“I suppose if you have billions, what’s a million or two? We’ve talked about this here, who of today’s billionaires would have the acumen to know Munnings? It’s a bit like interior decorating. Few of the new billionaires would know who Nancy Lancaster was, Nancy Astor’s niece.”
“Colefax and Fowler.” Sister named the great interior decorating company that rose to great prominence after World War I and is still going today. The impetus for this success was Nancy Lancaster.
“It’s an instantly recognizable look but I am willing to bet not one of these wealthy people would know who Stéphane Boudin was, the legendary decorator of Maison Jansen.”
“They have wealth but no breeding. I know that’s not a nice thing to say but in the old days those with great resources had a trained aesthetic sense. Your vice chairman, Jacqueline Mars, apart from being generous, has an exquisite sense of the arts. Well, your entire board of directors is exceptional.”
“Sister, most museums do have glorious boards, as does the New York Public Library, but few members are even in their forties. My fear is when they go, who will be there to take up the reins?”
“Ms. Pfeiffer, regardless of the institution, that’s a concern. I feel it’s as though someone put the film of history backward on the projector.”
“Ah, interesting way to put it. By the way, please call me Claudia. Okay, back to the Munnings. Only Munnings.”
“Is it possibly a family relation? Someone who feels cut out of his work?”
“There’s never been any criticism from that quarter, and Violet, his wife, was above reproach. A good marriage, I think. No outside children. No one seething at being left out of wills, at least where art is concerned. His first wife, Florence Carter-Wood, committed suicide in 1914 after two years of marriage. No issue there either.”
“Let me try another tack. Before women had the vote in England, remember the woman, Emily Wilding Davison, who threw herself in front of the king’s horse at the 1913 Epsom Derby? She was killed. There have always been fanatics and often their sacrifices provoke others to make smaller ones. Women got the vote in England in 1928. It’s only been a hundred years here. Is it possible this is some sort of feminist motivation? Sidesaddle as an emblem of distorting the female body for male pleasure? I know I’m grasping at straws, but to have three thefts of major art in less than two weeks and then Delores Buckingham’s murder, I’m trying to think of all manner of things. Sidesaddle may not be the key except for rarity. Munnings painted fewer of them than his other paintings, as fewer and fewer women rode sidesaddle as he aged and, well, it is making a comeback, but how many hunts have active ladies who ride sidesaddle?”
“Not many. A lady might do so for one of the High Holy Days but it’s not like old times. I still think the key is the value.”
“It makes the most sense,” Sister agreed. “You must know who owns Munnings’s paintings, the works in private hands.”
“We do as does Turner Reuter at Red Fox Fine Art. Some are in our country on the East Coast, as you would expect. There is a massive Munnings in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. Interestingly enough, a few great corporations own Stubbs’s work but not Munnings’s. And there is The Munnings Art Museum in England, of course.”
“Those extra decades must add a patina.” Sister smiled. “Has anyone expressed concern?”
“Curiosity more than concern, because the people we know who own the great hunting paintings, or racing paintings from even the early eighteenth century, feel secure. As this has been focused on sidesaddle, no one has pressed the panic button.”
“And I assume none of the sidesaddle ladies including the ladies of Colonial Williamsburg have been discomfited, stalked, stuff like that?”
“Not that I know.” Ms. Pfeiffer asked Sister, “Have you ever ridden sidesaddle?”
“Yes. When I was young I tried. I liked it but thought I could do better astride. I’ve taken up so much of your time. Let me let you get back to work. You’ve been very generous.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you. When you come up for the fly-fishing exhibit, call me. I’ll take you through it. You must come, you know. Your father would want you to.” She smiled broadly.
“Yes, he would.”
Ms. Pfeiffer walked Sister to her car, which she’d actually washed, given that she was driving to Middleburg. Even though there was mud in Middleburg, she wanted to drive in a clean car, or as clean as it could be in this weather.
Sister opened the door and Ms. Pfeiffer said, “There is a Side-Saddle Chase Foundation. You could call them.”
“Thank you for reminding me. You all worked with them for the horsemanship roundtable, right?”
“Did. It’s the only thing I can think of and I’m sure you spoke to Nancy Bedford at the Museum of Hounds and Hunting?”
“I did. Everyone is in agreement that the value of the stolen works is enormous. Other than that, well, we are all outfoxed, forgive the expression.”
Driving the two and a half hours home, Sister turned over in her head all they had discussed. The only thought she had was she should reread Sir Alfred Munnings’s three volumes of autobiography. He mentioned the sidesaddle paintings. Perhaps there is a running thread. It occurred to her as she reached Culpeper, the mountains visible before her on the right, that Delores Buckingham rode sidesaddle at Piedmont Hunt in the late forties. Her maiden name was LeCoq, she married Buckingham, moved to Lexington. Sister met Delores first when the woman was in her sixties, no longer riding sidesaddle but riding astride. She pulled over, dialed Jane Winegardner.
“O.J., I was just up at the National Sporting Library and Museum to talk about the ‘Sidesaddle’ exhibit they had last year and am driving home; I’m pulled over on 29. Anyway, Delores rode sidesaddle in the late 1940s and 1950s.”
“That came out in the Lexington newspaper. I never saw her ride sidesaddle.” She paused. “No leads. Catherine Clay-Neal, a member at Woodford Hunt before we merged with Long Run, rode and still sometimes does ride sidesaddle. I asked her. She is as confused as the rest of us and she runs the Headley-Whitney Museum. It is possible Delores was killed for another reason.”
“It is.”
O.J. replied, “It’s my understanding that most murders are solved pretty quickly if they are to be solved. You know, the killer is standing there or has blood in his car. So, let me say this,” she said, using one of her expressions. “No one knows anything. The first theft was in your territory. It might not be such a good idea to be obvious in your questions. There must be a great deal of money at stake. Who is to say that this person isn’t someone you know or at least in Virginia? Think of Virginia’s coastline. Pretty easy to sneak something out of the country using the Atlantic. No planes. Just a thought.”
“Right. My curiosity has got the better of me.”
“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat,” O.J. mentioned.
CHAPTER 17
February 22, 2020 Saturday
Crackenthorp, not yet under construction save for the farm road, rested above the church at Chapel Cross on the northeast side. The fox headed north although he didn’t show himself. Scent held, for it was a raw day, maybe thirty-six degrees, if that, and fog refused to lift. Fortunately the staff at Jefferson Hunt knew the territory well, but even with that, a shape could loom ahead, spook you more than your horse, so one rated one’s mount and slowed.
Hounds did not slow but they negotiated frozen footing in some places and the beginnings of slick in others. Fortunately, the pack, in peak condition, leapt over, crawled under, or circumvented any obstacle in their path.
Sister Jane rode her old Thoroughbred, Lafayette, tried and true. A dedicated but small field rode behind her, perhaps twenty people, small for Jefferson Hunt on a Saturday, but conditions kept people home. In the old days members rode through anything but in those days one didn’t need
a van, you hacked to the meet. Parking when the fields were muddy and deep was a sure way to upset a landowner, unless it was an area he or she didn’t fret over.
As the people who bought the land for Crackenthorp still lived out of state, leaving few good pastures to rip up, Sister rode straight as she could, bits of mud and some snow flying off her gray’s hooves.
Hounds turned left, crossing North Chapel Cross Road, now heading west.
The paved road, scraped, mostly thin ice, meant slow down. Rating Lafayette, Sister walked along the road listening intently, for sound bounced around. This northern expanse, above Old Paradise and the old Gulf gas station, tested one’s balance, for the ridges quickly dipped into low fields or narrow valleys, only to rise again. The lower ridges stood at two hundred feet above sea level and then the next set doubled that, and so on until you had the choice to climb one of the true Blue Ridge Mountains or not. This was if heading straight west. Given there were so many dens, outbuildings, good places to duck in, few foxes took the direct mountain route.
Hounds again turned due north; she could hear them well enough to take the coop ahead, which put her into Close Shave, a newer fixture and a good one. Then nothing, nor did the fog lift.
She held up, waiting again. A toodle told her that Weevil and hopefully the pack had run to a collapsing shed that the owners had not yet time to remove. Given that they were restoring much of this old place, that would come. Giving Lafayette a little squeeze, she walked toward the horn notes.
Finally the outline of the shed, part of the roof sagging down, appeared, as did Weevil, the pack, and Betty and Tootie.
Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Kathleen weren’t following in the car this morning because they wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.
“Master, what do you suggest?” Weevil asked.
“We turn back. We might pick up another fox, but this fog isn’t lifting and it feels to me, at least, as though the temperature is starting to slide.”
“Madam, do you mind if I walk through the fields where we can walk? I’d like to avoid the road. A driver might not be able to see us until right upon us. There are three jumps between here and the crossroads. Mr. Franklin knows where the gates are.”
“Of course. I’m glad you thought of that.” She pulled her white-dotted navy blue stock tie higher up on her neck, thinking the dots might soon be covered by tiny snowflakes. It felt like snow.
Hounds, horses, and the field turned south. The old Gulf station, no longer open to the public but still used by Arthur DuCharme, the son of Binky, one of the brothers that used to own Old Paradise, sat near the crossroads. His cousin, Margaret DuCharme, M.D., rode out today with Ben Sidell. The two liked each other, an affection that grew into a romance, which surprised the old guard. Sheriff Sidell came from Ohio, from a working-class family, whereas Margaret was a DuCharme, once one of the richest, most powerful families in Albemarle County. Both Margaret and her cousin hated blood snobbery, plus their fathers never made a penny but sure spent them. Both sat in jail mostly, because they really wouldn’t do an honest day’s work.
Kasmir rode up to Sister. “From time to time we see Arthur. It’s a shame the Gulf station and little café are closed. I’m sure once it was a place for people to be together, like the old post office in the train station.”
“Once it was. Millie, Binky’s wife, made the best grits in the county and her hamburgers filled you right up. Margaret says her aunt, now that Crawford bought everything, doesn’t have to work, doesn’t want to work, and is ashamed of her husband’s behavior. She’s more or less hidden away.”
“Understandable.” Kasmir nodded.
As they rode past the station, the garage door was open. The rest of the building remained closed up.
Kasmir noticed this. “Arthur must be working on someone’s truck or car. He’ll do it for his buddies.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. When I take my truck to the garage it’s Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”
They laughed, finally reaching Tattenhall Station, a few twirling snowflakes lazing down.
The small group eagerly trooped into the station for warmth and food. Along with the fox’s route through Crackenthorp and winding up at Close Shave, the next exhausted topic was the weather. As the members left in small groups, Margaret walked out with Ben. He had trailered his horse on her gooseneck two-horse trailer.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, he clicked his belt as Margaret clicked hers.
“Ben, drive over to the station for a minute. Let me see what Arthur’s doing and if he can get me floor mats cheaper than I can.”
Ben did, waiting for Margaret to come back after she stepped out.
She ran back. “Ben, there’s a dead man in there.”
Cutting the motor, the sheriff followed her inside. The driver in a Dinken’s Plumbing truck sat bolt upright in the seat. Given the temperature, decomposition would be delayed. At first sight, time of death was difficult to determine.
Before calling in a team, Ben walked around the back as Margaret turned on lights. Both wore their gloves because it was cold and so as to not leave fingerprints. The rear of the small box truck was empty but Ben noticed a small glitter on the floor. He walked back to Margaret’s truck, picked up his cellphone from the seat, and called headquarters. Then he took the flashlight out of the side pocket on the door, walked back to the plumbing truck. He shined the light on the glitter.
Margaret joined him.
“A gold chip a bit like something off one of the frames at Kathleen’s antique store.”
“Could be.”
“Doctor, any idea how long he’s been dead? Of course the body will go to the Medical Examiner’s but what do you think?”
“It’s hard to tell, given the temperature. It would need to be bitterly cold to freeze a body like this. I’m no pathologist. He’s cold but I doubt he’s gone into rigor and come out. My hunch is, he’s been here long enough for his body temperature to plummet but he hasn’t been here, say, for even six hours or so.”
“No attempt to hide the truck. The door was open to the garage. Given my work, I try to think of possibilities.”
“Of course.” Margaret found Ben’s work fascinating.
“The body isn’t on display but it’s not exactly hidden. Yes, it’s out here where there’s little traffic, but my first thought is, this is a killer very sure of himself. Never a good sign.”
The driver had been strangled with a leather Fennell’s lead shank left in the truck. There was no doubt he had been murdered.
CHAPTER 18
February 23, 2020 Sunday
Sister, Betty, and Bobby stood in the small, pleasant vestibule of the Episcopal church in Greenwood. Each Sunday Gray and Sam took Aunt Daniella to her church, the one in which she was baptized. Sister never minded that Gray escorted his aunt. It was the proper thing to do and he loved her, although from time to time Aunt Daniella could drive him crazy. But then Sister figured she could do that to him, too. She mused to herself that heterosexuality had a few built-in land mines, but then, perhaps all relationships do.
“I had no idea.” Sister slipped her arm through Bobby’s as Betty did the same on his left side. “It wasn’t on the news.”
“Margaret called to ask me if I’d seen Arthur. You know he’s been working part-time at the press with us. Arthur was home, so Ben reached him. He knew nothing about it. Didn’t know the victim when Ben showed him a photo.”
“Not even who it is? I mean, he was in a Dinken’s Plumbing truck.” Sister thought it strange that an unknown person would be driving the truck of a well-established business.
“Margaret said Ben called Lionel Dinkens straightaway. He said all his drivers were accounted for but then Ross Stirling called back and declared his truck was missing. Lionel allows the drivers to take the trucks home if they worked late.�
�
“Shall I assume Ross tied one on?”
Bobby smiled. “Is there a Stirling who doesn’t have a hollow leg?”
“Well, there is that,” Betty agreed.
“Sometimes I wonder about Chapel Crossroads. So much has happened there over the centuries.” Sister inhaled the cold air as they stepped out of the church.
“Come on back for breakfast,” Betty invited her. “You never eat before the early-morning service and you know once Aunt Dan has her audience, she will be loathe to let them go.”
Within twenty minutes, part of that time on back roads, they arrived at Cocked Hat, Betty and Bobby’s small home built about the same time as Roughneck Farm got started, 1787. Unpretentious, inviting, it had a warmth that Sister always felt, imagining that it had been filled with centuries of love.
If not, it was filled with love now, for the Franklins complemented each other in good times and bad. Their bond never weakened but grew stronger, deeper. Sister admired them as well as loved them, for she knew their sorrows as well as their joys.
“You sit there. Bobby, fetch our master a cup of English Breakfast, her favorite morning tea. I’ll take black coffee. Just sluggish today.” Betty smacked an old number 5 iron skillet on the range, chatting away as she did so.
“Here you go. Barefoot, as always.” Bobby poured her the tea then started on the toast as he and his wife talked.
“I think so much happened out there at Chapel Cross over time because it’s right up against the mountains. Easy to hide or hide stuff. Neither the Brits nor the Federals could quell the goings-on there, nor can the revenue man from the government. Good old tobacco, firearms, and booze.” Betty giggled. “Must drive those three-piece-suit types crazy to be fooled by what they consider a lower life-form.”
“Deplorables?” Sister slyly grinned. “Ah yes.”
“Here’s the thing,” Bobby pushed down the lever on a huge toaster, “raise a tax, create a criminal, if you think evading taxes is criminal.”
Out of Hounds Page 14