Outfoxed (30 page)

CHAPTER 62

Being no fool, Crawford Howard hired a public relations specialist from New York City. Since his .38 was the weapon used in the commission of a crime, since he was booked on suspicion of murder and released on bail, he needed damage control.

Jonathan Sweiss arranged special interviews with the local television station, the local newspaper, and the Richmond paper as well.

Crawford, being a man of the world, was not surprised when Jonathan didn't ask if he really had killed Fontaine Buruss. Jonathan didn't care. He was hired to perform a service and this he did.

In each of the interviews, Crawford explained that he did not like Fontaine, a personality conflict as well as a conflict of modus operandi. Differences between them had escalated during the past six weeks. Crawford expressed no regret at Fontaine's death because he said that would be false but he vehemently declared he did not kill the man, he would not kill any man unless in self-defense.

Martha stood by him, the ordeal bringing them closer together.

The social consequences were immediate. Fontaine's friends dropped them both from their lists whereas everyone else picked them up. The thrill of having a possible murderer in their midst proved enticing to many a jaded hostess.

After all this he called Sister Jane, ready for a fight. He was going to argue that he paid his dues and therefore he should be able to hunt no matter what people thought. Hunting was about sport not about what people thought, did, wore, et cetera. . . . He was stoked.

After hellos he stated, “I intend to hunt Thanksgiving. I know some people in the hunt field think I'm a murderer but—”

Coolly she interrupted before he got rolling. “Crawford, the laws of the land are innocent until proven guilty. You've been charged but you haven't been convicted. I'll see you at Whiskey Ridge on Thursday.”

He hung up the phone pleased with her response. Later it dawned on him that she would have to answer for allowing him to hunt. He wasn't making her life any easier but still he was determined not to slink away. The difficulties of being a master were slowly percolating in his brain. Maybe you couldn't run a hunt club like a business.

CHAPTER 63

The small piles of corn brought out birds, woodchucks, deer as well as foxes.

Aunt Netty merrily nibbled away, ignoring the beautiful little bluebird swooping down next to her. The bird would grab a mouthful, then fly up to a tree branch. No matter how mellow Netty appeared to be, no reason to take chances.

The sides of the ravine loomed up; a few shady crevices had thin lines of snow stark against the dark gray rocks. The ravine remained cool.

Inky picked her way down the sloping southern edge.

Aunt Netty, her sleek head deep red now that her winter coat was in, called out,
“Hello.”

Inky bounded next to her.
“Isn't this wonderful?”
She ate a big mouthful of rich yellow corn.

“Sister's laid a trail. We might as well enjoy it. It's miles of trail. She's been working on it for days. She's even got corn under the hanging tree.”

“Does she normally do this before the biggest hunts?”

“No. Sister only puts out food when weather's bad—like during the blizzards or during a terrible drought. She feels that we have to hunt for our food or we'll get soft. I expect she's right.”
Netty munched more corn, careful not to drop any.

“I wonder what she's going to do? A light frost tonight will ensure that our scent is everywhere. Mom and Dad will be out. I guess you all will be out.”

“Uncle Yancy will eat and go to bed. He said he did his duty on opening hunt.”
Aunt Netty smiled.
“I don't know who will stay out but if they do retire, scent should be good for a while anyway. Given reports from the other foxes, I expect Sister made a loop of about four miles.”

“She won't run people through here.”
Inky appreciated the ravine's inhospitable character for galloping.

“Maybe not but she's got something on her mind.”
Netty pointed to an envelope inside a plastic baggie tacked to a tree by the pool at the creek crossing.

“Trying to catch Reynard's killer.”

Netty smiled.
“Well, she's trying to catch Fontaine's killer but it amounts to the same thing, same person. You know there are a lot of hiding places in here. I'm going to be down here. I won't run tomorrow. There are enough other foxes to do that. I want to be fresh to see what happens down here and to be ready for anything. What are your plans?”

“I was going to wait on the back side of Hangman's Ridge, then go down toward the kennels.”

“Let me make a suggestion. Stay here in the ravine. Let me show you the dens. One or two are occupied by groundhogs but those are near the top of the ravine. You may have need of them and then again you may not. I suggest you not participate tomorrow either. When you hear hounds coming this way—and some will—climb a tree so that you can see everything. Between both of us we ought to figure out what's going on.”

“Won't hounds pick up my scent and wind up under the tree?”

“With any luck, the hunted fox, most probably Target at this point, will run through this crossing and up toward the rocks. He can easily lose hounds there. If, for some reason, that doesn't happen, sit tight.”

“That will bring down the huntsman.”
Inky thought a moment.
“Huntsman and probably a whip.”
She shook her head.
“Won't work. That will foul up the plan. Even though we don't know what the plan is I'm sure it doesn't call for two foxes in the ravine.”

“Crush up pokeweed stalks and throw them around. That will foul scent.”

“Maybe. Cora won't be fooled for long. I think what I'd better do is sleep here tonight in one of these dens. In the morning I'll walk in the middle of the creek until I find a tree close enough I can jump to. I don't mind sitting up there for a few hours, especially with all this corn to eat before I get up there.”

“Why don't you take that den there.”
Netty indicated a den on the east side of the ravine not far from the pool.
“I'll take this one on the west side. I've investigated them. Lots of exits.”

“Until tomorrow, then.”
Inky headed toward the den.

CHAPTER 64

Foxhunters adore Thanksgiving hunt. The light-to-medium frosts of the night before promise a silvery morning, scent sticking to the ground. Low gray clouds hold hope of long, long runs but even if the day dawns bright and clear as a baby's smile, the cool temperatures and the late November frost ensure a bit of a good run no matter what.

Hunters prepare their dinner the night before, as much of it as they can. If no one is home to watch the turkey, then the oven isn't turned on until the horses are turned out. Traditionally, foxhunters eat Thanksgiving dinner in the early evening. This most American of holidays, the most uncommercial of holidays, rings out with toasts to high fences, good hounds, great runs, and much laughter over who parted company from their horse.

Since Thanksgiving is a High Holy Day, horses must be braided. Those who played football, those whose jammed fingers invited pain, those upon whom arthritis visited, cursed as they wrapped the tiny braids with even tinier rubber bands, weaving yarn on those same braids.

Doug, as first whipper-in, was responsible for braiding staff horses. A quiet man, he couldn't help but boast about his tight braids. Doug's idea of a boast was to say, “They stay put.”

Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Gunpowder, for Shaker would be riding Fontaine's big gray, gleamed so brightly that Sister laughingly suggested she needed sunglasses just to mount her horse.

Hounds, always excited before a hunt, sensed the additional emotions of a star hunt.

Dragon bragged,
“I got a fox for opening hunt. I'll get one for Thanksgiving.”

Dasher sniffed at his brother.
“You picked up a shot fox. I'd hardly brag about that.”

Dragon turned his back on him.

Shaker backed the hound van into the draw run. Double sliding gates ensured that he could back in, then roll the gates to each side of the van. Shaker, an organized man, left little to chance. He prided himself on never being late to a hunt.

Since the first cast would be at Whiskey Ridge he had only to pull out of the farm and turn right as the state road curled around Hangman's Ridge. Two miles later, at the end of the long low land between the two ridges, he'd turn left and go to the back side of Whiskey Ridge. He particularly liked to cast at the base of the ridge or at the abandoned tobacco shed but the field liked a pretty view, so they generally started at the top, working their way down in no time. Often the fox would cross the road, a lightly traveled road, but any road strikes fear into the heart of a huntsman. He was careful to post a whip on the road to ask cars to slow down if hounds were running in that direction. Once across the road it was anybody's guess. But then foxes, being the marvelous creatures that they are, could just as easily bolt down the other side of the ridge, heading for the flattish lands even farther east. Whereas the land between Hangman's Ridge and Whiskey Ridge was rich and traversed by a strong creek, the lands to the east of Whiskey Ridge rolled into the Hessian River, named for the mercenaries of King George who bivouacked there during the Revolutionary War. This river eventually fed into the James River.

Jefferson Hunt territory proved a test of hounds and staff. The soils changed dramatically from the riverbeds to the rock outcroppings. Rich fertile valleys gave way to flinty soils. Lovely galloping country spiraled down into ravines or up into those same rock outcroppings. Every good hunt breeds hounds specifically for their territory.

A place where the land is flat or rolling, good soils, can use fast hounds with good noses. A wide-open place, like Nevada, needs hounds with blazing speed. Hounds don't need to hunt as closely together as they would back east.

The Jefferson territory demanded an all-round hound, a bit like the German shorthaired pointer, which is an all-round hunting dog. The Jefferson hound needed great nose, great drive, and great cry because light voices would be lost in the heavy forests. Speed was not essential. So the hounds were big, strong-boned, quite impressive, and fast enough to hurtle through the flatlands but not blindingly fast like the packs at Middleburg Hunt, Piedmont Hunt, and Orange County Hunt. Jefferson Hunt hounds were a balanced mix of crossbred and American hounds. Sister kept four Penn-Marydel hounds for those days when scent was abominable. The Penn-Marydels never, ever failed her. Being Virginia-born and -bred, Sister Jane loved a big hound. She thought of the Penn-Marydel as a Maryland or Pennsylvania hound and like any Virginian she felt keen competitiveness with those states but most especially Maryland. This hunting rivalry stretched back before the Revolutionary War, each state straining to outdo the other, thereby ensuring that the New World would develop fantastic hounds.

But in her heart of hearts, Sister knew the Penn-Marydel was a fine hound. The ears were set lower on the head. While they had speed, they kept their noses to the ground longer, which might make them seem slow but the other side of the coin was that a fast pack could overrun the line. So she kept two couple and was glad to have them but if a person asked what kind of hounds she hunted, she replied, “American and crossbred.” The crossbred was a mix of American and English blood.

Hounds panted inside the van, not from heat but from anticipation.

Shaker shut the back door, rolled back the sliding doors, drove the van out, stopped it, rolled the gates back shut. Ahead of him, Doug waited with the small horse van. Sister, in her best habit, her shadbelly, sat next to him.

Thanksgiving brought out the best in everyone. It had none of the jitters of opening hunt. By now, staff knew how the pack was working or not working, as the case may be. Plus, at the end of the hunt, there was that glorious dinner with one's family and friends crowded around the table. Mince pie. The very words could send Sister into a swoon.

Every time she thought of her trap, her heart pounded. Would it work? She didn't know what she would do if she did catch the killer. She had substituted her .38 for her .22 loaded with ratshot. The holster hung on the right rear side of her saddle. No one would know she'd switched guns.

Shaker flashed his lights behind them, indicating he was ready.

“You don't mind that I put Keepsake on for Cody?”

“No. He needs the work and she's the best for it. If he can whip, he's more valuable. He can do everything but lead the field. Sorrel might be able to get more money.”

“I thought she donated both horses to the hunt.”

“She did but I'm waiting to see what her financial condition is—I'll sell the horses to help if she needs it.” The van pulled out of the farm road onto the state road. “I heard that Crawford made an offer on the business. Nerve.”

“Especially if he killed Fontaine,” Doug replied.

“Do you think he did?”

“I don't know.”

Other trailers and vans rumbled along ahead of them. Doug checked the rearview mirror; more were coming up behind. In the distance in the opposite direction, trailers were turning onto the Whiskey Ridge Road.

“Going to be a hell of a turnout.” He grinned.

“Oh yeah, they're waiting for another murder. Probably hoping it's me because I'll be in front and everyone will get a good viewing. I wonder if they'll tallyho?” she sang out.

“How about ‘Gone to ground'?”

They both howled with laughter, a bad situation bringing out the best in them.

Doug flicked on his left turn signal, waited for the Franklins to turn in from the opposite direction.

“You know what crosses my mind? Odd. Remember when we saw the Reaper or the Angel of Death or whatever it was?” Doug nodded that he remembered. “You were on the other side of Hangman's Ridge, picking up hounds. Well, I wonder if Fontaine saw it, too. I wonder where he was.”

“He did. Maybe.” Doug's eyes widened. “I hadn't thought of that. I saw him drive by. That is too weird.”

“Do you think we're next or can you see Death and he doesn't take you?”

“You're giving me goose bumps.”

“If I had any sense, I'd be afraid but I'm not. I'm more afraid of how I will face death than I am of death itself but I'll fight. Not ready to go. I don't know what the hell we saw that sunset. Plus there's a black fox out there—as shiny as coal.” She surveyed the sea of trailers and vans as they cruised into the meadow at the base of Whiskey Ridge. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“Think of the cap fees,” he gleefully remarked, since those people visiting the hunt had to pay a fifty-dollar fee to go out.

The cap fees helped defray the hound costs, which averaged about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars a year.

As Doug cut the motor and they disembarked, people doffed their hats, calling out, “Good morning, Master.”

As tradition dictated, the master nodded in return or, if carrying her whip, would hold it high.

“Doug, I need to touch base with Shaker for one minute. Be right back. Oh, your stock tie pin is crooked. Get Cody to fix it for you.” She noticed Cody walking over to help Doug unload the horses.

“Morning, Master.”

“Morning, Cody.” Sister hurried to Shaker, who parked a bit off from the crowd.

“I count one hundred and eleven rigs.” Shaker bent over to rub an old towel on his boots.

“I keep telling you, the secret is to use panty hose. Better shine.”

“I'm not going into a drugstore to buy panty hose.”

“That's right,” Sister mocked him. “Someone will think you're a drag queen and you'd be so pretty, too.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed in mock obedience.

“Shaker, I want you to do something today. Should the pack split, stay with the larger body even if the smaller is in better cry.”

His eyes narrowed. “Better not split.”

“Not if the whips are on. Doug up front, of course. Betty on the left. How about Cody on the right. I'm keeping Jennifer in the field. The Franklins have to just get through this as best they can. Or more to the point, Jennifer has to face it down.”

“Makes me glad I never had children,” Shaker grumbled.

“Don't say that, brother. Children are a gift from God even when you'd like to brain them,” Sister quietly but emphatically told him.

“I'm sorry.” He had forgotten that Walter Lungrun was Raymond's natural son. Relationships baffled Shaker. Walter's parentage made him think of Ray Junior. He'd known Junior and liked the boy. He liked the father less. He knew about Walter because once in a confessional moment, a tortured moment after Junior's death, Ray sobbed out the whole story. Shaker didn't think Walter knew who his real father was and he was certain Sister knew nothing about her husband's affair and subsequent child. He wondered if she would find out. He felt he could never tell her. She'd lived this long without knowing. Why disturb her?

She put her arm around his neck. “Don't worry about it. I remember the good times. Like the Thanksgiving hunt when Junior was ten and he viewed. He stood in his stirrups and was so excited he couldn't speak. His pony took off and he fell flat on his back, got up, and finally said, “Holloa.”

“Tough little brat. Like his momma.” He watched Crawford pull in with his brand-new Dodge dually pulling his brand-new aluminum four-horse trailer with every convenience known to man or beast. “Can't believe that man is showing his face.”

“Better his face than his ass.”

Staff, mounted, surrounded the hounds. Sister rode through the trailers, welcoming people. Her presence made them move along a bit faster. Georgia Vann had forgotten her hair net. She bounded from trailer to trailer until she found a woman carrying an extra.

Finally, everyone was up.

Lafayette remarked to Oreo, carrying Bobby,
“On time. A bleeding miracle.”

“O-o-o,”
Oreo grunted.
“He's put on more weight.”

“Might want to loosen your horse's girth,” a rider said.

“Might want to loosen his,” Betty called out as she sat by the hounds.

“I want everyone to know that I'm above all this,” Bobby joked, glad that people were willing to let his daughters work out their own problems. He felt a little extrasensitive today so the joking made him feel better. People weren't laughing behind his back but he noticed that few would talk to Crawford or stand near him as Sister addressed them.

“Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you all for coming out and we hope the foxes will come out also. As you know, we lost a faithful supporter, a generous man, and one of my best friends. I hope Peter Wheeler, young again and strong, is mounted on Benny, his big chestnut, and they're both looking down at us, wishing us well.” She paused a moment. “Huntsman.”

His cap in his hand, he nodded to the master. Putting his cap on his head, he asked the hounds, “Ready, children?”

“Yes!”
they spoke in unison.

“Come along, then.” He quietly encouraged them, turning his horse toward the top of Whiskey Ridge for the scenic first cast.

“Jennifer.” Sister motioned for the girl to ride up. “Keep an eye on Crawford, will you? Talk to me after the hunt.”

“Yes, Master.” Jennifer pulled back, waiting for a few first-flight members to pass her. Then she fell in behind Crawford and Martha. She wasn't sure what Sister wanted but she was pleased to be given a special mission. At least Sister liked her and trusted her with responsibility.

The top of Whiskey Ridge was rounder then Hangman's Ridge off in the distance, the giant black oak stark against the silvery rising mists. The sides of Whiskey Ridge feathered and softened down to the creek bed, a small valley on the west side. The grade was even smoother on the east side; the Hessian River was visible across the rolling terrain, a cauldron of mist hanging over the snaking river.

Frost silvered each blade of grass, each leaf, the exposed roots of the old trees.

Shaker, voice low but filled with excitement, leaned down. “He's out there. Get 'im. Get 'im.”