A Bloodhound to Die for (12 page)

“He’s supposed to be your best dog in the kennel, if not the whole world, to hear you tell it. You never take him into the swamp anymore. Won’t he get rusty or lose his edge or something if you don’t let him keep in practice? You know this search is a stroll. How far can a seventy-three-year-old woman travel? Look at him. He’s crushed.”

“I’m taking Gulliver,” I replied evenly.

I glanced Hank’s way and saw his eyes widen.

“You’re afraid he’ll get hurt! I’ll be damned. You’re protecting him! How come?”

Jasmine, hurrying up the steps to help me load, saved me from an explanation. I ignored his question and took the wheel when Donnie Ray pulled the van even with the back gate.

Hank turned his unit in front of us with a screech of tires and activated the siren and flashers.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” I said waspishly. “It gives me a headache!”

“What were you two discussing when I arrived?”

“He wanted to know why I wasn’t taking Bobby Lee,” I admitted.

“And you said…?”

“Don’t
you
start.”

“Forget I asked.”

“All my dogs are great and I love them dearly, but Bobby Lee is special. I lost him once because of the trial and it was months before I won back his trust. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to him. After Jimmy Joe’s visit and his knowing that Bobby Lee lives in the house, he must be aware that I think he’s special. Jimmy Joe said he read all the press on my career, so he also knows that Bobby Lee was sightless for most of his life. I won’t put him in jeopardy.”

“Life is a crap shoot, Jo Beth. You can’t always hedge your bets.”

“I’m gonna damn sure try,” I said with determination. “And that’s a surprising observation from a devout Southern Christian lady like yourself.”

She answered with a warm smile and a wink of conspiracy. “It’s just you and me, kid.”

I laughed at her nonsense. “I read an article a few days ago that I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” I said, changing the subject. “I want to check it out today. It’s called the theory of the dominant hand.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Basically it’s to help you guide the man-trailing dog when a trail forks and the dog is having trouble picking up the scent.

“A person panicked, running on instinct alone, and not familiar with the terrain will choose to turn in the direction of the dominant hand. Thus we now have another question to ask when we are in pursuit, whether the victim is right-handed or left-handed.

“A right-handed person will turn to the right, and a left-handed person will turn to the left. This is not a scientific theory, but it appears to work time and time again. The choice is made unconsciously. It seems that if the subject decides to backtrack, the same scenario applies—they turn right or left, according to their dominant hand.”

“It sounds reasonable.”

“This should help when the scent is blown all over the landscape in high winds. Might cut down on the search time.”

“Do you think that she’ll be difficult to find?”

“Her name is Beulah and her mind is completely gone. Her seventy-seven-year-old husband is her sole health provider and does a very good job, but no one can watch a person twenty-four hours out of a twenty-four-hour day, day in and day out. It’s impossible. I admire the old man and his devotion, especially since she doesn’t know him from Adam’s house cat and isn’t aware of his sacrifice. Their children pressed to put her in a nursing home last year, and even if we do find her and she’s okay, I’m afraid they will prevail this time. If she’s sent to a home, it will probably finish both of them. His only reason for getting up each morning is to take care of her.”

“Will we both start out together?”

“If my memory is correct, the undergrowth is heavy around the creek, but there’s a narrow trail that’s fairly accessible, with lots of twists and turns following the curve of the stream. I’ll start out and you can follow on an independent trail about ten minutes later.”

“What was the weather report this morning?”

“Sixty percent possibility of scattered showers this afternoon and tonight. That deluge we got yesterday at the funeral didn’t make it this far east. Look at the road.”

I had slowed my speed and let Hank get almost out of sight so we wouldn’t be eating his dust. We were bone dry in this neck of the woods and the dust swirls generated by his fast driving were taking long seconds to clear from the air.

Jasmine searched the sky for smoke. “The wind seems to be coming out of the north. How are the wildfires across the line, in Florida?”

“The small one has been contained, but the one in the southern portion of the swamp has now consumed over forty thousand acres.”

“They say that’s good for the swamp, renews the forest, but I always worry about the wildlife.”

“The animals love the new young green shoots that come up after a fire, but I worry about the firefighters who are trying to contain the perimeters, putting out hot spots, and nuts like us who tromp through the brush during afternoon thunderstorms that generate lightning strikes.”

“Have you ever been near a forest fire?”

“Not even close, thank the Lord, nor do I ever wish to be. Fire can move faster than I can run.”

Hank wasn’t in sight when I slowed for the turn onto a narrow dirt road that led to the Burton homestead. After a mile or so, we could see the house through a clear-cut that had been planted the previous fall.

“All the acreage around the house has been leveled since last year. It was old growth. Lumber prices have gone through the roof during the past eighteen months. The pulp mills are running double shifts.”

Hank was out of his unit and standing on the front porch of the small frame house that squatted at the edge of the swamp on a shallow lot of hard-packed clay. Not one blade of grass marred the cleared area. It
was swept clean with a homemade broom of dried sage grass. Mr. Hiram still practiced a lot of the old ways of living, before we became so dependent on mechanical devices.

An ancient, battered truck was under an open-sided shed that leaned precariously to the right. Its appearance was deceptive. Most people would decide it was an accident waiting to happen, but he knew it would still be standing long after he was gone. He’d probably built it himself sixty or more years ago.

Three modern cars were parked haphazardly in front of the porch. The two sons and daughter had arrived before us. I had thought that Mr. Hiram was lucky because his three children lived in the same small town where they’d been raised, until last year. I met them then after my search for their mother, when I returned her. They were outraged and shocked and disgusted with their father for not taking their advice and putting their mother into a nursing home. I had secretly wondered if Mr. Hiram considered them a blessing or a curse. I’m not a parent, and don’t have any living parents, so I tried not to judge their actions too harshly.

I pulled up, shut off the motor, and sighed.

“You want to fill me in?” Jasmine was eyeing the three people who were standing facing the front-porch swing where Mr. Hiram sat slumped with his head resting in his hands.

“They are the we-told-you-so and we-knew-you-couldn’t-handle-it
contingent, the children, bless their nit-picking, narrow-minded little hearts.”

“Since they seem to be between forty and fifty, the term ‘children’ doesn’t seem appropriate somehow. I have discerned two thoughts from the looks that they are directing our way. They seem to feel toward you exactly the same way you feel about them, and they don’t cotton to black folk.”

“Let’s suit up and go let them get it out of their systems. Maybe they’ll feel better after. I’m trying to remember that they are worried about their mother.”

We donned our rescue suits and helped each other with our snake leggings. Unloading the dogs, we attached their leads to the side of the van.

Silently we mounted the single step to the porch and waited for Hank to make the introductions. Mrs. Phelps, the female of the trio, could hardly wait until Hank finished speaking.

“What’s
she
doing here?” she asked Hank, motioning Jasmine’s way so no one would have any doubt about who she was discussing.

“Jasmine has come to help me search for your lost mama,” I replied softly. “Wasn’t that nice of her?”

“I was speaking to Sheriff Cribbs!” She was keeping her eyes on Hank and hadn’t turned to face me.

“Mrs. Phelps, Ms. Jones is a qualified and certified member of the Dunston County Search-and-Rescue team under contract with the Dunston County Sheriff’s Department. Without her assistance, I’m sure Ms.
Sidden would have to call off the search attempt. Do you have an objection?”

Hank’s voice had been reasonable and pleasant, but I’m sure that everyone within hearing range had gotten the message that he was very displeased with Mrs. Phelps’s ill-advised question. She glanced at her brothers and quickly entered the house without speaking.

I drew up a straight-backed chair with an ancient cowhide-covered seat and sat gingerly on its uneven surface, facing Mr. Hiram.

“Mr. Hiram? I’m Jo Beth Sidden. I found your wife last year down near the creek. Do you remember?”

He raised his ravaged countenance and searched my face.

“Will you find her?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’ll find her, I promise. Do you know when she left?”

“She seemed tired about eleven or so, she was hurting with her arthritis something awful last night. I figured that she would sleep a couple of hours since I gave her one of her pills to relax her.” He hung his head in shame. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I just laid down beside her to keep her company. I woke up at twelve and she was gone.”

He looked so miserable I clasped his folded hands and raised my voice.

“It wasn’t your fault, so don’t go blaming yourself. Is Miz Beulah right- or left-handed?”

“What does that have to do with trying to find her?”
the elder son blurted out. “Why aren’t you out there looking for her instead of asking asinine questions?” His hand was in his pocket nervously jingling his loose change and the noise was annoying. I glanced at Hank and ignored him.

Hiram Burton scratched his head. “Well, that’s a hard question to answer, and I’ll have to do some explaining to you. Back when Beulah and I were very young, it was thought to be unlucky, at best, if you wrote with your left hand, and some even thought that it was the sign of demon possession. Beulah said that as soon as she could make a fist and hold a pencil or crayon everyone would move it from her left hand to her right and fuss at her to boot. When she started school, the teachers did the same thing. She said it was easier for her to learn how to use her right hand when someone was around, so she did everything amper, ampher, I can’t recall the word I’m trying to say…”

“Ambidextrous,” I supplied.

“Yes’m. She could use either one.”

The first time I wanted to try the dominant hand and I had to hit a snag. Since I didn’t know which was really the dominant hand, it was no help.

“That’s a big help,” I fibbed to make him feel better. “Do you have two objects that she’s worn or handled often that haven’t been washed?”

“I didn’t know you needed two. I brought one of her house slippers. I picked it up like you showed me
last year, with a pair of kitchen tongs. I’ll go get the other one.”

He left, walking purposefully to get it. He wanted to help so badly because he blamed himself for letting her slip away. I heard Hank in the background getting rid of both sons, herding them inside the house and out of my hair.

  
14
“Gulliver’s Nose at Work”

J
asmine and I stood silently waiting for Mr. Hiram to return with Beulah’s slippers. His step returning was a little faster than his pace in leaving had been. He allowed a brief smile to flit across his saddened features.

“She changed from her slippers to her Indian moccasins. She knows not to wear her bedroom slippers outside. Since … her illness, she likes bright colors. The shoes she’s wearing are bright red with colored beads.”

He seemed heartened that she had remembered to change shoes before she went outside, but all I could wonder was if she also remembered that she was breaking the rules by leaving without him in attendance. I pictured a seventy-three-year-old Dorothy with thin silver-colored braids, in a faded housedress,
pale legs roped with varicose veins flashing between hemline and red flats. The road she was traveling was not yellow brick but moist peat in an overgrown swamp with hidden monsters. I suppressed a shudder.

The bedroom scuffs were washable, pink cotton fleece and were excellent scent articles. He had carried them correctly with the kitchen tongs inserted inside each toe.

“Do you remember how long she’s worn them?”

“Last night since about five P.M. and until eleven today. She has … accidents and I rotate four pairs.”

“Does she slip them on and off herself?” I hoped they weren’t too contaminated with his scent. It might confuse the dogs.