“I would never ever sell a Munnings, any Munnings, nor would I sell a Stubbs.”
“Yes.”
“How was today’s hunt? Mousehold Heath? Right?” Marty inquired.
“So-so. A few bursts, but that was it. And Thursday we had our best hunt of the year. You never know.”
“About anything,” Marty agreed. “Sister, you are an amateur enthusiast of sporting art. Have you any thoughts on what might have happened to our painting?”
“No, but if you will allow me, I will call the Sporting Library and Museum in Middleburg, as well as the Museum of Hounds and Hunting at Morven Park. Given their training and contacts, they might be able to think of something. You know Sheriff Ben Sidell will do a good job, but the art world, the museum world, like any other, contains people who know one another or know about one another.”
“What about the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts?” Marty asked.
“I’m sure our sheriff has already called them. As the museum has the Paul Mellon collection of equine art, you know they know the painting’s history…or provenance, as it is called. And I will call Ben to remind him, if the VMFA doesn’t, that Yale’s museum has some of Mr. Mellon’s collection. He was a Yale man.”
“So was Cole Porter.” Crawford sighed.
“Honey, the day will come when Indiana University touts you as one of their outstanding graduates.” Marty smiled.
“I suppose if I built a new football stadium, they would.” He shrugged. “Sister, I have to get that Munnings back.”
“I hope you do. I will make those calls.” Sister sipped the last of her tea. “Thank you for allowing me in here, as I reek of eau de cheval.”
“Best perfume on earth.” Marty smiled. “You were kind to come.”
“Violet Munnings with Isaac is one of the great paintings of the twentieth century. We have never discussed art but I do think Sargent, Whistler, and Munnings to be outstanding. When so-called modern art came along they were overshadowed, but that is shifting. Good work is good work and fashions in art are like hemlines.”
“An awful thought, really,” Marty chipped in. “Human nature, I expect.”
“Ever really think about what humans want no matter the century?” Crawford sat up a bit straighter. “Power over others. Greed. Doing whatever they please without consequences. Think of the Greek gods.”
Sister knew they, too, paid consequences, but arguing with Crawford, or offering any form of correction, was never well received. “At least the Greek gods had good taste.” She half laughed then added, “And so did your thieves.”
Marty thought a moment. “Well, I guess they did.”
“Time and the tides. We’ll see.” Sister rose to leave.
Driving out of the too showy estate, Sister really felt sorry for Crawford. His need to be the center of attention, to run the show, would never change but he had learned what money could and couldn’t buy in central Virginia. His labors to restore a historically important home and grounds, Old Paradise, brought him some of the respect he had squandered when first moving to the area. He hired a historian and archaeologists who, using the latest technology, uncovered graves grown over by trees, decades of growth since the second decade of the nineteenth century. Many of the graves contained slaves but some may have been graves of Monacan Indians, the humans who preceded African Americans and Europeans. Irritating as he could be, Crawford did good things, things few could afford to do.
As she turned off the two-lane state road to her farm, she thanked the powers-that-be that her late husband, Ray, left her comfortable but not disgustingly rich. Too much of anything isn’t good. Then again, some people have to be king. Crawford was one of them. What was the man like who took that extraordinary painting?
CHAPTER 5
February 10, 2020 Monday
“Good thing Crawford hasn’t seen this.” Sam Lorillard lifted one eyebrow.
“He’d…well, you know.” Skiff Kane, Crawford’s huntsman, kept the rest of the thought to herself.
Best not to criticize or bite the hand that feeds you.
Sam, older, wasn’t one to complain but the sight of Showoff Stables alerted him to the fact that big money had been spent.
“Anyone home?” Skiff walked to the main office.
Sam waited with the empty trailer as Skiff walked back.
Horses, blankets on them, the expensive Irish kind, played in the large paddocks. A lone figure walked up from the farthest paddock, bucket in gloved hand. As he reached the trailer, he hung the bucket on the fence post.
“Hello. You Crawford Howard’s people?”
“Yes, Sir.” Sam reached out his hand to shake the middle-aged man’s hand, as did Skiff.
He did not remove his glove to shake hands, a small breach of manners but it was cold.
“Skiff Kane.”
Sam smiled. “I should have introduced the lady. Well, we’re here to pick up the blood bay mare. Mr. Howard has already paid, which you probably know.”
“Parker Bell.” He gave his name. “Boss said all was ready. Follow me. I put her in a stall.”
The three walked into the cavernous, light stable, where Parker stopped, a snort inside greeting him.
“A true blood bay,” Skiff said admiringly.
Parker nodded. “Don’t see many.” He walked into the stall, slipped a halter on her, the good leather ones from Fennell’s in Lexington, Kentucky, leading her out with a Fennell’s lead shank. “She goes by Sugar. Come on, Sugar.”
Obediently, the stunning horse followed him out. He removed her light sheet, her indoor rug, to reveal her glistening coat.
“Beautiful shoulder.” Sam admired her.
“Good athlete. Long stride. You need to coax her across water but she’ll do it if she knows you mean it.”
“Well, let’s load her up.” Sam smiled.
“Mr. Sabatini…” He paused. “Be right back, I left her papers in the office. Let me load her up first. She’s easy.”
Sugar walked up the dropped ramp, beheld a full hay net, went right for it.
Sam stroked her neck then closed the inside divider of the three-horse trailer.
Crawford owned the three-horse trailer, his most practical; a four-horse; and a six-horse. Did he need all those trailers? No, but he had to have them.
Skiff closed the doors when Sam walked out, both lifted the ramp, securing it as Parker returned, handing Sam a fat envelope. “He’s sending the rug, too. Outside she used a heavier one.”
“We’ve got plenty. Anything else you think we should know?” Sam talked while Skiff observed everything, including a large plumbing box truck parked at a distance. This was the basis for Gigi Sabatini’s fortune. The high-end sinks, showers, tubs, and copper pipes were sold nationally.
One of the advantages of being overlooked as a woman is one could study surroundings and other people.
They shook hands, Sam and Skiff, stepped up into the cab of the dually.
“How’s it look? Can’t see Parker. Don’t want to run over him.” Sam checked the side mirrors.
“He’s out of the way.” Skiff snapped her seatbelt. “Let’s hope Sugar’s not hotter than a pistol. Loaded easily enough.”
“Never know until you throw your leg over,” Sam truthfully said.
“Maybe Sugar won’t be ridden at all. The boss is determined to breed blood bays.” She noticed the brand-new fencing, mentally tallying up the cost.
“If color were that easy to breed there’d be more blood bays, more paints, more blanket Appaloosas.” Sam cruised at forty miles per hour.
No need to hurry, especially on the back roads.
“You know the late Aga Khan bred fabulous horses but I don’t know if color was important to him.” Sam read as much as he could about great former horsemen. “But on the other hand, Tesio,
the other great breeder in the first half of the twentieth century, felt that grays were mutations. He wouldn’t have one. I can’t say as I see a difference. A good horse is the right color.”
“When is Yvonne coming over for a lesson?”
“This afternoon. She’s almost ready to go out hunting. The rear of Second Flight. I’ll ride with her but she has that long leg. She really has stuck with it.”
“Be good to have a mother and daughter, Yvonne and Tootie, in the field. It’s good when families ride together.”
“When I was a kid, we all did. Even Aunt Dan would get up there for the hunt club’s annual show. We did the family class, my mom, Aunt Dan, Gray, Mercer, and myself. If Mercer were here he’d know every name on Sugar’s papers. What’s her registered name, by the way?”
Skiff opened the fat envelope, which wasn’t sealed, pulling out Sugar’s Jockey Club registration plus her medical papers, shots as well as her last shoeing date. Also enclosed was her feed, the protein content, the fat and sugar content. She was too good a horse to wing it.
“Aspasia’s Dynamite.” Skiff turned to him. “Greek?”
“Pericles’s lover.”
“Did you major in history at Harvard?”
“No, but we took basic courses the first two years; in those days you had to do that before you truly majored. The idea was you’d best understand your own culture, along with calculus.”
“Gone by the time I was at Radford. Not calculus, but I didn’t have to take it. Hate math.”
“I learned a lot. If you don’t know where you’ve been you don’t know where you’re going. It’s a sure bet our enemies know their own culture. It’s pretty stupid not to learn your own.”
“You have Aunt Dan, you’ll always know where you’re going.” She laughed, as did he. “What was her son like?”
“Mercer. Good-looking like Aunt Daniella. Being a bloodstock agent, he had a terrific memory. He could see a horse once and remember everything about the animal. He was gay, which you probably heard, but he was discrete. Gray and I didn’t care but we made him come with us to buy clothes. We teased him that gay men were the best dressers. Even when I was at the bottom of the barrel he would find clothes and bring them to me. He believed you only have one chance to make a first impression.”
“True.”
“Also, Gray and Mercer helped me sober up. I wouldn’t be alive without them. His death was a blow. I think,” he counted in his head, “he was fifty-nine or close. I don’t know. The years go by too fast.”
So did the miles, for he pulled into the long drive at Beasley Hall. No sooner did the trailer stop at Crawford’s main barn than his old Hummer rolled down the driveway.
Out he popped to watch Sugar unload. He did have sense enough to get out of the way. Sam walked her into the barn, Skiff handed him the papers.
Sam quietly guided Sugar into an empty stall, prepared for her, peanut hulls for bedding and alfalfa/orchard grass hay flakes in the corner.
“How about I give her two days then ride her, if that’s all right with you?” Sam asked. “Get her a bit settled.”
“Sure.” Crawford nodded. “What did you think of the operation?”
“Everything’s brand new. Fences newly painted. Brass bolts on the stalls. Brass plates by the door. The wrought iron from Cynthiana, Kentucky. PaveSafe on the floor. Equi-grip in the stalls. He spent a fortune.” Skiff smiled.
“Huge barn, good paddocks. Very well laid out. Someone knew what they were doing,” Sam added. “Place already full of boarders, and you know, he’s hired an Olympic show jumper for a trainer.”
Crawford rubbed his chin. “We’ll see.”
A big Lexus slowly drove down the drive, turning toward the house.
“Nineteenth-century expert from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. I know Ben Sidell is a good man, but how many law enforcement officers do you know who understand the art market? Especially for a Munnings? All right. Keep me informed about her.”
“Yes, Sir.” Sam opened the Hummer door for Crawford.
As the boss drove away Skiff, watching the new horse, said to Sam as he walked back in, “That was one of the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen. I hope he gets it back.”
“I do, too. I hope it’s not on a private jet flying to wherever.”
“Me, too.”
“What did you think of Showoff?”
Turning to look at Sam, whom she greatly respected, she remarked, “Aptly named. A lot of wasted money. Who needs cast-iron lampposts lining the drive? That’s like Custis Hall.” She cited the expensive private girls school over the mountain, founded in 1812 by the founder of Old Paradise. The school grew after the war was won. “Chandeliers? I could make out a chandelier in the office.”
“Mmm. Waste, yes, but intelligence, too. Every single paddock had frost-free waterers. The hay was stored in rows with space for air to flow in the hay barn, and that was sort of behind the main stable. So no hay overhead. Makes for more work but also makes for safety. Few can afford that extra hand to move the hay every single day.”
She considered this. “You’re right. But I only saw Parker Bell.”
“To run a place like that, Sabatini has to have a lot of people to drive the tractors, plow the roads, move the hay, keep the fences painted. The man has white fences. Nonstop labor. Washing the windows. Then there’s the Olympic trainer who also has to have an assistant. Who will muck the stalls? Sabatini has about a two hundred thousand dollar nut to crack to keep all perfect. Well, let me drop that back because I don’t know what he pays the Olympian. He’ll have to house him.”
“Her.”
“Ah.” Sam pulled off his gloves, walked into the stall to feel Sugar’s pulse. “Should have thought of that.”
“Sugar looks fine.”
Counting, he stopped and smiled. “She is.”
“She really is beautiful, but pretty is as pretty does,” Skiff repeated the old horseman’s phrase; truer words were never spoken.
“Funny, isn’t it? How money impresses most people?”
“Yes, but in your figuring remember Showoff probably gets at least seven hundred fifty dollars a month board, plus money for trailering to shows if the owner doesn’t have a trailer. Then the client pays for shoeing, probably directly to the farrier. If there are special foods, he or she will pick that cost up. The annual shots, etc. So there is money coming in for board and whatever else is needed. I expect the trainer is paid directly by the student, horse owner for lessons, plus her base salary, plus her living. So add the cost of electricity and heat to the house, which I expect is the small clapboard house in the rear there just visible.”
“Okay, so maybe he has to crack a one hundred and fifty thousand dollar nut. If he has it, why not? Think of the hay dealers, the truck dealers, the workmen, etc. Money is useless sitting still. And if he sells a horse, good.”
“I still think it’s crazy,” Skiff, a New Hampshire girl and tight with the buck, said.
“I wouldn’t do it but you only live once. Why do we think a so-called purposeful life is the way? If someone wants to spend their life showing off, what is it to me so long as he doesn’t harm anyone? I don’t know that I have a purposeful life but I like what I do, I pay my bills, and I get to foxhunt. If I had graduated Harvard, wound up in D.C. like my brother, would I have a better life? No. I’d have more money. My brother now is the happiest I have ever seen him.”
She smiled. “He is a kind man.”
“Mom taught us manners as well as the usual. Plus we still have Aunt Dan to keep us on the straight and narrow.”
“You know, Sam, I wouldn’t use straight and narrow. Aunt Dan lived large.”
They laughed again then Sam thought a moment. “What did you think of Parker Bell?”
“He did his job.”
“That
doesn’t answer the question.”
“I’m glad you didn’t go to Harvard law school.” She then answered, “I didn’t like him. I couldn’t tell you why.”
Sam grunted low, “Me, neither.”
CHAPTER 6
February 11, 2020 Tuesday
Shelby County, Kentucky, blessed with good soil, sat east of Louisville by twenty-five miles. Abutting Shelby County was Oldham County. Long Run–Woodford Hunt territory and wonderful territory it was, as long as it could last, for Louisville fast encroached on surrounding counties.
Jane Winegardner, MFH, of old Woodford now merged with Long Run, sat on a hill. As Sister Jane was one of her oldest friends and she was younger than Sister, she was known as O.J., the Other Jane.
At this moment the Other Jane felt her sixty-odd years, for the wind, nine miles per hour, blew from the west to the east. The Ohio River divided Indiana from Kentucky. Even thirty miles away, the touch of water filled that wind. The Ohio was a mile wide between Louisville and Indiana. With the mercury sitting at 38°F one’s pores tightened, the skin glowed. Who needed a face-lift?
The hard-riding master chose to flank the hounds today. Much as she loved running and jumping, sometimes as a tune-up, a master ought to sit and watch, moving from good view to good view. In this way she or he could judge how well the pack was working together, how good the communication was between huntsman, staff, and hounds. Since hounds could not carry a cellphone or walkie-talkie, there had to be that invisible thread that marks a person with the horn from a person truly hunting hounds. Fortunately, the huntsman, Spencer Allen, truly hunted hounds.
Many packs, especially those crisscrossed by highways where formerly the roads were dirt, used walkie-talkies. Sister Jane, thanks to the vastness of her territory for an East Coast hunt, refused this prop for her whippers-in and huntsman. If you hunted with Jefferson Hunt you hunted as was done in the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and most of the twentieth century. You used your five senses.
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