Fox Tracks (15 page)

“Who in particular among these old poachers might still be alive?” asked Ben, wishing the crime team would get there.

Sam thought a bit before answering. “Well, and you probably know this, back about three years ago Art DuCharme was poaching everywhere he could. Course, he’s not old. Why he did this I don’t know. Oh, and Donny Sweigart. Donny stopped all that once he started dating Sybil, but Art, who knows?”

Puzzled, Ben asked, “Art DuCharme has thousands of acres to hunt. Why come over here to poach?”

Gray’s moustache twitched upward slightly. Good as he was, Ben was from Ohio. He missed a few deep layers at the bottom of the seven-layer cake of Southern life.

Sam looked at his brother, then the sheriff, to whom he owed a great deal. When Ben first took over the job, he could have roughed up Sam and his fellow drunks. Instead, the young sheriff tried to get them into the Salvation Army programs. He acted as though, even as low as they might be at that moment, they were still human beings.

Sam then said, “If Art could shift focus away from his still, good. Why hunt there, risk others hunting there with you? People talk. Why let anyone see where he hides stuff? Then again, if he actually poached a deer without getting caught, he wins twice.
Some people always have to have their hand in.” He used an old phrase, which Ben didn’t know, but he understood the meaning.

Standing around, no longer on horseback, the cold felt colder.

The crunch of tires on snow drew their attention back up the road. Ben had specifically told his crew not to hit the sirens. The arriving vehicle parked behind his Explorer. Four officers stepped out of the county-issued SUV, two in uniform. One of the cops wearing civilian clothes was the police department photographer.

Joylon Hobbs, the chief investigator, took off his warm gloves, then wiggled his fingers into thin rubber ones. He knelt down carefully before leaning over and opening the collapsed rib cage of the deer. Now visible, the human wore a heavy wool coat.

“Pennsylvania tuxedo,” Joylon said.

“And what is that?” Gray didn’t mean to intrude, but the description piqued his curiosity, already high.

“That’s the old name for his kind of wool winter jacket,” said Joylon. “Black plaid over red. Usually hunters will wear them, or at least country hunters. The city and suburban fellas wear four-hundred-dollar Gortex stuff with all kinds of linings, zippers, reflecting tape on the camo.”

“Ah,” Gray simply replied.

The two uniformed officers, both of them somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, were stringing up crime scene tape. After securing a perimeter, they began scouring the snow. All they found were Bombardier’s tracks and then human footprints belonging to Ben, Gray, and Sam. Anything of potential value would be under that snow. They reported back to their boss, Ben.

“We don’t usually see this,” Luke uttered laconically.

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. He looked over at the Lorillard brothers, then back at the sheriff. “Murder around here is almost always domestic violence or drugs. Luckily, we don’t have much of that, but this, smart. I mean, the killer was smart and country.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Ben chided him, but not with rancor.

“Yes, sir.” Jake straightened up.

“Your hands getting cold?” Ben asked Joylon.

“Yes, they are. Hard to tell what’s left of the body. Won’t know until we get him on a slab. With any luck, we’ll at least know how he was killed. Used to be when we found a body, which was not often—back in the seventies or eighties—we’d know them. Now there’s so many new people, we don’t.” He asked Ben, “Did you call in a retrieval vehicle?”

“I did. And I told them no siren, too. After All is full of people. No point getting them stirred up and no point dealing with curiosity seekers.”

“Why would anyone want to see this?” asked Sam, appalled at the thought.

“You’d be amazed at what people want to see,” said Joylon. “Years ago back when I first started, we had a killer from just down the road from here that was insane. No doubt about it. He strung up his cousin, whom he hated, tortured him and put his eyeballs out with a ballpoint pen. For whatever reason, a local newspaper reporter included all the grisly details of the murder in his story, and our office was flooded with requests for the pictures.” Joylon stood up, peeled off his surgical gloves, gratefully putting back on his warm, woolly ones, knitted by his wife.

“Sick,” Gray half spat.

“World’s full of strange people,” Joylon replied simply.

“Gray, Sam, I’m sorry to keep you all out here in the cold,” said Ben. “Why don’t you take my Explorer back to the trailers? I’ll have Luke and Jake drop me off when we’re finished here. Just leave the keys in the ignition. No one’s going to steal that barge.”

“Funny,” Sam mused to his brother, “no worry about theft, but we’ve got a killer out there somewhere.”

Back at the After All gathering, a few people who had noticed the Lorillard brothers’ absence asked where they’d been, to which they replied noncommitally. But most folks, happy with the hunt, with the wonderful party, continued gabbing away.

Gray finally made his way through the crowd to Sister, who raised her eyebrows in question.

He took her by the elbow, steering her clear of the other exultant hunters for a moment, never easy at such a hunt breakfast. “Sure enough, a body under a deer,” Gray told Sister. “Been there quite a while.”

“Years?” she asked.

“Months. Four, maybe five, according to Joylon. The mild winter accelerated decay. I don’t know how those guys can do that work. Turned my stomach.”

When Sybil joined them, Gray informed her of the gruesome developments on the road to nowhere.

“Ugly,” Sybil said tersely.

“You were so wise to come up to me.” Sister said, praising Sybil’s impeccable instincts to maintain order during the hunt.

“How many years have I whipped-in to you? Twelve, I think,” she answered her own question. “You taught me if something goes wrong, don’t broadcast it. If I can, fix it. If I can’t, find you.”

Gray exhaled. “I don’t think you can fix this.”

“No,” Sister responded. “Once we know cause of death and identity, if they can find that out, who knows what we might do? You know we generally assume that someone who has been murdered was an innocent victim. Then again, has it ever occurred to either of you that some people need killing?”

Both Sister’s boyfriend and her whipper-in stared at her for a long moment. Neither said a word.

A
fter Rickyroo had been wiped down with a little Vetrolin rubbed on his back and legs, he munched alfalfa in his stall while drying. Next, Sister would throw an expensive but excellent Irish turnout blanket on him. The lightweight but warm lining and an exterior that could resist ripping justified the blanket’s price.

Cleaned, with fresh water in their stalls and a bit of food, the three horses happily chatted.

Sister, Betty, and Tootie were busily cleaning tack in the warm tackroom. Surrounding each woman was an array of saddle soap, clean water, dirty water, a jar of saddle butter from a company in Grangeville, Idaho, small sponges, old washcloths, and fresh soft dishtowels to finish the process.

In the background, the radio stayed permanently tuned to the classical radio station. Sister and Rickyroo liked Tchaikovsky.

“Someday I’m going to roll the dial to heavy metal and watch you pitch a fit,” said Betty, wiping the browband of the bridle, which
hung from the cleaning tack hook. The tack hook looked like a small version of the grappling hooks used to board enemy ships back in the days of sail.

Sister squeezed out the small sponge full of saddle soap. “Takes more than that to make me pitch a fit.”

She then filled in the others about what had transpired at the Lorillard place when Sybil found the dead deer and human.

“You waited this long to tell me?” Betty threw her rag on the floor.

“You were in the truck with Shaker.” Sister held up her hand for peace. “And I wanted time to sort this out. I have.”

“Maybe I should keep away from you. First, that man in New York. Now another. That’s two bodies.”

“I didn’t find the second one. Sybil did.” Sister turned to Tootie, who had finished with her bridle and was wiping down her saddle. “You’re not saying anything.”

“It’s creepy.” The young woman lifted up a stirrup, tossing it over the seat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It is that and it will be in the papers and on the radio and TV tomorrow. We should enjoy this period of grace.” Sister wrung out her washcloth. “I’m glad none of us had to see such a sight. Sybil said she couldn’t see much except an upside-down jawbone but once she looked hard, she knew it was a human. Gray and Sam saw more, but Gray said there was no way to tell who it was.” She glanced at the wall clock, big and round. “He should be coming home soon.”

“Sam okay?” Betty paused. “I always worry when there’s something dreadful.”

“Gray said he’s fine,” answered Sister. “I really believe he won’t drink again.”

“He’s in my prayers.” Like Sister, Betty had witnessed Gray’s brother, so bright and gifted, excel at self-destruction.

“How do you know when someone’s an alcoholic?” asked Tootie. “I mean everyone drinks at Princeton on the weekends. Some during the week. The only people who don’t drink are the ones on varsity or those like me who don’t like the taste.”

“I suppose people tend toward alcoholism early, but because our culture accepts rowdiness in college or at least up through the mid-twenties no one can separate fish from fowl,” mused Sister. “Tell you what, though, by thirty it’s plain as day. And each generation has to figure it out all over again. No one young wants to believe their sister, brother, or best friend is on that slippery slope. The hardest part is there’s not one thing you can do.”

“You can tell them,” Tootie said to Betty as she worked on the other side of her saddle.

“You can,” Betty said, her tone measured. “And once in a blue moon someone will listen. Mostly, they deny it and will hate you for it. Friendship with an addict of any kind will tear you apart.” She stopped. “I don’t talk about it much, but my oldest daughter destroyed her life with drugs. Now she sits in jail, which is probably the best place for her. Bobby and I tried everything.”

Jennifer, the Franklins’ youngest daughter, was an exceedingly lovely young woman now in her third year at Colby College along with Sari Rasmussen, Lorraine’s daughter. Lorraine was Shaker’s lady friend, a fairly new romance.

“I’m sorry, Betty,” said Tootie. “I can’t imagine anyone not listening to you.” Tootie meant it. “I wish my mother were more like you.”

Betty was touched. “Tootie, thank you. Your mother tries. She thinks she’s doing what’s best.”

Sister chimed in. “Both your parents are so proud of you. They’re proud of you, Tootie.”

Tears welling up as she finished her cleaning, the pretty college
student mumbled, “Only as long as I do what they want me to do.” She picked up her saddle, sliding it onto its home on the rack that had her name on it. “Maybe I don’t want to be what they want me to be.”

The tears ran freely now.

Betty rushed to put her arms around Tootie’s waist. “Is it as bad as all that?”

Tootie nodded. Betty walked her to one of the director’s chairs where she sat. Betty sat opposite.

Sister hung up her bridle, then joined them, taking a seat. “Do you still want to be a veterinarian?” she asked.

“I do. An equine vet. My father says it’s a waste of my life. He’ll cut me off if I pursue my career with animals. He says I’m smart enough to be an investment banker and I’d make millions. I don’t need millions.” She wiped her eyes with the Kleenex Betty had fished from her vest pocket. “I just want to be happy and I want to help horses.”

Sister took a deep breath. “Parents take a long view. Your mother and father are thinking about how hard that profession can be, and it’s not especially lucrative. You’ll struggle sometimes, Tootie, and so far in your life all you’ve known is wealth. I say this because I love you. You really don’t know what it is to do without. You’re only a freshman. There’s a lot of time to make a decision.”

Tootie worshipped Sister. “That’s what Val says. I know it’s true, but maybe I need to find out for myself.”

Betty said, “Tootie, you might be right. I admire your dream and we’ll find out about the grit.”

“You have it on the hunt field, why not off?” said Sister, reaching over to wipe Tootie’s tears. “What can we do?”

“Let me stay here with you, Sister. I’ll get a job. I’ll pay rent. I hate Princeton.”

Sister, who thought Princeton both beautiful and demanding in the best academic fashion, folded her hands. “You will never get a better education anywhere else.”

“That may be so, but I can’t concentrate there.”

Having raised two girls, Betty took a different tack. “Honey, I never could either. I made it through two years at Randolph Macon before throwing in the towel, but I don’t have your brain. Why don’t you finish out this semester? Come back after that.”

“That gives you the time to figure out expenses as best you can,” said Sister. “You know I don’t want any rent, Tootie, but you’ll have your car insurance and other expenses, like gas. It adds up. Your father’s threatened to cut you off and I believe he will if you drop out of school.”

Betty pursed her lips, unsure of the wisdom of what she was about to ask. “What kind of work do you think you can do?”

“I can work horses,” said Tootie. “I can clean a vet clinic. I’m not proud. I can do anything with a computer. And I can learn. If I don’t know something, I’ll learn it.” She looked straight at Betty. “I know finishing out the semester makes a lot of sense, but I’d rather drop out now so my grades don’t suffer. At least my first semester grades were good and I can transfer those later. If I have to go to night school like Felicity, then I will.”

Sister unfolded her hands. “You know your own mind. I can’t change it. Of course, you can stay with me, but you have to talk to your parents before you come on down. Tell them they can also talk to me. I know I’m going to be on their shit list along with you. Your father has never liked me.”