“It will be.”
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, but the discovery of Nola’s and Guy’s bodies certainly can’t have added to their killer’s tranquillity. He’s arrogant and opportunistic, but stupid, too. His arrogance has made him stupid. Killing Ralph like that.”
“Maybe he thought it was kill or be killed.” She scuffed at the bluestone in the parking lot. “I hope I get to see him caught and punished.”
“I think every person in our hunt field feels that except one.”
“Who?”
“The killer.”
CHAPTER 36
“She’s going to be fine,” Walker enthusiastically reported to Sister on the vixen’s surgery.
“What good news! We could use a little good news around here,” Sister, on the kennel phone, said warmly.
After more details on the recovery of the vixen, whom Walter had named Bessie, Sister hung up the phone and she gave Shaker a full report. When she was done, she told Shaker something that had been running around, unarticulated, in the back of her mind for quite some time. “You know, it’s the most curious thing, Walter reminds me of Raymond. He even moves like Raymond. Same jaw, square shoulders. He’s a touch shorter and quieter than Raymond, but it’s uncanny. It’s one of those realizations that’s grown on me.” She looked brightly at Shaker. “Have you noticed it?”
“Uh, well, I suppose,” Shaker fumbled.
Sister knew in an instant that her huntsman knew more than she did. “Ah.” A long silence followed. “Does Walter know?”
“No.” Deeply embarrassed, he gave a small shrug.
“Shaker, don’t fret. I should have figured it out. It’s as plain as the nose on my face.”
“Things happen.”
“With Raymond they certainly did.” She spoke with conviction, breathed, then smiled. “How did you know?”
“He confessed in a weak moment.”
“Aided by scotch?”
“Scotch and emphysema. He asked me to watch out for Walter.”
“I see. She was pretty, as I recall, Walter’s mother.”
“They were all pretty, but Janie, not one of them was as good a woman as you.” Shaker’s voice rose and he looked her straight in the eye.
“Thank you. But I have my failings.” She glanced down at her hands, the red clay ground within. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.”
“You weren’t stupid.”
“Not about that.” She smiled sadly. “Not about that. But I think I’ve been half in love with Walter. Now it makes sense.” She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “Younger men don’t look at older women. I guess I just realized how drawn I am to him.” She sighed. “Love never dies.”
“I don’t know. I’m not good at those things.”
She paused a moment. “Well, I’ve had my revelation. Love never dies.” She fell quiet again, then suddenly sat up and said with much animation, “Shaker, that’s it!”
“What?”
“Love never dies! The killer is still in love with Nola or with Guy.”
CHAPTER 37
For the remainder of the day, Sister felt as though she had a red-hot marble rolling around in her brain. The mental discomfort was excruciating.
When troubled, the stable provided solace.
She brushed down Rickyroo, Lafayette, Keepsake, and Aztec and then turned them out. The horses calmed her, helped her organize her thoughts.
She cleaned out the brushes, hung up the wipe-down towels, inhaled the bracing mix of liniment, hay, and eau de cheval.
Golliwog nestled on a cooler, gray and gold, folded on the huge tack trunk that originally belonged to Raymond’s grandfather, John “Hap” Arnold. Raleigh and Rooster flopped on their sides in a stall and snored, each exhale sending tiny motes of hay dust upward. The large wall clock above the tack room door read three-thirty.
Sister firmly believed the more horses were allowed to be horses the better they behaved. The animal is meant to graze and walk, graze and walk. Being cooped up in a stall, fed all manner of hopped-up grains, makes for a lunatic. She brought them in each morning, and fed them sweet feed in their individual stalls, because each of her boys needed time alone. She also added crimped oats and as much high-quality hay as they would eat. Then she’d go to the kennels to help Shaker feed and clean. By the time she returned, usually after about two hours, each horse had cleaned his plate. Then she turned them back out.
People complimented her on the condition of her horses, their glistening coats, their good hooves. Their eyes were bright, their attitudes cheery.
She replied that her methods were common sense. Avoid fads. Listen to the feed salesmen respectfully, but remember they’re there to sell you a lot of stuff you don’t need. Take excellent care of your pastures and your pastures will take excellent care of your horses. Keep your horses on a routine. Animals, including humans, like a routine, and this includes regular exercise. Be sure you work with the best equine dentist, vet, and blacksmith in the area. While you’re at it, take yourself to the best dentist and doctor, too. You may skip the blacksmith.
Newcomers often asked questions, and Sister was glad when they did. Better to ask than to be taken to the cleaners by the guy who wants to put automatic waterers in your barn or the dealer who wants to sell you a fortune in vitamin supplements. Not that automatic waterers might not be useful for some people and vitamins useful for others, but if you didn’t know horses, thousands of dollars would fly out the window.
One thing never changed. Over the forty years of her mastership she had watched new person after new person buy exactly the wrong horse. The only way to become a foxhunter is to buy a made horse, a seasoned veteran who can teach the human. He’s better than an insurance policy. He is your insurance policy. But in all her years, she had only known a handful of people to exhibit such sense. Walter was one. His gelding, Clemson, lacked in the looks department, was a little clunky, even big-headed. He had age on him, but that horse knew his job. He was giving Walter tremendous confidence. Walter could hunt and listen for hounds instead of riding in terror.
The Clemsons of the world should be gold-plated. In their own way they are as much treasures as a Secretariat.
She watched Aztec, Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Keepsake play with one another in their pasture and thought of the people she had come to know through foxhunting. Any hunt club reflects the history of its region. She thought of the older people, her idols from her childhood, her own peers, and now the young ones coming up behind her. She had learned a lot from all those people; she was still learning.
Leaning over the fence, she sniffed the first tang of the odor of turning leaves. The fiery marble in her brain had stopped rolling. She had a plan.
She found Shaker walking puppies, a task requiring strong shoulders since they pulled and leapt about. He smiled as she fell in with him and took a leash from his hands.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Shaker, I have an idea. It’s unorthodox, but I think I can bolt our killer from his den, flush him right out. We’ve been running over him, you know.”
“Darby, boy, steady.” Shaker’s low voice quieted a yapping young fellow. “Well, he’s been in the covert, that we know.”
“It’s going to take some work on our part and a little luck.” She was nearly pulled off her feet by Doughboy.
“The luck part”—Shaker’s bushy eyebrows rose— “that’s interesting.”
Before she could spin out her idea, Ben Sidell drove onto the farm. He cut the motor, stepped outside the squad car, and walked over to them. “Afternoon.”