Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Sister checked the grandfather clock. “Ten-thirty. Damn. Too late to call Peter Wheeler. I’ll call in the morning and then I guess I’d better call Ben Sidell.” She sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “This narrows the killer down to a good, good rider who knows our territory.” She shook her head. “I’ll call Peter Wheeler in the morning. That’s a start. You know, Crawford was missing for part of the hunt. Said he thought Czapaka was lame but then discovered he had a stone in his shoe. But I can’t believe Crawford could ride that good. Not on the best day of his life.”

CHAPTER 47

At seven-thirty the next morning Peter was seated at his kitchen table, Rooster at his knee.

“Woman accuses her sister of stealing her child at birth.” He rattled the newspaper. “Says the infant was spirited out of the hospital.” He looked over the top of the paper. “Twenty years ago.”

Sister laughed, as did Peter. “I guess she just noticed.”

“Uh-huh.” He laughed again. “Are you going to make me one of your famous Jane Overdorf omelettes? I’ll read to you as you work.”

“Lazy ass.”

“That’s right. I’m an old man and entitled to many privileges.”

She greased the skillet, chopped cheese, broke six eggs into the skillet. “Crawford must be cracked.” She tossed the broken eggshells into the sink.

“Well, only partially. Fontaine did top Crawford’s offer. He did promise to bring me cash. I said I wouldn’t sell. Think he kept stringing someone along? You know, he had their money, told them he had me in the bag. That kind of thing. I say Crawford is rich enough to pay someone to kill Fontaine for him. That’s what I say.”

“Do you want onions in your omelette?”

“No. Wouldn’t mind a pickle, though.”

“In the omelette?”

“Where else?”

“You might like it reposing alongside your golden, fluffy omelette.”

“Sounds good.” He returned to the newspaper. “Ah, here’s one for you. At two o’clock a man wearing a Donald Duck mask robbed First Guaranty Trust in Elkins, West Virginia. The teller said . . .”

She flipped the omelette over as Rooster whined. “Yes.” Peter didn’t reply. She flipped the omelette onto a plate, turned around to serve him. “Peter. Oh, Peter.”

CHAPTER 48

Word of Peter Wheeler’s death splashed over the county like a winter squall. The animals spread the word, too.

Inky, on her way back from a night’s successful hunt, was told by her brother.

“I relied on his chickens,” Comet mournfully said.

A harsh caw overhead silenced them. St. Just landed on a blue spruce branch, his weight dipping the branch downward. He hopped to a larger limb, cocked his head to one side, and sneered, “The only thing more worthless than a gray fox is a red fox.”

“You’ll make a mistake someday. We’ll be waiting,” Comet challenged him.

“Reynard thought the same thing.” St. Just’s feathers gleamed blue-black; his long beak shone like patent leather. “I led the human to his den. I’ll see every one of Target’s family killed and I’ll get Target, too. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t cooperate with them.”

“Which human?” Inky asked.

“I’ll never tell.” He tantalizingly dropped to a lower branch almost within reach. “Wouldn’t you just like to break my neck?”

Comet inched forward; Inky stayed put.

St. Just waited until Comet was within striking distance. Then he lifted off, swooped low over the fox’s head, and taunted, “Death to foxes.”

“There’s been enough talk of death.” Inky shook herself. “Archie was killed.”

“Heard.” He watched St. Just disappear to the east. “No raven or blackbird is a friend to foxes but he’s evil. I’d enjoy hearing his neck snap.”

“He’s smart.” She thought a moment. “Do you think whoever killed Reynard and Fontaine was smart?”

“No, and we’d be a lot better off if he was. Dumb people are dangerous. Much more dangerous than smart ones.”

CHAPTER 49

Face flushed, Crawford leaned over the long table filled with paper samples. “You’re a board member. We’ve got to do something.”

“How many other board members have you spoken to?” Bobby, wary, tidied up the paper books.

“Everyone,” came the sweeping response.

“What did everyone say?”

“Georgia Vann and Lottie Fisher backed Sister Jane. Isaac Diamond sat on the fence. He said he thought I had a lot to offer but recent events have been too upsetting. Any major decision should be put on hold. Billie Breedlove is out of town and—”

Bobby held up his hand. “I get the picture.”

“No, you don’t get the picture. Now more than ever members need to know that strong leadership will continue. And we need a sound financial basis. We need an investment portfolio.”

Like most businessmen Crawford assumed he could apply business practices to foxhunting but it never quite worked that way—not so much because people were profligate but because any enterprise where Nature is one’s partner is fraught with insecurity. Nature doesn’t give a damn about profit.

“You can’t go head to head with Sister Jane.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m trying to go behind her back!”

“Crawford, that will only make matters worse. If the master says she wants to wait a year, then she waits a year.”

“She’s old. She could pop off at any time.” He slapped the table, rattling the pencils.

“Her mother lived to be one hundred and two. Her aunts made it into their nineties and everyone kept their hair, their teeth, and their faculties. You’ll die before Sister, especially if you don’t calm down.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“For Chrissake, someone’s got to tell you how to behave. You can’t just stroll into a place and expect everyone to hop to your tune.”

“I’ve been here seven years.”

“And you haven’t learned a damn thing.” Bobby lost his temper. “What you’ve done for seven years is try to change this entire community to suit you instead of learning how to fit in.”

“Fit in? No one gives a straight answer. No one around here seems to be in a hurry to accomplish a damn thing. People accept bizarre behavior and say”—he changed his voice to a fake southern accent—” ‘That’s jess his way.’ No wonder you lost the goddamned war you’re always talking about. You’re a bunch of idiots!”

“Mr. Howard, this conversation is at an end.” Bobby, furious but calm, stood up.

“What the shit? You’re too good to hear this. You know it as well as I do. Nothing changes here. You might as well be set in concrete.”

“What changes is we can no longer call one another out for duels. Please leave.”

“Leave? I didn’t say you were stupid.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Betty, who had been in the back office, hurried out. “Bobby.”

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll take it outside. I won’t wreck the place.”

Crawford, naturally, would no more fight in the back alley than he would ever learn: When in Rome do as the Romans do.

“That’s not why I came out. Peter Wheeler died this morning. Sister was with him. He was reading the newspaper,” Betty said.

Bobby’s face registered this news. He loved the old man, as did everyone.

“The land! What’s going to happen to the land?” Crawford blurted out.

“Get out of here.” Bobby put his hand between Crawford’s shoulder blades and literally propelled the sputtering man out the front door of the printing shop.