Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“I wish.” Hope slumped in the chair for a moment. “My divorce will be final at the end of June. I have to live because I don’t want Paul to get any more than he deserves. He’s coming out ahead on this, the bastard.” She stopped herself. “You know what Paul’s real sin is? He’s boring.”

A small silence followed this, broken by Sister. “People say there is no such thing as a good divorce, but I don’t know. If you can part without vats of hostility, maybe something can be salvaged.” The talk of bourbon had brought up the word vat.

“We’ve been erratic about that.” Hope sighed. “Let me go pull myself together. I’ll root for JHC tomorrow while I drive east on Sixty-four.” She stood up, then leaned over slightly. “Speaking of bourbon, I’ll bet anyone here five dollars you won’t see Gentleman Jack at the bar.”

“Not taking that bet.” Shaker laughed.

As Hope walked away, Tootie asked, “Why?”

“Gentleman Jack is a Tennessee bourbon, high end. Well, technically it’s Tennessee Sour Mash but it’s bourbon to the rest of us.” Shaker, who had once had a problem with alcohol, was something of an expert. “Also, Jack Daniels Black, Label Number Seven, and George Dickel are Tennessee bourbons. Won’t see them either.”

“Shit,” Sister whispered, then quickly said, “Sorry.”

Shaker followed the direction of her eyes.

Striding toward them was a tall, whip-thin, hawk-nosed man.

“Master Arnold, looking divine as ever. America’s own Artemis.” Mo Schneider beamed, no doubt feeling he’d burnished his intellectual credentials by using the goddess of the hunt’s Greek name.

Didn’t work.

Sister responded coolly. “Evening, Mo. I thought you’d be at the party.”

“On my way, on my way, and I do hope you’ll be there to sully your reputation with me.” His grin seemed like a sharp beak opening wide.

“Woodford puts on a good party,” Sister replied.

Mo’s eyes widened—as did those of most men of the heterosexual persuasion—when he spotted Tootie, with her café-au-lait skin and gold-flecked light-brown eyes.

Tootie extended her hand. A lady always extends her hand first, and at seventeen she certainly was a power-packed lady. “Pleased to meet you, Master.”

“You come on down to Arkansas on one of your school vacations and hunt with me.”

“Thank you.” Tootie smiled, which added to her considerable allure.

Mo peered in at the hounds. “As always, you’ve got some lookers. Might I go in?”

Sister smiled at his double entendre, which was intentional. “Specialize in it.” She rose, as did Shaker, to open the trailer door.

Sister stepped in, followed by Mo. “Four couple of young entry, two couple of hounds already hunting.”

Mo surveyed the group: beautiful coats, shining eyes on everyone.

“Who’s this? He’s outstanding.”

“Giorgio. American hound, obviously. Bywaters blood.” Sister cited a famous bloodline that had gone out of fashion in the 1970s but was making a comeback.

“You never waver from the Bywaters line.”

“Works for me,” Sister said pleasantly. “Plus it’s a line developed in northern Virginia for Virginia conditions.”

He swept his eyes over the hounds. “Thanks for letting me see them.”

They returned to the director’s chairs.

“How many hounds did you bring?” Shaker inquired, as he made a mental note to count Mo’s hounds when he had the chance.

“Six couple. All entered.” This meant they’d been hunted. Unentered designated a young hound who had not yet been out.

“Enough to keep you busy,” Sister said.

“Shaker, didn’t mean to ignore you,” said Mo. “How have you been? Heard you decked a member.” He turned to Sister. “Heard you decked him, too.”

“We performed this service at different times.” Sister smiled slyly. “He needed a lesson in Virginia manners.”

“Bad. Needed the lesson bad.” Shaker smiled also, at the memory of Crawford Howard, Midas rich, hitting the floor.

Mo laughed with false heartiness. “Sister, there are other ways to drop a man.”

“Yes, Mo, I know them all,” she replied lightly. “I went around the block before the block had sidewalks.”

“Not you. You’re a beautiful icon to us all.” He cast his eyes again at Tootie, who wanted to squirm but didn’t. “Well, on my way to the party. There’s a horn-blowing contest. Going to try.”

“Surely you’ll toot your horn fine.” Sister’s voice was bland.

Shaker had to look away, because if he caught her eye he’d laugh.

Mo walked off, the slight missing him since he thought it was a compliment.

Once out of earshot, Shaker growled, “I hate that lying piece of shit.”

“Tell me how you really feel.” Sister reached over to touch his muscled forearm covered with light auburn hair.

“I’d kill him if I could.” Shaker meant it.

“Why?” Tootie asked.

“He’s cruel to hounds, horses, and women.” Sister nodded, then turned to Tootie. “I guess because some men figure all three are obedient. They’ll put up with it.”

Sister stood up, then entered the hound trailer as Shaker patted his stomach. He’d already put up his generously sized tent next to the awning.

The hounds looked up as their master returned.

The trailer was spotless. Two levels connected by a ramp, with everything, even the trailer sides, covered in heavy rubber gave choices as to where to sleep. Although it was warm, Shaker had bedded the hounds down with straw that could easily be brushed off come morning. The night would cool down quickly, and if one of those famous Kentucky thunderstorms came up, the temperature could drop like a stone.

“Hello, Mother!” A happy chorus rang out.

Sister laid her hand on each glossy head, all six couple of them; hounds are always counted in twos, coupled. On reaching Diddy, she quietly reassured the youngster. “You’re going to be a star tomorrow. You just reach out and show those judges your fluid movement.”

Diddy blinked.

Sister, an animal person, knew that a soft voice, pitched low, calms an animal. Placing your hand on the head of a cat or dog also calms them. With horses, a hand on the head works, but if you press your fingers alongside and high on the horse’s neck, moving from the poll down to the withers, that soothes them, too.

She left her hounds, quietly shutting the slatted door behind her.

No sooner had she left the trailer than a robust salt-and-pepper-haired man, arms swinging in easy rhythm, bore down on her.

He came right up, caught her in his arms, and gave her a big kiss. “You beauty!”

Sister hugged him back. “Where have you been?”

“Zurich.”

Shaker stood to shake an outstretched hand once the newcomer had released Sister. “Been a long time.”

“Too long, too long.” Judge Barry Baker, retired from Virginia’s Supreme Court, slapped Shaker on the back.

“This young lady will be attending your alma mater.” Sister introduced Judge Baker to Tootie Harris.

Barry took Tootie’s hand in both his own. “How I envy you. Some of the happiest days of my life were spent at Princeton.”

Sister filled Tootie in. “Judge Baker was captain of the football team and the baseball team.”

“But I liked foxhunting best, and when I could I’d slip away and hunt with Essex. In those days there was still country in New Jersey. Well, young lady, I wish you the best of luck. You have a grand teacher in Sister.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Her best friend at Custis Hall also got in. Unusual,” Sister said.

“Princeton likes smart women, and Custis Hall specializes in them.” He smiled again, his bleached-white teeth giving him a more youthful appearance than his seventy-four years.