The dogs barked as another car pulled up.
Betty and her husband, Bobby, came in through the back door.
“Sorry we’re late.” Bobby hung up his coat on the peg by the door.
“That Magellan jumped out of the paddock so everyone else had to follow. And of course, we were all dressed up. Don’t you think the mud stains on my skirt add to my fashion statement?” Betty, too, was in fine spirits.
Gray, Bobby, and Crawford located extra chairs to accommodate all the guests since the dining room chairs only numbered twelve. They’d set up extra tables in the huge dining room. When the “new” part of Roughneck Farm was built in 1824, this room doubled as a small ballroom, so each end boasted a beautiful fireplace. The small orchestras used back then would play on a raised dais against the outside wall. If the weather was warm all the French doors would be thrown open and dancing would be outside as well as in.
When Big Ray lived he threw fabulous parties, this room overflowing. Once he died, Sister rarely used it. But today it seemed perfect.
Between the food, the stories, having all the young people around, it was one of the best Thanksgivings Sister could remember.
After the last dish was carried out and the table cleared, they all repaired to the living room, where Sorrel opened the grand piano and played song after song. The schoolgirls knew the words to Cole Porter’s songs because Custis Hall put onAnything Goes. They all got hooked on his witty lyrics and melodies.
By midnight, the last of the guests had left. They’d thrilled to a hard day’s riding, the joy of one another’s company. Lorraine protested that she should stay to clean up, as did Betty, but Sister pushed them out the door, saying she’d abuse the Custis Hall students.
With Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster cleaning plates the only thing to do was to load the dishwasher. Up to her elbows in soapy water, washing the crystal, Sister handed glasses to the girls, standing in a row. Gray filled up the fireplaces, then returned to the kitchen.
“What can I do?”
“Sit by the fire and look handsome.”
More tired than he cared to admit, he dropped into the old cane rocking chair, propped his feet up by the huge walk-in fireplace.
“What a day.” He smiled.
“Aunt Netty is still sleeping, I’ll bet.” Sister pulled the plug in the sink, the water swirling downward. Bubbles floated into the air. She reached up and balanced one on her finger. “Life is a soap opera and we’re the bubbles.”
“How’d you know it was Aunt Netty?” Valentina finished wiping out a wineglass.
“First that silly brush. Pathetic. Always has been. Then, no one runs like Aunt Netty, she burns the wind.”
“Did you get a look at the other fox?” Tootie asked.
“No, but Betty said it was Grace, who lives at Foxglove. Cindy spoils her with candies.”
“As I recall, someone in this room occasionally puts out treats.” Gray pushed off with his right foot, the rocker gently rolling.
“Well, it’s true. Of course, now that we’ve got the little gray back in the orchard I’ll put out some dog biscuits for her, too.”
Tootie hung the sopping-wet dish towel over the drying rack.“Anything else?”
“We’ve performed heroic labors. Done.” Sister wiped her hands.
Valentina walked to the mudroom. Her barn coat hung there. She’d put her iPod in the pocket. Returning to the kitchen, everyone sitting by the fireplace, she handed it to Sister. “I keep forgetting to play this for you.”
“Ah, I’ve wanted to see one of these,” Sister said, admiring the small electronic device.
“I recorded this music, uh, I forget the exact name. Something about Henry IV hunting. Henry of France. Anyway, it was written during the French Revolution.”
“Off with their heads.” Felicity giggled.
“You know, I didn’t think anyone wrote music during the Revolution.” Sister placed the tiny earpieces in her ears. She blinked and pulled them off.
“Too loud?” Valentina turned down the volume.
“No. No. That tinty sound.”
Valentina put the earphones in her ears.“Oh, that.” She handed them back to Sister. “Sorry. I didn’t erase all of that. The hunting horn will start in a minute.”
“Val, play that again.” Sister listened intently. “What is that sound?”
“Special effects.”
“From what?”
“From the Halloween dance. That’s a witch’s voice. Well, it’s my voice really. I recorded my voice and changed the speed until I got the right sound. We had all these little flying witches and each one had one of our voices. It was so cool.”
Putting her arm around Val’s waist, Sister walked her over to the wall phone. She dialed the sheriff.
“Ben, listen to this.”
It was also a perfect night for Target, the big red. He’d feasted on Thanksgiving leftovers from two different farms. There wasn’t a garbage can Target couldn’t open. Deer hunters would clean carcasses, leaving behind the offal. He didn’t like that but other little creatures did so Target could sometimes grab a quick bite there or even better, the rack hunters would saw off antlers, leaving the entire deer. All that deer meat was getting tedious. The turkey and stuffing leftovers tonight were wonderful.
He stopped, crouched. At the edge of the wildflower meadow lay a blackbird from St. Just’s flock. He crept toward it, prepared to pounce, then stopped. The bird was dead. He sniffed it. Nothing smelled unusual. No marks on the crow. It could have dropped from a heart attack, a common enough death among birds given their heart rate. He picked up another odor, human. Ten feet from thecrow rested a human finger, relatively fresh, torn at the joint. The simple gold ring had an onyx oval stone, a crest carved into it. The ring was half on, half off the finger. Target pulled it off with one extended claw.
Toys delighted him. He’d steal balls that house dogs dropped outside. If it rolled or was shiny, he wanted it. He picked up the ring, taking it home.
He knew humans buried or cremated their dead. Their fastidious ways amused him because the body did the earth not a bit of good then. However, every creature has its habits so if humans wanted to render their dead useless to the soil, so be it.
It occurred to him that finding the finger was not a good sign for the humans. One more reason he was glad he was a fox.
C H A P T E R 2 1
Thanksgiving vacation offered quiet but no relief from paperwork. Charlotte and Carter lived on campus in a lovely home, but try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t work at home. She needed to leave the familiarity of her needlepoint pillows and her two cats.
As she walked across the main quad she was surprised to see Knute Nilsson, blue cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck, walking toward Old Main.
“Knute, walking off your turkey?”
He smiled wanly,“I’d have to walk to Seattle and back.”
“See, if you rode, you’d burn off those calories.”
“The horse burns them. I don’t know about the human.” He fell in alongside her. “But I burn plenty of calories sailing.”
“Bill tore his britches yesterday, revealing more of Bill than anyone wanted to see,” she said cheerfully.
“Actually, there’s a lot of Bill, isn’t there? He can’t even claim that it’s middle-aged spread now that he’s on the other side of sixty.”
“How was your Thanksgiving?”
“Good, but five children in the house under the age of ten! I thought I would lose my mind or go deaf or both.”
“Maybe when we’re younger we don’t mind it. I don’t know.”