The Hounds And The Fury. The Tell-Tale Horse

Felicity’s parents also provided support, but they were exacting about her grades. They expected her to succeed, and this expectation was inferred, not expressed. She had lived up to it so far.

Tootie’s parents loved her dearly, gave her a sharp moral compass, and had taught her discipline. Young though she was, she was the most organized and focused of the girls. Her father, who measured all things by money, pressured her to become an investment banker. Her mother mostly expected that she would have a dazzling career in whatever she chose and would marry an appropriate man. That meant rich. Both parents would prefer he be African-American, but the real cutoff was money.

They sat there, chattering away, talking about their studies, their friends, their beloved horses.

“Tomorrow’s hunt is going to be the best. I just know it,” Val enthused.

“The grays are mating. Reds should be, too,” said Tootie, who loved nature far more than banking.

“Bet it’s one of those hunts we never forget.” Pamela, too, was enthusiastic, a rare occurrence. She was glad to be sitting with the other three. She wanted to be part of the group but lacked that easiness and warmth that make others comfortable. At least the chip on her shoulder was shrinking.

“I remember every single one.” Tootie was so serious the others looked at her.

“Really?” Val recalled highlights, not every detail.

“Tomorrow will be a good one. We’ll all remember,” Pamela again predicted.

CHAPTER 16

The freezing and thawing, and a few days of mid-forties temperatures, made parking at Orchard Hill unwise. The nights stayed cold. The farm road leading in was too narrow to handle the volume of trailers, and there was no way to park in the fields, which would be frozen at first cast but possibly a muck hole when hounds returned.

Two hours before casting hounds, Sister put a message on the huntline number that everyone should park at Chapel Cross. The membership knew to check in. They were glad they did, because the area around the tiny church had been plowed.

Masters must be mindful of landowners, sextons, and other kindly people who call in useful information. Each year the hunt club made a nice donation to Chapel Cross, and she herself always gave the sexton one hundred dollars at Christmas. It helped that she liked everyone there, so it never seemed a chore to make the rounds.

Adolfo Vega, the sexton, was grateful for the cash and for the straw and manure that the members carried to his mulch pile. Adolfo prided himself on the gardens around the white clapboard church. He credited the manure for some of the result.

Any members not properly cleaning up after their horses faced a stiff fine, accompanied by a reprimand from the master. The reprimand was worse than the seventy-five dollars. Sister bided no disturbing of landowners who were friends of hunting.

Walter arrived an hour early to direct parking so no one would get stuck. The parking lot, not huge, called for maneuvering. Clemson, his older tried-and-true hunter, stayed on the trailer, happily munching from his hay bag while Walter, in his Wellies, got everyone squared away.

Sister and Shaker liked to park the party wagon slightly distant from the rest of the trailers. The hounds, obedient but curious, could be tempted to investigate someone’s tack room if the door was open once they were out of the party wagon. Trinity evidenced a streak of kleptomania. In the bustle to mount up, someone usually forgot to latch a trailer door.

Today, the party wagon parked behind the chapel in front of the tidy churchyard, snow banked up against gray tombstones. Adolfo, knowing Sister’s habits, carefully plowed out a circle on the north side, sheltered from the winds because of a double line of blue spruce trees. Little snow had melted, although it was packed down, so Adolfo, without realizing it, had plowed off the gravel path back there over dormant grass and had plowed over a den entrance. Foxes prudently dig more than one way in or out of a den. Even so, the medium-sized red dog fox who lived there was irate at having to clean out the snow to clear his entrance.

Shaker parked right over the entrance. Given the shade back there, he didn’t see it.

When the hounds bounded out of the party wagon, Ardent wiggled under the trailer.

“Fox.”

Before the others could join him, Shaker, thinking the older hound was having a silly moment, called him away. And Ardent, who deserved his appellation, crawled out. No point in getting into trouble before the hunt even began.

It mystified the hound that Shaker couldn’t smell the den; it was potent, even with the sun barely nudging the horizon.

Noting his mournful face, Cora predicted,“Don’t fret, Ardent. By the time we come back here he’ll smell it, and you’ll be golden.”

“I forget how bad their noses are.” Ardent fell in with the others as they walked down the gravel road, heading south and east to Orchard Hill.

The brisk air tingled in nostrils, on cheeks. Those who had slipped toe warmers into their boots had reason to be grateful. The mercury hung at thirty-one degrees but would surely rise to the mid-forties. The day, overcast, promised good hunting.

The fields and farm roads would require vigilance, for the surface would loosen with the rise in temperature, but underneath the soil would stay tight. Streaks of snow where the sun couldn’t reach looked like icing. In other places the snow had drifted so much it hadn’t melted down. But the general lay of the land was packed-down snow, with some bald patches due to earlier winds, all covered with heavy sparkling frost.

Puffs of condensation escaped horses’ nostrils, peoples’ mouths, and hounds’ mouths. A bit of steam lifted off horses’ hindquarters, but not much, not yet.

Sister loved mornings like this. Canada geese, many of which stayed throughout the winter, flew overhead, honking flight directions, their V formation later imitated by fighter pilots. Rabbit tracks were encased in the frozen snow and mud along with raccoon and possum tracks. Deer tracks crisscrossed meadows.

She felt a warm wind current as they approached the turn into Orchard Hill. Just as quickly she passed through it. Today, January 7, was the feast day of Raymund of Pennafort, who lived to near one hundred, going to his heavenly reward in 1275. Raymund, from Catalonia, had become a Dominican: a dog of God—or watchdog of God, if one prefers. The two wordsdominus andcanis had merged together. Raymund believed in reconciling heretics, Jews and Moors.

With husband and son both named Raymond, Sister had always thought January 7 was a lucky day. The embracing temperament certainly applied to her husband in a more earthy fashion, but it truly applied to her son emotionally. His impulse had been to include, to find what was good about a person, to build bridges.

Those thoughts flitted across her mind until finally they reached a narrow covert, snaking along a tiny creek that fed into a much larger one. Ice crystals stood out in pretty clumps along the farm road.

“Lieu in there,” Shaker called. Then he blew “Draw the covert,” one long note followed by two short sharp ones.

Hounds dashed into the covert. Colder in there than out on the field, they nonetheless had the advantage of being sheltered from the light breeze swooping down from the northwest.

Trudy worked alongside Cora, her hero. Not as fast as the older strike hound, Trudy absorbed all of Cora’s knowledge. She wasn’t slow, but Cora could pull ahead of all the hounds in the pack save Dragon, her nemesis. Rabbit scent curled up. The bitter odor of dried berries and bent-over pokeweed also was apparent.

The sun, now clear of the horizon, cast long scarlet shadows. The hounds worked through the narrow covert to where the little creek fed into the big one.

“To the left,” Shaker called out, and the whole pack wheeled as one, working the left side of the fast-moving creek.

Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela rode at the back of first flight. The custom for centuries had been for children, young people, and grooms to ride in the rear. On days when fields were quite small, Sister invited the girls forward. On the children’s hunt, adults followed children.

The reasons for this were sound. Young people could observe those in front who had earned their colors. Those members knew the territory, respected hounds, and nine times out of ten were strong riders. Watching how they approached a tricky fence, negotiated a drop, dealt with an obstacle whose approach had been poached, churned up like cake frosting, taught the youngsters. Being nimble, they could more easily dismount and mount up than many older members. If someone dropped a crop or needed a hand, the young were expected to supply it. Also, if there was damage to a fence or to anything else, they weren’t expected to repair it, but they were expected to remember. The person doing the damage was to report it immediately to the field master, even during a hunt, so long as they didn’t disturb hounds. But the young provided a backup in case the offending rider did not. In their defense, sometimesso many people hit a fence that no one was a culprit. Still, all should ’fess up.

The other thing about having young people ride in the rear was that everyone in front had also performed these services, watched the experienced riders, prayed for the moment when they, too, would be one of them: the hunt’s colors proudly worn on their collars, hunt bottoms sewn on their frock coats.

Hunting was a chain stretching back thousands of years. Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela profited from the wisdom of the ages.

Tootie, fond of history, particularly responded. She never felt alone when she hunted. Ghosts rode with her.

Walking behind her hounds, still searching, Sister noted she’d seen no deer hunters. This was the last day of deer season, which could be as frightening as the first. Harvest had been good this season, many hunters reaching their bag limits. Anyone out today was most likely from the city. Not one orange cap or jacket flashed human presence.

A hunter needed a good memory for the seventy-three firearm regulations in the state of Virginia. Adding to the burden was the fact that each county also had specific regulations.

Hunting generated income. First, the state raked it in from the licenses, and then if the sheriff or animal control officer cited a hunter for a violation, there was that tasty fine, which was dumped into the county coffers. Without hunters of all stripes, states would go bankrupt.

Usually Sister could focus on the hounds, but when the going was slow, her mind wandered a bit.

She woke up, though, as Dasher opened, followed by Diana and Tinsel. They had picked up a line along the large creek bed.

Betty, on the right side of the large creek, loped along on Magellan and cleared a large tree trunk, keeping hounds well in sight.

Sybil, on the left, paralleled an old cart road, its ruts frozen. She passed a stack of pallets used during apple picking. A packing shed in serviceable condition sat near the pallets. The apple orchard covered the lands to the west, rising upward for fifty acres on the west side of the creek.

The fox kept straight as an arrow, but he was well ahead of hounds. He’d been courting, and having been unsuccessful in his designs had turned north, which meant he headed back toward Chapel Cross, where the tertiary gravel roads formed a perfect cross.

The field galloped through the western orchards and passed into the wide hay field with the one-hundred-thirty-year-old sugar maple of epic proportions in the middle.

The fox veered further north, picking up speed. The field, sweating now, cheeks flushed, cleared coops, rail fences, and a line of brambles entwining a disintegrating three-board fence. On they ran, hounds in full cry, ground beginning to soften in spots, for they’d been out an hour.

The fields, frost shining gold as the sun rose ever upward, rolled onward. The Blue Ridge Mountains provided a spectacular backdrop, the ice on deciduous trees and on pines flaming in the climbing sunlight.

“What the hell!” Dreamboat cursed as an eight-point buck shot right past him.

However, hounds smelled no hunters.

As they ran on and on, scent intensifying along with their cry, Sister and the field noticed deer moving past them or cutting at angles. No deer ran away from the direction of the hounds. If anything, they were running to the hounds. Four miles past Chapel Cross, galloping flat out, they thundered into Paradise.

Bobby Franklin, leading the hilltoppers, pulled up on a high hill for a moment. He’d fallen behind because the old gates, rusting on the hinges, had taken some doing to open. The youngsters in the back of the hilltoppers dismounted to open the gates. This was done in twos so no one would be alone at a gate, everyone rushing off, their horse eager to join them.

Bobby heard Shaker’s horn, piercing. He saw his wife flying across an open meadow with Sybil on the left. The hounds, tightly together, dashed over the meadow. Shaker next hove into view. He was followed by Sister on Rickyroo, his long stride eating up the ground. Behind Sister the field strung out, some already succumbing to the pace. The four Custis Hall girls were passing those who faltered or were pulling up, which was their right to do.

Just before Bobby squeezed his horse, a big fellow, something told him to wait.

More deer appeared, then a black and tan hound, followed by another and another. They looked like black jellybeans tossed over icing. To their credit, they weren’t chasing the deer. A few had their noses down, but others had come up on the line that Dasher, Cora, Diana, and the others were following. The black and tans had been running backward on the line.

Within a minute they smashed smack into the pack.

“Pay them no mind!” Cora ordered.

“Cur dogs!” Dragon yelled to the young ones.

“Be damned if I’m a cur dog, sir.” A black and tan snarled at Dragon, who snarled back.

Shaker, coming up hard, tucked his horn into his coat between the first and second buttons. Clear and loud, he commanded,“Ware riot!”

“Don’t worry,” Diana said, her nose down.

“Who are they?” Young Delight, baffled, yelped.

“Deerhounds. Pay them no mind,” Ardent counseled.

One black and tan, reversing herself to join the Jefferson hounds and run in the right direction, replied,“We’re foxhounds. We’re out here with a human who is a perfect fool.”

Dana, littermate to Delight, was about to reply, but the scent grew stronger. She stretched out, pushing off with her powerful loins supplying smooth power.

One by one, the black and tans reversed to fall into the tricolor pack. All the voices sang a crescendo of happiness that echoed off the mountains.

Sister now came up. Without faltering, she pushed Rickyroo on.“Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

“Yeah, but isn’t the sound great?” Rickyroo flicked his ears back, then forward.

She laughed out loud because she loved him, because the pace was searing, the sound divine, the situation unique.

Just as Bobby moved out again, Jason Woods, perfectly turned out, galloped toward Betty. Hounds had turned toward him, so he pulled up, reversing with them.

Jason’s Kilowatt, though beautiful, was no match for Magellan, who pulled alongside, then sped by him. Jason labored to keep up.

Crawford appeared, hanging onto Czpaka for dear life. Marty, a better rider than her husband, rode on his right as a whipper-in, a position she had no burning desire to fulfill.

Crawford blew into his reed horn. A thin note escaped. Within seconds the doubled pack blasted right by him, as did Shaker, then Sister, then the field.

Sputtering, Crawford turned, only to find himself between first flight and the hilltoppers. As he tried to blow again, Bobby rode by him and hollered,“Don’t!”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to handle my pack?”

“You look fool enough, Crawford. Don’t sound like a sick hen and make it worse.”

Furious, Crawford threw the reed horn onto the ground.

He had no choice but to fall behind Bobby, since he couldn’t catch up to first flight, now flying at Mach speed.

A fence row ahead, sagging, had a gap where one rail had long since fallen off. Hounds soared over, followed by Shaker forty yards later, then Sister, then the field.

Hounds screamed.

The fox, safely ahead, heard the music. This pack could wake the dead.

He cut sharply right, dipped into a wide ravine, popped back up, and skedaddled to the ruins of Paradise, its Corinthian columns majestic under gray, cottony clouds.

He slowed, flicked his impressive tail, and sauntered into his main entrance under the marble steps.

Four minutes later, all the hounds, jubilant, announced they had put their fox to ground.

Betty rode over but didn’t take HoJo when Shaker dismounted to praise hounds and blow “Gone to ground.”

Walter had ridden up to hold the reins, having been told to do so by Sister.

Given the cacophony and the strange hounds, Betty stayed outside the circle of hounds, as did Sybil on the other side.

Jason, breathing hard, rode up.

Betty said not one word.

Finally, Crawford rode up, Bobby hiding his laughter behind his gloved hand.

Crawford glared at his hounds, glared at Jason, and was about to bark at his own wife until he noticed she had a hound with her. Marty was the only one who did her job.

Sister smiled as her hounds watched Shaker for a sign.

The only ripple of discontent came from Dragon, who raised his hackles at a large, handsome dog hound.

“Dragon,” Shaker quietly called his name.

Dragon turned his face from the offending hound and walked over to his huntsman.

“Come along.” The hounds clustered around Shaker, but so did the black and tans.

“Where’s your horn?” Jason asked.

“Threw it away.” Red-faced, Crawford spat, now at the edge of the combined pack.

“Well, you’d better call your hounds out.” Jason stated the obvious.

“I know that!” Crawford, enraged, slunk down in his saddle, then bellowed, “Come on.”

Not one hound turned his or her head.

Crawford dismounted, so Czpaka walked over to Walter, HoJo, and Clemson. Crawford grabbed a hound roughly by the collar.

Sister, lifting her feet out of her stirrup irons, swung her right leg over, dismounting effortlessly.

“Don’t touch a hound like that!”

Crawford wheeled.“It’s my goddamn hound and I’ll do as I please.”

“You don’t deserve these hounds.”

“She’s got that right.” A beautiful black and tan bitch agreed.

Sister walked right up to Crawford as Shaker, still as a mouse, had all the hounds around him.“If you so much as touch one of my hounds, I will knock the stuffing right out of you!”

Crawford, vanity wounded and ego aflame, moved toward her.“Don’t tell me what to do, you old bitch!” He pushed little Diddy out of the way with his knee.

“Ouch,” Diddy cried.

Sister stepped forward with her left leg, her hands fast. She followed with a hard left, then a hard right, her whole weight in the punches.

Blood spurted from Crawford’s mouth. He spit out teeth as he staggered.

He rose and threw a wild punch.

Sister ducked and came up, swinging both fists as hard as she could into his gut.

He doubled over, then sank to his knees.

Walter, mesmerized by the sight, walked toward them, three horses in tow.

Shaker, pack still with him, moved toward her.

Both men were encumbered.

Jason leaped off his horse and ran between the two antagonists.“Crawford, we’d better leave.”

“I’ll sue your sorry ass,” Crawford cursed as he spurted blood.

“You just do that.” Sister was ready to belt him again.

Walter reached her and placed his hand on her right shoulder.

Crawford, helped up by Jason, cried,“Furthermore, you’re trying to lure my hounds away from me.”

“Smoking opium,” Cora said as all hounds laughed.

“I’ll sue you. I’ll see you bankrupt,” Crawford threatened.

Jason, loud enough for those close to hear, sensibly said,“Crawford, what do you think will happen when you testify that you were beaten up by a woman in her seventies?”

This had the desired effect.

Marty prudently turned her horse.“Come along, hounds.”

“We want to stay with them,” a large fellow replied.

Jason handed Czpaka to Crawford and held his hands together so the bloodied man could mount up. Czpaka, sense of humor intact, took a step as Crawford tried to put his right leg over the saddle. Jason had to run alongside propping up Crawford until he was finally in the saddle.

No sooner was Crawford mounted then down the main drive to Paradise, churning old snow and mud as she roared, came Margaret DuCharme. She skidded to a halt and got out, slamming the door of her little Forester.

Margaret pointed her finger at Jason and Crawford.“What are you doing on my land?”

Crawford looked down at her.“It’s not your land.”

Jason groaned, then turned on the charm, smiling broadly at Margaret.“We’d like to know the foxes, human and otherwise.”

Voice controlled, ice cold and loud enough for the entire field to hear, Margaret replied,“I will see you both dead before I let my parents sell Paradise.”

“Alfred wants to sell.” Crawford, rattled, had just let the cat out of the bag: he knew too much.

“We’ll see about that.”

Walter, Clemson and HoJo with him, walked over to Margaret.“It was one of the best runs of the season.” He smiled. “Thank you for allowing Jefferson Hunt on Paradise. Can I help you with anything?”

She liked Walter and replied quietly,“Thanks, Walter. Get these trespassers out of here, please, before I really lose it.”

“His hounds will follow ours. We’ll get them and him out.” Walter said this so Shaker could hear, too.

She half-whispered,“I’ll see Jason in hell. I really will.”

“You buy Jason’s ticket. I’ll buy Crawford’s.” Sister regained her composure.

Two egotistical men, pride wounded in different areas, seethed on their horses.

Marty, hound tagging along, rode up to Margaret.“I am truly sorry.”

“Marty, I can’t understand how someone as lovely and sensitive as yourself could marry such a…” Words failed her. Margaret threw up her hands, and Marty knew this wasn’t the time to defend Crawford, no matter how much she loved him.

Useless as tits on a boar hog, Crawford and Jason couldn’t extricate their hounds from the Jefferson Hunt hounds.

Another motor was heard in the distance: a big, booming diesel.

Sam Lorillard, in the passenger seat, eyes wide open, involuntarily smacked his forehead with his hand as Rory stopped the truck and trailer.

Sam emerged stiffly. Rory cut the throbbing motor and walked around to the back. He opened the trailer door.

They couldn’t get the black and tans to load.

Sister, on foot, Rickyroo’s reins now in hand, called out to Shaker, “Help them, or this will get even worse.” She then directed Betty and Sybil: “You, too, if you don’t mind.”

Diddy leaped onto the new trailer.

“Diddy, out,” Shaker gently chided the eager little girl. “Hold up,” he instructed his hounds, who quizzically looked at him and at Sister, then Betty, then Sybil.

“Kennel up.” Sam called the black and tans to him as Sybil and Betty quietly, with no fanfare, moved at the edges of the hounds who didn’t break.

Sister breathed a prayer of relief the black and tans didn’t bolt but loaded up.

“Told you this would be a good hunt,” Pamela bragged.

“Not over yet,” Val replied.

Watching this was Ben Sidell. Nonni, his gentle teacher, took it all in as she stood next to Bobby’s big draft cross.

“Ben, I’m old enough to know when hounds won’t hunt for a man. Those hounds will never hunt for Crawford—not even if he feeds them calves’ liver daily,” Bobby drawled.

Sam, soaking up the tension, clambered back into the truck as soon as the black and tans were loaded.

The big trailer also carried the horses. Crawford, Jason, and Marty dismounted and walked their horses onto the trailer.

It was against state law to ride in the trailer, but under the circumstances, Jason urged them to do so. They’d get out of Paradise more quickly, and the ride back to his SUV wasn’t that far.

“I’ll get you for this!” Crawford shouted to Sister as Rory slammed and bolted the door.

Sister didn’t reply.

Shaker, back up on HoJo, apologized:“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you fast enough, Boss.”

“Maybe we both belong in the ring.” She half smiled, referring to their boxing prowess.

“Hell of a combination.” He smiled broadly.

“Was, wasn’t it?” She couldn’t help but feel pride, even though she knew that worm Crawford would churn up mud.

Hounds moved off. At the edge of Paradise people could hear the big diesel truck straining.

It was nearly noon when they arrived back at Chapel Cross. This time the whole pack wedged under the trailer.

Shaker bent over, then got down on his hands and knees, mud on his white breeches.“Holy smoke!”

“Now what?” Sister swung her leg over Rickyroo.

“There’s a den right under the trailer.”

“Shaker, you’ve denned your fox. How about giving tongue?” She bent over laughing.

Sheepishly, he stood back up and called hounds out from under the trailers.“Ardent, you were right.”

“Golden.” Cora beamed at her friend.

Reluctantly, one by one, hounds gave up their quarry, who was unconcerned in his cozy quarters.

The field gathered round for the spectacle.

At the tailgate, everyone buzzed with the unusual events of the day.

Finally, at one, Sister drove back, Betty as her passenger.

“Wait until I tell Gray. Poor baby, he’s at the office, and Garvey’s there, too. Oh, they missed a show!”

“The audit sounds difficult. I couldn’t do that tedious work.”

“Since Sam’s accident, Gray’s been staying home with Sam, who can’t dress himself without help. Of course, even if he were with me, he couldn’t say anything. Gray is a very principled man, and really, most accountants are. I do know Garvey needs Gray’s report for the Farmers Trust.”

“Red tape. Pure and simple.”

They drove along, wondering what to do about Crawford, wondering how Sam could stand it, and feeling sorry for a nice pack of hounds who were being ruined.

A minivan, going much too fast, began to pass them.

“Iffy. What’s with her? And why isn’t she at Aluminum Manufacturers? This may be Saturday, but it’s all hands on deck at Garvey’s.”

Sister turned her head slightly as the dark blue metallic van flew by.“Is everyone nuts today?” She focused on the road again. “You know, if there is an irregularity at Aluminum Manufacturers, she’s the first one on the griddle.”

“I’m sure she knows that,” Betty replied.

“Wonder if she knew Crawford would be over here today. Her land backs up to his at that ridge.”

Betty interrupted,“I don’t think being a neighbor gave her the inside track.”

“You’re right. Then I wonder if Alfred knew. Someone had to know. I mean—would Crawford really be dumb enough to cast hounds here?”

“Big ego.” Betty, too, wondered. “Or he was set up to fail?”

They looked at each other, saying in unison,“Jason.”

“Makes no sense.” Sister shook her head.

CHAPTER 17

While Iffy blew through Chapel Cross, having worked that Saturday morning in a race to get papers back to Farmers Trust, Gray used her absence to approach Garvey. Iffy said she’d come back after lunch, so he watched the clock.

Having placed a large folder and a bank deposit bag on Garvey’s desk, he sat opposite the younger man. “Garvey, Freddie, and I worked through the night. She’s been terrific.”

Garvey’s stomach tightened. “You do look a little rough.”

“Been a hell of a week.” He stood up, opening the folder and placing four stacks of invoices before Garvey. “Look at these.”

Dutifully, Garvey inspected the invoices.“They look okay to me.”

“They’re computer generated.”

Garvey studied them afresh.“Isn’t everything?”

“No. These invoices are identical except for the print. Each business has a different print color. For instance, Hanson Office Supplies is blue, Rickman’s Sanitary Service is black, L&L Commercial Cleaners is red, and Dalton Rubber Supply is green.”

Confused, Garvey bent his head over the invoices.“I’m missing something, Gray.”

“It’s uncommon to find identical invoices setting apart the print color. Freddie went online to see if these businesses existed. I called a colleague in Richmond at nine this morning. He’s never heard of them. Freddie and I flipped through the Richmond phone book to be safe, and we checked tosee if in the last five years any of these companies could have been bought out by a larger company. Sometimes they’ll use up the old paper. Not often, though.”

“Where’s Freddie now?”

“She went to work straight from here to catch up.”

“Gray, you’re telling me these are bogus.”

“I am. You don’t initial or countersign checks this small. Iffy signs them. You’ll also notice that these invoices are addressed to P.O. boxes. There’s no telephone number on the invoice, no street address, no e-mail address. While each of these companies has a different P.O. box, they are all located at the main post office in Richmond.”

A sickly look passed over Garvey’s pleasant features. “Two thousand to Rickman’s Sanitary Service, seven hundred and fifty for office supplies.”

“Every month. Freddie also ran a computer search to see how many vendors of like services or supplies had the same zip code. No matchups. We have the cancelled checks.” He zipped open the standard bank deposit bag used by businesses. “All are signed by your treasurer, and all are endorsed by a rubber stamp that says ‘for deposit only.’” Gray pulled out a few checks for Garvey’s inspection.

“My God.” Garvey slumped in his chair. “Iffy.”

“She goes to Richmond the third Thursday of each month. She picks up the checks and she deposits them in her own account. Obviously, we can’t seize her personal records until you charge her.”

His face flushed.“She deserves the right to explain herself. She’s been with me for years.”

“What she deserves is arrest. All these fake invoices are dated on the same day of the month, and they are all deposited on the same day of the month, the third Thursday. Garvey, it’s an old scheme, and it’s tried and true as long as the person doing it knows when to get out. It’s called disbursements fraud. It’s always an inside job, usually committed by a chief financial officer. If you don’t have her arrested the minute she walks back in this door, I can tell you exactly what will happen.”

“What?” Garvey whispered.

“She will say she needs to talk to an attorney. She’ll leave, and my guess is she can access the money very quickly. She’ll leave the country.”

“I can’t believe it.” Garvey dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“How much did she steal from me?”

“Freddie and I want to go over the cashed checks again. We also want to see if there aren’t other things we may have missed simply through exhaustion.”

Garvey lifted his head, raised his eyes,“Gray, how much?”

“Two million.”

“Oh, my God.” Garvey picked up the phone and dialed. “May I speak to Sheriff Ben Sidell?”

CHAPTER 18

You take it too seriously.” Jason shrugged off Walter’s anger at his whipping-in, if it could be called that, to Crawford Howard.

“Yes, I do. Seriously enough to drive over here after the hunt on my day off. You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jason’s dark eyebrows lifted. “I rode with an undisciplined pack of hounds, Crawford got his lip split open by Sister, and Margaret threatened my life. So what?” He laughed, albeit hollowly.

“You rode with an outlaw pack. You can’t ride with the Jefferson Hunt again or with any other hunt associated with the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.”

“Bullshit.”

“The MFHA was founded in 1907 to avoid exactly what happened. And you’d better believe they’ll enforce it. If, for example, you try to ride with Keswick, and if word got back to the MFHA that the masters allowed you to do so, they would risk losing their recognition, which is like losing yourmedical license. I’m telling you, Jason, you don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jason pushed his back against the chair.“Well who is going to report me? Sister? You?”

“She’ll wait for you to come to your senses today. If you do, she will explain to the president of the MFHA that you were unaware of the rule and you will never ride with Crawford again. If you don’t call today she will report you, or I will. We have no choice.”

Jason slammed down his coffee cup.“It was supposed to be fun. I’ve all but bought Paradise.”

Fortunately, the cup was heavy.

“You don’t own it yet.” Walter stated the obvious.

He’d driven to Jason’s spacious brick house downtown. Jason had bought it as an investment, declaring he’d sell it as soon as he found the country property he wanted.

The fireplace in the kitchen had Delft tiles around it. Jason had paid a decorator who mixed antiques with modern pieces, to lovely effect.

“I don’t need Sister’s help or your help. I’ll call the MFHA myself.”

“That will make matters worse,” Walter grimly predicted. “Apologize to Sister, then let us handle it.”

“I suppose she’s mad at me?”

“We’re all mad at you. And let me tell you why you’ll need her help. It’s a small world, and most foxhunters recognize why we can’t countenance outlaw packs. You’re going to be on everybody’s shit list, not just Jefferson Hunt’s.”

“Countenance? You sound like a preacher.”

“A Virginian, at least,” Walter half smiled. “We grow up on the King James version.” He leaned across the rectangular table. “Look, I’m upset that you rode out with Crawford, who means us no good. But I’m your colleague, you know. The hospital is a small world—like foxhunting. I’dlike things on an even keel.”

Jason listened, holding his cup with both hands.“Tell that to Margaret.”

“She has every right to be angry with you. You need to apologize to her, to Binky and Millie and Alfred.”

His dark eyebrows raised, then lowered.“I will. I’ll smooth the waters. But you know, if they don’t sign that contract next week, I’ll buy another property. They’ll never ever get a deal like mine. Seven million dollars. No financing.”

Walter, though the sum was impressive, wasn’t impressed. “The DuCharmes have owned Paradise for just about two hundred years. You aren’t from here, Jason. It’s hard for you to realize the pull of blood and time. It truly outweighs money.”

Jason’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Two old men without a pot to piss in. They live off Margaret and cutting timber every five years. They have to agree to my terms, which are very generous.” When Walter didn’t respond out of good manners, Jason, exasperated, announced, “I offered them seven million dollars for a bunch of Corinthian columns.”

Walter glanced down at his cup, then up at Jason.“And five thousand acres, much of it in good Davis loam. The timber program is good. You sell Alfred short. He’s managed the farm wisely, and Binky has had the sense to stay out of his way and run his little gas station. They may be pathetic, battling old men to you, but they aren’t stupid. And Margaret is smarter than both of them put together.”

Jason flared up.“I saved Alfred.”

“You have a remarkable record as a doctor. I respect that. Your patients, cured or in remission, are walking advertisements. But this is different. If you don’t apologize to Sister Jane, you’re cooked. If you don’t back off from Crawford, you’re cooked. Am I clear?”

Silence followed. The stainless steel wall clock ticked loudly.

“If I back off from Crawford, I’m cooked.” At last, a genuine emotion, worry, played on Jason’s face.

“You’re in the tank?” Walter used the old political expression, meaning you’ve been bought off in one respect or another.

“Yes.”

“How deep?”

“He’s my silent partner in purchasing Paradise.”

“I can’t imagine Crawford wants to see you restore Paradise to its former glory. So you are going to develop Paradise?” Walter clamped his mouth shut. “You lied.”

As Jason had bandied about some of his plans for Paradise, Walter knew he’d made a big to-do about respecting the past, allowing no development, and other such pious statements.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, is this like Clinton saying a blow job isn’t really sex?”

Jason’s face darkened. “We’d wait a year. We’d develop one thousand acres as an equestrian paradise. It would be impeccably done.”

“And you’d both make double-digit millions—and you get to live in Paradise as well.”

“Oh,” Jason corrected him, missing Walter’s sly comment. “We’d generate jobs and revenue for the county.”

“No doubt. That does put you over a barrel. Do you want to hunt with an outlaw pack, or do you want to make even more money than you already do?”

“I’ll bring Crawford around to registering his pack.”

“Good luck. He’s publicly derided the MFHA. Crawford’s not one to reverse a public position.”

“If it’s in his extreme self-interest, I’ll bet he will.”

“Like I said, good luck,” Walter admonished. “I know you don’t want to get on the bad side of Crawford. I understand, but you don’t want Sister angry at you. She can take you down.”

“She knows how to throw a punch,” Jason nodded. Then he leaned nearly halfway across the table. “Is it true her husband was your father?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t upset her?”

“No.”

“Does it upset you?”

“For my father, it did. But Big Ray was one of those men who walked into a room and women’s heads swiveled around. Whatever he had, if we could have bottled it, we’d be worth billions.” He exhaled. “Things just happened around Big Ray. ’Course they happened around Sister, too.” He shrugged. “Ancient history. I love her. I’ve always loved Sister. When I was a kid I wanted to ride like her. Working with her is one of the joys of my life. I just wish I knew what she forgot.”

“Plenty of good foxhunters out there.”

“She’s beyond good.”

“Look, I’ll concede that Crawford doesn’t know shit. Those hounds running all over proves that, but it’s not rocket science.”

“Exactly.” Now Walter leaned forward. “It’s an art woven into primeval instinct. She has it. Sister has horse sense, hound sense, game sense, and that something extra. You can’t teach it. You can’t buy it. I’m learning hounds and game, but I also know that what she has I’ll never have. What I have is a sharp political sense. I’m useful to her for that. And I love hunting. I’d lose my mind without hunting.”

“Suppose I would, too. That’s why I want to whip-in. I don’t want to be in the field watching everyone’s ass over a jump.”

“Some of those asses are mighty fine.”

Jason leered.“Well, yes.”

“Jason, we’d all like to whip-in to this pack. To whip-in at Jefferson Hunt is to be taken seriously by other foxhunters. None of us are immune to that kind of attention. I can’t do it, but I wish I could.”

“Why?”

“I’m not that good a rider, and I don’t have much hound sense, although I like the hounds. But I have people sense.”

“I can ride,” Jason boasted.

“What about the rest of it? She’s right to make you walk-out. And I don’t know if she’ll keep that offer after what you did yesterday.”

Jason shifted in his seat.“If I bow to Sister, I lose Crawford. I have to find another way.” He exhaled. “Or accept that I’ll not be hunting with you.”

“Jason, I wish I knew what the middle way might be. Until you, I, or someone else can think of it, you’ve got to calm the waters. You’d better apologize to Sister.”

Jason’s cell phone rang. He flipped open the cover to see the caller’s number displayed. “Damn. Excuse me.” He pressed the talk button. “Hello.”

Iffy bellowed,“Jason, where are you?”

“I’m in a meeting.” He didn’t mention that he wasn’t in his office.

“A meeting with whom?”

“Walter.”

“Get out of it. I have to see you.”

“Don’t worry about the insurance paperwork.” He sounded soothing.

“It’s three-thirty. I have to see you. Not in your office,” she persisted.

“All right, but let me call you right back. This is an important meeting.” A note of irritation crept into his voice.

She slammed down her phone.

Walter noticed the expression on Jason’s face. “I’d better be going.”

The shorter man folded his cell phone up.“She needs a psychiatrist. Iffy.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Walter thought it best to stay out of this discussion.

“Her health is improving; her personality is not.” Jason, exasperated, shoved the phone aside.

Walter rose.“If you don’t call Sister by tomorrow, I’ll call Dennis Foster at the MFHA Monday. I don’t want to do that.”

Dennis Foster was the director of the MFHA. As a lieutenant colonel, retired, in the U.S. Army, he could be forceful when he needed to be. Jason would find this out in a hurry if he didn’t mend fences.

“I’ll do it. Will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Don’t mention that Crawford and I are partners in the Paradise deal. Look, it’s possible we won’t develop it. If I can put my ducks in a row, I might be able to buy him out.”

“He’s not one to pass up a big profit.”

“If there’s prestige involved, he might.”

Walter cocked his head slightly.“What kind of prestige?”

“Master of Jefferson Hunt.”

“Jason, that will be a cold day in hell.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Jason was right about that.

CHAPTER 19

Hunt days were outlined in bright green on Sister’s month-at-aglance calendar on the kitchen wall. A smaller version was tacked onto her bathroom wall. Today’s fixture, Little Dalby, owned by the Widemans, interested her. During summer and fall, hunt club members reopened old trails and built jumps. The property, in limbo for years, had suffered neglect. The lawyers in charge of the old Viault estate lived in New York City. They had thought they were protecting the property by throwing off Jefferson Hunt. The reverse had happened, because it was the hunt club that had kept the hundreds of acres cleared, hayed, and tidied up during those last years of Mr. Viault’s life. It was Jefferson Hunt’s thank-you to a family that had been a vibrant part of foxhunting.

Pricker bushes, pokeweed, chickweed, and broomsage choked the once luxurious pastures. Outbuildings listed. A hole had been punched in the roof of the main house during a hurricane. The lovely little church, St. John of the Cross, had suffered comparatively little damage, although a great horned owl was now in residence.

Sister wondered whether the owl had converted to Christianity. She suspected not, given that the owl is sacred to Athena. Then, too, Christians talked too much about lambs and sheep and not enough about owls.

Last night Sister had called Anselma Wideman to make sure Crawford wouldn’t be hunting and to find out whether he had hunted the territory at all. The “all clear” pleased her. She wondered how long it would take Anselma and Harvey to realize this arrangement wouldn’t work.

After she’d checked in with Anselma, she and Gray hung on the phone like teenagers. Since Sam’s accident, he’d stayed home to help his brother. Usually from Friday night through Sunday night Gray spent the weekends at Roughneck Farm. Sister found she missed him. Apart from sharing a bed with him, she missed his picks and pans as he read choice passages from the morning’s paper.

Gray operated under a code of ethics as strict as that for physicians. He couldn’t discuss a client’s affairs, but she could tell from his voice that something was amiss. She figured the tension was because Farmers Trust had thrown a monkey wrench into the process of extending credit. But last night, she could hear in his tone that something was wrong, something more significant than Farmers Trust. Of course, she knew nothing about Garvey’s call to Ben Sidell. Nor did she know that the deputy sent to pick up Iffy couldn’t find her. She had flown the coop.

Gray promised to spend next weekend with her. Sam swore he could fend for himself. He told Gray to go; he was tired of being with a lovesick moose. Sister liked hearing that.

Right now she liked hearing little Diddy opening at St. John of the Cross. After drawing through a still unrehabilitated pasture for twenty minutes, Shaker finally jumped the coop into the woods. Sister noticed hound sterns waving. Diddy marched right up to the heavy front door, the cross on the graceful steeple covered in snow, and she sang out.

Since Diddy was a second-year entry, Diana trotted over to double-check.

“Good!” The beautiful anchor hound seconded Diddy’s excellent work.

With that, the pack put their noses down, inhaled deeply, and opened in joyous chorus.

They threaded through the woods, the low limbs of spruces, bearing the snow’s weight, touching the ground. As hounds moved through they’d brush under the spruces; snow would cascade down in a shower of tiny sparkles.

Sister stayed on the farm road. No point plunging into the woods as long as she could keep near hounds. They were moving west. The folds in the land grew tighter. As she burst out of the woods the sun touched the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, turning the snow crimson.

Scattered clouds began to glow underneath.

She turned to look behind. Tedi, Edward, Walter, Val, Tootie, Felicity, and Bunny Taliaferro constituted the field. The cold weather and last layer of snow had kept others at home. Then, too, the holiday season had ended, so folks redoubled their efforts at work. There were all those Christmas bills to pay.

The hounds suddenly shut up. Sister stopped on the meadow’s rise, the mild wind stinging in the cold, to behold them casting themselves.

Asa, wise, walked into the wind. Thirty yards later he picked up the scent, faint though it was, for the wind had blown it off the actual fox’s line and the scent dissipated as it lifted.

“Hop on it. Fading fast,” he commanded.

Not one hound would ever question Asa. They collapsed on the line and opened again, pushing ever westward.

Ahead, Sister saw Betty with Outlaw, her favorite mount, a tough little quarter horse, battling snowdrifts like a destroyer in heavy seas. To her left, Sybil was jumping a stout stone fence, some center stones having tumbled down over the years. Sybil kept alongside the hounds but far enough away not to bring their heads up or cause them to question her presence. The whole pack turned as one and cut sharply left, heading southwest now, to disappear into second growth forest.

Sister squeezed Keepsake, her thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, the perfect mount for this terrain and these conditions. He found his spot, soared over the stone fence, and then stretched out as they flew along the deer path in the forest only to burst out onto another meadow, broomsage spiking up through the snow.

They galloped down to a swift-running creek, where hounds threw up, meaning they lost the line, throwing up their heads. Unfortunately, so did Felicity. As hounds cast for the line she dismounted, ran behind a bush, and tossed her breakfast.

She came back, bright as a penny, and hopped up on Parson.

Tootie reached over to feel her forehead.“No fever,” she whispered.

“I ate too many doughnuts on the way over,” Felicity whispered back.

“Me too.” Val put her gloved hand on her stomach, the white string glove contrasting sharply with the black melton coat.

“You going to heave?” Tootie whispered.

“No.” Val shook her head as Bunny turned to glare at them for whispering during a check.

Cora moved further away from the pack, but she could find nothing.

Dasher stared down the steep bank of the creek, then launched himself. Airborne for a moment, he hit the water with a splash, swam with the current, and reached the far bank fifty yards downstream. He clambered out, put his nose to ground and worked back. He passed the pack on the other side and kept working. After five minutes, he had found nothing.

“Come on, Dasher. Good work, boy.” Shaker called the hound back.

The big fellow hurtled off the opposite bank and swam again, the current carrying him downstream. He emerged, shook himself, and trotted back to the others, working in vain.

“Helicopter.” Dasher laughed.

“Yeah.” Trident agreed that the fox must have stepped into a helicopter to be lifted right up.

Nothing remained. Not the tiniest scrap of scent.

“I hate this!” Cora, filled with drive, kept searching.

“Come along.” Shaker called them together. “Good work. I’m proud of you. We’ll hunt back.”

As they turned to hunt on the south side of the fixture, moving in an arc toward the trailers two miles distant, Sister heard a siren.

As the crow flies, they were little more than three miles southwest of Chapel Cross. By road it would take fifteen minutes, but the sound carried.

Sister wondered if one of the DuCharmes had finally met his Maker.

No, but one of the DuCharmes was deeply troubled.

Ben Sidell stepped out of his squad car. Margaret, in shearling coat, came out of the small dependency in which she lived.

“I’m so glad to see you. You made good time.”

“I was going against morning traffic.” He noted the rich seal-brown color of her hair falling over the shoulders of her coat.

“Look at this.” She walked to her Subaru Forester and opened the door.

Ben touched nothing but carefully noted Iffy’s wheelchair on its side, blood spattered over the backrest.

CHAPTER 20

Although his partner accused him of clutter, Uncle Yancy hotly denied this. Target collected possessions just sitting under a rosebush. Uncle Yancy believed his treasures had been carefully selected, not just picked up in collector’s mania.

True, he built little caches into which he stored the odd mouse part, chicken wing, or rabbit. He used to push corn, even fat millet heads, into his cache piles. Lately, though, he kept the grains in his den. For one thing, he couldn’t always find his caches under snow. He could hear mice two feet under snow. They’d burrow through if snows hadn’t packed down hard. There was plenty of oxygen for them. He’d hear those tiny claws, and he could pounce. But caches made no noise, so he’d learned to keep a grain bank account.

Since he had taken over the pattypan forge, storage space was ample. He’d lined his main sleeping quarters with grasses. He’d bedded down his storage chambers, although not as deep. Some foxes didn’t mind sleeping with frost in their dens. He did. That’s why he insulated his sleeping quarters.

The quiet pleased him. The only thing that didn’t please him was returning to find a glob of blood near his den. Human footprints clearly stood out in the snow. The blood carried an odd odor, so he didn’t touch it.

He’d returned from desultory hunting that morning. The two-mile trot down to the main house at After All had invigorated him. He’d intended to hunt, but Tedi had left out corn oil–soaked kibble behind her stable. He’d stuffed himself.

Sister would refill the special feed buckets Thursday night. One was tied to a tree perhaps a quarter of a mile from pattypan.

At eleven, his restorative sleep was interrupted by Aunt Netty.

“Wake up, you lazy ass.” She pushed him with her dainty paw.“Filthy, as always. Frozen blood by the den entrance. You are disgusting.”

He opened one eye.“My precious.”

“Don’t precious me. I’d heard you took over pattypan. Knew you wouldn’t stay over there at the old Lorillard place. Boring over there. Besides”—she paused, half closing her eyes to savor her imagined triumph—“too far from me.”

Uncle Yancy, no fool, smiled.“You’re right.”

“It’s beautiful here. I always wanted to live at pattypan, but the minks—well…” She shook her head disapprovingly.

Minks, little weasels, possessed ferocity in inverse proportion to their size. They had run out the foxes who’d lived at pattypan years ago and then had bred more minks. Squabbles increased with the population. The younger minks left, heading west. Many now lived on Hangman’s Ridge, but they usually kept out of view. Others pushed on to Mill Ruins, where vigorous mouth battles with other animals, especially squirrels, were daily dramas. The older minks at pattypan flourished until they challenged Athena. Like most arguments, silly though it was, it illustrated the incompatibility of both parties. Furious, Athena systematically killed them until there wasn’t one old mink left.

Their celebrated courage couldn’t help them when death came from the skies. Fearing the younger minks might return, other burrowing animals still did not take over pattypan.

Uncle Yancy had hit it at the perfect time. Everyone else had settled in a den, young foxes usually establishing themselves in early November in central Virginia.

“I’m not far from a feed bucket, which is nice in bad weather.” He hoped she wasn’t going to get pushy.

“See that you don’t get fat.”

“I’ve never been fat.”

“You’ve never been old. We’re getting on, Yancy. Which brings me to my point. I’m not breeding this year. Not just because of my age, but something tells me it will be a hard spring and summer. We must be wise about these things.”

Uncle Yancy, like most males, deferred to the female. They just knew. He asked,“What about the younger girls? Charlene, Grace, Inky, Georgia?”

“Georgia will wait another year. For one thing, she’s not far from her mother, so if Inky should produce a litter, Georgia will help. I haven’t spoken to Inky. Charlene, in her prime, will chance it. As for Grace, haven’t talked to her either.”

“What about the deer and the squirrels? Have you talked to them?”

“Some will, some won’t; most are cutting back. Bitsy isn’t.” She grimaced.

Uncle Yancy’s jaw dropped.“Bitsy’s never laid an egg in her life.”

“That’s just it. She says she wants to do it, and furthermore she’s ensconced in Sister’s barn, so there’s plenty to eat. Can you stand it, husband? More screech owls. As it is she wakes the dead.” She sniffed.“Athena can’t even talk her out of it.”

“Earplugs,” he laughed.

“Not me. I want to hear the huntsman’s horn.” She settled into the sweet grass.“This really is beautiful. I could make this even better. Why don’t you go out and clean up that blood if you aren’t going to eat it?”

Uncle Yancy’s heart skipped a beat. How was he going to get out of this?“When it comes to decorating, I lack your talent, but”—he heaved a huge mock sigh—“I’d bring in a shiny can and you’d be upset. Or I’d snore.”

“U-m-m,” she hummed.“Before I get comfortable I brought you a housewarming present.”

He stewed while she scooted out of the main entrance, returning with a lacquered mechanical pencil.“Here.”

He pushed the deep burnt-orange pencil.“It’s gorgeous.”

“Long hunt last night. Restless. Anyway, I wound up at the old Lorillard place. The graveyard enticed me. Lot of Lorillards there from way back, centuries back—and, you know, there was a fresh grave, covered in snow. I could smell the fresh earth underneath. We had that bit of a thaw. God knows, you can’t dig up frozen ground, so whoever dug the grave knew that much. Well, I started digging because I thought it might be a cache. Something we could use. But no, too deep. I did find this. Under the snow, on top of the packed earth.”

“Expensive.”

“Yes.”

“How deep do you think the cache is?”

“Three feet perhaps. The frost came back hard, so I could just get a whiff of meat.”

“Could have been the mountain lion. They’re around. They leave a big mound, and they mark boundaries with their caches.”

“I told you, the earth was packed. Not like a cache. Humans pack down that way.” Aunt Netty, seated, was cross that he didn’t instantly agree with her.

“No Lorillards died.” Uncle Yancy, like all the foxes, knew the events of humans in their hunting territory.

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Netty, this isn’t a good thing. It’s clever, too.”

“Well, it’s none of our affair.” Drowsy, she closed her eyes.

He viewed his partner, instantly asleep.“Damn. Double damn,” he said under his breath.

Another fox of sorts considered the facts before her. Sister now knew Iffy was missing. The radio and television newscasters had asked anyone who had seen her to report it. The newscasters didn’t speculate on why she might be missing. That would come in the ensuing days.

She sat at Big Ray’s partner’s desk in the warm den and speculated plenty.

Finally, she called Ben Sidell. A yellow legal pad filled with scribbled notes testified to her attempts to put the pieces together.

“Sister, how are you?”

“Fine. Ben, here I am again coming out of left field. Allow me to make a suggestion. Exhume Angel Crump.”

“Who’s Angel Crump?”

“She was Garvey’s assistant since the earth began. She died last year, age eighty-four, of a heart attack. Garvey walked into her office and found her slumped over her desk.”

“Why do you want her exhumed?”

“She hated Iffy. In the best of circumstances they would have clashed—personality differences—but I have to wonder if Angel harbored suspicions. Maybe the animosity was based in fact.”

“Garvey hasn’t mentioned this.”

“Ask him if Angel ever accused Iffy of wrongdoing. And mind you, I don’t know what’s going on down there. Gray can’t tell me, but I hear the strain in his voice. Iffy’s missing. I’m not a genius, but I can put two and two together.”

“I appreciate your idea. Let me talk to Garvey first. If Angel did come to him with suspicions, then I’ll put the machinery in motion. As you know, if relatives oppose an exhumation it can take some time for the legal process to sort it out.”

“I know. And it’s just a hunch but perhaps Angel’s death proved quite convenient.”

She hung up the phone, cupped her chin in her hand, fiddled on the legal pad.

Golly batted at the pencil. She liked commandeering the desk because the dogs couldn’t get on it and because she could see everything Sister was doing.

Raleigh and Rooster stretched out on the leather couch. Rooster’s head rested on Raleigh’s flank. They were dead to the world.

“January 11. You know, Golly, no saint today? That’s particulary interesting. Odd.” She’d checked herOxford Dictionary of Saints.

“I’ll take the day, then.” Golly stopped the pencil with both paws, held it to bite the eraser.

“Golly,” Sister laughed.

“There are cat saints.” Golly managed an indignant stare as Sister wiggled the pencil from her grasp.“Who do you think kept the mice out of Little Lord Jesus’ crib? A cat.”

Sister listened to these determined meows, then burst out laughing.

CHAPTER 21

Riding down from their stable, Tedi and Edward heard the mighty rumble of the Chevy Duramax 6600 before they reached their covered bridge.

Sister and Shaker, double-checking the hound list by the trailer, also heard it.

“He wouldn’t.” Sister held the clipboard to her chest as large snowflakes began to fall. Even though Jason had apologized profusely, she thought he’d allow some time to pass for emotions to cool.

“Only one engine sounds like that.” Shaker was as surprised as Sister.

The small field assembled this Thursday morning turned their heads. The girls from Custis Hall, Bunny Taliaferro, Henry Xavier, Ronnie Haslip, Lorraine Rasmussen, and Bobby Franklin glanced at one another.

Betty Franklin walked around the trailer as her husband tightened his horse’s girth. “Do you hear what I hear?”

“I do.” Bobby frowned, a snowflake falling on his nose.

“The man must be out of his mind.”

“Arrogant.” Bobby clipped down his words. “But he did express his regrets. Sister made sure we all knew that.”

Sybil, who had ridden down ahead of her parents in order to help with hounds, leaned down to Sister.“Would you like Dad to throw him off?”

“No. Landowners can’t refuse a hunt member the right to hunt their land with the hunt. A landowner can refuse the hunt but not an individual. This isn’t to say it doesn’t happen, but it’s counter to proper practice. It’s the master’s responsibility to send a member home. The problem really gets ugly if you have a weak master.”

“Why can’t a landowner refuse permission?” Sybil, intent on being a good whipper-in, didn’t pay too much attention to MFHA policies not related to actual hunting.

“Because that member’s dues built jumps on the landowner’s land. And because every time someone gets into a spat it would affect who hunts where. Eventually you’d see fields of two people until one of them pissed off the other.” Sister pulled off her old gloves, cut off at the fingertips,to put on white string riding gloves. “Let’s say you and I had a fight. A big one. One would assume you wouldn’t come on my farm to hunt. You’d steer clear of that fixture because it makes life easier for everyone. But some people like being the center of attention. That kind of person would show up.” She shrugged as Jason’s rig came into view.

Sister mounted Aztec, ready to go and eager to prove to Rickyroo how good he was. He would tell all back at the barn. As the youngest hunter in the barn Aztec endured a lot of ribbing.

All the horses were keen to see how Matador would pan out. He was in work but had yet to hunt, since Sister didn’t want to hunt a new horse on bad ground. This pleased Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, and Aztec because it showed how much she trusted them.

Tedi and Edward clattered through the covered bridge and rode over to Sister.

Tedi raised an eyebrow.

Edward, a gentleman, quietly said,“Would you like me to go over there with you?”

“All clear,” she replied. “As you know, he apologized to me. I’ll give him credit for that.” Looking up into her old friend’s gray eyes, she shrugged. “You know how I think.”

He smiled.“I do.”

Tedi smiled as well, keeping her peace.

Sister gathered the small group to her.“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Master,” came the reply, the same as it had been for centuries.

“As we have such a small field today, I would like to invite the Custis Hall girls to ride up front. Also, they are being allowed to come out weekdays with us if they each write a paper for their environmental studies class. Perhaps if they have questions after the hunt, you would answer them.”

Tootie on Iota, Val on Moneybags, and Felicity on Parson all glowed. To ride behind the master was a singular honor.

Walter rode next to Jason in the rear.

It was truly dawning on Jason that he hadn’t just offended Sister and Shaker; he’d pissed off the whole club.

Dragon, impatient, drifted toward Nola’s and Peppermint’s graves.

“Dragon,” Betty reprimanded him in a low tone.

“Bother,” he sassed, but he did rejoin the pack.

Sister and Shaker discussed the first cast the night before a hunt and reviewed it in the morning, often changing it when they reached the fixture, since winds and temperature might change.

The temperature had bounced up four degrees to thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. After All was subject to the same northwest winds as Roughneck Farm. As the day wore on, the mercury might rise or fall, depending on whether a front was scudding in from the northwest, bringing a taste of Canada with it. While Sister checked thermometers and the Weather Channel, ultimately she relied on her bones.

Cora ignored Dragon, pushing by his side in the pale gray light.

At the stone wall around the graveyard, Dragon stopped. The pack put their noses down even though Shaker had yet to cast them.

The huntsman wisely worked with his hounds instead of insisting they stick to his program, which was to move into the woods and hunt east.

Tight pawprints were visible, now beginning to be covered by the lazy flakes falling on Nola’s grave.

Doughboy, a second-year entry who had been a little slower to catch on than his littermates, leaped over the low wall, nose to the pawprints.

At Nola’s grave, he said,“Charlene.”

In an instant, all the hounds opened, jumping into the little graveyard, then out the other side. Apart from being exciting for the humans, finding the line was a confidence builder for tricolor Doughboy.

Betty stayed parallel on the eastern side of the creek.

Sybil had faded off to the left, though she was still in sight on the undulating snow-covered pasture.

Charlene, shopping, had been walking along the creek heading back to her den when she heard the pack. Given the conditions, she didn’t dally hitting full speed.

The hounds moved faster as Charlene’s scent grew stronger.

Only the fox understands scent. Humans try to intellectualize it. They conduct experiments with barometers, moisture in the air, time of day, season, and moon phase. Hounds smell it and know what to do with it, but only the fox knows the good days, the bad days, and the in-between days.

This was a good day, so Charlene hurried on, her distinctive odor lifting up slightly.

Charlene, only a half mile from her den, ran up a fallen tree trunk, then dropped down. Lichens, running cedar, and other plants useful in foiling scent were covered with snow. She had to rely on speed today as well as using whatever obstacles presented themselves. Being forty-five pounds lighter than the hounds worked to her advantage.

She sped through the woods, the wide bridle path serving her well. Hearing hounds come closer, Charlene darted to a gopher hole, paused for a split second, then flew onward.

Trident reached the gopher hole just as the disturbed but slothful animal popped his head out.

“Beg pardon.” Trident sat down on his haunches.

“Leave him,” Diana ordered the second-year entry.“Just an old gopher.”

As the hounds moved away from him the gopher remarked,“I am not old. I just look old, and I’ve got rodent teeth. I can make a hole in you if I want to!”

Delia, older, solid as a rock, was bringing up the rear just as the gopher revealed his long teeth.“Terrified,” she laughed as she zoomed by him.

“Hateful canines.” The gopher watched the humans fly by, then added,“Another useless species.”

As Charlene ran the snow turned into sleet. Although the temperature rose four more degrees, the rain felt colder than the snow.

Sister was glad she’d put rubber reins on Aztec’s bridle. Strictly speaking, since she used a snaffle bit, she should have had lace reins but those rules had been formulated for hunting over the English countryside. The Virginia countryside was much wilder than most of England, the weather much more harsh, with great temperature swings between summer and winter. Some allowances needed to be made, and Sister, a stickler for tradition, knew when to make them.

The hanging tails on her hunt cap sprayed sleet.

Charlene scrambled over a snow-dappled stone fence. She dropped down as the land sank into a long wide plateau, six feet above the feeder creek into Broad Creek, aptly named. She ducked into her den under a mighty walnut tree.

Hounds put her to ground, but they didn’t bay in triumph, for Dragon raised his head and moved off toward the creek just as Shaker leaped over the stone fence.

“Coyote!” Dragon bellowed for them to follow the scorching, heavy scent.

Hounds flew straight as an arrow, launching off the bank down into Broad Creek.

Sister trotted downstream to look for a better crossing. A narrow deer trail snaked down the bank at a forty-five-degree angle. It would be slippery, but it was still better than jumping down five feet into a rock-bottomed creek.

Tootie, behind Sister, sat back as she’d seen the old foxhunters do. This was no time for a pretty position. She moved her leg forward of the girth for extra insurance.

Once in the fast-moving water, Aztec picked his way over the large stones. He scrambled out on the opposite side, where ice crystals coated the bank. The deer trail climbing at a forty-five-degree angle was manageable. With care, master and horse achieved the top.

One by one the riders climbed up over the bank, but each horse brought down a bit of earth until the last rider, Lorraine, with Bobby leading her, struggled through the worst footing.

When she had made it, Bobby whispered,“Well done.”

Lorraine was learning. The encouragement brought a big smile to her face.

The straight-running coyote took no evasive action but just turned on more speed. While a fox is preferable, coyote is legitimate game.

A warm wind current, a rising tunnel of air, caressed Sister’s face. Five big strides, and she was once again in crisp air. Now even she could catch snippets of scent: oily, heavy, lacking the sharp musky fox odor, which when one grows accustomed to it is almost pleasant.

A simple coop lay ahead, the base half covered by snow blown against it.

Aztec thought about it for one moment, heard,“Go on,” and did just that. He trusted Sister. She trusted him.

Hounds, running hard, barreled through abandoned pastures and across rutted farm roads, ever straight, ever eastwards. The pastures, snow covered, rolled on. As the whole pack moved farther along, the land became better tended.

After a half hour of slipping here and there, sleet stinging, Sister and the field galloped onto the old Lorillard land.

Hounds headed right for the family plot, which, like most graveyards predating the Revolution, was squared off and protected by a two-foot stone fence, each stone dry-set by hand in the 1750s. Occasionally patched, the stone bore testimony to endurance and beauty even as the graveyard contents announced the fleetingness of life.

Hounds, bearing down on the graveyard, could not see over the fence. Shaker saw it first, then Sister and the field.

Uncle Yancy and a large dog coyote were snarling at one another.

Shaker blew the horn. The coyote still threatened Yancy, but the fox, knowing there was no time to make a run for it, climbed the pin oak in the graveyard.

Folks swear that only gray foxes climb, but reds can do it. Sister had seen it before and wasn’t surprised to see it now. But she was surprised to see the coyote pause for a moment and dig down again, then decide he’d better run on.

Coyotes usually run only as fast as needed. This one underestimated Dragon’s speed. Dragon came alongside, snarled, and bumped him. That fast the coyote turned, sank his fangs into the hound, and leaped sideways to avoid Cora, who was a split second behind Dragon. He then put on the afterburners. The pack had been running hard for a half hour. Besides, they’d been out for another forty-five minutes above that. Fresh, the coyote had the advantage, but the Jefferson Hunt hounds possessed unquenchable drive. They snapped close to his heels. He charged up a slope, crossed a meadow where soil was poor, dropped down the embankment on the eastern side, and disappearedinto a large jagged rock outcropping. The pack gathered in front of the narrow opening between two huge boulders.

Shaker dismounted, blew“Gone to ground,” and quickly remounted.

He wanted to pull the pack out of there because all manner of larger predators found the rocks with fissures and small caves very attractive.

Tootie, Val, and Felicity, burning hot, welcomed the ice bits on their cheeks. Their core body heat hadn’t begun to cool.

Uncle Yancy posed in the pin oak on a lower branch, which was nevertheless too high for hounds to yank him down by his lovely brush, quite in contrast to Aunt Netty’s pathetic little tail.

“Close call,” he cheerfully called down as the pack came near.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Asa wondered.

“Netty brought me a beautiful pencil, so I came to see if there’s more. Dead human, pretty fresh in a shallow grave. That’s why the coyote was digging here. Well, ‘I was here first,’ I says to him, and he says, ‘Bug off, Pipsqueak.’ If you all hadn’t come along when you did, I mighthave got the worst of that fight.”

Dragon, bleeding all over the snow, limped along.

Shaker stopped before reaching the graveyard and called back to Sister.“We’d better put him in Sam’s woodshed. I’ll come back for him. Don’t want him to walk all the way back to the trailers.”

“Shaker, maybe there’s a better way.” She motioned to Betty, who rode in closer. “Betty, call Sam on your cell phone. See if he’ll leave for a minute and load up Dragon in his truck.”

“He can’t lift him.” Betty reached inside her coat for her phone.

“Right.” Sister nodded, for she’d momentarily forgotten Sam’s wound. “Call Gray. Maybe he can slip away. If not, we’ll have to ride back, then drive back. I hate to leave him for long.”

“Okay.” Betty punched in Gray’s number as Sister gave it to her.

As Betty filled in Gray, the field watched Uncle Yancy, about one hundred yards away, talk to the hounds who sat underneath the tree.

“This place is full of dead humans. Why would the coyote dig one up?” Diddy asked.

Ardent sometimes forgot how young the last“D” litter was.“They bury six feet down so we can’t smell the body. This grave has to be less than that. Peculiar. Humans are fastidious about planting their dead.”

“Go on over there. Even with the snow and sleet, you’ll get a whiff,” Uncle Yancy suggested.

“No. You’ll back down and run off,” Dasher said.

“Ha! What do you take me for?” Uncle Yancy replied.

Diddy and Ardent walked over as Shaker rode up, followed by Sister.

“He’s right. I can get a whiff.” Diddy closed her eyes for a moment.

“Coyote helped. He clawed out six inches or more. Ground’s not as cold here; the graveyard is sheltered from the wind. It’s a lovely spot.”

Shaker dismounted and walked to the pin oak.“Uncle Yancy, you should know better than to pick a fight with a coyote.”

“I was here first.” Uncle Yancy refused to recognize Shaker’s point.

Betty raised her voice so Sister could hear, for she had walked to the other side of the graveyard just in case hounds took a notion.“He’ll be here in twenty minutes, tops.”

“Thank heavens,” Sister sighed. The sleet was now mixed in with more ice bits.

Shaker reached Diddy and Ardent. The pack followed. He stared at the small hole in the ground. He couldn’t smell what they smelled, but he could see where the snow had been pulled away, where the ground was freshly disturbed. He scuffed that area with the toe of his boot. “Sister, something’s in here.”

The weather was worsening steadily. Sister asked Tedi to take the field. She handed Aztec’s reins to Tootie to lead back.

“Shaker, I’ll stay with Dragon. Let’s put him in the woodshed out of the weather. You load up and get on home before the roads really get ugly. Gray can drive Dragon and me to Marty Shulman at the vet clinic. We’ll get Dragon stitched up and fill him with antibiotics.”

Ice rattled against the worn tombstones like clear BBs.

“All right.” He knew her plan was wise.

“Betty, call Ben Sidell. Tell him he needs to come out here.”

“I could stay with you. Val can lead Outlaw back.”

“You need to be with the hounds. You and Sybil. Go on, now.”

Jason rode up and touched his cap with his crop.“Ma’am, I would be privileged to stay. If you find some thread and a needle, I can stitch him up.”

“Thank you, Jason, but really I’ll be fine, and Gray’s on his way. Save your skills for humans,” she replied.

“All right, then.” He turned to fall in alongside Walter, who had mounted up after checking Dragon.

Although they were human doctors, if Dragon needed emergency surgery or stitching, Walter or Jason could do it. In a pinch, a vet could put together a human, too.

As the field rode away, Sister noticed how well turned out they were. Hunched against the weather, all were correct in their attire, their tack. They had such pride in being part of the Jefferson Hunt, and she had such pride in them.

She put her hand on Dragon’s head. “That’s a deep ugly wound, but it’s a long way from your heart. Thank God for Walter; he stanched some of the bleeding. Come on, big fella.”

“It hurts, but I can do it. If you’d put your nose over that hole, you’d smell the carcass.” He then remembered the odor wouldn’t register with her.

“Wish you’d killed that damn coyote. Marauders, every last one of them.”

“Wish I’d killed him, too.” Dragon, head down in the biting weather, agreed.

Once inside the woodshed, Sister sat on a low line of stacked hardwood logs. Dragon rested by her feet. Leaning over, she rubbed his ears, a comfort to a dog. She stroked under his neck, praising him for closing so quickly on his quarry.

“He miscalculated.” Dragon, despite his pain, touted his skill.“I’m fast. Really fast.”

Both animals, grateful for the shelter, listened to the rattle of ice on the rooftop, to the wind picking up.

Sister checked her pocket watch. The hounds and field should have crossed into After All by now. If Tedi picked up a trot where the footing was good, they’d be at the trailers in another fifteen minutes. She reminded herself to give Tootie a small present for taking Aztec back. Leading a horse through rough territory, which some of this was, took talent on the part of the human, cooperation on the part of the horse.

Dragon shivered.

“Getting to you, buddy.” Sister took off her coat, draping it on the hound. She sat down in the dirt beside him to hold the coat closer on him. “You’ll make it, Dragon; you’ll make it.”

“I love you.” He half closed his eyes.

Both heard the welcome note of the eight-cylinder Land Cruiser engine.

Sister stepped outside, waving to Gray, who drove off the driveway to reach her.

“Janie, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

“No, I won’t. Honey, he’ll bleed on the backseat.”

“Put it down. Garvey gave me a blanket he kept in his office for when he sleeps over. I’ll buy him a new one.” He smiled as he strode into the woodpile, knelt down, and gently lifted the seventy-pound hound into the Land Cruiser.

Dragon immediately felt the warmth from the car heater as Gray closed the door.

The windshield wipers clicked against the ice as Gray drove on good roads to Crozet Veterinary Clinic.

“Think he’ll make it?”

“He will. The wound is deep; he’s lost blood. I don’t want him to go into shock. I checked his gums when I put my coat around him. But Marty can handle it. He’s dealt with worse cases than this.” She filled Gray in on the coyote, on Uncle Yancy in the tree, and on the possibility that thegraveyard had been disturbed by more than a coyote.

“After Betty called me,” said Gray, “I called Sam. He’ll be there when Ben arrives.”

“He can’t drive, can he?”

“He shouldn’t, but my little brother will manage. Crawford may allow Rory to go with him, but if he doesn’t, you know Sam.”

Once they were inside the scrubbed clinic, Marty Shulman checked Dragon, put him under anesthesia, and thoroughly cleaned the wound.

Sister would need to pick him up tomorrow, but Dragon would be good as new once the wound healed. He’d be out for the season, which would hurt Dragon more than his wound. Yes, he was arrogant and could be hardheaded, but the hound breathed fire like a dragon. He lived to hunt, and his nose and voice were outstanding.

Driving west back toward Roughneck Farm, Gray sighed deeply.“Funny, we haven’t been apart that long. I didn’t realize how much I look forward to our weekends together until now. You spoil me.”

“I do,” she agreed lightheartedly.

“This last year has been one of the happiest years of my life.”

“Mine, too.”

“I can’t wait for Friday.”

“How about if I make that pork roast you like so much? Your mother’s recipe?”

He smiled.“How about if I bring you a gardenia bush in full bloom?”

She turned to stare at him.“That’s major.”

They pulled into the farm as Shaker walked out of the kennels. Gray stopped.“Get in the car, Shaker; the ice is coming down too hard.” Shaker hopped into the back, where the seats were laid flat, and sat with his legs straight out.

“How’s the boy?”

“Being sewn up as we speak. Pick him up tomorrow.”

“You should have seen it.” Shaker leaned forward.

“Sister told me it was dramatic.”

“And funny. On the way back, Uncle Yancy followed us. He hung back with Bobby and Lorraine. No fool. Going home is a lot easier for him if he can follow in our footsteps, since this will probably turn worse. And the wind was in his face. Hounds couldn’t get a whiff. Amazing creatures.”

“Did Bobby notice where Uncle Yancy left them?”

“The big sycamore at the second creek crossing.”

“Changed dens.” Sister liked knowing where her foxes lived.

“Gray, honey, I need to see to Aztec. I’ll have to leave you.”

“Girls did everything. Cleaned your tack, too. Cleaned up after Felicity,” Shaker remarked.

“What did she do?”

“Threw up coffee.”

“I’m going to call Charlotte. Felicity might have a bug. This is the second time she’s thrown up.”

“Well, don’t be so fast. She took a bet from Val that she couldn’t chug the thermos full of coffee. Val bet her ten dollars. She said it’s much harder to chug a hot drink than a cold drink. So Felicity took the bet. She held it down for about fifteen minutes. Dumb kids.” He laughed.

“Felicity is in charge of the kitty. Guess she’s trying to fatten it up. I’d think Val’s profanity would be doing that,” Sister said.

“I never hear Val swear. She’s a lady.” Gray was surprised.

“Among her peers she swears like a trooper.” Sister filled him in. “So Val, Tootie, and Felicity each put in a dollar if they swear. At the end of the semester, they’re going to throw themselves a party.”

“Good idea.” Gray nodded.

“Need any help in the kennel?”

“No, Boss. All done. Lorraine’s got the fire going. She said she’s making navy bean soup.” He winked. “By the time that’s done she won’t be able to drive home. These roads aren’t going to get better.”

“Lucky devil.” Gray laughed. “Wish I could say the same, but I need to get home and see if Ben is there.”

“Something’s not right.” Shaker rubbed his hands together. His joints hurt on a day like today.

“Damn kids. They knock over the tombstones. I guess this time they’ve dug up someone, or tried to. What’s the matter with them?”

“Last year two kids dug up a lady buried back in the 1930s because they’d heard she was buried with her jewelry on.” Shaker found it gruesome but titillating. “What they found wasn’t jewelry but the sheriff, who came up on them at the right moment. Remember?”

“I do.” Gray paused. “Did you notice which grave had been disturbed?”

“Not exactly disturbed. Coyote dug a hole. But the earth was packed down. Recent. Too recent.” Shaker wondered what was going on at the old Lorillard place. He put his hand on Sister’s shoulder. “Good hunt.”

“It was pretty good. I’m high on the second-year entry. They’ve got it now.”

“So do you.” Shaker patted her, then opened the door, stepping into a stiff wind.

Gray drove to the house.“I’ll drop you at your door. Shaker forgot to tell me which grave was messed up.”

“Jemima Lorillard, 1761 to 1847. A good long life.”

“One of the white Lorillards. You know, I think we may be the only family where the white Lorillards are buried with the free black Lorillards as well as the slave Lorillards. It’s quite a history, our family.”

“Most people think Jemima is a black name. It was quite popular in England and here in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Pretty name, really.” She stopped. “Gray, I know you can’t tell me details. But let me tell you what I think, since you’re sitting in the middle of it downthere at Aluminum M.” She shortened Aluminum Manufacturing to “M.”

“Okay.” Gray said only that.

“Iffy is missing. I expect she’s been milking money out of the company for years. I suggested to Ben that he get an order to exhume Angel Crump’s body.”

“What?” Gray’s eyebrows darted up. “That will upset Garvey as much as everything else.”

“Well, let me go on here. Angel thought little of Iffy. Iffy hated Angel. I expect Angel caught on. At any rate, Iffy’s disappeared.”

“Looks like she got away with it.”

“That’s just it, Gray. What if she didn’t get away with it?”

CHAPTER 22

A wall calendar, new, large pages as yet uncurled on the bottom, hung in the coroner’s office. Lyle Aziz, MD, liked his work but wished for more pay, a common desire among state employees. However, as a teaching physician in the pathology department down in Richmond at the Medical College of Virginia, he made enough to support his family. Better yet, he would never return to Egypt.

One of the dangers of people coming to the United States to study was that they might not return to their former countries, especially if those countries seethed with internal dissent. As a Christian Lyle never felt secure. But he missed the ways of his country, the warmth of everyday encounters, the raucous gossip. He realized that living in the American South he was as close as he could get to these qualities among peoples of European descent, colder peoples than his own.

“She is in such good condition,” he enthused over the state of Iffy’s body.

Only a pathologist would make such a statement. Anyone else viewing human remains unceremoniously buried in a shallow grave for four days would feel otherwise. Thanks to the cold and the three feet of dirt she had been under, Iffy still had her nose. Her extremities, swollen and discolored, blood pooled there, contained all her digits. Patches of decay showed in spots, and gases filled her, but she could have been much worse. No flies in the winter. She remained intact, if not a cover girl.

A single shot to the head had sent Iffy to the hereafter.

Ben always carried a small jar of Vicks VapoRub in his jacket. As Iffy thawed he made use of it.

“Looks simple enough.”

Lyle, gloves on, carefully inspected the wounds. The gun had been placed at her right temple. The bullet exited on the other side of her head.“True, but my father used to say, ‘Suspect a trap where the sand is smoothest.’”

Tattoo markers dotted the left side of Iffy’s chest where radiation had been administered, square blocks within. Any physician or cancer patient would recognize the markers.

“I’ll leave her in your capable hands,” said Ben.

“Even though she’s missing part of her skull where the bullet exited, how do you know she wasn’t slowly poisoned? She could have shot herself in despair over her sickness. You never know until the evidence is in. Every autopsy is a detective story.” Lyle’s black eyes met Ben’s. “Were these more primitive times, if I didn’t have a state lab at my disposal, slow though it is, I’d go with cause of death is gunshot. Not self-inflicted. No powder burns. Her arms are short. She couldn’t have held the gun far enough away to produce this wound. If you’re going to do yourself in,you put the muzzle smack up to your temple or your mouth. She was murdered.”

“I figure Saturday night, early Sunday morning.” Ben was a good judge of a corpse’s condition and the time it took to reach that condition relative to season. “Thirty-six. Suffering from lung cancer.”

Lyle nodded then said,“Well, I’ll start in. If I find anything unusual, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks for coming in. I know this isn’t your regular day.”

“I teach only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Friday’s no problem. I’ll get right to work.”

Three hours later, Ben’s cell phone beeped. “Sheriff Sidell? Lyle here.”

“Yes.” An expectant note rang in Ben’s voice.

“Iffy Demetrios did not have lung cancer. When I found no tumors, to be certain I sectioned out quite a bit of both lungs. This isn’t to say there might not be a cancer cell that the lab will pick up, but you said she had lung cancer. I found no evidence of disease in her lungs.”

A long, long pause followed.“Lyle, that’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard in this new year.”

Within fifteen minutes, Ben stood in front of Jason Woods. As it was his office day, Jason had graciously agreed to see the sheriff immediately.

“You treated Iphigenia Demetrios for lung cancer. Correct?”

“I did. She was responding beautifully. We caught it early.”

“May I see her records?”

Jason balked for a moment, then said,“Under normal circumstances one must ask the patient or next of kin.”

“These aren’t normal circumstance.” Ben’s voice conveyed authority.

“Of course.” Jason buzzed his secretary, who brought in a color-coded file. “Let’s start with the x-rays.” Without being asked, Jason walked to a wide metal file cabinet and pulled open a drawer much like those used in graphic arts businesses. Flipping through large manila envelopes, he pulled out Iffy’s and then put it up on the light box. “Note the small but discernible mass right here, lower portion.”

“Yes. I see it.”

“This was the first x-ray. Naturally, I ran a battery of tests, although I’ve seen enough of these to feel I can recognize a malignant tumor. Still, one must be prepared for the anomaly.” He pulled out another x-ray. “Here is the lung after her last series of treatments.”

“Which were?”

“The first protocol involved radiation and chemo. The side effects troubled her. Once started, you must finish the exact number of treatments. She did. In view of her adverse reaction, I gave her more time to regain strength. Three months later she submitted again to radiation and chemo. I do thetreatments here, which makes it much easier for the patient. This is the result.” He pointed to the area where the tumor had originally been diagnosed. It had vanished.

“Remarkable.”

“Like I initially said, early detection was critical. However, each day we make progress. As you may know, this is the third most common form of cancer. I’m proud of my success rate, and apart from aggressive treatment I think putting a patient on the chemo IV here in more pleasant surroundingsraises a patient’s spirits. I’m involved with them. My nurses offer support. It makes a huge difference.”

“What are the odds of the lung cancer returning?”

“Well”—Jason stroked his chin—“the rule of thumb is if it doesn’t recur in five years, you’re home free. My feeling is the cancer may not return to the original site. It can migrate. Sometimes a tumor will send out seeds, if you will. The patient celebrates the five-year mark, yet three years after that the cancer manifests itself in a new site. We know when a patient comes in that if the cancer has metastasized into the lymph nodes that’s usually the end of the journey. What we don’t know is why some tumors create other cancers in other parts of the body and some don’t. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t know if we can conquer cancer, say in the way we have conquered TB. But we may advance to where cancer is a chronic condition that can be managed. A patient can enjoy a good life.”

“Did you think Iffy was cured?”

“Yes, of the tumor.” A troubled pause followed. “She had other complications.”

“Oh?” Ben found medicine fascinating.

“Her platelets were higher than they should have been. That raised my suspicions that some cancer cells had established themselves elsewhere, but her tests were clean.” He pointed to her bulging chart. “After her first round of chemo and radiation, she experienced trouble walking. Occasionally, radiation creates neurological side effects. Sometimes the side effect doesn’t go away when the patient recovers. It’s rare, but it does happen.” He paused. “Granted, in time her legs might have become stronger, but that’s one of the reasons I kept running tests on her. She wasn’t bouncing back as fast as I’d hoped. If she was on her feet too long she’d become fatigued.”

“What about drugs? They can cause odd responses in some people.”

“Illegal, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Clean.” He rustled through her folder, plucked out a sheet, and showed Ben Iffy’s latest blood tests, pointing to the bar graphs on the page from the lab. “Clean as a whistle.”

“What about alcohol?”

“She drank socially, but here”—Jason pointed to that test result—“within the boundary. Iffy was a challenge.”

“Could some of her behavior have been psychologically motivated? Some kind of neurosis?”

Jason shook his head, a light smile on his lips.“That’s not my field, Sheriff. Was she insane? No. Was she moody, erratic, cantankerous? All the time.”

“Some of that could be a result of her medications, you think?”

“When she was undergoing chemo and radiation, yes. After she recovered, no.”

“One last question. You’ve been very good to give me your time. Did you like Iffy?”

A broad smile covered Jason’s face. “I did. Even when she was at her most uncooperative, I really did.”

“Ah.” A shadow crossed Ben’s strong face. “I’m sorry to tell you, Jason, your patient is dead.”

Confusion, doubt, suspicion registered in Jason’s face. “What happened to her?” He sat down abruptly. “After all she’d been through.”

“She was shot.”

“Good God.”

“I’m sorry. I hope you understand that I’ll ask more questions over time. I may even have to requisition your records, but I am sorry. You saw her through a great deal.”

“You know”—Jason’s voice was misty—“nasty as she could get, there was a kind side to Iffy. She would talk to other patients during chemo. She’d bring fruit and candy. She complained ad infinitum to the rest of us, but with other cancer sufferers, she was marvelous. Why would anyone kill her? I can’t understand it.”

“My job is to find out.”

“I’ll help you any way I can.”

“You already have.” Ben left. For the time being, he’d keep Lyle Aziz’s revelation to himself. Best to wait for the lab reports from Richmond.

Driving to Aluminum Manufacturers, he wondered how Garvey would take the news. After all, he was missing two million dollars. The culprit most likely had been shot in the head.

He wanted to talk to Sister Jane, too. She used all her senses in a situation like this. Most people used only their eyes and ears.

As he turned into the parking lot he remembered it was Friday the thirteenth.

CHAPTER 23

Winter’s gray skies depressed many people but not foxhunters. Low fleecy clouds, ranging in color from pearl gray to gunmetal gray, cast their darkening shadows on the snow.

Sister sat quietly on Lafayette as the huge tree, over three hundred years old, on Hangman’s Ridge waved its branches in the breeze as if beckoning.

The fixture card, printed on heavyweight good paper, had been sent out before Opening Hunt, the first weekend in November. The Jefferson Hunt tried to stay close to St. Hubert’s Day, November 3, for their opening. Crawford had left the club a few days before Christmas. Today they would have hunted from Beasley Hall, Crawford’s estate. That had to be changed. The easiest thing to do would be to hunt from the kennels. Since foxes flourished around Roughneck Farm, After All Farm heading east, and Foxglove Farm heading north, it should be fine.

Like most masters, Sister loathed changing a fixture once it was in writing. She thought scheduling one of the hardest tasks a master had to perform. She hadn’t much liked doing it as a wife and mother, either. Those Friday nights when Big Ray, RayRay, and she had sat at the kitchen table, individual calendars open, the large hanging family calendar off the wall to be altered had given her fits. She’d worn out one big white India-rubber eraser each Friday night.

She missed hunting at Beasley Hall. Crawford had spared no expense in opening territory. Coops, zigzag fences, tree trunks lashed together, even a beautiful river stone jump bore testimony to his largesse. Crawford had directed the workers, although at the time he’d known nothing about siting a jump. Sister had used all her tact to make sure the jumps had a decent approach.

Foxhunters, accustomed to leaps of faith, didn’t worry about sight lines or ground lines, but they sure worried about footing.

This Saturday, January 14, Crawford would be hunting his pack at Beasley Hall. She wondered what the foxes would do.

Despite her years at the helm of the Jefferson Hunt, she wanted to show good sport for members and guests, and was a bit nervous before each hunt.

This Saturday she had riders from Casanova Hunt. This pleased her, as it was one of those four-star hunts.

She also had Vicki Van Mater riding Jaz and Joe Kasputys on Webster from Middleburg Hunt. This, another glamour hunt, had hard-riding members.

Having a check on top of Hangman’s Ridge gave her the shivers. The wind always blew there even in summer. Winter’s wind, however light, cut. The ghosts of murderers, mountebanks, and hard-luck men whispered along this long wide plain, high above the cultivated fields, the one huge wildflower field, and way beyond to Soldier Road, snaking east and west.

Hounds worked the large ridge, then moved down into the underbrush, tight even in winter. The horses used the deer paths on the north side, the old farm road on the south. The remnants of the colonial road, originally the road up to the Potomac, a hundred miles and then some, occasionally would be cleared. That ran in a big S down the north side out to Soldier Road.

Hounds moved that way; Sister walked behind them and Shaker. A sudden burst of wind sent a moan from the giant oak. Her spine tingled.

Did dead souls meet? Would Iffy join these men and spin her tale of woe? She wasn’t surprised that Iffy had been secreted over Jemima Lorillard. What surprised her had been that not one penny of the filched money had been found in her bank account, nothing in her house.

Ben had come by Friday night. She fed him fried chicken, greens, and cornbread. Halfway through the impromptu supper, Gray had arrived, worn down by events but bearing the gardenia bush in bloom as promised.

Ben rode out this Saturday. He needed the hunting to clear his mind, and it was his weekend off. In fact, the field, at sixty-seven, proved cumbersome on such a cold day. The ones in the rear, continually pushed up by the Custis Hall girls, grumbled, but if they didn’t keep up, then Bobby Franklin would sweep them up and they’d need to stay with hilltoppers instead of first flight.

Lafayette stopped, pricked his ears.

Uncle Yancy shot straight in front of him, followed by Inky, the black fox vixen, and Comet, her saucy brother. A collective intake of breath from the field followed by everyone with their derbies, top hats, and hunting caps off pointing in three different directions added to the confusion.

When the hounds blew through the bracken back out onto the ridge, they split into three different prongs. How could anyone fault them, for the scents were equally hot? Had one line been fresher than the other, the huntsman could have hoped his whipper-in on the side where the pack split could send them back. Today, Shaker faced an unenviable dilemma. As he reached the ridge again, up from the north-side deer path, he caught a glimpse of three brushes disappearing in three different directions.

During January or February, a huntsman would rather chase a dog fox than a vixen if one could choose. But Shaker couldn’t choose. Cora led the group on Uncle Yancy. Dasher roared after Inky, taking many young entry with him. To everyone’s surprise and Sister’s delight, little Diddy, showing her mettle for the first time as a strike hound, blew after Comet.

Shaker paused under the moaning tree, then plunged down the south side, using the farm road. He stuck behind Diddy. First off, he delighted in seeing this development. Second, he wanted to get the pack onto Comet. He didn’t want to run Inky. Not only was she a vixen, but her den was too close. Too short a go. Also, today was January 14. It was possible she was pregnant. He never liked running a pregnant vixen, even early in a pregnancy.

Luckily, Betty, on Magellan, was further to his right. She could push back Dasher and the young entry. Dasher, a biddable hound, might wonder why he was being called off a hot line, but he trusted the huntsman and he trusted Betty.

Sybil, on his left and out of sight, was still learning the intricacies of whipping-in. A brilliant rider, she was developing nicely. However, hounds would test her long before they’d test Betty or Shaker. Then, too, if they heard a reprimand from Sister riding up behind them almost like a tail whip, which Jefferson Hunt did not use, those hounds would do as told.

As it was, Sybil rode like a demon to get in front of Cora, a hound of speed and intelligence.

Cora turned her head. Why was Sybil, on her big bay thoroughbred, Bombardier, riding like hell to get in front of her? She was right as rain. She was on Uncle Yancy.

“Leave it,” Sybil called.

Cora refused. The human was wrong.

Then the crack of Sybil’s whip like rifle fire brought her head up. She slowed. Her concentration broke, and she heard Shaker’s horn blow “Gone Away” from the farm road. She was in the middle of the wildflower field, white with snow.

“Go to him,” Sybil ordered.

“What’s going on?” Dreamboat, second-year entry, asked.

“Too many foxes, but I picked the one who had furthest to run. Dammit!” Cora cursed.

Tinsel suggested,“We could go on.”

“Better not. Better trust Shaker.” Cora reluctantly turned right, heading back toward the farm road, a line of pines breaking the increasing wind.

“Good hounds,” Sybil called after them.

“Good, yes, but I picked the fox, the best fox for the day. Why, we could have run all the way to pattypan!” Cora grumbled to herself as she loped across the field to rejoin the center splinter of the pack.“What is Uncle Yancy doing over here anyway? He’s all over the place.”

“Ha!” Uncle Yancy stopped right in the middle of the wildflower field when the pack turned.

Sybil, trotting behind the hounds, turned to face him.“You’re one lucky devil.”

“Not with my wife, I’m not.” He grinned raffishly.“Had to get away from Netty. Here I am.”

Sybil laughed when he barked at her. That flooding sensation of speaking with another species filled her with awe. In a sense, the two creatures understood each other.

Bombardier understood every word and whinnied,“Long hike to escape your wife.”

“Hells bells, I gave her pattypan. I came back to my old den.”

Uncle Yancy’s old den, originally shared with Aunt Netty, was on the west side of Roughneck Farm, about a half mile from the apple orchard where Georgia, Inky’s daughter, now lived.

That was the last den where he and Aunt Netty had cohabited.

“Maybe you should become a bachelor,” Bombardier grinned, his big teeth quite a contrast to Uncle Yancy’s sharp fangs.

“You’re a gelding; what do you know?” Uncle Yancy taunted the bay.

“I have imagination.” Bombardier humped his back, kicking out playfully.

Sybil, enraptured by Uncle Yancy, had slowed to a walk. The buck brought her to her senses. She squeezed Bombardier’s flanks, and the two moved along faster.

Cora, speed serving her well, had already reached the main body of the pack. The others, not far behind her, joined in.

Cora came alongside of Diddy.“Well done.”

Wild-eyed with excitement, Diddy yelped,“I can do it!”

“You can do it when I retire.” Cora pulled ahead, but she said this with warmth.

One thing, she’d never relinquish her position of strike hound to Dragon. If only the coyote had severed his jugular. She’d think about training Diddy. Somewhere down the line they’d both have to deal with Dragon.

Dasher, pushed back by Betty, now joined the pack, too. Inky had popped into her den just as Betty rode near the northernmost splinter of the pack.

He stuck his head in Inky’s den to prove what he’d done. Betty told him he was really wonderful but he’d better yank his head out of that den and get to Shaker.

Once the two groups had joined the chase after Comet, Shaker blew the long note followed by three short ones. They were all on.

The sixty-seven riders, amazed at their good fortune, contended with the packed snow, the patches of ice, and the splotches of frozen mud churned up during the short thaw earlier in the week.

Faces flushed, they were breathing hard, and sweat soaked their backs even though the temperature was barely nudging forty degrees. Comet raced straight down the farm road in full view. He had a head start and trusted his fleet paws as well as his cunning.

His special treat for them today was to run for the trailers. He ran in the back door of one big rig and out the tack room door, swinging open. Two minutes later the pack did the same, except that they jammed in the tack room door, and that slowed them down.

He ran into Joe Kasputys’ rig, heard Caesar, the German shepherd, bark from the truck cab, and quickly bolted out of that trailer. When the hounds hurtled into the trailer it rocked back and forth. This plucked Caesar’s last nerve.

Next Comet ran around the kennels, which sent every hound not hunting that day into a frenzy. The cacophony was deafening and confusing because it took some time for Shaker to recognize where the pack was once the hounds were on the other side of the kennel.

He managed to pick his way around it and realized the pack was blowing through the orchard. A few unpicked apples rested under the snow. One couldn’t race through there. The horses carefully walked through, emerging back out on the farm road.

However, a few hounds stopped by Georgia’s den. This also cost time. Georgia, relaxing, became irritated when two hounds dug at her main entrance.

Betty had to push them on.

Back together again, the pack now leaped over some old hedges, neatly trimmed. They crisscrossed the farm road three times, jumping those same hedges, as did the field.

Comet, in his glory, thought to run through the wildflower field but decided against it in case there were drifts. Much as he wanted to show himself to the humans and rub his superiority in their faces, he prudently blasted down the farm road, just nipped through the corner of the apple orchard again, then snaked through the trailers, causing pandemonium once more as hounds rattled through shining aluminum trailers, older steel ones, and one big old horse van, rarely seen among foxhunters these days.

After this display of agility, he made a beeline for Sister’s house.

Golly, not a cold-weather girl, had been out for her constitutional. The racket intrigued her, so she sat on the back stoop to watch the show. Her cat door, not far, reassured her she could escape if need be.

Comet, seeing the snotty cat, ran straight for her.“I’m going to get you.”

“Oh, balls, Comet.” Golly turned and ducked into her door, the flap closing as the magnetic strips touched each other.

Comet easily fit through the same door.

Facing Golly in the mud room, he heard Raleigh and Rooster come to life on the other side of the kitchen door.

Golly, frozen in astonishment, puffed up to twice her size. She danced sideways.

“You look like a broody hen,” Comet laughed.

“I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll pop through that second cat door there and tell those idiot dogs how smart I am. And how generous. I could bite you in two.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Golly hissed a spectacular shower of droplets.

He stepped toward her.

She backed right up to the door as Raleigh tried to poke his head through the cat door.

“Raleigh, you dolt. I need to get through.”

Raleigh withdrew his head. Golly turned and shot through the door, then hit Raleigh on the nose as hard as she could.

He screamed as bright red blood drops appeared on his moist black nose.“Harpy!”

“You were in my way. Comet out there could have bitten me, although I would have hit him, too.”

Comet, flamboyant stinker, stuck his head through the door.“Domesticated twits.”

Rooster lunged for him, but Comet just stepped back.

“You’re lucky I’m on the other side of this door. I’d tear you limb from limb,” the harrier threatened.

“Dream on, fatty.” Comet then sat back down to groom his tail while the entire pack hit the door like a tricolor avalanche. Couldn’t get in, of course. This pleased the gray fox immensely. Sister wouldn’t open the door. He was as safe as if he’d been in his own den, a half mile away.

Shaker, flummoxed, a rare occurrence, lifted both feet out of the stirrups, vaulting off HoJo, who, curious, stepped up after Shaker to get closer.

Shaker looked to Sister.

“Blow ‘gone to ground.’” She laughed.

He lifted the horn to his lips, the happy notes filling the air along with the cries of the pack, Raleigh and Rooster’s howls, and the voices of the entire kennel.

Golly hollered at the top of her considerable lungs,“I denned the fox!”

This shut up Rooster for a second.“You did.”

“Oh, Christ, Rooster, there will be no living with her now,” Raleigh moaned.

“Now? There’s never been any living with her.”

“I am the Queen of All I Survey.” Golly sashayed to the cat door and stuck her head out.“You’re the asshole.”

Lightning fast, Comet lunged for her. She reeled backward, falling over herself.

He now stuck his head through the cat door.“I’m the boss. You’re the applesauce.”

As the house pets endured Comet’s doggerel, Sister said, “Let’s pick them up, Shaker. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a day like this. Best to stop while ahead.”

“Want to go into the house? Through the front door,” Shaker laughed. “I’ll hold Lafayette.”

“No. I don’t hear crashing about. I expect he is availing himself of the dog food in the mud room. I’ll let him out later if he doesn’t leave of his own free will.”

With some effort, as the hounds were terribly thrilled with this new type of den, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil managed to walk them to the kennels.

No sooner were they all in than Comet slipped out through the outside cat door to sit on the stoop. Leaving was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Tally ho,” Tootie whispered, taking off her hat.

As she was back at the Custis Hall trailer, Val, Felicity, and Pamela turned, also removing their caps.

Vicki Van Mater noticed and took off her cap. Joe Kasputys followed suit.

The babble of human voices subsided. Everyone turned. Even the hounds in the kennel runs who could see that side of the house watched in amazement.

Finally, Sister, having dismounted, stepped forward. She removed her cap, bowed, and swept her cap before her with an actor’s grand flourish. “I salute you, Comet.”

Smiling, he walked down the steps, took in this tribute, then walked around the house and vanished as only a fox can do.

The humans cheered.

Walter, buoyant, raised both arms over his head.“Well, we’ve cheered the fox. How about three cheers for the hounds!”

After three lusty cheers, the people wiped down their horses and removed their bridles. Some took off the saddles; others loosened the girths but allowed the saddles to stay on the horses’ backs. As the horses cooled down, their riders threw blankets over them.

The hunt breakfast was potluck. People gingerly negotiated the snow, dishes in hand.

No one could miss Comet’s scent when they hung their coats in the mud room.

Raleigh and Rooster, let out, tried to pick up the wily fellow’s trail. No luck.

Golly, meanwhile, told everyone within earshot of her valor.

Excitement bubbled over along with the coffeepot.

Few mentioned Iffy. She hadn’t been a part of the club, although Sorrel, Walter’s steady, expressed her sympathy to Jason on losing Iffy.

“Thank you,” he replied. “She turned the corner.” He drank a hot toddy, then spoke again. “One of the things about our profession”—he nodded toward Walter—“is you must accept death.”

“I suppose, but Walter hates to lose a patient.”

“I do too, but Sorrel, there’s a time to live and a time to die.” Then he smiled. “You know what’s worse than death? The paperwork!”

Tootie patted her britches pocket. The lockback knife Sister had given her was there. She hadn’t expected anything for leading back Aztec on Thursday and was delighted with the beautiful knife.

A foxhunter should always have a pocket knife in a coat or britches pocket.

The girls talked with one another. Pamela felt more of the group these days, although she could still get on their nerves, especially Val’s. She did, however, give each of them a steel-tipped stock pin from Horse Country, as promised.

Sister pulled Walter to the side.“Haven’t had a minute to talk to you.”

“What a day.”

“Was, wasn’t it?” She touched glasses with him.

Tedi came up.“I feel twenty-one again.”

“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Today is Felix of Nola’s feast day. I remember because of Nola.”

“How do you remember these things? What did Felix do?” Walter grinned.

“Survived torture and persecution in the third century AD, going on to perform conversions and miracles. Died 260 AD.”

“Every day is a miracle.” Tedi beamed.

“Today certainly was.” Walter noticed Sorrel motioning to him. “Excuse me.”

The phone rang. Val, next to it, picked it up and cupped her head over the receiver.“Sister,” she called over the din. “Sam.”

Sister pushed through the crowd, listened, then hung up the phone as Gray walked over to her. She started laughing.“Crawford has hounds out all over the country. Sam asks if we see any, would we pick them up.” She asked for silence, then added, “You can take them to the barn in the back.”

“Damned if I’ll help Crawford,” a member groused.

“Hounds first,” Sister simply replied.

Margaret DuCharme slipped in the back door. Her eyes watered a bit from Comet’s signature odor. She found Ben. Sister had invited her and told her that no one thought for a second she had anything to do with Iffy’s disappearance. However, it was damned inconvenient that Iffy’s wheelchair had been in her SUV. With Iffy dead it became quite upsetting.

Sister had asked her to come for Ben. She’d noticed their connection at the New Year’s party. And she really did want Margaret to know she was above suspicion. No one was pointing the finger at her.

They were pointing it at Golly, who had soared onto the table, grabbed a succulent slice of ham, and jumped off, racing upstairs with her prize.

“That damned cat!” Sister couldn’t get through the crowd to smack Golly’s bottom.

Ben’s cell phone rang as he was talking with Margaret. He flipped it open and recognized the number. “Excuse me, Margaret.” He listened, said little, then flipped the phone back. “We have permission from Angel’s great-niece in Richmond. That saves time.”

“Permission for what?” Margaret asked.

“To exhume Angel Crump.”

CHAPTER 24

Angel Crump was in much worse shape than Iffy Demetrios, but then she’d had a year and a half to molder. Embalming, limited as it was by social consent, and being interred in a casket preserved some tissues. The bones, intact, might yield something.

Lyle Aziz snipped what he could. Given that it was January 16, he hoped the results wouldn’t be eight weeks in coming. Not much happened in the dead of winter except for car wrecks, someone crashing through ice and drowning. The murder rate dropped down; the violent outbursts of summer’s sticky heat abated. The state lab ought to be able to get back to him faster than in July.

Still no results from Iffy’s remains. As for Angel, how many ways could someone kill another without arousing suspicion? When the victim—if she was a victim—was in her eighties, the possibilities increased. People expected older people to die, not considering wrongdoing when it occurred.

Angel had been slumped over her desk as though asleep when Garvey walked in with papers for her. He’d assumed her passing was natural. Why kill Angel Crump?

As Lyle worked away he was glad those were not his concerns. He did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs.

Ben Sidell was trying to do his. As Lyle bent over what was left of dear old Angel, Ben faced a furious Crawford Howard.

“Why would I kill her?” Crawford exploded as he sat in his sumptuous stable office, with cherrywood paneling, no less.

Ben stood before him, since Crawford rudely did not ask him to sit. Sam worked outside, bandages itching. He and Rory were grooming Czpaka in the crossties closest to the office just in case they might hear something. They heard that sentence.

Ben, voice lower, replied,“You aren’t under suspicion.”

Crawford shifted in his leather chair.“Iffy was an unreliable neighbor.”

“How so?”

“She’d say one thing one day and another the next.”

“Could you give me an example?”

Without hesitation, Crawford launched in.“Last fall I asked if I could ride over the low hills that separate us and ride the perimeter of her farm.” He explained as if talking to a child. “To sweeten the request I had Mostly Maples plant a ten-foot sugar maple in her front yard. She called, thanked me and mentioned she liked Southern hawthorns. Waynesboro Nurseries planted two for her. She finally agreed. A week later, Sam and I rode over late one afternoon, and she flew out on her broom. Apoplectic.” He drew in his breath. He shrugged. “The woman had a mental condition.”

“She said she had lung cancer.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? The result is the same.”

“Perhaps it matters in how we respond to someone like that.”

“Bullshit. She got away with murder. I know other people who have cancer and they don’t use it the way Iffy used hers. She was a useless person.”

“Better off dead?”

Crawford raised an eyebrow.“Yes, but”—he raised his voice—“that doesn’t mean I shot her. Traced the bullet yet?”

“No.”

“Hot gun.” Crawford raised his eyebrows. Stolen guns and knockoff models of expensive guns, sold cheap out of the backs of cars, were usually untraceable.

“If it is from a registered gun, we’ll track it down, but you’re right.” These were golden words to Crawford, so Ben smiled when he said, “It’s easy to procure a used clean gun.”

Crawford puffed out his chest a bit.“You guys want us to believe you can solve murders with technology. I say it’s still an easy crime to commit and walk free.”

Ben waited a beat.“If someone is very intelligent or very lucky, it’s easier than I would like it to be.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Thank you for your time.”

“Might want to talk to Sam. She hated him.”

“Thanks.” Ben left the office, crossed the center aisle, and stood quietly while Czpaka closed his eyes in pleasure.

Sam massaged the warmblood’s long neck while Rory curried along his back. “Heard you all had some kind of hunt Saturday.”

Ben grinned.“How Shaker, Betty, and Sybil got that pack together, I’ll never know, and Sam, what a good run it was, too.”

“Starts in the breeding shed just like for horses,” Sam responded.

“Ah, yes, of course.” Ben then said to Rory, “You’re getting good at that.”

The dark curly-haired fellow nodded.“Sam’s teaching me a lot.” “Mind if I ask you a few questions, Sam? We can go in private if you like.”

“Rory’s my buddy.” Sam indicated that Ben should start in.

“Crawford said Iffy hated you.”

“Not always.” Sam chose his words carefully. “She was sharp with me, but that was Iffy’s way. Got bad at the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t matter what I said or did; she’d jump down my throat. When the hounds dug out, Sister picked up three couple, but about two hours later, one lone fellow showed up at her door. I go to pick up the hound and she comes out waving a steak knife at me.”

“Why do you think she hated you?”

Sam thought a long time. He looked at Rory, then back at the sheriff.“Alcoholic. I asked her to go to AA with me once.”

Ben replied.“No one else has mentioned this about Iffy.”

Rory spoke up.“Said she suffered from her treatments. Maybe she did, but she was a drunk.”

“It takes one to know one.” Sam supported Rory’s assessment. “Whatever medication she was on, she was still a drunk.”

“She hid it well,” Ben remarked.

“Not so well,” Rory piped up.

“If you know the signs, she couldn’t hide it. She was a functioning alcoholic. Most are. Less than five percent of alcoholics end up like Rory and me, on the street drinking sterno. She went to work, held her job. I guess she did a good job, but she was an alcoholic. She did her drinking at home. Maybe she hid a bottle in her car. Don’t know. There are people who get through the day. When the sun sets they hit the bottle. Every day.”

“Women hide it better than men,” Rory opined.

“Hide everything better than men,” Sam agreed.

“And you don’t think anyone else picked up on this?” Ben asked.

“She preyed on people’s sympathy. She’d totter around with her canes, or she’d slump in her wheelchair.”

Ben asked,“Are you saying she could walk just fine?”

“Unless she was loaded.”

“Do you think she could have faked her illness?” Ben said quietly.

This didn’t surprise Sam or Rory, which in itself surprised Ben.

“It’s possible. She was very smart.”

“I checked her medical records. The tumor is obvious.” Ben frowned for a second.

“Doesn’t make her any less of a drunk.” Rory brushed Czpaka’s hindquarters in a circular motion.

“Guess not.” Ben put his hands, cold, into his coat pockets.

“We saw right through her. She couldn’t stand it.” Sam lifted a small bucket from the floor.

The smell of Absorbine filled the air, a strong but pleasant odor. Czpaka opened his eyes from his reverie.

Sam sponged some Absorbine onto Czpaka’s back.

“That feels so good.” The horse groaned.

Sam smiled as he worked his fingers along the big guy’s spine.

“You two have been very helpful.” Ben glanced back to see Crawford on the phone. Lowering his voice, he said, “We miss you.”

“It’s a five-boarder,” Rory replied.

“Beg pardon.” Ben, an Ohio boy, didn’t recognize the expression, which referred to the number of boards in a fence panel.

“Bad. More to fix,” Rory answered.

“Yeah, I think it is, too,” Ben replied. He turned to leave, paused, walked across the center aisle, and knocked on Crawford’s door. Crawford looked up through the large-paned window from which he could observe activities in the stable. He motioned for Ben to enter.

The sheriff patiently waited while Crawford finished his call.

When Crawford had touched the off button, Ben stepped forward.“I’m sorry to bother you again. Did you ever try to buy Iffy’s farm?”

“Once. She refused.” Crawford’s voice was even.

“It’d be nice to have Iffy’s farm, since it touches yours.”

“It would. She was adamant.”

“’Course, it’s close to town. Be a great development site.”

Crawford, irritated, declared,“Not my forte.”

Once Ben had driven out, Crawford called Jason. He’d heard Jason had gone back out with Jefferson Hunt.

Before he had a chance to rip him apart, Jason coolly circumvented the anger.“I know, I hunted with JHC. Crawford, one of us needs to be on the good side. If we can go forward at Paradise, some of those members will be resource people.”

“They won’t buy.”

“No, but they might have a friend in California who will. We can’t burn all our bridges.”

“Have you talked to the sheriff?”

“He called on me concerning my patient.”

“Oh, say Iffy, for Christ’s sake. I know perfectly well it was about Iffy,” Crawford erupted. “Why else would he see you? Did you say anything about Paradise?”

“No, of course not.” Jason was angry now.

“He asked me if I wanted to buy Iffy’s farm and develop it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You and I need to talk about Jefferson Hunt. Face-to-face.”

“We will. It’s been hectic.” Jason begged off.

CHAPTER 25

Iffy’s remains provoked slight controversy among her distant relatives, none of whom felt sufficiently close to pay for interment. Garvey, pity overtaking anger, paid for cremation and picked up the shoe box of her earthly remains, an I.D. sticker on the sides. His wife, horrified at the idea of baked bones in the house, told him to dump Iffy on the rosebushes, reminding him that ash is good for roses.

As the bushes slumbered under the snow, the tops visible, it made no sense to squander the ash on the snow.

For all his troubles, Garvey retained his sense of humor. He gave the ashes to Gray and asked him to scatter Iffy on Hangman’s Ridge: “For if we dispensed justice as once we did, she’d have probably been hung.”

Iffy, placed on a shelf in the kennel feed room, awaited Sister and Gray’s return from today’s hunt, Tuesday, January 17.

Gray had brought her to Roughneck Farm Monday night, and neither he nor Sister wanted to go up to Hangman’s Ridge. They told each other it was because the farm road was icy. They couldn’t use darkness as an excuse, since the moon was just past full.

Slapping Iffy on the shelf, they promised to scatter her ashes and read a prayer. They would not speak ill of the dead.

At this exact moment, this impending pathetic ceremony didn’t enter Sister’s mind.

Riding Matador for the first time in a hunt, she thought this would be a good day to try him. Usually hunting was slack for a few days after a full moon, animals weary after the heightened activity of the time. It affected humans, too, hence the term“lunatic.” Tuesdays the fields were small, another good reason to test Matador. He wouldn’t be overwhelmed with other horses.

After the visit last summer by Sister and Walter, Franklin Foster up in Fairfax had said yes to allowing the Jefferson Hunt on his land. Since the hunt would clear trails, build attractive jumps in old fence lines, and keep an eye on this one thousand acres without charging him a penny, it didn’t take a genius to see the advantage to himself. The land abutted Paradise on the north and west; it was rough but rich in game.

Sister hadn’t pursued this fixture during the years when Binky and Alfred’s disagreements had flared up. One would say the hunt could use Paradise; the other would say no. She’d steered clear. There was no point in hunting Mr. Foster’s land if hounds ran into Paradise. One brother, at least, would be mad at Jefferson Hunt. Last year, Margaret, working as hard as a shuttling diplomat, had secured Paradise once more for foxhunting. That’s when Sister and Walter drove to what they considered Occupied Virginia: northern Virginia.

The Jefferson Hunt now had a fixture of seven thousand acres, counting both places together plus odd pieces surrounding those two large parcels of land. This more than made up for the loss of Beasley Hall except that Crawford had groomed his estate, built all the jumps, and been a generous host during his years of membership.

It takes a year to learn your foxes on a new fixture. It takes years to cut the trails according to the manner in which your foxes run. It’s a foolish master who rushes into a new place, squandering people’s time, energy, and money, opening trails, cutting brush and trees, and building jumps only to find that the foxes use a different highway.

That meant today she rode in thick woods, ravines unfolding before her. The deer trails proved useful. Discarded farm roads, saplings lacing through them, could be followed slowly.

Out for an hour. Nothing. Matador, walking along calmly, swiveled his ears each time Shaker blew the horn. She felt disgust about Iffy’s murder. She wondered, too, about the mound of frozen blood she’d found on Crawford’s land. Gave her the creeps.

Tootie rode Keepsake. Apart from wanting Tootie to hunt, Sister thought Matador would feel better if a stablemate rode with him. She had horse sense.

Tootie finished her term paper, but no one else at Custis Hall could keep up with her. Bunny wasn’t going to trailer one student and her horse to a hunt, so Sister had picked Tootie up Monday night. She and Gray laughed at Tootie’s stories; she laughed at theirs. Even better, she rose at five-thirty in the morning without being called three times. Tootie readied the horses while Sister made a light breakfast.

Listening to the horn, appreciating the silence behind her, Sister realized she loved Tootie. She loved being a mother again, even only a part-time mother.

Tedi and Edward, those stalwarts; Gray; Ben; and Tootie constituted the field. Walter usually worked on Tuesdays.

The mercury wouldn’t budge over thirty degrees.

“What kind of foxes do you think live here?” Trinity asked Asa.

“Lots of rabbits. Lots of everything. Both. Grays and reds,” he answered, his nose down.

“Hard day,” Delia said.

She’d put on a little weight, thanks to her extra rations. Sister and Shaker thought she could get back into the game today, as it appeared the pace would be slow.

Nothing is sure in foxhunting.

“Look at it this way, if we do find anything in this cold, it will be red hot. We’ll be on good terms with our fox,” Diana, always pushing for scent, said optimistically.

Dasher, who had stepped up to the plate, driving very hard now that his brother, Dragon, was laid up in sick bay with his wound, opened his mouth.“Yes.”

Cora ran over to Dasher and inhaled deeply.“Rock and roll.”

Hounds opened. Shaker blew three short notes three times. Given the thick covert, he couldn’t see whether all the hounds were on. He didn’t blow “Gone away.” He fought his way through the brush.

Matador, a little up now, listened to Sister. She possessed the gift of soft hands, imparting confidence to her horse through light contact with the horse’s mouth. Nor did she clamp down her legs in a vise. She had an educated leg. Matador appreciated that, too.

Both Betty and Sybil battled the rough territory.

They emerged onto an untended field, sumac sticking up out of the snow, spikes of broomsage visible. That was easier going, and the little group ran as hard as they could.

Surprised by hounds, the fox would learn in time what all this meant. Today all he wanted to do was reach his den. As he headed for it he leaped logs but otherwise kept a straight course.

As the small red plunged down into a steep ravine, a fine place against harsh winds, Darby lifted his head.“What’s that?”

Even Cora didn’t know what the sweet odor was. She slowed, waiting for Asa to come alongside. As the senior dog hound he might know, she thought.

“Don’t know,” he said as he kept running.

Delia, the oldest hound there, ran at the rear of the pack.“Hold up.”

Her wisdom went unheeded as the second-year entry shot past even Cora, who paused for the senior hound. Cora then stretched out to catch the pack.

By now Sister had caught the deep sweet odor.“Shit,” she thought to herself.

Gray recognized it. Tootie did not. Tedi and Edward, swept along with the run, glanced nervously at each other.

Five seconds passed. Then a terrible crash rising out of the deepest part of the ravine told the tale.

Shaker blew three long notes.“Come to me. Come to me,” he called.

A shotgun blast shattered the air. Matador leaped straight up.

Sister, with her years of training, didn’t even think about it. She sat deep, leaned forward, and pulled one rein down to bring Matador back down. She kept a tighter rein on him so he wouldn’t put his head down and buck after standing up.

“They’re going to kill us.” Matador sweated.

Nonni, Ben Sidell’s been-there-done-that trooper, calmly said,“Steady, young feller. Hounds will get shot before we do.”

Keepsake leaped straight forward but settled right down as Tootie remained calm.

Sister slowed Matador.“Ben, you’d better come up here with me.”

Gray rode on one side of Sister, Ben on the other.

Tootie, Tedi, and Edward rode behind.

Clouds of condensation billowed from mouths and nostrils. Sister passed a jutting ledge to behold a large still, broken glass and bottles everywhere.

Alfred DuCharme, shotgun pointing at Shaker, cussed a blue streak.

Tedi uncharacteristically blurted out,“Guess Alfred’s not such a lazy sod.”

“Get the hell out of here!” Alfred bellowed.

The hounds—unhurt, thank God—bundled around Gunpowder and Shaker.

Ben Sidell calmly rode forward.“Alfred, put that shotgun down.”

“Goddammit!” Alfred recognized the young sheriff. “Goddammit to hell!” He lowered the shotgun.

“Break it open, Alfred.”

Alfred did break open his shotgun.

The smell of fermenting corn nearly knocked Tootie off her saddle.

“Anyone have cut pads?” Sister rode up to Shaker as Betty and Sybil rode in, quite shocked at the scene.

“No.” His face was pale.

“Alfred, you’re operating an illegal still, and you’re trespassing on…” Ben turned to Sister.

“Franklin Foster.”

“…Foster’s land.”

Dejection overcame Alfred.“Will this be in the papers?”

Canny, Ben dismounted. Tootie rode up to take Nonni’s reins. Ben removed the shotgun from Alfred. “Now, Alfred, things don’t look good for you. If you help me, I’ll help you.”

A fleeting look of hope crossed Alfred’s craggy features. “What can I do?”

“The first thing you can do is destroy this still. Remove all traces of it. You wouldn’t want Mr. Foster to find out and nail you to the cross, now would you?”

“No.”

“The second thing you can do is promise me you will not do this again.”

“I do.” Alfred almost sounded believable.

“There’s more. Are you listening?” Ben kept his voice low.

“I am.”

“Did you sell to Iphigenia Demetrios?”

He cleared his throat.“I did.”

“Did she come out here to you two Saturdays ago, January 7?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a regular customer?”

“Yes. She’d pour my stuff in other bottles. She drank bourbon, too, mind you, but when she needed a real pick-me-up, she came to me.”

“I see. Did you kill her?”

“No!” He stepped back, frightened.

“It’s not so far-fetched, Alfred. She could have threatened to expose you, and from the looks of this, you’ve profited greatly from illegal liquor.”

“I would never kill anyone. Even for that. Because I break one law doesn’t mean I’d break all laws.” Alfred’s wits were returning.

“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,” Ben joked. “Any idea why she was so upset that Saturday?”

“Work. Said work wasn’t going right. Said she had no love life. Said she felt betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Does a cell phone work down here in this hollow?”

Alfred nodded.“If you climb up there on that rock ledge, it does.”

“All right, here is what we are going to do. I’m going to call the fire department. Tattenhall Station is the closest volunteer station. I’m going to tell them that I’m performing a controlled burn here. I won’t give the circumstances. But this way, if they get calls from anyone, they won’t respond. I won’t arrest you, and I will swear these people to secrecy.” Ben nodded toward the field. “Are you with me?”

“Yes.” Alfred sighed deeply.

Not only was Ben saving his face, he was saving him lawyer’s fees, possible jail time, and significant damages to the state.

Ben walked over to Sister.“Sister, you are to never speak of this. Shaker, Betty, Sybil.”

They agreed.

He walked over to Tootie, Tedi, and Edward.

“Edward, do you have room on your trailer to take Nonni back with you? I don’t know how long it will be before I can pick her up.”

“Be glad to do it,” Edward replied.

“Tedi, Edward, Tootie, you must promise not to reveal what has happened here.” He stopped a moment and hoped Tootie, despite her youth, could resist telling the story. “This may have a bearing on Iffy’s murder. I need full cooperation.”

Each pledged not to tell.

He spoke louder.“Alfred, when next you see any of these people, do you swear not to speak of this or treat them rudely?”

“Of course.” Alfred might hate Binky, but he treated other people with respect.

“You’re going to drive me to After All once we finish business here,” said Ben to Alfred.

As the little group left, the fox, den up on the ledge within hearing distance of the clear creek below, thought this day memorable.

The hounds passed right under his nose.

“He’s up there,” Asa said.

“We must go in,” said Delia, now up front, as they were walking.

“How’d you know?” Dasher asked Delia, his mother.

“Long before you were born there was a still hidden in a stone springhouse not far from Tattenhall Station. Fox ran into it and so did we. Once you get a whiff, you don’t forget. The humans use different grains, so it can smell different, but it’s always sweet and thick.”

Trident, finding the smell gross, asked,“How can they drink that stuff?”

“If they eat spinach, I reckon they can eat or drink just about anything,” Asa laughed.

As the happy group of hounds walked up and out of the ravine, Matador asked Keepsake,“Is it always like this?”

The gelding replied,“No, you just had a special initiation.”

“Whew.” The gorgeous flea-bitten gray exhaled, which made Sister laugh.

Ben and Alfred smashed up what was left of the equipment with axes. Once Ben felt the horses were far enough away not to become frightened by the smell, he lit a match, and the place blew up like a tinderbox.

Alfred sighed deeply.“Best damn country waters in the state of Virginia, if I do say so myself.”

“Do it legally, then, Alfred.”

“Ah shit, Sheriff, I’d choke in laws like kudzu.”

Ben didn’t reply, but he sure did think life had become overregulated. He couldn’t enforce much of the law; he’d need an officer for every five people.

Enlisting Alfred in his search for the killer was one reason why Ben had let him off the hook. The other reason was that he wanted Alfred’s tacit blessing as he courted the old man’s niece.

Margaret didn’t know it yet, but Ben meant to win her. For him it had been love at first sight.

Once back at Roughneck Farm, Tootie took Sister’s Matador. As she and Gray cleaned the horses, Sister and Shaker checked each hound.

“Let’s give them a treat,” Sister said as she walked into the feed room to put down the troughs. She noticed Iffy’s ashes all over the feed room, the box chewed to bits. “Great day, Shaker.” She used the old Southern exclamation.

He walked in, the hounds were in the draw pen.“Jesus.”

“I expect she’s with him now if forgiveness comes as advertised.” Sister burst out laughing. “What a sight. Iffy all over the kennel floor. Who did this?”

“Oh, that’s not hard to figure.” Shaker walked through the swinging doors to the special medical runs, as they called the sequestered housing and runs for an injured hound.

Dragon, bored, had lifted the latch on his gate with his nose. He knew well enough where the feed room was, so he pushed through the doors. Couldn’t find any extra feed, since it was all in tightly closed zinc-lined bins. But the toasted bones were a treat. He’s chewed up the box, chewed up some of Iffy, and then sauntered back to his special quarters.

Shaker, in a fog this morning, had forgotten to put the pin through the latch that prevented it from being lifted up.

He apologized to Sister as she swept up what was left of Iffy.

“Look at it this way,” Sister said. “It may be one of the few times Iffy provided genuine pleasure.”

Dragon, hearing this on the other side of the swinging doors, said,“Bones were a little too dry.”

CHAPTER 26

What remained of Iffy lifted into the air under the huge oak tree at Hangman’s Ridge. Gray dust and bits of bone that Dragon had passed over rose upward, then scattered as a great gust from the north sent ashes flying.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Sister pulled the collar of her coat up.

Shaker watched the dispersal of Iffy’s remains. “Sorry little life.”

“So it would appear.”

“Should we say a prayer, anyway?” Shaker, a good Catholic boy, folded his gloved hands together.

“You do it.”

“Heavenly father, into thy hands we commend this spirit. She didn’t do much in this life. Iphigenia Demetrios was a thief. But since Christ pardoned a thief suffering with him on the cross, perhaps you will pardon Iffy. Amen.”

As they climbed into the Chevy 454, both shivered.

“Iffy’s made contact with the other criminals,” Sister joked as Shaker slid behind the wheel.

He turned on the motor, heater cranking up again.“They’re here.” He lightly touched his toe to the accelerator and headed toward the farm road on the southeast side of the wide flat ridge.

“Feast day for St. Prisca, a Roman lady from the first days of Christianity. She’s attended by the two lions who declined to eat her or even take a swipe. Ah yes, those Romans thrilled to entertainments that make the NFL and the NHL look like Tupperware parties.”

He laughed as he carefully descended the side of the ridge. The farm road, frozen, demanded attention.

“Where’s the real January thaw? The big one?”

“Damned if I know.” She looked up at a light blue sky. “Too bad Gray couldn’t be with us for Iffy’s decanting. Electrician’s coming to his place, so he’s there.”

“Sam’s making a good recovery.”

“Yes, he is. He’s invaluable, too, telling us when and where Crawford will hunt. Sam has said he’s seen an abundance of fox at Beasley Hall. I feel sorry for the hounds even if there are a lot of foxes. Hounds need a good huntsman. They need to trust the person with the horn. That’s why we have such a good hunt. You.”

He smiled.“You, too.” He slowed even more as a big ice slick glittered on the farm road. “Think he’ll tire of it? Disperse the pack?”

“Not any time soon.” She reached for the Jesus strap when the hind end skidded. “Some pumpkins yesterday.”

Shaker laughed out loud.“Alfred’s face crumpled. Did you ever see anything like it?”

“No.” She laughed, too. “What a rogue.”

“Shrewd, not putting the still on his property.”

“He’d risk Paradise if he did that.”

Sister felt her toes warming.“I expect he shipped most of it out of the county.”

“Could Iffy have organized that for him? Shipping?” Shaker asked.

“She probably could have. Iffy was smart, organized.”

Shaker breathed out once they reached the bottom of the ridge.“Whew.” Then he said, “Think Garvey is in on this somehow?”

“Moonshine?”

“No,” Shaker replied. “In on whatever Iffy was doing. She’d fake purchases, say, and they’d divvy up the money.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. Be a good scam.”

Shaker drove slightly faster.“Garvey doesn’t seem like the type to loot his own business, but I guess you never know.”

“Ben said there wasn’t one incriminating article in Iffy’s house, old barn, car. No hidden account books. Even her computer was innocent. Ben said it was so old he thought it was slowly dying of fatigue. Now, on the other hand, Garvey has been on a buying spree these last years, snapping up smaller companies. Still…” Her voice trailed off.

“Reminds me, you said you were going to buy a new computer for the kennels.”

“Yes, once Christmas was over. Know what you want?”

“Same as yours. The iMac G5.”

“By now they’re probably better than mine. Take the farm credit card and buy what you want.”

“Great.” He smiled as they passed the apple orchard, the kennels coming into view. “We’ve got a drop-in.”

“Damn. That’s one I’d like to drop-kick.” Sister recognized Jason’s mighty Range Rover.

They pulled beside the white SUV. Jason kept the motor running as he talked on his phone. The Rover was wired for a phone, so he spoke up toward his rearview mirror, where a tiny microphone was located. He signed off as Sister stepped out of the Chevy.

“Hello, Sister, Shaker.” He closed the heavy door behind him. “I called but no one answered, so I thought I’d take a chance and run by.” He paused. “Long night at the hospital.”

“You must be able to sleep on your feet.” Sister motioned for him to follow her and Shaker into the kennel.

They filed into the office. Sister sat behind the desk.

“Boss, I’ll see to Dragon.”

“Fine. Sit down, Jason. It’s basic but comfortable.”

“Feels good. If I can get fifteen minutes of sleep here or there, I can power through. It’s my feet that hurt. I’ve caused you trouble, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You’ve already apologized.” She wondered what he wanted.

“As you know, I have a friendship with Crawford.”

“Yes.”

“If I walk out hounds with you, learn your routine, it will imperil that relationship. As it is, he’s trying to make me resign from the hunt. I won’t do it. I’m hoping over time I can lower the hostility threshold.” He smiled, pleased with his choice of words.

“Thank you for coming to tell me.”

“If you have any weakness, any crack in your armor, he’ll find it.”

“I expect he will.” She did have one, which she sidestepped.

Peter Wheeler’s will, which had bequeathed the Chevy 454, his estate, and fifty thousand dollars a year to the club, had been made in 1976. She had been forty-three, and Peter, having a bout of illness, thought he might be leaving the earth. He recovered. But he put in his will that she couldn’t take a joint-master. He’d realized his mistake in the last year of his life, but with so many other concerns, he hadn’t revised his will in time. She saw no reason to speak of this.

“Hopefully, Crawford will find a positive outlet for his energies,” she evenly replied.

He noticed the chewed-up ashes box, whose remnants were in the large wastebasket at the side of the big teacher’s desk built in the 1950s. He’d seen enough of such boxes. Peering down, he made out part of Iffy’s name on a typed label. “Iffy?”

She said without being asked,“It is. Was.”

“What happened?”

“No one would take her. We said a prayer for her at Hangman’s Ridge.”

“What happened to the box?”

“A hound grabbed it.” She declined to give the full story, which was funny to her but perhaps not to Iffy’s physician.

As he walked to the door, Sister threw this out.“Do you think Iffy wanted to live?”

“She did,” he replied, and left.

Felicity walked across the quad from the infirmary. Talking with animation to Howard on her cell phone, she planned their weekend date. This wasn’t easy, since neither had a car.

She ended the conversation as she went up the stairs to her dorm floor.

Tootie came into the hall when she heard Felicity’s footfall. “Are you contagious?”

“No.” Felicity smiled.

“So?” Tootie held her palms upward, flaring out her fingers.

“Food allergy. Mrs. Norton called in an allergist, and they scratched my back with all kinds of stuff. Dog dander, grass, things you don’t even want to know about.” She rolled her eyes.

“And?” Tootie leaned against her doorway.

“Bleached flour.” Felicity leaned against the other side of the door, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Wouldn’t you have gotten sick before now?”

“That’s what I asked, and the doctor said sometimes these things don’t show up until a person is older. So she gave me this.” Felicity pulled stapled sheets from her voluminous handbag. “If I follow the plan, I won’t be nauseated.”

“Well, that’s good. I was worried.”

“I was, too. It’s an awful feeling. And when I listed what I ate those mornings, what I could remember, I mean I don’t think about what I eat, but I ate white bread or rolls, stuff like that.”

“Can you eat any bread?”

“Dark. Pumpernickel. It’s weird.”

“You’re weird.” Tootie punched her.

CHAPTER 27

The party wagon swayed slightly as Shaker turned from the Roughneck Farm road right onto the state road.

“Wrong direction,” Cora wondered.

Ardent, who along with Asa and senior members of Sister’s “A” line was resting on the top tier, said,“Changed the fixture.”

“How do you know?” Delight asked, not impudently.

“Heard Shaker when he called me out of the Big Boys’ run. Trouble at Little Dalby.”

“What kind of trouble?” Diana, curious, lifted her head off her paws.

“Human trouble,” Ardent responded.

“That’s better than rabies.” Dasher, eager to hunt, paced in the medium-sized trailer.

“True enough,” Cora said,“but human trouble has a way of rolling back on us.”

Sister, with Betty in the cab, pulled the horse trailer to Foxglove Farm.

Straight as the crow flies, the distance was two and a half miles, a booming run on a straight-necked fox. Going around the land by available roads, it took fifteen minutes to arrive at the lovely farm, where nothing was done to excess, all in proportion.

“I hate to overhunt my foxes.” Sister slowly cruised round the big circle in front of Cindy Chandler’s barn. She parked, truck nose out, so other trailers could park alongside.

This crisp January 19 morning, Thursday, more people came than Sister expected. She had a very respectable midweek field of twenty-five.

Pleasing as that was, being forced to shift the fixture at the last minute plucked her last nerve. Anselma Wideman had called at nine last night to inform her that Crawford Howard had chosen to hunt Little Dalby on her, Sister’s, day. Crawford knew full well this would inconvenience Jefferson Hunt.

She changed the information on the huntline, simple enough. She sent out e-mails, also simple enough, and she called her staff to make certain they knew. Hunt clubs have phone lines that members call two or three hours before the appointed time in case a fixture needs to be changed because of weather or other events.

Needing all her wits to chase foxes, Sister held her emotions in check. She was wondering whether she could get away with murder. Crawford would be such a juicy, satisfying target. However, one murder was enough.

Walter juggled last-minute questions from visitors. He lent one an extra stock tie. The Custis Hall quartet along with Bunny, their coach, and Charlotte, the headmistress, were there.

Sister led Rickyroo off the trailer. Betty followed with Outlaw.

Sybil helped Shaker so Betty could assist Sister if she needed help.

Folding back her deep green blanket with dark orange piping, Betty, to lighten the mood, asked,“Perhaps we’ll have an epiphany, late as usual.”

“January 19 is a big day. Feast days of Branwalader, Canute, and Henry of Finland.”

“Think we might have to call on them?” Betty folded the blanket over, then stepped into the tack room to place it over an empty saddle rack.

“We might need to do that, but none of them are called upon by hunters.”

“I don’t have your head for dates, but I am a Virginian. Birthday of Robert E. Lee, 1807.”

“Yes, it is. And Edgar Allan Poe, 1809, and C?zanne in 1839. A lucky day.”

“Think there was an epiphany?”

“I do.” Then Sister laughed, her gloom lifting from the fixture problem. “But the Wise Men didn’t find Jesus. Their camels did.”

“Ha. Imagine hunting from a camel.”

“Think I’d throw up. Couldn’t take the motion.” Sister checked her horse’s girth and gathered the reins in her left hand, holding the left rein shorter than the right so if Rickyroo should take a notion he’d turn inside toward her instead of outside, which would throw her out like a centrifuge.

Betty did the same, and both women mounted up without a grunt.

Sister rode over to Cindy Chandler, who was on her tough little mare, Caneel.“Thank you so much for allowing us here on short notice.”

Cindy, a true foxhunter, smiled.“I love having you here.” She stepped closer to Sister, which pleased Rickyroo, as he was fond of Caneel. “Would you like me to speak to Anselma and Harvey? If you do it’s official, and you scare people sometimes.” Cindy could say this, being a trusted friend. “The Widemans don’t knowhunting. They might finally understand territory conflict, but they won’t grasp overhunting foxes.”

“Do talk to them. Use all that deadly charm.” Sister joked gratefully. “I’m not upset with them.”

“I know that. It’s Mr. Ego.”

“We seem to have a few of those.” Sister cut her eyes toward Jason, resplendent in a hacking jacket made expressly for him by Le Cheval in Kentucky so it fit perfectly.

“Peacock.”

“M-m-m,” Sister touched Cindy’s arm. “Thank you many times over for everything. I always feel better when I see you or talk to you.”

“Go on.” Cindy smiled at her.

Sister saw that hounds were ready and everyone was mounted except for Ronnie Haslip, usually one of the first up. He’d dropped his crop and dismounted, and was swinging up again.

To give Ronnie one extra second, Sister quietly said to Walter, facing her,“You ride tail today. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Take Jason with you. If he wants to learn, then he can learn service first.”

“Ah.” Walter sighed, but he didn’t argue.

How could he? She was right. The look on Jason’s face was not one of a man being honored by a position of responsibility. It was that of a spoiled person who wants to ride right up in the master’s pocket.

Millions he might have, but Sister was damned if she’d be bought. She had kept Crawford in line for ten years, succeeding in getting him elected president—a good place for him in many ways. The boob ball, which is how she thought of the hunt ball, had put an end to all. Bobby Franklin, who had resigned his presidency, submitted to an emergency general election. Bobby, a good leader, had accepted with grace, tabling his ideas of a long vacation this coming summer. Betty was thrilled. Vacations bored her to tears.

There they were. Frost heavy on the ground. The sun kissing the horizon. Puffs curling from horses’ nostrils, hounds eager.

The horrid cow, Clytemnestra, and her equally enormous offspring, Orestes, had been bribed and barricaded in two stout stalls in the small cattle barn. Sweet mash liberally laced with decent bourbon contented the holy horror, who had gleefully smashed fences and chased people in times past.

Given the heavy frost, the mercury still below freezing, Shaker walked hounds up the slow rise to the two ponds, one at a lower level than the other, a long pipe and small waterwheel between them. Cindy had added the waterwheel in the early fall. Formerly the water had cascaded from the pipe in the upper pond to the lower pond. Now the pipe fed directly onto the wheel, whose sound as it turned was one our ancestors had heard for centuries untold, one lost now to the roar of turbines and internal combustion engines.

Those who had never before heard the mating of gears, the slap of the paddles, the sound of the water rising and falling off the paddles discovered the peacefulness of it. Those who had ridden at Mill Ruins had heard it before in deeper register.

The cascade produced a spray of droplets, arching out over the pond and turning to thousands of rainbows as the sun rose high enough to send a long, slanting ray to the wheel.

The moving water crystallized at pond’s edge here and there, but until frosts stayed hard and deep for many days the ponds wouldn’t freeze.

Grace, the beautiful resident red fox, returned before sunrise to her den behind the stable. Given the wealth of treats, especially the hard candies that Cindy put out for her, Grace had lost her motivation to hunt afar. Occasionally she provided a bracing run. Today wasn’t the day.

Grace glanced up and back. A blanket of thick clouds massed on the mountaintops. In front of her, the east, the sky was crystal clear. Very interesting. Very tricky.

Hounds picked up Grace’s scent at the waterwheel. The beautiful red liked fishing, a hobby she’d taught to Inky. The two girlfriends would sit at pond’s edge for hours watching the goldfish, big suckers. Every now and then, Grace would grab one or Inky would. The squirming fish sometimes gained its life by flopping right out of their paws and back into the pond. Occasionally they were successful and enjoyed sushi.

Today, a tall male heron, motionless, stood on the far side of the upper pond. With a jaundiced eye he watched the hounds. He wasn’t going to budge unless someone approached him. He was here first. Furthermore, he was hungry. He tilted his head, and an orange flash caught his eye. Fast as lightning he uncoiled his snakey neck and plunged his long, narrow, terrifying beak through the thin ice at pond’s edge into the water,pulling out an extremely healthy fish.

“Wow.” Diddy’s soft brown eyes widened.

“He’s an old crank,” Ardent jibbed.

“Sure can fish, though,” Asa whispered, since Shaker was within earshot.

Grace’s scent lingered enough for hounds to feather, the rhythm of their tails seemingly connected to the intensity of the scent.

Moving upward away from the ponds, hounds reached a higher meadow, where for fifteen minutes the sun warmed the remains of the snow, bare patches of slicked-down pasture also visible.

About a half mile away rested an old schoolhouse by the farm road. Aunt Netty had once lived there until Uncle Yancy filled the den up. Their former addresses littered three fixtures.

Cindy hadn’t noticed, since she hadn’t been riding her property in the cold, but a huge, leggy, red dog fox, Iggy, had recently taken up residence. The lure was not only the abundant supply of mice, moles, rabbits, and grain tidbits but Grace. He meant to have her. At this point, she was coy. Another week, and she might be in season. He was patient. She wouldn’t be so coy then. As it was, she maintained warm conversations with him.

Hounds walked up the pasture and jumped over the fence line, trotting down into the woods where an old springhouse still stood.

Most of the old farms kept their springhouses because they remained useful.

Human reasoning would predict that a fox moving down into the woods, coursing through a narrow creek, and going through the springhouse would produce no scent because the springhouse water would be that much colder, which it was.

However, foxhunting rarely follows the book. Expect the unexpected. Perhaps this is why foxhunting prepares people for life.

Dana, second year, gaining confidence, flanked the pack. She lifted her head, and a tantalizing odor wafted into her nostrils. She moved in that direction, going away from the main body of the pack. As Sybil was on the other side of the creek, deep covert between her and Dana, the whipper-in didn’t notice.

“I have something,” she spoke once but clearly.

“I’ll check,” Cora told the others as Dasher pushed up to take the place of strike hound.“She might be right.”

“Gets too far from the rest of us,” Asa noted.

“Shaker will think she’s a skirter.” Ardent seconded Asa’s concern, for both dog hounds thought Dana showed promise.

Skirters don’t stay in good packs for long.

Cora reached Dana and put her own educated nose to the ground.“Bobcat.”

“Can we chase him?” Dana wanted to be right.

“Sure can. Bobcat and mountain lions count. But here’s the thing, Dana. If we pick up good fox scent, we have to leave off and go to the fox.”

“Over here,” Cora called, and the others honored her.

The pack roared alongside the creek.

Sybil couldn’t keep up through the underbrush. Wisely, she pulled farther west to a cleared path so she could run parallel. Familiar with the country, she knew the places where she could cut back to get closer to hounds.

Sister at first thought hounds were on a gray running in tight circles. She, too, couldn’t follow closely, given the rough terrain.

Hounds sounded fabulous, the echo of voices ricocheting from the steep terrain.

Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela rode at the back of first flight. Out of the corner of her eye, Val perceived movement. She turned her head just as the bobcat shot out from under the thick mountain laurel.

“Oh, m’God,” she gasped.

Tootie followed Val’s eyes, and she, too, caught sight of that unique bobtail, a forty-pound cat, booking along. He then slid into more heavy cover on the other side of the trail. Had the hilltoppers been closer, they would have viewed him.

“Say something,” Pamela ordered. She’d caught a brief sight of the bobcat.

“I don’t know what to say,” Tootie replied irritably.

“Staff!” Felicity shouted for she saw a flash of red heading for them at a right angle.

“Shit.” Val, in tight quarters, wondered how to get out of the way. “One dollar,” Felicity gleefully announced.

The whole pack thundered behind them.

“Shut up, you two.” Tootie, passionate about hunting, thought they’d all talked too much already.

Val urged Moneybags into the bushes.

Unhappy though he was at the idea of getting scratched up, he did as he was told.

Iota, Parson, and Pamela’s Tango, a stunning bay, battled their way into the brush in the nick of time, for Shaker hurtled toward them.

Tootie had the presence of mind to remove her cap and swivel in the direction the bobcat had taken, since she couldn’t turn Iota any more, given the tight quarters.

Shaker, face scratched by thorns, sat upright as Showboat soared over a cluster of mountain laurel.

Seeing Tootie’s arm extended, cap at the end, he called out, “Gray?”

“Bobcat,” Tootie called back as Shaker disappeared on the other side of the deer path.

Ahead of them they heard Walter, obscured by the covert, but they couldn’t hear exactly what he said, given the sound of the hounds drawing away from them and the rattle of dead brown oak leaves clinging fast to branches. Certain oaks retain most of their leaves until the bud swells in spring, finally pushing them off.

“Are we lost?” Pamela asked.

“No. I know this territory,” Felicity said. She’d hunted it more than Pamela had.

“They must be reversing.” Tootie strained to hear up ahead. “Let’s get out of here.”

“All we have to do is stay to the side, then fall in the back.” Pamela couldn’t cede anything to Tootie, whom she considered a rival.

“There’s no room. We can’t get any farther off the path than we are now,” Felicity observed.

“I’m following the huntsman. The hell with it.” Val shot out of her tight quarters and turned Moneybags to the spot where Shaker had plunged into the brush again.

“Val, don’t,” Tootie admonished her.

Val disappeared.

Pamela, hearing the field approach from one direction, the hilltoppers from the other, groaned,“We’ll be squished.”

“Pamela, jump the mountain laurel, where Shaker jumped into the deer path. Do it. Everyone can get by, then we can jump out and bring up the rear.”

Pamela studied the formidable obstacle less out of fear than to plan her approach. Tango was facing in that direction, so she clucked to the sleek animal, then squeezed with purpose as she slid her hands forward.

Tango, a scopey fellow, meaning he could jump wide as well as high, took three trotting strides and soared over. A small clearing provided enough room for him to move forward before he smacked into a copse of black birch, the trees close together. He stopped in time as Iota cleared it, followed by Parson.

The three girls sat there, silent.

Sister trotted by. Three velvet hunt caps appeared on her right, although she couldn’t see the girls clearly. Saying nothing, she pressed on. Soon the sounds of Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers getting out of first flight’s way filled the air.

People shouldn’t talk during a hunt except on the way back when hounds are lifted, but in such tight quarters a word here or there did escape lips. The crashing about in the bush amused Iggy the schoolhouse fox, who had watched the drama from under a mass of junipers on a rise in the land, their thick scent masking his.

He stayed upwind. Hounds blasted one hundred yards beneath him, but the bobcat scent, heavy, kept them from even catching a hint of his, for potent as the junipers were, a tendril of fox musk might have reached them.

As Charlotte Norton and Bunny Taliaferro rode past, Bunny craned her neck to see her three charges in there. Pleased at their perfect manners, she smiled broadly, as did Charlotte Norton. At that moment it didn’t register with either woman that they counted only three caps, not four.

Once Jason and Walter had passed, Tootie clapped her leg on Iota. He cleared the mountain laurels again with ease. Felicity and Pamela followed, as Tootie had quickly moved up the deer path to give them room.

Before they could trot on, out popped Iggy. He grinned ear to ear.

“Tally ho,” Pamela called out.

“Won’t do any good.” Iggy sauntered next to them, using their horses as a cover and a foil.

“Oh, my God; oh, my God.” Felicity, overcome by Iggy following them like a dog, could scarcely breathe.

“He’ll duck out when he’s ready,” Tootie predicted.

“Smart for a young human,” Iggy remarked to the horses.

“She has all the instincts to make a great hunter, this kid,” Iota bragged on his human.

“Mine has no game sense at all,” Parson sighed, as he loved Felicity.

“Doesn’t need it,” Tango replied.“Mind like a steel trap. She’ll run a company someday and have more hay than anyone else.”

“Ever notice how some humans can learn and others can’t, whereas we always learn from what’s around us?” Iggy mused.

“Curious.” Iota had noticed this because Tootie absorbed everything, whereas the others, not unintelligent, only picked up what they were looking for in the first place.

“They need systems,” Parson, named for a practitioner of such a system, said.

“I think they’re born that way.” Tango turned his head slightly to avoid a hanging vine.“Damn thing.”

“I don’t. Heredity is stored environment. This fear, this need to believe, overrides their heredity. They don’t listen to their bodies anymore except for sex. They’re making a real mess of it, too.” Parson had strong opinions.

“Well, you must observe natural phenomena without judgment,” Iggy shrewdly noted.“That’s the only way you can flourish.” He stopped for a second.“Coming back. He won’t break into the open. If he gets bored with it, old Flavius will climb a tree. Mind you, he’s ferocious.” With that Iggy disappeared, calling over his shoulder,“I’ll cross his line and get you all out of this ravine.”

Old Flavius, the bobcat, shot in front of Iota, who shied for a second. Tootie, tight leg, stuck like glue. Her heart pounded to be so close to such a beautiful yet fearsome beast.

“Hold hard.”

The other two had caught sight of the big cat, too.

Two minutes later the whole pack crashed in front of Tootie and charged into the brush.

Confusion overtook them as Iggy’s scent crossed Flavius’s line.

Seconds later, Shaker, more scratches on his craggy face, appeared.

Pausing in the deer path, right in front of Tootie, he listened intently.“Two lines.”

She remained silent. He smiled at her and turned his horse toward the north, staying on the deer path.“Girls, follow me.”

Thrilled, they did as they were told. Not four strides down the deer path, Val fought her way through the brambles to fall in behind Pamela.

Pamela turned to see Val’s gorgeous face crisscrossed with scratches like tic-tac-toe. She stifled a giggle and pressed on. Val was displeased to be following Pamela.

Shaker kept close to his hounds as they milled about. Once he thought he knew which was the fox scent, he put his horn to his lips and, doubling the notes, urged them on to the scent.

First to figure it out was Diana.“Dog fox. Don’t know him.”

The hounds swung to her except for two couple of the second-year entry. The bobcat scent—hot, hot, hot—fooled them into thinking they were closing on their quarry.

Shaker couldn’t count all his hounds in the thick covert. He blew again, feeling his shirt stick to his back from sweat despite the cold. Hounds opened again.

Dana froze as Betty Franklin and Outlaw blasted into the bush.

“Hark to ’em.” Her voice, firm and clear, bided no stragglers.

The two couple squirted toward the sound of the horn and the cry of the pack.

As they scooted away, Betty paused one moment and said to her beloved friend,“How in the hell do we get out of this mess?”

“Leave it to me.” Outlaw lowered his head and pushed through tight cedars, brush, and vines. Tarzan would have felt at home here except for the cold.

Steady as a rock, the quarter horse moved forward until he broke through to the creek again.

He leaped down into the creek; it was a two-foot drop, but the footing wasn’t rocky in the creek.

Betty, trusting him, let him pick his exit spot. Little blue cedar berries, round, had slipped behind her coat collar. They drove her nuts, but there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. A few had found their way into her boots, too.

“We can fly from here.” Outlaw blew air out his nostrils, waiting for her command.

“I love you.” Betty patted him on the neck, then galloped forward, for they had real estate to cover.

Flavius, free of the hounds, walked to the springhouse, where he’d stashed some kill. He paid no attention to Sybil on Bombardier. The horse shied as Flavius bared his fangs for effect. Sybil flew off. Bombardier stood still, and she remounted, amazed that the bobcat sat and watched her. Sybil felt like prey.

Iggy led everyone on a merry chase. Needing the exercise, he didn’t head straight for the schoolhouse. He boogied to the twin ponds. The heron, livid that Iggy circled both ponds, lifted wide his huge wings.

“Scares me to death,” Iggy sassed him.

Athena and Bitsy reposed on the topmost limb of a towering sycamore denuded of leaves.

“It’s been quite a show,” Athena chortled.

And it wasn’t over yet, for hounds, finally out of that heavy covert, sped over the patchy ground, tiny bits of snow and mud shooting off behind them. Cora, first, flat out, circled the upper pond, leaped down to the lower, and circled that.

Iggy, a secure four minutes ahead—given his speed, he was in the prime of life—veered into the manicured woods, called “parked out” in this part of the world. Making no attempt to foil his scent, he then raced in a large semicircle. As he reached the woods’ edge, he kept to it, knowing it would be full of scent from edgefeeders like rabbits.

Just as the field came out by the upper pond, Iggy came into view.

Sister, seeing him, did not make the mistake of an overenthusiastic field master. Her task was to follow the hounds, not the fox. She didn’t cross the huge expanse of snow-covered pasture to get on terms with him. That would have cut off her hounds. She stuck behind the hounds, which she could finally see as they launched themselves off the bank to land next to the lower pond, the waterwheel paddling away.

As“Tally-hos” sounded behind her she fought the urge to turn and tell them she wasn’t an idiot, she might be old but she wasn’t blind, she had seen the fox. Better yet, hounds, heads down, were on. No need for “Tally-ho.” Well, it was a large field. Not everyone knew her, as many were cappers. She pressed on, wondering how people can foxhunt yet remain ignorant. That flew out of her mind as she launched off the upper bank, a tidy drop jump onto the slick surface by the lower pond.

That would part a few riders from their mounts, thereby enriching the club bar. Off you go, and a bottle must be produced at the next hunt. If a junior you had to deliver a six-pack of soda.

The music, spine tingling, swelled, and she now saw Shaker come out of the woods followed by Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela.

Jumping off the upper bank, Bunny also beheld her students. She’d get to the bottom of this when the hunt was over. What were those girls doing behind the huntsman? She was going to skin them alive.

Iggy, in the open now, treated everyone to a view as well as an appreciation of his blinding speed.

The pace began to tell. People fell behind. Gray, riding in the middle of first flight, moved up behind Tedi and Edward, who rode right up behind Sister. He didn’t feel it was proper for him to ride with Sister on days when there were large fields. It would smack of favoritism. When fields were small, he’d be close.

As Sister thought, five people came a cropper on the drop from the upper bank to the lower. Ronnie Haslip, a good rider having a bad day, broke his collarbone. Walter stayed with Ronnie, sending Jason forward in case anyone else went down hard.

“I’ll ride back to the trailers with you,” Walter offered. “Or if you want to stay here I can drive up here for you.”

“It’s only my collarbone. Tie my arm up with my stock. Hurry, Walter, hurry.”

Walter unpinned the long white four-fold tie and wrapped it around Ronnie’s shoulder, careful not to make it too tight as he looped it under Ronnie’s forearm resting across his chest.

“There.”

“Give me a leg up, Master.” Ronnie grinned.

Walter, strong as an ox, practically lifted the lighter man up and over onto the other side.

They lost ten minutes but caught up with the field in time to see Iggy dart under the schoolhouse.

Bobby put the hilltoppers just to the side of first flight so they could see everything.

Ben Sidell, riding with Bobby, felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket. He’d pick up the message later.

Shaker, blowing“Gone to ground,” effused over his pack. “Picking up the right scent, what good foxhounds. What good hounds.”

“We were good, weren’t we?” Diddy’s tail flipped like a windshield washer.

“I made you look good.” Iggy laughed.“Hey, I’m one smart fox. I live under a schoolhouse.”

Cora called back,“Okay, Professor.”

This would be his name ever after: Professor.

Shaker walked over to Showboat. The footing was slick as an eel. He slid, nearly falling flat on his face. Tootie held Showboat’s reins.

“Thank you, Tootie.”

“Thank you. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Thank you.” Tears filled Tootie’s eyes.

He took the reins, patted her hand,“Tootie, neither have I.” He swung up, then said to the other girls, “You all can go back to Sister now.”

“Thank you.” They beamed and rode past Sister, all smiles, and joined Jason, Walter, and Ronnie at the rear.

“Let’s pick ’em up.” Sister would have searched for another fox had the footing been better.

They’d had a bracing day, been out for two hours. Best to stop.

The clouds reached them at last, the only clear sky being a thin, brilliant, blue stripe in the east. Pines rustled. Branches started to sway.

By the time they reached the trailers, the first snowflakes were dotting their velvet hunt caps.

Val, on hearing of Ronnie’s mishap, volunteered to cool out his horse. He offered her money, which she quite properly refused. She wanted to help. Tootie took care of Moneybags for Val.

“Mr. Haslip, if Coach lets me, I’ll drive your rig home and do everything. I’d like to do that. I’m really a good driver.”

“Thanks, honey.” He melted at the sight of the girl, even though he was gay. Val was breathtaking. “I think Walter will drive and leave his horse here with Mrs. Chandler.”

“Well, if that doesn’t work, I’ll do it.”

Jason strode over.“All right, Ronnie, let me get you up in the tack room.”

He, too, melted at the sight of Val, but most men are wise enough to not dally with minors.

Ronnie stepped into the tack room. Jason untied the makeshift sling.

Ronnie, feeling the pain once the adrenalin of the chase had worn off, joked,“Hey, at least you don’t have to cut off my boots.”

“I’d never do that,” Jason joked back.

Sister stuck her head in the trailer tack room.“Need a belt? Say bourbon and branch?”

“When it’s over.” Ronnie grimaced as Jason wiggled the coat off his left arm.

Sister stayed outside, holding a flask carrying Woodford Reserve mixed with 25 percent pure water.

Ronnie unbuttoned his shirt with one hand. What hurt was having Jason pull over his head the silk and cashmere long-sleeved undershirt he wore on the nasty cold days. Tears ran down his eyes. The cold hit his lean naked torso, and he shivered.

“All right, Ronnie.” Jason felt the collarbone. “Not my specialty, but it’s a poor doctor who can’t set a bone.”

Walter joined Sister at the tack room door. Val worked on Ronnie’s nice mare. She didn’t want to see the bone being set. People in pain upset her, made her feel helpless.

“Ronnie, with those abs you ought to be a cover boy.” Sister made light of the situation.

“Right.” He gritted his teeth as Jason put his right hand on one side of the break, left on the other, then snapped the bones back.

“Oh, shit,” Ronnie blurted out. He nearly crumpled.

Jason put his hand under Ronnie’s elbow, helping him to lean on the raised section in the tack room, the nose of the trailer.

Walter stepped in.“May I?”

“Sure,” said Ronnie, lips white.

Walter lightly ran his fingers over the collarbone.“Good job, Jason.”

“What’d you expect?” Jason smiled. “Ronnie, as you probably know, it doesn’t do much good to set a collarbone. Keep it in a sling. That’s the best advice I can give.”

“He’s broken that left collarbone twice before.” Sister handed up the flask. “First time was at our hunter pace when he was twelve.”

“You didn’t give me bourbon and branch then.” Ronnie’s color was returning.

“I would have if your mother hadn’t been hovering.” She noticed his shiver. “Boy, you aren’t going to get that pullover back on. I don’t have anything I can give you.”

“I have an old flannel shirt in my bag,” Walter said. “Better than nothing. It’ll be six weeks before you can get a sweater on.”

“Three,” Ronnie resolutely replied.

Jason pulled a Montblanc ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket. He produced a prescription pad, for he’d first gone to his own trailer and changed coats, picking up the pad, too. “I’m giving you a prescription for 800 Motrin. Take one in the morning. One at night. It’ll help.”

“Thanks.” Ronnie took the small white paper.

“Nice pen.” Sister admired the Montblanc.

“If you use the best equipment you have fewer problems.” He stepped out so Walter could come up to help Ronnie on with the shirt. “Walter, you want to tie him up?”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Walter reached for Ronnie’s stock.

Despite the short notice, Cindy Chandler had put together a breakfast. People brought in dishes. Most wanted hot coffee or tea more than anything else at that moment.

As Sister walked to the farmhouse, a little jewel, she had her own epiphany.

So did Ben Sidell when he called back the number displayed on his cell phone. Lyle Aziz was jubilant that the results had come in so quickly on Angel Crump.

“Her death certificate said heart attack. Her heart stopped beating all right, Ben. She was loaded with scopolamine.”

CHAPTER 28

Following hounds on horseback is an early-morning activity. On weekdays people clean their horses, clean themselves, and report to work. In hunt country, many employees use flexible schedules not only for parents but for foxhunters, deer hunters, fishermen. The ways of the place might be altered by modern life but not utterly transformed.

Ben kept Nonni with Betty and Bobby Franklin. He enjoyed tending to his sturdy mare, no beauty basket but honest and wise. Three years ago the sheriff had known nothing about foxhunting. Now he couldn’t imagine life without it, nor could he imagine a day without Nonni. It was a love match.

He changed clothes in the tack room, his uniform crisp, then drove to the hospital. The snow, falling heavily now, worked its magic on the countryside. The brown patches were turning white; tree branches were outlined by a silver-white line on top.

Margaret DuCharme met him in her office.

“Please sit down, Sheriff.”

“Call me Ben.”

“This is an official visit, right?”

“It is.” He sat in the high-tech aluminum chair, the back and bottom a mesh that looked hard but wasn’t.

Margaret walked out from behind her desk and sat opposite him on a duplicate chair.

Noticing his wiggle in the seat, she inquired,“I hope that’s not uncomfortable.”

“No. It’s actually very comfortable.” He noted the d?cor of her office. “Funny, I would have thought you’d be, uh, I’m not very good at styles and periods, but, you know, traditional.”

She smiled.“Paradise takes care of that. It’s so traditional it’s falling down.” She indicated a slender Italian desk lamp, the dome over the halogen bulb a deep green. “I’m crazy about Italian design.”

“Sleek.” He crossed one leg over the other. “I hope you can help me.”

“Am I under suspicion?” She folded her hands together, leaning slightly forward.

“Technically, yes. Realistically, no. If you were a killer, you’d never be stupid enough to leave the evidence in your vehicle.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, her symmetrical features relaxing. “What can I do to help?”

“How easy is it for a doctor, a nurse, or even an orderly to steal controlled substances?”

She exhaled deeply.“In theory, it’s difficult. Medicines that need to be refrigerated are in locked refrigerators. Those which can be stored at room temperature are in steel cases, locked. Years ago they used wooden cases, but a desperate junkie could pry or smash them open.”

“Do you think things like morphine, say, are taken?”

“Not morphine so much. The drugs of choice are cocaine and OxyContin. Prozac, Valium, mood elevators have a street value, but the real prizes are coke and OxyContin. As you know, all hospitals have some pure cocaine as well as morphine for extreme pain.”

“Steroids?”

She shook her head.“It’s much easier to buy those on the black market than to fool around with the hospital supply, which isn’t that large.”

“Has anyone been caught recently?”

“You would know.”

“Only if the hospital prosecuted. It’s in the administration’s self-interest to let them go quietly, just as it’s in a bank’s self-interest to write off an embezzler. Prosecute; it makes the papers, and the public loses confidence. I may not like it, but that’s the way it is.”

Her eyes leveled on his.“True.”

“So, have drugs been stolen?”

“I don’t know, but common sense tells me, yes.” She smiled. “There’s no wall that can keep out a lover or a cat. If a staff person is hooked on Percodan, they’ll find a way. The higher up they are on the food chain, the more ways they can cover the theft—sometimes for years.”

“Do you think there are doctors who are addicts?”

“Yes. It’s not that uncommon. Do I know who they are? No.”

“What about you?”

“No. I got through my residency drinking enough coffee to float a battleship.” She smiled. “That’s another thing: most doctors drink far too much coffee. The OB/GYNs have the worst of it because babies always seem to appear at three in the morning.” She smiled again.

“They do, don’t they?” His face felt particularly hot. “Another question. Were Iffy and your Uncle Alfred close friends? Do you think it was a passionate relationship?”

She rubbed her chin, an odd gesture that somehow seemed very feminine.“There was a connection there, but I don’t know how deep. It’s not the kind of thing Uncle Al would tell me.”

“An affair? Maybe when Iffy was more attractive, less bitter. Sometimes people can become friends afterwards. Most times not, I guess.” He kept the questioning conversational.

“Iffy?” She pondered this. “I doubt it.”

“Do you know much about your uncle’s business activities?”

Struggling, she swallowed.“He fiddles with stocks. He keeps a few fighting cocks. I stay out of it.” She quickly added, “He seems to be doing better this last year than years prior.”

Ben didn’t press it. “How’s your business?” He smiled broadly.

“Good. People will always tear up their knees.” She laughed.

“Tell me about the drug scopolamine.”

“Commercially it’s called transderm scope. In therapeutic dose, 0.3 to 0.6 milligrams, it’s often used to combat motion sickness. Usually a patient wears a small patch behind the ear.”

“How long does it take to work?”

“Two hours. So if you’re seasick and your cruise leaves the dock at noon, you’d put the patch on at ten.”

“Does it have other uses?”

“Arthritis. Then it’s usually in a cream. And it may be used in combination with other drugs—atropine, for example.” She paused. “I don’t have much use for it. My work generally is on ligaments and muscles. But people have such different chemistries. There may be a patient who responds better to scopolamine for chronic pain than another drug. Why?”

“An autopsy report has crossed my desk. The corpse had extremely high levels of scopolamine.”

She tapped her finger on the chair arm.“It can kill you.”

“How—I mean how could you administer it, and what would be the symptoms?”

“Mix a lethal dose and put it on a patch. Patches come four in a package. Any physician could easily mix up a dose. It’s not difficult at all.”

“Any other way?”

“Sure, put it in a cream. Depending on how quickly you wanted it to work, you’d alter the dose, obviously. But it will kill you in twenty-four hours if that dose is over the line.”

“Let’s say I’ve mixed up cream, arthritis cream. It’s full of scopolamine. What happens to the victim?”

“Depending on their age, current health, they’ll become confused, then sleepy. They can’t keep their eyes open. The heart will beat arrhythmically. Death.”

“Looks like a heart attack.”

“Yes.”

“If the victim were quite old, the heart failure probably wouldn’t arouse suspicion?”

“Probably not. Most elderly people have heart problems. The pump shows signs of wear and tear.”

“Anything else about scopolamine?”

“If you pulled up the victim’s eyelids, the pupils would be dilated, the opposite of narcotics, where they are pinpoints.”

“So a really clever killer could tell the victim to wear a patch, then pull it off before the corpse is examined?”

“Could.”

“Is Walter a good cardiologist?”

“Yes.”

“If he pronounced—is that the right word?” She nodded, so Ben continued. “If he pronounced a patient dead would he know they’d been killed with scopolamine?”

“No. I wouldn’t either, especially if the patient had a heart condition. There are no outstanding signs. You’d only know by autopsy. The technical term for the manner of death is supraventricular tachycardia. You’d have to see the heart. Now, any of us could have that type of heart attack, but the scopolamine will blow out the heart that way. The tissues, the blood work would tell the tale. It’s an ingenious way to kill someone.”

“Yes, it is. Someone would need to be a doctor, pharmacist, nurse.”

“Or a very bright chemistry major.” She folded her hands together.

“This is a different line, but it may have some bearing on Iffy’s case. How easy would it be for a doctor to falsify insurance claims?”

Margaret’s eyes, light hazel, opened wide. “All too easy, Sheriff.”

“And temptation is high?”

She folded her hands together.“People don’t realize what it costs to be a doctor. Oh, they know those years after college are expensive, but they don’t think about the costs once you are on your own. Salaries. Office space. Hospital privileges. Constantly updating your computers and software. The courses you must continueto take throughout your life to keep your certification. And the real killer is insurance.”

“It raises by specialty?”

“Well, there’s no cheap insurance. Mine is thirty-six thousand a year.”

He exhaled in sympathy.“No competition to lower rates?”

“Not really.”

“So there is incentive to cheat?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Create problems that don’t exist. For instance, I treat you for a bruised patella, kneecap. You’re fine. I fill out the paperwork. The insurance company sends me a percent of my fee.”

“I’d have to be in on it. You need my signature on the form.”

“I suppose patient signatures could be forged, but it’s cleaner if we’re in it together.”

“I see. Is it possible to fake an operation?”

“It is, but then everyone in that operating room has to be in on it. It’s easier to do this for in-office procedures.” She focused her lustrous eyes on his. “Iffy?”