Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Overhead St. Just cawed and circled once. Vengeance was sweet.

CHAPTER 36

Three blasts on the horn brought Cody to the hog’s-back jump. Cody arrived in about five minutes’ time, bringing Sally, an older hound who had slowed due to the pace.

Shocked, the sheriff was there, as was an ambulance.

She remained silent. After brief questioning the whips were released to take hounds back to the kennel.

Sister Jane and Shaker remained behind. The sheriff, new to the area, had been recruited nationally from a list of qualified candidates. The county department, swept clean with a new broom, certainly increased in efficiency. However, Benjamin Sidell, secure in his knowledge and training as only an Ohio man can be, was surprised by murder in this most Virginian of pastimes.

“Mrs. Arnold, can you think of anyone who might want to kill the victim?” Ben had asked the other obvious questions establishing everyone’s whereabouts.

“Sheriff, any one of us collects enemies in life but no, I can’t think of anyone who’d trip over the line,” she truthfully answered.

Shaker stepped up to stand next to Sister. He watched the hounds following Doug in good order as Betty led back Gunsmoke. When Ben turned his gaze directly to Shaker, the curly-haired, broad-shouldered man simply shrugged. “Good-looking. Bad at business. Bad with women.”

“Some life.” The young sheriff allowed himself a wry smile.

“Will you notify his wife and children? They should be at the University of Virginia football game today. You might try there,” Sister Jane thoughtfully informed Ben.

“Thank you, I’ll go there myself.” He ran his hand over his slick hair, good haircut. “Was Mr. Buruss a good friend of yours?”

“I knew him all of his life. Yes, he was a friend, although I’m not sure I would depend on him. It’s difficult to think about it right now, Sheriff. Did I like him? Yes. He was a most charming man even when he was lying to you.”

“Ah.” The sheriff had discovered Virginia specialized in such fellows. “And you, Mr. Crown?”

“Didn’t like him but I could get along with him.”

“And why didn’t you like him?”

“Empty-headed. Thought he knew hounds. Didn’t.”

“That’s a reason to dislike a man?”

“To me it is.”

“Yes, well . . .” The sheriff’s voice dropped off. The ambulance crew had loaded Fontaine on the gurney. The wheels clicked as they rolled it the few yards to the ambulance. “Perhaps you could tell me why this dead fox has a rope around its hind legs. Did you shoot it while hunting?”

“No, sir!” Shaker, stung by what to him was an accusation, was vehement.

Sister spoke up. “Sheriff, we don’t shoot foxes. That would be unsporting. We chase them. We don’t even let the hounds kill one if we can help it.”

“So this isn’t your fox?”

“No, sir.” Shaker’s face reddened.

“This is a young male. He’s from a litter about one mile from my house. He moved off to find his own den and I’ve only seen him once since then, which was a few weeks ago. Males generally travel farther than females to find their own territory, but he remained close.”

Ben was incredulous. “You’re telling me you know this fox?”

“Yes.” Sister folded her arms across her chest.

“Course we know our foxes, man. I’ve been hunting this red family for three decades.”

“You can actually recognize them?”

“Can’t you tell the difference between dogs?” Sister tried to lower the hostility level between Shaker and the sheriff.

“Sure, but a Lab looks a lot different from a Chihuahua!”

“Foxes vary in size. Their markings, too. You see this fellow is still thinnish because he’s young. There’s tons of game so he’d only be thin if he were sick or young and as you can see this was a fine, healthy fox. He had only a bit of a white tip on his brush whereas his father has a wide white tip,” Sister told the young sheriff.

“What’s a brush?”

“The tail,” Shaker said as the ambulance’s back door closed.

“I see. All right. You know this fox and, I take it, his father.”

“Was a fine litter. They all lived.” Shaker admired Target and his get. They ran him ragged sometimes.

Sister began to feel exhausted. The shock was seeping in. “Sheriff, the death of a red fox is to be lamented. The death of a good gray, too. We don’t want our foxes killed. Whoever killed this beautiful young male no doubt killed Fontaine as well.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he laid a drag, man!” Shaker exploded.

Before the sheriff could respond Sister quietly added, “Your killer created a scent line, fresh and fresh with blood, too, which would inflame the hounds. This way they would turn away from the hunted fox to this line. The pack split. The killer knew Shaker and I would stay with the pack on the hunted fox. By the time we got the pack back together the deed would be done.”

“You know that, too?”

“Yes.” She again spoke in a soothing tone. “But we can be fooled just as you can, Sheriff.”

“One more question.” He flipped through his notes. “Doug Kinser heard one shot. It would have taken two. The fox is shot, too. Right?”

“Doesn’t mean we would have heard that shot. Hounds were giving tongue. The hoofbeats would drown out most noises. It would be easy not to hear a shot,” Shaker said with conviction.

“Sheriff, we want to help you find whoever killed Fontaine. But, please, we’re tired. Our horses are tired. You know where to find us but let us get our boys back to the stable,” she requested. “Let me make a suggestion. Ask a good veterinarian to perform an autopsy on this fox. He may not have been recently killed.”

“What?”

“He could have been killed, frozen, thawed when needed.”

“Ah.” This was a new thought to the sheriff, who let it sink in before asking, “Do you have a list of who hunted today?”

“The field secretary will have a list of caps—those are the fees paid by nonmembers. With a good night’s rest I think we can reconstruct who was with us today, mounted and on foot.”

“Thank you.” Ben smiled, a nice smile. “I apologize for detaining you.”

Once back to the stable Doug ran up to help both Sister and Shaker.

“Have Betty and Cody gone into the house?”

“Yes, but they swore they wouldn’t say anything until you came home.” Doug had already slipped the saddle off a grateful Lafayette.

“Well—they’ve had the best opening hunt we’ve ever had until this. They’ve had an hour and a half to eat, drink, and make merry. I guess I have to tell them.”

“I’ll go with you.” Shaker thanked Doug for taking care of his horse and the two friends trudged up to the house.

As they walked through the mudroom and into the kitchen the aroma of ham, biscuits, gravy, grits, roasted turkey, and candied yams assailed them.

The caterers continued to replenish the main table and the dessert table.

Sister had braved spoon bread despite the caterer’s warnings. Another large tray, perched on a young man’s shoulder, was being carried through the swinging doors.

The caterer, Ted, glanced up from his labors. “Ah, Mrs. Arnold, we’re down to half the champagne.”

“Good.” She smiled reflexively, then turned to Shaker, who put his hand quietly on her shoulder.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, I guess I’m going to have to spoil my own party.” She dropped her gaze to the uneven-width heart-pine flooring, then looked up at him. “Here goes.”

When she pushed through the swinging doors people at first didn’t notice. The packed dining room hummed. The living room, too, was overflowing with people. Many of them knew something had happened to Fontaine but no one as yet had guessed the truth.