Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

The branches of the trees shivered in the wind. The lower ones, three centuries old, massive width, didn’t bend as the high branches did. But the wind, powerful across this expanse, could move them a bit so it looked as though they shivered.

Baker, one of the two “B” girls, stretched out, ran hard. As the hounds reached the path down the south side, the first-year entry jumped sideways as a mink shot across her path.

Weevil, now on the plateau, squeezed Showboat. The sleet stung, his hands in his thick string gloves throbbed. Like the animals, he disliked it up on the ridge. Within minutes he, too, slowed a bit to descend at a forty-five-degree angle.

Charlene knew better than to flash across an open meadow and the only way to After All was to do just that until she reached the fence line between the two farms. She cut left to duck under Tootie’s cabin, squeezed through the hole in the lattice hiding the dirt underneath the porch, crawled into Comet’s den.

“Sorry, Comet. Getting bad out there.”

“Is. There’s room enough for two.” The slender gray fox, accustomed to pressed visitors, curled up on a pile of old towels, leaving the dog bed that he had saved from the garbage, for Rooster had chewed it. Charlene nestled in the dog bed while the pack carried on at the latticework.

“You’d think they’d have sense enough to know it’s hopeless.” Charlene rested her head on her front paws.

“They’re bred to run around and make noise.” Comet couldn’t grasp why any creature with the canine mind could be so useless.

“Cheater,” Baker called out.

Weevil gathered his hounds together. Having only been out over an hour he thought he might cast to the Old Lorillard place. As he turned to jump the coop, a loud crack and a crash made people pull up their horses. A limb from one of the apple trees tore off in the wind. Fortunately, no one was in the orchard, but they stood on the farm road next to the orchard.

“Weevil, think we got lucky there,” Sister said as she turned toward the kennels in the distance. “Let’s put hounds up.”

Once horses were settled in the trailers, the staff horses in the barn, the small group gathered in the tack room for hot coffee and tea on the hotplate. Everyone brought sandwiches, cookies, and brownies, enough to fill you for the drive back.

As they talked, Sister’s cell rang; she intended to ignore it but something made her look. She put the phone to her ear, walking out into the colder main aisle.

Listening intently Sister said, “Thanks for calling. I’ll tell our sheriff. I’ll call you later. We got back from a so-so hunt, not bad, not great, but a decent run. The diehards are in the tack room.”

As she clicked off her phone, Gray walked out with her fleece-lined old bomber jacket, which was hanging in the tack room, draping it over her shoulders.

“Thank you, honey. That was O.J. There’s been another theft. In Louisville. Another Munnings, but the thief didn’t make it. As to the suspect in the Buckingham theft, he was cleared. He had truck trouble near the house.”

“They caught the thief this time?” Gray’s eyes brightened.

“Yes, but he was dead. They found him in a truck, another small box truck. The police were called by a neighbor who saw the truck pull out of the driveway. A construction company name painted on the side. Someone followed him and killed him. They got the painting. He may have stolen it but he was killed.”

“This couldn’t have been in the city. Someone would have seen something.” Gray stroked his chin.

“Shelbyville. He made it as far as Shelbyville to turn onto the back road to Springfield. At least that’s how I know it. You go inside, I’ll be right there. Want to call Ben right away and he can call his counterpart in Shelbyville.”

“No one else was harmed? Not killed like the Lexington lady?”

“Just the driver, strangled with a Fennell’s lead shank. And oh, the painting was Why Weren’t You Out Yesterday. Two ladies sidesaddle.”

Gray shook his head as he opened the door to the tack room.

CHAPTER 22

February 29, 2020 Saturday

Father Mancusco rode with Reverend Sally Taliaferro, a Catholic and Episcopalian trotting toward a part of Beveridge Hundred, the farm abutting Tattenhall Station to the south. Yvonne, driving as usual with Aunt Daniella and Kathleen in the car, marveled at the change in the weather. From cold, high winds it transformed into lowering skies, a mercury in the mid-forties, yet a bitter chill remained.

“No speaking.” Aunt Daniella cracked her window slightly.

The temperature, cold, made her face tingle. She listened intently while wrapping a heavy cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“I thought low clouds, cool temperature but not too cold nor too warm was best.” Kathleen was determined to learn.

“Usually it is, but even on a good day it might take time to bolt your fox. It’s easiest when you catch scent of someone going home or, given it’s breeding season, a gentleman fox visiting a lady. You know, breeding, convincing a mate is a lot of work.” Aunt Daniella smiled.

“My feeling is, let men do all the work. I’m not chasing anyone.” Yvonne slowed, as a big jump loomed up ahead.

“Oh, when did you ever chase anyone?” Aunt Daniella teased her. “Fess up.”

“In high school. There was this guy in music class. I thought he was wonderful but he wasn’t interested in me. I was crushed.”

“Had to be gay.” Aunt Daniella laughed. “Before you have a moment, Kathleen, my son, so handsome, was gay.”

“Why would I have a moment?” Kathleen’s eyebrows raised.

“I suppose someone could take that remark as anti-gay. One doesn’t know what to say anymore,” Aunt Daniella remarked.

Yvonne laughed. “That is hardly your problem.”

“Well…” Aunt Daniella trailed off. “Back to high school. Was he gay?”

“He was.” Now Yvonne laughed. “We became best friends and he was the one who told me not to marry Victor. I should have listened. He declared a man can see through a man easier than a woman can.”

“I think he’s right. Desire clouds one’s judgment,” Kathleen declared. “Not that I have bad stories to tell. Harry and I simply grew apart.”

“Victor and I didn’t grow apart. I wanted to kill him.”

“Oh, Yvonne, no man is worth killing. I ought to know.” Aunt Daniella leaned forward, turned to stare out the now rolled-up window. “Listen.” Then she rolled the window a crack.

“They’ve hit.” Yvonne stopped, for hounds crossed to the west side of the road, bounding onto the southernmost part of Old Paradise. “They are flying.”

Back at Tattenhall Station after a hard hunt, for some riders, when their boots touched the ground their legs shook. The trailers had parked at Tattenhall Station. The hounds walked to Beveridge Hundred for the first cast. There wasn’t enough space to park at Beveridge Hundred, plus Cecil Van Dorn was in poor health, fighting a nasty flu. So was Edward Bancroft. The two were friends.

The usual wonderful repast awaited the people. There wasn’t one person who didn’t sit down. Fortunately the long tables accommodated the field and the gentlemen even with shaky legs did fetch drinks for the ladies.

“Thank you, sweetie.” Sister took her tonic water with lime from Gray, who damn the hour had a scotch for himself.

He left her after putting his drink next to hers so then he and Sam could serve Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Kathleen.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, for even though not a bitter day all had worked up a sweat, so on the way back the sweat turned cold, seeping into their bones. A few people took a chill, so that fireplace was welcome.