Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  Saint Just flew overhead, the large raven casting a glance down at them.

  “Damn, he’s big.” Betty shielded her eyes from the sun.

  “Gives me the creeps when the hanging tree is full of crows or ravens.” Sister shuddered. “Hey, did I tell you we’re hunting Old Paradise Saturday with Crawford?”

  “What?” Both women nearly bellowed.

  Rickyroo’s ears swiveled. “Humans make such awful sounds.”

  Outlaw laughed. “At least they aren’t singing.”

  Matchplay said, “I like it when Shaker sings.”

  Rickyroo agreed. “A soothing deep voice. Anyway, looks like Saturday is going to be a big one.”

  “Should be.” Outlaw nodded his head once, then looked back at Betty, whom he dearly loved.

  “When did this happen?” Betty wanted to know.

  “After yesterday’s hunt.” Sister went on to explain her conversation with Sara Bateman Sunday. “She called after Tuesday’s hunt to ask if she could bring Tom Tipton to Old Paradise Saturday. He wanted to see Old Paradise more than he wanted to have lunch in Richmond. So I called Crawford, explained everything, and do you know, he readily agreed? All he wanted to know is who would hunt the joint packs.”

  “That’s a shock.” Betty leaned back in her saddle, an old Prix de Nation, which fit her.

  Sister, on the contrary, rode in a sixteen-and-a-half-inch Hermès, fifty years old, for the same reason: It fit her. “I said Shaker and Skiff could work together. They seem to like each other. Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised.”

  “There’s got to be a hook somewhere.” Betty’s eyes narrowed.

  “Maybe hearing Tom Tipton’s background did it.”

  Tootie asked, “Who is Tom Tipton?”

  “Sorry, honey. I should have told you straight up. He whipped-in to The Jefferson Hunt starting when he was in his twenties, pretty sure it was that, and left in 1959. He carried the horn from 1954 to 1959, then was offered a bunch more money to carry the horn for the Richmond Hunt, which he did. Everyone who ever worked with him was better for it. This was before my time. Anyway, I’ve chatted with him a few times when I visited Sara in Richmond. A real character.” She paused. “Forgot to tell you, I wanted to take him to lunch to ask him about Weevil.”

  “Ah.” Betty exhaled.

  Tootie knew a bit of the story. Her curiosity wasn’t aroused but then she was dealing with her mother and the divorce. Her father was really hitting up the media. Her mother remained unusually calm. Tootie knew Yvonne had a card up her sleeve.

  CHAPTER 14

  Two white heads, leaning together, reflected the light in Daniella’s living room. Gray listened as his aunt and Tom Tipton galloped down memory lane. Daniella, a few years older than Tom, had formerly dazzled the young man. As her people were in the Thoroughbred business, they knew each other. Often if a horse didn’t make it to the track it was trained as a foxhunter. Daniella, thanks to her great beauty, was used by her father to attend the meets and comment on how glorious a client looked on the potential sale. This worked a treat if the client was male. If female, not quite so much.

  “Remember when Brenden DuCharme got hung over the tree branch? Oh Lord.” Tom laughed, his voice still strong, not wavering at all.

  Daniella clapped her hands in delight. “Damned fool. Turning around to look back at his wife during a hard run. Didn’t see the tree looming ahead, the branch caught him right in the middle and there he dangled.”

  “And Margaret rode right by him!” Tom, overcome with mirth, wiped tears from his eyes.

  “I happened to be driving Daddy’s truck—he liked it if I could make specific comments about the hunt to the client. Saw you ride toward Brenden to help him and heard Weevil cuss you like a dog.”

  “ ‘Hounds are more important than Brenden. He’ll fall down eventually.’ So I left him suspended there and hurried to the hounds to evade sulfurous speech. Tell you what, Weevil always put hounds first.”

  “Do you remember the time that buyer from Boston—rode with the rich hunt right outside of Boston—asked me if I was colored? Said I was whiter than white women he knew.”

  “Yes, I do, and I remember it was at the breakfast afterwards at Skidby. Could have heard a pin drop.” Tom nodded.

  “And Weevil came over and punched his lights out.” Now Daniella had tears in her eyes.

  “Those were the days.” Tom smiled.

  “And the nights.”

  They both laughed.

  Gray interjected. “Tom, Skidby is being restored. By Helen Lutrell’s granddaughter. She married a rich doctor.”

  “You don’t say. Helen was a good woman. Always gave hunt staff a gift at Christmas. I reckon people don’t do that anymore.”

  “They do.” Gray jumped in again. “Sister gives hunt staff a bonus, but club members pitch in so it’s one check from members as opposed to lots of small checks.”

  A knock on the door interrupted the reveries.

  Gray got up, opened the door, whispered, “They’re ready.”

  Sara had dropped Tom off so the old acquaintances could catch up. She’d brought a small cooler, then brought another one as she would drive Tom, while Gray would drive his aunt. Once Daniella heard Tom Tipton would be at the Saturday hunt at Old Paradise, she wanted to go. However, each of these nonagenarians should sit in the front passenger seat so Gray elected to give up his Saturday hunt to drive his aunt. After the hunt they could all join in at the breakfast.

  Daniella, dressed in a long suede skirt, a tweed coat, and a white open-collared shirt with an Hermès scarf tied around her neck, looked every bit the non-riding follower.

  Tom, also in a tweed, wore his old breeches and boots. He said that in case anyone needed a hand, he’d mount up, but really he wanted to show he could still fit into his hunt kit.

  Just because they were in their nineties didn’t mean all vanity had fled.

  Sara had bought single-cask bourbon for Daniella and rye for Tom.

  “Gray,” she whispered in his ear. “I’ve got special stuff for your aunt. Cooler’s in your car. Oh, two crystal glasses. God forbid Aunt Daniella’s lips should touch plastic.”

  The two rounded up their charges as Tom and Daniella argued that either one would be happy to sit in the back. A lie, of course.

  As Sara drove Tom to Old Paradise, she filled him in on Crawford’s shrewd waiting game. How he had bought out the brothers, how the two non-speaking men had agreed without needing to see each other.

  “H-m-m. What’s he going to do?”

  “Bring it back. Right now he’s got cattle on some of it. Has already restored the stable.”

  “Rich. Rich. Rich.”

  “M-m-m, with the personality trait of a man who has made his own money.”

  Tom shrugged. “At least he’s given people jobs.”

  “That he has. Every time I go by there more men are working, and that’s just what I can see in the fields. Fence repair, some stone fences, fertilizing, hay along the roadside. Cut now, of course. And he’s got the old house plans.”

  “You don’t say. With digging maybe they’ll find the Old Paradise treasure.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Sara smiled.

  Within twenty-five minutes, the Chapel Cross area slowed them due to the horse trailers. Sara turned down the main drive to Old Paradise.

  Tom, hand gripping the handrest, stared. “I haven’t been back here in thirty years. One of the last times I rode with Sister. Great day!” He saw the stables.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “They’re beautiful. Now—oh, Sara, the people who have gone on, the people who I wish could see this.”

  “Peter Wheeler?”

  “For one. Big Ray. Well, I reckon I’ll see them soon enough.”

  “Tom, only the good die young.” Sara shot that at him, and he laughed at the common phrase.

  Daniella hadn’t seen the foundation work at the house ruins, the four majestic
Corinthian columns, guardians to survival despite all. Even the Virginia creeper had been cleaned off just as it was turning red for fall.

  “I can’t wait to see the house when it’s finished. Years, I bet.”

  “He has over forty people just working on the house alone.” Gray told her about the packing around the foundation—what Sister called goo—the backfill, and now the prep work for rebuilding.

  Sister, wearing her bespoke tweed, resplendent on Lafayette, her gray, drew all eyes to her. Next to her sat Crawford on Czpaka.

  As this was a cubbing hunt, individual tastes showed more than during formal hunting. It was coolish this September 30 morning, for which both Masters were thankful, as were the two huntsmen and hounds. People donned tweeds in various colors all suitable for them, happy for the temperature. Kasmir wore a sleek beige tweed with a subtle thin green-and-magenta windowpane check. A perfectly tied green tie, matching the thin stripe, set off his look. His boots, peanut brittle in color, and his cap, brown, marked him as a man who had grasped all the subtleties. Alida, next to him, shone in a simple blue herringbone, brown field boots, and an understated dark blue tie with a white stripe. As her eyes were clear blue, one couldn’t help but notice them or their effect on others.

  Every single person really made an effort. Their horses gleamed, their spurs, whether Hammerheads or Prince of Wales, sparkled. Their gloves, paper thin as it would warm up, were usually mustard. A few were a light, handsome brown. The bridles and bits shone as much as the boots and spurs.

  Crawford, having learned proper turnout when he hunted with The Jefferson Hunt, like Sister, wore a bespoke coat in a light green, lighter than Keeper’s tweed, with an expensive old army green tie enlivened by thin orange stripes edged in gold. Understated, he made a good showing.

  All gathered in the huge European courtyard at the stables. The workmen couldn’t help themselves; they’d drifted over to admire the pageant. One young man with a bushy black moustache tipped his ball cap to the ladies.

  The two packs stood together looking at Shaker and Skiff. They shone. They wanted to go.

  After the Masters thanked everyone, Sister especially thanking Crawford for having the hunt at Old Paradise, they walked off.

  Sam Lorillard winked at Aunt Daniella.

  Yvonne, in Margaret DuCharme’s car, as Margaret thought this would be the best way to see Old Paradise, noticed how much Sam looked like Gray. In her one lesson, she hadn’t focused too much on the man. Her attention had been riveted on the horse, which seemed so big. Sam looked as though he was born on a horse. Poor though he was, his turnout was impeccable. Hunt clothing is made to last. His jacket, seventy years old if it was a day, a houndstooth pattern much preferred in the 1940s, fit him like a second skin. Crawford had bought him a pair of Dehner boots last year, as his old boots had finally disintegrated. He wore a robin’s-egg-blue silk four-in-hand tie, mustard gloves. Passing Margaret and Yvonne, he tapped his brown cap with his crop.

  “You’re the model. Think of the damage you could do to the men if you were out there,” Margaret teased Yvonne.

  The spectacle, not lost on Tootie’s mother, secretly inflamed her. She would be out there, and she would look divine.

  She smiled. “I am off men.”

  Margaret, who knew of the divorce thanks to Vic Harris’s stupid media attack on his wife accusing her of deserting him, simply said, “Every woman says that at some time in her life. Ah, there’s my fella.” She waved to Ben. “He’s the sheriff.”

  Yvonne blinked. She’d heard about the DuCharmes. Tootie had filled her in as best the young woman could. Here was someone from a once powerful family, a family that made its fortune in 1812, dating a sheriff?

  She couldn’t help herself. “I thought Virginians were, well, Tootie went to Custis Hall and—”

  “Snobs.” Margaret shrugged as she cut on the motor. “You can find them anywhere. Things have changed here. I’ve seen a lot of change and I’m in my early forties. Dad talks about it. Says it really started after World War Two. Mostly it’s for the good.”

  “I hope that’s true everywhere, but I don’t know. All this divisiveness.”

  “Media. All media-driven, I swear.” Margaret then gulped. “Sorry, you and your ex own a magazine, TV channels.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. Bad news sells.” She half smiled. “There’s something in the human animal that loves misery, so long as it’s happening to other people.”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” Margaret crept about fifty yards behind Sara Bateman’s and Gray’s cars. “I know you know a little bit about hunting because of Tootie. But I’ll give you my running commentary, and as we pass things I’ll tell you what they are or were. When the hunt is over I’ll show you the big house—well, the foundation for the big house—and I’ll show you the dependency where Dad and I lived and the duplicate where my uncle and his wife lived, not close together but you’ll get the idea. In the nineteenth century, up until the 1920s, this place had two hundred and fifty people working on it.”

  “Dear God. I can’t imagine the payroll.”

  “Fierce, but you could make money in agriculture then. People were housed as part of their compensation. Now that doesn’t count. Minimum wage is as though everyone works in cities. Most of the workers lived in clapboard houses scattered around the five thousand acres. And given that Norfolk and Southern eventually came through this area, that just bumped up business.”

  “The 1920s?”

  “Depression after World War One. And the influenza epidemic. Hurt everyone everywhere, I think. The economy began to improve, but young people trickled away. After World War Two the trickle became a flood and Dad said the G.I. Bill, wonderful though it was, lured men from farming.”

  “I’m not strong on history.”

  “I’ll make up for that.” Margaret grinned. “What a voice. Asa. Oh, now everyone’s on it and good news, Crawford’s hounds are right there. He’s gone through huntsmen like potato chips; the pack has been one riot after another. Hired this lady last year and for whatever reason, he listens to her, and to his wife. Miracles do happen.”

  Yvonne, window open, listened. The sound of hoofbeats was now deafening. Blended with two packs of hounds on full throttle she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She would join them someday, whatever it took. This must have been what a cavalry charge sounded like.

  Slowly driving toward them from the opposite direction was a young man, broad beard trimmed, baseball cap squarely on his head. The old Rangler, large spots with paint rubbed off, had seen better days, but it was running. The bed was filled with fence boards. He smiled and waved as he approached, then slowed.

  “They’re on fire. Thought I’d better get out of the way.”

  Margaret smiled. “Sounds great, Hank.”

  He passed, and she continued slowly. She knew some of the workers and he was gentlemanly, knew hunting, and worked very hard.

  The combined packs hooked toward Chapel Cross, the intersection now three miles east, and a mile after that the railroad tracks, Tattenhall Station.

  Hounds poured over the fence onto the road, called, obviously, Chapel Road.

  Skiff took the sturdy black painted coop first, landing in the grass strip along the road. Shaker followed. Hounds sped across the tertiary road and blew through Binky DuCharme’s Gulf station, the sign from the 1950s still hanging and intact. With no fences to impede them, hounds picked up speed, churning onto the front lawn of the chapel where they stopped.

  “Try the graveyard,” Reuben, one of the Dumfrieshire hounds, suggested.

  The field clattered up, halted. Tricolor Jefferson Hounds and black and tan Dumfrieshire hounds worked together through the graveyard.

  Diana knew this territory from her youth. She sat to study the terrain. No mud puddles offered quick kills to scent. The ditch by the road, when wet, also gave a fox the chance to slip away, baffle the pursuit.

  Noses down, hounds diligently work
ed the immaculately kept graveyard. A whine here and there testified to their frustration. The two huntsmen, on the edge of the graveyard, where many markers were two centuries old or more, kept still and quiet. Let the hounds work it out. They could pack them up and move off soon enough.

  Parker, young, came up to Diana. “How does the fox do that?”

  She replied, “I think I know. Follow me.”

  Dutifully following his idol, Parker returned to the graveyard, walked past it to a filled wheelbarrow at the edge. The sexton, Adolfo Vega, upon hearing the hounds, had left his chore, returning to his house to wait it out. While he liked the hounds fine he didn’t want to be in the middle of them, or even worse, the riders.

  Diana backtracked to the road where they lost the scent. Asphalt or packed dirt holds scent so long as there’s moisture in the air and it’s coolish, but the temperature was now in the mid 50s. Not impossible but not great.

  “He walked down the road, turned to the chapel. Put your nose down. Faint and fading,” Diana ordered.

  Wanting to make a show, Parker opened his mouth.

  “Don’t you dare,” she reprimanded him.

  “But he’s been here. He turned here.”

  “Use your head, Parker. If you open everyone will rush here, and then what? This is a smart, smart fox. Just follow me.” She walked to the wheelbarrow. “We don’t want everyone fouling what little scent there is.”

  The other hounds hadn’t given up, but they had checked every inch in that graveyard.

  From the wheelbarrow, Diana took one stride to the first tombstone. Then the next. Parker watched, astonished.

  “On top of the tombstones,” she sang out as she stood on her hind legs.

  In a flash every hound there ran to a tombstone. They opened one by one.

  Diana, in the lead, reached the easternmost boundary of the graveyard. Woods marked the end of the chapel property and the beginning of Orchard Hill.

  The fox didn’t use the woods. Instead, Diana still working intensely, he jumped from tombstone to tombstone at the graveyard’s edge, then with a mighty leap hit the ground, ran straight to the road, and there again scent became difficult.