“Studious.”
“Trying.”
“Well, we do need to think about breeding. It looks as though we have a good number of hounds but, as you know, if you don’t keep up you soon lose out.”
He nodded, for any hunt loses about ten percent of its hounds a year. Usually this wasn’t due to death but to older fellows needing to be retired, and a few hounds that would be drafted to another hunt—especially if that hunt needed some of Jefferson Hunt’s bloodlines, which had remained, for more than a century, well-defined, well-documented, and proven in the field. This was no easy task. Then again, a hound might become injured, pull a ligament, and its hunting days were over; usually, the hound would be claimed by a hunt member, where the lucky girl or boy flopped on the couch in the house.
“Mind if I sit across from you?”
“No.”
The club, when it refurbished the kennel back in the seventies, had created a large storage room for past documents, photograph albums, even filing correspondence, some going back to 1887.
Flicking on the lights, Sister scanned the shelves, pulling down a leather-bound book, an expense the club still fielded. Each year’s hound list was documented, a pedigree per page, photographs of each hound and perhaps a comment or two concerning each. Each year also contained hunt staff photos. Some prior masters kept meticulous hunting diaries, also filed. Sister did not do that, much as she admired the practice. She just didn’t have time, plus she never felt she was a good writer, wouldn’t properly describe the hunts. So far she hadn’t been able to bribe anyone to do it for her, although some members maintained their own diaries.
Walking the shelves, the years embossed on the spines of the dark green Moroccan leather, shining in gold, she pulled out 1954 and joined Shaker.
She pored over the pedigrees, the notes written by Wesley Carruthers in a fine, masculine script, in black ink. People cared about such things then, and a man’s hand was usually different from a lady’s, hers having more flourishes; often she used a finer pen nib.
“H-m-m.”
“H-m-m, what?” Shaker smiled at her as he noticed it was an old book, although he didn’t know the year.
“The writing changes after February.” She read some more. “Now it’s Ralph Franklin, Bobby’s grandfather.”
“Did he hunt the hounds? I never heard that.”
“No. He was the first whipper-in. Maybe Weevil was training him.” Sister looked up at Shaker. “Not a bad idea to have more than one person who can keep records.”
“And then Weevil vanished?”
“1954. Anyway, I’ll check with Ben Sidell tomorrow and ask him to allow me to look at the county records. A date of disappearance has to have been recorded.”
“Boss, sounds like a good story.”
“I think it might be but it doesn’t have an end. He was never found. I’m just checking to see if he kept good records, which he did.” She read more, flipped more pages. “The only criticism I can level at Weevil, as he was known, is that he was a little loose about naming hounds.”
“How so?”
“Well, most hunts use the first initial of the mother to name the children. So we have Dasher, Dreamboat, and Dragon out of Delia, the father being Middleburg Why. He has named some of these hounds willy-nilly. Let’s say the mother was”—she looked down—“Rachel. The puppies are Roger, Regina, Christine. See what I mean?”
“H-m-m. Odd.”
Sister had before her a clue, but she didn’t know it.
CHAPTER 12
The Sunday twilight finally gave way to darkness by eight-thirty. Athena, the great horned owl, over two-feet tall with a four-foot wingspread, wings folded, would have dozed off except for Bitsy’s gossip. The screech owl, all of eight-and-a-half-inches tall, should have been named Town Crier. Her wingspan, at twenty inches, suited her little body. This unlikely friendship had begun when both were owlets born in Pattypan Forge, the large abandoned forge at After All Farm. This well-built foundry, first stone laid in 1792, served generations of After All’s owners. People came from all over central Virginia to have iron things fabricated. The foundry fell into disuse in the 1920s as cheap axles, wagon rims, and small hooks were being made elsewhere, some even out of the country. Steel had become easily available and it was lighter than iron. Those war-torn nations after World War I produced many things cheaper later, too.
The building, interior intact, but old windows broken, had served as lodging for many creatures, Athena and Bitsy being just two. Once mature, both owls had left the forge to establish their own nests. Athena borrowed that of a great blue heron near Roughneck Farm. Bitsy made a wonderful nest up in the rafters of the stable at Sister’s farm. Neighbors and friends, they would often cruise over the pastures together, the screech owl flapping many times to Athena’s one great swoosh. She kept up, though.
Tonight, stars bright, they sat in the apple orchard.
Comet left Tootie’s cabin to begin hunting.
“Maybe we should follow him. He’ll push out mice,” Bitsy suggested.
“In time. No hurry. I’m not hungry.” She turned her majestic head. “You?”
“No. Tootie left part of a ham sandwich on the tack trunk in the aisle. I pulled out the ham. I really like ham.”
Athena chortled. “Well, you’ll have to kill pigs to get it.”
Bitsy didn’t reply as a figure quietly approached, almost creeping down the worn path to Hangman’s Ridge. Athena followed Bitsy’s gaze.
Both birds of prey observed while remaining immobile.
The human, unknown to them, reached the apple orchard, going no farther. Whoever he was, the light shining in Tootie’s cabin, as well as those in Shaker’s little clapboard house, stopped him. He studied them. He was smart enough not to get too close to the kennels as he would have set off the hounds, many lounging outside on this lovely night. The temperature, just dipping to the high 50s, felt wonderful to the hounds, as it did to the owls.
Except for the stars, the moon wouldn’t rise until about eleven-thirty and it was just a few days after a new moon, so darkness prevailed. The human pulled a paper from his jean jacket, clicked on a tiny flashlight, studied it, looked up at the surroundings again, then turned, heading back up to the ridge.
Curious, the birds followed. Their flight, silent, allowed them to spy without being noticed. They moved from tree to tree, finally stopping at the top of Hangman’s Ridge. They kept just to the edge of the wide expanse. The human never knew they followed him.
Glancing at the huge old hangman’s tree, he shivered, hurried to the path on the other side.
Athena spoke. “Never saw him before. Strange that a human would come down the ridge, then go back up again.”
“Young. Walks young,” the little owl noted.
A light wind swept across the ridge, a low moan with it.
“They never leave, do they?” Bitsy’s golden eye focused on the tree.
“Well, we will.” Athena lifted off, opening her wings, gliding down the path back to Roughneck Farm.
Bitsy, next to her, opined, “Being hanged. Imprisons them, I think.”
“They should have the sense to shut up.”
“If they’d had sense they wouldn’t have been hanged in the first place,” Bitsy said about the ghosts.
Athena didn’t argue, instead offering, “Let’s shadow Comet. Will drive him crazy.”
As they reached the gray fox just working across the pasture, crouching low, he looked up. “Don’t spoil my hunting.”
“You aren’t going to get anything,” Athena taunted him. “You’re spoiled eating all the leftovers from the cabin.”
“Gotta keep my skills up.” He stopped, crouched flat to watch three does emerge from the woods that marked After All’s property line.
Athena hooted, noting the deer, “You aren’t that good.”
—
As the owls and Comet bantered, Crawford walked into his office.
“You aren�
��t going to work, are you?” Marty, DVD in hand, asked. “I thought we were going to watch La La Land.”
He smiled at her. “I’ll be right there. Just wanted to check some data.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“No, really. I’ll be right there.”
As she left for the small, comfortable media room, he clicked on his computer, sat down. Scrolling along, he suddenly stopped. An icon of a devil thumbing his nose appeared. The drawing, probably nineteenth-century, was familiar to him, but he didn’t know where he had first seen it. What was it doing in his files?
He read on. The icon appeared again, with a cartoon puff coming from his mouth, a sentence inside: Got two years of files. Many thanks.
“Marty!”
Hearing the tone of his voice, she came right in. “What?”
“Look.”
She walked behind him, bent over as he showed her the devil, kept going, then read the final message. “Whoever this is even got your blueprints”—she paused—“all the drawings for Old Paradise, the ruins, the outbuildings. Why would anyone want your files?”
She thought, then answered her own question. “To see if they can figure out what comes next. Perhaps. To find a pattern in your investments, your land purchase.”
“For the last two years?”
“You’ve done a lot in the last two years. And you’ve been investigating sites for a satellite campus for Custis Hall. If someone happens to buy land you and the school are considering, that will be a nice profit.”
He flopped back in his leather chair. “Yes, it would.”
“Are you close to anything?”
“Well, I’ve looked at land around Zion Crossroads. Too expensive now, so I’ll keep looking east. As for land across the James, Buckingham County—nothing. This is all the very early stages.”
“True, but if someone had enough money to gamble a bit, early is better. But how did they get into your files?”
“I don’t know, but I need better security. Christ, I’m paying enough as it is.”
“Crawford, the Pentagon’s been hacked, the Democratic National Party has been hacked. No one is really safe—I don’t care what our government says.”
He exhaled loudly. “You’re right about that, but why would whoever did this taunt me? A devil thumbing his nose.”
“Well, he has a sense of humor.”
CHAPTER 13
“Yom Kippur,” Betty said, riding a set with Sister and Tootie. “September thirty, Saturday’s hunt is Yom Kippur.”
“I’m afraid I have much for which to atone.” Sister patted Rickyroo. “Fortunately, as a Christian maybe I can get away with it.”
“Ha.” Betty noted a startled woodcock flying up out of the wildflower field. “You can do better than that.”
“Well, what is a Christian but a Jew with a life insurance policy?” Sister came back at her, then turned to Tootie. “You might want to ride ahead of us in case there is a lightning strike.”
Tootie smiled. “Matchplay and I will stick it out. It is something, isn’t it, to think that a religious observance is thousands of years old?”
“That it is,” Sister agreed. “Impressive. Beautiful and binding. I’d like to think that Christians would be aware that September thirtieth is Saint Jerome’s Day, one of the church fathers born, m-m-m, born 342.”
“Didn’t he go suffer in the desert?”
“Good for you, Betty.” Sister beamed at her dear friend.
“Catechism. Amazing what sticks up there.” She tapped her cap with her everyday crop, applewood with a knob end.
“ ‘We are by nature sinful and unclean.’ ” Tootie began the Nicene Creed.
“Tootie, catechism?” Betty was astonished.
“Yes, ma’am. Chicago has an enormous Catholic population, and it’s not just the Poles and the Irish. So I was packed off every Saturday for two years to study catechism.”
“But I thought you all were confirmed at seven?” Sister, an Episcopalian, wondered.
“We are. Not Tootie.” Betty answered. “The serious stuff comes later for Episcopalians. I mean, yes, you have baby catechism to become confirmed, but usually in your teens they throw the book at you, for lack of a better term.”
“I never hunt without my rosary beads.” Tootie laughed at herself. “But as you know I’m not much of a churchgoer. All that dogma.” She stuck out her tongue.
“Do you think that’s what’s responsible for people falling away from the church? The numbers are ever growing,” Sister, curious, wondered.
“Well, it hasn’t helped.” Betty spoke right up. “But think of it, Sister. When I was a kid, crèches could be displayed in front of public buildings during Christmas. We said a prayer to start each day in school, along with the Pledge of Allegiance. I never felt that these things were being forced down my throat. It was just the way things were.”
“I can’t imagine that. If my school, Curtis Hall, had put up a crèche they would have been sued,” Tootie noted.
“Times have changed and as you know, I sit on the board for Custis Hall. It’s getting worse. Here’s the thing—” Sister picked up a little trot as they moved through the wildflower field filled with yellows and reds, oranges and lavenders, the fall colors. “Why not celebrate everyone’s faith? Yom Kippur, Eades. You name it. Maybe we’d all learn more about one another.”
“The atheists would have a fit.” Betty ducked a swirl of swallowtail butterflies. “Wow.”
“Beautiful, isn’t it.” Sister watched the rising cloud wings fluttering. “Seems to me, Betty, the atheists could learn from these holidays, ceremonies, too. After all, religion has been one of the strongest forces throughout history, so they can take it as a history lesson. Other people can take it as an expression of faith.”
Tootie, riding out a playful buck from the three-year-old Matchplay, laughed, then added, “Kind of a good idea. I’m not going to sit down and read about religion—I’m not really interested in it—but even I’d learn from these kinds of events.”
Sister kicked into an easy canter. They loped along for a half mile, slipped down to a trot then to a walk, popped over the hog’s back between Roughneck and After All, turned, popped right back, a good lesson for the horses, especially young Matchplay, then back over to a walk.
Betty turned to Tootie. “It’s a lot easier if he’s out with older horses.”
“He’s willing, but he wants to see everything. Midshipman is a little calmer.” She named the other young Thoroughbred, both of them had come from Broad Creek Stables as yearlings.
“With a bit of care, I think they can both be started in Second Flight once we survive Opening Hunt, the cast of thousands.” Sister laughed.
Everyone who could attended Opening Hunt whether on horseback, on foot, or in a car. This day begins formal hunting, which means clothing changes. One wears a black frock, or scarlet if one is a male who has earned his colors. Tails, called shadbellys for the ladies, weazlebellys for the gentlemen, turn even someone not blessed by Nature into a dazzling specimen. Every master, every huntsman, and all the whippers-in just pray to get through it. All those people plus all those not riding presented some very quick judgment calls, like “Do I kill him now or later?” Or, “I’ve got to remember to thank Jennifer for pulling the chestnut out of the fire.”
Jefferson Hunt’s Opening Hunt was Saturday, November 4, enough time, one hoped, to have the pack working well together, as well as staff.
Fortunately, Jefferson Hunt excelled in both departments, and the staff all liked one another. Hounds loved their master and the huntsman. The staff horses really loved their job. Ears forward, eyes bright, maybe a little wiggle before takeoff, hunt horses were born to hunt. There’s a deep joy in being with an animal doing what it was born to do. Quite the reverse of seeing a Saint Bernard, the most loving of dogs, in a big city.
Walking back, the warmth chasing away those pains one accumulates with age, Sister and Betty nattered awa
y. From time to time, Tootie would chime in. No aches or pains just yet.
“So Tootie, has your mother had her first riding lesson? Sister told me she wants to ride.” Betty could hardly believe this.
“She did. She met Sam Tuesday at Beasley Hall,” she said, naming Crawford’s estate. “She was shocked that he made her clean the horse first.” Tootie laughed. “But then she said she got into a rhythm and liked it. Her first lesson. A walk with Sam on the ground: success. Actually, going there will be easy as she passes the place on her way to Beveridge Hundred. She’ll be all moved in tomorrow.”
“Wednesday. That was fast.” Betty whistled.
“She said she’d stay with me a week. She tipped a few days over,” Tootie matter-of-factly added. “That was okay. The place is really nice. All the furniture was there, so she only had to buy food, special things that she wanted. She has to have six-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Stuff like that.”
“Well, I noticed the new car. It’s beautiful.” Betty liked the Lincoln.
“She wants to buy me a new car.”
“Let her,” Betty fired back quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Tootie, she’s trying to make up for lost time and your Toyota has the flu. Find a good used car. That ought to diminish the guilt.” Betty laughed.
Sister piped up, “She’s right, Tootie. Winter will be here soon enough and that car is a hazard. How many times last winter did Gray or I make you take one of our SUVs?”
“I know. I just couldn’t take his new car. Your Tahoe”—she grinned—“okay.”
Sister’s six-year-old Jeep, hard used, had been traded in for a Tahoe. She thought it was too big but the dealer, not far, could be easily reached in an emergency. All her friends who drove Tahoes liked them. She’d thought all these damn SUVs guzzled gas like a drunk grabbing a bottle of Ripple. However, she flipped down the two back rows, piled Raleigh and Rooster in, turned on Sirius radio, a first, and realized she liked it a lot. She could also drive hounds if need be. Now I’m a carbon criminal, she thought to herself.
Crazy Like a Fox Page 11