Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 17

February 22, 2020 Saturday

Crackenthorp, not yet under construction save for the farm road, rested above the church at Chapel Cross on the northeast side. The fox headed north although he didn’t show himself. Scent held, for it was a raw day, maybe thirty-six degrees, if that, and fog refused to lift. Fortunately the staff at Jefferson Hunt knew the territory well, but even with that, a shape could loom ahead, spook you more than your horse, so one rated one’s mount and slowed.

Hounds did not slow but they negotiated frozen footing in some places and the beginnings of slick in others. Fortunately, the pack, in peak condition, leapt over, crawled under, or circumvented any obstacle in their path.

Sister Jane rode her old Thoroughbred, Lafayette, tried and true. A dedicated but small field rode behind her, perhaps twenty people, small for Jefferson Hunt on a Saturday, but conditions kept people home. In the old days members rode through anything but in those days one didn’t need a van, you hacked to the meet. Parking when the fields were muddy and deep was a sure way to upset a landowner, unless it was an area he or she didn’t fret over.

As the people who bought the land for Crackenthorp still lived out of state, leaving few good pastures to rip up, Sister rode straight as she could, bits of mud and some snow flying off her gray’s hooves.

Hounds turned left, crossing North Chapel Cross Road, now heading west.

The paved road, scraped, mostly thin ice, meant slow down. Rating Lafayette, Sister walked along the road listening intently, for sound bounced around. This northern expanse, above Old Paradise and the old Gulf gas station, tested one’s balance, for the ridges quickly dipped into low fields or narrow valleys, only to rise again. The lower ridges stood at two hundred feet above sea level and then the next set doubled that, and so on until you had the choice to climb one of the true Blue Ridge Mountains or not. This was if heading straight west. Given there were so many dens, outbuildings, good places to duck in, few foxes took the direct mountain route.

Hounds again turned due north; she could hear them well enough to take the coop ahead, which put her into Close Shave, a newer fixture and a good one. Then nothing, nor did the fog lift.

She held up, waiting again. A toodle told her that Weevil and hopefully the pack had run to a collapsing shed that the owners had not yet time to remove. Given that they were restoring much of this old place, that would come. Giving Lafayette a little squeeze, she walked toward the horn notes.

Finally the outline of the shed, part of the roof sagging down, appeared, as did Weevil, the pack, and Betty and Tootie.

Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Kathleen weren’t following in the car this morning because they wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.

“Master, what do you suggest?” Weevil asked.

“We turn back. We might pick up another fox, but this fog isn’t lifting and it feels to me, at least, as though the temperature is starting to slide.”

“Madam, do you mind if I walk through the fields where we can walk? I’d like to avoid the road. A driver might not be able to see us until right upon us. There are three jumps between here and the crossroads. Mr. Franklin knows where the gates are.”

“Of course. I’m glad you thought of that.” She pulled her white-dotted navy blue stock tie higher up on her neck, thinking the dots might soon be covered by tiny snowflakes. It felt like snow.

Hounds, horses, and the field turned south. The old Gulf station, no longer open to the public but still used by Arthur DuCharme, the son of Binky, one of the brothers that used to own Old Paradise, sat near the crossroads. His cousin, Margaret DuCharme, M.D., rode out today with Ben Sidell. The two liked each other, an affection that grew into a romance, which surprised the old guard. Sheriff Sidell came from Ohio, from a working-class family, whereas Margaret was a DuCharme, once one of the richest, most powerful families in Albemarle County. Both Margaret and her cousin hated blood snobbery, plus their fathers never made a penny but sure spent them. Both sat in jail mostly, because they really wouldn’t do an honest day’s work.

Kasmir rode up to Sister. “From time to time we see Arthur. It’s a shame the Gulf station and little café are closed. I’m sure once it was a place for people to be together, like the old post office in the train station.”

“Once it was. Millie, Binky’s wife, made the best grits in the county and her hamburgers filled you right up. Margaret says her aunt, now that Crawford bought everything, doesn’t have to work, doesn’t want to work, and is ashamed of her husband’s behavior. She’s more or less hidden away.”

“Understandable.” Kasmir nodded.

As they rode past the station, the garage door was open. The rest of the building remained closed up.

Kasmir noticed this. “Arthur must be working on someone’s truck or car. He’ll do it for his buddies.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. When I take my truck to the garage it’s Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”

They laughed, finally reaching Tattenhall Station, a few twirling snowflakes lazing down.

The small group eagerly trooped into the station for warmth and food. Along with the fox’s route through Crackenthorp and winding up at Close Shave, the next exhausted topic was the weather. As the members left in small groups, Margaret walked out with Ben. He had trailered his horse on her gooseneck two-horse trailer.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he clicked his belt as Margaret clicked hers.

“Ben, drive over to the station for a minute. Let me see what Arthur’s doing and if he can get me floor mats cheaper than I can.”

Ben did, waiting for Margaret to come back after she stepped out.

She ran back. “Ben, there’s a dead man in there.”

Cutting the motor, the sheriff followed her inside. The driver in a Dinken’s Plumbing truck sat bolt upright in the seat. Given the temperature, decomposition would be delayed. At first sight, time of death was difficult to determine.

Before calling in a team, Ben walked around the back as Margaret turned on lights. Both wore their gloves because it was cold and so as to not leave fingerprints. The rear of the small box truck was empty but Ben noticed a small glitter on the floor. He walked back to Margaret’s truck, picked up his cellphone from the seat, and called headquarters. Then he took the flashlight out of the side pocket on the door, walked back to the plumbing truck. He shined the light on the glitter.

Margaret joined him.

“A gold chip a bit like something off one of the frames at Kathleen’s antique store.”

“Could be.”

“Doctor, any idea how long he’s been dead? Of course the body will go to the Medical Examiner’s but what do you think?”

“It’s hard to tell, given the temperature. It would need to be bitterly cold to freeze a body like this. I’m no pathologist. He’s cold but I doubt he’s gone into rigor and come out. My hunch is, he’s been here long enough for his body temperature to plummet but he hasn’t been here, say, for even six hours or so.”

“No attempt to hide the truck. The door was open to the garage. Given my work, I try to think of possibilities.”

“Of course.” Margaret found Ben’s work fascinating.

“The body isn’t on display but it’s not exactly hidden. Yes, it’s out here where there’s little traffic, but my first thought is, this is a killer very sure of himself. Never a good sign.”

The driver had been strangled with a leather Fennell’s lead shank left in the truck. There was no doubt he had been murdered.