“My job is to find out.”
“I’ll help you any way I can.”
“You already have.” Ben left. For the time being, he’d keep Lyle Aziz’s revelation to himself. Best to wait for the lab reports from Richmond.
Driving to Aluminum Manufacturers, he wondered how Garvey would take the news. After all, he was missing two million dollars. The culprit most likely had been shot in the head.
He wanted to talk to Sister Jane, too. She used all her senses in a situation like this. Most people used only their eyes and ears.
As he turned into the parking lot he remembered it was Friday the thirteenth.
CHAPTER 23
Winter’s gray skies depressed many people but not foxhunters. Low fleecy clouds, ranging in color from pearl gray to gunmetal gray, cast their darkening shadows on the snow.
Sister sat quietly on Lafayette as the huge tree, over three hundred years old, on Hangman’s Ridge waved its branches in the breeze as if beckoning.
The fixture card, printed on heavyweight good paper, had been sent out before Opening Hunt, the first weekend in November. The Jefferson Hunt tried to stay close to St. Hubert’s Day, November 3, for their opening. Crawford had left the club a few days before Christmas. Today they would have hunted from Beasley Hall, Crawford’s estate. That had to be changed. The easiest thing to do would be to hunt from the kennels. Since foxes flourished around Roughneck Farm, After All Farm heading east, and Foxglove Farm heading north, it should be fine.
Like most masters, Sister loathed changing a fixture once it was in writing. She thought scheduling one of the hardest tasks a master had to perform. She hadn’t much liked doing it as a wife and mother, either. Those Friday nights when Big Ray, RayRay, and she had sat at the kitchen table, individual calendars open, the large hanging family calendar off the wall to be altered had given her fits. She’d worn out one big white India-rubber eraser each Friday night.
She missed hunting at Beasley Hall. Crawford had spared no expense in opening territory. Coops, zigzag fences, tree trunks lashed together, even a beautiful river stone jump bore testimony to his largesse. Crawford had directed the workers, although at the time he’d known nothing about siting a jump. Sister had used all her tact to make sure the jumps had a decent approach.
Foxhunters, accustomed to leaps of faith, didn’t worry about sight lines or ground lines, but they sure worried about footing.
This Saturday, January 14, Crawford would be hunting his pack at Beasley Hall. She wondered what the foxes would do.
Despite her years at the helm of the Jefferson Hunt, she wanted to show good sport for members and guests, and was a bit nervous before each hunt.
This Saturday she had riders from Casanova Hunt. This pleased her, as it was one of those four-star hunts.
She also had Vicki Van Mater riding Jaz and Joe Kasputys on Webster from Middleburg Hunt. This, another glamour hunt, had hard-riding members.
Having a check on top of Hangman’s Ridge gave her the shivers. The wind always blew there even in summer. Winter’s wind, however light, cut. The ghosts of murderers, mountebanks, and hard-luck men whispered along this long wide plain, high above the cultivated fields, the one huge wildflower field, and way beyond to Soldier Road, snaking east and west.
Hounds worked the large ridge, then moved down into the underbrush, tight even in winter. The horses used the deer paths on the north side, the old farm road on the south. The remnants of the colonial road, originally the road up to the Potomac, a hundred miles and then some, occasionally would be cleared. That ran in a big S down the north side out to Soldier Road.
Hounds moved that way; Sister walked behind them and Shaker. A sudden burst of wind sent a moan from the giant oak. Her spine tingled.
Did dead souls meet? Would Iffy join these men and spin her tale of woe? She wasn’t surprised that Iffy had been secreted over Jemima Lorillard. What surprised her had been that not one penny of the filched money had been found in her bank account, nothing in her house.
Ben had come by Friday night. She fed him fried chicken, greens, and cornbread. Halfway through the impromptu supper, Gray had arrived, worn down by events but bearing the gardenia bush in bloom as promised.
Ben rode out this Saturday. He needed the hunting to clear his mind, and it was his weekend off. In fact, the field, at sixty-seven, proved cumbersome on such a cold day. The ones in the rear, continually pushed up by the Custis Hall girls, grumbled, but if they didn’t keep up, then Bobby Franklin would sweep them up and they’d need to stay with hilltoppers instead of first flight.
Lafayette stopped, pricked his ears.
Uncle Yancy shot straight in front of him, followed by Inky, the black fox vixen, and Comet, her saucy brother. A collective intake of breath from the field followed by everyone with their derbies, top hats, and hunting caps off pointing in three different directions added to the confusion.
When the hounds blew through the bracken back out onto the ridge, they split into three different prongs. How could anyone fault them, for the scents were equally hot? Had one line been fresher than the other, the huntsman could have hoped his whipper-in on the side where the pack split could send them back. Today, Shaker faced an unenviable dilemma. As he reached the ridge again, up from the north-side deer path, he caught a glimpse of three brushes disappearing in three different directions.
During January or February, a huntsman would rather chase a dog fox than a vixen if one could choose. But Shaker couldn’t choose. Cora led the group on Uncle Yancy. Dasher roared after Inky, taking many young entry with him. To everyone’s surprise and Sister’s delight, little Diddy, showing her mettle for the first time as a strike hound, blew after Comet.
Shaker paused under the moaning tree, then plunged down the south side, using the farm road. He stuck behind Diddy. First off, he delighted in seeing this development. Second, he wanted to get the pack onto Comet. He didn’t want to run Inky. Not only was she a vixen, but her den was too close. Too short a go. Also, today was January 14. It was possible she was pregnant. He never liked running a pregnant vixen, even early in a pregnancy.
Luckily, Betty, on Magellan, was further to his right. She could push back Dasher and the young entry. Dasher, a biddable hound, might wonder why he was being called off a hot line, but he trusted the huntsman and he trusted Betty.
Sybil, on his left and out of sight, was still learning the intricacies of whipping-in. A brilliant rider, she was developing nicely. However, hounds would test her long before they’d test Betty or Shaker. Then, too, if they heard a reprimand from Sister riding up behind them almost like a tail whip, which Jefferson Hunt did not use, those hounds would do as told.
As it was, Sybil rode like a demon to get in front of Cora, a hound of speed and intelligence.
Cora turned her head. Why was Sybil, on her big bay thoroughbred, Bombardier, riding like hell to get in front of her? She was right as rain. She was on Uncle Yancy.
“Leave it,” Sybil called.
Cora refused. The human was wrong.
Then the crack of Sybil’s whip like rifle fire brought her head up. She slowed. Her concentration broke, and she heard Shaker’s horn blow “Gone Away” from the farm road. She was in the middle of the wildflower field, white with snow.
“Go to him,” Sybil ordered.
“What’s going on?” Dreamboat, second-year entry, asked.
“Too many foxes, but I picked the one who had furthest to run. Dammit!” Cora cursed.
Tinsel suggested, “We could go on.”
“Better not. Better trust Shaker.” Cora reluctantly turned right, heading back toward the farm road, a line of pines breaking the increasing wind.