Hounded to Death Page 8

  Hope shuddered. “Awful way to go, but then there aren’t many good ones. Speaking of dying, the first thing I did when I left Paul was to change my will. If I die before the divorce is final he doesn’t get one red cent.”

  Sister patted her on the back. “You’re too young to think of dying.”

  They walked into the operating room, the double doors swinging to close behind them.

  “At least Mo Schneider’s exit was spectacular. His last minutes had to be filled with exhaustion, pain, and fear,” Sister replied.

  “Wonder if I could run Paul to death?” Hope kicked off her boots.

  “Mo was proof that money can’t buy happiness. Remind Paul. Maybe he’ll lower his new set of demands.”

  “Fat chance,” Hope growled. She stretched out. “How did Mo make his fortune?”

  “Recycling. You know when you pull on a fake fleece coat or a Polar Tec blanket? That’s Mo.”

  “I’ll be. He was smart.”

  “About some things. Fundamentally, he was a cruel man, but my experience has taught me that apart from those who are born bad—and believe me, some are—most people who are cruel learned it early.”

  “Mother’s milk that curdled.” Hope folded her hands over her chest.

  “Something like that.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the house and sleep?” Hope offered. “You’ve got to be more tired than I am.”

  “I got just wet enough out there with Gunpowder in the paddock that the discomfort will keep me awake. I can make it back to the kennel. Shall I cut the lights on the way out?”

  “Yes, thank you. With the lightning we don’t need them.” As Sister flicked the switch and opened the door to the operating room, Hope called out, “You’re tough as nails, Sister. You know that?”

  “So I’ve been told. Good night.”

  “ ’Night.” And Hope was asleep before Sister climbed back in the dually.

  The storm, seemingly tethered over the pastures, meadows, and eastern slopes of the Blue Ridge, had intensified again. Sister drove out slowly. It was four in the morning. At least no one would be on the road so she could go as slowly as she needed.

  As she pulled out of the long driveway, she thought she saw a car parked on the macadam behind the large veterinary sign. She was too tired to look more closely, figuring someone had ditched the vehicle or the storm had scared them so bad they decided to sleep until it was over.

  She peered over the steering wheel. A flash of lightning, lavender in its heat, knocked her back against the seat. Her eyes burned.

  “Shit,” she muttered, then laughed. If her mother were alive and had been riding shotgun, a correction to Sister’s vocabulary would surely have followed.

  Squinting, driving thirty miles an hour and even slower on the curves as water rushed across the low spots, Sister finally made it home to Roughneck Farm.

  She got out, closed the door, and headed for the kennels. Might as well stay wet for a while as the rain, despite her efforts to keep dry, had found its way behind the collar of the Barbour coat and she was still clammy from her first dose of rain.

  Shaker woke when she entered, even though she was quiet.

  “Five. One was born dead.”

  Sister came in, knelt down, and stroked Violet’s head. “It’s hard work, girl. I know from personal experience.” She looked closely at the young mother. “Still a little swollen. Might be another.” She gathered up the bloody towels and Shaker started to stand.

  “Boss, what happened to you?” He noticed the bloodstains.

  “Tell you in a minute.” She threw the bloody towels in the big hamper in the washroom, where an industrial-strength washer and dryer made life a lot easier. She returned with an armful of fresh towels and gave Shaker the report on Gunpowder, his horse.

  “You should have gotten me.”

  “Violet needed you. Hope and I were fine. I am bone weary, though. I’m going up to take a nap.”

  As she walked through the still-driving rain she hoped the basement hadn’t flooded. She thought of Hope asleep near Gunpowder and knew that Dan would find her in the morning.

  He did.

  CHAPTER 6

  Betty Franklin made a bracing pot of coffee and waited for the aroma to waft up the back stairway into Sister’s bedroom. She’d stopped by the kennels for hound walk to find Shaker asleep. He woke up, when hounds welcomed Betty, and told her about the night’s drama.

  In the off season, Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil Fawkes, when she could make it, walked out the pack and worked with young entry five mornings each week. Did hounds a world of good—and the people, too.

  The walks covered a mile out and a mile back. As the summer temperatures rose, takeoff time moved ever backward. Right now it was nine in the morning. By July they’d go out at seven-thirty.Betty and Sister, about twenty years apart in age, were as close as second skin. They shared many similar interests, but it was the hound work that drew them together, as it does most people who feed, clean, walk hounds, birth, and bury them. The actual hunting teaches each human to depend on the other, but hound work teaches them one great lesson: love—of hounds and of the people who love them. Betty whipped out the heavy old Number 5 iron skillet and pulled four eggs out of the fridge. She heard footsteps upstairs.

  By the time Sister walked into the kitchen, the crackle of frying eggs had made her realize she was famished.

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Be miserable.” Betty flipped the eggs over. Sister liked them over easy. “Sit down, table’s set. All you have to do is lift your fork. Muffins will be out of the toaster in a minute.”

  Golly, thinking she was unobtrusive, sat on a chair, her head resting on the big farm table, white whiskers sweeping forward.

  “Here we go.” Betty placed the eggs in front of Sister, followed with a large mug of coffee as the toaster rang.

  “Aren’t you having any?”

  “One egg and an English muffin. Ate cereal for breakfast, but I am hungry. Golly, how about some crunchy bits?”

  “Yes, please.” Golly perked right up.

  The two dogs on the floor hoped for treats. Betty poured the grease from the frying pan over their kibble. Grease, corn oil, or bacon drippings will all put a shine on a carnivore’s coat.

  “You spoil my cat.”

  “Like you don’t?” Betty placed a dainty china bowl in the shape of a fish before the delighted cat and sat down opposite Sister.

  “What with everything going on, I forgot to tell you,” said Sister. “The Great Biddy called me yesterday morning.”

  Great Biddy was Sister’s term for her mother-in-law, still alive, still healthy, and still imperious. The two women had disliked each other from day one and had little to say now.

  “What did she want?”

  “I’m not at all sure. Usually she launches right in, but yesterday she only mentioned that Ray and RayRay’s grave sites look especially beautiful in late spring.”

  “Maybe she’s softening at last,” Betty said cheerily.

  “She’s getting damned close to one hundred. If it doesn’t happen now it never will.” Sister laughed. “She also said she’d been watching a television show; I don’t know the name; never watch TV except for sports. Well, anyway, the series has a kid on it from Richmond. So she said, ‘New York is for people who can’t make it in Richmond.’ I had to laugh.”

  Betty folded her hands together. “Are you sure you want to go to the Virginia Hound Show?”

  “Sure, why not?” Sister was surprised.

  “After what happened at the Mid-America? Aren’t you a little worried?”

  “Betty, I’m surprised at you. Mo Schneider getting his just rewards has nothing to do with hound shows.”

  Shifting in her seat, partly because Golly, claws out, reached up to pat her thigh, Betty responded, “You’re right. I’ve been watching too many Netflix lately. But Fonz was roughly treated, too. Preys on my mind.”
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  “If all you knew of America was from films and TV, you’d conclude we’re a nation of sex fiends and serial killers.” She thought a moment. “Sometimes in the same individual.”

  “Maybe Bobby and I need to take a break from watching movies.”

  “Golly, leave Betty alone.” Sister put her fork down. “I wish Hope or Dan would call. Maybe Hope’s still asleep.”

  “They’ll call.”

  “Betty’s food is better than mine,” Golly sassed.

  “She will.”

  “Forgot to tell you. I don’t know where my brains have gone. Anyway, when we were at the Mid-America Hound Show, Barry Baker was the steward.”

  “How is the good judge?” Betty found him a lively soul.

  “Handsome as ever. The news is . . . are you ready? . . . He rented a hunt box at Skidby!”

  “No!”

  “Says he’ll divide his time between Deep Run Hunt and us.”

  “I’m surprised he’s stayed a widower so long.”

  “Mmm, only two years.” Sister felt the caffeine start to kick in. “They were well matched. He won’t lack for female companionship—too handsome—but that doesn’t mean he’ll connect. Know what I mean?”

  “I do. Think of all the men we dated before we married.”

  “Honey, I think of all the men I dated after I married.”

  The two exploded, laughing.

  Betty shook her head. “You were a bad girl.”

  “What do you mean were?”

  “Oh?” Betty raised her eyebrows.

  “Nah. I’ve been virtuous. Boring, really. To change the subject, I called the Fishers. Now that they’ve moved in, I bet I can add Skidby as a fixture. Barry will work it from his end.”

  “Fab!” Betty pretended she was one of the Absolutely Fabulous actresses from British TV, her favorite show.

  “Sure is.”

  The phone rang. Sister jumped up.

  “Hello,” came a deep voice on the other end.

  “Barry Baker!”

  “I’m moving things into Skidby for a few days, and I was hoping I could take you to dinner.”

  “I’ll go you one better. Why don’t you come here, you pick the day, and I’ll cook you a meal?”

  “That’s an offer I can’t refuse. Would Thursday work? Say I get there around four and you can show me hounds? Heard you found a new horse late in the season.”

  “Yes, Matador. Word gets around fast.”

  “Good horse. I saw him run. Thursday?”

  “Thursday it is.” She hung up the phone, saying to Betty, “Speak of the devil.”

  “Ever notice how that happens? You think of someone and they call or you get a letter?”

  “Is.” Sister sat back down. “ ’Course, these days you’d get an e-mail.”

  “Felicity called me and asked if Bobby and I would come to her graduation. Sweet kid. Can’t believe her parents are being such buttheads. She also asked us to print her wedding invitations, a pitifully small number.”

  The Franklins owned a large printing company.

  “Me neither. People can be so incredibly selfish.”

  The phone rang again.

  “Bet it’s Hope with a report on Gunpowder,” Betty chirped.

  Sister picked up the phone, heard Dan’s voice, and winked at Betty while holding one thumb up. “Dan, how’s my boy.”

  “Going to be fine.” His voice sounded strangled.

  “I can barely hear you. We have a bad connection.”

  “Sister, I called to tell you that Hope was found dead this morning. Ben Sidell just left. He’s treating it as a suspicious death, but I think the verdict will be suicide.”

  “What?” Sister steadied herself with her hand on the kitchen counter.

  “She shot herself in the mouth.” Dan broke down, then pulled himself together. “You know she was despondent over the divorce but, Sister, I can’t believe it. Found her in the operating room with Gunpowder.”

  “It can’t be true, Dan. I left her after she operated on Gunpowder and she was tired; angry, too, at Paul’s last-minute holdup. But depressed, suicidal? No!”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Dan felt crushed by the weight of the event. The sight of her had been unnerving.

  “She didn’t kill herself, Dan.”

  That sentence stopped Betty in her tracks.

  “I want to believe that.” He stopped. “What a mess, Sister, what a terrible mess. I’m a vet. I’m used to blood and tissue, but still—”

  “What can I do for you? If you need help with horses, you know Shaker and I are good hands with a horse. We’ll do anything you need for as long as you need it.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Sister’s voice lowered. “Dan, steel yourself. We don’t know what will slither out of the investigation, but I know Hope did not take her own life. I don’t care how it looks.”

  Dan fought back tears. “I’ll let you know what her family decides.”

  “Would you like me to call Peggy Augustus? She and Hope were working on a big fund-raiser at Saratoga. They’d become very close.”

  Peggy Augustus bred fabulous Thoroughbreds and was well known in horse circles.

  “She was the second person I called after Hope’s parents. You’re the third. Couldn’t notify people until Ben left.” He paused. “If it is suicide, I don’t know why. I don’t understand it, but I can’t sit in judgment of another person’s life.”

  “None of us can, Dan. That’s up to God.”

  After hanging up the phone, Sister told Betty exactly what Dan had told her.

  “No. Oh, no!” Betty’s eyes filled with tears as she reached for Sister.

  The two women hugged each other.

  “Betty, there is no way in hot hell that Hope killed herself. In my bones I know she didn’t do it; she would never do it.”

  “I expect Ben made straight for Paul. He’d be my prime subject.” Betty wiped her eyes.

  Betty was right. Ben was on his way.

  “We’ve got to start the telephone tree.” Sister rubbed her temples. “The membership needs this information presented in a responsible manner. A lot of our people were her people, you know.”

  “I’ll call Peggy and tell her we’ll fill in where we can on the fund-raiser.” Betty reached for the phone.

  “While you do that, I’m going to find Shaker. Tell Peggy if she wants to change the date of the meeting or whatever, we’ll help with whatever she needs.”

  “This will hit her hard. Peggy’s the brains behind the outfit, but Hope could go out there and say all the medical stuff. God, this is awful. It’s just awful.”

  Sister gave Betty a kiss on the cheek, then hurried out to find Shaker on the back run of the kennels.

  Shocked, he pushed back his baseball cap. “Why would anyone kill Hope Rogers?”

  Sister touched his hand. “Strange. There’s a squadron of people who wanted Mo Schneider dead, but who would want to kill Hope? By God, I intend to find out!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Fifteen couple of hounds marched down the muddy farm road, water standing in the deep ruts. No matter what yesterday’s shocking news, hounds must go out. As heat came up earlier, hounds walked out earlier.

  Trinity and Tinsel, second-year hounds, enjoyed splashing.

  Giorgio had told everyone how Mo opened the trailer door and snatched him. No one wanted to hear it again, so he walked along quietly. The other Gs babbled a bit.

  Asa, an older hound, who after cubbing would be retired to lounge on the sofa this year, grumbled, “Damn kids.”

  Diana and her littermate, Dasher, laughed.

  Hounds loved their walks. As summer progressed, Sister, Shaker, and Betty might even go along on bicycles. This only worked if youngsters weren’t coupled to older hounds, since a confused youngster could drag the older hound right into the bicycle. Drawings of couple straps appear on Egyptian tombs thousands of years old. Humans learned early that yoking a younger h
ound to an older hound often shortened the learning time. The pharaohs or their minions had long ago figured this out, too. Foxhunters tend not to “improve” what works. If it was effective in 2000 b.c. or earlier, it would be effective now.

  Today no one was coupled, a reward for how quickly the young entry were coming along.

  Since everyone settled down, the humans could chat.

  “What did Gray say?” Betty asked Sister, who had called her boyfriend to give him the horrible news.

  “Shock. Dismay.”

  “Seems to be everyone’s response.”

  “One great thing is there are so many wonderful vets in the area,” Shaker said. “They’ll step in and help Dan. But that poor guy will have nightmares for a long, long time.”

  Betty wore her wellies, now muddy up to the tops. “I didn’t see it and I’ll have nightmares.”

  “You don’t suppose Hope ran afoul of one of the bigwigs, do you?” Shaker further explained his thoughts. “Her rescue work might have uncovered abuse or cheating with drugs. Big money in the Thoroughbred world can sometimes lead to big sins.”

  “Long shot. After all, she was taking horses off their hands that weren’t winning and weren’t suitable for breeding. Wouldn’t matter if an owner was rich or not so rich; she was doing everyone a favor. Hell, she’d hook up her rig and go to Charleston, Mountaineer Track, Pimlico. She’d even haul all the way up to Saratoga and back. ’Course, if she threatened to expose someone, an abuser, you might be right. As for drugs, she wasn’t on the racetracks, so it’s doubtful she had knowledge of that.” Sister’s voice rose and Dragon turned to look at her. “Sorry, Dragon, you-all are fine.”

  “Always want to be first, don’t you, boy?” Shaker liked Dragon, but his hardheaded ways tested the huntsman’s patience.

  Diana and Dasher, his littermates, good as gold, just proved the axiom that breeding is Nature’s roulette.

  “I do.” Dragon puffed out his broad chest.

  “Idiot,” Asa remarked.

  They walked toward Hangman’s Ridge, which loomed over Roughneck Farm. The ridge had earned its gloomy name in 1702 when the first criminal, Lawrence Pollard, was dispatched to the Hereafter from that very spot. There were precious few people this far west—the Wild West back then—it had been quite dangerous, so Pollard must have had it coming.