Hounded to Death Read online

  “The officer told me. Master, will you call Blake, our stable manager, and ask him to feed hounds and pick us up at home? I hope I’ll get back tonight.”

  “I will,” O.J. answered.

  Mary, one step ahead, was drawing a map to the kennels.

  “Officer Bickle, if it’s all right with you, we’ll follow you to the station, and when you’re done with Fonz, we’ll take him to his hounds,” Carl suggested.

  “They’ve impounded the trailer. I don’t know how to carry them home.” Fonz used the country southern expression.

  “Can you release the truck and trailer?” O.J. inquired.

  “Not right away, ma’am. We have to go over it for evidence.”

  “Fonz, don’t worry. We’ll get you to Arkansas, safe and sound.”

  “Master, I hate to put you to this trouble.”

  “Hounds first, Fonz.” She laid her hand gently on his shoulder, for she could see he’d been hard used. “We both know that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, let’s load them up.”

  Mary opened the door to the Woodford trailer as Fonz opened the door to the stall. Fonz stood on the trailer ramp and hounds came right to him before he even opened his mouth. Officer Bickle hadn’t seen that kind of obedience before by that many dogs. (To him they were dogs because he hadn’t yet learned the nomenclature.)

  Not wishing to spoil O.J.’s work with the officer, Sister tried to be patient. But ever since O.J. had filled her in on the discovery of Fonz, along with Mo’s hounds, she’d had a feeling. . . . She was dying to open the stall door because she felt Giorgio was there.

  Knowing hounds, she also had to be patient as they emerged from the stall. These hounds didn’t know her. She didn’t want to spook them.

  In the middle of the pack, Giorgio smelled his master. He knew she was there before she knew he was there.

  Standing up on his hind legs he let out a yelp of happiness. “Mom!”

  “Giorgio!” Sister held out her arms as the stunning hound bounded over to her.

  “He is a beauty,” O.J. admitted.

  “Officer Bickle, this is my hound. He’d been stolen.”

  “I missed you.” Giorgio, again on his hind legs, put his paws on Sister’s shoulders.

  Fonz blinked. “Where did he come from?”

  “Good question. How did he get in your pack?” Sister’s voice was hard.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” Sister blurted out.

  O.J. astutely intervened. “Officer, this hound belongs to Mrs. Jane Arnold. We think Mo stole him.”

  “I swear I didn’t know,” Fonz protested.

  Sister, this time, bit her tongue.

  “Officer, she needs to get her hound back to Virginia, if you have no objection.”

  “Well—uh, I think that will be okay.”

  “O.J., let me help you here,” said Sister. “There’s going to be a lot to do.”

  “I’ve got Carl, Leslie, and Mary. You’d best get out before traffic picks up.”

  Giorgio offered his opinion. “Yes!”

  Sister hugged him again and followed O.J.’s advice. Giorgio hopped in the back but before Sister reached the impressive entrance to Keeneland he’d crawled into the passenger seat, chatting the whole time.

  “Master, the little lemon-spotted gyp, that’s Tillie. She’s hocky, but she’ll go where the others go,” Fonz told O.J.

  “What’s hocky?” Officer Bickle was becoming quite intrigued, plus he really wanted to see Jane Winegardner again.

  “Shy,” Carl answered.

  After hounds had been loaded, Officer Bickle took Fonz to the morgue. Much as Fonz loathed Mo Schneider, seeing him on a slab came as a nasty jolt. When the attendant rolled him over to show the rat shot peppering his back and legs with round bumps, Fonz gasped.

  “Ever see anything like that? Bird shot?” Officer Bickle pointed to the bumps.

  “Not on a human.”

  “Me neither. Do you have any idea who would do something like this?”

  “Someone who knew Mo pretty good. Someone who paid him back for his cruelty. We could start with his three ex-wives.”

  Two hours later, which was actually good time, Fonz was released and Carl drove him out to the Woodford kennels.

  The visiting hounds in adjoining yards had enjoyed chats with the Woodford hounds. Again, they loaded right up. O.J. and Mary, along with Fonz, all squeezed into the cab for the long drive home.

  By the time O.J., finally home, called Sister, the older woman and Giorgio had just passed Hinton, West Virginia, situated on a high mountain plateau about two and a half hours from home.

  “Do you think Fonz has any idea who killed Mo?” Sister asked, after O.J. filled her in.

  “He rattled off a list of eight or nine people. Those were just the front-runners.”

  A long silence followed. “O.J., maybe we’re better off not knowing. Maybe the trail will grow cold. We don’t need to know.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I agree. Murder is murder.”

  “Some people deserve it.” Sister thought there were some people walking around who do nothing but cause pain.

  “Then what happens to the rule of law?”

  “What rule of law? For Christ’s sake, whoever has the most money gets away with just about anything. And we’re thinking about individual crimes. What about great big crimes like the rape of resources, the pollution of water, or sending young men and women soldiers to their deaths? I’m old. Listen to me. You wrap crimes in the flag or a dollar bill, and suddenly everyone looks the other way.”

  “Hadn’t thought about it like that.” O.J., very moral, hadn’t.

  “You wouldn’t. You’re a straight shooter.”

  “So are you.”

  “Yes and no. I’m a cynical straight shooter. I expect authority to be corrupt. I expect most corporations to hide skeletons. And I expect regular folks to stick their heads in the sand until the sand becomes poisoned. We always wait until it’s a ten-squared crisis before we move our sorry asses.”

  “Good point. But what if Mo’s murder isn’t isolated?” O.J. worried.

  “How can that—”

  “What I mean is, What if there’s a serial killer out there, popping off foxhunters they don’t like?”

  “You think they’d start elsewhere.” Sister hadn’t considered such a possibility.

  “It could happen.”

  “Give me your list.”

  A long pause followed. “Not until you give me yours.”

  They both laughed; then Sister Jane said, “Ever think about how many people you would have killed if you could have gotten away with it?”

  “No, but I am now.”

  “Odd. I mean every one of us is capable of killing, whether in self-defense—which is perfectly justified—revenge, or blind rage, yet few of us ever do kill.”

  “You’re making me realize my real point.” O.J. sighed. “It’s one of the reasons I cherish our friendship. Somehow you always lead me back to the scent. Here’s what I really meant to say. Except in self-defense, we don’t kill, and we’ve all been tremendously provoked. If that restraint has eroded, what’s possible?”

  “Good point. I don’t know the answer. But I’m betting Mo is a one-off.”

  “I hope so.” O.J. changed the subject. “How’s Giorgio?”

  “Being the navigator. He’s still sitting straight up, hasn’t taken his eyes off the road.”

  “Too bad he can’t talk.”

  “He does in his own way.”

  “I’m so happy!” Giorgio said.

  Sister didn’t walk into her house until four that afternoon. Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster—calico cat, Doberman, and harrier, respectively—greeted her rapturously. Only when she walked into the den, her favorite room, did she remember it was Memorial Day.

  Sister looked at the silver-framed photo of herself, her husband, and her son, age fourteen, his age when he died, all spiffed up to rid
e in the family class at the Jefferson Hunt Horse Show.

  What would it be like to have her RayRay, who would be forty-seven now, sitting in the den with her, most likely with a good wife, grandchildren coming and going, and laughter filling the house?

  She’d never know, but that was life. You take what the good Lord gives you.

  She fought back her tears, petted Golly, and said, “What next?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday at Roughneck Farm brought an avalanche of chores, phone calls, and interruptions.

  Sister and Shaker cleaned the kennels with the big power washer early, since they both wanted to get the jump on the day. The spray felt good on their faces because at 8 a.m. the thermometer read 73 degrees Fahrenheit. Going to be a hot one. Sister walked back through the special runs for hounds needing a little extra care: Often, during the hunt season, roughly from Labor Day to St. Patrick’s Day in central Virginia, some hounds, certain bloodlines especially, would run the fat right off themselves by New Year’s. Putting the weight back on was easier said than done. Other hounds, usually the girls, stayed weedy.

  First she checked Giorgio, none the worse for wear. Next she opened the chain-link gate and sat with Aurora, a hound from Archie’s litter. Now fourteen, she was flatfooted and a touch deaf. Her nose was keen, her eyes less bright. Her hunting days were long over. Many a master or huntsman would have put Aurora down, but Sister just couldn’t do that. A hound or horse who had served her well lived out his or her last years in comfort and love.

  “Aurora, you look chipper today.”

  Wise brown eyes looked into her own. “You, too, Master.”

  Her pockets filled with dried liver tidbits left over from the Kentucky show, Sister sat on an old stool next to the hound’s commodious sleeping box, complete with large canvas-covered cushion.

  She handed a treat to Aurora, who took it daintily with her worn teeth. “Do you ever think about the old days?”

  Crunching, then swallowing, the sweet hound replied, “I dream a lot. I dream I’m young and I’m flying in front of the pack.”

  Sister gave Aurora more tidbits, petting the hound’s head. “It goes by so fast, so fast. Sometimes, Aurora, it scares me. I don’t feel old but I am old.”

  “Well, I feel old, but life is still good.” Aurora took another liver bit, relishing the taste as it exploded in her mouth.

  Sister heard the door into the hall open. Shaker, in his wellies, walked up to the gate. “Two happy girls.”

  “Memories.”

  “That was a golden litter, that A litter. Every single hound was spectacular.” He smiled as he watched the old hound eat her liver treats. “Remember the time I wanted to wheel the pack to the right, toward Mudfence Farm, and Aurora sat down and just howled?” He slapped his thigh. “I got a little hot and spoke harshly to her. She stood up but she howled again. Then she turned her whole body in the opposite direction, and by God there was the biggest red in the state of Virginia just popping out of a tangle. Taught me a lesson.”

  “Which was?” Sister smiled broadly.

  “Trust your hounds.”

  “Now that’s a fact. If you can’t trust them, don’t hunt them. That’s why I’m suspicious when I see a boatload of whippers-in at other hunts. It’s one thing if you’re training people; other than that, less is more.”

  “Some masters get bulldozed by rich members. Not you.”

  Grateful to serve under a strong master, Shaker was referring to the practice whereby wealthy members pay up and a master allows them to be whippers-in, a glamorous position. However, it’s a very tough position and requires good riding, hound sense, and fox sense, as well as a great sense of direction. As rich people often possess just one of those qualities, they are generally affixed to the true whipper-in like an enema bag.

  In truth, very few people possess all four virtues in marked degree, but if one is to whip in, best to have at least three in good working order.

  “I know Thursday is usually errand day, but I’m heading down to the feed store in town and I’ll swing by Hope Rogers’s, too. Espilac.”

  Espilac was used as a milk replacer or enhancement. Violet, a draft to Jefferson Hunt, was due any day now. Best to be prepared, should she be low in milk. Sister also needed to pick up oxytocin. If the gyp had difficulty birthing her puppies, this drug would help her expel them. One always prayed for an easy time of it for the mother, but anything could happen.

  “Violet does look ready to pop.” Shaker knew Sister had been thinking about Violet, the only hound close to term.

  “Always get excited when the puppies arrive.”

  “What saint’s day is it?” Shaker was always amused by Sister’s vast knowledge of saint’s days.

  “I guess the most important is Augustine of Canterbury, who evangelized the Anglo-Saxons in the sixth century a.d. He died in 604.”

  “Think he succeeded?” Shaker grinned.

  “Maybe, in Kent.” She laughed. “He built the first cathedral in Canterbury. You going religious on me?”

  “No.” He smiled. “Just wondering if there was a saint to help with whelping.”

  “Let’s propose a saint for the deliverance of canine births. I’m sure the pope will be supportive,” she called over her shoulder, as she left the kennels.

  She crossed the rich green grass on her way to the stable. All the horses were turned out, on vacation after the end of hunt season. As she walked into the center aisle, a low swish overhead made her duck, then look up.

  Bitsy, the screech owl, a juicy earthworm in her beak, thought herself very funny flying right over Sister’s head. No sooner did she land in her nest in the rafters than little sounds filled the barn. Bitsy had hatched four owlets, growing bigger every day. The thought of five screech owls made Sister wonder if she ought to stop by the sporting goods store to buy earplugs.

  She went back outside. Having two vehicles provoked her to a rare moment of indecision. Which one to take? Life was easier when her choice was only the red GMC half-ton.

  She no sooner cranked up the Forester than Raleigh and Rooster shot out of the house, the dog door now in service.

  “All right.” She got out and opened the hatch.

  Two very happy dogs jumped in, ready for adventure.

  First call was the feed store, a red and white Purina checkerboard painted on the brick side wall. Sister left the windows open for the dogs. A good twenty minutes later, she emerged with a shopping cart filled with items she hadn’t intended to buy: cat and dog toys, including a rubber chicken that made her laugh when she looked at it; more treats; a new brand of dog kibble, which she thought she’d try with the foxes whom she fed regularly. Big square handkerchiefs were on sale, so she bought one in every color, ten hankies at $2.95 apiece. When the heat rose up, she’d roll ice cubes in a work handkerchief and tie it around her neck. Worked a treat.

  “I smell dog bones.” Rooster’s ears pricked up.

  “Don’t make a mess.” Sister handed each dog a treat in the shape of a bone.

  “She understood.” Rooster was incredulous.

  “Situational,” the Doberman answered.

  Within ten minutes they reached Central Virginia Equine Clinic, a large Morton pre-fab building. In the operating room, Hope had installed a large, circular, flat, rotating operating table, which was on a hydraulic lift. She also had water therapy pools, treadmills, even an enormous MRI. Whatever the latest advance in technology, Hope purchased it.

  All these major purchases had been in the last three years. Hope’s international reputation had filled her coffers, and so had an aunt in Iowa, who died leaving everything to her. No one had even met the aunt, but all were grateful. While it is never proper to celebrate a death, all that money was a blessing.

  Bottles of animal supplements, as well as Espilac, were in the front office, as so many of her clients would pick up things for pets when dropping by. Hope made a bit of money on these items.

  Hope herself, petite
, fooled people, particularly men, who didn’t believe such a small person could handle large animals. That she could. The eight stalls for patients today contained only one horse. Troubles could hit a horse at any time, but spring problems started with people, those who were not horsemen, who turned their horses out in verdant pastures. Some horses would overeat and founder, an inflammation within the laminae of the foot. The worst of those days had passed, so the clinic’s patient list had dropped off, although Hope could depend on the odd injury, now and then, or the birth of a late foal.

  Sister walked into the reception room. Dan Clement, Hope’s partner, stood behind Lisa, the office manager, peering at the computer screen.

  “Sister, how are you?” Dan smiled.

  “Fine. Stopped by for some Espilac and oxytocin, which I hope I don’t need.”

  “Sure thing.” Before the words were out of his mouth, Lisa sped to the supply room.

  Hope sailed in through the front door, carrying two large bags. “Sister Jane. Just picked up lunch. Like some?”

  “Oh, thank you, no. How are you?”

  Hope seemed a little frazzled. “I’m three weeks from my divorce being final, and when I got home Sunday that bastard, Paul, called and said he wanted two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He thought it over and felt he was entitled to more of my money. Entitled! He never lifted a finger to build this practice. He never even mowed the lawn.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I just want to kill him.” Hope dropped the bags on the office desk.

  “Don’t do that.” Dan tried to lighten the conversation. “That will cost more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus we need you here.”

  “He’s right,” Sister agreed. “We do need you.”

  “You-all make me feel better.” Hope calmed down.

  “Get up early some morning and go on hound walk with us,” Sister suggested. “You’d be surprised at how it starts off the day: perfectly.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Hope appreciated Sister’s concern.

  Dan’s beeper went off. He walked outside as he dialed back on his cell.