Lost & Hound, page 3
The bridge appeared, ghostly, before Sister.
The fog thinned enough that she could make out the bridge’s opening plus she could just see the dark red color on the sides by the opening. Keepsake, her Thoroughbred–Quarter horse cross, readily strode forward.
On the other side of the bridge, she turned left, staying on the wide farm road. Much as she wanted the hounds to hunt a bit, she was glad of the slow pace. A hot run in these conditions would be dangerous. What’s the point of starting the Season with injury?
A low hoot indicated a barn owl. No answering hoot was forthcoming. Sister knew to the right was the large home, After All, Georgian architecture but made of fieldstone, unusual. After All often appeared in architectural books focused on eighteenth-century Virginia homes. After All barely made it, the original portion built in 1790, the wings following when the money rolled in. Money was unpredictable then as now. Onward they moved in a northeasterly direction. Trees lining the road, their upward limbs reaching out, tips visible as they dipped.
Trinity, coming into his prime, stopped. “Aunt Netty, has to be Aunt Netty.”
His littermate, Twist, came over. “Is. She’s such a pain.”
Trinity called out, “Aunt Netty.”
Diana, older, knew the somewhat younger hound was reliable. She didn’t check the spot. Soon all hounds were running, the sound oddly muffled.
Sister kept on the road, thinking Betty and Tootie must be having one bitch of a time on the narrow side trails. This territory, while gently rolling, boasted thick woods. You needed to see where you were going.
Sure enough, hounds veered left toward old Pattypan Forge, a large structure used for two centuries before more forges were built, especially after World War I once the economy recovered. Pattypan was in use nearly thirty years after that, finally shutting down in the 1950s. Fewer and fewer people were metal workers. No one was left to manage the forge.
Although hounds were running, Sister kept it to a trot. She was determined not to lose anyone, including herself, on this trail. Some limbs hung down more than they had at the trail clearing late August. There’d been enough wind since then for unwelcome surprises. She heard hooves behind her.
Hounds stopped. So did she. She called back to the small field. “No heroics today.”
“Good,” Edward Bancroft replied.
Hoofbeats came toward her, hounds slithered by her.
Sister backed off the trail, not so easy as her Huntsman came by.
“Madam.” Weevil slowed. “I’ll head for the Lorillard home place. Has to be better than this.” He tapped his crop to his cap, adding, “Put that old crab to ground in the forge.”
Then he slowly cantered, the field happy when he passed, as everyone was wedged in.
Sister followed Weevil and each rider freed herself or himself from the brush as she passed. You never impede the Huntsman, the whippers-in, or the Master.
Soon they were back out on the road, the atmosphere feeling even more clammy. The farm road, firm and wide, usually free of all traffic, gave everyone a breather. Not that they ran hard, but vigilance can be tiring.
Nearing the tidy white clapboard home, not in view, Sister checked her cinch. This area was home to one sturdy male fox plus the odd visitor.
Keepsake shied and snorted. Since Keepsake was a steady horse, Sister thought a bear might be in the vicinity. Often, even a human can smell bear. She didn’t catch the scent but something was affecting Keepsake. Sister thought she saw something on her right. Looked like a shadowy figure but low. Had to be an illusion.
Hounds opened. She did, too. The road was wide and safe, fog or no fog. A brisk seven-minute gallop brought them to the lovely home, somewhat visible. Hounds, staff, and field were close. A bit of fog thinned by the house but it remained unusually heavy elsewhere. The hounds dug under the front porch.
Weevil dismounted, handing his reins to Tootie, who had ridden up.
Kneeling down he peered under the porch through the slats. Fog hung there, too. But he could smell the fox, Uncle Yancy.
Uncle Yancy, Aunt Netty’s reluctant spouse, had zipped in there to fool hounds then zipped out. He was successful, as he already stretched himself out on the shelf above the mudroom door to the kitchen. Piles of folded towels, old sweaters allowed him to snuggle behind them. The heat from the kitchen kept the mudroom warmer than outside, but not as warm as the kitchen. It was a cozy home, easy to get into, and easy to get out of. Hounds continued to dig at the front porch while Uncle Yancy dozed off, in the rear of the house.
Weevil mounted up.
Sister rode up to him. “Let’s lift. The weather isn’t getting any better. I don’t trust it.”
“Yes, Madam.” He nodded as he agreed.
Betty and Tootie fell into their positions on either side of the pack. On the way back to the covered bridge and then across the wildflower field to the kennels, people’s trailers, Sister felt a dropping northeast wind at her back. Usually the winds came from the northwest.
Once there, hounds in, horses up, the other horses tied to the trailers with feed bags, a few inside the trailers, the small group gathered inside Sister’s house.
Gray made coffee, Betty made tea, and a bottle of sherry sat on the kitchen table. No one was interested in alcohol at this hour.
Walter helped put out butter, muffins, scrambled eggs, and bacon, as hunts often finished with a breakfast even in the afternoon.
Kasmir and Alida guided Elise to the food.
“Should I be first?” she wondered, still full of energy from her first hunt.
“Of course.” Alida smiled. “This was your maiden hunt.”
“Even though I couldn’t see a thing it was exciting when the hounds started barking.”
No one corrected her to say “speaking.” Why? She’d figure it out in good time.
People filled plates then sat at the large dining room table while Gray, who had filled the samovar, brought people coffee. Finally, he sat down.
“Here’s to a steaming hunt season.”
They lifted their coffee. “Hear. Hear.”
Then Sister tapped her glass, raised it. “Three cheers for Elise Sabatini’s first hunt.”
Happy cheers, hand claps, and hands thumping the table followed.
Elise was thrilled.
Everyone felt that surge that accompanies a good time. Maybe it wasn’t much of a hunt, but they were outside, together, hounds spoke a bit, and no one parted company with their mount. Betty sat next to Sister, not at the head of the table, which she deferred to Gray. She liked seeing him be the host. Gray and Sam resembled each other. Each man was light-skinned, handsome, very masculine. Gray sported a military moustache, while Sam remained clean-shaven. Gray, being older, had salt-and-pepper hair. Sam’s was still mostly black.
Betty, next to Sister on one side, Alida on the other, caught up on their predictions for the football season.
“Giants. They’ll come back,” Alida predicted.
“No way.” Betty sniffed good-naturedly. “Now the comeback will be the Miami Dolphins.”
“Ha.” Sister laughed.
“They will. You just watch. You never got over the Dallas Cowboys.”
“That’s not fair.” Sister bit into her croissant. “Teams go up and down.”
Elise joined the conversation. “My husband would sit here and go on and on about the Kansas City Chiefs.”
“Pittsburgh.” Bobby finished his scrambled eggs, rising to get more. “Anyone need anything?”
“No thanks” came the chorus.
“Barry, saw a brief interview with you on my cellphone wildlife app. You were convincing,” Sam complimented the middle-aged man.
“Cameron put me up to it.” He nodded across the table. “Said there are now so many video shows, blogs, podcasts, I should really work media. Of course I can’t hold a candle to Ed Clark.”
Ed, next to Ronnie, leaned forward. “You need a big mouth.”
Everyone laughed, including Barry.
Ed and Ronnie returned to their discussion about fundraising for the Wildlife Center of Virginia as well as the Jefferson Hunt Club. Both men enjoyed kicking around how to raise money, as neither organization was for profit.
Ronnie, scribbling on a napkin, said, “Fundraising is the second oldest profession.”
Ed thought a moment. “Would we get anywhere using the first?”
“As two men of a certain age, Ed, I don’t think we’d make a dime. Plus you don’t incline that way.”
Laughing, Ed replied, “I know, but there are times when I wonder how low could I go to keep the Center flourishing?”
Sister observed the two poking each other, laughing. She believed Jefferson Hunt brought people together. Riding in the hunt field overcomes barriers. The fox doesn’t care about your color, religion, social status, or income. He’ll make a fool out of you if he can. Usually he can. Foxhunting is a great equalizer. You can stay on your horse or you can’t. Eventually everyone hits the dirt. If one is going to be sensible about it, take up canasta.
Cameron was still encouraging Barry about media.
“Barry, sit with an iguana. People will love it.”
Betty giggled. “But would the iguana?”
Turning to face Betty and Sister, Barry confided, “Reptiles and amphibians are my focus, as you know. If I sat with a raccoon, more people would be interested.”
“True.” Edward Bancroft joined the conversation. “But if you give people an interesting fact, most people do get intrigued.”
Sam teased Cameron. “You can fly Barry to interviews. That would impress people, an airborne limo.”
“Hear that, Barry?” Cameron prodded his friend. “Your foundation is small. You need to grow. You might not raise as much money as the Wildlife Center of Virginia but good things will happen. People trying to save animals are compelling.”
“Even people who try to save trees can be compelling.” Alida had a deep interest in arboretums, green spaces.
“They can be so beautiful.” Betty enjoyed visiting botanical gardens, arboretums. She wanted to see where Virginia Tech was growing American chestnut hybrids. The Department of Forest Resources and Environmental Conservation had a great interest in Tech’s program, as did everyone interested in overcoming virus damage to plants, trees.
“Auburn,” Sam named a rival university, “does a lot of interesting stuff.”
Gray called out to his brother, “Don’t start. There are enough Tech graduates here to jump on you.”
Sister smiled at Sam. “At least you didn’t say Harvard, your alma mater.”
Cameron, a bit newer to the club, looked at Sam. “Harvard. Well, I graduated from Georgia, the Harvard of the South.”
“I drank myself out of Harvard.” Sam was frank. “Don’t worry. I’m not embarrassed. Everyone here knows I failed. But I cleaned up. I have work I love.”
Everyone started talking at once. Betty told Cameron, “Don’t worry. You haven’t stirred up an old pain.”
“Whew,” he said.
Barry, observing all this, piped up. “Well, I, too, graduated from Georgia, where I barely made it.”
The talk switched back to college football, as opposed to the pros.
Riotous challenges followed. Laughter, bets, and money waved in the air, created a lively gathering.
The breakfast broke up. Tootie and Weevil came in late but they, too, enjoyed the group. Weevil, being Canadian, was more interested in hockey, but football was okay.
As the people left, Betty, Tootie, and Weevil helped clear plus put the food away.
“You two take some of this. My handsome husband made too much food. He usually does,” Betty urged.
Walking into the kitchen, Gray said, “You can never make a mistake overfeeding people.”
“That’s the truth.” Betty smiled. “Say, did anyone notice an odd apparition in the fog?”
Sister stopped washing the dishes for a moment. “Like what?”
“I was on the right, following the farm road. Anyways, trying to stay with hounds, I couldn’t really see. It looked like someone, a man, sitting in a chair, facing the farm road. Fuzzy. Doubt there was anything there. Fog can fool you. That’s why you don’t fly in it.”
“Remember the Big Bopper?” Bobby put a plastic cap on a food container. “Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J. P. Richardson were killed in 1959.”
“Bad weather, fog or not. Ugh.” Betty put away the clean cups as Golliwog sauntered into the room.
“Where was she? And where are the dogs?” Betty wondered.
“Golly was under the sideboard, praying for dropped food. The dogs were in the bedroom with cookies and toys. I didn’t want Elise’s first breakfast to be with the dogs,” Sister answered. “She likes animals but perhaps not at a breakfast.”
“So back to the apparition.” Betty returned to her subject. “It startled me. But I couldn’t swear to really seeing anything. We were moving on, fog thick. Had to be something like a branch, logs piled in an odd way.”
“Funny. Keepsake shied. Thought I saw something large by the road, too, but I doubt it. We haven’t been back there since the latest windstorm.”
“All right. Almost done.” Gray, tall, reached up to put away more cups handed to him by Betty, who stepped off the library stool.
“Here. You do it better than I do.”
As the last of the group dispersed, Sister ran upstairs, let Raleigh and Rooster out.
“Thank God.” Rooster barked.
“I hate being in the bedroom when there are people downstairs.” Raleigh, the Doberman, put his nose in Sister’s hand.
Gray, now in the library, smiled as he heard Sister and a pair of dogs coming down the back steps.
Golly, on the back of the sofa, ignored them when they padded into the room.
Gray clicked on the TV. He loved college football. Sitting down next to Sister, he draped his arm over her shoulders.
“Isn’t it funny that both Betty and I thought we saw something in the fog?”
“Fog really can distort objects,” he replied.
It was no distortion.
CHAPTER 3
September 25, 2022, Sunday
The African Methodist Church had an early service. Sam and Gray usually took their aunt Daniella to the eight am service. Occasionally, Gray would go with Sister to Emmanuel Episcopal.
A light mist covered the trees, tombstones, and tarmac. Not as heavy as yesterday’s fog, but Sam still drove slowly away from the home place. He’d pick up his aunt on the way to Charlottesville. Gray would meet them at the church, the one they had attended as children. Aunt Daniella had been a member for over ninety years. She and her sister, Graziella, were taken there at four and six. Aunt Dan admitted to being ninety-four, so the timeline shifted at will. She was in no hurry to be precise.
As Sam drove his clean truck, he slowed, then stopped with shock. Opening the door to the truck, he was hit by a brush of colder air, along with a faint odor of death. Not old death but the beginnings of the process of decomposition.
He stared at one sightless eye as two vultures flew off the corpse’s shoulders to watch Sam from the tree branches. The birds had eaten some of his face. One eye was missing. Blood pooled in the man’s hands. Rigor mortis had passed. Sam, like most country people, knew the rough stages of decay based on the season. Whoever this was had recently come out of rigor. The fog was so thick yesterday, he’d noticed nothing on his way to the Old Home Place. Others called it the Lorillard-Laprade place.
Hopping back in his truck, Sam called his brother.
“Gray, go pick up Aunt Dan. I found a dead man. Need to call Sheriff Sidell and wait for him.”
“On the way to church?” Gray was astonished.
“If fog hadn’t been so thick yesterday, we all might have seen this guy. White. Well dressed. Blood leaking out of his ears. Dried-up blood. Don’t know how he was killed. Anyway, go. I’ve got to call Ben.”
“Right. Aunt Dan, Sister, and I will come to the house after church. I’ll call Sister. You’re okay if she comes over?”
“Yes, of course.” Sam, like Gray, had known Sister since his childhood, admiring her for her fairness and horsemanship.
Sam sat in the car, shaken. No one wants to find a dead body but this fellow had been here long enough for the birds to have pecked out one eye, and to tear flesh. Something had chewed on those swollen hands. Another twenty-four hours and he would have been really chewed up. Protein attracts all meat eaters, especially those who eat carrion.
Twenty minutes later, Ben Sidell drove up in the squad car, accompanied by Jude, a young officer. Behind them followed the ambulance with the forensic team.
Sam stepped down as Ben got out. Both men knew each other well, as both hunted.
Ben walked to the corpse. “Sitting straight up.”
Sam pointed to the dark thin rope tying the body to the chair, a simple wooden chair, high-backed.
“Right. Marsha.” He called to the woman heading the forensic team. “Get the pictures, close-up of his hands, too.” He turned to Sam. “Someone had a nibble.”
While not exactly gallows humor, law enforcement people become accustomed to corpses.
Jude walked behind the body. “No signs of battering.”
“Hmm. Fortyish. Well dressed. White. No rings. No watch.” He paused. “Could have been stolen.” He backed away. “Over to you.”
Marsha and two others examined the corpse. They wore thin plastic gloves. Photographs were taken as they inspected.
Ben, Jude, and Sam leaned against the back of Sam’s truck.
“Sheriff, the fog was so thick yesterday, we must have passed the body. He’s a little way off the road but not all that much.”
“Was a punishing fog. Nothing but accidents. Of course, on my one weekend off work,” Ben remarked.
