Outfoxed

CHAPTER 52

A long polished table left just enough space to squeeze in and out of one’s chair. Vin Barber wanted a conference room like the conference rooms the ritzy Charlottesville and Richmond lawyers had. But Vin couldn’t get along with a plethora of partners and so kept his practice to himself and his son—more to himself, since his son was an unimpressive specimen.

Vin was, nonetheless, a good lawyer whose specialty was real estate and conservation, the two being allied.

Sitting at the head of the table, his bald head bent over the long legal briefs encased in heavy light-blue paper, spectacles down his nose, Vin could have walked out of a Daumier lithograph, minus the wig and robes, which would have improved his appearance.

Sister sat on his right and Bobby Franklin sat on his left. As president of Jefferson Hunt, Bobby needed to attend the meeting.

Having just heard the last will and testament of Peter H. Wheeler, they were stunned.

“Remarkable!” she exclaimed.

Bobby folded his hands together. “Yes, but can we meet his conditions?”

“I’d damn well try if I were you,” Vin, characteristically direct, said.

Bobby leaned across the table toward Sister. “Live to one hundred.”

“God willing.”

“No joint-masters.” Vin put his hands behind his head. “You don’t really want one anyway, do you? Even if Crawford wrote big checks, can you imagine talking to him on the phone every twenty minutes? He’s high-maintenance. Like to run you wild.”

“We can manage without a joint-master but operating expenses don’t diminish, as you know. Inflation affects us as well as General Motors.” Sister grasped the economics of the club, which is more than some masters. “We’ll find a way. But let me be clear: All of Peter Wheeler’s estate is held for Jefferson Hunt so long as I live and so long as I don’t take a joint-master. And he has left an annual income of fifty thousand dollars a year from his portfolio to maintain the farm.”

“Correct.”

“That’s not the tricky part.” Bobby, like most fat people, sweated easily and he was sweating now.

“I know.” Sister frowned.

“The tricky part is that once you have passed on, Doug Kinser must be the next master. Jesus, the board will hit the roof.”

“Because he’s black?” Vin questioned.

“For some, I expect their hemorrhoids will flare up,” Sister dryly replied. “But no, the real reason is the board of governors wants to govern. This removes from them the right to elect their master annually. Not so much a problem now but quite the issue when I’m dead and gone.”

“Doug would be the first black master in the country. In the world,” Bobby thought out loud. “Course, he’s only half black.”

“People don’t see it like that.” Vin tapped the eraser end of the pencil against the blue cover. “If you look the tiniest bit black, then you’re black.”

“Like the old race laws. If you have one percent Negro blood in your veins, you’re Negro.”

“Virginia had laws like that?” Bobby was appalled.

“Not just Virginia. Many states. Midwestern states. People feared mixing the races.” Vin paused. “The idea was like to like, I guess. I remember my grandma saying to me, ‘Stick to your own kind.’ There’s a logic to it,” he honestly added. “I can’t say that I agree with it but there’s a logic to it.”

“Bobby, our bylaws state that the master must be elected by the board of governors, who are in turn elected by the membership.”

“That’s what I’m saying. As long as you live, we don’t have a problem.”

“We do if I get decrepit.”

“You can still be master. You can still control the kennel and the hiring and firing. Someone else can be field master. We don’t have a problem. Oh, we’ll hear some quibbles about how you should have a joint-master but I can deal with that and so will others,” Bobby confidently predicted.

“Do we have to tell the membership of this?”

“Well—” Bobby unfolded his hands, making a tepee out of them.

“No one need know the full contents of this will so long as you enact its provisions,” Vin added. “There’s enough money annually for you to pay a salary, let’s say, put a first whipper-in at the house and he has to care for it. It could be quite comfortable.”

“Yes.” Sister’s mind was roaring along at a mile an hour. “Vin”—she leaned toward him—“I don’t mind if this will is read to the membership, but can we wait until after Thanksgiving hunt? It’s only two weeks away.”

“Of course. We can do anything you say. Do you accept the terms of Peter’s will?”

“I do and may God rest his soul. There won’t be a day of my life that I don’t think of Peter and thank him in my heart.” She couldn’t finish. She broke down.

Bobby reached in his jacket, bringing out a linen handkerchief with an F embroidered on it. “Here.” His eyes wa-tered, too.

She wiped her eyes. “Another question. Peter wishes Doug to succeed me, which really is the best plan—”

Bobby interrupted. “But he has no money.”

“We’ve got a few years left to figure out how to make sure he does have the resources to run the club. There are bigger obstacles. First, we must convince the club that the title of hunt secretary carries almost as much weight as master.”

“That’s saddling Doug with a hell of a burden,” Bobby blurted.

“It may be but it also ensures that those with a big ego and big pocketbook like Crawford might contribute generously if elected as hunt secretary. Look, once this will is read, no one but a bloody fool will try to fiddle with it. We need that land. It’s good land, too. We couldn’t possibly buy it. Not at today’s prices and it’s close to a hundred acres. The club will fall in line.” She held up her hand. “We’ll have to hear this, that, and who shot the cat but they’ll fall in. My question to you, Vin, is twofold: What if Doug should predecease me? Secondly, what if Doug were convicted of a felony?”

This got both men’s full attention.

Vin cleared his throat. “If Doug predeceases you, then you have the right to name your successor with the stipulation that it be someone Peter taught as a child.”

“And would we be within the spirit and scope of Peter’s will if, say, Doug committed a felony? I should say was convicted of a felony. Then would I have the right to name a successor? Again, someone who Peter taught.”

Flipping up pages of the will, Vin read intently. He cleared his throat again. “I think you would not be in violation of this will.”

Bobby, bolt upright now. “You think Doug killed Fontaine?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m asking a reasonable question. Personally, I hope Doug does succeed me. He will be a fine master once he gets the hang of it. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Of course, they had.