Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

In the off season, Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil Fawkes, when she could make it, walked out the pack and worked with young entry five mornings each week. Did hounds a world of good—and the people, too.

The walks covered a mile out and a mile back. As the summer temperatures rose, takeoff time moved ever backward. Right now it was nine in the morning. By July they’d go out at seven-thirty.Betty and Sister, about twenty years apart in age, were as close as second skin. They shared many similar interests, but it was the hound work that drew them together, as it does most people who feed, clean, walk hounds, birth, and bury them. The actual hunting teaches each human to depend on the other, but hound work teaches them one great lesson: love—of hounds and of the people who love them. Betty whipped out the heavy old Number 5 iron skillet and pulled four eggs out of the fridge. She heard footsteps upstairs.

By the time Sister walked into the kitchen, the crackle of frying eggs had made her realize she was famished.

“What would I do without you?”

“Be miserable.” Betty flipped the eggs over. Sister liked them over easy. “Sit down, table’s set. All you have to do is lift your fork. Muffins will be out of the toaster in a minute.”

Golly, thinking she was unobtrusive, sat on a chair, her head resting on the big farm table, white whiskers sweeping forward.

“Here we go.” Betty placed the eggs in front of Sister, followed with a large mug of coffee as the toaster rang.

“Aren’t you having any?”

“One egg and an English muffin. Ate cereal for breakfast, but I am hungry. Golly, how about some crunchy bits?”

“Yes, please.” Golly perked right up.

The two dogs on the floor hoped for treats. Betty poured the grease from the frying pan over their kibble. Grease, corn oil, or bacon drippings will all put a shine on a carnivore’s coat.

“You spoil my cat.”

“Like you don’t?” Betty placed a dainty china bowl in the shape of a fish before the delighted cat and sat down opposite Sister.

“What with everything going on, I forgot to tell you,” said Sister. “The Great Biddy called me yesterday morning.”

Great Biddy was Sister’s term for her mother-in-law, still alive, still healthy, and still imperious. The two women had disliked each other from day one and had little to say now.

“What did she want?”

“I’m not at all sure. Usually she launches right in, but yesterday she only mentioned that Ray and RayRay’s grave sites look especially beautiful in late spring.”

“Maybe she’s softening at last,” Betty said cheerily.

“She’s getting damned close to one hundred. If it doesn’t happen now it never will.” Sister laughed. “She also said she’d been watching a television show; I don’t know the name; never watch TV except for sports. Well, anyway, the series has a kid on it from Richmond. So she said, ‘New York is for people who can’t make it in Richmond.’ I had to laugh.”

Betty folded her hands together. “Are you sure you want to go to the Virginia Hound Show?”

“Sure, why not?” Sister was surprised.

“After what happened at the Mid-America? Aren’t you a little worried?”

“Betty, I’m surprised at you. Mo Schneider getting his just rewards has nothing to do with hound shows.”

Shifting in her seat, partly because Golly, claws out, reached up to pat her thigh, Betty responded, “You’re right. I’ve been watching too many Netflix lately. But Fonz was roughly treated, too. Preys on my mind.”

“If all you knew of America was from films and TV, you’d conclude we’re a nation of sex fiends and serial killers.” She thought a moment. “Sometimes in the same individual.”

“Maybe Bobby and I need to take a break from watching movies.”

“Golly, leave Betty alone.” Sister put her fork down. “I wish Hope or Dan would call. Maybe Hope’s still asleep.”

“They’ll call.”

“Betty’s food is better than mine,” Golly sassed.

“She will.”

“Forgot to tell you. I don’t know where my brains have gone. Anyway, when we were at the Mid-America Hound Show, Barry Baker was the steward.”

“How is the good judge?” Betty found him a lively soul.

“Handsome as ever. The news is . . . are you ready? . . . He rented a hunt box at Skidby!”

“No!”

“Says he’ll divide his time between Deep Run Hunt and us.”

“I’m surprised he’s stayed a widower so long.”

“Mmm, only two years.” Sister felt the caffeine start to kick in. “They were well matched. He won’t lack for female companionship—too handsome—but that doesn’t mean he’ll connect. Know what I mean?”

“I do. Think of all the men we dated before we married.”

“Honey, I think of all the men I dated after I married.”

The two exploded, laughing.

Betty shook her head. “You were a bad girl.”

“What do you mean were ?”

“Oh?” Betty raised her eyebrows.

“Nah. I’ve been virtuous. Boring, really. To change the subject, I called the Fishers. Now that they’ve moved in, I bet I can add Skidby as a fixture. Barry will work it from his end.”

“Fab!” Betty pretended she was one of the Absolutely Fabulous actresses from British TV, her favorite show.

“Sure is.”

The phone rang. Sister jumped up.

“Hello,” came a deep voice on the other end.

“Barry Baker!”

“I’m moving things into Skidby for a few days, and I was hoping I could take you to dinner.”

“I’ll go you one better. Why don’t you come here, you pick the day, and I’ll cook you a meal?”

“That’s an offer I can’t refuse. Would Thursday work? Say I get there around four and you can show me hounds? Heard you found a new horse late in the season.”

“Yes, Matador. Word gets around fast.”

“Good horse. I saw him run. Thursday?”

“Thursday it is.” She hung up the phone, saying to Betty, “Speak of the devil.”

“Ever notice how that happens? You think of someone and they call or you get a letter?”

“Is.” Sister sat back down. “ ’Course, these days you’d get an e-mail.”

“Felicity called me and asked if Bobby and I would come to her graduation. Sweet kid. Can’t believe her parents are being such buttheads. She also asked us to print her wedding invitations, a pitifully small number.”

The Franklins owned a large printing company.

“Me neither. People can be so incredibly selfish.”

The phone rang again.

“Bet it’s Hope with a report on Gunpowder,” Betty chirped.

Sister picked up the phone, heard Dan’s voice, and winked at Betty while holding one thumb up. “Dan, how’s my boy.”

“Going to be fine.” His voice sounded strangled.

“I can barely hear you. We have a bad connection.”

“Sister, I called to tell you that Hope was found dead this morning. Ben Sidell just left. He’s treating it as a suspicious death, but I think the verdict will be suicide.”

“What?” Sister steadied herself with her hand on the kitchen counter.

“She shot herself in the mouth.” Dan broke down, then pulled himself together. “You know she was despondent over the divorce but, Sister, I can’t believe it. Found her in the operating room with Gunpowder.”

“It can’t be true, Dan. I left her after she operated on Gunpowder and she was tired; angry, too, at Paul’s last-minute holdup. But depressed, suicidal? No!”

“I don’t know what to say.” Dan felt crushed by the weight of the event. The sight of her had been unnerving.

“She didn’t kill herself, Dan.”

That sentence stopped Betty in her tracks.