CHAPTER 45
There's a ghoulish streak in humankind. An airplane crashes in a field. People rush to witness the disaster and be horrified by body parts strewn over a mile or so. Traffic slows at a car accident not simply because a police officer demands it but because drivers and passengers can't resist straining to catch sight of blood and maybe even guts.
Perhaps it's a fascination with death or a secret relief that this time it's not you. Whatever, people are strange in a way other animals are not.
More people arrived at the Beveridge Hundred fixture than had gone to opening hunt. Sister, Shaker, Doug, Betty, and Cody were given their .22 revolvers back Friday night, the evening before the hunt. None of them had fired the shot that killed Fontaine. In fact, none of the guns had been fired at all.
Since Fontaine was killed by a .38, Sheriff Sidell had tested Shaker's .38, as well as Betty's and Cody's, since they were carrying that caliber in a holster under their coats. Those guns hadn't been fired either.
After a short acknowledgment of Fontaine's passing, Sister Jane nodded to Shaker, who cast hounds into an old house ruin at the rear of the big house. Beveridge Hundred, one of the first plantations built after Europeans pushed into the piedmont, had weathered the fluctuations of finance and wars over the centuries. Outbuildings crumbled during bad times, some were rebuilt during the good times, but the big house was kept running come hell or high waterâand both had come to Beveridge Hundred.
Hounds poked around the old outbuilding, fanning out until Diana said,
“Here.”
As she was a young hound, normally other hounds would wait for a tried-and-true hound to second the find but Diana had earned the respect of Cora and Archie. They honored her find and within minutes the hounds, huntsman, whips, and field rolled over the sweeping river-bottom meadows of the three-hundred-year-old estate.
The fox executed a large, loopy figure eight, then ran the same territory again in a circle. Sister figured they were on a gray, a distant relative of Butch and family, no doubt.
The loop became tighter and on the third run, now at speed, the fox ducked under a timbered farm bridge to his den. Hounds raced to the den, dug, howled, and celebrated their prowess. The gray was already at another exit just in case the huntsman didn't call the hounds off.
Shaker dismounted, praised his hounds, and blew triumphantly on his horn.
“I put the fox to ground,”
Dragon bragged.
“We all put the fox to ground.”
Archie acidly bumped the younger hound, who stumbled.
“I was first. I am the fastest hound in this pack.”
“And the most foolish,”
Dasher chided his brother.
The argument progressed no further, for the air, sparkling, and the temperature in the mid-forties suggested another fox might be found if they didn't tarry.
Shaker trotted the pack a quarter of a mile away and then cast them back toward the big house. They picked up a line, then dropped it. Picked another and dropped it. Scenting became spotty until a solid squatty hound stopped in his tracks.
“Hey, what's this?”
Archie inspected.
“Not deer. I vaguely remember this.”
“Bear,”
Cora said definitively.
“Ah, well, you know the fox scent is evaporating and I don't recall us ever being given a lecture about bear, now, do you?”
Archie had a twinkle in his kind, brown eyes.
“Well, then!”
Cora's stern waggled a moment and she was off, the whole pack behind her gleefully chasing a bear, gleefully bending the rules because even hounds need to cut a shine now and then.
Doug rode ahead as first whipper-in. Betty rode on the left and Cody on the right. Territory was wide open, rolling hayfields and corn stubble.
The jumps, mostly post and rail or stacked logs, had sunk over the years so even the most timid negotiated them.
On and on they ran under a climbing November sun, pale gold. A thin line of cedars obscured the next field but they soon charged through that, around the edge of freshly planted winter oats and into a manicured woods. Virginians called cleaned-up woods “parked out.”
A roar and a shout from Doug did not halt hounds. Shaker pushed his horse harder while Betty rode into him. Sister realized something was unusual. She held up her hand to stop. Behind her those who couldn't control their horses bumped into those who could, which sent curses into the air, looks of reproach, and a few apologies.
A black bear, displeased at the attention, stood on her hind legs. She would have broken the neck of any hound who jumped her or torn the life right out of any who attacked.
“Scum!”
she bellowed.
Diana, not a coward but not a fool, stopped, as did most of the other hounds.
“Leave it!”
Doug shouted while struggling to keep Rickyroo under control.
“I'm out of here!”
Rickyroo reared up.
Doug hung on for dear life as Betty and Outlaw rode up. Outlaw, a brave fellow, had no desire to stay in close proximity to the bear but he held his ground as Betty cracked her whip.
“I'll kill every damn one of you!”
the bear threatened.
“Oh my God.”
Ricky, utterly terrified, bucked, reared, shimmied sideways, and eventually dislodged Doug, who landed flat on his back.
The bear thought this interesting and she lumbered toward Doug, who rolled over, trying to get to his feet.
Hounds gathered by the fallen whip.
“Back off. Back off. We didn't know we were that close!”
Archie snarled.
“By the time I'm finished with you you'll never hunt bear again.”
Her fangs glistened and she snapped her jaws rapidly open and shut, making a clicking sound.
Shaker pulled his .38 but the bear, on all fours, headed toward Doug and he was afraid to fire. He fired overhead, which frightened the hounds, who associated the sound with stop-this-instant. The hounds moved to Shaker except for Archie, Cora, Diana, and Dragon.
Betty squeezed Outlaw hard and the sturdy quarter horse leapt past the fray and came behind Doug as he managed to get to his feet.
“Back off!”
Archie growled as the bear stood up again, ready to swipe the horse.
Doug grabbed Betty's outstretched arm and using Outlaw's motion, he put both feet together and bounced once on the ground to swing up behind Betty.
Diana, Cora, and Dragon circled the bear, hoping to confuse her, but she was intelligent as well as angry. She lunged for the horse burdened by two riders and Archie sprang up, grabbing her paw. Cora, Diana, and Dragon struck from behind. Distracted, the bear forgot about Betty, Doug, and Outlaw. She took her free paw and smashed down on Archie's head. He didn't loosen his grip. She bashed him again then threw him off like an old rag doll.
The three other hounds let go as the bear ran off. Shaker, once certain that Doug and Betty were all right, hurried to his anchor hound.
Archie lay on his side, blood pouring from his mouth.
Cora lifted her head and howled, a cry of pure anguish, for she loved old Archie. The other hounds followed their strike hound.
Shaker knelt down, joined by Doug.
“Oh, Archie.” Shaker felt for the hound's pulse.
Tears rolled down Betty's face. She'd had no tears for Fontaine when she rode up on him after being called in by Shaker. Perhaps it was shock or perhaps in her mind Fontaine wasn't worth her tears but Archie was.
Shaker lifted the hound, carrying him back to his horse. Archie's broken neck dangled. Hounds ceased crying and obediently followed the huntsman, although the air was filled with sorrow.
Archie was draped in front of Shaker's saddle. He mounted up, holding the hound with his right hand while he held the reins with his left.
He rode up to Sister, who was about five hundred yards away but in the cleared-out woods. She and the field had witnessed everything.
“Ma'am.” He could barely speak.
Sister's eyes clouded. “I think we'll call it a day, Shaker.”
A field member offered Doug his horse, which was proper. Anytime a staff member loses a horse, a member of the field should always dismount and offer theirs. Although most old-line foxhunters know this, few do it, since staff ride hard.
“Thanks. I'll walk back to the trailers.” Doug touched his cap.
As he walked back, head hanging, Doug wiped away his own tears. It wasn't until Beveridge Hundred came into view that he realized he hadn't seen Cody. She'd been clearly in sight even as they barreled through the line of cedars. He'd lost sight of her at the field of winter oats but then there's no reason one whip should see another.
However, the pack ran tight. He didn't think anyone had straggled off.
He asked around as he passed trailers and people untacking their horses. No, she wasn't back yet.
He walked over to Sister. “Cody's not back.”
Sister glanced around. She'd been so distraught over Archie's death she hadn't counted her whips or her field.
“Ask Shaker to blow her in.”
Doug walked fast now to the hound trailer. Shaker had placed Archie on the front seat of the truck, a towel under him and an old horse blanket over him. Although the hound was dead Shaker somehow felt he had to be covered.
“Cody's not back. Sister wants you to blow for her.”
Shaker strode to a small rise, held the horn to his lips, and blew three long, long blasts. It didn't bring Cody but it brought Jennifer.
“I'll go look for her.”
“No. Not with the bear out there,” Doug commanded her.
Crawford sensed the problem and willingly pitched in. “Let's unhitch my truck; it's four-wheel drive. I think we can get back there.”
“We'd better do it,” Shaker grimly agreed, as did Sister, who joined in on the hillock.
As the people turned back, Jennifer stayed on the rise. “Hey, wait!”
Cody, walking arm held against her waist, was leading Motorboat, her chestnut. Jennifer ran out to greet her. Doug followed.
“What happened?” Jennifer took Motorboat's reins.
“Bear ran right by us. Scared the shit out of Motorboat and me, too. I hit the ground.” She sheepishly grinned.
“Thank God that's all,” Sister whispered to herself.
St. Just, perched on top of the stable weather vane, said nothing. He was making a point of shadowing the hunt.
A silent pack of hounds rode back to the kennels.
Finally Cora said,
“There will never be another Archie.”
She paused.
“We must have an anchor hound. It's a hard position to play, kind of like a catcher in baseball. Not much glory. A lot of work and you've got to know the batters.”
No one spoke.
Later as the hounds bedded down, curling up with one another, Cora filled the stillness. Every hound's head lifted as she said,
“Diana. You'll learn as you go.”
CHAPTER 46
A murdered man, a bear, Cody's broken arm, and one fine hound killed . . . Jefferson Hunts were becoming a little too exciting. The next Saturday's hunt would probably find a field clogged with two hundred riders.
Betty Franklin was fine until she got home. Then she suffered a terrible attack of the shakes and Bobby had to give her a shot of brandy to calm her down. Since Betty wasn't a drinking woman it didn't just calm her down, it made her comatose.
Jennifer snuck a drink out of the unlocked liquor cabinet when her father wasn't looking. She, too, retired immediately to bed.
Doug helped Shaker bury Archie in the hound graveyard, a special place surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, a magnificent walnut in the middle.
After that sorrowful duty, he finished up his chores, then hopped in his truck to go to Cody's. She was in surprisingly good spirits. The codeine helped.
Sister sobbed when they put Archie in the ground but then pulled herself together to write up the day's hunt. Her journal, meticulous, kept track of weather, winds, condition of the ground, hounds, horses, casts, and lastly people.
The final line in her strong handwriting read, “What will I do without Archie?” She closed the book, opened the back door, and called for the house pets, both of whom were at the kennel, getting the full story from the hounds.
Golly dashed in first. The night was turning cold and besides her catnip sock beckoned. Raleigh lagged behind but a sharp word from Sister motivated him to hurry in.
Just as she closed the door the phone rang. She picked it up and was not pleased to hear Crawford's voice.
After a few pleasantries, he said, “I have some information that might help the investigation.”
“Why tell me?”
He paused a moment, since he expected Sister to be breathless with anticipation. “Uh, because you might best know the approach.”
“I see.”
“He had come to terms with Peter Wheeler.”
“What?”
“Yes, he'd finally gotten the old man to sell but neither one would tell. But the deal hadn't closed because, as you know, Fontaine was killed. However, the important part is Fontaine never deposited a down payment with his Realtor, who was Donald Vann.”
Donald was Georgia's brother-in-law.
“Georgia Vann told you this?”
“I'll get to that.” He enjoyed teasing out his news. “Fontaine, as we all know, spent money like water. Anybody's money. He had a silent partner. Donald doesn't know who it was. But the money never made it to Donald. He thinks Fontaine spent it and was frantically trying to find another twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“He couldn't have been that foolish.” But she knew he could. Her heart sank.
“Find the partner and you might find the killer.” A certain smugness crept into Crawford's voice.
“Over twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“If that's your life savings, yes. People kill for less. Maybe he sweet-talked someone out of their money, promising pie in the sky when he would develop Peter Wheeler's.”
“I just don't think Fontaine would develop Peter Wheeler's. Besides, it's hardly the place for a shopping center.”
“Homes with a hunting theme.”
“It was Georgia Vann, then?”
“She hinted, so I tackled Donald.”
“I'm sure you did. Well, Crawford, thank you.”
“That was quite a hunt today, wasn't it?”
“We lost a great hound. One of the best hounds I've ever known.”
“Oh, yes.” He'd not given the hound a thought. “By the way, I know with the turn of events you haven't had time to consider the joint-mastership but will you be making an announcement soon?”
“No, I'm putting everything on hold until Fontaine's killer is found. If he's not found, then I'll address this issue at the beginning of next season.”
“That long? Is that wise?”
“I think it is.”
“Sharing the power now means one season for the joint-master to learn and for people to adjust to him.”
“Picking a joint-master under these circumstances would be troubling. And what if, God forbid, I selected Fontaine's killer.”
“I did not kill Fontaine nor did I pay to have someone do it. If I were going to kill someone, I certainly wouldn't do it in such a haphazard manner.” He caught himself, hastening to add, “But I wouldn't kill anyone. That's what the laws are for, you know.”
“I didn't suggest that you killed Fontaine.”
“I know what people think.”
“I'm glad you do.” A touch of acid invaded her voice. “Now let me ask you a question about opening hunt. You nearly passed me. I cracked my whip in front of Czapaka's nose. Do you know why I did that?”
“To keep me from passing you.”
“Right. But why do you need to stay behind the field master?”
“I don't know. They don't always do it in England or Ireland. I mean, if you have a horse that can stay with hounds, you just go. I've seen it. I've ridden there.” A touch of pride made Crawford smile.
Sister thought to herself, “He must have been strapped to the horse.” But she said, “The territory is different in England and Ireland. We have more forests, more of the wild. Maybe it's wild on the Welsh border but you hunted the shires. It's beautiful. Manicured. You can take your own line to almost any hedge or fence. We can't do that for the most part. If you pass the field master in America, you're going to run into hounds. That means you'll ruin the hunt for everybody but most especially hounds.”
“I wasn't going to run into hounds.” He was defensive and mad now.
“Hell no, Crawford. You were going to run all the way up to Fauquier County.” She was so damn mad herself she said, “Good night.” And hung up the phone.
Her exhaustion evaporated. Anger hit like a jolt of rich caffeine. She stomped into the den, yanked all the topo maps out of their tubes, and unrolled them on the old drafting table Raymond had bought forty years ago because he said it reminded him of Thomas Jefferson.
The maps kept rolling back up, so she picked up silver hunt cups she'd won in shows over the years, any heavy knickknack she could find, placing them on the corners of the maps, which she had arranged in order. Within five minutes the entire opening hunt fixture lay before her, as did Golly, loath to miss the sensation of paper underneath her.
“You're right on the ravine, Golly. Move back.”
“No.”
Sister gently pushed the cat to the edge of the topo maps. Golly swatted her. Sister swatted right back, so Golly turned her back on her but remained on the edge of the maps.
Sister used her hunt journal to double-check the progress of that hunt. With a blue editing pencil she made a dotted line for the cast and subsequent run. Then with a red crayon she made a dotted line where she thought the pack had split and run. It was by guess and by God, since she hadn't been following the splinter group, but it was the best she could do.
“Jesus,” she said under her breath.
“He won't help you,”
an irritated Golly replied.
“Sweet Jesus.” Sister traced the red line again. “He was laying the drag as we hunted. I'd thought the drag was laid before, you know, like at four or five in the morning. But look at this ground.” She pointed to a large grayish spot represent-ing rock or stone and Golly, herself now interested, looked. “They ran over rock. They had to have run over rock because otherwise Fontaine would have gone all the way over here. See?” She pointed to a path around the rock outcropping. “And that would have taken too long, plus the killer would have exposed himself passing through the meadow. They stayed in the woods and ravine. Had to. Oh, why am I talking to you, Golly? The killer rode hard over bad territory close to the ravine and then curved toward the hog's back. But the killer never jumped the hog's back. I assumed he jumped the jump, tied up the rope, and waited in the meadow. Damn. I should have done this before now. I can't believe I've been so stupid!”
“You were overwrought. Besides, it's a logical assumption. A sensible person would lay the drag with no one around. And a sensible person wouldn't fly over rock.”
The cat put her paw on Sister's hand.
Sister checked the grandfather clock. “Ten-thirty. Damn. Too late to call Peter Wheeler. I'll call in the morning and then I guess I'd better call Ben Sidell.” She sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “This narrows the killer down to a good, good rider who knows our territory.” She shook her head. “I'll call Peter Wheeler in the morning. That's a start. You know, Crawford was missing for part of the hunt. Said he thought Czapaka was lame but then discovered he had a stone in his shoe. But I can't believe Crawford could ride that good. Not on the best day of his life.”
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