“My joint master. By the way, he’s the best cardiologist in central Virginia. I hope you don’t need him, but put Walter Lungren in your vital people book.” She waved to him and left.
Crawford and the Sabatinis broke up while Betty Franklin, seeing Sister chatting with the new people, walked over to do the same.
Crawford asked Kathleen about the drawings of Michael Lyne in front of Kasmir; Alida; Walter; Sister; Buddy Cadwalder, the Philadelphia furniture dealer; Father Mancusco; Reverend Sally Taliaferro; and Freddie Thomas.
“He is terribly underrated, Lyne. If you study the draftsmanship in those sketches for the full painting you can see how talented he was, but when you are working at the same time as Sir Alfred Munnings, well?” She held up her hands.
“You must come to Beasley Hall. I own the painting of his wife, Violet, sidesaddle habit, standing next to Sir Isaac,” Crawford invited her.
“I had no idea,” Kathleen exclaimed.
Buddy Cadwalder, shrewd enough to cultivate Radnor Hunt outside of Philadelphia and Fair Hills, once the private hunt of Will Dupont and Mr. Stewart’s Cheshire Foxhounds, the man knew his business, blurted out, “My God, that’s worth millions.”
Crawford shrugged this off. “Bought for my wife when she rode sidesaddle.”
The Sabatinis and Betty drifted over as Crawford discussed this treasure. As that group broke up into smaller groups, Betty, who had caught the tail end of it, explained Sir Alfred Munnings to the Sabatinis, who did know of him but had no idea such an extraordinary work would be in the community. Betty with tact explained Crawford’s fortune began when he built strip malls in Indiana, his subsequent generosity to Custis Hall, the private school, as well as the work archaeologically, architecturally at Old Paradise.
The grand opening was a success. Kathleen kissed Sister on the cheek when she left, thanking her for her help in getting people there but especially for introducing her to Aunt Daniella after Harry had died. Aunt Daniella took Kathleen under her wing, never sparing her salacious gossip regardless of decade.
Yvonne and Sam also attended but there were so many people, so much going on, they didn’t get to talk to Sister and Gray.
In Gray’s Land Cruiser driving home, St. Paul in Sister’s lap, she looked at the rooster. “He is quite the fellow. Just don’t read Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians to me. Why did your mother name her rooster St. Paul?”
“I have no idea. But she would tell us the story of his conversion to Christianity on the road to Damascus. She had favorite Bible stories. Sam listened more closely than I did but Mother was insistent.”
“I guess whatever religion one practices your parents have their favorite stories often repeated to keep you in line.”
“What were yours?”
Sister laughed. “Christ preaching to the men in the temple. Mother would give me her look and say, ‘Don’t get any ideas to tell me what to do. You have no halo and if you did remember, when a halo slips it becomes a noose.’ ”
As they were laughing, Kathleen, tired, thrilled, climbed the stairs to her living quarters, where she was rapturously greeted by her Welsh terrier, Abdul.
“Did you miss me?” He wagged his tail.
She sat down as he crawled into her lap. “Abdul, we made enough for good dog biscuits, greenies, and maybe a knuckle bone or two.”
“I should have been downstairs. There could have been a bad person there. I should always be with you. I will protect you.”
She listened to his little noises, petting his head, happy but exhausted. “Did you know, Abdul, that there is a famous Munnings’s painting in this county?” She paused. “Maybe there is more than one. I haven’t been here long enough to know and I haven’t asked the right questions. But now that I am finally settled, I should discretely investigate.”
“Take me with you,” he wisely advised.
CHAPTER 3
February 7, 2020 Friday
Raleigh and Rooster, the Doberman and harrier, barked upon hearing a deep motor outside. Golliwog, the calico longhair, evidenced no interest, lying on her back in her special fleece bed on the counter, no less.
Sister rose, opened the back door, stepping into the cold coatroom just as the door opened. Frigid air enveloped her.
“Sweetie, get back in the kitchen.” Gray Lorillard kissed her then propelled her back into the warmth.
“You’re home,” the Doberman happily declared as Gray reached down to pet him.
Rooster, standing on his hind legs, put his front paws on Gray’s jacket.
“Rooster,” Sister admonished him, to no effect.
“I’ll be right back.” Gray placed a small bag of groceries on the counter next to the refrigerator, flipped up his collar, stepped into the coatroom then outside. He ran back in.
“Must be seventeen degrees out there.”
“It’s been a long, cold week.” He took off his heavy jacket, draping it on the back of a kitchen chair. He placed a rectangular box on the table.
“I know you didn’t wrap that.” She smiled.
“The corners are too neat,” he agreed.
“Gray, I don’t recall you making corners,” she teased him, picking up the package, the paper silver and red stripes.
“Maybe it’s a diamond collar for you.” Golly raised a long eyebrow as she addressed Raleigh.
“I’d rather have a big bone, meat still on it.”
“Good idea,” Rooster seconded the thought.
Sliding her fingernail under the paper, Sister carefully opened the package, preserving the paper. “Cashmere!”
She held up a sweater, a soft but thick turtleneck of navy blue with flecks of gold.
“Be perfect with your beautiful self.” He kissed her on the cheek. She kissed him on the lips.
Holding the sweater under her chin she felt the richness under her fingers. “This must be four-ply. You know nothing is as warm as cashmere. Thank you, honey. How about you sit down and relax?”
“I’ll fix myself a drink first.” Which he did then sat down. “I thought I was retired. Sometimes I think I have more work than before. At least this short task is here, not Washington.”
“You can handle sensitive issues. Which keeps your old firm and others wanting your services. You don’t represent your old firm. They can use you in new ways. Everyone knows how discrete you are and honest.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” He watched her fold the paper, a habit of hers, carefully placing it on top of the cardboard box into which she put the sweater, the box now on the counter, away from food and Golly, who evidenced a suspicious interest.
“Where did you find fresh asparagus in February?” She admired the fat ends as she put goods away in the refrigerator with one hand, flicked on the stove with the other.
“Wegman’s.”
“Soup is heating up. Made it this morning after checking the hounds and the horses. I told you we put a Catholic fox to ground yesterday, didn’t I?”
“Well, you’d better find an Episcopalian one for the Reverend Taliaferro.”
They both laughed as Sister brought two large bowls of chicken rice soup with all manner of vegetables in it. Sister had known Gray since he was young, saw him married then divorced. As he lived and worked in D.C., she knew him slightly, whereas she better knew his aunt Daniella and brother, Sam, who blew a scholarship to Harvard thanks to drink. Sam cleaned himself up with Gray’s help but never returned to higher education. She also knew Mercer Laprade, Aunt Daniella’s son, who died a few years ago.
“The barking dog ordinance. I read the so-called authorities have taken three dogs away from three people,” Sister filled him in.
“That ordinance will be a great way for people to get even with one another. Then again, maybe that’s the purpose of such things. When you and I and the other hun
t clubs attended those open meetings it became clear, to me, anyway, that this is one more way for people to control anyone who doesn’t think like they do. You dress it up with pious pronouncements about the public good.”
“I don’t think it much matters who is in charge but at least if you get country people you have a bit more reality. The hunt club kennels are exempted from punishment for barking. Some of the people running the county realize how much money we generate for businesses. But so many in Northern Virginia, Richmond, new people, think we’re deplorables.” She shrugged.
“I would give anything if Mrs. Clinton had not said that.” Gray meant it.
“Me, too, but having said it, you and I and other rural people are more or less damned. Maybe this is the first shot across the bow.” She feared and always would fear people who felt they had the right to tell you how to live. “Imagine what it was like when religion was the stone that was thrown at you? And that wasn’t that long ago. Well, the Dissolution was but you know what I mean. Being Catholic was an issue during the Kennedy election. I was young but I sure remember. My mother was appalled that people said the stuff they said.”
Feeling better thanks to the hot soup and the good scotch, Gray smiled. “Well, my mother, God rest her soul, used to say, ‘People are no better than they should be.’ Aunt Daniella certainly lived up to that.”
As Aunt Daniella married three men plus enjoyed numerous affairs, she did.
“She looked great, by the way. Well, she always does and she and Yvonne are almost inseparable. Yvonne is finally relaxing, the anger over her now despised ex-husband has dissipated. When she and Victor would visit Tootie at Custis Hall, I could feel their disapproval. Wasn’t a lot better when Tootie enrolled at Princeton either, disapproval from afar. Given that she is Tootie’s mother I walked carefully around her. But back to this barking thing, let’s say someone has had it with Crawford Howard,” she posited a suspicion. “Wouldn’t this be a way to get even with him?”
Gray smiled. “Well, they’d be risking years in court because he would never give up and he has the money to never give up. The law exists for those who can afford it.”
She smiled back. “You’re right, you usually are, but we would all be dragged into it. Foxhunters have to stick together.”
Leaning back he noticed Golly’s claw under the box top. “Golly, don’t you dare.”
She looked Gray directly in the face, her golden eyes wide. “Bother.”
“Golly.” Sister stood up, took the package away from the gorgeous cat, opened the broom closet, slipping it inside. “Until I can take it upstairs. She has to know everything.”
“I think she already does.”
“It really is a beautiful sweater.”
He finished his scotch, exhaling with pleasure. “Here we are talking about the dog ordinance, how long before a motion is floated to punish cat owners when the cats kill birds? Hear that, Golly?”
“Good Lord.”
“I’ll scratch their eyes out!” Golly threatened.
Once in the library, Sister’s favorite room, they sat with their feet up on hassocks. Gray had his arm around Sister’s shoulders. The warmth of each other felt like a glow for each of them. Theirs was a tested love, one that endured and deepened.
“Gray, what if you and Ronnie,” she named the club treasurer, “got together with Keswick, Farmington Hunt Club, and the Farmington Beagle Club, along with Waldingfield Beagles, and yes, Crawford, and pulled numbers. It would take time, but put together a package of the economic benefits to those communities hosting hunt clubs. The truck dealers alone would plump up those numbers. The real estate agents. The hay dealers, the food dealers.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Okay. Okay. It will take time but it is a good idea.” He sighed. “Crawford will be a handful.”
Unknown to either of them, Crawford Howard sat in his living room with the Albemarle Sheriff’s Department. Someone had stolen his priceless Munnings painting from his room while he and his wife attended a hospital fundraiser. Whoever did it knew how to disarm an expensive alarm system and knew the Howards owned a stunning piece of art.
CHAPTER 4
February 8, 2020 Saturday
The painting by Sir Alfred Munnings of his wife, Violet, standing with a dappled gray, Isaac, is so beautiful, so perfect that the vision of it has passed into national consciousness in the British Isles and North America. Even people who are not horsemen would recognize it if they saw it, given that it represents an eternal bond between woman and horse. Violet, painted in 1923, wears a black sidesaddle habit, her hair folded in a bun, hairnet over that, her top hat glistening. Her left hand rests on her hip, her right hand holds Isaac’s reins. His head is dipped slightly, a moment of quiet understanding between horse and rider. The size of the stolen painting, fifty inches by forty, meant the thief or thieves must have been prepared. Certainly they wouldn’t risk a work of art worth millions to rough handling in transport.
Sister sat with Crawford Howard and his wife, Marty, in their huge den, the empty space where the painting hung underscoring their loss.
Crawford, although restoring Old Paradise across from Tattenhall Station, lived in a grand house, Beasley Hall, that he had built when first moving to Albermarle County ten years ago. The entrance to the place, guarded by two huge bronze boars, each atop a stone pillar to which the wrought-iron gates were affixed, also announced if not his intentions at least his interests. They were replicas of Richard Neville’s insignia, the boar. The Duke of Warwick, confidant and adviser to Edward IV, proved brilliant, filled with high courage, high ambition. He was ultimately disenchanted with the young man he helped place on England’s throne. He was Warwick the kingmaker but he underestimated Edward’s sexual impulsiveness. Elizabeth Woodville, a young widow, was and is considered even today to be one of the most beautiful women to have ever lived. She upset Warwick’s applecart, as he had planned a marriage with the daughter of the king of France, politically useful but not as beautiful as Elizabeth.
Crawford felt he, too, carried Warwick’s intelligence, ability to see ahead, and high courage. He wasn’t afraid to take chances, which set him apart from most Virginians, who are sluggish about risks. He branched out from strip malls, turning everything he touched to gold. But like his hero he often neglected to consider how irrational the human animal can be. Not that he was ever irrational. Just ask him.
Sister was still in hunt gear, for she had driven directly over while Betty and Gray carried the horses back to the farm. Today’s hunt had been erratic. You just never know about scent. She pulled off her boots on the big bootjack placed by the front door for just such an occasion.
Marty kept the house to perfection. Sister’s stockinged feet glided across the floor.
Facing the two as she sat by the fireplace she gratefully sipped a hot Assam tea. Sister and Marty got along famously. Not so much with Crawford, as he was loath to forgive her for not selecting him joint master years back. Instead she had picked Walter Lungrun, M.D., who by Crawford’s standards was a pauper. Walter was Big Ray’s outside child, which Sister suspected even while Ray was alive. Walter’s father, the man considered his father, accepted his wife’s transgression and raised Walter as his own. It was never discussed. The young man rode as a child. Sister had known him all his life. There was no need to trumpet his genetics. But Walter touched her heart and he was great with people. Crawford barked orders. Not a good idea. Money can buy you everything but respect. He would have been an economic godsend as a joint master, but a disaster in every other fashion.
Sister and Crawford managed a truce over the years, working together on those boards on which they served.
“I spent a fortune on that security system,” he fumed.
“You always have the best but criminals study what they do as we study what we do. The smartest can figure things out. Crawford, if people c
an hack the Pentagon they can get into anything.”
Marty put a plate of scones on the coffee table, poured herself tea, and sat down. “That was my fiftieth birthday present. Has any woman ever received anything better?” She smiled at her husband.
“I doubt it.” Sister smiled back. “I am so very sorry. You owned and protected a national, I mean international, treasure.”
“Sheriff Sidell said it would not appear on the open market. It would be sold privately and the buyer may have instigated the theft.” Crawford was calming down, thanks to the praise, which he did deserve.
Sister shook her head slightly. “It’s hard to believe. For one thing, sooner or later whoever has it will feel compelled for friends to know about it.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Crawford put his cup in the saucer. “But if the buyer is, shall I say, a crazy, rich Asian, the lawsuits will drag on for years.”
Sister nodded. “One doesn’t have to be a crazy, rich Asian; I suspect you are right about ego finally trumping good sense.”
Marty crossed her legs. “Did you know the Chinese are building a horse city? They want to attract world-class riders for five-star events. Honey, where is that?”
“Tianjin, near Beijing. I hear they may be having flu problems. No matter. We aren’t taking horses there.”
“I was reading in my London Times.” She then added, “China is so big there’s bound to be winter bugs. The government says they aren’t worried. But they sure are competitive. They want five-star equine events in China.”
“Fair Hills won the competition for the second five-star location in our country. Much as I wish Morven Park had secured the win,” Sister named a wonderful equine setting in Northern Virginia, “Fair Hills sits right where Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware plus Maryland itself, come together, or almost come together. Will Dupont created it. Well, the Duponts also saved Montpelier, then Will’s sister, Alice, took it over. Same color scheme, dark hunter green with white trim on the old buildings. Stunning, really. Now, if a venue like that had bought the painting, we could understand—not that you would sell it.”
Out of Hounds Page 4