Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 26

Sister peered at her phone as she listened to hounds merrily eating in the large feed room. Not that she could hear them chewing; what she heard was the enthusiastic pushing of the long metal feeders.

She was smiling, for they’d worked well at Close Shave this morning, pushing out one fox, one coyote, and a huge herd of deer. They ignored the deer, ran the coyote until he zipped out of the territory. On the long walk back to the trailers, they hopped another fox. This particular fellow headed for Foxglove Farm, but they lost him in the woods between Foxglove and Close Shave.

Sister had hunted in her mother’s womb. She toddled after hounds as soon as she could walk. In the early part of her seventh decade she still had no idea how a fox can vanish. As near as she could tell, neither did anyone else throughout the centuries.

One could always tell a bullshitter in foxhunting, an individual who answered all the mysteries. How she would love to inflict the shade of Squire Osbaldeston, an extraordinary Master in nineteenth-century England, upon said know-it-all. Osbaldeston wrote an autobiography about his hunting life, which she would reread for fortification. He obviously couldn’t write an autobiography about the rest of his life—too many ladies of quality would have been compromised, as well as ladies kept by a gentleman for pleasure. Thinking about the squire, a small, well-built man, a true natural athlete, she returned to Weevil. Medium height, also well built, it would seem that the gorgeous man had much in common with the rather handsome squire, with the exception that he lacked a great fortune. A fortune the squire and his family squandered. He rather unchivalrously blamed his mother for extravagant tastes.

Peering at the close-ups and complete views of Weevil’s cowhorn she wondered if the legendary squire’s horn was in someone’s hands. All those great huntsmen from the late-seventeenth century to today—what had become of their crops, horns, hats, coats?

Nose to the phone, she flipped through the views. Rising, she placed the phone on her desk and walked to the feed room.

“They earned it,” she said to Shaker and Tootie. “Aces, what a good puppy.”

The sleek youngster, still a bit skinny, lifted his head, softened kibble falling out of his jaws. “Thank you.”

“I ran ahead of him!” Aero bragged.

Sister listened to Aces’s littermate, remarking to Shaker, “He’s so keen, Aero, but he did overrun the line today. Aces has an old head on a young body. A careful boy.”

“Is.” Shaker beamed at his charges. “The young entry will settle though, even Aero. It’s the magic of the A line.”

“Tootie, I need your young eyes. Come into the office when you’re done.”

Shaker said, “She can come now. We’re done here.”

“Well, that was a fast power wash.” Sister was impressed.

“Since the hounds spent most of the night outside in their condos, not much to do. Building those condos was one of the smartest things we ever did. They love them.”

“Has turned out. I figure part of it is lounging on the decks in the sun. There are enough condos that they can be with friends. Really they’re no different from us. Some get along and some don’t. Which reminds me: Saturday’s hunt starts at After All. I expect a large field. All to the good, of course, until we get in tight territory or jammed at Pattypan Forge. You know we’ll have to reverse field. I dread it.”

Shaker laughed. “You’re the field master, cuss ’em out.”

“Right. They’re nervous enough as it is, trying to back their horses into the bush. I’m amazed none of us has ever been kicked in there.”

“There’s always a first,” Shaker replied as he opened the door to the boys’ room.

The girls stood over the feed troughs. First, they were obedient. Second, they could still lick the troughs with less competition.

“What a reassuring thought,” she called over her shoulder.

Tootie, in tow, took a last moment to pat Cora.

Once in the office, she pulled up a chair, for Sister motioned for her to do so. Wedged next to the tall woman, she watched the tiny screen.

Sister stopped on one angle. “Look at this.”

“The fox under the then fallen-down cottage. He’s looking at the kennels.”

“I wonder about that, too. This scrimshaw is delightful, but a bit crude in spots. Keep looking.”

“The kennels, the arcades.”

“And?”

Tootie squinted, held the phone up to her face. “Kind of looks like a mark on a brick.”

“Like an X?”

More scrutiny. “Yes.”

“Let’s go find it.”

Out they walked, the sun bright, the sky now sparkling blue, for it had been cloudy. The possible mark was on the arcade leading to the girls’ big indoor room.

Both women looked up at the arcades.

“Shaker.”

Answering her raised voice he hollered back. “Yo.”

“Bring the little light hammer.”

“Why?”

“Just bring the damned hammer and while you’re at it, the stepladder.”

They could hear his grumbling—good-natured grumbling, that of a man taking orders from his beloved Master. He soon appeared, the stepladder over his shoulder, the hammer in his belt. “Madam.”

“I love it when you listen.” She teased him. “Right here, under the third arch, but next to the pillar.”

He unfolded the six-foot ladder, sturdy.

“I think this ladder is as old as you are. They don’t make them like this anymore.” He teased right back.

“It’s older than I am. Was here when Ray inherited the property. And you’re right, they don’t make them like that anymore, nor people like me either.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Tootie, up you go. Next to the top step.”

Sister then slipped the hammer from behind Shaker’s belt and handed it up to Tootie. “You saw the X. Tap those bricks.”

Tootie leaned over, tapping the pillar, not the arch. They all listened.

Sister checked her phone again. “Try the bricks next to the edge and near where the arch stands.”

“Okay. Hard to tell from that drawing.”

“It is,” Sister replied.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ting.

“Do that again.”

Ting.

“See if it’s loose.” Sister stood on her tiptoes.

Tootie handed down the hammer, wiggled with both hands. “It’s a little loose but I can’t move it out.”

Shaker, now as curious as the two women, offered, “Let me do it.”

Tootie stepped down. Shaker climbed up as Sister held the ladder.

He pressed the brick with his fingertips. Then he slid it side to side.

“A little movement.” He began to sweat. “This isn’t a full brick. What’s that expression, ‘one brick shy of a load’? This isn’t shy, but it’s been altered in some way.”

For almost ten minutes he worked and worked.

“What if I get a putty knife? You can slide it underneath,” Sister offered.

“Good idea.” He took a break as Sister trotted to the toolroom and opened the drawer of the old bureau, containing everything from Gorilla Tape to a hand sander and a power drill. Those tools reposed in the extra-large bottom drawer.

Spying a larger putty knife, Sister grabbed it, hurried back, handed it up to Shaker.

“Got it!” He removed the brick, which was a façade with sides to hold it in place.

Reaching in, he delicately removed a black box that fit perfectly in the space. Stepping down, he handed it to Sister.

Sister realized this wasn’t a black box. “It’s silver. Tarnished.”

She opened it; the hinges were a bit stiff. Inside rested a velvet drawstring bag. Underneath that lay a heavy paper envelope, with exquisite handwriting in blue-black ink.

It read, “My Love.”

“Come on.” Sister led them back to the desks, where she gently removed the contents of the box.

“God,” Shaker exclaimed.

Tootie, wordless, picked up a stunning diamond-and-emerald necklace. The center emerald had to be seven carats. Each emerald to the sides of this, as they went up toward the clasp, was a reduction of about a half carat each, until close to the clasp, where two small emeralds surrounded by small diamonds flanked the clasp. The diamonds also diminished by a half carat each until this point.

A bracelet matched the necklace. A bounty of rings, with large stones of the precious and semiprecious varieties, rested on the desktop, along with a man’s Patek Philippe watch, paper thin, an alligator band, now cracked and dry, attached.

The three, mesmerized, were speechless.

Finally, Sister broke the silence. “I believe this is the first time these treasures have seen daylight in sixty-three years.”

Then she carefully lifted the envelope, the crème-colored paper still crisp, proving its highest quality.

They almost held their breath, then Sister flipped up the back of the envelope, which had been opened, removing the paper.