He shook his head. “It was really not such a big deal. By the way, how did you know where those hounds were?”
Thanks to Edmund, Annabelle was ready with an answer. “I didn’t really know where they were,” she said modestly. “You have told me so many times that the worst thing that could happen to our hounds was for them to get loose on the interstate, so I thought we should go down there just in case. It was a lucky guess.”
Nick looked closely at his wife. “It sure was a lucky guess. I suppose you’ve paid more attention to my talks about hounds than I realized.”
“Of course I have, but really it was just dumb luck and I would hate for anyone to make a big thing out of it. I’m happy for you to take credit for this one.”
This was a little unusual for Annabelle who generally a loved compliments and attention, especially from other fox hunters. But, on this occasion, her praise was sincere as she couldn’t imagine herself playing Russian roulette with the interstate.
The Farleys lapsed into companionable silence and ate their meal by the crackling fire which Harold had made large enough to warm all of Guilford. Just as they were finishing their meal and, to Annabelle’s horror, Randall Dodge and Charles Collins rushed over, obviously enthusiastic about something. Annabelle had no idea what she would say to Nick if her night time visit to Edmund’s house was brought up yet again. She looked around for guidance from her ghostly companion, but Edmund was across the room listening to a blonde undergrad from Vanderbilt University enthusiastically describing her first day of ‘riding to hounds’. To Annabelle’s intense relief, the two men had moved to another subject.
“Hey guys, some of us are going down to Waterford to hunt with Richter on Wednesday. Want to come with us?” Charles asked both Farleys.
“Some people in this Hunt still have to work for a living,” said Nick, teasing the two younger men. In reality, he knew they both worked hard—Randall as an investment banker and Charles in a law practice—but it was fun to make them feel guilty anyway.
“Hey, I’ve hardly gotten to hunt at all this season. I’ve been so tied-up with work,” said Randall, his face clouding briefly. “I’ve got some time off now and I want to go hunting,” he said, brightening considerably as he made the announcement.
“Actually, I’ve got to be out of town this week,” said Nick. “Annabelle may want to join you.”
“Yes, go with us, Annabelle. We’ll take care of her, Nick.”
Annabelle shook her head. “I really don’t think I want to go without Nick. I’ve gotten so spoiled with him driving the truck and trailer all of the time.”
Richter Davenport strode into the room holding a full dinner plate and looked for a place to sit. Nick, always the gentleman, had finished his meal and offered his seat to the visiting Master.
“We’re trying to persuade Annabelle to come to Waterford with us on Wednesday,” said Charles with a grin, “but Nick has spoiled her so badly she can’t remember how to pull a horse trailer”. Annabelle looked at Richter who was now seated beside her, curious as to how he would react to the idea of her visiting his Hunt since it apparently hadn’t been his idea.
“We’d love to have you hunt with us, Mrs. Farley,” said Davenport suavely. He turned to Charles and Randall. “Can’t one of you fellows pull a trailer for her?”
“Even better!” said Charles. “I’ll ask Tiller to groom for us both, Annabelle. That way we can just have a good time and not worry about the horses.”
Annabelle found that offer hard to resist. Despite his coolness, Annabelle was intrigued by Richter Davenport and thought he was perhaps warming up to her. Also, the offer of a groom meant that the hauling, saddling, and unsaddling of Samson would be done by someone else—in this case, a professional who had worked for Edmund and was now employed by Charles. He could probably care for Samson better than she could. Annabelle looked inquiringly at Nick.
“Oh, go on,” said Nick, grinning at her. “You don’t have to ask me.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Annabelle liked to be asked, herself, so she prudently made it a practice to ask her husband’s permission, especially when she felt sure it would be granted.
“I don’t mind. You three just keep it to a dull roar,” he said, including Randall and Charles in his lighthearted warning.
“This should be interesting, Kiddo,” said a familiar voice in Annabelle’s ear. This unexpected input from the spirit realm startled Annabelle who spilled red wine down the right leg of her beige hunting breeches.
“Gee, thanks!” she said angrily.
“What did I do?” asked Nick, looking bewildered at Charles and Randall.
“Oh, never mind,” said Annabelle, getting up in annoyance to apply cold water to her breeches before they were permanently stained, leaving the fellows shaking their heads at her behavior.
“Women!” said Charles, and Edmund doubled over with glee.
CHAPTER IX
FIRESIDE CHAT
Sunday morning brought a steady downpour to the Guilford hunt country. The Farleys slept in, and when they finally roused around ten o’clock, Nick cooked a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and his special homemade biscuits. He had intended to retreat to the quiet of his study to work on a brief he needed to finish, but Annabelle had begged a favor of him to build a fire for her in the tack room at the stable. Since Nick had work to do, she had decided to spend the rainy Sunday cleaning saddles and bridles.
The Farleys stable was Annabelle’s favorite place on the 50 acre farm. It had six horse stalls, a full bath, and a tack room with a working fireplace. Annabelle had decorated the tack room’s office with old hunting prints, mounted fox masks, and other hunting memorabilia. Wooden saddle and bridle racks handcrafted by a local carpenter completed the practical, well-designed effect.
She had never been keen on cleaning anything, especially muddy saddles, but that had changed now that she could work in her favorite room by a crackling fire. Friends had initially been surprised at Nick’s indulgence, as having a fireplace in a barn could be dangerous for the unwary, but Annabelle had promised to be careful and there was certainly an improvement in the Farleys turn-out.
Today, as Annabelle settled down to work on Samson’s over-sized hunting bridle, she began to go over the events of the previous day in her mind. She was proud of Nick’s success in saving the hounds, and also proud of how well she, with Edmund’s advice, had handled such a dangerous experience.
She did not think of herself as a bold rider. She had taken up the sport late in life, unlike the majority of fox hunters who had started riding as tots and had been members of Pony Clubs throughout their childhood. Several Hill County members had even raced or ridden stadium jumpers as professionals. Annabelle knew she could never compete with the experience and talent of the best of them, but she loved to jump the small jumps in her riding arena and hoped that one day she would find the courage to ride Samson in First Flight. He had performed so brilliantly during the excitement of rescuing the hounds that she felt more and more it was only a matter of overcoming her own timidity.
Annabelle also felt proud of her own performance during other adventures of the past week. Although she had been shocked when Charles pointed a gun in her face, she hadn’t panicked, but had kept her wits about her and removed the fax that Edmund needed. In fact, she had actually grabbed all four of the papers that had ejected from the machine, one of which Edmund had confirmed as being sent by the murderer. She had then placed them within the pages of the antique book she had swiped from Edmund’s library and hid the book safely in her underwear drawer. She had gotten the idea of keeping all of the evidence exactly in the same order in which it was removed from the house by watching Court TV. She pictured herself as the glamorous star witness testifying in court, wearing something chic and black and slenderizing in case the trial was televised.
She continued to work while fantasizing and unfastened all of the buckles and removed the bit from the bridle. She left
the bit to soak in a bowl of warm, soapy water and attacked the mud-caked leather with glycerin soap and a barely dampened sponge. As labor intensive as the technique was, Annabelle knew that the least amount of water used on the leather, the longer it would last. As she began on the reins, still musing about her outfit for the trial, she suddenly felt she was not alone. Sure enough, Edmund had joined her and was seated on an old wooden chair in his red coat, looking for all the world like a lank figure come to life from one of her antique hunting prints.
“What a day we had yesterday!” he said heartily, without wasting time on a more traditional greeting. “You did a good job of listening to me, Kiddo, and we saved those hounds, together! Now—let’s get busy capturing my murderer. We have the fax and I had thought you could just take it to the police, but now I want to see what Randall Dodge gets up to on Wednesday.”
Annabelle frowned as she cleaned the bit. She assumed Edmund was referring to her invitation to accompany Randall and Charles to hunt with the Waterford. “So you think he invited me to hunt with him for some nefarious reason, not just because he enjoys my company?”
“He no doubt enjoys your company, my dear”, said Edmund, “but the last time he saw you he had just returned from pushing me down the stairs. You told me he acted pre- occupied and was downright unfriendly. Don’t think for a moment he has forgotten that little meeting.”
Annabelle remembered Randall’s comment from the night before and had to admit he was probably right. “I still don’t see why he would ask me to hunt,” she said stubbornly. “What is the Waterford country like, anyway?”
“It’s a little like Guilford, but not quite as hilly. Actually, there isn’t much country left. Davenport is in a hell of a situation.”
Annabelle raised her head from putting the pieces of the bridle together and looked at Edmund. “What do you mean? By the way, that man makes me really uncomfortable.”
“Waterford Hounds is about out of territory to hunt. They lost their last big tract of land just after the first of this year.” Edmund shook his head. “It’s a great shame. They’re one of the oldest packs in the country.”
“But he hasn’t been Master there all that long, has he? It seems I heard that he was a Master of a Virginia Hunt at one time…”
“No, he’s only been there a few years. He’s not an easy chap to get along with, but I’ve known him most of his life. In fact, I believe I’m the one who convinced him he could hunt hounds…”
“I’m sure that’s true,” said Annabelle, wanting to keep Edmund on topic. “But didn’t I hear that Waterford had plenty of hunt country until he became Master, then the landowners started selling off one by one?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. And as facts go, it’s true. But there could be any number of reasons people might sell their land. It’s convenient to blame whoever’s in charge of the Hunt at the time, but landowner relationships take decades to develop.”
Edmund got a sly look on his face. “Why the sudden interest in Davenport? I’m not so sure I believe he makes you feel uncomfortable. I saw you giving him the once-over yesterday.”
Annabelle was flattered by his apparent jealousy and tried to suppress a grin. “I think he’s the one who’s interested in me,” she said, feigning innocence. “He was certainly curious about my being caught in your house the other night.”
“Well, of course he was!” Edmund laughed. “You have to admit that’s a funny story.” He slapped his knee in amusement.
Annabelle looked at him. “If you ever, ever get me in a situation like that again, I’ll…”
“You’ll kill me?” Edmund laughed even more at his own humor, which was always his favorite.
“That husband of yours is quite a ‘hound man’!” he said, changing the subject when he saw his joke hadn’t entertained her. “I knew when I nominated him to be a Joint Master he had great deeds in him! Now, no one can deny it!”
Annabelle finished Samson’s bridle and began on King’s. She was glad Edmund had brought up the subject of Nick’s Mastership.
“Did someone doubt it at the time?” she asked. Annabelle had dearly wanted Nick to be asked to be a Master—so much so that she had deliberately distanced herself from the situation for fear of somehow spoiling his chances. At the same time she had wondered if Edmund had promoted the idea because of his interest in her and had often thought of asking him outright.
“Not so much, but you know fox hunters—wary of anything, or anyone, new.”
Annabelle knew what he meant, but had never really understood it. “Why do you suppose that is, Edmund?” she asked, all the while continuing to work.
“Well, there are lots of reasons. For one thing, fox hunting is a sport based on tradition and rules that haven’t changed for hundreds of years. People who are interested in a sport like that aren’t impressed with the new or the modern like most other people are, or they’d be doing something else.”
“Like rollerblading?” asked Annabelle wryly.
“Exactly,” said Edmund. “Then, I think there’s always the concern that new people won’t love the sport like the old- timers do, and won’t fight to preserve it or might even want to change it in some way. And, change usually doesn’t bode well for the sport of fox hunting.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, most of the changes in recent years have been in the form of land development that has practically devoured all of the country suitable for fox hunting. Some hunts have gone completely out of existence because their territory was sold out from under them, bit by bit. Look at the Waterford Hounds, for instance. “Speaking of the Waterford”, he said as if just remembering the task at hand, “what’s the plan for this Wednesday? You should have some excellent opportunities to further our objective.” This was Edmund’s tactful term for solving his own murder.
“I don’t have a plan, yet,” said Annabelle, laying King’s freshly cleaned bridle aside and turning to face Edmund. “And, I don’t mind telling you I’m a little bit nervous about this whole thing. Now that—thanks to Charles—everyone knows I was snooping around Huntersleigh last week, Randall may realize I know what’s up.”
“Oh, no, Annabelle,” said Edmund. “I don’t think he would suspect you, of all people. He probably just wants to make friendly so you won’t tattle on him about being out in the hallway the night of my murder. Besides, how could you have known what to look for at my house if I hadn’t told you—and I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”
“You are dead, otherwise you wouldn’t be in my tack room wearing a white tie and scarlet. Seriously, Edmund, people knew we were friends. He may think you told me all about your business dealings.”
Edmund’s eyes twinkled. “You mean people knew you had a crush on me! No one who knew me would believe I would waste my time talking with you about business!” He gave her a ghostly wink and began to disappear.
“Wait! I want to ask you something, you old sexist”, but then realized she was alone. She sighed in exasperation and began working on Samson’s muddy saddle.
CHAPTER X
A DAY WITH THE WATERFORD HOUNDS
“You cain’t always get what you wa-a-nt,” sang Randall. “You cain’t always get what you wa-a-nt, but if you try sometimes…”
“Please!” Annabelle said. “Mick Jagger is rolling over in his grave and he’s not even dead yet!”
“He’s probably rolling over next to some supermodel,” Charles said wistfully.
The three fox hunters were heading to hunt with the Waterford Hounds in Charles’ SUV with Charles at the wheel, Annabelle in the passenger seat, and Randall hanging between them from the back seat like an impatient five year old, providing entertainment in the form of horrendous vocal accompaniment to the Rolling Stones.
Tiller had picked up Samson earlier that morning and would have him tacked up for the hunt at 1:00, so Annabelle had nothing to do but enjoy herself and to keep her eyes and ears open for clues. Perhaps Randall would do or say someth
ing incriminating she could later relay to the police, but the talk had been lighthearted chatter with some tales of Edmund thrown in, nothing Annabelle hadn’t heard before on at least one other occasion. Never the most patient of souls, Annabelle decided to do a little ‘fishing’.
“So, Randall, are you still making millions for people?” she asked playfully.
“Oh, yes,” Randall replied with a complacent little smile. “I’ve picked up a new client in the past few days and I’ve already put him onto something really hot.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said Annabelle, dying to ask the identity of the lucky individual, but knowing he wouldn’t tell.
“Anything I might be interested in?” she asked, trying a slightly different tactic.
“Oh, I don’t know. Doesn’t Nick handle your investments for you? Besides, this deal is highly speculative.”
“Well, you know me. I love a little risk.”
“No you don’t!” Randall and Charles said in unison, then burst-out laughing.
“You’re the most cautious fox hunter I know,” said Charles, patting Annabelle on the arm so she would understand that he loved her anyway.
The conversation turned to a discussion of Annabelle’s various quirks and foibles and away from investment banking and Randall’s new client. The miles sped away as Charles headed for what was left of Waterford’s hunting country— once many thousands of acres but now reduced so considerably that the Meet today was to be held on the last remaining tract of any size. Annabelle looked out of the window at the passing subdivisions and their signs advertising the perfect home with community clubhouse and pool, all for less than two hundred thousand dollars. She shuddered to think a similar fate could be waiting for Guilford if the members weren’t diligent about protecting precious open spaces.
Charles turned in between two housing developments and finally the dwellings began to slightly thin out slightly. He pulled up to the kennel grounds and found there was hardly a place to park in the cramped area.
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