Even the wooden cross, for the worshippers couldn’t afford gold or even brass, stood on the ornate wooden altar.
A soft flutter of wings snapped their heads upward and a great horned owl, male, swept overhead, out the front door.
“Athena’s boyfriend.” Sister laughed—he came down so quickly, so silently, he startled them both.
“Nest in the steeple?”
“I don’t know, but he knows how to get in and out. Well, it keeps the mice population in check.”
“Think he’s Athena’s boyfriend?”
“I expect she has a fella closer to home. I also expect she gives the orders.”
“Ever tell you about the time I saw a snowy owl? Big as Athena.”
“You did? Lucky you. They come down from the north. Pickin’s are good here.” She coughed. “Dust.”
“When do you think’s the last time anyone was in here?”
“Eight years, at the least. Old man Viault didn’t get around much at the end.” She coughed again.
Betty thought a moment. “This was the slave church, wasn’t it?”
“Was.”
“You’d think the master wouldn’t want a church in the woods.”
“I don’t think it was back then. Might have been on the edge, but if you look around at the trees out there, they aren’t but one hundred years old, maybe one hundred and twenty. That one cigar tree is pretty old, a good one hundred years.”
Cigar trees like moist spots.
“Maybe we should tell Professor Kennedy. I enjoyed meeting her the other night when you had her and Charlotte, Carter, Bobby, and me over for dinner. I like small gatherings best. She’s a fascinating woman and from Portland, Maine, of all places.”
“A real Yankee. Course I can get along with a true New Englander much easier than someone from the middle states most times. None of us can help where we were born.” She smiled slyly.
“Hell, none of us can help being born.” Betty laughed.
“That’s a fact. What I can’t figure is why some people are so unhappy with life.” She pointed to the altar, a blade of light falling on the cross, the streaky windows behind washed many times over by rainstorms. “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”
They walked outside, Sister closing the door behind her.
“We’ve let so much go. So much that has to do with slavery,” Betty mused.
“Yes, but remember that we let a lot of everything go. There wasn’t a penny after the war. Virginia didn’t begin to feel good times until the 1920s, and that was nipped in the bud by the Depression. And think about it, who ran the show? White men.” She held up her hand. “I’m not saying one thing against our forefathers, but it seems to me that people will preserve first what relates directly to them. So once a little money flowed south of the Potomac, the buildings that were shored up had to do with their history. It’s only been in the last two decades that a recognition of preservation for black folks has taken root.”
“And there’s not a damned thing to preserve for women.”
“Women’s work perished in the using,” Sister said with a shrug. “So it was. And in many ways so it is. I can’t be bothered getting angry or feeling shoved aside. I remember the protests in the seventies. I wasn’t against them but it was alien to me. I figure you make hell with what you have. I may be on the shorter end of the stick than the white man, but I’ve still got some say-so, some ability to relish this life.”
“You’re a different generation, Sister. Even myself, and what am I, twenty-five years younger than you? Of course, when I’m around you I usually feel twenty-five years older since I can’t keep up.” Betty laughed.
“Flatterer.”
“No, it’s true, you have some kind of primal energy.”
“Because I’m living my true life and I’m my true self.”
“It’s also in the blood.”
“Yeah, my mother and father both had energy. But anyway, here we are in the middle of the woods, the branches are waving, clouds are scattered, the fragrance of the earth and the leaves rises up to meet you. It’s perfect and I’ll bet you that some of the folks who worshipped here despite the hardship, the injustice of their lives, found moments of sheer beauty. They had to because you can’t live without it.”
“We can ask Professor Kennedy.”
“A deep knowledge.” Sister put her arm around Betty’s shoulders.
They walked around the back of the church checking the foundation, fitted stone.
“Couple of gaps here big enough for a fox.” Sister inhaled, a faint whiff of Reynard tingling in her nostrils.
“Here’s a sizable one.” Betty had stopped right at the back. “Almost big enough to crawl in.”
“You and I could. Some of our members would get stuck.”
Betty hunkered down. “Wouldn’t take the Widemans much to repair the foundation. Really. It’s in darned good shape.”
“That, a few windows, and a thorough cleaning, St. John’s of the Cross will be as good as new.”
They walked back, getting on the ATV.
Once home that afternoon, Sister did call the Widemans. The lady of the house, Anselma, seemed very grateful for the news and said she was so looking forward to the hunt on Tuesday, November 29.
Sister hung up. Thanksgiving Hunt loomed before her. The two weeks since Opening Hunt flashed by in part because time always seemed to move faster after Opening Hunt, and partly because of the activity around Custis Hall, unpleasant as it was. She’d been working overtime, but hadn’t thought much about the second High Holy Day. Here it was about to splat on her head. Well, chances were it wouldn’t be blank.
She dialed Charlotte, informed her of the slave church, and thought she might want to tell Professor Kennedy. If the little lady wanted to see it she’d buzz her over, but she’d let Charlotte decide.
Then she reaffirmed that Valentina, Tootie, and Felicity could spend Thanksgiving with her, off campus for the holiday weekend. All three elected to stay back over Thanksgiving vacation. They wanted to foxhunt. Charlotte thought it a wonderful idea that they stay with the master.
Word got around, so other club members took in girls who wanted to stay and hunt.
Pamela Rene had promised her parents she’d be home for Thanksgiving. She already regretted it.
After finishing up her calls—she averaged twenty to thirty a day, most of them having to do with hunt activities—Sister threw on her sweater, her ancient Filson tin coat, the tan faded to wheat in spots.
Raleigh and Rooster followed along. Golly, hating wind, stayed inside, and the minute the dogs were out the door she ate some crunchies from their bowl. She liked her food better but getting away with something appealed to her.
Shaker sat in the kennel office, head bent over the small red books published by the Master of Foxhounds Association of America. These were the stud books, a treasure for any breeder.
“Shaker, I thought you used the computer for that.”
“Down.”
“Again?” He nodded and she asked, “How old is that computer?”
He tapped the dark screen. “Five.”
“Is it really? I quite forgot. Guess I need to buy one for Christmas, don’t I?”
“I like the one you bought yourself.” He grinned impishly.
“Well, then I know just what to get. You know, five years, can’t complain. These things change so fast. I guess this Gateway is now a dinosaur.”
“Computers turn over too fast. Think of the old truck Peter Wheeler willed to us. Runs like a top. Stuff should be like that.”
“The 454 engine will go on when we’re all dead. It’s the brakes, the clutch, the alternator, the radiator that fritz out. Patch, patch, patch.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Bought you the topos. Marked. Lots of jumps to build but not too much in the way of clearing. Between you and Walter’s work crew, two days. Maybe one if enough people come out.”
“November 29 is around the corner.”
“Never know. November is tough.”
“Hey, how’s the little girl doing?”
He knew she meant the fox they’d relocated. “She’s fine. I’m pretty sure she’s Inky’s. I saw them together last night at twilight, up by the round hay bales. Sitting on top of them surveying their domain.”
“Good.”
“Anything more?”
“’Bout what?”
“The Zorro stuff.” He realized, close as they were, she couldn’t read his mind.
“Nothing new.”
“Stalled out?”
“I don’t know. Legwork. Ben has to find and put together tiny pieces of tile until he gets the crime mosaic, if you will. He said that most times who the killer is is obvious but in something like this, not at all.”
“His riding is getting better.”
“So it is.”
Shaker pondered a moment. “You know, Boss, I think Lorraine is just about perfect. If only she foxhunted. That’s my one complaint. Not that I say much. But I look at Ben. If he can do it, she can, too. Course, you have to want to do it.”
Sister knew Lorraine was taking lessons from Sam Lorillard in secret. She wanted to surprise Shaker for Christmas Hunt. “Well, maybe one day she’ll take a notion,” she nonchalantly replied as she sat on the edge of the desk, picked up a stud book from 1971, flipping it to Green Spring Valley. She read absentmindedly, then glanced at Shaker. “Funny thing.”
“What? Their entry?”
“No, chemistry. You and Lorraine have good chemistry.” She closed the small red book. “I keep coming back to this thing with Al Perez. Everyone liked him. Good chemistry. He was an agreeable man. Not charismatic but nice, and he extended himself to others. People miss him. They grieve over his death. And they miss his skills at Custis Hall. He was good at extracting money from the alumnae. So I ask myself, again, why? Circumstances?”
“Amy Childers could have hung him in a fit of jealousy.” He said this without conviction.
“No. If she were going to do him bodily harm she would have done it when their relationship ended. I suppose Ben had to ask her uncomfortable questions but Amy didn’t kill him.”
“Circumstances or he crossed someone. You’re on the scent, girl.” He smiled; his teeth were straight. He knew her well.
C H A P T E R 1 8
Tuesday, November 22, was the last day of classes until Monday, November 28. The brevity of Thanksgiving vacation ensured that many Custis Hall students stayed put.
A few left the previous Friday, having turned in their papers, taken tests early. Pamela Rene was one of those. Her father sent the company jet for her, which impressed some students, infuriated others. Pamela took it as a birthright but she really didn’t want to go home.
Professor Kennedy came to say good-bye to Charlotte before her own departure.
The two women sipped sherry. A misting rain coated the windows, small panes, original to the building.
“We’ve grown accustomed to you, Frances.” Charlotte used Professor Kennedy’s first name once the older woman had given her permission to do so.
“I’ve met some interesting people and I can’t thank you enough for setting up the meeting with Sister Jane and the Widemans.”
“I look forward to seeing St. John’s of the Cross myself, but I expect it will be from the back of my horse, first time, anyway.”
Professor Kennedy placed her sherry glass on the silver tray. She smoothed down her skirt. “Charlotte, I will have this report to you by the first of the year. It’s painstaking. I want to do the best job for you that I can because this will be the template that future generations refer to and utilize.”
“I know we’ll be excited to read it.”
She touched her tight bun for a second. “Refresh my memory, who has keys to the cases?”
“I do. Knute, as treasurer, has a backup key. Teresa knows where I keep my key. Jake Walford, in charge of buildings and grounds, has his own key.”
“No one else?”
“No, why?”
She paused; a pained expression crossed her well-formed features. “I hesitate to discuss this. Part of me thinks I should wait until my report, wait for the fallout, but . . .”
“Yes?” Charlotte’s heart beat faster.
“The man who is dead. Did he have a key?”
“No.”
Professor Kennedy’s faced seemed inscrutable. “Those cases would be easy to pry open. You’d know, though.”
“Professor Kennedy, what’s the problem?”
Speaking quickly and low, Professor Kennedy plunged right in. “There are irregularities among your artifacts.”
“In what way?”
“I believe some of the items are not authentic.”
Charlotte took this in. “I see. Do you think they were not from the Custis family when they were donated to the school?”
“No. I believe some of these items have been tampered with much more recently. But before I risk my reputation on this, I want to carefully go over the photographs and my descriptions with my colleagues.”
“Yes, of course. I can appreciate your position.”
“And I can appreciate yours,” Professor Kennedy said sympathetically.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“No.”
“Do you think anyone suspects? Do you have suspicions?” Charlotte leaned forward. She noticed Frances checking her watch. “I can take you to the airport.”
“I have to drop off the rental car. I’m packed and ready to go.” She sat up straight. “I’ll have my report to you after the New Year.” She paused. “I don’t know the people here well enough to have suspicions. I hope I’m wrong, Charlotte, I truly do, but,” she inhaled deeply, “I know I’m not. My report is going to hit Custis Hall like a bombshell.”
C H A P T E R 1 9
“Why do I have to do it?” Grace moaned.
“Because you live at Foxglove,” Aunt Netty answered.
The two reds, one young, the other getting on in years but famous for her blazing speed, trotted by the steady, hypnotic flow of water from the upper pond to the lower pond at Foxglove Farm.
Athena called in the distance, “Hoo hoo hoodoo hoodoo.”
A light frost coated the meadows silver.
The sun, an hour from rising, seemed on the other side of the world, for this time is the coldest time.
The two vixens reached Cindy Chandler’s pretty stable. Cindy put out hard candies for them, which they demolished in short order. Then Aunt Netty, on her hind legs, stood as tall as she could to push up the latch into the sweet-feed bin in the feed room.
The effort it took both girls to flip up the lid was considerable. Once they caught their breath they hoisted themselves up, dropping into the sweet feed, the tiny bits of grain between their toes, the aroma intoxicating.
“I’d rather eat and sleep today.”
“All right then, why don’t we compromise?” Aunt Netty flicked a moist oat off her whiskers. “You go by the ponds. Oh, make a big figure eight so they’ll think they’re running a gray. The humans, I mean. The hounds will know it’s you. Then just pop into your den. That’s easy enough. I’ll take it from there and run to the old schoolhouse. I think my errant husband is under there. He left his old den. Lazy ass.” She sniffed. “He used to keep a clean den but this last year, he hasn’t. He was forever fickle about his living quarters, but really, he’s gotten slovenly. All he wants to do is sit on the old window seat at Shaker’s and watch the TV through the window. He’s getting mental.”
Grace prudently did not mention what Uncle Yancy said about Netty, namely that she had turned into a harridan. “He takes a notion,” she said noncommittally, stuffing more sweet feed into her powerful, slender jaws.
So busy were the two vixens that they didn’t hear Cindy Chandler come into the stable to braid her horse. Startled, when th
ey heard the thump of the tack room door they leapt up, but the motion brought down the lid.
“Shit!” Aunt Netty allowed herself a profanity.
“What do we do?”
“Nothing until she comes for a scoop of sweet feed. We’ll scare the wits out of her when we jump out.”
Cindy, however, wasn’t going to laden her good mare, Caneel, with sweet feed. She put all the hay the mare wanted in her stall, tying the net up so she’d reach with her neck, not her usual practice. But as Caneel merrily tore at her feed net, Cindy knocked off the dust. She had washed the mare the previous night with Show Sheen, so her coat glistened.
Then she brought out a bucket of warm water, a small footstool, took off her gloves, wet a piece of mane, and began braiding.
Most people in the middle years hire kids to braid, but Cindy, having spent time on the show circuit at the highest levels plus training steeplechasers, put in a perfect, tight braid. Kindly and warm, she proved a perfectionist about braiding and turnout. She used a black braid for the mare’s black mane. Every now and then she’d honor a holiday, braid with orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas. Her delightful sense of humor was infectious.
The two foxes waited and waited.
“She’s starving that mare,” Grace whined.
“I don’t know what she’s doing.” Aunt Netty felt drowsy. Too much sweet feed and sour ball hard candies.
There they sat.
At ten the eighty-nine riders resplendent for the second of the High Holy Days gathered in front of the charming frame house at Foxglove Farm, hugged by English boxwoods. Cindy Chandler had a gift for landscaping and gardening. Wherever one looked there was something to involve the eye.
A prayer of Thanksgiving was given by the Reverend Daniel Wheeler. The hounds gave the good man with his musical voice their attention.
Then off they rode.
Sister and Shaker always discussed the day’s cast the night before. They decided that since they’d had such good luck by the ponds last year they’d start there. The farm afforded many opportunities for a brisk ride since Cindy had paneled every fence, indulging in a few special jumps like a new tiger trap behind the stable that led into the pasture holding Clytemnestra, the giant Holstein cow, and her son, growing as large as his mother. The tiger trap at three feet six inches looked like teeth since each log stood up, forming a steeple. Quite impressive except that Cly would step over it and rub her belly. And if she felt bored she’d smash right through it. She evidenced a slight antisocial streak. Orestes, her son, mostly followed momma. He didn’t have too many ideas of his own.
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