Whiskers in the Dark

by Rita Mae Brown

  The women, any of whom could have taken charge, didn’t much mind that Jason did. All four ladies operated on the theory, “Keep them working.”

  After an hour, the large tree had been shorn of all limbs, the thick trunk cut into pieces and rolled to one side in a rough pile.

  “Well?” Susan faced the huge root system, then looked upward. “We’ll run out of sunlight.”

  “I have an idea.” Mary could be counted on to think things through. “Let Jason go back for the tractor and chains. The four of us can go in each of the cardinal directions to find a suitable place to haul the roots and maybe some of these trunk pieces.”

  “We should take the trunk pieces back to the Institute. Use a front-end loader and stack them up. Let them dry. This is good hardwood. A chunk of this will burn a long, long time,” Harry suggested.

  “Good point,” Mary agreed.

  “We’ll walk. Jason, you take the ATV. You know where the tractor is. By the time you get back here, one of us will have found a spot out of the way.”

  As he motored off, Arlene then said, “Really, it should be dumped out in the open so hounds and people can get around it.”

  “I’ll go west,” Harry volunteered.

  “East.” Arlene picked her direction.

  “South.” Susan nodded.

  “North.” Mary checked her watch. “Let’s synchronize and be back here in a half hour.”

  “Mary, will it take Jason that long?” Susan asked.

  “Might. The kennel people are using the tractor. With luck, they will have gotten most of their work done, but he’ll need to talk them out of it and bring it back if there’s a question.”

  Arlene then questioned Mary. “But what about the equipment in the shed?”

  “Not all of that is available to us.”

  “Right.” Harry agreed with Mary, checking her watch. “Four-thirty.”

  “Four-thirty.” Arlene looked at hers.

  Susan checked her Fitbit. “Right.”

  Off they went. Each woman headed for where she remembered an open space. Some were true meadows, others smaller but open areas. The trick was not to clog up an area where rabbits might congregate. This wasn’t as easy a task as it appeared to be.

  A half hour later all reconvened, discussing what they’d found.

  “The bit of a level at the bottom of the ridge, below the high trail, it’s more or less out of the way.” Arlene pushed for her spot.

  Mary, who hunted the Ashland Bassets and knew Aldie well, countered. “It is out of the way, but the creek runs close by. The creek area will hold scent.”

  Arlene didn’t refute this, as she respected Mary’s acumen. Mary had hunted hounds longer than Arlene had, so she deferred to what in effect was a senior master.

  “If Jason drags this thing down the main path, there’s a turnaround, a kind of dead end. No water close by, but the wind whips through there,” Harry spoke.

  “Possible.” Mary looked west. “Susan?” Mary looked at Susan, whose work boots were caked with heavy mud.

  “I found open areas but they’re grassy, bush by the edges. Bunnies are edge feeders,” Susan wisely noted. “I can’t say that I found anything suitable.”

  “You know where we cross the creek down there? Once across, if you go about one hundred yards, there’s scrub. It’s not really so flat, but the roots could be dragged there. They’re so big, if anyone moved into that area, full of burrs, too, they’d see it,” Harry said.

  They batted things back and forth, finally deciding that Harry’s spot sounded the most promising. Mary, who had walked north, kept encountering a series of low ridges, sort of like terraces, and the creek below would hold scent on the side facing the creek. The scent could literally bounce back. Scent, tricky always, moved with the wind, held on rich soil.

  People who hunt, whether on horseback or on foot, enjoy watching hound-work, seeing the beautiful country as they ride or walk through, but they need not learn about scent. The huntsman must. Any huntsman, to which Mary could testify, looks great on a good scenting day. And huntsmen can hold their heads up on a terrible day, say, a drought or high winds.

  It’s the in-between days that are the true test of a huntsman and his or her pack.

  They decided Harry’s turnaround would do it. This lively discussion ate up another half hour. Still no Jason.

  They sat on the rolled-over big trunk pieces.

  More time slipped by.

  “Does he have a cellphone?” Susan asked.

  “He does. I’ve seen it in his pocket. He has a leather case.” Arlene figured everyone had a cellphone these days. “Does anyone have the number?”

  None did.

  “Let me call Amy. She’s down there at the kennels.” Mary dialed Amy, who immediately picked up. Mary asked if she had seen Jason.

  “Yeah. He took our tractor about half an hour ago and said he’d be right back. Clare told him he’d better be back. We need that tractor, too. Where the hell is he?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Mary replied, then clicked off. “Maybe he had tractor trouble.”

  “Why don’t we walk back? We’ll probably meet him on the way,” Arlene suggested. “If the tractor has acted up, we can all walk back together.”

  “But we’ve got to move the roots.” Mary was adamant.

  “We’ll have to do it later,” Susan sensibly replied.

  “We have to get this done.”

  “Mary, the light will fade soon enough. It’s Sunday and we all need to go home. Come on.” Harry sounded firm, then whistled for the dogs, who had been checking out every smell they could.

  They dumped their chain saws into a wagon, which Harry pulled. Then Susan took a turn, then Mary, then Arlene. The Institute was a good mile away, probably more, but they didn’t want to think about it. They were tired and the mud on their work boots just dragged them down.

  Finally, a quarter of a mile from the Institute, sitting on the path, was the old Ford tractor.

  Harry climbed up, fired it up. “Nothing wrong with this baby.”

  “Well, he can’t be far.” Mary was irritated.

  He wasn’t.

  Susan had walked up a small rise by the roadside. “Girls!”

  Harry, knowing Susan, ran to her immediately, as did Tucker and Pirate, close on her heels. “Oh no.”

  Now all four women were running. Tucker reached Jason first, followed by Pirate.

  Flat on his back, eyes upward, Jason lay there, his throat slit ear to ear.

  10

  April 15, 2018

  Sunday, 6:20 P.M.

  A lurid red light washed over the corpse. Harry wished the sheriff’s department would close Jason’s eyes. She, Susan, Arlene, Mary, Tucker, and Pirate waited with the deputy while the ambulance people, a small forensics group, finally loaded Jason onto a gurney. The sun had set at 7:50 P.M., the chill intensified, but the shocking discovery made the air seem cold indeed.

  All four women had been questioned but were asked to stay where they were as the other two groups were also questioned, as well as the people at the kennels. Everyone was ordered to stay put.

  No reasons were forthcoming, but Harry figured the authorities were aiming to prevent any collusion. No one could warn anyone if the killer was one of a work party. And who would know what Jason’s movements would have been, where Jason was? Then again, one never knows of people’s secret lives. A slim possibility existed that he had been followed, the perpetrator covered by the topography and some evergreen trees.

  She knew if anyone in the other two groups had blood on them, that would sink their ship. But no one did. Then she told herself the killer could have changed clothes. She decided to study whoever she could, once allowed back at the Institute. If someone looked as though he or she wore
a complete change of clothing, well, maybe. Then she realized she hadn’t truly studied what each person wore. Above all, she felt terrible for Clare.

  “Blood has a metallic smell, doesn’t it?” Pirate leaned on Tucker.

  “Does. Human blood is strong.” Tucker nudged next to Harry. She knew Harry was upset.

  “Ladies, I’m sorry to keep you here so long, but we can’t be too careful in a situation like this,” the slim sheriff advised them. “You all have been most cooperative.”

  Finally released, they slowly walked back toward the large stone building a quarter of a mile ahead. No one spoke until the Institute came into view.

  “What do we tell the others?” Mary asked.

  Arlene lifted her shoulders, then let them fall. “That we found him.”

  “Perhaps we might spare them some details,” Susan suggested. “Especially Clare. Why didn’t the sheriff bring her to the body?”

  Harry replied, “Aren’t spouses and next of kin the most suspicious people? People are killed by those close to them, not that I think Clare is a killer. Maybe the sight of him would be too dramatic. They wanted to spare her.”

  “It’s hard to get more dramatic than finding a man with his throat slit,” Arlene posited.

  “Fast?” Mary wondered.

  “Not fast enough,” Harry told them. “You bleed out but you know you’re dying. I expect the shock doesn’t totally cover the pain.”

  “Harry, we don’t need to know that.” Arlene gently chided her.

  “Sorry.”

  “Our human is practical even about death.” Tucker was proud that Harry never lost her head.

  The four women gathered in the dining room with everyone else. The kennel group replayed how Jason asked for the tractor. Amy had made him promise to be quick about it. He was in a good humor. Each person chipped in their impression of Jason in what no one knew would be his last moments. Mary and Amy comforted Clare as best they could, once she was free of questioning. Everyone felt awful for her. She was especially distressed that she had not seen his body. Mary, through her many connections, was allowed to take Clare to see her husband, who would be sent to the medical examiner’s office in Richmond early in the morning.

  The other work party had nothing to say. They had been far away from the kennels, from Jason on the tractor, and also far from Harry’s work party. Naturally, each person expressed dismay and sorrow, but they were one step back from the immediacy of it all.

  The dark outside enveloped them. Harry wanted to go to the cabin to let the cats in.

  “Given the circumstances, if anyone wished to stay the night, that’s okay,” Amy told them. “There won’t be breakfast tomorrow morning, but you all know you can pick up something once on the road. The bathroom will stay open.” She looked to Arlene. “Is there anything we need to do? Clean out the kitchen?”

  “No. I’m sure we can round up coffee. I’ll be staying.”

  “Me, too,” Amy said.

  “We’ll be in the cabin,” Harry told them. Most of the group did decide to stay, either in the main building or their cabins. The dark proved intense and everyone had the sense to know they were not at their best. No point driving if your concentration would wander. Although many did volunteer to drive Clare back to Montgomery County, Maryland, tomorrow after she saw Jason. The rest of the family had been called.

  Harry and Susan grabbed two sandwiches and had drinks in the cooler back in the cabin. As they stepped outside, the stars loomed overhead so low, it seemed they could touch them.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter rose to greet them, for they’d been sitting on the cabin porch.

  “I’m freezing!” Pewter loudly complained.

  The dogs shot inside the second Harry opened the door. Tucker and Pirate told the cats everything while Harry knelt down, poking the embers. A few glowed amidst the ashes. She rolled up newspapers, dropping them into the just placed logs, crossed like a box. The papers caught. She arranged smaller logs over the square, then sat in the rocking chair to warm her feet. Susan had put down food for the animals. She, too, sat down, first handing Harry an iced tea. Neither had thought to bring a plug-in teakettle, but the tea was fine.

  “I’m famished.” Harry bit into the ham and cheese. “Cold makes me hungry.”

  “The sight of Jason has dimmed my appetite.”

  “Susan, it wasn’t so bad.” Harry remained calm about it.

  “Why would anyone kill Jason Holzknect?”

  “That’s what’s shocking, really. The suddenness of it. Now you’re here. Now you’re not. No signs of struggle. He knew who killed him, I would think.”

  “They came up behind,” Susan reminded her.

  “Yes, but he had to climb down from the tractor. He knew who killed him and whoever did it knew how to do it.”

  “I expect quite a number of people know how to kill.” Susan folded her sandwich wrapper.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of the large number of military and government people, some still active and some retired, in hunting. We’re close to Washington. We get all manner of people flying under false colors.”

  “What do you mean?” Harry leaned forward.

  “CIA, FBI, defense department people. Ned has alerted me to that. Not that they’re bad. They’re not, but Ned says if someone has a business, they make decent money, live in a decent house, but you never see a lot of people in, say, the insurance agency. There’s always people in the military service doing double duty. They’ve all been taught how to handle various weapons. Often, even though retired, they still have one foot in it even if used as a consultant.”

  “I never thought of that.” Harry shook her head.

  “We don’t have to,” Susan simply declared.

  “Maybe he made a mistake.” Harry wondered.

  “For all I know, he stole some money or was sleeping with someone else’s wife.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “Jason never gave a hint of, shall we say, such excitements. If anything, he was a bit tedious.”

  “Now Harry.”

  “Nice enough. Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t think excitement was his middle name.”

  “Well, Harry, he’s been murdered. Bam. Under all our noses. He couldn’t have been that dull.”

  The fire warmed the chilled cabin. Harry and Susan removed sweaters and took off their boots.

  Tucker rose, walked to the door, scratched.

  “Oh, Tucker.” Harry reluctantly got up and opened the door. A cold, low air swept by her legs. Tucker halted, then turned back to the fire. Harry closed the door, accustomed to canine changes of mind.

  Ruffy had brushed by her, walked to the fire, sat down. The other animals told him about the murder but he knew.

  “It’s not over,” the ghost predicted, then lay down before the fire, something he hadn’t done in years.

  11

  September 13, 1787

  Thursday

  As the earth neared the autumn equinox, the sunsets arrived earlier and the day’s heat cooled off faster. The days, warm, no longer sweltering, presaged a beautiful fall. Better, one needed a blanket at night but not yet a fire.

  Bumbee set her loom and rose from her bench, which she preferred to the chair she occasionally needed. The girls spinning yarn or cutting patterns in heavier fabric in preparation for cooler weather had left for the evening.

  Moving around the room, Bumbee checked everyone’s work. Like any other job, variations in talent revealed themselves, but no one was awful, and a few of the younger women evidenced a flair. Rubbing the thin, light wool between her fingers, she smiled. This would make a blouse or dress draping the female frame and the bit of warmth would be pleasant. On a cool morning Catherine or Rachel could throw over a heavier sweater.

  Bumbee checked all the shelves.
Sometimes in their haste to leave to go to husbands, children, or boyfriends, the girls would stick the wrong bolt in the wrong place. Bumbee would chide them the next morning, but she remembered those heady days.

  She pulled off her shift, the cooler air noticeable. Then she walked over to the large pot over the low fire. She liked to keep warm water going, easy to bring to a boil if someone wanted tea. Mr. Ewing made certain everyone could have a bracing cup of tea. Bumbee mixed her own leaves together. She had her brisk morning tea, an afternoon tea with tiny bits of lemon rind, and then her evening tea with her secret mixture. Put her right to sleep.

  She poured out some water into an enamel bowl, grabbed a washrag, and washed herself. After a long day at the loom, this felt so good. A small noise by the back window alerted her. She threw the rag in the bowl and stepped to the window to see Ralston running away.

  “That boy will be trouble,” she muttered to herself.

  Then she put on a light robe and sat by the hearth. Even though there were no logs burning in the large step-down fireplace, she liked to sit by it. The low flame in the back of the hearth where she’d hung the water pot was flickering out. The aroma of applewood filled the air.

  Ewing had planted an apple grove two years ago. The trees, slender, sometimes shed a branch or two and Bumbee made sure to get some. Hardwood stacked by each cabin, a large stack by the weaving room, promised a toasty winter. But a few little branches of apple, pear, peach created a wonderful scent.

  She began to doze off. Then a knock on the door snapped her back.

  “Who is it?”

  “Serena.”

  “Come on in, girl.”

  The attractive assistant to Bettina slipped through the door, sat in the old rocking chair across from Bumbee.

  “Lord, it’s good to get away for a minute.”

  “Husband?”

  “No, he’s fine. Tired. Bringing in the last cutting of hay. There was so much of it. By the time I walk back up, he’ll be sound asleep. That man can sleep through a thunderstorm. I swear he could have slept through Yorktown if he’d been there.”