The Tell-tale Horse

by Rita Mae Brown

  Sister nodded. “I see. He’s a fine horse.”

  “Your bench is deep enough, but Shaker has only Showboat, Hojo, and Gunpowder.” Ronnie pushed on. “Showboat is fourteen. Hojo is eight, plenty of good years there, but Gunpowder, great as he is, is eighteen. We should buy Kilowatt for Shaker.”

  “Ronnie, I can’t believe you’re suggesting we dip into the treasury. You’re usually tight as a tick, plus we’ve lost the wonderful monetary gifts Crawford used to make. That really hurts.”

  Crawford Howard was a wealthy member who had resigned from the club in a huff.

  “I know, I know.” Ronnie let go of her waist and held up his hand to stay protest. “What I would like to do, with your permission, is pass the hat. It is the responsibility of the club to mount professional staff. We aren’t rich enough to perform this service via our much-called-upon treasury, but if I can canvass the elected”—he used the word Calvinists use for those with a ticket straight to heaven—“might could.”

  Betty put in her two cents. “Sister, everyone knows we took a big hit when Crawford pissed off. Forgive my French.”

  “Guess they do,” the older woman agreed.

  “I’ll put up five hundred. I’m sure Mom and Dad will be generous,” Sybil volunteered.

  “Honey, your mother and father give so much to this club I’d be embarrassed to ask for more.”

  “I’m not.” Ronnie smiled.

  “We know that.” Sister smiled back at him. She looked to Walter.

  “I don’t see any other way.” Walter slid his hand from her waist to hold her right hand.

  “Before I say yes, how much?”

  “Fifteen thousand. He’s been vetted sound, by the way,” Ronnie added. “Cookie started at twenty-five. Really, Kilowatt would be snapped up at that price if he were shown at the northern Virginia hunts.”

  “That’s the truth.” Sister acknowledged the deep pockets riding in those fabled hunts, as well as the fact that Kilowatt was supremely talented as well as beautiful.

  “I give my blessing with one caveat: Go to the Bancrofts last. See if you can’t secure the sum before leaning on Tedi and Edward.”

  “I promise.” Ronnie inclined his head, a polite bow to his superior.

  “All right, then. Let’s do the shake-and-howdy.” Sister kissed Ronnie on the cheek, then Walter.

  “What about me?” Betty pretended to pout.

  “All right.” Sister made a face, then kissed Betty. “Sybil, I have enough for all.” She kissed the much younger woman’s cold cheek. “Now come on, we’ve got to mix and mingle. We have cappers.”

  Cappers were guests, people who joined the hunt for the day, paying a cap fee. They always added a little dash of paprika to the stew.

  Ben Sidell, sheriff, drove up in his squad car slowly, the road being slick.

  “You missed a good one,” Sister said in greeting him.

  “I’ll be out Saturday. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Someone shot out Faye Spencer’s barn light. Nothing major.” He waved to Val, who noticed him.

  “Give everyone the benefit of your personality,” Sister teased him.

  High Vajay bounded up, wearing his dark navy frock coat, top hat, and cream string gloves, then slipped on the ice, going down on one knee.

  “That’s how you should address your master.” Sister made light of his predicament and reached out her hand, which he grasped for balance to stand.

  “Mandy looked out the window this morning and declined to brave the elements. She’ll be sorry when she hears how good it was. I’m delighted I came out.” He paused. “People think India is hot, but we come from the north by the mountains. Snow and ice descend upon us, but I must confess I never hunted in cold weather before moving here.”

  “High, it was a lucky day when your family came on board.” She meant it; their buoyant spirits and natural warmth lifted everyone up.

  Kasmir, stepping much more carefully, joined them. “A most delightful day. Thank you, Master.”

  “Mr. Barbhaiya,”—she breathed an inward sigh of relief that she had remembered his name correctly—“we are honored to have you. Your turnout is perfect and, sir, you can ride!”

  Pleased, he smiled, his teeth sparkling under his bushy mustache. “I find myself in London often. I do believe the best tailors for gentlemen are on Jermyn Street.” Indeed, the street he named was famous for such establishments.

  “No doubt, although should you ever find yourself in Lexington, Kentucky, there is a tailor on Red Mile Road, Le Cheval, who does a credible job. I have my vests and coats made there. And you must go to Horse Country. That’s where I buy everything else, plus the really heavy winter frock coats are just the warmest. The clothing is ready-made but alterations can be effected.”

  “Ah, yes, I stopped into that enticing establishment.”

  High laughed. “He made Marion very happy. Three thousand dollars happy.”

  Kasmir lifted his eyes to heaven. “Ah, I am a weak mortal. When Miss Maggiolo took me under her wing I became distracted by her skin, her mane of steel-gray hair, her very graciousness.”

  Bemused, Sister asked, “Did you convey these sentiments to my dear friend?”

  “I conveyed a bottle of Mumm de Crémant via messenger after I left the store. This was the Saturday morning of the ball. I was favored by two dances that evening and a tête-à-tête stroll down the hall.” He paused. “I am not a handsome fellow like High here. I am middle-aged, portly, and a widower. It will take a long siege, I think, to gain favor with Maid Marion.”

  “Mr. Barbhaiya, Marion is not superficial, I can promise you. A good kind heart will count heavily in your favor. And, sir, you underrate your looks.” She thought to herself how subtle he had been to send Mumm de Crémant and not a flashy brand.

  This especially delighted him. For all his sparkling personality, he was a lonely man in the small hours and wondered if he would ever again find a woman to truly love him and not his money. “Please call me Kasmir. I would be honored.”

  “Kasmir, the honor is mutual.”

  “He’s going to settle here,” High declared matter-of-factly. “Leave Mumbai forever. Kasmir says his late wife came to him in a dream and told him he would find happiness here.”

  Kasmir blushed. “It is true.”

  “If there is anything I can do to help you, please allow me to do so.” Sister genuinely meant this. She understood how it felt to lose your spouse and force yourself to go on.

  “I am most obliged. Good evening, Master.” He bid her farewell correctly, even though it was just noon.

  Sister was thrilled Kasmir gave the proper address of “Good evening, Master.” As the two men started to walk away, she stepped forward. “Kasmir, excuse me.” The two men stopped. “Norfolk and Southern will sell Tattenhall Station, three hundred acres surrounded by commanding views and some gorgeous building sites.” She paused. “And as High owns Chapel Cross”—this was the estate named for the crossroads—“you would be country neighbors. I can give you the number of the person to call. The company has at long last decided to sell these small stations, while still retaining rights to the spur lines, the actual tracks. The only reason I know this is because the decision was made just last week. A friend of mine is a corporate officer and knows how much Tattenhall Station means to us. It will be publicly offered next month.”

  After writing out the number, Sister made her way to the tailgate but was waylaid by Cabel Harper. “I was so sorry to hear what happened to you and Marion after the ball. It must have been a terrible shock.”

  “It was.”

  “Makes you wonder.”

  “Does,” Sister agreed. “By the way, Ilona mentioned how wonderful she thought the Casanova Ball was.”

  Both women looked to Ilona, now conversing with Kasmir and High.

  “The decorations exceeded my expectations. Did Trudy Pontiakowski come up with the t
heme? She was the chair, you know.” Cabel rubbed her cold hands together.

  “Trudy never does anything halfway. I expect the theme was voted on by the ball committee and passed by the masters.”

  “Why don’t we try a theme next year? Our decorations are too predictable.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Sister waited a moment, smiled, and then sprang, just like a fox leaping on an unsuspecting mouse. “Please accept the honor and the hard labor of being next year’s ball chairman. You’re so creative.”

  Cabel, knowing she was caught but rising to the challenge, said, “I will. And I know beforehand it will be one long agony with Ronnie over the budget.”

  “That’s possible, but given your persuasive powers I’m sure you can get things donated. You have a wealth of contacts.”

  “I’m going to start right this minute. Ilona doesn’t know it, but she’s donating a winter’s supply of bottled gas for the auction.”

  The Merrimans owned a local gas company, selling natural gas and oil to heat houses. Their reputation for service was spotless. Ramsey ran the company, the third generation of Merrimans to do so, while Ilona successfully played the stock market.

  Sister watched as Cabel spoke to Ilona, who seemed to brighten during the conversation. Praise a fool, Sister thought to herself.

  Later, back in the kennels, horses put up, rubbed down, and very happy, Sister went over the list of hounds who had hunted that day.

  Shaker fed everyone, checked them for cuts and soreness, and then put the girls back with the girls, the boys with the boys.

  Both humans were grateful for the quiet time together in the functional office, filled with photos of Jefferson Hunt dating back to 1887.

  “Good idea today, swooping down to Chapel Cross.”

  Shaker rubbed some cream into his hands, now sore and chapped. “Thanks, but on fine scenting days any huntsman looks good.”

  “True, it’s the in-between days that show up a good huntsman. On the bad days, Jesus H. Christ himself couldn’t get a fox up.”

  Shaker smiled. “Maybe he could.”

  “Well, all right. Say, I heard they got the roof on Crawford’s chapel. St. Swithin will be pleased.”

  “Asshole.”

  “St. Swithin? He’s a good saint.”

  “Crawford.” Shaker laughed. “Good he got it under roof, though. He must have three crews working there.”

  “Sam says he’s possessed.”

  Sam Lorillard was Gray’s brother, a talented horseman and recovering alcoholic.

  “Whose day is it today?” Shaker asked.

  “Empty.”

  “Really?”

  “According to my Oxford Dictionary of Saints it is,” Sister replied.

  She possessed an odd talent for dates and kept the saints’ days for herself, feeling those former figures deserved to be remembered. She’d consult her saints’ book if she couldn’t recall whose feast day it was. February 19 was the day Henry the Fourth defeated the rebels at Bramham Moor in 1408, and the beginning of the battle of Iwo Jima in 1945, which lasted until March 17.

  “Hmm,” was his reply. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “I’m scared.” She tapped him with the clipboard with the hound names on it.

  “No, really. About what happened in Warrenton.” His craggy face, serious, briefly made him look older than his forty years. “Do you think that woman was put there for Marion to see as a warning?”

  “I don’t know. She was meant as some kind of warning. Whether it was for Marion or not, who knows?”

  “And that huge punch bowl was stolen, right?”

  “Yes. That thing is heavy. I lifted it once to help Marion clean it.”

  “You and Cabel keep competing for it in the Corinthian Hunter Class. Actually, a lot of our members want their names inscribed on that bowl. Worth a fortune.”

  “Worth a lot, that’s for sure. But you know, Shaker, it doesn’t add up.”

  “No, it’s like one of those in-between days you mentioned for scenting. You have to find a line, and even when you do, it breaks. Hounds cast and find again. The day is like that, hard close work between huntsmen and hounds, but you can turn it into reasonably good sport if you and hounds keep thinking, keep feeling temperature changes and wind currents. Why am I telling you this? You know.”

  “True.” She nodded.

  “Well, what crossed my mind is maybe Lady Godiva is a clue.”

  A car pulled up outside. They heard the door slam.

  Ronnie Haslip burst through the kennel office door, waving a check. “Kasmir paid for the whole thing!” He slapped the check on the big square schoolteacher’s desk.

  Sister, eyes wide, stared at it, picked it up, and uttered the old expression: “Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

  Shaker looked at Ronnie, then Sister. “What’s up?”

  “Kasmir Barbhaiya bought Kilowatt for you. Gunpowder’s getting age on him, Showboat’s no spring chicken.” Ronnie glowed.

  “That’s a great horse!” Shaker clapped his hands together.

  Sister hugged Ronnie. “How’d you do it?”

  “I didn’t do anything. High and Kasmir came up to me. Kasmir said, his exact words, Please allow me the pleasure to help your most excellent and beautiful master.”

  “He said beautiful?” Sister felt a flush.

  “He did!” Ronnie puffed out his chest, his victory making him giddy.

  Sister smiled. “From now on, February nineteenth is St. Kasmir Day.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Crawford Howard slapped down his copy of Barron’s, which he read cover to cover, as he did the London Financial Times, The Wall Street Journal, and a host of specialized financial reports. Not that he swallowed whole what was written therein, but he liked to have an overview of world markets. He invested prudently in stocks, bonds, and land. Once he’d tried platinum but found that metals, like corn futures, demanded highly specialized knowledge as well as impeccable timing.

  His waistline had expanded in his middle years, as had his concept of himself. Crawford, who unlike Edward Bancroft did not start this life with a silver spoon in his mouth, made his first fortune building strip malls in Indiana and Iowa. After that, he steamrolled his fortune with brilliant land acquisitions and deep forays into blue chip stocks. Moving to Virginia thirteen years ago appeared to be retirement. Instead, he began purchasing small pharmacies and medical supply companies, and just last week a company that disposed of biohazardous waste from hospitals and doctors’ offices. He invested in a few high-tech stocks, not many. But he did invest in a local start-up company, Warp Speed, run by Faye Spencer.

  Crawford irritated people. Sam Lorillard, Gray’s brother, ran his steeplechase barn. Rory Ackerman, another recovering alcoholic and friend of Sam’s, also worked there. Crawford treated them well. He also treated his wife well. Marty truly loved him, something he learned only after she forgave his affair with a young tart whose breasts were so enhanced she struggled to remain upright. The bimbo with the big rack had only loved his money.

  Perhaps his greatest vanity was when he lost face at the last Jefferson Hunt Ball. Earlier in the season, he had deserted Jefferson Hunt Club and bought a pack of hounds just like you’d buy a loaf of bread. He couldn’t hunt a hair of them. Big English hounds, Dumfriesshire, black and tan and good-looking. He made a fool of himself among the foxhunting community. This tormented him like a thorn that breaks off in the lip. Determined to show up Sister Jane at her own game, he’d been casting about for a huntsman. Marty soothed his ego by saying he didn’t have the time to hunt hounds. He really should be field master. That was a joke too, but one step at a time.

  Marty hoped she could eventually lead her proud, bullheaded, but adoring husband back into Jefferson Hunt. She missed her friends, and she missed the bracing runs too. Knowing Crawford, she guessed about two years would do it if she was patient and careful.

  She stood behind him in the den he had paneled in rich deep rosewood as h
e pointed to his enormous computer screen. “See, I can follow the market in Japan”—he hit a button—“or Germany or London.” He inhaled. “London always bears watching, you know.”

  As London is the financial epicenter of the world, this was an understatement.

  “Well, what little I’ve learned about money moving around the world, I’ve learned from you,” Marty said. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and he reached up with his left hand to cover hers.

  “Honey, this computer does everything but go to the bathroom for you.” He smiled. “I know, don’t say it. I can’t resist toys. What I’m studying now is how a surgeon in, say, Edinburgh can operate while a surgeon at Johns Hopkins in Maryland consults with him. Actually, the surgeon from Johns Hopkins could be fishing out in Chesapeake Bay, watching the operation on the latest incarnation of a cell phone.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? Do you ever wish you’d hopped on the dot-com bandwagon?” She knew the answer, but he never tired of telling his story.

  “Sure I do, but now is a better time to invest in technology. Okay, maybe not nanotechnology because that hasn’t shaken out. I mean, scientists can figure out molecular engineering. The trick is profit. Just because something is high tech doesn’t mean it will turn a dollar.”

  “I know you.” She ran a finger over the back of his neck. “Buying these small pharmacy companies and Sanifirm; you’re working up to something. You’re learning the business side of medicine. Once you see where the holes are, you’ll plug them and hit another big home run right out of the park. You have a genius for reading the tea leaves.”

  He beamed. “It’s what I learned after I knew it all that gave me the edge.”

  She laughed. “Me too.” She looked out the tall paned windows. “Looks like another front coming in.”

  He ducked his head around the big screen. “Does look nasty. Three fifteen. Hmm.”

  “I was so hoping we could take the hounds out tomorrow.” Marty had discovered she liked being around the hounds. She’d been spending two to three hours a day in the makeshift kennel.

  Crawford planned to build a true kennel come spring, once the heaving and thawing stopped. Fortunately, St. Swithin’s was framed up so the workmen could continue despite weather. The stone chapel, another vanity but an appealing one, was dedicated to the very late Bishop of Winchester, who died in 862. Those early Wessex Christians believed heavy rainfall was a manifestation of his power.