Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 16

“Rabbit. Rabbit.” Sister filed the treasurer’s reports from the 1950s that she had given to Sara, who returned them. She figured Sister could always use the extra copies.

“You always say that the first day of any month.” Shaker, at his desk, smiled at her.

“Yes. If you say it then it will be a good month. It’s like eating black-eyed peas the minute the clock strikes the twelfth bell New Year’s Eve. Good luck.”

“Well, what about bad luck? The number thirteen? A black cat walking in front of you? You walking under a ladder?” His rust-colored eyebrows rose slightly in amusement.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Pfiffle.”

“You surely believe in bad luck or you wouldn’t be ensuring good luck.”

“Shaker, don’t be logical. I forbid it.”

They both laughed.

He folded his hands together on top of his desk. “I’ve been thinking—”

“I’m already scared.” She smiled at him, so happy in his company. “Go on. I’ve girded my loins.”

“How about if we have a joint hound walk once a week with Skiff? She only has Sam to help her, and he’s primarily working in the barn. The pack is much improved, but could use a little tightening up. With us, she’d have Betty and Tootie.”

“If Crawford agrees to it, fine. As a courtesy we should take hounds there every other week; she hauls hers to us on the odd week. Say she comes here the first and third day, like Wednesday. We go there the second and fourth in the month. Remember, we’re dealing with Crawford. If everything is mapped out, explained, quantified, he’ll rest easy.”

“Right. Hey, Sara gave you back the old treasurer’s reports. Anything?”

“No. We have no bills or receipts from 1947 to 1954, but Sara’s husband, Dale, said everything looked in order. He even checked back through other hunt club records and prices were in line. He’s a whiz at the computer.”

“Glad somebody is.”

“You do the bloodline research on the computer. I still use the old studbooks. I can find information faster the old way than the new way. Why throw out decades of what works, for me, anyway?” She leaned back in her chair. “Yesterday’s hunt was one of the best I’ve ever been on. You did a fantastic job and so did Skiff. You both kept those hounds together—and Diana, what a show. I know I’ve blabbed all this before.”

“Was something.”

“And Freddie Thomas missed it. You know half the club has called her to tell her.” Sister smiled.

“Any hunt you miss is always a barn burner.” Shaker smiled back.

She asked, “What do you make of it, the cowhorn echo—if it is an echo?”

“I don’t know. If someone wanted to screw up the hunt, they’d blow while hounds worked. They’d try to get them off a line or onto a new one. It does sound like an echo, but deep, clear. Why would anyone blow the horn? Why would Tom say he saw a ghost?”

“I don’t know,” Sister said. She’d told him about Tom’s encounter once back at the kennels after yesterday’s hunt.

Shaker pushed his baseball cap back on his head. “Tom’s pretty old. Seems sharp as a tack but maybe some gears slipped.”

“I don’t know. He seemed completely reasonable.”

“Boss, you don’t think it’s a ghost, do you?”

“Well—no, and yet think about Hangman’s Ridge, where I never go willingly. I feel something.”

“It is creepy.” Shaker exhaled so loudly that Raleigh, asleep, lifted his head.

Rooster was knocked out cold.

“Bear with me. If it is a ghost, it is beyond our powers to understand. If it is a live human being, there’s something we don’t know. This is too unusual. I have never heard of anything like this in any century vis-à-vis other hunts. You read about furious landowners, dukes in a snit, someone chasing hounds with a broom, that sort of thing. But a horn call following a hunting call, distant, mellow—beautiful, really. Never. A dead person appearing. Never.”

“Here’s my prediction: We’ll be back at Chapel Cross in about two weeks. By mid-October, you usually go a bit farther for the fixtures. Beveridge Hundred, that’s close to Old Paradise. If we hunt there and we hear the cowhorn again, then I’d say we have a true mystery,” he confidently said.

“Good point.”

—

While Master and huntsman exchanged views in the kennel office, Yvonne sat down at her computer. She’d rearranged some furniture at the dependency, created a small office overlooking the garden in the back. Mums, zinnias popped with color on the first day of October.

Before hitting “send,” she thought a moment about yesterday. When she and Vic used to come for Parents’ Day at Custis Hall, they’d only attended one hunt. Tootie asked them to do so. Vic complained the whole time. Their other visits involved the usual meetings, entertainments, campus strolls for parents. Yvonne was beginning to realize why Tootie loved what she did.

Vic threatened her through his lawyers to her lawyers that he would willingly go to court to prove she was in no way instrumental to the success of his now many business interests. He’d put her name on the documents to please her. Really, she deserved perhaps two million. He felt that was generous.

She didn’t raise her voice; she listened to her lawyers present the offer, as they were legally bound to do. She had been critical to his success, and she knew it. This wasn’t just ego, or a woman trying to prove she was as good as a man. She had been there every step of the way. Those steps added up to triple-digit millions, real power in the state of Illinois as well as a national platform, thanks to the magazine and cable stations.

Yvonne, as the younger woman, watched Oprah Winfrey and Sheila Johnson rise. She admired them, learned from them, kept her nose clean, literally—no cocaine, and the modeling world was full of it. Not terribly social, she watched everyone and everything. Coming from a solid middle-class family, she had acquired a good education at Northwestern University. But it was her looks that put her on the map. She was smart enough to use them.

When Vic came courting, he was one of many. Over time she warmed to him because of his drive, his commitment to economic parity and opportunity for African Americans, and his energy. Also, he allowed her, while dating, to advise him on the fashion section of his new magazine. Her advice was golden. She began to love him.

Not anymore. She hit “send.”

“You reap what you sow.” She half smiled, then repeated herself. “You reap what you sow, Victor.”

Tomorrow, starting with the morning news, her prophecy would be devastatingly apparent.

—

Back at Roughneck Farm, Sunday night, Gray listened as Sister once again ran through her thoughts concerning Weevil. Gray was patient, a little curious.

She concluded with, “I don’t know what the game is, but if Weevil or whatever is out there wanted to scare people, don’t you think he’d be jumping out saying, ‘Boo!’?”

“Let me fix you a drink.” He kissed her cheek, walked to the bar, dropped two oversized ice cubes into a glass, made her an old-fashioned. “Here. Sit down and sip.”

She took the glass. “This will drive me bats, absolutely bats.”

Gray, Scotch in hand, joined her on the sofa. “It is driving you bats.” He changed the subject. “I’m glad we bought that ice machine. Such big ice cubes.” He rattled his glass. “Almost orchestral.”

She smiled at him. Gray could always make her feel better, calmer, more focused. She returned to her obsession. “Any ideas?”

“One.” He leaned toward her. “I’ll ask Aunt Daniella to tell me more. I know she’s holding back. She loves to be wheedled. Maybe she does know more.”

“If anyone knows more, she will.” Sister smiled. “I said I would do this, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. I’ll see if Ben Sidell will let me go through the old files on Weevil’s disappearance. And I’ll see if Marion has come up with something.”

“She’d have called you.”

“You’re right, but I know she’s out there digging.”

“Digging. 1954. Where is the body?” Gray took a long sip.

“Maybe the ghost will show us.”

“You know, you made a good point about whoever or whatever this is not being interested in frightening people. From what I gather, the man—or the apparition—didn’t threaten Tom?”

“No. Just asked a few questions.” She stared out the window. “And he knew we were having a joint meet.”

“Can’t be that hard to find out. He was a huntsman. He understands cubbing. He knows the territory.” Gray put down his drink. “I’m not saying he’s a ghost, but whoever he is, he knows something about hunting.”

She looked into the night, stars now visible. Golly, stretched to the max on the coffee table, snored, a little tiny snore. The dogs slept on the rug.

“Gray, a man disappeared in 1954. He appears to have returned. Why did he disappear? Lots of theories, but no facts. All assume he was murdered. If Weevil is a ghost, he can take revenge if he so chooses. But the time is probably past. Whoever killed him surely is dead—or at death’s door, being two years older than God. Which reminds me, Tom said Weevil recalled some hunt details from his time carrying the horn. Said he teased Tom about whipping-in.”

This made Gray shake his head. “You know, it’s crazy. Flat-out crazy.”

Sister agreed, then said, “If it’s not about revenge, all being dead, what’s left?”

He blinked. “Love?”

“Wouldn’t his love or lovers be dead?”

“What if she had his child? What if the child, who would now be in his or her seventies, was alive? What if there are now grandchildren? Curiosity? Love?” He then thought a bit more. “Money. Some sum that never materialized for Weevil, but was promised. Or maybe he did have the money, or whatever it was of great value, and managed to hide it before he was killed.”

“A premonition?”

“Considering what we’ve learned about Weevil, just the little bit, it wouldn’t take much to have a premonition. Sounds like a lot of men were after his hide.”

“What about a woman?”

“ ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ ” He nodded.

“Given any of those possibilities, what happens if one of us gets in the way?”

Gray, voice low, remarked, “ ‘Gone to Ground.’ Perhaps, we, too, will be gone to ground.”

“With one exception. When the fox goes to ground, he’s safe. I don’t think we would be safe.”

“I don’t think we would be either.”