Hounded to Death

by Rita Mae Brown

  The mercury never did come back up. Sister was glad of her light sweater, but her legs started to ache with the cold.

  Twilight graced the rich green grounds. Fireflies emerged to attend the show. Finally, the pack class went off, despite the fact that some of the last entrants would be working in the dark.

  All competing packs were to work the same course, now dotted with water. Led by huntsmen and accompanied by whippers-in, the hounds went through on cue. They checked, waited, and then moved on, often working in a figure eight. At one spot, near a huge old holly tree, the pack reversed. Their pace changed, finishing up with a lively run, the humans doing their best to keep up.

  Watching a pack class was always the highlight for Sister. She enjoyed seeing if hounds were tuned in to their huntsmen. Then, too, different huntsmen liked whippers-in at different positions. Potomac, so far, had been thrilling. Not a false move on the part of the two-legged or four-legged group.

  “Sister, if I work really hard, maybe someday you’ll let Shaker, Betty, and me go in the pack class,” said Tootie.

  “We’ll see. Best graduate from Princeton first.” She put one arm around Tootie’s shoulders, then flung her other arm around Val on her left.

  Sister loved her girls.

  Betty sighed. “If I have to go out there with you, Tootie, I’ll need to run to get in shape.”

  “You walk hounds five days a week.” Sister was incredulous.

  “If I’m going to show myself on foot before all these people, I want to look like a goddess.” Betty teased.

  Val, ever the politician, murmured, “You already are.”

  Betty, not one to be sidetracked, giggled. “Which one, Hecuba?”

  “Oh, Betty.” Sister dropped her arm from Tootie and Val’s shoulders to reach over and give Betty a pinch.

  Judge Barry Baker, standing near the judges for the hound pack, watched the action with rapt gaze.

  “One hundred percent attention,” Shaker commented, on Barry and the working pack.

  Bits of brightness from firefly abdomens punctuated the light. Lanterns and flashlights pulled together were held by the stewards of all the rings. The last pack to show would have a rough go. There weren’t enough flashlights to cover the large area.

  The judges waited. The incoming pack wasn’t in sight.

  Finally, a steward, Sherry Buttrick, an ex-MFH, hopped in a golf cart to see if she couldn’t push up the master and hounds.

  Stalls could be rented for the show, and Stone Mountain, the hunt in question, had leased one, unlike Jefferson Hunt, which used their trailer.

  Sherry, tiny, efficient, and good at herding people along, cut the motor. No master or whippers-in appeared. The other hunts who had rented stable space had already packed up their hounds.

  “Anyone home?” Sherry called, as she entered the stable. The lights were off. That was strange, she thought. She hit the switch by the entrance door. “Yoo-hoo!”

  Dammit. She knew for sure she was facing some sort of problem.

  She reached the stall. Hounds, groomed and sleek, looked at her.

  “Anyone home?”

  “Nope.” A tricolor dog hound replied.

  Sherry walked the length of the stable, checking every single stall: nothing amiss. She thought she’d better check the restroom in the next building and ran over, ducking under the dripping eaves.

  Stopping at the door marked men she rapped. Nothing. Tentatively, she opened the door and checked: nothing.

  Not a person given to fancy or wild flights of imagination, Sherry felt a creeping unease. She ran back to the stable.

  Carefully opening the door, she spoke kindly to the hounds. As the pack moved about, she noticed a wallet on the floor. Without thinking, she picked it up.

  It was Grant Fuller’s, filled with cash and credit cards. However, Grant had been helping Hillsboro Hounds, not Stone Mountain.

  She flipped open the mobile phone and called the judge. “We’ve got a problem.”

  After explaining the dilemma, she clicked off the phone. It was then that she cursed herself because she realized she’d put her fingerprints all over the well-worn leather. There wasn’t a doubt in Sherry Buttrick’s mind that this could be a problem.

  Within a few minutes a bedraggled Stone Mountain whipper-inran to the stall.

  “What’s going on?” Sherry demanded.

  “Edwards had an angina attack,” Miriam, his whipper-in, informed her. “Did we miss the pack class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn.”

  “Where’s Grant Fuller?” Sherry asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s got nothing to do with us.”

  Edwards, with the help of his wife, a nurse, who was the other whipper-in, managed to get through his angina attack.

  Grant Fuller, however, had vanished into thin air—or, in this case, thick, moist air.

  CHAPTER 11

  To be foxhunters, humans, hounds, and horses need to be physically tough, possess stamina, and exhibit a healthy sense of humor. The horses seem to have the best senses of humor, knowing exactly when to discomfit their rider to achieve maximum humiliation.

  Gunpowder, old but still fit and strong, was healing rapidly. The swelling was down and he was bored shitless standing in a stall, so bored he kicked the walls, despite his injury, and was all the more furious when he couldn’t chew on the stall doors or windows; they had iron bars. He tried one chomp, which put an end to that.

  Since no one rushed to baby him, he thought screaming might help. It did.

  Dan Clement called Sister, informing her that Gunpowder was recovering enough to be ugly. He’d still need to finish his antibiotic cycle, but please could she carry him home?

  Although tired from Sunday’s events at the hound show, Sister pulled the rig out but then thought better of taking off alone. She might need Shaker just in case Gunpowder decided not to be grateful for her efforts to save him.

  Shaker cut off the power hose, changed from his wellies to his trusty old mulehide Justin boots, and hopped in next to the boss.

  The big diesel engine of the dually rumbled as they pulled out of the circular drive at the stable.

  “I still can’t believe a deluge worthy of Noah about washed us away up at Morven and here not a drop.” Sister shifted up.

  “Central Virginia has its own weather system.”

  “Well”—Sister was fascinated by weather—“Virginia truly is the buffer between north and south. Our swath here in the country is the true boundary between two different weather cycles, soil differences, crop possibilities. Lakes of air jam up next to the mountains, then slide off, hit Hangman’s Ridge, creep over, and slide down to us before heading east. I mean, we could have a weather report just for us.”

  “It is strange,” said Shaker. “Twenty miles south of here they can grow Bermuda grass and it will winter through. We can’t. Twenty miles north and they can plant certain kinds of alfalfa and orchard grass that would burn to a crisp here in the summer.”

  “We’ve been pretty lucky with the alfalfa and orchard grass. I study those seed catalogs.”

  “I don’t have the patience for it. Hounds use up all my patience.” He settled back in the comfortable seat. “Nothing more about Grant Fuller?”

  “Nope. Barry called this morning. The sheriff ’s department hasn’t found him; his car sits in the parking lot. No crime has been committed.” She breathed deeply. “They say.” She downshifted for the sharp curve ahead. “Very weird. Two bizarre occurrences at hound shows.”

  “I’m glad we’re not going to Bryn Mawr’s show—just in case.” Shaker sighed.

  “You know, I am, too.” Sister pulled around behind the stables and cut the motor. “Shaker, it’s going to be strange without Hope.”

  Dan Clement walked out from the stables. Sister had called before leaving.

  “Dan, how are you doing?” She hugged him.

  “I feel like I’m sleepwalking.” He hugged her in return. �
��Lisa’s been great. Our clients have, too. Every equine vet in central Virginia has called to help with the workload, and Reynolds Cowles”—he named a prominent equine vet—“gave me the name of a young vet just out of Auburn who might be worth hiring.” His eyes moistened. “People have just been wonderful.” He grabbed Shaker’s extended hand, and the two men hugged briefly. “Well, come on. He’s ready to go and I’m ready to see the last of those hindquarters.”

  The second Gunpowder heard Sister and Shaker’s voices, he started complaining. “You’re here. At last you’re here. I want to blow this joint!”

  Dan had already put on the Thoroughbred’s halter. He walked in the stall with the cotton lead rope, easier on the hands, snapped the hook into the ring—and Gunpowder tried to pull him out of the stall.

  Quick as a cat, Shaker grabbed the dangling end of the lead rope. “Where are your manners?”

  “I want to go home.” Gunpowder dropped his head, pushed Shaker, and then reached over to nuzzle Sister.

  As he walked toward the trailer, Sister bent her knees to look at the wound. “Amazing.”

  Dan said,“He’s an amazing horse. Do you know his bloodlines?”

  “I do. Ultimately they trace back to Domino, a stallion at the turn of the last century. It’s staying blood. Now I’m not saying that all you need is Domino in the pedigree, but if you do your homework you can find who carried it, over the last century plus. If you keep weaving together the traits that impart stamina, soundness, and—hopefully—brains, you’ll get a great horse.”

  “A science”—Dan paused—“and an art. He’s being a lamb now.” Then he laughed. “Glad I don’t have to throw a leg over him.”

  Inside the trailer, windows open, Shaker tied a slip knot by the hay bag. “He’s a great ride, Dan. Bold. Not a chicken bone in his body.”

  “That’s the truth,” Gunpowder said, with a mouth full of his favorite hay.

  That was another thing, he was going to complain about the food at the clinic when he got a chance.

  “Shaker, I’ll be right back,” Sister said. “Let me pay the bill.”

  “I’ll bill you,” Dan said.

  “One less thing for you to do.”

  She walked into the front office, and as Lisa printed out the bill she noticed two cartons, opened, behind Lisa. She could see bottles inside.

  “Are those for Hope’s Japanese clients?”

  Lisa nodded. “Had them all wrapped up, and Ben Sidell unwrapped everything. I’ll put it all back together. They went through her house, and—I have to give them credit—they didn’t make a mess. They put everything back. The only thing was, and I have no idea how they managed it, they spilled some ink from her big printer, the inkjet, you know. Well, it’s not really ink, it’s powder. But that was the only thing I had to clean up.”

  “Ben is very meticulous, but he’s sensitive, too.”

  “And good-looking.” Lisa, unmarried, was almost purring.

  “That, too.” Sister examined the bill, sighed, and wrote a check for sixty-three hundred dollars.

  “It’s a big bill, I know.”

  “He’s worth it, and he had the best of care. Do I owe you anything for his damage to the stall?”

  “He left hoof marks on the wall but those boards in there are thick.” She laughed. “He’s a pistol.”

  “Hey, do you mind if I look at the bourbon?”

  “No. Hope was making quite a study of it.”

  “Yes, she gave us a little lesson out in Kentucky, and now I want to study it myself.” Sister flipped up the divider and peered into the baskets, pulling out the limited edition of Maker’s Mark. She noticed a smudge of red on the label but paid it no mind. “She certainly took good care of her patients, human and equine.”

  “She did.”

  “Lisa, I know all this has been hard on you. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Lisa cast her large eyes upward. “Thank you. I will.” She paused, sucked in a deep breath. “I will never ever believe she took her own life.”

  “I won’t either.”

  Once back at the farm, Sister and Shaker turned out Gunpowder. He’d had limited turnout at the clinic. Dan said he’d be stiff perhaps for six weeks but better off outside. Confinement brought out the worst in him. Of course, Dan didn’t know that it wasn’t nervousness that kept Gunpowder from eating. He didn’t care for the hay mix.

  The gray stood in the field with his friends and, like any man of a certain age, began to declaim about his condition. “The food was awful. They ran a tube up my leg after the first day. Then they finally took it out. The damned tube hurt more than the injury.”

  HoJo, hanging over the fence—for he was in the adjoining pasture with another group of horses—commiserated. “Must have been horrible. You like to eat.”

  “Are you mocking your elders?” Gunpowder cocked his head.

  Matador, Aztec, and Lafayette walked up, too.

  “No. You have a good appetite.” Aztec was glad to see Gunpowder home, even if the gray could be a pain sometimes.

  “And I saw Hope’s killer.” He’d saved this tidbit. Everyone was gathered around.

  “Who was it?” HoJo was bug-eyed with curiosity.

  “I don’t know. I only saw his back, and I’m pretty sure it was a man. I was coming out of the anesthesia so I probably missed a lot.”

  “But you could smell him. You’d recognize his scent,” Matador remarked, also excited.

  “I could smell oilskin and a funny food smell. He wore an Australian rain hat and long Outback coat. That was it, pungent oilskin.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff?” Keepsake asked.

  Gunpowder snorted. “As if it would do any good. They’re all blistering idiots. Don’t understand one thing we tell them.”

  “Shaker and Sister aren’t blistering idiots.” Lafayette took slight offense.

  Gunpowder stretched out his hind legs; it was a little stiff back there. “No, they’re functionally illiterate.”

  Much as the horses did love the two humans, they couldn’t help laughing.

  Sister and Shaker, walking back to the kennels, heard the neighing.

  “Glad to be home.” Shaker smiled.

  Not until cubbing season would Sister realize when she saw the smudge on the label that she’d drawn over her fox and hadn’t even known he was there.

  CHAPTER 12

  June 7, Saturday, gleamed like a new penny. A light breeze on the soccer field accentuated the glorious sunshine of Commencement Day, and the mercury cooperated by hanging right at 70 degrees.

  Sister sat on the dais with the other Custis Hall board members, including Crawford Howard. Naturally, they were civil to one another on this special occasion, despite their differences.

  She wore her robes, the long hood signifying her discipline, which had been geology back when she taught at Mary Baldwin. The soft cap crowned her silver hair and she tried dutifully to listen to the drone of the various speakers, not one of whom possessed an original thought.

  Charlotte Norton, the headmistress, was mercifully brief. She kept to the point, congratulating the graduates. The one good speech of the day came from Felicity, who had edged out Valentina by half a point in her grade average to become valedictorian. As her pregnancy had begun to show, she was grateful for the robe.

  Felicity ended her seven-minute speech with, “No graduating class knows what the future will bring. We may live in peace or be at war. We will see medical breakthroughs yet suffer new lethal pestilence. We may learn to renew the earth’s resources or kill one another for dwindling water and food. We don’t know; we can’t know. What we can do is remember what we learned here: Face life with courage, conviction, and compassion. “Congratulations, Class of 2008! We’ll always be Custis Hall girls, which means we’ll always come through.”

  The large crowd of graduates, underclassmen, parents, and friends awarded her a standing ovation.

  Sister thought Felicity’s parents misse
d a fine valedictory. Their pigheadedness meant they’d miss more than that. However, Betty and Bobby Franklin, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Sybil Fawkes, Shaker and Lorraine, Ronnie Haslip, Xavier, and his wife had all come to support a young person they all liked.

  Her most enthusiastic supporter, apart from the Jefferson Hunt crowd, was Howie Lindquist. Felicity would be eighteen in three weeks and he would marry her then.

  The graduates crossed the dais, where Charlotte handed each girl her diploma and said a few words. Off the young women walked, flipping their tassels to the other side of their mortar boards. Many cried.

  Val winked at Sister, who winked back.

  Pamela Rene actually cried, which surprised everyone, but she trooped off in style as her ever-glamorous mother watched and seemed actually to enjoy the moment.

  Tootie received a huge cheer when she received her diploma, and as she walked by the board members she said to Sister, “Thank you.”

  The large quad filled with people after the outdoor ceremony. Under yellow and white striped tents, food, drinks, and gossip were in ample supply.

  Marty Howard, who had slipped away from her husband, came up to Sister. “How are the hounds?”

  “Oh, Marty, how good to see you! I miss you.” Sister bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “Hounds are fine. How about yours?”

  A long significant pause followed. “They’re healthy.”

  “I see. Well, Marty, Dumfriesshire hounds are both handsome and willful. They’ll only hunt for a strong huntsman. And remember, they’re an English hound. They lack the nose of the American hound.”

  “I know.” A sigh followed. “I’m working on Crawford. For one thing, he has to give up the idea that he can hunt them. For another, he needs to come back to the club.”

  “It’ll take time. What can I do to sweeten the punch?”

  “You’ve done as much as you can at this point. He dimly recognizes that you decked him for a good reason. He abused one of your hounds.”

  “The situation was tense. I might have satisfied myself with harsh language but—well”—Sister threw up her hands—“I did apologize for hitting him.”