Raleigh sat next to her, head on her thigh. Rooster sat on the other side.
Looking into those warm eyes she said, “I’m going to list things. You listen. If I read my notes, maybe the lightbulb will click on.”
“Okay.” Both dogs perked their ears.
“Four Sir Alfred Munnings paintings have been stolen. One from Virginia, two from Kentucky, one from New Jersey. While the locations are not bunched together, they are all reachable by car. Right?”
“Right,” the two agreed.
“Three ex-cons have been killed. Although we are not sure that Parker Bell is involved, but he has the same two fingers missing from his right hand that the other two victims had. The painting from Lexington, that owner was murdered. All are murdered in the same way, strangled with a lead shank. Then there’s Delores Buckingham, strangled like the others.”
“Yes.”
“No fingerprints. So far nothing. However, where there were trucks they were all of the same type, a box truck, used for delivering high-end sinks, tubs, stuff like that. Most anyone can drive a box truck. They are so ubiquitous as to not cause anyone to pay too much attention.” She looked down again at the dogs. “In each case the thief knew exactly where the painting hung, walked in undetected, and made off with it. And each painting is of a beautiful woman or women riding sidesaddle. So, Raleigh and Rooster, you can see there are similarities, a connecting thread. Who would be no threat? Who deals with wealthy people?”
“Lots of people deal with the rich,” Raleigh replied.
As if understanding her intelligent Doberman, she mused, “Who would be trusted? An art dealer? Who had access to ex-cons and could still be trusted? That’s what trips me up. Most people who work with prisoners or integrates them back into society after they have served their term are social service types. Good people but not the kind that run with the rich. That’s a blank space for me, as is the murder of Delores Buckingham. I can understand why the drivers were murdered, the ex-cons, to shut them up. Surely they knew they were transporting paintings and had no doubt helped steal them. We still don’t know the driver found at Arthur’s Gulf station but he is missing those two fingers so I am banking on him being an ex-con if and when he gets identified. They knew too much for whoever is behind this or they blackmailed the instigator for more money. This has to be masterminded by someone who can move with ease at the high levels of society.” A long, long pause followed this. “Almost any foxhunter would qualify because even if a foxhunter doesn’t have money, they are participating in a sport long associated with the rich. It’s open to all now, but it still has that patina, if you will, and the old, old foxhunters do have money. Golfers at a country club usually have money. People with yachts, say a yacht salesman, would be a candidate. I keep finding threads but nothing ties together.”
“Don’t hurry. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“I usually assume a criminal is male, the stats support that, but this person could be male or female, maybe wellborn or has learned the manners of those who are.” She tapped her pencil on her forehead.
“We have good manners,” Rooster bragged. “We could get into rich homes.”
“Maybe,” Raleigh corrected him. “Some people are weird about dogs.”
“I doubt this is someone young. Has to be someone established. Okay. I say this is a man or woman, middle-aged, smooth manners, attractive, can talk to anybody. Actually, we have some men in the club who fit that bill. Gray is handsome, can deal with senators, corporate heads; Kasmir; Crawford, but he’s rough around the edges; umm, Walter. Now there’s something. A doctor can go anywhere. Hadn’t thought of that. Carter, another smoothie, and his friend Buddy Cadwalder. Gigi Sabatini has a big business but he’s not really smooth. He’s not badly mannered, but the polish isn’t there. You guys, now what?”
“Wait for another murder or theft?” Rooster offered.
“Hey, someone’s coming.” Raleigh stood up and barked.
The motor cut off. Sister rose, went to the outside door. “Good God.” She opened the door. “Come in.”
Jordan Standish stepped into the tack room, inhaling for the first time the aroma of oiled leather and eau de cheval. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were at the 1780 House?”
“You didn’t ask. Sit down. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Will those dogs bite?”
“No, not unless you threaten me. You were lucky no one was hurt yesterday. No horse spooked. No one fell off.”
Jordan fiddled with the zipper of his heavy jacket, running it down, for the room was seventy degrees. “Are you going to press charges?”
“No. You weren’t trespassing on my land. You trespassed on Kasmir Barbhaiya’s land.”
His lower jaw jutted out slightly. “Can you ask him not to do that?”
“No.”
“We won’t disrupt a hunt again.”
“Once was enough. You really were lucky no damage was done to people or property.” She remained cool.
He heated up a little. “Foxhunting is cruel. All hunting is cruel.”
“People kill one another every day. Women and children are raped and beaten. First, I don’t think hunting is cruel if responsibly done. Second, why don’t you focus on the big issues?”
His face reddened. “It’s elitist.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Are you more concerned about us chasing foxes we don’t kill than you are about the violence humans inflict upon one another?”
He sat there mute as maggots…finally, “It’s so frivolous.”
“Beating women or hunting?”
“What purpose does it serve? Hunting, I mean.”
“Well, I keep moving, for one thing. I’m, we are all, out in fresh air, we must keep fit, and we see the beauty of nature. There’s no such thing as a foxhunter who is not an environmentalist. But Mr. Standish, what do you think of golfers? Skiers? Surfers? What about someone who goes out in the bay with a small sailboat? Have you no hobbies? Are you intent on removing all passions and joys? A modern Oliver Cromwell?”
“I want to improve Virginia.”
He knew little about Cromwell.
“Banning foxhunting isn’t the way to do it. Try this, Mr. Standish, one out of eleven children in this state has slept on the streets at night; Virginia, the best-managed state in the union. At least that’s what those kind of listings say. For years we top that list. So how about addressing that instead of fooling around with foxhunting?”
“New people are pouring into Virginia. They don’t believe in foxhunting, shooting, you know, guns.”
“And you intend to be their leader? Have you ever shot skeet?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“It’s a good hobby. Need hand-eye coordination and you can do it pretty much by yourself, with one person to loosen the target. Or clays; anything, really. It’s relaxing. Just you and an inanimate, moving target. But perhaps you can’t enjoy anything that doesn’t align with your purpose.”
“So you will not willingly stop foxhunting?” He evaded her questions.
“No and neither will any other hunt club. Have you any idea how much money horse-related activities pour into this state? Over one billion dollars. One billion. Do you want to be the elected official, say you get elected, who costs the state one billion dollars? And the horse world is a clean world. No pollution discharged into our rivers, no destroying our beautiful land for housing developments. You really ought to think this through.”
“I knew you wouldn’t listen.”
“I have listened. You do as you wish with your campaign but those who agree with you aren’t, shall we say, our people. Few will have been born here. Even if you continue to think badly of us, you have to make compromises to lead.”