Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 7

“Away of life swept away,” Sister mused as she read from her computer screen, an activity they only had time for in the evening. “Nationalizing an industry is never as good as letting those who know how to run it do their job. Here, look at this.”

Fretting over a crossword puzzle, Gray sighed and put down the paper to sit next to her at the desk. He’d learned long ago when Sister took a notion to go with it. “What is it you’re looking at?” he asked.

Filling the right side of the screen was a grainy sepia photo of acres upon acres of mature tobacco plants.

“Southside?” he guessed, naming that part of Virginia below the James River, closer to North Carolina.

“No. Pinar del Río in Cuba. This was Adolfo Galdos’ father’s plantation.”

Gray read the copy. “Four generations of tobacco growers. The Galdoses must have been among the first Spaniards to settle Cuba.”

She scrolled down, and more photos of the family appeared. She’d fiddled around doing Internet searches on tobacco shops, then searched for Sophia Galdos, knowing the designer would have a great deal written about her. Sister couldn’t erase Sophia’s charming father Adolfo from her mind. She found photos going back to the beginning of photography. The family members were such a good-looking bunch, and Sophia was a knockout. A former model, she had become a clothing designer, the transition a great rarity in the fashion world.

Gray and Sister read an interview with her, in which Sophia, now in her early forties, explained why she turned to design. Gray read aloud, “I wore so many bad clothes on the runway I knew I could do better.”

Sister laughed. “I like this girl. What a fierce business, though. A designer has to be creative, smart about money, and tough. Not only do you face the press with each season’s showing, you have to deal with all the behind-the-scenes backstabbing.” She studied Sophia’s most recent fashion line. “How about that?” she said, raising her eyebrows at a spare, elegant off-the-shoulder evening gown.

Returning to the old family photos, Sister recognized that Sophia’s cutting-edge designs also had echoes of the spare, gorgeous clothes that her female relations had worn long before air-conditioning.

Gray hunched forward. “So the plantation was nationalized and the Galdoses figured out that eventually they’d be imprisoned. Hmm. But when Adolfo Senior came with little Adolfo and his sister, he didn’t try to break into the tobacco business—or at least not growing it.”

“Well, this is just a shot in the dark, but back in Cuba they grew Criollo tobacco for cigars,” said Sister. “Up here it’s almost all cigarette tobacco. Cigar wrapper tobacco is grown in Connecticut, a little bit in Massachusetts. Who knows, honey, maybe after losing everything, Adolfo’s dad just couldn’t bear to start again in the same business. It doesn’t say here whether or not he was able to smuggle out seed, but if he did, he probably sold it to other Cubans emigrating to Nicaragua or the Dominican Republic. Why does anyone think revolution improves life?”

“It does, if you’re the revolutionary.” Gray half laughed. “Ever notice how they’re all intellectuals or lawyers? They stir up the lower classes, foment bloodshed, come to power, and perhaps the poor have more than before, but they sure as hell don’t have any power.”

She scrolled through more photos, more history, then returned to Sophia’s webpage featuring her latest clothing collection. “I feel so sorry for this woman. To lose your father like that.”

“Every day someone loses someone they love to violence, war, a car accident,” Gray said, voice rising. “But this is uncanny. Somehow this Boston murder is related to Adolfo’s death, don’t you think?”

“It’s certainly strange,” said Sister. “The man who owned the tobacco shop in Boston was also a second-generation Cuban.” She drummed her fingers on the highly polished surface of the mahogany desk. “There has to be a connection.”

“Maybe. But it’s all far away. I don’t think our two tobacco shops in Charlottesville are in danger.”

“Don’t be so sure, Gray. The man who owns the shop in Seminole Square is Cuban.”

“So he is. I forgot about that.” Gray considered that. “Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m sure he’s safe.”

“I hope so,” she said before changing the subject. “You were groaning over there with that puzzle. Why do you do crosswords if they make you so miserable?”

“There’s nothing quite as satisfying as one completely filled out.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“Ditto.”

They laughed and she leaned in toward him, kissing him on the cheek.

He rubbed his unshaven cheek. “Sorry. A little rough.”

“That’s one of the marvelous things about being a woman. No scraping of the face. However, there are a few other drawbacks.”

“You have no drawbacks.”

“Oh, the honey dripping from those lips.” She smiled at him. “Okay. While you were suffering the tortures of the damned with one down and twenty-three across, I looked up American Smokes. Nothing came up. The company isn’t listed anywhere. There are a few small tobacco companies—one using white burley tobacco, which they claim is mild and has a lower nicotine content—but no American Smokes.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” said Gray. “No cartons in the stores either, I guess, or the media would surely shoot a close-up of the brand, you know, a photo or explanation in the paper.”

“Doesn’t make sense.” She returned to more online reading on the subject of tobacco. “Air-cured or fire-cured can affect nicotine content. I looked that up, too. I sure remember the fire-curing. Hey, did I tell you the fox we put to ground ran into the old curing shed at Kasmir’s property? Still gave off that wonderful fragrance. You know, that smoky sweet smell that makes you want to close your eyes and dream?” She caught her breath. “But back to the subject at hand: nothing about American Smokes.”

“So you’ve been researching tobacco, types, curing, all that? May I ask why?”

“Two murders occurred in tobacco shops, both with Cuban owners, no money was taken. All of this compels me in a strange way. I know this is really crazy but I almost feel I owe it to Adolfo Galdos. He was a true gentleman.”

“Doesn’t sound strange. Events happen in life that galvanize our sense of honor. This is one.”

“Don’t hear that word much anymore: honor.”

He nodded. “When I walked over to take you back to the hotel, after the police released you and Tootie, they didn’t know if anything was missing from the humidor or the safe. Did they ever find out if anything had been taken?”

“The paper said nothing. Same in Boston. I’ll bet the police, the Feds, good old Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms crawled all over those stories.”

“It will all come out in the wash.”

“I just hope no other bodies come out with it.” She looked out into the darkness. “Our first real winter storm.”

“Want to make a bet on how long the power lasts?”

“No.” She cut off her computer. “Let’s think good thoughts.”

“Right. I stopped by the home place thinking I might see my brother. Thought Sam might have heard something about Crawford bitching about your tangle at the Hunt Ball. Sam wasn’t there, but the place was pin tidy.”

Gray and his brother lived in the Lorillard home place, a lovely large clapboard house maybe four miles from Sister’s place as the crow flies, the Bancroft’s land coming between the two farms. Gray spent more and more time at Sister’s. Neither one mentioned living together. Gray liked getting away, keeping an eye on his brother. He soaked up memories when home. Sister enjoyed her independence, but she was equally happy when Gray stayed with her. Perhaps someday they’d cohabit. Sister was not a needy woman. She liked her own company.

“Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” the calico cat asked the dogs.

“Why?” Rooster picked up his head.

“Soon it’ll be bedtime. If you go now, you won’t have to go in the middle of the night.” Golliwog feigned concern. “It’s snowing hard. The dog door might be covered over and you won’t get out! If you end up going in the house, you know she’ll have a running fit.”

The Doberman rose with a little groan. “You’re right.”

Eyes half-closed, Golliwog waited on the back of the sofa until she heard the dog door flap shut. Then she shot off the sofa.

Sister turned her head as the cat sped toward the kitchen, but she didn’t think too much of it.

Golliwog pressed through the animal door from the kitchen into the mudroom, then positioned herself right by the next animal door, cut into the mudroom entrance. The heavy plastic flap had a magnetic strip so when animals went in and out the door would fasten shut, thereby keeping out the heat, cold, rain, and snow.

She waited. Given the bad weather, neither dog wished to be out in it, so it wasn’t too long before Raleigh stuck his head through the door to enter. Golliwog gave the sleek black dog a nasty rap on his tender nose.

“That hurt!” Raleigh cried out.

“Die, dog!” Golliwog puffed to twice her size, ego to match.

“I’ll get in. I’ll break her neck,” Rooster growled. Golly, having heard the threat, moved to the side. When Rooster stuck his head through, he didn’t see her at first, and out came the claws. Golly drew blood this time.

“Ow, ow, ow!” the harrier howled.

Hearing the commotion, Sister hurried out to the mudroom. Golly didn’t budge.

Sister opened the mudroom door, a gust of wind blew snow on the floor and the two dogs, heads down, hurried inside. Drops of blood fell on the slate floor. Neither dog looked the cat in the eye as she was prancing sideways, hoping to incite even more terror.

“Hateful. Hateful. Hateful.” Sister knew exactly what the cat had done.

“I am the Queen of All I Survey! Dogs do my bidding. Humans feed me right on time.” With that loud declaration, she shot through the door into the kitchen, crossed the floor at a good clip, and ran up the narrow back stairway to the main bedroom. Then she dashed out into the long upstairs hallway to run victory laps.

Gray heard the paw-pounding even down in the den. Sister came in and listened as the dogs joined them.

“She’s mental. She needs counseling.” Rooster had watched enough TV talk shows to parrot such claptrap. “Anger management, that is what’s called for.”

The laughter rolled out of Sister in waves as she told Gray what the conniving cat had done.

“Cats and women.” Gray laughed. “They’ll do as they damned please and we’d better get used to it.”

This made Sister laugh all the more. She reached for a Kleenex to dab her eyes. Up above, Golly was still running victory laps.

“She has to slow down sooner or later.” Sister sat down. “You know I forgot to tell you the Custis Hall girls came out Tuesday. Tariq rode with them. Rode well, too. Their coach has the flu. He had to keep up with those girls, then get them all back to school. Being a coach is quite a job. Being a stand-in coach can’t be easy either, but what fun working with young people.

“He’s better off here than in Egypt. Sooner or later things will stabilize there. It seems like the world is turning upside down, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” She switched back to the hunt. “Actually we had quite a few people for a Tuesday.”

“Bet a lot of them figured we’d be snowed in for Thursday’s hunt.”

“That’s what the Weather Channel said, but this part of central Virginia doesn’t seem to pay much attention to forecasts. It’s the mountains. They create their own weather system.”

“Don’t know how those forecasters do it, but I wish I could be wrong half the time and still keep a job.” He chuckled. “I learn a lot from the channel, though. I really like it when they explain things like plateaus, vortexes, and stuff like that.”

“Bull. You like the weathergirls.”

He smiled devilishly. “Yes, I do. Sister, when a man stops looking, it’s all over. And I hasten to add no one is as fascinating as you.”

She nodded at the compliment before returning to the topic of Tuesday’s hunt. “Oh, Donny Sweigart was out and on one of Sybil’s older horses. He said the hauling business has really slowed down. Tough times. Given that it started to snow the last half hour of the hunt, no one had the time to catch up or chat. We all know how quickly the roads can go bad, especially out there at Old Paradise.”

“McMillan.” Gray smiled. “The Egyptian teacher. Just thinking about his last name. Ever notice the more sophisticated a society gets, the more people mix and marry?”

“The Scots and Irish blanket the world,” she playfully reported. “So some Scot somewhere fell in love with an Egyptian. You know, Nicaragua has many people with Scottish surnames. There were so many troubles in Great Britain over the centuries that in certain historical periods, a person’s best shot might just be to get the hell out.”

“Well, it made our country great.”

“Yes, it did.” She was ever mindful of her nation’s odd genetic makeup, one often covered up, too, as certain groups were once considered undesirable.

Sooner or later, as Gray said, it all comes out in the wash.

He lit up one of his Dunhill Menthols, which cleared his sinuses, and put his feet up on the leather hassock.

“How come you never started?”

“I don’t know. It never appealed to me. I wish you wouldn’t, but it’s not my business to live anyone else’s life for them. I feel the same way about smoking as I do about alcohol and drugs. If you can handle it, fine. If you can’t, seek help. None of those substances does a body much good, but I really don’t think demonizing them helps. And I think sin taxes are just vile. In my little foray on the computer, I was looking at the demographics of who smokes. For cigarettes, it’s overwhelmingly those who are less well educated. So we punish them with taxes. How many poor people do you know who make the laws?”

“Such taxes are punitive,” Gray said, crossing his legs. “I tell myself I’m going to stop smoking and then I don’t. It really is a bad habit.”

“There are worse.”

“Oh?” He gave her an expectant look.

“Yes, like not taking care of your goddess.”

“Come over here. I’ll do my best.”

As she walked over to him, she stopped for a moment, cocked an ear. “She’s stopped.”

Finally, Golly had ceased. She was most likely in the bathroom then, unspooling the toilet paper.