“Don’t hurry. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“I usually assume a criminal is male, the stats support that, but this person could be male or female, maybe wellborn or has learned the manners of those who are.” She tapped her pencil on her forehead.
“We have good manners,” Rooster bragged. “We could get into rich homes.”
“Maybe,” Raleigh corrected him. “Some people are weird about dogs.”
“I doubt this is someone young. Has to be someone established. Okay. I say this is a man or woman, middle-aged, smooth manners, attractive, can talk to anybody. Actually, we have some men in the club who fit that bill. Gray is handsome, can deal with senators, corporate heads; Kasmir; Crawford, but he’s rough around the edges; umm, Walter. Now there’s something. A doctor can go anywhere. Hadn’t thought of that. Carter, another smoothie, and his friend Buddy Cadwalder. Gigi Sabatini has a big business but he’s not really smooth. He’s not badly mannered, but the polish isn’t there. You guys, now what?”
“Wait for another murder or theft?” Rooster offered.
“Hey, someone’s coming.” Raleigh stood up and barked.
The motor cut off. Sister rose, went to the outside door. “Good God.” She opened the door. “Come in.”
Jordan Standish stepped into the tack room, inhaling for the first time the aroma of oiled leather and eau de cheval. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were at the 1780 House?”
“You didn’t ask. Sit down. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Will those dogs bite?”
“No, not unless you threaten me. You were lucky no one was hurt yesterday. No horse spooked. No one fell off.”
Jordan fiddled with the zipper of his heavy jacket, running it down, for the room was seventy degrees. “Are you going to press charges?”
“No. You weren’t trespassing on my land. You trespassed on Kasmir Barbhaiya’s land.”
His lower jaw jutted out slightly. “Can you ask him not to do that?”
“No.”
“We won’t disrupt a hunt again.”
“Once was enough. You really were lucky no damage was done to people or property.” She remained cool.
He heated up a little. “Foxhunting is cruel. All hunting is cruel.”
“People kill one another every day. Women and children are raped and beaten. First, I don’t think hunting is cruel if responsibly done. Second, why don’t you focus on the big issues?”
His face reddened. “It’s elitist.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Are you more concerned about us chasing foxes we don’t kill than you are about the violence humans inflict upon one another?”
He sat there mute as maggots…finally, “It’s so frivolous.”
“Beating women or hunting?”
“What purpose does it serve? Hunting, I mean.”
“Well, I keep moving, for one thing. I’m, we are all, out in fresh air, we must keep fit, and we see the beauty of nature. There’s no such thing as a foxhunter who is not an environmentalist. But Mr. Standish, what do you think of golfers? Skiers? Surfers? What about someone who goes out in the bay with a small sailboat? Have you no hobbies? Are you intent on removing all passions and joys? A modern Oliver Cromwell?”
“I want to improve Virginia.”
He knew little about Cromwell.
“Banning foxhunting isn’t the way to do it. Try this, Mr. Standish, one out of eleven children in this state has slept on the streets at night; Virginia, the best-managed state in the union. At least that’s what those kind of listings say. For years we top that list. So how about addressing that instead of fooling around with foxhunting?”
“New people are pouring into Virginia. They don’t believe in foxhunting, shooting, you know, guns.”
“And you intend to be their leader? Have you ever shot skeet?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“It’s a good hobby. Need hand-eye coordination and you can do it pretty much by yourself, with one person to loosen the target. Or clays; anything, really. It’s relaxing. Just you and an inanimate, moving target. But perhaps you can’t enjoy anything that doesn’t align with your purpose.”
“So you will not willingly stop foxhunting?” He evaded her questions.
“No and neither will any other hunt club. Have you any idea how much money horse-related activities pour into this state? Over one billion dollars. One billion. Do you want to be the elected official, say you get elected, who costs the state one billion dollars? And the horse world is a clean world. No pollution discharged into our rivers, no destroying our beautiful land for housing developments. You really ought to think this through.”
“I knew you wouldn’t listen.”
“I have listened. You do as you wish with your campaign but those who agree with you aren’t, shall we say, our people. Few will have been born here. Even if you continue to think badly of us, you have to make compromises to lead.”
“Our president doesn’t.”
“Mr. Standish, he makes compromises every day, even if he denies them. So did every prior president.”
“Did you vote for Trump?”
“Did you?”
“Never. I’ll vote Democratic.”
“You think they aren’t hypocrites?”
This made him squirm. “The rich are the problem. The corporations are the problem.”
“Given your refusal to answer my questions, I will assume women and children are the problem as well as any man who doesn’t think like you.”
“I never said that.” He raised his voice.
“You can’t go around attacking people’s pleasures. I am sure Mr. Barbhaiya will press charges. He is his own man. If you want to succeed in politics, focus on the big issues. Creating an uproar over less important matters might arouse emotions, gain you followers, but you’ll be like every other half-wit who lies his way into office, sits on his fat ass, and does nothing.”
“I’ll make things better.” He paused. “You are not what I expected.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She smiled, an irresistible smile. “Now let me ask you something that has nothing to do with politics. If you masterminded a plan to steal valuable art, million dollars’ worth of art, what would you do with it?”
“I would, uh…” He paused. “Find a black market.” He thought again. “Not in America. How can you hide a million-dollar painting?”
“I agree. When you go home, look up on your computer Sir Alfred Munnings. Four of his paintings have been stolen within a month. Not a trace of them or even a lead as to who has stolen them. Equine art, much of it about foxhunting and racing, I should add. Worth millions, some of his works are over three, four million apiece, the big ones.”
“Big as in size?”
“Yes.”
He stood up. “I will think on what you’ve said.”
“Ditto. You can come to a hunt anytime you wish. I will have someone drive you around. I bear you no ill will, Mr. Standish, but I will fight if I must.”
As he drove away in a fairly new Honda Accord, a nice car, she watched the exhaust curl out of the tailpipe.
“Ah, Raleigh and Rooster, even the politically correct emit carbon dioxide. And you know, there is no way to live out in the country without driving distances. No public transportation. Not much of anything. One has to be self-reliant. Oh well, come on. I’ve made my list. I know something about our killer. I think of the mastermind as the killer; even if he didn’t strangle anyone, he gave the orders. My hunch is, not only does this person understand equine art, he is part of or at the edges of the horse world or the art world. Not a happy thought.”
Unbeknownst to her, other unhappy thoughts lurked just around the corner.
CHAPTER 29
March 9, 2020 Monday
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Matchplay and Midshipman, two almost five-year-old Thoroughbreds walked along the farm road. Weevil and Tootie worked with them. Both horses had hunted, Midshipman a touch older than Matchplay. Next year they’d be ready for consistent hunting, the big hunts. Following behind rode Sister on Matador and Betty on Outlaw. They’d trotted a half mile, walked, trotted again up hills, and now walked once more.
Sister believed trotting or walking up hills muscled up hindquarters, aided balance. Most any horse can negotiate a flat arena or show ring. Jumping over uneven territory, jumps set where they could be set, called for a bold animal, steady nerves. Those drop jumps could get you.
The four wore turtlenecks, old short jackets over that. Spring nudged forward but the swollen red buds on deciduous trees had yet to open. Daffodils popped up and in some places the forsythia burst open. The temperature rested in the high forties, pleasant, but one needed a jacket and gloves, warm long socks under boots helped.
“Have you been watching the news?” Betty asked Weevil, to her left.
“Not much. What’s the latest?”
“Some public officials are predicting we will be hard hit by the coronavirus. Others are saying it’ll be like a bad cold, don’t worry. But since this subject comes up for every news report, I’d bet things are not good,” Betty answered him.
Tootie piped up. “Mom says once the doctors get on the air, especially those who are government appointees, people will take this seriously.”
“The only thing I can gather is that the virus transmits easily.” Sister looked up at a startling blue sky. “On a day like today it seems that nothing could go wrong.”
She had told them about Jordon Standish’s visit. They all gave him credit for coming to her face-to-face even if it was to try to avoid charges. His programs seemed far-fetched but possibly not to a suburban person or someone in a city. They exhausted that topic on the way from the stable. The return called for other topics.
“Is your mother going to hunt closing hunt?” Weevil asked Tootie.
“She swears she is. Sam said he will take her to Horse Country Wednesday. She’s determined to look perfect.”
“That won’t be hard.” Betty smiled. “Say, Sister, have you heard anything from Crawford?”
“No. Sam mentioned that he is obsessed with finding the painting. Good luck to him.” The older woman now rode Matador on the buckle.
“So the high-priced detective hasn’t turned up anything?” Weevil wondered.
“Actually he did. They finally identified the driver found in Kentucky. The men killed had all worked in Atlantic City in the casinos. Still don’t know about the driver at the Gulf Station.”
“Cardsharks,” Betty said with satisfaction.
“Yes, but each had been arrested in Virginia for petty theft, stealing from convenience stores, holding them up. Over time, as they served their time, they were sent to Goochland to learn to work with horses. Not all were incarcerated at the same time, but it’s possible they knew one another.”
“Sister, that’s something.” Betty dismounted as they’d reached the stables. Once inside each of them untacked their horse, wiped down the animal, no one was really sweaty, threw on a blanket, then repaired to the tack room to clean the tack. The working tack was cleaned as thoroughly as the tack reserved for hunting.
As they worked away Sister told them her conclusions, the thoughts she’d written down yesterday.
“Maybe the mastermind was at the prison facility, too. Maybe that’s how he gathered his team,” Betty thought.
“Could be.” Weevil cleaned the simple D-ring bit with fresh water, then wiped it with a clean rag, paying attention to every detail. “It’s fate how people meet both good and bad.”
“I believe that,” Betty chimed in. “I often think everyone you meet has a message for you.”
“My message for you is hand me that girth.” Sister poked fun at her.
“Hey, you’re lucky I didn’t hand you a Fennell’s lead shank.”
They heard a car engine then it cut off. A knock on the door revealed Carter.
“Come in.” Sister motioned for him.
“Well, this is a busy crew.” He smiled. “Our hunting season may be over. There’s talk of shutting things down.”
“So far no one has said or done anything,” Sister replied. “We’ll hunt from Foxden tomorrow. I don’t want to fuel panic and you know how people can get. I’ll wait and see.”
“I’m driving down to my boat tomorrow,” Carter informed them. “If this does fire up, I want to make sure everything is shipshape.”
“How often do you go?” Tootie was curious.
“I check once a month in the winter but when the weather warms up I sometimes stay down there for weeks. Anyway, thought I would check in.” He looked at Weevil, winked, then left.
“Weevil, why don’t we all walk up to the schoolhouse tomorrow and cast there? Sort of a reverse cast.”
“Yes, Madam.” He smiled.
“You are so polite.” She smiled back.
As they left the barn to go home, Weevil opened his car door, found the small package, nicely wrapped, on the driver’s seat, put it in his pocket. Carter had left it for him. Weevil would decide when to give it to Tootie.
They worked well together, liked each other. He knew better than to court her in the conventional sense, but this was a present he had to give her. Maybe after the last hunt of the season.
Sister walked up to the house. Gray’s Land Cruiser sat outside. She was glad he was back from yet another short business trip.
She opened the door, heard the dogs barking as she hung up her coat.
“Hey, honey, I’m home,” she called out.
He called back, “I’m in the library, watching all hell break loose.”
She hurried in, dropped down next to him. “It’s kind of like watching the pot call the kettle dirty, isn’t it?”
“Well, honey, just in case, we’d better make some preparations.”
“Hunt tomorrow.”
“I know, but afterward I’ll make a run to Harris Teeter. If people get scared they will buy everything.”
“We have enough.”
“For how long? I mean it. I think people will go crazy.”
“Scare tactics?”
He flipped to CNN then to Fox then to CBS. “Thought I’d check the different flavors. One thing no one can refute is that China has been overwhelmed, Italy’s starting to slide, and Angela Merkel is taking no prisoners. It’s here that it’s murky.”
She silently watched. “What do you think?”
“I think after hunting tomorrow we should talk to Walter. Rich people will be buying freezers and buying all the meat in the stores. I mean, if some agreement doesn’t soon emerge between our federal government and the medical professionals. In a case like this, best to trust your governor.”
“Fortunately, our governor is a physician.”
“Yes, he is.” Gray put his arm around her. “At this point I’m more wary of other people than the virus.”
“Well, let’s take it a day at a time.”
CHAPTER 30
March 10, 2020 Tuesday
Fog as thin as a veil shrouded the old schoolhouse at Foxglove Farm.
A light mist swirled, barely visible. Hounds waited for Weevil’s instructions and the field waited by the clapboard schoolhouse, still inviting and still sturdy although abandoned in the 1960s when bussing became the method, children hauled to large schools, consolidated districts that created rectangular, big, mostly ugly new schoolhouses.
In the distance below, Sister beheld the huge cow and her son, Clytemnestra and Orestes, in a paddock. The Jefferson Hunt always parked by the stables and the cow barn, to Clytemnestra’s irritation. Best to be distant from the enormous crab.
This Tuesday the field swelled to thirty-some people. Given the continuing bad news about the coronavirus, many members felt this would be the last hunt despite the season’s normal end in mid-March.
Rickyroo, Sister’s bay Thoroughbred, waited as patiently as the hounds. He did wonder why every nose had to be accounted for before they took off.
“All right, then, lieu in.” Weevil cast downhill from the schoolhouse.
The gray vixen Georgia lived in the schoolhouse in splendor. She rarely gave hounds a run but the hope was another fox may have visited her, sort of like visiting your rich aunt. Georgia had everything, plus Cindy Chandler would open the door, put in a large bowl of dog food sprinkled with treats. If weather turned ugly Georgia need not trouble herself. Sister fussed at Cindy because the fox didn’t give them runs, staying right where life was easy. Cindy would laugh, which settled it, as no one could argue with such an inviting laugh.
So down the terrace they would ride once off the flat site, down to the two ponds at lower levels before them. The small waterwheel sending water from the upper pond to the lower via a buried pipe, end sticking out at the lower pond.
Hounds veered toward the woods to the right of this. The moisture intensified scent.
“Someone.” Diana kept walking.
Her littermate, the egotistical Dragon, walked beside her. “Red.”
“Yes. We’ll see.” She continued walking but not speaking.
Dragon irritated many of the other hounds but none so much as his own littermates. Diana seemed to be the only one who could work with him, so his hunting days were limited to hunting with her. He was fast, strong, and determined, which was the good part. He thought nothing of pushing another hound off the line, going first, taking credit. The younger hounds would now push back, so Weevil had to keep an eye on him.
Ardent walked fast then trotted. “Two of them.”
The scent, having warmed, revealed a double line. The humans had no idea but the hounds, noses down, now trotted. Finally all opened.
Out of Hounds Page 21