Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“That’s the truth,” Gunpowder said, with a mouth full of his favorite hay.

That was another thing, he was going to complain about the food at the clinic when he got a chance.

“Shaker, I’ll be right back,” Sister said. “Let me pay the bill.”

“I’ll bill you,” Dan said.

“One less thing for you to do.”

She walked into the front office, and as Lisa printed out the bill she noticed two cartons, opened, behind Lisa. She could see bottles inside.

“Are those for Hope’s Japanese clients?”

Lisa nodded. “Had them all wrapped up, and Ben Sidell unwrapped everything. I’ll put it all back together. They went through her house, and—I have to give them credit—they didn’t make a mess. They put everything back. The only thing was, and I have no idea how they managed it, they spilled some ink from her big printer, the inkjet, you know. Well, it’s not really ink, it’s powder. But that was the only thing I had to clean up.”

“Ben is very meticulous, but he’s sensitive, too.”

“And good-looking.” Lisa, unmarried, was almost purring.

“That, too.” Sister examined the bill, sighed, and wrote a check for sixty-three hundred dollars.

“It’s a big bill, I know.”

“He’s worth it, and he had the best of care. Do I owe you anything for his damage to the stall?”

“He left hoof marks on the wall but those boards in there are thick.” She laughed. “He’s a pistol.”

“Hey, do you mind if I look at the bourbon?”

“No. Hope was making quite a study of it.”

“Yes, she gave us a little lesson out in Kentucky, and now I want to study it myself.” Sister flipped up the divider and peered into the baskets, pulling out the limited edition of Maker’s Mark. She noticed a smudge of red on the label but paid it no mind. “She certainly took good care of her patients, human and equine.”

“She did.”

“Lisa, I know all this has been hard on you. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lisa cast her large eyes upward. “Thank you. I will.” She paused, sucked in a deep breath. “I will never ever believe she took her own life.”

“I won’t either.”

Once back at the farm, Sister and Shaker turned out Gunpowder. He’d had limited turnout at the clinic. Dan said he’d be stiff perhaps for six weeks but better off outside. Confinement brought out the worst in him. Of course, Dan didn’t know that it wasn’t nervousness that kept Gunpowder from eating. He didn’t care for the hay mix.

The gray stood in the field with his friends and, like any man of a certain age, began to declaim about his condition. “The food was awful. They ran a tube up my leg after the first day. Then they finally took it out. The damned tube hurt more than the injury.”

HoJo, hanging over the fence—for he was in the adjoining pasture with another group of horses—commiserated. “Must have been horrible. You like to eat.”

“Are you mocking your elders?” Gunpowder cocked his head.

Matador, Aztec, and Lafayette walked up, too.

“No. You have a good appetite.” Aztec was glad to see Gunpowder home, even if the gray could be a pain sometimes.

“And I saw Hope’s killer.” He’d saved this tidbit. Everyone was gathered around.

“Who was it?” HoJo was bug-eyed with curiosity.

“I don’t know. I only saw his back, and I’m pretty sure it was a man. I was coming out of the anesthesia so I probably missed a lot.”

“But you could smell him. You’d recognize his scent,” Matador remarked, also excited.

“I could smell oilskin and a funny food smell. He wore an Australian rain hat and long Outback coat. That was it, pungent oilskin.”

“Did you tell the sheriff?” Keepsake asked.

Gunpowder snorted. “As if it would do any good. They’re all blistering idiots. Don’t understand one thing we tell them.”

“Shaker and Sister aren’t blistering idiots.” Lafayette took slight offense.

Gunpowder stretched out his hind legs; it was a little stiff back there. “No, they’re functionally illiterate.”

Much as the horses did love the two humans, they couldn’t help laughing.

Sister and Shaker, walking back to the kennels, heard the neighing.

“Glad to be home.” Shaker smiled.

Not until cubbing season would Sister realize when she saw the smudge on the label that she’d drawn over her fox and hadn’t even known he was there.

CHAPTER 12

June 7, Saturday, gleamed like a new penny. A light breeze on the soccer field accentuated the glorious sunshine of Commencement Day, and the mercury cooperated by hanging right at 70 degrees.

Sister sat on the dais with the other Custis Hall board members, including Crawford Howard. Naturally, they were civil to one another on this special occasion, despite their differences.

She wore her robes, the long hood signifying her discipline, which had been geology back when she taught at Mary Baldwin. The soft cap crowned her silver hair and she tried dutifully to listen to the drone of the various speakers, not one of whom possessed an original thought.

Charlotte Norton, the headmistress, was mercifully brief. She kept to the point, congratulating the graduates. The one good speech of the day came from Felicity, who had edged out Valentina by half a point in her grade average to become valedictorian. As her pregnancy had begun to show, she was grateful for the robe.

Felicity ended her seven-minute speech with, “No graduating class knows what the future will bring. We may live in peace or be at war. We will see medical breakthroughs yet suffer new lethal pestilence. We may learn to renew the earth’s resources or kill one another for dwindling water and food. We don’t know; we can’t know. What we can do is remember what we learned here: Face life with courage, conviction, and compassion. “Congratulations, Class of 2008! We’ll always be Custis Hall girls, which means we’ll always come through.”

The large crowd of graduates, underclassmen, parents, and friends awarded her a standing ovation.

Sister thought Felicity’s parents missed a fine valedictory. Their pigheadedness meant they’d miss more than that. However, Betty and Bobby Franklin, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Sybil Fawkes, Shaker and Lorraine, Ronnie Haslip, Xavier, and his wife had all come to support a young person they all liked.

Her most enthusiastic supporter, apart from the Jefferson Hunt crowd, was Howie Lindquist. Felicity would be eighteen in three weeks and he would marry her then.

The graduates crossed the dais, where Charlotte handed each girl her diploma and said a few words. Off the young women walked, flipping their tassels to the other side of their mortar boards. Many cried.

Val winked at Sister, who winked back.

Pamela Rene actually cried, which surprised everyone, but she trooped off in style as her ever-glamorous mother watched and seemed actually to enjoy the moment.

Tootie received a huge cheer when she received her diploma, and as she walked by the board members she said to Sister, “Thank you.”

The large quad filled with people after the outdoor ceremony. Under yellow and white striped tents, food, drinks, and gossip were in ample supply.

Marty Howard, who had slipped away from her husband, came up to Sister. “How are the hounds?”

“Oh, Marty, how good to see you! I miss you.” Sister bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “Hounds are fine. How about yours?”

A long significant pause followed. “They’re healthy.”

“I see. Well, Marty, Dumfriesshire hounds are both handsome and willful. They’ll only hunt for a strong huntsman. And remember, they’re an English hound. They lack the nose of the American hound.”