Рита Браун - The Tell-Tale Horse

Mary chimed in. “And fox scent is heavier than rabbit scent.”

Sister and Betty were as enthralled with this information as were the young folks. True hunters find no bottom to their enthusiasm, much to the despair of those around them.

Al thought things through in systems, in checklists. He broke down complicated problems into discrete parts, which is natural for a combat pilot. A man has a much better chance of living through a war if he does this, and the equipment Al flew was the most sophisticated for its time. You’d better have a checklist or else. He applied this relentless logic to hunting the bassets, but like all good huntsmen he could be flexible.

Tired but full from all the food, the Jefferson Hunt gang bid their Ashland friends good-bye as they piled into trucks, SUVs, old station wagons still providing service, and Val’s Jeep.

Tootie hesitated for a moment before stepping over the lip into the sturdy vehicle that really could go anywhere.

“Will you stop being a prima donna!”

“Val, you’re not sitting in the back,” Tootie said.

Pamela replied, “Neither am I. Come on, Tootie, I rode back there on the way up.”

“All right, all right.”

Sister walked by. “Be grateful you don’t have old bones.”

“They’ll be old by the time I get to school.” Tootie laughed and climbed in, the door swinging shut behind her.

Sister and Betty drove past Marion, who was starting her car.

Stopping, Betty lowered her window. “Come on down. We’re hunting Mill Ruins Saturday. You’ve never seen Peter Wheeler’s old place. The mill still works.”

“I don’t know if I can take off work, but it’s a wonderful invitation.”

As Sister and Betty rolled down Route 29 they reviewed the hunt, the tailgate, their lengthy discussion with Marion as to the status of the Warrenton murder, and the murder at Foxglove. Then they replayed Al’s wonderful talk on hunting with bassets.

“It’s funny, all the years I’ve whipped in and I never thought about hunting a hunter. All I know is fox. Well, deer occasionally, but hunting with hounds, all I know is fox,” Betty said.

“Since a prey animal is in some respects weaker than a predator, camouflage and stillness are essential.” Sister loved talking about these subjects. “But you know, a cow is prey and a horse is prey, but of course they’re large. They don’t have to remain still and they have hooves to kick the daylights out of a predator.”

“Or me.” Betty laughed. “Remember the time that doe charged Archie?” She named a now-departed beloved hound. “When was that? I remember, 1997. Outlaw was green then, his first season, and after the doe charged Archie she charged us. Scared the hell out of both of us. Outlaw came up with all four feet off the ground.”

“Bet your heart flew up too.” Sister smiled. “Every now and then something happens out there and the rush is incredible. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad, but at least you know you’re alive. Hard to believe the season’s almost over. Always gives me the blues. Then I snap out of it. When the puppies start coming and the garden blooms, I pick up again.”

“You’ve got a green thumb.”

“Thanks.” Sister sat upright, making Betty look ahead, wondering if something ran across the road. “Betty, what if our killer is a prey animal?”

“What?”

“What if our killer feels weak? Here we’ve been assuming this is some kind of sex thing, which it may be, or that it’s tied into wireless competition. But what Al said about a prey animal sitting tight, then having to be bolted? Maybe that’s our killer, sitting tight, only coming out to kill when the coast is clear. Aashi and Faye were seen as predators.”

Betty thought hard. “Weak things can kill, can fight back. After all, the doe did.”

“One has to provoke them, right? The first defense is to hide. I guess the second is to flee, but if we can bolt the killer, we’ll know him.”

“High Vajay doesn’t strike me as weak,” Betty said.

“Too smart.”

“You don’t think High’s the killer?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt it. He has too much to lose by committing that kind of felony.”

“Unless he had more to lose with the two women living.”

“True.” Sister noted a streak of turquoise over the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“I thought weak people poisoned their victims. Guess that’s one of those stereotypes. You know, kill by stealth.” Betty wondered how to flush out the murderer.

“Still a useful way to send someone off planet earth. All the labs in the world can’t point to who put the poison in the cup. They can only identify the poison. But, see, this is what bothers me. If someone used poison, wouldn’t you assume they don’t want to be caught?”

“Sure.” Betty reached up for the Jesus strap as they took a curve. Reaching for the strap was force of habit.

“Part of me thinks our killer, like most murderers, wants to get away with it, and part of me thinks not. The Godiva part is too public.”

“People do get away with public murders. What about all those political murders in places like Ireland, Serbia, Iran, and Iraq? I’m not even counting Africa. I guess it’s a matter of scale. The more people you kill the better your chances of escaping justice.”

“Pinochet proved that.” Sister pointed to the flaming sunset over the Blue Ridge Mountains. “But, on the other hand, we judge everything by the comfort of America. Look at Spain, a hideous civil war. Did that war lay the groundwork for Spain’s resurgence today? Same with Chile. Did all those murders of Allende’s people lay the groundwork for that country’s economic revival? We don’t like to think about things that way. I mean, we don’t like to think that sometimes forests have to be burned for fresh growth.”

“Yeah, it’s repulsive.”

“I guess it is. The Chileans slit the bellies of those they killed, then dropped them from airplanes into the ocean so they’d sink without a trace. I consider that gross.”

“Isn’t that always the problem with a human corpse? How do you destroy the evidence?”

“Right. But here we have a killer who wants everyone to admire the evidence. I just don’t get it. What I do get is, he’s here.”

“And was at the Casanova Hunt Ball.”

“Right. I’ve gone over the list. It’s half our club.”

“Ben Sidell has it?”

“Of course, he’s questioned everyone methodically as to when they left the ball and what they saw. As far as I can tell, everyone has been cooperative.”

“Too bad Crawford wasn’t there, we could pin it on him.” Betty laughed.

“He’s like a bad penny, he’ll show up when we least want to see him.” Sister sighed. “Maybe I’ll have a brainstorm.”

“I rather hope not,” Betty said firmly. “The last time you thought you could pin a murder on someone he nearly killed you. This person puts the silver bowl in your stable office, drops off a movie, parades a corpse at Cindy Chandler’s. You stay out of it.”

“How can I stay out of it? I’m in the middle and I don’t even know why.”

“Well, that makes two of us. Where you go, I go.” Betty smiled.

CHAPTER 26

True to form, Crawford did show up on Saturday morning. He called first.

Both Crawford and Sister sat on the Board of Governors for Custis Hall. The administration had been searching for a new theater director as well as a head of alumnae relations. Crawford strongly opposed one of the candidates, personally visiting every board member. Sister was first on his list because he wanted to get it over with.

After hearing his objections, Sister replied, “Thank you for doing the homework. I support your nonsupport of Milford Weems.”