The Hunt Ball (14 page)

“Nothing new.”

“Stalled out?”

“I don't know. Legwork. Ben has to find and put together tiny pieces of tile until he gets the crime mosaic, if you will. He said that most times who the killer is is obvious but in something like this, not at all.”

“His riding is getting better.”

“So it is.”

Shaker pondered a moment. “You know, Boss, I think Lorraine is just about perfect. If only she foxhunted. That's my one complaint. Not that I say much. But I look at Ben. If he can do it, she can, too. Course, you have to want to do it.”

Sister knew Lorraine was taking lessons from Sam Lorillard in secret. She wanted to surprise Shaker for Christmas Hunt. “Well, maybe one day she'll take a notion,” she nonchalantly replied as she sat on the edge of the desk, picked up a stud book from 1971, flipping it to Green Spring Valley. She read absentmindedly, then glanced at Shaker. “Funny thing.”

“What? Their entry?”

“No, chemistry. You and Lorraine have good chemistry.” She closed the small red book. “I keep coming back to this thing with Al Perez. Everyone liked him. Good chemistry. He was an agreeable man. Not charismatic but nice, and he extended himself to others. People miss him. They grieve over his death. And they miss his skills at Custis Hall. He was good at extracting money from the alumnae. So I ask myself, again, why? Circumstances?”

“Amy Childers could have hung him in a fit of jealousy.” He said this without conviction.

“No. If she were going to do him bodily harm she would have done it when their relationship ended. I suppose Ben had to ask her uncomfortable questions but Amy didn't kill him.”

“Circumstances or he crossed someone. You're on the scent, girl.” He smiled; his teeth were straight. He knew her well.

C H A P T E R   1 8

T
uesday, November 22, was the last day of classes until Monday, November 28. The brevity of Thanksgiving vacation ensured that many Custis Hall students stayed put.

A few left the previous Friday, having turned in their papers, taken tests early. Pamela Rene was one of those. Her father sent the company jet for her, which impressed some students, infuriated others. Pamela took it as a birthright but she really didn't want to go home.

Professor Kennedy came to say good-bye to Charlotte before her own departure.

The two women sipped sherry. A misting rain coated the windows, small panes, original to the building.

“We've grown accustomed to you, Frances.” Charlotte used Professor Kennedy's first name once the older woman had given her permission to do so.

“I've met some interesting people and I can't thank you enough for setting up the meeting with Sister Jane and the Widemans.”

“I look forward to seeing St. John's of the Cross myself, but I expect it will be from the back of my horse, first time, anyway.”

Professor Kennedy placed her sherry glass on the silver tray. She smoothed down her skirt. “Charlotte, I will have this report to you by the first of the year. It's painstaking. I want to do the best job for you that I can because this will be the template that future generations refer to and utilize.”

“I know we'll be excited to read it.”

She touched her tight bun for a second. “Refresh my memory, who has keys to the cases?”

“I do. Knute, as treasurer, has a backup key. Teresa knows where I keep my key. Jake Walford, in charge of buildings and grounds, has his own key.”

“No one else?”

“No, why?”

She paused; a pained expression crossed her well-formed features. “I hesitate to discuss this. Part of me thinks I should wait until my report, wait for the fallout, but . . .”

“Yes?” Charlotte's heart beat faster.

“The man who is dead. Did he have a key?”

“No.”

Professor Kennedy's faced seemed inscrutable. “Those cases would be easy to pry open. You'd know, though.”

“Professor Kennedy, what's the problem?”

Speaking quickly and low, Professor Kennedy plunged right in. “There are irregularities among your artifacts.”

“In what way?”

“I believe some of the items are not authentic.”

Charlotte took this in. “I see. Do you think they were not from the Custis family when they were donated to the school?”

“No. I believe some of these items have been tampered with much more recently. But before I risk my reputation on this, I want to carefully go over the photographs and my descriptions with my colleagues.”

“Yes, of course. I can appreciate your position.”

“And I can appreciate yours,” Professor Kennedy said sympathetically.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No.”

“Do you think anyone suspects? Do you have suspicions?” Charlotte leaned forward. She noticed Frances checking her watch. “I can take you to the airport.”

“I have to drop off the rental car. I'm packed and ready to go.” She sat up straight. “I'll have my report to you after the New Year.” She paused. “I don't know the people here well enough to have suspicions. I hope I'm wrong, Charlotte, I truly do, but,” she inhaled deeply, “I know I'm not. My report is going to hit Custis Hall like a bombshell.”

C H A P T E R   1 9

“
W
hy do I have to do it?”
Grace moaned.

“Because you live at Foxglove,”
Aunt Netty answered.

The two reds, one young, the other getting on in years but famous for her blazing speed, trotted by the steady, hypnotic flow of water from the upper pond to the lower pond at Foxglove Farm.

Athena called in the distance,
“Hoo hoo hoodoo hoodoo.”

A light frost coated the meadows silver.

The sun, an hour from rising, seemed on the other side of the world, for this time is the coldest time.

The two vixens reached Cindy Chandler's pretty stable. Cindy put out hard candies for them, which they demolished in short order. Then Aunt Netty, on her hind legs, stood as tall as she could to push up the latch into the sweet-feed bin in the feed room.

The effort it took both girls to flip up the lid was considerable. Once they caught their breath they hoisted themselves up, dropping into the sweet feed, the tiny bits of grain between their toes, the aroma intoxicating.

“I'd rather eat and sleep today.”

“All right then, why don't we compromise?”
Aunt Netty flicked a moist oat off her whiskers.
“You go by the ponds. Oh, make a big figure eight so they'll think they're running a gray. The humans, I mean. The hounds will know it's you. Then just pop into your den. That's easy enough. I'll take it from there and run to the old schoolhouse. I think my errant husband is under there. He left his old den. Lazy ass.”
She sniffed.
“He used to keep a clean den but this last year, he hasn't. He was forever fickle about his living quarters, but really, he's gotten slovenly. All he wants to do is sit on the old window seat at Shaker's and watch the TV through the window. He's getting mental.”

Grace prudently did not mention what Uncle Yancy said about Netty, namely that she had turned into a harridan.
“He takes a notion,”
she said noncommittally, stuffing more sweet feed into her powerful, slender jaws.

So busy were the two vixens that they didn't hear Cindy Chandler come into the stable to braid her horse. Startled, when they heard the thump of the tack room door they leapt up, but the motion brought down the lid.

“Shit!”
Aunt Netty allowed herself a profanity.

“What do we do?”

“Nothing until she comes for a scoop of sweet feed. We'll scare the wits out of her when we jump out.”

Cindy, however, wasn't going to laden her good mare, Caneel, with sweet feed. She put all the hay the mare wanted in her stall, tying the net up so she'd reach with her neck, not her usual practice. But as Caneel merrily tore at her feed net, Cindy knocked off the dust. She had washed the mare the previous night with Show Sheen, so her coat glistened.

Then she brought out a bucket of warm water, a small footstool, took off her gloves, wet a piece of mane, and began braiding.

Most people in the middle years hire kids to braid, but Cindy, having spent time on the show circuit at the highest levels plus training steeplechasers, put in a perfect, tight braid. Kindly and warm, she proved a perfectionist about braiding and turnout. She used a black braid for the mare's black mane. Every now and then she'd honor a holiday, braid with orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas. Her delightful sense of humor was infectious.

The two foxes waited and waited.

“She's starving that mare,”
Grace whined.

“I don't know what she's doing.”
Aunt Netty felt drowsy. Too much sweet feed and sour ball hard candies.

There they sat.

At ten the eighty-nine riders resplendent for the second of the High Holy Days gathered in front of the charming frame house at Foxglove Farm, hugged by English boxwoods. Cindy Chandler had a gift for landscaping and gardening. Wherever one looked there was something to involve the eye.

A prayer of Thanksgiving was given by the Reverend Daniel Wheeler. The hounds gave the good man with his musical voice their attention.

Then off they rode.

Sister and Shaker always discussed the day's cast the night before. They decided that since they'd had such good luck by the ponds last year they'd start there. The farm afforded many opportunities for a brisk ride since Cindy had paneled every fence, indulging in a few special jumps like a new tiger trap behind the stable that led into the pasture holding Clytemnestra, the giant Holstein cow, and her son, growing as large as his mother. The tiger trap at three feet six inches looked like teeth since each log stood up, forming a steeple. Quite impressive except that Cly would step over it and rub her belly. And if she felt bored she'd smash right through it. She evidenced a slight antisocial streak. Orestes, her son, mostly followed momma. He didn't have too many ideas of his own.

The Custis Hall girls as well as Charlotte, Bill, and Bunny rode in the middle of first flight.

When the whole pack of hounds charged into the stable the field watched with uncomprehending fascination.

Shaker called, “Come to me.”

“The fox is here!”
Cora shouted, knowing Shaker couldn't understand but he knew she was honest as the day is long.

Darby shot straight into the feed room.
“It's Grace and Aunt Netty.”

The whole pack in a frenzy squeezed into the feed room.

Shaker dismounted, handing his reins to Sister, who had ridden up.

“Betty, dismount and get in here with me,” Shaker called through the stake.

Betty, on the other side of the stable by Clytemnestra's pasture, flung her right leg over the pommel of her saddle, kicked her left leg out of the stirrup, and hit the ground with both feet. Outlaw didn't need to be held. He stood there, ears forward since he could smell the foxes.

“Oh, this is going to be ripe,”
Outlaw said to himself.

The word spread from horse to horse, which made the hotter ones prance about. Humans not tight in the tack began to fret.

Cindy wondered what could be going on. She'd been in the stable before dawn and she didn't see any fox. Granted she picked up a whiff of eau de vulpus, but that was normal given the hard candy treats.

Shaker paused in the doorway to the feed room. The hounds stood on their hind legs. Tinsel, nimble, jumped onto the feed bin lid, slanted, and balanced there, giving tongue.

The din was deafening.

“Betty, call out to Sister. Tell her to try to hold hounds if they go out her end of the stable. I hope Sybil's where she's supposed to be. If the hounds get through Sister and the field she can keep up.”

Betty ran to the opened large doors, called out to Sister, then hurried back to the other end of the stable. No point in telling Shaker when she mounted up. He'd never hear her with that racket.

“Leave it. Leave it,” he ordered his hounds calmly, voice low.

“We'd better do what he says. Trust him.”
Diana did trust him but it took great willpower to vacate the feed room.

The last hound out, Dragon, grumbled.

“You leave it!” Shaker narrowed his eyes and Dragon knew he meant business. Shaker walked into the feed room.

He stood back, lifting one end of the bin top with the staghandle of his crop. Sure was useful, that staghandle.

“Go right. I'll go left!”
Netty blasted out of there as if she'd been on a launch pad at Cape Canaveral.

“Split the pack!”
Grace let Aunt Netty know she understood the wise old vixen's intent.

The two vixens shot out of the feed bin with such force that Shaker staggered back, gasping.

“Hold! Hold!” He had the presence of mind to keep his voice steady.

The hounds were levitating with the thrill of two foxes brushing right through them.

Shaker, raised a good Irish Catholic, knew that November 24 is the feast day of St. Colman of Cloyne, who spread the good word in Limerick and Cork during the sixth century
A
.
D
. However, he didn't think the dear fellow could help him in his current predicament.

He called upon the saint of impossible causes, “St. Rita, keep my pack together,” as he walked deliberately to Showboat, agog with excitement.

St. Rita must have been otherwise occupied at that moment because Dragon did not hold. He careened after Aunt Netty, who was running through the horses' legs. Crawford lurched forward as Czpaka snorted and whirled, but he hung on.

Walter, surprised by Rocketman getting light in front, slipped off as did a few others.

One could hear, even with the din, “Ommph,” “Aargh,” “Dammit.”

As Netty caused maximum pandemonium, Shaker struggled to mount Showboat, who was backing up, taking Sister, holding tight on to the reins, with him.

“Hold still!”
Keepsake snorted at the high-strung Showboat.

“Hounds are away!”
Showboat knew his job was to be right up there with them. He was neglecting the fact that Shaker was supposed to be on his back.

“Do you want a Come-to-Jesus meeting?”
Keepsake uttered the dreaded phrase that meant major discipline.

That reached the Thoroughbred. Finally Shaker swung his leg over.

While he was doing that, Grace dashed in front of Betty without so much as a “How do you do.”

She slunk under Cly's fence, headed straight for the giant, making certain to step in every cow patty she could find. Cly's patties resembled small islands. Grace slipped through them and boy, could they foil scent.

“Tally ho!” Betty marked the fox just as half the pack blew right by her. She counted heads as quickly as she could but it was more than apparent that half the gang was going in the other direction. Her ears told her that.

Pretty soon the ninnies in the field were bellowing “Tally ho.”

There was no need for this chorus, obviously, since everyone and God could see the redoubtable Aunt Netty. A field should always be silent.

The three masters of Deep Run, along with two ex-masters, Mary Robertson and Coleman Perrin, had come to enjoy the day. They were getting more than they bargained for, and Sister quietly cursed to herself that if your pack was going to piss off they'd wait until another master was present. It's the same principle as your well-behaved six-year-old blurting out some embarrassing personal information when company came calling. So much for saving face!

Shaker knew there was little point in blowing the pack back to him. He noted that Cora, Diana, Ardent, Darby, and Diddy waited for him to tell them to go. He never loved hounds as much as he loved those five hounds at that moment.

“Hark to 'em.” He smiled.

“Yippee!”
Off they flew toward Aunt Netty's trail.

He then blew three short notes, blew them again, and doubled them, hoping the rest of the pack would swing to him even though they were on their own fresh fox.

Betty could read Shaker's mind. She jumped over the tiger trap the second the hounds streaked by her and she was straining to get ahead of them to turn them. No easy task in the best of circumstances. But now Cly took offense at what she saw as a triple disturbing of her repose. First came Grace, then the hounds, and now this two-legged twit borrowing the speed of a four-legged one.

She roared,
“Outta my pasture!”

Orestes mooed,
“Ditto. You'd better do what mom says.”

With that, both bovines charged Betty and Outlaw.

Outlaw, tough as he was, wasn't going to play bumper cars with those humongous creatures. He shifted to the side. Betty, tight as a tick up there, rode it out with ease. Her goal was to get ahead of the split group. Outlaw's goal was to avoid this enraged and terribly stupid cow. As for Orestes, he wasn't even stupid. He was a blistering idiot.

Betty steered for the coop, rider up, on the other end of the pasture. Four feet sure enough but there wasn't a second to lift that rider off.

“Outlaw, let's boogie, baby boy.”

“Piece of cake.”
He picked up speed since he was a compact 15.3 hands. He wasn't going to soar over with a few cantering strides like Showboat. But he took off a wee bit early, clearing it with ease.

Betty started laughing on the other side. My God, this was living.

Gaining on the hounds, she knew far better than to start blathering and cracking her whip. That would only send them on. She had to get in front of those suckers to turn them.

More pastures beckoned. She was now lapping the tail hounds.

“Son, I am deeply offended,”
and with that Cly lowered her head and crashed through the coop with the rider, pieces of black-painted board heaving into the air.

Orestes cantered after her, leaving perfect cloven imprints in the perfect footing.

“That bitch is coming after us!”
Outlaw whinnied.

Hearing the cowbell, Betty turned. “Great day!” she whistled, using the old southern expression for disbelief. “Baby boy, we've still got to turn these hounds.”

She urged him on and they finally reached Trident, up front. She cracked her whip and it reverberated like a rifle shot.

“Leave it!”

Trident hesitated. Betty cracked the whip again. “Leave it!”

The group reluctantly did as they were told because the next reprimand would be ratshot in the ass. They saw the .22 come out of the holster and those little birdy bits could sting.

They stopped. They could all hear the other part of the pack since sound carried beautifully on this overcast day.

“Hark to 'em! Hark to 'em.” Betty's voice shook with excitement, for she could also hear Cly coming, ground shaking.

Bellowing
“Death to the human!”
Cly lumbered toward them like a large black-and-white freight train.

Behind her, parroting mom, was the son.

“Let's get out of Dodge!”
Doughboy sprinted toward the sound of hounds moving fast in the opposite direction.