The Litter Of The Law

Saturdays Harry and Fair liked to join their friends for foxhunting. As the fox was chased, not killed, they especially enjoyed riding behind hounds, land rolling before them like green waves, Blue Ridge Mountains behind, a splendid theatrical backdrop.

Today’s hunt lasted three hours. Once back at their trailers, people wiped down horses and threw sweat sheets over them, since it was warm, in the mid-fifties. After putting out buckets of water, they hurried to join everyone else at the tailgate. Literally it was a tailgate: The tailgates on trucks were dropped, a few card tables were put out and little oil tablecloths were tossed over them.

The talk always began with the day’s sport before rapidly moving to other subjects. Many of today’s hunters had also attended Hester’s service.

Big Mim, hot coffee in hand, mentioned, “I believe Sarah Price will take over Hester’s house.”

“Wonderful,” Wesley said, nodding.

“I’d think you’d feel otherwise,” said Neil with a hint of sarcasm. He was a non-rider who’d come to join the group, as did others, food and drink being a reliable magnet.

“Why? It’s a piece of old Virginia, and better that such places stay in the family.”

“Ah.” Neil swilled his scotch. “You’re right. I was thinking of the commission on a sale. Would sell for a lot, that place.”

Harry said, “I couldn’t possibly afford my farm today. It’s kind of crazy.”

“Prices go up and down,” said Wesley, “but when it comes to beautiful farms in Virginia, they have held steady despite all. Now, I’m not saying I’ve sold a lot lately, mind you, but we are in a better position than most of the country.”

“Not the boom towns,” Neil pressed.

“Like Oklahoma City?” Fair asked. “You know, it’s exciting when something hits like the boom in the Dakotas and Oklahoma. Hope, energy, jobs, but you wonder how it will all turn out down the road.”

“Honey, that’s true for everything.” Harry smiled, then focused on Neil. “How about fertilizer samples? Just enough to, say, put on three small patches, four feet by four feet. I’ll make little squares back behind the sunflowers.”

“Be happy to. I know if you have a good experience and endorse my products, others will follow.” Neil was right about that. “Have you thought about what you would be growing?”

“Have.”

Tazio and her boyfriend, Paul Diaz, joined them. As Paul rode and trained Big Mim’s horses, Tazio had realized she’d better learn to ride.

To Paul’s credit, he was studying architecture, and the two, on his weekday off, would drive to Richmond, Washington, and other places to look at buildings constructed at different periods in our history. He found he liked it, just as Tazio found she liked riding.

“She’s going to move up to Second Flight,” Paul bragged of Tazio, referring to the foxhunting group closer to the action.

Tazio rode in the back on an adorable babysitter of a horse, but as she gained skill and confidence, she would move up a notch.

“Never doubted that for a minute,” Fair told her.

“How’s it coming for the Halloween Hayride?” Neil asked.

“Frankenstein will be ready,” said Tazio. “He’ll snap the restraining belts, climb off the table, attack the good doctor”—she nodded at Wesley—“then run out the door.”

“I’m scared already,” Harry said.

Neil laughed. “It’s going to be the scariest hayride ever, and we will raise a bundle. I’m committed to that and others are, too.”

“I think a room in the library should be named for Hester,” Harry thought out loud.

“You’re right, honey,” Fair agreed.

“After the hayride, we can bring it before the library board. I’m getting excited about this.” Neil smiled.

“You get excited about anything that makes money,” Wesley teased him.

“Profit motive. Built this country,” Neil fired back.

Big Mim, who had left the group, sailed back into their conversation, changing the subject. “Given the dryness, not a bad hunt. We do need rain, though. Desperately.”

“That we do,” Fair said. “The ground is so hard it’s like running on brick.”

“Tazio,” Big Mim addressed the architect, who looked stunning in hunt kit, “you’ve been over there at the school buildings. Are they salvageable?”

With a big grin, Tazio replied, “They are in great shape. The real expense in fixing them up would be plumbing, heating, air-conditioning. But those buildings were solidly built, well sited, and there’s not even a leak in those roofs. You could actually still use the huge cast-iron furnaces.”

“Good,” Big Mim said. “Lot of history there.”

“I wish older people would write down what they lived through—the good, the bad, and the ugly,” Harry said with some emotion. “History books can be dry or filled with speculation about this world force and that armament technology. I want to hear what people who lived through it all thought and felt.”

“Good point.” Tazio rested her hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment.

“Speaking of knowing, the TV reporters and the newspaper say that Hester was shot,” said Neil. “And so was that fellow you found in the Morrowdale field. But how and where were they shot, exactly?” he asked, not realizing that Harry might not wish to recall any of this.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Fair stepped in. “When we found the scarecrow, he was fully dressed. Hester was, too. No wounds were evident.”

“Neil, I don’t really want to know,” Harry lied. Cooper had told her they were shot through the heart. Cooper had also told her the sheriff’s department was withholding the exact M.O. “They’re both gone, a young man and a neighbor. That’s enough.”

Neil shrugged. “I guess I get too curious. Too many crime shows on television.”

“It’s always so antiseptic, those shows. No faces frozen in horror.” Tazio reached for Paul’s hand. “What I want to know is why our society is so enthralled by crime and violence. Why can’t we be enthralled by beauty, harmony, or perfect proportion?”

“Because they demand sensitivity.” Fair surprised them by coming right out with this. “Anyone can see a beautiful sunrise or hear great music, but not everyone can feel it. Yet everyone can feel violence.”

“I never thought of that,” Wesley remarked.

“And I suppose everyone can kill,” Tazio said, “but how many people can compose a symphony?”

“I’m not sure everyone can kill,” Neil replied. “Then again, I don’t want to find out.”

To change the subject, Harry asked Tazio, “That old slip of paper you found—did you by any chance check to see if it was a student? I mean, I wonder if they have the old rolls.”

“I didn’t find out yet.”

“What was the name?” Wesley was nosy.

“Walter Ashby Plecker,” Tazio answered.