Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 30

“You could text her,” Tootie suggested. It was now Monday.

“Then I wouldn’t hear her voice. If I hear her voice, I know she’s in a good place—or not. People’s voices are like hound voices; they tell you a lot.”

Tootie closed the gate to the feed room as she and Sister left for the stables. “I never thought of that.”

Sister smiled at her. “Of course not. You’re twenty-one. Or is it twenty-two?”

Tootie teased back. “I’m going to take a lesson from you and Betty. A woman who will tell me her age will tell anything.”

That made the older woman laugh. “I never said that.”

“No, she did—but you agreed.” Tootie teased some more.

“There may be some truth to it. I’ve wondered for years how many years Aunt Daniella has shaved off her age.”

“She’s ninety-four, five?” Tootie was shocked.

“Actually, I suspect she’s closer to ninety-six or maybe even ninety-seven. But we all dutifully repeat that she’s ninety-four.”

“How can it matter?”

“Oh, honey, look at all those women whose hair is dyed change-of-life red. Naturally, out of kindness, I will not mention any lady in our hunt club.”

Now Tootie’s curiosity took over. “Do they really think we don’t know?”

“Some do, but I think for most of us we only know what we looked like when we were young. We can’t bear to look at this somewhat different face. Which brings me to face-lifts. You can always tell.”

“I can’t. I mean if they’ve just had it done and their face and eyes aren’t quite settled, I can. You know, Sister, it’s major surgery. I mean, it’s dangerous.”

“I do know. And any surgery can be dangerous. One never knows. I have seen some fabulous face-lifts. Like you said, the face has to settle and then it can look terrific for a couple of years.”

Hearing that tone in Sister’s voice, Tootie asked, “What next?”

“Well, gravity always wins. So sooner or later your face will fall a bit, and the wrinkles, if you’ve had your face lifted, never quite fall in the right place.”

“Oh.” Tootie happily walked to the closest pasture, leaned over a fence, and whistled.

Ears pricked up. Iota, Rickyroo, and Matador thundered up.

“Sweet crimped oats. I have a taste for them.” Iota gave her his softest most loving look.

Matador, a gentleman, waited as the gate opened. Sister put his halter on with his very own nameplate. Tootie did the same for Iota. Then they pushed the gate back open to walk to the barn.

Rickyroo, the oldest, followed along. He didn’t need a halter or lead rope. He stuck right with his beloved Sister.

“Crimped oats. You are spoiled,” Matador called to Iota as Tootie put him inside his stall to eat quietly at his feed bucket. Otherwise, each horse would bump another horse to eat out of that bucket. You had to make sure no one was getting better food than yourself.

Rickyroo walked into his stall, bucket filled. You could hear him eating, knocking his bucket a bit against the heavy stall side.

Raleigh and Rooster slept in the tack room. They’d walked hounds with the humans, listened to endless hound gossip, then worn themselves out when Rooster stole Sister’s old ball cap. This ball cap could have been a museum exhibit. Raleigh did finally drop it in the tack room. Sister picked it up, wiped it off, slapped it on her silver hair.

In the rafters, Bitsy peered down. Oats, bran, even cracked corn proved no temptation. She wanted the ham from a ham sandwich, or any kind of meat. It was too early in the day for sandwiches. She paid close attention to when and where the humans ate. When they went inside the house her disappointment engulfed her for all of two minutes. It did mean, though, she would need to hunt.

Opening her little wings she glided down to sit on top of the wrought-iron railing between Rickyroo’s stall and Aztec’s stall.

“How can you eat that stuff?”

Rickyroo, who liked the little gossip, replied, “It’s so sweet. Now I like my hay, don’t get me wrong, but there is something special about sweet feed in a bucket.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Isn’t this the best time? October, early November, and then mid-April and May. Just the best,” Bitsy babbled.

“I like it because even though our schedule changes, when the weather is so good we’re out most of the time. But spring means the end of hunt season. Makes me sad,” Rickyroo stated, then changed the subject since he knew Bitsy redefined nosiness. “Do you know who this young fellow is who comes around at night?”

“The broad-shouldered blond fellow?” She lifted up her wings, then folded them down again. “Don’t. He parks an old work truck off the road in that little place in the woods where Sister has a feed box. Then he walks down here. He looks at everything, especially the cottage, then he walks back. Doesn’t disturb the hounds.”

“He brings carrots, feeds us over the fence.” Rickyroo told her what she already knew, since Bitsy watched everything. “He likes horses. I like him.”

“He knows where things are. He usually has a folded map in his back pocket. I can fly close but he can’t hear me. He doesn’t take anything. He just looks.”

After the horses ate, Sister and Tootie turned them out again. They then headed for the kennels.

“You forgot to make your call,” Tootie reminded her.

“I’ll do it later. I want to pull out a few hounds, have a critical look. It’s not too early to start thinking about hound shows.”

“Giorgio,” Tootie said.

“He is gorgeous. I want to look at Aero and Aces.”

Once in the kennels, Sister asked Shaker to bring out the two littermates, as well as Asa, the grandfather.

He stood by Aero; she had a beautiful head.

“Well, she’s still a little weedy,” Sister remarked. “I don’t know if she’ll fill out in time for the shows.” Then she looked at Aces. “On the other hand, he’s right there, isn’t he?”

“A good-looking hound.” Shaker stood Asa next to him for comparison.

When younger, Asa had won a few shows.

Sister studied them, then stopped. “I am so stupid. I can’t believe how stupid I am!”

She rarely raised her voice so both Tootie and Shaker stared at her.

Aero, young, said, “Would a Milk-Bone make her feel better?”

Asa replied, “She’s usually so calm. Maybe a wee drop of Scotch would help.”

Sister looked at the wonderful hounds, then at Shaker and Tootie. “My God, it’s right in front of my face and it took me this long to see it.”

“What?” Shaker had no idea what she was talking about, nor did Tootie.

“Look at Asa. Look at his grandchildren, especially Aces. Like as spit.”

“That’s why we’re considering them for the shows. A lot of times, qualities skip a generation,” he said.

“Weevil.”

“What?” Tootie was now very interested.

“Weevil. He’s not a ghost. I am willing to bet you just anything, Weevil is Weevil’s grandson. Skipped a generation.”

“Then what the hell is he doing here being a ghost?” Shaker handed each hound a cookie.

“I have no idea. Not one. I am getting in the car and driving to Aunt Daniella. If anyone would have an idea, she would.”

—

Calling first, Sister appeared at the formidable lady’s door within twenty minutes.

Hearing her theory, Aunt Daniella, in her wing chair, nodded. “Could be so.”

“But Aunt Daniella, why? You knew Weevil. Do you know how he died?”

“No. When Weevil walked with me that sunset day, he unnerved me, as he truly looks, sounds, even moves like Weevil. But even though I believe there are spirits, people can conjure them down, but then can you conjure them back? He seemed so alive—and he is. I believe you’re right.”

“Then he must know something about how his grandfather disappeared.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he just has an idea and he thinks he can scare it out of people.”

“But Aunt Daniella, wouldn’t the guilty parties be dead?”

“Sister, perhaps there is more. He needs proof, and being a ghost is a good way to weasel it out of people. Why now, who knows?”

“All we do know is that he’s spoken to you and Tom Tipton.”

“True. But he may have showed himself to other people who fear talking, and he may be relying on Tom and me to talk. I just don’t know.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

Aunt Daniella immediately responded, “Not to us.”

“I see.” Sister folded her hands together thinking. “Time. I need time to figure this out.”

“Honey, in time, even an egg can walk.”