“I do. And Peter Wheeler made a toast to Sybil. Let’s see, ‘Here’s to Sybil, beloved of Apollo. Let her be an example to all women.’ ”
“Everyone was pretty well lubricated except you. I used to wish you’d drink with us, and now I’m glad you never did. You were smarter than all of us, and you look better for it, too. Ah well, then.” Tedi sipped some martini, chased it with green tea. “Nola left without saying good-bye. The last time I saw her.”
Sister raised her index finger. “I overheard Sybil saying that she and Ken would meet Nola at the C&O downstairs. Some band was playing they wanted to hear. But I was talking to everyone and I can’t say I was paying particular attention to Nola.”
The C&O was and remained a popular restaurant and nightspot over in Albemarle County.
“And I didn’t know until the next morning that Nola never showed up. It wasn’t that unusual for her to say she’d be somewhere and not show. Nola was always open to a better offer, her words.” Tedi’s memories, bitter-sweet, haunted her. “I didn’t know until I saw Sybil at church. I was furious that Nola had stayed out all night but, well, it wasn’t the first time. I didn’t start to worry until Sunday supper.”
Leaning back in her chair, Sister glanced outside at the sky, darkening from turquoise to cobalt, then back at Tedi. “Here’s what I think, knowing what we now know. Nola was killed sometime between seven in the evening and early the next morning. You and Edward were building the covered bridge. The earth was still soft around it, remember? She had to have been killed in that time frame, because people don’t go burying their victims in broad daylight. Whoever killed her had to have known about the bridge work. That was a drought summer. The earth was hard as rock. Thanks to the bulldozers, the embankment and the base for the bridge weren’t packed tight yet. You were just putting the roof on the bridge. So whoever killed Nola knew that.”
“That’s right,” Tedi whispered.
“And we’d hunted through there Saturday morning. I’ve checked my hunt records.” Sister, like many masters, kept a detailed hunt diary. “We had forty-one people the first day of cubbing.”
“Everyone in the county knew about the bridge work,” Tedi said, a wave of hopelessness washing over her. She fought it off. “A lot of people knew, anyway.” Tedi reached for the ring. “I should have never given this ring to Nola. For her it was the Hapless sapphire, just as it was for its first owner.”
“Old sorrows,” Sister said.
“It was made for the Empress of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Elizabeth. She had dark hair, was a wonderful, wonderful horsewoman like Nola. Loved foxhunting. Rented hunting boxes in England and flew her fences. But hers was not a happy life. Her son committed suicide, and she was assassinated. I often wonder, if she’d lived, would Franz Josef have signed the Declaration of War of 1918?”
As a foxhunter, Sister had always found the empress’s story irresistible. “As I recall, the Bancrofts bought this right after the First World War,” she said. “Nolan couldn’t have worried too much about the history of the stone if he gave it to his wife. She lived a long, happy life.” Nolan was Edward’s grandfather, who had lived through the terrifying action at Belleau Wood during the Great War.
Tedi held the ring up to the light; bits of rainbow struck off the diamonds, little dots splashing the walls. She slipped the ring on the middle finger of her left hand. “This was on my baby’s finger when she died. Now I’m wearing it. Every time I look at it I’ll remember her laughter. I’ll remember how much I loved her. I’ve not spent one day that I haven’t missed her, felt that ache. It’s kind of like my tongue going back to the site of a missing tooth. I swore I would find out what happened to her but never did. Now—this. Sister, I will find Nola’s killer even if it kills me.”
“That makes two of us.”
CHAPTER 7
“Jesus Christ, Doug, watch what you’re doing.” Shaker rubbed the back of his elbow where a heavy oak board had smacked him from behind.
“Sorry,” the handsome young man apologized. “It’s this heat. I can’t think today.”
Sticky, clammy humidity added to the discomfort this Monday, July twenty-second.
Shaker put down his hammer, tilting his head to direct Doug’s attention across the road.
Doug followed Shaker’s eyes. Wearing a torn tank top and equally torn jeans, an old red bandanna tied around her forehead, Sister toiled on the other side of the dirt farm road building a new coop, a jump resembling a chicken coop, with Walter Lungrun’s help.
The old hunt club truck, Peter Wheeler’s 1974 Chevy with the 454 engine, was parked off to the side of the road.
“Can’t slow down,” Doug pretended to whisper, “she’ll cuss us.”
“I heard that.”
“I thought you were working, not eavesdropping,” Shaker said.
“Women can do two or three things at the same time. Unlike men,” Sister said, laughing.
“Doc, are you going to let her get away with that kind of abuse?” Shaker looked to the blond doctor for help.
“I suggest you call the state employment commission and register a complaint of sexism,” Walter solemnly intoned.
“Oh, do make it a complaint of sexual assault. At my age, I’ll be a heroine.”
They all laughed at that and decided spontaneously to take a break and sit under a huge chestnut tree.
This particular tree was much studied by Virginia Tech students motoring up from Blacksburg, as it was one of the few original chestnuts to survive the horrible blight that almost entirely killed this most beautiful of species. The disease had started in New York State in 1904, spread west to Michigan, north to the border, and south to Alabama. Within a few decades most every native American chestnut, many over one hundred feet high, was dead.
This tree had survived because it was alone.
They were working at Foxglove Farm, a tidy farm north of Sister’s farm. You could see the long, flat top of Hangman’s Ridge to the south from high spots on Foxglove.
The staff and dedicated members of a hunt club worked harder during the summers than during hunt season. Puppies were whelped. Young entry had to be taught their lessons. Foxes would be carefully watched, wormer and other medicines put out for them to ensure their health. Seasoned hounds might need a few reminders of their tasks. The hunt horses would be turned out for vacation time. Young horses, called green, would be trained to see if they could become staff horses, a harder task than being a field hunter. Neighboring landowners would be visited, always a pleasure. Old jumps would be repaired or replaced, and new jumps would be built in new territory to be opened if the club was lucky enough to secure new territory.
Foxglove had been part of the Jefferson Hunt territory from the late nineteenth century, when a group of farmer friends had merged their small packs of hounds together into one communal pack. Many of these men had been veterans of the War Between the States. Their sons and grandsons were destined to be shipped overseas to the horrors of the First World War.
Out of this raggle-taggle mess of hounds, a systematic breeding program emerged under the visionary second master, Major H. H. Joubert, called Double H by all. He blended his tough local Bywaters hounds from northern Virginia with a little Skinker blood from Orange County Hunt. Then he folded in a lacing of English blood. Whether by guess or by God, Double H’s system worked. He was a smart master, he bred for the territory, and he studied other packs of hounds, ever eager to improve his pack and his methods.
Hound men had been bragging about their animals since the early seventeenth century and a few very wealthy colonists imported hounds from England, products of a line that could be traced to a single source.
In 1670, the Duke of Buckingham fell from favor at Charles II’s court. In his disgrace, he retired to North Riding in Yorkshire and established a pack of hounds solely devoted to hunt fox. If the vigorous, robust duke offended His Majesty the King, he pleased subsequent generations of foxhunters, all of whom owe him
a debt. Until Buckingham’s time, packs hunted stag, otter, and hare somewhat indiscriminately.
The Duke of Buckingham, a fashionable man as most Buckinghams were and still are, prompted his contemporaries Lord Monmouth and Lord Grey to specialize in foxhunting down in Sussex. These gentlemen began to study their quarry and to consider, intelligently, the best type of hound to hunt such a wily foe.
Thomas, Sixth Lord Fairfax, born in 1693, drew inspiration from this older generation of Englishmen. He lived a long life, dying in 1781, and he kept good records concerning his hounds. Lord Fairfax also had the wit to repair to Virginia in 1748, where he had been granted an estate of 5 million acres—the Northern Neck. The entire Northern Neck between the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers was his backyard. And he brought his passion for foxhounds with him. Young George Washington hunted with Fairfax, his cousin Col. William Fairfax, and the Colonel’s son, George William Fairfax. When George William Fairfax married the enchanting Sally Fairfax, young Washington fell in love with her, an unrequited love. But foxhunting repaid his passion by giving Washington a lifetime of pleasure.
Then, as now, foxhunting imparted a certain social cachet, and men eager to rise found a good pack of hounds was one way to do so. Ripe arguments continually erupted about who had the best hounds. Some argued for the French Bleu hound; others said the large Kerry beagle was best for the New World. The black and tan had many admirers, and any white hound was always claimed to go back to the medieval kennels of King Louis of France.
Out of this mix came an American hound much like the American human: tough, quick, filled with remarkable drive to succeed. The American hound was of lighter weight than his English and French brothers. His clear voice could be heard in the virgin forests covering Virginia and Maryland even if he couldn’t be seen, and this remains a prime virtue of the American hound.
The Revolutionary War slowed down the remarkable progress that had been made up to that point. After 1781, foxhunters returned to their passion—a passion undimmed even at the dawn of the twenty-first century.
When Sister took over as the fifth master in the hunt’s history she was grateful that she inherited a great pack and she didn’t have to start from scratch. She knew her hound history. She simply had to be reasonably intelligent so as not to screw up Double H’s original plan.
The home fixtures—Roughneck Farm, Foxglove, Mill Ruins, After All, and Beveridge Hundred—nourished the diverse creatures who had been living there since before the white man settled in Virginia in 1607. Decent soil, a wealth of underground and overground water, and the protection of the Blue Ridge Mountains a few miles west conspired to make this a kind of heaven on earth.
Not even a hot, muggy, buggy day like today diminished the glory of the place. Each and every resident believed that she or he lived in God’s country. To make it even sweeter, most of them liked one another. And those few who qualified as flaming assholes were appreciated for providing ripe comment and amusement for the others.
As Sister’s mother used to say, “Nobody’s worthless. They can always serve as a horrible example.”
One such specimen was just puttering down the road.
Alice Ramy stopped her Isuzu truck with a lurch. The four workers sitting under the chestnut tree looked up, composing their features so as not to look discomfited at the lady’s arrival.
Alice’s unhappiness seeped through every pore, marring her pleasant features.
“Sister, if you or your hounds come near my chickens I am taking out a warrant!”
Alice delivered this message at least twice a year. It was usually the pretext for something else.
“Now Alice, my hounds have never so much as glanced at your fine chickens.”
“No, but that damned dog of Peter Wheeler’s killed three of them. Dog should have followed Peter to the grave.”
Rooster, Peter’s harrier, had chased Aunt Netty, an especially fast and sneaky fox, into and then out of Alice’s chicken pen. But poor Rooster—the pen door slammed shut and he was stuck with the corpses of two Australorp chickens. Netty, a small fox, dragged off the other one. No easy task since the beautiful black chickens were quite plump.
“Hello, Mrs. Ramy.” Shaker smiled.
“Mrs. Ramy.” Doug touched his head with his forefinger in greeting.
Doug, skin color that of coffee with cream, was experimenting with long, thick sideburns.
“Alice, good to see you,” Walter lied convincingly.
“Hmmph.” Alice’s reply sounded like a balloon deflating.
“You know, Alice, we’re building coops here. We could build one for you.” Sister’s eyes brightened.
“Ha! Don’t you dare set one foot on my land.”
“How about a hoof?” Sister felt mischievous.
“Never.”
“Well, Alice, I know you’ve lost more chickens and I know Peter’s harrier hasn’t been off my farm. Now just what or who do you think is dispatching your chickens?”
Alice generally ignored what she didn’t wish to hear, and she did so now. Unbeknownst to her, Aunt Netty was sauntering through the hayfield at that very moment. When she heard Alice’s strident voice she stopped to listen.
Aunt Netty thought Alice a pluperfect fool because she shut her chicken yard gate but she never poured concrete along the edges of the pen. Digging under was a cinch. Netty considered the Ramy residence one big supermarket.
Strolling down the fence line from the opposite direction was Comet, a gray fox, Inky’s brother. He, too, stopped when he caught a whiff of the nearby humans.
“You’ll say anything to hunt!” Alice curled her lip, heavily impacted with hot pink lipstick.
“Of course, Alice, I’m a master.” Sister laughed, but good-naturedly.
She’d known Alice most of her life and while she had never really liked the woman, she’d grown accustomed to her.
Alice put her hands on her rounded hips. “I know what you all are thinking. I know what everyone is thinking. You think Guy killed Nola. He didn’t.”
“I don’t think that for a minute, Alice. Sit down here on the grass with us and have a Co-Cola.” Sister reached into the cooler and handed an ice-cold can to Alice, who accepted the Coke but not the seat.
Aunt Netty’s ears swept forward when she heard the pop of the can’s pull tab. She liked sweets, considering Coke a sweet. She wondered if she could open the cooler when the humans returned to their coops. Might even be doughnuts or brownies in that cooler. Wouldn’t hurt to look.
“Well, a lot of people did.” Alice’s voice softened. “But you didn’t. I remember, you didn’t.”
A slight breeze rolled down over the mountainside, causing the leaves to sway. The old chestnut tree was so huge, Alice was sheltered in its shade even standing yards away from the workers.
Walter spoke in his most soothing baritone, which could be hypnotic. “Mrs. Ramy, finding Nola has shocked everyone. With the advancements of forensic science, we might learn more now.”
“What good does it do?” Alice betrayed more anguish than she wanted.
“I don’t know.” Sister stood up and put her arm around Alice’s shoulder, patting her. “Maybe it will bring peace to Tedi and Edward.”
“Well, it won’t bring peace to me. No one will believe me unless Guy is found. People think he’s in”—she shook her head—“Berlin or Quito or”—her tone darkened— “in this county I hear everything. And I know plenty of people think Paul covered up for Guy. If Guy had killed her, Paul would have brought him in. His own son.” Alice finally decided to sit down.
“I believe he would,” Sister replied.
“Has Ben Sidell visited you?” Walter asked.
“Yes. Impertinent. Ohio.” She uttered “Ohio” as if it were a communicable disease.
“Good farms there.” Sister wished she could think of something to say to make Alice feel better and to go away.
“If they’re so damned good, then let those people go back to them. He acc
used me of covering for my son. Oh, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. I should have knocked him down.” She drank her Coke in five big gulps.
Comet crouched down, slinking through the hay, and nearly bumped right into Aunt Netty.
He giggled.
“Hush.” Aunt Netty glared at him.
Comet did stop giggling, but he still had a silly grin on his face. Reds thought they were superior to grays. Comet, a gray, couldn’t have cared less but he did respect Aunt Netty. Her speed and tricks were legendary among foxes.
“He’s been calling on all of us, even people who were children back in ’81,” Sister said.
“I don’t know any more today than I did that September. I never saw Guy again after that Saturday. Never.” She breathed in deeply. “Why can’t the past stay in the past?”
“Never does,” Sister simply said.
“You lost a son and a husband. We’re both all alone.” Alice blurted this out. “Nobody cares what happens to old women.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Ramy, people do care. They do.” Walter was gallant. “And raking up the past, well, it sets teeth on edge. Don’t worry about what people say. They love to talk, don’t they? And the sillier they are, the more they gossip. And furthermore, Mrs. Ramy, you don’t look your age. Don’t call yourself an old lady.” His voice conveyed sympathy and warmth.
“Damn right!” Alice stood up, brushed off the back of her khaki Bermuda shorts. “You know, Jane Arnold, I could never for the life of me imagine why you’d want to be master of the hunt. Too much work and too much danger. But now I know why you do it.” She walked away a step. “You’re surrounded by such handsome men.” With that she climbed over the fence and drove off.
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