Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  A really long pause followed this, then Crawford assented. “You’re right.”

  “I am drawing a red square around this day in my desk calendar.” Larry laughed, as Crawford laughed with him. “It’s good to hear your voice. I can tell you what our analysis is up here.” He paused. “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

  “Yes, I think so, too.”

  “Can you develop new markets? I’m assuming the losses are with the mat company, Protect All.”

  “Are. Larry, it takes years, sometimes, to develop new markets. I’d always hoped Africa would build good roads. I’d love to expand there but even South Africa—hell, the elephants can’t walk on those damn roads once you get out of the cities.”

  Larry laughed. “True, but I do love Cape Town. Melanie and I go once a year to visit Danielle, Nate, and the kids. I was worried when she chose to move there. Well, I was worried when she fell in love, but God, it is beautiful and seems stable enough.”

  “I don’t know if any place is stable anymore. Truly. I’m even wondering about us.”

  “You’re in a doom-and-gloom mood. We do this every eight years. We’ll survive. You know history. You love history.”

  Crawford smiled. “You’re right. Hell, we survived Buchanan.”

  “I know you’ve moved some investments out of Europe. You’re fine. If Protect All’s profits drop, even if they drop precipitously, hang on to the company. It’s a damn good one, Crawford. You were shrewd as always to buy it. Gotta go, bro.”

  Crawford hung up the phone somewhat mollified, but the numbers were jarring. He returned to his enormous computer screen, built just for him at a cost of twelve thousand dollars. He loved it despite what he saw at this moment.

  Marty popped her head into his office. “Sweetie, coffee? Tea? Coke?”

  “No. Just got off the phone with Larry. Sounds great.” He wrinkled his brow. “Wanted to talk to him about the strong dollar and”—he exhaled—“the faltering Euro. He thinks it will get worse.”

  “Let’s take a ride. It’s a perfect September day. That will restore your spirits. I’ll call Sam and have him saddle up our babies.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. Nothing I can do here anyway.”

  “Is everything else all right?”

  “Yes, it is. I just sometimes think the world is going to hell.”

  “Honey, people have been saying that since B.C.” She laughed.

  Once at the stable, Sam brought out two immaculately groomed horses. “I didn’t tell Skiff you were going out. She’s out there roading the hounds.”

  “Ah, good.” Crawford smiled.

  Sam Lorillard, a reformed alcoholic, now in his mid-sixties, was an early recipient of a scholarship to Harvard, no mean feat for an African American of his generation. He blew it. His brother Gray saved him, literally pulling him off the streets down at the old C&O train station, throwing his sorry ass into rehab.

  Crawford was the only person who would hire Sam, since most everyone in central Virginia had been disappointed, let down, or, if female, dumped by him, or the reverse.

  Gray, now retired as a partner from a prestigious accounting firm in D.C., was Sister’s gentleman friend. No one of their generation would say “lover.” And as Crawford set himself against The Jefferson Hunt and Sister, it could get dicey. Sam loved Sister. He’d hunted with her since college, but he had to eat and he needed the self-respect of a job.

  “How’d Ranger do yesterday?” Crawford inquired of the young horse Sam hunted with Sister.

  Crawford liked his horses trained. They couldn’t really do it with his hounds. He was more than happy to use Jefferson Hunt for this.

  “A little fussy at the checks but he’s getting it.” Sam held the offside stirrup, the right one, while Marty mounted, then performed the same service for Crawford.

  Looking up at his boss, Sam said, “You know everything about technology.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Crawford liked the compliment.

  “My brother told me about a strange incident at the Museum of Hounds and Hunting.” He proceeded to relate the story with detail, as Gray had seen the video.

  “It’s possible to do something like that with a hologram. We will soon see modern films with late, great actors in them, bit parts perhaps but quite believable. It would be possible to do this if there was original footage of—what’s his name?”

  “Weevil. A nickname, as he was called, behind his back, ‘The Necessary Evil.’ ”

  Marty laughed. “Must have been quite a character.”

  “So they say.”

  Crawford reconsidered the story. “Yes, it could be done with a hologram.” He paused, glanced down at Sam. “But no hologram could have stolen the horn. Has to be some kind of prank.”

  Some prank.

  CHAPTER 4

  The kennel office, a fifteen-by-twenty-foot room, enjoyed light from old paned-glass sash windows. The floor was granary oak from a torn-down grain storage building. The office was part of the original design in 1887. M. A. Venable, the founding Master of The Jefferson Hunt, shrewdly used whatever he could find that was inexpensive. Today those granary oak floors would be dubbed “repurposed” and cost a bloody fortune.

  Sister kept the windows cleaned and shined, too. When she walked to her desk the floor, still tight as a tick, didn’t creak. She did.

  An attractive fireplace centered in the wall opposite the front door was simple; the surround was wood, and under the mantel a wonderful carved foxhunting scene unfolded. This had been done by a Czech, one of those early immigrants at the end of the nineteenth century who had superior woodworking skills.

  Sister’s desk sat opposite Shaker’s, a rough sort of partner’s desk arrangement, as the desks came from old schools when schools became consolidated in the late 1950s and early 1960s. The original desk used by Mr. Venable had been a Louis XVI, black with gold ormolu. Somewhere along the way it disappeared. Sister hoped the day would come when she’d walk into a room and there it would be.

  Jefferson Hunt had fallen on hard times after World War I. Venable was dead by then. The place sat vacant until five years later, in 1925, Virgil Arnold, Sister’s uncle-in-law, a confirmed bachelor as the phrase went, bought it. When he died he willed it all to Ray. Ray and Sister were young then, with the energy to transform the place.

  The hunt limped along over the early years without Venable. Hounds were kept in the majestic brick kennels, each wing connected by a brick archway: girls to the left, boys to the right.

  Despite her protests, Sister was elected Master in 1973, possibly because she modernized the kennels with electricity, etc., even before she and Ray focused on the house. Her love of hounds did not go unnoticed.

  Everything in the kennels could be easily washed down, whether it was the feed room or the two large squares where the hounds slept on raised berths. Skylights allowed light in those rooms, which saved on the electric bill. On the bitterest days, the boys and girls had heat thanks to the wall heaters beside the metal inside doors. The solid outside door, also covered in tin, had a square opening to the outside, covered by a rubber flap. The hounds could go in and out without wasting heat.

  In summer’s heat hounds preferred being outside in their huge runs, huge as in an acre each. The doors would be open for breezes. They had sections of raised boardwalks so they could sleep off the ground if they liked that. They also had what Sister now called condos, special buildings with wraparound decks. In summer one entire side of the condos was removed. They could go in for shade but enjoy air circulation. In winter the side was closed with an opening.

  The outside runs, with lots of shade thanks to old big trees, kept hounds happy. Like horses confined to stalls, hounds would prefer to be outside. Perhaps most people would prefer that, too.

  Sister sank into her supportive chair. Damn thing had cost nearly a thousand dollars. She made a steeple out of her fingers and thought. This was the day after the After All h
unt, the first time she had had to herself.

  The late-afternoon warmth meant all the windows were opened. Raleigh, her Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier, flopped at her feet. Golliwog, the long-haired calico cat, reposed on the desk, thinking herself ornamental.

  Sister reached to pet Golliwog who took this as her due. A mighty purr followed.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Sister asked her friends.

  “Yes,” Raleigh and Rooster replied in unison.

  “Piffle.” Golly felt contrary.

  “There are ghosts at Hangman’s Ridge,” Rooster hotly testified.

  “Then why go up there?” the calico sensibly questioned.

  Raleigh, now on his haunches, eyes level with the cat, put his head on the desktop. “If Sister goes, we go. I hate it up there.”

  “If you slobber on this desk, I will smack your nose,” Golly threatened.

  “I am terrified.” Raleigh yawned, which made Sister smile.

  “Eighteen people were hung up on that ridge. It’s haunted. Crimes and sin.” Golly liked expressing moral observations.

  “What if someone was innocent?” Rooster’s sweet eyes focused on Golly.

  “Rooster, most people accused of crimes have committed them. Humans make rules which they use to keep other people in line. I suppose some of them are useful, like don’t murder anyone, but then maybe some people just need killing.” The cat pronounced this with vigor.

  “Well—?” Raleigh was thinking about it.

  “I seem to have provoked a discussion.” Sister laughed at her beloved animals.

  Opening the long center drawer, she rifled around for loose hound pedigrees. It was too early to bind this year’s pack together in the annual book so she placed papers where she could easily study them. Sky blue editing pencil in hand, she began to read.

  Golly batted the pencil. “Gotcha.”

  “Golly.” Sister quietly reprimanded her.

  Now the center of attention, the cat grabbed the pencil with both paws.

  Raleigh, head still on the table, wisely shut up.

  Sister pulled the pencil from the cat’s paws which sent Golly straight up in the air; twisting as she came down, she grabbed the pencil again.

  “Why do I put up with you?”

  “You don’t know the half of it. She shreds the toilet paper and blames it on us,” Rooster complained.

  “Careful. I’ll get you when you’re asleep,” Golly threatened, then clamped her jaws around the blue pencil, yanked it out of Sister’s hand, jumped off the desk, and raced around the room.

  “You are impossible.” Sister stood up.

  Golly dropped the pencil. “I am fascinating.”

  “Oh, spare me,” Raleigh moaned.

  Sister bent over, taking the pencil from Golly, who had once again bitten into it and was loathe to give it up. Teeth marks now cut into the barrel. She ran her fingers over the pencil and opened the drawer, dropping it back in.

  “That’s a valuable pencil.” Golly leapt back up on the desk and leaned over to paw at the handle for the center drawer.

  “If you open that drawer, no catnip,” Sister warned Golly while the two dogs prayed for punishment.

  “Bother.” Golly flopped down on the desk.

  “I wonder.” Sister walked over and opened the door to the library/record room.

  Safe in old glass bookcases, the dark green leather books with gold years printed on the spines testified to the longevity of the hunt. The first book was 1887, the year’s numbers printed in a typeface popular at the time, a typeface still used. Each book contained the pedigree for each hound, photos of each hound, a photo of the pack and the staff. Back then, labor being cheaper, the hunt could afford a professional huntsman, two professional whippers-in, and a kennelman. The huntsman also worked in the kennels. The administrative staff was also listed, the president, the vice president, secretary, and treasurer. They were honorary, unpaid.

  Sister pulled out 1953. Opening the book she ran her fingers over the page. The typeface had been cut into the page, producing a clarity no amount of filmed print could match. Flipping through she found a photo of Anthony, an ancestor of Asa. Asa looked a lot like Anthony, which made her think of genetic persistence. Every hound breeder hopes to accentuate those good persistent qualities and minimize the not so good. People, on the other hand, breed indiscriminately; at least, that’s what Sister thought.

  A photograph of Weevil, cowhorn to his lips, calling his hounds, caught her attention. She scanned through for more pictures of Weevil, and there were a few. He really was divine-looking.

  Then she put 1953 back in the case, pulled out 1954. She noted that Virgil Arnold was the vice president. There was a happy picture of Weevil, his arm around his first whipper-in, a young fellow, Tom Tipton. Snow sparkled behind them. Another photo of Weevil showed him in the kennels, puppies spilling around him.

  “So he made it to the end of the season,” she said to herself, shutting the volume and replacing it.

  Back at her desk she called Sara Bateman.

  Hearing Sister’s voice, Sara teased her. “What do you want?”

  “Your good company.”

  “Oh, right. Butter me up.”

  “No, really, I want your company.”

  “Dale and I have been up in Boston with the grandchildren. I’ll be out. Both of our children are giving us grandchildren. I’ve never had so much fun.”

  “I can imagine, but you have fun no matter what. Do you think Dale would look at the treasurer’s report for the hunt club from 1947 to 1954?”

  “I’m sure he would, but why those years?”

  “The huntsman from that time, Wesley Carruthers, disappeared never to be found. He was accused of stealing jewelry from one of his affairs, never proven. One of those spiteful rumors, I suspect, but let’s look at the treasurer’s reports anyway in case thieving attracted him. I’m curious if anything jumps out at Dale, curious numbers, so to speak.”

  “I doubt there are receipts kept from that time, but he’ll look.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get the reports to you next time you hunt. I have another favor.”

  “Boy, you’re working me over.”

  “Well, I have to abuse someone.” Sister laughed.

  “Yeah, yeah. What is it?”

  “Tom Tipton, whom you know, is ninety. I never see him but you tell me he’s spry. Will you bring him to a hunt? I’ll have someone drive him around.”

  “He’d love that, but, Sister, what is this about?”

  “It’s about Wesley Carruthers. I’ll show you when I see you. Tom whipped-in to him.”

  “You know Tom will gallop down Memory Lane. He’ll never shut up.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The routine of hounds and horses varies somewhat due to latitude. The higher latitudes feel the cold earlier. The southern ones relish warmth longer but sooner or later Boreas, the north wind, blows hard on everyone. As to the light, that seems to affect animals and people even more than the cold.

  Tootie, Sister, and Shaker, working in the kennels, were sweating. The clock read eleven A.M. The mercury climbed to the mid 70s.

  Tootie power washed the feed room. The light spray soaked her shirt. Felt good. Power washing created such cleanliness. She felt real achievement. It was.

  Sister checked a hound’s paw. Zane, now in his third year, had snagged a claw.

  “I don’t want to stand still.”

  “Shaker, give me a hand, will you? He’s antsy.” Sister then spoke to the young hound. “I’m going to clip it at the end, put iodine at the root. You be a good boy.”

  “Torture.” Zane dramatized.

  Raleigh sat on the floor. All the hounds knew him. He accompanied them on all their walks. So did Rooster, willed to Sister by his late owner, Peter Wheeler. Peter had also willed Sister his land, his house, and the stunning old mill, still running, on the property, Mill Ruins. He loved Sister, loved
Jefferson Hunt, and loved Rooster. Having lived a good, full life, he left in peace.

  Rooster, next to Raleigh, glared at the young hound. “Suck it up.”

  Zane, ears back, eyes wide, winced as Sister clipped the claw nowhere near the quick. The problem was where the claw inserted into the pad, as Zane had pulled the claw so hard.

  “This will sting.” Expertly, quickly, she dabbed iodine on the small wound.

  “I’m dying.”

  Both house dogs looked at him with disgust.

  “Can’t wrap this. He’ll chew it off and make it worse.” Shaker stated the obvious.

  “Well, let’s keep him up in our recovery room for a few days. See if it begins to heal. If not, he’ll need to go to the vet and she’ll perform her special claw operation.”

  “Operation.” Zane’s understanding of human English was good.

  “Your liver. The vet will take it out,” Rooster mischievously reported.

  “No!” Zane screamed.

  Sister leaned toward him, hugging him to her chest. “Honey chile, calm down.” She glanced down at Rooster and Raleigh. “You two are enjoying this far too much.”

  “Not me,” Raleigh fibbed.

  “He is, too.” Rooster contradicted the sleek Doberman.

  The creature deeply enjoying this was splayed on the office desk. Her marvelous ears could hear a rat piss in cotton. Golliwog relished it all. Her long, luxurious tail, a source of vanity, swayed gently. Her big smile revealed pearly white fangs.

  “Dogs are such lowlifes.” She sighed.

  Tootie rolled up the power washer hose and pushed the large machine, an expensive one, too, back to the equipment closet.

  “She start her night classes?” Shaker inquired as she passed the medical room.

  “Last week,” Sister replied.

  Tootie, a graduate of Custis Hall, a private girls’ secondary school in Staunton, had hunted with The Jefferson Hunt from ninth grade to graduation. From there she matriculated at Princeton along with another classmate, Val Smith. Excellent as her grades were, she hated being away from Jefferson Hunt.

  She left Princeton, knocked on Sister’s door, asked for a job. She’d whipped-in her last year at Custis Hall; good, too. Sister, after a long, long talk with Tootie, took her on. Tootie’s day started at dawn with physical labor. The kid loved it. Her parents nearly suffered a stroke. She didn’t budge, so her father, one of the richest African Americans in Chicago, pulled the money plug. Tootie didn’t complain. Her mother, Yvonne Harris, a former model, tried everything she could think of: wheedling, guilt, extravagant promises. Tootie held firm.