Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

“Yes, so it is.”

“Sheriff, where did you find this?”

Ben hesitated a moment. “Near the hanging tree.”

“I thought you and your men combed that area.”

“We did but the animals combed it more thoroughly than we did.” Ben left it at that.

“I guess you’re lucky the costume is in as good a shape as it is.” Bill peeled off the gloves, folding them in half. “I know Al’s car was in the parking lot here the next day. We all noticed it. I guess you all went over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“We did.”

Bill didn’t ask if the sheriff had found anything important to the case. He added, “Al willingly got in someone else’s car, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” Ben answered.

“Someone he knew.” Bill sounded sad, fatigued.

“It does seem like that. There were no signs of struggle on Al’s body. No bump on the head.” Ben inclined his head to the side. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything else that has occurred to you?”

“No. I just thought about his car.” Bill paused. “Sheriff, why would there be two Zorro costumes? Who else is involved?”

Ben said, “I don’t know, but I will find out.”

After both men had left, Charlotte sat at her desk, staring blankly at the silver tea service on the sideboard. A gift from the class of 1952, she loved the curving lines of the teapot, the burnish of the silver.

Teresa opened the door, peeking in. She started to close it.

Charlotte called her in, “Come on, T.”

Teresa closed the door behind her. “Charlotte, you’re worried.”

Charlotte looked up at her. “I am. I am more worried now than I think I ever have been in my entire life. More worried than when I saw Al hanging from the tree. That was a shock. This is worry.”

Teresa, warmhearted, nodded, “Well, I figure if the sheriff calls it can’t be good.”

Charlotte got up and walked around her desk; she took Teresa by the hand, walking her to the sofa. They sat down side by side.

“Teresa, I think Bill Wheatley is lying to me.”

Teresa’s face did not register surprise. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“What tipped you off?”

“He’s always been a little too cheery for me. Cheery is the only word I can think of, but lately, he’s cheery underlined three times except when Al Perez’s name comes up, and then he’s grief underlined. It’s all too . . .”

“Theatrical.”

“That is his department,” Teresa said drily. “Do you think this has anything to do with the dressing room discussion?”

Charlotte trusted Teresa completely. This trust was returned in full. She had asked her right-hand woman if she, too, had heard any rumors about Bill swooping into the dressing rooms. Teresa had heard the odd comment over the years but not enough to set off her radar.

“I wish I knew. I just know . . . he’s different. Then again, we have a murder on our hands, and I could be reading into everyone’s behavior. I find myself fighting down suspicions.”

“That’s natural.”

“And disquieting.” She sighed, leaning her head back on the sofa. She didn’t have an Adam’s apple but she had a tiny bulge there, Eve’s orange. “I have this terrible premonition.”

“What?”

She turned her head toward Teresa. “Not an event. I’m not seeing into the future. It’s, well, it’s that I think this is the beginning. Like you, I’m getting the creeps. And Teresa, I have no idea, not one, why or what.”

A long, long silence followed. “Like I said last week, the old cliché, this is the tip of the iceberg.”

C H A P T E R 1 7

The cold front blew the last of the leaves off the trees except for those on a steep southward slope. A few pin oaks glowed rich red. Other oaks with orange or deep russet leaves rustled with the light winds. Eventually the color would fade to a dull brown; the leaves might stay put until spring, when the new buds pushed them off.

Nature fascinated Sister, whether plant or animal. Little Dalby’s two thousand acres contained gorgeous ancient oaks, towering pines, and old hollies down in the bog that reached up a story and a half. The soil varied greatly from the eastern part of the old land-grant estate to the western, becoming more rocky, with boulders jutting up from pastures as one moved west.

Sister held a topo map for one quadrant of the farm. She turned, her back to the breeze, which was intensifying.

Betty held the left side of the map. “I thought the front moved through the other night.”

“Did. This is just plain old wind.” Sister pointed to a small cross on the map. “St. John’s of the Cross. Remember the wonderful Christmas Eve services the Viaults used to have here? You were newly married when I met you and Bobby Christmas Eve.”

“Bet the old vines and Virginia creeper are holding it up. Holding us up, too.” Betty thought back to old times.

Sister smiled. “That’s true. If it weren’t for honeysuckle some of my old fencing on the back acres would be down.”

“We’ve marked half this farm.” Betty reached into her pocket for a roll of hot pink surveyor’s tape. “I bet we can knock it all out and the boys can get over here tomorrow. I heard Crawford bought two new Honda ATVs, so he can ride one and Marty can ride the other. He’s going to use his to feed foxes on his farm when you show him how and give him a schedule. He’ll need the ATV.”

Sister inhaled deeply. “Deer.”

“Make your eyes water. Where is he?”

“Moving along the edge of the woods. The wind carried the scent straight to us. Tell you what, sure makes me appreciate the hound work on a windy day.”

“That’s the truth. I can remember days when we’d see the fox when the wind blew the scent thirty yards off. Shaker knows how to swing them into it, though, in case they’re struggling.”

“He’s a good huntsman. He’s a good man.”

“M-m-m,” Betty murmured in agreement. “Well, want to see what’s left of St. John’s of the Cross?”

Sister hopped onto her ATV, a 2001 Kawasaki. Used daily but well maintained, she didn’t think she could run the farm without it. She envied Crawford blowing into Wayne’s Cycle and writing a check for two brand-new Hondas. Knowing him, he bought the 750cc monsters.

They rode up to the edge of the old pasture, broomsages coming up, waving thin golden wands in the wind.

Sister slowed at the edge of the woods. Calling over her shoulder, she shouted above the motor, “Fence not bad. Let’s see if we can find an old farm road. We can mark a jump near the gate if there still is one.”

The two cruised along the woods until coming to the farm road. The gate, handmade from wood, was rotting out, hanging crooked on big rusted hinges.

Sister cut the motor and they both climbed off.

Betty reached the three-board fence and deftly looped the surveyor’s tape around the top board, leaving a tail to flutter. The jump site was twenty yards from the gate.

“St. John’s will be maybe a half mile down the farm road. Looks different, doesn’t it? Course, things change in eight years.”

“Things can change in eight minutes.” Sister laughed as she wiggled the old gate open. “Don’t see many hand-built gates anymore. Too bad.”

Betty fished in her pocket, holding up the sharp clippers. “Ready.”

They climbed on the Kawasaki and followed the farm road as it crossed another deeply rutted road, the ruts made by wagon wheels, not tires.

Sister called over her shoulder, “Once upon a time this was the old road to the gap. Guess it fell out of use around the turn of the last century.”

“Later. When the state built the new road—the 1930s.” Betty liked history. “Part of all the work F.D.R. cooked up.”