Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I often wonder if Mom would have been happy with a career,” Binky replied.

  “Another really smart woman.” Tedi nodded.

  “Mom never really found her way.” Binky shrugged. “And I took to fixing cars.” He paused. “Haunting, that horn echo.”

  Tedi nodded again. “Happens almost every hunt now. Very odd.”

  The people at the gathering nattered on. A lively discussion erupted concerning red cords for gentlemen’s top hats. “One can’t find them unless you go online. Easier to find in England.”

  This provoked all manner of why isn’t someone here doing it.

  The subject of garter straps provoked opinions. A leather strap, slid through two slits in the back of one’s boot to hold up the boot, is a garter strap. However, boots are no longer turned over as they were in the seventeenth century. As boots tightened in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, garter straps became no longer useful.

  However, as they had been worn since the reign of Charles II, they were still considered absolute proper turnout.

  Everyone had much to say. Sister settled it as she usually did by following protocol.

  “I understand that thin leather can cut you at the back of the knee. I don’t much like it but on the High Holy Days, I wear the damned garter strap. Four days out of a hunting season, how bad is that? Put a strip of moleskin under your britches at your knee. Saves the blisters.”

  Finally, the breakfast broke up.

  Gray, now in Yvonne’s Continental, carried Aunt Daniella home. Yvonne squeezed in with Sister and Betty, as Sister drove the hound trailer. She wanted to be with the girls and Gray was curious about her new car. Worked out. Tootie rode with Shaker in the party wagon.

  The trip took maybe five minutes, but that was long enough to talk, laugh, plan Tuesday’s hunt.

  Back at the farm, Yvonne stood by while hounds walked into their quarters. Tootie and Betty washed the horses. Sister joined them once hounds were put up.

  Yvonne, enjoying the company, dropped into a director’s chair. She offered to help, but she didn’t know enough to be really useful.

  The horses loved their bath, being scraped down, and then more cookies before being turned out. Each horse was led to his or her pasture. Rickyroo was first. He turned around once in the pasture and faced Sister; she slipped off his halter. Every single time, he would stand there for one moment, then turn and run, run, run to the end of the large pasture. He’d twist around, he’d stand on his hind legs, he’d buck.

  “Happiness.” Sister grinned.

  Each gelding, in turn, performed his own ritual.

  Back in the stable, the center aisle was swept out while Betty, Sister, and Yvonne cleaned tack. Yvonne proved a good tack cleaner.

  “Sam showed me how to do this.”

  Betty was impressed that a formerly famous model dipped her sponge in a bucket and got to work.

  Yvonne regaled them with Aunt Daniella’s comments. “She is ninety-four going on twenty-two.”

  “True.” Sister and Betty agreed.

  “We’re sitting in the car and this divine-looking young man rides by and Aunt Daniella says she’s known him for years. I wonder what her definition of years is,” Yvonne added.

  Just as her mother told this story, Tootie walked into the room.

  Sister and Betty continued cleaning but didn’t say anything as Yvonne repeated the sighting for Tootie’s benefit.

  “Was he blond?” the young woman asked.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Mother, that was the man who saved me at the marijuana patch.”

  “Well, I hope he keeps hunting with Jefferson so I can thank him for saving my baby.”

  “Oh, Mom.” Tootie rolled her eyes, then added, “He’ll probably be out sooner or later.”

  “Think so?” Sister asked.

  “I do.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “You could text her,” Tootie suggested. It was now Monday.

  “Then I wouldn’t hear her voice. If I hear her voice, I know she’s in a good place—or not. People’s voices are like hound voices; they tell you a lot.”

  Tootie closed the gate to the feed room as she and Sister left for the stables. “I never thought of that.”

  Sister smiled at her. “Of course not. You’re twenty-one. Or is it twenty-two?”

  Tootie teased back. “I’m going to take a lesson from you and Betty. A woman who will tell me her age will tell anything.”

  That made the older woman laugh. “I never said that.”

  “No, she did—but you agreed.” Tootie teased some more.

  “There may be some truth to it. I’ve wondered for years how many years Aunt Daniella has shaved off her age.”

  “She’s ninety-four, five?” Tootie was shocked.

  “Actually, I suspect she’s closer to ninety-six or maybe even ninety-seven. But we all dutifully repeat that she’s ninety-four.”

  “How can it matter?”

  “Oh, honey, look at all those women whose hair is dyed change-of-life red. Naturally, out of kindness, I will not mention any lady in our hunt club.”

  Now Tootie’s curiosity took over. “Do they really think we don’t know?”

  “Some do, but I think for most of us we only know what we looked like when we were young. We can’t bear to look at this somewhat different face. Which brings me to face-lifts. You can always tell.”

  “I can’t. I mean if they’ve just had it done and their face and eyes aren’t quite settled, I can. You know, Sister, it’s major surgery. I mean, it’s dangerous.”

  “I do know. And any surgery can be dangerous. One never knows. I have seen some fabulous face-lifts. Like you said, the face has to settle and then it can look terrific for a couple of years.”

  Hearing that tone in Sister’s voice, Tootie asked, “What next?”

  “Well, gravity always wins. So sooner or later your face will fall a bit, and the wrinkles, if you’ve had your face lifted, never quite fall in the right place.”

  “Oh.” Tootie happily walked to the closest pasture, leaned over a fence, and whistled.

  Ears pricked up. Iota, Rickyroo, and Matador thundered up.

  “Sweet crimped oats. I have a taste for them.” Iota gave her his softest most loving look.

  Matador, a gentleman, waited as the gate opened. Sister put his halter on with his very own nameplate. Tootie did the same for Iota. Then they pushed the gate back open to walk to the barn.

  Rickyroo, the oldest, followed along. He didn’t need a halter or lead rope. He stuck right with his beloved Sister.

  “Crimped oats. You are spoiled,” Matador called to Iota as Tootie put him inside his stall to eat quietly at his feed bucket. Otherwise, each horse would bump another horse to eat out of that bucket. You had to make sure no one was getting better food than yourself.

  Rickyroo walked into his stall, bucket filled. You could hear him eating, knocking his bucket a bit against the heavy stall side.

  Raleigh and Rooster slept in the tack room. They’d walked hounds with the humans, listened to endless hound gossip, then worn themselves out when Rooster stole Sister’s old ball cap. This ball cap could have been a museum exhibit. Raleigh did finally drop it in the tack room. Sister picked it up, wiped it off, slapped it on her silver hair.

  In the rafters, Bitsy peered down. Oats, bran, even cracked corn proved no temptation. She wanted the ham from a ham sandwich, or any kind of meat. It was too early in the day for sandwiches. She paid close attention to when and where the humans ate. When they went inside the house her disappointment engulfed her for all of two minutes. It did mean, though, she would need to hunt.

  Opening her little wings she glided down to sit on top of the wrought-iron railing between Rickyroo’s stall and Aztec’s stall.

  “How can you eat that stuff?”

  Rickyroo, who liked the little gossip, replied, “It’s so sweet. Now I like my hay, don’t get me wrong, but there is something s
pecial about sweet feed in a bucket.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Isn’t this the best time? October, early November, and then mid-April and May. Just the best,” Bitsy babbled.

  “I like it because even though our schedule changes, when the weather is so good we’re out most of the time. But spring means the end of hunt season. Makes me sad,” Rickyroo stated, then changed the subject since he knew Bitsy redefined nosiness. “Do you know who this young fellow is who comes around at night?”

  “The broad-shouldered blond fellow?” She lifted up her wings, then folded them down again. “Don’t. He parks an old work truck off the road in that little place in the woods where Sister has a feed box. Then he walks down here. He looks at everything, especially the cottage, then he walks back. Doesn’t disturb the hounds.”

  “He brings carrots, feeds us over the fence.” Rickyroo told her what she already knew, since Bitsy watched everything. “He likes horses. I like him.”

  “He knows where things are. He usually has a folded map in his back pocket. I can fly close but he can’t hear me. He doesn’t take anything. He just looks.”

  After the horses ate, Sister and Tootie turned them out again. They then headed for the kennels.

  “You forgot to make your call,” Tootie reminded her.

  “I’ll do it later. I want to pull out a few hounds, have a critical look. It’s not too early to start thinking about hound shows.”

  “Giorgio,” Tootie said.

  “He is gorgeous. I want to look at Aero and Aces.”

  Once in the kennels, Sister asked Shaker to bring out the two littermates, as well as Asa, the grandfather.

  He stood by Aero; she had a beautiful head.

  “Well, she’s still a little weedy,” Sister remarked. “I don’t know if she’ll fill out in time for the shows.” Then she looked at Aces. “On the other hand, he’s right there, isn’t he?”

  “A good-looking hound.” Shaker stood Asa next to him for comparison.

  When younger, Asa had won a few shows.

  Sister studied them, then stopped. “I am so stupid. I can’t believe how stupid I am!”

  She rarely raised her voice so both Tootie and Shaker stared at her.

  Aero, young, said, “Would a Milk-Bone make her feel better?”

  Asa replied, “She’s usually so calm. Maybe a wee drop of Scotch would help.”

  Sister looked at the wonderful hounds, then at Shaker and Tootie. “My God, it’s right in front of my face and it took me this long to see it.”

  “What?” Shaker had no idea what she was talking about, nor did Tootie.

  “Look at Asa. Look at his grandchildren, especially Aces. Like as spit.”

  “That’s why we’re considering them for the shows. A lot of times, qualities skip a generation,” he said.

  “Weevil.”

  “What?” Tootie was now very interested.

  “Weevil. He’s not a ghost. I am willing to bet you just anything, Weevil is Weevil’s grandson. Skipped a generation.”

  “Then what the hell is he doing here being a ghost?” Shaker handed each hound a cookie.

  “I have no idea. Not one. I am getting in the car and driving to Aunt Daniella. If anyone would have an idea, she would.”

  —

  Calling first, Sister appeared at the formidable lady’s door within twenty minutes.

  Hearing her theory, Aunt Daniella, in her wing chair, nodded. “Could be so.”

  “But Aunt Daniella, why? You knew Weevil. Do you know how he died?”

  “No. When Weevil walked with me that sunset day, he unnerved me, as he truly looks, sounds, even moves like Weevil. But even though I believe there are spirits, people can conjure them down, but then can you conjure them back? He seemed so alive—and he is. I believe you’re right.”

  “Then he must know something about how his grandfather disappeared.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe he just has an idea and he thinks he can scare it out of people.”

  “But Aunt Daniella, wouldn’t the guilty parties be dead?”

  “Sister, perhaps there is more. He needs proof, and being a ghost is a good way to weasel it out of people. Why now, who knows?”

  “All we do know is that he’s spoken to you and Tom Tipton.”

  “True. But he may have showed himself to other people who fear talking, and he may be relying on Tom and me to talk. I just don’t know.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

  Aunt Daniella immediately responded, “Not to us.”

  “I see.” Sister folded her hands together thinking. “Time. I need time to figure this out.”

  “Honey, in time, even an egg can walk.”

  CHAPTER 31

  A thin blade of wind slid across Sister’s face. Fall had truly arrived, for last night, Friday, a frost, not hard but not light, silvered the pastures. Today, October 21, a lowering sky promised not much rise in the temperature, which at nine-thirty A.M. hovered at 45°F. No doubt it would climb into the 50s, but those clouds just might hold scent down. Given that the breeze was stiff, this would be desirable.

  Tuesday’s and Thursday’s hunts saw a couple of good runs. The first hunt, held at Skidby, proved bracing. Thursday’s hunt at Mousehold Heath was going along just fine until the neighbor’s herd of goats managed to break through his fencing. Poor hounds. Goats everywhere. Horses upset and some people now on the ground. Sister and Shaker had no choice but to call hounds together, walk them back to the party wagon, and put the horses back in the trailer. The young couple who owned Mousehold Heath, Lisa and Jim Jardine, were both at work. They didn’t have much by way of money, doing most of the work on the old house themselves, including their own fencing—and it wasn’t their fence that was breached. But the damned goats would tear up Lisa’s garden and God knows what else. The hunt stalwarts—and Thursday’s crew was maybe twenty people—set out on foot to round up the goats, herd them back onto their property, and then repair the fence as best they could. Helping landowners, a foxhunting tradition, often tested the ingenuity and muscle power of hunt clubs. Fixing the fence so it would hold had members cutting down tree limbs. Ronnie Haslip kept a small chain saw in his tack room. He swore it upped his butch credentials. Using baling twine, people pieced the breach back together. It would hold until the neighbor fulfilled his responsibility and truly restored the fence. Such things were crystal clear in the country.

  After both Tuesday’s and Thursday’s hunts, all heard the cowhorn call. But as she left the fence on Thursday, Tootie, lagging behind, looked back down the small rise to see Weevil, on his hands and knees, adding to the fence. She stopped and whistled. He looked up, waved, and whistled back.

  Back at the farm, Sister called Jim Jardine at work. He worked for a large plumbing company; those skills were very useful at home. He was grateful to the club. Sister liked the young couple, as did everyone, and people hoped the day would arrive when Jim would strike out on his own.

  Hounds, having been stymied on Thursday, were eager to go on Saturday. Kasmir wanted everyone back at Tattenhall Station at least one more time before Opening Hunt, which loomed on the horizon, each year taking place at After All Farm, a tradition since 1887.

  Sister asked Crawford to join them, but he politely declined as he wanted to be at Old Paradise that afternoon when old, reclaimed lumber would be delivered. He did allow Skiff and Sam to join the hunt, leaving their hounds at Beasley Hall.

  “Some of these gusts have to be fifteen miles an hour.” Shaker leaned toward Sister before they took off.

  “If we get low that will help.” She stated the obvious.

  “Sure, and the fox will run high the minute we get his scent.” Shaker shrugged.

  “Oh, I bet we get a run or two.”

  Tootie waited on the left of the pack while Betty, as usual, covered their right.

  As they moved south from the train station over the restored pastures, good orchard grass still green, people ducked their head
s due to the wind. Even with gray skies, the vibrant reds, pulsating oranges, clear bright yellows announced high fall. To their right, the Blue Ridge Mountains exploded in color, although the top ridgeline trees were now denuded. Higher and colder, it was already early winter up there.

  Hounds, noses down, moved across the pasture. They worked under no illusion that they’d strike a line. Up ahead woods beckoned. Maybe there.

  Once in the woods, treetops swayed but lower it wasn’t too bad. Riders who wore heavier coats were grateful, and most everyone had slipped on some kind of warm underwear. Sister would pull on an ancient white cashmere sweater, over which she would button her crisp white shirt. Her keeper’s tweed coat repelled just about any type of thorn as well as wind blasts. Keeper’s tweed, a greenish heathery tightly woven fabric, proved a godsend. She tied a colored stock tie, silk maroon with tiny yellow polka dots. Her gloves were unlined. Usually one didn’t need lined gloves until the mercury dipped to the 30s. Her oxblood, highly polished field boots, two pairs of socks on her feet, finished off the kit.

  A few riders yanked up their collars to ward off the wind. Once in the woods, though, one could concentrate on hunting, not battling the weather.

  Hounds patiently made good the ground. It wasn’t until they dipped down toward the swift creek that Pookah spoke.

  She’d proven herself last year, so hounds honored her. They all trotted on a line that they and the staff hoped would warm up.

  It did.

  A wily red foraging in Tattenhall Station Woods heard hounds ten minutes back. Not wishing to work too hard, he took off, leaving a tantalizing signature.

  Hounds spoke louder now. The pace quickened. They ran along the path by the creek. Then the line moved up toward the thick woods. Slowed a bit, they pressed on.

  A good run followed this, and the pack emerged at the southern end of Kasmir’s property. An in-and-out jump divided his land from Beveridge Hundred. Two coops in the fence lines provided one jump, and three strides later, another jump, hence the name in-and-out. Not everyone kept their leg on their horse; some became stranded between the jumps. This rarely added to good fellowship, and Freddie Thomas found herself yelling for Sam Lorillard to give Keith Minor a lead or the whole field would be backed up.