Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 15

“Sara, let’s walk him to the trailers. We can sit in the cab of your car. Too many people.” Sister inclined her head toward the stable.

Once in Sara’s roomy vehicle, Tom loudly declaimed, “I am not crazy. I saw a dead man.”

“Dead man walking.” Sara repeated the common phrase.

Sister, voice quiet, reassured the shaken man. “We don’t think you are crazy. Here.”

Pulling out her cellphone from the inside of her tweed jacket, she played the video.

“God” was all he could say.

Sister explained how she and Marion found the video. “We don’t know what to make of it.”

“You feel okay?” Sara then added, “I can go fetch you a drink.”

“No. Sober. I need to stay sober.” He folded his hands, age spots on them, in his lap. “He looks exactly as I remember him. His voice, maybe a little scratchier, but same height, build, hair, eyes, and cocky as always.”

“What did he talk about?” Sister inquired.

“Old times. He wanted to know who was still alive.”

“What did you say?” Sister gently pressed.

“All gone except for Daniella Laprade. He knew he’d been accused of stealing Margaret’s jewelry. He said he didn’t.”

Sister’s shoulders squared. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

Tom explained, “Alfred and Binky, young men then, asked me if I knew anything. They pledged me to silence so as not to embarrass their mother. I think they knew.”

“Did you see where he went?” Sara took up the questioning.

“No. I was so scared I was holding on to that column. After I saw him go behind the hay barns I shut my eyes. I couldn’t walk. Could barely stand up.”

“Any of us would have been frightened.” Sister put her hand over his folded ones. “Did you notice what he wore?”

“Yeah, I did, kinda. He wore ratcatcher. No dust on him though.”

Sister blinked, thought again. “Did he smell of horse?”

“No. At least I didn’t smell that. My sniffer is still good. He gave off a bit of scent, same scent I remember.” He smiled a little.

“When you and Sara followed the hunt you had the windows down?”

“Sure.” He looked at Sister.

“And when Shaker and Skiff blew ‘Going Home,’ did you hear anything?”

“An echo.” He swallowed. “It wasn’t an echo. Now I know that Weevil blew his cowhorn.”

“Tom, this is an odd question, but—considering the circumstances—can you think why he has come back? Why he took his cowhorn out of the case?”

“He guarded that cowhorn. Loved it. Wouldn’t let any of us blow it or touch it. Carved the hunt scene on it. Beautiful tone. Some huntsmen are techy about their horns.”

“That they are.” Sara started to recount just such a tale, then stopped, realizing Sister was super-focused.

Sister repeated herself. “Can you think why Weevil would come back?”

“I—Revenge? Curiosity? To see who was left?”

“So you believe he was killed? He didn’t run to Paris or who knows?” Sister prodded.

“Hell, yes, I believe he was killed. If he had run away, even across the ocean, we’d eventually know. Man couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.” Then, realizing what he had said, he begged forgiveness. “Excuse me. I don’t know what came over me.”

Sara laughed. “Tom, so few men act like gentlemen around ladies these days, we are not offended.”

“We are charmed.” Sister grinned at her.

“You know, that was the thing about Weevil. Came from a poor family in The Plains. Started as a third whipper-in to Dickie Bywaters, the great huntsman. Made second whipper-in within a year. The boy was talented and he had good manners. But everyone did then. Didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, black or white, man or woman, you had manners.”

“True.” Sister nodded.

“In those years I whipped-in to Weevil, I never heard him make an improper comment to a woman or give her the once-over look that some men would do. They kept their mouths shut, but their eyes were rude.”

“Yeah, we know.” Sara made a face.

“He was polite, proper, and just had a way about him. He could charm anybody, even the men whose wives he had, uh, really charmed.”

“I expect one of those husbands proved immune,” Sara said.

“That’s what people thought at the time,” Tom replied.

“What do you think? You knew him well. Whippers-in know their huntsmen inside and out. What do you think?” Sister’s alto voice soothed even as she pressed some more.

Tom remained silent for some minutes, then with an inspiring breath, he said, “I was shocked. Worried. I liked him. Sure, he fooled around, but there was no meanness in him. He taught me so much about hounds and hunting. To be taught by a man who served under Dickie Bywaters was worth something.”

“Indeed.” Sister and Sara agreed.

“When I felt in my heart that he was really dead, I reviewed why he was murdered. I believe he was murdered. A jealous husband? An infuriated lover? A fearful father? There were candidates. Somehow I couldn’t land on any of them. Couldn’t put a man with the murder. Couldn’t put a woman either. Sex might have been part of the reaction but, girls,”—he called them girls, as they were to him—“there was something more. I felt it then. I feel it now. I felt no hate from Weevil when I saw him. He was the same happy-go-lucky Weevil.” A deep breath shook him. “Except he was dead.”