Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“All gone except for Daniella Laprade. He knew he’d been accused of stealing Margaret’s jewelry. He said he didn’t.”

Sister’s shoulders squared. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

Tom explained, “Alfred and Binky, young men then, asked me if I knew anything. They pledged me to silence so as not to embarrass their mother. I think they knew.”

“Did you see where he went?” Sara took up the questioning.

“No. I was so scared I was holding on to that column. After I saw him go behind the hay barns I shut my eyes. I couldn’t walk. Could barely stand up.”

“Any of us would have been frightened.” Sister put her hand over his folded ones. “Did you notice what he wore?”

“Yeah, I did, kinda. He wore ratcatcher. No dust on him though.”

Sister blinked, thought again. “Did he smell of horse?”

“No. At least I didn’t smell that. My sniffer is still good. He gave off a bit of scent, same scent I remember.” He smiled a little.

“When you and Sara followed the hunt you had the windows down?”

“Sure.” He looked at Sister.

“And when Shaker and Skiff blew ‘Going Home,’ did you hear anything?”

“An echo.” He swallowed. “It wasn’t an echo. Now I know that Weevil blew his cowhorn.”

“Tom, this is an odd question, but—considering the circumstances—can you think why he has come back? Why he took his cowhorn out of the case?”

“He guarded that cowhorn. Loved it. Wouldn’t let any of us blow it or touch it. Carved the hunt scene on it. Beautiful tone. Some huntsmen are techy about their horns.”

“That they are.” Sara started to recount just such a tale, then stopped, realizing Sister was super-focused.

Sister repeated herself. “Can you think why Weevil would come back?”

“I—Revenge? Curiosity? To see who was left?”

“So you believe he was killed? He didn’t run to Paris or who knows?” Sister prodded.

“Hell, yes, I believe he was killed. If he had run away, even across the ocean, we’d eventually know. Man couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.” Then, realizing what he had said, he begged forgiveness. “Excuse me. I don’t know what came over me.”

Sara laughed. “Tom, so few men act like gentlemen around ladies these days, we are not offended.”

“We are charmed.” Sister grinned at her.

“You know, that was the thing about Weevil. Came from a poor family in The Plains. Started as a third whipper-in to Dickie Bywaters, the great huntsman. Made second whipper-in within a year. The boy was talented and he had good manners. But everyone did then. Didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, black or white, man or woman, you had manners.”

“True.” Sister nodded.

“In those years I whipped-in to Weevil, I never heard him make an improper comment to a woman or give her the once-over look that some men would do. They kept their mouths shut, but their eyes were rude.”

“Yeah, we know.” Sara made a face.

“He was polite, proper, and just had a way about him. He could charm anybody, even the men whose wives he had, uh, really charmed.”

“I expect one of those husbands proved immune,” Sara said.

“That’s what people thought at the time,” Tom replied.

“What do you think? You knew him well. Whippers-in know their huntsmen inside and out. What do you think?” Sister’s alto voice soothed even as she pressed some more.

Tom remained silent for some minutes, then with an inspiring breath, he said, “I was shocked. Worried. I liked him. Sure, he fooled around, but there was no meanness in him. He taught me so much about hounds and hunting. To be taught by a man who served under Dickie Bywaters was worth something.”

“Indeed.” Sister and Sara agreed.

“When I felt in my heart that he was really dead, I reviewed why he was murdered. I believe he was murdered. A jealous husband? An infuriated lover? A fearful father? There were candidates. Somehow I couldn’t land on any of them. Couldn’t put a man with the murder. Couldn’t put a woman either. Sex might have been part of the reaction but, girls,”—he called them girls, as they were to him—“there was something more. I felt it then. I feel it now. I felt no hate from Weevil when I saw him. He was the same happy-go-lucky Weevil.” A deep breath shook him. “Except he was dead.”

CHAPTER 16

“Rabbit. Rabbit.” Sister filed the treasurer’s reports from the 1950s that she had given to Sara, who returned them. She figured Sister could always use the extra copies.

“You always say that the first day of any month.” Shaker, at his desk, smiled at her.

“Yes. If you say it then it will be a good month. It’s like eating black-eyed peas the minute the clock strikes the twelfth bell New Year’s Eve. Good luck.”

“Well, what about bad luck? The number thirteen? A black cat walking in front of you? You walking under a ladder?” His rust-colored eyebrows rose slightly in amusement.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Pfiffle.”

“You surely believe in bad luck or you wouldn’t be ensuring good luck.”

“Shaker, don’t be logical. I forbid it.”

They both laughed.

He folded his hands together on top of his desk. “I’ve been thinking—”

“I’m already scared.” She smiled at him, so happy in his company. “Go on. I’ve girded my loins.”

“How about if we have a joint hound walk once a week with Skiff? She only has Sam to help her, and he’s primarily working in the barn. The pack is much improved, but could use a little tightening up. With us, she’d have Betty and Tootie.”

“If Crawford agrees to it, fine. As a courtesy we should take hounds there every other week; she hauls hers to us on the odd week. Say she comes here the first and third day, like Wednesday. We go there the second and fourth in the month. Remember, we’re dealing with Crawford. If everything is mapped out, explained, quantified, he’ll rest easy.”

“Right. Hey, Sara gave you back the old treasurer’s reports. Anything?”

“No. We have no bills or receipts from 1947 to 1954, but Sara’s husband, Dale, said everything looked in order. He even checked back through other hunt club records and prices were in line. He’s a whiz at the computer.”

“Glad somebody is.”

“You do the bloodline research on the computer. I still use the old studbooks. I can find information faster the old way than the new way. Why throw out decades of what works, for me, anyway?” She leaned back in her chair. “Yesterday’s hunt was one of the best I’ve ever been on. You did a fantastic job and so did Skiff. You both kept those hounds together—and Diana, what a show. I know I’ve blabbed all this before.”

“Was something.”

“And Freddie Thomas missed it. You know half the club has called her to tell her.” Sister smiled.

“Any hunt you miss is always a barn burner.” Shaker smiled back.

She asked, “What do you make of it, the cowhorn echo—if it is an echo?”

“I don’t know. If someone wanted to screw up the hunt, they’d blow while hounds worked. They’d try to get them off a line or onto a new one. It does sound like an echo, but deep, clear. Why would anyone blow the horn? Why would Tom say he saw a ghost?”

“I don’t know,” Sister said. She’d told him about Tom’s encounter once back at the kennels after yesterday’s hunt.

Shaker pushed his baseball cap back on his head. “Tom’s pretty old. Seems sharp as a tack but maybe some gears slipped.”

“I don’t know. He seemed completely reasonable.”

“Boss, you don’t think it’s a ghost, do you?”

“Well—no, and yet think about Hangman’s Ridge, where I never go willingly. I feel something.”