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Ann Woodward's story was that, hearing a noise, she picked up the loaded shotgun kept in her room because of the prowler and fired both 'barrels across the hallway between her and her husband's bedrooms. One of the charges took Bill Woodward square in the face. The mystery was how a woman supposedly practiced in the use of firearms could unknow ingly shoot her husband at 10 ft. But former hunting companions were not surprised. One said that Ann, who seemed to take joy in hunting, always seemed to be looking one way and shooting another. Russell Havenstrite, a Los Angeles oilman, who, with his wife, had hunted tigers in India with Ann Woodward, said that he had made up his mind that he "wouldn't go into a forest again with her . . . She nearly shot me a couple of times. She's a dangerous person to have a gun in her hands, even when she's only after birds."
Last week goo people crowded into St. James' Episcopal church for Bill Woodward's funeral; thousands more stood outside on Madison Avenue. His widow, still too upset to attend the services, sent a blanket of white chrysanthemums dotted with red carnations, a floral expression of Belair's racing colors—white, red spots, scarlet cap. An inscribed ribbon with this sent through the Woodward connection a slight shudder, quickly repressed by family loyalty. Recalling Ann and Bill's pet names for each other, it read: "From Dunk to Monk."