A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  He stood and kissed his daughters, put his hand on his sons-in-law’s shoulders, then picked up each child one by one for a big hug and a kiss.

  “My dears, such a sumptuous gift.”

  “We couldn’t stand the thought of everyone else pulling out their timepiece to look at it and our father having none. You are always the apogee of fashion,” Catherine gushed.

  As Catherine was not a gusher, her father realized how important the gift was.

  —

  Later, when the evening star arose, everyone was back in their house or cabin. Ewing threw on his coat to visit Isabelle’s grave.

  “My angel, how you would surprise me on my birthday. The kisses alone.” He stopped. “Well, our girls have kept up your doings. I now have a timepiece so, like it or not, I am a modern man.”

  The watch chimed eight times, he flipped open the cover and the chime rang out deep and clear. The evening star, unnaturally bright in the rich Prussian-blue sky, flickered.

  “Isabelle, the smartest thing I ever did was to marry you. My days are filled with our children and grandchildren. I am surrounded by love and always, always, and ever, I am guided by my love for you. You made me what I am.” He paused, his eyes glistening. “Ah, my love, time is passing.”

  November 21, 2016 Monday

  “Colder up here.” Pewter fluffed up her fur.

  “Always is,” Tucker agreed.

  “Feels good in the summer. Maybe not so much now,” Mrs. Murphy remarked. “At least we have fur and an undercoat. She puts on layers. When it’s really bitter, she looks like a doughboy.”

  At four in the afternoon, Harry wore an undershirt, an old cashmere turtleneck, many times mended, and her Woolrich red buffalo plaid jacket. A good pair of socks and boots, an unlined pair of work gloves kept her warm, as did heavier denim jeans. They’d driven up in the Ford F-150, parked in the turnabout more than halfway up the ridge. Becoming more and more certain that somehow this mess involved wildlife, Harry wanted to check for traps. Just to be safe, she’d slung her wonderful Weatherby rifle with the scope over her shoulder. As it was made for women it was lighter, the recoil didn’t knock her shoulder out of joint. The rifle was well balanced and easy to carry over long distances, so easy that Fair ordered one for himself. Given his physical presence, Fair never needed to prove to himself or others that he was manly. He considered all that bombast for weaklings. While he may have exhibited a touch of arrogance, his wife liked his attitude. She never needed to prop him up or massage his butch credentials. Harry figured one should take care of oneself. If he needed someone to whisper how big, strong, and handsome he was, that would be someone else. She had work to do. Then again, she never minded if someone told her she was intelligent, good-looking, and quick. But then Harry never said she was fair.

  Right now, she wasn’t feeling fair at all. She was worried and angry. The death of the truck driver didn’t touch her. She didn’t know him, nor did she know Pierre Rice, but meeting his sister, talking to Beverly Ely, she had a sense of him. Plus someone shot a hole in her Volvo, obviously intended for her.

  Climbing near the top of the ridge, she stopped, walked parallel to the ridge, which was 2,500 feet, to check bear caves. She also knew where fox dens were tucked away. They had not been disturbed. The first bear den, lower down, maybe at 800 feet, showed no sign of occupation. For one thing, you could usually smell them. Bear scent was strong, they gave off an odor like wet wood. Couldn’t miss it any more than you could miss deer in rut. That could bring tears to your eyes. Good the deer liked it. She didn’t.

  A prominent rock outcropping lured her. She moved slowly just in case. She’d learned if a bear does walk toward you, you make yourself bigger. Try to be aggressive up to a point. Fire your rifle in the air. If the bear has a cub, don’t fool around. Back away if you can. Any mothering animal can be dangerous, even a house cat.

  Nearing the entrance, she smelled bear. She tiptoed toward the overhang, and the two cats walked behind her while Tucker trotted ahead.

  “If it’s Sweetpea, I’ll warn her,” the corgi said.

  It wasn’t Sweetpea. A bear was using the den, but was out at the moment. A pile of leaves filled the back of the protective place. Berry bits scattered everywhere like tiny black punctuation points. Whoever lived in here ate well.

  Harry nosed around, then backed out, heading upward again. She noticed high nests overhead. Raptors usually built high, big nests. The overwintering birds, smaller, filled up their homes in tree hollows with hay, clothing bits, downy feathers. Occasionally, a bit of straw or ribbon fluttered overhead. Each bird displayed architecture developed by the breed. Inside barns, the barn swallows, having left for the winter, also left their nests stuck alongside beams. Other birds used claylike materials to bind twigs together. Others wove slender grasses. The variety proved endless, each nest adapted for the needs of that particular bird. Some breeds lived in rookeries, kind of a bird high-rise. The gossip was endless.

  Harry stopped to catch her breath. She unslung her rifle, leaned against a tree, perhaps two hundred yards down from the ridge. Had she not been wearing red buffalo plaid she would not have been visible.

  A shot rang out. The bullet hit the tree with a thunk. Harry dropped to the ground, grabbed her rifle, slid behind the tree. The animals hid with her, then the cats climbed up the denuded oak.

  “He’s moving down,” Mrs. Murphy called.

  “Who?” Tucker asked.

  “Don’t know, but he’s got a rifle. Nudge Mom.”

  Pewter watched the shooter. He was either blind, dumb, or really arrogant, thinking he could shoot Harry without being shot himself. Then again he may not have seen her rifle. His face, the bottom half, was covered by a bandana that he had pulled up for that purpose. He wore a leather coat. That was all she could see. He was within one hundred and fifty yards.

  Tucker poked Harry with her nose.

  A long association with her friends had taught Harry to trust their senses more than her own. She barely breathed. Then she heard the crackle of a snapped twig. She knew he was descending on her right.

  She quickly spun to that side of the tree, raised her rifle, saw the human, pulled the trigger. Missed but the bullet whizzed close by. He stopped, turned, and ran.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she stood up to chase him. Being closer to the ridge, he had the advantage. She had more uphill climb. When he reached the top, he knelt down, got her in his sights, and fired. That was too close for comfort.

  Harry fired, fired again. She thought she might have hit him on the right shoulder because he grabbed it with his left hand and tore out of there. By the time she reached the ridge, he was already a football field’s length away.

  Tucker started to give chase.

  “Leave it, Tucker.”

  Harry raised her rifle, took her time, and fired.

  He zigged and zagged. Whoever he was, he wasn’t entirely stupid. She watched him get away. She fired again for the hell of it to keep him moving.

  Standing still for a moment, she heard a faraway throaty rumble. Being a motorhead she knew he had started his truck, a big one with a big diesel engine.

  She took a deep breath, ran down to her old truck as fast as she could go. That took about seven minutes. Running downhill was tricky but she didn’t fall. She picked up Tucker, put the corgi in the seat, and the cats jumped in and they coasted down the steep grade. Furious though she was, she wasn’t going to go down that mountain at high speed.

  Once at the bottom, she dialed Cooper on her cellphone.

  “Coop.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was on the mountain behind the farm and someone shot at me.”

  “Could you see who it was?”

  “No, but it was a man. I had my rifle, thank God, and fired back. He would have killed me. I have no doubt.” Her voice rose.

  “Let me see if anyone from our department is near the top of the mountain.”

  “He ha
d to have come down the old Chinquapin trail. Probably left his vehicle up near the top. He wore a camo shell and a bandana over his face. Made him hard to see, but I got off a good shot once he ran out on the ridge. I might have nicked his right shoulder, I don’t know, but he was fit enough to run fast.”

  “Any idea why he was up there?”

  “No, unless he was poaching traps or set them himself. Or followed me.”

  Coop gave clear orders. “Go home. Keep a gun with you. If anyone comes down your driveway and you don’t know who it is, call me and don’t open the door.”

  “Roger.” She clicked off the phone, madder than before.

  Once in the house, she hung up her rifle, took out the .38 Ruger from the side kitchen drawer. Mostly the revolver was there to scare off any marauder sniffing at the horses. Fortunately, that rarely happened, but one had to consider everything, especially if the food supply became scarce. Now it was plentiful.

  She put her head in her hands as she sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  Mrs. Murphy jumped up on the table and rubbed Harry’s hands with her sides.

  Tucker, at her feet, promised, “We’ll take care of things. Don’t worry.”

  “My fangs and claws are deadly.” Pewter sounded tough.

  Twenty minutes later, Cooper drove down the driveway, parking near the back door.

  “Cooper!” Tucker announced.

  Harry stood up as her friend pushed through the now-closed-in back porch door. Harry opened the kitchen door.

  “Not a damned thing.” Coop nearly spat.

  “I hope I did wing him.” Harry grimaced. “You might as well sit down and have a cup of coffee or tea. I could use one.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t stay long.” She dropped in the ladder-back chair, noticed the flintlock pistol on the counter, stood back up and picked it up. “The revolver and this. A pistol-packing momma.”

  Harry, now at the stove, half laughed. “Well, the gunsmith showed me how to clean the flintlock when I went in to pick it up, said it was in perfect condition. He also said that at close range it was as deadly as any other pistol. He encouraged me to take up flintlocks. Said I would really like target practice. I had it out on the table to study it.”

  “We got a bit of a break today. The truck driver. Turns out, his wife found a key to a U-Stor-It. She drove to the unit, opened it, and there were cages in there, ropes, rawhide strings. Not a lot but the Louisville police called us.”

  “So this does have something to do with animal contraband? Who would have thought of this?”

  “It isn’t the first criminal activity that pops into your mind but it is becoming a big business. Also, if people are killing eagles, say in the west, people in other states tend not to notice. Has to be close to home.” She paused. “You think someone is illegally trapping up there?”

  “Yes, there is so much territory all you need to do is keep moving your traps. That way you lose your risk of being caught, being figured out because of routine. There’s tons of game up in the Blue Ridge. Big bucks, songbirds, raptors. The kind of stuff MaryJo told us about a couple of meetings back.”

  “Right.” Cooper sipped her coffee as Harry downed tea.

  “I either interrupted him or, the worst-case scenario, he was coming for me. This is the second time I’ve been shot at. I don’t much like it. If he was coming for me, he had a rough idea of my schedule.”

  “You’d think he would have the sense to lay low or clear out.”

  “Maybe he can’t,” Harry replied.

  April 3, 1786 Monday

  Rose sunlight filled the breakfast nook at Big Rawly. Maureen and the late Francisco had added Caribbean touches to the interior of the large house. For the breakfast room this took the form of interior shutters the length of the huge windows. When the sunlight became too strong, one closed the shutters but tipped the louvers for a bit of light. The color, a soft petal pink, added to the charm. A low fire gave off heat in the ornate fireplace.

  Maureen, glad of the warmth as she swept into the room, flicked her right hand behind her, lifting up the silky morning robe as she sat down on a painted chair.

  No sooner had her bottom brushed the chair than a young house girl brought in steaming chicory coffee, followed by another young woman bearing bread, jams, butter.

  The lady of the house had taken the precaution of only allowing average-looking women to serve. No more raving beauties.

  She reached over her plate, then noticed a light blue envelope, her name emblazoned on the front in Jeffrey’s bold, attractive script. Picking it up, she ran her fingernail under the sealed back, carefully lifted it out, and read.

  “Henry!” She bellowed.

  The older, thin fellow appeared. “Yes, Missus.”

  “When was this put on my plate?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know, Ma’am.”

  Slamming the envelope down, she shouted at him, “Get me DoRe, get me DoRe right now.”

  Sheba sidled into the room.

  Maureen pointed a finger at her before she could speak. “Pack my valise this instant. Do you understand?”

  “What dresses—”

  “The emerald-green and the shell-pink and gray cloak. Now! Now, are you deaf?”

  Sheba shot out of the room.

  As Maureen shoved the envelope between her bosoms, they could easily hold paper, she nearly ran for her closet, then stopped because she needed to see DoRe first.

  “He may be crippled, but he can still move!” She rapped the table with her knuckles, then headed for the porch and side door since she figured he’d come up that way.

  —

  While she waited, John Schuyler heard hoofbeats drumming up the long Cloverfields driveway. Young, light, Milton Fahrney charged toward John and Catherine’s house, skidding, dismounting before the horse—one of Maureen’s good blooded ones—had stopped. John was hardly three steps out the door, going to work again on the back bridge. Charles, hearing the commotion, rose from his desk to look out the window.

  “Mr. John, begging your pardon,” Milton breathlessly apologized, handing him a light blue envelope.

  John took the offered missive, opened it. “Good God.”

  Catherine reached for the letter, which he gave to her.

  She, too, exclaimed, “He’s lost his mind.”

  John asked, “Did Mr. Holloway send you?”

  “Yes, Sir, he did.”

  “Does Mrs. Holloway know you are here?”

  “No, Sir, I left before sunup.”

  Catherine, seeing the horse’s heaving flanks, told the young fellow, “Take this horse to Jeddie and Ralston. Let them cool him out. Then you go to the kitchen in the big house and tell Bettina and Serena that I’ve sent you. Eat a good breakfast. Go on now, the horse needs attention.”

  “Yes, Miss Catherine.” He bowed to her, took the reins, walking the horse down to the stables.

  “What now?” She grasped her husband’s forearm.

  “He’ll get killed.” John’s color drained a bit. “He’ll get himself killed unless I can get there in time to delay or stop this.”

  “If he left at sunup, he’s no doubt down by the river now. I expect he’ll go by river. He isn’t going to drive a cart or coach and he won’t be riding. If he had, Milton would have mentioned it, I think.”

  “Yes, yes.” John rubbed his chin. “If I leave now, I may be able to reach Richmond an hour or two behind him.” He reread the letter.

  “Two days?”

  He nodded. “Perhaps a day and a half if the current is strong, but that brings up other problems. At least I know where he’s headed, I think.” He took a deep breath. “He’s a fool but he asked me to be his second. I must do what I can.”

  “Darling, I’ll pack a few things. You go on down and tell Barker O. to drive you on down to Scottsville. And I’ll have Bettina put together a basket.” She disappeared back into the house as John trotted over to the barn.


  Rachel, having also heard the flying hoofbeats, saw Milton walking the gelding to the barn. She called over her shoulder, “Charles, something’s amiss at Big Rawly.”

  “What?”

  “Milton flew up our road to John and Catherine. I’m going over to the house.”

  “I’ll go with you.” He tossed on a jacket, Piglet at his heels, and they briskly walked to the duplicate white-framed two-story house.

  “Catherine!” Rachel opened the back door. “It’s Charles and myself.”

  “Come in. I’m upstairs packing for John.”

  Two sets of feet rang out as they climbed the wooden stairway with Piglet’s nails clicking behind.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Jeffrey Holloway has left for Richmond to personally challenge Yancy Grant. Grant made so much about the women for hire that night at our party. How does Yancy know so much? Jeffrey can’t wait for Grant to return from Richmond. He wrote he can’t sustain the attempt to dishonor him for any longer.”

  “Dear God.” Charles shook his head.

  “Throw in a shirt or two, socks,” Rachel suggested.

  “And my old pistol,” Charles said.

  “Why?” Catherine’s eyes widened.

  “Just in case.”

  “But if Grant does accept the challenge and he does choose pistols, Jeffrey won’t be able to use yours…well, John’s.”

  Rachel dryly added, “The family pistol. True, he will have to choose from the two shown him in the box by Grant’s second.”

  “Jeffrey must have a second who can inspect the firearms.” Charles exhaled. “This is madness. Noonday sun madness.”

  “Well, that it is.” Catherine had calmed down. “But none of us has been accused of sleeping with nightingales.”

  Charles turned to go back out. “Rachel, I’ll pack myself. Catherine, if you see John before I get to the stables, tell him to wait. I won’t be long. This may take two of us.”

  “Then I’m going too.” Piglet dashed after his master.