The Hounds and the Fury by Rita Mae Brown Page B

toasted.
    Then Garvey laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a geological toast. Makes me wish I’d been in your geology class at Mary Baldwin.”
    “How about a toast from your profession?” Gray teased him.
    “Put the pedal to the metal.” Garvey raised his glass.
    “That was too easy!” Sister laughed at him.
    “You didn’t say it had to be hard.” Garvey then looked to Gray. “Your turn.”
    “Put your money in your head; no one can steal it from you there.”
    Sister and Garvey clicked their glasses once more.
    Meanwhile, Iffy drove right under Freddie’s bosom as if to find shade. It’s doubtful Iffy could have found a toast for the occasion, but she could have wedged her champagne flute in Freddie’s cleavage. Of course, Freddie could have used Iffy as an end table.
    Ben Sidell, sheriff of the county, his back to Freddie, half turned and caught Jason’s eye. “Dr. Woods, Happy New Year. Iffy”—and he included Freddie when she turned round—“Happy New Year.”
    “Why aren’t you in uniform?” Iffy blurted out, oblivious to the fact that the sheriff was entitled to a private life.
    “I worked Christmas Eve and Christmas.” He smiled broadly. “Interesting hunt this morning.”
    “Interesting hunt tonight.” The corner of Jason’s mouth turned upward.
    Ben looked at Jason, then Freddie, then Iffy, and thought this a strange triangle. “I was wondering if any of you could introduce me to the lady standing by the fireplace.”
    Champagne flute in hand, Dr. Margaret DuCharme leaned against the end of the fireplace.
    Jason, unwilling to surrender his spot with Freddie, didn’t move.
    Nor would Iffy.
    Freddie, happy to ditch both of them, took Ben’s hand for an instant. “I’d be happy to.”
    Iffy and Jason were abandoned to one another.
    Iffy smiled. Jason’s eyes followed Freddie.
    Meanwhile, Freddie, voice low, said, “She’s a sports medicine doctor. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but she must be very good because the Washington Redskins send her their wounded. Professional golfers fly in to see her, too.”
    “Married?”
    “To her work.”
    As they drew closer Freddie stepped forward.
    Margaret, diminutive and attractive, extended her hand to Ben. “I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
    The touch of her hand befuddled him. He stood there speechless.
    Freddie, wise in such matters, chatted for a moment. “Everyone knows our sheriff.”
    Ben recovered, dropping Margaret’s hand. She smiled. “If you two will excuse me.” Freddie skillfully slipped away.
    Jason watched her every move from behind Iffy’s wheelchair.
    People are like colors: they complement each other or they clash. Ben and Margaret complemented each other. Once Ben had regained his composure they talked easily, lighting up like the sparks flying in the fireplace. And the conversation veered from the superficial immediately. Their physical attraction was obvious. What a partygoer observing them couldn’t have known was that their minds were on fire.
    Driving home from the party, Sister and Gray noticed Donny Sweigart’s truck by the side of the road a quarter of a mile from Crawford’s entrance.
    The headlights revealed blood on his camouflage fatigues as Donny walked to his truck.
    Gray pulled over. Sister opened the window. “Donny, are you all right?”
    “Yeah. Deer blood.”
    “If Crawford catches you here, he’ll put the law on you.”
    Donny smiled slyly. “He’s celebrating. Anyway, I’m out of here.”
    As they drove home, Gray, who planned to spend the night with Sister, said, “He pushes it.”
    “What I want to know is, where’s the deer?”
    “Could be down in the meadow.”
    “He can’t drag it out by himself unless he dresses it in the field, and then he runs the risk of Crawford catching him. No deer in the truck bed.”
    “What the hell is he up to?”
    Sister, lips taut: “I don’t think we want to know.”

CHAPTER 9
    T he New Year fell on Sunday. It