Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 4

Tico Caracalla’s work boots were already soaked with heavy dew at four-thirty in the morning. Keeneland, quiet and beautiful in any season, felt like it was all his at this hour. The back shed rows, his responsibility, were empty this time of year. Nonetheless, being a stickler for order and cleanliness, he inspected every stall. No matter how hungry he had been when he first came into the United States, Tico refused to work for sloppy outfits. When he finally worked his way up to Keeneland, he knew he’d found his true place. He’d inspect latches, check bucket fasteners, kneel down to make sure no pave-safe blocking was becoming dislodged. It never was, but he couldn’t be too careful when it came to the horses and their safety.

The last stall in the shed row was closed up. He hurried down the line, because this was not the way he’d left that stall yesterday—or any of the others. He opened the stall door and nearly passed out. Fresh buckets of water had been placed on the stall floor, along with a huge pile of kibble. Sleepy-headed hounds started to rise. He stepped inside quickly and closed the door behind him. As a horseman he’d spent much of his life around dogs of one sort or another and he knew these animals meant no harm. His biggest shock arrived when a few hounds moved away from the human they’d been cuddling. Fonz Riley, bound and gagged, looked up.

“Dei!” Tico bent down and pulled the gag out of the small middle-aged man’s mouth.

“Thank God,” Fonz gasped.

“One minute.” Tico slipped his pocket knife out of his pocket and cut the ropes around Fonz’s wrists and ankles.

Fonz rubbed the circulation back into his limbs as Tico called security. Wisely, Tico asked no questions. He hadn’t worked twenty years in the shed rows for nothing. Security called the Lexington police. Both arrived at the same time.

“Could I have something to drink?” Fonz asked.

“Sí.” Tico left, returning five minutes later with a cup of hot coffee and a Co-Cola in case Fonz wanted something cold. Tico kept a well-stocked cooler in the back of his truck, plus he’d just made himself a thermos of coffee.

As Fonz gratefully swigged both liquids, he began to revive.

Harry Bickle, the officer from the city, had seen plenty but nothing like this. “Your name?”

“Francis Albert Riley. Fonz. I don’t know how I got here. I’d loaded the hounds, I was facing the trailer, and I felt a pain in my head. That’s all I remember.”

Bickle stepped closer to see if his pupils were the same size or possibly dilated. His nose informed him Fonz wasn’t drunk.

“Could I go to the bathroom? I only need to step outside.”

Fonz’s request horrified Tico. He didn’t want anyone urinating publicly, even though no one else was there. What if somebody drove by at that exact moment? “I’ll take you,” Tito volunteered.

Harry Bickle waited, as did the twenty-two-year-old night guard, who was moonlighting while studying at Transylvania College in Lexington, Kentucky. The kid had heard enough cracks about Dracula to last him a lifetime. Fortunately for him, the good education he was receiving would last a lifetime, too.

Fonz came back, ushered into the stall by Tico.

“These hounds sure are calm. No one’s bolted for the door.” Bickle didn’t know much about foxhounds.

“No, sir. They’re a good pack of hounds with a bad master. I try to make up for it.” He rubbed the back of his head where he’d been hit, feeling the tender knot.

“Who’s that?”

“Mo Schneider. Has a big place in Arkansas. Big money, small sense.”

“That’s not a nice way to talk about your boss.” Bickle felt a cold wet nose touch his hand.

“No one likes him. I stay on because of the hounds. He’d mistreat them or kill them if I didn’t protect them.”

“Where’s your boss now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s your vehicle?” Bickle continued.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have any identification?”

Fonz reached into his hind pocket, extracting a well-worn wallet, western tooled.

Tico watched, taking in every detail as Bickle read the license, looked at the license photo, and then glanced back at Fonz as he returned the wallet.

“Would you like a ride to the hospital to have your head checked over?” Bickle offered. “Sometimes a blow to the head can fool you, more damage than you realize.”

“No, sir. I can’t leave the hounds. I need to find Mo. I need the trailer.”

“What did the trailer look like?” Bickle was putting two and two together, although he hadn’t been on duty when Mo Schneider was discovered.

“Four-horse Featherlite, two years old. The front half of the trailer is modified for the hounds.”

Featherlite was a good brand of horse trailer.

“I think we have your trailer. It’s impounded.”

“What?”

“We have your boss, too. Trailer’s registered in his name.” Bickle took a long deep breath. “He’s been murdered.”

“About time,” Fonz blurted out.

“What kind of crack is that?” Bickle asked.

“If you knew him, you’d understand.”

“Come with me. I need you to identify the body, and I’d like to ask a few more questions.”

“Officer, I can’t leave the hounds.”

Tico stepped in. “They need to be with him, Señor. Perhaps they don’t listen to me and escape. Much harm could be done.”

Bickle, in a pickle, thought a moment, then Fonz figured a way out.

“If you let me use your phone, I think I can find help.” When Fonz explained his plan, Officer Bickle handed over his cell.

Fonz called O.J. He’d memorized the number on the drive up from Arkansas just in case there was a problem. That way he wouldn’t have to pull over, hunt the number, and call.

“Hello,” came O.J.’s sunny reply, at what was now six in the morning.

“Master Winegardner, it’s Fonz.”

“Fonz, where are you?” She didn’t want to tell him about Mo.

“Keeneland, last shed row, with Mo’s hounds. I got hit over the head. There’s a policeman here who wants to ask questions, but I can’t leave the hounds.”

“Fonz, put the man on the phone.”

“Officer Bickle here.”

“Officer Bickle, this is Jane Winegardner, Master of Woodford Hounds. Will you allow me to pick up the hounds and take them to our kennels until you get things cleared away with Fonz? He’s a good man, if my testimony is any help. Anyone who could work with Mo Schneider and last for two years is a saint.”

“Well, ma’am, I guess that’s all right.”

“You have to wait until I get there, Officer, because I’ll need Fonz to help me load. The hounds don’t know me. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

“All right.” Officer Bickle clicked off his phone. “Tell you what, you all wait here. You, too.” The last was said directly to Jude, the Transylvania student. “I’ll bring back breakfast for everyone. Your friend is bringing her trailer. She must be a good friend.” He spoke to Fonz.

“She’s a master of foxhounds, sir. I don’t know her all that well, but all masters worth their salt will help hounds.”

Officer Bickle drove off to the nearest fast food place, beginning to realize he’d stepped into a whole new world.

When he returned, the four men ate outside the stall so as not to tempt hounds overmuch. By the time they’d drained the last drop of coffee, the rumble of a big trailer could be heard.

O.J. drove the rig while Carl and Leslie Matacola followed by car. Mary Pierson, who’d fallen asleep in the truck cab, sat up when O.J. stopped. Sister Jane followed in her Subaru.

Opening the door, O.J. walked right up to Officer Bickle as Carl headed for Fonz. She held out her hand. “I’m Jane Winegardner. Thank you so much for thinking of the hounds.”

He liked the tall lady right on sight, so he smiled. “Well, ma’am, I couldn’t very well put them in jail.” He then stared at Carl. “Don’t I know you?”

“No, sir, but you might have seen me around. I’m director of athletic training at UK.”

“I have seen you, on TV. And you’re a hound person, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officer Bickle, allow me to send you an invitation to our opening hunt. It will be Thanksgiving weekend at Shakertown. I’ll stay in touch. You’ll enjoy it, especially the Blessing of the Hounds.” O.J. always rewarded people who helped the hounds or the club. An invitation to Opening Hunt was very special. She then turned to Fonz. “You heard about Mo?”

“The officer told me. Master, will you call Blake, our stable manager, and ask him to feed hounds and pick us up at home? I hope I’ll get back tonight.”

“I will,” O.J. answered.

Mary, one step ahead, was drawing a map to the kennels.

“Officer Bickle, if it’s all right with you, we’ll follow you to the station, and when you’re done with Fonz, we’ll take him to his hounds,” Carl suggested.

“They’ve impounded the trailer. I don’t know how to carry them home.” Fonz used the country southern expression.

“Can you release the truck and trailer?” O.J. inquired.

“Not right away, ma’am. We have to go over it for evidence.”

“Fonz, don’t worry. We’ll get you to Arkansas, safe and sound.”

“Master, I hate to put you to this trouble.”

“Hounds first, Fonz.” She laid her hand gently on his shoulder, for she could see he’d been hard used. “We both know that.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, let’s load them up.”

Mary opened the door to the Woodford trailer as Fonz opened the door to the stall. Fonz stood on the trailer ramp and hounds came right to him before he even opened his mouth. Officer Bickle hadn’t seen that kind of obedience before by that many dogs. (To him they were dogs because he hadn’t yet learned the nomenclature.)

Not wishing to spoil O.J.’s work with the officer, Sister tried to be patient. But ever since O.J. had filled her in on the discovery of Fonz, along with Mo’s hounds, she’d had a feeling. . . . She was dying to open the stall door because she felt Giorgio was there.

Knowing hounds, she also had to be patient as they emerged from the stall. These hounds didn’t know her. She didn’t want to spook them.

In the middle of the pack, Giorgio smelled his master. He knew she was there before she knew he was there.

Standing up on his hind legs he let out a yelp of happiness. “Mom!”

“Giorgio!” Sister held out her arms as the stunning hound bounded over to her.

“He is a beauty,” O.J. admitted.

“Officer Bickle, this is my hound. He’d been stolen.”

“I missed you.” Giorgio, again on his hind legs, put his paws on Sister’s shoulders.

Fonz blinked. “Where did he come from?”

“Good question. How did he get in your pack?” Sister’s voice was hard.

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Sister blurted out.

O.J. astutely intervened. “Officer, this hound belongs to Mrs. Jane Arnold. We think Mo stole him.”

“I swear I didn’t know,” Fonz protested.

Sister, this time, bit her tongue.

“Officer, she needs to get her hound back to Virginia, if you have no objection.”

“Well—uh, I think that will be okay.”

“O.J., let me help you here,” said Sister. “There’s going to be a lot to do.”

“I’ve got Carl, Leslie, and Mary. You’d best get out before traffic picks up.”

Giorgio offered his opinion. “Yes!”

Sister hugged him again and followed O.J.’s advice. Giorgio hopped in the back but before Sister reached the impressive entrance to Keeneland he’d crawled into the passenger seat, chatting the whole time.

“Master, the little lemon-spotted gyp, that’s Tillie. She’s hocky, but she’ll go where the others go,” Fonz told O.J.

“What’s hocky?” Officer Bickle was becoming quite intrigued, plus he really wanted to see Jane Winegardner again.

“Shy,” Carl answered.

After hounds had been loaded, Officer Bickle took Fonz to the morgue. Much as Fonz loathed Mo Schneider, seeing him on a slab came as a nasty jolt. When the attendant rolled him over to show the rat shot peppering his back and legs with round bumps, Fonz gasped.

“Ever see anything like that? Bird shot?” Officer Bickle pointed to the bumps.

“Not on a human.”

“Me neither. Do you have any idea who would do something like this?”

“Someone who knew Mo pretty good. Someone who paid him back for his cruelty. We could start with his three ex-wives.”

Two hours later, which was actually good time, Fonz was released and Carl drove him out to the Woodford kennels.

The visiting hounds in adjoining yards had enjoyed chats with the Woodford hounds. Again, they loaded right up. O.J. and Mary, along with Fonz, all squeezed into the cab for the long drive home.

By the time O.J., finally home, called Sister, the older woman and Giorgio had just passed Hinton, West Virginia, situated on a high mountain plateau about two and a half hours from home.

“Do you think Fonz has any idea who killed Mo?” Sister asked, after O.J. filled her in.

“He rattled off a list of eight or nine people. Those were just the front-runners.”

A long silence followed. “O.J., maybe we’re better off not knowing. Maybe the trail will grow cold. We don’t need to know.”

“Well, I don’t know if I agree. Murder is murder.”

“Some people deserve it.” Sister thought there were some people walking around who do nothing but cause pain.

“Then what happens to the rule of law?”

“What rule of law? For Christ’s sake, whoever has the most money gets away with just about anything. And we’re thinking about individual crimes. What about great big crimes like the rape of resources, the pollution of water, or sending young men and women soldiers to their deaths? I’m old. Listen to me. You wrap crimes in the flag or a dollar bill, and suddenly everyone looks the other way.”

“Hadn’t thought about it like that.” O.J., very moral, hadn’t.

“You wouldn’t. You’re a straight shooter.”

“So are you.”

“Yes and no. I’m a cynical straight shooter. I expect authority to be corrupt. I expect most corporations to hide skeletons. And I expect regular folks to stick their heads in the sand until the sand becomes poisoned. We always wait until it’s a ten-squared crisis before we move our sorry asses.”

“Good point. But what if Mo’s murder isn’t isolated?” O.J. worried.

“How can that—”

“What I mean is, What if there’s a serial killer out there, popping off foxhunters they don’t like?”

“You think they’d start elsewhere.” Sister hadn’t considered such a possibility.

“It could happen.”

“Give me your list.”

A long pause followed. “Not until you give me yours.”

They both laughed; then Sister Jane said, “Ever think about how many people you would have killed if you could have gotten away with it?”

“No, but I am now.”

“Odd. I mean every one of us is capable of killing, whether in self-defense—which is perfectly justified—revenge, or blind rage, yet few of us ever do kill.”

“You’re making me realize my real point.” O.J. sighed. “It’s one of the reasons I cherish our friendship. Somehow you always lead me back to the scent. Here’s what I really meant to say. Except in self-defense, we don’t kill, and we’ve all been tremendously provoked. If that restraint has eroded, what’s possible?”

“Good point. I don’t know the answer. But I’m betting Mo is a one-off.”

“I hope so.” O.J. changed the subject. “How’s Giorgio?”

“Being the navigator. He’s still sitting straight up, hasn’t taken his eyes off the road.”

“Too bad he can’t talk.”

“He does in his own way.”

“I’m so happy!” Giorgio said.

Sister didn’t walk into her house until four that afternoon. Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster—calico cat, Doberman, and harrier, respectively—greeted her rapturously. Only when she walked into the den, her favorite room, did she remember it was Memorial Day.

Sister looked at the silver-framed photo of herself, her husband, and her son, age fourteen, his age when he died, all spiffed up to ride in the family class at the Jefferson Hunt Horse Show.

What would it be like to have her RayRay, who would be forty-seven now, sitting in the den with her, most likely with a good wife, grandchildren coming and going, and laughter filling the house?

She’d never know, but that was life. You take what the good Lord gives you.

She fought back her tears, petted Golly, and said, “What next?”