The Tell-Tale Horse

CHAPTER 18

The noise of the vacuum cleaner irritated Sister. Years ago, when the market sank like a stone, she had cut way back on personal expenditure, even letting her once-a-week maid go. She gave the woman a thousand dollars severance pay. When the market rebounded years later, the former maid had become a real estate agent. Sister learned to repent of her economies.

Housework, apart from vacuuming, soothed her, particularly ironing. When her schedule picked up, the housework would slide; she’d fret and then remind herself that she’d never read a tombstone that said SPOTLESS HOUSEKEEPER.

All the downstairs rugs, now free of animal hair, had brightened. She’d attack the dirt upstairs tomorrow. She kept to the old school of washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, and so forth. Although this was Thursday, errand day, the dirt had finally gotten to her, hence her vacuuming fit. This evening she congratulated herself on performing two big chores on one day: errands and vacuuming.

Just as she was closing the broom closet door, her cell phone rang.

“Hello, Jane Arnold here.”

“Sister, it’s Cabel Harper. I’m so ashamed of myself. Please forgive my deplorable outburst today.”

“You’re under great pressure. Of course I forgive you.”

“And forgive me for carrying a grudge all these years. I haven’t done you any favors, or myself either.” Cabel sounded miserable.

“That was all a long time ago, and I was no saint.”

“You’re not responsible for my marriage. If he wanted to run around….” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Who couldresist him?”

“It was his sense of humor more than his looks.”

“He’s lost both.” An edge sharpened her tone. “God knows how many times he’s caught gonorrhea or syphilis. Thank God for antibiotics.”

“You know that expression, What goes around comes around?” Sister couldn’t resist the poke.

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s true, but not in such a simple manner.” She grew serious. “Sometimes I think our lives are a secret book. We write in every page. There are plenty of pages no one reads but ourselves, usually to our own dismay. At any rate, I didn’t mean to go on. I hope you can find some balance. On the bright side, there’s your demeanor in the hunt field. Your turnout has always been correct. I like that you have never bowed to fashion.”

Thinking herself quite fashionable, which she was, in a provincial Virginia way, Cabel asked, “What do you mean?”

“Back in the seventies, when hunt coats began to be cut shorter and rust breeches hit the stores, you continued to wear the longer-cut coats that are so flattering to the figure, and you never abandoned your mustard breeches.”

Surprised, Cabel stammered, “Thank you.” Then she perked up. “You know, you can’t find the mustard anymore. Beige, tan, but not mustard. I have to go up to Middleburg Tack Exchange or the Old Habit and flip through the used sections. Sometimes I can find an old pair that fits.”

“Isn’t that something? Some of those breeches—I say this because I do the same thing,” Sister confided, “were made in the 1920s. Quality.”

“Same with derbies and caps. I look for the old Locke’s.”

“Me too.” Sister laughed. “Thank you for calling, Cabel. I truly do hope things even out.”

“To somewhat make up for being tacky, on Saturday I’ll bring three heavy carpet mats for the puppy palace. The puppies won’t be able to drag them. Ilona will help me load them, but maybe Shaker can unload them. They really are heavy.”

“That’s unnecessary, but I do thank you.”

“Well, I don’t do much for the hounds except pay my subscription. Time I gave them more attention. Time I did a lot of things.” She paused. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I look forward to it.” Sister clicked off the phone and wondered at what prompted people to change. Usually it was a crisis. If only we could better identify problems, nipping them in the bud, instead of expending huge stores of energy in denial. Or say we commit to a course of action that doesn’t work. Do we change it? No. Our egos get the better of us as we doggedly pursue ruin.

As these ruminations occurred to her, Sister pulled on her old bomber jacket, red cashmere scarf, a few holes making it more individual, and lined waterproof work gloves. The cold still crept into her fingers, but the lining helped for the first forty-five minutes.

She stepped out into the clear, cold night. The dogs wanted to follow but she said no to their forlorn looks.

She went past the kennel, where a few of the boys out for their evening constitutional said hello. She walked on the farm road, heading toward the apple orchard. The ground, frozen, wasn’t too slippery but the ruts demanded attention.

Once at the old orchard, she checked the feed bucket. Still three-quarters full. She checked Georgia’s den. A neat pile of chicken feathers, now frozen, stuck on the ground about two feet from the entrance.

“Where did you get that chicken?” Sister called into the den.

Georgia, full, unmotivated to leave the warmth of her den, replied, “I’ll never tell.”

On hearing the young fox’s light chirp, not a full yap, Sister smiled and returned to the stable, where she checked the tack and the small heavy bowl of tiny broken-up sweets she left on an aisle tack trunk for whatever undomesticated animal wanted them. Inky often would eat some, as would Georgia. Once she had walked into the barn in the early morning to find a cowbird gorging on the goodies.

A bloodcurdling shriek stopped her cold. Little wings beat overhead as Bitsy rose to her nest in the rafters. A barn owl also lived up there. They got along just fine but they kept different schedules.

“Dammit, Bitsy, you about gave me a heart attack.”

The screech owl dropped down from her nest to sit atop a stall beam, across and four feet above Sister, who looked up at her.

Bitsy opened her wings and then folded them. “News, news, news. I just heard from the tufted titmouse who heard it from the red-shouldered hawk that the jolly Indian man moved into Faye Spencer’s bungalow, the one she rents as a hunt box for visitors. How’s that for news?”

Sister heard the little gurglings and beak clicks. She knew those were happy sounds from an owl but the content eluded her.

She rattled the candies in the bowl. “Good night, Bitsy.”

“Good night.” Bitsy blinked and wished humans were smarter. Being in possession of information thrilled the little owl, so she flew out to tell Lafayette, Keepsake, Rickyroo, Aztec, and Matador. Their interest was not as high as she had hoped, so she flew back to her nest. Well, when the barn owl returned from foraging, at least she’d listen.

Sister checked the electric heater in the water troughs. Running heavy-duty cords was a pain but trenching, dropping a line—that got expensive. Plus the electric company had to come out, and the telephone company, all to mark their buried lines with different colors of spray paint. Someday she’d get to it, but for now, winter meant running heavy orange extension cords to the paddocks for the horses. Horses prefer warm water to icy cold, and if the ice on top is too thick they may try to break it with a hoof.

All was well. She walked back to the house marveling at the clear February sky, the startling blue-white stars.

After she hung her coat on the peg in the mudroom, she heard Betty’s old Dodge truck rumble down the drive. Once in the house, Betty told her what Bitsy had just mentioned.

“That’s good news,” Sister replied to Betty’s tale.

“Because he’s staying?”

“Yes.”

“I expect the Vajays, like all of us, have a point at which even the most pleasant of houseguests wears out his welcome.”

“High and Kasmir are old friends, so I’m sure Kasmir knew the exact right time to find a rental. And I think he’s serious about buying Tattenhall Station.”

“He’d be a godsend.”

Sister then described Cabel’s call, ending with that eases the tension.

“Who knows how she’ll treat Faye this Saturday?”

“Let’s hope Cabel calls upon her social discipline. All those years of cotillion.”

Betty laughed at this because she, like Cabel and Sister, had passed through the years of rigor known as cotillion. Southern girls and boys learn their manners even if they hate the process: All those old biddies hovering over your every word and move. Ultimately the discipline learned was worth every discomfort.

“I didn’t mind walking with a book on my head and learning how to say no without saying no.” Sister sighed. “Northerners just can’t get that. They think being direct is such a virtue and they think we’re devious because we go about it by another route.”

“Sign of no imagination.” Betty laughed as she rummaged in her small duffel for her nightgown.

“Well, that said, I agree being direct saves time, but it destroys all the joy of social intercourse, which really is dancing with words. Where was I? My cotillion. The ice-water teas. About killed me.”

“Me too. Hated them!” Betty agreed, for what could be more boring than over and over again pouring ice water from a lovely teapot into an equally loved china cup, perched on its saucer. She changed the subject. “Do you think Cabel is having a nervous breakdown?”

“Well, she wouldn’t be the first.”

“And here I thought we’d get through a season without one.” Betty’s fuzzy slippers entranced Golly.

“Who knows what else will happen? Cabel’s probably the least of it.” She stared at Betty’s slippers. “Those are a libido killer.”

Betty laughed. “What’s it to you?”

“Well, you’ve got me there.” Sister snuggled under the covers. “Betty, you really don’t need to babysit me like this.”

“I do.” Betty hopped on the bed so hard that Golly, now on a pillow, grumbled.

“Gray and you have obviously organized a pajama party for each night. You’re the first person to sleep in my bed, though. I stick the others in the guest room.”

“Liar.” Betty smiled.

“I am not.”

“Lorraine Rasmussen didn’t stay in the house last night. ’Fess up.”

“All right.” Sister slipped deeper under the covers. “She stayed with Shaker, but I’m fine and Shaker is just on the other side of the kennels.”

“Someone needs to be in the house at night.”

“I have Raleigh and Rooster.”

“What if someone poisons or shoots them?”

“When?” Golly perked up.

The two dogs lifted their ears.

“Betty, what a horrible thought.”

“Murder is horrible and there’s a sicko out there. You’re not on the good side of whoever that is, so get used to company, sweetie.”

“You aren’t going to do this every night. Who else is?”

“Sorrel, Tedi, and Sybil for starters. Ilona volunteered, as did Cabel, but I demurred. If we run short you might be stuck with them.”

“Christ, Betty, I think I’d rather face Lady Godiva’s killer.”

Betty sighed at Sister’s remark, then replied, “I suspect we already have.”

A long silence followed. “I—well, I feel some kind of dread I can’t name.” Sister changed the subject. “You and Gray are in cahoots obviously.”

“Obviously.” Betty turned off her light.

Sister affixed a tiny book light with a flexible stem on her copy of Captain E. Pennell-Elmhirst’s The Best of Fun published in 1903. “This won’t keep you awake. I have to read before I go to sleep.”

Betty turned on her side, studying the light. “Nifty.”

“’Tis.”

Betty rolled on her back. “Funny, how you can know someone so well but still not know things.”

“Are you referring to my reading light?”

“No, I’m referring to your lack of nightgown.”

“Betty, when you and I go on road trips to other hunts, on those occasions when Bobby doesn’t come along, we bunk up. Right?”

“Right.”

“And half the club, the female half, troops through our rooms.”

“Right,” Betty agreed.

“Do you really think I’m going to sit there naked?”

“No.”

“But I’m in my own bed with my best friend hovering over me. So?”

“All right. I just want to know how you stay so tight.”

“Work.”

“Well, I lost all that weight but I’ve got some flabby parts.”

“If it really bothers you, go to a personal trainer. I think you look wonderful.”

“You’re too kind, but then you haven’t seen me without my nightie.”

“Do I have to?” Sister slammed her book down in mock irritation.

Both women laughed.

“I’m trying to sleep!” Golly raised her voice.

“Intruder!” Raleigh leapt to his feet and ran out of the bedroom, thundering down the stairs.

Rooster followed.

Both dogs howled, the hounds starting up too.

Sister shot out of bed, threw on her robe, and opened the window. Cold air rushed into the bedroom. She saw a pair of red taillights recede down the driveway just as the lights went on in Shaker’s upstairs window.

“Dammit.” Sister slammed shut the window.

Betty started down the hall.

“Wait,” Sister commanded while she grabbed her .38 from the nightstand drawer.

The two women hurried down the stairs and opened the back door, carefully—keeping the dogs in, to their dismay—to behold a plastic shopping bag at the mudroom door.

Betty poked it with her foot, felt a square edge, and picked it up. She opened the bag and plucked out a DVD. “Lady Godiva.”

Sister took the movie from Betty’s hand. “Made in the fifties.”

“If I find who left this, I’ll wring his neck.” Betty, furious, heard the phone in the kitchen.

Sister trotted back and picked it up. “Someone left a movie. About Lady Godiva.” She inhaled. “Fragrance. I can’t place their perfume but I’ve smelled it before.”

Shaker’s strong voice replied, “You don’t know what’s on that video.” He’d heard the car leave.

“You’re right.”

“You’re okay?” he inquired.

“I am.” She was glad to hear his voice. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Next she called Ben Sidell.

Accompanied by the dogs also smelling the fragrance on the plastic bag, the two women repaired nervously upstairs.

“Anything?” Rooster asked after checking the bag.

“No. I couldn’t identify anyone. Too much plastic odor.”

“Too cold too.” Rooster’s ears drooped a bit.

“We’re going to have to sleep with one eye open.”

“Yep.”

“Now I’m wide awake,” Betty complained. She had a big day tomorrow at the printing press she and Bobby owned.

“Shall we?” Sister, flat TV discreetly by the wall in the bedroom, popped in the movie. “If we’re going to be scared on a cold night we might as well watch the goddamned thing. You know there’s a scent on it.” She handed the plastic bag to Betty. “Recognize it?”

“No.”

“I can’t place it,” Sister said, then got back into bed.

The two watched a tepid film about Lady Godiva, then fell asleep.

The next morning Sister made waffles for Betty, fortifying her friend for a long day ahead.