Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“Leave it.”

“He always gets away with this,” Dragon complained.

“Come along.” Shaker walked outside, hounds with him. “Sister, Tootie, Betty, come here.”

As they did, Sister dismounted. She knew something was up. Tootie and Betty dismounted, too.

“Can you hold the hounds? It might be easier if you’re down here with them.” Then he called, “Ronnie.”

“Yo.”

“Will you go get the party wagon?”

“Of course.”

Sister turned to the field. “Folks, go on back with Ronnie. We’ll meet you at the station.”

Everyone wanted to know what was going on, but everyone also knew not to ask. They turned and rode with Ronnie as hounds sat down, lay down, at Sister’s, Tootie’s, and Betty’s feet.

Shaker walked back in.

Alfred pleaded, “Sheriff, he’s got a gun on us. He’s crazy.”

Ben assessed the situation. He didn’t know the young man but he did know the brothers, and he knew they never spoke, but they were digging together. Best not to act in haste.

Weevil, without turning his head, said, “Sheriff, if you will be patient, an old murder is about to be solved. Alfred and Binky killed Wesley Carruthers. I wasn’t sure what they did with his body. I guessed they’d dig where it would be easy, and then the horse in this stall would pack the earth. I knew if I pulled a gun on them they’d dig to save their sorry skins. And so they are.”

Ben stood next to Weevil now while Shaker, wide-eyed, watched through the stall bars.

The two men were knee-deep, mounds of soft stall earth around them. A soft thunk was heard.

Ben walked over as a thighbone appeared. He looked at the sweating men, in their seventies. “Keep digging.”

They dug enough for part of a skeleton to be clearly seen. Binky fell to his knees sobbing.

Alfred ignored him, disgusted.

“I didn’t want to do it. He made me do it.”

Alfred backhanded Binky, who fell on his side, on the part of Wesley that was exposed.

Ben walked to the makeshift grave, Binky now in it. “Binky, how did you kill him?”

“Shot him. Alfred shot him first but he said I had to do it, too. I didn’t want to do it,” he blubbered.

Alfred just glared.

“I arrest you two for the murder of—”

Weevil filled that in. “Wesley Carruthers.”

“Do you have a cellphone, sir?” Ben asked Weevil.

“No.”

“I do.” Shaker stepped up.

“Call the department. Get someone out here immediately and—well, just give me the phone.”

Ben punched in the department’s number. “Hey, Patty, send the forensics team out to Old Paradise, the stables, and also a squad car. We need to take two men to the jail.” He listened a minute. “Okay. No, I don’t think they’re dangerous anymore, but who is to say. Thanks.” He handed the phone back to Shaker.

Sister, Tootie, and Betty talked to the hounds, petted them, and told them to pay no attention to Earl, who was glorying in this situation.

As the field reached Tattenhall Station, they heard two sirens screaming right for them. Horses stood at their trailers as two sheriff’s vehicles sped by, one a van, the other a squad car.

Ronnie, now in the party wagon truck, followed them, not knowing what he would find.

As the two county vehicles roared down Old Paradise’s drive, Crawford stepped away from the timber and headed for the stables.

Crawford walked into the stables just as the two officers from the squad car did. The forensics team came behind them, needing to see the situation to know what to carry in.

“What’s going on here?” Crawford demanded.

Ben turned to him. “Look here.”

Crawford slid past Weevil and stood next to Ben as Alfred and Binky were walked out, handcuffed.

“My God!” Crawford’s voice rose.

“Murdered in 1954,” Weevil quietly stated.

Crawford looked at the handsome man. “Who are you?”

“Wesley Blackford. This was my grandfather.”

The three women outside tried to hear what was being said, but to no avail. Ronnie pulled up, so hounds were quietly loaded onto the party wagon. Then the Master and two whippers-in walked into the stables.

Sister came to the open stall door, saw Weevil. “Weevil.”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’m glad you’re not a ghost.” She smiled.

Tootie now stood next to her, as did Betty.

He smiled. “So am I.”

“This is Weevil?” Sister pointed to the opened grave.

“Yes, ma’am. Alfred and Binky killed him.” Weevil took a deep breath. “My grandmother was Margaret DuCharme. She bore my mother in Toronto, where the baby was given to her college roommate, who had protected Margaret during her pregnancy. And she raised my mother as her own.”

“How did you figure this out?” Ben asked as he held out his hand for the gun, which Weevil placed in his palm, handle first.

“Mother, who is still alive, in her sixties, had letters from Margaret. They never met, but Margaret loved her, I believe, and sent money. My grandmother suspected either her husband or the boys killed Weevil. Over the years she came to believe it was her sons. Her sons hated Weevil, hated each other. I don’t know much more than that, except Margaret told my mother she had given Weevil her mother’s and grandmother’s jewels. If she could find them, all would be well. I studied those letters, studied maps once Mother allowed me to read it all, which was last year. I devised a plan.”

Ben asked, “Were the jewels ever found?”

“No, and that was part of the problem, because Alfred and Binky accused my grandfather of trifling with Margaret, then stealing her jewelry.”

Tootie started to say something but Sister quickly held her hand, squeezing it.

“Weevil was clever. He left a trail somewhere,” Sister simply said.

“I think his horn is a kind of map, but I haven’t really figured it out. In one of her letters, Margaret mentioned the scrimshaw. What matters to me is that he be laid to rest, properly buried. I know Mother would want that. She never met him, of course, but Margaret’s letters to Beverly, my mom, are filled with love. I know you all must test his bones, do all manner of things, but when all is done, please release him to me.”

Sister spoke clearly with warmth. “Weevil, if you would like, you may bury your grandfather at the farm. There is a lovely hound graveyard, and I think he would be pleased to be with old friends. Some of those hounds go back to the late-nineteenth century. The hounds he hunted rest there.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. If Mother likes the idea, I think it would be wonderful. He was an Episcopalian.”

“We can take care of that,” Betty chimed in.

Tootie looked at this handsome fellow and he looked back. “I am so sorry,” she said.

“Tootie, I can lay him to rest. It’s done. He died before his time, but he knew love and loved in return and his hounds loved him, too. In the main, I think he lived a good life.”

Crawford, rarely speechless, was.

Weevil turned to him. “Mr. Howard, I got the blueprints for all this off your computer. I apologize, but I had a hunch he was here somewhere. And then I became interested in what you are doing. It’s fabulous. Forgive this uproar.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” Crawford generously replied.

“Well, Ben, if it’s all right with you, let’s all go to Tattenhall Station. Kasmir will spoil us as always, and this will be a hunt no one will ever forget. Crawford, please come. It won’t be a breakfast without you—and you, too, Weevil. Forgive me, I only know you as Weevil.”

“Mother calls me that.” He grinned, then left the stall, and peeked into Earl’s stall. “I’ll be along. Let me repair this damage. Won’t take a minute.”