Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 15

“No one could quite believe it.” Diana talked to Inky through the kennel chain-link fence. Hound and fox were quite comfortable conversing this way. Good fences make good neighbors.

“We were too astonished to speak,” the hound continued. “We looked at him, looked at Shaker. Everyone shut up. Mercer apologized.”

“Bet Uncle Yancy is still laughing.” Inky admired the old red fox and his wily ways.

“What a setup he has.” Diana knew the old boy could get into places, then disappear.

“Getting cold again.” The beautiful black fox looked up at the cloudless night sky. “When it’s clear, the stars seem bigger, don’t they?”

“They do.” Diana fluffed her fur.

The two canines—one wild, one domesticated—chatted a little bit about other creatures, and celebrated the seasonal lack of bugs, one advantage of the cold.

“I’m going back to my den,” said Inky. “I built up a lip on the northwestern side and it’s even warmer than before.” Inky paused. “Do you know where you’re hunting from on Thursday?”

“No, but it won’t be around here. Sister never likes to overhunt a fixture if she can help it.” Diana headed back to the kennels to curl up with her roommates, warm with all those bodies and deep bedding.

Inky hurried to her den in the apple orchard, happy to go home after eating the treats left for her in the barn. She liked talking to Diana—a most sensible animal, in Inky’s estimation.

Inside, Tootie, tired after the day’s run, checked her e-mails on Sister’s computer. Felicity loved the hunt as did Parson, her horse. Val, Tootie’s old Custis Hall roommate, had e-mailed her from Princeton, decrying the lack of good men to date, a common theme with Val.

The next message she read, then re-read. Within a minute she was furiously scrolling through information online. After, she walked down the stairs, stopped in the library, then headed to the kitchen.

“Sister.”

“Yes, madam,” Sister teased her as she sat at the table, polishing her boots. “If I don’t do this after hunting, I wait until I really resent it because I need clean and shining boots.”

“I cleaned mine, too.” Tootie took one of Sister’s boots, polish evenly applied, and began brushing the well-worn leather.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Dr. Hinson e-mailed me about bloodlines. Actually, she started with the Przewalski horse from seven hundred thousand years ago. We know the animal’s DNA, isn’t that something?”

“It is.”

“Anyway, she said I should investigate the Turn-To line, especially the mares of El Prado, Sadler’s Wells, and go back to Turn-To. She said I can never know enough. If I want to be an equine vet I should know the most important sires and mares for a lot of different breeds. She said start with Thoroughbreds as the records are good.”

“Be specific. What do you mean about mares?”

“I mean the mothers of those great stallions.”

“And did Dr. Hinson tell you those Turn-To mares, out of his line, have real toughness, can go long and hard without injury?”

Turn-To lived from 1951 to 1973.

“She did.” Tootie smiled at Sister, always admiring of how much she knew about horse and hound bloodlines. It was people’s bloodlines that the Master didn’t care to study although by now, at 73, she’s seen, in some cases, up to five generations of humans from one family.

“Dr. Hinson knows her stuff. She’s right to get you to study more than, say, the skeletal system,” Sister said.

Tootie then told her about the call at Broad Creek Stables, how lovely the foal was and then the discussion with Phil.

“Never thought of that, I mean lawsuits over bloodlines. Once the Jockey Club started having Thoroughbreds tattooed in 1947 I should think that would have cut down on unethical representatives of Thoroughbreds.”

“Some letters and numbers can be altered,” said Tootie. “A T can be made to look like an F.”

“Well, yes. I would think Phil has few worries. His stallions and mares have produced good foals, good runners, for close to a century. The Chetwynds are both lucky and smart. Takes both in the horse business.”

Though tired, Tootie polished with energy. A slick shine gleamed on the old black boots.

“Did you know that Hail to Reason’s dam?” Tootie named one of the great horses of the twentieth century. “Nothirdchance raced ninety-three times in six years and went on to breed?”

The mother of Hail to Reason clearly evidenced stamina and soundness.

“Well, I didn’t know that name but I did know that Turn-To bred a lot of tough mares to compensate for his unsoundness. From his line we got Hail to Reason in 1958, Sir Gaylord, so many great horses.”

“How do you remember all that?”

“Honey, it’s easy to remember what you lived through, and I was a horse-crazy kid. Still am. If you want an interesting project, given that you were over at Broad Creek Stables, check the pedigree on Navigator, the horse that put Broad Creek on the map long before even I was born.” She laughed. “Hey, that’s a good shine.”

“So Turn-To bred tough mares and produced tough mares who then produced tough foals, regardless of sex?” Tootie asked.

“When it all went right, yes, and luckily it went more right than wrong. You know breeding higher vertebrates isn’t exactly like breeding Mendel’s pea. Seems to me there’s a lot more variety.”

“I guess. Oh, Dr. Hinson sent all the research stuff to Phil Chetwynd. I mean since he asked her about DNA and stuff. Does that ever happen to you?”

“What? I don’t know but so much about genomes and DNA.”

“Sorry. I meant sometimes do you get obsessed about something and you can’t let it go? You have to find everything about it?”

“I do. I only wish that when I was young I had done more research about some of the men I was attracted to. Would have saved a world of trouble.”

They both laughed.

Then Sister said, “Actually, Tootie, physical attraction isn’t logical so I don’t know if the research would have prevented my mistakes, and wisdom comes if you learn from your mistakes. You’ll notice some people make the same mistake over and over.”

“Kind of like they’ve got one foot nailed to the floor and spin in circles.”

“One way to put it.”

“Sister, is Mercer gay?”

Sister looked up from her boot. “No, why?”

“Well, he’s never married. He’s kind of emotional.”

“I’m not sure emotional stuff has anything to do with it. No, Mercer never married because his mother never released her claws. Daniella would have destroyed any woman he did marry. No one was ever good enough.”

Sister picked up the boots, putting them in the mudroom. The two house dogs and Golly slept on the floor, the kitchen being warm.

“You know, I think that’s the best shine my boots have ever had. Thank you.” She looked down at the threesome. Raleigh the Doberman let out a long sigh.

“You’d think they’d hunted today.” Sister laughed.

“What a day.” Tootie smiled.

It was and it wasn’t over yet.

The Chetwynds, Phil and Cheri, hosted a small dinner party for seven people: Kasmir, Alida Dalzell, Freddie Thomas, High and Mandy Vijay, and Sybil Fawkes. Mercer’s account of his disgrace added to the high spirits. This followed his story about his presumably murdered grandfather; he was certain it was his grandfather, given the history: Harlan’s horse transport by train in the old days, the slate memorial, Mercer’s mother’s many axioms for a happy life, which could be reduced to “Have a bad memory.”

Mercer was at his best. As another round of after-dinner drinks enlivened the proceedings in the high-ceilinged living room, Mercer piped up again. “Phil, can I go through Broad Creek’s account book and files from the twenties? Just in case I find something?”

Phil thought for a moment. “What you’ll find is mildew, but sure. Just put everything back where you found it.”

Next to Mercer on the sofa, Alida said, “What a fascinating story, your trip to Kentucky, the freezing fog and sleet storm and then finding a body.”

Phil smiled. “It was an unforgettable hunt, pretty much as today’s was.”

Sybil leaned toward Mercer. “You got off lightly.”

“Sister was in a good mood.” He sighed happily.

Thinking out loud, Alida said, “Maybe there’s some kind of symbolism about your grandfather and his dog being buried with Benny Glitters.”

Phil was curious. “Symbolism?”

“He rode to heaven on a horse,” Alida responded.

“Or the other place.” Mercer shrugged.

“No, Mercer, that will be you.” Phil lifted his glass to Mercer. They all laughed, lifting their glasses, too.