Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

“I don’t know when I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful. Did the hounds lose the scent?”

“Yes. They’ve checked while the Huntsman casts the hounds. Think of it like casting a net with a nose for fox. Good pack too. As fleet as sound.”

Far, far in the distance she heard the strange cry of a hound.

Down at the check, all heads turned.

Fitz, now winded, whispered to Little Marilyn, “Honey, can we go in soon?”

“You can.”

“This terrain is really pretty rugged. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’m not alone and I’m a better rider than you are,” Little Marilyn informed him, somewhat haughtily but still in a whisper.

The Huntsman followed the cry of his lone hound. The pack moved toward the call. The Field Master waited for a moment, then motioned for the field to move off. The sweet roll of earth crunched up. More rock outcroppings challenged the sure-footedness of the horses.

“We’re about out of real estate,” Harry said to Susan. She kept her voice low. It was irritating to strain to hear the hounds and have someone chattering behind you. She didn’t want to bother any of the others.

“Yeah, he’ll have to pull the hounds back.”

“We’re heading toward the tunnel,” Mim stated.

“Can’t go there. And we shouldn’t. Who knows what’s up there? That’s all we need, for a bear or something to jump out of the tunnel and scare the bejesus out of these horses.” Little Marilyn wasn’t thrilled at the prospect.

“Well, we can’t go up there, that’s for sure. Anyway, the Chesapeake and Ohio sealed up the tunnel,” Fitz-Gilbert added.

“Yes, but Kelly Craycroft opened it up again.” Susan referred to Kelly Craycroft’s clever reopening and camouflaging of the tunnel. “Wonder if the railroad did seal it back up?”

“I don’t want to find out.” Fitz’s horse was getting restive.

The cry of the lone hound soon found answers. The pack worked its way toward the tunnel. The Field Master held back the field. The Huntsman stopped. He blew his horn but only some of the hounds returned as they were bidden. The stray hound cried and cried. A few others now joined in this throaty song.

“Letting me down. Those hounds are letting me down,” the Huntsman, shamed by their disobedience, moaned to a Whipper-In who rode along with him to get the hounds back in line.

The Whipper-In flicked the lash at the end of his whip after a straggler, who shuttled back to the pack. “Deer? But they haven’t run deer. Except for Big Lou.”

“That’s not Big Lou up there though.” The Huntsman moved toward the sound. “Well, come along with me and we’ll see if we can’t get those babies back down before they ruin a good day’s hunting.”

The two staff horses picked their way through the unforgiving terrain. They could now see the tunnel. The hounds sniffed and worried at the entrance. A huge turkey vulture flew above them, swooped down on an air current, bold as brass, and disappeared into the tunnel.

“Damn,” the Whip exclaimed.

The Huntsman blew his horn. The Whipper-In made good use of his whip but the animals kept speaking. They weren’t confused; they were upset.

As this had never happened before to the Huntsman in his more than thirty years of hunting, he dismounted and handed his reins to the Whip. He walked toward the entrance. The vulture emerged, another in its wake. The Huntsman noticed hunks of rancid meat dangling from their beaks. He caught a whiff of it too. As he neared the tunnel entrance he caught another blast, much stronger. The hounds whined now. One even rolled over and showed its belly. The Huntsman noticed that some stones had fallen away from the entrance. The odor of decay, one he knew well from life in the country, seeped out of the hole full bore. He kicked at the stones and a section rolled away. The railroad had neglected to reclose the entrance after all. He squinted, trying to see into the darkness, but his nose told him plenty. It was a second or two before he recognized that the dead creature was a human being. He involuntarily stepped back. The hounds whined pitifully. He called them away from the tunnel, swaying a bit as he came out into the light.

“It’s Benjamin Seifert.”

34

A sensuous Georgian tea service glowed on the long mahogany sideboard. Exquisite blue and white teacups, which had been brought over from England in the late seventeenth century, surrounded the service. A Hepplewhite table, loaded with ham biscuits, cheese omelettes, artichoke salad, hard cheeses, shepherd’s pie, and fresh breads commanded the center of the dining room. Brownies and pound cake rounded out the offerings.

Susan had knocked herself out for the hunt breakfast. The excited hum of voices, ordinarily the sign of a successful hunt, meant something different today.

After the Huntsman identified Ben Seifert he rode with the Whip down to the Masters, the Field Master, and the other Whips. They decided to lift the hounds and return to the kennels. Not until everyone was safely away from the tunnel and had arrived at the breakfast did the Masters break the news.

After caring for the hounds, the Huntsman and the Whip who’d accompanied him to the grisly site returned to the tunnel to help Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper.

Despite the dolorous news, appetites drove the riders and their audience to the table. The food disappeared and Susan filled up the plates and bowls again. Her husband, Ned, presided over the bar.

Big Marilyn, seated in an apricot-colored wing chair, balanced her plate on her knees. She hated buffets for that very reason. Mim wanted to sit at the table. Herbie and Carol sat on the floor along with Harry, Blair, and BoomBoom, who was making a point of being charming.

Cabell and Taxi arrived late and were told the news by a well-meaning person. They were so shocked they left for home.

Fair hung back at the food table. He noticed the gathering on the floor and brought desserts for everyone, including his ex-wife. Fitz-Gilbert and Little Marilyn joined Mim. Mrs. Hogendobber wouldn’t sit on the floor in her skirt so she grabbed the other wing chair, a soothing mint-green.

“Miranda.” Big Marilyn speared some omelette. “Your views.”

“Shall we judge society by its malcontents?”

“And what do you mean by that?” Big Marilyn demanded before Mrs. Hogendobber could take another breath.

“I mean Crozet will be in the papers again. Our shortcomings will be trumpeted hither and yon. We’ll be judged by these murders instead of by our good citizens.”

“That’s not what I was asking.” Mim zeroed in. “Who do you think killed Ben Seifert?”

“We don’t know that he was murdered yet.” Fitz-Gilbert spoke up.

“Well, you don’t think he walked up to that tunnel and killed himself, do you? He’d be the last person to commit suicide.”

“What do you think, Mim?” Susan knew her guest was bursting to give her views.

“I think when money passes hands it sometimes sticks to fingers. We all know that Ben Seifert and the work ethic were unacquainted with one another. Yet he lived extremely well. Didn’t he?” Heads nodded in agreement. “The only person who would have wanted to kill him is his ex-wife and she’s not that stupid. No, he fiddled in someone’s trust. He was the type.”