Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I don’t think I’ll walk hounds with you tomorrow. I need to get my ducks in a row. But I will do it next day. I’d like the exercise.”

  “Okay.”

  Yvonne got up, leaving her cup on the table, kissed her daughter on the cheek, and retired to her room. No sooner had she pulled off her clothes than she fell into bed, exhausted.

  Tootie washed the two cups, then threw on her Carhartt jacket—the Detroit model, four years old and holding up to hard chores. She walked out to the farm road, turned right, walked past the kennels on her right, the stables on her left, to the big house, a herringbone brick path leading the way.

  The light in the den shone out. She stepped inside the mudroom, knocked on the door to the kitchen, stuck her head in as she opened it.

  “Sister? Gray? It’s Tootie.”

  Sister’s voice carried down the long hall, “Come in, Sugar.”

  Golly, on the table forbidden to her, of course, opened one eye. “Got any treats?”

  Tootie ignored her.

  “Selfish.” She closed her eye.

  Tootie walked into the den, bookcases filled with books, a bar in one corner, and Sister’s beautiful desk tucked under the paned-glass window, original blown glass.

  “What’s up?” Gray put down his Wall Street Journal.

  “Mother’s here. She’s getting a divorce.”

  “I see.” Sister told her to sit down. “We know. It was on the six o’clock news.”

  “What?” Tootie’s eyes widened.

  Gray folded the paper into quarters, placing it on his lap. “Celebrity report. Of course, the reporter cited your mother’s career, your father’s career, and a brief interview with your father who had obviously decided to strike the first blow.”

  “He accused your mother of desertion,” Sister quietly said.

  Tootie snorted. “Asshole. Well, it won’t do him any good, financially anyway. Mom’s name is on everything.”

  “Your mother is an astute woman. It really will all work out, but it will be public and ugly for a while. The media wallows in scandal,” Sister remarked with some bitterness.

  “Yes, it does.” Then Gray added, “But so did Procopius,” referring to the sixth-century A.D. writer.

  Sister smiled. “You’re right. Bet we can go farther back than that. However, this isn’t helping Tootie. Can you handle your mother?”

  “I think so. She wants to find a place to rent. She doesn’t want to go back to Chicago.”

  “Smart.” Sister dropped her hand on Raleigh’s head as he nudged her knee. “This will put some pressure on you.”

  “Well—maybe,” Tootie agreed.

  “How about if I alert Betty Franklin? She’ll know the best real estate agent to help your mother.”

  “Okay.” Tootie paused a moment. “She said she’d like to go on hound walks after tomorrow. I promise she won’t be a pain.”

  “Even if she is, we’ll deal with it,” Sister reassuringly said.

  After Tootie left, consoled, Gray slapped the paper on his knee. “What I’d like to do is slap that bitch in the face. Damn, she’s treated us like dirt.”

  “Not as badly as he did,” Sister rejoined. “We’ll do what we can for Tootie, really.” She leaned down to kiss Raleigh. “Gray, there’s a sweet girl inside Yvonne. A girl sidetracked and abused because she was and still is so very beautiful. She trusts no one. Maybe Tootie a bit, and she hasn’t been much of a mother. Perhaps the carapace will crack, fall away, and Yvonne can truly be Yvonne.”

  “Bullshit.” He shook his head.

  Sister didn’t take offense. “Maybe only a woman can understand, honey.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “A list? Well…” A long pause followed this as Marion thought. “You make one for central Virginia, I’ll make one for Northern Virginia. Actually, I’ll start with Joyce Fendley. She knows everything.”

  It was late morning the next day.

  “Good idea,” Sister agreed. “No one is taking any of this seriously but you and I, and I would have placed it by the wayside if it hadn’t been for hearing ‘Gone to Ground’ yesterday. I would have called you last night, but Tootie’s mother showed up and pushed it all right out of my mind.”

  “I finally notified the museum board that the horn was missing. Reported to the Sheriff’s Department. The board, while discomfited, just thinks it’s odd.”

  “That hardly explains the selfie.”

  “No. Shrugged that off, too. As for the sheriff’s office, polite, but a stolen cowhorn of some historical value doesn’t merit investigation. Given the flood of new people, new money into Loudoun County, I do expect they face more pressing problems.”

  “So do we.” Sister laughed. “Traffic, housing developments, and Yankees.”

  “I’m a Yankee and so are you,” Marion teased her. “And don’t forget, I came here as a child with my family. You came here for a job at Mary Baldwin College. You’re getting above your raisins.” She laughed as she used the old Southern expression.

  Sister laughed, too. “You’re right. Slap my face. But back to yesterday. Marion, I swear what I heard was not an echo. It was an almost exact copy of Shaker’s length of notes. I might have accepted the echo because we were at the base of the Blue Ridge and we were on Old Paradise, which is filled with history, murders, fire, the severing of family ties, and never-ending stories of ghosts. Okay, I’ll not argue the point. Old Paradise even in decay can haunt anyone, but Marion, it was the finish to ‘Gone to Ground.’ It lingered, a long, long statement, of what I don’t know.”

  A sigh followed this. “Our cowhorn and yesterday’s music may not be related. It’s a far putt as they say.”

  “Not so far. He was the huntsman at The Jefferson Hunt when he disappeared. And he had been run out of Northern Virginia hunts for fornicating like a rock star. Well, he was a rock star. Huntsmen still are.” She breathed in. “If we could find the cowhorn, that would be a start.”

  “I would hope Weevil’s disappearance might occasionally occur to huntsmen as they bed the Master’s wife or whomever.”

  “It’s the combination of hero worship and alcohol. Gets them every time. Not all of them, of course. There really are some sensible men out there. I am attached to one.”

  “How is he?”

  “Gray? Wonderful as always.”

  “His brother?”

  “Sam’s doing well. They live in the old Lorillard place, as you know. Gray stays there maybe three days out of seven. There’s still a lot of fixing to do. They work together. I think Gray finally believes that Sam’s drinking is conquered, but Sam still says he is an alcoholic.”

  “They all say that. The clean ones, I mean. I guess you can never forget. Did you ever drink too much?”

  “No. I don’t much like the taste, although after a hard hunt and a hot shower, I might enjoy a Scotch or one of these new bourbons, you know, like Woodford Reserve.”

  “That’s not a new bourbon.”

  “The old ones, the ones I remember from my youth, were all so sweet. Couldn’t stand the sweetness.”

  “Some people can’t let it go. I asked around after our adventure, for lack of a better word. Was Weevil a drunk? Hardly anyone left alive who knew him, but those in their seventies, eighties might have known him, young though some were at the time. No one recalled him drinking more than anyone else.”

  “Which means he was half loaded most of the time. Everyone drank.” Sister thought. “But they knew how. Ray could put it away, but he held his liquor. Such a point of pride.”

  She recalled her late husband, gone now just over twenty years.

  “You’re right, they all did. Well, they might have held their liquor, but it didn’t do much good for their inhibitions.”

  “Sometimes I think they all had more fun than we do.”

  “Oh, coming from your mouth!” Marion let out a whoop.

  “Well—” Sister paused then remembered Monica’s question at the restaurant. “Di
dn’t Monica say she heard three sets of footsteps? The stairs aren’t all that far from the ballroom where she was working. She could have heard things.”

  “You know, you’re right,” Marion responded.

  “What if she heard Weevil coming up the steps? He could have ducked into the Huntsman’s room at the top of the stairs, she could pass it and not see him. You only see a small part of the room from the open door anyway.”

  “It’s possible. You think the third set of footsteps was Weevil’s?”

  “Just a thought.”

  “I thought ghosts could walk through walls,” Marion lightheartedly remarked.

  “Well, we know drunks walk into them.” A sigh followed this. “Why blow the horn? Why steal it? I need to find out more about that cowhorn,” Sister said with conviction.

  “All right. Send me your list of possible amours for Weevil. I’ll send you mine. And the sheriff hunts with you, right? Ask him to go back into the old files.” Marion waited a moment. “And lest you forget, all huntsmen are possessive of their horns. It is his horn. Anyway, talk to your sheriff. Maybe he’ll be more helpful than the one up here.”

  “Good idea. I’ll be back at you but I want to go on record. You can talk me into anything. You talked me into serving on the board of the Museum of Hounds and Hunting. You talked me into focusing on the Huntsman Hall of Fame. Then you talked me into going over there to check out the glare on the display case. Wait, actually, first you worried about a fingerprint. We never got to the fingerprint. I want to go on record: If anything goes wrong, it’s your fault.”

  This caused an eruption of laughter. “I feel your pain.” Then Marion added, “I didn’t forget the fingerprint. I asked the Sheriff’s Department to take a copy of the fingerprint, which was still there. Jake Carle’s. His fingerprints were everywhere. He’s determined to refresh things and he’s right.”

  “Well, let’s get to it.”

  “Right. One last question since it’s all over the news: Tootie’s father, I mean, accusing Yvonne of desertion. He’s a piece of work. Is Tootie okay?”

  “Yvonne is at Tootie’s, for how long I don’t know.”

  “Poor Tootie.”

  “Tootie has dealt with them all her life. Poor us.” Sister laughed, for she did love Tootie and wished all to be well, but she didn’t especially want to be around her mother.

  —

  Sitting in the den, she replaced the phone onto the cradle. Given the location of the house, cell service was iffy. If she walked out to the stable, clear signal. But the landline stayed clear, when it worked.

  A knock on the kitchen door sent her down the hall. “Just a minute.”

  Opening the door, she found Yvonne standing there. “I know I’m intruding. I should have called and I did, but the line was busy.”

  “Yvonne, please come in. I can offer you just about any libation you would prefer, plus a sandwich, a piece of coffee cake?”

  “Tea. I’ve grown so fond of tea. Green tea.” Yvonne noticed Golly glaring at her as Sister flicked on the stove burner after filling the teapot.

  “I accept all tribute.”

  “She’s chatty.”

  “She wants a treat.” Sister opened a cabinet drawer, plucked out a sealed bag, then dropped it in front of Yvonne. “If you don’t buy her off she’ll make your life miserable.”

  Yvonne, not an animal person, knew everyone at Roughneck Farm was. Best to believe them. She offered Golly, now next to her chair, a rather large meaty treat pressed to look like a fish.

  “Thank you.”

  “You can leave now, Golly.”

  “No.” The cat sassed Sister by ignoring her and patting Yvonne’s leg.

  Sister scooped the offender up, opened the kitchen door to the mudroom, opened the mudroom door, and put her out, ensuring she’d stay out by sprinkling a bit of shredded catnip kept in a closed bucket on a shelf. Had the desired effect.

  The teapot whistled, Sister pulled out the Brown Betty, measured out the tea leaves, put them in the pot, put the pot on the table, and pulled out two very old, elegant teacups and saucers.

  “These are delicate.”

  “My great-grandmother’s. I find I like old china, old silverware better than the newer things. Probably because it brings back memories. While that steeps, I do have some moist coffeecake. Won’t spoil your dinner. That’s far off.”

  “Given Tootie, that’s nonexistent.” Yvonne smiled. “I’m taking her to dinner tonight. She never would learn how to cook, but I noticed last night she’s learned to make a proper pot of tea.”

  “Has.” Sister checked the pot, then carefully poured out steaming tea into the fine bone china cups through a silver strainer. “Forgot to ask. Half-and-half? Sugar?”

  “None, thank you.” As Sister sat down Yvonne started. “You and I got off on the wrong foot when we met at Custis Hall years ago. Not much improved since then, but I was always with Vic. He blamed you as an impediment to Tootie’s future. He wanted her to take over the empire, as he put it, or at the very least become a doctor or lawyer.”

  “He made that abundantly clear. What do you think?” Sister leveled her cobalt blue eyes at Yvonne, who had light hazel ones like Tootie.

  “At first I agreed, but over time I saw how unhappy his demands made Tootie. She’s not cut out for corporate life. Am I happy that she left Princeton and came here? No. I’m upset, confused. Everyone is so”—she paused—“white.” Then she added, “She could have hung on for four years.”

  Sister, not a green tea drinker although her cupboard was filled with all manner of teas, took a sip. “We all thought that. I asked Gray to speak with her, given his success and the fact that he knows some of what she will encounter.”

  “All my husband thinks about. He has reduced everything to race, cast it all on her, and while I know exactly what he’s talking about—I was a pioneer, after all—times are different for her. Easier in some ways. He resents that. I’d say, ‘Isn’t this what we worked for? What we all fought for and marched for and threw ourselves into elections for?’ Got nowhere, of course. Vic always has to be right.”

  “What do you think now?”

  “Tootie loves you. She loves this life. She takes her classes and I believe she will go to veterinary school, then return here.”

  “But do you blame me?”

  “Not anymore. Do I look at you and see my oppressor, a white woman of a certain class, education, and privilege? I used to. Were you raised with more privilege than myself? Yes. Do you have more privilege now? In some ways, yes, but I have made my way and I’m damned proud of it.” Her eyes flashed, her back straightened. “But to be brutally honest, I need you. I want to make amends.”

  “Need me? For what?”

  “To help me understand my daughter. I think she loves you more than me.”

  “Yvonne, no. You’ve been far away. You stuck by your husband, and Tootie, well, there’s no other way to say it, Tootie hates her father.”

  “So do I. That bastard. All those years in the magazine and then the talking heads on our TV shows, all of them talking about how African American men should stick with our women, our women, and, of course, we were to stick with them. Well, the bastard has been having affairs with white women half his age, beautiful, dumb, and blonde.”

  “Perhaps not so dumb, Yvonne.” Sister couldn’t help but smile.

  “That hypocrite.”

  “Undoubtedly, but so many men think they are only as old as the woman they are sleeping with.”

  “It’s beyond that. He’s set one up as his primary mistress. He gives her twenty thousand a month for spending money! Her apartment is in one of the best buildings in Chicago, overlooking the lake. Well, half of that twenty thousand is mine and, fortunately, my name is on everything.”

  “Do you want to sue him for what he’s spent on the women?”

  “I’ve thought of it. I want half of the empire now. I’ll sell off my half. Of course, I want half of what’s in
the bank. He can keep our apartment, the summer house in Door County, he can keep the goddamned cars. I want what’s mine and I want out. If I fight for what he’s blown on those women it will take longer.”

  “What about Tootie?”

  “He’s disinherited her.”

  Sister frowned. “I knew he threatened, but I didn’t believe he would do it.”

  “His own daughter. Why? Because she won’t bend to his will. She actually has a will of her own. And I would argue with her about that. My daughter was smarter than I was.”

  Sister touched Yvonne’s hand. “Tootie is smarter than most of us. Sure, she has a lot to learn about life but she knows who she is. What can I do for you and for her?”

  “Teach me to ride?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Teach me to ride. Tootie loves hunting. I want to learn about it and be out there with her. Well, I know she has a special job out there. She’s told me about whipping-in but I don’t really know what she’s talking about.”

  Regarding this, weighing her words, Sister replied, “What I will do is send you to Sam Lorillard, a wonderful teacher. You’re coming to horses in your middle age, a beautiful middle age but you will have more fear than if you were eleven. He will shepherd you through the fear, teach you about horses and hunting. If I do it then I’m the authority. Sooner or later you wouldn’t like that. Sam will be perfect, and you will like him.”

  “Lorillard?”

  “Gray’s younger brother.”

  “Is he as handsome as Gray?”

  “Same strong face. It’s the maternal blood, the Laprades. Sam is thinner. Harvard. Bombed out due to drink and probably drugs. Cleaned up after years of self-destruction. He’s so damn good on a horse and he truly is a good man.”

  “Are you sending me to him because he’s black?”

  “No. I’m sending you to him because he is that good, because he’s part of the family, and because Tootie respects him. He works for a man who is ever competitive against me, but that won’t affect you. If you meet with Sam, feel he’s not for you, then I suggest Lynne Beegle Gebhard. She’s fabulous. The only problem with riding with Lynne is you will fall in love with her father, Dr. Chuck Beegle. Every woman does.”