Aunt Daniella, window cracked, listened. “I do hope they get a good run. These temperature bounces don’t help, but the conditions are about perfect. Good driving, Yvonne, getting us out of there.”
Kathleen confessed, “There was a time when I might have had sympathy for anti-hunters. But learning, as I have, thanks to you all, I realize they have no concept of nature. We’re losing it, I fear.”
“We are,” Yvonne affirmed. “Let’s hope they’re gone when we get back. I don’t want to waste another minute on them.”
Shaker, now on the edge of his seat, the window all the way down, predicted, “If it’s the usual red fox we pick up here, he’ll cut over to Old Paradise in about ten minutes, but if not, I say this is a straightaway run.”
Skiff drove carefully. “They sound great.”
“You know the first thing you can lose when breeding is cry. It’s funny what you can add fairly easily and what you can’t.”
“That’s the truth,” she agreed. “What I’ve found is you can’t breed a den dog. That hound has to appear. I don’t understand it. On, straightaway. You were right.”
He loved hearing that, naturally.
Once hounds were cast, the protesters disappeared from their thoughts. You can’t let people spoil what you love, and neither huntsman was in danger of that.
Ronnie, in the backseat, put his hand on the headrest of Elise’s seat. “Hounds have found. You can see the two whippers-in moving forward and a bit outward. It’s easier to come into hounds than move out, because if you’re moving out you usually are trying to catch up. Betty has a clear path right now but Tootie is in the right place.”
“How can you tell?” Gigi asked.
“If you think of the face of a clock, hounds are at twelve o’clock, the huntsman is the button where both hands join. Your first whipper-in should be at two and your second whipper-in should be at ten. Many hunts use more than two whippers-in but Sister only uses two. She says if hounds need pushing up, she can do it. Best to keep things simple but our territory lends itself to hunting the old way. So many highways for other hunts.”
“The face of a clock. I can picture that.” Elise watched as horses picked up an easy canter.
“As I said when we drove off, there actually is a lot to it. As I also said, we usually don’t have protest drama. Never had people in pursuit before. We’ll get one or two at a county meeting but this was a first and I hope a last.”
Back on the field, the hounds now moved in a line, for the territory began to close in. Weevil, behind them, saw the coop in the old fence line, which fortunately would put him on a decent path in the small woodlands on the south side of Beveridge Hundred. He was on Gunpowder today and if he had given the Thoroughbred the horn, Gunpowder could have hunted hounds.
The bobcat charged through the trees, turned right toward the road somewhat visible through the trees still denuded. Leaping straight up an old black gum tree, the bark friendly to claws and climbing, he dug in, heading straight up. High in the tree he surveyed the pack from a thick branch.
Dasher reached the black gum first. Immediately behind him were Thimble, Giorgio, and Aero, now the fastest hounds in the pack. Dasher’s brother and sister remained in the kennel today or they, too, would have been right up front. Coming up ran Juno, Trident, and Zane, the rest immediately behind.
The bobcat looked down, baring his considerable fangs.
“Nothing we can do.” Zane sat down as Zorro and Audrey stood on their hind legs, hopping.
“If he were down here I’d teach him a lesson,” Zorro bragged.
“Idiot,” the bobcat growled.
Weevil also looked up. “Come along. Well done.”
Freddie Thomas, in First Flight, fished her phone out of her inside pocket to snap a photo. While it was a great way to smash up a phone, hunting with it, she from time to time would take a photo if it didn’t interfere with anything else.
Carter, next to her, also stared straight up and now everyone coming up, even Second Flight, did likewise.
Aunt Daniella asked Yvonne, “Can you see anything?”
“No. Everyone is looking up. That’s it.”
Ronnie Haslip with the Sabatinis got out of the stopped car, walked to the edge of the wood so he could see better. In a moment he returned, with a photo in his phone, which he showed them.
“The bobcat is up a tree. Big boy.”
Gigi felt the roll of cold air when Ronnie closed the back door. “Do you often chase a bobcat?”
Ronnie thought a moment. “From time to time. They are very elusive.
“Weevil will cast on the western side of the road. Soil’s decent here, holds scent a bit. You never know, especially now. Of course he wants to run a fox.”
“Why now?” Elise asked.
“End of mating season. Those foxes, usually young ones, may not have found a mate yet and will need to wait until next year. Doesn’t mean a few aren’t still out there looking, but in the main the long, fantastic runs from December to early March are over.”
“The females aren’t running?” Elise asked.
“Not much. They’ll stick close to their dens, forcing the males to find them. They look them over and when they become pregnant they really stick close to the den. The male usually stays with the female until the young disperse, which is, oh, early October here in Virginia. The young males are pushed out by their father. The female cubs might stay an extra year to help with next year’s babies. People don’t think foxes are social animals but they are. They cooperate.”
“That’s fascinating.” Elise watched as the handsome huntsman now on the other side of the road, having taken an old sagging coop, cast the hounds.
“Mother Nature doesn’t make too many mistakes.” Ronnie watched hounds. “If you think about it, most of her mistakes are extinct.”
As the car followers talked, Sister waited an extra moment before taking the old coop. Jingle, another youngster, a bit confused, stood in front of the jump. The master said nothing, waiting for the huntsman to call hounds or blow them on. She loved the tri-color girl but this was business. Jingle did not need to be listening to the master but rather her huntsman.
Weevil tooted two notes and the relieved first-year entry now knew to go to him. She vaulted the jump, flying to him and then rushing up into the pack, who ignored her frantic tail wagging.
The cars slowly turned around, for the road was narrow. Yvonne, in front, followed the hounds running close to the old fence, which turned into a new fence once they reached the corner of Old Paradise, where she stopped.
The next hour, stop and start, frustrated hounds as they picked up squiggles of scent only to lose it. As there was no wind, soil moist, temperature maybe 41°F, this should have been a stellar day. Wasn’t awful but it wasn’t stellar.
Sister, watching now as hounds cast again, witnessed a bright beam of golden sunlight seemingly slice through a dark cloud, where it reached the ground. The gold against the charcoal cloud illuminated the pasture around it. Had she been superstitious this would have been a sign of something, maybe hopefulness?
Parker opened. They all chimed in and hounds crossed the road, leaping over the two jumps. The one at Old Paradise was a stone jump with a telephone pole over the top. The jump into Tattenhall Station was a new formidable coop, painted black. A seven-board coop, so best be alert.
Aztec popped over but the seven-board coop deterred some riders, who drifted back to Second Flight. Hounds roared over the back pasture of Tattenhall Station down to the strong running creek before the railroad tracks. Sister noticed in the distance no cars were parked along the road. The protesters had been dispersed.
The fox, a healthy red, turned south and within minutes all were on Beveridge Hundred again, where the sly fellow made straight for the main house then veered off to Yvonne’s dependency,
executed a confusing circle only to blast straightaway back to the road, where the cheeky devil ran straight down the macadam road for a quarter of a mile. Ruined scent. By the time hounds reached the road, the loathsome smell of oil and gasoline, not very discernible to the humans, fouled the fox scent. Sister, clearing the two jumps to reach the road, pulled up on the side. Weevil stood in the middle of the road, blowing his hounds back while the car followers blocked one end of the road. Tootie quickly stood in the middle of the other end. Fortunately no cars were about.
“Good work,” Weevil praised his hounds, gathering them as he trotted back to Beveridge Hundred.
Sister, following, thought they’d done as much as they could on a strange day. She’d let him determine the next move. If at all possible she did not intrude on a huntsman’s decisions.
Weevil, sensibly, chose to hunt back toward Tattenhall Station, where all they found were four deer shooting in front of them. Hounds paid them no mind. Twenty minutes later all reached the parking lot.
Once in Tattenhall Station everyone found a place to sit with food and drink, including the car followers. Elise bubbled with excitement and Gigi, less excited, was happy with his wife’s enthusiasm. Ronnie made certain to introduce them to others, seating them amidst a lively group.
Along with the day’s sport, the protesters provided discussion.
Aunt Daniella, head of the table, listened and laughed. “If people are out here on a brisk Saturday, you know they have nothing else to do. Then again, some people like to be upset, to have a cause that brings them attention.”
Sister happily dropped into a chair. Gray brought her Perrier with lime plus a salad. She thought she wasn’t hungry but once she ate a bit she discovered she was.
Betty, now next to Sister, devoured her macaroni and cheese, always a favorite on a cold day. “Have you all been keeping up with this virus thing?”
Yvonne replied, “Not too much. The information is conflicting.”
“Odd,” Carter simply said.
“As far as we know today, anyway, anyone whose health is compromised with a chronic condition or who just had an operation, or who is older, is more in danger.”
“I’m not worried,” Sister flatly stated. “Old though I may be, I’m in better health than most of the forty-year-olds sitting behind a computer in a corporation. I’m not going to worry until we are given clear information, and even then I have to ask, who does this really benefit?”
“Cynical.” Betty lifted one eyebrow, dropped it. “I am, too. It seems to me if there’s any way someone can figure out how to profit from a virus, they will.”
“Betty.” Kathleen looked at her.
“Well, I’m sick of if Democrats say ‘apples’ then Republicans say ‘bananas.’ Nothing gets done. Why should this be any different? Party is more important than people.”
“You have a point.” Gray nodded. “But we can hope the welfare of our people takes precedence even in Washington; that is, if this turns out to be more serious than we are presently being told.”
Aunt Daniella listened then added, “My parents were in their prime when the Spanish flu hit. So many people were dying. No one knew what to do but they carried on. That was probably the worst thing apart from wars to happen in the twentieth century. I remember in 1949 when the polio epidemic took over. We’d always had polio but this was a wave. Again people carried on. I don’t recall panic. Some people took their children out of schools. Kids did get polio in school but no one knew how. What I predict is no matter what happens, the media will beat it to death and scare the bejesus out of people.”
Freddie said, “Let’s hope the media puts news ahead of profit. Scaring people makes them money but I think all the media, electronic or newspaper, must live up to their true responsibility, to give us the most accurate information they can.”
Carter changed the subject. “We’re almost at the end of the season. Hard to believe. I’ll miss next week but not Saturday. Have to go to Charleston.”
“Lucky you.” Kathleen smiled.
“Clients. The shops on King Street could wipe out any profit I make.”
“Well, Carter, discipline,” Freddie teased him.
“Easier said than done,” he replied.
A beep snatched Carter’s attention from the people. He took his cellphone out of his pocket, stood up, and left the table with an apology.
Elise walked over to Sister. “I’m glad Ronnie wouldn’t give up until Gigi and I said yes to following the hunt in a car. It was fascinating.”
“I look forward to the day when you’re riding with us.” Sister smiled. “If you can take those jumps I saw at your show ring the day hounds ran over there, this will be a piece of cake.”
Sister neglected to say the show ring had flat ground.
“You’re a flatterer.” The newcomer smiled.
“You have all spring and summer. We have trail rides. We visit other hunts for their trail rides. I’ll send you a schedule. Well, Betty will send you a schedule. She’s our hunt secretary. You’ll meet interesting people. Foxhunters aren’t dull.”
Betty grinned at Elise. “Bet you already knew that.”
As the Sabatinis left, Carter rejoined the table. “Betty, Buddy agrees to the price.”
“Good.” Betty beamed.
“Then he told me.” Carter addressed the people at this end of the table. “We’d better make hay while the sun shines, given the increasing attention this virus is getting.”
Once the breakfast broke up Yvonne drove Aunt Daniella and Kathleen to Aunt Daniella’s, where Kathleen had left her car.
“Come on in,” Aunt Daniella invited them.
“Don’t try to feed us,” Yvonne suggested.
“I won’t, but we can have a drink.”
Ribbon investigated everything in the house. The Norfolk terrier had become Yvonne’s constant companion. The three women chatted a bit, talked about the hunt, the members, the breakfast, whatever.
“Well, ladies, best I go home and walk Abdul.”
“Are you worried about the virus?” Yvonne asked as Kathleen stood up.
“A little. My fear is that no one knows what they are doing.”
Aunt Daniella lifted her bourbon as a goodbye gesture. “Kathleen, no one knows what they are doing wherever they are, regardless of profession. It’s all bullshit. If we knew what we were doing, do you think we’d go to work forty hours a week and do it for somebody else?”
CHAPTER 28
March 8, 2020 Sunday
Standing in her tack room, Sister inspected the hunting tack. All was in good order. Church that morning, Reverend Taliaferro gave a sermon on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Usually sermons did not stray into Revelations or literature, as that was a famous novel written by a Spaniard, Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, in 1916.
She stepped out into the center aisle, all cleaned, horses out in their pastures, stepped back in, for it was chilly. Raleigh and Rooster stuck with her. Shutting the door to the tack room, she sat down at the small desk. Lifting up the top, it was an old school desk, she pulled out a notebook and a pencil. She liked No. 1 lead pencils, having good pencil sharpeners in the stable, in the kennels, and at the house.
Raleigh sat next to her, head on her thigh. Rooster sat on the other side.
Looking into those warm eyes she said, “I’m going to list things. You listen. If I read my notes, maybe the lightbulb will click on.”
“Okay.” Both dogs perked their ears.
“Four Sir Alfred Munnings paintings have been stolen. One from Virginia, two from Kentucky, one from New Jersey. While the locations are not bunched together, they are all reachable by car. Right?”
“Right,” the two agreed.
“Three ex-cons have been killed. Although we are not sure that Parker Bell is involved, but he has t
he same two fingers missing from his right hand that the other two victims had. The painting from Lexington, that owner was murdered. All are murdered in the same way, strangled with a lead shank. Then there’s Delores Buckingham, strangled like the others.”
“Yes.”
“No fingerprints. So far nothing. However, where there were trucks they were all of the same type, a box truck, used for delivering high-end sinks, tubs, stuff like that. Most anyone can drive a box truck. They are so ubiquitous as to not cause anyone to pay too much attention.” She looked down again at the dogs. “In each case the thief knew exactly where the painting hung, walked in undetected, and made off with it. And each painting is of a beautiful woman or women riding sidesaddle. So, Raleigh and Rooster, you can see there are similarities, a connecting thread. Who would be no threat? Who deals with wealthy people?”
“Lots of people deal with the rich,” Raleigh replied.
As if understanding her intelligent Doberman, she mused, “Who would be trusted? An art dealer? Who had access to ex-cons and could still be trusted? That’s what trips me up. Most people who work with prisoners or integrates them back into society after they have served their term are social service types. Good people but not the kind that run with the rich. That’s a blank space for me, as is the murder of Delores Buckingham. I can understand why the drivers were murdered, the ex-cons, to shut them up. Surely they knew they were transporting paintings and had no doubt helped steal them. We still don’t know the driver found at Arthur’s Gulf station but he is missing those two fingers so I am banking on him being an ex-con if and when he gets identified. They knew too much for whoever is behind this or they blackmailed the instigator for more money. This has to be masterminded by someone who can move with ease at the high levels of society.” A long, long pause followed this. “Almost any foxhunter would qualify because even if a foxhunter doesn’t have money, they are participating in a sport long associated with the rich. It’s open to all now, but it still has that patina, if you will, and the old, old foxhunters do have money. Golfers at a country club usually have money. People with yachts, say a yacht salesman, would be a candidate. I keep finding threads but nothing ties together.”
Out of Hounds Page 20