Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Not wishing to spoil O.J.’s work with the officer, Sister tried to be patient. But ever since O.J. had filled her in on the discovery of Fonz, along with Mo’s hounds, she’d had a feeling. . . . She was dying to open the stall door because she felt Giorgio was there.

Knowing hounds, she also had to be patient as they emerged from the stall. These hounds didn’t know her. She didn’t want to spook them.

In the middle of the pack, Giorgio smelled his master. He knew she was there before she knew he was there.

Standing up on his hind legs he let out a yelp of happiness. “Mom!”

“Giorgio!” Sister held out her arms as the stunning hound bounded over to her.

“He is a beauty,” O.J. admitted.

“Officer Bickle, this is my hound. He’d been stolen.”

“I missed you.” Giorgio, again on his hind legs, put his paws on Sister’s shoulders.

Fonz blinked. “Where did he come from?”

“Good question. How did he get in your pack?” Sister’s voice was hard.

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Sister blurted out.

O.J. astutely intervened. “Officer, this hound belongs to Mrs. Jane Arnold. We think Mo stole him.”

“I swear I didn’t know,” Fonz protested.

Sister, this time, bit her tongue.

“Officer, she needs to get her hound back to Virginia, if you have no objection.”

“Well—uh, I think that will be okay.”

“O.J., let me help you here,” said Sister. “There’s going to be a lot to do.”

“I’ve got Carl, Leslie, and Mary. You’d best get out before traffic picks up.”

Giorgio offered his opinion. “Yes!”

Sister hugged him again and followed O.J.’s advice. Giorgio hopped in the back but before Sister reached the impressive entrance to Keeneland he’d crawled into the passenger seat, chatting the whole time.

“Master, the little lemon-spotted gyp, that’s Tillie. She’s hocky, but she’ll go where the others go,” Fonz told O.J.

“What’s hocky?” Officer Bickle was becoming quite intrigued, plus he really wanted to see Jane Winegardner again.

“Shy,” Carl answered.

After hounds had been loaded, Officer Bickle took Fonz to the morgue. Much as Fonz loathed Mo Schneider, seeing him on a slab came as a nasty jolt. When the attendant rolled him over to show the rat shot peppering his back and legs with round bumps, Fonz gasped.

“Ever see anything like that? Bird shot?” Officer Bickle pointed to the bumps.

“Not on a human.”

“Me neither. Do you have any idea who would do something like this?”

“Someone who knew Mo pretty good. Someone who paid him back for his cruelty. We could start with his three ex-wives.”

Two hours later, which was actually good time, Fonz was released and Carl drove him out to the Woodford kennels.

The visiting hounds in adjoining yards had enjoyed chats with the Woodford hounds. Again, they loaded right up. O.J. and Mary, along with Fonz, all squeezed into the cab for the long drive home.

By the time O.J., finally home, called Sister, the older woman and Giorgio had just passed Hinton, West Virginia, situated on a high mountain plateau about two and a half hours from home.

“Do you think Fonz has any idea who killed Mo?” Sister asked, after O.J. filled her in.

“He rattled off a list of eight or nine people. Those were just the front-runners.”

A long silence followed. “O.J., maybe we’re better off not knowing. Maybe the trail will grow cold. We don’t need to know.”

“Well, I don’t know if I agree. Murder is murder.”

“Some people deserve it.” Sister thought there were some people walking around who do nothing but cause pain.

“Then what happens to the rule of law?”

“What rule of law? For Christ’s sake, whoever has the most money gets away with just about anything. And we’re thinking about individual crimes. What about great big crimes like the rape of resources, the pollution of water, or sending young men and women soldiers to their deaths? I’m old. Listen to me. You wrap crimes in the flag or a dollar bill, and suddenly everyone looks the other way.”

“Hadn’t thought about it like that.” O.J., very moral, hadn’t.

“You wouldn’t. You’re a straight shooter.”

“So are you.”

“Yes and no. I’m a cynical straight shooter. I expect authority to be corrupt. I expect most corporations to hide skeletons. And I expect regular folks to stick their heads in the sand until the sand becomes poisoned. We always wait until it’s a ten-squared crisis before we move our sorry asses.”

“Good point. But what if Mo’s murder isn’t isolated?” O.J. worried.

“How can that—”

“What I mean is, What if there’s a serial killer out there, popping off foxhunters they don’t like?”

“You think they’d start elsewhere.” Sister hadn’t considered such a possibility.

“It could happen.”

“Give me your list.”

A long pause followed. “Not until you give me yours.”

They both laughed; then Sister Jane said, “Ever think about how many people you would have killed if you could have gotten away with it?”

“No, but I am now.”

“Odd. I mean every one of us is capable of killing, whether in self-defense—which is perfectly justified—revenge, or blind rage, yet few of us ever do kill.”

“You’re making me realize my real point.” O.J. sighed. “It’s one of the reasons I cherish our friendship. Somehow you always lead me back to the scent. Here’s what I really meant to say. Except in self-defense, we don’t kill, and we’ve all been tremendously provoked. If that restraint has eroded, what’s possible?”

“Good point. I don’t know the answer. But I’m betting Mo is a one-off.”

“I hope so.” O.J. changed the subject. “How’s Giorgio?”

“Being the navigator. He’s still sitting straight up, hasn’t taken his eyes off the road.”

“Too bad he can’t talk.”

“He does in his own way.”

“I’m so happy!” Giorgio said.

Sister didn’t walk into her house until four that afternoon. Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster—calico cat, Doberman, and harrier, respectively—greeted her rapturously. Only when she walked into the den, her favorite room, did she remember it was Memorial Day.

Sister looked at the silver-framed photo of herself, her husband, and her son, age fourteen, his age when he died, all spiffed up to ride in the family class at the Jefferson Hunt Horse Show.

What would it be like to have her RayRay, who would be forty-seven now, sitting in the den with her, most likely with a good wife, grandchildren coming and going, and laughter filling the house?

She’d never know, but that was life. You take what the good Lord gives you.

She fought back her tears, petted Golly, and said, “What next?”

CHAPTER 5

Tuesday at Roughneck Farm brought an avalanche of chores, phone calls, and interruptions.

Sister and Shaker cleaned the kennels with the big power washer early, since they both wanted to get the jump on the day. The spray felt good on their faces because at 8 a.m. the thermometer read 73 degrees Fahrenheit. Going to be a hot one. Sister walked back through the special runs for hounds needing a little extra care: Often, during the hunt season, roughly from Labor Day to St. Patrick’s Day in central Virginia, some hounds, certain bloodlines especially, would run the fat right off themselves by New Year’s. Putting the weight back on was easier said than done. Other hounds, usually the girls, stayed weedy.

First she checked Giorgio, none the worse for wear. Next she opened the chain-link gate and sat with Aurora, a hound from Archie’s litter. Now fourteen, she was flatfooted and a touch deaf. Her nose was keen, her eyes less bright. Her hunting days were long over. Many a master or huntsman would have put Aurora down, but Sister just couldn’t do that. A hound or horse who had served her well lived out his or her last years in comfort and love.