“No. I believe some of these items have been tampered with much more recently. But before I risk my reputation on this, I want to carefully go over the photographs and my descriptions with my colleagues.”
“Yes, of course. I can appreciate your position.”
“And I can appreciate yours,” Professor Kennedy said sympathetically.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“No.”
“Do you think anyone suspects? Do you have suspicions?” Charlotte leaned forward. She noticed Frances checking her watch. “I can take you to the airport.”
“I have to drop off the rental car. I’m packed and ready to go.” She sat up straight. “I’ll have my report to you after the New Year.” She paused. “I don’t know the people here well enough to have suspicions. I hope I’m wrong, Charlotte, I truly do, but,” she inhaled deeply, “I know I’m not. My report is going to hit Custis Hall like a bombshell.”
C H A P T E R 1 9
“Why do I have to do it?” Grace moaned.
“Because you live at Foxglove,” Aunt Netty answered.
The two reds, one young, the other getting on in years but famous for her blazing speed, trotted by the steady, hypnotic flow of water from the upper pond to the lower pond at Foxglove Farm.
Athena called in the distance,“Hoo hoo hoodoo hoodoo.”
A light frost coated the meadows silver.
The sun, an hour from rising, seemed on the other side of the world, for this time is the coldest time.
The two vixens reached Cindy Chandler’s pretty stable. Cindy put out hard candies for them, which they demolished in short order. Then Aunt Netty, on her hind legs, stood as tall as she could to push up the latch into the sweet-feed bin in the feed room.
The effort it took both girls to flip up the lid was considerable. Once they caught their breath they hoisted themselves up, dropping into the sweet feed, the tiny bits of grain between their toes, the aroma intoxicating.
“I’d rather eat and sleep today.”
“All right then, why don’t we compromise?” Aunt Netty flicked a moist oat off her whiskers.“You go by the ponds. Oh, make a big figure eight so they’ll think they’re running a gray. The humans, I mean. The hounds will know it’s you. Then just pop into your den. That’s easy enough. I’ll take it from there and run to the old schoolhouse. I think my errant husband is under there. He left his old den. Lazy ass.” She sniffed.“He used to keep a clean den but this last year, he hasn’t. He was forever fickle about his living quarters, but really, he’s gotten slovenly. All he wants to do is sit on the old window seat at Shaker’s and watch the TV through the window. He’s getting mental.”
Grace prudently did not mention what Uncle Yancy said about Netty, namely that she had turned into a harridan.“He takes a notion,” she said noncommittally, stuffing more sweet feed into her powerful, slender jaws.
So busy were the two vixens that they didn’t hear Cindy Chandler come into the stable to braid her horse. Startled, when they heard the thump of the tack room door they leapt up, but the motion brought down the lid.
“Shit!” Aunt Netty allowed herself a profanity.
“What do we do?”
“Nothing until she comes for a scoop of sweet feed. We’ll scare the wits out of her when we jump out.”
Cindy, however, wasn’t going to laden her good mare, Caneel, with sweet feed. She put all the hay the mare wanted in her stall, tying the net up so she’d reach with her neck, not her usual practice. But as Caneel merrily tore at her feed net, Cindy knocked off the dust. She had washed the mare the previous night with Show Sheen, so her coat glistened.
Then she brought out a bucket of warm water, a small footstool, took off her gloves, wet a piece of mane, and began braiding.
Most people in the middle years hire kids to braid, but Cindy, having spent time on the show circuit at the highest levels plus training steeplechasers, put in a perfect, tight braid. Kindly and warm, she proved a perfectionist about braiding and turnout. She used a black braid for the mare’s black mane. Every now and then she’d honor a holiday, braid with orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas. Her delightful sense of humor was infectious.
The two foxes waited and waited.
“She’s starving that mare,” Grace whined.
“I don’t know what she’s doing.” Aunt Netty felt drowsy. Too much sweet feed and sour ball hard candies.
There they sat.
At ten the eighty-nine riders resplendent for the second of the High Holy Days gathered in front of the charming frame house at Foxglove Farm, hugged by English boxwoods. Cindy Chandler had a gift for landscaping and gardening. Wherever one looked there was something to involve the eye.
A prayer of Thanksgiving was given by the Reverend Daniel Wheeler. The hounds gave the good man with his musical voice their attention.
Then off they rode.
Sister and Shaker always discussed the day’s cast the night before. They decided that since they’d had such good luck by the ponds last year they’d start there. The farm afforded many opportunities for a brisk ride since Cindy had paneled every fence, indulging in a few special jumps like a new tiger trap behind the stable that led into the pasture holding Clytemnestra, the giant Holstein cow, and her son, growing as large as his mother. The tiger trap at three feet six inches looked like teeth since each log stood up, forming a steeple. Quite impressive except that Cly would step over it and rub her belly. And if she felt bored she’d smash right through it. She evidenced a slight antisocial streak. Orestes, her son, mostly followed momma. He didn’t have too many ideas of his own.
The Custis Hall girls as well as Charlotte, Bill, and Bunny rode in the middle of first flight.
When the whole pack of hounds charged into the stable the field watched with uncomprehending fascination.
Shaker called,“Come to me.”
“The fox is here!” Cora shouted, knowing Shaker couldn’t understand but he knew she was honest as the day is long.
Darby shot straight into the feed room.“It’s Grace and Aunt Netty.”
The whole pack in a frenzy squeezed into the feed room.
Shaker dismounted, handing his reins to Sister, who had ridden up.
“Betty, dismount and get in here with me,” Shaker called through the stake.
Betty, on the other side of the stable by Clytemnestra’s pasture, flung her right leg over the pommel of her saddle, kicked her left leg out of the stirrup, and hit the ground with both feet. Outlaw didn’t need to be held. He stood there, ears forward since he could smell the foxes.
“Oh, this is going to be ripe,” Outlaw said to himself.
The word spread from horse to horse, which made the hotter ones prance about. Humans not tight in the tack began to fret.
Cindy wondered what could be going on. She’d been in the stable before dawn and she didn’t see any fox. Granted she picked up a whiff of eau de vulpus, but that was normal given the hard candy treats.
Shaker paused in the doorway to the feed room. The hounds stood on their hind legs. Tinsel, nimble, jumped onto the feed bin lid, slanted, and balanced there, giving tongue.
The din was deafening.
“Betty, call out to Sister. Tell her to try to hold hounds if they go out her end of the stable. I hope Sybil’s where she’s supposed to be. If the hounds get through Sister and the field she can keep up.”
Betty ran to the opened large doors, called out to Sister, then hurried back to the other end of the stable. No point in telling Shaker when she mounted up. He’d never hear her with that racket.
“Leave it. Leave it,” he ordered his hounds calmly, voice low.
“We’d better do what he says. Trust him.” Diana did trust him but it took great willpower to vacate the feed room.
The last hound out, Dragon, grumbled.
“You leave it!” Shaker narrowed his eyes and Dragon knew he meant business. Shaker walked into the feed room.