The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 3 0

“Nine more days,” Marty fretted as she twirled her pencil around in her fingers.

Sorrel, sitting across from her at the table in Marty’s opulent kitchen, checked her yellow notepad. “We’re sold out. At least we don’t have to get on the horn and push for RSVPs. People don’t RSVP like they used to do. I can’t decide if it’s because they don’t know any better or everyone’s on overload.”

“A little of both, maybe.” Marty peered down at her own notebook, a lavender-paged stenographer’s notebook, pages covered with names, numbers, arrows pointing up, down, right, and left and some squiggling along the margins.

“Bill says he and the girls will be at the Great Hall at seven A.M. I’ll be there, too.”

“That’s a good idea. It’s probably also a good idea to just let him run the show. If he needs more bodies, we can supply them, but Bill can do this in his sleep.” Marty thought snagging Bill Wheatley was one of her biggest coups.

“You’ve checked the silent auction list?”

“Yes. We still need more high-ticket items. We’ve got caps from other hunts, always a nice idea. We’ve got framed prints, a weekend at Grand Cayman Island, another weekend with theater tickets in New York. Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses have donated a case of their wine. Jay Tomlinson donated one free shoeing. Nothing like a good blacksmith to keep your horse right.” Marty tapped the pencil on her frosted lipstick. “I know we need things that are affordable for most people but we need one or two very spectacular items like the weekend in New York.”

“I’ve racked my brain.” Sorrel leaned back in the ladderback chair—not an easy thing to do, so she tipped on the back legs.

“What about jewelry? A gorgeous antique pair of studs, you know, gold foxhead studs with ruby eyes for a gentleman and maybe a brooch with a foxhunting theme. What about those painted crystals from England? You know, the round things, oh, they can be earrings or pins or even cuff links.”

“Marty, you can’t find antique ones. No one gives them up until death, and a new pair of cuff links might cost $2,500. We can’t even buy them wholesale to put them in the auction.” She read down the list again. “The Lionel Edwards prints ought to fetch at least $2,500, don’t you think?”

“I hope so. Those,” she read her own notes, “were donated by Henry Xavier, God bless him.”

“Riding lessons from Sam Lorillard.” Marty smiled. “I didn’t have to lean on him. He wanted to do it.”

“What about a tax review by Gray?” Sorrel wondered.

“Well, he’d do it, but that’s not exactly a festive item. He’s already donated a white vest; how many of those do you see?” Marty thought she might bid on it for her husband, then realized that Gray was more fit and slender than Crawford, who was fighting the battle of the bulge.

“I guess we can’t ask Bill to take on a decorating job, you know, someone’s den?” Sorrel didn’t want to go to the well too often.

“No, maybe Dolly Buswell would give a consultation. Now, that’s pretty appealing.” Marty cited a local interior decorator.

“I’ll call her.”

They sat there, then Marty said, “It’s a good list. You’ve done a great job.” Then she paused. “It’s that one spectacular item that eludes us.”

“Free breeding to Salem Drive and Tom Newton also donated a breeding to Harbor Man.” Sorrel thought that was pretty good as both Thoroughbreds had useful bloodlines for foxhunters.

“Sure, that appeals to horsepeople, but I’m thinking of a spectacular piece of jewelry, an antique car, or a carriage or buggy. Now, the sculpture Crawford donated is good. I’m thinking along those lines. Big-ticket items.”

“Do we have any pals at Tiffany’s?” Sorrel lusted after a pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings priced at $16,500. Not that she could afford them.

“Not good enough to donate the earrings,” Marty said with a sigh.

Sorrel sighed, too. “We have nine days. Maybe I can find a pal at Tiffany’s. Well, we’ve got to keep pushing.”

They double-checked the menu; the open bar would last for an hour, then switch to a paying bar. Finally they settled into an exchange of news and views over hot chocolate.

“She’s so drawn. I hope she’s not sick.” Marty was referring to Charlotte Norton.

“I expect she’s worried half to death. Until Ben Sidel nails Al’s murderer, she has to feel vulnerable. You know parents will have long talks with their kids over Christmas vacation, and I’m sure some won’t return to Custis Hall. I’m surprised more weren’t yanked out of here.”

“Charlotte’s a brilliant headmaster. She’s contained the damage as much as she can, reassured students and parents as much as she can.”

“Sorrel, isn’t it funny how people respond to things? Sister says little, keeps going, but since she saw that hanging and it was on Hangman’s Ridge, you know that brain is whirring at high speed. And she won’t rest until the killer is found either. Then there’s Bill Wheatley. Cried about Al’s death, then bounced right back, his old jolly self. As for Ben, it’s his business. Can’t expect him to be emotionally involved. Crawford says the board meetings are strained, everyone is worried, but at least no one is blaming anyone else or fighting out of frustration. But he said they are all affected by this.”

“Someone stands to gain something. Hard to imagine, though.” Sorrel reflected on her own experiences. “I still wonder if this doesn’t lead to sex. You just never know.”

“No, you don’t.”

The back door opened. Crawford stepped into the kitchen—all marble tops, recessed lighting, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and an Aga stove. The cost of the kitchen exceeded the cost of most homes. The heart pine flooring provided what visual warmth there was, that and the huge step-down fireplace, a nod to Sister’s fireplace, except this one was all gorgeous veined white marble that echoed the marble on the counters.

“Hello, Sorrel, how are you?”

“Fine, and yourself?”

“Cold.”

“Sit down, honey, I’ll make you a hot chocolate.” Marty rose as Crawford removed his coat.

“Oh, hey.” He reached into the pocket as he hung it up. “Here. Put that in the auction since I see you’ve got out your lists.” He dropped a ring into Sorrel’s hands.

“That’s pretty.”

“Might get a hundred dollars.”

Marty walked over to inspect it. “Good gold. The onyx is lovely. Where’d you buy that? I thought you were out with Sister today fixing jumps. X crashed into that timber jump,” she hastened to add. “Wasn’t his fault. By the time he reached it the footing was horrendous.”

“We fixed that first and then you know Sister. She always kills two birds with one stone. She had buckets of feed on the back of the pickup. I mean she had the entire bed filled with fifty-pound bags. We used them. Anyway, this was outside a den at Tedi and Edward’s. Sister said it was Target’s den. She remembers every fox. Don’t know how she does it. They look red or gray to me.” He was in a good mood.

“Isn’t that odd?” Marty poured the milk onto the cocoa.

“She said some foxes are pack rats. They can’t resist shiny things, toys. I peeked into his den and there was a baseball in there. She said he’ll take any toy the dogs leave out and so will Uncle Yancy, another of her foxes. But she said Uncle Yancy prefers clothing more than toys. He’ll steal hats, T-shirts, barn rags.” He shook his head. “She loves these animals. I think she loves them almost as much as her hounds.”

“Hey, why don’t we put, ‘donated by Target, red fox living at After All.’ ” Sorrel sat up straight, eyes bright.

Crawford shrugged. “Might bring another hundred dollars.”