Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

“Did you think Iffy was cured?”

“Yes, of the tumor.” A troubled pause followed. “She had other complications.”

“Oh?” Ben found medicine fascinating.

“Her platelets were higher than they should have been. That raised my suspicions that some cancer cells had established themselves elsewhere, but her tests were clean.” He pointed to her bulging chart. “After her first round of chemo and radiation, she experienced trouble walking. Occasionally, radiation creates neurological side effects. Sometimes the side effect doesn’t go away when the patient recovers. It’s rare, but it does happen.” He paused. “Granted, in time her legs might have become stronger, but that’s one of the reasons I kept running tests on her. She wasn’t bouncing back as fast as I’d hoped. If she was on her feet too long she’d become fatigued.”

“What about drugs? They can cause odd responses in some people.”

“Illegal, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Clean.” He rustled through her folder, plucked out a sheet, and showed Ben Iffy’s latest blood tests, pointing to the bar graphs on the page from the lab. “Clean as a whistle.”

“What about alcohol?”

“She drank socially, but here”—Jason pointed to that test result—“within the boundary. Iffy was a challenge.”

“Could some of her behavior have been psychologically motivated? Some kind of neurosis?”

Jason shook his head, a light smile on his lips. “That’s not my field, Sheriff. Was she insane? No. Was she moody, erratic, cantankerous? All the time.”

“Some of that could be a result of her medications, you think?”

“When she was undergoing chemo and radiation, yes. After she recovered, no.”

“One last question. You’ve been very good to give me your time. Did you like Iffy?”

A broad smile covered Jason’s face. “I did. Even when she was at her most uncooperative, I really did.”

“Ah.” A shadow crossed Ben’s strong face. “I’m sorry to tell you, Jason, your patient is dead.”

Confusion, doubt, suspicion registered in Jason’s face. “What happened to her?” He sat down abruptly. “After all she’d been through.”

“She was shot.”

“Good God.”

“I’m sorry. I hope you understand that I’ll ask more questions over time. I may even have to requisition your records, but I am sorry. You saw her through a great deal.”

“You know”—Jason’s voice was misty—“nasty as she could get, there was a kind side to Iffy. She would talk to other patients during chemo. She’d bring fruit and candy. She complained ad infinitum to the rest of us, but with other cancer sufferers, she was marvelous. Why would anyone kill her? I can’t understand it.”

“My job is to find out.”

“I’ll help you any way I can.”

“You already have.” Ben left. For the time being, he’d keep Lyle Aziz’s revelation to himself. Best to wait for the lab reports from Richmond.

Driving to Aluminum Manufacturers, he wondered how Garvey would take the news. After all, he was missing two million dollars. The culprit most likely had been shot in the head.

He wanted to talk to Sister Jane, too. She used all her senses in a situation like this. Most people used only their eyes and ears.

As he turned into the parking lot he remembered it was Friday the thirteenth.

CHAPTER 23

Winter’s gray skies depressed many people but not foxhunters. Low fleecy clouds, ranging in color from pearl gray to gunmetal gray, cast their darkening shadows on the snow.

Sister sat quietly on Lafayette as the huge tree, over three hundred years old, on Hangman’s Ridge waved its branches in the breeze as if beckoning.

The fixture card, printed on heavyweight good paper, had been sent out before Opening Hunt, the first weekend in November. The Jefferson Hunt tried to stay close to St. Hubert’s Day, November 3, for their opening. Crawford had left the club a few days before Christmas. Today they would have hunted from Beasley Hall, Crawford’s estate. That had to be changed. The easiest thing to do would be to hunt from the kennels. Since foxes flourished around Roughneck Farm, After All Farm heading east, and Foxglove Farm heading north, it should be fine.

Like most masters, Sister loathed changing a fixture once it was in writing. She thought scheduling one of the hardest tasks a master had to perform. She hadn’t much liked doing it as a wife and mother, either. Those Friday nights when Big Ray, RayRay, and she had sat at the kitchen table, individual calendars open, the large hanging family calendar off the wall to be altered had given her fits. She’d worn out one big white India-rubber eraser each Friday night.

She missed hunting at Beasley Hall. Crawford had spared no expense in opening territory. Coops, zigzag fences, tree trunks lashed together, even a beautiful river stone jump bore testimony to his largesse. Crawford had directed the workers, although at the time he’d known nothing about siting a jump. Sister had used all her tact to make sure the jumps had a decent approach.

Foxhunters, accustomed to leaps of faith, didn’t worry about sight lines or ground lines, but they sure worried about footing.

This Saturday, January 14, Crawford would be hunting his pack at Beasley Hall. She wondered what the foxes would do.

Despite her years at the helm of the Jefferson Hunt, she wanted to show good sport for members and guests, and was a bit nervous before each hunt.

This Saturday she had riders from Casanova Hunt. This pleased her, as it was one of those four-star hunts.

She also had Vicki Van Mater riding Jaz and Joe Kasputys on Webster from Middleburg Hunt. This, another glamour hunt, had hard-riding members.

Having a check on top of Hangman’s Ridge gave her the shivers. The wind always blew there even in summer. Winter’s wind, however light, cut. The ghosts of murderers, mountebanks, and hard-luck men whispered along this long wide plain, high above the cultivated fields, the one huge wildflower field, and way beyond to Soldier Road, snaking east and west.

Hounds worked the large ridge, then moved down into the underbrush, tight even in winter. The horses used the deer paths on the north side, the old farm road on the south. The remnants of the colonial road, originally the road up to the Potomac, a hundred miles and then some, occasionally would be cleared. That ran in a big S down the north side out to Soldier Road.

Hounds moved that way; Sister walked behind them and Shaker. A sudden burst of wind sent a moan from the giant oak. Her spine tingled.

Did dead souls meet? Would Iffy join these men and spin her tale of woe? She wasn’t surprised that Iffy had been secreted over Jemima Lorillard. What surprised her had been that not one penny of the filched money had been found in her bank account, nothing in her house.

Ben had come by Friday night. She fed him fried chicken, greens, and cornbread. Halfway through the impromptu supper, Gray had arrived, worn down by events but bearing the gardenia bush in bloom as promised.

Ben rode out this Saturday. He needed the hunting to clear his mind, and it was his weekend off. In fact, the field, at sixty-seven, proved cumbersome on such a cold day. The ones in the rear, continually pushed up by the Custis Hall girls, grumbled, but if they didn’t keep up, then Bobby Franklin would sweep them up and they’d need to stay with hilltoppers instead of first flight.

Lafayette stopped, pricked his ears.

Uncle Yancy shot straight in front of him, followed by Inky, the black fox vixen, and Comet, her saucy brother. A collective intake of breath from the field followed by everyone with their derbies, top hats, and hunting caps off pointing in three different directions added to the confusion.