“Not like my money.” Crawford’s voice had an edge.
“I didn’t say that.” Ronnie didn’t have to say it.
“You weren’t in love with Nola but you did like her?” Crawford changed the subject.
A beat passed, then Ronnie honestly replied, “She was a vacuous, spoiled child who had no feelings for anyone but herself. But she was also fun, enormous fun.”
Crawford knew that in this assessment Ronnie betrayed his own emotions. Perhaps he was once in love with Guy Ramy or one of the other men Nola had so easily vanquished. “Then maybe it’s better that she always be young and beautiful in everyone’s mind.”
“She would have been an impossible middle-aged bitch. Women like Nola can’t age. It kills them.”
“In her case, someone else did the job.”
Ronnie didn’t respond; he waited a moment and then asked, “I also thought you might want to know given the discussion we had about hunt staff last week that David Headdon left Shenandoah Valley Hounds last night. Left them flat.”
“Hmm.” Crawford smiled. The huntsman David Headdon was known both for his brilliance and his temper. “Does Sister know?”
“Sister knows everything.”
Crawford chuckled. “Almost, but she doesn’t know who killed Nola Bancroft.”
Ronnie respected Sister, even though many people might have interpreted his coziness with Crawford as a betrayal of her. He truly believed that Crawford needed to be joint-master of the Jefferson Hunt. Let him pour money into the club until a true hunting master could be found to succeed Sister should she step down or step up to heaven. At this point in the political development of looking for a joint-master, Ronnie kept his support of Crawford quiet.
“You know something, Crawford, if anyone can find out what really happened now that Nola has reappeared, it will be Jane Arnold.”
“Ronnie, you’ve been most helpful.”
“So have you. Thank you for the donation.”
“If you didn’t like Nola, why are you collecting for the trophy?”
Sometimes Ronnie couldn’t believe that Crawford didn’t get it. He’d lived here over a decade. “Because Sister gave me the job and because it’s the proper thing to do.”
Crawford snapped shut his tiny cell phone, hopped in his car, and drove west toward Roughneck Farm.
CHAPTER 13
“I’m going. You’d better put a check by my name,” Dragon, his handsome head held high, yelled over the other dog hounds.
“Pipe down,” Dasher, his brother, growled.
Asa, Archie’s relative, same breeding but one year later, sat in silent splendor. If young entry were going to foxpen, then he’d be there to steady them.
Shaker, clipboard in hand, wrote down the names Sister called out.
Sister would gladly have given Shaker Sundays off, but Shaker, like most hound men, wanted to be with his hounds. Sister was the same way. Covered with mud, red clay caked onto their work boots, both humans breathed in the heady odor of hound, shavings, and a hint of Penn-o-Pine disinfectant.
Doug had taken the day off, as he’d promised the new girl he was dating they’d canoe down the James River.
“If we have Asa, Cora, Delia, and Nellie for made hounds, then we can just take young ones. Those four will keep the freshman class in line.” She rubbed her chin, unaware that she had mud on her hands.
“Supposed to rain again this afternoon.” Shaker slipped the pen behind his ear.
“We’re not sugar, we won’t melt.”
“Moisture will be good for scent.” Shaker smiled.
“Last time we went to foxpen it was dust over there, but that’s good for the youngsters. Every day they hunt isn’t going to be a good scenting day, and I was proud of them. They pushed and pushed until they finally picked up a line. Took them forty-five minutes. That shows a lot of patience for youngsters.”
The sound of a deep motor made all heads turn.
Raleigh left Sister’s side, stood on his hind legs, and peered out the kennel window. “Crawford Howard.”
“If only I were out of here, I’d pee on his leg,” Dragon promised as the others laughed.
Shaker walked over, his head just above Raleigh’s. It would have made a funny photograph. “Your favorite.”
She laughed. “I have so many.”
“This is your true favorite, Crawford.” Shaker slapped the clipboard against his side.
She didn’t reply, but her lip curled slightly upward.
“He’s going to the house, Mom,” Raleigh announced.
Sister figured as much. She called over her shoulder as she opened the kennel door, “Five-thirty tomorrow.”
“Yes’um.”
She was looking forward to the morrow. Foxpen delighted her. A foxpen is a fenced-in area, often hundreds of acres. Foxes can’t get out and deer can’t get in. Man-made dens and natural dens cover the land. The purpose of a foxpen is to introduce young entry to fox scent, a lighter scent than deer.
A good hound wants to hunt, and on a miserable scenting day, deer scent becomes enticing. No foxhunter wants his or her hounds chasing deer, particularly since there are now so many of them. Introducing a youngster to fox scent in controlled conditions helped to guide them on the paths of righteousness.
Hounds can’t harm the foxes at a foxpen since there are so many dens in which to escape, so everyone can rest easy, but most especially the foxes. Hounds hunt by scent not sight, and by the time they were cast, the foxes, being nocturnal hunters, were usually in their dens. If not, the foxes soon found one, the trail of scent leading to their secure den. All in all it was a perfect setup.
The foxes enjoyed good food, regular wormings, and regular exercise. The hounds enjoyed the run followed by praise and cookies.
Sister laughed to herself as she and Raleigh trudged up to the house. Crawford so desperately wanted to be joint-master, but she couldn’t imagine him rousing himself to go to foxpen before dawn.
Then again, too many cooks spoil the broth. Crawford, if she could find no alternative, could swan about and be one of those fellows who is better at running his mouth than running the fox. Still, he could write checks better than anyone else. That’s something.
“Crawford,” she called out as he headed for the back porch door of the simple Federal house painted a soft yellow with white trim and Charleston green shutters.
“Good morning.” He turned, smiling.
“Have you had your breakfast?”
“I have.”
She opened the door. “Another cup of coffee and a bran muffin?”
“One of your bran muffins?” He wiped his feet on the rug just inside the porch door.
“Yes. I’m in my domestic goddess phase.”
“All this time I thought you were the goddess of the hunt.” He’d picked up a few Virginia ways, even though most folks didn’t notice since they were too busy criticizing him. It never hurt to flatter a woman, a truth southern men imbibe with their mother’s milk. Crawford still had to think about it, but he was practicing, which was a great step forward.
He sat down at the kitchen table while Sister made a pot of Jamaican coffee, the aroma filling the room. The bran muffins, under a mesh cover, were placed before him along with a plate, utensils, and country butter.
“Ever eat bran muffins with clotted cream? Sounds awful, but it’s a step away from heaven.” She poured his coffee into a mug bearing the symbol of the Jefferson Hunt, a fox mask.
“Too rich for me. I shouldn’t even use this butter.”
“You have lost weight. Look good.” She sat next to him at the large old farmhouse table. “What can I do for you?”