Homeward Hound

CHAPTER 33

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

Sister wrote down what Gray had just said, then she came back with, “Sticky fingers.”

“I thought you wanted hand phrases.”

Pencil poised over the grid-lined paper, she replied, “I do, but fingers, palms, anything or any part of the hand.”

Golly, lying on her side on the kitchen counter, said, “Paws for effect.”

Rooster, at Sister’s feet, corrected her. “Human stuff, not paws.”

“Just a thought. You and Rooster roam all over. You go up to Hangman’s Ridge sometimes.” The cat reminded them of their travels.

“Not often and usually with Sister if she’s riding up there. I hate it.” Raleigh grimaced.

“I do, too. It’s creepy. You can hear the dead whisper. Athena and Bitsy”—he named the two owls, one huge and the other tiny—“say they can see the dead.”

“Bitsy is given to idle gossip and drama.” The long-haired cat now sat up. “But you can hear the dead and sometimes you can catch a fleeting glimpse, movement.”

Thoughtfully, Raleigh added to that. “I think some humans can see and hear, too. They say they’ve seen a ghost and the others pooh-pooh them but for some the ability hasn’t vanished.”

“If you’d run up there, you would have found him,” Golly posited. “With your great noses, the hounds’ noses, I’d think someone would have known.”

“But that’s just it, Golly. Hounds didn’t know he was up there until they came onto the ridge. They told me as they got closer they could smell the wool in his coat but not him. He was preserved,” Rooster related.

“Why would someone hang up a dead human, preserve him? Wouldn’t it make better sense to just dump the body in one of those deep ravines in the mountains or throw the body on I-64 in the middle of the night? That would create a fuss. This seems like a lot of work to me.”

“He was mutilated. Hands cut off,” Raleigh said.

“I remember when hounds found one in the woods and then Sister told Gray about his aunt and Yvonne finding one. Is that why they’re thinking of hand stuff? Seems funny. I mean phrases.”

“Is,” Rooster affirmed.

“Sister thinks there’s symbolism,” Raleigh told her.

“Hand to mouth.” Gray thought of another one.

“Red-handed.”

“That’s a good one.” He watched her write in her elegant style. “How about a winning hand?”

“See, once you start, things pop into your head.” She then said, “All hands on deck.”

“An iron fist.”

“Oh, that’s another good one. Um-m, beat you hands down.”

“Bite the hand that feeds you. Maybe he betrayed someone.”

“Can’t see the hand in front of your face. Well, you certainly couldn’t during that storm. Oh, cash in hand.”

He smiled. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

A knock on the mudroom door, followed by a knock on the door to the kitchen. “Master.”

“Come in.” She glanced up from her notebook to see Weevil, dish towel around a large plate. Behind him walked Tootie carrying a bowl, also covered.

“Bangers and mash.”

“Weevil! You did cook me bangers and mash. Well, let’s eat it.”

Sister and Gray hastily set the table; the four sat down.

“I didn’t make anything last night because the breakfast was so much food. You settled everyone’s nerves. You’re a good speaker.” Weevil complimented her.

“Didn’t used to be. Becoming a Master forced me to learn lots of new skills. Maybe the most important one is keeping my mouth shut.” She looked at the empty glasses. “Milk, beer, wine, water, tonic water, and, Gray, have I forgotten something?”

“Already at the refrigerator door.” Gray teased her. “Nectar and ambrosia.” He returned with two bottles of beer, two tonic waters for the ladies, with limes and a cutting board.

Tootie filled the glasses with ice while Weevil cut their limes. “Are you making notes?” She saw the leather-bound notebook.

“We are and we’ll ask you for ideas. Here’s what we’re doing. Coming up with hand phrases.” She read what they’d already thought about.

“Carry fire in one hand and water in the other,” Weevil said.

“I’ve never heard of that.” Tootie was trying to think of something.

“My mother says that. How about, a dab hand?”

“Don’t hear that much anymore, but it means you’re good at something. Handy.” Sister grinned.

“Did I say beat you hands down?” Gray took another sip of ice cold beer.

“Yes. Another good one. Hand-me-down,” Sister said.

Tootie finally came up with something. “Fall into the wrong hands. Oh, got another one. Wringing hands.”

“Keep talking.” Sister encouraged them.

“One hand tied behind your back.” Weevil speared a sausage.

“Whip hand. That should have been the first one we thought of,” Gray said.

“Grease your palm.” Weevil was liking this.

“Um-m-m, upper hand.” Tootie then added, “Hand in the cookie jar. That’s one of my mom’s whenever she reads about politicians.”

“And they’re supposed to have their hand on the tiller.” Weevil was quick.

“Hand in glove.” Gray came right back. “Speaking of politicians made me think of that one.”

“Hand in hand,” Sister wrote.

“Blood on your hands,” Gray added.

Tootie had another one. “And finger in the pie.”

“Good one.” Sister wrote, then looked up at them. “Play the hand you’re given.”

“Getting harder.” Weevil finished off his mashed potatoes. “Get a handle on it. Not exactly hand.”

“No, but it counts.” Sister wrote. “The Devil finds work for idle hands.”

Gray leaned back. “From my cold dead hands.”

“Honey, that’s too close for comfort”—she sighed—“not that any of this is comfortable.”

“Heavy-handed,” Weevil piped up.

“Well, yes. Gray’s had to put up with me but I now think so much of what has happened has some symbolism. If we can figure out the symbolism, we might be closer to the killer.”

“That’s just it, honey, we are close to the killer.” Gray was solemn. “That’s why Weevil is here. That’s why Sam is staying with the Van Dorns, which he did once the first hand was found.” He looked at Tootie. “We don’t want your mother alone and we all knew she might not want him in her house. This is the next best thing.”

“Is Mom in danger?”

“We don’t know, but the first hand was found out there in Chapel Cross. That’s where Gregory disappeared and that’s where Rory was found.”

“I still can’t believe his mother didn’t come to his service.” Tootie squeezed her lime into the bubbling tonic water.

“Tootie, you’ve never really seen poor whites until you’ve lived in the South. Many are good, but when they go bad, they’re in a class by themselves,” Gray warned her.

“Don’t you think that’s everywhere? The ignorant and the brutal?” Sister scribbled. “And that’s what worries me. Our killer is neither ignorant nor poor. He may be brutal. I don’t know. One can kill but not be brutal. But this person is intelligent and, in his way, sending the rest of us messages.”

“We’re not in safe hands,” Tootie responded.

That same Sunday evening, Ben Sidell, computer in front of him, was on the phone with the Goochland County sheriff.

“The medical examiner said she’d get on it tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

The sheriff replied, “Liz has asked me to tell her the minute the exam is done. She’ll have John Noon Western’s funeral home retrieve the body. She wants an Episcopalian funeral. She said she wants him back and she wants his hands.”

“Actually, the hands are already there.” Ben checked on the dates on his computer screen.

“Damned mess, isn’t it?” The Goochland sheriff commiserated. “By the way, she asked for Gregory’s ring. She said he wore a ring on the little finger of his left hand. Saint Hubert, I don’t know Saint Hubert but I’m a Methodist.”

“No ring was found. Saint Hubert is the patron saint of hunters. I’ll double-check around here but I’m certain no ring was on that hand, what was left of it, and the white cotton glove.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks.”