Lost & Hound, page 22
She sat back down and everyone buzzed at once. Those who had been on that incredible hunt informed those who had not, relishing every detail.
Barry leaned down. “Sister, how is J. Edgar?”
“Very happy.” She smiled.
This gave Barry the opportunity to describe the box turtle, with such a lovely pattern on his back, which American box turtles have. Turtles can be beautiful.
The lights flickered. Conversation did, too.
The president of the Waynesboro Symphony Orchestra, Charles Salembier, came out to applause, as many in the audience recognized him. Those under the balcony were people who loved music. They were not necessarily hunt club members, those paying for the privilege of being upstairs. Also young people filled the seats below, as the program was affordable. The place was packed. Not one empty seat, a testimony to the appeal of the orchestra to both those loving serious music and those willing to learn. But the orchestra, wisely, added popular pieces. No one understands those big pieces all at once. And music like film soundtracks often led people to more difficult pieces.
Sister glanced down. “Gray, I have never seen the Paramount this jammed.”
She named the theater, a restored movie house that opened in 1931. The moldings, brass chandeliers, tapestries, and golden touches took one back to an earlier time. As she looked around, the lack of adornment in so-called modern architecture became vividly apparent. Sister thought of gilding or fancy plaster moldings as a form of exuberance. Then she wondered if so much had happened since this theater was built, depression, wars, mass death, maybe there wasn’t much exuberance left in the human race.
As President Salembier finished, more applause. Then the house lights dimmed and the music director and conductor, Peter Wilson, came out. A little shift in the seats as people readied for the first piece of music, Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring Suite, the orchestral version.
Sister never liked this piece of music but she settled in to listen. As the orchestra played it, she felt she was in the middle of the orchestra itself. Every note hit her ears, every shift in tone, a delay until the next push. She had never recognized how difficult this piece of music was to play. Leaning forward, she became enraptured. How could this orchestra, started in 1996 in a small town, not even famous among Virginians, always thought of as a Dupont town, how could this group become so extraordinary? WSO, as it was called, took on difficult pieces of music. They didn’t shy from Mahler’s First Symphony or Shostakovich or Tchaikovsky.
She came back to passion. Does anyone or anything really succeed without it? Her passion, not earth-shattering but all hers, was hounds and horses.
After the suite was finished the audience went wild. They finally settled down to hear music from Legends of the Fall, “Ashokan Farewell,” and The Magnificent Seven, which thrilled everybody.
Intermission followed this. People ran out to get another drink or go to the bathroom or marvel with friends as to how exciting the night was turning out to be.
It was going to get even more exciting. They could feel it.
Betty, a Perrier in hand, listened as Alida and Kasmir raved about the music. One could pick up other conversations as the upstairs room, with its long bar and tables with food, was jammed. People stood back to back or shoulder to shoulder.
Ed, Barry, Kim Clark, Cameron, and the Sabatinis stood at a small round table discussing the program.
“What an interesting mix of pieces,” Elise enthused.
“Each year,” Ed filled in, “WSO comes up with a theme. Like tonight is American Frontier. You think it won’t work, and yet it does.”
“It sure is a big fundraiser,” Cameron said admiringly, then added, “Barry, maybe you can organize a string quartet for your amphibian foundation.”
Before Barry could reply, Ed suggested, “Barry, get in touch with the National Wildlife Foundation. The statistics they have, say, of garter snakes can actually help raise money. Ronnie and I were talking about fads in wildlife. Maybe you’re due for a boost.”
“That would be good news,” Cameron said a touch acidly.
Barry ignored him.
Everyone went back in, settled down. The second half of the program contained more film music with pictures behind the orchestra of America, whether it was the gorgeous valleys and Blue Ridge Mountains, the Grand Canyon, endless plains, wheat swaying in the wind. One extraordinary picture after another accentuated the music.
Dances With Wolves received a murmur of recognition. When the lights came back on and Peter Wilson with the orchestra took a bow, the applause deafened. No one would stop. So members played an encore.
Finally, reluctantly, the audience let the players stop. The balcony audience filed out, some already going downstairs.
Sam walked on one side of Aunt Daniella, Yvonne on the other. Barry walked behind them, Alida and Kasmir immediately behind them.
Cameron shoved his way up to Barry. “If you don’t pay up, I’ll blow your career.”
“I’d be careful if I were you. People who push for more than they are worth come to bad ends,” Barry coldly said.
“You wouldn’t have a cent without me.” Cameron’s rage built. “You need my shipping, my contacts. Who else would carry your cargo?”
“Don’t get greedy. You are well rewarded.”
Cameron hit him. “Liar.”
Barry, realizing he was now jeopardized, stepped next to Yvonne as he pulled a penknife out of his pocket. He grabbed her arm, pulling it behind her, putting the knife to her throat.
Cameron bellowed, “He’ll hurt her. Stop him.”
Yvonne, coolheaded, did not struggle. Sam jumped down two steps. He was now next to Barry. “Touch her and I’ll kill you!”
“Idiot. I’ll kill her first.”
Sam knew if he reached for Yvonne, Barry would plunge the knife into her throat. He kept as close as he could.
At the bottom of the steps, no ushers, Barry dragged Yvonne into the theater’s main seating. Most people were out in the lobby already, as there was still food there.
Barry hoped he could get backstage, where he could dump Yvonne and shoot out the back doors into darkness. Either he could steal a car or hide downtown until he figured out an escape route.
Cameron tagged along, not helping Sam but thinking he could attack Barry if the right moment presented itself. He’d get his money or he’d get revenge.
Sister and Gray had turned back up the balcony stairway when Barry pulled his knife. They reached the upstairs lobby.
“Ben!” Gray shouted.
Standing at the bar, five dollars in hand, Ben dropped the money, said to Gray, “Come with me.”
Then he ran with Gray as they thundered down the steps.
Sister followed.
Hearing the commotion behind the downstairs doors, Gray and Ben hit those doors, ran inside, saw Barry pushing Yvonne, Sam dodging around him.
“Sam, I will jab this knife into her jugular. Don’t get near me,” Barry threatened, now hauling Yvonne up the side steps to the stage.
Cameron ran to the steps on the other side of the stage. Sam stayed close to Yvonne.
Barry knocked chairs over as he propelled the endangered woman to the back curtain, his escape route.
Ben, also now on the stage, Gray beside him, pointed his gun at Barry.
Barry laughed. “I’ll have her blood all over the floor by the time you pull the trigger.”
Ben would not risk Yvonne’s life, but like Sam, he kept following the man.
Given the size of his instrument, the principal tuba player was at that stage corner. He stepped back as though to let Barry pass, then lifted his gleaming tuba, swinging the horn. It caught Barry’s elbow, throwing his arm away from Yvonne’s throat.
Sam, lightning fast, grabbed Barry’s arm. He could feel the tuba on his back. The player couldn’t move, the space was tight.
Yvonne eluded the knife, but Barry still held her with his other arm.
Ben rushed up. “Drop her, Barry, drop her.”
“The hell I will.” Barry felt Sam grab his knife arm, bring his knee up, then smash Barry’s arm onto his knee.
The pain made Barry release Yvonne.
Gray ran over to her as Sam prepared to hit Barry, who was raving. He turned on Sam. Ben yanked his collar. Barry turned on Ben, tried to get the gun from Ben’s hand. He was as wild as yesterday’s coyote.
He thrashed at the two men then launched himself at Yvonne. Gray stepped in front. He turned again to get Ben’s gun. In the struggle, Ben fired.
Barry dropped on his knees, keeled over. Dead.
Everyone stopped.
The tuba player hoisted up his tuba to go.
Sam put his arms around Yvonne. Then he touched her neck. A little trickle of blood. He pulled out a handkerchief and held it to her neck.
He was crying. She was crying. She took his hand and kissed it. Then she put her head on his shoulder.
By now, half the hunt club was at the front of the stage.
Ben, seeing the tuba player, gently said, “Good work, man. I’ll get a statement later. Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”
Sister, Betty, Tootie, and Aunt Daniella, at the foot of the stage, noticed Weevil, who emerged from behind the curtain at the other end, Bobby with him.
Yvonne turned and touched Sam’s hand. Then she took Tootie’s hand with her other hand, as Tootie had rushed up the steps.
“I thought I was going to die.” Yvonne’s voice sounded scratchy. “Just when I realized I have everything to live for. Sam, I owe you my life.”
“Yvonne, you don’t owe me anything.”
She put her arms around him, her head on his shoulder, and she cried.
Tootie cried as Sam held them both. Tears spilled from his eyes. Weevil came up, stood by Tootie, her mother, and Sam.
Aunt Daniella, next to Sister, now reached for her friend’s hand. “A miracle. Thank the Lord.”
People were so moved, relieved, most everyone felt tears welling up. As Tootie released her mother, Weevil embraced her, then walked her down the narrow steps.
Sam preceded Yvonne, reaching up for her hand, steadying her descent.
She broke into a smile, more tears. “Sam Lorillard, I am never letting you go. Just try to get rid of me.”
As she reached the last step, he lifted her up, put her down, and kissed her.
“Finally!” Aunt Daniella exalted.
Sister, laughing, kissed the nonagenarian on the cheek. “Romantic. You are a hopeless romantic.”
As they were laughing, Ben, still on the stage with Gray, realized Cameron had disappeared.
CHAPTER 32
October 29, 2022, Saturday
Lazy snowflakes twirled down outside Sister’s living room window. Hunting canceled the day after the Waynesboro Symphony Orchestra, a tradition, meant the club members could gather at Roughneck Farm.
Aunt Daniella, Yvonne, Sam, Ronnie, Betty, Bobby, Alida, Kasmir, Ed, Weevil, Tootie, and Freddie squeezed together. Weevil and Tootie sat on pillows on the floor. The fire, that wood smell, always seems to draw people together.
Ben Sidell stood by the fireplace while Margaret DuCharme, about as tired as he was from last night’s events, sat in a chair Gray had carried in from the library. Golly stretched on the back of the sofa while the two dogs, no room on the floor, sat across from Ben at the fireplace.
Despite all, Yvonne was glowing, thanks to realizing she loved Sam. Plus he had finally gotten Marty to sell her Old Buster.
“I can’t believe you all didn’t let me go to the symphony,” Ronnie complained. “I missed everything.”
“And what would have happened if you’d been pushed in the crowd? Got worse once the shouting started.” Betty gave him her tough mom look.
“Maybe. But I missed the best symphony ever on all counts. No one else will ever be shot at a performance.”
“No,” Bobby agreed. “But perhaps they should be.”
“Is this a critique?” Freddie fiddled with the gold ring on her finger.
“Only for counter-sopranos,” he replied.
“Not fair.” Kasmir leaned toward Bobby, whom he much liked. “But there never will be a night like last night.”
“Let’s hope so.” Ben liked the warmth on his legs, as he’d pulled his calf muscle in last night’s chase.
“Can you talk about it or do we have to wait?” Ronnie was dying for details.
“What is the truth? Well, I don’t know exactly but I can tell you what Cameron said once we caught him. As Barry is dead, we will never hear his side of the story and I would like to know, too.”
“But why would someone in Barry’s position take such a risk? He wasn’t poor.” Freddie could still hear the shot when Ben’s gun had fired. “He just lost it.”
“Never underestimate greed,” Aunt Daniella answered that. “My father used to say, ‘Never underestimate the greed of the rich.’ There’s a lot of truth in that. How rich was Barry?”
“He’d made a great deal of money representing high-powered criminals. A conservative estimate, I’d say thirty million. Some from his work but most from poaching.”
“Representing criminals, he must have learned from the best,” Alida piped up.
“You may be right. He has in his bank account only a million. He had more in stocks and bonds. Obviously he had millions stashed outside of the United States. And a chunk of cash to pay off his helpers, for lack of a better word. Much of our work is in front of us. I’m sure he had offshore accounts. The huge infusions of cash he was making would guarantee he wouldn’t bank in our country.”
“But aren’t places like Switzerland and the islands supposed to report this stuff?” Weevil, usually quiet, was curious and had a very good mind.
“Yes,” Gray spoke. “I can answer that. Legally, yes. But that’s not the way the world works. The laws for transparency, to follow money, are easily subverted. Hiding money is not difficult if you understand banking. Why do you think dictators look, on paper, like regular people? They have to look like one of the people. They rise on populism. Their hidden bank accounts are worth millions. Obviously, Barry was astute about money. Was Cameron?”
“Not as clever as he would like to have been.” Ben smiled furtively. “Running down and finding a man in white tie on a cold night in Charlottesville’s downtown was an event almost as odd as Barry’s threatening Yvonne. He ran over to Water Street, hid in a parking lot, the big parking lot, waited for someone, a lone person, to get into their car. He jumped in the passenger side. Had no gun but offered money. And you know what, that guy drove him to James Monroe’s place, leaving him at the gate, which was locked. The minute he dropped him he called us. We got to Highland, fanned out, and found him curled up by the basement. I actually think he was glad to see us, he was so cold.”
“He’s in jail now?” Ronnie asked.
“He is. He’s safe. He told us a lot. Verifying it all will take time. The condensed version, the only version we currently know, is that Cameron and Barry were in business together but Barry hid huge profits. Cameron didn’t really notice it until he began to question some of the people with whom they did business. Not all of those people were forthcoming. That took a few years. He was making so much money it didn’t occur to him that Barry was keeping some of his profits.”
Frustrated, Aunt Daniella asked, “What was their business? Drugs?”
“Much more clever. They sold amphibians and reptiles to Asian countries. A box turtle, a simple American box turtle, can fetch thousands. Cameron said once they smuggled in fifteen hundred turtles to a Chinese dealer and made two-point-two million dollars. That’s one deal. Cameron flew the turtles and salamanders, other animals, to Charlotte, where Timothy Snavely shipped them out on large planes. We’ve shut down this end of the network, but it still exists overseas. There’s more we need to know.”
“So the man in the chair was in on it?” Kasmir asked.
“He was. Cameron saw more of him than Barry did. Barry was the person who collected the goods. He paid a variety of people to trap turtles, and snakes, and he paid what to them was good money. They had no idea what these creatures bring in Asia. That’s another avenue we have to explore. We have to nail each of the trappers. We have a list, thanks to Cameron. He knew where many of Barry’s trappers were. He never thought to examine them. Barry falsified their payments, skewing Cameron’s grasp on the true profits.
“But Timothy’s death was the alarm that it was meant to be. Fog spoiled it, but like the rest of us, Cameron eventually learned who the man in the chair was.”
“Why kill him?” Sister wondered.
“He was pushing for a greater percent of the take. He threatened to expose Barry. That was Cameron’s first hint that Barry was not dividing the money as he swore he was. Barry killed Snavely as a signal to Cameron not to try the same thing. He presented it as protecting both of them from a man so greedy he would jeopardize them. But it was a warning nonetheless.”
“Did Cameron describe how he killed the man?” Tootie thought sitting a corpse in a chair macabre.
“As best we knew, because the only thing Barry ever said once Cameron confronted him was that Timothy had it coming. Barry flew him up here to discuss payout. And he picked him up at the airport, drove him somewhere on one of the back roads, a farm road where we hunt, but Cameron wasn’t sure. He told him to leave the car. He forced him to shoot up pure heroin. Then punctured his ears and slit his tongue. This made it look like a crazy person killed an addict. Cameron also flew drops for people. Barry had them, too. Some people he paid in drugs.”
“Well, he was right.” Sam would ever remember finding the body.
