CHAPTER 47
At seven-thirty the next morning Peter was seated at his kitchen table, Rooster at his knee.
“Woman accuses her sister of stealing her child at birth.” He rattled the newspaper. “Says the infant was spirited out of the hospital.” He looked over the top of the paper. “Twenty years ago.”
Sister laughed, as did Peter. “I guess she just noticed.”
“Uh-huh.” He laughed again. “Are you going to make me one of your famous Jane Overdorf omelettes? I'll read to you as you work.”
“Lazy ass.”
“That's right. I'm an old man and entitled to many privileges.”
She greased the skillet, chopped cheese, broke six eggs into the skillet. “Crawford must be cracked.” She tossed the broken eggshells into the sink.
“Well, only partially. Fontaine did top Crawford's offer. He did promise to bring me cash. I said I wouldn't sell. Think he kept stringing someone along? You know, he had their money, told them he had me in the bag. That kind of thing. I say Crawford is rich enough to pay someone to kill Fontaine for him. That's what I say.”
“Do you want onions in your omelette?”
“No. Wouldn't mind a pickle, though.”
“In the omelette?”
“Where else?”
“You might like it reposing alongside your golden, fluffy omelette.”
“Sounds good.” He returned to the newspaper. “Ah, here's one for you. At two o'clock a man wearing a Donald Duck mask robbed First Guaranty Trust in Elkins, West Virginia. The teller said . . .”
She flipped the omelette over as Rooster whined. “Yes.” Peter didn't reply. She flipped the omelette onto a plate, turned around to serve him. “Peter. Oh, Peter.”
CHAPTER 48
Word of Peter Wheeler's death splashed over the county like a winter squall. The animals spread the word, too.
Inky, on her way back from a night's successful hunt, was told by her brother.
“I relied on his chickens,”
Comet mournfully said.
A harsh caw overhead silenced them. St. Just landed on a blue spruce branch, his weight dipping the branch downward. He hopped to a larger limb, cocked his head to one side, and sneered,
“The only thing more worthless than a gray fox is a red fox.”
“You'll make a mistake someday. We'll be waiting,”
Comet challenged him.
“Reynard thought the same thing.”
St. Just's feathers gleamed blue-black; his long beak shone like patent leather.
“I led the human to his den. I'll see every one of Target's family killed and I'll get Target, too. If you know what's good for you, you won't cooperate with them.”
“Which human?”
Inky asked.
“I'll never tell.”
He tantalizingly dropped to a lower branch almost within reach.
“Wouldn't you just like to break my neck?”
Comet inched forward; Inky stayed put.
St. Just waited until Comet was within striking distance. Then he lifted off, swooped low over the fox's head, and taunted,
“Death to foxes.”
“There's been enough talk of death.”
Inky shook herself.
“Archie was killed.”
“Heard.”
He watched St. Just disappear to the east.
“No raven or blackbird is a friend to foxes but he's evil. I'd enjoy hearing his neck snap.”
“He's smart.”
She thought a moment.
“Do you think whoever killed Reynard and Fontaine was smart?”
“No, and we'd be a lot better off if he was. Dumb people are dangerous. Much more dangerous than smart ones.”
CHAPTER 49
Face flushed, Crawford leaned over the long table filled with paper samples. “You're a board member. We've got to do something.”
“How many other board members have you spoken to?” Bobby, wary, tidied up the paper books.
“Everyone,” came the sweeping response.
“What did everyone say?”
“Georgia Vann and Lottie Fisher backed Sister Jane. Isaac Diamond sat on the fence. He said he thought I had a lot to offer but recent events have been too upsetting. Any major decision should be put on hold. Billie Breedlove is out of town andâ”
Bobby held up his hand. “I get the picture.”
“No, you don't get the picture. Now more than ever members need to know that strong leadership will continue. And we need a sound financial basis. We need an investment portfolio.”
Like most businessmen Crawford assumed he could apply business practices to foxhunting but it never quite worked that wayânot so much because people were profligate but because any enterprise where Nature is one's partner is fraught with insecurity. Nature doesn't give a damn about profit.
“You can't go head to head with Sister Jane.”
“Exactly. That's why I'm trying to go behind her back!”
“Crawford, that will only make matters worse. If the master says she wants to wait a year, then she waits a year.”
“She's old. She could pop off at any time.” He slapped the table, rattling the pencils.
“Her mother lived to be one hundred and two. Her aunts made it into their nineties and everyone kept their hair, their teeth, and their faculties. You'll die before Sister, especially if you don't calm down.”
“Don't talk to me that way.”
“For Chrissake, someone's got to tell you how to behave. You can't just stroll into a place and expect everyone to hop to your tune.”
“I've been here seven years.”
“And you haven't learned a damn thing.” Bobby lost his temper. “What you've done for seven years is try to change this entire community to suit you instead of learning how to fit in.”
“Fit in? No one gives a straight answer. No one around here seems to be in a hurry to accomplish a damn thing. People accept bizarre behavior and say”âhe changed his voice to a fake southern accentâ” âThat's jess his way.' No wonder you lost the goddamned war you're always talking about. You're a bunch of idiots!”
“Mr. Howard, this conversation is at an end.” Bobby, furious but calm, stood up.
“What the shit? You're too good to hear this. You know it as well as I do. Nothing changes here. You might as well be set in concrete.”
“What changes is we can no longer call one another out for duels. Please leave.”
“Leave? I didn't say you were stupid.”
“You didn't have to.”
Betty, who had been in the back office, hurried out. “Bobby.”
“Don't worry, honey. We'll take it outside. I won't wreck the place.”
Crawford, naturally, would no more fight in the back alley than he would ever learn: When in Rome do as the Romans do.
“That's not why I came out. Peter Wheeler died this morning. Sister was with him. He was reading the newspaper,” Betty said.
Bobby's face registered this news. He loved the old man, as did everyone.
“The land! What's going to happen to the land?” Crawford blurted out.
“Get out of here.” Bobby put his hand between Crawford's shoulder blades and literally propelled the sputtering man out the front door of the printing shop.
“You can't treat me like this.”
“You're lucky I don't knock your teeth out. Get out and stay out.”
Crawford, halfway through the door, held his hand out to brace it against shutting. “Don't get high-and-mighty with me. Your oldest daughter is a coke whore and Jennifer's not far behind, you fat pig!”
Fat, he was, but also brutally strong. Bobby smashed his left fist into Crawford's stomach. He followed with a right to the jaw that nearly lifted Crawford off his feet. The tanned, well-dressed man was rocketed out the door, which Bobby slammed and locked.
Betty, hands on hips, said, “Well done.”
“Goddamned son of a bitch will probably sue me. Jesus, I could kill him. You were right. You were absolutely right. It would never work. Why I ever supported him . . .”
“It seemed right at the time. How's your hand?”
“Hurts.”
“Come on. I'll ice it down.”
They heard the big Mercedes's throaty purr. Then the car roared away.
“I'm surprised he didn't call an ambulance. It would have helped his case.” Bobby, overcome with rage mingled with grief, put his arm around his wife. “Is that what they call our daughters? Coke whores?”
CHAPTER 50
Walter Lungrun stood over the coronerâtowered is more like it, for the county coroner, Gaston B. Marshall, stood five feet five inches in his shoes. Combative, shrewd, and careful, Marshall had the full confidence of the sheriff.
Peter's scalp was pulled down over his face as the tiny saw bit through his skull. Gaston would harvest tissues, peering into the miraculous body, finally stilled. He never lost his respect for the organism although he often had little respect for the soul that had inhabited it.
“Damn good shape for an old man. Usually this generation, liver's shot. Booze fueled social life. Still does, I guess.”
As Gaston snipped and clipped, Walter observed with detachment. He had loved Peter but as far as he was concerned Peter had already vanished or gone to the next sphere. He wasn't really sure and wisely kept it to himself. Patients feel more secure if they think their doctor believes in God.
After the autopsy, Gaston scrubbed up.
“Appears natural,” Walter said.
“Yes. A heart attack pure and simple. I doubt the pain lasted for longer than a second or two. You saw the left ventricle.”
“What's left of it.”
“Still, I treat each autopsy as though a murder may have been committed. Keeps me on my toes and we both know there are drugs that can create, if you will, a natural-appearing death. Each time there's a medical advance there's also an advance in murderâfor the more intelligent. The less intelligent, the stone, bone stupid will bludgeon, crush a skull with a rock, splatter with a baseball bat. The next level up of the primates prefers a sharp instrument, a slit throat, a stab through the abdominal cavity. A grade above that I'd say that pistols are the preferred weapon. It's when we start dancing with the poisoners that the game changes. And quite often those safecrackers that leave few fingerprints are women.”
“I thought women killed less than men.”
“Well, I think that's true but I suspect they kill more than we know. We just don't catch them. Remember the famous Alfred Hitchcock episode? Oh, hell, you're too young, Walter, but maybe you saw it on TV as a rerun. You know the one where the husband has been killed with a blunt instrument. The wife is all worry and concern. She had a shank of lamb in the oven and decides not to waste it, so she feeds it to the policemen. Oh God, that's a good one. Killed him with the frozen lamb, don't you see?”
“I have seen that one. Hitchcock was twisted.” Walter laughed.
“I wonder. Maybe we all are.”
“Gaston, you're in a business where you see the worst. You and Ben Sidell. I guess criminal lawyers do, too. Has to affect your worldview.”
“Yes, it does. When you see a five-year-old child whose face has been battered to pulp, she's been strangled, raped, and then the corpse has been abused, you do kind of lose your faith in the goodness of man. Although if anyone could have restored my faith in the goodness of men it would have been Peter Wheeler. A gentle man, a gentleman. He probably saved more children than the Red Cross. Unwanted kids from rich families, unwanted kids from poor families, he'd teach them to ride, teach them to hunt. Today people don't do that anymore, especially men. I guess they're afraid someone will accuse them of being a child molester. Pretty much we've gotten away from taking care of one another.”
“We'll not see his like again,” Walter agreed. “He was good to me. He was good to everyone.”
They strolled down the well-lit corridor to Gaston's office filled with African violets.
“Thank you for allowing me to observe.”
Gaston's smile, crooked, was nonetheless appealing. “Just wanted to see if you knew your stuff, kid. Last time I remember you you were staking out the end zone as your private domain.” As Walter smiled Gaston continued: “I want you to look at something.” He reached under his desk, pulling out a plastic bag. “Just took this out of the cooler.”
Walter opened it. Reynard was inside. He carefully removed the fox, stitched up after his autopsy.
Gaston explained, “Ben Sidell was going to give him to Amy Zolotou”âhe mentioned the vetâ“but I asked that she come here so we could examine him together. You know, very little work has been done on foxes because they're considered vermin. Vets don't know much. . . . I mean they're canids.” He used the proper medical term, not “canines.” “But they aren't identical to dogs. We have a lot to learn about these little stinkers.”
“He's beautiful.”
“Healthy. Stomach was full of corn. He'd just eaten. Either heading back to his den or just in it.”
“Be awfully hard to bolt a fox from his den unless the killer had a Jack Russell.”
“So whoever it was waited for him to return. Sat up in the early-morning hours.”
“Upwind. If he'd smelled a human he'd have scampered off. Damn shame.” Walter stroked the glossy head.
“He'd been cooled but not frozen. I don't think he was dead more than six to seven hours before he was dragged.”
“Have you talked to Jane Arnold?”
“Yes. She said in order for the scent glands to be effectiveâshe said on his pads and by his anusâhe'd have to be fresh. If he went into rigor mortis, a hound could smell the fur, of course, but the scent really comes from the pads and especially the anus or urine. I never knew that.”
“She'd know. The killer knew, too.”
“Put in the refrigerator, I'd say. Then hidden and picked up somewhere during the hunt. Might even have been packed in ice to ensure freshness but not frozen. It's a damned queer thing.”
“Does Ben want to keep him for evidence?”
Gaston shook his head. “No. He's got our report. Photos. Amy Zolotou was good, by the way. Good vet. His head and his brush are in pretty good condition, considering he was dragged.”
“Do you mind if I take him?”
“No. What are you going to do with him?”
“Go to the taxidermist. Thought he could mount the head and the brush.”
“You might not want to identify this fox, Walter.”
“I won't.” His eyebrows lowered a moment. “But seems a crime to waste a good fox.”
“That's one way to look at it.” Gaston put Reynard back in the bag. “I'd say that this fellow was my most unusual subject.”