Nola had been twenty-four years old when she’d disappeared more than two decades earlier.
“Uh, is she still in the grave?” Shaker lowered his voice.
“I don’t know.” Betty shifted in her seat. “The sheriff showed up with Gaston Marshall, the coroner. Ben took statements from each of us and told us we could leave.”
Ben Sidell was the sheriff. Betty, like many county residents, often called him by his first name.
“What did Gaston do?” Shaker asked.
“He made the sheriff’s assistant take pictures and then he got down in the grave and they started cleaning off the dirt. They were very careful. We were excused before they’d finished the job. Maybe there will be clues left.”
“What a pity old Sheriff Ramy isn’t still alive for this,” Betty said.
“I always thought Sheriff Ramy pretty much died the day his son Guy disappeared. His body just kept on for a while longer,” Sister added.
Guy Ramy had been courting Nola. The Bancrofts did not consider the sheriff’s son a suitable match for their daughter. They offered strong resistance, which only made Guy more attractive to the headstrong Nola. And he wasn’t bad-looking to begin with. He disappeared when Nola did, so at first people naturally figured they’d run off to get married without parental blessing. But as days passed, then weeks, no one heard a peep. Even Sybil, Nola’s older sister, didn’t hear from Nola, and the two sisters were close. Sybil, married but a year to Ken Fawkes, plunged into a depression. In a sense, the whole family did as the weeks passed into months. As Sybil had married beneath her, to use Tedi’s phrase, she felt guilty because she thought her marriage had put even more pressure on Nola to marry a Randolph, a Valentine, a Venable, a De-Jarnette, names considered suitable in Virginia.
No one ever saw or heard from Nola Bancroft or Guy Ramy again after Saturday, September 5, 1981.
“Walter’s still there. As a medical man, Ben asked him to stay. The worst was what to do about telling Tedi. We all agreed she couldn’t find her daughter and Peppermint together. The sheriff allowed Jimmy to haul Peppermint up on the ridge and bury him there so Tedi won’t have to see that. And he said he wouldn’t fetch Tedi and Edward until Nola’s body is completely free of its tomb. Well, I guess it isn’t a tomb, but you know what I mean. Oh, it’s just awful, Shaker.”
The thought of Tedi Bancroft viewing the skeletal remains of her beloved daughter made Shaker grimace. “Can’t someone else identify her?”
“Actually none of us can. Not even Tedi. We assume it’s Nola because of the sapphire. The coroner will have to go by dental records.”
“Assuming the skull is there.” Betty furrowed her eyebrows.
“Betty,” Sister said, looking at her sternly.
“Well, we don’t know how she died. Killers do really strange things. I mean, some of them are fascinated with death. They keep coming back. And who knows but what they might find Guy right there with her. Maybe he killed her and then shot himself.”
“He’d never kill Nola. He loved that girl,” Shaker said with conviction.
“Furthermore, how could he bury himself?” Sister sensibly added.
“Well, I am shook up. I’m not being very logical. But I can’t help it. The sight of that big ring on that bony finger will stay with me forever.”
“Yes, me too.” Sister sighed, dropping her hand to pet Raleigh’s sleek head. “Let’s pray that Walter can talk Ben out of fetching Tedi. Edward can come down. Or Ken, or Sybil, or anyone but Tedi. Anyway, I think the only reason Ben would subject them to this is to see if he can jolt something out of them,” Sister said shrewdly.
“None of them did it,” Betty flatly stated.
“But people suppress things, Betty. Maybe the grisly sight will force out a memory that will help put the pieces of the puzzle together. I don’t know about you, but I’m sure I’ve suppressed plenty in my own life.”
“Haven’t we all.” Betty cracked her knuckles, a nervous gesture.
“You know what my memory of Nola is?” Shaker asked. “I see this beautiful girl just flying her fences on Peppermint. Like that great big old stone wall down there at Duelling Grounds.” Shaker mentioned a farm where they hunted. “Everyone takes the low end, but she’d put him right to the four-foot section and sail over, hands forward, eyes up, big smile on her face.”
“Girl could ride,” Betty agreed as she smiled in remembrance.
In these parts, indeed in most of Virginia, the ability to ride was considered one of the social graces. It had nothing to do with money and a lot to do with talent. Or at least determination, should one lack talent. Nola had it all: talent, determination, and money.
Sybil, a very good rider herself, pitted herself against Nola or rode with her as her partner in hunter pairs at hunter trials and hunter paces, outdoor competitions. They were fun to watch.
Golliwog, a large calico, sauntered into the kennel. She’d been waiting up at the house for Sister to return and she was quite irritated about her delay. Not only was Sister overdue, but Golliwog had artfully arranged a large field mouse on the back porch for Sister’s delectation. But the heat was rising, the mouse ripening with it. Golly did not like such unsavory things, although Raleigh did, of course. This was just one more reason that dogs were inferior to cats in Golly’s mind.
“I am sick and tired of waiting for everyone!” she complained.
“Pipe down, Golly!” Sister ordered the cat, a useless order, of course.
“We found Nola Bancroft’s body,” Raleigh informed the imperious creature.
Nola had disappeared long before Golly was born— the cat was now in the prime of life—but she had heard odd snippets over the years concerning the Bancroft girl who could have been a movie star. Not that she paid much attention, since she always preferred to be the topic of conversation herself.
“What, she just popped up somewhere?”
“Peppermint died this morning and we found her when Jimmy Chirios dug the grave with the backhoe.”
As the dog and cat considered the morning’s events, Sister stood up. “Well, we’ve got to do something, but I don’t know exactly what.”
“Pay a call,” Betty suggested.
“Yes, I know that. We’ve got to let the club members know. She was a member of Jefferson Hunt, after all.”
“You’re right. I’ll get the telephone tree going,” Betty said. Shaker pulled the club directory from his long middle desk drawer, handing it to Betty.
“I suggest you don’t,” he said.
“Why?” Both women stared at him.
“Wait until you talk again to the sheriff. He might not want the news out quite that fast.”
“Shaker, this is Jefferson County. Gossip travels faster than light,” Sister truthfully stated. “Even now the phones are ringing throughout the county.”
“But it shouldn’t be on our heads. He’s going to want to talk to anyone who remembers Nola, which is anyone in our club over twenty-five, and that’s most everyone.”
“He’s right.” Betty handed back the directory.
Sister, usually politically astute, considered the wisdom of Shaker’s suggestion and realized she’d been more rattled by the discovery than she’d thought. “Right.” She rubbed her temples a moment. “Do you know what keeps running through my mind? It’s Peppermint. He loved her. He would do anything for Nola. He carried all the Bancrofts at one time or another, but he loved Nola best of all and now he’s led us back to her.”
“In death,” Betty said, sounding a trifle morbid even to herself.
“Fate.” Shaker reached for his old briarwood Dunhill pipe, his father’s.
“Aren’t death and fate the same thing?” Betty wondered.
“No, ma’am, not by a long shot.” Shaker leaned against the desk. “Not by a long shot.”
CHAPTER 3
As the last human left the grave site, a tremendous clap of thunder shook the earth.
Inky, a member of the gray f
ox clan who happened to be black, had been watching the activity at the grave site so intently that she jumped at the thunder. She looked toward the west. Roiling low clouds would be directly overhead in fifteen minutes or less.
Her curiosity, overcome by the weather, gave way to a mad dash for her den, a tidy place two miles west of After All Farm. Inky lived on Sister Jane’s place, Roughneck Farm, at the edge of the cornfield, near a mighty old walnut, on high ground above a small tributary feeding into Broad Creek. She lived very well and at one and a half years of age she was a sleek, healthy creature with unusually bright eyes.
The first huge raindrops splattered around her just as she reached the border of Roughneck Farm. Another few minutes and she’d be home. The sky, dark now, seemed close enough to touch. Sister pulled out onto the farm road in her new red GMC truck. Her headlights caught Inky for a moment, but the fox did not stop to give the older woman the pleasure of her company. She raced for her den, shooting in as thunder rumbled overhead and lightning momentarily turned the sky lavender green.
Inky hated getting wet. She nestled in her sweet-smelling hay bed, which she’d carried home after the last cutting.
Like all foxes, reds and grays, Inky was a highly intelligent, adaptable creature. Part of this adaptability derived from being omnivorous like humans. Whenever that insufferable cat, Golliwog, would fuss at Inky for visiting the kennels where she liked to chat with Diana, a young gyp, Inky would remind her as she left that Golliwog was an obligate carnivore.
This would infuriate Golly, who in retaliation would stir up the hounds. Then Shaker would open the front door of his clapboard cottage and speak to the hounds to quiet them. Golly could be vengeful, but she was smart. Inky had to give her that.
As Inky dried herself she wondered who was in that grave. The human emotions had cast a strong scent that carried up to her. As soon as the storm was over she thought she’d go out again and visit her parents, who lived deeper in the woods near strong-running Broad Creek. Perhaps they would know something. And she wanted to tell her family that Peppermint had passed on. He had loved chatting with his former adversaries, as he’d dubbed the foxes. Peppermint had always had a quaint turn of phrase like the older gentleman he was.
Inky knew that when humans were feeling wretched the shock waves would vibrate over the countryside. Her curiosity was thus more than a mental exercise; it was key to survival.
“Hello, Inky,” Sister said, noting the lovely animal racing beside the road.
“I worry that she’s getting too tame.” Shaker pressed two fingers around the knot of his tie.
Never comfortable in a coat and tie, he was a proper fellow. Given the circumstances, he would not cross the Bancroft threshold unless respectfully dressed. Lean and wiry, Shaker exuded a toughness that belied his kindly nature.
Both Shaker and Sister had hurried to clean up after Betty had hopped into her car. She’d pick up Bobby, fill him in, clean up herself, and meet the master and huntsman at After All.
“The legend of the black fox.”
“Bull. We’ve always had black foxes.” He half snorted. “We just don’t always see them.”
“I know that.” She turned the windshield wipers to a higher speed. She wasn’t 100 percent familiar with her new truck yet, so she had to fiddle with the stick on the steering column.
“Be nice when you learn to drive this thing.”
“Be nice when you learn to treat me with respect.”
“Oh la.” He half sang. “Janie, none of this bodes well, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t. And I know I’m using Inky as an excuse, but you will recall a black fox gave us a hell of a run just before Ray died, and then again before Raymond died.” Ray, her son, was killed in a freak harvesting accident in 1974. Her husband, Raymond, died of emphysema in 1991. “And Raymond’s grandmother would always rattle on about how her mother swore that in 1860 all they hunted was black foxes.”
“Hunted Yankees after that.” Shaker, born and bred in Mount Sidney, Virginia, half smiled as he said it.
“Jesus, think we’ll ever get over it?”
“The Jews built Pharaoh’s pyramids five thousand years ago and they’re still talking about it. The Irish still fuss about Elizabeth the First like she just left the throne. People have to have something to bitch and moan about.” He caught his breath for a moment. “If you ask me, people can’t do without their tragedies. Makes them feel important.”
“You might be right. The Bancrofts aren’t like that, thank God. Shaker, I can’t exactly fathom it. Not to know where your child is for all those years and then to find out she’s been buried on your own property all along. A ring on a bony hand.”
“Horrible.” Although he wasn’t a father, he could sympathize as could most anybody with a heart.
“When I lost Ray, well, you were there. Yes, it was dreadful. Yes, I wanted to die with him. But at least I knew. I could say good-bye. I could grieve. All those years that Tedi and Edward hoped and prayed and then settled into a dull ache of a life. And now, to finally know where Nola is. Where she’s been all along . . .”
“I think Tedi knew.”
“In her heart—yes, I think she knew Nola was dead the night she went missing. But Edward could never give up.”
“Alice Ramy broke bad.”
“Wonder who’s going to tell her?”
Alice Ramy, the mother of Guy Ramy, turned bitter and disruptive after her son’s disappearance. Her only positive outlets seemed to be the prize chickens she bred and her gardens. But even these activities led to frustration. At least once a year her dahlias would be shredded when the prize chickens escaped into her gardens for a feast.
Shaker shifted nervously in his seat as they drove through the majestic wrought-iron gates, the serried spear-points gilded, of After All Farm’s main entrance. “Ben Sidell will tell Alice.”
“There are plenty of people who still believe Guy killed her and then disappeared. Some ass would come back from a vacation in Paris and declare, ‘Saw Guy Ramy on the Left Bank. He’s bald now.’ You know perfectly well they never saw a goddamned thing.” Sister’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She, too, was nervous.
“Guy Ramy might have killed someone over Nola, but he would have never killed Nola,” Shaker said.
They peered out their windows through the streaming rain. Half the hunt club members were already there. A tightly knit community, the Jefferson Hunt Club supported one another instantly through every crisis—but felt free to gossip about one another with equal alacrity.
A red Mercedes S500 was parked closest to the front walk, trailed by a silver Jaguar, a 1987 Ford pickup, a hunter green Explorer, and a Tahoe. The number of trucks suggested people had walked away from their farm chores to hasten to the Bancrofts’. A Toyota Land Cruiser announced that Ralph Assumptio was there. He was a cousin on his mother’s side to Guy Ramy.
Sister had to park halfway down to the barns.
Shaker picked up the golf umbrella resting slant-ways across his feet. “You stay there. I’ll come ’round to your side.”
He opened the door and the rain slashed down.
When the arc of the red and yellow umbrella loomed outside, Sister opened her door and stepped down, ducking under cover.
She clutched Shaker’s strong forearm. “Well, let’s do what we can.”
A huge hanging glass lantern, supported by four heavy chains, cast diffuse light into the rainy evening. The white columns glistened as did the slate roof of this magnificent Palladian triumph.
The fan window above the oversized black door was handblown glass, as were all the paned windows.
After All, one of the great mansions of the early eighteenth century, had received many visitors in both joy and sorrow.
As they reached the front door, Walter Lungrun opened it before the harried butler could get to it. For a moment, with the light framing his face, Sister felt an odd sense of comfort—something akin to homecoming. She sho
ok off the unexpected feeling, deciding that all her nerve endings were on red alert. Of course she was glad to see him. She’d known Walter, at a distance, since his childhood.
“Sister, thank God you’re here.” Walter bent down to kiss her cheek. “You, too, Shaker. Tedi and Edward are in the living room. Ken and Sybil, too.”
A servant hung their dripping raincoats in the coat closet. They heard Betty and Bobby come through the door as well as other people behind them.
Walter took Sister’s hand and led her to the living room, crowded with people. Shaker walked on her other side. People parted for Sister. They usually did.
Tedi sat perched on the edge of her Sheraton sofa, the cost of which alone could buy most Americans a lovely home. When she looked up to see one of her oldest friends and her master, she burst into tears again and stood up, throwing her arms around Sister. “Janie.”
Edward, whose eyes also were wet, stood up next to his wife and embraced Sister when Tedi relinquished her. Then Tedi hugged Shaker, and Edward shook his hand.
“Thank you for coming, Shaker.”
“Mr. Bancroft, I’m terribly sorry for the circumstances.” Shaker, always correct as a hunt servant, addressed Edward, a member, by his surname.
“Yes, yes.” Edward’s lip began to quiver and Shaker reached for his hand again, holding it in both of his.
“Janie, sit with us.” Tedi pulled her down on the sofa.
A servant in livery—the Bancrofts, wonderful though they were, had pretensions—offered refreshments on a tray. Perhaps they weren’t pretentious. It was the world into which both had been raised. This was part of life.
“You knew it was Nola.” Tedi wiped her eyes.
“The ring.” Sister draped her arm around Tedi’s thin shoulders.
“Edward went to see. I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t.” Tedi choked, then composed herself. “I don’t know how Edward did it.”
Sister looked up at the tall man, severely handsome with a full head of closely cropped white hair and a trim military mustache. He greeted guests and shepherded them away from Tedi so she could talk to Sister for a moment. “He’s a strong man.”
Hotspur Page 2