She was just one person. All she could do was to shoulder the load with people she knew. Sister was not one to write checks to organizations. She had to know to whom money was going and she had to respect them. If nothing else, she was consistent.
She’d written a check this Friday to Custis Hall for a scholarship for a fourteen-year-old whom Mercer sponsored. He wrote the other half of the check for the girl’s first year.
Sister did not think of herself as a particularly loving or good person. She thought of herself as a clear-eyed responsible one. What others thought of her mattered precious little if at all. This quality above all others drove her enemies wild. Over the years, Crawford had dug, parried, and derided her, yet she never bothered to respond. Worse, she sought him out at the board meetings and remained friendly with his wife—or as friendly as she could under the circumstances.
Some of this impressive lady’s supreme self-confidence was rubbing off on Tootie, who walked into the library.
“Bills?” asked the lovely young woman.
“You know, just when you think you’re in the clear, the mailbox is filled with some more.” Sister capped the pen, turning to view Tootie, who had recently turned twenty-one.
“Did you hear that Felicity got promoted?” Tootie mentioned a brilliant schoolmate of hers who had gotten pregnant. Unable to go off to college, Felicity took night courses toward a degree.
“Garvy Stokes knows talent when he sees it. I’m behind on seeing Felicity. I haven’t visited my godson in two weeks.”
“He doesn’t stop talking.” Tootie smiled. “Not at all like his mother,” she quipped.
“And how is your mother, speaking of mothers?”
Tootie shrugged. “Same as always.”
“You haven’t visited Chicago in over a year. Why don’t you go once hunt season is over?”
Tootie sat on the couch next to Raleigh. The Doberman raised his head only to drop it in Tootie’s lap, give her a loving gaze, then close his eyes.
Golly, on the other hand, opened her lustrous eyes. Far be it for the cat to miss anything.
“I don’t want to,” said Tootie. “It’s always the same old thing. They make me miserable, angry, and finally bored.”
“That’s a harsh judgment on your mother and father.”
“Sister, you’ve met them.”
“I have, and I know your father doesn’t much like me but he’s still your father and he loves you the only way he knows how. And as for your mother, she does what most good wives do, she props him up, tries to get him to see reason or at least have some emotional understanding. She loves you, too.”
“You know what, Sister? I don’t care.” A flash of defiance flared from that beautiful face.
Picking up the fountain pen, Sister twirled it. “You’ve been with me one and a half years now and you’ve taken courses at UVA. You’ve kept your word about that. Things come so easily to you—riding, college courses. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“Not everything. I signed up for organic chem. That might not be easy.”
“We’ll see. You know Dr. Hinson will help.” Sister named the veterinarian, a woman who liked Tootie.
“I’m trying to be like you.” Tootie smiled. “I’m writing letters.”
Sister beamed. “It’s the only proper way to communicate, or at least to communicate some things. I was just writing O.J. to invite the Woodford group here in March. We’ve talked about it but a formal invitation is needed. Wouldn’t it just be silly if they all get here and we have a storm?”
“What was it you called the storm in Lexington?”
“A pogonip, a freezing fog. The superstition is that it brings bad luck.”
“Well, it did, didn’t it?”
“I suppose it did.”
“I found some old pictures of Benny Glitters.”
“You did?” Sister asked, surprised and curious.
“Sure. I’ll show you.” Tootie rose, walked to a simple desk tucked in a corner, upon which was Sister’s computer. The young woman sat down and quickly pulled up images from Google. “Look.”
Sister stood behind her. “I keep promising to move the computer out of here to a better place, a bigger place, and move that little desk. Well, that’s irrelevant, I fear. I’ll never be able to use it like you do.”
“You don’t have to. You have me.” Tootie clicked and sure enough there appeared an old sepia photograph of a petite woman in hacking attire, presumably Lela Harkness, astride a well-built bay.
“How about that? Don’t you love that Lela looks like a magazine model? People dressed for the occasion in those days.” Sister leaned forward, squinting a bit. “Benny Glitters looks like a handsome bay horse. Well, Thoroughbreds are usually some form of bay or chestnut with the occasional gray. Look how sturdy his forelegs are.”
“I found other pictures, too.” Tootie flipped through old photographs, some from the turn of the last century going up through the 1920s. “Here’s one of Phil Chetwynd’s grandfather, I guess.”
“Roger was the grandfather. Old Tom, Phil’s great-grandfather, started Broad Creek Stables. Both Phil and his brother—the one who lives in Charleston, West Virginia—resemble their father, also named Tom in honor of the original patriarch. I vaguely remember Roger. What I recall is that he was so competitive. When people had money in those days, they really had it.”
“Look at this.” Tootie filled the screen with photographs of L.V. Harkness’s daughters, and others of Walnut Hall through the years.
“Go back to Benny,” said Sister.
“Sure.”
“Okay, now can you find me a picture of Domino?”
“That’s easy. He was so famous. There’s lots of photographs.” Tootie proved her point.
“Hmm. It’s hard to tell how much Benny looks like his sire. Pull up one of Domino’s most famous son, Commando.”
Tootie did. “He looks a little more like Domino. I mean, it’s hard to tell bays apart.”
“ ’Tis. I’ll tell you a secret. Always start at the hoof. Then go up the legs starting from the rear. Pause at the gaskin, the large muscle at the top of the hind legs often called the second thigh. Now look at the hip angle. Okay, go to the forelegs. Same trajectory. Right? Now look from the withers to the hindquarters. Okay, set that in your mind. Look at the shoulder angle, look at the angle of the neck from that shoulder, look at the chest. Finally, go to the head.”
“I did that.”
“Now pull up a photograph of Man o’ War. He ought to be easy to find.”
He was.
Tootie looked at the great horse as Sister had instructed her. “Well, they don’t look alike but they are both really handsome horses.”
“Yes, they are. A sharp eye can help you a lot, save mistakes.” Sister paused lest she rattle on, although Tootie was a ravenous listener. “And after all the conformation talk, I tell you the most important thing about horses, hounds, and people: You can’t put in what God left out.”
Tootie quietly registered all this. “You mean the mind, the mind first.”
“Indeed I do, especially for a hunting horse. You can get killed out there, Tootie. Sometimes I think people who foolishly ride a beautiful horse with a bad mind are just asking for it. I don’t have but so much sympathy.”
The two studied Man o’ War, a delight for any horseman. Tootie clicked back to Domino, and they examined him again.
“Look at these photographs of Broad Creek Stables. This one is from 1902!” said Tootie.
“Old Tom Chetwynd. He had to be incredibly smart to found that coal business and then the stables, too. I often wonder why Phil doesn’t leave for Lexington, but he’s big beans in the Mid-Atlantic.”
Tootie remarked, “Some people like my father have to be the big shot, you know?”
“I know, but Phil covers it up well.” Sister watched as Tootie scrolled through more photographs.
“Stop.” Sister pointed to a photograph of Roger Chet
wynd and Lucius, the stable manager. Behind them stood some stable hands and a well-dressed African American. Farther back were horses in paddocks. “I’ll be damned,” said Sister.
Tootie studied the photograph. “I see it.”
The natty African American had Mercer’s chin and his high cheekbones. There was a resemblance but then again many people could have those features. Catching both their attention too was the adorable, bright-eyed Norwich terrier at his feet.
Tootie looked up at Sister. “Should we tell Mercer?”
Sister took a long time, leaned on the back of the sofa.
“I was here first,” Golly complained.
Rooster opened one eye and regarded the cat. “Shut up, Golly.”
“Methuselah’s dog. Worthless old fart.” Golly swished her tail.
Without rising, Rooster lifted his head, growling.
“That’s enough,” Sister commanded.
Golly eyed the harrier with malicious glee.
“No, we shouldn’t tell Mercer about the resemblance,” Sister finally declared.
“Why?”
“Mercer can be like a helium balloon. Pfft.” She moved her forefinger up in the air like a helicopter blade.
“I have a terrible feeling about those old bones. Mercer, well, I just think he could stir up a hornet’s nest.”
“But that could really be his grandfather.” Tootie was confused.
“It was so long ago,” Sister said. “The reverberations from violent crimes never quite stop. That’s easy to see in the cases of”—she thought about earlier conversations with O.J.—“Lincoln’s assassination, stuff like that. That’s a significant political event but any murder is an event that touches others and can continue to do so. We should be careful.”
“But we don’t have anything to do with it.”
“Tootie, if we are too interested or find some useful information, we will have something to do with it. That man was killed over money, a lot of money. You don’t kill someone for a few bucks. Don’t get me wrong. I want to find out what I can. Seeing that forefinger, the watch, and little dog skull really got me. But something tells me to be careful. That had to be murder.”
“A woman. Men kill over women.”
“He wouldn’t be buried with a horse and his dog. He would have been shot in passion or stabbed. This is deliberate. You know how I told you to look at a horse from the hoof up, well, look at this from the ground up, so to speak.”
“Didn’t Mercer say his grandfather’s clothes were found at a whorehouse?” Tootie was realizing that Sister was extremely practical when it came to emotions.
Mercer, on the other hand, was volatile and emotional. Strangely enough, at the same time, he was shrewd and patient concerning business.
“Apparently, that was a ruse,” said Sister. “Whoever murdered Harlan Laprade thought it through. People would be more than willing to believe a man would go to a house of ill repute, an expensive one, and fall into trouble. Especially if he’s away from home. Men visit such places every day all over the world.”
Young and idealistic, Tootie said, “That’s horrible. Disgusting.”
“Honey, most men, no matter where they are, high or low, Asia, Africa, the Americas, you name it, most men feel they are entitled to sex.”
“Gross!”
“I can’t judge. I can only tell you that if a fellow doesn’t have a girl in every port, so to speak, he’s happy to pay for a night of pleasure. In fact, it’s easier. No strings. A straight cash transaction. Whoever left those clothes folded in the laundry room at the whorehouse was very, very clever and probably knew the victim would be there—or visit, then leave. How easy to kill him in an alley, take his clothes back to the whorehouse. Pretty easy, I think. First of all, no one would tell a wife her husband’s clothes were found in an exclusive whorehouse. So there’s one line of inquiry shut down.”
“They would now.” Tootie was incredulous.
“But not then. Remember the time. 1921. Secondly, the murder victim probably had a reputation for chasing skirts. Those who knew him would be surprised at his disappearance but not really shocked. I mean it, Tootie, if a Laprade really is the victim, we need to be careful. Whoever killed him is long gone but the effects of that murder might not be, especially if it was over a boatload of money and it was done or conceived by someone highly intelligent.” Sister put her hand on Tootie’s shoulder. “Let’s walk softly.”
“Maybe we should hope Mercer doesn’t find any photos,” Tootie remarked. But he had.
CHAPTER 9
“Don’t you have a brighter lamp?” Mercer fussed as he peered at old photographs.
“Use this little flashlight.” Phil pulled open the narrow desk drawer, retrieved a small promotional LED light, and handed it to him.
Looking at the light, Mercer remembered. “This thing has to be four years old.”
“It is. Gave them out at Keeneland back at the stables.” Phil sat shoulder to shoulder with Mercer at his office desk in the old main barn.
“Last really good sale anyone had. This economy has to get better,” Mercer grumbled.
“It will. Always does. The secret is to pare down and hang on. I forgot that Daddy saved all this stuff. Fortunately, he kept it in a metal box up at the house. Glad you made me look for old family photos.”
“We don’t have any that go that far back. That’s my granddad Harlan,” Mercer said, squinting at the sepia photograph. “Can’t be anyone else.” He flipped it over, and along with the filly’s name, Topsail, was Harlan Laprade.
Shirtsleeves rolled up, bowtie, what looked like summer flannel pants and a snappy boater, Harlan stood next to the filly. Both stared straight at the camera.
“Knew how to show a horse,” Phil said admiringly.
Mercer carefully sifted through more photographs in the pile from the metal box. A few were of back barns and run-in sheds being built, the main barns in front. Others cataloged mares, colts, fillies, and four standing stallions.
“Navigator. 1923. Bone.” Mercer appreciated the bay stallion. “He had some age on him in this photo but he looks incredible. Just incredible.” Mercer remarked on the heavier denser bone the horse displayed compared to so many of today’s horses, who are more fragile.
“Had to have bone then. Still should. But so many races were a mile, a mile and a quarter. Few seven furlong runs then, I think.” Phil tidied up the photographs. “Dad said that was the biggest change he’d seen in his lifetime, the jigging of race conditions to favor weaker horses.”
A furlong is one-eighth of a mile.
“Mmm,” Mercer half listened, his eye again drawn to his grandfather. “Good clothes run in the family.”
“Seems so. Funny, I didn’t know Dad kept so many photos.”
“Mother advised me to ransack the old barn for photographs, files. I think my dear mama lost some things like photographs between moves and husbands back in the day.”
Phil took the photograph of Navigator from Mercer’s hand. “Would you like me to make a copy of this?”
“Mother would like that,” said Mercer. He was a bachelor and lived just next door to Daniella Laprade, which most folks would think was too close by.
“Looking at these photos, I wonder if they were happier then. Was life really simpler?”
“No. Nothing changes, Phil. I’m convinced of that. Technology changes how fast we can travel, communicate. Medicine changes, but people, no. People don’t change.”
“Yeah, I guess. You know, maybe I’ll make two copies of this and send one to the Lexington Police Department.”
“What can they tell from a photograph? All they have are bones, but now I’m sure they are my grandfather’s. Did anyone at the farm keep records? Not breeding records and accounts but, you know, a diary?”
“Not that I know about but, Mercer, even if my great-grandfather Old Tom did or his son, my grandfather, did, no one would record the clothing being found in a house of ill repute, then sen
d it on to the family. One didn’t talk about stuff like that, especially if a woman might find the records and Dad always said that Grandpa and Great-grandpa were circumspect, especially where women were concerned. A trait I’m trying to pass on to my boys, but maybe they’re too young.”
“Ten and twelve, that’s not too young.”
“If whoever was in that grave had his throat slit, any kind of flesh wound, there won’t be a trace. The only way to know how he was killed is if a bone was shattered or lead pressed into it.” Phil switched back to the unidentified bones in the equine grave.
“Maybe our dentist has records. Worth a try. We’ve gone to the same family dentist since Christ went to Chicago,” Mercer replied.
The old Southern expression made Phil chuckle. “A long time and I don’t know as the Good Lord was able to reach the Chicago heathen.”
“O ye of little faith,” Mercer chided him. “Thanks for finding this stuff. It’s not like you don’t have other things to do.”
“We all do,” said Phil. “Overcommittment is the great American vice.” He smiled. “Anyway, I enjoyed looking at the photographs. I think both our grandfathers were driven men—had to be, to be successful. People like that usually accomplish a lot but they miss a lot, too. Dad said he hardly ever saw his dad and when he did, the old man paid little attention to him. Maybe that’s why he was such a good father to me.”
“Different times.” Mercer shook his head. “Look, I know in my bones that was my grandfather, Harlan, in that grave. He didn’t return to Virginia, obviously, from delivering the slate memorial. Has to be him that was under it.”
“It’s a good guess but don’t jump the gun, Mercer. All that does is create confusion.”
“It’s Mother that worries me. She wants to know. She’s looking for dental records. She wants to know now.”
“Mercer, no one can handle your mother and you aren’t going to learn now. If you find Harlan’s dental records and if they match the corpse’s, what then? There’s only so much you can do.”
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Page 8