The Tell-tale Horse

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Then why other women?”

  “One other woman. Mandy, I love you. You are my wife, the mother of my sons. But how do the Americans put it, A stiff dick has no conscience?” He shook his head. “Who could be as beautiful as you? And you are a good woman. But sometimes a man is weak or away from home and lonely.” He shrugged.

  “And you don’t think women get lonely?”

  A three-car alarm look crossed his face, “Yes. No. What do you mean?”

  “Only that women, too, need solace. We’re better at hiding it. Have I cheated on you? No. Rest your pride, for that’s what it is. I have my circle of friends. I think my relationship with my friends is different from yours, but no matter. Back to Craig and Abrams. If what you are doing works, Craig and Abrams will emerge as”—she thought a moment—“the Toyota of wireless, of personal technology.”

  “Military hegemony too. Those applications are not known to the public. We will be number one in the world, an Indian company. What’s that other American expression? When the tide’s in, all the boats rise. So it will be for our country.”

  “Strange. I have love and pride for my people and for India in general, but I feel more American. Sometimes that bothers me. Am I faithless? Am I so easily won over by their freedoms, many of which are scurrilous or illusory? Or is it their attitude? What my father always says was called can do in his day. But they are like that, you know. Americans think they can do anything so they do. They aren’t chained to fathoms of history as we are. When I’m here I forget about Hindus hating Muslims. I don’t care. I don’t care that I think Mumbai residents combine the worst of Los Angeles and New York. I look out at the Blue Ridge Mountains, much smaller than the mountains of my childhood, and I feel peace. And strange to say, my husband, I feel power.”

  “You have always had power, Mandy.”

  “Beauty is power, but beauty fades.”

  “Not yours.”

  “Ha. Mine most of all. When you are called one of the world’s most beautiful women, everyone searches your face for that first wrinkle. Well, I have more than one wrinkle now and some gray to season my hair as well. No, this power is different. This is from within. Beauty is without.”

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  “I love you,” High said, voice overflowing with emotion. He rose from his seat, walked over to his wife, knelt before her, and wrapped his arms around her knees. “Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

  “I do, but I must know: Did you kill Aashi and Faye Spencer?”

  He looked into her eyes. “Never. Never would I kill a woman.”

  “Do you know who did? It looks bad for you, Lakshmi; you discovered Faye and you are on the list for killing Aashi.”

  “I don’t know who did it. I wish I did because I fear him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s not finished. I feel it.”

  “I see.” She stood up, pulling him up with her, and hugged him, then kissed him passionately on the lips. “I love you too. That’s why it hurts. But I must protect myself and my children. If you want me in your life as your partner, you must go to McGuire and Woods”—she named a prestigious Virginia law firm—“and assign half of your assets to me now. For one thing, should you predecease me, that will cut down the inheritance tax, and for another, if you do this again, I walk away a rich woman and a free woman.”

  He didn’t flinch. “It will be done.”

  “And Charing Cross Farm. I can never leave here. I have found my heart’s home.”

  “That too.”

  “If, for some reason, you awaken tomorrow morning and wish to run heel”—she used the foxhunting term whereby hounds become confused and run backward on a fox’s line—“I will reveal what you are doing.”

  At that moment, although he had been married to her for all these years, he truly appreciated the depths of her intelligence, exploding within him like a depth charge. He needed her on his side as much as he loved her. “I will not run heel. I will do as you ask. But I too have a request.”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t ever tell our sons what a fool their father is.”

  “I will not, but who is to say as they grow older they won’t find out? The first Lady Godiva’s life can’t remain a secret forever.”

  “My second request. Let us not speak of her between us.”

  “Lakshmi, I can’t promise that. With Faye’s dreadful murder, the first murder is fresh all over again and the sheriff’s department knows of your involvement. We can’t pretend it never happened.”

  “I know that, but don’t throw it in my face.”

  “I won’t, but I must ask you particularly, since you think the killer will strike again, do you know who else Aashi was sleeping with?”

  “No. Why would she tell me?”

  “I assume she knew people with whom you do business.”

  “She knew Faye and Warp Speed’s work. She knew Ramsey, Clayton, Crawford, and Edward, all because of their investments in Warp Speed but also sometimes, as you know, we’d drive up to Washington together.”

  “Faye. Anyone other than Ramsey?”

  “I don’t know. I only know about Ramsey because once Ilona, when we were hunting, made a cutting remark about Faye. I’d be hard put to prove it, but it fits if you know both their patterns.”

  “Yes, it does. I liked Faye. I liked her tremendously. She never wasted my time with twaddle. When I would call upon Faye or vice versa, we sank our teeth into interesting subjects. Did you know she was passionate about poetry? Unusual for a science type, I think.”

  “No, but I didn’t know Faye as you did.”

  “How is Kasmir?”

  “Shocked. He’s taking care of her dog and her horse. I told him tomorrow I’d call around to find a farm manager. I don’t even know if Faye had a will or relatives. She rarely spoke of them.”

  “She had a brother in Naples, Florida. Just a brother with whom she had a good rapport. Her parents were killed in a car crash on the Florida Turnpike in the late 1990s,” Mandy replied.

  “Ah, poor fellow. What terrible news.”

  As the Vajays found their way back to each other, the Porters were becoming further estranged.

  Felicity’s mother tried every manipulation of which she was capable: grief, guilt, anger, tears, more guilt. Nothing worked.

  Her father accepted his daughter’s decision with scant enthusiasm. Perhaps his vanity was tweaked. He hadn’t planned to become a grandfather until his late fifties and here he was just forty-seven, plus he thought Howard Lindquist was a dumb jock.

  When her parents finally vacated Custis Hall, Felicity crossed the quad from the administration building back to Old One, the oldest dorm on the campus. She’d call Howard but she needed to collect her thoughts. She had thought her parents really loved her. She was grappling with the dismal reality that they loved her only when she was what they wanted her to be.

  Halfway across the quad, bundled up against the cold and the March winds, appearing right on time, trotted Val and Tootie.

  When they reached her, Val slipped her arm through Felicity’s right arm and Tootie took the left. No one said anything. Felicity’s tears came not because of her parents but because she realized her friends loved her. Val disagreed with her but she loved her. You can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends.

  They gathered in Val’s room, the corner room traditionally given to the president of the senior class.

  Val put a kettle on her hot plate. It was illegal to have a hot plate, but most of the girls jimmied up some way to make coffee, tea, and hot chocolate just like they snuck in liquor, pot, and the occasional gram of cocaine, all of which would horrify their parents, who pretty much did the same thing way back when.

  “Mrs. Norton was very nice to give us the little conference room. Spared you all from hearing Mom wail down the hall.”

  “Bad?” Val pulled out three mugs, proudly displaying how clean they were. “SOS pads.�
�

  “That’s the first time you’ve scrubbed them since you were a freshman.” Tootie couldn’t believe it.

  “They were clean. Stain’s not the same as dirt,” Val replied, then turned to Felicity. “Coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you tired?” Tootie noticed the dark rings under Felicity’s eyes.

  “I never knew how much this stuff—well, it makes you more tired than physical stuff. Mostly I want to sleep for a week. At least I’m rid of them and they aren’t going to pull me out of school. Won’t pay for night school, though. Won’t pay for an apartment or anything like that.” She stopped, chin jutting out. “I don’t want their money. Whoever gives you money owns you.”

  “Won’t be easy, Felicity. You’re used to having a lot,” Val said, not in a dismissive manner.

  “I don’t even know what I have—I mean, how would I know until I have to do without? I don’t know how to run a house. I’m pretty good with money, but I don’t even own furniture.” She sat on the worn but comfortable reading chair.

  “Sister will help.” Tootie listened for the water to boil; she was thirsty. “If she asks hunt club members they’ll find stuff. Your place won’t make House and Garden but, hey, you’ll have a bed to sleep in.”

  “I don’t want to bother her. She’s put herself out for me with Garvey Stokes. I can’t ask for more.”

  “Felicity, Sister would be upset if you didn’t ask. She knows about these things.” Val agreed with Tootie.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Val and Tootie looked at each other, silently agreeing that they’d talk to Sister.

  “There are lots of places to rent,” Val said cheerfully.

  “Once I’m working full time we can afford something cheap. Howie should make some money at Robb Construction. Remember, we need a car too.”

  “Forgot about that.” Val had.

  “Val, I know how you feel about me, about Howie. I know you’re furious I’m not going to Princeton, should I get in.”

  “We’ll get in,” Val boomed out.

  “You will.” Felicity’s eyes misted again. “Thank you for standing by me even though you don’t agree with what I’m doing.”

  The water boiled. Val poured hot water onto powdered cocoa, then coffee, and finally another cocoa for herself. “If I can’t change your mind, I might as well help,” she finally responded.

  “I mean it. I hope someday I can pay you back.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Val smiled, handing her a cup, a spoon, and powdered milk.

  “All for one and one for all.” Tootie smiled.

  Felicity, who had had quite enough of talking about her future, changed the subject. “I heard about the hunt. Faye Spencer. Tell me.”

  And so the grisly tale was repeated, with Felicity wretched that she’d missed the hunt just so her parents could try to grind her down.

  What is it about horror that excites the mind?

  Just as Val and Tootie were doing, other Jefferson Hunt members all over the county were recounting the story to their friends.

  CHAPTER 24

  How much do you have in the kitty?” Sister asked, as she drove Felicity to Aluminum Manufacturing.

  “Seven hundred and one dollars and ninety-five cents.” Felicity enjoyed the high view the truck gave her. “Most of it from Val.”

  “Cusses a lot, does she?”

  “Not around you.” Felicity’s wry humor hadn’t abandoned her despite her predicament.

  “Better not.” Sister slowed, turning left into the parking lot behind the brick office building.

  Felicity saw the manufacturing building behind the brick building, which was obscured by rows of pines along the road. “Huge.”

  “Garvey calls this the bullpit. Window frames are made here, caps for broom handles, you won’t believe the stuff they make. It’s fascinating, really.”

  “Once our second grade visited a dairy.” Felicity observed a stream of white smoke curling upward from the big chimney at the rear of the building. “I mean, I knew milk came from cows and all that but I didn’t know how much happened before we drank it: machines to milk cows, what goes on at the processing plant. That’s when I became interested in how things actually get done. And profit.” She smiled shyly.

  “Profit’s the hard part. There’s no way anyone can pierce the future. All decisions are based on insufficient evidence. But I do know, should you end up in business, a good rule of thumb is, whatever something costs today, it will cost more tomorrow.”

  Felicity flipped down the passenger sunshade, a mirror on the reverse side. She checked her face. “Do I look okay?”

  “Fresh as a daisy.”

  “Should I tell him I’m pregnant? It’s kind of like lying if I don’t.” The strain was showing on her young face.

  Sister cut the motor. “Yes, but wait until the interview is mostly over. Garvey’s a good man, a fair man, and if your interview has gone well—and I’m sure it will—he’ll work it out with you.”

  “I like Mr. Stokes. He doesn’t do stupid things in the hunt field.”

  “I like him too. Ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They walked over the macadam, little bits pilling up over the years. Macadam doesn’t have a long life span. The bits crunched underfoot.

  Reaching the glass door, Sister stepped forward to open it for Felicity.

  The office building was rectangular, brick with lots of windows. Built in the 1930s, the entire structure, front and back, was no-nonsense. Sister appreciated function so she didn’t find the place ugly at all.

  The small lobby contained samples of their products as well as colored framed photos of special projects over the years. A curved reception desk, a deep navy Turkish rug, and six Barcelona chairs offered testimony that Garvey possessed some aesthetic sensibility and was willing to pay for it. True Barcelona chairs are anything but cheap and the desk had been handmade specially by Aluminum Manufacturing, the aluminum top smooth, highly polished, and gleaming.

  Bessie Tutweiler, a woman in her mid-fifties, was helping as a temporary bookkeeper and receptionist.

  She pulled off her tortoiseshell glasses, hanging on a silver chain, and they dropped to rest on her ample, cashmere-covered bosom. “Sister, haven’t seen you since Moses parted the Red Sea.” She beamed.

  “Bessie, that was a long time ago. I don’t even remember what Ramses wore.”

  They both laughed.

  “And how are you since that distant day?” Bessie inquired.

  “Fine. Yourself?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “This is Felicity Porter.” Sister introduced her to the older woman instead of vice versa. Sister’s manners were impeccable. “Bessie, she’s a wonderful young lady and she has an interview with Garvey.” She turned to Felicity. “This is Mrs. Thornton Tutweiler.”

  Bessie stood, extending her hand, which Felicity shook.

  Bessie looked sharply at Felicity, liking the package, for the still slender girl was modestly dressed in becoming colors. “Honey, you sit down and he’ll be out in a minute.” She glanced at the small switchboard, a few dots of light showing, and flicked a button that turned on an orange light on Garvey’s phone, alerting him that his appointment was in the lobby.

  Sister sank into a Barcelona chair. She smiled at Felicity, who returned her smile, trying not to let nerves get the better of her.

  Within a few minutes Garvey walked down the hall, entered the reception area, came rapidly to Sister, and bent over, kissing her on the cheek. “Master, you look wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” She wasn’t immune to compliments.

  “Best run of the season Saturday!” He took both of her hands in his. “Just the best. I try to forget the rest of it.” He reached over to Felicity, offering her his hand. “Come in, young entry,” he said, winking.

  Hearing a foxhunting term relaxed Felicity a little.

  When Garvey’s door cl
osed, Bessie said, “She looks like a sensible kid.”

  “A brilliant one. She has a real mind for business. And she is pretty sensible, no drugs or drinking, you know.” Sister left it at that, for Bessie would learn in good time about the rest.

  “Faye Spencer.” Bessie sucked in her breath. “How awful for you. I just can’t believe it!”

  “None of us can.”

  “What could that lovely widow have done to deserve such a death? A nicer person you’d never find.”

  Bessie put her glasses back on to check a new light on the switchboard, then removed them to look at Sister. Angel had researched and updated the office equipment, but she had died before being able to update their interior communication. Garvey kept meaning to get around to it, but that’s easier said than done. At least Bessie knew how to work the switchboard.

  “Faye was a delight to all who knew her. And she worked hard, Bessie. After her husband was killed she picked herself up and kept going. Faye never asked for sympathy or favors. I hope I find out who did this. I’ll skin him alive.”

  “I’ll help you.” Bessie pursed her lips. “We live in a strange and violent world, Sister. No respect for life. It’s all money, money, money.”

  “Do you think Faye might have been killed over money?” Sister couldn’t lean forward in a Barcelona chair without sitting on the edge but she raised her voice a tad.

  Bessie threw up her hands. “Who knows? I guess if her business takes off—well, she’d have been worth millions, wouldn’t she?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Sister replied.

  “I think there’s a fiend out there. I don’t really think this is about money.” Bessie settled in to explain her theory. “Ever watch the true crime programs on TV?” Sister shook her head. “Well, from what I can gather from them, most criminals, if they aren’t stupid and can’t control their impulses, which is most of the criminal population, if they’re intelligent, they believe that what they are doing makes sense. It’s right. They truly believe they are right, their acts aren’t immoral. You know, like the men who kill prostitutes because they believe they’re filth. Wouldn’t it make more sense to kill the men who buy their bodies? I mean, we do live in a world of supply and demand. Seems to me the retribution is one-sided, but then those killers are always men, aren’t they?”