Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 2

Woodford’s brand-new kennels rested little more than a mile from the Shaker Village entrance. Starting at six in the evening, a yellow flashing light drew human contestants to the party. Tables lined the grassy area outside the kennels, a tent had been set up, and brands of famous Kentucky sipping whiskey lined the bar, as well as some single-cask specials. As Shaker had predicted, there wasn’t a Tennessee bourbon in sight.

Sister allowed herself the pleasure of a wee draft of Blanton’s Single Barrel No. 444, and what a pleasure it was. She needed to settle down. Externally she looked calm, but inside she seethed. Shaker stayed back with the hounds. There was little doubt in either of their minds that Mo had stolen Giorgio.The issue was how to find the hound and, more, how to keep their tempers in check in the meantime. Tootie, sitting next to Sister on a hay bale, watched everything with both interest and suspicion.

“He’s not here at the party,” Tootie commented.

“Mo primps more than a woman.” Sister brushed a paprika-colored ladybug off Tootie’s shoulder. “You’ll have luck since the ladybug chose you.”

Smiling, Tootie replied, “Then we’ll find Giorgio.” She paused. “Maybe Mo didn’t take him. Why would he be so obvious?”

“Arrogant. He figures he won’t get caught. He’s smart enough to hide Giorgio where we can’t find him. Tomorrow, after the show, he’ll pick him up on the way home. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Shouldn’t we tell O.J.?”

Sister shook her head. “She’s on overload. There’s nothing she can do since we can’t prove it. We all know his reputation, but that’s not proof. I’ll tell her after the show. Plus, we don’t want to tip off Mo. If we act as though nothing has happened we just might trip him up.”

“How’d you get so smart?” Tootie admired Sister even as she teased her a bit.

“Foxes. They’ve taught me a lot.”

“Like?”

“To expect the unexpected, for starters.”

“I don’t need to go to Princeton. I need to study foxes.” Tootie dreaded leaving the place and the people she had grown to love, to say nothing of the hounds.

Sister leaned her shoulder on Tootie’s. “Slip away and go over there and listen.”

Sister indicated a large group of younger people—which is to say mid-teens to mid-thirties—clustered around Hope Rogers, who had inadvertently become the center of attention when she brought up the subject of West Nile virus, which can attack both horses and humans.

Tootie walked over to join them. Judge Baker and O.J., immersed in deep conversation, stood at the entrance to the kennels.

A plume of smoke curled up behind an exquisite Maserati. Mo Schneider loved to make an entrance. The machine ensured he’d attract attention. Next to him was his kennelman, Fonz Riley. For the past two years, whenever Mo had participated in a hound show, Fonz drove the rig; Mo drove whatever his latest purchase was. He changed cars like most men change socks. However, when Sister beheld the Maserati she thought he just might hang on to this car a bit longer. She caught herself wondering what a used one would cost. She couldn’t imagine Mo putting Giorgio in the Maserati so she concluded that the hound couldn’t be too far away.

Mo cut the motor, unfolding himself from behind the wheel without turning back to look at Fonz. He zipped straight for the bar, asked for a double vodka straight up, knocked it right back, and held out his glass for a refill. The bartender, a club member, poured another double, and Mo sauntered over to the crowd around Hope.

Fonz, another man who had battled the bottle, picked up a Co-Cola out of the huge cooler and joined other kennelmen.

By now, Hope was urging the young people around her to get involved with the Thoroughbred Retirement Foundation.

Mo listened for all of two minutes, then acidly interrupted, “Some of ’em aren’t worth saving, Hope. That’s what the knacker is for.”

Knacker is an old horseman’s word for the fellow who kills horses. It has been expanded to include the man who takes the horses to the slaughterhouse.

“It’s true some are difficult, Mo, but it’s worth trying to work with them,” Hope responded, even-tempered.

“Bad horse costs as much to feed as a good horse.” He enjoyed needling the good-looking woman.

“Mo, you can afford it,” replied Carl Matacola, a member of Woodford.

Carl, at forty-one, was an associate professor at the University of Kentucky’s College of Health Science. As director of athletic training, he also had a lot of experience in rehabilitation, making him very popular with Woodford’s walking wounded.

The others laughed.

Ignoring them, Mo kept on. “Now that slaughtering horses is outlawed, what happens? People leave them to starve. I say kill them. It’s more humane.”

Those who knew Mo’s reputation smirked when he said humane.

“Only if a horse is crazy—and some are, I agree,” Hope maintained. “Otherwise, give the animal a chance. You’d be crazy too if you’d been stuffed with steroids, fed high-calorie grain, and stuck in a stall for twenty-three hours a day, only going outside to breeze a bit on the track and then be washed down.”

“Oh, attacking the industry now, are you?” Mo stood up to his full height.

Since he was skinny he looked even taller than he was.

“Yes and no. Racing has to clean up after itself, or someone else will do it for us and then everyone loses.”

“She’s right about that,” Jim Fitzgerald said, a stalwart of the Thoroughbred business, who’d walked up and heard the tail end of the discussion. “Anytime folks who aren’t horse people stick their noses into it, everyone suffers, most especially the horses. Kind of like the vegetarians a few years ago who said you could feed your cats high protein and not feed them meat.”

As a blank look covered a few faces, Hope said, “Cats are obligate carnivores; they have to eat meat, whereas hounds can live without it so long as they get the correct amount of protein—which, of course, depends on their activity level.”

Mo drained his vodka. “I didn’t come here for a lecture. When does the party start?”

Carl, handsome and well-mannered—unlike Mo—said, “We’re enjoying ourselves. If you don’t like the conversation, find another.”

Secure in his wealth and little else, Mo sneered at the shorter man, without noticing how fit Carl was.

Before he could put his scorn into words, Hope moved toward Mo. “You obviously want to fuss at me, so why don’t we go somewhere where you can? No point in spoiling other people’s evening.”

“Actually, Hope, I don’t have a goddamned thing to say to you.” Mo turned on his heel so fast that he tore up a little clump of grass and nearly knocked down Leslie Matacola, Carl’s wife. He bore down on O.J. and Barry, who viewed him with barely concealed distaste.

Carl, curious, asked, “How do you know Mo Schneider?”

Hope sighed. “Met him on the back stretch of a couple of racetracks. We didn’t hit it off—which is an understatement.”

“Pretty much the story of his life.” Jim Fitzgerald couldn’t help but laugh. “Ever notice how someone can be so smart in one department and woefully deficient in others?”

Hope laughed. “Makes me worry about myself.”

Filled with Irish charm, Jim remarked, “Doctor, I think you’re full up in every department.”

Tootie rejoined Sister. “Hope kept her cool when Mo dissed her. He’s really disgusting.”

“That he is.”

Much of being a master involves social duties. Sister was dog tired and ready to bite, although the Blanton’s had somewhat improved her spirits. Still, she just wanted to go to her room at Shaker Village and go to bed.

Some masters, usually those who hunt hounds or whip in, can’t be very social since their hound duties come first. Sister, being field master, naturally tended to the people. Now that she had a joint master, Dr. Walter Lungrun, they could share social obligations. The club was growing, and Sister had realized two years ago that she just couldn’t go it alone as master. Walter, on call, couldn’t come to this hound show, but he’d arranged his schedule so he could go to the Bryn Mawr Hound Show in Radnor, Pennsylvania, on the first Saturday in June, even though he wouldn’t be taking hounds. Walter would miss the Virginia Hound Show but Sister would be there.

Friends passed and repassed as Sister, poised on the hay bale, indulged in her favorite topic, hounds and hunting. It was everyone else’s main interest, too.

Encouraged by Sister, Tootie introduced herself to Leslie, who took her under her wing, introducing the young beauty to others. Tootie, senses alert, paid careful attention to everyone and everything in hopes of gleaning information.

Grant Fuller, florid, portly, and rich as Croesus, dropped down next to Sister. “Don’t have the stamina I used to have.”

She studied his Buddha belly and smiled. “You’re doing just fine.”

“That’s eating, not partying.” He smiled back. “How you doing?”

“Good. Yourself ?”

“Busy. I shouldn’t complain. Business is booming. Doesn’t leave much time for other pursuits. When I was young, it was wine, women, and song. Now it’s bourbon and steak.”

The crackle of bugs on the scattered bug lights sounded like tiny punctuation marks to their conversation.

“I heard you’ve opened new processing plants.”

This pleased him. “Expanded out of the Mid-America. Just opened a brand-new one in Kansas and am finishing one in southern Ohio. You know, making a great product isn’t the hard part, the hard part is distribution.”

“And?” She enjoyed learning about other people’s businesses. Her late husband had taught her to appreciate a number of interests beyond her own favorite subjects: hounds, horses, and geology.

“Making inroads. In fact, I’m working on Augusta Co-op in your neck of the woods.”

Augusta Co-op and Southern States were the two farm equipment and feed stores in Virginia, and neither one was part of a huge chain.

“Good for you.” She paused. “You’ve worked hard and you hit the market at the right time. People are spending billions on their pets.”

“Well, don’t give me too much credit. I inherited the family business, one large feed store and two grain silos.” He grinned. “Took us four generations to get that far. Yankees delayed our progress.” He winked.

She laughed. “The song of the South. But hey, you could have stayed with that one big old feed store.”

Grant puffed out his chest slightly. “Root, hog, or die.” Then he burst out laughing. “I rooted a lot. But you know, if a person is going to be successful, whether it’s Judge Baker, that pretty young vet”—he nodded in Hope’s direction—“or you, you got to keep up with the times. Once I saw the handwriting on the wall for slaughterhouses, I sold them off and concentrated on dog and cat food.”

“Most slaughterhouses comply with government rules and constant visits for inspection. However, the public perception is one of horror, so you were wise, really,” Sister said.

“People want to eat meat, but they don’t want to know how it gets to the table.” He shrugged. “Ours is a nation where people put their heads in the sand. We should replace the eagle as our national symbol with an ostrich.”

“True enough.”

He lowered his voice. “Sister, I’ll tell you something: chicken, beef, lamb, pork—all loaded. I mean, loaded with hormones. Like I said, I backed out of all that in the mid-nineties.”

“But don’t you still have to deal with the slaughterhouses?”

A thin sheen of sweat shone on his cheeks and forehead in the humid air, despite the coolness of evening coming on. “Might surprise you to know that, yes, I do use chicken byproducts and beef, but the real source of protein is chicken feathers.”

“What?”

“We pick them up from the slaughterhouses by the trailer truckload, grind them, and pulp them. Boy, will that put a shine on a hound’s coat. I’ll toss a couple of bags in your trailer tomorrow. You pull out a hound that needs special care, someone a little light, and just see what happens in two weeks’ time.”

“Why, thank you, Grant. I’d be happy to try. What’s the protein content?”

“I create three levels, based on activity, obviously. Let me give you three bags of the twenty-eight percent and three of the twenty-one. You just try it.” He paused dramatically. “And I’ll make you a promise. If you like the high-tech Hunter’s Friend—the name was my wife’s idea—I’ll sell it to you for less per ton than anyone you do business with, even if I don’t get the distribution deal with Augusta Co-op.”

“That’s very generous.”

He put his hands behind him on the straw bale to lean back a little. “Not so generous. You’re the queen of foxhunting. If you like my product—well, others will, too.”

“You flatter me.”

He shook his head. “No. Anyway, we’re both Dixie brats. You’ve never made a fuss about your status, which is just as it should be. You know what my momma used to say?”

“I’m waiting.”

“People who brag have to.”

She let out a peal of laughter. “Hits the nail on the head.”

“Take Mo Schneider. Can’t believe they haven’t run that braggart windbag out of Arkansas. If there’s a state that should recognize hot air, it’s that one.” He enjoyed her company but knew he had to make the rounds. “Hate to leave you, but I need to do the shake-and-howdy.”

Three loud blasts on the horn, notes signaling Come to me, sounded.

As Grant left, Sister wondered if Giorgio had heard Shaker blowing those notes when the hounds picked up scent. Sensitive, young, the beautiful boy would be so upset by not being able to reach Shaker. She wanted to cry because she knew how confused Giorgio must be. She prayed he wasn’t chained. Chaining a dog infuriated her.

The horn-blowing contest, now starting, delighted everyone as the huntsmen, directed by the judges, began to perform various hound calls.

Sister noticed Mo, horn in his back pocket, back at the bar for another vodka. He ambled toward the lineup of men holding their horns; no lady huntsman was there to compete, although there are many these days.

Then Fonz brushed by his boss, jostled by another fellow, and Mo threw his vodka in Fonz’s weather-beaten face.

Startled, Fonz stepped backward. Sister watched as the short, lean man carefully wiped the vodka off his face without tasting any of it. She thought it a cruel thing for Mo Schneider to do, throwing liquor at an ex-drunk, but she expected no better from him.

Later, that image of Fonz trying not to lick his lips would come back to her.