Full Cry by Rita Mae Brown

night of the twenty-seventh, Saturday? Well, he was full of alcohol to the gills, but hemlock as well.”
    â€œWhat?” Sister paused for a moment.
    â€œHe drank hemlock, just like Socrates.”
    â€œOn purpose?” Sister was incredulous.
    â€œAnd this morning they found another one frozen down at the train station. Dead.”
    The two women looked at each other. Sister said, “What on earth is going on?”

CHAPTER 7
    Clay and Isabelle Berry loved to entertain. Their modern house, built on a ridge, enjoyed sweeping views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Because each of their rooms opened into other rooms or onto a patio, people rarely became bottled up in narrow door openings at their parties.
    The floors, polished and gleaming, were hard walnut, stained black. Izzy, as Isabelle preferred to be called since she was named after her mother, Big Isabelle, fell under the spell of minimalism. Every piece of furniture in the house had been built to fit that house. Each piece, a warm beige, complemented the lighter beige walls.
    The occasion for this party, January 2, Friday, was Izzy’s thirty-eighth birthday. A few guests, possessed of remarkable stamina, hadn’t stopped drinking since New Year’s Eve.
    Tedi, scotch and water in hand, whispered to Sister that these were blonde colors. As Izzy was a determined blonde, she shone to great effect.
    The kitchen, stainless steel, gleamed. Overhead pin-pricks of high-intensity light shone down on guests.
    The downstairs boasted a regulation-size pool table, itself starkly modern.
    Donnie Sweigert, along with three other men, manned the two bars, one in the living room, one downstairs.
    A flat-screen TV, built into the wall of the library, glowed. The one in the poolroom did likewise. Both TVs had men and women watching snatches of football reportage. They’d get a pigskin fix, then quickly rejoin the party, only to return periodically or ask another sports fan what he or she thought about the countdown to the Super Bowl.
    Sister and Tedi both stared as a commentator narrated clips from the most recent pro football games. The playoffs kept excitement mounting across America.
    â€œDo you think these men are mutants?” Tedi asked.
    â€œHow?”
    â€œLook at their necks.” Tedi clinked the cubes in her glass as a close-up of a well-paid fullback beamed from the wall.
    Wearing a fabulous electric blue dress, Sister stared. “And that’s just someone for the backfield. Imagine what the defensive guard looks like.”
    Clay, who was moving by, a drink held over his head thanks to the press of people, overheard.
    â€œBetter nutrition, better dentistry. Remember, a lot of bacteria come in through the mouth. Better workouts, better methods for reducing injuries or healing them when they occur. Better drugs.”
    Tedi smiled at her attractive host. “When you played football in high school, you made All State, Clay, and you never looked like that. You had a good college career, too.”
    Clay, middle linebacker for the local high school, had been outstanding at the position. He’d won a scholarship to Wake Forest and been a star.
    He laughed. “Tedi, you’re very kind. Think how long ago that was. I’ll be forty-four this year. I don’t think I would do half so well at Wake now as I did then. It’s a different game. The training alone is so different.”
    â€œBut you never looked like a bull on two legs.”
    â€œSteroids.” He shrugged genially. “Just wasn’t much of an option then. Even if I had taken them, I was too small to make it to the pros. I don’t mind. I came home, built a business, and discovered golf.”
    Sister touched his arm. “What is it they say about golf: a good walk ruined?”
    He laughed. “The devil plays golf. He’ll give you just enough great drives, good putts, to keep you coming back.”
    â€œSo pretty out there, a verdant