Dragon immediately felt the warmth from the car heater as Gray closed the door.
The windshield wipers clicked against the ice as Gray drove on good roads to Crozet Veterinary Clinic.
“Think he’ll make it?”
“He will. The wound is deep; he’s lost blood. I don’t want him to go into shock. I checked his gums when I put my coat around him. But Marty can handle it. He’s dealt with worse cases than this.” She filled Gray in on the coyote, on Uncle Yancy in the tree, and on the possibility that the graveyard had been disturbed by more than a coyote.
“After Betty called me,” said Gray, “I called Sam. He’ll be there when Ben arrives.”
“He can’t drive, can he?”
“He shouldn’t, but my little brother will manage. Crawford may allow Rory to go with him, but if he doesn’t, you know Sam.”
Once they were inside the scrubbed clinic, Marty Shulman checked Dragon, put him under anesthesia, and thoroughly cleaned the wound.
Sister would need to pick him up tomorrow, but Dragon would be good as new once the wound healed. He’d be out for the season, which would hurt Dragon more than his wound. Yes, he was arrogant and could be hardheaded, but the hound breathed fire like a dragon. He lived to hunt, and his nose and voice were outstanding.
Driving west back toward Roughneck Farm, Gray sighed deeply. “Funny, we haven’t been apart that long. I didn’t realize how much I look forward to our weekends together until now. You spoil me.”
“I do,” she agreed lightheartedly.
“This last year has been one of the happiest years of my life.”
“Mine, too.”
“I can’t wait for Friday.”
“How about if I make that pork roast you like so much? Your mother’s recipe?”
He smiled. “How about if I bring you a gardenia bush in full bloom?”
She turned to stare at him. “That’s major.”
They pulled into the farm as Shaker walked out of the kennels. Gray stopped. “Get in the car, Shaker; the ice is coming down too hard.” Shaker hopped into the back, where the seats were laid flat, and sat with his legs straight out.
“How’s the boy?”
“Being sewn up as we speak. Pick him up tomorrow.”
“You should have seen it.” Shaker leaned forward.
“Sister told me it was dramatic.”
“And funny. On the way back, Uncle Yancy followed us. He hung back with Bobby and Lorraine. No fool. Going home is a lot easier for him if he can follow in our footsteps, since this will probably turn worse. And the wind was in his face. Hounds couldn’t get a whiff. Amazing creatures.”
“Did Bobby notice where Uncle Yancy left them?”
“The big sycamore at the second creek crossing.”
“Changed dens.” Sister liked knowing where her foxes lived.
“Gray, honey, I need to see to Aztec. I’ll have to leave you.”
“Girls did everything. Cleaned your tack, too. Cleaned up after Felicity,” Shaker remarked.
“What did she do?”
“Threw up coffee.”
“I’m going to call Charlotte. Felicity might have a bug. This is the second time she’s thrown up.”
“Well, don’t be so fast. She took a bet from Val that she couldn’t chug the thermos full of coffee. Val bet her ten dollars. She said it’s much harder to chug a hot drink than a cold drink. So Felicity took the bet. She held it down for about fifteen minutes. Dumb kids.” He laughed.
“Felicity is in charge of the kitty. Guess she’s trying to fatten it up. I’d think Val’s profanity would be doing that,” Sister said.
“I never hear Val swear. She’s a lady.” Gray was surprised.
“Among her peers she swears like a trooper.” Sister filled him in. “So Val, Tootie, and Felicity each put in a dollar if they swear. At the end of the semester, they’re going to throw themselves a party.”
“Good idea.” Gray nodded.
“Need any help in the kennel?”
“No, Boss. All done. Lorraine’s got the fire going. She said she’s making navy bean soup.” He winked. “By the time that’s done she won’t be able to drive home. These roads aren’t going to get better.”
“Lucky devil.” Gray laughed. “Wish I could say the same, but I need to get home and see if Ben is there.”
“Something’s not right.” Shaker rubbed his hands together. His joints hurt on a day like today.
“Damn kids. They knock over the tombstones. I guess this time they’ve dug up someone, or tried to. What’s the matter with them?”
“Last year two kids dug up a lady buried back in the 1930s because they’d heard she was buried with her jewelry on.” Shaker found it gruesome but titillating. “What they found wasn’t jewelry but the sheriff, who came up on them at the right moment. Remember?”
“I do.” Gray paused. “Did you notice which grave had been disturbed?”
“Not exactly disturbed. Coyote dug a hole. But the earth was packed down. Recent. Too recent.” Shaker wondered what was going on at the old Lorillard place. He put his hand on Sister’s shoulder. “Good hunt.”
“It was pretty good. I’m high on the second-year entry. They’ve got it now.”
“So do you.” Shaker patted her, then opened the door, stepping into a stiff wind.
Gray drove to the house. “I’ll drop you at your door. Shaker forgot to tell me which grave was messed up.”
“Jemima Lorillard, 1761 to 1847. A good long life.”
“One of the white Lorillards. You know, I think we may be the only family where the white Lorillards are buried with the free black Lorillards as well as the slave Lorillards. It’s quite a history, our family.”
“Most people think Jemima is a black name. It was quite popular in England and here in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Pretty name, really.” She stopped. “Gray, I know you can’t tell me details. But let me tell you what I think, since you’re sitting in the middle of it down there at Aluminum M.” She shortened Aluminum Manufacturing to “M.”
“Okay.” Gray said only that.
“Iffy is missing. I expect she’s been milking money out of the company for years. I suggested to Ben that he get an order to exhume Angel Crump’s body.”
“What?” Gray’s eyebrows darted up. “That will upset Garvey as much as everything else.”
“Well, let me go on here. Angel thought little of Iffy. Iffy hated Angel. I expect Angel caught on. At any rate, Iffy’s disappeared.”
“Looks like she got away with it.”
“That’s just it, Gray. What if she didn’t get away with it?”
CHAPTER 22
A wall calendar, new, large pages as yet uncurled on the bottom, hung in the coroner’s office. Lyle Aziz, MD, liked his work but wished for more pay, a common desire among state employees. However, as a teaching physician in the pathology department down in Richmond at the Medical College of Virginia, he made enough to support his family. Better yet, he would never return to Egypt.
One of the dangers of people coming to the United States to study was that they might not return to their former countries, especially if those countries seethed with internal dissent. As a Christian Lyle never felt secure. But he missed the ways of his country, the warmth of everyday encounters, the raucous gossip. He realized that living in the American South he was as close as he could get to these qualities among peoples of European descent, colder peoples than his own.
“She is in such good condition,” he enthused over the state of Iffy’s body.
Only a pathologist would make such a statement. Anyone else viewing human remains unceremoniously buried in a shallow grave for four days would feel otherwise. Thanks to the cold and the three feet of dirt she had been under, Iffy still had her nose. Her extremities, swollen and discolored, blood pooled there, contained all her digits. Patches of decay showed in spots, and gases filled her, but she could have been much worse. No flies in the winter. She remained intact, if not a cover girl.