Full Cry. The Hunt Ball

“I will,” Georgia promised.“Why would a human turn out a hound?”

“Cheap,” Diana replied.

“Pardon me?” Georgia was a polite young fox.

“Too cheap to feed them once deer season is over. Now, the coon hunters will rarely turn out a hound. Bear hunters, too, but there are many, many more deer hunters than those other kinds. Some of them are bottom-feeders.” Cora did not mince words.

“And Sister gets blamed for any problem with any hound. Someone sees a hound, they think it’s one of ours. Doesn’t even look like a foxhound but most people don’t know the different types of hounds. Once deer season ends, Sister, Shaker, Betty, Walter, and Sybil are out picking up starving hounds. The SPCA can’t adopt them out very easily because people think hounds are dumb. It’s pretty awful.” Diana loved Sister and worried when her dear old human friend became worried.

“What happens to the hounds?” Georgia asked.

“Well, whoever picks one up has to get him healthy once again. Once the animal is okay they housebreak him and then call all their friends to see if someone will take a stray. Most foxhunters will help a hound, if they can. But it’s sure a lot of work.” Cora lifted her fur. The cold was settling in.

“Why would a human be so … so … horrible to a hound? To let an animal starve and in the winter, too?” Georgia was shocked.

“Georgia, they let their own children starve, some of them. They even abandon their children,” Inky told her.

“How can an animal abandon her cubs?” Georgia just couldn’t believe it.

“They do.” Cora lifted her head straight up to the sky.“And they kill other people’s children.”

“They walk up to the den and kill them?” Georgia was bowed under the weight of this news.

“Let’s put this in order,” Diana, always thinking, said.“No, they don’t walk up to a human den and shoot their children. It usually is some sick human. He’ll snatch them off the streets—in big cities mostly. You don’t have much of that in the country, but humans will kill other humans’ children in wars, by the millions. It’s very hard for a hound or a fox to imagine that kind of bloodlust. But really, Georgia, millions die in wars.”

“I don’t know what a million is,” Georgia soberly replied.

“They don’t either. They just think they do.” Inky laughed.

“Would Sister kill children?” Georgia was perturbed.

“No,” Cora and Diana replied in unison.

“Do a lot of them do this?” Georgia wondered.

“Enough for it to be a problem, apart from war, I mean,” Diana said.“War is different. They can kill and it’s all right. I can’t explain why, but they truly believe this. You can kill anyone you want as long as they are on the other side. Men, women, children, it doesn’t matter. They call them an enemy so it’s not like killing your neighbor. They don’t have to think about it.”

“Do they eat what they kill?”

“No, Georgia, they aren’t allowed to do that,” Inky flatly replied.“That’s forbidden.”

“Unless they are starving. But even then, it’s a terrible taboo. If they eat another human sometimes they lose their minds because it’s so horrible to them,” Cora interjected.

“Let me understand, a human being can kill millions of other human beings if it’s called war and that’s okay. But a human being can’t eat another human being?” Georgia paused.“It doesn’t make sense.”

“No one ever suggested it did. But that’s humans for you,” Diana said.“There was a dead human under St. John’s of the Cross, but we couldn’t pull it out. Now, that is kind of unusual. Even if they kill, and kill in numbers, they do their best to bury or burn.”

“Couldn’t a human have crawled under there to die?” Georgia already knew how some animals chose to die.

“They don’t die like that. They flop down and croak.” Cora giggled.“I mean they just flop around like a chicken. It’s because they don’t listen to their bodies so they don’t know when they’re going to die. They deny it and then they just die in front of everyone unless they’re in a hospital or something. We’ve been talking, those of us who hunted that day, about the body at St. John’s. We didn’t see it. Smelled it. The humans couldn’t.”

“Is it a bad thing?” Georgia asked.

“It is,” and Diana fretted over this.“And Target has a ring. We’re pretty sure it came from that body because he said it was on a finger. He doesn’t have the finger anymore. He’s been bragging to everyone about the ring. He hoards stuff.”

“He even has a Day-Glo Frisbee.” Inky laughed.

“Charlene made him find his own den.” Cora mentioned Target’s mate.“She said she couldn’t stand the clutter. He won’t give up anything.”

“Are all dog foxes like that?” Georgia really was a youngster.

“We’ll talk about males some other time,” Inky replied as Cora and Diana laughed.

“I heard that,” Ardent called from the boys’ run, which made them all laugh more.

C H A P T E R 2 8

All living things, plants and animals, have optimum living conditions. Even plants have patterns; in their case it’s when they pollinate, bloom, and bear fruit. For the higher vertebrates the patterns center on food, shelter, mating, and rearing the young.

Sister rested her hands on Keepsake’s withers. Her white string gloves warded off the cold. The snow rested in crevices of rocks, down in the crease of ravines, and on the north side of those hills that received little sun because of the winter angle of the sun. Winds had blown off some of the snow; bald patches of ground dotted the meadows.

The sky, crystal clear, brilliant blue, heralded one of those high-pressure systems that delight the eye but make scenting difficult.

Knowing her quarry, Sister searched for evidence of last night’s hunting, a tuft of feathers here, a hank of cottontail fur, sweet little berries, dried now, nibbled off lower branches of bushes and scrubs. If hunting had been spectacularly good, whole pieces of the kill would be strewn around as the fox ate the best parts and took other delicacies home to stash. Foxes, like humans, believed in bank accounts.

She caught her breath, for they’d had a fifteen-minute burst at top speed and they were lucky to have it considering the day. The hounds threw up, which is to say they lost the line, and Diana as well as Shaker were trying to figure out if they overran the line or simply zigged when they should have zagged.

When a high-pressure system is in place, the air is dry, almost light. Sound carries true to origin whereas in heavy moisture the ear can be fooled by the horn, the cry, or even the chatter of birds. It sounds as though it’s coming from one direction, but in fact it’s coming from another. Even on a high-pressure day, sound ricochets off mountains, hillocks.

Sister was a good field master. She kept the huntsman and the hounds in sight most times. Sometimes, though, she couldn’t. St. Hubert himself would fall behind. On those days, she used her ears and her knowledge of quarry.

She knew the fox was close by. She also knew the luxurious trail of scent wouldn’t hold on this bright meadow, which was the very reason the fox bolted from the covert only to cross the meadow. Sybil gave out a “Tally ho,” but by the time hounds were set on the line, the saucy red devil scurried a healthy seven minutes ahead of the hounds.

Sister thought of the meeting the previous night with Charlotte and Ben, who joined them later. She was especially glad that Gray was with her as he possessed a logical mind.

Ben suggested the meeting. Since Sister and Gray had discovered the body, there was no point in pretending to them that it wasn’t Professor Kennedy. While they couldn’t identify the body given the leaves and such covering it, they could see enough to know the corpse was slight, perhaps female.

She knew that Ben, waiting for conclusive lab evidence in making an I.D. before relating more information, was trying to figure out the pattern of his quarry.

Charlotte, on the other hand, wanted to see if there was a connection between Al Perez and Professor Kennedy. She couldn’t find one. They may not have known each other, but she believed the second death was related to the first.

Gray took in all the conversation, then laid out what they knew and what they didn’t know like the excellent tax lawyer he was. Trained to look for loopholes, he found an oddity, perhaps not a loophole. The first death had been staged. The second death had been hidden.

They batted around the possible meanings of that but could go no further than the seemingly obvious, which was the first death was a gaudy warning before an entire audience. The second removed a person who somehow got in the way.

Gray suggested there could be more than one type of irregularity. The artifacts could house illegal drugs, or pharmaceutical drugs from Canada here to be resold at cheaper prices than American prices. Smuggled diamonds might be on certain clothes or items like sword hilts without arousing suspicion. Hide it out in the open.

Ben wanted to keep the artifacts intact. He didn’t want to go through them just yet. He asked Charlotte to check each night, then each morning, to see if anything had been disturbed.

“We’re in a waiting game” was all he said.

It gave them all a lot to think about.

Diana loped on a diagonal and the pack fanned out. Shaker liked for them to cast themselves. This nurtured their self-confidence. Not all huntsmen do that. Some direct their hounds, lifting them, setting them down in another covert, directing their every move. This was a matter of personality as well as the type of hound.

Both Sister and Shaker believed the American hound would figure it out faster without their interference.

As she watched her hounds work, she remembered it was December 8, one of the principal feast days of the Blessed Virgin Mother. Today was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary in the womb of her mother, St. Anne. She mused about these immaculate conceptions, a bizarre twist in a patriarchal religion. She thought it an odd manifestation of male self-hate as well as a perverse nod to female power, to the remnants of matriarchy that even a religion as violently antiwoman as Islam can’t quite eradicate.

Sister did not think of herself as a religious woman, although she attended the Episcopal church. Her deepest belief was that religion is in the service of political power. Spirituality is not. She couldn’t imagine foxes dying for their version of God or blowing themselves up among the Infidel, believing they would immediately ascend to paradise and be rewarded with forty fat chickens.

The longer she lived, the more she pitied the human animal and admired the fox.

These ruminations evaporated as Diana, with an assist from the steady Asa, found the line again. Barely perceptible it was, but as the two determined hounds trotted across the meadow, down the hillside, frost visible on the bare patches, the aroma of fox intensified. They opened, the others honored, and off they ran.

By the time the intrepid band returned to the trailers they’d been rewarded with some excellent hound work and three bracing runs in the bargain.

Sister felt these were the days that make your pack. Any pack looks great on a good day. It’s the trying days that reveal how they work together, how much drive and intelligence they display. She loved her pack of hounds beyond measure.

Valentina, Tootie, and Felicity, wreathed in smiles, walked by Sister before they dismounted.

“Good evening, Master.”

“Good evening, girls.”

“Thank you for the day.”

“You know I’m happy when you hunt with me.” She smiled as they rode to the big Custis Hall van where Bunny, her horse untacked, waited.

Pleased that the three young women correctly addressed her, saying“Good evening, Master” even though it was twelve noon, she made a note to give them each a different classic hunting book for Christmas.

Betty rode up.“I was in the back of the beyond.”

As she dismounted Sister said,“How was it?”

“Cold. Heard Sybil viewed the fox away.”

She’s improving so much as a whipper-in. It’s good to see that, isn’t it, considering the ups and downs of her life.”

“Hell, Jane, in this group anyone over thirty is riding the roller coaster.” Betty undid the noseband of Outlaw’s bridle, slipping off the martingale.

“Make it forty. Some of our group are slow learners.” Sister laughed.

“And some don’t learn at all.” Betty looped the martingale through the breastplate.

“Scary, isn’t it?” Sister considered Betty one of her best friends. She wanted to talk to her about Professor Kennedy’s murder because Betty had a good mind, but Ben told her to keep quiet until he released the I. D., which would most likely be next Monday or Tuesday.

“Well, it is until you consider it makes the rest of us look smart.” She tossed the cooler over Outlaw’s back, keeping the saddle on although loosening the girth.

Both Sister and Betty kept their saddles on until the horses were back to the barn. They thought it kept their backs warm. Once in the wash stall they’d be cleaned with warm water, wiped down, put in a stall to eat without pinning their ears at another horse in the field. When dry, on would go the winter rugs and they’d be turned out to walk around, visit with friends, and be horses. The closer a creature can be to its natural state, the happier it is. Unfortunately people haven’t learned this about horses, but then, they haven’t learned it about themselves. At least Sister and Betty agreed on that and had many a deep conversation on the neurosis, self-inflicted, of the human animal.

As the two friends reviewed the day’s hunt, the three girls returned to Sister’s trailer, having taken care of their own horses.

“Sister,” Valentina said, “we’ll miss you over Christmas vacation. But we’ll be back in time for New Year’s Hunt.”

“You’ll be here for the hunt ball?”

“I will,” Tootie smiled.

“Me, too,” Valentina agreed. “Then I fly home.”

“Ditto,” Felicity said.

“Well, you know if anything goes wrong and you’re stuck at the airport, call; Shaker or I will pick you up. I don’t want you all stranded. The school shuts down on Christmas so you can’t go back to the dorm.”

“Me, too, kids.” Betty scribbled down her cell number on the back of her business card. “You never know with that small airport. The weather can turn in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks.” They really were glad.

Tootie hung back as the other two walked away.“Sister, if my parents will let me, can I stay with you after the hunt ball? Until Thursday, then I’ll fly home, too.” She waited a minute. “I, well, I’m happier here than home but I’ll go home. I know I have to do it.”

“Honey, of course you can. You ask your parents and then if you’ll give me their number, I’ll talk to them. You know, parents always want the best for their children, but sometimes they can forget that you have to find your own way. Is it something like that?”

Tootie nodded.“Dad wants me to be an investment banker,” she said in a rare burst of emotion. “I’d die.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll invite your parents to come stay here if they’d like, sometime when it’s convenient. I’d like to get to know them, and maybe, Tootie, if they see what you love, they’ll begin to understand.”

Tootie threw her arms around the tall woman.“You are the best!”

After she walked away, Betty said,“I can see both sides of the story, can’t you?”

“H-m-m.”

“That girl is brilliant. Her father translates that into money, prestige, comfort. She belongs in the country even though she wasn’t raised in the country. She belongs with animals just like you and I do. We’re born that way, you know.”

“I do. You’re a good mother, Betty, you never pushed your kids. Yes, you made them do homework and all that, but you allowed them to be themselves.”

“Christmas is hard, Janie.”

“Betty, youare a good mother. Cody blew up her life. You didn’t. As for Jennifer, she’s a fabulous kid and having her and Sari back for Christmas vacation will be a joy. I love having kids in the house. I expect Sari and Lorraine will be here more than they’ll be at Alice’s. Well, they’ll spend some time with Alice.”

“Wonder if Shaker will marry Lorraine?”

“He will, but he has to approach this in his own way. He’s so cautious now.” Sister patted Keepsake on the neck as she led him first into the trailer.

The tailgate was light since Thursday’s field was small.

Soon, Sister and Betty followed the hound party wagon down the winding dirt road to the paved road on the way home.

“What’s wrong?” Betty flatly asked.

“Preoccupied.”

“Jane Arnold.”

Sister glanced at Betty, then back at the road since she was driving the rig.“Betty, Ben Sidel has asked me to keep quiet until Monday, as in not speak to anyone. And I will talk to you then, but I have to honor my promise. I am preoccupied. Something is very, very wrong at Custis Hall. Al Perez’s death will lead us to something, if I only knew what.”

“You think other people will be killed?”

“I do.”

Betty grimaced.“Good God. What’s worth killing over?”

“Motive, means, opportunity. We know the means. We know the window of opportunity for Al’s murder. We lack the motive.”

“Money or sex.”

“Betty, that sounds good, but as I get older I think there are a lot more motives.”

“Like what?”

“Prestige, not losing one’s status. Religious fanaticism or political fanaticism. Even economic fanaticism. People will kill when a new technology displaces them or if they think a current one is evil. I mean what about that American physician in 2004 going over to England and encouraging the antivivisectionists to kill the doctors engaging in experiments? People will kill for anything that makes sense to them. Doesn’t have to make sense to us.”

“Vivisection is wrong. Just flat wrong.”

“I totally agree, but I’m not going to a lab and blowing up people in white lab coats. You can make change out of the barrel of a gun—thank you, Chairman Mao, another fat hypocrite for you—but it doesn’t stick. Sooner or later, when the people have the ability, they sabotage or organize against the change. Or they try to turn back the clock. The only way change can work is with consensus, and that takes time, talking to people, listening to people, respecting the differences. It’s the longer route, the seemingly harder route, but, ultimately, the successful route, and Betty, thereis no other way. We have all of history to prove that point.”

“Well,” Betty thought a long time, “you’re right. But who is going to listen to two middle-aged country women?”

“One middle-aged country woman. This girl is old.”

“Bullshit.”

“You say the nicest things to me.”

They laughed, then Betty returned to the murder.“I’m glad Christmas vacation is coming. I’m glad those girls will be out of here.”

“Me, too. This thing isn’t finished.”

C H A P T E R 2 9

Her heels clicking on the highly polished floor, Charlotte walked through the Main Hall on her way to her office.

Bill Wheatley and Knute Nilsson stood in front of the case containing Washington’s epaulettes.

“Knute, you look mournful,” Charlotte said.

“I was thinking about the lemonade stand I had when I was six. I made two dollars and I thought I was rich. Well, I was. I went home and that night I bragged to my father how much lemonade I sold. He seemed proud of me, but he warned me, ‘Now that you have assets, you have to protect them.’ Ilook at all this stuff and I see assets.” He waved his hand as if this was boring. “You’ve heard it all before. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Bill, his usual ebullient self, put his arm around Knute’s shoulder. “You don’t have to figure it out before Christmas vacation. You don’t even have to figure it out when Professor Kennedy’s report comes in. You are perfectly within your rights to ask the board of directors for suggestions and help. Doesn’t do you any good to carry the weight of the world, or at least Custis Hall, on your shoulders. Besides, Knute, there’s Christmas to celebrate.”

“An excuse to waste money.”

“Knute, stuff cloves in oranges and give them as gifts. Won’t cost more than twenty dollars and they smell wonderful,” Charlotte suggested with a hint of merriment.

“I know, I know, you two think I’m Scrooge.”

“We think no such thing.” Bill let his arm slide off Knute’s back. “We know! Except for your sailing hobby you are tighter than the bark on a tree.”

“All right. I’m leaving.” Knute half-smiled and headed toward the hall containing the offices.

Bill turned to Charlotte.“He’ll worry himself into a heart attack. There is such a thing as being too conscientious.”

“Perhaps, but that’s why we depend on you, Bill, to lighten the mood.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do. I hear that you and some of the students in your department have come up with a fantastic theme for the hunt ball. Marty Howard told me the best thing she ever did was get you all involved.”

“You just wait and see.” He winked. “Silver and white. Crawford and Marty appear to have a limitless budget. Even Knute and Yvonne are going to come, and you know how hard it is to get him in a tuxedo.”

“That puzzles me. If a gentleman wears scarlet, that’s tails. So why aren’t hunt balls white tie?”

“Technically, they should be, but I guess allowing men to wear tuxedos is a nod to the wallet. More men own a tuxedo than black tails. Of course, if they would wear white tie the effect would be smashing.” He glowed; he loved costumes and staging. “You’ll be in white or black?”

“I surprised myself and my husband. I bought a white gown from Nordstrom. I am sick of wearing black.”

“You’ll look beautiful no matter what.”

“Bill, you flatter me and I am grateful. Okay, I have one more question since you study these things. Since Jane Arnold is master, why can’t she wear scarlet?”

“Well, that’s a good one. If she wanted to upset the applecart, she could. She’s the master, right? Who could stop her? But convention and unwritten laws are stronger than the written ones. A hunt ball decrees that women wear white or black. That’s it and you know as well as I do that Sister is a slave to tradition. She doesn’t wear scarlet in the hunt field, and many American lady masters do.”

“Actually, Bill, given our recent uproar here, I’d not use the word ‘slave.’ ” The corners of her mouth turned upward. She knew how much Bill devoured a t?te-?-t?te and this little comment would delight him.

He lowered his head, whispering in her ear,“A servant to fashion.”

She whispered back,“I look forward to all of us being servants to fashion.” She gazed into the display case. “Those epaulettes look brighter than I remember.”

“When Professor Kennedy took everything out to examine and photocopy, she had the girls clean them. Pamela, wearing surgical gloves, began to repent of her protest when all that dust and mold shot up her nose.” He laughed.

“Well, maybe we won’t have to clean for another few decades.” She paused. “Guess not, huh?”

“Hey, for all I know, Knute will install a system where the air circulates and the objets d’art or d’histoire clean themselves. Actually, I shouldn’t poke fun at him; it really has become one hell of a burden.”

“I guess it’s like his father said, protect your assets. Bill, back to my desk, though I’d much rather talk to you. I really do look forward to seeing what you all do for the ball.”

“You’ll never forget it.”

C H A P T E R 3 0

“Nine more days,” Marty fretted as she twirled her pencil around in her fingers.

Sorrel, sitting across from her at the table in Marty’s opulent kitchen, checked her yellow notepad. “We’re sold out. At least we don’t have to get on the horn and push for RSVPs. People don’t RSVP like they used to do. I can’t decide if it’s because they don’t know any better or everyone’s on overload.”

“A little of both, maybe.” Marty peered down at her own notebook, a lavender-paged stenographer’s notebook, pages covered with names, numbers, arrows pointing up, down, right, and left and some squiggling along the margins.

“Bill says he and the girls will be at the Great Hall at seven A.M. I’ll be there, too.”

“That’s a good idea. It’s probably also a good idea to just let him run the show. If he needs more bodies, we can supply them, but Bill can do this in his sleep.” Marty thought snagging Bill Wheatley was one of her biggest coups.

“You’ve checked the silent auction list?”

“Yes. We still need more high-ticket items. We’ve got caps from other hunts, always a nice idea. We’ve got framed prints, a weekend at Grand Cayman Island, another weekend with theater tickets in New York. Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses have donated a case of their wine. Jay Tomlinson donated one free shoeing. Nothing like a good blacksmith to keep your horse right.” Marty tapped the pencil on her frosted lipstick. “I know we need things that are affordable for most people but we need one or two very spectacular items like the weekend in New York.”

“I’ve racked my brain.” Sorrel leaned back in the ladderback chair—not an easy thing to do, so she tipped on the back legs.

“What about jewelry? A gorgeous antique pair of studs, you know, gold foxhead studs with ruby eyes for a gentleman and maybe a brooch with a foxhunting theme. What about those painted crystals from England? You know, the round things, oh, they can be earrings or pins or even cuff links.”

“Marty, you can’t find antique ones. No one gives them up until death, and a new pair of cuff links might cost $2,500. We can’t even buy them wholesale to put them in the auction.” She read down the list again. “The Lionel Edwards prints ought to fetch at least $2,500, don’t you think?”

“I hope so. Those,” she read her own notes, “were donated by Henry Xavier, God bless him.”

“Riding lessons from Sam Lorillard.” Marty smiled. “I didn’t have to lean on him. He wanted to do it.”

“What about a tax review by Gray?” Sorrel wondered.

“Well, he’d do it, but that’s not exactly a festive item. He’s already donated a white vest; how many of those do you see?” Marty thought she might bid on it for her husband, then realized that Gray was more fit and slender than Crawford, who was fighting the battle of the bulge.

“I guess we can’t ask Bill to take on a decorating job, you know, someone’s den?” Sorrel didn’t want to go to the well too often.

“No, maybe Dolly Buswell would give a consultation. Now, that’s pretty appealing.” Marty cited a local interior decorator.

“I’ll call her.”

They sat there, then Marty said,“It’s a good list. You’ve done a great job.” Then she paused. “It’s that one spectacular item that eludes us.”

“Free breeding to Salem Drive and Tom Newton also donated a breeding to Harbor Man.” Sorrel thought that was pretty good as both Thoroughbreds had useful bloodlines for foxhunters.

“Sure, that appeals to horsepeople, but I’m thinking of a spectacular piece of jewelry, an antique car, or a carriage or buggy. Now, the sculpture Crawford donated is good. I’m thinking along those lines. Big-ticket items.”

“Do we have any pals at Tiffany’s?” Sorrel lusted after a pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings priced at $16,500. Not that she could afford them.

“Not good enough to donate the earrings,” Marty said with a sigh.

Sorrel sighed, too.“We have nine days. Maybe I can find a pal at Tiffany’s. Well, we’ve got to keep pushing.”

They double-checked the menu; the open bar would last for an hour, then switch to a paying bar. Finally they settled into an exchange of news and views over hot chocolate.

“She’s so drawn. I hope she’s not sick.” Marty was referring to Charlotte Norton.

“I expect she’s worried half to death. Until Ben Sidel nails Al’s murderer, she has to feel vulnerable. You know parents will have long talks with their kids over Christmas vacation, and I’m sure some won’t return to Custis Hall. I’m surprised more weren’t yanked out of here.”

“Charlotte’s a brilliant headmaster. She’s contained the damage as much as she can, reassured students and parents as much as she can.”

“Sorrel, isn’t it funny how people respond to things? Sister says little, keeps going, but since she saw that hanging and it was on Hangman’s Ridge, you know that brain is whirring at high speed. And she won’t rest until the killer is found either. Then there’s Bill Wheatley. Cried about Al’s death, then bounced right back, his old jolly self. As for Ben, it’s his business. Can’t expect him to be emotionally involved. Crawford says the board meetings are strained, everyone is worried, but at least no one is blaming anyone else or fighting out of frustration. But he said they are all affected by this.”

“Someone stands to gain something. Hard to imagine, though.” Sorrel reflected on her own experiences. “I still wonder if this doesn’t lead to sex. You just never know.”

“No, you don’t.”

The back door opened. Crawford stepped into the kitchen—all marble tops, recessed lighting, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and an Aga stove. The cost of the kitchen exceeded the cost of most homes. The heart pine flooring provided what visual warmth there was, that and the huge step-down fireplace, a nod to Sister’s fireplace, except this one was all gorgeous veined white marble that echoed the marble on the counters.

“Hello, Sorrel, how are you?”

“Fine, and yourself?”

“Cold.”

“Sit down, honey, I’ll make you a hot chocolate.” Marty rose as Crawford removed his coat.

“Oh, hey.” He reached into the pocket as he hung it up. “Here. Put that in the auction since I see you’ve got out your lists.” He dropped a ring into Sorrel’s hands.

“That’s pretty.”

“Might get a hundred dollars.”

Marty walked over to inspect it.“Good gold. The onyx is lovely. Where’d you buy that? I thought you were out with Sister today fixing jumps. X crashed into that timber jump,” she hastened to add. “Wasn’t his fault. By the time he reached it the footing was horrendous.”

“We fixed that first and then you know Sister. She always kills two birds with one stone. She had buckets of feed on the back of the pickup. I mean she had the entire bed filled with fifty-pound bags. We used them. Anyway, this was outside a den at Tedi and Edward’s. Sister said it was Target’s den. She remembers every fox. Don’t know how she does it. They look red or gray to me.” He was in a good mood.

“Isn’t that odd?” Marty poured the milk onto the cocoa.

“She said some foxes are pack rats. They can’t resist shiny things, toys. I peeked into his den and there was a baseball in there. She said he’ll take any toy the dogs leave out and so will Uncle Yancy, another of her foxes. But she said Uncle Yancy prefers clothing more than toys. He’ll steal hats, T-shirts, barn rags.” He shook his head. “She loves these animals. I think she loves them almost as much as her hounds.”

“Hey, why don’t we put, ‘donated by Target, red fox living at After All.’ ” Sorrel sat up straight, eyes bright.

Crawford shrugged.“Might bring another hundred dollars.”

C H A P T E R 3 1

Mill Ruins, so named because of the massive stone gristmill, and the huge waterwheel still turning the gears inside, had been the estate of Peter Wheeler. Given Peter’s penchant for losing money, the word “estate” was used loosely. To the now-deceased Peter’s credit, he hung on, never selling one acre of land. He thought the mill would be a tourist attraction and he ground grain there. This provided enough cash to feed his horses, though not himself. Peter finally hired himself out as a lawyer, a profession he hated despite his training at the University of Virginia.

Christmas Hunt had been held at the Wheeler place—Peter was the seventh-generation Wheeler to live at the mill—since 1887. The hunt was usually held on the Saturday before Christmas unless that Saturday happened to be Christmas Eve. This year Saturday was December 24, so Christmas Hunt was December 17. Many clubs did go out on Christmas Eve, but long ago prior masters at the Jefferson Hunt determined it was too busy a day for most people to braid horses and spend four hours, more or less, in the saddle.

The“ruins” referred to the rest of the place as it began to fall into rack and ruin. Although he made a decent living at the prestigious law firm eager to have the Wheeler name attached to it, he spent only on his mill, his horses, his fencing, and his feed. At the end of his life, he lived mostlyin the kitchen, with its fierce wood-burning stove, and a bed he put in the large pantry off the kitchen. He drove his 454 Chevy pickup proudly down to the office. His turnout, at work and in the hunt field, was always correct—he just didn’t care about the rest of it.

He fought daily with his neighbor, Alice Ramy. He knew foxhunting and he loved true foxhunters, which meant he loved Jane Arnold best of all. Their affair lasted for close to twenty-five years. A big, booming, rugged man with refined manners, Peter kept his looks way into his seventies. He loved Sister because she was strong, smart, and thought like a fox. Each was the other’s grand passion as far as people were concerned. Their true grand passion was foxhunting.

When Peter died peacefully sitting in his kitchen chair, he had willed Mill Ruins to Jefferson Hunt as well as the Chevy 454. Rooster, his young harrier, he personally willed to Sister.

As she sat atop Aztec gazing over the large field on this nippy Saturday morning, she thought of how fortunate she’d been with the men in her life. They were real men, accustomed to physical exertion; no task was too dirty or too difficult. Sister never could warm to soft men. Then again, she scared the bejesus out of them, so it worked out just fine.

The last Christmas of Peter’s life, he drove his truck—he could no longer ride as his hips had been shattered once too often—in full regalia: black weazlebelly, top hat, the works. She fought back the tears then and she fought back the tears now.

Walter lived at Mill Ruins, renting it from the hunt club. He had a long-term lease, which helped the coffers grow. He poured money into the place. Slowly, Mill Ruins returned to its former glory. It needed a wife, children, chickens, dogs, and cats running about to be absolutely perfect. Walter, however, did have a pet fox with one paw that had been amputated and a sweet little Welsh terrier.

Sister thought of Peter as Walter welcomed the crowd to his place on this, the third of the High Holy Days. She refocused on the present. Ninety-eight people sat on braided horses, puffs of condensed air escaping from their nostrils.

The Custis Hall girls with the exception of Tootie and Valentina, not big into the theater program, were decorating the Great Hall under Bill Wheatley’s direction. Apart from their absence most of the riding membership was present.

Aztec fidgeted. This was his first High Holy Day. He could feel the excitement from humans and horses.

Finally the formalities were over, Sister called“Hounds, please,” and off they walked down toward the great three-story mill, the millrace running hard and fast to the wheel. An arched stone bridge carried them over the millrace. As the wheel turned, flumes of water slid off the paddles, spraying thousands of rainbows into the air. The smellof water, of grain, of the damp stone foundation filled everyone’s nostrils. As they passed the mill, they came onto a wide farm road that ran through a small pasture and then into a heavy woods.

It wasn’t until he reached the woods that Shaker realized Lorraine was on a horse. He was so intense when hunting, in this case when he was holding the hounds, that he barely noticed the people. He glanced up once or twice but it only now registered. A grin crossed his face and he regretted that he couldn’t ride back to the Hilltoppers and give her the biggest kiss.

Heavy frost silvered the pastures, the low shrubs in the woods, some with bright red berries, a contrast to the world of silver, gray, brown, and black.

Delight whispered to Diddy,“What do you think?”

“Need the temperature to come up five degrees. Then even a human could put his nose to the ground and get it.”

“We can get something off the frost.” Trident also whispered because talking on the way to a cast is considered babbling.

None of the hounds wanted to be censured.

“Have to hit it right and be careful not to overrun. It’s not as hard as people make it out to be.” Ardent, older and wiser, quietly encouraged the younger hounds.“Go a little slower until you’re sure. You have a long nose to warm the air you inhale, so you’ll pick it up. Just be more deliberate.”

“Why didn’t Shaker cast us at the mill? All the foxes go there.” Diddy liked learning.

“Not sure.” Dreamboat wondered why, as well.

“Better to pick up a fox on the way to the mill than one on the way out. If he’s eaten any grain he’ll just turn around and go into the mill. This way we might get a longer run,” Ardent again explained.“There’s an art to it, kids. Shaker’s got it. Trust your huntsman.”

“What happens if you get a stupid huntsman?” Diddy wondered.

“Hounds ignore him and do what they want.” Ardent laughed.“Never been one at Jefferson Hunt. Never will be, not as long as Sister’s the human anchor hound.”

“Getting a little loose, kids,” Shaker quietly reprimanded them.

They continued walking, as he didn’t cast until they reached the edge of the woods and jumped over the lovely stone fencing into the pasture. He swung the hounds crosswind, then turned Gunpowder’s nose toward the woods. The hounds fanned out over the middle of the pasture but kept in mind the direction of Gunpowder. They’d work a big half circle before moving into the woods, where they would be directly into the light wind.

Dasher found a stale line. He kept with it, hoping it would freshen. It didn’t. So Cora, after checking that line, moved twenty yards away. Although mid-December, sometimes the grays will begin courting. Courting time varies greatly with how the foxes interpret the coming spring’s food supply. Somehow, they know. If it’s going to be an early, fecund spring, the grayswill start in December in Virginia. The reds usually follow suit two to three weeks later.

Cora wanted to hit early. On a day like today, the fox had most of the advantages, but the sun washing over the pasture would warm the scent if a fox had crossed over.

Old lines continued to tantalize them but not enough to open. No point boohooing on a stale line. It might sound great to the humans but mostly you’d walk your fox to death if hounds even got close to him. If a Jefferson hound was going to open, it would open on a strong, fresh line. Therefore, they had to work together very well and possess great drive. Colder-nosed hounds don’t need all that much drive because they’ll always find something to talk about. The Jefferson hounds had good noses but they weren’t what’s called cold-nosed, as some other types of foxhounds are. Each type of foxhound has its devotee, and always for good reasons.

“Let’s go into the woods,” Cora commanded.

“Be colder in there.” Trinity questioned Cora’s judgment, not a good idea.

“Yes, it will, you impertinent pup! And the fox knows that, too. He’ll be a little more lax traveling through the underbrush. Don’t you ever question me again or I’ll roll you in front of everyone, humans included.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cora trotted ahead, leapt over the stone wall, landing on soft, moist earth. These woods, mostly hardwoods, carried a different scent than evergreen woods. The scent of pine could be overwhelming in those woods, beautiful though they were.

She put her nose down. The rest of the pack crawled or leapt over. On landing they moved forward like the front line of a football team. To anyone loving hound work, this was an impressive sight. Not one hound lagged behind or skirted off.

For twenty minutes they worked in silence, total dedication.

“I got it!” Trudy, thrilled to be the first, shouted.

Cora noted the direction of Trudy’s travel, ran ahead of her by ten yards, put her nose down, and honored the third-year bitch’s finding. The rest of the pack fell on the line so quickly that Shaker didn’t have to blow the tripled notes in succession. He went right to one long note, tripled notes, repeating this three times.Betty and Sybil, on either side of the pack but about a quarter mile out, heard and knew it was time to press on.

Sister patted Aztec’s neck, held him a moment so Shaker could get far enough ahead of her that she wouldn’t crowd him, then she squeezed the six-year-old Thoroughbred and he answered with a smooth surge of power like the acceleration of a Mercedes 500S.

Sister reached the farm road in the woods. When the hounds turned hard left, she picked up the deer trail that Shaker, too, had picked up.

She emerged on the other side of the woods, where a twenty-acre field of Alamo switchgrass waved in the wind. This was one of Walter’s forage experiments. Turned out to be useful for cattle but not much good for horses. The mice, ground nesters, and foxes sure liked it, though.

The hounds were in the switchgrass. Sister could see the long slender grasses bending as the hounds moved through. She usually rode around the outside of any planted field, but Walter yelled up,“Go on. I don’t care.”

Heeding her joint master’s advice, she plunged into the tall grasses, some swishing up over her feet, tickling Aztec’s belly.

The music filled the air, a crescendo as sweet as Bach to a musician. Deep voices, middle voices, and the odd high notes of younger hounds blended into a chorus that had thrilled mankind since before the pyramids were built.

Artemis smiled on the hounds today. The mercury crept up to forty-two degrees, the air moist, low, the sky various shades of gray. Scenting was perfect.

Sister and Aztec blew through the twenty acres in a few heartbeats to soar over a tiger trap jump in the new fence line Walter built himself. They galloped down into a crevice in the next meadow, a tiny rivulet feeding a larger creek some half mile off, bisecting this whole meadow, which was in redbud clover. Aztec, beautifully balanced, powered over the frosty pasture. Then over an imposing hog’s back jump, two strides, and a drop jump from the bank onto another low farm road heading at a ninety-degree right angle straight west.

The fox followed the shady part of the road, tiny ice crystals jutting out of the earth. This slowed the hounds down slightly, but the minute he crossed over another frosty redbud clover meadow, they picked up speed.

They flew through Mill Ruins in half an hour, soon finding themselves on a pre–Revolutionary War farm called Cocked Hat. Fortunately, the owners allowed the hunt to pass through. After being slowed by some old barbed-wire fences, Sister and the field were soon on their way but had to press to catch up with the hounds.

The fox turned back east. They had to stop again, throw coats over the old barbed-wire fences, jump over, and go. Whoever left their coat on the wire could either stop to pick it up or leave it, returning for it later. The pace was so good that Walter, who had dismounted to put his coat on the wire, thought“the hell with it,” and chose to ride in his vest and shirt. He was sweating. He also made note to finally panel Cocked Hat. It was last on everyone’s list because the foxes rarely came this way.

If the fox was tiring he gave no evidence, for Betty, keen-eyed, caught sight of him vaulting over a fallen tree, serenely running on toward the hundred-acre enclosure called Shootrough, the very back of Mill Ruins. Peter had set up his clay pigeons here and Walter, sensibly, worked from close to the house out. It would be another three years before he cleaned up this field and fixed the fences; although the old snake fencing held, a few places sagged.

The fox leapt onto the top of the snake fencing and nimbly loped along, jumping over the places where the split rails crossed. He then jumped off, ran straight and true down to the strong creek that fed, finally, the millrace. He didn’t use the creek at that point but ran alongside it, neatly stepping on stones or anything to foil his scent.

Betty, keeping him in sight and riding hard on Magellan, marveled at this big red’s sangfroid.

Finally, he launched into the creek, swimming downstream, letting the current do most of the work. He clambered out two hundred yards later, shook himself, then trotted to his den, the main entrance being under the exposed roots of an enormous willow twenty yards from the stream but high up, for the ground rose up. Betty could see other holes in the ground from where she stopped, some cleverly concealed and others out in the open.

She breathed deeply, as did Magellan. They waited. The hounds sounded fabulous as they drew closer. She saw Cora and Dragon running neck and neck, the rest of the pack behind them by a few paces. Dragon flung himself into the main entrance. Cora followed.

As Shaker galloped up, Betty moved to him, wordlessly taking his reins as he dismounted.

He blew“gone to ground,” then patted each hound, praising them by name.

He mounted up, gathered the pack, turned toward the field.

“Big night tonight,” Sister said, glowing with happiness for the morning’s run. “Let’s go in.”

“Right you are,” he said, then rode alongside the field, stopping at the Hilltoppers, where Bobby Franklin doffed his hunt cap in appreciation of the excellent sport.

Shaker touched his cap with his crop, rode right up alongside Lorraine. He took off his cap, leaned over, and kissed her.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, smiled bigger than anyone remembered seeing him smile, put his cap back on, and rode back to the trailers at the mill. He whistled and sang to himself the whole way.

The hounds just thought it was the best.

C H A P T E R 3 2

The Great Hall, swathed in silver and white, dazzled the celebrants as they passed through the massive wooden doors. In the middle of the room, Bill Wheatley and his theater crew fashioned an enormous silver fox, seven feet high. This beautiful creature sat looking out over the crowd, her tail wrapped around her hind feet. Around her cavorted a litter of gray foxes with one black fox, in honor of Inky. Forming a circle around this family was a delicately interwoven garland of grapevines and holly, the berries red against the silver. A placard, black with silver script, rested at the base of the fox. It read:“In honor of our own silver fox, Sister Jane, MFH.”

Beyond the tables and the great fox was the dance floor, the raised dais behind that would hold the band when they made their appearance after dessert.

A separate room housed the silent auction. Sorrel, Marty, and the other ladies of the hunt spent the afternoon arranging the tables, carefully placing each item to good effect.

Marty did come through with one huge item—a nineteenth-century wicker cart, two big, graceful wheels at the side. Even if a guest was not a horseman, it would be sensational in the garden or used in decoration.

As the girls decorated they sang Christmas carols, which the ladies would then pick up and sing along. This progressed to where each room took turns selecting a carol. It was a lovely way to spend a December day, the light fading so quickly darkness engulfed the late afternoon.

The Jefferson Hunt ladies wisely brought their ball gowns with them. Charlotte arranged for them to use the various guest houses that dotted the campus. The ladies, in turn, gave generously to Custis Hall for this honor.

As classes had ended December 16, most of the girls had gone home for the holidays. But as was the custom since 1887, the best riders stayed on for Christmas Hunt and the hunt ball if they so desired. It was considered a singular honor to be asked to stay. And a few girls were chosen to stand in the receiving line, a tie of the younger generation to the older. No Custis Hall student so selected was required to pay for the ball, and if they wished, they could bring an escort. His fee would also be waived. Some girls asked Miller School boys, others headed straight for UVA. Valentina and Tootie, always fending off male attentions, wanted to go stag. Felicity surprised everyone by asking a boy from Woodberry Forest, Howard Lindquist, the quarterback on the football team.

Bill Wheatley wore scarlet tails as did Gray, since both men had their colors. The evening attire for a male foxhunter, while expensive, is breathtaking. Sister, in an off-the-shoulder white Balenciaga gown, a three-stand pearl choker at her neck, with two single pearl earrings, flanked on top by diamonds like teardrop leaves, her silver hair brilliant, was a showstopper herself.

Most women wore black. It was always easier to find a black ball gown. Marty’s had black bugle beads, and her ruby necklace, bracelet, and earrings were worth a king’s ransom. No one could fault Crawford for not properly honoring his wife as far as jewelry was concerned. And no matter how much a lady might tell the man in her life that jewels didn’t count, they did. Jewelry is the woman’s version of battle ribbons.

The Custis Hall girls wore no major jewelry. Even Valentina’s parents knew better than to give her important stones. Young women should not wear large diamonds, rubies, or sapphires. They are not yet ready to carry such responsibility, for jewelry, in its way, determines a woman’s place. Much is expected of a woman perceived as wealthy. Then, too, few young women understand the value of those stones. One has to live to understand both money and value, which are separate. Valentina wore a simple platinum necklace with a solitaire diamond nestled in the hollow of her beautiful throat.

Pamela Rene, proud of her work on the silver fox, wore beaten-silver earrings that her mother had sent by FedEx for the occasion, along with a black dress that looked quite good on Pamela.

Tootie wore no jewelry at all. Felicity wore a single strand of pearls that had been her grandmother’s.

The girls had had no time to investigate the silent auction but each was hoping there might be some pin or bracelet there that would be appropriate. Felicity desperately wanted one of the nineteenth-century painted crystal pins that she heard had made it into the auction thanks to Mrs. August, a member now in her nineties. This was Sorrel’s coup just as the wicker cart was Marty’s.

The girls stood in the receiving line along with Charlotte, Sister, and Walter. A four-piece combo played until the dance band showed up.

By six-thirty the room was packed. The girls were amazed at how handsome Knute Nilsson was in white tie. As for Bill, they knew he’d be the peacock and he was, for with his scarlet he wore silk breeches, white silk hose, and the dancing pumps of the eighteenth century. The other men wore patent-leather dancing shoes, but they stuck to pants. It had to be admitted that Bill looked good because he had good legs.

Dorothy and the food service did a marvelous job on the food. The open bar in its hour of glory was used well. The wine and champagne flowed and by the time the couples hit the dance floor, everyone was in exceedingly good cheer, including Shaker, who didn’t drink but was intoxicated by Lorraine’s effort to please him by hunting.

As the gyrations on the dance floor intensified, Crawford was bumped hard in the rear by Bill Wheatley, which sent Crawford straight into Lorraine’s cleavage. As he reached out to balance himself he had the misfortune to grasp the front of Lorraine’s dress, which freed her bosoms to the light. Beautiful as they were, this was not what Lorraine had ever intended. She screamed and crossed her arms over her breasts as Shaker manfully pressed himself to her until she could hike up her gown. Once this was accomplished, Shaker whirled to an ogling Crawford, hit him with a straight right, and decked him.

Sister couldn’t reach her huntsman fast enough to prevent what she feared would happen. Gray escorted Shaker off the dance floor.

“He’s always wanted Lorraine! I’ll kill him if he touches her.”

Lorraine, hanging on to Shaker’s free arm, tried to placate him. “Honey, he didn’t mean it.”

“They all want you.”

Gray said in a soothing voice,“She’s a beautiful woman, Shaker. You’re right to protect her, but in this case Crawford was pushed by Bill Wheatley.”

“Did you see the way he looked at her!” Shaker wanted to kill Crawford.

As Bill pushed his way through the dancers to apologize, leaving his wife high and dry, Crawford was being lifted to his feet by Walter and Sam Lorillard. Marty kept patting her husband’s jaw. He held his hand over the red mark and as he was coming back into focus he was rip-shit mad.

The girls watched with fascination. The others watched as they danced. The music was too good to stop.

Gray and Lorraine walked Shaker outside, now bitterly cold. Lorraine was shivering. Shaker wrapped her in his scarlet tails. Bill Wheatley sprinted out.

“Shaker, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.”

“It’s Crawford’s damned fault and don’t make excuses for him.”

Gray said,“Bill, the silent auction will close in half an hour. Why don’t you make an announcement after the next dance for people to go in there and close out the bids? Your voice will carry over the noise.”

Bill assented and left.

“I know he’s a big landowner. I know he’s paid for this ball and pumps money into the club, but he better never put a hand on Lorraine again or I will kill him.”

Lorraine, still shivering, said,“Honey, if he values his teeth he won’t even look at me.”

This brightened Shaker up a bit.“Here I am blowing off steam and you’re shivering. Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

As Gray was steering Shaker and Lorraine in a direction where he hoped they would not run into Crawford or Marty, Crawford, white-lipped with rage, stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving Marty in the lurch.

He was so mad he was deaf to his wife’s entreaties.

Walter put his arm through Marty’s as she started after Crawford. “Let him walk it off.”

“You don’t know Crawford. When he gets like this nothing good can come of it.” Concern shone on her face. “He’s unpredictable.”

“Would you like me to talk to him?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Let me find him.”

“Then let me go with you. And get your coat. No point freezing as we search the grounds.”

By the time they emerged, sufficiently bundled up, Crawford was roaring down the road to the kennels, eight miles away. Marty threw up her hands, as she was left in the lurch again.

A hired hand hit him. That was bad enough. But this hired hand thought he was a fool, couldn’t ride, and knew nothing about hounds. He’d show that arrogant son of a bitch huntsman that he could handle hounds as well as Shaker.

It wasn’t rocket science. It’s a bunch of dogs.

He screeched to a halt by the kennels. He knew the party wagon would be parked by the draw run.

He backed the trailer to the gates, got out, slid them open, then closed them on either side of the trailer so hounds couldn’t scoot out.

That wasn’t so hard.

Then he walked to the dog run, opened the gate, walked to the bitch run, opened the gate, and watched as the hounds, a bit confused but willing, walked down the large kennel aisle. He opened the door to the draw run. They filed in, then walked onto the party wagon. He shut the doors to the trailer, closed the runs. Then he walked into the office and took Shaker’s walking-out horn and placed it through his white vest buttons.

He double-checked the back trailer door when he pulled away from the gates. Soon he was on his way back to Custis Hall.

“Anyone can handle hounds,” he said to himself, his jaw still aching.

In a way he was right. The Jefferson Hunt hounds were easy to handle because Sister and Shaker poured their love and life into their pack.

Meanwhile, Bill Wheatley announced the silent auction had but a half hour to run. The band took a break so people walked back into the room to bid anew. Valentina, Tootie, and Pamela finally got into the room as they’d had no time up until now. Felicity and Howard also walked in.

The girls admired the saddle from Horse Country in Warrenton. There was even a bridle of English leather with the bit, English steel, the best, sewn in, which Jim Meads, the famous photographer, had sent over from England. As they slowly walked down the long rows of tables they marveled at the items.

They stopped dead in front of the gold ring with the oval onyx stone. The script on a white card read,“Ring donated by Target, the red fox living at After All Farm.”

For a moment no one said a word. Knute Nilsson, also getting into the room for the first time, was moving toward them. He didn’t want to buy anything, but knew he had to put his name on some small item and hope someone would soon outbid him.

He stopped at the ring, too, noticing the stunned expressions on the girls’ faces.

“Girls, are you unwell?” Then his eyes took in the ring, a flicker of the eyelids.

“Mr. Nilsson, this is Professor Kennedy’s ring.”

“Well, perhaps she donated it,” he replied.

“No, it says Target the fox,” Pamela answered.

“Professor Kennedy wasn’t a foxhunter,” Valentina said.

“She knew everyone here was and this is a hunt ball.” He shrugged, seeing Bill walk toward him out of the corner of his eye.

“Professor Kennedy had no sense of humor.” Tootie felt her stomach sink, a nameless dread overtaking her, but she kept her wits. “It must be some mistake. Come on, gang.” She smiled brightly at Knute and Bill, who now reached him, and dragged the girls with her. “Shut up. Just shut up,”she hissed under her breath.

As the girls walked away, Sam Lorillard noticed a heated, whispered conversation between Knute and Bill, both men’s faces red as fire.

Tootie dragged Valentina, Pamela, Felicity, and Howard to Sister, luckily talking to Charlotte during the break in the music.

“Hello, girls,” Sister smiled. “This is the best ball we’ve ever had, thanks to your efforts.”

“Sister, Mrs. Norton, something’s really wrong.” Tootie kept her voice low, her breath in short gasps.

“What is it?” Charlotte instinctively put her arm around Tootie’s shoulders as the others looked on.

“Professor Kennedy’s ring is in the auction.” Valentina supplied the answer.

The release of the identity of the corpse would be made Monday. The girls did not know that Professor Kennedy was dead. Only Charlotte, Sister, Gray, and Ben Sidel knew that. Even Walter didn’t know.

“Oh, God!” Charlotte blurted out.

Very calmly Sister said,“Girls, not a word. Not yet.” She almost said “Your life may depend on it,” but figured they were upset enough.

She motioned to Gray, who came over. The little group walked back to the silent auction.

The ring, not a hot item, had garnered few bidders, but Knute Nilsson was one. He bid $100.

“It’s Professor Kennedy’s ring,” Tootie declared.

Charlotte nodded,“Yes, it is.”

“Mrs. Norton, she wouldn’t part with her ring,” Tootie said.

“What are you saying, Tootie?” Pamela began to feel Tootie’s fear.

“She’s dead,” Tootie barely whispered.

“Why? And wouldn’t we know?” Pamela resisted this.

Sister stepped in.“Girls, come with me.”

Sister, Gray, Charlotte, Tootie, Valentina, Pamela, and Felicity followed, as did Howard. Sister and Charlotte spoke low to each other.

Charlotte quietly told the girls that Professor Kennedy was the corpse under St. John’s of the Cross. The positive I.D. would be released Monday. Until the lab in Richmond verified the remains, she wouldn’t announce Professor Kennedy’s death.

“Where’s the sheriff?” Felicity asked.

“On duty. That’s why he’s not here tonight,” Charlotte said.

“Shouldn’t he see the ring?” Tootie asked.

“Yes,” Charlotte answered.

“I’ll call him. Honey, do you have your cell phone stuck somewhere?” Sister asked Gray, who pulled the tiniest, flattest phone out from his inside breast pocket.

As she was calling, Pamela said to Charlotte,“This is about the slave work, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte honestly replied. “But I believe it certainly has something to do with whatever is in those cases.”

Before anyone could respond to that a hell of a commotion erupted in the Great Hall.

Crawford let loose the hounds, horn to lips, and he was bearing down on Shaker, stunned at this perfidy.

“You dumb son of a bitch!” Crawford bellowed. “I can hunt these hounds.”

Sister, Gray, Charlotte, the girls, and Howard ran into the room as fast as their finery would allow them.

Tootie, wearing not high heels but dancing slippers, lifted her skirts, ran up the steps to the bandstand, then jumped off. She reached Crawford before Shaker did. The hounds milled around causing havoc, eating leftovers on plates. Tootie put her body in front of Crawford’s as Shaker reached them.

Shaker pushed through the crowd toward Crawford. He had the presence of mind to say to the hounds,“Steady, steady.”

“Don’t, Mr. Crown, don’t,” she said quite calmly, but with true command.

The sight of this slip of a girl, ravishingly beautiful, in front of a man he couldn’t abide, made him realize Crawford wasn’t worth hitting. He snatched the horn from Crawford’s vest.

Hounds gobbled leftovers, gleefully pulling plates off tables or getting on the tables.

Valentina looked over the astonished crowd and saw Knute, knife in hand, pursuing Bill. Both men crashed through the double doors.

“Sister! Sister! It’s Knute and he’s got a knife, chasing Bill.”

Sister walked up to Crawford and slapped him hard across the face.“I will see you rot in Hell.”

This stunned the onlookers more than the hounds filling the Great Hall.

Shaker put the horn to his lips, blowing three long notes.

Cora, Diana, Ardent, the Ds, the Ts, all came, although they hated to leave the feast.

That fast, Sister, holding up her own long skirts, hurried out of the building.“Come on, huntsman, come on.”

There was not a moment to load the hounds, much as Sister wanted to put them up. In fact, there wasn’t a moment to lose.

Shaker, Gray, Charlotte, Sam, Walter, Valentina, Tootie, Pamela, Felicity, and Howard followed.

Rarely had Shaker seen that urgency in his master. He trusted her completely and followed her with the pack.

Betty yelled over to Sybil,“Whip in, Sybil. You take the right. I’ll take the left.”

Holding up their skirts, they plunged outside into the deep cold, caught up with the hounds, and, shivering, running along, ensured order.

In the distance they could see Knute, a fitter, faster man, gaining on Bill Wheatley, who was heading for the theater department. He made it, slamming the door in Knute’s face, but Knute got it open before Bill could lock it.

The hounds and humans ran faster, Gray up front with Shaker.“Hurry, man, hurry!”

By now, the rest of the celebrants spilled out onto the quad to watch in fascination and wonder at the sight.

Gray hurled open the door, hounds moving ahead of him.

“Get ’em up,” Shaker called, as he was beginning to get the picture.

Naturally, they looked for foxes, and there were some tatty old furs in the costume storage room. The hounds heard the human feet ahead, running, as Bill bolted into the costume room, hoping he could somehow hide from Knute.

Knute was quickly in the room, brushing costumes aside, tearing them off hangers in a silent, efficient rage.

Bill tiptoed through the rows of costumes until he came to the back of the room where the fake guns, battle-axes, and swords were stored. He flipped open a cabinet and pulled out Zorro’s sword, sharp enough to cut rope and ribbon, which the play demanded. He waited.

Gray and Shaker opened the door. They could hear the costumes being pulled off hangers. The hounds were silent. As the men moved forward so did the hounds.

Sister, Charlotte, and the girls were right behind the hounds, as were Betty and Sybil. Howard had moved up with the men. He was young, strong, and confident.

“I know you’re here.” Knute was oblivious to the hounds and humans moving through the costumes.

Bill waited, listening intently for Knute’s footfall. He was coming from the right.

Knute pulled aside the last row of costumes and saw Bill, who hid the sword behind his back.

“Knute, fancy meeting you here.” He smiled genially.

“You son of a bitch!” Knute flung himself forward, knife in the air.

That fast, Bill Wheatley ran him through.

The hounds reached the twitching figure first, blood oozing from Knute’s mouth.

“It’s a kill!” Dasher declared.

“Leave it,” Cora ordered.

The hounds surrounded Knute and Bill, who said, as the humans reached him,“Mad as a hatter.”

C H A P T E R 3 3

“Did we do something wrong?” Little Diddy asked Ardent as they were being loaded on the party wagon.

“No,” Ardent stated authoritatively.

“Crawford did wrong.” Asa’s gravelly voice carried in the bitterly cold night air.“That’s why Sister slapped him.”

Sister, a floor-length mink over her white Balenciaga, was loading hounds with Gray, Sam, and Shaker.

Shaken as they were by what had happened, they had to take care of the hounds, their first responsibility.

Charlotte, Carter, Walter, and the other men of the club remained with Bill Wheatley as Ben Sidel’s squad car siren screamed in the distance.

The revelers, by twos, walked to their cars. This surely had been an unforgettable hunt ball.

Sorrel, frantically, made sure those who won their bids took their items, as she didn’t want anything of value left in the Great Hall. Marty couldn’t help since she was ministering to her husband. Marty loved him but knew he was wrong and feared Sister’s wrath. She guided him out of the hall to the parking lot. He was shouting and cursing but she managed to get him in the car.

The decorations needed to come down, but at that moment they couldn’t think about it. No one in the hall knew of Knute’s murder for twenty minutes until Felicity and Howard, sent back by Charlotte, informed them they should go home. When asked why, the two young people told the truth.

Tootie and Valentina, Betty and Sybil, stayed with Sister, helping to load hounds.

Lorraine, aghast at the turn of events, silently watched as Shaker calmly praised the hounds, loading them into the trailer.

“Good food!” Dragon enthused.

“Roast beef,” Trudy dreamily said, her belly full of it.

When the door was closed and latched, Shaker headed for the driver’s door.

“Shaker, I wouldn’t complain if you killed him,” Betty said.

“This isn’t over. You go. I’ll stay.” Sister half-closed her eyes for a minute.

“I’ll stay, too. You’re in danger.” He put his arms around his boss’s broad shoulders.

“No, honey, go. Hounds first. Gray and Walter are here.” She then opened the passenger door, opened the glove compartment, and removed the .38. She took out the box of shells, clicked open the chamber, filling the six holes with bullets. She put the box of shells in her left pocket, the .38 in her right. Usually Shaker or Walter rode with a .38 under his coat. If a deer had not been finished off by a hunter one of the men completed the unenviable but humane task.

Shaker looked at her.“Boss, for God’s sake, be careful.”

A broad smile crossed her face; she was energized by the danger. She said,“I’m a tough old bird. Go on.”

Tootie, shivering—her coat wasn’t heavy enough—said, “We should go to the cases.”

“Yes. Can you collect the girls who worked with Professor Kennedy to meet me at the Main Hall? Get Mrs. Norton, too.”

Shaker, Lorraine in the truck cab with him, fired up the motor and slowly pulled out, worried sick about Sister.

Gray put his hand on Sister’s shoulder. She turned to him; they started the long walk to Old Main Hall.

“I will kill Crawford myself. The point is a pack of hounds, any kind of hounds, has been bred, trained, developed, and loved for one purpose and one purpose only: to chase the quarry. I don’t believe in demonstrations before crowds. I don’t believe in marching hounds in parades on hot pavement. I don’t believe in taking hounds to county fairs so children can pet them. If we want to promote foxhunting in a positive light then the first thing we do is honor our hounds. Make videos if you must, but do not use your hounds for any frivolous purpose. I know I’m conservative on this but that’s what I believe and as long as I am master of Jefferson Hunt, these hounds will not be trifled with, and I know once Crawford’s rage passes he will find a way to make himself right and Shaker and myself wrong.” Her heel slipped on a bit of icy sidewalk. He grabbed her elbow. “Sorry, Gray, I didn’t mean to pontificate.” She took a deep breath, the frigid air hitting her lungs. “And I’m worried. We’ve got to find what’s in those cases. We aren’t going to like it.”

As the hounds were driven out, Ben Sidel pulled up to the theater building, an ambulance behind him.

Charlotte gave him what details she could. Ben whispered something to Ty Banks as the rescue squad removed Knute’s body.

Charlotte, Ben, Walter, and Carter walked Bill Wheatley to Old Main Hall. He professed to know nothing about the cases. As for why Knute Nilsson would suddenly turn on him with a knife, he accounted for it by the tremendous financial strain Knute was under.

“What strain?” Charlotte asked as they headed across the oldest quad, Old Main straight ahead.

“He bought that schooner. Do you know how much one of those things costs?”

“I don’t,” Charlotte said.

“He paid $575,000 for that thing. It has a navigation system, a galley, sleeps people. It’s incredible. He just lost his head. Midlife crisis, I guess.”

“Why would he take it out on you?” Ben asked, voice level as though this were a coffee-break conversation.

“Don’t you usually lash out at the people closest to you? Knute and I have been friends ever since I moved here. I told him he was losing it. Told him not to be impulsive. He wouldn’t listen. The bills mounted up and I think he just snapped. Even his wife didn’t know how bad it was.”

Charlotte, Carter, Walter, and Ben considered this as they walked up the long steps to the front doors of Old Main Hall, lights blazing inside.

Felicity, Howard, and Pamela Rene had joined Sister, Tootie, Valentina, and the others.

Sister greeted Ben, then said,“Whatever this is about, starting with the hanging of Al Perez, is in these cases.”

Ben’s eyes took in the artifacts. He turned to Tootie, Valentina, Felicity, and Pamela. “You worked with Professor Kennedy more than the other students, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” they replied.

“When she handled these objects, did she say anything that aroused your interest?”

“No. We gave Mrs. Norton our notes,” Pamela replied.

“They did. I reviewed them briefly. Seemed like a dry description to me.”

“What about the photographs?” Ben persisted.

“No,” Valentina answered. “She made us shoot every side or angle of the objects. But she didn’t say anything.”

Tootie thought a long time, then said,“The only thing she did that I noticed was sometimes when she was writing up her description she’d put a star by an item.”

“Did you put that in your notes?” Sister asked, her intuition about Tootie’s intelligence and plain good sense again confirmed.

“This ring a bell with any of you other girls?” Ben corrected himself, “Young ladies?”

“Well, I saw her do it, but I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t put a star in my notes. But my notes aren’t very good,” Pamela confessed.

Valentina shrugged,“I didn’t pay much attention. Sorry.”

Felicity chimed in,“Sometimes when I’d photograph an object—that was my job—I didn’t take too many notes, but Professor Kennedy would come over and pick up some things, not others.”

“What’s unusual about that?” Bill was curious.

“At first I didn’t think anything, but then I began to see that what she picked up was usually in good shape. She didn’t touch other things at all and some things no one touched. They were too delicate. She had me photograph them in the cases.”

“Charlotte, would you get Tootie’s notes?” Ben asked the headmistress.

“Of course.”

As Charlotte left for her office, Ben said,“Why don’t you first show me what she wouldn’t touch?”

“Sure.” Pamela walked right over and pointed to a large basket made of soaked strips of wood. Small bits of yarn, the balls long ago removed, remained inside along with a pair of horn knitting needles.

“Was the area underneath, around these kinds of things, clean?” Ben asked.

“Depends.” Valentina led him to the case next to the one where Pamela had pointed out the basket. “See this baby’s bonnet? It’s been dusted around it but we were afraid to pick it up because it’s disintegrating.”

“I see.”

“But most of the stuff is clean, shelves, too.” Valentina wondered what they’d find.

“Are the jewels real?” Ben asked, just as Charlotte returned with Tootie’s handwritten notes as well as the ones she’d typed into her computer. She also had the key to the cases.

“She didn’t say anything about that. I mean, Professor Kennedy didn’t say if the jewelry was expensive.” Felicity studied a fancy brooch as Charlotte returned.

“Charlotte, have any items ever been removed from these cases with your knowledge?”

“The only time I know anything has even been taken out of these cases is during Professor Kennedy’s investigation.”

“Tootie, point out from your notes anything Professor Kennedy starred.”

As Tootie’s eye ran down her lists, Sister asked Bill, “Would it be possible to sew diamonds onto dresses without anyone noticing?”

“You mean noticing that they were real diamonds?”

“Yes.”

“It’s possible.” He shrugged. “Seems like a lot of work. Wouldn’t it be easier to put them in a safe-deposit box?”

“Old Main Hall is always open, right?” Gray asked.

“No, it’s locked at night,” Charlotte answered.

“So who could get in?” Ben raised an eyebrow.

“Any member of the school’s administration or Jake Walford, in charge of buildings and grounds.”

“You could unlock the doors?” Ben asked.

“I could. My secretary could. Knute. The entire administration is housed in Old Main.”

“Al Perez?” Sister was beginning to get an idea of how the crimes were committed but she still didn’t know what it was—was it diamonds, was it drugs?

“Yes,” Charlotte answered.

“Could Bill get in?” Sister persisted.

“No, not without one of us.” Charlotte, too, was seeing the pattern.

“But Bill, you could come in the middle of the night with Al or Knute?” Sister focused on Bill, who was calm.

“I could. I didn’t, but I could.”

“Were Al and Knute close?” Ben asked. “I didn’t think they were. If they were, it didn’t come out when Custis Hall people were questioned.”

“They had a good working relationship,” Bill offered. “I wouldn’t say they were close.”

Charlotte nodded in assent.

Tootie quietly asked the sheriff,“Do you want me to point out the items?”

“I do, in one minute, Tootie. Charlotte, who knows about the key to the cases?” Ben could feel his own excitement rising.

“Teresa, my assistant. Knute, the treasurer. I think that’s it.”

“Did you ever notice the key had been moved?”

“No,” she answered Ben.

“Is it locked up, the key, I mean?”

She blushed.“Well, no.”

“Do you have it now?”

“Yes.” Charlotte opened her hand, a key on a wide, dark blue ribbon nesting within.

“Charlotte, if you have no objection, I’d like you to open these cases and for Tootie to remove those items that Professor Kennedy starred.”

“Of course.”

Bill interjected,“Charlotte, what if something falls apart in your hands?”

“I’ll take full responsibility. Under the circumstances, I think harming an item is the lesser of two evils.”

Bill said nothing, but his disapproval was apparent.

“Carry them over here to this table,” Ben instructed.

Tootie removed a gold snuff box with a small ruby in the center. She took out General Washington’s epaulettes, his dress sword, shoe buckles, and a beautiful brocade vest.

Sister, Charlotte, Ben, Pamela, Felicity, Howard, Gray, and Valentina crowded around the table. Bill stood just behind this group as did Walter and Carter.

“May I touch this?” Ben pointed to the snuff box.

“Of course,” Charlotte assented.

Delicately, Ben picked up the snuff box, examined it, flicked open the lid. He sniffed the inside; no hint of tobacco remained. He replaced it.

As he reached for the epaulettes, Sister remarked,“Aren’t they in remarkable condition?” It hit her. “Ben, too remarkable.”

A collective intake of breath followed. Sister pulled the .38 from her coat pocket.

Bill took a step back, turned.

Walter grabbed his arm but Bill shook him off.

“Bill!” Charlotte called.

“Bill, stop or I’ll shoot,” Sister also called.

“Ty’s outside the door. You won’t need to exercise your marksmanship.” Ben’s dry sense of humor somehow fitted the rigors of his profession.

Bill flew through the front doors, only to be brought back in a matter of minutes, hands handcuffed behind him.

Ty marched him to Ben and the gathering.“He thought he’d rather live.”

“Bill, what have you done!” The enormity of his betrayal was seeping into Charlotte’s consciousness.

“You might as well tell us, Bill. If you cooperate, things will go easier for you.”

“Sheriff, that’s what you guys always say,” Bill said, his lips pressed together.

“I’ll say this for you, Bill Wheatley. You’re a fabulous costume and set designer. You’ve obviously stolen the original items and faked these”—Sister picked up the epaulettes—“under our noses.”

Bill remained silent.

“You killed for this?” Tootie asked her teacher.

“Tootie,” Bill smiled sardonically, “there are six and a half billion people in the world. What’s one more or less?”

C H A P T E R 3 4

Tuesday’s hunt, December 20, was well attended. College students were home for the holidays. Jennifer and Sari were there and Sari was thrilled that her mother rode with the Hilltoppers. People took off work. Tootie, Valentina, Felicity, and even Pamela, who begged her parents, stayed with Sister and would be there until December 22, when they’d all go home.

Charlotte, also on school break, hunted with Bunny. Everyone needed a physical release from the strain and the extraordinary events.

Sister had had a long talk with Shaker and Walter. They all agreed that Crawford must be asked to leave the hunt. Still, there were many details to be ironed out. They expected him to hit back and hit hard. They’d just have to deal with it, although they knew one of his weapons would be money.

The good news was the hunt ball made Shaker realize that he couldn’t live without Lorraine and he loved Sari, her daughter, as his own. He had asked Lorraine to marry him yesterday so she wouldn’t think he’d done this in the upheaval of the ball or the arrest of Bill Wheatley. She had said yes.

“Guess you asked her when she experienced a weak moment,” Sister teased, then hugged him.

The hunt, down at Chapel Cross, proved wonderful. The grays began traveling in twos early so they picked up a courting gentleman fox. After they ran him to ground, they picked up two others. What a lovely day.

Once back at the trailers, Ben Sidel joined them. He could rarely take off a Tuesday, usually hunting only on Saturdays.

They gathered around the tailgate as Ben told them Bill finally confessed.

“How did it all fit together?” Sister asked Ben for all of them.

“You know, it was ingenious. I’ll give them that. Knute, Bill, and Al all wanted and needed money. Not that Custis Hall doesn’t pay a fair wage, but academic salaries are slim by comparison to other professions. Write it down to greed. Al would sound out those alumnae, or usually their husbands, who would pay big bucks for a sword of Washington. Some people want to own things. We’ve begun questioning those alumnae who bought things from Al and Knute. Knute had a wide net of contacts but quite different from Al’s. Some knew the items were purloined, others did not. Knute’s contactswere people in business who wanted Washington’s epaulettes on their desk or in a display case. An ego thing. They even sold the sword to a museum in Oregon and they faked a document of agreement from Custis Hall. They did this for two years. At night, Al and Knute would unlock a case, after Bill had made a replica, take the original item; Bill would replace it with the fake.”

“And there’d be nothing unusual about Al or Knute working in the evening if anyone passed Old Main,” Charlotte remarked.

“They split the money evenly three ways,” Ben continued. “But Al got shaky after a time and wanted out. Neither Knute nor Bill trusted him not to turn on them to save his own hide should any of this come to light. Knute wore the second Zorro costume. Bill arranged that. And before killing Al,Bill showed Knute Hangman’s Ridge, where the den was. When Halloween came, according to Bill, it was a piece of cake. Knute sprinted to his car, parked away from the Great Hall, drove back, and lured Al out of his car by saying they could have some fun with the kids, seeing double, scare the hellout of them. Bill said he wasn’t there, obviously, being in the school bus, but Al willingly went along with Knute’s ‘gag,’ including putting his head in a noose because Knute said he had another fake corpse. He just wanted an idea how high to lift it or something like that. Bill embellishes.”

“Why so public an execution?” Charlotte thought it way too grisly.

“Theatrical. Make a show. Draw everyone away from the real issue, which was the artifacts in the cases. All was going well until Pamela staged her protest. Al lost his composure after that. He wanted out anyway, that put him right over the edge. It worked for a while. The hanging diverted our attention.”

“Then Professor Kennedy showed up and they both knew time was running out.” Sister felt sorry for the tiny lady, whom she liked.

“Knute did his best to keep current with Charlotte’s plans about responding to the protestors’ issues, which, of course, involved the artifacts. He thought they could make it through the middle of the next semester—wrap things up, as it were. Bill could feign an illness. Knute, if it got too close, would just vanish, but they’d be out of here before the theft of the items was discovered.”

“Yes, we were going to appoint a search committee for an expert in this time period and in slave life,” said Charlotte. “but Pamela beat us to it. When I investigated Professor Kennedy’s credentials, I thought, ‘Why not just get this over with in this fiscal year?’ Knute harped on the budget so I thought we might as well take the hit now in hopes our treasury report for next year would be better. I didn’t see any point in spreading out the pain.”

“Both men showed great self-possession,” Walter said, wondering how they could do it. He’d be ravaged by guilt.

“That they did, until the hunt ball.” Gray also thought their ability to act almost admirable. “Who called Sister?”

“Bill,” Ben replied. “He couldn’t resist adding to the drama. And maybe he was beginning to fear Knute.”

In Bill’s case, they might expect it, but for Knute to keep cool, that was something.

“When I asked for the girls’ notes at lunch both Bill and Knute were at the table. That must have sent a bolt of fear through them.”

“It did,” Ben answered Charlotte. “They had no way of knowing how extensive those notes were. They didn’t think Professor Kennedy had told you of her findings because she was the type to make a complete presentation. She wouldn’t have wanted to upset you or Custis Hall without a thorough documentation. Bill met her at the airport before her flight, and learned that she had mentioned irregularities.”

“He killed her?” Betty thought this all dreadful.

“He offered to help with her bags. Said he was flying out, too, but the flight was delayed, which it was as it turned out. Luck played him a good hand. He talked her into a quick lunch, drove down a back road close to the airport, opened the passenger window, shot her in the left temple before she knew what hit her. Most of the debris flew out the window and he cleaned up the rest, dumped her at St. John’s of the Cross. Before he shot her he pulled the gun on her, asking if she’d told Charlotte that items were bogus. She told the truth, hoping to save her life.”

“How much money did they make?” Gray asked.

“Six and a half million dollars. They also sold forged signatures of George Washington. Bill is a man of many talents.” Ben reached for a chocolate chip cookie.

“And a good actor,” Walter said.

“This is terrible for Custis Hall. It will be public record,” Charlotte honestly stated.

“They were clever. They might have gotten away with it for several more years if Pamela hadn’t thrown a monkey wrench into the works. There’s no way anyone could have foreseen this,” Gray said soothingly.

“No, but it might have been prevented if there had been better security on those cases,” Charlotte said, admitting her failing.

“Knute would still have been able to get into the cases. He was treasurer of the school. You trusted him. We all trusted him,” Sister said.

They talked, ate, considered why some people break the social contract and others don’t.

As people returned to their trailers to head for home, Walter asked Tootie why she stepped in front of Crawford at the hunt ball.

“I owed him one, Mr. Lungrun.” Tootie smiled sweetly. “He helped us when we were lost in the fog.”

“A debt of honor.” Walter, towering over her, dropped his arm over her shoulder.

While Tootie was with Walter, Pamela, Felicity, and Valentina had seen to the horses, even cleaning the tack using the five-gallon water carrier in the trailer tack room.

Sister double-checked the hound list at the party wagon with Shaker.“Good day, huntsman. Good day, hounds.” She called out to Betty and Sybil, “Thank you. Good work.”

“It was a good day, wasn’t it?” Betty beamed.

Sister gazed at the four girls, all together now at her trailer.“Shaker, it’s wonderful to have children in the house. Today is the feast day of Dominic of Silos. He was born around A.D. 1000. He’s credited with healing powers, especially about pregnancies.”

“Thinking of throwing a litter?” Shaker laughed.

“Ah,” she smiled, “my time has passed, but if I could, I would. Well, you can make up for me.”

“I don’t know.” His face turned red. “Funny how we hunt Chapel Cross and there’s St. John’s of the Cross at Little Dalby. And so many times the foxes will run to the little country churches. Guess they’re getting religion since those churches are full of dens.”

“Crawford has already broken ground for St. Swithun. The foxes at Beasley Hall can now worship. It will cost a bloody fortune.” Betty now stood with Shaker and Sister. “We haven’t talked, but Jane, I know what you have to do. I think most of the members will understand. He’ll go down swinging.”

“Well, we’ll get through it, Betty. We always do.” Sister paused a long time. “Funny thing about getting older. You realize every relationship you ever had, on every level, is always with you. The people who hate you. The people who love you. The people whose love turned to hate. And the people who didn’t think much of you and over time learned you were worth your salt. And then you think of the ghosts. Their feelings about you. I sometimes think RayRay is near.”

Shaker nodded,“And Archie.”

“Always Archie.” Sister named the great anchor hound they lost to a bear years back. “I loved that hound with all my heart and soul.” She sighed. “Well, if everyone is building chapels, churches, or cathedrals, I suppose we could build one.”

“St. Archie?”

“There isn’t one, a human one anyway. We could build a little one, would have to be clapboard, to St. Hubert. That would be in keeping.”

“Sister, I’ve got it. We build one to St. Rita, the saint of impossible causes,” he laughed.

Sister laughed with him, glad that life goes on, no matter what, and foxes will always run.