The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 1 4

Face flushed even to the roots of his wavy silver hair, Bill Wheatley sputtered, “I demand to know who is spreading filth and calumnies about me!”

“Bill,” Charlotte’s voice remained calm, “I can understand your being upset, but no one is spreading filth. This came as an observation from students and I took the precaution of calling former students. No one has accused you of improper conduct or sexual harassment.”

“Well, they’re calling me a Peeping Tom!”

“Now, Bill, what the girls have said is that you often walk in and out of their costume fittings and changes. Peeping Tom hasn’t escaped anyone’s lips. Just try to remain calm and explain this, uh, habit to me.”

“I’m head of the theater department for Christ’s sake, Charlotte. I oversee all the plays, every aspect of production. And you know, costume design was where I made my name before marriage and three children forced me to think about job security.”

“I appreciate that. You need to fit and refit costumes. And I repeat, no one has implied that you have touched them or said anything inappropriate. It’s just that you seem to pop in when they are in, shall we say, states of undress.”

“I don’t care. I don’t even notice!” He lied a little.

“Now, Bill, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you? I’m a woman. Even I’d notice.”

He stopped, stared hard at her, then looked up at the ceiling. “Well, if one of the girls is, well, you know,” he motioned with both hands rolling outward over his chest, “how can I not see them? Not that the girls are topless. Just, well, Charlotte, what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I want to clarify the issue and let you know that some of the girls feel uncomfortable.”

“They’re at that age, terribly self-conscious.” He nodded. “Growing pains and all that. I’m getting close to retirement age, adolescence in reverse. That’s how I think of it. My legs buckle and my belt doesn’t.”

She smiled. “Just don’t go in the dressing room anymore. Everyone’s on pins and needles. I’d hate to see this get blown out of proportion.”

His gray eyebrows shot upward. “A suit? You mean someone would bring a lawsuit against me?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anything would go that far.”

“Oh, Charlotte, all a judge has to do is see a young woman cry in the dock and whoever is accused, even if he’s as innocent as John the Baptist, his head will roll.” He inhaled deeply. “I have loved teaching here. This is my home. But I’m glad retirement is near. Things have changed, Charlotte, not for the better. If you hug a student, it could be sexual harassment. If you say anything, even in explaining our past, that could be construed as sexist, racist, or demeaning to some group. You’re put in the stocks and rotten eggs are thrown at you. And then you resign. It’s crazy. It’s out of control.”

“I agree, Bill, it’s gone too far, but I also know that for centuries, those with power thought nothing of mocking those without. I can sympathize with oversensitivity.”

“Oversensitivity is one thing, using it to harm others or climb up over their backs is quite another. That Pamela Rene is a little shit, I’m telling you. She’s stirred up a hornet’s nest over those artifacts. Do you know what she did last week? We’re rehearsing A Raisin in the Sun, one of my favorite plays. Talk about a slice of history. Well, she didn’t know her lines. I reprimanded her and she said why not use cue cards? She’s a spoiled brat and she hates Valentina and Tootie.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They’re more popular. She tries to bulldoze people. Valentina, in particular, has already mastered the art of consensus. If she can hold it together, that kid will be our first female governor or senator.”

“I agree. But back to the subject at hand. Do you agree not to go into the dressing rooms?”

“How am I going to check costumes?”

“Why can’t a girl come to you?”

“All right.” He folded his hands in his lap. “I see your point but I go on record as saying this is a bit silly.”

“Silly or not, Bill, we have a major problem facing us and this school doesn’t need any more jolts.”

His face reddened again but he agreed. “All right.” He paused. “Who is that tiny little black lady in Main Hall?”

“Ah, yes, Teresa and I need to alert all the faculty. Administration knows but I haven’t gotten to faculty yet. She’s an expert on slave life and labor from 1800 to 1840. She’s a kind of social archaeologist.”

“From where?”

“Brown University.”

“Ah, then she is big beans.”

“Seems to be.”

“That was fast. I thought the search would take longer.”

“Let’s just say that Pamela has stolen a march on us.” She held up her hand. “But she really has found the right person to assess our treasures.”

“Have you checked her credentials?”

“I called the president of Brown this morning and, I’m happy to say, she called right back. Professor Kennedy teaches two classes a week, Wednesday and Friday, and we will pay her way back and forth until this is finished.”

“My God, how long will she be here? Knute Nilsson will have a cow!”

“So far he’s given birth to a small calf,” Charlotte remarked. “Professor Kennedy thinks she can complete a thorough physical examination in two weeks’ time, so that’s two trips to Rhode Island and back. She’ll take photographs and can work from those. It could be worse from a financial standpoint.”

“Yes, but you’d think there would be someone from UVA or William and Mary.”

“Bill, of course there are. Professor Kennedy comes from a school north of the Mason-Dixon line and, under the circumstances, that’s to our benefit.”

“Because anyone from a Virginia school is tainted by being southern? Even if they’re African American?”

“M-m-m, I wouldn’t put it in those words. The woman is at the top of her field. That’s our insurance policy. That she hails from Brown just ups the premium, if you will.”

He sighed. “I never was any good at politics. You are, and we’re better off for it.” He unfolded his hands. “Like I said, I’m glad retirement is near.”

“Custis Hall won’t be rejoicing.” She reached over and touched his hand.

“Thank you.”

“I had one other matter.”

“What?” He was wary.

“Did you design the Zorro costume that Al Perez wore?”

“Yes. Remember when we did The Mark of Zorro? Well, it’s quite simple. I can’t take too much credit for it.”

“And Al asked to borrow the costume?”

“Yes. That’s not unusual.”

“No, not at all. Although I hope you encourage them to make small donations.”

He laughed. “I don’t. See, I’m just not political and I guess I’m not much good at business either.”

“Did you make sure the costume fit?”

“No. He tried it on and said it was fine. Al wasn’t tall or stout. I thought he looked good in it.”

“Do you know who took him back into the costume storage area?”

“Uh, let me think. Pamela. She didn’t stay with him of course. He picked it up the day before the party.”

“I know you’re overburdened, but would you write this as a report? Write it, have Pamela read it and sign it also, and turn it in to me. I doubt it will have bearing on the case but I think it would be prudent if you were proactive.”

He frowned. “I guess it would be And no one has any idea?”

“No.”

“What a horrible sight that was.”

“None of us will ever forget it.” She noticed Teresa was buzzing her with the light on the intercom as directed.

Charlotte would give her the time frame for each meeting and when the time was up, she’d buzz or set off the flasher.

Bill knew the drill. He stood up, then sat down because Charlotte hadn’t stood up. “Sorry.”

“Wait a minute.” She rose, walked over to her desk, and hit the intercom. “Teresa, thank you.” Then she returned to Bill. “How many Zorro costumes did the department make?”

“Two. One would be cleaned while one was being worn. The cape was a light wool, so it would hang properly. I showed the students how to sew chains, thin bracelet-sized chains, into the hem of the cape. Chains kept the cape down but the actor could still flip the cape up and out. If I hadn’t put in the chains every time Zorro, it was Randi Walsh, remember?” He paused.

“Yes, she was quite athletic.” Charlotte nodded.

“Well, every time she passed an air duct the cape would have fluttered up. Hence using light wool with the chains.”

“How smart.”

“Coco Chanel beat me to it.” He smiled broadly. “Only she sewed hers, little gold chains, on the inside of the jackets, allowing them to show. I buried mine inside the lining.” He waited a moment. “Which reminds me. When will Al be buried?”

“Rachel is sending his body to his family in San Antonio. They’ll have the service there.”

“What about here?” His eyes misted. “I miss him. I especially liked eating lunch at the faculty table because Al could be funny.” He paused. “We visited Rachel right after Al’s death but, really, I don’t know what to do. Should my wife and I go over more often or leave Rachel alone?”

“Rachel advised me that she would prefer something after Christmas vacation.” Charlotte felt so sorry for the young widow and mother. “She’s exhausted at having to go through this and plan the family funeral. Of course, she wants it to be special when we have a service. And she doesn’t want it before the holidays. As for stopping by regularly, Rachel, like anyone who has suffered a shock, needs support.”

“You’re right.” He changed the subject. “So the coroner is finished with the autopsy?”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask for details, obviously.”

Charlotte rose and this time Bill rose with her.

He held out his hand. “I apologize for losing my temper.”

“Apology accepted. As for losing your temper, I think I would, too.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re cool under pressure. I admire that. We all do,” he finished as she clasped his hand. “I’m glad you told me the scuttlebutt. It would have been far worse to hear it from someone else. And I will not walk into the dressing room.” He released her hand. “God only knows what else will come up. This tragedy has let the genie out of the bottle.”

“Emotional upheavals bring all kinds of debris to the surface, but we’ll get through it.”

That afternoon the temperature began to drop. Indian summer crept away in the fading sunlight. Sister and Shaker rode up to Hangman’s Ridge as they were working Keepsake and HoJo. It was their last set of horses who hadn’t hunted Saturday. They’d ridden Lafayette, Aztec, and Showboat earlier.

Neither one especially liked Hangman’s Ridge, but it was high so the sunlight lingered longer there, the meadowlands below already nestled in darkening shadows.

After twenty minutes of cantering and trotting along the wide expanse they turned for home, traveling the farm road, which was the way they had ridden up.

“Boss.”

“What?”

“Mind if we walk down the narrow trail? There’s enough light. I didn’t clean it up before hunt season like I should have. I made a halfhearted pass at it in August. If we go down that way I’ll see how much there is to do.”

“Get Walter to organize a work party. Or I will. We’ve got a lot of territory to clean up and panel at Little Dalby.” She cited a new fixture, a beauty of two thousand acres that backed up on Beveridge Hundred, an old fixture.

“Who convinced the new people, the Widemans, that they needed us?” He smiled.

“Marty Howard.”

“She did?”

“She designed their gardens as well as giving them some ideas about creating allées of sugar maples, an unusual choice, but I’m interested to see how it turns out. She also mentioned the living brush fences at Montpelier, and I guess that set them off. Marty let it be known that if a hunt crosses your land your property values rise, and think of the statement it would make if the fences were brush. She selected English boxwoods. Can you imagine the cost?”

“Good girl, our Marty.”

“She is, isn’t she? Crawford’s been bugging me to come along when I feed the foxes. Says he wants to learn more about the quarry.”

“Can’t stand him.” Shaker said this with little emotion as it was an old topic. “I know he’s important to the hunt, I know he’s underwriting the hunt ball, but I just think he’s an ass. And I don’t like the way he looks at Lorraine. He even said to me that Lorraine was hot. I wanted to smash his face. I don’t like that kind of talk.”

“She’s a beautiful woman. All men look at Lorraine.”

“Not the way he does.” Shaker closed his lips tight.

“He has strayed off the reservation. I can understand how you feel, but I don’t think Crawford would be stupid enough to cross you or Marty. He’s learned his lesson.”

The trail wasn’t as bad as they thought it might be.

“Wonder if that old den is in use again.”

“The one just above the wildflower meadow? I don’t know. Let’s see.” She was always eager to keep tabs on her foxes, with whom she felt a spiritual affinity.

“The young ones left their home dens around the beginning of November. We might have a new tenant.”

“We used to have a wonderful running fox that lived there six years back.”

He started to say that with the deer season upon them and coyote mating season firing up, the leaves brittle on the ground, releasing a pleasing but pungent odor, the next few weeks would be difficult for hunting, but she knew that. Shaker and Sister felt every nuance of their environment.

They slowed; the old den was on their right. With some of the underbrush now leafless, the den could be clearly seen. A clever location, it afforded good privacy, had many entrances and exits, and was less than two hundred yards from a clear, fast-moving feeder stream to Broad Creek. The wildflower field to the west was nice enough from a fox’s point of view, but the hayfields to the east, the hay rolled and stacked alongside the edge of the fertile field, provided field mice, rabbits, and voles lovely places to make their homes. It was a convenience store for foxes.

Shaker noticed the clump first. “What the hell?” He quickly dismounted as Sister held HoJo’s reins.

“I can’t really see in there. What is it?”

He picked up a piece of cloak. “Zorro.”