Sister finally spoke.“Can’t stand it. My curiosity’s getting the better of me.”
She punched in Ben Sidell’s number, speaking into the truck’s speaker phone when he picked up. “I’m a nosy twit, but is Donnie Sweigert’s autopsy complete?”
“Yes.”
“Was he shot or knocked over the head or stuffed with a knockout drug?”
“He had been in a fight shortly before his death. His neck, deep tissue, had been bruised. A deep bruise on his thigh, a cracked rib. He was most likely unconscious and then died from smoke inhalation.”
“Do you think he started a fire with a gas can next to him?”
“I don’t know.” Ben cleared his throat. “The can, although mostly empty, blew up from the small amount of gasoline in the bottom. Maybe the fire got away from him. Granted, Donnie wasn’t terribly intelligent, but he didn’t appear to be that stupid.”
“So now, Ben, three men are dead. They knew one another. They worked together sporadically. Maybe they were closer than anyone realizes.”
“Perhaps.”
“I assume you have contacted the people Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony delivered furniture to?”
“Yes.”
“We have four suspects, don’t we?”
Ben thought a moment.“Sister, you haven’t been idle. If you count Isabelle Berry, yes.”
“I do and I don’t. Wives can go along for years and know not one thing about the business of their husbands. Not their bailiwick.”
“True.”
“Have you checked Dalton Hill’s background?”
“He is what he says he is. Highly respected in his profession and in his hobby, the decorative arts of the eighteenth century. Guess that’s what you call it.”
“It’s possible his coming here is a coincidence.”
“I don’t know.” Ben’s voice grew louder as she drove through an area of better reception. “What I do know is that you had better keep your mouth shut. Forgive me for being blunt. For one thing, I’m piecing this together, and I don’t want you upsetting the applecart. It’s tough enough as it is, and our killer or killers don’t shy away from murdering people.”
“Afraid he or they will fly the coop?”
“Yes. I’m worried about that and I’m worried about someone getting in the way or another murder, if this is some sort of vendetta.”
“Ah.” She absorbed his comment about who might become a victim. “Can you think of anyone else in particular who might be in danger?”
“I don’t know. My hunch is that this is a falling-out among thieves.” He waited a moment as the reception cackled. “I beg you to be careful, please, Sister.”
“We’re talking about millions of dollars, aren’t we?”
“Yes. And people have killed for less.”
She pressed the End button.“Shit. Excuse my French.”
“If this is a falling-out among thieves, I’d think that Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony would have had money.”
“Donnie flashed around an expensive rifle.”
“He did, but if you want to know my hunch, it’s those three men who may have figured out the scam. Maybe they blackmailed the real criminals.”
“Yes. I wonder if any of them knew how much money was at stake.” She stopped for the light where Route 28 connects with Route 29. “It’s close, this evil.”
CHAPTER 38
Sunny, cold, and crisp, Thursday’s hunt at Orchard Hill unfolded as though Nimrod himself had written about it. Tomorrow night’s full moon would illuminate the snowy fields. Predators, hunting in full force, pursued rabbits, field mice, even ground nesters among the avian family. Why the tempo of hunting accelerated before a full moon, Sister didn’t know. She just knew it happened. Also that people’s emotions swung higher and wilder; sexual attractions heated up, too. Artemis possessed powers, as did her twin, Apollo. His were more obvious, hers commanded study.
On that glorious February 5, as hounds streamed across the thirty-acre hayfield, its imposing sugar maple, solemn as a sentinel in the middle of the snowy field, Sister thought how little glory remained in modern life. War, so technological and covered by reporters as an entertainment, had room for heroism, but not glory. Only sport and art retained the concept of, as foxhunters would say, throwing your heart over the fence. Professional sport—micromanaged, increasingly scientific—was like a salmon pulled out of the water: its colors were fading, and with it, glory. There’s a heedless, sunny aspect to glory, a disdain for profit and even the applause of others that appealed to Sister. Not that she minded applause or profit, but that wasn’t why she raced across the clean whiteness this morning. She wanted glory.
The field, large for a Thursday at twenty-one, looked like a nineteenth-century aquatint; the packed snow flew off hooves like large chunks of confetti. Faces, red from cold and exertion, radiated intensity and happiness.
The fox, a quarter of a mile ahead of the pack, swung round the other side of the hayfield, turning back toward his den not far from the simple Federal-style house.
Sister, in her eagerness, had gotten a bit forward of her field. She soared over the black coop, snow still tucked along the planks, then paused a moment to watch others take the obstacle.
Tedi, perfect position, arched over the coop, the sky bright blue above her. Edward followed, derby on his head, hands forward, eyes up—not as elegant as his wife, but bold. Behind Edward came Ronnie, light, smiling, another one with perfect position. Xavier followed Ronnie, lurching a bit on Picasso. Xavier really had to lose weight. It was affecting his riding. After Xavier, Clay took the jump big. That was Clay, clap yourleg on the horse and devil take the hindmost. Once Clay cleared, Crawford, keen to be up front, tucked down on Czpaka and thundered over: not pretty but effective. Walter on Clemson, his tried and true, took the fence in a workman-like manner, no muss, no fuss, all business. Sam took his fences like the professional he was, with as little interference with the horse as possible.
She heard the horn, figured she better move along. She asked Keepsake for speed, which he readily supplied despite the snow. Keepsake had a marvelous sense of balance.
Sister looked for brain first, balance second. Anyone could pick apart a horse, a hind end a trifle weak or a shoulder slope too straight. For Sister, conformation was a map not a destination. The way the horse moved meant everything to her. As her mother used to say,“Movement is the best of conformation.”
Another jump, an odd brush jump, level on top, sat in the turkey foot wire fence that enclosed the back acres. Keepsake glided over, smooth as silk. They turned toward higher ground, while a soft grade upward, given the snow, burned calories.
On top of that meadow, the 1809 house and outbuildings in clear view, Sister saw a red fox running toward the toolshed. The outermost building, its white clapboard matched all the others.
She said nothing as hounds were speaking. It’s incorrect to call out “Tallyho” if the hounds are on.
Viewing the fox is as good as a twenty-minute run. The field excitedly looked in the direction of Tedi’s outstretched arm, her lady’s derby in her hand. Tedi did not yell out but did the proper thing when viewing a fox. She removed her derby, pointing it in the direction of the fox. She continued this for four or five strides as there was no slowing down, then she clapped the derby on her head realizing she’d snapped her hat cord in her eagerness to confirm her view.
“Bother!” she muttered under her breath as the hat cord swung from side to side on her neck, its small metal snap cold when it touched bare skin.
Within four minutes the fox popped into his den, hounds marked it, Rassle turning a somersault of delight, which made the whole field laugh. Shaker blew“Gone to Ground,” praised his charges, mounted with a wince, and looked at Sister.
Like a schoolgirl bursting with eagerness, she said,“Let’s hunt the back acres. If we don’t pick up anything in twenty minutes, we can call it a day. I mean, unless you’re hurting.”