This shut up Rooster for a second. “You did.”
“Oh, Christ, Rooster, there will be no living with her now,” Raleigh moaned.
“Now? There’s never been any living with her.”
“I am the Queen of All I Survey.” Golly sashayed to the cat door and stuck her head out. “You’re the asshole.”
Lightning fast, Comet lunged for her. She reeled backward, falling over herself.
He now stuck his head through the cat door. “I’m the boss. You’re the applesauce.”
As the house pets endured Comet’s doggerel, Sister said, “Let’s pick them up, Shaker. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a day like this. Best to stop while ahead.”
“Want to go into the house? Through the front door,” Shaker laughed. “I’ll hold Lafayette.”
“No. I don’t hear crashing about. I expect he is availing himself of the dog food in the mud room. I’ll let him out later if he doesn’t leave of his own free will.”
With some effort, as the hounds were terribly thrilled with this new type of den, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil managed to walk them to the kennels.
No sooner were they all in than Comet slipped out through the outside cat door to sit on the stoop. Leaving was the furthest thing from his mind.
“Tally ho,” Tootie whispered, taking off her hat.
As she was back at the Custis Hall trailer, Val, Felicity, and Pamela turned, also removing their caps.
Vicki Van Mater noticed and took off her cap. Joe Kasputys followed suit.
The babble of human voices subsided. Everyone turned. Even the hounds in the kennel runs who could see that side of the house watched in amazement.
Finally, Sister, having dismounted, stepped forward. She removed her cap, bowed, and swept her cap before her with an actor’s grand flourish. “I salute you, Comet.”
Smiling, he walked down the steps, took in this tribute, then walked around the house and vanished as only a fox can do.
The humans cheered.
Walter, buoyant, raised both arms over his head. “Well, we’ve cheered the fox. How about three cheers for the hounds!”
After three lusty cheers, the people wiped down their horses and removed their bridles. Some took off the saddles; others loosened the girths but allowed the saddles to stay on the horses’ backs. As the horses cooled down, their riders threw blankets over them.
The hunt breakfast was potluck. People gingerly negotiated the snow, dishes in hand.
No one could miss Comet’s scent when they hung their coats in the mud room.
Raleigh and Rooster, let out, tried to pick up the wily fellow’s trail. No luck.
Golly, meanwhile, told everyone within earshot of her valor.
Excitement bubbled over along with the coffeepot.
Few mentioned Iffy. She hadn’t been a part of the club, although Sorrel, Walter’s steady, expressed her sympathy to Jason on losing Iffy.
“Thank you,” he replied. “She turned the corner.” He drank a hot toddy, then spoke again. “One of the things about our profession”—he nodded toward Walter—“is you must accept death.”
“I suppose, but Walter hates to lose a patient.”
“I do too, but Sorrel, there’s a time to live and a time to die.” Then he smiled. “You know what’s worse than death? The paperwork!”
Tootie patted her britches pocket. The lockback knife Sister had given her was there. She hadn’t expected anything for leading back Aztec on Thursday and was delighted with the beautiful knife.
A foxhunter should always have a pocket knife in a coat or britches pocket.
The girls talked with one another. Pamela felt more of the group these days, although she could still get on their nerves, especially Val’s. She did, however, give each of them a steel-tipped stock pin from Horse Country, as promised.
Sister pulled Walter to the side. “Haven’t had a minute to talk to you.”
“What a day.”
“Was, wasn’t it?” She touched glasses with him.
Tedi came up. “I feel twenty-one again.”
“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Today is Felix of Nola’s feast day. I remember because of Nola.”
“How do you remember these things? What did Felix do?” Walter grinned.
“Survived torture and persecution in the third century AD, going on to perform conversions and miracles. Died 260 AD.”
“Every day is a miracle.” Tedi beamed.
“Today certainly was.” Walter noticed Sorrel motioning to him. “Excuse me.”
The phone rang. Val, next to it, picked it up and cupped her head over the receiver. “Sister,” she called over the din. “Sam.”
Sister pushed through the crowd, listened, then hung up the phone as Gray walked over to her. She started laughing. “Crawford has hounds out all over the country. Sam asks if we see any, would we pick them up.” She asked for silence, then added, “You can take them to the barn in the back.”
“Damned if I’ll help Crawford,” a member groused.
“Hounds first,” Sister simply replied.
Margaret DuCharme slipped in the back door. Her eyes watered a bit from Comet’s signature odor. She found Ben. Sister had invited her and told her that no one thought for a second she had anything to do with Iffy’s disappearance. However, it was damned inconvenient that Iffy’s wheelchair had been in her SUV. With Iffy dead it became quite upsetting.
Sister had asked her to come for Ben. She’d noticed their connection at the New Year’s party. And she really did want Margaret to know she was above suspicion. No one was pointing the finger at her.
They were pointing it at Golly, who had soared onto the table, grabbed a succulent slice of ham, and jumped off, racing upstairs with her prize.
“That damned cat!” Sister couldn’t get through the crowd to smack Golly’s bottom.
Ben’s cell phone rang as he was talking with Margaret. He flipped it open and recognized the number. “Excuse me, Margaret.” He listened, said little, then flipped the phone back. “We have permission from Angel’s great-niece in Richmond. That saves time.”
“Permission for what?” Margaret asked.
“To exhume Angel Crump.”
CHAPTER 24
Angel Crump was in much worse shape than Iffy Demetrios, but then she’d had a year and a half to molder. Embalming, limited as it was by social consent, and being interred in a casket preserved some tissues. The bones, intact, might yield something.
Lyle Aziz snipped what he could. Given that it was January 16, he hoped the results wouldn’t be eight weeks in coming. Not much happened in the dead of winter except for car wrecks, someone crashing through ice and drowning. The murder rate dropped down; the violent outbursts of summer’s sticky heat abated. The state lab ought to be able to get back to him faster than in July.
Still no results from Iffy’s remains. As for Angel, how many ways could someone kill another without arousing suspicion? When the victim—if she was a victim—was in her eighties, the possibilities increased. People expected older people to die, not considering wrongdoing when it occurred.
Angel had been slumped over her desk as though asleep when Garvey walked in with papers for her. He’d assumed her passing was natural. Why kill Angel Crump?
As Lyle worked away he was glad those were not his concerns. He did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs.
Ben Sidell was trying to do his. As Lyle bent over what was left of dear old Angel, Ben faced a furious Crawford Howard.
“Why would I kill her?” Crawford exploded as he sat in his sumptuous stable office, with cherrywood paneling, no less.
Ben stood before him, since Crawford rudely did not ask him to sit. Sam worked outside, bandages itching. He and Rory were grooming Czpaka in the crossties closest to the office just in case they might hear something. They heard that sentence.