Рита Браун - Full Cry

“Dammit!” She cursed under her breath, picking them up for the last time and placing them with her ever-growing pile on the counter.

Gray, his own credit card in hand, perused her pile. “I thought you were just coming to visit Marion.”

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” She pointed to his mass of breeches, socks, stock ties, and shirts resting on the counter. “And I see that you, too, bought these gloves. Gloves that cost as much as a car payment.”

They burst out laughing as Wendy, behind the counter and a fixture at the store, totaled up their bills.

Charlotte strolled by, and in her hand was a lovely Moroccan bound book, its rich burgundy leather soft to the touch. She ran a bookstore; gorgeous antique hunting volumes and other equine objects were her speciality. “While you’re spending money.” She dangled the book in front of Gray.

“Ask Momma,” he read the title aloud, a classic from the nineteenth century. “Charlotte, you’re such a temptress.”

“Yes, everyone says that about her.” Wendy kept ringing up items.

Gray added Ask Momma to his pile.

Driving back down Route 29, they laughed at their impulsiveness.

Gray took a deep breath, slapped his hands on his thighs. “I worked hard enough making it. I might as damn well spend some of it.”

“Hard to resist those gloves.”

“I know.” He whistled appreciatively.

“We’ve driven all the way up; we’re driving all the way back. I can’t stand it. What did Sam say when he was restored to his senses?”

“When he called this morning on my cell phone,” Gray paused. “First, I didn’t tell him where I was. Second, I didn’t tell him you and Dalton helped him. He’ll find out in good time. Third, do you have your seat belt on?”

“I do.”

“He swore he did not take a drink.”

“What?” She was incredulous.

“Swore on our mother’s soul!”

“But he was blotto. Gone.”

“He swears it. I asked him what he remembered. He said he left the AA meeting with two other men, whom he couldn’t name because he’s not supposed to tell.”

“How convenient.”

“Right. And the next thing he remembers is waking up in bed, head thumping, stomach churning.”

Her voice softened. “Do you believe him?”

“Jane, he’s lied to me for close to thirty years. It’s hard to believe him.”

“That it is.”

“And I didn’t feel like talking about it when we left. I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It’s just,” he rested his hands on his knees, “I’m so sick of it.”

“I understand.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“For what?”

“For picking me up in a snowstorm, for driving up to Garth Road, for driving back and putting Sam to bed, for putting up with me last night.”

“I like your company.”

He breathed in deeply, turned to her, and ran his left forefinger along her right cheek. “I like you, Jane. So much.”

They drove in silence to where Route 29 and Highway 17 converge, 29 going south and 17 stretching on to Fredericksburg.

Sister finally spoke. “Can’t stand it. My curiosity’s getting the better of me.”

She punched in Ben Sidell’s number, speaking into the truck’s speaker phone when he picked up. “I’m a nosy twit, but is Donnie Sweigert’s autopsy complete?”

“Yes.”

“Was he shot or knocked over the head or stuffed with a knockout drug?”

“He had been in a fight shortly before his death. His neck, deep tissue, had been bruised. A deep bruise on his thigh, a cracked rib. He was most likely unconscious and then died from smoke inhalation.”

“Do you think he started a fire with a gas can next to him?”

“I don’t know.” Ben cleared his throat. “The can, although mostly empty, blew up from the small amount of gasoline in the bottom. Maybe the fire got away from him. Granted, Donnie wasn’t terribly intelligent, but he didn’t appear to be that stupid.”

“So now, Ben, three men are dead. They knew one another. They worked together sporadically. Maybe they were closer than anyone realizes.”

“Perhaps.”

“I assume you have contacted the people Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony delivered furniture to?”

“Yes.”

“We have four suspects, don’t we?”

Ben thought a moment. “Sister, you haven’t been idle. If you count Isabelle Berry, yes.”

“I do and I don’t. Wives can go along for years and know not one thing about the business of their husbands. Not their bailiwick.”

“True.”

“Have you checked Dalton Hill’s background?”

“He is what he says he is. Highly respected in his profession and in his hobby, the decorative arts of the eighteenth century. Guess that’s what you call it.”

“It’s possible his coming here is a coincidence.”

“I don’t know.” Ben’s voice grew louder as she drove through an area of better reception. “What I do know is that you had better keep your mouth shut. Forgive me for being blunt. For one thing, I’m piecing this together, and I don’t want you upsetting the applecart. It’s tough enough as it is, and our killer or killers don’t shy away from murdering people.”

“Afraid he or they will fly the coop?”

“Yes. I’m worried about that and I’m worried about someone getting in the way or another murder, if this is some sort of vendetta.”

“Ah.” She absorbed his comment about who might become a victim. “Can you think of anyone else in particular who might be in danger?”

“I don’t know. My hunch is that this is a falling-out among thieves.” He waited a moment as the reception cackled. “I beg you to be careful, please, Sister.”

“We’re talking about millions of dollars, aren’t we?”

“Yes. And people have killed for less.”

She pressed the End button. “Shit. Excuse my French.”

“If this is a falling-out among thieves, I’d think that Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony would have had money.”

“Donnie flashed around an expensive rifle.”

“He did, but if you want to know my hunch, it’s those three men who may have figured out the scam. Maybe they blackmailed the real criminals.”

“Yes. I wonder if any of them knew how much money was at stake.” She stopped for the light where Route 28 connects with Route 29. “It’s close, this evil.”

CHAPTER 38

Sunny, cold, and crisp, Thursday’s hunt at Orchard Hill unfolded as though Nimrod himself had written about it. Tomorrow night’s full moon would illuminate the snowy fields. Predators, hunting in full force, pursued rabbits, field mice, even ground nesters among the avian family. Why the tempo of hunting accelerated before a full moon, Sister didn’t know. She just knew it happened. Also that people’s emotions swung higher and wilder; sexual attractions heated up, too. Artemis possessed powers, as did her twin, Apollo. His were more obvious, hers commanded study.

On that glorious February 5, as hounds streamed across the thirty-acre hayfield, its imposing sugar maple, solemn as a sentinel in the middle of the snowy field, Sister thought how little glory remained in modern life. War, so technological and covered by reporters as an entertainment, had room for heroism, but not glory. Only sport and art retained the concept of, as foxhunters would say, throwing your heart over the fence. Professional sport—micromanaged, increasingly scientific—was like a salmon pulled out of the water: its colors were fading, and with it, glory. There’s a heedless, sunny aspect to glory, a disdain for profit and even the applause of others that appealed to Sister. Not that she minded applause or profit, but that wasn’t why she raced across the clean whiteness this morning. She wanted glory.