Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 9

Roughneck Farm, a sizeable holding although not nearly the two thousand acres of Tattenhall Station nor the vast five thousand acres of Old Paradise, offered beautiful views of the Blue Ridge Mountains, with one northern interruption. The lands included Hangman’s Ridge, a nine-hundred-foot ridge, flat on the top. The north side dipped down to wild meadows lapping Soldier Road. On the other side of this road reposed Cindy Chandler’s Foxglove Farm. Had it not been for the ridge the two neighbors and dear friends could have observed the lights at night in each other’s homes, although those homes were actually miles apart. Light travels as does sound, especially the sound of wind.

The hounds, walking briskly at seven-thirty on Wednesday morning, September 20, heard the trees groaning as they bent on the ridge. Depending on the ferocity of the wind, you could tell how long before the wind, the rain, or the snow would hammer down the south side of the former execution spot. The enormous hanging tree, a trunk so thick now it would take four men to reach around it, stood where it always had, close to the middle of the flat top.

“Five minutes,” Dasher predicted.

“Never good for scent, wind,” Asa grumbled.

The long slanting rays of the just risen sun cast a reddish gold glow on everything. You might think that sunrise is the opposite of sunset but no, the quality of light is different. Hounds, foxes, horses were sensitive to light. Some people were, too.

Shaker walked in front of the pack, Sister on the left, Tootie on the right, with Betty and Yvonne about fifteen yards in the rear. Betty chatted with Yvonne from time to time, explaining why they walked hounds, the different hound personalities, and how gifted her daughter was. Betty never mentioned the divorce or the subsequent publicity.

Yvonne, coached by Tootie, wore sturdy walking shoes. Mother and daughter had the same size foot, 7½. Her designer jeans, too expensive for this activity, nonetheless were jeans. A thin cashmere sweater was pulled over a crisp white blouse. Yvonne was walking hounds, but she still looked like a model.

Sister made a mental note to tell Marion. If Yvonne truly stuck it out in Virginia, how perfect the former star would be for Marion’s annual brochure, always printed on expensive paper, designed as a magazine with vivid color production. Yvonne in a shadbelly, a top hat, perhaps even a veil rolled up on the hat crown, would have ladies flying to the store or buying on the Internet. The woman could make a burlap sack appear chic.

Tootie, although a heavenly beauty, lacked her mother’s incredible sense of fashion. Tootie was truly happiest in her Timberland boots, Wrangler jeans with holes in them, heavy socks rolled over the top of the work boots, a T-shirt tucked into her jeans, with an old Shaker-stitched sweater pulled over that.

The morning, coolish, proved invigorating. The wind made it down to the bottom of the ridge; fallen leaves swirled about, limbs bent over.

Fortunately the hounds were returning to the kennels.

Betty remarked, “Twenty miles per hour, I’d guess.”

Sister called over to her, “Enough to knock you sideways.”

“You. You’re lean.” Betty laughed. “You, too, Yvonne.”

“Zumba.” She smiled, naming the musical workout.

“Zumba! Rumba.” Twist, a second-year youngster, with no idea of what either word meant, wiggled his butt.

“Boom Ba Ba Boom!” Giorgio, the handsomest boy in the kennel, giggled.

The rest of the pack babbled in happiness, winds at their tails as they passed the apple orchard, small trees heavy with red apples.

“You are all mental.” Inky, head popping out from her den in the apple orchard, taunted them.

“And you don’t provide good sport,” Dasher chided her.

“Why should I give you a good run? I’m happy with my housework.” A black fox, a variant of the grays, Inky was a born organizer, unlike Comet, the male gray who lived under Tootie’s cabin.

“Did you take Raleigh’s green-and-orange canvas duck?” Pansy innocently asked.

“He shouldn’t leave toys lying around the yard. He’s a spoiled brat,” came her answer, which meant she took it.

Yvonne stopped, speechless. She pointed to the fox. “Tally—what do you say, Tootie? I can’t believe I’m seeing a fox.”

“Tallyho. You have to count to twenty, Mom. Supposed to give the fox a sporting chance, but that’s Inky. She visits the kennels at night.”

“She’s not afraid?” Yvonne, astonished, stood in one spot until Betty waved her on.

“No. I think she can read the fixture card. She doesn’t come out when we hunt here or at After All. She’s a funny girl.”

“Black. There are black foxes?” Yvonne, still astonished, asked, as Shaker opened the draw-run door to the kennels.

“Black, white, silver. Arctic foxes are white. Go on in there, Zandy.” Betty gave a young hound the evil eye so she scooted right in.

“And silver must be commercially raised. I mean for silver fox coats, not that anyone buys furs anymore,” Yvonne added quickly.

“I have always assumed that blacks or even silver foxes are a variant of the gray fox, or one whose breeding from the original stock has been tampered with by humans,” Sister chimed in.

“You don’t see silver foxes out hunting, do you?”

“No.” Betty smiled. “Reds, grays, the occasional black—as well as the occasional black bear.”

Yvonne’s hand came to her breast. “I sincerely hope not.”

Sister and Tootie walked back out of the kennel’s main door having walked in through the draw-pen door.

“Your first hound walk, Mom.” The leaves swirled.

“Good exercise, and Betty informed me a little bit about the hounds. Asa is the oldest and wisest and”—she thought for a moment—“Diana figures things out. I can see there is a lot to remember. Betty said if a hound needs correcting, you”—she looked at her daughter—“should say the name. So you have to know all the hounds. How do you know who they are from up high? I mean, darling, you’re on a horse. You’re looking at their backs, or they’re far away.”

“You learn over time. I watch the way a hound moves. Most of The Jefferson Hunt Hounds are tricolors, so I can’t always identify them by coat. If I get close I can. And then, yes, Betty’s right. First say the name. If they don’t listen, warn them, and if they still don’t listen, crack the whip. Scares them.”

“Do you have to crack the whip often?”

“No, thank heavens.” Tootie handed her mother her whip with the long kangaroo thong, kangaroo being the best leather, costing about $350 for a staff thong, four feet longer than a field thong. Pricey, but it lasted for years. The other leather thongs wore out in two seasons if one was staff.

“I think I’ll have to work up to this. You do it.” Yvonne handed it back.

Tootie hopped on a mounting block, placed at the kennels in case anyone had to dismount there, then hop back up. She easily swung the thong in front of her, flicked her wrist and a rifle shot went off.

“What a sound.” Yvonne stepped back a bit.

Sister smiled. “Generally does the trick.”

“Can you do it?” Yvonne artlessly asked, then remembered she was speaking to the Master. “I’m sure you can.”

Sister took Tootie’s whip, stepped up onto the mounting block. She swung the whip in front of her. Crack! She swung the whip behind her. Crack! Then she shot the thong straight up, a twist of the wrist. Crack! Didn’t say a word.

Tootie received her whip, laughed, then said to her mother, “Only Sister can do that.”

“Show-off.” Betty then took the whip.

She could crack it in front and in back but not overhead. “Just kills me that I can’t do that and I’ve been trying for, oh, thirty-some years.”

“Forty,” Sister teased her.

“Don’t tempt me,” Betty teased right back.

“Yvonne, my beloved best friend wants to tell you I’m older than dirt, which I am—but I can still ride her into the ground.”

“Oh, you cannot. You’re a better rider than I am, but I can keep up.” Betty imploringly looked at Yvonne. “Honey, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I’m beginning to understand that.”

“Sister, I told Mom I’d look at the cottage she’s rented. Okay?”

“Of course. Yvonne, let Betty or me know if you need anything.”

“Yes. I can finally get rid of that lampshade with the fringe on it.” Betty giggled.

As mother and daughter walked back to the cabin, Betty noticed the new Continental but said nothing.

Turning to her Master and friend, she did ask, “What do you think?”

“I think she’s game. I actually do.” Sister smiled.

“I hope so.” Betty inhaled. “For Tootie’s sake. This wind isn’t going to stop and I need a restorative cup of tea. Ask me to the house and let’s gossip.”

—

That afternoon, Gray returned from a meeting in Charlottesville with Derwood Chase, a high-end investor. The two had struck up a friendship decades ago on the tennis courts where Derwood was a power. Gray worked hard to improve his game. Neither man was cut out for golf. Both realized it helped business; they just couldn’t do it.

“Hey. How was Derwood?”

“Just like always.” Gray smiled.

“Johanna?” She mentioned his glamorous wife, an opera singer as well as a consummate hostess.

“Good. Ready?”

“Honey, you’re monosyllabic but, yes, I am ready.”

“Prepared?”

She closed the door behind her. “Is anyone ever prepared for your aunt Daniella?”

Well, Aunt Daniella, having recently turned ninety-four, was ready for them. No sooner had Gray and Sister entered her charming if overstuffed house than she gave orders. She wanted her pillow fluffed behind her. She wanted her drink. Of course, Gray and Sister were welcome to libations, too. She wanted her ebony cane laid across the small table by her comfortable chair. She wanted to know exactly what he thought of the economy. Were her funds safe with Derwood?

Gray patiently did as bid. Told her he’d just seen Derwood, who would never divulge anything about a client, but told her he knew Derwood paid special attention to her portfolio, which he did, by Chase Investment standards. They dealt in millions. Daniella’s finances proved slim but Derwood nurtured her account. It grew. The old lady would never have a worry in the world. Her son Mercer had died within the last two years and she had inherited his funds and his house. He was a bloodstock agent and he’d done quite well for himself.

Gray sat in a wing chair by his aunt. “You look wonderful.”

“Liar. I look like Hecate, an old crone.”

“Never.”

“He’s right, Aunt Daniella. You look like a woman perhaps in her late sixties, if that.”

Daniella eyed Sister, shifted in her seat. “You flatter me, but I still walk a mile in the morning, one in the evening. The secret is to keep moving.”

“Thank you for allowing us to call on you.” Sister reached into her bag, retrieving a cellphone.

Daniella’s eyes widened. “You aren’t going to use that device, are you?” Then just as quickly she changed the subject, held up her glass. “Bourbon. A double.”

“Of course.” Gray took the glass, hurried to the bar, poured out the bourbon, then handed it to Daniella, who did look good for her years, her fortification, quite a fortification.

“I am going to use my device. I want you to see something.”

“Porn?” The white eyebrows twitched, a little grin appeared.

“Later.” Sister gave it right back. “When it’s just us girls.”

“Quite right.”

Gray took a deep breath; the old dragon was in a good mood. Better remember to bring her a full bottle of special cask bourbon tomorrow.

Sister rose, then knelt by Daniella. “Please look at this and tell me who it is.”

Daniella reached for her reading glasses on the table by her chair. Sister hit the button and boom, Weevil appeared.

Daniella sharply breathed in, her eyes huge now. Then he blew “Gone to Ground.”

“Good God, Weevil! Weevil Carruthers. Whoever took a film of him?”

“Look again, Aunt Daniella.” Sister replayed the video that Marion had sent to her phone.

“It’s Weevil Carruthers. I’d know him anywhere.” She stopped, looked at the video for the third time. “Morven. Morven.” Then she looked at Sister in confusion, a flash of fear in her eyes. “It’s impossible!”

“Yes. It should be.” Sister told Daniella what had happened. “We can’t believe it, but how can we not believe our eyes?”

“He’s been dead since I was thirty-three!”

“Was he dead?” Gray quietly asked as he sipped his own drink.

“Granted no one ever found the body. Oh, there were rumors that he ran off to Paris, or London or even Istanbul. Some perfect ass said he became a Muslim. The rumors died down. Sooner or later we all believed he was dead.”

“He had many enemies?” Sister stood up, a knee creaking.

“Irritating, isn’t it?” Daniella smirked.

“ ’Tis.”

“The man exuded charm and sex. Perfectly heterosexual men felt the pull. I have never ever met anyone like him. Given that he slept with other men’s wives, yes, he had enemies. But this?”

“It’s dumbfounding. And then blowing ‘Gone to Ground.’ A thumb to the nose, you know.”

Daniella, knowing the horn calls, nodded in agreement as Sister returned to her seat.

“I was hoping you might remember some of his affairs.” Sister took out her Moleskine notebook, the grid pages before her.

Knocking back all of her drink, glaring at Gray, who quickly refilled the glass, this time putting in two ice cubes, Daniella sighed. “How do I know what was true and what was not? So much loose talk.”

“Well—” Sister boldly pressed but with a compliment. “Did he approach you? You and your sister were famed for your beauty, your sparkling ways.”

Daniella pushed back into the pillow, a sly smile on her lips. “Oh, everyone wanted us.”

“So he did?”

“He did. I was married at the time. Husband Number Two. Was it Two? Well, no matter and Graziella”—she named her sister, Gray and Sam’s mother—“she was always with Number One. How she loved that man. We politely spurned Weevil, of course. But, oh, my God, was he divine to look at, to hear his voice, a deep baritone rumble. Even the hair on his arms was golden. Everything about him was golden.”

Sister wondered if she did spurn him. However, she was a woman of color, light as a white person but still. Neither one could have been open and Daniella, nobody’s fool, would never have risked publicity. In fact, every man she married was richer than the last one, after she disposed of the first one, which had been pure physical attraction according to her.

Gray leaned forward. “You have always had sex radar, Aunt Dan. Admit it.”

“Well—”

“You must have an idea of any affairs he had that were serious.”

“Yes, I do, but I don’t want to name names.”

“They’re all dead, surely?” he countered.

“Oh, they are, but their children aren’t. Most of them are in their seventies, late sixties.”

“Yes, of course. Do you think any of these people might be his? The husband didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “No. He would have stamped his get.” She used the horseman’s term. “He must have been careful, or his lovers were. Any woman with a blond baby with a killer smile would have aroused too much curiosity.”

“I assume he had quite a few flings with Deep Run ladies.” Sister smiled, for the Richmond Hunt, a big fences hunt, always was famous for its good-looking women. Sister then continued, “Aunt Daniella, we have to get to the bottom of this, and we have to find that hunting horn.”

“There are ghosts, you know. You should know. Your house is at the base of Hangman’s Ridge. They still moan up there, the hanged men.”

Neither Gray nor Sister disputed this.

“I believe there are ghosts, I do. But why would Weevil’s spirit come back, take his horn from the Huntsman Hall of Fame, and then blow it? Yes it is in keeping with his cheek. Oh, he was full of the Devil.” She laughed, then considered the request. “Well, this is what I know, what I am pretty sure about, and I rely on your discretion. Edward Bancroft’s older sister, Evangelista. Sybil looks just like her,” she mentioned Ed and Tedi’s daughter, visiting her son at college. “Wilder than Sybil, but a decent girl. Anyway, Evie fell head over heels. The family was horrified, broke it up. Sent her to London for the season.” Daniella thought some more. “Florence Randolph. Married with two children. She was seen leaving the huntsman’s house one night. Covered it all up.”

“Shaker’s house?”

“The very same. He might have had affairs with some northern hunt ladies, Green Spring Valley in Maryland. He hunted around, was always in demand, made the most of joint meets—but when he disappeared, he disappeared from here, so this is where the mystery began and may never end. If it hasn’t been solved or resolved since 1954, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Sister pressed the button again, turned up the sound so “Gone to Ground” rang out. “It’s different now.”

Daniella sipped a bit of her exquisite bourbon; the damned bottle cost over three hundred dollars, which Gray knew, since he would be replacing it. “Quite right.” She waited a long, long time. “There was one other. Serious, I mean. I hesitate.”

Both Sister and Gray leaned forward, holding their breath in curiosity.

She waited a bit more, ever the dramatist. “Margaret DuCharme.” Pause. “Alfred and Binky’s mother. Dr. Margaret is named after her grandmother. Doesn’t look a bit like her, not that Margaret DuCharme—today’s Margaret—isn’t attractive, but she looks like her grandmother’s people, the Minors. Acts more like a Minor, too. Intellectuals. Lawyers. Doctors. The DuCharmes were rich plantation men, gentlemen, ferociously conservative. I wouldn’t be surprised if the original Margaret’s husband didn’t toast the king, even though they made their fortune during the War of 1812 robbing British supply trains. A fortune, all created by a raving beauty, Sophie Marquet, who beguiled the Brits, found out where the pay wagon and the supply trains were going, then later, with a small group of men, robbed them. It was said the good lady sold some of the goods to our troops but never relinquished the stolen cash, of course.”

Sister and Gray had heard the history of Old Paradise, built by Sophie as was Custis Hall, the private school, many times. Daniella relished the victory of this early nineteenth-century woman so much it was delightful to hear her tell the tale.

“This state bursts with incredible people, past and present.” Sister nodded to Daniella, indicating she was an incredible person. She was not always an easy one to be around, or to be related to.

“Where was I? Oh, Margaret. Elegant woman married to a crashing bore. Margaret’s mother, the Minor, seethed with financial ambition. Margaret’s marriage was arranged by her mother—not exactly on a par with Consuelo Vanderbilt’s arranged marriage to the Duke of Marlborough, but just as bad.” Daniella knew her history, social and political. “Brenden DuCharme didn’t mistreat her. He took good care of her financially. When a man owns a huge place, thousands of acres, outbuildings, dependencies, all that, he doesn’t pay but so much attention to his wife. He just bored her. Take it from me, he was boredom personified.” She tapped her forehead. “Dumb as a sack of hammers. Brenden inherited everything. Never really had to work hard, solve problems, learn to get along with others. I wouldn’t call him rude, especially, just dense. Very dense.”

“Good-looking?”

“Are Binky and Alfred good-looking?” A pause. “I rest my case. Weevil zeroed in on her. She didn’t have a chance.”

“And you say she was lovely?” Gray asked.

“Was. Titian-colored hair. Blue eyes. Classic WASP features. Wonderful figure, full bosom, small waist. And, the best part, she could ride. They had opportunities to meet—and then again, there were fewer ways to catch someone then. If you had half a brain you could have an affair undetected.”

Now Sister believed Daniella had indeed enjoyed the delights of Weevil as well as those of other men. For one thing, her collection of jewelry was suspicious. A few husbands, yes. That much jewelry, no.

“What happened?” Gray finished his drink.

“Oh, like Evie Bancroft, sent to Europe. Paris for Margaret. Spoke perfect French. Then again, she did evidence a strong interest in fashion. Brenden said she was going to bring back a collection of the latest high fashion, which she did.” She shrugged. “Who is to say?”

“Aunt Dan. What do you think of that video? Truly?” Gray softly inquired.

“I think it’s Wesley Carruthers. It frightened me a little and yet,”—pause—“and yet it made my heart leap to see him.” She breathed deeply. “I miss old friends. I have outlived almost everyone of my generation. I have outlived my son. Losing friends, that’s the hardest thing about aging.” She stopped, remembered Sister’s past. “Forgive me if I have brought up a painful memory.”

Sister smiled. “Aunt Daniella, I quite agree. My son was killed in that farm accident in 1974. I think of him every day. Big Ray died in 1991. I don’t think of him quite as much, but we mostly got along. People I started out with once I was on my own are dying now. The generation of foxhunters in front of me from whom I learned so much are mostly gone. My old horses, my old hounds. I know exactly what you mean, but we go on. You certainly have.”

“Life is to be lived. We all have sorrows.” This was said with dignity. Daniella rolled the cold glass in her hand, then stopped. “Should you find anything out about Weevil, tell me. Ghosts don’t drink, but how I would love to offer him a perfect brandy. To remember the old folks, friends. The laughter. How we laughed. I can still hear your mother’s laughter, Gray. We were close, you know.” Then switching gears. “How is Lucinda?”

Lucinda Arnold, Sister’s mother-in-law, was alive, in her high nineties, in Richmond, Virginia.

“The same.”

“Which is to stay she’s still a bitch. Only the good die young,” Daniella remarked.

Gray looked at her. “Indeed.”

She reached for her ebony cane to crack him, stopped, threw her head back, and laughed.