“They didn’t. They wore their dress uniform but with silk stockings, expensive breeches, and equally expensive pumps. Society required money and lots of it.” She warmed to her subject.
“Still does,” Pamela said sourly. “My mother spends enough on clothes to pay for Argentina’s army.”
“I’m sure she’s quite beautiful,” Professor Kennedy replied.
“She is. Pamela’s mother was Thaddea Bolendar, the famous model back in the late seventies. She made the cover of Vogue.” Knute, like most men, went weak at the knees at the sight of Pamela’s mother.
Professor Kennedy, a woman and therefore far more sensitive to the mother-daughter dynamic, instantly appreciated the source of some of Pamela’s unhappiness, for Pamela, a little overweight, resembled her father more than her mother. In short, she would never be a beauty, but if she worked at it, she could be attractive. Her sharp eyes took in six-foot-one-inch Valentina’s unforced, athletic beauty, all that gorgeous blonde hair, those blue eyes. Then there was petite Tootie, standing right next to Pamela. Poor Pamela suffered by comparison, for Tootie in her way was every bit as stunning as Pamela’s famous and spoiled mother. As for Felicity, she was simply pretty. One had to study Felicity before realizing how pretty she was.
Professor Kennedy smiled brightly at Knute. “My experience is that the children of highly successful parents, once they learn not to compare themselves to their parents, go on to become successful themselves.”
“That’s an interesting observation.” Knute clearly didn’t get it.
Pamela did and she brightened. “Really?”
“Well, yes, because success, regardless of career, can be broken into discrete bits of practice, if you will, traits, behaviors. Even though you need special skills for different tasks, jobs, there are certain things that cut across all careers. For instance, something as simple as determination. No one gets anywhere without it.”
“We’ve got that.” Valentina beamed and then in one of those moments of insight, underrated in the young even though they have them, she grasped Pamela’s discomfort. “I think Pamela is more determined than any of us.”
Pamela didn’t trust the compliment coming from her archrival, but she was glad of it.
Tootie, per usual, kept her thoughts to herself.
Bill Wheatley breezed in. Seeing the cases open, Knute standing there, he skidded to a halt. “Knute, I had no idea you were interested in our heritage.”
Knute teased Bill back, “Now, Bill, just because I don’t go into a rapture over a ribbon doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
Bill chuckled, speaking to Professor Kennedy, “To tell the truth, Professor, I’m afraid few of us have paid much attention to the treasures in our display cases here much less to their manufacture. We’re all so busy with our duties we forget to stop and smell the roses, if you will.”
“You’ve studied the clothes,” Knute contradicted him.
“Yes. It’s been so helpful for costumes for plays set in the beginning of the nineteenth century. Don’t know beans about the rest of it.” His eyes fell on the snaffle bit. “Valentina, Tootie, girls, this is right up your alley. And if you don’t know, Sister Jane will.”
“The master?” Professor Kennedy appreciated the social grace and skill with which Sister had made her feel welcome at the Opening Hunt breakfast.
“She has ancient pieces of tack, bits, boot pulls, you wouldn’t believe the junk she has in the barn or up at the house. She’s got one old curb chain from the time of Charles I! When an argument broke out about the introduction of the curb chain, damned if she didn’t bring it out.”
“A curb chain?” Professor Kennedy knew little about horses or their accoutrements.
“A chain under the horse’s chin,” Pamela replied. “Sometimes they have a larger link smack in the middle.”
“You use them with a Pelham bit,” Tootie added, pointing to the snaffle. “Wouldn’t use it with this.”
“Ah, well, as you can gather, the development of equipage is not my forte. I suppose I should learn the basics.” She paused. “Until Henry Ford made cars affordable, we needed horses.”
“Still do.” Valentina loved her gelding, Moneybags.
“Luncheon with Sonny,” Knute said as he checked his watch. “Professor, if you ever need help on sailing history, call me. In fact, I just bought a three-masted schooner, in need of T.L.C., but a beauty all the same. She’ll be seaworthy by spring.”
As Knute left, Bill filled in Professor Kennedy. “He really does know a lot about sailing. It’s his grand passion.”
“You certainly have a diverse administration.”
“One of the strengths of Custis Hall.” Bill checked his own watch, returning his gaze to the tiny lady. “Charlotte mentioned that your expertise is construction. We don’t have much of that, I mean a few pegs and nails here and there.”
“That’s where I started because that’s what I could see, more material, if you will. But I have tried to expand my knowledge into the living arts, kitchenware, even clothing, although I would never pass myself off as an expert in attire. I can grasp the fundamentals and it’s my good fortune to have many colleagues I can turn to for advice.”
“Interesting work?”
“I love it.”
“As you can see, we have a hodgepodge.”
“Yes, but there are items here of great cultural value.”
“And no one cares. No one cares who made that bit or how they lived.” Pamela’s face flushed as she said this.
“People are beginning to care, Pamela. The past is always with us even when we aren’t aware of it. Not knowing one’s past is like being blind in one eye. You think you can see but you’re hampered, deceived even,” Professor Kennedy replied.
At the word “deceived” Bill perked up. “Yes, yes, of course, I never thought of that.” He checked his watch again. “Well, I have so enjoyed chatting with you, Professor, and I’m always glad to see my four favorite students. Her Most High has summoned me and I must repair.” He bowed with a flourish, then disappeared down the administration hall.
Pamela’s steely gaze followed him. She blurted out, “When I first came here I thought he was gay. He’s not.”
“He’s a fop.” Tootie giggled.
“Oh, let’s just say he’s theatrical,” Valentina said as she wondered how she’d look in the low-cut ballgown that had pride of place in the adjoining case.
“Ladies, there have been times in history when men enjoyed a greater latitude of expression in dress and behavior than they do now. Nothing at all to do with gender issues. Think of the drawings and paintings of courtiers during the time of Elizabeth I. Think of the drawings of African kings from the nineteenth century.” She paused. “But you see in those days the highest goal was glory, personal glory, hopefully in the service of one’s king, queen, country. The goals have changed, and one doesn’t hear the word ‘glory’ anymore. We have become dull, efficient, dry—men more so than women.”
A moment passed while the four young ladies absorbed this, then Tootie piped up, “Not in the hunt field.”
Bill Wheatley walked into Charlotte’s office, Teresa opening the door. The sight of Ben Sidel, in uniform, surprised him.
“Bill, sit down.” Charlotte pointed to a leather chair. “I’ll get right to the point. The sheriff has found a second Zorro costume. He’s brought it for you to examine and perhaps identify.” She paused. “Tell us why you told Ben you’d only made one Zorro costume. You told me two.”
Bill stuttered, “An oversight. Of course, I had two made.” He turned to Ben. “But you questioned me the very next day, the next day after that hideous sight. I don’t remember one thing I said. Please forgive me.”
Ben, not a trace of his inner thoughts showing, said, “Were there two costumes when Al Perez went in to try one on? Did you personally see both costumes?”
“I think so.”
“When is the last time you saw both costumes?”
“The day Al tried on his costume. Before he came in, I’d gone back into the storage room for a bolt of gingham. I distinctly recall passing that rack, the outer rack. I’m sure I saw them.”
It escaped neither Charlotte nor Ben that Bill was sweating.
“Will you look at what we’ve found?”
“Of course.”
Ben stood up, picked a cardboard box off the long side table, and placed it before Bill. Charlotte handed over a pair of thin plastic gloves.
“Put those on, Bill,” she directed him.
As he slipped on the surgical gloves he said, “Just like what Professor Kennedy and the girls are using. Tight, aren’t they?”
Ben indicated that he should pick articles out of the box. He held them as though they were soiled baby diapers.
“Do you recognize this?” Ben asked.
“Oh, yes, yes, my, yes. This is the costume.” He pointed to the chain, touching it with his right forefinger. “Charlotte, there’s the chain in the lining.”
“Yes, so it is.”
“Sheriff, where did you find this?”
Ben hesitated a moment. “Near the hanging tree.”
“I thought you and your men combed that area.”
“We did but the animals combed it more thoroughly than we did.” Ben left it at that.
“I guess you’re lucky the costume is in as good a shape as it is.” Bill peeled off the gloves, folding them in half. “I know Al’s car was in the parking lot here the next day. We all noticed it. I guess you all went over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“We did.”
Bill didn’t ask if the sheriff had found anything important to the case. He added, “Al willingly got in someone else’s car, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” Ben answered.
“Someone he knew.” Bill sounded sad, fatigued.
“It does seem like that. There were no signs of struggle on Al’s body. No bump on the head.” Ben inclined his head to the side. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything else that has occurred to you?”
“No. I just thought about his car.” Bill paused. “Sheriff, why would there be two Zorro costumes? Who else is involved?”
Ben said, “I don’t know, but I will find out.”
After both men had left, Charlotte sat at her desk, staring blankly at the silver tea service on the sideboard. A gift from the class of 1952, she loved the curving lines of the teapot, the burnish of the silver.
Teresa opened the door, peeking in. She started to close it.
Charlotte called her in, “Come on, T.”
Teresa closed the door behind her. “Charlotte, you’re worried.”
Charlotte looked up at her. “I am. I am more worried now than I think I ever have been in my entire life. More worried than when I saw Al hanging from the tree. That was a shock. This is worry.”
Teresa, warmhearted, nodded, “Well, I figure if the sheriff calls it can’t be good.”
Charlotte got up and walked around her desk; she took Teresa by the hand, walking her to the sofa. They sat down side by side.
“Teresa, I think Bill Wheatley is lying to me.”
Teresa’s face did not register surprise. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“What tipped you off?”
“He’s always been a little too cheery for me. Cheery is the only word I can think of, but lately, he’s cheery underlined three times except when Al Perez’s name comes up, and then he’s grief underlined. It’s all too . . .”
“Theatrical.”
“That is his department,” Teresa said drily. “Do you think this has anything to do with the dressing room discussion?”
Charlotte trusted Teresa completely. This trust was returned in full. She had asked her right-hand woman if she, too, had heard any rumors about Bill swooping into the dressing rooms. Teresa had heard the odd comment over the years but not enough to set off her radar.
“I wish I knew. I just know . . . he’s different. Then again, we have a murder on our hands, and I could be reading into everyone’s behavior. I find myself fighting down suspicions.”
“That’s natural.”
“And disquieting.” She sighed, leaning her head back on the sofa. She didn’t have an Adam’s apple but she had a tiny bulge there, Eve’s orange. “I have this terrible premonition.”
“What?”
She turned her head toward Teresa. “Not an event. I’m not seeing into the future. It’s, well, it’s that I think this is the beginning. Like you, I’m getting the creeps. And Teresa, I have no idea, not one, why or what.”
A long, long silence followed. “Like I said last week, the old cliché, this is the tip of the iceberg.”
C H A P T E R 1 7
The cold front blew the last of the leaves off the trees except for those on a steep southward slope. A few pin oaks glowed rich red. Other oaks with orange or deep russet leaves rustled with the light winds. Eventually the color would fade to a dull brown; the leaves might stay put until spring, when the new buds pushed them off.
Nature fascinated Sister, whether plant or animal. Little Dalby’s two thousand acres contained gorgeous ancient oaks, towering pines, and old hollies down in the bog that reached up a story and a half. The soil varied greatly from the eastern part of the old land-grant estate to the western, becoming more rocky, with boulders jutting up from pastures as one moved west.
Sister held a topo map for one quadrant of the farm. She turned, her back to the breeze, which was intensifying.
Betty held the left side of the map. “I thought the front moved through the other night.”
“Did. This is just plain old wind.” Sister pointed to a small cross on the map. “St. John’s of the Cross. Remember the wonderful Christmas Eve services the Viaults used to have here? You were newly married when I met you and Bobby Christmas Eve.”
“Bet the old vines and Virginia creeper are holding it up. Holding us up, too.” Betty thought back to old times.
Sister smiled. “That’s true. If it weren’t for honeysuckle some of my old fencing on the back acres would be down.”
“We’ve marked half this farm.” Betty reached into her pocket for a roll of hot pink surveyor’s tape. “I bet we can knock it all out and the boys can get over here tomorrow. I heard Crawford bought two new Honda ATVs, so he can ride one and Marty can ride the other. He’s going to use his to feed foxes on his farm when you show him how and give him a schedule. He’ll need the ATV.”
Sister inhaled deeply. “Deer.”
“Make your eyes water. Where is he?”
“Moving along the edge of the woods. The wind carried the scent straight to us. Tell you what, sure makes me appreciate the hound work on a windy day.”
“That’s the truth. I can remember days when we’d see the fox when the wind blew the scent thirty yards off. Shaker knows how to swing them into it, though, in case they’re struggling.”
“He’s a good huntsman. He’s a good man.”
“M-m-m,” Betty murmured in agreement. “Well, want to see what’s left of St. John’s of the Cross?”
Sister hopped onto her ATV, a 2001 Kawasaki. Used daily but well maintained, she didn’t think she could run the farm without it. She envied Crawford blowing into Wayne’s Cycle and writing a check for two brand-new Hondas. Knowing him, he bought the 750cc monsters.
They rode up to the edge of the old pasture, broomsages coming up, waving thin golden wands in the wind.
Sister slowed at the edge of the woods. Calling over her shoulder, she shouted above the motor, “Fence not bad. Let’s see if we can find an old farm road. We can mark a jump near the gate if there still is one.”
The two cruised along the woods until coming to the farm road. The gate, handmade from wood, was rotting out, hanging crooked on big rusted hinges.
Sister cut the motor and they both climbed off.
Betty reached the three-board fence and deftly looped the surveyor’s tape around the to
p board, leaving a tail to flutter. The jump site was twenty yards from the gate.
“St. John’s will be maybe a half mile down the farm road. Looks different, doesn’t it? Course, things change in eight years.”
“Things can change in eight minutes.” Sister laughed as she wiggled the old gate open. “Don’t see many hand-built gates anymore. Too bad.”
Betty fished in her pocket, holding up the sharp clippers. “Ready.”
They climbed on the Kawasaki and followed the farm road as it crossed another deeply rutted road, the ruts made by wagon wheels, not tires.
Sister called over her shoulder, “Once upon a time this was the old road to the gap. Guess it fell out of use around the turn of the last century.”
“Later. When the state built the new road—the 1930s.” Betty liked history. “Part of all the work F.D.R. cooked up.”
“Old man Viault kept things clean right up until the day he died. He and Peter were in the army together.” Her eyes twinkled. “Seems so long ago yet like yesterday. Those were men, weren’t they? Hate to see this place so run-down.”
“Marty says the Widemans are dedicated to restoring Little Dalby to its former glory.” Betty noticed a woodcock fly up out of the brush. “How about that. I hope they make a comeback.”
“Not much chance, Betty, not as long as all the raptors are federally protected. They’re killing the ground nesters at a frightening rate.”
“The runoff from pesticides is killing the ground nesters, too. I hate it.” Betty hugged Sister’s waist when they hit a bump.
A shift of hazy light, gold-filled with specks of dust, shone through the trees right onto the cross of St. John’s.
Betty’s hand flew to her heart. Then she hugged Sister and they both smiled as the tall woman cut the motor.
The roof, slate, held; the stone, covered in Virginia creeper leaves a bright fall red as Betty predicted, was in great shape. Some of the leaded-glass windows were broken, but not too many.
A big twisted wrought-iron handle on the blue wooden door worked fine. Sister pressed the thumb piece, the lock clicked. She swung the door open.
Covered in dust, the altar and the pews stood. All had been hand-carved.
The Hunt Ball Page 12