Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Shaker thought a long time about this. “And Hope Rogers found out?”

“Could be. Her fury at Grant would have been boiling hot. You know, I’m so disappointed that she was running that bourbon scam.” She stood up. “Disappointed—but I liked her. She loved animals and she was a good vet. I won’t let it go.”

“I know.”

Once her chores had been knocked out, Sister, with Hope very much on her mind, drove over to Paradise.

Arthur DuCharme was in the big shed, working on a 1973 John Deere.

“Sister, what are you doing out here, feeding foxes?”

“Not today. What are you doing?”

“Cleaning the fuel line. I don’t know how I did it but I clogged it up. I’ve been running this tractor since the day I bought it in 1967, and this is the first time I’ve had a problem. Can’t complain.”

“Pretty much anyone who owns a John Deere can’t complain. It’s an expensive tractor, but you get what you pay for.”

“Said a mouthful.” He wiped his hands on an old red rag.

“I’m here, Arthur, hoping you will talk to me. I vow whatever you tell me stays with me.”

“The still?” He’d known Sister all his life.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t set it up. Hope talked to me. I told her what I knew and, yes, I told her the water was some of the best I’d tasted, coming straight down the mountain. And I told her I thought the water on the east side of the Blue Ridge is better than the water coming down on the west side.”

Being a geologist, Sister knew that the Blue Ridge, an ancient chain, did have variation on the different sides, different counties; it was part of what made this area and these mountains so fascinating.

“Did you show her your old site?”

“I did.”

“Did she pay you?”

He wiped his hands again, carefully studied the red rag, and then draped it over his left shoulder. “Not in money. She sent me a new refrigerator and a big new water heater. She asked if I wanted a percent of her profits and I said I didn’t because the still was on Foster land, not DuCharme.” He stopped and folded his arms across his chest. “She was a good girl, Sister. She was carrying the Japanese a little fast but they deserve it. Make ’em pay through the nose for the next two hundred years, I say. I’m not ever going to forget Pearl Harbor.”

Sister didn’t feel that way, but she did understand the animosity in others. “Funny, isn’t it, how both Germany and Japan underestimated us. Thought we were soft. Dictatorships, whether by individuals or an elite, can’t grasp democracy. That’s what I figure. And you know, brilliant as the attack on Pearl Harbor was, they had a tiger by the tail. Should have left us alone.”

“So what do we do?” His voice rose. “We rebuild them after the war, and then we make them rich by buying Toyotas. The money should stay here.” He patted the John Deere as if it were a horse.

Of course, John Deere is manufactured in Illinois.

“War’s over.”

“People say that about the War Between the States.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s different.”

Then they both laughed.

“Like I said, Hope was a good girl. She helped a lot of people; she helped animals. So she was making a little potent drinking water. Washes your troubles away.”

“Think she killed herself?”

“I don’t like to think she would.” He paused, pulling the rag on his left shoulder down with his right hand. “No. No, I don’t. And Paul didn’t kill her either, though some people want to think he did. He’s the type to bring you down with words, you know? Not a killer.”

“Was there anything you saw in that still that you didn’t tell Ben?”

“Sure didn’t give him the secret for making good stuff.” He laughed. “I was surprised when I saw the still. I knew it was there but I hadn’t been back to see it. It’s none of my business, plus whoever is running a still wouldn’t want people back there. What surprised me wasn’t the still but the size of the operation—and the equipment. Good stuff. Really good stuff.”

“Think she was killed over it?”

He shook his head emphatically. “No. That would be really stupid. The woman was good. Now mind you, I was pretty shocked when she brought me a sample. Can’t say as I ever knew any woman to run a still before, but that one sure knew what she was doing. Women are full of surprises.” He winked.

“Think she could have been shot by a rival distiller?”

He moved a wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. “No. I sit on the porch at sunset. Like to watch the sun go down. And I think, Suicide. The sheriff says suicide. Would someone in my old line of work know how to make a murder look like suicide? I don’t think so. Hope’s death had nothing to do with cheap bourbon.”

“Any other thoughts?”

A long silence followed, “Maybe horses. She found something bad. Some of those people are so rich they could have hired a professional to take her out, know what I mean?”

“Yes. Arthur, thank you for this.”

“Thank you for being a modifying influence on Ben Sidell. It’s possible to interpret the law too harshly.” He tipped back his head and roared.

She laughed with him. “Arthur, truer words were never spoken.”

CHAPTER 25

All the mornings of the world seemed reflected in the morning of September 13. The sweet air carried a hint of coolness. The rim of the sun peeked over the horizon in the east. Night hunters returned to their lairs, nests, and dens. Day hunters awakened, along with every rooster in central Virginia.

Sister, walking along on Rickyroo, thought her heart would burst through her body. She never felt more alive than when foxhunting. The cares of the man-made world vanished as once again she touched the fingertips of the gods.

Behind her rode sixty-seven people. They’d arisen at four or five in the morning, depending on how far they lived from Skidby. They’d fed, groomed horses, if lucky, perhaps grabbed something for themselves.

Jefferson Hunt members prided themselves on their turnout. Cubbing allowed more individual expression. Kasmir wore a splendid bespoke tweed, a tan herringbone. A creamy silk stock tie with tiny dots of red was immaculately folded, and a red silk handkerchief peeked out from his breast pocket. But everyone had the wisdom to select colors that showed them to good advantage while staying within the bounds of hunting fashion.

Sister turned to look behind her as she trotted over a pasture shimmering with dew. Glints of silver and gold appeared as the light touched the grass. Perfect, she thought. This moving tableau had been enjoyed by countless Virginians over the last three centuries. When those departed souls rode out on mornings such as this, they surely felt that life was meant to be lived full gallop. Sister had the sense to be thankful.

Hounds, sterns up, fed off the emotions of their huntsman, but they, too, could sense the mounting anticipation from the field. A new fixture added to their high spirits.

As Shaker and Sister discussed, they’d brought experienced hounds, although Giorgio had slipped into the draw pen somehow, managing to get by the head count, too. Occasionally this happens. Shaker couldn’t allow the youngster to sit in the trailer howling his head off. Giorgio packed in during morning walks and had shown promise at the fox pens, so he might as well hunt.

Rickyroo, opening his nostrils wide, called out, “I can beat any horse out here today.”

Kilowatt, Shaker’s mount, whinnied back, “Dream on.”

Barry, riding next to Gray, commented, “Makes a man feel twenty again.”

Kasmir, directly behind them, remarked, “I’ll settle for thirty.”