Hounded to Death Read online

  Overrun. When hounds shoot past the line of a scent. Often the scent has been diverted or foiled by a clever fox.

  Ratcatcher. Informal dress worn during cubbing season and bye days.

  Stern. A hound’s tail.

  Stiff-necked fox. One who runs in a straight line.

  Strike hounds. Those hounds who through keenness, nose, and often higher intelligence find the scent first and press it.

  Tail hounds. Those hounds running at the rear of the pack. This is not necessarily because they aren’t keen; they may be older hounds.

  Tally-ho. The cheer when the fox is viewed. Derived from the Norman ty a hillaut, thus coming into the English language in 1066.

  Tongue. To vocally pursue a fox.

  View halloo (halloa). The cry given by a staff member who sees a fox. Staff may also say tally-ho or, should the fox turn back, tally-back. One reason a different cry may be used by staff, especially in territory where the huntsman can’t see the staff, is that the field in their enthusiasm may cheer something other than a fox.

  Vixen. The female fox.

  Walk. Puppies are walked out in the summer and fall of their first year. It’s part of their education and a delight for both puppies and staff.

  Whippers-in. Also called whips, these are the staff members who assist the huntsman, who make sure the hounds “do right.”

  HOUNDED

  TO DEATH

  CHAPTER 1

  Rose twilight lingered over Shaker Village in central Kentucky, which, this Saturday, May 24, was hosting the Mid America Hound Show.

  Jane Arnold, master of Jefferson Hunt Hounds in Virginia, drove alongside dry-laid stone walls, quietly relishing the village’s three thousand well-tended acres of land. It was as if the spirits of the Shakers hovered everywhere. Sister Jane, as she was known, respected the sect’s unswerving devotion to equality, peace, and love, qualities that suffused those past lives like the rose-lavender tinted twilight suffused the rolling pastures with ethereal beauty.

  Pared-down functionalism, the essence of Shaker design, pure as fresh rainwater, prefigured later architectural and furniture development. Sister admired the care and intelligence the Shakers used to build their houses while fortifying their spirits with song and hard work.

  Much as she admired their clean straight lines, she herself felt more at home in a mix of eighteenth-century exuberance allied with modern comfort.

  She laughed to herself that her nickname, Sister Jane, meant she’d fit right in if only she could slip back in time to work alongside the Shakers. However, she’d soon have run afoul of the sisters and brothers as they did not practice sex, which had eventually resulted in the extinction of the sect. No one had ever accused Sister of being celibate.

  Shaker ideas and ideals lived after them. Perhaps most people hope to leave something behind, usually in the form of progeny. But some are able to also impart inventions, artistic achievements, or new ways of seeing the same old problems.

  What Sister hoped to leave behind was a love of the environment, belief in the protection of American farmland, and respect for all living creatures. Foxhunting was one of the best ways to do that because a person could inhale the best values while having more fun than the legal limit.

  It pained her that so many people thought that foxes were killed in the hunt. Countless times she’d patiently explained that hunting practices in the United States were different from those in England. Given that the Mid-America Hound Show would be made up of foxhunters showing their best hounds, she breathed in relief. She wouldn’t need to have that conversation here.

  Her new Subaru Forester followed the gray stone walls, rolling through a deep dip in the road, passing over a creek, and climbing a steep incline. She’d bought the SUV in hopes of saving a bit of money, seeing as her everyday vehicle was a big red gas-guzzling GMC half-ton truck. Like many Americans, she wanted to conserve fuel, but living out in the country made this a pipe dream.

  Sister found pleasure in driving the handy little vehicle, which burned less gas, but she still had to use farm trucks for work. She couldn’t envision how that would change without driving the cost of food up to the point where there’d be bread riots like those that helped jump-start the French and Russian revolutions.

  At the top of the steep hill, a flat green pasture beckoned, now silvery in May evening haze. In the middle of this lushness, surrounded by large trees, rested a two-story Shaker house, perfect in its simplicity, and just beyond the house were horse trailers converted for hound use. Sister drove to the Jefferson Hunt trailer, proudly displaying the JHC logo, a fox mask with two brushes crossed underneath.

  Before she could step out of the car, Shaker Crown, her huntsman, a rugged curly-haired man in his early forties, dashed over to open the door. His Christian name had nothing to do with the Shaker sect. It had been his great-uncle’s name, bequeathed to him at birth.

  “Boss, glad to see you.”

  She teased him. “You’re glad to see me because I brought sandwiches and drinks.”

  Before the sentence was out of her mouth, he’d lifted the back hatch of the Forester to retrieve a large cooler.

  Tootie, a senior at Custis Hall, a private girls’ secondary school, slipped out of the trailer’s side door. “Food?”

  “You poor starved thing.” Sister walked with Shaker as he plopped the cooler under the awning he’d set up off the side of the trailer.

  Inside, a high covered fan ran to keep the six couple of hounds comfortable, a generator on the other side of the trailer providing the power. Kentucky could fool you in May, temperate one day and sweltering the next. Shaker and Sister put hound happiness before their own.

  Tootie, full name Anne Harris, sat down in a director’s chair and Sister handed each of them a sandwich.

  “Are you tired? How can you be tired at seventeen?”

  The young woman grinned. She was exceedingly beautiful. “Just hit a low plateau. After this”—she held up the sandwich—“I’ll be right back up.”

  “Sure. You just can’t keep up with an old lady in her seventies.”

  “You’re not seventy, whatever.” Shaker eagerly unwrapped his turkey sandwich. “Your mother lied on your birth certificate.”

  “That’s a joyful thought.” Sister could smell the tangy mustard on her roast beef and cheese sandwich. “Isn’t this the loveliest setting for a hound show? Sure, nothing’s as spectacular as the twin peaks of the Virginia Hound Show, or the Bryn Mawr Hound Show, but Shaker Village—well, to my mind it’s the best location.”

  “That it is.” Shaker had already devoured half his sandwich.

  “Glad I brought two of everything,” said Sister.

  “I don’t know why I’m so hungry.”

  “Sometimes I think it’s cycles. Ever notice how your appetite and your sleep patterns change whenever the seasons change? At least mine does.”

  Tootie listened, as usual soaking everything up while remaining quiet.

  “Yep, and I can’t sleep during a full moon.”

  “Get up and howl, do you?” Sister smiled at her huntsman, whom she loved.

  “I thought that was you.” Tootie slipped that in.

  “Well, so much for respect from the young.” Sister laughed, which made Dragon, a hound, howl.

  They all laughed.

  “Does Woodford”—Tootie named the hosting hunt—“always have this show at Shaker Village?”

  “No. Actually, they used to have it over at the Kentucky Horse Park, smack in the middle of Lexington, when Iroquois Hunt ran it for three years.” Shaker named the other hunt outside of Lexington, Kentucky. “The Horse Park is a hotbed of activity. What a draw it’s become for tourists. Anyway, I sure hope Woodford keeps it here even though its half an hour from Lexington.”

  Sister greatly admired Jane Winegardner, MFH of Woodford Hounds, whom she knew better than the two other joint masters, hard-hunting men. She always referred to Miss Winegardner as “O.J.” for “the Othe
r Jane.”

  A familiar voice sounded from behind the trailer. Hope Rogers, DVM, popped round and greeted them under the awning. “Party?”

  “Sit down, honey.” Sister pointed to a director’s chair. “When did you get here?”

  Hope, an equine vet specializing in lameness, most particularly navicular disease, kept a practice five miles from the Jefferson Hunt kennels. In her late thirties, she’d become a hot commodity in the equine world, being flown to Japan, Korea, the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, Poland, and Austria to present her findings on degenerative diseases causing lameness. Her travels now comprised a great chunk of her practice, requiring her to take on a partner, Dan Clement, which was working out quite nicely.

  “Last night. Had a lecture at the University of Kentucky. That facility knocks me out every time I go there.”

  “Better than Virginia Tech or the Marion DuPont Center?” Shaker named two outstanding Virginia equine facilities.

  “As a Virginian, I can’t answer that.”

  “Ah.” Sister pointed to the cooler as Hope shook her head.

  “Saving myself for the party at the kennels.” She checked her watch. “There’s a little time left but I want to wash up first. Wish I could stay for the show tomorrow, but I’ve got to get back. At least I’ll see old friends at the party.”

  “O.J.’s been whirling around like the white tornado.” Shaker laughed. “You know O.J., she checks and rechecks everything, a born organizer. She’s over at Woodford kennels now.”

  “I’ll catch up with her there.” Hope reached into the cooler for a Mountain Dew. The caffeine hit would carry her through until she reached the party.

  “Get to the back pastures of any farms?” Sister knew Hope had a wealth of contacts in the Thoroughbred world.

  “No. I did get over to Bardstown to the Evan Williams distillery. You know I have a lot of Japanese clients.” She paused a moment, then continued. “And I’m sure you know that Japanese buy brands. In bourbon, that means Maker’s Mark, with the red wax covering the cork. ’Course it’s not real wax anymore, but the Japanese can recognize Maker’s Mark. I’m trying to educate some of my clients in the finer points of American whiskey, which is to say bourbon. So I bought two bottles of Evan Williams 1987 Single Barrel, number fifty-one. Not cheap. And then to sweeten the punch I drove down to Maker’s Mark distillery and bought two bottles of Limited Edition Kentucky Straight Bourbon, the highest Maker’s Mark, if that term applies.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink bourbon.” Sister carefully folded the aluminum foil wrapper of her now nonexistent sandwich.

  “I’m learning.” Hope smiled.

  “Did you buy any for yourself ?” Shaker asked.

  “Actually, I did. One bottle of each for me, and I also bought a bottle of Wild Turkey Single Barrel, number ten, Rick number nine, Warehouse D. How’s that for memory?”

  “Drink enough bourbon and you won’t have any memory left.” Sister laughed.

  “Don’t fret. I won’t. I’ve become so fascinated that each trip to Kentucky I visit a distillery. You know, I rather like the taste of these expensive bourbons. They’re actually quite complex.”

  “And you’re drinking a real drink,” Sister stated, then paused to change the subject. “Romance?”

  “I wish.” Hope slumped in the chair for a moment. “My divorce will be final at the end of June. I have to live because I don’t want Paul to get any more than he deserves. He’s coming out ahead on this, the bastard.” She stopped herself. “You know what Paul’s real sin is? He’s boring.”

  A small silence followed this, broken by Sister. “People say there is no such thing as a good divorce, but I don’t know. If you can part without vats of hostility, maybe something can be salvaged.” The talk of bourbon had brought up the word vat.

  “We’ve been erratic about that.” Hope sighed. “Let me go pull myself together. I’ll root for JHC tomorrow while I drive east on Sixty-four.” She stood up, then leaned over slightly. “Speaking of bourbon, I’ll bet anyone here five dollars you won’t see Gentleman Jack at the bar.”

  “Not taking that bet.” Shaker laughed.

  As Hope walked away, Tootie asked, “Why?”

  “Gentleman Jack is a Tennessee bourbon, high end. Well, technically it’s Tennessee Sour Mash but it’s bourbon to the rest of us.” Shaker, who had once had a problem with alcohol, was something of an expert. “Also, Jack Daniels Black, Label Number Seven, and George Dickel are Tennessee bourbons. Won’t see them either.”

  “Shit,” Sister whispered, then quickly said, “Sorry.”

  Shaker followed the direction of her eyes.

  Striding toward them was a tall, whip-thin, hawk-nosed man.

  “Master Arnold, looking divine as ever. America’s own Artemis.” Mo Schneider beamed, no doubt feeling he’d burnished his intellectual credentials by using the goddess of the hunt’s Greek name.

  Didn’t work.

  Sister responded coolly. “Evening, Mo. I thought you’d be at the party.”

  “On my way, on my way, and I do hope you’ll be there to sully your reputation with me.” His grin seemed like a sharp beak opening wide.

  “Woodford puts on a good party,” Sister replied.

  Mo’s eyes widened—as did those of most men of the heterosexual persuasion—when he spotted Tootie, with her café-au-lait skin and gold-flecked light-brown eyes.

  Tootie extended her hand. A lady always extends her hand first, and at seventeen she certainly was a power-packed lady. “Pleased to meet you, Master.”

  “You come on down to Arkansas on one of your school vacations and hunt with me.”

  “Thank you.” Tootie smiled, which added to her considerable allure.

  Mo peered in at the hounds. “As always, you’ve got some lookers. Might I go in?”

  Sister smiled at his double entendre, which was intentional. “Specialize in it.” She rose, as did Shaker, to open the trailer door.

  Sister stepped in, followed by Mo. “Four couple of young entry, two couple of hounds already hunting.”

  Mo surveyed the group: beautiful coats, shining eyes on everyone.

  “Who’s this? He’s outstanding.”

  “Giorgio. American hound, obviously. Bywaters blood.” Sister cited a famous bloodline that had gone out of fashion in the 1970s but was making a comeback.

  “You never waver from the Bywaters line.”

  “Works for me,” Sister said pleasantly. “Plus it’s a line developed in northern Virginia for Virginia conditions.”

  He swept his eyes over the hounds. “Thanks for letting me see them.”

  They returned to the director’s chairs.

  “How many hounds did you bring?” Shaker inquired, as he made a mental note to count Mo’s hounds when he had the chance.

  “Six couple. All entered.” This meant they’d been hunted. Unentered designated a young hound who had not yet been out.

  “Enough to keep you busy,” Sister said.

  “Shaker, didn’t mean to ignore you,” said Mo. “How have you been? Heard you decked a member.” He turned to Sister. “Heard you decked him, too.”

  “We performed this service at different times.” Sister smiled slyly. “He needed a lesson in Virginia manners.”

  “Bad. Needed the lesson bad.” Shaker smiled also, at the memory of Crawford Howard, Midas rich, hitting the floor.

  Mo laughed with false heartiness. “Sister, there are other ways to drop a man.”

  “Yes, Mo, I know them all,” she replied lightly. “I went around the block before the block had sidewalks.”

  “Not you. You’re a beautiful icon to us all.” He cast his eyes again at Tootie, who wanted to squirm but didn’t. “Well, on my way to the party. There’s a horn-blowing contest. Going to try.”

  “Surely you’ll toot your horn fine.” Sister’s voice was bland.

  Shaker had to look away, because if he caught her eye he’d laugh.

/>   Mo walked off, the slight missing him since he thought it was a compliment.

  Once out of earshot, Shaker growled, “I hate that lying piece of shit.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.” Sister reached over to touch his muscled forearm covered with light auburn hair.

  “I’d kill him if I could.” Shaker meant it.

  “Why?” Tootie asked.

  “He’s cruel to hounds, horses, and women.” Sister nodded, then turned to Tootie. “I guess because some men figure all three are obedient. They’ll put up with it.”

  Sister stood up, then entered the hound trailer as Shaker patted his stomach. He’d already put up his generously sized tent next to the awning.

  The hounds looked up as their master returned.

  The trailer was spotless. Two levels connected by a ramp, with everything, even the trailer sides, covered in heavy rubber gave choices as to where to sleep. Although it was warm, Shaker had bedded the hounds down with straw that could easily be brushed off come morning. The night would cool down quickly, and if one of those famous Kentucky thunderstorms came up, the temperature could drop like a stone.

  “Hello, Mother!” A happy chorus rang out.

  Sister laid her hand on each glossy head, all six couple of them; hounds are always counted in twos, coupled. On reaching Diddy, she quietly reassured the youngster. “You’re going to be a star tomorrow. You just reach out and show those judges your fluid movement.”

  Diddy blinked.

  Sister, an animal person, knew that a soft voice, pitched low, calms an animal. Placing your hand on the head of a cat or dog also calms them. With horses, a hand on the head works, but if you press your fingers alongside and high on the horse’s neck, moving from the poll down to the withers, that soothes them, too.

  She left her hounds, quietly shutting the slatted door behind her.

  No sooner had she left the trailer than a robust salt-and-pepper-haired man, arms swinging in easy rhythm, bore down on her.

  He came right up, caught her in his arms, and gave her a big kiss. “You beauty!”

  Sister hugged him back. “Where have you been?”