Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 8

That same Friday night Sister’s fountain pen glided over perfectly lovely cream stationery, the hunt club crest centered at the top. She sat at the graceful desk in her library, its smooth writing surface highly polished. This regal piece of furniture commanded the room. While Sister considered this her main desk she was one of those people who scribbled wherever she could. At the end of the day, after her shower, she would often troll through the house’s rooms, picking up and reading through her notepads, finding much that could prove useful.

Golliwog, her insufferable long-haired cat, sprawled on the back of the leather sofa, her tail slightly swaying to and fro. Plopped on the sofa cushions the two house dogs snored; Raleigh, a beautiful male Doberman and Rooster, a harrier bequeathed to Sister at the death of an old lover, Peter Wheeler. He also willed her his estate, Mill Ruins, on which an enormous waterwheel, ever turning, could have been restored to grind grain should anyone be so inclined. Mill Ruins was rented for ninety-nine years by Sister’s Joint Master, Walter Lungrun, M.D., a fellow in his prime, early forties. Peter had always sworn to Sister that he would leave her everything, but she’d thought he was joking. He wasn’t and she found herself with two sizable farms to run, combined with the great good luck of owning desirable property.

Conscious of her wonderful luck, Sister realized there are people who resent anyone with resources. She accepted that blind hatred, and she had no real answer as to why the Wheel of Fortune had placed her on the upswing. She herself was not an envious person. She did, however, like very much that her position allowed her to be useful to others—specifically young people and animals. She cared little about anyone else’s status or bank account. She either liked you or she didn’t, and being Southern, if she knew you needed some financial help she often found a way to do that without embarrassing you. Many Virginians had a lot of pride and would not take what they considered a handout. She worried about so many people out of work, she worried about people sliding out of the middle classes into poverty, and she also was angered at those few who abused public trust whether on Wall Street, Silicon Valley, or Washington, D.C.—people who profited secretly or openly from the distress of others.

She was just one person. All she could do was to shoulder the load with people she knew. Sister was not one to write checks to organizations. She had to know to whom money was going and she had to respect them. If nothing else, she was consistent.

She’d written a check this Friday to Custis Hall for a scholarship for a fourteen-year-old whom Mercer sponsored. He wrote the other half of the check for the girl’s first year.

Sister did not think of herself as a particularly loving or good person. She thought of herself as a clear-eyed responsible one. What others thought of her mattered precious little if at all. This quality above all others drove her enemies wild. Over the years, Crawford had dug, parried, and derided her, yet she never bothered to respond. Worse, she sought him out at the board meetings and remained friendly with his wife—or as friendly as she could under the circumstances.

Some of this impressive lady’s supreme self-confidence was rubbing off on Tootie, who walked into the library.

“Bills?” asked the lovely young woman.

“You know, just when you think you’re in the clear, the mailbox is filled with some more.” Sister capped the pen, turning to view Tootie, who had recently turned twenty-one.

“Did you hear that Felicity got promoted?” Tootie mentioned a brilliant schoolmate of hers who had gotten pregnant. Unable to go off to college, Felicity took night courses toward a degree.

“Garvy Stokes knows talent when he sees it. I’m behind on seeing Felicity. I haven’t visited my godson in two weeks.”

“He doesn’t stop talking.” Tootie smiled. “Not at all like his mother,” she quipped.

“And how is your mother, speaking of mothers?”

Tootie shrugged. “Same as always.”

“You haven’t visited Chicago in over a year. Why don’t you go once hunt season is over?”

Tootie sat on the couch next to Raleigh. The Doberman raised his head only to drop it in Tootie’s lap, give her a loving gaze, then close his eyes.

Golly, on the other hand, opened her lustrous eyes. Far be it for the cat to miss anything.

“I don’t want to,” said Tootie. “It’s always the same old thing. They make me miserable, angry, and finally bored.”

“That’s a harsh judgment on your mother and father.”

“Sister, you’ve met them.”

“I have, and I know your father doesn’t much like me but he’s still your father and he loves you the only way he knows how. And as for your mother, she does what most good wives do, she props him up, tries to get him to see reason or at least have some emotional understanding. She loves you, too.”

“You know what, Sister? I don’t care.” A flash of defiance flared from that beautiful face.

Picking up the fountain pen, Sister twirled it. “You’ve been with me one and a half years now and you’ve taken courses at UVA. You’ve kept your word about that. Things come so easily to you—riding, college courses. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“Not everything. I signed up for organic chem. That might not be easy.”

“We’ll see. You know Dr. Hinson will help.” Sister named the veterinarian, a woman who liked Tootie.

“I’m trying to be like you.” Tootie smiled. “I’m writing letters.”

Sister beamed. “It’s the only proper way to communicate, or at least to communicate some things. I was just writing O.J. to invite the Woodford group here in March. We’ve talked about it but a formal invitation is needed. Wouldn’t it just be silly if they all get here and we have a storm?”

“What was it you called the storm in Lexington?”

“A pogonip, a freezing fog. The superstition is that it brings bad luck.”

“Well, it did, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did.”

“I found some old pictures of Benny Glitters.”

“You did?” Sister asked, surprised and curious.

“Sure. I’ll show you.” Tootie rose, walked to a simple desk tucked in a corner, upon which was Sister’s computer. The young woman sat down and quickly pulled up images from Google. “Look.”

Sister stood behind her. “I keep promising to move the computer out of here to a better place, a bigger place, and move that little desk. Well, that’s irrelevant, I fear. I’ll never be able to use it like you do.”

“You don’t have to. You have me.” Tootie clicked and sure enough there appeared an old sepia photograph of a petite woman in hacking attire, presumably Lela Harkness, astride a well-built bay.

“How about that? Don’t you love that Lela looks like a magazine model? People dressed for the occasion in those days.” Sister leaned forward, squinting a bit. “Benny Glitters looks like a handsome bay horse. Well, Thoroughbreds are usually some form of bay or chestnut with the occasional gray. Look how sturdy his forelegs are.”

“I found other pictures, too.” Tootie flipped through old photographs, some from the turn of the last century going up through the 1920s. “Here’s one of Phil Chetwynd’s grandfather, I guess.”

“Roger was the grandfather. Old Tom, Phil’s great-grandfather, started Broad Creek Stables. Both Phil and his brother—the one who lives in Charleston, West Virginia—resemble their father, also named Tom in honor of the original patriarch. I vaguely remember Roger. What I recall is that he was so competitive. When people had money in those days, they really had it.”

“Look at this.” Tootie filled the screen with photographs of L.V. Harkness’s daughters, and others of Walnut Hall through the years.

“Go back to Benny,” said Sister.

“Sure.”

“Okay, now can you find me a picture of Domino?”

“That’s easy. He was so famous. There’s lots of photographs.” Tootie proved her point.

“Hmm. It’s hard to tell how much Benny looks like his sire. Pull up one of Domino’s most famous son, Commando.”

Tootie did. “He looks a little more like Domino. I mean, it’s hard to tell bays apart.”

“ ’Tis. I’ll tell you a secret. Always start at the hoof. Then go up the legs starting from the rear. Pause at the gaskin, the large muscle at the top of the hind legs often called the second thigh. Now look at the hip angle. Okay, go to the forelegs. Same trajectory. Right? Now look from the withers to the hindquarters. Okay, set that in your mind. Look at the shoulder angle, look at the angle of the neck from that shoulder, look at the chest. Finally, go to the head.”

“I did that.”

“Now pull up a photograph of Man o’ War. He ought to be easy to find.”

He was.

Tootie looked at the great horse as Sister had instructed her. “Well, they don’t look alike but they are both really handsome horses.”

“Yes, they are. A sharp eye can help you a lot, save mistakes.” Sister paused lest she rattle on, although Tootie was a ravenous listener. “And after all the conformation talk, I tell you the most important thing about horses, hounds, and people: You can’t put in what God left out.”

Tootie quietly registered all this. “You mean the mind, the mind first.”

“Indeed I do, especially for a hunting horse. You can get killed out there, Tootie. Sometimes I think people who foolishly ride a beautiful horse with a bad mind are just asking for it. I don’t have but so much sympathy.”

The two studied Man o’ War, a delight for any horseman. Tootie clicked back to Domino, and they examined him again.

“Look at these photographs of Broad Creek Stables. This one is from 1902!” said Tootie.

“Old Tom Chetwynd. He had to be incredibly smart to found that coal business and then the stables, too. I often wonder why Phil doesn’t leave for Lexington, but he’s big beans in the Mid-Atlantic.”

Tootie remarked, “Some people like my father have to be the big shot, you know?”

“I know, but Phil covers it up well.” Sister watched as Tootie scrolled through more photographs.

“Stop.” Sister pointed to a photograph of Roger Chetwynd and Lucius, the stable manager. Behind them stood some stable hands and a well-dressed African American. Farther back were horses in paddocks. “I’ll be damned,” said Sister.

Tootie studied the photograph. “I see it.”

The natty African American had Mercer’s chin and his high cheekbones. There was a resemblance but then again many people could have those features. Catching both their attention too was the adorable, bright-eyed Norwich terrier at his feet.

Tootie looked up at Sister. “Should we tell Mercer?”

Sister took a long time, leaned on the back of the sofa.

“I was here first,” Golly complained.

Rooster opened one eye and regarded the cat. “Shut up, Golly.”

“Methuselah’s dog. Worthless old fart.” Golly swished her tail.

Without rising, Rooster lifted his head, growling.

“That’s enough,” Sister commanded.

Golly eyed the harrier with malicious glee.

“No, we shouldn’t tell Mercer about the resemblance,” Sister finally declared.

“Why?”

“Mercer can be like a helium balloon. Pfft.” She moved her forefinger up in the air like a helicopter blade.

“I have a terrible feeling about those old bones. Mercer, well, I just think he could stir up a hornet’s nest.”

“But that could really be his grandfather.” Tootie was confused.

“It was so long ago,” Sister said. “The reverberations from violent crimes never quite stop. That’s easy to see in the cases of”—she thought about earlier conversations with O.J.—“Lincoln’s assassination, stuff like that. That’s a significant political event but any murder is an event that touches others and can continue to do so. We should be careful.”

“But we don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Tootie, if we are too interested or find some useful information, we will have something to do with it. That man was killed over money, a lot of money. You don’t kill someone for a few bucks. Don’t get me wrong. I want to find out what I can. Seeing that forefinger, the watch, and little dog skull really got me. But something tells me to be careful. That had to be murder.”

“A woman. Men kill over women.”

“He wouldn’t be buried with a horse and his dog. He would have been shot in passion or stabbed. This is deliberate. You know how I told you to look at a horse from the hoof up, well, look at this from the ground up, so to speak.”

“Didn’t Mercer say his grandfather’s clothes were found at a whorehouse?” Tootie was realizing that Sister was extremely practical when it came to emotions.

Mercer, on the other hand, was volatile and emotional. Strangely enough, at the same time, he was shrewd and patient concerning business.

“Apparently, that was a ruse,” said Sister. “Whoever murdered Harlan Laprade thought it through. People would be more than willing to believe a man would go to a house of ill repute, an expensive one, and fall into trouble. Especially if he’s away from home. Men visit such places every day all over the world.”

Young and idealistic, Tootie said, “That’s horrible. Disgusting.”

“Honey, most men, no matter where they are, high or low, Asia, Africa, the Americas, you name it, most men feel they are entitled to sex.”

“Gross!”

“I can’t judge. I can only tell you that if a fellow doesn’t have a girl in every port, so to speak, he’s happy to pay for a night of pleasure. In fact, it’s easier. No strings. A straight cash transaction. Whoever left those clothes folded in the laundry room at the whorehouse was very, very clever and probably knew the victim would be there—or visit, then leave. How easy to kill him in an alley, take his clothes back to the whorehouse. Pretty easy, I think. First of all, no one would tell a wife her husband’s clothes were found in an exclusive whorehouse. So there’s one line of inquiry shut down.”

“They would now.” Tootie was incredulous.

“But not then. Remember the time. 1921. Secondly, the murder victim probably had a reputation for chasing skirts. Those who knew him would be surprised at his disappearance but not really shocked. I mean it, Tootie, if a Laprade really is the victim, we need to be careful. Whoever killed him is long gone but the effects of that murder might not be, especially if it was over a boatload of money and it was done or conceived by someone highly intelligent.” Sister put her hand on Tootie’s shoulder. “Let’s walk softly.”

“Maybe we should hope Mercer doesn’t find any photos,” Tootie remarked. But he had.