by Nancy Martin
“Tottie’s an equal opportunity bastard. But he’ll probably get his comeuppance. Unless he bolts for somewhere sunny that won’t extradite him for stealing millions of—Oh, sorry, kitten. Does that cut your heart out?”
“I’m learning to accept that my parents were idiots, Hadley. At least the money they stole came from our trust funds, for the most part, not from anyone else.”
“Except for pocket change,” Hadley corrected. “I hear they picked a few deep pockets before they—Well, it wasn’t your fault. It’s just too bad you’re a church mouse as a result of their flight to financial freedom. How are you faring in your first job?”
“I’m enjoying it, as a matter of fact. Speaking of which,” I said, “I think it’s time to get started. Care to join me?”
Chapter 2
We mingled for a bit before my sister Libby chose to make her entrance. I caught sight of her chugging toward us in a monstrous hat bedecked with autumn leaves and, yes, pheasant feathers. Combined with her postpartum bosom, which threatened to jiggle out of her jacket as she steamed up the cobblestones, she made quite a sight.
“Libby!” Hadley looked as affronted by her appearance as an Episcopal preacher who’d accidentally wandered into Hooters. “It’s time we had a discussion about birth control.”
“Hello, Hadley,” she gasped, kissing his proffered cheek. “Thank you for sending the silver spoon for my new baby. You have the most beautiful manners when the mood strikes you.”
“I wish I’d sent a diaphragm instead. Is this what childbirth does to you? You look like Dolly Parton just outwrestled a Windsor.”
“Up yours,” she said, still breathless. “Nora, how can you walk out here in those heels? I’m absolutely crippled by these shoes. Have you seen Emma yet?”
“No, but I’m sure she’s here somewhere. She intended to drive her trailer over last night.”
“Yes, it’s parked right out front. Didn’t you see it? And that enormous horse of hers is tied up to the tailgate without his saddle.”
“Well, she’s probably—”
“I mean, he hasn’t been ridden,” Libby said with significance. “Obviously Emma didn’t go out with the hunt this morning.”
Hadley glanced between us. “Unsettling news?”
Nothing should have kept our younger sister from taking her horse, Mr. Twinkles, out onto the field to prove to everyone that, in three counties, they were the boldest, fastest team over fences. I realized Libby wasn’t out of breath from walking. She was upset.
“Do you suppose . . . ?” Libby asked.
Our eyes met, and we shared the same thought.
“Tch, tch,” said Hadley. “What’s Emma done now? Not aiding and abetting an adultery, I hope?”
“Just what the hell do you mean by that?” Libby demanded.
“Or has she been drinking again?”
“Hadley—” I began.
“I saw her at Moonglow last week. She’d had enough vodka to float a Russian submarine.”
“Listen to me, you worm,” Lilly began.
I stepped between them. I was sure neither one could throw a punch worth ducking, but I wasn’t taking chances because I certainly didn’t want to get stuck taking care of her children if my sister ended up hospitalized. “It’s all right, Hadley. We’ve been a little concerned about Emma lately, that’s all.”
“Oh?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“None of your beeswax,” Libby said. “Nora, I’m going to look for Em. You can stay with Sir Lance a Little, if you like.”
She threw a glare at Hadley and stormed away.
“Well, now,” he said.
“Drop it,” I advised. “Or you’ll be invited to the goddess intervention she has planned.”
“How positively obstetrical that sounds. Say no more.”
“Good. Shall we get a drink?”
“You read my mind.” Before we could stroll into the crowd, however, Hadley’s attention was caught by a movement in the shrubbery. He said, “Good heavens, is that a person lurking in the bushes? And what in the world is she doing?”
I followed the inclination of his head and spotted a corduroy-clad figure hiding among yews just a few yards from the walk.
Hadley asked, “Who is it?”
I recognized the woman and sighed. “Gussie Strawcutter.”
“What a good example of how money can’t buy everything. How much do you suppose she’s worth?”
“A few hundred million,” I guessed, feeling a rush of sympathy for Augusta Strawcutter. She had been saddled with the unfortunate nickname Gussie at an early age, when she had been precious enough to carry it off. But now she was the most socially inept woman I knew, and was often called “Gloomy Gus” by even her closest acquaintances. Seeing her once again standing wistfully on the edge of a party made my heart twist.
“Well, surely she could buy herself a decent haircut. But maybe she’s trying to appeal to her customers.”
“Hadley, you are a very naughty man.”
Gussie Strawcutter, heiress to the Strawcutter dog food fortune, would eventually become one of the wealthiest women on the East Coast. Although Gussie didn’t look capable of managing her own hair, let alone a national conglomerate, she was reportedly assuming more and more of the company’s affairs as her father, locked away in an institution now, slowly succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease.
I took a longer look at her crouching behind the tree and decided maybe Hadley was right. She did look a bit like a Chow Chow. A whoosh of reddish-gold hair stood out from her head in a frizzy halo, and her underslung jaw and wide mouth lent a certain canine pugnaciousness to her face. I felt Spike stir in my handbag and clamped it shut, just in case he felt the urge to attack.
“Isn’t she our age?” Hadley asked. “I vaguely remember her in an etiquette class my mother forced me to attend.”
“I can’t imagine you ever needed an etiquette class, Hadley.”
“I spilled some wine between courses when I was seven or eight, so it was off to learn how to mind my manners with Monsieur Muumuu, that ghastly fat Frenchman who always wore caftans—remember him? Poor Gussie was hopeless even then. I think she threw up during the lesson on seafood forks.”
“Let’s go talk to her, Hadley. Put on your good behavior, please.”
I thought our footsteps might have warned Gussie of our approach, but she spun around at last and gasped at finding us so close.
“Oh!” She pushed her glasses up on her nose and blushed.
I saw at once that she had been crying. “Gussie, are you hurt?”
She shook her head and dashed the tears from her face. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.”
“But—”
“Really, I’m fine. Just some dust in my eye, that’s all.” Desperate to come up with the correct greeting, she tried them all in a rush. “Hello, good morning, what a nice day, thank you for coming.”
Hadley blinked at the denim skirt and bulky corduroy jacket that bunched up on her behind and did no favors for Gussie’s square, athletic figure. “Gussie, dear, does that coat actually have a plaid lining?”
“Stuff it, Hadley. Gussie, the club looks unbelievable. Your family must be astonished by the changes.”
“What? Oh, the changes, yes.”
“How long ago did your family donate this property to the club?”
“My great-grandfather got rid of it. It was a drain on our resources.”
Family history was obviously less important to the Strawcutters than to my family.
I tried again to draw her out. “Do you often visit here?”
“Not much.”
“But your husband hunts, doesn’t he?”
Gussie knew she was failing a social quiz. Nervously, she tried to smile, which revealed poppy seeds in her teeth. “Yes, he loves horses.”
Her husband, Rush, was everything Gussie was not—sweet-tempered and attractive in a gangly, geek-grown-up kind of way. He had a shy smile and usually t
raveled with a motley pack of small dogs he’d adopted. Rushton Strawcutter was also unusual because he had taken the last name of his wife’s family upon marriage. Since the Strawcutters were synonymous with dog food nationwide and Rush had enthusiastically plunged into the family business, it seemed logical for him to ditch his own name to join the Strawcutter clan. With all the personality Gussie lacked, he was probably a welcome addition to the company.
“I haven’t seen Rush yet today,” I said, still trying to coerce Gussie into a conversation. “Did he enjoy the hunt this morning?”
“I don’t know. I—I’ll go look for him.”
“It’s hopeless,” Hadley muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“I didn’t mean—Wait, I’ll go with you, Gussie.”
She blushed again and turned away. “Oh, no, no. I’ll go by myself.”
With a little gasp that might have been a strangled sob, she rushed away toward the barns.
“How can a woman with so many advantages be such a loser?”
“You’re heartless, Hadley. I’ve never seen her so emotional.”
“I know. She actually had some personality for once.”
“I’m going after her.”
“Then this is where we part ways, because I’m dying for a drink. Bye, kitten. Mention me in the newspaper.”
Hadley strolled away. Spike finally succeeded in wrestling his head out of my handbag and gave Hadley a parting snarl. I gripped his collar and held tight.
Gussie Strawcutter had hurried off through the crowd and disappeared, so I took a deep breath and plunged into the party. Time to get to work on my article for the paper. Spike peered out from under my elbow, doing his best impression of a moray eel lurking for unsuspecting prey.
In spite of the cold morning, people seemed to be enjoying themselves. I saw flushed faces and plates of breakfast treats circulating. Friends called my name, and I joined their group. Jane Frampton and her brother Donald, treasurer of the humane society and avid dalmatian fancier, were full of high spirits and demanded to know what had become of me since I’d last seen them at the autumn zoo fund-raiser. We chatted, and I asked about Donald’s involvement in today’s event. He filled me in on details. I made notes with pad and pen.
Then Donald guided me through some milling horses to the petite woman who’d organized the breakfast. Thomasina Silk was as cool as a martini in the midst of entertaining nearly two hundred people and scores of horses. A veteran horsewoman who had given up riding after breaking her back in a legendary fall at the Devon Horse Show, a healed but frail Thomasina didn’t ride anymore. She bred quality Hanoverian jumpers and was the behind-the-scenes power-house at Tri-County. Dressed in a ladylike knee-length tweed skirt and fitted jacket with a discreet show of lace at the collar and cuffs, she finished checking the forelegs of a noble-looking beast and dismissed him with a hearty slap on the rump. Dusting off her hands, she gave me the lowdown on the fund-raiser.
“What kind of dog is that?” Thomasina squinted at Spike when he displayed his teeth with diabolical flair. “A wire fox? Jack Russell?”
“A miniature pit bull,” I told her, straight-faced. “Not recognized by the kennel club yet.”
“Not very friendly, is he?” Her brows pinched suspiciously. “Are you taking him to obedience class?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
She shook her head and reached into her pocket for a business card. “If you don’t make an effort now, you’ll regret it for the rest of his life. Call me at that number and I’ll set you up with a trainer I know. She’s the best for hopeless cases.”
“Thanks.”
Thomasina grabbed my arm just in time to yank me out of the way of a huge chestnut horse that lunged at the end of the reins held by a pixie hardly big enough to reach his massive shoulders.
“Sorry!” The girl laughed, her gimlet eyes still alight with the excitement of the hunt. “Come on, Genghis!”
It was Merrie Naftzinger, I realized, all grown up since I’d attended her eighth birthday party at the Four Seasons a few years ago. She wore a bowler hat and sported blue rubber bands on her braces.
An idea hit me.
“Merrie,” I said, “how about having your picture taken for the newspaper? You and Genghis?”
“Hi, Miss Blackbird! Sure, you can take our picture. If I can get him to stand still a minute.”
Thomasina stepped forward with a businesslike air that Genghis recognized immediately. I dashed off to find the Intelligencer photographer, and by the time we came back, Genghis was standing at attention and Merrie looked flushed and pleased. I herded Thomasina and Donald into the photo, too, and in seconds the deed was done. I thanked the photographer and everyone concerned, reserving special attention for Merrie.
“Come see my dad,” she said. “He’s over in the barn.”
Keeping a safe distance from Genghis’s lethal-looking hind legs, I followed Merrie across the cobblestones to the east wing of the barn. We skirted groups of people and various heaps of riding gear that cluttered the walkway. Canvas chairs stood outside most of the stalls, with thermoses and heavy clothing in evidence. Some horses were already stabled, and put their heads out of the Dutch doors to watch the action. Riders busily attended their mounts. The scents of sawdust, saddle soap and exertion overpowered the cold air.
Tim Naftzinger was stripping off his mud-spattered scarlet coat, obviously having just finished cleaning up his horse.
I had first met Tim years ago when he’d been a medical school classmate of my late husband, who had introduced Tim even then as “one of the good guys.” Now Dr. Naftzinger was a respected pediatrician, and I knew he was destined for great things. We hadn’t seen much of each other in the last two years, which had been no accident. Tim felt guilty, I think, for not saving my husband from the drug life. I couldn’t help feeling the same way, despite all the friends who urged me to believe I couldn’t have made a difference when my husband turned into a cocaine-burning comet that blazed off on a trajectory to oblivion.
Tim saw me behind Merrie and went still. “Nora,” he said, a nanosecond too late. “Great to see you.”
“Hi.” I put my hand out to shake his. “I just commandeered your daughter for a newspaper photo. I hope you don’t mind.”
He managed a smile. “Not a bit. I hope she didn’t break the camera.”
“Da-ad!” Merrie laughed and disappeared into the next stall with her horse.
“Merrie’s all grown up,” I said. “She’s going to be tall, just like her father.”
“Fortunately, the rest of her looks come from her mom.”
I smiled, too, but felt a pang. “How is Caroline?”
Tim shrugged. “About the same.”
His wife’s coma had lasted almost a year now, I calculated. They had been skiing, and she’d skidded on ice and struck a tree. Tim still looked as shell-shocked as he had at the beginning of his ordeal.
I said, “I went to see her in August. I just sat and talked for an hour.”
“That was nice. Thanks.”
There must have been a time when Tim and I could make conversation. Maybe we had talked about the med school softball tournament or whether we should go sailing on the weekend or maybe run up to New York to see a play. I couldn’t remember. Before Merrie was born, Caroline collected early pewter, and I occasionally tagged along with her to estate sales. We’d meet our husbands at the end of the day for cozy dinners. But eventually Todd became unreliable and Tim had checked his watch often at our restaurant tables, while Caroline talked with too much vivacity to cover my pain and embarrassment. Merrie’s birth had given Caroline and Tim a graceful excuse to stop our weekend socializing altogether, and when Todd died, essentially so had our relationship.
Now, with both our spouses gone, there seemed nothing to talk about without bleeding all over each other.
Merrie bounded out of the stall and clipped a nylon web in place of the door. She put her bowler in her teeth and str
uggled to get a scrunchie around her ponytail.
I went over and took the hat from her mouth. “Here, let me help. Did you have a great ride today?”
“Wonderful! Genghis went over every fence, even the coop. Did you see us, Dad?”
“Sure did, Mer. You looked like a pro.”
“All those lessons with Emma are really paying off. Do you ride, Miss Blackbird? Like your sister?”
“Nobody rides like Emma.”
Tim laughed. “Nora was the one who fell off her pony in the middle of Orchard Pond once.”
“I’m still thawing out,” I told Merrie. “Has Emma been teaching you to play poker as well as jump fences?”
She finished her ponytail with a flourish. “No, just working on my riding. She’s been great, hasn’t she, Dad?”
“Yes,” said Tim.
I said, “She hasn’t made you ride Mr. Twinkles yet, has she?”
“Oh, no, he’s too wild for me. But we’ve been working with Genghis.” She gave her horse’s nose an affectionate rub. “Dad says we won’t have to sell him to the glue factory after all.”
Tim smiled.
To me, Merrie said, “Emma says he might be ready for eventing next summer. She’s going to take us around in her trailer. That is, if Dad says it’s okay.”
“We’ll see,” said Tim, making no promises. “Are you ready for some breakfast?”
“I’m starving!”
“Me, too,” said her father. He slid his arm affectionately across Merrie’s shoulders. “Finish taking care of Genghis, and we’ll eat.”
Merrie looked at me. “Would you like to come with us?”
Tim stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Actually, I should go talk to more people.”
“Okay, maybe we’ll catch you in the tent.”
When she dashed into the box stall, I said to Tim, “She’s a delightful kid.”
He didn’t meet my eye, but continued to untangle a bridle. “Yeah, she’s great.”
“I’m glad Emma’s been able to work with her. Sounds as if they get along really well.”