“You know, I’m not there yet.” Clay bit his lip. “I’m glad you are, but I can’t think that far ahead.”
“Don’t worry.” X meant it. He was a successful man because he backed up his word. He really did care about the people who insured through him.
As Shaker walked back to the truck, the wind shifted slightly in his direction. Tiny red and gold sparks flew upwards as white flakes fell down. He inhaled smoke carrying the unmistakable odor of flesh. He’d smelled that once before as a young man. An old house had burned down, its owner having fallen asleep in bed with a lit cigarette.
He returned to Ben.
“Ben, there’s meat in that building.”
Ben raised his eyebrows.“Come with me.” Shaker led Ben to where he had picked up the scent; the wind was still blowing in that direction. “Take a deep breath and you’ll cough. Smoke burns the hell out of your throat.”
Ben inhaled, coughed, but he smelled it.“Wonder if Clay had any kind of refrigeration unit in there.”
“Talk to George first. I mean, that’s what I’d do.”
Ben nodded.“You’re right.”
Ben headed toward the busy fire chief as Shaker climbed into the old Chevy, turned over the motor and sat to let the engine run a minute. If anyone was in there, he or she was burned to a crisp. Who would be in the storage house? He hoped it was a raccoon. A big one might give off a powerful odor if killed or burned.
Shaker headed out of town. He called Sister on his phone, installed in the truck.
Sister asked,“You okay?”
“Nothing for me to do. Clay’s holding up. X’s real calm. That helps him, I guess. Ben sent me home.” Shaker listened to the crackle on the phone as he drove through a patch of bad reception.
“Strange. When I drove by Hangman’s Ridge, I—” She stopped herself. “Well, that place sometimes presages bad tidings.”
“See another ghost?” This was not said in jest, for once she had seen a ghost there. A year later, he had, too, even though he hated to admit it.
The souls who had been hanged on the huge oak on top of the ridge, sent to justice since the early eighteenth century, were unquiet. Many had seen or heard them; even Inky skirted the place if she could. Being a fox, her senses were far keener than a human’s. She had seen more than one ghost—all men—necks unnaturally stretched.
“I just heard howling, but it’s windy. Picking up.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, uh, forgot what I was going to say.” She hadn’t actually, merely changed her mind.
“Alzheimer’s?”
“Halfzimers,” she fired back as she hung up.
She had been going to ask him if he wanted her to bring Sari up to the main house so he could be alone with Lorraine. Then she realized the supper was a surprise, and, also, Sari looked up to Shaker. Removing her from the picture wouldn’t be fair. If romance was going to blossom, there was time for that. Sister didn’t have to put a log on the fire. She repented of that image the moment she thought it.
CHAPTER 24
After that Sunday’s church service many hunt club members gathered at the grand, modern Berry residence. Clay’s wife, Izzy, graciously met everyone at the door and invited them in. Despite their travails, she served coffee, tea, cakes, and cookies.
Betty, who used to think Izzy was nothing but a gold digger, actually warmed to her thanks to this ordeal.
The dreadful news, depressing everyone, concerned the charred body found in the burned storage unit. Shaker spared people the details of his picking up the scent. Ben Sidell also kept his cards close to his chest.
The situation was distressful enough without people hearing what a burned corpse looks and smells like. The corpse at the morgue would be, they hoped, identified through dental records. Dr. Larry Hund was usually called to solve any mysteries involving teeth.
Marty, balancing cup and saucer, leaned over to whisper to Tedi,“Does Clay have enemies who hate him enough to commit arson?”
“It would appear he does,” the elegant Tedi responded, the Hapsburg sapphire gleaming on her third finger.
“Awful.” Marty shook her head.
Sam Lorillard briefly paid his respects. Knowing how close Clay and Xavier were, he didn’t stay more than fifteen minutes.
Gray, always a calming presence, brought the hostess a mimosa. So busy tending her guests, she’d forgotten herself. Sister watched him, blushing slightly when he smiled at her.
Dr. Dalton Hill was there, which made Sister warm a little to him. As he was getting to know people better, he became less stiff. The fact that he expressed sympathy for a hunt member, new though he was, impressed her. Foxhunters should stick together.
Walter, five inches taller than Ben Sidell, leaned on the fireplace mantel to the right of the fire screen. He asked the sheriff,“Gaston working?”
“Mmm.” Ben nodded that the county coroner was on the case, then took a step away from the fireplace to get away from the heat.
“Pathologists always have the right answer—a day late,” Walter said with a rueful smile, stepping away with Ben.
“Not your thing, Doc?”
“No. I like contact with people. I want to help. We live in such a cynical age, probably, it sounds corny, but I genuinely want to help and heal.”
Ben smiled up at him.“Me, too.”
“Neither of us will ever run out of business,” Walter replied.
“Gentlemen, may I intrude?” Sorrel Buruss joined them.
“You’re anything but an intrusion.” Walter bowed slightly to the lovely widow, now cresting over that forty-year barrier.
“Xavier’s been so tireless. On the phones half the night, this morning. The investigator for the carrier, Worldwide Security, is flying down from Hartford tomorrow. X wants Clay to get up and running as fast as he can.”
“X is a good man to have in your corner,” Ben agreed. His cell phone beeped. “Excuse me.” He walked away from the group and listened intently. “Thanks, Gaston. I’ll be right down.” Then he returned to Walter and Sorrel. “Walter, would you like to come on down to the lab with me?”
Walter knew what he meant.“Of course.”
Sorrel knew, too. Prudently, she asked no questions but observed the reactions of others as the sheriff and Walter left together.
One by one, the well-wishers left.
Sister—Rooster and Raleigh in the truck front seat— drove home. The plowed roads remained slick in spots. The sun shone, and the whiteness dazzled.
Not a churchgoer, although she grew up an Episcopalian, nature was Sister’s church. Looking at the mirrored ponds, ice overtop, the dancing tiny rainbows glittering on snow-and frost-covered hills, the churning clear beauty of Broad Creek as it swept under Soldier Road—these things gave her a deep faith, an unshakeable belief in a Higher Power, or Powers. Sister wasn’t fussy about monotheism or the intellectual comforts of dogma. To see such beauty, to observe a fox in winter coat, to inhale the sharp tang of pine as one rode fast underneath, to listen to Athena call in the night, to feel the earth tight underneath giving way to a bog festooned with silver, black, and beige shrubs shorn of raiment, such things convinced her that life was divine.
Even later when Walter called to inform her that the still unidentified corpse had not died of smoke inhalation, her faith in God’s work remained undiminished. Of all God’s creations, the human was the failure. Still, she hoped, in good moments, that with effort and a dismantling of grotesque ego, we might join the rest of nature in a chorus of appreciation for life itself.
She fed the dogs and put a bowl of flakey tuna on the counter for Golly.
“Pussycat, would you kill another cat for tuna?” Golly, purring, lifted her head, small bits of red tuna in her whiskers.“No. I’d box his ears though.”