“Something tells me if it’s difficult or exceptionally beautiful, no, it won’t be taught; then again, we should ask Charlotte Norton at Custis Hall. Anyway, you aren’t here to talk about poets or spring. What’s cooking?”
“News.” Betty beamed. “Will be on the news tonight but I have my sources.”
“I’m sure you do, which means you ran into Ben.”
“Don’t spoil my moment.” Betty took a sip. “The oaf that was killed at Showoff had a criminal record.”
“Did Sabatini know?”
“That’s who told Ben when he questioned him. Sabatini hires former prisoners, nothing vile, but stuff like petty theft, growing dope, stealing cars. No armed robbery or murder.”
“And shall I assume his record will be discussed or printed in the paper?”
Betty nodded. “Illegal gambling. Cards. Betting on football games, the spread, that sort of thing. Anyway, he served his time. That’s the story, or that’s the story I heard.”
“Was he married?”
“No mention of that or next of kin.”
“What about the severed fingers?” Sister’s curiosity was climbing.
“Now, that’s what is perhaps significant, or what Ben knew but kept from others until he spoke to Sabatini.”
“Betty, as our sheriff he is not obliged to tell us anything.”
Betty thought about this. “No, but he does have to ask questions and he did. It seems the amputated fingers may be what one did as a young man once accepted into a gambling gang. It was the mark of belonging, so they always wore gloves. Gangs often have some mark or tattoo.”
“If gambling had been his road to prison, you think he might have made money or the gang would take care of him. Those crime families do take care of their own, I think in the old days and maybe even today.”
“You would think so, but Mr. Sabatini…I can’t get used to calling a man Gigi…anyway, he believes this is a warning. He never mentioned Parker Bell except to Ben.”
Neither woman spoke, then Betty said, “So maybe he fell back into illegal betting? Being choked to death is violent. Whoever kills you has to get close.”
Sister grimaced. “Get close and carry a lead shank.”
“Maybe it was someone who knows horses.”
“Maybe, or maybe he grabbed one off a stall hook. Parker Bell could have been killed in the morning or anytime, and the person who did it could have gotten away easily. Like our coyote, maybe he slipped through the woods. And what if the killer wore a hoodie? Wouldn’t see his face. If a person has time to plan a murder I expect it’s easily committed. Again, all those TV shows about killers being caught makes for good TV, but I think the number of unsolved cases is…well, still unsolved.”
Betty nodded then took another long sip. “Ben had to thoroughly question Kasmir, of course.”
“Dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Don’t you think so much of police work is tedious?”
“It would be for me, but I do think we won’t be hunting from Welsh Harp anytime soon.”
“No,” Sister agreed, then relayed her conversation with Marion.
“Certainly seems to be an eventful February.” Betty shook her head. “Fortunately, neither Crawford’s painting or Bell’s murder have anything to do with us.”
“No,” Sister again agreed. “It is a little unnerving that these events have happened here. So close.”
CHAPTER 13
February 18, 2020 Tuesday
Pattypan Forge, thick stone walls still intact, the windows long ago broken, had stood since the end of the eighteenth century and would stand for many more. The forge was in use until shortly after World War II, when roads improved dramatically as well as needs changing. Fewer and fewer Virginians, or Americans wherever they lived, needed a wheel well beaten out or a broken axle either replaced or made anew in the heat of the huge furnace. The hand skills, the ability to fix such large objects, faded.
The forge, part of After All Farm, remained untouched. The woods grew around it. The old farm road could be discerned mostly because those deep old wagon-wheel ruts also survived the centuries. The forge provided good living for owls, nesting birds, and one older vixen, Aunt Netty, who had transformed the huge interior to her liking. Exits and entrances both inside and from the outside to the inside dotted the floor, for portions of the slate floor had cracked up. Thick slate can withstand weight but harsh weather damaged the floors under those huge windows. Aunt Netty, fastidious, pulled old towels, some stolen dog toys, and even turkey feathers into her underground rooms. The wind might slide through the trees, rain blow through the broken windows, but that well-built roof and the thick walls made Pattypan desirable. Her towels and other finds kept her den warm.
Sister Jane thought Pattypan Forge a brooding presence. The story-high paned windows provided light critical before electricity. A few still had the heavy shutters to protect them.
Those shutters kept out rain, snow, and wind. This was the most desirable place to have a nest or a den. Most of the broken windows were on the west side, the glass bits long pulverized. The sound of wind slicing through the windows sounded like an eerie whisper or scream depending on the force.
The path to the forge, even though opened at the beginning of hunt season, right after Labor Day, closed up quickly enough thanks to creepers that grew while one slept, fallen branches, whatever was blowing in the wind, literally.
Sister never liked Pattypan Forge, it reminded her of how good work can be forgotten, and she didn’t like it much today as she sat on Matador, a former steeplechaser. He’s seen it all and done it all. They got along famously.
Diana, nose down in one of Aunt Netty’s entrances, chided her. “Come out, Aunt Netty. We can talk.”
“You can jump out that far window. I gave you a run. I’m not giving you another.”
The pack, surrounding the entrance, sniffed; Tinsel dug a bit.
Weevil, dismounted, stood over the hole and blew “Gone to Ground!”
“Stop that infernal noise!” the old red vixen complained.
“Good hounds. Good hounds.” Weevil tucked his horn between the top two buttons of his heavy coat, walked out, the pack following.
Dreamboat turned and yelled, “You’re a step slow, Aunt Netty. Better watch out.”
“I can outrun you, but you all are stupid. I will always win.”
“You are mean as snakeshit,” the dog hound cursed her.
Fast as a flash, Aunt Netty popped her head up and spit at Dreamboat.
It so surprised him, he turned and quickly rejoined the pack as Weevil called. He kept his humiliation to himself.
The small weasels…minks, really…observed all this from their dens.
Aunt Netty heard them giggling. “Why don’t you all go back to Hangman’s Ridge? It was so quiet when you moved out.”
Hangman’s Ridge, the high plateau behind Sister Jane’s farm, she owned it, was where the colonists hanged those convicted of serious crimes: murder, rape, or large theft. The minks thought of it as their summer home. The forge offered better quarters during the winter.
Weevil, mounted, pointed toward Broad Creek, which would take a bit of bushwhacking to reach. The trail, narrow, finally opened onto a wide, cleared trail above the creek, flowing vigorously thanks to the recent rains and snow. He turned the pack south, toward the big estate’s mansion and outbuilding. He’d hunt the hounds back to the trailers, all parked on the far side of the covered bridge. This fixture, full of game, proved a treasure, plus the Bancrofts, the owners, having hunted for most of their eight decades, appreciated hunting. After All was a fox-friendly fixture. Rabbits, skunks, bobcats liked it, too, along with the occasional traveling bear.