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“What I’m really excited about is Warp Speed,” High said. “I’m not really an entrepreneur but I couldn’t resist the concept. Faye’s too smart to get sucked into the vortex of pie-in-the-sky research. She’s practical. The company has good management and accounting practices. If she can pull it off, triple digit millions will be hers, maybe more.”

“And ours.” Crawford smiled. “You talked me into investing in Warp Speed, remember?”

“I do. Talked Sister into a much smaller investment than ours, but she’s naturally conservative. The volatility in the electronics market, in software, escalates. That worries me.”

“What about this murder, though?” Crawford could be bold.

High frowned.“I doubt Aashi’s murder has to do with the market.”

“You’re right. When they start killing men, I’ll worry.” Crawford didn’t consider himself sexist, but in his mind, if men were killed, it might be more than some form of sexual revenge or release.

“Ah.” High leaned against his Rover.

“We might suggest that Faye Spencer hire security.”

“She’s pretty tough. I wouldn’t worry too much,” High countered.

“Maybe,” Crawford said, unconvinced.

High smiled.“I do allow myself to dream of future profits there.”

“Down the road. If it ever happens,” Crawford remarked. “Faye’s built a good team. She was smart enough to take on a real businessperson, since she’s not. Her mind is full of wires, chips, dots of platinum, and dreams, too, I guess.”

“Once people thought computers in the home were decades away.” High crossed his arms over his chest. “Everything happens so fast.”

“High, you believe in conspiracies?”

“Like I said, this sector of the market is highly volatile. Volatility can transform into violence. What difference does it make if it’s a conspiracy or one genius nutcase?”

CHAPTER 9

Long days rarely bothered Sister, although long nights could get her. This Friday night, Washington’s birthday, she leaned against the arm of the big sofa, legs outstretched. After taking a shower and double-checking her draw list for tomorrow’s hunt at Tedi and Edward’s After All Farm, she was grateful to relax.

The den, warmed by a strong fire in the simple but lovely fireplace, was Sister’s favorite room. Much as she loved her huge kitchen, the original part of the 1788 house, she loved the den more, possibly because there, surrounded by photos of her family in silver frames, she basked in remembered love.

Before the kitchen was built, the original landowners had lived in a two-room log cabin a half mile away. The cabin had long since fallen down, but the ruins provided Inky with a spectacular den.

Jane Arnold had not led a particularly hard life. Like most she keenly felt the passing of her grandparents and then her mother and father. The death of her son in 1974, the hardest blow she’d ever been dealt, also taught her to appreciate every moment and to cherish the young. Big Ray died in 1991, although his snotty mother Lucinda, Mrs. Amos Arnold, was in her nineties, still holding sway in Richmond. So many friends had passed on. Each year she heard the wings of time beating more loudly. Her own death was out there somewhere, but then so was everyone else’s. The difference was that when one is older you can’t deny your chances of dyingare one for one. RayRay, snatched from life at fourteen, never had the chance to feel life’s deepened quickening, but in the fourteen years God gave him he spread happiness like pine pollen in early spring.

Golly, snuggled in the needlepoint pillows at the other end of the sofa, snored lightly. Raleigh and Rooster, both on their sides, dreamed, paws twitching.

Spread over Sister’s lap were stock offerings and bond quotes. She picked up a prospectus for a company mining copper in China. Big Ray had taught her how to read these siren calls to profit and how to sift through an annual report. As to “hot news” on Wall Street, his advice still rang in her ears. “Don’tfollow the lemmings. It may take awhile, but you’ll go over the cliff.”

After he died, she managed her own portfolio with the help of their stockbroker and flourished. She’d lose money sometimes but mostly her mix of high risk, medium risk, and low risk, along with about 30 percent of her investments in bonds, gained annually. She shied away from metals but was interested in the China offering only because her mistrust of China ran—well, all the way to China. She felt investors were digging themselves into the proverbial hole.

She picked up a shiny pamphlet on a drug company developing an ultrasound machine to screen for breast cancer, making biopsies obsolete, and put it in the“consider” pile.

Her tiny little cell phone beeped. She leaned over to reach it with her left hand as it rested on the rectangular coffee table.

“Hello, Sister here.”

“Sister, it’s High Vajay.”

“Good to hear your voice.”

“I didn’t want to have this conversation where others might overhear us so I thought I’d call. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not in the least.”

“I had a spontaneous eruption with Crawford.”

“How interesting.”

“Well, yes. We started talking business, finally retreating to the nineteenth hole for a drink. I’ll get to the point: He’s in over his head with those hounds and he knows it.”

“That’s a step in the right direction.”

“He’s looking for a professional huntsman. That won’t really work either, ultimately.”

“I suspect you’re right. Creating and sustaining a hunt takes years to learn. You can’t pick it up out of a book, although books help. And smart though he is, he has a difficult time taking advice.”

“This is occurring to him slowly.” High breathed deeply. “I have two ideas. One was to ask if you could send a huntsman his way, someone you trusted who might steer him away from this destructive path. An outlaw pack in the area hurts everyone.”

“Are you suggesting this individual—and, yes, there are some candidates—might gently lead him to register with the MFHA?”

“That’s one route. The problem is he’ll have to hunt another county if he does that, because he’s poaching on your territory. He wants the glory of being a master, but he’s not truly a hunter.”

“I agree, but he had made some progress with us. He actually watched hounds work on a few occasions.”

“The Russians have also made progress, but would you want to bet on their government?”

Sister laughed.“What’s your other idea?”

“Have a long lunch with Marty. See if you two beautiful ladies can’t prevail on him to come back to Jefferson Hunt. It will be better for everyone.”

A long, long pause followed.“High, you’re right. Damage was done. Repairing relationships has to come from him and I don’t know if Crawford is a big enough man to do it. As for me, I would take him back. When Crawford sat on the board and then became president—and as you know we had to slip him in with a shoehorn because the election was so tight—he created a business plan together with Ronnie Haslip that was sound. Of course, the economy can change with one disaster or political mess but, still, his five-year blueprint impressed me.”

She did not mention that she had worked behind the scenes to elect Crawford to assuage his vanity. Desperately wanting to be master but lacking some of the key qualities that an MFH requires, Crawford became president and received attention and respect. In return, he was a decisive, motivated leader. The good offices of his wife didn’t hurt either.

“It’s worth a thought. The rub is, he insists that Shaker apologize first.”

Sister breathed deeply.“That’s going to take a lot of work on this end.” She paused. “Lunch with Marty will be a pleasure regardless of the outcome. I miss her terribly.”

“We all do.”

“If nothing else, her politics, so far to the left by my standards, make me think. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Americans think as she does. And Marty will roll her sleeves up and work.”

“That’s all I have to say.”

“You’re good to call me, and you’re quite right, High. This shouldn’t be overheard. I truly appreciate your concern. Also, it takes me away from these boring stock offerings I’m reading.”

“Me too.”

“Coincidence.”

“What else can you do on a long February night?”

“With your gorgeous wife, I could think of alternatives.”

His voice was warm.“She’s visiting her sister in Phoenix. Be home next Saturday.”

“Well, then, we’ll both return to the siren call to spend money in hopes of making it. On the same subject, I still can’t believe Kasmir bought Kilowatt for the club. We pick him up Sunday. Exactly how did Kasmir make his money?”

“The short version is he became president of a small pharmaceuticals company and rolled it into a national giant. He left two years ago when his wife died. Some men find solace in work but not Kasmir. He’d worked to create a fortune so that he and Geeta could retire relatively young. He’s still a bit lost.”

After hanging up, Sister thought how fortunate she was to have members that kept the club in their thoughts. And she determined to keep Kasmir here. She’d move heaven and earth for him to wind up with Tattenhall Station. She also noted that Vajay made no mention of what Marion had told her concerning his relationship with his former secretary. But then why would he? It was in his best interests to keep his mouth shut. She wondered how long Ben Sidell would give him to prepare his wife. Sooner or later, Mandy would have to be questioned.

A paper slithered to the floor onto Raleigh’s back. He didn’t move.

“Dead to the world,” she said out loud, stopped herself, then dialed Ben Sidell, also a hunt club member. “Ben, forgive me if I’m calling at an inopportune time.”

“Polishing my boots.”

“Lay out the silk underwear. Supposed to be in the low twenties at first cast.”

“Might be a two-layer day.”

“I’m asking for information. Have there ever been other Godiva murders?”

“I’ve been researching past murders of young women for the last twenty years to see if any are similar.”

“You’re hooked too?”

“My profession, even if it didn’t happen on my beat.” His voice rose in register. “I can’t help but get hooked. I told the sheriff up in Fauquier I’d poke around a little.”

“Found anything?”

“No. There’s nothing like this anywhere.”

“Do you know if the girl in Warrenton was sexually molested? It wasn’t in the papers, but I gather that law enforcement officials will withhold a piece of information to be able to identify the killer if he calls to brag or promise another killing.”

“She wasn’t. Given her extraordinary beauty, I find that odd. I guess that shows how jaundiced I’ve become.”

“Most of us would agree with you. It isn’t you, it’s the times in which we live. Okay, here’s my next question. Marion called and told me, thanks to the sheriff there, that they had learned the victim had been or still was Vajay’s mistress. So I assume you know.”

“Do.” He paused. “I questioned him. Gave him a day to talk to Mandy.”

“He’s going to have a long phone conversation. She’s in Phoenix.”

“I know, but I can’t wait until next Saturday when she returns to question her. So he’s got twenty-four hours.”

“Do you think a woman could have lifted the corpse up on Trigger?”

“Yes, if the body was still warm and pliable and not particularly heavy. It’s not so much the weight as the unwieldiness of a fresh corpse. But two people could manage it without too much trouble. It’s a hell of a lot easier to dump a body and run. That’s why I come back to the ritual aspect.”

“Even though the victim wasn’t sexually molested, that doesn’t mean sex isn’t part of the motivation. Revenge?”

“Possible.” Ben had been sheriff for three years, and in that time he had learned to trust the older woman. “What do you think?”

“Well”—she drew out a long breath—“we all know the legend of Lady Godiva. My first thought is there’s some connection we don’t yet see. My second thought is the victim is possibly in a highly sensitive position, in high-tech industry. My third thought is, given the manner of her murder, I think there will be more. When and where, I don’t know, and I don’t know why I feel that but I do.”

“I do too. Instinct’s a funny thing. You’ve got to go with it, but you can’t really tell most other people, because they want logic. Logic is a small god. There’s something so peculiar about this it makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen sights that will haunt me all my life but this is—I don’t know, it’s just so different. Almost gleeful. Really. Lady Godiva in front of Horse Country. There’s a kind of dark humor at work.”

“I’m so glad I called you.” She sighed.

“If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.” He tapped the side of the phone absentmindedly, which Sister could hear. “How long have you known Margaret DuCharme?”

Margaret DuCharme, M.D., specialized in sports medicine. Good-looking, slightly introverted, the situation between her father and uncle sometimes wearied her as Paradise, the home place, fell down over the decades. The landholdings totaled about five thousand acres, give or take, and Alfred, her uncle, had kept them in good shape.

“All her life. She’s bright, driven, fundamentally kind, and fundamentally lonesome.” Sister encouraged him. “She needs you whether she knows it or not, and you need her.”

This surprised him.“How do you know that?”

“The whole mess at Paradise last month brought you together, right?”

“We’ve had a few dates—well, the first one was lunch because it’s not so, so—”

“Wise to start with lunch.”

“Well, why did you say what you said?”

“Because I’m an old woman who can see around corners. And because you glow, you radiate excitement, when she walks into a room.”

“God, am I that obvious?”

“To me. Probably not to others,” she fibbed. “Make her laugh. Margaret needs to laugh.”

When that conversation ended, Sister remembered that this day was the feast day of another Margaret, Margaret of Cortona, a Franciscan penitent who lived from 1247 to 1297 and sounded like a wack job because of the way she mortifed herself, mistreated her son for a time, and attacked anything she considered a vice.

Sister shook her head, musing on what constitutes holiness. Seemed to her, given Lady Godiva’s bravery and subsequent good works, that she deserved to be a saint far more than Margaret of Cortona, with her hair shirts and self-inflicted starvation.

CHAPTER 10

A sharp dry wind from the west sliced through boots and gloves. Hunters could keep their bodies warm, but feet and hands usually suffered—as did noses, which tended to run at inauspicious occasions.

Once mounted, Sister wanted to move off, but first cast, at ten, couldn’t be pushed upward. Once people receive a fixture card with place and time for the hunt, you can’t fool with it. People, many still on the ground, rooted for girths, searched for hairnets, struggled with stock pins.

Why don’t they tie their stock pins at home when their fingers are warm? Sister thought to herself. She wore the titanium stock pin Garvey Stokes had made for her. As far as she knew, she had the only titanium stock pin in the world. The slender dull silver pin was fantastic.

Ilona Merriman, hairnet in place, derby correctly placed on her head—which is to say, straight across the brow—rode up to Sister, reined in Tom Tiger, her handy small Thoroughbred, gave a pregnant pause, and then tattled. “Jennifer Schneider—granted she’s a new member—but she’s not wearing a hairnet, her gloves are black, and her stock pin has a fox’s head on it. She might as well learn sooner as later.”

Sister wanted to slap Ilona, whom she’d always tolerated but never liked, not that Ilona deliberately crossed her. Of course, turnout should be proper.Face danger with elegance is the foxhunter’s creed. But Jennifer, riding with Bobby Franklin, was green as grass. Sister gave each new member a copy of correct attire for JHC. She also gave them a year to pull it together.

“I’ll have a word with her.”

“I’ll do it, if you like. Then the onus is on me.” Like so many people, Ilona reveled in small displays of power.

“Thank you. It’s better that I do it because you ride in the field. In time, Jennifer may move up to first flight. Sometimes a correcting word, no matter how kindly given, can spoil a relationship. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you and Jennifer.” Before Ilona could indicate that Jennifer was beneath her, Sister adroitly mentioned, “She’s a Valentine on her mother’s side.”

The Valentine blood, an old Virginia family and one with steeplechase connections, would appeal to Ilona’s snobbery. She possessed little old Virginia blood but what she had had been magnified to gargantuan proportions.

“I didn’t know that.” Her cute little mouth became anO.

“Blood always tells.” Sister couldn’t resist. “Thank you for the heads-up. We do want our people to look perfect.”

Ilona, now in possession of news, made a beeline for Cabel, who was getting a leg up from Clayton.

Ilona heard him chide her.“Go to the doctor. You haven’t been to a doctor in twenty years, Cabel. There’s no reason your legs should be weak.”

Sister watched as Clayton huffed and puffed to lift Cabel, not particularly heavy.God, she thought to herself,he’s even fatter than he was two weeks ago.

Seeing her staring in his direction, Clayton winked, which made Sister laugh. Fat he might be, but he hadn’t lost his spark.

After a few welcoming words to guests from Sister and Walter, they moved off, hounds following, northward along Broad Creek. The wind buffeted them until they reached an area one mile from the Bancrofts’ covered bridge, where the ground began to fall away. Shaker knew sooner or later they’d pick up a line, faint perhaps, but something to run, since this portion of Broad Creek sank low, providing protection from the wind. Any fox worth his or her salt, if picked up, would scamper to high ground where their signature perfume would be blown away.

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February 23, being a Saturday, meant a large field. Today, sixty-seven hardy souls rode forward. Jefferson Hunt could count on big Saturdays even after New Year’s, when fair-weather hunters kept to their fireplaces. Most of the Jefferson Hunt members truly wanted to hunt and took pride in facing conditions that would deter others.

Rickyroo, Sister’s seven-year-old Thoroughbred, dark coat glistening, enjoyed the brisk weather. A quick study, he’d learned so much last season that Sister felt he was made and could handle any possibility—and they were out there, from mountain lions to wild boar, the worst of the worst.

Walter Lungrun, in his second year as joint master, rode right behind Tedi and Edward Bancroft, who usually rode in Sister’s pocket. These two, always perfectly turned out, on beautiful horses, made Sister smile. They had more money than God, but even Ben Sidell, who made a modest salary as sheriff, looked perfect next to Bobby Franklin and the hilltoppers.

She prided herself on her field, their turnout, their hunting manners, and their hospitality to visitors. With the exception of Crawford, who had always been too flashy, she was rarely disappointed.

High Vajay was out, as was Kasmir, this time in a heavy frock coat, thicker gloves, and a sturdy derby attached to his back collar with a black hat cord.

Sister’s coat had faded to a hue admired by newcomers because it meant you’d been hunting a long time. Her coat, black, lined in wool tattersall, cut the cold. Her cap, ribbons down, had faded also.

Non-staff members, those wearing caps, wore the ribbons up.

She sighed as they walked along. High-pressure systems meant tough hunting although a fox could pop out at any time, its scent then red hot. Anything could happen. She fretted since she wanted to show good sport, but as yet Sister had not figured out how to control the weather.

She glanced over her shoulder. The Custis Hall girls rode at the rear as usual. Juniors ride at the rear, as do grooms. When the pace quickens and people drop back, often not having a fast-enough horse or enough horse, then a junior may move up. A groom should assist those falling behind if they need it. These days a groom often helped only his or her employer, but they were there to serve. Few true grooms existed anymore; pony clubbers often fulfilled those duties at various barns, but they had much to learn about protocol. Even Tedi and Edward didn’t take a groom out, although they did have stable help whereas Sister did not. She was so grateful to the Custis Hall girls for turning out her horses and cleaning staff tack on the days they rode that she had given each girl soft leather mustard gloves for Christmas presents. She was already wondering what to give them for graduation.

She stopped wondering when Cora spoke with high excitement. A large gray streak shot out to her left.

“Come!” Cora sang out.

The entire pack, honoring their strike hound and head bitch, closed in on the line and ran single file until they burst out of the woods, now running southwesterly. In three minutes, flat out amid the trees, the path narrow, Sister happily spied the old hog’s back jump, thrilled her knees had survived the close quarters. She could clearly see Comet, the gray fox, ahead now bursting through the wildflower field, the whole pack bunched together.

Bitsy, the screech owl, flew silently overhead. She must have followed them from the covered bridge at the Bancrofts. Bitsy, living in Sister’s stable, led an extremely active social life, enlivened by intense curiosity about everyone and everything. Sister was fine with that, so long as she kept her mouth shut, for her cry could wake the dead.

Comet faced into the wind, his scent streaming into flared hound nostrils. He zigzagged to break the flow but the scent was so hot the pack zigzagged with him. He’d run at a good clip but now he had to hit top speed. He’d been caught unawares, trying to court a new gray vixen living about a half mile from the small graveyard by the covered bridge. Romance clouded his senses.

He cut sharply right, leapt over the old fence setting off the wildflower field, some patches of snow still encrusted in small furrows here and there, like hard vanilla icing, then cut straight up toward Hangman’s Ridge.

Sister sailed over the jump in the old fence line, Rickyroo’s ears forward. He jumped a trifle flat, which helped old bones. A horse with a large bascule, the rounding of the back so prized in the show ring, could wear out even the Custis Hall girls after four hours of hunting. Better a horse that powered off hindquarters, reached out with forelegs, and then folded them up and kept that back just a little flat. A long pastern—the short bone just above the hoof—made the landing smoother too, but Sister didn’t worry too much about that. Many horsemen declared a horse with a long pastern would break down sooner than one with upright pasterns. After a lifetime with horses, Sister thought it was six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Hounds pounded down the frozen farm road, although sections were getting greasy as the sun rose higher. It was already ten thirty.

Behind her Sister heard a loud rap on the coop. Someone had rubbed it. Footing in front of it was getting cut up. Well, if someone endured an involuntary dismount, another bottle for the club traveling bar. She collected these bottles assiduously, though she was not much of a drinker herself. Single-malt scotch on a wickedly cold day would pass her lips and that was about it, or maybe a cold beer on a stinky hot day. But alcohol rarely figured into Sister’s socializing. She’d witnessed too many good people go down like Sam Lorillard.

Another rap followed. Yes, the ground was getting cut up but the smart riders would rate, slow down a little, then squeeze hard at the takeoff spot to compensate, or not rate their horse’s stride and leave early. So often, and not on purpose, people would follow too closely at the jumps. Some plain couldn’t hold their horses. One of the great things about the Custis Hall girls riding in the rear was that Sister received a full report. As field master, her job was to stay behind the hounds without crowding them. What happened behind her, in a sense, was not her concern.

“He’s going to Hangman’s Ridge,” Dasher called out.

“Damn,” Asa growled.

Damn was right, because the moment Comet reached that high flat expanse exposed to fierce winds, even in summer, he knew he could relax. He crossed the long axis of the ridge and paused at the hanging tree, haunted by those who died there, earning their dispatch thanks to severe transgressions. Comet didn’t like hearing their whispers. Occasionally he could see one of the hanged. Under the circumstances, let the hounds deal with it. He waited. They came onto the ridge and he slipped down the back side toward Roughneck Farm. His den was not far from that of his sister Inky. His scent would be longgone by the time the hounds reached the tree, so he just ambled on home.

“I hate this place,” Diddy, a young female hound, whispered.

“Me too,” Tinsel, another young hound, agreed.

“Drat!” Cora circled the tree, ignoring the whispers from the large branch formerly used to secure the rope.

Hounds milled about. Shaker rode up. He too disliked this spot. He urged them to cast themselves wider, which they did, but the damage was done, as was the day. He considered going down the narrow path to the farm road in hopes of rousing another fox, but he figured this was it. Couldn’t complain. It had been a bracing run.

The fifteen-minute walk down the trail to the farm road produced squabbling in the bushes from two male cardinals who had been squabbling anyway. The goldfinches, chirpy as always, turned their backs to the redbirds, wishing the cardinals would fly up to tree limbs and stay out of their bushes. Cardinals pretty much did as they pleased, but at least they weren’t as offensive as the blue jays, who would walk right up to a goldfinch on the ground to utter a stream of avian obscenities.

Returning to the coop, Sister paused.“Shaker, let’s take hounds back to their kennels. Then we can drive back to After All and pick up the trailer and the party wagon. No point in walking all the way back there when the kennels are ten minutes away.”

“Fine.”

She turned to the field.“Folks, we’re walking hounds back to the kennels and we’ll meet you at After All. Walter will lead the field.”

Walter nodded, happy that he was chosen by the senior master to do this. His riding was improving, as was his hunting knowledge. Usually Tedi or Edward led the field when Sister, for whatever reason, did not.

Tedi smiled at Sister. She liked seeing Walter move up.

The two whippers-in rode beside the pack at ten o’clock and two o’clock. Shaker rode at six o’clock, and in this way the pack was kept together. Their discipline was good. They wouldn’t bolt, but both Sister and Shaker thought better safe than sorry.

Back at the kennels, hounds cheerfully walked in, eager to discuss the day’s hunt and to lord it over those not drawn to go out today, Dragon being one.

“Pretty good day in difficult conditions,” Cora called out, as she went into the kennel.

Dragon, face pressed against the chain link fence around the boys’ run, heard her loud and clear before she disappeared into the kennels for warm water to drink, a check over, and some kibble warmed with heated-up gravy, a special mix of Sister’s.

Sybil helped Shaker with the hounds. Dragon growled with envy.

Sister and Betty led the four horses back to the barn. Both Betty and Sybil would drive over later to pick up their horses. In the meantime, each animal would be wiped down, checked, a blanket thrown over, put in a stall with fresh water and flakes of sweet hay.

Since the Custis Hall girls needed to ride back to After All, the two old friends happily performed the after-hunt horse chores alone.

“Should we clean the tack?” Betty asked, after putting up Outlaw and Bombardier, her horse and Sybil’s.

“We can do it after breakfast. Don’t want to show up too late. I’ll put up the coffeepot. Might as well get warmed from the inside out.” Sister walked into the small but pretty office to make coffee. A hot plate and a small under-counter refrigerator were in the room. Sister thought someday, if she ever got ahead with money, she’d extend the office outward so she could build a proper kitchen and make a nice sitting room, since she spent more time in the barn than in the house.

She stopped.“Betty, Betty, come here!”

Betty opened the door, then stopped cold.“What in the hell?”

“That’s what I say.”

Before them on the desk gleamed the great silver John Barton Payne punch bowl from Marion Maggiolo’s store.

Sister called Ben Sidell on his cell but it was turned off. He hadn’t reached his trailer yet most likely.

She called Marion at Horse Country.

“Marion, your punch bowl is here.”

“What?”

“On my office desk in the stable. Looks fine. I’ll notify the sheriff here; you notify yours.”

Marion paused, trying to eradicate the worry from her voice.“Why you?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

“It’s possible whoever stole the punch bowl didn’t kill that girl.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m glad you have it, but”—Marion switched her thoughts—“where are your dogs?”

“In the house. I suspect whoever put this here knew not to put it in the house. Raleigh and Rooster would have taken down anyone they didn’t know well.” Anger infiltrated her voice. “I don’t like being played with.”

“Play may not be the right word. I wouldn’t go out without those dogs or a thirty-eight. This is too weird.”

After hanging up the phone, Sister turned to Betty, who was admiring the magnificent silver bowl.

Betty looked up.“Not good. Not good at all.”

“Well, I hardly think I’m going to be the next Lady Godiva.”

Betty tilted her head upward to the taller woman.“Jane, none of us has any idea what’s going on, and that includes the authorities. Assume nothing. I don’t think you should be in the house alone at night. One of us should be with you. We can take turns.”

“Now, Betty, that’s a little extreme.” Sister felt a little shaky and tried to make light of it by changing the subject. “Funny, today is the Roman festival of Terminalia, celebrates the god Terminus.”

“The things that pop into your mind.” Betty put her hand on Sister’s shoulder.

“He’s the god of boundaries.” She looked into Betty’s quiet brown eyes. “Someone is crossing our boundaries, even those of life and death.”

CHAPTER 11

Sister never made it to the breakfast at Tedi and Edward’s. She called Walter and explained the situation, informing him she needed to wait for Ben Sidell. Ben left his horse in the Bancroft stables and drove right over. He, too, strongly advised she have someone with her at night until they knew more about the case.

By eight that evening, she’d had it; her patience was thin. Instead of admitting she was a bit scared, she became crabby. Gray babied her, which irritated her even more although part of her liked it.

“Go sit in the den. I’ll be there in a minute,” he commanded her.

Not accustomed to taking orders, Sister shot him a jaundiced look. She did, however, do as he said since she felt guilty about being moody.

She leaned against the arm of the sofa, her legs stretched out, her old cashmere robe soft against her freshly showered skin.

Golly immediately pounced on her toes.“Tiny sausages.”

“She’s in a bad mood. Leave her alone,” Raleigh counseled the cat, an exercise in futility.

“The time to torture humans is when they’re low.” Golly’s extremely long, white whiskers swept forward, her pupils now large with anticipation.

“Golly!” Sister laughed, she couldn’t help herself, because the cat jumped on her bosoms, sat upright on those pillows, and patted her face, pretending to be ferocious.

“Suck it up!” Golly enjoyed herself.

Rooster, curled up on the club chair across from the sofa, said laconically,“Mental.”

Golly launched off Sister’s chest and skidded across the coffee table, knocking a clean glass ashtray to the floor. Barely stopping herself from falling off the table, she bunched up and leapt onto Rooster with a heavy hit, then leapt right off.“I’m the queen! You’re a peasant.”

“Like I said, mental.” Rooster burrowed his nose deeper in his paws, just in case Golly returned, claws unleashed.

Gray walked in as Golly touched the floor.

“You missed my very own Flying Wallenda.” Sister’s mood improved.

“That cat has a secret life. Probably works for the CIA.” He put two hot toddies on coasters and stooped to pick up the ashtray, hand-painted on the bottom side with a hunting scene. “You know, I was reading somewhere, maybe theManchester Guardian, where scientists discovered bees can detect explosives. CIA will put them to work. I figure Golly’s on the payroll. Fresh kidneys must be her salary.”

“Tuna!” Golly returned to Sister’s feet but didn’t bite.

Gray handed Sister the enticing mug.“Can’t remember the proper glass for a toddy, but I figure it’s hot whiskey so a mug will suffice.” He sat on the sofa next to Golly, who turned her pretty head to allow him to admire her.

“Gray, I can’t drink all of this.”

“A sip or two. No harm in relaxing.” He stroked Golly’s head and was rewarded with a deep purr.

Golly threw in a few trills for variety, which made Sister laugh some more.“She’s a complete lunatic and I couldn’t live without her.”

“I could,” Rooster grumbled.

“Lowly rabbit runner.” Golly interrupted a stream of high-pitched notes.

Rooster lifted his handsome head.“You huge fur ball. I can run fox, bear, or coyote. I can run anything because my nose is good, but I’m trained to run rabbit and hare. That’s my job. I don’t go off on the wrong quarry. You shut up.”

“Seems to be a conversational evening.” Gray took a long draft.

“Ignore her, Rooster.” Raleigh climbed up on the wing chair, which had a throw over it for this purpose.

“Ray used to make a hot brick.” Sister mused on her husband’s favorite. “If the day had been nasty cold, after the horses were put up and hounds checked, he’d head for the kitchen. I can never remember the difference between a toddy and a brick.”

“A brick is one-third an ounce of whiskey—you can substitute rye if you like—a pinch of cinnamon, pinch sugar, a third an ounce of hot water, and a small pat of butter.”

“I remember the butter. Made me think of yak butter. I drank it, though.” She grimaced.

“Don’t much like butter in a drink myself.”

“What’s your recipe for a toddy?”

He shifted, leaning against the arm after another long sip, placing his legs alongside Sister. Even though he showered, he wore knee-high Filson wool socks because his feet got cold so easily.“Standard. One ounce of bourbon, four ounces of boiling water, one teaspoon of sugar, three whole cloves, one cinnamon stick, and one lemon slice, medium thick. Most people slice the lemon paper thin. In this case, I substituted scotch for bourbon. I’m not much for bourbon. The drink is sweet anyway.”

“Bourbon’s okay if good but I prefer scotch if I’m going to drink.” She paused. “And I like rye, but a good rye is hard to find. It fell out of favor. The younger generations don’t much like hard liquor. Wine, beer, and mixes I don’t even recognize seem to be their standard. My daddy always said,Takes a man to drink rye; then he’d hand me a little. I’m not sure what the message was.” She smiled, for she loved her father; mother too.

“Toughening you up, your dad.” Gray snuggled into the pillows by the arm.

“Get settled, will you?” Golly complained, as was her wont.

“Golly, if you’d drink a toddy it would improve your mood.”

“If I drank a toddy I’d be in The Guinness Book of World Records.”

“You probably are.” Raleigh baited her vanity.

She bit.“For what?”

“Cat with the flabbiest belly. Swings when you walk.” Raleigh chortled, a breathy sound that dogs make when laughing.

Golly considered flaying him but was comfortable.“I’ll have my revenge.”

“Did you know there’s a drink called a Huntress Cocktail?” Gray stroked Golly more, her fur soft.

“I did not.”

“Three-fourths ounce of bourbon, three-fourths ounce of cherry liqueur, one teaspoon of triple sec, and one ounce of heavy cream. Sounds awful.”

“Does. Is there a Hunter’s Cocktail? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“One and one-half ounces of rye and one-half ounce of cherry brandy. Stir and serve over ice. The other one you shake up with ice or ice shavings, then strain into a chilled cocktail glass.”

“How did you learn so much about mixing drinks?”

“Alcoholism runs in the Lorillard family.” He didn’t smile, saying this as a matter of fact, which it was. “I can remember uncles, grandparents—white uncles too—gleefully sharing the mysteries of potions, mixed drinks, you name it. For a while there when I was young I drank a lot, but then I caught myself. Obviously, Sam didn’t.” He stopped and lifted his glass. “To my pickled kin, regardless of the color of their skin.”

Sister reached for her drink with a slight grunt and toasted.“At least Sam’s back from the precipice.”

“He works at it. That man is religious about his AA meetings. I guess you substitute one addiction for another. Ever notice how alcoholics always have a glass in their hand, water or soda or something?”

“I have, actually. What is it Alcoholics Anonymous says?Alcohol is a craving of the body and an obsession of the mind.” She shrugged.“What people do is their business as long as they don’t wipe me out on the road. But there are still cultures or enclaves where drinking is important. Parliament in England, for one. Still seen as a real test of balls. Can a man hold his liquor? No wonder Tony Blair has hung on to power for so long. Hell, they’re all too loaded to mount an effective ouster.”

“Used to be that way here. I still think young men go through the phase, some of them.” Gray thought about it. “What’s the difference? If it’s not drink, someone will hand you a pill and tell you life will be rosy. There’s something in humans that can’t accept reality.”

At this, the animals lifted their ears. They’d been saying this for years to one another.

“True. It has to be prettiest up or denied. But don’t you think alcohol was one of the few ways to deaden physical pain before the advent of huge drug companies and the billions of profits from pills?”

“I do.” Gray shrugged. “I’m not going to solve the alcohol problem.” He took another gulp. “You know, I can’t drink all this either.” He laughed. “It’s good, though, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes, it is. We’ll consider this as alcohol used for its proper purpose, a medicinal application.”

“I’ve been thinking about the silver punch bowl.”

“Yes.” Her voice lowered again.

“It’s pretty obvious. You’ve thought of it too. This person either knows you well or knows about you. The thing is, why do they want to implicate you?”

“For theft?”

“Murder.”

She remained quiet while she took a long, long sip herself.“Why me?”

CHAPTER 12

The creamy English leather of the high-quality bridles hanging on the wall distracted Sister for a moment. It was noon on Sunday, February 24, and Marion had met Gray and Sister at Horse Country, which remained closed on the Sabbath, so the three of them could go through without being disturbed.

Aga, Marion’s female Scottish terrier, led Raleigh and Rooster upstairs. Aga proved a gracious host, showing them her special ceramic food dish and matching water bowl.

“I had to repair the downstairs lock immediately,” Marion said, leading them to the housing for the security system. She flipped open the heavy plastic box, exposing tiny colored wires and computer chips.

Gray, using the button LED flashlight on Marion’s key chain, directed the thin bright beam into the box. Even though the overhead light shone brightly in the utility room, which housed the water heater, the furnace, and the water filter, he needed more light.

The two women peered behind him.

“All those tiny computer chips.” Sister sighed. “No bigger than half your little fingernail.”

“Airplanes are full of them too. Just think what would happen if one melted?” Marion tilted her head upward toward the colored entanglement in the box.

“How often do you revamp your security system?” Gray asked.

“I haven’t. I mean, I remodeled seven years ago when I acquired the bottom of the building, but I haven’t bought another system.”

“Yes, it was state of the art. This isn’t my field, ladies, but you’d be surprised what you learn when you defend a client in front of the IRS.”

“What do you mean?” Marion wondered, ever curious.

“If a client had been robbed and his records destroyed, our firm—well, my old firm—investigates independently. I’ve stuck my nose in all kinds of security systems. The most troubling are the infrared ones.”

“You mean where little red beams crisscross a room?” Sister knew that much anyway.

“Sounds like a great system. Anything moves and the system calls the satellite, which bounces to the police. However, in a store like this, what if, for whatever reason, an object falls off a shelf and sets off the alarm. You can see the problems.”

“That’s why I chose this system.”

“It was good in its day, but I suspect whoever came into the store knew it depended on your phone lines, ground lines. Cutting them was easy. They all emerge from the building.”

“Didn’t you have a fruit loop—um—about seven years ago?” Sister recalled a somewhat odd employee.

“Well, more lazy than crazy.” Marion frowned. “But he wasn’t a thief.”

“No ugly parting?” Gray glanced from the box to Marion.

“Firing someone is upsetting. He lost his temper, but it all worked out. He just wasn’t meant to be inside. He’s working on a farm west of town.”

“A decent relationship?” Sister didn’t need to elaborate.

“Socially”—Marion searched for the right word—“superficially pleasant, I’d say.”

Gray pressed the button, the beam cut off, and he shut the box, handing Marion her keys.“I assume you’re purchasing a new system?”

“Installed tomorrow to the tune of eighteen thousand dollars.” Marion sighed.

The three of them repaired to her office, where she turned on a light, the store remaining dark lest someone think it was open.“Aga, aren’t you generous.”

Aga, in the office, had allowed Raleigh and Rooster to play with her special nylabone.

Rooster grunted.“Can’t crack this thing.”

“All right, out,” Sister ordered her two. “There isn’t room for all of us.”

Reluctantly, her two dogs left to flop down hard outside the door; the flop indicated canine sulking. Aga picked up her bone and joined them.

“Would you like coffee? A drink perhaps?”

“No, thanks.” Gray was glad to sit down. His legs still ached from yesterday’s riding.

“Me neither.”

Gray leaned forward.“Marion, has the sheriff talked about your security system to you?”

“Only to ask who knows how to disarm it to open the store and how to set it to close it at night.” She paused. “He did say I could put the punch bowl back up, since your sheriff dusted it. I don’t think they have room for anything that big at the station.” She leaned back.

“I’ll bring it in.” Gray started to get up.

“Not now, honey. We can do that in a minute.” Sister leaned forward too. “Marion, is there a customer who knows about your security system?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If they’re in the security or electronic business it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out, especially on a day when you’re really busy,” Gray said.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Marion frowned.

“Christmas,” Sister suggested.

Marion paused.“That’s a possibility. There are so many people in here from Thanksgiving to Christmas, a customer could easily slip into the furnace room undetected.”

“Or check outside for the wire outlet,” Gray added.

Gray rose.“I’ll get the punch bowl. I won’t set the alarm off, will I?”

“No.” Marion smiled at him, then called out, “Wait, Gray. Let’s put it in my car. I can put it back on the shelf once I’m sure the new security system works. And I have a system at home. I’ll keep the bowl there.”

He returned and leaned against the office door, glad to keep his knees straight for a moment.

“I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill someone, steal a punch bowl, and then leave it in my barn.” Sister folded her hands together. “I’m dizzy from thinking.”

“Goes around faster and faster. We need to slow down.” Marion realized her flashes of insight were coming when they felt like it, not on command. “Let’s trust our instincts. It would seem whoever is behind this wants to mark both of us.”

“Like a fox marks territory?”

“Yes.” Marion, having spent a lifetime with foxhunters, understood the game.

“A beautiful woman from India, and you and me?” Sister shook her head.

“We aren’t dead yet.”

CHAPTER 13

Tattenhall Station glowed blue in the twilight, the western sky still showing traces of scarlet and gold. Sister drove through and turned right, down the long lane leading to Faye Spencer’s farm. She’d called Faye at work, asking if she might drop by.

The door opened the minute Sister’s boots touched the front porch, the overhead light already shining.

“Come on in, stranger,” Faye greeted her. “Tea? Hot chocolate? You name it. I even baked cookies yesterday. Still fresh.”

“Hot chocolate.”

Once the chocolate was poured, Faye and Sister sat in the living room. The old clapboard farmhouse had been built when the railroad first came through, for the foreman who oversaw Tattenhall Station’s construction. The fire crackled. On the baby grand piano, its top down, a shawl artfully draped over the ebony, stood a photograph of Gregory Spencer in uniform.

“We’ve missed you in the hunt field.”

Faye, pretty and in her early thirties, sighed.“Oh, Nighthawk threw a shoe, took a little chunk of hoof with it. We’ll be back once my farrier gets to work on it.”

“How’s everything else?”

Faye ran her fingers through her glossy auburn hair, cut in a pageboy.“Coming out of it. Two years. Sometimes time flies, sometimes it crawls.”

“Sounds about right. The first year of Ray’s death I hurt, plain hurt. The second year I felt numb. Then in high spring of that year I started to revive. I suppose we grieve in our individual ways and you’re young, whereas I was in my fifties. I don’t know if that made it easier or not.”

“I miss him. Don’t get me wrong. I do, but now I can think of Greg without bursting into tears.”

“He was a focused man.” Sister smiled at the memory of him. “He loved the army. You know what they always say about war, it’s the brave lieutenants and captains who die in the largest numbers among officers. Those who survive usually become senior officers if they stay in the service.”

“I do know that.”

“Greg would be proud to see how far you’ve come with the company.”

“There are days when I think the name Warp Speed is so-o-o wrong.” She drew this out humorously.

“You could change it to Three Speed.” Sister laughed.

“Might be a good idea. Three Speed. Some days I think we’re almost there; other days I feel sucked back by an ebb tide. It’s exciting, though, Sister, to think we may be on the cusp of developing a twenty-first-century Rosetta Stone. You write the phrase you want to speak into computer or cell phone and you receive a script of the translation. If you’re online with someone from another country, their input is translated. We’re so, so close. I believe the day will come when this can be done phonetically. Right now, though”—she held up her hand as if to stave off an onslaught—“we’re concentrating on text.”

“Sounds like a miracle.”

“No, just hard work. Every language can be broken down into nouns, verbs, adjectives, and so on. Structure is relatively similar among the Indo-European languages. It’s when we reach into Chinese and Japanese that we go back to the Bible and read about the Tower of Babel.”

“Ideograms?”

“Oh”—Faye waved her hand, her wedding ring golden in the reflected firelight—“no way. Everything has to be put in our alphabet; that’s just the first hurdle.”

“What about Russian?”

“That’s easier because the Cyrillic alphabet mostly parallels ours. And the structure does too. Russian will be next; we aren’t working on it now. I love this. I really do. I’m glad I’m not the linguistic expert, though. I stick to the nuts and bolts.”

“Bucknell University served you well.”

“Did.” She drank more hot chocolate. “Met Greg there. Funny, because we were both from Virginia. That’s what connected us in the first place.”

“Leave home to find home,” Sister said.

“Greg had this calling,” she recalled fondly. “He followed it and I followed him and then I found mine. He was so sweet. When he was posted to Iraq, he said,Honey, you supported me. I’ll support you.”

“Think he would have stayed in the army?”

“No. His idealism tarnished in Iraq. He wanted to complete his tour of duty and his time in the service, and then he said he’d work for me. I don’t know if that would have been a good idea, but I suppose we’d have found out.”

“What would he have done? He wasn’t in your field.”

“Sell. Greg could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”

Sister nodded.“Yes, he could.” She changed the subject. “Only three weeks left in the season. Can’t you borrow a horse while Nighthawk heals?”

“Clayton Harper stopped by and said I could borrow his young mare. Think I will.”

“Have you seen Marty Howard lately?” Sister was glad Faye would be back hunting.

“No, but Crawford comes around the office. He likes to check on our progress. I keep meaning to call Marty for lunch.”

“Me too.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do about her.” Faye knew the situation. “Say, High Vajay dropped by Saturday after the hunt with his friend, Kasmir, can’t say his last name—”

Sister filled in.“Barbhaiya.”

“Couldn’t have been more polite. Anyway, he asked me some questions about Tattenhall Station and the community. He said he was in contact with Norfolk and Southern. You gave him the information.”

“The grass doesn’t grow under his feet.”

“Seems like he’d be a good addition to the place.”

“Does.” Sister placed her cup on the woven coaster. “Well, I’ve got to get back. A new horse came in yesterday, settling in, but I’ll check on him.”

“Kilowatt?”

“News travels fast.”

“Yes, it does,” Faye agreed.

“It occurs to me that you’re—I guess the phrase iscutting edge—on the cutting edge of technology. What do you think about the murder of the woman in research at Craig and Abrams?”

A shadow crossed the young woman’s features. “I don’t like it. I wonder if she knew something.”

“Technical?”

“That or sabotage.”

“Political?”

“Hmm, probably not. I was thinking, what if one company wanted to destroy or drive down the stock prices of another? Let’s stick to price. If she had information about development, it’s possible for someone in a competing company or one that wanted to gobble up, say, Company A, to delay the development project. It’s not that difficult if you have information. Look in another arena. Toyota overtook General Motors as the number one carmaker in the world. Yet even with all their resources in every department, it took Toyota years to develop a full-sized truck to compete with the Americanhalf-tons. And then they had to delay its entry onto the car lots by almost six months. Now I’m not saying there was sabotage, but even without, launching a new product is hazardous.”

“Back to what you first said. Could such information be worth millions?”

“Yes. If the shark company bought up Company A after stocks were depressed thanks to a delayed product release or whatever, it would save millions for the buyer, then ultimately make them billions. The lady in question, had she lived, could have wound up in a high position with stock options Midas would envy.”

“Good Lord.”

“Business can be ruthless.”

“What if the situation were reversed?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if she refused to tell?”

“Actually, that’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because, Sister, anyone with valuable information can usually be scared into giving it away. If she didn’t, she was brave and it cost her her life.”

Sister leaned back.“Seeing her”—she stopped and thought—“got to me. You’re in a field somewhat similar to hers. My curiosity is getting the better of me.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. I’d be very, very careful.” Faye said this protectively.

“By the way, Ben told me someone shot out the night-light.” Sister changed the subject again.

“That’s not all. When I was at work, someone hooked up the garden hoses, ran water in them, shut off the water, didn’t drain the hoses. So of course they froze. Little irritating shit. Excuse my French.”

“Do you know why someone would want to bother you?”

“No idea.”

“Odd.”

CHAPTER 14

Ah, Lakshmi.” Kasmir stared deep into his brandy snifter and shook his head.

The two men sat before the fire in the study at Charing Cross, the walls, painted lobster bisque, reflecting the light.

Upstairs the children slept. Downstairs their father agonized.

“Saturday.” High’s jaw set hard, then he covered his eyes, simply mentioning the day his wife would return.

“At least she didn’t mention divorce.” Kasmir ever sought to find the silver lining.

“Not yet. What could I do?” He threw up his hands. “The sheriff had to question her. He had the decency to give me some hours to compose myself before he called her in Phoenix.” He paused. “Her sister will suggest divorce.” He paused again. “She’s never liked me.”

“I remember.” Kasmir thought Mandy’s sister was one of those people who looks for what’s wrong instead of what’s right. The world is full of people like that.

High took a long sip of his brandy.“I didn’t kill Aashi. I didn’t even know she was in Warrenton.”

“Maybe she wasn’t,” Kasmir replied.

High sat up, leaning forward in the deep-seated wing chair.“Why would I kill her? I liked her. She was so full of gaiety, laughter, and energy. She made me feel young.”

“We aren’t that old, you know.”

“Old enough.” High put his snifter on the coffee table. “Old enough to start worrying about getting old.”

“Young women are an antidote. But I thought you had ended the affair. You wrote me last year that you had.” He half smiled. “I liked receiving the letter, but you made me laugh, saying you didn’t want to have this conversation on your cell, too many people could listen in. True, but why would they be listening to us?”

“Between us we possess stores of information.”

“Only about money.” Kasmir smiled.

High fell back into his chair.“Exactly.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

High opened his hands, palms outward.“Cooperate with the authorities.”

“Of course. I mean, what are you going to do about Mandy?”

“Isn’t it more, what is she going to do about me?”

Kasmir pursed his lips.“She’ll rage and cry when the children are out of the house. Maybe she’ll throw things at you or force some penance upon you. I’ve heard jewelry or a new car absolves many such sins.”

High grunted.

They both stared into the fire; then Kasmir spoke again.“When did you fan the embers?”

“Never really died. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The funny thing is, I love my wife. You know that. I love our children. I love our life together, but I needed Aashi. Is it so hard to understand?”

Kasmir shrugged,“We’re men. Men understand. Women don’t. But let me pose the question: What would you do, were the situation reversed?”

“She’d never,” High answered, too quickly.

Kasmir nodded in agreement, while noting the haste.“Yes, yes, but what if, my old friend?”

“Well”—High shifted in his seat—“well, I’d be furious. I wouldn’t hit her; I might want to but I wouldn’t. If the man were someone close, that would be a double betrayal. I’d want to kill him.”

“Yes. That’s usually the case.”

High grunted.“At least I spared her that—the double betrayal, I mean.”

“She knew Aashi from when she was your secretary.”

“Aashi wasn’t my secretary for long. She was bright. I helped her move up and out. Better for me too. Sometimes people can sniff those things out in an office. I don’t think anyone did.”

“Someone did.”

“No, they didn’t.” High looked quizzically at Kasmir, comfortable in his cashmere robe.

“Who told the authorities you were having an affair with her?”

High sat bolt upright.“I never thought of that.”

“You’re too upset to think clearly,” Kasmir said, to soothe him.

“Who could it be?”

“Someone who observed you closely, perhaps.”

“I’m retired. If they told the police anything from our office days, it would be old news.”

“But whoever told the police indicated the affair was ongoing. Correct?”

“Correct.” High felt even worse now.

“Let us consider this logically, difficult as it is. Someone knew you and Aashi had either continued your affair or revived it; that detail will emerge in time, I suppose. Now, why would that be important?” He answered his own question. “You are a suspect. Men do kill their mistresses for allthe old reasons. If there are new ones I know them not. You didn’t kill her. So whoever informed the sheriff—as I recall, the counties here have sheriffs, not police—at any rate, this person either thinks you are guilty or wants others to think so.”

High’s right hand came to his forehead. “Kasmir, it can’t be true.”

“Why?” the portly man pressed. “Why would someone wish to cast you in such a dreadful light? Do you have enemies here? Is someone seeking revenge from Craig and Abrams?”

“I helped Craig and Abrams double their profits.” High, not an egotistical man, did know his worth. “Yes, there were those with whom I was not close, people I even disliked, but not to this degree. You remember. I told you who would drag their heels, no vision, or who would complain about my administrative habits.”

“You did. Sometimes, Lakshmi, seemingly mild breasts harbor a deep reservoir of self-regard and hatred of others. It has been my experience that they reveal themselves when one is at one’s lowest.”

“Possibly but—”

“Is there anyone here, anyone you have crossed? Women like you. Perhaps some Virginia lady fell victim to your charms and her husband felt otherwise.”

“No. I flatter the ladies, as you do. That’s what one does. Sometimes Crawford Howard, Ramsey Merriman, Clayton Harper, and I would drive to D.C. I’d slip off for an hour, but I don’t think they knew.”

Kasmir sighed.“Then allow me to suggest a truly offensive possibility but one not out of the realm of my observations of life. What if Mandy killed Aashi?”

“Are you out of your mind, Kasmir? She is the most gentle of women.”

“Not now. She may have taken the news with relative calm on the telephone, but once home I wouldn’t expect the calm to continue.”

“Murder? My wife murder another woman? No.”

“Aashi wasn’t just another woman. She was your mistress and she was some twenty years younger than your wife, who was one of the world’s great beauties, to be sure, but is now middle-aged. This preys on a woman’s mind even as it preys on our own. Madhur”—he used her real full name—“must be facing the loss of this beauty, or the power of it.”

“She’s not that superficial.”

“Lakshmi, a woman’s face is her fortune. Myself, I believe your wife is more beautiful than ever. The years have burnished her beauty, motherhood has softened her, but a mistress, especially a young and gorgeous one, strikes at a woman’s heart.”

“I know,” High said quietly, feeling wretched.

“Was there time for Mandy to kill Aashi?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t keep a leash on her at the ball. I suppose.” He threw up his hands. “This is absurd. She would never do such a thing.”

“Yes, yes, but what if she had cracked your passwords or your communication with Aashi? She could have sent her an e-mail telling her to meet you at the Hampton Inn. Simple.”

“You’re supposing my wife ransacked my computer, found my secret files, and then proceeded to bait Aashi?”

“Your wife can use a computer better than most of us.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She had powerful motivation. So now I come to my next question. If she did kill Aashi, will you protect Mandy and say you did it?” Kasmir wanted to know if High loved his wife as much as he said.

High shut his eyes and covered them with his right hand.“Yes.”

CHAPTER 15

That same evening, Tuesday, February 26, light shone through another glass, this one filled with single cask brandy and firmly gripped in Clayton Harper’s fist.

A small group of dedicated people had met at Tricorne Farm, a modest but pretty place owned by the Franklins, for the purpose of considering fund-raisers for the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund.

Betty and Bobby Franklin, Peggy Augustus, Ilona and Ramsey Merriman, Cabel and Clayton Harper, Sister Jane, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, and Sam Lorillard comprised the group.

All were in agreement concerning the fund-raiser party, but Cabel shocked everyone by saying the theme should be Lady Godiva—lots of naked women on horses. Ilona nearly slapped her. Cabel apologized for her insensitive humor and flounced off. Bobby winced when he heard gravel and snow churn in the drive as she peeled out.

The meeting over, the gathering congenial, they broke into small knots to talk horses, hounds, people.

Sister picked up a cleaned-off vegetable tray and walked back to the kitchen to refresh it. She and Betty had the run of one another’s houses, so it wasn’t rude of her.

Clayton followed her into the kitchen, reaching for some small scrubbed carrots.“Betty fixed this herself. Some folks just buy stuff from the supermarket, ready made. But that frozen tomato cannonball she makes can’t be duplicated. I’ve begged Cabel to make it and she does, but it’s not the same and Betty won’t reveal her secret.”

“Does Cabel use crushed pineapple?”

“Yep.”

“What about Worcestershire sauce?”

“Yep.” He took a big gulp of his brandy. The glass had been almost full, so great was his tolerance for alcohol. “You wouldn’t happen to know the recipe, would you?”

“She won’t even tell me and I’m her best friend.” Sister laughed. “Maybe the great question is Hellmann’s or Duke’s?”

Southern women were divided between these two mayonnaises, fiercely defending the virtues of each, although one is to make one’s own mayonnaise. Who has the time, hence the debate.

“Matters even more than Coke or Pepsi.” Clayton’s laugh was deep and comforting, and for a moment the tiny broken veins in his puffy face seemed to recede. “You’re a Duke’s.”

“What a memory.”

“I remember a lot of things.” He sipped once more. “I may drink like a fish but my mind’s still good.”

She turned to face him, setting the tray back on the counter.“Clayton, stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop drinking.”

He put the glass on the counter next to the vegetables and folded his arms across his chest.“Give me one good reason to take away one of the sustaining joys of my life.”

“Your life itself. You’ll kill yourself with that stuff.”

“We all have to die sometime, and I’m having a good time while I’m doing it.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He looked into her eyes, saying without apology,“I’m a coward.”

“I don’t remember you being a coward. I remember you working your tail off, building a good business, riding hard to hounds in the bargain. I remember you raising three great kids, all married and doing well.”

“Cabel can take most of the credit for that. I think the mother usually can. I did my part, although I worked too late and too long, but it always comes back to the mother.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen some sorry mothers. But that begs the question. Clayton, look at yourself.”

He unfolded his arms and hugged her spontaneously.“You’re one of the only people in my life who will tell me the truth.”

She hugged him back.“I will and I am. I care about you, Clayton. Many of the people in the club care about you. You can stop.”

“Then my nerve endings will wake up.”

“That’s the point.”

“Jane, Cabel has many good qualities, but for the last ten years or so, they’ve been lost on me. Goddamn but she’s a whistling bitch! I suppose part of it is, the more she nags the more I drink. Her revenge is to spend money. And for a smart woman she can be dumb. She’s having some health problems, little things. Her hair is falling out. She wears a wig. Her legs hurt. No one knows but Ilona. Will she go to a doctor, no! She won’t get a mammogram, blood work, just won’t.” He shrugged. “I just sleep with as many women as will have me. Drives her crazy. I told her she could sleep with whomever she wanted; I didn’t care. She slapped me.” He laughed.

“Leave.”

“Yeah, I think about that when I wake up in the morning, before I pour a little Knockando in my coffee. But you know, it was her money that started my business. I owe her that.”

“You’ve repaid her many times over. Divorce her. Split your assets and gird your loins for all her stories about what a shit you are.”

“Well, if I sober up I’d better call all the women I’ve slept with, because she’ll ferret them out and tell everyone.”

“She already has.”

Betty walked in, perceived the intense conversation, picked up the filled tray, and sailed out. Sister looked after her with affection.

“There are some she doesn’t know about.”

“Good on you.” Sister laughed.

He laughed back.“You’d be surprised how a fat drunk can still get the girls.”

“You’re a lot more than that. Women like you. Always have.” She put her hand on his forearm. “Clayton, Sam Lorillard fell far lower than you could imagine falling.He changed.”

He gulped the rest of his drink as though he’d crawled across the Sahara. “Cabel declares she loves me, but it never felt like love. It felt like a vise, even before I married her.”

“So you married her for the money and for the feeling of being central to someone’s life?”

“Male ego. A woman tells you she can’t live without you.I love you doesn’t cut as much ice asI can’t live without you.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

That made Clayton laugh.“Clear-eyed as always. I wish I could be more like you.”

“Look, Sam is out there. He’ll help you. We’ll all help you.” A gust of anger swept over her. “Clayton, you have balls. Use them!”

He put the empty glass in the sink, washed it out slowly, and turned to her.“You know, Jane, I wouldn’t take that from anyone but you.”

“I know.” She tactfully left the kitchen so he could compose himself. A few minutes later she saw Clayton and Sam talking in the living room.

Betty smiled at Sister, who smiled back.

CHAPTER 16

Thick icy fog shrouded the soft rolling hills of central Virginia. Early colonists called this apogonip, a word borrowed from the Native Americans and no doubt somewhat altered in the process. A pogonip freezes on trees, stones, and rooftops and then melts on the earth, warmer than the air. Superstition has it that evil spirits frolic but Marion, driving very slowly, thought superstition just that.

Usually on Wednesday she trooped in a half hour before opening, it being her“late” morning. But last night she had had a dinner date with an old flame and had neglected to take her paperwork home. Why sit through dinner fretting over paperwork? Better to rise early and knock it out at the office.

She could barely see the store as she turned into the top drive and parked next to the building. But approaching the door she gasped, stopped, and her hand flew to her heart. A corpse sat astride a child’s hobby horse. She forced herself to breathe deeply, then gingerly approached the naked white figure. The fog intensified her dread. Not until she was up close did she discover the corpse was a mannequin.

She slumped against her front door. What a sick joke. Furious, she reached over to push the wretched thing over and smash it to bits but then stopped herself. The sheriff would want to see this.

Flipping open her cell, she speed-dialed the department, the first number she had programmed on her new phone. Since the murder she’d put the number on speed dial, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it. She wanted someone over here fast because the mannequin needed to be removed. The townspeople wouldn’t enjoy the joke any more than she did.

Thank heaven Trigger was in the store. She couldn’t have faced a mannequin on him.

Next she dialed Sister.

“Good morning,” came Sister’s cheery voice. The hounds could be heard in the background for she was in the kennel.

“Sister, someone put a naked mannequin on a hobby horse in front of the store. Thank God there’s a thick fog.”

“You’re kidding.”

“How sick is that?”

“Sick. I assume you called the sheriff.”

“Someone is on the way. I want to get this damn thing out of here. I can’t believe it. My heart stopped. Stopped. I couldn’t breathe. All I could think of wasWhy? and then I was terrified I’d know the victim.”

“Is the store all right?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go in right now.” Marion fished out her keys, opened the lock, stepped in, and hit the lights. “Well, it’s a quick look, but I don’t think anyone has been in here.” She exhaled loudly. “I could kill. I could just kill!”

“We might have to,” Sister replied, over the roar of the girls flying into the feed room. “Let me go into the office. Can’t hear myself think.” She waved at Shaker as she left the large room.

“What do you mean we might have to kill?”

“Just popped out of my mouth.” Sister sat on the corner edge of the desk. “Do you think kids did it?”

“I don’t know.” Marion’s voice dropped a bit; she suddenly felt tired. “I guess I’m a little more on edge than I realized.”

“We all are. Why don’t you come on down here for a vacation?”

“Thanks. I can’t. I’m buried under an avalanche of work. Everyone is.”

“Take a rain check then.”

“How’s everything there?”

“Oh, fine, if you consider I have an outlaw pack to contend with, plus scenting conditions have gone to hell in a handbasket.”

“Here too. Joyce Fendley breezed through yesterday saying the same thing. It’s the temperature bounce; it’s responsible for all the colds and flu. I think so, anyway.”

They talked until the deputy came. Sister returned to the feed room and then walked over to the barn. She brought in each horse, putting him in his stall. Kilowatt looked good; he had wonderful ground manners.

She threw an alfalfa-and-orchard-grass mix out to the brood mares and the two retirees. Feeding, filling water buckets and water troughs, and checking over each horse took two hours and she was efficient. A dawdler would have stretched it into three.

She then hopped in the GMC truck—twenty thousand miles on the odometer—to drive to the dentist’s office for her cleaning.

She shook off hay before walking into the pleasant sitting room. Looking up fromW magazine was Ilona Merriman.

“Ilona.”

“How are you? I see you just came from the barn.”

“Thought I brushed off all the hay.”

“Not quite. Here. Turn around.” Ilona brushed off some bits of rich tiny alfalfa leaves. “You missed a drama last night at Walter’s.”

“What happened?”

“He had a poker party.”

“That’s right. I forgot about that. Which reminds me, he said he could organize a poker tournament for the Virginia chapter of the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund. Haven’t had time to call him since our meeting at the Franklins’.”

“I can tell you, Sorrel Buruss’s sharp at cards. I didn’t know that. Walter will have her help if he does the fund-raiser. Well, anyway, there were four small tables—play three games, then switch tables. He had it organized like musical chairs except no one was left standing.”

“Who won?”

“Kasmir. Faye made out all right too. Well, Clayton was shaking like a leaf. He could barely hold a hand and Cabel kept sniping at him. Walter unfortunately put them together for the first go-round. You won’t believe this, but Clayton has stopped drinking. He’s suffering too. I think he should go away to one of those clinics. Wouldn’t it be easier? People who understand can help you.”

Sister sat down.“Maybe Claytonwill go to a clinic. I hope so. He needs help.”

“Cabel won’t help him. She ignored him. When he made a bad call—this was before Walter moved him—she said he thought better when he was drunk. That’s vicious. I mean, I adore Cabel, you know we are best-best friends, but the man is suffering and he’s trying. For the first time in his life, he’s trying.”

“She probably doesn’t believe he’ll make it. Maybe she’s steeling herself for a relapse. I don’t know.”

“It’s revenge. I swear. I shot her a look but to no avail. If she wants to be hateful to him, do it at home. She was bad enough the other night at the Thoroughbred Retirement meeting.”

“Yes, she was.”

“I swear, I don’t know what got into her; she needled Faye every chance she got. She’d insinuate that High Vajay spent a lot of time visiting his neighbor. As the night wore on the insinuations became outright accusations. Faye took it with good grace until Cabel—and I swearshe’d been drinking because I’ve never seen her like this, I mean it—Cabel said, flat out, that men think beautiful young widows are starved for sex, so she, Cabel, expected they’d worn a path to her door. And Faye looked straight at her and said,Are you worried Clayton was one of them?”

Sister’s eyebrows shot upward. “Faye Spencer said that?”

“She’d had enough. Well, Cabel threw her cards in Faye’s face, grabbed her purse and coat, and stomped out. We could hear the motor when she floored it; two times this week she’s ripped up someone’s driveway. Clayton didn’t move a muscle. Faye picked up Cabel’s cards and saidLousy hand, and showed us a pair of threes.”

The hygienist appeared from the hallway.“Mrs. Merriman.”

“Coming, dear.” Ilona stood up. “You should start playing poker, Sister. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Apparently not.” Sister smiled but thought to herself that life was gamble enough, why squander her money on cards? It wasn’t noon yet and already the day had been popping.

It was three thirty when Sister walked through her kitchen door, sun finally peeping through low clouds. She heard a clatter and the sound of a large pussycat running. Raleigh and Rooster, awake at the sound of the truck, rushed to greet her. One of the good things about Shaker’s living on the other side of the kennels was he would let the dogs out when she ran errands. She petted them, bestowed kisses, and threw her gear on the farmer’s table to go in search of what Golly had done. She knew the calico well enough to know the cat had pulverized something.

Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing in the dining room. The living room glistened pristine. Small wonder, she hardly ever used it. Had to be the large pantry or the den. She walked into the den first. Raleigh’s beloved stuffed pink flamingo toy lay in tatters, the squeaker carefully dismantled by clever claws. One of Sister’s needlepoint pillows, she’d done it herself, sported long dangling threads.

“Golly, damn you!” Sister walked out and yelled up the stairway at the cat, peeping down at her from the top of the stairs.

“Death to dogs!” was Golly’s response.

Raleigh, on Sister’s heels, mournfully carried the flamingo bits.

“Wicked. That cat is wicked,” Rooster grumbled.

“I told you I’d get even.” Golly remained motionless on the step, ready to run under a bed or spring over everyone’s heads, a trick she’d perfected.

Instead, Sister returned to the kitchen, the dogs with her. She gave them large milkbones, picked up the paper, turned on the teapot, and sat down to read the day’s fresh hell worldwide.

The phone rang.

“I hope Alexander Graham Bell is in the lowest circle of Hell.”

Nonetheless, she stood up, slapped the paper down, and picked up the wall phone.

“Sister.” It was a young voice, trembling.

“Felicity, are you all right?”

“Yes,” came the wavering reply.

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

“Well, I had a meeting with Mrs. Norton. She was great. But she said I needed to talk to Mom and Dad as soon as I could. So I called them on my cell. I mean I started talking to them and asked them to come visit me. Mom got all worried. I only once ever asked them to come to Custis Hall, and thatwas freshman year. Well, anyway, I told them. Everything.”

“You did the right thing. I’m sure your mother thought the worst when you said you wanted her to come to Virginia.” She paused. “How’d she take it?”

“She told me to get rid of it.” Felicity was sobbing now.

“Felicity, why don’t I drive over there and pick you up?”

“Val said I could use her Jeep. I’m going to get Howie. May we both come to you?”

“Of course.” She hung up the phone as the teapot whistled.

Howard and Felicity arrived at four forty-five. She glanced up at the wall clock when she heard Val’s Jeep and smiled for a moment, thinking how generous Val could be, even when angry at her friend.

The two knocked on the mudroom door.

“Come on in.”

They did. Sister poured coffee, set out cookies and cake.

“Thank you for seeing us.” Howie sat down gratefully, a young man with a burden on his shoulders.

“Would you like to talk here or in the living room?”

“Here.”

Howard, eighteen years old with an open, All-American face, began.“I called my parents after Felicity called hers. Mom’s pretty okay. Dad’s furious. He said he won’t give me any money for college.”

“Think he’ll stick to it?” Sister asked.

“Yeah. You don’t know my dad.”

Sister thought to herself she was glad she didn’t. “You can go to Piedmont Community College at night, if you want to continue your education.”

Felicity, a little tense, replied,“But Sister, he can’t play football there and he’s so good.”

“Felicity.” Howard’s voice was soft, but there was power in this kid. “It’s just a game. My chances of playing in the pros are pretty slim even if I have a great college career. What’s more important, football or you? You.”

Felicity sniffled. Sister rose, picked up a box of Kleenex from the counter, and set it near the young woman.

“Howard, have you been accepted at any colleges yet? I know April is usually when the notices go out, but given that you’ve been recruited, have any coaches promised you anything?”

“Well, they can’t exactly promise but I’m pretty sure I’ll be accepted at Wake Forest, and maybe at the University of South Carolina.”

“Any Virginia schools?”

“I applied at Tech but I don’t think I have a chance.”

“What about William and Mary?”

“My grades aren’t good enough. If Tech or William and Mary did take me, I’d have to be tutored over the summer and take the College Boards again. I didn’t do very well.”

“He’s not good at tests,” Felicity simply stated.

“How badly do you want to play football?”

Howard looked down at his big hands.“Not bad enough to leave Felicity.” He looked up at her, his light brown eyes serious. “Maybe this is the best thing to happen to me.”

“How so?” the older woman asked, warming to this young man.

“You get treated different, you know? Football spoils you. You work hard on your physical stuff but you can think you’re better than other people. I don’t want to end up like that, Mrs. Arnold. I’m not better just because I can throw a ball.”

“Felicity, what do you want to do?”

The thin girl held her coffee cup in her hands.“I’m going to get a job, go to Piedmont at night, and have the baby.” She looked at Howard. “If you go to Wake, I’ll support you. You don’t have to stay here with me and the baby.”

“No way. I’m supporting you. And I’m going to marry you.”

Felicity smiled but didn’t reply.

“You’ll turn eighteen soon enough, Felicity, and then if your parents don’t give their approval, it doesn’t matter,” Sister said.

“I never thought my mother would be like this.” Shock registered on her face. “They were always behind me. I can’t believe my mother told me to have an abortion.”

“Every woman has to face that issue alone.”

“I graduate in June. I’ve already sent in my application to Piedmont. I know I don’t really have to for night school, but I wanted to be sure. If I get a job I can work until I have the baby and then go back as soon as I’m able.”

“Who will take care of the baby while you’re working?”

“I don’t know yet but I have some time to think about it.”

“I found a job already,” Howard said.

“You did?” Felicity grabbed Howard’s hand.

“Working for Matt Robb’s construction company. He said as soon as I graduate from Miller School to show up at the office. I like construction.”

“Matt’s good. You’ll learn a lot,” said Sister.

“And I’ll be outside. I can’t sit at a desk, Mrs. Arnold, I just can’t.”

“I understand. I can’t either.” She smiled in accord. “What can I do to help you two?”

“You’ve helped us already.” Howard smiled at her.

“Mom and Dad are flying in for the weekend. I’m going to hunt Saturday, I don’t care.”

“Felicity, much as I love having you in the hunt field, please spend as much time as you can with your parents. Have they met Howard?”

“No. They will over the weekend. They aren’t talking me out of my baby,” Felicity declared defiantly. “And they aren’t talking me out of marrying Howie.”

“You finally said yes!” Howard leaned back in his chair and let out a stream of air; then he grabbed Felicity and kissed her, but not too long because of Sister.

“Congratulations, Howard. You’ve won yourself a fine young woman.”

“I love her, Mrs. Arnold. I know people say we’re kids. I mean, you should have heard my folks. But whatever comes, we’ll deal with it.”

“I believe you will.” She thought a long time, placing her hand on Raleigh’s head when he came up beside her. “Plenty of young couples get off to rockier starts than you two. I’m no expert on marriage even though I was married myself—you all never knew Ray, of course—and I’ve observed marriages that work and marriages that don’t. What I can tell you is don’t stop talking. If something bothers you, get it off your chest and get it over with. Never go to bed angry. Put up with the little irritations of character and life. Forget them. And most of all, keep your sense of humor.”

“Thank you.” Howard squeezed Felicity’s hand. “Honey, I have to get back.”

“Okay.”

As they stood up, Felicity hugged Sister, and Howard spontaneously did the same. Then he shook her hand.“Thank you!”

“Howard, you and I are going to know each other a long time, and I look forward to it.” She smiled broadly.

Felicity hugged Sister again.“I love you.”

“I love you too, honey. Keep your chin up and remember that your parents want what’s best for you even if you’re on opposite sides of the fence. Real troubles don’t seem to upset people as much as shattered expectations. Try to remember that.”

As they left, hand in hand, Sister thought they had a lot going for them. She dialed Garvey Stokes.

“Sister!”

“You handsome thing, what are you doing?”

“Just came back in from the bullpit.” This was the factory area where his workers poured aluminum and put together window frames and other objects, much of the work computerized.

“Garvey, it’s been over a year since Angel Crump died.”

Angel had been his right-hand“man,” so to speak, ever since he started his business. She had passed away at work in her mid-eighties, and he had never hired a replacement or changed her office, which sat empty.

“Think of the old girl every day.”

“Would you hire a new girl if I recommend her? Someone who possesses Angel’s tact and is every bit as smart? Of course, she doesn’t know where all the bodies are buried. That Angel could work a deal because she knew so-and-so’s great aunt got hooked on laudanum back at the turn of the century.”

Garvey let out a belly laugh.“She did, she certainly did. Who are you sending me?”

“You know her: Felicity Porter.”

“She’s not going to college? What a waste.”

“She’ll be going to Piedmont at night.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you that, Garvey, but if you will consent to interview her, she will do well. She’s steadfast. Once she learns the routine, she’ll fit in, and I think she’ll become fascinated by the business. I thought she’d become an investment banker, but you know, Aluminum Manufacturing may wind up being more exciting for her.”

“I like the kid.”

“Will you interview her? I’ll drive her over next week. She doesn’t have a car.”

“Of course I will.”

“I have a feeling about this, Garvey. Forgive me for the prophecy, but I believe wonderful things can grow from this.”

She hung up the phone and returned to the table. Her tea was cold so she turned on the kettle. Raleigh looked at her with his sweet Doberman eyes, brimming with intelligence. Rooster, now next to him, also looked up to her.

“Beggars.” She gave them each a cookie.

Into the room sashayed Golly, leaping to the table, where she paused for some conspicuous grooming. She sat on the newspaper, of course. Forgetting her needlepoint pillow, Sister absentmindedly stroked the cat. She thought of the two kids sitting at her table, each willing to sacrifice for the other. Sex might bring people together but it didn’t keep them together. Those two seemed to have a great deal of what keeps people together.

She was surprised when the tears rolled down her cheeks.

CHAPTER 17

Heavy frost silvered the rolling pastures, fields, and the rooftops of the old stone buildings of Mousehold Heath, a new fixture fifteen miles southeast of the kennels.

As is always the case with a new fixture, it takes perhaps two years to figure out the fox population, most especially how they run.

Established in 1807, the simple farmhouse and outlying clapboard barns acquired its name owing to the unusually large mouse population. Over the centuries, generations of hardworking cats somewhat reduced the numbers of these little marauders, as did foxes, owls, and hawks, but Mousehold Heath still boasted regiments of mice.

Sister noticed Faye Spencer parked as far away from Cabel Harper as possible, down by the old cattle barn. The two pointedly did not speak. Ilona, with quiet glee, was observing every nuance.

It must have killed Cabel that Clayton dropped his mare at Faye’s farm.

Betty Franklin noticed too, simply shrugging as Sister said nothing. Human dramas bored Sister. Her focus was on foxhunting in particular and animals in general, although she did care about her Custis Hall girls. They were young, experiencing powerful adult emotions for the first time. They needed a friendly ear, perhaps a friendly nudge. Adults should be accustomed to such tempests, although Sister had come to the conclusion that adults were just wrinkled children with greater resources to inflict greater damage.

She swung her leg over Matador, the two still getting acquainted. The sixteen-hand flea-bitten gray, light gray with dark flecks in the coat, former steeplechase horse looked wonderful, and she accepted compliments as she rode along the trailers.

Ascertaining that the small Thursday crowd out on this cold crisp day was five minutes from ready, she checked her watch. Well enough, five minutes to the first cast.

Sister did not wait for people who showed up late or fiddled with tack. Scent, often a fragile thing, demanded her utmost attention. Why punish all those who did arrive on time by letting slip an opportunity to pick up a fox, scent possibly fading as the hands on the clock kept ticking?

Like every leader before her, regardless of the organization, the sum is greater than the parts and the group takes precedence over the individual. She’d bend over backward to help a hunt club member, even Cabel, but when it came to the actual hunt, you’d better mind your p’s and q’s.

Hounds rocked the party wagon, they were so eager to hunt. Wisely, Shaker and Sister had brought only seasoned animals. No reason to risk a young hound’s becoming confused in new territory and perhaps skirting off.

“Let’s decant ’em.” She smiled at Shaker, already mounted.

Sybil opened the back door to the hound trailer.

“Hold up.” Shaker quietly commanded the eleven couple of hounds, which stood patiently but with high expectation.

Sister scanned the small field, noting that Vajay appeared drawn, Kasmir elegant, and Cabel and Ilona stuck next to each other. Weekdays the field included more women than men. Those men owning their own businesses might take one morning off during the week but they usually couldn’t take two.

Sybil swung her leg over Bombardier, her tried-and-true horse. Betty sat on Outlaw, those two like an old married couple.

Having discussed the morning’s draw before arriving, Shaker stuck to the plan, which was to cast behind the cattle barn, across the pasture, and thence to the back pastures and cornfields.

Hounds eagerly dashed behind the cattle barn, feathered, but didn’t open. A thin but fast-moving stream separated the barn field from the next pasture; the eastern hillside faced the barn. A million tiny rainbows glistened. The temperature rising on the eastern slopes would soon turn that glittering sight into thick dew. Shaker urged hounds forward, Cora beingthe strike hound today, Dragon left in the kennel.

A long row of rolled-up hay lined the southern side of the twenty-acre pasture, like giant biscuits of shredded wheat. Shaker asked hounds to investigate the round bales, for mice liked to make warm nests in the sweet-smelling hay.

“Hey,” Dasher called as the whole pack worked, noses to the hay.

Cora joined him.“H-m-m.” Her stern moved faster.

Trudy, now in her third year, leapt atop the hay, jumping from one bale to another. She could hear the mice inside. The humans couldn’t but all the hounds both listened intently and inhaled deeply.

They covered the ground. The fox had been there; a deep hollowed-out spot in the hay bale marked one entrance. It was a red dog fox that they could clearly smell. This fox had decided to live with his food supply, but he wasn’t there.

As it was the end of February, the hay fox might be coming home from courting. They cast themselves farther away. Scent picked up, then frittered away.

Hounds moved across the pasture, easily clearing the three-foot-two-inch coop at the end of the field. Throughout the summer, staff and some members had worked to prepare the fixture.

A small covert on both sides of a deeper stream pointed down to a larger creek. Hounds burst in and burst out. This time yet another fox, a good-sized gray, shot in front of them.

Betty, on the left side, hollered,“Tally-ho!” when he burst out.

To everyone’s surprise, he made a large circle and then dashed into that same covert.

Betty called,“Tally back!”

The fox was young and became unnerved by hounds when he bolted from his den. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, and he was lucky to pop back in and save his brush.

Shaker dismounted, flipping his reins over Gunpowder’s neck as the sweet older horse stood. Shaker slipped going into the covert but recovered. The thick brambles impeded progress, but he could make out hounds digging at the den. Fighting his way through the thorns, he reached the den, blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised his charges. He returned, favoring his right leg a bit, and swung up on Gunpowder to head toward the woods across the pasture.

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They fiddled and faddled in there but nothing—still too cold—so he emerged on the eastern side, hunting back below the cattle barns in the opposite direction. Ardent picked up a line and they ran for perhaps ten minutes, but it faded and that was pretty much the day, although they kept trying.

Still, when they returned to the trailers Sister felt positive. They’d only hunted Mousehold Heath three times. The owners, a young couple determined to make a profit off a combination of cattle, timber, and hay, came out from the house to join the impromptu tailgate.

“Won’t you all come inside?” Lisa Jardine asked Sister.

Sister declined.“We’ll track up your house.”

“It can’t be any worse than what Jim and I do. Come on. It’s cold out here.”

They carried the food into the big old country kitchen, a white porcelain table in its middle.

Jim joined them.“Twenty degrees this morning. How do you keep your feet warm in those boots?”

Shaker replied,“You don’t.”

After forty-five minutes of thawing, drinking hot coffee, and eating the ubiquitous ham biscuits, these made by Faye Spencer, the whole gang returned to the trailers.

Sister, hand on the crystal doorknob with a center of mercury, smiled at the well-built pair. Country life kept them strong and healthy.“Thank you. This was an unexpected treat.”

“You know I rope cows. I can ride pretty good.” Jim, at first thinking foxhunting a sport for toffs, was coming to understand it was quite the reverse.

She challenged him.“Well, Jim, let me put you to the test.”

“Can I ride Western?”

“Jim Jardine, you can ride anyway you want. We’d be honored to have you join us, and you will see your beautiful farm in a new light.”

“Can I wear my chaps? Haven’t got any special gear, you know.”

“You can.” She thanked them again and walked back to the trailer.

Jim Jardine would get hooked. The only people who didn’t succumb to the lure of foxhunting once they rode out were those who were terrified but couldn’t admit it. Everyone else embraced the majesty of the chase. Even today, pushing off in the low twenties, her toes already throbbing, Sister thanked God for this bountiful earth and all its beauty. She never felt more alive than when foxhunting. Even making love, an activity that found favor with her, posted a dim second. Her reasoning was a great lover might last an hour. Wonderful and good. A great chase might last two hours and occasionally four. Do the math.

Strictly speaking, the square-built Jim shouldn’t come out in chaps on a Western saddle. But landowners, special generous folk, could do whatever they wanted in Jefferson Hunt. As far as Sister was concerned, she was damned lucky to have him. Over time he’d realize the traditional hunting kit served a purpose, one tested over centuries. Then, too, if she were a man she wouldn’t want to take a jump in a Western saddle. That horn could be lethal to one’s reproductive career. Hell, Jim could ride naked if he wanted to! But then she regretted that thought, for it brought Lady Godiva to the fore.

No sooner had she reached the trailer than she heard Faye Spencer and Cabel Harper yelling at each other.

High and Kasmir ignored them. Betty and Sybil did too, but their responsibilities as staff precluded such intrusions. Ilona was vainly trying to pull away the puce-faced Cabel.

Shaker stepped up to Sister.“You might want to speak to the ladies.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Um, maybe two minutes, maybe five; the air is sulfurous.”

“Yes, I can hear that.”

“You slut! You piece of white trash!” Cabel screeched.

“And you’re not?” Faye shot back, but at lower register.

“Cabel, come on now. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.” Ilona pulled at Cabel’s elbow, only to be shaken off as Cabel spun around on her.

“Leave me alone! You don’t think your precious Ramsey hasn’t rammed his dick up her?”

This vulgarity shocked everyone more than the fight. Cabel had never been a vulgar woman.

Sister, towering over the women, said firmly,“That’s enough.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? We aren’t hunting.” Cabel now spun on Sister. “You lured my husband away.”

“Years and years ago, Cabel, and I can now see I was wrong. You’re overwrought.” Sister wondered if perhaps Cabel wasn’t ill; something was pulling her down. “This doesn’t become you.”

The fact that Sister didn’t scream back at her, but remained calm, began to have an effect.

Ilona, glancing at Sister, voice low, pleaded,“Come on, honey. You’re upset.” Then she said, “I’m going to tell Sister.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s too late, Cabel. This isn’t like you.” She turned to Sister. “Clayton asked her for a divorce. I don’t know why she wants to keep him, but that’s love for you.”

Cabel burst into tears.“I made him! I made him what he is today!”

Sister had to bite her tongue because she wanted to say,“Yes, you did.” Instead she spoke sympathetically. “Cabel, that’s painful news, I know. Certainly I have no advice except to say, if you can’t patch it up, end it and go forward. You have a lot of living ahead of you.”

“How can he do this to me?”

Sister couldn’t say a word to that.

Ilona murmured,“He’s going away for twenty-eight days; that might change things.” She turned again to Sister. “He says he’s truly going into rehab.”

“I see.” Sister, seeing that Cabel, though sobbing, had stopped attacking Faye, walked over to the younger woman, who had retreated to her trailer. “You all right?”

“Yes. She flew at me like a harpy. Scared me half to death.”

“He’s asked for a divorce.”

“Well, it’s not because of me.” Faye bit her lip. “Oh, he came around sniffing. That’s Clayton. But I certainly didn’t go to bed with him.”

“She thinks you did.”

“She’s lost it. She thinks every woman in this club has gone to bed with him.”

Sister smiled slightly.“Ah, well, some of us did back in the Bronze Age. I know this is hard to believe, but he was so handsome. So handsome and so much fun. The years work on all of us, I reckon.”

“Some more than others.”

“Well, I thank you for not throwing a punch at her. It was bad enough.”

“It was. I shouldn’t have lost my temper and said what I said,” Faye looked imploringly at the silver-haired woman, “but I’m sick and tired of it.”

“I understand. Do your best to keep it in check.”

As Sister rode back to the farm in the truck, Betty at her side, the two rehashed the day’s hunt and then touched on the human explosion.

“We make ourselves miserable.” Betty played with her gloves, which she’d folded over in her lap. “We do, we make our own Hell.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Speaking of Hell, how about Heaven? Today’s saints?”

“Herefrith, Bishop of Lincoln, most likely killed by the Danes in 873, and also Oswald. Nowhe’s really interesting. He was the bishop of Worcester in the late tenth century and then became archbishop of York. He came from a Danish military family. By now the Danes controlled huge sections of England; the Saxons in the north were weak at the time. Oswald must have been quite something. He was much loved, and eyewitnesses commented on his splendid physique and his beautiful voice.”

“Did he get murdered too?”

“Died on February twenty-eighth, reciting the Gradual Psalms. For an archbishop, that’s the way to go.”

“Ever think about your own death?”

“In my teens. I suppose the reality that I would die intruded on my consciousness, but the intrusion was intellectual. Now I know it emotionally so I accept. Not that I want to go. I’m quite happy to live.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Betty mused, “then I banish it from my thoughts. Nothing I can do about it. We’re all going to go.”

“Think about Herefrith. So many of the saints died terrible deaths. Being cut down by the sword was relatively kind. And here it is, over a thousand years later and some of us remember their sacrifice. I don’t know if I could die for an idea. I could die for a person. I could die for a hound. But an idea? No. I know I’ve said this before, but it bothers me. I can’t understand a person dying for an idea.”

“I don’t know if I do either, but then you think about World War Two. Did those men die for democracy?”

“I suspect most Americans died because they didn’t want to let down their buddies. Maybe some thought about what would happen if the Axis powers overran the world, but mostly I bet they marched on, sticking to their comrades. You know, about sixty million people died in that war. We’re way past that, we’re in the billions now, and we still can’t get along.”

“Must have been easier when you could just dispatch an enemy with a sword.”

“Nothing has changed, Betty. We still kill our enemies. I’ll bet you if Cabel, in her rage, had had a weapon she would have brained Faye. Blind rage.”

“Distorts the features,” Betty dryly replied, and they both laughed.

CHAPTER 18

The noise of the vacuum cleaner irritated Sister. Years ago, when the market sank like a stone, she had cut way back on personal expenditure, even letting her once-a-week maid go. She gave the woman a thousand dollars severance pay. When the market rebounded years later, the former maid had become a real estate agent. Sister learned to repent of her economies.

Housework, apart from vacuuming, soothed her, particularly ironing. When her schedule picked up, the housework would slide; she’d fret and then remind herself that she’d never read a tombstone that said SPOTLESS HOUSEKEEPER.

All the downstairs rugs, now free of animal hair, had brightened. She’d attack the dirt upstairs tomorrow. She kept to the old school of washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, and so forth. Although this was Thursday, errand day, the dirt had finally gotten to her, hence her vacuuming fit. This evening she congratulated herself on performing two big chores on one day: errands and vacuuming.

Just as she was closing the broom closet door, her cell phone rang.

“Hello, Jane Arnold here.”

“Sister, it’s Cabel Harper. I’m so ashamed of myself. Please forgive my deplorable outburst today.”

“You’re under great pressure. Of course I forgive you.”

“And forgive me for carrying a grudge all these years. I haven’t done you any favors, or myself either.” Cabel sounded miserable.

“That was all a long time ago, and I was no saint.”

“You’re not responsible for my marriage. If he wanted to run around….” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Who couldresist him?”

“It was his sense of humor more than his looks.”

“He’s lost both.” An edge sharpened her tone. “God knows how many times he’s caught gonorrhea or syphilis. Thank God for antibiotics.”

“You know that expression,What goes around comes around?” Sister couldn’t resist the poke.

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s true, but not in such a simple manner.” She grew serious. “Sometimes I think our lives are a secret book. We write in every page. There are plenty of pages no one reads but ourselves, usually to our own dismay. At any rate, I didn’t mean to go on. I hope you can find some balance. On the bright side, there’s your demeanor in the hunt field. Your turnout has always been correct. I like that you have never bowed to fashion.”

Thinking herself quite fashionable, which she was, in a provincial Virginia way, Cabel asked,“What do you mean?”

“Back in the seventies, when hunt coats began to be cut shorter and rust breeches hit the stores, you continued to wear the longer-cut coats that are so flattering to the figure, and you never abandoned your mustard breeches.”

Surprised, Cabel stammered,“Thank you.” Then she perked up. “You know, you can’t find the mustard anymore. Beige, tan, but not mustard. I have to go up to Middleburg Tack Exchange or the Old Habit and flip through the used sections. Sometimes I can find an old pair that fits.”

“Isn’t that something? Some of those breeches—I say this because I do the same thing,” Sister confided, “were made in the 1920s. Quality.”

“Same with derbies and caps. I look for the old Locke’s.”

“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Thank you for calling, Cabel. I truly do hope things even out.”

“To somewhat make up for being tacky, on Saturday I’ll bring three heavy carpet mats for the puppy palace. The puppies won’t be able to drag them. Ilona will help me load them, but maybe Shaker can unload them. They really are heavy.”

“That’s unnecessary, but I do thank you.”

“Well, I don’t do much for the hounds except pay my subscription. Time I gave them more attention. Time I did a lot of things.” She paused. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I look forward to it.” Sister clicked off the phone and wondered at what prompted people to change. Usually it was a crisis. If only we could better identify problems, nipping them in the bud, instead of expending huge stores of energy in denial. Or say we commit to a course of action that doesn’t work. Do we change it? No. Our egos get the better of us as we doggedly pursue ruin.

As these ruminations occurred to her, Sister pulled on her old bomber jacket, red cashmere scarf, a few holes making it more individual, and lined waterproof work gloves. The cold still crept into her fingers, but the lining helped for the first forty-five minutes.

She stepped out into the clear, cold night. The dogs wanted to follow but she said no to their forlorn looks.

She went past the kennel, where a few of the boys out for their evening constitutional said hello. She walked on the farm road, heading toward the apple orchard. The ground, frozen, wasn’t too slippery but the ruts demanded attention.

Once at the old orchard, she checked the feed bucket. Still three-quarters full. She checked Georgia’s den. A neat pile of chicken feathers, now frozen, stuck on the ground about two feet from the entrance.

“Where did you get that chicken?” Sister called into the den.

Georgia, full, unmotivated to leave the warmth of her den, replied,“I’ll never tell.”

On hearing the young fox’s light chirp, not a full yap, Sister smiled and returned to the stable, where she checked the tack and the small heavy bowl of tiny broken-up sweets she left on an aisle tack trunk for whatever undomesticated animal wanted them. Inky often would eat some, as would Georgia. Once she had walked into the barn in the early morning to find a cowbird gorging on the goodies.

A bloodcurdling shriek stopped her cold. Little wings beat overhead as Bitsy rose to her nest in the rafters. A barn owl also lived up there. They got along just fine but they kept different schedules.

“Dammit, Bitsy, you about gave me a heart attack.”

The screech owl dropped down from her nest to sit atop a stall beam, across and four feet above Sister, who looked up at her.

Bitsy opened her wings and then folded them.“News, news, news. I just heard from the tufted titmouse who heard it from the red-shouldered hawk that the jolly Indian man moved into Faye Spencer’s bungalow, the one she rents as a hunt box for visitors. How’s that for news?”

Sister heard the little gurglings and beak clicks. She knew those were happy sounds from an owl but the content eluded her.

She rattled the candies in the bowl.“Good night, Bitsy.”

“Good night.” Bitsy blinked and wished humans were smarter. Being in possession of information thrilled the little owl, so she flew out to tell Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, Aztec, and Matador. Their interest was not as high as she had hoped, so she flew back to her nest. Well, when the barn owl returned from foraging, at least she’d listen.

Sister checked the electric heater in the water troughs. Running heavy-duty cords was a pain but trenching, dropping a line—that got expensive. Plus the electric company had to come out, and the telephone company, all to mark their buried lines with different colors of spray paint. Someday she’d get to it, but for now, winter meant running heavy orange extension cords to the paddocks for the horses. Horses prefer warm water to icy cold, and if the ice on top is too thick they may try to break it with a hoof.

All was well. She walked back to the house marveling at the clear February sky, the startling blue-white stars.

After she hung her coat on the peg in the mudroom, she heard Betty’s old Dodge truck rumble down the drive. Once in the house, Betty told her what Bitsy had just mentioned.

“That’s good news,” Sister replied to Betty’s tale.

“Because he’s staying?”

“Yes.”

“I expect the Vajays, like all of us, have a point at which even the most pleasant of houseguests wears out his welcome.”

“High and Kasmir are old friends, so I’m sure Kasmir knew the exact right time to find a rental. And I think he’s serious about buying Tattenhall Station.”

“He’d be a godsend.”

Sister then described Cabel’s call, ending withthat eases the tension.

“Who knows how she’ll treat Faye this Saturday?”

“Let’s hope Cabel calls upon her social discipline. All those years of cotillion.”

Betty laughed at this because she, like Cabel and Sister, had passed through the years of rigor known as cotillion. Southern girls and boys learn their manners even if they hate the process: All those old biddies hovering over your every word and move. Ultimately the discipline learned was worth every discomfort.

“I didn’t mind walking with a book on my head and learning how to say no without sayingno.” Sister sighed. “Northerners just can’t get that. They think being direct is such a virtue and they think we’re devious because we go about it by another route.”

“Sign of no imagination.” Betty laughed as she rummaged in her small duffel for her nightgown.

“Well, that said, I agree being direct saves time, but it destroys all the joy of social intercourse, which really is dancing with words. Where was I? My cotillion. The ice-water teas. About killed me.”

“Me too. Hated them!” Betty agreed, for what could be more boring than over and over again pouring ice water from a lovely teapot into an equally loved china cup, perched on its saucer. She changed the subject. “Do you think Cabel is having a nervous breakdown?”

“Well, she wouldn’t be the first.”

“And here I thought we’d get through a season without one.” Betty’s fuzzy slippers entranced Golly.

“Who knows what else will happen? Cabel’s probably the least of it.” She stared at Betty’s slippers. “Those are a libido killer.”

Betty laughed.“What’s it to you?”

“Well, you’ve got me there.” Sister snuggled under the covers. “Betty, you really don’t need to babysit me like this.”

“I do.” Betty hopped on the bed so hard that Golly, now on a pillow, grumbled.

“Gray and you have obviously organized a pajama party for each night. You’re the first person to sleep in my bed, though. I stick the others in the guest room.”

“Liar.” Betty smiled.

“I am not.”

“Lorraine Rasmussen didn’t stay in the house last night. ’Fess up.”

“All right.” Sister slipped deeper under the covers. “She stayed with Shaker, but I’m fine and Shaker is just on the other side of the kennels.”

“Someone needs to be in the house at night.”

“I have Raleigh and Rooster.”

“What if someone poisons or shoots them?”

“When?” Golly perked up.

The two dogs lifted their ears.

“Betty, what a horrible thought.”

“Murder is horrible and there’s a sicko out there. You’re not on the good side of whoever that is, so get used to company, sweetie.”

“You aren’t going to do this every night. Who else is?”

“Sorrel, Tedi, and Sybil for starters. Ilona volunteered, as did Cabel, but I demurred. If we run short you might be stuck with them.”

“Christ, Betty, I think I’d rather face Lady Godiva’s killer.”

Betty sighed at Sister’s remark, then replied, “I suspect we already have.”

A long silence followed.“I—well, I feel some kind of dread I can’t name.” Sister changed the subject. “You and Gray are in cahoots obviously.”

“Obviously.” Betty turned off her light.

Sister affixed a tiny book light with a flexible stem on her copy of Captain E. Pennell-Elmhirst’sThe Best of Fun published in 1903.“This won’t keep you awake. I have to read before I go to sleep.”

Betty turned on her side, studying the light.“Nifty.”

“’Tis.”

Betty rolled on her back.“Funny, how you can know someone so well but still not know things.”

“Are you referring to my reading light?”

“No, I’m referring to your lack of nightgown.”

“Betty, when you and I go on road trips to other hunts, on those occasions when Bobby doesn’t come along, we bunk up. Right?”

“Right.”

“And half the club, the female half, troops through our rooms.”

“Right,” Betty agreed.

“Do you really think I’m going to sit there naked?”

“No.”

“But I’m in my own bed with my best friend hovering over me. So?”

“All right. I just want to know how you stay so tight.”

“Work.”

“Well, I lost all that weight but I’ve got some flabby parts.”

“If it really bothers you, go to a personal trainer. I think you look wonderful.”

“You’re too kind, but then you haven’t seen me without my nightie.”

“Do I have to?” Sister slammed her book down in mock irritation.

Both women laughed.

“I’m trying to sleep!” Golly raised her voice.

“Intruder!” Raleigh leapt to his feet and ran out of the bedroom, thundering down the stairs.

Rooster followed.

Both dogs howled, the hounds starting up too.

Sister shot out of bed, threw on her robe, and opened the window. Cold air rushed into the bedroom. She saw a pair of red taillights recede down the driveway just as the lights went on in Shaker’s upstairs window.

“Dammit.” Sister slammed shut the window.

Betty started down the hall.

“Wait,” Sister commanded while she grabbed her .38 from the nightstand drawer.

The two women hurried down the stairs and opened the back door, carefully—keeping the dogs in, to their dismay—to behold a plastic shopping bag at the mudroom door.

Betty poked it with her foot, felt a square edge, and picked it up. She opened the bag and plucked out a DVD.“Lady Godiva.”

Sister took the movie from Betty’s hand. “Made in the fifties.”

“If I find who left this, I’ll wring his neck.” Betty, furious, heard the phone in the kitchen.

Sister trotted back and picked it up.“Someone left a movie. About Lady Godiva.” She inhaled. “Fragrance. I can’t place their perfume but I’ve smelled it before.”

Shaker’s strong voice replied, “You don’t know what’s on that video.” He’d heard the car leave.

“You’re right.”

“You’re okay?” he inquired.

“I am.” She was glad to hear his voice. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Next she called Ben Sidell.

Accompanied by the dogs also smelling the fragrance on the plastic bag, the two women repaired nervously upstairs.

“Anything?” Rooster asked after checking the bag.

“No. I couldn’t identify anyone. Too much plastic odor.”

“Too cold too.” Rooster’s ears drooped a bit.

“We’re going to have to sleep with one eye open.”

“Yep.”

“Now I’m wide awake,” Betty complained. She had a big day tomorrow at the printing press she and Bobby owned.

“Shall we?” Sister, flat TV discreetly by the wall in the bedroom, popped in the movie. “If we’re going to be scared on a cold night we might as well watch the goddamned thing. You know there’s a scent on it.” She handed the plastic bag to Betty. “Recognize it?”

“No.”

“I can’t place it,” Sister said, then got back into bed.

The two watched a tepid film about Lady Godiva, then fell asleep.

The next morning Sister made waffles for Betty, fortifying her friend for a long day ahead.

CHAPTER 19

February 29, Leap Year Day, roared through on the teeth of a low-pressure system. Trees bent over, hounds stayed in the kennels, horses stood with their rear ends to the wind. Even loquacious Bitsy hunkered down in her nest.

Sister, fearing the power would be cut off, hurriedly vacuumed the upstairs. That done, Golly reentered social exchange by removing herself from the closet.

“You’re scared of the vacuum cleaner,” Rooster teased her.

“Yeah, you burrow in all of Mom’s cashmere sweaters. Cat hair everywhere.” Raleigh picked up the game.

“Cashmere is goat hair. What’s a little cat hair after that?” Golly sniffed.

“Chicken,” Rooster taunted.

“Bubble butt.” Golly thumped down the carpeted twisty back stairs to the kitchen. Many old houses have a narrow stairwell from the kitchen to the second story as well as the wide stairwell off the center hall.

Rooster, hot on her tail, snapped,“I don’t have a bubble butt.”

“Fatty, fatty, two-by-four.” Golly started the nasty childhood chant.

Raleigh had barreled to the main stairway and taken the steps three at a time and was already in the kitchen when the two squabblers emerged.

Even with the carpet on the back stairs, Sister could hear the two animals thumping down toward her. They burst through the open door, complaining vociferously.

“Pipe down, I can’t hear myself think,” she admonished them.

Raleigh sat there like an adoring angel, which really offended Golly, who walked up to the Doberman, sat right in front of him, and batted his long nose with one lightning strike.

“Ouch.”

“Brownnoser.” She jumped on the counter and pushed around Sister’s tiny cell phone sitting in its recharging cradle.

Sister grabbed the phone and cradle before they clattered to the floor. She looked at the small blue square that read CHARGE COMPLETE, unplugged the charger, put it in a cabinet drawer, folded the phone over, and stuck it in her back jeans pocket. While wearing a cell phone holder on her belt might have proven more efficient, nothing could induce her to do it, just like nothing could induce her to wear a sissy strap under her chin on her helmet. Some things were just too weenie.

She opened the cupboard containing treats, tossing a big pig’s ear to each dog and a large green chewy at Golly. The pigs’ ears remained fresh in large sealed bags. The pungent aroma would fill the kitchen were the bags not sealed.

“I’ll bet you-all don’t know why we have leap year.”

Head turned sideways as she gnawed on her greenie, Golly replied,“Do I need to know? I’ve lived all these years in contented ignorance.”

“The calendar year is different from the equinoctial year so time can move backward.” Seeing that she had only one interested party, Raleigh, Sister addressed this to him. “A calendar year is 365 days. An equinoctial year—that’s the time it takes the earth to make a complete revolution ofthe sun from equinox to equinox—is actually 365.242199 days so periodic events would slowly move backward. To keep things on time, we had to add a day every four years. We’ve had calendars for thousands of years; humans struggled with this but I think Pope Gregory the Great set things to rights. He switched us off the Julian calendar, which made some provision for this but not enough.” She threw up her hands. “I used to know all this. Anyway, St. Oswald—that’s an English saint from the tenth century—used to have his festival on February twenty-ninth, but in 1930 the Catholic Church moved his feast day to February twenty-eighth. Poor fellow wasn’t getting enough of the party. Of course, now many of the saints have been dispatched, but I still pay attention.”

“See, I didn’t need to know any of that.”

“Dunce.” Raleigh dropped his pig’s ear, which rattled on the heart pine.

“It doesn’t make any difference. What do I care if festivals move backward? What’s St. Oswald to cats? If he grew catnip—well, then I’d pay attention.”

“She knows a lot.” Rooster enjoyed the rich flavor of the pig’s ear.

“Human stuff, most of which is irrelevant. Nature can kill them all if she wants to, and then what of Leap Year?” Golly puffed out her magnificent chest.

“Crab,” came Raleigh’s tart reply.

Golly might have attacked the Doberman again, but the lure of the greenie overcame the desire for violent revenge. The long-haired calico was a great believer in violence artfully applied.

The cell rang. Sister forgot she’d left it on so she retrieved it from her pocket. “Hello, Jane Arnold here.”

Marion’s lilting voice said, “Can’t you just sayHello? Who else would use your cell phone?”

“I’ve been thinking.” Sister launched right in, since Marion was accustomed to her going straight to the point and vice versa. “Well, let me back up and say that there’s a wireless carrier, Leap Wireless International—good name for Leap Year, right? Anyway this company, in which I’ve bought shares, sells service to low-income, young, and ethnic people. They operate under the name Cricket. This particular market is deemed too small for the giant carriers.”

“Sounds pretty smart,” Marion replied.

“It is. Forty dollars a month. No credit check. You sign up and you’ve got service.”

“What’s the catch?” Marion was suspicious.

“Roaming charges are high. The system is designed for people who don’t travel much, so if they don’t use roaming they’ll save money. Cricket requires customers to pay each month in advance. Obviously, in that income bracket they need some protection. But isn’t it a terrific idea?”

“It is. How long before they are absorbed by a huge amoeba?”

“Not long, I expect. Since our Lady Godiva had information concerning this kind of technology, I’ve been investigating in my own small way.”

“How often does your cell phone die on you?” Marion queried.

“At least once a day. I attribute that to dead zones, especially here by the mountains.”

“Sister, I’m a few miles more east of the mountains than you are. Happens to me too.”

“Guess you like your new cell phone.” Sister teased her.

“Better looking than the one I threw in the fire, but I hit those dead spots too. Sometimes I’ll be in the store and nothing. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation yakking away, and suddenly I realize no one’s on the other end. Maddening.”

“’Tis.”

“What if a huge company with extraordinary research facilities goes about buggering—forgive the word—other wireless providers? Meanwhile, it establishes a reputation for reliability. What are most of us going to do eventually? Switch to the reliable company.” Marion paused. “Our beautifulvictim could have been a part of a number of illegal activities. If she was, I hope someone figures it out.”

“Me too.”

“I had another thought. This one’s really dark. I know the money involved in gaining hegemony in the wireless market might lead some people to murder. But this would be adirect route to murder. What if our government, fearing an overheated economy and inflation, actually slows business by two percent—just two percent; that would have an enormous effect. The old phone companies and the wireless companies would cooperate in exchange for favorable treatment down the road via tax breaks, protection for outsourcing, or other plums. The deal would be that the phone companies disrupt calls, not an outright break in service but a disconnect like you and I experience with our cell phones. We attribute it to bad signals, dead air space, but what if it is deliberate? It’s possible.”

“Marion, in a million years, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“I trust government less than you do.”

“Maybe.” Sister thought a moment. “Maybe, but it comes down to the fact that you’re brilliant and I’m merely intelligent.”

“Bull.”

“Oh, take the compliment and shut up.” Sister laughed at her. “Okay. I’m brilliant, but you know in Hollywood when they want to fire you they first tell you you’re brilliant.”

“A much-used word then.” Sister laughed some more. “No word on who played the prank with the mannequin?”

“No, but if I ever find out, I’m stripping him or her and parading them around town on a horse—or maybe I’ll tie them to the hood of my car, a nice big ornament.” Marion took a deep breath. “Can’t decide if it was a prank or a warning.”

Sister then told her about the old movie being left in the mudroom, which upset Marion too.

“Excuse me…. I do too.” Marion cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, then removed it. “Sorry. My appointment has appeared five minutes early.”

“Go do biz.”

“You too.”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“You know, the Chinese have this expression:I throw out a brick in the hope that someone else will throw out jade.”

“Got it.” Sister liked the concept. After switching off her cell phone she put it on the kitchen table. “Could it be possible?” A long pause followed. “Kids, this is a case of what you don’t know can hurt you. I haven’t a clue about the technology involved in a scheme like that, but afew people in this world do. I wonder if Aashi was one of them.”

CHAPTER 20

One of the people who had a grasp of wireless technology was High Vajay, riding out today. He needed a blast of energy, given his marital troubles.

It was Saturday, March 1, and the field was quite large. Less than three weeks remained in the season. The day had proved so mild, in the low fifties, the trailers jammed Foxglove Farm.

The horrendous cow Clytemnestra, together with her equally worthless son, Orestes, had been placed in a five-board fenced paddock with extra grain, a brand-new salt block, and mounds of hay. Five boards wouldn’t stop Clytemnestra any more than three if she chose to bust a move, but it made Cindy Chandler, the pretty blonde owner, feel better.

Caneel, one of her hunters, watched everyone from an adjoining paddock.

Kasmir and High rode with Faye. The Merrimans were out, as was Cabel, which showed pluck on her part. She’d apologized individually to everyone who had witnessed her meltdown at Mousehold Heath. All the Custis Hall regulars came save Felicity, whose parents had descended upon her.

Sister made a mental note to speak with Charlotte Norton about Felicity. The worst thing the Porters could do would be to yank Felicity out of school. She sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be the case. Not only would it interrupt what should be one of the happiest times of a young person’s life, it would set her against her parents.

Val, noting Cabel’s difficulty mounting Mickey (for she’d forgotten her mounting block), gave Cabel a leg up. “Mrs. Harper, I’ve always wanted to ask you why you spell your name as you do. I thought Cabel had twol’s.”

“Does,” came the quick reply. “I kicked thel out of it.” She laughed, as did Val.

The warmth worried Sister in terms of scent, but the low cloud cover might help a bit. She had read every book there was about scent; there weren’t many. She’d pored over other people’s old published hunt diaries and read the work of hunting correspondents for the British papers over the last two centuries. They didn’t know any more about scent than she did.

What she did know is that two lovely foxes lived at Foxglove. One, Grace, kept close to the stable because Cindy put out jelly beans, corn, and other tidbits that Grace devoured.

Another fox, larger, lived under the old schoolhouse used from 1870 to the 1940s.

She counted seventy-two people, a nice number. The Custis Hall girls rode at the rear of first flight.

Shaker cast hounds away from the stable toward two ponds with a pretty little waterwheel. It was a dwarf compared to the giant waterwheel at Mill Ruins, Walter Lungrun’s place. Cindy was forever improving her ponds. Originally, a long pipe poured water from the upper pond to the lower, and the water was then recycled back up by means of a pump in an enclosed pump-house. She had recently installed this small waterwheel, finding the soft lap of water on the paddles soothing.

Hounds found no scent around the ponds, which surprised Sister, for usually there was a hint near the cool dampness. Hounds moved up the meadows past the woods to their left where the old springhouse stood, still useful. They feathered by the schoolhouse. Iggy, the schoolhouse fox whom hounds called Professor, was nowhere to be found.

Shaker jumped the coop over the road and then the coop on the other side of the dirt road, hounds casting in the rougher meadow there. They’d been out twenty-five minutes at a walk. Cooler air touched Sister’s cheeks; a little wind current fluttered across the meadow.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_6]

Dragon, out today because Cora was footsore, sniffed, feathered, moved faster, then opened. Within the blink of an eye the entire pack was flying. Dreamboat, Diddy, Darby, Doughboy, Dana, and Delight did wonderfully, as did the third-year hounds, Trudy, Trident, Tinsel, and Trinity. Two young entry came out today, Parker and Pickens. Both Sister and Shaker thought Saturday a bit much for first year, but these two had matured faster than their littermates and currently ran smack in the middle of the pack.

Hounds ran straight as an arrow until reaching Soldier Road, the local east-west route that climbed laboriously over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Interstate 64 farther north took most of that traffic, for which everyone was grateful.

Soldier Road had narrow ditches on either side for runoff. Sister and Keepsake, happy to be out today, cleared one clambering up the low embankment to the macadam road. Watching her hounds, she noticed the macadam did not throw them off. Scent had to be red hot. The oil odor of macadam, especially when warming, conceals scent. She cleared the second runoff ditch, plunging into unkempt fields. They blasted through those fields, skirted the base of Hangman’s Ridge, veered east into the wildflower field, awaiting spring’s clarion call, and up and over the hog’s-back jump into After All Farm.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_7]

Dragon, in the lead, was stretched to his fullest. Right behind came Diddy, then Trinity. To her surprise, once she cleared the hog’s back, Sister saw Pickens fourth as the hounds ran in the woods, the denuded trees offering some views.

On and on they screamed until arriving at Pattypan Forge, impressive in a forlorn fashion.

Aunt Netty lived at Pattypan Forge, Uncle Yancy leaving out of frustration once she arrived. But hounds hadn’t been on Aunt Netty snug in her den, furious about this commotion outside her tidy abode.

Hounds cast around the forge, large heavy stones set in place in 1792. This time Diddy picked up the signature odor and off they ran again.

Straight through the trees, into the pinewoods, scent thick in the air, needles cushioning hoofbeats, then out and into the hardwoods again, and down into Broad Creek. The crossing had become tricky. People dotted the last few miles, four coming a cropper at the crossing alone. The temperature was cool enough to feel uncomfortable if one is soaking wet.

Onward. Keepsake, nostrils wide, ears forward, loving every second just as much as the silver-haired woman on his back, scarcely touching the reins.

The scorching pace now told on those whose horses weren’t fit. Some people themselves had gotten out of shape over the holidays and hadn’t recovered form. Bathing-suit weather usually took care of that.

On and on those hounds ran, Shaker behind them. Betty, on Magellan, a huge grin on her face, whipped in on the left. Betty disappeared in the woods. Sister caught sight of her once more, bursting into the open; same with Sybil, riding Postman today, covering the right.

Her whippers-in stuck to their places as well, using good judgment. The staff work today proved as good as the hound work.

On they ran. Sister glanced behind her, the field strung out like pearls that had popped their string. Tedi and Edward were close behind, once again demonstrating the wisdom of riding fit Thoroughbreds. Gray was nowhere to be seen. In that quick glance she caught a glimpse of only a dozen people.

Good God, she thought to herself,what’s happened to them? That thought lasted only a split second because the Custis Hall girls rode tail and they were equal to most crises; also the pace, flaming, incinerated the thought.

Hounds leapt into the graveyard at the old Lorillard place, where they threw up. Scent disappeared as if a magician had put the fox back in the hat instead of the rabbit. They whined a moment and cast themselves away from the large pin oak in the middle of the graveyard, guarding Jemima Lorillard’s grave among others.

Nothing.

Shaker removed his cap, wiping his brow.

Sister did likewise.

Tedi and Edward remained behind her but close. Walter, on Rocketman, caught up. She counted heads: twenty-three people. No sign of the hilltoppers.

“Where is everybody?”

“Lost the hilltoppers at the crossing,” Walter replied. “Bobby is bringing them the long way around.”

“Jesus,” was all she said, because the long way around meant he circumvented one mile north for an easier crossing. “Hilltoppers are supposed to be able to ride. They should also be able to jump at least a log in the road.”

“Well, he had some green people today; better safe than sorry,” Walter replied, and he was right.

“The run of the season.” Edward lifted his top hat to salute the hounds.

“By God, it was!” Walter agreed and did likewise with his hunting cap.

Coming up behind was Kasmir and he, too, lifted his topper. High and Faye had succumbed to the pace but Kasmir, although a touch portly, was as fit as his mount.

“Couldn’t help it,” Sister bragged. “Those young ones were fabulous.” She wanted to shout to the heavens,Thank you, Jesus! but instead sat quietly while horses, hounds, and humans recovered their wind. One by one, riders straggled in, the number now thirty-two, still a far cry from seventy-two.

“We ran an eleven-mile point.” Walter flipped his Reverso wristwatch, the perfect watch for hunting despite its expense. “One hour and fourteen minutes with a brief check at Pattypan Forge.”

“It truly was the run of the season.” Tedi needed a pickup from her flask, which contained an excellent port. “Sister?”

“Forgive me, folks.” Sister, parched, took a draft, even though staff is not to drink alcohol during a hunt, one of those rules usually observed in the breach.

Everyone who had a flask reached for it.

Shaker rode up and Walter handed him his flask.“I know, I know.” Walter smiled. “But you must be dry as a bone.”

Shaker shook his head no. He kept sweet tea in his flask. He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t drink, regardless of occasion.

Sister also kept iced tea, unsweetened, in her flask, but Tedi’s exquisite port lured her.

“Boss.” Shaker sighed with deep joy.

“Huntsman.” She smiled at him. “I say we head back.”

So they did, and not halfway into the woods, just at the edge of where the old Lorillard property adjoined After All Farm, they hit again. The music filled the air, echoed off hills, gave horses another burst of energy.

This fox happened to be Uncle Yancy. Why he was this far east was anyone’s guess, but he took them straight to Pattypan Forge again, where he ducked into his harridan’s den. This time hounds dug at the entrance with conviction, because they could hear squabbling inside.

“You lazy, good-for-nothing, what makes you think you can come into my den?”

“Hounds were hot on my tail, my sweet; then again, I haven’t seen you for far too long.” He blinked with a sweet expression.

“I ought to throw your sorry tail right out of here.” Aunt Netty swished her own tatty brush.

“Now, my sweet, don’t be hasty,” he cooed.

Trinity whispered to Dasher,“Will she throw him out?”

“Nah, they fight all the time.”

After blowing“Gone to Ground,” Shaker hopped back up on Kilowatt—he was already in love with this game, athletic horse—and they walked slowly back to After All Farm.

Along the way they passed some of those who had turned back early.

They rode up on the Custis Hall girls in the wildflower field, helping guests who had parted company with their mounts. Sister thanked Val, Tootie, and Pamela for catching the horses.

The walk back took forty-five minutes. Sister wouldn’t take any jumps. Most accidents occur skylarking on the return when many horses are blown.

Keepsake, Kilowatt, Magellan, and Postman could have popped over. So could Tedi and Edward’s horses, but it wasn’t worth it. It’s a foolish field master who risks life and limb going home. When hounds are running, that’s a different story.

Finally the stable at Foxglove Farm came into view, the weathervane’s arrow point indicating a slight wind from the northwest.

However, what caught Sister’s eye and everyone else’s was the squad car at the stable.

“I hope no one’s seriously hurt,” Sister whispered to Walter.

No one was hurt, but Faye Spencer, naked, tied to Cindy Chandler’s mare, Caneel, sat in the paddock. Caneel had been drugged. Faye had been shot through the heart.

CHAPTER 21

Lady Godiva,” Sister whispered, trotting to the paddock.

Ilona Merriman, sobbing, screaming, was forcibly removed from the scene by Ramsey. Cabel Harper and High Vajay stood in mute horror.

Nonni threw a shoe, so Ben Sidell, who had turned back early, took charge. He estimated Faye had been in the paddock for perhaps a half hour. She remained quite warm. The ropes tying her to Caneel had not yet rubbed her wrists and ankles raw. One by one, he had noted the names of the fifteen people who had reached Foxglove Farm first.

Sister rode up to him.“What can I do?”

“Herd everyone away from here. The people who were here need to stay briefly. They’re in the stable.”

“Fine.”

Diddy had shot off to the crime scene. She wanted to know what the fuss was. She stood on her hind legs, sniffing Faye’s foot and left leg. Shaker called her away, and she raced back to squeeze through the door held partway open. She then told the pack what she’d smelled.

“Blood?” asked Ardent.

“No, perfume. Ladies wear perfume,” Dragon said.

“Not supposed to,” Tinsel added.“The only person wearing scent should be the fox.”

“Would you recognize that perfume again?” Diana asked.

“Sure.”

“Could be Faye’s perfume,” Trinity logically added.

“Could,” Diddy agreed.“But if I catch wind of it again, I’ll tell you.”

“Shaker, you, Betty, and Sybil ask everyone out here to please leave. The people who came back early are in the stable. Ben requests that we get everyone else out to cut down on the confusion,” Sister commanded.

“Right.” He could see the ghastly figure in the near distance, Caneel with her head down, half asleep.

“Be sure to get the Custis Hall girls out. They don’t need to see this. They should be back any minute.”

Sister dismounted, loosened Keepsake’s girth, threw a rug over him, removed his bridle, and put his halter on in four minutes flat, then ran to the Custis Hall van looking for Charlotte Norton. The headmistress and the riding coach, Bunny Taliaferro, weren’t back.

She passed Sybil on her return to the paddock.

“Sister, are you all right?” the second whipper-in asked.

“I don’t know,” Sister replied. “Seeing this once was bad enough. Twice is horrifying. But I swear to you, Sybil, this bastard is on my turf now and I will get him.”

“Be careful.”

“You too.” Sister touched Sybil’s shoulder and raced back to the paddock.

Two sirens ruined the quiet of the day, now 12:20 P.M.

Ben turned to her.“Like Warrenton?”

“Yes. The obvious difference being Caneel is a real horse and Faye is tied, but same modus operandi, naked and shot through the heart.”

He walked around Caneel, in step with Sister.“No sign of a struggle. No bruises. No sign of torture obviously.”

“Caneel is untouched.”

He blinked, realizing once again how sharp this old woman was. She knew he’d concentrate on the human; she focused on the horse. Every second might yield a clue that would be lost within minutes or disturbed in removing the corpse.

“Whoever did this knows horses.” Ben returned to his starting point.

“Yes.” She named a tranquilizer. “I expect Caneel’s shot full of Banamine. She’ll be fine when it wears off.”

“Will you go in the stable, write down everyone’s name, the time they returned, anything they noticed?”

“Boss,” Shaker called over the fence, “some of the people can’t go because they’re vanning with people in the barn.”

“Tell them to wait,” Ben answered. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

Sister walked into the barn. Cindy was there, ashen-faced.“I need a tablet and a pencil,” Sister told her.

Wordlessly, Cindy opened the door to the small office, reappearing with a spiral notebook and a small green golf pencil.

Ilona, slumped on a tack trunk, couldn’t stop crying, gulping in huge gasps of air.

“High Vajay,” Sister asked, “when did you return?”

“Noon.”

“When did you notice Faye?”

“Perhaps five minutes after that. I opened the gate to the paddock and ran over. She was already dead.”

“Ramsey?”

“I was behind Vajay. I ran into the paddock too. Ilona came right after me.”

Sister looked at Ilona, thinking she’d speak to her last. Perhaps by then a deputy would be here who would be better at this than she was.

Ronnie Haslip, Henry Xavier, Cindy Chandler, Cabel Harper, and Lorraine Rasmussen were each questioned.

Ty Banks, Ben’s young deputy, walked into the stable. He conferred quietly with Sister as the emergency vehicle pulled to the paddock.

Ilona, startled, ran to the open stable doors. She started screaming again.

Ramsey hurried to her.“Honey, please. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Who would do this?” Ilona wailed.

Ramsey put his arm around his distraught wife, guiding her back to the tack trunk, where she collapsed with a thump.

Sister whispered to Ty,“I don’t think Ilona’s ever seen a corpse. She’s usually sensible.”

Sister’s generation had seen death more often than had younger generations whose families died mostly in hospital beds. Perhaps it was not a good thing that people today were so removed from the normal life cycle.

As Ty took over, Sister walked out with Cindy.

“Maybe I should stay in the barn. I came back early,” Cindy said, forlorn.

The two women walked back in. Cindy asked Ty what he wanted her to do. He told her he’d get to her, but since this was her farm she might be needed outside.

The two women walked back out.

“Have you talked to Ben?”

“No. I came in around eleven and put my horse up. By eleven twenty I was in the house getting things ready for the breakfast.”

“Did you hear any cars?”

“No. But I wasn’t listening. Same with people returning. The windows were closed and I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I heard Ilona scream.”

“Do you recall looking at the paddock when you rode up?”

“Yes, Caneel whinnied to Booper. She performed a pirouette and that was that.”

Booper was Caneel’s stablemate, the horse Cindy rode today.

“No sign of Faye, alive, I mean?”

“No. There were some horses tied at trailers, but I didn’t pay attention. I figured it was the usual case of broken tack, thrown shoes, you know.”

“Can you remember how many horses?”

“Oh, dear.” Cindy frowned. “Three? Four?”

Sister grabbed Cindy’s hand. “Come with me.”

They stepped quickly to Faye’s trailer, a well kept two-horse. Clayton’s mare, the loaner, was untacked, wiped down, a fresh cooler draped and cinched over the pleasant animal.

“Well, she had time to put up the horse,” Cindy noted.

“Or someone else did.” Sister stepped up into the small tack room. She touched nothing. “Everything looks in order. I’m going to stay here so no one comes in this room. Will you run to Ben and tell him he needs to dust this tack and the halter? If there are prints other than Faye’s we might get to first base.”

Cindy dashed for the paddock, not wishing to see the dead woman but knowing Sister’s plan was vital. She hastily told Ben and turned on her heel. Before she bolted through the gate, Ben called out, “Cindy, do you want me to leave Caneel in the paddock?”

The answer was yes.

Sister remained in the tack room for another twenty minutes. As she did, she observed the fifteen people filing out of the stable, all disturbed.

Once the fingerprint team arrived, Sister returned to Ben, now at the gate, as Faye’s body, in a plastic bag, was rolled out on a gurney.

“Had she been cleaned up?”

Ben nodded.“Yes, but this time the killer didn’t have much time. My guess is she was hosed down at the outside pump.” He pointed to the frost-free water pump, hose attached. A puddle, slowly being absorbed, was on the ground. “I looked around for rags. None. When we lifted her off, we noticed she had been sprayed; she was still wet.”

“Faye was beautiful even in death. Two beautiful victims,” Sister stated.

“Faye knew electronics, right?”

“She was on the cutting edge.”

Shaker joined them.“Charlotte came in just before the girls. She and Bunny got them out of here before they could see the body.”

“Good. You can’t protect young people from the world, but with something like this you must try.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Could they be in danger? The kids?”

“I don’t know,” Ben honestly replied, “but right now I would caution every woman to be careful. If you leave the hunt field, leave in twos. If you go out at night, go in twos.” He spoke directly to Shaker. “Watch out for Sister. The punch bowl in her stable office is hardly a good omen.”

“I will.”

“Sister, carry your thirty-eight. You have a permit for a concealed weapon. Do not leave your house without that gun. I mean it.”

She appreciated their concern, making light of it.“I’m not young and beautiful. I’m safe.” Then she changed the subject. “Wonder if the wound was made by the same gun?”

“We’ll find out. I’m willing to bet she wasn’t sexually molested.”

“Same killer?” Sister’s silver eyebrows lifted, then dropped.

“I’m not supposed to speculate, but I think it is. The public display of the corpse?” He paused a long time. “Let’s just say something like that infuriates and motivates those of us in law enforcement. The killer is thumbing his nose at us.”

“All of us,” Shaker added. “Ben, I’d like to get the hounds back. They hunted hard.”

“Sure.”

Ty Banks walked in, folding back his cell phone.“Called her office. Two people working on Saturday. Figured you’d want to question them, so I asked them to stay at work until we get there.”

“Good.”

Betty, patiently waiting for Sister, waved when she saw them looking in her direction.

“May I be excused?” Sister asked Ben. “I need to get the horses back.”

“You may.”

“I just noticed the daffodil in your buttonhole. For St. David’s Day, the patron saint of Wales?”

He nodded.“Mother’s proud of her Welsh blood.”

“A strong people. You’ll need that strength on this case.”

CHAPTER 22

Everyone invested heavily in Faye’s company.” Gray, nightcap in hand, sat in the club chair in the den, cashmere throw over his aching legs.

Gray hadn’t ridden that hard in a long time.

Sister, opposite him on the couch, Golly in her lap, sipped hot green tea laced with fresh lemon.“Even I put a little money in.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“You know, I haven’t thought much about it. It was a small amount.” She was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I forget to tell you things and other times I elect not to because I don’t want to be a pest always asking for advice.” She changed the subject. “It’s been a day none of us will forget.”

“In a way I’m glad I came back late, but I wish I could have helped you.” Gray had dismounted, walking his horse back the last two miles since both were weary. “Who else put money in Warp Speed?”

“Crawford, High, Clayton, Ramsey; even Edward chipped in a bit. I don’t know about Kasmir. What would any of those men have to gain by Faye Spencer’s death?” Sister answered her own question. “I suppose it depends on whether they wanted the company to succeed or fail. Craig and Abrams might be working on a similar product. It’s possible High Vajay would want her to fail. Investing a substantial sum would provide a cover, plus he’d be able to report on her progress. God knows, he has the money. On the other hand, he might want Faye to succeed so Craig and Abrams could buy Warp Speed and use their research without incurring the cost of duplicate effort. Someone like Crawford might want to take over the company, although killing Faye is a stupid way to do it. Crawford’s not stupid, not in that way.”

“No.” Gray half closed his eyes as the warmth of the scotch worked its way down to his stomach. “Honey, I don’t know if Lady Godiva’s special, but this has something to do with injustice. It’s revengeful. Displaying a woman like that, even dead, is humiliation. Everyone who sees her will remember her naked.”

“In the case of Aashi and Faye, they were gorgeous naked.”

“But it’s still humiliation.” Gray stuck to his point.

“Yes. Yes, it is, and the murderer wants us all to witness the humiliation. If the killer wanted to scare us, he’d disfigure the corpse. Here it’s the reverse. The women are cleaned up.”

“Odd. Compelling.”

“When I spoke to Marion today she used the same word,compelling.” Sister noticed a blue flame leap up among the yellow gold ones. She sighed deeply. “God, what an awful day. And it was the best damn run of the season. Once I got home I went into the kennels and thanked every hound that was out. Took my mind off Faye. I liked Faye.”

“Timetable. Cindy Chandler was the first person back, that we can identify. Others had to be back; you said Cindy remembered horses tied to trailers.” Gray took another much-needed sip of scotch.

“Imagine how Cindy feels.” Sister shook her head. “She’s in her kitchen while Faye Spencer is being shot behind her stable or at least washed up there. She said she never heard a shot.”

“If a person drove up, killed Faye, and drove out, someone would have seen the vehicle. Whoever killed Faye was either waiting here or rode back with the first group of people. And the gun could have had a silencer.”

“How else would the killer know Faye turned back early, right?”

“Exactly.” Gray smiled.

“Let’s pick someone we know would never do this: Lorraine Rasmussen. Lorraine asks Faye to ride back with her. Any excuse will do. Faye agrees. Lorraine is in collusion with the killer, already here.”

“Could be. Whether that’s the case or not, there was some kind of plan and a desire to cut it close. I doubt there was as big a thrill to killing the woman in Warrenton as there was to this. The killer wanted everyone here.”

“Is this a true serial killer, you think?”

Gray rubbed his aching thighs.“Yes, I think it is. Because of the media we associate serial killers with sex. Either it’s a man who kills prostitutes because he’s determined they’re evil, a man who preys on young men, or a man who kills women, regular women, who may resemble one another. But it seems to me that killing could be an incredible high, a tremendous exercise of power. Sex doesn’t have to be part of it.”

“That’s what bothers me. It is in the sense that the women are beautiful and they’re naked. Something’s missing.”

“I half want to find it and I half don’t.”

“Oh, I want to find it.” Sister’s cheeks blazed. “My hunt club member is shot, my field sees this grotesque parody of Lady Godiva. I want to find it—and him.”

“Sweetheart, I admire your sentiments, but there are times when you are too bold.”

“Like the time I decked Crawford?”

This made Gray laugh.“That was justice served.”

“Maybe this is too.”

CHAPTER 23

Sunday, the traditional day of worship, brings families together. Sunday, March 2, brought some together and rent others asunder.

High Vajay found himself the main suspect in the death of both Lady Godivas. Uncomfortable as this was, Mandy’s wrath proved more unsettling.

As they were Hindu, not Christian, they did not attend church service. Mandy asked Sybil Fawkes if she would take the boys for the day since she and High had issues to discuss. They’d kept a lid on it until they could have a day together. Neither one wanted to get into an argument when the boys were in bed and awaken and frighten them. Sybil’s two sons and the Vajays’ two sons had become friends, and Sybil readily agreed.

So at nine in the morning, across a highly polished kitchen table, husband and wife had already been going at it hammer and tongs for forty minutes. Mostly it was High being hammered. When you’re the anvil, have the sense to keep still. He did.

“So?” Mandy’s eyebrows were raised, her face perfect even in anger.

“What more can I say? I was wrong. I was foolish. I risked everything for momentary pleasure.”

Even at home, Mandy was dressed exquisitely, this morning in a cream-colored silk shirt, camel-colored pleated skirt, and low-heel Gucci boots. Mandy was five feet eight inches in her bare feet. She listened impassively, her anger spent.

High kept going.“I didn’t call her to come to Warrenton. I swear to you, I did not.”

“Then why was she there? You renewed the affair.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, misery etching every feature on his handsome face.“I did. I went back up to Washington. You remember, Tim Pasternak called me up.”

Tim Pasternak ran the small office in Washington, D.C., more as a presence than a power. Craig and Abrams occasionally needed the cooperation of the government. The U.S. headquarters was in New York City.

“I remember. Three months ago.”

“It was one night, Mandy, that’s all.”

“It was one night that fired up the affair. You didn’t stop at one night. Don’t play me for a fool, Lakshmi, or I will take you for everything you’ve got. We’re in America now, remember?”

A flash of pride almost made him say,Take it all. I can make it all over again. Instead, he wisely pushed down his ego and demurred.“The affair was more over the phone and the computer. I only saw her one other time, and we didn’t go to bed.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s true. If you don’t believe it there’s nothing I can do.” He was resigned now.

She got up from the table, folded her arms across her chest, and paced the large kitchen.“How about the children? Did you not think of the children?”

“Madhur, men don’t think of things like that when lust blinds them. To our shame. To my shame. For me the affair was like a good round of golf. Fun and relaxing, not central to life. Men do this. It doesn’t mean that much. But it means much to women and there’s no denying that we know that.We hope not to get caught. And when we do, we realize how bloody goddamned selfish we’ve been. I will do anything to win you back. Anything.”

She walked to the window and looked east as light flooded the immaculate brick buildings, painted white, that constituted the stable, the cow barns, the huge garden shed with greenhouse, all restored to perfection during their ownership.“All right then, Lakshmi, you have your chance. I have never meddled in your business; that isn’t my sphere. But I know when you’re building something, you’re tense, excited. What are you doing?”

He looked up at her, his dark brown eyes troubled, but he answered.“Trying to drive up Craig and Abrams stock. If I’m successful, our investment will spiral to the heavens.”

“And exactly what are you trying to do, apart from sleeping with a young woman now murdered?”

He raised his shoulders then dropped them.“I want to destroy or buy out the competition.”

“Cell phones?”

“Well, the technology that connects your phone to your TV, to your landline, to your car, to your iPod, the technology to drive everything from one tiny unit, is not an inch from us. There’s a little work to be done but the real next step is marketing.”

“And Faye Spencer? God, did you sleep with her too?”

“No. Ramsey Merriman was doing that. I know Clayton tried but I don’t think he succeeded.” He went on quickly. “I liked Faye enormously, but I was in enough trouble and she’s not my type. Wasn’t my type.” He closed his eyes. “What a shocking sight. Thank God you were on the plane coming back from Arizona.”

She returned to sit down.“Is what you are doing legal?”

“Yes. Well, a gray zone.”

“Which is?”

“One thing Craig and Abrams is doing, covertly, obviously, is to disrupt other companies’ service. Then offer better contracts and service. It costs Craig and Abrams three hundred and fifty dollars for each new client; that’s one of the reasons we need the year-long contract. But there’s a small company now that provides service to the poor without a contract. And there are other companies undermining what we’ve established in the wireless industry, trying to make what the Americans call an end run around Craig and Abrams. The sheer size of the company is both our strength and our weakness.” He paused. “That’s capitalism.”

“Do you destroy their towers?”

He half smiled.“Nothing that dramatic.”

“What do you do?”

“We can interrupt the wave, literally. Craig and Abrams is light-years ahead in some areas but woefully behind in others. Our research and development department is the best in the world; our marketing is abysmal. That’s one of the reasons I keep getting called back because I have the ability to talk both to the strange gnomes in research and to the marketing men, all of whom dress like bad models fromGQ. If I see one more French-blue shirt with a tie the same color I think I’ll rip it off the man’s pencil neck.”

That made her laugh.“Not everyone possesses your incredible sense of style. You know, that was the second thing I noticed about you: Everything you wore fit perfectly. You stood out without being flashy. I don’t like flashy men.”

“What was the first thing you noticed?” He couldn’t help it, his vanity was being massaged.

“Your eyes. What was the first thing you noticed about me?”

“Everything. Hiroshima. Boom!” He threw up his hands.

“Then why other women?”

“One other woman. Mandy, I love you. You are my wife, the mother of my sons. But how do the Americans put it,A stiff dick has no conscience?” He shook his head. “Who could be as beautiful as you? And you are a good woman. But sometimes a man is weak or away from home and lonely.” He shrugged.

“And you don’t think women get lonely?”

A three-car alarm look crossed his face,“Yes. No. What do you mean?”

“Only that women, too, need solace. We’re better at hiding it. Have I cheated on you? No. Rest your pride, for that’s what it is. I have my circle of friends. I think my relationship with my friends is different from yours, but no matter. Back to Craig and Abrams. If what you are doing works,Craig and Abrams will emerge as”—she thought a moment—“the Toyota of wireless, of personal technology.”

“Military hegemony too. Those applications are not known to the public. We will be number one in the world, an Indian company. What’s that other American expression?When the tide’s in, all the boats rise. So it will be for our country.”

“Strange. I have love and pride for my people and for India in general, but I feel more American. Sometimes that bothers me. Am I faithless? Am I so easily won over by their freedoms, many of which are scurrilous or illusory? Or is it their attitude? What my father always says was calledcan do in his day. But they are like that, you know. Americans think they can do anything so they do. They aren’t chained to fathoms of history as we are. When I’m here I forget about Hindus hating Muslims. I don’t care. I don’t care that I think Mumbai residents combine the worst of Los Angeles and New York. I look out at the Blue Ridge Mountains, much smaller than the mountains of my childhood, and I feel peace. And strange to say, my husband, I feel power.”

“You have always had power, Mandy.”

“Beauty is power, but beauty fades.”

“Not yours.”

“Ha. Mine most of all. When you are called one of the world’s most beautiful women, everyone searches your face for that first wrinkle. Well, I have more than one wrinkle now and some gray to season my hair as well. No, this power is different. This is from within. Beauty is without.”

They sat in silence for a long time.

“I love you,” High said, voice overflowing with emotion. He rose from his seat, walked over to his wife, knelt before her, and wrapped his arms around her knees. “Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

“I do, but I must know: Did you kill Aashi and Faye Spencer?”

He looked into her eyes.“Never. Never would I kill a woman.”

“Do you know who did? It looks bad for you, Lakshmi; you discovered Faye and you are on the list for killing Aashi.”

“I don’t know who did it. I wish I did because I fear him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not finished. I feel it.”

“I see.” She stood up, pulling him up with her, and hugged him, then kissed him passionately on the lips. “I love you too. That’s why it hurts. But I must protect myself and my children. If you want me in your life as your partner, you must go to McGuire and Woods”—she named a prestigious Virginia law firm—“and assign half of your assets to menow. For one thing, should you predecease me, that will cut down the inheritance tax, and for another, if you do this again, I walk away a rich woman and a free woman.”

He didn’t flinch. “It will be done.”

“And Charing Cross Farm. I can never leave here. I have found my heart’s home.”

“That too.”

“If, for some reason, you awaken tomorrow morning and wish to run heel”—she used the foxhunting term whereby hounds become confused and run backward on a fox’s line—“I will reveal what you are doing.”

At that moment, although he had been married to her for all these years, he truly appreciated the depths of her intelligence, exploding within him like a depth charge. He needed her on his side as much as he loved her.“I will not run heel. I will do as you ask. But I too have a request.”

“What?”

“Please don’t ever tell our sons what a fool their father is.”

“I will not, but who is to say as they grow older they won’t find out? The first Lady Godiva’s life can’t remain a secret forever.”

“My second request. Let us not speak of her between us.”

“Lakshmi, I can’t promise that. With Faye’s dreadful murder, the first murder is fresh all over again and the sheriff’s department knows of your involvement. We can’t pretend it never happened.”

“I know that, but don’t throw it in my face.”

“I won’t, but I must ask you particularly, since you think the killer will strike again, do you know who else Aashi was sleeping with?”

“No. Why would she tell me?”

“I assume she knew people with whom you do business.”

“She knew Faye and Warp Speed’s work. She knew Ramsey, Clayton, Crawford, and Edward, all because of their investments in Warp Speed but also sometimes, as you know, we’d drive up to Washington together.”

“Faye. Anyone other than Ramsey?”

“I don’t know. I only know about Ramsey because once Ilona, when we were hunting, made a cutting remark about Faye. I’d be hard put to prove it, but it fits if you know both their patterns.”

“Yes, it does. I liked Faye. I liked her tremendously. She never wasted my time with twaddle. When I would call upon Faye or vice versa, we sank our teeth into interesting subjects. Did you know she was passionate about poetry? Unusual for a science type, I think.”

“No, but I didn’t know Faye as you did.”

“How is Kasmir?”

“Shocked. He’s taking care of her dog and her horse. I told him tomorrow I’d call around to find a farm manager. I don’t even know if Faye had a will or relatives. She rarely spoke of them.”

“She had a brother in Naples, Florida. Just a brother with whom she had a good rapport. Her parents were killed in a car crash on the Florida Turnpike in the late 1990s,” Mandy replied.

“Ah, poor fellow. What terrible news.”

As the Vajays found their way back to each other, the Porters were becoming further estranged.

Felicity’s mother tried every manipulation of which she was capable: grief, guilt, anger, tears, more guilt. Nothing worked.

Her father accepted his daughter’s decision with scant enthusiasm. Perhaps his vanity was tweaked. He hadn’t planned to become a grandfather until his late fifties and here he was just forty-seven, plus he thought Howard Lindquist was a dumb jock.

When her parents finally vacated Custis Hall, Felicity crossed the quad from the administration building back to Old One, the oldest dorm on the campus. She’d call Howard but she needed to collect her thoughts. She had thought her parents really loved her. She was grappling with the dismal reality that they loved her only when she was what they wanted her to be.

Halfway across the quad, bundled up against the cold and the March winds, appearing right on time, trotted Val and Tootie.

When they reached her, Val slipped her arm through Felicity’s right arm and Tootie took the left. No one said anything. Felicity’s tears came not because of her parents but because she realized her friends loved her. Val disagreed with her but she loved her. You can’t pick your family but youcan pick your friends.

They gathered in Val’s room, the corner room traditionally given to the president of the senior class.

Val put a kettle on her hot plate. It was illegal to have a hot plate, but most of the girls jimmied up some way to make coffee, tea, and hot chocolate just like they snuck in liquor, pot, and the occasional gram of cocaine, all of which would horrify their parents, who pretty much did the same thing way back when.

“Mrs. Norton was very nice to give us the little conference room. Spared you all from hearing Mom wail down the hall.”

“Bad?” Val pulled out three mugs, proudly displaying how clean they were. “SOS pads.”

“That’s the first time you’ve scrubbed them since you were a freshman.” Tootie couldn’t believe it.

“They were clean. Stain’s not the same as dirt,” Val replied, then turned to Felicity. “Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Are you tired?” Tootie noticed the dark rings under Felicity’s eyes.

“I never knew how much this stuff—well, it makes you more tired than physical stuff. Mostly I want to sleep for a week. At least I’m rid of them and they aren’t going to pull me out of school. Won’t pay for night school, though. Won’t pay for an apartment or anything like that.” She stopped, chin jutting out. “I don’t want their money. Whoever gives you money owns you.”

“Won’t be easy, Felicity. You’re used to having a lot,” Val said, not in a dismissive manner.

“I don’t even know what I have—I mean, how would I know until I have to do without? I don’t know how to run a house. I’m pretty good with money, but I don’t even own furniture.” She sat on the worn but comfortable reading chair.

“Sister will help.” Tootie listened for the water to boil; she was thirsty. “If she asks hunt club members they’ll find stuff. Your place won’t makeHouse and Garden but, hey, you’ll have a bed to sleep in.”

“I don’t want to bother her. She’s put herself out for me with Garvey Stokes. I can’t ask for more.”

“Felicity, Sister would be upset if you didn’t ask. She knows about these things.” Val agreed with Tootie.

“I’ll think about it.”

Val and Tootie looked at each other, silently agreeing that they’d talk to Sister.

“There are lots of places to rent,” Val said cheerfully.

“Once I’m working full time we can afford something cheap. Howie should make some money at Robb Construction. Remember, we need a car too.”

“Forgot about that.” Val had.

“Val, I know how you feel about me, about Howie. I know you’re furious I’m not going to Princeton, should I get in.”

“We’ll get in,” Val boomed out.

“You will.” Felicity’s eyes misted again. “Thank you for standing by me even though you don’t agree with what I’m doing.”

The water boiled. Val poured hot water onto powdered cocoa, then coffee, and finally another cocoa for herself.“If I can’t change your mind, I might as well help,” she finally responded.

“I mean it. I hope someday I can pay you back.”

“That’s what friends are for.” Val smiled, handing her a cup, a spoon, and powdered milk.

“All for one and one for all.” Tootie smiled.

Felicity, who had had quite enough of talking about her future, changed the subject.“I heard about the hunt. Faye Spencer. Tell me.”

And so the grisly tale was repeated, with Felicity wretched that she’d missed the hunt just so her parents could try to grind her down.

What is it about horror that excites the mind?

Just as Val and Tootie were doing, other Jefferson Hunt members all over the county were recounting the story to their friends.

CHAPTER 24

How much do you have in the kitty?” Sister asked, as she drove Felicity to Aluminum Manufacturing.

“Seven hundred and one dollars and ninety-five cents.” Felicity enjoyed the high view the truck gave her. “Most of it from Val.”

“Cusses a lot, does she?”

“Not around you.” Felicity’s wry humor hadn’t abandoned her despite her predicament.

“Better not.” Sister slowed, turning left into the parking lot behind the brick office building.

Felicity saw the manufacturing building behind the brick building, which was obscured by rows of pines along the road.“Huge.”

“Garvey calls this the bullpit. Window frames are made here, caps for broom handles, you won’t believe the stuff they make. It’s fascinating, really.”

“Once our second grade visited a dairy.” Felicity observed a stream of white smoke curling upward from the big chimney at the rear of the building. “I mean, I knew milk came from cows and all that but I didn’t know how much happened before we drank it: machines to milk cows, what goes on atthe processing plant. That’s when I became interested in how things actually get done. And profit.” She smiled shyly.

“Profit’s the hard part. There’s no way anyone can pierce the future. All decisions are based on insufficient evidence. But I do know, should you end up in business, a good rule of thumb is, whatever something costs today, it will cost more tomorrow.”

Felicity flipped down the passenger sunshade, a mirror on the reverse side. She checked her face.“Do I look okay?”

“Fresh as a daisy.”

“Should I tell him I’m pregnant? It’s kind of like lying if I don’t.” The strain was showing on her young face.

Sister cut the motor.“Yes, but wait until the interview is mostly over. Garvey’s a good man, a fair man, and if your interview has gone well—and I’m sure it will—he’ll work it out with you.”

“I like Mr. Stokes. He doesn’t do stupid things in the hunt field.”

“I like him too. Ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They walked over the macadam, little bits pilling up over the years. Macadam doesn’t have a long life span. The bits crunched underfoot.

Reaching the glass door, Sister stepped forward to open it for Felicity.

The office building was rectangular, brick with lots of windows. Built in the 1930s, the entire structure, front and back, was no-nonsense. Sister appreciated function so she didn’t find the place ugly at all.

The small lobby contained samples of their products as well as colored framed photos of special projects over the years. A curved reception desk, a deep navy Turkish rug, and six Barcelona chairs offered testimony that Garvey possessed some aesthetic sensibility and was willing to pay for it. True Barcelona chairs are anything but cheap and the desk had been handmade specially by Aluminum Manufacturing, the aluminum top smooth, highly polished, and gleaming.

Bessie Tutweiler, a woman in her mid-fifties, was helping as a temporary bookkeeper and receptionist.

She pulled off her tortoiseshell glasses, hanging on a silver chain, and they dropped to rest on her ample, cashmere-covered bosom.“Sister, haven’t seen you since Moses parted the Red Sea.” She beamed.

“Bessie, that was a long time ago. I don’t even remember what Ramses wore.”

They both laughed.

“And how are you since that distant day?” Bessie inquired.

“Fine. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“This is Felicity Porter.” Sister introduced her to the older woman instead of vice versa. Sister’s manners were impeccable. “Bessie, she’s a wonderful young lady and she has an interview with Garvey.” She turned to Felicity. “This is Mrs. Thornton Tutweiler.”

Bessie stood, extending her hand, which Felicity shook.

Bessie looked sharply at Felicity, liking the package, for the still slender girl was modestly dressed in becoming colors.“Honey, you sit down and he’ll be out in a minute.” She glanced at the small switchboard, a few dots of light showing, and flicked a button that turned on an orange light on Garvey’s phone, alerting him that his appointment was in the lobby.

Sister sank into a Barcelona chair. She smiled at Felicity, who returned her smile, trying not to let nerves get the better of her.

Within a few minutes Garvey walked down the hall, entered the reception area, came rapidly to Sister, and bent over, kissing her on the cheek.“Master, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t immune to compliments.

“Best run of the season Saturday!” He took both of her hands in his. “Just the best. I try to forget the rest of it.” He reached over to Felicity, offering her his hand. “Come in, young entry,” he said, winking.

Hearing a foxhunting term relaxed Felicity a little.

When Garvey’s door closed, Bessie said, “She looks like a sensible kid.”

“A brilliant one. She has a real mind for business. And she is pretty sensible, no drugs or drinking, you know.” Sister left it at that, for Bessie would learn in good time about the rest.

“Faye Spencer.” Bessie sucked in her breath. “How awful for you. I just can’t believe it!”

“None of us can.”

“What could that lovely widow have done to deserve such a death? A nicer person you’d never find.”

Bessie put her glasses back on to check a new light on the switchboard, then removed them to look at Sister. Angel had researched and updated the office equipment, but she had died before being able to update their interior communication. Garvey kept meaning to get around to it, but that’s easier said than done. At least Bessie knew how to work the switchboard.

“Faye was a delight to all who knew her. And she worked hard, Bessie. After her husband was killed she picked herself up and kept going. Faye never asked for sympathy or favors. I hope I find out who did this. I’ll skin him alive.”

“I’ll help you.” Bessie pursed her lips. “We live in a strange and violent world, Sister. No respect for life. It’s all money, money, money.”

“Do you think Faye might have been killed over money?” Sister couldn’t lean forward in a Barcelona chair without sitting on the edge but she raised her voice a tad.

Bessie threw up her hands.“Who knows? I guess if her business takes off—well, she’d have been worth millions, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, I think so,” Sister replied.

“I think there’s a fiend out there. I don’t really think this is about money.” Bessie settled in to explain her theory. “Ever watch the true crime programs on TV?” Sister shook her head. “Well, from what I can gather from them, most criminals, if they aren’t stupid and can’t control their impulses, which is most of the criminal population, if they’re intelligent, they believe that what they are doing makes sense. It’s right. They truly believe they are right, their acts aren’t immoral. You know, like the men who kill prostitutes because they believe they’re filth. Wouldn’t it make more sense to kill the men who buy their bodies? I mean, we do live in a world of supply and demand. Seems to me the retribution is one-sided, but then those killers are always men, aren’t they?”

“Serial killers are, with one or two famous exceptions.” Sister knew Bessie, while not a flaming genius, possessed a sturdy intelligence, better in the long run.

“They truly believe their actions bring justice because the system is slow and unjust.” Bessie repeated the main thrust of her thoughts.

“Never thought of that. I thought killing provided an adrenaline rush, a thrill, power.”

“Probably does. I hope Ben Sidell gets this guy. Makes me look over my shoulder to think he’s out there—I mean, out there on our streets.”

“I’m looking over my shoulder too.” Sister changed the subject. “How’s Thornton?”

“Oh, happy as a clam. Orthopedic surgeons never run out of patients. If it’s not a football player, it’s a skier, and if it’s not a skier, it’s a kid who fell off his bike. He loves it.” She laughed. “Show Thorn a broken bone and he’s in heaven. Isn’t it funny, he was just as enthusiastic when I met him in med school. Blind date and here we are.” She laughed again. “Just love him, just love him to death.”

“Ever notice when someone finds the right one it’s easy”—Sister paused—“or as easy as a relationship can be.”

“Yes, I have noticed.”

“Bessie, it certainly is good of you to fill in here while Garvey is shorthanded.”

“I worked before the kids were born, which you know, and now that they’re married—well, how can I put it? I was drifting along. When Garvey called last month I thought,Why not? A few months will be fun and the pin money never hurts, and you know I quite like it. I like the hustle and bustle.” Bessie’s vocabulary sounded older than she was, no doubt a result of all that time spent playing bridge with her mother-in-law.

“He’s lucky to have you.”

Bessie rose, came over to sit next to Sister, and lowered her voice.“You’re sweet to say that. I spoke to Thornton last night, testing the waters. He said he thought it would be fine if I went back to work, so today I’ll talk to Garvey about it. Even if he hires that pretty Porter girl, he needs one more person on office staff full time. Someone has to work the dinosaur.” She indicated the switchboard. “You wouldn’t believe how much work there is to do here. Mountains.” She emphasized mountains.

“Better get your climbing gear because I know you’ll have a job.”

“Think so?” Bessie sounded breathless.

“Of course.”

They heard Garvey’s door open so Bessie returned to the desk.

Felicity and Garvey were walking in step, both smiling.

“Bessie, Felicity will start tomorrow, working Monday, Thursday, and Friday after lunch, part-time, until school’s out. Then we’ve got ourselves a full-time girl, I mean woman.” He did try not to call womengirls, but it confused him that an eighty-year-old woman would call another eighty-year-old womangirl.

“Wonderful.” Bessie meant it.

“Angel’s office,” Garvey mentioned.

“A good omen.” Bessie smiled again. “Congratulations, Felicity. You’ll like it here. You can’t believe how much activity there is, so much to learn.”

“I can’t wait, Mrs. Tutweiler.”

Out in the parking lot, Felicity threw her arms around Sister.“Thank you, thank you!”

“Honey, I just opened the door. You had to walk through it. I knew you’d impress Garvey.” She waited a moment. “The baby?”

“Oh, he was so sweet. He said I should work until I became too uncomfortable and then come back when I was ready; he’d hold my job. I’ll be back in a week. I need to work.” She stopped, then looked Sister straight in the eye. “I don’t want anyone’s money. I’m glad our parents won’t help us. Howie and I will do it on our own. No one can throw anything up in our faces then.”

“You’re right about that, Sugar. Come on, let’s get in the truck. It’s colder than a witch’s bosom.”

Once rolling back down the road they chattered away.

Felicity quieted a moment. She was usually quiet, but the relief of getting a job had pulled the stopper out of the bottle.“Sister, what am I going to do about Parson?” Suddenly tears welled in her eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

This was a surprise.“You have?”

“He’s a good horse. He’s got a little age on him, but he’s well made, smart, kind, and will take care of his rider.”

“He’s a good jumper.”

“Lorraine Rasmussen is coming along with her riding. She’ll be ready for first flight next season. I’ll have a word with her. You keep Parson, and when the season’s over, bring him here. I think we can work something out, and I bet you could ride him sometimes, although with a new baby I don’t know where you’re going to find the time.”

“You did.”

“Sweetie, you didn’t know my husband, but let’s just say I married well. We could afford help. And even with help, there were days when I was overwhelmed when RayRay was a baby. I do better with children when they can walk and talk but RayRay didn’t know that so I sure learned.”

“He must have been a good guy, your son.”

“He was. I think of him every day, every hour, and I long to hear his voice.” She smiled. “Your child opens your heart, or maybe I should say opens a part of your heart you didn’t even know existed until that door opens.”

“I’m kind of excited. Kind of scared.”

“Well, Felicity, join womanhood.” Sister laughed. “Every one of us feels that way and then out pops the baby and you’re on the roller coaster.”

“I can never repay you.” Tears welled up in Felicity’s eyes.

Sister’s engagement ring and wedding ring glamed with that odd burnish of platinum as a ray of sun caught her hand on the steering wheel. “You can.”

“How?”

“Love the land. Teach your child to love the land and the creatures upon it and in the sea and in the air. Teach your child respect for life. Even trees are alive and”—she paused dramatically—“put that little thing’s bottom on a horse as soon as he or she can actually see. Hold them up there and I’ll take the lead line. You make a foxhunter for me.”

Felicity grinned.“It’s a deal.”

“Now, what about Howie? I take it he can’t ride yet, so use your womanly wiles. The family that rides together learns to ride out troubles together too.”

“Howie can’t ride a lick.”

“He’ll do it for you. He’ll do it for the baby.”

“I’ll work on him.”

“Felicity, men are easy,” Sister said, a glint of deviltry in her eyes.

Passing through the huge wrought-iron gates, Sister again admired the grounds of Custis Hall. She parked behind Old Main, the administration building, as she had business with Charlotte Norton.

The two walked to the back staircase of the oldest building on campus, once serving multiple functions but now confined to housing administrators.

Sister kissed Felicity on her cheek.“You’re on your way.”

Solemn, a little nervous, Felicity said,“Will you be godmother to our baby?”

Without a second’s hesitation Sister replied, “I would consider it a great honor.”

Felicity felt tears well up in her eyes again. She struggled to know herself because she wasn’t given to emotions and now they skimmed on her surface. “Thank you.”

Sister kissed her again.“Go on, young ’un.”

Inside the reception room to Charlotte’s office, Teresa Bourbon, Charlotte’s able and discreet assistant, waved Sister in.

The silver tea service, expensive then, a fortune now, given to the president by the class of 1952 back in 1952, sat on the coffee table, steam spiraling out of the teapot spout.

“Egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches for starters.” Charlotte stepped out behind her desk. “And your favorite afternoon tea, real orange pekoe.”

“I need it.” Sister sank onto the sofa as Charlotte poured a bracing cup and handed it to her.

Then she poured one for herself and sat next to Sister. She picked up the tray of sandwiches.“Nourishment.”

“I really am famished.”

They ate their sandwiches, drank their tea, and talked forthrightly, for over the years the two women had taken each other’s measure.

“Got the job.”

“I’m glad,” Charlotte replied. “Much as I’d like to see her at Princeton, I know she’s strong-willed and I hope this will work.”

“Wonder if they’ll all get into Princeton?”

Charlotte leaned back.“They have the qualifications but I doubt if admissions is going to take three girls from the same school.”

“There is that.” Sister reached for another delicious sandwich. “You know, Charlotte, I have a feeling about Felicity. Like I get a feeling about hound puppies. That girl is going to be a success, a big success. She has drive. Fate appears to be handing her a bad card, but I think it will be the making of her.”

“I hope so.” Charlotte didn’t sound 100 percent convinced. “Her parents flamed me like a blowtorch.”

“Immature people need a target for their anger.”

“Felicity is more mature in many ways than her parents.” Charlotte poured another cup of tea for Sister and herself. “You’d be surprised how many times I see that here.”

“Bet I wouldn’t.”

Charlotte spoke next of the unavoidable subject.“I’ve hired extra security. There’s always fat in every budget, so I squeezed some out. Chances are, whoever this perverse killer is, he isn’t interested in Custis Hall, but I can’t be too careful, and both victims were young and good-looking. Who’s to say?”

“I certainly hope the girls are safe. You did the right thing. The only common thread I can find—well, two—for the victims is that both were quite beautiful and both had knowledge of wireless technology.”

“Yes, I thought of that too. Naturally, I don’t want to alarm the girls but I did have the career counselors give each girl a questionnaire concerning last year’s summer jobs. It’s not obvious—there are lots of questions because it’s designed to support finding a job this summer for those who want to do that as well as supporting life experience information for college applications—but there are a few questions about working for cell phone companies and computer chip companies. Just in case.” Charlotte smiled a tight smile. “As it turns out, Val worked last summer for Alltelback home.”

“You’re way ahead of everyone else,” Sister replied. “Let’s hope Val’s knowledge is limited, just in case.”

Charlotte held a plate of chocolate cookies and shortbread ones.“One good thing that’s come out of this is that interest has spiked in the early Middle Ages.” She paused. “It was taught to me as a low point in European history—well, not as low as the so-called Dark Ages but low—and I don’t think it was at all. The advances in agriculture were significant.”

“And the clothing design was gorgeous,” Sister added.

“Twelfth century. The lines,” Charlotte enthused, for she believed clothing revealed a great deal about a culture’s dreams as well as its reality.

“Long fluid lines.” Sister agreed with her. “I think the true Dark Ages for European culture was the twentieth century. A sea of blood.”

“Exactly.” Charlotte paused. “You know, the sum of suffering was so great we can’t apprehend it. But we can understand two dead Lady Godivas. Understand and fear.”

“Do you think the killer wants us to be afraid?”

“I don’t know. I am.”