Fox Tracks

by Rita Mae Brown

  The major roads would be cleared and by now most of the secondary roads as well. But as the sun’s rays, long and low, finally set, the roads would turn to ice.

  She’d call Walter later, once he returned home from the hospital. Throwing on the old flight jacket, earmuffs, gloves, and her wonderful cashmere scarf—which really kept her neck warm—she opened the mudroom door, inhaled deeply, feeling the cold air fill her lungs.

  While many household chores awaited her, she preferred outside ones. A disciplined woman, Sister would return later to the dreary repetitive round of cleaning house, washing floors, and organizing papers.

  Raleigh and Rooster came out the dog door.

  “If you’re going to walk with me, then walk with me. No running off. Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” the dogs replied.

  They walked past the kennels, the barn, turning left on the sunken farm road. Tiny rainbows glittered on the snow as they pushed along. Reaching the apple orchard, they stopped to marvel at the mature fruit trees wrapped in snow, sparkling little crystals on those branches.

  Jammed in her pockets were fake hot dogs, a dog treat she bought at Pattie Boden’s pet store. Moving quietly, she crept over to a fox den in the orchard inhabited by Inky, a glossy black vixen.

  Putting her finger to her lips, a gesture the two dogs knew well, she knelt down, placing four of the treats just inside the main den entrance.

  Inky had several escape routes but she, like most humans, preferred her front door. In the snow her footprints showed she was a gray fox. A red fox’s prints would betray a bit of fur between the toes and they’d be bigger.

  Since the big snow, Inky had ventured outside just once. The snow was deep enough to make it tough going for her: She’d sink. Once a good icy coating covered the snow she could move about more easily. Smart, she’d emerge later that night and use Sister’s tracks to go to the kennel. She liked visiting the hounds, getting the gossip, telling them what she’d seen, since she could roam everywhere. But tonight the hounds would stay tucked up. Still, Inky would probably walk down to pick up any edible tidbits that had been discarded. The best place was the barn because the horses always dropped some of their sweet feed, plus Sister and Betty left out jelly beans and small dog bones. Inky lived good.

  “Here you go, Inky.” Sister stood up, headed north.

  The woman and two dogs reached a coop in the fenceline bordering the vast easternmost field of her property. A coop is a jump that looks like an old chicken coop. Lush in spring and summer, she could cut enough hay off this land to feed all her horses, except in drought years. And fortunately, she had other good fields, too. Sister believed in stewardship of the earth and its creatures, plus she loved the work.

  Throwing one leg over the coop, she slid the other one over. Slippery and wet on the westernmost side where the sun now shone, it was tight as a tick on the other side. The dogs leapt over effortlessly.

  How glorious to have four legs. Making do with two, Sister trudged through the snow, encountering a drift here and there until she reached the stone ruins of a foundation. Slightly over two hundred years old, the ruins testified to the wisdom and tenacity of those first farmers. They first built a small cabin with a stone foundation. As they prospered, they moved to the site where Sister now lived.

  One giant walnut tree grew out of the center of the foundation. The tumbled stones—surrounded by locust trees and one lone chestnut not touched by the blight—hinted at what might have been. The rise in the land to the west offered some protection from the steady northwest winds. Plus Sister owned Hangman’s Ridge, which was a thousand feet above sea level. A half mile distant, it also blocked the wind in this lower meadow.

  Under the walnut tree, a large round hole signaled the home of Comet. He could have used some domestic help. Unlike Inky, Comet threw his debris outside his den. A mound of bones, snow-covered, rested on the left side. A denuded bird wing, fresh, lay on the right. Clearly, Comet was a good hunter.

  Sister left him a few tidbits, then retraced her steps, again clambering over the coop. She stopped and looked up toward Hangman’s Ridge.

  “You know, boys, I’d like to see it in fresh snow, but I don’t feel like that climb.”

  “Let’s go home. I don’t want to go up there,” the Doberman said.

  “Me neither. Full of ghosts. Full of misery.” Like the other animals, Rooster could feel and sometimes see what humans denied.

  “Interesting,” she informed her dogs. “It’s protected here, the snow stayed on the branches. When we reach the places exposed to winds, they’re cleaned off. It’s always good to remember these things when I’m hunting.”

  “Right.” Raleigh agreed.

  “Those two foxes know where the wind currents are. If they run headfirst into them, the odor goes straight to the hounds. If they hook a turn, they move their scent. You know, I will never know what the fox knows, I will never know what you two know with those incredible noses.”

  Having come to Sister as an adult, Rooster complained. “People think we’re dumb dogs.”

  “Not her, but think about it,” said Raleigh, “she knows things we don’t. She can look at a piece of paper and know things.” Raleigh loved his person.

  A large shadow overhead made all three freeze. Athena, the huge Great Horned Owl, two and a half feet tall, flew right between them and the sun. Her feathers were built for silence. She had startled all of them.

  Another owl, Bitsy, had to flap her wings much more than Athena, but she still flew silently. Bitsy was only eight and a half inches tall, the large bird’s sidekick. Swooping past, both owls regarded the ground animals.

  Sister waved. She might have looked stupid, but she didn’t feel stupid.

  “Golly is such a liar.” Raleigh stared at the talons on Athena’s feet. “She swore she scared the big owl off.”

  “My favorite is when she charges into the pastures just when the horses are running around,” said Rooster. “She puffs up, tail and everything, then she turns and says she made them all run. You can’t believe one word that comes out of that cat’s mouth.” He said this with forceful conviction.

  “Maybe we could convince the owls to turn around and chase her.” Raleigh skipped a step at the thought. “Except the horses love that rotten cat. They’ll talk her up when she visits the stalls. They even come over when she sits on a fence post. I like horses, but they can’t be but so smart if they’re taken in by her.”

  Finally, they reached the house. Sister hung her gear on a Shaker board with pegs. The dogs walked over a thick sisal rug, which cleaned their paws.

  “All right,” said Sister. “I have to make this call.”

  Before she could pick up the landline phone in the kitchen, however, it rang. The caller ID signified it was Tootie’s cell phone.

  “Tootie.”

  “Oh, Sister, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

  “You doing okay? I guess you must have heard about the murder in Boston.”

  “Yeah, weird, exactly like what we found.” Tootie paused and Sister heard Val in the background.

  The two were roommates, a feat in itself, since Tootie planned ahead and Val left everything until the last minute, including every paper she had ever written at Custis Hall. Princeton proved no different.

  “Snow up there?” asked Sister.

  “Still is. I love to hunt in the snow. You taught me that.” Tootie paused. “Can I come down and hunt with you this weekend?”

  “Of course, you can. I’m assuming you’ll drive. Can the car make it?”

  “It can.”

  “Is Val coming?”

  “She’s spending the weekend with Derek.”

  “Ah.”

  A long silence followed this, broken only when Tootie tearfully begged, “I want to hunt with you and I don’t want to come back here.”

  Val heard this, came over, and spoke into the phone. “She’s being a big wuss.”

  “Shut up, Val.” Toot
ie moved away from her roomie. “I don’t belong here,” she told Sister.

  Hearing the tears, Sister simply replied, “Sweetie, come on down. We can talk about all this when you get here. It’s a long drive. Be careful.”

  “I will,” Tootie promised.

  After hanging up, Sister sat at the kitchen table for a time. Golly jumped up in her lap. Absentmindedly, she stroked the calico fur, so soft. “Let’s hope I get the whole story this weekend.” Sighing, she dialed Walter, who should be home by now.

  “Hey.” He, too, had caller ID.

  Sometimes Walter’s voice startled her for he sounded so much like her late husband Ray, whom a series of circumstances had revealed to be Walter’s natural father. However, Walter’s mother and her husband had always pretended otherwise. Sooner or later these things do see the light of day. Sister had found out a few years ago. Walter, who loved her, feared the truth would result in distance between them. On the contrary; it made her closer to him.

  Sexual peccadilloes rarely affected Sister, but screwing around with her hunt territory sure did.

  The bottled-up frustration of dealing with Crawford’s under-handedness for the last two years poured out as Sister told Walter about the Old Paradise problem, her fears about other farmers whose land they hunted, the whole nine yards.

  “Well, we’d better get over to the DuCharmes’,” said Walter. “Shall I call them, or would you like to do it?”

  “Oh, I will. I’ve known both brothers since the earth was cooling. We’ll have to see them both on the same day, too, or one will inflame the other because he was chosen first.”

  “Exactly. You know my schedule. I’m ready when you are.” He thought for a moment. “We probably won’t hunt tomorrow, right? It’s at the old Lorillard place and those back roads will be treacherous in this weather. They’re calling for more snow tonight.”

  “I’ll cancel. I do so love to hunt in the snow, but I don’t like hauling horses in it. We should be roadworthy by Saturday, though.”

  “Right.”

  “Walter, forgive me for spewing fury. Old Paradise has been a fixture of this hunt club for over one hundred years. Since 1887.”

  “I know. You’re right that all of us should sit down and identify what landowners might be shaky.”

  “We will. Next week if all goes well.”

  “February is starting off like its usual dismal self.” He laughed. “It’s the longest month of the year.”

  “Actually, I like it. But this landowner thieving, I sure don’t. You know, I had what Raymond used to call a volcanic moment and then I had to remember he’d say: ‘Resentment is taking poison and expecting the other person to die.’ ”

  Walter thought about it, then laughed. “A volcanic moment?”

  “His term, not mine.”

  “Women are supposed to have volcanic moments.”

  After she hung up, Sister didn’t know how to take that.

  CHAPTER 10

  Driving into town on Thursday, Sister was glad she had canceled the day’s hunt. Although it had been well ploughed, Soldier Road, a two-lane east–west road, proved slick in spots. The sun lit up the eastern side of Hangman’s Ridge. It loomed a quarter of a mile to Sister’s right. She was by the western side, still dark. Angled on a northeast, southwest plane, it rose one thousand feet above the rolling wild meadows surrounding it. With the sun behind it, shining through the black branches, she could clearly see the enormous old hanging tree.

  Forever windswept, if foxes ran up the ridge they always gained at least ten minutes. Also, generations of foxes had expertly dug rangy dens up there, some impressive, others just places to duck into when pursued. She wondered if these present-day foxes were descended from foxes who had seen the hangings. In the early days of the Virginia colony, a corpse would be left up there to swing and decay as a warning. By the mid-1750s, the relatives were allowed to cut down the criminal and give him a proper burial. If he had repented prior to his hanging, his body could be buried in consecrated ground.

  A rational person, seeing the hanged, eyes plucked out by greedy birds, might reconsider his plans to clean out a bank. But the impulsive human, probably not terribly bright, would blunder on, despite such gruesome public displays. There appeared to be no truly successful deterrent to crime.

  Then again, why rob a bank? The easiest way to rob a bank is to own one.

  Laughing to herself, she slowly made her way into Charlottesville, up 29 North to Seminole Shopping Center. Parking was no problem. Hardly anyone was there. She popped into Dover Saddlery for a gel pad, after which she decided to stop in the small tobacco shop.

  The daughter of the owner, Elizabeta, an attractive woman with lustrous black hair, greeted Sister. “Hello. Are you looking for yourself, or picking up something for someone else?”

  Leaning across the glass top counter, Sister admitted, “Actually, I’m hoping you can tell me about American Smokes.”

  “The murders?”

  “Have other people asked? I suppose they might. It’s been in the papers.”

  “Come ’round here and sit.” She warmly invited Sister to join her behind the counter. “Given the weather, I suspect we will be uninterrupted.” She sighed. “You’d be surprised at how weather affects sales of almost any product. Anyway, have people asked us about it? A few, but mostly we’ve read about the murders in the papers, too, and are baffled.”

  “Why? Because nothing was stolen?”

  Elizabeta sat upright. “It’s bizarre. If you’re running the risk of committing murder, you might as well go on a spending blowout before you’re caught.”

  Sister laughed. “That’s one way to look at it. But it’s also so odd that in each case a pack of American Smokes was on the victim’s chest. Do you carry the brand?”

  “We’ve never heard of American Smokes.”

  “What?”

  “When I read about the murders, I thought American Smokes might be a new brand, but we’ve yet to get a sales call. The market has room for old-time cigarettes—by that, I mean premium tobacco. Everything mass-produced is made cheaper and the companies figure no one will notice the drop in quality. But no salesperson has called on us. Other stores in the county and in Richmond don’t know anything about it either.”

  “You called around about American Smokes?”

  “Both Dad and I did. If anyone knows anything, they aren’t telling us.”

  “When you say cigarettes are made cheaper today, do you mean the grade of tobacco?”

  “Well, some high-priced brands are still using the finest grade, but most aren’t. What sends me into a spin is that cigarettes contain thirty percent less tobacco than they did years ago.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “That’s why they burn so fast. A couple of deep draws and the darn thing’s about to burn your nose off, even if you buy king size. It’s such a rip-off. Same price. Less product.”

  “You think this is due to the high taxes on cigarettes?”

  “Pfft.” Elizabeta waved her hand. “Smoking has dropped in America, but it’s booming in Asia, Africa, and much of South America. Booming.” She lifted her nose, sniffed. “I think I can smell some exhaled smoke right now blown across the Pacific.” She giggled.

  Sister giggled, too. “Next thing, we’ll be ordered to wear gas masks.”

  “Who knows what legislation will be passed next? But I can swear that tobacco is the most heavily taxed product in the country, even more than liquor.”

  Sister thought about this. She wasn’t going to question a woman whose income depended on the plant. She expected it was true.

  The younger woman continued, “It’s not like beer, you know all those microbreweries? Cigarettes and tobacco are a whole different ball game. A brewery has a physical place. People can go in and sample the beer. I can’t put out a cup full of sticks, like Dad did when he was young. You’d buy a cigarette for a penny, or maybe a few, and test them out at your leisure.” She paused. “Lik
e beer, there are so many different tobacco tastes. Well, anyway, there’s no way to test a product unless you buy a couple of packs or you borrow a cigarette from a friend. Who is going to buy a bunch of expensive packs to see if they like the product? And for you, or any customer, a company needs shelf space. You come in here or you go to the supermarket or corner store for one of the huge brands, you can find it. A new brand from a start-up company would have to contact every single small outlet, as well as the people who run the big chain stores to beg for space. Obviously, the big boys want to hog as much shelf space as they can. Remember back when Coca-Cola and Pepsi had a soda war? It was all about shelf space.”

  “Fascinating,” said Sister. “I’ve never worked in retail.”

  “What was your trade?”

  “I was a geology professor at Mary Baldwin.” Sister slyly smiled. “I got my rocks off.” Then she laughed. “I think it would be funnier were I male.”

  The lady tossed her head, black hair shining. “Still, pretty good. Sometimes I wish I had gone to college. I’m not much for books.”

  “It’s overrated. We’re all born with special abilities, and college is only for some.”

  “Well, it wasn’t good for me. But retail is hard, especially when the laws keep changing.” She threw up her hands. “When Dad goes, I really don’t know if I will keep the shop. I’ll hope to sell it, but who knows?” She shrugged.

  “Your father is Cuban?”

  “Yes, he is. Did he tell you that?”

  “Every now and then I come into the store with my gentleman friend and the two of them rattle on about cigars. Like every Cuban I have ever met, along with being incredibly courtly, he said there is no cigar tobacco like Cuban.”

  “God’s honest truth.” She thought for a moment. “Another reason why there are hardly any start-up tobacco companies. Too hard to learn about it and too hard to grow. People have no idea.”

  “That I do know,” said Sister. “I remember when I was a kid we’d drive down to Charleston, passing huge fields of tobacco.”

  “Even today when they’ll come along and cut the entire plant, it’s not easy,” said Elizabeta. “Someone still has to go out when the plant blooms and pick off the buds. It’s sticky. The best of the best still do everything by hand. Take the top leaves first, watch the leaves change color, know when to pick and throw out the bottom sand lugs. Know whether to air cure, flue cure, all that stuff. That’s why you pay a pretty penny for a premium cigarette. But it tastes like nothing else. There is no cheap way to grow and harvest good tobacco, even with so-called modern improvements.”