9780345532978: Fox Tracks

Inhaltsangabe

“[Rita Mae Brown] enlivens a timely tale with . . . amusing accounts of her four-legged creations and delightful descriptions of the central Virginia countryside.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch

New York Times bestselling author Rita Mae Brown bounds to the front of the pack with Fox Tracks, the thrilling new mystery in her beloved foxhunting series featuring the indomitable “Sister” Jane Arnold and, among others, the boisterous company of horses and hounds. Now, as a string of bizarre murders sweeps the East Coast, this unlikely alliance must smoke out a devious killer who may be closer than they first think.

While outside on Manhattan’s Midtown streets a fierce snowstorm rages, nothing can dampen the excitement inside the elegant ballroom of Manhattan’s Pierre Hotel. Hunt clubs from all over North America have gathered for their annual gala, and nobody is in higher spirits than “Sister” Jane, Master of the Jefferson Hunt in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. Braving the foul weather, Sister and her young friend “Tootie” Harris pop out to purchase cigars for the celebration at a nearby tobacco shop, finding themselves regaled by the colorful stories of its eccentric proprietor, Adolfo Galdos.

Yet the trip’s festive mood goes to ground later with the grisly discovery of Adolfo’s corpse. The tobacconist was shot in the head but found, oddly enough, with a cigarette pack of American Smokes laid carefully over his heart.

When a similar murder occurs in Boston, Sister’s “horse sense” tells her there’s a nefarious plot afoot—one that seems to originate in the South’s aromatic tobacco farms. Meanwhile, Sister’s nemesis, Crawford Howard, will stop at nothing to subvert the Jefferson Hunt Club. There’s more than one shadowy scheme in the works in Albemarle County, and some conspirators are unafraid of taking shots at those evidencing too keen an interest in other people’s business. When Sister voices her suspicions, she, too, becomes a target. Fortunately for her, the Master of the Jefferson Hunt may rely upon the wits and wiles of her four-legged friends—including horses Lafayette and Matador, the powerful hound, Dragon, and even the clever old red fox, Uncle Yancy!

From Manhattan’s gritty streets to the pastoral beauty of Virginia horse country, Fox Tracks features the beloved characters from past Sister Jane novels in a fascinating new intrigue. This sly, fast-paced mystery gives chase from sizzling start to stunning finish!

Praise for Rita Mae Brown’s “Sister” Jane novels

“Brown is a keen plotter who advances her story with well-placed clues and showy suspects.”—The New York Times Book Review

“[Brown] succeeds in conjuring a world in which prey are meant to survive the chase and foxes are knowing collaborators.”—People

“One of the most entertaining amateur sleuths since those of Agatha Christie.”—Booklist

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rita Mae Brown is the New York Times bestselling author of the Mrs. Murphy mystery series (which she writes with her tiger cat, Sneaky Pie), Murder Unleashed and A Nose for Justice (the first two books in her new canine mystery series), and the Sister Jane novels, as well as Rubyfruit Jungle, In Her Day, Six of One, The Sand Castle, and the memoirs Animal Magnetism and Rita Will. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and a poet, Brown lives in Afton, Virginia, with cats, hounds, horses, and big red foxes.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

CHAPTER 1

Brilliant strings of moving rubies rolled away in the snow. At least ­that’s how it looked to Jane Arnold, “Sister,” as she peered out the window of her hotel room at The Pierre. The taillights of all those cars crawling down Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue sparkled in the dark like rubies. When she was young, she would have seen parallel lines of headlights like diamonds coming ­toward her as well. Those days were long gone.

“Do you remember when the streets were two-way?” she asked her boyfriend, Gray Lorillard, who was carefully removing items from his Gladstone bag.

“­Uh-­huh.”

“Do you think creating ­one-­way streets in 1966 ­really made New York traffic move faster?”

“I do not.” He answered this with conviction, his handsome brow furrowed as he once more reviewed his close items.

“Close” meant small clothing: undershirts, underwear, folded good shirts, and his Dopp kit, as well as a beautiful calfskin jewelry case (although men never called it that).

“I don’t think it helped either,” she said, turning from the view, “but there were fewer cars then.”

“Fewer people,” he mumbled, searching for something in his bag. “Goddammit.”

“Is this male PMS I’m observing?” she asked, half smirking at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Men don’t have mood swings.”

At this, the elegant ­seventy-­one-­year-­old woman with the incredible silver hair, let out a whoop.

Younger by perhaps seven years—the year of his birth had a habit of sliding backward—Gray, taller than Sister who was six feet, brushed his ­steel-­gray military moustache while looking in the mirror above the desk. “Well, I don’t have ­them—­it’s well known that I’m ­even-­keeled.”

“Honey, you are smoking opium. You’re a lot moodier than I am.”

Looking at the beautiful woman who never made the slightest attempt to look younger than she ­was—­perhaps one of the reasons she was so ­striking—­Gray shrugged. “Janie, we’re all moodier than you. I’ve never known such a cool customer.”

“I don’t know if ­that’s a compliment or an insult.” She crossed the plush carpet and put her arm around his waist. “What’s the problem here?”

“I’m missing one of my studs.”

“Oh no, the chased gold ­fox-­head ones with the ruby eyes?”

“I know I put it in here. I did. You know how meticulous I am.”

“I do.” She bit her tongue because she wanted to say: And sometimes I wish you were not. “Maybe it slid behind the lining. Your bag has some years on it.”

“Buy the best. Then you only weep once.” He sat on the side of the bed, taking a deep breath. “I am not going to panic.”

She sat beside him. “Neither am I. Those were your Christmas present three years ago. I bought them from Marion at Horse Country.” The proprietor had sneaked Jane the elegant studs when they’d ­driven up to buy tack for the staff.

As Master of the Jefferson Hunt, Sister, and her ­joint-­master of three years, Dr. Walter Lungrun, were responsible for “the furnishings”—as horse equipment was properly termed—as well as for the paid staff, which consisted of one huntsman and one ­whipper-­in. Newly added to the payroll, Betty Franklin had served as an honorary, which means amateur, ­whipper-­in for decades.

Betty and her husband faced tightened financial conditions thanks to the sinking economy and the fact that they owned a printing press. Few people patronized true presses anymore so after much discussion, Sister and Walter had worked out the necessary details to give Betty a salary of $25,000. The good woman wept at the offer, tried to refuse, but the two masters insisted. That $25,000 kept the wolf from the Franklins’ door.

“Sugar, if you truly have lost it, I will buy you another,” said Jane.

“I ­didn’t,” he insisted. “It has to be here.”

“Go back over the last time you saw it.”

“Did that.” He rose, kissed her on the cheek, patted his chest pocket. “Dammit.”

“Your language is going to Hell.”

Her cursing as well made them both laugh.

“My mother would wash my mouth out with soap.” He smiled at the memory of the formidable, late LuAnne Lorillard, a power in the African American community long before integration. Nobody messed with LuAnne without ample opportunity to repent later.

“Well, humor me,” said Jane.

“All right. I was back home the last time I saw the studs. I went to my dresser after packing my clothing in this bag. I opened the top drawer, lifted out my personal case, carried it to the safe behind the painting that Daddy did, opened it, and took out my studs. I opened the little green leather case, counted them, closed it, and put it in my Gladstone bag.”

“Why don’t men say jewelry case?” Jane interrupted.

“How many years were you married? As I recall, it was ­twenty-­eight. Did you ever ask Raymond?”

“No, but I ­didn’t talk to Raymond as openly as I talk to you,” she said.

“­Really?” he asked, smiling, liking the compliment.

“­Really. I loved him in my fashion, but it was a different time. Ray had a bombastic streak, which meant he had a difficult time dealing with anything that ­didn’t emanate from him.”

“I lived in D.C. for most of your marriage, but Ray did not strike me as the sensitive or introspective type. How could you stand it?”

“I had a son, remember?” This was said in an upbeat tone. Any memory Sister recalled of her son, who died in a tractor accident in 1974, still brought her happiness.

She loved Raymond, Jr., beyond reason, but then ­doesn’t every parent feel that way? Jane long ago came to terms with his death at age fourteen, growing determined to live each day with joy. Her son would have wanted that for her, not a lifetime of grieving and anger.

“It’s not that I forget,” Gray quickly replied. “It’s only that I don’t associate you with sorrows. You’re a force of nature.”

“You know, that may be the most wonderful thing you ever said to me. Now back to your studs.”

“That’s the chain of events until now.” His hand went to his left pec again.

“Do I need to buy you a man bra?”

“No.” He laughed. “I’m out of cigarettes.”

“You can’t smoke in hotel rooms anymore, at least not in this town. Actually, Gray, you can’t smoke in public parks, the list goes on. If the mayor sees you smoking, he will assume you are a lowlife, possibly a cheap criminal. It never occurs to these health nuts the damage they do to others.”

“You mean the loss of jobs in our state, North Carolina, and Kentucky? Devastation.”

“That, too, but I was thinking about the people who love laws that inhibit other people’s choices. Is smoking a good thing to do? No. But those sanctimonious ­rule-­makers live rather luxurious lives. They ­aren’t working on an assembly line or in scorching sun outside....

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Weitere beliebte Ausgaben desselben Titels

9780345532992: Fox Tracks: A Novel ("Sister" Jane, Band 8)

Vorgestellte Ausgabe

ISBN 10:  0345532996 ISBN 13:  9780345532992
Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 2013
Softcover