Winter blizzards bring a flurry of cases to solve in this riveting new foxhunting mystery featuring “Sister” Jane Arnold and her incorrigible hounds from New York Times bestselling author Rita Mae Brown. Frigid February air has settled into the bones of the Blue Ridge Mountains, making for a slow foxhunting season, though “Sister” Jane Arnold’s enthusiasm is not so easily deterred. With the winter chill come tweed coats, blazing fireplaces—and perhaps another to share the warmth with, as the bold hunting scarlets worn by the men in Sister Jane’s hunting club make the hearts of women flutter—until someone’s stops entirely. Harry Dunbar, a member of the Jefferson Hunt club with a penchant for antique furniture, is found with his skull cracked at the bottom of the stairs to a local store. There are no telltale signs of foul play—save for the priceless (and stolen) Erté fox ring in his pocket. Sister and her hounds set out to uncover the truth: was this simply an accident—a case of bad luck—or something much more sinister? Steeped in the deep traditions of Virginia horse country and featuring a colorful cast of characters both two- and four-legged, Scarlet Fever is another spirited mystery from Rita Mae Brown. Rita Mae Brown is the bestselling author of the Sneaky Pie Brown mysteries; the Sister Jane series; the Runnymede novels, including Six of One and Cakewalk ; A Nose for Justice and Murder Unleashed; Rubyfruit Jungle ; and In Her Day ; as well as many other books. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and a poet, Brown lives in Afton, Virginia, and is a Master of Foxhounds and the huntsman. CHAPTER 1 February 21, 2019 Thursday A flash of scarlet caught Sister Jane’s eye then disappeared as a gust of wind blew snow off the trees below. The day, cold, tormented those who thought spring should be around the corner. The calendar cited spring as starting March 20 with the equinox, but the weather gods did not seem to be planning warmth anytime soon. The winter of 2018-2019 burst pipes, ran up electric bills, sent country people to dwindling firewood piles. Jane Arnold, Sister, master of the Jefferson Hunt, could deal with most of the troubles. It was cold hands and icy feet that she hated. Another gust of wind sent swirls of snow as trees bent low. Far ahead she again saw Wesley Blackford’s scarlet coat as he rode alongside the glittering hard-running creek, ice clinging to the bank sides. She couldn’t see her hounds. Nor could she see the whippers-in, those outriders assisting the huntsman. Sitting on a rise above the creek she peered into the forest, much of it conifers. Behind her stood a small field of riders desperately wishing to drop down out of the wind. Hearing Wesley, nicknamed Weevil, horn to lips, blow hounds forward she turned Lafayette toward the path down. He, too, was eager to move off the rise in the land. As the two carefully picked their way over the frozen ground covered with three inches of snow, more snow slid down Sister’s neck from bending tree limbs. Lafayette reached level ground then stopped, snorted. His ears swept forward. Those behind the master also stopped, wishing she’d move on because some of them still battled the wind. Right in front of Lafayette and his human cargo sauntered Target, a red fox, dazzling in his luxurious winter coat. Looking neither to the left nor the right, he crossed in front of the master, walked to a downed tree trunk secure across the creek, roots upended at the near end. Hopping up, he picked his way over, alighting on the other side. Now what? No point bellowing “Tally-ho.” One should normally count to twenty to give the fox a sporting chance. This arrogant fellow didn’t need a sporting chance. Target had them all beat and he knew it. He kept a den on Sister’s farm, under the log cabin dependency. Also, chances were that with the wind a “tally-ho” would be swept away. Still, Sister had to do something so she walked into the blue spruces, firs, and high pines. The space between the trees meant everyone, about fifteen people on this inhospitable day, could fit in. Turning Lafayette’s head toward the creek, she waited and counted. If she didn’t hear hounds after reaching one hundred she’d move on in the direction she saw Weevil. “One, two.” More snow down her neck. On she counted as the small field huddled, shoulders up to their ears. A few people wore earmuffs but she couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t hear her hounds and would most likely mislead everyone. “Fifty-one, fifty-two.” She grasped a heat pack in her coat pocket while keeping her left hand outside, freezing, because she held her crop in that hand. As she was right-handed, she mused to herself, perhaps she could afford to lose her left. “Seventy-two.” Trident shot in front of her without speaking. A young hound, a bit of a kleptomaniac, fast, he stopped suddenly and put his nose to the ground as his sister, Tinsel, caught up. Now the entire pack, twelve couples today, twe