The Tell-Tale Horse

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 dying are 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’t follow 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.