Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I think, Aunt Daniella, that’s why he bought Old Paradise.”

  “Gray, really? How extraordinary. As to Sophie’s fortune, Virginia bubbles over with stories of buried treasure, lost fortunes, entire estates vanishing amidst wine, women, and song. Maybe he likes the drama of it.”

  “Tell me more about the gossip about Weevil and Alfred and Binky’s mother?” Sister urged.

  “She was married. I can’t swear to anything. If they did carry on, they were discreet. Weevil actually could cover his tracks, usually by engaging in a flamboyant affair to divert people’s gaze.”

  “One wonders what Margaret DuCharme thought of it.” Sister couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “When you have as much at stake as Margaret, I guess you put up with it. I heard that was how Weevil managed to sleep with the Falconer women. He actually trotted out a fan dancer. You know, a Sally Rand type. However, people did get wind of it because the mother, not the daughter, had a nervous breakdown.” She took a long drink. “Oh, there’s no gossip like old gossip. I feel quite giddy.”

  They all laughed.

  Gray, who did love his aunt even when she was at her despotic worst, inquired, “Do you think Weevil could kill?”

  “No. Not the Weevil I knew. If he became angry, it was over as quickly as it began.”

  “Did he care about money? It seems all the women he bedded except for the fan dancer were rich,” Sister asked.

  “I wasn’t rich. Not then.” She nestled in her chair. “There’s a lot to be said for marrying a man for money. Well, my dear, you married well.”

  “I did. Ray was a good provider. Your nephew certainly has made his way in the world.”

  “Thank God one of them did.”

  “Sam isn’t going to make money, Aunt D, but he’s doing okay and he’s clean, clean as a whistle. He’s giving riding lessons, well, one so far, to Yvonne Harris.”

  “I see.” Daniella tapped the edge of the side table. “Your brother could have done anything. Be rich as Croesus. Well, did he waste much of his life? He did. But you know, a thirst for alcohol runs in the family. I can drink. I watch it, but I can drink. Your mother hated the taste. Who is to say that, had I been a man, subject to a man’s pressures, I might not have turned into a drunk? But sometimes I look at Sam and he breaks my heart. All that talent.”

  “True, but, Aunt Daniella,”—Sister’s voice was warm—“you can be proud of him. He works hard, takes horses that untalented people can’t ride, turns them into babysitters, and he loves the horses. He has such a big heart. You know he goes down to the train station, goes under the bridges, and talks to his old homeless buddies. He encourages them to get help. He brings them food. You can be proud.”

  Aunt Daniella looked at Gray. “Does he?”

  “He does.”

  “Well, why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “He wanted to keep it to himself—and really, Aunt Daniella, you had your hands full with Mercer. When he had clients, you often had to entertain,” Gray reminded her.

  Mercer had been a bloodstock agent. He’d died about two years before.

  “Aunt Daniella, I know I asked this but let me ask it again. Did you think you talked to a ghost?”

  “As I said, Weevil was as alive as the three of us. But I don’t understand how that can be. He was about thirty-two. Looked exactly as I remembered. I have no answers.”

  —

  Driving home in Gray’s big Land Cruiser, Sister stared out the window. “I look at the lights on in people’s houses, the twinkling lights out on the land when we get out of town, and I always wonder, what are they doing? Are they happy?”

  “Me, too.”

  “Honey, why is this man, or this ghost, here now? Why steal his cowhorn? Why blow it? And why is he now showing himself to his old comrades, so to speak?

  “When all this first occurred, the video, we talked about holograms. I don’t know who came up with that first, but I thought, well, maybe. Why, who knows? But a prank. Now, I don’t think this has anything to do with technology. Weevil is with us.” She paused. “Gray, it can’t be good.” She watched a light go on in an upstairs bedroom as they passed Ramsay, an old spectacular estate.

  “I think you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Kettle House, a clapboard farmhouse built after the War of 1812, rested below the west side of Hangman’s Ridge. Hounds carefully worked their way down, pastures beckoning below. This Tuesday, a light drizzle kept away many hunters. Then, too, the Tuesday and Thursday hunts didn’t attract as many people as Saturday. People needed to work for a living, such a bother.

  Shaker, up ahead, leaned back in the saddle. HoJo, a sure-footed fellow, proved perfect for a day like today. Betty whipped-in on the right, Tootie on the left. Sister, on Aztec, led a field of fifteen people.

  Leaves, turning a bit more color, glistened in the drizzle. A hard rain made hunting difficult for all, scent washing away, but a drizzle could intensify scent if everything else was right. The temperature, low 50s, might have been cooler but it was cool enough.

  “Target.” Giorgio inhaled the familiar scent.

  “What’s he doing over here?” Zorro put his nose down.

  “New owners. You know how curious he is.” Cora also inhaled the familiar scent.

  Hounds opened. Shaker blew them together with three doubled notes. The riders, not yet concerned with footing for it wasn’t yet slippery, kicked on, to keep up with the Master.

  Once down on the pastures the pace increased. The club had paneled the country at Kettle House with jumps from fallen logs and the ubiquitous coop. As they had not yet had time to paint the coops, quite a few horses balked at the fresh wood. No one came off, though.

  “Turn left. You’ll overrun the line,” Cora commanded Thimble; although not a puppy, the hound’s enthusiasm could lead to mistakes.

  Thimble hooked left, as did everyone.

  Target, climbing back up the ridge, trotted. Far ahead, scent now blowing away from him, he would be in his den in all of fifteen minutes if he ran hard. Trotting, maybe twenty-five minutes. Just to be sure, he stopped, looked down below. The entire pack was swinging left near the white clapboard house with the dark green shutters. Just in case, he decided to move along a little faster.

  Hounds raced across the pasture back over the coop in the fence line to start climbing upward. Huntsman and whippers-in, over easily, slowed for the climb. The field did also.

  The grade, tricky, varied from an easy angle to forty-five degrees in spots. That angle could be tiring. Since hounds had not lost the scent, the wonderful mounts worked hard to trot upward. The horses knew horn calls and hound work better than the humans.

  Aztec, ears forward, watched hounds. He loved hunting. He could become a bit bored on a trail ride, but as long as he was outside, life was good.

  Finally Target reached Hangman’s Ridge, the long flat land with the hanging tree in the middle. He shot across it, reached the down path to Roughneck Farm.

  Crows flew overhead. Looking upward, he saw his enemy, Saint Just, the huge raven. Crows could be terrible foes as they screamed and shouted at the fox, informing hounds where he was. But this flock had been disturbed by something else. They flew over him without a peep, even Saint Just, a born big-mouth.

  Dasher, fast, reached the flattop of the ridge first. He raced over the buried criminals—no tombstones, a few flat markers. Some families retrieved bodies from the tree. Others left them there, angry at their besmirching the family name, or they didn’t care anyway. Those were finally cut down and buried. Originally, the crown’s counselor and then the county judge thought leaving the corpse exposed to the elements would deter further crime. But Hangman’s Ridge was far from Charlottesville proper, even farther from Scottsville, the county seat. Very few people saw moldering remains swing in the wind. Even if they did, it’s doubtful the grisly sight would have the desired instructive effect. Criminals don’t think they will get caught. People have b
een stealing, raping, murdering for thousands of years.

  Dasher ignored a murmur. None of the hounds nor horses liked being up on the ridge. They could see and hear what humans could not.

  The rest of the pack, now well up with Dasher, cut right, headed down the path to Roughneck Farm.

  The people followed. The rain picked up.

  Target reached Tootie’s house and ducked under the oldest part of the foundation, to the irritation of Comet. Comet had stashed a bunch of grapes there, which Tootie left out for him. Target devoured the fruit, all the fruit, while Comet bared his teeth. He couldn’t throw out Target until hounds left.

  “I hear you munching,” Dasher called at the door, so to speak.

  “I’d offer you some but you don’t like fruit,” the handsome red sassed.

  The whole pack gathered at Tootie’s house. The rain, steady now, slid down people’s collars, down their backs.

  Shaker blew “Gone to Ground,” lifted hounds, walking them back to the kennels.

  The people gratefully rode to their trailers, dismounted, untacked. Some threw a rain sheet over horses and tack. Horses were led into the trailers to happily munch on hay hung inside.

  As the hounds were put up, Sister tended to Aztec in the stable. She called out to Freddie Thomas, who usually took off Tuesdays. “Freddie, just take food into the kitchen. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Shortly, the small band, happy to be inside, out of now wet coats, jabbered with one another. Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Tootie, all inside, made certain there were hot drinks, should anyone need a little warmth. Liquor was there, too, and Tedi Bancroft had brought her famous clam chowder. Ham biscuits, cornbread, the usual basic fare covered the kitchen table in abundance.

  As Kasmir opened the mudroom door, Betty opened the kitchen door for him. In the distance they heard “Going Home” blown on the cowhorn.

  “That’s no echo.” Kasmir removed his Barbour coat.

  “Sister, did you hear it?” Betty called out.

  “I did.”

  “We all did,” Tedi replied, and others affirmed this.

  “This will drive me right around the bend,” Sister blurted out.

  Shaker, to calm others, said, “It’s a prank. When we find out the culprit, we’ll tan his hide.”

  Again people agreed, some laughed.

  After the small breakfast ended, people didn’t linger, as no one wanted to drive in a hard rain. The rain had ramped up from drizzle to steady, would probably pound down shortly. Sister and Tootie cleaned up the kitchen.

  “Tootie, I’m sorry about the publicity.”

  Tootie dried plates. “Val texted me from Princeton. She told me not to worry. Just forget it. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “She’s right.” Sister stretched to her full height to put away some of the cleaned glasses. She stopped a moment, looked out the window. “Coming down hard.”

  “My weather app said it would rain but not this hard.”

  “Good for the water table. Didn’t Kettle House look inviting? All those years we couldn’t hunt there, and now we can. It’s such a pretty little place.”

  “We’re lucky to have such good territory.”

  “We are. One of these days, you and I will have to fly to Red Rock, outside Reno, Nevada. High desert. Now, there is territory not made for hunting, but Lynn Lloyd and Angela Murry hunt it. You can see for miles. In some places, fifty miles.”

  “Guess they don’t need cry like we do,” Tootie sensibly stated.

  “Well, they do need it if the pack goes on the other side of a ridge. A ridge out there can be three thousand feet high. Hangman’s Ridge is about nine hundred feet, I think. The top of Humpback Mountain is three thousand feet, give or take. All you smell is sagebrush at Red Rock. I don’t know how hounds can pick up quarry scent but they do,” Sister enthused.

  “One of my goals, when I get to be your age,”—Tootie smiled mischievously—“is to have hunted wherever there is mounted hunting. So Australia, New Zealand, Great Britain, France, Canada, Uruguay, South Africa. Bet there’s more.”

  “Bet you’ll do it.”

  “There. All done.” Tootie swept her hand outward to show the kitchen was clean, the flatware and plates washed, dried, put away.

  “Amazing what one can accomplish if you just keep working. Come on and sit in the library with me for a minute. Golliwog hasn’t had any opportunity to snuggle in your lap.” Sister smiled.

  The two women, accompanied by the dogs and Golly, repaired to the library. Each happily sank into a club chair. And Golly leapt onto Tootie’s lap.

  A distant rumble of thunder presaged no good. Both turned to look out the window as the sky grew darker. It was one in the afternoon.

  “The horn call.” Tootie spoke. “It sounds so mournful. Strange.”

  “That it is.”

  “Well, if a cowhorn was stolen from the Museum of Hounds and Hunting, hearing a cowhorn might mean something. Might be the same horn. Old stuff. Old sins.” Tootie paused. “At least with my father we know it’s new sins.”

  Sister laughed, glad Tootie could see some humor in all this. “You know what, I’m going to call Marion, right now. You’ve given me an idea.”

  Her landline phone rested on the handsome desk. She reached Marion at work.

  “Marion, does the museum have any photographs of the entire cowhorn?”

  “Yes. Every piece is photographed and catalogued before we put it in the cases.”

  “Weevil’s horn was inscribed. Scrimshaw I think is the proper term. Can you get me pictures of the entire horn?”

  After more discussion, Marion promised to do so, hopefully no later than the end of the week.

  Sister and Tootie chatted, glad to be inside as the rain lashed at the windowpanes. They talked about hounds, who to breed to whom, the fixture for Thursday and Saturday. Yvonne’s second riding lesson. The small details of everyday life, talked over, discussed, like tiny coral bodies floating onto one another; such details build the reefs of friendship.

  The rain lightened briefly.

  “I think I’d better make a run for it.”

  “Take an umbrella. You know where they are,” Sister suggested as she walked Tootie to the mudroom.

  The young woman selected a large maroon umbrella, opened the door, popped the umbrella open, and headed for her house. The rain waited until she reached the kennel and then it was a deluge. Sister didn’t close her door until she was sure Tootie made it.

  Closing the door, she listened to the pounding overhead, the rapping on the windows. Being inside in bad weather always made her feel safe. She did feel safe but she wondered about hearing the horn here. Whoever this is is becoming a steady presence she thought to herself. She wondered if she would see him. She kind of wanted to, and then again, she kind of didn’t.

  CHAPTER 20

  A clear picture of Weevil’s cowhorn appeared on the large screen of Gray’s computer. Sister and Gray sat side by side.

  “Marion did a good job.” Gray again showed the photos of Weevil’s cowhorn.

  Every angle had been covered.

  “It’s lovely. The four columns of Old Paradise are beyond Chapel Cross. The little cross there, the tiny graveyard, Tattenhall Station. He was an artist.”

  Gray agreed. “Accurate, too. A bit of a mapmaker. Well, what do you think?”

  “I like the fox peeping out from the stable door at Old Paradise. Tack room door, actually.” She smiled. “A unique horn. It could only belong to someone who hunted Jefferson Hounds back then. Chapel Cross has always been fabulous hunt country. For us, more than a century. And there’s a fox looking out from the fallen-down cabin, what is now Tootie’s house. There is the arcade of the kennels. The bricks are drawn on. This one looks like it has a smudge, maybe an X.”

  “Weevil came on in 1947?” Gray glanced over at her.

  “Right.”

  “The sixtieth year of the hunt. Did he make the drawings or
someone had them made for him?”

  “Gray, he did it himself. There was a mention of that in his framed photograph at the museum.”

  “Only a patient man could inscribe a cowhorn like this.”

  “Who is left who knew him well? Apart from Aunt Daniella.” She pushed away silently from the desk. “I can see why the horn would mean a lot to Weevil. If this is Weevil. If it isn’t, I can’t fathom this.”

  “You said Dale Bateman found nothing in the old treasurer’s reports.”

  “Nope.”

  “While I’m sitting here I can send out an email as to where we’re hunting tomorrow.”

  She leaned back in the chair. “The problem is footing. Where can we park the trailers? I don’t worry so much about the horses. I mean, horses have been dealing with mud for millennia.”

  He laughed. “Some people don’t realize that.”

  She smiled. “There are fewer and fewer horsemen. In the old days, if one was a good horseman it was seen as an insight into character. Horses trusted him or her. Now—” She shrugged.

  “I know you’ve thought of this, but we really only have two choices. Mill Ruins or After All. The parking is good there. Two days of steady rain, good in some ways, not in others. If it had been below freezing, imagine the mess.”

  “Wonder if we’ll get a hard winter?”

  “Snow,” he replied. “Farmer’s Almanac.”

  “Haven’t looked that far ahead. Give me one minute. I’ll call Walter on his cell.”

  She reached him, asked if they could hunt at Mill Ruins on Saturday. Of course. This Thursday looked like a wash. The Weather Channel predicted rain through Wednesday. As Gray listened he started tapping out the information.

  “Push back the time to eight A.M. More light now,” he said.

  “You know I hate to do that,” she replied.

  “I do, but most people hate getting up early.” He held up his hand. “I know there’s only a half hour’s difference but it’s psychological, and it is now October.”