Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 10

“Possibly a jolt of terrible pain. He didn’t know what hit him.” Ben looked at the plume from his cup of hot chocolate.

“Poor Rory.” Betty shook her head.

Ben stopped by after calling on Gray and Sam. Sister asked, for he called first to see if she was home, if Betty could be there since she had known Rory since his childhood. She might have an idea, an insight.

Golly wedged herself next to the Doberman, wedged next to Sister’s leg. She remained quiet, not being ugly or taunting the dogs. She knew they were distressed. She really loved these two dumb dogs. She just didn’t want them to know it, that’s all.

“So whoever killed him was strong?” Sister dropped her hand onto Raleigh’s head.

“Strong enough. He’d been struck with a blunt object. Once the body is thoroughly examined we’ll know, but his was not a natural death.”

“How long?” Sister asked.

“Winters are not as busy as warm months. Ten days I think at the most. The media will keep attention on this for a bit also because Luckham is still missing. Potential serial killer, that sort of thing. As the media is not responsible to citizens, they can conjure up anything. Aliens.”

Betty returned to the last moments of Rory’s life. “Really? You think one terrible moment of pain followed by death?”

“Yes.” He reassured her.

“Pain is one thing. Terror another,” Sister interjected.

“The second issue is was he drunk?” Betty said what they all thought.

“If he were blind drunk, then maybe he would have simply fallen into the ditch. I’m not saying he couldn’t have been drunk, but his death was a deliberate act. I asked Sam and Gray, now you two. Did you ever think Rory could have been involved in something illegal?”

“Rory?” Sister’s eyebrows arched upward. “Like what?”

“Well, as an alcoholic, a former alcoholic—”

Betty interrupted Ben. “They all tell you they are alcoholic, even if they’ve been sober for thirty years.”

“They do, don’t they?” He nodded. “Well, as an alcoholic, who would know better where thirst is? I refer to our profitable stills in the county. If there’s one thing Virginians can do, it’s make astonishing white lightning. Load up trucks and carry it north of the Mason-Dixon Line. No taxes. Paid in cash. Quite a business.”

“All that beautiful water cascading down the Blue Ridge Mountains. Nothing like it,” Sister said.

“So you have sampled same?” He half smiled at her.

“Of course not.” She smiled back. “Okay, what else?”

“Drugs, prostitution, child pornography.”

“Never.” Betty defended Rory. “Never. Never. Never.”

“Horse stealing. It still goes on. Maybe doesn’t make as much money as during the last century, but it still does go on, as do theft, breaking and entering. Silver is easy to sell.”

“If he was making money in an illegal fashion, wouldn’t we have seen some improvement in his circumstances? That old car of his was held together with duct tape.” Sister stated the obvious.

“We’ll investigate his bank account. The usual stuff. But you’re right. One would think there would be some improvement. He lived in the little apartment over Crawford’s stable. Sam wasn’t worried about him. His car was gone and Monday is his day off. He thought maybe Rory took time after Christmas Hunt, sort of a long weekend thing. He lived simply.” Ben paused. “Yes, we’ve been through the apartment. No TV. No computer. A few books. A twin bed and a wardrobe with a couple of shirts and a decent raincoat, Barbour, a gift from Crawford to whom we’ve also spoken. He had four sweatshirts, two sweaters, one nice. A pair of work boots and two pairs of worn cowboy boots. The refrigerator contained milk, eggs, a small steak. The cupboard had two boxes of cereal and one can of McCann’s Irish oatmeal. Again, not much. No mail, no bills, no credit cards. Rory was truly off the grid. Oh, he owned a razor, shaving cream, a bar of oatmeal soap, a jar of shampoo, and a small bottle of cologne.”

“Beloved,” Sister said.

“How did you know?”

“Gray gave it to him for Christmas. It’s expensive. Gray wanted him to have something nice and since he didn’t know the true cost of the cologne, he readily accepted it. He would have been embarrassed to own a bottle like that, near to four hundred dollars I think.”

“No kidding?” Betty was aghast.

Sister smiled. “Gray, mostly prudent, has his ways. He tells me our lives as foxhunters revolve around scent so he will give off the best scent. You should see his bathroom. He has even more cologne at Old Lorillard.”

“Sweet of him to think of Rory.” Betty then turned to Ben. “Rory’s mother is still alive. Steel yourself. She’s awful.”

“She is. I sent Jackie out to visit her. Women can be better at these things. She came back and said his mother asked nothing about him. She only wanted to know, or rather she wanted the county to know, she didn’t have the money to bury him. And Jackie also said she’d never seen a wastebasket so overflowing with bottles.”

“Rory had a hard life. He made something of himself. It took Sam’s help and most people would only see a day laborer, a poor white man. I saw a success. His murder makes no sense.” Sister finished her hot chocolate, needing a pick-me-up.

“If he were involved in something illegal, it might make sense. He was killed to shut him up or so someone else would reap all the profits.”

“That might also apply if he found out about someone else. Rory wouldn’t tolerate something criminal. Illegal liquor, yes, but that’s a way of life here. No one thinks of it as criminal except the feds.”

“Yes.” Ben waited a beat, then agreed.

Betty added, “What if he came upon someone committing a crime?”

“Anything is possible.” Ben twirled his cup in his hands. “I don’t feel good about this. Sorry that sounds odd. No one feels good about a murder, but usually we have at least one obvious suspect, other persons of interest. Not always but usually. We have nothing. Nothing but snow.” He paused. “Crawford told us Rory had been at the Carriage House with him checking on lumber. The storm came up and Rory asked to be dropped at Tattenhall Station. He said he didn’t want Sam to drive alone hauling Trocadero in that storm. I spoke to Sam, who said he never saw Rory. Knew nothing about it. All we know is he did make it to Tattenhall Station.”

Betty, thinking out loud, asked, “Could this be related to Luckham’s disappearance?”

Sister interjected. “Rory didn’t know Gregory Luckham. How could he be involved?”

“Maybe he wasn’t involved, you know, part of what surely has to be a crime. But what if he saw something?”

Sister considered this. “Anything is possible, although I don’t know how he could see something when none of us could see.”

Ben, carefully choosing his words, said, “Betty, we are not ruling out some connection to Gregory Luckham. Sister is correct in that everyone we have spoken to so far feels certain that Rory and Gregory didn’t know each other. And all recognize either the coincidence or noncoincidence of one man missing and another found dead near where Gregory was last seen. Granted it’s about four miles from the Corinthian columns to Chapel Cross, but Rory was with Crawford at Old Paradise. He may have been closer to the event, for lack of a better word, than we know.”

After Ben left, the two washed cups at the sink.

“I’ll forever see him. The shock of seeing his face appear under the snow,” Sister said.

“I wish there was something I could do.” Betty’s voice sounded hopeless.

“There is.” Sister’s voice was firm. “We can find his killer.”