March 28, 2019 Thursday
A thin silver blanket lay over the meadows at Fairies Bottom. One could imagine fairies playing underneath it. The temperature at forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, low clouds slowly dispersing, promised good conditions for scent sticking.
A least that’s what Sister hoped as she climbed onto the mounting block. As she swung her leg over Lafayette, his ears flicked forward and back. She settled into her saddle, breathed in. The cool air invigorated her. Returning to this old fixture felt wonderful. Every master knows a hunt can never have enough fixtures. Population pressures, divorce, death, odd events can erase fixtures, and once a development builds on that land that’s the end of it, often for wildlife as well. Although foxes have a way of finding what humans throw out.
Fairies Bottom and Pitchfork, once a vibrant part of Jefferson Hunt, were lost thanks to an unfortunate struggle over furniture. It wasn’t that the Ticknors, young then, pulled their land from the hunt, but what master would take the chance of following a fox onto adjoining land, creating a mess.
Smiling, Sister looked around.
“Good to have you back.” Phipps came up, offering his hand.
She reached down to take it. “Good to be here, and the day promises a few bracing runs.”
The last trailer pulled in. Sister hoped it was the last trailer. She wanted to get hounds off while the ground fog hung over the land. Hunt staff had arrived early, setting up, which helped members, especially those who had never hunted Fairies Bottom, know they were at the right place. Most of the members had never hunted back here.
Betty, Gray, Sam, and the Bancrofts remembered the old days. For everyone else this was a new day and people looked around from their perch atop their horses, marveling at the place. The ridge behind the house divided this land from Crawford’s. Fences, sturdy, needed paint in some sections but the farm nestled into the land. It belonged there. Nothing fancy, a clapboard farmhouse with an addition built onto it, so it was an L shape. The stables, no longer used, had been maintained, as had a garage and a twenty-by-forty equipment shed. Painted light blue with white trim, a bit unique in these parts. Fairies Bottom cast an inviting glow.
Drew had walked alongside Sam Lorillard.
“How is that horse coming along?”
“Good. Crawford wants to hunt Trocadero next season with his hounds.” Sam thought a moment. “He’s a good boy but young. Good to be back here.”
“I look forward to it. I bet a fox will run over to Pitchfork.”
“You never know.” Sam smiled. “Isn’t it a relief to hack to a hunt?”
“Sure is.” Drew smiled then walked over to Alida and Kasmir, striking up a conversation. His stable girl, Wanda, was already at the back of First Flight, as she was riding as a groom.
“I had no idea this was back here,” Alida commented.
“You’d be surprised what’s hidden on some of these back roads or up on ridges,” Cindy Chandler, waiting with Kasmir and Alida, said. “You can’t go wrong in central Virginia. Pick a spot, it will be lovely.”
They chatted about topography, the old homes, and the new ones.
Sister, speaking to Weevil, Betty, and Tootie, suggested drawing first up the drive toward Pitchfork Farm, but off the road. This way, if a fox crossed they could follow without too much difficulty, the zigzag fencing would be easy to clear.
“If by chance a fox goes all the way across the flat pastures there, goes through that woods, and on, we will actually wind up at Mousehold Heath, as you know, since we all checked the topo maps.”
“And if a fox heads to the right?” Weevil asked.
“Straight up. But don’t go down on the other side, as I said when we read the maps. Beasley Hall has Crawford’s stock out in the pastures; St. Swithin’s, his small chapel; plus Marty’s gardens ready to awaken. We’ve finally reached agreement on hunting Old Paradise if a fox goes there. If we go down into Beasley Hall, that will be the end of that.”
“What about the whips?” Weevil worried.
“Skiff will be in her truck at the bottom on his side of the ridge. I talked to Crawford last night and I talked to Skiff when she was over with Shaker. The whips have permission to ride down, but he prefers we try everything else first.”
“Not much you can try if hounds are on a fox.” Tootie rewound her thong.
“No one ever said Crawford understood hunting.” Betty tried not to sound sarcastic.
“We will all do our best. Well, let’s hope for a good hunt, a memorable one for our return. Ready?”
“Yes, Madam.” Weevil looked down at an obedient but ready, very ready, pack of American foxhounds.
“All right.”
Pansy looked up at her huntsman. “Finally.”
The clatter of hooves followed the hounds as they drew alongside the tertiary road, which soon turned into a stone road. The state displayed an odd set of qualifications for what roads deserved their attention and what ones did not. However, the Ticknors and the Taylors took up the slack.
Thirty-two people rode out filled with the usual excitement of revisiting a former fixture. Tinged with melancholy, for only one hunt remained, heads up, heels down, they were ready.
Two hundred yards, more or less, behind the unused stable, Dreamboat veered toward the stable. As he was a reliable hound neither Weevil nor the whippers-in moved to stop him nor to deter the three couples who now followed. Weevil stopped a moment. Soon the whole pack filtered behind Dreamboat, noses down. Circling the stable, a pause, then feathering.
Hunt staff moved closer while Sister scanned the area she and Betty had only peered at from an open car window on that colder day. She could make out the vestiges of the trail she had seen from the car.
“Dog fox.” Dreamboat inhaled, then walked briskly up toward the beginning of the steep rise, the ridge.
“Let’s go.” His sister opened.
Hounds, ducking under brush, charged up the ridge.
Weevil stuck with his hounds by finding a narrow deer trail. Betty, remembering the territory, had already headed up toward the top. If hounds hit the ridge she’d be the only impediment until they got to the bottom, where she prayed Skiff was sitting with Shaker in the car. Shaker knew the ground on this side of the ridge and Skiff knew Crawford’s territory.
Sister followed Weevil. The field followed her, but one by one. Two people could not have ridden side by side.
Hounds stopped midway, hooked hard left, now all speaking. Sister could hear the bush branches swishing as they ran. Years ago a middle trail followed the ridgeline. Still there.
Weevil found it first, of course, and he flew behind his hounds, all wide open. Odd pine trunks, woodpecker holes much in evidence, crossed the trail in spots, but even Second Flight could get over.
Hounds continued on, then another quick check. They turned down. Going down was harder than going up. Again, Weevil, good eye, found the deer trail.
Sister paused a moment.
Drew called out from behind the Bancrofts, Alida, and Kasmir. “Master, allow me.”
“Please.” She squeezed to the side as he rode up.
“There’s a good trail up ahead. We won’t lose much time and more importantly we won’t lose any people.”
She let him go first as Lafayette snorted. That his beloved master would allow a Warmblood, no less, to go in front of him was an insult. However, he did as he was asked and followed the good-looking bay, Binny, although the Thoroughbred thought Drew’s horse clunky.
Halfway to the bottom, Sister could see her pack stream out of the undergrowth and the woods on the ridge. Drew trotted down then stopped, as a large tree, an old, really old hickory, blocked the path. Given the wicked winds this winter, the old tree finally had fallen over, having lived an exceptionally long life.
Looking around, for there was no way to clear the crown of such a massive tree, Drew quickly dismounted to pull aside brush from behind the hickory. Low-hanging branches from other trees created another problem.
Sister, too, dismounted, leading Lafayette behind Drew, who pushed forward, holding back branches for his master. They were losing time and the pack was on full accelerator.
Looking down, Sister saw a figure walking toward the house.
“Damn. I told him to stay inside,” Drew cursed while pulling back a thick vine.
Finally clear, Sister chose not to mount up on such a steep angle. She and Drew continued down on foot, as did the entire field behind them. The second she hit solid, flat ground she was up. Some people struggled, some did not, but everyone got up.
By now the pack was crossing the dormant hayfield to the Fairies Bottom side of the farm, the fence line between the two properties visible from the distance.
No need to cluck. Lafayette knew his task and that long fluid stride, that beautiful Thoroughbred movement, paid off.
Within minutes she could see her tail hounds. Betty, to the right, was up near the front of the pack, as was Tootie on the left on the other side of the fence.
Tootie had cleared the fence. She didn’t bother to look for a jump. Sister sent up a prayer of thanks that she had such terrific riders whipping-in.
On and on they ran. The footing though soft wasn’t bad. It was forgiving. A plus.
After ten minutes of this, a longer time than one realizes when mounted, hounds disappeared into a thick wood then they slowed. Weevil did likewise, and Sister, seeing his scarlet coat ahead, also slowed to a walk. One doesn’t run into one’s huntsman.
By the time she reached him he was moving off at an extended trot. She could stay behind, keep him in sight. Then he stopped.
The field, some on a decent path, a few off to the side to try and see what was happening, stood still.
“Get ’em up. Get ’em up,” Weevil encouraged.
Hounds fanned out in a large half circle. Betty didn’t move as hounds came back to where they had lost scent. Tootie, now visible, also stood still.
“He can’t have gone into his den. We were close enough we’d find it.” Diana spoke with certitude.
Dreamboat looked around. Hounds could easily run in this wood. There wasn’t as much undergrowth, but the soil wasn’t as good as that in the pastures.
He put his nose down, walking to the side, thirty yards from where they had lost the line. Dasher, another “D” hound, mirrored his brother on the south side. Now hounds moved off from where scent disappeared.
Zorro walked over to a fallen tree, a thick trunk. He leapt up, putting his nose down.
“He used this,” the sleek tricolor called out.
That fast the whole pack reached him, some now on the trunk with him, others on both sides of the uprooted tree.
“Got him!” Aero called out in triumph.
They started in the direction from which they’d come. The fox was heading back. He didn’t double exactly on his tracks, for hounds had gotten too close, but he was returning to safety, most likely his den. Sister prudently turned back on the path. If the fox headed north she’d figure it out somehow but if he was going to where they had found his scent or a den somewhere, this was a better bet.
The pack, running hard, shot out onto the pasture again, running along the fence line then turning, but this time toward Drew’s four-stall barn. They checked before reaching the barn then headed off to the back, down over a small swale into one of those Virginia ravines cut by a blade. A human could walk down there but only one at a time and the grade punished horses.
Weevil started to head down then thought better of it. Sister also sat on the edge. Hounds milled about downed trees next to a large thick brush pile of branches, vines, some tree limbs.
“Not a fox.” Trinity was intrigued.
Thimble pawed at the large entangled pile; then Dreamboat, who also smelled the alluring non-fox odor, kept pushing past it.
“He’s gone back up.” Dreamboat began the climb to the rim, as he found fox scent again.
Diana, wise, ran next to her brother. “He knew that would slow us down. Mask his own scent.”
Dreamboat didn’t reply but kept running, the entire pack now behind the two lead hounds. Weevil turned as they shot out of the ravine, then waited for the whole pack to come up. So did Sister.
Hounds ran behind the stable, around the stable back out toward the house, then behind the house. This time they paused at the base of the ravine, moved around, then found scent again. Up they ran.
The fox reached the top of the ravine. Skiff and Shaker had been trying to listen, to no avail, but now the whole pack ran along the top of the ridge, dipped a bit toward them, then crossed back over, heading down toward Pitchfork Farm.
By the time staff and Sister reached the top, horses were breathing heavily. So were the people. Sister stopped. Hounds appeared back up on the ridge then charged down again. She swiveled in her saddle to look behind.
“Better not,” she said to herself as she carefully walked down the trail, even though hounds were screaming.
When she reached the bottom, they had stopped behind the stable, a yip here, a yap there.
Weevil waited, as did his two whippers-in. Everyone needed a breather, which the fox had thoughtfully provided them.
Sister waved her hand to Kasmir, who rode up. “Hold them, will you? I’ll be right back.”
“Of course.”
She rode to Betty perhaps a half a football field away. “Hounds are where we saw the puddle of blood.”
Betty squinted. “It can’t be there now.”
“No, but whether it soaked in or was washed away, they’ll pick up a hint of it. Our fox must have come back this way. There’s no reason for hounds to stray to the back of the stable.”
“It is strange.” Betty dropped her reins, rubbed her hands, then picked them up again. “Hell of a run.”
“Good to be back. Wondered if you’d noticed.”
“Actually, I did not. I’m trying to catch my breath and to see where the pack goes next. I swear we’ll wind up at Mousehold Heath yet.”
“I expect only staff horses could make it, given this season. At least we kept everyone in work no matter what. Look around. Maybe something or someone will pop up. You know, someone red.” She smiled and rode back to the field, happily waiting.
Horses and people needed the break. Passing flasks around helped the humans. Sister could not drink, as staff is not to drink alcohol while hunting. This is often ignored in the breach, but not by Sister, a real stickler.
“What do you think?” Zane asked his brother Zorro.
“He mingled scent. But if we walk with this scent, faded, we might get his line again and it will be hot.”
Zorro proved prescient as Dasher, moving away from the group, slowly walked toward the distant woods. “Something.”
Dreamboat hurried over, nose touching the flattened grass. Shoots had not yet appeared. With a little luck they’d break upward in a week or two. It couldn’t stay winter forever. He, too, walked with deliberation.
Zane, Zorro, and Dreamboat headed away from the stable. Weevil did not chide them. He trusted his hounds. They weren’t skirting.
“Diana, help,” Dreamboat called out as she was circling the stable to make sure the fox didn’t have an entrance dug into it.
Joining the three hounds she, too, was puzzled. “He’s walked this old scent line. Old but strong enough to give him time.”
Zane, younger than the “D” hounds, said, “It’s human, isn’t it? Old but human.”
“Yes. He’s really smart, this fellow. He almost lost us by the brush pile. Stronger there.” Diana broke into a lope.
The other hounds saw her, as did Weevil, who called to them. Within minutes the pack, together, followed this line, although no one was opening. It was confusing; two scents had definitely been mixed. But when?
Near the edge of the woods, Zorro called out. “It’s him!”
Indeed it was. Back through the woods they flew, he turned again. So did the pack. The humans, back on a decent trail, regrouped, but feeling how long they’d been running stayed as close to their field master as possible. Her eyes never left Weevil’s scarlet coat.
A mile into the woods, a check.
Then Tinsel, who’d been a little bit behind, turned toward the stable, which wasn’t visible. She had the line and she sang out.
Everyone headed back, and once out in the pasture again the entire pack shot down the narrow ravine. This time Weevil dismounted to go with them.
Given the length of the run, the long time of the run, the fact that the hunted fox returned to that brush pile made Weevil think either he had a den there or one close by. Why he chose not to use it before, the huntsman had no idea. Foxes could be peculiar. That they were smarter than all of the other creatures was never in doubt.
He grabbed some overhanging branches as he slid down. Tootie and Betty stayed at the edge. If he needed them he’d yell.
Hounds surrounded the large, dense pile but they didn’t dig. They waited for their huntsman.
He reached them, knelt down, peering in. He couldn’t see much but he did see a baseball cap. Nothing reached his own nose, but he was a country boy. Something or someone was in there. The nights had light frosts. Whatever was there he couldn’t smell but hounds could. He stood up. He trusted his hounds and he knew human noses needed a strong scent to register.
Climbing back up he walked to Sister. “Something is in that mess of a brush pile. Not our fox.”
“Alive? You know, a skunk or something like that?”
“No. I think something is dead in there, and I saw a baseball cap.”
“Weevil, say nothing. Let’s go back to the trailers. I’ll call Ben Sidell. If he’d been out today he’d have a better idea than any of us how to proceed.”
Back at the trailers, hunt members set up a tailgate. Drew declined because he said he was so mistrustful of Morris. Even if he was locked in his room he could scream and pound on the doors.
Sister did not wish to trouble the Ticknors. Those cardboard tables set up in a minute, tailgates dropped, and Walter, with Kasmir’s help, lifted down the Yeti cooler filled with drinks.
As all this transpired, the Ticknors were the first people handed drinks. Sister called Ben from the cab of her truck.
“Sister, how was the hunt?”
“Terrific. We picked up a sporting fox. This may be me worrying too much, but hounds twice ran into a narrow ravine. There’s a huge brush pile there, fallen trees. You can’t get down on horseback but the second time hounds ran back, Weevil dismounted and managed to get down. He believes something is in that brush pile. He says he can’t see anything or smell anything but hounds could. He did see a baseball cap. I’m probably making too much of it.”
“You’ve given me a chance to get outside. No need to wait for me. I know the way.”
“Ben, either Weevil or I will wait, because you don’t know where the ravine is,” she politely reminded him.
“You’re right. See you soon.”
The hunt breakfast, convivial, had members slouched in their director’s chairs, others sitting on the back of those dropped tailgates that didn’t have food. As the runs had woken everyone up, brisk and challenging, all were in a good mood.
Usually singling Freddie out, Drew seemed a bit distracted.
Sister sat down next to Betty, Weevil, and Tootie, who put out a chair for her. Gray and Sam fussed over Aunt Daniella and Yvonne. Aunt Dan was giving a highly personalized history of Fairies Bottom.
“Red, don’t you think?” Sister asked her huntsman.
“I do. Wish we could have gotten a view.” Weevil knocked back his ginger ale with a twist of lemon.
“Do we have two more chairs?” Sister stood as she glimpsed Skiff’s truck rolling down the lane.
Betty turned her head. “I’ll find some. You sit down.”
Skiff parked and Shaker, Southern gentleman that he was, walked around to open the door for her.
Being a Yankee girl, this used to disturb her but she’d adjusted, especially after his injury. Being able to perform small services for the lady he was learning to love made him feel strong again.
Also Sister, Betty, Aunt Daniella had set her down one cold night in Aunt Dan’s living room to give her the rules of being a Southern lady, which boiled down to: be gracious, allow men to do for you, and don’t fear they won’t listen to you, they will. Speak in warm terms.
Poor Skiff struggled but eventually she began to remember the little details, like let him open the door, let him walk on the outside of the sidewalk. Basic stuff.
So many people hurried to greet Shaker. Perked him right up.
Drew came over. “I’ve got Blanton’s.” He named a special bourbon, which he brought from his house after riding to his stable with Wanda. She took care of the horses. “I know you’re a Woodford Reserve man, but let me fetch you a drink after I bring one to this lovely lady.”
“I thank you in advance.” Skiff had learned.
Freddie also walked over. “What could you hear?”
That was all the two huntsmen needed. Freddie and Drew guided them to the chairs Kasmir pulled from his trailer. They talked excitedly walking, sat down still talking.
“Before Crawford bought the land, most of that was a pumpkin patch, which we could hunt.” Shaker was warming up. “Pumpkins, squash, but the real draw turned out to be two acres of Muscadine grapes. Oh my God, do foxes love grapes.”
Weevil, on the edge of his chair, emboldened Shaker to more memories. “You must have had great runs.”
“One fall day, cubbing, we hit a line where the house now stands over there and we ran and ran and ran. We wound up at Mousehold Heath and then we ran north. We damn near reached the kennels.”
“Too bad Crawford didn’t name Beasley Hall Grape Expectations.” Freddie laughed.
They all laughed with her as Ben drove up. Sister leaned toward Weevil, he nodded. They rose, as did Betty and Tootie.
“Why don’t we get in the squad car?” Betty volunteered. “Tootie, climb in the back. This way we don’t have to unhitch a truck from the trailer. The hounds will be fine. We won’t be long.”
Sister and Weevil asked Yvonne would she drive them back to Pitchfork Farm, which she was delighted to do. Then Sam hopped into her car. Aunt Daniella barely noticed, since she had a crew of people sitting around her in a semicircle.
Drew noticed them piling into vehicles. “Need a hand?”
Sister replied, “No thank you. We’re going to check out something at your farm.”
“I’ll follow.” He smiled. “I don’t want you all getting lost on Pitchfork Farm, although I’d put out a cooler loaded with food for you to find.” He motioned for Wanda, who had already put his two horses in stalls, thinking to come back quickly to the tailgate.
Sister and Weevil laughed then closed the doors to Yvonne’s big SUV. “Dammit.”
Yvonne drove behind Ben. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know but I have an uneasy feeling about this.”
“You can’t stop a man from going to his home,” Weevil sensibly said.
“I know but…” She shook her head. “I should have paid more attention to the hounds.”
“We were on a fox.” Weevil picked up her growing unease.
Yvonne followed Ben, directed by Betty. They crossed the pasture, soil firm enough for an SUV.
Drew followed in his SUV, since he hadn’t needed a truck that morning, having hacked to the meet. Once the horses were up, he got in her car.
Ben stopped at the woods’ edge. Betty and Tootie disembarked. Sister, Weevil, and Yvonne got out as Drew parked and joined them.
“Follow me,” Weevil said. “Betty and Tootie, why don’t you go to where you were when we were down here. You don’t have to go as far, but Ben might want to know where we all were.”
“Steep,” Drew warned them then turned to look back at the house. He could see the back door closing. “Excuse me. Something’s up at the house. I hope Morris didn’t get out.”
“We do, too,” Betty reassured him.
Weevil first, sideways for better footing given the steep grade, began the descent. The others followed. He reached the huge pile as Betty and Tootie took their positions on the right, on the left.
“Ben, hounds came here twice, as did our fox. But they were baffled a bit then found the line, encouraged by Weevil.”
Weevil added to Sister’s recall. “The second time I got down on my hands and knees.” He did that and Ben did also.
“A lot of debris.”
“See the cap?” Weevil pointed.
After a minute or two Ben said, “Yeah. This stuff is so thick we won’t know what’s in there without light. I’ve got an LED flash in the car.”
“I’ll climb back up with you,” Betty offered.
The two, using low branches to pull themselves, managed to get up in time to see the SUV pull out of the drive, hit sixty, and go. Then the truck followed.
“What the hell?” Ben commented.
“Pray it isn’t Morris.” Betty put her hand over her eyes.
Ben sat in the driver’s seat, called the dispatcher, gave him a precise description, and ordered him to get people on the two vehicles immediately. People didn’t just fly out of their farms without reason.
“Come on, Betty. We need to find what’s in that pile.”
Down they went, neither one talking.
Ben knelt down, hit the light. “No wonder they’re running.”
Sister, Betty, Weevil, and Tootie knelt down to peer into the morass as Ben shined the light.
“Morris.” Betty gasped.
“He didn’t die a natural death, I can tell you that.”
Ben hurried as best he could, the others behind him. Back to his squad car. He gave orders, clear and concise.
“Weevil…actually all of you can go. I’ll get statements soon enough.”
“Would you like one of us to stay with you?” Sister offered.
“No thank you. The team knows what to do. If you can send the people home from the hunt breakfast, that would be a help. We don’t need an audience.”
Drew raced east and Bainbridge raced south on back roads. Roadblocks had been set up.
Back at the tailgate people had seen the SUV then the truck speed by. No one knew what was happening.
Drew managed to get to Black Cat Road east of Keswick. Hearing sirens, knowing they were closing in, he parked the SUV, got out, ran into a woods there. Thanks to his business he knew central Virginia inside and out. Shedding his scarlet coat, he slowly worked his way toward old Route 22. If he could reach it he felt certain he could elude the sheriff’s department and anyone else. Taylor Insurance covered a lot of properties in this area, many of them had outbuildings or old log cabins filled with equipment, or in some cases used as guesthouses. He had places to hide.
Bainbridge, on the other hand, flew on back roads in the truck, hit a pothole at high speed, and flipped over. The driver’s door, crushed, held him in. Alive but unconscious, he was taken to the hospital by ambulance.
Drew kept out of sight for the day and night. Ben put small teams on Route 22, Route 20, alerted the Orange and Louisa sheriffs’ departments. The TV station covered the car chase, told people a man was on the run, then identified him.
An alert landowner spotted a man in britches, boots, and a white shirt, skirting the back of his farm on the east side of Route 15 in the Green Springs area of Louisa.
By the time the law enforcement officers reached the old, well-tended farm, Drew had disappeared, but not for long.
Two miles over soft rolling hills from where the first man saw Drew, a couple saw him dip down into a streambed. So did their dog, who followed him briefly before returning to his owners.
The Louisa County Sheriff’s Office finally cornered him on the back of a farm he had circled, one he insured, Eastern View.
Drew refused to surrender, pulling out his handgun. This turned into a standoff, and as is the way with such situations, within an hour there must have been twenty squad cars there. Overkill.
And when Drew finally shot, it was overkill. The cops hid behind their cars, weapons drawn as Drew, in a small wooden shed, could watch all of them. No one could approach him without him knowing.
After three hours of this, one of the cops had the bright idea to smoke him out. To their credit they didn’t set fire to the small structure, but they threw in tear gas.
They heard one shot. Drew didn’t come out and no one could go in without a tear-gas mask, which a supporting officer from Louisa County happened to have.
Once inside the building, he found Drew sprawled, dead. He’d shot himself in the head.
His nephew at UVA hospital lay in a guarded room, hooked up to an array of monitoring equipment, blood dripping into his arm with a painkiller pump inserted.
Sister, keeping track as best she could, called Wanda, who kept the stable. The young woman had no idea what was happening but she promised to feed Binny and Ugh until further notice.
Sister, Gray, the staff, and club members, glued to their TVs and cellphones, tried to get the news.
It wasn’t until Friday afternoon that they found out that Drew had shot himself. Bainbridge’s accident, overturned truck, also made the news. Drew’s fate was broadcast much later.
Sister, Gray, Weevil, and Tootie sat in the library.
“If Bainbridge regains consciousness, maybe we’ll know.” Sister rested her hand on Rooster’s head, Golly behind her on the sofa back.
“Has to be about Morris. They both knew he was dead or they wouldn’t have run.” Gray was right.
“But why kill him?” Tootie wondered. “If he was violent, they could have put him in a home with a medical staff. He’d be on drugs, but to kill him?”
Weevil, next to her, said, “People have their reasons. We’ll find out in time.”
“What keeps crossing my mind is Harry Dunbar slips to his death, Drew kills himself. Two men tied by a past disagreement and now two men dead within a short span of time,” Sister thought out loud. “I don’t think Drew killed Harry. I doubt there was a connection except in other regards. Life plays tricks on you.”
Gray agreed. “So it will always be. I’m glad Drew was a bad shot.”
“Until the end,” Tootie quietly said.