Браун Рита Мэй

The Hounds And The Fury. The Tell-Tale Horse

5. THE HOUNDS AND THE FURY

CHAPTER 1

Silvered with frost, the geometric patterns on the kennel windowpane displayed Nature’s gift for design. Sister Jane Arnold stared at the tiny, perfect crystals, then turned back to the large old oak desk in the middle of the office. In warmer weather the back door of the office would be open to the center aisle in this, the main kennel. She found it comforting to inhale the odorof her hounds, to hear them breathing as they slept on their raised beds. Today, Boxing Day, December 26, Monday, the mercury clung to twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. The office felt warm at sixty-eight degrees, and she gave a small prayer of thanks that she’d found the money to put in a new heat pump and venting for the main building. The hounds, nestled in their straw-filled beds, threw off body heat, so the thermostat in their portion of the building was kept at forty-two degrees. The actual temperature hovered near fifty. The two medical rooms were warmer. Fortunately, no one was in sick bay.

Christmas culminated in such frenzy that Sister wished Joseph and Mary had been sterile. Sister found Boxing Day one of the happiest days of the year. In England, thousands would turn out in the villages and along country roads to witness hundreds of vigorous folk riding to hounds. The ban on foxhunting, voted by Parliament in 2004 and coming into force February 2005, was a sorry work of class hatred. The first Boxing Day after the ban was 2005, and British foxhunters rode out to a man. Local authorities declined to arrest these men and women. Constables knew that foxhunting benefited the livelihoods of their communities. The bizarre aspect of the foxhunting ban was that not even the most fervid Labor Party members pretended they wished to save foxes. It was perfectly fine with them if the farmers shot the beautiful creatures. The whole point of the ban was to punish those suspected of wealth or title from enjoying themselves. The fact that most English foxhunters were middle-class people was lost in this revenge on the wealthy few. As the Labor Party had created seven hundred new criminal offenses under Tony Blair’s leadership, the fact that noncountry people tolerated these infringements on their rights shocked Sister.

She wondered whether Americans, no longer conversant with country life—and worse, feeling superior to it—could become as illiberal as the Laborites. The political push to ban foxhunting in America would start on one of the coasts, but Sister believed it wouldn’t succeed. Americans still retained vestiges of common sense. Better yet, Americans did not hunt to kill the fox. They were content to chase the highly intelligent creature until he finally eluded them—easy enough for the fox.

Sister’s study chair had rollers on it, and in a burst of enthusiasm she propelled herself around the room and spun backwards.

Shaker Crown, the huntsman, opened the front door at this moment.“Someone’s happy.”

“Three hundred and sixty-four days until next Christmas. Thank you, Jesus.” She braked, putting both feet on the ground.

“Amen, Sister.”

They burst out laughing.

“Hounds had a wonderful Christmas. Nothing like warm stew. I remember watching my father cook it up outside. The pot was large enough to hold three missionaries.”

He smiled.“Horses liked their treats, too, as did I. Thank you for my Dehner boots and my bug guard.”

“Do you think they really work?”

“Bug guards?” He paused. “Not now.”

“I deserved that.” She rolled her eyes at his droll remark. They wouldn’t work now because it was winter, hence no insects were flying around outside.

“Sure they work. That curve at the top sends the bugs away from the windshield.”

“Maybe I should get one for my GMC. You know, I’m still getting used to it. Drove the other one 287,000 miles and buried it with honors.” She smiled at him. “I actually considered parking it in front of the kennel and making a huge planter out of it.”

“You cut the bed off the truck and use it for a wagon.” He pretended to think hard. “Could still fill with dirt and spring bulbs.”

“No point wasting something that can be useful. All I had to do was sand the edges so we wouldn’t cut ourselves, put a Reese hitch on it. If nothing else, we can put a big old water tank up there, and I can water my trees on the drive if another drought comes.” She crossed herself as if warding off the evil eye, for droughts caused terrible damage.

“Heard anything?” After crossing himself, Shaker changed the subject.

“Not a peep.”

He sat on the edge of the desk as she rolled back to it, replying,“He’ll be vicious.”

“Marty can’t calm him down?” Shaker named Crawford Howard’s wife.

“Crawford was publicly humiliated. Even the ministrations of his good wife won’t help. His ego is in a gaseous state, ever expanding.” Sister threw up her hands, exasperated.

“He deserved it, loading hounds up like that, then setting them loose during the hunt ball.”

“Of course he did! After you belted him, he knew he couldn’t stand up to you, so unleashing hounds was his revenge. And a damned sorry one. He wasn’t entirely sober, which only made matters worse. He’s lucky I only slapped him.”

“Hard. Everyone in the room heard that crack.” Shaker relished the recollection.

“Too bad I didn’t have a roll of nickels in my palm. Then I’d have broken his jaw. Now, that’s a happy thought, Crawford Howard with his jaw wired shut.”

“Strange we haven’t heard anything. Betty hasn’t, either. I called her.”

“You surprise me.” Sister didn’t expect him to call Betty Franklin, one of her best friends, an honorary whipper-in.

He folded his arms across his chest.“I didn’t get us in this mess, but I made it worse.”

“When a man pulls down your fianc?e’s evening gown, even if he was pushed and tripped, most of us can understand the response.”

“Poor Lorraine. She’s still embarrassed.”

“Honey, any woman with that rack should never be embarrassed. Entire careers have been built on less.”

He smiled.“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“She is. You two are a good pair and a good-looking pair to boot.”

He walked over to the kennel-side door.“Sound asleep.”

“I often envy them. They are loved, have the best of care, and do what they were born to do. Think of the millions of people in this world struggling at jobs that aren’t right for them. They might be flourishing financially, but deep in their hearts, they know this isn’t what they should be doing with their lives—and, oh, Shaker, how fast the time slips away.”

“Got that right.” He returned to the desk. “Hope we can hunt tomorrow.”

“Me, too, but feel the storm coming? Truth is in the bones.”

“Seen the sky in the last hour?”

“No, I’ve been in here rooting through the old stud books.”

“Look.” He opened the front door, and they both stepped out into the biting air.

Gunmetal-gray clouds stacked up behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“Moving faster than the Weather Channel predicted.” She noticed the tops of trees swaying slightly. “Going to be a big one. We’d better get all the generators in place, just in case.”

“Already did. Up at your house, too.”

Relief filled her voice.“Thank you.”

“Rather deal with snow than ice.”

“Me, too.”

“Boss, you think Crawford will sue?”

“He doesn’t have much of a case. It would be a hardship on us, of course, but ultimately it would be worse for him. My hunch is he’ll forego that and do something where he can use his wealth as leverage.”

“Like withdraw his support to the club?”

“That’s a given.” She rubbed her shoulders. “It will hurt, too. His largesse covered about 25 percent of our annual budget.”

“He’ll go to Farmington Hunt or Keswick, maybe even Deep Run, and throw money at them. If he can keep his ego in check, he might even get along with most of them. What master doesn’t need money for the club?” Shaker put his arm through hers, and they stepped back into the office. Sister settled back into the warmth of the office, glad the door was closed. “Ego is the key word.”

“Hard on Sam.”

Sam Lorillard of the Lorillards, an African-American family that had been in the country since before the Revolutionary War, possessed both intellectual and athletic brilliance. Unfortunately, a tendency toward alcoholism had also passed from generation to generation among both the white and black Lorillards. Gray, Sam’s older brother and Sister’s boyfriend, had escaped it. Sam had not. He was currently sober after much suffering. Attending Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings helped.

The black Lorillards had taken the name of their owners, common enough in the Old South. Not even the pull of convention or ideology could keep the two sides of this vast family apart. A Lorillard stayed a Lorillard.

Before sobriety, Sam had wreaked so much damage throughout the Virginia horse world that he’d descended to living at the train station downtown. He and the other drunks sucked up Thunderbird, panhandled, took odd day jobs. Eventually, he got clean and, with Gray’s financial help, back on his feet. But no one would hire him. Crawford Howard, however, who was relatively new to the townand the club, did. He had no preconceived notions. Sam was loyal, drunk or sober. Sister knew he’d stick with Crawford even if he cringed at Crawford’s revenge. Shaker knew it, too.

Shaker glanced out the window again.“We’re in for it.”

“In more ways than one.” She pulled on her fleece-lined old bomber jacket and wrapped her red scarf around her neck. “Bring it on. If nothing else, we’ll find out who is the stronger.”

“My money is on you.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you. We’re in this together.”

“Hey, if there’s a fight, you’re the one I want at my back.” He threw his arm around her shoulders.

Since Sister was six feet tall and Shaker five ten, he reached up slightly. She was strong in her early seventies, smart as the foxes they hunted. He was thirty years younger, quick and muscular. They made a sensational team as master and huntsman, each intuitive concerning the other.

Outside the wind was rising.

“You know, we might get a foot out of this.”

“Plow’s on the old 454.” Shaker mentioned the old Chevy with the mighty engine.

“Sometimes I welcome a storm.”

“Nature’s pruning.”

“Clears the air. Trouble’s easier to deal with if you see it coming. We see this coming.”

Sister was right in that. Trouble that creeps up on little feet is far worse. That was coming, too.

CHAPTER 2

Like white molasses the winter storm moved so slowly that by the afternoon of Wednesday, December 28, the last bands still spit snow over the mountains and valleys of central Virginia. The power stayed flowing, a miracle under these conditions. If the storm didn’t knock down lines, some fool going sixty miles an hour in an SUV usually skidded off the road, taking out a utility pole. The snow, heavy and steady, kept even the owners of sixty-thousand-dollar SUVs at home.

Until midnight, every couple of hours, for two days, Shaker fired up the Chevy 454 to plow the farm roads and the paths to kennels and stables. By morning’s light he was back at it again while Sister fed and checked the hounds and horses. The horses when turned out played in the snow. The hounds in the big kennel yards frolicked as well until worn out, when they snuggled down into their condominiums raised off the ground. The wraparound porches onthese eight-foot-square, four-feet-high buildings glistened with snow. Before winter’s onset, Sister and Shaker had bolted on an addition to the large openings, blocking most of the frigid air. The opening, facing away from the northwest, could accommodate two hounds passing through. Sometimes inearly morning Sister would walk out into the quarter-acre yards to see the steam floating out of the condos from the hounds’ body heat.

She’d started at five-thirty this morning, accompanied by Raleigh, her Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier. Golliwog, the long-haired calico, felt that the deep snow would clump on her luxurious, much-groomed coat. She elected to lounge on the leather sofa in the den as the fire crackled in the simple, beautifully proportioned fireplace.

Sister returned every three hours to toss hardwood logs on that fire, put logs in the kitchen walk-in fireplace, and cram full the wood-burning stove in the cellar. The heating bills stayed down, thanks to the stove and fireplaces. The split hardwood logs came from dead trees on her property or the property of friends. Country neighbors helped one another in this fashion. Someone usually had an excess of fallen timber somewhere.

Sister told Shaker to keep plowing. She’d do the chores. Trudging through deep snow wearied her legs. Even with the paths cleared, in no time there’d be a bit more snow. Double-checking the condos was what told on Sister’s legs, even though hers were strong. At least her feet stayed warm in her Thinsulate-lined high work boots.

Another squall sent tiny flakes down. The big flakes looked pretty, but the tiny ones stuck. Little bits stung her cheeks, touched her eyelashes.

She’d put out kibble for the foxes on the farm in three locations. She figured Inky and Comet, gray foxes, brother and sister, and Georgia, Inky’s grown daughter, were toasty in their straw-lined dens. Each fox had only to go a few yards to the five-gallon bucket with the hole drilled in so they could pull out food. The small hole kept larger marauders from raiding the buckets, although raccoons and possums could fish out the small kernels of food. Once the snows subsided, walking would be easier. She’d move the feed buckets farther from the dens.

Shaker chugged along. He stopped outside the stable as she came out.

“How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. Did you check the Weather Channel lately?”

“Two hours ago when I filled up the fireplaces. Should end about five.”

“Jeez,” he whistled.

“You’ve got your girlfriend in the cottage.” Sister nodded at the smoke barely rising from the chimney before flattening out. “Bet she’s making barley soup.”

He smiled underneath the lumberjack cap pulled low over his auburn curls.“Want some?”

“I’ll be by later. Who could pass up Lorraine’s soup?” She rubbed her hands together. “While I remember, Delia’s looking a little ribby. I fed her separately and threw in some extra vits. Let’s not hunt her until she puts the weight back on.” She paused. “Starting to show her age a little.” Then she sighed. “She’s a good solid hound.”

“Old Piedmont blood.”

“Yep,” she agreed. Delia’s blood went back to a hunt established in 1840 that had used hounds bred for Virginia conditions by the Bywaters family, one of the great names in American foxhunting.

As he rolled up the window, slowly pushing snow again, she whistled for the house dogs, busy trying to catch a mouse in the feed room. The mouse would have none of it.

“Come on, boys. Come on, let’s have a cup of hot tea, and then we’ll come back and bring in the horses. Sun will set around quarter to five. Going to be a bitter night.”

No sooner had she stepped into the kitchen, the oldest part of the house, than the phone rang.

“Sam.” She recognized Sam Lorillard’s voice. “How are you doing over there?”

“Okay.”

“What can I do for you, Sam?”

“Crawford’s still in a rage.”

“Crawford’s not taking this out on you, is he?”

“No, no”—his voice lowered—“he’s really good to me. Marty, too. Politics,” he said, assuming she’d understand he needed to stay out of it, which she did. “The reason I called is before the storm hit, early Monday morning, I drove up to Green Spring Valley Hunt in Maryland to look at a timber horse, a balanced, sixteen-hand, flea-bitten gray. Good mind. Smooth, bold over fences. Crawford was interested, but the horse is too small for him. Crawford’s packing on weight again. This is your kind of horse: bold, kind, beautiful.”

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s a lot of horse and only six years old. Duck Martin knows the horse. Sheila Brown, too, and I think Ned Halle is friends with the owner.” He named the three masters of Green Spring Valley Hounds, all tremendous riders. Green Spring Valley was one of the great hunts in this or any country.

“Why doesn’t one of them buy it?”

“Full up. You’ve got good horses, too, but you could use another made horse. You could throw a leg over him right now and go. He’s that good.”

“Why is the owner selling?”

“Getting out of the ‘chasing game.’”

“All right, give me the number and I’ll see what’s what. I sure thank you for thinking of me.”

“Sister, you’ve been good to me, and well, I know things are going to be tense for a while. I don’t want to lose my job, but I’ll keep you posted.”

“Everyone knows you need the job, Sam. No one will criticize you for it. And I’ll never reveal my source.” She chuckled.

“This is Virginia.” A note of sarcasm crept into his voice.

“You’re right. Some will criticize you, but they’ll end the sentence with ‘Bless his heart.’”

“Right,” he agreed.

“Sam, what’s the horse’s name?”

“Matador.”

“Bold name.” She liked it.

Sam lowered his voice, even though Sister was sure he was alone.“One other thing, Crawford’s always been on good terms with Jason Woods. Better terms now.”

“Oh.” Sister wondered what Crawford’s real interest was in the good-looking doctor. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“No. But Jason, Crawford, and the Bancrofts are the big-money people in Jefferson Hunt. No secret that Crawford will leave.”

“We all figured that.” Sister actually felt some relief that Crawford would be out of the club.

“I suspect he’ll pull Jason with him. I know the doctor hasn’t been in the club but so long. He’s the kind of member people want. Rich.”

“Yes.” Sister paused. “And often those members will give more as they settle in, really become part of the club.”

“All I know is Crawford is up to something.” He waited a beat. “See you on Matador.”

After the call, Sister checked each of the fires as the water heated. She poured herself a restorative cup of orange pekoe. While the tea warmed her she called the number in Maryland. Once she learned that the top line of the gelding went back to War Admiral and the bottom line traced to Golden Apple, a chestnut mare born in 1945, she made an appointment to have a vet check the horse. There are some people with whom you do business on their word; Sam was one. If he said it was a good horse, it was. Add the“staying” blood, and Matador was probably more than good. She made a note to send Sam a finder’s fee if this worked out. Sam needed all the money he could get. Next she called a vet she knew in Carroll County, Maryland. The sky had darkened; she piled her gear back on and went out to bring inthe horses.

Raleigh and Rooster tagged along.

“You’ll be cold, paws wet, I’ll be warm as toast,” Golly called after them.

“You’re a big hairball the devil coughed up,” Raleigh replied over his shoulder.

Incensed, Golly grabbed Raleigh’s big knotted rawhide chew, but it was too big for her to damage it. She shredded one of Sister’s needlepoint pillows instead. [Êàðòèíêà: img_3]

As Sister and Shaker finished the day’s chores and hurried in for barley soup, Samson “Sonny” Shaeffer, president of Farmers Trust Bank and a dear friend of Sister’s, received a phone call.

“Sonny, it’s Garvey Stokes.”

“How are you doing in this storm?”

“The kids love it,” Garvey replied. “They’ve worn me out.”

“By tomorrow every house in the county will have a snowman.”

“Yeah,” Garvey agreed. “I called to do a little business.”

“Sure. Anything I can help you with now?”

“Well, I’ve got a shot at tying up fifteen tons of aluminum, very high grade at $1,680 per metric ton. The Chinese are snapping up everything. I think by spring the price per metric ton will top out at $2,300. Of course, you never know, but despite the slowdown in demand by the auto makers for aluminum, I still think prices will climb. So I was hoping for a modest expansion to the business line of credit.”

“We should be able to accommodate you.”

“Business has been great, booming,” Garvey added.

“Once we can all get back to our offices, I’ll send over the paperwork.”

“Okay.”

After a few more pleasantries, Sonny hung up. He was glad to have Garvey’s account, Aluminum Manufacturers, Inc. The company made everything from window frames to the small caps on top of broom handles. It was one of the largest employers in the area. For the past five years Garvey had been buying up smaller companies in Virginia as well.

A good businessman, he hired competent people and trusted them to do their job while he concentrated on creating more business, seeking greater opportunities for profit.

Garvey, a foxhunter, rode the way he hired: bold with brio, if occasionally too impulsive. Better to have impulsiveness as a fault than to be too cautious in both business and foxhunting, although sooner or later one would tumble. Garvey trusted he’d get right back up again, and so far his trust had not been misplaced.

CHAPTER 3

The Blue Ridge Mountains stood like cobalt sentinels, reminding those who knew their geology of the time before human time when Africa and part of South America slammed into this continent during the Alleghenian Orogeny, pushing up what then were the tallest mountains in the world. These collisions had occurred between two hundred fifty million and three hundred million years ago, knocking into rock already over one billion years old.

Time’s unchallenged power affected Sister Jane. Each time she beheld the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, she paid homage to the forces of nature and to the brevity of human habituation: only nine thousand years by the Blue Ridge. At this exact moment, she was paying homage to the wisdom of the red fox,Vulpes vulpus.

Target, a healthy red in luxurious coat, had traveled too far from his den on After All Farm, the neighboring farm. He graced Sister’s Roughneck Farm. The Bancrofts, Sister’s beloved friends, owned After All. Hounds gaily shot out of the kennels at nine in the morning, skies overcast. Hunting in snow presented interesting tests for a pack of American foxhounds. The glowering skies, perfect for hunting, presaged well, but the snow would release scent only as the mercury climbed up from thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Today it stuck at thirty-eight degrees. Little snow melted. In the shade of towering pines and spruces, the mercury shivered below thirty-two degrees. But a fresh line is a fresh line, whether on dirt, sand, soft wet grass, or snow. A fresh line allows hounds to get on terms with their fox, and this morning highlighted both Sister’s and Shaker’s own good hunting sense. The hounds did the rest.

The small field, nine people, trotted behind the thirty-two couple of hounds gaily working what was called the wildflower meadow, a half mile east of the kennels, east of the sunken farm road that wound its way up to Hangman’s Ridge.

The two whippers-in, Betty Franklin and Sybil Bancroft Fawkes, rode at ten o’clock and two o’clock in relation to the pack. Shaker rode at six on the clock dial. They’d already moved through the mown hay field, which had been treated to a good dressing of fertilizer and overseeded before the hard frosts. The snow couldn’t have been better for the hay field.

On level ground the white blanket was piled to a foot. Wind kicked up deep drifts. Other spots had but two or three inches, thanks to the winds. Trouble was, you couldn’t readily tell the depth of the snow just by looking at it. If the temperatures remained low and another front passed through, this packing of snow would become the base for more powder. Weeks might pass before it melted in the deepest folds of ravines. Sometimes the snows in those places wouldn’t melt until April.

Sprays of white powder followed the hounds. Clods of snow popped off the horses’ hooves. The chill air brought color to everyone’s cheeks.

On Thursdays, Sister’s joint-master, Dr. Walter Lungrun, could join them. Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Gray Lorillard, Charlotte Norton, Bunny Taliaferro, Garvey Stokes, Henry Xavier (called “X”), and Dr. Jason Woods filled out the field this Thursday, December 29.

Diana, anchor hound, paused by a low holly bush. She inhaled deeply before moving to a dense bramble patch, which even without leaves was formidable.

A small tuft of deep red fur fluttered on a low tendril replete with nasty thorns. Large pawprints, rounder than a gray fox’s, marked Target’s progress. He’d meandered through in a hunting semicircle coming from the east.

“Target,” Diana called out.

Cora, the strike hound, Asa, Diddy, Dasher, and Dragon hurried over. All hounds put their noses to the bluish snow. Just enougheau de Vulpes, fresh on the surface, kept hounds moving. Their long wonderful noses warmed the air as it passed through.

As hounds, sterns waving, eagerly pushed this line, Sister passed the brambles. Her sharp educated eyes noted the tiny red flag. She observed the fresh prints, fur showing around the pad, preserved in deep snow as perfectly as fossils in stone.

“Close.” She thought to herself, echoing the assessment of her hounds.

Shaker still did not lift the horn to his lips.

“Let the young entry come up to the scent,” he thought to himself as four couple of first-year students joined the pack today, their very first hunt in snow.

Both Shaker and Sister liked hounds to figure things out for themselves, to be problem-solvers, a trait natural to foxhounds in general. It was one thing to call out in heavy coverts, or in ravines to give a toot just to let the hounds and whippers-in know where he was, but in open ground, he liked to be silent, with a word or two of encouragement to a youngster.

Both master and huntsman loathed noisy, showoff staff.

The“A” young entry looked ahead as the pack lengthened their stride.

Shaker smiled down at the gorgeous tricolored hounds and quietly said,“Hike to ’em, young ’uns.”

Picking up their pace, ploughing through the snow, within seconds they filled in the pack. As yet no hound opened, spoke to the line, but all those gifted noses kept down.

Cora, the richness of years and high intelligence to her credit, wanted to make certain the line was growing stronger and fresher before she sang out. She didn’t much like poking around old lines of scent when fresh ones could be found with diligent effort. Being head bitch as well as the strike hound, she occasionally needed to chastise younger hounds who, in their excitement and desire to hunt, opened too early. Sometimes they would babble on the wrong quarry. That would never do.

Dragon, proud, competitive, and desperately wanting to become the strike hound, pushed ahead of Cora and called out,“Come on.”

Cora, livid that the younger dog hound had challenged her authority, bumped him hard, knocking him in the snow. As she passed him she bared her fangs. Even Dragon, arrogant as he was, knew better than to start a fight during hunting and certainly not with Cora.

The pack opened, the young entry lifting their voices. Mostly they knew what they were doing, but sometimes the excitement of it overcame them and they’d“Yip, yip, yip” in a higher pitch than the other hounds.

Target, hearing the hounds, picked up his handsome head and looked around. The wind, light, blew away from him in a swirl. Once out of the shallow bowl he happened to be in at that moment, the wind would revert to a steady breeze from west to east. He realized he hadn’t smelled the hounds because of where he was. The little wind devils didn’t help. Being lighter than the hounds, he could run on snow with a crust on it, but this fresh powder slowed him. Target was not in an enviable situation.

Perched high in a two-hundred-year-old walnut, St. Just, king of the crows, peered down with relish. Perhaps this would be the day when he would watch Target die. He hated this fox with a vengeance, for Target had killed his mate.

Also observing the hunt was Bitsy, the screech owl. Curious and tiny, but big of voice, she was returning to her nest in the rafters of Sister’s barn when she heard the pack. Bitsy, social, liked to visit other barns and other owls. She’d enjoyed a night of feasting on various tidbits at Tedi and Edward Bancroft’s barn with a regular barn owl who lived there. That particular bird also lived for gossip, just like Bitsy.

None of the owls liked St. Just or any of the crows. Crows sometimes mobbed them in daylight. The battle lines were clearly drawn. St. Just and his minions feared Athena, the great horned owl. In fact, any animal with sense kept on the good side of the Queen of the Night. She could hurt you.

She wasn’t in sight, so St. Just, emboldened, began calling for his troops to rouse themselves. Within moments the edge of the nearby woods filled with cackles and calls. Those crows dozing in the walnut tree awakened, their bright eyes focusing on the laboring fox in the snow.

The sky filled with black birds circling the fox.

St. Just dive-bombed the big red, who snapped with his jaws.

Hounds were gaining, and the fox and crows heard Shaker blow one long blast followed by three short ones. Three times this sequence was played, which meant“All on.” All hounds ran on the scent.

To those riding behind, their bodies as warm as the tears on their faces felt cold, the hounds flying together on the blue snows was a sight they would always remember.

Target hoped he’d live to remember.

Bitsy flew wide of the crows to stop and assess the situation from the top of the recently vacated walnut. She flew back, and since she was an owl she could fly slowly, the marvelous construction of her feathers’ baffling silencing her approach.

“They’re a quarter mile behind.”

“Bitsy, help me,” Target pleaded as he ran.“See if the pattypan is open. Used to be an old den there.”

The pattypan, so named for its circular shape, had been a small forge built immediately after the Revolutionary War. After World War I it had fallen into disuse, although burrowing animals found it a wonderful place for a home.

The crows shadowed Target, the braver ones bombing him, slowing his progress. The edge of the woods, now one hundred yards ahead, could be his salvation, but he had to cross open ground—and therein lay the danger.

Cora could now see, dimly, the big red pushing through the snow, his brush straight out. Sister, too, could see him and knew from his brush that he wasn’t fatigued or beaten, but he was in peril. Target’s stride, shorter than the hounds’, was now, though not usually, a problem. He flattened his ears, his heart pumping, and he ran straight as an arrow.

A young male crow swerved right in front of him to slow him, but Target, quick as a cat, lashed out with his front paws and batted the bird down, then crushed its neck in his jaws. He bit into the body, kept the bird in his mouth, and trailed blood for ten yards before dropping the crow.

St. Just waxed apoplectic.“Kill him, Dragon! Kill him, Cora!”

The odor of fresh blood threw off even Cora for a moment. The intoxication of it slowed the pack down just a second or two, but that was enough for the fox to reach the woods.

“The old den is clear; you can get in.” Bitsy noticed the blood on Target’s jaws. “The old deer path is better going. Not as much snow on it.”

The sheltering pines, oaks, hickories, black birches—the whole rich panoply of eastern hardwoods and pines—did keep the snows lighter on the deer path. Target sped along.

As the field rode along the narrow path the thunder of hooves brought down the snow on the boughs and branches. Showers of iridescent spray slid down collars, stuck to eyelashes, and secreted themselves into the tops of boots.

Target spied the thick walls of the redbrick forge ahead. He lunged forward, skidding into an old woodchuck den whose entrance was at the outer wall of the forge. Over the centuries this den had developed into a labyrinthine maze worthy of a tiny minotaur. Safe, he flopped on his side to catch his breath.

Dragon vaulted through a long window four feet off the ground, the glass long ago pulverized. Diddy, Dasher, and Cora followed, Asa last over the windowsill.

“There’s got to be more denholes!”

Cora looked around. The interior was intact.“There are plenty of holes, Dragon, but he’s not going to pop out.”

“We can dig him out,” Diddy, young and excited, squealed.

Shaker blew three long notes, then called,“Come back.”

“Better go,” Asa advised as he also heard the rest of the pack baying, digging at the outside den entrance.

As the five hounds turned to obey their huntsman Cora lifted her head. She trotted over to another window where snow streaked across the floor. A raspberry, congealed lump the size of a tin of chewing tobacco, glistened. She drew close, inhaled deeply.“Human.”

Asa joined her, putting his nose close to the lump.“Indeed it is.”

Calling again, Shaker half-sang the words,“Come along.” He blew “Gone to Ground,” which should have excited them as well as the hounds outside.

“What’s this mean?” Diddy asked, puzzled.

Dragon, having given up on a promising denhole, now stood by Diddy’s side.“Don’t know. Someone could have cut themselves.”

“But there’s no footprints. And no scent.” Diddy, young though she was, already displayed formidable powers of logic, powers necessary to a good foxhound.

“Scent’s long gone by now.” Asa furrowed his brow, wrinkles deepening between his ears.“And the storm blew snow over whatever footprints there might be.”

Diddy inhaled again, her warm long nasal passages helping to release what scent remained.“I’ve never smelled human blood before. Since this is frozen, it must be very strong when it’s fresh.”

“’Tis,” Asa simply replied.

“Sure a big glop.” Dragon, too, was baffled.

“Human blood is never a good sign. Never.” Cora, voice low, turned from the blood against the snow to leap through the window, followed by the others.

Bitsy sat on the spine of the slate roof, almost as good as the day it had been put on in 1792. She’d watched everything, and her amazing little ears had picked up tidbits of the conversation inside the pattypan forge. St. Just then dive-bombed her.

“One of these days, Bitsy, I’ll get you!”

She blinked, ducked, then opened her little wings to scuttle through a window. St. Just flew in after her. She emerged on the other side only to be confronted with the whole angry mob of crows.

Shaker knew Bitsy. When Cora, Dragon, Asa, Dasher, and Diddy had rejoined the pack, he praised his hounds, patting them on the head.

“Bitsy, come down toward me.” Then he called to the little brown owl, badly outnumbered.

The hunt staff, as well as some of the other humans, recognized Bitsy, for her curiosity lured her into their company. She’d watch people disembark from the trailers, she’d sit on the barn weather vane, or she’d hang out in the big tree opposite the kennel door. Every now and then she’d emit the screech for which her type of owl was named. It could freeze one’s blood as sure as that frozen lump in the forge.

Bitsy, not as fast as the crows, kept her head down, which was pretty easy for her, and she flew to the edge of the slate roof closest to Shaker and the den entrance.

Target, inside, heard the commotion. If the pack hadn’t been out there he would have helped his friend. Under the circumstance, his emergence meant instant death.

The crows, wild with rage, ignored the human underneath them. They continued to attack Bitsy.

A huge pair of balled-up talons knocked one crow out of the throng. Then another. The people below, the horses and the hounds, looked up to behold Athena, her huge wingspread out to the full, her talons balled up like baseballs, wreacking havoc among the crows.

St. Just cawed loudly, then sped off, his squadrons with him. Two dazed crows lay in the snow.

Tinsel, a second-year hound, started for one.

“Leave it,” Shaker said quietly.

Tinsel quickly rejoined the pack.

“Never saw anything like that in my life.” Walter was gape-jawed.

“Me neither, but I know enough not to mess with a great horned.” Sister, too, was dazzled at the winged drama. She spoke to Shaker next. “Pick them up. It was a very good day for the young entry.” She smiled down at the pack. “Very good day for the Jefferson hounds.”

As they walked back, Sister motioned for Charlotte Norton to ride up to her.

The attractive young headmistress of Custis Hall, an elite preparatory school for girls, came alongside Aztec, Sister’s sleek young hunter.

“What a beautiful sight, the pack running together over the field.” Charlotte was radiant.

“Do you ever think of what we see? Things most folks never see. They see the tailpipe of the car in front of them.” Sister marveled at the patience of people for sitting in traffic as they shuttled to and from their jobs.

“We are very, very lucky. One of the things I try to impress upon the girls is how we have to work together to preserve farmland and wildlife. They’re receptive, for which I’m grateful.”

“You’re a good example,” Sister complimented her. “Do you ever regret being an administrator instead of faculty?”

“No. I really love being at the helm of our small ship.” Charlotte felt passionate about education, particularly at the secondary level.

Although many of her peers were climbing the ranks at major universities and some had already been named as presidents of smaller colleges, Charlotte felt fulfilled.

“Have you been having a good Christmas vacation?”

“I have. Carter had a few days off from the hospital. We drove up to D.C. to the National Gallery, to the Kennedy Center. I like being reminded of why I married him in the first place. He’s such fun, and I’m always intrigued by his observations. It’s that scientific mind of his.”

“I miss the girls.” Sister mentioned the Custis Hall girls who had earned the privilege of hunting with the Jefferson Hunt. “Tootie and Felicity e-mail me. Val has once.”

Bunny Taliaferro, riding instructor at Custis Hall, rigorously selected the toughest riders for foxhunting. The prettiest on horseback competed in the show ring, since there was high competition among the private academies. But the toughest, some of whom were on the show jumping team, foxhunted.

“They’re so buoyant, so full of life and dreams. They make me feel young again,” Charlotte beamed.

“Me, too, and I have more years on me than you,” Sister laughed. “Funny though, Charlotte, I feel younger than when I was young. I love life and I love my life. Sometimes, I feel light as a feather.”

“You look light as a feather. And you fool people. They think you’re in your fifties.”

“Now, Charlotte, that’s a fib, but I thank you. You never met my mother, but she grew younger as she grew older. Energy and happiness just radiated from her. Dad, too, but he died before Mother. She made it to eighty-six, and if she were alive today, the technology is such that she’d still behere. But I think of her every day, and I’m so glad I had that model. It must be difficult for people who grow up with depressed parents, or drunks or angry people. Makes it harder to find happiness because you haven’t lived with it.”

Walter Lungrun, riding behind them and a colleague of Charlotte’s husband, Carter, was head of Neurosurgery at Jefferson Regional Hospital. Riding with him was Jason Woods, a doctor in the oncology department; both men could hear them because the snow muffled the hoofbeats. “If you can’t be happy foxhunting, you can’t be happy, period.” Walter smiled.

“Hear, hear,” the riders agreed, toes and fingers throbbing with cold.

“Because of us.” Aztec believed riding cured most ills for people.

“Hound work, that thrills ’em,” Asa, the oldest dog hound in the pack, said with conviction.

As they neared the kennels Athena and Bitsy flew toward the barn.

“Mutt and Jeff,” Sister remarked.

Tedi Bancroft, her oldest friend, also in her seventies, laughed.“You know, there are generations that never heard of Mutt and Jeff.”

“Never thought of that—the things we know, silly things I guess, that younger people don’t know. Well, they have their own references.”

“References are one thing; manners are another. The boys still haven’t written their Christmas thank-you notes.” Tedi thought her grandsons lax in this department.

They really weren’t. She had forgotten how long it takes to become “civilized.”

“Tedi, they’re good boys.” Sister believed in the young. Her eyes followed the two owls. “I’ll tell you, girls, let’s stick together like Bitsy and Athena. A friend in need is a friend in deed.”

Up in the cupola, Bitsy, thrilled at her near miss and by what she’d heard inside pattypan forge, breathlessly relayed all to Athena.

“H-m-m,” was all Athena said.

“Let’s go back and see for ourselves.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Bitsy, disappointed that her big friend showed so little interest, chirped.“If someone hurt themselves, a deer hunter, say, it’s over and done with. But what if someone is”—Bitsy relished this—“dead.”

“When the snows melt we’ll know.” Athena found hunting small game or raiding the barns more fascinating, most times, than human encounters.

“Maybe.” Bitsy blinked.“Sometimes they never find them, you know.”

“Bitsy, did it ever occur to you that that might be a good thing?”

“Well, no,” the little owl honestly replied.

“Think about it.” Athena’s gold eyes surveyed all below. Then voice low, she sang,“Hoo, Hoo,” and paused.“Hoo, Hoo, Hoo.”

The small brown screech owl knew her large friend would not appreciate more questions, so she decided she would think about it. In time Bitsy would come to understand Athena’s idea that it might be better, sometimes, if humans didn’t know where the dead slept.

Before Sister could dismount, Dr. Jason Woods rode up to her.“Might I have a word?”

“Of course.”

Handsome, reed-thin, he spoke low.“You know, when I was a resident I whipped-in at Belle Meade.”

Belle Meade, located in Georgia, drew members from as far away as Atlanta as well as country folks closer to Thomson, Georgia.

Sister knew Epp Wilson, the senior master, so she knew Jason told the truth but not all of it, or he hadn’t figured out his real position vis-?-vis Mr. Wilson. Given his ego, the latter was quite possible.

Before Jason had joined Jefferson Hunt two years earlier, she’d done what any master would do. She called the master of his former hunt. Epp gave a forthright assessment, no beating around the bush.

The young doctor rode tolerably well. To his credit, he was fearless and generous to the club with his time and money. To his discredit, he was arrogant and thought he knew more than he really did about foxhunting.

Jason was an outstanding doctor. He went to war daily against cancer, his particular specialty within oncology being lung cancer. He never gave up and encouraged his patients to keep a positive attitude. He had a special talent for tailoring treatments to the individual. He didn’t practice cookie-cutter medicine. He also displayed an additional talent for self-aggrandizement, emboldened by the worship of many of his patients.

At Belle Meade Jason had whipped-in on those occasions when one of the regular whippers-in was indisposed. He confused riding ability with hunting ability. A whipper-in needs both.

“Yes.” Sister had a sinking feeling about where this discussion was heading.

“I’d like to whip-in for you. You could use a man out there.”

She bit her tongue.“I appreciate your enthusiasm. If you’re willing to walk out hounds in the off season, to learn each one, then we can go from there to next season’s cubbing.”

This was not the answer he’d anticipated. “I could learn their names as I go.”

“No. You need to know each single hound. You need to know their personalities, their way of going. How else can you identify them from afar on horseback?”

“Epp didn’t ask me to do that.” His face reddened.

She wanted to reply,“Epp didn’t ask you to do that because you were a last-minute fill-in. He’s a true hound man, and he’d not pick a whipper-in just because he could ride.” Instead, she demurred, “He would have gotten around to it.”

“Am I refused?”

“Delayed,” she smiled.

He had the sense not to lose his temper. He was a highly intelligent man and he recognized that Sister was like the great horned owl: silent and powerful. Don’t openly provoke her.

He rode back to his impressive three-horse slant-load trailer with its small, well-appointed living quarters, something rarely seen in foxhunters’ trailers. This was pulled by a spanking new Chevy Dually, a mighty Duramax 6600 turbo-diesel V-8 under the polished hood. Coupled with an all-new Allison six-speed transmission, the 6.6 liter Duramax put out 360 horsepower and 650 pound-feet of raw torque.

Sister admired the brute of a truck. She gave Jason credit for buying a truck that could do the job. She also gave him credit for managing to buy this model months before it would be on Chevy lots. She hoped when it was made available it wouldn’t be tarred and feathered with the Chevy ads that completely insulted women. They had to be seen to be believed.

Jason had money. He’d no doubt give more to the club if he could claim to be a whipper-in, a coveted position.

Many a master, strapped for cash, gratefully accepted a large contribution, then put the soul out where he or she could do the least harm. The other alternative was to couple the neophyte with the battle-hardened whipper-in for a half season or entire season and pray some of the knowledge would rub off.

Her method was to watch a candidate in the stifling hot days of summer. Were they quiet with hounds? Did they impart confidence with firmness? Were they helpful in the kennels if asked?

It was one thing to be on the edge of the pack, possibly attracting the admiring gaze of the ladies and the envious stare of the gentlemen. It was quite another to clean the kennels in ninety-degree heat with corresponding humidity.

Yes, many wanted to be whippers-in, to swarm about the tailgates once hounds were in the kennels or loaded on the party wagon. That, too, wasn’t entirely proper. Staff shouldn’t mingle until hounds were properly bedded down. If a hound happened to be out, the whipper-in should find him or her. This divided the professional whipper-in from the honorary. The honorary would leave the hunt to go to their jobs whether or not a hound was out.

Jason might actually make an honorary whipper-in. She needed to see if he had hound sense and the even more elusive fox sense or game sense.

Her instincts told her he didn’t have the patience. Nor would he shovel shit.

She thought she had time to work this out, to provide him with something for his ego but steer him away from thinking he could handle her sensitive American foxhounds. Deep down, she also knew that he’d not be able to handle Shaker.

What an interesting dilemma.

CHAPTER 4

The winter solstice on December 21 was the sun’s fulcrum. The seesaw of light slowly moved upward from that date in the northern hemisphere. Sister watched light as she watched flora and fauna. Country people read nature the way city people read books.

The sun dipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains before five o’clock Thursday evening, but with the cloud cover, the underside of the gray fleece darkened to charcoal. Hounds curled up in the kennels, and foxes wrapped their brushes around their noses down in their burrows.

Target, finally back in his den, pushed around a Day-Glo Frisbee he’d carried home at summer’s end. A baseball cap, an undershirt, and two nice ballpoint pens bore testimony to his desire for material goods. Once he’d taken a class ring, but he later put it outside his den where Sister and Crawford Howard, then on excellent terms, found it.

Before turning in for the night, Sister drove over to Tedi’s, parked her truck, and walked through the snow to Target’s den. She inhaled deeply, smelling the big red secure within. Given his run for the day, she refilled a five-gallon plastic can of kibble, coating it with corn oil. This rested not far from his main entrance.

She knelt down, snow reflecting the fading lavender light.“Target, pay more attention. You’re getting sloppy.”

He barked back at the human he had known all his life,“I know.”

She smiled when she heard his bark, took off her glove, reached into her pocket, and dropped a large milkbone into his den. As she walked back by the covered bridge she passed the grave of Tedi and Edward Bancroft’s eldest daughter, Nola, buried next to Peppermint, Nola’s favorite hunter, a big gray. Snow covered the lovely stone-walled enclosure. The marble grave markers were flat on the land and covered with snow.

Sister paused for a moment. One of the deep bonds she shared with the Bancrofts was that both had lost a child. Unfortunately, Sister had had but one son, whereas the Bancrofts still had Sybil. Sister envied people little in life, but she did envy those with healthy children. Her son, Raymond Jr., had died at fourteen in a tractor accident. He’d be forty-six now.

“You missed a good one today, Nola,” Sister said to the grave marker. “Pepper, you would have loved it, too. We nearly chopped Target, God forbid, and the crows mobbed him across the wildflower meadow. There’s a foot of snow on the ground. Feels like more coming.” She lingered for a moment. A rustle in the bridge told her someone was returning to his winter nest, a brave little wren who had stayed out late. He was scolded by his mate, wrens possessing an infinite variety of scold notes. The spat soon dissipated. She smiled, then added, from Psalm 118:24: “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

As she started the truck Sister hoped that Nola’s soul, for all her wild ways when she was alive, had found peace and joy in whatever lay beyond.

The formidable and incredibly snotty Mrs. Amos Arnold, Sister’s mother-in-law, F.F.V. (First Families of Virginia), had insisted that Raymond Jr., who’d died in 1974, and then Sister’s husband, Raymond, who’d died in 1991, be buried at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, a place where a president rested as well as numerous generals, admirals, senators, and other worthies. Sister, although she preferred having her loved ones near, had not protested. It wasn’t that she feared Lucinda Arnold as much as she pitied her. All the old woman had was her bloodlines and her pilgrimages to her own husband’s grave, then that of her son and grandson. In her mid-nineties, she had let these visitations become an obsession, although she seemed in no hurry to join her three beloved men.

Sister turned east after passing through the simple gates to After All Farm. The roads, even the back roads, were clear. Within seven minutes she had turned down the winding dirt road, snow packed, to the old Lorillard place.

She parked the truck and knocked on the faded red door. She laughed to herself that the color could be named“Tired Blood” in honor of the old vitamin ads promising to pep up your tired blood.

“Come on in,” Sam Lorillard’s voice called out.

She opened the door, welcomed by the fragrance of wood burning in the fireplace.

Sam, emerging from the kitchen, brushed off his hands.“Let me take your coat.”

“You’ve accomplished a lot since my last visit.”

“Thanks. Next task, rewire the whole joint. Then replumb. Little by little, Gray and I are getting it done. I’m glad he gave up his rental and moved in with me. We get along most times.”

“Good,” she remarked. During Sam’s long tenure with alcohol the brothers had barely spoken.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Tea. If you have any. Something hot would be good. Where is Gray, by the way? He left after hunting this morning with Garvey Stokes. I barely had time to speak to either of them.”

“Running late.”

“Ah.” She sat down, her hand gliding over the porcelain-topped kitchen table like the one from her childhood. She traced the red pinstripe along the edge. “Don’t see these anymore.”

“Too practical.” Sam smiled. “Everything today is made to self-destruct in seven years. Our whole economy runs on obsolescence.”

“Is that what you learned at Harvard?”

“Actually, what I learned was to drink with style and abandon.”

She noted all the cookbooks on top of the shelves.“Sam, if you remove those cookbooks I reckon your roof will cave in.”

“That’s our spring project. Rebuild the whole kitchen. No choice but to rewire, then.” He placed a large, dark green ceramic pot of tea before her, along with a bowl of small brown sugar cubes. Then he sat down and poured her tea into a delicate china cup at least one hundred fifty years old.The pale bone china had pink tea roses adorning its surface. “Greatgrandmother’s.”

“M-m-m, the Lorillards knew good things. White Lorillards, too.”

“They knew enough to buy us,” Sam joked. “And we knew enough to buy ourselves free, too.”

“Ghosts. So many ghosts.” She sipped the bracing tea. “Sam, what is this? It’s remarkable.”

“Yorkshire. A tearoom called Betty’s, which has the best teas I’ve ever tasted—and the cakes aren’t bad either. I love the north of England.”

“I do, too. And Scotland.”

A silence followed, which Sam broke.“Funny, isn’t it? The chickens come home to roost. I’m lucky to have a roost.” He stared into his teacup, then met Sister’s eyes. “You know, you were one of the few people who would talk to me down at the train station. You spoke to me like I was still a human being.”

“Sam, no one asks to be born afflicted, and I consider alcoholism an affliction even if there is an element of choice to it. You threw away your education, your friends, but you’ve come around.”

“Rory, too.” Sam mentioned his friend from his train station days who had cleaned up his act, thanks to Sam, and now worked at Crawford’s alongside Sam. “We finished up early today, which is why I called. Thanks for coming over.”

“Visited Target, so it wasn’t far to visit you.” She smiled.

He brightened.“Heard you had a good one.”

“Did. Target damn near got himself killed. So what’s the buzz, Sam?” She got to the point.

“Let me preface this by saying that Crawford can be a peculiar man. He’s egotistical and vain, and it’s difficult for him to realize other people know more than he does in specific areas. On the plus side he’s generous, actually does learn from his mistakes eventually, and he treats me better than most other people would. He’s a good boss. He comes down to the stable, bursting with ideas from whatever he’s just read, but if I take the time to point out what’s commercially driven in those articles along with what has always worked for me with horses, he listens. He’s like most people who didn’t grow up with horses; he thinks he can read about them and become a rider.”

“Woods are full of those.” Sister shook her head. She, like other masters, had seen it all and heard it all.

The hunt field usually sorted people out in a hurry. No matter how bright they were, no matter how much they could talk about staying over the horse’s center of gravity, either they could stick on the horse or they couldn’t. And sometimes even a fine rider couldn’t stick. Sooner or later even the best would eat a dirt sandwich.

“He’s going to start his own pack. He’s found a pack in the Midwest that’s disbanding, and he’s buying the whole works: the hounds, the hound trailer, even the collars. He’s also called Morton Structures to put up a kennel.”

“In winter?”

“He’s clearing out the old hay shed for temporary kennels.”

“Jesus Christ!” She whistled.

“He’ll hunt his own land, obviously, but he’ll poach your fixtures.” Sam was referring to land hunted by Jefferson Hunt; Sister, as master, lovingly nurtured the relationships with the landowners, people she quite liked. “You know, Sister, most landowners don’t understand the rules of the MFHA. They figure if it’s their land they can have anyone hunt it.” He named the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.

“Well, they can. It is their land. What they really don’t understand is what an outlaw pack can do to the community: tear it up.”

“Overhunts the foxes. Creates accountability problems. If a fence is knocked apart or cattle get out, who did it? And it sure puts hunt clubs at one another’s throats.” Sam felt terrible about this.

“I know,” Sister grimly replied. “But I will bet you dollars to doughnuts, Jefferson Hunt will acquire the lion’s share of the blame precisely because we are accountable. Let a hound pass over someone’s land, especially someone new to the area, and they assume it’s one of ours. You wouldn’t believe the calls I receive, not all of them friendly. Shaker or I dutifully go out, we catch the hound, often a Coonhound or a Walker hound, we explain to the caller that it isn’t our hound but we will try to find the owner. And then we spend hours on the phone doing just that. If we don’t find the owner, we find a home for it because people have strange ideas about hounds. They don’t adopt them from the shelters. It’s sad because hounds are such wonderful animals and so easy to train.”

“Can you imagine what this pack will be like?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“No. Do you know what kind of foxhounds they are?”

“No.”

“M-m-m, puts you in a bad spot.”

“He asked me to hunt the hounds, and I told him I can’t. I don’t know anything about hunting hounds, and that’s the truth. He’s going to hunt them himself.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“He’ll need Jesus,” Sam laughed.

“So will I, Sam, so will I. No Jefferson Hunt master since 1887 has had to deal with an outlaw pack.” She paused, then changed the subject, since it made her feel dreadful. “Getting Matador vetted. I’ll let you know.”

They heard the rumble of Gray’s Land Cruiser. Then the door opened. “Hello.”

“Hi back at you,” Sister called out.

Gray walked in. He removed his lad’s cap and hung it on the peg by the back door along with his worn but warm old red plaid Woolrich coat. He kissed Sister on the cheek, his military moustache tickling slightly. “Tea still hot?”

“Yep.”

Gray grabbed a mug from the cabinet and sat down.“Sam, didn’t you offer Sister anything to eat?”

“Uh, no.”

“Worthless.”

“Honey, would you like a tuna fish sandwich, a fried egg sandwich, or a variety of cookies which Sam had stashed in all those tins on the counter unless you ate them all?” He directed his gaze at his younger brother.

“The double chocolate Milanos.”

“Sam,” Gray grumbled. “My favorite.”

“Well, they’re mine, too, and I didn’t have time to stop by Roger’s Corner on the way home. I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

“I can’t tempt you?” Gray asked Sister.

“Not with cookies.” She smiled.

Gray poured honey in his tea and smiled sexily back at her.“Sam tell you the latest?”

“There will be hell to pay before it’s all over,” she responded.

“I expect.” He nodded.

“How’d your day go?”

“After a glorious start hunting, then going to Garvey’s plant, I met with an architect.” He looked at his brother. “I finally broke down and hired one. We can’t do this ourselves, Sam. It’s just too big a job. I spent three hours there. We both need to go back.” He sipped his tea. “Garvey Stokes wants an independent audit of his books. Meant to tell you that straight up. The architect is on my mind. Anyway, I told Garvey I’d be happy to perform the audit. So now I’m semi-retired instead of retired,” he joked. Gray had been a partner in one of the most prestigious accounting firms in Washington, D.C. Two former directors of the IRS graced the firm’s roster.

“Garvey should change the name of his company from Aluminum Manufacturers to Metalworks. He can work with anything: copper, iron, steel, titanium. Can you imagine working with titanium?” Gray added to Sam’s information.

Sister laughed.“I wish he would make a titanium stock pin.”

“Now there’s a thought. Even the steel-tipped ones eventually bend,” Gray agreed.

Sam turned on the stove to heat more water.“Why does Garvey want an independent audit?”

“The usual in these situations; he’s not a detail guy. And he feels something isn’t right. Also, just in case, he wants to be prepared for an IRS audit. We’ll see.” Gray truly liked accounting, but he realized most people found it boring.

“Iffy’s Garvey Stokes’ treasurer. How’s she going to take this?” Sister wondered.

“She’s a glorified bookkeeper, and she wasn’t happy to see me,” Gray said good-naturedly. “I assured her the audit was not a reflection on her skills but good business practices. I didn’t feel right pulling rank on a woman in a wheelchair.” He paused. “But I will if she forces me.”

“Wheelchair?” Sister exclaimed. “I saw her last month and she was walking with a cane.”

“She can get around just fine.” Sam endured Iffy. “She glories in the sympathy.”

“The good Lord didn’t grant Iffy the best personality in the world. It, too, has deteriorated. But hey, we don’t suffer from lung cancer. She’s battling it. Let’s give her a little room to be testy.”

Sam countered his brother’s comment. “Gray, Iphigenia Demetrios was born a bitch. She’ll always be a bitch, lung cancer or not.”

“I expect,” Gray agreed, with resignation.

“The New Year looks like it will start out with a bang. Crawford’s buying an entire pack of hounds, and Jefferson Hunt will pay for his every mistake. The club loses a boatload of money as he closes his wallet. Iffy will not be Miss Sweetness and Light as you go about your business,” Sister said. Then she looked down from Gray to Sam. “And if Crawford thinks you favor me or Jefferson Hunt, he’ll crack down on you. He’s a hard man that way.”

“True. No middle ground with Crawford. You’re either with him or against him.” Sam nodded.

“Those are the problems,” said Gray. “Here are the good things for the New Year. The three of us are healthy. I’m back in the saddle again in all respects.” He laughed an infectious laugh. “And we’ll solve problems together. Who wants an easy life? No glory there.”

“Honey, we’ll be covered in glory.” Sister loved his enthusiasm.

CHAPTER 5

A few lazy snowflakes twirled to earth at nine in the morning, Friday, December 30. Iphigenia Demetrios, at her office before anyone else, heard the front door open and close repeatedly as three officers of Aluminum Manufacturers came to work. Three assistants also arrived. It was a cozy office, in contrast to the large plant with high windows that housed the machinery and workers. To date no women worked in the pit, as Iffy called it.

Hearing Garvey’s cheery voice, she waited a beat, then hit the button on her motorized wheelchair. Before he had time to check his e-mail, Iffy rolled into the sparse office, the whirr of the wheelchair motor noticeable.

“Good morning, Iffy.”

“Morning.” She had a file folder in her lap. “Here.” She came alongside, handing it over.

“What’s that?” He glanced at the folder.

“The invoice from Tiptop Trucking for the copper delivery. I stopped by when I was in Richmond yesterday. Paid the bill while I was there.”

He opened the folder.“Okay,” handing it back.

“Stopped by Farmers Trust main office, but I also popped in Wachovia, BB&T, and Crestar, too. Never hurts to keep the relationships fresh; right?”

He smiled.“Those last-Thursday-of-the-month trips to Richmond probably keep other relationships fresh.”

A warm smile crossed her face.“I wish.”

“You need to get out more.”

“I’m going to the patient support group. Tonight’s our New Year’s celebration. No booze. No outlandish behavior, but we are celebrating Alfred DuCharme’s two-year anniversary. So far he’s cancer free.”

“That is a celebration.” Garvey paused. “Really, there’s no liquor?”

“Some of our people are in chemo.”

“Can’t drive?” Garvey inquired.

“Some can. Funny, too: radiation and chemo affect people so differently. It nauseated me, but my hair didn’t fall out.” She paused. “After our little party I expect a few of us will toast our health.”

“You know Alfred won’t miss the chance to celebrate,” Garvey mentioned, for Alfred was known to like a stiff drink.

“No, he won’t.” She thought a moment. “It’s the uncertainty, Garvey. You think you’ve banished it, then a few days before your check-up, fear creeps in. Getting the all-clear is such a relief. Two years and his cancer hasn’t returned.”

“Yours won’t come back either.”

“I hope not.” She tapped the arm of her wheelchair. “I just had a bad reaction to some of the treatments. I know the strength will come back to my legs. Still, it’s queer.” She brightened, naming another member of her group. “But Macey Sorensen lost all feeling in her left hand after radiation. Came back.”

“See,” he said encouragingly as he leaned his rear against his desk, facing her.

Iffy abruptly switched subjects.“What’s the big idea hiring Gray Lorillard? That’s a slap in the face.”

“We haven’t had an independent audit of the books in ten years. It’s time. It’s good insurance.”

“I keep an eye on all that. We’re in good shape if the IRS ever calls us in. Besides, he’s overpriced.”

He glanced out the window.“You know, it’s coming down harder.”

Iffy kept up with the latest radar pictures.“More snow, a stalled low-pressure system.” She waited a beat. “Cash flow’s good. Course, if you go forward with this, Gray’s fees will suck some of that up.”

“I know.” He then returned to the subject at hand. “He’ll have the use of Angel’s old office.”

Angel had left this earth to become one at the ripe old age of eighty-four. Garvey let her keep working because he knew she would have died ten years earlier had she stopped. Angel loved being Garvey’s right-hand woman. Like many elderly people she’d had some heart problems. Walter Lungrun, her doctor, noted that apart from her irregular heartbeat she was incredibly healthy. Garvey missed her terribly, not only because her fierce wit kept him thinking as well as laughing but because she could sweep her years for dustings of knowledge. Angel had known generations of the quick and the dead. That long memory helped Garvey when she’d tell him an anecdote or character trait concerning the family of a supplier, customer, or employee. He could never replace her.

They’d found her slumped over her desk, a can of cold Mountain Dew next to her notepad. Walter, as her physician, signed her death certificate.

“At least that office will be used. You’ve kept it as a shrine.”

“One of these days I’ll hire a new personal assistant, but I haven’t had the heart to look.”

“It’s been a year, Garvey. She couldn’t live forever.” Iffy had loathed Angel because the older woman often questioned her.

“She gave it a good try,” Garvey replied.

“An auditor is going to take up a lot of my time, and the end of the year is when I have to get everything in order—an entire year’s worth of stuff.” She emphasized “stuff.”

“I appreciate that, but I think it’s good timing otherwise. The year is over. The books are closed, so to speak.”

“I think it would make more sense to bring him in right after April 15. The tax work would be done. He’d have all that in front of him.”

“Iffy, we’re going to do this my way,” Garvey replied firmly but without rancor.

She glowered at him.“I’ll provide Gray with whatever he needs, but don’t expect me to fool with him. Or to humor him.”

“I reckon Gray Lorillard can take care of himself.”

“Certainly seems to be taking care of Sister Jane. Can you believe it. She’s at least ten years older than he is!”

Sister was only five years older than Gray.

“And beautiful. She could wear out two men half her age.”

“Facelift.”

“I don’t know about that, but she’s kept herself in shape.”

“Boobs don’t sag. Probably got those tucked up, too.”

“Iffy, what have you got against Jane Arnold?”

She pulled off her black-framed glasses, the latest fashion.“She’s an imperious bitch. Just look at the way she walks.”

“Ah.” The five-foot eight-inch Garvey finally pushed away from his desk to sit in his leather chair.

“Ah, what?”

He shrugged.“Nothing.”

“You think I’m jealous because I hobble around when I’m not in this wheelchair, and I’m overweight.”

“You’re not that overweight. If it worries you, go to Jason and get him to put you on a program. Go to physical therapy. You’re going to live, Iffy. Think of it this way: you’re one of the few people to endure chemo and radiation and gain weight.”

“Very funny.”

“Jason said you beat it. He’s the best. It hasn’t been easy for you. I’m sorry for that. But you’re getting mean.”

Iffy and Garvey had grown up together, as had many of the people in this part of central Virginia. No reason to mince words.

“Just because I don’t like Sister Jane, you think I’m jealous because she still has a great body and I don’t. I never did.”

“You weren’t fat.”

That did it.“Fuck you!” She wheeled around as he bit his lips. “Dammit,” he whispered under his breath as he listened to her wheelchair roll toward her office. The light flickered on his phone. “Hello.”

“Sonny here. How you doing?”

Garvey smiled at the sound of the banker’s deep voice. “All right. Iffy just blew up at me.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Just told you.”

“Lot on her plate,” Sonny said simply.

“Oh well.” Garvey’s tone lightened. “What’s the point of having friends if you don’t see them through? What’s up?”

“I’m sending over the papers to amend your line of credit. Naturally, I’ll review everything, but then I have to send it down to North Carolina. Gone are the days when I could do business on a handshake. You’d better brighten Iffy’s mood because this falls in her lap.”

“You have our corporate report and our tax information. Of course, we haven’t done this year’s yet, but neither has anyone else.”

“The way it is now—thank the federal government for this—I pretty much need to know what you spend for toilet paper on an annual basis.”

“If I had back all the time I waste on paperwork, regulations, insurance, and workers’ comp red tape, I’d double my profit, I swear.” He sighed.

“Brother, be glad you aren’t a banker,” Sonny simply replied. “I used to love this business. Last night I told Liz I’m retiring at sixty-five. Gone.”

“You’ve got a few years left.”

“Not many,” Sonny replied. “Oh, before I forget, Custis Hall has begun the search for a new director of alumnae relations and a new head of the theater department. Let Charlotte Norton know if anyone comes to mind.”

“I will. Be a nice place to work. If nothing else, think of the vacations.”

“Another reason to retire. Liz and I can travel.”

They chatted for a few more minutes. Once finished, Garvey walked down to Iffy’s office.

Hunched behind her oversized computer screen, Iffy, gold earrings dangling, peered up at him.“Now what?”

“Paperwork from Farmers Trust will be walked over this morning.”

“What are you trying to do? Bury me in paperwork?”

“It is all coming down at once, I know.” He slid his right hand into his pocket. “If I don’t buy aluminum now at this price, I’ll pay through the nose by spring. Between the Chinese and Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath, I’m lucky to get this price. Everyone needs aluminum.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Her tone was conciliatory, but she didn’t apologize for her earlier surliness. “If for some reason this isn’t feasible—I mean that in terms of the interest rates, of course—we’ll get more credit, but it might make sense to float a short-term loan for the purposes of buying the aluminum. I’ll call around and check the interest rates. Could have asked yesterday when I was down in Richmond.” She mumbled, as if to herself. “No point paying more interest than needs be.”

“Good idea, but bear in mind we want to keep our relationship with Farmers Trust strong.”

She turned her wheelchair away from the screen.“Money talks. Bullshit walks.”

“Right.” He left the office, but they did smile at each other.

That evening, the snow, having fallen steadily all day, although not heavy, accumulated six more inches. The sun set just before five. The long twilight, enlivened by flakes turning from white to pink to blue, finally surrendered to darkness.

Raleigh and Rooster slept in their large fleece-lined dog beds in the kitchen while Sister fiddled with garden plans spread over the table, knowing that the best time to plan a garden is in the dead of winter. Colored pencils filled a white ceramic jam jar.

Humming to herself, she drew a purple line around a corner bed.“More iris. Masses of iris.”

Golly, on the table holding down the papers, flicked her fluffy tail.“Catnip. Don’t forget to plant catnip.”

The phone rang. Sister rose to lift the receiver off the wall phone.“Hello.”

“Sister, it’s Tootie.” None of Anne Harris’s fellow students at Custis Hall called her anything but Tootie, nor did anyone else.

“How good to hear your voice.”

“I wanted to hear yours.” Her young voice betrayed her loneliness.

Sister heard the emotion.“The hounds will be glad to see you. Mrs. Norton and Bunny hunted yesterday. Great day, really. You would have loved it.”

“We’ll be back on Wednesday the fourth, so if Bunny says it’s okay, I can hunt Thursday. I miss it. Hope Val and Felicity can come, too.” She named her two best school friends.

“I’ll cross my fingers,” Sister replied.

Tootie said,“Wonder when we’ll find out which colleges accepted us? Dad really wants me to go to Princeton.”

“It’s a great institution.”

A long pause followed.“I know.”

“Tootie, you have a little time to sort this out. I know you aren’t too enthused about Princeton even though you applied. It will all work out, one way or t’other.” She used the old pronunciation “t’other.” She added, “And you can always talk to me.”

“And Iota.” Tootie mentioned her horse, already feeling better.

“Iota knows more than all of us.”

Sister hung up and returned to her rough drawings. Golly, paw on colored pencils, was now sprawled over them. Judging from the teethmarks, Sister surmised the calico favored something yellow.

The phone rang again. It was Anselma Wideman, who with her husband a year ago had bought Little Dalby, a lovely old place of two thousand acres. The middle-aged couple dedicated themselves to refurbishing the house, restoring the outbuildings.

Once owned by the Viault family, it had been one of the main fixtures used by the Jefferson Hunt. When the last Viault died, the place, sliding downhill anyway, picked up speed, so the Widemans’ efforts were welcomed by hunters as well as by those who valued architecture and history.

“Sister, Harvey and I agreed to allow Crawford to hunt Little Dalby. He said he wouldn’t be here when you are, and Marty has been so good to us, I didn’t see how we could refuse.”

Marty Howard, Crawford’s wife, had designed and helped renovate the house gardens at Little Dalby. She and Anselma had become friends in the process.

“I understand, and I’m sure Crawford and I can work out some accommodation.” Sister hung up and cursed, “Goddammit, it’s already started.”

CHAPTER 6

Central Virginia Medical Center, although not part of Jefferson Regional Hospital, sat two blocks away from that highly respected institution. Many of the doctors at JRH, as they referred to it, rented space in the two-year-old complex.

A lovely black band of bricks in a diamond pattern halfway up the four-story structure broke up the red brickwork. The large double-paned windows allowed much natural light into the rooms.

What was distinctive about the offices was their layout. The developer, Melvin Sweigart, knew physicians liked to group together by specialty, if possible. He figured it was the same principle as car dealers setting up shop next to one another.

Melvin had created internal squares, small quads. The offices surrounded the quads, and hallways connected the various quads.

Garvey Stokes had made special stainless steel sinks and tables for the center, as some procedures could be performed in the office. This saved a patient money.

The cardiac quads were on the first floor. The cancer quads were on the second. The third floor was dedicated to sports medicine. The top floor, flooded with light from gorgeous pyramidal skylights, housed the plastic surgeons.

A further advantage of this arrangement was it allowed the doctors in the various specialties to pool their resources if they wished.

Walter Lungrun and his associates bought the highest-tech heart monitors available, just as Jason Woods and his associates purchased an x-ray machine for forty-two thousand dollars.

The sports medicine group on the third floor went so far as to buy a magnetic resonance imaging machine for eight hundred thousand dollars. The other physicians rented time on it.

While the hospital provided this equipment, too, the doctors at Central Virginia realized nine out of ten people never want to set foot in a hospital. The antiseptic odor alone upset people, and the impersonality of it added to the psychological discomfort.

The more procedures that could be performed in this pleasant environment, the better from the patient’s point of view.

Business exploded. Walter had just hired another nurse, and Jason had to hire another head nurse and another secretary. Even with those expenses and the exorbitant insurance the doctors were forced to carry, they made money.

So successful was the design for Central Virginia Regional Center that Melvin Sweigart was buying up old houses downtown to build another. Crawford Howard was a partner in this enterprise. He was considering buying out the company that disposed of waste—biological hazards, as they were now coined—since he thought he could do this more profitably than Sanifirm.

While the snow continued to fall, the survivors’ party hit high gear at seven in Jason’s quad.

Birdie Goodall, a pert thirty-two, office manager for this quad, ladled out the nonalcoholic punch.

Iffy held out her glass cup.“Did you put ginger ale in for sparkle?”

“I did.”

Alfred DuCharme tiptoed behind Iffy, reached around, and, holding a paper bag with a bottle inside, poured in a touch of something stronger.“Here’s your sparkle, girl.”

Birdie winked at Alfred.“Works for me.”

He reached over and poured some into her own cup.“Say goodbye to your troubles.” Then he held up his glass to the twenty partyers, all of whom had their hair again, “Here’s to a New Year!”

“Happy New Year,” they agreed.

Another raised his glass cup again.“And here’s to Mr. Jason, without whom we wouldn’t be here.”

A clamorous cry filled the quad.

Jason demurred, then lifted his own glass.“You have fought the good fight. It was a team effort.”

The patients all knew one another, if not before treatment, because of treatment. They were all in it together. Jason made a point of speaking to each person, wishing each one health and happiness.

Birdie called out at one point,“Hey, don’t forget your insurance forms if you haven’t turned them in! I promise no more business.”

This brief interruption was followed by more partying. Iffy, using a cane, wearied of standing and sat behind the table of treats, so she enjoyed many conversations. Her demeanor, so different from that at work, was relaxed and warm. Among the other soldiers, as they thought of themselves, she flourished.

Birdie glanced out the window at eight-thirty.“Still coming down.”

Alfred also noticed the heavier snows as he walked over to Iffy.“Would you like me to drive you home? I’m going to leave.”

“No, thanks. I don’t have as far to go as you do, and the plows have been pretty good.”

“That they have. Now if only they’d plow the roads on the farm.” He smiled. “Well, Old Bessie will get me through.” He named his rusty four-wheel-drive truck.

“By the way, Al, whatever you put in my punch makes me feel warm all over.”

He patted the flat bottle, still in brown paper, in his inside jacket pocket.“And here I thought it was me.”

“You, too.” She smiled.

He leaned down conspiratorially, kissing her on the cheek.“To health and wealth.”

The small gathering broke up at nine. Birdie handed Jason three insurance forms.

“Paperwork.” He sighed.

“Well, if you’d asked Alfred for his bottle you’d fly through it.” She smiled.

“I would. Of course, whatever I wrote would be illegible.”

“I’ll see you next year.”

“Next year, Birdie. And may it be a good one.”

Fifteen minutes later, Walter knocked on Jason’s open door.

“You missed the party,” said Jason.

Walter smiled.“Special group. They didn’t need an intruder. Hey, do you have a Tom Thumb Pelham I can borrow?” Walter mentioned a type of bit.

“Rocketman?” Jason smiled, for Walter’s young horse could be strong.

Clemson, the older hunter who had given Walter confidence when he started foxhunting, went in a simple snaffle. The Clemsons of this world were worth their weight in gold.

“Thought I’d try it before buying one.”

“I’ll bring it by.”

Walter stared down at the papers on Jason’s desk. “Me, too. I’m determined to get the damn paperwork done so I can really enjoy New Year’s. I love the bowl games.”

“Even with Birdie, I can’t keep up with this shit.” Jason disgustedly pushed the papers away.

“Insurance.”

“Biggest scam in America.” Jason’s dark eyebrows knitted together.

Walter folded his arms across his massive chest.“Remember when we thought forty thousand a year in insurance was a ripoff?”

Jason rose from his chair.“What I don’t understand is why we put up with it.”

“Two reasons.” Walter obviously had thought about this. “Doctors are scientists, right? We aren’t by nature businessmen. We don’t have a lot of free time. Our work can be emotionally exhausting.”

“Right. That’s more than two reasons.” Jason smiled at him, one eyebrow now quizzically raised.

“One. Let me go back to the fact that we are scientists. That means we aren’t accustomed to banding together for political purposes.”

“We have the AMA,” said Jason, referring to the American Medical Association.

“And what have they done about these crushing insurance burdens?” Walter uncrossed his arms. “In my darker moments I think the AMA is in collusion with the insurance companies.”

“No.” Jason shook his head. “The AMA isn’t corrupt. Ineffective sometimes.”

“I don’t know.” Walter walked to the window, which looked out over the back of the building.

“One thing, we lose hospital privileges if we don’t carry the insurance.”

“Yep.”

“Look on the bright side, Walter. We could be OB/GYNs.”

Walter sighed but nodded in agreement, for gynecologists and obstetricians were bent double by their insurance load.

“Donny Sweigart, in the snow, picking up the trash.” Walter looked sideways at Jason, who now stood next to him. “Ever notice that Sweigarts are either really smart or…really not?”

“We know where Donny falls. Funny how after his father died in that warehouse fire he demanded that no one call him Junior.”

“Was.” Walter watched as the younger man, of medium build and wearing heavy coveralls, lifted tightly tied plastic bags into the large truck.

“He’s a good truck driver.”

“Think Crawford will buy Sanifirm?”

“I don’t know, but if he does I bet Donny still has a job.”

“Not if he keeps poaching, he won’t.”

“Deer?” Jason wasn’t a deer hunter.

“Donny will sneak on your property and pretty much shoot whatever he can, although deer are his preferred target. He’ll do it out of season, too.”

“He doesn’t shoot foxes, does he?” Jason sounded scandalized.

“Sister put a stop to that.”

“I’ll bet she did.” The corner of Jason’s lips curled upward in a half smile.

“She’s too much of a fox herself to crack on him. She pays him off.”

“No kidding?”

“Out of her own pocket. No hunt club funds are touched. She asks him to tell her where the dens are, so he’s a consultant.”

“But she knows where they are.”

“Like I said, Jason. She’s part fox.” What Walter wanted to add, but didn’t, was “Never underestimate the old girl. Never.”

CHAPTER 7

December 31 is St. Sylvester’s Day, commemorating a pope who died in 335 AD. He tolerated all religions and is credited with building many churches, including the first St. Peter’s in Rome.

St. Sylvester probably would have stayed inside this Saturday, for the snow lay deep on top of the foot-deep base. Occasional squalls still cast down flurries. Snow plows worked through the night, so the roads were reasonably decent if one drove prudently.

As it was the New Year’s Hunt, the last of the four foxhunting High Holy Days, forty-two people braved the weather to gather at Beveridge Hundred, a Jefferson Hunt fixture since 1887, the founding year of the club. Beveridge Hundred remained in the Cullhain family. The current crop of Cullhains struggled on. Their money had disappeared in 1865 along with some of their men, dying agonizing deaths in America’s worst war. The survivors had pulled themselves back up, only to fall destitute again during the Great Depression. In deference to their pinched financial position, club members brought dishes for the traditional hunt breakfast. Walter supplied the drinks, which eased the burden on this most genial collection of relatives.

Hounds got up one fox for a short burst and then another, but the deep snows kept foxes close to their dens. By noon, everyone had filled the old mansion, whose outside and inside were badly in need of paint. A few spots, plaster off, revealed laths stuffed with horsehair. The piano in the parlor was put to good use. Jason Woods, a clear tenor, paired with Walter’s baritone. Soon everyone sang with them.

Hounds were already back in the kennels by the time the humans reached the desserts.

Hunt staff’s first responsibility was the hounds or staff horses, depending on their position. Rarely did Shaker attend a breakfast, although he might be able to get to a tailgate once the hounds were in the party wagon, the small horse trailer outfitted to carry them. A quick sandwich or muffin before he pulled out, accompanied by hot coffee, kept him going until he could really replenish his body. Huntsmen burn calories the way prairie fire burns grass.

Betty Franklin and Sybil Bancroft Fawkes, although honorary whippers-in, not paid staff, still performed all staff functions. They too didn’t attend the breakfasts until hounds were in the party wagon or in the kennel, horses cooled out, blankets thrown over them.

Later, back in the barn, Betty Franklin and Sister cleaned tack in the heated tackroom. Shaker, with Sybil’s help and that of her two sons of grade-school age, had fed all the hounds and even rubbed soothing bag balm on their pads. No one’s pads had been cut up, as there wasn’t much ice, but Shaker figured an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. The two boys felt important to help with a big job. Sybil appreciated Shaker’s thoughtfulness. Her marriage, a disaster, had left her a single mother. She liked her sons to be around real men, and Shaker was about as real as it got.

Sari, Lorraine Rasmussen’s daughter, and Jennifer, Betty’s daughter, were home from Colby College on Christmas vacation. They washed down the staff horses and asked to clean tack, but Sister sent them on their way. She knew both girls wanted to primp for a big New Year’s Eve party, although first they had to attend Betty’s party.

As Betty finished washing the bits, hanging Shaker’s bridle on a tack hook high over a bucket, she asked, “When does Gray start at Aluminum Manufacturers?”

“Tuesday. Thought Garvey might be with us today, but maybe the roads aren’t as good out his way.” Sister paused. “Iffy won’t take kindly to what she considers a footprint in her garden.”

“Iffy’s been a pill since birth.”

Sister laughed so hard she startled Raleigh and Rooster, who barked.“Oh, shut up. It’s just me. Go back to sleep. Betty, savage but true.”

“She isn’t that bad looking. A bit of a dumpling, but pretty enough. She’s so sour no man would have her.”

“No woman either.” Sister laughed.

“Who do you think is pickier? Men or women?”

“Men.”

“See, I think it’s women.” Betty answered her own question.

“Maybe men and women are picky about different things. Men get very distracted by looks. Women get distracted by promises. And both get what they deserve.”

“Ain’t that the truth. You’d better go into marriage with your eyes wide open.”

“Betty, you no more did that than I did. When you’re young you can’t possibly know the changes the years bring. Love is blind, for which I suppose we should give some thanks, or there’d be no next generation.”

“Ha!” Betty wrung out a soft rag before rubbing it on saddle soap, her first step in cleaning the leather.

“Ha, what? I know that tone of voice.”

“Sex. Nothing can keep the human animal from sex. No laws, no religion, not even the threat of death. In the old days it was syphilis. Now it’s AIDS. We’re fools breeding fools, and we always were.”

“I did my share,” grinned Sister, alluding to her very rich past. “You did all right.” Betty wiped down the leather after the saddle soap. “Back to Iffy. I heard she was seeing a lot of Alfred DuCharme. Hard to believe.”

“Lord.” Sister raised her eyebrows. “Hadn’t heard that. Let’s keep on the good side of Alfred. He allows us to hunt Paradise. Took awhile to bring Binky around to it, so we need Alfred to be especially happy with us. Iffy, on a whim, could toss a monkey wrench into the works. Especially if she gets mad at Gray. She’ll take it out on the club.”

Binky, Alfred’s older brother, had stolen Alfred’s girlfriend, Milly Archer, a west end Richmond girl, back in 1975. Alfred had never forgiven Binky.

Regardless of Binky’s entreaties, Alfred refused to attend the marriage. He wouldn’t even wave to his brother or his sister-in-law if he passed them on the road.

When their father, Brenden, had died he’d kept the land intact. He thought this would force them to cooperate, and thus reconcile, without him alive to be a go-between. He figured wrong.

Instead, Binky and Milly’s daughter, the bright and spunky Margaret, soon found herself filling in for her departed grandfather and mediating between her father and her uncle.

Embittered though he remained toward Binky and Milly, Alfred worshipped his niece, a sports physician at Jefferson Regional Hospital.

The brothers lived in separate dependencies, small houses, near the ruins of the main house. The one time they had been seen together willingly was at Margaret’s graduation.

“Yep. Funny how people shoot themselves in the foot. Think of the happiness Alfred has missed. He doesn’t stick with a woman long. Maybe that’s why he’s going out with Iffy. He thinks she’ll be dead soon, so he won’t have to dump her. Or vice versa.” Betty giggled, finished cleaning Shaker’s bridle. “You stripped your bridle. I didn’t strip Shaker’s. I washed it, then used saddle soap.”

Stripping took more time as one used something like castile soap to wash it, then rub it even cleaner. After this, one hangs it up and reapplies a light leather oil with a clean cloth. Then one uses the heat of one’s fingers to rub it again, lastly wiping all down once more with a clean dry cloth.

“I know. I’m being superstitious, so I went the whole nine yards.”

“Any other superstitions besides cleaning way too thoroughly?”

“I count the spoons in the house.”

“What?”

“I count the spoons in the house.”

“Why?” Betty looked at her.

“I don’t know. My mother did it and her mother did it every New Year’s Eve. I know it’s stupid—but hey, you asked me and I told you. What do you do?”

“Make resolutions. The usual. I will lose weight.”

“You don’t need to lose any more weight, Betty.”

“I’m so used to making that as a New Year’s resolution, I can’t stop.”

“See, that’s why I have to count the spoons. I’ve always done it.”

Another forty-five minutes passed between the two close friends, who could open their hearts to each other as well as talk about substantive issues sprinkled with the paprika of gossip.

The phone rang in the tack room.

“Hello. Hi, Walter.”

“Jason Woods cornered me at breakfast after you left. He said you didn’t think he knew how to whip-in.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know. You’d be more diplomatic. He’s taking this as”—a note of humor filled Walter Lungrun’s voice—“a slur on his manliness.”

“Jesus Christ, spare me a man who isn’t one.”

“He’s okay, Sister. He’s just one of those people who needs attention, adoration. He’s very good at what he does.”

“So are a lot of other people. If you aren’t at the top 20 percent, you slide into mediocrity, I reckon. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do we do with this twit?” She went on to explain her entire conversation with Jason concerning how Jefferson Hunt develops whippers-in. “And I apologize. I should have told you, but I thought he’d be smart enough to let it go. Or if not, then show up this summer to start walking puppies.”

Betty listened, attention rapt.

“If he would do that, would you and Shaker work with him?”

“Of course, if he has aptitude. Look, I know he can ride. He has that beautiful chestnut gelding, Kilowatt. That’s not the issue. It’s the rest of it. I have yet to see him evidence any interest in even one hound, much less the pack, and he wants to whip-in?”

Walter, putting his feet on the hassock in his den, replied in a relaxed voice.“But if he does the real work, the hard work in the off-season, will you and Shaker work with him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I call him and discuss this? I’ll relay our conversation.”

“No. I’m grateful. Gets me off the hook.”

“Not if he shows up in April.” Walter grunted when his Welsh terrier launched into his lap.

“Means early morning four-thirty or five o’clock wake-ups. We try to knock out the walks, the individual puppy walk, too, before ten in the morning. Once we cruise out of spring into summer, you know how fast that heat comes up. Stifling.”

“Sticky hot.” He thought for a moment. “The bait Jason dangled in front of me, so you know, is he will contribute ten thousand dollars annually to the Club.”

She interrupted, something she rarely did.“Oh, if that’s not a bribe!”

“Sister, with all due respect, Jason possesses considerable resources.”

“Okay, Walter, you’re managing me, but I get it.”

He laughed.“I am. Bluntly put: Better to have Jason in the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.”

She exhaled through her nostrils.“You’re right, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to start creating whippers-in of people who write big checks. I just won’t.”

“Well, let’s see how it plays.”

After hanging up, Sister relayed Walter’s half of the conversation to her curious friend.

“Who knows? He might turn out all right.” Betty clearly supported Walter in this. “Since you, Shaker, Sybil, and myself might be working with Dr. Woods, let’s list his good qualities.”

A brief silence was followed by Sister saying,“Brilliant intellectually. Driven. Rich, although some of that wealth has to be inherited. We’ve never met his people, you know. He rarely mentions them except that they live in Newport Beach, California. Let’s see. Well, he’s handsome.”

“Succumbs to flattery, especially from women,” Betty added.

The two women looked at each other and laughed.“What man doesn’t?”

“I’m on empty.”

“By the time you know whether he really can make a whipper-in, you’ll have figured out how to handle him,” Betty said.

“Or he’ll have figured out how to handle me.”

“That’s easy.” Betty tossed her sponge in the bucket. “Do what you say.”

CHAPTER 8

The glow of candlelight and the free flow of champagne improved everyone’s complexions.

Betty and Bobby Franklin’s modest, pretty clapboard house sat on forty acres. Bobby had wanted to name this patch of land Mortgage Manor, but Betty prevailed, and the name remained Tricorn Farm, for once a hatter had lived here who made tricorns in the eighteenth century.

The hunt membership plus flotsam and jetsam from town and country jammed into the traditionally decorated house. A time traveler from colonial Williamsburg would have felt at home. Jennifer and Sari, after dutifully greeting guests, sped away to a party where the median age was twenty. At the Franklins’ the median age had to be forty, which for two girls in their freshman year at Colby College might as well have been one hundred and ten.

While the Franklins’ daughter and Sari might have had no need of candlelight’s soft glow, it added to Sister Jane’s natural radiance. The soft glow didn’t hurt Tedi and Edward Bancroft, either.

It most certainly didn’t hurt Frederika Thomas, whose creamy cleavage pulsated in the light from the fireplaces, the candles flickering in the two-hundred-fifty-year-old chandeliers. Freddie’s bosom, much admired, rose and fell at a pace she controlled. The more they heaved, the more she sought to impress upon the gentleman (it was usually a gentleman) with whom she spoke that she was deeply impressed with his conversation. Perhaps, given the height of the heave, she might even be sexually interested. When Freddie discovered the power of her mammary glands, she made certain to wear low-cut dresses or blouses. A snug cashmere turtleneck could be worn to good effect as well. Freddie had mastered this technique by eighteen. At thirty-four she had perfected it.

Speaking with Sister, a respectable 38C, which suited her six-foot frame, Freddie kept her glories at a moderate pace with the chat. Freddie admired Sister but had never thought of seducing her. Good thing, because Sister would have laughed herself silly.

“Poor Marty.” Freddie’s doe eyes widened further. “You just know she’s dying to come. This isthe party. Anyone not invited to the Franklins’ winds up at the country club, I suppose. Well, at least Marty will be able to wear her major jewels. Crawford’s no cheapskate.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sister saw Iffy in her motorized metal wheelchair festooned with party lights and sparklers, which Iffy intended to set off at midnight.“Marty needs a scooter like Iffy’s. I’m surprised those rubies and diamonds don’t bend her double.”

“I’d kill for those rubies and diamonds.”

“You’d have to.”

Freddie, possessed of a good sense of humor, laughed at Sister’s good-natured jibe. “Good as he is that way, Crawford’s a brute to keep her from her friends.”

“Once a man takes a position publicly, he rarely backs down or seeks a compromise. It’s a particular failing of the gender, I’m afraid, and Crawford is more pigheaded than most.”

“You don’t think women can be stubborn?”

“I do.” Sister’s silver hair gleamed in the light. “But with great effort, especially from friends, most women can be brought around to seek a compromise. Maybe I’m making too much of it. I’m upset with Crawford, obviously, and I adore Marty. I miss her already. She was the most P.C. person in the hunt, and even though I often thought she was to the left of Pluto she made me think.”

Jason Woods, intent in conversation with Walter, turned his head. Both Freddie and Sister noticed his classic profile simultaneously.

“Divine.”

“I’d have to agree.” Sister smiled. “But surely you’ve met him.”

“In passing. There’s never been enough time to talk, and I was usually stuck with my tick of an ex-boyfriend.”

“Jason seems to have a refreshingly low opinion of monogamy,” Sister remarked.

“These days so do I.” Freddie laughed.

If a male stranger had beheld these two women together, he would have first fixed his gaze on Freddie. At thirty-four, lithe and voluptuous, she’d send the blood south. Eventually his eyes would shift to Sister. Standing there, completely unself-conscious, the older woman burst with raw animal energy. Maybe his blood wouldn’t head south, although it would have when she was younger, but even a man half her age would be drawn to her. Theenergy would pull him—and it pulled women, too, in a different manner.

Some creatures possess this magnetism. Secretariat had it. Archie, Sister’s late anchor hound, had it. You justhad to look at him, the way you had to look at Sister.

Freddie wanted to be like Sister, but she was too concerned with her effect on others. Beautiful as she was, this made her vulnerable. She needed praise to feel feminine, to feel good. Sister woke up in the morning feeling good. If people liked her, fine. If they didn’t, well, there were six billion people on earth. There ought to be someone out there they liked.

“I heard your parting with Mick was stormy.”

Freddie pursed her lips.“I vented to all my girlfriends, and now I’m ashamed of myself. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

The wind rattled the windowpanes. A downdraft sent spark showers flying up in the fireplace and glowing on the firescreens.

Jason made his way to the two women.

“Ladies.”

“Jason, you’ve met Freddie Thomas before, I believe.”

“That has been my pleasure, but”—he inclined his head toward the lovely woman—“she was always guarded by a two-toed sloth.”

Freddie and Sister burst out laughing.

“You haven’t been out hunting,” Jason remarked.

“I’ve been so busy this season, I haven’t been out once.”

“Freddie has reached that critical juncture in her practice where she needs to either take a partner or partners or cut back on work so she can enjoy life—which of course means foxhunting.” Sister leaned toward Freddie. “I mean it.”

Freddie was a certified public accountant. Gray thought highly of her.

“I’m sitting at the crossroads being a big chicken.” She sighed in agreement.

“If you don’t get off the crossroads you’ll be squashed. Listen to the sage of Roughneck Farm,” Sister teased.

“Funny, my image of accountants is of someone dull. I was wrong.” Jason assiduously avoided staring at her cleavage.

“I love accounting. I get to study businesses from the inside. I guess I’m a little like Sonny Shaeffer.” She nodded toward the florid-faced banker. “I know a little bit about every business, but perhaps not enough to run one.”

“Freddie, you could do anything you set your mind to because you’re so intelligent.” Sister meant that. She turned to make her exit so these two could discover one another but was nearly run over by Iffy, who hit her brakes.

Sister was pinned between Iffy on one side, Jason and Freddie on the other.

“Happy New Year.” Iffy appeared festive, although resentment bubbled beneath the surface.

“Happy New Year,” the others replied.

“Freddie, did you know that Jason is my doctor?”

“I did.”

“He saved my life. If you ever feel a lump anywhere, go to him.” She stared at Freddie’s bosom.

“I’ll bear your advice in mind, although I hope I never need it.”

Jason put his hand on Iffy’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you so lit up.”

“How do you mean that?” Iffy sounded a little testy.

“The lights.” He pointed to her wheelchair. “If you all will excuse me, I’m going to find Gray.”

“He’s with Garvey.” Iffy’s lower lip jutted out. “And I’m mad at both of them.”

“Don’t stay mad long, Iffy; it’s New Year’s Eve. And I need you to back up.”

“Oh.” Iffy turned her head, beeped her horn, and backed up a tad as Binky and Milly DuCharme moved out of the way.

“Happy New Year,” Sister greeted husband and wife.

Binky, golden hair laced with gray, wrapped his arm around her waist.“Here’s to the two-faced god, Janus. He looks to the past; he looks to the future.” With that he gulped his champagne.

Milly, a less enthusiastic drinker, clicked glasses with her husband and Sister.“You look divine in that color.”

Sister, in royal blue, laughed.“Thank you, but I’m not divine, or I guess I’d be like Janus.”

Leaning very close, Milly whispered,“I don’t want to see the future.”

“Me neither,” Sister agreed.

“What’d you say, Honeybun?” Binky hadn’t caught the whispered conversation amidst all the noise.

“That it’s best for us not to know what tomorrow brings,” Milly chirped.

“We know to not count our chickens before they’ve hatched.” He laughed, then stopped. “One thing is consistent: Alfred.”

“Sometimes old wounds are lovingly tended.” Milly had lived with the situation since the middle seventies and felt justified in speaking her mind.

Sister, not wishing to criticize either brother, kissed both Binky and Milly on the cheek.“Whatever the year brings, I hope we stay healthy and thankful for our friends.” As she sidled through the crowd she thought to herself that the statute of limitations on youthful traumas had run out.

When she reached Gray and Garvey she noticed Iffy doing her best to butt into everything Jason and Freddie had to say to one another.

Garvey noticed, too.“I think she’s like a lot of women. She fell in love with her doctor.”

“Perhaps,” said Sister. Then she added, “Iffy’s motto is, ‘If I have made just one life miserable, I have not lived in vain.’”

Gray and Garvey laughed, for the sting of truth was in it.

“I’ll get my share.” Gray smiled.

“Hey, take mine, too. I’ve been on the short end of her stick for the last week.”

“Hopefully Iffy will bow to the inevitable. She’ll have her nose out of joint for a while about the audit, but it takes too much energy to stay angry,” Sister sighed. “She needs a positive outlet.”

“I thought Alfred was an outlet. Course he’s not here tonight, since Binky is.” Garvey looked over the room. Gray succinctly summed it up. “Iffy and Alfred are so used to being unhappy they don’t want to upset the status quo. They’re perfect for each other.”

Sister held up her champagne flute. The men touched theirs to hers, and the crystal chimed, a high, clear note.“Here’s to a New Year filled with new ways and old ways. Over solid bedrock the earth keeps shifting.” She knew the Blue Ridge bedrock was granite more than one billion years old. However, no need for her to be pedantic.

“Hear, hear,” the men toasted.

Then Garvey laughed.“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a geological toast. Makes me wish I’d been in your geology class at Mary Baldwin.”

“How about a toast from your profession?” Gray teased him.

“Put the pedal to the metal.” Garvey raised his glass.

“That was too easy!” Sister laughed at him.

“You didn’t say it had to be hard.” Garvey then looked to Gray. “Your turn.”

“Put your money in your head; no one can steal it from you there.”

Sister and Garvey clicked their glasses once more.

Meanwhile, Iffy drove right under Freddie’s bosom as if to find shade. It’s doubtful Iffy could have found a toast for the occasion, but she could have wedged her champagne flute in Freddie’s cleavage. Of course, Freddie could have used Iffy as an end table.

Ben Sidell, sheriff of the county, his back to Freddie, half turned and caught Jason’s eye. “Dr. Woods, Happy New Year. Iffy”—and he included Freddie when she turned round—“Happy New Year.”

“Why aren’t you in uniform?” Iffy blurted out, oblivious to the fact that the sheriff was entitled to a private life.

“I worked Christmas Eve and Christmas.” He smiled broadly. “Interesting hunt this morning.”

“Interesting hunt tonight.” The corner of Jason’s mouth turned upward.

Ben looked at Jason, then Freddie, then Iffy, and thought this a strange triangle.“I was wondering if any of you could introduce me to the lady standing by the fireplace.”

Champagne flute in hand, Dr. Margaret DuCharme leaned against the end of the fireplace.

Jason, unwilling to surrender his spot with Freddie, didn’t move.

Nor would Iffy.

Freddie, happy to ditch both of them, took Ben’s hand for an instant. “I’d be happy to.”

Iffy and Jason were abandoned to one another.

Iffy smiled. Jason’s eyes followed Freddie.

Meanwhile, Freddie, voice low, said,“She’s a sports medicine doctor. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but she must be very good because the Washington Redskins send her their wounded. Professional golfers fly in to see her, too.”

“Married?”

“To her work.”

As they drew closer Freddie stepped forward.

Margaret, diminutive and attractive, extended her hand to Ben.“I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

The touch of her hand befuddled him. He stood there speechless.

Freddie, wise in such matters, chatted for a moment.“Everyone knows our sheriff.”

Ben recovered, dropping Margaret’s hand. She smiled. “If you two will excuse me.” Freddie skillfully slipped away.

Jason watched her every move from behind Iffy’s wheelchair.

People are like colors: they complement each other or they clash. Ben and Margaret complemented each other. Once Ben had regained his composure they talked easily, lighting up like the sparks flying in the fireplace. And the conversation veered from the superficial immediately. Their physical attraction was obvious. What a partygoer observing them couldn’t have known was that their minds were on fire.

Driving home from the party, Sister and Gray noticed Donny Sweigart’s truck by the side of the road a quarter of a mile from Crawford’s entrance.

The headlights revealed blood on his camouflage fatigues as Donny walked to his truck.

Gray pulled over. Sister opened the window.“Donny, are you all right?”

“Yeah. Deer blood.”

“If Crawford catches you here, he’ll put the law on you.”

Donny smiled slyly.“He’s celebrating. Anyway, I’m out of here.”

As they drove home, Gray, who planned to spend the night with Sister, said,“He pushes it.”

“What I want to know is, where’s the deer?”

“Could be down in the meadow.”

“He can’t drag it out by himself unless he dresses it in the field, and then he runs the risk of Crawford catching him. No deer in the truck bed.”

“What the hell is he up to?”

Sister, lips taut:“I don’t think we want to know.”

CHAPTER 9

The New Year fell on Sunday. It was also the Feast of the Circumcision, a festival honoring the removal of the infant Christ’s foreskin. No doubt the early church introduced this celebration to replace pagan New Year frolics whose devotees found other things to do with their foreskins.

Sister, up before dawn, as usual, left Gray in bed sound asleep under a down comforter. Not a drinker, she had enjoyed last night’s champagne, but at this moment she enjoyed her hot tea even more.

After feeding the dogs and Golly, she pulled a heavy three-ply cashmere sweater over her head, wrapped a scarf around her neck, slipped her arms into her fleece-lined bomber jacket, and slapped on her cowboy hat.

She stepped outside into a charcoal-gray world and looked east, where a faint sliver of lighter gray lined the horizon. The snow clouds had cleared out last night. Breathing in the cold air, she felt seventeen years old. Raleigh and Rooster plowed behind her as her boots sank deep into the snow. Hard going though it was, she told herself this was terrific exercise for her thighs.

Not one hound mumbled as she approached the kennels. They always slept well after a hunt, and yesterday’s go had pooped them out.

Once inside the kennels, she put the two house dogs in the office. Removing her bomber jacket and draping it over the back of the office chair, she double-checked the clipboard on the desk.

Each hunting day, those hounds selected to go out had red checks by their names. She’d check their pads again, then note if anyone needed a little extra feed. She used the day’s roster to determine who would go out next hunt. One of her favorite times was going over the draw list with Shaker. They rated each hound’s work during the last hunt and each hound’s condition. Sheloved few things in life as much as her hounds. Raleigh, Rooster, Golly, and all the horses ranked right up there, too.

Then she walked into the feed room, a large square room with a huge drain in the center of the gently sloping concrete floor. The room could be power washed in ten minutes. The temperature inside the feed room was forty-five degrees, but it would rise when the hounds came in, and it would also climb a bit as the sun did.

Keeping hounds at temperatures humans find comfortable produces a sick hound. Their body heat when they sleep together keeps them warm, as does good food. It’s cruel to pamper a hound who, God forbid, might become separated from the pack and spend the night hunkered down in a covert or outbuilding somewhere. Hounds need to be hardy, fit, and resourceful.

The best thing any person who keeps animals can do is feed them properly, taking activity and season into account.

Sister filled the troughs with high-protein kibble: 26 percent during hunting season, 21 percent the rest of the time. She then poured a little hot water over it, along with corn oil.

First she pulled in the dog hounds. If the girls were fed first, their lingering enticing aroma could sometimes cause problems with the dog hounds.

Jefferson Hunt had separate housing away from the main kennels for gyps, the females, in season, connected by an arcaded walkway to the main kennel. Even when playing with hounds, Sister played with the dog hounds first. Sad to say, the girls evidenced much less interest in the boys than vice versa. After the dog hounds ate, she checked them. Everyone was fine—no bruised or cut pads, no barbed wire streaks on anyone’s back.

She repeated the process with the girls. When those exuberant ladies finished, she brought in the youngsters, who cheerfully gobbled every morsel. Finally, she brought in Asa and Delia, two older hounds, fed separately to give them time to relax. She mixed in vitamin powder with their warm kibble. As Asa was stiff in the mornings, she let him eat Rimadyl out of her hands. He thought the medicine was a treat, it tasted so good.

“Asa, this is your last year hunting. After this, I’ll need you to help me train puppies. If you don’t like that, you can come on up to the house, but you have to put up with Raleigh and Rooster.”

“It’s Golly that plucks my last nerve,” the gentlemanly hound smiled.

“Is that good?” Delia sniffed as Asa ate his Rimadyl.

“Candy.”

“Here.” Sister patted Delia on the head and let her eat one from her hand. “You don’t really need it, Delia, but one tab won’t hurt you.”

Asa and Delia then ambled to their separate quarters.

Usually Shaker fed the hounds. Sister tried to be there as often as she could, but being a master took time. Landowners called, as did members, each needing information or wanting to impart the same to her. She and Walter both secured and opened territory—another time-consuming process.

Apart from foxhunting, Sister sat on the board of directors for Custis Hall, helped raise funds for the SPCA, and had her farm to run. Seed and fertilizer, if ordered early, often came with a 10 percent discount. Each year what the fields needed varied. Fences might need repair or replacing. A household chore would always pop up: a dying refrigerator, a crack in the wall. It never ended, but she was never bored.

Gardening, second to foxhunting in her passions, restored her spirits if they happened to be flagging. Even in winter, looking over glossy holly bushes and various conifers delighted her and inspired her to plant more trees, bushes, and flowers come spring.

Sari would return to Colby tomorrow. Today would be Shaker and Lorraine’s last day with her until semester’s end, which was why Sister fed the hounds. When Shaker roused himself in about a half hour, he’d find everything done: hounds fed, yards picked, the manure spreader full.

A long low pink ray of light fell over the snows. She left a note for Shaker, tacking it on the bulletin board in the office. She couldn’t wait to get outside, for soon the world would be bathed in pink, then scarlet, and last, gold.

She put her bomber jacket back on. The dogs rose. The phone rang.

“Hello, Jefferson Hunt Kennels.”

“Sister, you come over here this instant and pick up your goddamned hounds!”

She recognized Iffy’s voice. “My hounds are in the kennels.”

“Oh, sure, that’s what you hunters always say. You pick up these hounds or you’ll never pass through my land again.” Iffy slammed down the phone.

“That girl needs charm school or Prozac. Maybe both.” Sister replaced the receiver as she talked out loud to Raleigh and Rooster. “Well, let’s crank up the party wagon. I don’t know whose hounds are out there, but we’ll pick them up.”

She drove slowly. The road looked smooth enough, but black ice could flip you on your side in a skinny minute.

Fortunately, no traffic gummed up the works. No motorist impatiently hung on her butt in an effort to speed her along. A large portion of the county would be nursing hangovers. They wouldn’t be out and about.

Iffy owned a small piece of land, thirty acres, give or take, south of Beasley Hall, Crawford’s large, pretentious estate. Iffy’s place rested twelve miles from Sister’s farm, but twelve miles on treacherous roads could take a half hour or longer.

When Sister finally pulled down the plowed drive, the sun had fully cleared the horizon. Snows glistened bloodred.

Black and tan hounds aimlessly ran about.

She stopped the truck, put the hunting horn to her lips, and blew three even long blasts. Hounds lifted their heads to stare at her. She blew the“come in” call again.

They trotted over the crusted snow toward her. A few heavier hounds broke through, leaping forward and up as snow sprayed in front of them.

“Good hounds,” she called to them in a cheerful voice.

She opened the door to the party wagon. They hopped in.

“That’s a blessing,” she thought to herself.

If they’d been shy, she’d now be on a wild-goose chase. She put up three couple of hounds, then continued down the drive. No more appeared. She stopped and knocked at Iffy’s back door. She could hear her thumping tread, then the door flew open.

“Happy New Year again, Iffy.”

“Bullshit! Did you get those damned hounds?”

“I picked up six. How many did you see?”

“I don’t know. Step in a minute. I’ll catch my death of cold.” Iffy motioned for Sister to step into the kitchen.

Sister noticed the .22 revolver on the kitchen table. She also noted that Iffy was moving along without her cane.

“I have never seen these hounds. They don’t have tattoo marks in their ears, and they don’t have collars either.” Sister forced a smile. “Our pack is tricolor, Iffy. These are black and tans, but they’re in good flesh. Someone has cared for them.”

Iffy did not thank her for picking up someone else’s hounds. “You’re the hound queen. You’ll find out who owns them before I do. I was ready to shoot them if one of them so much as bared a fang at me.”

“Did it sound as though they were hunting?”

“I don’t know. All I heard was my garbage cans knocked over.”

“I’ll pick up the mess,” Sister volunteered. “No point in you going out in the snow.”

“Some days are better than others. Most people stiffen up in the cold, but I have more trouble in the heat. Maybe it’s the medicine. I don’t know.” Her features, a little puffy, brightened. “Jason’s putting me on a new program for the New Year. He said my resolution is to build the strength back in my legs and”—she sucked in her breath—“lose the weight.”

“He takes good care of you.”

Iffy’s lower lip quivered. “I’m not even forty. I want my old self back. Jason’s lining up a physical therapist and a nutritionist.” She brightened again.

Sister put her hand over the old brown porcelain doorknob.“If I find out who these hounds belong to, I’ll let you know in case they come this way again.”

“Do that.” Iffy’s voice was friendlier.

Sister walked outside, careful on the steps. She walked to the side of the house. One can, lid off, had garbage strewn about. The others, on their sides, had the lids on tight. She scooped up the debris: orange rinds, coffee filters and grinds within, soup cans, and one large bottle—no label, but a whiff informed her it contained something potent. She gave thanks for the freeze. Made the task easier, and easier on the nose, too.

Given that the road to the barn hadn’t been plowed out, she trudged back there. No hounds.

As she drove out she pondered where to put these hounds. Since she had no idea as to their vaccinations or health records, she didn’t want them near her hounds. She reviewed hunt club members who might have a vacant stall in their barns or a secure outbuilding. She saw, coming in the opposite direction, Sam Lorillard.

She flashed her headlights. He flashed. They both stopped. The shoulders had snow piled up. They couldn’t get off the road. Fortunately, there wasn’t traffic on this back road.

One of the hounds yowled.

“Sister, where did you find them?”

“Iffy’s. Three couple. Crawford’s new pack?”

“A pack of escape artists. Got most back. Only one couple out now that you picked these up.”

“You might suggest that the boss appease Iffy as well as anyone else.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked from her party wagon to his small trailer. “Think we could get them in the trailer?”

“Better not take the chance, Sam. They might piss off again. How about if I take them to Beasley Hall? You follow me. Where do I put them?”

“The old unused barn in the back. Rory’s there patching up where they chewed through the rotted wood. Crawford has no sense.”

“Well, no hound sense. We’d know not to put them in there.”

Within twenty minutes the three had unloaded the hounds at Crawford Howard’s barn.

Struggling with ready-mix concrete, Rory tried to get it to the right consistency to slap over the chewed place.“Pretty hopeless in this cold.”

“Yeah. Got any riprap?” She named a large type of stone most quarries carried.

Sam piped up.“We do. Leftover from when Crawford put in the culverts.”

“My suggestion,” said Sister, “and it’s only a suggestion—you gentlemen do as you like—would be to take heavy-duty page wire, run it along the sides, curve in the bottom of the page wire, and put down riprap at the edges until you can properly pour concrete or sucrete.”

“It’s going to be a bitch to dig through this frost to get the wire down in the ground.” Sam did not relish this task.

“Yeah, it is; and bending it forward is no picnic either. Crawford might not want to spend the money on page wire and concrete. He’s going to build a new kennel, right?” Sister inquired.

“Right,” Rory answered.

“You can’t have these hounds running all over the country. Apart from the bad will it creates, some will get killed. They don’t know where they are yet. This is going to be hard as hell to patch up until the temperature is in the high forties at least. I think you’re going to have to spend the money on cinder blocks against the wall and some kind of grid like Equistall for the floor. You’ve got to secure these hounds.”

Crawford had walked in behind them.

Sister turned when she heard the bootsteps.“Happy New Year, Crawford.”

“She brought back three couple of hounds that were at Iffy Demetrios’s,” Sam quickly apprised his boss.

“Iffy is, well, Iffy.” Sister shrugged. “I’ll be getting on home. If I see any more, I’ll pick them up.”

It pained him, but Crawford was man enough to utter“Thank you.” He then puffed out his chest. “They won’t get out again.”

“Dumfreishire blood?” Sister asked sharply, knowing from their looks that the hounds had that type of Scottish blood. Although originally hunted in Scotland, the Dumfreishire was classified as an English hound.

“Right.” Crawford nodded.

“Handsome.” She left them to their labors and thought how foolish Crawford was thinking he could handle this type of hound.

The Dumfreishire, a large handsome hound, would be less high-strung than an American hound, but the good-looking black and tans would rapidly discover that Crawford knew nothing. They’d hunt on their own, discounting him. Also, their nose, not quite as good as that of the American hound, would frustrate him.

The English hound developed in a land of abundant moisture and rich soils. The red clay of central Virginia, occasionally enlivened by Davis loam, put the picturesque English hound at a disadvantage. Crawford would blame the hound, not himself.

On those perfect scenting days, this pack would hunt with brio. The other little thing Crawford would discover the hard way is that English hounds, as a rule, don’t have the cry that American, crossbred, or Penn-Marydels do. Again, given where they were developed, they didn’t need it to the degree that the New World needs a big booming sound, for much of the English countryside is open. One can see the hounds working.

They were big, they were beautiful. That part would swell his ego. Maybe he should just mount up and parade them around until he could find a real huntsman.

As she passed the beginnings of the stone St. Swithun’s Chapel she had ample time to consider the unholy mess Crawford was creating for himself—and for her, too.

“Happy New Year.” She sighed.

As she drove through the imposing gates, two huge bronze boars guarding the entrance had icicles dangling from their snouts. Their bristly chests glistened with ice rivulets. She turned west.

A quarter mile down the road she noted Donny Sweigart’s treads from last night’s supposed deer hunt.

Curious, she pulled as far off the road as she could given the conditions, hit her flashers, and got out. She wanted to see if there was a carcass or deer offal in the snow. She looked down the slight embankment, then over the expanse of snowy meadow. A copse of trees and shrubs stood out against the white. Something bright caught her eye.

She slid down the embankment. Tracks were partly covered with snow, but she could make out boot marks. She followed them toward the copse. Once there she saw a glob of congealed blood, fist sized, bright red.

There were no signs of struggle, no feathers either. If Donny had set out a trap she’d see it. No trap.

It was eerie, a hunk of frozen blood. She returned to her truck wondering what the hell was going on.

CHAPTER 10

Ben Sidell slouched in the passenger seat of Sister’s red GMC early Monday morning, January 2, St. Basil’s Day. “Take me to Paradise.”

“If I were young, I would,” she sassed back.

He laughed as he unrolled the map on the dash.

These expensive, lovely maps had been donated to the Jefferson Hunt by Francis McGovern, a buoyant member more on the road than home to hunt.

“Apart from the home fixtures, how old are the fixtures adjacent to Paradise?”

“Mill Ruins, Mud Fence, Orchard Hill, Chapel Cross are original fixtures going back to the beginning of the hunt. Course they’re older than 1887, but once the hunt was founded their landowners were part of the fun. What’s happened in certain parts of the county, especially the east because it’s closer to town, is large estates, over time, have been broken up. Newcomers don’t understand foxhunting or they plain don’t like it, and we lose, say, fifty acres, which make the one thousand acres we use to hunt unhuntable for practical purposes because we can’t get around the fifty acres.Even if we do figure out a way around, hounds can’t read. They go through the No Trespassing area and you get an enraged phone call, Sheriff.”

“In time some of the comeheres change their minds.”

“Some.” She nodded. “But there are other people who just don’t get it and never will. They want to live in the country, but they aren’t of the country. Pretty much they look down their noses at us.”

“Do they look down at people like Tedi and Edward Bancroft?”

The Bancrofts had been wealthy since the Industrial Revolution, the family wise in nurturing that wealth.

“The comeheres don’t even know they’re not in the loop. If they see Tedi and Edward at a big party they think they’ve made it. Know what I mean?”

“I think so,” said Ben. Originally from Ohio, he had been hired three years earlier to be sheriff of the county.

“It boils down to this: the arrogant ones only talk to other arrogant ones. They’re ignorant of their social status. They think because they’ve built a McMansion on twenty acres, they’re elite—if you can stand that word. They haven’t a clue that they’re close to the bottom of the barrel. A poor but warm person from an old family has much higher status than they do.”

He smiled wryly.“You’re at the top of the heap.”

“Not in wealth but in other respects, yes. No point in false modesty. And the reality is, if you’re of it, you don’t dwell on it. I mean by that, you take it for granted. Maybe the first lesson new people need to learn is to treat people with respect regardless of their bank balances.”

“Yep.”

She slowed.“Okay, here’s Chapel Cross. Orchard Hill and the other fixtures all fan out from this crossroads, an old tertiary road in highway department terms. Everything you see, I’ll drive slowly, is our territory right up to the Blue Ridge. The top of the mountains divides us from Glenmore Hunt in Augusta County.”

“Why don’t you go up the mountains?”

“Would you?” She laughed. “For one thing, it’s hard going. For another thing, there’s boar up there, and I fear them like death. Lastly, there are folks in those hollows who come to town maybe once a year. They are famous for the purity of their country waters.”

He knew about the distilleries in the hollows but not their location. Most moonshine busts were made when a trucker was pulled over and moonshine was discovered in the rig’s closed bed.

Also, no prudent sheriff in any county would send a lone deputy to seek out the stills.

“Let me go back for a minute. Some of the new people really are good. They take to hunting, they value wildlife, they are good stewards of the land, and we’re lucky to have them. We’re lucky, too, because they’re usually more liberal, politically, than we are and they challenge us, force usto question. I believe that’s a good thing. If all you do is converse with people who think just like you do, you don’t learn much.” She slowed again, pointing to a lone brick fireplace. “Used to be the gatehouse to Paradise.”

The gatehouse pillars, brick with a shield of arms near the capped top, still stood.

“Are you going to tell me the Yankees burned it?”

“No.” She laughed a deep appreciative laugh. “Not this one. Way back before you were born, electrical wire was wrapped in silk. Anyway, a short burnt it to a cinder. The big pile with towering Corinthian columns is at the end of this road. It was incredible. It survived 1865, but each year itfell further and further into disrepair.” She paused. “Thanks to Margaret’s efforts, we’ll be back hunting here. You’ll see it Saturday. Decayed as it is, there’s magic to Paradise. God, what it must have been in its heyday.”

“Why did Margaret help?”

“Walter and Jason asked her to do it, and she likes to see the hunt. She’s just not a hunter. Golf is her game.” Sister paused. “Just one of those things. Binky and Alfred had another major disagreement—not face-to-face, of course, but through their lawyers—so the lawyers suggested no hunting because of the liability. Alfred’s always been warm to hunting, and, really, Margaret worked on her father. Once lawyers get in anything it’s a mess.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed.

“In a way this is still paradise. There’s a forlorn majesty to the ruin.” Sister felt the pull of the place.

“Where are we, about four miles north from Chapel Cross?”

“Right. Good judge of distance. If we turned around, passed through Chapel Cross, we’d reach Tattenhall Station. From Chapel Cross, Little Dalby and Beveridge Hundred are on the south and west side of the road. Orchard Hill and Mud Fence are on the south and east side. Tattenhall Station is straight south. Paradise is five thousand acres, and it covers both sides of the old road north of Chapel Cross. Beyond Paradise it’s billy-goat land owned by Franklin Foster in northern Virginia. At long last, he’s given us permission to hunt there. Walter and I drove up to Fairfax to see him lastsummer. With the leaves off the trees and snow on the ground, you get a good sense of how the land rolls. All crisscrossed by creeks. It’s good soil. Some of the grades might scare you on a tractor, though.” She laughed.

“I just heard that Jason Woods made an offer on this land.”

“Good God.” Sister’s silver brows shot upward. “He’ll have his work cut out for him. Binky and Alfred won’t agree to sell.” She added, “Offer must be less than a day old. I usually hear about those things. It’s hard to keep a secret in this county.”

“I think it’s a place of secrets.”

She considered this.“Maybe you’re right. The little secrets leak out. The big ones—well, some escape like evils from Pandora’s box. And others we’ll never know. I’m thinking about Nola Bancroft buried near the covered bridge for all those years.”

Tedi and Edward’s oldest daughter had been murdered and buried at the site where the bridge was being built. Decades later her skeletal hand, huge sapphire still on the third finger, had broken through the surface, ultimately pointing to her killer.

“That was one of my first big cases on the job.” He glanced at the hunt club map again. “That’s when I learned to listen to you.”

“Go on.” She smiled.

“Forgive the pun, but you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Some. Not all.”

“The brothers live simply?” Ben inquired.

“In dependencies, buildings that used to house workers like the farm manager. Smaller ones housed slaves. They live at opposite ends of the farm, so they don’t have to pass and repass too much, as we say. Oh, one other thing, Arthur maintains all the machinery.”

“Mechanical ability runs in the family,” he noted.

“Right.” She nodded. “What Margaret does is mechanical in a way.”

“Do you think Arthur keeps a still on the property? I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

Sister, not one to tell on people, replied,“Arthur wouldn’t be that stupid. There are so many hollows with clear running streams as you get right up next to the mountains, he’d do it there. Arthur wouldn’t jeopardize Paradise.”

Ben considered this.“Good point.”

She dropped into a lower gear as the road narrowed, beginning the switchback climb up the eastern slope of the mountain.“Seen enough?”

“Sure.”

She turned around, sliding. She’d learned to drive in snow before four-wheel drive. “Ben, there are many ways to circumvent the law. For instance, if someone wants to poach bear on my land, they can take their license plates off, shoot the bear, say up by Hangman’s Ridge, and even if I stop them what do I have? No I.D.”

“I know. You foiling Arthur’s line, are you?” The corner of his mouth turned up as he used the hunting term.

“No. There are, however, greater sins than making moonshine. Do I think he makes it? Of course. Do I know where? No. Nor do I want to know. Ignorance is protection. If I don’t know, then I’m not in a position of covering up, right? I don’t cotton to lying for someone.”

“I understand.” And he did.

“You know, Ben, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. Seems to me you spend just as much energy breaking the law as you do making an honest living. You know we have thousands of years of evidence to prove the wisdom of the Ten Commandments. They’re broken every minute.”

“Yep.” He turned his head to the right as they passed the pillars and lone fireplace near them again.

“Then there are things you learn on your own.”

“Such as.” He was interested.

“Anyone who refuses love is a fool. Every now and then the gods give us the chance to open our hearts.”

He placed his forefinger on the sensitive skin just above his upper lip, a habit when thinking.“I hear you.”

She laughed.“The worst that can happen is you’ll have a great story to tell when you’re my age. The best that can happen is you achieve paradise.”

CHAPTER 11

Jefferson Hunt took out hounds on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, weather permitting. This Tuesday, January 3, the weather was permitting but the footing tried the patience of all the giving saints. However, the fixture card read Tattenhall Station, 9:00 a.m., and Tattenhall Station it would be.

Hunts varied their meeting times to adjust to the light and the temperature. Cubbing days would begin at 7:00 a.m. or 7:30 a.m. As fall gained strength, Sister moved the time to 8:00 a.m.

For cubbing most hunts did not print a fixture card. A fixture card was a handy list of times, dates, and places, called fixtures, usually printed on heavy stock paper, the print perhaps in the hunt’s colors. Traditionally, a fixture card should fit into a jacket pocket.

Some hunts dispensed with tradition, issuing fixture cards in varying sizes and even on lightweight paper, which meant the card couldn’t hold up to the rigors of a season.

In the family scrapbook, Sister could read fixture cards used by her grandparents.

A stickler for tradition, Sister, the fifth master since 1887, had printed Jefferson Hunt fixture cards exactly like those from 1887.

The Franklins’ printing business had dies from that time.

Fixture cards were usually received by mail before Opening Hunt. They could also be personally handed to a member by the master. This was considered a proper invitation to hunt.

Sans fixture card, a person rode as the guest of a member. The member’s social obligation was to call and inform the master.

Someone who landed in Sister’s hunt territory without knowing a member could write or call to ask permission to cap on a particular day. A cap was the amount of money a visitor paid to hunt that day. It can be collected by a field secretary or dropped in the offered field master’s cap. Recently people had begun to e-mail to request permission. Strictly speaking, this was not a 100 percent correct way to ask the master.

Sister would inquire if they were a member of a recognized hunt. It not, had they capped at other hunts or ridden with farmer packs?

The point of these queries was to gather information so as not to overface the rider. The last thing any master wanted was for people to risk injury or to scare the bejabbers out of themselves.

If callers truly were neophytes, Sister suggested they go out with the hilltoppers. If their schedule was flexible, she’d suggest a day when territory was more forgiving.

Riding was necessary for foxhunting, but not sufficient. A foxhunter needed to know the fundamental law: hounds always have right-of-way.

The old siding lot at Tattenhall Station originally existed for mules and the baggage carts they pulled. As the mules disappeared cars began to park there. In the early 1960s, railroads abandoned unprofitable spur lines. This fate befell Tattenhall Station. The tidy, dark mustard board-and-batten buildings that housed the switchmen, the fireboys, various laborers, and the all-important telegraph operator looked picturesque covered with snow.

Their condition was a tribute to Norfolk& Southern’s solid construction.

The few residents of the pretty little community around the old spur line faithfully plowed out the parking lot, still called the siding.

Nine rigs and the party wagon came out on Tuesday.

Ronnie Haslip and Henry Xavier rode up behind Sister. Charlotte Norton, Bunny Taliaferro, Dr. Jason Woods, Tedi, and Edward trudged through the snows. Bobby Franklin followed with Garvey Stokes and Lorraine Rasmussen in tow.

However, after an hour, Shaker and the hounds doing the best they could under clear skies, Shaker called it a day. No point in frustrating the hounds.

The worst the field could complain about—if they were in the habit of complaining, which, praise Jesus, they were not—was that they enjoyed a bracing winter’s ride among good company.

Back at the trailers, Ronnie Haslip, a childhood friend of Ray Jr. and treasurer of Jefferson Hunt, surprised everyone. He had hired one of the silver-quilted food trucks, Jack’s Snacks, that visit construction sites to stop by.

Hot coffee, hot tea, hot soup, hot dogs, and hamburgers warmed everyone.

“Ronnie, that is the classiest thing any member has ever done.” Xavier held up a Styrofoam cup to toast him.

The others joined in.

Ronnie, shoulder to shoulder with Sister, asked,“Does Gray want my job?”

“No; do you want out of it come May?”

May 1 was the general meeting date on which master or masters were elected, along with administrative officers.

“No.”

“Are you baiting me?” She smiled at Ronnie, two inches shorter than herself, whose turnout was always impeccable.

“A little.” He grinned, for he loved gossip, any manner of personal information. “Isn’t this his first day at Garvey’s?”

“It is,” she laughed. “You’ll notice Garvey is here, so he doesn’t have to deal with it.”

Jason, who had devoured an entire bowl of chili and was glowing from the warmth, joined the conversation,“I’ll probably have to prescribe tranquilizers for Iffy this afternoon.”

Ronnie’s eyebrows raised. “She’s always been high maintenance.”

Jason thought a moment.“Even people who aren’t high maintenance can become that way if they’re sick or injured.”

Sister agreed.“People need extra reinforcement.”

“Attitude.” Ronnie pronounced judgment. “Attitude is everything.”

“Medicine helps,” Jason wryly smiled.

Betty walked over.“Ronnie, spectacular idea!”

“Thank you.”

She turned to Sister for a moment.“The weatherman predicts the temperature will climb into the high fifties tomorrow. All this will start to melt, then freeze over every night. But he said it will be a short January thaw.”

“I know.” Sister frowned. “If it’s really bad, I’ll cancel Thursday’s hunt, but I’m not going to worry about it until seven Thursday morning.”

She put changes to the day’s hunting on the Huntline two hours before the time posted on the fixture card.

“This will take a long time to melt.” Jason looked around at the dazzling snow.

Ronnie noticed Xavier on the other side of the small knot of people.“His lordship commands my presence.”

“You’re awful.”

“Speaking of high maintenance.” He winked at Betty as he excused himself.

“Jason, I heard you’ve made an offer on Paradise?” Sister asked. Ben hadn’t said this was privileged information, so she felt free to bring it up.

“Put down the earnest money last night.” Triumph illuminated his face.

“Paradise? DuCharme’s Paradise?” Betty couldn’t believe her ears.

“The same.” Jason’s lad cap added a jaunty air to his presence.

“How did you ever get those two nitwits to come to the table?” Betty blurted it out.

“Well, one came to the operating table. He credits me with saving his life.” Jason tried to sound humble.

“That may explain Alfred’s cooperation, but what about Binky?” Betty’s curiosity flipped into the red zone.

“Milly worked on him. No contingencies in the offer. No financing. She knows they’ll never see an offer like this again. They can’t afford to run a place that big. Don’t think Margaret, when it passes to her, can afford it, either. The far fields are going down. The houses they live in aren’t in great shape, either. This is an answered prayer for the DuCharmes.”

Betty reached for a hot dog and hot coffee. She wasn’t sure it was an answered prayer. However, she simply asked, “Have you signed a contract?”

“Two weeks from now. Both parties wanted their lawyers to read it. Cut and dried, but we’ll go through the lawyer song and dance.” He paused, eyes down, then up quickly. “Both said Margaret had to agree. I made the offer New Year’s evening, and I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“Five thousand acres,” Sister said in wonderment.

“Plans?” Betty knew she was being nosy.

“I’m going to work from old photographs and restore Paradise.”

“Those stone barns are beautiful. The slate on the roofs held up.” Sister lusted after stone.

“What shell remains is better than I’d hoped, even though it looks like a war relic.” He laughed. “I know I can restore the outside of Paradise. The interior will be the challenge.”

“What a fabulous project.” Sister meant that, but she was equally glad she wouldn’t be doing it. She wondered exactly what was in that contract, noting he didn’t utter the dreaded word “development.”

“Meant to ask you”—Betty touched the blackthorn crop he carried on informal days—“where’d you get that?”

“A present from Iffy.” He paused. “She can be very thoughtful, but she gives me too much credit. She wanted to be well.” He paused again for effect, then smiled. “Do you two ladies believe the story about the treasure at Paradise? From the War of 1812. I’ve heard more than one version.”

“I do.” Betty flatly stated. “It’s there.”

“I’d like to.” Sister smiled.

“Which version do you all subscribe to?”

The two women looked at one another, then Betty spoke.“We always heard that Sophie Marques, a maternal I don’t know how many greats-grandmother, raided a pay wagon for the British somewhere on the Bladenberg Pike. Anyway, she came here rich as a queen and bought all the land we know as Paradise. Before Sophie it was virgin timber. She created every pasture you see, sited every barn and outbuilding.”

Sister interjected,“She built a little house on it, a two over two. She lived in it while she created Paradise. What she didn’t spend she buried.”

“Why?” He shrugged.

“Didn’t trust banks. She’d seen too many collapse,” Sister responded.

“You’re telling me that the ancestor of those two yokels was a highwaywoman?” Thus he revealed his disdain for Binky and Alfred, who weren’t exactly yokels.

“Well…yes.” Betty hedged a moment. “The story goes that she worked throughout Maryland during the war as a spy. A pretty woman, she used her wiles to extract information from British officers. After serving her country for no pay she made one big haul in 1814 and had the wisdom to repair toVirginia.”

“Make a great movie.” He laughed.

“I expect there’s a good story about every old place in Virginia.” Betty took it for granted.

Jason’s cell rang. “Excuse me.” He walked to his trailer. Amid the hubbub of conversation he could not be heard, but Sister noted the expression on his face.

He finished the conversation, closed the phone.“Iffy.” He sighed. “She’s feeling shaky. Says Gray is making her sick.” He paused. “I don’t know if one’s emotional state can trigger cancer. I doubt it, but I do know we all do better if we’re stable.”

“Can she truly recover from lung cancer? Excuse me. I realize a doctor can’t discuss a patient. I apologize,” Betty asked.

He waved it off.“Her tumor is gone. Starved, to put it in layman’s terms. The danger for Iffy is if the tumor was able to seed itself. Despite all our advances, we don’t always know that. It’s one of the reasons I continue to run tests on Iffy. But she has an excellent chance for survival. Her work now hasto be with a physical therapist. The treatments debilitated her more than most people. But let’s face it; they’re unpleasant for anyone.” He waited a moment. “Speaking of time, I could begin walking out hounds in February. That gives me time to adjust my schedule. Will that work for you?”

“Yes.” Sister’s shoulders stiffened.

“Make me a whipper-in, and you’ll see Paradise.” He beamed.

She didn’t quite know whether this was an offer or a bribe. “Jason, I see paradise each time I hunt,” she said good-naturedly.

CHAPTER 12

The large silver commercial horse van pulled into Roughneck Farm at three in the afternoon.

Matador, who had passed his vetting with flying colors, stepped off the ramp, stopped, and took in his surroundings. Ears forward, eyes bright, beautifully conformed, he lowered his head when Sister held out her hand to him. She brushed his muzzle, then stroked his ears.

“Boss, he’s a beaut,” Shaker exclaimed.

“For his price he ought to be.” Sister smiled, but she, too, found the flea-bitten gray dazzling, flea-bitten referring to the brown flecks in the gray coat.

Horsin’ Around, one of the many good commercial haulers in the country, covering coast to coast, knew Sister and the farm.

“How’d he load, Hank?” she asked the driver.

“No problem. He’s a real nice horse.”

The staff horses in their various paddocks and pastures viewed the newcomer with curiosity.

Lafayette called out to him,“Pretty is as pretty does.”

Matador turned his head toward the other gray in the barn, snorted, but said nothing. He figured he’d show them.

Keepsake, half thoroughbred and half quarter horse, a friendly guy, simply said,“Good shoulder.”

“Good shoulder is one thing. He’d better damn well take care of our master.” Rickyroo stared at the charismatic animal.

Aztec, youngest of Sister’s hunt horses, said,“Sister Jane has been riding horses since she was four. I expect she knows a good one when she sees him.” He paused for effect.“After all, she picked us, didn’t she?”

Sister handed the cashier’s check to Hank with a fifty-dollar tip. She took the clipboard and signed the paperwork. “January 4. Already four days into the new year.”

“Time flies.” Hank took back the clipboard and thanked Sister for the tip.

Shaker was leading the new fellow into the barn as Hank pulled out.

Sam, in Gray’s Land Cruiser, came down the drive. He bounded into the barn. “Had to see ’im.”

“Well?” Sister raised an eyebrow.

Sam walked around him, stroked his neck, then stood behind as Shaker led him to his stall.“I liked him when I rode him. He really is your kind of horse. Bold.”

“Your word is dipped in platinum.” Sister dropped her arm around his shoulder.

Shaker closed the bottom half of the stall door. He leaned over the top half as Matador checked his surroundings.

“Well, I’m not hunting him until the footing improves. We’ll exercise him, but I do want to give him every chance to get settled and show his best.”

“How about some hot coffee, or what about hot chocolate?” Sister invited Sam into the house.

“Thanks, but I’m heading home. I’m going to work on the kitchen cabinets. Went in at six this morning. Rory and I are working all hours to get the hounds settled along with the other chores.”

As they walked outside to the car, Sister discreetly dug into her pocket for money. She’d gone to the bank earlier. “What are you doing with Gray’s pride and joy?”

“He wanted me to pick up distressed oak. He’s driving my wheels.” Sam smiled. “Hope the car lives long enough to get him home.”

As he slipped behind the wheel of the expensive SUV, Sister stuck five hundred dollars in the front of his coat.“There’s more coming.”

“For what?” Sam fished in his pocket to hand it back. She gently held his wrist. “Part of your finder’s fee. I appreciate you telling me about the horse, and, of course, I appreciate you keeping your brother from other women.”

He sighed.“If I don’t take the money you’ll send it to me as a check.”

“You got that right.”

He grinned.“Gray doesn’t know other women exist.”

“Oh la!” She rolled her eyes.

“While we’re on the subject, I’ll work for food. I’ll muck stalls, groom—I’ll recite poetry even, if there’s a woman out there who’d have me.”

“Funny, isn’t it, Sam? Time was when you trailed clouds of women. None of them did you much good.”

He quickly interjected,“I didn’t do them much good, either.”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other. There’s a lid for every pot. Look at Shaker.”

“Lucky man.”

“Be patient.”

As Sam drove off, Sister hurried back into the stable to admire Matador.“Well, let’s bring these other actors inside.”

As she and Shaker led in the other horses they talked about Thursday’s draw, who to take. The sun touched the horizon. They were glad to be with the horses and one another.

This was not the case at Aluminum Manufacturers. Iffy, buried in paperwork for Farmers Trust, grimaced each time Gray passed her door.

Each time Gray asked her for information, she gloried in retarding his efforts.

She’d erupt, sulk, and use her cane to stomp around, eventually complying with Gray’s request.

She left the office at five. Damned if she’d work late.

No sooner had she passed through her back door when the phone rang.“Hello. Garvey, what do you want?”

“Hate to call you at home, but Sonny called after you left.”

“It was five. Quitting time.” She glowered.

“I’m fine with that. But why I’m calling you at home is because someone must have told the state president of the bank that we were performing an internal audit. He told Sonny to hold approval until Gray finished the audit.”

“Bullshit.” She exploded. “Sonny is president of Farmers Trust for our region. He has the power to make the loan.”

“Sonny’s madder than hell. Look, we’ve got to speed up this audit.”

“Why can’t Sonny face down the Big Prez in Henrico County?”

“You know, Iffy, once banks started merging, once computers replaced people who actually knew their community, it all changed. If the economy were up, I expect Sonny wouldn’t have heard a word. But interest rates are rising; the Dow is falling. You know the rest of the story. The banks are nervous.”

“I’ll talk to Sonny. No, let me just take him what I’ve done so far. We’re rock solid. I resent this.”

“I do, too.” Garvey thought a minute. “Let me handle Sonny. If you worked with Gray, how quickly could you two finish the audit?”

“I can’t work with Gray. I’m your treasurer. If I work with him that could be construed as a conflict of interest. There goes the enhanced line of credit.”

Garvey exhaled a long sigh.“Of course, it would. I don’t know where my head is.”

“Have you spoken to Gray?”

“Yes. He suggested I hire Freddie Thomas, another independent, to work with him. Even with Freddie they’ll be pushing to get it done by next week.” He sighed, irritated and worried. “The devil is in the details.”

“Always is. Is Gray still there?”

“Just left. He said his mind is tired. He’s going to be coming in at seven-thirty, and he’ll work until five.”

“Who ratted to the big president?”

“No idea.” He thought it funny that she said “ratted.”

“Why would someone call the president of Farmers Trust about us?”

“Our audit isn’t a deep dark secret. I doubt anyone called. Sonny probably mentioned it to his staff or at a meeting in Richmond. I doubt he expected this complication.”

“Rotten timing.” She took a breath, then exhaled. “There will be small discrepancies, Garvey. I meansmall. It’s a bitch to get it to the penny. If you’d kept Gray out of this, forgotten the audit idea, you’d have had the loan the first day of business this year, I swear. I could have finished up the paperwork in a hurry before Sonny could blow his nose.” She paused again. “Turn in our last tax return. It will give Sonny and company something to read. When Gray finishes, they can compare the two. I don’t want this to drag out any more than you do. Of course, we haven’t done last year’s income tax returns. No one has. To be safe, I’ll turn in the prior three years’ returns. That’s a start.”

“Thanks, Iffy.”

On the drive home, Gray’s teeth rattled. The shocks in Sam’s rattletrap were that bad. The checking of invoices against services and goods received must be thoroughly done.

Iffy approved invoices for payment. Although he’d just begun this task, he noted that Aluminum Manufacturing had poor internal control. He suspected as much. He observed that any purchase or service over ten thousand dollars carried Garvey’s initials. Iffy could approve anything under that sum.

Iffy prepared the checks and signed them.

A quick study, he felt that by tomorrow’s end he would have some sense of regular monthly payments and services.

All businesses exhibited a pattern.

He was reviewing this when he pulled into the drive, now hard-packed snow. Sam wasn’t home, which surprised him.

He was even more surprised when Ben Sidell called him. Sam had been shot coming home from the lumberyard and had veered off the road, totaling the Land Cruiser. But Sam was alive.

CHAPTER 13

There should be a reality show, thought Gray, where interior decorators compete to see who can put together a hospital room that doesn’t make one gag. Bad enough to be injured or sick. Worse to be flopped in a bed, an ungainly TV jutting out overhead.

Gray sat beside his brother. Odd to be once again at Sam’s side, but this time Sam wasn’t suffering from the DTs, screaming his head off. Sister, called by Walter about the same time Ben Sidell had called Gray, had hurried down to the hospital.

Sister sat beside Gray while Walter stood at the end of the bed.

Sam had been conscious during the entire ordeal. At the sight of his brother, the first words out of his mouth were“I didn’t touch a drop.”

Walter simply nodded slightly when Sister glanced at her joint-master.“He was lucky. The bullet passed through his shoulder. It entered from the front, passed through the back just under his scapula, nicked his rib, and broke it. Lower, and the damn thing would’ve blown out his heart.”

“Did you see who shot you?” Gray reached for his brother’s hand.

“No. I came around the curve at Soldier Road, just before Roger’s Corner. Next thing I knew, I heard a pop, something hit me, and the windshield crinkled into a thousand tiny pieces.” He blinked in rapid succession for a few seconds. “It took a minute for me to know I’d been shot. It kindof delayed the pain, I mean.”

“Thank God for safety glass, or you’d be cut up.” Sister cared deeply for Sam.

“Hope it was the last of the deer hunters. Thought I’d put most of my enemies behind me.” He smiled ruefully. He sat up, winced, dropped back. “Car’s trashed. I…”

Gray butted in.“I don’t care about the car.”

Walter smiled.“That’s what insurance companies are for.”

Gray murmured,“Well, brother, what else is tore up?”

“Knee.”

Walter spoke reassuringly,“The patella’s fine, bruised. We can drain the fluid off. Sam wasn’t eager to allow any procedures done to his perfect body,” Walter remarked with humor. “But Sam, your knee will swell even more. Let’s take care of it. The needle feels like a big hornet sting, but it doesn’t last long.”

“It’ll go down.” Sam was defiant.

“Sam, trust me. Drain the knee now. I can understand you feel you’ve had enough for one night, but the knee will hurt worse than your broken rib.”

“Do like he says.” Gray squeezed Sam’s hand.

“Birds in your hand,” Sam said sharply.

“Sorry.” Gray released the pressure.

“What?” Walter didn’t understand.

“When we were kids, Peter Wheeler used to tell us when we’d hold the reins too tightly, ‘Little birds in your hands. Don’t squeeze them to death.’”

“I can ride with a bum knee. Plenty of people do.”

“Yes, you can.” Walter smiled at Sam. “Running will hurt. And if you jump, landing will be a bitch. Sooner or later, Sam, you’ll need to have the knee scoped. It’s probably a torn ACL.”

“It can wait.”

“It can, but since you have your brother here and Sister, come on—let’s drain the knee.”

Sam sank deeper into the pillow. He didn’t want to look like a chicken. Truth was he hurt, he was shaken, and he hated needles. On the other hand, get it over with, because Walter wasn’t going to give up.

“All right,” Sam grimly agreed.

“Be back in a minute.” Walter walked out to the nurses’ station, had them call Margaret DuCharme, and apprised her of the situation.

Within five minutes she arrived, along with a thin nurse who carried a porcelain kidney-shaped bowl. A long, long needle was in the bowl with a towel over it. She also carried a small packet of ice in a padded circle that would conform to the knee.

“Can you sit up and dangle your legs over the side of the bed?” Margaret asked. “I’ll put a chair under your feet, if you need it.”

Gray helped Sam sit upright.

The bullet’s path stung, his rib ached, and his knee throbbed. He closed his eyes.

“I’ve seen worse,” Margaret said reassuringly.

“Dr. DuCharme, I don’t want to cuss,” Sam said, which made her laugh.

“I don’t either. This won’t be the worst pain you’ve ever felt, Sam, but you will feel it. I’m going to stick this needle in and draw off the fluid. Then we’ll pack this ice band around your knee. You’ll be surprised at how quickly you’ll feel relief. Ready?”

Sister stood to the side, placing her hand on Sam’s shoulder. Not squeamish, she was nonetheless glad that long needle wasn’t being plunged into her knee.

Sam stiffened.

As Walter and Margaret promised, it was over in a minute.

Both doctors looked at the clear light yellowish fluid. Some blood was in it, which they know was consistent with a torn ligament.

The nurse wiggled the ice bracelet up to his knee.“There you go.”

“That’s it?” Sam’s cheeks sported a gray tinge.

“That’s it,” Margaret smiled. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. You’re tough as nails, Sam Lorillard. Always were.”

“Family trait,” Gray said as he and Walter helped Sam swivel back to rest on the pillow.

“Sam, I know you don’t like drugs, but that wound is going to throb. Your knee shouldn’t hurt as much as it did before draining. Let me give you a mild sedative. You need a good night’s sleep.” Walter’s deep voice soothed.

“No. No drugs.” Sam pressed his lips together.

“Sam, you aren’t going to get hooked. We monitor those things,” Walter reassured him.

“With all due respect, Walter, my body chemistry…well, let’s just say if there’s any kind of downer, booze, or narcotic, I crave it. I fought too hard to get where I am. I’d rather deal with the pain.”

“Can he take aspirin?” Sister asked.

“Yes.” Walter admired Sam’s desire to stay straight, although he felt he could control the situation.

As Margaret reached the door Jason Woods walked in. There was a moment, a slight tension, as they acknowledged one another. Margaret left and Jason entered.

“Sam, heard you escaped an invitation to heaven,” he joked.

“Might have been the other place.” The exhaustion had begun to show on Sam.

“Very possible.” Jason smiled, then spoke to Gray. “He has friends here, Gray. He’ll be all right. Why don’t you go home?”

“No, I’ll spend the night.”

“We’d like to keep him for at least two days, but I expect we’ll be lucky if we can keep him for one.” Walter resigned himself to Sam’s determination.

Sister kissed Sam on the cheek as he nodded off. She kissed Gray.“Can I bring anything back for you?”

“No thanks.” Gray kissed her again. “We’ll both be up and out of here come morning. I’ll be fine. You go on home. I’ll call Crawford about this so that’s taken care of.”

She walked outside with the two doctors.

“What a crazy damn thing,” Jason murmured.

“Yes.” Walter motioned for Sister to wait a moment as Jason returned to his rounds.

Walter leaned against the wall.“Sam got any old enemies left?”

“I don’t know, I expect.”

“The path of the bullet doesn’t lead me to believe it was a stray shot. Someone waited by the road and fired right when he came round.”

“He was in Gray’s car. Maybe they wanted to kill Gray.” Sister felt a ripple of fear pass through her as she leveled her eyes on Walter’s.

“Jesus.”

“We need Him now.”

CHAPTER 14

You look like the dogs got at you under the porch.” Iffy, carrying a file folder while using one cane, walked into Gray’s temporary office.

“Spent the night in the hospital.”

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. Tired.” Gray noticed her quizzical expression. “Sam was in a car accident.” He held back the small detail that Sam had been shot. He was tired and didn’t feel like indulging in speculation with people who weren’t close.

“Oh, no; he didn’t fall off the wagon?” Iffy exclaimed without thinking.

Gray shrugged.“Skidded off the road. He’s home. Banged up, but”—Gray motioned for her to sit, which she declined—“all right.” He half-smiled. “He couldn’t get out of that hospital fast enough.”

“I’m sorry.” She handed the folder to him. “Hanson Office Supplies. First quarter.” She paused. “Sometimes I keep things in my office instead of putting them in the central files. Going up and down steps is hard sometimes. Oh, is Freddie coming in?”

“At three every afternoon. We’re lucky to get her. Her business is booming; but she likes Garvey and understands the situation.”

“M-m-m.” Iffy tossed her head. “I wouldn’t want to be self-employed. Too Iffy.” She smiled at her joke.

Gray smiled, too, then said,“The company doesn’t pay any bills by automatic draft, does it?”

“No. We receive an invoice for every service or bill, and I cut the checks once a month.”

“All right, then.” He nodded, and she left.

The morning’s hunt pleased Sister and Shaker. They took out more young entry than usual. In the beginning of cubbing they’d put two couple of youngsters in with the pack. Keeping the number of young entry small allowed them to study them. By now, January 5, Thursday, enough of the youngsters had settled in that they could take more than two couple. However, it usually took a season, sometimes two, before a young hound fully came into her or his own.

Often an older hound would be retired or pass away and a young hound would step into that hound’s position, a bit like a first baseman retiring and a rookie taking over. But even if the young ones were learning quickly, a large number of them in the pack in their first year often meant excessive excitement, overrunning the line.

This Thursday they’d taken three couple, six young entry from the “A” litter.” Perhaps next Tuesday they’d take four couple. Since the field was usually large on Saturdays, Sister avoided a large number of first-year hounds. She didn’t want to overwhelm youngsters with too many people.

The snow had sunk down to the consistency of hard vanilla sauce. The footing gave everyone flutters. Horses slipped, although it didn’t bother the horses as much as it bothered the people. Most people instructed their blacksmith to put borium on the shoes. A few people used screwin caulks, a bit like small spikes on baseball shoes. While they could be tremendously useful on a day like today, they could also be dangerous. If ahorse overreached or inadvertently clipped himself, he’d tear into flesh. Worse, if an owner forgot to unscrew the caulks, the ride home could turn into disaster for the horse. And unscrewing the ice-cold caulks, when hands were frozen was not a congenial task.

Sister stuck to borium, a powder applied to spots on the shoe rim. Slightly raised and rough, it helped the animal get purchase. Besides which, borium created much less damage if her horse stepped on himself. She’d rather slip and slide than risk injury to her horse.

Despite the skating, they ran two foxes. The saucy creatures were fully aware that the footing gave them a great advantage. The hounds fared better, thanks to their claws, but they couldn’t keep up with the lighter foxes on a day like today.

Uncle Yancy, a venerable fox with peculiar habits, one of which was watching TV while sitting in Shaker’s window, sauntered in full view. As it was, he was all the way over on the Lorillard place. This surprised Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil because Uncle Yancy usually kept within a small radius of Roughneck Farm, occasionally taking over a den at After All Farm.

Uncle Yancy was experiencing domestic problems with Aunt Netty. She said old age was making him dotty and querulous. He said she was an old harridan and her brush looked like a rat’s tail.

So Uncle Yancy was sleeping on the sofa, as it were. He explored the Lorillard place and was impressed with the brothers’ accomplishments. But it was too far east for him.

When hounds caught his scent, their third fox of the morning, Uncle Yancy headed west to Tedi and Edward’s After All Farm, which was where hounds had met for the first cast. He skated a few times, but it was fun. Uncle Yancy liked the cold air in his nostrils.

He hastened all the way to the pattypan forge, five miles as the crow flies, which St. Just was doing. The crow tracked Yancy the entire way, but both animals knew nothing would come of it. Still, it afforded St. Just a thrill to see the old red fox loping along. He hurled down insults.

When Uncle Yancy dropped into the pattypan den he kicked himself. He had discounted it as a homesite because he’d be within two miles of Aunt Netty. Once inside he changed his mind. He’d avoid her as best he could, but he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to live in this exotic labyrinth.

Hounds marked the spot.

Dragon sailed through the window. Cora, Diane, and Asa followed.

“You won’t blast Uncle Yancy out of here any more than you did Target,” Cora complained.

“I know. I’m looking for an arm or a leg. Or old bones. Remember the blood last time?” Dragon answered.

“Shaker will think you’re dawdling.” Asa turned to jump back out the window.

“If I show up with a human leg he’ll think otherwise. And a boneis a bone. Doesn’t matter what animal it comes from.” Dragon lifted the fur on his shoulders.

“Ass.” Asa jumped out.

“Take that, too,” Dragon called after him.

Cora didn’t feel like wasting time on Dragon, so she, too, jumped out.

Dragon looked at his sister.“A quick check.”

She turned to leave, but her curiosity got the better of her. She put her nose down. Seconds later at the actual forge she came up on another large glop of congealed blood, the cold giving it an odd glisten.

“Here.”

Outside Shaker called them.

Dragon hurried over. He trotted along the side of the old bellows.“This is weird.”

Diana joined him. Another frozen gelatinous lump, palm sized, had been dropped on the other side of the forge. Diana was baffled by this. Given the cold, not much scent came off this substance, either.

“Come on, Diana. Come on, Dragon.”

Dragon ran back to the blood, inhaled deeply. What little scent he could pick up with his long nasal passage made him sneeze.“Human blood, but something’s wrong with it.”

Both hounds then jumped out of the window in tandem. If they could return on a non-hunting day, maybe they could find more. But they left the kennels only for hunting or for hound walk. It was a sorry hound that ran off during hound walk. He’d lose his privileges or be coupled to another hound, berated by that hound for being a damned fool and being out of step besides.

Later, as Sister and Betty cleaned tack they heard the sound of a six-cylinder Wrangler. A lime-green Jeep pulled into the stable lot. Three young women crawled out, swinging their legs over the high bottom lip of the doorway.

“Sister!” Tootie, Val, and Felicity ran inside the stable.

After hugs and kisses, Sister and Betty listened to their stories of Christmas vacation, dreary dates, even more dreary family reunions, and how cold the dorms were when they arrived back at Custis Hall. How tough Bunny Taliaferro, the riding instuctor, was. Christmas vacation made her meaner.

“How cold?” Sister enjoyed the hyperbole.

“My toothbrush froze.” Val tossed her blonde ponytail.

“In her mouth,” Tootie added with a sly smile.

“My,” Betty simply commented.

“I’m surprised it’s still not stuck to your mouth, Val. Your Wrangler can’t be that warm,” Sister teased.

“But it is. Daddy bought me the hardtop. We can lift it off, but we have to disengage the wires to the windshield wiper on the back. Isn’t it cool? Isn’t it the coolest car you have ever seen?”

“It is. Looks like fun.” Sister loved being around these kids.

“You need one. Red.” Felicity imagined the master tooling around the back roads.

“Black,” Tootie said.

“I knew you’d say that.” Val laughed.

“Really, black with a blue and gold pinstripe. How cool is that?” Tootie folded her arms over her chest.

“Pretty cool.” Sister imagined the sight.

“You’re ahead of Jennifer. She still doesn’t have a car,” Betty said. “Wants a Pontiac Solstice.”

“Me, too. Howie wants one in that titanium color.” Felicity found a way to drag her boyfriend into the conversation.

“Howie will have a long wait,” Val replied.

Felicity ignored Val’s remark.

“How many great hunts did we miss? Tootie e-mailed us your reports. I wish we’d been here.” And before Sister could open her mouth, Val bubbled over. “But we can hunt Saturday. Bunny said so. I can’t wait! It’s horrible not being around horses. I love Mom and Dad, but my horse is here. I can’t live without Moneybags.”

Moneybags was a handsome gelding.

“Who’s the new gray?” Tootie noticed the compelling thoroughbred.

“Matador. Sixteen hands, but a big enough barrel he’ll take up my leg. Chaser.” She used the abbreviation for steeplechase horse.

“Wow.” Felicity walked out of the tackroom to Matador’s stall. She returned smiling.

“Are you girls going right back to the dorm?” Sister asked.

“No. We want to hang with you,” Val announced.

“I’m glad to hear that. If you help me for just an hour I promise I’ll feed you well.”

“Don’t pass up the apple crisp.” Betty smiled. “Made it this morning and brought it to the tailgate. There’s lots left.”

Once the tack was cleaned, Sister checked on the hounds and put Raleigh and Rooster in the house. The girls followed her to the spot where Sam had careened off the road.

Betty, too, followed.

Sister briefly recounted the events.

A dirt road, now snow packed, fed into Soldier Road on the opposite side of the road from where Sam had crashed. All three vehicles parked there.

“Girls, what I want you to do is walk three abreast in this field. Pay special attention to bushes and trees. And tell me if you see tracks: animals, human. Betty and I will walk up here on the road.” She turned to Betty. “Why don’t you walk against traffic, and I’ll walk with it? Shouldn’t be much, but I’ve got on this red scarf. Anyway, I expect Ben’s crew found whatever there was to find.”

They walked slowly. Only two drivers passed, one being Roger, the owner of Roger’s Corner, the last convenience store heading west before one climbed the Blue Ridge to drop into the Shenandoah Valley below.

After a half hour, the cold beginning to seep into their feet even with heavy socks and Thinsulate boots, Tootie called out,“Found something.”

The rest made their way to her.

Random pricker bushes dotted the snow. Deer tracks, crow tracks, and raccoon tracks were evident, all heading toward Broad Creek. The human tracks were scuffed so no sole tread would be apparent, and the size was indistinguishable.

“Damn.” Sister whispered as she noticed that. “Smart, too.”

CHAPTER 15

Odd dates and facts rolled around Sister’s mind.

She often conceived of her mind as a closet, which when opened would reveal the usual apparel but also a few dead moths, the remains of long-perished spiders, and tiny little skeletons of whatever Golly had secreted there long ago.

Yesterday had been the day of St. Simeon Stylites, born 390 and died 459. Apart from his piety, gentle preaching, and self-abnegation on top of the pillar that had given rise to his name, Stylites, he must have stunk to high heaven. Perhaps that was his plan. After all, the Olympians enjoyed the fragrance of offerings slaughtered or burnt in their honor. Perhaps Simeon’s Christian God liked human unwashed scent.

Sister doubted this. Simeon had had doubts, too, but they were of a higher order.

Today, January 6, belonged to St. Peter of Canterbury, birth date unknown, who died in 607 after an eventful life. On a mission to Gaul, disunited then (and perhaps still), poor Peter drowned in the English Channel. When found, he was unceremoniously buried by pagan locals. But a mysterious light danced over his grave at night, which made them reconsider Christ’s message.

Sister would have welcomed a mysterious light—any light to shed on the disquiet she felt. She’d driven to town at first light to meet with Ben Sidell, already in his office.

After informing him of the scuffed foot marks, she asked,“Any luck with other Land Cruiser owners?” She gratefully drank from the mug of hot tea she’d brought along.

He shook his head“No,” then added, “Brad Johnson was deer hunting here around that time, but he was on the other side of the road. Not much, but you gather these little bits of information. Eventually some kind of picture emerges.”

“I’m trying to convince myself the shot was an accident. If only Brad had been on the west side of the road.”

“I hope so, too, but I’ll keep on it—just in case.”

“Hunting Saturday?”

He nodded,“Yes.”

After classes, Tootie, Val, and Felicity carefully put out their kit for tomorrow’s hunt. Valerie as class president had a room to herself in the corner of the oldest and therefore most prestigious dorm. Tootie and Felicity, each carrying 4.0 grade averages, also lived on the same hall.

Custis Hall’s founder and succeeding headmistresses judiciously used earned status to motivate the girls. This part of the school had been built in 1812, along with the only other structure at that time, the administrative building, which had been used for classes as well back then.

Since 1812 Custis Hall had entertained building programs consistent with the rise and fall of capital cycles. The newest dorms, very attractive and with every modern convenience, had been built in 2000. The three seniors would slit their wrists before living in the newest dorm.

Old One, as their dorm was called, had been remodeled sporadically. Modern insulation, electricity, and plumbing had been installed. But each room still had a fireplace, and the girls had to take proper care of it or lose the privilege of living in Old One.

Val’s room had served every senior class president since 1812. Many had gone on to become the wives of senators, generals, admirals, and captains of industry. A few made their independent way in the arts. Fewer still started their own businesses, although more graduates had moved into the business world after the 1970s. Still, Custis Hall girls, after college, married well if they married.

As Val’s room was the largest, both Tootie and Felicity sat there shining their boots.

“I can never get this stuff out of my fingers,” Tootie grumbled. “Me, neither.” Felicity, slender and observant, vigorously rubbed in the black paste.

Val’s boots gleamed under her mahogany valet, where she’d hung her frock coat, her white shirt, her ironed stock tie. She pinned her stock pin through the buttonhole of her black frock coat so she wouldn’t lose it in the hustle of leaving in the early morning. Her canary vest was over the shirt,the coat over the vest. Her britches were draped over the bar constructed for that purpose. In the tray of the valet she’d placed two long thin strips of rawhide, one penknife, one pack of matches, and a cotton handkerchief. She’d already put her Virginia hunting license in her vest pocket. Hervelvet hard hat, tails up, sat next to her boots but in a special hat case wherein she kept two pairs of gloves, one white and knitted, one deerskin with a cashmere lining. Inside the hat case were small packs of handwarmers and extra hairnets.

“Val, how’d you get everything done? You’re usually behind,” Felicity inquired.

“MinPin.” She named a freshman by nickname.

“Wish I had a slave.” Tootie didn’t especially like the cloying freshman.

“I could be really obnoxious,” Val warned.

“Free blacks could own slaves, too, Val.” Tootie fired away because she knew what Val was thinking. Tootie was also black. “I know my history.”

“Not my strong suit, is it? But hey, I’m good at calculus.”

“You’re good at anything if you want to be.” Felicity made peace. “That’s what makes me wonder where Howie will go to school. His grades are okay, but you know.”

“We know,” Tootie and Val said in unison.

Blushing, Felicity remarked,“He’s such a good quarterback. He’s been scouted by a lot of schools.”

“Princeton isn’t one of them,” Val flatly said. “We’re all going to Princeton.”

“We haven’t got our acceptances yet,” Tootie reminded her.

“We will. You know we will.”

“Well, if not, we have our back-up schools, but I don’t think Howie could get into Bucknell or some of our others.” Felicity bent lower over her boots.

“So? You see him on big weekends unless he winds up in Kansas. Then you can see him at Christmas.” Val picked up a small hard-bristled whisk brush to brush Tootie’s coat.

Little clouds of fine dust whirled up and made Val choke.

“Here?” Tootie stood up, reaching for her coat.

“I can do it. You’ll get bootblack on the coat. What’d you get into? This coat is a mess.”

“Remember when we got muddy, last hunt before vacation? I brushed it off but not so good.” Tootie apologized.

“That was fun staying with Sister after the dorms closed. I didn’t really want to go home,” Val said. “Glad I did.” She laughed.

“You didn’t know your dad was getting you the Wrangler for Christmas?” Felicity didn’t envy her the car. She had no envy in her.

“No.” Val looked down as students walked across the oldest quad. “Wonder if she’ll really go to Ole Miss?”

They knew she must be watching Pamela Rene, an African-American student from great wealth.

Pamela didn’t like Tootie because Tootie was beautiful and popular. Pamela was neither, but she was smart.

“She won’t go,” Felicity predicted.

“Hell you say.” Val used the old expression.

“One dollar.” Felicity held out her hand.

She kept the kitty, which was filling up rapidly. One dollar for every swear word uttered by any of them. The plan was to use the money at the end of the semester for a party.

“She’ll go.” Tootie’s alto sounded firm.

Both white girls stared at her.“Why?”

“To defy her mother; to prove she can do it.”

“You mean survive in the Deep South?” Valerie caught on.

“Right. Her mother, the drama queen, thinks she’ll be walking into the arms of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Thought they were strongest in Indiana. I swear I read that somewhere,” Felicity added. “Or maybe Howie told me. His favorite subject is current affairs.”

Tootie stood up, putting her boots on the floors to allow the polish to set before buffing. She walked to the window to watch Pamela.“Guess she’ll be hunting tomorrow.”

“She’s a good rider,” Val grumbled. “It’s the rest of it.”

“She’s lost weight. How does anyone lose weight over Christmas vacation?” Felicity, thin, wondered.

“Her mother wired her mouth shut.”

Val arched one eyebrow, a neat trick.

Tootie and Felicity burst out laughing.

“Felice, my darlin’,” Tootie grinned, “You’ll be okay if you and Howie are at separate schools.”

“He’s hoping for a football scholarship to Wake Forest. And they’ve offered him a tutoring program. I wouldn’t mind Wake.”

“Princeton!” Val fiercely said, her heart set on being a tiger.

“Are you in love or something?” Tootie sat back down beside Felicity.

A long silence followed.“I don’t want to live without him. I guess I am.”

“I am going to throw up!” Val swatted Felicity on the shoulder with the whisk brush. “You can’t fall in love. We’re too young. I mean, that’s like prison.”

“Val,” Felicity blazed, “in the last century most people our age were married. It’s natural to fall in love when you’re young.”

“Bullshit.” Val, a beautiful six-foot one-inch blonde, tossed her long hair.

“She’s right.” Tootie defended Felicity. “We’re the strange ones, out of step with biology.”

“Since when are you a biology major?” Val would have none of it. “You’ve never even felt a twinge for someone?” Felicity asked quietly.

“Only you.” Val smarted off.

“Val, you can be such an ass sometimes.” Tootie didn’t say this with hostility.

“One dollar.”

“God, Felicity, you’re relentless!” Tootie handed over her dollar. “Val, you owe two.”

“I know.” Val opened her bureau drawer and pulled out two crisp dollar bills. “You’re going to be a banker, I know it.”

“Maybe.” Felicity did, though, have a head for business, and she liked it.

“And you’ll run for public office after law school.” Tootie started buffing her boots.

“I will,” Val agreed. “And I’ll put off getting married until my middle thirties. Make every male voter believe he could be the one.”

Tootie appreciated this shrewdness in Val,“Sometimes I think I’ll marry, and other times I think never.”

“When you meet the right one, everything falls into place.” Felicity glowed.

“You’re seventeen. Lust—okay, I can understand that, but love? Come on, Felicity, get over it.” Val really couldn’t understand this.

“Let’s change the subject.” Felicity sighed.

Before they could do that, Pamela Rene popped her head through the open door, but she had the manners to knock first on the door frame.“Hi.”

“Hi,” the three said.

“I lost my stock pin. Can I borrow one?”

“Sure.” Tootie, who kept extras, reached into her coat, which Val had finished brushing. “Here you go.”

“I’ll give it back after tomorrow.”

“Keep it.” Tootie worked hard not to allow her feelings about Pamela to surface.

“I’ll order everyone a backup from Horse Country,” Pamela offered. “Be here next week.”

“Good idea. Got the catalogue?” Val asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it later?”

“You can see it now.” Pamela, also a resident of coveted Old One, turned on her heel and walked down the polished wooden floor to her decorated room. She returned with the glossy catalogue. The four girls strained to view it, but Tootie gave up and buffed her boots now that the polish had set.

“Retail’s pretty amazing.” Pamela also liked business, but from a different angle than Felicity.

“I wish Marion would take on apprentices,” Felicity laughed, mentioning the owner of Horse Country. “I’d work for clothes.”

“Me, too,” Val agreed.

They commented on various delightful offerings and deplored their relative poverty, which was funny considering they were rich kids. But they were still kids and, with the exception of Val, were kept on a fairly strict allowance. Val’s parents often overdid; she liked that in material terms, but it embarrassed her with her peers.

The funny thing about Pamela’s parents was that they kept her on a short money leash, but then her father would send the corporate jet for her. Of the four girls, Pamela’s home life was the unhappiest. Her mother, Thaddea Bolendar, had been a highly paid model in the 1970s. She’d made the cover ofVogue more than once, and she never ceased to remind her daughter, a few pounds overweight, that she wasn’t perfect and she’d never makeVogue.

Val reveled in unconditional love, which gave her tremendous confidence. She was a happy young woman, if occasionally overconfident.

Felicity’s parents also provided support, but they were exacting about her grades. They expected her to succeed, and this expectation was inferred, not expressed. She had lived up to it so far.

Tootie’s parents loved her dearly, gave her a sharp moral compass, and had taught her discipline. Young though she was, she was the most organized and focused of the girls. Her father, who measured all things by money, pressured her to become an investment banker. Her mother mostly expected that she would have a dazzling career in whatever she chose and would marry an appropriate man. That meant rich. Both parents would prefer he be African-American, but the real cutoff was money.

They sat there, chattering away, talking about their studies, their friends, their beloved horses.

“Tomorrow’s hunt is going to be the best. I just know it,” Val enthused.

“The grays are mating. Reds should be, too,” said Tootie, who loved nature far more than banking.

“Bet it’s one of those hunts we never forget.” Pamela, too, was enthusiastic, a rare occurrence. She was glad to be sitting with the other three. She wanted to be part of the group but lacked that easiness and warmth that make others comfortable. At least the chip on her shoulder was shrinking.

“I remember every single one.” Tootie was so serious the others looked at her.

“Really?” Val recalled highlights, not every detail.

“Tomorrow will be a good one. We’ll all remember,” Pamela again predicted.

CHAPTER 16

The freezing and thawing, and a few days of mid-forties temperatures, made parking at Orchard Hill unwise. The nights stayed cold. The farm road leading in was too narrow to handle the volume of trailers, and there was no way to park in the fields, which would be frozen at first cast but possibly a muck hole when hounds returned.

Two hours before casting hounds, Sister put a message on the huntline number that everyone should park at Chapel Cross. The membership knew to check in. They were glad they did, because the area around the tiny church had been plowed.

Masters must be mindful of landowners, sextons, and other kindly people who call in useful information. Each year the hunt club made a nice donation to Chapel Cross, and she herself always gave the sexton one hundred dollars at Christmas. It helped that she liked everyone there, so it never seemed a chore to make the rounds.

Adolfo Vega, the sexton, was grateful for the cash and for the straw and manure that the members carried to his mulch pile. Adolfo prided himself on the gardens around the white clapboard church. He credited the manure for some of the result.

Any members not properly cleaning up after their horses faced a stiff fine, accompanied by a reprimand from the master. The reprimand was worse than the seventy-five dollars. Sister bided no disturbing of landowners who were friends of hunting.

Walter arrived an hour early to direct parking so no one would get stuck. The parking lot, not huge, called for maneuvering. Clemson, his older tried-and-true hunter, stayed on the trailer, happily munching from his hay bag while Walter, in his Wellies, got everyone squared away.

Sister and Shaker liked to park the party wagon slightly distant from the rest of the trailers. The hounds, obedient but curious, could be tempted to investigate someone’s tack room if the door was open once they were out of the party wagon. Trinity evidenced a streak of kleptomania. In the bustle to mount up, someone usually forgot to latch a trailer door.

Today, the party wagon parked behind the chapel in front of the tidy churchyard, snow banked up against gray tombstones. Adolfo, knowing Sister’s habits, carefully plowed out a circle on the north side, sheltered from the winds because of a double line of blue spruce trees. Little snow had melted, although it was packed down, so Adolfo, without realizing it, had plowed off the gravel path back there over dormant grass and had plowed over a den entrance. Foxes prudently dig more than one way in or out of a den. Even so, the medium-sized red dog fox who lived there was irate at having to clean out the snow to clear his entrance.

Shaker parked right over the entrance. Given the shade back there, he didn’t see it.

When the hounds bounded out of the party wagon, Ardent wiggled under the trailer.

“Fox.”

Before the others could join him, Shaker, thinking the older hound was having a silly moment, called him away. And Ardent, who deserved his appellation, crawled out. No point in getting into trouble before the hunt even began.

It mystified the hound that Shaker couldn’t smell the den; it was potent, even with the sun barely nudging the horizon.

Noting his mournful face, Cora predicted,“Don’t fret, Ardent. By the time we come back here he’ll smell it, and you’ll be golden.”

“I forget how bad their noses are.” Ardent fell in with the others as they walked down the gravel road, heading south and east to Orchard Hill.

The brisk air tingled in nostrils, on cheeks. Those who had slipped toe warmers into their boots had reason to be grateful. The mercury hung at thirty-one degrees but would surely rise to the mid-forties. The day, overcast, promised good hunting.

The fields and farm roads would require vigilance, for the surface would loosen with the rise in temperature, but underneath the soil would stay tight. Streaks of snow where the sun couldn’t reach looked like icing. In other places the snow had drifted so much it hadn’t melted down. But the general lay of the land was packed-down snow, with some bald patches due to earlier winds, all covered with heavy sparkling frost.

Puffs of condensation escaped horses’ nostrils, peoples’ mouths, and hounds’ mouths. A bit of steam lifted off horses’ hindquarters, but not much, not yet.

Sister loved mornings like this. Canada geese, many of which stayed throughout the winter, flew overhead, honking flight directions, their V formation later imitated by fighter pilots. Rabbit tracks were encased in the frozen snow and mud along with raccoon and possum tracks. Deer tracks crisscrossed meadows.

She felt a warm wind current as they approached the turn into Orchard Hill. Just as quickly she passed through it. Today, January 7, was the feast day of Raymund of Pennafort, who lived to near one hundred, going to his heavenly reward in 1275. Raymund, from Catalonia, had become a Dominican: a dog of God—or watchdog of God, if one prefers. The two wordsdominus andcanis had merged together. Raymund believed in reconciling heretics, Jews and Moors.

With husband and son both named Raymond, Sister had always thought January 7 was a lucky day. The embracing temperament certainly applied to her husband in a more earthy fashion, but it truly applied to her son emotionally. His impulse had been to include, to find what was good about a person, to build bridges.

Those thoughts flitted across her mind until finally they reached a narrow covert, snaking along a tiny creek that fed into a much larger one. Ice crystals stood out in pretty clumps along the farm road.

“Lieu in there,” Shaker called. Then he blew “Draw the covert,” one long note followed by two short sharp ones.

Hounds dashed into the covert. Colder in there than out on the field, they nonetheless had the advantage of being sheltered from the light breeze swooping down from the northwest.

Trudy worked alongside Cora, her hero. Not as fast as the older strike hound, Trudy absorbed all of Cora’s knowledge. She wasn’t slow, but Cora could pull ahead of all the hounds in the pack save Dragon, her nemesis. Rabbit scent curled up. The bitter odor of dried berries and bent-over pokeweed also was apparent.

The sun, now clear of the horizon, cast long scarlet shadows. The hounds worked through the narrow covert to where the little creek fed into the big one.

“To the left,” Shaker called out, and the whole pack wheeled as one, working the left side of the fast-moving creek.

Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela rode at the back of first flight. The custom for centuries had been for children, young people, and grooms to ride in the rear. On days when fields were quite small, Sister invited the girls forward. On the children’s hunt, adults followed children.

The reasons for this were sound. Young people could observe those in front who had earned their colors. Those members knew the territory, respected hounds, and nine times out of ten were strong riders. Watching how they approached a tricky fence, negotiated a drop, dealt with an obstacle whose approach had been poached, churned up like cake frosting, taught the youngsters. Being nimble, they could more easily dismount and mount up than many older members. If someone dropped a crop or needed a hand, the young were expected to supply it. Also, if there was damage to a fence or to anything else, they weren’t expected to repair it, but they were expected to remember. The person doing the damage was to report it immediately to the field master, even during a hunt, so long as they didn’t disturb hounds. But the young provided a backup in case the offending rider did not. In their defense, sometimesso many people hit a fence that no one was a culprit. Still, all should ’fess up.

The other thing about having young people ride in the rear was that everyone in front had also performed these services, watched the experienced riders, prayed for the moment when they, too, would be one of them: the hunt’s colors proudly worn on their collars, hunt bottoms sewn on their frock coats.

Hunting was a chain stretching back thousands of years. Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela profited from the wisdom of the ages.

Tootie, fond of history, particularly responded. She never felt alone when she hunted. Ghosts rode with her.

Walking behind her hounds, still searching, Sister noted she’d seen no deer hunters. This was the last day of deer season, which could be as frightening as the first. Harvest had been good this season, many hunters reaching their bag limits. Anyone out today was most likely from the city. Not one orange cap or jacket flashed human presence.

A hunter needed a good memory for the seventy-three firearm regulations in the state of Virginia. Adding to the burden was the fact that each county also had specific regulations.

Hunting generated income. First, the state raked it in from the licenses, and then if the sheriff or animal control officer cited a hunter for a violation, there was that tasty fine, which was dumped into the county coffers. Without hunters of all stripes, states would go bankrupt.

Usually Sister could focus on the hounds, but when the going was slow, her mind wandered a bit.

She woke up, though, as Dasher opened, followed by Diana and Tinsel. They had picked up a line along the large creek bed.

Betty, on the right side of the large creek, loped along on Magellan and cleared a large tree trunk, keeping hounds well in sight.

Sybil, on the left, paralleled an old cart road, its ruts frozen. She passed a stack of pallets used during apple picking. A packing shed in serviceable condition sat near the pallets. The apple orchard covered the lands to the west, rising upward for fifty acres on the west side of the creek.

The fox kept straight as an arrow, but he was well ahead of hounds. He’d been courting, and having been unsuccessful in his designs had turned north, which meant he headed back toward Chapel Cross, where the tertiary gravel roads formed a perfect cross.

The field galloped through the western orchards and passed into the wide hay field with the one-hundred-thirty-year-old sugar maple of epic proportions in the middle.

The fox veered further north, picking up speed. The field, sweating now, cheeks flushed, cleared coops, rail fences, and a line of brambles entwining a disintegrating three-board fence. On they ran, hounds in full cry, ground beginning to soften in spots, for they’d been out an hour.

The fields, frost shining gold as the sun rose ever upward, rolled onward. The Blue Ridge Mountains provided a spectacular backdrop, the ice on deciduous trees and on pines flaming in the climbing sunlight.

“What the hell!” Dreamboat cursed as an eight-point buck shot right past him.

However, hounds smelled no hunters.

As they ran on and on, scent intensifying along with their cry, Sister and the field noticed deer moving past them or cutting at angles. No deer ran away from the direction of the hounds. If anything, they were running to the hounds. Four miles past Chapel Cross, galloping flat out, they thundered into Paradise.

Bobby Franklin, leading the hilltoppers, pulled up on a high hill for a moment. He’d fallen behind because the old gates, rusting on the hinges, had taken some doing to open. The youngsters in the back of the hilltoppers dismounted to open the gates. This was done in twos so no one would be alone at a gate, everyone rushing off, their horse eager to join them.

Bobby heard Shaker’s horn, piercing. He saw his wife flying across an open meadow with Sybil on the left. The hounds, tightly together, dashed over the meadow. Shaker next hove into view. He was followed by Sister on Rickyroo, his long stride eating up the ground. Behind Sister the field strung out, some already succumbing to the pace. The four Custis Hall girls were passing those who faltered or were pulling up, which was their right to do.

Just before Bobby squeezed his horse, a big fellow, something told him to wait.

More deer appeared, then a black and tan hound, followed by another and another. They looked like black jellybeans tossed over icing. To their credit, they weren’t chasing the deer. A few had their noses down, but others had come up on the line that Dasher, Cora, Diana, and the others were following. The black and tans had been running backward on the line.

Within a minute they smashed smack into the pack.

“Pay them no mind!” Cora ordered.

“Cur dogs!” Dragon yelled to the young ones.

“Be damned if I’m a cur dog, sir.” A black and tan snarled at Dragon, who snarled back.

Shaker, coming up hard, tucked his horn into his coat between the first and second buttons. Clear and loud, he commanded,“Ware riot!”

“Don’t worry,” Diana said, her nose down.

“Who are they?” Young Delight, baffled, yelped.

“Deerhounds. Pay them no mind,” Ardent counseled.

One black and tan, reversing herself to join the Jefferson hounds and run in the right direction, replied,“We’re foxhounds. We’re out here with a human who is a perfect fool.”

Dana, littermate to Delight, was about to reply, but the scent grew stronger. She stretched out, pushing off with her powerful loins supplying smooth power.

One by one, the black and tans reversed to fall into the tricolor pack. All the voices sang a crescendo of happiness that echoed off the mountains.

Sister now came up. Without faltering, she pushed Rickyroo on.“Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

“Yeah, but isn’t the sound great?” Rickyroo flicked his ears back, then forward.

She laughed out loud because she loved him, because the pace was searing, the sound divine, the situation unique.

Just as Bobby moved out again, Jason Woods, perfectly turned out, galloped toward Betty. Hounds had turned toward him, so he pulled up, reversing with them.

Jason’s Kilowatt, though beautiful, was no match for Magellan, who pulled alongside, then sped by him. Jason labored to keep up.

Crawford appeared, hanging onto Czpaka for dear life. Marty, a better rider than her husband, rode on his right as a whipper-in, a position she had no burning desire to fulfill.

Crawford blew into his reed horn. A thin note escaped. Within seconds the doubled pack blasted right by him, as did Shaker, then Sister, then the field.

Sputtering, Crawford turned, only to find himself between first flight and the hilltoppers. As he tried to blow again, Bobby rode by him and hollered,“Don’t!”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to handle my pack?”

“You look fool enough, Crawford. Don’t sound like a sick hen and make it worse.”

Furious, Crawford threw the reed horn onto the ground.

He had no choice but to fall behind Bobby, since he couldn’t catch up to first flight, now flying at Mach speed.

A fence row ahead, sagging, had a gap where one rail had long since fallen off. Hounds soared over, followed by Shaker forty yards later, then Sister, then the field.

Hounds screamed.

The fox, safely ahead, heard the music. This pack could wake the dead.

He cut sharply right, dipped into a wide ravine, popped back up, and skedaddled to the ruins of Paradise, its Corinthian columns majestic under gray, cottony clouds.

He slowed, flicked his impressive tail, and sauntered into his main entrance under the marble steps.

Four minutes later, all the hounds, jubilant, announced they had put their fox to ground.

Betty rode over but didn’t take HoJo when Shaker dismounted to praise hounds and blow “Gone to ground.”

Walter had ridden up to hold the reins, having been told to do so by Sister.

Given the cacophony and the strange hounds, Betty stayed outside the circle of hounds, as did Sybil on the other side.

Jason, breathing hard, rode up.

Betty said not one word.

Finally, Crawford rode up, Bobby hiding his laughter behind his gloved hand.

Crawford glared at his hounds, glared at Jason, and was about to bark at his own wife until he noticed she had a hound with her. Marty was the only one who did her job.

Sister smiled as her hounds watched Shaker for a sign.

The only ripple of discontent came from Dragon, who raised his hackles at a large, handsome dog hound.

“Dragon,” Shaker quietly called his name.

Dragon turned his face from the offending hound and walked over to his huntsman.

“Come along.” The hounds clustered around Shaker, but so did the black and tans.

“Where’s your horn?” Jason asked.

“Threw it away.” Red-faced, Crawford spat, now at the edge of the combined pack.

“Well, you’d better call your hounds out.” Jason stated the obvious.

“I know that!” Crawford, enraged, slunk down in his saddle, then bellowed, “Come on.”

Not one hound turned his or her head.

Crawford dismounted, so Czpaka walked over to Walter, HoJo, and Clemson. Crawford grabbed a hound roughly by the collar.

Sister, lifting her feet out of her stirrup irons, swung her right leg over, dismounting effortlessly.

“Don’t touch a hound like that!”

Crawford wheeled.“It’s my goddamn hound and I’ll do as I please.”

“You don’t deserve these hounds.”

“She’s got that right.” A beautiful black and tan bitch agreed.

Sister walked right up to Crawford as Shaker, still as a mouse, had all the hounds around him.“If you so much as touch one of my hounds, I will knock the stuffing right out of you!”

Crawford, vanity wounded and ego aflame, moved toward her.“Don’t tell me what to do, you old bitch!” He pushed little Diddy out of the way with his knee.

“Ouch,” Diddy cried.

Sister stepped forward with her left leg, her hands fast. She followed with a hard left, then a hard right, her whole weight in the punches.

Blood spurted from Crawford’s mouth. He spit out teeth as he staggered.

He rose and threw a wild punch.

Sister ducked and came up, swinging both fists as hard as she could into his gut.

He doubled over, then sank to his knees.

Walter, mesmerized by the sight, walked toward them, three horses in tow.

Shaker, pack still with him, moved toward her.

Both men were encumbered.

Jason leaped off his horse and ran between the two antagonists.“Crawford, we’d better leave.”

“I’ll sue your sorry ass,” Crawford cursed as he spurted blood.

“You just do that.” Sister was ready to belt him again.

Walter reached her and placed his hand on her right shoulder.

Crawford, helped up by Jason, cried,“Furthermore, you’re trying to lure my hounds away from me.”

“Smoking opium,” Cora said as all hounds laughed.

“I’ll sue you. I’ll see you bankrupt,” Crawford threatened.

Jason, loud enough for those close to hear, sensibly said,“Crawford, what do you think will happen when you testify that you were beaten up by a woman in her seventies?”

This had the desired effect.

Marty prudently turned her horse.“Come along, hounds.”

“We want to stay with them,” a large fellow replied.

Jason handed Czpaka to Crawford and held his hands together so the bloodied man could mount up. Czpaka, sense of humor intact, took a step as Crawford tried to put his right leg over the saddle. Jason had to run alongside propping up Crawford until he was finally in the saddle.

No sooner was Crawford mounted then down the main drive to Paradise, churning old snow and mud as she roared, came Margaret DuCharme. She skidded to a halt and got out, slamming the door of her little Forester.

Margaret pointed her finger at Jason and Crawford.“What are you doing on my land?”

Crawford looked down at her.“It’s not your land.”

Jason groaned, then turned on the charm, smiling broadly at Margaret.“We’d like to know the foxes, human and otherwise.”

Voice controlled, ice cold and loud enough for the entire field to hear, Margaret replied,“I will see you both dead before I let my parents sell Paradise.”

“Alfred wants to sell.” Crawford, rattled, had just let the cat out of the bag: he knew too much.

“We’ll see about that.”

Walter, Clemson and HoJo with him, walked over to Margaret.“It was one of the best runs of the season.” He smiled. “Thank you for allowing Jefferson Hunt on Paradise. Can I help you with anything?”

She liked Walter and replied quietly,“Thanks, Walter. Get these trespassers out of here, please, before I really lose it.”

“His hounds will follow ours. We’ll get them and him out.” Walter said this so Shaker could hear, too.

She half-whispered,“I’ll see Jason in hell. I really will.”

“You buy Jason’s ticket. I’ll buy Crawford’s.” Sister regained her composure.

Two egotistical men, pride wounded in different areas, seethed on their horses.

Marty, hound tagging along, rode up to Margaret.“I am truly sorry.”

“Marty, I can’t understand how someone as lovely and sensitive as yourself could marry such a…” Words failed her. Margaret threw up her hands, and Marty knew this wasn’t the time to defend Crawford, no matter how much she loved him.

Useless as tits on a boar hog, Crawford and Jason couldn’t extricate their hounds from the Jefferson Hunt hounds.

Another motor was heard in the distance: a big, booming diesel.

Sam Lorillard, in the passenger seat, eyes wide open, involuntarily smacked his forehead with his hand as Rory stopped the truck and trailer.

Sam emerged stiffly. Rory cut the throbbing motor and walked around to the back. He opened the trailer door.

They couldn’t get the black and tans to load.

Sister, on foot, Rickyroo’s reins now in hand, called out to Shaker, “Help them, or this will get even worse.” She then directed Betty and Sybil: “You, too, if you don’t mind.”

Diddy leaped onto the new trailer.

“Diddy, out,” Shaker gently chided the eager little girl. “Hold up,” he instructed his hounds, who quizzically looked at him and at Sister, then Betty, then Sybil.

“Kennel up.” Sam called the black and tans to him as Sybil and Betty quietly, with no fanfare, moved at the edges of the hounds who didn’t break.

Sister breathed a prayer of relief the black and tans didn’t bolt but loaded up.

“Told you this would be a good hunt,” Pamela bragged.

“Not over yet,” Val replied.

Watching this was Ben Sidell. Nonni, his gentle teacher, took it all in as she stood next to Bobby’s big draft cross.

“Ben, I’m old enough to know when hounds won’t hunt for a man. Those hounds will never hunt for Crawford—not even if he feeds them calves’ liver daily,” Bobby drawled.

Sam, soaking up the tension, clambered back into the truck as soon as the black and tans were loaded.

The big trailer also carried the horses. Crawford, Jason, and Marty dismounted and walked their horses onto the trailer.

It was against state law to ride in the trailer, but under the circumstances, Jason urged them to do so. They’d get out of Paradise more quickly, and the ride back to his SUV wasn’t that far.

“I’ll get you for this!” Crawford shouted to Sister as Rory slammed and bolted the door.

Sister didn’t reply.

Shaker, back up on HoJo, apologized:“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you fast enough, Boss.”

“Maybe we both belong in the ring.” She half smiled, referring to their boxing prowess.

“Hell of a combination.” He smiled broadly.

“Was, wasn’t it?” She couldn’t help but feel pride, even though she knew that worm Crawford would churn up mud.

Hounds moved off. At the edge of Paradise people could hear the big diesel truck straining.

It was nearly noon when they arrived back at Chapel Cross. This time the whole pack wedged under the trailer.

Shaker bent over, then got down on his hands and knees, mud on his white breeches.“Holy smoke!”

“Now what?” Sister swung her leg over Rickyroo.

“There’s a den right under the trailer.”

“Shaker, you’ve denned your fox. How about giving tongue?” She bent over laughing.

Sheepishly, he stood back up and called hounds out from under the trailers.“Ardent, you were right.”

“Golden.” Cora beamed at her friend.

Reluctantly, one by one, hounds gave up their quarry, who was unconcerned in his cozy quarters.

The field gathered round for the spectacle.

At the tailgate, everyone buzzed with the unusual events of the day.

Finally, at one, Sister drove back, Betty as her passenger.

“Wait until I tell Gray. Poor baby, he’s at the office, and Garvey’s there, too. Oh, they missed a show!”

“The audit sounds difficult. I couldn’t do that tedious work.”

“Since Sam’s accident, Gray’s been staying home with Sam, who can’t dress himself without help. Of course, even if he were with me, he couldn’t say anything. Gray is a very principled man, and really, most accountants are. I do know Garvey needs Gray’s report for the Farmers Trust.”

“Red tape. Pure and simple.”

They drove along, wondering what to do about Crawford, wondering how Sam could stand it, and feeling sorry for a nice pack of hounds who were being ruined.

A minivan, going much too fast, began to pass them.

“Iffy. What’s with her? And why isn’t she at Aluminum Manufacturers? This may be Saturday, but it’s all hands on deck at Garvey’s.”

Sister turned her head slightly as the dark blue metallic van flew by.“Is everyone nuts today?” She focused on the road again. “You know, if there is an irregularity at Aluminum Manufacturers, she’s the first one on the griddle.”

“I’m sure she knows that,” Betty replied.

“Wonder if she knew Crawford would be over here today. Her land backs up to his at that ridge.”

Betty interrupted,“I don’t think being a neighbor gave her the inside track.”

“You’re right. Then I wonder if Alfred knew. Someone had to know. I mean—would Crawford really be dumb enough to cast hounds here?”

“Big ego.” Betty, too, wondered. “Or he was set up to fail?”

They looked at each other, saying in unison,“Jason.”

“Makes no sense.” Sister shook her head.

CHAPTER 17

While Iffy blew through Chapel Cross, having worked that Saturday morning in a race to get papers back to Farmers Trust, Gray used her absence to approach Garvey. Iffy said she’d come back after lunch, so he watched the clock.

Having placed a large folder and a bank deposit bag on Garvey’s desk, he sat opposite the younger man. “Garvey, Freddie, and I worked through the night. She’s been terrific.”

Garvey’s stomach tightened. “You do look a little rough.”

“Been a hell of a week.” He stood up, opening the folder and placing four stacks of invoices before Garvey. “Look at these.”

Dutifully, Garvey inspected the invoices.“They look okay to me.”

“They’re computer generated.”

Garvey studied them afresh.“Isn’t everything?”

“No. These invoices are identical except for the print. Each business has a different print color. For instance, Hanson Office Supplies is blue, Rickman’s Sanitary Service is black, L&L Commercial Cleaners is red, and Dalton Rubber Supply is green.”

Confused, Garvey bent his head over the invoices.“I’m missing something, Gray.”

“It’s uncommon to find identical invoices setting apart the print color. Freddie went online to see if these businesses existed. I called a colleague in Richmond at nine this morning. He’s never heard of them. Freddie and I flipped through the Richmond phone book to be safe, and we checked tosee if in the last five years any of these companies could have been bought out by a larger company. Sometimes they’ll use up the old paper. Not often, though.”

“Where’s Freddie now?”

“She went to work straight from here to catch up.”

“Gray, you’re telling me these are bogus.”

“I am. You don’t initial or countersign checks this small. Iffy signs them. You’ll also notice that these invoices are addressed to P.O. boxes. There’s no telephone number on the invoice, no street address, no e-mail address. While each of these companies has a different P.O. box, they are all located at the main post office in Richmond.”

A sickly look passed over Garvey’s pleasant features. “Two thousand to Rickman’s Sanitary Service, seven hundred and fifty for office supplies.”

“Every month. Freddie also ran a computer search to see how many vendors of like services or supplies had the same zip code. No matchups. We have the cancelled checks.” He zipped open the standard bank deposit bag used by businesses. “All are signed by your treasurer, and all are endorsed by a rubber stamp that says ‘for deposit only.’” Gray pulled out a few checks for Garvey’s inspection.

“My God.” Garvey slumped in his chair. “Iffy.”

“She goes to Richmond the third Thursday of each month. She picks up the checks and she deposits them in her own account. Obviously, we can’t seize her personal records until you charge her.”

His face flushed.“She deserves the right to explain herself. She’s been with me for years.”

“What she deserves is arrest. All these fake invoices are dated on the same day of the month, and they are all deposited on the same day of the month, the third Thursday. Garvey, it’s an old scheme, and it’s tried and true as long as the person doing it knows when to get out. It’s called disbursements fraud. It’s always an inside job, usually committed by a chief financial officer. If you don’t have her arrested the minute she walks back in this door, I can tell you exactly what will happen.”

“What?” Garvey whispered.

“She will say she needs to talk to an attorney. She’ll leave, and my guess is she can access the money very quickly. She’ll leave the country.”

“I can’t believe it.” Garvey dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“How much did she steal from me?”

“Freddie and I want to go over the cashed checks again. We also want to see if there aren’t other things we may have missed simply through exhaustion.”

Garvey lifted his head, raised his eyes,“Gray, how much?”

“Two million.”

“Oh, my God.” Garvey picked up the phone and dialed. “May I speak to Sheriff Ben Sidell?”

CHAPTER 18

You take it too seriously.” Jason shrugged off Walter’s anger at his whipping-in, if it could be called that, to Crawford Howard.

“Yes, I do. Seriously enough to drive over here after the hunt on my day off. You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jason’s dark eyebrows lifted. “I rode with an undisciplined pack of hounds, Crawford got his lip split open by Sister, and Margaret threatened my life. So what?” He laughed, albeit hollowly.

“You rode with an outlaw pack. You can’t ride with the Jefferson Hunt again or with any other hunt associated with the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.”

“Bullshit.”

“The MFHA was founded in 1907 to avoid exactly what happened. And you’d better believe they’ll enforce it. If, for example, you try to ride with Keswick, and if word got back to the MFHA that the masters allowed you to do so, they would risk losing their recognition, which is like losing yourmedical license. I’m telling you, Jason, you don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jason pushed his back against the chair.“Well who is going to report me? Sister? You?”

“She’ll wait for you to come to your senses today. If you do, she will explain to the president of the MFHA that you were unaware of the rule and you will never ride with Crawford again. If you don’t call today she will report you, or I will. We have no choice.”

Jason slammed down his coffee cup.“It was supposed to be fun. I’ve all but bought Paradise.”

Fortunately, the cup was heavy.

“You don’t own it yet.” Walter stated the obvious.

He’d driven to Jason’s spacious brick house downtown. Jason had bought it as an investment, declaring he’d sell it as soon as he found the country property he wanted.

The fireplace in the kitchen had Delft tiles around it. Jason had paid a decorator who mixed antiques with modern pieces, to lovely effect.

“I don’t need Sister’s help or your help. I’ll call the MFHA myself.”

“That will make matters worse,” Walter grimly predicted. “Apologize to Sister, then let us handle it.”

“I suppose she’s mad at me?”

“We’re all mad at you. And let me tell you why you’ll need her help. It’s a small world, and most foxhunters recognize why we can’t countenance outlaw packs. You’re going to be on everybody’s shit list, not just Jefferson Hunt’s.”

“Countenance? You sound like a preacher.”

“A Virginian, at least,” Walter half smiled. “We grow up on the King James version.” He leaned across the rectangular table. “Look, I’m upset that you rode out with Crawford, who means us no good. But I’m your colleague, you know. The hospital is a small world—like foxhunting. I’dlike things on an even keel.”

Jason listened, holding his cup with both hands.“Tell that to Margaret.”

“She has every right to be angry with you. You need to apologize to her, to Binky and Millie and Alfred.”

His dark eyebrows raised, then lowered.“I will. I’ll smooth the waters. But you know, if they don’t sign that contract next week, I’ll buy another property. They’ll never ever get a deal like mine. Seven million dollars. No financing.”

Walter, though the sum was impressive, wasn’t impressed. “The DuCharmes have owned Paradise for just about two hundred years. You aren’t from here, Jason. It’s hard for you to realize the pull of blood and time. It truly outweighs money.”

Jason’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Two old men without a pot to piss in. They live off Margaret and cutting timber every five years. They have to agree to my terms, which are very generous.” When Walter didn’t respond out of good manners, Jason, exasperated, announced, “I offered them seven million dollars for a bunch of Corinthian columns.”

Walter glanced down at his cup, then up at Jason.“And five thousand acres, much of it in good Davis loam. The timber program is good. You sell Alfred short. He’s managed the farm wisely, and Binky has had the sense to stay out of his way and run his little gas station. They may be pathetic, battling old men to you, but they aren’t stupid. And Margaret is smarter than both of them put together.”

Jason flared up.“I saved Alfred.”

“You have a remarkable record as a doctor. I respect that. Your patients, cured or in remission, are walking advertisements. But this is different. If you don’t apologize to Sister Jane, you’re cooked. If you don’t back off from Crawford, you’re cooked. Am I clear?”

Silence followed. The stainless steel wall clock ticked loudly.

“If I back off from Crawford, I’m cooked.” At last, a genuine emotion, worry, played on Jason’s face.

“You’re in the tank?” Walter used the old political expression, meaning you’ve been bought off in one respect or another.

“Yes.”

“How deep?”

“He’s my silent partner in purchasing Paradise.”

“I can’t imagine Crawford wants to see you restore Paradise to its former glory. So you are going to develop Paradise?” Walter clamped his mouth shut. “You lied.”

As Jason had bandied about some of his plans for Paradise, Walter knew he’d made a big to-do about respecting the past, allowing no development, and other such pious statements.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, is this like Clinton saying a blow job isn’t really sex?”

Jason’s face darkened. “We’d wait a year. We’d develop one thousand acres as an equestrian paradise. It would be impeccably done.”

“And you’d both make double-digit millions—and you get to live in Paradise as well.”

“Oh,” Jason corrected him, missing Walter’s sly comment. “We’d generate jobs and revenue for the county.”

“No doubt. That does put you over a barrel. Do you want to hunt with an outlaw pack, or do you want to make even more money than you already do?”

“I’ll bring Crawford around to registering his pack.”

“Good luck. He’s publicly derided the MFHA. Crawford’s not one to reverse a public position.”

“If it’s in his extreme self-interest, I’ll bet he will.”

“Like I said, good luck,” Walter admonished. “I know you don’t want to get on the bad side of Crawford. I understand, but you don’t want Sister angry at you. She can take you down.”

“She knows how to throw a punch,” Jason nodded. Then he leaned nearly halfway across the table. “Is it true her husband was your father?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t upset her?”

“No.”

“Does it upset you?”

“For my father, it did. But Big Ray was one of those men who walked into a room and women’s heads swiveled around. Whatever he had, if we could have bottled it, we’d be worth billions.” He exhaled. “Things just happened around Big Ray. ’Course they happened around Sister, too.” He shrugged. “Ancient history. I love her. I’ve always loved Sister. When I was a kid I wanted to ride like her. Working with her is one of the joys of my life. I just wish I knew what she forgot.”

“Plenty of good foxhunters out there.”

“She’s beyond good.”

“Look, I’ll concede that Crawford doesn’t know shit. Those hounds running all over proves that, but it’s not rocket science.”

“Exactly.” Now Walter leaned forward. “It’s an art woven into primeval instinct. She has it. Sister has horse sense, hound sense, game sense, and that something extra. You can’t teach it. You can’t buy it. I’m learning hounds and game, but I also know that what she has I’ll never have. What I have is a sharp political sense. I’m useful to her for that. And I love hunting. I’d lose my mind without hunting.”

“Suppose I would, too. That’s why I want to whip-in. I don’t want to be in the field watching everyone’s ass over a jump.”

“Some of those asses are mighty fine.”

Jason leered.“Well, yes.”

“Jason, we’d all like to whip-in to this pack. To whip-in at Jefferson Hunt is to be taken seriously by other foxhunters. None of us are immune to that kind of attention. I can’t do it, but I wish I could.”

“Why?”

“I’m not that good a rider, and I don’t have much hound sense, although I like the hounds. But I have people sense.”

“I can ride,” Jason boasted.

“What about the rest of it? She’s right to make you walk-out. And I don’t know if she’ll keep that offer after what you did yesterday.”

Jason shifted in his seat.“If I bow to Sister, I lose Crawford. I have to find another way.” He exhaled. “Or accept that I’ll not be hunting with you.”

“Jason, I wish I knew what the middle way might be. Until you, I, or someone else can think of it, you’ve got to calm the waters. You’d better apologize to Sister.”

Jason’s cell phone rang. He flipped open the cover to see the caller’s number displayed. “Damn. Excuse me.” He pressed the talk button. “Hello.”

Iffy bellowed,“Jason, where are you?”

“I’m in a meeting.” He didn’t mention that he wasn’t in his office.

“A meeting with whom?”

“Walter.”

“Get out of it. I have to see you.”

“Don’t worry about the insurance paperwork.” He sounded soothing.

“It’s three-thirty. I have to see you. Not in your office,” she persisted.

“All right, but let me call you right back. This is an important meeting.” A note of irritation crept into his voice.

She slammed down her phone.

Walter noticed the expression on Jason’s face. “I’d better be going.”

The shorter man folded his cell phone up.“She needs a psychiatrist. Iffy.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Walter thought it best to stay out of this discussion.

“Her health is improving; her personality is not.” Jason, exasperated, shoved the phone aside.

Walter rose.“If you don’t call Sister by tomorrow, I’ll call Dennis Foster at the MFHA Monday. I don’t want to do that.”

Dennis Foster was the director of the MFHA. As a lieutenant colonel, retired, in the U.S. Army, he could be forceful when he needed to be. Jason would find this out in a hurry if he didn’t mend fences.

“I’ll do it. Will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Don’t mention that Crawford and I are partners in the Paradise deal. Look, it’s possible we won’t develop it. If I can put my ducks in a row, I might be able to buy him out.”

“He’s not one to pass up a big profit.”

“If there’s prestige involved, he might.”

Walter cocked his head slightly.“What kind of prestige?”

“Master of Jefferson Hunt.”

“Jason, that will be a cold day in hell.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Jason was right about that.

CHAPTER 19

Hunt days were outlined in bright green on Sister’s month-at-aglance calendar on the kitchen wall. A smaller version was tacked onto her bathroom wall. Today’s fixture, Little Dalby, owned by the Widemans, interested her. During summer and fall, hunt club members reopened old trails and built jumps. The property, in limbo for years, had suffered neglect. The lawyers in charge of the old Viault estate lived in New York City. They had thought they were protecting the property by throwing off Jefferson Hunt. The reverse had happened, because it was the hunt club that had kept the hundreds of acres cleared, hayed, and tidied up during those last years of Mr. Viault’s life. It was Jefferson Hunt’s thank-you to a family that had been a vibrant part of foxhunting.

Pricker bushes, pokeweed, chickweed, and broomsage choked the once luxurious pastures. Outbuildings listed. A hole had been punched in the roof of the main house during a hurricane. The lovely little church, St. John of the Cross, had suffered comparatively little damage, although a great horned owl was now in residence.

Sister wondered whether the owl had converted to Christianity. She suspected not, given that the owl is sacred to Athena. Then, too, Christians talked too much about lambs and sheep and not enough about owls.

Last night Sister had called Anselma Wideman to make sure Crawford wouldn’t be hunting and to find out whether he had hunted the territory at all. The “all clear” pleased her. She wondered how long it would take Anselma and Harvey to realize this arrangement wouldn’t work.

After she’d checked in with Anselma, she and Gray hung on the phone like teenagers. Since Sam’s accident, he’d stayed home to help his brother. Usually from Friday night through Sunday night Gray spent the weekends at Roughneck Farm. Sister found she missed him. Apart from sharing a bed with him, she missed his picks and pans as he read choice passages from the morning’s paper.

Gray operated under a code of ethics as strict as that for physicians. He couldn’t discuss a client’s affairs, but she could tell from his voice that something was amiss. She figured the tension was because Farmers Trust had thrown a monkey wrench into the process of extending credit. But last night, she could hear in his tone that something was wrong, something more significant than Farmers Trust. Of course, she knew nothing about Garvey’s call to Ben Sidell. Nor did she know that the deputy sent to pick up Iffy couldn’t find her. She had flown the coop.

Gray promised to spend next weekend with her. Sam swore he could fend for himself. He told Gray to go; he was tired of being with a lovesick moose. Sister liked hearing that.

Right now she liked hearing little Diddy opening at St. John of the Cross. After drawing through a still unrehabilitated pasture for twenty minutes, Shaker finally jumped the coop into the woods. Sister noticed hound sterns waving. Diddy marched right up to the heavy front door, the cross on the graceful steeple covered in snow, and she sang out.

Since Diddy was a second-year entry, Diana trotted over to double-check.

“Good!” The beautiful anchor hound seconded Diddy’s excellent work.

With that, the pack put their noses down, inhaled deeply, and opened in joyous chorus.

They threaded through the woods, the low limbs of spruces, bearing the snow’s weight, touching the ground. As hounds moved through they’d brush under the spruces; snow would cascade down in a shower of tiny sparkles.

Sister stayed on the farm road. No point plunging into the woods as long as she could keep near hounds. They were moving west. The folds in the land grew tighter. As she burst out of the woods the sun touched the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, turning the snow crimson.

Scattered clouds began to glow underneath.

She turned to look behind. Tedi, Edward, Walter, Val, Tootie, Felicity, and Bunny Taliaferro constituted the field. The cold weather and last layer of snow had kept others at home. Then, too, the holiday season had ended, so folks redoubled their efforts at work. There were all those Christmas bills to pay.

The hounds suddenly shut up. Sister stopped on the meadow’s rise, the mild wind stinging in the cold, to behold them casting themselves.

Asa, wise, walked into the wind. Thirty yards later he picked up the scent, faint though it was, for the wind had blown it off the actual fox’s line and the scent dissipated as it lifted.

“Hop on it. Fading fast,” he commanded.

Not one hound would ever question Asa. They collapsed on the line and opened again, pushing ever westward.

Ahead, Sister saw Betty with Outlaw, her favorite mount, a tough little quarter horse, battling snowdrifts like a destroyer in heavy seas. To her left, Sybil was jumping a stout stone fence, some center stones having tumbled down over the years. Sybil kept alongside the hounds but far enough away not to bring their heads up or cause them to question her presence. The whole pack turned as one and cut sharply left, heading southwest now, to disappear into second growth forest.

Sister squeezed Keepsake, her thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, the perfect mount for this terrain and these conditions. He found his spot, soared over the stone fence, and then stretched out as they flew along the deer path in the forest only to burst out onto another meadow, broomsage spiking up through the snow.

They galloped down to a swift-running creek, where hounds threw up, meaning they lost the line, throwing up their heads. Unfortunately, so did Felicity. As hounds cast for the line she dismounted, ran behind a bush, and tossed her breakfast.

She came back, bright as a penny, and hopped up on Parson.

Tootie reached over to feel her forehead.“No fever,” she whispered.

“I ate too many doughnuts on the way over,” Felicity whispered back.

“Me too.” Val put her gloved hand on her stomach, the white string glove contrasting sharply with the black melton coat.

“You going to heave?” Tootie whispered.

“No.” Val shook her head as Bunny turned to glare at them for whispering during a check.

Cora moved further away from the pack, but she could find nothing.

Dasher stared down the steep bank of the creek, then launched himself. Airborne for a moment, he hit the water with a splash, swam with the current, and reached the far bank fifty yards downstream. He clambered out, put his nose to ground and worked back. He passed the pack on the other side and kept working. After five minutes, he had found nothing.

“Come on, Dasher. Good work, boy.” Shaker called the hound back.

The big fellow hurtled off the opposite bank and swam again, the current carrying him downstream. He emerged, shook himself, and trotted back to the others, working in vain.

“Helicopter.” Dasher laughed.

“Yeah.” Trident agreed that the fox must have stepped into a helicopter to be lifted right up.

Nothing remained. Not the tiniest scrap of scent.

“I hate this!” Cora, filled with drive, kept searching.

“Come along.” Shaker called them together. “Good work. I’m proud of you. We’ll hunt back.”

As they turned to hunt on the south side of the fixture, moving in an arc toward the trailers two miles distant, Sister heard a siren.

As the crow flies, they were little more than three miles southwest of Chapel Cross. By road it would take fifteen minutes, but the sound carried.

Sister wondered if one of the DuCharmes had finally met his Maker.

No, but one of the DuCharmes was deeply troubled.

Ben Sidell stepped out of his squad car. Margaret, in shearling coat, came out of the small dependency in which she lived.

“I’m so glad to see you. You made good time.”

“I was going against morning traffic.” He noted the rich seal-brown color of her hair falling over the shoulders of her coat.

“Look at this.” She walked to her Subaru Forester and opened the door.

Ben touched nothing but carefully noted Iffy’s wheelchair on its side, blood spattered over the backrest.

CHAPTER 20

Although his partner accused him of clutter, Uncle Yancy hotly denied this. Target collected possessions just sitting under a rosebush. Uncle Yancy believed his treasures had been carefully selected, not just picked up in collector’s mania.

True, he built little caches into which he stored the odd mouse part, chicken wing, or rabbit. He used to push corn, even fat millet heads, into his cache piles. Lately, though, he kept the grains in his den. For one thing, he couldn’t always find his caches under snow. He could hear mice two feet under snow. They’d burrow through if snows hadn’t packed down hard. There was plenty of oxygen for them. He’d hear those tiny claws, and he could pounce. But caches made no noise, so he’d learned to keep a grain bank account.

Since he had taken over the pattypan forge, storage space was ample. He’d lined his main sleeping quarters with grasses. He’d bedded down his storage chambers, although not as deep. Some foxes didn’t mind sleeping with frost in their dens. He did. That’s why he insulated his sleeping quarters.

The quiet pleased him. The only thing that didn’t please him was returning to find a glob of blood near his den. Human footprints clearly stood out in the snow. The blood carried an odd odor, so he didn’t touch it.

He’d returned from desultory hunting that morning. The two-mile trot down to the main house at After All had invigorated him. He’d intended to hunt, but Tedi had left out corn oil–soaked kibble behind her stable. He’d stuffed himself.

Sister would refill the special feed buckets Thursday night. One was tied to a tree perhaps a quarter of a mile from pattypan.

At eleven, his restorative sleep was interrupted by Aunt Netty.

“Wake up, you lazy ass.” She pushed him with her dainty paw.“Filthy, as always. Frozen blood by the den entrance. You are disgusting.”

He opened one eye.“My precious.”

“Don’t precious me. I’d heard you took over pattypan. Knew you wouldn’t stay over there at the old Lorillard place. Boring over there. Besides”—she paused, half closing her eyes to savor her imagined triumph—“too far from me.”

Uncle Yancy, no fool, smiled.“You’re right.”

“It’s beautiful here. I always wanted to live at pattypan, but the minks—well…” She shook her head disapprovingly.

Minks, little weasels, possessed ferocity in inverse proportion to their size. They had run out the foxes who’d lived at pattypan years ago and then had bred more minks. Squabbles increased with the population. The younger minks left, heading west. Many now lived on Hangman’s Ridge, but they usually kept out of view. Others pushed on to Mill Ruins, where vigorous mouth battles with other animals, especially squirrels, were daily dramas. The older minks at pattypan flourished until they challenged Athena. Like most arguments, silly though it was, it illustrated the incompatibility of both parties. Furious, Athena systematically killed them until there wasn’t one old mink left.

Their celebrated courage couldn’t help them when death came from the skies. Fearing the younger minks might return, other burrowing animals still did not take over pattypan.

Uncle Yancy had hit it at the perfect time. Everyone else had settled in a den, young foxes usually establishing themselves in early November in central Virginia.

“I’m not far from a feed bucket, which is nice in bad weather.” He hoped she wasn’t going to get pushy.

“See that you don’t get fat.”

“I’ve never been fat.”

“You’ve never been old. We’re getting on, Yancy. Which brings me to my point. I’m not breeding this year. Not just because of my age, but something tells me it will be a hard spring and summer. We must be wise about these things.”

Uncle Yancy, like most males, deferred to the female. They just knew. He asked,“What about the younger girls? Charlene, Grace, Inky, Georgia?”

“Georgia will wait another year. For one thing, she’s not far from her mother, so if Inky should produce a litter, Georgia will help. I haven’t spoken to Inky. Charlene, in her prime, will chance it. As for Grace, haven’t talked to her either.”

“What about the deer and the squirrels? Have you talked to them?”

“Some will, some won’t; most are cutting back. Bitsy isn’t.” She grimaced.

Uncle Yancy’s jaw dropped.“Bitsy’s never laid an egg in her life.”

“That’s just it. She says she wants to do it, and furthermore she’s ensconced in Sister’s barn, so there’s plenty to eat. Can you stand it, husband? More screech owls. As it is she wakes the dead.” She sniffed.“Athena can’t even talk her out of it.”

“Earplugs,” he laughed.

“Not me. I want to hear the huntsman’s horn.” She settled into the sweet grass.“This really is beautiful. I could make this even better. Why don’t you go out and clean up that blood if you aren’t going to eat it?”

Uncle Yancy’s heart skipped a beat. How was he going to get out of this?“When it comes to decorating, I lack your talent, but”—he heaved a huge mock sigh—“I’d bring in a shiny can and you’d be upset. Or I’d snore.”

“U-m-m,” she hummed.“Before I get comfortable I brought you a housewarming present.”

He stewed while she scooted out of the main entrance, returning with a lacquered mechanical pencil.“Here.”

He pushed the deep burnt-orange pencil.“It’s gorgeous.”

“Long hunt last night. Restless. Anyway, I wound up at the old Lorillard place. The graveyard enticed me. Lot of Lorillards there from way back, centuries back—and, you know, there was a fresh grave, covered in snow. I could smell the fresh earth underneath. We had that bit of a thaw. God knows, you can’t dig up frozen ground, so whoever dug the grave knew that much. Well, I started digging because I thought it might be a cache. Something we could use. But no, too deep. I did find this. Under the snow, on top of the packed earth.”

“Expensive.”

“Yes.”

“How deep do you think the cache is?”

“Three feet perhaps. The frost came back hard, so I could just get a whiff of meat.”

“Could have been the mountain lion. They’re around. They leave a big mound, and they mark boundaries with their caches.”

“I told you, the earth was packed. Not like a cache. Humans pack down that way.” Aunt Netty, seated, was cross that he didn’t instantly agree with her.

“No Lorillards died.” Uncle Yancy, like all the foxes, knew the events of humans in their hunting territory.

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Netty, this isn’t a good thing. It’s clever, too.”

“Well, it’s none of our affair.” Drowsy, she closed her eyes.

He viewed his partner, instantly asleep.“Damn. Double damn,” he said under his breath.

Another fox of sorts considered the facts before her. Sister now knew Iffy was missing. The radio and television newscasters had asked anyone who had seen her to report it. The newscasters didn’t speculate on why she might be missing. That would come in the ensuing days.

She sat at Big Ray’s partner’s desk in the warm den and speculated plenty.

Finally, she called Ben Sidell. A yellow legal pad filled with scribbled notes testified to her attempts to put the pieces together.

“Sister, how are you?”

“Fine. Ben, here I am again coming out of left field. Allow me to make a suggestion. Exhume Angel Crump.”

“Who’s Angel Crump?”

“She was Garvey’s assistant since the earth began. She died last year, age eighty-four, of a heart attack. Garvey walked into her office and found her slumped over her desk.”

“Why do you want her exhumed?”

“She hated Iffy. In the best of circumstances they would have clashed—personality differences—but I have to wonder if Angel harbored suspicions. Maybe the animosity was based in fact.”

“Garvey hasn’t mentioned this.”

“Ask him if Angel ever accused Iffy of wrongdoing. And mind you, I don’t know what’s going on down there. Gray can’t tell me, but I hear the strain in his voice. Iffy’s missing. I’m not a genius, but I can put two and two together.”

“I appreciate your idea. Let me talk to Garvey first. If Angel did come to him with suspicions, then I’ll put the machinery in motion. As you know, if relatives oppose an exhumation it can take some time for the legal process to sort it out.”

“I know. And it’s just a hunch but perhaps Angel’s death proved quite convenient.”

She hung up the phone, cupped her chin in her hand, fiddled on the legal pad.

Golly batted at the pencil. She liked commandeering the desk because the dogs couldn’t get on it and because she could see everything Sister was doing.

Raleigh and Rooster stretched out on the leather couch. Rooster’s head rested on Raleigh’s flank. They were dead to the world.

“January 11. You know, Golly, no saint today? That’s particulary interesting. Odd.” She’d checked herOxford Dictionary of Saints.

“I’ll take the day, then.” Golly stopped the pencil with both paws, held it to bite the eraser.

“Golly,” Sister laughed.

“There are cat saints.” Golly managed an indignant stare as Sister wiggled the pencil from her grasp.“Who do you think kept the mice out of Little Lord Jesus’ crib? A cat.”

Sister listened to these determined meows, then burst out laughing.

CHAPTER 21

Riding down from their stable, Tedi and Edward heard the mighty rumble of the Chevy Duramax 6600 before they reached their covered bridge.

Sister and Shaker, double-checking the hound list by the trailer, also heard it.

“He wouldn’t.” Sister held the clipboard to her chest as large snowflakes began to fall. Even though Jason had apologized profusely, she thought he’d allow some time to pass for emotions to cool.

“Only one engine sounds like that.” Shaker was as surprised as Sister.

The small field assembled this Thursday morning turned their heads. The girls from Custis Hall, Bunny Taliaferro, Henry Xavier, Ronnie Haslip, Lorraine Rasmussen, and Bobby Franklin glanced at one another.

Betty Franklin walked around the trailer as her husband tightened his horse’s girth. “Do you hear what I hear?”

“I do.” Bobby frowned, a snowflake falling on his nose.

“The man must be out of his mind.”

“Arrogant.” Bobby clipped down his words. “But he did express his regrets. Sister made sure we all knew that.”

Sybil, who had ridden down ahead of her parents in order to help with hounds, leaned down to Sister.“Would you like Dad to throw him off?”

“No. Landowners can’t refuse a hunt member the right to hunt their land with the hunt. A landowner can refuse the hunt but not an individual. This isn’t to say it doesn’t happen, but it’s counter to proper practice. It’s the master’s responsibility to send a member home. The problem really gets ugly if you have a weak master.”

“Why can’t a landowner refuse permission?” Sybil, intent on being a good whipper-in, didn’t pay too much attention to MFHA policies not related to actual hunting.

“Because that member’s dues built jumps on the landowner’s land. And because every time someone gets into a spat it would affect who hunts where. Eventually you’d see fields of two people until one of them pissed off the other.” Sister pulled off her old gloves, cut off at the fingertips,to put on white string riding gloves. “Let’s say you and I had a fight. A big one. One would assume you wouldn’t come on my farm to hunt. You’d steer clear of that fixture because it makes life easier for everyone. But some people like being the center of attention. That kind of person would show up.” She shrugged as Jason’s rig came into view.

Sister mounted Aztec, ready to go and eager to prove to Rickyroo how good he was. He would tell all back at the barn. As the youngest hunter in the barn Aztec endured a lot of ribbing.

All the horses were keen to see how Matador would pan out. He was in work but had yet to hunt, since Sister didn’t want to hunt a new horse on bad ground. This pleased Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, and Aztec because it showed how much she trusted them.

Tedi and Edward clattered through the covered bridge and rode over to Sister.

Tedi raised an eyebrow.

Edward, a gentleman, quietly said,“Would you like me to go over there with you?”

“All clear,” she replied. “As you know, he apologized to me. I’ll give him credit for that.” Looking up into her old friend’s gray eyes, she shrugged. “You know how I think.”

He smiled.“I do.”

Tedi smiled as well, keeping her peace.

Sister gathered the small group to her.“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Master,” came the reply, the same as it had been for centuries.

“As we have such a small field today, I would like to invite the Custis Hall girls to ride up front. Also, they are being allowed to come out weekdays with us if they each write a paper for their environmental studies class. Perhaps if they have questions after the hunt, you would answer them.”

Tootie on Iota, Val on Moneybags, and Felicity on Parson all glowed. To ride behind the master was a singular honor.

Walter rode next to Jason in the rear.

It was truly dawning on Jason that he hadn’t just offended Sister and Shaker; he’d pissed off the whole club.

Dragon, impatient, drifted toward Nola’s and Peppermint’s graves.

“Dragon,” Betty reprimanded him in a low tone.

“Bother,” he sassed, but he did rejoin the pack.

Sister and Shaker discussed the first cast the night before a hunt and reviewed it in the morning, often changing it when they reached the fixture, since winds and temperature might change.

The temperature had bounced up four degrees to thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. After All was subject to the same northwest winds as Roughneck Farm. As the day wore on, the mercury might rise or fall, depending on whether a front was scudding in from the northwest, bringing a taste of Canada with it. While Sister checked thermometers and the Weather Channel, ultimately she relied on her bones.

Cora ignored Dragon, pushing by his side in the pale gray light.

At the stone wall around the graveyard, Dragon stopped. The pack put their noses down even though Shaker had yet to cast them.

The huntsman wisely worked with his hounds instead of insisting they stick to his program, which was to move into the woods and hunt east.

Tight pawprints were visible, now beginning to be covered by the lazy flakes falling on Nola’s grave.

Doughboy, a second-year entry who had been a little slower to catch on than his littermates, leaped over the low wall, nose to the pawprints.

At Nola’s grave, he said,“Charlene.”

In an instant, all the hounds opened, jumping into the little graveyard, then out the other side. Apart from being exciting for the humans, finding the line was a confidence builder for tricolor Doughboy.

Betty stayed parallel on the eastern side of the creek.

Sybil had faded off to the left, though she was still in sight on the undulating snow-covered pasture.

Charlene, shopping, had been walking along the creek heading back to her den when she heard the pack. Given the conditions, she didn’t dally hitting full speed.

The hounds moved faster as Charlene’s scent grew stronger.

Only the fox understands scent. Humans try to intellectualize it. They conduct experiments with barometers, moisture in the air, time of day, season, and moon phase. Hounds smell it and know what to do with it, but only the fox knows the good days, the bad days, and the in-between days.

This was a good day, so Charlene hurried on, her distinctive odor lifting up slightly.

Charlene, only a half mile from her den, ran up a fallen tree trunk, then dropped down. Lichens, running cedar, and other plants useful in foiling scent were covered with snow. She had to rely on speed today as well as using whatever obstacles presented themselves. Being forty-five pounds lighter than the hounds worked to her advantage.

She sped through the woods, the wide bridle path serving her well. Hearing hounds come closer, Charlene darted to a gopher hole, paused for a split second, then flew onward.

Trident reached the gopher hole just as the disturbed but slothful animal popped his head out.

“Beg pardon.” Trident sat down on his haunches.

“Leave him,” Diana ordered the second-year entry.“Just an old gopher.”

As the hounds moved away from him the gopher remarked,“I am not old. I just look old, and I’ve got rodent teeth. I can make a hole in you if I want to!”

Delia, older, solid as a rock, was bringing up the rear just as the gopher revealed his long teeth.“Terrified,” she laughed as she zoomed by him.

“Hateful canines.” The gopher watched the humans fly by, then added,“Another useless species.”

As Charlene ran the snow turned into sleet. Although the temperature rose four more degrees, the rain felt colder than the snow.

Sister was glad she’d put rubber reins on Aztec’s bridle. Strictly speaking, since she used a snaffle bit, she should have had lace reins but those rules had been formulated for hunting over the English countryside. The Virginia countryside was much wilder than most of England, the weather much more harsh, with great temperature swings between summer and winter. Some allowances needed to be made, and Sister, a stickler for tradition, knew when to make them.

The hanging tails on her hunt cap sprayed sleet.

Charlene scrambled over a snow-dappled stone fence. She dropped down as the land sank into a long wide plateau, six feet above the feeder creek into Broad Creek, aptly named. She ducked into her den under a mighty walnut tree.

Hounds put her to ground, but they didn’t bay in triumph, for Dragon raised his head and moved off toward the creek just as Shaker leaped over the stone fence.

“Coyote!” Dragon bellowed for them to follow the scorching, heavy scent.

Hounds flew straight as an arrow, launching off the bank down into Broad Creek.

Sister trotted downstream to look for a better crossing. A narrow deer trail snaked down the bank at a forty-five-degree angle. It would be slippery, but it was still better than jumping down five feet into a rock-bottomed creek.

Tootie, behind Sister, sat back as she’d seen the old foxhunters do. This was no time for a pretty position. She moved her leg forward of the girth for extra insurance.

Once in the fast-moving water, Aztec picked his way over the large stones. He scrambled out on the opposite side, where ice crystals coated the bank. The deer trail climbing at a forty-five-degree angle was manageable. With care, master and horse achieved the top.

One by one the riders climbed up over the bank, but each horse brought down a bit of earth until the last rider, Lorraine, with Bobby leading her, struggled through the worst footing.

When she had made it, Bobby whispered,“Well done.”

Lorraine was learning. The encouragement brought a big smile to her face.

The straight-running coyote took no evasive action but just turned on more speed. While a fox is preferable, coyote is legitimate game.

A warm wind current, a rising tunnel of air, caressed Sister’s face. Five big strides, and she was once again in crisp air. Now even she could catch snippets of scent: oily, heavy, lacking the sharp musky fox odor, which when one grows accustomed to it is almost pleasant.

A simple coop lay ahead, the base half covered by snow blown against it.

Aztec thought about it for one moment, heard,“Go on,” and did just that. He trusted Sister. She trusted him.

Hounds, running hard, barreled through abandoned pastures and across rutted farm roads, ever straight, ever eastwards. The pastures, snow covered, rolled on. As the whole pack moved farther along, the land became better tended.

After a half hour of slipping here and there, sleet stinging, Sister and the field galloped onto the old Lorillard land.

Hounds headed right for the family plot, which, like most graveyards predating the Revolution, was squared off and protected by a two-foot stone fence, each stone dry-set by hand in the 1750s. Occasionally patched, the stone bore testimony to endurance and beauty even as the graveyard contents announced the fleetingness of life.

Hounds, bearing down on the graveyard, could not see over the fence. Shaker saw it first, then Sister and the field.

Uncle Yancy and a large dog coyote were snarling at one another.

Shaker blew the horn. The coyote still threatened Yancy, but the fox, knowing there was no time to make a run for it, climbed the pin oak in the graveyard.

Folks swear that only gray foxes climb, but reds can do it. Sister had seen it before and wasn’t surprised to see it now. But she was surprised to see the coyote pause for a moment and dig down again, then decide he’d better run on.

Coyotes usually run only as fast as needed. This one underestimated Dragon’s speed. Dragon came alongside, snarled, and bumped him. That fast the coyote turned, sank his fangs into the hound, and leaped sideways to avoid Cora, who was a split second behind Dragon. He then put on the afterburners. The pack had been running hard for a half hour. Besides, they’d been out for another forty-five minutes above that. Fresh, the coyote had the advantage, but the Jefferson Hunt hounds possessed unquenchable drive. They snapped close to his heels. He charged up a slope, crossed a meadow where soil was poor, dropped down the embankment on the eastern side, and disappearedinto a large jagged rock outcropping. The pack gathered in front of the narrow opening between two huge boulders.

Shaker dismounted, blew“Gone to ground,” and quickly remounted.

He wanted to pull the pack out of there because all manner of larger predators found the rocks with fissures and small caves very attractive.

Tootie, Val, and Felicity, burning hot, welcomed the ice bits on their cheeks. Their core body heat hadn’t begun to cool.

Uncle Yancy posed in the pin oak on a lower branch, which was nevertheless too high for hounds to yank him down by his lovely brush, quite in contrast to Aunt Netty’s pathetic little tail.

“Close call,” he cheerfully called down as the pack came near.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Asa wondered.

“Netty brought me a beautiful pencil, so I came to see if there’s more. Dead human, pretty fresh in a shallow grave. That’s why the coyote was digging here. Well, ‘I was here first,’ I says to him, and he says, ‘Bug off, Pipsqueak.’ If you all hadn’t come along when you did, I mighthave got the worst of that fight.”

Dragon, bleeding all over the snow, limped along.

Shaker stopped before reaching the graveyard and called back to Sister.“We’d better put him in Sam’s woodshed. I’ll come back for him. Don’t want him to walk all the way back to the trailers.”

“Shaker, maybe there’s a better way.” She motioned to Betty, who rode in closer. “Betty, call Sam on your cell phone. See if he’ll leave for a minute and load up Dragon in his truck.”

“He can’t lift him.” Betty reached inside her coat for her phone.

“Right.” Sister nodded, for she’d momentarily forgotten Sam’s wound. “Call Gray. Maybe he can slip away. If not, we’ll have to ride back, then drive back. I hate to leave him for long.”

“Okay.” Betty punched in Gray’s number as Sister gave it to her.

As Betty filled in Gray, the field watched Uncle Yancy, about one hundred yards away, talk to the hounds who sat underneath the tree.

“This place is full of dead humans. Why would the coyote dig one up?” Diddy asked.

Ardent sometimes forgot how young the last“D” litter was.“They bury six feet down so we can’t smell the body. This grave has to be less than that. Peculiar. Humans are fastidious about planting their dead.”

“Go on over there. Even with the snow and sleet, you’ll get a whiff,” Uncle Yancy suggested.

“No. You’ll back down and run off,” Dasher said.

“Ha! What do you take me for?” Uncle Yancy replied.

Diddy and Ardent walked over as Shaker rode up, followed by Sister.

“He’s right. I can get a whiff.” Diddy closed her eyes for a moment.

“Coyote helped. He clawed out six inches or more. Ground’s not as cold here; the graveyard is sheltered from the wind. It’s a lovely spot.”

Shaker dismounted and walked to the pin oak.“Uncle Yancy, you should know better than to pick a fight with a coyote.”

“I was here first.” Uncle Yancy refused to recognize Shaker’s point.

Betty raised her voice so Sister could hear, for she had walked to the other side of the graveyard just in case hounds took a notion.“He’ll be here in twenty minutes, tops.”

“Thank heavens,” Sister sighed. The sleet was now mixed in with more ice bits.

Shaker reached Diddy and Ardent. The pack followed. He stared at the small hole in the ground. He couldn’t smell what they smelled, but he could see where the snow had been pulled away, where the ground was freshly disturbed. He scuffed that area with the toe of his boot. “Sister, something’s in here.”

The weather was worsening steadily. Sister asked Tedi to take the field. She handed Aztec’s reins to Tootie to lead back.

“Shaker, I’ll stay with Dragon. Let’s put him in the woodshed out of the weather. You load up and get on home before the roads really get ugly. Gray can drive Dragon and me to Marty Shulman at the vet clinic. We’ll get Dragon stitched up and fill him with antibiotics.”

Ice rattled against the worn tombstones like clear BBs.

“All right.” He knew her plan was wise.

“Betty, call Ben Sidell. Tell him he needs to come out here.”

“I could stay with you. Val can lead Outlaw back.”

“You need to be with the hounds. You and Sybil. Go on, now.”

Jason rode up and touched his cap with his crop.“Ma’am, I would be privileged to stay. If you find some thread and a needle, I can stitch him up.”

“Thank you, Jason, but really I’ll be fine, and Gray’s on his way. Save your skills for humans,” she replied.

“All right, then.” He turned to fall in alongside Walter, who had mounted up after checking Dragon.

Although they were human doctors, if Dragon needed emergency surgery or stitching, Walter or Jason could do it. In a pinch, a vet could put together a human, too.

As the field rode away, Sister noticed how well turned out they were. Hunched against the weather, all were correct in their attire, their tack. They had such pride in being part of the Jefferson Hunt, and she had such pride in them.

She put her hand on Dragon’s head. “That’s a deep ugly wound, but it’s a long way from your heart. Thank God for Walter; he stanched some of the bleeding. Come on, big fella.”

“It hurts, but I can do it. If you’d put your nose over that hole, you’d smell the carcass.” He then remembered the odor wouldn’t register with her.

“Wish you’d killed that damn coyote. Marauders, every last one of them.”

“Wish I’d killed him, too.” Dragon, head down in the biting weather, agreed.

Once inside the woodshed, Sister sat on a low line of stacked hardwood logs. Dragon rested by her feet. Leaning over, she rubbed his ears, a comfort to a dog. She stroked under his neck, praising him for closing so quickly on his quarry.

“He miscalculated.” Dragon, despite his pain, touted his skill.“I’m fast. Really fast.”

Both animals, grateful for the shelter, listened to the rattle of ice on the rooftop, to the wind picking up.

Sister checked her pocket watch. The hounds and field should have crossed into After All by now. If Tedi picked up a trot where the footing was good, they’d be at the trailers in another fifteen minutes. She reminded herself to give Tootie a small present for taking Aztec back. Leading a horse through rough territory, which some of this was, took talent on the part of the human, cooperation on the part of the horse.

Dragon shivered.

“Getting to you, buddy.” Sister took off her coat, draping it on the hound. She sat down in the dirt beside him to hold the coat closer on him. “You’ll make it, Dragon; you’ll make it.”

“I love you.” He half closed his eyes.

Both heard the welcome note of the eight-cylinder Land Cruiser engine.

Sister stepped outside, waving to Gray, who drove off the driveway to reach her.

“Janie, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

“No, I won’t. Honey, he’ll bleed on the backseat.”

“Put it down. Garvey gave me a blanket he kept in his office for when he sleeps over. I’ll buy him a new one.” He smiled as he strode into the woodpile, knelt down, and gently lifted the seventy-pound hound into the Land Cruiser.

Dragon immediately felt the warmth from the car heater as Gray closed the door.

The windshield wipers clicked against the ice as Gray drove on good roads to Crozet Veterinary Clinic.

“Think he’ll make it?”

“He will. The wound is deep; he’s lost blood. I don’t want him to go into shock. I checked his gums when I put my coat around him. But Marty can handle it. He’s dealt with worse cases than this.” She filled Gray in on the coyote, on Uncle Yancy in the tree, and on the possibility that thegraveyard had been disturbed by more than a coyote.

“After Betty called me,” said Gray, “I called Sam. He’ll be there when Ben arrives.”

“He can’t drive, can he?”

“He shouldn’t, but my little brother will manage. Crawford may allow Rory to go with him, but if he doesn’t, you know Sam.”

Once they were inside the scrubbed clinic, Marty Shulman checked Dragon, put him under anesthesia, and thoroughly cleaned the wound.

Sister would need to pick him up tomorrow, but Dragon would be good as new once the wound healed. He’d be out for the season, which would hurt Dragon more than his wound. Yes, he was arrogant and could be hardheaded, but the hound breathed fire like a dragon. He lived to hunt, and his nose and voice were outstanding.

Driving west back toward Roughneck Farm, Gray sighed deeply.“Funny, we haven’t been apart that long. I didn’t realize how much I look forward to our weekends together until now. You spoil me.”

“I do,” she agreed lightheartedly.

“This last year has been one of the happiest years of my life.”

“Mine, too.”

“I can’t wait for Friday.”

“How about if I make that pork roast you like so much? Your mother’s recipe?”

He smiled.“How about if I bring you a gardenia bush in full bloom?”

She turned to stare at him.“That’s major.”

They pulled into the farm as Shaker walked out of the kennels. Gray stopped.“Get in the car, Shaker; the ice is coming down too hard.” Shaker hopped into the back, where the seats were laid flat, and sat with his legs straight out.

“How’s the boy?”

“Being sewn up as we speak. Pick him up tomorrow.”

“You should have seen it.” Shaker leaned forward.

“Sister told me it was dramatic.”

“And funny. On the way back, Uncle Yancy followed us. He hung back with Bobby and Lorraine. No fool. Going home is a lot easier for him if he can follow in our footsteps, since this will probably turn worse. And the wind was in his face. Hounds couldn’t get a whiff. Amazing creatures.”

“Did Bobby notice where Uncle Yancy left them?”

“The big sycamore at the second creek crossing.”

“Changed dens.” Sister liked knowing where her foxes lived.

“Gray, honey, I need to see to Aztec. I’ll have to leave you.”

“Girls did everything. Cleaned your tack, too. Cleaned up after Felicity,” Shaker remarked.

“What did she do?”

“Threw up coffee.”

“I’m going to call Charlotte. Felicity might have a bug. This is the second time she’s thrown up.”

“Well, don’t be so fast. She took a bet from Val that she couldn’t chug the thermos full of coffee. Val bet her ten dollars. She said it’s much harder to chug a hot drink than a cold drink. So Felicity took the bet. She held it down for about fifteen minutes. Dumb kids.” He laughed.

“Felicity is in charge of the kitty. Guess she’s trying to fatten it up. I’d think Val’s profanity would be doing that,” Sister said.

“I never hear Val swear. She’s a lady.” Gray was surprised.

“Among her peers she swears like a trooper.” Sister filled him in. “So Val, Tootie, and Felicity each put in a dollar if they swear. At the end of the semester, they’re going to throw themselves a party.”

“Good idea.” Gray nodded.

“Need any help in the kennel?”

“No, Boss. All done. Lorraine’s got the fire going. She said she’s making navy bean soup.” He winked. “By the time that’s done she won’t be able to drive home. These roads aren’t going to get better.”

“Lucky devil.” Gray laughed. “Wish I could say the same, but I need to get home and see if Ben is there.”

“Something’s not right.” Shaker rubbed his hands together. His joints hurt on a day like today.

“Damn kids. They knock over the tombstones. I guess this time they’ve dug up someone, or tried to. What’s the matter with them?”

“Last year two kids dug up a lady buried back in the 1930s because they’d heard she was buried with her jewelry on.” Shaker found it gruesome but titillating. “What they found wasn’t jewelry but the sheriff, who came up on them at the right moment. Remember?”

“I do.” Gray paused. “Did you notice which grave had been disturbed?”

“Not exactly disturbed. Coyote dug a hole. But the earth was packed down. Recent. Too recent.” Shaker wondered what was going on at the old Lorillard place. He put his hand on Sister’s shoulder. “Good hunt.”

“It was pretty good. I’m high on the second-year entry. They’ve got it now.”

“So do you.” Shaker patted her, then opened the door, stepping into a stiff wind.

Gray drove to the house.“I’ll drop you at your door. Shaker forgot to tell me which grave was messed up.”

“Jemima Lorillard, 1761 to 1847. A good long life.”

“One of the white Lorillards. You know, I think we may be the only family where the white Lorillards are buried with the free black Lorillards as well as the slave Lorillards. It’s quite a history, our family.”

“Most people think Jemima is a black name. It was quite popular in England and here in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Pretty name, really.” She stopped. “Gray, I know you can’t tell me details. But let me tell you what I think, since you’re sitting in the middle of it downthere at Aluminum M.” She shortened Aluminum Manufacturing to “M.”

“Okay.” Gray said only that.

“Iffy is missing. I expect she’s been milking money out of the company for years. I suggested to Ben that he get an order to exhume Angel Crump’s body.”

“What?” Gray’s eyebrows darted up. “That will upset Garvey as much as everything else.”

“Well, let me go on here. Angel thought little of Iffy. Iffy hated Angel. I expect Angel caught on. At any rate, Iffy’s disappeared.”

“Looks like she got away with it.”

“That’s just it, Gray. What if she didn’t get away with it?”

CHAPTER 22

A wall calendar, new, large pages as yet uncurled on the bottom, hung in the coroner’s office. Lyle Aziz, MD, liked his work but wished for more pay, a common desire among state employees. However, as a teaching physician in the pathology department down in Richmond at the Medical College of Virginia, he made enough to support his family. Better yet, he would never return to Egypt.

One of the dangers of people coming to the United States to study was that they might not return to their former countries, especially if those countries seethed with internal dissent. As a Christian Lyle never felt secure. But he missed the ways of his country, the warmth of everyday encounters, the raucous gossip. He realized that living in the American South he was as close as he could get to these qualities among peoples of European descent, colder peoples than his own.

“She is in such good condition,” he enthused over the state of Iffy’s body.

Only a pathologist would make such a statement. Anyone else viewing human remains unceremoniously buried in a shallow grave for four days would feel otherwise. Thanks to the cold and the three feet of dirt she had been under, Iffy still had her nose. Her extremities, swollen and discolored, blood pooled there, contained all her digits. Patches of decay showed in spots, and gases filled her, but she could have been much worse. No flies in the winter. She remained intact, if not a cover girl.

A single shot to the head had sent Iffy to the hereafter.

Ben always carried a small jar of Vicks VapoRub in his jacket. As Iffy thawed he made use of it.

“Looks simple enough.”

Lyle, gloves on, carefully inspected the wounds. The gun had been placed at her right temple. The bullet exited on the other side of her head.“True, but my father used to say, ‘Suspect a trap where the sand is smoothest.’”

Tattoo markers dotted the left side of Iffy’s chest where radiation had been administered, square blocks within. Any physician or cancer patient would recognize the markers.

“I’ll leave her in your capable hands,” said Ben.

“Even though she’s missing part of her skull where the bullet exited, how do you know she wasn’t slowly poisoned? She could have shot herself in despair over her sickness. You never know until the evidence is in. Every autopsy is a detective story.” Lyle’s black eyes met Ben’s. “Were these more primitive times, if I didn’t have a state lab at my disposal, slow though it is, I’d go with cause of death is gunshot. Not self-inflicted. No powder burns. Her arms are short. She couldn’t have held the gun far enough away to produce this wound. If you’re going to do yourself in,you put the muzzle smack up to your temple or your mouth. She was murdered.”

“I figure Saturday night, early Sunday morning.” Ben was a good judge of a corpse’s condition and the time it took to reach that condition relative to season. “Thirty-six. Suffering from lung cancer.”

Lyle nodded then said,“Well, I’ll start in. If I find anything unusual, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks for coming in. I know this isn’t your regular day.”

“I teach only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Friday’s no problem. I’ll get right to work.”

Three hours later, Ben’s cell phone beeped. “Sheriff Sidell? Lyle here.”

“Yes.” An expectant note rang in Ben’s voice.

“Iffy Demetrios did not have lung cancer. When I found no tumors, to be certain I sectioned out quite a bit of both lungs. This isn’t to say there might not be a cancer cell that the lab will pick up, but you said she had lung cancer. I found no evidence of disease in her lungs.”

A long, long pause followed.“Lyle, that’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard in this new year.”

Within fifteen minutes, Ben stood in front of Jason Woods. As it was his office day, Jason had graciously agreed to see the sheriff immediately.

“You treated Iphigenia Demetrios for lung cancer. Correct?”

“I did. She was responding beautifully. We caught it early.”

“May I see her records?”

Jason balked for a moment, then said,“Under normal circumstances one must ask the patient or next of kin.”

“These aren’t normal circumstance.” Ben’s voice conveyed authority.

“Of course.” Jason buzzed his secretary, who brought in a color-coded file. “Let’s start with the x-rays.” Without being asked, Jason walked to a wide metal file cabinet and pulled open a drawer much like those used in graphic arts businesses. Flipping through large manila envelopes, he pulled out Iffy’s and then put it up on the light box. “Note the small but discernible mass right here, lower portion.”

“Yes. I see it.”

“This was the first x-ray. Naturally, I ran a battery of tests, although I’ve seen enough of these to feel I can recognize a malignant tumor. Still, one must be prepared for the anomaly.” He pulled out another x-ray. “Here is the lung after her last series of treatments.”

“Which were?”

“The first protocol involved radiation and chemo. The side effects troubled her. Once started, you must finish the exact number of treatments. She did. In view of her adverse reaction, I gave her more time to regain strength. Three months later she submitted again to radiation and chemo. I do thetreatments here, which makes it much easier for the patient. This is the result.” He pointed to the area where the tumor had originally been diagnosed. It had vanished.

“Remarkable.”

“Like I initially said, early detection was critical. However, each day we make progress. As you may know, this is the third most common form of cancer. I’m proud of my success rate, and apart from aggressive treatment I think putting a patient on the chemo IV here in more pleasant surroundingsraises a patient’s spirits. I’m involved with them. My nurses offer support. It makes a huge difference.”

“What are the odds of the lung cancer returning?”

“Well”—Jason stroked his chin—“the rule of thumb is if it doesn’t recur in five years, you’re home free. My feeling is the cancer may not return to the original site. It can migrate. Sometimes a tumor will send out seeds, if you will. The patient celebrates the five-year mark, yet three years after that the cancer manifests itself in a new site. We know when a patient comes in that if the cancer has metastasized into the lymph nodes that’s usually the end of the journey. What we don’t know is why some tumors create other cancers in other parts of the body and some don’t. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t know if we can conquer cancer, say in the way we have conquered TB. But we may advance to where cancer is a chronic condition that can be managed. A patient can enjoy a good life.”

“Did you think Iffy was cured?”

“Yes, of the tumor.” A troubled pause followed. “She had other complications.”

“Oh?” Ben found medicine fascinating.

“Her platelets were higher than they should have been. That raised my suspicions that some cancer cells had established themselves elsewhere, but her tests were clean.” He pointed to her bulging chart. “After her first round of chemo and radiation, she experienced trouble walking. Occasionally, radiation creates neurological side effects. Sometimes the side effect doesn’t go away when the patient recovers. It’s rare, but it does happen.” He paused. “Granted, in time her legs might have become stronger, but that’s one of the reasons I kept running tests on her. She wasn’t bouncing back as fast as I’d hoped. If she was on her feet too long she’d become fatigued.”

“What about drugs? They can cause odd responses in some people.”

“Illegal, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Clean.” He rustled through her folder, plucked out a sheet, and showed Ben Iffy’s latest blood tests, pointing to the bar graphs on the page from the lab. “Clean as a whistle.”

“What about alcohol?”

“She drank socially, but here”—Jason pointed to that test result—“within the boundary. Iffy was a challenge.”

“Could some of her behavior have been psychologically motivated? Some kind of neurosis?”

Jason shook his head, a light smile on his lips.“That’s not my field, Sheriff. Was she insane? No. Was she moody, erratic, cantankerous? All the time.”

“Some of that could be a result of her medications, you think?”

“When she was undergoing chemo and radiation, yes. After she recovered, no.”

“One last question. You’ve been very good to give me your time. Did you like Iffy?”

A broad smile covered Jason’s face. “I did. Even when she was at her most uncooperative, I really did.”

“Ah.” A shadow crossed Ben’s strong face. “I’m sorry to tell you, Jason, your patient is dead.”

Confusion, doubt, suspicion registered in Jason’s face. “What happened to her?” He sat down abruptly. “After all she’d been through.”

“She was shot.”

“Good God.”

“I’m sorry. I hope you understand that I’ll ask more questions over time. I may even have to requisition your records, but I am sorry. You saw her through a great deal.”

“You know”—Jason’s voice was misty—“nasty as she could get, there was a kind side to Iffy. She would talk to other patients during chemo. She’d bring fruit and candy. She complained ad infinitum to the rest of us, but with other cancer sufferers, she was marvelous. Why would anyone kill her? I can’t understand it.”

“My job is to find out.”

“I’ll help you any way I can.”

“You already have.” Ben left. For the time being, he’d keep Lyle Aziz’s revelation to himself. Best to wait for the lab reports from Richmond.

Driving to Aluminum Manufacturers, he wondered how Garvey would take the news. After all, he was missing two million dollars. The culprit most likely had been shot in the head.

He wanted to talk to Sister Jane, too. She used all her senses in a situation like this. Most people used only their eyes and ears.

As he turned into the parking lot he remembered it was Friday the thirteenth.

CHAPTER 23

Winter’s gray skies depressed many people but not foxhunters. Low fleecy clouds, ranging in color from pearl gray to gunmetal gray, cast their darkening shadows on the snow.

Sister sat quietly on Lafayette as the huge tree, over three hundred years old, on Hangman’s Ridge waved its branches in the breeze as if beckoning.

The fixture card, printed on heavyweight good paper, had been sent out before Opening Hunt, the first weekend in November. The Jefferson Hunt tried to stay close to St. Hubert’s Day, November 3, for their opening. Crawford had left the club a few days before Christmas. Today they would have hunted from Beasley Hall, Crawford’s estate. That had to be changed. The easiest thing to do would be to hunt from the kennels. Since foxes flourished around Roughneck Farm, After All Farm heading east, and Foxglove Farm heading north, it should be fine.

Like most masters, Sister loathed changing a fixture once it was in writing. She thought scheduling one of the hardest tasks a master had to perform. She hadn’t much liked doing it as a wife and mother, either. Those Friday nights when Big Ray, RayRay, and she had sat at the kitchen table, individual calendars open, the large hanging family calendar off the wall to be altered had given her fits. She’d worn out one big white India-rubber eraser each Friday night.

She missed hunting at Beasley Hall. Crawford had spared no expense in opening territory. Coops, zigzag fences, tree trunks lashed together, even a beautiful river stone jump bore testimony to his largesse. Crawford had directed the workers, although at the time he’d known nothing about siting a jump. Sister had used all her tact to make sure the jumps had a decent approach.

Foxhunters, accustomed to leaps of faith, didn’t worry about sight lines or ground lines, but they sure worried about footing.

This Saturday, January 14, Crawford would be hunting his pack at Beasley Hall. She wondered what the foxes would do.

Despite her years at the helm of the Jefferson Hunt, she wanted to show good sport for members and guests, and was a bit nervous before each hunt.

This Saturday she had riders from Casanova Hunt. This pleased her, as it was one of those four-star hunts.

She also had Vicki Van Mater riding Jaz and Joe Kasputys on Webster from Middleburg Hunt. This, another glamour hunt, had hard-riding members.

Having a check on top of Hangman’s Ridge gave her the shivers. The wind always blew there even in summer. Winter’s wind, however light, cut. The ghosts of murderers, mountebanks, and hard-luck men whispered along this long wide plain, high above the cultivated fields, the one huge wildflower field, and way beyond to Soldier Road, snaking east and west.

Hounds worked the large ridge, then moved down into the underbrush, tight even in winter. The horses used the deer paths on the north side, the old farm road on the south. The remnants of the colonial road, originally the road up to the Potomac, a hundred miles and then some, occasionally would be cleared. That ran in a big S down the north side out to Soldier Road.

Hounds moved that way; Sister walked behind them and Shaker. A sudden burst of wind sent a moan from the giant oak. Her spine tingled.

Did dead souls meet? Would Iffy join these men and spin her tale of woe? She wasn’t surprised that Iffy had been secreted over Jemima Lorillard. What surprised her had been that not one penny of the filched money had been found in her bank account, nothing in her house.

Ben had come by Friday night. She fed him fried chicken, greens, and cornbread. Halfway through the impromptu supper, Gray had arrived, worn down by events but bearing the gardenia bush in bloom as promised.

Ben rode out this Saturday. He needed the hunting to clear his mind, and it was his weekend off. In fact, the field, at sixty-seven, proved cumbersome on such a cold day. The ones in the rear, continually pushed up by the Custis Hall girls, grumbled, but if they didn’t keep up, then Bobby Franklin would sweep them up and they’d need to stay with hilltoppers instead of first flight.

Lafayette stopped, pricked his ears.

Uncle Yancy shot straight in front of him, followed by Inky, the black fox vixen, and Comet, her saucy brother. A collective intake of breath from the field followed by everyone with their derbies, top hats, and hunting caps off pointing in three different directions added to the confusion.

When the hounds blew through the bracken back out onto the ridge, they split into three different prongs. How could anyone fault them, for the scents were equally hot? Had one line been fresher than the other, the huntsman could have hoped his whipper-in on the side where the pack split could send them back. Today, Shaker faced an unenviable dilemma. As he reached the ridge again, up from the north-side deer path, he caught a glimpse of three brushes disappearing in three different directions.

During January or February, a huntsman would rather chase a dog fox than a vixen if one could choose. But Shaker couldn’t choose. Cora led the group on Uncle Yancy. Dasher roared after Inky, taking many young entry with him. To everyone’s surprise and Sister’s delight, little Diddy, showing her mettle for the first time as a strike hound, blew after Comet.

Shaker paused under the moaning tree, then plunged down the south side, using the farm road. He stuck behind Diddy. First off, he delighted in seeing this development. Second, he wanted to get the pack onto Comet. He didn’t want to run Inky. Not only was she a vixen, but her den was too close. Too short a go. Also, today was January 14. It was possible she was pregnant. He never liked running a pregnant vixen, even early in a pregnancy.

Luckily, Betty, on Magellan, was further to his right. She could push back Dasher and the young entry. Dasher, a biddable hound, might wonder why he was being called off a hot line, but he trusted the huntsman and he trusted Betty.

Sybil, on his left and out of sight, was still learning the intricacies of whipping-in. A brilliant rider, she was developing nicely. However, hounds would test her long before they’d test Betty or Shaker. Then, too, if they heard a reprimand from Sister riding up behind them almost like a tail whip, which Jefferson Hunt did not use, those hounds would do as told.

As it was, Sybil rode like a demon to get in front of Cora, a hound of speed and intelligence.

Cora turned her head. Why was Sybil, on her big bay thoroughbred, Bombardier, riding like hell to get in front of her? She was right as rain. She was on Uncle Yancy.

“Leave it,” Sybil called.

Cora refused. The human was wrong.

Then the crack of Sybil’s whip like rifle fire brought her head up. She slowed. Her concentration broke, and she heard Shaker’s horn blow “Gone Away” from the farm road. She was in the middle of the wildflower field, white with snow.

“Go to him,” Sybil ordered.

“What’s going on?” Dreamboat, second-year entry, asked.

“Too many foxes, but I picked the one who had furthest to run. Dammit!” Cora cursed.

Tinsel suggested,“We could go on.”

“Better not. Better trust Shaker.” Cora reluctantly turned right, heading back toward the farm road, a line of pines breaking the increasing wind.

“Good hounds,” Sybil called after them.

“Good, yes, but I picked the fox, the best fox for the day. Why, we could have run all the way to pattypan!” Cora grumbled to herself as she loped across the field to rejoin the center splinter of the pack.“What is Uncle Yancy doing over here anyway? He’s all over the place.”

“Ha!” Uncle Yancy stopped right in the middle of the wildflower field when the pack turned.

Sybil, trotting behind the hounds, turned to face him.“You’re one lucky devil.”

“Not with my wife, I’m not.” He grinned raffishly.“Had to get away from Netty. Here I am.”

Sybil laughed when he barked at her. That flooding sensation of speaking with another species filled her with awe. In a sense, the two creatures understood each other.

Bombardier understood every word and whinnied,“Long hike to escape your wife.”

“Hells bells, I gave her pattypan. I came back to my old den.”

Uncle Yancy’s old den, originally shared with Aunt Netty, was on the west side of Roughneck Farm, about a half mile from the apple orchard where Georgia, Inky’s daughter, now lived.

That was the last den where he and Aunt Netty had cohabited.

“Maybe you should become a bachelor,” Bombardier grinned, his big teeth quite a contrast to Uncle Yancy’s sharp fangs.

“You’re a gelding; what do you know?” Uncle Yancy taunted the bay.

“I have imagination.” Bombardier humped his back, kicking out playfully.

Sybil, enraptured by Uncle Yancy, had slowed to a walk. The buck brought her to her senses. She squeezed Bombardier’s flanks, and the two moved along faster.

Cora, speed serving her well, had already reached the main body of the pack. The others, not far behind her, joined in.

Cora came alongside of Diddy.“Well done.”

Wild-eyed with excitement, Diddy yelped,“I can do it!”

“You can do it when I retire.” Cora pulled ahead, but she said this with warmth.

One thing, she’d never relinquish her position of strike hound to Dragon. If only the coyote had severed his jugular. She’d think about training Diddy. Somewhere down the line they’d both have to deal with Dragon.

Dasher, pushed back by Betty, now joined the pack, too. Inky had popped into her den just as Betty rode near the northernmost splinter of the pack.

He stuck his head in Inky’s den to prove what he’d done. Betty told him he was really wonderful but he’d better yank his head out of that den and get to Shaker.

Once the two groups had joined the chase after Comet, Shaker blew the long note followed by three short ones. They were all on.

The sixty-seven riders, amazed at their good fortune, contended with the packed snow, the patches of ice, and the splotches of frozen mud churned up during the short thaw earlier in the week.

Faces flushed, they were breathing hard, and sweat soaked their backs even though the temperature was barely nudging forty degrees. Comet raced straight down the farm road in full view. He had a head start and trusted his fleet paws as well as his cunning.

His special treat for them today was to run for the trailers. He ran in the back door of one big rig and out the tack room door, swinging open. Two minutes later the pack did the same, except that they jammed in the tack room door, and that slowed them down.

He ran into Joe Kasputys’ rig, heard Caesar, the German shepherd, bark from the truck cab, and quickly bolted out of that trailer. When the hounds hurtled into the trailer it rocked back and forth. This plucked Caesar’s last nerve.

Next Comet ran around the kennels, which sent every hound not hunting that day into a frenzy. The cacophony was deafening and confusing because it took some time for Shaker to recognize where the pack was once the hounds were on the other side of the kennel.

He managed to pick his way around it and realized the pack was blowing through the orchard. A few unpicked apples rested under the snow. One couldn’t race through there. The horses carefully walked through, emerging back out on the farm road.

However, a few hounds stopped by Georgia’s den. This also cost time. Georgia, relaxing, became irritated when two hounds dug at her main entrance.

Betty had to push them on.

Back together again, the pack now leaped over some old hedges, neatly trimmed. They crisscrossed the farm road three times, jumping those same hedges, as did the field.

Comet, in his glory, thought to run through the wildflower field but decided against it in case there were drifts. Much as he wanted to show himself to the humans and rub his superiority in their faces, he prudently blasted down the farm road, just nipped through the corner of the apple orchard again, then snaked through the trailers, causing pandemonium once more as hounds rattled through shining aluminum trailers, older steel ones, and one big old horse van, rarely seen among foxhunters these days.

After this display of agility, he made a beeline for Sister’s house.

Golly, not a cold-weather girl, had been out for her constitutional. The racket intrigued her, so she sat on the back stoop to watch the show. Her cat door, not far, reassured her she could escape if need be.

Comet, seeing the snotty cat, ran straight for her.“I’m going to get you.”

“Oh, balls, Comet.” Golly turned and ducked into her door, the flap closing as the magnetic strips touched each other.

Comet easily fit through the same door.

Facing Golly in the mud room, he heard Raleigh and Rooster come to life on the other side of the kitchen door.

Golly, frozen in astonishment, puffed up to twice her size. She danced sideways.

“You look like a broody hen,” Comet laughed.

“I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll pop through that second cat door there and tell those idiot dogs how smart I am. And how generous. I could bite you in two.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Golly hissed a spectacular shower of droplets.

He stepped toward her.

She backed right up to the door as Raleigh tried to poke his head through the cat door.

“Raleigh, you dolt. I need to get through.”

Raleigh withdrew his head. Golly turned and shot through the door, then hit Raleigh on the nose as hard as she could.

He screamed as bright red blood drops appeared on his moist black nose.“Harpy!”

“You were in my way. Comet out there could have bitten me, although I would have hit him, too.”

Comet, flamboyant stinker, stuck his head through the door.“Domesticated twits.”

Rooster lunged for him, but Comet just stepped back.

“You’re lucky I’m on the other side of this door. I’d tear you limb from limb,” the harrier threatened.

“Dream on, fatty.” Comet then sat back down to groom his tail while the entire pack hit the door like a tricolor avalanche. Couldn’t get in, of course. This pleased the gray fox immensely. Sister wouldn’t open the door. He was as safe as if he’d been in his own den, a half mile away.

Shaker, flummoxed, a rare occurrence, lifted both feet out of the stirrups, vaulting off HoJo, who, curious, stepped up after Shaker to get closer.

Shaker looked to Sister.

“Blow ‘gone to ground.’” She laughed.

He lifted the horn to his lips, the happy notes filling the air along with the cries of the pack, Raleigh and Rooster’s howls, and the voices of the entire kennel.

Golly hollered at the top of her considerable lungs,“I denned the fox!”

This shut up Rooster for a second.“You did.”

“Oh, Christ, Rooster, there will be no living with her now,” Raleigh moaned.

“Now? There’s never been any living with her.”

“I am the Queen of All I Survey.” Golly sashayed to the cat door and stuck her head out.“You’re the asshole.”

Lightning fast, Comet lunged for her. She reeled backward, falling over herself.

He now stuck his head through the cat door.“I’m the boss. You’re the applesauce.”

As the house pets endured Comet’s doggerel, Sister said, “Let’s pick them up, Shaker. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a day like this. Best to stop while ahead.”

“Want to go into the house? Through the front door,” Shaker laughed. “I’ll hold Lafayette.”

“No. I don’t hear crashing about. I expect he is availing himself of the dog food in the mud room. I’ll let him out later if he doesn’t leave of his own free will.”

With some effort, as the hounds were terribly thrilled with this new type of den, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil managed to walk them to the kennels.

No sooner were they all in than Comet slipped out through the outside cat door to sit on the stoop. Leaving was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Tally ho,” Tootie whispered, taking off her hat.

As she was back at the Custis Hall trailer, Val, Felicity, and Pamela turned, also removing their caps.

Vicki Van Mater noticed and took off her cap. Joe Kasputys followed suit.

The babble of human voices subsided. Everyone turned. Even the hounds in the kennel runs who could see that side of the house watched in amazement.

Finally, Sister, having dismounted, stepped forward. She removed her cap, bowed, and swept her cap before her with an actor’s grand flourish. “I salute you, Comet.”

Smiling, he walked down the steps, took in this tribute, then walked around the house and vanished as only a fox can do.

The humans cheered.

Walter, buoyant, raised both arms over his head.“Well, we’ve cheered the fox. How about three cheers for the hounds!”

After three lusty cheers, the people wiped down their horses and removed their bridles. Some took off the saddles; others loosened the girths but allowed the saddles to stay on the horses’ backs. As the horses cooled down, their riders threw blankets over them.

The hunt breakfast was potluck. People gingerly negotiated the snow, dishes in hand.

No one could miss Comet’s scent when they hung their coats in the mud room.

Raleigh and Rooster, let out, tried to pick up the wily fellow’s trail. No luck.

Golly, meanwhile, told everyone within earshot of her valor.

Excitement bubbled over along with the coffeepot.

Few mentioned Iffy. She hadn’t been a part of the club, although Sorrel, Walter’s steady, expressed her sympathy to Jason on losing Iffy.

“Thank you,” he replied. “She turned the corner.” He drank a hot toddy, then spoke again. “One of the things about our profession”—he nodded toward Walter—“is you must accept death.”

“I suppose, but Walter hates to lose a patient.”

“I do too, but Sorrel, there’s a time to live and a time to die.” Then he smiled. “You know what’s worse than death? The paperwork!”

Tootie patted her britches pocket. The lockback knife Sister had given her was there. She hadn’t expected anything for leading back Aztec on Thursday and was delighted with the beautiful knife.

A foxhunter should always have a pocket knife in a coat or britches pocket.

The girls talked with one another. Pamela felt more of the group these days, although she could still get on their nerves, especially Val’s. She did, however, give each of them a steel-tipped stock pin from Horse Country, as promised.

Sister pulled Walter to the side.“Haven’t had a minute to talk to you.”

“What a day.”

“Was, wasn’t it?” She touched glasses with him.

Tedi came up.“I feel twenty-one again.”

“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Today is Felix of Nola’s feast day. I remember because of Nola.”

“How do you remember these things? What did Felix do?” Walter grinned.

“Survived torture and persecution in the third century AD, going on to perform conversions and miracles. Died 260 AD.”

“Every day is a miracle.” Tedi beamed.

“Today certainly was.” Walter noticed Sorrel motioning to him. “Excuse me.”

The phone rang. Val, next to it, picked it up and cupped her head over the receiver.“Sister,” she called over the din. “Sam.”

Sister pushed through the crowd, listened, then hung up the phone as Gray walked over to her. She started laughing.“Crawford has hounds out all over the country. Sam asks if we see any, would we pick them up.” She asked for silence, then added, “You can take them to the barn in the back.”

“Damned if I’ll help Crawford,” a member groused.

“Hounds first,” Sister simply replied.

Margaret DuCharme slipped in the back door. Her eyes watered a bit from Comet’s signature odor. She found Ben. Sister had invited her and told her that no one thought for a second she had anything to do with Iffy’s disappearance. However, it was damned inconvenient that Iffy’s wheelchair had been in her SUV. With Iffy dead it became quite upsetting.

Sister had asked her to come for Ben. She’d noticed their connection at the New Year’s party. And she really did want Margaret to know she was above suspicion. No one was pointing the finger at her.

They were pointing it at Golly, who had soared onto the table, grabbed a succulent slice of ham, and jumped off, racing upstairs with her prize.

“That damned cat!” Sister couldn’t get through the crowd to smack Golly’s bottom.

Ben’s cell phone rang as he was talking with Margaret. He flipped it open and recognized the number. “Excuse me, Margaret.” He listened, said little, then flipped the phone back. “We have permission from Angel’s great-niece in Richmond. That saves time.”

“Permission for what?” Margaret asked.

“To exhume Angel Crump.”

CHAPTER 24

Angel Crump was in much worse shape than Iffy Demetrios, but then she’d had a year and a half to molder. Embalming, limited as it was by social consent, and being interred in a casket preserved some tissues. The bones, intact, might yield something.

Lyle Aziz snipped what he could. Given that it was January 16, he hoped the results wouldn’t be eight weeks in coming. Not much happened in the dead of winter except for car wrecks, someone crashing through ice and drowning. The murder rate dropped down; the violent outbursts of summer’s sticky heat abated. The state lab ought to be able to get back to him faster than in July.

Still no results from Iffy’s remains. As for Angel, how many ways could someone kill another without arousing suspicion? When the victim—if she was a victim—was in her eighties, the possibilities increased. People expected older people to die, not considering wrongdoing when it occurred.

Angel had been slumped over her desk as though asleep when Garvey walked in with papers for her. He’d assumed her passing was natural. Why kill Angel Crump?

As Lyle worked away he was glad those were not his concerns. He did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs.

Ben Sidell was trying to do his. As Lyle bent over what was left of dear old Angel, Ben faced a furious Crawford Howard.

“Why would I kill her?” Crawford exploded as he sat in his sumptuous stable office, with cherrywood paneling, no less.

Ben stood before him, since Crawford rudely did not ask him to sit. Sam worked outside, bandages itching. He and Rory were grooming Czpaka in the crossties closest to the office just in case they might hear something. They heard that sentence.

Ben, voice lower, replied,“You aren’t under suspicion.”

Crawford shifted in his leather chair.“Iffy was an unreliable neighbor.”

“How so?”

“She’d say one thing one day and another the next.”

“Could you give me an example?”

Without hesitation, Crawford launched in.“Last fall I asked if I could ride over the low hills that separate us and ride the perimeter of her farm.” He explained as if talking to a child. “To sweeten the request I had Mostly Maples plant a ten-foot sugar maple in her front yard. She called, thanked me and mentioned she liked Southern hawthorns. Waynesboro Nurseries planted two for her. She finally agreed. A week later, Sam and I rode over late one afternoon, and she flew out on her broom. Apoplectic.” He drew in his breath. He shrugged. “The woman had a mental condition.”

“She said she had lung cancer.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? The result is the same.”

“Perhaps it matters in how we respond to someone like that.”

“Bullshit. She got away with murder. I know other people who have cancer and they don’t use it the way Iffy used hers. She was a useless person.”

“Better off dead?”

Crawford raised an eyebrow.“Yes, but”—he raised his voice—“that doesn’t mean I shot her. Traced the bullet yet?”

“No.”

“Hot gun.” Crawford raised his eyebrows. Stolen guns and knockoff models of expensive guns, sold cheap out of the backs of cars, were usually untraceable.

“If it is from a registered gun, we’ll track it down, but you’re right.” These were golden words to Crawford, so Ben smiled when he said, “It’s easy to procure a used clean gun.”

Crawford puffed out his chest a bit.“You guys want us to believe you can solve murders with technology. I say it’s still an easy crime to commit and walk free.”

Ben waited a beat.“If someone is very intelligent or very lucky, it’s easier than I would like it to be.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Thank you for your time.”

“Might want to talk to Sam. She hated him.”

“Thanks.” Ben left the office, crossed the center aisle, and stood quietly while Czpaka closed his eyes in pleasure.

Sam massaged the warmblood’s long neck while Rory curried along his back. “Heard you all had some kind of hunt Saturday.”

Ben grinned.“How Shaker, Betty, and Sybil got that pack together, I’ll never know, and Sam, what a good run it was, too.”

“Starts in the breeding shed just like for horses,” Sam responded.

“Ah, yes, of course.” Ben then said to Rory, “You’re getting good at that.”

The dark curly-haired fellow nodded.“Sam’s teaching me a lot.” “Mind if I ask you a few questions, Sam? We can go in private if you like.”

“Rory’s my buddy.” Sam indicated that Ben should start in.

“Crawford said Iffy hated you.”

“Not always.” Sam chose his words carefully. “She was sharp with me, but that was Iffy’s way. Got bad at the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t matter what I said or did; she’d jump down my throat. When the hounds dug out, Sister picked up three couple, but about two hours later, one lone fellow showed up at her door. I go to pick up the hound and she comes out waving a steak knife at me.”

“Why do you think she hated you?”

Sam thought a long time. He looked at Rory, then back at the sheriff.“Alcoholic. I asked her to go to AA with me once.”

Ben replied.“No one else has mentioned this about Iffy.”

Rory spoke up.“Said she suffered from her treatments. Maybe she did, but she was a drunk.”

“It takes one to know one.” Sam supported Rory’s assessment. “Whatever medication she was on, she was still a drunk.”

“She hid it well,” Ben remarked.

“Not so well,” Rory piped up.

“If you know the signs, she couldn’t hide it. She was a functioning alcoholic. Most are. Less than five percent of alcoholics end up like Rory and me, on the street drinking sterno. She went to work, held her job. I guess she did a good job, but she was an alcoholic. She did her drinking at home. Maybe she hid a bottle in her car. Don’t know. There are people who get through the day. When the sun sets they hit the bottle. Every day.”

“Women hide it better than men,” Rory opined.

“Hide everything better than men,” Sam agreed.

“And you don’t think anyone else picked up on this?” Ben asked.

“She preyed on people’s sympathy. She’d totter around with her canes, or she’d slump in her wheelchair.”

Ben asked,“Are you saying she could walk just fine?”

“Unless she was loaded.”

“Do you think she could have faked her illness?” Ben said quietly.

This didn’t surprise Sam or Rory, which in itself surprised Ben.

“It’s possible. She was very smart.”

“I checked her medical records. The tumor is obvious.” Ben frowned for a second.

“Doesn’t make her any less of a drunk.” Rory brushed Czpaka’s hindquarters in a circular motion.

“Guess not.” Ben put his hands, cold, into his coat pockets.

“We saw right through her. She couldn’t stand it.” Sam lifted a small bucket from the floor.

The smell of Absorbine filled the air, a strong but pleasant odor. Czpaka opened his eyes from his reverie.

Sam sponged some Absorbine onto Czpaka’s back.

“That feels so good.” The horse groaned.

Sam smiled as he worked his fingers along the big guy’s spine.

“You two have been very helpful.” Ben glanced back to see Crawford on the phone. Lowering his voice, he said, “We miss you.”

“It’s a five-boarder,” Rory replied.

“Beg pardon.” Ben, an Ohio boy, didn’t recognize the expression, which referred to the number of boards in a fence panel.

“Bad. More to fix,” Rory answered.

“Yeah, I think it is, too,” Ben replied. He turned to leave, paused, walked across the center aisle, and knocked on Crawford’s door. Crawford looked up through the large-paned window from which he could observe activities in the stable. He motioned for Ben to enter.

The sheriff patiently waited while Crawford finished his call.

When Crawford had touched the off button, Ben stepped forward.“I’m sorry to bother you again. Did you ever try to buy Iffy’s farm?”

“Once. She refused.” Crawford’s voice was even.

“It’d be nice to have Iffy’s farm, since it touches yours.”

“It would. She was adamant.”

“’Course, it’s close to town. Be a great development site.”

Crawford, irritated, declared,“Not my forte.”

Once Ben had driven out, Crawford called Jason. He’d heard Jason had gone back out with Jefferson Hunt.

Before he had a chance to rip him apart, Jason coolly circumvented the anger.“I know, I hunted with JHC. Crawford, one of us needs to be on the good side. If we can go forward at Paradise, some of those members will be resource people.”

“They won’t buy.”

“No, but they might have a friend in California who will. We can’t burn all our bridges.”

“Have you talked to the sheriff?”

“He called on me concerning my patient.”

“Oh, say Iffy, for Christ’s sake. I know perfectly well it was about Iffy,” Crawford erupted. “Why else would he see you? Did you say anything about Paradise?”

“No, of course not.” Jason was angry now.

“He asked me if I wanted to buy Iffy’s farm and develop it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You and I need to talk about Jefferson Hunt. Face-to-face.”

“We will. It’s been hectic.” Jason begged off.

CHAPTER 25

Iffy’s remains provoked slight controversy among her distant relatives, none of whom felt sufficiently close to pay for interment. Garvey, pity overtaking anger, paid for cremation and picked up the shoe box of her earthly remains, an I.D. sticker on the sides. His wife, horrified at the idea of baked bones in the house, told him to dump Iffy on the rosebushes, reminding him that ash is good for roses.

As the bushes slumbered under the snow, the tops visible, it made no sense to squander the ash on the snow.

For all his troubles, Garvey retained his sense of humor. He gave the ashes to Gray and asked him to scatter Iffy on Hangman’s Ridge: “For if we dispensed justice as once we did, she’d have probably been hung.”

Iffy, placed on a shelf in the kennel feed room, awaited Sister and Gray’s return from today’s hunt, Tuesday, January 17.

Gray had brought her to Roughneck Farm Monday night, and neither he nor Sister wanted to go up to Hangman’s Ridge. They told each other it was because the farm road was icy. They couldn’t use darkness as an excuse, since the moon was just past full.

Slapping Iffy on the shelf, they promised to scatter her ashes and read a prayer. They would not speak ill of the dead.

At this exact moment, this impending pathetic ceremony didn’t enter Sister’s mind.

Riding Matador for the first time in a hunt, she thought this would be a good day to try him. Usually hunting was slack for a few days after a full moon, animals weary after the heightened activity of the time. It affected humans, too, hence the term“lunatic.” Tuesdays the fields were small, another good reason to test Matador. He wouldn’t be overwhelmed with other horses.

After the visit last summer by Sister and Walter, Franklin Foster up in Fairfax had said yes to allowing the Jefferson Hunt on his land. Since the hunt would clear trails, build attractive jumps in old fence lines, and keep an eye on this one thousand acres without charging him a penny, it didn’t take a genius to see the advantage to himself. The land abutted Paradise on the north and west; it was rough but rich in game.

Sister hadn’t pursued this fixture during the years when Binky and Alfred’s disagreements had flared up. One would say the hunt could use Paradise; the other would say no. She’d steered clear. There was no point in hunting Mr. Foster’s land if hounds ran into Paradise. One brother, at least, would be mad at Jefferson Hunt. Last year, Margaret, working as hard as a shuttling diplomat, had secured Paradise once more for foxhunting. That’s when Sister and Walter drove to what they considered Occupied Virginia: northern Virginia.

The Jefferson Hunt now had a fixture of seven thousand acres, counting both places together plus odd pieces surrounding those two large parcels of land. This more than made up for the loss of Beasley Hall except that Crawford had groomed his estate, built all the jumps, and been a generous host during his years of membership.

It takes a year to learn your foxes on a new fixture. It takes years to cut the trails according to the manner in which your foxes run. It’s a foolish master who rushes into a new place, squandering people’s time, energy, and money, opening trails, cutting brush and trees, and building jumps only to find that the foxes use a different highway.

That meant today she rode in thick woods, ravines unfolding before her. The deer trails proved useful. Discarded farm roads, saplings lacing through them, could be followed slowly.

Out for an hour. Nothing. Matador, walking along calmly, swiveled his ears each time Shaker blew the horn. She felt disgust about Iffy’s murder. She wondered, too, about the mound of frozen blood she’d found on Crawford’s land. Gave her the creeps.

Tootie rode Keepsake. Apart from wanting Tootie to hunt, Sister thought Matador would feel better if a stablemate rode with him. She had horse sense.

Tootie finished her term paper, but no one else at Custis Hall could keep up with her. Bunny wasn’t going to trailer one student and her horse to a hunt, so Sister had picked Tootie up Monday night. She and Gray laughed at Tootie’s stories; she laughed at theirs. Even better, she rose at five-thirty in the morning without being called three times. Tootie readied the horses while Sister made a light breakfast.

Listening to the horn, appreciating the silence behind her, Sister realized she loved Tootie. She loved being a mother again, even only a part-time mother.

Tedi and Edward, those stalwarts; Gray; Ben; and Tootie constituted the field. Walter usually worked on Tuesdays.

The mercury wouldn’t budge over thirty degrees.

“What kind of foxes do you think live here?” Trinity asked Asa.

“Lots of rabbits. Lots of everything. Both. Grays and reds,” he answered, his nose down.

“Hard day,” Delia said.

She’d put on a little weight, thanks to her extra rations. Sister and Shaker thought she could get back into the game today, as it appeared the pace would be slow.

Nothing is sure in foxhunting.

“Look at it this way, if we do find anything in this cold, it will be red hot. We’ll be on good terms with our fox,” Diana, always pushing for scent, said optimistically.

Dasher, who had stepped up to the plate, driving very hard now that his brother, Dragon, was laid up in sick bay with his wound, opened his mouth.“Yes.”

Cora ran over to Dasher and inhaled deeply.“Rock and roll.”

Hounds opened. Shaker blew three short notes three times. Given the thick covert, he couldn’t see whether all the hounds were on. He didn’t blow “Gone away.” He fought his way through the brush.

Matador, a little up now, listened to Sister. She possessed the gift of soft hands, imparting confidence to her horse through light contact with the horse’s mouth. Nor did she clamp down her legs in a vise. She had an educated leg. Matador appreciated that, too.

Both Betty and Sybil battled the rough territory.

They emerged onto an untended field, sumac sticking up out of the snow, spikes of broomsage visible. That was easier going, and the little group ran as hard as they could.

Surprised by hounds, the fox would learn in time what all this meant. Today all he wanted to do was reach his den. As he headed for it he leaped logs but otherwise kept a straight course.

As the small red plunged down into a steep ravine, a fine place against harsh winds, Darby lifted his head.“What’s that?”

Even Cora didn’t know what the sweet odor was. She slowed, waiting for Asa to come alongside. As the senior dog hound he might know, she thought.

“Don’t know,” he said as he kept running.

Delia, the oldest hound there, ran at the rear of the pack.“Hold up.”

Her wisdom went unheeded as the second-year entry shot past even Cora, who paused for the senior hound. Cora then stretched out to catch the pack.

By now Sister had caught the deep sweet odor.“Shit,” she thought to herself.

Gray recognized it. Tootie did not. Tedi and Edward, swept along with the run, glanced nervously at each other.

Five seconds passed. Then a terrible crash rising out of the deepest part of the ravine told the tale.

Shaker blew three long notes.“Come to me. Come to me,” he called.

A shotgun blast shattered the air. Matador leaped straight up.

Sister, with her years of training, didn’t even think about it. She sat deep, leaned forward, and pulled one rein down to bring Matador back down. She kept a tighter rein on him so he wouldn’t put his head down and buck after standing up.

“They’re going to kill us.” Matador sweated.

Nonni, Ben Sidell’s been-there-done-that trooper, calmly said,“Steady, young feller. Hounds will get shot before we do.”

Keepsake leaped straight forward but settled right down as Tootie remained calm.

Sister slowed Matador.“Ben, you’d better come up here with me.”

Gray rode on one side of Sister, Ben on the other.

Tootie, Tedi, and Edward rode behind.

Clouds of condensation billowed from mouths and nostrils. Sister passed a jutting ledge to behold a large still, broken glass and bottles everywhere.

Alfred DuCharme, shotgun pointing at Shaker, cussed a blue streak.

Tedi uncharacteristically blurted out,“Guess Alfred’s not such a lazy sod.”

“Get the hell out of here!” Alfred bellowed.

The hounds—unhurt, thank God—bundled around Gunpowder and Shaker.

Ben Sidell calmly rode forward.“Alfred, put that shotgun down.”

“Goddammit!” Alfred recognized the young sheriff. “Goddammit to hell!” He lowered the shotgun.

“Break it open, Alfred.”

Alfred did break open his shotgun.

The smell of fermenting corn nearly knocked Tootie off her saddle.

“Anyone have cut pads?” Sister rode up to Shaker as Betty and Sybil rode in, quite shocked at the scene.

“No.” His face was pale.

“Alfred, you’re operating an illegal still, and you’re trespassing on…” Ben turned to Sister.

“Franklin Foster.”

“…Foster’s land.”

Dejection overcame Alfred.“Will this be in the papers?”

Canny, Ben dismounted. Tootie rode up to take Nonni’s reins. Ben removed the shotgun from Alfred. “Now, Alfred, things don’t look good for you. If you help me, I’ll help you.”

A fleeting look of hope crossed Alfred’s craggy features. “What can I do?”

“The first thing you can do is destroy this still. Remove all traces of it. You wouldn’t want Mr. Foster to find out and nail you to the cross, now would you?”

“No.”

“The second thing you can do is promise me you will not do this again.”

“I do.” Alfred almost sounded believable.

“There’s more. Are you listening?” Ben kept his voice low.

“I am.”

“Did you sell to Iphigenia Demetrios?”

He cleared his throat.“I did.”

“Did she come out here to you two Saturdays ago, January 7?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a regular customer?”

“Yes. She’d pour my stuff in other bottles. She drank bourbon, too, mind you, but when she needed a real pick-me-up, she came to me.”

“I see. Did you kill her?”

“No!” He stepped back, frightened.

“It’s not so far-fetched, Alfred. She could have threatened to expose you, and from the looks of this, you’ve profited greatly from illegal liquor.”

“I would never kill anyone. Even for that. Because I break one law doesn’t mean I’d break all laws.” Alfred’s wits were returning.

“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,” Ben joked. “Any idea why she was so upset that Saturday?”

“Work. Said work wasn’t going right. Said she had no love life. Said she felt betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Does a cell phone work down here in this hollow?”

Alfred nodded.“If you climb up there on that rock ledge, it does.”

“All right, here is what we are going to do. I’m going to call the fire department. Tattenhall Station is the closest volunteer station. I’m going to tell them that I’m performing a controlled burn here. I won’t give the circumstances. But this way, if they get calls from anyone, they won’t respond. I won’t arrest you, and I will swear these people to secrecy.” Ben nodded toward the field. “Are you with me?”

“Yes.” Alfred sighed deeply.

Not only was Ben saving his face, he was saving him lawyer’s fees, possible jail time, and significant damages to the state.

Ben walked over to Sister.“Sister, you are to never speak of this. Shaker, Betty, Sybil.”

They agreed.

He walked over to Tootie, Tedi, and Edward.

“Edward, do you have room on your trailer to take Nonni back with you? I don’t know how long it will be before I can pick her up.”

“Be glad to do it,” Edward replied.

“Tedi, Edward, Tootie, you must promise not to reveal what has happened here.” He stopped a moment and hoped Tootie, despite her youth, could resist telling the story. “This may have a bearing on Iffy’s murder. I need full cooperation.”

Each pledged not to tell.

He spoke louder.“Alfred, when next you see any of these people, do you swear not to speak of this or treat them rudely?”

“Of course.” Alfred might hate Binky, but he treated other people with respect.

“You’re going to drive me to After All once we finish business here,” said Ben to Alfred.

As the little group left, the fox, den up on the ledge within hearing distance of the clear creek below, thought this day memorable.

The hounds passed right under his nose.

“He’s up there,” Asa said.

“We must go in,” said Delia, now up front, as they were walking.

“How’d you know?” Dasher asked Delia, his mother.

“Long before you were born there was a still hidden in a stone springhouse not far from Tattenhall Station. Fox ran into it and so did we. Once you get a whiff, you don’t forget. The humans use different grains, so it can smell different, but it’s always sweet and thick.”

Trident, finding the smell gross, asked,“How can they drink that stuff?”

“If they eat spinach, I reckon they can eat or drink just about anything,” Asa laughed.

As the happy group of hounds walked up and out of the ravine, Matador asked Keepsake,“Is it always like this?”

The gelding replied,“No, you just had a special initiation.”

“Whew.” The gorgeous flea-bitten gray exhaled, which made Sister laugh.

Ben and Alfred smashed up what was left of the equipment with axes. Once Ben felt the horses were far enough away not to become frightened by the smell, he lit a match, and the place blew up like a tinderbox.

Alfred sighed deeply.“Best damn country waters in the state of Virginia, if I do say so myself.”

“Do it legally, then, Alfred.”

“Ah shit, Sheriff, I’d choke in laws like kudzu.”

Ben didn’t reply, but he sure did think life had become overregulated. He couldn’t enforce much of the law; he’d need an officer for every five people.

Enlisting Alfred in his search for the killer was one reason why Ben had let him off the hook. The other reason was that he wanted Alfred’s tacit blessing as he courted the old man’s niece.

Margaret didn’t know it yet, but Ben meant to win her. For him it had been love at first sight.

Once back at Roughneck Farm, Tootie took Sister’s Matador. As she and Gray cleaned the horses, Sister and Shaker checked each hound.

“Let’s give them a treat,” Sister said as she walked into the feed room to put down the troughs. She noticed Iffy’s ashes all over the feed room, the box chewed to bits. “Great day, Shaker.” She used the old Southern exclamation.

He walked in, the hounds were in the draw pen.“Jesus.”

“I expect she’s with him now if forgiveness comes as advertised.” Sister burst out laughing. “What a sight. Iffy all over the kennel floor. Who did this?”

“Oh, that’s not hard to figure.” Shaker walked through the swinging doors to the special medical runs, as they called the sequestered housing and runs for an injured hound.

Dragon, bored, had lifted the latch on his gate with his nose. He knew well enough where the feed room was, so he pushed through the doors. Couldn’t find any extra feed, since it was all in tightly closed zinc-lined bins. But the toasted bones were a treat. He’s chewed up the box, chewed up some of Iffy, and then sauntered back to his special quarters.

Shaker, in a fog this morning, had forgotten to put the pin through the latch that prevented it from being lifted up.

He apologized to Sister as she swept up what was left of Iffy.

“Look at it this way,” Sister said. “It may be one of the few times Iffy provided genuine pleasure.”

Dragon, hearing this on the other side of the swinging doors, said,“Bones were a little too dry.”

CHAPTER 26

What remained of Iffy lifted into the air under the huge oak tree at Hangman’s Ridge. Gray dust and bits of bone that Dragon had passed over rose upward, then scattered as a great gust from the north sent ashes flying.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Sister pulled the collar of her coat up.

Shaker watched the dispersal of Iffy’s remains. “Sorry little life.”

“So it would appear.”

“Should we say a prayer, anyway?” Shaker, a good Catholic boy, folded his gloved hands together.

“You do it.”

“Heavenly father, into thy hands we commend this spirit. She didn’t do much in this life. Iphigenia Demetrios was a thief. But since Christ pardoned a thief suffering with him on the cross, perhaps you will pardon Iffy. Amen.”

As they climbed into the Chevy 454, both shivered.

“Iffy’s made contact with the other criminals,” Sister joked as Shaker slid behind the wheel.

He turned on the motor, heater cranking up again.“They’re here.” He lightly touched his toe to the accelerator and headed toward the farm road on the southeast side of the wide flat ridge.

“Feast day for St. Prisca, a Roman lady from the first days of Christianity. She’s attended by the two lions who declined to eat her or even take a swipe. Ah yes, those Romans thrilled to entertainments that make the NFL and the NHL look like Tupperware parties.”

He laughed as he carefully descended the side of the ridge. The farm road, frozen, demanded attention.

“Where’s the real January thaw? The big one?”

“Damned if I know.” She looked up at a light blue sky. “Too bad Gray couldn’t be with us for Iffy’s decanting. Electrician’s coming to his place, so he’s there.”

“Sam’s making a good recovery.”

“Yes, he is. He’s invaluable, too, telling us when and where Crawford will hunt. Sam has said he’s seen an abundance of fox at Beasley Hall. I feel sorry for the hounds even if there are a lot of foxes. Hounds need a good huntsman. They need to trust the person with the horn. That’s why we have such a good hunt. You.”

He smiled.“You, too.” He slowed even more as a big ice slick glittered on the farm road. “Think he’ll tire of it? Disperse the pack?”

“Not any time soon.” She reached for the Jesus strap when the hind end skidded. “Some pumpkins yesterday.”

Shaker laughed out loud.“Alfred’s face crumpled. Did you ever see anything like it?”

“No.” She laughed, too. “What a rogue.”

“Shrewd, not putting the still on his property.”

“He’d risk Paradise if he did that.”

Sister felt her toes warming.“I expect he shipped most of it out of the county.”

“Could Iffy have organized that for him? Shipping?” Shaker asked.

“She probably could have. Iffy was smart, organized.”

Shaker breathed out once they reached the bottom of the ridge.“Whew.” Then he said, “Think Garvey is in on this somehow?”

“Moonshine?”

“No,” Shaker replied. “In on whatever Iffy was doing. She’d fake purchases, say, and they’d divvy up the money.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. Be a good scam.”

Shaker drove slightly faster.“Garvey doesn’t seem like the type to loot his own business, but I guess you never know.”

“Ben said there wasn’t one incriminating article in Iffy’s house, old barn, car. No hidden account books. Even her computer was innocent. Ben said it was so old he thought it was slowly dying of fatigue. Now, on the other hand, Garvey has been on a buying spree these last years, snapping up smaller companies. Still…” Her voice trailed off.

“Reminds me, you said you were going to buy a new computer for the kennels.”

“Yes, once Christmas was over. Know what you want?”

“Same as yours. The iMac G5.”

“By now they’re probably better than mine. Take the farm credit card and buy what you want.”

“Great.” He smiled as they passed the apple orchard, the kennels coming into view. “We’ve got a drop-in.”

“Damn. That’s one I’d like to drop-kick.” Sister recognized Jason’s mighty Range Rover.

They pulled beside the white SUV. Jason kept the motor running as he talked on his phone. The Rover was wired for a phone, so he spoke up toward his rearview mirror, where a tiny microphone was located. He signed off as Sister stepped out of the Chevy.

“Hello, Sister, Shaker.” He closed the heavy door behind him. “I called but no one answered, so I thought I’d take a chance and run by.” He paused. “Long night at the hospital.”

“You must be able to sleep on your feet.” Sister motioned for him to follow her and Shaker into the kennel.

They filed into the office. Sister sat behind the desk.

“Boss, I’ll see to Dragon.”

“Fine. Sit down, Jason. It’s basic but comfortable.”

“Feels good. If I can get fifteen minutes of sleep here or there, I can power through. It’s my feet that hurt. I’ve caused you trouble, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You’ve already apologized.” She wondered what he wanted.

“As you know, I have a friendship with Crawford.”

“Yes.”

“If I walk out hounds with you, learn your routine, it will imperil that relationship. As it is, he’s trying to make me resign from the hunt. I won’t do it. I’m hoping over time I can lower the hostility threshold.” He smiled, pleased with his choice of words.

“Thank you for coming to tell me.”

“If you have any weakness, any crack in your armor, he’ll find it.”

“I expect he will.” She did have one, which she sidestepped.

Peter Wheeler’s will, which had bequeathed the Chevy 454, his estate, and fifty thousand dollars a year to the club, had been made in 1976. She had been forty-three, and Peter, having a bout of illness, thought he might be leaving the earth. He recovered. But he put in his will that she couldn’t take a joint-master. He’d realized his mistake in the last year of his life, but with so many other concerns, he hadn’t revised his will in time. She saw no reason to speak of this.

“Hopefully, Crawford will find a positive outlet for his energies,” she evenly replied.

He noticed the chewed-up ashes box, whose remnants were in the large wastebasket at the side of the big teacher’s desk built in the 1950s. He’d seen enough of such boxes. Peering down, he made out part of Iffy’s name on a typed label. “Iffy?”

She said without being asked,“It is. Was.”

“What happened?”

“No one would take her. We said a prayer for her at Hangman’s Ridge.”

“What happened to the box?”

“A hound grabbed it.” She declined to give the full story, which was funny to her but perhaps not to Iffy’s physician.

As he walked to the door, Sister threw this out.“Do you think Iffy wanted to live?”

“She did,” he replied, and left.

Felicity walked across the quad from the infirmary. Talking with animation to Howard on her cell phone, she planned their weekend date. This wasn’t easy, since neither had a car.

She ended the conversation as she went up the stairs to her dorm floor.

Tootie came into the hall when she heard Felicity’s footfall. “Are you contagious?”

“No.” Felicity smiled.

“So?” Tootie held her palms upward, flaring out her fingers.

“Food allergy. Mrs. Norton called in an allergist, and they scratched my back with all kinds of stuff. Dog dander, grass, things you don’t even want to know about.” She rolled her eyes.

“And?” Tootie leaned against her doorway.

“Bleached flour.” Felicity leaned against the other side of the door, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Wouldn’t you have gotten sick before now?”

“That’s what I asked, and the doctor said sometimes these things don’t show up until a person is older. So she gave me this.” Felicity pulled stapled sheets from her voluminous handbag. “If I follow the plan, I won’t be nauseated.”

“Well, that’s good. I was worried.”

“I was, too. It’s an awful feeling. And when I listed what I ate those mornings, what I could remember, I mean I don’t think about what I eat, but I ate white bread or rolls, stuff like that.”

“Can you eat any bread?”

“Dark. Pumpernickel. It’s weird.”

“You’re weird.” Tootie punched her.

CHAPTER 27

The party wagon swayed slightly as Shaker turned from the Roughneck Farm road right onto the state road.

“Wrong direction,” Cora wondered.

Ardent, who along with Asa and senior members of Sister’s “A” line was resting on the top tier, said,“Changed the fixture.”

“How do you know?” Delight asked, not impudently.

“Heard Shaker when he called me out of the Big Boys’ run. Trouble at Little Dalby.”

“What kind of trouble?” Diana, curious, lifted her head off her paws.

“Human trouble,” Ardent responded.

“That’s better than rabies.” Dasher, eager to hunt, paced in the medium-sized trailer.

“True enough,” Cora said,“but human trouble has a way of rolling back on us.”

Sister, with Betty in the cab, pulled the horse trailer to Foxglove Farm.

Straight as the crow flies, the distance was two and a half miles, a booming run on a straight-necked fox. Going around the land by available roads, it took fifteen minutes to arrive at the lovely farm, where nothing was done to excess, all in proportion.

“I hate to overhunt my foxes.” Sister slowly cruised round the big circle in front of Cindy Chandler’s barn. She parked, truck nose out, so other trailers could park alongside.

This crisp January 19 morning, Thursday, more people came than Sister expected. She had a very respectable midweek field of twenty-five.

Pleasing as that was, being forced to shift the fixture at the last minute plucked her last nerve. Anselma Wideman had called at nine last night to inform her that Crawford Howard had chosen to hunt Little Dalby on her, Sister’s, day. Crawford knew full well this would inconvenience Jefferson Hunt.

She changed the information on the huntline, simple enough. She sent out e-mails, also simple enough, and she called her staff to make certain they knew. Hunt clubs have phone lines that members call two or three hours before the appointed time in case a fixture needs to be changed because of weather or other events.

Needing all her wits to chase foxes, Sister held her emotions in check. She was wondering whether she could get away with murder. Crawford would be such a juicy, satisfying target. However, one murder was enough.

Walter juggled last-minute questions from visitors. He lent one an extra stock tie. The Custis Hall quartet along with Bunny, their coach, and Charlotte, the headmistress, were there.

Sister led Rickyroo off the trailer. Betty followed with Outlaw.

Sybil helped Shaker so Betty could assist Sister if she needed help.

Folding back her deep green blanket with dark orange piping, Betty, to lighten the mood, asked,“Perhaps we’ll have an epiphany, late as usual.”

“January 19 is a big day. Feast days of Branwalader, Canute, and Henry of Finland.”

“Think we might have to call on them?” Betty folded the blanket over, then stepped into the tack room to place it over an empty saddle rack.

“We might need to do that, but none of them are called upon by hunters.”

“I don’t have your head for dates, but I am a Virginian. Birthday of Robert E. Lee, 1807.”

“Yes, it is. And Edgar Allan Poe, 1809, and C?zanne in 1839. A lucky day.”

“Think there was an epiphany?”

“I do.” Then Sister laughed, her gloom lifting from the fixture problem. “But the Wise Men didn’t find Jesus. Their camels did.”

“Ha. Imagine hunting from a camel.”

“Think I’d throw up. Couldn’t take the motion.” Sister checked her horse’s girth and gathered the reins in her left hand, holding the left rein shorter than the right so if Rickyroo should take a notion he’d turn inside toward her instead of outside, which would throw her out like a centrifuge.

Betty did the same, and both women mounted up without a grunt.

Sister rode over to Cindy Chandler, who was on her tough little mare, Caneel.“Thank you so much for allowing us here on short notice.”

Cindy, a true foxhunter, smiled.“I love having you here.” She stepped closer to Sister, which pleased Rickyroo, as he was fond of Caneel. “Would you like me to speak to Anselma and Harvey? If you do it’s official, and you scare people sometimes.” Cindy could say this, being a trusted friend. “The Widemans don’t knowhunting. They might finally understand territory conflict, but they won’t grasp overhunting foxes.”

“Do talk to them. Use all that deadly charm.” Sister joked gratefully. “I’m not upset with them.”

“I know that. It’s Mr. Ego.”

“We seem to have a few of those.” Sister cut her eyes toward Jason, resplendent in a hacking jacket made expressly for him by Le Cheval in Kentucky so it fit perfectly.

“Peacock.”

“M-m-m,” Sister touched Cindy’s arm. “Thank you many times over for everything. I always feel better when I see you or talk to you.”

“Go on.” Cindy smiled at her.

Sister saw that hounds were ready and everyone was mounted except for Ronnie Haslip, usually one of the first up. He’d dropped his crop and dismounted, and was swinging up again.

To give Ronnie one extra second, Sister quietly said to Walter, facing her,“You ride tail today. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Take Jason with you. If he wants to learn, then he can learn service first.”

“Ah.” Walter sighed, but he didn’t argue.

How could he? She was right. The look on Jason’s face was not one of a man being honored by a position of responsibility. It was that of a spoiled person who wants to ride right up in the master’s pocket.

Millions he might have, but Sister was damned if she’d be bought. She had kept Crawford in line for ten years, succeeding in getting him elected president—a good place for him in many ways. The boob ball, which is how she thought of the hunt ball, had put an end to all. Bobby Franklin, who had resigned his presidency, submitted to an emergency general election. Bobby, a good leader, had accepted with grace, tabling his ideas of a long vacation this coming summer. Betty was thrilled. Vacations bored her to tears.

There they were. Frost heavy on the ground. The sun kissing the horizon. Puffs curling from horses’ nostrils, hounds eager.

The horrid cow, Clytemnestra, and her equally enormous offspring, Orestes, had been bribed and barricaded in two stout stalls in the small cattle barn. Sweet mash liberally laced with decent bourbon contented the holy horror, who had gleefully smashed fences and chased people in times past.

Given the heavy frost, the mercury still below freezing, Shaker walked hounds up the slow rise to the two ponds, one at a lower level than the other, a long pipe and small waterwheel between them. Cindy had added the waterwheel in the early fall. Formerly the water had cascaded from the pipe in the upper pond to the lower pond. Now the pipe fed directly onto the wheel, whose sound as it turned was one our ancestors had heard for centuries untold, one lost now to the roar of turbines and internal combustion engines.

Those who had never before heard the mating of gears, the slap of the paddles, the sound of the water rising and falling off the paddles discovered the peacefulness of it. Those who had ridden at Mill Ruins had heard it before in deeper register.

The cascade produced a spray of droplets, arching out over the pond and turning to thousands of rainbows as the sun rose high enough to send a long, slanting ray to the wheel.

The moving water crystallized at pond’s edge here and there, but until frosts stayed hard and deep for many days the ponds wouldn’t freeze.

Grace, the beautiful resident red fox, returned before sunrise to her den behind the stable. Given the wealth of treats, especially the hard candies that Cindy put out for her, Grace had lost her motivation to hunt afar. Occasionally she provided a bracing run. Today wasn’t the day.

Grace glanced up and back. A blanket of thick clouds massed on the mountaintops. In front of her, the east, the sky was crystal clear. Very interesting. Very tricky.

Hounds picked up Grace’s scent at the waterwheel. The beautiful red liked fishing, a hobby she’d taught to Inky. The two girlfriends would sit at pond’s edge for hours watching the goldfish, big suckers. Every now and then, Grace would grab one or Inky would. The squirming fish sometimes gained its life by flopping right out of their paws and back into the pond. Occasionally they were successful and enjoyed sushi.

Today, a tall male heron, motionless, stood on the far side of the upper pond. With a jaundiced eye he watched the hounds. He wasn’t going to budge unless someone approached him. He was here first. Furthermore, he was hungry. He tilted his head, and an orange flash caught his eye. Fast as lightning he uncoiled his snakey neck and plunged his long, narrow, terrifying beak through the thin ice at pond’s edge into the water,pulling out an extremely healthy fish.

“Wow.” Diddy’s soft brown eyes widened.

“He’s an old crank,” Ardent jibbed.

“Sure can fish, though,” Asa whispered, since Shaker was within earshot.

Grace’s scent lingered enough for hounds to feather, the rhythm of their tails seemingly connected to the intensity of the scent.

Moving upward away from the ponds, hounds reached a higher meadow, where for fifteen minutes the sun warmed the remains of the snow, bare patches of slicked-down pasture also visible.

About a half mile away rested an old schoolhouse by the farm road. Aunt Netty had once lived there until Uncle Yancy filled the den up. Their former addresses littered three fixtures.

Cindy hadn’t noticed, since she hadn’t been riding her property in the cold, but a huge, leggy, red dog fox, Iggy, had recently taken up residence. The lure was not only the abundant supply of mice, moles, rabbits, and grain tidbits but Grace. He meant to have her. At this point, she was coy. Another week, and she might be in season. He was patient. She wouldn’t be so coy then. As it was, she maintained warm conversations with him.

Hounds walked up the pasture and jumped over the fence line, trotting down into the woods where an old springhouse still stood.

Most of the old farms kept their springhouses because they remained useful.

Human reasoning would predict that a fox moving down into the woods, coursing through a narrow creek, and going through the springhouse would produce no scent because the springhouse water would be that much colder, which it was.

However, foxhunting rarely follows the book. Expect the unexpected. Perhaps this is why foxhunting prepares people for life.

Dana, second year, gaining confidence, flanked the pack. She lifted her head, and a tantalizing odor wafted into her nostrils. She moved in that direction, going away from the main body of the pack. As Sybil was on the other side of the creek, deep covert between her and Dana, the whipper-in didn’t notice.

“I have something,” she spoke once but clearly.

“I’ll check,” Cora told the others as Dasher pushed up to take the place of strike hound.“She might be right.”

“Gets too far from the rest of us,” Asa noted.

“Shaker will think she’s a skirter.” Ardent seconded Asa’s concern, for both dog hounds thought Dana showed promise.

Skirters don’t stay in good packs for long.

Cora reached Dana and put her own educated nose to the ground.“Bobcat.”

“Can we chase him?” Dana wanted to be right.

“Sure can. Bobcat and mountain lions count. But here’s the thing, Dana. If we pick up good fox scent, we have to leave off and go to the fox.”

“Over here,” Cora called, and the others honored her.

The pack roared alongside the creek.

Sybil couldn’t keep up through the underbrush. Wisely, she pulled farther west to a cleared path so she could run parallel. Familiar with the country, she knew the places where she could cut back to get closer to hounds.

Sister at first thought hounds were on a gray running in tight circles. She, too, couldn’t follow closely, given the rough terrain.

Hounds sounded fabulous, the echo of voices ricocheting from the steep terrain.

Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela rode at the back of first flight. Out of the corner of her eye, Val perceived movement. She turned her head just as the bobcat shot out from under the thick mountain laurel.

“Oh, m’God,” she gasped.

Tootie followed Val’s eyes, and she, too, caught sight of that unique bobtail, a forty-pound cat, booking along. He then slid into more heavy cover on the other side of the trail. Had the hilltoppers been closer, they would have viewed him.

“Say something,” Pamela ordered. She’d caught a brief sight of the bobcat.

“I don’t know what to say,” Tootie replied irritably.

“Staff!” Felicity shouted for she saw a flash of red heading for them at a right angle.

“Shit.” Val, in tight quarters, wondered how to get out of the way. “One dollar,” Felicity gleefully announced.

The whole pack thundered behind them.

“Shut up, you two.” Tootie, passionate about hunting, thought they’d all talked too much already.

Val urged Moneybags into the bushes.

Unhappy though he was at the idea of getting scratched up, he did as he was told.

Iota, Parson, and Pamela’s Tango, a stunning bay, battled their way into the brush in the nick of time, for Shaker hurtled toward them.

Tootie had the presence of mind to remove her cap and swivel in the direction the bobcat had taken, since she couldn’t turn Iota any more, given the tight quarters.

Shaker, face scratched by thorns, sat upright as Showboat soared over a cluster of mountain laurel.

Seeing Tootie’s arm extended, cap at the end, he called out, “Gray?”

“Bobcat,” Tootie called back as Shaker disappeared on the other side of the deer path.

Ahead of them they heard Walter, obscured by the covert, but they couldn’t hear exactly what he said, given the sound of the hounds drawing away from them and the rattle of dead brown oak leaves clinging fast to branches. Certain oaks retain most of their leaves until the bud swells in spring, finally pushing them off.

“Are we lost?” Pamela asked.

“No. I know this territory,” Felicity said. She’d hunted it more than Pamela had.

“They must be reversing.” Tootie strained to hear up ahead. “Let’s get out of here.”

“All we have to do is stay to the side, then fall in the back.” Pamela couldn’t cede anything to Tootie, whom she considered a rival.

“There’s no room. We can’t get any farther off the path than we are now,” Felicity observed.

“I’m following the huntsman. The hell with it.” Val shot out of her tight quarters and turned Moneybags to the spot where Shaker had plunged into the brush again.

“Val, don’t,” Tootie admonished her.

Val disappeared.

Pamela, hearing the field approach from one direction, the hilltoppers from the other, groaned,“We’ll be squished.”

“Pamela, jump the mountain laurel, where Shaker jumped into the deer path. Do it. Everyone can get by, then we can jump out and bring up the rear.”

Pamela studied the formidable obstacle less out of fear than to plan her approach. Tango was facing in that direction, so she clucked to the sleek animal, then squeezed with purpose as she slid her hands forward.

Tango, a scopey fellow, meaning he could jump wide as well as high, took three trotting strides and soared over. A small clearing provided enough room for him to move forward before he smacked into a copse of black birch, the trees close together. He stopped in time as Iota cleared it, followed by Parson.

The three girls sat there, silent.

Sister trotted by. Three velvet hunt caps appeared on her right, although she couldn’t see the girls clearly. Saying nothing, she pressed on. Soon the sounds of Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers getting out of first flight’s way filled the air.

People shouldn’t talk during a hunt except on the way back when hounds are lifted, but in such tight quarters a word here or there did escape lips. The crashing about in the bush amused Iggy the schoolhouse fox, who had watched the drama from under a mass of junipers on a rise in the land, their thick scent masking his.

He stayed upwind. Hounds blasted one hundred yards beneath him, but the bobcat scent, heavy, kept them from even catching a hint of his, for potent as the junipers were, a tendril of fox musk might have reached them.

As Charlotte Norton and Bunny Taliaferro rode past, Bunny craned her neck to see her three charges in there. Pleased at their perfect manners, she smiled broadly, as did Charlotte Norton. At that moment it didn’t register with either woman that they counted only three caps, not four.

Once Jason and Walter had passed, Tootie clapped her leg on Iota. He cleared the mountain laurels again with ease. Felicity and Pamela followed, as Tootie had quickly moved up the deer path to give them room.

Before they could trot on, out popped Iggy. He grinned ear to ear.

“Tally ho,” Pamela called out.

“Won’t do any good.” Iggy sauntered next to them, using their horses as a cover and a foil.

“Oh, my God; oh, my God.” Felicity, overcome by Iggy following them like a dog, could scarcely breathe.

“He’ll duck out when he’s ready,” Tootie predicted.

“Smart for a young human,” Iggy remarked to the horses.

“She has all the instincts to make a great hunter, this kid,” Iota bragged on his human.

“Mine has no game sense at all,” Parson sighed, as he loved Felicity.

“Doesn’t need it,” Tango replied.“Mind like a steel trap. She’ll run a company someday and have more hay than anyone else.”

“Ever notice how some humans can learn and others can’t, whereas we always learn from what’s around us?” Iggy mused.

“Curious.” Iota had noticed this because Tootie absorbed everything, whereas the others, not unintelligent, only picked up what they were looking for in the first place.

“They need systems,” Parson, named for a practitioner of such a system, said.

“I think they’re born that way.” Tango turned his head slightly to avoid a hanging vine.“Damn thing.”

“I don’t. Heredity is stored environment. This fear, this need to believe, overrides their heredity. They don’t listen to their bodies anymore except for sex. They’re making a real mess of it, too.” Parson had strong opinions.

“Well, you must observe natural phenomena without judgment,” Iggy shrewdly noted.“That’s the only way you can flourish.” He stopped for a second.“Coming back. He won’t break into the open. If he gets bored with it, old Flavius will climb a tree. Mind you, he’s ferocious.” With that Iggy disappeared, calling over his shoulder,“I’ll cross his line and get you all out of this ravine.”

Old Flavius, the bobcat, shot in front of Iota, who shied for a second. Tootie, tight leg, stuck like glue. Her heart pounded to be so close to such a beautiful yet fearsome beast.

“Hold hard.”

The other two had caught sight of the big cat, too.

Two minutes later the whole pack crashed in front of Tootie and charged into the brush.

Confusion overtook them as Iggy’s scent crossed Flavius’s line.

Seconds later, Shaker, more scratches on his craggy face, appeared.

Pausing in the deer path, right in front of Tootie, he listened intently.“Two lines.”

She remained silent. He smiled at her and turned his horse toward the north, staying on the deer path.“Girls, follow me.”

Thrilled, they did as they were told. Not four strides down the deer path, Val fought her way through the brambles to fall in behind Pamela.

Pamela turned to see Val’s gorgeous face crisscrossed with scratches like tic-tac-toe. She stifled a giggle and pressed on. Val was displeased to be following Pamela.

Shaker kept close to his hounds as they milled about. Once he thought he knew which was the fox scent, he put his horn to his lips and, doubling the notes, urged them on to the scent.

First to figure it out was Diana.“Dog fox. Don’t know him.”

The hounds swung to her except for two couple of the second-year entry. The bobcat scent—hot, hot, hot—fooled them into thinking they were closing on their quarry.

Shaker couldn’t count all his hounds in the thick covert. He blew again, feeling his shirt stick to his back from sweat despite the cold. Hounds opened again.

Dana froze as Betty Franklin and Outlaw blasted into the bush.

“Hark to ’em.” Her voice, firm and clear, bided no stragglers.

The two couple squirted toward the sound of the horn and the cry of the pack.

As they scooted away, Betty paused one moment and said to her beloved friend,“How in the hell do we get out of this mess?”

“Leave it to me.” Outlaw lowered his head and pushed through tight cedars, brush, and vines. Tarzan would have felt at home here except for the cold.

Steady as a rock, the quarter horse moved forward until he broke through to the creek again.

He leaped down into the creek; it was a two-foot drop, but the footing wasn’t rocky in the creek.

Betty, trusting him, let him pick his exit spot. Little blue cedar berries, round, had slipped behind her coat collar. They drove her nuts, but there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. A few had found their way into her boots, too.

“We can fly from here.” Outlaw blew air out his nostrils, waiting for her command.

“I love you.” Betty patted him on the neck, then galloped forward, for they had real estate to cover.

Flavius, free of the hounds, walked to the springhouse, where he’d stashed some kill. He paid no attention to Sybil on Bombardier. The horse shied as Flavius bared his fangs for effect. Sybil flew off. Bombardier stood still, and she remounted, amazed that the bobcat sat and watched her. Sybil felt like prey.

Iggy led everyone on a merry chase. Needing the exercise, he didn’t head straight for the schoolhouse. He boogied to the twin ponds. The heron, livid that Iggy circled both ponds, lifted wide his huge wings.

“Scares me to death,” Iggy sassed him.

Athena and Bitsy reposed on the topmost limb of a towering sycamore denuded of leaves.

“It’s been quite a show,” Athena chortled.

And it wasn’t over yet, for hounds, finally out of that heavy covert, sped over the patchy ground, tiny bits of snow and mud shooting off behind them. Cora, first, flat out, circled the upper pond, leaped down to the lower, and circled that.

Iggy, a secure four minutes ahead—given his speed, he was in the prime of life—veered into the manicured woods, called “parked out” in this part of the world. Making no attempt to foil his scent, he then raced in a large semicircle. As he reached the woods’ edge, he kept to it, knowing it would be full of scent from edgefeeders like rabbits.

Just as the field came out by the upper pond, Iggy came into view.

Sister, seeing him, did not make the mistake of an overenthusiastic field master. Her task was to follow the hounds, not the fox. She didn’t cross the huge expanse of snow-covered pasture to get on terms with him. That would have cut off her hounds. She stuck behind the hounds, which she could finally see as they launched themselves off the bank to land next to the lower pond, the waterwheel paddling away.

As“Tally-hos” sounded behind her she fought the urge to turn and tell them she wasn’t an idiot, she might be old but she wasn’t blind, she had seen the fox. Better yet, hounds, heads down, were on. No need for “Tally-ho.” Well, it was a large field. Not everyone knew her, as many were cappers. She pressed on, wondering how people can foxhunt yet remain ignorant. That flew out of her mind as she launched off the upper bank, a tidy drop jump onto the slick surface by the lower pond.

That would part a few riders from their mounts, thereby enriching the club bar. Off you go, and a bottle must be produced at the next hunt. If a junior you had to deliver a six-pack of soda.

The music, spine tingling, swelled, and she now saw Shaker come out of the woods followed by Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela.

Jumping off the upper bank, Bunny also beheld her students. She’d get to the bottom of this when the hunt was over. What were those girls doing behind the huntsman? She was going to skin them alive.

Iggy, in the open now, treated everyone to a view as well as an appreciation of his blinding speed.

The pace began to tell. People fell behind. Gray, riding in the middle of first flight, moved up behind Tedi and Edward, who rode right up behind Sister. He didn’t feel it was proper for him to ride with Sister on days when there were large fields. It would smack of favoritism. When fields were small, he’d be close.

As Sister thought, five people came a cropper on the drop from the upper bank to the lower. Ronnie Haslip, a good rider having a bad day, broke his collarbone. Walter stayed with Ronnie, sending Jason forward in case anyone else went down hard.

“I’ll ride back to the trailers with you,” Walter offered. “Or if you want to stay here I can drive up here for you.”

“It’s only my collarbone. Tie my arm up with my stock. Hurry, Walter, hurry.”

Walter unpinned the long white four-fold tie and wrapped it around Ronnie’s shoulder, careful not to make it too tight as he looped it under Ronnie’s forearm resting across his chest.

“There.”

“Give me a leg up, Master.” Ronnie grinned.

Walter, strong as an ox, practically lifted the lighter man up and over onto the other side.

They lost ten minutes but caught up with the field in time to see Iggy dart under the schoolhouse.

Bobby put the hilltoppers just to the side of first flight so they could see everything.

Ben Sidell, riding with Bobby, felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket. He’d pick up the message later.

Shaker, blowing“Gone to ground,” effused over his pack. “Picking up the right scent, what good foxhounds. What good hounds.”

“We were good, weren’t we?” Diddy’s tail flipped like a windshield washer.

“I made you look good.” Iggy laughed.“Hey, I’m one smart fox. I live under a schoolhouse.”

Cora called back,“Okay, Professor.”

This would be his name ever after: Professor.

Shaker walked over to Showboat. The footing was slick as an eel. He slid, nearly falling flat on his face. Tootie held Showboat’s reins.

“Thank you, Tootie.”

“Thank you. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Thank you.” Tears filled Tootie’s eyes.

He took the reins, patted her hand,“Tootie, neither have I.” He swung up, then said to the other girls, “You all can go back to Sister now.”

“Thank you.” They beamed and rode past Sister, all smiles, and joined Jason, Walter, and Ronnie at the rear.

“Let’s pick ’em up.” Sister would have searched for another fox had the footing been better.

They’d had a bracing day, been out for two hours. Best to stop.

The clouds reached them at last, the only clear sky being a thin, brilliant, blue stripe in the east. Pines rustled. Branches started to sway.

By the time they reached the trailers, the first snowflakes were dotting their velvet hunt caps.

Val, on hearing of Ronnie’s mishap, volunteered to cool out his horse. He offered her money, which she quite properly refused. She wanted to help. Tootie took care of Moneybags for Val.

“Mr. Haslip, if Coach lets me, I’ll drive your rig home and do everything. I’d like to do that. I’m really a good driver.”

“Thanks, honey.” He melted at the sight of the girl, even though he was gay. Val was breathtaking. “I think Walter will drive and leave his horse here with Mrs. Chandler.”

“Well, if that doesn’t work, I’ll do it.”

Jason strode over.“All right, Ronnie, let me get you up in the tack room.”

He, too, melted at the sight of Val, but most men are wise enough to not dally with minors.

Ronnie stepped into the tack room. Jason untied the makeshift sling.

Ronnie, feeling the pain once the adrenalin of the chase had worn off, joked,“Hey, at least you don’t have to cut off my boots.”

“I’d never do that,” Jason joked back.

Sister stuck her head in the trailer tack room.“Need a belt? Say bourbon and branch?”

“When it’s over.” Ronnie grimaced as Jason wiggled the coat off his left arm.

Sister stayed outside, holding a flask carrying Woodford Reserve mixed with 25 percent pure water.

Ronnie unbuttoned his shirt with one hand. What hurt was having Jason pull over his head the silk and cashmere long-sleeved undershirt he wore on the nasty cold days. Tears ran down his eyes. The cold hit his lean naked torso, and he shivered.

“All right, Ronnie.” Jason felt the collarbone. “Not my specialty, but it’s a poor doctor who can’t set a bone.”

Walter joined Sister at the tack room door. Val worked on Ronnie’s nice mare. She didn’t want to see the bone being set. People in pain upset her, made her feel helpless.

“Ronnie, with those abs you ought to be a cover boy.” Sister made light of the situation.

“Right.” He gritted his teeth as Jason put his right hand on one side of the break, left on the other, then snapped the bones back.

“Oh, shit,” Ronnie blurted out. He nearly crumpled.

Jason put his hand under Ronnie’s elbow, helping him to lean on the raised section in the tack room, the nose of the trailer.

Walter stepped in.“May I?”

“Sure,” said Ronnie, lips white.

Walter lightly ran his fingers over the collarbone.“Good job, Jason.”

“What’d you expect?” Jason smiled. “Ronnie, as you probably know, it doesn’t do much good to set a collarbone. Keep it in a sling. That’s the best advice I can give.”

“He’s broken that left collarbone twice before.” Sister handed up the flask. “First time was at our hunter pace when he was twelve.”

“You didn’t give me bourbon and branch then.” Ronnie’s color was returning.

“I would have if your mother hadn’t been hovering.” She noticed his shiver. “Boy, you aren’t going to get that pullover back on. I don’t have anything I can give you.”

“I have an old flannel shirt in my bag,” Walter said. “Better than nothing. It’ll be six weeks before you can get a sweater on.”

“Three,” Ronnie resolutely replied.

Jason pulled a Montblanc ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket. He produced a prescription pad, for he’d first gone to his own trailer and changed coats, picking up the pad, too. “I’m giving you a prescription for 800 Motrin. Take one in the morning. One at night. It’ll help.”

“Thanks.” Ronnie took the small white paper.

“Nice pen.” Sister admired the Montblanc.

“If you use the best equipment you have fewer problems.” He stepped out so Walter could come up to help Ronnie on with the shirt. “Walter, you want to tie him up?”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Walter reached for Ronnie’s stock.

Despite the short notice, Cindy Chandler had put together a breakfast. People brought in dishes. Most wanted hot coffee or tea more than anything else at that moment.

As Sister walked to the farmhouse, a little jewel, she had her own epiphany.

So did Ben Sidell when he called back the number displayed on his cell phone. Lyle Aziz was jubilant that the results had come in so quickly on Angel Crump.

“Her death certificate said heart attack. Her heart stopped beating all right, Ben. She was loaded with scopolamine.”

CHAPTER 28

Following hounds on horseback is an early-morning activity. On weekdays people clean their horses, clean themselves, and report to work. In hunt country, many employees use flexible schedules not only for parents but for foxhunters, deer hunters, fishermen. The ways of the place might be altered by modern life but not utterly transformed.

Ben kept Nonni with Betty and Bobby Franklin. He enjoyed tending to his sturdy mare, no beauty basket but honest and wise. Three years ago the sheriff had known nothing about foxhunting. Now he couldn’t imagine life without it, nor could he imagine a day without Nonni. It was a love match.

He changed clothes in the tack room, his uniform crisp, then drove to the hospital. The snow, falling heavily now, worked its magic on the countryside. The brown patches were turning white; tree branches were outlined by a silver-white line on top.

Margaret DuCharme met him in her office.

“Please sit down, Sheriff.”

“Call me Ben.”

“This is an official visit, right?”

“It is.” He sat in the high-tech aluminum chair, the back and bottom a mesh that looked hard but wasn’t.

Margaret walked out from behind her desk and sat opposite him on a duplicate chair.

Noticing his wiggle in the seat, she inquired,“I hope that’s not uncomfortable.”

“No. It’s actually very comfortable.” He noted the d?cor of her office. “Funny, I would have thought you’d be, uh, I’m not very good at styles and periods, but, you know, traditional.”

She smiled.“Paradise takes care of that. It’s so traditional it’s falling down.” She indicated a slender Italian desk lamp, the dome over the halogen bulb a deep green. “I’m crazy about Italian design.”

“Sleek.” He crossed one leg over the other. “I hope you can help me.”

“Am I under suspicion?” She folded her hands together, leaning slightly forward.

“Technically, yes. Realistically, no. If you were a killer, you’d never be stupid enough to leave the evidence in your vehicle.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, her symmetrical features relaxing. “What can I do to help?”

“How easy is it for a doctor, a nurse, or even an orderly to steal controlled substances?”

She exhaled deeply.“In theory, it’s difficult. Medicines that need to be refrigerated are in locked refrigerators. Those which can be stored at room temperature are in steel cases, locked. Years ago they used wooden cases, but a desperate junkie could pry or smash them open.”

“Do you think things like morphine, say, are taken?”

“Not morphine so much. The drugs of choice are cocaine and OxyContin. Prozac, Valium, mood elevators have a street value, but the real prizes are coke and OxyContin. As you know, all hospitals have some pure cocaine as well as morphine for extreme pain.”

“Steroids?”

She shook her head.“It’s much easier to buy those on the black market than to fool around with the hospital supply, which isn’t that large.”

“Has anyone been caught recently?”

“You would know.”

“Only if the hospital prosecuted. It’s in the administration’s self-interest to let them go quietly, just as it’s in a bank’s self-interest to write off an embezzler. Prosecute; it makes the papers, and the public loses confidence. I may not like it, but that’s the way it is.”

Her eyes leveled on his.“True.”

“So, have drugs been stolen?”

“I don’t know, but common sense tells me, yes.” She smiled. “There’s no wall that can keep out a lover or a cat. If a staff person is hooked on Percodan, they’ll find a way. The higher up they are on the food chain, the more ways they can cover the theft—sometimes for years.”

“Do you think there are doctors who are addicts?”

“Yes. It’s not that uncommon. Do I know who they are? No.”

“What about you?”

“No. I got through my residency drinking enough coffee to float a battleship.” She smiled. “That’s another thing: most doctors drink far too much coffee. The OB/GYNs have the worst of it because babies always seem to appear at three in the morning.” She smiled again.

“They do, don’t they?” His face felt particularly hot. “Another question. Were Iffy and your Uncle Alfred close friends? Do you think it was a passionate relationship?”

She rubbed her chin, an odd gesture that somehow seemed very feminine.“There was a connection there, but I don’t know how deep. It’s not the kind of thing Uncle Al would tell me.”

“An affair? Maybe when Iffy was more attractive, less bitter. Sometimes people can become friends afterwards. Most times not, I guess.” He kept the questioning conversational.

“Iffy?” She pondered this. “I doubt it.”

“Do you know much about your uncle’s business activities?”

Struggling, she swallowed.“He fiddles with stocks. He keeps a few fighting cocks. I stay out of it.” She quickly added, “He seems to be doing better this last year than years prior.”

Ben didn’t press it. “How’s your business?” He smiled broadly.

“Good. People will always tear up their knees.” She laughed.

“Tell me about the drug scopolamine.”

“Commercially it’s called transderm scope. In therapeutic dose, 0.3 to 0.6 milligrams, it’s often used to combat motion sickness. Usually a patient wears a small patch behind the ear.”

“How long does it take to work?”

“Two hours. So if you’re seasick and your cruise leaves the dock at noon, you’d put the patch on at ten.”

“Does it have other uses?”

“Arthritis. Then it’s usually in a cream. And it may be used in combination with other drugs—atropine, for example.” She paused. “I don’t have much use for it. My work generally is on ligaments and muscles. But people have such different chemistries. There may be a patient who responds better to scopolamine for chronic pain than another drug. Why?”

“An autopsy report has crossed my desk. The corpse had extremely high levels of scopolamine.”

She tapped her finger on the chair arm.“It can kill you.”

“How—I mean how could you administer it, and what would be the symptoms?”

“Mix a lethal dose and put it on a patch. Patches come four in a package. Any physician could easily mix up a dose. It’s not difficult at all.”

“Any other way?”

“Sure, put it in a cream. Depending on how quickly you wanted it to work, you’d alter the dose, obviously. But it will kill you in twenty-four hours if that dose is over the line.”

“Let’s say I’ve mixed up cream, arthritis cream. It’s full of scopolamine. What happens to the victim?”

“Depending on their age, current health, they’ll become confused, then sleepy. They can’t keep their eyes open. The heart will beat arrhythmically. Death.”

“Looks like a heart attack.”

“Yes.”

“If the victim were quite old, the heart failure probably wouldn’t arouse suspicion?”

“Probably not. Most elderly people have heart problems. The pump shows signs of wear and tear.”

“Anything else about scopolamine?”

“If you pulled up the victim’s eyelids, the pupils would be dilated, the opposite of narcotics, where they are pinpoints.”

“So a really clever killer could tell the victim to wear a patch, then pull it off before the corpse is examined?”

“Could.”

“Is Walter a good cardiologist?”

“Yes.”

“If he pronounced—is that the right word?” She nodded, so Ben continued. “If he pronounced a patient dead would he know they’d been killed with scopolamine?”

“No. I wouldn’t either, especially if the patient had a heart condition. There are no outstanding signs. You’d only know by autopsy. The technical term for the manner of death is supraventricular tachycardia. You’d have to see the heart. Now, any of us could have that type of heart attack, but the scopolamine will blow out the heart that way. The tissues, the blood work would tell the tale. It’s an ingenious way to kill someone.”

“Yes, it is. Someone would need to be a doctor, pharmacist, nurse.”

“Or a very bright chemistry major.” She folded her hands together.

“This is a different line, but it may have some bearing on Iffy’s case. How easy would it be for a doctor to falsify insurance claims?”

Margaret’s eyes, light hazel, opened wide. “All too easy, Sheriff.”

“And temptation is high?”

She folded her hands together.“People don’t realize what it costs to be a doctor. Oh, they know those years after college are expensive, but they don’t think about the costs once you are on your own. Salaries. Office space. Hospital privileges. Constantly updating your computers and software. The courses you must continueto take throughout your life to keep your certification. And the real killer is insurance.”

“It raises by specialty?”

“Well, there’s no cheap insurance. Mine is thirty-six thousand a year.”

He exhaled in sympathy.“No competition to lower rates?”

“Not really.”

“So there is incentive to cheat?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Create problems that don’t exist. For instance, I treat you for a bruised patella, kneecap. You’re fine. I fill out the paperwork. The insurance company sends me a percent of my fee.”

“I’d have to be in on it. You need my signature on the form.”

“I suppose patient signatures could be forged, but it’s cleaner if we’re in it together.”

“I see. Is it possible to fake an operation?”

“It is, but then everyone in that operating room has to be in on it. It’s easier to do this for in-office procedures.” She focused her lustrous eyes on his. “Iffy?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.” He couldn’t help telling her.

She sat back up, putting her right forefinger to her temple.“I hate Jason Woods. If this is true, I hope you can make it stick.”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I shouldn’t have told you. It’s not professional.” He stammered for a moment. “I find it difficult to refuse you.”

“Then I’d better ask for something big.” She smiled broadly.

Heart pounding, he blurted out,“May I take you to dinner Saturday?”

“How about Sunday? College games are Saturday. There’s bound to be at least one torn ACL.”

“Sunday it is.”

He left the hospital far happier than anyone going into it. After stopping by headquarters and assigning another officer to direct traffic at a particularly obnoxious intersection, he drove out to Roughneck Farm, where Sister awaited him.

Rapping on the mud room door, he heard,“Come in.”

“There you are.” She took his coat, hanging it on a peg as Raleigh and Rooster sniffed him.

“What a day today. And hey, what a big field for Thursday.”

“Was good.” She’d made sandwiches, which she put on the table. “You probably didn’t eat enough at the breakfast.”

“Actually, I didn’t. Usually I make a pig of myself, but I was trapped between Ronnie, Walter, and Jason all telling war stories. You’re always feeding me.” He inhaled the rich coffee aroma. “You make the best coffee.”

“Thank you.” She poured him a cup, sat down, and picked up her sandwich so he’d pick up his. “I rarely eat at the breakfasts. For one thing, I can’t eat standing up. I mean, I can, but I don’t like it. For another thing, I usually don’t reach the table.”

“Must be hell to be popular.”

“I suffer.” She laughed.

They ate, chitchatting about the drop between the two ponds where Ronnie had broken his collarbone, the swirling wind currents down in the ravine, and the footing that alternated between hard ground and packed snow.

“Weatherman says three inches.” Ben dabbed his mouth with the napkin.

Golly, on a kitchen chair, head above the table, watched every move.“I’ll accept a votive offering, given that I denned a fox.”

“No fair. You get to sit on the chair,” Rooster complained.

“You get enough treats. In fact, Rooster, diet time.”

“Nasty—you can be so nasty.” Rooster put his head on his paws as he lay by Sister’s feet.

Raleigh, silent, sat on her other side. If he looked noble and patient, she might weaken.

“Here.” Sister tore a bit of ham for Golly, then gave some to the dogs. Raleigh’s ploy had worked.

“I’m closing in, Sister. If I make one wrong move, I’m going to lose our killer.”

“Yes. He’s highly intelligent. I suspect most killers aren’t.”

“Actually, most people in jail, men and women, are what’s called low-normals. Some are borderline retarded. A few truly are evil, but most of them can’t control their impulses. No sense of delayed gratification on any front.”

“Pity. We can’t afford the cost of incarcerating them, but we can’t afford them on the streets, either.”

“They’ll do it again.” He accepted a brownie. “That’s not what some people want to hear, but that’s the way it is. And always was.”

“I suppose so, but our killer doesn’t fall into that category.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“It’s been building. I had a vague feeling once we found Iffy. He never figured on a coyote. He’s not country.” She paused. “Today, we started on a bobcat. Think of Iffy. She’s your bobcat. Legitimate game and guilty as sin. Naturally we’d follow the scent.”

“Yes.” He realized he was holding the coffee cup to his lips but hadn’t drunk some, as he was intently listening.

“Then down in the thickest part of the covert, our true quarry crossed the line of the bobcat. Some second-year entry didn’t come right to the horn when Shaker swung the pack onto the fox. Betty pushed them back, and we had all on and a terrific finish. Our killer is the fox. We’ve got to swing onto his line. We can’t let him go to ground. He’s fooled us by using a bobcat to divert our attention.”

“I don’t have enough to convict him.” He appreciated her insight. “Do you think we can turn our fox?”

Occasionally a whipper-in will turn a fox. This takes a smart whipper-in because one can turn the fox back into the hounds, a dreadful thing to do. Usually, a fox should be turned if it, too, is heading for a major highway or if it is running out of the country. Betty Franklin could do it. The trick is to turn the fox at an angle, but not back to hounds. Then the whipper-in has to stay on the outside of the fox until the danger has passed. It’s extremely difficult to do because the fox isn’t trained to obey, whereas the hound is.

By turning the fox, you save your fox, your hounds, and your master, who might be facing an irate landowner.

“We can try,” said Sister. “Do I have your permission to inform Shaker, Betty, and Sybil?”

“Yes.”

“May they put .22 in their pistols instead of ratshot—just in case?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Who will be the bobcat?”

“I will.”

“Sister, I should do it. It’s dangerous.”

“So is foxhunting. Please don’t take this as an insult, Ben, but I ride better than you do.” She paused for a moment, then reached over to cover his hand with hers. “I take my chances. It’s the only way to live, and I really want to get this bastard. Forgive my French.” She added, “I suppose I should tell Gray. They meant to kill him, you know.”

“Don’t. I appreciate your concern, but the more people who know, the more chances for our fox to pick up the tension. Shaker, Betty, and Sybil are out there as staff. Gray will be in the field.”

“I understand.” She breathed in. “Saturday’s fixture is Paradise.”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER 29

Seven river otters played early Saturday morning on the feast of St. Agnes, January 21. Their philosophy of life contrasted sharply with that of the virgin martyr of Rome, dying in 305 AD. She refused marriage, for at thirteen she had consecrated her body to Christ. Her reward for such a gift was a sword straight through the throat. Like a lamb,agnus in Latin, pretty Agnes met her Maker.

The otters felt life should be frolic with a bit of sex in early spring. Mating, delightful as it could be, paled before running hard, flopping on one’s belly before reaching water’s edge, then sliding down at top speed to crash into the swift current, riding the little waves.

Bruce, the largest of the otters at thirty pounds, father of the brood, hit the cold water with a boom, sending two waves up at his sides. He bobbled along for fifty yards before swimming and scrambling out at an easy place.

“Whee!” One otter after another squealed as he or she roared toward the large creek’s edge then down the steep, slick slide they’d made.

Out they scrambled, each one hurrying to reach the starting place only to barrel down, hit the side of the bank, and fold forelegs next to the body. Down they’d go, furry toboggans loving every minute of life.

Crayfish, rockfish, all manner of delicious edibles swam in the deep, wide creek. Then, too, a berry now and then aided the digestion. The family, in splendid condition, had little competition for the food they prized.

Earl, a gray fox in his second year, sat on a log, the orange half moons of fungus protruding from the snow, more light snow still falling.

Trite though the phrase may be, it was a winter wonderland. As everyone sported thick fur coats with dense undercoats, the temperature was bracing.

Also watching the nonstop otter celebration were Athena and Bitsy, sitting high in a majestic spruce. Flying from Sister’s took them twenty minutes. For humans, hauling horses and dealing with roads that weren’t straight, the time from Roughneck Farm took forty minutes.

“Come on,” Bruce invited Earl.

“No, thanks. I only swim when I must,” the handsome fellow replied.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lisa, the mother, revving her motors, called out.

“Do you think they’re simpleminded?” Bitsy asked Athena.

“No, just silly.”

“You’d think they didn’t have to work for a living,” Bitsy, fond of stirring the pot, remarked.

“They don’t. This place is one big supermarket for them.” Athena opened and closed her beak with a clicking sound.

Squirrels in the tree scurried along the boughs, snow falling off as they ran. They were not overly fond of Athena, who could kill and eat them if she wanted to. But they knew she was full, since she’d given everyone within earshot her menu. They leaped to the oak where they lived.

“Flying rats,” Bitsy giggled.

“Come on!” Bruce called Earl again.

“Nah, I need to save my energy.”

“You looking for a girlfriend?” Bruce thought keeping a mate the better course.

He thought a minute.“If I find the right vixen I have to help with food. I guess I can do it. I’m finally ready.”

“And a healthy young fellow you are,” Bruce complimented him, turned a flip, and reached the runway, speeding to zoom over the side.

Athena, eyes half closed, opened them wide. Swiveling her head, she listened closely. Bitsy, her ear tufts at full attention, mimicked the big owl.

“Trotting,” Bitsy said.

“Short stride, but hooves, yes, hooves. Every now and then you’ll hear the hooves hit a stone. The wind blows some places clean.”

“Deer.” Bitsy fluffed.

“No. Different cadence.” Athena thought hard, then said,“Haven’t heard that in many a year.”

“What is it?”

“A wild boar. A big one,” Athena replied.

“I thought wild pigs traveled in herds,” Bitsy commented.“Not that I’ve run into any, mind you.”

“Sow and her young, they do. They join up with other sows; but no, this is one boar alone. It’s mating season. Actually, it’s mating season for just about everyone. I heard you threatened to lay an egg or two at the end of the month.”

“It’s so much trouble. Laying the eggs isn’t so bad, it’s feeding them.” Bitsy, having never been a mother, thought it might be an enchanting experience and then again, it might not. She had bragged to Target and Inky that she intended to lay two eggs. She wished she’d kept her beak shut.

Athena chortled, a raspy sound.“True, so true.” Her deep voice filling the snow-covered woods, she informed the animals below,“There’s a boar heading this way at a fast trot. One boar, so I expect it’s a male.”

“He’s not going to eat us.” A saucy little otter raced for the slide.

“Root, hog, or die,” Earl remarked.“Guess it’s hard to root in the snow.”

“He can smell what’s underground, snow or no snow. He likes potatoes, turnips, and acorns.” Athena respected wild pigs, finding them highly intelligent—not in her class, but intelligent.

Way in the distance, two miles away, the piercing note of Shaker’s horn sounded “Gone away.”

Athena swiveled her head again, eyes black and full.“Foxhunters.”

“You mean they’ll shoot me?” Earl asked, horrified.

“No, you silly twit. They’ll chase you with hounds, American foxhounds to be exact. Very logical animals, but you’re far more clever. Runabout, use water, foil your scent. If hounds get close, zigzag. And above all, don’t run into deep snow,” Athena counseled.

“In fact, you can crisscross this otter scent should hounds come this way. They’re on a fox now.” Bitsy loved the chase.

“How come I don’t know about this?” the young gray asked, troubled.

“Haven’t used this fixture for years. Problems with the DuCharme brothers. Foxhunters were here two weeks ago, but way on the other side of Paradise. You haven’t been prepared by cubbing. That’s when the humans in charge train the young hounds and young foxes, too. But if you do as I say, you should be fine. Duck into a den, any den, when you’ve had enough. Oh, hounds will dig and sing and curse you, but they can’t do squat. The huntsman will dismount and blow a funny, wiggly sound, and then they’ll leave. It’s harmless, really,” Athena reported.

Bitsy, eager to dispense information, told the gray fox,“There’s a tall, slender lady who rides up front. She leads the humans. Silver hair, even more silver than yours, and if you make friends with her, she’ll feed you.”

“How can I make friends with her if she’s chasing me?” Earl sensibly asked.

“She’ll be back, now that they have this fixture. She’ll probably be on horseback or in an ATV, and she might be with the huntsman, who has dark red curly hair, or she’ll be with her friend, Betty, who rides on the edges. It’s complicated, this foxhunting.” Bitsy puffed out her little chest.

“It’s a sacred thing to the humans.” Athena opened wide her fearsome beak.“Holy. You do your part and Sister will care for you.”

Way off, all the animals could hear hounds, a ghostly sound at this distance.

“Sounds like they are coming our way.” Bruce glanced at his family.

“Will they hurt us, those nasty hounds?” a youngster inquired.

“Hounds stick to fox scent. They won’t fuss you up.” Bitsy used a colloquial expression.

“It’s not the hounds you need to worry about; it’s the humans.” Athena burst out laughing.“The horses will be slipping and sliding. The humans will be lurching around up there, and you might even see a few go splat.”

“Oh, my, my, yes,” Bitsy seconded her heroine.

Hounds moved closer.

Lisa called to Bruce, who was still bodysurfing,“We’d better go home.”

“One more slide!” He quickly climbed out, graceful in his fashion.

“No, I don’t want to take any chances,” she insisted.

“You’re right.” He genially agreed, having learned it’s better to agree with your spouse.

Earl watched as the happy group walked to their den, which had overgrown entrances near the base of a large tree hanging over the creek. Thick roots, eight to twelve inches in diameter, burst through the banks where the water had eroded the soil. Entrances and exits were hidden under the roots on the bank side, too.

“You might want to head toward your den or a den you’ve seen along the way. The hounds track your scent. They don’t need to see you,” Athena told Earl.

“How far away do you live?” Bitsy asked.

“Mile and a half, southwards.”

The horn sounded closer now, perhaps a mile away.

“If you’re lucky they’re on a vixen, and she’ll duck in somewhere between here and where she is now. Then you won’t have to go far to find her.” Athena looked on the bright side.“But Bitsy is right; you’d best be going.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Earl used the otters’ slide and swam across the creek. Given the current, he climbed out thirty yards downstream.

“Worried about him?” Bitsy asked.

“A little.” Athena frowned, opened her wings, dropped off the branch, and with one downward sweep of her enormous wings glided over Earl.“If you encounter problems, run with deer. Use any other animal. You can’t mask your scent. It’s a good day for scent.”

Bitsy, needing many more flaps, caught up with the great horned owl.“Maybe we should stick with him?”

“Might bring those damned crows. You know how they like to mob foxes. Of course, I’d be happy to kill a few.”

Bitsy, saying nothing, stayed with Athena. She’d not forgotten her close call at pattypan forge.

Athena and Bitsy passed over a gray vixen, who raced through a large expanse of running cedar, much of it partially exposed from last night’s wind. Although it was calm enough now, with gentle flakes coming down, the scent would be true, not blown yards off. The vixen made use of the terrain, then ducked into a den, a few bones on the low pile outside announcing her gourmet tastes.

Cora reached the den first, and within half a minute everyone else crowded around.

Betty, on the right, stayed over in the meadow to the edge of the woods where the den was located. Sybil, on the left, stopped on ground level with the den as Shaker rode up.

The field, seventy people, enjoyed the spectacle of thrilled hounds, the blowing of“Gone to ground,” and the happy knowledge that hounds had accounted for their fox.

Sister, on Aztec, smiled.

The Custis Hall girls rode in the rear with Walter. Sister had asked Tedi and Edward whether they would mind if Jason rode behind her. She wanted to observe him to see whether he knew as much as he said he did. If nothing else, she’d be seeing his hunting manners close up.

Knowing that the club always needed money, the Bancrofts graciously rode behind Jason. As one of the main benefactors of the club, the Bancrofts hoped others would come through, especially now that Crawford had bagged it.

Sister nodded to Shaker when he remounted to go forward, then quietly turned to ask Jason behind her,“What do you think, red or gray?”

“Gray,” he replied, a smile crossing his handsome face.

“I do, too.” She smiled back.

If one studied fox tracks it didn’t take too much to discern the difference between a red’s foot and a gray’s, especially in winter. The red’s prints could be about two and a half inches long. The hindprint might be smaller, but the heavy fur around the paw would register on the ground or on snow. The toe marks and lobe ofthe pads would be a little indistinct.

The gray’s prints were an inch and a half long for a mature fox, the print sharper. The toes dug in deeper, it seemed, and if it weren’t for the toe marks, one could mistake the print for an overfed, much-loved pet cat like Golly.

She gave Jason credit for making the right call, but if he had studied prints all he had to do was look down at the snow. Still, thousands foxhunted and couldn’t recognize footprints or fox scat. He had done some homework.

She twisted all the way round to see if the field was together. They were, thanks to Walter and the girls pushing them up. If someone straggled, Walter sent them back to Bobby. No one in the field would disobey a master’s command if they wanted to keep hunting—not just with Jefferson Hunt but with any hunt. The masters would pass on who was a butthead as readily as they passed on who was a true foxhunter.

Bobby, hands full with green riders, green horses, and occasionally treacherous footing, just joined them as Shaker moved off. It seemed to go in spurts, the numbers of green riders or green horses, but shepherding them always fell to the hilltoppers’ master, the most unsung staff position in foxhunting.

Few would dream of going first flight if they couldn’t ride, especially at Jefferson Hunt. Sister enjoyed a formidable reputation—and who wanted to look a fool under her eyes?

The whippers-in usually rode hardest, but they were alone, an advantage under the circumstances. If they weren’t riding hard or trotting forward, they’d be immobile at a prime spot, and that spot always seemed to be the coldest damned place on earth.

The huntsman stayed with hounds as best he could. He, too, rode hard, but he rode straight behind the pack. Chances were, the whippers-in covered more territory than he did. This wasn’t to say he didn’t do things that Sister and the field would not. He did, but often no one saw him take a four-foot drop off a creek bed into the water. He stayed with his hounds if possible.

While Sister could do anything on a horse, her first responsibility was the field, not the hounds. Very few fields today were well mounted enough, with fearless riders, to do things that were routinely done thirty years ago. The reason was that so many people had taken up foxhunting who hadn’t grown up with horses. It wasn’t that they couldn’t clear the four-foot jump if they had the right horse, but only a few had the right horse. The right horse, nine times out of ten, was a thoroughbred or a thoroughbred cross, depending on territory. Those arriving late to the glories of riding often feared thoroughbreds. If you knew the animal, you loved its sensitivity and forward ways. If you didn’t, you thought you were on a runaway that would spook at a white stone pebble. The change in the field was as big a shift in foxhunting as the rise of the automobile, the sickening encroachments of suburbia.

As hounds searched for fresh scent, Sister looked behind again, noting that Gray was in the middle of the field, Ben back with Bobby. She was glad Ben had asked her not to tell Gray. He was right; Gray would have inched forward, sticking too close to Sister.

Athena and Bitsy peered down from a leafless sycamore, its distinctive multicolored patchy bark noticeable in a palette of white, gray, beige, and black.

“They’ll pick up Earl’s scent soon enough if they keep going in this direction,” Bitsy fretted.

“M-m-m.” Athena noticed Diddy tossing snow with her nose, then leaping up for it.

“This isn’t playtime,” Asa reprimanded the happy girl.

“Sorry.” Diddy reapplied herself to the task.

The treetops waved slightly as they dropped down a steep path to walk along the creek bed, flat and wide, the rushing water drowning other sounds.

“If we fly with the hounds, we won’t signal Earl’s position.” Athena was more worried than she cared to admit.“The crows will stay put. If Earl does need direction, we can move up to supply it.”

“Yes, yes.” Bitsy agreed, then lifted off to slowly fly along. No need for speed at this point.

A quarter mile down the creek bed they reached the otter slides.

“Gray, dog fox.” Dasher inhaled.

The otters, peeking out from under the big roots in the bank, listened as the hounds chimed in after Dasher.

They watched the whole pack go down their slide and hit the water, swimming across the frothy creek in one body.

“Bet they’ve made the slide bigger and slicker.” Bruce couldn’t wait to return to his game.

Darby, at the rear of the pack, heard Bruce’s voice and turned to see the otters looking at him.“You’re funny-looking,” the young hound blurted out.

“Not as funny as you are,” Lisa smartly replied as Shaker on Gunpowder jumped off the bank six feet away from the slide, where the grade was better for a horse.

The pack in full cry flew through the flatland on the other side of the creek and climbed up the gentle rise to higher ground to run southwards, wind at their rear, scent blowing away from them.

Earl knew enough to use the wind, but scent was strong and hounds were closing.

He kept on straight through the woods, but the pine needles, under snow, couldn’t help dissipate his scent. Hounds moved faster than he thought they could.

Nothing looked promising, so he picked up the pace, his brush now carried straight out. A rotted log ahead provided a break in his scent. He ran inside, straight through to the other end. He kept going.

A pocket meadow needed to be crossed quickly before he could escape into denser woods on the far side. He knew a few dens in there that could be used. If someone was in them, too bad. They’d be crowded for a time.

Snow lay eight inches in parts on the pocket meadow. He didn’t relish going across. At the last minute Earl skirted back into the woods, heading northeast, at a right angle to his former line of scent.

Old deer bones protruded from the snow. He ran into the middle of them, then sped away, turning again toward the meadow.

Hounds checked briefly at the bones.

Sister picked her spot and her moment.

“Jason, come up here beside me for a minute.”

He rode next to her, then stopped.“This corpse helped our fox, the reverse of Iffy’s corpse, which points her finger at you.”

Jason shrugged, laughing.“Sister, you have a good imagination.”

Hounds sped away. Sister followed. Jason fell in behind. Had she gotten it wrong?

This time Earl did go into the meadow, and it was his bad luck to founder in a deep spot that lay deceptively flat on the meadow. Struggling to extricate himself, he heard hounds draw closer, much too close. He could see them bursting into the meadow, clouds of snow churning up in front of their forelegs.

He finally clawed out of the hole, but the going was deep.

Athena and Bitsy flew over him now.

Athena saw the boar, all four hundred and forty pounds of him, yellow tusks long and sharp, arrive in the little meadow at a trot in the opposite direction.

“Go right!” Athena called down.

Earl, running for his life, pounded through the snow as the huge boar trotted straight at him.

“Duck around him. He’ll swing his head in that direction. Make a wide circle, then run like hell, Earl!” Athena commanded.

Shaker, up behind his hounds, saw the danger and blew three long notes to call hounds back, but not before half the pack was face-to-face with one ugly brute.

The boar lowered his head. He stopped. He paid no attention to Earl, who circled him, reaching the woods and freedom.

“Go back!” Ardent boomed, barely managing to pull back the pack.

Shaker, blowing his hounds to him, galloped away from the boar, pulling hounds back into the woods from whence they had come but far to the right of the field, who did not know what lay ahead. The field did, however, pull up at woods’ edge.

Jason rode up to Sister, already in the meadow, before she could turn to follow Shaker. He wedged his knee under hers, throwing her over the saddle. Aztec trembled in front of the boar, then turned, racing back through the field. He was only six, but even a seasoned horse would be scared once it got a whiff. Horses were blowing up behind Aztec.

Jason then bellowed,“Reverse.”

The field, not able to see over the meadow’s rise, obediently turned in the woods.

The only person who had a clear view of what had happened was Betty, on the right at the edge of the woods.

Aztec stopped at the rear of first flight. Walter reached over and grabbed his reins.

Tedi and Edward turned, but Edward stopped turning back.

“Jason passed us—but where’s Sister?”

They waited a moment, their horses becoming more restive.

Betty bolted out of the woods toward Sister.

Luckily, Sister had fallen on her right side. Her .38 rested in a holster on her left side under her jacket.

Slipping in the snow, she tore open her coat, black horn buttons popping off, to reach for the gun as the boar charged. No time.

“Roll, then run!” Athena directed, hoping the human might understand.

Betty, hurtling toward the boar, said to Magellan,“We might get hurt, but we have to do this.”

“I will,” the thoroughbred replied, all heart.

The boar turned his big head for a moment upon hearing Magellan.

Sister had rolled. Then she ran as fast as she could. The snow slowed her.

She turned while Betty occupied the brute by circling him. Betty’d drawn her gun. Sister at last drew hers.

Betty, cool, didn’t fire. “Get to the woods, Janie. I’ll pick you up there,” she hollered.

“No. What if you fall?”

“Dammit!” Betty rode in the opposite direction of Sister, the boar charging after her. Then she wheeled and spurred Magellan. The horse flew past the beast, who though large had quick reflexes. Betty reached Sister, who stuck her gun back in the holster.

Slowing Magellan, Betty leaned down, her left arm straight.

Sister grabbed Betty’s arm, ran alongside Magellan for two steps, gained speed, and swung up.

Thank God, Betty was strong. She held Sister’s weight as the older woman flung her right leg over Magellan’s hindquarters. Mounted, the two galloped into the woods. Tedi and Edward followed on seeing them.

Walter was moving forward with Aztec. He had no idea what was up ahead, since Jason hadn’t told anyone. Most had turned to follow Jason, thinking he was temporary field master.

The boar had no desire to chase the horse or the people. His mission was to find the female whose perfume had reached him a half hour ago.

Sister, not dismounting, slid from Magellan to Aztec, who had calmed down next to Clemson, Walter’s bombproof older hunter.

“Where’s the field?”

“I don’t know,” Walter said.

“Jesus!” Sister’s face reddened. “Listen!”

Hearing Shaker’s horn, Sister said, “Tedi, kick on. Edward, too. Take the field. Don’t listen to Jason.”

Walter turned to the horn, but he waited a moment for Sister and Betty.

Sister reached over to Betty.“It’s not over.”

“I know.”

With that, both women left Walter in the lurch. Angry, he squeezed Clemson to catch up, but their horses were younger and faster, so he followed Tedi and Edward, also moving fast.

Sister reached the hilltoppers first as Betty pulled away to go to Shaker, who didn’t know anything had happened.

“Ben, he got away,” Sister said, voice low.

Ben reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to call the deputies on the road.

“Bobby, you have one hell of a wife.” Sister then blew by the rest of them, calling out, “Tedi and Edward will lead you. They’re coming up behind. Wait for them.”

She rode up to Shaker and filled him in. Betty had not done so, feeling it was more important to take her position at ten o’clock from the hounds. She was right in this, as there was nothing any of them could do about Jason at the moment.

“Let’s pick them up. He’ll kill anyone or anything in his way, and we don’t know where he is.” Sister told her huntsman, “Hold hounds for a moment.”

Trudy sat on her haunches.“What was that ugly thing?”

“Big old fat wild pig, that’s what,” Asa informed her.“He would have cut us up like flank steak.”

“Quicker than you think, those pigs,” Cora commented.

“How come we haven’t smelled them before now?” Diddy asked a good question.

“They keep to themselves except during breeding season.” Ardent hated boar.

“And they’re in the mountains. Paradise runs into all that billy-goat land we hunted last week. You won’t find them at Tattenhall Station or Tedi or Edward’s.” Diana studied game just as Sister and Shaker did.

“Well, they’ll come down if food is scarce. They’ll trot fifty miles and not think a thing of it.” Ardent thought it odd that a wild pig will hurry along to a foraging spot, then, when close, slow way down.

“Hope I don’t see another one.” Trinity had been scared out of her wits.

“Gather round.” Sister waited as the field made a semicircle around her. “Ben, do I have permission to announce our suspicions, which I believe are now confirmed? Everyone’s safety is at stake.”

“Yes.”

The sheriff’s one-word answer riveted everyone’s attention.

“We believe that Dr. Jason Woods killed Iphigenia Demetrios.” She waited while that sunk in. “He is armed, extremely dangerous, and highly intelligent. I want everyone to stick together on the ride back. In those places where it’s tight and you go single file, look to the person in front, then back. If anyone falls out of your sight line, holler. Loud.”

“Why won’t he just ride back to his trailer and take off?” Henry Xavier asked.

“Since he now knows that we know, he’ll assume I have officers at the trailers and on the crossroads in every direction. He’s going to keep clear,” Ben replied. “I will ride tail for the hilltoppers. I’ll be the last person in the line. I think we’d better move along.”

“Shaker…” Sister meant to tell him to move on. Then she suddenly exclaimed, “Where’s Sybil?”

“Still on the left, I hope,” Shaker, worried, replied.

“Did you blow her in?” Sister asked crossly.

“Of course I did.”

“I’m sorry, Shaker. I know better. I’m on edge.”

“If I’d nearly been gored by a boar, I’d be on edge, too, and we don’t know where that bastard is—the human, I mean.” Shaker removed his cap to wipe his brow, the cold air sharp on his sweating head.

“Blow again.”

Shaker put the brass horn to his lips and blew the notes that sounded like“Whipper-in,” two medium notes followed by one shorter one.

Nothing.

“We need to move on, Sister,” Ben firmly told her.

“I can’t leave her there, Ben.” Sister’s voice was low, soft.

Shaker spoke up.“I’m going with you.”

Tedi and Edward came to them, realizing their daughter had not come back to the horn. Walter also rode up.

“Tedi, you stay with the field. I’ll go,” Edward gently ordered his wife.

“No. This is my fault. He was quicker and more ruthless than I thought. I should have known better.”

“He was lucky,” Shaker said.

“Yes, but smart. He used the boar.” Sister respected her foe. She had underestimated him and desperately prayed that Sybil wouldn’t pay for it.

“I’m going. I’m a doctor.” Walter spoke firmly. “Edward, please help with the field in case someone makes a mistake.”

“What if he comes back to snag a hostage?” Betty had ridden in, since hounds rested.

“Ben’s with them.” Edward wanted to go.

“We’ll have too many people. We can’t risk him shooting all of you. You, too, Shaker.”

“I’m not letting you go!” Shaker noticed Gray riding toward them.

“We can’t risk the pack because I was stupid. He’ll shoot my hounds. No. You, Betty, go back. Edward, get Gray, and get him turned around before he knows what’s happening. Go back. I can outfox this son-of-a-bitch.”

“I’m going with you.” Walter, accustomed to command when necessary, faced her.

“I’m an old woman. If I die, so what? Walter, you’re young. Go back with the others.”

As the others turned, Shaker called the pack, and Betty floated out to the side.

Walter said,“I’m going.”

“I’ll see you back at the trailer, Betty. I owe you.” Sister realized that Walter would not be dissuaded.

Betty, deeply distressed, fought back the tears and nodded.

“Walter, unbutton your coat. You’re wearing a shoulder harness. Make sure you can get to your gun fast.”

He did as he was told. They cantered to where the riders were pulled up and circled until they found Jason’s tracks.

“I’m worried sick,” Walter confessed as they followed the tracks.

Sister replied,“With good reason. This is my fault.”

Before he could protest that it could have happened to anyone, she picked up the pace.

The deer paths were wide. She slowed at one point where fox dens were near a thread of a creek.

She noticed a glob of frozen blood, footprints.

She pushed Aztec from a canter into a gallop, pointing at the blood with her crop.

Walter looked down as he passed. A grim determination filled him. Sister had been caught off guard. He’d been duped by a colleague. He wanted to strangle Jason for that as well as for the harm the other doctor had done.

Jason, moving south toward Chapel Cross, slowed after a half-mile gallop. A sense of direction wasn’t his strong point, so he carried a small global positioning device, which he checked from time to time.

He knew the closer he got to Chapel Cross the more wary he needed to be. There’d be cops everywhere, but he thought he could elude them by dismounting and smacking Kilowatt on his hindquarters. That might divert them long enough for him to cross the road. Once on the other side of Chapel Cross he knew he could steal a car or truck from a farm as the county became more populated.

He’d change cars along the way. Arrogant, he felt he was smarter than everyone. He believed he could lay low, angling toward the Canadian border. He had his passport with him, a habit he’d learned when overseas. He also had a forged Belgian passport. He thought ahead. In time he figured he’d fly out of Canada. The money was safe in a bank in Zurich.

Jason hadn’t thought it would reach this point, but he always had backup plans. Iffy had screwed up the original plan by panicking and, worse, insisting they run away together. She’d paid for it.

He walked along, not realizing that Sybil shadowed him a quarter mile behind. She could have shot his horse when he galloped past her as she sat on a ridge.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill a beautiful animal who happened to have a criminal on his back. She knew she was wrong in terms of human justice, but she felt in her heart that she was right.

She knew Jason wasn’t a country boy, smart though he was. Tracking him would be easy enough. If she had a chance for a clear shot at him, she’d move up and fire. Her advantage lay in surprise.

The thick undergrowth forced them both to stick to deer trails. She stopped abruptly as Bombardier snorted when a deer approached downwind, their usual approach when their curiosity was aroused.

The doe stopped, looked at the horse, then bolted into the brush.

She had heard Shaker blowing for her. She wondered how Jason had gotten away. She told herself that one great thing about being a whipper-in was you became resourceful.

A soft flutter of wings startled her. She looked up to see, right over her head, Athena, low, followed by Bitsy, flying silently as only owls can do. Bombardier didn’t flick an ear. The owls were so close that the variations in feather colors showed clearly.

Jason, senses straining, also did not hear the owls, who gained altitude while staying behind him. The thick forest gave way to a rolling hay field. The only route to Chapel Cross was over that field. Fortunately, it was far off a state road—but still, how long before the helicopters would be looking?

Jason figured Ben had called in all the resources he had, but it would take the helicopter team at least forty-five minutes to reach him because the small airport was thirty-five miles away, and the team would need to suit up, mount up, then fly to Paradise.

He had a comfortable window of time to reach Chapel Cross. Even in his black frock coat he’d stand out crossing the white hay field, but if he skirted the edges he’d tack another fifteen minutes onto the ride.

He pushed his horse into a trot and risked it.

On reaching that same spot, Sybil pulled out the cell phone Sister insisted she carry in case of injury. She punched in Sister’s prerecorded number, which was 7.

At the vibration, Sister grabbed her phone out of her pocket.

“Sister, I’m at the edge of Binky’s southernmost hay field. Jason’s crossing it at a trot, heading for Tattenhall Station, I expect,” said Sybil in a low voice.

“Thank God, you’re all right. Don’t take any chances, Sybil. Walter and I are behind you, moving up. Half mile. Tops.”

“Right.” She clicked off the phone.

Jason heard a human voice, very faint. He turned to see Sybil at the edge of the woods. He wheeled Kilowatt, pulled out his gun, and rode hard straight for her.

Sybil slipped back into the thick woods. She rode off the deer trail to dip down into a swale. It would take him a minute or two to find her. She noticed boot prints at the edge of the swale.

Conventional wisdom would have dictated she run, but her entire back would be exposed. Steeling herself, she clicked off the safety of her .22, six bullets in the chamber instead of ratshot. Small though the caliber was, in the right place that .22 could stop a person cold.

She held the reins in her left hand, her right arm extended. All she needed to do was swing her arm to her target.

Jason assumed she would run away. Kilowatt, fast, would get so close to her that he could drop her. Then he would turn and race like mad across the hay field. He couldn’t lose more time.

He stopped to listen for the sound of her hoofbeats. Silence. Then he heard the rustle of leaves as Bombardier moved a little. Walking deliberately toward the sound, he, too, readied his .45.

Athena quietly flew ahead of him. As she passed over the lip of the swale she called,“Hoo, Ho Ho, Hoo.” Athena saw Donny Sweigart Jr. in camouflage fatigues, crouched in the bushes by the edge of the swale.

Bitsy, on the same vector, emitted one screech, her little beak agape. They circled and landed in a treetop.

Sybil looked in the direction from which they had flown. Three seconds later, Jason appeared at the edge of the swale from that same direction.

He had a smirk on his face that said,“Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Donny pushed through the brush and startled Kilowatt, who took a step back. Jason steadied himself and turned as Donny threw a round ball of frozen blood. It hit Jason hard in the chest. His right arm jerked up. He squeezed the trigger.

Sybil fired as the blood hit Jason, that split second saving her.

Hit in the shoulder, feeling the sting that soon followed, Jason had to decide who to shoot first. Donny, a country boy, knew that running made him a target. If he stayed and fought, he’d have a chance. So would Sybil. Donny grabbed Jason’s leg.

Jason fired, just missing Sybil.

This time she rode toward him as he attempted to smash the butt of his gun into Donny’s face. Sybil patiently took a deep breath, making certain of her target since she knew two lives depended on her—or three lives: Jason might shoot Bombardier.

She fired, squeezing the trigger gently. Jason slipped backward off Kilowatt, who didn’t move, oddly enough. Nor did Jason.

Sybil reached him. His eyes stared up at the sky. A neat hole over his right eye testified to her marksmanship.

“Thank God for you, Donny. Thank God.”

She fired in the air three times, the universal signal of distress. Then her heart pounded and she shook.

“Steady girl, steady. We did it.” Bombardier nickered as he nuzzled Jason’s marvelous horse.

Three minutes later, flying through and over all obstacles, Sister and Walter reached the two humans and two horses.

Seeing the round frozen ball of blood, Sister understood.“Donny.” She half smiled.

Sheepishly, he smiled back, for Sybil had dismounted and was hugging him fiercely, a most thrilling feeling.

CHAPTER 30

Personal cataclysms take many forms. All provide the same result: you’re tossed into the air. Some people fall hard, others hit the ground but rise and learn, a few land on their feet, and fewer still bounce back higher than they had been cast down.

Sister usually fell into the last category. Yesterday’s event, though distressing, energized her.

“People are like teabags. You never know how strong they are until you put them in hot water,” she said to Shaker as they finished power washing the feed room. “Betty and Sybil are strong.”

“Hell of a way to find out,” Shaker grunted. “I should have been with you when he first knocked you off Aztec.”

“First of all, honey chile”—she used the Southern nomenclature with warmth—“how could you know? You pulled the hounds from danger. You did the exact right thing. From the safety of the woods, there’s no way you could know. It all turned out right.” She paused. “He used an old dirty polo trick, actually. He put his knee behind mine and kicked my leg up high and hard. Over I went.”

“No polo where’s he gone—unless they play with pitchforks.”

“By the grace of God.”

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help,” Sister smiled. “Sybil, Betty, and I are lucky, lucky women.” She shrugged, tears filling her eyes.

Shaker misted over, too.“You never know, do you? You never know what’s around the corner.” He rolled the power washer back to the corner. “We could eat off the floor.”

“That’s a thought.”

“Boss, I didn’t get a chance to really talk to you yesterday, what with the police and all. I did pop my head in last night to see that you were okay.”

“Three-ring circus, wasn’t it?” She rolled up a hose.

“How did you know?”

“At first, I didn’t. Iffy’s behavior kept me focused on her. I’m convinced she tried to shoot Gray. Wasn’t a hunter catching the last days of deer season. Can’t prove it, but I believe it to be so.”

“Gray was on to her.”

“Well, he was on to someone cooking the books. He couldn’t discuss it, but I knew something was amiss. I thought maybe Garvey was stealing the cream. That idea soon faded, but Iffy could have worked with Garvey and discovered she was going to take the fall. A lot of thoughts flitted through my peabrain.”

“But she was guilty?” His thick eyebrows moved upwards.

“Yes, she was—and what’s even more disgusting is she killed Angel. Jason gave her the scopolamine, the stuff that’s used for motion sickness and arthritis.” She walked into the kennel office, Shaker following. “Tell you one thing, Ben Sidell is good. He put his nose down and followed every scent trail.”

“Thorough.”

“That he is. He figured out the insurance scam. I had no idea about that. Ben and his staff interviewed every living patient on Jason’s roster. Jason did save lives, but there were people on his roster who feigned symptoms, including Alfred DuCharme. They were never sick in the first place. Jason wrote up treatment in collusion with the phony patient, and the money rolled in. When Ben went through his patient roster, since some called Jason, that tipped him off to the fact that he was under suspicion, but he was confident he’d covered his tracks.”

“Two crimes?” Shaker dropped in the chair by the desk, turning it so he could face Sister as she sat behind the desk.

“More than that. One attempted murder. I’m counting Iffy shooting Sam. One murder: Angel. Then Iffy’s murder. A brilliant insurance scam, two million dollars pilfered from Aluminum Manufacturing. The insurance companies will get involved with their own investigation, but Ben’s estimate is that Jason sucked up about nine million dollars.”

“Nine million!” Shaker exclaimed.

“It’s obvious you haven’t seen a hospital bill in a long time. Jason specialized in cancer. The diagnostic tests, the chemo and radiation if needed, the operations if needed, the aftercare, the pharmacy bills. It’s insane. Really, it’s easier to die. It’s certainly cheaper.”

“I’ll remember that.” His wry smile was engaging.

“Here’s the thing I don’t understand. By all accounts Jason was a good doctor. Why wasn’t that enough? Doctors make a good living. But he must have had some kind of instinct, some sixth sense of who could be corrupted. Someone might have a few cancer cells on the skin. He’d talk them intoletting him invent a major cancer, and they’d split the insurance money. He even went so far as to perform some operations, not cut-open-the-chest stuff, but still, in-office procedures on healthy people. Mostly he threw patients into a fake radiation and chemo program and raked in the money. Walter—who is tremendously upset, by the way—said it’s not that hard to acquire x-rays and records. He thinks Jason took those of deceased people. He’d x-ray his ‘patient’ later, and lo and behold, the tumor or the cancer would be in remission. The cleverness of it, the attention to detail—it’s almost admirable.”

“Nine million dollars.” Shaker fixated on the loot.

“Think what we could do with that money?” Sister sighed, then glanced out the window. “Sun’s up.”

“Clearing up.” He rose and walked to the hot plate. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea.”

“Angel loathed Iffy. How could Iffy kill her without Angel knowing? I mean, Angel wouldn’t take motion sickness stuff from Iffy, I don’t think.” Shaker returned to the main subject.

These two, working cheek by jowl for decades—for Shaker had been hired as a young man to whip-in—had long ago divested themselves of connecting every sentence to the one prior.

“Angel had some arthritis, common enough in someone eighty-four. Walter suggested an over-the-counter remedy. Remember, Ben had questioned him thoroughly when the news about Angel came back from the labs. First he visited Margaret DuCharme. Later, after he saw me he questioned Walter, and Walter said he’d recommended cream with scopolamine in it. No big deal; we could go down to Rite Aid and buy a jar. Iffy mentioned to Angel that much faster relief could be had by putting a patch behind her ear.” Sister gratefully accepted her tea, the bag steeping. “She said this in front of Garvey.I mean Iffy was smart, and she was bold. Garvey told Ben that Iffy told him to try it if he stiffened up, and also to take shark cartilage pills.”

Shaker blushed.“I take them. Glucosamine and chondroitin, too. Works.”

“The things I find out.” She put the teabag on her teaspoon and wrapped the string around it to squeeze out the excess water, then dropped the spent bag into the wastebasket.

It landed with a plop.

“Try it.”

“Long as it isn’t a lethal dose.”

“Doesn’t it have that stuff in, soopy—”

“Scopolamine.” She pronounced each syllable. “There’s no way to know, but the logical conclusion is that Iffy brought in a patch loaded with the stuff and told Angel to put it behind her ear. If she didn’t, no one would know it was murderous. Who else would use it? Iffy would have to findanother way to kill Angel as Angel’s suspicions of Iffy’s stealing intensified. But Angel did put the patch on. Iffy timed it, walked into Angel’s office forty minutes later—remember, Angel’s age played a part in the speed of this stuff—and she removed the ear patch.”

“But where’d the two million go? Iffy was tight as a tick.”

“Went to Jason, who obviously wasn’t.”

“Jesus. She killed for that bastard?”

“She was in love with him. We’ll never know what he promised her. Marriage?” She shrugged.

Shaker absorbed this.“Iffy in love.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“He must have really played her.” Shaker shook his head in disbelief and disgust.

“We can all be fools in love. I guess it just proves that Iffy was human.”

“I guess.” He sipped his tea. “Lorraine’s got me off coffee completely now. She says tea is better for me.”

“Reckon it is.” She rose and looked outside the window up to the house. “Gray’s still asleep. Light’s not on upstairs. Poor guy; he’s exhausted. First he finds the coverup at Garvey’s. Then Sam gets shot. Then he’s in the dark until I nearly bought the farm yesterday. I was lucky Jason didn’t shoot me. He was slick; I’ll give him that.”

“Why wouldn’t he shoot you?” Shaker quickly amended that. “Not that I wanted him to.”

“Ha. You say.” She teased him and sat back down. “Ben only had him on insurance fraud. Iffy was the embezzler, not Jason. He received the proceeds of her ill-gotten gains, but he was technically innocent. If he’d shot me yesterday he’d have had a much tougher time in court.”

“He shot Iffy.”

“We know that, but Ben still would have to prove it. And it wouldn’t be easy. Jason’s big bucks could have hired a lawyer that would make Sherman’s march look like trespassing.”

“That’s a fact.” Shaker appreciated the wiles of high-paid lawyers, thanks to a divorce many years earlier.

“That was my first clue that Jason was our man.”

“Damn. I sure didn’t have any idea. All I knew was that Iffy had been planted over Jemima Lorillard. How do you get to Jason from that?”

“He thought he was clever, but he was no fox. He didn’t know squat about hounds. I mean the man hunted with us and not once during the season did he really study the hounds at work. No, he was a run and gun.” She held up her hand as if holding off a protest. “I know, I know, they pay their dues and I am grateful so long as they don’t interfere with hounds or staff, but really, how can you foxhunt and not study hounds? I will never understand it. If they want to run and jump all the time they should take up three-day eventing.”

“That’s not easy.”

“Didn’t say it was.” She sat back down. “But it’s not foxhunting. You need to appreciate hounds a wee bit. Wouldn’t hurt to know something about quarry.”

“How did that get you to Jason?”

“The fox knows how fabulous hound noses are. You and I know. Jason didn’t. He stupidly buried Iffy over Jemima, but he only dug down about three feet. He knew Sam and Gray’s schedule. He was smart about that. And he was smart enough not to just throw her over a ravine somewhere because the vultures would circle round soon enough. His one bit of luck was the twenty-four-hour thaw. Guess he would have kept her in the freezer until there was one otherwise.”

“Ugh.”

She laughed.“I know; that was mean. Anyway, he was lucky there. But hounds can smell six feet down. Not even snow is going to stop them if the ground isn’t frozen deep. I suspect by planting Iffy at the Lorillard graveyard he thought to throw suspicion on Gray should Iffy come to light—which she did, a lot earlier than Jason expected. Since Iffy didn’t like Gray, the reverse could also be true. It’s not locked down, but I do think Jason was shrewd enough to do something like that. He had to get rid of the body somewhere; might as well create confusion with it.”

“He showed he couldn’t be trusted when he whipped-in to Crawford, pardon the expression.” Shaker meant that Jason’s performance couldn’t be called whipping-in.

“Oh, and wasn’t that a moment?” she gleefully recalled. “Crawford called Ben last night to say he knew nothing about Jason’s crimes. Ben called me, and we had a good laugh.”

“He didn’t. I mean I hate his guts, but I don’t think he was part of it.” Shaker grimaced.

“Never underestimate the greed of the rich.” She drank a large gulp. “But I agree. I don’t think he knew anything. Couldn’t really be part of it, anyway. Too busy chasing hounds all over Jefferson County.”

They both laughed.

She got up again to check the bedroom light.“Still out. I’m glad he stayed last night.”

“I was shook up. You really must have been rocked.”

“Jason thought the boar would kill me. He would still be clean of murder if he was caught. Like I said, I was lucky. It’s funny; you know, it didn’t really hit me until I finally got home. Gray came with me, and I walked into the kitchen. Golly ran up with Raleigh and Rooster. Hit me like a brick.”

“That would be a hard way to die, gored to death.”

“Even if I didn’t die; imagine the damage?” She exhaled. “Scares me, those pigs. Always has.”

A pair of headlights shone into the windows.

Shaker stood up, holding his heavy cup.“Betty.”

“What’s she doing out here? She should be primping for church.” Sister stood up, too.

Betty cut her lights, got out, hurried through the cold, and knocked three times on the kennel door, which she then opened.“I couldn’t sleep.” She threw herself on Sister. “We almost lost you.”

Sister hugged Betty.“Honey, we might have lost you, too, or that beautiful Magellan.”

They were all crying again, wiping each other’s tears, then laughing.

“Big girls don’t cry,” Shaker laughed as he reached in his pocket for a clean handkerchief and handed it to Betty.

“You need it as much as I do,” she sniffled as she laughed.

“I’ll be manly and use the back of my hand.”

This sent them into fits of laughter—the laughter of relief, companionship, and deep love.

Betty hugged them both, then clicked the hot plate back on.

“You really came for tea,” Shaker kidded her.

Betty sat on the edge of the desk.“My legs are still shaky.”

“Know what you mean,” Sister confessed.

“Gray asleep?”

“Yeah. Rory stayed with Sam last night. It will be another three weeks before he can lift his arm up to get a shirt on. Wound stopped draining, though.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. At least that’s what they tell us.” Betty hopped off the desk to rummage through the teabag box, filled with odds and ends of tea. “What’s this?” She held up a gray packet.

“Pickwick. Strong. Don’t sell it in America,” Sister informed her.

“Are you going to miss church?” Shaker asked.

“I left Bobby a note to go without me.” Betty poured hot water into the cup, the Pickwick bag already releasing dark color. “Wasn’t Sybil incredible? Cool as a cuke.”

“Two toughest whippers-in in North America,” Shaker bragged.

“I’ll remind you of that when you tear me a new one out there.”

“Now, Betty, it’s been a long time since I cussed you.”

“I believe when we return you refer to it as a blessing.” She smiled. “But it has been a long time.”

“I’m lonesome,” Dragon howled from his sick bay quarters.

“I’ll see to him.” Shaker left.

“I spoke to Sybil last night,” said Sister. “She’s all right. She said what ran through her mind is that her boys no longer have a father, and she didn’t want to leave them motherless. She knew she had to aim true.”

“You know some women give up foxhunting when their children are small. Too dangerous,” Betty mentioned.

“Why would you want your child to grow up seeing you shy off from a little danger now and then? Teaches them to be wimps.” Sister had firm opinions about these things.

“Come on, you big baby.” Shaker opened the door to the feeding room, Dragon at his heels.

“You’re healing up nicely,” Betty complimented him.

“I want to hunt.” Dragon sat down.

“And I hear you ate some of Iffy’s bones.” Betty gravely pointed a finger at him.

“Dry as toast.”

Betty didn’t know what he’d said, but he made her laugh.

“I almost forgot. Gray gave me a titanium stock pin!” Sister said, excited. “Garvey had it made.”

“No kidding.” Betty was impressed.

“I’ll wear it next hunt.”

“Whose feast day is it? If I’m not going to church I want to know in case anyone asks.”

“You’re an Episcopalian,” Sister dryly replied. “However, it’s the day of St. Vincent of Saragossa, who was roasted on a gridiron, among other tortures, and died in 304 AD.” She thought a moment. “Awful way to go.”

“Think of Angel. Although it wasn’t awful. Peaceful really—but still, she was murdered.”

“She was, but when it’s your time, it’s your time. Iffy was the agent of her murder, and were she alive, she could be punished. But still, it was Angel’s time.” Sister took a deep breath, then handed her cup to Betty for more tea.

“Wasn’t Donny Sweigart a surprise?” Betty returned to yesterday’s drama. “When I heard back at the trailers I was surprised. He’s not but so smart, and I never took him seriously. I was wrong. He has courage. He helped save Sybil.”

“True enough. He could have stayed hidden. After all, he had two strong incentives.” Sister reached for the refilled cup.

“To save his life, you mean, since Jason didn’t know he was there. If he’d known there was a witness he would have shot him.”

“Good reason.” Shaker blinked.

“The other reason being that our dear Donny has been baiting foxes. He hasn’t set traps yet. He’s been putting out frozen globs of blood,” Sister told them.

“What good does it do frozen?” Shaker snorted.

“Well, that’s just it, but he figured the fabled January thaw has to happen. They enjoy the treat. He’ll put out more in the same place, but in a trap. Voila.” She paused. “He’s even using the discarded blood he picks up from the hospital. To save money buying chickens.”

“Sister, what the hell is he doing trapping foxes?” Shaker sat upright.

“Crawford,” she replied, one eyebrow shooting upwards.

“But he’s supposed to keep an eye out on dens for us!” Betty found this almost as scandalizing as Jason’s crimes.

“After I profusely thanked him, after Ben took a statement, I walked him away from the group and asked him. He said Crawford was paying one hundred dollars a fox.”

“Highway robbery.” Shaker’s voice rose.

“So what, now we buy back our own foxes? The ones originally in our coverts?” Betty’s face was flushed.

“Had a little talk with Donny. I said I’d give him a monthly stipend, find more work for him, but he absolutely must never remove one of our foxes.”

“Where will we get the money?” Betty knew the inner workings of the club.

“I have no idea, but I’ll find it somewhere,” Sister said with resignation.

“Dammit, he has a job at Sanifirm,” Shaker cursed.

“Which Crawford is trying to buy,” Sister replied.

“Oh, that’s great, just great.” Shaker rolled his eyes.

“But Donny likes us. If we give him regular part-time work, I think all will be well.”

“How regular?” Betty stared at her teacup.

“Reading the leaves,” Sister laughed.

“I’d have to tear open the bag.”

“One thousand dollars a month,” Sister announced.

“Christ.” Shaker, although not bearing the weight of financial need, since he was a club employee, nevertheless cared for Jefferson Hunt and identified with it in every respect.

“Like I said, I’ll find it somewhere. And it won’t be this minute. The other thing”—she smiled—“he wants to go to court to change his name.”

“He wants to be called Jude,” Betty giggled.

“Brad,” Shaker laconically added with a twinkle in his eye.

“No. He wants to drop the junior. He said he hated being called Junior as a kid. I said I’d help.”

“Funny what affects people,” Betty mused. Then she changed the subject. “Forgot to ask you. I remember, then it slips out of my mind.”

“Old age.” Shaker lifted one eyebrow.

“Balls. We’re the same age. Too much going on,” Betty fired back. “How many spoons?”

“Sixty-one,” Sister immediately answered.

“What are you two jabbering about?” Shaker raised his eyebrows as Betty handed Sister another cup of tea.

“Every New Year’s I count all the spoons in the house. Mother used to do it. Now I do.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have an even number of spoons?” Betty pretended this was serious.

“Yes, you nitwit. Haven’t you ever lost a spoon?”

“Never,” Betty lied, face angelic.

“Spare me.” Sister laughed.

“It’s someone’s time. Sometimes I believe that and sometimes I don’t.” Betty looked from her master to her huntsman, returning to the deeper subject.

“Somerset Maugham wrote this in one of his books. I like Maugham,” Sister smiled. She was an avid reader. “A master and his servant were riding toward Mecca, and they met Death with a surprised expression on his face. The master turned his horse away from Death and raced to Samarra. The servant said to Death, ‘Why were you so startled to see my master?’ Death said, ‘I was surprised to see him here, as I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.’”

Both Shaker and Betty thought about this.

Shaker finally said,“You can’t outrun Fate.”

“Or old age,” Sister remarked. “’Course, you can slow old age down, throw marbles under his feet.”

Another set of headlights shone on the wall. The sun now cast long beautiful shadows over the snow. The stable and farm buildings glowed.

Dragon stood up.

Two doors slammed, although the second one took longer than the first.

A knock on the door soon followed.

“Come in,” Sister beckoned.

Tootie, Val, and Felicity trooped in.

Betty naturally assumed they were still upset over yesterday’s events.

“Sister, can we talk to you?” Val asked, ever the leader.

“You can, and you can talk in front of Shaker and Betty. Whatever you say stays here. We’re full of secrets.” She smiled.

Tootie looked at Shaker, then Betty, then Sister.“We need your advice.”

“We have a problem,” Val jumped in.

“No, we don’t.” Felicity showed a new, rebellious streak.

“Felicity, I can’t believe you’re saying that.” Val was ready for an argument.

“It’s not exactly a problem, it’s”—Tootie struggled—“new information.”

“It’s a goddamned problem,” Val blurted out, forgetting she was in the presence of adults, then quickly realizing it. “Sorry.”

“You owe me one dollar.” Felicity’s jaw set as she held out her hand.

“I can’t believe you.” Val pulled money out of her pocket, peeled off a dollar, and slapped it in Felicity’s hand, hard.

“Girls, it’s first light. This must be important.” Sister gently pushed them along.

“Felicity has lied to us.” Val seemed stricken.

“I didn’t lie. I didn’t know until I went to the doctor.” Felicity defended herself.

“Sure. You said you were allergic to flour!” Val’s face turned crimson.

“Val, put yourself in her shoes,” Tootie counseled.

“I’d rather not.” Val crossed her arms across her chest, then noticed that Dragon was observing every move.

Felicity finally said, in a calm voice,“I’m pregnant.”

Shaker stood up and offered Felicity his chair. That surprised her, for she hadn’t thought through all the consequences of her condition.

Betty, motherly, put her arm around Felicity’s shoulders.

Sister also stood, put her arm around Tootie, and pulled Val to her for a hug. Then she gave Felicity a big hug.“Everything will be fine.”

Sister burst into tears not because of Felicity’s news, not because of yesterday’s drama, but because deception, truth, death, and life were happening all at the same time. It was exactly as it should be.

6. THE TELL-TALE HORSE

CHAPTER 1

Dots of brightness sparkled in the night from electric fairy lights shaped like tiny candles on the denuded dogwoods lining the driveway. Slashes of yellow light spilled onto deep snow from the high windows in the ballroom. The brick Georgian building had settled into the landscape over the years, so that people viewing this scene from outside might have thought themselves in the eighteenth century. The faint music would have put an end to that reverie. No Mozart, but everything else a hunt ball could wish. The swirl of elegant people inside added to the beauty of the scene. It was Saturday night, February 16, and the Casanova Hunt Ball was in full swing. Only stars and tiny glittering lights offered relief from the blackness of a new moon, and it was bitterly cold. Perhaps that, too, fed the frenetic energy inside, for the moon always pulls on humans whether visible or not.

Jane“Sister” Arnold, Master of Foxhounds of the Jefferson Hunt, her escort, Gray Lorillard, and a large contingent of Jefferson members had come to the Casanova Hunt Ball. The two clubs enjoyed warm relations as well as a touch of competitiveness. The Jefferson Hunt members, whose own ball had beenmarred by a drunken scuffle and torn bodices, relaxed here. Surely nothing so tacky could happen at Casanova.

Seated at the master’s table were Bill and Joyce Fendley, joint masters of Casanova; their daughter, Jeanne Clark, now also a joint master; and her husband, John. Sister and Gray, Marion Maggiolo, and the entire Bancroft clan filled out the rest. Every table on the ballroom floor hosted at least one couple from JHC.Libations flowed, the dance floor was jammed, and Sister danced every dance as the gentlemen in attendance lined up to squire the master. Being Virginians, they performed this duty without thinking about it. No lady should ever sit out a dance unless she chooses to do so. Age, looks, and bloodline certainly improve a lady’s chances of further engagements, but all belles have to be treated as great beauties. It’s the custom.

In Sister’s case, the gentlemen truly enjoyed dancing with her. Seventy-three, a trim six feet, with shining silver hair and buoyant spirits, she had the gift of making a man feel like a man and she was a wonderful dancer.

Joyce Fendley, passing her on the floor, called over her partner’s shoulder, “Don’t you ever wear out?”

Sister laughed.“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

As the music ended, High Vajay, head of the Vajay family and a stalwart of the Jefferson Hunt, held out his gloved hand for Sister. His family called him Lakshmi, but the Virginians, fearful of murdering his given name, had nicknamed him High. It suited him, for he was tall and reed-thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, a handsome man who reveled in the high life. His wife, Madhur, now Mandy, had been Miss Cosmos in 1990; at thirty-nine, her stunning beauty had only intensified with age. Their children, eight and ten years old, were tucked in bed at home, two hours southwest of Fauquier County, where everyone was gathered.

“Master, you move like a panther,” High purred.

“Means I have claws.” She smiled up at him, a pleasure for her since she often looked a bit down at a fellow.

“I’ve seen them.” He held her tighter.

He had, too; there were moments in the hunt field when she had to wield her power, lest a hound, horse, or human be endangered, usually in that order.

After their waltz, High walked Sister back to her table, where she and Gray sat down at the same moment. The band took a break.

“What a party.” Gray grinned, his military mustache calling attention to his white teeth.

“Anytime I’m with you, darling, it’s a celebration.”

He kissed her on the cheek. For a year and a half they’d been keeping company, as Sister’s generation politely called it. They drew closer each day, but neither one was prepared to sayI love you.

But they did love each other. In fact, many of the people in this room loved each other, but they may not have recognized the feeling. Americans focus on romantic love, particularly the pursuit stage, glossing over the sustaining bonds of friendship, a condition Sister often thought of as love made bearable. She enjoyed the members of her club and loved a few with all her heart. There were Tedi and Edward Bancroft, friends for most of her life. She loved Betty Franklin, her first whipper-in, a prized position and sometimes a dangerous one. Betty Franklin, in her forties, stood talking to a group of people while Bobby, her husband, returned from the bar with her tonic water and lime.

Sister cast her eyes about the room and smiled, perhaps not realizing how very much she did care for many of those assembled but realizing she was happy: blissfully, rapturously happy.

Marion Maggiolo, owner of Horse Country, the premier emporium for foxhunting needs and other equestrian pursuits, swept back to the table, her thick gray hair, once liver chestnut, offsetting her perfect complexion. No woman could look at Marion without envying her incredibly creamy skin. The rest wasn’t bad either, for she knew how to put herself together, displaying the creative eye so evident in her store displays. Ladies may wear only black or white gowns to a hunt ball. Marion’s elegant white dress, clearly custom-made because it emphasized all of her best parts, was no exception tonight.

“This ball is a triumph,” Marion told Casanova’s masters, now back at the table.

Joyce, eyes sparkling, demurred.“We didn’t do a bad job.”

Bill, square-jawed, draped his arm over his wife’s back. “Joyce and the committee planned this better than the invasion of Iraq.”

“I don’t wonder.” Sister raised an eyebrow and the others laughed.

Slinking under the weight of black bugle beads, Trudy Pontiakowski, chair of the ball, made her way to Sister’s table.

Her face, tight around the eyes and mouth, bore testimony to her determination to look young; the plastic surgeon did the rest.

“Marion, no one is hopelessly inebriated. See?” She swept her hand to include the room.

“Not yet, Trudy.” Marion noted that Trudy herself was one drink away from the state she had just described.

“You could have lent us Trigger. He would have been perfectly safe.”

Trigger was the life-sized horse that Marion and her staff rolled out in front of the store each morning, usually reversing the process at night.

Joyce intervened.“Trudy, Trigger’s got an abscess.”

This made everyone laugh. Trudy, tipsy though she was, knew her master well enough to know this really meant,Shut up and leave Marion alone, so she left with a gracious nod.

Marion leaned toward Joyce.“Thanks.”

Joyce waved her hand in dismissal.“She’s a great social organizer, but not always as tactful as one might wish.”

Sister laughed.“At least she’s not a bulldozer.”

“Oh, well, we have a few of those, too,” Bill noted. “How can people open their mouths without thinking? The stuff that falls out!”

“Cost George Allen his Senate seat.” Gray referred to a popular Republican Senator who lost his reelection bid in 2006 thanks to loose lips.

“How do you keep from blurting out,You’re too dumb to have been born?” Sister asked Joyce.

“Count to ten. Ten again.” She added quickly, “Failing that, I do multiplication tables.”

“Wise.” Sister sipped from her champagne flute. “I bite my tongue because I really want to say,You asshole.”

They all laughed.

High returned with a portly middle-aged gentleman from Pune, a city two hours southeast of Mumbai, set amid rolling green hills, and addressed Sister.

“Master Arnold, this is Kasmir Barbhaiya. He just arrived.” He introduced Kasmir to Marion and the others.

“So sorry to be late.” Kasmir bowed. In white tie and gloves, his gold foxhead studs with ruby eyes twinkled.

“Welcome to Casanova.” Bill stood and shook hands. Kasmir, educated at Eton, Oxford, and finally MIT, spent a fortune on his clothes. Not only were they bespoke—specially made just for him—he patronized the same sartorial establishments as did the Prince of Wales. He and High had met at Oxford, their friendship ripening over the years until now they were as close as brothers.

“I will repent of my tardiness by condensing pleasure in fewer hours.” His dark eyes shone.

As they left the masters, High looked over his shoulder to wink at Sister.

“That High, he’s cooking up something,” Sister said, and winked back. Then she noticed Marion suddenly break into a forced social smile. Since Ilona Aldridge Merriman was approaching, she understood Marion’s frozen countenance.

“Why, you Casanova darlin’s have outshone us, yes, you have, and I am so pleased to be here.” Ilona deposited the Cristal she’d been toting onto the center of the table.

“How extravagant,” Joyce murmured appreciatively.

“Thank you, Ilona.” Bill lost no time in motioning a waiter to uncork the liquid treasure.

Two incredibly expensive facelifts over the decades did give Ilona a youthful appearance. Looks mattered to her perhaps more than to most women. She dieted with pathological precision, exercised religiously, and, to her great credit, hunted with abandon with Jefferson Hunt.

Turning her light blue eyes to Marion, Ilona flashed her own false smile.“Those marvelous earrings set off your thick hair. I still can’t believe you haven’t started to color your tresses, darlin’. Your natural sorrel color drove men wild. It’s harder to have that effect when one fades, so to speak. Not that you could fade, darlin’.”

“Your taste is impeccable, Ilona. Cristal.” Marion sidestepped the backhanded compliment.

“Master.” Ilona beamed at Sister.

“The rest of us get older. You get younger. You must have a painting in your attic.” Sister was alluding to that novel of psychological insight,The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“You flatter me.”

“Someone has to.” Marion fired a shot across the bow, enjoying Ilona’s struggle to keep her false bonhomie.

A flicker, then a cold reply came from lips shining with fresh lipstick.“Ramsey does nicely on that account.” She opened her arms to the table as the cork popped. “Enjoy your bubbly, and thank you, Masters Fendley, thank you.”

She slid from their table to the next, making her rounds.

“Guess she didn’t like your ball.” Marion arched an eyebrow.

“Balls.” Sister was fed up with Ilona, who showed up at meets behaving like the fashion police.

“Balls, said the queen. If I had two, I’d be king. If I had four I’d be a pinball machine.” Bill poured the champagne into flutes the waiter brought.

They laughed at the old chestnut, touching glasses.

Joyce leaned toward Marion.“She will never forgive you.”

“Balls.” Marion echoed Sister, causing more laughter.

“Speaking of balls, Ramsey operates on the use-them-or-lose-them principle.” Bill was in good form tonight, his broad smile accenting a strong masculine face.

Gray touched glasses again.“True enough, but if a man has taste and is fortunate enough to win the hand of the right woman, best to use them in one location.”

“My philosophy exactly.” Bill grinned.

“It was a good thing you said that, honey.” Joyce smiled like the Cheshire cat.

“Here’s what sets my teeth on edge.” Marion delighted in the sensation of exquisite champagne sliding down her throat. “My affair—brief, mind you, brief—occurred before Ilona married Ramsey. Twenty-five years ago! Get over it, lady!”

“Then what would she do? Ilona is loyal to her tragedies—intensely loyal, since they’re so small and she’s so spoiled.” Sister, among dear friends, could speak her mind. “But she is also loyal to her friends. She’s remained devoted to Cabel Harper, so loyalty obviously cuts both ways.”

Jeanne, in her thirties, the youngest at the table, looked at her husband, John, and asked,“Is this a generation thing? No one forgets anything?”

“Forget? Hell. They make half the stuff up to be important. A lot of people just love to suffer,” Bill said to his daughter, while John laughed.

“Perhaps the example of the two Marys at the foot of the cross inspired them.” Gray’s mustache twitched upward.

“I say give up the cross. Other people need the wood.” Sister laughed, then stopped abruptly, whispering, “Here comes my Mary. Deliver me!”

“Too late.”

Her Mary was Venita Cabel Harper, still hovering at forty-two although that age had been current for the last ten years.

Given the social catchet of Jefferson Hunt, she’d die before she’d resign but, like Ilona, Cabel had never forgiven Sister for a fling with Clayton Harper, her husband some eight years her senior. Sister and Clayton both considered it harmless, since it couldn’t last, and they knew it.

Because Clayton was married, Sister was cast as the evil vixen, and not just in Cabel’s mind either. Sex was Sister’s Achilles’ heel. Most times she could discipline herself, but every now and then she broke bad.

This being Virginia, discretion only went so far. Sooner or later you were found out. Some busybody, gender irrelevant, was forever scanning the horizon for gossip. But Sister had had ample time to repent her earlier indiscretions.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Joyce…Bill. Clayton and I will take our leave.” Cabel nodded pleasantly to Sister. “Beautiful gown, Master.” The joke was that Cabel never rode with Clayton, given his fondness for drink. She’d make sure they left together, but she would drive her own car.

“You look splendid as always, Cabel.”

“See you in the hunt field.”

As the frosted-blonde lady returned to her table to pick up her purse and her husband, Sister said sarcastically,“Venita happens to be an unusual, even lovely name. But her grandmother was a Cabell. Have you ever known a Virginian, even if related to that family only by once delivering flour to them, who can resist parading the name front and center?”

Joyce considered this.“Come to think of it, no.”

“Even the Randolphs don’t do that. They allow you to discover their grandeur over time.” Bill, like most state history buffs, appreciated the many advancements both Cabells and Randolphs had bequeathed to the state by their foresight and energy.

The surnameCabell contains twol’s but Cabel’s mother, choosing it as her daughter’s middle name, dropped one of them. Or so she said. Her enemies said she couldn’t spell.

“You know what I am.” Gray smiled conspiratorially.

“Famous for horsemen, beautiful women, a piercing mind, and a fondness for liquid refreshment.” Joyce diplomatically refrained from saying the Lorillards produced drunks generation after generation.

“True,” Gray agreed.

Marion’s naturally high spirits rose with the champagne. “Well, the Maggiolos are Johnny-come-latelies on the paternal side. They came from Genoa. Mother’s family arrived on theMay-flower. Theirs is an interesting match. Dad moved us to Fauquier County in the sixties. Glad he did.”

“We’re lucky to have you. We WASPs can be”—Sister searched for the right word—“too restrained.”

“Is itrestrained orconstrained?” asked Joyce, WASP herself.

“Constipated,” Bill interjected.

“Ah, still too restrained.” Gray laughed and then shrugged. “I should know. I’m a black WASP.”

It sounded contradictory in that WASP, of course, stands for white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, but Gray had absorbed the Lorillard culture minus the color. What he had that the others did not were the stories of his great-grandmother’s grandmother and grandfather, stories from another continent handed down along with a very large helping of grit.

“Retreating.” Marion noted that Cabel, her arm through that of the unsteady Clayton, appeared to be led out the door, the time being ten thirty. Actually, Cabel was leadinghim.

“It’s hard to believe, but once upon a time Clayton was gorgeous,” Sister mused.

“Too much lasagna.” Marion giggled.

“Do you think Cabel knows how to make lasagna?” Sister found this incongruous.

“Why not? She helped Clayton build his business. He had the idea; she had the energy. She can learn to do anything.”

Clayton installed unbelievably expensive sound and telephone systems in cars and trucks. The punch numbers for the radio, like a keyboard, also worked for the phone. A tiny speaker above the rearview mirror allowed the driver to talk while keeping both hands on the wheel.

“Exactly when did you favor Clayton with your person?” Bill put it delicately, knowing Sister wouldn’t be angry with him.

“Nineteen ninety-eight,” Gray answered.

For a moment, conversation stopped.

Finally Sister said,“You’ve done your homework.”

He took her hand in his.“I want to learn everything there is to know about you.”

“Not everything, please,” she replied. She’d only sipped half a glass, but the champagne had put her one step from giddy, since she rarely drank.

“Oh?” Gray’s eyebrows rose.

“A girl has to have some secrets.”

“Here, here!” Joyce raised her glass, as did the other ladies.

“You could give us a hint,” Bill said.

“Dad, then it wouldn’t be a secret,” Jeanne responded.

“One hint. I’ll divulge one. No man in this room has any idea of the time it takes to remove the hair on your body, do the hair on your head, polish your nails, apply makeup, and so on.” Sister lifted her hand.

“Shaving takes time,” Gray said, “especially if you have a mustache.”

“Hope I never do.” Sister laughed.

The rest of the evening continued in this vein, laughter, dancing, marvelous food, good liquor, and Cuban cigars for those gentlemen and a few ladies who donned their coats, repairing to the pristine outdoors to puff contentedly away, all the while cursing an embargo in effect since the presidency of John F. Kennedy, who had humidors packed with Cuban cigars, enough to last decades if he’d lived, poor fellow.

Finally the clock struck twelve. The band played on, but Gray rose and kissed Sister’s hand. “Honey, I’d better be going.” He had a meeting in Washington, even though it was Sunday, with the number-two man in the IRS. Gray, retired from the most prestigious D.C. accounting firm, was often called quietly, away from prying eyes, to counsel on tax matters. Capital gains was his specialty. He didn’t mind performing regular audits for businesses, though. Gray lacked haughtiness and, much as he had flourished among the powerful, he was equally happy sifting through the records of a small local company, working with the owner. He truly loved accounting, hard as it was formany people to understand, because it gave him insight into different types of businesses. It also made him an extremely shrewd investor. There was a time when a rich and powerful African-American excited comment. These days, fortunately, success was becoming more evenly distributed.

After Gray left, Marion touched Sister’s shoulder. “Ready?”

“Of course.”

Not wishing to drive the whole way back to her farm, Sister had accepted Marion’s invitation to spend the night in Warrenton. Marion lifted her spirits, making her laugh until the tears rolled down her cheeks. Also, she liked seeing Marion’s house. Whatever Marion touched became colorful, dramatic, splashed with a hint of flamboyance like Marion herself. Sister’s house,by contrast, was subdued, anchored in the eighteenth century.

Driving back to town, roads packed hard with snow despite the snowplows’ steady work, the two chattered about the ball and about politics.

“You should run for office,” Sister counseled.

“Never,” came the swift one-word reply.

“Marion, you have uncommon good sense. You’d never squander the taxpayers’ money.”

“That’s not what people want these days. They want false glamour, a smooth liar, and, above all, a pious hypocrite.”

“There are a few good people in the game.”

“I know, but I couldn’t do it. Could you?”

“Actually, I think I could. Would I enjoy it? No.”

“You know what? I forgot to bring Trigger in. Do you mind if we swing by the store? Won’t take but two minutes. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Trudy when I realized I’d left him outside. She would have run her mouth all over the ballroom. And I did say I was worried he’d be damaged. Got so busy trying to get out of the store on time that Trigger slipped my mind.”

“Let’s put Trigger in his stall,” Sister agreed.

“It’s not hard for two of us to move him inside.”

“It will be a treat, in high heels and snow.” The older woman laughed, although she didn’t mind getting her feet wet. It wouldn’t take long.

Driving in from the west, they turned onto Main Street, then right onto Alexandria Pike, moving slowly down the steep grade. There were two parking lots, one larger than the other; Marion pulled into the smaller one out front.

Both women stepped out, heels sinking into the packed snow, and did a double take.

“Those damn kids! This is what happens when I forget to take Trigger in.”

A beautiful naked model sat astride the life-sized statue.

Sister paused before wrenching her heel from the snow.“Looks real.”

“Trigger’s been saddled with gorillas and with witches for Halloween. And it always makes the newspaper, the photograph. They’re so slick, those kids. They do it right under my nose when the store’s open.”

The snow made a small popping sound as the two be-gowned women worked their way toward the horse statue, now burdened by the naked woman.

Sister grabbed Marion’s arm just as she was about to unlock the chain that anchored Trigger to the building. “Marion, don’t touch anything!”

“Why?”

“This isn’t a model.”

“What?”

The rider, ravishingly beautiful, jet-black hair and dark eyes, had her hands on Trigger’s neck as though holding his mane. Her mouth was slightly open. A tiny hole was visible over her left bosom, where her heart would be. Sister walked behind the dead woman to behold a small exit wound.

“She’s real!”

Marion followed Sister’s finger. “Oh, my God!”

“Whoever did this had plenty of time.” With the sangfroid that was typical of her in dangerous and difficult situations, Sister had already quickly absorbed the details.

“What makes you say that?”

“When a person dies they void themselves. She’s clean as a whistle.” Sister stepped back to study the body. “What a beautiful, beautiful woman, in the first flower of life.”

Marion, voice low, whispered,“Lady Godiva.”

CHAPTER 2

Marion called on her cell phone, and the two women waited for the sheriff in front of the store. The door was still locked.

“That’s one good thing. At least nothing is stolen.” Sister wrapped her arms around herself and kicked snow off her shoes.

“I hope not. There’s a downstairs door that the public doesn’t use but we do. It’s storage.”

Without another word, the two women carefully negotiated the steep steps down to the lower level. Despite being plowed two days ago, the area was packed hard again, thanks to the recent snowfall. The February sky glittered with stars so bright some shone blue-white.

Marion fetched her car keys from her pocket, pressing the tiny LED light on the chain. A narrow bright-white beam illuminated the doorknob.

Relief filled Sister’s voice. “Nothing is smashed.”

Marion placed the key in the lock, but the door swung open without a click.“That’s odd.”

Sister knelt down.“It’s cut clean through. The tongue of the lock is in the door.”

Marion, face ashen now, grabbed Sister’s forearm. “Maybe he’s still in the store.”

“Do you have a gun in there?”

“No.”

Sister spied a box of twitches, a device used on the lip to make horses stand still for things they might not like, such as getting their mane pulled. A small loop of chain was embedded in a three-foot heavy wooden dowel. She grabbed one.“I’ll go first. If he’s in there, I want to get him.”

“It’s my store. I should go first.” Marion plucked a twitch out of the box too.

“I’m six feet tall and a master. I’m used to physical…” Sister’s voice trailed off as her foot touched the first stair. She flicked on the light, feeling incredibly alive. Danger was her element.

Marion recognized the truth in Sister’s words. Sister Jane Arnold was tough as nails and surprisingly quick on her feet. Marion figured if Sister did whack someone, she could then help bring him down. Prudent and wise, not a woman to take an unnecessary chance, Marion was no coward. She thought Sister was reckless, heedless, but then most foxhunters are.

Sister hesitated at the top of the stairs that emerged into the tack and equipment room. The only sound was the slightwhir of the heating system, set at sixty at night to keep pipes from freezing. Marion reached up behind her to click on the lights for the first floor. Nothing seemed disturbed at first glance, but if the killer was also a savvy thief, he or she would head for the saddles, some of them $4,000 a pop.

They stepped into the next room, which contained liniments and other odds and ends crucial to horse people. In the distance Marion heard a siren.“Thank God,” she whispered.

Sister nodded.

They moved to the north wall, where the gorgeous English leather bridles hung, the saddles on racks before them. Not one had been moved. Carefully, they inspected every inch of the store, including the two dressing rooms and the smaller storage room next door. Everything was in order, except that the phone lines had been sliced through.

Marion checked the locked case where antique jewelry, Essex crystals, and foxhunting china was kept. Again, untouched. So were the cases by the cash register, which housed specially cast hunting horns, the size of whose bells helped to determine the tone. They could cost $300, give or take; a specially ordered silver one was truly expensive. All was in order here as well.

Red lights reflected through the windows at the front door.

“Why would someone go to all the trouble to cut that lock and leave this place intact?” Marion sank to the front counter.

“I don’t know.”

Both women instinctively scanned the long shelves right above the cash register, where items of extraordinary value were often displayed. These shelves ran at a right angle to each other, the longer of the two terminating not far from the front door. The bronze sculpture of a fox above the register stood, gorgeous as ever, awaiting a buyer with very deep pockets. Just as the sheriff reached the front door, Marion and Sister gasped.

“It’s gone!”

The John Barton Payne silver bowl, weighing thirty-five pounds with a two-foot diameter and engraved with past winners of the Warrenton Horse Show, had vanished along with the companion thirty-pound silver tray and the close to two-pound silver ladle. Its value was unmeasurable. The Warrenton Horse Show, owner of this impressive perpetual memorial trophy, would be disconsolate. Donated to the show in 1935, the sentimental value exceeded its monetary value.

It was two-thirty in the morning before Sister and Marion, finally in pajamas, collapsed in the living room, a fire roaring near their warmed feet. Though exhausted, neither could sleep.

During the ordeal, Sister had noted that Marion did not cry, whine, or complain about how awful this was. The younger woman had kept to the facts and answered the sheriff’s questions clearly. She showed him the cut lock and even had the presence of mind to hand him a detailed photograph pulled off the computer showing all sides of the punch bowl.

Given the hour, no one from the local paper was monitoring the sheriff’s calls, so they were spared the press, at least for now. No one recognized the slain beauty. The forensic crew and the ambulance struggled to remove her, tearing some skin in the process. Using warm water from the store bathroom, they carefully soaked the leftover patches until they could put the unstuck flesh into little plastic bags. Somehow, this process upset the two friends as much as discovering the body in the first place. The initial shock had been wearing off, but now the terrible event was becoming more real.

“Odd that a woman so stunning is a cipher. Beautiful women are generally noticed,” Sister mused.

“She could have been murdered somewhere else and then brought here by whoever killed her and cleaned her up,” Marion replied.

“But why would the murderer want to steal a punch bowl? You know there’s a photograph of me in the punch bowl, age two, along with a foxhound puppy?”

“All the more reason to find it.” Marion stared into the fire, every fiber of her body tired, her mind overwhelmed but still functioning. “Why my store?”

“Your store is central in town. Most everyone goes past it.”

“What if this is meant for me in some way?”

“Unfortunately, Marion, we can only wait and see.”

“I need to warn Wendy. This will blast her right out of bed, but she’ll forgive me.” Wendy Saunders had worked in the store with Marion for years. “I suppose I should call my brother too, even though it’s closing in on the hour of the wolf.” She meant between three and four in the morning.

“The Romans had a saying, ‘Man is wolf to man.’”

“In this case, woman.” Marion punched in the numbers, then listened with a flash of disgust. “Damn these things. They never work when you need them.” She hurled the cell phone into the fire, where it began popping within seconds.

It was the one outburst of emotion she had allowed herself.

Sister nodded approvingly.“God, I wish I’d done that. Half the time my damn cell phone doesn’t work either.”

A bit of tension ebbed away as the plastic cell phone melted, taking all the information Marion had encoded there into the fire.

CHAPTER 3

Leg-breaking weather, Sister thought to herself. Just a few inches of slick mud masked frozen ground underneath.

The bite in the air kept hounds, horses, foxes, and humans alert. It was Tuesday, February 19, three days after the Casanova Hunt Ball, and the victim remained unidentified. Marion’s store had closed one day to accommodate further forensics but was now open. When Sister went home Sunday afternoon, her friends had rallied around, the bizarre circumstances of the murder having made the news stations. The corpse stayed cold and covered at the morgue, so there were no photos of her, but Trigger flashed across local television screens and made the newspapers.

Foxhunting, thank the gods, swept away the cares of this world, even cares as disgusting as murder. A lapse in concentration could mean missing the fox or, worse, the jump. A fall on this greasy mud meant a cleaning bill at the very least and perhaps a broken bone. It was called leg-breaking weather for good reason.

The fox cared little for this. A stout field of twenty-five people was gathered on a hill overlooking old Tattenhall Station, an abandoned white board-and-batten building still exuding a forlorn charm. Hounds had picked up the perfume of a young red dog fox looking for a girlfriend behind the abandoned station.

Courting season usually started in mid-January for gray foxes, while reds took up the siren call of love in February. This bright, cheerful youngster, new to romance, was still learning the ways of the female. He’d run a beautiful six-mile loop, leading them right back to their starting point. Sister reflected impishly that all the higher vertebrates took their time with this process, and some males never did figure it out.

Shaker Crown, huntsman, dropped his feet out of the stirrups and wiggled his toes, praying for circulation. Sister, observing her longtime hunt servant and friend, kicked her feet out of the stirrups as well, a tingle occurring in her toes immediately, followed by mild pain. Cold took its toll but hunting is a cold-weather sport. They were used to it, even if they did sometimes shiver. She couldn’t feel her fingers. Sister believed foxhunting toughened you up. Rarely did she or other club members suffer the full effects of flus or colds; their immune systems were cast iron.

Horses stamped their feet, splatters of mud and snow squishing out from shod hooves. Tedi and Edward Bancroft rode immediately behind Sister. Four talented high school seniors from Custis Hall, a private girls’ academy, rode in the rear as was proper. Joining first flight, the jumpers, as a capper was Kasmir Barbhaiya in black tails (also called a weaselbelly coat), top hat, white cords, and custom-made boots. Riding one of the Vajay’s Thoroughbreds, Kasmir proved impressive. Behind them, grateful for the check and breathing time, stood second field, Bobby Franklin in charge. Everyone’s cheeks glowed with high color.

Dragon, a bold fourth-year hound ever impatient of leisure—and he considered a check leisure—grumbled.“There’s a fox behind the church at the crossroads. Why doesn’t Shaker take us there?”

Asa didn’t bother to look at the upstart hound.“Trust the huntsman.”

“We’ve only run for an hour.” Dragon stood.

“Shut your trap,” Cora, strike hound and leader growled.“Shaker will think we’re babbling.”

Dragon’s littermate Diana wondered how her brother could be so blockheaded when her other brother, Dasher, overflowed with good sense.

Even the first-year entry, taken out two at a time so as not to overload the pack with youngsters, displayed more good manners than Dragon.

A light breeze had picked up since first cast at nine o’clock. It blew from the west with a bite and the riders, sweating from the long hard run, felt a slow chill seep in.

Sister turned around.“Scent will hold, don’t you think, Tedi?”

“Stick like glue.” Tedi and Ed were perfectly turned out, as usual. Sister scanned the horses. None looked blown. While it is the riders’ responsibility to see to their mounts, an awful lot of riders were not horsemen. They really didn’t know when a horse had had enough and should be taken in. Sister would politely tell such persons that their horses were tucked up and they should return to the trailers. While she never rejoiced in a human being hurt, the mistreatment, even through ignorance, of a horse upset her more.

A trickle of sweat rolled down her backbone. She’d half turned from the wind. Her undershirt now felt like a cold compress against her skin.

The layers of clothing a foxhunter wears, tested by centuries of use, protects the rider, but sooner or later, a wet cold will creep in. The mercury, hanging at 40 degrees Fahrenheit, intensified the dampness. A snow, even though the temperature would be 32 degrees or colder, often felt warmer than these conditions.

Thick pewter clouds hung low. It surely was a good scenting day.

Flanking Shaker on the left was Betty Franklin on Magellan, tested and tried as a whipper-in; Sybil Bancroft Fawkes was on the right, riding Postman, still as a statue. Sybil, owner of two Thoroughbreds, loved the breed for their heart and stamina.

Horses adore this kind of weather. Since they originated in cool savannahs, forty to the low fifties feels like heaven to them. Humans prefer the low seventies, which feels too warm to horses, but they manage it.

Shaker, Betty, and Sybil counted heads.

“All on,” Shaker said, which meant all the hounds were together. “Let’s walk down toward Chapel Cross. We might pick up something along the way, and we’ll be heading cross wind.”

Both whippers-in nodded and moved a bit farther away from the pack. There was no need to speak, since a whipper-in does not question the judgment of the huntsman or the master. Oh, they may do so in private, but when hunting the protocol is much like that in battle: You obey your superior officer and get the job done.

Sister smiled when she observed Shaker turning the beautiful pack, a balanced and level pack, north toward Chapel Cross. It had taken her decades to create a level pack. Whatever some blowhard may say to the contrary, there is no shortcut to a great pack of hounds. A master breeds for nose, cry, biddability, good conformation, and, of course, drive. What’s the point of having a fabulous-looking pack of hounds, with voices like the bells of Moscow, if they don’t want to hunt?

Dragon was a smart-ass but his drive was exhilarating. He shot ahead of the pack.

“Back to ’em.” Betty spoke sharply to him, her crop held on the pack side of Magellan so hounds could see it.

“He’s a lot of work, that twit.” Magellan snorted, two streams of air shooting out from his flared nostrils.

Betty, somewhat understanding her fellow, patted him on the neck. After two years, they’d finally become a team, trusting each other.

The board-and-batten of the railroad buildings, white with Charleston-green trim, stood out from the muddy background, streaks of snow gleaming in crevices and the north sides of hills. Norfolk and Southern, the railroad company, had provided the point as a courtesy to local residents. Although Tattenhall Station had been abandoned in the 1960s, the locals maintained it and even decorated it for the holidays.

The pack had reached the railroad track and crossed it, with the small station, a little gingerbread on the eaves, now behind them, when Cora opened,“Here!”

The other hounds, noses down, honored her, and the whole pack, in full cry, flew over the lower meadow on the eastern side of the station and turned northward, again cross wind.

Sister, on Aztec, a young horse but quick to learn, kept at an easy gallop, behind the pack but not close enough to crowd them. They crossed the tertiary two-lane road and vaulted over a row of trimmed hedges, which made for a lovely jump, slippery on the other side.

The pace quickened. Aztec lengthened his stride and took a long three-foot-six-inch coop, which sagged a bit in the middle; perhaps it was only three-two there. His hind end skidded on the other side, but he quickly got his hooves under him and pushed off. Behind her, Sister could hear thesplat of hooves as they sank into the mud and then gathered steam to surge forward.

The fox, whom no one could see, since he had a considerable head start, ran a huge serpentineS. Hounds had to work very hard to stick to his line, thanks to the wind changes, and in one low swale the wind swirled. Sister could see the little wind devil, small snow sparkles in the air, which then disappeared as she rode straight through it.

The fox headed toward Chapel Cross, no evasions now. A neck-or-nothing run saw hounds stretched flat out, sterns behind them, long sloping powerful shoulders illustrating the wisdom of good conformation, as the animals could reach far out with their front legs. Deep chests allowed plenty of heart girth and, behind, powerful loins and quarters, like a big engine in a Porsche, pushed them seemingly effortlessly forward.

The music filled the countryside. In the far distance, Sister saw Faye Spencer hurry out onto her front porch, pulling on a parka. Faye, widowed young when her husband was killed in the second Iraq War, waved. Sister took off her cap, two short ribbons streaming, and waved back. She made a mental note to stop by Faye’s for a visit; she hadn’t seen her since the hunt Christmas party. Where did the time go?

Faye, quite good-looking, hadn’t lacked for suitors once a year passed after Gregory’s death. She appeared in no hurry to favor anyone.

Valentina“Val” Smith, one of the students from Custis Hall, caught Cabel Harper shooting Faye the bird and raised her eyebrows.

A double fence line between two pastures loomed ahead, a coop in each fence and a bounce in between which meant no stride; the horse must clear one coop and then immediately launch to clear the second. Sister liked bounce jumps so long as she remembered to keep her leg on her horse. Sometimes she would become so enthralled with the hound work that she took a jump without realizing it. Thank God, her horses were fabulous and loved to hunt. They could think for her.

Aztec, a bit younger than her other hunters, did need more attention, so as he launched smoothly over the first coop she clucked when he landed, giving him a hard squeeze, hands forward, and if he thought to hesitate he gave no sign of it. He took the second coop a little big; she lost her right stirrup iron on the muddy landing. No matter. Foxhunters learn to pick up stirrup irons on the run, and it’s a poor trainer who doesn’t teach his or her charges such valuable lessons. This isn’t dressage at Devon. This is survival. Ride without if you must.

Fishing for the stirrup iron longer than she would have wished, Sister finally slipped her boot into it—couldn’t feel her toes anyway—and turned her head for a moment to see how her field was negotiating the bounce jump.

Ilona Merriman, riding a half-Thoroughbred half-warmblood mix, hit it perfectly. Behind her, Cabel Harper bobbled on the second jump but hung on, laughing when she righted herself. Saturdays their husbands hunted too. Good thing this was a Tuesday, because neither Ramsey nor Clayton were good riders. Chances are the bounce jump would have unhorsed them.

Interesting as the sight was, Sister turned away from the spectacle as hounds now roared like an organ, full throttle.

The pack ran close together, Cora and Dragon fighting for the lead, Diana, anchor hound, steady in the middle front. If hounds overran the line, Diana usually brought them back. If she failed, the tail hounds, older, a touch slower but very wise, called the pack back to rights. All young entry—Peanut and Parson of the P litter, Ammo and Allie of the A litter—acquitted themselves with honor.

No overrunning today for this young red. Tricks exhausted, or too young to know more, he now flew for all he was worth. Well, he sure was worth a great run. Fifteen minutes later, the pack dug into his den behind the tidy Episcopal Church at Chapel Cross. Shaker dismounted, blew“Gone to Ground,” and got back up. He couldn’t feel his feet either. It was a happy huntsman that turned for home. Sister, too, felt exhilarated at how beautifully her hounds had worked.

Wind at their backs made the twenty-minute ride a trifle more pleasant. Close to Tattenhall Station, the tertiary state road, stone and crushed stone now mud, made the going slower.

A field master can ride in front alone when the hunt is done or allow people to come up and chat. Three years ago, an old lover of Sister’s, who had long become a precious friend, passed away. She and Peter Wheeler had so often ridden back together that she’d spent the first half of the season after his death holding back her tears and riding alone. She’d gotten herself together a bit by the second half and begun chatting withfolks again on the ride home. She could now remember Peter with warmth and gratitude for his gifts to her.

Today Tedi, Edward, and Gray all came alongside.

Bunny Taliaferro, riding coach at Custis Hall, rode right behind. Anne“Tootie” Harris, Val Smith, Felicity Porter, and Pamela Rene, all students, had earned the privilege to go out with Jefferson Hunt. After each ride they were required to write about their experiences, bringing in geography, topography, plants, animals, weather conditions, and history. They’d be able to fill pages today, since Tattenhall Station mirrored the history of America’s railroads, particularly the spur lines.

Back at the trailers, most people checked their horses, removed bridles and martingales, took off saddles, and threw rugs in their stable colors over their horses’ backs. Sister loosened the girth of her saddle but didn’t take it off. She worried about the cold on that big sweaty spot even with a nice heavy blanket on the horse.

Tootie came up.“Master, Val’s taking care of Iota”—she named her horse—“so I can take care of Aztec.”

Sister handed her Aztec’s bridle, squeezing Tootie’s shoulder. She just loved this kid. “Thanks, honey.”

Jennifer Schneider, a new member, already had the table set up, and people brought their dishes to it. Jefferson Hunt tailgates flourished in sleet, snow, or rain. Occasionally they had the use of a building, but no matter what this group could eat.

High Vajay, talking to Garvey Stokes, owner of Aluminum Manufacturing, nodded when Sister approached them.

“Master, what a wonderful hunt. Thank you.” High’s manners added to his considerable appeal. “I want you to have a chance to talk to my college friend. Once Garvey and I resolve the economy, I’ll bring Kasmir to you.”

Sister didn’t even try to untangle the caste system of India, but she knew whatever High was it was at the top. He’d started out in the diplomatic service but quickly realized he’d be at the whim of changing administrations, so he took a job at Craig and Abrams, a large multilayered electronics corporation. Intelligent and driven, he had steered his division toward wireless phones twenty years ago and retired at forty-five. He’d learned to love Virginia when working in Washington, D.C., for half a year for the company. He’d vowed to return, and two years ago, a free man, he did. Once nestled in the Blue Ridge foothills, none of the Vajays ever looked back.

“How are you doing?” Garvey took Sister’s gloved hand in his.

She’d been his master when he was a child, and earlier this year she had helped him through a dreadful time. He thought of her as a second mother but wisely did not say so. Most women in the company of handsome younger men do not wish to be considered motherly.

“I’m all right, but what a jolt.”

“How’s Marion?” High inquired.

“Watchful but okay. Obviously, we’re all worried for her. The sheriff still doesn’t know who the woman is—I mean, was.”

“He’s thorough. He called my wife and then me. I guess he figured anyone from India would know someone else from India.”

“Doesn’t India have over a billion people?” Garvey asked, his thick eyebrows rising upward. “And six million of them have AIDS?”

“True.” High couldn’t resist reaching for a tiny cinnamon bun, although he resisted commenting on the AIDS explosion, which could undermine, in time, much of India’s recent gains. “But that wasn’t as na?ve as it might seem, because expatriates in any country often find one another. He e-mailed me photos. I didn’t recognize her.”

“It’s possible she’s an American citizen of Indian descent,” Sister opined.

Garvey smiled.“We have everything here.”

“You have us.” High slapped him on the back.

Valentina and Felicity waited for Sister to leave the men.

“Girls.”

“No one fell off. With this footing. A miracle.” Val got to the point, part of her direct character. “No bottles.”

If someone came off, a bottle was owed to the club.

As senior class president, the tall lovely blonde exuded a natural air of authority. She was one inch taller than Sister, which made Sister smile, since rarely was she topped by another woman.

“You didn’t get one bottle.” Felicity smiled shyly, a young lady of unforced reserve yet warm.

“I know, and the bar is getting low.”

“If we come off you only get a six-pack of soda.” Val turned. “Here comes the African queen.”

She teased Tootie, diminutive at five foot four and lavishly gorgeous. Tootie was African-American, hence“African queen.” Tootie was high yellow, a term only old folks, black and white, would have used. Tootie’s skin, creamy, shimmering like light caf? au lait, signified someone of high blood from way back. Tootie didn’t give a damn about any of that in any case; her generation hadn’t suffered from racism to the degree that their parents had. Good as this was, it didn’t mean there wasn’t a reservoir of stupidity out there for which these youngsters were often unprepared.

“If I were Tootie, I’d hit you in the mouth,” Felicity said quietly.

“Ef you.”

“Val, one dollar. Actually two. That was ugly.”

The three girls had made a pact at the beginning of their senior year that when any one of them swore they had to give Felicity, the banker, one dollar. At the end of their senior year, this ever-growing sum would go to a party.

Pamela Rene, also African-American, walked with Tootie. The two didn’t much like each other, but most times they managed a truce.

Pamela smiled at Sister.“Thank you, Master.”

“You’re most welcome.” Sister was pleased that Pamela’s hunting manners were up to form, for one should thank the master.

“The pack”—Tootie paused, eyes shining—“you could have thrown a blanket over them.”

One of the many reasons Sister so loved this seventeen-year-old was the girl loved hounds. She rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride.

“I was proud of them. The four young ones in there ran like old pros,” Sister agreed.

She’d seen these girls grow up in their years at Custis Hall as she’d seen so many juniors in her over thirty years as master. All people under twenty-one were usually styled juniors for foxhunting clubs and the dues were much lower than for those of voting age. When a young person came back aftercollege, more likely returning to hunting in their early thirties, she was wildly happy. She hoped these girls would find their way back to her or, if not to her, then to another master at another hunt.

“Sister, I’ve gotten an early acceptance at Ol’ Miss.” Pamela beamed.

“You didn’t tell me.” Val shot her mouth off before Sister could reply. “Oops, sorry.”

“Congratulations, Pamela. I know you Custis Hall ladies will receive other acceptances. Any college would be fortunate to have you.”

“I really want to go to Ol’ Miss.” Pamela truly was excited.

Anything to put distance between her super-rich magnate father and her critical former-model mother. Oxford, Mississippi, was a long whistle from Chicago, where the Renes lived.

“Her mother will kill her,” Val said offhandedly.

“Well, Pamela, you’ll make the right decision.” Sister considered her words carefully. “No one wants to disappoint her parents, but you have to follow your heart, you know.” She winked. “Takes a Yankee girl with guts to go down into the Delta.”

Pamela’s face registered the compliment. “Thank you, Master.”

Val giggled and said to Sister in a low voice.“Mrs. Harper shot the bird at Mrs. Spencer.”

Sister’s eyebrows raised. “Whatever for?”

Val shrugged, and Sister shook her head at this odd deed.

Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, a boyhood friend of Sister’s deceased son, called out, “Master, we need you.”

She turned to see Ronnie, her joint master Walter Lungrun, Betty, Bobby, and Sybil and wondered what it could be. Well, they were smiling so it couldn’t be too bad.

“Excuse me, girls.” As she walked toward the adults she wondered what she could do to help Felicity, two months pregnant. Her parents didn’t know; Charlotte Norton, headmistress at Custis Hall, didn’t know. The hunt season would be over in less than a month. Sister had the feeling that a lot was going to happen between now and then, and not just to Felicity.

“Are you all ganging up on me?” Sister put one hand on Ronnie’s shoulder, another on Walter’s, drawing the two men near her.

They slipped their arms around her small waist.

Betty, hand on hip, shook her head.“You are shameless with men.”

Ronnie, who adored Betty as most members did, said,“She’s tall, gorgeous, and rides us all into the ground. You’re shorter, pretty as a peach, but so-o-o married. All that virtue”—he clucked—“so dull, darling.”

Betty laughed.“It’s true. Should I have an affair just to prove I can do it?” She paused, glancing at her husband, overweight and suffering on another diet. “Can’t do it. I’m still crazy about the guy.”

Walter, still on an adrenaline high from the chase, squeezed Sister closer to him.“Ronnie, let her go. She’s mine.”

“Never,” Ronnie replied. “Let me cut to the chase, Master. As you know, Kilowatt is available.”

Kilowatt, a fantastic Thoroughbred, was formerly owned by a physician now deceased. His estate evidenced little desire to pay board bills. The executor, Cookie Finn, a lawyer of unimpeachable reputation, had approached Walter.

Sister nodded.“I see. He’s a fine horse.”

“Your bench is deep enough, but Shaker has only Showboat, Hojo, and Gunpowder.” Ronnie pushed on. “Showboat is fourteen. Hojo is eight, plenty of good years there, but Gunpowder, great as he is, is eighteen. We should buy Kilowatt for Shaker.”

“Ronnie, I can’t believe you’re suggesting we dip into the treasury. You’re usually tight as a tick, plus we’ve lost the wonderful monetary gifts Crawford used to make. That really hurts.”

Crawford Howard was a wealthy member who had resigned from the club in a huff.

“I know, I know.” Ronnie let go of her waist and held up his hand to stay protest. “What I would like to do, with your permission, is pass the hat. It is the responsibility of the club to mount professional staff. We aren’t rich enough to perform this service via our much-called-upon treasury, but if I can canvass the elected”—he used the word Calvinists use for those with a ticket straight to heaven—“might could.”

Betty put in her two cents.“Sister, everyone knows we took a big hit when Crawford pissed off. Forgive my French.”

“Guess they do,” the older woman agreed.

“I’ll put up five hundred. I’m sure Mom and Dad will be generous,” Sybil volunteered.

“Honey, your mother and father give so much to this club I’d be embarrassed to ask for more.”

“I’m not.” Ronnie smiled.

“We know that.” Sister smiled back at him. She looked to Walter.

“I don’t see any other way.” Walter slid his hand from her waist to hold her right hand.

“Before I say yes, how much?”

“Fifteen thousand. He’s been vetted sound, by the way,” Ronnie added. “Cookie started at twenty-five. Really, Kilowatt would be snapped up at that price if he were shown at the northern Virginia hunts.”

“That’s the truth.” Sister acknowledged the deep pockets riding in those fabled hunts, as well as the fact that Kilowatt was supremely talented as well as beautiful.

“I give my blessing with one caveat: Go to the Bancrofts last. See if you can’t secure the sum before leaning on Tedi and Edward.”

“I promise.” Ronnie inclined his head, a polite bow to his superior.

“All right, then. Let’s do the shake-and-howdy.” Sister kissed Ronnie on the cheek, then Walter.

“What about me?” Betty pretended to pout.

“All right.” Sister made a face, then kissed Betty. “Sybil, I have enough for all.” She kissed the much younger woman’s cold cheek. “Now come on, we’ve got to mix and mingle. We have cappers.”

Cappers were guests, people who joined the hunt for the day, paying a cap fee. They always added a little dash of paprika to the stew.

Ben Sidell, sheriff, drove up in his squad car slowly, the road being slick.

“You missed a good one,” Sister said in greeting him.

“I’ll be out Saturday. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by.”

“Trouble?”

“Someone shot out Faye Spencer’s barn light. Nothing major.” He waved to Val, who noticed him.

“Give everyone the benefit of your personality,” Sister teased him.

High Vajay bounded up, wearing his dark navy frock coat, top hat, and cream string gloves, then slipped on the ice, going down on one knee.

“That’s how you should address your master.” Sister made light of his predicament and reached out her hand, which he grasped for balance to stand.

“Mandy looked out the window this morning and declined to brave the elements. She’ll be sorry when she hears how good it was. I’m delighted I came out.” He paused. “People think India is hot, but we come from the north by the mountains. Snow and ice descend upon us, but I must confess I never hunted in cold weather before moving here.”

“High, it was a lucky day when your family came on board.” She meant it; their buoyant spirits and natural warmth lifted everyone up.

Kasmir, stepping much more carefully, joined them.“A most delightful day. Thank you, Master.”

“Mr. Barbhaiya,”—she breathed an inward sigh of relief that she had remembered his name correctly—“we are honored to have you. Your turnout is perfect and, sir, you can ride!”

Pleased, he smiled, his teeth sparkling under his bushy mustache.“I find myself in London often. I do believe the best tailors for gentlemen are on Jermyn Street.” Indeed, the street he named was famous for such establishments.

“No doubt, although should you ever find yourself in Lexington, Kentucky, there is a tailor on Red Mile Road, Le Cheval, who does a credible job. I have my vests and coats made there. And you must go to Horse Country. That’s where I buy everything else, plus the really heavy winter frock coats are just the warmest. The clothing is ready-made but alterations can be effected.”

“Ah, yes, I stopped into that enticing establishment.”

High laughed.“He made Marion very happy. Three thousand dollars happy.”

Kasmir lifted his eyes to heaven.“Ah, I am a weak mortal. When Miss Maggiolo took me under her wing I became distracted by her skin, her mane of steel-gray hair, her very graciousness.”

Bemused, Sister asked,“Did you convey these sentiments to my dear friend?”

“I conveyed a bottle of Mumm de Cr?mant via messenger after I left the store. This was the Saturday morning of the ball. I was favored by two dances that evening and a t?te-?-t?te stroll down the hall.” He paused. “I am not a handsome fellow like High here. I am middle-aged, portly, and awidower. It will take a long siege, I think, to gain favor with Maid Marion.”

“Mr. Barbhaiya, Marion is not superficial, I can promise you. A good kind heart will count heavily in your favor. And, sir, you underrate your looks.” She thought to herself how subtle he had been to send Mumm de Cr?mant and not a flashy brand.

This especially delighted him. For all his sparkling personality, he was a lonely man in the small hours and wondered if he would ever again find a woman to truly love him and not his money.“Please call me Kasmir. I would be honored.”

“Kasmir, the honor is mutual.”

“He’s going to settle here,” High declared matter-of-factly. “Leave Mumbai forever. Kasmir says his late wife came to him in a dream and told him he would find happiness here.”

Kasmir blushed.“It is true.”

“If there is anything I can do to help you, please allow me to do so.” Sister genuinely meant this. She understood how it felt to lose your spouse and force yourself to go on.

“I am most obliged. Good evening, Master.” He bid her farewell correctly, even though it was just noon.

Sister was thrilled Kasmir gave the proper address of“Good evening, Master.” As the two men started to walk away, she stepped forward. “Kasmir, excuse me.” The two men stopped. “Norfolk and Southern will sell Tattenhall Station, three hundred acres surrounded by commanding views and some gorgeous building sites.” She paused. “And as High owns Chapel Cross”—this was the estate named for the crossroads—“you would be country neighbors. I can give you the number of the person to call. The company has at long last decided to sell these small stations, while still retaining rights to the spur lines, the actual tracks. The only reason I know this is because the decision was made just last week. A friend of mine is a corporate officer and knows how much Tattenhall Station means to us. It will be publicly offered next month.”

After writing out the number, Sister made her way to the tailgate but was waylaid by Cabel Harper.“I was so sorry to hear what happened to you and Marion after the ball. It must have been a terrible shock.”

“It was.”

“Makes you wonder.”

“Does,” Sister agreed. “By the way, Ilona mentioned how wonderful she thought the Casanova Ball was.”

Both women looked to Ilona, now conversing with Kasmir and High.

“The decorations exceeded my expectations. Did Trudy Pontiakowski come up with the theme? She was the chair, you know.” Cabel rubbed her cold hands together.

“Trudy never does anything halfway. I expect the theme was voted on by the ball committee and passed by the masters.”

“Why don’t we try a theme next year? Our decorations are too predictable.”

“That’s a good idea.” Sister waited a moment, smiled, and then sprang, just like a fox leaping on an unsuspecting mouse. “Please accept the honor and the hard labor of being next year’s ball chairman. You’re so creative.”

Cabel, knowing she was caught but rising to the challenge, said,“I will. And I know beforehand it will be one long agony with Ronnie over the budget.”

“That’s possible, but given your persuasive powers I’m sure you can get things donated. You have a wealth of contacts.”

“I’m going to start right this minute. Ilona doesn’t know it, but she’s donating a winter’s supply of bottled gas for the auction.”

The Merrimans owned a local gas company, selling natural gas and oil to heat houses. Their reputation for service was spotless. Ramsey ran the company, the third generation of Merrimans to do so, while Ilona successfully played the stock market.

Sister watched as Cabel spoke to Ilona, who seemed to brighten during the conversation.Praise a fool, Sister thought to herself.

Later, back in the kennels, horses put up, rubbed down, and very happy, Sister went over the list of hounds who had hunted that day.

Shaker fed everyone, checked them for cuts and soreness, and then put the girls back with the girls, the boys with the boys.

Both humans were grateful for the quiet time together in the functional office, filled with photos of Jefferson Hunt dating back to 1887.

“Good idea today, swooping down to Chapel Cross.”

Shaker rubbed some cream into his hands, now sore and chapped.“Thanks, but on fine scenting days any huntsman looks good.”

“True, it’s the in-between days that show up a good huntsman. On the bad days, Jesus H. Christ himself couldn’t get a fox up.”

Shaker smiled.“Maybe he could.”

“Well, all right. Say, I heard they got the roof on Crawford’s chapel. St. Swithin will be pleased.”

“Asshole.”

“St. Swithin? He’s a good saint.”

“Crawford.” Shaker laughed. “Good he got it under roof, though. He must have three crews working there.”

“Sam says he’s possessed.”

Sam Lorillard was Gray’s brother, a talented horseman and recovering alcoholic.

“Whose day is it today?” Shaker asked.

“Empty.”

“Really?”

“According to myOxford Dictionary of Saints it is,” Sister replied.

She possessed an odd talent for dates and kept the saints’ days for herself, feeling those former figures deserved to be remembered. She’d consult her saints’ book if she couldn’t recall whose feast day it was. February 19 was the day Henry the Fourth defeated the rebels at Bramham Moor in 1408, and the beginning of the battle of Iwo Jima in 1945, which lasted until March 17.

“Hmm,” was his reply. “I’ve been thinking.”

“I’m scared.” She tapped him with the clipboard with the hound names on it.

“No, really. About what happened in Warrenton.” His craggy face, serious, briefly made him look older than his forty years. “Do you think that woman was put there for Marion to see as a warning?”

“I don’t know. She was meant as some kind of warning. Whether it was for Marion or not, who knows?”

“And that huge punch bowl was stolen, right?”

“Yes. That thing is heavy. I lifted it once to help Marion clean it.”

“You and Cabel keep competing for it in the Corinthian Hunter Class. Actually, a lot of our members want their names inscribed on that bowl. Worth a fortune.”

“Worth a lot, that’s for sure. But you know, Shaker, it doesn’t add up.”

“No, it’s like one of those in-between days you mentioned for scenting. You have to find a line, and even when you do, it breaks. Hounds cast and find again. The day is like that, hard close work between huntsmen and hounds, but you can turn it into reasonably good sport if you and hounds keep thinking, keep feeling temperature changes and wind currents. Why am I telling you this? You know.”

“True.” She nodded.

“Well, what crossed my mind is maybe Lady Godiva is a clue.”

A car pulled up outside. They heard the door slam.

Ronnie Haslip burst through the kennel office door, waving a check.“Kasmir paid for the whole thing!” He slapped the check on the big square schoolteacher’s desk.

Sister, eyes wide, stared at it, picked it up, and uttered the old expression:“Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

Shaker looked at Ronnie, then Sister.“What’s up?”

“Kasmir Barbhaiya bought Kilowatt for you. Gunpowder’s getting age on him, Showboat’s no spring chicken.” Ronnie glowed.

“That’s a great horse!” Shaker clapped his hands together.

Sister hugged Ronnie.“How’d you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything. High and Kasmir came up to me. Kasmir said, his exact words,Please allow me the pleasure to help your most excellent and beautiful master.”

“He saidbeautiful?” Sister felt a flush.

“He did!” Ronnie puffed out his chest, his victory making him giddy.

Sister smiled.“From now on, February nineteenth is St. Kasmir Day.”

CHAPTER 4

Crawford Howard slapped down his copy ofBarron’s, which he read cover to cover, as he did theLondon Financial Times, The Wall Street Journal, and a host of specialized financial reports. Not that he swallowed whole what was written therein, but he liked to have an overview of world markets. He invested prudently in stocks, bonds, and land. Once he’d tried platinum but found that metals, like corn futures, demanded highly specialized knowledge as well as impeccable timing.

His waistline had expanded in his middle years, as had his concept of himself. Crawford, who unlike Edward Bancroft did not start this life with a silver spoon in his mouth, made his first fortune building strip malls in Indiana and Iowa. After that, he steamrolled his fortune with brilliant land acquisitions and deep forays into blue chip stocks. Moving to Virginia thirteen years ago appeared to be retirement. Instead, he began purchasing small pharmacies and medical supply companies, and just last week a company that disposed of biohazardous waste from hospitals and doctors’ offices. He invested in a few high-tech stocks, not many. But he did invest in a local start-up company, Warp Speed, run by Faye Spencer.

Crawford irritated people. Sam Lorillard, Gray’s brother, ran his steeplechase barn. Rory Ackerman, another recovering alcoholic and friend of Sam’s, also worked there. Crawford treated them well. He also treated his wife well. Marty truly loved him, something he learned only after she forgave his affair with a young tart whose breasts were so enhanced she struggled to remain upright. The bimbo with the big rack had only loved his money.

Perhaps his greatest vanity was when he lost face at the last Jefferson Hunt Ball. Earlier in the season, he had deserted Jefferson Hunt Club and bought a pack of hounds just like you’d buy a loaf of bread. He couldn’t hunt a hair of them. Big English hounds, Dumfriesshire, black and tan and good-looking. He made a fool of himself among the foxhunting community. This tormented him like a thorn that breaks off in the lip. Determined to show up Sister Jane at her own game, he’d been casting about for a huntsman. Marty soothed his ego by saying he didn’t have the time to hunt hounds. He really should be field master. That was a joke too, but one step at a time.

Marty hoped she could eventually lead her proud, bullheaded, but adoring husband back into Jefferson Hunt. She missed her friends, and she missed the bracing runs too. Knowing Crawford, she guessed about two years would do it if she was patient and careful.

She stood behind him in the den he had paneled in rich deep rosewood as he pointed to his enormous computer screen.“See, I can follow the market in Japan”—he hit a button—“or Germany or London.” He inhaled. “London always bears watching, you know.”

As London is the financial epicenter of the world, this was an understatement.

“Well, what little I’ve learned about money moving around the world, I’ve learned from you,” Marty said. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and he reached up with his left hand to cover hers.

“Honey, this computer does everything but go to the bathroom for you.” He smiled. “I know, don’t say it. I can’t resist toys. What I’m studying now is how a surgeon in, say, Edinburgh can operate while a surgeon at Johns Hopkins in Maryland consults with him. Actually, the surgeon from Johns Hopkins could be fishing out in Chesapeake Bay, watching the operation on the latest incarnation of a cell phone.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? Do you ever wish you’d hopped on the dot-com bandwagon?” She knew the answer, but he never tired of telling his story.

“Sure I do, but now is a better time to invest in technology. Okay, maybe not nanotechnology because that hasn’t shaken out. I mean, scientists can figure out molecular engineering. The trick is profit. Just because something is high tech doesn’t mean it will turn a dollar.”

“I know you.” She ran a finger over the back of his neck. “Buying these small pharmacy companies and Sanifirm; you’re working up to something. You’re learning the business side of medicine. Once you see where the holes are, you’ll plug them and hit another big home run right out of the park. You have a genius for reading the tea leaves.”

He beamed.“It’s what I learned after I knew it all that gave me the edge.”

She laughed.“Me too.” She looked out the tall paned windows. “Looks like another front coming in.”

He ducked his head around the big screen.“Does look nasty. Three fifteen. Hmm.”

“I was so hoping we could take the hounds out tomorrow.” Marty had discovered she liked being around the hounds. She’d been spending two to three hours a day in the makeshift kennel.

Crawford planned to build a true kennel come spring, once the heaving and thawing stopped. Fortunately, St. Swithin’s was framed up so the workmen could continue despite weather. The stone chapel, another vanity but an appealing one, was dedicated to the very late Bishop of Winchester, who died in 862. Those early Wessex Christians believed heavy rainfall was a manifestation of his power.

“We’ll just see when we wake up. That’s what’s great about having our own pack of hounds. We go when we please.”

He neglected to say that his was an outlaw pack, since he refused to have truck with the MFHA, the Master of Foxhounds Association of America. This meant that no recognized hunt could draft him a hound, and no members of a recognized hunt could hunt with him without getting suspended from their own hunt. At this juncture, that helped him. No one would see what a dreadful mess he made of it. Although once his pack ran right through the Jefferson pack, and he’d likely never live it down.

“Heard they had a good one today.”

“Who told you that?” A flicker of irritation crept into his voice, a rather nice baritone.

“Sam. Gray called him about one thing or another.”

“Oh.” He paused and looked over at his wife, now standing at the window, the sky darkening. “Bizarre about Lady Godiva.”

“Still don’t know a thing.”

“Even though she sets my teeth on edge, if anyone can handle that situation, it would be Sister.”

“Actually, honey, you could have handled it. I thought you and Sister got on quite well. She valued your every word when you sat on the board. She told everyone you brought a rigorous approach to projects, and your financial acuity was amazing.”

“Well….” His voice trailed off. “You know the legend of Lady Godiva.”

“It’s true. It’s not a legend. I looked it up.”

He smiled sheepishly.“I did too.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how the past keeps grabbing us around the ankles?”

“The past is prologue.” He was a keen student of history. “She was a Saxon lady married to Leofric, earl of Mercia. He taxed his people mercilessly and she pleaded for them for years. One day I guess he got tired of the nagging. He told her he’d lift the taxes if she’d ride through Coventry naked. That was about 1040, give or take a year. Anyway, she did it and he kept his word.”

“He must have loved her.”

“Perhaps. He certainly loved his reputation. How would it appear if he broke a vow after her sacrifice?”

“And that’s where we getPeeping Tom.” She laughed.

“Not much wick inhis candle, stupid oaf.”

The townspeople, knowing full well how great an act this was for such a grand lady, withdrew, shutting all their windows. Tom, a tailor, drilled a hole in his shutter so he could see the beautiful woman, her body shielded only by her long hair. Some folks said back then he was struck blind. Others said that one of the two soldiers walking with the lady to guard her thrust his sword in the hole when he saw the white of Tom’s eye. However it happened, the namePeeping Tom has stuck in the English language to this day.

Godiva had a good heart, for she convinced her husband, a rich and powerful man, to found a monastery at Stow, Lincolnshire. In 1043 Leofric built and endowed a Benedictine monastery at Coventry, thanks to her urging. She became a benefactress of monasteries at Leominster, Chester, Wenlock, Worcester, and Evesham. Surely she possessed energy as well as beauty.

“Her brother, Thorold of Bucknall, was sheriff of Lincolnshire.” Crawford stood up, stretching. “Seems the family were all doers, for lack of a better word.” He walked up to her, standing next to her at the window. “When you hear of something like that murder at Horse Country, you can’thelp running scenarios through your mind.”

“Such as?”

“Was this a sex killing?”

“Wouldn’t we know by now? I mean, that would show up during the autopsy. The papers said nothing about it.”

“You’re right.” He inhaled deeply. “Unless the police are withholding information. Sometimes they’ll hold something back to provoke the killer.” He paused. “I wonder if this has something to do with taxation?”

“Or some unjust practice. But Crawford, why make a beautiful innocent pay for it?”

“Maybe she wasn’t innocent.”

CHAPTER 5

The old apple orchard rested a quarter of a mile from the kennels located on Sister Jane’s Roughneck Farm. Many hunt clubs purchase land for a clubhouse and kennels, but in the early sixties Sister and her husband, Ray, joint masters of the Jefferson Hunt, thought to save money by refurbishing the old kennels first built in 1887 that were standing on the land.

The financial effort of JHC focused entirely on hunting, so land for a clubhouse was never purchased, although the club did own show grounds on land donated by the Bancrofts. Since other organizations would rent the attractive venue, it provided about seven thousand a year in income, a help to be sure. Occasionally, not having a clubhouse proved a burden, since any indoor activity needed a host willing to allow throngs, sometimes in muddy boots, to tramp through their house. Sister vowed to herself that the day would come when she would find or build a clubhouse. She began to hope this would happen before her century if God would grant her one hundred years.

In spring, when the gnarled apple trees blossomed, the fragrance wafted through the kennels and through Sister’s wonderful unpretentious house, centuries old and centuries loved. A clubhouse in the apple orchard would raise spirits, but somehow it seemed the wrong location for Sister’s secret dream.

This evening, the twilight shrouded in low clouds cast a gloom over the orchard. Georgia, a young gray fox, nearly black, lived there in a tidy den. The setting pleased her. Water was close by, thanks to the kennels and barns, if she wished to walk in that direction. If she headed east, a tiny stream crisscrossed the end of the orchard, as well as the farm road that divided the pastures on the eastern side. Broad Creek, a swift-running rock-strewn stream, lovely to behold in any season though occasionally difficult to cross, was on the far side of those pastures running into the Bancroft place, After All Farm.

Sleet rattled against the tree bark. Georgia, cozy in her den, some corncobs and treasures with her, lifted her head sharply as her mother, Inky, a jet-black fox, entered.

“Going to be a night of it.” Inky sat down on the sweet-smelling hay that Georgia changed often, being so close to the barn.

Inky’s den, farther down the farm road in a pasture north of the apple orchard, was in an old ruin under a powerful walnut tree. Fox families often stay close to one another, and Inky and Georgia were no exception. Many times a young female won’t breed in her first season but will help her parents.The boys usually move farther away from the home den, but foxes have a family feeling, one that most humans never seem to notice. Sister and Shaker were exceptions.

“I came in early.”

Inky pushed an orange golf ball toward her daughter.“You’re going to get as bad as Target.” She named a red fox who collected things, the shinier the better.

“Uncle Yancy is worse.” Georgia smiled, naming an old fox whose mate, Aunt Netty, nagged at him constantly. Uncle Yancy, fed up, would move out. She’d find him and move in, to the amusement of the others. He’d left Pattypan Forge on After All Farm just a few weeks ago to return to his old den half a mile west of Georgia’s den in the apple orchard. Aunt Netty declared she loved Pattypan Forge, built in 1792, so roomy now that she’d cleaned out Yancy’s mess. How long would that last before she bedeviled him again?

“Far as I know among our neighbors, only Charlene bred. It’s going to be a bad spring and summer. Funny, how the humans can’t tell. They keep on breeding regardless.”

“You know, Georgia, I often wonder if they used to know things as we know them and somehow, way back when they started living in cities, they began to lose the ability. Now it’s gone. I mean, they can hardly tell what the weather will be from one day to the next. On their own, I mean. It’s sad and dangerous.”

“Why is it dangerous?” Georgia asked.

“An animal that violates or forgets its own nature eventually dies, I think. Trouble is, they’ll take a lot of us down with them. Well, I won’t be solving that giant problem anytime soon.” Inky batted the orange golf ball back to Georgia.“At least Sister Jane is more like us. More animal.”

“I like her scent. Piney.”

“Oh, that’s her perfume,” Inky smiled.“She’s never smelled any other way, whereas you’ll notice the other humans change perfumes and colognes. I mean, we still know who they are, but they must like changing odors kind of like changing clothes. It’s peculiar.” She paused.“Bitsy bred.”

[Êàðòèíêà: img_3]

“No!” Georgia’s whiskers drooped.

“Maybe Golly will kill some little owlets.” Inky named Sister’s grand calico cat, brimming with overweening pride.

“Bitsy will peck her eyes out.”

“Well, we can hope.” Inky laughed.

“Mom, more screech owls? It would be one thing if Athena bred.” The great horned owl, the Queen of the Night, was a creature to be feared and obeyed.“Her voice is beautiful, but Bitsy?” Georgia grimaced.

“Maybe we can steal some earplugs out of the barn.” Inky laughed.“Or maybe we can leave a note for Sister to buy some. Ha. Wouldn’t that be the day, when a fox writes a note!”

“But we do.” Georgia was confused.

“No, I mean write like them—you know, scribble on paper. They can’t read our messages. Even Sister misses the subtle ones. She gets the scat, the urine markings, and even the little caches, but she misses other things. If I rub against a tree with smooth bark, she won’t smell it. If it’s rough bark, maybe she’ll see some fur, but they can’t read us like we can read them. Actually, they can’t read one another too well, either. I mean, without writing.”

“Must be truly awful to live with such poor senses, apart from their eyes, which are only good in daytime. I mean, really good.”

“Ignorance is bliss, dear. They don’t know what they don’t have.” Inky circled, then lay down gracefully.“Sister’s upset.”

“That outlaw pack again?” Georgia knew about the Dumfriesshire hounds.

“That’s not going to go away. He won’t hunt our territory, but since he can’t control the pack that doesn’t mean they won’t run our way sometimes, and we don’t know them. We’ll have to be very alert.” She flicked her tail, no white tip on the end like a red fox.“No, she and a friend found a murdered woman Saturday night—well, I guess it was Sunday morning by then.”

“How do you know?”

“She brought some turkey over to my den and sat outside. She gets a little chatty sometimes if she smells me in there.”

“Turkey? You got turkey?” Georgia, like all Jefferson foxes, had recourse to a five-gallon bucket filled about once every three weeks with kibble drizzled with corn oil.

Sometimes the kibble had Ivermectin in it to clean out the parasite loads, except when vixens were bred. No more Ivermectin until August then, because it’s too dangerous for fox cubs to ingest. It took two days to feed at all the fixtures. People, even foxhunters, rarely know what it takes to manage wildlife properly: the territory, the kennels, the horses, and, of course, the vital landowners, without whose support there would be no foxhunting. One had to manage hunt staff too, if you were a master. Fortunately, Sister had an easy time there.

“You didn’t get turkey?”

“Got my kibble with cheese. But I would have liked turkey.”

“She probably ran out. She’s good about passing around the treats.” Inky loved Sister; it was mutual.

“Well, what about the murder?” Georgia’s curiosity was pricked.

Inky told her all she knew. Sister’s account had been graphic. The two foxes curled up in silence for a while after the story.

Finally Georgia said,“Pretty stupid to kill a beautiful female at the height of her breeding powers.”

“Could have bred to the wrong person. Humans are funny about that.” Inky thought out loud.“Or refused to breed.”

“Did Sister have any ideas?” Georgia found most human behavior extraordinary, and being young she had much to learn.

“No. That’s what worries her—well, that and the shock of seeing a naked body on horseback right in front of her friend’s store.”

“But you said a silver punch bowl had been stolen, big enough for us and a litter of cubs. So maybe the woman got in the way or maybe she was part of it and then got in the way.”

“Could be, although wouldn’t it be easier just to kill a person and leave her? That horse stuff was elaborate.”

“I’m sorry Sister’s upset. I think it’s crazy, but it really has nothing to do with us.”

As Inky and Georgia caught up on events, Sister and Gray, in bed under the covers, watched a basketball game. Sister kept nodding off even though she liked college basketball.

Gray, his arm around her, smiled.

Golly, flopped on Sister’s legs, purred slightly as she slept. Raleigh, the Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier, snored on the rug alongside. Each had a thick fake fleece dog bed but they liked being right by Sister.

Sister was awakened by the beep of her cell phone on the nightstand. She reached for the phone, looked at the caller ID, and punched the button.

“Betty.”

“Hey, girl. Did I wake you up? It’s nine. You must be worn out.”

“Well, I dozed off watching Kentucky.”

“Bobby’s watching that too.” Betty liked football much better than basketball. “Forgot to tell you that X”—she used the nickname for Henry Xavier, forty-six, a club member and another of Sister’s son’s childhood friends—“will bring the liquor to Mill Ruins on Saturday.”

“If we can hunt. This sleet could mess up everything if we get a deep freeze with it.”

“Well, it looks that way. God, remember five years ago when just about every hunt in Virginia lost the last half of the season because it was one ice storm after another?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Thishas been a long winter, though; it started early in November. Doubt that spring will arrive on time this year.”

“It’s been a hard winter. We’ve been lucky to get hounds out. The snow’s not bad, but a day like today—well, you know.”

Before Betty could reply the line went dead.

Sister punched the button to redial and got a busy signal.“What’s the point of paying a monthly bill if these phones cut out every time there’s a little bit of weather?”

“I know.” Enthralled by the game, a close one, Gray replied blandly.

The cell rang back and Betty started talking.“Lost you. I’ll make it fast. News bulletin on Channel Twenty-nine. The woman’s been identified.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that first?”

“Because it just came across the bottom of the screen. She’s Aashi Mehra, twenty-two, from Bombay. Wait, now we call it Mumbai.”

“It’s a long way from Mumbai to Warrenton.”

CHAPTER 6

At six in the morning on Wednesday, February 20, Sister stepped outside, having gulped a cup of Colombian coffee liberally laced with half-and-half. Golly, fed first, refused to follow, but Raleigh and Rooster tagged at her heels, their claws clicking on the thin veneer of ice.

The frozen grass, coated with ice, awaited sunrise to glitter. Each time Sister took a careful step, the ice cracked under her work boots. A jet of vapor escaped from her mouth, and steam poured from Raleigh’s and Rooster’s mouths too. The mercury at 22 degrees Fahrenheit might climb, but how much? If it nudged over 32 degrees, the ruts in the old farm road would thaw and driving would test a person’s reflexes.

Gray, asleep upstairs, would awaken at seven. He rose early on hunt mornings but, like most people of a certain age, he was set in his habits. She didn’t mind that by her standards he was a sleepin. He more than made up for it the rest of the day, for Gray, active in mind and body, liked projects. They were alike that way, yet she had found herself thinking of Big Ray lately. They had kept the same rhythm. Sure, they had had their various discreet affairs, but they were two people deeply in tune. Her lover, Peter Wheeler, older than she by close to seventeen years, while not close in the diurnal sense, had inflamed her mind like no one else she ever met. Sister had been well served by the men she loved. Wise in the ways of the world, shekept her mouth shut, allowing other people to mouth the hollow pieties that seemed to ward off whatever fears gnawed deep inside. The human animal is not monogamous, although men, at least before DNA testing, desperately tried to imprison a woman’s sexuality to ensure that her offspring were theirs. She knew this subject caused explosions even in simple discussions so she shut up about it, but Jane Arnold had always taken her pleasure where she found it, and she would march under that banner for the remainder of her days.

She loved Gray but hadn’t told him. Why? Words always came back to haunt her. But she knew she loved him, and she felt he loved her. Different from Big Ray or Peter Wheeler, both of them robust, extroverted, physical men, Gray soothed her but kept her alert mentally too. Handsome, descended from Lorillard slaves and therefore taking the Lorillard name, Gray possessed all the brilliance of that line, which ran in both white and black pedigrees. Of course, every true Virginian knew there was no such thing as an all-white or all-black pedigree, but that was another subject best left on the table. People could be wildly irrational about race from all quarters. Race and sex set up more shrieking and flying feathers than a cockfight.

On a cold crackling morning like today, Big Ray would have been walking with her, both of them with arms outstretched for balance, hands touching, trying not to fall on their keisters and laughing; God, how she could laugh with that man! A stream of ideas about hounds, horses, territory, and whippers-in, liberally spiced with both invective and praise, would awaken the birds, who would grumble about it. She would laugh to hear a disgruntled cheep from a hole high inside a tree or the censorious click of a beak from the owl in the barn. Owls make so many different sounds. She’d learned to recognize them; Sister had a rudimentary sense of most animal communication. People often wondered how she knew where the fox was or when a storm was coming. She’d say, “The red-tailed hawk told me” and they’d laugh, never realizing she meant it.

This morning, all silent except for her breathing and the ice crackling, her eyes lifted to the east. A thin light-gray line gave hope the sun would rise eventually, and perhaps the cloud cover would disperse too.

The lights were on in the kennels. Shaker, like Sister, kept to his routine. He loved his work.

“How’s Delia today?” she asked, as she walked into the large feeding room, nodding at the boys with their noses in the trough.

“She’s gaining weight, but her hunting days are over, boss. She’s slowed down, and it’s hard to keep weight on her. I can see it melting off during a hard run.”

“You’re right. She can stay in the Big Girls pen until the day comes when they start to roll her. Won’t be for a year or two. I’ll take her up to the house then.”

A master from Maryland had once upbraided Sister with the taunt,“You don’t live in the real world,” because Sister refused to put an old hound down as long as it was healthy. The other master was right in that this kept expenses higher. But damned if Sister would put down a hound who had served her well. She was the same about horses. Okay, it did run up the bill, but let them live out their final days in peace, comfort, and love. It was the least she could do for the devotion they accorded her.

Once a hound was rolled in the kennel by the younger ones, she’d see if a member would have it for a house pet or she’d move it up to her own house. It pained her that people didn’t understand what good pets foxhounds make. The longest it ever took her to potty train an older hound was two weeks. Most get it before then. Whip-smart, those hounds are fanatically clean. Perhaps it was vanity, for they knew how majestic they were.

She left Shaker and walked to the special run for hounds who needed extra attention or who had been injured during hunting. Now it was just sweet Delia, eating a warmed mash of kibble and canned food.

“Aren’t you the lucky girl?”

“I am,” Delia replied, and stuck her nose back in the aluminum bowl.

“Love you, baby girl.” Sister smiled at her old friend and returned to the feeding room.

“Boss, what saint’s day is it?”

“Wulfric and Eustochium Calafato.”

He laughed.“Those teachers at your Episcopal girls school certainly drilled information into your head.”

“Latin too.” She grinned.

“Okay, what did Wulfric and Eusto—you know—what did they do?”

“Wulfric was from Somerset, a contemporary of Lady Godiva, actually.” They’d both done their Godiva research. “He hunted with hounds and hawks, so he should be dear to us. Maybe not as dear as St. Hubert, the patron saint of hunters, but important nonetheless. We can use all the celestial help there is. He lived as an anchorite and supposedly possessed second sight. He healed a knight with paralysis. Mmm, bound books. Visited by Henry I and then his son, Stephen, when king. That’s about all I know.”

“I’ll read up on him. What about the other guy?”

“Girl. Abbess of Messina, Franciscan order. She seems to have been strict and devout and died at thirty-five. Her body did not decay. She died in 1468, and when she was dug up from her grave in Montevergine in 1690 she was fresh as a daisy.” Sister shrugged. “Nonetheless, dead as a doornail.”

Shaker laughed.“Do you believe this stuff?”

“I take it with a grain of salt. Do I believe these people were extraordinary? Sure. A lot of saints behaved miserably before seeing the light. Just the fact that they redeemed themselves is worth emulating.”

“So there’s hope for me?”

“Hope for both of us.”

“Must I vow poverty and chastity? I’m not good at either.” His lopsided grin was infectious.

“Me neither. Both are overrated; I doubt they’re really virtues. Getting someone to give up their worldly goods was an early form of income redistribution. Of course, the communists raised it to new heights.”

“Another kind of religion gone bust.”

“I’ll say, and think of the millions that died because of it on both sides of the fence. Don’t you think it odd that human beings will die for ideas? I’d die for a living creature but not for an idea. Too cold for me.”

“Yep. Come on, boys. Look at how those coats gleam. That corn oil in the winter just works a treat.”

“It does, and I don’t care what the analysis is on the back of those big feed bags, nothing puts a shine on their coats like corn oil.”

Shaker, wellies squishing on the concrete floor, which he washed obsessively, opened the door to the Big Boys’ run, a quarter of an acre.

All the hounds enjoyed huge runs with grass, trees, and boulders as well as condos to supplement the beds inside the kennels. They liked being out and about. It certainly cut down on bad behavior, since everyone had plenty of room.

Once the boys trotted out, door closing behind them, Shaker refilled the troughs, poured corn oil over the high-protein kibble, and set the gallon jug high up on a shelf, along with the twenty-four others stored there. They bought in big lots to save money. Sister might carry hounds longer than another master, but with her practical mind she saved in all other areas.

“All right, my fast ladies,” Shaker called, and the bitches shot into the feed room, tails high.

“We’re excited this morning.” Sister smiled at the hounds. “Shaker, I’ve been thinking about Dragon. When he was in sick bay after being torn up by that coyote early in the season, the pack was more cohesive.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too. He’s only been back in for the last three hunts, and I can feel the difference. For one thing, he distracts Cora.”

“He challenges her. We can’t have two strike hounds, and Diddy might develop into a good one when we most need her, when Cora retires. But Dragon is ready now.”

“Draft him?”

“No. Not yet. What if we use Dragon on Tuesdays, Cora on Thursdays, and toss a coin for Saturdays? We’ll see how the pack performs. If they go equally well, no need to change anything or draft him out. If not, then we should draft him to a hunt needing a good fast strike hound.”

“We’ve got plenty of the blood,” Shaker replied.

“Yes, but you know how that goes.”

He did. A hunt might have a litter of six really good hounds. One would get stolen, another lost in some fashion. One might develop an unexpected illness. Before you knew it, not much of that blood was left.“It’s a strong line, that D line. Delia put some wonderful puppies on the ground over the years. Cross with Asa was the best, I think.”

“Archie.” She named a hound killed by a bear, a hound dipped in gold, he was so superb.

“Right. Tell you what, we’d better never lose that Archie blood.”

“You know it goes all the way back to Piedmont blood through old Middleburg. Quite a journey through time, those bloodlines.” She cited two great northern Virginia hunts, each having made contributions to the upgrading of hounds and each still hunting outstanding packs of hounds to this day over some of the most beautiful country in the world.

One of the great things about Virginia was the depth of the hunting bench. Old Dominion, Fairfax, Loudoun, Warrenton, Casanova, Orange with their ring necks of Talbot tan, Deep Run, Farmington, Keswick, Rockbridge, Bull Run, to name a few ripping good hunts. A person could fall out of bed and land near a thunderous hunt.

“Plan’s a good one. Try tomorrow.”

“You bet.” She left the kennels and looked in at the stables where Tootie, Val, and Felicity worked.

“Good morning, Master,” all three sang out.

“Good morning, ladies.” She closed the barn doors behind her. “Aren’t you glad your father bought you that Jeep?” She addressed this to Valentina.

“Yes, ma’am. Otherwise we’d have to walk and it’s a hike.”

“We could hitch rides.” Tootie winked.

“Sure.” Felicity was filling the water buckets.

After a brief chat there, Sister walked back to the house. She invited the girls up for breakfast each day specifically, because they would not come on their own. Charlotte Norton drilled manners into her students. And many of them had endured the drill at home too. It would be presumptuous simply to arrive in Sister’s kitchen—although their presence was a daily delight to her.

“Good morning, darling.” Gray beamed at her.

“Back at you. A fresh pot.”

She poured her second cup.“The girls will be up in about forty minutes. I’ll start on cream of wheat now. I’m assuming you’ll want some.”

“Yes, ma’am. With orange-blossom honey.”

He continued to read the paper. No need to pull out honey and jams just yet. He’d set the table too. Gray liked small chores as well as big ones, and he wasn’t fussy about what was supposed to be women’s work or men’s. Work was work.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?” She ran water in a large saucepan.

“I’m not cut out for retirement.”

“You’re hardly retired, honey. You ran a special audit at Aluminum Manufacturing last month, and you just had a meeting with the Number Two guy at the IRS, most hated government agency in America.”

“For a while the Defense Department was running neck and neck,” he remarked. “I’ll always do consulting. But you know, accounting is what I’ve done all my life.”

“You’re the best. Why else would you receive the calls you do?”

He shrugged.“Thanks.” He paused. “I thought I’d start a small restoration business. Since Sam and I have been working on the old home place, I’m reminded of how much I love construction, especially historical places. Even one as simple as ours. The work is outstanding. Those heavy hand-hewn beams, does anyone do that anymore?”

“Well.” She considered this as she set the flame underneath the cream of wheat. “You have an eye. I guess finding a crew of artisans—I mean, they’d have to be more than construction workers—will be critical.”

“Will.”

“What about Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you go into business with him?”

“No.” The reply was swift but not loud.

“Oh.”

He folded the paper in quarters, longways.“He’s a horseman. He should stick to horses.” He picked up his coffee cup, then put it back down. “He’s been really good at the house. We’re doing okay but, but Janie, I don’t know as I will ever trust my brother one hundred percent.”

“He’s been sober a year and a half—”

“I know.” Gray ran his forefinger over his salt-and-pepper military mustache. “He’s my brother. I love him but he’s an alcoholic. They slip back.”

“Gray, he drank Sterno down at the railroad station when he couldn’t get Thunderbird. He hit bottom. Showing him the way to Fellowship Hall was a great kindness on your part. He came through. Like many in recovery, he’ll probably never touch another drop.”

“I know.”

“Why am I standing up for him?” Sister pulled homemade bread from the breadbox. “He might not want to run a business.”

“That’s the other thing. I don’t know how much stress Sam can handle. Trying to make payroll during a lean month or two makes you sweat. I wouldn’t want to put him in a position where he might weaken.”

“Makes sense. So you’d do this by yourself?”

“Right now that’s my plan, but I’m still thinking it through. Tell you one thing. I’ve been researching software, cell phone contracts, and the like; my God, how does anyone cut through the bullshit?”

“I stick to my iMac and Alltel, which works except for some pockets and some days.”

“That works for you, but for a business I need something more sophisticated. Something different from what I use for accounting jobs. For reconstruction I need to see things in three dimensions; I need graphic capabilities as well as engineering.”

“Don’t look at me.” She laughed, then stopped herself. “You know who might know? Marion. She has a store computer system, but she bought a different one at home. She’s arty, you know, so I bet she can draw and do everything on her home system. Just an idea.”

“Good one.” He plucked out the news section. He’d been reading the sports page. “Look at this.”

A photo of our beautiful Lady Godiva was in the middle column.“My God, she was stunning.” Gray whistled. “She worked for Craig and Abrams, Washington office.”

Sister put her hand on his shoulder.“Craig and Abrams. That’s High Vajay’s old firm.”

“Wonder if he knew her. He’d be upset.” Gray continued to read the column.

“Does the paper say what her job was?”

“Research.”

“That covers a multitude of sins.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER 7

No.” Felicity clamped her lips tight.

Val, irritated, scrubbed harder at the bit, fine English steel, with a toothbrush.“You think they won’t find out.”

Tootie, weary of Val’s badgering, answered for Felicity. “She won’t see them until spring break. By then she’ll have it figured out.”

“By then she’ll look like she swallowed a pumpkin,” Val shot back.

“Shows what you know.” Felicity smiled slightly. “I’ll have a little bulge, but it won’t be bad. I need time to think.”

“You need to get to the doctor in the first trimester, I know that.” Val thought having a baby at seventeen was the most ridiculous, stupid, backward act in the world.

Tootie thought otherwise, although what mattered was what Felicity thought.“She’d need parental consent for an abortion.”

“We can forge their names. Show me a letter from your mother and father and I’ll start practicing. I’m good at art; this can’t be so different.”

“Val, you can’t mean that.” Felicity was scandalized.

“Of course I mean it. We’re all three going to Princeton together, and that’s that.”

“We have to get in first,” Tootie replied dryly.

“We will. With our grade point averages, athletic points, and extracurricular stuff? Zip.” She swooped her hand flat and away like something flying.

“Who knows?” Felicity shrugged. “Pamela is going to Ol’ Miss. Speaking of parents, bet she hasn’t told hers yet.”

“Her mother will go mental.” Tootie giggled.

Pamela’s mother harbored exalted dreams for her daughter even while she upbraided her for not being as beautiful as she herself was and thought she had remained. This lethal combination made Pamela wary, sullen, and even overweight in defiance of her mother’s constant harping on looks, looks, looks.

“Early admission cuts the anxiety.” Felicity sidestepped the abortion discussion. “Maybe we should have asked for it with Princeton.”

“Some colleges are ending early admissions after this year.” Tootie refilled a small water bucket to continue cleaning tack, her fingers aching a bit when the warm water hit them, for the barn was cold. “They’re making a mistake.”

“Look.” Val rounded on Felicity again. “Talk to your parents. They’ll agree to an abortion. Don’t tell Howie.” This was Felicity’s boyfriend, star quarterback at the Miller School. “Just get it over with. Go to Princeton. Graduate. Do what comes next, probably graduate school, then marry well. Get it? The children follow.”

“That’s your path, not mine.” Felicity, though mild-mannered, was proving stronger than Val had anticipated.

“Felicity, be reasonable. Your mind is so good. I mean, you have such a business brain. You’re the only one in our class who ever makes money when we have projects, plus you come up with the ideas in the first place. Who would have thought to sell bandannas in school colors?”

“Or Mardi Gras beads in school colors before the big day, Fat Tuesday. Don’t you love that name? It’s like Boca Raton. Sounds good until you remember it’smouth of the rat.” Tootie complimented Felicity but wisely did not tell her what to do. After all, it wasn’t her body. “We’re finished. Let’s go to breakfast.” Tootie hung up the bridle, neatly making a figure eight around the headband, noseband, and cheek pieces with the throat latch. “We’ll turn out horses after breakfast.”

“Gives everyone time to eat and relax. I’ve learned more about horses from Sister than from Bunny,” Val said.

“Different things to learn. Bunny’s good about basics—barn management stuff—but as a riding coach her main job is to win at horse shows. Alums like ribbons and trophies. The more silver the team brings home the more checks the alumnae write.”

“True,” Val agreed. “Our soccer team helps too.”

“Some of our alumnae foxhunt. Hey, why don’t we ask Sister about that?” Felicity brightened.

Sister had been keeping an eye on the stable, every now and then stepping into the cold mudroom to glance out the backdoor window. When she saw them close the big double doors behind them, she poured the coffee.

“Felicity has this great idea!” Val, first through the door, walked to the pantry without being told, returning with four bowls.

Tootie followed, bringing jams and honey. Felicity brought the daily silverware.

“I’m all ears.”

“Let’s have a Custis Hall alumnae-and-student foxhunt.” Felicity smiled.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all year.”

“It’s only February twenty-first, there’s time for more ideas.” Val sat down at the sturdy farmer’s table.

Sister ladled the cream of wheat into five bowls. Felicity and Tootie carried four to the table. Tootie placed Gray’s in front of him, then put down Sister’s. Before sitting down, Tootie scooted back for the fifth bowl, hers.

The brass teapot whistled. Sister poured herself hot water, flipped in a plain old Lipton’s teabag, and joined the girls. If she drank one more cup of coffee she’d levitate.

“Master, may I have apple butter?” Felicity asked.

“Of course, honey, you know where it is.”

“Girls,” Sister said quietly, as they finally sat together.

“Oops.” Val, starved, had just dipped her large spoon in the bowl.

They held hands and Sister prayed.“Heavenly Mother, for this which we are about to receive, we thank you. Amen.”

“Amen,” the girls echoed.

“Heavenly Mother. When did you start saying that?” Tootie smiled.

“Wanted to see if you were listening.”

“We were.” Val, grateful, picked up her loaded spoon.

“What do you think, ma’am?” Felicity hoped Sister would like her idea.

“Splendid, that’s what I think. You’re very creative in your way. Takes time to organize something like this. You all will have to come back as alumnae next fall. There’s only a month left, give or take a day, for this season.”

“I’ll be here,” Felicity replied, without fanfare.

Val deliberately put down her spoon.“You’ll be coming back with Tootie and me from Princeton.”

“I’m going to stay here and find a job. Howie will go to Piedmont Community College for two years, and then if he can pull his grades up he’ll go to UVA or somewhere.”

Face red, Val opened her mouth but Sister, next to her, put her hand on Val’s hand. “Sweetheart, she has to find her own way. You can’t live everyone’s life for them no matter how intelligent you are.”

“But Sister, she’s throwing her life away! And furthermore, Howie Lindquist is dumb as a box of rocks. If anyone goes to UVA it should be Felicity.”

“He’s not dumb!” Felicity flashed anger, rare in her.

“Ladies, we have to support Felicity, no matter what. Is she throwing her life away? I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s her life. I also know that love is rare. She loves Howie.”

Felicity melted in gratitude.

“But she’s so young.” Never having experienced even a twinge of love, Val couldn’t grasp any choice not involving progress on a social, material, or intellectual level.

“Yes,” was Sister’s one-word reply.

They sat in silence for a minute; then Tootie, God knows why because it was so unlike her, just as Felicity’s anger was a surprise, blurted out, “How do you know when you’re in love?”

“Anne Harris!” Felicity laughed, calling Tootie by her full name. “You just know.”

Val rolled her eyes.“Spare me. I’m eating.”

Gray, amused, said,“You can’t stop thinking about the person. Your heart beats faster when you see her. Sometimes you feel dizzy. You’ve never felt such energy, like electricity in your veins.”

“Sounds like the flu.” Val grimaced.

“Chills and fever. It’s a good flu.” Sister smiled at Gray.

“Can you avoid it?” Tootie asked.

“No,” Gray responded firmly. “You can refuse to engage but you can’t really avoid it.”

“I am never falling in love,” Val declared.

“Of course not. You’re too in love with yourself.” Felicity shocked everyone; normally she was so mild.

The statuesque blonde’s face reddened. Then she, too, surprised everyone. “Iam pretty self-centered.”

Everyone put their spoons on their plate at the same time to stare at Val.

Finally Sister lifted her spoon.“You’re at the time of life when one is relatively self-centered. The real sin is not outgrowing it.”

“Like Crawford Howard?” Felicity asked.

“Mmm, he’s egotistical, but I’ve seen worse.” She paused. “Anyone ready for seconds?”

They were, so she refilled all the bowls.

Felicity devoured her second bowl. She was eating a lot these days.

Sister smiled at Felicity.“You’re very young. You and Howie will grow up together, should you marry.”

“We will. We have to tell both our parents. I thought I’d wait until spring break so I could do it face-to-face.”

“On the one hand, I do understand your wanting to sit down with them. On the other hand, Felicity, you might want to tell them now and give them time to adjust. I’m assuming you and Howie don’t wish to wait too terribly long before you marry, and I think you need parental consent for that,”Sister said.

“He’s eighteen.”

“You’re not,” Val said, a hint of rancor. “Furthermore, has he asked you to marry him?”

“I’ll be eighteen in June.” Felicity ignored Val’s question.

“Honey, time’s a-flying.” Sister gently prodded her.

Felicity looked down at her empty bowl.“You’re right.”

“Does Mrs. Norton know?” Sister felt Charlotte Norton was an excellent headmistress.

“No,” Felicity answered.

“Sit down with her first. She has a good head on her shoulders. She cares deeply for her students, especially you three.”

“I won’t get thrown out?”

“No. However, you might want to keep this between the three of you. Sometimes girls can—well, dramatize. You’re not that way, of course, but who is to say some freshman won’t take a fit? Graduate, then tell the world; at least that’s what I would do.” Sister paused. “But you really must talk to Charlotte—Mrs. Norton. You can trust her.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Felicity’s shoulder squared.

“If you’re here, if you don’t go off to college, will you organize the alumnae foxhunt?” Tootie was curious.

“She has to go to college!” Val tossed her blonde ponytail, unable to contain herself.

“I agree with you, Val, I do. Felicity may have to take some time off or—” Sister turned to her—“you could take night courses. Mary Baldwin offers very good ones. Actually, all the schools do.”

“I’ve thought about that.” Felicity had been thinking about a lot of things, one being how she could afford her beloved horse, Parson. “Sometimes”—she chose her words carefully—“I wonder if I can do all that needs to be done. Howie really has to go to college.”

“He can be a coach.” Val had no time for the well-built likable Howard.

“He still has to get his degree.” Felicity had steel in her backbone when her beloved was criticized. “And I hope he has the chance to play football at a big college. He just has to get his grades up, that’s all. He’s not stupid, despite what you think, Val. It takes him longer to learn than it does for us but once he knows something it’s in his head forever. He’s not stupid.” Her voice raised slightly.

“He was smart enough to fall in love with Felicity.” Sister lightened the moment.

Tootie liked soaking up everything about hunting.“Not to change the subject, but when we were coming up over the hill at the old Lorillard place the other day—you know, graveyard at our backs—I smelled a fox but hounds didn’t.”

“Oh, Tootie, when we can smell it, hounds can’t. It’s over their heads.” Val actually had learned about hounds, scent, and foxes, unlike many who hunt.

“I know that.” Tootie continued patiently as if talking to a child, which she often considered Valentina. “But the ground was frozen. I didn’t think scent would lift until it warmed a bit.”

“You’re right, Tootie. I’m impressed you noticed.”

“What did happen then, Sister?” Felicity, with a good mind, lacked game sense and hound sense, but she was willing to learn as best she could.

Nature gives each of us various gifts. Some things can’t be learned; you’re born with the knowledge, but a reasonably intelligent person can still learn the fundamentals of any activity.

“Well, only the fox understands scent. Right?” Sister looked around at the girls.

“Right,” they replied.

“Therefore, I can only make intelligent guesses. This is my guess: The ground was tight as a tick. Have you noticed how some horses almost wince when they land on the other side of a jump? Stings when it’s this frozen. Any scent that hounds might find would have to be fresh, hot. If the scent was, say, an hour old or more, the ground would need to warm a bit, perhaps in sunlight, to lift it. I’m not saying hounds can’t smell a frozen line, but I don’t think they can run it very efficiently. Again, this is guesswork. You might find another master or huntsman who would contradict me. But I think what you smelled, Tootie, was a hot line, fresh as could be, but the bit of wind lifted it up, moved it, and it rose as well. By the time we reached the old Lorillard graveyard, hounds began to feather.” Sister mentioned how hounds move their tails a bit when finding a light line, the feathering seeming to increase with intensity of scent. “As we moved on, though, heading west, the wind already had done its work.” She held up her hand, palm outward. “Again, guesswork. And some spots carry warm air currents that help lift the air.”

“Do grays and reds ever live close to one another? You know, like neighbors talking over a fence?” Val wondered.

“For years I thought not. That’s what I’d been told as a child, and I saw no reason to disbelieve it. But I have noticed, when there’s plenty to eat, they occasionally do live near one another. The problems always come during the lean years. That’s when coyotes become especially lethal.”

“Shoot ’em.” Val felt no affection for this predator.

“You do and it helps until you kill the head bitch.” Sister sighed. “Then all the females go into heat and you have more coyotes. They’re here to stay. The issue is, can we manage them and protect our foxes?”

“Why not?” Felicity leaned forward, reaching for toast.

“I don’t know. The coyote is relatively new to Virginia. We don’t know the animal the way someone from Wyoming does, nor do we know how this efficient predator will affect our balance of nature. Coyotes adapt. Conditions here are different from the West. All I know is, I mean to protect my foxes.”

“They’re fun to chase.” Val loved riding hard.

“Not for me.” Sister smiled so as not to sound critical of Val. “It’s a straight shot. I love the fox, all the ruses, doubling back, walking on top of fence lines, all the incredible things a fox does to fool us. I enjoy being pitted against God’s most intelligent creation.”

“Don’t you think coyotes will change? It won’t just be us.” Tootie, ever thoughtful, was miles ahead of the other girls on this.

“Lynn Lloyd”—Sister named the master of Red Rock Hounds in Reno, Nevada—“says she has observed coyote running more like foxes with the population pressure out there in the high desert. She can see for fifty miles and, on a ridge, one hundred. We can’t watch our quarry like Lynn can, so I believe she’s observed a crucial adjustment in the coyote, proof that the animal is flexible. We know they’re smart.”

The phone rang.

“I’ll get it, ma’am.” Tootie hopped up. “Hello, Arnold residence. This is Anne Harris speaking.”

“Tootie, how are you?” Marion Maggiolo’s lilting voice rang out. “I’m fine, Miss Maggiolo. How are you?”

“Recovering.”

“Yes, ma’am. That must have been horrible.”

“It was. When are you coming up to see me?”

“When I get some money.” Tootie laughed.

“You don’t have to buy a thing to visit. I’m always glad to see you. Is Sister there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tootie said. “Sister, it’s Miss Maggiolo.”

“Ah.” Sister put her napkin on the table and rose to take the receiver from Tootie. “Marion, darlin’, how good to hear your voice.”

“I called you the minute the sheriff called me.” Marion’s voice dropped a few notes. “Did you know that the woman we found was High Vajay’s mistress?”

“What?”

“Her first job at Craig and Adams was as High’s secretary.”

“That doesn’t mean the affair continued when he retired.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t either,” Marion replied.

“Mandy will kill him.” Sister put her hand on her hip.

“Unless he kills her first.”

“Marion, how can you say that?”

“How do we know he didn’t kill Aashi? Maybe she was blackmailing him. Maybe she was in love with him and pressuring him to leave Mandy. Happens every day.”

“Marion, I just thought of something. High said your sheriff sent him a photograph of Aashi over the computer. He said he didn’t recognize her.”

“What?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Liar,” Marion breathed out. “I’ll tell the sheriff.”

“Could be it wasn’t a good picture. High’s smart, he’d know they’d find out she was once his secretary.”

“Could be High Vajay had a strong reason to kill her too.” Marion felt no need to find reasons why Highdidn’t kill Aashi. As far as she was concerned, he was the prime suspect. Having a prime suspect gave her some comfort, no matter how illusory.

Thursdays, after two thirty, Sister ran her feed store errands. Her friends and hunt club members knew her schedule. If you wanted to see her at the stable or kennels you didn’t drop by Thursday afternoons.

She returned by five, happy to miss what passed for traffic in their part of the world. After dropping off specialty feed bags, body builder for the older horses, in the stable, she walked in the mudroom back door, dogs at her feet since they’d made the journey too.

There on a shelf sat a dozen pure-white roses with drops of blood on them. The symbolism gave her a shudder.

She searched for a card, not expecting to find one.

“Kids,” she spoke to Raleigh and Rooster, “I’m in the crosshairs.”

She decided not to mention this to anyone, not Shaker, Betty, even Gray. Word can get around and her instincts told her that whoever did this wanted to shake her up. Sister wasn’t going to act like prey. Yes, she might be in the crosshairs but she was a hunter to her core. She’d sniff this wretch out, somehow, someway.

CHAPTER 8

The sky, a brilliant blue, glittered overhead. Crawford Howard, spirits rising, drove his big S Mercedes just for the fun of driving. He needed a break. Not that things weren’t clipping along, but sometimes he’d let small problems nag him and spoil his day. Although he had come a long way in developing his foxhunting sense, he was only beginning to appreciate Sister’s and Shaker’s gifts with hounds, horses, and foxes. Exercising, feeding, breeding, maintaining a pack of hounds proved far more difficult than he had anticipated.

Foxhunting is art, instinct, and a dash of science.

He cruised past the stately home-fired brick country club. In the long slanting last rays of sunset, the faithful whacked away on the driving range. It was February 22, and the light was moving closer to the equinox.

He parked his car and waited until High Vajay finished his swing.“What are you doing out here in the cold? You’ll tear a muscle.”

High, one of the few who actually liked Crawford, nudged the bucket of balls with his Number Four driver.“I’ll get better at this game if it kills me.”

As it was not public knowledge that High was under suspicion for murder, he thought it best to keep cool and stick to his routine.

“It just might.” Crawford peered down into the bucket, counting eight left. “When I saw you out here I had to stop. These other people are as crazy as you, I guess.”

“Look who’s talking,” Cindy Chandler, a stalwart Jefferson Hunt member and a good golfer, called out to him. She said this with good humor so he smiled back.

“She’s right.” High needled him. “Any man who buys his own pack of outlaw hounds defies convention.”

Crawford smiled. He liked that he was the talk of the town. He just wished he hadn’t lost his pack at Paradise—a humiliating consequence of his fragile ego, and the result of his having deserted the JHC.

“Crawford, come back. We miss you.” Cindy was sincere. “Surely there’s a way to patch this up. Your Dumfriesshire hounds would flourish, and you’d save the money of building a kennel.”

“Shaker has to apologize first.”

Shaker had decked him at the last hunt ball.

“Unusual circumstances.”

Crawford, on the dance floor, had collided with Shaker and Lorraine Rasmussen, which somehow pulled down Lorraine’s strapless top, her glories exposed.

“Well-built woman.” Crawford had lived long enough in Virginia to know understatement worked better than overstatement.

Cindy shook her club at him.“You men!”

High bowed slightly to her.“As a beautiful woman, you know exactly how we are.”

She shook her head, returning to address the golf ball, which said not a word in return.

“I’ve had enough.” High picked up the bucket and walked back to his mud-splattered Range Rover. He prized all things British, and in truth the hideously expensive SUV could go through anything.

Out of earshot, Crawford asked,“You knew the Craig and Abrams woman who was killed, didn’t you?” Crawford had no way of knowing that High had denied such knowledge to the sheriff when first queried.

High lowered his voice as he opened the back door of the Rover.“Ben Sidell called on me, once they knew who she was and where she worked. Yes, I knew her. She was very sweet.”

“Sorry.”

“Me too. Her whole life was in front of her.”

Satisfied, Crawford switched to his favorite subject, business.“Do you still own Craig and Abrams stock?”

“I do. I bought Hutchison Essar stock too. That’s how much I believe in the industry. Eventually one or both of those companies, currently in competition, will build WiFi systems to blanket all of India. It’s happening here; it will happen there. WiFi is the real golden pot at the end of the rainbow.”

“Vodafone wanted to take a controlling interest in Hutchison Essar?”

Vodafone, a British mobile phone company, realizing that the European market was stagnating, had bid for a controlling interest in Hutchison Essar, India’s fourth largest mobile operation.

The street value hovered at $13.5 million. Vodafone wanted a 67 percent stake. India’s mobile phone market was booming, with customers signing up at the rate of 6.6 million subscribers a month.

This pushed Reliance Communications Ltd., the Mumbai-based second largest operator, and Blackstone, a private equity group, into bed to see if they couldn’t buy 100 percent of Hutchison Essar. A dollop of national pride also sparked this effort, since the Indians wanted to keep the British out, having been rid of them only for about sixty years.

“Vodafone is well managed, has foresight.” High pulled off his skin-tight golf gloves.

Warp Speed, Faye Spencer’s company in town, was working on a device that would translate basic language. So an English speaker could understand a German, a Chinese, and vice versa. At present the circuitry had proved complicated and unreliable. The goal was to reduce the complexity, get to market first. This device could revolutionize business worldwide.

Warp Speed had the wisdom to concentrate on English, German, Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, and“government Indian” as there were so many dialects. They’d add French, Russian, and Portuguese later.

“What I’m really excited about is Warp Speed,” High said. “I’m not really an entrepreneur but I couldn’t resist the concept. Faye’s too smart to get sucked into the vortex of pie-in-the-sky research. She’s practical. The company has good management and accounting practices. If she can pull it off, triple digit millions will be hers, maybe more.”

“And ours.” Crawford smiled. “You talked me into investing in Warp Speed, remember?”

“I do. Talked Sister into a much smaller investment than ours, but she’s naturally conservative. The volatility in the electronics market, in software, escalates. That worries me.”

“What about this murder, though?” Crawford could be bold.

High frowned.“I doubt Aashi’s murder has to do with the market.”

“You’re right. When they start killing men, I’ll worry.” Crawford didn’t consider himself sexist, but in his mind, if men were killed, it might be more than some form of sexual revenge or release.

“Ah.” High leaned against his Rover.

“We might suggest that Faye Spencer hire security.”

“She’s pretty tough. I wouldn’t worry too much,” High countered.

“Maybe,” Crawford said, unconvinced.

High smiled.“I do allow myself to dream of future profits there.”

“Down the road. If it ever happens,” Crawford remarked. “Faye’s built a good team. She was smart enough to take on a real businessperson, since she’s not. Her mind is full of wires, chips, dots of platinum, and dreams, too, I guess.”

“Once people thought computers in the home were decades away.” High crossed his arms over his chest. “Everything happens so fast.”

“High, you believe in conspiracies?”

“Like I said, this sector of the market is highly volatile. Volatility can transform into violence. What difference does it make if it’s a conspiracy or one genius nutcase?”

CHAPTER 9

Long days rarely bothered Sister, although long nights could get her. This Friday night, Washington’s birthday, she leaned against the arm of the big sofa, legs outstretched. After taking a shower and double-checking her draw list for tomorrow’s hunt at Tedi and Edward’s After All Farm, she was grateful to relax.

The den, warmed by a strong fire in the simple but lovely fireplace, was Sister’s favorite room. Much as she loved her huge kitchen, the original part of the 1788 house, she loved the den more, possibly because there, surrounded by photos of her family in silver frames, she basked in remembered love.

Before the kitchen was built, the original landowners had lived in a two-room log cabin a half mile away. The cabin had long since fallen down, but the ruins provided Inky with a spectacular den.

Jane Arnold had not led a particularly hard life. Like most she keenly felt the passing of her grandparents and then her mother and father. The death of her son in 1974, the hardest blow she’d ever been dealt, also taught her to appreciate every moment and to cherish the young. Big Ray died in 1991, although his snotty mother Lucinda, Mrs. Amos Arnold, was in her nineties, still holding sway in Richmond. So many friends had passed on. Each year she heard the wings of time beating more loudly. Her own death was out there somewhere, but then so was everyone else’s. The difference was that when one is older you can’t deny your chances of dyingare one for one. RayRay, snatched from life at fourteen, never had the chance to feel life’s deepened quickening, but in the fourteen years God gave him he spread happiness like pine pollen in early spring.

Golly, snuggled in the needlepoint pillows at the other end of the sofa, snored lightly. Raleigh and Rooster, both on their sides, dreamed, paws twitching.

Spread over Sister’s lap were stock offerings and bond quotes. She picked up a prospectus for a company mining copper in China. Big Ray had taught her how to read these siren calls to profit and how to sift through an annual report. As to “hot news” on Wall Street, his advice still rang in her ears. “Don’tfollow the lemmings. It may take awhile, but you’ll go over the cliff.”

After he died, she managed her own portfolio with the help of their stockbroker and flourished. She’d lose money sometimes but mostly her mix of high risk, medium risk, and low risk, along with about 30 percent of her investments in bonds, gained annually. She shied away from metals but was interested in the China offering only because her mistrust of China ran—well, all the way to China. She felt investors were digging themselves into the proverbial hole.

She picked up a shiny pamphlet on a drug company developing an ultrasound machine to screen for breast cancer, making biopsies obsolete, and put it in the“consider” pile.

Her tiny little cell phone beeped. She leaned over to reach it with her left hand as it rested on the rectangular coffee table.

“Hello, Sister here.”

“Sister, it’s High Vajay.”

“Good to hear your voice.”

“I didn’t want to have this conversation where others might overhear us so I thought I’d call. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not in the least.”

“I had a spontaneous eruption with Crawford.”

“How interesting.”

“Well, yes. We started talking business, finally retreating to the nineteenth hole for a drink. I’ll get to the point: He’s in over his head with those hounds and he knows it.”

“That’s a step in the right direction.”

“He’s looking for a professional huntsman. That won’t really work either, ultimately.”

“I suspect you’re right. Creating and sustaining a hunt takes years to learn. You can’t pick it up out of a book, although books help. And smart though he is, he has a difficult time taking advice.”

“This is occurring to him slowly.” High breathed deeply. “I have two ideas. One was to ask if you could send a huntsman his way, someone you trusted who might steer him away from this destructive path. An outlaw pack in the area hurts everyone.”

“Are you suggesting this individual—and, yes, there are some candidates—might gently lead him to register with the MFHA?”

“That’s one route. The problem is he’ll have to hunt another county if he does that, because he’s poaching on your territory. He wants the glory of being a master, but he’s not truly a hunter.”

“I agree, but he had made some progress with us. He actually watched hounds work on a few occasions.”

“The Russians have also made progress, but would you want to bet on their government?”

Sister laughed.“What’s your other idea?”

“Have a long lunch with Marty. See if you two beautiful ladies can’t prevail on him to come back to Jefferson Hunt. It will be better for everyone.”

A long, long pause followed.“High, you’re right. Damage was done. Repairing relationships has to come from him and I don’t know if Crawford is a big enough man to do it. As for me, I would take him back. When Crawford sat on the board and then became president—and as you know we had to slip him in with a shoehorn because the election was so tight—he created a business plan together with Ronnie Haslip that was sound. Of course, the economy can change with one disaster or political mess but, still, his five-year blueprint impressed me.”

She did not mention that she had worked behind the scenes to elect Crawford to assuage his vanity. Desperately wanting to be master but lacking some of the key qualities that an MFH requires, Crawford became president and received attention and respect. In return, he was a decisive, motivated leader. The good offices of his wife didn’t hurt either.

“It’s worth a thought. The rub is, he insists that Shaker apologize first.”

Sister breathed deeply.“That’s going to take a lot of work on this end.” She paused. “Lunch with Marty will be a pleasure regardless of the outcome. I miss her terribly.”

“We all do.”

“If nothing else, her politics, so far to the left by my standards, make me think. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Americans think as she does. And Marty will roll her sleeves up and work.”

“That’s all I have to say.”

“You’re good to call me, and you’re quite right, High. This shouldn’t be overheard. I truly appreciate your concern. Also, it takes me away from these boring stock offerings I’m reading.”

“Me too.”

“Coincidence.”

“What else can you do on a long February night?”

“With your gorgeous wife, I could think of alternatives.”

His voice was warm.“She’s visiting her sister in Phoenix. Be home next Saturday.”

“Well, then, we’ll both return to the siren call to spend money in hopes of making it. On the same subject, I still can’t believe Kasmir bought Kilowatt for the club. We pick him up Sunday. Exactly how did Kasmir make his money?”

“The short version is he became president of a small pharmaceuticals company and rolled it into a national giant. He left two years ago when his wife died. Some men find solace in work but not Kasmir. He’d worked to create a fortune so that he and Geeta could retire relatively young. He’s still a bit lost.”

After hanging up, Sister thought how fortunate she was to have members that kept the club in their thoughts. And she determined to keep Kasmir here. She’d move heaven and earth for him to wind up with Tattenhall Station. She also noted that Vajay made no mention of what Marion had told her concerning his relationship with his former secretary. But then why would he? It was in his best interests to keep his mouth shut. She wondered how long Ben Sidell would give him to prepare his wife. Sooner or later, Mandy would have to be questioned.

A paper slithered to the floor onto Raleigh’s back. He didn’t move.

“Dead to the world,” she said out loud, stopped herself, then dialed Ben Sidell, also a hunt club member. “Ben, forgive me if I’m calling at an inopportune time.”

“Polishing my boots.”

“Lay out the silk underwear. Supposed to be in the low twenties at first cast.”

“Might be a two-layer day.”

“I’m asking for information. Have there ever been other Godiva murders?”

“I’ve been researching past murders of young women for the last twenty years to see if any are similar.”

“You’re hooked too?”

“My profession, even if it didn’t happen on my beat.” His voice rose in register. “I can’t help but get hooked. I told the sheriff up in Fauquier I’d poke around a little.”

“Found anything?”

“No. There’s nothing like this anywhere.”

“Do you know if the girl in Warrenton was sexually molested? It wasn’t in the papers, but I gather that law enforcement officials will withhold a piece of information to be able to identify the killer if he calls to brag or promise another killing.”

“She wasn’t. Given her extraordinary beauty, I find that odd. I guess that shows how jaundiced I’ve become.”

“Most of us would agree with you. It isn’t you, it’s the times in which we live. Okay, here’s my next question. Marion called and told me, thanks to the sheriff there, that they had learned the victim had been or still was Vajay’s mistress. So I assume you know.”

“Do.” He paused. “I questioned him. Gave him a day to talk to Mandy.”

“He’s going to have a long phone conversation. She’s in Phoenix.”

“I know, but I can’t wait until next Saturday when she returns to question her. So he’s got twenty-four hours.”

“Do you think a woman could have lifted the corpse up on Trigger?”

“Yes, if the body was still warm and pliable and not particularly heavy. It’s not so much the weight as the unwieldiness of a fresh corpse. But two people could manage it without too much trouble. It’s a hell of a lot easier to dump a body and run. That’s why I come back to the ritual aspect.”

“Even though the victim wasn’t sexually molested, that doesn’t mean sex isn’t part of the motivation. Revenge?”

“Possible.” Ben had been sheriff for three years, and in that time he had learned to trust the older woman. “What do you think?”

“Well”—she drew out a long breath—“we all know the legend of Lady Godiva. My first thought is there’s some connection we don’t yet see. My second thought is the victim is possibly in a highly sensitive position, in high-tech industry. My third thought is, given the manner of her murder, I think there will be more. When and where, I don’t know, and I don’t know why I feel that but I do.”

“I do too. Instinct’s a funny thing. You’ve got to go with it, but you can’t really tell most other people, because they want logic. Logic is a small god. There’s something so peculiar about this it makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen sights that will haunt me all my life but this is—I don’t know, it’s just so different. Almost gleeful. Really. Lady Godiva in front of Horse Country. There’s a kind of dark humor at work.”

“I’m so glad I called you.” She sighed.

“If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.” He tapped the side of the phone absentmindedly, which Sister could hear. “How long have you known Margaret DuCharme?”

Margaret DuCharme, M.D., specialized in sports medicine. Good-looking, slightly introverted, the situation between her father and uncle sometimes wearied her as Paradise, the home place, fell down over the decades. The landholdings totaled about five thousand acres, give or take, and Alfred, her uncle, had kept them in good shape.

“All her life. She’s bright, driven, fundamentally kind, and fundamentally lonesome.” Sister encouraged him. “She needs you whether she knows it or not, and you need her.”

This surprised him.“How do you know that?”

“The whole mess at Paradise last month brought you together, right?”

“We’ve had a few dates—well, the first one was lunch because it’s not so, so—”

“Wise to start with lunch.”

“Well, why did you say what you said?”

“Because I’m an old woman who can see around corners. And because you glow, you radiate excitement, when she walks into a room.”

“God, am I that obvious?”

“To me. Probably not to others,” she fibbed. “Make her laugh. Margaret needs to laugh.”

When that conversation ended, Sister remembered that this day was the feast day of another Margaret, Margaret of Cortona, a Franciscan penitent who lived from 1247 to 1297 and sounded like a wack job because of the way she mortifed herself, mistreated her son for a time, and attacked anything she considered a vice.

Sister shook her head, musing on what constitutes holiness. Seemed to her, given Lady Godiva’s bravery and subsequent good works, that she deserved to be a saint far more than Margaret of Cortona, with her hair shirts and self-inflicted starvation.

CHAPTER 10

A sharp dry wind from the west sliced through boots and gloves. Hunters could keep their bodies warm, but feet and hands usually suffered—as did noses, which tended to run at inauspicious occasions.

Once mounted, Sister wanted to move off, but first cast, at ten, couldn’t be pushed upward. Once people receive a fixture card with place and time for the hunt, you can’t fool with it. People, many still on the ground, rooted for girths, searched for hairnets, struggled with stock pins.

Why don’t they tie their stock pins at home when their fingers are warm? Sister thought to herself. She wore the titanium stock pin Garvey Stokes had made for her. As far as she knew, she had the only titanium stock pin in the world. The slender dull silver pin was fantastic.

Ilona Merriman, hairnet in place, derby correctly placed on her head—which is to say, straight across the brow—rode up to Sister, reined in Tom Tiger, her handy small Thoroughbred, gave a pregnant pause, and then tattled. “Jennifer Schneider—granted she’s a new member—but she’s not wearing a hairnet, her gloves are black, and her stock pin has a fox’s head on it. She might as well learn sooner as later.”

Sister wanted to slap Ilona, whom she’d always tolerated but never liked, not that Ilona deliberately crossed her. Of course, turnout should be proper.Face danger with elegance is the foxhunter’s creed. But Jennifer, riding with Bobby Franklin, was green as grass. Sister gave each new member a copy of correct attire for JHC. She also gave them a year to pull it together.

“I’ll have a word with her.”

“I’ll do it, if you like. Then the onus is on me.” Like so many people, Ilona reveled in small displays of power.

“Thank you. It’s better that I do it because you ride in the field. In time, Jennifer may move up to first flight. Sometimes a correcting word, no matter how kindly given, can spoil a relationship. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you and Jennifer.” Before Ilona could indicate that Jennifer was beneath her, Sister adroitly mentioned, “She’s a Valentine on her mother’s side.”

The Valentine blood, an old Virginia family and one with steeplechase connections, would appeal to Ilona’s snobbery. She possessed little old Virginia blood but what she had had been magnified to gargantuan proportions.

“I didn’t know that.” Her cute little mouth became anO.

“Blood always tells.” Sister couldn’t resist. “Thank you for the heads-up. We do want our people to look perfect.”

Ilona, now in possession of news, made a beeline for Cabel, who was getting a leg up from Clayton.

Ilona heard him chide her.“Go to the doctor. You haven’t been to a doctor in twenty years, Cabel. There’s no reason your legs should be weak.”

Sister watched as Clayton huffed and puffed to lift Cabel, not particularly heavy.God, she thought to herself,he’s even fatter than he was two weeks ago.

Seeing her staring in his direction, Clayton winked, which made Sister laugh. Fat he might be, but he hadn’t lost his spark.

After a few welcoming words to guests from Sister and Walter, they moved off, hounds following, northward along Broad Creek. The wind buffeted them until they reached an area one mile from the Bancrofts’ covered bridge, where the ground began to fall away. Shaker knew sooner or later they’d pick up a line, faint perhaps, but something to run, since this portion of Broad Creek sank low, providing protection from the wind. Any fox worth his or her salt, if picked up, would scamper to high ground where their signature perfume would be blown away.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

February 23, being a Saturday, meant a large field. Today, sixty-seven hardy souls rode forward. Jefferson Hunt could count on big Saturdays even after New Year’s, when fair-weather hunters kept to their fireplaces. Most of the Jefferson Hunt members truly wanted to hunt and took pride in facing conditions that would deter others.

Rickyroo, Sister’s seven-year-old Thoroughbred, dark coat glistening, enjoyed the brisk weather. A quick study, he’d learned so much last season that Sister felt he was made and could handle any possibility—and they were out there, from mountain lions to wild boar, the worst of the worst.

Walter Lungrun, in his second year as joint master, rode right behind Tedi and Edward Bancroft, who usually rode in Sister’s pocket. These two, always perfectly turned out, on beautiful horses, made Sister smile. They had more money than God, but even Ben Sidell, who made a modest salary as sheriff, looked perfect next to Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers.

She prided herself on her field, their turnout, their hunting manners, and their hospitality to visitors. With the exception of Crawford, who had always been too flashy, she was rarely disappointed.

High Vajay was out, as was Kasmir, this time in a heavy frock coat, thicker gloves, and a sturdy derby attached to his back collar with a black hat cord.

Sister’s coat had faded to a hue admired by newcomers because it meant you’d been hunting a long time. Her coat, black, lined in wool tattersall, cut the cold. Her cap, ribbons down, had faded also.

Non-staff members, those wearing caps, wore the ribbons up.

She sighed as they walked along. High-pressure systems meant tough hunting although a fox could pop out at any time, its scent then red hot. Anything could happen. She fretted since she wanted to show good sport, but as yet Sister had not figured out how to control the weather.

She glanced over her shoulder. The Custis Hall girls rode at the rear as usual. Juniors ride at the rear, as do grooms. When the pace quickens and people drop back, often not having a fast-enough horse or enough horse, then a junior may move up. A groom should assist those falling behind if they need it. These days a groom often helped only his or her employer, but they were there to serve. Few true grooms existed anymore; pony clubbers often fulfilled those duties at various barns, but they had much to learn about protocol. Even Tedi and Edward didn’t take a groom out, although they did have stable help whereas Sister did not. She was so grateful to the Custis Hall girls for turning out her horses and cleaning staff tack on the days they rode that she had given each girl soft leather mustard gloves for Christmas presents. She was already wondering what to give them for graduation.

She stopped wondering when Cora spoke with high excitement. A large gray streak shot out to her left.

“Come!” Cora sang out.

The entire pack, honoring their strike hound and head bitch, closed in on the line and ran single file until they burst out of the woods, now running southwesterly. In three minutes, flat out amid the trees, the path narrow, Sister happily spied the old hog’s back jump, thrilled her knees had survived the close quarters. She could clearly see Comet, the gray fox, ahead now bursting through the wildflower field, the whole pack bunched together.

Bitsy, the screech owl, flew silently overhead. She must have followed them from the covered bridge at the Bancrofts. Bitsy, living in Sister’s stable, led an extremely active social life, enlivened by intense curiosity about everyone and everything. Sister was fine with that, so long as she kept her mouth shut, for her cry could wake the dead.

Comet faced into the wind, his scent streaming into flared hound nostrils. He zigzagged to break the flow but the scent was so hot the pack zigzagged with him. He’d run at a good clip but now he had to hit top speed. He’d been caught unawares, trying to court a new gray vixen living about a half mile from the small graveyard by the covered bridge. Romance clouded his senses.

He cut sharply right, leapt over the old fence setting off the wildflower field, some patches of snow still encrusted in small furrows here and there, like hard vanilla icing, then cut straight up toward Hangman’s Ridge.

Sister sailed over the jump in the old fence line, Rickyroo’s ears forward. He jumped a trifle flat, which helped old bones. A horse with a large bascule, the rounding of the back so prized in the show ring, could wear out even the Custis Hall girls after four hours of hunting. Better a horse that powered off hindquarters, reached out with forelegs, and then folded them up and kept that back just a little flat. A long pastern—the short bone just above the hoof—made the landing smoother too, but Sister didn’t worry too much about that. Many horsemen declared a horse with a long pastern would break down sooner than one with upright pasterns. After a lifetime with horses, Sister thought it was six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Hounds pounded down the frozen farm road, although sections were getting greasy as the sun rose higher. It was already ten thirty.

Behind her Sister heard a loud rap on the coop. Someone had rubbed it. Footing in front of it was getting cut up. Well, if someone endured an involuntary dismount, another bottle for the club traveling bar. She collected these bottles assiduously, though she was not much of a drinker herself. Single-malt scotch on a wickedly cold day would pass her lips and that was about it, or maybe a cold beer on a stinky hot day. But alcohol rarely figured into Sister’s socializing. She’d witnessed too many good people go down like Sam Lorillard.

Another rap followed. Yes, the ground was getting cut up but the smart riders would rate, slow down a little, then squeeze hard at the takeoff spot to compensate, or not rate their horse’s stride and leave early. So often, and not on purpose, people would follow too closely at the jumps. Some plain couldn’t hold their horses. One of the great things about the Custis Hall girls riding in the rear was that Sister received a full report. As field master, her job was to stay behind the hounds without crowding them. What happened behind her, in a sense, was not her concern.

“He’s going to Hangman’s Ridge,” Dasher called out.

“Damn,” Asa growled.

Damn was right, because the moment Comet reached that high flat expanse exposed to fierce winds, even in summer, he knew he could relax. He crossed the long axis of the ridge and paused at the hanging tree, haunted by those who died there, earning their dispatch thanks to severe transgressions. Comet didn’t like hearing their whispers. Occasionally he could see one of the hanged. Under the circumstances, let the hounds deal with it. He waited. They came onto the ridge and he slipped down the back side toward Roughneck Farm. His den was not far from that of his sister Inky. His scent would be longgone by the time the hounds reached the tree, so he just ambled on home.

“I hate this place,” Diddy, a young female hound, whispered.

“Me too,” Tinsel, another young hound, agreed.

“Drat!” Cora circled the tree, ignoring the whispers from the large branch formerly used to secure the rope.

Hounds milled about. Shaker rode up. He too disliked this spot. He urged them to cast themselves wider, which they did, but the damage was done, as was the day. He considered going down the narrow path to the farm road in hopes of rousing another fox, but he figured this was it. Couldn’t complain. It had been a bracing run.

The fifteen-minute walk down the trail to the farm road produced squabbling in the bushes from two male cardinals who had been squabbling anyway. The goldfinches, chirpy as always, turned their backs to the redbirds, wishing the cardinals would fly up to tree limbs and stay out of their bushes. Cardinals pretty much did as they pleased, but at least they weren’t as offensive as the blue jays, who would walk right up to a goldfinch on the ground to utter a stream of avian obscenities.

Returning to the coop, Sister paused.“Shaker, let’s take hounds back to their kennels. Then we can drive back to After All and pick up the trailer and the party wagon. No point in walking all the way back there when the kennels are ten minutes away.”

“Fine.”

She turned to the field.“Folks, we’re walking hounds back to the kennels and we’ll meet you at After All. Walter will lead the field.”

Walter nodded, happy that he was chosen by the senior master to do this. His riding was improving, as was his hunting knowledge. Usually Tedi or Edward led the field when Sister, for whatever reason, did not.

Tedi smiled at Sister. She liked seeing Walter move up.

The two whippers-in rode beside the pack at ten o’clock and two o’clock. Shaker rode at six o’clock, and in this way the pack was kept together. Their discipline was good. They wouldn’t bolt, but both Sister and Shaker thought better safe than sorry.

Back at the kennels, hounds cheerfully walked in, eager to discuss the day’s hunt and to lord it over those not drawn to go out today, Dragon being one.

“Pretty good day in difficult conditions,” Cora called out, as she went into the kennel.

Dragon, face pressed against the chain link fence around the boys’ run, heard her loud and clear before she disappeared into the kennels for warm water to drink, a check over, and some kibble warmed with heated-up gravy, a special mix of Sister’s.

Sybil helped Shaker with the hounds. Dragon growled with envy.

Sister and Betty led the four horses back to the barn. Both Betty and Sybil would drive over later to pick up their horses. In the meantime, each animal would be wiped down, checked, a blanket thrown over, put in a stall with fresh water and flakes of sweet hay.

Since the Custis Hall girls needed to ride back to After All, the two old friends happily performed the after-hunt horse chores alone.

“Should we clean the tack?” Betty asked, after putting up Outlaw and Bombardier, her horse and Sybil’s.

“We can do it after breakfast. Don’t want to show up too late. I’ll put up the coffeepot. Might as well get warmed from the inside out.” Sister walked into the small but pretty office to make coffee. A hot plate and a small under-counter refrigerator were in the room. Sister thought someday, if she ever got ahead with money, she’d extend the office outward so she could build a proper kitchen and make a nice sitting room, since she spent more time in the barn than in the house.

She stopped.“Betty, Betty, come here!”

Betty opened the door, then stopped cold.“What in the hell?”

“That’s what I say.”

Before them on the desk gleamed the great silver John Barton Payne punch bowl from Marion Maggiolo’s store.

Sister called Ben Sidell on his cell but it was turned off. He hadn’t reached his trailer yet most likely.

She called Marion at Horse Country.

“Marion, your punch bowl is here.”

“What?”

“On my office desk in the stable. Looks fine. I’ll notify the sheriff here; you notify yours.”

Marion paused, trying to eradicate the worry from her voice.“Why you?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

“It’s possible whoever stole the punch bowl didn’t kill that girl.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m glad you have it, but”—Marion switched her thoughts—“where are your dogs?”

“In the house. I suspect whoever put this here knew not to put it in the house. Raleigh and Rooster would have taken down anyone they didn’t know well.” Anger infiltrated her voice. “I don’t like being played with.”

“Play may not be the right word. I wouldn’t go out without those dogs or a thirty-eight. This is too weird.”

After hanging up the phone, Sister turned to Betty, who was admiring the magnificent silver bowl.

Betty looked up.“Not good. Not good at all.”

“Well, I hardly think I’m going to be the next Lady Godiva.”

Betty tilted her head upward to the taller woman.“Jane, none of us has any idea what’s going on, and that includes the authorities. Assume nothing. I don’t think you should be in the house alone at night. One of us should be with you. We can take turns.”

“Now, Betty, that’s a little extreme.” Sister felt a little shaky and tried to make light of it by changing the subject. “Funny, today is the Roman festival of Terminalia, celebrates the god Terminus.”

“The things that pop into your mind.” Betty put her hand on Sister’s shoulder.

“He’s the god of boundaries.” She looked into Betty’s quiet brown eyes. “Someone is crossing our boundaries, even those of life and death.”

CHAPTER 11

Sister never made it to the breakfast at Tedi and Edward’s. She called Walter and explained the situation, informing him she needed to wait for Ben Sidell. Ben left his horse in the Bancroft stables and drove right over. He, too, strongly advised she have someone with her at night until they knew more about the case.

By eight that evening, she’d had it; her patience was thin. Instead of admitting she was a bit scared, she became crabby. Gray babied her, which irritated her even more although part of her liked it.

“Go sit in the den. I’ll be there in a minute,” he commanded her.

Not accustomed to taking orders, Sister shot him a jaundiced look. She did, however, do as he said since she felt guilty about being moody.

She leaned against the arm of the sofa, her legs stretched out, her old cashmere robe soft against her freshly showered skin.

Golly immediately pounced on her toes.“Tiny sausages.”

“She’s in a bad mood. Leave her alone,” Raleigh counseled the cat, an exercise in futility.

“The time to torture humans is when they’re low.” Golly’s extremely long, white whiskers swept forward, her pupils now large with anticipation.

“Golly!” Sister laughed, she couldn’t help herself, because the cat jumped on her bosoms, sat upright on those pillows, and patted her face, pretending to be ferocious.

“Suck it up!” Golly enjoyed herself.

Rooster, curled up on the club chair across from the sofa, said laconically,“Mental.”

Golly launched off Sister’s chest and skidded across the coffee table, knocking a clean glass ashtray to the floor. Barely stopping herself from falling off the table, she bunched up and leapt onto Rooster with a heavy hit, then leapt right off.“I’m the queen! You’re a peasant.”

“Like I said, mental.” Rooster burrowed his nose deeper in his paws, just in case Golly returned, claws unleashed.

Gray walked in as Golly touched the floor.

“You missed my very own Flying Wallenda.” Sister’s mood improved.

“That cat has a secret life. Probably works for the CIA.” He put two hot toddies on coasters and stooped to pick up the ashtray, hand-painted on the bottom side with a hunting scene. “You know, I was reading somewhere, maybe theManchester Guardian, where scientists discovered bees can detect explosives. CIA will put them to work. I figure Golly’s on the payroll. Fresh kidneys must be her salary.”

“Tuna!” Golly returned to Sister’s feet but didn’t bite.

Gray handed Sister the enticing mug.“Can’t remember the proper glass for a toddy, but I figure it’s hot whiskey so a mug will suffice.” He sat on the sofa next to Golly, who turned her pretty head to allow him to admire her.

“Gray, I can’t drink all of this.”

“A sip or two. No harm in relaxing.” He stroked Golly’s head and was rewarded with a deep purr.

Golly threw in a few trills for variety, which made Sister laugh some more.“She’s a complete lunatic and I couldn’t live without her.”

“I could,” Rooster grumbled.

“Lowly rabbit runner.” Golly interrupted a stream of high-pitched notes.

Rooster lifted his handsome head.“You huge fur ball. I can run fox, bear, or coyote. I can run anything because my nose is good, but I’m trained to run rabbit and hare. That’s my job. I don’t go off on the wrong quarry. You shut up.”

“Seems to be a conversational evening.” Gray took a long draft.

“Ignore her, Rooster.” Raleigh climbed up on the wing chair, which had a throw over it for this purpose.

“Ray used to make a hot brick.” Sister mused on her husband’s favorite. “If the day had been nasty cold, after the horses were put up and hounds checked, he’d head for the kitchen. I can never remember the difference between a toddy and a brick.”

“A brick is one-third an ounce of whiskey—you can substitute rye if you like—a pinch of cinnamon, pinch sugar, a third an ounce of hot water, and a small pat of butter.”

“I remember the butter. Made me think of yak butter. I drank it, though.” She grimaced.

“Don’t much like butter in a drink myself.”

“What’s your recipe for a toddy?”

He shifted, leaning against the arm after another long sip, placing his legs alongside Sister. Even though he showered, he wore knee-high Filson wool socks because his feet got cold so easily.“Standard. One ounce of bourbon, four ounces of boiling water, one teaspoon of sugar, three whole cloves, one cinnamon stick, and one lemon slice, medium thick. Most people slice the lemon paper thin. In this case, I substituted scotch for bourbon. I’m not much for bourbon. The drink is sweet anyway.”

“Bourbon’s okay if good but I prefer scotch if I’m going to drink.” She paused. “And I like rye, but a good rye is hard to find. It fell out of favor. The younger generations don’t much like hard liquor. Wine, beer, and mixes I don’t even recognize seem to be their standard. My daddy always said,Takes a man to drink rye; then he’d hand me a little. I’m not sure what the message was.” She smiled, for she loved her father; mother too.

“Toughening you up, your dad.” Gray snuggled into the pillows by the arm.

“Get settled, will you?” Golly complained, as was her wont.

“Golly, if you’d drink a toddy it would improve your mood.”

“If I drank a toddy I’d be in The Guinness Book of World Records.”

“You probably are.” Raleigh baited her vanity.

She bit.“For what?”

“Cat with the flabbiest belly. Swings when you walk.” Raleigh chortled, a breathy sound that dogs make when laughing.

Golly considered flaying him but was comfortable.“I’ll have my revenge.”

“Did you know there’s a drink called a Huntress Cocktail?” Gray stroked Golly more, her fur soft.

“I did not.”

“Three-fourths ounce of bourbon, three-fourths ounce of cherry liqueur, one teaspoon of triple sec, and one ounce of heavy cream. Sounds awful.”

“Does. Is there a Hunter’s Cocktail? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“One and one-half ounces of rye and one-half ounce of cherry brandy. Stir and serve over ice. The other one you shake up with ice or ice shavings, then strain into a chilled cocktail glass.”

“How did you learn so much about mixing drinks?”

“Alcoholism runs in the Lorillard family.” He didn’t smile, saying this as a matter of fact, which it was. “I can remember uncles, grandparents—white uncles too—gleefully sharing the mysteries of potions, mixed drinks, you name it. For a while there when I was young I drank a lot, but then I caught myself. Obviously, Sam didn’t.” He stopped and lifted his glass. “To my pickled kin, regardless of the color of their skin.”

Sister reached for her drink with a slight grunt and toasted.“At least Sam’s back from the precipice.”

“He works at it. That man is religious about his AA meetings. I guess you substitute one addiction for another. Ever notice how alcoholics always have a glass in their hand, water or soda or something?”

“I have, actually. What is it Alcoholics Anonymous says?Alcohol is a craving of the body and an obsession of the mind.” She shrugged.“What people do is their business as long as they don’t wipe me out on the road. But there are still cultures or enclaves where drinking is important. Parliament in England, for one. Still seen as a real test of balls. Can a man hold his liquor? No wonder Tony Blair has hung on to power for so long. Hell, they’re all too loaded to mount an effective ouster.”

“Used to be that way here. I still think young men go through the phase, some of them.” Gray thought about it. “What’s the difference? If it’s not drink, someone will hand you a pill and tell you life will be rosy. There’s something in humans that can’t accept reality.”

At this, the animals lifted their ears. They’d been saying this for years to one another.

“True. It has to be prettiest up or denied. But don’t you think alcohol was one of the few ways to deaden physical pain before the advent of huge drug companies and the billions of profits from pills?”

“I do.” Gray shrugged. “I’m not going to solve the alcohol problem.” He took another gulp. “You know, I can’t drink all this either.” He laughed. “It’s good, though, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes, it is. We’ll consider this as alcohol used for its proper purpose, a medicinal application.”

“I’ve been thinking about the silver punch bowl.”

“Yes.” Her voice lowered again.

“It’s pretty obvious. You’ve thought of it too. This person either knows you well or knows about you. The thing is, why do they want to implicate you?”

“For theft?”

“Murder.”

She remained quiet while she took a long, long sip herself.“Why me?”

CHAPTER 12

The creamy English leather of the high-quality bridles hanging on the wall distracted Sister for a moment. It was noon on Sunday, February 24, and Marion had met Gray and Sister at Horse Country, which remained closed on the Sabbath, so the three of them could go through without being disturbed.

Aga, Marion’s female Scottish terrier, led Raleigh and Rooster upstairs. Aga proved a gracious host, showing them her special ceramic food dish and matching water bowl.

“I had to repair the downstairs lock immediately,” Marion said, leading them to the housing for the security system. She flipped open the heavy plastic box, exposing tiny colored wires and computer chips.

Gray, using the button LED flashlight on Marion’s key chain, directed the thin bright beam into the box. Even though the overhead light shone brightly in the utility room, which housed the water heater, the furnace, and the water filter, he needed more light.

The two women peered behind him.

“All those tiny computer chips.” Sister sighed. “No bigger than half your little fingernail.”

“Airplanes are full of them too. Just think what would happen if one melted?” Marion tilted her head upward toward the colored entanglement in the box.

“How often do you revamp your security system?” Gray asked.

“I haven’t. I mean, I remodeled seven years ago when I acquired the bottom of the building, but I haven’t bought another system.”

“Yes, it was state of the art. This isn’t my field, ladies, but you’d be surprised what you learn when you defend a client in front of the IRS.”

“What do you mean?” Marion wondered, ever curious.

“If a client had been robbed and his records destroyed, our firm—well, my old firm—investigates independently. I’ve stuck my nose in all kinds of security systems. The most troubling are the infrared ones.”

“You mean where little red beams crisscross a room?” Sister knew that much anyway.

“Sounds like a great system. Anything moves and the system calls the satellite, which bounces to the police. However, in a store like this, what if, for whatever reason, an object falls off a shelf and sets off the alarm. You can see the problems.”

“That’s why I chose this system.”

“It was good in its day, but I suspect whoever came into the store knew it depended on your phone lines, ground lines. Cutting them was easy. They all emerge from the building.”

“Didn’t you have a fruit loop—um—about seven years ago?” Sister recalled a somewhat odd employee.

“Well, more lazy than crazy.” Marion frowned. “But he wasn’t a thief.”

“No ugly parting?” Gray glanced from the box to Marion.

“Firing someone is upsetting. He lost his temper, but it all worked out. He just wasn’t meant to be inside. He’s working on a farm west of town.”

“A decent relationship?” Sister didn’t need to elaborate.

“Socially”—Marion searched for the right word—“superficially pleasant, I’d say.”

Gray pressed the button, the beam cut off, and he shut the box, handing Marion her keys.“I assume you’re purchasing a new system?”

“Installed tomorrow to the tune of eighteen thousand dollars.” Marion sighed.

The three of them repaired to her office, where she turned on a light, the store remaining dark lest someone think it was open.“Aga, aren’t you generous.”

Aga, in the office, had allowed Raleigh and Rooster to play with her special nylabone.

Rooster grunted.“Can’t crack this thing.”

“All right, out,” Sister ordered her two. “There isn’t room for all of us.”

Reluctantly, her two dogs left to flop down hard outside the door; the flop indicated canine sulking. Aga picked up her bone and joined them.

“Would you like coffee? A drink perhaps?”

“No, thanks.” Gray was glad to sit down. His legs still ached from yesterday’s riding.

“Me neither.”

Gray leaned forward.“Marion, has the sheriff talked about your security system to you?”

“Only to ask who knows how to disarm it to open the store and how to set it to close it at night.” She paused. “He did say I could put the punch bowl back up, since your sheriff dusted it. I don’t think they have room for anything that big at the station.” She leaned back.

“I’ll bring it in.” Gray started to get up.

“Not now, honey. We can do that in a minute.” Sister leaned forward too. “Marion, is there a customer who knows about your security system?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If they’re in the security or electronic business it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out, especially on a day when you’re really busy,” Gray said.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Marion frowned.

“Christmas,” Sister suggested.

Marion paused.“That’s a possibility. There are so many people in here from Thanksgiving to Christmas, a customer could easily slip into the furnace room undetected.”

“Or check outside for the wire outlet,” Gray added.

Gray rose.“I’ll get the punch bowl. I won’t set the alarm off, will I?”

“No.” Marion smiled at him, then called out, “Wait, Gray. Let’s put it in my car. I can put it back on the shelf once I’m sure the new security system works. And I have a system at home. I’ll keep the bowl there.”

He returned and leaned against the office door, glad to keep his knees straight for a moment.

“I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill someone, steal a punch bowl, and then leave it in my barn.” Sister folded her hands together. “I’m dizzy from thinking.”

“Goes around faster and faster. We need to slow down.” Marion realized her flashes of insight were coming when they felt like it, not on command. “Let’s trust our instincts. It would seem whoever is behind this wants to mark both of us.”

“Like a fox marks territory?”

“Yes.” Marion, having spent a lifetime with foxhunters, understood the game.

“A beautiful woman from India, and you and me?” Sister shook her head.

“We aren’t dead yet.”

CHAPTER 13

Tattenhall Station glowed blue in the twilight, the western sky still showing traces of scarlet and gold. Sister drove through and turned right, down the long lane leading to Faye Spencer’s farm. She’d called Faye at work, asking if she might drop by.

The door opened the minute Sister’s boots touched the front porch, the overhead light already shining.

“Come on in, stranger,” Faye greeted her. “Tea? Hot chocolate? You name it. I even baked cookies yesterday. Still fresh.”

“Hot chocolate.”

Once the chocolate was poured, Faye and Sister sat in the living room. The old clapboard farmhouse had been built when the railroad first came through, for the foreman who oversaw Tattenhall Station’s construction. The fire crackled. On the baby grand piano, its top down, a shawl artfully draped over the ebony, stood a photograph of Gregory Spencer in uniform.

“We’ve missed you in the hunt field.”

Faye, pretty and in her early thirties, sighed.“Oh, Nighthawk threw a shoe, took a little chunk of hoof with it. We’ll be back once my farrier gets to work on it.”

“How’s everything else?”

Faye ran her fingers through her glossy auburn hair, cut in a pageboy.“Coming out of it. Two years. Sometimes time flies, sometimes it crawls.”

“Sounds about right. The first year of Ray’s death I hurt, plain hurt. The second year I felt numb. Then in high spring of that year I started to revive. I suppose we grieve in our individual ways and you’re young, whereas I was in my fifties. I don’t know if that made it easier or not.”

“I miss him. Don’t get me wrong. I do, but now I can think of Greg without bursting into tears.”

“He was a focused man.” Sister smiled at the memory of him. “He loved the army. You know what they always say about war, it’s the brave lieutenants and captains who die in the largest numbers among officers. Those who survive usually become senior officers if they stay in the service.”

“I do know that.”

“Greg would be proud to see how far you’ve come with the company.”

“There are days when I think the name Warp Speed is so-o-o wrong.” She drew this out humorously.

“You could change it to Three Speed.” Sister laughed.

“Might be a good idea. Three Speed. Some days I think we’re almost there; other days I feel sucked back by an ebb tide. It’s exciting, though, Sister, to think we may be on the cusp of developing a twenty-first-century Rosetta Stone. You write the phrase you want to speak into computer or cell phone and you receive a script of the translation. If you’re online with someone from another country, their input is translated. We’re so, so close. I believe the day will come when this can be done phonetically. Right now, though”—she held up her hand as if to stave off an onslaught—“we’re concentrating on text.”

“Sounds like a miracle.”

“No, just hard work. Every language can be broken down into nouns, verbs, adjectives, and so on. Structure is relatively similar among the Indo-European languages. It’s when we reach into Chinese and Japanese that we go back to the Bible and read about the Tower of Babel.”

“Ideograms?”

“Oh”—Faye waved her hand, her wedding ring golden in the reflected firelight—“no way. Everything has to be put in our alphabet; that’s just the first hurdle.”

“What about Russian?”

“That’s easier because the Cyrillic alphabet mostly parallels ours. And the structure does too. Russian will be next; we aren’t working on it now. I love this. I really do. I’m glad I’m not the linguistic expert, though. I stick to the nuts and bolts.”

“Bucknell University served you well.”

“Did.” She drank more hot chocolate. “Met Greg there. Funny, because we were both from Virginia. That’s what connected us in the first place.”

“Leave home to find home,” Sister said.

“Greg had this calling,” she recalled fondly. “He followed it and I followed him and then I found mine. He was so sweet. When he was posted to Iraq, he said,Honey, you supported me. I’ll support you.”

“Think he would have stayed in the army?”

“No. His idealism tarnished in Iraq. He wanted to complete his tour of duty and his time in the service, and then he said he’d work for me. I don’t know if that would have been a good idea, but I suppose we’d have found out.”

“What would he have done? He wasn’t in your field.”

“Sell. Greg could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”

Sister nodded.“Yes, he could.” She changed the subject. “Only three weeks left in the season. Can’t you borrow a horse while Nighthawk heals?”

“Clayton Harper stopped by and said I could borrow his young mare. Think I will.”

“Have you seen Marty Howard lately?” Sister was glad Faye would be back hunting.

“No, but Crawford comes around the office. He likes to check on our progress. I keep meaning to call Marty for lunch.”

“Me too.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do about her.” Faye knew the situation. “Say, High Vajay dropped by Saturday after the hunt with his friend, Kasmir, can’t say his last name—”

Sister filled in.“Barbhaiya.”

“Couldn’t have been more polite. Anyway, he asked me some questions about Tattenhall Station and the community. He said he was in contact with Norfolk and Southern. You gave him the information.”

“The grass doesn’t grow under his feet.”

“Seems like he’d be a good addition to the place.”

“Does.” Sister placed her cup on the woven coaster. “Well, I’ve got to get back. A new horse came in yesterday, settling in, but I’ll check on him.”

“Kilowatt?”

“News travels fast.”

“Yes, it does,” Faye agreed.

“It occurs to me that you’re—I guess the phrase iscutting edge—on the cutting edge of technology. What do you think about the murder of the woman in research at Craig and Abrams?”

A shadow crossed the young woman’s features. “I don’t like it. I wonder if she knew something.”

“Technical?”

“That or sabotage.”

“Political?”

“Hmm, probably not. I was thinking, what if one company wanted to destroy or drive down the stock prices of another? Let’s stick to price. If she had information about development, it’s possible for someone in a competing company or one that wanted to gobble up, say, Company A, to delay the development project. It’s not that difficult if you have information. Look in another arena. Toyota overtook General Motors as the number one carmaker in the world. Yet even with all their resources in every department, it took Toyota years to develop a full-sized truck to compete with the Americanhalf-tons. And then they had to delay its entry onto the car lots by almost six months. Now I’m not saying there was sabotage, but even without, launching a new product is hazardous.”

“Back to what you first said. Could such information be worth millions?”

“Yes. If the shark company bought up Company A after stocks were depressed thanks to a delayed product release or whatever, it would save millions for the buyer, then ultimately make them billions. The lady in question, had she lived, could have wound up in a high position with stock options Midas would envy.”

“Good Lord.”

“Business can be ruthless.”

“What if the situation were reversed?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if she refused to tell?”

“Actually, that’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because, Sister, anyone with valuable information can usually be scared into giving it away. If she didn’t, she was brave and it cost her her life.”

Sister leaned back.“Seeing her”—she stopped and thought—“got to me. You’re in a field somewhat similar to hers. My curiosity is getting the better of me.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. I’d be very, very careful.” Faye said this protectively.

“By the way, Ben told me someone shot out the night-light.” Sister changed the subject again.

“That’s not all. When I was at work, someone hooked up the garden hoses, ran water in them, shut off the water, didn’t drain the hoses. So of course they froze. Little irritating shit. Excuse my French.”

“Do you know why someone would want to bother you?”

“No idea.”

“Odd.”

CHAPTER 14

Ah, Lakshmi.” Kasmir stared deep into his brandy snifter and shook his head.

The two men sat before the fire in the study at Charing Cross, the walls, painted lobster bisque, reflecting the light.

Upstairs the children slept. Downstairs their father agonized.

“Saturday.” High’s jaw set hard, then he covered his eyes, simply mentioning the day his wife would return.

“At least she didn’t mention divorce.” Kasmir ever sought to find the silver lining.

“Not yet. What could I do?” He threw up his hands. “The sheriff had to question her. He had the decency to give me some hours to compose myself before he called her in Phoenix.” He paused. “Her sister will suggest divorce.” He paused again. “She’s never liked me.”

“I remember.” Kasmir thought Mandy’s sister was one of those people who looks for what’s wrong instead of what’s right. The world is full of people like that.

High took a long sip of his brandy.“I didn’t kill Aashi. I didn’t even know she was in Warrenton.”

“Maybe she wasn’t,” Kasmir replied.

High sat up, leaning forward in the deep-seated wing chair.“Why would I kill her? I liked her. She was so full of gaiety, laughter, and energy. She made me feel young.”

“We aren’t that old, you know.”

“Old enough.” High put his snifter on the coffee table. “Old enough to start worrying about getting old.”

“Young women are an antidote. But I thought you had ended the affair. You wrote me last year that you had.” He half smiled. “I liked receiving the letter, but you made me laugh, saying you didn’t want to have this conversation on your cell, too many people could listen in. True, but why would they be listening to us?”

“Between us we possess stores of information.”

“Only about money.” Kasmir smiled.

High fell back into his chair.“Exactly.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

High opened his hands, palms outward.“Cooperate with the authorities.”

“Of course. I mean, what are you going to do about Mandy?”

“Isn’t it more, what is she going to do about me?”

Kasmir pursed his lips.“She’ll rage and cry when the children are out of the house. Maybe she’ll throw things at you or force some penance upon you. I’ve heard jewelry or a new car absolves many such sins.”

High grunted.

They both stared into the fire; then Kasmir spoke again.“When did you fan the embers?”

“Never really died. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The funny thing is, I love my wife. You know that. I love our children. I love our life together, but I needed Aashi. Is it so hard to understand?”

Kasmir shrugged,“We’re men. Men understand. Women don’t. But let me pose the question: What would you do, were the situation reversed?”

“She’d never,” High answered, too quickly.

Kasmir nodded in agreement, while noting the haste.“Yes, yes, but what if, my old friend?”

“Well”—High shifted in his seat—“well, I’d be furious. I wouldn’t hit her; I might want to but I wouldn’t. If the man were someone close, that would be a double betrayal. I’d want to kill him.”

“Yes. That’s usually the case.”

High grunted.“At least I spared her that—the double betrayal, I mean.”

“She knew Aashi from when she was your secretary.”

“Aashi wasn’t my secretary for long. She was bright. I helped her move up and out. Better for me too. Sometimes people can sniff those things out in an office. I don’t think anyone did.”

“Someone did.”

“No, they didn’t.” High looked quizzically at Kasmir, comfortable in his cashmere robe.

“Who told the authorities you were having an affair with her?”

High sat bolt upright.“I never thought of that.”

“You’re too upset to think clearly,” Kasmir said, to soothe him.

“Who could it be?”

“Someone who observed you closely, perhaps.”

“I’m retired. If they told the police anything from our office days, it would be old news.”

“But whoever told the police indicated the affair was ongoing. Correct?”

“Correct.” High felt even worse now.

“Let us consider this logically, difficult as it is. Someone knew you and Aashi had either continued your affair or revived it; that detail will emerge in time, I suppose. Now, why would that be important?” He answered his own question. “You are a suspect. Men do kill their mistresses for allthe old reasons. If there are new ones I know them not. You didn’t kill her. So whoever informed the sheriff—as I recall, the counties here have sheriffs, not police—at any rate, this person either thinks you are guilty or wants others to think so.”

High’s right hand came to his forehead. “Kasmir, it can’t be true.”

“Why?” the portly man pressed. “Why would someone wish to cast you in such a dreadful light? Do you have enemies here? Is someone seeking revenge from Craig and Abrams?”

“I helped Craig and Abrams double their profits.” High, not an egotistical man, did know his worth. “Yes, there were those with whom I was not close, people I even disliked, but not to this degree. You remember. I told you who would drag their heels, no vision, or who would complain about my administrative habits.”

“You did. Sometimes, Lakshmi, seemingly mild breasts harbor a deep reservoir of self-regard and hatred of others. It has been my experience that they reveal themselves when one is at one’s lowest.”

“Possibly but—”

“Is there anyone here, anyone you have crossed? Women like you. Perhaps some Virginia lady fell victim to your charms and her husband felt otherwise.”

“No. I flatter the ladies, as you do. That’s what one does. Sometimes Crawford Howard, Ramsey Merriman, Clayton Harper, and I would drive to D.C. I’d slip off for an hour, but I don’t think they knew.”

Kasmir sighed.“Then allow me to suggest a truly offensive possibility but one not out of the realm of my observations of life. What if Mandy killed Aashi?”

“Are you out of your mind, Kasmir? She is the most gentle of women.”

“Not now. She may have taken the news with relative calm on the telephone, but once home I wouldn’t expect the calm to continue.”

“Murder? My wife murder another woman? No.”

“Aashi wasn’t just another woman. She was your mistress and she was some twenty years younger than your wife, who was one of the world’s great beauties, to be sure, but is now middle-aged. This preys on a woman’s mind even as it preys on our own. Madhur”—he used her real full name—“must be facing the loss of this beauty, or the power of it.”

“She’s not that superficial.”

“Lakshmi, a woman’s face is her fortune. Myself, I believe your wife is more beautiful than ever. The years have burnished her beauty, motherhood has softened her, but a mistress, especially a young and gorgeous one, strikes at a woman’s heart.”

“I know,” High said quietly, feeling wretched.

“Was there time for Mandy to kill Aashi?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t keep a leash on her at the ball. I suppose.” He threw up his hands. “This is absurd. She would never do such a thing.”

“Yes, yes, but what if she had cracked your passwords or your communication with Aashi? She could have sent her an e-mail telling her to meet you at the Hampton Inn. Simple.”

“You’re supposing my wife ransacked my computer, found my secret files, and then proceeded to bait Aashi?”

“Your wife can use a computer better than most of us.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She had powerful motivation. So now I come to my next question. If she did kill Aashi, will you protect Mandy and say you did it?” Kasmir wanted to know if High loved his wife as much as he said.

High shut his eyes and covered them with his right hand.“Yes.”

CHAPTER 15

That same evening, Tuesday, February 26, light shone through another glass, this one filled with single cask brandy and firmly gripped in Clayton Harper’s fist.

A small group of dedicated people had met at Tricorne Farm, a modest but pretty place owned by the Franklins, for the purpose of considering fund-raisers for the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund.

Betty and Bobby Franklin, Peggy Augustus, Ilona and Ramsey Merriman, Cabel and Clayton Harper, Sister Jane, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, and Sam Lorillard comprised the group.

All were in agreement concerning the fund-raiser party, but Cabel shocked everyone by saying the theme should be Lady Godiva—lots of naked women on horses. Ilona nearly slapped her. Cabel apologized for her insensitive humor and flounced off. Bobby winced when he heard gravel and snow churn in the drive as she peeled out.

The meeting over, the gathering congenial, they broke into small knots to talk horses, hounds, people.

Sister picked up a cleaned-off vegetable tray and walked back to the kitchen to refresh it. She and Betty had the run of one another’s houses, so it wasn’t rude of her.

Clayton followed her into the kitchen, reaching for some small scrubbed carrots.“Betty fixed this herself. Some folks just buy stuff from the supermarket, ready made. But that frozen tomato cannonball she makes can’t be duplicated. I’ve begged Cabel to make it and she does, but it’s not the same and Betty won’t reveal her secret.”

“Does Cabel use crushed pineapple?”

“Yep.”

“What about Worcestershire sauce?”

“Yep.” He took a big gulp of his brandy. The glass had been almost full, so great was his tolerance for alcohol. “You wouldn’t happen to know the recipe, would you?”

“She won’t even tell me and I’m her best friend.” Sister laughed. “Maybe the great question is Hellmann’s or Duke’s?”

Southern women were divided between these two mayonnaises, fiercely defending the virtues of each, although one is to make one’s own mayonnaise. Who has the time, hence the debate.

“Matters even more than Coke or Pepsi.” Clayton’s laugh was deep and comforting, and for a moment the tiny broken veins in his puffy face seemed to recede. “You’re a Duke’s.”

“What a memory.”

“I remember a lot of things.” He sipped once more. “I may drink like a fish but my mind’s still good.”

She turned to face him, setting the tray back on the counter.“Clayton, stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop drinking.”

He put the glass on the counter next to the vegetables and folded his arms across his chest.“Give me one good reason to take away one of the sustaining joys of my life.”

“Your life itself. You’ll kill yourself with that stuff.”

“We all have to die sometime, and I’m having a good time while I’m doing it.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He looked into her eyes, saying without apology,“I’m a coward.”

“I don’t remember you being a coward. I remember you working your tail off, building a good business, riding hard to hounds in the bargain. I remember you raising three great kids, all married and doing well.”

“Cabel can take most of the credit for that. I think the mother usually can. I did my part, although I worked too late and too long, but it always comes back to the mother.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen some sorry mothers. But that begs the question. Clayton, look at yourself.”

He unfolded his arms and hugged her spontaneously.“You’re one of the only people in my life who will tell me the truth.”

She hugged him back.“I will and I am. I care about you, Clayton. Many of the people in the club care about you. You can stop.”

“Then my nerve endings will wake up.”

“That’s the point.”

“Jane, Cabel has many good qualities, but for the last ten years or so, they’ve been lost on me. Goddamn but she’s a whistling bitch! I suppose part of it is, the more she nags the more I drink. Her revenge is to spend money. And for a smart woman she can be dumb. She’s having some health problems, little things. Her hair is falling out. She wears a wig. Her legs hurt. No one knows but Ilona. Will she go to a doctor, no! She won’t get a mammogram, blood work, just won’t.” He shrugged. “I just sleep with as many women as will have me. Drives her crazy. I told her she could sleep with whomever she wanted; I didn’t care. She slapped me.” He laughed.

“Leave.”

“Yeah, I think about that when I wake up in the morning, before I pour a little Knockando in my coffee. But you know, it was her money that started my business. I owe her that.”

“You’ve repaid her many times over. Divorce her. Split your assets and gird your loins for all her stories about what a shit you are.”

“Well, if I sober up I’d better call all the women I’ve slept with, because she’ll ferret them out and tell everyone.”

“She already has.”

Betty walked in, perceived the intense conversation, picked up the filled tray, and sailed out. Sister looked after her with affection.

“There are some she doesn’t know about.”

“Good on you.” Sister laughed.

He laughed back.“You’d be surprised how a fat drunk can still get the girls.”

“You’re a lot more than that. Women like you. Always have.” She put her hand on his forearm. “Clayton, Sam Lorillard fell far lower than you could imagine falling.He changed.”

He gulped the rest of his drink as though he’d crawled across the Sahara. “Cabel declares she loves me, but it never felt like love. It felt like a vise, even before I married her.”

“So you married her for the money and for the feeling of being central to someone’s life?”

“Male ego. A woman tells you she can’t live without you.I love you doesn’t cut as much ice asI can’t live without you.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

That made Clayton laugh.“Clear-eyed as always. I wish I could be more like you.”

“Look, Sam is out there. He’ll help you. We’ll all help you.” A gust of anger swept over her. “Clayton, you have balls. Use them!”

He put the empty glass in the sink, washed it out slowly, and turned to her.“You know, Jane, I wouldn’t take that from anyone but you.”

“I know.” She tactfully left the kitchen so he could compose himself. A few minutes later she saw Clayton and Sam talking in the living room.

Betty smiled at Sister, who smiled back.

CHAPTER 16

Thick icy fog shrouded the soft rolling hills of central Virginia. Early colonists called this apogonip, a word borrowed from the Native Americans and no doubt somewhat altered in the process. A pogonip freezes on trees, stones, and rooftops and then melts on the earth, warmer than the air. Superstition has it that evil spirits frolic but Marion, driving very slowly, thought superstition just that.

Usually on Wednesday she trooped in a half hour before opening, it being her“late” morning. But last night she had had a dinner date with an old flame and had neglected to take her paperwork home. Why sit through dinner fretting over paperwork? Better to rise early and knock it out at the office.

She could barely see the store as she turned into the top drive and parked next to the building. But approaching the door she gasped, stopped, and her hand flew to her heart. A corpse sat astride a child’s hobby horse. She forced herself to breathe deeply, then gingerly approached the naked white figure. The fog intensified her dread. Not until she was up close did she discover the corpse was a mannequin.

She slumped against her front door. What a sick joke. Furious, she reached over to push the wretched thing over and smash it to bits but then stopped herself. The sheriff would want to see this.

Flipping open her cell, she speed-dialed the department, the first number she had programmed on her new phone. Since the murder she’d put the number on speed dial, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it. She wanted someone over here fast because the mannequin needed to be removed. The townspeople wouldn’t enjoy the joke any more than she did.

Thank heaven Trigger was in the store. She couldn’t have faced a mannequin on him.

Next she dialed Sister.

“Good morning,” came Sister’s cheery voice. The hounds could be heard in the background for she was in the kennel.

“Sister, someone put a naked mannequin on a hobby horse in front of the store. Thank God there’s a thick fog.”

“You’re kidding.”

“How sick is that?”

“Sick. I assume you called the sheriff.”

“Someone is on the way. I want to get this damn thing out of here. I can’t believe it. My heart stopped. Stopped. I couldn’t breathe. All I could think of wasWhy? and then I was terrified I’d know the victim.”

“Is the store all right?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go in right now.” Marion fished out her keys, opened the lock, stepped in, and hit the lights. “Well, it’s a quick look, but I don’t think anyone has been in here.” She exhaled loudly. “I could kill. I could just kill!”

“We might have to,” Sister replied, over the roar of the girls flying into the feed room. “Let me go into the office. Can’t hear myself think.” She waved at Shaker as she left the large room.

“What do you mean we might have to kill?”

“Just popped out of my mouth.” Sister sat on the corner edge of the desk. “Do you think kids did it?”

“I don’t know.” Marion’s voice dropped a bit; she suddenly felt tired. “I guess I’m a little more on edge than I realized.”

“We all are. Why don’t you come on down here for a vacation?”

“Thanks. I can’t. I’m buried under an avalanche of work. Everyone is.”

“Take a rain check then.”

“How’s everything there?”

“Oh, fine, if you consider I have an outlaw pack to contend with, plus scenting conditions have gone to hell in a handbasket.”

“Here too. Joyce Fendley breezed through yesterday saying the same thing. It’s the temperature bounce; it’s responsible for all the colds and flu. I think so, anyway.”

They talked until the deputy came. Sister returned to the feed room and then walked over to the barn. She brought in each horse, putting him in his stall. Kilowatt looked good; he had wonderful ground manners.

She threw an alfalfa-and-orchard-grass mix out to the brood mares and the two retirees. Feeding, filling water buckets and water troughs, and checking over each horse took two hours and she was efficient. A dawdler would have stretched it into three.

She then hopped in the GMC truck—twenty thousand miles on the odometer—to drive to the dentist’s office for her cleaning.

She shook off hay before walking into the pleasant sitting room. Looking up fromW magazine was Ilona Merriman.

“Ilona.”

“How are you? I see you just came from the barn.”

“Thought I brushed off all the hay.”

“Not quite. Here. Turn around.” Ilona brushed off some bits of rich tiny alfalfa leaves. “You missed a drama last night at Walter’s.”

“What happened?”

“He had a poker party.”

“That’s right. I forgot about that. Which reminds me, he said he could organize a poker tournament for the Virginia chapter of the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund. Haven’t had time to call him since our meeting at the Franklins’.”

“I can tell you, Sorrel Buruss’s sharp at cards. I didn’t know that. Walter will have her help if he does the fund-raiser. Well, anyway, there were four small tables—play three games, then switch tables. He had it organized like musical chairs except no one was left standing.”

“Who won?”

“Kasmir. Faye made out all right too. Well, Clayton was shaking like a leaf. He could barely hold a hand and Cabel kept sniping at him. Walter unfortunately put them together for the first go-round. You won’t believe this, but Clayton has stopped drinking. He’s suffering too. I think he should go away to one of those clinics. Wouldn’t it be easier? People who understand can help you.”

Sister sat down.“Maybe Claytonwill go to a clinic. I hope so. He needs help.”

“Cabel won’t help him. She ignored him. When he made a bad call—this was before Walter moved him—she said he thought better when he was drunk. That’s vicious. I mean, I adore Cabel, you know we are best-best friends, but the man is suffering and he’s trying. For the first time in his life, he’s trying.”

“She probably doesn’t believe he’ll make it. Maybe she’s steeling herself for a relapse. I don’t know.”

“It’s revenge. I swear. I shot her a look but to no avail. If she wants to be hateful to him, do it at home. She was bad enough the other night at the Thoroughbred Retirement meeting.”

“Yes, she was.”

“I swear, I don’t know what got into her; she needled Faye every chance she got. She’d insinuate that High Vajay spent a lot of time visiting his neighbor. As the night wore on the insinuations became outright accusations. Faye took it with good grace until Cabel—and I swearshe’d been drinking because I’ve never seen her like this, I mean it—Cabel said, flat out, that men think beautiful young widows are starved for sex, so she, Cabel, expected they’d worn a path to her door. And Faye looked straight at her and said,Are you worried Clayton was one of them?”

Sister’s eyebrows shot upward. “Faye Spencer said that?”

“She’d had enough. Well, Cabel threw her cards in Faye’s face, grabbed her purse and coat, and stomped out. We could hear the motor when she floored it; two times this week she’s ripped up someone’s driveway. Clayton didn’t move a muscle. Faye picked up Cabel’s cards and saidLousy hand, and showed us a pair of threes.”

The hygienist appeared from the hallway.“Mrs. Merriman.”

“Coming, dear.” Ilona stood up. “You should start playing poker, Sister. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Apparently not.” Sister smiled but thought to herself that life was gamble enough, why squander her money on cards? It wasn’t noon yet and already the day had been popping.

It was three thirty when Sister walked through her kitchen door, sun finally peeping through low clouds. She heard a clatter and the sound of a large pussycat running. Raleigh and Rooster, awake at the sound of the truck, rushed to greet her. One of the good things about Shaker’s living on the other side of the kennels was he would let the dogs out when she ran errands. She petted them, bestowed kisses, and threw her gear on the farmer’s table to go in search of what Golly had done. She knew the calico well enough to know the cat had pulverized something.

Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing in the dining room. The living room glistened pristine. Small wonder, she hardly ever used it. Had to be the large pantry or the den. She walked into the den first. Raleigh’s beloved stuffed pink flamingo toy lay in tatters, the squeaker carefully dismantled by clever claws. One of Sister’s needlepoint pillows, she’d done it herself, sported long dangling threads.

“Golly, damn you!” Sister walked out and yelled up the stairway at the cat, peeping down at her from the top of the stairs.

“Death to dogs!” was Golly’s response.

Raleigh, on Sister’s heels, mournfully carried the flamingo bits.

“Wicked. That cat is wicked,” Rooster grumbled.

“I told you I’d get even.” Golly remained motionless on the step, ready to run under a bed or spring over everyone’s heads, a trick she’d perfected.

Instead, Sister returned to the kitchen, the dogs with her. She gave them large milkbones, picked up the paper, turned on the teapot, and sat down to read the day’s fresh hell worldwide.

The phone rang.

“I hope Alexander Graham Bell is in the lowest circle of Hell.”

Nonetheless, she stood up, slapped the paper down, and picked up the wall phone.

“Sister.” It was a young voice, trembling.

“Felicity, are you all right?”

“Yes,” came the wavering reply.

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

“Well, I had a meeting with Mrs. Norton. She was great. But she said I needed to talk to Mom and Dad as soon as I could. So I called them on my cell. I mean I started talking to them and asked them to come visit me. Mom got all worried. I only once ever asked them to come to Custis Hall, and thatwas freshman year. Well, anyway, I told them. Everything.”

“You did the right thing. I’m sure your mother thought the worst when you said you wanted her to come to Virginia.” She paused. “How’d she take it?”

“She told me to get rid of it.” Felicity was sobbing now.

“Felicity, why don’t I drive over there and pick you up?”

“Val said I could use her Jeep. I’m going to get Howie. May we both come to you?”

“Of course.” She hung up the phone as the teapot whistled.

Howard and Felicity arrived at four forty-five. She glanced up at the wall clock when she heard Val’s Jeep and smiled for a moment, thinking how generous Val could be, even when angry at her friend.

The two knocked on the mudroom door.

“Come on in.”

They did. Sister poured coffee, set out cookies and cake.

“Thank you for seeing us.” Howie sat down gratefully, a young man with a burden on his shoulders.

“Would you like to talk here or in the living room?”

“Here.”

Howard, eighteen years old with an open, All-American face, began.“I called my parents after Felicity called hers. Mom’s pretty okay. Dad’s furious. He said he won’t give me any money for college.”

“Think he’ll stick to it?” Sister asked.

“Yeah. You don’t know my dad.”

Sister thought to herself she was glad she didn’t. “You can go to Piedmont Community College at night, if you want to continue your education.”

Felicity, a little tense, replied,“But Sister, he can’t play football there and he’s so good.”

“Felicity.” Howard’s voice was soft, but there was power in this kid. “It’s just a game. My chances of playing in the pros are pretty slim even if I have a great college career. What’s more important, football or you? You.”

Felicity sniffled. Sister rose, picked up a box of Kleenex from the counter, and set it near the young woman.

“Howard, have you been accepted at any colleges yet? I know April is usually when the notices go out, but given that you’ve been recruited, have any coaches promised you anything?”

“Well, they can’t exactly promise but I’m pretty sure I’ll be accepted at Wake Forest, and maybe at the University of South Carolina.”

“Any Virginia schools?”

“I applied at Tech but I don’t think I have a chance.”

“What about William and Mary?”

“My grades aren’t good enough. If Tech or William and Mary did take me, I’d have to be tutored over the summer and take the College Boards again. I didn’t do very well.”

“He’s not good at tests,” Felicity simply stated.

“How badly do you want to play football?”

Howard looked down at his big hands.“Not bad enough to leave Felicity.” He looked up at her, his light brown eyes serious. “Maybe this is the best thing to happen to me.”

“How so?” the older woman asked, warming to this young man.

“You get treated different, you know? Football spoils you. You work hard on your physical stuff but you can think you’re better than other people. I don’t want to end up like that, Mrs. Arnold. I’m not better just because I can throw a ball.”

“Felicity, what do you want to do?”

The thin girl held her coffee cup in her hands.“I’m going to get a job, go to Piedmont at night, and have the baby.” She looked at Howard. “If you go to Wake, I’ll support you. You don’t have to stay here with me and the baby.”

“No way. I’m supporting you. And I’m going to marry you.”

Felicity smiled but didn’t reply.

“You’ll turn eighteen soon enough, Felicity, and then if your parents don’t give their approval, it doesn’t matter,” Sister said.

“I never thought my mother would be like this.” Shock registered on her face. “They were always behind me. I can’t believe my mother told me to have an abortion.”

“Every woman has to face that issue alone.”

“I graduate in June. I’ve already sent in my application to Piedmont. I know I don’t really have to for night school, but I wanted to be sure. If I get a job I can work until I have the baby and then go back as soon as I’m able.”

“Who will take care of the baby while you’re working?”

“I don’t know yet but I have some time to think about it.”

“I found a job already,” Howard said.

“You did?” Felicity grabbed Howard’s hand.

“Working for Matt Robb’s construction company. He said as soon as I graduate from Miller School to show up at the office. I like construction.”

“Matt’s good. You’ll learn a lot,” said Sister.

“And I’ll be outside. I can’t sit at a desk, Mrs. Arnold, I just can’t.”

“I understand. I can’t either.” She smiled in accord. “What can I do to help you two?”

“You’ve helped us already.” Howard smiled at her.

“Mom and Dad are flying in for the weekend. I’m going to hunt Saturday, I don’t care.”

“Felicity, much as I love having you in the hunt field, please spend as much time as you can with your parents. Have they met Howard?”

“No. They will over the weekend. They aren’t talking me out of my baby,” Felicity declared defiantly. “And they aren’t talking me out of marrying Howie.”

“You finally said yes!” Howard leaned back in his chair and let out a stream of air; then he grabbed Felicity and kissed her, but not too long because of Sister.

“Congratulations, Howard. You’ve won yourself a fine young woman.”

“I love her, Mrs. Arnold. I know people say we’re kids. I mean, you should have heard my folks. But whatever comes, we’ll deal with it.”

“I believe you will.” She thought a long time, placing her hand on Raleigh’s head when he came up beside her. “Plenty of young couples get off to rockier starts than you two. I’m no expert on marriage even though I was married myself—you all never knew Ray, of course—and I’ve observed marriages that work and marriages that don’t. What I can tell you is don’t stop talking. If something bothers you, get it off your chest and get it over with. Never go to bed angry. Put up with the little irritations of character and life. Forget them. And most of all, keep your sense of humor.”

“Thank you.” Howard squeezed Felicity’s hand. “Honey, I have to get back.”

“Okay.”

As they stood up, Felicity hugged Sister, and Howard spontaneously did the same. Then he shook her hand.“Thank you!”

“Howard, you and I are going to know each other a long time, and I look forward to it.” She smiled broadly.

Felicity hugged Sister again.“I love you.”

“I love you too, honey. Keep your chin up and remember that your parents want what’s best for you even if you’re on opposite sides of the fence. Real troubles don’t seem to upset people as much as shattered expectations. Try to remember that.”

As they left, hand in hand, Sister thought they had a lot going for them. She dialed Garvey Stokes.

“Sister!”

“You handsome thing, what are you doing?”

“Just came back in from the bullpit.” This was the factory area where his workers poured aluminum and put together window frames and other objects, much of the work computerized.

“Garvey, it’s been over a year since Angel Crump died.”

Angel had been his right-hand“man,” so to speak, ever since he started his business. She had passed away at work in her mid-eighties, and he had never hired a replacement or changed her office, which sat empty.

“Think of the old girl every day.”

“Would you hire a new girl if I recommend her? Someone who possesses Angel’s tact and is every bit as smart? Of course, she doesn’t know where all the bodies are buried. That Angel could work a deal because she knew so-and-so’s great aunt got hooked on laudanum back at the turn of the century.”

Garvey let out a belly laugh.“She did, she certainly did. Who are you sending me?”

“You know her: Felicity Porter.”

“She’s not going to college? What a waste.”

“She’ll be going to Piedmont at night.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you that, Garvey, but if you will consent to interview her, she will do well. She’s steadfast. Once she learns the routine, she’ll fit in, and I think she’ll become fascinated by the business. I thought she’d become an investment banker, but you know, Aluminum Manufacturing may wind up being more exciting for her.”

“I like the kid.”

“Will you interview her? I’ll drive her over next week. She doesn’t have a car.”

“Of course I will.”

“I have a feeling about this, Garvey. Forgive me for the prophecy, but I believe wonderful things can grow from this.”

She hung up the phone and returned to the table. Her tea was cold so she turned on the kettle. Raleigh looked at her with his sweet Doberman eyes, brimming with intelligence. Rooster, now next to him, also looked up to her.

“Beggars.” She gave them each a cookie.

Into the room sashayed Golly, leaping to the table, where she paused for some conspicuous grooming. She sat on the newspaper, of course. Forgetting her needlepoint pillow, Sister absentmindedly stroked the cat. She thought of the two kids sitting at her table, each willing to sacrifice for the other. Sex might bring people together but it didn’t keep them together. Those two seemed to have a great deal of what keeps people together.

She was surprised when the tears rolled down her cheeks.

CHAPTER 17

Heavy frost silvered the rolling pastures, fields, and the rooftops of the old stone buildings of Mousehold Heath, a new fixture fifteen miles southeast of the kennels.

As is always the case with a new fixture, it takes perhaps two years to figure out the fox population, most especially how they run.

Established in 1807, the simple farmhouse and outlying clapboard barns acquired its name owing to the unusually large mouse population. Over the centuries, generations of hardworking cats somewhat reduced the numbers of these little marauders, as did foxes, owls, and hawks, but Mousehold Heath still boasted regiments of mice.

Sister noticed Faye Spencer parked as far away from Cabel Harper as possible, down by the old cattle barn. The two pointedly did not speak. Ilona, with quiet glee, was observing every nuance.

It must have killed Cabel that Clayton dropped his mare at Faye’s farm.

Betty Franklin noticed too, simply shrugging as Sister said nothing. Human dramas bored Sister. Her focus was on foxhunting in particular and animals in general, although she did care about her Custis Hall girls. They were young, experiencing powerful adult emotions for the first time. They needed a friendly ear, perhaps a friendly nudge. Adults should be accustomed to such tempests, although Sister had come to the conclusion that adults were just wrinkled children with greater resources to inflict greater damage.

She swung her leg over Matador, the two still getting acquainted. The sixteen-hand flea-bitten gray, light gray with dark flecks in the coat, former steeplechase horse looked wonderful, and she accepted compliments as she rode along the trailers.

Ascertaining that the small Thursday crowd out on this cold crisp day was five minutes from ready, she checked her watch. Well enough, five minutes to the first cast.

Sister did not wait for people who showed up late or fiddled with tack. Scent, often a fragile thing, demanded her utmost attention. Why punish all those who did arrive on time by letting slip an opportunity to pick up a fox, scent possibly fading as the hands on the clock kept ticking?

Like every leader before her, regardless of the organization, the sum is greater than the parts and the group takes precedence over the individual. She’d bend over backward to help a hunt club member, even Cabel, but when it came to the actual hunt, you’d better mind your p’s and q’s.

Hounds rocked the party wagon, they were so eager to hunt. Wisely, Shaker and Sister had brought only seasoned animals. No reason to risk a young hound’s becoming confused in new territory and perhaps skirting off.

“Let’s decant ’em.” She smiled at Shaker, already mounted.

Sybil opened the back door to the hound trailer.

“Hold up.” Shaker quietly commanded the eleven couple of hounds, which stood patiently but with high expectation.

Sister scanned the small field, noting that Vajay appeared drawn, Kasmir elegant, and Cabel and Ilona stuck next to each other. Weekdays the field included more women than men. Those men owning their own businesses might take one morning off during the week but they usually couldn’t take two.

Sybil swung her leg over Bombardier, her tried-and-true horse. Betty sat on Outlaw, those two like an old married couple.

Having discussed the morning’s draw before arriving, Shaker stuck to the plan, which was to cast behind the cattle barn, across the pasture, and thence to the back pastures and cornfields.

Hounds eagerly dashed behind the cattle barn, feathered, but didn’t open. A thin but fast-moving stream separated the barn field from the next pasture; the eastern hillside faced the barn. A million tiny rainbows glistened. The temperature rising on the eastern slopes would soon turn that glittering sight into thick dew. Shaker urged hounds forward, Cora beingthe strike hound today, Dragon left in the kennel.

A long row of rolled-up hay lined the southern side of the twenty-acre pasture, like giant biscuits of shredded wheat. Shaker asked hounds to investigate the round bales, for mice liked to make warm nests in the sweet-smelling hay.

“Hey,” Dasher called as the whole pack worked, noses to the hay.

Cora joined him.“H-m-m.” Her stern moved faster.

Trudy, now in her third year, leapt atop the hay, jumping from one bale to another. She could hear the mice inside. The humans couldn’t but all the hounds both listened intently and inhaled deeply.

They covered the ground. The fox had been there; a deep hollowed-out spot in the hay bale marked one entrance. It was a red dog fox that they could clearly smell. This fox had decided to live with his food supply, but he wasn’t there.

As it was the end of February, the hay fox might be coming home from courting. They cast themselves farther away. Scent picked up, then frittered away.

Hounds moved across the pasture, easily clearing the three-foot-two-inch coop at the end of the field. Throughout the summer, staff and some members had worked to prepare the fixture.

A small covert on both sides of a deeper stream pointed down to a larger creek. Hounds burst in and burst out. This time yet another fox, a good-sized gray, shot in front of them.

Betty, on the left side, hollered,“Tally-ho!” when he burst out.

To everyone’s surprise, he made a large circle and then dashed into that same covert.

Betty called,“Tally back!”

The fox was young and became unnerved by hounds when he bolted from his den. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, and he was lucky to pop back in and save his brush.

Shaker dismounted, flipping his reins over Gunpowder’s neck as the sweet older horse stood. Shaker slipped going into the covert but recovered. The thick brambles impeded progress, but he could make out hounds digging at the den. Fighting his way through the thorns, he reached the den, blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised his charges. He returned, favoring his right leg a bit, and swung up on Gunpowder to head toward the woods across the pasture.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_5]

They fiddled and faddled in there but nothing—still too cold—so he emerged on the eastern side, hunting back below the cattle barns in the opposite direction. Ardent picked up a line and they ran for perhaps ten minutes, but it faded and that was pretty much the day, although they kept trying.

Still, when they returned to the trailers Sister felt positive. They’d only hunted Mousehold Heath three times. The owners, a young couple determined to make a profit off a combination of cattle, timber, and hay, came out from the house to join the impromptu tailgate.

“Won’t you all come inside?” Lisa Jardine asked Sister.

Sister declined.“We’ll track up your house.”

“It can’t be any worse than what Jim and I do. Come on. It’s cold out here.”

They carried the food into the big old country kitchen, a white porcelain table in its middle.

Jim joined them.“Twenty degrees this morning. How do you keep your feet warm in those boots?”

Shaker replied,“You don’t.”

After forty-five minutes of thawing, drinking hot coffee, and eating the ubiquitous ham biscuits, these made by Faye Spencer, the whole gang returned to the trailers.

Sister, hand on the crystal doorknob with a center of mercury, smiled at the well-built pair. Country life kept them strong and healthy.“Thank you. This was an unexpected treat.”

“You know I rope cows. I can ride pretty good.” Jim, at first thinking foxhunting a sport for toffs, was coming to understand it was quite the reverse.

She challenged him.“Well, Jim, let me put you to the test.”

“Can I ride Western?”

“Jim Jardine, you can ride anyway you want. We’d be honored to have you join us, and you will see your beautiful farm in a new light.”

“Can I wear my chaps? Haven’t got any special gear, you know.”

“You can.” She thanked them again and walked back to the trailer.

Jim Jardine would get hooked. The only people who didn’t succumb to the lure of foxhunting once they rode out were those who were terrified but couldn’t admit it. Everyone else embraced the majesty of the chase. Even today, pushing off in the low twenties, her toes already throbbing, Sister thanked God for this bountiful earth and all its beauty. She never felt more alive than when foxhunting. Even making love, an activity that found favor with her, posted a dim second. Her reasoning was a great lover might last an hour. Wonderful and good. A great chase might last two hours and occasionally four. Do the math.

Strictly speaking, the square-built Jim shouldn’t come out in chaps on a Western saddle. But landowners, special generous folk, could do whatever they wanted in Jefferson Hunt. As far as Sister was concerned, she was damned lucky to have him. Over time he’d realize the traditional hunting kit served a purpose, one tested over centuries. Then, too, if she were a man she wouldn’t want to take a jump in a Western saddle. That horn could be lethal to one’s reproductive career. Hell, Jim could ride naked if he wanted to! But then she regretted that thought, for it brought Lady Godiva to the fore.

No sooner had she reached the trailer than she heard Faye Spencer and Cabel Harper yelling at each other.

High and Kasmir ignored them. Betty and Sybil did too, but their responsibilities as staff precluded such intrusions. Ilona was vainly trying to pull away the puce-faced Cabel.

Shaker stepped up to Sister.“You might want to speak to the ladies.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Um, maybe two minutes, maybe five; the air is sulfurous.”

“Yes, I can hear that.”

“You slut! You piece of white trash!” Cabel screeched.

“And you’re not?” Faye shot back, but at lower register.

“Cabel, come on now. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.” Ilona pulled at Cabel’s elbow, only to be shaken off as Cabel spun around on her.

“Leave me alone! You don’t think your precious Ramsey hasn’t rammed his dick up her?”

This vulgarity shocked everyone more than the fight. Cabel had never been a vulgar woman.

Sister, towering over the women, said firmly,“That’s enough.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? We aren’t hunting.” Cabel now spun on Sister. “You lured my husband away.”

“Years and years ago, Cabel, and I can now see I was wrong. You’re overwrought.” Sister wondered if perhaps Cabel wasn’t ill; something was pulling her down. “This doesn’t become you.”

The fact that Sister didn’t scream back at her, but remained calm, began to have an effect.

Ilona, glancing at Sister, voice low, pleaded,“Come on, honey. You’re upset.” Then she said, “I’m going to tell Sister.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s too late, Cabel. This isn’t like you.” She turned to Sister. “Clayton asked her for a divorce. I don’t know why she wants to keep him, but that’s love for you.”

Cabel burst into tears.“I made him! I made him what he is today!”

Sister had to bite her tongue because she wanted to say,“Yes, you did.” Instead she spoke sympathetically. “Cabel, that’s painful news, I know. Certainly I have no advice except to say, if you can’t patch it up, end it and go forward. You have a lot of living ahead of you.”

“How can he do this to me?”

Sister couldn’t say a word to that.

Ilona murmured,“He’s going away for twenty-eight days; that might change things.” She turned again to Sister. “He says he’s truly going into rehab.”

“I see.” Sister, seeing that Cabel, though sobbing, had stopped attacking Faye, walked over to the younger woman, who had retreated to her trailer. “You all right?”

“Yes. She flew at me like a harpy. Scared me half to death.”

“He’s asked for a divorce.”

“Well, it’s not because of me.” Faye bit her lip. “Oh, he came around sniffing. That’s Clayton. But I certainly didn’t go to bed with him.”

“She thinks you did.”

“She’s lost it. She thinks every woman in this club has gone to bed with him.”

Sister smiled slightly.“Ah, well, some of us did back in the Bronze Age. I know this is hard to believe, but he was so handsome. So handsome and so much fun. The years work on all of us, I reckon.”

“Some more than others.”

“Well, I thank you for not throwing a punch at her. It was bad enough.”

“It was. I shouldn’t have lost my temper and said what I said,” Faye looked imploringly at the silver-haired woman, “but I’m sick and tired of it.”

“I understand. Do your best to keep it in check.”

As Sister rode back to the farm in the truck, Betty at her side, the two rehashed the day’s hunt and then touched on the human explosion.

“We make ourselves miserable.” Betty played with her gloves, which she’d folded over in her lap. “We do, we make our own Hell.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Speaking of Hell, how about Heaven? Today’s saints?”

“Herefrith, Bishop of Lincoln, most likely killed by the Danes in 873, and also Oswald. Nowhe’s really interesting. He was the bishop of Worcester in the late tenth century and then became archbishop of York. He came from a Danish military family. By now the Danes controlled huge sections of England; the Saxons in the north were weak at the time. Oswald must have been quite something. He was much loved, and eyewitnesses commented on his splendid physique and his beautiful voice.”

“Did he get murdered too?”

“Died on February twenty-eighth, reciting the Gradual Psalms. For an archbishop, that’s the way to go.”

“Ever think about your own death?”

“In my teens. I suppose the reality that I would die intruded on my consciousness, but the intrusion was intellectual. Now I know it emotionally so I accept. Not that I want to go. I’m quite happy to live.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Betty mused, “then I banish it from my thoughts. Nothing I can do about it. We’re all going to go.”

“Think about Herefrith. So many of the saints died terrible deaths. Being cut down by the sword was relatively kind. And here it is, over a thousand years later and some of us remember their sacrifice. I don’t know if I could die for an idea. I could die for a person. I could die for a hound. But an idea? No. I know I’ve said this before, but it bothers me. I can’t understand a person dying for an idea.”

“I don’t know if I do either, but then you think about World War Two. Did those men die for democracy?”

“I suspect most Americans died because they didn’t want to let down their buddies. Maybe some thought about what would happen if the Axis powers overran the world, but mostly I bet they marched on, sticking to their comrades. You know, about sixty million people died in that war. We’re way past that, we’re in the billions now, and we still can’t get along.”

“Must have been easier when you could just dispatch an enemy with a sword.”

“Nothing has changed, Betty. We still kill our enemies. I’ll bet you if Cabel, in her rage, had had a weapon she would have brained Faye. Blind rage.”

“Distorts the features,” Betty dryly replied, and they both laughed.

CHAPTER 18

The noise of the vacuum cleaner irritated Sister. Years ago, when the market sank like a stone, she had cut way back on personal expenditure, even letting her once-a-week maid go. She gave the woman a thousand dollars severance pay. When the market rebounded years later, the former maid had become a real estate agent. Sister learned to repent of her economies.

Housework, apart from vacuuming, soothed her, particularly ironing. When her schedule picked up, the housework would slide; she’d fret and then remind herself that she’d never read a tombstone that said SPOTLESS HOUSEKEEPER.

All the downstairs rugs, now free of animal hair, had brightened. She’d attack the dirt upstairs tomorrow. She kept to the old school of washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, and so forth. Although this was Thursday, errand day, the dirt had finally gotten to her, hence her vacuuming fit. This evening she congratulated herself on performing two big chores on one day: errands and vacuuming.

Just as she was closing the broom closet door, her cell phone rang.

“Hello, Jane Arnold here.”

“Sister, it’s Cabel Harper. I’m so ashamed of myself. Please forgive my deplorable outburst today.”

“You’re under great pressure. Of course I forgive you.”

“And forgive me for carrying a grudge all these years. I haven’t done you any favors, or myself either.” Cabel sounded miserable.

“That was all a long time ago, and I was no saint.”

“You’re not responsible for my marriage. If he wanted to run around….” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Who couldresist him?”

“It was his sense of humor more than his looks.”

“He’s lost both.” An edge sharpened her tone. “God knows how many times he’s caught gonorrhea or syphilis. Thank God for antibiotics.”

“You know that expression,What goes around comes around?” Sister couldn’t resist the poke.

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s true, but not in such a simple manner.” She grew serious. “Sometimes I think our lives are a secret book. We write in every page. There are plenty of pages no one reads but ourselves, usually to our own dismay. At any rate, I didn’t mean to go on. I hope you can find some balance. On the bright side, there’s your demeanor in the hunt field. Your turnout has always been correct. I like that you have never bowed to fashion.”

Thinking herself quite fashionable, which she was, in a provincial Virginia way, Cabel asked,“What do you mean?”

“Back in the seventies, when hunt coats began to be cut shorter and rust breeches hit the stores, you continued to wear the longer-cut coats that are so flattering to the figure, and you never abandoned your mustard breeches.”

Surprised, Cabel stammered,“Thank you.” Then she perked up. “You know, you can’t find the mustard anymore. Beige, tan, but not mustard. I have to go up to Middleburg Tack Exchange or the Old Habit and flip through the used sections. Sometimes I can find an old pair that fits.”

“Isn’t that something? Some of those breeches—I say this because I do the same thing,” Sister confided, “were made in the 1920s. Quality.”

“Same with derbies and caps. I look for the old Locke’s.”

“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Thank you for calling, Cabel. I truly do hope things even out.”

“To somewhat make up for being tacky, on Saturday I’ll bring three heavy carpet mats for the puppy palace. The puppies won’t be able to drag them. Ilona will help me load them, but maybe Shaker can unload them. They really are heavy.”

“That’s unnecessary, but I do thank you.”

“Well, I don’t do much for the hounds except pay my subscription. Time I gave them more attention. Time I did a lot of things.” She paused. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I look forward to it.” Sister clicked off the phone and wondered at what prompted people to change. Usually it was a crisis. If only we could better identify problems, nipping them in the bud, instead of expending huge stores of energy in denial. Or say we commit to a course of action that doesn’t work. Do we change it? No. Our egos get the better of us as we doggedly pursue ruin.

As these ruminations occurred to her, Sister pulled on her old bomber jacket, red cashmere scarf, a few holes making it more individual, and lined waterproof work gloves. The cold still crept into her fingers, but the lining helped for the first forty-five minutes.

She stepped out into the clear, cold night. The dogs wanted to follow but she said no to their forlorn looks.

She went past the kennel, where a few of the boys out for their evening constitutional said hello. She walked on the farm road, heading toward the apple orchard. The ground, frozen, wasn’t too slippery but the ruts demanded attention.

Once at the old orchard, she checked the feed bucket. Still three-quarters full. She checked Georgia’s den. A neat pile of chicken feathers, now frozen, stuck on the ground about two feet from the entrance.

“Where did you get that chicken?” Sister called into the den.

Georgia, full, unmotivated to leave the warmth of her den, replied,“I’ll never tell.”

On hearing the young fox’s light chirp, not a full yap, Sister smiled and returned to the stable, where she checked the tack and the small heavy bowl of tiny broken-up sweets she left on an aisle tack trunk for whatever undomesticated animal wanted them. Inky often would eat some, as would Georgia. Once she had walked into the barn in the early morning to find a cowbird gorging on the goodies.

A bloodcurdling shriek stopped her cold. Little wings beat overhead as Bitsy rose to her nest in the rafters. A barn owl also lived up there. They got along just fine but they kept different schedules.

“Dammit, Bitsy, you about gave me a heart attack.”

The screech owl dropped down from her nest to sit atop a stall beam, across and four feet above Sister, who looked up at her.

Bitsy opened her wings and then folded them.“News, news, news. I just heard from the tufted titmouse who heard it from the red-shouldered hawk that the jolly Indian man moved into Faye Spencer’s bungalow, the one she rents as a hunt box for visitors. How’s that for news?”

Sister heard the little gurglings and beak clicks. She knew those were happy sounds from an owl but the content eluded her.

She rattled the candies in the bowl.“Good night, Bitsy.”

“Good night.” Bitsy blinked and wished humans were smarter. Being in possession of information thrilled the little owl, so she flew out to tell Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, Aztec, and Matador. Their interest was not as high as she had hoped, so she flew back to her nest. Well, when the barn owl returned from foraging, at least she’d listen.

Sister checked the electric heater in the water troughs. Running heavy-duty cords was a pain but trenching, dropping a line—that got expensive. Plus the electric company had to come out, and the telephone company, all to mark their buried lines with different colors of spray paint. Someday she’d get to it, but for now, winter meant running heavy orange extension cords to the paddocks for the horses. Horses prefer warm water to icy cold, and if the ice on top is too thick they may try to break it with a hoof.

All was well. She walked back to the house marveling at the clear February sky, the startling blue-white stars.

After she hung her coat on the peg in the mudroom, she heard Betty’s old Dodge truck rumble down the drive. Once in the house, Betty told her what Bitsy had just mentioned.

“That’s good news,” Sister replied to Betty’s tale.

“Because he’s staying?”

“Yes.”

“I expect the Vajays, like all of us, have a point at which even the most pleasant of houseguests wears out his welcome.”

“High and Kasmir are old friends, so I’m sure Kasmir knew the exact right time to find a rental. And I think he’s serious about buying Tattenhall Station.”

“He’d be a godsend.”

Sister then described Cabel’s call, ending withthat eases the tension.

“Who knows how she’ll treat Faye this Saturday?”

“Let’s hope Cabel calls upon her social discipline. All those years of cotillion.”

Betty laughed at this because she, like Cabel and Sister, had passed through the years of rigor known as cotillion. Southern girls and boys learn their manners even if they hate the process: All those old biddies hovering over your every word and move. Ultimately the discipline learned was worth every discomfort.

“I didn’t mind walking with a book on my head and learning how to say no without sayingno.” Sister sighed. “Northerners just can’t get that. They think being direct is such a virtue and they think we’re devious because we go about it by another route.”

“Sign of no imagination.” Betty laughed as she rummaged in her small duffel for her nightgown.

“Well, that said, I agree being direct saves time, but it destroys all the joy of social intercourse, which really is dancing with words. Where was I? My cotillion. The ice-water teas. About killed me.”

“Me too. Hated them!” Betty agreed, for what could be more boring than over and over again pouring ice water from a lovely teapot into an equally loved china cup, perched on its saucer. She changed the subject. “Do you think Cabel is having a nervous breakdown?”

“Well, she wouldn’t be the first.”

“And here I thought we’d get through a season without one.” Betty’s fuzzy slippers entranced Golly.

“Who knows what else will happen? Cabel’s probably the least of it.” She stared at Betty’s slippers. “Those are a libido killer.”

Betty laughed.“What’s it to you?”

“Well, you’ve got me there.” Sister snuggled under the covers. “Betty, you really don’t need to babysit me like this.”

“I do.” Betty hopped on the bed so hard that Golly, now on a pillow, grumbled.

“Gray and you have obviously organized a pajama party for each night. You’re the first person to sleep in my bed, though. I stick the others in the guest room.”

“Liar.” Betty smiled.

“I am not.”

“Lorraine Rasmussen didn’t stay in the house last night. ’Fess up.”

“All right.” Sister slipped deeper under the covers. “She stayed with Shaker, but I’m fine and Shaker is just on the other side of the kennels.”

“Someone needs to be in the house at night.”

“I have Raleigh and Rooster.”

“What if someone poisons or shoots them?”

“When?” Golly perked up.

The two dogs lifted their ears.

“Betty, what a horrible thought.”

“Murder is horrible and there’s a sicko out there. You’re not on the good side of whoever that is, so get used to company, sweetie.”

“You aren’t going to do this every night. Who else is?”

“Sorrel, Tedi, and Sybil for starters. Ilona volunteered, as did Cabel, but I demurred. If we run short you might be stuck with them.”

“Christ, Betty, I think I’d rather face Lady Godiva’s killer.”

Betty sighed at Sister’s remark, then replied, “I suspect we already have.”

A long silence followed.“I—well, I feel some kind of dread I can’t name.” Sister changed the subject. “You and Gray are in cahoots obviously.”

“Obviously.” Betty turned off her light.

Sister affixed a tiny book light with a flexible stem on her copy of Captain E. Pennell-Elmhirst’sThe Best of Fun published in 1903.“This won’t keep you awake. I have to read before I go to sleep.”

Betty turned on her side, studying the light.“Nifty.”

“’Tis.”

Betty rolled on her back.“Funny, how you can know someone so well but still not know things.”

“Are you referring to my reading light?”

“No, I’m referring to your lack of nightgown.”

“Betty, when you and I go on road trips to other hunts, on those occasions when Bobby doesn’t come along, we bunk up. Right?”

“Right.”

“And half the club, the female half, troops through our rooms.”

“Right,” Betty agreed.

“Do you really think I’m going to sit there naked?”

“No.”

“But I’m in my own bed with my best friend hovering over me. So?”

“All right. I just want to know how you stay so tight.”

“Work.”

“Well, I lost all that weight but I’ve got some flabby parts.”

“If it really bothers you, go to a personal trainer. I think you look wonderful.”

“You’re too kind, but then you haven’t seen me without my nightie.”

“Do I have to?” Sister slammed her book down in mock irritation.

Both women laughed.

“I’m trying to sleep!” Golly raised her voice.

“Intruder!” Raleigh leapt to his feet and ran out of the bedroom, thundering down the stairs.

Rooster followed.

Both dogs howled, the hounds starting up too.

Sister shot out of bed, threw on her robe, and opened the window. Cold air rushed into the bedroom. She saw a pair of red taillights recede down the driveway just as the lights went on in Shaker’s upstairs window.

“Dammit.” Sister slammed shut the window.

Betty started down the hall.

“Wait,” Sister commanded while she grabbed her .38 from the nightstand drawer.

The two women hurried down the stairs and opened the back door, carefully—keeping the dogs in, to their dismay—to behold a plastic shopping bag at the mudroom door.

Betty poked it with her foot, felt a square edge, and picked it up. She opened the bag and plucked out a DVD.“Lady Godiva.”

Sister took the movie from Betty’s hand. “Made in the fifties.”

“If I find who left this, I’ll wring his neck.” Betty, furious, heard the phone in the kitchen.

Sister trotted back and picked it up.“Someone left a movie. About Lady Godiva.” She inhaled. “Fragrance. I can’t place their perfume but I’ve smelled it before.”

Shaker’s strong voice replied, “You don’t know what’s on that video.” He’d heard the car leave.

“You’re right.”

“You’re okay?” he inquired.

“I am.” She was glad to hear his voice. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Next she called Ben Sidell.

Accompanied by the dogs also smelling the fragrance on the plastic bag, the two women repaired nervously upstairs.

“Anything?” Rooster asked after checking the bag.

“No. I couldn’t identify anyone. Too much plastic odor.”

“Too cold too.” Rooster’s ears drooped a bit.

“We’re going to have to sleep with one eye open.”

“Yep.”

“Now I’m wide awake,” Betty complained. She had a big day tomorrow at the printing press she and Bobby owned.

“Shall we?” Sister, flat TV discreetly by the wall in the bedroom, popped in the movie. “If we’re going to be scared on a cold night we might as well watch the goddamned thing. You know there’s a scent on it.” She handed the plastic bag to Betty. “Recognize it?”

“No.”

“I can’t place it,” Sister said, then got back into bed.

The two watched a tepid film about Lady Godiva, then fell asleep.

The next morning Sister made waffles for Betty, fortifying her friend for a long day ahead.

CHAPTER 19

February 29, Leap Year Day, roared through on the teeth of a low-pressure system. Trees bent over, hounds stayed in the kennels, horses stood with their rear ends to the wind. Even loquacious Bitsy hunkered down in her nest.

Sister, fearing the power would be cut off, hurriedly vacuumed the upstairs. That done, Golly reentered social exchange by removing herself from the closet.

“You’re scared of the vacuum cleaner,” Rooster teased her.

“Yeah, you burrow in all of Mom’s cashmere sweaters. Cat hair everywhere.” Raleigh picked up the game.

“Cashmere is goat hair. What’s a little cat hair after that?” Golly sniffed.

“Chicken,” Rooster taunted.

“Bubble butt.” Golly thumped down the carpeted twisty back stairs to the kitchen. Many old houses have a narrow stairwell from the kitchen to the second story as well as the wide stairwell off the center hall.

Rooster, hot on her tail, snapped,“I don’t have a bubble butt.”

“Fatty, fatty, two-by-four.” Golly started the nasty childhood chant.

Raleigh had barreled to the main stairway and taken the steps three at a time and was already in the kitchen when the two squabblers emerged.

Even with the carpet on the back stairs, Sister could hear the two animals thumping down toward her. They burst through the open door, complaining vociferously.

“Pipe down, I can’t hear myself think,” she admonished them.

Raleigh sat there like an adoring angel, which really offended Golly, who walked up to the Doberman, sat right in front of him, and batted his long nose with one lightning strike.

“Ouch.”

“Brownnoser.” She jumped on the counter and pushed around Sister’s tiny cell phone sitting in its recharging cradle.

Sister grabbed the phone and cradle before they clattered to the floor. She looked at the small blue square that read CHARGE COMPLETE, unplugged the charger, put it in a cabinet drawer, folded the phone over, and stuck it in her back jeans pocket. While wearing a cell phone holder on her belt might have proven more efficient, nothing could induce her to do it, just like nothing could induce her to wear a sissy strap under her chin on her helmet. Some things were just too weenie.

She opened the cupboard containing treats, tossing a big pig’s ear to each dog and a large green chewy at Golly. The pigs’ ears remained fresh in large sealed bags. The pungent aroma would fill the kitchen were the bags not sealed.

“I’ll bet you-all don’t know why we have leap year.”

Head turned sideways as she gnawed on her greenie, Golly replied,“Do I need to know? I’ve lived all these years in contented ignorance.”

“The calendar year is different from the equinoctial year so time can move backward.” Seeing that she had only one interested party, Raleigh, Sister addressed this to him. “A calendar year is 365 days. An equinoctial year—that’s the time it takes the earth to make a complete revolution ofthe sun from equinox to equinox—is actually 365.242199 days so periodic events would slowly move backward. To keep things on time, we had to add a day every four years. We’ve had calendars for thousands of years; humans struggled with this but I think Pope Gregory the Great set things to rights. He switched us off the Julian calendar, which made some provision for this but not enough.” She threw up her hands. “I used to know all this. Anyway, St. Oswald—that’s an English saint from the tenth century—used to have his festival on February twenty-ninth, but in 1930 the Catholic Church moved his feast day to February twenty-eighth. Poor fellow wasn’t getting enough of the party. Of course, now many of the saints have been dispatched, but I still pay attention.”

“See, I didn’t need to know any of that.”

“Dunce.” Raleigh dropped his pig’s ear, which rattled on the heart pine.

“It doesn’t make any difference. What do I care if festivals move backward? What’s St. Oswald to cats? If he grew catnip—well, then I’d pay attention.”

“She knows a lot.” Rooster enjoyed the rich flavor of the pig’s ear.

“Human stuff, most of which is irrelevant. Nature can kill them all if she wants to, and then what of Leap Year?” Golly puffed out her magnificent chest.

“Crab,” came Raleigh’s tart reply.

Golly might have attacked the Doberman again, but the lure of the greenie overcame the desire for violent revenge. The long-haired calico was a great believer in violence artfully applied.

The cell rang. Sister forgot she’d left it on so she retrieved it from her pocket. “Hello, Jane Arnold here.”

Marion’s lilting voice said, “Can’t you just sayHello? Who else would use your cell phone?”

“I’ve been thinking.” Sister launched right in, since Marion was accustomed to her going straight to the point and vice versa. “Well, let me back up and say that there’s a wireless carrier, Leap Wireless International—good name for Leap Year, right? Anyway this company, in which I’ve bought shares, sells service to low-income, young, and ethnic people. They operate under the name Cricket. This particular market is deemed too small for the giant carriers.”

“Sounds pretty smart,” Marion replied.

“It is. Forty dollars a month. No credit check. You sign up and you’ve got service.”

“What’s the catch?” Marion was suspicious.

“Roaming charges are high. The system is designed for people who don’t travel much, so if they don’t use roaming they’ll save money. Cricket requires customers to pay each month in advance. Obviously, in that income bracket they need some protection. But isn’t it a terrific idea?”

“It is. How long before they are absorbed by a huge amoeba?”

“Not long, I expect. Since our Lady Godiva had information concerning this kind of technology, I’ve been investigating in my own small way.”

“How often does your cell phone die on you?” Marion queried.

“At least once a day. I attribute that to dead zones, especially here by the mountains.”

“Sister, I’m a few miles more east of the mountains than you are. Happens to me too.”

“Guess you like your new cell phone.” Sister teased her.

“Better looking than the one I threw in the fire, but I hit those dead spots too. Sometimes I’ll be in the store and nothing. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation yakking away, and suddenly I realize no one’s on the other end. Maddening.”

“’Tis.”

“What if a huge company with extraordinary research facilities goes about buggering—forgive the word—other wireless providers? Meanwhile, it establishes a reputation for reliability. What are most of us going to do eventually? Switch to the reliable company.” Marion paused. “Our beautifulvictim could have been a part of a number of illegal activities. If she was, I hope someone figures it out.”

“Me too.”

“I had another thought. This one’s really dark. I know the money involved in gaining hegemony in the wireless market might lead some people to murder. But this would be adirect route to murder. What if our government, fearing an overheated economy and inflation, actually slows business by two percent—just two percent; that would have an enormous effect. The old phone companies and the wireless companies would cooperate in exchange for favorable treatment down the road via tax breaks, protection for outsourcing, or other plums. The deal would be that the phone companies disrupt calls, not an outright break in service but a disconnect like you and I experience with our cell phones. We attribute it to bad signals, dead air space, but what if it is deliberate? It’s possible.”

“Marion, in a million years, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“I trust government less than you do.”

“Maybe.” Sister thought a moment. “Maybe, but it comes down to the fact that you’re brilliant and I’m merely intelligent.”

“Bull.”

“Oh, take the compliment and shut up.” Sister laughed at her. “Okay. I’m brilliant, but you know in Hollywood when they want to fire you they first tell you you’re brilliant.”

“A much-used word then.” Sister laughed some more. “No word on who played the prank with the mannequin?”

“No, but if I ever find out, I’m stripping him or her and parading them around town on a horse—or maybe I’ll tie them to the hood of my car, a nice big ornament.” Marion took a deep breath. “Can’t decide if it was a prank or a warning.”

Sister then told her about the old movie being left in the mudroom, which upset Marion too.

“Excuse me…. I do too.” Marion cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, then removed it. “Sorry. My appointment has appeared five minutes early.”

“Go do biz.”

“You too.”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“You know, the Chinese have this expression:I throw out a brick in the hope that someone else will throw out jade.”

“Got it.” Sister liked the concept. After switching off her cell phone she put it on the kitchen table. “Could it be possible?” A long pause followed. “Kids, this is a case of what you don’t know can hurt you. I haven’t a clue about the technology involved in a scheme like that, but afew people in this world do. I wonder if Aashi was one of them.”

CHAPTER 20

One of the people who had a grasp of wireless technology was High Vajay, riding out today. He needed a blast of energy, given his marital troubles.

It was Saturday, March 1, and the field was quite large. Less than three weeks remained in the season. The day had proved so mild, in the low fifties, the trailers jammed Foxglove Farm.

The horrendous cow Clytemnestra, together with her equally worthless son, Orestes, had been placed in a five-board fenced paddock with extra grain, a brand-new salt block, and mounds of hay. Five boards wouldn’t stop Clytemnestra any more than three if she chose to bust a move, but it made Cindy Chandler, the pretty blonde owner, feel better.

Caneel, one of her hunters, watched everyone from an adjoining paddock.

Kasmir and High rode with Faye. The Merrimans were out, as was Cabel, which showed pluck on her part. She’d apologized individually to everyone who had witnessed her meltdown at Mousehold Heath. All the Custis Hall regulars came save Felicity, whose parents had descended upon her.

Sister made a mental note to speak with Charlotte Norton about Felicity. The worst thing the Porters could do would be to yank Felicity out of school. She sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be the case. Not only would it interrupt what should be one of the happiest times of a young person’s life, it would set her against her parents.

Val, noting Cabel’s difficulty mounting Mickey (for she’d forgotten her mounting block), gave Cabel a leg up. “Mrs. Harper, I’ve always wanted to ask you why you spell your name as you do. I thought Cabel had twol’s.”

“Does,” came the quick reply. “I kicked thel out of it.” She laughed, as did Val.

The warmth worried Sister in terms of scent, but the low cloud cover might help a bit. She had read every book there was about scent; there weren’t many. She’d pored over other people’s old published hunt diaries and read the work of hunting correspondents for the British papers over the last two centuries. They didn’t know any more about scent than she did.

What she did know is that two lovely foxes lived at Foxglove. One, Grace, kept close to the stable because Cindy put out jelly beans, corn, and other tidbits that Grace devoured.

Another fox, larger, lived under the old schoolhouse used from 1870 to the 1940s.

She counted seventy-two people, a nice number. The Custis Hall girls rode at the rear of first flight.

Shaker cast hounds away from the stable toward two ponds with a pretty little waterwheel. It was a dwarf compared to the giant waterwheel at Mill Ruins, Walter Lungrun’s place. Cindy was forever improving her ponds. Originally, a long pipe poured water from the upper pond to the lower, and the water was then recycled back up by means of a pump in an enclosed pump-house. She had recently installed this small waterwheel, finding the soft lap of water on the paddles soothing.

Hounds found no scent around the ponds, which surprised Sister, for usually there was a hint near the cool dampness. Hounds moved up the meadows past the woods to their left where the old springhouse stood, still useful. They feathered by the schoolhouse. Iggy, the schoolhouse fox whom hounds called Professor, was nowhere to be found.

Shaker jumped the coop over the road and then the coop on the other side of the dirt road, hounds casting in the rougher meadow there. They’d been out twenty-five minutes at a walk. Cooler air touched Sister’s cheeks; a little wind current fluttered across the meadow.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_6]

Dragon, out today because Cora was footsore, sniffed, feathered, moved faster, then opened. Within the blink of an eye the entire pack was flying. Dreamboat, Diddy, Darby, Doughboy, Dana, and Delight did wonderfully, as did the third-year hounds, Trudy, Trident, Tinsel, and Trinity. Two young entry came out today, Parker and Pickens. Both Sister and Shaker thought Saturday a bit much for first year, but these two had matured faster than their littermates and currently ran smack in the middle of the pack.

Hounds ran straight as an arrow until reaching Soldier Road, the local east-west route that climbed laboriously over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Interstate 64 farther north took most of that traffic, for which everyone was grateful.

Soldier Road had narrow ditches on either side for runoff. Sister and Keepsake, happy to be out today, cleared one clambering up the low embankment to the macadam road. Watching her hounds, she noticed the macadam did not throw them off. Scent had to be red hot. The oil odor of macadam, especially when warming, conceals scent. She cleared the second runoff ditch, plunging into unkempt fields. They blasted through those fields, skirted the base of Hangman’s Ridge, veered east into the wildflower field, awaiting spring’s clarion call, and up and over the hog’s-back jump into After All Farm.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_7]

Dragon, in the lead, was stretched to his fullest. Right behind came Diddy, then Trinity. To her surprise, once she cleared the hog’s back, Sister saw Pickens fourth as the hounds ran in the woods, the denuded trees offering some views.

On and on they screamed until arriving at Pattypan Forge, impressive in a forlorn fashion.

Aunt Netty lived at Pattypan Forge, Uncle Yancy leaving out of frustration once she arrived. But hounds hadn’t been on Aunt Netty snug in her den, furious about this commotion outside her tidy abode.

Hounds cast around the forge, large heavy stones set in place in 1792. This time Diddy picked up the signature odor and off they ran again.

Straight through the trees, into the pinewoods, scent thick in the air, needles cushioning hoofbeats, then out and into the hardwoods again, and down into Broad Creek. The crossing had become tricky. People dotted the last few miles, four coming a cropper at the crossing alone. The temperature was cool enough to feel uncomfortable if one is soaking wet.

Onward. Keepsake, nostrils wide, ears forward, loving every second just as much as the silver-haired woman on his back, scarcely touching the reins.

The scorching pace now told on those whose horses weren’t fit. Some people themselves had gotten out of shape over the holidays and hadn’t recovered form. Bathing-suit weather usually took care of that.

On and on those hounds ran, Shaker behind them. Betty, on Magellan, a huge grin on her face, whipped in on the left. Betty disappeared in the woods. Sister caught sight of her once more, bursting into the open; same with Sybil, riding Postman today, covering the right.

Her whippers-in stuck to their places as well, using good judgment. The staff work today proved as good as the hound work.

On they ran. Sister glanced behind her, the field strung out like pearls that had popped their string. Tedi and Edward were close behind, once again demonstrating the wisdom of riding fit Thoroughbreds. Gray was nowhere to be seen. In that quick glance she caught a glimpse of only a dozen people.

Good God, she thought to herself,what’s happened to them? That thought lasted only a split second because the Custis Hall girls rode tail and they were equal to most crises; also the pace, flaming, incinerated the thought.

Hounds leapt into the graveyard at the old Lorillard place, where they threw up. Scent disappeared as if a magician had put the fox back in the hat instead of the rabbit. They whined a moment and cast themselves away from the large pin oak in the middle of the graveyard, guarding Jemima Lorillard’s grave among others.

Nothing.

Shaker removed his cap, wiping his brow.

Sister did likewise.

Tedi and Edward remained behind her but close. Walter, on Rocketman, caught up. She counted heads: twenty-three people. No sign of the hilltoppers.

“Where is everybody?”

“Lost the hilltoppers at the crossing,” Walter replied. “Bobby is bringing them the long way around.”

“Jesus,” was all she said, because the long way around meant he circumvented one mile north for an easier crossing. “Hilltoppers are supposed to be able to ride. They should also be able to jump at least a log in the road.”

“Well, he had some green people today; better safe than sorry,” Walter replied, and he was right.

“The run of the season.” Edward lifted his top hat to salute the hounds.

“By God, it was!” Walter agreed and did likewise with his hunting cap.

Coming up behind was Kasmir and he, too, lifted his topper. High and Faye had succumbed to the pace but Kasmir, although a touch portly, was as fit as his mount.

“Couldn’t help it,” Sister bragged. “Those young ones were fabulous.” She wanted to shout to the heavens,Thank you, Jesus! but instead sat quietly while horses, hounds, and humans recovered their wind. One by one, riders straggled in, the number now thirty-two, still a far cry from seventy-two.

“We ran an eleven-mile point.” Walter flipped his Reverso wristwatch, the perfect watch for hunting despite its expense. “One hour and fourteen minutes with a brief check at Pattypan Forge.”

“It truly was the run of the season.” Tedi needed a pickup from her flask, which contained an excellent port. “Sister?”

“Forgive me, folks.” Sister, parched, took a draft, even though staff is not to drink alcohol during a hunt, one of those rules usually observed in the breach.

Everyone who had a flask reached for it.

Shaker rode up and Walter handed him his flask.“I know, I know.” Walter smiled. “But you must be dry as a bone.”

Shaker shook his head no. He kept sweet tea in his flask. He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t drink, regardless of occasion.

Sister also kept iced tea, unsweetened, in her flask, but Tedi’s exquisite port lured her.

“Boss.” Shaker sighed with deep joy.

“Huntsman.” She smiled at him. “I say we head back.”

So they did, and not halfway into the woods, just at the edge of where the old Lorillard property adjoined After All Farm, they hit again. The music filled the air, echoed off hills, gave horses another burst of energy.

This fox happened to be Uncle Yancy. Why he was this far east was anyone’s guess, but he took them straight to Pattypan Forge again, where he ducked into his harridan’s den. This time hounds dug at the entrance with conviction, because they could hear squabbling inside.

“You lazy, good-for-nothing, what makes you think you can come into my den?”

“Hounds were hot on my tail, my sweet; then again, I haven’t seen you for far too long.” He blinked with a sweet expression.

“I ought to throw your sorry tail right out of here.” Aunt Netty swished her own tatty brush.

“Now, my sweet, don’t be hasty,” he cooed.

Trinity whispered to Dasher,“Will she throw him out?”

“Nah, they fight all the time.”

After blowing“Gone to Ground,” Shaker hopped back up on Kilowatt—he was already in love with this game, athletic horse—and they walked slowly back to After All Farm.

Along the way they passed some of those who had turned back early.

They rode up on the Custis Hall girls in the wildflower field, helping guests who had parted company with their mounts. Sister thanked Val, Tootie, and Pamela for catching the horses.

The walk back took forty-five minutes. Sister wouldn’t take any jumps. Most accidents occur skylarking on the return when many horses are blown.

Keepsake, Kilowatt, Magellan, and Postman could have popped over. So could Tedi and Edward’s horses, but it wasn’t worth it. It’s a foolish field master who risks life and limb going home. When hounds are running, that’s a different story.

Finally the stable at Foxglove Farm came into view, the weathervane’s arrow point indicating a slight wind from the northwest.

However, what caught Sister’s eye and everyone else’s was the squad car at the stable.

“I hope no one’s seriously hurt,” Sister whispered to Walter.

No one was hurt, but Faye Spencer, naked, tied to Cindy Chandler’s mare, Caneel, sat in the paddock. Caneel had been drugged. Faye had been shot through the heart.

CHAPTER 21

Lady Godiva,” Sister whispered, trotting to the paddock.

Ilona Merriman, sobbing, screaming, was forcibly removed from the scene by Ramsey. Cabel Harper and High Vajay stood in mute horror.

Nonni threw a shoe, so Ben Sidell, who had turned back early, took charge. He estimated Faye had been in the paddock for perhaps a half hour. She remained quite warm. The ropes tying her to Caneel had not yet rubbed her wrists and ankles raw. One by one, he had noted the names of the fifteen people who had reached Foxglove Farm first.

Sister rode up to him.“What can I do?”

“Herd everyone away from here. The people who were here need to stay briefly. They’re in the stable.”

“Fine.”

Diddy had shot off to the crime scene. She wanted to know what the fuss was. She stood on her hind legs, sniffing Faye’s foot and left leg. Shaker called her away, and she raced back to squeeze through the door held partway open. She then told the pack what she’d smelled.

“Blood?” asked Ardent.

“No, perfume. Ladies wear perfume,” Dragon said.

“Not supposed to,” Tinsel added.“The only person wearing scent should be the fox.”

“Would you recognize that perfume again?” Diana asked.

“Sure.”

“Could be Faye’s perfume,” Trinity logically added.

“Could,” Diddy agreed.“But if I catch wind of it again, I’ll tell you.”

“Shaker, you, Betty, and Sybil ask everyone out here to please leave. The people who came back early are in the stable. Ben requests that we get everyone else out to cut down on the confusion,” Sister commanded.

“Right.” He could see the ghastly figure in the near distance, Caneel with her head down, half asleep.

“Be sure to get the Custis Hall girls out. They don’t need to see this. They should be back any minute.”

Sister dismounted, loosened Keepsake’s girth, threw a rug over him, removed his bridle, and put his halter on in four minutes flat, then ran to the Custis Hall van looking for Charlotte Norton. The headmistress and the riding coach, Bunny Taliaferro, weren’t back.

She passed Sybil on her return to the paddock.

“Sister, are you all right?” the second whipper-in asked.

“I don’t know,” Sister replied. “Seeing this once was bad enough. Twice is horrifying. But I swear to you, Sybil, this bastard is on my turf now and I will get him.”

“Be careful.”

“You too.” Sister touched Sybil’s shoulder and raced back to the paddock.

Two sirens ruined the quiet of the day, now 12:20 P.M.

Ben turned to her.“Like Warrenton?”

“Yes. The obvious difference being Caneel is a real horse and Faye is tied, but same modus operandi, naked and shot through the heart.”

He walked around Caneel, in step with Sister.“No sign of a struggle. No bruises. No sign of torture obviously.”

“Caneel is untouched.”

He blinked, realizing once again how sharp this old woman was. She knew he’d concentrate on the human; she focused on the horse. Every second might yield a clue that would be lost within minutes or disturbed in removing the corpse.

“Whoever did this knows horses.” Ben returned to his starting point.

“Yes.” She named a tranquilizer. “I expect Caneel’s shot full of Banamine. She’ll be fine when it wears off.”

“Will you go in the stable, write down everyone’s name, the time they returned, anything they noticed?”

“Boss,” Shaker called over the fence, “some of the people can’t go because they’re vanning with people in the barn.”

“Tell them to wait,” Ben answered. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

Sister walked into the barn. Cindy was there, ashen-faced.“I need a tablet and a pencil,” Sister told her.

Wordlessly, Cindy opened the door to the small office, reappearing with a spiral notebook and a small green golf pencil.

Ilona, slumped on a tack trunk, couldn’t stop crying, gulping in huge gasps of air.

“High Vajay,” Sister asked, “when did you return?”

“Noon.”

“When did you notice Faye?”

“Perhaps five minutes after that. I opened the gate to the paddock and ran over. She was already dead.”

“Ramsey?”

“I was behind Vajay. I ran into the paddock too. Ilona came right after me.”

Sister looked at Ilona, thinking she’d speak to her last. Perhaps by then a deputy would be here who would be better at this than she was.

Ronnie Haslip, Henry Xavier, Cindy Chandler, Cabel Harper, and Lorraine Rasmussen were each questioned.

Ty Banks, Ben’s young deputy, walked into the stable. He conferred quietly with Sister as the emergency vehicle pulled to the paddock.

Ilona, startled, ran to the open stable doors. She started screaming again.

Ramsey hurried to her.“Honey, please. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Who would do this?” Ilona wailed.

Ramsey put his arm around his distraught wife, guiding her back to the tack trunk, where she collapsed with a thump.

Sister whispered to Ty,“I don’t think Ilona’s ever seen a corpse. She’s usually sensible.”

Sister’s generation had seen death more often than had younger generations whose families died mostly in hospital beds. Perhaps it was not a good thing that people today were so removed from the normal life cycle.

As Ty took over, Sister walked out with Cindy.

“Maybe I should stay in the barn. I came back early,” Cindy said, forlorn.

The two women walked back in. Cindy asked Ty what he wanted her to do. He told her he’d get to her, but since this was her farm she might be needed outside.

The two women walked back out.

“Have you talked to Ben?”

“No. I came in around eleven and put my horse up. By eleven twenty I was in the house getting things ready for the breakfast.”

“Did you hear any cars?”

“No. But I wasn’t listening. Same with people returning. The windows were closed and I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I heard Ilona scream.”

“Do you recall looking at the paddock when you rode up?”

“Yes, Caneel whinnied to Booper. She performed a pirouette and that was that.”

Booper was Caneel’s stablemate, the horse Cindy rode today.

“No sign of Faye, alive, I mean?”

“No. There were some horses tied at trailers, but I didn’t pay attention. I figured it was the usual case of broken tack, thrown shoes, you know.”

“Can you remember how many horses?”

“Oh, dear.” Cindy frowned. “Three? Four?”

Sister grabbed Cindy’s hand. “Come with me.”

They stepped quickly to Faye’s trailer, a well kept two-horse. Clayton’s mare, the loaner, was untacked, wiped down, a fresh cooler draped and cinched over the pleasant animal.

“Well, she had time to put up the horse,” Cindy noted.

“Or someone else did.” Sister stepped up into the small tack room. She touched nothing. “Everything looks in order. I’m going to stay here so no one comes in this room. Will you run to Ben and tell him he needs to dust this tack and the halter? If there are prints other than Faye’s we might get to first base.”

Cindy dashed for the paddock, not wishing to see the dead woman but knowing Sister’s plan was vital. She hastily told Ben and turned on her heel. Before she bolted through the gate, Ben called out, “Cindy, do you want me to leave Caneel in the paddock?”

The answer was yes.

Sister remained in the tack room for another twenty minutes. As she did, she observed the fifteen people filing out of the stable, all disturbed.

Once the fingerprint team arrived, Sister returned to Ben, now at the gate, as Faye’s body, in a plastic bag, was rolled out on a gurney.

“Had she been cleaned up?”

Ben nodded.“Yes, but this time the killer didn’t have much time. My guess is she was hosed down at the outside pump.” He pointed to the frost-free water pump, hose attached. A puddle, slowly being absorbed, was on the ground. “I looked around for rags. None. When we lifted her off, we noticed she had been sprayed; she was still wet.”

“Faye was beautiful even in death. Two beautiful victims,” Sister stated.

“Faye knew electronics, right?”

“She was on the cutting edge.”

Shaker joined them.“Charlotte came in just before the girls. She and Bunny got them out of here before they could see the body.”

“Good. You can’t protect young people from the world, but with something like this you must try.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Could they be in danger? The kids?”

“I don’t know,” Ben honestly replied, “but right now I would caution every woman to be careful. If you leave the hunt field, leave in twos. If you go out at night, go in twos.” He spoke directly to Shaker. “Watch out for Sister. The punch bowl in her stable office is hardly a good omen.”

“I will.”

“Sister, carry your thirty-eight. You have a permit for a concealed weapon. Do not leave your house without that gun. I mean it.”

She appreciated their concern, making light of it.“I’m not young and beautiful. I’m safe.” Then she changed the subject. “Wonder if the wound was made by the same gun?”

“We’ll find out. I’m willing to bet she wasn’t sexually molested.”

“Same killer?” Sister’s silver eyebrows lifted, then dropped.

“I’m not supposed to speculate, but I think it is. The public display of the corpse?” He paused a long time. “Let’s just say something like that infuriates and motivates those of us in law enforcement. The killer is thumbing his nose at us.”

“All of us,” Shaker added. “Ben, I’d like to get the hounds back. They hunted hard.”

“Sure.”

Ty Banks walked in, folding back his cell phone.“Called her office. Two people working on Saturday. Figured you’d want to question them, so I asked them to stay at work until we get there.”

“Good.”

Betty, patiently waiting for Sister, waved when she saw them looking in her direction.

“May I be excused?” Sister asked Ben. “I need to get the horses back.”

“You may.”

“I just noticed the daffodil in your buttonhole. For St. David’s Day, the patron saint of Wales?”

He nodded.“Mother’s proud of her Welsh blood.”

“A strong people. You’ll need that strength on this case.”

CHAPTER 22

Everyone invested heavily in Faye’s company.” Gray, nightcap in hand, sat in the club chair in the den, cashmere throw over his aching legs.

Gray hadn’t ridden that hard in a long time.

Sister, opposite him on the couch, Golly in her lap, sipped hot green tea laced with fresh lemon.“Even I put a little money in.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“You know, I haven’t thought much about it. It was a small amount.” She was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I forget to tell you things and other times I elect not to because I don’t want to be a pest always asking for advice.” She changed the subject. “It’s been a day none of us will forget.”

“In a way I’m glad I came back late, but I wish I could have helped you.” Gray had dismounted, walking his horse back the last two miles since both were weary. “Who else put money in Warp Speed?”

“Crawford, High, Clayton, Ramsey; even Edward chipped in a bit. I don’t know about Kasmir. What would any of those men have to gain by Faye Spencer’s death?” Sister answered her own question. “I suppose it depends on whether they wanted the company to succeed or fail. Craig and Abrams might be working on a similar product. It’s possible High Vajay would want her to fail. Investing a substantial sum would provide a cover, plus he’d be able to report on her progress. God knows, he has the money. On the other hand, he might want Faye to succeed so Craig and Abrams could buy Warp Speed and use their research without incurring the cost of duplicate effort. Someone like Crawford might want to take over the company, although killing Faye is a stupid way to do it. Crawford’s not stupid, not in that way.”

“No.” Gray half closed his eyes as the warmth of the scotch worked its way down to his stomach. “Honey, I don’t know if Lady Godiva’s special, but this has something to do with injustice. It’s revengeful. Displaying a woman like that, even dead, is humiliation. Everyone who sees her will remember her naked.”

“In the case of Aashi and Faye, they were gorgeous naked.”

“But it’s still humiliation.” Gray stuck to his point.

“Yes. Yes, it is, and the murderer wants us all to witness the humiliation. If the killer wanted to scare us, he’d disfigure the corpse. Here it’s the reverse. The women are cleaned up.”

“Odd. Compelling.”

“When I spoke to Marion today she used the same word,compelling.” Sister noticed a blue flame leap up among the yellow gold ones. She sighed deeply. “God, what an awful day. And it was the best damn run of the season. Once I got home I went into the kennels and thanked every hound that was out. Took my mind off Faye. I liked Faye.”

“Timetable. Cindy Chandler was the first person back, that we can identify. Others had to be back; you said Cindy remembered horses tied to trailers.” Gray took another much-needed sip of scotch.

“Imagine how Cindy feels.” Sister shook her head. “She’s in her kitchen while Faye Spencer is being shot behind her stable or at least washed up there. She said she never heard a shot.”

“If a person drove up, killed Faye, and drove out, someone would have seen the vehicle. Whoever killed Faye was either waiting here or rode back with the first group of people. And the gun could have had a silencer.”

“How else would the killer know Faye turned back early, right?”

“Exactly.” Gray smiled.

“Let’s pick someone we know would never do this: Lorraine Rasmussen. Lorraine asks Faye to ride back with her. Any excuse will do. Faye agrees. Lorraine is in collusion with the killer, already here.”

“Could be. Whether that’s the case or not, there was some kind of plan and a desire to cut it close. I doubt there was as big a thrill to killing the woman in Warrenton as there was to this. The killer wanted everyone here.”

“Is this a true serial killer, you think?”

Gray rubbed his aching thighs.“Yes, I think it is. Because of the media we associate serial killers with sex. Either it’s a man who kills prostitutes because he’s determined they’re evil, a man who preys on young men, or a man who kills women, regular women, who may resemble one another. But it seems to me that killing could be an incredible high, a tremendous exercise of power. Sex doesn’t have to be part of it.”

“That’s what bothers me. It is in the sense that the women are beautiful and they’re naked. Something’s missing.”

“I half want to find it and I half don’t.”

“Oh, I want to find it.” Sister’s cheeks blazed. “My hunt club member is shot, my field sees this grotesque parody of Lady Godiva. I want to find it—and him.”

“Sweetheart, I admire your sentiments, but there are times when you are too bold.”

“Like the time I decked Crawford?”

This made Gray laugh.“That was justice served.”

“Maybe this is too.”

CHAPTER 23

Sunday, the traditional day of worship, brings families together. Sunday, March 2, brought some together and rent others asunder.

High Vajay found himself the main suspect in the death of both Lady Godivas. Uncomfortable as this was, Mandy’s wrath proved more unsettling.

As they were Hindu, not Christian, they did not attend church service. Mandy asked Sybil Fawkes if she would take the boys for the day since she and High had issues to discuss. They’d kept a lid on it until they could have a day together. Neither one wanted to get into an argument when the boys were in bed and awaken and frighten them. Sybil’s two sons and the Vajays’ two sons had become friends, and Sybil readily agreed.

So at nine in the morning, across a highly polished kitchen table, husband and wife had already been going at it hammer and tongs for forty minutes. Mostly it was High being hammered. When you’re the anvil, have the sense to keep still. He did.

“So?” Mandy’s eyebrows were raised, her face perfect even in anger.

“What more can I say? I was wrong. I was foolish. I risked everything for momentary pleasure.”

Even at home, Mandy was dressed exquisitely, this morning in a cream-colored silk shirt, camel-colored pleated skirt, and low-heel Gucci boots. Mandy was five feet eight inches in her bare feet. She listened impassively, her anger spent.

High kept going.“I didn’t call her to come to Warrenton. I swear to you, I did not.”

“Then why was she there? You renewed the affair.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, misery etching every feature on his handsome face.“I did. I went back up to Washington. You remember, Tim Pasternak called me up.”

Tim Pasternak ran the small office in Washington, D.C., more as a presence than a power. Craig and Abrams occasionally needed the cooperation of the government. The U.S. headquarters was in New York City.

“I remember. Three months ago.”

“It was one night, Mandy, that’s all.”

“It was one night that fired up the affair. You didn’t stop at one night. Don’t play me for a fool, Lakshmi, or I will take you for everything you’ve got. We’re in America now, remember?”

A flash of pride almost made him say,Take it all. I can make it all over again. Instead, he wisely pushed down his ego and demurred.“The affair was more over the phone and the computer. I only saw her one other time, and we didn’t go to bed.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s true. If you don’t believe it there’s nothing I can do.” He was resigned now.

She got up from the table, folded her arms across her chest, and paced the large kitchen.“How about the children? Did you not think of the children?”

“Madhur, men don’t think of things like that when lust blinds them. To our shame. To my shame. For me the affair was like a good round of golf. Fun and relaxing, not central to life. Men do this. It doesn’t mean that much. But it means much to women and there’s no denying that we know that.We hope not to get caught. And when we do, we realize how bloody goddamned selfish we’ve been. I will do anything to win you back. Anything.”

She walked to the window and looked east as light flooded the immaculate brick buildings, painted white, that constituted the stable, the cow barns, the huge garden shed with greenhouse, all restored to perfection during their ownership.“All right then, Lakshmi, you have your chance. I have never meddled in your business; that isn’t my sphere. But I know when you’re building something, you’re tense, excited. What are you doing?”

He looked up at her, his dark brown eyes troubled, but he answered.“Trying to drive up Craig and Abrams stock. If I’m successful, our investment will spiral to the heavens.”

“And exactly what are you trying to do, apart from sleeping with a young woman now murdered?”

He raised his shoulders then dropped them.“I want to destroy or buy out the competition.”

“Cell phones?”

“Well, the technology that connects your phone to your TV, to your landline, to your car, to your iPod, the technology to drive everything from one tiny unit, is not an inch from us. There’s a little work to be done but the real next step is marketing.”

“And Faye Spencer? God, did you sleep with her too?”

“No. Ramsey Merriman was doing that. I know Clayton tried but I don’t think he succeeded.” He went on quickly. “I liked Faye enormously, but I was in enough trouble and she’s not my type. Wasn’t my type.” He closed his eyes. “What a shocking sight. Thank God you were on the plane coming back from Arizona.”

She returned to sit down.“Is what you are doing legal?”

“Yes. Well, a gray zone.”

“Which is?”

“One thing Craig and Abrams is doing, covertly, obviously, is to disrupt other companies’ service. Then offer better contracts and service. It costs Craig and Abrams three hundred and fifty dollars for each new client; that’s one of the reasons we need the year-long contract. But there’s a small company now that provides service to the poor without a contract. And there are other companies undermining what we’ve established in the wireless industry, trying to make what the Americans call an end run around Craig and Abrams. The sheer size of the company is both our strength and our weakness.” He paused. “That’s capitalism.”

“Do you destroy their towers?”

He half smiled.“Nothing that dramatic.”

“What do you do?”

“We can interrupt the wave, literally. Craig and Abrams is light-years ahead in some areas but woefully behind in others. Our research and development department is the best in the world; our marketing is abysmal. That’s one of the reasons I keep getting called back because I have the ability to talk both to the strange gnomes in research and to the marketing men, all of whom dress like bad models fromGQ. If I see one more French-blue shirt with a tie the same color I think I’ll rip it off the man’s pencil neck.”

That made her laugh.“Not everyone possesses your incredible sense of style. You know, that was the second thing I noticed about you: Everything you wore fit perfectly. You stood out without being flashy. I don’t like flashy men.”

“What was the first thing you noticed?” He couldn’t help it, his vanity was being massaged.

“Your eyes. What was the first thing you noticed about me?”

“Everything. Hiroshima. Boom!” He threw up his hands.

“Then why other women?”

“One other woman. Mandy, I love you. You are my wife, the mother of my sons. But how do the Americans put it,A stiff dick has no conscience?” He shook his head. “Who could be as beautiful as you? And you are a good woman. But sometimes a man is weak or away from home and lonely.” He shrugged.

“And you don’t think women get lonely?”

A three-car alarm look crossed his face,“Yes. No. What do you mean?”

“Only that women, too, need solace. We’re better at hiding it. Have I cheated on you? No. Rest your pride, for that’s what it is. I have my circle of friends. I think my relationship with my friends is different from yours, but no matter. Back to Craig and Abrams. If what you are doing works,Craig and Abrams will emerge as”—she thought a moment—“the Toyota of wireless, of personal technology.”

“Military hegemony too. Those applications are not known to the public. We will be number one in the world, an Indian company. What’s that other American expression?When the tide’s in, all the boats rise. So it will be for our country.”

“Strange. I have love and pride for my people and for India in general, but I feel more American. Sometimes that bothers me. Am I faithless? Am I so easily won over by their freedoms, many of which are scurrilous or illusory? Or is it their attitude? What my father always says was calledcan do in his day. But they are like that, you know. Americans think they can do anything so they do. They aren’t chained to fathoms of history as we are. When I’m here I forget about Hindus hating Muslims. I don’t care. I don’t care that I think Mumbai residents combine the worst of Los Angeles and New York. I look out at the Blue Ridge Mountains, much smaller than the mountains of my childhood, and I feel peace. And strange to say, my husband, I feel power.”

“You have always had power, Mandy.”

“Beauty is power, but beauty fades.”

“Not yours.”

“Ha. Mine most of all. When you are called one of the world’s most beautiful women, everyone searches your face for that first wrinkle. Well, I have more than one wrinkle now and some gray to season my hair as well. No, this power is different. This is from within. Beauty is without.”

They sat in silence for a long time.

“I love you,” High said, voice overflowing with emotion. He rose from his seat, walked over to his wife, knelt before her, and wrapped his arms around her knees. “Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

“I do, but I must know: Did you kill Aashi and Faye Spencer?”

He looked into her eyes.“Never. Never would I kill a woman.”

“Do you know who did? It looks bad for you, Lakshmi; you discovered Faye and you are on the list for killing Aashi.”

“I don’t know who did it. I wish I did because I fear him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not finished. I feel it.”

“I see.” She stood up, pulling him up with her, and hugged him, then kissed him passionately on the lips. “I love you too. That’s why it hurts. But I must protect myself and my children. If you want me in your life as your partner, you must go to McGuire and Woods”—she named a prestigious Virginia law firm—“and assign half of your assets to menow. For one thing, should you predecease me, that will cut down the inheritance tax, and for another, if you do this again, I walk away a rich woman and a free woman.”

He didn’t flinch. “It will be done.”

“And Charing Cross Farm. I can never leave here. I have found my heart’s home.”

“That too.”

“If, for some reason, you awaken tomorrow morning and wish to run heel”—she used the foxhunting term whereby hounds become confused and run backward on a fox’s line—“I will reveal what you are doing.”

At that moment, although he had been married to her for all these years, he truly appreciated the depths of her intelligence, exploding within him like a depth charge. He needed her on his side as much as he loved her.“I will not run heel. I will do as you ask. But I too have a request.”

“What?”

“Please don’t ever tell our sons what a fool their father is.”

“I will not, but who is to say as they grow older they won’t find out? The first Lady Godiva’s life can’t remain a secret forever.”

“My second request. Let us not speak of her between us.”

“Lakshmi, I can’t promise that. With Faye’s dreadful murder, the first murder is fresh all over again and the sheriff’s department knows of your involvement. We can’t pretend it never happened.”

“I know that, but don’t throw it in my face.”

“I won’t, but I must ask you particularly, since you think the killer will strike again, do you know who else Aashi was sleeping with?”

“No. Why would she tell me?”

“I assume she knew people with whom you do business.”

“She knew Faye and Warp Speed’s work. She knew Ramsey, Clayton, Crawford, and Edward, all because of their investments in Warp Speed but also sometimes, as you know, we’d drive up to Washington together.”

“Faye. Anyone other than Ramsey?”

“I don’t know. I only know about Ramsey because once Ilona, when we were hunting, made a cutting remark about Faye. I’d be hard put to prove it, but it fits if you know both their patterns.”

“Yes, it does. I liked Faye. I liked her tremendously. She never wasted my time with twaddle. When I would call upon Faye or vice versa, we sank our teeth into interesting subjects. Did you know she was passionate about poetry? Unusual for a science type, I think.”

“No, but I didn’t know Faye as you did.”

“How is Kasmir?”

“Shocked. He’s taking care of her dog and her horse. I told him tomorrow I’d call around to find a farm manager. I don’t even know if Faye had a will or relatives. She rarely spoke of them.”

“She had a brother in Naples, Florida. Just a brother with whom she had a good rapport. Her parents were killed in a car crash on the Florida Turnpike in the late 1990s,” Mandy replied.

“Ah, poor fellow. What terrible news.”

As the Vajays found their way back to each other, the Porters were becoming further estranged.

Felicity’s mother tried every manipulation of which she was capable: grief, guilt, anger, tears, more guilt. Nothing worked.

Her father accepted his daughter’s decision with scant enthusiasm. Perhaps his vanity was tweaked. He hadn’t planned to become a grandfather until his late fifties and here he was just forty-seven, plus he thought Howard Lindquist was a dumb jock.

When her parents finally vacated Custis Hall, Felicity crossed the quad from the administration building back to Old One, the oldest dorm on the campus. She’d call Howard but she needed to collect her thoughts. She had thought her parents really loved her. She was grappling with the dismal reality that they loved her only when she was what they wanted her to be.

Halfway across the quad, bundled up against the cold and the March winds, appearing right on time, trotted Val and Tootie.

When they reached her, Val slipped her arm through Felicity’s right arm and Tootie took the left. No one said anything. Felicity’s tears came not because of her parents but because she realized her friends loved her. Val disagreed with her but she loved her. You can’t pick your family but youcan pick your friends.

They gathered in Val’s room, the corner room traditionally given to the president of the senior class.

Val put a kettle on her hot plate. It was illegal to have a hot plate, but most of the girls jimmied up some way to make coffee, tea, and hot chocolate just like they snuck in liquor, pot, and the occasional gram of cocaine, all of which would horrify their parents, who pretty much did the same thing way back when.

“Mrs. Norton was very nice to give us the little conference room. Spared you all from hearing Mom wail down the hall.”

“Bad?” Val pulled out three mugs, proudly displaying how clean they were. “SOS pads.”

“That’s the first time you’ve scrubbed them since you were a freshman.” Tootie couldn’t believe it.

“They were clean. Stain’s not the same as dirt,” Val replied, then turned to Felicity. “Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Are you tired?” Tootie noticed the dark rings under Felicity’s eyes.

“I never knew how much this stuff—well, it makes you more tired than physical stuff. Mostly I want to sleep for a week. At least I’m rid of them and they aren’t going to pull me out of school. Won’t pay for night school, though. Won’t pay for an apartment or anything like that.” She stopped, chin jutting out. “I don’t want their money. Whoever gives you money owns you.”

“Won’t be easy, Felicity. You’re used to having a lot,” Val said, not in a dismissive manner.

“I don’t even know what I have—I mean, how would I know until I have to do without? I don’t know how to run a house. I’m pretty good with money, but I don’t even own furniture.” She sat on the worn but comfortable reading chair.

“Sister will help.” Tootie listened for the water to boil; she was thirsty. “If she asks hunt club members they’ll find stuff. Your place won’t makeHouse and Garden but, hey, you’ll have a bed to sleep in.”

“I don’t want to bother her. She’s put herself out for me with Garvey Stokes. I can’t ask for more.”

“Felicity, Sister would be upset if you didn’t ask. She knows about these things.” Val agreed with Tootie.

“I’ll think about it.”

Val and Tootie looked at each other, silently agreeing that they’d talk to Sister.

“There are lots of places to rent,” Val said cheerfully.

“Once I’m working full time we can afford something cheap. Howie should make some money at Robb Construction. Remember, we need a car too.”

“Forgot about that.” Val had.

“Val, I know how you feel about me, about Howie. I know you’re furious I’m not going to Princeton, should I get in.”

“We’ll get in,” Val boomed out.

“You will.” Felicity’s eyes misted again. “Thank you for standing by me even though you don’t agree with what I’m doing.”

The water boiled. Val poured hot water onto powdered cocoa, then coffee, and finally another cocoa for herself.“If I can’t change your mind, I might as well help,” she finally responded.

“I mean it. I hope someday I can pay you back.”

“That’s what friends are for.” Val smiled, handing her a cup, a spoon, and powdered milk.

“All for one and one for all.” Tootie smiled.

Felicity, who had had quite enough of talking about her future, changed the subject.“I heard about the hunt. Faye Spencer. Tell me.”

And so the grisly tale was repeated, with Felicity wretched that she’d missed the hunt just so her parents could try to grind her down.

What is it about horror that excites the mind?

Just as Val and Tootie were doing, other Jefferson Hunt members all over the county were recounting the story to their friends.

CHAPTER 24

How much do you have in the kitty?” Sister asked, as she drove Felicity to Aluminum Manufacturing.

“Seven hundred and one dollars and ninety-five cents.” Felicity enjoyed the high view the truck gave her. “Most of it from Val.”

“Cusses a lot, does she?”

“Not around you.” Felicity’s wry humor hadn’t abandoned her despite her predicament.

“Better not.” Sister slowed, turning left into the parking lot behind the brick office building.

Felicity saw the manufacturing building behind the brick building, which was obscured by rows of pines along the road.“Huge.”

“Garvey calls this the bullpit. Window frames are made here, caps for broom handles, you won’t believe the stuff they make. It’s fascinating, really.”

“Once our second grade visited a dairy.” Felicity observed a stream of white smoke curling upward from the big chimney at the rear of the building. “I mean, I knew milk came from cows and all that but I didn’t know how much happened before we drank it: machines to milk cows, what goes on atthe processing plant. That’s when I became interested in how things actually get done. And profit.” She smiled shyly.

“Profit’s the hard part. There’s no way anyone can pierce the future. All decisions are based on insufficient evidence. But I do know, should you end up in business, a good rule of thumb is, whatever something costs today, it will cost more tomorrow.”

Felicity flipped down the passenger sunshade, a mirror on the reverse side. She checked her face.“Do I look okay?”

“Fresh as a daisy.”

“Should I tell him I’m pregnant? It’s kind of like lying if I don’t.” The strain was showing on her young face.

Sister cut the motor.“Yes, but wait until the interview is mostly over. Garvey’s a good man, a fair man, and if your interview has gone well—and I’m sure it will—he’ll work it out with you.”

“I like Mr. Stokes. He doesn’t do stupid things in the hunt field.”

“I like him too. Ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They walked over the macadam, little bits pilling up over the years. Macadam doesn’t have a long life span. The bits crunched underfoot.

Reaching the glass door, Sister stepped forward to open it for Felicity.

The office building was rectangular, brick with lots of windows. Built in the 1930s, the entire structure, front and back, was no-nonsense. Sister appreciated function so she didn’t find the place ugly at all.

The small lobby contained samples of their products as well as colored framed photos of special projects over the years. A curved reception desk, a deep navy Turkish rug, and six Barcelona chairs offered testimony that Garvey possessed some aesthetic sensibility and was willing to pay for it. True Barcelona chairs are anything but cheap and the desk had been handmade specially by Aluminum Manufacturing, the aluminum top smooth, highly polished, and gleaming.

Bessie Tutweiler, a woman in her mid-fifties, was helping as a temporary bookkeeper and receptionist.

She pulled off her tortoiseshell glasses, hanging on a silver chain, and they dropped to rest on her ample, cashmere-covered bosom.“Sister, haven’t seen you since Moses parted the Red Sea.” She beamed.

“Bessie, that was a long time ago. I don’t even remember what Ramses wore.”

They both laughed.

“And how are you since that distant day?” Bessie inquired.

“Fine. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“This is Felicity Porter.” Sister introduced her to the older woman instead of vice versa. Sister’s manners were impeccable. “Bessie, she’s a wonderful young lady and she has an interview with Garvey.” She turned to Felicity. “This is Mrs. Thornton Tutweiler.”

Bessie stood, extending her hand, which Felicity shook.

Bessie looked sharply at Felicity, liking the package, for the still slender girl was modestly dressed in becoming colors.“Honey, you sit down and he’ll be out in a minute.” She glanced at the small switchboard, a few dots of light showing, and flicked a button that turned on an orange light on Garvey’s phone, alerting him that his appointment was in the lobby.

Sister sank into a Barcelona chair. She smiled at Felicity, who returned her smile, trying not to let nerves get the better of her.

Within a few minutes Garvey walked down the hall, entered the reception area, came rapidly to Sister, and bent over, kissing her on the cheek.“Master, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t immune to compliments.

“Best run of the season Saturday!” He took both of her hands in his. “Just the best. I try to forget the rest of it.” He reached over to Felicity, offering her his hand. “Come in, young entry,” he said, winking.

Hearing a foxhunting term relaxed Felicity a little.

When Garvey’s door closed, Bessie said, “She looks like a sensible kid.”

“A brilliant one. She has a real mind for business. And she is pretty sensible, no drugs or drinking, you know.” Sister left it at that, for Bessie would learn in good time about the rest.

“Faye Spencer.” Bessie sucked in her breath. “How awful for you. I just can’t believe it!”

“None of us can.”

“What could that lovely widow have done to deserve such a death? A nicer person you’d never find.”

Bessie put her glasses back on to check a new light on the switchboard, then removed them to look at Sister. Angel had researched and updated the office equipment, but she had died before being able to update their interior communication. Garvey kept meaning to get around to it, but that’s easier said than done. At least Bessie knew how to work the switchboard.

“Faye was a delight to all who knew her. And she worked hard, Bessie. After her husband was killed she picked herself up and kept going. Faye never asked for sympathy or favors. I hope I find out who did this. I’ll skin him alive.”

“I’ll help you.” Bessie pursed her lips. “We live in a strange and violent world, Sister. No respect for life. It’s all money, money, money.”

“Do you think Faye might have been killed over money?” Sister couldn’t lean forward in a Barcelona chair without sitting on the edge but she raised her voice a tad.

Bessie threw up her hands.“Who knows? I guess if her business takes off—well, she’d have been worth millions, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, I think so,” Sister replied.

“I think there’s a fiend out there. I don’t really think this is about money.” Bessie settled in to explain her theory. “Ever watch the true crime programs on TV?” Sister shook her head. “Well, from what I can gather from them, most criminals, if they aren’t stupid and can’t control their impulses, which is most of the criminal population, if they’re intelligent, they believe that what they are doing makes sense. It’s right. They truly believe they are right, their acts aren’t immoral. You know, like the men who kill prostitutes because they believe they’re filth. Wouldn’t it make more sense to kill the men who buy their bodies? I mean, we do live in a world of supply and demand. Seems to me the retribution is one-sided, but then those killers are always men, aren’t they?”

“Serial killers are, with one or two famous exceptions.” Sister knew Bessie, while not a flaming genius, possessed a sturdy intelligence, better in the long run.

“They truly believe their actions bring justice because the system is slow and unjust.” Bessie repeated the main thrust of her thoughts.

“Never thought of that. I thought killing provided an adrenaline rush, a thrill, power.”

“Probably does. I hope Ben Sidell gets this guy. Makes me look over my shoulder to think he’s out there—I mean, out there on our streets.”

“I’m looking over my shoulder too.” Sister changed the subject. “How’s Thornton?”

“Oh, happy as a clam. Orthopedic surgeons never run out of patients. If it’s not a football player, it’s a skier, and if it’s not a skier, it’s a kid who fell off his bike. He loves it.” She laughed. “Show Thorn a broken bone and he’s in heaven. Isn’t it funny, he was just as enthusiastic when I met him in med school. Blind date and here we are.” She laughed again. “Just love him, just love him to death.”

“Ever notice when someone finds the right one it’s easy”—Sister paused—“or as easy as a relationship can be.”

“Yes, I have noticed.”

“Bessie, it certainly is good of you to fill in here while Garvey is shorthanded.”

“I worked before the kids were born, which you know, and now that they’re married—well, how can I put it? I was drifting along. When Garvey called last month I thought,Why not? A few months will be fun and the pin money never hurts, and you know I quite like it. I like the hustle and bustle.” Bessie’s vocabulary sounded older than she was, no doubt a result of all that time spent playing bridge with her mother-in-law.

“He’s lucky to have you.”

Bessie rose, came over to sit next to Sister, and lowered her voice.“You’re sweet to say that. I spoke to Thornton last night, testing the waters. He said he thought it would be fine if I went back to work, so today I’ll talk to Garvey about it. Even if he hires that pretty Porter girl, he needs one more person on office staff full time. Someone has to work the dinosaur.” She indicated the switchboard. “You wouldn’t believe how much work there is to do here. Mountains.” She emphasized mountains.

“Better get your climbing gear because I know you’ll have a job.”

“Think so?” Bessie sounded breathless.

“Of course.”

They heard Garvey’s door open so Bessie returned to the desk.

Felicity and Garvey were walking in step, both smiling.

“Bessie, Felicity will start tomorrow, working Monday, Thursday, and Friday after lunch, part-time, until school’s out. Then we’ve got ourselves a full-time girl, I mean woman.” He did try not to call womengirls, but it confused him that an eighty-year-old woman would call another eighty-year-old womangirl.

“Wonderful.” Bessie meant it.

“Angel’s office,” Garvey mentioned.

“A good omen.” Bessie smiled again. “Congratulations, Felicity. You’ll like it here. You can’t believe how much activity there is, so much to learn.”

“I can’t wait, Mrs. Tutweiler.”

Out in the parking lot, Felicity threw her arms around Sister.“Thank you, thank you!”

“Honey, I just opened the door. You had to walk through it. I knew you’d impress Garvey.” She waited a moment. “The baby?”

“Oh, he was so sweet. He said I should work until I became too uncomfortable and then come back when I was ready; he’d hold my job. I’ll be back in a week. I need to work.” She stopped, then looked Sister straight in the eye. “I don’t want anyone’s money. I’m glad our parents won’t help us. Howie and I will do it on our own. No one can throw anything up in our faces then.”

“You’re right about that, Sugar. Come on, let’s get in the truck. It’s colder than a witch’s bosom.”

Once rolling back down the road they chattered away.

Felicity quieted a moment. She was usually quiet, but the relief of getting a job had pulled the stopper out of the bottle.“Sister, what am I going to do about Parson?” Suddenly tears welled in her eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

This was a surprise.“You have?”

“He’s a good horse. He’s got a little age on him, but he’s well made, smart, kind, and will take care of his rider.”

“He’s a good jumper.”

“Lorraine Rasmussen is coming along with her riding. She’ll be ready for first flight next season. I’ll have a word with her. You keep Parson, and when the season’s over, bring him here. I think we can work something out, and I bet you could ride him sometimes, although with a new baby I don’t know where you’re going to find the time.”

“You did.”

“Sweetie, you didn’t know my husband, but let’s just say I married well. We could afford help. And even with help, there were days when I was overwhelmed when RayRay was a baby. I do better with children when they can walk and talk but RayRay didn’t know that so I sure learned.”

“He must have been a good guy, your son.”

“He was. I think of him every day, every hour, and I long to hear his voice.” She smiled. “Your child opens your heart, or maybe I should say opens a part of your heart you didn’t even know existed until that door opens.”

“I’m kind of excited. Kind of scared.”

“Well, Felicity, join womanhood.” Sister laughed. “Every one of us feels that way and then out pops the baby and you’re on the roller coaster.”

“I can never repay you.” Tears welled up in Felicity’s eyes.

Sister’s engagement ring and wedding ring glamed with that odd burnish of platinum as a ray of sun caught her hand on the steering wheel. “You can.”

“How?”

“Love the land. Teach your child to love the land and the creatures upon it and in the sea and in the air. Teach your child respect for life. Even trees are alive and”—she paused dramatically—“put that little thing’s bottom on a horse as soon as he or she can actually see. Hold them up there and I’ll take the lead line. You make a foxhunter for me.”

Felicity grinned.“It’s a deal.”

“Now, what about Howie? I take it he can’t ride yet, so use your womanly wiles. The family that rides together learns to ride out troubles together too.”

“Howie can’t ride a lick.”

“He’ll do it for you. He’ll do it for the baby.”

“I’ll work on him.”

“Felicity, men are easy,” Sister said, a glint of deviltry in her eyes.

Passing through the huge wrought-iron gates, Sister again admired the grounds of Custis Hall. She parked behind Old Main, the administration building, as she had business with Charlotte Norton.

The two walked to the back staircase of the oldest building on campus, once serving multiple functions but now confined to housing administrators.

Sister kissed Felicity on her cheek.“You’re on your way.”

Solemn, a little nervous, Felicity said,“Will you be godmother to our baby?”

Without a second’s hesitation Sister replied, “I would consider it a great honor.”

Felicity felt tears well up in her eyes again. She struggled to know herself because she wasn’t given to emotions and now they skimmed on her surface. “Thank you.”

Sister kissed her again.“Go on, young ’un.”

Inside the reception room to Charlotte’s office, Teresa Bourbon, Charlotte’s able and discreet assistant, waved Sister in.

The silver tea service, expensive then, a fortune now, given to the president by the class of 1952 back in 1952, sat on the coffee table, steam spiraling out of the teapot spout.

“Egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches for starters.” Charlotte stepped out behind her desk. “And your favorite afternoon tea, real orange pekoe.”

“I need it.” Sister sank onto the sofa as Charlotte poured a bracing cup and handed it to her.

Then she poured one for herself and sat next to Sister. She picked up the tray of sandwiches.“Nourishment.”

“I really am famished.”

They ate their sandwiches, drank their tea, and talked forthrightly, for over the years the two women had taken each other’s measure.

“Got the job.”

“I’m glad,” Charlotte replied. “Much as I’d like to see her at Princeton, I know she’s strong-willed and I hope this will work.”

“Wonder if they’ll all get into Princeton?”

Charlotte leaned back.“They have the qualifications but I doubt if admissions is going to take three girls from the same school.”

“There is that.” Sister reached for another delicious sandwich. “You know, Charlotte, I have a feeling about Felicity. Like I get a feeling about hound puppies. That girl is going to be a success, a big success. She has drive. Fate appears to be handing her a bad card, but I think it will be the making of her.”

“I hope so.” Charlotte didn’t sound 100 percent convinced. “Her parents flamed me like a blowtorch.”

“Immature people need a target for their anger.”

“Felicity is more mature in many ways than her parents.” Charlotte poured another cup of tea for Sister and herself. “You’d be surprised how many times I see that here.”

“Bet I wouldn’t.”

Charlotte spoke next of the unavoidable subject.“I’ve hired extra security. There’s always fat in every budget, so I squeezed some out. Chances are, whoever this perverse killer is, he isn’t interested in Custis Hall, but I can’t be too careful, and both victims were young and good-looking. Who’s to say?”

“I certainly hope the girls are safe. You did the right thing. The only common thread I can find—well, two—for the victims is that both were quite beautiful and both had knowledge of wireless technology.”

“Yes, I thought of that too. Naturally, I don’t want to alarm the girls but I did have the career counselors give each girl a questionnaire concerning last year’s summer jobs. It’s not obvious—there are lots of questions because it’s designed to support finding a job this summer for those who want to do that as well as supporting life experience information for college applications—but there are a few questions about working for cell phone companies and computer chip companies. Just in case.” Charlotte smiled a tight smile. “As it turns out, Val worked last summer for Alltelback home.”

“You’re way ahead of everyone else,” Sister replied. “Let’s hope Val’s knowledge is limited, just in case.”

Charlotte held a plate of chocolate cookies and shortbread ones.“One good thing that’s come out of this is that interest has spiked in the early Middle Ages.” She paused. “It was taught to me as a low point in European history—well, not as low as the so-called Dark Ages but low—and I don’t think it was at all. The advances in agriculture were significant.”

“And the clothing design was gorgeous,” Sister added.

“Twelfth century. The lines,” Charlotte enthused, for she believed clothing revealed a great deal about a culture’s dreams as well as its reality.

“Long fluid lines.” Sister agreed with her. “I think the true Dark Ages for European culture was the twentieth century. A sea of blood.”

“Exactly.” Charlotte paused. “You know, the sum of suffering was so great we can’t apprehend it. But we can understand two dead Lady Godivas. Understand and fear.”

“Do you think the killer wants us to be afraid?”

“I don’t know. I am.”

“I wonder if he’s laughing at us.”

“Is it possible he wishes us to be both fearful and amused?”

CHAPTER 25

On Thursday, March 6, Sister and a large contingent who managed to get off work or had already retired drove up to Casanova territory, east of Warrenton. Ashland Bassets were meeting at Eastern View, owned by the Fendleys.

Hunting on foot separated those with wind and those without, which became apparent twenty minutes into the hunt.

Joyce and Bill Fendley ran along, as did Marion, who took off early from Horse Country because Ashland hounds cast at two in the afternoon.

Sister had to laugh because Cabel Harper showed up in brush pants, very intelligent decision, and a true tweed jacket to repel thorns, topped off with a hunter-green Robin Hood hat, a pheasant feather stuck in for allure. Ilona confined herself to a baseball hat, while Betty Franklin, remembering those nasty thorns, also wore brush pants but she tied a wool scarf around her neck, tucking it into her jacket. The last time she hunted with the bassets she had cut her throat, and blood had poured over her shirt and jacket.

Charlotte Norton allowed the Custis Hall girls to hunt so long as they wrote a paper about it for class. Val drove them in her lime-colored Jeep. By the time the kids reached Eastern View, all but Val agreed a Wrangler wasn’t meant for long trips. Their fillings rattled in their teeth.

Al Toews, Master of Bassets, held the horn this March 6 and his joint master, Mary Reed, whipped in to him. Al and Mary had been in the custom of taking turns hunting the hounds but Al declared he would give it up to Mary after season’s end because his wind was shot. No one believed him since he could outrun anyone, but this declaration was made with solemnness. Al’s wife, Kathleen King, also whipped in to him today. The two were psychic when they hunted together. Aggie de la Garza, Miriam Anver, Frank Edrington, Sherrod Johnson, Mary Dobrovir, and Nancy Palmer whipped in as well.

Camilla Moon and Diana Dutton acted as first flight field master and second accordingly, although they didn’t exactly specify it that way, but the field seemed naturally to break into two groups as time ran on and so did the bunnies.

At a check, Tootie whispered to Sister,“Why so many whippers-in?”

“Bassets are harder-headed than foxhounds. Need more control,” Sister whispered back.

Camilla, a true canine student, turned as the Jefferson Hunt people were behind her, the Ashland members gracefully allowing the guests pride of place.“Second-best noses in dogdom.”

Tootie already knew that bloodhounds possessed the best so she rightly figured that foxhounds must come in third.

Naturally, harrier people, coonhound folks, and beagle devotees could argue the point. Even Plott hound lovers who run bear would argue, but foxhunters, like all hound people, prove marvelously resistant to others’ opinions.

Al bounded into a hateful covert of brambles, a thin swift-running blade of water, deep-sided, cutting it in two, a perfect abode for the cottontail.

Before first cast, the tall lanky Vietnam veteran had asked Sister if she would care to hunt hounds with him. Flattered as she was by the prospect of being that close to these aggressive hunters, this would be her only time to be one of the field as opposed to leading. Joyce Fendley enjoyed being in the field for the same reasons. She had no decisions to make. Camilla and Diana had to make them.

Hounds began to feather, then tails whipped like propellers. One lone deep note from Tosca alerted the others, followed by a crescendo of sound, beautiful spine-tingling music for the only pack voices as beautiful as these belonged to Penn-Marydels.

The rabbit, still in the covert, headed along the stream, then shot out over the pasture and ran a tight circle, hounds in hot pursuit and humans pursuing as hotly as their legs would carry them.

This rabbit could run, and the chase lasted fifteen exhausting minutes up and down the pasture—which had a steep roll to it—and then the rabbit disappeared, just popped down a hole. No amount of furious digging could dislodge Peter Cottontail, who lived to run another day.

Rabbit scent is fragile, but the afternoon proved a good one and hounds worked another narrow covert. Mary Reed hollered,“Tally-ho!” Al quickly pushed the bassets up to the line, and off they ran again.

Sister noted at the next check that most of the Jefferson Hunt people hung in with first flight, but huffing and puffing were evident. She was breathing hard too, and all those broken bones of decades past began to speak to her.

After another short burst, light fading and temperature falling, the group walked back to the old silo to enjoy a tailgate.

Betty asked Cabel if she’d heard anything from Clayton.

Gratefully drinking mulled wine, the warmth most welcome, Cabel airily replied,“He can’t call out. It’s lockup.”

“All for the best, I’m sure.”

“I’m lost,” Cabel suddenly blurted out. “He plucked my last nerve. Let’s call a spade a spade; my husband is a philandering drunk but we’ve lived together for twenty-two years and I miss him. If nothing else, he did take out the garbage, drunk or sober. I can’t believe how much I misshim….

“How do those Custis Hall girls get out of school? When I went there you were only let out of class if your mother died.” Cabel nodded toward Val, Tootie, and Pamela, abruptly changing the subject.

“Where’s Felicity?” Ilona asked. “Val, Tootie, and Felicity are the Three Musketeers.”

“Aluminum Manufacturing,” Betty answered. “She’s working three afternoons a week.”

“I thought the Porters had money,” Ilona said.

“They do.” Betty wasn’t about to tell them Felicity was pregnant, as well as the rest of it. “But she wants real-life experience, as she puts it.”

“Good for her.” Cabel nodded. “What else do they have to do at that age except drink, drug, and have sex?”

“Cabel, we didn’t.” Ilona recalled her own Custis Hall days.

“Speak for yourself,” Cabel wryly responded.

Betty held up her hands, palms outward.“I was a bleeding saint.”

“Spare me.” Cabel rolled her eyes, then stared at the girls again. “Theyare beautiful girls. Well, Pamela’s a pudge, though she’s losing some of it. But Val and Tootie are two of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.”

“The men notice, and they notice which other men are looking. Bobby tells me everything,” Betty noted. “He said if anyone lays a hand on one of those kids—did I get it right, lay? Well, if anyone does, he and Walter will dismember them. But I don’t think the men in our club are like that.”

“They all are,” Cabel stated flatly. “I’m amazed that Clayton didn’t make a pass at one of them. Too loaded.”

“Never stopped him before,” Ilona said uncharitably.

“Ramsey’s better?” Cabel fired back.

“Ladies, good to talk to you.” Betty backed away.

“Oh, Betty, don’t be so goddamned proper. You’ve seen us fight before. We’re joined at the hip. We’re bound to fuss sometimes. If you want to know who I think has really been dipping his stick throughout the county, let’s discuss High Vajay. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he was sleeping with Faye Spencer. All he had to do was fall out of his own bed to fall into hers.” Cabel warmed to her subject.

“Wouldn’t want to be in his boots right now.” Betty avoided the sex suspicions. “He’s the main suspect for the Lady Godiva murders.”

“Boots? How about pants? I’m surprised he isn’t singing soprano. Mandy must have an iron will and a forgiving patience,” Ilona marveled.

“There are worse things than a husband who cheats.” Betty opened her mouth before thinking.

“Such as?” Cabel and Ilona said in unison, both incredulous. “Wanton cruelty. Loss of honor.”

“You don’t think sex outside of marriage isn’t cruel?” The pheasant feather bobbed on Cabel’s hat.

“I think it hurts, but I don’t think the intent is cruel.” Betty held up her hand to stay the protests. “Would I be devastated if Bobby ran off the reservation?” She used the old phrase. “I would, but I would be far more upset if he was cold, critical, and cruel to animals and people. Or if he proves a coward when Gabriel blows his trumpet. A man with no honor isn’t worth having and neither is a woman. As to sleeping around—well, sex is irrational and in a different category from other human endeavors.”

“You have a point.” Ilona was thoughtful. “But consider the intimate betrayal. I don’t know if I will ever completely trust Ramsey. I love him but I don’t trust him. That’s not good. And have you ever considered that your straying husband might bring home a gift that keeps giving, like AIDS?”

“I know it’s terrible. It must eat you from the inside out.” Betty was compassionate. “But look at Sister. Neither she nor Ray was monogamous, and they had a good strong marriage. Gay men are like that too, or so it seems to me, and their relationships last longer than most heterosexual ones, a fact the sex Nazis can’t concede. I don’t want Bobby fooling around, don’t misunderstand me, but I truly believe there are worse sins. We make a small god of monogamy.”

“I hope you never find out.” Cabel headed back to the food.

“I’m sorry. I’ve upset her,” Betty said to Ilona.

“She’s having a hard time. She’ll get over it.” Ilona smiled. “We all do and if we don’t, we’re pretty stupid, aren’t we? You can’t spend your life massaging old wounds.”

“Plenty do,” Betty said. “Virginians mistake personal injustice for history.”

“Isn’t that the truth! There are a lot of embittered injustice collectors out there.” Ilona started for the food, then turned back to Betty. “I was on my way to becoming one of those people. Finally couldn’t stand myself, and I said, ‘Ilona, you’ve got to do something or you’ll turninto a snitz.’”

Snitz is a dried apple.

“Glad you got hold of yourself,” Betty complimented her.

“Me too.”

Betty then joined Al and Mary, the whippers-in, the Custis Hall girls, and Sister. She slipped her arm around Sister’s waist.

Neither woman thought a thing about that. They loved each other deeply and were not afraid of touching. Touch is healing. Men are denied this except with their wives and their children; they don’t get the same loving reinforcement from their own gender.

“Master.” Tootie addressed Al, who was a natural teacher. “Why did you draw the first covert up one side and then down the other? Shaker doesn’t do that.”

“Because Shaker is hunting a predator. I’m hunting prey. A rabbit will survive more often than not if it is still, if it sticks in its warren. The bassets have to bolt them. When you hunt foxes, you usually pick up their line when they themselves are hunting or returning to their den from a night’s hunt. So I have to make good the ground in a very different way.”

Mary chimed in.“And fox scent is heavier than rabbit scent.”

Sister and Betty were as enthralled with this information as were the young folks. True hunters find no bottom to their enthusiasm, much to the despair of those around them.

Al thought things through in systems, in checklists. He broke down complicated problems into discrete parts, which is natural for a combat pilot. A man has a much better chance of living through a war if he does this, and the equipment Al flew was the most sophisticated for its time. You’d better have a checklist or else. He applied this relentless logic to hunting the bassets, but like all good huntsmen he could be flexible.

Tired but full from all the food, the Jefferson Hunt gang bid their Ashland friends goodbye as they piled into trucks, SUVs, old station wagons still providing service, and Val’s Jeep.

Tootie hesitated for a moment before stepping over the lip into the sturdy vehicle that really could go anywhere.

“Will you stop being a prima donna!”

“Val, you’re not sitting in the back,” Tootie said.

Pamela replied,“Neither am I. Come on, Tootie, I rode back there on the way up.”

“All right, all right.”

Sister walked by.“Be grateful you don’t have old bones.”

“They’ll be old by the time I get to school.” Tootie laughed and climbed in, the door swinging shut behind her.

Sister and Betty drove past Marion, who was starting her car.

Stopping, Betty lowered her window.“Come on down. We’re hunting Mill Ruins Saturday. You’ve never seen Peter Wheeler’s old place. The mill still works.”

“I don’t know if I can take off work, but it’s a wonderful invitation.”

As Sister and Betty rolled down Route 29 they reviewed the hunt, the tailgate, their lengthy discussion with Marion as to the status of the Warrenton murder, and the murder at Foxglove. Then they replayed Al’s wonderful talk on hunting with bassets.

“It’s funny, all the years I’ve whipped in and I never thought about hunting a hunter. All I know is fox. Well, deer occasionally, but hunting with hounds, all I know is fox,” Betty said.

“Since a prey animal is in some respects weaker than a predator, camouflage and stillness are essential.” Sister loved talking about these subjects. “But you know, a cow is prey and a horse is prey, but of course they’re large. They don’t have to remain still and they have hooves to kick the daylights out of a predator.”

“Or me.” Betty laughed. “Remember the time that doe charged Archie?” She named a now-departed beloved hound. “When was that? I remember, 1997. Outlaw was green then, his first season, and after the doe charged Archie she charged us. Scared the hell out of both of us. Outlaw came up with all four feet off the ground.”

“Bet your heart flew up too.” Sister smiled. “Every now and then something happens out there and the rush is incredible. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad, but at least you know you’re alive. Hard to believe the season’s almost over. Always gives me the blues. Then I snap outof it. When the puppies start coming and the garden blooms, I pick up again.”

“You’ve got a green thumb.”

“Thanks.” Sister sat upright, making Betty look ahead, wondering if something ran across the road. “Betty, what if our killer is a prey animal?”

“What?”

“What if our killer feels weak? Here we’ve been assuming this is some kind of sex thing, which it may be, or that it’s tied into wireless competition. But what Al said about a prey animal sitting tight, then having to be bolted? Maybe that’s our killer, sitting tight, only coming out to kill when the coast is clear. Aashi and Faye were seen as predators.”

Betty thought hard.“Weak thingscan kill, can fight back. After all, the doe did.”

“One has to provoke them, right? The first defense is to hide. I guess the second is to flee, but if we can bolt the killer, we’ll know him.”

“High Vajay doesn’t strike me as weak,” Betty said.

“Too smart.”

“You don’t think High’s the killer?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt it. He has too much to lose by committing that kind of felony.”

“Unless he had more to lose with the two women living.”

“True.” Sister noted a streak of turquoise over the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“I thought weak people poisoned their victims. Guess that’s one of those stereotypes. You know, kill by stealth.” Betty wondered how to flush out the murderer.

“Still a useful way to send someone off planet earth. All the labs in the world can’t point to who put the poison in the cup. They can only identify the poison. But, see, this is what bothers me. If someone used poison, wouldn’t you assume they don’t want to be caught?”

“Sure.” Betty reached up for the Jesus strap as they took a curve. Reaching for the strap was force of habit.

“Part of me thinks our killer, like most murderers, wants to get away with it, and part of me thinks not. The Godiva part is too public.”

“People do get away with public murders. What about all those political murders in places like Ireland, Serbia, Iran, and Iraq? I’m not even counting Africa. I guess it’s a matter of scale. The more people you kill the better your chances of escaping justice.”

“Pinochet proved that.” Sister pointed to the flaming sunset over the Blue Ridge Mountains. “But, on the other hand, we judge everything by the comfort of America. Look at Spain, a hideous civil war. Did that war lay the groundwork for Spain’s resurgence today? Same with Chile. Did all those murders of Allende’s people lay the groundwork for that country’s economic revival? We don’t like to think about things that way. I mean, we don’t like to think that sometimes forests have to be burned for fresh growth.”

“Yeah, it’s repulsive.”

“I guess it is. The Chileans slit the bellies of those they killed, then dropped them from airplanes into the ocean so they’d sink without a trace. I consider that gross.”

“Isn’t that always the problem with a human corpse? How do you destroy the evidence?”

“Right. But here we have a killer who wants everyone toadmire the evidence. I just don’t get it. What I do get is, he’shere.”

“And was at the Casanova Hunt Ball.”

“Right. I’ve gone over the list. It’s half our club.”

“Ben Sidell has it?”

“Of course, he’s questioned everyone methodically as to when they left the ball and what they saw. As far as I can tell, everyone has been cooperative.”

“Too bad Crawford wasn’t there, we could pin it on him.” Betty laughed.

“He’s like a bad penny, he’ll show up when we least want to see him.” Sister sighed. “Maybe I’ll have a brainstorm.”

“I rather hope not,” Betty said firmly. “The last time you thought you could pin a murder on someone he nearly killed you. This person puts the silver bowl in your stable office, drops off a movie, parades a corpse at Cindy Chandler’s. You stay out of it.”

“How can I stay out of it? I’m in the middle and I don’t even know why.”

“Well, that makes two of us. Where you go, I go.” Betty smiled.

CHAPTER 26

True to form, Crawford did show up on Saturday morning. He called first.

Both Crawford and Sister sat on the Board of Governors for Custis Hall. The administration had been searching for a new theater director as well as a head of alumnae relations. Crawford strongly opposed one of the candidates, personally visiting every board member. Sister was first on his list because he wanted to get it over with.

After hearing his objections, Sister replied,“Thank you for doing the homework. I support your nonsupport of Milford Weems.”

Crawford folded his hands together.“Good. I won’t take up more of your time.”

“Before you go, I have a question for you. Do you intend to rent the Demetrios place?”

“I’d like someone who can farm. The house needs some fixing too.”

“Allow me to suggest a young couple, very young but clean-living and hardworking, Felicity Porter and Howard Lindquist. They’ll be married this summer, so I guess I should think of them as the Lindquists. He’ll be working with Matt Robb’s construction company, so he has the skills to repairthe buildings.”

“Felicity’s not going to college?” He was incredulous, worried. “Night school. Piedmont Community College.”

“What a waste. That girl belongs at an Ivy League school.”

“Most people feel that way, and you’re in a position to help them. Obviously, they haven’t a cent, although she is working part-time for Garvey Stokes and that will be full-time when she graduates. He’ll be making some money but they don’t even have a car yet.” She held out her hands asa supplicant. “If they repair the house and paint the interior, would you consider a significant reduction in rent? They’re good kids and”—she smiled—“they’re in love.”

He perceived the situation.“I’ll talk to young Lindquist.” He half smiled too. “Thank you for your suggestion. If I don’t get someone in that place it will slide into ruin.”

“They’ll be good neighbors.”

“Well, I don’t know Howard but I think Felicity is mature for her years, very sensitive.”

This time he stood up; Raleigh and Rooster stood too. Golly, lounging on the back of the den sofa, couldn’t be bothered to see a guest out, even an unwelcome one.

Sister walked Crawford into the wide center hall, built to allow a breeze to cool the house in Virginia’s sweltering summers, and to the front door, with its overhead fan and glass panels on either side.

“Awful thing about Faye Spencer,” Crawford said.

“Yes, it was.”

“Vajay is the man most under suspicion, but Ramsey Merriman had a lot to lose.”

Sister perked up.“Have you told Ben?”

“Yes. I don’t like saying stuff like that, but under the circumstances Ramsey should pay the consequences for his affairs.” He shook his head. “Bragged about it. Said he seduced that Indian girl on one of his trips with High to Washington. Said High never suspected or perhaps never cared, Idon’t know. Then he said he tried to talk the woman into sex with him and Clayton. They’d pay her thousands. She refused and cut him off. What a fool. Anyway, he called and cussed me out and so did Ilona. I did the right thing.”

“Yes, you did.”

As she watched him drive away in his metallic dark-red Mercedes, she felt more confused than ever but she had accomplished two important things: She found a home for the kids because she knew Crawford would respond to them, and she put loyal people around one who was not loyal.

Always keep your enemy in front of you.

CHAPTER 27

Had Sister known her enemy had been in front of her all the time, the day might have been different. Some things are so unthinkable one doesn’t see them, even though they’re as close as the nose on your face. Not only do individuals suffer from these blind spots, entire nations do as well.

The lulling lap and spray of the water off the three-story waterwheel at Mill Ruins was beautiful, spellbinding. Century after century, people in the western world took this sound for granted. Only in the twentieth century did it finally subside, along with the clack of wagon wheels and shod hooves on cobblestone streets, vendors shouting their wares as they toddled down country roads, the constant swish of large overhead fans in the South, the ringing of church bells to signify the hour. A few places preserved these sounds so tourists could imagine themselves in another time.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_8]

Time without end people kill one another. If sounds and sights change, this dolorous fact does not.

It was Saturday, March 8, and twenty couple of hounds waited on the party wagon. The mercury at quarter to nine read 48 degrees, the barometer falling, good sign.

March, a breakheart month, raises the average person’s hopes for spring. Daffodils, early ones, display their yellow heads, and crocuses cover lawns or dot woods tucked back where old foundations remain from prior centuries. Buds swell a tiny bit on the trees, the red glow apparent to those who study nature.

Then a snowstorm or a freezing rain will pound down as Old Man Winter once more reminds all creatures that he is not ready to relinquish his grasp.

Foxhunters liked that, of course. Better to keep that scent on the ground, for the warmth would lift it up over hound noses. But even the most dedicated foxhunter eventually longed for spring, the cascade of white apple blossoms, pale pink cherry blossoms, and deep magenta crab apple blossoms, the fragrance filling entire counties. Redbud bloomed along with peaches and pears, tulips held sway for a while, and the world rejoiced in new life.

Even Sister, who inevitably passed through a period of mourning after the season ended, discovered rejuvenation in her garden at last.

Today the field swelled with the regulars and visitors too. Tedi and Edward brought guests from Marlborough Hunt in Maryland. The Merrimans and Cabel, parked side by side, burst with good spirits. The Custis Hall girls turned out in full force along with Charlotte Norton and Bunny Taliaferro. Charlotte joked that if she was a golf widow in the summer her husband could be a foxhunt widower in winter.

Gray was repenting his promise to ride with his brother on a steeplechaser fresh off the circuit. Even before he mounted up, Gray noticed the nervousness of the rangy bay.

“You’re crazy to ride these horses right off the circuit, Sam.”

“It’s the only way I’m going to know how he’ll go in company. I know how he goes alone and he’s a good horse, Gray. Just a little up.”

As the brothers bickered, Lorraine Rasmussen chatted with Felicity on Parson. Sister had mentioned to Lorraine that Parson was a suitable and kind horse but that Felicity couldn’t afford him once out of school.

Henry Xavier ignored Ronnie Haslip’s taunts that his diet wasn’t working. It was, but slowly.

Donnie Sweigart surprised everyone by showing up on a horse lent him by Ronnie Haslip. Donnie borrowed clothes from Shaker, since they were the same size; he even found a pair of boots that would fit. He looked quite nice.

He’d fallen for Sybil Fawkes and knew the only way he was going to be in her vicinity was if he learned to foxhunt. He could ride some and Bobby Franklin, bearing that in mind, knew he’d have to keep an eye on him. If nothing else, Donnie had guts.

Sybil noticed. She walked over on Bombardier.“Donnie, did you discover the hardest part of foxhunting is tying your stock tie?”

He smiled shyly.“Did. Pricked my fingers too.”

“I wish I could hold out hope that it gets easier but I’m forever fiddling with it, folding the ends over the wide center knot, pressing the stockpin through.” She glanced over to see where Shaker was in his preparation, for she had a job to do. “I’m delighted to see you out here.”

“If nothing else, I’ll provide amusement.”

“There will be plenty of that. Always is.” She reached down and touched his shoulder with her gloved hand. “Takes courage to foxhunt, and we all know you have that. Hope I’ll see you after the hunt.”

“Sure thing.” Donnie was floating on air.

Back at Ronnie’s trailer, a crop snaked out from the open tack room as Ronnie neatly stung Xavier’s bottom. “Could show a movie on that butt.”

“You spend too much time looking at men’s asses,” Xavier growled.

Ronnie feigned a falsetto.“What a big hairy-chested man you are.”

Xavier never could keep a straight face around his boyhood friend.“Hey, at least one of us is.”

“Remember when RayRay sprouted his first chest hair right between his pecs, and we threw him on the ground and yanked it out?” Ronnie laughed.

Xavier smiled as he swung up on Picasso, built to carry weight.“I think of RayRay every day.”

Over at the Harper trailer parked next to the Merriman trailer, Cabel and Ilona watched Vajay and Mandy chatting with Kasmir.

“He’s cool as a cuke.” Ilona noted Vajay’s demeanor. “You’d never know he was under suspicion of murder.”

“If I were Mandy, I’d—” Cabel stopped herself. “Look.”

Ben Sidell, on his trusty Nonni, had ridden up to the three and passed a few pleasantries. Since nothing seemed untoward, the girlfriends sighed in disappointment.

Sister pulled out her grandfather’s pocket watch. It was seven minutes to the first cast. “Seven minutes. I’ll go on over and say a few words, along with Walter. That will hurry up the laggards.”

Betty waited on the ground, holding Outlaw’s reins. Her job would be to open the doors to the party wagon and then swing up on her horse. She and Sybil took turns performing this duty.

Sister on Lafayette rode over to Walter on his wonderful Clemson.

“Good morning, Master.” He tipped his derby.

“Good morning, Master.” She touched her crop to her cap.

“What saint’s day?”

“A mess.” She smiled at the tall blond man whom she had grown to love. “Senan, an Irish abbot who died in 544; Felix of Dunwich, bishop of East Anglia, who died in 647. His task was to Christianize the East Angles, a work still in progress.” She paused, then added, “John of God, who founded the Hospitalers and lived from 1495 to 1550. There’s one more, but I forget.”

“I don’t know how you remember what you do.”

“I have a funny head for dates and numbers. Hey, it’s International Women’s Day.”

“I celebrate women every day,” he joked.

“Well, come on, let’s do the shake-and-howdy. I want to cast these hounds.”

Walter said nothing because she was always eager to get on terms with her fox. So they rode over, called the crowd together, guests were introduced, the field master was pointed out—Sister herself—Bobby was noted as hilltoppers’ master, and without further ado Sister turned to Shaker and called out, “Hounds, please.”

Betty flipped up the long latch, pulled open the aluminum door, and out bounded twenty couple of excited foxhounds.

“I’m ready!” Trinity announced to the world.

Cora disciplined her.“Will you kindly shut up.”

Trinity hung her head for a moment.

Asa simply said,“Youth.”

Diddy, Darby, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, and Doughboy stood on their hind legs but they didn’t babble. Pookah and Pansy came out today, the excitement doubled in the first-year entry.

Calming, Shaker lowered his voice.“Steady now, relax.”

Showboat, Shaker’s horse, ears pricked forward, exhaled out of his nostrils as two downy woodpeckers flew out of the mill.

What in the devil are woodpeckers doing in there? Sister thought to herself.

Only they knew, but a stream of invective flew between the birds as they battled about something.

Shaker led the pack past the mill, the spray becoming a heavy mist, moistening faces, intensifying scent. A huge door allowed entry into the first floor, a small door with a small outdoor landing was at the second story, and a third wooden door opened over the very top of the waterwheel. If the wheel needed repairs, it was stopped and the workmen could use whichever door was closest.

Foxes had lived at the mill since it was built, but that didn’t mean they’d give you a run. There was no way to bolt them from the lair, but often the pack could get one fox returning home for a bracing go.

At the rear of the first flight, the Custis Hall girls rode through the mist and fog rising from the millrace.

“Fog creeps me out,” Val whispered.

“Because you got lost in it,” Felicity mentioned.

“So did everybody else,” Val whispered, a bit louder.

“Not everyone else, just us,” Tootie corrected her, as they rode over the bridge spanning the millrace.

They emerged from the fog and took a simple coop into the first large pasture off the farm road. Hounds, on hearing,“Lieu in,” the old Norman words in use for over a thousand years, fanned over the pasture, the dew thick and cool.

No fox scent rose up from the earth. They reached the back fence line, took the jump there, and moved into the woods.

For thirty minutes hounds worked, the field walking along: nothing. Then they came into an area called Shootrough, one hundred acres, that used to be really rough but which Walter had cleaned up and planted with millet, winter wheat, switchgrass, and South American maize at the edges. The ground nesters flocked in, as did the foxes.

Dana found the line first.“Red dog fox.”

Other hounds ran over, putting their noses down. Cora opened on the line, and in a flash the entire pack was flying through the wheat and millet, the long stems swishing, the slight westerly breeze bending and raising the thin stalks as well.

A stout timber jump led into true rough ground, covered in brambles, pigweed, and poke. A little path cut through that got them down to the creek, below where Sister thought the fox would jump in to foil scent. But he didn’t. He turned back, running right on the farm road by the north side of Shootrough. The entire field viewed him as they emerged on the road. Having a good head start on the hounds, he hadn’t yet considered evasive action.

As Lafayette thundered down the road, clods of red clay flying up behind him, Sister noticed ice crystals on the north side of the road just catching the sunlight as the sun rose high enough to reach them from the east.

The fox plunged into the woods on the right, a small patch off the farm road at the end of Shootrough, the larger woods being to the left. He ran over moss and through hollowed-out logs and then came back onto the road, where he ran right between Cabel and Ilona, who stopped and stayed put as did everyone else, once Cabel shouted,“Hold hard!”

Within minutes the pack ran through the horses.

Diddy stopped for one second, then ran on. When she came alongside Tinsel, she said,“I caught the scent again.”

“We all caught it,” Tinsel replied, nose to ground, wondering what had happened to Diddy’s wits.

“No, the perfume on Faye Spencer’s leg.”

“Nothing we can do about it now,” Tinsel rightly answered.

This time the big red dog fox did use the creek, running through it and climbing out a hundred yards upstream.

Hounds lost scent where he jumped in, but Cora took some hounds on one side and Asa kept the others on the takeoff side as they worked in both directions until finally Tinsel, again demonstrating her fine nose, hollered“Here.”

That fast they were all on again, threading through the woods as fast as they could, till they finally lost him at an outcropping of huge squared boulders, very strange-looking.

Gingerly, Trudy dropped down on the other side to see if there was a den—but nothing.

Once again the fox proved to all he had magic.Poof! He was gone, his scent with him.

CHAPTER 28

Shaker reined in, cast hounds in a wide net, but that yielded not a jot.

He noticed that the bit of wind died and a stillness muffled sound in the woods. He could hear horses breathing about half a football field from him but no birds flew, no deer appeared.

Not only are there dead spots where wireless phones can’t receive transmission, there are dead spots and dead times, period.

Sometimes this presages the edge of a low pressure system. Other times it’s just a calm moment or calm spot, just as there are spots where little wind devils forever spiral upward.

Shaker turned, casting back toward Shootrough. Given conditions, he thought it better to head toward food sources like the ground nester paradise. Usually he didn’t draw the same covert twice, but this time he thought he’d draw toward the north, then move out of Shootrough where, once through the woods and skirting a ravine, an array of fenced pastures beckoned, little coverts stuck here and there, all rich in game.

Back in the wheat and millet, a bobwhite flew up, then another. Asa moved to the edge of the large area where the switchgrass formed a border. He lifted his head, flared his nostrils, then lowered his head. Patiently, he worked this old line as it grew warmer. A gray fox came for breakfast, feathers everywhere as though the vixen played with them, which she well may have done. Finally, he had enough fresh scent to open in his deep basso profundo, a sound to send shivers up one’s spine.

Hound ran a half circle around the edge of Shootrough, staying in the switchgrass; then, to the field’s delight, the gray vixen burst out, making a straight blast across the fields, tall grass bent down from winter’s snows.

Betty, to the left of the beautiful fox, jumped a deep ditch, new, thanks to runoff. Clods of red clay flew up behind Outlaw’s hooves.

Sybil, on the right, moved into the edge of the woods because the gray swerved, heading for the woods; then she turned again, making a straight shot toward Mill Ruins, two miles away as the crow flies.

Close to their fox, hounds grew more excited, as did the field.

The vixen knew her territory, moving over a large patch of running cedar that baffled scent just long enough for her to put more distance between herself and hounds. She ran another quarter mile, then launched straight up, grabbing on to the rough bark of a mighty walnut tree. By the time hounds reached her, she was grooming herself on a thick limb, tail held in front paw.

“Come down here! Come down here!” Doughboy leapt up and down.

“Cheater! Cheater!” Pookah was beside herself.

The gray looked down and smiled.“When pigs can fly.”

Shaker rode up, Showboat lifting his gorgeous head to behold the fox.

Sister brought the field up close so they could see the vision. Bobby had room to come up too, as no saplings grew around the spread of the walnut’s branches.

Shaker laughed.“Is there a call for Climbed a Tree?”

Sister laughed too.“Well, give Gone to Ground a few doubling notes.”

He did, and the young horse that Sam rode just blew up.

“Brother, I’d better head back,” Sam said quietly. He knew the animal had had enough.

“I’ll go back with you.” Gray wanted to keep hunting but Sam should have company. “I’ll tell Sister we’re heading back.”

Gray rode up and spoke quietly to Sister, who nodded, and the two men turned to pick their way toward the farm road on a well-worn deer trail.

Deeper in the woods than they realized, they kept pushing toward the southwest. Sooner or later they would find the farm road. The steeplechaser calmed down with the leisurely walk and the fact that Gray’s stalwart foxhunter stayed low-key.

The deep ravine to the right helped them get their bearings. Neither Sam nor Gray had the best sense of direction, unlike Sister and Shaker, two human homing pigeons.

Gray sighed.“Whew. Know where we are now.”

“Yeah, I was getting a little worried too.”

“Sister would have put out drinks and a cooler with food. She’d feed us like the foxes, figuring we’d smell out the food,” Gray teased.

“Wouldn’t put it past her. Remember the time Ronnie Haslip sank in the bog? The horse struggled but Ronnie couldn’t move for the mud sucking him in. As everyone tied their stirrup leathers together to throw him a line, she calls out, ‘Don’t worry, Ronnie, if you go under we’ll throw a wreath on the spot.’ Took his mind off his predicament.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how the mind controls the body?”

Sam snorted.“In my case it’s usually the reverse.” He looked toward the ravine. “Damn, sure are a lot of crows over there.”

“Probably a deer carcass left over from deer season.”

“Hate that. Hate it when they wander off and die.” Sam grimaced.

“Well, a good hunter will track his deer when wounded, but sometimes they can get away. Come on.”

They rode to the lip and looked down to see St. Just and his flock merrily feasting on a corpse. St. Just had an eyeball in his yellow beak. The cold weather had preserved the body, and the slight thaw allowed the crows to really dig in to this unexpected treat.

“Jesus Christ!” Sam exclaimed.

Gray discerned the dead was male but the crows so covered the body he couldn’t tell much else. “We’ve got to get Ben Sidell.”

“Try this first. Yell. I’d like to spare this horse if I can. You’ve got a voice that carries.”

“Worth a try,” Gray agreed, cupping his lips with his hands. “Yo! Yo! Yo!”

Country folk know three shouts is a signal of distress. When it comes to yelling there’s no formula, but Gray continued using three repeats.

Sound carried well today and the field three-quarters of a mile away heard him.

Shaker had already cast hounds back toward the mill so they were coming in that direction but on higher ground.

Sister paused a moment.“Edward, take the field.”

“Yes, Master.” Edward Bancroft touched his top hat with his crop.

Sister cantered up to Shaker.“That’s Gray. Either he’s seen a fox or there’s something else.”

Often times, if at a distance with no hounds near, someone will tally-ho. As it is, one shouldn’t tally-ho if hounds noses are down. Then, too, how does a field member, who lacks the view up front that the field master has, know if the fox viewed is the hunted fox?

The protocol of foxhunting is grounded in common sense.

“I can hunt that way.” Shaker took his boots out of the stirrup irons to wiggle his cold toes.

“I rarely ask you to do this, but given today’s conditions, which are pretty darned good, please lift the hounds and cast them forward when we reach Gray. We might get a popping run out of it. If not, I’ll bear the blame.”

“Yes, Master.” He didn’t like it but Shaker as a hunt servant did what his master told him to do.

Then, too, Sister and Shaker had worked together, cheek by jowl, for nearly twenty years; usually she was right. He tormented her mercilessly when she wasn’t but all in good fun.

Within four minutes at a relaxed trot they reached the Lorillard brothers.

The second Sister and Shaker saw their faces they knew a fox had not been viewed.

Seeing the crows fly up, Cabel Harper couldn’t resist walking toward the edge of the ravine to look down.

Shaker held up hounds.

Ilona hissed at her.“Cabel!”

A moment before Cabel reached the precipice, St. Just, possessed of a wicked sense of humor, flew right over her head and everyone else’s with that juicy eyeball.

Cabel screamed bloody murder, looked over the edge, turned her horse and rammed High Vajay so hard she unseated him, and then almost trampled the hounds.

Diddy said loudly,“That’s the lady with the perfume.”

Cabel flew through the woods toward the farm road.

Ilona, ignoring Ramsey, rode up to Sister, astonished at both Cabel and what she had seen deep in the ravine.

“Master, please allow me to go after Cabel. I think she’s quite lost her mind.”

“Go,” Sister simply said.

Ben Sidell, already making his way down on foot, confirmed what Sister and Shaker had suspected, as crows lifted up when Ben drew closer. The crows’ lunch was Clayton Harper.

In the distance, receding, people could hear Cabel screaming.

Ben climbed back up; his cell wouldn’t work in the ravine. He called the department and flipped the phone back, leaving it on.

Kasmir helped Vajay back up. The horse was fine but Vajay had fallen flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

Mandy held the horse’s reins, feeling an unspecified sense of dread. She shrugged it off, deciding that Cabel’s screams were unnerving. Then again, St. Just’s display of the eyeball certainly ruined the appetite.

“Sister, take everyone back, will you?” Ben turned to Walter. “When my team comes, will you bring us back here? You know the terrain better than I do.”

“Of course.” Walter nodded.

As the field rode back, everyone talked. Gray stuck with Sam, since in company with hounds, humans, and other horses Sam’s steeplechaser grew restive. Fortunately few saw Clayton since Sister prudently kept them back, but everyone saw the offending king of the crows.

CHAPTER 29

Back at the trailers, Ilona caught up with Cabel.“What have you done?”

“Help me. Help me get out of here.”

“Cabel, what have you done?” Ilona dismounted quickly, tying her horse to the side of the trailer, slipping the halter over the bridle first. “You told me he was in rehab.”

“He figured it out. What else could I do?” Although rattled by Gray and Sam’s discovery of her husband’s body, she evidenced no regret. “He even figured out that I put the silver bowl in Sister’s barn, because I left early for hunting that morning. What could I do?”

“For one thing,” Ilona coolly responded, “you could have dumped him anywhere but a fixture.”

“Didn’t have time. We were driving out this way. Walter was at the hospital, so once Clayton cornered me I had to work fast.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“Hell, yes, I shot him. Do you think I could strangle him? He was so fat I’d never get my hands around his neck.” She snorted. “What a fool he was. Typical male. Thought he had nothing to fear from a woman. When I pulled my twenty-two out of my purse and shot him between the eyes—well, Ilona, that was one of the happiest moments of my life.”

“Where were you?”

“Here. He’d been hectoring me, you know, citing the time I left the Casanova Ball, how I loathed Faye Spencer. I asked him if he’d slept with her and he said that was none of my business. He tried to pin it on Ramsey, who did call on her, but this is one instance where your dear husband bearded for mine. Or for all I know they bearded for each other. They fooled everyone. What shits.” She smiled wryly. “One down, one to go, but I’ll deal with Ramsey later. I need to get out.”

“I’ll deal with Ramsey. How did you ever drag Clayton down that ravine?”

“Easy as pie. I shot him in the bed of the truck. First, I told him to drive down the Mill Ruins farm road because I wanted to help feed foxes at Shootrough, and when we neared the widest part of the ravine—where I remembered it anyway—I told him to stop. Then I climbed into the truck bed andlifted a twenty-five-pound bag of dog food but I pretended I couldn’t quite do it so he clambered up and I shot him. It never occurred to him that it might be odd to carry your purse into the bed of a truck.”

Despite herself, this made Ilona laugh.“No blood?”

“Hardly. I hit him square between the eyes. So he now has the third eye of prophecy. The silly bastard. I should have killed him first, you know, before dispatching that Indian slut to Shiva or whatever those people worship. Then again, waiting made it sweeter, plus he had to pretend he didn’t know anything about her.” She threw a cooler over her horse. “The hard part was getting back in the woods without scraping up the truck. Got as close as I could and then I kept rolling him until I rolled him right over the edge. The snows came as a godsend, I will admit. Covered my tracks. And you know what else? It also never occurred to him to ask me why I was feeding foxes. That’s not my job. Nothing but air between those ears—which, of course, I found out for certain when I shot him. The bullet just sailed right through.”

Ilona’s head snapped up. “Cabel, I can hear the horses.” She put her hands on her friend’s forearm. “Give yourself up. You can’t get away. There’s not even time to unhitch your trailer.”

Cabel realized Ilona was right.“Guess they’d catch me anyway.” Her eyes blazed. “But I’m not going down without a fight. If I have to die, I’ll die on my feet.”

“Cabel, please, there were extenuating circumstances. A good lawyer can spare you the death penalty.”

“Well, you’re an accessory. I killed for you as well as for me; Ramsey slept with Aashi. You didn’t have the guts.” She sighed. “You always were a softie.”

“I know.” Ilona admitted what to Cabel was a flaw. “Yes, I am an accessory. I helped you with both women. But I’ll face the music. We can’t go on. We can’t.”

“Are you sorry?” Cabel did love her best friend.

“Yes and no.” Ilona, tears in her eyes, confessed. “I’m sorry we’re going to get caught but I’m not sorry Aashi and Faye received the deaths they deserved. I’m not sorry I helped you. After all, I owed you one.” She smiled sadly. “Revenge is much sweeter than people want to believe.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Cabel laughed. “That’s the point of Christianity, to remove revenge from our hands. Mine are covered with blood and I’d do it again.”

They heard Shaker’s strong voice. “Good hounds, good hounds.”

Cabel grabbed Ilona, kissed her on the cheek, and sprinted to the old mill, opening the heavy door and closing it behind her.

Ilona stood there, face wet with tears. She turned to take the halter and then the bridle off her horse, slipping the halter back on. She also loosened the girth for Cabel’s horse, removing the bridle.

When Sister rode up she noticed Ilona’s tears. “Where’s Cabel?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t catch up with her but I found Mickey tied to the trailer. She’s so distraught there’s no telling where she is. I’m afraid she might—”

Sister, thinking Ilona meant suicide, looked down from Lafayette’s back and said, very low, “We’ll check the millrace.”

“Oh, God.” Ilona burst into sobs.

Sister hurried to her trailer and handed her horse’s reins to Tootie, who was already on the ground. “Tootie, I need your help. Take care of Lafayette.” She walked over to Shaker, Betty, and Sybil, still mounted. “I’ll get the door.” She opened the party wagon door and the hounds walked in, glad for a fresh drink of water from the big buckets. Sister counted heads as they walked in. “All on.”

Huntsmen and two whippers-in dismounted.

Betty patted Outlaw’s neck. “A day not to be forgotten, for both good and ill.”

“And it’s not over yet.” Sister rapidly repeated what she had assumed was Ilona’s fear.

Shaker exhaled.“I’ll walk the millrace.”

Sister hurried back to her trailer with Betty.“Tootie, when you finish with Lafayette, help Shaker, will you? Staff has an extra chore.” Then, hoping she appeared calm, she walked to the Custis Hall van. “Val, will you tell Walter, he’s in his stable, staff is walking the millrace. I’ll explain to him later.” She checked her pocketwatch. “Be another twenty minutes before Ben’s people reach us. Pamela, make sure everyone gets into the house for the breakfast. Lorraine’s in charge today, but she’ll need you and Felicity. People are at loose ends, obviously. If they’re all together, maybe Lorraine—” She turned as Charlotte Norton rode up. “Charlotte, I’ve given the girls assignments. If I may, I’ll give you one also. Pamela and Felicity will herd everyone into the house. Will you help calm folks? Keep them out of the way of Ben’s people.” She paused. “Just in case something else pops up.” Realizing what she’d just said and thinking Cabel was in the millrace, she shut her eyes for a second.

“Of course.” Charlotte agreed readily. “I’ll wait for you or Ben to give me the all clear.”

“Please excuse me. Staff has a chore to do, and I don’t know when or if we’ll get to the breakfast.”

Gray and Sam were at Sam’s trailer, one of Crawford’s.

“Gray,” Sister called out, “will you help Lorraine? Walter needs to get Ben’s people back to the ravine.”

Gray nodded.“Yes.”

Sister watched Val run to Walter’s stable and then walk back toward to the millrace. The water moved along, which meant if Cabel jumped in near the mill itself, her body would already be hung up in the paddles, slowing the wheel or slipping under. Since the huge wheel turned easily, if Cabel was in the race, her body hadn’t yet drifted down. In her heavy frock coat, she’d be at the bottom. This gruesome thought pushed Sister onward. Drowning must be a painful death; one’s lungs burst. She thought as she walked along the race in its swift course toward the mill that perhaps there were few easy, painless deaths. Best not to dwell upon it.

The millrace itself originated in a deep hard-running stream a mile from the mill. The hands that cut the race back in the late 1790s had turned to dust, but their excellent work bore testimony to their skill, as did the stonework lining the cut waterway. The expense of duplicating such a feat today, if one could even find the artisans, would spiral into a couple of million dollars, to say nothing of interference from local and state agencies.

Shaker soon joined her, as did Sybil and Betty, who moved much farther up toward the stream.

Tootie, finished with Lafayette, headed toward the house just as Val emerged from the barn. The two met on the wide bridge over the millrace, the mist from the spray enveloping them.

Tootie looked up through open patches.“Sky’s changing again, pushing this down.”

“Feels like snow.” Val grinned. “I love it when it snows. The whole world is new.”

“Guess we’d better get to the breakfast. Everyone’s supposed to gather in the house, and I think they have.”

“Mrs. Merriman hasn’t.” Val tilted her head in the direction of Ilona’s trailer. The woman sat on her mounting block, head in hands, sobbing, as Ramsey attempted to comfort her. They had some sort of exchange, and Ramsey reluctantly left her for the house after kissing her on the cheek.

“Better not go there.” Tootie wondered how anyone could find comfort, given that your best friend was coming apart at the seams.

The young women didn’t know why Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil walked the millrace, but they certainly noticed the staff members peering intently into the running water, the mist coming farther down now and skimming the water.

“Tootie, I have a terrible feeling about this.”

It dawned on Tootie that the day’s dreadful events might not yet be over. “Should we help?”

“If Sister wanted us, she’d ask.” Val looked up at the large wheel turning.

The small wooden door near the middle of the wheel suddenly opened, the hinge squeaking. Cabel Harper leaned out, looked around, and closed the door.

Val ran across the bridge, Tootie in her wake. She opened the large door at the base of the mill and entered.

Tootie’s instincts told her not to go in but Val was already through the door, so she cupped her hands to be heard over the turning wheel. “Master, Master!”

Sister looked in her direction as Tootie pointed to the mill and then disappeared through the door.“Shaker, Betty, Sybil, come on!”

The four were running along the slippery millrace when they heard a shot. This spurred them on. Shaker was first through the door.

“Don’t move!” Cabel called. She was standing next to one of the enormous slow-moving gears, each tooth catching the tooth of its mated gear.

Tootie, still as a mouse, was half obscured by a heavy shaft. Cabel could see her but couldn’t get a clear second shot. She held the .22 to Val’s temple, the barrel opening slightly warm from the fired bullet.

When the girls saw her, Cabel had rushed down the wide wooden stairs and grabbed Val as she came through the door. When Tootie lunged, Cabel had fired, but Tootie rolled and the bullet missed.

“Let her go, Cabel.” Shaker kept calm, making no attempt to protect himself, but he didn’t move. Neither did Sister, Betty, or Sybil.

“What do you take me for, a complete idiot? Val’s my passport.” Cabel grinned. “Now, if you all have the silly idea of rushing me, I have five shots left, one for each of you, and I’m not a half bad shot. Even if one or two of you don’t get hit, I have plenty of time to reload.”

“Then I’ll get away,” Val vowed, bold as she was on a horse.

“Oh, my pet, I’ll shoot you first. Look at it this way: It’s my Christian duty; I’m sparing you a life of pain, at the mercy of evil men.”

Sister stepped forward, pushing past Shaker.“Cabel, swap me for Val. I’m old. Let her go.”

“Spare me your nobility. I’m not letting any of you go. I know what you really are, Jane Arnold. You slept with my husband.”

“For God’s sake, Cabel, that was twenty years ago!” Sister exclaimed.

Sister hoped to create a diversion, as Tootie crouched and then crept toward Cabel, who grasped the collar of Val’s coat and hauled her backward, toward the steps and up them.

Cabel ascended to the first landing, giving her better sight lines.“Val, if you don’t struggle, I might let you go.”

“Yes, Mrs. Harper.” Val sounded ever so polite as her mind feverishly sought an escape.

Shrewdly, Betty moved next to Sister.“Cabel, what’s happened? This isn’t like you.”

“Oh, it is. I am walking into my house justified.” Cabel used the old southern expression.

Sister answered with another one.“What you’re doing, Cabel Harper, is coming home by Weeping Cross.”

“Oh, do shut up, you old bitch!” Cabel laughed uproariously. “I’ll give you credit, though. You’ve shown good sport and you can ride. Yes, you can. ’Course, I’m not half bad myself.” She laughed again.

“Cabel, please let her go. I’ll put my hands behind my head and come up the stairs. Please don’t harm that girl.” Sister wanted to scream but kept her voice as modulated as if she were playing bridge.

“No. We’re all going to heaven together, although if Val is a very, very good girl, I might spare her so she can tell everyone else what happened. There should always be one person left to tell the tale after a massacre.” She looked upward at the next level. “I can see the coverage on TV now:Massacre at Mill Ruins. Cabel Harper, upstanding member of the community, lost her shit and killed five people. Guess they wouldn’t saylost her shit would they?”

“And why are you saying it? You never used to be crude.” Sister baited her.

A flash of anger illuminated Cabel’s pretty features. “What does being a lady get you? You do as you’re told. You marry well. You work hard. You participate in volunteer organizations. You vote. What does it get you? Nothing. It’s a fa?ade, a lure, so people like you or me don’t look too closely at how things really work. At who really controls the world. We’re cogs in the wheel just like these cogs in here. Eventually you get ground down.”

“Was that Clayton? Is that why you ran off screaming?” Shaker stuck next to Sister because if Cabel fired he was going to jump in front. He had no more desire to be hurt than the next guy, but he never lacked courage and he would defend someone he loved. His feeling was “Why live if there’sno one you’d die for?”

Sybil picked up the line.“You shot him, didn’t you?”

When Sybil rode in to hold hounds she’d looked down into the ridge and thought she’d recognized Clayton’s maroon windbreaker, although under the circumstances it was difficult to be certain.

One squad car and an ambulance drove across the bridge, no sirens.

“Damn,” Sister whispered.

Tootie kept creeping until now she was under a gear parallel to the floor as she edged closer to the stairs.

“Shot that son of a bitch dead to rights. I should have done it years ago.”

“Judgment is up to God.” Sister’s anger was coming to the fore no matter how hard she tried to keep it in check.

“Bullshit. God is another helpful illusion. If people believe that crap, you don’t need as many cops to keep them in line, do you?” Cabel smiled. “Sheep. We’re all sheep, but I woke up. I was wronged, but I fixed it.”

“You killed Aashi and Faye?” Betty, too, was looking for a place to dive and then crawl toward the stairs.

“Did. It was a bitch, hauling those carcasses up on the horses, but I had help.”

“Why did you clean them up?” Sister was curious.

“I didn’t want anything to distract from their beauty or from the retribution, even though people didn’t know why they were killed. Beauty lured Clayton. He was so weak. Well, you lured him too. You should know.”

“He was weak.” Sister agreed with Cabel, which pleased her.

“High Vajay is innocent?” Sybil asked, to keep Cabel talking.

“No. He didn’t kill anyone, but he’s a faithless pig like every other man.”

“I resent that.” Shaker hoped to draw her ire.

Tootie suddenly crawled as fast as she could, rolling under the stairs. Cabel fired, but too late.

“Now you only have four bullets,” Tootie taunted.

“Tootie, stay where you are.” Val’s voice was strong.

“I’ll kill you first.” Cabel crouched down to fire under the stairs.

Val twisted free; at six foot one she was taller and stronger than Cabel. She grabbed Cabel from behind, struggling to grasp her right wrist. Cabel kicked backward, catching Val on the shin, but not hard enough to dislodge her.

Tootie bolted from under the stairs, vaulting them two at a time.

Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil followed.

Cabel turned as Val held her as though twirling on the dance floor. Desperation increased the middle-aged woman’s strength, and as a foxhunter she’d kept in good shape. She pushed her right hand forward with all her might, slamming the butt of the gun into Val’s forehead and opening a wide gash. Val lost her grip, blood gushing into her left eye. Tootie was still six steps away as Cabel whirled to fire.

“No!” Sister screamed as Cabel took aim, but Tootie kept coming.

Eyes focused on Cabel’s index finger, Tootie saw the squeeze and flung herself down as Val, wiping blood from her eye, bumped Cabel.

The bullet grazed Tootie’s boot at the calf.

The bottom door opened. Ilona, hearing the shots, raced in.

Cabel looked down, then back at the two girls. She hesitated a second.

Ilona, tears running as fast as the millrace, shouted,“Cabel, no. Please, no!”

“Let’s go together.” Cabel, tears now in her eyes, aimed and shot Ilona through the heart. As Tootie rose to jump her, Cabel swung wide. Tootie ducked, as did Val.

Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil closed in behind the two girls.

Cabel kicked Tootie hard with her boot and pushed her into Val, who was struggling to keep the gushing wound from bleeding into both her eyes.

Then she turned, running upward, the thump of her boots on the wooden stairs echoing through the vast interior. Sister passed the girls and charged after her.

“Boss,” Shaker bellowed, “leave her to heaven. Let’s get out of here.” He reached over, took Val’s hand, and led her down to the next level as Betty covered his back, glancing backward and upward in case Cabel would fire again. She had three bullets left.

Sister, fighting her rage and her desire to fight, turned and came down in one leap, the sound as she landed booming through the mill, and grabbed Tootie, who was limping from the vicious kick and bullet graze.“Can you put weight on it?”

Tootie could, but she moved too slowly. Sister swiftly bent over, put one arm through Tootie’s legs, lifted her up with the other, and swung her on her back in a fireman’s carry.

Sybil, turning around, stopped, let Sister pass, then descended behind her like Betty, looking upward and back.

Had Cabel wanted to, she could have halted her ascent and nailed at least one of them, but she waited until she reached the top, right over the waterwheel, where another small half door was closed.

She called down to them as they reached the lower landing, ten feet above the ground floor. Her gaze was fixed on Ilona, knees bent under her like a resting horse, upper body bent back.

“I spared you girls. You love one another. Friendship is the purest love in the world. Trust me, kids, sex is a poison that infects everything. As for you, Jane Arnold”—she took careful aim—“drop Tootie.”

Sister turned around, bent low so Tootie could slide off.“Go ahead. I’ll take my chances.”

“You’ve got brass ovaries.” Cabel looked down the barrel, lining up Sister. “I’ll give you that.”

“Tootie, get down. Go with the others,” Sister commanded.

“No.”

“For Christ’s sake, Tootie. Go! You’re young. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”

“No.”

“Tootie, get out of the way,” Cabel ordered.

Val, stock tie ripped off, pressed it to her head as she turned around to climb back up.

Shaker spun around, snatching the bottom of her coat.“No you don’t.”

“Tootie,” Val pleaded.

Cabel couldn’t get a clear shot. “Goddammit, if only we could have a proper duel.” She pointed the gun upward. “You’ll live a bit longer, you old bitch.” Laughing, she opened the door, crouched, put one leg out, and then turned. Sister and Val had finally reached the floor. “Remember, friendship is the purest love. I’m going to be with Ilona.”

CHAPTER 30

Walter had hopped into one squad car to lead them to the body. Ben jumped in too. Gray and Charlotte acted as hosts for the breakfast but he kept checking the back window. Lorraine, apprised of the situation, kept the food coming. Ramsey Merriman, ordered by Ilona to go to breakfast, also kept looking for her. Gray couldn’t stand it anymore—Charlotte Norton did a better job than he did anyway—so he threw on his coat and walked outside, reaching the bridge just in time to see Cabel Harper crouching in the half door. The wide flat blades of the waterwheel rolled past her. She smiled and leaned forward, holding the edge of the door with her left hand. Simultaneously she stepped forward with her left boot and pushed off with her right. For one precarious moment she was poised on the wide blade of the waterwheel like a small car on a Ferris wheel. She put the gun to her temple and fired.

Her body hit the next blade, and the next, and then soared outward, her cap coming off and her wig with it, plunging into the water below, mists swirling above the surface.

As the small bedraggled party came out of the big mill door they couldn’t see the bubbles rising and popping from the millrace. Gray blinked, then rushed to them.

“Gray, Gray!” Sister called to him as he approached. “Call Walter.”

Gray saw the blood all over Val’s face and her bloodstained shirt, saw Tootie limping, blood on the side of her leg. He reached into his inside pocket and dialed Walter. Then he threw his arms around Sister, holding her tight.

“Honey, honey. I need to breathe. I’ll tell you everything later. Let’s get these girls into Walter’s bathroom.”

“There’s a bathroom in the barn,” Tootie reminded Sister. “We won’t have to deal with people there.”

“Good thinking.”

Betty came up and quietly slipped her hand into Sister’s while Gray held the other one. They walked over the bridge. Val supported Tootie with her free hand, her other hand pressing her stock tie against her forehead.

Sybil moved up to help with Tootie so Val could keep the compression on her head. She fished in her pocket for a handkerchief, handing it to Val.

“Mrs. Fawkes, I can’t use this. It’s embroidered,” Val said, ever sensitive to value.

“It’s hardly as important as your wound.” Sybil shoved the handkerchief at her and took her bloody stock tie.

Shaker had stopped to peer down at the bottom of the millrace. The mists swirled, as clear patches opened up, then closed again. He caught up with the others.“She’s up against the end of the race.”

Sister grimaced.“Let the sheriff’s department fish her out.”

“Who’s going to tell Ramsey?” Gray had told them exactly what he saw as they reached the barn.

“Oh, let it wait a bit. Let it wait.” Betty felt so exhausted she could hardly lift one foot in front of the other.

“I’ll tell him.” Shaker looked down at the center aisle of the barn paved with rubber bricks. “Can’t have him running all over looking for his wife.”

“Shaker, wait until Ben gets back. Ramsey might lift the body. Ben should see Ilona before she’s disturbed,” Gray said sensibly.

Walter arrived within minutes, driven by Ben in his deputy’s squad car. Shaker flagged him down. Ben cut the motor and the two men flew out of the car. As Walter examined the girls, Shaker led Ben to Ilona’s body, also pointing out where Cabel lay, slightly moving under the water as though alive, her body hitting the end of the race and moving away for a foot, then pushed by a paddle to hit the end of the race once more. The opening and closing mist made the sight even more eerie.

“Val, I need to stitch this up. It’s going to hurt. I have procaine, which I’ll rub on, but it’s still going to hurt.”

“Just do it, Master.” Val also felt exhausted as she sat in the chair in the tack room.

“Sybil, my bag’s in the front seat of the truck. Would you mind fetching it?” He turned to Tootie, boot still on. “Luckily the bullet tore your boot more than it tore you. It’s the kick that is raising up the knot on your shin.” He felt her skin under her breeches.

Sybil hurried off as Sister stood in front of Tootie, back to her, and pulled off the damaged boot. Tootie bit her lip as it came off.

“Put ice on that,” Walter ordered. “Might take a week to get your boot back on, but it’s not bad.” He walked over to the refrigerator, took out an ice tray, dumped half of it in a clean work towel, and handed it to the diminutive Tootie. “’Course, you’ll have to repair the boot.” He smiled.

Sybil returned with Walter’s bag. He washed Val’s wound, quickly smearing it with procaine and giving it a few minutes to work while he threaded a needle. Val held a clean rubdown towel on the gash, red seeping through the rough white cloth.

“Did you know that a horse’s skin is thinner than a human’s?” Sister decided conversation might help.

“I did.”

“You are so-o-o smart.” Tootie was feeling better.

Val eyed the threaded needle.“How many stitches, do you think?”

“Five at the most. I make a nice tight stitch. There will be a scar but it won’t be bad. All right, take that bandage away. Let me clean this one more time.” Sister handed him a prepared antibacterial wipe that was in his bag. “Now, if this hurts we need to give the procaine more time.” He carefully wiped the wound, still bleeding but less so. He checked the ragged edges. “Going to be swelling from the blow. You might not get a black eye though, since she hit you high on the forehead.”

“I can feel what you’re doing but it doesn’t hurt much.”

“All right then. If you can hold still, this will take three minutes. I’m fast!” He smiled reassuringly at her.

The small group had watched countless horses stitched up, even doing it themselves sometimes, so watching Val didn’t faze them.

Sister held her hand. Tootie held the towel filled with ice against her shin.

Tears rolled down Val’s cheeks. “Sorry.”

“I know you’re not crying.” Walter smiled as he pierced her skin for the third stitch. “Body’s natural reaction. Girl, you took one helluva hit. If she’d smashed your brow, she could have damaged your eye.”

“Luck.” Val tried to smile.

Tootie thought to distract her friend.“Do you believe what Cabel said about sex poisoning a relationship?”

“Why, do you want to sleep with me?” Val returned to form.

“You are so conceited.” Tootie exhaled through her nostrils.

As Walter started the fourth stitch, Sister, knowing the longer one sat the more difficult it became, answered Tootie.“No, sex doesn’t poison a relationship. People poison relationships. Sex is the excuse.”

“Well said.” Gray nodded.

“We’ll never really know what those two did,” Betty said. “I mean, we know Cabel killed Aashi and Faye, but Ilona helped somehow. Cabel had a hold on Ilona ever since college. Can you imagine helping your best friend kill someone? Actually, don’t answer that.” Betty wanted to let her head drop on her bosom; she needed to talk to keep awake.

Sybil piped up.“Their sex lives certainly seemed poisonous. How do people get twisted like that?”

“I don’t know,” Sister replied, as she dabbed Val’s tears with her own handkerchief. “Almost done.”

“I wonder why Cabel spared us when we went down the stairs?” Tootie tried to make sense of it, tried to keep her emotions at bay.

“God’s grace.” Sister smiled as Walter finished the last stitch, snipping the thread.

“Wait one minute.” He smeared on a little more procaine, giving Val two tiny tubes. “Val, this is going to sting and throb. Use this for a day or two and then just endure it.” He covered his work carefully with a gauze pad, taping the ends with white adhesive tape. “Change this at least once a day, because the wound will still seep. Rub a lot of this antibacterial cream on too, because you don’t want the bandage sticking when you pull it off. Okay? Going to hurt when you wash your hair. If you can bend over a sink to wash it, that’s better than getting in the shower.”

“I’ll wash her hair,” Tootie volunteered.

“Thank you, Dr. Lungrun.” Val stood up and just as quickly sat down.

Walter grabbed her when she wobbled a little.“Honey, you’ve suffered a shock. You just sit there. Need a drink or anything?”

A little dazed, Val shook her head.“No.”

“Gray, will you take Tootie and Val back to Custis Hall in the Land Cruiser?” Sister asked him. “I’ll drive the horses back with Betty.” She turned to Sybil. “Tell Shaker we’ve gone on.” Then she spoke to her joint master. “Walter, please take charge here. I need to get these horses back and I’m a little shaky myself. I’m not up to the crowd.”

“I’ll tell Charlotte the girls have gone on,” Walter agreed.

The little group left the barn. Just as they reached the trailers, they saw Shaker emerge from the mill with Ben. Sybil walked toward the men.

Betty said,“I want to get out of here before Ramsey sees her.”

“Yes,” Sister replied.

The girls moved slowly with Gray to his big Land Cruiser.

Val, voice wavering, took Tootie’s hand. “Thank you. I love you, Tootie.”

“I love you too.”

Once in the trailer, Sister hit the window button, calling out to Ben,“I’ll give you the details later, Ben. Trust me?”

“Yes.” He waved, face solemn, as behind him two deputies, already wet from mist, knelt over the millrace to figure out how to haul up Cabel’s body without going in themselves.

The motor cranked on the truck. Sister never tired of that sense of power.

Once out on the road, Betty covered her eyes a moment.“We were pretty close to a ticket out of life.”

“I know.”

“Cabel always hated you. Never stopped. Never could let the past go.” Betty inhaled deeply. “Lot of people like that in the world. All it brings is misery and death.” She paused. “I never saw it coming, did you?”

“No. Funny how the mind ignores evidence. I underestimated jealousy and hate, and I underestimated Cabel. Good actress, though. I kept looking for a male killer, not a female. I was blind, really.”

“She just”—Betty paused, then used the southern explanation for tremendous misdeeds—“snapped.”

“Took Ilona with her.” Sister noticed the flock of crows overhead, St. Just in the lead. “I don’t understand a lot of things in this world. I don’t even try anymore. I accept that I can’t understand and that, if there are answers, I won’t find them. I don’t know if that’s maturityor resignation.”

“Both.” Betty leaned forward to watch the large flock of crows fly overhead. “Not much for crows but someone has to be nature’s garbageman.” She turned back to Sister. “You could have been killed.”

“You too.”

“Were you as calm as you seemed?”

A long pause followed.“Yes.” Then she smiled. “When the Good Lord jerks your chain, you’re going. He doesn’t want me yet. Then again, what if I’m headed downtown, not uptown?”

Betty laughed.“Won’t know until we get there.”

After a few moments, Sister spoke,“Hindsight makes us all smart. It’s obvious now but I didn’t see it there. You know, Cabel’s hair loss, erratic behavior, loss of self-control: She was in the last stages of syphilis. You lose your mind.”

Betty rubbed her temples.“It’s making a big comeback.”

“She hadn’t been to the doctor in about twenty years. He had. But he passed it on to her.” She paused. “They both paid for it.”

“Sometimes I think history should be written from the standpoint of syphilis, malaria, black plague, tuberculosis, AIDS.”

“You’re right.” Sister sighed heavily.

“It will take years for this to really hit those girls,” Betty added.

“Us too. But you know, it’s the duty of the old to protect the young. The only person in that mill who should have hidden herself and wouldn’t have been shamed for it was Sybil. Her sons aren’t grown. For the rest of us—well, we did what we had to do.”

“Not everyone thinks like that.”

“We’re not everyone.” Sister suddenly felt a burst of emotion. “Not by a long shot. I don’t give a damn what’s popular, and I don’t give a damn about fashions, including moral fashions. The old must protect the young.”

“I know.” Betty felt Sister’s energy lifting her own. “But we’re country people. We live close to nature.”

“Makes no matter.” As Sister saw her Roughneck Farm sign, a flood of gratitude welled up in her. “City people are as obligated as we are to take care of the young.”

“They don’t obey the laws of nature. They no longer know them.” Betty worried about urbanization and the destruction of the environment by people who often thought they were protecting it.

“Well, you know what, sugar pie? Nature will one day reach into those steel towers and shake them loose. Hers is the ultimate power.”

As they coasted to the stable, Inky and Georgia shot out from the barn, where they had been enjoying leftover sweet feed and a bowl of sour balls.

Sister and Betty led one set of horses off the trailer and then a second. They cleaned them, tossed fresh blankets over them, put each in a stall with fresh warm water and delicious flakes of hay, and added a couple of handfuls of sweet feed to their food buckets.

The routine of chores helped each woman calm down.

A cat door, cut into the stable office and well used by Golly, had also been used by Inky and Georgia. They left behind their signature scent, a fox calling card.

Chores done, Sister and Betty walked into the heated office for a moment to warm their hands, and both noticed the bowl of sour balls, wrappers all over the floor.

“How do they do that? How did Inky get the cellophane off?” Sister put her hands on her hips.

“Foxes work magic.” Betty laughed, then looked at her silver-haired friend. “Jane, I love you. I could have lost you.” She hugged Sister.

“I love you too.” Sister hugged Betty back. “But by God, Betty, we would have died game.”

Content

Браун Рита Мэй The Hounds And The Fury. The Tell-Tale Horse