The Hounds and the Fury (12 page)

Sputtering, Crawford turned, only to find himself between first flight and the hilltoppers. As he tried to blow again, Bobby rode by him and hollered, “Don’t!”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to handle my pack?”

“You look fool enough, Crawford. Don’t sound like a sick hen and make it worse.”

Furious, Crawford threw the reed horn onto the ground.

He had no choice but to fall behind Bobby, since he couldn’t catch up to first flight, now flying at Mach speed.

A fence row ahead, sagging, had a gap where one rail had long since fallen off. Hounds soared over, followed by Shaker forty yards later, then Sister, then the field.

Hounds screamed.

The fox, safely ahead, heard the music. This pack could wake the dead.

He cut sharply right, dipped into a wide ravine, popped back up, and skedaddled to the ruins of Paradise, its Corinthian columns majestic under gray, cottony clouds.

He slowed, flicked his impressive tail, and sauntered into his main entrance under the marble steps.

Four minutes later, all the hounds, jubilant, announced they had put their fox to ground.

Betty rode over but didn’t take HoJo when Shaker dismounted to praise hounds and blow “Gone to ground.”

Walter had ridden up to hold the reins, having been told to do so by Sister.

Given the cacophony and the strange hounds, Betty stayed outside the circle of hounds, as did Sybil on the other side.

Jason, breathing hard, rode up.

Betty said not one word.

Finally, Crawford rode up, Bobby hiding his laughter behind his gloved hand.

Crawford glared at his hounds, glared at Jason, and was about to bark at his own wife until he noticed she had a hound with her. Marty was the only one who did her job.

Sister smiled as her hounds watched Shaker for a sign.

The only ripple of discontent came from Dragon, who raised his hackles at a large, handsome dog hound.

“Dragon,” Shaker quietly called his name.

Dragon turned his face from the offending hound and walked over to his huntsman.

“Come along.” The hounds clustered around Shaker, but so did the black and tans.

“Where’s your horn?” Jason asked.

“Threw it away.” Red-faced, Crawford spat, now at the edge of the combined pack.

“Well, you’d better call your hounds out.” Jason stated the obvious.

“I know that!” Crawford, enraged, slunk down in his saddle, then bellowed, “Come on.”

Not one hound turned his or her head.

Crawford dismounted, so Czpaka walked over to Walter, HoJo, and Clemson. Crawford grabbed a hound roughly by the collar.

Sister, lifting her feet out of her stirrup irons, swung her right leg over, dismounting effortlessly.

“Don’t touch a hound like that!”

Crawford wheeled. “It’s my goddamn hound and I’ll do as I please.”

“You don’t deserve these hounds.”

“She’s got that right.”
A beautiful black and tan bitch agreed.

Sister walked right up to Crawford as Shaker, still as a mouse, had all the hounds around him. “If you so much as touch one of my hounds, I will knock the stuffing right out of you!”

Crawford, vanity wounded and ego aflame, moved toward her. “Don’t tell me what to do, you old bitch!” He pushed little Diddy out of the way with his knee.

“Ouch,”
Diddy cried.

Sister stepped forward with her left leg, her hands fast. She followed with a hard left, then a hard right, her whole weight in the punches.

Blood spurted from Crawford’s mouth. He spit out teeth as he staggered.

He rose and threw a wild punch.

Sister ducked and came up, swinging both fists as hard as she could into his gut.

He doubled over, then sank to his knees.

Walter, mesmerized by the sight, walked toward them, three horses in tow.

Shaker, pack still with him, moved toward her.

Both men were encumbered.

Jason leaped off his horse and ran between the two antagonists. “Crawford, we’d better leave.”

“I’ll sue your sorry ass,” Crawford cursed as he spurted blood.

“You just do that.” Sister was ready to belt him again.

Walter reached her and placed his hand on her right shoulder.

Crawford, helped up by Jason, cried, “Furthermore, you’re trying to lure my hounds away from me.”

“Smoking opium,”
Cora said as all hounds laughed.

“I’ll sue you. I’ll see you bankrupt,” Crawford threatened.

Jason, loud enough for those close to hear, sensibly said, “Crawford, what do you think will happen when you testify that you were beaten up by a woman in her seventies?”

This had the desired effect.

Marty prudently turned her horse. “Come along, hounds.”

“We want to stay with them,”
a large fellow replied.

Jason handed Czpaka to Crawford and held his hands together so the bloodied man could mount up. Czpaka, sense of humor intact, took a step as Crawford tried to put his right leg over the saddle. Jason had to run alongside propping up Crawford until he was finally in the saddle.

No sooner was Crawford mounted then down the main drive to Paradise, churning old snow and mud as she roared, came Margaret DuCharme. She skidded to a halt and got out, slamming the door of her little Forester.

Margaret pointed her finger at Jason and Crawford. “What are you doing on my land?”

Crawford looked down at her. “It’s not your land.”

Jason groaned, then turned on the charm, smiling broadly at Margaret. “We’d like to know the foxes, human and otherwise.”

Voice controlled, ice cold and loud enough for the entire field to hear, Margaret replied, “I will see you both dead before I let my parents sell Paradise.”

“Alfred wants to sell.” Crawford, rattled, had just let the cat out of the bag: he knew too much.

“We’ll see about that.”

Walter, Clemson and HoJo with him, walked over to Margaret. “It was one of the best runs of the season.” He smiled. “Thank you for allowing Jefferson Hunt on Paradise. Can I help you with anything?”

She liked Walter and replied quietly, “Thanks, Walter. Get these trespassers out of here, please, before I really lose it.”

“His hounds will follow ours. We’ll get them and him out.” Walter said this so Shaker could hear, too.

She half-whispered, “I’ll see Jason in hell. I really will.”

“You buy Jason’s ticket. I’ll buy Crawford’s.” Sister regained her composure.

Two egotistical men, pride wounded in different areas, seethed on their horses.

Marty, hound tagging along, rode up to Margaret. “I am truly sorry.”

“Marty, I can’t understand how someone as lovely and sensitive as yourself could marry such a…” Words failed her. Margaret threw up her hands, and Marty knew this wasn’t the time to defend Crawford, no matter how much she loved him.

Useless as tits on a boar hog, Crawford and Jason couldn’t extricate their hounds from the Jefferson Hunt hounds.

Another motor was heard in the distance: a big, booming diesel.

Sam Lorillard, in the passenger seat, eyes wide open, involuntarily smacked his forehead with his hand as Rory stopped the truck and trailer.

Sam emerged stiffly. Rory cut the throbbing motor and walked around to the back. He opened the trailer door.

They couldn’t get the black and tans to load.

Sister, on foot, Rickyroo’s reins now in hand, called out to Shaker, “Help them, or this will get even worse.” She then directed Betty and Sybil: “You, too, if you don’t mind.”

Diddy leaped onto the new trailer.

“Diddy, out,” Shaker gently chided the eager little girl. “Hold up,” he instructed his hounds, who quizzically looked at him and at Sister, then Betty, then Sybil.

“Kennel up.” Sam called the black and tans to him as Sybil and Betty quietly, with no fanfare, moved at the edges of the hounds who didn’t break.

Sister breathed a prayer of relief the black and tans didn’t bolt but loaded up.

“Told you this would be a good hunt,” Pamela bragged.

“Not over yet,” Val replied.

Watching this was Ben Sidell. Nonni, his gentle teacher, took it all in as she stood next to Bobby’s big draft cross.

“Ben, I’m old enough to know when hounds won’t hunt for a man. Those hounds will never hunt for Crawford—not even if he feeds them calves’ liver daily,” Bobby drawled.

Sam, soaking up the tension, clambered back into the truck as soon as the black and tans were loaded.

The big trailer also carried the horses. Crawford, Jason, and Marty dismounted and walked their horses onto the trailer.

It was against state law to ride in the trailer, but under the circumstances, Jason urged them to do so. They’d get out of Paradise more quickly, and the ride back to his SUV wasn’t that far.

“I’ll get you for this!” Crawford shouted to Sister as Rory slammed and bolted the door.

Sister didn’t reply.

Shaker, back up on HoJo, apologized: “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you fast enough, Boss.”

“Maybe we both belong in the ring.” She half smiled, referring to their boxing prowess.

“Hell of a combination.” He smiled broadly.

“Was, wasn’t it?” She couldn’t help but feel pride, even though she knew that worm Crawford would churn up mud.

Hounds moved off. At the edge of Paradise people could hear the big diesel truck straining.

It was nearly noon when they arrived back at Chapel Cross. This time the whole pack wedged under the trailer.

Shaker bent over, then got down on his hands and knees, mud on his white breeches. “Holy smoke!”

“Now what?” Sister swung her leg over Rickyroo.

“There’s a den right under the trailer.”

“Shaker, you’ve denned your fox. How about giving tongue?” She bent over laughing.

Sheepishly, he stood back up and called hounds out from under the trailers. “Ardent, you were right.”

“Golden.”
Cora beamed at her friend.

Reluctantly, one by one, hounds gave up their quarry, who was unconcerned in his cozy quarters.

The field gathered round for the spectacle.

At the tailgate, everyone buzzed with the unusual events of the day.

Finally, at one, Sister drove back, Betty as her passenger.

“Wait until I tell Gray. Poor baby, he’s at the office, and Garvey’s there, too. Oh, they missed a show!”

“The audit sounds difficult. I couldn’t do that tedious work.”

“Since Sam’s accident, Gray’s been staying home with Sam, who can’t dress himself without help. Of course, even if he were with me, he couldn’t say anything. Gray is a very principled man, and really, most accountants are. I do know Garvey needs Gray’s report for the Farmers Trust.”

“Red tape. Pure and simple.”

They drove along, wondering what to do about Crawford, wondering how Sam could stand it, and feeling sorry for a nice pack of hounds who were being ruined.

A minivan, going much too fast, began to pass them.

“Iffy. What’s with her? And why isn’t she at Aluminum Manufacturers? This may be Saturday, but it’s all hands on deck at Garvey’s.”

Sister turned her head slightly as the dark blue metallic van flew by. “Is everyone nuts today?” She focused on the road again. “You know, if there is an irregularity at Aluminum Manufacturers, she’s the first one on the griddle.”

“I’m sure she knows that,” Betty replied.

“Wonder if she knew Crawford would be over here today. Her land backs up to his at that ridge.”

Betty interrupted, “I don’t think being a neighbor gave her the inside track.”

“You’re right. Then I wonder if Alfred knew. Someone had to know. I mean—would Crawford really be dumb enough to cast hounds here?”

“Big ego.” Betty, too, wondered. “Or he was set up to fail?”

They looked at each other, saying in unison, “Jason.”

“Makes no sense.” Sister shook her head.

CHAPTER 17

W
hile Iffy blew through Chapel Cross, having worked that Saturday morning in a race to get papers back to Farmers Trust, Gray used her absence to approach Garvey. Iffy said she’d come back after lunch, so he watched the clock.

Having placed a large folder and a bank deposit bag on Garvey’s desk, he sat opposite the younger man. “Garvey, Freddie, and I worked through the night. She’s been terrific.”

Garvey’s stomach tightened. “You do look a little rough.”

“Been a hell of a week.” He stood up, opening the folder and placing four stacks of invoices before Garvey. “Look at these.”

Dutifully, Garvey inspected the invoices. “They look okay to me.”

“They’re computer generated.”

Garvey studied them afresh. “Isn’t everything?”

“No. These invoices are identical except for the print. Each business has a different print color. For instance, Hanson Office Supplies is blue, Rickman’s Sanitary Service is black, L&L Commercial Cleaners is red, and Dalton Rubber Supply is green.”

Confused, Garvey bent his head over the invoices. “I’m missing something, Gray.”

“It’s uncommon to find identical invoices setting apart the print color. Freddie went online to see if these businesses existed. I called a colleague in Richmond at nine this morning. He’s never heard of them. Freddie and I flipped through the Richmond phone book to be safe, and we checked to see if in the last five years any of these companies could have been bought out by a larger company. Sometimes they’ll use up the old paper. Not often, though.”

“Where’s Freddie now?”

“She went to work straight from here to catch up.”

“Gray, you’re telling me these are bogus.”

“I am. You don’t initial or countersign checks this small. Iffy signs them. You’ll also notice that these invoices are addressed to P.O. boxes. There’s no telephone number on the invoice, no street address, no e-mail address. While each of these companies has a different P.O. box, they are all located at the main post office in Richmond.”

A sickly look passed over Garvey’s pleasant features. “Two thousand to Rickman’s Sanitary Service, seven hundred and fifty for office supplies.”

“Every month. Freddie also ran a computer search to see how many vendors of like services or supplies had the same zip code. No matchups. We have the cancelled checks.” He zipped open the standard bank deposit bag used by businesses. “All are signed by your treasurer, and all are endorsed by a rubber stamp that says ‘for deposit only.’” Gray pulled out a few checks for Garvey’s inspection.

“My God.” Garvey slumped in his chair. “Iffy.”

“She goes to Richmond the third Thursday of each month. She picks up the checks and she deposits them in her own account. Obviously, we can’t seize her personal records until you charge her.”

His face flushed. “She deserves the right to explain herself. She’s been with me for years.”

“What she deserves is arrest. All these fake invoices are dated on the same day of the month, and they are all deposited on the same day of the month, the third Thursday. Garvey, it’s an old scheme, and it’s tried and true as long as the person doing it knows when to get out. It’s called disbursements fraud. It’s always an inside job, usually committed by a chief financial officer. If you don’t have her arrested the minute she walks back in this door, I can tell you exactly what will happen.”

“What?” Garvey whispered.

“She will say she needs to talk to an attorney. She’ll leave, and my guess is she can access the money very quickly. She’ll leave the country.”

“I can’t believe it.” Garvey dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“How much did she steal from me?”

“Freddie and I want to go over the cashed checks again. We also want to see if there aren’t other things we may have missed simply through exhaustion.”

Garvey lifted his head, raised his eyes, “Gray, how much?”

“Two million.”

“Oh, my God.” Garvey picked up the phone and dialed. “May I speak to Sheriff Ben Sidell?”