Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

Sister had asked her to come for Ben. She’d noticed their connection at the New Year’s party. And she really did want Margaret to know she was above suspicion. No one was pointing the finger at her.

They were pointing it at Golly, who had soared onto the table, grabbed a succulent slice of ham, and jumped off, racing upstairs with her prize.

“That damned cat!” Sister couldn’t get through the crowd to smack Golly’s bottom.

Ben’s cell phone rang as he was talking with Margaret. He flipped it open and recognized the number. “Excuse me, Margaret.” He listened, said little, then flipped the phone back. “We have permission from Angel’s great-niece in Richmond. That saves time.”

“Permission for what?” Margaret asked.

“To exhume Angel Crump.”

CHAPTER 24

Angel Crump was in much worse shape than Iffy Demetrios, but then she’d had a year and a half to molder. Embalming, limited as it was by social consent, and being interred in a casket preserved some tissues. The bones, intact, might yield something.

Lyle Aziz snipped what he could. Given that it was January 16, he hoped the results wouldn’t be eight weeks in coming. Not much happened in the dead of winter except for car wrecks, someone crashing through ice and drowning. The murder rate dropped down; the violent outbursts of summer’s sticky heat abated. The state lab ought to be able to get back to him faster than in July.

Still no results from Iffy’s remains. As for Angel, how many ways could someone kill another without arousing suspicion? When the victim—if she was a victim—was in her eighties, the possibilities increased. People expected older people to die, not considering wrongdoing when it occurred.

Angel had been slumped over her desk as though asleep when Garvey walked in with papers for her. He’d assumed her passing was natural. Why kill Angel Crump?

As Lyle worked away he was glad those were not his concerns. He did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs.

Ben Sidell was trying to do his. As Lyle bent over what was left of dear old Angel, Ben faced a furious Crawford Howard.

“Why would I kill her?” Crawford exploded as he sat in his sumptuous stable office, with cherrywood paneling, no less.

Ben stood before him, since Crawford rudely did not ask him to sit. Sam worked outside, bandages itching. He and Rory were grooming Czpaka in the crossties closest to the office just in case they might hear something. They heard that sentence.

Ben, voice lower, replied, “You aren’t under suspicion.”

Crawford shifted in his leather chair. “Iffy was an unreliable neighbor.”

“How so?”

“She’d say one thing one day and another the next.”

“Could you give me an example?”

Without hesitation, Crawford launched in. “Last fall I asked if I could ride over the low hills that separate us and ride the perimeter of her farm.” He explained as if talking to a child. “To sweeten the request I had Mostly Maples plant a ten-foot sugar maple in her front yard. She called, thanked me and mentioned she liked Southern hawthorns. Waynesboro Nurseries planted two for her. She finally agreed. A week later, Sam and I rode over late one afternoon, and she flew out on her broom. Apoplectic.” He drew in his breath. He shrugged. “The woman had a mental condition.”

“She said she had lung cancer.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? The result is the same.”

“Perhaps it matters in how we respond to someone like that.”

“Bullshit. She got away with murder. I know other people who have cancer and they don’t use it the way Iffy used hers. She was a useless person.”

“Better off dead?”

Crawford raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but”—he raised his voice—“that doesn’t mean I shot her. Traced the bullet yet?”

“No.”

“Hot gun.” Crawford raised his eyebrows. Stolen guns and knockoff models of expensive guns, sold cheap out of the backs of cars, were usually untraceable.

“If it is from a registered gun, we’ll track it down, but you’re right.” These were golden words to Crawford, so Ben smiled when he said, “It’s easy to procure a used clean gun.”

Crawford puffed out his chest a bit. “You guys want us to believe you can solve murders with technology. I say it’s still an easy crime to commit and walk free.”

Ben waited a beat. “If someone is very intelligent or very lucky, it’s easier than I would like it to be.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Thank you for your time.”

“Might want to talk to Sam. She hated him.”

“Thanks.” Ben left the office, crossed the center aisle, and stood quietly while Czpaka closed his eyes in pleasure.

Sam massaged the warm-blood’s long neck while Rory curried along his back. “Heard you all had some kind of hunt Saturday.”

Ben grinned. “How Shaker, Betty, and Sybil got that pack together, I’ll never know, and Sam, what a good run it was, too.”

“Starts in the breeding shed just like for horses,” Sam responded.

“Ah, yes, of course.” Ben then said to Rory, “You’re getting good at that.”

The dark curly-haired fellow nodded. “Sam’s teaching me a lot.” “Mind if I ask you a few questions, Sam? We can go in private if you like.”

“Rory’s my buddy.” Sam indicated that Ben should start in.

“Crawford said Iffy hated you.”

“Not always.” Sam chose his words carefully. “She was sharp with me, but that was Iffy’s way. Got bad at the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t matter what I said or did; she’d jump down my throat. When the hounds dug out, Sister picked up three couple, but about two hours later, one lone fellow showed up at her door. I go to pick up the hound and she comes out waving a steak knife at me.”

“Why do you think she hated you?”

Sam thought a long time. He looked at Rory, then back at the sheriff. “Alcoholic. I asked her to go to AA with me once.”

Ben replied. “No one else has mentioned this about Iffy.”

Rory spoke up. “Said she suffered from her treatments. Maybe she did, but she was a drunk.”

“It takes one to know one.” Sam supported Rory’s assessment. “Whatever medication she was on, she was still a drunk.”

“She hid it well,” Ben remarked.

“Not so well,” Rory piped up.

“If you know the signs, she couldn’t hide it. She was a functioning alcoholic. Most are. Less than five percent of alcoholics end up like Rory and me, on the street drinking sterno. She went to work, held her job. I guess she did a good job, but she was an alcoholic. She did her drinking at home. Maybe she hid a bottle in her car. Don’t know. There are people who get through the day. When the sun sets they hit the bottle. Every day.”

“Women hide it better than men,” Rory opined.

“Hide everything better than men,” Sam agreed.

“And you don’t think anyone else picked up on this?” Ben asked.

“She preyed on people’s sympathy. She’d totter around with her canes, or she’d slump in her wheelchair.”

Ben asked, “Are you saying she could walk just fine?”

“Unless she was loaded.”

“Do you think she could have faked her illness?” Ben said quietly.

This didn’t surprise Sam or Rory, which in itself surprised Ben.

“It’s possible. She was very smart.”

“I checked her medical records. The tumor is obvious.” Ben frowned for a second.

“Doesn’t make her any less of a drunk.” Rory brushed Czpaka’s hindquarters in a circular motion.

“Guess not.” Ben put his hands, cold, into his coat pockets.

“We saw right through her. She couldn’t stand it.” Sam lifted a small bucket from the floor.