Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“Master.” Tootie slipped next to her.

“Oh.” Sister put her hand on Tootie’s shoulder. “Lost in reverie there.”

“Val and I don’t show until the gyps. Would you mind if we walked along the tents?”

“Go ahead. Be careful your credit card doesn’t burn a hole in your pocket.”

“I’m pretty disciplined, but”—Tootie smiled shyly—“sometimes a girl can’t help it.” She’d picked up that phrase from Betty. “Val and I are looking for something for Felicity’s baby. ’Course, we don’t know the sex yet, but maybe we can find a stuffed toy fox or something.”

“Bet you can. Go on, honey.”

As hounds exited the ring, Sister walked back to the trailer. It was half a mile away, but she wanted to sit quietly with Shaker and Betty for a spell. Much as she adored seeing old friends, the frenzy wore her out. Physical activity rarely tired her as much as people.

All along the way she stopped folks or was stopped by them. News about hounds, horses, members. Quite a few people remarked on Mo Schneider’s murder.

O.J. and Woodford brought a few hounds. In the moments between classes, O.J., who stayed in constant touch with Sister, again confirmed that nothing new had turned up regarding Mo’s murder, other than that it appeared to be the work of a single person.

It took her a half hour to get back to the trailer parked under giant trees. Shaker had put up the big awning and was sitting in its shade.

Betty Franklin set out a table. If anyone trotted over for a chat, there’d be drinks, sandwiches, and treats. Her setup complete, Betty fanned herself with a big palm frond fan, the kind that used to be passed out in church before air-conditioning.

Sister laughed as she strode toward them. “Have you had that fan since childhood?”

“Don’t start with me. I’m sweating bullets. The air is stagnant and it’s working on my mood.” Betty tossed her hair, perfectly frosted for the occasion.

“Well, you look cool enough. You, too, Shaker.” She filled them in on the classes she’d watched. “Pretty much going as you would expect. The big hunts are pulling in most ribbons. But every now and then a smaller hunt wins a blue.”

“Damn hard to go up against a hunt that can breed seventy puppies or more a year.” Shaker leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah, but thank God for those hunts. They really carry the ball for the rest of us. If we put twenty puppies on the ground, that’s a hell of a lot for us. We have to be so incredibly careful in our breeding.” Sister flopped into a master’s director’s chair.

The chair, a gift from Betty, sure felt good.

“Tired?” Betty inquired.

“Yes, I’m tired, and my feet hurt.”

“Funny, we can ride hard for four hours in sleet or snow, but it’s a different kind of tired. I’ve seen a lot of people I want to see and a few I could pass on.” Betty fanned herself more vigorously. “This weather is going to break before the pack class. I guarantee it.”

The pack class, last class of the day, involves different hunts walking their hounds as a pack and following directions from the judges as to where to stop, turn, etc. Always the highlight of the show, it not only illustrates pack discipline but shows a lot about the various huntsmen and masters. Some behave graciously if they lose, maybe because one hound hooked left instead of right. Others, petulant, would fit right into sixth grade.

“You told me it’s the Feast of the Visitation,” said Betty. “Any other saints celebrating today?”

“Feast of Saint Peter’s supposed daughter, Petronilla.”

“Saint Peter had a daughter?” Betty, never a religious student, raised her fan slightly.

“Well, no. Or let’s say the paternity is in doubt. The story goes that Petronilla was an early Roman martyr. Her remains are in the catacomb of the Domitilla family. She fasted and died after three days.”

“Fad diet?” Shaker teased.

“Could be. Nothing is new under the sun. Well, a Count Flaccus wanted to marry her, against her wishes. With a name like that, I’d have my doubts, too.” Sister laughed. “So she starved herself. Her emblem is a set of keys, just like Saint Peter’s. Did she borrow them, or was Petronilla light-fingered?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sister saw a familiar elegant figure approaching, accompanied by a smaller, less confident man.

“Hello, Master.” Barry Baker reached Sister, bent over, and kissed her hand, then repeated the gesture for Betty.

Shaker stood and the men shook hands. “Good to see you.”

Fonz and Shaker exchanged a nod.

“Come on. Let’s get those hounds,” said Barry.

Sister and Shaker followed; Betty stayed behind to keep an eye on things.

They reached Mo’s fancy trailer, with its comfortable living quarters for people as well as hounds.

“How’d you get the trailer back so fast, Fonz?” Knowing the glacial rate at which official business can be transacted, Sister was astounded.

“Judge Baker talked to the Lexington people,” said Fonz.

The corner of Barry’s mouth turned up slightly. “I told them they’d know where to find it.”

If Barry Baker asked a favor, he usually got it.

Fonz opened the back door, and the hounds walked out as he called their names one by one. “This is Moxie; she’s got Mission Valley blood, but at the fifth generation it’s Bywaters. This is Tillie; she’s shy.”

A thunder rumble interrupted his introduction.

“Fonz, let’s walk these hounds back quickly, and once we’re in the trailer we can worry about introductions.” Shaker knew how fast storms rolled in.

“Splendid idea.” Barry walked to the other side of the opened door.

Once the four couple of hounds stood outside the trailer, Barry closed the door and Fonz, walking at the head of the small pack with Shaker, quietly led them a quarter mile through a parking lot up to the shaded Jefferson Hunt trailer.

Sister fell in behind the pack with Barry. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”

“You’re worth a greenhouse.” He beamed. “And I knew you’d like the quote from Ben Franklin.”

She noticed that hounds accepted Barry. No queer looks at him.

Tootie and Val, back with Betty, stood up to help.

“Think we’ve got it, girls,” Shaker called to them.

Fonz opened the door, called each hound by name. Shaker had jumped into the trailer and closed a divider so the new hounds wouldn’t mix with the JHC pack. No point in having a fight, especially when the atmospheric pressure was changing, which can cause tempers to fray. The girls each brought two big buckets of water, and within minutes all hounds were settled, although black noses were thrust under the divider, which did not entirely touch the floor.

A grumble echoed.

“Dragon.” Shaker’s voice, clipped, meant business.

“That litter is quite exceptional, isn’t it?” Barry asked. “ D s.”

“Hunting fools.” Sister smiled, ever ready to discuss a hound. “They show well, but I don’t think we’ll win any ribbons. They’re a bit long-backed.”

“Depends on the class.” Barry was encouraging. “And I don’t mind a long-backed hound. Again, what’s the territory like? Oh, well, I ought to shut up. I’m not judging. No pun intended.”

Sister said to Fonz, “I’m sure you’re sorry to say goodbye to these hounds.”

Fonz shrugged, holding back his emotion. “They’re good hounds. I will miss them but they’re going to the right person.”

“Thank you.” Sister took his hand in hers. “I’m glad you’ve recovered from your ordeal.”

“Wish I could remember. I felt a thump on my head and next woke up at Keeneland.”

A terrific crack of thunder made everyone jump.