Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

“Nursing. Delia’s a good mother. Even if you’d been sound asleep next to her, she would have warned you if someone drove through the farm. You would have known. It’s a crazy thing, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Sooner or later, they’ll catch ’em.”

“One hopes.” She reached for a gallon of corn oil.

Shaker opened the door for the fed group of young hounds to return to their runs. He then washed out the troughs, refilling them with kibble. Sister poured a line of corn oil over the feed as Shaker opened another run door for older hounds to enter. They rushed up to Sister in greeting, then dove for the chow.

“It’s supposed to rain Tuesday, temperature’s supposed to drop, too.” Shaker checked with the Weather Channel constantly.

“Yeah, I saw that, too. But I’m betting the rain will come in after we wrap it up at Mud Fence.” She named that day’s fixture, an old estate whose fences in the mid-eighteenth century were made of mud. The first settlers lacked the money for nails. They could fell trees and plane boards but nails were very expensive. Eventually they built snake fences once the work of clearing began in earnest. One didn’t need nails for that. Some folks had to make do with a mud fence until they could clear more land, get more timber.

“Want to bet?”

“Five dollars.”

“Bet.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “Boss, ever consider murder?”

“You mean me killing someone or someone killing me?”

He laughed. “Ever consider what drives someone to it?”

“Sure.”

“I expect any of us can kill. Just need the right or wrong circumstances.”

“We might be mad enough to kill yet we don’t. We don’t step over the line.” She listened to the hounds chewing their kibble, a comforting sound. “If one of these hounds kills another hound, why does it happen?”

“Sometimes they know a hound is weak, sickening. They take him out. Maybe that’s canine mercy killing. Doesn’t happen often.” He thought a bit more. “If there’s a fight, it’s a challenge, a top-dog thing.”

“Same with horses. They rarely kill but they can sure kick the powder out of one another if they take a notion.”

“You’re saying we murder, they don’t.” Shaker kept an eye on Dragon, growling. “That’s enough, Dragon, shut up.”

“Apart from war or self-defense, if we kill it’s revenge, that’s straightforward. Sex killing or serial killing is men against women. Sickness and anger, I reckon. Then there’s money. Always that.”

“And a challenge to authority. The top-dog deal.” Shaker’s auburn curls caught the light.

“Right. For the life of me I can’t figure out how Al Perez, a mild fellow, fits any category. Can’t see him as a sex criminal taken out by an enraged victim or father of same.” She noted Shaker’s expression. “Well, Custis Hall bursts with girls becoming women. That’s a potent cocktail for a certain kind of man. Money? He raised millions for the school. But he didn’t work on a percentage basis. Yes, he received a big Christmas bonus. Being on the board, I’m privy to the financial life of the school, but I can’t divulge details. He could have gotten resentful and figured he should get more given all that he raised for the school. It’s possible.”

“Yep.”

“As to the challenge idea. I can’t even imagine him challenging a dog.”

“People can fool you.” He whistled low to Asa, an older hound, who had finished his breakfast.

Asa walked over, put his head under Shaker’s hand. “Isn’t it a good morning?”

Sister smiled when Asa crooned. “You’re a gentleman, Asa.”

“Now, Boss, your curiosity getting up, is it?”

“Isn’t yours?”

“Some.”

“In a community as tight as ours, any death touches the rest of us eventually. I’m afraid of what we don’t know.”

C H A P T E R 9

“ When the Good Lord jerks your chain, you’re going.” Sam Lorillard brushed Easy Able, one of Crawford Howard’s steeplechase horses, a big rangy fellow who was winning the brush races.

Rory Ackerman scrubbed down the wash stall with disinfectant. Sam, in charge of the ’chaser stable, was fanatical about cleanliness, although this sense of organization was not reflected in his own house. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” the wiry African American said. “You die when you are supposed to die. Now, we can all be horrified at Perez’s murder, but if he didn’t die that way, he would have gone to glory another way. It was his time and no one can change that.”

“Then how do you explain that I was just about dead when you hauled me down to Fellowship Hall? You saved my life.” Rory, an alcoholic like Sam, both recovering, thought fate no substitute for free will.

“You’d have stunk up heaven with Thunderbird. God prefers better fragrances.” Sam laughed, for Rory used to reek of cheap liquor.

The square-built dark-haired man cut off the hose while he scrubbed the wash stall walls with a long-handled brush. “Whatever the reasons, I’m glad I’m still here and I’m glad Crawford hired me.”

“He’s a funny guy.” Sam ran both hands down Easy’s forelegs. “Doesn’t know squat about horses. Likes to make a big noise, you know, be the man, but he’s all right. He’s fair. How many of our fine-born Virginians would have given you or me a chance? He did.”

“That’s the point. He didn’t grow up with us.” Rory laughed as he turned the water back on, squirting down the yellowish foam on the walls.

“Well—” Sam didn’t finish as Crawford strode into the barn.

Inhaling the scent of cedar shavings, ground to a fine grade, Crawford rubbed his hands, for this Monday morning was overcast, quite cool. “Hell of a note.”

“Perez?”

He nodded his head, yes. “Charlotte’s called an emergency board meeting tonight. Ought to be interesting.”

Rory, quiet, continued washing. Not a horseman, but he was strong, liked physical labor, happy to do whatever Sam told him. He watched Sam because he wanted to learn, not to ride, but to learn on the ground how to properly care for a horse.

“Who do you think did it, Mr. Howard?” Sam politely asked.

“Damned if I know. I can’t see that Alfonso Perez was worth hanging. Milktoast. A man’s got to have balls. This ‘the meek shall inherit the kingdom of heaven’ is exactly right because they won’t inherit a damned thing on earth.”

“Right.” Sam stayed on the good side of Crawford by keeping most of his personal opinions to himself. He’d tell the boss what he thought about horses, tracks, running conditions, other trainers and horses but he kept his mouth shut otherwise, if possible.

“Unless this emergency meeting goes into the wee smalls,” he meant late into the night, “I’m going to hunt tomorrow. Might not be a bad day to bring out a young horse.”

“What time, sir?”

“We ought to pull out of here by six-thirty. Gives us time just in case.”

Since the country roads, two lanes, bore all traffic, one could crawl behind a timber truck hauling logs to the sawmill or a school bus that stopped every fifty feet. You stopped with it when the lights flashed. The other early-morning hazard was the paper delivery lady, who flew along the roads like an amphetamine-crazed maniac.

“Mrs. Howard hunting tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be ready to roll,” Sam said. “Six-thirty.” Crawford reaffirmed the time and then left.

Fairy Partlow worked Crawford’s hunters while Sam managed the whole equine operation at Beasley Hall. In a way, Fairy had been demoted since she worked for Crawford before Sam’s arrival. If she minded, she didn’t show it. Sam thought Fairy was happy not to have too much responsibility. All she wanted to do was make and ride the hunters. So far things were smooth as glass.