Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 19

February 25, 2020 Tuesday

Hounds fanned out over a pasture rolling down to a meandering creek. O.J., sitting next to Catherine Clay-Neal, riding sidesaddle, observed the chase.

“That coyote always loses us down there.”

Catherine nodded, her silk top hat catching the light. “This wind isn’t helping.”

“No, but at least it’s warm. Bad for scent but good for us.” O.J. urged Blossom forward at a trot.

The two women, riding as silent whippers-in today, watched everything. Spencer, the huntsman, asked them to sit on the hilltops, watch. This particular coyote drove the man to distraction. In ways the animal eluded them like a fox.

Down at the creek the field waited patiently while the huntsman cast again. O.J. and Catherine, a bit to the side and behind them, saw hounds make good every inch of the ground down by that creekbed. Nothing. Truly, it was uncanny.

“You know scent lingers a bit stronger near water,” O.J. whispered. “And water is wider than we see. Depending on the size of the creek or river it’s also under the ground on both sides of the creek. Good for scent.”

“Bottomland.” Catherine smiled, a longtime foxhunter.

They’d been out for three hours. Had a decent run but the high-pressure system, the sun with a light wind made for a great trail-riding day but not a great hunting day.

The senior master, Dinwiddie Lampton III, rode up to the huntsman, chatted, hounds turned for the trailers, a wise decision, as it would only grow warmer, dissipating scent.

O.J. and Catherine walked at a leisurely pace.

“Snow last week. Look at that.” Catherine pointed to a handful of daffodils, happy faces turned up to the sun.

“I don’t even try to predict the weather anymore.” O.J. smiled at the daffodil faces. “I heard that the police pulled in a suspect, Delores’s murderer.”

“We’ll see. The police came to the museum to question me, this was yesterday and I kept my mouth shut…well, until it was made public, but they wanted to know, did we ever use a window service or any repair services?

“I gave them the names. Nothing much was told to me or any of the girls.” Catherine called her assistants “girls.” “But I asked was there thought that this is related to some sort of international art theft? I mean, should we worry at Headley-Whitney?” She cited the museum of which she was the director.

“And?”

“The authorities didn’t know. I mentioned that if it is an international art ring, one would think they would be wiping out England, where much of Sir Alfred’s work remains.” She added, “Stealing paintings is one thing. Killing a fine old lady is another.”

“Obviously you didn’t catch the news this morning, but the man apprehended drives a truck for a big window company. No explanation offered, but the truck had been parked down the street. No one in the area had window work done.”

“The question is, what did Delores know or did she get in the way? Her Munnings was taken. She wasn’t home, so the thief or thieves knew her routine; then why come back and kill her? It’s a terrible thing.”

“It is. Let me switch to a happier subject. I volunteered Long Run Woodford to host the first hunt with Red Rock, Blue Sky, Deep Run, Bull Run, and Jefferson Hunt, and you know why?”

“No, but I’m ready to hear it.”

“We could have them all here for the opening of the Andre Pater exhibit.”

Catherine, a terrific-looking woman, broke into a wide smile accentuating her warmth. “O.J.! How wonderful of you. Just what we need, a museum full of people, and of course the press will have to come.” A pause. “Have you told Dinwiddie, Joe, or Paul?” She named the joint masters.

“No, but Catherine, have you ever known them to pass up a great party?”

Catherine laughed. “No, but this means the women of the club will have a lot of work to do.”

O.J. slyly said, “And so will you.”

“Throw it at me.”

“The evening after the big hunt, which will be at Shakertown, of course, what about a formal dinner preceded by a gathering at the museum? Evening scarlet. If we can pull it off that will even get the TV people out there for the opening and the fashion drama.”

“Do you ever stop?” Catherine turned to smile at her.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Pulling rabbits out of the hat and in this case it’s my hat.”

“Well, Catherine, you are wearing a top hat.”

—

As Tuesday was also a Jefferson hunt, Sister and the Tuesday faithful sat on folding chairs at Heron’s Run. Like in Kentucky, the day proved warm, so everyone sat outside after the hunt, horses munched their hay in the bags, the hounds on the hound trailer sprawled in the trailer loft, an area taking up half of the trailer; it had an indoor ladder leading up to it so hounds had an upstairs and a downstairs. As the day had proved surprisingly fast they ate a cookie then flopped on their sides. Soon most of the pack was asleep.

Ben Sidell, sitting between Sister and Walter, fielded questions about the discovery at the Gulf station last Saturday.

“It wasn’t grisly. Unusual, but not grisly. He was gone. Still no word from the Medical Examiner, but that can take time unless there’s pressure.”

“People being afraid bring pressure.” Alida had figured that out.

“So you still don’t know who was in the truck?” Bobby Franklin mentioned.

“No. No one has come forward to claim him.”

“What about Bell?” Sam, who had ridden one of Crawford’s horses, Trocadero, asked.

“He was an ex-con. Served time for illegal gaming and gambling. Gigi Sabatini knew that and said he had had such good results hiring former prisoners to help with the horses. He’s heard about the James River Horse Foundation. Although Parker served time in Kentucky. It’s funny to think of gambling being a problem there because of the casinos on the Indiana side of the river.”

Kasmir, happily settled in a comfortable folding chair that Alida had brought, shrugged. “Gambling, prostitution, drugs, illegal liquor, the so-called sin crimes. Do the laws solve anything?”

“No,” Sam forcefully said as his brother stared at him for a moment. “All it does is keep people from seeking help. As you know, I’m an alcoholic. Even though what I drank was legal it didn’t mean I wouldn’t drink what wasn’t, and would I seek help? No. Had I been on drugs I truly wouldn’t have gone into rehab. Be on my record forever. I thank God for my brother and my late cousin.”

“Do you mean we legalize everything?” Weevil, being Canadian, found some American ways odd.

“No, but decriminalizing isn’t the same as legalizing,” Ben answered. “Can I take a position as your sheriff? At this time that wouldn’t be wise but do I think we need to change a lot of this stuff? Of course I do.”

“Where would you start?” Alida asked.

“That’s a tough one. Either drugs or prostitution. The violence against prostitutes by their johns or pimps beggars description. No one much cares, and of course so many of the women in the life are on drugs. I will follow the law. That’s what you pay me to do but it doesn’t mean I believe those laws all work.”

“This is what I love about our tailgates.” Sister put her feet up on an overturned red bucket. “We tell one another the truth. We don’t have to agree but we put it out there.”

“I think it’s because foxhunting can be dangerous. We draw close to one another in a way perhaps tennis players don’t,” Betty pondered.

“Any hunt where you dismount, can walk away, your horse is fine, that’s a good hunt.” Kasmir laughed.

“I can tell you something strange.” Ben held his glass. “When we took off Parker’s glove on his right hand, he was missing his forefinger and second finger to the first knuckle. An old wound. When we took the glove off the right hand of the unidentified man, same thing.”

They looked at one another, then Walter spoke. “Surgically removed sometime in the past?”

“I would have to say yes. Clean amputation.”

“What in the world?” Betty exclaimed.

Sister, taking this all in, clearly stated, “That’s too unique not to mean something, not for those two to be connected in some fashion even if they didn’t know each other.”

“Well, Sister, how can two missing fingers be connected?” Betty exhaled. “That’s too bizarre.”

“Bizarre, yes, but I say trust your instincts and don’t expect life to be logical.” She held her glass up to the others as a toast.