Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 24

September 9, Tuesday, hounds met at Mudfence Farm. Try as they might, they couldn’t get a thing. No master or huntsman likes a blank day, but it’s foolish to keep hounds out, especially young hounds, when scent is so poor. They worked hard for an hour and a half. Then, when heat came up fast, Shaker wisely lifted the hounds.

Back in the kennels, glad for the high fans in the ceiling, hounds slept on their benches.

With Shaker’s help, Sister had finished washing the feed room down and cleaning the runs. She’d taken care of Aztec and HoJo. She already missed Tootie and Val, who had driven back to Princeton late Sunday.

“Boss, think I’ll ride Kilowatt Saturday.”

“You forget Thursday?” She was teasing him: The club always hunted Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.

“No, just thinking about Skidby.”

“We accomplished a lot with that work party. Enthusiasm for the new fixture is so high we’re hunting Skidby on Saturday instead of an old fixture. Means, of course, we can’t take young entry.”

“Figured as much.” Shaker, while not a political person, had been in hunt service long enough to appreciate some of his master’s decisions.

“Much as we need to get the young entry out, we also need to keep the Fishers and the members happy. And it’s only once, maybe twice, during the cubbing season.”

“Ever wish we could just hunt?”

She winked at him. “Can. Staff hunt.”

This type of hunt involved only staff members, no field. Often it was to work the young hounds, but just as often it served to tune up staff work. No matter how many decades staff hunted as individuals, everyone could stand to scrub off the rust spots during cubbing.

“I say we hunt from the Demetrios farm and head toward Crawford’s.” He let out a guffaw, since Crawford had closed his land to the Jefferson Hunt.

“We could sell tickets to that hunt.” She could just imagine Crawford’s eruption. Better yet, imagine the eruption in his kennels.

“Pay attention to me!” yapped little Valentine, born May 28 during the storm.

Victor, her littermate, did just that. “Tag, you’re it.”

Within seconds, the five puppies were chasing one another, giving what they considered tongue while Violet looked on, rapidly tiring of motherhood.

Sister and Shaker, walking in from an adjoining run, laughed.

“That reminds me.” Sister strode toward the kennels and walked into the office.

After years of association, Shaker knew she’d tell him whatever it was that she remembered after she wrote it down or performed the act. He hummed to himself as he followed her into the office.

She picked up the old phone and dialed. “How you doing?”

Felicity, on the other end, replied, “I’m doing.”

“Any minute now?”

“I hope so, Sister. I can’t stand much more of this. I wish Howie were here, but he’s at work. Matt Robb said he’d give him the day off when the baby’s born.”

“That’s very thoughtful for someone to do for a new worker. Howie’s only been at the construction company since graduation.”

“I know. The whole Robb family has been so good to us. How’s hunting?”

“Today was a blank. But it will get better. The first day of cubbing was pretty good.”

“That’s what Tootie and Val said.” Her voice rose up. “And the skull.”

“No one will forget that.” She changed the subject. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“I’m closer than Howie. Aren’t they working up in Orange County on a house?”

“A two-million-dollar house! I can’t imagine that.” Felicity, watchful of money, thought unnecessary expenditure ghoulish. “How much do people need?”

“Quite a lot—some, anyway. Before you rush to judgment on whoever is paying for this house, remember inflation. These days I couldn’t afford to buy the house where I live. Impossible.”

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“That’s the interesting thing about age. The value of money is set when you’re young. So I think a dollar should have the buying power it did in the fifties and sixties.”

“It should.” Felicity, despite her discomfort, enjoyed the conversation.

“Well, honey, what I was saying is that if your water breaks, call me. You have my cell. You have Shaker’s cell. We can get to you in ten minutes if we break the speed limit. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t.”

They chatted a bit more, and then Sister hung up.

Shaker remarked, on hearing her end of the conversation, “We could deliver the baby. We’ve delivered enough puppies and foals.”

Sister laughed. “I expect we could, and we’d be a hell of a lot cheaper.” She grabbed an iced tea out of the small refrigerator, passed it to Shaker, and took one for herself.

“Tight with the buck, that kid.” Shaker popped the top of the can.

“In the main, that’s a good thing, but if you’re too tight, you can miss some of life’s pleasures.” She sat on the edge of the desk. “It’s all a balancing act, isn’t it?” She took a long swig of the commercial sweet tea, which wasn’t half bad.

“I keep trying to find the middle ground.”

“Me, too. Sometimes I hold it for months, and then sooner or later I go a little too much one way or the other. Balance.” She repeated her theme.

“Heard Athena last night. Haven’t heard her much this summer.” He referred to the great horned owl who lived on the farm.

Athena and Bitsy would get together for chats, and Bitsy’s voice allowed Sister and Shaker to pinpoint the two owls, so very different in size, call, and temperament. Bitsy was always thrilled to gossip, whereas Athena preferred to observe.

“It’s a beautiful song, the great horned. Liquid, low, and a touch of melancholy.” She finished the can of tea. “I was thirsty. I keep meaning to ask you: Did you go into the caves at Skidby?”

“Not into them, but we made a trail around them and marked the entrances.” He grimaced. “I don’t like going underground. I could never live in New York City and ride the subway.”

I’m not overfond of it either.” She felt herself revive a bit; she’d been up since four in the morning, and it was now eleven. “Had a thought when I woke up this morning.”

“Just one?”

“Yep, I’m slowing down.” She laughed at herself. “But it’s an interesting one. You remember when we cleared trails at Skidby that Barry received a call from Fonz?”

“Yeah, Grant Fuller was hanging on a meat hook in a slaughterhouse.”

“That’s just it, Shaker. It was a slaughterhouse Grant used to own, and my thought was maybe he still owned it. Either he sold it to a shill or kept an interest.”

“Possible.”

“Of course, Tennessee is a long way from Virginia—well, it seems a long way—so this isn’t Ben’s case. Anyway, I called and left a message for him—no reason to wake him up—to see if he could find out if Grant still owned all or part of the packing company and the slaughterhouse.”

“And if he did?”

“If he did it might mean nothing. Then again, it certainly would give him a conduit for fresh horse meat. I know it’s illegal, but he was making dog food. If he paid off his employees, who would know? Right. Humans can’t smell the difference between beef byproducts and equine.”

Shaker thought a long time about this. “And Hope Rogers found out?”

“Could be. Her fury at Grant would have been boiling hot. You know, I’m so disappointed that she was running that bourbon scam.” She stood up. “Disappointed—but I liked her. She loved animals and she was a good vet. I won’t let it go.”

“I know.”

Once her chores had been knocked out, Sister, with Hope very much on her mind, drove over to Paradise.

Arthur DuCharme was in the big shed, working on a 1973 John Deere.

“Sister, what are you doing out here, feeding foxes?”

“Not today. What are you doing?”

“Cleaning the fuel line. I don’t know how I did it but I clogged it up. I’ve been running this tractor since the day I bought it in 1967, and this is the first time I’ve had a problem. Can’t complain.”

“Pretty much anyone who owns a John Deere can’t complain. It’s an expensive tractor, but you get what you pay for.”

“Said a mouthful.” He wiped his hands on an old red rag.

“I’m here, Arthur, hoping you will talk to me. I vow whatever you tell me stays with me.”

“The still?” He’d known Sister all his life.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t set it up. Hope talked to me. I told her what I knew and, yes, I told her the water was some of the best I’d tasted, coming straight down the mountain. And I told her I thought the water on the east side of the Blue Ridge is better than the water coming down on the west side.”

Being a geologist, Sister knew that the Blue Ridge, an ancient chain, did have variation on the different sides, different counties; it was part of what made this area and these mountains so fascinating.

“Did you show her your old site?”

“I did.”

“Did she pay you?”

He wiped his hands again, carefully studied the red rag, and then draped it over his left shoulder. “Not in money. She sent me a new refrigerator and a big new water heater. She asked if I wanted a percent of her profits and I said I didn’t because the still was on Foster land, not DuCharme.” He stopped and folded his arms across his chest. “She was a good girl, Sister. She was carrying the Japanese a little fast but they deserve it. Make ’em pay through the nose for the next two hundred years, I say. I’m not ever going to forget Pearl Harbor.”

Sister didn’t feel that way, but she did understand the animosity in others. “Funny, isn’t it, how both Germany and Japan underestimated us. Thought we were soft. Dictatorships, whether by individuals or an elite, can’t grasp democracy. That’s what I figure. And you know, brilliant as the attack on Pearl Harbor was, they had a tiger by the tail. Should have left us alone.”

“So what do we do?” His voice rose. “We rebuild them after the war, and then we make them rich by buying Toyotas. The money should stay here.” He patted the John Deere as if it were a horse.

Of course, John Deere is manufactured in Illinois.

“War’s over.”

“People say that about the War Between the States.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s different.”

Then they both laughed.

“Like I said, Hope was a good girl. She helped a lot of people; she helped animals. So she was making a little potent drinking water. Washes your troubles away.”

“Think she killed herself?”

“I don’t like to think she would.” He paused, pulling the rag on his left shoulder down with his right hand. “No. No, I don’t. And Paul didn’t kill her either, though some people want to think he did. He’s the type to bring you down with words, you know? Not a killer.”

“Was there anything you saw in that still that you didn’t tell Ben?”

“Sure didn’t give him the secret for making good stuff.” He laughed. “I was surprised when I saw the still. I knew it was there but I hadn’t been back to see it. It’s none of my business, plus whoever is running a still wouldn’t want people back there. What surprised me wasn’t the still but the size of the operation—and the equipment. Good stuff. Really good stuff.”

“Think she was killed over it?”

He shook his head emphatically. “No. That would be really stupid. The woman was good. Now mind you, I was pretty shocked when she brought me a sample. Can’t say as I ever knew any woman to run a still before, but that one sure knew what she was doing. Women are full of surprises.” He winked.

“Think she could have been shot by a rival distiller?”

He moved a wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. “No. I sit on the porch at sunset. Like to watch the sun go down. And I think, Suicide. The sheriff says suicide. Would someone in my old line of work know how to make a murder look like suicide? I don’t think so. Hope’s death had nothing to do with cheap bourbon.”

“Any other thoughts?”

A long silence followed, “Maybe horses. She found something bad. Some of those people are so rich they could have hired a professional to take her out, know what I mean?”

“Yes. Arthur, thank you for this.”

“Thank you for being a modifying influence on Ben Sidell. It’s possible to interpret the law too harshly.” He tipped back his head and roared.

She laughed with him. “Arthur, truer words were never spoken.”