadn't been a part of the club, although Sorrel, Walter's steady, expressed her sympathy to Jason on losing Iffy.
"Thank you," he replied. "She turned the corner." He drank a hot toddy, then spoke again. "One of the things about our profession"—he nodded toward Walter—"is you must accept death."
"I suppose, but Walter hates to lose a patient."
"I do too, but Sorrel, there's a time to live and a time to die." Then he smiled. 'You know what's worse than death? The paperwork!"
Tootie patted her britches pocket. The lockback knife Sister had given her was there. She hadn't expected anything for leading back Aztec on Thursday and was delighted with the beautiful knife.
A foxhunter should always have a pocket knife in a coat or britches pocket.
The girls talked with one another. Pamela felt more of the group these days, although she could still get on their nerves, especially Val's. She did, however, give each of them a steel-tipped stock pin from Horse Country, as promised.
Sister pulled Walter to the side. "Haven't had a minute to talk to you."
"What a day."
"Was, wasn't it?" She touched glasses with him.
Tedi came up. "I feel twenty-one again."
"Me too." Sister laughed. "Today is Felix of Nola's feast day. I remember because of Nola."
"How do you remember these things? What did Felix do?" Walter grinned.
"Survived torture and persecution in the third century ad, going on to perform conversions and miracles. Died 260 ad."
"Every day is a miracle." Tedi beamed.
"Today certainly was." Walter noticed Sorrel motioning to him. "Excuse me."
The phone rang. Val, next to it, picked it up and cupped her head over the receiver. "Sister," she called over the din. "Sam."
Sister pushed through the crowd, listened, then hung up the phone as Gray walked over to her. She started laughing. "Crawford has hounds out all over the country. Sam asks if we see any, would we pick them up." She asked for silence, then added, 'You can take them to the barn in the back."
"Damned if I'll help Crawford," a member groused.
"Hounds first," Sister simply replied.
Margaret DuCharme slipped in the back door. Her eyes watered a bit from Comet's signature odor. She found Ben. Sister had invited her and told her that no one thought for a second she had anything to do with Iffy's disappearance. However, it was damned inconvenient that Iffy's wheelchair had been in her SUV. With Iffy dead it became quite upsetting.
Sister had asked her to come for Ben. She'd noticed their connection at the New Year's party. And she really did want Margaret to know she was above suspicion. No one was pointing the finger at her.
They were pointing it at Golly, who had soared onto the table, grabbed a succulent slice of ham, and jumped off, racing upstairs with her prize.
"That damned cat!" Sister couldn't get through the crowd to smack Golly's bottom.
Ben's cell phone rang as he was talking with Margaret. He flipped it open and recognized the number. "Excuse me, Margaret." He listened, said little, then flipped the phone back. "We have permission from Angel's great-niece in Richmond. That saves time."
"Permission for what?" Margaret asked.
"To exhume Angel Crump."
CHAPTER 24
Angel Crump was in much worse shape than Iffy Demetrios, but then she'd had a year and a half to molder. Embalming, limited as it was by social consent, and being interred in a casket preserved some tissues. The bones, intact, might yield something.
Lyle Aziz snipped what he could. Given that it was January 16, he hoped the results wouldn't be eight weeks in coming. Not much happened in the dead of winter except for car wrecks, someone crashing through ice and drowning. The murder rate dropped down; the violent outbursts of summer's sticky heat abated. The state lab ought to be able to get back to him faster than in July.
Still no results from Iffy's remains. As for Angel, how many ways could someone kill another without arousing suspicion?
When the victim—if she was a victim—was in her eighties, the possibilities increased. People expected older people to die, not considering wrongdoing when it occurred.
Angel had been slumped over her desk as though asleep when Garvey walked in with papers for her. He'd assumed her passing was natural. Why kill Angel Crump?
As Lyle worked away he was glad those were not his concerns. He did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs.
Ben Sidell was trying to do his. As Lyle bent over what was left of dear old Angel, Ben faced a furious Crawford Howard.
"Why would I kill her?" Crawford exploded as he sat in his sumptuous stable office, with cherrywood paneling, no less.
Ben stood before him, since Crawford rudely did not ask him to sit. Sam worked outside, bandages itching. He and Rory were grooming Czpaka in the crossties closest to the office just in case they might hear something. They heard that sentence.
Ben, voice lower, replied, 'You aren't under suspicion."
Crawford shifted in his leather chair. "Iffy was an unreliable neighbor."
"How so?"
"She'd say one thing one day and another the next."
"Could you give me an example?"
Without hesitation, Crawford launched in. "Last fall I asked if I could ride over the low hills that separate us and ride the perimeter of her farm." He explained as if talking to a child. "To sweeten the request I had Mostly Maples plant a ten-foot sugar maple in her front yard. She called, thanked me and mentioned she liked Southern hawthorns. Waynesboro Nurseries planted two for her. She finally agreed. A week later, Sam and I rode over late one afternoon, and she flew out on her broom. Apoplectic." He drew in his breath. He shrugged. "The woman had a mental condition."
"She said she had lung cancer."
"Doesn't matter, does it? The result is the same."
"Perhaps it matters in how we respond to someone like that."
"Bullshit. She got away with murder. I know other people who have cancer and they don't use it the way Iffy used hers. She was a useless person."
"Better off dead?"
Crawford raised an eyebrow. 'Yes, but"—he raised his voice—"that doesn't mean I shot her. Traced the bullet yet?"
"No."
"Hot gun." Crawford raised his eyebrows. Stolen guns and knockoff models of expensive guns, sold cheap out of the backs of cars, were usually untraceable.
"If it is from a registered gun, we'll track it down, but you're right." These were golden words to Crawford, so Ben smiled when he said, "It's easy to procure a used clean gun."
Crawford puffed out his chest a bit. 'You guys want us to believe you can solve murders with technology. I say it's still an easy crime to commit and walk free."
Ben waited a beat. "If someone is very intelligent or very lucky, it's easier than I would like it to be."
"Anything else?"
"No. Thank you for your time."
"Might want to talk to Sam. She hated him."
"Thanks." Ben left the office, crossed the center aisle, and stood quietly while Czpaka closed his eyes in pleasure.
Sam massaged the warm-blood's long neck while Rory curried along his back. "Heard you all had some kind of hunt Saturday."
Ben grinned. "How Shaker, Betty, and Sybil got that pack together, I'll never know, and Sam, what a good run it was, too."
"Starts in the breeding shed just like for horses," Sam responded.
"Ah, yes, of course." Ben then said to Rory, 'You're getting good at that."
The dark curly-haired fellow nodded. "Sam's teaching me a lot."
"Mind if I ask you a few questions, Sam? We can go in private if you like."
"Rory's my buddy." Sam indicated that Ben should start in.
"Crawford said Iffy hated you."
"Not always." Sam chose his words carefully. "She was sharp with me, but that was Iffy's way. Got bad at the end."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't matter what I said or did; she'd jump down my throat. When the hounds dug out, Sister picked up three couple, but about two hours later, one lone fellow showed up at her door. I go to pick up the hound and she comes out waving a steak knife at me."
"Why do you think she hated you?"
Sam thought a long time. He looked at Rory, then back at the sheriff. "Alcoholic. I asked her to go to AA with me once."
Ben replied. "No one else has mentioned this about Iffy."
Rory spoke up. "Said she suffered from her treatments. Maybe she did, but she was a drunk."
"It takes one to know one." Sam supported Rory's assessment. "Whatever medication she was on, she was still a drunk."
"She hid it well," Ben remarked.
"Not so well," Rory piped up.
"If you know the signs, she couldn't hide it. She was a functioning alcoholic. Most are. Less than five percent of alcoholics end up like Rory and me, on the street drinking sterno. She went to work, held her job. I guess she did a good job, but she was an alcoholic. She did her drinking at home. Maybe she hid a bottle in her car. Don't know. There are people who get through the day. When the sun sets they hit the bottle. Every day."
"Women hide it better than men," Rory opined.
"Hide everything better than men," Sam agreed.
"And you don't think anyone else picked up on this?" Ben asked.
"She preyed on people's sympathy. She'd totter around with her canes, or she'd slump in her wheelchair."
Ben asked, "Are you saying she could walk just fine?"
"Unless she was loaded."
"Do you think she could have faked her illness?" Ben said quietly.
This didn't surprise Sam or Rory, which in itself surprised Ben.
"It's possible. She was very smart."
"I checked her medical records. The tumor is obvious." Ben frowned for a second.
"Doesn't make her any less of a drunk." Rory brushed Czpaka's hindquarters in a circular motion.
"Guess not." Ben put his hands, cold, into his coat pockets.
"We saw right through her. She couldn't stand it." Sam lifted a small bucket from the floor.
The smell of Absorbine filled the air, a strong but pleasant odor. Czpaka opened his eyes from his reverie.
Sam sponged some Absorbine onto Czpaka's back.
"That feels so good. "The horse groaned.
Sam smiled as he worked his fingers along the big guy's spine.
'You two have been very helpful." Ben glanced back to see Crawford on the phone. Lowering his voice, he said, "We miss you."
"It's a five-boarder," Rory replied.
"Beg pardon." Ben, an Ohio boy, didn't recognize the expression, which referred to the number of boards in a fence panel.
"Bad. More to fix," Rory answered.
"Yeah, I think it is, too," Ben replied. He turned to leave, paused, walked across the center aisle, and knocked on Crawford's door. Crawford looked up through the large-paned window from which he could observe activities in the stable. He motioned for Ben to enter.
The sheriff patiently waited while Crawford finished his call.
When Crawford had touched the off button, Ben stepped forward. "I'm sorry to bother you again. Did you ever try to buy Iffy's farm?"
"Once. She refused." Crawford's voice was even.
"It'd be nice to have Iffy's farm, since it touches yours."
"It would. She was adamant."
" 'Course, it's close to town. Be a great development site."
Crawford, irritated, declared, "Not my forte."
Once Ben had driven out, Crawford called Jason. He'd heard Jason had gone back out with Jefferson Hunt.
Before he had a chance to rip him apart, Jason coolly circumvented the anger. "I know, I hunted with JHC. Crawford, one of us needs to be on the good side. If we can go forward at Paradise, some of those members will be resource people."
"They won't buy."
"No, but they might have a friend in California who will. We can't burn all our bridges."
"Have you talked to the sheriff?"
"He called on me concerning my patient."
"Oh, say Iffy, for Christ's sake. I know perfectly well it was about Iffy," Crawford erupted. "Why else would he see you? Did you say anything about Paradise?"
"No, of course not." Jason was angry now.
"He asked me if I wanted to buy Iffy's farm and develop it."
"I didn't say anything."
'You and I need to talk about Jefferson Hunt. Face-to-face."
"We will. It's been hectic." Jason begged off.
CHAPTER 25
Iffy's remains provoked slight controversy among her distant relatives, none of whom felt sufficiently close to pay for interment. Garvey, pity overtaking anger, paid for cremation and picked up the shoe box of her earthly remains, an I.D. sticker on the sides. His wife, horrified at the idea of baked bones in the house, told him to dump Iffy on the rosebushes, reminding him that ash is good for roses.
As the bushes slumbered under the snow, the tops visible, it made no sense to squander the ash on the snow.
For all his troubles, Garvey retained his sense of humor. He gave the ashes to Gray and asked him to scatter Iffy on Hangman's Ridge: "For if we dispensed justice as once we did, she'd have probably been hung."
Iffy, placed on a shelf in the kennel feed room, awaited Sister and Gray's return from today's hunt, Tuesday, January 17.
Gray had brought her to Roughneck Farm Monday night, and neither he nor Sister wanted to go up to Hangman's Ridge. They told each other it was because the farm road was icy. They couldn't use darkness as an excuse, since the moon was just past full.
Slapping Iffy on the shelf, they promised to scatter her ashes and read a prayer. They would not speak ill of the dead.
At this exact moment, this impending pathetic ceremony didn't enter Sister's mind.
Riding Matador for the first time in a hunt, she thought this would be a good day to try him. Usually hunting was slack for a few days after a full moon, animals weary after the heightened activity of the time. It affected humans, too, hence the term "lunatic." Tuesdays the fields were small, another good reason to test Matador. He wouldn't be overwhelmed with other horses.
After the visit last summer by Sister and Walter, Franklin Foster up in Fairfax had said yes to allowing the Jefferson Hunt on his land. Since the hunt would clear trails, build attractive jumps in old fence lines, and keep an eye on this one thousand acres without charging him a penny, it didn't take a genius to see the advantage to himself. The land abutted Paradise on the north and west; it was rough but rich in game.
Sister hadn't pursued this fixture during the years when Binky and Alfred's disagreements had flared up. One would say the hunt could use Paradise; the other would say no. She'd steered clear. There was no point in hunting Mr. Foster's land if hounds ran into Paradise. One brother, at least, would be mad at Jefferson Hunt. Last year, Margaret, working as hard as a shuttling diplomat, had secured Paradise once more for foxhunting. That's when Sister and Walter drove to what they considered Occupied Virginia: northern Virginia.
The Jefferson Hunt now had a fixture of seven thousand acres, counting both places together plus odd pieces surrounding those two large parcels of land. This more than made up for the loss of Beasley Hall except that Crawford had groomed his estate, built all the jumps, and been a generous host during his years of membership.
It takes a year to learn your foxes on a new fixture. It takes years to cut the trails according to the manner in which your foxes run. It's a foolish master who rushes into a new place, squandering people's time, energy, and money, opening trails, cutting brush and trees, and building jumps only to find that the foxes use a different highway.
That meant today she rode in thick woods, ravines unfolding before her. The deer trails proved useful. Discarded farm roads, saplings lacing through them, could be followed slowly.
Out for
an hour. Nothing. Matador, walking along calmly, swiveled his ears each time Shaker blew the horn. She felt disgust about Iffy's murder. She wondered, too, about the mound of frozen blood she'd found on Crawford's land. Gave her the creeps.
Tootie rode Keepsake. Apart from wanting Tootie to hunt, Sister thought Matador would feel better if a stablemate rode with him. She had horse sense.
The Hounds and the Fury Page 19