Outfoxed (21 page)

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.”

“Not as fast as Aunt Netty.”
She called the red “Aunt,” which was what all the young animals called her.
“But I can climb a tree if I have to.”

A low flutter hushed them. Athena glided down, tail used as a brake, to sit on the top railroad tie of the hog's back.
“I'm very sorry,”
she said swiveling her head to the reds.
“St. Just is behind this. Whoever killed Reynard, he led them straight to him.”

“Leave St. Just to me.”
Target crouched low, baring his fangs.

The others agreed that they would.

“When will the hunt meet at this fixture again?”
Comet asked. His gray fur, soft as the clouds, lightened a bit.

“Not for another two weeks,”
Yancy said.
“The only way the hounds can get to the rope is if someone bolts during hound walk.”

“That's a big risk for them. Ratshot in the rear if they keep going.”
Charlene frowned.
“What are we to do?”

Patsy and Grace said at the same time,
“Bring the rope here.”

“No,”
Aunt Netty sharply replied.
“The humans need to find the rope where it was dropped or thrown. That will tell them where the human killer was. They must be led to the rope. As it is, by the time we get them there the tracks could be gone, especially if it rains.”

“We need Raleigh.”

“Sister, Shaker, and Doug may not follow Raleigh,”
Grace said to Comet, who'd proposed the idea.

“If he goes on hound walk, which he often does, he can help convince the humans. If a hound bolts, even a hound as respected as Cora or Archie, the humans will crack the whip and then finally use ratshot. That's their job. They'll think the pack is going to hell. If Raleigh makes a commotion and the hounds honor him, I think the humans will follow. We have to try it, as it's our only hope.”
Yancy listened.
“Is it settled then?”

“Yes. We'll go tonight.”

The foxes and Athena silently melted into the forest about an hour before Sister, Shaker, Walter, and Doug emerged on the other side of the meadow. They reached the jump in a few minutes, peering into the woods as a twig crackled.

They combed the scene. The sheriff and his deputies trained in crime detection were good but they weren't hunters or country people.

“There are so many hoofprints here.” Walter ran his fingers through his blond hair.

“Let's divide up. Walter and Shaker head south down the fence line, one on either side. Doug and I will head north. Shaker, give a toot, I will, too.” Sister always carried an extra horn, a lesson learned when Shaker fell hard from his horse years ago, squashing the bell of his horn.

Twenty minutes later Doug, on the forest side of the fence line, found tracks. “Look.”

Sister climbed over the fence, dropped to her hands and knees. “Yes. Could have been a whip coming in. Betty, maybe. These look like number one shoes, smallish feet. Could be Arts.” She mentioned the other popular shoe.

“Not a quarter horse. Not round enough.” Doug, too, was on his knees. “God, Sister, that's half the horses in the hunt field. There were horses yesterday we'd never seen before.”

“I know. I know.” She stood up, put the horn to her lips, and let out a steady, one-note blast. The hounds heard it, two and a half miles away. They replied, which sounded faint and far away on this cool, overcast morning. “Good hounds.” Sister smiled weakly, for she remained terribly distressed.

Doug leaned against the fence. “You've bred them. They can hold their own against any pack.” A touch of pride crept into his light baritone.

Walter and Shaker joined them within seven minutes.

“What took you so long?” Doug asked.

“We were clipping right along.” Shaker hunkered down. “Ah. Number one.”

“Maybe Arts,” Sister said.

“No. Number one.” Shaker stood back up. “If only there'd been a bar shoe or a weighted shoe, a little dog to the inside. Number one. Standard. Well. Let's follow it.”

“It might not be the killer,” Sister calmly said.

“No. But then again it might.” Shaker put his head down and followed the tracks over the fallen leaves. The pine needles carpeting the earth nearly threw them off, but they picked up the tracks again once out of the pine stand.

They lost them at the flat-rock outcropping and even though they each took a different direction off the flat rocks, they were soon brought up short by a tremendous thunderclap overhead. With no warning the heavens opened. Cascading heavy rain drenched them to the bone.

By the time the four reached the stable they were all shivering. The tack room, toasty, warmed them as Sister made a fresh pot of coffee on the hot plate. She offered clothing—she'd kept shirts and sweatshirts around for just such a purpose—but the men stood by the gas stove. Slowly they began to thaw out and dry out.

“See the body?” Shaker asked.

“Yes. I went down to the morgue.” Walter's eyebrows furrowed for an instant. “The bruises on his left side were apparent. He'd been hit cleanly in the chest. Right through the heart, I would say. Apart from whatever emotions he felt at the fall I'd guess his death was swift. I suppose that's a kind of mercy. Can't jump to conclusions. I'll have to wait for the coroner's report. Except whoever shot him was a good shot. Dead-on.” He realized his pun. “Sorry.”

“You know I never liked that son of a bitch, so I can't pretend I'm sorry.” Shaker opened a small cigar box, offering the men a smoke.

“I'll take one. I need something soothing.” Sister reached in, grabbing a thin cigar.

Shaker cut the end for her with his round cutter, then held a flame. As she inhaled the end glowed scarlet and gold and he said, “Funniest damn thing, though. I would have bet you dollars to doughnuts that Crawford would be murdered. Not Fontaine.”

“Countenancing murder, are you?” She closed her eyes gratefully as the mild yet complex tastes reached her tongue and throat.

“No. But Crawford stirs up hornets' nests. Fontaine”—he shrugged—“lightweight.”

“A crazed husband?” Doug offered.

“Hell, no. By the time he got at them the husbands were bored.” Shaker roared with laughter.

“If you say so.” Sister exhaled, knowing what the others did not—that Fontaine had had a fling with Shaker's wife before she left.

“Business?” Walter asked.

“Worthless,” Shaker resolutely replied.

“Better find out who he owes money to, then.” Doug turned his back toward the stove. His pants stuck to his muscled legs.

“Half the county. I can tell you that.” Sister took off her boots, her wet socks, too.

“I can see it now: ‘Murder among the hunt set.' ‘Galloping revenge.' How about ‘Toff goes to ground'?” Shaker smiled slyly and the others couldn't help it; they smiled, too.

“The papers and TV stations will have a field day. Paper ought to be delivered by now.” Walter sipped the coffee, glad for its warmth. “I expect there will be a lot of questions at the hospital today.”

“Walter, you were kind to come out here this morning.”

“Sister Jane, I will help in any way I can.”

“Smart killer, I'd say. Drawing off the young entry like that. Had to be a real hunting man.” Shaker puffed contentedly.

“He'll forget something, something so small. . . . They always do, you know.” Sister half believed what she said. Mostly she hoped it was true.

CHAPTER 38

The morning after Fontaine was killed, while Sister, Shaker, Doug, and Walter investigated the hog's-back jump, Crawford Howard nicked himself shaving. Normally, this slip would have brought forth a torrent of vituperation: at the razor, at the shaving cream, at the lighting, and lastly at himself.

This morning he kept whistling. Fontaine was truly totally dead. He'd called last night to offer his services to Sheriff Sidell and to make certain that swaggering ass, Fontaine Buruss, really was gone, his temperature at least forty degrees below normal. If only that insufferable oaf weren't in the cooler, Crawford would have the merriment of watching him go into rigor mortis. Let the funeral director deal with that.

He wondered how to handle Martha. Sensitive, attached to Fontaine, she would be weepy for days, perhaps weeks. She'd sobbed when Sister made the announcement. Crawford put his arm around her, offering solace.

How he kept himself from gloating even he didn't know. He congratulated himself on his discipline.

Washing the white shaving cream off his face, patting his cheeks dry, he scrutinized himself in the mirror. Thanks to a discreet and gifted plastic surgeon in New York City he looked maybe forty-five, not the fifty-four he was. His hairline had receded a bit but other than that, he looked good. He was getting bored with the mustache and beard. Too artsy. He thought he'd make an appointment at the barber's to get the beard shaved off. He'd softened a bit but he'd put down his money at the gym, arriving four days a week at seven to work with a personal trainer.

He had envied Fontaine, his luxurious mane of hair and his trim waistline. Fontaine kept in splendid condition, burning the calories in bed no doubt.

Ah, but he was dead now. Dead. Dead. Dead. Crawford had never realized what a solid sound that word had. Deadwood. Dead honest. Deadbeat. Dead. He began to enjoy the word. It wasn't far from “deed.” Was being dead a deed? Was being dead a state of being, which English seemed to suggest, or was dead no being at all, just a linguistic twist?

Dead.

Well, he wouldn't be dead for many a year. His doctors told him that.

He'd win his ex-wife back. He didn't think of her as an ex but merely as a woman he possessed who had slipped out of his pocket. He loved Martha but he possessed her. A man had to own many things in order to be important and a good-looking woman was one of those things. Children, of course, were optional.

She'd want to stay on at the office until Sorrel Buruss decided what to do with the business. Martha was uncommonly loyal. Then he'd steer her toward home again. A pair of diamond spray earrings from Tiffany would help.

The best thing about Fontaine's untimely demise, untimely for Fontaine, was that now Crawford would be joint-master of the Jefferson Hunt. Sister really had no choice.

He'd been reading about hounds. He'd wait but in good time he'd suggest an infusion of July blood and perhaps some Dumfriesshire, also. After all, he could read a pedigree as well as any other person. Top line, tail line. How simple.

Joint-master. About time, too.