Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“You’re still keeping the house in Richmond, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve half a mind to give it to my son and daughter-in-law.Too big to keep. But I’m not quite there yet.”

“I can understand,” Sister said. “I didn’t know you knew Mitch and Lutrell.”

“Lutrell and I are both on the board of the Richmond Ballet. She’s the one with the big bucks; well, you know that. Mitch might be a doctor, but he’s in research, so he doesn’t make all that much.”

“He hunts with me. She doesn’t. She’s a bit fearful. Actually, thank you for reminding me that they’ve finally moved into Skidby. I’ll call on them.”

“You’ll find a warm reception.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You might even find me.”

After more pleasantries, chatting with other masters and huntsmen, Sister finally pulled O.J. aside and filled her in on Giorgio’s disappearance.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” O.J.’s eyes widened and she raised her hands, palms up.

“Overload. There’s nothing you could have done. Then, too, I didn’t want to tip him off. I can’t prove Mo stole my hound, but let’s just say I figure the chances of his not stealing Giorgio are about the same as the sun rising in the west.”

O.J. scanned the grounds; many trailers were pulling out. “Well, his trailer’s not here.”

“Damn.” Sister paused. “I know Giorgio wasn’t with his hounds. Tootie snuck back and checked a couple of times. Where could he have hidden a hound so someone wouldn’t find it? My beautiful boy would have howled his displeasure, but he’s so sweet he would be easy to muzzle. Couldn’t howl then.”

The late-afternoon sun showed up the lighter highlights in O.J.’s dark hair. “Someone who works for Shaker Village certainly would have found him if Mo had hidden him around here.” She gazed at Sister, lost in thought for a bit, and then grabbed her arm. “Come on! There is a place, just outside the Village.”

Once in O.J.’s truck, Sister pulled out her cell phone to call Shaker and Tootie, who were readying the trailer to leave. That accomplished, she paid attention as O.J. turned right toward Harrodsburg on Route 68. O.J. then turned right on the next paved road. Large homes, freshly painted new barns, and expensive fencing signaled that money flowed to Mercer County.

“New money.”

“Better than no money.” O.J. turned right on a sharp turn, onto a narrow road. “Jim Fitzgerald was thinking about buying an old training track back here. This land has been let go, but it wouldn’t take too much to rehab it. Anyway, the track is no secret, and Mo has come to the Mid-America Hound Show enough times to know of it.” She now turned left, where a battered sign hung precariously on chains that swayed in the light breeze.

The track, guardrail still intact, lay just ahead. Mo’s trailer was parked alongside it.

“That bastard!” Sister cursed.

“A lot of outbuildings. Good place to hide anything.” Seeing the trailer, O.J. felt sure this was the place.

The moment Woodford’s master had parked, Sister opened the door to sprint toward the trailer. She stepped up on the running boards between the wheel wells. “Not a thing! Not even his hounds!”

O.J. did not respond. Transfixed, she stood like a statue looking at the faded white guardrail.

“Are you all right?” Sister asked, then cast her eyes in the direction of O.J.’s unrelenting stare. “Jesus H. Christ!”

Sister put a hand on the guardrail and swung herself over as O.J., snapping out of it, did likewise. The two fit women ran across the infield to the other side of the track.

The ground underfoot, still good, gave their steps a spring. They stopped.

“Dead as a doornail,” Sister pronounced.

Mo Schneider lay facedown in the track. Stripped to the waist, feet bare, head turned to the side, he stared at nothing—or perhaps at eternity.

O.J., mind clear, pointed to his back. “What do you make of that?”

Sister knelt down, careful not to touch the corpse. “Rat shot.”

Rat shot is what foxhunters call bird shot. It is generally loaded into a .22 pistol and used only in extremis. If hounds rush toward a superhighway, scent burning, the whipper-in has to turn them. He or she might fire once in the air if there is time. The next shot is aimed directly at hindquarters. Better to pick out rat shot in the kennels than pick up crushed hounds on the road.

Now kneeling next to Sister, O.J. peered closely. “He’s peppered with it.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her linen skirt and used it to touch his wrist. “No pulse. Just in case. He’s cooling but a long way from being cold.”

“How long do you think he’s been dead?”

“Warm day.” O.J. stood up. “Not more than a hour, hour and a half.”

“ATV tracks.” Sister noticed tire tracks from an all-terrain vehicle alongside Mo’s footprints.

“Kids sneak down here all the time.”

“Fresh.”

O.J. knelt down again to check the tracks. “You’re right, and some of them have run over Mo’s footprints.”

“Mo ran around this track more than once.” Sister shook her head. “No hounds. No Fonz. No Maserati. No shoes. Why would he run barefoot?”

“You think this is some kind of ritual killing?”

“I don’t know, but it is bizarre.” A glint of humor returned. “Should we roll him over and drive a stake through his heart?”

Sister sent Shaker and Tootie home with hounds once she and O.J. discovered Mo’s body. The authorities arrived; questioning went on. It made sense to spend the night and leave for Virginia in the morning. O.J. kindly invited Sister home with her. She also volunteered to call the various animal rescue groups.

The Mid-America Hound Show provided more drama than Woodford could have ever imagined. O.J. prayed there wouldn’t be more to come.

CHAPTER 4

Tico Caracalla’s work boots were already soaked with heavy dew at four-thirty in the morning. Keeneland, quiet and beautiful in any season, felt like it was all his at this hour. The back shed rows, his responsibility, were empty this time of year. Nonetheless, being a stickler for order and cleanliness, he inspected every stall. No matter how hungry he had been when he first came into the United States, Tico refused to work for sloppy outfits. When he finally worked his way up to Keeneland, he knew he’d found his true place. He’d inspect latches, check bucket fasteners, kneel down to make sure no pave-safe blocking was becoming dislodged. It never was, but he couldn’t be too careful when it came to the horses and their safety.

The last stall in the shed row was closed up. He hurried down the line, because this was not the way he’d left that stall yesterday—or any of the others. He opened the stall door and nearly passed out. Fresh buckets of water had been placed on the stall floor, along with a huge pile of kibble. Sleepy-headed hounds started to rise. He stepped inside quickly and closed the door behind him. As a horseman he’d spent much of his life around dogs of one sort or another and he knew these animals meant no harm. His biggest shock arrived when a few hounds moved away from the human they’d been cuddling. Fonz Riley, bound and gagged, looked up.

“Dei!” Tico bent down and pulled the gag out of the small middle-aged man’s mouth.

“Thank God,” Fonz gasped.

“One minute.” Tico slipped his pocket knife out of his pocket and cut the ropes around Fonz’s wrists and ankles.

Fonz rubbed the circulation back into his limbs as Tico called security. Wisely, Tico asked no questions. He hadn’t worked twenty years in the shed rows for nothing. Security called the Lexington police. Both arrived at the same time.