The Hunt Ball (11 page)

The phone rang again.

“Goddammit!” Sister picked it up and said in a modulated voice, “Hello.”

“Sister, this is Marty Howard and I'd like to bring a guest tomorrow.”

“That's fine, Marty.”

“Well, it's a last-minute thing and she only has black field boots. Might you overlook it?”

“If you can't call around and find a pair of boots to fit her, of course.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night.” She hung up the phone. “Now I'm wide awake.” She grabbed the book next to the table,
The Life of Frank Freeman, Huntsman
by Guy Pagent, published in 1948 by Alfred Tacey, Limited, Leicester, England.

The phone rang again.

“I am going to rip this infernal thing out of the wall! Why are people calling me this late?” She picked it up. “Hello.”

A deep voice said, “If I reveal myself I'll be killed. Al Perez had his hand in the till. He's not alone.”

“What?”

Click.

She sat there for a moment, phone in hand, then put it back in the cradle. The odd tinty sound of the caller's voice was unnerving.

“Close to home,” she said aloud as she dialed Ben Sidel.

C H A P T E R   1 3

T
oday, the summation of fall, was flooded with soft sunshine. As fall lingered long this year many trees still dazzled red, orange, yellow, and true scarlet. The sky, an intense blue, was cloudless. The mercury at ten
A
.
M
. sat on the sixty-six-degree line but would surely climb. This was a perfect day for everything but foxhunting.

As the Reverend Judy Parrish from Trinity Episcopal Church blessed the hounds on the beginning of the one hundred and eighteenth season, the crowd of two hundred people smiled. The hounds gathered around the divine as she stood on a mounting block so people could see her and so the dog hounds wouldn't take a notion to offer their own blessing.

Diana observed the Reverend Parrish's vestments flowing slightly in the light breeze. People's clothing fascinated her and she thought it must be a bother to have to decide what to wear and be confined in it. Paying for it was the final insult. She had only to wash her sleek coat and go about her day.

Diana wondered why the Reverend Parrish's robe was white with a multicolored surplice whereas the Reverend Daniel Wheeler's robe was black, his surplice representing the ecclesiastical season. The Reverend Wheeler gave a blessing on Thanksgiving as that was the Children's Hunt and the youngsters adored the Reverend Wheeler.

Diana considered asking Cora, who was older and wiser, but knew if she so much as opened her mouth a dirty look would shoot her way from the huntsman.

As they disembarked from the party wagon, their special van, he told them sternly, “No loose tongues. Be respectful.”

Sister, on Lafayette, stood to the left of the hounds; Shaker, on Gunpowder, was on the right. Betty and Sybil discreetly stood farther back just in case.

Tedi and Edward opened their house for this special day. Hospitality, second nature to them, made everyone feel part of the ceremony even if they'd not so much as fed a carrot to a horse in their life.

As the hounds, the horses, the foxes, and lastly the humans were blessed, Sister lifted her eyes to take in the large field, all one hundred and thirty of them. This number, unwieldy for a field master, was dwarfed by the four hundred or so who would take to the field on Boxing Day in England. Entire villages poured out along the road to cheer them on. For an American hunt, one hundred and thirty people in the field and another two hundred on the ground constituted a sizable number. She knew her people could ride. About the visitors, well, they'd either hang on or dot the landscape in their best clothes.

The best riders of Custis Hall came. Charlotte and Bunny sat beside each other. Bill Wheatley, in a weazlebelly with a robin's egg blue silk stock tie, not incorrect if one studies the mid-eighteenth-century prints, was also there. Bill's theatrical nature would leach out somehow. He had to be noticed.

Sister was glad Charlotte kept the girls on their schedule. Charlotte's judgment impressed Sister. Over the last nine years she had ample opportunity to observe what to her was a young woman. At seventy-two, someone forty-three is young.

Her eyes lingered on Gray Lorillard next to his brother, Sam, and Crawford and Marty. They hadn't a minute to catch up, although he did sprint to her truck when she pulled in to give her a big hug and a kiss. He made her feel like the most special woman in the world. And he was handsome. His hair was salt and pepper, his military mustache set off his straight white teeth, and his deep voice had a melodic, hypnotic quality. The other thing she noticed about Gray when they'd begun dating last year was his hands, slender but strong.

Bunny Taliaferro also had lovely hands.

She really didn't know why she looked at hands. Maybe it was because a horseman needs good hands, but not necessarily pretty ones. She valued both.

A moment of silence, then Shaker coughed.

She smiled gratefully at Shaker, for he brought her back to the task at hand. “Hounds, please.”

He clapped his cap on his auburn curls, the cap tails dangling. They walked at a stately pace down the long winding drive; at the covered bridge he put his horn to his lips, pointed Gunpowder to the right, and blew for the hounds to get to work. “Lieu in there.”

“Finally!”
An exasperated Dragon bolted along Snake Creek.

For all his eagerness and everyone else's the day was a blank. No master wants a blank day even if Jesus Christ himself couldn't get a fox up on a day with a high-pressure system overhead, dry, bright, and now seventy-two degrees. Still, everyone enjoyed a gorgeous ride and came back to the trailers in two hours. Even at the leisurely pace at which they moved along some people managed to part company with their horses.

As the hounds drank water back at the party wagon, Crawford walked over and said to Shaker, “That bitch has drive.”

He had pointed to Dragon.

“Dog hound,” Shaker simply replied.

“Ah, well, you ought to breed him.” Then Crawford walked toward his wife, who had just emerged from their dressing room in the horse trailer.

Shaker seethed.

Sister shrugged. “He has to be the authority.”

“No authority on manners and doesn't know squat about hounds.” Shaker stroked Diddy's head.

“You're right about that.”

A hunt member should never presume to tell staff or the master what to do or how to do it. Crawford had told the huntsman what hound to breed, thereby committing two sins. First, he had breached etiquette. Second, he had revealed a dangerous ignorance should he ever get the opportunity to breed a pack. Beware being seduced by a brilliant individual. Always study the families, study the bloodlines.

The breakfast exceeded even the last Opening Hunt breakfast. This time Tedi and Edward brought down an oysterman from the Chesapeake Bay who shucked oysters right out of an ice-crammed barrel. There were clams, too. Half a pig turned on the outdoor spit over open coals, as did half a lamb on a second spit, the roasting pit glowing orange. Twelve people had been employed to serve the guests; blue-and-white-striped tents set up outside provided shade since it proved so hot.

Two bars, four bartenders, worked feverishly. Foxhunters have hollow legs, but in the heat even the abstentious developed a powerful thirst.

The muffin hounds, like Knute Nilsson, who didn't ride but came for the party, to see friends off, were in line for breakfast, which started at noon. The riders needed to sponge down their horses, water them. Tedi and Edward, having hosted many a breakfast, knew to keep the food coming. No rider should go home hungry.

Each long table had a low fall display, sheaves of wheat, with a miniature French hunting horn in the middle.

Tedi thought of everything. Sister, Walter, Tedi, and Edward moved from table to table making sure everyone had what they needed.

The girls from Custis Hall, thrilled to be part of the big day, and equally thrilled not to be eating Custis Hall food even though it was pretty good, sang, and then prompted others to join in.

Bill stood up, held up his hands like a conductor, and they belted out “Do ye ke'en John Peel.”

At the last chorus everyone joined in. Many guests now felt no pain.

Charlotte, who managed to attend Opening Hunt after all, touched Sister's sleeve as she passed the table. “Thank you, Master. Another wonderful Opening Hunt.”

“Given the temperature, we could have gone fishing instead.” Sister laughed.

Charlotte pulled her down and whispered in her ear, “I'll talk with Bill on Monday. I wanted to do some investigating of my own first and I thank you, too, for alerting me to something so sensitive.”

Sister squeezed Charlotte's shoulder and moved on.

Ben Sidel, elbow to elbow with Henry Xavier, nicknamed X, a boyhood friend of RayRay's and therefore dear to Sister, was extolling the virtues of his horse, Nonni.

Sister chatted with the men, then moved along.

As Ben's eyes followed her, X remarked, “I'll bet she's pissed about Al Perez being hanged on her property.”

Ronnie Haslip, another childhood friend of RayRay's, said, “Who wouldn't be?”

“Yes, but the difference is she'll figure it out. No offense to you, Ben,” X declared, his vest unbuttoned since he really was becoming rotund.

“No offense taken,” the genial Ben replied.

“Any ideas?” Ronnie liked being close to the action and gossip, and he liked the sheriff.

“Ideas are one thing, hard facts are another. The only thing I can tell you is he was hanged to death. He wasn't killed somewhere else, then strung up.”

Ronnie shuddered. “Hope it was fast.”

“It wasn't. He didn't drop far, so his neck didn't snap. He strangled to death.”

Ronnie and X looked at each other, then at Ben.

X dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He may have been fat, but he was dainty. “Doesn't make sense.”

“It will. Once all the pieces are in place there's something inevitable about the puzzle.” Ben knew talking business was part of his job, just as being a doctor meant you heard everyone's symptoms. He noticed Walter Lungrun getting an earful from neighbor Alice Ramy.

As Sister swept by one of the end tables she noticed a small bespectacled figure walking toward the tents. A woman, perhaps in her early fifties, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes searching, came toward Sister as Sister extended her hand.

“Hello, I'm Jane Arnold, welcome.”

In a faltering voice, the lady held out her small hand. “I'm Professor Frances Kennedy from Brown University. Is Mrs. Norton here?”

“She is. Let me take you to her, but please make sure you get something to eat. Can I get you a drink?” Sister also noticed that she wore beautifully made monkey's fist gold earrings and one simple old ring, oval, with a black onyx stone, a crest engraved thereon.

“No, thank you,” Professor Kennedy respectfully declined.

Sister noted, making her way through the people, that Professor Kennedy was frail, not just thin. She wore a pleated skirt in the Kennedy tartan, a crisp white blouse, a Celtic brooch on her left shoulder. Her features were Caucasian, although she was African American, which made Sister wonder if her people weren't originally Ethiopian, as they so often have sharp features.

People's ancestry fascinated Sister, but that could be said of most Virginians, who, try as they might to avoid it, find that chickens come home to roost in middle age. By that time you look like your people. Blood tells.

“Charlotte, this is Professor Frances Kennedy. Professor Kennedy, this is Mrs. Charlotte Norton, headmistress of Custis Hall.”

The look on Charlotte's face, welcoming but questioning, left Sister to wonder just what was going on. Then she noticed that Pamela Rene beat a hasty retreat to the smorgasbord.

Charlotte made the student next to her give her seat to Professor Kennedy and she sent Valentina for a plate of food and Tootie for a drink once she extracted what libation the quiet-spoken lady preferred.

“I'm here to examine your artifacts.” Professor Kennedy smiled shyly as she gratefully sipped iced tea, a sprig of mint floating on top.

C H A P T E R   1 4

F
ace flushed even to the roots of his wavy silver hair, Bill Wheatley sputtered, “I demand to know who is spreading filth and calumnies about me!”

“Bill,” Charlotte's voice remained calm, “I can understand your being upset, but no one is spreading filth. This came as an observation from students and I took the precaution of calling former students. No one has accused you of improper conduct or sexual harassment.”

“Well, they're calling me a Peeping Tom!”

“Now, Bill, what the girls have said is that you often walk in and out of their costume fittings and changes. Peeping Tom hasn't escaped anyone's lips. Just try to remain calm and explain this, uh, habit to me.”

“I'm head of the theater department for Christ's sake, Charlotte. I oversee all the plays, every aspect of production. And you know, costume design was where I made my name before marriage and three children forced me to think about job security.”

“I appreciate that. You need to fit and refit costumes. And I repeat, no one has implied that you have touched them or said anything inappropriate. It's just that you seem to pop in when they are in, shall we say, states of undress.”

“I don't care. I don't even notice!” He lied a little.

“Now, Bill, you don't expect me to believe that, do you? I'm a woman. Even I'd notice.”

He stopped, stared hard at her, then looked up at the ceiling. “Well, if one of the girls is, well, you know,” he motioned with both hands rolling outward over his chest, “how can I not see them? Not that the girls are topless. Just, well, Charlotte, what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I want to clarify the issue and let you know that some of the girls feel uncomfortable.”

“They're at that age, terribly self-conscious.” He nodded. “Growing pains and all that. I'm getting close to retirement age, adolescence in reverse. That's how I think of it. My legs buckle and my belt doesn't.”

She smiled. “Just don't go in the dressing room anymore. Everyone's on pins and needles. I'd hate to see this get blown out of proportion.”

His gray eyebrows shot upward. “A suit? You mean someone would bring a lawsuit against me?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don't think anything would go that far.”

“Oh, Charlotte, all a judge has to do is see a young woman cry in the dock and whoever is accused, even if he's as innocent as John the Baptist, his head will roll.” He inhaled deeply. “I have loved teaching here. This is my home. But I'm glad retirement is near. Things have changed, Charlotte, not for the better. If you hug a student, it could be sexual harassment. If you say anything, even in explaining our past, that could be construed as sexist, racist, or demeaning to some group. You're put in the stocks and rotten eggs are thrown at you. And then you resign. It's crazy. It's out of control.”

“I agree, Bill, it's gone too far, but I also know that for centuries, those with power thought nothing of mocking those without. I can sympathize with oversensitivity.”

“Oversensitivity is one thing, using it to harm others or climb up over their backs is quite another. That Pamela Rene is a little shit, I'm telling you. She's stirred up a hornet's nest over those artifacts. Do you know what she did last week? We're rehearsing
A Raisin in the Sun,
one of my favorite plays. Talk about a slice of history. Well, she didn't know her lines. I reprimanded her and she said why not use cue cards? She's a spoiled brat and she hates Valentina and Tootie.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They're more popular. She tries to bulldoze people. Valentina, in particular, has already mastered the art of consensus. If she can hold it together, that kid will be our first female governor or senator.”

“I agree. But back to the subject at hand. Do you agree not to go into the dressing rooms?”

“How am I going to check costumes?”

“Why can't a girl come to you?”

“All right.” He folded his hands in his lap. “I see your point but I go on record as saying this is a bit silly.”

“Silly or not, Bill, we have a major problem facing us and this school doesn't need any more jolts.”

His face reddened again but he agreed. “All right.” He paused. “Who is that tiny little black lady in Main Hall?”

“Ah, yes, Teresa and I need to alert all the faculty. Administration knows but I haven't gotten to faculty yet. She's an expert on slave life and labor from 1800 to 1840. She's a kind of social archaeologist.”

“From where?”

“Brown University.”

“Ah, then she is big beans.”

“Seems to be.”

“That was fast. I thought the search would take longer.”

“Let's just say that Pamela has stolen a march on us.” She held up her hand. “But she really has found the right person to assess our treasures.”

“Have you checked her credentials?”

“I called the president of Brown this morning and, I'm happy to say, she called right back. Professor Kennedy teaches two classes a week, Wednesday and Friday, and we will pay her way back and forth until this is finished.”

“My God, how long will she be here? Knute Nilsson will have a cow!”

“So far he's given birth to a small calf,” Charlotte remarked. “Professor Kennedy thinks she can complete a thorough physical examination in two weeks' time, so that's two trips to Rhode Island and back. She'll take photographs and can work from those. It could be worse from a financial standpoint.”

“Yes, but you'd think there would be someone from UVA or William and Mary.”

“Bill, of course there are. Professor Kennedy comes from a school north of the Mason-Dixon line and, under the circumstances, that's to our benefit.”

“Because anyone from a Virginia school is tainted by being southern? Even if they're African American?”

“M-m-m, I wouldn't put it in those words. The woman is at the top of her field. That's our insurance policy. That she hails from Brown just ups the premium, if you will.”

He sighed. “I never was any good at politics. You are, and we're better off for it.” He unfolded his hands. “Like I said, I'm glad retirement is near.”

“Custis Hall won't be rejoicing.” She reached over and touched his hand.

“Thank you.”

“I had one other matter.”

“What?” He was wary.

“Did you design the Zorro costume that Al Perez wore?”

“Yes. Remember when we did
The Mark of Zorro
? Well, it's quite simple. I can't take too much credit for it.”

“And Al asked to borrow the costume?”

“Yes. That's not unusual.”

“No, not at all. Although I hope you encourage them to make small donations.”

He laughed. “I don't. See, I'm just not political and I guess I'm not much good at business either.”

“Did you make sure the costume fit?”

“No. He tried it on and said it was fine. Al wasn't tall or stout. I thought he looked good in it.”

“Do you know who took him back into the costume storage area?”

“Uh, let me think. Pamela. She didn't stay with him of course. He picked it up the day before the party.”

“I know you're overburdened, but would you write this as a report? Write it, have Pamela read it and sign it also, and turn it in to me. I doubt it will have bearing on the case but I think it would be prudent if you were proactive.”

He frowned. “I guess it would be And no one has any idea?”

“No.”

“What a horrible sight that was.”

“None of us will ever forget it.” She noticed Teresa was buzzing her with the light on the intercom as directed.

Charlotte would give her the time frame for each meeting and when the time was up, she'd buzz or set off the flasher.

Bill knew the drill. He stood up, then sat down because Charlotte hadn't stood up. “Sorry.”

“Wait a minute.” She rose, walked over to her desk, and hit the intercom. “Teresa, thank you.” Then she returned to Bill. “How many Zorro costumes did the department make?”

“Two. One would be cleaned while one was being worn. The cape was a light wool, so it would hang properly. I showed the students how to sew chains, thin bracelet-sized chains, into the hem of the cape. Chains kept the cape down but the actor could still flip the cape up and out. If I hadn't put in the chains every time Zorro, it was Randi Walsh, remember?” He paused.

“Yes, she was quite athletic.” Charlotte nodded.

“Well, every time she passed an air duct the cape would have fluttered up. Hence using light wool with the chains.”

“How smart.”

“Coco Chanel beat me to it.” He smiled broadly. “Only she sewed hers, little gold chains, on the inside of the jackets, allowing them to show. I buried mine inside the lining.” He waited a moment. “Which reminds me. When will Al be buried?”

“Rachel is sending his body to his family in San Antonio. They'll have the service there.”

“What about here?” His eyes misted. “I miss him. I especially liked eating lunch at the faculty table because Al could be funny.” He paused. “We visited Rachel right after Al's death but, really, I don't know what to do. Should my wife and I go over more often or leave Rachel alone?”

“Rachel advised me that she would prefer something after Christmas vacation.” Charlotte felt so sorry for the young widow and mother. “She's exhausted at having to go through this and plan the family funeral. Of course, she wants it to be special when we have a service. And she doesn't want it before the holidays. As for stopping by regularly, Rachel, like anyone who has suffered a shock, needs support.”

“You're right.” He changed the subject. “So the coroner is finished with the autopsy?”

“Yes, but I didn't ask for details, obviously.”

Charlotte rose and this time Bill rose with her.

He held out his hand. “I apologize for losing my temper.”

“Apology accepted. As for losing your temper, I think I would, too.”

“No, you wouldn't. You're cool under pressure. I admire that. We all do,” he finished as she clasped his hand. “I'm glad you told me the scuttlebutt. It would have been far worse to hear it from someone else. And I will not walk into the dressing room.” He released her hand. “God only knows what else will come up. This tragedy has let the genie out of the bottle.”

“Emotional upheavals bring all kinds of debris to the surface, but we'll get through it.”

That afternoon the temperature began to drop. Indian summer crept away in the fading sunlight. Sister and Shaker rode up to Hangman's Ridge as they were working Keepsake and HoJo. It was their last set of horses who hadn't hunted Saturday. They'd ridden Lafayette, Aztec, and Showboat earlier.

Neither one especially liked Hangman's Ridge, but it was high so the sunlight lingered longer there, the meadowlands below already nestled in darkening shadows.

After twenty minutes of cantering and trotting along the wide expanse they turned for home, traveling the farm road, which was the way they had ridden up.

“Boss.”

“What?”

“Mind if we walk down the narrow trail? There's enough light. I didn't clean it up before hunt season like I should have. I made a halfhearted pass at it in August. If we go down that way I'll see how much there is to do.”

“Get Walter to organize a work party. Or I will. We've got a lot of territory to clean up and panel at Little Dalby.” She cited a new fixture, a beauty of two thousand acres that backed up on Beveridge Hundred, an old fixture.

“Who convinced the new people, the Widemans, that they needed us?” He smiled.

“Marty Howard.”

“She did?”

“She designed their gardens as well as giving them some ideas about creating allées of sugar maples, an unusual choice, but I'm interested to see how it turns out. She also mentioned the living brush fences at Montpelier, and I guess that set them off. Marty let it be known that if a hunt crosses your land your property values rise, and think of the statement it would make if the fences were brush. She selected English boxwoods. Can you imagine the cost?”

“Good girl, our Marty.”

“She is, isn't she? Crawford's been bugging me to come along when I feed the foxes. Says he wants to learn more about the quarry.”

“Can't stand him.” Shaker said this with little emotion as it was an old topic. “I know he's important to the hunt, I know he's underwriting the hunt ball, but I just think he's an ass. And I don't like the way he looks at Lorraine. He even said to me that Lorraine was hot. I wanted to smash his face. I don't like that kind of talk.”

“She's a beautiful woman. All men look at Lorraine.”

“Not the way he does.” Shaker closed his lips tight.

“He has strayed off the reservation. I can understand how you feel, but I don't think Crawford would be stupid enough to cross you or Marty. He's learned his lesson.”

The trail wasn't as bad as they thought it might be.

“Wonder if that old den is in use again.”

“The one just above the wildflower meadow? I don't know. Let's see.” She was always eager to keep tabs on her foxes, with whom she felt a spiritual affinity.

“The young ones left their home dens around the beginning of November. We might have a new tenant.”

“We used to have a wonderful running fox that lived there six years back.”

He started to say that with the deer season upon them and coyote mating season firing up, the leaves brittle on the ground, releasing a pleasing but pungent odor, the next few weeks would be difficult for hunting, but she knew that. Shaker and Sister felt every nuance of their environment.

They slowed; the old den was on their right. With some of the underbrush now leafless, the den could be clearly seen. A clever location, it afforded good privacy, had many entrances and exits, and was less than two hundred yards from a clear, fast-moving feeder stream to Broad Creek. The wildflower field to the west was nice enough from a fox's point of view, but the hayfields to the east, the hay rolled and stacked alongside the edge of the fertile field, provided field mice, rabbits, and voles lovely places to make their homes. It was a convenience store for foxes.