The Tell-tale Horse

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I didn’t know that.” Her cute little mouth became an O.

  “Blood always tells.” Sister couldn’t resist. “Thank you for the heads-up. We do want our people to look perfect.”

  Ilona, now in possession of news, made a beeline for Cabel, who was getting a leg up from Clayton.

  Ilona heard him chide her. “Go to the doctor. You haven’t been to a doctor in twenty years, Cabel. There’s no reason your legs should be weak.”

  Sister watched as Clayton huffed and puffed to lift Cabel, not particularly heavy. God, she thought to herself, he’s even fatter than he was two weeks ago.

  Seeing her staring in his direction, Clayton winked, which made Sister laugh. Fat he might be, but he hadn’t lost his spark.

  After a few welcoming words to guests from Sister and Walter, they moved off, hounds following, northward along Broad Creek. The wind buffeted them until they reached an area one mile from the Bancrofts’ covered bridge, where the ground began to fall away. Shaker knew sooner or later they’d pick up a line, faint perhaps, but something to run, since this portion of Broad Creek sank low, providing protection from the wind. Any fox worth his or her salt, if picked up, would scamper to high ground where their signature perfume would be blown away.

  February 23, being a Saturday, meant a large field. Today, sixty-seven hardy souls rode forward. Jefferson Hunt could count on big Saturdays even after New Year’s, when fair-weather hunters kept to their fireplaces. Most of the Jefferson Hunt members truly wanted to hunt and took pride in facing conditions that would deter others.

  Rickyroo, Sister’s seven-year-old Thoroughbred, dark coat glistening, enjoyed the brisk weather. A quick study, he’d learned so much last season that Sister felt he was made and could handle any possibility—and they were out there, from mountain lions to wild boar, the worst of the worst.

  Walter Lungrun, in his second year as joint master, rode right behind Tedi and Edward Bancroft, who usually rode in Sister’s pocket. These two, always perfectly turned out, on beautiful horses, made Sister smile. They had more money than God, but even Ben Sidell, who made a modest salary as sheriff, looked perfect next to Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers.

  She prided herself on her field, their turnout, their hunting manners, and their hospitality to visitors. With the exception of Crawford, who had always been too flashy, she was rarely disappointed.

  High Vajay was out, as was Kasmir, this time in a heavy frock coat, thicker gloves, and a sturdy derby attached to his back collar with a black hat cord.

  Sister’s coat had faded to a hue admired by newcomers because it meant you’d been hunting a long time. Her coat, black, lined in wool tattersall, cut the cold. Her cap, ribbons down, had faded also.

  Non-staff members, those wearing caps, wore the ribbons up.

  She sighed as they walked along. High-pressure systems meant tough hunting although a fox could pop out at any time, its scent then red hot. Anything could happen. She fretted since she wanted to show good sport, but as yet Sister had not figured out how to control the weather.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The Custis Hall girls rode at the rear as usual. Juniors ride at the rear, as do grooms. When the pace quickens and people drop back, often not having a fast-enough horse or enough horse, then a junior may move up. A groom should assist those falling behind if they need it. These days a groom often helped only his or her employer, but they were there to serve. Few true grooms existed anymore; pony clubbers often fulfilled those duties at various barns, but they had much to learn about protocol. Even Tedi and Edward didn’t take a groom out, although they did have stable help whereas Sister did not. She was so grateful to the Custis Hall girls for turning out her horses and cleaning staff tack on the days they rode that she had given each girl soft leather mustard gloves for Christmas presents. She was already wondering what to give them for graduation.

  She stopped wondering when Cora spoke with high excitement. A large gray streak shot out to her left.

  “Come!” Cora sang out.

  The entire pack, honoring their strike hound and head bitch, closed in on the line and ran single file until they burst out of the woods, now running southwesterly. In three minutes, flat out amid the trees, the path narrow, Sister happily spied the old hog’s back jump, thrilled her knees had survived the close quarters. She could clearly see Comet, the gray fox, ahead now bursting through the wildflower field, the whole pack bunched together.

  Bitsy, the screech owl, flew silently overhead. She must have followed them from the covered bridge at the Bancrofts. Bitsy, living in Sister’s stable, led an extremely active social life, enlivened by intense curiosity about everyone and everything. Sister was fine with that, so long as she kept her mouth shut, for her cry could wake the dead.

  Comet faced into the wind, his scent streaming into flared hound nostrils. He zigzagged to break the flow but the scent was so hot the pack zigzagged with him. He’d run at a good clip but now he had to hit top speed. He’d been caught unawares, trying to court a new gray vixen living about a half mile from the small graveyard by the covered bridge. Romance clouded his senses.

  He cut sharply right, leapt over the old fence setting off the wildflower field, some patches of snow still encrusted in small furrows here and there, like hard vanilla icing, then cut straight up toward Hangman’s Ridge.

  Sister sailed over the jump in the old fence line, Rickyroo’s ears forward. He jumped a trifle flat, which helped old bones. A horse with a large bascule, the rounding of the back so prized in the show ring, could wear out even the Custis Hall girls after four hours of hunting. Better a horse that powered off hindquarters, reached out with forelegs, and then folded them up and kept that back just a little flat. A long pastern—the short bone just above the hoof—made the landing smoother too, but Sister didn’t worry too much about that. Many horsemen declared a horse with a long pastern would break down sooner than one with upright pasterns. After a lifetime with horses, Sister thought it was six of one, half a dozen of the other.

  Hounds pounded down the frozen farm road, although sections were getting greasy as the sun rose higher. It was already ten thirty.

  Behind her Sister heard a loud rap on the coop. Someone had rubbed it. Footing in front of it was getting cut up. Well, if someone endured an involuntary dismount, another bottle for the club traveling bar. She collected these bottles assiduously, though she was not much of a drinker herself. Single-malt scotch on a wickedly cold day would pass her lips and that was about it, or maybe a cold beer on a stinky hot day. But alcohol rarely figured into Sister’s socializing. She’d witnessed too many good people go down like Sam Lorillard.

  Another rap followed. Yes, the ground was getting cut up but the smart riders would rate, slow down a little, then squeeze hard at the takeoff spot to compensate, or not rate their horse’s stride and leave early. So often, and not on purpose, people would follow too closely at the jumps. Some plain couldn’t hold their horses. One of the great things about the Custis Hall girls riding in the rear was that Sister received a full report. As field master, her job was to stay behind the hounds without crowding them. What happened behind her, in a sense, was not her concern.

  “He’s going to Hangman’s Ridge,” Dasher called out.

  “Damn,” Asa growled.

  Damn was right, because the moment Comet reached that high flat expanse exposed to fierce winds, even in summer, he knew he could relax. He crossed the long axis of the ridge and paused at the hanging tree, haunted by those who died there, earning their dispatch thanks to severe transgressions. Comet didn’t like hearing their whispers. Occasionally he could see one of the hanged. Under the circumstances, let the hounds deal with it. He waited. They came onto the ridge and he slipped down the back side toward Roughneck Farm. His den was not far from that of his sister Inky. His scent would be long gone by the time the hounds reached the tree, so he just ambled on home.

  “I hate this place,” Diddy, a young female hound, whispered. />
  “Me too,” Tinsel, another young hound, agreed.

  “Drat!” Cora circled the tree, ignoring the whispers from the large branch formerly used to secure the rope.

  Hounds milled about. Shaker rode up. He too disliked this spot. He urged them to cast themselves wider, which they did, but the damage was done, as was the day. He considered going down the narrow path to the farm road in hopes of rousing another fox, but he figured this was it. Couldn’t complain. It had been a bracing run.

  The fifteen-minute walk down the trail to the farm road produced squabbling in the bushes from two male cardinals who had been squabbling anyway. The goldfinches, chirpy as always, turned their backs to the redbirds, wishing the cardinals would fly up to tree limbs and stay out of their bushes. Cardinals pretty much did as they pleased, but at least they weren’t as offensive as the blue jays, who would walk right up to a goldfinch on the ground to utter a stream of avian obscenities.

  Returning to the coop, Sister paused. “Shaker, let’s take hounds back to their kennels. Then we can drive back to After All and pick up the trailer and the party wagon. No point in walking all the way back there when the kennels are ten minutes away.”

  “Fine.”

  She turned to the field. “Folks, we’re walking hounds back to the kennels and we’ll meet you at After All. Walter will lead the field.”

  Walter nodded, happy that he was chosen by the senior master to do this. His riding was improving, as was his hunting knowledge. Usually Tedi or Edward led the field when Sister, for whatever reason, did not.

  Tedi smiled at Sister. She liked seeing Walter move up.

  The two whippers-in rode beside the pack at ten o’clock and two o’clock. Shaker rode at six o’clock, and in this way the pack was kept together. Their discipline was good. They wouldn’t bolt, but both Sister and Shaker thought better safe than sorry.

  Back at the kennels, hounds cheerfully walked in, eager to discuss the day’s hunt and to lord it over those not drawn to go out today, Dragon being one.

  “Pretty good day in difficult conditions,” Cora called out, as she went into the kennel.

  Dragon, face pressed against the chain link fence around the boys’ run, heard her loud and clear before she disappeared into the kennels for warm water to drink, a check over, and some kibble warmed with heated-up gravy, a special mix of Sister’s.

  Sybil helped Shaker with the hounds. Dragon growled with envy.

  Sister and Betty led the four horses back to the barn. Both Betty and Sybil would drive over later to pick up their horses. In the meantime, each animal would be wiped down, checked, a blanket thrown over, put in a stall with fresh water and flakes of sweet hay.

  Since the Custis Hall girls needed to ride back to After All, the two old friends happily performed the after-hunt horse chores alone.

  “Should we clean the tack?” Betty asked, after putting up Outlaw and Bombardier, her horse and Sybil’s.

  “We can do it after breakfast. Don’t want to show up too late. I’ll put up the coffeepot. Might as well get warmed from the inside out.” Sister walked into the small but pretty office to make coffee. A hot plate and a small under-counter refrigerator were in the room. Sister thought someday, if she ever got ahead with money, she’d extend the office outward so she could build a proper kitchen and make a nice sitting room, since she spent more time in the barn than in the house.

  She stopped. “Betty, Betty, come here!”

  Betty opened the door, then stopped cold. “What in the hell?”

  “That’s what I say.”

  Before them on the desk gleamed the great silver John Barton Payne punch bowl from Marion Maggiolo’s store.

  Sister called Ben Sidell on his cell but it was turned off. He hadn’t reached his trailer yet most likely.

  She called Marion at Horse Country.

  “Marion, your punch bowl is here.”

  “What?”

  “On my office desk in the stable. Looks fine. I’ll notify the sheriff here; you notify yours.”

  Marion paused, trying to eradicate the worry from her voice. “Why you?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

  “It’s possible whoever stole the punch bowl didn’t kill that girl.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m glad you have it, but”—Marion switched her thoughts—“where are your dogs?”

  “In the house. I suspect whoever put this here knew not to put it in the house. Raleigh and Rooster would have taken down anyone they didn’t know well.” Anger infiltrated her voice. “I don’t like being played with.”

  “Play may not be the right word. I wouldn’t go out without those dogs or a thirty-eight. This is too weird.”

  After hanging up the phone, Sister turned to Betty, who was admiring the magnificent silver bowl.

  Betty looked up. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  “Well, I hardly think I’m going to be the next Lady Godiva.”

  Betty tilted her head upward to the taller woman. “Jane, none of us has any idea what’s going on, and that includes the authorities. Assume nothing. I don’t think you should be in the house alone at night. One of us should be with you. We can take turns.”

  “Now, Betty, that’s a little extreme.” Sister felt a little shaky and tried to make light of it by changing the subject. “Funny, today is the Roman festival of Terminalia, celebrates the god Terminus.”

  “The things that pop into your mind.” Betty put her hand on Sister’s shoulder.

  “He’s the god of boundaries.” She looked into Betty’s quiet brown eyes. “Someone is crossing our boundaries, even those of life and death.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Sister never made it to the breakfast at Tedi and Edward’s. She called Walter and explained the situation, informing him she needed to wait for Ben Sidell. Ben left his horse in the Bancroft stables and drove right over. He, too, strongly advised she have someone with her at night until they knew more about the case.

  By eight that evening, she’d had it; her patience was thin. Instead of admitting she was a bit scared, she became crabby. Gray babied her, which irritated her even more although part of her liked it.

  “Go sit in the den. I’ll be there in a minute,” he commanded her.

  Not accustomed to taking orders, Sister shot him a jaundiced look. She did, however, do as he said since she felt guilty about being moody.

  She leaned against the arm of the sofa, her legs stretched out, her old cashmere robe soft against her freshly showered skin.

  Golly immediately pounced on her toes. “Tiny sausages.”

  “She’s in a bad mood. Leave her alone,” Raleigh counseled the cat, an exercise in futility.

  “The time to torture humans is when they’re low.” Golly’s extremely long, white whiskers swept forward, her pupils now large with anticipation.

  “Golly!” Sister laughed, she couldn’t help herself, because the cat jumped on her bosoms, sat upright on those pillows, and patted her face, pretending to be ferocious.

  “Suck it up!” Golly enjoyed herself.

  Rooster, curled up on the club chair across from the sofa, said laconically, “Mental.”

  Golly launched off Sister’s chest and skidded across the coffee table, knocking a clean glass ashtray to the floor. Barely stopping herself from falling off the table, she bunched up and leapt onto Rooster with a heavy hit, then leapt right off. “I’m the queen! You’re a peasant.”

  “Like I said, mental.” Rooster burrowed his nose deeper in his paws, just in case Golly returned, claws unleashed.

  Gray walked in as Golly touched the floor.

  “You missed my very own Flying Wallenda.” Sister’s mood improved.

  “That cat has a secret life. Probably works for the CIA.” He put two hot toddies on coasters and stooped to pick up the ashtray, hand-painted on the bottom side with a hunting scene. “You know, I was reading somewhere, maybe the Manchester Guardian, where scientis
ts discovered bees can detect explosives. CIA will put them to work. I figure Golly’s on the payroll. Fresh kidneys must be her salary.”

  “Tuna!” Golly returned to Sister’s feet but didn’t bite.

  Gray handed Sister the enticing mug. “Can’t remember the proper glass for a toddy, but I figure it’s hot whiskey so a mug will suffice.” He sat on the sofa next to Golly, who turned her pretty head to allow him to admire her.

  “Gray, I can’t drink all of this.”

  “A sip or two. No harm in relaxing.” He stroked Golly’s head and was rewarded with a deep purr.

  Golly threw in a few trills for variety, which made Sister laugh some more. “She’s a complete lunatic and I couldn’t live without her.”

  “I could,” Rooster grumbled.

  “Lowly rabbit runner.” Golly interrupted a stream of high-pitched notes.

  Rooster lifted his handsome head. “You huge fur ball. I can run fox, bear, or coyote. I can run anything because my nose is good, but I’m trained to run rabbit and hare. That’s my job. I don’t go off on the wrong quarry. You shut up.”

  “Seems to be a conversational evening.” Gray took a long draft.

  “Ignore her, Rooster.” Raleigh climbed up on the wing chair, which had a throw over it for this purpose.

  “Ray used to make a hot brick.” Sister mused on her husband’s favorite. “If the day had been nasty cold, after the horses were put up and hounds checked, he’d head for the kitchen. I can never remember the difference between a toddy and a brick.”

  “A brick is one-third an ounce of whiskey—you can substitute rye if you like—a pinch of cinnamon, pinch sugar, a third an ounce of hot water, and a small pat of butter.”

  “I remember the butter. Made me think of yak butter. I drank it, though.” She grimaced.

  “Don’t much like butter in a drink myself.”

  “What’s your recipe for a toddy?”

  He shifted, leaning against the arm after another long sip, placing his legs alongside Sister. Even though he showered, he wore knee-high Filson wool socks because his feet got cold so easily. “Standard. One ounce of bourbon, four ounces of boiling water, one teaspoon of sugar, three whole cloves, one cinnamon stick, and one lemon slice, medium thick. Most people slice the lemon paper thin. In this case, I substituted scotch for bourbon. I’m not much for bourbon. The drink is sweet anyway.”