Рита Браун - Hotspur

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Praise

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

SOME USEFUL TERMS

Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

Copyright Page

Dedicated with admiration to Mrs. Paul D. Summers, Jr., MFH. Her hounds sing her praise.

More praise for Hotspur

“Colorful and exciting, and not without intrigue, greed, mystery, and drama . . . A quick, light read, perfect for an airplane trip or a winter afternoon wrapped in a blanket by the fire.”

—Port Folio Weekly (Virginia Beach, VA)

“ Hotspur is one mystery you will enjoy taking your time with. . . . The author has a writing style all her own and she makes a habit of giving readers their money’s worth. The storyline is so complete that one can’t help but take his or her time in getting to know the characters, enjoying the cast of animals, and concentrating on the mystery.”

—Mystery News

“Fans of the Mrs. Murphy series are going to love Hotspur , an enchanting tale where the animals delight the reader with their ready wit, common sense, and love for their humans. Sister is a memorable heroine.”

— HARRIET KLAUSNER

“A page-turner filled with wry observations of small-town southern life. Brown combines her strengths—exploring southern families, manners, and rituals as well as the human-animal bond—to bring in a winner.”

—Booklist

CHAPTER 1

A wind devil swirled upward, sending tiny bits of stone dust glittering in the sunlight.

Even though it was the fourteenth of July, the morning proved breezy and quite pleasant at sixty-one degrees.

The staff and friends of the Jefferson Hunt were walking out hounds. Since it was seven-thirty in the morning, “dedicated friends” was perhaps a more accurate term, Sister thought to herself. The master, Jane Arnold, called Sister by all, walked behind her pack. The huntsman, Shaker Crown, a medium-build fellow, strode in front of the hounds.

Two whippers-in, Doug Kinser and Betty Franklin, flanked either side of the pack, and the dedicated friends, two this morning, tagged behind the master.

This two-mile walk down a crushed gravel road served to exercise hounds and to introduce the young entry, those hounds that would be hunting this fall for the first time, to the ways of the pack. As the summer progressed and the length of the walks became longer, fat melted off the human bodies. People looked healthier, more fit.

It amused Sister that millions of Americans, overweight and overfed, emptied their pockets on one fad diet after another. If they’d only make it a habit to walk out hounds they’d lose the pounds, save their money, and experience the most beautiful time of the day.

On any given morning, Sister saw bluebirds, indigo buntings, goldfinches, cardinals, robins, ravens, and hawks roaring over in search of breakfast—or maybe just a good time.

Rabbits, moles, shrews, even wild little sleek minks rustled in the meadows off the roadside.

Safe in the trees, cicadas, their Winston Churchill eyes surveying all, sang with deafening exuberance.

Clouds of black-and-yellow butterflies swirled up from the cow patties and horse patties dotting the verdant pastures of After All Farm, the glorious estate of Theodora and Edward Bancroft. Gleaming white fences, painted every two years, divided the pastures, and each fence line boasted a lovely coop or stone jump. Theodora, called Tedi, delighted in designing jumps and set them perfectly. Building the jumps seemed to give the wealthy but directionless woman something like a purpose in life.

As the small group walked briskly past the western pastures of After All, three old pensioners lifted their wise heads. Peppermint, the oldest at thirty-four, had taught two generations of Bancrofts to hunt.

From the other side of the pasture he nickered in acknowledgment of the humans and hounds he knew so well. Behind him Domino and Merry Andrew also stopped munching for a moment. In the background a pristine covered bridge crossed over Snake Creek. Tedi had built it in the heat of one of her architectural enthusiasms back in 1981.

“Hello, old man,” Sister called, waving to the gray horse.

“Good to see you, too,” Peppermint answered before turning to drink deeply from the creek.

“Good horse never forgets the pack or the master,” Shaker called over his shoulder.

“Indeed,” Betty Franklin agreed with a smile. She was the happiest she’d ever been in her life. She’d lost twentyfive pounds and felt like a teenager again.

Cora, the head bitch, gaily walked in front, and the young entry following tried to imitate their leader. The second-year hounds acted like the sophomores they were. Truly “wise idiots,” they at least knew better than to float out of the pack.

As they walked, the hounds kicked up little puffs of gravel dust. Inquisitive grasshoppers flew tantalizingly close to their black moist noses, darting away in the nick of time.

Raleigh, Sister’s devoted Doberman, flattened his ears to block out the din of the hounds. He considered himself hunt staff and if a youngster strayed from the group Raleigh pushed him back in before a human could react. Hounds, like humans, thought the better of getting into an argument with a Doberman.

Dr. Walter Lungrun, young, blond, and athletic, was walking next to Bobby Franklin, who was huffing and puffing.

“Goddamn that Betty,” Bobby said, cursing his wife loudly. “Told me if I don’t do hound walk and lose fifty pounds she’s going to divorce me.”

“She won’t have to divorce you, you’ll die first!” Sister called back to him.

“Probably why she wants you on these morning jaunts, Bobby. She’ll inherit your enormous wealth,” Walter added, knowing quite well that Bobby and Betty both worked like dogs at Franklin Printing and weren’t amassing any great fortune for it.

“You notice I only drag my ass out when I know you’re going to be here, Doc. If I grab my chest, you’ll know what to do.” Bobby winked.

Sister noticed a hound’s head come up, drawn by an enticing aroma lifting off the meadows.

“Nellie, settle,” Sister quietly said, and Nellie dispelled her brief notion of making a wild break for the rising fox scent.

They walked and chatted for another half mile, then returned home by the route they had come.

At the covered bridge, Shaker noticed Peppermint stretched out by the creekside. Eyes sharp, he turned to face his pack. “Hold up.”

The hounds stopped.

“What’s up?” Betty asked as she pushed a stray lock of blonde hair off her forehead.

“Walter, go over there and check on Peppermint, will you?” Shaker called back to the physician.

Walter, a former star halfback at Cornell, put one hand on the top rail of the fence and gracefully vaulted over it. He loped to the unmoving horse, who was being watched over by his two old friends.

Walter called to Peppermint. No response. When he reached the aged animal he knelt down and felt Peppermint’s neck for a pulse.