Outfoxed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I’m sure you are. I passed Fontaine on Soldier Road. That mouth of his is an inexhaustible motor. He is a person entirely lacking in self-control.” Crawford realized he was going on in the wrong vein. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did he say?”

  “He had words with you, etc. . . .” Crawford glanced from Sister to Doug and before he could say anything she added, “He’s not going to repeat what you say.” She paused and with a malicious little grin said, “But I might.”

  At that moment, too self-important, brimming with wounded pride, Crawford sputtered, “I don’t care who you tell. He’s damned lucky I didn’t call the sheriff.”

  The blow to his jaw, turning an interesting shade of reddish blue, bore testimony to Fontaine’s aim.

  “Did you ice it down?” Doug politely asked.

  “Yes. He caught me off guard. If he’d given me fair warning I could have defended myself,” said the man who couldn’t. Crawford, reared in suburban luxury, had never been in a fistfight in his life.

  “Fontaine was born with an unfortunate infirmity of temper.” A wry smile played over Sister’s lips as she dipped the clean sponge in a white jar labeled SADDLE BUTTER. A friend sent Sister the tack conditioner from out west and she found it the best stuff she’d ever used.

  “What do you mean?”

  Crawford evidenced little appreciation for the subtleties of the English language.

  “Hothead. Fontaine’s always been a hothead.”

  “Oh.”

  Sister held out the brow band at arm’s length. “Doug, we dipped this at the beginning of the summer. It still looks good. I’ll just wipe it down with the butter.”

  He reached over, rubbing the leather between thumb and forefinger. “Yes. Fine.”

  Sister pointed to the tack dripping oil into the bucket. “I need a couple of warmish days before opening hunt or I’m going to soak up all that oil on my breeches. I should have done this at the beginning of September but I never found the time. Time speeds by me like light.” She put the plain, flat hunting bridle back together as she talked.

  The deep rich brown of the English leather bore no adornment, no lines cut into the sides, no raised portions, just excellent flat leather. An old friend had made her this bridle before he died. It was his last gift to her—that and a lifetime of friendship. As her hands flew over the supple yet strong leather, she felt the edges which he had minutely beveled.

  “Sister, I’ll cut to the chase.” Crawford liked to use expressions he heard bandied about in his business. These were generally sports allusions or sexual allusions designed to make the speaker appear manly and in control. Usually whoever mouthed such stuff was neither, although Crawford was, in a business sense anyway. “I believe Fontaine should be removed from Jefferson Hunt.”

  “He has committed no crime which reflects badly upon the hunt.”

  “Not true. He simply hasn’t been caught. He is an adulterer and he’s violent.”

  “Oh, Crawford.” Sister wrapped the thin chin strap around the bridle in a figure eight. “There’d be no one left were those the criteria. You yourself would fail the test.”

  “I never went to bed with Tiffany. Not until I separated from Martha. You may not believe me but it’s the truth.”

  The drip, drip of the oil punctuated the silence as Sister thought of a neutral response. “That showed admirable restraint. However, I can’t toss people out of the hunt for being human. Sexual escapades are a common and often amusing human frailty. Besides, Crawford, we have to have something to talk about, otherwise conversation descends to the weather or worse, politics.”

  “You are a tolerant woman.”

  Before he could continue she shot back, “Masters need to be.”

  “Why? Your word is law.”

  “My word is law until each year when the board of governors of the club elects their master.”

  “As long as you live, you’ll be elected master. You know that.”

  “Crawford, if I could afford a private pack I would have one. Believe me. A subscription pack is an invitation for endless political maneuvering and there’s enough maneuvering being a master as it is. Dealing with landowners, for example. Making certain one complies with all Masters of Foxhounds rulings and bylaws. And remember, the MFHA sits in Leesburg. We, in Virginia and Maryland, are right under their noses. You do it right or you get the boot.”

  “But you can still remove a member.”

  “No, I can’t. Only the master of a private pack can remove someone from the roster. I can remove a member from the field.”

  “You could petition the board.” He glowered, which made him look like a middle-aged child angry about having to go to bed.

  “No. Fontaine has endangered no one in the field. He has shown respect to master and staff. Whatever his quarrel with you, it’s between the two of you.”

  “But it’s over the joint-mastership!” Crawford exploded.

  “No.” Her voice was firm. “The joint-mastership allows you two to compete openly. You’re like oil and water. And kindly remember, I do not have to appoint a joint-master.”

  “You can’t appoint one. You have to ask the board’s approval.” With that statement Crawford betrayed the fact that he would use the bylaws of the club not only to dislodge Fontaine but to try and force himself on Sister if he gained enough board support. If he could remove Sister he would, but he knew that was impossible. Crawford hadn’t a clue as to what Sister did as master other than she was responsible for hiring and firing staff and maintaining territory. He wanted a position of power and respect in this community. It took him a while but he learned that money wasn’t enough in Virginia. It helped but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to lord it over people. What better position than joint-master? And when Sister went to her reward he had enough money to bribe everyone. He’d be sole master.

  Crawford had half learned his lesson about money. The other half would come back to haunt him, namely that even poor people can’t always be bribed. Many Virginians still believed in honor, quaint as that concept might be in the twenty-first century.

  “You are exactly right. But I don’t have to recommend anyone.”

  “The board can suggest you take a joint-master.”

  “They can but they won’t,” she replied with the confidence of a person who knows how things get done.

  “You’ve got to end this impasse. What if you died during opening hunt?”

  “I’d die happy.”

  “But the club would be thrown into chaos. You need an understudy—an understudy with a fat checkbook. I can supply this club with a great many things, including building a separate kennel for the half-grown hounds. I know you don’t like to turn them out with the big boys and the puppy kennel gets overcrowded.”

  Her patience wearing thin, Sister stood up, putting her hands in the small of her back. “Crawford. If you are that rich, if you love hunting as much as you say you do, if you love Jefferson Hunt as much as you say you do, you know what—you’d spend the money for the love of the sport. We’d name the goddamn kennel after you.”

  As Sister rarely swore to someone not close to her, Doug’s eyes widened, his shoulders stiffened. He knew that Crawford didn’t know she was really, truly pissed off.

  He snarled. “Only a fool spends money without getting something out of it.”

  “Which proves my point. You don’t love foxhunting as much as you love being important. You want joint-M.F.H. behind your name. It’s a bargain for you, Crawford. To be a master, to be a huntsman, to be a whipper-in, you have to love it. You have to eat, sleep, and breathe hunting, knowing all the while that most people don’t understand what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. People outside of Virginia, I mean.”

  “Maryland,” Doug laconically added.

  “Well, yes. And parts of Pennsylvania.” Sister was loath to credit anyone north of the Mason-Dixon line.

  “Red Rock, Nevada.” Doug, his green eyes alight, smiled.
<
br />   “Doug, I know that. Anyway, Crawford, Americans live in cities now. The old ways are lost to them. They think we ride about shooting fox with guns. They think we’re all rich snobs. They haven’t a clue. So you have to love it because you aren’t going to get respect outside of Virginia.” She glanced at Doug. “And a few other important spots.”

  “I know that. I don’t need a lecture on the reality of foxhunting.”

  Doug stood up. “You need one on manners, Mr. Howard. It won’t do to worrit Sister.” He used the old form of “worry.”

  Crawford cut him off. “If you want to mix with white people, then you ought to learn how to use the King’s English. Don’t say birfday. Birthday. Ask not ax. You people can’t learn to talk.”

  “Crawford. That’s quite enough.” Sister, enraged, choked out the words.

  Doug, who cared little what a wimp thought of him, growled like one of the hounds. “Mr. Howard, if you trouble Sister anymore, I’ll decorate the other side of your jaw and for the record, if you become joint-master I will resign as first whipper-in.”

  “I wouldn’t have you anyway.” Crawford looked to Sister. “Damned half-breed doesn’t know his place. You dote on him. You dote on him as though he were your son. It’s understandable but he’s not your son.”

  “Crawford”—her tone deepened, her speech slowed—“I will overlook your desire to be master in any way you can manage. Ambition is a curious thing. I cannot overlook your attitude and insult to Doug. And you’re absolutely right, he is like a son to me. Now I suggest you leave us. I also suggest you take the opportunity to review this conversation. Furthermore, however you feel about Fontaine, Doug, and myself, I expect you to behave like a gentleman at opening hunt. Good day, sir.”

  “Get your ass outta here.” Raleigh, an imposing presence, stood next to Sister, his mouth slightly ajar.

  Crawford snatched his expensive rain gear off the coat-rack, slamming the door on his way out.

  “Really.” Golly fluffed her fur, then stood up, stretched, turned in a circle, and lay down again.

  As Crawford started his motor, Sister sat back down, then stood up again, tossing the bucket of wash water down the industrial sink, filling it again.

  “Money and the demons it incubates,” was all she said as she and Doug returned to their task.

  CHAPTER 30

  Along with the steady rain, charcoal clouds obscured the mountains, pressing down into the dark green pastures. The tops of ancient oaks, walnuts, and hickories were tangled in the low clouds. Overtop the rivers and creeks the mists hung thick but there the color was bright silver. Occasionally a patch of clearness would appear and the flash of red maple or orange oak was startling.

  As Fontaine turned back toward town, his silver Jaguar, swallowed in the rain and mist, was almost invisible save for his headlights. He laughed to himself as he passed Crawford Howard on his way to Sister Jane’s. Crawford’s Mercedes, a metallic deep red, would be hard to miss even in the thickest fog. Crawford, hands gripping the wheel, eyes intent on his side of the road, neither waved nor acknowledged Fontaine, a breach of manners in the country.

  Fontaine laughed to himself as he pulled over to the one-story white store at the crossroads. Low-pressure systems made him sleepy. If he ate chocolate or something loaded with sugar, he could usually keep from nodding out.

  ROGER’S CORNER, a long rectangular sign proclaimed on top of the roof. Two lights aimed at the sign illuminated the rain and clouds more than the sign.

  Fontaine liked Roger’s Corner, especially the worn wooden floors, the ornate black-and-gold cash register.

  “Hey, bro,” Roger, amiable, called out from behind the counter. “Cuts to the bone, don’t it?”

  “Makes me tired.” Fontaine scooped up Moon Pies, Yankee Doodles, and a small round coffee cake. “Your coffee potable today or do I need a sledgehammer to break it up?”

  “Ha ha,” Roger dryly replied as he poured him a cup of strong, good coffee, not café au lait or anything fancy, just wake-you-up coffee.

  Roger had inherited the store from Roger Senior. Both were attractive men, lean and long-jawed.

  Fontaine drank the coffee as he leaned against the counter. The cellophane wrapper on the coffee cake crinkled as Fontaine opened it. “Every time I go to New York City I buy these coffee cakes made by Drake’s. Can’t get them down here. I mean these are okay but those little Drake’s things are the best. I love the crumbs on top.”

  “Never been there.”

  “Gotta go, buddy, gotta go.”

  “If Yankees will stay on their side of the Mason-Dixon line, I’ll stay on mine,” Roger joked.

  “There is that. Hey, Cody been by here?”

  “No. Thought she was in rehab. Betty stopped by last week. Told me. Both kids.” He shook his head, for it was too confusing.

  “People are gonna do what they’re gonna do.” He polished off the coffee cake. “Maybe those places give folks some understanding.” He beamed. “If it feels good, they’ll do it again.”

  “That’s just it, though, isn’t it? Feels good when you’re doing it and feels bad when you’re not.”

  “Life’s just one big hangover.” He held out his cup for a refill.

  “Had a few of those.” Roger laughed.

  “Coming to opening hunt?”

  Roger, a foot follower, enthusiastically said, “Best breakfast of the year.”

  “Muffin hound.”

  “I do my share of running. Tell you who did blow through here . . . Crawford. Not twenty minutes ago. He asked me what my annual take was.” Roger laughed. “I said, ‘Why do you want to know?’ and he said, ‘I’d like to buy this place.’ I don’t know what to make of that guy.”

  “Would you sell it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Man’s gotta work at something.”

  “If he gives you a fair price, you can work at something else. But that man’s a snake.”

  “You know, he might be.” Roger, like a bartender, tried to stay out of other people’s disagreements and personality clashes. “When I first met him I thought he couldn’t pull piss out of a boot if the directions were on the heel. I was wrong. He’s smart enough but he’s not—what am I trying to say?”

  “No practical knowledge. Couldn’t start up a chain saw if his life depended on it.”

  “Kinda.”

  The small pile of cellophane, white wrappers, and napkins diverted Fontaine’s attention. “Did I eat all that?”

  “Yep.”

  He sighed. “Better go straight to the gym. See you, bud.”

  However, he didn’t head for the gym. He headed for Cody’s place, taking the precaution of parking his car behind old holly bushes.

  He knocked on the door, rain funneling off his cowboy hat like a downspout.

  Hairbrush in hand, she opened the door. “Fontaine, what are you doing here?”

  He stepped inside. “You look as wet as I do.”

  A towel wrapped around her head looked like a fuzzy turban. Her white bathrobe was worn thin at the elbows.

  “I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Fontaine didn’t unzip his raincoat.

  “I needed time to think.”

  “I thought that’s what you were doing in rehab.”

  “I did. I needed time to think in my own place.” She stuffed her hairbrush in her pocket. “I need to change a lot of things, break a lot of habits.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t see you anymore. I guess this is as good a time as any to end it.”

  “Why don’t you settle back in before you make sweeping decisions,” he smoothly replied, his voice pleasant, seductive.

  “I need to be clear. Look, you’ll always have a mistress somewhere. It’s your nature. For all I know you’ve got two or three stashed in Richmond or Washington. I don’t know. You’re a player.”

  “Only you,” he lied.

  While he chased skirts with a kind of predictable boredom,
he liked Cody. He liked any woman that could ride well, hold her liquor, and make love with abandon.

  “I can’t do it.” Her lips compressed.

  “Anyone else?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

  “One other thing, Fontaine, and I mean this. You stay away from my sister.”

  His eyes opened; he took a half step back involuntarily. “I resent that.”

  “I know you.”

  “Nobody knows anybody.” He turned on his heel and left, far more upset than he imagined he would be.

  Cody locked the door behind him, sat on the edge of the twin bed that served as a sofa, pushed against the wall, embroidered pillows everywhere. Love didn’t enter into this decision. She’d never loved Fontaine. He was fun, spent money like water. His approach to life was “Do it now.” There was a kind of wisdom to that, since you only have the moment you’re in, but Fontaine never gave much thought to the future. Again, that was part of his charm.

  Cody was realizing she had to think a great deal about her future. She’d seen too many human shipwrecks at forty and fifty and sixty in rehab. Seeing and hearing the old druggies and drunks knocked sense into her head far more than the counseling sessions with the doctors.

  She had to get some training, find a decent job, and forget going out at night to the bars until she could handle it—or maybe forever. What was there about the soft wash of neon light over a polished bar that made her reach for a vodka martini or sneak into the back for a toot? Night seemed to absolve her of tomorrow but then tomorrow would come. Wasted, the sunrise rarely gave her hope. A panic would set in. She’d snort another line until there wasn’t anything left except the shakes and a black hole into which she’d tumble.

  She wasn’t going down that rabbit hole again.

  Tears ran down her face. She knew better than to take up with Fontaine in the first place. She thought she could forget Doug. She did for a while. Maybe she’d treated him badly last spring before he got fed up with her boozing and coking. That way she felt in control. Junk him before he’d junk her.

  She’d thought a lot about him in rehab, too. She dreaded the apologies she needed to make. She knew her mother and father would forgive her. She knew Doug would forgive her, too. In his way, he already had but she had to sit down, face-to-face, and truly apologize. She thought after opening hunt she might have the courage.