Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 3

Two rectangular rings set off with roped cordons marked the areas where the foxhounds, beagles, and bassets would be judged. Woodford had considered three rings but decided that if they ran the show like clockwork they could keep it intimate.

Quite a few fabulous hunts had driven to Harrodsburg, Kentucky, to be part of the show: Keswick, Longreen, and Beechgrove from Tennessee; Mooreland from Alabama; Midland from outside Columbus, Georgia; Why Worry Hounds from South Carolina; London Hunt from Ontario, Canada; Iroquois from nearby Lexington; Mission Valley and Coal Valley, both from Kansas; and Rosetree from York, Pennsylvania, all brought hounds.

O.J. checked her program, then her watch. One of her joint masters, Robbie Lyons, had been rushed to the hospital a scant two weeks ago for heart surgery, so he could only look on; the other master, Sam Adams, was working twice as hard to cover for him. As Woodford Hounds, founded in 1981, abounded with hardworking helpful people, the two healthy masters pulled it off—up to the start of the show, at least.

They’d wisely put the rings under the old trees. Across the narrow farm road on the house side they’d thrown up a large tent where food would be served later. The layout utilized the best features of the site and kept the action close together. Occasionally at hound shows the different rings are set so far apart that a spectator will have to huff and puff, running to catch the action.

Masters, huntsmen, and onlookers eagerly awaited the start of the first class: Single Dog Unentered (dog hound means a male hound). Part of the excitement involved the judges. Chris Ryan, MFH, huntsman of the famous Scarteen pack in Ireland, had been flown over. He would be scrutinizing the English and Crossbred hounds. Tommy Lee Jones, huntsman of Casanova Hunt, the idol of many a young and not-so-young huntsman, would judge the American and Penn-Marydel hounds. Stanley D. Petter, Jr., would judge beagles and bassets. His grasp of conformation was so refined he was often consulted by devotees of the sport.

Woodford Hounds certainly assembled extraordinary judges, which naturally brought in the top competitors. People want their hounds to be seen by the best eyes. Just watching how a class is pinned is instructive. No one likes to be dismissed early from a class, but if one can take it in stride, there’s much to gain from the experience.

Hope stopped by the trailer. “Good luck, you-all. I’ve got to head back, but give me a full report when you get home.”

Sister thanked her, wishing her a safe trip. From Shaker Village to Hope’s clinic was a seven-and-a-half-hour drive.

Sister handed Grady, an unentered dog hound, Giorgio’s littermate,to Tootie. He had his mother’s gorgeous head and powerful shoulders. His front legs from the knee downward turned in slightly, a conformation flaw. Small though it was, in this type of competition it would probably keep him from the ribbons. This fall would be his first season, and Sister, Shaker, and their whippers-in had high hopes for theG litter. Hounds are typically named according to the first letter of their mother’s name. Giorgio was out of a gyp named Greta, drafted from Middleburg, and she’d been bred to Dasher, a solid hound full of good old Virginia blood, which is to say, Bywaters. The other great Virginia bloodline, Skinker, filled the kennels of Orange County Hunt, Casanova, and others.

Many of the spectators knew at least a bit of this, but their main focus was on the present crop of hounds and judges. The ladies particularly liked watching the judges. Tommy Lee Jones, silver-haired, kind, and good-natured, could turn a girl’s head. Chris Ryan, wiry, rugged, bursting with energy and with that charm only the Irish possess, also dazzled. Stanley Petter, turnout crisp, treated ladies with respect, so he, too, was always in demand. In fact, some women never got around to looking at the hounds.

Each ring had a steward, a person responsible for unfastening the cordon so hounds and handlers could enter and exit. The steward, ascertaining the judges’ results, would deliver them to the official ringside if that was necessary. A good steward is critical to a well-run hound show, for if a problem does occur in the ring—say, a dogfight—it is the steward’s responsibility to attend to it, not the judges. As a judge, Barry Baker had the quiet authority and experience necessary for a good steward. Today he would need it.

Tootie, in a white kennel coat starched to perfection, a black hunt cap, ribbons up since she wasn’t staff, made both Sister and Shaker grin. Apart from appreciating proper turnout, they both loved getting young people involved with hounds.

O.J., joining Sister Jane, remarked, “I’m so glad to see you’re letting a junior handle the hound.”

“She could go in the junior class but she’s good, O.J., and I don’t see any reason for her not to go up against the adults. We know”—Sister Jane nodded toward Shaker on her other side—“that Grady toes in. He’s not going to get pinned. You find that toe-in a lot with the old Bywaters blood.”

“It was the fashion in the late forties and fifties,” O.J. commented. “ ’Course we weren’t on the ground there,” she joked.

“They thought it would give the hound better purchase; I doubt if they were right,” Sister replied. “Maybe you weren’t on the ground then, but you know I was. Glad of it, too. More country people. People in general were more realistic.”

Keswick Hunt had three hounds in the class, shown by the huntsman, Tony Gammell, and his wife, Whitney. Claudia Lynn, wife of Andy Lynn, one of the Keswick masters, showed the third hound. Charlotte Tieken, the other Keswick master, was chained to her desk, working. No show for her this time.

Far from being pushy or crassly competitive, all three Keswick people beamed at Tootie when she came into the ring. “You look the very part,” Tony said, his lovely Irish lilt lightening Tootie’s stride.

Longreen Foxhounds near Germantown, Tennessee, the other hunt with hounds in the ring, were also cordial to Jefferson Hunt, though the camaraderie didn’t come close to Jefferson’s relationship with Keswick, another Tennessee hunt. Everyone liked seeing a young person in the ring.

Tommy Lee asked them to walk around, then reverse. He studied each hound. Chris Ryan, the Irish judge, though not judging the American hounds, keenly watched the proceedings, as did the two hundred spectators.

Tootie lost her nervousness, partly because Grady, ham that he was, loved being the center of attention. Sister was right. Grady received no ribbon because of his toeing in. While not pronounced, it was at variance with the clean, straight limbs of Keswick Kiely, who took first, followed by his littermate, Kaiser, who snagged the red ribbon.

Tommy Jones placed his hand on Tootie’s shoulder as she waited to go out of the ring. “You’re doing a good job, and that’s a lovely hound. Just toes in a tad.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” She smiled broadly because she hadn’t thought so august a huntsman would even notice her.

Of course he would. He didn’t think he was august, which was part of his appeal.

The morning turned sultry. Still, the classes ran like clockwork. People shifted between the foxhound ring and the beagle and basset ring, depending on who was showing and being shown.

Too tie and Shaker showed hounds in the couples classes, which Tootie loved. Couples classes almost always had hounds who were closely matched littermates. Watching the pairs move together on and off lead was a special treat.

Sister went in the ring for Class 5, showing Dragon and Dasher, racy tricolor American hounds. The boys were on. They snared a second, which pleased both hounds and humans.

Mo Schneider hadn’t received one ribbon for his hounds. He showed them with his whipper-in, Fonz Riley. The two men wore kennel coats and derbies, the proper headgear for showing English hounds. Mo had English, Crossbred, American, and Penn-Marydel, thinking to cover all the bases. Didn’t work. Fonz handled the hounds much better than the master, but Mo’s ego was in a gaseous state, ever expanding. The humidity and the lack of ribbons began to tell on him. Judge Baker, wearing a tan sport coat and tie in the ring as steward, clearly felt the humidity, as did everyone else. Those starched kennel coats felt like sweat suits. That’s hound shows. No point in bitching and moaning.

The lunch break arrived in the nick of time. Ice-cold drinks helped restore bodies and spirits. Mary Pierson, a Woodford member, guided folks toward the tent. The food, perfect for a now-sweltering day, also helped.

Grant Fuller, already tired from walking back and forth from trailer to ring, headed toward the drinks.

Mo Schneider pushed his way toward O.J. to sit next to her. Given that he wasn’t invited, she bore him with good grace. O.J.’s table had been organized before with the idea of giving the judges a respite.

Sister Jane just winked at O.J. when Mo took her place. She repaired to the next table to sit with Shaker and Tootie where the diminutive Woodford member Louise Kelly, black-eyed, black-haired, entertained everyone with her stories.

“You don’t know one end of a hound from another.” Mo’s voice rose as he berated Chris Ryan.

Face reddening, Chris simply replied, “There’s always another day for your hound.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Mo screeched, now pointing his finger at Tommy Lee. “It’s the old boys’ club. Always is.”

O.J. spoke sternly. “Mo, this has been a wonderful show, and more is to come. Don’t spoil it.”

“You shut up. You’re part of the old boys’ club, too.”

This frosted Sister Jane, who had ample reason to loathe Mo. She stood up. “Mo, you quite forget yourself.”

His retort was, “I’d rather forget you.”

She doubled her fist, moving toward him. Shaker knocked over his chair getting up to restrain his master. Sister rarely lost her temper but when she did, watch out.

Tommy Lee Jones, Judge Baker at table three, and Tony Gammell all stood. From behind Mo came Carl Matacola. All the men were strong, with Tommy Lee being the most formidable.

Judge Baker caused Mo to turn from Sister. “We don’t speak to ladies this way. You’re excused.”

“I’m what?” His eyes bugged out of his head.

“Get out.” Judge Baker simplified his request.

“Best you go,” Tony reiterated. “You’ve insulted two masters, two lovely ladies.”

Whitney, Tony’s wife, looked on, proud of her husband’s demeanor but worried that he would take a shot at the now frothing Mo. It wouldn’t do for Tony to break his hand, with so much work to be done this summer.

James Keogh, a strapping six-foot-four-inch Irishman and Woodford whipper-in, who’d been outside the tent, hurried in, ready to help drag Mo out. He wanted to make sure that Robbie Lyons didn’t try to do it because his chest was still full of stitches from the heart surgery.

Mo took a swing at Judge Baker, who ducked.

Carl grabbed the swinging arm as Tommy Lee grabbed the other one. The two men pushed Mo’s arms up against his back, which was painful, and then they literally picked him up and threw him out of the tent.

Shaker let loose of Sister Jane. “Boss, I know you’ve got a mean right cross, but you stay here.”

Mo charged back into the tent. Carl stopped him, bending low and hitting him with a solid block below the knees. As Mo crumpled, Shaker grabbed hold of his coat collar and began dragging him back toward the trailers, the other men following as Mo flailed and cursed with abandon.

The ladies watched, quite impressed.

“Testosterone poisoning,” Louise said laconically.

“Actually, I suspect he’s deficient,” Sister Jane added, which made everyone laugh louder.

Back at the trailers, the men surrounded Mo. Outnumbered and realizing vaguely he shouldn’t have crossed a former Virginia supreme court justice while he was showing hounds, he calmed down. Crossing two of the most respected men in foxhunting, Tommy Lee Jones and Chris Ryan, evidenced galloping stupidity, too.

When the men left him, Fonz started loading up the trailer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mo shouted at him.

“We’re going home, aren’t we?”

“No, we goddam well are not. I came to show my hounds, and I will.”

He did, too, actually winning a ribbon for single bitch entered.

Sister Jane thought Mo’s hound rather nice. She also fell in love with Keswick Tally and Keswick Rustic as well as a lovely Crossbred, Why Worry Fairy.

Jefferson Hunt gathered four more ribbons and ended the day hot, tired, but happy, although plagued with worry over Giorgio.

Judge Baker walked back, his coat now off, his tie loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Accompanying him was Jim Fitzgerald, the two in animated conversation.

Sister liked him. “Jim, I never got a chance to catch up with you.”

“That kind of day. Didn’t lack for drama.”

Judge Baker shrugged. “I couldn’t believe that Mo would still show his hounds. I had a mind to turn him away, but when I asked Chris Ryan he winked at me so I let the bastard in.”

“Thoroughly disagreeable man.” Jim nodded. “I was bringing up more ice from the trucks so I missed most of the championship fight.”

“It’s a foolish man who goes up against Tommy Lee Jones.” Shaker laughed. “Foolish man to cross Sister, too.”

Jim Fitzgerald spoke to Tootie, who was standing quietly next to Sister Jane. “Young lady, you’ve a gift with hounds.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Where do you get these juniors?” Jim asked Sister.

“I’m on the board of Custis Hall. I recruit them. I have quite a few who hunt with me and four seniors who are outstanding. Tootie is one. The other three are back in Virginia madly finishing up term papers.”

“Come back to Sister when you’ve finished college,” Jim advised her.

“I’ve finished college.” Judge Baker looked at Sister. “I could come, too.”

“Any time, you handsome devil.” Sister and her late husband had known Barry and his recently deceased wife for close to forty years.

“You’ll see more of me come hunt season. You know, Mitch and Lutrell Fisher bought Skidby. Has a lovely dependency and I’ve rented it, so I’ll hunt one day a week with Deep Run and one with you. Hunt every day if I could.” Judge Baker meant it.

Skidby, a large landholding on the western edge of Sister Jane’s hunt territory, was famous locally for its caverns. Immediately after the War Between the States, when the Yankees rode through, Confederate officers hid in the caves. No one knew if they’d be shot or imprisoned.

“You’re still keeping the house in Richmond, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve half a mind to give it to my son and daughter-in-law.Too big to keep. But I’m not quite there yet.”

“I can understand,” Sister said. “I didn’t know you knew Mitch and Lutrell.”

“Lutrell and I are both on the board of the Richmond Ballet. She’s the one with the big bucks; well, you know that. Mitch might be a doctor, but he’s in research, so he doesn’t make all that much.”

“He hunts with me. She doesn’t. She’s a bit fearful. Actually, thank you for reminding me that they’ve finally moved into Skidby. I’ll call on them.”

“You’ll find a warm reception.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You might even find me.”

After more pleasantries, chatting with other masters and huntsmen, Sister finally pulled O.J. aside and filled her in on Giorgio’s disappearance.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” O.J.’s eyes widened and she raised her hands, palms up.

“Overload. There’s nothing you could have done. Then, too, I didn’t want to tip him off. I can’t prove Mo stole my hound, but let’s just say I figure the chances of his not stealing Giorgio are about the same as the sun rising in the west.”

O.J. scanned the grounds; many trailers were pulling out. “Well, his trailer’s not here.”

“Damn.” Sister paused. “I know Giorgio wasn’t with his hounds. Tootie snuck back and checked a couple of times. Where could he have hidden a hound so someone wouldn’t find it? My beautiful boy would have howled his displeasure, but he’s so sweet he would be easy to muzzle. Couldn’t howl then.”

The late-afternoon sun showed up the lighter highlights in O.J.’s dark hair. “Someone who works for Shaker Village certainly would have found him if Mo had hidden him around here.” She gazed at Sister, lost in thought for a bit, and then grabbed her arm. “Come on! There is a place, just outside the Village.”

Once in O.J.’s truck, Sister pulled out her cell phone to call Shaker and Tootie, who were readying the trailer to leave. That accomplished, she paid attention as O.J. turned right toward Harrodsburg on Route 68. O.J. then turned right on the next paved road. Large homes, freshly painted new barns, and expensive fencing signaled that money flowed to Mercer County.

“New money.”

“Better than no money.” O.J. turned right on a sharp turn, onto a narrow road. “Jim Fitzgerald was thinking about buying an old training track back here. This land has been let go, but it wouldn’t take too much to rehab it. Anyway, the track is no secret, and Mo has come to the Mid-America Hound Show enough times to know of it.” She now turned left, where a battered sign hung precariously on chains that swayed in the light breeze.

The track, guardrail still intact, lay just ahead. Mo’s trailer was parked alongside it.

“That bastard!” Sister cursed.

“A lot of outbuildings. Good place to hide anything.” Seeing the trailer, O.J. felt sure this was the place.

The moment Woodford’s master had parked, Sister opened the door to sprint toward the trailer. She stepped up on the running boards between the wheel wells. “Not a thing! Not even his hounds!”

O.J. did not respond. Transfixed, she stood like a statue looking at the faded white guardrail.

“Are you all right?” Sister asked, then cast her eyes in the direction of O.J.’s unrelenting stare. “Jesus H. Christ!”

Sister put a hand on the guardrail and swung herself over as O.J., snapping out of it, did likewise. The two fit women ran across the infield to the other side of the track.

The ground underfoot, still good, gave their steps a spring. They stopped.

“Dead as a doornail,” Sister pronounced.

Mo Schneider lay facedown in the track. Stripped to the waist, feet bare, head turned to the side, he stared at nothing—or perhaps at eternity.

O.J., mind clear, pointed to his back. “What do you make of that?”

Sister knelt down, careful not to touch the corpse. “Rat shot.”

Rat shot is what foxhunters call bird shot. It is generally loaded into a .22 pistol and used only in extremis. If hounds rush toward a superhighway, scent burning, the whipper-in has to turn them. He or she might fire once in the air if there is time. The next shot is aimed directly at hindquarters. Better to pick out rat shot in the kennels than pick up crushed hounds on the road.

Now kneeling next to Sister, O.J. peered closely. “He’s peppered with it.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her linen skirt and used it to touch his wrist. “No pulse. Just in case. He’s cooling but a long way from being cold.”

“How long do you think he’s been dead?”

“Warm day.” O.J. stood up. “Not more than a hour, hour and a half.”

“ATV tracks.” Sister noticed tire tracks from an all-terrain vehicle alongside Mo’s footprints.

“Kids sneak down here all the time.”

“Fresh.”

O.J. knelt down again to check the tracks. “You’re right, and some of them have run over Mo’s footprints.”

“Mo ran around this track more than once.” Sister shook her head. “No hounds. No Fonz. No Maserati. No shoes. Why would he run barefoot?”

“You think this is some kind of ritual killing?”

“I don’t know, but it is bizarre.” A glint of humor returned. “Should we roll him over and drive a stake through his heart?”

Sister sent Shaker and Tootie home with hounds once she and O.J. discovered Mo’s body. The authorities arrived; questioning went on. It made sense to spend the night and leave for Virginia in the morning. O.J. kindly invited Sister home with her. She also volunteered to call the various animal rescue groups.

The Mid-America Hound Show provided more drama than Woodford could have ever imagined. O.J. prayed there wouldn’t be more to come.