“Do you really think it’s that bad?” Target wondered, not wanting to challenge her, just wondering.
“Actually, I’m afraid one of them’s going to snap.” Athena’s low voice dipped even lower. “Bitsy, Inky, and I saw Ralph Assumptio, crying, parked by the side of the road.”
“That’s it. He’s the killer, then,” Target declared.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The brown bird cast her golden eyes upward as a blue heron, late, headed for home. “My point is they are all feeling the strain.”
“Do the hounds know?” Aunt Netty asked.
“Yes. Bitsy is telling them.”
“Who cares if they know?” Target didn’t dislike the hounds, but he felt them an inferior member of the canine family because they allowed themselves to be domesticated.
“Are you argumentative tonight or thickheaded?” Netty nudged him on his shoulder. “The hounds are closer to the humans than we are.”
“And the killer is a foxhunter as surely as I am the Queen of the Night.”
A little while after Athena had left, Charlene returned. Target and Netty filled her in, then they all discussed what Athena meant about the killer being a foxhunter. They weren’t sure.
Athena had been figuring. There had been no reports of struggle. If there’d been a fight in a car or truck, someone would have noticed the blood and the damage to the vehicle. If someone had sold their vehicle immediately after the disappearance, someone would have noticed that, too. Both Nola and Guy willingly followed or climbed into the vehicle of their murderer. Nola’s car was left at the Burusses’. Guy’s was parked downtown on the street. Athena had gathered all this with Bitsy’s help by listening to the humans talk on their porches or on the phone, windows open.
She had just been sharing all this with Bitsy, sitting on a crossbeam in Sister’s barn. Bitsy nodded. “Guy and Nola knew their killer.”
Athena added, “And trusted him.”
CHAPTER 22
The humidity, suddenly oppressive, pressed down on the green pastures, the blazing white and deep pink crepe myrtle, the orange daylilies. Even the green metallic dragonflies, surprised by the rapid climb in temperatures and the dew point, sat motionless on lily pads in ponds. Rockfish dozed in deep creek eddies, frogs burrowed in cooling mud.
Lafayette, Rickyroo, Keepsake, and Aztec stood nose to tail under the enormous pin oak in their pasture. Showboat, Gunpowder, and Hojo did the same under a fiddle oak in their neighboring separate pasture.
Golliwog reposed on the library sofa. Raleigh and Rooster stretched out at Sister’s feet beneath her desk.
The Louis XV desk, a wedding gift from Raymond’s mother, was not an idle antique. Despite its great value, Sister worked at the desk much as the royal court secretary who had scribbled at it centuries ago.
The library, not a large room, housed Sister’s most beloved books, especially her sporting library. Some of those volumes, precious to her as well as collectors, had been written and printed in the eighteenth century. She loved the pages themselves, crisp paper of such high quality, one would have to search the great libraries of Europe for its equivalent today. The type, velvet black, had been cut into the paper by metal, each letter set by hand. The typefaces, elegant yet simple, had been carefully selected by the bookmaker or possibly even the author.
Sister had observed that modern books, printed on cheap paper, thermographed print, disintegrated in decades. The author not only had nothing to do with the process but was actively kept from it.
Sister inhaled the special tang of her library as she worked. Old fires, leather bindings, a scented candle on the mantelpiece added to the allure of the room along with the Heather St. Claire Davis painting of herself on Lafayette leaping down an embankment over a creek bed, hounds in the near distance, the huntsman right up with them.
The twenty-first century, mass production having vulgarized just about every single human activity, still could not cheapen foxhunting. For this, the older woman was profoundly grateful. This pastime could never become a vehicle for mass merchandisers. Whippers-in would not be embroidering advertisements for tires, cars, or deodorant on their coat sleeves. Saddle pads would not bear a pharmaceutical logo. Velvet hunt caps, black derbies, glistening silk top hats would be spared a dotcom address.
Sister wasn’t a snob, far from it. Nor was she especially rich. Raymond, to his eternal credit, had done well as a stockbroker, leaving her with a portfolio large enough to provide for her needs. Raymond figured life would never get cheaper, only more and more expensive, as Americans demanded ever more services, which meant ever more taxes. He knew the cities would always vote themselves more money. Country people would have to fight not only for their way of life but simply to have a life. He had invested wisely and died knowing that whatever his failings as a husband, he had been a good provider.
Sister was of that generation who expected men to provide for women and children. Indeed, it was a disgrace if a man’s wife worked. Poor women had to work, so if a woman took a job it meant a man had failed. Through supporting a host of charitable organizations, well-to-do women did work. They just weren’t paid for it. That was fine. It made the men feel better and perhaps some of the women, too.
She didn’t think of herself as a rebel, but she’d taught geology at Mary Baldwin College even after marrying Raymond. He’d fussed, but she’d loved it so much. She stopped working when Ray Junior was born in 1960. When Ray was killed in 1974 she probably should have picked up teaching again, but somehow she couldn’t seem to put one foot in front of the other for a year. The second year after her son died she functioned perfectly well but felt numb. The third year she came back to herself. Had it not been for her husband, foxhunting, her friends, and Peter Wheeler, she thought she might have disappeared into the hole the White Rabbit had vanished into. Maybe life was Alice in Wonderland.
There wasn’t a day when she didn’t think of Ray Junior and miss him. She missed her husband, too, who died in 1991, although missing a husband stirs emotions of a darker shade than missing a son. A husband left one with transgressions to forgive. A son left blasted promise. Then again, she’d transgressed enough herself to forgive Raymond his exuberance for life, which spilled over into an excessive appreciation for beautiful women. We were all human. Sister could forgive. It might take her time, but she could. She could never figure out if she was a good Christian or if exhaustion finally won out.
A photograph in a silver frame lit up the left corner of the desk. Raymond, herself, and a twelve-year-old Ray Junior, all in formal hunting attire, rode as a hunt team at the Washington International Horse Show. Raymond, resplendent in his scarlet weaselbelly and his white vest, grinned, his teeth sparkling white against his tanned face. Sister wore a black shadbelly, Continental blue colors on the collar, patent leather tops on her Spanish-cut boots so polished, they reflected the photographer’s flashbulb. Ray wore a hunt cap, black melton, fawn-colored breeches, and butcher boots. He was properly dressed for a junior, the unspoken rule of thumb being that even if a child has earned his colors, he doesn’t wear tails, called weaselbelly for a man, or a frock coat or tops on his boots until his voice changes and he shaves. For girls, whose voices change but not as dramatically, the rule was harder to interpret but by sixteen few masters would look amiss if a young lady rode out in a frock as opposed to a simple melton. A frock coat has two buttons on the back and a double vent, whereas the melton has a single vent on the back.
Sister, having grown up foxhunting, knew the sartorial rules, but sometimes even she had to consult the authorities from prior centuries in her library. If stymied she’d call Cindy Chandler at Foxglove Farm or Dr. Chuck Beegle at Brookhill Farm. Among the three of them they could usually find the definitive answer.
Nola had often caused feuds in the hunt field. For whatever reason, Nola appointed herself the fashion police, which did not go down with older members. The fight over Frances’s veil was but one of many such eruptions. She pitched a fit
when Gordie Tomlinson rode out in dark brown gloves. One should wear mustard-colored gloves or white knit gloves, depending on the weather and the formality of the occasion. Even a British tan deer-skin pair would pass muster, but Gordie wore dark brown, which sent Nola into orbit.
Sister had to chastise Nola for her behavior and tell Gordie that while dark brown wasn’t perfect, she was only too happy to accept it except for High Holy Days. Nola fumed for weeks after that, declaring that Sister was letting standards go to hell.
The most recent fuss had occurred the previous March when Ralph Assumptio carried a blackthorn knob end whip on a Saturday, a formal day. Ronnie Haslip snapped at Ralph over this lapse in taste.
Ralph should have properly carried his staghorn crop, thong attached. However, the broad fat loop at the end of the crop to which the thong attaches had torn clear through on a hard, long hunt two days before. Ralph left his crop with Betty Franklin to repair. Betty enjoyed doing leather repair, she said it was kind of like needlepoint only harder. So, he grabbed his blackthorn knob end.
Sister rode back, heard the explanation, then told Ralph naturally he could carry his knob end until repairs were completed. This had to be declared in front of the whole field to satisfy all parties. If Ralph had thought about it, he would have obtained Sister’s permission for this variance before the hunt.
Knob ends, technically, can be carried during cubbing and during informal days after Opening Hunt. Most every hunt granted its members at least one informal day during the formal season. This allowed members time to repair torn jackets, dry out boots if they’d crossed high water, bleach stock ties, or do whatever needed to be done to restore their formal kit.
She glanced again at the photograph of the three of them. She used to grumble to big Raymond about the cost of outfitting a child. She wished she had shut up. He had been worth every penny. Many’s the time she’d dragged that poor kid through the shops in Marshall and Middleburg where good used hunting attire was sold. He was an angel about it, especially since he’d really wanted to go to Horse Country in Warrenton.
He would have been forty-one in December.
Where does the time go? Where does the soul go?
Would she see him again when her time came?
She banished these ruminations from her mind. They served no purpose and would make her cry. She had a draw list to compose for Tuesday’s hunt. She looked down at the sheet of paper, organized into bitches, dog hounds, second-year entry, first-year entry. Each hunt she kept a list of who participated. Then she’d take the sheet back to her desk and make a notation of who did what. A sharp pencil is worth more than a good memory.
Dragon had to go this time. Trident and Trudy had gone, so she’d take their littermates, Tinsel, Trinkle, and Trinity. Rassle and Ruthie, also first year, should go. She hated to leave Cora in the kennel because Dragon would then be the strike hound, but Cora had gone Saturday and she had a tendency to run weight right off herself. Sister wanted to start the season with her hounds a few pounds over their fighting weight so by Opening Hunt they’d be perfect. Then she and Shaker needed to watch them like hawks. A hound can easily run thirty or forty miles in one day, and on a screaming day, even sixty. They run much farther than the riders, for the hounds are running into coverts, coming back, going out again. The riders, confined to ground horses can navigate, cover fewer miles. Still, after a hard day many an experienced hunter would dismount only to find his legs like jelly.
If a hound was starting to get light, Shaker would feed her or him separately or leave the animal in the kennel until back up to sufficient weight. Sister would not hunt a hound whose weight had fallen too low for her liking.
Her kennel practices bordered on the obsessive, but no one could ever say this woman did not love her hounds or her horses.
Her fierce concentration prevented her from hearing a car roll up the driveway.
Raleigh lifted his head. “Visitor.”
“Maybe it’s an intruder.” Rooster sprang up and raced for the back door.
“Yoo-hoo, Janie,” Tedi called out.
“In the library.”
Rooster greeted Tedi, then escorted her to the library, where Raleigh met her, too. Golliwog opened one eye; that was the extent of her greeting.
“Bills?” Tedi asked.
“Tuesday’s draw list. I need to mix my steady Eddies with the youngsters. Can I get you anything?”
“No. Ken just left for Richmond much too late. Edward and Sybil went to the club. She had a bad spell, floods of tears, which is why Ken got off so late. I just had to get out of the house, which I suppose makes me some sort of chicken. I can’t bear to see all those pictures of Nola right now. And I feel guilty because I should feel more compassion for Alice than I do.”
“Join the club.”
“She doesn’t make it easy, does she?”
“You were kind to go to her.”
“Who better to understand both the shock and the relief?” Tedi sat in the overstuffed club chair, tucking a needlepoint pillow behind her in the small of her back.
“It’s been a grisly time, hasn’t it?” agreed Sister, now sitting comfortably on the sofa.
“Don’t jiggle the sofa,” Golly complained.
Sister reached back to pet her.
“You ought to smack her,” Rooster advised.
“I’d smack back. In fact, why don’t you stick your wet nose here? I’ll smack you, too,” Golly threatened.
“Chatty, isn’t she?” Tedi thought the long-haired calico an exceptionally beautiful cat. “Do you know I have had the most curious experience. These last three days I’ve noticed a little screech owl, she’s no bigger than a minute, either in the barn or in the tree. She winks at me. I swear it. And I see her around. I feel as if this owl is following me. Sybil says, ‘Mom, you’re out there.’ ”
“She probably likes you. Just because an animal is undomesticated doesn’t mean it can’t take an interest in you.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Sure, look at Inky or Aunt Netty.” The two foxes were both well-known to hunt club members.
“I hope we don’t hop Aunt Netty until it cools down. She’ll run the legs right off of the hounds and us.”
“That she will. You know, Inky will sit at a distance when I’m in the hound graveyard or when I’m gardening up here around the house. She’ll sit and stare. She’s a dear little thing.”
“The black fox legend doesn’t scare you?” Tedi brought up the legend that the appearance of a black fox presages upheaval.
“No, not really. It’s not that uncommon a color variation. On the other end of it, look at that cub over at Wheeler’s Mill. So blond, he looks like a golden retriever and just as leggy. He’s going to be an odd-looking creation.”
“Let’s go out to dinner, my treat.” Tedi smiled. “In fact, let’s take Shaker. Come on, you can finish your draw list later.” She checked her watch. “You call Shaker. I’ll call Keswick Hall.”
“Oh, we’ll have to get all dressed up.”
“I mean the Sport Club. We can go in Bermuda shorts and sit at the little table by the bar. I don’t want to get dressed up, either.”
Within forty-five minutes all three of them were awaiting their appetizers. Sister sipped hot tea, Shaker drank iced tea, while Tedi indulged in a martini, the tiny corkscrew of lemon peel dancing around in the gin and vermouth. She said she wanted a twist instead of an olive because olives were for cool weather, lemons were for hot.
The three had also made a pact to not discuss Nola or Guy. One, it was too depressing. Two, they felt they were going around in circles about it. Three, Tedi especially needed to be distracted, which is exactly why she had left her daughter and husband at Farmington Country Club while she repaired to Keswick. Both country clubs also had hunt clubs bearing their names.
By the time the main courses arrived, all were in much more relaxed moods. Sister ordered sesame-crusted salmon; Tedi tried the pan-seared tun
a, which she found delicious. Shaker stuck to chicken.
By the time they’d ordered their desserts they were telling old hunting stories and laughing.
Nancy Holt, the club tennis pro, came in and was hailed over to the table. She hunted with Keswick Hunt Club during the season on her day off, Wednesday.
“And what are you doing at work?” Tedi asked the tall, attractive woman.
“Just finished a kids’ tournament. Hey, I didn’t know Crawford Howard paid an extra five thousand dollars so Doug would come over to Shenandoah.”
“What?” All three stopped, forks filled with rich dessert poised in midair.
“Yes. Doakie Sproul was in the tournament. His mother told me they were surprised but grateful.” Mrs. Georgianna Sproul, wife of the master of the Shenandoah Hunt, was Doakie’s mother.
“That son of a bitch.” Shaker put his fork down.
“Uh-oh. Did I say something wrong?” Nancy put her hand to her mouth.
“No, you did not. Sit here. Would you like dinner?” Tedi patted the seat.
“No, thank you, but I’ll take a drink.”
As the drink was ordered, Shaker’s face grew redder. “That asshole. That total shit.” He drank a sip of tea. “I’m sorry, ladies.”
“I guess you didn’t know.” Nancy had no great love for Crawford since he kept running into her during joint meets. He’d use her for a bumper when he couldn’t hold Czapaka.
“Who did?” Tedi wondered. “And how come Wyatt Sproul didn’t tell you?” Wyatt was Shenandoah’s master.
“Wy is a good man. He must have thought I already knew.” Sister was putting two and two together.
“Doug would have told you. Means he doesn’t know,” Shaker said, his color returning to its normal ruddy shade. “Sister, do I have your permission to strangle Crawford?”
“No, dear, he’s not worth going to jail over.”
“We have to get even.” Tedi, too, was disturbed at this underhanded ploy.
“Oh, Tedi, we will.” Sister returned to her impossibly rich chocolate ice cream.
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