“I don’t,” said Marguerite.
“Seventy-five,” said a familiar, ghostly-voice close to Annabelle’s ear.
“I think she was around seventy-five,” Annabelle repeated dutifully. “Not too old to help me out on Wednesday,” she added.
“That’s right. I heard you got sick over at Waterford, said Shelley. “Charles said when everyone got back to their trailers after the hunt, Tiller told him you’d gotten overheated, or something.”
“Yes. I don’t really care how cold it gets, but I’ve never been able to hunt in warm weather.” Annabelle didn’t feel like going into her suspicions about being poisoned.
“I’m sure glad Tiller was grooming for you,” said Shelley. “At least you didn’t have to deal with taking your horse home.”
“That’s for sure. He was really sweet about it. He gave me a cold Coke and took great care of Samson. When I checked him later that night, Tiller had brushed him down and fed him.”
“Yes, he’s a very reliable fellow. Remember how disorganized poor Edmund used to be before Tiller came to work for him?”
All three ladies laughed, recalling how Edmund frequently arrived at a Meet minus some vital piece of tack, such as his girth, and very often had to borrow from someone at the last minute.
“I had more interesting things on my mind than being organized,” said Edmund, obviously pleased that they were discussing him, “usually having to do with one or the other of you ladies.”
Annabelle snickered, causing her friends to look at her strangely. “Just got a little choked,” she said, clearing her throat and coughing slightly.
“It’s a shame he was only able to work for Edmund for six months or so before he died,” said Nick, who had come in to see if there was anything he could do to help.
“Yes, he needed him for years before that,” said Annabelle, now apparently recovered, as she handed her husband a large platter of smoked salmon to put on the sideboard. “I’m glad Charles decided to hire him. He comes in handy around here.”
Soon the other guests arrived, stomping their feet from the cold and rushing to the fireplaces to warm their hands. Annabelle noticed that while everyone had been extremely sad about Edmund’s death, there had still been a lot of chatter and loud reminiscing about his many exploits. Today, however, the Hill County members behaved like a group of school children who had just been called down for talking too much. They stood around in small groups and whispered softly to each other, sighing and shaking their heads in disbelief over recent events.
Annabelle’s favorite Field Master, Warren, who was known for his dapper clothing, was looking uncharacteristically somber in a charcoal wool suit as he expanded on a story he had told during the eulogy. Felicia Blackwell had been the first woman to ever win a steeplechase at the Iroquois, Nashville’s grandest race meeting, riding her father’s horse, Mr. Fox, in the Gentleman’s Race, a competition between amateur jockeys. That part of the story was common knowledge.
“What few people know, however”, Warren said, “is that Miss Felicia’s father had threatened to disown her if she rode in that race, partly out of fear for her safety, but mostly because he didn’t think it was proper for a woman to ride in the Gentleman’s Race. He argued with her right up until she mounted. After she’d won and was the ‘toast of the town’, he’d conveniently forgotten he’d ever said a word against the idea.”
Warren’s little audience sighed and shook their heads, recalling how determined Felicia was when she had made up her mind about something. Annabelle was thinking she would have to ask Edmund for more details about this latest story when Randall Dodge appeared at the Farley front door.
She observed him covertly for a moment as Nick took his coat. His face looked very pale and drawn as if he’d not slept the night before. On the other hand, his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them for several nights.
“Annabelle, darling!” he cried as he approached his hostess. “How are you feeling? Charles and I were so worried about you.” Annabelle stifled a shudder and forced herself to return his embrace.
“Oh, I just got too hot in my tweed coat and hunt cap,” she said. “It’s happened to me before on warm days.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” said Randall, continuing to hold his arm around her shoulders. “Little did we know it was to be Felicia’s last fox hunt.”
“I know,” said Annabelle, “and I caused her to have to come in early. She’s probably cursing me somewhere right now.”
“Nah,” said Randall. “She wanted to help you or she wouldn’t have done it. No one could ever make Felicia Blackwell do anything she didn’t want to do. Maybe she was already feeling bad herself, you never know.”
Something about this pierced Annabelle’s consciousness. She broke away from Randall’s encircling arm and went to greet other guests as they arrived, looking around for Edmund as she went. As a hostess, she had no time to analyze her feelings, but Edmund was not visibly lurking about and she was not to have a moment to herself for several hours. People felt comfortable commiserating around the many fireplaces and tended to linger. By the time the last guest departed and she and Nick had cleaned up the remains, Annabelle was too tired for introspection so went early to her bed.
The next morning dawned as cold as the one before. After Nick left for work, Annabelle lost no time in dressing herself for the outdoors. An idea had come to her before rising and she wanted to act on it immediately. As she was zipping her paddock boots over her heavy woolen socks, she heard a familiar voice at her elbow.
“Where are you going so early?” Edmund asked, materializing right beside her on the window seat.
“I’m going over to Felicia’s to see what I can find out. Do you want to come along?”
“Yes, of course, but what do you expect to find?”
“I really don’t know, but my gut tells me to check it out. Needless to say, I don’t have the greatest confidence in the abilities of the Hill County Sheriff’s Department.”
Edmund smiled to himself, causing Annabelle to think he had created a monster by enlisting her help as a sleuth. “So you think Felicia was the victim of foul play?” he asked indulgently.
“Yes, I do, and what’s more, I think her death was connected with yours in some way.”
Edmund frowned. “That doesn’t add up, Annabelle. What reason would Randall Dodge have for wanting Felicia out of the way? She knew nothing about MotionTech’s problems, because I was the only one he’d told. He made that rather clear.”
“She may not have known about the problems, but remember, she was an investor,” said Annabelle. She crossed the room to her bureau drawer where she’d put the purloined fax still hidden in the book under her silk long-johns for safe- keeping. “Look!” she said, stuffing the folded papers under Edmund’s nose. “She had the most to lose—after you, of course.” He took the sheets from her and read for the first time since his deadly ‘accident’ what Randall had sent him. Felicia Blackwell’s name was on the list of investors, second only to himself in the amount she had entrusted on Randall Dodge’s advice.
“That’s right! I knew that!” Evan said, still flipping through the pages. “I must have just forgotten. I’ve been through quite a lot lately.” He grinned broadly at Annabelle.
“Well, what do you think? Is Randall planning to just kill all the investors in MotionTech, or what?”
Edmund laid the fax on the seat beside him and folded his arms across his chest as he often did when considering a serious quandary—one that couldn’t be answered by referring to Beckford on Foxhounds.
“He kept insisting that given enough time and more capital, MotionTech could still be a viable endeavor. Problem was, I wouldn’t agree to throw good money after bad, nor would I encourage the other investors to do so. That was one of our chief points of disagreement. At any rate, maybe he thinks he’s buying time. Felicia’s estate will be tied up for months, as will my own. In the meantime, MotionTech still has the use o
f our funds.”
“But that doesn’t get him more capital to work with,” said Annabelle, proud of how well she felt she was keeping up with Edmund on the investment jargon.
“No,” said Edmund, “it doesn’t do that. I suspect he. . .” “Hey, what’s this?” asked Annabelle, holding up another fax sheet.
Edmund waived his hand dismissively. “Oh, that has nothing to do with this. You must have picked it up by mistake.”
Annabelle looked back down at what appeared to be a handwritten note. “You don’t see many faxes written in longhand,” she said, her curiosity suddenly aroused—“Sloppy longhand, too.” She read aloud, “Heard about your comments. Guess I’ll have to wait a little longer to hunt Hill County!” It’s signed R. Davenport. Is that the same Richter Davenport who is the Master of Waterford?
“Yes,” said Edmund, “he’s a strange one—very anti- social. Only likes to communicate by fax even when a brief phone call would do.”
“What does he mean about waiting to hunt Hill County?
Edmund’s features assumed an uncharacteristically pained expression. “It’s a rather unpleasant thing. As you know, Richter and his Hunt have lost almost all of their hunting territory. He and Charles are friends, and he asked Charles to try to subtly evaluate how I would feel about Davenport becoming a Joint Master of the Hill County Hounds. Naturally, I sensed what Charles was up to and told him firmly I would never back Davenport for a Mastership and would, in fact, oppose the suggestion openly if necessary. Charles apparently told Davenport what I had said and I guess he couldn’t stand to let me have the last word.”
Annabelle’s curiosity wasn’t satisfied. “Why are you so against the idea of him becoming a Joint Master? I agree he’s not a very outgoing guy, but surely it’s more than that.”
“Actually, Davenport can be quite charming when he feels it’s in his best interest. I’ve known him for years and our relations have always been cordial. But I’ve also seen how he deals with people. What’s that phrase, “My way or the freeway?”
Annabelle laughed. “I think you mean “My way or the highway.”
“Yes, that’s it! The Waterford Hounds were in good shape when he took over as Master, but needed an infusion of cash to repair the kennels and club-house. Davenport wooed them with extravagant tales of his hunting abilities and financial largesse, and they fell for it. As I said, he can be persuasive when he wants something. After he was made Master, not only was the cash not forthcoming, but he proceeded to alienate most of the landowners with his arrogant attitude.”
Annabelle made a disgusted face. Davenport sounded like the exact opposite of Edmund who had known landowners were a Hunt’s greatest asset and treated them accordingly. She listened as Edmund continued his discourse on Davenport.
“He also has a terrible temper when crossed, and when some of the longtime members dared to complain about the loss of their hunting country he basically told them that if they were unhappy with the way he did things they could find somewhere else to hunt—not the best way to keep members or landowners happy. At any rate, the Masters of Hill County work well together because they are willing to compromise for the good of the Hunt. I couldn’t see us ruining that dynamic by bringing in a demagogue.”
“You mean another one,” said Annabelle, grinning. “Hummph,” said Edmund. “By the way, and changing the subject, why haven’t you said anything to Nick about the poison incident on Wednesday?”
“It just seemed silly to be complaining about myself after Miss Felicia died. I’m just not ready to say anything to anyone about all of this yet. I feel foolish claiming to be in some sort of danger. It sounds like some hysterical bid for attention.”
Edmund shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it sounds as if you’ve decided not to listen to me… “
“I am listening to you, but I also have to listen to my own instincts.”
“Choose your own path, then,” he said, throwing up his hands.
“Oh, Edmund, don’t be so dramatic,” said Annabelle, donning her coat. “It will all work out, you’ll see. Are you coming with me or not?”
“Might as well,” he said, fading out slowly. “I’ll see you there.”
Miss Felicia’s estate, known as Blackwell Farm, was located on 250 acres of Guilford’s finest hunting land. While not as old as some of the Hill County residences (Felicia’s father had built the house and barn in the 1920’s), Blackwell Farm was certainly one of the loveliest and best maintained properties in the hunt country. The entrance to the long drive was flanked by simple brick columns, one of which bore a concrete marker with the words, Blackwell Farm, est. 1922, carved into it. There was no gate barring the way. Guilford’s crime rate was essentially zero with the exception of fox hunters exceeding the speed limits in their trucks and SUVs.
Annabelle drove up to the silent house, unimpeded. She got out of her Mercedes and quietly closed the door behind her. She would just as soon not be caught snooping around the home of yet another dead Hunt member.
“Edmund?” she asked in a low voice. “Are you here?” “Right beside you,” he said, materializing. True to form, he seemed to have forgotten he was miffed and had decided to enjoy himself. “What are we looking for?” he asked.
“I told you, I don’t know. Let’s see if the house is locked.” Annabelle trotted up the front stairs to the wide, covered porch and put her hand on the doorknob. She tried to turn it carefully at first, then used a little more force, but to no avail. Blackwell Farm’s house was clearly locked.
“Damn!” said Annabelle. She went over to one of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows and cupped her hands around her eyes, hoping to see inside. What she could see of the large sitting room was immaculate, a silent testimonial to the fastidiousness of its late proprietor. Annabelle went from window to window on the bottom floor to peer into the house’s interior, each one giving the same result. The only evidence to be found was proof of Felicia’s meticulous housekeeping, and nothing else.
“Let’s try the barn,” she said to Edmund. “After all, she was found between the house and the barn, right?”
“I believe so,” said Edmund. “I still don’t know what we hope to accomplish, but I must say you are quite entertaining to watch as you creep around in your Barbour coat and paddock boots like a well dressed Peeping Tom.”
Annabelle rolled her eyes but made no comment, and began tromping across the lawn to the barn. To Edmund’s amusement, she appeared to be looking closely at the ground like a foxhound hoping to pick up the scent of a coyote.
The big double doors to the barn were open, but the stalls were without their equine occupants.
“Wonder what happened to her horses?” asked Annabelle, as she stood in the empty barn hall.
“Tiller took them to Charles’ place so he could tend to them until they are sold or claimed by her heirs,” said Edmund.
“How do you know all this?” asked Annabelle in amazement.
“Just listening to the talk at your little gathering yesterday,” he said with a smug smile.
“Eavesdropping, you mean.” She couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Whatever,” he said airily, doubtless having picked up the expression from some teenaged horse groom.
Annabelle walked to the tack room. To her surprise, the doorknob turned easily and she was able to walk right in. Edmund followed, his feet touching the ground only occasionally.
Annabelle looked around the immaculate room. “There must be a fortune in saddles alone, right here,” she said. And, of course, every bridle, every halter, and every single piece of leather was sparkling clean as if it had just come from the tack shop—except for one. Annabelle walked over to the cleaning rack. The saddle Felicia had used on Wednesday was already spotless, but draped across the seat was Winston’s bridle, still muddy from Felicia’s last hunt.
“Edmund, look at this!” cried Annabelle. “She must have been cleaning her tack just before she died.”
Edmund surveye
d the scene. “I believe you’re right, my dear. It looks as if she had finished with the saddle and was about to start on the bridle when something must have caused her to stop.”
Annabelle continued to visually examine the area. She reached out to remove the bridle intending to hang it in its proper place, but instead she drew back sharply.
“What’s the matter?” asked Edmund. “Fingerprints,” said Annabelle archly.
“Oh, hell,” said Edmund. “That thing is too muddy to carry a fingerprint. And, besides—what was that?”
Annabelle had turned to leave the tack room, and as she did the toe of her boot connected with an object on the ground that subsequently went sailing across the room. “I kicked something,” said Annabelle, walking over to the corner where the thing had landed. The glint of metal caught her eye and she gasped. Something told her she had found the clue she was looking for.
CHAPTER XIV
THE LOCAL CONSTABULARY
“What is it?” asked Edmund, now hovering over her shoulder.
“It’s Miss Felicia’s flask!” She looked up at him excitedly. “Edmund, do you know what happened?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me,” he said with a grin.
“She was drinking out of this flask while she was cleaning her tack, and there was something more in it than the usual brandy!”
“You mean someone poisoned her, too?” asked Edmund.
“I mean she’s the one who was meant to be poisoned,” said Annabelle triumphantly. “She was the target all along. I only got sick because I took a couple of sips from her flask. That part was an accident.”
Edmund looked doubtful. Annabelle remembered, though, how he had made negative gestures when she had drunk from the flask during the hunt.
“Look, Edmund,” said Annabelle, determined to convince him. “I remember she had particularly asked Tiller to put her tack in the back of the truck so she could clean it. As soon as she dropped me off, she came in here and started to work. Then, since we didn’t have a chance to drink much during the hunt—in fact, she didn’t drink at all that I saw—she decided to nip on her flask while she was working on the saddle. Before she could start on the bridle, the poison hit her system and she couldn’t even make it to the house and a telephone!” Annabelle was acting out her theory as she described it to Edmund. “And, unlike me, she didn’t throw-up after two sips. In my case, the fact that I was riding in the heat probably saved my life. My stomach couldn’t take the combination of poison, heat, and jogging up and down on a horse.”
The Masters Ball Page 10