Hounded to Death Page 10

  “Such a shit Mo was.” She reached in and took a dollar out of her pocket.

  “What’s that for?”

  “The girls’ kitty.” She explained the kitty, then returned to Fonz. “At any rate, Mo did pay him well and Fonz made Mo look good with the hounds. Let me amend that: as good as Mo could possibly look.” She stopped herself, turning to gaze directly at Barry. “You don’t think Fonz killed Mo, do you?”

  “And tied himself up?”

  “Now, Barry, you’re smarter than that. He could have had an accomplice who hit him over the head and then tied him up.”

  “There is that but, no, Fonz isn’t a killer.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  He thought about this a long time, long enough for Sister to refill the tall frosted tea glass. “Under the right circumstances, I think ninety-nine percent of us will kill. But there really are people who will not kill, regardless of provocation. Think of the Quakers.”

  “Or the Shakers.”

  “Right.”

  “What will become of Fonz, I wonder?”

  “He’ll find a good job with a hunt club if he’s willing to move. I’ll recommend him again if he asks. By the way, if you want those four couple of hounds, I can arrange for him to bring them to the Virginia Hound Show.”

  “Perfect. And Barry, I’ll pay him for all this.”

  “Anyone who knows you knows that. I’ll call him before I go back to Richmond.”

  “Thank you for securing those hounds for me,” said Sister. “If you say they’re good, they’re good.”

  “Sweet flattery.” He sighed. “As I age, I’m much better at recognizing flattery. When I was young, filled with typical male conceit, I believed it. Now I’m afraid I’m turning into an old bore.”

  “You’re never boring. People truly want to know what you think, like Ray with the market. Some people are uncanny, and your legal experience plus all the backroom stuff from the Democratic Party in the good old days? There’s a lot of gold there.” She tapped her temple.

  He smiled. “Yes, I suppose, but more and more I know I must leave this earth. I’m in rude good health, it’s not that, but I am in my middle seventies. I can’t live forever, nor do I wish to do so. But on the other hand, I so love life. I hate knowing I’m on the home stretch.”

  “I think of that, too. So I run harder. If I’m going, I’m going out a winner.”

  He laughed. “Hell, you came in a winner.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “My intent.” He blushed.

  “Speaking of Hope, do you really think most people have dark secrets or silly secrets?”

  “I do.”

  “I do, too. Mine are more silly than dark, but secrets they will remain.”

  “Me, too. One of mine did come to light, though, when one of my old fraternity brothers unearthed a photo of when my pledge class was hazed and I was painted blue like a Pict, naked to boot.”

  “What’s so bad about that?”

  “My dick was so hard you could have done chin-ups on it.” He laughed uproariously.

  “One of those fraternity brothers must have looked good.”

  “Well, I was drunk; I don’t remember any of those brothers looking that good. Nonetheless, imagine if that photo had been available on the Internet when I was in my glory?”

  “Imagine the Internet when we were both in our glory.”

  “Now there is a scary thought.”

  The evening glowed, richer and warmer, until the two of them landed in Sister’s bed.

  She awoke the next morning, made them both breakfast, and kissed him goodbye. He’d be discreet. He knew she was seeing someone. She knew the pull of old friends was powerful and sometimes sexual. Sister felt no guilt, but she truly didn’t want Gray to find out.

  She now had her own new secret.

  He did.

  CHAPTER 9

  Putting a gun to the roof of one’s mouth and pulling the trigger creates an extremely unpleasant sight for anyone coming into contact with the corpse.

  When Sheriff Ben Sidell viewed Hope Rogers at the coroner’s, he was surprised at how recognizable she was. Often people intending to kill themselves get a little shaky at the last moment. But Hope must have had a steady hand. She aimed straight up and slightly back. Neither of her eyes popped out, her teeth stayed intact, but the back of her head was shattered.

  Ben had questioned Hope’s husband. Paul had said he’d spent the night with his new girlfriend. Granted, she might be lying for him, but Ben thought not.

  Over time in law enforcement he’d learned to read people. He could be fooled, anyone can, but he was fooled far less than most other people.

  Friday, May 30, he stopped by the kennels on his way back from Roger’s Corner, a crossroads sporting a convenience store and little else. Someone had cut the lock on the outdoor ice dispenser and stolen half the ice. As crimes go, this one smacked of someone wanting to party who lacked sufficient funds. The culprit had tried to break into the store but the alarm had sounded.

  Like Hansel and Gretel, a trail of beer cans would have led the way. Pity those children didn’t drink beer because birds wouldn’t eat the cans as they’d eaten the bread crumbs.

  Sooner or later, Ben would find who did it, although the ice would be long gone. Meanwhile, he had more pressing matters to attend to, such as finding Sister Jane.

  “Shaker, how are you?” Ben walked to the girls’ yard, which Shaker was picking clean.

  “Fine. Yourself ?”

  “Good. Is the master about?”

  “She’s over at Skidby, and then she’s going to stop at Tattenhall Station to see how Kasmir is coming along.”

  “I’ll catch up with her there.” He noticed six youngsters in the side yard. “Is that the second T litter? Can’t believe how they’ve grown.”

  “Thimble, Tattoo”—Shaker pointed to a fellow with a sickle tail, a conformation flaw but it was a long way from the hound’s nose—“Tootsie, Trooper, Taz, and Twist.”

  “Coming on, are they?”

  “We’ll see. Boss and I will hunt them here on the farm mid-cubbing. We’ll go from there. The G litter will hunt from the get-go.”

  “That’s a beautiful litter of hounds, the Gs.”

  “Sure is. Boss told me this morning we’ll be taking four couple of hounds from Mo Schneider’s pack.”

  “Isn’t that the man who was found on a track outside of Lexington, Kentucky?”

  “Yes.”

  “A most unusual death.”

  “He deserved it.” Shaker smiled.

  “You know, I’d be out of work if people didn’t rob, bludgeon, cut up, and kill one another. The Schneider case is one I’d like to have.” He paused. “Not that I wish such a death on anyone here.”

  “There’s one or two we could say goodbye to without tears.” Shaker smiled again.

  “And the rat shot. There’s a message in that rat shot.”

  “Closer to home, do you think Hope Rogers’s death was by her own hand?”

  “Yes, I do, but that’s why I stopped by. Sister called me about it yesterday, and she’s far from convinced. If anyone can approach Hope’s death from a different angle, it will be our master.”

  “Part fox, the boss.” Shaker leaned on his rake.

  “What do you think, Shaker?”

  “I can’t see any reason why Hope would take her own life, and I’ve known her for years.” He shrugged. “But maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought.”

  “We could say that about any one of us.” Ben shaded his eyes. “Good to see you.”

  “Same here. Hey, are you going to ride first flight next season?”

  “Well. . . .”

  “Come on, Ben. You’re the sheriff. You need to go first flight.”

  “Better start back with my lessons.” His farewell smile was rueful.

  After leaving the kennels, Ben drove toward Paradise. Then at Chapel Cross he hooked left on
the secondary road, heading west along hunt club fixtures until he came to Skidby, an eight-hundred-acre estate bordering Little Dalby, and stopped at the old Skidby sign, a faded blue unicorn on a white background.

  If Sister could add this to the existing fixtures in the western part of her territory, she’d have a block totaling about eleven thousand acres, a great triumph for any master.

  He sat by the sign, waiting. No need to intrude on her chatting up Mitch and Lutrell. Apart from the occasional squawk on the two-way radio, the quiet afforded him time to think.

  Twenty minutes later, on her way out, Sister saw him1 sitting there and stopped.

  Ben hopped out of the car and walked over to the driver’s window. “I can’t get used to seeing you in the Forester.”

  “It’s a good little machine. I’m glad I finally pulled the money out of my purse to buy it. I didn’t even suffer buyer’s remorse.” She smiled. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Problem?”

  “No, I need your wisdom.”

  “Oh, honey, my wisdom is in short supply.” She smiled. “I’m waiting.”

  “Do you think Hope Rogers killed herself ?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “First of all, she was angry, not depressed. She would have killed Paul before killing herself. Second, she loved her work. She really had no compelling reason.”

  “I viewed her body. The splatter report is consistent with someone shooting herself.”

  “That still doesn’t mean she did it. If someone with medical or police knowledge killed her, he would know exactly how to make it look like a suicide.”

  “There was no struggle. No alcohol or drugs in her system.”

  “Yes, but we had that terrible storm. She might not have heard someone come in. The power was out, too, remember. The generator cut on in the operating room but she cut it off afterward. No lights. Black as the devil’s eyebrows. If her killer had a pin light, he or she could have quickly rolled her over before she was fully awake and done the deed. I haven’t one skinny fact to support my theory, but if nothing else I want to clear Hope’s name, so to speak. To die by one’s own hand is a terrible thing.”

  “Maybe she had reasons of which we are unaware.”

  “That’s what Barry Baker suggested yesterday.”

  “Shrewd judge, Baker.” Ben knew of the judge’s reputation.

  “He is, and so are you.”

  She smiled at him and Ben, although only in his thirties, could see the allure that drove men to make fools of themselves over Sister Jane.

  “Barry said we all carry secrets, usually about money or sexual perversions or even some desire to take revenge on someone who has humiliated us. He was more eloquent than I am about this, and he said, How can any of us be sure that Hope didn’t have a heavy secret she couldn’t shoulder anymore?”

  “Sister, all we have is a death that is consistent with suicide.”

  “But Ben, I thought killing oneself with a gun was the male way out. Women take poison.”

  “Times are changing. Feminism has had all kinds of effects, and women being more aggressive in all directions is one. Granted, fewer women pull the trigger than men but more do than in the past.”

  “Do they tend to be younger? I mean, if a woman my age were going to commit suicide, would she not be more likely to poison herself or take an overdose?”

  “Yes.” He put his hands on the windowsill. “Paul looks to be in the clear.”

  “Figured that.”

  “Did you suspect him?” Ben crossed his arms over his chest but dropped them down again. His shoulders started aching; he couldn’t find a comfortable position.

  “No. The man’s a complete wimp. That’s why she finally divorced him.” Sister blinked. “That doesn’t sound right, does it? Am I saying a real man would kill his wife?”

  “No. I don’t take it that way.”

  “It’s easier to live with a man you respect but don’t love than to live with a man you love but don’t respect. Speaking of love, how are you doing with Margaret DuCharme?”

  Margaret DuCharme was a highly successful sports physician. Pro football teams recommended her to players who had shredded knees and shoulders. She never lacked for patients.

  “Love’s a big word. I think I’m on second base. She spends as much time with me as she can. We laugh all the time together.”

  “You’re good for Margaret. I’ve known her since she was born. She’s the reserved type. The poor kid has been a go-between since she arrived. Her father and uncle, while I like them both, have perfected immaturity. I believe one will die before talking to the other, and I expect the surviving brother will not attend the funeral.”

  “Families.”

  “Heaven or hell. But I’m delighted that things are going well with Margaret. She’s a good woman as well as a pretty one.”

  “Shaker told me, to change the subject, that you’re on your way to Tattenhall Station.”

  “I am. Come with me.”

  “Meet you there. Before we go, will you do me one big favor? Will you find out if, over the years, there have been crimes at hound shows? Maybe covered up by the old boys’ network?”

  “I can try, but I’m not part of that network.”

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of the old C&O train station.

  “When did he paint this?” Ben got out of the squad car.

  Sister joined him. “The community painted it two years ago, but you know Kasmir, everything has to be sparkling. He’s building up on the rise; the view is commanding. This really is the perfect location for him. The Vajays’ farm is across the road. Did you know he’s put in an offer on Faith’s farm?”

  The Vajays, from northern India, were good friends of Kasmir Barbhaiya, also from India.

  “When did he do that?”

  “Last week.”

  Ben rubbed his chin as they walked behind the station, heading up the rise to the building site. “What’s he going to do with it?”

  “Entice his relatives to live here. If that fails, he wants to put a farm manager there. And he’s determined to refurbish the station. If his relatives don’t come, the manager can live here.”

  “And if the manager lives at Faith’s?”

  Sister stepped over an upturned rock. “He says he’ll know when he knows.” She stopped a moment. “Here’s the best part. You have to let him show you where he wants to put a ha-ha.”

  “What the hell is a ha-ha?”

  “A stout fence on one side of a ditch.”

  “Good God.” Ben’s eyes grew large.

  “They jump them all the time in the grass country of England and in Ireland. Well, I expect we’ll be jumping them here, too. Never too late to learn.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you have ice water in your veins?” They had reached the top of the rise where the building site was already cleared. Kasmir was directing three men in work clothes.

  “Not in so many words.” She waved at the personable Kasmir. “I brought company.”

  • • •

  Two hours later an overinformed but highly entertained Sister and Ben arrived back at their vehicles.

  “Best thing to happen to this hunt club in years, that man.” Sister beamed.

  “I think he has more money than Crawford Howard.” Ben named an ex-member and Sister’s current nemesis, after a nasty run-in over the treatment of one of Sister’s hounds.

  “There are different kinds of best things. Money’s always good, but people who give with their hearts are even better. Most of our members are those kind of people. Givers.”

  “Forgot to ask while on the subject of giving. Skidby?”

  The biggest grin crossed her face. “Yes.”

  When Sister reached home, a huge floral display had been left in the mudroom. Fortunately, Golly hadn’t gone in. She had a habit of tasting flowers. If they weren’t what she liked she simply
pulled them out.

  Sister checked the water, then placed the flowers on the coffee table in the den.

  She tucked the card into her jeans pocket.

  It read:

  To whom thy secret thou dost tell,

  to him thy freedom thou dost sell.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  She knew Barry had sent them. She thought it funny that he was counseling her to keep last night secret. But then he might well have a lover in Richmond, so he had his own reason to keep their pleasurable evening private.

  CHAPTER 10

  On Sunday, June 1, the day of the Virginia Hound Show, over one thousand foxhounds appeared at Westmore-land Mansion in northern Virginia, escorted by a phalanx of humans. Huntsmen, masters, kennelmen, moonlighting showring handlers—all devoted themselves to these extraordinary canines.

  People flocked from different parts of the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom, although united was a misnomer. All the animosities held somewhat in check since the eighteenth century had opened once again. Would hounds and hunting be valued in Ireland? Surely the Irish wouldn’t shoot themselves in the foot as the English had under the sway of Labour. After betraying their followers on so many other issues, they threw them the bone of a ban on hunting. As for Scotland, foxhunting was banned in theory, but the Scots had long displayed a healthy disregard for rules, as the Romans found out two thousand years ago. Despite all this turmoil, hound people crossed the Atlantic just as Americans crossed to visit the European shows, regardless of political differences.

  A few French citizens came. Once upon a time the various duchies of France each bred hounds, which they hunted with pride. Kings kept huge kennels. But France paid dearly in World War I, when thousands of lives had been lost, hound as well as human. The canine hunting population never quite recovered from that first gruesome bugle call of the twentieth century. Still, away from Paris there remained people who cherished a beautiful hound.