Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

Sister broke up the group, put her arm around Tootie’s shoulder. “Let’s sit for a minute. We can go into Walter’s tiny reading room.”

She pointed to the reading room. Walter nodded and they walked in, Sister closing the door.

The room, about the size of a big stall, ten feet by twelve, was tiny but perfect. A chintz sofa with green pillows to match the leaves from the print invited them. The walls—bookshelves, top to bottom—testified to Walter’s abiding interest in medical history as well as regular history, especially medieval England. The walls were painted hunter green; a fireplace with a mahogany surround took up one wall, with a glorious Heather St. Clair Davis painting over it. The two women fell onto the sofa.

Tootie tried to remember everything.

“I should know who owns that land, but I don’t.” Sister finally tasted her drink, a gin rickey.

A gin rickey is a summer drink, but it tasted perfect at that moment.

“I didn’t recognize the guy with the gun. Maybe he’s not from this county. The weed growers cover a lot of ground. Then again, he could be a Washington lawyer out for an extra buck.” Tootie raised her shoulders.

“Walter told me one marijuana plant sells for twelve hundred dollars right now. A lot of money back there. Tell me again about the man who helped you. I want to make sure I’ve heard things correctly.”

“He walked up behind the guy, the farmer, and he put his hands around his throat. He must have been strong because the man dropped his rifle, threw it down, really, which he was told to do. He choked. He tried to get away. My savior”—she smiled—“was strong. He told me he’d help me with the hound. He said to the farmer if he ever hurt a hound he would kill him and if he was ugly to me, he’d kill him. Then he threw him on the ground. The farmer had had his own hands on his throat, and he was coughing. The blond man picked up the rifle and smashed the butt into his head. Then he picked up Tatoo and walked with me until we got near the field.”

“Tell me again what he was wearing.”

“He had to have been in the field, although I didn’t notice him. He wore ratcatcher—a bluish tweed, beige britches, old brown hunt cap, tails down, which was odd because tails down is only for staff. And the cowhorn was odd. He had it slid behind his back. Oh, his tie was, I don’t know, one of those regimental ties.”

“And he was blond?”

“Blond. Six feet, at least. Gorgeous. Sister, he was one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen. You think I would have noticed him in the hunt field but I pay attention to the hounds. I don’t know how he got behind that farmer but I’m sure glad he did. The farmer said he’d shoot the pack and shoot me. I said that before, didn’t I?”

“You did. When something like this happens, details come back bit by bit, I think. And this man, how old?”

“I’m not good with age. He wasn’t middle-aged. Young, but not as young as I am. Sister, he was gorgeous. Didn’t you see him?”

“No. He wasn’t in the field.”

“He was in hunt kit.”

“I believe you. It’s just he wasn’t in the field. I think you encountered the man who is blowing his cowhorn after our hunts.” She paused, took another drink, thought a moment. “You liked him?”

“I did. He was a real foxhunter. I could tell that just by how he handled Tatoo.”

“Yes.”

“But why would he follow the hunt and blow his cowhorn? I’ve heard it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank God he was there, Sister. I don’t know if that guy would have killed me, but I think he would have killed Tatoo. The blond man really did save me, and he was so kind, kind eyes.” She blushed a moment. “He said I was a good whipper-in.”

“He would know.”

“Who is he? You know him? I want to meet him, thank him properly. I should do something after what he did for me and for Tatoo.”

“He is—or was—a huntsman. I believe you saw Wesley Carruthers. Weevil.” She took a long, deep breath. “He’s been missing since 1954.”

CHAPTER 22

Hounds and horses were washed, wiped down, put up by Betty and Tootie. Sister and Shaker cleaned out Tatoo’s rat shot wounds.

“What a good boy.” Sister praised him as she used the long narrow tweezers to pick out a bit of lead.

“Ow,” he murmured, but stood still as Shaker held him.

The poor fellow, riddled with the tiny pellets, would get a breather, cookies given to him. After one hour, they wiped him down with bluecoat, literally a blue coating that staved off infection. The colors of antiseptics ranged from silver to orange to blue. As Sister sprayed this on it did sting a little.

“All done.” She beamed. “Shaker, when that marijuana patch is burned, we should celebrate. This sweet fellow didn’t deserve to be peppered.”

“Sooner or later we’ll figure out who is growing the stuff.” Shaker lifted up the tractable animal, carrying him back to the special room with its own stall walkout.

Sister followed, opening the chain-link door.

Zane, goldbricking about his claw, immediately put on his sorrowful look. “A cookie would help me so much.”

Sister laughed at Zane. “You’ve been in here long enough for heart surgery.”

He took a few steps with a pronounced limp.

Tatoo, made of sterner stuff, chided the youngster, “Will you stop?”

“I am seriously injured. We’re making sure my paw doesn’t become infected. See?” He held up a healed paw, the claw clipped very short but no swelling anymore around it.

“I need to sleep. You can shut up at any time.” Tatoo shot Zane a sharp look.

“Well, we can walk out Zane tomorrow and put him back with his group.” Sister observed the young hound, who curled up next to Tatoo.

Tatoo didn’t growl, but he did ignore him. Zane smacked the raised bed box, nicely stuffed with soft blankets. That tail was going.

“Zane, go to sleep if you’re going to be next to me.”

“I will. I’ve been in here for days all alone. Oh, I have suffered. I need a friend.”

“Dear God.” Tatoo lifted his head, looked at the young dramatist, then flopped his head back down. He was asleep before Zane could think of another play for attention. So the youngster decided to sleep as well.

As Sister and Shaker walked back to the office, she remarked, “Isn’t it something how there is such a variation in one litter? Zorro and Zandy are not little mimosas. Zane will just close up with a touch.” She smiled. “His grandmother was like that. Ever notice how certain qualities jump a generation? You see it in horses, hounds, and humans. Ace is a dead ringer for grandpa Asa.”

“You and I have talked about this before. I’ve talked about it with other huntsmen. Just something we learn. I’m sure there’s science behind it and someone will prove the generational jump, probably about humans first.”

“H-m-m. Makes me wonder about Genghis Khan’s grandchildren.” She picked up her gear, which she’d laid on her desk.

“Only you would think about Genghis Khan.”

“I was thinking about him because if we breed Giorgio to a G girl at another kennel, different bloodline, we will have a G line. We can name a hound Genghis Khan.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s fair to the hound.”

“Kind of like naming a son Adolf. Italians can name a son Adolfo, but English-speaking people don’t name a son Adolf. Odd.”

Tootie popped in. “Done.”

“None of us got anything to eat because of the uproar. Come on up to the house. I made chicken corn soup last night. It’s always better the next day. Shaker, what about you?”