Hounded to Death Read online

  Mo took a swing at Judge Baker, who ducked.

  Carl grabbed the swinging arm as Tommy Lee grabbed the other one. The two men pushed Mo’s arms up against his back, which was painful, and then they literally picked him up and threw him out of the tent.

  Shaker let loose of Sister Jane. “Boss, I know you’ve got a mean right cross, but you stay here.”

  Mo charged back into the tent. Carl stopped him, bending low and hitting him with a solid block below the knees. As Mo crumpled, Shaker grabbed hold of his coat collar and began dragging him back toward the trailers, the other men following as Mo flailed and cursed with abandon.

  The ladies watched, quite impressed.

  “Testosterone poisoning,” Louise said laconically.

  “Actually, I suspect he’s deficient,” Sister Jane added, which made everyone laugh louder.

  Back at the trailers, the men surrounded Mo. Outnumbered and realizing vaguely he shouldn’t have crossed a former Virginia supreme court justice while he was showing hounds, he calmed down. Crossing two of the most respected men in foxhunting, Tommy Lee Jones and Chris Ryan, evidenced galloping stupidity, too.

  When the men left him, Fonz started loading up the trailer.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mo shouted at him.

  “We’re going home, aren’t we?”

  “No, we goddam well are not. I came to show my hounds, and I will.”

  He did, too, actually winning a ribbon for single bitch entered.

  Sister Jane thought Mo’s hound rather nice. She also fell in love with Keswick Tally and Keswick Rustic as well as a lovely Crossbred, Why Worry Fairy.

  Jefferson Hunt gathered four more ribbons and ended the day hot, tired, but happy, although plagued with worry over Giorgio.

  Judge Baker walked back, his coat now off, his tie loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Accompanying him was Jim Fitzgerald, the two in animated conversation.

  Sister liked him. “Jim, I never got a chance to catch up with you.”

  “That kind of day. Didn’t lack for drama.”

  Judge Baker shrugged. “I couldn’t believe that Mo would still show his hounds. I had a mind to turn him away, but when I asked Chris Ryan he winked at me so I let the bastard in.”

  “Thoroughly disagreeable man.” Jim nodded. “I was bringing up more ice from the trucks so I missed most of the championship fight.”

  “It’s a foolish man who goes up against Tommy Lee Jones.” Shaker laughed. “Foolish man to cross Sister, too.”

  Jim Fitzgerald spoke to Tootie, who was standing quietly next to Sister Jane. “Young lady, you’ve a gift with hounds.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Where do you get these juniors?” Jim asked Sister.

  “I’m on the board of Custis Hall. I recruit them. I have quite a few who hunt with me and four seniors who are outstanding. Tootie is one. The other three are back in Virginia madly finishing up term papers.”

  “Come back to Sister when you’ve finished college,” Jim advised her.

  “I’ve finished college.” Judge Baker looked at Sister. “I could come, too.”

  “Any time, you handsome devil.” Sister and her late husband had known Barry and his recently deceased wife for close to forty years.

  “You’ll see more of me come hunt season. You know, Mitch and Lutrell Fisher bought Skidby. Has a lovely dependency and I’ve rented it, so I’ll hunt one day a week with Deep Run and one with you. Hunt every day if I could.” Judge Baker meant it.

  Skidby, a large landholding on the western edge of Sister Jane’s hunt territory, was famous locally for its caverns. Immediately after the War Between the States, when the Yankees rode through, Confederate officers hid in the caves. No one knew if they’d be shot or imprisoned.

  “You’re still keeping the house in Richmond, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ve half a mind to give it to my son and daughter-in-law.Too big to keep. But I’m not quite there yet.”

  “I can understand,” Sister said. “I didn’t know you knew Mitch and Lutrell.”

  “Lutrell and I are both on the board of the Richmond Ballet. She’s the one with the big bucks; well, you know that. Mitch might be a doctor, but he’s in research, so he doesn’t make all that much.”

  “He hunts with me. She doesn’t. She’s a bit fearful. Actually, thank you for reminding me that they’ve finally moved into Skidby. I’ll call on them.”

  “You’ll find a warm reception.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You might even find me.”

  After more pleasantries, chatting with other masters and huntsmen, Sister finally pulled O.J. aside and filled her in on Giorgio’s disappearance.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” O.J.’s eyes widened and she raised her hands, palms up.

  “Overload. There’s nothing you could have done. Then, too, I didn’t want to tip him off. I can’t prove Mo stole my hound, but let’s just say I figure the chances of his not stealing Giorgio are about the same as the sun rising in the west.”

  O.J. scanned the grounds; many trailers were pulling out. “Well, his trailer’s not here.”

  “Damn.” Sister paused. “I know Giorgio wasn’t with his hounds. Tootie snuck back and checked a couple of times. Where could he have hidden a hound so someone wouldn’t find it? My beautiful boy would have howled his displeasure, but he’s so sweet he would be easy to muzzle. Couldn’t howl then.”

  The late-afternoon sun showed up the lighter highlights in O.J.’s dark hair. “Someone who works for Shaker Village certainly would have found him if Mo had hidden him around here.” She gazed at Sister, lost in thought for a bit, and then grabbed her arm. “Come on! There is a place, just outside the Village.”

  Once in O.J.’s truck, Sister pulled out her cell phone to call Shaker and Tootie, who were readying the trailer to leave. That accomplished, she paid attention as O.J. turned right toward Harrodsburg on Route 68. O.J. then turned right on the next paved road. Large homes, freshly painted new barns, and expensive fencing signaled that money flowed to Mercer County.

  “New money.”

  “Better than no money.” O.J. turned right on a sharp turn, onto a narrow road. “Jim Fitzgerald was thinking about buying an old training track back here. This land has been let go, but it wouldn’t take too much to rehab it. Anyway, the track is no secret, and Mo has come to the Mid-America Hound Show enough times to know of it.” She now turned left, where a battered sign hung precariously on chains that swayed in the light breeze.

  The track, guardrail still intact, lay just ahead. Mo’s trailer was parked alongside it.

  “That bastard!” Sister cursed.

  “A lot of outbuildings. Good place to hide anything.” Seeing the trailer, O.J. felt sure this was the place.

  The moment Woodford’s master had parked, Sister opened the door to sprint toward the trailer. She stepped up on the running boards between the wheel wells. “Not a thing! Not even his hounds!”

  O.J. did not respond. Transfixed, she stood like a statue looking at the faded white guardrail.

  “Are you all right?” Sister asked, then cast her eyes in the direction of O.J.’s unrelenting stare. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  Sister put a hand on the guardrail and swung herself over as O.J., snapping out of it, did likewise. The two fit women ran across the infield to the other side of the track.

  The ground underfoot, still good, gave their steps a spring. They stopped.

  “Dead as a doornail,” Sister pronounced.

  Mo Schneider lay facedown in the track. Stripped to the waist, feet bare, head turned to the side, he stared at nothing—or perhaps at eternity.

  O.J., mind clear, pointed to his back. “What do you make of that?”

  Sister knelt down, careful not to touch the corpse. “Rat shot.”

  Rat shot is what foxhunters call bird shot. It is generally loaded into a .22 pistol and used only in extremis. If hounds rush toward a superhighway, scent burning, the whipper
-in has to turn them. He or she might fire once in the air if there is time. The next shot is aimed directly at hindquarters. Better to pick out rat shot in the kennels than pick up crushed hounds on the road.

  Now kneeling next to Sister, O.J. peered closely. “He’s peppered with it.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her linen skirt and used it to touch his wrist. “No pulse. Just in case. He’s cooling but a long way from being cold.”

  “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

  “Warm day.” O.J. stood up. “Not more than a hour, hour and a half.”

  “ATV tracks.” Sister noticed tire tracks from an all-terrain vehicle alongside Mo’s footprints.

  “Kids sneak down here all the time.”

  “Fresh.”

  O.J. knelt down again to check the tracks. “You’re right, and some of them have run over Mo’s footprints.”

  “Mo ran around this track more than once.” Sister shook her head. “No hounds. No Fonz. No Maserati. No shoes. Why would he run barefoot?”

  “You think this is some kind of ritual killing?”

  “I don’t know, but it is bizarre.” A glint of humor returned. “Should we roll him over and drive a stake through his heart?”

  Sister sent Shaker and Tootie home with hounds once she and O.J. discovered Mo’s body. The authorities arrived; questioning went on. It made sense to spend the night and leave for Virginia in the morning. O.J. kindly invited Sister home with her. She also volunteered to call the various animal rescue groups.

  The Mid-America Hound Show provided more drama than Woodford could have ever imagined. O.J. prayed there wouldn’t be more to come.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tico Caracalla’s work boots were already soaked with heavy dew at four-thirty in the morning. Keeneland, quiet and beautiful in any season, felt like it was all his at this hour. The back shed rows, his responsibility, were empty this time of year. Nonetheless, being a stickler for order and cleanliness, he inspected every stall. No matter how hungry he had been when he first came into the United States, Tico refused to work for sloppy outfits. When he finally worked his way up to Keeneland, he knew he’d found his true place. He’d inspect latches, check bucket fasteners, kneel down to make sure no pave-safe blocking was becoming dislodged. It never was, but he couldn’t be too careful when it came to the horses and their safety.

  The last stall in the shed row was closed up. He hurried down the line, because this was not the way he’d left that stall yesterday—or any of the others. He opened the stall door and nearly passed out. Fresh buckets of water had been placed on the stall floor, along with a huge pile of kibble. Sleepy-headed hounds started to rise. He stepped inside quickly and closed the door behind him. As a horseman he’d spent much of his life around dogs of one sort or another and he knew these animals meant no harm. His biggest shock arrived when a few hounds moved away from the human they’d been cuddling. Fonz Riley, bound and gagged, looked up.

  “Dei!” Tico bent down and pulled the gag out of the small middle-aged man’s mouth.

  “Thank God,” Fonz gasped.

  “One minute.” Tico slipped his pocket knife out of his pocket and cut the ropes around Fonz’s wrists and ankles.

  Fonz rubbed the circulation back into his limbs as Tico called security. Wisely, Tico asked no questions. He hadn’t worked twenty years in the shed rows for nothing. Security called the Lexington police. Both arrived at the same time.

  “Could I have something to drink?” Fonz asked.

  “Sí.” Tico left, returning five minutes later with a cup of hot coffee and a Co-Cola in case Fonz wanted something cold. Tico kept a well-stocked cooler in the back of his truck, plus he’d just made himself a thermos of coffee.

  As Fonz gratefully swigged both liquids, he began to revive.

  Harry Bickle, the officer from the city, had seen plenty but nothing like this. “Your name?”

  “Francis Albert Riley. Fonz. I don’t know how I got here. I’d loaded the hounds, I was facing the trailer, and I felt a pain in my head. That’s all I remember.”

  Bickle stepped closer to see if his pupils were the same size or possibly dilated. His nose informed him Fonz wasn’t drunk.

  “Could I go to the bathroom? I only need to step outside.”

  Fonz’s request horrified Tico. He didn’t want anyone urinating publicly, even though no one else was there. What if somebody drove by at that exact moment? “I’ll take you,” Tito volunteered.

  Harry Bickle waited, as did the twenty-two-year-old night guard, who was moonlighting while studying at Transylvania College in Lexington, Kentucky. The kid had heard enough cracks about Dracula to last him a lifetime. Fortunately for him, the good education he was receiving would last a lifetime, too.

  Fonz came back, ushered into the stall by Tico.

  “These hounds sure are calm. No one’s bolted for the door.” Bickle didn’t know much about foxhounds.

  “No, sir. They’re a good pack of hounds with a bad master. I try to make up for it.” He rubbed the back of his head where he’d been hit, feeling the tender knot.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mo Schneider. Has a big place in Arkansas. Big money, small sense.”

  “That’s not a nice way to talk about your boss.” Bickle felt a cold wet nose touch his hand.

  “No one likes him. I stay on because of the hounds. He’d mistreat them or kill them if I didn’t protect them.”

  “Where’s your boss now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s your vehicle?” Bickle continued.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have any identification?”

  Fonz reached into his hind pocket, extracting a well-worn wallet, western tooled.

  Tico watched, taking in every detail as Bickle read the license, looked at the license photo, and then glanced back at Fonz as he returned the wallet.

  “Would you like a ride to the hospital to have your head checked over?” Bickle offered. “Sometimes a blow to the head can fool you, more damage than you realize.”

  “No, sir. I can’t leave the hounds. I need to find Mo. I need the trailer.”

  “What did the trailer look like?” Bickle was putting two and two together, although he hadn’t been on duty when Mo Schneider was discovered.

  “Four-horse Featherlite, two years old. The front half of the trailer is modified for the hounds.”

  Featherlite was a good brand of horse trailer.

  “I think we have your trailer. It’s impounded.”

  “What?”

  “We have your boss, too. Trailer’s registered in his name.” Bickle took a long deep breath. “He’s been murdered.”

  “About time,” Fonz blurted out.

  “What kind of crack is that?” Bickle asked.

  “If you knew him, you’d understand.”

  “Come with me. I need you to identify the body, and I’d like to ask a few more questions.”

  “Officer, I can’t leave the hounds.”

  Tico stepped in. “They need to be with him, Señor. Perhaps they don’t listen to me and escape. Much harm could be done.”

  Bickle, in a pickle, thought a moment, then Fonz figured a way out.

  “If you let me use your phone, I think I can find help.” When Fonz explained his plan, Officer Bickle handed over his cell.

  Fonz called O.J. He’d memorized the number on the drive up from Arkansas just in case there was a problem. That way he wouldn’t have to pull over, hunt the number, and call.

  “Hello,” came O.J.’s sunny reply, at what was now six in the morning.

  “Master Winegardner, it’s Fonz.”

  “Fonz, where are you?” She didn’t want to tell him about Mo.

  “Keeneland, last shed row, with Mo’s hounds. I got hit over the head. There’s a policeman here who wants to ask questions, but I can’t leave the hounds.”

  “Fonz, put the man on the phone.”

  “Officer Bick
le here.”

  “Officer Bickle, this is Jane Winegardner, Master of Woodford Hounds. Will you allow me to pick up the hounds and take them to our kennels until you get things cleared away with Fonz? He’s a good man, if my testimony is any help. Anyone who could work with Mo Schneider and last for two years is a saint.”

  “Well, ma’am, I guess that’s all right.”

  “You have to wait until I get there, Officer, because I’ll need Fonz to help me load. The hounds don’t know me. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

  “All right.” Officer Bickle clicked off his phone. “Tell you what, you all wait here. You, too.” The last was said directly to Jude, the Transylvania student. “I’ll bring back breakfast for everyone. Your friend is bringing her trailer. She must be a good friend.” He spoke to Fonz.

  “She’s a master of foxhounds, sir. I don’t know her all that well, but all masters worth their salt will help hounds.”

  Officer Bickle drove off to the nearest fast food place, beginning to realize he’d stepped into a whole new world.

  When he returned, the four men ate outside the stall so as not to tempt hounds overmuch. By the time they’d drained the last drop of coffee, the rumble of a big trailer could be heard.

  O.J. drove the rig while Carl and Leslie Matacola followed by car. Mary Pierson, who’d fallen asleep in the truck cab, sat up when O.J. stopped. Sister Jane followed in her Subaru.

  Opening the door, O.J. walked right up to Officer Bickle as Carl headed for Fonz. She held out her hand. “I’m Jane Winegardner. Thank you so much for thinking of the hounds.”

  He liked the tall lady right on sight, so he smiled. “Well, ma’am, I couldn’t very well put them in jail.” He then stared at Carl. “Don’t I know you?”

  “No, sir, but you might have seen me around. I’m director of athletic training at UK.”

  “I have seen you, on TV. And you’re a hound person, too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Officer Bickle, allow me to send you an invitation to our opening hunt. It will be Thanksgiving weekend at Shakertown. I’ll stay in touch. You’ll enjoy it, especially the Blessing of the Hounds.” O.J. always rewarded people who helped the hounds or the club. An invitation to Opening Hunt was very special. She then turned to Fonz. “You heard about Mo?”