Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

Gray, who did love his aunt even when she was at her despotic worst, inquired, “Do you think Weevil could kill?”

“No. Not the Weevil I knew. If he became angry, it was over as quickly as it began.”

“Did he care about money? It seems all the women he bedded except for the fan dancer were rich,” Sister asked.

“I wasn’t rich. Not then.” She nestled in her chair. “There’s a lot to be said for marrying a man for money. Well, my dear, you married well.”

“I did. Ray was a good provider. Your nephew certainly has made his way in the world.”

“Thank God one of them did.”

“Sam isn’t going to make money, Aunt D, but he’s doing okay and he’s clean, clean as a whistle. He’s giving riding lessons, well, one so far, to Yvonne Harris.”

“I see.” Daniella tapped the edge of the side table. “Your brother could have done anything. Be rich as Croesus. Well, did he waste much of his life? He did. But you know, a thirst for alcohol runs in the family. I can drink. I watch it, but I can drink. Your mother hated the taste. Who is to say that, had I been a man, subject to a man’s pressures, I might not have turned into a drunk? But sometimes I look at Sam and he breaks my heart. All that talent.”

“True, but, Aunt Daniella,”—Sister’s voice was warm—“you can be proud of him. He works hard, takes horses that untalented people can’t ride, turns them into babysitters, and he loves the horses. He has such a big heart. You know he goes down to the train station, goes under the bridges, and talks to his old homeless buddies. He encourages them to get help. He brings them food. You can be proud.”

Aunt Daniella looked at Gray. “Does he?”

“He does.”

“Well, why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“He wanted to keep it to himself—and really, Aunt Daniella, you had your hands full with Mercer. When he had clients, you often had to entertain,” Gray reminded her.

Mercer had been a bloodstock agent. He’d died about two years before.

“Aunt Daniella, I know I asked this but let me ask it again. Did you think you talked to a ghost?”

“As I said, Weevil was as alive as the three of us. But I don’t understand how that can be. He was about thirty-two. Looked exactly as I remembered. I have no answers.”

—

Driving home in Gray’s big Land Cruiser, Sister stared out the window. “I look at the lights on in people’s houses, the twinkling lights out on the land when we get out of town, and I always wonder, what are they doing? Are they happy?”

“Me, too.”

“Honey, why is this man, or this ghost, here now? Why steal his cowhorn? Why blow it? And why is he now showing himself to his old comrades, so to speak?

“When all this first occurred, the video, we talked about holograms. I don’t know who came up with that first, but I thought, well, maybe. Why, who knows? But a prank. Now, I don’t think this has anything to do with technology. Weevil is with us.” She paused. “Gray, it can’t be good.” She watched a light go on in an upstairs bedroom as they passed Ramsay, an old spectacular estate.

“I think you’re right.”

CHAPTER 19

Kettle House, a clapboard farmhouse built after the War of 1812, rested below the west side of Hangman’s Ridge. Hounds carefully worked their way down, pastures beckoning below. This Tuesday, a light drizzle kept away many hunters. Then, too, the Tuesday and Thursday hunts didn’t attract as many people as Saturday. People needed to work for a living, such a bother.

Shaker, up ahead, leaned back in the saddle. HoJo, a sure-footed fellow, proved perfect for a day like today. Betty whipped-in on the right, Tootie on the left. Sister, on Aztec, led a field of fifteen people.

Leaves, turning a bit more color, glistened in the drizzle. A hard rain made hunting difficult for all, scent washing away, but a drizzle could intensify scent if everything else was right. The temperature, low 50s, might have been cooler but it was cool enough.

“Target.” Giorgio inhaled the familiar scent.

“What’s he doing over here?” Zorro put his nose down.

“New owners. You know how curious he is.” Cora also inhaled the familiar scent.

Hounds opened. Shaker blew them together with three doubled notes. The riders, not yet concerned with footing for it wasn’t yet slippery, kicked on, to keep up with the Master.

Once down on the pastures the pace increased. The club had paneled the country at Kettle House with jumps from fallen logs and the ubiquitous coop. As they had not yet had time to paint the coops, quite a few horses balked at the fresh wood. No one came off, though.

“Turn left. You’ll overrun the line,” Cora commanded Thimble; although not a puppy, the hound’s enthusiasm could lead to mistakes.

Thimble hooked left, as did everyone.

Target, climbing back up the ridge, trotted. Far ahead, scent now blowing away from him, he would be in his den in all of fifteen minutes if he ran hard. Trotting, maybe twenty-five minutes. Just to be sure, he stopped, looked down below. The entire pack was swinging left near the white clapboard house with the dark green shutters. Just in case, he decided to move along a little faster.

Hounds raced across the pasture back over the coop in the fence line to start climbing upward. Huntsman and whippers-in, over easily, slowed for the climb. The field did also.

The grade, tricky, varied from an easy angle to forty-five degrees in spots. That angle could be tiring. Since hounds had not lost the scent, the wonderful mounts worked hard to trot upward. The horses knew horn calls and hound work better than the humans.

Aztec, ears forward, watched hounds. He loved hunting. He could become a bit bored on a trail ride, but as long as he was outside, life was good.

Finally Target reached Hangman’s Ridge, the long flat land with the hanging tree in the middle. He shot across it, reached the down path to Roughneck Farm.

Crows flew overhead. Looking upward, he saw his enemy, Saint Just, the huge raven. Crows could be terrible foes as they screamed and shouted at the fox, informing hounds where he was. But this flock had been disturbed by something else. They flew over him without a peep, even Saint Just, a born big-mouth.

Dasher, fast, reached the flattop of the ridge first. He raced over the buried criminals—no tombstones, a few flat markers. Some families retrieved bodies from the tree. Others left them there, angry at their besmirching the family name, or they didn’t care anyway. Those were finally cut down and buried. Originally, the crown’s counselor and then the county judge thought leaving the corpse exposed to the elements would deter further crime. But Hangman’s Ridge was far from Charlottesville proper, even farther from Scottsville, the county seat. Very few people saw moldering remains swing in the wind. Even if they did, it’s doubtful the grisly sight would have the desired instructive effect. Criminals don’t think they will get caught. People have been stealing, raping, murdering for thousands of years.

Dasher ignored a murmur. None of the hounds nor horses liked being up on the ridge. They could see and hear what humans could not.

The rest of the pack, now well up with Dasher, cut right, headed down the path to Roughneck Farm.

The people followed. The rain picked up.

Target reached Tootie’s house and ducked under the oldest part of the foundation, to the irritation of Comet. Comet had stashed a bunch of grapes there, which Tootie left out for him. Target devoured the fruit, all the fruit, while Comet bared his teeth. He couldn’t throw out Target until hounds left.

“I hear you munching,” Dasher called at the door, so to speak.