The Tell-tale Horse

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 the Manchester 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?”