Outfoxed. Hotspur

Doug took the rope from Sister’s hand as she picked it up. “Can’t buy a rope like this in Virginia. This is the real deal.”

“What do you mean?” Sister asked.

“Belongs to a calf roper or a steer roper. Rodeo. They use special ropes, special twists in the braid. Who would have a rope like this?”

“Nobody in our hunt field rodeos—I mean willingly.” Sister had to laugh, because a few people performed unintentional bronc riding out there.

“Let’s walk out. Head down farther and climb out the west side. It’s easier,” Doug suggested, since a massive rock face with an overhang and ledge loomed before them.

“Cora. Archie, D-puppies, and the children. You may be the best pack of hounds in Virginia. You’re certainly the only detective pack.” Shaker praised his charges.

“Thank you,” they cried in unison.

“And you were impressive.” Sister petted Raleigh. “Never saw anything like it. The hounds and Raleigh stayed behind those foxes at a steady pace.”

“The foxes knew.” Shaker’s voice rang with conviction.

“Seemed to.” Doug shook his head.

As their bodies recovered from the run the cold set in. They zipped up their coats while sliding down in the bottom of the ravine, staying to the west of the creek running through it.

“Whoever did this sure knows the territory,” Doug said.

“That eliminates eighty percent of the hunt field.” Sister laughed. “They’re so busy showing off for one another they don’t look where they’re going. God help them if they ever have to get back on their own.”

“Be easy to slip off. Especially during opening hunt. Clever. Damnably clever.”

Doug walked beside Shaker, since the hounds behaved impeccably.“I can’t figure out how whoever it is got Fontaine to go with him.”

“Fontaine could have stopped to go to the bathroom.” Sister thought Fontaine was doing more of that lately, but then men did as they got on in years. He wasn’t that old, though.

“He stopped and another fellow stopped with him. Then led him off? That sort of thing?” Shaker breathed out two straight lines of mist from his nostrils.

“Partly. But Fontaine would come back to the main group. He wouldn’t get sidetracked by the splinter pack.”

“We were moving fast that day. His hearing wasn’t as good as yours.” Doug paused. “Course, no one hears as good as you. You’re uncanny … part fox.” He smiled at Sister. “Sounds bounce around out here. He might have followed the hounds that sounded the closest. He might not have heard the main pack. We really were flying. I mean, people ran out of horse the first hour. I watched them pull out,” Doug remarked.

“When did you have time to watch the field?” Shaker grumbled.

“When I reached Soldier Road. We were running so hard I headed straight for the road. I hoped I could turn the pack but they turned on their own. Almost one hundred eighty degrees. But they were heading back before that because I passed riders on the farm road early on. The pace was scorching.”

“Maybe Fontaine turned back,” Shaker said.

“Gunsmoke. No way.” Sister shook her head.

“He’ll be fine,” Doug said. “Had to call the vet this morning about Trinkle. Asked about Gunsmoke.”

Trinkle was a bitch with uterus problems. She was going to have to be spayed, a pity, as she had great bloodlines and was a good hound in her own right.

“Maybe Fontaine stopped to help someone. Someone good-looking,” Shaker added.

“That’s the best theory yet,” Sister agreed. “And if he or whoever stopped in the woods, they wouldn’t be that easy to see. For one thing he wore that gorgeous black weaselbelly with the white vest. Made for him in Ireland. God, he always was one of the best-turned-out men in the hunt field. If he’d been in scarlet, he might not have slipped away so easily.”

“Huh.” Shaker was considering all this as they climbed upward.

“If you want to kill someone and you don’t want to get caught, I guess you plan for years or you plan pretty intensely and wait for the wind to blow in your favor. I don’t know if things had turned out differently, if the young entry hadn’t bolted onto that drag, that Fontaine would be alive. But whoever did it was waiting. The drag was brilliant. If it didn’t work, he would have tried later. Maybe something in the hunt field. Maybe something somewhere else. This strikes me as planned but still trusting to luck. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“Sister, what you’re trying to say is our killer is one bold son of a bitch.” Shaker, breathing hard, was relieved to finally reach the top of the ravine.

They were at the back side of the meadows surrounding Hangman’s Ridge. The ridge was a quarter of a mile in front of them to the west. They’d made a lopsided semicircle around it. Soldier Road was to their right, the bridge spanning the ravine and the creek immediately behind them. This early in the morning, the roads icy, there was no traffic.

“Only a mile back home.” Shaker smiled, as he intended to stay in the meadow. The walking would be much easier.

“I suppose Ben Sidell will question everyone that hunted. Someone is bound to have seen Fontaine stop.”

“Maybe,” Doug answered Sister.

“You know last hunt season I noticed he’d stop to relieve himself. Maybe he was getting prostate problems. I suppose they can occur at about any time.”

“Wouldn’t know.” Doug laughed.

“You will.” Shaker laughed right back. “Then they go up in there with a Roto-Rooter.”

“Ah, the indignities of age.” She laughed along with them.

“But not there, Sister, not there.” Shaker laughed even harder.

“Honey, that’s where your indignities begin.”

They laughed the whole way back to the kennel, keeping in this vein.

Later when Sister walked back in the kitchen, Raleigh, who knew where lazy Golly would be, snuck up on her and blew in her ear.

“P-s-s-t,” she spat.

“Scares the pee right out of me.” Raleigh giggled, then told the cat everything as Sister called the sheriff.

“You knew about this. You left me knowing what the foxes and the hounds were going to do?”The cat was desolate.

“You snooze, you lose.”

“I’ll get you for this, Raleigh Arnold. I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”

CHAPTER 42

That same evening the clouds lifted, creating an odd sight: dark cumulus, Prussian blue overhead, with a thin band of turquoise twilight underneath.

Everyone on the farm was behind on their chores because of the long hound walk and the sheriff coming to pick up the rope. He asked questions about everything, which they expected. No doubt he would check today’s reports with Saturday’s, searching for discrepancies or new information. No one could accuse him of not being thorough.

Just as Sister and Doug were bedding down the horses they heard a trailer rumble down the drive.

Raleigh hurried outside, leaving Golly inside. He let out a perfunctory bark, then shut up. Golly was so upset at missing events she spent the remainder of the day following Raleigh around, to his amusement, not to hers.

“I’ll see who it is.” Sister slid back the heavy metal stall door, a mesh to allow cooling breezes in the summer.

In winter Doug or Sister could throw on an extra blanket. Keeping a horse cool in summer’s oppressive heat proved far more difficult than keeping them warm in winter.

The thin band of turquoise above the mountains slowly turned purple.

Sorrel Buruss cut the motor on the Chevy dually truck and stepped out into the cool air.“Sister, will you take Gunpowder and Keepsake? I should have called but I don’t know. I can’t seem to keep anything straight in my head and I know Fontaine would want the horses well cared for and used. They’ll sit around in the barn and that’s not right.”

“Sorrel.” Sister put her arm around the pretty woman’s shoulders. “I’ll give them the best of care. We’ll hunt them and when you’ve had time to think things through if you want to sell them, I will.”

“I’d like to donate them to the hunt.” Her lower lip trembled.

“Let’s wait and see how much money you have left when all is said and done. Okay?”

Sorrel, a well-groomed woman even in grief, cried. She couldn’t speak.

“Doug can unload. Come on. Let me get you a cup of coffee or a drink if it’s too late for coffee. All right?” As Sorrel nodded her agreement, Sister walked back into the stable. “Doug, will you unload Gunsmoke and Keepsake? We’ll be caring for them for a while.”

“Sure.”

Once in Sister’s kitchen, the fire roaring in the huge fireplace, Sorrel relaxed a little. “The funeral is tomorrow and I couldn’t stand one more deeply sympathetic condolence. One more person at the door. God, I must be awful. The kids are at Mom’s. They’re upset but at the same time kind of excited, all the food, flowers, people.”

“I often wonder what stays with them. The telling detail. I don’t know. I remember a great deal from my childhood and yet when my brother was alive he’d recall the same event not so much in contradiction but with a different emphasis. It used to make me wonder about my mind.”

“I gave up on my mind a long time ago.” Sorrel half smiled, grateful to be out of the gloom of her own home. “I apologize for just dropping in on you. I could have called… . I just went to the barn and pulled those guys out of their stalls. At least I remembered their halters and lead. I have moments when I can’t remember anything. I’m moving but I’m not functioning. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” Sister offered her some cookies, then sat down herself.

Raleigh reposed by the fireplace. Golly sat on the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get through tomorrow.”

“You will.”

“How did you do it? Twice.”

“I told myself that the men in my life wouldn’t take kindly to a wife or a mother who fell apart in front of God and everybody.”

“I guess we just go on—I mean, I don’t even know why I’m here. I mean here as in alive. I don’t seem to have a purpose. I never did. I had a purpose as a wife and a mother but I can’t see anything. I—”

“Sorrel, maybe we don’t have a purpose. Maybe we’re here to just live. But whatever, right now you go through the motions. The substance of your life may be revealed later.”

“You have a purpose.” Sorrel’s face was so innocent and so open.

“To live.”

“You have the hunt club.”

Sister smiled.“Yes. I doubt that philosophers or even those people eager to live your life for you would find that much of a purpose but I have Nature, I love God’s creation, and this is a way to appreciate it.”

“You’ve lived a fabulous life.”

“Well, let’s just say I may not have done much good in this life but I haven’t done much harm either.” She smiled, pushing another cookie at Sorrel. “Eat. I know it’s hard but if you don’t your blood sugar will go haywire and you’ll feel like you’re on a roller coaster. I’ve gotsome nice cold chicken. How about a chicken sandwich with lettuce, pumpernickel bread?”

“Yeah!” Golly shouted.

Sister sternly eyed the calico.

“I don’t think so, thank you. Board … What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“Sister Jane, can you think of anyone who would kill Fontaine?”

After a considerable pause Sister said,“I can think of plenty of people who might want to kill him but none who would.”

“He lived every single second while he was here.” Sorrel smiled ruefully. “I adjusted. I guess you could say my flame didn’t burn as bright as Fontaine’s.”

“No. Your flame burns steadily. It has to, Sorrel; you’re a mother. Men can leave. They can leave us flat out. They can die. They can run off with other women or they can show up on their thirty-seventh birthday and declare they want to climb Mount Everest before they’re forty. We’re tied to the earth. Once the children are grown I suppose we can do those things, too, but how do you break a lifetime of holding back?”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“I think a lot. I’m alone much of the time or I’m doing chores. My mind is always on an adventure.” She picked up a cookie, putting it in Sorrel’s hand. “Okay. You don’t have to eat it but look at it. I’m making a sandwich even if you won’t eat it. Take it with you.”

“There’s enough food in my house to keep a brigade full.”

“Then I’m making one for myself.”

As the older woman buttered the bread she chatted and listened.

Doug knocked on the back door, then came inside.“Horses are fine, Mrs. Buruss. I’ve turned your trailer around.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s a great trailer,” he said admiringly.

“Only the best. You know how he was.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.” His handsome face radiated honesty.

“There isn’t anything else you can say. Thank you, Doug.”

“Did Sister tell you? We found the rope. We think it’s the rope.”

Sister turned her silver head to face Doug.“I was getting to that.”

Both Sister and Doug explained how they’d found the rope, where they’d found the rope, and what it looked like.

“Sounds like Fontaine’s King’s rope.”

CHAPTER 43

Four hundred and sixty people crammed into the pre-Revolutionary Episcopal Church. Built in 1749, laid brick with white lintels, the unadorned structure sheltered by ancient spruces and hickories exuded an inviting presence. It didn’t take a particularly active imagination to envision colonists tying up their horses, doffing their tricornes, or adjusting their Sunday hats if female, to cross the threshold into the vestry.

Every member of Jefferson Hunt attended, many genuinely sorrowful. Crawford, not at all sorrowful, escorted Martha. He walked to the grave site in the churchyard as well, just to make sure the walnut casket would be lowered into the ground.

Martha, keeping her misery in check, wiped her eyes from time to time. Crawford kept his eyes down much of the time.

The Franklins sat together. Jennifer held a lace handkerchief to her eyes, not to dab tears but to hide the laughter. Dean Offendahl, one of her high school boyfriends, in the choir, would wink at her. Betty, outraged, headed straight for Dean once the service was over. A funeral might be a good place to fall in love but it wasn’t a good place to flirt. Jennifer, unaware of her mother’s mission, walked with Cody and Bobby to chat with Sister, Doug, and Shaker. Together they walked out to the parking lot, a light northerly wind mussing everyone’s hair.

They stopped out of respect as the funeral director ushered Sorrel and the kids into the black limousine. Fontaine’s sister from Morgantown, West Virginia, and her family followed in the next black limo.

“She’s holding up remarkably well,” Betty quietly remarked.

“You’d think she’d be glad to get rid of him,” Cody said in a low voice.

Doug firmly said,“Cody.”

She shrugged.

Sister walked over next to her.“If love were logical, you would be one hundred percent correct but love isn’t logical. If it were, no one in their right mind would marry. For all his faults, she loved him. She loved him from the day she met him in college.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I suspect you have mixed emotions yourself.”

This terse sentence from Sister cut to the bone. Cody wondered if Sister knew about her affair. Unlike most people, Sister Jane did not feel compelled to tell people what she knew. A slight chill bumped down Cody’s spine.

“Would you like to ride with me?” Doug offered, hoping for the chance to talk to Cody alone before the gathering at the Buruss home.

Cody agreed and once the door was closed she blurted out,“God, I’d give anything for a drink right now.”

“No.”

“I won’t, I won’t. But funerals make me shaky.”

“Cody, did you ever notice a special rope in Fontaine’s stable?”

“What do you mean?”

“From out west. King’s ropes, I think. Stiff. Used to rope steers and calves.”

“No.”

“Think hard. Maybe he hung it in the tack room or inside his trailer. You’d notice it, as it’s different from the stuff you buy at the co-op.”

“No. I’d show up three times a week, saddle up Keepsake, and that was that. In and out.”

CHAPTER 44

Alone in bed that night, Sister scribbled on a yellow legal pad. She was reconstructing everything she could remember from the time she first saw Fontaine until he vanished. Next to her was her red leather-bound hunt diary. After each hunt she wrote the events in her diary. Reading about hunts years later delighted her.

She and Raymond used to sit in bed together writing in their respective hunt diaries. He’d fuss at her because she’d use a fountain pen and he was afraid she’d spill ink on the sheets. She never did.

Outside the night was crystal clear as only a November night can be.

Golly rested on the pillow next to her. Sister thought of it as Raymond’s pillow. Raleigh curled up in front of the fireplace in the bedroom, the aroma of cured hardwoods filling the room.

The more she thought about opening hunt, the more disturbed she became. Why kill Fontaine in the hunt field? Surely it would have been easier to kill him somewhere else.

The risk in killing a human being when near to a hundred mounted followers as well as foot followers bespoke either boldness or frenzy. Granted, the foot followers remained on Hangman’s Ridge with Peter Wheeler. Foot followers almost always camped out at the Hangman’s Ridge fixture because of the vistas and because they could eat their breakfasts, drink coffee or roped coffee, and catch up with old friends.

The killer knew all this, of course, but what puzzled her was why take such a chance? It was a hell of a chance. Wouldn’t it have been easier to lure Fontaine onto a back country road and shoot him? Or poison him?

On one level she was furious, white-hot with rage, that someone would commit a crime inherhunt field.

On another level, she was frightened. The swiftness of the murder, the cool appraisal of the situation, and then the lightning strike, pointed to an exceptionally courageous person.

She’d listened to the arguments and theories from friends. It had to be a foxhunter, one who really knew the sport. Well, that was obvious. Others said it was planned but impromptu, which is what she, Shaker, and Doug pieced together once down in the slippery ravine.

Still, there was an element of elegant revenge. The killer picked the hunt field for an emotional charge. The hunt field meant the world to Fontaine but it must also have meant something for the killer or for the killer and Fontaine together.

She also thought it would decimate her hunt field. What a pity, for the season had promised to be a great one, one of those magical seasons that rolls around every fifteen to twenty years.

She’d canceled Tuesday’s hunt since the funeral was Wednesday. Tomorrow the regulars would be out. Saturday would tell the tale because it was an especially good fixture, Beveridge Hundred.

She turned out the light but couldn’t sleep. Every time she’d turn Golly would grumble. Finally, she clicked on the light to readAnna Karenina. Tolstoy was a bit of a hunting man. Not so good a hunting man as Turgenev, Balzac, or Trollope but still she liked reading those authors who understood and appreciated hunting. Then, too,Anna Karenina, complex, shifting, profound, never loosened its grip on her, not from the first day she’d picked it up at age seventeen. Of course, then she hated Karenin. Now she understood him perfectly.

In the stable, snug under their blankets, the horses dozed. Gunsmoke woke with a start. He usually lay flat out and snored. He whinnied.

Lafayette awakened.“Okay?”

“Yeah. I keep feeling that rope hitting me.”

“I wouldn’t think to look for a rope over a jump. Not when hounds are running,” Lafayette said.

“It was high.”

“When did Fontaine leave the field?”

“He pulled off for a toot after helping Lottie Fisher. He’d pull the stuff out of his jacket, sniff, wait a minute, and then rejoin everyone. People thought he was going to the bathroom. Course, sometimes he did.”

“No one called him over?”

“Not exactly. He sat for a minute to catch his breath, too. Hard run. Anyway, I saw Rickyroo in the distance. Doug was ahead of the main pack; then I heard the pack split. Off to the right and behind us I heard hoofbeats. Fontaine turned my head away because he started moving toward the main pack. The horse and rider were behind in the woods but moving fast. I wonder if that person beckoned him? He headed toward the split pack after that. You could really hear them, too. No one called out to him. I hear better than he does. Did. I could hear the horse in front of me but now way ahead—and the woods were thick. Fontaine was following. I’m certain of that.”

“Weird.” Lafayette’s eyes were closing.

“I remember one thing before I hit that rope. Behind the fence line, back in the woods, a horse snorted.”

CHAPTER 45

There’s a ghoulish streak in humankind. An airplane crashes in a field. People rush to witness the disaster and be horrified by body parts strewn over a mile or so. Traffic slows at a car accident not simply because a police officer demands it but because drivers and passengers can’t resist straining to catch sight of blood and maybe even guts.

Perhaps it’s a fascination with death or a secret relief that this time it’s not you. Whatever, people are strange in a way other animals are not.

More people arrived at the Beveridge Hundred fixture than had gone to opening hunt. Sister, Shaker, Doug, Betty, and Cody were given their .22 revolvers back Friday night, the evening before the hunt. None of them had fired the shot that killed Fontaine. In fact, none of the guns had been fired at all.

Since Fontaine was killed by a .38, Sheriff Sidell had tested Shaker’s .38, as well as Betty’s and Cody’s, since they were carrying that caliber in a holster under their coats. Those guns hadn’t been fired either.

After a short acknowledgment of Fontaine’s passing, Sister Jane nodded to Shaker, who cast hounds into an old house ruin at the rear of the big house. Beveridge Hundred, one of the first plantations built after Europeans pushed into the piedmont, had weathered the fluctuations of finance and wars over the centuries. Outbuildings crumbled during bad times, some were rebuilt during the good times, but the big house was kept running come hell or high water—and both had come to Beveridge Hundred.

Hounds poked around the old outbuilding, fanning out until Diana said,“Here.”

As she was a young hound, normally other hounds would wait for a tried-and-true hound to second the find but Diana had earned the respect of Cora and Archie. They honored her find and within minutes the hounds, huntsman, whips, and field rolled over the sweeping river-bottom meadows of the three-hundred-year-old estate.

The fox executed a large, loopy figure eight, then ran the same territory again in a circle. Sister figured they were on a gray, a distant relative of Butch and family, no doubt.

The loop became tighter and on the third run, now at speed, the fox ducked under a timbered farm bridge to his den. Hounds raced to the den, dug, howled, and celebrated their prowess. The gray was already at another exit just in case the huntsman didn’t call the hounds off.

Shaker dismounted, praised his hounds, and blew triumphantly on his horn.

“I put the fox to ground,” Dragon bragged.

“We all put the fox to ground.” Archie acidly bumped the younger hound, who stumbled.

“I was first. I am the fastest hound in this pack.”

“And the most foolish,” Dasher chided his brother.

The argument progressed no further, for the air, sparkling, and the temperature in the mid-forties suggested another fox might be found if they didn’t tarry.

Shaker trotted the pack a quarter of a mile away and then cast them back toward the big house. They picked up a line, then dropped it. Picked another and dropped it. Scenting became spotty until a solid squatty hound stopped in his tracks.“Hey, what’s this?”

Archie inspected.“Not deer. I vaguely remember this.”

“Bear,” Cora said definitively.

“Ah, well, you know the fox scent is evaporating and I don’t recall us ever being given a lecture about bear, now, do you?” Archie had a twinkle in his kind, brown eyes.

“Well, then!” Cora’s stern waggled a moment and she was off, the whole pack behind her gleefully chasing a bear, gleefully bending the rules because even hounds need to cut a shine now and then.

Doug rode ahead as first whipper-in. Betty rode on the left and Cody on the right. Territory was wide open, rolling hayfields and corn stubble.

The jumps, mostly post and rail or stacked logs, had sunk over the years so even the most timid negotiated them.

On and on they ran under a climbing November sun, pale gold. A thin line of cedars obscured the next field but they soon charged through that, around the edge of freshly planted winter oats and into a manicured woods. Virginians called cleaned-up woods“parked out.”

A roar and a shout from Doug did not halt hounds. Shaker pushed his horse harder while Betty rode into him. Sister realized something was unusual. She held up her hand to stop. Behind her those who couldn’t control their horses bumped into those who could, which sent curses into the air, looks of reproach, and a few apologies.

A black bear, displeased at the attention, stood on her hind legs. She would have broken the neck of any hound who jumped her or torn the life right out of any who attacked.

“Scum!” she bellowed.

Diana, not a coward but not a fool, stopped, as did most of the other hounds.

“Leave it!” Doug shouted while struggling to keep Rickyroo under control.

“I’m out of here!” Rickyroo reared up.

Doug hung on for dear life as Betty and Outlaw rode up. Outlaw, a brave fellow, had no desire to stay in close proximity to the bear but he held his ground as Betty cracked her whip.

“I’ll kill every damn one of you!” the bear threatened.

“Oh my God.” Ricky, utterly terrified, bucked, reared, shimmied sideways, and eventually dislodged Doug, who landed flat on his back.

The bear thought this interesting and she lumbered toward Doug, who rolled over, trying to get to his feet.

Hounds gathered by the fallen whip.

“Back off. Back off. We didn’t know we were that close!” Archie snarled.

“By the time I’m finished with you you’ll never hunt bear again.” Her fangs glistened and she snapped her jaws rapidly open and shut, making a clicking sound.

Shaker pulled his .38 but the bear, on all fours, headed toward Doug and he was afraid to fire. He fired overhead, which frightened the hounds, who associated the sound with stop-this-instant. The hounds moved to Shaker except for Archie, Cora, Diana, and Dragon.

Betty squeezed Outlaw hard and the sturdy quarter horse leapt past the fray and came behind Doug as he managed to get to his feet.

“Back off!” Archie growled as the bear stood up again, ready to swipe the horse.

Doug grabbed Betty’s outstretched arm and using Outlaw’s motion, he put both feet together and bounced once on the ground to swing up behind Betty.

Diana, Cora, and Dragon circled the bear, hoping to confuse her, but she was intelligent as well as angry. She lunged for the horse burdened by two riders and Archie sprang up, grabbing her paw. Cora, Diana, and Dragon struck from behind. Distracted, the bear forgot about Betty, Doug, and Outlaw. She took her free paw and smashed down on Archie’s head. He didn’t loosen his grip. She bashed him again then threw him off like an old rag doll.

The three other hounds let go as the bear ran off. Shaker, once certain that Doug and Betty were all right, hurried to his anchor hound.

Archie lay on his side, blood pouring from his mouth.

Cora lifted her head and howled, a cry of pure anguish, for she loved old Archie. The other hounds followed their strike hound.

Shaker knelt down, joined by Doug.

“Oh, Archie.” Shaker felt for the hound’s pulse.

Tears rolled down Betty’s face. She’d had no tears for Fontaine when she rode up on him after being called in by Shaker. Perhaps it was shock or perhaps in her mind Fontaine wasn’t worth her tears but Archie was.

Shaker lifted the hound, carrying him back to his horse. Archie’s broken neck dangled. Hounds ceased crying and obediently followed the huntsman, although the air was filled with sorrow.

Archie was draped in front of Shaker’s saddle. He mounted up, holding the hound with his right hand while he held the reins with his left.

He rode up to Sister, who was about five hundred yards away but in the cleared-out woods. She and the field had witnessed everything.

“Ma’am.” He could barely speak.

Sister’s eyes clouded. “I think we’ll call it a day, Shaker.”

A field member offered Doug his horse, which was proper. Anytime a staff member loses a horse, a member of the field should always dismount and offer theirs. Although most old-line foxhunters know this, few do it, since staff ride hard.

“Thanks. I’ll walk back to the trailers.” Doug touched his cap.

As he walked back, head hanging, Doug wiped away his own tears. It wasn’t until Beveridge Hundred came into view that he realized he hadn’t seen Cody. She’d been clearly in sight even as they barreled through the line of cedars. He’d lost sight of her at the field of winter oats but then there’s no reason one whip should see another.

However, the pack ran tight. He didn’t think anyone had straggled off.

He asked around as he passed trailers and people untacking their horses. No, she wasn’t back yet.

He walked over to Sister.“Cody’s not back.”

Sister glanced around. She’d been so distraught over Archie’s death she hadn’t counted her whips or her field.

“Ask Shaker to blow her in.”

Doug walked fast now to the hound trailer. Shaker had placed Archie on the front seat of the truck, a towel under him and an old horse blanket over him. Although the hound was dead Shaker somehow felt he had to be covered.

“Cody’s not back. Sister wants you to blow for her.”

Shaker strode to a small rise, held the horn to his lips, and blew three long, long blasts. It didn’t bring Cody but it brought Jennifer.

“I’ll go look for her.”

“No. Not with the bear out there,” Doug commanded her.

Crawford sensed the problem and willingly pitched in.“Let’s unhitch my truck; it’s four-wheel drive. I think we can get back there.”

“We’d better do it,” Shaker grimly agreed, as did Sister, who joined in on the hillock.

As the people turned back, Jennifer stayed on the rise.“Hey, wait!”

Cody, walking arm held against her waist, was leading Motorboat, her chestnut. Jennifer ran out to greet her. Doug followed.

“What happened?” Jennifer took Motorboat’s reins.

“Bear ran right by us. Scared the shit out of Motorboat and me, too. I hit the ground.” She sheepishly grinned.

“Thank God that’s all,” Sister whispered to herself.

St. Just, perched on top of the stable weather vane, said nothing. He was making a point of shadowing the hunt.

A silent pack of hounds rode back to the kennels.

Finally Cora said,“There will never be another Archie.” She paused.“We must have an anchor hound. It’s a hard position to play, kind of like a catcher in baseball. Not much glory. A lot of work and you’ve got to know the batters.”

No one spoke.

Later as the hounds bedded down, curling up with one another, Cora filled the stillness. Every hound’s head lifted as she said,“Diana. You’ll learn as you go.”

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 anothertwenty-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 twentyfive 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 representing 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.”

CHAPTER 47

At seven-thirty the next morning Peter was seated at his kitchen table, Rooster at his knee.

“Woman accuses her sister of stealing her child at birth.” He rattled the newspaper. “Says the infant was spirited out of the hospital.” He looked over the top of the paper. “Twenty years ago.”

Sister laughed, as did Peter.“I guess she just noticed.”

“Uh-huh.” He laughed again. “Are you going to make me one of your famous Jane Overdorf omelettes? I’ll read to you as you work.”

“Lazy ass.”

“That’s right. I’m an old man and entitled to many privileges.”

She greased the skillet, chopped cheese, broke six eggs into the skillet.“Crawford must be cracked.” She tossed the broken eggshells into the sink.

“Well, only partially. Fontaine did top Crawford’s offer. He did promise to bring me cash. I said I wouldn’t sell. Think he kept stringing someone along? You know, he had their money, told them he had me in the bag. That kind of thing. I say Crawford is rich enough to pay someone to kill Fontaine for him. That’s what I say.”

“Do you want onions in your omelette?”

“No. Wouldn’t mind a pickle, though.”

“In the omelette?”

“Where else?”

“You might like it reposing alongside your golden, fluffy omelette.”

“Sounds good.” He returned to the newspaper. “Ah, here’s one for you. At two o’clock a man wearing a Donald Duck mask robbed First Guaranty Trust in Elkins, West Virginia. The teller said …”

She flipped the omelette over as Rooster whined.“Yes.” Peter didn’t reply. She flipped the omelette onto a plate, turned around to serve him. “Peter. Oh, Peter.”

CHAPTER 48

Word of Peter Wheeler’s death splashed over the county like a winter squall. The animals spread the word, too.

Inky, on her way back from a night’s successful hunt, was told by her brother.

“I relied on his chickens,” Comet mournfully said.

A harsh caw overhead silenced them. St. Just landed on a blue spruce branch, his weight dipping the branch downward. He hopped to a larger limb, cocked his head to one side, and sneered,“The only thing more worthless than a gray fox is a red fox.”

“You’ll make a mistake someday. We’ll be waiting,” Comet challenged him.

“Reynard thought the same thing.” St. Just’s feathers gleamed blue-black; his long beak shone like patent leather.“I led the human to his den. I’ll see every one of Target’s family killed and I’ll get Target, too. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t cooperate with them.”

“Which human?” Inky asked.

“I’ll never tell.” He tantalizingly dropped to a lower branch almost within reach.“Wouldn’t you just like to break my neck?”

Comet inched forward; Inky stayed put.

St. Just waited until Comet was within striking distance. Then he lifted off, swooped low over the fox’s head, and taunted,“Death to foxes.”

“There’s been enough talk of death.” Inky shook herself.“Archie was killed.”

“Heard.” He watched St. Just disappear to the east.“No raven or blackbird is a friend to foxes but he’s evil. I’d enjoy hearing his neck snap.”

“He’s smart.” She thought a moment.“Do you think whoever killed Reynard and Fontaine was smart?”

“No, and we’d be a lot better off if he was. Dumb people are dangerous. Much more dangerous than smart ones.”

CHAPTER 49

Face flushed, Crawford leaned over the long table filled with paper samples.“You’re a board member. We’ve got to do something.”

“How many other board members have you spoken to?” Bobby, wary, tidied up the paper books.

“Everyone,” came the sweeping response.

“What did everyone say?”

“Georgia Vann and Lottie Fisher backed Sister Jane. Isaac Diamond sat on the fence. He said he thought I had a lot to offer but recent events have been too upsetting. Any major decision should be put on hold. Billie Breedlove is out of town and—”

Bobby held up his hand.“I get the picture.”

“No, you don’t get the picture. Now more than ever members need to know that strong leadership will continue. And we need a sound financial basis. We need an investment portfolio.”

Like most businessmen Crawford assumed he could apply business practices to foxhunting but it never quite worked that way—not so much because people were profligate but because any enterprise where Nature is one’s partner is fraught with insecurity. Nature doesn’t give a damn about profit.

“You can’t go head to head with Sister Jane.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m trying to go behind her back!”

“Crawford, that will only make matters worse. If the master says she wants to wait a year, then she waits a year.”

“She’s old. She could pop off at any time.” He slapped the table, rattling the pencils.

“Her mother lived to be one hundred and two. Her aunts made it into their nineties and everyone kept their hair, their teeth, and their faculties. You’ll die before Sister, especially if you don’t calm down.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“For Chrissake, someone’s got to tell you how to behave. You can’t just stroll into a place and expect everyone to hop to your tune.”

“I’ve been here seven years.”

“And you haven’t learned a damn thing.” Bobby lost his temper. “What you’ve done for seven years is try to change this entire community to suit you instead of learning how to fit in.”

“Fit in? No one gives a straight answer. No one around here seems to be in a hurry to accomplish a damn thing. People accept bizarre behavior and say”—he changed his voice to a fake southern accent—” ‘That’s jess his way.’ No wonder you lost the goddamned war you’re always talkingabout. You’re a bunch of idiots!”

“Mr. Howard, this conversation is at an end.” Bobby, furious but calm, stood up.

“What the shit? You’re too good to hear this. You know it as well as I do. Nothing changes here. You might as well be set in concrete.”

“What changes is we can no longer call one another out for duels. Please leave.”

“Leave? I didn’t say you were stupid.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Betty, who had been in the back office, hurried out.“Bobby.”

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll take it outside. I won’t wreck the place.”

Crawford, naturally, would no more fight in the back alley than he would ever learn: When in Rome do as the Romans do.

“That’s not why I came out. Peter Wheeler died this morning. Sister was with him. He was reading the newspaper,” Betty said.

Bobby’s face registered this news. He loved the old man, as did everyone.

“The land! What’s going to happen to the land?” Crawford blurted out.

“Get out of here.” Bobby put his hand between Crawford’s shoulder blades and literally propelled the sputtering man out the front door of the printing shop.

“You can’t treat me like this.”

“You’re lucky I don’t knock your teeth out. Get out and stay out.”

Crawford, halfway through the door, held his hand out to brace it against shutting.“Don’t get high-and-mighty with me. Your oldest daughter is a coke whore and Jennifer’s not far behind, you fat pig!”

Fat, he was, but also brutally strong. Bobby smashed his left fist into Crawford’s stomach. He followed with a right to the jaw that nearly lifted Crawford off his feet. The tanned, well-dressed man was rocketed out the door, which Bobby slammed and locked.

Betty, hands on hips, said,“Well done.”

“Goddamned son of a bitch will probably sue me. Jesus, I could kill him. You were right. You were absolutely right. It would never work. Why I ever supported him …”

“It seemed right at the time. How’s your hand?”

“Hurts.”

“Come on. I’ll ice it down.”

They heard the big Mercedes’s throaty purr. Then the car roared away.

“I’m surprised he didn’t call an ambulance. It would have helped his case.” Bobby, overcome with rage mingled with grief, put his arm around his wife. “Is that what they call our daughters? Coke whores?”

CHAPTER 50

Walter Lungrun stood over the coroner—towered is more like it, for the county coroner, Gaston B. Marshall, stood five feet five inches in his shoes. Combative, shrewd, and careful, Marshall had the full confidence of the sheriff.

Peter’s scalp was pulled down over his face as the tiny saw bit through his skull. Gaston would harvest tissues, peering into the miraculous body, finally stilled. He never lost his respect for the organism although he often had little respect for the soul that had inhabited it.

“Damn good shape for an old man. Usually this generation, liver’s shot. Booze fueled social life. Still does, I guess.”

As Gaston snipped and clipped, Walter observed with detachment. He had loved Peter but as far as he was concerned Peter had already vanished or gone to the next sphere. He wasn’t really sure and wisely kept it to himself. Patients feel more secure if they think their doctor believes in God.

After the autopsy, Gaston scrubbed up.

“Appears natural,” Walter said.

“Yes. A heart attack pure and simple. I doubt the pain lasted for longer than a second or two. You saw the left ventricle.”

“What’s left of it.”

“Still, I treat each autopsy as though a murder may have been committed. Keeps me on my toes and we both know there are drugs that can create, if you will, a natural-appearing death. Each time there’s a medical advance there’s also an advance in murder—for the more intelligent. The less intelligent, the stone, bone stupid will bludgeon, crush a skull with a rock, splatter with a baseball bat. The next level up of the primates prefers a sharp instrument, a slit throat, a stab through the abdominal cavity. A grade above that I’d say that pistols are the preferred weapon. It’s when we start dancing with the poisoners that the game changes. And quite often those safecrackers that leave few fingerprints are women.”

“I thought women killed less than men.”

“Well, I think that’s true but I suspect they kill more than we know. We just don’t catch them. Remember the famous Alfred Hitchcock episode? Oh, hell, you’re too young, Walter, but maybe you saw it on TV as a rerun. You know the one where the husband has been killed with a blunt instrument. The wife is all worry and concern. She had a shank of lamb in the oven and decides not to waste it, so she feeds it to the policemen. Oh God, that’s a good one. Killed him with the frozen lamb, don’t you see?”

“I have seen that one. Hitchcock was twisted.” Walter laughed.

“I wonder. Maybe we all are.”

“Gaston, you’re in a business where you see the worst. You and Ben Sidell. I guess criminal lawyers do, too. Has to affect your worldview.”

“Yes, it does. When you see a five-year-old child whose face has been battered to pulp, she’s been strangled, raped, and then the corpse has been abused, you do kind of lose your faith in the goodness of man. Although if anyone could have restored my faith in the goodness of men it would have been Peter Wheeler. A gentle man, a gentleman. He probably saved more children than the Red Cross. Unwanted kids from rich families, unwanted kids from poor families, he’d teach them to ride, teach them to hunt. Today people don’t do that anymore, especially men. I guess they’re afraid someone will accuse them of being a child molester. Pretty much we’ve gotten away from taking care of one another.”

“We’ll not see his like again,” Walter agreed. “He was good to me. He was good to everyone.”

They strolled down the well-lit corridor to Gaston’s office filled with African violets.

“Thank you for allowing me to observe.”

Gaston’s smile, crooked, was nonetheless appealing. “Just wanted to see if you knew your stuff, kid. Last time I remember you you were staking out the end zone as your private domain.” As Walter smiled Gaston continued: “I want you to look at something.” He reached under his desk, pulling out aplastic bag. “Just took this out of the cooler.”

Walter opened it. Reynard was inside. He carefully removed the fox, stitched up after his autopsy.

Gaston explained,“Ben Sidell was going to give him to Amy Zolotou”—he mentioned the vet—“but I asked that she come here so we could examine him together. You know, very little work has been done on foxes because they’re considered vermin. Vets don’t know much… . I mean they’re canids.” He usedthe proper medical term, not “canines.” “But they aren’t identical to dogs. We have a lot to learn about these little stinkers.”

“He’s beautiful.”

“Healthy. Stomach was full of corn. He’d just eaten. Either heading back to his den or just in it.”

“Be awfully hard to bolt a fox from his den unless the killer had a Jack Russell.”

“So whoever it was waited for him to return. Sat up in the early-morning hours.”

“Upwind. If he’d smelled a human he’d have scampered off. Damn shame.” Walter stroked the glossy head.

“He’d been cooled but not frozen. I don’t think he was dead more than six to seven hours before he was dragged.”

“Have you talked to Jane Arnold?”

“Yes. She said in order for the scent glands to be effective—she said on his pads and by his anus—he’d have to be fresh. If he went into rigor mortis, a hound could smell the fur, of course, but the scent really comes from the pads and especially the anus or urine. I never knew that.”

“She’d know. The killer knew, too.”

“Put in the refrigerator, I’d say. Then hidden and picked up somewhere during the hunt. Might even have been packed in ice to ensure freshness but not frozen. It’s a damned queer thing.”

“Does Ben want to keep him for evidence?”

Gaston shook his head.“No. He’s got our report. Photos. Amy Zolotou was good, by the way. Good vet. His head and his brush are in pretty good condition, considering he was dragged.”

“Do you mind if I take him?”

“No. What are you going to do with him?”

“Go to the taxidermist. Thought he could mount the head and the brush.”

“You might not want to identify this fox, Walter.”

“I won’t.” His eyebrows lowered a moment. “But seems a crime to waste a good fox.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Gaston put Reynard back in the bag. “I’d say that this fellow was my most unusual subject.”

CHAPTER 51

The red taillights of Walter Lungrun’s car glaring like banshee eyes receded down the driveway. They were the only pinpricks of light in a night raven black.

Sister watched from the mudroom. She was grateful that Walter had stopped by to offer sympathy over Peter’s death and to tell her he’d seen the fox’s body. He carefully did not mention standing in on Peter’s autopsy.

While biologically on schedule, Peter’s death certainly was untimely in other respects. She relied on his wisdom, his sense of people.

Raleigh stuck his nose in her hand.“Don’t worry.”

Rooster, brought home from Peter’s, was so sad it made her heartsick to see him. Even Golly was nice to him. She’d brought the chickens home, too.

She patted Rooster’s head, then flicked her black-and-blue wool scarf off the peg, slipped into a worn but warm olive quilted vest, pulling on a barn coat with a flannel lining over that. She and Raleigh walked out the back door.

The mercury had plummeted into the low twenties. She walked past the stable, the dutch doors shut against the cold. She heard Lafayette snoring, which made her laugh. She’d never met a horse who could make as much noise sleeping as her trusty gray partner.

Two hundred yards away she passed Doug’s cottage, the pale straw-colored leaves on the Indian corn attached to the front door rustling in the light wind. She heard laughter within. Cody’s car was parked on the other side of Doug’s truck. The farm road ran between Doug’s cottage and Shaker’s bigger old-fashioned Virginia farmhouse on the right, a hundred yards farther down. A single light shone from the upstairs bedroom, the lace curtains pulled on each side. He was reading Patrick O’Brian sea stories, no doubt. Shaker, like millions of others, loved those tales. And like millions of other men he felt he’d been born in the wrong time. Luckily for Shaker, his work was physical and occasionally dangerous. Most poor sods chained in front of computer screens could only dream of adventure or they lived for the weekends where they did what men are supposed to do: run, jump, climb, battle the elements and sometimes each other.

She walked under the all?e of hickories. The front drive was lined in maples. Much as she adored the intense fall color, she liked this back farm road with the hickories. It had a safe feel and in the summer the leaves formed a canopy over the dirt road. The hickories shorn of their leaves guarded the lane like dark, symmetrical sentinels.

The lane forked. To the left it ran up to the base of Hangman’s Ridge, snaking finally up to the great oak itself. To the right it curved into the hound graveyard.

Sister pushed open the wrought-iron gate, smooth on its hinges. In the middle of the square under the walnut tree reposed a larger-than-life stone statue of a hound running. On the front it read: REST, DEAR FRIENDS. WE WILL HUNT AGAIN SOMEDAY.

On each side of the base, a bronze plaque was bolted and each hound’s name was engraved, birth date and death date.

The plaques, representing forty years of Jefferson Hunt hounds, were filled. Newer plaques were affixed to the wrought-iron fence. The last one, bearing three names, had Archie’s name freshly carved.

A stone bench under a crabapple tree nestled in one corner. Sister sat down, Raleigh at her feet.

A fat snowflake twirled earthward, soon followed by another and another. The dark sky now had a pinkish cast.

Raleigh leaned shoulder to shoulder with Sister on the bench.

“Orion and Thurman, Bachelor and Button, Laura and Grinch.” She sighed. “I was young then and oh that seems so long ago, Raleigh, and yet like yesterday.” She read aloud other names. “Yoyo, Chigger, Splash, and Schooner. What good hounds. How lucky I’ve been in this life to have known such hounds. To be able to stay healthy, to have good friends. I think foxhunters are as nutty as golfers. You can’t think about much else, really.” The snow dropped thicker and faster. “You know, Raymond wanted to be buried here but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. She dragged him to Hollywood in Richmond. He’s with his kin and two presidents, John Tyler and I can never remember the other one. He’d rather have been with the hounds. Ray Junior is on the hill. Someday I’ll be with him. I think about moving Big Raymond. Once his mother died I guess I could have but then—” She puther arm around the glossy black shoulders. “It seems I should leave well enough alone. I guess they’ll plant Peter with his people. They’re all up by Monticello. It’s funny how families come back together in death. So often they couldn’t do it in life but once dead, people who hated one another are laid side by side. If that great day comes and the tombs give up their dead, can you imagine the shock? You pop out of your grave and there’s your brother, Fred, who you would happily dispatch all over again. Ha.”

“Something’s outside the cemetery.”

She hugged him closer.“Archie was the best. Brave and true. Diana, Cora, and Dragon didn’t back down but poor Archie paid for his courage. If you’d been there, you’d have jumped right in. Raleigh, you’re young and may you live a long time. You’ll be with me at the end. I promise. Golly, too, spoiled-rotten cat.” She smiled, determined not to cry. “I look at this ground and four decades of my life are here. It doesn’t seem possible. Losing Archie doesn’t seem possible. And Peter Wheeler. If you could have seen Peter in his forties and fifties. What a man. God, what a bizarre time.” She shivered, not from the cold. Sniffled. Collected herself and said with quiet determination, “I’m going to lay a trap for our killer. I can’t tell a soul and I refuse to kill a fox. I’d like to get the killer for killing the fox as much as for killing Fontaine. Damn him.” She paused. “Thanksgiving hunt. If only the foxes will cooperate.”

As she said that Inky came out of hiding.“Don’t chase me,” she said to Raleigh.“I’ll help.”

“I’ll tell the hounds.”

Sister, startled, blinked.“You.”

Inky blinked, then scampered away, leaving perfect fox prints in the gathering snow.

CHAPTER 52

A long polished table left just enough space to squeeze in and out of one’s chair. Vin Barber wanted a conference room like the conference rooms the ritzy Charlottesville and Richmond lawyers had. But Vin couldn’t get along with a plethora of partners and so kept his practice to himself and his son—more to himself, since his son was an unimpressive specimen.

Vin was, nonetheless, a good lawyer whose specialty was real estate and conservation, the two being allied.

Sitting at the head of the table, his bald head bent over the long legal briefs encased in heavy light-blue paper, spectacles down his nose, Vin could have walked out of a Daumier lithograph, minus the wig and robes, which would have improved his appearance.

Sister sat on his right and Bobby Franklin sat on his left. As president of Jefferson Hunt, Bobby needed to attend the meeting.

Having just heard the last will and testament of Peter H. Wheeler, they were stunned.

“Remarkable!” she exclaimed.

Bobby folded his hands together.“Yes, but can we meet his conditions?”

“I’d damn well try if I were you,” Vin, characteristically direct, said.

Bobby leaned across the table toward Sister.“Live to one hundred.”

“God willing.”

“No joint-masters.” Vin put his hands behind his head. “You don’t really want one anyway, do you? Even if Crawford wrote big checks, can you imagine talking to him on the phone every twenty minutes? He’s high-maintenance. Like to run you wild.”

“We can manage without a joint-master but operating expenses don’t diminish, as you know. Inflation affects us as well as General Motors.” Sister grasped the economics of the club, which is more than some masters. “We’ll find a way. But let me be clear: All of Peter Wheeler’s estate is held for Jefferson Hunt so long as I live and so long as I don’t take a joint-master. And he has left an annual income of fifty thousand dollars a year from his portfolio to maintain the farm.”

“Correct.”

“That’s not the tricky part.” Bobby, like most fat people, sweated easily and he was sweating now.

“I know.” Sister frowned.

“The tricky part is that once you have passed on, Doug Kinser must be the next master. Jesus, the board will hit the roof.”

“Because he’s black?” Vin questioned.

“For some, I expect their hemorrhoids will flare up,” Sister dryly replied. “But no, the real reason is the board of governors wants to govern. This removes from them the right to elect their master annually. Not so much a problem now but quite the issue when I’m dead and gone.”

“Doug would be the first black master in the country. In the world,” Bobby thought out loud. “Course, he’s only half black.”

“People don’t see it like that.” Vin tapped the eraser end of the pencil against the blue cover. “If you look the tiniest bit black, then you’re black.”

“Like the old race laws. If you have one percent Negro blood in your veins, you’re Negro.”

“Virginia had laws like that?” Bobby was appalled.

“Not just Virginia. Many states. Midwestern states. People feared mixing the races.” Vin paused. “The idea was like to like, I guess. I remember my grandma saying to me, ‘Stick to your own kind.’ There’s a logic to it,” he honestly added. “I can’t say that I agree with it but there’s a logic to it.”

“Bobby, our bylaws state that the master must be elected by the board of governors, who are in turn elected by the membership.”

“That’s what I’m saying. As long as you live, we don’t have a problem.”

“We do if I get decrepit.”

“You can still be master. You can still control the kennel and the hiring and firing. Someone else can be field master. We don’t have a problem. Oh, we’ll hear some quibbles about how you should have a joint-master but I can deal with that and so will others,” Bobby confidently predicted.

“Do we have to tell the membership of this?”

“Well—” Bobby unfolded his hands, making a tepee out of them.

“No one need know the full contents of this will so long as you enact its provisions,” Vin added. “There’s enough money annually for you to pay a salary, let’s say, put a first whipper-in at the house and he has to care for it. It could be quite comfortable.”

“Yes.” Sister’s mind was roaring along at a mile an hour. “Vin”—she leaned toward him—“I don’t mind if this will is read to the membership, but can we wait until after Thanksgiving hunt? It’s only two weeks away.”

“Of course. We can do anything you say. Do you accept the terms of Peter’s will?”

“I do and may God rest his soul. There won’t be a day of my life that I don’t think of Peter and thank him in my heart.” She couldn’t finish. She broke down.

Bobby reached in his jacket, bringing out a linen handkerchief with an F embroidered on it.“Here.” His eyes watered, too.

She wiped her eyes.“Another question. Peter wishes Doug to succeed me, which really is the best plan—”

Bobby interrupted.“But he has no money.”

“We’ve got a few years left to figure out how to make sure he does have the resources to run the club. There are bigger obstacles. First, we must convince the club that the title of hunt secretary carries almost as much weight as master.”

“That’s saddling Doug with a hell of a burden,” Bobby blurted.

“It may be but it also ensures that those with a big ego and big pocketbook like Crawford might contribute generously if elected as hunt secretary. Look, once this will is read, no one but a bloody fool will try to fiddle with it. We need that land. It’s good land, too. We couldn’t possibly buy it. Not at today’s prices and it’s close to a hundred acres. The club will fall in line.” She held up her hand. “We’ll have to hear this, that, and who shot the cat but they’ll fall in. My question to you, Vin, is twofold: What if Doug should predecease me? Secondly, what if Doug wereconvicted of a felony?”

This got both men’s full attention.

Vin cleared his throat.“If Doug predeceases you, then you have the right to name your successor with the stipulation that it be someone Peter taught as a child.”

“And would we be within the spirit and scope of Peter’s will if, say, Doug committed a felony? I should say was convicted of a felony. Then would I have the right to name a successor? Again, someone who Peter taught.”

Flipping up pages of the will, Vin read intently. He cleared his throat again.“I think you would not be in violation of this will.”

Bobby, bolt upright now.“You think Doug killed Fontaine?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m asking a reasonable question. Personally, I hope Doug does succeed me. He will be a fine master once he gets the hang of it. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Of course, they had.

CHAPTER 53

The motor purred as Sister Jane and Bobby Franklin sat in her Durango in the parking lot of Vin Barber’s law firm. Over a foot and a half of snow had fallen last night, the temperature stayed low, and the skies threatened more snow.

“Talk to me.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

That directive meant tell me everything and I know plenty as it is.

Bobby sighed.“When I thought you were searching for a joint-master I supported Crawford Howard. Let me hasten to add that was a grievous error and I have since repented of my ways.”

“In florid fashion, I’ve heard.”

“Uh—yes. Anyway, Fontaine found out—not that I was actively campaigning for Crawford. I’d only verbally committed to his support and I hadn’t yet lobbied other board members. Well, Fontaine threatened to take away his business from me and to make sure others shunned my press. As you know,Fontaine did use us for most of his needs. The income from Mountain Landscapes has been steady. Crawford threw me big jobs but I wasn’t sure if all of his jobs would outweigh Fontaine’s jobs and vice versa. I believed Fontaine’s threat. I was between a rock and a hard place.”

“Let me get right to the point, Bobby, and I ask this with no malice intended: Did you kill Fontaine?”

“No. I’d much prefer to kill Crawford.”

“That seems to be the prevailing mood.”

“About me?”

“No, about Fontaine’s death. When asked, people say they wonder why Fontaine, or they say exactly as you did. Curious.”

Bobby squirmed in his heated seat, the warmth toasting his back.“How do I turn this thing down?”

“Flip it off.” She reached over and cut off the heated-seat button. “The warmth in the car is sufficient, although I love these heated seats.”

“I carry my own heat with me.” He smiled sadly. “Now look, Sister, do you honestly think I would or could kill Fontaine Buruss because he threatened my business?”

“No, but I had to ask. But you could kill him if he threatened or harmed Cody.”

Bobby’s head rocked back a moment. “Why do you say that?”

“You tell me.”

“Rumor.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Of course not.”

“All right, then, let’s look at this from another angle. Do you think Cody had an affair with Fontaine?”

Bobby really squirmed in his seat now.“He was old enough to be her father almost.”

“Since when has that stopped a man?”

A sickly pallor flooded Bobby’s broad face. “Yeah. Is this relevant?”

“For Chrissake, Bobby, if I didn’t think it were, do you think I’d sit here for the sheer pleasure of making you uncomfortable?”

“I know. I know.” He gripped the handguard as though the vehicle were moving. “Do I think Cody had an affair with Fontaine?” An agonizing silence followed; then he spoke much too loudly. “Yes. Goddammit. Yes. I could have killed him for that. She’s made enough of a hellhole of her life as it is without him digging her in deeper.” He caught his breath. “Rehab and therapy. Betty and I have to go once a month along with the kids—I’m finding out stuff I wish I didn’t know. Cody would sleep with anyone to get cocaine—more than one at a time. I’m amazed she’s alive and not suffering from AIDS. And Jennifer has always worshiped Cody. That was misplaced admiration. I hope we’ve stopped this before shereallyfollows in Cody’s footsteps.” He wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “If they were sons, I’d have thrashed them within an inch of their lives.”

She swallowed.“Bobby, we’ve known one another for a long time. Children go their own way and even if it’s the wrong way they have to learn. Cody had sense enough to put herself through rehab. She’s looking for a good job. Restaurant work brings her into contact with much of what she needs to avoid. It’s going to be difficult for both of your girls but Jennifer has an earlier start on cleaning up. Everyone knows Cody’s history here. At least Jennifer’s misdeeds are on a smaller scale. Cody’s back with Doug and if anyone can help her stay on the straight and narrow—it’s him.”

“I’m very grateful to him,” Bobby mumbled. “I behaved badly this summer. I even rejoiced when they broke up.” He stared out the window, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You know, I’m ashamed of myself. I was worried about what people would say.”

“Color.”

“That didn’t help. Money. You know a father likes to see his daughters married to men of means. Right now that seems—superficial.”

“It’s the way we were raised. And it’s not far wrong. Love is potent. Money is omnipotent. No father wants to commit his daughter to a poor man. Have you said anything to Cody about Doug?”

He shook his head.“No.”

They sat watching a few isolated flakes fall, presaging more to come.

“Maybe you should talk to Cody.”

“That’s what Betty says.” He turned his face toward hers. “I don’t want to upset her. I’m afraid she’ll go backward.”

“Admitting you were wrong about Doug isn’t going to upset her.”

“Actually, I was thinking about Fontaine. Asking her.”

“I don’t know. Done is done.”

His voice, barely audible, shook.“I don’t know if Jennifer will make it. She’s in trouble before Cody was—at her age—or, maybe I see it… . I didn’t see it with Cody. Jennifer’s still under my roof. I don’t know what to do.”

“Jennifer has your full attention. I suppose negative attention is still better than no attention. She’s always been in Cody’s shadow. I thank God I passed through adolescence before the words ‘self-esteem’ were uttered.” She sighed.

He brightened, then laughed.“God, it’s such bullshit.”

The gloom lifted. They sat in silence again.

“Early snow. A long winter, I think.”

“I love winter.” He smiled. “Always loved Peter Wheeler’s Christmas tree. It will be lonely without him. They don’t make them like that anymore. People don’t have time for one another anymore.”

“We do.”

“The club. It’s an obsession that keeps us together … but yes, we’re lucky that way. Except for Fontaine’s murder. I still can’t get over that. During the damned hunt.” He slapped his leg.

“I never thought I’d be facing anything like this.”

He checked his watch.“I’m glad Peter made the land contingent on you remaining sole master. It’s better.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You’re right. I don’t thank you enough. I don’t thank Betty either.”

“Buy flowers. Go home and kiss her.”

“Think I will.”

“Two more quick questions. You usually lead hilltoppers. I don’t see what’s behind me but you do. I hear Fontaine used to stop at least once during a hunt.”

“He did.”

“I assumed this was to go to the bathroom. Now I think maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did you ever see him go to the bathroom? Not that you’re looking but sometimes you men will stop and hold one another’s horses.”

“No. I never saw him. I’d see him veer off and then he’d be back with us within fifteen minutes. Sometimes took longer if we were on a hot run.”

“Two thoughts occur to me. He always found the field. He knew hunting. He knew territory. He knew the shortcuts and he knew not to foul the line of scent. Is it possible he stopped for an assignation?”

“Pretty short one.”

“That would appeal to him.”

“Well—I guess, but wouldn’t we see a woman leave, also?”

“Not if she were a whip.”

He winced.“Pretty damned irresponsible.”

“As I said. Done is done. It’s a theory, not a fact, but my mind is turning over everything. If he wasn’t stopping to go to the bathroom, he had to be doing something he didn’t want the rest of us to see.”

“Tell you what. Let me ask the men. Maybe someone did see him.”

“Good. It’s easier for you to ask than for me. The next question is, when do you want to call a general membership meeting to announce Peter’s bequest? If we don’t do this, it will leak out. I’ll be besieged with calls. You’ll be besieged with calls.” She poked his biceps. “Bet you rue the day you were elected president.”

“Sometimes. Got a calendar?”

She flipped down the glove compartment. A calendar was fastened to the inside.“How’s that for service.”

He put on his reading glasses, the black heavy frames, square, so ugly they bordered on fashionable.“Friday. I’ll get the phone tree started. Or we could just meet after hunting Saturday.” He stopped himself. “No, horses will be tied to the trailers. Everyone will be thinking about their horses and about food. Friday. It’s awfully short notice but I bet we’ll get a good turnout—all things considered. Time?”

“Six. Let’s get them right after work. Ask Betty to organize coffee—maybe some cookies or something.”

“Okay. Whoo, coming down now. You know I’ve put over a hundred twenty thousand miles on that old Chevy Blazer.” He nodded toward his smallish four-wheel-drive vehicle parked next to Sister’s car. “Still runs like a top and no rust. When the engine finally dies I think I’ll just pop in arebuilt one.”

“I think you should donate it to the club. We’ll auction it off as Wonder Wheels.” Her voice rose in imitation of a salesman.

“We’ll make a fortune.” He leaned over, kissing her on the cheek, then opened the door. “Course, you could bronze it and use it as sculpture.”

Driving back home, Sister remembered Peter had also left the club his 1974 badass pickup with the 454-cubic-inch engine in it. Another old Chevy.

She listened to Rachmaninoff’s Symphony in E-flat on the way home.

CHAPTER 54

Understanding one’s emotions isn’t the same as conquering one’s physical desires. Every day Cody Franklin fought her profound thirst for alcohol, specifically tequila. The hours, the tears, the laying bare of frailties during her intensive week of rehab and subsequent therapy couldn’t prepare her or anyone for the body’s craving.

She could do without cocaine, marijuana, skin-popping heroin. But to spend the rest of her life without a drop of liquor seemed a cruel sentence. She’d dream of standing at a neon-lit bar, all cool aluminum washed in blue light. The bartender, Dionysus in disguise, would slide a glass of straight tequila to her. Margaritas were for wimps. Tequila sunrises were for trendies. Straight tequila on the rocks. She’d wake up sweating, mouth dry, hands shaking. Then she’d haul herself out of bed, pull a seltzer water out of the fridge, and drink. But she craved tequila.

One day at a time. Like a mantra she’d roll that phrase over and over in her head until it made no sense at all but sounded soothing.

She realized that the first day an alcoholic takes a drink, gets hooked, is the day emotional development stops. By her own reckoning she was eighteen years old. She’d smoked some weed before that, junior high school, popped the top of a beer can, but she started methodically drinking at eighteen, her first year in college.

She also realized that she was self-centered. Like many young people she assumed other people thought like her. One of the good things to come out of the rehab was the knowledge that just wasn’t so. Other people were other people. She was making an effort to see the world through other eyes, making an effort to grow up at last.

She gave herself a pep talk as she left Real Estate Virginia. Turned down again, she trudged through the snow. She knew she couldn’t make a career out of training horses. She was good but there were plenty better. She could exercise a horse, she could give a green horse confidence, but she couldn’t put the spit and polish on a horse to go into the showring. She could bring along a sane foxhunter but that was a small market and people still believed they could find the perfect foxhunter for $5,000. Those days were long gone but no one would ever accuse a Virginian of keeping up with the times. Indeed, they prided themselves on not keeping up with the times. The times were for the rabble. Virginians were eternal and eternally above such silliness.

The cold air made her nose run. Great. If anyone saw her they’d say she was on coke again. She crossed the downtown mall, heading for the parking lot where her wheezing car awaited her.

She passed the side street where Fontaine’s office was, a three-story Federal brick building painted beige with burgundy shutters. On a whim she turned down the street, walked up the steps, freshly shoveled and swept of snow. Inside, the office door was open. Martha Howard sat at her desk, landscaping plans unfurled.

“Hi, Martha. How are you doing? I was in the neighborhood.”

“Come on in.” Martha stood up. She had guessed at Fontaine’s relationship with Cody but didn’t pry. It was none of her business.

“It’s strange—without him here.”

“Yes. Very. Would you like coffee or tea? How about a soft drink?”

“Coffee. I’m chilled and I don’t know why. I walked here from Real Estate Virginia. It’s not that far.”

“First bitter of the winter. Always takes me that way, too.” Martha poured coffee in a mug with a horse’s tail as the handle. “One or two?”

“Two and milk, please.”

Martha delivered the coffee, then sat down with Cody on the sofa.“How are you doing?”

“Okay. And you?”

“A lot of changes. It’s hard to believe Fontaine is really gone. Right now it seems like he’s on vacation. Ireland. He loved Ireland better than any place. He had more energy …” Martha’s voice trailed off. She rose, poured herself a coffee, reached into the white cabinet, and brought out a box of cookies. She sat back down and they both nibbled on the dark-chocolate-covered cookies. “I always thought that women had more energy than men and in the main I think they do but Fontaine was in a class by himself. Has the sheriff grilled you yet?”

“Yes. I don’t think they know any more than when they first started questioning people.”

“Maybe. I suppose it’s too early to tell. People think Crawford did it. He hated Fontaine. He was missing for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Bad timing. He didn’t kill him, though.”

“He could have paid someone else.”

Martha laughed, an unexpected reaction to Cody.“Never. Crawford is too smart to ever let emotions foul up his life. If he were caught, he’d be dragged through a court of law… . Not Crawford. Too cold-blooded and that was not a cold-blooded murder.”

“I never thought of that.” Cody wrapped both hands around the coffee mug to warm herself. “What are you going to do?”

“About Crawford?”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking about that. I meant here. What will happen to the business?”

“I think Sorrel will sell it. Right now she’s in no shape to make a major decision and I told her I’d finish up the jobs outstanding. If I had the money, I’d buy it. Fontaine was hardly regular in his work habits. He was good at bidding jobs and I learned a lot from him but a strong work ethic was not part of his makeup. At the risk of bragging, I kept this business on track. I love the creative part of this. Love design. I know I could make a success of this.”

“Crawford would buy it for you. He’ll do anything to get you back.”

“Is that your opinion?”

Cody, not the most socially conscious creature, said,“Yes. Other people think that, too, but I guess it’s hard to trust someone after they’ve—well—I’m kind of going through that myself only I was the one who screwed around.”

Martha lowered her eyes for an instant.“What are you going to do?”

“About Doug?”

“No. About your life.”

“I don’t know. No one will hire me. I guess they’d hire me to dig ditches. Places want drug tests now. I don’t mind that.” She sighed. “What I mind is everyone peering at me as though I’m under a microscope. I think half of the people want me to fall on my face and the other half don’t.”

“Life.” Martha smiled, a tinge of sadness in her face.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard. The receptionist at Real Estate Virginia, Marcy Talmadge, took my r?sum? and blew me off. I remember that sorry bitch from high school.” She ate another cookie in defiance.

“No one forgets anything around here. It’s the reverse of California.”

“Maybe I should move there.”

“No.” Martha quickly added, “I mean, it’s beautiful. I can’t make a decision like that for you but I think there are so many lost people there.” She measured her words. “What did Fontaine mean to you?”

“Me?” A look of pure surprise crossed her beautiful features.

“You.”

“Fun. Never knew what he’d do next. And he was generous.”

“To pretty girls.” She stopped, thought, then added, “Actually, he was generous to most people. He had a way about him. He lived for the moment. He never thought about the consequences of his actions. I wish I could be more, uh—present—without getting into the trouble he did. “ She exhaled. “I never leave the house without an umbrella, Handi-Wipes, and a box of Band-Aids.”

“That’s probably why Fontaine liked you so much. Opposites attract.”

“I don’t know. I always thought he hired me to get back at Crawford, discovered I was good at managing the office, the clients, reading blueprints, scheduling jobs and workers, and counted himself lucky.”

“He was lucky. Until the end. Say, Martha, I meant it. Don’t you think Crawford would buy this business for you?”

“I don’t know. I’d hate to be beholden to him.”

“What if you worked out some kind of buyout over time? I mean if you two don’t get back together.”

Martha appraised Cody.“It’s a possibility.”

“Because if you don’t go out and bid new landscaping jobs, you’ll fall behind. You can’t wait until the company is legally yours.”

“Isn’t it amazing how your mind works when you stop drinking?”

“I’ve wasted a lot of time.”

“Think how you’d feel if you dried out at sixty-two. You haven’t wasted all that much. Besides this will give you a checkered past, which will make you more fascinating to the stickin-the-muds. Plenty of those around here.” Martha picked up a napkin, placing it under her coffee mug. “Do you want to work here?”

“Yes.”

Martha squared her shoulders; her voice was warm but authoritative.“You know, I believe we could work together but I have to know something. Tell me straight. Did you sleep with Fontaine?”

“Yes, but didn’t everyone?”

“I didn’t.”

“My mother didn’t.” Cody laughed.

“What was the attraction? I’d think to someone your age he’d look, well, old.”

“Yeah, a little. He taught me stuff. How to dress and what to drink. Not that I’ll need that anymore. He paid attention to me and he’d give me money sometimes. If I’d fall behind on the rent or get messed up … he took care of things.”

“You didn’t feel that you betrayed Sorrel?”

“No. He betrayed Sorrel. I was along for the ride.” A trace of bitterness, a whiff, lingered in the air.

“Did you sleep with him while you were with Doug?”

“Doug harped on me. Nagged. Once he smashed my bottle of tequila, you know, the kind with the worm in it.” She drew in a deep breath. “I cheated on him. Hell, I cheated on everyone.”

“There’s enough money in the till for me to hire you for four months. Not a lot but better than the last job you had. Maybe we can keep this company going. Start Monday?”

“Deal.” Cody held out her hand.

Martha shook it.“Deal.” She smiled. “Think Sister will cancel tomorrow?”

“No. Takes a hurricane or blizzard to stop her. She’ll call this snow a ‘dusting.’ ”

They both laughed.

CHAPTER 55

Deep in the wood a crisscrossing of mountain lion and coyote tracks attracted Inky’s attention. She’d left her own delicate prints in the snow, a tighter track than the red fox’s. As this was her first snow she hadn’t realized how tired she would get. She abandoned the idea of dropping down into the cornfields. She circled behind a cairn. A mouse had to be in there somewhere. She was right.

Nibbling on her breakfast, she heard the horn far away. Hounds could move better in the snow than she could, so she started for home, a short quarter mile away.

A soft hoot stopped her.“Inky. Coyote coming this way and the hounds are on him.”

“I’ll hurry.” She talked as she ran, Athena flying slowly overhead.“Did you have a good night?”

“When the weather’s bad I hunt the barns. Eight mice.”

Impressed, Inky said,“I’m satisfied with one.” She reached her den, sitting down outside it.“This stuff makes me tired.”

“Don’t venture far from your den in deep snow, Inky. It can be fatal. Sometimes the snow will get an icy crust on top. That’s not so bad but you can slip and slide halfway to China.” She chortled.“Wings are a big advantage.”

“I’ll let you know when I sprout some.”

The horn sounded a bit closer, maybe two miles away.

“They cast behind Foxglove Farm.” Athena perched on a low limb, her head turned nearly upside down.“Didn’t take long to pick up the coyote. They run straight as a die. You’d best be careful of them. They’ll eat your game and run you out, too. Right now there’s enough for everybody but during a famine the coyote will be your enemy. Never forget that. Not so good for the hounds either.”

“I’d think it would be so easy. They stay on the scent and just run along.” Inky blinked as Athena shook some snow off the branch and the snow fell in her eyes.

“A good hound figures things out. If you zig and zag and circle back, a good hound thinks about it, casts himself or herself until picking up your scent again. If all hounds do is run coyote, then all they need to be is fast. They don’t have to solve problems. Sister fears the coyote. If he runs you foxes out, then generations of breeding for special characteristics in hounds will go down the drain. People will breed for nose, drive, and speed. They won’t need brainy hounds.” Athena noted Inky’s crestfallen face.“Don’t fret. There aren’t that many coyotes here yet and as I said, it won’t be a problem until there’s a shortage of food. Besides, when Mr. Coyote starts snatching the house pets from suburban manicured yards, you’ll hear a fuss. Next thing you know the laws will change and folks willbe out there hunting coyote with guns. That, too, presents problems. I tell you, Inky, the first weekend of deer season there are more guns out here than there were at Gettysburg.”

“What’s Gettysburg?”

“Human foolishness. I’ll tell you about that some other time. When the snow melts why don’t you store up corn, oats, whatever, just in case we get a big storm. Squirrels have a point, you know.”

“Thank you. I will.”

The horn was within a mile of them now. They looked over at a rocky foothill to the Blue Ridge Mountains shining in the distance, the very edge of the Foxglove Farm territory. The coyote was trotting along the top of the boulders of the foothill.

“Is he in danger?” Inky asked.

“No. A coyote runs only as fast as he needs to run. When he’s ready he’ll vanish. Although he’d better not let Cora or Dragon get too close. They are very fast hounds. They’re way back, though. Hear them now?”

And the faint music of the hounds drifted toward them.

Inky listened intently.“Will the coyote kill me?”

Athena swiveled her head back to focus on Inky.“Don’t give him a reason. Don’t challenge him. You’ll be all right. You have more to fear from St. Just now than from coyotes.”

“Exactly how did Target kill his mate?”

“Hubris. Conceit. Two summers ago, the summer of the grasshoppers, Target was sunbathing on Whiskey Ridge and she dive-bombed him. He leapt up and caught her. Wasn’t asleep, you see. She brought it on herself.”

Inky’s beautiful eyes seemed even more lustrous as she sat in the snow.“Athena, do you know everything?”

She laughed.“No, my, my, no, but I watch, I listen, and I learn. If you listen to older animals and watch everyone around you, you learn from their experiences, too. You can even learn from humans.”

“Really?”

“They’re a case study. You see they’ve removed themselves from the rest of us and they’re suffering. They’re losing practical intelligence. Just one example: Humans are fouling their own nest. Every bird, every den dweller knows you can’t do that. But they are. I don’t mind that they’ll pay for it. I mind that we’ll pay for it with them.”

“All of them?”

“Not all of them. Some are still close to us. But I fear their knowledge will be discounted by the city dwellers. I fear in another generation or two it will be lost and then the earth will shudder.”

“I hope not.” Inky felt frightened, for she respected the power of the earth.

“I hope not, too, little one, but they grow more and more arrogant. I tell you a common house cat—and I do not esteem cats, most especially that smart-ass, Golly—but even Golly has more wisdom than humans.”

“Even Sister?”

“Sister is one of us. Peter Wheeler was, too, and Shaker and Doug. They live within Nature’s rhythms and despite human frailty they are respectful. But Peter has gone back to earth. And what of the young ones? I just don’t know.” Athena glanced back at the boulders. The coyote had left and she saw the silhouette of the pack, in a line, crossing the rocks.“There’s good hound work for you.”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Inky smiled.“Athena, when the snows started I was at the hound graveyard. Sister and Raleigh were there and she was hurt. She was mourning Archie and the human dead, too. And she said she was going to lay a trap on Thanksgiving hunt. She didn’t say what but when the snow melts I’ll tell Aunt Netty and Mother and Father. I don’t know what we can do but we can be out and ready.”

“I’ll stay up on Thanksgiving, then. I wonder what she’ll do?”Athena sighed, her plump chest pushing out, revealing the light-colored feathers under the long silky ones.“I’m going home to bed. I suppose Babs is there.” Babs was the screech owl in the next tree.“She’s a dear friend, you know, but that dreadful voice.” Athena shook her head then lifted off as Inky turned and scooted into her den.

CHAPTER 56

A sudden wind swirled snow in Lafayette’s eyes, up into Sister’s. Shaker, just ahead, struggled down a steep deer trail snaking to Edmond’s Creek. The coyote trotted along the rocks, then bounced down to the bottom of them and into the creek. He should have been easy to track but the hounds couldn’t find scent and Shaker couldn’t find tracks.

By the time Lafayette reached the bottom of the incline, Shaker reached the other side of the creek.

Lafayette called to Shaker’s horse.“A storm’s coming up fast.”

“What’ll I do?” Keepsake, being tried out by Shaker and a bit green, worried.

“There’s nothing you can do. They won’t smell it until it’s almost upon them or until they see the clouds piling up in the west. Shaker will get you home; don’t worry.”

Sister patted Lafayette’s neck. The weather kept everyone away, including the Franklins, who couldn’t get the trailer down the driveway since Bobby didn’t have a snowplow. The wind piled up drifts, which though not large were large enough to risk getting stuck.

She loved staff hunts. Not that she didn’t enjoy her field—she did. But those days when she didn’t have to shepherd people, when she could just fly or sit and listen to hounds turn back to her, those days made life worth living.

Standing out like a resplendent cardinal in the snow, Doug waited upcreek for the hounds to find. He, too, checked for tracks. When Shaker looked his way Doug shook his head. The huntsman rode downcreek, Sister shadowing him on the opposite bank, portions of which were steep.

“Nothing.” Shaker shook his head.

“Me, too.”

“Right under our noses.” Cora lifted her eyes back to the boulders. She felt he was hiding there but how he escaped detection she couldn’t say.“Let’s go back up.”

“I don’t think he’ll allow it,” Dasher said.“And if they don’t smell the storm, we’ll have more to worry about than the coyote.”

The barren trees began to bend and sway. Doug noticed the scudding clouds first. He pointed to the western sky. Both older people glanced up.

“Damn, those clouds are rolling in fast,” Shaker exclaimed.

They had hacked to Foxglove to cast hounds. From the kennels Foxglove was two miles on the trails. At the point where they now stood they were halfway between both farms.

“Makes sense to head home.” She smiled at her hounds. “I’m proud of all of you.”

“He’s in the rocks.” Cora wanted to circle back.

“Good girl.” Sister praised her as she turned Lafayette on the narrow path, walking back to the creek crossing. Once on the other side the three humans walked through the forest, Shaker and Sister up front and Doug in the rear.

They hadn’t ridden a half mile when the wind began to whistle. Heavy frock coats, a vest, shirt, and silk underwear kept their upper bodies warm, but their legs began to feel it. Each had learned the trick of slipping a flat heat pack in the toe of their boot, which helped keep their toes from freezing. There was no help for one’s hands, since a rider must feel the horse’s mouth.

Sister wore silk liners under her string gloves but her hands ached in the cold. She didn’t complain about it, nor did Shaker and Doug. Came with the territory.

Their ears began to sting. Snow blew off the conifers. As if the heavens unzipped, all at once the snow fell, fat flakes falling quickly. Within minutes their helmets, shoulders, and backs were covered in snow. The hounds’ backs began to turn white.

“If we cut down into the ravine, we’ll be out of the wind,” Shaker suggested. “It might take a little longer, as it’s rough going, but this wind—” He raised his voice to be heard above the roar.

“Worth a try. Damn, how did this thing come up so fast?”

They picked their way down the folds of the ravine, holly bushes and mountain laurel sharing the banks with hardy firs. Once down in the bottom they followed the creek westward.

“I can’t hear myself think.” Sister bent low to avoid a branch.

Doug looked at the edge of the ravine. The snow spilled over the top like a white-powdered waterfall.

The creek widened into a roundish shallow frozen pool where a small tributary fed into it, ice encrusting the creek bank edges. They halted to allow hounds and horses to drink, as the tributary was still running strong. The water emerged from the other side of the pond, but the ice was closing in fast.

“Funny how you get thirsty when it’s cold. Wouldn’t think so.” Dragon gulped the icy water.

“I’d like bacon-bit kibble right now.” Dasher sighed, taking a few steps into the deeper end of the pool. He’d pushed through the ice crust at the edge of the pond. He felt something odd among the pebbles, metal. He dug at it, moving it closer to the other hounds.

“Whatcha got?” a large tricolor asked him.

“I don’t know but I’m not giving it to you.” Dasher reached down in the water, picking up the object with his mouth.

“I’d let you play with my toy.” Dragon came over.

Dasher didn’t respond or he would have dropped his prize.

Doug dismounted.“Dasher, that’s really special. Let me keep it for you.”

The handsome young hound turned his head away from Doug. Dragon bumped him to see if he could get him to drop the toy.

Sister said,“Dasher, what a good hound.”

He turned around to face her, then slowly emerged from the pool, looking crossly at any hound that looked at him. He would surrender his find to Sister but they’d better leave him alone.

She dismounted also, reaching for the gun that he gave her.“Good hound. Good hound.”

The gun, cold and wet, soaked through her string gloves.“Thirty-eight.” She shook it, then slipped it inside the large game pocket inside her coat. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this.”

“Yeah, I do, too,” Shaker agreed.

CHAPTER 57

The storm raged for one full day. Power cut out. Those that had them switched over to generators, careful to turn off the main switch at their breaker boxes or the poor sod trying to restore power would have a most unpleasant sensation.

The transportation department of the state, playing the averages, which it had to do, didn’t have enough snowplows to open the main arteries, much less the back roads. People dug out as best they could or sat home, eating canned soup off Sterno stoves. The lucky ones who had gas stoves could cook real meals.

Then as quickly as the freak storm had hit, the temperatures rose into the sixties, the sky beamed heavenly blue, snow melting everywhere. The sound of water running into downspouts, across roads, under culverts, into creeks and rivers drowned out other sounds. It was as though the earth were melting. Creeks rose to the top of their banks, overflowing in lowlying areas.

As the snows melted the grass, still green underneath, deepened to a brighter green; the leafless trees seemed to stand out against the color.

Since Crawford Howard owned a Hummer, which suited him better than his Mercedes, he merrily drove everywhere. He surprised the Vanns by bringing them food, as they lived at the edge of the county down a twisting back road. He even delivered ten bags of kibble to the kennel in case chow was low. After a morning of good deeds he emerged from his mud-bespattered behemoth, which he parked in front of Mountain Landscapes. Since Martha had an apartment downtown she could walk to work. With masses of roses in his left arm, he rapped on the door with his right hand.

“Come in.”

He opened the door.“A rose by any other name is Martha.”

“You must have bought out the store—or did you buy the store?” She laughed, rising from the drafting table. “I’d better get a tub.”

“Brought that, too.” He hurried outside, returning with a large round black bowl.

“Oh, they’ll be stunning in that.” Martha took the bowl, filled it with water in the small kitchen in the office, then placed the roses inside, careful to have a few falling over the side. She placed the arrangement in the middle of the coffee table. “There.”

He sat on the leather sofa.“Quite a storm.”

“I love watching the weatherman on Channel Twenty-nine. Even with all the sophisticated radar, satellite photos—they still don’t know what the weather will do. Especially here next to the mountains.”

“Hungry?”

“That means you are.”

“How about a cold Coke?” He went outside again and this time returned with a Harrods hamper basket filled with exquisite sandwiches; cheeses, including Stilton; crackers; fruits; chocolate-covered strawberries; small delicious shortbreads. He carried this largesse with two hands, it was so heavy.

Under his arm he pinned a checkerboard tablecloth, which he now spread on the floor.“Picnic. Wine for you?”

“Oh.” She surveyed the endless array of treats he kept pulling out of the basket. “I’ll have a Coke with you. Let’s save the wine.”

“Goodo.”

As they ate and chatted, Crawford reported on his heroic exploits delivering food, whose vehicles were stuck, the Fishers’ collapsed shed roof.

She remarked that downtown didn’t lose power and she enjoyed watching the snow fall over the rooftops. The Episcopal church steeple was wrapped in white. This was her favorite view from her bedroom window, Saint Luke’s, and for a few hours the snow fell so heavily she couldn’t even see that.

After laughter and chat he leaned toward her.“Martha, do you think people can change?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you feel that I have changed?”

“In some ways.”

“How?”

“I think you’ve learned that younger isn’t necessarily better.” She suppressed a smile.

He blushed.“Well, yes, but I was hoping you’d see that I’ve become more sensitive, more responsive to others.”

“Crawford, you are trying.” She wanted to encourage him but he’d always want his way. The bully was never far from the surface.

“And I’ll keep trying. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I want to make amends.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I want to marry you all over again.”

A long pause followed until Martha leaned over the fragrant chocolate-covered strawberries and gently kissed him.“Let me think about it. You know I love you. I never stopped loving you but I’m afraid.”

“I promise I will never do anything like that again. Only you.”

“Give me some time.” She kissed him again.

“I’ll do anything, Martha. Anything.” He kissed her passionately.

“Well, I have a task for you if that’s true. What I learned when we divorced was that no one wanted to hire me. The work we did together didn’t count on a r?sum?. I could have starved. And you know, Crawford, you’re very tough in business and I thought I was old business.” She kissed him again, then continued. “I was burned. Not just by you but by people I thought were my friends. I found out exactly how I was regarded socially. So I was not high on anyone’s employment list nor on the dinner-party circuit. Devastating as it was, it was valuable to me. If I should go back to you I want to work. Even if I don’t make what you consider money, it will mean the world to me and I think it will make me more interesting to you.”

“You’re fascinating even in your sleep.”

She lowered her eyes.“Thank you, but do you understand? If you got tired of me—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his eyes intense.

She held up her hand.“Okay, but for my peace of mind. Do you agree to my working?”

“Yes, as long as you can take vacations when I do.”

“Then I need my own business.” She sounded much calmer than she felt.

“That’s not unreasonable.”

“I’d like to buy this company. I can make it work and I’ve learned how to bid jobs.”

He exhaled through his nostrils.“Will she sell?”

“I think she will. She’ll need the money. You know how he was.”

“Yes,” Crawford replied simply.

Another pause ensued while he thoughtfully ate a strawberry.“I never really thought about what you must have gone through. I thought about it in emotional terms but not—I’ve been the captain of the ship. I can’t imagine what it was like to look for work and I wish you had told me.”

“You were occupied.” She said it without rancor.

“What I was was a fool.” He put down the stem end of the strawberry. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I agree to your terms but it might be prudent if you approached Sorrel.”

She threw her arms around him.“You’ve made me so happy. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

“Does this mean you’ll marry me?”

“Yes.”

CHAPTER 58

“We could realize an annual income of $24,000 minimum. If we spent what needs to be done to rehabilitate the place, probably $40,000, then we could realize an annual income of close to $48,000, since we could charge $4,000 a month.” Georgia Vann, treasurer, spoke. She had taken the precaution of handing out these figures along with the bids for repairs at the beginning of the ad hoc meeting to announce Peter Wheeler’s generosity.

“Why can’t we hire someone to clear trails and build jumps year-round and house them there? They could make the repairs and it would save some money.” Betty Franklin was trying to be helpful.

“When would they have time? I mean, if they were properly doing their job for the hunt club? It’s better to hire professional roofers and painters. Look at what we’ve been through at the shop, hon,” Bobby, seated at a long table facing the membership, reminded his wife.

“You’re right.”

“Is she always that agreeable?” a male member called out.

“My Princess, sure.” Bobby laughed and the others laughed with him.

Peter’s gift, an antidote to Fontaine’s murder, had raised everyone’s spirits.

“Would the renter have to be a hunt club member?” Cody asked, wishing she had the money to rent it.

“We never thought of that,” Bobby responded, “but unless someone raises an objection I don’t see why membership would be a requirement so long as the renter accepts this is a long-standing fixture and will be hunted regularly.”

Walter stood up.“I would be willing to rent the place right now. I would also be willing to coordinate all repairs if the hunt club will pay for them. Naturally, I’ll keep up the grounds. And I’d pay $3,000 a month so long as I have full use of the barns and all outbuildings.”

A brief silence followed; then everyone talked at once.

Bobby banged down the gavel.“Does anyone wish to match Walter’s offer?”

Crawford stood up.“It’s a good solution for both parties. I move that we accept Dr. Lungrun’s proposal. The rent to stay at $3,000 per month for a five-year period, at which time the lease can be renegotiated.”

“I second the motion.” Martha beamed at Crawford.

“Discussion?” Bobby asked. When none was forthcoming he continued: “All in favor, say aye.”

“Aye,” came the chorus.

“All opposed say nay.”

One lone nay came from Cody.

“What’s that about?” her father asked.

“Just that I wish I had the money to rent it. I’m not really opposed.”

“All right, then.” Bobby smiled at her. “Motion carries. Is there other business to be discussed?”

Sister, who sat in the corner during business meetings, called out,“New doors for the kennel.”

Bobby scanned his list.“Forgot that. We need new interior doors. As you know, wooden ones last two years, if that. The tin-covered ones last about five years and our five years are up. If you’ll flip over your sheet you’ll see Georgia has itemized expenses and bids.”

As the discussion about replacing doors droned on, Jennifer slipped into the meeting. Still carrying her schoolbooks, she sat next to her mother.

“How was practice?” Betty strongly supported Jennifer’s field hockey efforts.

“Okay.” Jennifer whispered, “Mom, Dean Offendahl got busted at school for drugs. He says I’ve been buying from him but I haven’t.” Betty shot her a dark look and Jennifer hurriedly added, “He’s pissed that I don’t hang with him anymore. Honest.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Betty whispered back. Inside she wondered if there’d ever be an end to this. If she’d ever trust Jennifer again.

Finally all the loose ends were tied up, the meeting was adjourned, and the members headed for the bar. Jefferson Hunt had no clubhouse. Meetings and events rotated among member’s homes and large meetings such as this one were held at a new country club, Dueling Grounds, built on the old dueling grounds. Since the club was competing with older, more prestigious clubs it offered better facilities and encouraged people to come in and see what was available.

The bar, paneled with wormy chestnut, old hunt prints on the wall, was inviting.

As was the custom in Virginia, paid staff did not attend membership meetings. Shaker and Doug didn’t mind, as neither man had much tolerance for the windiness that accompanies such gatherings.

“Sister.” Walter leaned over to speak to her. “I’ll take good care of Peter’s home.”

She smiled up at him.“You’ll fill up that barn in no time. Have you ever noticed people start with one horse and wind up with a herd? I think it’s some kind of progressive disease. You might want to do research on it.”

He laughed.“All right.”

She lowered her voice, which, considering the noise, wasn’t necessary. “Thank you again for dropping by the other day. Peter was a dear friend. I appreciated your sympathy.”

“He saved me after Dad … died. I wish I’d known him as long as you did. He used to call you his movie star.”

“He did?”

Before they could continue, Georgia Vann joined them and the conversation steered toward Thanksgiving hunt breakfast. The club needed to borrow utensils.

Crawford avoided Bobby, who did likewise. He told everyone that he and Martha were engaged. To celebrate his good fortune he bought a round of drinks for everyone.

Cody and Jennifer had Perrier as Jennifer told her tale of woe to her sister.

Sarcasm dripping, Cody said,“I’m so glad you’re preparing Mom and me but what’s the deal?”

“No deal.” Jennifer shrugged.

“You might as well tell me now because I’ll find out later and then, li’l Sis, I’ll really be mad. Like I don’t care how long you cry you ain’t gettin’ no help from me.” She sounded like a country-and-western song, which was her intent.

“He’ll say I slept with him.”

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“For drugs?”

Jennifer reddened.“Not exactly. I liked him. How was I to know he’d turn into such a butthead. When I stopped screwing up and screwing him, he—” She shrugged. “Getting even.”

“Mom and Dad are going to be really embarrassed.” She thought a moment. “Can’t you talk him out of it?”

“How? He got busted in the locker room selling a gram of coke. I can’t get him out of it.”

“Does he still want to go to bed with you?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged again.

“I’m not suggesting you comply but—” She shook her head, trying to come up with solutions. “Has he named other people?”

“Oh yeah. By the time he’s done half of Lee High will be tied and fried. Barbecue.”

“His dad’s a lawyer. I suppose that will help him but it won’t help you or anyone else.” She took in a deep breath. “Let’s talk to Walter. He’s a doctor. He’s smart. Maybe he’ll help us. If nothing else he can testify that you’re making every effort to keep clean.” She put herhand under Jennifer’s elbow, heading her in the direction of Walter.

“There’s one other thing. Dean knows I slept with Fontaine.”

Cody went white.“You idiot.”

CHAPTER 59

The sting of not being chosen to be joint-master faded as Crawford focused on Martha. Winning her back meant a great deal personally and socially.

This euphoria somewhat dissipated when Ben Sidell walked through the office door to announce that the .38 found in the ravine was registered to Crawford Howard.

“Are you accusing me of killing Fontaine Buruss?” Crawford sputtered.

Calmly, deliberately, the sheriff replied,“I am informing you that a thirty-eight registered to you, purchased last June, was the gun that killed Fontaine Buruss.”

Rising from his chair, Crawford said,“I didn’t even know the gun was missing.”

“Where do you usually keep it?” Without being invited to do so, Ben sat down in a chair by the coffee table. He opened his notepad.

“In my trailer.”

“What trailer?”

“My horse trailer.”

“Why would you keep a thirty-eight in your horse trailer? I thought foxhunters didn’t shoot foxes.”

Walking around his desk and leaning against it, facing the sheriff, Crawford, quickly in control of himself, replied,“In case I find a wounded animal. In case there’s an accident in the field. You know, a horse breaks a leg.”

“I see. Then why was the gun in your trailer and not on your person? I’d think you’d notice its disappearance promptly.” His tone was even, his voice deep.

Embarrassed, Crawford folded arms across his chest.“I anticipated being asked to carry the gun but when I wasn’t, I put it in the medicine chest in my trailer.”

“Why would you be asked to carry a gun?”

“One or two staff people usually carry a thirty-eight under their coat or on the small of their back. Just in case.”

“So you bought the gun last June—just in case.”

Crawford’s voice rose. “I thought I would be asked to become joint-master. My rival, as you know, since you’ve questioned everyone, was Fontaine Buruss. Jane Arnold was to have made her decision at opening hunt. However, the death, the murder of Fontaine, convinced her to delay that decision until next season.”

“You’re disappointed?”

“Hell, yes, I’m disappointed but not enough to remove my rival.”

“Why couldn’t you both serve?”

“It would have never worked.”

“Why not?”

“Fontaine was a lightweight. A bullshitter. What he wanted to do was seduce women.”

“I was under the impression he was successful without being joint-master.”

“Sheriff, this is Virginia. We’re both outsiders. It took me a while to realize that M.F.H. behind one’s name ranks right up there with F.F.V. Of course, if you have both you have everything.” He caustically winked.

“Tell me again of your whereabouts during opening hunt. You were unaccounted for for twenty minutes.”

“We went over that.”

“Refresh my memory.” Ben smiled at him, a cold glint in his eye.

“My horse went lame. I turned back. When I reached the small creek, Tinker’s Branch, I was afraid Czapaka would jump it and I didn’t want him to do that if he was lame. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me at first but I picked up his front feet and found a stone. I removed the stone, walked him a bit with me off. He was sound. So I got up and rejoined the group.”

“And no one saw you?”

“No. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“Crawford Howard, I am booking you under suspicion of the murder of Fontaine Buruss. You have the right to remain silent… .”

CHAPTER 60

Crawford Howard strolled out of the county jail within four hours thanks to his lawyer, the best money could buy. The bail, set at two hundred thousand dollars, was paid with Crawford waggling his finger at the bailiff saying that the money would be back in his pocket within the month.

No doubt the lawyer was thinking the same thing.

That same afternoon Dean Offendahl named every student at Lee High School who had ever bought drugs with him or done drugs with him. His father had worked out an arrangement whereby if Dean cooperated with the courts he would not be sent to a juvenile detention center.

He also had to name anyone else he knew that sold drugs. Fontaine Buruss’s name was on that list.

As this was immediately before Thanksgiving break, Mr. Offendahl hoped the worst of the gossip would be dissipated by the holiday.

During this time Sister Jane set out small heaps of corn throughout the fixture that would be hunted on Thanksgiving. She also walked deep into the ravine, patiently laying corn and bits of hot dog.

CHAPTER 61

Raising children, not an occupation for the faint of heart, baffled Bobby Franklin. He worked hard, paid the bills, supplied discipline when necessary, spent time with the girls. When they were younger Bobby carted them to horse shows, grooming, cleaning tack, applying that last-minute slap on their boots with a towel when they were mounted. He listened to them rant about unfair judges, sometimes agreeing, sometimes not. He observed them bite their lips so as not to cry when they lost. They also learned to win without undue celebration, as befits a lady.

Neither kid impressed her teachers with intellectual prowess but the physical education teachers thought them both wonderful. He feared the onslaught of adolescence but they sailed along. When Cody began to falter at sixteen he didn’t notice at first. She still competed in horse shows. She wasn’t surly, just diffident. He thought this remoteness a phase. He didn’t recognize that she was struggling until she was in her sophomore year of college. Wrecking her ancient Jeep was the first sign; a report card below the line was the second.

Betty sensed it long before he did. He wondered now if he’d done the right thing. He’d hated his father sticking his nose in his business, probing him about girls, drinking, parties, his future. He thought he was giving his girls room. Sitting before the tiled fireplace, Betty in the wing chair to his right, both daughters on the sofa before him, he had occasion to repent of his laxness. Mr. Offendahl kept the story of drugs at Lee High out of the paper but he couldn’t cut out people’s tongues. Neither Betty nor Bobby was surprised when their phone rang off the hook. Jennifer, horrified, slunk to her room, refusing to come out, declaring she would never go to school again, her life was ruined, et cetera… .

Cody, upset but levelheaded, drove over the minute her mother called this Tuesday night. Jennifer, dragged from her room, curled up on the sofa, rested against her big sister, arm around her.

“What I’m trying to understand is why neither of you talked to your mother or me. I can’t change what happened. You can’t. We’re all going to have to live with this for the rest of our lives.”

“I’m getting out. Send me to school somewhere else,” Jennifer begged.

“No.” Betty stepped in. “The stories will catch up with you no matter where you go. You’ll face the music now and put it behind you.”

“I have no life.” Jennifer’s chin wobbled.

“Rada.” Cody squeezed her. Rada meant Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, a phrase the kids used when anyone was being overly dramatic.

“It’s true.” Jennifer flared. “My life is ruined! You at least have Doug.”

“I have to live with my past the same as you. Stop this damned whining, Jen.”

“Girls.” Betty’s voice was low, redolent with authority.

The two shut up.

Bobby spoke.“I’m here to apologize to you. I spent too much time running the business. I know that now. If I’d been paying more attention I might have noticed, I hope, anyway. But I’m here now and we’re going to get this straightened out. We can’t run to rehab every time something goes wrong, and Ican’t afford it anyway.”

“Dad, I’m paying my bills.” Cody felt guilty that she’d wasted her father’s money in the past.

“For which we’re grateful,” Betty replied. “But let’s get to the bottom of this. Your father and I aren’t perfect parents. We thought by sharing riding with you that we were together, a family together, but we missed emotional clues. You’ve both told us that you drank because everyoneelse was drinking. I’m taking the words ‘everyone else’ with a grain of salt. However, we were young once. We remember the pressure to fit in, to be part of a group. I even understand the drugs. It can’t be that much different from drinking. Someone says, ‘Here, this will make you feel good,’ and you do it. What I can’t understand is Dean Offendahl’s allegations. Jennifer, you’ve locked your door and cried in your room for over forty-eight hours. I assume there’s no liquid left in your system.” A wry smile crossed her full lips. “So let’s get this out and over with. Why?”

“I won’t go to bed with him anymore.”

“She’s right.” Cody backed her.

“You shouldn’t have gone to bed with him in the first place.” Bobby smacked the arm of his chair.

Betty shot him a dirty look.“That won’t help.” She returned her gaze to Jennifer. “Let’s use the defense ‘diminished judgment.’ I believe that. I even understand sleeping with a boy in high school. It happens.”

“Did you?” Jennifer hoped her mother had, of course.

“No.”

“I did.” Cody smiled at Jennifer. “Not my best move.”

“I want to know what Fontaine Buruss had to do with this.” Bobby kept calm although if Fontaine were alive he’d kill him.

Cody spoke first, partly to spare Jennifer and partly to give her time to organize her thoughts.“I needed money so I offered to ride Keepsake, the new horse Fontaine was trying. He’d come around the barn when I was working the horse and hey, he was sexy.” Noting the raised eyebrows of her father, she murmured, “Dad, he was.”

“He was.” Betty corroborated her daughter’s judgment.

“We did drugs. He’d give me extra money if I’d braid, a lot extra, really. He bought me new breeches, a saddle. Big stuff. I liked him but I didn’t love him and after a while I realized I was just another bird. Flying in and out. I also realized I was pretty messed up and I missed Doug. Dad, I know you aren’t crazy about Doug—”

Bobby cut in.“He’s a fine young man. My concerns were social and I was wrong. I was wrong and I’m sorry.”

Her father’s repentance touched Cody. She wasn’t accustomed to Bobby admitting error. “It’s okay, Dad. We’ll put that behind us, too.”

“Didn’t you think about Sorrel?” Betty asked.

“No. Mom, when you’re doing drugs you don’t think about anybody but yourself. Besides, he’d cheated on her so many times I didn’t see that one more affair was going to break her heart. He made the marriage vow; I didn’t.” She held out her palms upturned. “But I was wrong. I’m telling you what I thought at the time. People can rationalize anything, can’t they?”

“World War Two proved that beyond a doubt.” Bobby put his fingertips together. “What happened when you left Fontaine? Or did you leave Fontaine?”

“Nothing.” Cody shrugged. “It wasn’t a blowup. It’s not like we were in love or even that emotional. We had fun. That’s the best way to describe it. I had Jennifer drop me at the bar—” She thought a moment. “Maybe that second Saturday in October, I think. Anyway, Doug was there and I wanted him back. If he’d have me. Maybe I needed Fontaine to really love Doug. God, it’s messy.” She sighed. “I needed help. I still need help. I think I’ll be going to AA and NA meetings and drug recovery meetings for the rest of my life. I don’t think I can do it alone and”—shewanted to make her parents feel better—“you can only do so much. It takes a drunk to understand a drunk.”

“Then how did Jennifer get into this mess with Fontaine?” Betty was more worried than she let on.

“I’d go over to the barn to help Cody.” Jennifer sat up. “He’d be around, laughing, joking. He’d let me work Gunpowder. What a neat horse. He’d let me snort a line or two.”

“But how did Dean Offendahl know this? I’m missing something.” Betty bore down.

“I’d collect money from Dean and some of the others and buy coke from Fontaine. He had good coke. I didn’t take Dean over there.”

“But you told him who was selling you the drugs?” Bobby rested his chin on his fingertips.

“Bragging, in passing—how did you tell him?” Betty pressed.

“Kind of, uh—threw it off.”

“Why is he saying you slept with Fontaine?”

“Mom, he’s making that up. He’s trying to get people’s attention off of him. He thinks this is going to hurt me.”

Clearly Dean’s stories about Jennifer sleeping with Fontaine are what truly upset the young woman. It’s one thing to sleep with a boy your own age but at seventeen to sleep with a man of Fontaine’s years, that grossed out her classmates.

“I guess it did. You’ve been in your room for two days,” her mother curtly replied.

“It’s pretty rad.” Cody defended Jennifer.

“Radical? I think it’s close to the mark. I’m still taking the ‘diminished judgment’ tack and if Jennifer was over there at Fontaine’s stable, the coke was pure or good or whatever it is, she gets high, he gets high, it’s not an impossible thought no matter how disgusting it is to me.And not so much that I’m disgusted with you, Jennifer, although I’m not proud. I’m disgusted with Fontaine. He took advantage of you, both of you.” Betty’s eyes blazed.

“I’m over twenty-one,” Cody flatly said. “I knew what I was doing.”

“I don’t think you did but I think he knewexactlywhat he was doing. Getting beautiful girls ripshit—isn’t that the word, ripshit—and then taking you to bed. Goddammit, I wish I’d shot him, the sorry son of a bitch!” Bobby jumped up from his chair, pacing in front of the fireplace. “But the fact remains that he is dead. And I expect Sheriff Sidell will cruise around to us soon enough.”

“Why?” Jennifer thought this was strange.

“Because either of you could have killed him in a rage—from a sheriff’s point of view. You do drugs, you leave him or maybe he leaves you. Who knows how that will fall out. You’re angry on two counts: He dumped you and no more drugs.”

“That’s not true!” Jennifer shouted.

“I didn’t say it was.” Her father coolly studied her. “But I’m trying to see this with a sheriff’s eyes. Right now neither of you looks too good.”

“Jennifer wouldn’t kill anybody,” Cody passionately replied. “You know that. She made a mistake.”

“Did you know?” Betty’s heart was pounding inside and she didn’t know why. She was more afraid than when she’d fetched Doug from the bear.

“Not until the end.” Cody lowered her voice. “I just never thought Fontaine would do something like that.”

“You went to bed with him. Presumably you knew what kind of man he was.” Bobby’s sympathy was running thin.

“I’m older than Jennifer. Going to bed with an underage girl is statutory rape, isn’t it? I never thought he’d do something like that.”

“He knew he was safe.” Bobby grabbed the mantelpiece. “He knew neither one of you would ever tell because he was your candy man. He could do whatever he wanted and he did.”

“Dad, he was never ugly. He was fun.” Jennifer thought she was relieving her father’s distress. “He wasn’t a mean kind of guy.”

“Let’s set motivation aside.” Betty returned to her original question to Cody. “What did you do when you knew, and how did you know about Jennifer and Fontaine?”

“At first I half suspected but like I said, I couldn’t believe he’d do something like that. When Jennifer skipped school that one day and came to me, I asked her. She said yes.”

“And?” Betty stared at her.

“I told her to stop.”

“Did you?” Betty focused on Jennifer.

“Yeah. I went to rehab. I never got the chance to go back, I guess. I mean I didn’t even talk to him until opening hunt. Hi. That was it. So yeah, I stopped.”

“Do you think Fontaine bribed your little sister with drugs to get even with you?” Bobby felt sick to his stomach.

As distressed as her father, Cody replied,“I don’t know. I don’t think so but then again I didn’t think he’d seduce Jennifer in the first place. He could have done it to get back at me. Anything’s possible.”

“Did you tell him to stop?”

Cody exhaled.“Mom, I went over to his stable to pick up my tack. I didn’t want to ride for him anymore. I wanted to put everything in my place, since I was going into rehab. He drove in just as I was driving out. He rolled down the window of his Jag and I told him to stay away from Jennifer.”

“What did he do?” Bobby stepped away from the fireplace toward Cody.

“Nothing. He rolled his window back up.” She shrugged. “Nothing.”

Jennifer, crying again, asked,“Does this mean I can’t go to Thanksgiving hunt?”

Bobby and Betty looked at each other and then at Jennifer.

“No.” Bobby said. “It doesn’t mean that. We’re better off doing the things we usually do. It’s worse to hide.”

“People will laugh at me.” Jennifer sniffled.

“Get it over with.” Cody didn’t relish the spectacle either. “Let them laugh and get it out of their systems. After a while they’ll be bored with it.”

“I can’t go back to school.”

“You can and you will. Ignore Dean Offendahl. His father was an ass to protect him. The only way you learn about life is to pay for your mistakes. If you don’t pay, believe me, there’s a much bigger bill waiting for you down the road. Pay up, Jennifer. Hold your head up and just keep walking.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Dad,” she sniped.

“Not so easy. Crawford Howard came into the shop and called you two coke whores,” he fired right back at her. “And you aren’t the only person in the world, Jennifer Franklin. I’ve got feelings, too. So does your mother. We’re in this together; let’s think together.”

“He called us that?” Cody was outraged.

“If that asshole says one word to me in the hunt field, there will be two murders. I’ll commit mine right in front of God and everybody!” Bobby exploded.

CHAPTER 62

Being no fool, Crawford Howard hired a public relations specialist from New York City. Since his .38 was the weapon used in the commission of a crime, since he was booked on suspicion of murder and released on bail, he needed damage control.

Jonathan Sweiss arranged special interviews with the local television station, the local newspaper, and the Richmond paper as well.

Crawford, being a man of the world, was not surprised when Jonathan didn’t ask if he really had killed Fontaine Buruss. Jonathan didn’t care. He was hired to perform a service and this he did.

In each of the interviews, Crawford explained that he did not like Fontaine, a personality conflict as well as a conflict of modus operandi. Differences between them had escalated during the past six weeks. Crawford expressed no regret at Fontaine’s death because he said that would be false but he vehemently declared he did not kill the man, he would not kill any man unless in self-defense.

Martha stood by him, the ordeal bringing them closer together.

The social consequences were immediate. Fontaine’s friends dropped them both from their lists whereas everyone else picked them up. The thrill of having a possible murderer in their midst proved enticing to many a jaded hostess.

After all this he called Sister Jane, ready for a fight. He was going to argue that he paid his dues and therefore he should be able to hunt no matter what people thought. Hunting was about sport not about what people thought, did, wore, et cetera… . He was stoked.

After hellos he stated,“I intend to hunt Thanksgiving. I know some people in the hunt field think I’m a murderer but—”

Coolly she interrupted before he got rolling.“Crawford, the laws of the land are innocent until proven guilty. You’ve been charged but you haven’t been convicted. I’ll see you at Whiskey Ridge on Thursday.”

He hung up the phone pleased with her response. Later it dawned on him that she would have to answer for allowing him to hunt. He wasn’t making her life any easier but still he was determined not to slink away. The difficulties of being a master were slowly percolating in his brain. Maybe you couldn’t run a hunt club like a business.

CHAPTER 63

The small piles of corn brought out birds, woodchucks, deer as well as foxes.

Aunt Netty merrily nibbled away, ignoring the beautiful little bluebird swooping down next to her. The bird would grab a mouthful, then fly up to a tree branch. No matter how mellow Netty appeared to be, no reason to take chances.

The sides of the ravine loomed up; a few shady crevices had thin lines of snow stark against the dark gray rocks. The ravine remained cool.

Inky picked her way down the sloping southern edge.

Aunt Netty, her sleek head deep red now that her winter coat was in, called out,“Hello.”

Inky bounded next to her.“Isn’t this wonderful?” She ate a big mouthful of rich yellow corn.

“Sister’s laid a trail. We might as well enjoy it. It’s miles of trail. She’s been working on it for days. She’s even got corn under the hanging tree.”

“Does she normally do this before the biggest hunts?”

“No. Sister only puts out food when weather’s bad—like during the blizzards or during a terrible drought. She feels that we have to hunt for our food or we’ll get soft. I expect she’s right.” Netty munched more corn, careful not to drop any.

“I wonder what she’s going to do? A light frost tonight will ensure that our scent is everywhere. Mom and Dad will be out. I guess you all will be out.”

“Uncle Yancy will eat and go to bed. He said he did his duty on opening hunt.” Aunt Netty smiled.“I don’t know who will stay out but if they do retire, scent should be good for a while anyway. Given reports from the other foxes, I expect Sister made a loop of about four miles.”

“She won’t run people through here.” Inky appreciated the ravine’s inhospitable character for galloping.

“Maybe not but she’s got something on her mind.” Netty pointed to an envelope inside a plastic baggie tacked to a tree by the pool at the creek crossing.

“Trying to catch Reynard’s killer.”

Netty smiled.“Well, she’s trying to catch Fontaine’s killer but it amounts to the same thing, same person. You know there are a lot of hiding places in here. I’m going to be down here. I won’t run tomorrow. There are enough other foxes to do that. I want to be fresh to see what happens down here and to be ready for anything. What are your plans?”

“I was going to wait on the back side of Hangman’s Ridge, then go down toward the kennels.”

“Let me make a suggestion. Stay here in the ravine. Let me show you the dens. One or two are occupied by groundhogs but those are near the top of the ravine. You may have need of them and then again you may not. I suggest you not participate tomorrow either. When you hear hounds coming this way—and some will—climb a tree so that you can see everything. Between both of us we ought to figure out what’s going on.”

“Won’t hounds pick up my scent and wind up under the tree?”

“With any luck, the hunted fox, most probably Target at this point, will run through this crossing and up toward the rocks. He can easily lose hounds there. If, for some reason, that doesn’t happen, sit tight.”

“That will bring down the huntsman.”Inky thought a moment.“Huntsman and probably a whip.”She shook her head.“Won’t work. That will foul up the plan. Even though we don’t know what the plan is I’m sure it doesn’t call for two foxes in the ravine.”

“Crush up pokeweed stalks and throw them around. That will foul scent.”

“Maybe. Cora won’t be fooled for long. I think what I’d better do is sleep here tonight in one of these dens. In the morning I’ll walk in the middle of the creek until I find a tree close enough I can jump to. I don’t mind sitting up there for a few hours, especially with all this corn toeat before I get up there.”

“Why don’t you take that den there.” Netty indicated a den on the east side of the ravine not far from the pool.“I’ll take this one on the west side. I’ve investigated them. Lots of exits.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” Inky headed toward the den.

CHAPTER 64

Foxhunters adore Thanksgiving hunt. The light-to-medium frosts of the night before promise a silvery morning, scent sticking to the ground. Low gray clouds hold hope of long, long runs but even if the day dawns bright and clear as a baby’s smile, the cool temperatures and the late November frost ensure a bit of a good run no matter what.

Hunters prepare their dinner the night before, as much of it as they can. If no one is home to watch the turkey, then the oven isn’t turned on until the horses are turned out. Traditionally, foxhunters eat Thanksgiving dinner in the early evening. This most American of holidays, the most uncommercial of holidays, rings out with toasts to high fences, good hounds, great runs, and much laughter over who parted company from their horse.

Since Thanksgiving is a High Holy Day, horses must be braided. Those who played football, those whose jammed fingers invited pain, those upon whom arthritis visited, cursed as they wrapped the tiny braids with even tinier rubber bands, weaving yarn on those same braids.

Doug, as first whipper-in, was responsible for braiding staff horses. A quiet man, he couldn’t help but boast about his tight braids. Doug’s idea of a boast was to say, “They stay put.”

Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Gunpowder, for Shaker would be riding Fontaine’s big gray, gleamed so brightly that Sister laughingly suggested she needed sunglasses just to mount her horse.

Hounds, always excited before a hunt, sensed the additional emotions of a star hunt.

Dragon bragged,“I got a fox for opening hunt. I’ll get one for Thanksgiving.”

Dasher sniffed at his brother.“You picked up a shot fox. I’d hardly brag about that.”

Dragon turned his back on him.

Shaker backed the hound van into the draw run. Double sliding gates ensured that he could back in, then roll the gates to each side of the van. Shaker, an organized man, left little to chance. He prided himself on never being late to a hunt.

Since the first cast would be at Whiskey Ridge he had only to pull out of the farm and turn right as the state road curled around Hangman’s Ridge. Two miles later, at the end of the long low land between the two ridges, he’d turn left and go to the back side of Whiskey Ridge. He particularly liked to cast at the base of the ridge or at the abandoned tobacco shed but the field liked a pretty view, so they generally started at thetop, working their way down in no time. Often the fox would cross the road, a lightly traveled road, but any road strikes fear into the heart of a huntsman. He was careful to post a whip on the road to ask cars to slow down if hounds were running in that direction. Once across the road it was anybody’s guess. But then foxes, being the marvelous creatures that they are, could just as easily bolt down the other side of the ridge, heading for the flattish lands even farther east. Whereas the land between Hangman’s Ridge and Whiskey Ridge was rich and traversed by a strong creek, the lands tothe east of Whiskey Ridge rolled into the Hessian River, named for the mercenaries of King George who bivouacked there during the Revolutionary War. This river eventually fed into the James River.

Jefferson Hunt territory proved a test of hounds and staff. The soils changed dramatically from the riverbeds to the rock outcroppings. Rich fertile valleys gave way to flinty soils. Lovely galloping country spiraled down into ravines or up into those same rock outcroppings. Every good hunt breeds hounds specifically for their territory.

A place where the land is flat or rolling, good soils, can use fast hounds with good noses. A wide-open place, like Nevada, needs hounds with blazing speed. Hounds don’t need to hunt as closely together as they would back east.

The Jefferson territory demanded an all-round hound, a bit like the German shorthaired pointer, which is an all-round hunting dog. The Jefferson hound needed great nose, great drive, and great cry because light voices would be lost in the heavy forests. Speed was not essential. So the hounds were big, strong-boned, quite impressive, and fast enough to hurtle through the flatlands but not blindingly fast like the packs at Middleburg Hunt, Piedmont Hunt, and Orange County Hunt. Jefferson Hunt hounds were a balanced mix of crossbred and American hounds. Sister kept four Penn-Marydel hounds for those days when scent was abominable. The Penn-Marydels never, ever failed her. Being Virginia-born and -bred, Sister Jane loved a big hound. She thought of the Penn-Marydel as a Maryland or Pennsylvania hound and like any Virginian she felt keen competitiveness with those states but most especially Maryland. This hunting rivalry stretched back before the Revolutionary War, each state straining to outdo the other, thereby ensuring that the New World would develop fantastic hounds.

But in her heart of hearts, Sister knew the Penn-Marydel was a fine hound. The ears were set lower on the head. While they had speed, they kept their noses to the ground longer, which might make them seem slow but the other side of the coin was that a fast pack could overrun the line. So she kept two couple and was glad to have them but if a person asked what kind of hounds she hunted, she replied,“American and crossbred.” The crossbred was a mix of American and English blood.

Hounds panted inside the van, not from heat but from anticipation.

Shaker shut the back door, rolled back the sliding doors, drove the van out, stopped it, rolled the gates back shut. Ahead of him, Doug waited with the small horse van. Sister, in her best habit, her shadbelly, sat next to him.

Thanksgiving brought out the best in everyone. It had none of the jitters of opening hunt. By now, staff knew how the pack was working or not working, as the case may be. Plus, at the end of the hunt, there was that glorious dinner with one’s family and friends crowded around the table. Mince pie. The very words could send Sister into a swoon.

Every time she thought of her trap, her heart pounded. Would it work? She didn’t know what she would do if she did catch the killer. She had substituted her .38 for her .22 loaded with ratshot. The holster hung on the right rear side of her saddle. No one would know she’d switched guns.

Shaker flashed his lights behind them, indicating he was ready.

“You don’t mind that I put Keepsake on for Cody?”

“No. He needs the work and she’s the best for it. If he can whip, he’s more valuable. He can do everything but lead the field. Sorrel might be able to get more money.”

“I thought she donated both horses to the hunt.”

“She did but I’m waiting to see what her financial condition is—I’ll sell the horses to help if she needs it.” The van pulled out of the farm road onto the state road. “I heard that Crawford made an offer on the business. Nerve.”

“Especially if he killed Fontaine,” Doug replied.

“Do you think he did?”

“I don’t know.”

Other trailers and vans rumbled along ahead of them. Doug checked the rearview mirror; more were coming up behind. In the distance in the opposite direction, trailers were turning onto the Whiskey Ridge Road.

“Going to be a hell of a turnout.” He grinned.

“Oh yeah, they’re waiting for another murder. Probably hoping it’s me because I’ll be in front and everyone will get a good viewing. I wonder if they’ll tallyho?” she sang out.

“How about ‘Gone to ground’?”

They both howled with laughter, a bad situation bringing out the best in them.

Doug flicked on his left turn signal, waited for the Franklins to turn in from the opposite direction.

“You know what crosses my mind? Odd. Remember when we saw the Reaper or the Angel of Death or whatever it was?” Doug nodded that he remembered. “You were on the other side of Hangman’s Ridge, picking up hounds. Well, I wonder if Fontaine saw it, too. I wonder where he was.”

“He did. Maybe.” Doug’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. I saw him drive by. That is too weird.”

“Do you think we’re next or can you see Death and he doesn’t take you?”

“You’re giving me goose bumps.”

“If I had any sense, I’d be afraid but I’m not. I’m more afraid of how I will face death than I am of death itself but I’ll fight. Not ready to go. I don’t know what the hell we saw that sunset. Plus there’s a black fox out there—as shiny as coal.” She surveyed the sea of trailersand vans as they cruised into the meadow at the base of Whiskey Ridge. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“Think of the cap fees,” he gleefully remarked, since those people visiting the hunt had to pay a fifty-dollar fee to go out.

The cap fees helped defray the hound costs, which averaged about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars a year.

As Doug cut the motor and they disembarked, people doffed their hats, calling out,“Good morning, Master.”

As tradition dictated, the master nodded in return or, if carrying her whip, would hold it high.

“Doug, I need to touch base with Shaker for one minute. Be right back. Oh, your stock tie pin is crooked. Get Cody to fix it for you.” She noticed Cody walking over to help Doug unload the horses.

“Morning, Master.”

“Morning, Cody.” Sister hurried to Shaker, who parked a bit off from the crowd.

“I count one hundred and eleven rigs.” Shaker bent over to rub an old towel on his boots.

“I keep telling you, the secret is to use panty hose. Better shine.”

“I’m not going into a drugstore to buy panty hose.”

“That’s right,” Sister mocked him. “Someone will think you’re a drag queen and you’d be so pretty, too.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed in mock obedience.

“Shaker, I want you to do something today. Should the pack split, stay with the larger body even if the smaller is in better cry.”

His eyes narrowed.“Better not split.”

“Not if the whips are on. Doug up front, of course. Betty on the left. How about Cody on the right. I’m keeping Jennifer in the field. The Franklins have to just get through this as best they can. Or more to the point, Jennifer has to face it down.”

“Makes me glad I never had children,” Shaker grumbled.

“Don’t say that, brother. Children are a gift from God even when you’d like to brain them,” Sister quietly but emphatically told him.

“I’m sorry.” He had forgotten that Walter Lungrun was Raymond’s natural son. Relationships baffled Shaker. Walter’s parentage made him think of Ray Junior. He’d known Junior and liked the boy. He liked the father less. He knew about Walter because once in a confessional moment, a tortured moment after Junior’s death, Ray sobbed out the whole story. Shaker didn’t think Walter knew who his real father was and he was certain Sister knew nothing about her husband’s affair and subsequent child. He wondered if she would find out. He felt he could never tell her. She’d lived thislong without knowing. Why disturb her?

She put her arm around his neck.“Don’t worry about it. I remember the good times. Like the Thanksgiving hunt when Junior was ten and he viewed. He stood in his stirrups and was so excited he couldn’t speak. His pony took off and he fell flat on his back, got up, and finally said, “Holloa.”

“Tough little brat. Like his momma.” He watched Crawford pull in with his brand-new Dodge dually pulling his brand-new aluminum four-horse trailer with every convenience known to man or beast. “Can’t believe that man is showing his face.”

“Better his face than his ass.”

Staff, mounted, surrounded the hounds. Sister rode through the trailers, welcoming people. Her presence made them move along a bit faster. Georgia Vann had forgotten her hair net. She bounded from trailer to trailer until she found a woman carrying an extra.

Finally, everyone was up.

Lafayette remarked to Oreo, carrying Bobby,“On time. A bleeding miracle.”

“O-o-o,” Oreo grunted.“He’s put on more weight.”

“Might want to loosen your horse’s girth,” a rider said.

“Might want to loosen his,” Betty called out as she sat by the hounds.

“I want everyone to know that I’m above all this,” Bobby joked, glad that people were willing to let his daughters work out their own problems. He felt a little extrasensitive today so the joking made him feel better. People weren’t laughing behind his back but he noticed that few would talk to Crawford or stand near him as Sister addressed them.

“Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you all for coming out and we hope the foxes will come out also. As you know, we lost a faithful supporter, a generous man, and one of my best friends. I hope Peter Wheeler, young again and strong, is mounted on Benny, his big chestnut, and they’re both looking down at us, wishing us well.” She paused a moment. “Huntsman.”

His cap in his hand, he nodded to the master. Putting his cap on his head, he asked the hounds,“Ready, children?”

“Yes!” they spoke in unison.

“Come along, then.” He quietly encouraged them, turning his horse toward the top of Whiskey Ridge for the scenic first cast.

“Jennifer.” Sister motioned for the girl to ride up. “Keep an eye on Crawford, will you? Talk to me after the hunt.”

“Yes, Master.” Jennifer pulled back, waiting for a few first-flight members to pass her. Then she fell in behind Crawford and Martha. She wasn’t sure what Sister wanted but she was pleased to be given a special mission. At least Sister liked her and trusted her with responsibility.

The top of Whiskey Ridge was rounder then Hangman’s Ridge off in the distance, the giant black oak stark against the silvery rising mists. The sides of Whiskey Ridge feathered and softened down to the creek bed, a small valley on the west side. The grade was even smoother on the east side; the Hessian River was visible across the rolling terrain, a cauldron of mist hanging over the snaking river.

Frost silvered each blade of grass, each leaf, the exposed roots of the old trees.

Shaker, voice low but filled with excitement, leaned down.“He’s out there. Get ’im. Get ’im.”

“Yay!” The hounds dashed away from the huntsman. Noses to the ground, sterns upright, they wanted a smashing Thanksgiving hunt.

Down on the east side of the ridge Uncle Yancy picked up a trot. He heard hounds above him and felt no need to provide them with a chase. He recalled seeing Patsy out before dawn, so just to be sure he swerved from a direct path to his den, crossed Patsy’s scent, and then scampered the half mile to his cozy home.

Up on the ridge Sister hung back about fifty yards from her hounds. Since she wasn’t sure what direction they’d finally take she sat tight.

Dasher’s tail looked like a clock pendulum, back and forth. Finally, he spoke.“Check this out.”

Cora and Diana came over.“Faint but good. Let’s see where it leads.”

Within minutes the hounds coursed down the eastern slope of the ridge, reached the grassy bottom streaking across the well-maintained hay fields, a beautiful sight for the field to behold, since the pack was running well together, Cora in the lead, Diana securely in the middle.

Although the grade was gentle, one rider, frantically clutching her martingale, flipped ass over teakettle when the martingale snapped. Georgia Vann, on mop-up duty, stopped to make certain the lady was breathing.

“All right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to push on?”

“I think I’ll go back to the trailer. I hate to ride without a martingale.” She led her horse back up the hill and the poor fellow was severely disappointed—all his friends galloping toward the Hessian River in the distance.

At the end of the expansive hay field, a narrow row of trees bordering a sunken farm road presented an interesting obstacle. The old stone fence on the other side of the towering lindens was only two and a half feet high but the drop on the other side would scare the bejesus out of a few people.

“Yee-haw!” Lafayette snorted, sailing over. He loved a drop jump because he was in the air so long. Horse hang time was how he thought of it.

Sister kept her center of gravity right over Lafayette’s center. They landed in the soft earth of the lane, then scrambled up the small embankment on the other side into a field planted with winter wheat. She skirted the field, hearing the screams behind her of those who made the drop and those who didn’t. She turned her head just in time to see Lottie Fisher pop out of her tack and wind up hugging her horse’s neck. It was funny although at that precise moment Lottie didn’t think so.

The hounds moved faster now as scent became stronger. They reached the place where Uncle Yancy had crossed Patsy’s scent. Milling about for a few minutes Dragon bellowed.

Not trusting him, Cora hurried next to him before he could take off. She put her nose down.“It’s good. Let’s go.”

They turned at a right angle, heading northeast now into the pine plantation owned by the Fishers. Paths were wide, easy to maneuver. At the end of the twenty-year-old loblolly pines, they hopped over an upright in an old fence line. Sister had built that jump with Ray Senior using sturdy locust trees felled in a storm. Fifteen years later the jump stood strong.

Everyone made it over the upright. Three strides from that another jump faced them as they moved into a cornfield, stalks uncut. This simple jump of truck tires suspended on a cable gave half the field a problem and they had to wait for Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers to go through the gate. Once through they bade Bobby good-bye, hurrying to catch up with the field, now at the far end of the cornfield, pushing into a second cornfield separated by an expensive, impressive zigzag or snake fence. Sister and Lafayette arched over the point where two sides crossed together. They landed smack in the standing corn. She ran down a row, hounds in front of her and to the side of her now in full cry. They’d picked up Patsy. She was running about a quarter of a mile ahead and being shadowed by St. Just. St. Just, unbeknownst to him, was being shadowed by Athena.

At the end of this cornfield a fence bordered a rocky creek. It, too, was a zigzag. Sister jumped that and one stride later clattered across the creek with inviting low banks. On the other side the hounds turned west. They ran, then lost the scent.

Patsy dashed into the creek, ran two hundred yards, then crossed back into the cornfield by tiptoeing across a log fallen over the farm road. She figured this would keep her scent high and she was right.

Even when Cora figured out where the red vixen had exited the creek she couldn’t get high enough to smell the top of the downed sycamore.

The check lasted five minutes, which helped the field. Sister counted heads. She’d started with sixty-nine and was down to sixty-two. Jennifer stayed just behind Crawford and Martha. Sister winked at her.

People reached down, feeling their girths. A few tightened them. Many reached for their flasks. Nothing like refreshment or what some members called Dutch courage.

“I’ve got a line all right but it’s a different fox,” Diana remarked to her steadier brother, Dasher.

The rest of the pack trotted over to her. They checked it out.

“I can’t pick up Patsy. She’s slipped us somehow, so we might as well go on this. Target, I’d say.” Cora thought a moment.“Just so you young ones know, it’s always better to stay on the hunted fox but Patsy’s given us the slip, so—it’s Thanksgiving hunt; let’s put on a show.”

“Follow me,” St. Just cawed overhead.

“Keep your nose to the ground. I’ll keep an eye on St. Just,” Cora commanded them.

“He hates Target. We can trust him,” Dragon said.

“Oh yes, and he’ll run us all into an oncoming truck as long as it takes Target, too. Trust your senses and me before you trust him,” Cora loudly told all of them.“Now come on. Scent is holding.”

Hounds moved along the creek, then drifted away into woods through some thick underbrush while Sister and the field kept on the edges, crowding along a deer trail.

Sister could see Betty, since leaves had fallen off the trees in the blizzard. Betty moved along; Outlaw’s ears pricked forward, since he could hear the hounds better than she. She let him pick the way.

Hounds burst out of the thicket, hustled along the deer path, then loped into a neatly clipped hay field, a stupendous one hundred acres of rolling land.

The temperature rose slightly; the tops of the grass blades swayed, the frost turning to water, the wind gentle but insistent from the west.

Hounds, in full cry, stretching out to their full length, flew across those one hundred acres in the blink of an eye. Cody was on the right border of the field; her mother was on the left; Doug was ahead, where the edge of the beautiful fields rolled into another farm road, cutover acres on the other side. Shaker stayed with his hounds, a wide grin on his face, his seat relaxed in the saddle. He could have been sitting in a rocking chair.

Target, just out of sight, headed straight through the cutover acres, making certain to make use of any toppled timbers. He knew the hounds could move through them easily but the debris would slow the field.

By the time Sister, first flight, and then Bobby with the hilltoppers picked their way through the cutover acres, Target curved back, running parallel to the fence line along the hay fields. Halfway down the fence line he climbed up on the top rail and sped along, jumping down at the corner, where he swerved across the creek-bottom fields, crossed the paved highway, and lightly trotted halfway up Hangman’s Ridge, where he surveyed the panorama from a monumental boulder jutting out from the ridge.

Cora led the way. Doug pulled up at the highway to slow traffic. As soon as Betty saw him she waved him on, for it was important for Doug to stay in front of the hounds. She took over the traffic cop job. Next came Shaker, the bulk of the pack before him, moving together in good order and on the scent, slowed somewhat by Target’s tricks, especially his jaunt along the fence. But Cora, wise, kept her nose to the ground until she found the spot where he’d launched off the fence.

One hundred and fifty yards behind Shaker rode Sister, Lafayette’s big stride effortlessly eating up the acres. The trailing ribbons on Sister’s cap danced in the breeze; her patent-leather-topped boots caught the light that pierced through the lifting silvery haze. Immediately behind her rode Martha Howard, a surprise to her as well as others as she moved right by them, but Martha, adrenaline banishing her normal fears, just this once wanted to ride in the master’s pocket. Behind her the others spread out, Crawford not far behind, since Czapaka, although not the fastest horse, had a big, comfortable stride. Jennifer was immediately behind Crawford.Walter Lungrun, relying on athletic ability more than skill, was behind them. The remainder of the field was spread out.

They jumped the post and rail near the highway, looked left and right, then sped across, jumped the double coops into the bottomlands, striking straight for Hangman’s Ridge.

By now the field had covered two and a half miles. Horses and humans were limbered up.

Target admired the sight before him. Then, mindful of Cora’s speed and that of the insufferable Dragon, he hopped off the boulder, cut down the side of the ridge, crossed the silvery hay field on the back side, dashing into the woods, making sure to scramble over Fontaine’s coop.

Once in the woods he put on the afterburners, streaking toward the tip of the ravine. He’d covered another mile in less than five minutes over uneven terrain. As he looked down into the ravine he considered how best to trouble the hounds.

Comet walked out of the woods.“Target, are you heading down?”

Target thought if the young gray had been human he would have rolled up a cigarette pack in his T-shirt sleeve.“Yes. You?”

“Thought I’d walk along the edge here and duck into those rocks at the end. I’ve been eating the corn trail. I didn’t expect hounds to get here so fast.” He indicated the large rock outcropping with the ledge looming out of sight at the far end of the ravine. Holly bushes and mountain laurel covered the folds of land leading water down to the creek below. Enormous oaks, hickories, and walnuts, spared from logging by their inaccessible location, gave the place a magical air. Chinquapins dotted the upper rim, their bundles resembling baby chestnuts, a light spiky green.

“Let’s make them crazy.” Target grinned.“See that den there?” He headed over to an abandoned groundhog den.“Let’s go in together. I’ll take the exit just under the edge of the ravine and you leave by the path heading back toward the hog’s back. The death jump.” Target added,“They’ll split for sure. That will make the whips work up a sweat. Ha. Sister laid the corn trail and she intends for the pack to split. A painful thing for a master, so you know it’s—vital.”

Eagerly both males zipped into the groundhog den, moving through the central living quarters.

Target sniffed.“Groundhogs have no sense of aesthetics.”

Comet didn’t reply. He thought the old den was fine although he’d have to pull out the old grass left behind.

At the fork underground, Target went left and Comet turned right.

“Good luck,” Comet called as he wriggled out into the pale sunlight, filtering through low clouds.

“Ditto,” the big red called back from the tunnel, his voice echoing. He emerged just under a pin oak, half of its roots clinging to the rim of the ravine, the other half securely in deep ground. Down he slithered, heading toward the creek. Comet, having the easier path but the more dangerous open one, ran hard to the hog’s back, flattened and crawled under, making sure to leave lots of scent under the jump, then he crawled out, barreled across the high meadow, ducked under the three-board fence at the back side to scramble over the moss-covered rock. Then, feeling devilish, instead of dipping into a den just below the flat rocks he made a big semicircle back into the same high meadow and headed across to the western woods on the other side, blew through those, entering the hay fields leading toward the kennels. He screeched to a halt at the kennel.

“Hey!”

Those hounds left behind, gyps in heat and puppies, lifted their ears.“What are you doing here?”

“You can’t get me.” He lifted back his head and laughed.

“Just you wait, Comet. Pride goeth before a fall,” a pretty tricolor hound warned.

Raleigh—sneaking up behind Comet, Golly behind him—would have pounced except that Rooster, overexcited at the prospect of game larger than a rabbit, bounded past the shrewder animals.

Comet heard him, spun around, knew he had a split second, and he leapt sideways, narrowly escaping Rooster’s snapping jaws. He shot toward the chicken yard, a makeshift arrangement, as Sister hadn’t time to put chicken wire up over the top, a precaution against hawks, who were hell on chickens.

Comet climbed up over the wire on the side, dropping smack into the middle of Peter’s chickens.

“Fox! Fox! We’ll all be killed,” the chickens screamed, running around. The smarter ones hid under the henhouse.

Raleigh growled at Rooster, then ran over to the chicken coop.

Golly, ahead of the Doberman, climbed up the chicken wire.“You get out of there!”

Raleigh hollered,“Golly, don’t go in there!”

Golly glanced down. Comet’s open jaws awaited.“You’ve got a point there, Raleigh.”

Rooster, frenzied, was digging, trying to get under the fence.

“Leave it!” Raleigh commanded.“You won’t get in in time and the chickens, if any live, will get out.” Turning his attention to Comet, equally as trapped as the chickens, Raleigh reasoned with him.“If you kill those chickens, Sister will have a fit. Now let’s work together. You need to get out.”

“I don’t trust him,” Comet snarled at Rooster.

Golly wasn’t sure Rooster could be controlled under the circumstances. Back on the ground she leaned into Raleigh, who understood her wordless thoughts.

In the distance they heard hounds; then they heard silence.

Comet knew hounds would find scent soon enough but they weren’t where he thought they’d have to cast again.“I need to get out of here before the pack is here.”

“You’re in dangerous territory even if you do get out. Your one hope is to go under the porch.”

“You can’t let him go! You can’t.” Rooster was beside himself.

“I have an idea.” Golly spoke to Comet:“Stay here. We can’t get in. The hounds can’t get in. If you don’t kill one chicken, Sister will put hounds up and us, too. She’ll let you go. It’s better than taking a chance with Rooster.”

“No!” Rooster spun in circles of frustration.

“Calm down.” Raleigh’s deep throaty growl meant business.“You can hunt rabbits all you want but leave the fox alone.”

“But I’m a harrier. I can hunt foxes as well as those damned foxhounds.”

“I don’t doubt that but you’re not supposed to hunt foxes and besides, where would you be if Sister hadn’t brought you home? She doesn’t want any fox killed. This is no way to reward her. Peter would be upset if he knew you offended Sister.”

Rooster, anguished, lay down, putting both paws over his eyes. He moaned.

“Your word?”

“Yes.” Comet, full of corn, wouldn’t have killed a chicken anyway, but no point in spoiling his image.

Raleigh stood over the harrier.“I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and if you even twitch, I will tear you up.”

“And I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Golly puffed up to three times her size. Then she hissed at Comet.“You, too. Worthless carcass!” She was brave but sitting under Raleigh’s chest she was especially brave.

The gyps in heat, the household animals, and Comet listened as cry picked up, then stopped again.

“I thought they’d be halfway here by now,” Comet commented.“I wonder what’s going on?”

Back at the edge of the woods, the hounds hit a hot pocket, one of those swirls of air sometimes ten or more degrees hotter than the air around it. The scent, already over their heads, scattered. As the hounds cast themselves St. Just flew low overhead. He circled, then flew down just above their heads.

“Target’s in the ravine. Comet split off from him. You’ll have a split pack if you aren’t careful.”

Dragon, ready to roll, shouted to Cora,“Let’s follow the raven.”

“No. We pick up scent properly. We aren’t gallivanting across the county because of one raven’s revenge. Put your nose to the ground and get to work. Now!”

The check, that pause in hunting where hounds must again find scent, although unexpected, was near the ravine, a half mile away if one could move in a straight line, which one couldn’t.

Sister leaned over to Martha.“Will you take the field? I’m feeling punk.”

Thrilled to be given such responsibility, acting field master, Martha gushed,“I’d be glad to. Would you like someone to go back with you?”

“You know, I think if I walk back I’ll be fine and if I feel better I’ll find you. I must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.” Standing in her stirrups, Sister said, “Stay with Martha.” Then she rode across the meadow as though heading home. To her surprise, Walter Lungrun followed her.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

“Upset stomach. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll escort you home. We’re close enough to go back to your place, don’t you think?”

“You rejoin the field. I’ll be fine, thank you.”

He hesitated.“It won’t take long. I can find them.”

It occurred to her that Walter might have killed Fontaine to revenge his father. She thought he was too smart to risk his career, his own life … but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have done it. Find a motive and you find the murderer. A thin ripple of fear shot through her. She shook it off. Even if he did have reason, she didn’t think he could ride well enough or knew enough about scent to lay a good drag. She was fluttery inside.

“I’m the master and I’m telling you to rejoin the field.”

“Yes, Master.” He obediently turned Clemson back toward the field, which was still waiting for hounds to find the line.

Sister walked across the creek meadows to the base of Hangman’s Ridge. She followed the base of the ridge until she was out of sight. She heard hounds strike again, moving across the creek meadows toward the woods. Once into the woods she turned back, squeezed Lafayette into a canter, skirted the meadow, jumping in at a stiff coop—three feet nine inches—used only by staff. This dropped her closer to the ravine. She dismounted, leading Lafayette to a sheltered overhang. Tying him to a low limb, she patted his neck. “Stay here, buddy, and stay silent.”

“Yes, but don’t leave me for long. It’s too good a day,” he pleaded.

She rubbed his head.“Silent, dear friend.” Then she used whatever cover she could find and slowly worked her way toward the rock outcroppings. She reached them in five minutes, slipping a few times. At the outcroppings she dropped down to the ledge, partially protected from view by holly bushes at the edge plus the low full limb of a fir tree. There she waited.

She heard hounds at the other edge of the ravine, the sound funneling down, then lifting up to her. She heard another check, another find, and she heard the pack split, the bulk moving away from her, a splinter group heading down into the ravine. Below her she saw Target, fat, glossy red, trotting down to the creek. Then he walked through the creek, crossing a bit above the rocky crossing where the envelope was tacked to the tree. To her amazement, Aunt Netty popped out of her den and Inky called from the tree she was perching in.

Target paused, barked something to Netty, then hearing the splinter group close in, he hurried up toward the rock outcroppings as Netty ducked back into the den, her nose still visible.

Low into the ravine flew St. Just, dive-bombing Target. And behind St. Just, closing fast was Dragon, three couple of young hounds racing with him.

“Kill him. Kill him,” St. Just screamed.

Hoofbeats thundered behind the rock outcropping. Sister shrank farther in, flat now against the rock. She prayed Lafayette, beautifully gray, wouldn’t catch the eye of the whip above her and he wouldn’t whinny to the horse. He didn’t.

Down into the ravine the whip rode and it wasn’t until she saw Keepsake that Sister knew it was Cody.

“What a gifted rider,” she thought to herself as Cody cracked her whip, trying to turn back Dragon.

St. Just dive-bombed Target again, so intent on his mission, the blue-black bird didn’t hear Athena overhead. She waited for St. Just to reach the bottom of his dive. Then with open talons she streamed down, raking the raven across the back.

Sister had never seen anything like it. The two birds climbed into the air and St. Just screamed at Athena, who silently flew to a high tree branch. St. Just swooped past her, then dove for Target again, who was climbing up toward the rock outcropping. Athena opened her wide wingspan, lifted off, again striking the raven, this time with her claws balled up. Black feathers flew and St. Just pulled off Target to face the huge owl. St. Just’s only weapon against his foe was speed. Athena’s size, wisdom, and famed ferocity ensured that only a fool would tangle with her.

By the time St. Just pulled away, turned in the air to strike again at the red fox, Target had reached the rock outcroppings, climbing to the ledge.

He froze when he saw Sister, then boldly ran right between her legs, ducking into the den behind her.

St. Just flew toward the den, squawking loudly. Cody, down at the creek crossing, would have seen Sister if she’d looked up but instead she was whipping off hounds and finally went to the ratshot to stop Dragon.

She fired.

“Ouch!” he yelped.

“Leave it!” She commanded. “Hold up,” she yelled at the other hounds, who were scared now.

Sister admired Cody’s whipping ability just as St. Just flew right in her face, screaming about Target. Athena struck again, knocking the raven sideways in the air. She scared Sister, who grabbed the fir limb.

Down below, Cody saw the envelope. She dismounted, holding the reins. She dropped the reins to reach the envelope.

As she did, Aunt Netty, who’d figured out the truth, stuck her head out of the den and taunted,“Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!”

Dragon, butt full of ratshot, bolted toward the den. The others followed and Keepsake, green, spooked. He tore up the ravine.

Cody, hands shaking, whip draped around her neck, knew she couldn’t get him back. Then she heard Lafayette whinny.

“Come stand with me!” the gray called from his hiding place.

Keepsake, scared at the hounds bolting, scared that he would really be in trouble for leaving, picked his way up to Lafayette. By the time he reached the seasoned master’s horse he was lathered.

So was Cody as she read the letter.“I know who you are. Give yourself up and make it easy on everybody, yourself included.”

She slipped the letter into her frock coat pocket, looked around. She didn’t see Sister but she caught sight of Keepsake. She began climbing the ravine to reach her horse.

The hounds dug outside Netty’s hiding place but she was safe in the back with lots of ways out. She laughed at them.

Inky stayed put in the tree. St. Just, bruised, repaired to the top of a walnut. Athena sat opposite him just in case. She watched Cody finally reach Keepsake, where she saw Lafayette. Defeated, she waited for Sister.

Sister reached the rim of the ravine, picking her way around to the horses. Cody led out Lafayette, handing him to a woman she had been trained to obey since childhood.

“Why?”

Tears rolling down her face, Cody simply answered,“Jennifer. Even after rehab he’d give her drugs.”

“Oh, Cody, there had to be another way.”

“I hated him.”

Knowing that hate, like love, can’t be explained neatly away, that passion defies all logic, she put her hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Come on.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Sister swung up in the saddle.

“I’m not sorry I killed him. I’m sorry I dragged everyone into it.” A flash of panic hit. “Is there no way out?”

“No.” Sister turned to her as they reached the farm road in the woods. “Crawford shouldn’t pay for your sin.”

“He’s so rich he’ll get off.”

“That’s not the point. You have to turn yourself in.” Sister inhaled. “In a way I can understand why you killed Fontaine. You believed Jennifer wasn’t strong enough to resist him. You were wrong but I understand. But to kill a healthy red fox and to use the hunt for your revenge … Cody, that was beneath contempt.”

Although Cody could have fired ratshot straight into Sister’s face the thought didn’t occur to her. She’d acted impulsively once, fueled by love for her sister and hate for Fontaine. Her mind worked clearly enough now, even if her moral sense remained tilted. She hung her head, saying nothing.

Sister cupped her hands.“Come to me.” She yelled for her hounds, who, tricked by Aunt Netty, ran up out of the ravine. Knowing they’d been bad, once in sight of Sister, they crawled on their bellies. “I’m ashamed of you. Now come on.” She reprimanded them, which was worse than any ratshot from a whip, for the hounds loved Sister.

Each woman rode back with a heavy heart: Sister, distressed that a young life was wasted as well as a man’s life taken away, no matter his irresponsible behavior. Cody, burdened with shame and fear, fought her tears.

In front of them they heard the hounds heading toward the kennel. Well, Cody would give herself up but they might as well hunt their way back.

They flew over the jumps, galloped across the upper meadow and then through the woods into the creek meadows, around Hangman’s Ridge, reaching the chicken coop in about fifteen minutes of hard riding, the three couple of hounds behind them.

Shaker, on the ground, stood outside the chicken coop. The entire field, mounted, watched with amusement. Doug and Betty had come in from their posts as Shaker blew them in.

“Sister!” Shaker called out. “You okay?”

“Yes. Are you hunting chickens now, Shaker Crown?”

“Look here.” He pointed and Comet stuck his head out from the chicken coop.

“Well, I’ll be.”

Golly, in a tree, bragged,“He’s afraid of me!”

Raleigh ignored this.“I promised he’d be safe.”

“This is a first.” She smiled, dismounting. “Well, folks, you’ll long remember this day. Shaker, take the hounds back to the kennel. And let’s lock up Rooster in the tack room. Folks, we’ve put foxes to ground today but we’ve never put one to a chicken coop, so I think we’ll call ita day. Thank you for hunting with us.”

People raised their caps, others reached down, touching Sister’s shoulder. Betty noticed the greenish-white cast to her older daughter’s face.

Sister smiled up at Cody.“Ride on back to the trailers with your family. I expect you to call Ben Sidell.”

Cody nodded yes.

As everyone left and Sister, Doug, and Shaker got the hounds in, praising them lavishly, they marveled over the day’s hunt.

“If we ignore the chicken coop, he’ll climb out and leave,” Sister advised.

“Funny he hasn’t killed any chickens,” Doug remarked.

“Guess he’s full,” she replied, not revealing that she’d put out enough corn to feed a regiment of foxes. “But to be sure I’ll put out corn.” She left Doug to care for the horses. She opened the door to the chicken coop, warily eyeing Comet. “Here. Go when you’re ready.” She admired him, for he was a handsome gray. “You know, fellow, anyone who says grays aren’t fun to chase doesn’t know foxes.”

“Thank you.”

“Get that fox outta here,” the chickens complained bitterly from under the chicken coop.

“Actually, why don’t I hold open the door.” She did and Comet scooted right out.

“You’re a good dog,” he called to Raleigh in passing.

Golly backed down the tree and Rooster howled from the tack room, deep distressed howls.

Taking a deep breath, Sister returned to the stable, where Doug was putting sweat sheets on the horses.“I’ll go pick up the trailer later. Did Cody say when she would bring back Keepsake?”

“Tomorrow. I told her to take him home for tonight. Easier.”

“Good.” He whistled.

“Doug. Cody killed Fontaine.” He stopped whistling as she continued. “She admitted it and she will turn herself in to Sheriff Sidell this evening. She’s telling her parents and Jennifer now.”

He rested his head on his hand, which was on Lafayette’s neck; then he looked up. “I did it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. I hated that she slept with him.”

“Nice try.”

“She confessed because she knew a black man wouldn’t stand a chance. As a woman she can throw herself on the mercy of the court.” He breathed hard.

She put her arms around him.“Honey, I’m sorry.”

“I did it!”

“You’re too smart to kill like that, Doug. I’m sorry she did it. I’m sorry for you, too. I don’t know what will happen. With a good lawyer—” She released him. “Go to her. I’ll finish the horses.”

“Thanks,” he whispered.

As he left, Sister checked the sweat sheets. She finally let Rooster out of the tack room.

Shaker came in from the kennel to discuss the hunt. She told him.“She could have lied and made it worse. But she didn’t.”

He shook his head.“Crazy. People do crazy things.” He sat on a tack trunk. “Maybe it’s better not to feel much.”

“I don’t know, Shaker. I just don’t know. I liked Fontaine. I’m horrified he sold drugs and used drugs to seduce these girls. My God, it’s sordid.”

“Had a leak in his soul.” He crossed his leg over his knee. “How’d you know?”

“Process of elimination. Had to be one of my whips or you, and I could see you all the time. But you are the only people who ride well enough to have pulled it off. That narrowed it down to Betty, Cody, and Doug. When Dean Offendahl started talking, then I figured it was probably Cody.”

“Her mother?”

“Too stable.”

“Jennifer.”

“I don’t think Jennifer could have executed the plan. She’s a beautiful girl but she’s a thirty-watt bulb in a hundred-watt socket.”

“There is that. Doug?”

“Well, he had reason but in the end, character tells. He might have gotten into a fight with Fontaine once he knew the story but I don’t think he knew the whole story until Dean spilled his guts. What a smarmy kid. He’ll grow up to be just like his father. But Doug, he wouldn’t kill a man for that even if he wanted to do it.”

“Bobby?”

“Can’t ride well enough to lay the drag, then fire through that ravine. Although Bobby could kill.”

“I expect any of us could if we had to.” Shaker sighed. “It’s been quite a day.”

“Yes. Thank you for a good hunt. Hounds did well.”

“Not so well. Dragon took a few with him.”

“My fault. I’ve been putting out corn for days. I needed to get Cody back into the ravine. I didn’t know if it would work. Anyway, there were so many foxes out today it’s a wonder the pack didn’t split before then. I even saw a black fox up in a tree when I was in the ravine.”

“I see her now and again. You could have told me about the corn.”

“No. I had to do this alone. I’m sorry for her even if she did kill Fontaine. It will take me longer to forgive her for killing the fox—I know that sounds awful but it’s truly how I feel. It’s a Greek tragedy without the gods.” She paused. “But then I suppose they are always with us.”

“Oh, don’t go into these weighty matters, Sister. Zeus. God. Allah. All the same to me.”

“You’re right. Well, how about fresh coffee? Come on up to the house.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The two old friends walked across the leaves, crunching underfoot. Raleigh, Rooster, and Golly raced around them. The chickens settled down again in their house.

As she made coffee she glanced at the photograph of Raymond, Ray Junior, and herself, in full regalia at the start of a hunt, years ago. It was the last year of Ray Junior’s life. She thought to herself that she didn’t know if the gods were always with us or not. She hoped they were or that something kind was out there but she felt, often, that the people she had loved in this life, her mother and father, her husband and son, and now Peter Wheeler, were with her. Love never dies, she told herself and a pain, deep and sharp, caught her breath. If only she could pass on what she had learned to young people. If only she could have stepped in and turned Cody away from the drugs, the downward slide. What love had been given her she wished to give to others. Most times they didn’t much want it but hounds, horses, cats, and dogs did and they were a gift from the gods, too.

Back in Target’s den, Target, Charlene, Patsy, Aunt Netty, and Uncle Yancy felt a satisfaction that Reynard’s killer would pay the price.

After full discussion, including the help of the grays, especially Inky, the foxes dispersed to their separate dens.

When they were alone Charlene said,“Sister thought like a fox.”

“I suppose.” He sighed.“But you know, I’m about as amused by humans as I care to be.”

2. HOTSPUR

CHAPTER 1

A wind devil swirled upward, sending tiny bits of stone dust glittering in the sunlight.

Even though it was the fourteenth of July, the morning proved breezy and quite pleasant at sixty-one degrees.

The staff and friends of the Jefferson Hunt were walking out hounds. Since it was seven-thirty in the morning,“dedicated friends” was perhaps a more accurate term, Sister thought to herself. The master, Jane Arnold, called Sister by all, walked behind her pack. The huntsman, Shaker Crown, a medium-build fellow, strode in front of the hounds.

Two whippers-in, Doug Kinser and Betty Franklin, flanked either side of the pack, and the dedicated friends, two this morning, tagged behind the master.

This two-mile walk down a crushed gravel road served to exercise hounds and to introduce the young entry, those hounds that would be hunting this fall for the first time, to the ways of the pack. As the summer progressed and the length of the walks became longer, fat melted off the human bodies. People looked healthier, more fit.

It amused Sister that millions of Americans, overweight and overfed, emptied their pockets on one fad diet after another. If they’d only make it a habit to walk out hounds they’d lose the pounds, save their money, and experience the most beautiful time of the day.

On any given morning, Sister saw bluebirds, indigo buntings, goldfinches, cardinals, robins, ravens, and hawks roaring over in search of breakfast—or maybe just a good time.

Rabbits, moles, shrews, even wild little sleek minks rustled in the meadows off the roadside.

Safe in the trees, cicadas, their Winston Churchill eyes surveying all, sang with deafening exuberance.

Clouds of black-and-yellow butterflies swirled up from the cow patties and horse patties dotting the verdant pastures of After All Farm, the glorious estate of Theodora and Edward Bancroft. Gleaming white fences, painted every two years, divided the pastures, and each fence line boasted a lovely coop or stone jump. Theodora, called Tedi, delighted in designing jumps and set them perfectly. Building the jumps seemed to give the wealthy but directionless woman something like a purpose in life.

As the small group walked briskly past the western pastures of After All, three old pensioners lifted their wise heads. Peppermint, the oldest at thirty-four, had taught two generations of Bancrofts to hunt.

From the other side of the pasture he nickered in acknowledgment of the humans and hounds he knew so well. Behind him Domino and Merry Andrew also stopped munching for a moment. In the background a pristine covered bridge crossed over Snake Creek. Tedi had built it in the heat of one of her architectural enthusiasms back in 1981.

“Hello, old man,” Sister called, waving to the gray horse.

“Good to see you, too,”Peppermint answered before turning to drink deeply from the creek.

“Good horse never forgets the pack or the master,” Shaker called over his shoulder.

“Indeed,” Betty Franklin agreed with a smile. She was the happiest she’d ever been in her life. She’d lost twentyfive pounds and felt like a teenager again.

Cora, the head bitch, gaily walked in front, and the young entry following tried to imitate their leader. The second-year hounds acted like the sophomores they were. Truly“wise idiots,” they at least knew better than to float out of the pack.

As they walked, the hounds kicked up little puffs of gravel dust. Inquisitive grasshoppers flew tantalizingly close to their black moist noses, darting away in the nick of time.

Raleigh, Sister’s devoted Doberman, flattened his ears to block out the din of the hounds. He considered himself hunt staff and if a youngster strayed from the group Raleigh pushed him back in before a human could react. Hounds, like humans, thought the better of getting into an argument with a Doberman.

Dr. Walter Lungrun, young, blond, and athletic, was walking next to Bobby Franklin, who was huffing and puffing.

“Goddamn that Betty,” Bobby said, cursing his wife loudly. “Told me if I don’t do hound walk and lose fifty pounds she’s going to divorce me.”

“She won’t have to divorce you, you’ll die first!” Sister called back to him.

“Probably why she wants you on these morning jaunts, Bobby. She’ll inherit your enormous wealth,” Walter added, knowing quite well that Bobby and Betty both worked like dogs at Franklin Printing and weren’t amassing any great fortune for it.

“You notice I only drag my ass out when I know you’re going to be here, Doc. If I grab my chest, you’ll know what to do.” Bobby winked.