Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Raleigh threaded through the people to be by Sister’s right side. Shaker was on her left.

Golly reposed on a bookshelf above all. Rooster, attending with Peter Wheeler, ensconced in a club chair by the fireplace, noticed Sister flinch for a split second.

One by one the parties, hunters, quieted, glasses poised in midair as they turned toward Jane Arnold.

People parted like the Red Sea. Betty moved toward Sister, as did her husband.

“Are you all right?” Betty asked.

“I think so,” Sister answered.

Bobby tapped his wineglass with a spoon. People had begun to stop talking. Now they quieted completely.

Shaker staunchly beside her, Sister nodded to her guests, then took a deep, long breath.

“Friends, this opening hunt was one of the best opening hunts we’ve ever had. May we all remember its glory.” She searched for the right words. “It is my duty . . . to inform you, with sorrow, that Fontaine Buruss was killed today. Shaker found him at the hog’s back. Fontaine was shot. We know nothing more than that. Please cooperate with Ben Sidell in any way you can and please assist Sorrel and the children in any way you can. Thank you.”

A horrified silence enveloped the room. Then a low murmur, like a wind from the west, moved through as it accumulated power.

Hours later the last person, Peter Wheeler, with Rooster, had left. Sister paid the caterer, who cleaned up then left. She’d fed the pets, taken a shower, and called Shaker and Doug to make sure they were doing okay.

When she hung up the phone a longing for Raymond filled her with stale grief. He would know just what to do even in this most improbable of situations. His deep voice would have filled the gathering with authority. He would have handled the sheriff with the correct mixture of assistance and personal power. He would have put his strong arm around her and whispered, “Steady on, girl.”

Ray Junior would be in his thirties now. He would have been much like his father.

Like most women of her class and her generation, Jane had motored through life without fully realizing how much her husband had shielded her from the unsavory aspects of life. She was always grateful for his economic acumen but the emotional buffer Ray provided was not clear to her until he was gone.

Golly snuggled on the pillow beside Sister, who tried to read. Raleigh lay at the foot of the bed.

The phone rang.

“Hello,” a weary Sister answered.

“Mrs. Arnold, it’s Walter Lungrun. I seem to be forever calling you late and I apologize.”

“That’s all right.”

“I hope I will be able to help in some small way. I know the coroner and I will get the report but more importantly, if you’ll take me to the place where you found Fontaine I might be able to, well—help.”

“Thank you, Walter.”

“The earlier the better. Might I meet you at six-thirty in the morning?”

“Of course.”

CHAPTER 37

Uncle Yancy, Grace, and Patsy had been the first foxes to the hog’s back. Yancy waited until Shaker blew in all the hounds. With a split pack he wisely didn’t show his face but as he heard the one hound group swing around, he popped out of the hidden entrance under the big walnut. His nieces followed.

They crept toward the hog’s back, not even stopping to hide themselves as the remainder of the field rode on the farm road.

As a few humans stood on the meadow, the hog’s back between them and the foxes, Yancy remained in the woods. Although Shaker was there, he didn’t trust Dragon, the hound that broke off from Cora and the main pack, taking young entry with him. By then, one o’clock, the scent had risen so that a mounted human could smell it but scent was safely over hounds’ heads. Still, why take a chance.

The three reds waited. The ambulance roared down the rutted path. Then came the squad car. They strained to catch part of the conversation. It wasn’t until Reynard was hoisted up by the sheriff that they realized their brother, Yancy’s nephew, had been murdered.

Yancy raised his head as St. Just circled the meadow. The crow didn’t see the foxes. But Yancy knew St. Just was in some way responsible for this dolorous occasion.

Finally the humans, hounds, and horses left. The sheriff put Reynard in a plastic bag, placing him in the back of the squad car.

Patsy ran to find Target and Charlene. She was surprised to discover Butch and his family loping over the meadows to help. The outright killing of a fox outraged all foxes.

Throughout the night under the noctilucent clouds, the foxes moved in circles. Inky, down a ravine about a mile and a half from the hog’s back, found a rope—not just any rope but a special rope for bringing down steers at full tilt. The strands, braided, were impregnated with wax.

By the time she returned at sunrise, everyone had gathered again at the jump. The foxes didn’t need to see the sun to know it was up despite low Prussian blue clouds.

“I found a rope in the rock ravine. Hoofprints, too.”

Buster, who had climbed one of the trees to the side of the hog’s-back jump, said, “Did the humans find the marks on the tree? High. High enough to catch Gunpowder.”

“Yes,” Yancy replied. “The sheriff and his people found the marks on the bark, slight but perceptible. They performed the basics but they missed a lot. They missed the hoofprints along the fence line on the woods side.”

“Could have been one of the whips coming in to fetch hounds.” Target, sorrowful at the loss of his handsome son, could still think clearly.

“Yes, but it could have been his murderer, too,” Charlene, eyes filling with tears, added.

“What a pity we were stuck at the walnut tree!” Yancy yipped. “If nothing else, we could have smelled which horse it was or even caught sight of the killer. That split pack cost us dearly.”

“Clever. One doesn’t expect a human to be that clever. Almost foxlike,” Butch murmured. “And you’re sure the last time you saw Reynard was day before yesterday?” he asked Target again.

They’d gone over it again, everything they’d initially said to one another when they gathered at the jump yesterday. Everyone was tired, footsore, and depressed.

The only thing new was the rope.

“I have an idea,” Inky said in a low, respectful voice. Her elders turned to her. “If someone will come with me to the kennel tonight maybe we can talk to some of the hounds and tell them what we’ve found. Next hunt we can agree to go there.”

“Dumb,” was all Grace said.

“You underestimate hounds, Gracie. You’ll pay for that someday,” Yancy corrected her.

“I’ll go with Inky,” Aunt Netty volunteered. “Cora has sense. I can talk to her. I think Archie will listen, too.”

“What if Raleigh’s out?” Comet wondered.

“Raleigh’s main concern is Sister Jane. It’s the damn cat I worry about.” Target grimaced.

“She’s too spoiled and fat to chase us.” Patsy sniffed.

“She’s not too fat to scream at the top of her lungs and get the kennel in an uproar,” Comet said.

Aunt Netty’s tail waved to and fro slightly. “Well, I’m willing to chance it. Reynard must be avenged. Only a coward shoots a fox and only a cad would use the carcass as a drag.”

“Hear, hear,” the others agreed.

“That Raleigh is fast,” Charlene warned, “if he has a mind to chase you.”

“The only animal faster than myself is a cheetah,” Netty boasted.

“Well, I wasn’t thinking of you exactly. I was thinking of Inky. No offense, Inky, but I don’t know how fast you are.”