Outfoxed

CHAPTER 46

A murdered man, a bear, Cody’s broken arm, and one fine hound killed . . . Jefferson Hunts were becoming a little too exciting. The next Saturday’s hunt would probably find a field clogged with two hundred riders.

Betty Franklin was fine until she got home. Then she suffered a terrible attack of the shakes and Bobby had to give her a shot of brandy to calm her down. Since Betty wasn’t a drinking woman it didn’t just calm her down, it made her comatose.

Jennifer snuck a drink out of the unlocked liquor cabinet when her father wasn’t looking. She, too, retired immediately to bed.

Doug helped Shaker bury Archie in the hound graveyard, a special place surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, a magnificent walnut in the middle.

After that sorrowful duty, he finished up his chores, then hopped in his truck to go to Cody’s. She was in surprisingly good spirits. The codeine helped.

Sister sobbed when they put Archie in the ground but then pulled herself together to write up the day’s hunt. Her journal, meticulous, kept track of weather, winds, condition of the ground, hounds, horses, casts, and lastly people.

The final line in her strong handwriting read, “What will I do without Archie?” She closed the book, opened the back door, and called for the house pets, both of whom were at the kennel, getting the full story from the hounds.

Golly dashed in first. The night was turning cold and besides her catnip sock beckoned. Raleigh lagged behind but a sharp word from Sister motivated him to hurry in.

Just as she closed the door the phone rang. She picked it up and was not pleased to hear Crawford’s voice.

After a few pleasantries, he said, “I have some information that might help the investigation.”

“Why tell me?”

He paused a moment, since he expected Sister to be breathless with anticipation. “Uh, because you might best know the approach.”

“I see.”

“He had come to terms with Peter Wheeler.”

“What?”

“Yes, he’d finally gotten the old man to sell but neither one would tell. But the deal hadn’t closed because, as you know, Fontaine was killed. However, the important part is Fontaine never deposited a down payment with his Realtor, who was Donald Vann.”

Donald was Georgia’s brother-in-law.

“Georgia Vann told you this?”

“I’ll get to that.” He enjoyed teasing out his news. “Fontaine, as we all know, spent money like water. Anybody’s money. He had a silent partner. Donald doesn’t know who it was. But the money never made it to Donald. He thinks Fontaine spent it and was frantically trying to find another twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“He couldn’t have been that foolish.” But she knew he could. Her heart sank.

“Find the partner and you might find the killer.” A certain smugness crept into Crawford’s voice.

“Over twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“If that’s your life savings, yes. People kill for less. Maybe he sweet-talked someone out of their money, promising pie in the sky when he would develop Peter Wheeler’s.”

“I just don’t think Fontaine would develop Peter Wheeler’s. Besides, it’s hardly the place for a shopping center.”

“Homes with a hunting theme.”

“It was Georgia Vann, then?”

“She hinted, so I tackled Donald.”

“I’m sure you did. Well, Crawford, thank you.”

“That was quite a hunt today, wasn’t it?”

“We lost a great hound. One of the best hounds I’ve ever known.”

“Oh, yes.” He’d not given the hound a thought. “By the way, I know with the turn of events you haven’t had time to consider the joint-mastership but will you be making an announcement soon?”

“No, I’m putting everything on hold until Fontaine’s killer is found. If he’s not found, then I’ll address this issue at the beginning of next season.”

“That long? Is that wise?”

“I think it is.”

“Sharing the power now means one season for the joint-master to learn and for people to adjust to him.”

“Picking a joint-master under these circumstances would be troubling. And what if, God forbid, I selected Fontaine’s killer.”

“I did not kill Fontaine nor did I pay to have someone do it. If I were going to kill someone, I certainly wouldn’t do it in such a haphazard manner.” He caught himself, hastening to add, “But I wouldn’t kill anyone. That’s what the laws are for, you know.”

“I didn’t suggest that you killed Fontaine.”

“I know what people think.”

“I’m glad you do.” A touch of acid invaded her voice. “Now let me ask you a question about opening hunt. You nearly passed me. I cracked my whip in front of Czapaka’s nose. Do you know why I did that?”

“To keep me from passing you.”

“Right. But why do you need to stay behind the field master?”

“I don’t know. They don’t always do it in England or Ireland. I mean, if you have a horse that can stay with hounds, you just go. I’ve seen it. I’ve ridden there.” A touch of pride made Crawford smile.

Sister thought to herself, “He must have been strapped to the horse.” But she said, “The territory is different in England and Ireland. We have more forests, more of the wild. Maybe it’s wild on the Welsh border but you hunted the shires. It’s beautiful. Manicured. You can take your own line to almost any hedge or fence. We can’t do that for the most part. If you pass the field master in America, you’re going to run into hounds. That means you’ll ruin the hunt for everybody but most especially hounds.”

“I wasn’t going to run into hounds.” He was defensive and mad now.

“Hell no, Crawford. You were going to run all the way up to Fauquier County.” She was so damn mad herself she said, “Good night.” And hung up the phone.

Her exhaustion evaporated. Anger hit like a jolt of rich caffeine. She stomped into the den, yanked all the topo maps out of their tubes, and unrolled them on the old drafting table Raymond had bought forty years ago because he said it reminded him of Thomas Jefferson.

The maps kept rolling back up, so she picked up silver hunt cups she’d won in shows over the years, any heavy knickknack she could find, placing them on the corners of the maps, which she had arranged in order. Within five minutes the entire opening hunt fixture lay before her, as did Golly, loath to miss the sensation of paper underneath her.

“You’re right on the ravine, Golly. Move back.”

“No.”

Sister gently pushed the cat to the edge of the topo maps. Golly swatted her. Sister swatted right back, so Golly turned her back on her but remained on the edge of the maps.

Sister used her hunt journal to double-check the progress of that hunt. With a blue editing pencil she made a dotted line for the cast and subsequent run. Then with a red crayon she made a dotted line where she thought the pack had split and run. It was by guess and by God, since she hadn’t been following the splinter group, but it was the best she could do.

“Jesus,” she said under her breath.

“He won’t help you,” an irritated Golly replied.

“Sweet Jesus.” Sister traced the red line again. “He was laying the drag as we hunted. I’d thought the drag was laid before, you know, like at four or five in the morning. But look at this ground.” She pointed to a large grayish spot represent-ing rock or stone and Golly, herself now interested, looked. “They ran over rock. They had to have run over rock because otherwise Fontaine would have gone all the way over here. See?” She pointed to a path around the rock outcropping. “And that would have taken too long, plus the killer would have exposed himself passing through the meadow. They stayed in the woods and ravine. Had to. Oh, why am I talking to you, Golly? The killer rode hard over bad territory close to the ravine and then curved toward the hog’s back. But the killer never jumped the hog’s back. I assumed he jumped the jump, tied up the rope, and waited in the meadow. Damn. I should have done this before now. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid!”

“You were overwrought. Besides, it’s a logical assumption. A sensible person would lay the drag with no one around. And a sensible person wouldn’t fly over rock.” The cat put her paw on Sister’s hand.

Sister checked the grandfather clock. “Ten-thirty. Damn. Too late to call Peter Wheeler. I’ll call in the morning and then I guess I’d better call Ben Sidell.” She sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “This narrows the killer down to a good, good rider who knows our territory.” She shook her head. “I’ll call Peter Wheeler in the morning. That’s a start. You know, Crawford was missing for part of the hunt. Said he thought Czapaka was lame but then discovered he had a stone in his shoe. But I can’t believe Crawford could ride that good. Not on the best day of his life.”