Full Cry. The Hunt Ball

Charlotte’s face registered the news. “Damn. Damn him if it’s true, the old fool.”

“Both girls said he never touched them and they’ve never heard of him touching anyone else.”

“That’s cold comfort.”

“I know,” Sister sighed. “Charlotte, what was Al’s relationship with Bill?”

Charlotte blinked.“They weren’t close. Al showed off the theater department to alumnae, but who wouldn’t? Our theater department and our riding program are sensational. The theater is easy to show. It’s much more difficult to highlight your English department unless an alumna or a parent will sit through oneof Alpha’s remarkable lectures.”

“She is remarkable.” Sister admired Alpha for her knowledge and for her demeanor. “It’s just the two of us—the walls don’t have ears—what about Amy? Was it over?”

“For him, not for her. When Al married Rachel, Amy broke bad. Soured. She never bounced back. Of course, they kept their affair quiet while it was going on. And I don’t know how you feel about this, but I don’t disapprove of relationships between staff or administration. Neither was married. And as I said, they kept it off campus. I don’t know why it ended, only that she was heartbroken and then angry.”

“Angry enough to kill?”

“No. She might have wished him dead, but no.”

“Dead end?”

“So far.” Charlotte passed a tray of lemon curd tarts. “Doesn’t quite go with shepherd’s pie, but it’s all I could scare up from the dining room.”

“I like lemon curd tarts,” Sister said, picking one off the plate. “Are there other affairs of which you know?”

“No,” Charlotte wavered. “Well, none that I’m certain about.”

“Such as.”

“Knute. I think Knute may be sleeping with Bunny. I asked her. We’re friends. She denied it, but she also knows the consequences. He’s married. Something like that could cause harm to the school if it came out.”

“Speaking of coming out—the girls. I assume some of them are sleeping with one another.”

“They are.”

“In the old days they’d have been expelled.”

“Their faculty advisers talk to them. On the one hand, we don’t berate them, on the other hand, we don’t encourage them. But you know, that’s been going on at same-sex schools since the earth was cooling. I pride myself that we’re honest about it. We offer counseling if they ask for it. It’s an age of experimentation. I think, not that I’d say it publicly, that if they don’t at least get crushes on one another, they aren’t developing. It’s part of growing up.”

“Yes, it is. Do you think that might have something to do with Pamela’s behavior?”

“I’ve thought about it. She doesn’t seem to feel affection for anybody.”

“A bad sign.”

“I know.”

“Is it possible Al Perez could have crossed the line with any student?”

“No,” Charlotte forcibly replied. “No. Why he was killed, I don’t know. I can’t come up with a thing. But he didn’t sleep with students. If he had, he’d have been out of here so fast, no one would have seen his dust.”

“I am sorry to come with troublesome news. You’re going through a terrible time. I wish I could do something for you.”

“Being here helps. Knowing I can tell you anything.”

“Tootie did mention something else of interest. She said Pamela was mad at her because she wouldn’t take part in the protest, but she thought Custis Hall should do more, should look into its history. She’s levelheaded, that Tootie.”

“I love that kid. She’s one of those special ones. Valentina is, too, in a completely different way. One is thoughtful, highly intelligent, and reserved. The other one is charismatic, bright, and high-spirited.”

“They are beguiling, as is Felicity, quiet and steady.”

“So you know, I appointed Tootie and Pamela as well as Valentina to search for a person who can evaluate the artifacts. They also have to find someone who can counsel us on the period in which Custis Hall was built, and lastly, they need to come up with research and writing projects for students.I’ve put them to work and I’m hoping by making them work together some of their hostilities will abate. Each of them is capable, it’s the emotional component, but then it always is, isn’t it, regardless of age?”

“In theory we get better at working with people who go about a task differently than we do.”

“In theory.”

“Still, it’s hard to work with people we plain don’t like.”

C H A P T E R 1 2

Tradition binds us to the dead for good or for ill. Hunting defines human cooperation. It was probably the first large-scale enterprise we undertook as a species. Language and technology started with the chase. Architecture developed later, agriculture is even more recent in the lurching progress ofHomo sapiens, agriculture being perhaps fourteen thousand years old.

Drawings on Egyptian tombs show hounds walking out on long couple straps prior to being released to chase, by sight, their quarry. Homer mentions hunting with hounds inThe Odyssey. Asian and European civilizations hunted, but it took the English to raise hunting to an art.

Then as now, the money flowed to those who could handle hounds, horses. Blacksmiths, saddlers, bootmakers, tailors, purveyors of foodstuffs for humans, horses, hounds, real estate agents all benefited from hunting. Herdsmen did, too, as hunts removed their fallen stock, saving the farmer or shepherd a great deal of effort.

Originally hunting foxes fell into the lower class of venery. Stag hunting, boar hunting had pride of place. By the end of the seventeenth century, at the dawn of the great eighteenth century, foxhunting took over. The venue for those seeking to make a place for themselves in politics, in society, now rested with a cunning foe, the fox.

The Enclosure Laws ensured that the fields of England, for the most part, were divided into lovely squares bound by hedges, fences, or double ditches. The rest of Europe kept to the old village-and-commons system, which is apparent if one flies low over France. But England went her separate way just as she went her separate way over religion during the reign of Henry VIII. Both divergences ensured a nation of freethinkers or, as a foxhunter would say, people who take their own line.

Chasing that red devil meant one would soar over wooden fences, oxers—a type of double jump—bullfinch (nasty) hedges, the odd gate, stone walls, deep ditches, and whatever else the farmer had constructed to keep his stock where it belonged.

The English also believed in giving the quarry a sporting chance. Americans refined this even further, in part because their lands were and remain much wilder. Also, cattle not sheep are the dominant animal in American pastures. The fox isn’t a pest in America unless you keep poultry. There is no need to kill foxes. The English farmer is within his rights to kill them as they destroy his newborn lambs just as a Wyoming sheep farmer is within his rights to shoot a coyote.

The traditions for the United Kingdom, the United States, Canada, Australia, in fact, wherever English is the language, remain unchanged. If a fox is viewed, hounds not yet on the line, the huntsman, ideally, should count to twenty before swinging hounds that way. Give the fox a fair chance to get moving. No hole, drain, or culvert can be stopped. The fox has every opportunity to pop down whatever underground chamber appeals to him. This has been the case in America but has only recently been put into practice in England.

The other tradition is that hounds have the right-of-way. There is no exception to this. A horse who kicks a hound must leave the field.

In counties where hunting is prevalent, those driving a car automatically slow. People should anyway as a matter of course, but those who don’t, if recognized, soon find themselves verbally accosted or in the social deep freeze. Hounds always have the right-of-way.

Never speak to a hound. Even if you were present at its birth, even if you walk out the pack daily, never speak to a hound. Only the huntsman and whippers-in may speak to the animal. Too many voices can confuse the hound and, worse, your big flannel mouth may cause the animal to lift its head.

The sound of“Hike to him,” “Hark,” or “Leave it” from a member of the field has caused huntsmen to just go off, a torrent of abuse following. Other, more diplomatic huntsmen, if hearing the sin, call the hound to them as quickly as possible. But the tradition is as it was in the time of the pharaohs: Never speak to a hound when hunting.

The animal wants to chase a fox, has been bred, trained, and loved so that it will do its job. There are more less-than-perfect-weather days than perfect, which means the hound is trying very hard to get a line, a thin enticing ribbon of scent. It never fails: the slow days are the days when sooner or later, the field starts talking. If ever hounds needed quiet, it’s on the difficult days. On great scenting days, even if some damned fool is blowing her mouth off, hounds won’t be distracted. The problem is, for true foxhunters, that most of the field hunt to ride instead of riding to hunt. If they aren’t tearing across the countryside, lurching over jumps, they’re bored. Good hound work means nothing to them. In fact, they don’t know it when they see it. And not one member out of a hundred will know the signs of a dishonest huntsman or master, ones who “arrange” for foxes or scent to appear. Honest masters and staff tolerate the rider types because they pay their subscription fees, which keep the whole show in business. It would be a barefaced liar of a huntsman or master who would say they didn’t love the days best when the field was small, weather bitter or iffy. The people in the field then are the true blues, the ones who love hounds, love the game.

By tradition, not only should one not speak to hounds, but one should not speak to the other hunters, especially at a check, when they sit and wait for hounds to recast themselves and find scent. Rarely is this observed, and even the best field master, if the field is huge, can’t enforce silence without sending an offender home. No one likes being draconian, but sometimes someone must be sent home because of bad manners. It certainly wakes everyone else up.

Sister Jane thought of these things as she prepared her kit for Opening Hunt. Always a gala occasion, she wanted to ensure that she presented a good example. Like most masters, she knew the real hunting would begin on the other side of the festive day.

In England, foxhunting begins November 1, the formal season. Americans usually determine Opening Hunt according to their latitude. Someone in upstate New York might start formal hunting in early October. By December the northern hunts, Canadian hunts, often shut down.

In Virginia, Opening Hunt will generally fall on the last Saturday of October or the first Saturday of November.

The Jefferson Hunt held to the first Saturday in November, in part because it’s close to November 3, St. Hubert’s Day, the patron saint of hunting. This particular Opening Hunt Saturday fell on November 5, the feast day of Zachary and Elizabeth, parents of John the Baptist. Still, it was close enough to St. Hubert’s Day.

The legend is that St. Hubert, a dissolute youth, was hunting on Good Friday when an enormous stag appeared, the cross shining between his mighty antlers. Thus was St. Hubert converted. He continued to hunt and breed hounds named for him, even when bishop of Maastricht and Liege. He died in A.D. 727, revered to this day. Churches are named after him, his blessings invoked by those in search of their quarry. Dedicated hunters, regardless of quarry, often have a St. Hubert’s medal tucked somewhere on their person or even a ring, the stag with the cross between its antlers.

Sister wore a St. Hubert’s ring on her wedding ring finger. Raymond bought it for her at a lovely jewelry store in Vienna, right across from the Spanish school. She wore it with her wedding ring. Adorned with oak leaves and acorns on the sides, it had worn down over the last forty years. Her wedding ring finally broke in two, ten years after Ray’s death, which was in 1991. What remained was St. Hubert’s ring, which seemed fitting.

On her right hand, the third finger, she wore a red-gold signet ring, a fox mask beautifully engraved. Her son gave it to her when he was thirteen. He paid for it himself, no help from his father, out of money he had earned repairing tack. RayRay liked working with his hands. Sister, not given to gusts of emotion, cried when she opened the green Keller& George box, to behold the simple, beautiful ring. She never took that ring off her finger. Ray Jr. was dead by the next Christmas.

Like most people, she harbored superstitions. She wore her grandfather’s pocket watch when hunting. Many’s the time as a child when, out hunting, she’d see her grandfather pull out his watch, flick open the case, and check the time.

So often her mind would go back to her husband and her son, two handsome men, in her estimation, anyway, and she’d remember them riding together, flying their fences, big smiles on their faces. She had hoped RayRay would inherit the mantle of master of foxhounds as well as his great-grandfather’s pocket watch.

Life has a funny way of working things out. Last year, after decades alone at the helm, she finally took on a joint master, Dr. Walter Lungrun, her husband’s natural son. It seemed that everyone knew but her. Even Walter’s father, while he lived, knew. When she found out she thought “The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.” As for Big Ray engaging in affairs, she didn’t hold it against him because she was having affairs ofher own. However, she didn’t become pregnant. Now she rather wished she had.

Every marriage creates its own world, and while Sister’s marriage wasn’t conventional it was solid. They did love and support each other.

But that was all so long ago, and Opening Hunt was tomorrow. She refocused her attention on her attire.

Her top hat, her black shadbelly, her canary breeches hung in the closet. Her fourfold stock tie, pressed, was folded over a hanger. Her shirt, the banded collar fitting her neck with a half inch to spare, also hung there. Her canary gloves, buttersoft, rested on her Dehner boots, the patent-leather tops gleaming. Her hammerhead spurs sparkled. Her hat cord was already attached to the top hat so she wouldn’t fumble for it in the morning. All she would need to do was hook it on the inside back loop of her shadbelly collar.

She’d been foxhunting since she was six years old. Before that her mother and grandfather would take her out on a leadline. Even so, at seventy-two, she kept a list of everything she needed taped to her bureau. Sister had a horror of being incorrect in any fashion. Her only cheat was the thin garterstrap that slipped through the tab at the back of her hunting boots. Before Velcro, a row of small flat buttons closed the breeches on your calf. The buttons ran all the way up to the knee. The garter strap slipped between the upper buttons. There were those who said it should go between the secondand third button and those who argued for the first and second button. Centuries ago, the garter strap kept the boots in place. A few people argued that the garter strap kept the breeches in place. She finally gave it up because the leather rubbed her leg. She’d come back from the High Holy Days,Opening Hunt, Thanksgiving Hunt, Christmas Hunt, and New Year’s Hunt, with bloody legs. So far, no one commented on her slight rebellion. Then again, few knew the difference.

“Golly, that’s it. I can’t do any more.” She flopped into bed glad the fire in the fireplace warmed the room, which faced the northwest. “Don’t bring me any mice tonight. I need my sleep.”

“How about a juicy spider?” Golly teased.

“Even I won’t eat a spider,” Rooster mumbled as he rolled over on the rug beside the bed.

“You eat everything else.” Raleigh put his big paw on the harrier’s back leg.

“Is this going to be a chatty night? I need to sleep.”

The phone rang.

Golly put her paw on the receiver.“Hollywood calling.”

“Hello.”

“Honey, I’m at the airport. Sam’s coming to pick me up. I just couldn’t let Opening Hunt go without being there.” Gray Lorillard’s voice lifted her.

“I can’t believe you! You’ve come all the way back from San Francisco for Opening Hunt? I’m so happy!”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Did I ever tell you how good you look in a shadbelly?” He laughed. “I know you need your sleep so bye.”

“Bye.” She hung up the phone. “Gray’s home! I can’t believe it. Thank God I had my hair and nails done yesterday.”

“Why do women do their nails? They don’t have real nails.” Rooster thought it odd.

“Color,” Golly spoke authoritatively.“Humans don’t have much color. Their eyes, their hair but other than that they’re one color, white, black, brown, you get the idea. See, if a lady paints her nails it perks up the rather drab affair.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Rooster replied.

“They wear clothes. That’s colorful,” Raleigh said and lifted his paw off Rooster’s hind leg.

“Sure, but when they’re naked, no color.” Golly kept to her idea.

“What about men? Why don’t they do their nails?” Rooster was fascinated.

“Well, they do, I mean the ones who are very successful in business, but they don’t paint them. They buff them. Men can’t be colorful like women.”

“What about the pictures in some of the books Sister reads? Feathers and ruffles and stuff like that?” Raleigh noticed everything.

“That was when men were peacocks. All gone now.” Golly warmed to her subject.“Now the most powerful thing a man can wear is black and white, or gray with stripes for a morning suit, or white tie at night. White tie is even more powerful than black tie. All black and white.”

“You’d think they’d imitate us. We have varied coats.” Rooster was proud of his rich tricolor coat.

“Black and white.” Golly swayed a little.

“Not tomorrow. The men wear scarlet and the women are in black.” Raleigh liked getting one up on Golly, who was every bit as smart as he was and therefore a challenge.

“They get to be peacocks?” Rooster’s voice rose.

“A peacock that sits on its tail feathers is just another turkey.” Golly, irritated that Raleigh had found the exception that proves the rule, turned her back on the dogs on the floor to curl up by Sister’s side.

The phone rang again.

“Goddammit!” Sister picked it up and said in a modulated voice, “Hello.”

“Sister, this is Marty Howard and I’d like to bring a guest tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, Marty.”

“Well, it’s a last-minute thing and she only has black field boots. Might you overlook it?”

“If you can’t call around and find a pair of boots to fit her, of course.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night.” She hung up the phone. “Now I’m wide awake.” She grabbed the book next to the table,The Life of Frank Freeman, Huntsman by Guy Pagent, published in 1948 by Alfred Tacey, Limited, Leicester, England.

The phone rang again.

“I am going to rip this infernal thing out of the wall! Why are people calling me this late?” She picked it up. “Hello.”

A deep voice said,“If I reveal myself I’ll be killed. Al Perez had his hand in the till. He’s not alone.”

“What?”

Click.

She sat there for a moment, phone in hand, then put it back in the cradle. The odd tinty sound of the caller’s voice was unnerving.

“Close to home,” she said aloud as she dialed Ben Sidel.

C H A P T E R 1 3

Today, the summation of fall, was flooded with soft sunshine. As fall lingered long this year many trees still dazzled red, orange, yellow, and true scarlet. The sky, an intense blue, was cloudless. The mercury at ten A.M. sat on the sixty-six-degree line but would surely climb. This was a perfect day for everything but foxhunting.

As the Reverend Judy Parrish from Trinity Episcopal Church blessed the hounds on the beginning of the one hundred and eighteenth season, the crowd of two hundred people smiled. The hounds gathered around the divine as she stood on a mounting block so people could see her and so the dog hounds wouldn’t take a notion to offer their own blessing.

Diana observed the Reverend Parrish’s vestments flowing slightly in the light breeze. People’s clothing fascinated her and she thought it must be a bother to have to decide what to wear and be confined in it. Paying for it was the final insult. She had only to wash her sleek coat and go about her day.

Diana wondered why the Reverend Parrish’s robe was white with a multicolored surplice whereas the Reverend Daniel Wheeler’s robe was black, his surplice representing the ecclesiastical season. The Reverend Wheeler gave a blessing on Thanksgiving as that was the Children’s Hunt and the youngsters adored the Reverend Wheeler.

Diana considered asking Cora, who was older and wiser, but knew if she so much as opened her mouth a dirty look would shoot her way from the huntsman.

As they disembarked from the party wagon, their special van, he told them sternly,“No loose tongues. Be respectful.”

Sister, on Lafayette, stood to the left of the hounds; Shaker, on Gunpowder, was on the right. Betty and Sybil discreetly stood farther back just in case.

Tedi and Edward opened their house for this special day. Hospitality, second nature to them, made everyone feel part of the ceremony even if they’d not so much as fed a carrot to a horse in their life.

As the hounds, the horses, the foxes, and lastly the humans were blessed, Sister lifted her eyes to take in the large field, all one hundred and thirty of them. This number, unwieldy for a field master, was dwarfed by the four hundred or so who would take to the field on Boxing Day in England. Entire villages poured out along the road to cheer them on. For an American hunt, one hundred and thirty people in the field and another two hundred on the ground constituted a sizable number. She knew her people could ride. About the visitors, well, they’d either hang on or dot the landscape in their best clothes.

The best riders of Custis Hall came. Charlotte and Bunny sat beside each other. Bill Wheatley, in a weazlebelly with a robin’s egg blue silk stock tie, not incorrect if one studies the mid-eighteenth-century prints, was also there. Bill’s theatrical nature would leach out somehow. He had to be noticed.

Sister was glad Charlotte kept the girls on their schedule. Charlotte’s judgment impressed Sister. Over the last nine years she had ample opportunity to observe what to her was a young woman. At seventy-two, someone forty-three is young.

Her eyes lingered on Gray Lorillard next to his brother, Sam, and Crawford and Marty. They hadn’t a minute to catch up, although he did sprint to her truck when she pulled in to give her a big hug and a kiss. He made her feel like the most special woman in the world. And he was handsome. His hair was salt and pepper, his military mustache set off his straight white teeth, and his deep voice had a melodic, hypnotic quality. The other thing she noticed about Gray when they’d begun dating last year was his hands, slender but strong.

Bunny Taliaferro also had lovely hands.

She really didn’t know why she looked at hands. Maybe it was because a horseman needs good hands, but not necessarily pretty ones. She valued both.

A moment of silence, then Shaker coughed.

She smiled gratefully at Shaker, for he brought her back to the task at hand.“Hounds, please.”

He clapped his cap on his auburn curls, the cap tails dangling. They walked at a stately pace down the long winding drive; at the covered bridge he put his horn to his lips, pointed Gunpowder to the right, and blew for the hounds to get to work.“Lieu in there.”

“Finally!” An exasperated Dragon bolted along Snake Creek.

For all his eagerness and everyone else’s the day was a blank. No master wants a blank day even if Jesus Christ himself couldn’t get a fox up on a day with a high-pressure system overhead, dry, bright, and now seventy-two degrees. Still, everyone enjoyed a gorgeous ride and came back to the trailers in two hours. Even at the leisurely pace at which they moved along some people managed to part company with their horses.

As the hounds drank water back at the party wagon, Crawford walked over and said to Shaker,“That bitch has drive.”

He had pointed to Dragon.

“Dog hound,” Shaker simply replied.

“Ah, well, you ought to breed him.” Then Crawford walked toward his wife, who had just emerged from their dressing room in the horse trailer.

Shaker seethed.

Sister shrugged.“He has to be the authority.”

“No authority on manners and doesn’t know squat about hounds.” Shaker stroked Diddy’s head.

“You’re right about that.”

A hunt member should never presume to tell staff or the master what to do or how to do it. Crawford had told the huntsman what hound to breed, thereby committing two sins. First, he had breached etiquette. Second, he had revealed a dangerous ignorance should he ever get the opportunity to breed a pack. Beware being seduced by a brilliant individual. Always study the families, study the bloodlines.

The breakfast exceeded even the last Opening Hunt breakfast. This time Tedi and Edward brought down an oysterman from the Chesapeake Bay who shucked oysters right out of an ice-crammed barrel. There were clams, too. Half a pig turned on the outdoor spit over open coals, as did half a lamb on a second spit, the roasting pit glowing orange. Twelve people had been employed to serve the guests; blue-and-white-striped tents set up outside provided shade since it proved so hot.

Two bars, four bartenders, worked feverishly. Foxhunters have hollow legs, but in the heat even the abstentious developed a powerful thirst.

The muffin hounds, like Knute Nilsson, who didn’t ride but came for the party, to see friends off, were in line for breakfast, which started at noon. The riders needed to sponge down their horses, water them. Tedi and Edward, having hosted many a breakfast, knew to keep the food coming. No rider should go home hungry.

Each long table had a low fall display, sheaves of wheat, with a miniature French hunting horn in the middle.

Tedi thought of everything. Sister, Walter, Tedi, and Edward moved from table to table making sure everyone had what they needed.

The girls from Custis Hall, thrilled to be part of the big day, and equally thrilled not to be eating Custis Hall food even though it was pretty good, sang, and then prompted others to join in.

Bill stood up, held up his hands like a conductor, and they belted out“Do ye ke’en John Peel.”

At the last chorus everyone joined in. Many guests now felt no pain.

Charlotte, who managed to attend Opening Hunt after all, touched Sister’s sleeve as she passed the table. “Thank you, Master. Another wonderful Opening Hunt.”

“Given the temperature, we could have gone fishing instead.” Sister laughed.

Charlotte pulled her down and whispered in her ear,“I’ll talk with Bill on Monday. I wanted to do some investigating of my own first and I thank you, too, for alerting me to something so sensitive.”

Sister squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder and moved on.

Ben Sidel, elbow to elbow with Henry Xavier, nicknamed X, a boyhood friend of RayRay’s and therefore dear to Sister, was extolling the virtues of his horse, Nonni.

Sister chatted with the men, then moved along.

As Ben’s eyes followed her, X remarked, “I’ll bet she’s pissed about Al Perez being hanged on her property.”

Ronnie Haslip, another childhood friend of RayRay’s, said, “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yes, but the difference is she’ll figure it out. No offense to you, Ben,” X declared, his vest unbuttoned since he really was becoming rotund.

“No offense taken,” the genial Ben replied.

“Any ideas?” Ronnie liked being close to the action and gossip, and he liked the sheriff.

“Ideas are one thing, hard facts are another. The only thing I can tell you is he was hanged to death. He wasn’t killed somewhere else, then strung up.”

Ronnie shuddered.“Hope it was fast.”

“It wasn’t. He didn’t drop far, so his neck didn’t snap. He strangled to death.”

Ronnie and X looked at each other, then at Ben.

X dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He may have been fat, but he was dainty.“Doesn’t make sense.”

“It will. Once all the pieces are in place there’s something inevitable about the puzzle.” Ben knew talking business was part of his job, just as being a doctor meant you heard everyone’s symptoms. He noticed Walter Lungrun getting an earful from neighbor Alice Ramy.

As Sister swept by one of the end tables she noticed a small bespectacled figure walking toward the tents. A woman, perhaps in her early fifties, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes searching, came toward Sister as Sister extended her hand.

“Hello, I’m Jane Arnold, welcome.”

In a faltering voice, the lady held out her small hand.“I’m Professor Frances Kennedy from Brown University. Is Mrs. Norton here?”

“She is. Let me take you to her, but please make sure you get something to eat. Can I get you a drink?” Sister also noticed that she wore beautifully made monkey’s fist gold earrings and one simple old ring, oval, with a black onyx stone, a crest engraved thereon.

“No, thank you,” Professor Kennedy respectfully declined.

Sister noted, making her way through the people, that Professor Kennedy was frail, not just thin. She wore a pleated skirt in the Kennedy tartan, a crisp white blouse, a Celtic brooch on her left shoulder. Her features were Caucasian, although she was African American, which made Sister wonder if her people weren’t originally Ethiopian, as they so often have sharp features.

People’s ancestry fascinated Sister, but that could be said of most Virginians, who, try as they might to avoid it, find that chickens come home to roost in middle age. By that time you look like your people. Blood tells.

“Charlotte, this is Professor Frances Kennedy. Professor Kennedy, this is Mrs. Charlotte Norton, headmistress of Custis Hall.”

The look on Charlotte’s face, welcoming but questioning, left Sister to wonder just what was going on. Then she noticed that Pamela Rene beat a hasty retreat to the smorgasbord.

Charlotte made the student next to her give her seat to Professor Kennedy and she sent Valentina for a plate of food and Tootie for a drink once she extracted what libation the quiet-spoken lady preferred.

“I’m here to examine your artifacts.” Professor Kennedy smiled shyly as she gratefully sipped iced tea, a sprig of mint floating on top.

C H A P T E R 1 4

Face flushed even to the roots of his wavy silver hair, Bill Wheatley sputtered,“I demand to know who is spreading filth and calumnies about me!”

“Bill,” Charlotte’s voice remained calm, “I can understand your being upset, but no one is spreading filth. This came as an observation from students and I took the precaution of calling former students. No one has accused you of improper conduct or sexual harassment.”

“Well, they’re calling me a Peeping Tom!”

“Now, Bill, what the girls have said is that you often walk in and out of their costume fittings and changes. Peeping Tom hasn’t escaped anyone’s lips. Just try to remain calm and explain this, uh, habit to me.”

“I’m head of the theater department for Christ’s sake, Charlotte. I oversee all the plays, every aspect of production. And you know, costume design was where I made my name before marriage and three children forced me to think about job security.”

“I appreciate that. You need to fit and refit costumes. And I repeat, no one has implied that you have touched them or said anything inappropriate. It’s just that you seem to pop in when they are in, shall we say, states of undress.”

“I don’t care. I don’t even notice!” He lied a little.

“Now, Bill, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you? I’m a woman. Even I’d notice.”

He stopped, stared hard at her, then looked up at the ceiling.“Well, if one of the girls is, well, you know,” he motioned with both hands rolling outward over his chest, “how can I not see them? Not that the girls are topless. Just, well, Charlotte, what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I want to clarify the issue and let you know that some of the girls feel uncomfortable.”

“They’re at that age, terribly self-conscious.” He nodded. “Growing pains and all that. I’m getting close to retirement age, adolescence in reverse. That’s how I think of it. My legs buckle and my belt doesn’t.”

She smiled.“Just don’t go in the dressing room anymore. Everyone’s on pins and needles. I’d hate to see this get blown out of proportion.”

His gray eyebrows shot upward.“A suit? You mean someone would bring a lawsuit against me?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anything would go that far.”

“Oh, Charlotte, all a judge has to do is see a young woman cry in the dock and whoever is accused, even if he’s as innocent as John the Baptist, his head will roll.” He inhaled deeply. “I have loved teaching here. This is my home. But I’m glad retirement is near. Things have changed, Charlotte, not for the better. If you hug a student, it could be sexual harassment. If you say anything, even in explaining our past, that could be construed as sexist, racist, or demeaning to some group. You’re put in the stocks and rotten eggs are thrown at you. And then you resign. It’s crazy. It’s out of control.”

“I agree, Bill, it’s gone too far, but I also know that for centuries, those with power thought nothing of mocking those without. I can sympathize with oversensitivity.”

“Oversensitivity is one thing, using it to harm others or climb up over their backs is quite another. That Pamela Rene is a little shit, I’m telling you. She’s stirred up a hornet’s nest over those artifacts. Do you know what she did last week? We’re rehearsingA Raisin in the Sun, one of my favorite plays. Talk about a slice of history. Well, she didn’t know her lines. I reprimanded her and she said why not use cue cards? She’s a spoiled brat and she hates Valentina and Tootie.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They’re more popular. She tries to bulldoze people. Valentina, in particular, has already mastered the art of consensus. If she can hold it together, that kid will be our first female governor or senator.”

“I agree. But back to the subject at hand. Do you agree not to go into the dressing rooms?”

“How am I going to check costumes?”

“Why can’t a girl come to you?”

“All right.” He folded his hands in his lap. “I see your point but I go on record as saying this is a bit silly.”

“Silly or not, Bill, we have a major problem facing us and this school doesn’t need any more jolts.”

His face reddened again but he agreed.“All right.” He paused. “Who is that tiny little black lady in Main Hall?”

“Ah, yes, Teresa and I need to alert all the faculty. Administration knows but I haven’t gotten to faculty yet. She’s an expert on slave life and labor from 1800 to 1840. She’s a kind of social archaeologist.”

“From where?”

“Brown University.”

“Ah, then she is big beans.”

“Seems to be.”

“That was fast. I thought the search would take longer.”

“Let’s just say that Pamela has stolen a march on us.” She held up her hand. “But she really has found the right person to assess our treasures.”

“Have you checked her credentials?”

“I called the president of Brown this morning and, I’m happy to say, she called right back. Professor Kennedy teaches two classes a week, Wednesday and Friday, and we will pay her way back and forth until this is finished.”

“My God, how long will she be here? Knute Nilsson will have a cow!”

“So far he’s given birth to a small calf,” Charlotte remarked. “Professor Kennedy thinks she can complete a thorough physical examination in two weeks’ time, so that’s two trips to Rhode Island and back. She’ll take photographs and can work from those. It could be worse from a financial standpoint.”

“Yes, but you’d think there would be someone from UVA or William and Mary.”

“Bill, of course there are. Professor Kennedy comes from a school north of the Mason-Dixon line and, under the circumstances, that’s to our benefit.”

“Because anyone from a Virginia school is tainted by being southern? Even if they’re African American?”

“M-m-m, I wouldn’t put it in those words. The woman is at the top of her field. That’s our insurance policy. That she hails from Brown just ups the premium, if you will.”

He sighed.“I never was any good at politics. You are, and we’re better off for it.” He unfolded his hands. “Like I said, I’m glad retirement is near.”

“Custis Hall won’t be rejoicing.” She reached over and touched his hand.

“Thank you.”

“I had one other matter.”

“What?” He was wary.

“Did you design the Zorro costume that Al Perez wore?”

“Yes. Remember when we didThe Mark of Zorro? Well, it’s quite simple. I can’t take too much credit for it.”

“And Al asked to borrow the costume?”

“Yes. That’s not unusual.”

“No, not at all. Although I hope you encourage them to make small donations.”

He laughed.“I don’t. See, I’m just not political and I guess I’m not much good at business either.”

“Did you make sure the costume fit?”

“No. He tried it on and said it was fine. Al wasn’t tall or stout. I thought he looked good in it.”

“Do you know who took him back into the costume storage area?”

“Uh, let me think. Pamela. She didn’t stay with him of course. He picked it up the day before the party.”

“I know you’re overburdened, but would you write this as a report? Write it, have Pamela read it and sign it also, and turn it in to me. I doubt it will have bearing on the case but I think it would be prudent if you were proactive.”

He frowned.“I guess it would be And no one has any idea?”

“No.”

“What a horrible sight that was.”

“None of us will ever forget it.” She noticed Teresa was buzzing her with the light on the intercom as directed.

Charlotte would give her the time frame for each meeting and when the time was up, she’d buzz or set off the flasher.

Bill knew the drill. He stood up, then sat down because Charlotte hadn’t stood up. “Sorry.”

“Wait a minute.” She rose, walked over to her desk, and hit the intercom. “Teresa, thank you.” Then she returned to Bill. “How many Zorro costumes did the department make?”

“Two. One would be cleaned while one was being worn. The cape was a light wool, so it would hang properly. I showed the students how to sew chains, thin bracelet-sized chains, into the hem of the cape. Chains kept the cape down but the actor could still flip the cape up and out. If I hadn’t putin the chains every time Zorro, it was Randi Walsh, remember?” He paused.

“Yes, she was quite athletic.” Charlotte nodded.

“Well, every time she passed an air duct the cape would have fluttered up. Hence using light wool with the chains.”

“How smart.”

“Coco Chanel beat me to it.” He smiled broadly. “Only she sewed hers, little gold chains, on the inside of the jackets, allowing them to show. I buried mine inside the lining.” He waited a moment. “Which reminds me. When will Al be buried?”

“Rachel is sending his body to his family in San Antonio. They’ll have the service there.”

“What about here?” His eyes misted. “I miss him. I especially liked eating lunch at the faculty table because Al could be funny.” He paused. “We visited Rachel right after Al’s death but, really, I don’t know what to do. Should my wife and I go over more often or leave Rachel alone?”

“Rachel advised me that she would prefer something after Christmas vacation.” Charlotte felt so sorry for the young widow and mother. “She’s exhausted at having to go through this and plan the family funeral. Of course, she wants it to be special when we have a service. And she doesn’t want it before the holidays. As for stopping by regularly, Rachel, like anyone who has suffered a shock, needs support.”

“You’re right.” He changed the subject. “So the coroner is finished with the autopsy?”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask for details, obviously.”

Charlotte rose and this time Bill rose with her.

He held out his hand.“I apologize for losing my temper.”

“Apology accepted. As for losing your temper, I think I would, too.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re cool under pressure. I admire that. We all do,” he finished as she clasped his hand. “I’m glad you told me the scuttlebutt. It would have been far worse to hear it from someone else. And I will not walk into the dressing room.” He released her hand. “God only knows what else will come up. This tragedy has let the genie out of the bottle.”

“Emotional upheavals bring all kinds of debris to the surface, but we’ll get through it.”

That afternoon the temperature began to drop. Indian summer crept away in the fading sunlight. Sister and Shaker rode up to Hangman’s Ridge as they were working Keepsake and HoJo. It was their last set of horses who hadn’t hunted Saturday. They’d ridden Lafayette, Aztec, and Showboat earlier.

Neither one especially liked Hangman’s Ridge, but it was high so the sunlight lingered longer there, the meadowlands below already nestled in darkening shadows.

After twenty minutes of cantering and trotting along the wide expanse they turned for home, traveling the farm road, which was the way they had ridden up.

“Boss.”

“What?”

“Mind if we walk down the narrow trail? There’s enough light. I didn’t clean it up before hunt season like I should have. I made a halfhearted pass at it in August. If we go down that way I’ll see how much there is to do.”

“Get Walter to organize a work party. Or I will. We’ve got a lot of territory to clean up and panel at Little Dalby.” She cited a new fixture, a beauty of two thousand acres that backed up on Beveridge Hundred, an old fixture.

“Who convinced the new people, the Widemans, that they needed us?” He smiled.

“Marty Howard.”

“She did?”

“She designed their gardens as well as giving them some ideas about creating all?es of sugar maples, an unusual choice, but I’m interested to see how it turns out. She also mentioned the living brush fences at Montpelier, and I guess that set them off. Marty let it be known that if a hunt crosses your land your property values rise, and think of the statement it would make if the fences were brush. She selected English boxwoods. Can you imagine the cost?”

“Good girl, our Marty.”

“She is, isn’t she? Crawford’s been bugging me to come along when I feed the foxes. Says he wants to learn more about the quarry.”

“Can’t stand him.” Shaker said this with little emotion as it was an old topic. “I know he’s important to the hunt, I know he’s underwriting the hunt ball, but I just think he’s an ass. And I don’t like the way he looks at Lorraine. He even said to me that Lorraine was hot. I wantedto smash his face. I don’t like that kind of talk.”

“She’s a beautiful woman. All men look at Lorraine.”

“Not the way he does.” Shaker closed his lips tight.

“He has strayed off the reservation. I can understand how you feel, but I don’t think Crawford would be stupid enough to cross you or Marty. He’s learned his lesson.”

The trail wasn’t as bad as they thought it might be.

“Wonder if that old den is in use again.”

“The one just above the wildflower meadow? I don’t know. Let’s see.” She was always eager to keep tabs on her foxes, with whom she felt a spiritual affinity.

“The young ones left their home dens around the beginning of November. We might have a new tenant.”

“We used to have a wonderful running fox that lived there six years back.”

He started to say that with the deer season upon them and coyote mating season firing up, the leaves brittle on the ground, releasing a pleasing but pungent odor, the next few weeks would be difficult for hunting, but she knew that. Shaker and Sister felt every nuance of their environment.

They slowed; the old den was on their right. With some of the underbrush now leafless, the den could be clearly seen. A clever location, it afforded good privacy, had many entrances and exits, and was less than two hundred yards from a clear, fast-moving feeder stream to Broad Creek. The wildflower field to the west was nice enough from a fox’s point of view, but the hayfields to the east, the hay rolled and stacked alongside the edge of the fertile field, provided field mice, rabbits, and voles lovely places to make their homes. It was a convenience store for foxes.

Shaker noticed the clump first.“What the hell?” He quickly dismounted as Sister held HoJo’s reins.

“I can’t really see in there. What is it?”

He picked up a piece of cloak.“Zorro.”

C H A P T E R 1 5

The front moving through kicked up gusts of twenty knots, not enough to knock one down but enough to cut through a thin jacket. The cold was settling in along with the night.

Athena and Bitsy sat in the branches of a scrubby pine. Their luminous eyes observed everything. Both birds kept their backs to the wind.

Young Georgia, Inky’s half-grown vixen daughter, huddled in the back reaches of her many-chambered den. She listened to the commotion at the wide entrance. This particular den, like an old pre–Revolutionary War home, had undergone many improvements over time. Hearing Sister’s voice reassured Georgia that she had a friend out there among the other humans, but she loathed the fuss at her main entrance.

Given the grade of the topography, Ben Sidel couldn’t set up tripod lights. Ty held a powerful beam, as did Gray Lorillard. Shaker was also pressed into service. Ben wanted foxhunters with him on this task. The only person he brought out from the department was Ty Banks, who had a real feel for police work.

Sister, on her hands and knees with Ben, pointed out the scraps of material.

Ben, wearing plastic gloves, carefully teased out long pieces of light wool, although most of the cloak, which Shaker first pulled out, was intact.

Shaker shone his flashlight right onto the spot.

“The cub has been working at it,” Sister replied.

“It looks like the fox was pulling it in.”

“She was. See.” She pointed to triangular holes at the edge of the cloak, the lining torn, the chain just showing. “This will make wonderful bedding.”

“Then why are other parts of the cloak outside the den?” Ben, like most foxhunters, knew precious little about their quarry.

In Ben’s defense, he was new to the sport, but the majority of foxhunters do not study foxes. They listen to hearsay or read an article here and there. The only way to learn about foxes is to observe them, to live by them, although reading about them doesn’t hurt.

“She took what she needed. The cloak isn’t torn much,” Sister replied.

“M-m-m.” He started to reach down into the hole.

“Ben, don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because the cub is in there. The reason Shaker and I came this way was to check the path and to see if the den had a new occupant. She or he will bite you, and believe me, it hurts.”

“Sheriff, you need prophylactic rabies shots,” Gray suggested.

“Too late now,” Ben grunted. “Ty, give me that flashlight.”

Ty handed him the heavy flashlight run on a nine-volt battery. Ben tilted it to illuminate the deeper recess of the entranceway.

“Nothing,” Sister remarked.

“How do I know this fox doesn’t have more in the den?”

“You don’t.”

“Then I’ve got to dig the critter out.”

“Shaker and I will do that. We can trap the cub without harming the animal or ourselves. We’ll move her—I think it’s a vixen—to another den. Shaker, how about that one in the apple orchard?”

“Yeah, that’s empty.”

“Why won’t she come back here?” Ben was curious.

“We do a soft release. We’ll put her in a big hound crate, with food and water. We’ll put the crate in front of the new den. Every day we’ll check on her. The third day, we’ll put fresh straw by the den, a little sweet-smelling hay, and a fivepound feed bin with a lid on it, a small holedrilled in the bottom. We’ll tie that to the closest tree. Come nightfall, we’ll open the gate. She might run off for a few hundred yards, but it’s too good a location. She’ll be back.”

“Why hasn’t some other fox used it?” Ben handed the flashlight back to Ty.

“Oh, it was Uncle Yancy’s and he’s fickle that way. He moves around. If he were human he’s the kind that would redecorate every year. You know the type.”

Ben laughed.“You know the foxes as well as you know your hounds.”

“Some. We’ll pick up a fox on a new fixture or during breeding season, courting foxes. That’s exciting because we’re trying to figure them out. They’ve got us figured out.”

“How long do you need to get the fox out of here?”

“If you and Ty will go down to the house and wait for me, Shaker and I should be able to do this pretty quickly. The reason I ask you to go to the house is that she can smell you, hear you. The more people there are, the more frightening for her. She might fight harder.” She stood up. “Gray, will you go down with them and bring back the caller, the little trapping cage, and the heavy gloves? They’re in the kennel storage room. Oh, bring a shovel, too. We’ll have to stop up the other getaways.”

“Georgia isn’t going to like this,” Bitsy chirped.

“Sister’s right, though, the orchard den is much better than this one.” Athena heard mice scuttling to their homes as the wind was stronger now.

“Little apples are tasty to foxes.”

Athena, full of the devil, egged Bitsy on.“While all the humans are here, why don’t you give them a song?”

The small screech owl puffed out, warbling what she thought was a little ditty she’d heard on the barn radio.“Since my baby left me—”

“Jesus!” Ty jumped out of his skin.

Even Shaker and Gray froze for a moment, then laughed.

“What the hell is that?”

“Son, that’s Bitsy, the screech owl.” Sister had to laugh at him. “She lives in the barn.”

“Well, what’s she doing up here?” He regained his composure.

“Bitsy’s the social sort. She likes to know what’s going on.” Sister enjoyed the little owl with her big eyes. “Sometimes she hangs out with the great horned owl. Bitsy’s song might scare you, but Ty, if Athena ever flies over your head, that really will put the fear of God in you. She’s huge and you don’t know she’s there until she’s right on top of you. If she balls up her claws they are as big as your fists. Shaker and I call her ‘The Queen of the Night.’ ”

“Hoo ho, hoo hoo.” Athena let out her deep, soothing call.

“That’s her,” Shaker said.

“These animals are like people to you, aren’t they?” Ty, a suburban boy, found it all strange.

“No, they are what they are, but we live with them and respect them. They have powers beyond what we can imagine. This earth belongs to all of us.”

“Chiggers, too,” Gray called over his shoulder as he started down the steep path.

Once the three men were out of sight, Sister and Shaker turned off their flashlights.

Wind at their backs, they squatted by the den, the dark aroma of fox filling the air.

Neither one spoke for a long time.

Bitsy flew closer, landing on a branch of a young fiddle oak.“Did you like my song?”

“Ha ha,” Athena chortled, then joined Bitsy.

Sister and Shaker could see the outline of the two birds.

“She really is nosy.” Shaker had grown accustomed to Bitsy.

She’d emerge from the rafters at twilight. If he was still in the kennels, she’d perch on a branch or even the weather vane to watch him.

“She reminds me of my aunt, who lived in great fear that she’d miss something. If she were alive today I expect she’d be the first person to buy a wrist TV.” Sister grinned remembering Aunt Sian.

“Some people are like that.”

“Did you all like my song?” Bitsy then broke into the chorus.

“Bitsy, for God’s sake, have mercy.” Sister grimaced.

“Ha ha,” Athena laughed louder now.

“I remembered the words,” Bitsy said and prepared for another go.

“Save your voice, dear. The night is young.” Athena appealed to the little owl’s ego.

“You’re so right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Bitsy ruffled her light-colored chest feathers.“Winter’s here.”

“Yes.” Athena watched the two humans sitting quietly.“They have owl-like qualities, those two. They silently watch. Neither one is quick to move until sure of the game.”

“Still think it’s a pity about their eyes.” Bitsy made a crackling sound with her sharp beak.

“We don’t need them mucking about in the dark. They’d just get in the way. There’s enough trouble with the coyote coming in and hunting at night. Imagine if the humans were out there with them. Between the two of them, they’d flush our game.”

When Gray arrived with the required items, it didn’t take Sister and Shaker longer than twenty minutes to get the pretty young gray fox into the cage. One of the reasons, apart from their skill, was that Athena called down to Georgia, telling her she’d be better off cooperating and a much better home awaited her.

Upon seeing her, Sister remarked,“She’s dark gray but not black like her mother. Bet she has her mother’s intelligence.”

While Shaker settled Georgia into the big traveling crate, Sister met with Ben and Ty waiting in her kitchen.

Gray offered the men a drink, which they declined, but they eagerly downed Sister’s fresh coffee. It might be a long night for them.

“I hope you can lift a print.” Gray sat across from Ben at the old kitchen table.

“Not much chance, but we can always hope. A better shot is a strand of human hair, anything like that, a spot of blood.”

Sister commented,“Whoever it is knows where the dens are. Has to be someone who has hunted with us for years.”

“Could be a deer hunter.” Ben had to consider every angle.

“Yes, it could. Donnie Swiegart knows where the dens are. Not that he’d kill Al Perez.” Swiegart was a local man who was as passionate about deer hunting as she was about foxhunting, the difference being that he ate what he brought down whereas she never brought anything down.

Shaker opened the door to the mudroom. They heard him stamp his feet. He hung up his worn buffalo plaid coat, then opened the door into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“How about green tea?”

“Green tea?” Ben’s eyebrows raised.

“Lorraine got me hooked on drinking green tea at night.” He smiled. “You know, I really feel better. I feel clean from the inside out, sort of.”

“Better try it, Chief,” Ty said, suppressing a smile.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sister directed this at Ben.

“Nothing. I have a little insomnia, that’s all.”

“Green tea will help.” Shaker flicked the round black knob on the big gas stove.

“So will milk. Ben, you have too much on you and this county just doesn’t give you and your department enough money. No wonder you can’t sleep. You can only do but so much. If you don’t take care of yourself we’re all up a creek without a paddle.” Sister was sympathetic.

“Right.” Ty smiled shyly at the master, then glanced at his mentor and superior.

The fire cracked in the huge walk-in fireplace, topped by a wooden mantel, the ax lines cut in 1788 still visible. The kitchen was the oldest part of the house. The rest had been built when the federal style was prevalent.

Gray leaned forward.“Two Zorros.”

“Yes, it seems that way,” Ben replied. “Charlotte and Carter passed a Zorro on the way to their car that night, then passed Zorro again going in the opposite direction. They assumed Al had forgotten something in his office.”

“It’s baffling. Al was in full costume when he was found, and now this.” Sister rose as the teapot boiled.

“Boss, I’ll get that.” Shaker got up, too.

“I want one myself.”

“Go sit down. I’ll do it.”

She returned to her seat.

“Bill Wheatley said there had only been one, the one Al checked out when I questioned him the day after the murder. He’d gone straight to the costume storage area to make certain the costume Al wore really was from Custis Hall. It was.” Ben tapped his forefinger on the table.

“Two Zorros,” Sister echoed Gray. “It occurs to me that while people thought they were seeing Al, they were seeing the second Zorro.”

“Possible.” Ben turned toward Ty. “Check out costume rentals in Virginia tomorrow. Might get lucky.”

“I wonder if Al knew there was a second Zorro?” Gray found this all disquieting.

“You’d think he wouldn’t willingly go off with another Zorro, now wouldn’t you?” Shaker was baffled.

“You’d think.” Ben dropped his eyes. “Like I told you last week, Sister, Al did not die by a clean snap of the neck. He strangled up there. Whoever killed him didn’t or couldn’t do it fast. And there wasn’t a mark on him. No sign of a struggle.”

Sister’s eyes widened. “An ugly way to die.”

Gray considered the situation.“Well, honey, if Al had been cleanly killed before he was hanged, that would be one thing. Actually, it would make this easier to understand. You’d think he’d fight like hell even with hands bound not to climb that ladder. Did he willingly put his neck in the noose or was he tricked into it?”

“He couldn’t be that dumb,” Shaker exploded.

“Dumb? Or trusting?” Sister evenly replied.

C H A P T E R 1 6

“Careful.” Professor Kennedy’s voice sharpened.

“Sorry.” Pamela, wearing thin plastic surgical gloves as did the others, placed an iron snaffle bit on white cloth.

As she arranged it, Felicity, using a digital camera, snapped photos.

Pamela started to pick it up.

“Pamela, where is your mind today?” The good professor was becoming irritated. “Tootie has to measure it.”

“I forgot. I think my blood sugar is low.” Pamela did not sound convinced by her own excuse. Then she laughed. “My father’s sister says, ‘Got the suga’, suga’ runs in the family.’ ”

“Does. It’s more prevalent among us than whites.” Professor Kennedy leaned over with her magnifying glass. Finding nothing too interesting in the bit, which had been made in a mold, then sanded for smoothness, she indicated that it should be replaced.

Tootie thought the smoothness of the metal impressive. She tapped the small measuring tape, bright yellow, against her thigh.

Professor Kennedy brought out a pair of epaulettes.“H-m-m, color much better than I would have anticipated. Military uniforms were big business throughout Europe, Russia, the whole New World. When uniforms began to simplify, thousands of people were out of work. It’s the little things like that that make history real.”

Pamela gingerly took the epaulettes, the hanging gold tendrils of metallic thread springing slightly. Professor Kennedy took them back from her and peered intently through her magnifying glass. She said nothing but placed them herself on the white cloth.

“Shoot?” Felicity asked.

“Yes. And then shoot upside down,carefully. I need both sides.”

Valentina, books under her arm, walked by as the bell rang.“Hey, I got out two minutes early. Hello, Professor Kennedy. I’m here to help.”

“Good. You can—” She didn’t finish, as Knute Nilsson walked up from the wide hall leading to the administrative offices.

“Professor Kennedy, I’m surprised your eyes aren’t red from mold and dust,” he joked.

“Visine,” she briskly replied, then added, “The cases and the objects are cleaner than I expected.”

“Good. Good.” He smiled broadly. “Mrs. Norton can’t stand one gum wrapper on the floor. She runs a tight ship. Have you found anything that surprises you?”

Canny, she lied,“No. Not yet anyway. As you know, there’s a wide range of articles here and authenticating some of them will take time. The dresses made in Paris, still lovely, aren’t they?” He nodded yes and she continued, “Those of course are much easier because the French dressmakers to the aristocrats kept excellent records, measurements, types of materials. Many even made drawings, colored, too, to remind them of what their patronesses had ordered. Then, as now, no two ladies wish to appear at the same ball wearing the same gown.”

“Easier for us men, isn’t it?”

“Today, yes. But can you imagine the layers for your full-dress military uniform? Gentlemen had batmen, dressers, because no man could do it himself.”

“How could they dance in boots?”

“They didn’t. They wore their dress uniform but with silk stockings, expensive breeches, and equally expensive pumps. Society required money and lots of it.” She warmed to her subject.

“Still does,” Pamela said sourly. “My mother spends enough on clothes to pay for Argentina’s army.”

“I’m sure she’s quite beautiful,” Professor Kennedy replied.

“She is. Pamela’s mother was Thaddea Bolendar, the famous model back in the late seventies. She made the cover ofVogue.” Knute, like most men, went weak at the knees at the sight of Pamela’s mother.

Professor Kennedy, a woman and therefore far more sensitive to the mother-daughter dynamic, instantly appreciated the source of some of Pamela’s unhappiness, for Pamela, a little overweight, resembled her father more than her mother. In short, she would never be a beauty, but if she worked at it, she could be attractive. Her sharp eyes took in six-foot-one-inch Valentina’s unforced, athletic beauty, all that gorgeous blonde hair, those blue eyes. Then there was petite Tootie, standing right next to Pamela. Poor Pamela suffered by comparison, for Tootie in her way was every bit as stunning as Pamela’s famous and spoiled mother. As for Felicity, she was simply pretty. One had to study Felicity before realizing how pretty she was.

Professor Kennedy smiled brightly at Knute.“My experience is that the children of highly successful parents, once they learn not to compare themselves to their parents, go on to become successful themselves.”

“That’s an interesting observation.” Knute clearly didn’t get it.

Pamela did and she brightened.“Really?”

“Well, yes, because success, regardless of career, can be broken into discrete bits of practice, if you will, traits, behaviors. Even though you need special skills for different tasks, jobs, there are certain things that cut across all careers. For instance, something as simple as determination.No one gets anywhere without it.”

“We’ve got that.” Valentina beamed and then in one of those moments of insight, underrated in the young even though they have them, she grasped Pamela’s discomfort. “I think Pamela is more determined than any of us.”

Pamela didn’t trust the compliment coming from her archrival, but she was glad of it.

Tootie, per usual, kept her thoughts to herself.

Bill Wheatley breezed in. Seeing the cases open, Knute standing there, he skidded to a halt.“Knute, I had no idea you were interested in our heritage.”

Knute teased Bill back,“Now, Bill, just because I don’t go into a rapture over a ribbon doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Bill chuckled, speaking to Professor Kennedy,“To tell the truth, Professor, I’m afraid few of us have paid much attention to the treasures in our display cases here much less to their manufacture. We’re all so busy with our duties we forget to stop and smell the roses, if you will.”

“You’ve studied the clothes,” Knute contradicted him.

“Yes. It’s been so helpful for costumes for plays set in the beginning of the nineteenth century. Don’t know beans about the rest of it.” His eyes fell on the snaffle bit. “Valentina, Tootie, girls, this is right up your alley. And if you don’t know, Sister Jane will.”

“The master?” Professor Kennedy appreciated the social grace and skill with which Sister had made her feel welcome at the Opening Hunt breakfast.

“She has ancient pieces of tack, bits, boot pulls, you wouldn’t believe the junk she has in the barn or up at the house. She’s got one old curb chain from the time of Charles I! When an argument broke out about the introduction of the curb chain, damned if she didn’t bring it out.”

“A curb chain?” Professor Kennedy knew little about horses or their accoutrements.

“A chain under the horse’s chin,” Pamela replied. “Sometimes they have a larger link smack in the middle.”

“You use them with a Pelham bit,” Tootie added, pointing to the snaffle. “Wouldn’t use it with this.”

“Ah, well, as you can gather, the development of equipage is not my forte. I suppose I should learn the basics.” She paused. “Until Henry Ford made cars affordable, we needed horses.”

“Still do.” Valentina loved her gelding, Moneybags.

“Luncheon with Sonny,” Knute said as he checked his watch. “Professor, if you ever need help on sailing history, call me. In fact, I just bought a three-masted schooner, in need of T.L.C., but a beauty all the same. She’ll be seaworthy by spring.”

As Knute left, Bill filled in Professor Kennedy.“He really does know a lot about sailing. It’s his grand passion.”

“You certainly have a diverse administration.”

“One of the strengths of Custis Hall.” Bill checked his own watch, returning his gaze to the tiny lady. “Charlotte mentioned that your expertise is construction. We don’t have much of that, I mean a few pegs and nails here and there.”

“That’s where I started because that’s what I could see, more material, if you will. But I have tried to expand my knowledge into the living arts, kitchenware, even clothing, although I would never pass myself off as an expert in attire. I can grasp the fundamentals and it’s my good fortuneto have many colleagues I can turn to for advice.”

“Interesting work?”

“I love it.”

“As you can see, we have a hodgepodge.”

“Yes, but there are items here of great cultural value.”

“And no one cares. No one cares who made that bit or how they lived.” Pamela’s face flushed as she said this.

“People are beginning to care, Pamela. The past is always with us even when we aren’t aware of it. Not knowing one’s past is like being blind in one eye. You think you can see but you’re hampered, deceived even,” Professor Kennedy replied.

At the word“deceived” Bill perked up. “Yes, yes, of course, I never thought of that.” He checked his watch again. “Well, I have so enjoyed chatting with you, Professor, and I’m always glad to see my four favorite students. Her Most High has summoned me and I must repair.” He bowed with a flourish, then disappeared down the administration hall.

Pamela’s steely gaze followed him. She blurted out, “When I first came here I thought he was gay. He’s not.”

“He’s a fop.” Tootie giggled.

“Oh, let’s just say he’s theatrical,” Valentina said as she wondered how she’d look in the low-cut ballgown that had pride of place in the adjoining case.

“Ladies, there have been times in history when men enjoyed a greater latitude of expression in dress and behavior than they do now. Nothing at all to do with gender issues. Think of the drawings and paintings of courtiers during the time of Elizabeth I. Think of the drawings of African kings fromthe nineteenth century.” She paused. “But you see in those days the highest goal was glory, personal glory, hopefully in the service of one’s king, queen, country. The goals have changed, and one doesn’t hear the word ‘glory’ anymore. We have become dull, efficient, dry—men more so than women.”

A moment passed while the four young ladies absorbed this, then Tootie piped up,“Not in the hunt field.”

Bill Wheatley walked into Charlotte’s office, Teresa opening the door. The sight of Ben Sidel, in uniform, surprised him.

“Bill, sit down.” Charlotte pointed to a leather chair. “I’ll get right to the point. The sheriff has found a second Zorro costume. He’s brought it for you to examine and perhaps identify.” She paused. “Tell us why you told Ben you’d only made one Zorro costume. You told me two.”

Bill stuttered,“An oversight. Of course, I had two made.” He turned to Ben. “But you questioned me the very next day, the next day after that hideous sight. I don’t remember one thing I said. Please forgive me.”

Ben, not a trace of his inner thoughts showing, said,“Were there two costumes when Al Perez went in to try one on? Did you personally see both costumes?”

“I think so.”

“When is the last time you saw both costumes?”

“The day Al tried on his costume. Before he came in, I’d gone back into the storage room for a bolt of gingham. I distinctly recall passing that rack, the outer rack. I’m sure I saw them.”

It escaped neither Charlotte nor Ben that Bill was sweating.

“Will you look at what we’ve found?”

“Of course.”

Ben stood up, picked a cardboard box off the long side table, and placed it before Bill. Charlotte handed over a pair of thin plastic gloves.

“Put those on, Bill,” she directed him.

As he slipped on the surgical gloves he said,“Just like what Professor Kennedy and the girls are using. Tight, aren’t they?”

Ben indicated that he should pick articles out of the box. He held them as though they were soiled baby diapers.

“Do you recognize this?” Ben asked.

“Oh, yes, yes, my, yes. This is the costume.” He pointed to the chain, touching it with his right forefinger. “Charlotte, there’s the chain in the lining.”

“Yes, so it is.”

“Sheriff, where did you find this?”

Ben hesitated a moment.“Near the hanging tree.”

“I thought you and your men combed that area.”

“We did but the animals combed it more thoroughly than we did.” Ben left it at that.

“I guess you’re lucky the costume is in as good a shape as it is.” Bill peeled off the gloves, folding them in half. “I know Al’s car was in the parking lot here the next day. We all noticed it. I guess you all went over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“We did.”

Bill didn’t ask if the sheriff had found anything important to the case. He added, “Al willingly got in someone else’s car, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” Ben answered.

“Someone he knew.” Bill sounded sad, fatigued.

“It does seem like that. There were no signs of struggle on Al’s body. No bump on the head.” Ben inclined his head to the side. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything else that has occurred to you?”

“No. I just thought about his car.” Bill paused. “Sheriff, why would there be two Zorro costumes? Who else is involved?”

Ben said,“I don’t know, but I will find out.”

After both men had left, Charlotte sat at her desk, staring blankly at the silver tea service on the sideboard. A gift from the class of 1952, she loved the curving lines of the teapot, the burnish of the silver.

Teresa opened the door, peeking in. She started to close it.

Charlotte called her in,“Come on, T.”

Teresa closed the door behind her.“Charlotte, you’re worried.”

Charlotte looked up at her.“I am. I am more worried now than I think I ever have been in my entire life. More worried than when I saw Al hanging from the tree. That was a shock. This is worry.”

Teresa, warmhearted, nodded,“Well, I figure if the sheriff calls it can’t be good.”

Charlotte got up and walked around her desk; she took Teresa by the hand, walking her to the sofa. They sat down side by side.

“Teresa, I think Bill Wheatley is lying to me.”

Teresa’s face did not register surprise. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“What tipped you off?”

“He’s always been a little too cheery for me. Cheery is the only word I can think of, but lately, he’s cheery underlined three times except when Al Perez’s name comes up, and then he’s grief underlined. It’s all too …”

“Theatrical.”

“That is his department,” Teresa said drily. “Do you think this has anything to do with the dressing room discussion?”

Charlotte trusted Teresa completely. This trust was returned in full. She had asked her right-hand woman if she, too, had heard any rumors about Bill swooping into the dressing rooms. Teresa had heard the odd comment over the years but not enough to set off her radar.

“I wish I knew. I just know … he’s different. Then again, we have a murder on our hands, and I could be reading into everyone’s behavior. I find myself fighting down suspicions.”

“That’s natural.”

“And disquieting.” She sighed, leaning her head back on the sofa. She didn’t have an Adam’s apple but she had a tiny bulge there, Eve’s orange. “I have this terrible premonition.”

“What?”

She turned her head toward Teresa.“Not an event. I’m not seeing into the future. It’s, well, it’s that I think this is the beginning. Like you, I’m getting the creeps. And Teresa, I have no idea, not one, why or what.”

A long, long silence followed.“Like I said last week, the old clich?, this is the tip of the iceberg.”

C H A P T E R 1 7

The cold front blew the last of the leaves off the trees except for those on a steep southward slope. A few pin oaks glowed rich red. Other oaks with orange or deep russet leaves rustled with the light winds. Eventually the color would fade to a dull brown; the leaves might stay put until spring, when the new buds pushed them off.

Nature fascinated Sister, whether plant or animal. Little Dalby’s two thousand acres contained gorgeous ancient oaks, towering pines, and old hollies down in the bog that reached up a story and a half. The soil varied greatly from the eastern part of the old land-grant estate to the western, becoming more rocky, with boulders jutting up from pastures as one moved west.

Sister held a topo map for one quadrant of the farm. She turned, her back to the breeze, which was intensifying.

Betty held the left side of the map.“I thought the front moved through the other night.”

“Did. This is just plain old wind.” Sister pointed to a small cross on the map. “St. John’s of the Cross. Remember the wonderful Christmas Eve services the Viaults used to have here? You were newly married when I met you and Bobby Christmas Eve.”

“Bet the old vines and Virginia creeper are holding it up. Holding us up, too.” Betty thought back to old times.

Sister smiled.“That’s true. If it weren’t for honeysuckle some of my old fencing on the back acres would be down.”

“We’ve marked half this farm.” Betty reached into her pocket for a roll of hot pink surveyor’s tape. “I bet we can knock it all out and the boys can get over here tomorrow. I heard Crawford bought two new Honda ATVs, so he can ride one and Marty can ride the other. He’s going to use histo feed foxes on his farm when you show him how and give him a schedule. He’ll need the ATV.”

Sister inhaled deeply.“Deer.”

“Make your eyes water. Where is he?”

“Moving along the edge of the woods. The wind carried the scent straight to us. Tell you what, sure makes me appreciate the hound work on a windy day.”

“That’s the truth. I can remember days when we’d see the fox when the wind blew the scent thirty yards off. Shaker knows how to swing them into it, though, in case they’re struggling.”

“He’s a good huntsman. He’s a good man.”

“M-m-m,” Betty murmured in agreement. “Well, want to see what’s left of St. John’s of the Cross?”

Sister hopped onto her ATV, a 2001 Kawasaki. Used daily but well maintained, she didn’t think she could run the farm without it. She envied Crawford blowing into Wayne’s Cycle and writing a check for two brand-new Hondas. Knowing him, he bought the 750cc monsters.

They rode up to the edge of the old pasture, broomsages coming up, waving thin golden wands in the wind.

Sister slowed at the edge of the woods. Calling over her shoulder, she shouted above the motor,“Fence not bad. Let’s see if we can find an old farm road. We can mark a jump near the gate if there still is one.”

The two cruised along the woods until coming to the farm road. The gate, handmade from wood, was rotting out, hanging crooked on big rusted hinges.

Sister cut the motor and they both climbed off.

Betty reached the three-board fence and deftly looped the surveyor’s tape around the top board, leaving a tail to flutter. The jump site was twenty yards from the gate.

“St. John’s will be maybe a half mile down the farm road. Looks different, doesn’t it? Course, things change in eight years.”

“Things can change in eight minutes.” Sister laughed as she wiggled the old gate open. “Don’t see many hand-built gates anymore. Too bad.”

Betty fished in her pocket, holding up the sharp clippers.“Ready.”

They climbed on the Kawasaki and followed the farm road as it crossed another deeply rutted road, the ruts made by wagon wheels, not tires.

Sister called over her shoulder,“Once upon a time this was the old road to the gap. Guess it fell out of use around the turn of the last century.”

“Later. When the state built the new road—the 1930s.” Betty liked history. “Part of all the work F.D.R. cooked up.”

“Old man Viault kept things clean right up until the day he died. He and Peter were in the army together.” Her eyes twinkled. “Seems so long ago yet like yesterday. Those were men, weren’t they? Hate to see this place so run-down.”

“Marty says the Widemans are dedicated to restoring Little Dalby to its former glory.” Betty noticed a woodcock fly up out of the brush. “How about that. I hope they make a comeback.”

“Not much chance, Betty, not as long as all the raptors are federally protected. They’re killing the ground nesters at a frightening rate.”

“The runoff from pesticides is killing the ground nesters, too. I hate it.” Betty hugged Sister’s waist when they hit a bump.

A shift of hazy light, gold-filled with specks of dust, shone through the trees right onto the cross of St. John’s.

Betty’s hand flew to her heart. Then she hugged Sister and they both smiled as the tall woman cut the motor.

The roof, slate, held; the stone, covered in Virginia creeper leaves a bright fall red as Betty predicted, was in great shape. Some of the leaded-glass windows were broken, but not too many.

A big twisted wrought-iron handle on the blue wooden door worked fine. Sister pressed the thumb piece, the lock clicked. She swung the door open.

Covered in dust, the altar and the pews stood. All had been hand-carved.

Even the wooden cross, for the worshippers couldn’t afford gold or even brass, stood on the ornate wooden altar.

A soft flutter of wings snapped their heads upward and a great horned owl, male, swept overhead, out the front door.

“Athena’s boyfriend.” Sister laughed—he came down so quickly, so silently, he startled them both.

“Nest in the steeple?”

“I don’t know, but he knows how to get in and out. Well, it keeps the mice population in check.”

“Think he’s Athena’s boyfriend?”

“I expect she has a fella closer to home. I also expect she gives the orders.”

“Ever tell you about the time I saw a snowy owl? Big as Athena.”

“You did? Lucky you. They come down from the north. Pickin’s are good here.” She coughed. “Dust.”

“When do you think’s the last time anyone was in here?”

“Eight years, at the least. Old man Viault didn’t get around much at the end.” She coughed again.

Betty thought a moment.“This was the slave church, wasn’t it?”

“Was.”

“You’d think the master wouldn’t want a church in the woods.”

“I don’t think it was back then. Might have been on the edge, but if you look around at the trees out there, they aren’t but one hundred years old, maybe one hundred and twenty. That one cigar tree is pretty old, a good one hundred years.”

Cigar trees like moist spots.

“Maybe we should tell Professor Kennedy. I enjoyed meeting her the other night when you had her and Charlotte, Carter, Bobby, and me over for dinner. I like small gatherings best. She’s a fascinating woman and from Portland, Maine, of all places.”

“A real Yankee. Course I can get along with a true New Englander much easier than someone from the middle states most times. None of us can help where we were born.” She smiled slyly.

“Hell, none of us can help being born.” Betty laughed.

“That’s a fact. What I can’t figure is why some people are so unhappy with life.” She pointed to the altar, a blade of light falling on the cross, the streaky windows behind washed many times over by rainstorms. “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

They walked outside, Sister closing the door behind her.

“We’ve let so much go. So much that has to do with slavery,” Betty mused.

“Yes, but remember that we let a lot of everything go. There wasn’t a penny after the war. Virginia didn’t begin to feel good times until the 1920s, and that was nipped in the bud by the Depression. And think about it, who ran the show? White men.” She held up her hand. “I’m not saying one thing against our forefathers, but it seems to me that people will preserve first what relates directly to them. So once a little money flowed south of the Potomac, the buildings that were shored up had to do with their history. It’s only been in the last two decades that a recognition of preservation for black folks has taken root.”

“And there’s not a damned thing to preserve for women.”

“Women’s work perished in the using,” Sister said with a shrug. “So it was. And in many ways so it is. I can’t be bothered getting angry or feeling shoved aside. I remember the protests in the seventies. I wasn’t against them but it was alien to me. I figure you make hell with what you have. I may be on the shorter end of the stick than the white man, but I’ve still got some say-so, some ability to relish this life.”

“You’re a different generation, Sister. Even myself, and what am I, twenty-five years younger than you? Of course, when I’m around you I usually feel twenty-five years older since I can’t keep up.” Betty laughed.

“Flatterer.”

“No, it’s true, you have some kind of primal energy.”

“Because I’m living my true life and I’m my true self.”

“It’s also in the blood.”

“Yeah, my mother and father both had energy. But anyway, here we are in the middle of the woods, the branches are waving, clouds are scattered, the fragrance of the earth and the leaves rises up to meet you. It’s perfect and I’ll bet you that some of the folks who worshipped here despite the hardship, the injustice of their lives, found moments of sheer beauty. They had to because you can’t live without it.”

“We can ask Professor Kennedy.”

“A deep knowledge.” Sister put her arm around Betty’s shoulders.

They walked around the back of the church checking the foundation, fitted stone.

“Couple of gaps here big enough for a fox.” Sister inhaled, a faint whiff of Reynard tingling in her nostrils.

“Here’s a sizable one.” Betty had stopped right at the back. “Almost big enough to crawl in.”

“You and I could. Some of our members would get stuck.”

Betty hunkered down.“Wouldn’t take the Widemans much to repair the foundation. Really. It’s in darned good shape.”

“That, a few windows, and a thorough cleaning, St. John’s of the Cross will be as good as new.”

They walked back, getting on the ATV.

Once home that afternoon, Sister did call the Widemans. The lady of the house, Anselma, seemed very grateful for the news and said she was so looking forward to the hunt on Tuesday, November 29.

Sister hung up. Thanksgiving Hunt loomed before her. The two weeks since Opening Hunt flashed by in part because time always seemed to move faster after Opening Hunt, and partly because of the activity around Custis Hall, unpleasant as it was. She’d been working overtime, but hadn’t thought much about the second High Holy Day. Here it was about to splat on her head. Well, chances were it wouldn’t be blank.

She dialed Charlotte, informed her of the slave church, and thought she might want to tell Professor Kennedy. If the little lady wanted to see it she’d buzz her over, but she’d let Charlotte decide.

Then she reaffirmed that Valentina, Tootie, and Felicity could spend Thanksgiving with her, off campus for the holiday weekend. All three elected to stay back over Thanksgiving vacation. They wanted to foxhunt. Charlotte thought it a wonderful idea that they stay with the master.

Word got around, so other club members took in girls who wanted to stay and hunt.

Pamela Rene had promised her parents she’d be home for Thanksgiving. She already regretted it.

After finishing up her calls—she averaged twenty to thirty a day, most of them having to do with hunt activities—Sister threw on her sweater, her ancient Filson tin coat, the tan faded to wheat in spots.

Raleigh and Rooster followed along. Golly, hating wind, stayed inside, and the minute the dogs were out the door she ate some crunchies from their bowl. She liked her food better but getting away with something appealed to her.

Shaker sat in the kennel office, head bent over the small red books published by the Master of Foxhounds Association of America. These were the stud books, a treasure for any breeder.

“Shaker, I thought you used the computer for that.”

“Down.”

“Again?” He nodded and she asked, “How old is that computer?”

He tapped the dark screen.“Five.”

“Is it really? I quite forgot. Guess I need to buy one for Christmas, don’t I?”

“I like the one you bought yourself.” He grinned impishly.

“Well, then I know just what to get. You know, five years, can’t complain. These things change so fast. I guess this Gateway is now a dinosaur.”

“Computers turn over too fast. Think of the old truck Peter Wheeler willed to us. Runs like a top. Stuff should be like that.”

“The 454 engine will go on when we’re all dead. It’s the brakes, the clutch, the alternator, the radiator that fritz out. Patch, patch, patch.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Bought you the topos. Marked. Lots of jumps to build but not too much in the way of clearing. Between you and Walter’s work crew, two days. Maybe one if enough people come out.”

“November 29 is around the corner.”

“So is Thanksgiving. We’ll be over at Foxglove. Should be a little scent anyway.”

“Never know. November is tough.”

“Hey, how’s the little girl doing?”

He knew she meant the fox they’d relocated. “She’s fine. I’m pretty sure she’s Inky’s. I saw them together last night at twilight, up by the round hay bales. Sitting on top of them surveying their domain.”

“Good.”

“Anything more?”

“’Bout what?”

“The Zorro stuff.” He realized, close as they were, she couldn’t read his mind.

“Nothing new.”

“Stalled out?”

“I don’t know. Legwork. Ben has to find and put together tiny pieces of tile until he gets the crime mosaic, if you will. He said that most times who the killer is is obvious but in something like this, not at all.”

“His riding is getting better.”

“So it is.”

Shaker pondered a moment.“You know, Boss, I think Lorraine is just about perfect. If only she foxhunted. That’s my one complaint. Not that I say much. But I look at Ben. If he can do it, she can, too. Course, you have to want to do it.”

Sister knew Lorraine was taking lessons from Sam Lorillard in secret. She wanted to surprise Shaker for Christmas Hunt.“Well, maybe one day she’ll take a notion,” she nonchalantly replied as she sat on the edge of the desk, picked up a stud book from 1971, flipping it to Green Spring Valley. She read absentmindedly, then glanced at Shaker. “Funny thing.”

“What? Their entry?”

“No, chemistry. You and Lorraine have good chemistry.” She closed the small red book. “I keep coming back to this thing with Al Perez. Everyone liked him. Good chemistry. He was an agreeable man. Not charismatic but nice, and he extended himself to others. People miss him. They grieve over his death. And they miss his skills at Custis Hall. He was good at extracting money from the alumnae. So I ask myself, again, why? Circumstances?”

“Amy Childers could have hung him in a fit of jealousy.” He said this without conviction.

“No. If she were going to do him bodily harm she would have done it when their relationship ended. I suppose Ben had to ask her uncomfortable questions but Amy didn’t kill him.”

“Circumstances or he crossed someone. You’re on the scent, girl.” He smiled; his teeth were straight. He knew her well.

C H A P T E R 1 8

Tuesday, November 22, was the last day of classes until Monday, November 28. The brevity of Thanksgiving vacation ensured that many Custis Hall students stayed put.

A few left the previous Friday, having turned in their papers, taken tests early. Pamela Rene was one of those. Her father sent the company jet for her, which impressed some students, infuriated others. Pamela took it as a birthright but she really didn’t want to go home.

Professor Kennedy came to say good-bye to Charlotte before her own departure.

The two women sipped sherry. A misting rain coated the windows, small panes, original to the building.

“We’ve grown accustomed to you, Frances.” Charlotte used Professor Kennedy’s first name once the older woman had given her permission to do so.

“I’ve met some interesting people and I can’t thank you enough for setting up the meeting with Sister Jane and the Widemans.”

“I look forward to seeing St. John’s of the Cross myself, but I expect it will be from the back of my horse, first time, anyway.”

Professor Kennedy placed her sherry glass on the silver tray. She smoothed down her skirt.“Charlotte, I will have this report to you by the first of the year. It’s painstaking. I want to do the best job for you that I can because this will be the template that future generations refer to and utilize.”

“I know we’ll be excited to read it.”

She touched her tight bun for a second.“Refresh my memory, who has keys to the cases?”

“I do. Knute, as treasurer, has a backup key. Teresa knows where I keep my key. Jake Walford, in charge of buildings and grounds, has his own key.”

“No one else?”

“No, why?”

She paused; a pained expression crossed her well-formed features.“I hesitate to discuss this. Part of me thinks I should wait until my report, wait for the fallout, but …”

“Yes?” Charlotte’s heart beat faster.

“The man who is dead. Did he have a key?”

“No.”

Professor Kennedy’s faced seemed inscrutable. “Those cases would be easy to pry open. You’d know, though.”

“Professor Kennedy, what’s the problem?”

Speaking quickly and low, Professor Kennedy plunged right in.“There are irregularities among your artifacts.”

“In what way?”

“I believe some of the items are not authentic.”

Charlotte took this in.“I see. Do you think they were not from the Custis family when they were donated to the school?”

“No. I believe some of these items have been tampered with much more recently. But before I risk my reputation on this, I want to carefully go over the photographs and my descriptions with my colleagues.”

“Yes, of course. I can appreciate your position.”

“And I can appreciate yours,” Professor Kennedy said sympathetically.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No.”

“Do you think anyone suspects? Do you have suspicions?” Charlotte leaned forward. She noticed Frances checking her watch. “I can take you to the airport.”

“I have to drop off the rental car. I’m packed and ready to go.” She sat up straight. “I’ll have my report to you after the New Year.” She paused. “I don’t know the people here well enough to have suspicions. I hope I’m wrong, Charlotte, I truly do, but,” she inhaled deeply, “I know I’m not. My report is going to hit Custis Hall like a bombshell.”

C H A P T E R 1 9

“Why do I have to do it?” Grace moaned.

“Because you live at Foxglove,” Aunt Netty answered.

The two reds, one young, the other getting on in years but famous for her blazing speed, trotted by the steady, hypnotic flow of water from the upper pond to the lower pond at Foxglove Farm.

Athena called in the distance,“Hoo hoo hoodoo hoodoo.”

A light frost coated the meadows silver.

The sun, an hour from rising, seemed on the other side of the world, for this time is the coldest time.

The two vixens reached Cindy Chandler’s pretty stable. Cindy put out hard candies for them, which they demolished in short order. Then Aunt Netty, on her hind legs, stood as tall as she could to push up the latch into the sweet-feed bin in the feed room.

The effort it took both girls to flip up the lid was considerable. Once they caught their breath they hoisted themselves up, dropping into the sweet feed, the tiny bits of grain between their toes, the aroma intoxicating.

“I’d rather eat and sleep today.”

“All right then, why don’t we compromise?” Aunt Netty flicked a moist oat off her whiskers.“You go by the ponds. Oh, make a big figure eight so they’ll think they’re running a gray. The humans, I mean. The hounds will know it’s you. Then just pop into your den. That’s easy enough. I’ll take it from there and run to the old schoolhouse. I think my errant husband is under there. He left his old den. Lazy ass.” She sniffed.“He used to keep a clean den but this last year, he hasn’t. He was forever fickle about his living quarters, but really, he’s gotten slovenly. All he wants to do is sit on the old window seat at Shaker’s and watch the TV through the window. He’s getting mental.”

Grace prudently did not mention what Uncle Yancy said about Netty, namely that she had turned into a harridan.“He takes a notion,” she said noncommittally, stuffing more sweet feed into her powerful, slender jaws.

So busy were the two vixens that they didn’t hear Cindy Chandler come into the stable to braid her horse. Startled, when they heard the thump of the tack room door they leapt up, but the motion brought down the lid.

“Shit!” Aunt Netty allowed herself a profanity.

“What do we do?”

“Nothing until she comes for a scoop of sweet feed. We’ll scare the wits out of her when we jump out.”

Cindy, however, wasn’t going to laden her good mare, Caneel, with sweet feed. She put all the hay the mare wanted in her stall, tying the net up so she’d reach with her neck, not her usual practice. But as Caneel merrily tore at her feed net, Cindy knocked off the dust. She had washed the mare the previous night with Show Sheen, so her coat glistened.

Then she brought out a bucket of warm water, a small footstool, took off her gloves, wet a piece of mane, and began braiding.

Most people in the middle years hire kids to braid, but Cindy, having spent time on the show circuit at the highest levels plus training steeplechasers, put in a perfect, tight braid. Kindly and warm, she proved a perfectionist about braiding and turnout. She used a black braid for the mare’s black mane. Every now and then she’d honor a holiday, braid with orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas. Her delightful sense of humor was infectious.

The two foxes waited and waited.

“She’s starving that mare,” Grace whined.

“I don’t know what she’s doing.” Aunt Netty felt drowsy. Too much sweet feed and sour ball hard candies.

There they sat.

At ten the eighty-nine riders resplendent for the second of the High Holy Days gathered in front of the charming frame house at Foxglove Farm, hugged by English boxwoods. Cindy Chandler had a gift for landscaping and gardening. Wherever one looked there was something to involve the eye.

A prayer of Thanksgiving was given by the Reverend Daniel Wheeler. The hounds gave the good man with his musical voice their attention.

Then off they rode.

Sister and Shaker always discussed the day’s cast the night before. They decided that since they’d had such good luck by the ponds last year they’d start there. The farm afforded many opportunities for a brisk ride since Cindy had paneled every fence, indulging in a few special jumps like a new tiger trap behind the stable that led into the pasture holding Clytemnestra, the giant Holstein cow, and her son, growing as large as his mother. The tiger trap at three feet six inches looked like teeth since each log stood up, forming a steeple. Quite impressive except that Cly would step over it and rub her belly. And if she felt bored she’d smash right through it. She evidenced a slight antisocial streak. Orestes, her son, mostly followed momma. He didn’t have too many ideas of his own.

The Custis Hall girls as well as Charlotte, Bill, and Bunny rode in the middle of first flight.

When the whole pack of hounds charged into the stable the field watched with uncomprehending fascination.

Shaker called,“Come to me.”

“The fox is here!” Cora shouted, knowing Shaker couldn’t understand but he knew she was honest as the day is long.

Darby shot straight into the feed room.“It’s Grace and Aunt Netty.”

The whole pack in a frenzy squeezed into the feed room.

Shaker dismounted, handing his reins to Sister, who had ridden up.

“Betty, dismount and get in here with me,” Shaker called through the stake.

Betty, on the other side of the stable by Clytemnestra’s pasture, flung her right leg over the pommel of her saddle, kicked her left leg out of the stirrup, and hit the ground with both feet. Outlaw didn’t need to be held. He stood there, ears forward since he could smell the foxes.

“Oh, this is going to be ripe,” Outlaw said to himself.

The word spread from horse to horse, which made the hotter ones prance about. Humans not tight in the tack began to fret.

Cindy wondered what could be going on. She’d been in the stable before dawn and she didn’t see any fox. Granted she picked up a whiff of eau de vulpus, but that was normal given the hard candy treats.

Shaker paused in the doorway to the feed room. The hounds stood on their hind legs. Tinsel, nimble, jumped onto the feed bin lid, slanted, and balanced there, giving tongue.

The din was deafening.

“Betty, call out to Sister. Tell her to try to hold hounds if they go out her end of the stable. I hope Sybil’s where she’s supposed to be. If the hounds get through Sister and the field she can keep up.”

Betty ran to the opened large doors, called out to Sister, then hurried back to the other end of the stable. No point in telling Shaker when she mounted up. He’d never hear her with that racket.

“Leave it. Leave it,” he ordered his hounds calmly, voice low.

“We’d better do what he says. Trust him.” Diana did trust him but it took great willpower to vacate the feed room.

The last hound out, Dragon, grumbled.

“You leave it!” Shaker narrowed his eyes and Dragon knew he meant business. Shaker walked into the feed room.

He stood back, lifting one end of the bin top with the staghandle of his crop. Sure was useful, that staghandle.

“Go right. I’ll go left!” Netty blasted out of there as if she’d been on a launch pad at Cape Canaveral.

“Split the pack!” Grace let Aunt Netty know she understood the wise old vixen’s intent.

The two vixens shot out of the feed bin with such force that Shaker staggered back, gasping.

“Hold! Hold!” He had the presence of mind to keep his voice steady.

The hounds were levitating with the thrill of two foxes brushing right through them.

Shaker, raised a good Irish Catholic, knew that November 24 is the feast day of St. Colman of Cloyne, who spread the good word in Limerick and Cork during the sixth century A.D. However, he didn’t think the dear fellow could help him in his current predicament.

He called upon the saint of impossible causes,“St. Rita, keep my pack together,” as he walked deliberately to Showboat, agog with excitement.

St. Rita must have been otherwise occupied at that moment because Dragon did not hold. He careened after Aunt Netty, who was running through the horses’ legs. Crawford lurched forward as Czpaka snorted and whirled, but he hung on.

Walter, surprised by Rocketman getting light in front, slipped off as did a few others.

One could hear, even with the din,“Ommph,” “Aargh,” “Dammit.”

As Netty caused maximum pandemonium, Shaker struggled to mount Showboat, who was backing up, taking Sister, holding tight on to the reins, with him.

“Hold still!” Keepsake snorted at the high-strung Showboat.

“Hounds are away!” Showboat knew his job was to be right up there with them. He was neglecting the fact that Shaker was supposed to be on his back.

“Do you want a Come-to-Jesus meeting?” Keepsake uttered the dreaded phrase that meant major discipline.

That reached the Thoroughbred. Finally Shaker swung his leg over.

While he was doing that, Grace dashed in front of Betty without so much as a“How do you do.”

She slunk under Cly’s fence, headed straight for the giant, making certain to step in every cow patty she could find. Cly’s patties resembled small islands. Grace slipped through them and boy, could they foil scent.

“Tally ho!” Betty marked the fox just as half the pack blew right by her. She counted heads as quickly as she could but it was more than apparent that half the gang was going in the other direction. Her ears told her that.

Pretty soon the ninnies in the field were bellowing“Tally ho.”

There was no need for this chorus, obviously, since everyone and God could see the redoubtable Aunt Netty. A field should always be silent.

The three masters of Deep Run, along with two ex-masters, Mary Robertson and Coleman Perrin, had come to enjoy the day. They were getting more than they bargained for, and Sister quietly cursed to herself that if your pack was going to piss off they’d wait until another master was present. It’s the same principle as your well-behaved six-year-old blurting out some embarrassing personal information when company came calling. So much for saving face!

Shaker knew there was little point in blowing the pack back to him. He noted that Cora, Diana, Ardent, Darby, and Diddy waited for him to tell them to go. He never loved hounds as much as he loved those five hounds at that moment.

“Hark to ’em.” He smiled.

“Yippee!” Off they flew toward Aunt Netty’s trail.

He then blew three short notes, blew them again, and doubled them, hoping the rest of the pack would swing to him even though they were on their own fresh fox.

Betty could read Shaker’s mind. She jumped over the tiger trap the second the hounds streaked by her and she was straining to get ahead of them to turn them. No easy task in the best of circumstances. But now Cly took offense at what she saw as a triple disturbing of her repose. First came Grace, then the hounds, and now this two-legged twit borrowing the speed of a four-legged one.

She roared,“Outta my pasture!”

Orestes mooed,“Ditto. You’d better do what mom says.”

With that, both bovines charged Betty and Outlaw.

Outlaw, tough as he was, wasn’t going to play bumper cars with those humongous creatures. He shifted to the side. Betty, tight as a tick up there, rode it out with ease. Her goal was to get ahead of the split group. Outlaw’s goal was to avoid this enraged and terribly stupid cow. As for Orestes, he wasn’t even stupid. Hewas a blistering idiot.

Betty steered for the coop, rider up, on the other end of the pasture. Four feet sure enough but there wasn’t a second to lift that rider off.

“Outlaw, let’s boogie, baby boy.”

“Piece of cake.” He picked up speed since he was a compact 15.3 hands. He wasn’t going to soar over with a few cantering strides like Showboat. But he took off a wee bit early, clearing it with ease.

Betty started laughing on the other side. My God, this was living.

Gaining on the hounds, she knew far better than to start blathering and cracking her whip. That would only send them on. She had to get in front of those suckers to turn them.

More pastures beckoned. She was now lapping the tail hounds.

“Son, I am deeply offended,” and with that Cly lowered her head and crashed through the coop with the rider, pieces of black-painted board heaving into the air.

Orestes cantered after her, leaving perfect cloven imprints in the perfect footing.

“That bitch is coming after us!” Outlaw whinnied.

Hearing the cowbell, Betty turned.“Great day!” she whistled, using the old southern expression for disbelief. “Baby boy, we’ve still got to turn these hounds.”

She urged him on and they finally reached Trident, up front. She cracked her whip and it reverberated like a rifle shot.

“Leave it!”

Trident hesitated. Betty cracked the whip again.“Leave it!”

The group reluctantly did as they were told because the next reprimand would be ratshot in the ass. They saw the .22 come out of the holster and those little birdy bits could sting.

They stopped. They could all hear the other part of the pack since sound carried beautifully on this overcast day.

“Hark to ’em! Hark to ’em.” Betty’s voice shook with excitement, for she could also hear Cly coming, ground shaking.

Bellowing“Death to the human!” Cly lumbered toward them like a large black-and-white freight train.

Behind her, parroting mom, was the son.

“Let’s get out of Dodge!” Doughboy sprinted toward the sound of hounds moving fast in the opposite direction.

Betty, on the outside of them, shrewdly put the hounds between her and that damned cow.

Cly tossed her head to and fro and just thought she was the most fearsome beast in the land, a modern Minotaur. She may have been fat and ridiculous but she could hurt you.

Hounds, Outlaw, and Betty slipped by the two Holsteins. This didn’t please them, so Cly decided to keep after them. She wasn’t fast but she was determined, and she could still run faster than a human.

This became apparent when the company of creatures passed the other side of the stable, where a few humans were still on foot, trying to catch their horses or their breath.

Cly headed straight for them.

“Jesus Christ!” Bill Wheatley shouted as Cly zeroed in on him.

“Jesus can’t help you now! Climb, man, climb!” Sam Lorillard shouted, as he’d stayed back to help.

Bill ran for all he was worth and in that instant vowed he would go to the gym and dump the excess weight. The old walnut by the stables had low branches, drooping with advanced age. Bill grabbed one and swung himself forward, trying to get his legs up over the branch. He managed but his lardass hung there, most tempting. Cly hooked his butt, tearing off a wide swatch of expensive corded material, but fortunately she didn’t break the skin.

Sam, quick-witted and quick, had taken off his jacket, waving it in front of Cly. She charged; he sidestepped her while barely escaping a bone-crushing butt by Orestes, faster than mom.

By now, everyone on the ground found refuge in a tree or had made it into the barn, slamming a stall gate behind them.

“Let’s blow this joint!” Cly snorted as she headed in the direction of the hounds.

Betty pushed up the hounds to the rest of the pack, and when those hounds passed Shaker he looked straight up to the sky and smiled.

Aunt Netty ran so fast one expected to see white jet trails behind her. Famous for her speed and cunning, she had no time to play with hounds today. She’d eaten too much and they were too close behind despite the efforts of Shaker to hold them.

No huntsman wants to chop a fox. If one is bolted close by, the rule is count to twenty. Well, he didn’t get to count to two.

So Netty ran for her life on this Thanksgiving Day. She didn’t bother to foil scent, swim small creeks, she ran flat out, belly to the ground.

With the schoolhouse in sight, she put on the afterburners and just made it to the hole in the foundation as Dragon’s jaws snapped at her sparse brush. He got a few little hairs in his teeth for a reward.

By the time Sister and the field—what was left of it, given the speed and the jumps along the way—reached the schoolhouse, Shaker was blowing “gone to ground” and Netty, plopped on her side, was sending up a prayer of thanks to the Great Fox in the Sky.

This moment would have lasted longer except for the low tang of a cowbell coming ever closer.

Felicity, who had fallen back and rode at the rear, looked around.“It’s a mad cow!”

Cindy Chandler turned. The sight of her pet and Cly’s son on the rampage turned her face chalk white. “Oh, dear, she’s uncontrollable when she gets like this.”

Sister called to Shaker,“We’ve got to get out of here. Go over the in and out!”

Shaker did not question his master. He gracefully mounted, saw Sybil already on the other side of the wide dirt road. He squeezed Showboat over the first coop. Showboat knew better but he was still jangled from all the uproar, so he sucked back when his front hooves hit the dirt. Sometimes a horse will get a little tentative if the surface changes.

Shaker squeezed, touched him with the spurs, and whacked him proper on the hindquarters with his crop. If Showboat balked, then Keepsake might, doubtful, but he might. And other horses in the field would, too, so he had to get over.

With a surge, the Thoroughbred left a half stride early. Shaker leaned back a bit in the saddle but he was ready for it.

On the other side, hounds with him, he trotted down to the woods at the edge of the meadow and cast hounds. Soon enough the field got over.

Cly thundered up to the coop. She considered crashing it but she was tired. Her full figure didn’t get much exercise and she’d been running and bellowing for half an hour.

“That ought to teach them a lesson!”

“What’s the lesson, Mom?”

“That this is my farm and they’d better do as I say.” She belched, the sickly sweet odor of cud emanating from her mouth and nostrils.

Turning to walk at a leisurely pace back to the stable where she hoped feed lay about, she noticed seven riders coming toward her, including Bill Wheatley, a piece of his britches flapping every time he stood up to post.

“Oh, let’s have some fun.” She lowered her head and rolled right for them.

Scattering them like ninepins, Cly shook her head, reveling in her power.

“You’re hamburger, you old monster!” A rider angrily pointed his finger at her.

She turned, pawed the ground, lowered her head as did Orestes, and scared him so bad he burnt the wind getting out of there.

“What’s hamburger?”

“Nothing to concern yourself about, son.” It was occurring to the huge old girl that she may have crossed the line. She decided not to rummage the stable.“Let’s go back to the pasture and have a nap.”

Shaker and the pack, all together, got up another fox, and had a good fifteen-minute burst. But people were ragged out from the adventure. So he swung hounds low and back toward the house. It took fortyfive minutes to get there and they did get two more short runs in the bargain.

Sam Lorillard, on hearing the horn, turned back toward the stables. He had a pretty good idea that Shaker was drawing back and he’d just seen the devil cow go back that way.

He walked behind her at a respectful distance. When she walked into the pasture and dropped to her knees, asleep almost instantly, he put his horse in a stall.

Sam kept tools in his truck and trailer, as did most smart foxhunters. He pulled out his toolbox, got a hammer and some nails, and walked around to the side where Cly had smashed up the coop. Unsalvageable.

He walked back to his truck, fired it up, and drove around to the shed where Cindy kept her supplies. He loaded up boards, drove around the outside of the pasture, and nailed them up.

That would at least keep Cly from aimlessly wandering out until the men of the club could get back here and rebuild the jump.

He knew Cly well enough to know she only smashed through fences and jumps when playful or angry. Her usual modus operandi was to eat and sleep and then eat some more.

By the time the field got back, all was secure.

Crawford handsomely tipped him for it and Sam gratefully accepted. Then Crawford, expansive, since he’d managed to ride out this wild hunt, offered a beautiful bronze sculpture for the hunt ball silent auction. Sorrel Buruss, chair of the silent action, waxed ecstatic, rode over to him, and kissed him from horseback.

When Bill dismounted, Charlotte laughed at him.“Well, Bill, I now know you’re a boxer man and not a briefs man.”

“I’m just glad to be in one piece.”

“Your pants look like Zorro slashed them into a ‘Z,’ ” Valentina giggled, then apologized, “Sorry. I forgot.”

Bill smiled up at her,“It’s all right, Val. Life goes on.”

Shaker hopped off Showboat to open the party wagon door. Hounds walked in happy with this exciting day.

Sister, Keepsake at the trailer, walked over,“Never, never in my life have I hunted a day like today. How you and Betty got those hounds all on was a miracle.”

“May the saints preserve us.” He beamed.

Showboat, standing by the party wagon, laughed.“I preserved you, not the saints.” All the other horses in earshot laughed.

C H A P T E R 2 0

The heavenly aroma of turkey filled the house, along with the sweet scent of sweet potatoes, corn bread, cranberry sauce, special fried grits cakes, all manner of sauces, spices, vegetables, and salads.

Golly stayed at her window post behind the sink. She knew if she behaved many tidbits would be tossed her way as Sister and Lorraine put on the finishing touches to the meal.

Tootie, Valentina, and Felicity set the tables while Gray made everyone drinks. The house overflowed with people. Sam came and of course Sister invited Rory, Crawford’s farmhand, as he had no people left who would have him. Shaker, still beaming, regaled the girls with hunt tales as he folded linen napkins. He liked to be useful and never thought of chores as women’s work or men’s work.

Tedi and Edward came. Sybil, too, and she brought her two sons. Edward III, called Neddie by everyone, even though still in grade school showed every sign of growing to be taller than his grandfather.

Walter came and brought as his date Sorrel Buruss. That would set tongues wagging, mostly because it happened under everyone’s nose. Ah, what an offense to those who had to know everything about everybody because their own lives were such a bloody bore.

Mandy, Gray’s daughter, drove down from Washington. She looked more like her mother than her father, but she had her father’s quiet sense of command as well as his wonderful way with color. Over the last year Sister and Mandy learned to value each other.

Marty and Crawford Howard came, and Sister told Shaker, who strongly disliked them, that he had to abide Crawford. The Howards would always be invited to the big parties or functions where Crawford’s checkbook was hotly desired. But no one invited them to the family dinners, the true gatherings of the clan. Once Sister discovered this she thought she’d set it to rights. Crawford wasn’t so bad. He needed to stop bragging about himself, a sign of weakness, but Sister wanted to give him achance.

The dogs barked as another car pulled up.

Betty and her husband, Bobby, came in through the back door.

“Sorry we’re late.” Bobby hung up his coat on the peg by the door.

“That Magellan jumped out of the paddock so everyone else had to follow. And of course, we were all dressed up. Don’t you think the mud stains on my skirt add to my fashion statement?” Betty, too, was in fine spirits.

Gray, Bobby, and Crawford located extra chairs to accommodate all the guests since the dining room chairs only numbered twelve. They’d set up extra tables in the huge dining room. When the “new” part of Roughneck Farm was built in 1824, this room doubled as a small ballroom, so each end boasted a beautiful fireplace. The small orchestras used back then would play on a raised dais against the outside wall. If the weather was warm all the French doors would be thrown open and dancing would be outside as well as in.

When Big Ray lived he threw fabulous parties, this room overflowing. Once he died, Sister rarely used it. But today it seemed perfect.

Between the food, the stories, having all the young people around, it was one of the best Thanksgivings Sister could remember.

After the last dish was carried out and the table cleared, they all repaired to the living room, where Sorrel opened the grand piano and played song after song. The schoolgirls knew the words to Cole Porter’s songs because Custis Hall put onAnything Goes. They all got hooked on his witty lyrics and melodies.

By midnight, the last of the guests had left. They’d thrilled to a hard day’s riding, the joy of one another’s company. Lorraine protested that she should stay to clean up, as did Betty, but Sister pushed them out the door, saying she’d abuse the Custis Hall students.

With Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster cleaning plates the only thing to do was to load the dishwasher. Up to her elbows in soapy water, washing the crystal, Sister handed glasses to the girls, standing in a row. Gray filled up the fireplaces, then returned to the kitchen.

“What can I do?”

“Sit by the fire and look handsome.”

More tired than he cared to admit, he dropped into the old cane rocking chair, propped his feet up by the huge walk-in fireplace.

“What a day.” He smiled.

“Aunt Netty is still sleeping, I’ll bet.” Sister pulled the plug in the sink, the water swirling downward. Bubbles floated into the air. She reached up and balanced one on her finger. “Life is a soap opera and we’re the bubbles.”

“How’d you know it was Aunt Netty?” Valentina finished wiping out a wineglass.

“First that silly brush. Pathetic. Always has been. Then, no one runs like Aunt Netty, she burns the wind.”

“Did you get a look at the other fox?” Tootie asked.

“No, but Betty said it was Grace, who lives at Foxglove. Cindy spoils her with candies.”

“As I recall, someone in this room occasionally puts out treats.” Gray pushed off with his right foot, the rocker gently rolling.

“Well, it’s true. Of course, now that we’ve got the little gray back in the orchard I’ll put out some dog biscuits for her, too.”

Tootie hung the sopping-wet dish towel over the drying rack.“Anything else?”

“We’ve performed heroic labors. Done.” Sister wiped her hands.

Valentina walked to the mudroom. Her barn coat hung there. She’d put her iPod in the pocket. Returning to the kitchen, everyone sitting by the fireplace, she handed it to Sister. “I keep forgetting to play this for you.”

“Ah, I’ve wanted to see one of these,” Sister said, admiring the small electronic device.

“I recorded this music, uh, I forget the exact name. Something about Henry IV hunting. Henry of France. Anyway, it was written during the French Revolution.”

“Off with their heads.” Felicity giggled.

“You know, I didn’t think anyone wrote music during the Revolution.” Sister placed the tiny earpieces in her ears. She blinked and pulled them off.

“Too loud?” Valentina turned down the volume.

“No. No. That tinty sound.”

Valentina put the earphones in her ears.“Oh, that.” She handed them back to Sister. “Sorry. I didn’t erase all of that. The hunting horn will start in a minute.”

“Val, play that again.” Sister listened intently. “What is that sound?”

“Special effects.”

“From what?”

“From the Halloween dance. That’s a witch’s voice. Well, it’s my voice really. I recorded my voice and changed the speed until I got the right sound. We had all these little flying witches and each one had one of our voices. It was so cool.”

Putting her arm around Val’s waist, Sister walked her over to the wall phone. She dialed the sheriff.

“Ben, listen to this.”

It was also a perfect night for Target, the big red. He’d feasted on Thanksgiving leftovers from two different farms. There wasn’t a garbage can Target couldn’t open. Deer hunters would clean carcasses, leaving behind the offal. He didn’t like that but other little creatures did so Target could sometimes grab a quick bite there or even better, the rack hunters would saw off antlers, leaving the entire deer. All that deer meat was getting tedious. The turkey and stuffing leftovers tonight were wonderful.

He stopped, crouched. At the edge of the wildflower meadow lay a blackbird from St. Just’s flock. He crept toward it, prepared to pounce, then stopped. The bird was dead. He sniffed it. Nothing smelled unusual. No marks on the crow. It could have dropped from a heart attack, a common enough death among birds given their heart rate. He picked up another odor, human. Ten feet from thecrow rested a human finger, relatively fresh, torn at the joint. The simple gold ring had an onyx oval stone, a crest carved into it. The ring was half on, half off the finger. Target pulled it off with one extended claw.

Toys delighted him. He’d steal balls that house dogs dropped outside. If it rolled or was shiny, he wanted it. He picked up the ring, taking it home.

He knew humans buried or cremated their dead. Their fastidious ways amused him because the body did the earth not a bit of good then. However, every creature has its habits so if humans wanted to render their dead useless to the soil, so be it.

It occurred to him that finding the finger was not a good sign for the humans. One more reason he was glad he was a fox.

C H A P T E R 2 1

Thanksgiving vacation offered quiet but no relief from paperwork. Charlotte and Carter lived on campus in a lovely home, but try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t work at home. She needed to leave the familiarity of her needlepoint pillows and her two cats.

As she walked across the main quad she was surprised to see Knute Nilsson, blue cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck, walking toward Old Main.

“Knute, walking off your turkey?”

He smiled wanly,“I’d have to walk to Seattle and back.”

“See, if you rode, you’d burn off those calories.”

“The horse burns them. I don’t know about the human.” He fell in alongside her. “But I burn plenty of calories sailing.”

“Bill tore his britches yesterday, revealing more of Bill than anyone wanted to see,” she said cheerfully.

“Actually, there’s a lot of Bill, isn’t there? He can’t even claim that it’s middle-aged spread now that he’s on the other side of sixty.”

“How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Good, but five children in the house under the age of ten! I thought I would lose my mind or go deaf or both.”

“Maybe when we’re younger we don’t mind it. I don’t know.”

“Sometimes I look at my children and grandchildren and wish I’d been celibate.”

At that they both laughed.

Charlotte chided him,“You wouldn’t make a good monk.”

“No.”

“So coming to the office for peace and quiet?”

“Yes, and to crunch numbers.” He opened the large main door, the paned glass on the top half frosted. “Amy wants four new centrifuges. She said what she has is ancient and two are broken. My God, Charlotte, do you know how much a centrifuge costs? I told her she’d better not break any of those microscopes because that’s it for this year’s budget.” He paused. “Really, the security patrol is wreaking havoc with the numbers.”

“I know,” she commiserated. “What can we do, Knute? We have to have that presence to create confidence.”

“I don’t think the students are in danger. Whatever happened had to do with Al, himself, not any of the girls.”

“Let’s hope so. The problem is, we don’t know.” Her loafer heels clicked on the polished floor as they walked by the artifact case.

“We could reduce the number of security people. Shave two people off the payroll. I’m not sure anyone would notice.”

“No.”

He frowned.“We’ve got to do something. And I guarantee you the bill Professor Kennedy submits with her report will be as fat as the report.” He stopped when they reached the door to her office. “She didn’t give any kind of hint, did she? Like when and how much?”

“She said she’d have the report to us right after New Year’s. But she gave no indication of the final cost. She probably doesn’t know until she sits down and adds it all up.”

“I dread it.”

“I do, too, but I dread unrest more. We can’t afford that kind of publicity. At least belt-tightening doesn’t have to make the news.”

“Be sure to tighten Bill’s first.”

C H A P T E R 2 2

The remnants of the moon, still full enough to cast light through the clouds, revealed low popcorn clouds, sailing in from the west. By eight-thirty they’d turned into low, fleecy gray clouds.

When hounds were cast at nine o’clock at Little Dalby, the temperature leveled off at forty-seven degrees. The moisture in the clouds gave the morning a raw feel. From a foxhunter’s point of view, this was good because scent would hold on the ground.

Eighty-four people in formal attire filled the pasture where the trailers had parked this Saturday after Thanksgiving. Holidays brought people out. Many were eager for a foxhunt to sweat off the calories. Then, too, the cold air cleared the head from all the family tension that holidays seem to bring out.

Postcard Thanksgiving dinners so rarely occur. The soup isn’t the only thing simmering. Many a person seated atop their sleek hunter inwardly groaned at the thought of Christmas. The expense of it was bad enough; worse, for some, was spending it with their families. Since southerners, especially, put a good face on it, many people thought they were alonein their misery.

People needed a good brisk day out to release their pent-up, silent resentment.

The hounds couldn’t wait, charging out of the party wagon. Sybil and Betty dropped the thongs on their whips, calling, “Hold up. Hold up.”

Shaker, voice calm, sat atop HoJo.“Settle down. Just relax.”

“We’re ready!” Delight said.

“And it’s a new fixture. I can’t wait.” Her littermate, Diddy, twirled in a circle.

“If you don’t quit babbling, Shaker will put you back on the trailer,” Ardent warned with the wisdom of full maturity.

That shut up the two giddy girls.

Once Sister thanked Mrs. Wideman and informed the field that a tailgate would follow they got right down to it. No point wasting a minute on a day as promising as this.

The staff didn’t know the foxes on this estate. Little Dalby backed up on Beveridge Hundred, which had been hunted by Jefferson Hunt for over a century. If a fox skedaddled that way, they’d have a better chance of knowing the fox since the animal’s home territory might be Beveridge Hundred.

But hounds no sooner put their noses down on the grass than Dasher found a strong line and called the others to him. Before people could tighten their girths they were off, in some cases literally.

No harm done as those who had parted ways from their mounts lurched back up, usually with the help of a friend holding on to their horse. It’s difficult for a horse to stand still when the rest of the herd thunders away. However, these pathetic humans couldn’t run a lick, so the good horses knew to wait and hope they could catch up without their passenger flying off again.

The fox headed straight south away from Beveridge Hundred, straight as an arrow, too. Within twenty minutes Sister and the first flight cleared six new coops and post-and-rail jumps they’d built. Then, as so often happens, the fox vanished.

Hounds cast themselves looking for the elusive scent. As no creek or river was near, no one knew how he or she did it, but it was as though that fox had never existed.

Sitting at the check, Sister felt the slight drop in the temperature and a cool air current curling out of the forest. The faint rustle of the dried leaves on the oaks filled the air as did the cry of an angry redtail hawk overhead. The hounds spoiled her hunting.

The low series of hills stretched out before them was covered with broomsage. These fields needed care. However, what’s bad for grazing may be good for game.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tootie saw a large red fox walking toward the forest. He’d circled them, arranging to ruin his scent where the hounds lost it. She resisted the urge to blurt out “Tally ho,” which would have sent the fox on faster as well as brought up the hounds’ heads. Every time a hound lifts its head a precious moment may be lost because the scent, nine times out of ten, is on the ground.

Sometimes if scent is breast high the hounds can carry it until it lifts over their heads.

Heart pounding, Tootie turned Iota in the direction the fox was moving. She took off her cap, stretched her right arm out straight, and said nothing.

Sister didn’t see her, as Tootie was behind her. A low murmur alerted her; she turned and saw with pride that the young woman did just as she was supposed to do. She also heard at that moment Crawford bellow, “Tally ho.”

Shaker, trotting and now close to the field, said in a voice that carried,“Mr. Howard, kindly shut up.” Crawford fumed, face cerise, but he did button his lip.

Shaker quietly called the hounds to him, walking them toward the sighting. At that moment, since there was no wind, he didn’t have to factor in how far scent would drift. He had to give the fox time to get away. Scent was good today. No reason to gallop about.

He glanced at Tootie, put the hounds on her vector but fifty yards behind. As the hounds passed her, then Shaker, he touched his cap with his crop.

Tootie grinned from ear to ear.

Before her grin faded, Cora, good as gold, called,“Let’s go.”

The fox, full of vigor, feeling loosened up from the first part of the chase, glided into the forest, darted over rotting logs, their pungent aroma detectable to the humans. The fox, inexperienced with hounds, had heard from the Beveridge Hundred foxes how the chase worked.

Confident that he could elude and outrun the pursuers, he merrily ran. He scrambled over huge orange fungus sprouting from the base of trees. His weight broke off pieces, releasing their earthy scent. He skidded across pine needles, the fresher the needles, the stronger the scent.

St. John’s lay dead ahead and he shot right for it. He inhaled an enticing aroma from under the church but knew if he ducked in there so would the hounds. Better to allow the marvelous fragrance to throw them off. He’d be long gone by the time they gave that up.

He was right, too, for the hounds swarmed the church.

“Let’s dig in here,” Doughboy gleefully sang out.

“Yeah, this will be really good.” Delight supported her brother.

Cora, tempted by the aroma, ordered,“No. We’ve got to stay on our fox.”

“Won’t the humans want some of this?” Diddy inquired.

Tinsel, a year older than the“Ds,” hunting for the third year, sniffed.“Look how high they are on their horses. Do you know how long it will take scent to reach them even if the air warms? Diddy, we’ve got to leave this. And if an exceptionally well-nosed human gets a whiff they won’t like it.”

“It smells so good,” Delight said with a backward look, and followed Cora.

Shaker called out,“Hark to ’em.”

They moved on, catching up with Dragon, Dasher, and Cora.

Running hard, Tinsel said to Diddy,“Humans don’t like that kind of food.”

“No!” Diddy pitied their undeveloped palates.

Scent grew hotter as they moved forward, so conversation stopped.

Galloping past the charming church, Sister noticed that truck tracks indented the road. The Widemans must have come to inspect their little church. She hoped restoration would follow. A faint hint of an abandoned deer carcass or something assailed her nostrils, then disappeared as she hurried on.

A sprinkle hit her cheeks; the raindrops felt cold. She looked up at the sky. The clouds were so low she felt she could touch them as mist filtered down through the forest.

They burst out of the woods, over a stout new coop, still unpainted, which spooked some of the horses.

She felt sorry about that but there just hadn’t been time to paint, plus one had to wait for the temperatures to rise above the forties.

Still running straight, the fox fired across the pasture, dipped under an old fence line, and shot into Beveridge Hundred, where he made for an old granary, built of stone. He waited a moment, shook himself, then placidly slipped into his den.

Hounds raced to the granary but were too large to squeeze under the ragged edge of the old wooden door, the once-bright blue faded to a chalky baby blue.

“Let me in!” Dragon howled.

The fox paid no mind to the uproar outside the door.

Shaker chose not to open the door. He knew the fox had to be in his den, but he didn’t know if any farm equipment was still in the granary. If so, his hounds could get torn by tines in their excitement or smack into old tools, which would fall on them.

Hound welfare came first for Shaker.

The rain accelerated from a fine mist to a light drizzle.

“Boss?” he asked Sister after he’d blown “gone to ground.”

“Time to pick them up, I think.”

Walter, back in the field, pulled the collar of his coat up, as did others. The rawness of the weather cut to the bone.

Within fifteen minutes all returned to the trailers. Despite the drizzle increasing in tempo, the tailgate was crowded.

As he put on his Barbour coat in the dressing room of his trailer, Crawford swore.“I will get that son of a bitch huntsman. Who the hell does he think he is? Who is paying his salary? I put more money into this than anyone!” Marty had sense enough not to argue with him.

Anselma Wideman returned in her truck. She’d seen them off.

“Sister, why don’t you all come into the house?”

“Thank you, but as you can see, the food’s about demolished. Thank you, though.”

“Well, if you’re worried about the mud, don’t be. I’ve got one of those big standing bootjacks. They can pull off their boots and walk around in their socks.”

Sister smiled.“Grab something before it’s all gone.”

“I just might do that.” The pretty forty-year-old cut the motor, slid into her Barbour jacket. As she stepped outside she clapped an oilskin hat on her head. “You must be cold.”

Sister walked next to her toward the tailgate.“You get used to it. Where’s Harvey today? I was hoping we’d see him to thank him. It’s wonderful to be back here. So many memories. All of them happy. It’s a beautiful, beautiful place and you all are doing so much to bring it back to life.”

“We have Beveridge Hundred as our example.”

“The Cullhains never give up.” Sister motioned toward the family that had owned Beveridge Hundred for centuries, in flush times and lean. As farming grew tougher and tougher their little profits dwindled, but they struggled to keep the place together, not selling off any land.

“This area is full of remarkable people, people who don’t bend to hardship,” Anselma said admiringly, her black eyes soft and warm.

“Well, Anselma, all God’s chillun’ got problems. It’s what you do with them.”

“True enough.”

“Where is Harvey, by the way?”

“I forgot that, didn’t I? He’s in Baltimore. Family business, so he killed two birds with one stone.”

“I saw truck tracks back to St. John’s. Thought maybe he drove back for inspiration.”

“He may have. There are so many outbuildings at Little Dalby I’m working my way outward. Eventually I’ll get to St. John’s myself.”

“Well, this place is being reborn.”

“You know, Sister, I am, too.”

“Every day.” Sister smiled.

“Beg pardon?”

“Every day. One is reborn with the sun. And today that fox gave us such a run, I feel like I’m thirty.”

They laughed and on reaching the tailgate joined the others.

It wasn’t until three days later, Tuesday, that Sister recalled her conversation with Anselma and realized she’d fumbled the ball.

C H A P T E R 2 3

“Balls.” Bill leaned back in the leather club chair, putting his feet on the leather hassock. “He’s so full of it.”

Amy shrugged,“That’s what he said.”

“He’s always crying poor. It’s a professional hazard.” Bill would have none of it. “There’s money in the budget for centrifuges. For Christ’s sake, Amy, every school budget has a layer of fat in it. Think of it as high cholesterol.” He glanced down at his own expanding belly, the corners of his mouth turned down. “When did you see him, anyway?”

“I stopped by his office at eight-thirty. Before my first class.”

“I’m sure he was toiling away.” Bill’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“He was.”

Alpha Rawnsley opened the door to the teachers’ lounge, inhaling the seasoned oak crackling in the fireplace. “Solace!” She closed the door behind her, took in Amy’s face. “Perhaps not.”

“Oh, Alpha, I’m just mad at Knute, that’s all. He says there isn’t money in the budget to replace the four centrifuges that broke.”

“Crying poor.” Bill nestled farther into the comfortable old chair, made so by decades of teacher bottoms.

“He can be strict,” Alpha wryly replied as she poured herself a sherry from the decanter.

As each of them had taught their last class of the day, they repaired to the lounge. It was their version of stopping by the bar to have one with the boys before going home. The difference was the Custis Hall faculty thought of it as collegiality.

“Anal,” Bill said.

“That may be so, but Custis Hall remains in the black. You have to give him and Charlotte credit for that. And once the alumnae fund reaches its target, they’ll both relax.”

“If I have to wait that long for four centrifuges, I’d better leave.” Amy decided a spot of sherry would do her a world of good, too.

Outside the paned, leaded-glass windows a few snowflakes announced more to come.

Alpha smiled.“To the first snow.” She handed Bill a sherry.

They toasted the true beginning of winter.

“You know what else he’s obsessing about?”

“Amy, he has a laundry list.” Bill giggled, which made the two women laugh.

“Professor Kennedy’s bill. He must have droned on and on for a good twenty minutes about all the time she was here because she charges by the hour. He anticipates her report, which, his words, ‘Will be a pulp novel larger than the Cedars of Lebanon.’ He’s not exactly sliding into the holiday mood.”

“Wonder why he called it a novel?” Alpha, ever the English teacher, queried.

Amy shrugged but Bill piped up,“She’ll make it up.”

“Bill!” Alpha was surprised. “She hardly seemed like that kind of person, and do you think she would have the recommendation she does or her position at Brown if she were a fraud?”

“I don’t know.” Bill drained his sherry glass. “I just don’t see how anyone can authenticate an iron lock or a pair of dancing pumps. I suppose you can come close, but I know from my work that you wind up with what was most popular. For instance, let’s say I’m doing a production ofThe Lion in Winter. Twelfth century and it happened to be a period of clean, quite beautiful designs, especially for women’s clothing. But what do I see? Stained-glass windows. A pretty painting in a Book of Hours. There’s not a scrap of fabric left. Besides, I’m seeing idealized representations of royalty and nobles. I don’t think it’s that easy to authenticate certain objects or clothes. It’s always an approximation.”

“Carbon dating.” Amy poured another round for Bill and herself. Alpha waved her off.

“Sure. That will really put Knute over the edge. Do you know how expensive that is? Look, we’re doing this to pacify a segment of our student body. It’s window dressing.”

“I don’t think so.” Alpha disagreed without being disagreeable. “Once the administration committed to this, it realized that nothing has been done with those items since the day they were given to Custis Hall. No one knows their value. It may be important for insurance.”

“Sell off one old ribbon and I’d have my centrifuges,” Amy griped.

Bill laughed,“I can see it now, science teacher sentenced to fifteen years for theft of valuable ribbon.”

The three laughed.

Alpha lowered her voice slightly.“This is when we need Al Perez. He could jolly Knute along.”

Amy struggled, then replied,“I try not to miss him, but I do.”

Diplomatically Alpha said,“You were closer to him than we were. He had his faults. Don’t we all? However, he worked very hard for Custis Hall and we’re close to our alumnae fund goal because of him.”

“Fifteen million dollars.” Bill inhaled. “That sounds like so much money until you realize that two decades ago Stanford University launched a drive to raise one billion dollars in alumnae contributions. Now the other first-flight,” he used the hunting term, “universities have followed suit.”

“Pity poor University of Missouri.” Alpha kept up with educational news. “Kenneth Lay, a graduate, promised beaucoup dollars. They based their budget on that and, well, we know the rest of that story. I can’t imagine doing that to people or to one’s alma mater. He doesn’t seem to have asmidgen of shame.”

“Never steal anything small,” Bill replied. “Remember that movie with James Cagney? Wasn’t that the title?”

Amy glared at Bill.“How would I know?”

“That’s right, Amy. I forgot. You were still in swaddling clothes.” Bill let out an uproarious laugh and Alpha couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Bill, you went ugly early.” Amy smiled for a change.

“Guess I did.” He finished his sherry. “My wife has promised something new and exciting with the turkey leftovers. My curiosity is rising.”

“Along with your appetite.” Alpha listened to the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. “Snowing a bit harder now. Bill, think you’ll foxhunt tomorrow?”

“It’s from Beasley Hall. Crawford will have the road plowed out. We’ll go unless it’s a blizzard. I didn’t check the weather this morning. What’s the call?”

“Light snow. Not much accumulation, maybe one or two inches. Enough for the highway department to clear the roads,” Alpha said.

“With what we pay in state taxes the highway department could do a better job of snowplowing.” Amy folded her arms across her chest.

“Budget. See. We come back to Knute. Same drama, different theater.” Bill enjoyed his wordplay.

“This is a rich state,” Amy said.

“It’s a well-managed state,” Alpha said, amending Amy’s response. “We aren’t rich compared to New York or California. We’re better managed, and because of that, our taxes are lower.”

“We don’t have people pouring in across the border using state services and not paying for them.” Bill had strong thoughts about that issue.

“True,” Alpha simply replied.

“It always comes back to money, doesn’t it? I don’t see why we can’t afford more snowplows and I don’t see why I can’t have four centrifuges.”

“If the state buys more snowplows it’s wasteful. Contract out the labor, allow those men who already have the equipment to make some money. The state doesn’t have to maintain the equipment, put the gas in the engines, or buy the bulldozer initially. It’s a better system. It’s up to the contractor to factor in those things when he bids.” Alpha believed passionately in reducing the number of people employed by the state government or any level of government. Let the private sector do it.

“So what do you want me to do? Go write a bid and turn it in to Knute?”

“Try an angora sweater that fits, uh, that shows off your assets.” Bill felt wonderful, the sherry warming him.

“Works on you, not Knute.” Amy knew her compatriots.

Alpha remarked lightly,“You can’t blame a man for looking.”

“Alpha, you’d be surprised.” A sour note crept into Bill’s voice. “If our society becomes any more politically correct the only people who will teach, run for office, you name it, will be robots. God help anyone with blood in his or her veins.”

“You’ve got a point there, Bill. I’m glad I’m getting older.” She spoke to Amy, “Bill and I will soon retire. You and your generation are going to bear the brunt of this. And you’re also going to endure a wicked recession, so my advice, dear, forget the centrifuges for now. Be as helpful as you can and the best teacher you can be. When the pink slips fly, your name won’t be on one. Because by the time this economy hits the skids, Knute will be even more powerful.”

“Hear, hear.” Bill raised his glass and Amy poured him another round.

He was a big man and could absorb it.

“We haven’t really talked about this, but Al’s murder is certainly going to affect the school. If the person who did it isn’t caught soon, parents will get nervous and so will alumnae. Our recession could start before the nation’s,” Alpha shrewdly noted.

“They’ll catch him,” Amy confidently said.

“Who knows?” Bill’s blue eyes were doubtful. “Murder is a very easy crime to commit. Steal something large, they’ll track you down sooner or later. Again, Kenneth Lay. But murder? It makes for good movies, but in real life people get away with it every day.”

“That’s cynical.” Amy wanted Al’s murderer caught even if she did cling to her resentment of the way in which the affair ended.

“Going to be more than two inches if it keeps coming down like this. What is there about the first snow? Pristine. Beautiful.” Alpha changed the subject. “I’ll bid you two adieu. I want to get home before the roads are a slushy mess.”

“Sun’s setting, too. It’ll ice up pretty fast. I guess I’ll find out what my dearest has conjured up with the leftovers.”

Amy waited alone in the lounge for a few minutes as she watched Alpha and Bill, walking together in the snow. She loved this old lounge. It was where she began her flirtation with Al that turned into something much more. For the first time since his death, the tears came. Lost loves, always emotionally potent, are even more so when death removes all possibility of resolution. Poor thing didn’t even know she needed resolution until this grief overtook her.

C H A P T E R 2 4

A light snow, a thin white curtain, continued to fall when the Jefferson hounds cast from Beasley Hall on November 29. Three inches had accumulated overnight as the snowfall abated, then picked up again, but the main roads were easily passable. Crawford plowed the tertiary road to the huge stone pillars announcing the entrance to his estate. The massive, expensive bronze boars atop the pillars had snow on their tusks, in their hackles, which added to their ferocious appearance.

The only dicey part for those braving the weather was the one mile of secondary road before turning off to Crawford’s road. Everybody crawled along and arrived to park in front of the hunter stables. Fifteen sturdy souls arose in darkness for the morning’s hunt. True foxhunters, they knew today was the kind of day when one could ride on the chase of the season.

And they weren’t far wrong, because the hounds cast promptly at nine and by ten minutes after the hour, Asa, wise in his seventh season, caught a whiff of fresh rabbit blood. He flanked the pack, put his nose down, and tracked the scent droplets in the snow to a small covert folded into the land.

“He’s in the covert!” Asa called out and the other hounds honored him.

A big red dog fox, hearing the music, bolted out the other end of the small covert.

Betty, on Magellan, who danced about, saw him shoot northeast so the light wind would be at his tail. No fool, this fellow.

“Tally ho!” Betty called out.

Sister slipped and slid as they cantered down the slope. Going up the slight rise proved easy enough, and by the time they crested it, she and the small field could see the beautiful sight of a red fox against white snow in the distance running flat out, the whole pack as one behind him.

The snowflakes stung as they hit Sister’s face, caught in her eyelashes. The cold awakened everyone but most especially the horses, who loved days like today. Snow flew off hooves; some large clumps smacked people’s chests like hard snowballs.

A black coop, half white on the bottom now, loomed ahead. Shaker soared over it on Gunpowder, white as the snow himself. Sister and Rickyroo popped over but as successive riders took it, the footing grew ever more treacherous. The last four horses over rode straight to the base and popped way up and over.

Against the snow, everyone could see the red figure diminishing up ahead. The snow impeded him but it slowed the hounds, too. As they were heavier, they sank down into it.

A zigzag fence was ahead and the riders took their own line coming back together on the other side of the lovely old snake fencing. The fox sped over the next large field, dashed into a thick woods. His perfect paw prints announced his progress to human eyes because he was harder to see once in the woods. He ducked into underbrush.

Dragon and Trident, fast, nudged ahead of Cora. Both boys closed on the fox. Dragon lunged for him, jaws snapping, and the red jumped up in the air, turned a ninety-degree angle, and again ducked under thick brush that proved tough going for Dragon and Trident, but they persevered.

A crystal-clear deep creek lay ahead, the banks steep, filled with ice, too. He launched into the creek, swimming downstream, scrambling out on the other side. He gained two minutes on his pursuers with this tactic because they all crashed into the creek, then had to pick up his scent on the other side, which took a few moments since they clambered out higher up than he did.

Sister gave Rickyroo a hard squeeze. He soared over the creek, landing cleanly on the other side. He didn’t like the reflections from ice but he was learning—he was seven—that the old girl on his back was trustworthy. She didn’t ask him to do anything stupid.

A mass of boulders, jumbled together like a giant’s discarded building blocks, marked the edge of the heavy woods. The fox dove into his den at the base of the smooth gray rock.

The hounds dug at the rock. Shaker praised them. As he swung his right leg over he glanced down, noticing to his right fresh bear tracks. He put his right foot back in the stirrup. He blew“gone to ground” very briefly from the saddle, then turned the pack in the opposite direction of the tracks.

Sister rarely questioned her huntsman. His abrupt departure keyed up her already heightened senses. She turned and followed, Walter, Crawford, Marty, Gray, Sam, Tedi, Edward, and others behind her.

No sooner had they moved into the rolling white field on the other side of the woods than the hounds struck again. This scent was older but strong enough to give another ripping twenty-minute run. Miraculously no one slipped and went down. At least going down in snow is better than on hard-baked earth.

By the time they returned to the trailers, wiped down their horses, and threw blankets over them, everyone was exhilarated and exhausted.

Marty had her cook prepare a hot breakfast at the long hunt table. The luxury of sitting at a table instead of balancing a plate on one’s lap couldn’t have come at a better time.

Sausages, bacon, hot flaky biscuits, eggs, steaming steel-cut oatmeal, pancakes, waffles, pastries as well as the ubiquitous ham biscuits covered the table. Marty even had the cook fill the tureen with bubbling chipped beef gravy.

Crawford sat at the head of the table with Sister at his right. Marty commanded the other end, Walter at her right.

Once the warm food hit everyone’s stomach as well as some bracing coffee or tea, a few coffees laced with bourbon, the volume of conversation in the room rose.

Shaker was usually reluctant to join a breakfast for he had many chores, but once he knew the hounds were snuggling down in deep straw and had plenty of fresh water, and Marty had Rory give everyone biscuits, he came to the table. His presence delighted everyone and he was peppered with questions. This hard-core group truly wanted to know about hound work. Even Crawford, not a hound man, feigned interest.

“Let the poor man eat first,” Marty good-naturedly ordered.

As the merriment continued, Crawford addressed Sister.“You know, Saturday, when we rode past St. John’s of the Cross, I thought what a good thing, to have a chapel of one’s own.”

Knowing him, she replied,“When are you going to start and are you using clapboard, brick, or stone?”

He smiled at her as he nibbled a piece of Canadian bacon. He put it on his plate.“Well, stone is impressive.”

“Your stone pillars certainly are.”

“I was thinking the same type of stone.”

“You know you place the altar facing south.” She ate her oatmeal laced with orange blossom honey. She didn’t know what she liked more, oatmeal or honey.

“No.”

“Always.”

Tedi, on Crawford’s left, gleefully told him, “Crawford, as you know, my father’s family was from Connecticut, so you might say I have double vision. I can see both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. When one is south of the line, the altar is south because no true southerner will worship with his face to the north.”

“Good God,” Crawford exploded genially, “doesn’t anyone ever forget?”

“No” was said in unison.

“Gray, Sam, doesn’t all this worship of the Confederacy worry you?” Crawford asked.

Sam deferred to his brother.

“Those who do not know their past are doomed to repeat it,” Gray stated.

This set off a lively conversation, which delighted Crawford. He considered himself a Renaissance man even if he appeared nouveau riche to others. Better nouveau riche than nouveau pauvre.

“What shall you name your church?” Sister returned to his building project.

“I was thinking of St. Swithun, a good English saint.”

Tedi wrinkled her brow.“Oh, dear, all I remember is if it rains on St. Swithun’s Day it will rain for forty days following. July 15. So much for my catechism studies.”

“We think of you as St. Tedi.” Sister laughed at her old friend.

“Lots of St. Theodores, but they’re men.” Crawford read history constantly and since saint days and the ecclesiastical calendar bound Western culture for close to two thousand years, he was a font of information on such subjects, as was Sister.

“We’ll make a new saint, then,” Sister said as she ate a second bowl of oatmeal.

“There’s a St. Teath, a woman of Cornwall, thirteenth century. Nothing is known of her,” Crawford expounded.

“Why St. Swithun? Is there another reason apart from his being English? I mean, you could have picked St. George. Who’s more English than the dragon-slayer?” Tedi was curious.

“Swithun had healing power. He was bishop of Winchester. Died in 862. I admire those people in the so-called Dark Ages. Think of what they accomplished and with so little, with such personal hardship.”

The breakfast broke up after an hour. More snow had fallen, and the drive home took longer.

Sister and Gray crept along in his Land Cruiser. Betty was driving the gooseneck loaded with horses. Sister liked hauling to the meets with Betty but Gray wanted Sister with him so they could talk and he adored showing off what his Land Cruiser could do. At a base price of $55,000 his sold for almost $60,000 since Gray couldn’t resist any gadget.

She had to admit, the vehicle could probably double as an armored car and it plowed through everything.

“Wonder how much Crawford will spend on his chapel? St. Swithun. I like that he’s naming it that,” she mused.

“He’ll use the best stonemason in the county so that’s forty dollars a cubic foot right there; he’s lucky because that price represents a bargain.”

“My God.”

“Sobering.”

“I keep forgetting how rich he is.”

“You’re the only one.” Gray laughed at her. “Hey, have I told you how much I love riding behind you?”

“Tell me again.”

“You’re bold, you know what the hounds are doing, but mostly I like seeing your little butt over the fences. Your butt is so little it’s like a boy’s.”

“More.”

“Your breasts aren’t bad either. Of course, I can’t see those when you’re leading the field.”

“Gray.” She just ate this up. Suddenly she sat upright out of the comfortable seat. “Honey, can I use your cell phone?”

“Sure, it’s wired through the car. All you have to do is push these buttons and the phone icon. When you want to hang up, push the icon where the phone is level.” He pointed to a green button, then a red button. “Forget something?”

“No, no, I’ve had a terrible thought.” She dialed the Widemans. “Henry, hello, we missed you Saturday.”

Sister’s voice was distinctive, so he knew immediately who it was. In fact, Sister rarely had to identify herself.

“Wish I could have been there. Heard that fox ran you clean to the old granary at Beveridge Hundred.”

“Did and thumbed his nose at us, too. How was your trip to Baltimore?”

“Good.” He paused. “City’s changing. Guess they all are. I worry that all this renewal will throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

“Excuse me for being nosy, but I was wondering if you’d gone out to St. John’s before you left for Baltimore.”

“I’ll get in there sooner or later.”

“Would you mind if Gray and I drove to it? We’re in the Land Cruiser so we’ll get in. I think I lost something there,” she half-fibbed.

“No, not at all. Anything I can do to save you the trip?”

“Thank you, no. Letting us come back and hunt Little Dalby is the best thing to happen to our club in years. I can’t thank you enough, and you know, we stand ready to make good on gates or if you have a project that takes strong backs, call. In fact, I’m sitting next to Samson here.”

After a few more pleasantries she disconnected.

“What are you up to? What have you gotten me into?” He shook his head.

“Honey, won’t take too long. You know the way.”

Gray, a good driver, was particularly alert if another vehicle was on the road. So many people, deluded by technology, would fly down a snowy road only to soar off into a bank, a ditch, or flip over. It was as though two generations of Americans had lost all sense of nature’s power.

Within twenty minutes they were at St. John’s of the Cross.

Sister stood before the doors. She opened them. Cold. No sign of change since she and Betty were there. A disturbed“Hoo” let her know who else was in there.

“What are you searching for?”

“Gray,” she rested her gloved hand on his chest, “Betty and I were here marking jumps and trails. We walked on back here and I guess I took a trip down Memory Lane. Anyway, it was apparent no one had been here in years. But when we hunted Saturday I noticed tire tracks, covered now, obviously, and the hounds went straight to the chapel rear. Shaker called them off. I didn’t pay attention. The chase was too good. But I did note somewhere in the back of my mind that the tracks didn’t pass over tracks coming from the other direction. Whoever came here came to the chapel. And I smelled rot.”

“It’s deer season, Jane. No reason a hunter wouldn’t park here and go deeper into the woods. Can’t drive into the brush. And you know as well as I that some hunters will leave the carcass or parts of it.”

“Got a flashlight in that tank of yours?”

“I do.”

Within seconds they were walking around the chapel.

“I’m looking for any recent disturbance.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know, except that I trust my hounds. Shaker called them from here in short order but they were highly interested. Of course it’s below freezing now so I can’t smell a thing.”

“Fox under the chapel?”

“Could be and if it is, I need to worm him or her. If I’m lucky maybe I can lure him into a humane trap and get one rabies and distemper shot in.”

They walked around to the back. The old stone foundation had some gaps in it large enough for a hound to crawl in, or a human for that matter.

With the biting cold the decaying leaf smell was not discernible, although a pleasant odor to the human nose.

She crouched down, shining the beam into the opening. She handed the flashlight to Gray as he hunched down next to her.

“Jesus H. Christ on a raft!” He dropped the flashlight and sprinted for the Land Cruiser.

C H A P T E R 2 5

The snow, still falling, drifted, creating waves that looked like Cool Whip. Ben Sidel, Ty Banks, and three other officers patiently worked in the cold. Although only three in the afternoon, the deep gray clouds hung low; visibility wasn’t too good.

On the one hand, the cold had preserved what remained of the body under the church. But the snow obscured any tracks or other bits of evidence that might have been there. Ben knew, when this snow melted, evidence would melt with it.

Ty rubbed his gloved hands together as he stood up. He shook his legs for circulation.“Sheriff, how long do you think she’s been under there?”

“Maybe a week. And we’re lucky. The animals that got to her didn’t take the head. We’ve got the teeth.”

“Looks like a big dog or something pawed away at the stones.”

“Yeah. Sticking her under the church was a hurry-up job but not such a stupid one. People rarely come back here. Whoever killed her shoved her under the church as far back as he could crawl, piled up leaves over her, then put some stones back in the foundation. Don’t know if he opened up the foundation or if the stones crumbled away. Not all of these,” he pointed to snow-covered stones, “match.”

“Guess there’s not enough for a visual I.D.”

Ben shook his head.“Been tore up pretty good. Nature’s recycling.” He grunted softly. “The teeth. We’ll get a positive I.D.”

Ty jammed his hands in his pockets as two men in orange hazard suits slid back out on their stomachs, body pieces in plastic bags.

Ty asked,“Do you think Mrs. Arnold knew who that was under there?”

“She probably has an idea despite the condition of the body. Sister’s uncanny. She said she should have trusted her hounds when they went to the chapel.”

“Do you want to call Mrs. Norton? I can if you—” Ty didn’t finish, for Ben interrupted.

“I’ll call. She knows it’s coming.”

“Because Brown University called her yesterday.”

Ben shrugged,“Well, she’s a bright woman. They asked her if she had seen Professor Kennedy, who has never missed a class. The conclusion has to be dismal. Now we have the evidence.” Ben rolled his eyes toward the slightly waving treetops. “Ty, we’re in the fog, but it’s about to lift.”

“Why?”

“Because our killer had to hurry. People who hurry make mistakes.”

“When are you going to give a statement to the press?” Ty considered what Ben had just said.

“Tomorrow. I need tonight to think.” He lifted his foot, shaking the cold out of his toes, snow spraying. “And I want to call on a few people.”

“Long night?” Ty’s expression was dolorous.

“Not for you. Tomorrow I want you to see if you can find Professor Kennedy’s backup system. Someone as meticulous as she had to be in her line of work wouldn’t have had only one copy of her data. It’s possible that whatever she found, whether it had to do with those artifacts or with something else at Custis Hall, might be encoded in that data.”

“Okay.”

“The other thing is this: My statement will simply be that the remains of an unidentified woman were found. I’ll give an estimate of age and race and say we won’t have any more information until the dental records are checked, which may take some time.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Find the killer.”

Ty’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sister said he knows the territory.”

“After this, there can’t be any doubt about that.”

C H A P T E R 2 6

Soft golden light flooded the snow-covered campus. Tracks crisscrossed the quads. The lovely diffuse December light somewhat made up for the long, black, cold nights. Last night the mercury had dipped to twenty-one degrees, but at eleven in the morning it shot up to forty-six with promise of further rising.

Tootie, Valentina, and Felicity, in riding clothes, walked toward their dorm.

“Did I bump Money? I swear I didn’t. Bunny’s in a mood. She always takes it out on me.” Valentina loved the look of the school after a snow.

“Didn’t see. I was in front of you,” Tootie said.

“Me, too.” Felicity noticed a determined squirrel stuffing acorns into her fat cheeks from a chinquapin oak.

Tootie noticed as well.“Mrs. Childers said chinquapins grow where the soil is alkaline. Sure are a lot of kinds of oaks.”

“I like water oaks. Don’t see them this far west.” Felicity liked botany. “There’s something romantic about water oaks.”

Valentina’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’re talking about oaks and I got my ass chewed by Bunny, the bitch.”

“One dollar,” Felicity grinned. “No, two.”

“Oh, pulease!” Valentina rolled her eyes. “Ass is a body part.”

Tootie stopped, holding up her hands.“I’ll make the call on this. Otherwise you two will go on for days. Val, you owe one dollar. I accept your explanation for ‘ass.’ Okay, F.?”

“Okay.” Felicity kept grinning as Valentina dug into her britches for a dollar.

“You’re such an accountant. How boring.”

“It won’t be boring when we throw our end-of-the-year party, funded mostly by your mouth.” Felicity laughed, her features relaxing from her normal strained visage.

“Did anyone ask for early acceptance?” Tootie wondered about college.

“No,” said Valentina as she shook her head. “We’ll get in to wherever we apply. We’ve got good grades and lots of extracurricular activities.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Felicity’s worried expression returned. “Places like Stanford and Yale, Smith, those places, the best of the best.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to Princeton and they’ll be lucky to have me,” Valentina said with lightheartedness.

“Be funny if we wound up at the same college.” Felicity wanted the comfort of her dear friends even if they did bicker.

“Never happen,” Valentina pronounced. “What are the odds of the three of us getting in to Princeton?”

“Pretty good according to your analysis,” Tootie replied.

“Jennifer and Sari both got in to Colby.” Felicity liked the two college freshmen, having ridden with them many times.

“Colby isn’t Princeton,” Tootie remarked. “It’s a good school and all, but how many people want to go to Maine? Too cold.”

“If that was the criterion then no one would apply to Wisconsin or Michigan or Vermont.” Valentina saw the door of the dorm swing open and Pamela Rene emerge. “Chicago’s dream girl, in her own estimation,” she said under her breath.

“Okay, we all applied to Princeton. Tootie and I applied to Duke. You and I applied to Colgate. You and Tootie applied to Bucknell. At least two of us might make it.” Felicity kept on track.

“And I applied to Virginia Tech,” Tootie added.

“Yale,” Valentina said.

“Northwestern,” Felicity chimed in.

As Pamela approached them, Valentina asked, nicely,“Pamela, where’d you apply to college?”

Fingering her red scarf, Pamela stopped.“UVA, Tufts, Ole Miss.”

“Ole Miss?” Tootie’s eyebrows shot upward. “A Chicago girl like you at Ole Miss. Pamela, that surprises me.”

“I did it to piss off my mother.” She laughed. “She wanted me to apply to Radcliffe, Mt. Holyoke, Bard, and Vassar. If I get in to all three, I think I’ll go to Ole Miss anyway. But I put in a late application to Brown because I liked Professor Kennedy. Did it over Thanksgiving.”

“Did you have a good one?” Felicity didn’t like Pamela either but she tried to like her. Felicity tried to like everyone.

“No. But it was good to see my friends. What’d you guys do?”

“Stayed at Sister Jane’s. We hunted with her and she took us to other hunts. We hunted almost every day,” Tootie bubbled.

“Yeah, we cleaned the kennels with Shaker and we learned all the hounds’ names.” Felicity’s eyes sparkled.

“Cleaned all the tack, too.” Valentina’s stomach rumbled. Time for lunch.

“I like cleaning tack.” Felicity heard Valentina’s stomach, reminding her that she was hungry, too. “It’s therapeutic and Sister cleaned with us so she told us stories about hunting when she was our age. It was really cool. Back then people stayed out so long they brought two horses,” she enthused.

This happiness weighed on Pamela.“Guess you all are the favorites.”

“If you’d stayed here, Sister would have invited you, too.” Pamela knew Sister was evenhanded. “You’re a good rider, Pam.”

This caught Pamela off guard.“You think?”

“Yeah,” Valentina backed Tootie up.

“You couldn’t hunt your horses every day.” Pamela was curious as to what she missed.

“Sister let us ride hers!” Felicity boasted.

“She said, ‘Light hands, keep out of his mouth, and be still,’ ” Tootie added.

“Wish I’d been there.” Pamela told the truth.

This struck all three friends because they knew enough about Pamela to know she went to great pains to hide her emotions. What you saw was not what you got.

“Maybe she’ll let us have a sleepover some weekend after Christmas,” Felicity suggested.

“Sister might but I don’t know if my adviser will let me go. They’re all mad at me. The administration and the faculty, too.” Pamela overstated the case.

“Maybe some are, but Mrs. Norton isn’t like that. If your grades are good and Bunny says ‘okay,’ Mrs. Norton will flash you the green light.” Valentina liked the headmistress.

“Dad says I’m costing Custis Hall money. He says I’m right to raise the issue but wrong the way I did it. And he said I should never have gone behind Mrs. Norton’s back to find Professor Kennedy.” The usual defiance wasn’t in Pamela’s voice.

“What’d your mother say?” Tootie asked.

“She didn’t care. I’m overweight. Okay, maybe I’m ten pounds overweight but I’m not Queen Latifah. She doesn’t care what I think or what I do. She cares about how I look and that I meet ‘the right people.’ ” Pamela’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You are meeting the right people.” Valentina smiled her politician’s smile. “Hey, you’re with us, aren’t you?”

“You’re so modest, Val.” Pamela listened as the bells chimed noon. “Lunch. I’m starved.”

“Me, too,” Valentina and Felicity said in unison.

They fell in step, walking to the dining hall.

Pamela remarked,“I can’t wait for Professor Kennedy’s report.”

“You missed the point, Pamela.” Val sounded as though she were talking to a child. “The stuff in those cases is just stuff. What matters is how Professor Kennedy interprets it, and I still don’t see how she can be sure who made what.”

Felicity countered Valentina.“If a bit was made by slaves she’ll know. That’s her field, Val. It is evidence, not interpretation.”

“Oh, come on, F.” Valentina was impatient, an impatience intensified by hunger. “She can identify some things, sure, but most of it? No one will ever know. And face it, what’s a piece of old plate to us?”

Pamela’s face darkened. “That’s just like you, Valentina.”

“What? You’re going to pitch a fit over a broken teacup? The stuff is junk. It just happens to be two-hundred-year-old junk, that’s all.”

“My dad said the real reason this junk, as you call it, is going to cost Custis Hall so much money is once Professor Kennedy’s report is delivered, the school will realize the whole security system is inadequate to protect it. He said some items might even be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“So you’d rather have the school raise money to save broken teacups than build a new gym?” Valentina stepped toward Pamela.

“You’re so white,” Pamela fired right at her.

“And you are so fucked up.”

“One dollar.”

“Felicity, not now!” Tootie stepped between the two antagonists. “Pamela, it’s our heritage, white and black. It’s important. Valentina doesn’t care about history and it wouldn’t matter what color she was. She thinks the world began the day she entered it.”

“Tootie!” Valentina raised her voice.

“Hey, Val, that’s the truth, but in a sense, you’re right. The world began for you, anyway.” Tootie returned to Pamela. “But if you’re as political as you say you are, then maybe you need to think about the right use of resources. Do you preserve the past or prepare for the future? If you have tons of money, great, do both. If you don’t, then I guess I’m with Val, build the gym.”

“I knew you’d stick together.” Pamela brushed by Valentina with her shoulder as she stomped toward the dining hall, the archway crowded with students hurrying to get in.

“I can’t believe you said that about me.” Valentina turned on Tootie.

“Look, Val, self-esteem isn’t your problem. Do I care about what’s in those cases? I do. Let’s eat.”

“If we go in riding clothes, Mrs. Childers will give us demerits,” Felicity warned.

“Mrs. Childers can stuff it.” Valentina’s face reddened. “It’s a stupid rule.”

“Come on, F., what’s two demerits?” Tootie cajoled the normally placid Felicity. “We don’t have time to change. I’m starved.”

“All right.” Felicity hated getting demerits.

As they walked toward the graceful archway, Valentina asked Tootie,“Why’d you apply to Virginia Tech?”

“If I don’t get into Princeton, Bucknell, or Duke, I’ll go to Virginia Tech and stay there. That’s where I want to go to veterinary school once I get my B.A.”

“Your father isn’t going to like that,” Felicity said as she shook her head. “He told you he wouldn’t pay for it.”

“How come I don’t know all this?” Val threw up her hands in exasperation. She hated feeling left out.

“Because I only had this discussion with my dad last night and I didn’t see you until now. Dad says I’m too smart to be an equine vet; he wants me to be an investment banker. He’s being a real shit.”

“One dollar.” Felicity commiserated but stuck to her mission.

“I owe you one, too.” Valentina paid up, as did Tootie.

“Sorry.” Valentina was, too. She was blessed with parents who felt she needed to make her own choices, even bad ones. Sometimes a person learns more from a bad choice than a good one, but the important thing was that Valentina’s parents trusted her and loved her.

Tootie’s father loved her, too, but he pushed her. Her mother, more sympathetic, had ideas about one’s place in the world that weren’t too dissimilar from Pamela’s mother’s, although Tootie’s mother wasn’t quite the snob that Mrs. Rene was.

Felicity’s parents, like Valentina’s, were one hundred percent supportive. However, if Felicity wanted to do something unusual like take a year off before college and walk through Europe, she would have to earn the money for it. They were very firm that they would pay for her education and only her education.

They walked in silence. Then Felicity piped up,“I think your father is a shit, Tootie.” She then took a dollar from her right pocket and put it in her left with the other money.

The administration and the faculty convened at their own tables, which faced the students’ tables. Dining under the watchful eye of the adults usually ensured good behavior. The girls would sing but at least there were no food fights, and the singing was quite spirited.

Charlotte knew from Ben Sidel that the corpse was most likely that of Professor Kennedy. He told Charlotte not to reveal this until the tests proved conclusively that it was Professor Kennedy. This would give them both an opportunity to try to pick up the scent.

Charlotte asked if she herself was a suspect. Ben had replied that she shouldn’t worry about it. Of course, everyone must be questioned, the answers examined and compared to those of others. That was police work, lots and lots of tiny bits of information pieced together.

She then asked if she or the students were in danger. He said he didn’t think the students were but if she came across whatever or whoever was behind this, yes, she was.

Charlotte struggled to act as though all was well. She didn’t even confide in her husband because she was told to just wait until the I.D. was confirmed. However, the strain in her face made her look tired, older.

Alpha, sitting next to her today, regaled her with stories about the junior class readingTwelfth Night.

“… they get it.”

“It does take some time to adjust to the language. That’s a wonderful play to read at this time of year,” Charlotte responded as she pushed a spear of asparagus with her fork.

Knute sat on Charlotte’s left, Bill on Alpha’s right. They tried to keep to the old rule of man, woman, man, woman, but it depended on who came to lunch or dinner that day.

“Any time of year is the right time to read the Bard.” Bill stuffed his mouth with gusto.

As Tootie, Valentina, and Felicity walked by, Charlotte called to them,“Girls, come up here when you’re finished.”

“Are we in trouble?” Valentina was racking her brain to think of what they could have done wrong, apart from wearing riding clothes.

“We’re sorry about coming into the hall in our riding clothes, Mrs. Norton,” Felicity apologized.

“Sometimes it can’t be helped and you’re in luck because Mrs. Childers isn’t here for lunch.” Charlotte smiled at them.

“You mean you aren’t going to give us demerits?” Felicity balanced her overflowing plate.

“No.” Charlotte shook her head.

“Great!” Valentina breathed deeply.

“If you girls would like a demerit, I’ll arrange one or two,” Bill teased them.

“No, thank you, Mr. Wheatley.” Tootie took this opportunity to head toward a table.

As the girls followed her, Alpha said,“The Three Musketeers.”

“Who’s d’Artagnan?” Knute loved the Alexandre Dumas novel, but then who didn’t.

“Valentina, but a seasoned one, she’s past the girl-from-thecountry stage,” Alpha smiled.

“Well, Tootie’s the brains of the bunch,” Bill said, pouring more hollandaise sauce on the asparagus, which was quite good for institutional food.

“Let’s get her in the administration,” Knute laughed.

The holiday season picked up everyone’s spirits. The kids burst with energy and the faculty and administration were looking forward to their vacation as much as the students. The only person not bubbling was Charlotte, but she was trying.

After dessert the three girls came up to Charlotte.

“Ladies, did you keep any notes from your work with Professor Kennedy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chimed.

“Bring them to me after classes. How about four?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then Felicity said,“Mrs. Norton, mine are in a notebook.”

“That’s fine. I want you to sit down and go over your notes with me. And if Pamela has notes, bring her. On second thought, I’ll talk to her.” She smiled, realizing these three did not get along with Pamela. “What I want to do is review what you found, what you learned, and then when Professor Kennedy’s report comes in, we can compare. I think it will be very interesting.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And as my Christmas present to you, you can hunt with Sister Jane this Thursday. The field will be small and you can get up front to see the hounds work.”

“Thank you!” Their faces flushed with their good fortune.

“That means you are missing my class,” Alpha remarked with sternness.

“Well, Mrs. Rawnsley, I am the culprit,” said Charlotte. “Will you accept this absence if they write a book report on Siegfried Sassoon’sMemoirs of a Hunting Man?”

Alpha’s eyes lit up, “Marvelous book. All right, ladies, you have your assignment.”

After more thank-yous, the three hurried out of the dining room to the library to check out copies of Sassoon’s book. The library boasted extensive hunting titles as well as a vast equine collection. Some of these books were worth hundreds of dollars and could only be read in the rare book room.

Knute watched them hurry out while trying not to run.“You made them happy. I can’t imagine their notes will be much.”

“At the least there should be descriptions of the items each girl had to handle.” Alpha was all for training young people to use their powers of observation and then accurately describe what they saw, heard, felt, tasted, touched.

“I think we’re lucky some of it didn’t disintegrate in their fingers,” Bill added, stifling a laugh.

“Bill, it’s not that bad,” Knute replied.

“Not that good.”

Alpha shrugged,“Mixed blessing.”

“Why do you say that?” Charlotte’s senses were keen. She looked for anything out of line.

“Custis Hall has a long, dramatic history. Our founder, our benefactors, truly have given so much to this school, but what do we do with it? And Pamela may be a troubled child, an unhappy child, but I think she’s hit the nail on the head.”

Knute snapped,“By calling us racist pigs, in so many words.”

“She was pretty direct.” Bill again had to stifle a laugh.

“No.” Alpha was accustomed to her male colleagues’ flares of ideological passion, or of plain old ego. “She’s forcing us to look anew. Her motives are scrambled but then is there anyone on the planet with pure motives? In a way, I think she’s done Custis Hall a favor.”

Charlotte thought a moment.“Alpha, I think you’re right.”

“Well, I don’t. Whatever this report turns out to be it’s going to cost us money.” Knute put his right hand on the table, quietly, palm down. “Obviously, some of those pieces have to be worth money. And even if they aren’t, they are important to Custis Hall. We’re going to have to wire the cases, put up new locks, and who knows what else?”

Bill grimaced.“Nothing has been right since Al was killed.”

Knute nodded in agreement.“We’ll never find another Al.”

“No progress.” Alpha’s eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Not that I know of,” Knute replied.

“It will take time, but you know Sheriff Sidel will keep at it; he’s a dedicated man.” Charlotte liked Ben Sidel a lot.

“Small-time,” Knute simply dismissed Ben.

“Back to the objets d’art or whatever you’d like to call them.” Bill felt expansive after his delicious lunch. “You can’t rewire those old cases. You’ll have to rebuild everything in there, which means the whole damned hall gets torn up. And the contractors will probably find old horsehair stuffing in the walls, which someone will declare a health hazard. People used horsehair for insulation for centuries and seemed to live quite normal lives, but trust me, it will all be ripped out. And then the old plaster will crumble and that will come out, too. You’ll rebuild the interiorof the whole damn hall, I’m telling you, and the electrical costs alone will fry you, forgive the pun.”

“You’re full of Christmas cheer,” Knute sourly replied.

“It’s the truth. Your worry about security costs is scratching the surface. The security costs will be a pittance compared to the rest of it.”

Alpha asked Bill,“Isn’t there another way? Does it have to be that extensive?”

Bill laughed, a true belly laugh.“Well, I can make it look like it’s wired, like we have a security system. Hell, I can even set up infrared beams. It won’t cost the school more than two thousand dollars because I’ll throw in my labor for free.”

“Bill, that is completely irresponsible!” Knute raised his voice. Those left in the dining hall looked at him. He immediately shut up.

“Why don’t we wait for the report?” Charlotte smoothly said as she rose, her folded napkin on the side of the plate.

C H A P T E R 2 7

Even in summer’s sunshine, Hangman’s Ridge exerted a brooding presence. On a cold December night, with clouds piling up on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the place reverberated with accumulated sufferings, no matter how well-deserved.

Georgia, exploring her territory, climbed up to the ridge, beheld one murderer’s ghost jibbering, and shot down through the underbrush.

She ran up on her mother, Inky, strolling to the kennels.

“I’m not going back up there again!”

“Dead humans,” Inky simply said.

“Why don’t they go away? Where do they go?” Georgia hadn’t considered the human soul.

“Depends on the human, I guess. Some believe they go up to the sky and play harps.”

“How strange.” Georgia thought that version of an afterlife quite tepid.

“Others think they go to paradise and have forty virgins if they die a martyr’s death,” Inky wryly commented.“Exhausting, I should think. And others think they don’t go anywhere. And then there are those who think they come back in some other form at some other time.”

“We could have been humans?” Georgia thought out loud.

“I don’t know. They call it reincarnation, and if it’s true and a human comes back as a fox, it would be a step up,” Inky confidently replied.

“Be on four legs. That’s a whole lot better right there.” Georgia marveled at how humans kept their balance.“How happy they’d be. They could run and jump and turn in midair. They could see at night, too. I hope reincarnation is right.”

“I don’t know.” Inky inhaled the tang of oncoming moisture.“Snow in a few hours. Light, I think.”

“My den is warm. I’m glad Sister moved me. Shaker, too. They set out treats.”

“They’re good that way.”

“Where are you going?”

Inky heard a faint complaint in one of the trees as a wren awakened.“Kennels. Thought I’d see if Diana would be out for a walk. She likes to sit still at night and listen. She’s very enjoyable.”

“May I join you?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. It’s time you got to know the hounds and they you.”

As the two foxes passed Shaker’s cottage they inhaled cinnamon. Lorraine’s car was parked in the drive, a light sheen of frost forming on the windshield.

A pair of headlights just missed them, turning left toward the main house.

“I’d like to ride in a car,” Inky mused, as she reached the outdoor gyp run.

Cora, also out for a walk, heard her.“It’s fun unless you ate too much. Makes you sick.”

“Cora, this is Georgia, one of my daughters. The other one made a den at Mill Ruins. Georgia, this is Cora, she’s the strike hound. That means she usually finds the scent first and runs up front.”

“You’re the young one Sister and Shaker put in the apple orchard,” Cora noted as Diana came alongside.

More introductions followed.

“Diana is the anchor hound. She is the leader, she tells the others what to do if they need it.”

“You’ll learn how to foil your scent, how to double back. There’s a lot you can do to throw us off or slow us down. If we get too close, duck into a den, anybody’s den,” Cora advised.

“You’re only half-grown, Georgia. Don’t go too far from your den this year. There’s a lot to eat right here around the kennel and stables. Learn all you can before going out on long runs.” Diana also gave sensible advice.

“Will you kill me?” Georgia worried.

“I’d roll you first.” Cora told the truth.“Blast off sideways. Whatever you do, don’t reverse your direction, because you’ll run smack into the entire pack since I’m usually first. Just go sideways and run like hell. If you can’t find a den, climb. But this year, really, don’t go far from home. Dragon, especially, can’t be trusted. He’s out to kill.”

“That’s one of my brothers,” Diana informed her.“The other one, Dasher, is fast, too, but he has a lot more sense.”

“You should stick close to home, anyway, honey. It’s one thing if a pack of foxhounds do their job. It’s another if a hound that’s been left out by deer hunters or one that’s lost comes around. They’ll eat anything, and that includes you. You need to learn the ropes,” Inky said firmly.