Betty laughed. “She can’t understand how I keep my old Bronco going. Well, five hundred cards it will be, and you’ve given me the information, date May 2, 2020. That gives us plenty of time. No rush. Let me go over this with Bobby and I’ll call you with a preacher’s price.”
“Thank you.” He interlocked his hands, stretched his arms in front of him. “My fingers are stiff. That was a long hunt yesterday.
“Now that we can again hunt on that territory, it’s good. Needs work, but good. I dimly remembered it when the Taylors hunted with us and they got into the argument with Harry Dunbar, so that took care of that.”
Betty nodded. “Hounds and horses are easy. It’s the people you need to be wary of.” She stopped. “You know, my English teachers told me never to end a sentence with a preposition.”
“Your English teachers lost that one.” Carter dropped his hands back into his lap. “Not much hunting left.”
“I always get blue when the season’s over. Drag around for a week then I bounce back. For one thing, there’s so much to do you can’t drag your butt forever. By the way, will you be going to Buddy’s party?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I like Philadelphia. I never tire of seeing the boathouses on the river or Independence Hall. The other city I love is Charleston, South Carolina. Those girls know jewelry.” He beamed. “Southern women have their own flair.”
“Charleston and Savannah, two gorgeous cities, you step back in time. I hate that we keep tearing down our past and putting up blocks. Maybe the windows are blue or sort of shiny gold, but still, a block. No adornment, and if you think about it, Carter, what is jewelry but adornment, so buildings ought to have some adornment, too.”
“You be sure to tell the American Institute of Architects.”
“Well, who would listen to a Virginia printer? While I’m thinking about lost causes, do you know the murdered man in the truck found at Arthur DuCharme’s has still not been identified? Bobby and Sister think because of the missing fingers they all have to be ex-cons and no one will really care.”
His eyes opened wide. “That’s an awful thought.”
“But realistic. Hire an ex-con, train him because you can’t have a butterfingers throwing around priceless art, pay good money, then kill him. No witnesses, no one to ask for more money. It’s brilliant.”
A silence followed. “Maybe. Well, let me get on home. You’ll be out tomorrow, of course?”
“Saturdays are always a big field unless the weather is bad. Sister keeps them all in line.”
“I wouldn’t mess with her.” He laughed. “Not if she comes up with killing ex-cons.”
CHAPTER 27
March 7, 2020 Saturday
Pears, peaches, forsythias pressed the pause button as the temperature dropped again. The changing seasons meant people could not yet surrender to spring cleaning, needed to keep a heavy coat in the car just in case the mercury plunged in an hour and the errands were not yet completed. People who liked predictability ought not to live in Virginia, especially by the mountains.
Then again, people who liked predictability ought not to foxhunt. Sister changed the fixture to Tattenhall Station, for The Weather Channel forecast a few snow flurries changing to rain. No need to have everyone at the distant fixture she had chosen. In a perfect world hounds would be working Welsh Harp or even Wolverton, but given that Showoff Stables now separated the two, that took care of that.
Cars lined both sides of the Chapel Cross roads, east, west, north, south. As the Jefferson Hunt Club tacked up, people dressed in warm coats of all varieties, wearing scarves and gloves, held signs reading “No Hunting,” “Hunting Is Cruel,” “Hunting Is Elitist.” There were more but Sister needed to get hounds and horses out of there. Reading wasn’t a priority.
The chanting and waving signs unnerved some of the horses. Staff horses noted the noise, the pressing people, but stood still for their riders to mount up.
Sister, on Aztec, tried and true, knew he might avoid a sign but he wouldn’t bolt or spook.
“Weevil, let’s move off behind the station as soon as you can. Our people will find us. We need to get the hounds out of here. I don’t want any hound mistreated.”
“Yes, Master.”
Gray, also mounting up, put himself between Sister and the anti-hunting crowd, perhaps fifty deep, noisy, and with no regard whatsoever for the animals much less the people.
“Go on, honey. They won’t get past me.” Gray’s example led other riders, mostly the men, to form a barrier.
Thanks to the hounds’ attention to the staff, they managed to ride to the rear of the station. The protesters bedeviled slower riders then followed the last of the riders. Thankfully no one felt compelled to smash a complaining face with a crop. Everyone had the sense to know their behavior needed to be perfect.
As they rendezvoused behind the station, Sister cursed. “Goddamn their eyes.” She counted heads.
Kasmir, close to her, as were Alida, Freddie Thomas, and Bobby Franklin, watched as the protesters marched behind the train station.
Kasmir, pulling out his phone from his inside pocket, dialed Ben Sidell, on duty today. “Sheriff, my property is overrun by protesters. They’ve left the road and are now on Tattenhall Station property. I do hope you and your team can take care of this. I will press charges, of course. I will press charges to the fullest.” He cut off his phone, slipping it back into his pocket.
Weevil blew a few wake-up notes and trotted off. Those people carrying signs, in shoes not meant for the country, wouldn’t be able to follow far.
Three car followers edged away from the Station markers along the roads, Shaker Crown and Skiff Kane; Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Kathleen; and surprisingly, Gigi and Elise Sabatini with Ronnie Haslip, the club treasurer, in the car with them, who explained foxhunting. Ronnie, a fellow who looked ahead, realized the Sabatinis were the kind of people who needed attention. He hoped Sabatini wasn’t funding the Standish fellow running for office and he hoped the Sabatinis did not blame the hunt club for Parker Bell’s death. He practically roped them into following by car. If anyone could smooth potentially troubled waters, it was Ronnie. He was more than happy to do it and Sister loved him for it. She’d known him since childhood, where his perceptiveness was already obvious. Also, Ronnie was one of her late son’s best friends.
Seeing the behavior of the anti-hunting crowd underscored the calm of the hunters. The anti-hunters did themselves no favors.
Hounds reached Beveridge Hundred with only a few yips and yaps. The darkening clouds, the light wind carrying the hint of moisture promised a good day, good if you’d dressed for it.
Juno, a first-year entry, began to feather. Unsure of herself, she needed support, she didn’t open but her tail picked up speed. Dasher walked over, putting his nose down.
“I don’t know what this is.” The lovely young hound turned to Dasher.
“Bobcat.”
“Can we chase bobcat?” Juno did not want to make a mistake and the field was huge today, people would see.
“We can. Fox is preferable, so let’s open but should a foxtrail cross the bobcat we can switch over. The humans won’t know the difference.”
“Really? Not even the huntsman and the whippers-in?”
“No nose, sugar. No nose at all. They have to be right on top of something to smell it. Now staff may suspect but they won’t really know unless they see the quarry. In time you’ll become accustomed to what they lack but you’ll appreciate what they do have. An odd species. Okay, you open first, this is your chance to show everyone, then I’ll chip in. Sing!”