“Merry Christmas, little one,” she said.
Christmas brought back memories as it created new ones. Yvonne wasn’t enamored of the holidays, but she had agreed to go to Aunt Daniella’s for a holiday drink. Sam, Gray, and Sister would be there along with Tootie, Weevil, and Weevil’s mother, who had flown in from Toronto before the storm.
After this, they would drive to Sister’s for a big Christmas dinner, more drinks, endless gossip from prior decades, some from this one.
In Chicago when Yvonne socialized with white people, it was always business. Victor, her husband, would push her to sweep the girls for business tidbits, little observations that could help him. This she did. She even liked some of the people but felt she would never be close to them. It was always business with Vic.
She didn’t bother to call him for Christmas. Why would she? But it infuriated her that he didn’t call their daughter. Yes, she’d walked away with half the money she helped him make, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She still wanted to hurt him. Was it a waste of time? It was but the unchristian part of her wanted to see him writhe. Tootie, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less about her father. She’d written him off by the time she reached tenth grade. Pleasant, quiet, she didn’t cross him but went her own way. He was too self-centered to see he’d lost his daughter, but then so was she and she regretted that, was trying to make amends.
Sarge, on the other hand, was unwrapping Jolly Ranchers. Marriage never occurred to him. Mating might and a few other foxes at the edge of his territory told him the season usually started in December. Started a few weeks earlier for the grays. Well, a mate might be a good thing to have but he was still on the small side. How was he going to best a big, fully mature red fox? Plus he hadn’t found a girlfriend yet, although some unattached females were around.
Popping a lemon Jolly Rancher in his mouth, he looked up at the cottage again to see Yvonne staring at him. She didn’t frighten him. Sometimes a young woman was with her. Sarge could hear them talk when the windows were open on those delicious warm fall days. They spoke with the same cadence.
He curled up, just for a minute, then he noticed a shiny ball in the corner. Shiny things intrigued him. Little shiny bits he brought to his den. One belt buckle, a curb chain that he dragged from Tattenhall Station, and a streamer of bright green ribbon. If he sat on it it crinkled. This was a perfect ball.
Yvonne put in a Christmas ball for him because Tootie told her some foxes were scavengers, liked toys, liked old sweaters, too. Sarge awoke when Yvonne started her car engine. A small garage by the cottage protected the car. The roads, not cleared this far out, had packed down a little. Cecil and Violet Van Dorn kept a fellow on payroll with a snowplow. He also mowed the considerable lawns and hayed the fields in summer.
Sarge wanted to take the Christmas ball home but it was too big. Rousing himself, he walked back to the two-stall stable, doors shut. The place could be easily entered if one was a fox or small animal.
A barn owl reposed in the rafters. One eye opened up.
“There’s food in the doghouse.”
“H-mm,” the bird replied. “Terrible storm, wasn’t it? Never heard the winds howl like that. Old birds used to tell stories about the banshee. Now I think I know what a banshee sounded like.”
Sarge, not knowing of those stories, asked, “Any mice?”
“A few.” She paused. “Enough.”
The fox looked around. An object at the corner of a stall caught his eye. He walked over to bat it. Then he picked it up.
“Did you see this?”
The bird looked down, both eyes open now. “Did.”
Sarge picked it up. “This has a stag’s head with antlers.”
“A ring.” The bird had floated down for a closer look. As the barn owl was stout, claws formidable, and beak likewise, she wasn’t worried about Sarge grabbing her and he wasn’t worried about her grabbing him. He was big enough to take care of himself.
“It’s pretty.” Sarge peered at it with the owl.
“Gold. Oak leaf on the side. Think this has some religious significance.”
“Because of the cross?”
“Yes.” She hooked a claw in the ring, bringing it up to her golden eye. “They’re superstitious, humans. I watch them usually from the belfry in the chapel. They do things in unison. A cross is carried down the center aisle and there’s one on a table up front with a bigger gold cross, has to mean something.”
“Between antlers?” Sarge questioned.
“Yes.”
“Did you see the human who lost this?”
“No. I managed to get home a bit after the snow started. Why a human would be in here I don’t know.” She opened her beak. “You’re young. I’ve been watching humans for years. They are highly peculiar creatures. Whoever lost this ring will be back for it if he or she can remember where they were. Had to be during the bad snow.”
“Do you want it?”
“No,” the owl replied.
“Then I’ll take it.” Sarge put it in his mouth, left the stable, but it was so cold that the ring hurt his tongue.
He returned to the doghouse, dug a bit in the straw, leaving the ring there.
CHAPTER 7
A fox topped the huge Christmas tree in place of a star. Garlands swirled around the conifer, sweet smelling. The decorations were hand-painted clothespins; each looked like a hunt member as well as their horse. Christmas balls also hung on the tree.
Tattenhall Station, filled with people, reverberated with sound, talk, music, glass tinkling. The breakfast moved from Christmas Hunt was now in full swing on Boxing Day, December 26.
The road, not plowed but tamped down, could easily be driven. Kasmir had the parking lot plowed out, huge pile of snow at the edge. If anyone stepped outside, which smokers did, they noted the size of the snow pile. They all smoked faster than usual for it was too cold to stay out for a languid smoke.
Sister stood by the tree, her champagne glass in hand. Gray pulled up a chair for her as she had been on her feet for an hour already.
Freddie Thomas pulled up a chair to sit next to her. “Refresh your champagne?”
“No thanks. You know I’m not much of a drinker, but it’s hard to resist Cristal.”
A big smile, Freddie nodded, then smile fading. “You’ve fielded so many questions about Gregory Luckham, would you like me to run interference?”
“Freddie, thank you. People are concerned. All I can do is listen.” Relief flooded her face for she was grateful to Freddie and more stressed than she realized.
“People don’t mean to be a pest. Even though Ben Sidell is a member, being questioned by the sheriff, m-m-m”—she held up her hands, palms upward—“discomforting.”
“I’m getting a small taste of what Ben deals with daily.” Sister finished her divine champagne.
“We’re lucky to have him. Everyone thinks this is about the pipeline, not that everyone wishes him dead, but it is the overriding issue.”
“Yes.” Sister exhaled. “Freddie, it seems to me no matter what the issue is these days, people take sides and are uncompromising.”
Dewey walked over noticing Sister’s empty glass. “Madam?”
“No thank you, Dewey.”
“I’m running interference.” Freddie smiled at Dewey.
“I’ve noticed everyone all over our Master.” He shifted his weight to the other foot. “I liked him. I’d see him at big fundraisers in Richmond. He’d tease me that I was trolling for clients so I’d ask him if he wanted to buy a home in the country. Didn’t know him in a business sense like Ronnie, but I thought he was a good guy.”
“Let’s hope he still is,” Sister piped up. “Perhaps he’s safe somewhere but unable to contact anyone.”
“Really?” Freddie was intrigued.
“What if
he suffered a concussion? Lost his memory?” Sister opined. “Look at all that stuff now publicized about football players.”
Freddie replied. “I was reading, maybe it was in the Wall Street Journal. It was some time back but there are far more concussions in women’s sports, much higher numbers.”
Dewey, clearing his throat, said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Excuse me, maybe someone wants to buy or sell property.”
“So you are trolling.” Freddie looked up at him.
“Just testing the market.” He executed a small bow and left.
“Tough business, real estate,” Sister commented.
“Any time you work on commission, it’s tough,” Freddie wisely agreed.
Everyone wondered when they would be hunting again and their Master reassured them that if they could get their trailer in and out, they’d hunt so long as the snow could support fox and hounds. Had to give your game a sporting chance.
Aunt Daniella, next to the bar in an upholstered chair, held court, tumbler of fine bourbon in hand. Sam and Gray kept their eyes on that glass, refilling it when necessary. One needed to keep the old lady happy. And she was, laughing, telling stories, flirting with Weevil, offering advice to Tootie about careers. Aunt Daniella expressed an opinion on everything.
Then again, she’d lived long enough to have one on just about anything.
Ben Sidell leaned against the bar, Ronnie with him. People came by, talked about the bizarre disappearance of Gregory Luckham, then moved on.
“Ronnie, I wish I had something to tell you.” Ben looked out toward the large railroad station door. “Who knows when this snow will melt? And now the weatherman is calling for more. We’ll keep searching. You know that.”
“You think he’s out there under a snowdrift?”
Ben thought a moment. “That would be the logical conclusion. However, I’ve been in law enforcement long enough to keep the door open. Most crimes are straightforward. Some are not. There really is such a thing as a criminal genius. He could be held somewhere for reasons unknown to us. Until we find a body, pick up hard information, I try to keep an open mind.”
“The pipeline problem brought death threats. He didn’t belabor it but people were stupid enough to threaten the pipeline, the workers, the surveyors, and be quoted in the newspaper or on TV.”
“The feds are looking into that. My area is Gregory himself. Plus those guys don’t think local law enforcement is worth a damn.”
“Waco put paid to that.” Ronnie’s lips snapped shut.
He referred to the incident in 1993 in Texas when a religious community, nutcases to be sure, were stormed by the feds who didn’t listen to the Texas Rangers, or the truly local people like a sheriff, etc. No, they did it the Washington way, the we-are-your-government-you-peon way. Result, a lot of dead people including children.
“Hell, Ronnie, no one learned a damn thing,” Ben replied. “Plus it’s a new generation. By now Americans are used to centralized government. We locals are just for speeding tickets.”
“Nah. I know better than that or you’d have written me a ticket for when I cut you off in the hunt field.” Their amusement lightened the moment.
“The obvious cause is the man had a heart attack or a stroke, fell off. However, it is possible that someone could have been waiting for him. The blizzard gave them a rare opportunity for murder or kidnapping,” Ben said.
“The question is, how could anyone pull him off, drag him to wherever? You’d think that person would have gotten lost in the snowstorm.”
“What if they weren’t alone? Or what if they remained mounted? What if they knew the territory as well as, say, Sister?” Ben posed the question. “The crossroad would have been a good place to rendezvous, for lack of a better word. That or one of the outbuildings at Old Paradise. The storm came up so fast but they could have made it out of Old Paradise before you couldn’t see the horse in front of you.”
“Like a tag team?” Ronnie wondered.
“Yes. Given the weather conditions, it would be difficult but not impossible. The Richmond police questioned his wife. She was in shock.”
“I keep thinking, ‘Why didn’t I turn around?’ ”
“Ronnie, even if you turned around, what would you have seen?” Ben replied. “He didn’t bring his cellphone while hunting. He left it in his car. He couldn’t call you or anyone.”
“Right.”
Ronnie swirled his glass around. “Old Paradise has kept secrets since 1814 when Sophie laid the cornerstone of the house. She bought all the land in 1812 but was prudent enough to wait until the war had shifted farther south. Maybe it had other secrets before that time. Now perhaps there is another one.”
Crawford, disturbed but not miserable by Luckham’s disappearance, had attended the Boxing Day breakfast to hear what others said.
Ben smiled at him. “Where were you at Christmas Hunt?”
Crawford smiled back. “Waving them off. Then Rory and I checked out the Carriage House. I drove home. He wanted to help with the horses. Today is his day off. You might call him tomorrow. Perhaps he saw something.”
The men exchanged a few words, Crawford keenly aware that he had a strong motive if there was murder.
In the corner Charlotte Abruza asked Tootie, “How long have you known Old Paradise?”
“Almost six years. I hunted here while at private school.”
“Have you ever come upon old gravestones, markers, in the woods?”
“No.”
“A glimpse, maybe old grave markers that are worn down. Look like stones?”
“No. Miss Abruza, there are five thousand acres there. Whole sections are wooded, overgrown. Land changes over the centuries. Anything could be out there.”
“Yes. I’ve convinced Crawford to use ground-penetrating radar. If there are old graves, that should find them,” Charlotte answered. “The Monacans were here first, ancestral lands.” A somber look crossed Charlotte’s face. “Spirits.”
“Were you at the station when the storm hit?”
“No. I’d gone back. I never imagined such ferocity,” Charlotte replied. “I was lucky to make it back to my office.”
“Not at Old Paradise?”
“No. I have an office with electricity, heat, furniture in the guesthouse at Beasley Hall. If I were at Old Paradise, those necessities would be missing.”
“The stables?”
“Better where I was. Thought I might find Crawford but he was out. I’d never seen a hunt before. He suggested I go with Marty to view one. He was right. It’s quite impressive and colorful.”
CHAPTER 8
Clytemnestra was such a cow. Glaring at everyone, she murmured threats to anyone should they enter her paddock. No one wanted to go near her but she shook her head anyway. Her son, Orestes, contentedly chewed small squares of chopped hay sprinkled with a handful of grain. He didn’t need to eat. He had grown larger than his mother, but both bovines, bored in their well-built cow barn, walked through the snow, now packing down with a good glaze on top.
Cindy Chandler, owner of Foxglove Farm, also owner of the two cantankerous animals, left the door open to their walk-in area. They didn’t have stalls like the horses but they did need some sort of indoor pen so they could eat in peace, out of the weather. Put out together, there was no peace because even though Orestes now outweighed his mother, she would boss him around.
Cindy, perfectly turned out as always, rode by her two cows on Special Agent. There was no love lost.
“Cud breath,” the small elegant Thoroughbred remarked.
“Asshole,” Orestes spat back.
“I didn’t teach you to talk like that.” Clytemnestra chided her son. “If you’re going to insult him, then really insult him.” She took a breath. “You wall-eyed son of a bitch. Your pasterns are too long, your brain too t
iny. You are so stupid you let a human on your back and she tells you what to do.” She then faced her son. “That’s a proper insult. Specific to the object. Never rely on the generic insult. It marks you as common.”
“Why do you let her talk like that?” Lafayette, Sister’s rangy gray Thoroughbred, her oldest horse, asked Special Agent.
“She amuses me. Putting on airs. Everyone knows cows aren’t as smart as horses. That’s why she’s careful with her vocabulary. She’s still a stupid cow.” Special Agent blew wind out of his nostrils.
“She can say anything she wants.” Magellan, loaned to Weevil for he was Betty’s second horse, jumped in the conversation. “When you’re that big you can do and say what you want. Can you imagine the damage she could do if she got out of there?”
None of the horses around them said anything because they all were imagining the damage Clytemnestra could do, worse if she blasted out of her paddock in tandem with Orestes.
Special Agent and Lafayette, old friends, matched each other’s stride. Sister, on Lafayette, chatted with Cindy. They were riding to the first cast; chatting was not out of order.
Even though cold, snow on the ground, twenty people rode out this Tuesday. Sister could have canceled the hunt but she felt her hounds needed to get out of the kennels, the hunt horses out of the stables, and she, more than anyone, out of the house.
Keeping warm on those crystal clear winter days called for the old coats from England. Secondhand tack shops did a brisk business in the old coats, the weave being almost impregnable to the elements. One had to search for the old coats at the Crozet tack shop or at the Middleburg Tack Exchange in Middleburg, Virginia. Even if the wool got wet, one could stay warm. What suffered were your hands and feet. For all the decades that Jane Arnold had hunted, she never really could keep her hands and feet warm. If hiking boot makers could put Thinsulate into those boots, she grumbled, why couldn’t Dehner or Vogel? She did not mention Lobb’s in England because those bespoke boots started at $7,300. And Maxwell’s nudged right behind. Shocking.
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