“What do you think is the connection?”
“DNA. As an equine vet, Penny would be interested. But if you find she was looking at any pedigrees, especially of current horses or Benny Glitters, the horse in the tomb, maybe if I look at them I might be able to help discover why she was killed.”
“You think her murder is related to the one in Kentucky? The one in 1921?”
A long, long pause and then Sister said with conviction, “Actually, I do. Something tells me this all goes back to Benny Glitters.”
CHAPTER 22
In the distance, Sister saw Comet lounging on the foundation ruins of Roughneck Farm’s original house built after the Revolutionary War. Although the air remained quite cool, the sun shone and the elegant gray fox, winter coat luxurious, warmed in its rays. Most mammals know enough to blunt wind, and Comet sprawled on a flat lintel stone that must have once graced the door of the small stone place. Over time, with more money, the original inhabitants—a husband and wife, both British subjects—built the summer kitchen, which still stood at the big house. They also built the core of the big house. Stones intact or fallen provide domiciles for foxes, skunks, minks if they felt like it, plus skinks, snakes, and other sharp-eyed creatures, although not all at once of course. With Comet in residence, no other medium-sized or small mammal would live there. He would make certain of that.
Walking hounds with Shaker and Tootie, Sister saw him about a football field away.
“Hold up,” she said quietly, pointing out the reposing fox to Shaker and Tootie.
Shaker put his horn to his lips, blowing two sharp toots to get the attention of the hounds with them.
Comet lifted his head. “Oh bother!”
“Two toots?” Young Pickens sat wondering.
Dragon sat also. “Listen, kid, I don’t know why two toots, unless Shaker wants our attention for something or just to get us to stop. Don’t worry about it.”
Worried, the youngster asked, “But what if I hear two toots in the field? What do I do?”
Cora put Pickens at ease. “That’s Shaker’s way of telling you where he is if we can’t see him, or he’s fallen behind.”
“Oh.” The satisfied hound rose as Shaker, Sister, and Tootie walked forward.
Shaker always loved viewing a fox. “I expect he would have heard us in plenty of time, but a sunbath might dull the senses. Every now and then he’ll give us a merry chase, just like the black vixen in the apple orchard but I swear, if they see us walk down to the barn or the kennels in hunt kit, they repair to their dens. I find that so unsporting,” he joked.
“Maybe they find us unsporting.” Tootie smiled.
“I expect they find us crazy.” Sister laughed, for she loved foxes, had spent a lifetime observing them. “We go out in most all weather, we run around, they are either running in front of us or watching us from a vantage point. They know every trick in the book and we keep falling for it.”
They walked another half mile to the base of Hangman’s Ridge, turned back, puddles still frozen, strips of snow deep in crevices, lining the north side of any kind of rise. But it felt so good to be outside. A little slip and slide only added to the adventure.
Back home, hounds waited in front of the big draw pen to the side of the kennel office. Shaker called each one by name. When that hound came forward, he swung open the tall door to allow the hound inside.
Once inside, everyone received a treat. Again, each hound’s name was called when boys were separated from girls. Tootie then walked the girls to their various runs while Shaker led the boys.
Like any hunt, The Jefferson Hunt divided animals by sex to ensure no fights because the boys could tell when a girl was coming into season long before a human. This made for a happy atmosphere and no kennel fights, plus there were no unintended pregnancies.
Shaker and Sister studied individual hounds, knew hound families, and when possible, tried to hunt with other hunts to observe their hounds in action. One of the glorious things about The Jefferson Hunt was that six excellent hunts fell within an hour or hour and a half radius. And if willing to travel longer, one could hunt with another fifteen crack hunts. Sister loved watching other hounds, closely observing staff work as well. Seventy-three she may have been, but she was always learning, and one thing she was sure of was that she would never know it all.
The rumble of a huge diesel engine caught their attention.
“Oh, it’s the horses from Broad Creek,” said Sister. “Shaker, do you need Tootie right now?”
“No. We’re done.”
“Come on, girl.” Sister walked outside just as the stable’s big rig turned in the large circle before her barn.
“Ignatius, how did they load?” she asked.
“Good. Phil’s had us working on it, they’ve had some natural horsemanship lessons. Once they understand what you want, they are pretty willing.”
“If you need a hand you tell me, but you know what you’re doing.” Sister appreciated a good horseman and thought it best always to get out of the way.
“Where’d you like these two?”
“Let’s put them in this smaller paddock here. Stretch their legs a bit. Tootie and I will bring them in to their adjoining stalls in an hour.”
Ignatius walked up the rubber-covered ramp, slipped the butt bar, and untied the slipknot, bringing Midshipman off first, which set Matchplay to screaming.
“Don’t leave me! What’s happening?” the flashy chestnut whinnied.
Midshipman neighed back, “It’s a pretty place. Don’t worry.”
“Ignatius, I’ll hold this fellow so you can get the other one,” said Sister. “No point in more stress.”
“Righto.” He bounced back up, yanked the slipknot. It was a good thing he had the lead rope securely in hand because Matchplay didn’t back off the trailer. The athletic gelding leapt backward, Ignatius hanging on.
Sister couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, if I ever have to jump backward, I believe he can do it.”
The sensitive horse quickly nuzzled his buddy, being instantly reassured.
“Tell you what, they are both athletes, but this guy …” He glanced up at Matchplay. “Quick, quick, quick. Once he’s in work, I bet you he could turn under you in a skinny minute. Good you’ve got a long leg.”
Sister led Midshipman, Ignatius took Matchplay, and she responded truthfully, “Ignatius, that long leg is attached to a seventy-three-year-old body.”
“You ride like you’ve always ridden.” He flattered her but it was mostly true. Sister was tough.
“You are kind.” She changed the subject. “Tootie will be working with these fellows and Sybil Fawkes will come over.”
“Sybil’s good. I used to bug Phil to use her to catch ride but he wanted men.” Ignatius mentioned the practice whereby young people or journeymen jockeys ride whatever is available at a stable. Often those horses were difficult.
“I can understand that since most jockeys, whether on the flat or over fences, are men. Some good girls get in the game now. I don’t know what the percentage is but it’s all to the good. I figure a good rider is a good rider.”
“Me, too, but you know how Old Man Chetwynd used to grumble about a horse being woman-broke.”
“Yeah, I know. He’d point the finger at me and complain, ‘You’re too soft on them. Too soft.’ ”
Tootie opened the gate to the paddock. Sister and Ignatius walked the two horses in, turned them to face them, then slipped off the halters. That fast, they wheeled around to run. Why walk when you can run? Same with children.
After five minutes of this, with the humans watching, the two snorted, slowed down, then stood and looked at the other horses in the larger paddocks and back pasture.
Lafayette, the senior horse, called out, “You two listen to me. You are lucky to be here. No biting. No kicking. You are at the bottom of the totem pole. You hear? And furthermore, don’t you dare hurt our Sister.”
“I’ll take a chunk out o
f you if you do,” warned Matador.
“They’re fine.” Sister put her hands in the pockets of the old flight jacket. Even with gloves, her hands got cold fast.
“Phil’s got all the paperwork—you know, all that stuff, transferring ownership from Broad Creek to you.”
“I do.”
He climbed back up in the cab, grabbed a folder already a little greasy, and handed it down to her as he stepped down.
“Jockey Club papers in there, too.” Phil had registered the two horses with the national organization.
Sister flipped it open. “How about that? He went all the way back to the foundation stallions. Past breeding papers in here. That’s helpful.”
“Phil never does anything halfway.” Ignatius grinned. “Plus those foundation stallions put Broad Creek on the map.”
“Yes, they did. Well, Midshipman goes back to Navigator, which makes sense. Do you remember a ’chaser Broad Creek once ran, called Bosun’s Mate?”
“Could jump the moon, turn on a dime, and give you a nickel’s change.” Ignatius grinned.
“By now, Broad Creek has to have used up every naval term imaginable.” Sister smiled back.
Ignatius pointed to Midshipman’s pedigree and his Jockey Club name, Nelson’s Midshipman. “This is the sixth generation with a Midshipman in the name. Oh, the farm’s gone through them all.”
“Easy to remember.” Sister handed the paper to Tootie, who read it.
Ignatius put his forefinger on Matchplay’s papers. “Goes all the way back to Spendthrift.”
“Becomes an addiction, studying bloodlines.” Sister took the paper back from Tootie. “We can study these in the house. Ignatius, wait up a minute. I have the check for Phil.”
As she trotted into the tack room, the place where years fell away and memories flooded in, Ignatius and Tootie chatted.
“How do you like it here?” he asked.
“Mr. Donaldson, I love it. I’m learning so much.”
“Tootie, call me Ignatius. I think the last time I was called Mr. Donaldson was when I sat in the recruiter’s office just out of high school. Navy.” This was said with pride.
“My father was in the army. He always said it made a man out of him,” Tootie responded.
“Sure did for me. And now women can go in and do something other than nursing and personnel. Even when I was young, I thought that was kind of narrow.”
“How did you wind up with horses?”
“I grew up here. I learned a lot in the navy, saw a lot, but then I wanted to marry and see my kids grow up. So I came home and Phil hired me. I knew a little bit about horses. Learned a lot more. Ah, here comes the Master.”
Sister handed him two envelopes, one with Phil’s name on it and one with Ignatius’s name. It is customary to tip anyone who shows a horse at a breeding establishment and customary to tip anyone who delivers a horse for you.
Ignatius, naturally, did not open his envelope. Sister had a blue chip reputation for doing right by people.
“Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I was standing here flapping my gums.” He reached up, placing the envelopes on the seat of the truck, then dashed to the back of the trailer. “Present from Broad Creek.”
“That Phil.” Sister shook her head.
Phil had sent Matchplay’s and Midshipman’s winter blankets along. It is customary to send a halter with a sold horse but as blankets can cost upwards of $300, depending on make and style, this was quite a gift.
Ignatius smiled broadly. “He says nothing is too good for the Master.”
As Ignatius drove off, the two new to-be-foxhunters watched the rig.
“I don’t want to do that again,” Matchplay declared.
“What, worm?” Aztec called over the fence.
“Get on that machine,” the young Thoroughbred answered.
“Kid, you’ve got a lot to learn.” Keepsake laughed.
Midshipman prudently said nothing.
Back in the house, the two women hung their coats in the mudroom, eagerly stepping into the warm kitchen.
“Some days I feel colder than others, even if the temperature is the same,” said Tootie.
“Weird, isn’t it?”
The two sat down to pore over the pedigrees. Gray came into the kitchen and Sister told him the two geldings had arrived. He sat down at the table with them.
“Would you all like anything hot to drink?” Tootie offered. “I’m still cold.”
“Sure,” Sister said. “Surprise me.”
“Me, too.” Gray allowed Golly to jump onto his lap. “Just got off the phone with Ben. He asked for you to call him.”
“Ah. I will after”—she turned her head—“the hot chocolate.”
“He asked me to recommend a forensic accountant. Not from the area.”
“I suppose you can’t mention the case.”
“Actually, I can. Ben wants someone to go over Penny Hinson’s books—anything relating to billing, accounts receivable, and cost of supplies.”
“Someone not from here?”
“Well, it is better, and I recommend Toots Wooten in South Carolina. She won’t miss an errant comma.” He smiled. “Being an accountant in some ways is consoling because you do find answers in black-and-white. The problem is when you start thinking life is black-and-white.”
Tootie placed three mugs on the table. “Real milk.”
“Perfect.” Gray appreciated real hot chocolate.
Sister held the mug in her hands as Gray said to her, “I’ve been thinking about Benny Glitters, what you said the other night, and I don’t think we should tell Mercer. For now.”
“He’ll run to his mother with it?” Sister’s voice lifted up.
“Yes, then who else will he tell? And God only knows what Aunt D will do.”
Sister spoke to Tootie, “While you were reading Surtees after the hunt, Gray and I pulled up Benny Glitters’s pedigree. He is Domino’s son. Then Gray got his race record. Started out pretty good, then back of the pack—pretty much what we’d heard his story was.”
“Doesn’t Mercer know all that?” Tootie inquired.
“He does, but Crawford said something at the breakfast, kind of an offhand remark. He said it wasn’t the human in the tomb that mattered, it was the horse.”
This startled Tootie. “That’s strange.”
“This is me—not Gray or anyone else—but I have a feeling I can’t shake. Penny Hinson’s murder is somehow connected to all this.”
Tootie said, “How?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Let me call Ben back.” Sister rose, walked into the library and dialed.
Whenever possible, Sister used a landline. If the government wanted to, they could put on a tap like in the old days, but all the new technology—cell phones and computers—attracted them more because more people used them. Also, they were easier to hack. Corporations could spy on one another, too. It wasn’t that she had anything to hide, it was just that she was of a generation that valued privacy.
“Ben.”
“Good of you to call,” the sheriff said. “You asked for any bloodline research on Dr. Hinson’s computers. She had the breeding for all of her patients—I guess I call them patients—who had breed registrations. In the case of a backyard horse, she listed the parents if the owners knew. But she did have all the breed registrations and she also did research as you mentioned concerning the, I can’t pronounce it—”
“Przewalski, forget the Pr, say it like a Cz.”
“I expect the only way to speak Polish right is to be born to it,” he replied good-naturedly. “Penny had looked into that; she’d investigated gene splitting. Her research was what one would expect of a woman of her intelligence and dedication. But nothing that shouts out ‘danger.’ ”
“Ben, any signs of clients with a drug addiction? Not that she would be dishonest, but sometimes clients can order drugs they don’t really need, even needles, and then they sell them.”
“No.
There are bills for needles and ’bute. But again, nothing that would indicate abuse. Let me get back to her DNA research for a minute. Again, I don’t know about any of this, but is it possible to manipulate DNA?”
“In theory, yes. In practice, not so easy.” Sister inhaled. “You’re thinking, can someone duplicate the DNA of a great stallion and not pay the stud fee? Get DNA from a son or daughter? Well, it wouldn’t be an exact duplication, but when you consider that some stud fees soar well over $100,000, the motive is there.”
“It occurred to me.”
“Again, in theory, yes. In practice, no. It’s still too complicated. Too few veterinarians would be able to do this and ultimately, they could fall under suspicion.”
“So one would need to be highly specialized for that sort of trickery?”
“For now. In time these things will be simplified, like using stem cells to cure some conditions in horses is specialized, but more and more veterinarians can now do it. Also, Ben, all this takes a fair amount of investing in the technology. But something’s there. Something is right under our noses.”
He breathed deeply. “If only I had a hint as to what she had or knew that was so valuable or dangerous. But then again, Sister, Penny’s murder may not be related to her profession.” He paused. “But I’m on your train. I think it is, too.”
After that call, Sister walked back into the kitchen. “I have an idea. Let’s find every photograph we can of Domino, his sons and daughters, and Benny Glitters.”
CHAPTER 23
Aztec picked his way over timbered acres; an inviting snow-covered pasture beckoned the horse to the western side. Hounds drew through the slash. This last Tuesday in February proved that February was actually the longest month in the year, with grim, cold, sleety, snow-filled days. However, fox breeding was in full swing so frozen toes or not, a true foxhunter gladly mounted up.
Soldier Road ran east to west, with Hangman’s Ridge on the south of that paved road. When Sister hunted from Cindy Chandler’s farm, Foxglove, the ridge loomed as ominously as it did from her farm on the other side of the high, long, flat former execution ground. Driving toward Charlottesville on Soldier Road, one would arrive at Roger’s Corner, a clapboard convenience store at the first crossroads going east from the Blue Ridge. Traveling west, if you drove a four-wheel vehicle you’d eventually come to dirt roads but you could snake your way up and over the Blue Ridge Mountains, finally reaching a two-lane paved state road between Waynesboro and Verona. A turnoff on the left side of Soldier Road would take you to Route 250, a much easier passage over the Rockfish Gap.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Page 18