Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“Could I have something to drink?” Fonz asked.

“Sí.” Tico left, returning five minutes later with a cup of hot coffee and a Co-Cola in case Fonz wanted something cold. Tico kept a well-stocked cooler in the back of his truck, plus he’d just made himself a thermos of coffee.

As Fonz gratefully swigged both liquids, he began to revive.

Harry Bickle, the officer from the city, had seen plenty but nothing like this. “Your name?”

“Francis Albert Riley. Fonz. I don’t know how I got here. I’d loaded the hounds, I was facing the trailer, and I felt a pain in my head. That’s all I remember.”

Bickle stepped closer to see if his pupils were the same size or possibly dilated. His nose informed him Fonz wasn’t drunk.

“Could I go to the bathroom? I only need to step outside.”

Fonz’s request horrified Tico. He didn’t want anyone urinating publicly, even though no one else was there. What if somebody drove by at that exact moment? “I’ll take you,” Tito volunteered.

Harry Bickle waited, as did the twenty-two-year-old night guard, who was moonlighting while studying at Transylvania College in Lexington, Kentucky. The kid had heard enough cracks about Dracula to last him a lifetime. Fortunately for him, the good education he was receiving would last a lifetime, too.

Fonz came back, ushered into the stall by Tico.

“These hounds sure are calm. No one’s bolted for the door.” Bickle didn’t know much about foxhounds.

“No, sir. They’re a good pack of hounds with a bad master. I try to make up for it.” He rubbed the back of his head where he’d been hit, feeling the tender knot.

“Who’s that?”

“Mo Schneider. Has a big place in Arkansas. Big money, small sense.”

“That’s not a nice way to talk about your boss.” Bickle felt a cold wet nose touch his hand.

“No one likes him. I stay on because of the hounds. He’d mistreat them or kill them if I didn’t protect them.”

“Where’s your boss now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s your vehicle?” Bickle continued.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have any identification?”

Fonz reached into his hind pocket, extracting a well-worn wallet, western tooled.

Tico watched, taking in every detail as Bickle read the license, looked at the license photo, and then glanced back at Fonz as he returned the wallet.

“Would you like a ride to the hospital to have your head checked over?” Bickle offered. “Sometimes a blow to the head can fool you, more damage than you realize.”

“No, sir. I can’t leave the hounds. I need to find Mo. I need the trailer.”

“What did the trailer look like?” Bickle was putting two and two together, although he hadn’t been on duty when Mo Schneider was discovered.

“Four-horse Featherlite, two years old. The front half of the trailer is modified for the hounds.”

Featherlite was a good brand of horse trailer.

“I think we have your trailer. It’s impounded.”

“What?”

“We have your boss, too. Trailer’s registered in his name.” Bickle took a long deep breath. “He’s been murdered.”

“About time,” Fonz blurted out.

“What kind of crack is that?” Bickle asked.

“If you knew him, you’d understand.”

“Come with me. I need you to identify the body, and I’d like to ask a few more questions.”

“Officer, I can’t leave the hounds.”

Tico stepped in. “They need to be with him, Señor. Perhaps they don’t listen to me and escape. Much harm could be done.”

Bickle, in a pickle, thought a moment, then Fonz figured a way out.

“If you let me use your phone, I think I can find help.” When Fonz explained his plan, Officer Bickle handed over his cell.

Fonz called O.J. He’d memorized the number on the drive up from Arkansas just in case there was a problem. That way he wouldn’t have to pull over, hunt the number, and call.

“Hello,” came O.J.’s sunny reply, at what was now six in the morning.

“Master Winegardner, it’s Fonz.”

“Fonz, where are you?” She didn’t want to tell him about Mo.

“Keeneland, last shed row, with Mo’s hounds. I got hit over the head. There’s a policeman here who wants to ask questions, but I can’t leave the hounds.”

“Fonz, put the man on the phone.”

“Officer Bickle here.”

“Officer Bickle, this is Jane Winegardner, Master of Woodford Hounds. Will you allow me to pick up the hounds and take them to our kennels until you get things cleared away with Fonz? He’s a good man, if my testimony is any help. Anyone who could work with Mo Schneider and last for two years is a saint.”

“Well, ma’am, I guess that’s all right.”

“You have to wait until I get there, Officer, because I’ll need Fonz to help me load. The hounds don’t know me. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

“All right.” Officer Bickle clicked off his phone. “Tell you what, you all wait here. You, too.” The last was said directly to Jude, the Transylvania student. “I’ll bring back breakfast for everyone. Your friend is bringing her trailer. She must be a good friend.” He spoke to Fonz.

“She’s a master of foxhounds, sir. I don’t know her all that well, but all masters worth their salt will help hounds.”

Officer Bickle drove off to the nearest fast food place, beginning to realize he’d stepped into a whole new world.

When he returned, the four men ate outside the stall so as not to tempt hounds overmuch. By the time they’d drained the last drop of coffee, the rumble of a big trailer could be heard.

O.J. drove the rig while Carl and Leslie Matacola followed by car. Mary Pierson, who’d fallen asleep in the truck cab, sat up when O.J. stopped. Sister Jane followed in her Subaru.

Opening the door, O.J. walked right up to Officer Bickle as Carl headed for Fonz. She held out her hand. “I’m Jane Winegardner. Thank you so much for thinking of the hounds.”

He liked the tall lady right on sight, so he smiled. “Well, ma’am, I couldn’t very well put them in jail.” He then stared at Carl. “Don’t I know you?”

“No, sir, but you might have seen me around. I’m director of athletic training at UK.”

“I have seen you, on TV. And you’re a hound person, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officer Bickle, allow me to send you an invitation to our opening hunt. It will be Thanksgiving weekend at Shakertown. I’ll stay in touch. You’ll enjoy it, especially the Blessing of the Hounds.” O.J. always rewarded people who helped the hounds or the club. An invitation to Opening Hunt was very special. She then turned to Fonz. “You heard about Mo?”

“The officer told me. Master, will you call Blake, our stable manager, and ask him to feed hounds and pick us up at home? I hope I’ll get back tonight.”

“I will,” O.J. answered.

Mary, one step ahead, was drawing a map to the kennels.

“Officer Bickle, if it’s all right with you, we’ll follow you to the station, and when you’re done with Fonz, we’ll take him to his hounds,” Carl suggested.

“They’ve impounded the trailer. I don’t know how to carry them home.” Fonz used the country southern expression.

“Can you release the truck and trailer?” O.J. inquired.

“Not right away, ma’am. We have to go over it for evidence.”

“Fonz, don’t worry. We’ll get you to Arkansas, safe and sound.”

“Master, I hate to put you to this trouble.”

“Hounds first, Fonz.” She laid her hand gently on his shoulder, for she could see he’d been hard used. “We both know that.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, let’s load them up.”

Mary opened the door to the Woodford trailer as Fonz opened the door to the stall. Fonz stood on the trailer ramp and hounds came right to him before he even opened his mouth. Officer Bickle hadn’t seen that kind of obedience before by that many dogs. (To him they were dogs because he hadn’t yet learned the nomenclature.)