Moneybags was a handsome gelding.
“Who’s the new gray?” Tootie noticed the compelling thoroughbred.
“Matador. Sixteen hands, but a big enough barrel he’ll take up my leg. Chaser.” She used the abbreviation for steeplechase horse.
“Wow.” Felicity walked out of the tackroom to Matador’s stall. She returned smiling.
“Are you girls going right back to the dorm?” Sister asked.
“No. We want to hang with you,” Val announced.
“I’m glad to hear that. If you help me for just an hour I promise I’ll feed you well.”
“Don’t pass up the apple crisp.” Betty smiled. “Made it this morning and brought it to the tailgate. There’s lots left.”
Once the tack was cleaned, Sister checked on the hounds and put Raleigh and Rooster in the house. The girls followed her to the spot where Sam had careened off the road.
Betty, too, followed.
Sister briefly recounted the events.
A dirt road, now snow packed, fed into Soldier Road on the opposite side of the road from where Sam had crashed. All three vehicles parked there.
“Girls, what I want you to do is walk three abreast in this field. Pay special attention to bushes and trees. And tell me if you see tracks: animals, human. Betty and I will walk up here on the road.” She turned to Betty. “Why don’t you walk against traffic, and I’ll walk with it? Shouldn’t be much, but I’ve got on this red scarf. Anyway, I expect Ben’s crew found whatever there was to find.”
They walked slowly. Only two drivers passed, one being Roger, the owner of Roger’s Corner, the last convenience store heading west before one climbed the Blue Ridge to drop into the Shenandoah Valley below.
After a half hour, the cold beginning to seep into their feet even with heavy socks and Thinsulate boots, Tootie called out, “Found something.”
The rest made their way to her.
Random pricker bushes dotted the snow. Deer tracks, crow tracks, and raccoon tracks were evident, all heading toward Broad Creek. The human tracks were scuffed so no sole tread would be apparent, and the size was indistinguishable.
“Damn.” Sister whispered as she noticed that. “Smart, too.”
CHAPTER 15
Odd dates and facts rolled around Sister’s mind.
She often conceived of her mind as a closet, which when opened would reveal the usual apparel but also a few dead moths, the remains of long-perished spiders, and tiny little skeletons of whatever Golly had secreted there long ago.
Yesterday had been the day of St. Simeon Stylites, born 390 and died 459. Apart from his piety, gentle preaching, and self-abnegation on top of the pillar that had given rise to his name, Stylites, he must have stunk to high heaven. Perhaps that was his plan. After all, the Olympians enjoyed the fragrance of offerings slaughtered or burnt in their honor. Perhaps Simeon’s Christian God liked human unwashed scent.
Sister doubted this. Simeon had had doubts, too, but they were of a higher order.
Today, January 6, belonged to St. Peter of Canterbury, birth date unknown, who died in 607 after an eventful life. On a mission to Gaul, disunited then (and perhaps still), poor Peter drowned in the English Channel. When found, he was unceremoniously buried by pagan locals. But a mysterious light danced over his grave at night, which made them reconsider Christ’s message.
Sister would have welcomed a mysterious light—any light to shed on the disquiet she felt. She’d driven to town at first light to meet with Ben Sidell, already in his office.
After informing him of the scuffed foot marks, she asked, “Any luck with other Land Cruiser owners?” She gratefully drank from the mug of hot tea she’d brought along.
He shook his head “No,” then added, “Brad Johnson was deer hunting here around that time, but he was on the other side of the road. Not much, but you gather these little bits of information. Eventually some kind of picture emerges.”
“I’m trying to convince myself the shot was an accident. If only Brad had been on the west side of the road.”
“I hope so, too, but I’ll keep on it—just in case.”
“Hunting Saturday?”
He nodded, “Yes.”
After classes, Tootie, Val, and Felicity carefully put out their kit for tomorrow’s hunt. Valerie as class president had a room to herself in the corner of the oldest and therefore most prestigious dorm. Tootie and Felicity, each carrying 4.0 grade averages, also lived on the same hall.
Custis Hall’s founder and succeeding headmistresses judiciously used earned status to motivate the girls. This part of the school had been built in 1812, along with the only other structure at that time, the administrative building, which had been used for classes as well back then.
Since 1812 Custis Hall had entertained building programs consistent with the rise and fall of capital cycles. The newest dorms, very attractive and with every modern convenience, had been built in 2000. The three seniors would slit their wrists before living in the newest dorm.
Old One, as their dorm was called, had been remodeled sporadically. Modern insulation, electricity, and plumbing had been installed. But each room still had a fireplace, and the girls had to take proper care of it or lose the privilege of living in Old One.
Val’s room had served every senior class president since 1812. Many had gone on to become the wives of senators, generals, admirals, and captains of industry. A few made their independent way in the arts. Fewer still started their own businesses, although more graduates had moved into the business world after the 1970s. Still, Custis Hall girls, after college, married well if they married.
As Val’s room was the largest, both Tootie and Felicity sat there shining their boots.
“I can never get this stuff out of my fingers,” Tootie grumbled. “Me, neither.” Felicity, slender and observant, vigorously rubbed in the black paste.
Val’s boots gleamed under her mahogany valet, where she’d hung her frock coat, her white shirt, her ironed stock tie. She pinned her stock pin through the buttonhole of her black frock coat so she wouldn’t lose it in the hustle of leaving in the early morning. Her canary vest was over the shirt, the coat over the vest. Her britches were draped over the bar constructed for that purpose. In the tray of the valet she’d placed two long thin strips of rawhide, one penknife, one pack of matches, and a cotton handkerchief. She’d already put her Virginia hunting license in her vest pocket. Her velvet hard hat, tails up, sat next to her boots but in a special hat case wherein she kept two pairs of gloves, one white and knitted, one deerskin with a cashmere lining. Inside the hat case were small packs of handwarmers and extra hairnets.
“Val, how’d you get everything done? You’re usually behind,” Felicity inquired.
“MinPin.” She named a freshman by nickname.
“Wish I had a slave.” Tootie didn’t especially like the cloying freshman.
“I could be really obnoxious,” Val warned.
“Free blacks could own slaves, too, Val.” Tootie fired away because she knew what Val was thinking. Tootie was also black. “I know my history.”
“Not my strong suit, is it? But hey, I’m good at calculus.”
“You’re good at anything if you want to be.” Felicity made peace. “That’s what makes me wonder where Howie will go to school. His grades are okay, but you know.”
“We know,” Tootie and Val said in unison.
Blushing, Felicity remarked, “He’s such a good quarterback. He’s been scouted by a lot of schools.”
“Princeton isn’t one of them,” Val flatly said. “We’re all going to Princeton.”
“We haven’t got our acceptances yet,” Tootie reminded her.
“We will. You know we will.”
“Well, if not, we have our back-up schools, but I don’t think Howie could get into Bucknell or some of our others.” Felicity bent lower over her boots.