Рита Браун - The Tell-Tale Horse

“I like her scent. Piney.”

“Oh, that’s her perfume,” Inky smiled. “She’s never smelled any other way, whereas you’ll notice the other humans change perfumes and colognes. I mean, we still know who they are, but they must like changing odors kind of like changing clothes. It’s peculiar.” She paused. “Bitsy bred.”

“No!” Georgia’s whiskers drooped.

“Maybe Golly will kill some little owlets.” Inky named Sister’s grand calico cat, brimming with overweening pride.

“Bitsy will peck her eyes out.”

“Well, we can hope.” Inky laughed.

“Mom, more screech owls? It would be one thing if Athena bred.” The great horned owl, the Queen of the Night, was a creature to be feared and obeyed. “Her voice is beautiful, but Bitsy?” Georgia grimaced.

“Maybe we can steal some earplugs out of the barn.” Inky laughed. “Or maybe we can leave a note for Sister to buy some. Ha. Wouldn’t that be the day, when a fox writes a note!”

“But we do.” Georgia was confused.

“No, I mean write like them—you know, scribble on paper. They can’t read our messages. Even Sister misses the subtle ones. She gets the scat, the urine markings, and even the little caches, but she misses other things. If I rub against a tree with smooth bark, she won’t smell it. If it’s rough bark, maybe she’ll see some fur, but they can’t read us like we can read them. Actually, they can’t read one another too well, either. I mean, without writing.”

“Must be truly awful to live with such poor senses, apart from their eyes, which are only good in daytime. I mean, really good.”

“Ignorance is bliss, dear. They don’t know what they don’t have.” Inky circled, then lay down gracefully. “Sister’s upset.”

“That outlaw pack again?” Georgia knew about the Dumfriesshire hounds.

“That’s not going to go away. He won’t hunt our territory, but since he can’t control the pack that doesn’t mean they won’t run our way sometimes, and we don’t know them. We’ll have to be very alert.” She flicked her tail, no white tip on the end like a red fox. “No, she and a friend found a murdered woman Saturday night—well, I guess it was Sunday morning by then.”

“How do you know?”

“She brought some turkey over to my den and sat outside. She gets a little chatty sometimes if she smells me in there.”

“Turkey? You got turkey?” Georgia, like all Jefferson foxes, had recourse to a five-gallon bucket filled about once every three weeks with kibble drizzled with corn oil.

Sometimes the kibble had Ivermectin in it to clean out the parasite loads, except when vixens were bred. No more Ivermectin until August then, because it’s too dangerous for fox cubs to ingest. It took two days to feed at all the fixtures. People, even foxhunters, rarely know what it takes to manage wildlife properly: the territory, the kennels, the horses, and, of course, the vital landowners, without whose support there would be no foxhunting. One had to manage hunt staff too, if you were a master. Fortunately, Sister had an easy time there.

“You didn’t get turkey?”

“Got my kibble with cheese. But I would have liked turkey.”

“She probably ran out. She’s good about passing around the treats.” Inky loved Sister; it was mutual.

“Well, what about the murder?” Georgia’s curiosity was pricked.

Inky told her all she knew. Sister’s account had been graphic. The two foxes curled up in silence for a while after the story.

Finally Georgia said, “Pretty stupid to kill a beautiful female at the height of her breeding powers.”

“Could have bred to the wrong person. Humans are funny about that.” Inky thought out loud. “Or refused to breed.”

“Did Sister have any ideas?” Georgia found most human behavior extraordinary, and being young she had much to learn.

“No. That’s what worries her—well, that and the shock of seeing a naked body on horseback right in front of her friend’s store.”

“But you said a silver punch bowl had been stolen, big enough for us and a litter of cubs. So maybe the woman got in the way or maybe she was part of it and then got in the way.”

“Could be, although wouldn’t it be easier just to kill a person and leave her? That horse stuff was elaborate.”

“I’m sorry Sister’s upset. I think it’s crazy, but it really has nothing to do with us.”

As Inky and Georgia caught up on events, Sister and Gray, in bed under the covers, watched a basketball game. Sister kept nodding off even though she liked college basketball.

Gray, his arm around her, smiled.

Golly, flopped on Sister’s legs, purred slightly as she slept. Raleigh, the Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier, snored on the rug alongside. Each had a thick fake fleece dog bed but they liked being right by Sister.

Sister was awakened by the beep of her cell phone on the nightstand. She reached for the phone, looked at the caller ID, and punched the button.

“Betty.”

“Hey, girl. Did I wake you up? It’s nine. You must be worn out.”

“Well, I dozed off watching Kentucky.”

“Bobby’s watching that too.” Betty liked football much better than basketball. “Forgot to tell you that X”—she used the nickname for Henry Xavier, forty-six, a club member and another of Sister’s son’s childhood friends—“will bring the liquor to Mill Ruins on Saturday.”

“If we can hunt. This sleet could mess up everything if we get a deep freeze with it.”

“Well, it looks that way. God, remember five years ago when just about every hunt in Virginia lost the last half of the season because it was one ice storm after another?”

“I’d rather not.”

“This has been a long winter, though; it started early in November. Doubt that spring will arrive on time this year.”

“It’s been a hard winter. We’ve been lucky to get hounds out. The snow’s not bad, but a day like today—well, you know.”

Before Betty could reply the line went dead.

Sister punched the button to redial and got a busy signal. “What’s the point of paying a monthly bill if these phones cut out every time there’s a little bit of weather?”

“I know.” Enthralled by the game, a close one, Gray replied blandly.

The cell rang back and Betty started talking. “Lost you. I’ll make it fast. News bulletin on Channel Twenty-nine. The woman’s been identified.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that first?”

“Because it just came across the bottom of the screen. She’s Aashi Mehra, twenty-two, from Bombay. Wait, now we call it Mumbai.”

“It’s a long way from Mumbai to Warrenton.”

CHAPTER 6

At six in the morning on Wednesday, February 20, Sister stepped outside, having gulped a cup of Colombian coffee liberally laced with half-and-half. Golly, fed first, refused to follow, but Raleigh and Rooster tagged at her heels, their claws clicking on the thin veneer of ice.

The frozen grass, coated with ice, awaited sunrise to glitter. Each time Sister took a careful step, the ice cracked under her work boots. A jet of vapor escaped from her mouth, and steam poured from Raleigh’s and Rooster’s mouths too. The mercury at 22 degrees Fahrenheit might climb, but how much? If it nudged over 32 degrees, the ruts in the old farm road would thaw and driving would test a person’s reflexes.

Gray, asleep upstairs, would awaken at seven. He rose early on hunt mornings but, like most people of a certain age, he was set in his habits. She didn’t mind that by her standards he was a sleep-in. He more than made up for it the rest of the day, for Gray, active in mind and body, liked projects. They were alike that way, yet she had found herself thinking of Big Ray lately. They had kept the same rhythm. Sure, they had had their various discreet affairs, but they were two people deeply in tune. Her lover, Peter Wheeler, older than she by close to seventeen years, while not close in the diurnal sense, had inflamed her mind like no one else she ever met. Sister had been well served by the men she loved. Wise in the ways of the world, she kept her mouth shut, allowing other people to mouth the hollow pieties that seemed to ward off whatever fears gnawed deep inside. The human animal is not monogamous, although men, at least before DNA testing, desperately tried to imprison a woman’s sexuality to ensure that her offspring were theirs. She knew this subject caused explosions even in simple discussions so she shut up about it, but Jane Arnold had always taken her pleasure where she found it, and she would march under that banner for the remainder of her days.