Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  Sister checked her phone again. “Try the bricks next to the edge and near where the arch stands.”

  “Okay. Hard to tell from that drawing.”

  “It is,” Sister replied.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Ting.

  “Do that again.”

  Ting.

  “See if it’s loose.” Sister stood on her tiptoes.

  Tootie handed down the hammer, wiggled with both hands. “It’s a little loose but I can’t move it out.”

  Shaker, now as curious as the two women, offered, “Let me do it.”

  Tootie stepped down. Shaker climbed up as Sister held the ladder.

  He pressed the brick with his fingertips. Then he slid it side to side.

  “A little movement.” He began to sweat. “This isn’t a full brick. What’s that expression, ‘one brick shy of a load’? This isn’t shy, but it’s been altered in some way.”

  For almost ten minutes he worked and worked.

  “What if I get a putty knife? You can slide it underneath,” Sister offered.

  “Good idea.” He took a break as Sister trotted to the toolroom and opened the drawer of the old bureau, containing everything from Gorilla Tape to a hand sander and a power drill. Those tools reposed in the extra-large bottom drawer.

  Spying a larger putty knife, Sister grabbed it, hurried back, handed it up to Shaker.

  “Got it!” He removed the brick, which was a façade with sides to hold it in place.

  Reaching in, he delicately removed a black box that fit perfectly in the space. Stepping down, he handed it to Sister.

  Sister realized this wasn’t a black box. “It’s silver. Tarnished.”

  She opened it; the hinges were a bit stiff. Inside rested a velvet drawstring bag. Underneath that lay a heavy paper envelope, with exquisite handwriting in blue-black ink.

  It read, “My Love.”

  “Come on.” Sister led them back to the desks, where she gently removed the contents of the box.

  “God,” Shaker exclaimed.

  Tootie, wordless, picked up a stunning diamond-and-emerald necklace. The center emerald had to be seven carats. Each emerald to the sides of this, as they went up toward the clasp, was a reduction of about a half carat each, until close to the clasp, where two small emeralds surrounded by small diamonds flanked the clasp. The diamonds also diminished by a half carat each until this point.

  A bracelet matched the necklace. A bounty of rings, with large stones of the precious and semiprecious varieties, rested on the desktop, along with a man’s Patek Philippe watch, paper thin, an alligator band, now cracked and dry, attached.

  The three, mesmerized, were speechless.

  Finally, Sister broke the silence. “I believe this is the first time these treasures have seen daylight in sixty-three years.”

  Then she carefully lifted the envelope, the crème-colored paper still crisp, proving its highest quality.

  They almost held their breath, then Sister flipped up the back of the envelope, which had been opened, removing the paper.

  CHAPTER 27

  Dear Wesley,

  Fate threw us together. Fate tears us apart.

  The happiest days of my life have been with you. The sound of your voice, the grace of your walk, your poetry on a horse, your devilish sense of humor, your kindness. I regarded being with a man as a duty. You showed it can be a joy.

  Brenden would never give me a divorce. He values me as much as he values a new tractor, cherishes my old Virginia blood, which now flows through his sons. Of course, I have told him nothing. He barely notices me anyway, but I have been exhausted, sad. I’ve told him I need a bit of time away from Old Paradise. I will set sail to London, then Paris, wherever my fancy takes me. I will return to Toronto before coming home.

  I will have the baby in Toronto. My college roommate, Ceil, has offered shelter and a home for the child. She and her husband, a wonderful man, a doctor, are unable to have children. She says I am the answer to her prayers. In a sense she is the answer to ours. Our child will be loved, will want for nothing.

  You will be in my heart wherever I may be. Not a day will pass when I don’t long for you, want to hear your laugh, see the light in your eyes.

  You gave me your hunting diaries when I told you I was going to have your child. You said, “Give them to our baby. He or she will know me a little.” I will take them with me. Read every word and then leave them with Ceil.

  You, dear, are an extravagantly gifted huntsman. However, it is not a line of work that offers much remuneration. To your credit, you are not a spendthrift, but then what do you have to spend? You could be injured, unable to work. I pray that will never happen, for you were born to hunt hounds, to be outside, to be free of the petty, consuming drive for profit that twists so many men. But I wonder, if and when the day comes when you must retire, if you will have enough to buy a house, a bit of land?

  You will not want to take anything from me. Take it. These are my grandmother’s and my mother’s jewels. Nothing here is from Brenden. It is all from my family and in truth, it is worth a fortune. Like our child, you will never want for anything. These jewels will provide for generations of Carruthers. I hope you have children. You will be a good father.

  As I am already on my way to New York, to board the ship, you can’t return these anyway. And when I am back in Virginia, returning them will be difficult. We really can’t be seen alone. I will see you only in the hunt field. I suppose it is some consolation.

  I would gladly give up everything for you: the money, Old Paradise, the empty status. But I cannot give up my sons, even though they are young men and no longer need a mother as once they did. Should I leave Brenden, he would turn my boys against me, find a way to keep them at Old Paradise. He’s not so much a bad man as a small one.

  Fate is cruel.

  My memories will be my own paradise and I will love you until the day I die.

  Margaret

  18 February 1954

  “That poor woman.” Sister’s eyes misted.

  “A different time.” Shaker felt sorrow for Margaret as well. “They would have been ruined. He would have lost his job as a huntsman. No other hunt would have hired him. A man has to have work, no matter how much he loves a woman. Fate was cruel.”

  Tootie traced Margaret’s feminine signature with her forefinger. “She came back to find out Weevil had disappeared. Another blow.”

  “A pity we can’t talk to her. She loved him so. Surely, she had a feeling, a sense of what truly happened to him.” Sister folded the paper, sliding it back in the envelope. “Love changes you.”

  “Life changes you,” Shaker said.

  Placing the jewelry back in the silver box, Sister couldn’t help winding the watch; she was rewarded with a ticking. “This is why you pay a fortune for these things.”

  “Well, you get what you pay for,” Shaker remarked.

  “This cost a bundle when it was new. It’s worth six figures today.” Sister kept up with values in jewelry, art, antique furniture, and horses, ever horses.

  She liked knowing what things were worth—as Ray used to say, “What the market will bear.”

  “Do we give this to the DuCharmes?” Shaker wondered.

  “Never!” came the swift reply. “Never.”

  Shaker, not arguing, asked, “Explain this to me.”

  “This jewelry never belonged to the DuCharmes. Margaret was a Bradford, hence the old blood, 1607 blood. The jewelry belonged to her mother, her grandmother, and I suspect she bought the watch just for him. Brenden had nothing to do with any of it, and if she had intended it for Alfred and Binky she would have willed it to them. She gave them the jewelry that Brenden had bought her. I saw those jewels on her at the hunt functions. Brenden had good taste, I’ll give him that. Margaret was still alive when Ray and I inherited Roughneck Farm. A woman of peculiar elegance and quietness. Now I know why. She never got over Weevil.” Sister felt the weight of the silver box. “Shaker, get back u
p on that ladder and put this where we found it. You can get the façade brick to stay put. It was reliable for sixty-three years; it will be reliable now.”

  Back they walked, ladder in place. He climbed up and she handed him the box, which he slid into the space, then jiggled and tapped the brick front into place.

  “Thank you,” Sister said as he climbed down.

  “So this is why Weevil stole his horn? For the map.” Shaker folded the ladder, leaning it against the brick pillar.

  The day, perfect October weather, felt wonderful.

  “But Weevil knows where the jewelry is. He drew the map.” Tootie looked up at the brick; you really couldn’t tell.

  “Then why doesn’t he reclaim it?” Shaker asked a reasonable question. “I mean, if he has the horn, which he does.”

  Thinking, Tootie wisely noted, “How can he? If he comes here with a ladder, if he gets anywhere near the kennel, the hounds will blow up. We’ll all know. He’ll be caught red-handed.”

  Sister thought. “Except he’s not red-handed. The jewelry and watch are his.”

  “He doesn’t know we know.” Shaker added this.

  “You’re right there.” Sister appreciated his thoughts.

  “Why did he make that damned video? Why does he blow the horn at our hunts, at the end? He’s my echo.” Shaker shook his head in puzzlement.

  “Maybe that deep, mellow call is meant for someone else.” She inhaled deeply. “If we knew that, I think we’d have this solved. Weevil hasn’t hurt anyone. He might have frightened them, but he hasn’t laid a hand on anyone, other than the marijuana farmer, who had it coming. Margaret is gone. I would think he would want what she left for him. It was a big love.”

  Tootie placed the ladder on Shaker’s shoulder as they walked toward the main office. “How can he be here for revenge? They’re all dead. Maybe he’s here for vindication.”

  Shaker kept walking and said, “She has a point. The DuCharmes accused Weevil of stealing jewelry. They never said it was her own jewelry, but he was marked as a thief. But she’s right, too. They’re all dead.”

  “Including him,” Sister added. “Perhaps.”

  “The man who saved me was as alive as we are.” Tootie spoke with firmness. “He was forceful. He was looking out for me. I don’t know how he knew to be there—or maybe he was back there all along—but he was a good man. I can understand why Margaret, even though married, fell in love with him.”

  Sister stopped as Shaker placed the ladder in the broom closet. “Right. We can assume he wants her gift but there’s something else. Something painful.”

  “Isn’t this painful enough?” Tootie wondered.

  Sister’s alto voice carried emotion. “Rips your heart out but there is something else. I feel it. I can’t find it but I truly feel there is more.”

  Shaker closed the closet door. “Boss, what I feel is that we will find out. How, I don’t know.”

  She nodded. “Obviously, we keep this to ourselves—for now, anyway. Like you, Shaker, I believe we will find out the whole story, and I think it will be devastating.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The clatter of hooves in the covered bridge at After All reverberated. Sister thought each time they rode through the red painted bridge that this is what their ancestors heard, the sounds common in the past. Now few covered bridges remained, although some people did build them on their estates. Romance lingers in a covered bridge.

  A good fifty-two or -three people, in their best ratcatcher, as it was Saturday, October 14, walked through. Hounds on the east side of the bridge, the house side, already began working Broad Creek moving north.

  Tootie remained on the left bank of the creek while Betty Franklin covered the right.

  Dew glittered on the deep green grass, on the few leaves that had already fallen. The temperature would lift in twenty minutes as the mercury was rising. A robin’s-egg-blue sky, never helpful as it meant a high pressure system, filled with a few creamy cumulus clouds, added to the beauty. However, just because it was high pressure didn’t mean hounds wouldn’t find scent. The temperature, nudging just over 40°F, would help; drawing along the creek would also help. Often little wind tunnels blew over creeks, the moisture carrying scent.

  The field, jammed with the regulars, added to the excitement of the day. Kasmir and Alida rode together. Tedi and Edward rode right behind Sister, as this was their property and they were the oldest riding members of the hunt. Bobby Franklin shepherded Second Flight. Cindy Chandler, Foxglove’s owner, sat on Booper, who looked at everything. Booper wanted to hear hound music. Walter Lungrun, Ben Sidell, Freddie Thomas, visiting for the day, Monica Greenberg—sidesaddle, as always—and Amy Burke—also sidesaddle—dazzled everyone.

  Yvonne and Aunt Daniella rode in Gray’s Land Cruiser. Each time Yvonne beheld the smartness of cubbing hunting kit, she became more determined to ride. Cubbing allowed more individual expression in attire. She couldn’t wait to put her list together. She knew it would take years before she earned her colors but her clothing, formal or informal, would be bespoke, her boots made just for her, and she would wear a derby, perhaps with a veil rolled up on the ribbon. She’d tapped the inside of a derby and found out it was hard, as hard as a hunt cap. Tootie told her it depended on the derby, just as it depended on the hunt cap. She also inflamed her mother’s desire by telling her that when she earned her colors she would be entitled to wear a shadbelly: tails. That did it. Tails and a top hat. And perhaps just the lightest touch of lipstick, for a lady should not be made up in the hunt field. This did not prevent “the girls” from their mascara and a hint of blusher. Hairnets contained long hair and some ladies, in a derby, wore an elegant bun just outside the hat.

  The men pretended not to be too aware of fashion, but every single one riding this October morning wore a tweed or light tan jacket, cut to perfection, drawing the eye to those broad shoulders. Their britches were also tan; a few rode in brick britches. The true hard-to-find mustard britches were usually saved for formal hunting, and at that time if he had his colors he wore white britches. Each man wore his butcher boots, no tan tops. The coats carried the subtle colors of the tweed or windowpane stripes. The boot color was in synch with the coat colors. Dark brown, peanut brittle, plain black, or an elegant oxblood/maroon, boots reflected a brown tweed, a blue tweed, or a jacket with a burgundy windowpane. A man’s shirt might be pink, white, light blue, or an egg crème, with a tie that echoed something in his tweed coat. His cap would be brown if the boots were brown, black if the boots were black or oxblood. And, of course, he was nonchalant about it. Getting the harmony between cap, boots, and jacket took concentration. Over the years it became second nature.

  Even if a woman was wildly in love with the man in her life, she couldn’t help but breathe deeply upon observing the smartly turned-out men.

  Sometimes Sister thought the entire point of men foxhunting was to weaken women. She and Betty would giggle about it, and they supposed a lady riding sidesaddle weakened the men. The point was foxhunting was extravagantly heterosexual regardless of one’s sexual proclivities. It was one of the few venues where straight men competed with gay men for who was the best dressed.

  Hounds checked a large tree log alongside the creek. Sister turned to examine The Jefferson Hunt field. How splendid they looked, how shiny their horses. She was not a bragging woman, but she was extremely proud of the field and the condition of the foxhounds. Coats gleaming, fluid movement off the shoulder, bright eyes, and such happiness she loved being part of them. She greeted most of them when they left their mothers’ wombs. What is it about watching an animal or human grow, mature, fulfill its destiny?

  Once in a discussion years ago with Ray, he said, “Destiny is slavery.” Without rancor, that discussion continued for years.

  The last of the field left the bridge. No more clop clop.

  Noses down, hounds worked that log. Someone had walked over it hours ago.

  Giorgio swore, “Aunt Netty. H
as to be the biggest crab in Virginia.”

  Angle, only his second time at After All, as young entry, wondered, “Who is Aunt Netty?”

  Dreamboat laughed. “We’d be here all day but I can tell you, old as she is that girl can run.”

  Zandy added, “She also ran off her husband, Uncle Yancy. She’s a neat freak.”

  “Uncle Yancy had a relaxed attitude about order.” Diana kept pushing.

  Dreamboat joined her. “Heating up a little.”

  “Let’s be sure before we open. Scent will be tricky today. Good low. Will vanish high as the temperature rises and this is Aunt Netty’s signature. She knows everything,” Diana counseled.

  “Here!” Dragon had run ahead.

  “That ass!” Diana spat, ran up to check the spot.

  Now all the hounds, sterns waving, walked in a line as the line literally heated up. Soon they trotted and finally they opened, but they weren’t running hard, working but not running flat-out.

  The territory, expensive and manicured near the house, was easy going, but soon the line slipped into the woods, tidy near the house but the farther away they moved, the rougher it became.

  “She’ll head for the forge,” Pickens predicted.

  “Unless she goes to the Lorillard place for extra treats.” Taz knew his quarry.

  Aunt Netty’s den, very impressive and very neat, was in Pattypan Forge. Uncle Yancy had two outside dens at the Lorillard place as well as his special nest on a wide plank above the mudroom door. Aunt Netty tried and tried again to horn in on it all. She said she’d clean for him. A big fib. She’d nag him to clean. So Uncle Yancy would buy her off with doughnut pieces, or yesterday’s T-bone, to take back to the forge. After wheedling, she would scoop up her bounty and head back, often eating it all before she arrived home. Then she’d fall asleep in her den. The old girl ate a lot but didn’t put on weight. She refused to reveal her secret.

  Hounds stopped, for Aunt Netty had stopped. A conversation with a bobcat must have taken place. The two predators parted. Aunt Netty turned toward Pattypan Forge, across the creek, water flowing southward, a mile and a half away. The path narrowed.