Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 12

June 7, Saturday, gleamed like a new penny. A light breeze on the soccer field accentuated the glorious sunshine of Commencement Day, and the mercury cooperated by hanging right at 70 degrees.

Sister sat on the dais with the other Custis Hall board members, including Crawford Howard. Naturally, they were civil to one another on this special occasion, despite their differences.

She wore her robes, the long hood signifying her discipline, which had been geology back when she taught at Mary Baldwin. The soft cap crowned her silver hair and she tried dutifully to listen to the drone of the various speakers, not one of whom possessed an original thought.

Charlotte Norton, the headmistress, was mercifully brief. She kept to the point, congratulating the graduates. The one good speech of the day came from Felicity, who had edged out Valentina by half a point in her grade average to become valedictorian. As her pregnancy had begun to show, she was grateful for the robe.

Felicity ended her seven-minute speech with, “No graduating class knows what the future will bring. We may live in peace or be at war. We will see medical breakthroughs yet suffer new lethal pestilence. We may learn to renew the earth’s resources or kill one another for dwindling water and food. We don’t know; we can’t know. What we can do is remember what we learned here: Face life with courage, conviction, and compassion. “Congratulations, Class of 2008! We’ll always be Custis Hall girls, which means we’ll always come through.”

The large crowd of graduates, underclassmen, parents, and friends awarded her a standing ovation.

Sister thought Felicity’s parents missed a fine valedictory. Their pigheadedness meant they’d miss more than that. However, Betty and Bobby Franklin, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Sybil Fawkes, Shaker and Lorraine, Ronnie Haslip, Xavier, and his wife had all come to support a young person they all liked.

Her most enthusiastic supporter, apart from the Jefferson Hunt crowd, was Howie Lindquist. Felicity would be eighteen in three weeks and he would marry her then.

The graduates crossed the dais, where Charlotte handed each girl her diploma and said a few words. Off the young women walked, flipping their tassels to the other side of their mortar boards. Many cried.

Val winked at Sister, who winked back.

Pamela Rene actually cried, which surprised everyone, but she trooped off in style as her ever-glamorous mother watched and seemed actually to enjoy the moment.

Tootie received a huge cheer when she received her diploma, and as she walked by the board members she said to Sister, “Thank you.”

The large quad filled with people after the outdoor ceremony. Under yellow and white striped tents, food, drinks, and gossip were in ample supply.

Marty Howard, who had slipped away from her husband, came up to Sister. “How are the hounds?”

“Oh, Marty, how good to see you! I miss you.” Sister bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “Hounds are fine. How about yours?”

A long significant pause followed. “They’re healthy.”

“I see. Well, Marty, Dumfriesshire hounds are both handsome and willful. They’ll only hunt for a strong huntsman. And remember, they’re an English hound. They lack the nose of the American hound.”

“I know.” A sigh followed. “I’m working on Crawford. For one thing, he has to give up the idea that he can hunt them. For another, he needs to come back to the club.”

“It’ll take time. What can I do to sweeten the punch?”

“You’ve done as much as you can at this point. He dimly recognizes that you decked him for a good reason. He abused one of your hounds.”

“The situation was tense. I might have satisfied myself with harsh language but—well”—Sister threw up her hands—“I did apologize for hitting him.”

“He’ll come around. Where’s Gray?”

“Over there talking to Pamela Rene’s parents. Her mother doesn’t want her to go to Ol’ Miss, and I guess her father isn’t too thrilled either.”

“Good for her.” Marty liked a kid with spunk. “The farther she gets from Momma’s talons, the better.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Betty and Bobby joined them. “We miss you,” both said.

“And I miss you guys.” Marty, being from Indiana, did not use the southern plural, you-all.

“Wasn’t Felicity’s speech good?” Betty enthused.

“Yes. She’s a very accomplished young lady,” Marty replied. A pause followed. “I haven’t spoken to anyone for such a long time. All the construction on the farm is time-consuming, and then we took a trip to Vienna, which I adore, but when I came back and heard about Hope Rogers, I couldn’t believe it.”

“Terrible thing.” Bobby started to change the subject, feeling it best on this special occasion to focus on positive things.

Before the old friends could continue, Tootie came over with her parents, Jordon and Rebecca Harris.

Everyone said their hellos, and Jordon, impeccably dressed in clothes obviously made for him, beamed. “Thank you for taking such good care of our girl, Master. She speaks of you and the club constantly.” He fished for a moment; then the name came. “Mrs. Franklin, Tootie says you’re a wonderful . . . uh—”

“Whipper-in.” Tootie finished the sentence for him.

“That’s very flattering.” Betty loved the praise.

“See, she doesn’t talk about me at all.” Bobby teased. “Never glances back at second flight.”

“Mr. Franklin, you have the hardest job of all.” Tootie liked having her parents with the other adults she admired.

“Why is that?” Rebecca, diminutive like her daughter and ravishingly beautiful, asked.

“He gets green horses, green riders, and sometimes both together. It’s not a pretty picture, Mom.” Tootie laughed. “But he straightens them out, and pretty soon they’re fine.”

Val bounced up. “Princeton, here we come!”

Tootie smiled but clearly viewed this prospect with less enthusiasm than the class president and salutatorian. “Black and orange.”

“You’ll look so-o-o good in those colors,” Val teased.

Tootie’s parents laughed. They knew Val. She’d visited on holidays and Tootie had gone to Val’s home. Since their dangerous adventure at Mill Ruins back in March when a mentally unstable hunt club member had threatened their lives, the two had drawn even closer.

Felicity joined them, Howie in tow, which always irritated Val although she tried to cover it. “The kitty has come to a grand total of $1,022. One dollar even came from Sister.”

“No shit!” Val exclaimed.

“Make that $1023,” Felicity said.

Everyone laughed, but Val did reach up under her robe to pull a dollar from her shorts pocket. She’d worn shorts just for the hell of it, but Pamela, to everyone’s surprise, had outdone Val by wearing a bathing suit under hers.

“Where are you girls going to have your thousand-dollar party?” Bobby asked. The Jefferson Hunt people all knew about the kitty, a dollar bigger each time one of the girls swore.

Val surprised everyone. “Let’s not have a party.”

“What?” Tootie put her hands on her hips.

“Felicity’s the business brain. I vote for letting her invest the money. Ten years from now let’s see what we’ve got.”

“Will you do it?” Tootie asked Felicity.

“Yes.”

“How simple is that?” Val smiled.

All three shook hands.

After the group dispersed, Gray escorted Sister back to his car, a big Toyota Land Cruiser and his pride and joy.

“Memories.” He held her hand as they walked along the path lined with Victorian streetlamps.

The Custis Hall buildings were a mix of Federal and Victorian architecture. To the credit of those headmistresses who held the reins after World War II, none of the buildings looked overly modern. Every new structure conformed either to the Federal or to the Victorian style, so the campus seemed timeless, warm and very inviting.

Also to the credit of those headmistresses, including Charlotte Norton, the emphasis still remained on a strict education, not fads. A girl had to take a minimum of two years of Latin plus a modern language to graduate from Custis Hall. She had to study math all the way through solid geometry and trigonometry; a calculus course was available for those with further interest. The strongest emphasis was on character. A Custis Hall girl was expected to take responsibility for her actions, to help others, and to participate in her community. A bronze plaque on the wall of Old Main listed the names of those girls who had died in the various wars, usually as nurses but one as a transport pilot in World War II, two who died in Desert Storm, and three in Iraq, second war. Those girls had been killed in combat.

Although she had missed the wars, too young for World War II and Korea, too old for Iraq, the values of Custis Hall remained Sister’s values. In the back of her mind she always wished she had gone to war: an odd wish, perhaps, but in keeping with her spirit and her curiosity to know if she would withstand it.

“Memories,” Gray whispered again.

“So many.” Her eyes glistened. “Field hockey. The show-jumping team. Hunting with Jefferson Hunt as a teenager. The huntsman was Garland Valentine; God how we flew. Garland looked like Cary Grant. I was a little too young to appreciate what an advantage that bestowed upon him with the ladies, single and married.” She laughed.

“I bet. Most of your classmates are still around. The ceremonial dinner you-all had last night, class by class at tables, was damned impressive.”

“The old girls look good, and some of their husbands don’t look bad either.” She watched a milk butterfly dance in the air. “My teachers here pounded on us. I’m grateful. We were taught to think for ourselves.”

Suddenly Tootie, robe flapping behind her, raced up to Sister, flung her arms around her, and burst into tears.

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to go to Princeton. I want to stay here. Oh, Sister, I want to learn to be a huntsman!”

Neither Gray nor Sister made light of this. Some people are born to be with animals regardless of other gifts. Remove them from their deepest love and they never blossom fully, although they might be very successful in the outside world.

Gray put his hands on Tootie’s heaving shoulders. “Tootie, maybe there’s a compromise.”

She released Sister, who prudently fished in her handbag for a handkerchief.

“Really?”

“Have you mentioned this to your parents?” Gray, ever practical, asked.

“No. My father would kill me. He’s set on me going to Princeton. Val would kill me, too.”

“What about your mother?” Sister inquired.

“I’ve kind of mentioned it, but only a little. She’s more flexible, but I know she’d be disappointed. I’ll be the first one in our family to go to an Ivy League school.”

Gray wrapped his arm around her waist. “How about this: Go to Princeton for one year, even if you hate it like milk of magnesia. Give it one full year. But this summer, work for the hunt club.” He glanced at Sister. “The budget can handle it, don’t you think?”

“I’ll see that it does, if I have to sit on Ronnie.”

Ronnie Haslip, the treasurer, guarded the hunt club money the way Cerberus is said to guard the passage to the Underworld.

“I’ll have to ask Mom and Dad.”

“Tell you what. We’ll go with you.” Sister sounded encouraging, so Tootie wiped her eyes.

They found Mr. and Mrs. Harris chatting with other parents at the tent housing the bar, which was becoming a bigger draw as the day went on.

Gray quietly suggested that they slip away for a moment. Then he presented Tootie’s case as Sister watched in admiration.

Jordon listened intently. “Tootie, pardon my French, but what would you learn cleaning up dog shit? And I’m nervous about what’s been happening at the hound shows. I want you safe.”

Tootie fought her emotions. Her father respected logic; he was uncomfortable with emotion. “Dad, we aren’t going to any more hound shows. I’d be right here. I’m safer here than in the city.”

“She can learn quite a bit with us, Mr. Harris.” Sister’s deep alto already had a soothing effect. “First she would learn responsibility. You two have drummed that in her head but she’d learn even more. She would learn how animals communicate; they do have languages. She’d learn some accounting, because she’d have to keep track of expenses. She’d ride the green horses. And she’d fall in bed each night exhausted, so there’d be no danger of partying.”

Rebecca was tuned in to her daughter in ways that her husband, good man that he was, was not. “Is it possible for her to keep up with her German?”

“Of course,” Sister replied. “One of our whippers-in, Sybil Fawkes, is fluent in German. And if she needs lessons, Sybil will find the right person.”

Jordon’s mind was moving along. “Isn’t she the daughter of the philanthropist Edward Bancroft?”

“She is.”

“Hmm.”

“Where would she live?” Rebecca asked.

“I’d be happy to have her live with me, as long as she doesn’t play loud music in the house.” Sister laughed.

“And what would her board cost?” Jordon’s mind rarely strayed far from money.

“Mr. Harris, not a penny. And the club would pay her minimum wage so she would be learning to manage her own money.”

Jordon stalled. “It’s dangerous, riding green horses.”

“Well, what about seven dollars an hour?” Gray had Jordon’s measure. “That’s quite good for a young person just starting out.”

“Dad, please.”

“Sweetheart, what do you think?” The father had the great good sense to ask his wife before announcing his decision.

“She loves it, Jordy. And Tootie’s not one to vegetate intellectually. She’ll keep studying.” A meaningful pause followed. “She’s her father’s daughter. That mind never stops.”

This had the desired effect. Jordon was caught between three beautiful women, one of whom was his wife. He did what any smart man would do; he agreed.

“Oh, Daddy, I love you!” Tootie threw her arms around her father and then hugged her mother.

“We’ll take good care of her,” Gray said in a low aside to Jordon. “You can be sure of that.”

As Gray and Sister once again walked toward his car, about a half mile away in the large soccer parking lot, Sister mused, “Val will pitch a fit.”

“Honey, she’ll wind up on the farm, too.”

“She has a very good summer job.”

“My money is she won’t last a month.”

“We’ll see.” They walked along, both of them pleased to have made Tootie so happy.

“Damned shame about Felicity’s parents,” said Sister.

“That kid’s learning hard lessons early. She’ll be stronger for this. If nothing else, she knows who loves her for herself.”

“Before Tootie came up I was thinking.”

“Yes?” He smiled slightly.

“Mo Schneider, Hope Rogers, and Grant Fuller—I’m assuming he’s dead, too. Despite all the searching by police, there’s not a trace of him, and it’s been a week.”

“He could have amnesia,” said Gray.

“Possibly. Let’s set Grant aside; maybe he’ll show up in Aruba. But Mo and Hope each had connections to the hunt world and to the Thoroughbred world. So did Grant.”

“Thousand and thousands of people fall into one of those categories. Fewer into both, I’ll give you that.”

“I think these terrible events are connected.”

Gray shrugged. “Janie, people do commit suicide. As for Mo—well, he got what he had coming. But Grant missing? That’s bizarre.”

“He must have known something.”

“The question is, What did he know?”