Full Cry

CHAPTER 35

Each time he blew the horn, Shaker’s ribs hurt, taped though they were. Yesterday’s rare day of sunshine was followed by more gray clouds this Tuesday.

In the far distance, the grand estate of Rattle and Snap, a Georgian pile, red brick with massive white Doric pillars, reposed on a hill overlooking its snow-filled acres. While it was exquisitely beautiful, everyone who bought it lost pots of money, eventually leaving it to the next rich outsider.

Sister, back leading the field, wondered if places didn’t have good spirits or bad spirits. Maybe the Chinese were correct in lining up their buildings and doorways according to their ideas of energy. Feng shui made as much sense as any other system for attracting luck.

The hunt club enjoyed a bit of luck as Alexander Vajay, owner of Chapel Cross, purchased a lottery ticket, one of the scratch kind, and won a thousand dollars. He happily gave half to the hunt club before the hounds took off this frosty morning.

Alexander, with his dark Indian skin, white teeth, and expressive eyes, delighted Sister and the members. He and his family had been members for only a year, but their exuberance, matched by their warmth and sophistication, had made the family quite popular.

Tuesday’s field consisted of twelve people: Tedi, Edward, Sam, Gray, Crawford, Marty, Alexander, Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Jennifer, and Sari. The girls lucked out with a snow day. Two flakes of snow make principals shaky, the result being kids make up snow days well into May and sometimes June. It was one way to learn that one pays for one’s pleasures, but Sister always thought if a child had mastered the work, let him or her go.

They’d had a few good runs in the snow but nothing longer than fifteen minutes. It was one of those hunt-and-peck days, but still, anything beats a blank. The temperature nudged up to the midforties and then skidded right back down into the midthirties. Sister wondered what was behind it. Probably another storm, more snow. No one would be likely to forget this winter.

Shaker circled back toward the outbuildings behind the mansion. He might have a chance to pick up a line going in or out of the hay barns. The puddles in the dirt road were shining ice. The ice, close to an inch thick, could bear the weight of a hound, but not a horse.

Aztec, careful with his hooves, mistrusted the shine off the frozen puddles. He’d try to sidestep them, but too many puddles filled the road. Sister squeezed him on. He did it, but complained by flicking his ears back and tightening the muscles along his spine as though he was going to hump up.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I don’t like this,” Aztec answered.

“Oh, come on.” She hit him with her spurs.

“I’m doing it, but I still don’t like it.” He vaulted the puddle instead of going through it.

Fortunately Sister had a tight seat. “Wiener.”

“I’ll take any jump in anyone’s hunt field, but I don’t like ice.” He kept going, his trot eating up the yards.

This chase, out of a trot for all of five minutes, ended a mile and a half from the mansion, the fox ducking into the abandoned mule barns. Back before World War I, Melton supported a workforce of over three hundred laborers— men, women, and children. The main crops—apples, hay, corn, and some tobacco—needed many hands to plant, nurture, then pluck. All the old tobacco barns, built of heavy stone, stood, the lingering smoky scent tangible even to the human nose.

Mindful of Shaker’s ribs and his pride, Sister felt they’d been out for two hours, shown some sport on a dicey day. As he dismounted, blowing “Gone to Ground,” she waited for him to finish.

Riding on Showboat, she signaled him by tapping her hat with her crop. He nodded. He hurt more than he cared to admit.

The field, feeling the precipitous temperature drop now that they weren’t moving along, sighed with relief.

Gray rode with Sister as they turned back.

“What I most like about Melton is the mile-long drive lined with sugar maples.”

“It’s a beautiful estate,” she said.

“Did you watch Westminster last night?”

“Glued to the set. Loved the English setter in the hunting dog division. Thought the corgi was fabulous in the herding group. Course tonight we see hounds, terriers, and toys. And then the Best in Show. I guarantee it won’t be a hound, no matter how spectacular the hound. Just makes my teeth hurt, I hate that so much!” She laughed at herself. “I’ve half a mind to take my hounds to Madison Square Garden and really give the audience a show!”

Crawford joined them. “Sister, I have an idea about the staff.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Love to hear it.”

“What if we advertised in Horse Country’s newspaper and The Chronicle of the Horse for an intern? You know, someone in vet school or a college kid who rides on the show-jumping team. You and Shaker would have help in the summer, and it wouldn’t cost as much as full-time help.” He caught his breath, the cold air stinging his throat. “If it proved efficient, then in the fall we could organize some fund-raisers for a permanent position.”

“Excellent idea,” Sister replied. “Even if we couldn’t hire full-time help, we’d make progress. Excellent,” she repeated.

Sister turned to see how the others were coming along behind them. Sam and Marty rode well to the rear, far away from Xavier, Clay, and Ronnie, all three in an animated discussion.

Back at the trailers, Sister asked Ronnie, “What was that all about?”

“Sam Lorillard.”

“Oh.”

Ronnie loosened his horse’s girth. “X swears he’s drinking again, but X hates him so much we’re taking it with a grain of salt. I don’t know.” He shook his head.

“Here.” She took the saddle as he took off the bridle, then slipped on a high-quality leather halter from Fennell’s in Lexington, Kentucky.

“You know, Ronnie, when you were a Pony Clubber with Ray, I told you to keep the saddle on the horse, but to loosen the girth. They get cold-backed in this weather if you take the saddle off.”

“I know, I know,” he answered as though he were still twelve, pony in hand. “But Regardless,” his horse was named Regardless, “is cold-backed. I have this big gel pad.” He took the saddle from her, stepped up into his trailer tack room, put the saddle on the saddletree and the bridle on the bridle rack, and plucked out a blue gel pad wrapped in warm towels. “Feel it.”

“Still warm.”

“These things are amazing. They’ll stay warm for hours.” He stepped down, put the pad on Regardless’s back, looped a soft web overgirth over it. Then he draped on the sweat sheet, pulling a sturdy blanket over all. “This really works.”

“I should have known not to chide you. You were my best Pony Clubber, even better than Ray Jr.”

Ronnie beamed. “Thanks.”

“Ronnie, forgive me for asking you this. I don’t want to put you on the spot, but, well . . . can you in your wildest imaginings think that Clay could be part of a criminal ring, whether it’s furniture or something else?”

He faced her as he stood on the other side of his horse, putting his arms over Regardless’s back. “No. But having said that, do we truly know anyone? I guess we’re all capable of things that aren’t pretty. But no. He makes enough money honestly.”

“Greed. It’s a vice like lust. Or maybe I should say it’s one of the seven deadly sins.” She stood close to Ronnie. “It’s irrational—obviously—and Izzy has expensive tastes.”

“That she does. Wraps him around her little finger.” Ronnie grimaced for a second. “Still, I can’t imagine Clay as a crook. Just can’t. Now,” he lowered his voice as he rubbed Regardless’s forehead, “I can imagine Izzy doing many out-of-the-way things.”

“Yes, I can, too. Think she’s faithful to Clay?”

After a long pause, Ronnie replied, “No. Do you?” “No, but I can’t judge these things.” She sighed, then brightened. “Let me tell you again that your lottery ticket idea was just the best.”

“How about Alex winning a thousand dollars?”

“I know. Five hundred for the club, and every dollar helps as you well know.”

“Yes.” He smiled sheepishly. “Obviously, I don’t have the gambler’s gene.”

“That’s why you’re treasurer.”

On the way back to the farm, driving slowly on roads that remained slick in some spots, while the slush turned to ice in others, Sister and Betty rehashed the day’s hunt.

Betty fretted, “I hope that kid of mine is being sensible.”

“She’ll be at the stable. She left before we did, and she’s a good driver.”

“She’s young. She hasn’t seen as many bad roads as we have.”

“Betty, there are days when I look like nine miles of bad road.” Sister laughed at her. “Stop worrying.”

Betty scrunched back down in the passenger side of the truck. “You could never look like nine miles of bad road.”

“Aren’t you sweet?”

“Ha.”

They rode in silence for another mile, then Sister said, “You never know the length of a snake until it’s dead.”

“Huh?”

“My dad used to say that. I was thinking about the fire, all that. Might be a long snake, you know?” Sister answered.

“Whoever is behind this will screw up sooner or later. They always do.” Betty crossed her arms over her chest.

“But that’s just it,” Sister became animated. “They already have. If everything’s running smoothly, seems to me, you don’t have to kill people.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Get rid of people or partners, and the money is all yours, if it’s about money. And when you think of it, why two drunks and one, well, working-class guy. Doesn’t seem to me much money there. Sorry to call Anthony a drunk. Seems disrespectful somehow.”

“He was.” Sister gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I keep remembering his laugh, the time he threw the basketball from half court when the buzzer sounded in the game against Lee High his senior year. Jesus, what happens to people?”

“Life,” Betty said.