The Tell-tale Horse

by Rita Mae Brown

  As these ruminations occurred to her, Sister pulled on her old bomber jacket, red cashmere scarf, a few holes making it more individual, and lined waterproof work gloves. The cold still crept into her fingers, but the lining helped for the first forty-five minutes.

  She stepped out into the clear, cold night. The dogs wanted to follow but she said no to their forlorn looks.

  She went past the kennel, where a few of the boys out for their evening constitutional said hello. She walked on the farm road, heading toward the apple orchard. The ground, frozen, wasn’t too slippery but the ruts demanded attention.

  Once at the old orchard, she checked the feed bucket. Still three-quarters full. She checked Georgia’s den. A neat pile of chicken feathers, now frozen, stuck on the ground about two feet from the entrance.

  “Where did you get that chicken?” Sister called into the den.

  Georgia, full, unmotivated to leave the warmth of her den, replied, “I’ll never tell.”

  On hearing the young fox’s light chirp, not a full yap, Sister smiled and returned to the stable, where she checked the tack and the small heavy bowl of tiny broken-up sweets she left on an aisle tack trunk for whatever undomesticated animal wanted them. Inky often would eat some, as would Georgia. Once she had walked into the barn in the early morning to find a cowbird gorging on the goodies.

  A bloodcurdling shriek stopped her cold. Little wings beat overhead as Bitsy rose to her nest in the rafters. A barn owl also lived up there. They got along just fine but they kept different schedules.

  “Dammit, Bitsy, you about gave me a heart attack.”

  The screech owl dropped down from her nest to sit atop a stall beam, across and four feet above Sister, who looked up at her.

  Bitsy opened her wings and then folded them. “News, news, news. I just heard from the tufted titmouse who heard it from the red-shouldered hawk that the jolly Indian man moved into Faye Spencer’s bungalow, the one she rents as a hunt box for visitors. How’s that for news?”

  Sister heard the little gurglings and beak clicks. She knew those were happy sounds from an owl but the content eluded her.

  She rattled the candies in the bowl. “Good night, Bitsy.”

  “Good night.” Bitsy blinked and wished humans were smarter. Being in possession of information thrilled the little owl, so she flew out to tell Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, Aztec, and Matador. Their interest was not as high as she had hoped, so she flew back to her nest. Well, when the barn owl returned from foraging, at least she’d listen.

  Sister checked the electric heater in the water troughs. Running heavy-duty cords was a pain but trenching, dropping a line—that got expensive. Plus the electric company had to come out, and the telephone company, all to mark their buried lines with different colors of spray paint. Someday she’d get to it, but for now, winter meant running heavy orange extension cords to the paddocks for the horses. Horses prefer warm water to icy cold, and if the ice on top is too thick they may try to break it with a hoof.

  All was well. She walked back to the house marveling at the clear February sky, the startling blue-white stars.

  After she hung her coat on the peg in the mudroom, she heard Betty’s old Dodge truck rumble down the drive. Once in the house, Betty told her what Bitsy had just mentioned.

  “That’s good news,” Sister replied to Betty’s tale.

  “Because he’s staying?”

  “Yes.”

  “I expect the Vajays, like all of us, have a point at which even the most pleasant of houseguests wears out his welcome.”

  “High and Kasmir are old friends, so I’m sure Kasmir knew the exact right time to find a rental. And I think he’s serious about buying Tattenhall Station.”

  “He’d be a godsend.”

  Sister then described Cabel’s call, ending with that eases the tension.

  “Who knows how she’ll treat Faye this Saturday?”

  “Let’s hope Cabel calls upon her social discipline. All those years of cotillion.”

  Betty laughed at this because she, like Cabel and Sister, had passed through the years of rigor known as cotillion. Southern girls and boys learn their manners even if they hate the process: All those old biddies hovering over your every word and move. Ultimately the discipline learned was worth every discomfort.

  “I didn’t mind walking with a book on my head and learning how to say no without saying no.” Sister sighed. “Northerners just can’t get that. They think being direct is such a virtue and they think we’re devious because we go about it by another route.”

  “Sign of no imagination.” Betty laughed as she rummaged in her small duffel for her nightgown.

  “Well, that said, I agree being direct saves time, but it destroys all the joy of social intercourse, which really is dancing with words. Where was I? My cotillion. The ice-water teas. About killed me.”

  “Me too. Hated them!” Betty agreed, for what could be more boring than over and over again pouring ice water from a lovely teapot into an equally loved china cup, perched on its saucer. She changed the subject. “Do you think Cabel is having a nervous breakdown?”

  “Well, she wouldn’t be the first.”

  “And here I thought we’d get through a season without one.” Betty’s fuzzy slippers entranced Golly.

  “Who knows what else will happen? Cabel’s probably the least of it.” She stared at Betty’s slippers. “Those are a libido killer.”

  Betty laughed. “What’s it to you?”

  “Well, you’ve got me there.” Sister snuggled under the covers. “Betty, you really don’t need to babysit me like this.”

  “I do.” Betty hopped on the bed so hard that Golly, now on a pillow, grumbled.

  “Gray and you have obviously organized a pajama party for each night. You’re the first person to sleep in my bed, though. I stick the others in the guest room.”

  “Liar.” Betty smiled.

  “I am not.”

  “Lorraine Rasmussen didn’t stay in the house last night. ’Fess up.”

  “All right.” Sister slipped deeper under the covers. “She stayed with Shaker, but I’m fine and Shaker is just on the other side of the kennels.”

  “Someone needs to be in the house at night.”

  “I have Raleigh and Rooster.”

  “What if someone poisons or shoots them?”

  “When?” Golly perked up.

  The two dogs lifted their ears.

  “Betty, what a horrible thought.”

  “Murder is horrible and there’s a sicko out there. You’re not on the good side of whoever that is, so get used to company, sweetie.”

  “You aren’t going to do this every night. Who else is?”

  “Sorrel, Tedi, and Sybil for starters. Ilona volunteered, as did Cabel, but I demurred. If we run short you might be stuck with them.”

  “Christ, Betty, I think I’d rather face Lady Godiva’s killer.”

  Betty sighed at Sister’s remark, then replied, “I suspect we already have.”

  A long silence followed. “I—well, I feel some kind of dread I can’t name.” Sister changed the subject. “You and Gray are in cahoots obviously.”

  “Obviously.” Betty turned off her light.

  Sister affixed a tiny book light with a flexible stem on her copy of Captain E. Pennell-Elmhirst’s The Best of Fun published in 1903. “This won’t keep you awake. I have to read before I go to sleep.”

  Betty turned on her side, studying the light. “Nifty.”

  “’Tis.”

  Betty rolled on her back. “Funny, how you can know someone so well but still not know things.”

  “Are you referring to my reading light?”

  “No, I’m referring to your lack of nightgown.”

  “Betty, when you and I go on road trips to other hunts, on those occasions when Bobby doesn’t come along, we bunk up. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And half the club, the female half, troops through our rooms.”


  “Right,” Betty agreed.

  “Do you really think I’m going to sit there naked?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m in my own bed with my best friend hovering over me. So?”

  “All right. I just want to know how you stay so tight.”

  “Work.”

  “Well, I lost all that weight but I’ve got some flabby parts.”

  “If it really bothers you, go to a personal trainer. I think you look wonderful.”

  “You’re too kind, but then you haven’t seen me without my nightie.”

  “Do I have to?” Sister slammed her book down in mock irritation.

  Both women laughed.

  “I’m trying to sleep!” Golly raised her voice.

  “Intruder!” Raleigh leapt to his feet and ran out of the bedroom, thundering down the stairs.

  Rooster followed.

  Both dogs howled, the hounds starting up too.

  Sister shot out of bed, threw on her robe, and opened the window. Cold air rushed into the bedroom. She saw a pair of red taillights recede down the driveway just as the lights went on in Shaker’s upstairs window.

  “Dammit.” Sister slammed shut the window.

  Betty started down the hall.

  “Wait,” Sister commanded while she grabbed her .38 from the nightstand drawer.

  The two women hurried down the stairs and opened the back door, carefully—keeping the dogs in, to their dismay—to behold a plastic shopping bag at the mudroom door.

  Betty poked it with her foot, felt a square edge, and picked it up. She opened the bag and plucked out a DVD. “Lady Godiva.”

  Sister took the movie from Betty’s hand. “Made in the fifties.”

  “If I find who left this, I’ll wring his neck.” Betty, furious, heard the phone in the kitchen.

  Sister trotted back and picked it up. “Someone left a movie. About Lady Godiva.” She inhaled. “Fragrance. I can’t place their perfume but I’ve smelled it before.”

  Shaker’s strong voice replied, “You don’t know what’s on that video.” He’d heard the car leave.

  “You’re right.”

  “You’re okay?” he inquired.

  “I am.” She was glad to hear his voice. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Next she called Ben Sidell.

  Accompanied by the dogs also smelling the fragrance on the plastic bag, the two women repaired nervously upstairs.

  “Anything?” Rooster asked after checking the bag.

  “No. I couldn’t identify anyone. Too much plastic odor.”

  “Too cold too.” Rooster’s ears drooped a bit.

  “We’re going to have to sleep with one eye open.”

  “Yep.”

  “Now I’m wide awake,” Betty complained. She had a big day tomorrow at the printing press she and Bobby owned.

  “Shall we?” Sister, flat TV discreetly by the wall in the bedroom, popped in the movie. “If we’re going to be scared on a cold night we might as well watch the goddamned thing. You know there’s a scent on it.” She handed the plastic bag to Betty. “Recognize it?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t place it,” Sister said, then got back into bed.

  The two watched a tepid film about Lady Godiva, then fell asleep.

  The next morning Sister made waffles for Betty, fortifying her friend for a long day ahead.

  CHAPTER 19

  February 29, Leap Year Day, roared through on the teeth of a low-pressure system. Trees bent over, hounds stayed in the kennels, horses stood with their rear ends to the wind. Even loquacious Bitsy hunkered down in her nest.

  Sister, fearing the power would be cut off, hurriedly vacuumed the upstairs. That done, Golly reentered social exchange by removing herself from the closet.

  “You’re scared of the vacuum cleaner,” Rooster teased her.

  “Yeah, you burrow in all of Mom’s cashmere sweaters. Cat hair everywhere.” Raleigh picked up the game.

  “Cashmere is goat hair. What’s a little cat hair after that?” Golly sniffed.

  “Chicken,” Rooster taunted.

  “Bubble butt.” Golly thumped down the carpeted twisty back stairs to the kitchen. Many old houses have a narrow stairwell from the kitchen to the second story as well as the wide stairwell off the center hall.

  Rooster, hot on her tail, snapped, “I don’t have a bubble butt.”

  “Fatty, fatty, two-by-four.” Golly started the nasty childhood chant.

  Raleigh had barreled to the main stairway and taken the steps three at a time and was already in the kitchen when the two squabblers emerged.

  Even with the carpet on the back stairs, Sister could hear the two animals thumping down toward her. They burst through the open door, complaining vociferously.

  “Pipe down, I can’t hear myself think,” she admonished them.

  Raleigh sat there like an adoring angel, which really offended Golly, who walked up to the Doberman, sat right in front of him, and batted his long nose with one lightning strike.

  “Ouch.”

  “Brownnoser.” She jumped on the counter and pushed around Sister’s tiny cell phone sitting in its recharging cradle.

  Sister grabbed the phone and cradle before they clattered to the floor. She looked at the small blue square that read CHARGE COMPLETE, unplugged the charger, put it in a cabinet drawer, folded the phone over, and stuck it in her back jeans pocket. While wearing a cell phone holder on her belt might have proven more efficient, nothing could induce her to do it, just like nothing could induce her to wear a sissy strap under her chin on her helmet. Some things were just too weenie.

  She opened the cupboard containing treats, tossing a big pig’s ear to each dog and a large green chewy at Golly. The pigs’ ears remained fresh in large sealed bags. The pungent aroma would fill the kitchen were the bags not sealed.

  “I’ll bet you-all don’t know why we have leap year.”

  Head turned sideways as she gnawed on her greenie, Golly replied, “Do I need to know? I’ve lived all these years in contented ignorance.”

  “The calendar year is different from the equinoctial year so time can move backward.” Seeing that she had only one interested party, Raleigh, Sister addressed this to him. “A calendar year is 365 days. An equinoctial year—that’s the time it takes the earth to make a complete revolution of the sun from equinox to equinox—is actually 365.242199 days so periodic events would slowly move backward. To keep things on time, we had to add a day every four years. We’ve had calendars for thousands of years; humans struggled with this but I think Pope Gregory the Great set things to rights. He switched us off the Julian calendar, which made some provision for this but not enough.” She threw up her hands. “I used to know all this. Anyway, St. Oswald—that’s an English saint from the tenth century—used to have his festival on February twenty-ninth, but in 1930 the Catholic Church moved his feast day to February twenty-eighth. Poor fellow wasn’t getting enough of the party. Of course, now many of the saints have been dispatched, but I still pay attention.”

  “See, I didn’t need to know any of that.”

  “Dunce.” Raleigh dropped his pig’s ear, which rattled on the heart pine.

  “It doesn’t make any difference. What do I care if festivals move backward? What’s St. Oswald to cats? If he grew catnip—well, then I’d pay attention.”

  “She knows a lot.” Rooster enjoyed the rich flavor of the pig’s ear.

  “Human stuff, most of which is irrelevant. Nature can kill them all if she wants to, and then what of Leap Year?” Golly puffed out her magnificent chest.

  “Crab,” came Raleigh’s tart reply.

  Golly might have attacked the Doberman again, but the lure of the greenie overcame the desire for violent revenge. The long-haired calico was a great believer in violence artfully applied.

  The cell rang. Sister forgot she’d left it on so she retrieved it from her pocket. “Hello, Jane Arnold here.”

 
Marion’s lilting voice said, “Can’t you just say Hello? Who else would use your cell phone?”

  “I’ve been thinking.” Sister launched right in, since Marion was accustomed to her going straight to the point and vice versa. “Well, let me back up and say that there’s a wireless carrier, Leap Wireless International—good name for Leap Year, right? Anyway this company, in which I’ve bought shares, sells service to low-income, young, and ethnic people. They operate under the name Cricket. This particular market is deemed too small for the giant carriers.”

  “Sounds pretty smart,” Marion replied.

  “It is. Forty dollars a month. No credit check. You sign up and you’ve got service.”

  “What’s the catch?” Marion was suspicious.

  “Roaming charges are high. The system is designed for people who don’t travel much, so if they don’t use roaming they’ll save money. Cricket requires customers to pay each month in advance. Obviously, in that income bracket they need some protection. But isn’t it a terrific idea?”

  “It is. How long before they are absorbed by a huge amoeba?”

  “Not long, I expect. Since our Lady Godiva had information concerning this kind of technology, I’ve been investigating in my own small way.”

  “How often does your cell phone die on you?” Marion queried.

  “At least once a day. I attribute that to dead zones, especially here by the mountains.”

  “Sister, I’m a few miles more east of the mountains than you are. Happens to me too.”

  “Guess you like your new cell phone.” Sister teased her.

  “Better looking than the one I threw in the fire, but I hit those dead spots too. Sometimes I’ll be in the store and nothing. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation yakking away, and suddenly I realize no one’s on the other end. Maddening.”

  “’Tis.”

  “What if a huge company with extraordinary research facilities goes about buggering—forgive the word—other wireless providers? Meanwhile, it establishes a reputation for reliability. What are most of us going to do eventually? Switch to the reliable company.” Marion paused. “Our beautiful victim could have been a part of a number of illegal activities. If she was, I hope someone figures it out.”