Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 10

On Sunday, June 1, the day of the Virginia Hound Show, over one thousand foxhounds appeared at Westmore-land Mansion in northern Virginia, escorted by a phalanx of humans. Huntsmen, masters, kennelmen, moonlighting showring handlers—all devoted themselves to these extraordinary canines.

People flocked from different parts of the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom, although united was a misnomer. All the animosities held somewhat in check since the eighteenth century had opened once again. Would hounds and hunting be valued in Ireland? Surely the Irish wouldn’t shoot themselves in the foot as the English had under the sway of Labour. After betraying their followers on so many other issues, they threw them the bone of a ban on hunting. As for Scotland, foxhunting was banned in theory, but the Scots had long displayed a healthy disregard for rules, as the Romans found out two thousand years ago. Despite all this turmoil, hound people crossed the Atlantic just as Americans crossed to visit the European shows, regardless of political differences.

A few French citizens came. Once upon a time the various duchies of France each bred hounds, which they hunted with pride. Kings kept huge kennels. But France paid dearly in World War I, when thousands of lives had been lost, hound as well as human. The canine hunting population never quite recovered from that first gruesome bugle call of the twentieth century. Still, away from Paris there remained people who cherished a beautiful hound.

Germany, too, lost thousands of hounds and horses. Europe, like Chronos, devoured its children in the twentieth century, both the bipeds and the quadripeds.

Perhaps a few people with a view toward history—and what are bloodlines but history?—still considered what happened to the long-standing traditions of hunting Over There.

Sister often thought of it. If she saw a bluetick hound, she wondered if it carried Blue Gascon blood; could the blood be traced back to Lafayette’s gift of a pack to his hero and hers, George Washington? And those sleek ring-necked Orange County hounds, did they carry a hint of redbone or was the blood really from the Talbot tan packs of Olde England?

Overwhelmed by all the incredible animals to study, she felt dizzy as she stood under the shade at the American hound ring.

As a long-serving master, she spent hours that morning saying hello, catching up, all the while wearing her kennel coat, washing hounds, wiping down leads, and telling Tootie to just go out and do her best.

Shaker, too, kept busy. This time they had Valentina and Betty along. Finally finished with her term paper, Val had eagerly hopped into the Forester. She would also be showing hounds.

Tootie showed Giorgio. Dog hound classes always preceded female hound classes, and Giorgio came in second, to Jefferson Hunt’s great joy. Fred Duncan, former huntsman at Warrenton and now head kennelman at Middleburg, strode over to Sister, long legs covering the distance in the blink of an eye. He leaned his shoulder on hers—he was a bit taller—and whispered in her ear, “I’m seventy-three. You know, seen a lot.”

She nodded. “We share that.”

“And I’m telling you”—his voice was low, quite distinctive—“that young’un is a natural. A real natural.”

“I know.”

“Doris agrees.” He nodded at his wife, dressed in a cool linen shirt and blouse. “She said, Let’s pray this kid goes into hunt service.”

“I don’t know, Fred. Her father is hell-bent on her being the next Condoleezza Rice. She goes to Princeton mid-August for orientation, but I have her until then.”

“The blonde girl is good, too, but this pint-sized kid”—he smiled broadly—“must be part hound herself.”

“Thanks, Fred. You know I prize my juniors.” She thought a moment as hounds were taken off lead in the ring. “Actually, I prize all my members.” He raised his eyebrows. “I said I prized them, not that I like all of them.”

“There’s an honest opinion.” He put his arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze. “Glad you got your hound back. That is one man I won’t miss.”

“Me neither. I rest a little easier at this show knowing Mo’s not here. However, just in case there’s another creep lurking around, someone will be near the Jefferson trailer at all times.”

“Good thinking.” He noticed Doris waving and added, voice low, “My bride needs me.” Married fifty-two years, Fred and Doris remained wild for each other.

As the lovely man walked away, Sister wondered what it would be like to still have Ray.

If life is a necklace, each year a pearl, Sister figured she wore an invisible double strand of nine millimeter pearls. Her years were her wealth.

The heat rose and clouds began to pile up in the west. If they could get through this show before a thunderstorm, it would be a miracle. She looked around at the people fanning themselves and watched the judges, all of them outstanding people. These people, these hounds, this event was the string on which those pearls were set.

What would she have become had she not been a master? A profession shapes you over the years until you transform into someone perhaps deeper or perhaps more shallow than you were when you started.

Whatever their individual faults, she recognized that all these people crowding the four rings shared a passion for hounds and, most likely, hunting.

A life without passion isn’t worth living. A terribly sophisticated urban person might look scornfully at this gathering, but she hoped not. Or if that person did, Sister at least hoped he or she had a passion. A human being without an emotional force divorced from money and material goods is a sorry soul indeed.

These thoughts flitted through her head as the judges made their selections and the crowd at the American ring applauded. As it turned out, Grant Fuller was handling the winning hound. He smiled broadly. Spectators knew hounds at this show. If they disagreed with the judges they withheld their applause. Sometimes the roar for the second pick would shake the leaves on the trees. Judges couldn’t help but notice.

“Master.” Tootie slipped next to her.

“Oh.” Sister put her hand on Tootie’s shoulder. “Lost in reverie there.”

“Val and I don’t show until the gyps. Would you mind if we walked along the tents?”

“Go ahead. Be careful your credit card doesn’t burn a hole in your pocket.”

“I’m pretty disciplined, but”—Tootie smiled shyly—“sometimes a girl can’t help it.” She’d picked up that phrase from Betty. “Val and I are looking for something for Felicity’s baby. ’Course, we don’t know the sex yet, but maybe we can find a stuffed toy fox or something.”

“Bet you can. Go on, honey.”

As hounds exited the ring, Sister walked back to the trailer. It was half a mile away, but she wanted to sit quietly with Shaker and Betty for a spell. Much as she adored seeing old friends, the frenzy wore her out. Physical activity rarely tired her as much as people.

All along the way she stopped folks or was stopped by them. News about hounds, horses, members. Quite a few people remarked on Mo Schneider’s murder.

O.J. and Woodford brought a few hounds. In the moments between classes, O.J., who stayed in constant touch with Sister, again confirmed that nothing new had turned up regarding Mo’s murder, other than that it appeared to be the work of a single person.

It took her a half hour to get back to the trailer parked under giant trees. Shaker had put up the big awning and was sitting in its shade.

Betty Franklin set out a table. If anyone trotted over for a chat, there’d be drinks, sandwiches, and treats. Her setup complete, Betty fanned herself with a big palm frond fan, the kind that used to be passed out in church before air-conditioning.

Sister laughed as she strode toward them. “Have you had that fan since childhood?”

“Don’t start with me. I’m sweating bullets. The air is stagnant and it’s working on my mood.” Betty tossed her hair, perfectly frosted for the occasion.

“Well, you look cool enough. You, too, Shaker.” She filled them in on the classes she’d watched. “Pretty much going as you would expect. The big hunts are pulling in most ribbons. But every now and then a smaller hunt wins a blue.”

“Damn hard to go up against a hunt that can breed seventy puppies or more a year.” Shaker leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah, but thank God for those hunts. They really carry the ball for the rest of us. If we put twenty puppies on the ground, that’s a hell of a lot for us. We have to be so incredibly careful in our breeding.” Sister flopped into a master’s director’s chair.

The chair, a gift from Betty, sure felt good.

“Tired?” Betty inquired.

“Yes, I’m tired, and my feet hurt.”

“Funny, we can ride hard for four hours in sleet or snow, but it’s a different kind of tired. I’ve seen a lot of people I want to see and a few I could pass on.” Betty fanned herself more vigorously. “This weather is going to break before the pack class. I guarantee it.”

The pack class, last class of the day, involves different hunts walking their hounds as a pack and following directions from the judges as to where to stop, turn, etc. Always the highlight of the show, it not only illustrates pack discipline but shows a lot about the various huntsmen and masters. Some behave graciously if they lose, maybe because one hound hooked left instead of right. Others, petulant, would fit right into sixth grade.

“You told me it’s the Feast of the Visitation,” said Betty. “Any other saints celebrating today?”

“Feast of Saint Peter’s supposed daughter, Petronilla.”

“Saint Peter had a daughter?” Betty, never a religious student, raised her fan slightly.

“Well, no. Or let’s say the paternity is in doubt. The story goes that Petronilla was an early Roman martyr. Her remains are in the catacomb of the Domitilla family. She fasted and died after three days.”

“Fad diet?” Shaker teased.

“Could be. Nothing is new under the sun. Well, a Count Flaccus wanted to marry her, against her wishes. With a name like that, I’d have my doubts, too.” Sister laughed. “So she starved herself. Her emblem is a set of keys, just like Saint Peter’s. Did she borrow them, or was Petronilla light-fingered?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sister saw a familiar elegant figure approaching, accompanied by a smaller, less confident man.

“Hello, Master.” Barry Baker reached Sister, bent over, and kissed her hand, then repeated the gesture for Betty.

Shaker stood and the men shook hands. “Good to see you.”

Fonz and Shaker exchanged a nod.

“Come on. Let’s get those hounds,” said Barry.

Sister and Shaker followed; Betty stayed behind to keep an eye on things.

They reached Mo’s fancy trailer, with its comfortable living quarters for people as well as hounds.

“How’d you get the trailer back so fast, Fonz?” Knowing the glacial rate at which official business can be transacted, Sister was astounded.

“Judge Baker talked to the Lexington people,” said Fonz.

The corner of Barry’s mouth turned up slightly. “I told them they’d know where to find it.”

If Barry Baker asked a favor, he usually got it.

Fonz opened the back door, and the hounds walked out as he called their names one by one. “This is Moxie; she’s got Mission Valley blood, but at the fifth generation it’s Bywaters. This is Tillie; she’s shy.”

A thunder rumble interrupted his introduction.

“Fonz, let’s walk these hounds back quickly, and once we’re in the trailer we can worry about introductions.” Shaker knew how fast storms rolled in.

“Splendid idea.” Barry walked to the other side of the opened door.

Once the four couple of hounds stood outside the trailer, Barry closed the door and Fonz, walking at the head of the small pack with Shaker, quietly led them a quarter mile through a parking lot up to the shaded Jefferson Hunt trailer.

Sister fell in behind the pack with Barry. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”

“You’re worth a greenhouse.” He beamed. “And I knew you’d like the quote from Ben Franklin.”

She noticed that hounds accepted Barry. No queer looks at him.

Tootie and Val, back with Betty, stood up to help.

“Think we’ve got it, girls,” Shaker called to them.

Fonz opened the door, called each hound by name. Shaker had jumped into the trailer and closed a divider so the new hounds wouldn’t mix with the JHC pack. No point in having a fight, especially when the atmospheric pressure was changing, which can cause tempers to fray. The girls each brought two big buckets of water, and within minutes all hounds were settled, although black noses were thrust under the divider, which did not entirely touch the floor.

A grumble echoed.

“Dragon.” Shaker’s voice, clipped, meant business.

“That litter is quite exceptional, isn’t it?” Barry asked. “Ds.”

“Hunting fools.” Sister smiled, ever ready to discuss a hound. “They show well, but I don’t think we’ll win any ribbons. They’re a bit long-backed.”

“Depends on the class.” Barry was encouraging. “And I don’t mind a long-backed hound. Again, what’s the territory like? Oh, well, I ought to shut up. I’m not judging. No pun intended.”

Sister said to Fonz, “I’m sure you’re sorry to say goodbye to these hounds.”

Fonz shrugged, holding back his emotion. “They’re good hounds. I will miss them but they’re going to the right person.”

“Thank you.” Sister took his hand in hers. “I’m glad you’ve recovered from your ordeal.”

“Wish I could remember. I felt a thump on my head and next woke up at Keeneland.”

A terrific crack of thunder made everyone jump.

“Here.” Fonz thrust hound paperwork, in a smudged envelope, into Sister’s hands.

“We’re literally going to run, because I need to catch up with Mason Lampton.” Barry mentioned the former president of the MFHA, a man bursting with conviviality and fearless on a horse.

As the two men ran across the lawn, Sister watched them just make it to the winding path up past the tents when one monster drop fell. Betty and the girls were already packing up the food and quickly putting it in the back of the Forester. Shaker hopped into the trailer with the JHC hounds. Sister slid in the back to stay with Mo’s hounds. Another splat hit the roof, then another and another. Betty and the girls ducked into the SUV and no sooner had Betty closed the driver’s door than rain fell, beating like thousands of snare drums.

Sister shouted through the divider, trying to make herself heard above the din and the fan. “Good Lord, if this keeps up we’d better build an ark.”

“They okay?” Shaker called.

“Doing quite well for being in a strange trailer with a strange woman in the middle of a terrifying thunderstorm.”

Ten minutes passed but the rain kept coming. If anything, it intensified. Then the wind rose.

Shaker called out again. “I’m soaked.”

“Me, too.”

The trailer had long narrow openings near the roof to facilitate air flow. In winter, Shaker would slide heavy clear plastic panels in to close them up.

“Wish I’d turned off the generator,” he remarked.

“No time.” She shivered. “Temperature’s dropping.”

“I know. The soil up here is really good, but there’s no way those rings can drain fast enough. Hounds will be wading.”

Sister laughed. “We’ll find out who is afraid of water. Actually, it’s hardest on the high desert hounds. They don’t see these conditions, and they’re used to running on sand or rock. Boy, you’ve got to have the nose for that territory.”

“Got to see it one day.”

“We will. The trick is getting the rest of the club to go. A joint meet would be fun with Red Rock in Reno.” She waited a moment. “That assumes we survive this storm.”

A loud crack and pink lightning rocked the trailer. A small gyp jumped on Sister, nearly knocking her down. Since she was already wet and becoming bedraggled, Sister sat down on a ramp as she hugged hounds close to her.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. Pink. That strike was pink!”

“Read somewhere that lightning can hit four miles from the storm. Sky might be clear over your head, but whammo!”

“Bet it hurts like hell.” Shaker shivered.

“Jeez, is this ever going to let up?”

“Has to eventually. I envy Betty and the girls in the Forester.”

“We’ll get them for this.” He laughed.

“Did you bring extra clothes?” Sister asked.

“A shirt. The kennel coats are in the tack room. At least they’ll be dry. You bring anything extra?”

“Sweater. Damn, I hate this. The pack class, if the show can resume, won’t even go off until after sundown.”

She was right about that, for the storm raged on, bringing tree limbs down.

The Virginia Foxhound Club, sponsor of the Virginia Hound Show, had dealt with many an emergency in the past. Once the storm blew farther east, they rapidly assessed the damage and cleared debris from the rings. Why the electric lines didn’t come down onto the mansion was a miracle. Even so, it took another hour for the show to continue.

The bitches worked ankle deep in water but being foxhounds—which is to say, naturally cheerful and intelligent creatures—they showed to advantage.

Val showed Diana in single bitch entered, and she swept the ring. Shoes wet, Val strode out, beaming.

Sister and Shaker commended her. “Good work.”

Tommy Lee Jones, showing an elegant young bitch, came in second. He came up to Val, Sister, Shaker, and Tootie on the sidelines. “What a wonderful hound. And you did a very good job showing her.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” Val blushed.

Tommy Lee then focused on Tootie, holding a pair of G girls to go in for the pairs class. “You ready?”

“I am.”

“I’ll see you in the ring then.” He smiled again.

As he walked away, Val whispered to the little group, “He’s so nice. I beat his hound, and he’s so nice.”

Sister nodded. “Val, that’s one of the best hound men that’s ever been born. He loves a good hound. He’s actually happy that Diana is a great one. Tommy Lee doesn’t have to win. He knows if hounds are fine, we all win.”

“Not everyone is like that.” Shaker’s mouth turned up on one side as Grant Fuller entered the ring with his pair. “Didn’t mean Grant. He’s okay.” Then he laughed. “Selling dog food but, hey, the stuff is good.”

Tootie, now in the ring against Grant, Tommy Lee, and other exceptional huntsmen and handlers, thought she had no chance of getting pinned, but Glitter and Gorgeous, although toeing in the tiniest bit, were marvelously well made. The slope of their shoulders allowed them to reach out fully yet effortlessly. Their hindquarters, powerful but not chunky, added to the fluidity of their movement. They weren’t as broad in the chest as Sister liked, but truly they were glamour girls.

Tommy Lee smiled as he showed his girls.

Grant followed him, huffing a little as he trotted with hounds.

“Good class,” Judge Barry Baker, now up with Sister and Shaker, observed.

“Yep,” came the terse reply from both adults.

As it turned out, Tootie, Glitter, and Gorgeous took third, Grant came in second, and Tommy Lee won the class—or, more specifically, the perfectly matched littermates from Casanova kennels took the blue.

The mercury never did come back up. Sister was glad of her light sweater, but her legs started to ache with the cold.

Twilight graced the rich green grounds. Fireflies emerged to attend the show. Finally, the pack class went off, despite the fact that some of the last entrants would be working in the dark.

All competing packs were to work the same course, now dotted with water. Led by huntsmen and accompanied by whippers-in, the hounds went through on cue. They checked, waited, and then moved on, often working in a figure eight. At one spot, near a huge old holly tree, the pack reversed. Their pace changed, finishing up with a lively run, the humans doing their best to keep up.

Watching a pack class was always the highlight for Sister. She enjoyed seeing if hounds were tuned in to their huntsmen. Then, too, different huntsmen liked whippers-in at different positions. Potomac, so far, had been thrilling. Not a false move on the part of the two-legged or four-legged group.

“Sister, if I work really hard, maybe someday you’ll let Shaker, Betty, and me go in the pack class,” said Tootie.

“We’ll see. Best graduate from Princeton first.” She put one arm around Tootie’s shoulders, then flung her other arm around Val on her left.

Sister loved her girls.

Betty sighed. “If I have to go out there with you, Tootie, I’ll need to run to get in shape.”

“You walk hounds five days a week.” Sister was incredulous.

“If I’m going to show myself on foot before all these people, I want to look like a goddess.” Betty teased.

Val, ever the politician, murmured, “You already are.”

Betty, not one to be sidetracked, giggled. “Which one, Hecuba?”

“Oh, Betty.” Sister dropped her arm from Tootie and Val’s shoulders to reach over and give Betty a pinch.

Judge Barry Baker, standing near the judges for the hound pack, watched the action with rapt gaze.

“One hundred percent attention,” Shaker commented, on Barry and the working pack.

Bits of brightness from firefly abdomens punctuated the light. Lanterns and flashlights pulled together were held by the stewards of all the rings. The last pack to show would have a rough go. There weren’t enough flashlights to cover the large area.

The judges waited. The incoming pack wasn’t in sight.

Finally, a steward, Sherry Buttrick, an ex-MFH, hopped in a golf cart to see if she couldn’t push up the master and hounds.

Stalls could be rented for the show, and Stone Mountain, the hunt in question, had leased one, unlike Jefferson Hunt, which used their trailer.

Sherry, tiny, efficient, and good at herding people along, cut the motor. No master or whippers-in appeared. The other hunts who had rented stable space had already packed up their hounds.

“Anyone home?” Sherry called, as she entered the stable. The lights were off. That was strange, she thought. She hit the switch by the entrance door. “Yoo-hoo!”

Dammit. She knew for sure she was facing some sort of problem.

She reached the stall. Hounds, groomed and sleek, looked at her.

“Anyone home?”

“Nope.” A tricolor dog hound replied.

Sherry walked the length of the stable, checking every single stall: nothing amiss. She thought she’d better check the restroom in the next building and ran over, ducking under the dripping eaves.

Stopping at the door marked men she rapped. Nothing. Tentatively, she opened the door and checked: nothing.

Not a person given to fancy or wild flights of imagination, Sherry felt a creeping unease. She ran back to the stable.

Carefully opening the door, she spoke kindly to the hounds. As the pack moved about, she noticed a wallet on the floor. Without thinking, she picked it up.

It was Grant Fuller’s, filled with cash and credit cards. However, Grant had been helping Hillsboro Hounds, not Stone Mountain.

She flipped open the mobile phone and called the judge. “We’ve got a problem.”

After explaining the dilemma, she clicked off the phone. It was then that she cursed herself because she realized she’d put her fingerprints all over the well-worn leather. There wasn’t a doubt in Sherry Buttrick’s mind that this could be a problem.

Within a few minutes a bedraggled Stone Mountain whipper-inran to the stall.

“What’s going on?” Sherry demanded.

“Edwards had an angina attack,” Miriam, his whipper-in, informed her. “Did we miss the pack class?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Where’s Grant Fuller?” Sherry asked.

“I don’t know. He’s got nothing to do with us.”

Edwards, with the help of his wife, a nurse, who was the other whipper-in, managed to get through his angina attack.

Grant Fuller, however, had vanished into thin air—or, in this case, thick, moist air.