The Tell-Tale Horse

CHAPTER 3

Leg-breaking weather, Sister thought to herself. Just a few inches of slick mud masked frozen ground underneath.

The bite in the air kept hounds, horses, foxes, and humans alert. It was Tuesday, February 19, three days after the Casanova Hunt Ball, and the victim remained unidentified. Marion’s store had closed one day to accommodate further forensics but was now open. When Sister went home Sunday afternoon, her friends had rallied around, the bizarre circumstances of the murder having made the news stations. The corpse stayed cold and covered at the morgue, so there were no photos of her, but Trigger flashed across local television screens and made the newspapers.

Foxhunting, thank the gods, swept away the cares of this world, even cares as disgusting as murder. A lapse in concentration could mean missing the fox or, worse, the jump. A fall on this greasy mud meant a cleaning bill at the very least and perhaps a broken bone. It was called leg-breaking weather for good reason.

The fox cared little for this. A stout field of twenty-five people was gathered on a hill overlooking old Tattenhall Station, an abandoned white board-and-batten building still exuding a forlorn charm. Hounds had picked up the perfume of a young red dog fox looking for a girlfriend behind the abandoned station.

Courting season usually started in mid-January for gray foxes, while reds took up the siren call of love in February. This bright, cheerful youngster, new to romance, was still learning the ways of the female. He’d run a beautiful six-mile loop, leading them right back to their starting point. Sister reflected impishly that all the higher vertebrates took their time with this process, and some males never did figure it out.

Shaker Crown, huntsman, dropped his feet out of the stirrups and wiggled his toes, praying for circulation. Sister, observing her longtime hunt servant and friend, kicked her feet out of the stirrups as well, a tingle occurring in her toes immediately, followed by mild pain. Cold took its toll but hunting is a cold-weather sport. They were used to it, even if they did sometimes shiver. She couldn’t feel her fingers. Sister believed foxhunting toughened you up. Rarely did she or other club members suffer the full effects of flus or colds; their immune systems were cast iron.

Horses stamped their feet, splatters of mud and snow squishing out from shod hooves. Tedi and Edward Bancroft rode immediately behind Sister. Four talented high school seniors from Custis Hall, a private girls’ academy, rode in the rear as was proper. Joining first flight, the jumpers, as a capper was Kasmir Barbhaiya in black tails (also called a weaselbelly coat), top hat, white cords, and custom-made boots. Riding one of the Vajay’s Thoroughbreds, Kasmir proved impressive. Behind them, grateful for the check and breathing time, stood second field, Bobby Franklin in charge. Everyone’s cheeks glowed with high color.

Dragon, a bold fourth-year hound ever impatient of leisure—and he considered a check leisure—grumbled. “There’s a fox behind the church at the crossroads. Why doesn’t Shaker take us there?”

Asa didn’t bother to look at the upstart hound. “Trust the huntsman.”

“We’ve only run for an hour.” Dragon stood.

“Shut your trap,” Cora, strike hound and leader growled. “Shaker will think we’re babbling.”

Dragon’s littermate Diana wondered how her brother could be so blockheaded when her other brother, Dasher, overflowed with good sense.

Even the first-year entry, taken out two at a time so as not to overload the pack with youngsters, displayed more good manners than Dragon.

A light breeze had picked up since first cast at nine o’clock. It blew from the west with a bite and the riders, sweating from the long hard run, felt a slow chill seep in.

Sister turned around. “Scent will hold, don’t you think, Tedi?”

“Stick like glue.” Tedi and Ed were perfectly turned out, as usual. Sister scanned the horses. None looked blown. While it is the riders’ responsibility to see to their mounts, an awful lot of riders were not horsemen. They really didn’t know when a horse had had enough and should be taken in. Sister would politely tell such persons that their horses were tucked up and they should return to the trailers. While she never rejoiced in a human being hurt, the mistreatment, even through ignorance, of a horse upset her more.

A trickle of sweat rolled down her backbone. She’d half turned from the wind. Her undershirt now felt like a cold compress against her skin.

The layers of clothing a foxhunter wears, tested by centuries of use, protects the rider, but sooner or later, a wet cold will creep in. The mercury, hanging at 40 degrees Fahrenheit, intensified the dampness. A snow, even though the temperature would be 32 degrees or colder, often felt warmer than these conditions.

Thick pewter clouds hung low. It surely was a good scenting day.

Flanking Shaker on the left was Betty Franklin on Magellan, tested and tried as a whipper-in; Sybil Bancroft Fawkes was on the right, riding Postman, still as a statue. Sybil, owner of two Thoroughbreds, loved the breed for their heart and stamina.

Horses adore this kind of weather. Since they originated in cool savannahs, forty to the low fifties feels like heaven to them. Humans prefer the low seventies, which feels too warm to horses, but they manage it.

Shaker, Betty, and Sybil counted heads.

“All on,” Shaker said, which meant all the hounds were together. “Let’s walk down toward Chapel Cross. We might pick up something along the way, and we’ll be heading cross wind.”

Both whippers-in nodded and moved a bit farther away from the pack. There was no need to speak, since a whipper-in does not question the judgment of the huntsman or the master. Oh, they may do so in private, but when hunting the protocol is much like that in battle: You obey your superior officer and get the job done.

Sister smiled when she observed Shaker turning the beautiful pack, a balanced and level pack, north toward Chapel Cross. It had taken her decades to create a level pack. Whatever some blowhard may say to the contrary, there is no shortcut to a great pack of hounds. A master breeds for nose, cry, biddability, good conformation, and, of course, drive. What’s the point of having a fabulous-looking pack of hounds, with voices like the bells of Moscow, if they don’t want to hunt?

Dragon was a smart-ass but his drive was exhilarating. He shot ahead of the pack.

“Back to ’em.” Betty spoke sharply to him, her crop held on the pack side of Magellan so hounds could see it.

“He’s a lot of work, that twit.” Magellan snorted, two streams of air shooting out from his flared nostrils.

Betty, somewhat understanding her fellow, patted him on the neck. After two years, they’d finally become a team, trusting each other.

The board-and-batten of the railroad buildings, white with Charleston-green trim, stood out from the muddy background, streaks of snow gleaming in crevices and the north sides of hills. Norfolk and Southern, the railroad company, had provided the point as a courtesy to local residents. Although Tattenhall Station had been abandoned in the 1960s, the locals maintained it and even decorated it for the holidays.

The pack had reached the railroad track and crossed it, with the small station, a little gingerbread on the eaves, now behind them, when Cora opened, “Here!”

The other hounds, noses down, honored her, and the whole pack, in full cry, flew over the lower meadow on the eastern side of the station and turned northward, again cross wind.

Sister, on Aztec, a young horse but quick to learn, kept at an easy gallop, behind the pack but not close enough to crowd them. They crossed the tertiary two-lane road and vaulted over a row of trimmed hedges, which made for a lovely jump, slippery on the other side.

The pace quickened. Aztec lengthened his stride and took a long three-foot-six-inch coop, which sagged a bit in the middle; perhaps it was only three-two there. His hind end skidded on the other side, but he quickly got his hooves under him and pushed off. Behind her, Sister could hear the splat of hooves as they sank into the mud and then gathered steam to surge forward.

The fox, whom no one could see, since he had a considerable head start, ran a huge serpentine S. Hounds had to work very hard to stick to his line, thanks to the wind changes, and in one low swale the wind swirled. Sister could see the little wind devil, small snow sparkles in the air, which then disappeared as she rode straight through it.

The fox headed toward Chapel Cross, no evasions now. A neck-or-nothing run saw hounds stretched flat out, sterns behind them, long sloping powerful shoulders illustrating the wisdom of good conformation, as the animals could reach far out with their front legs. Deep chests allowed plenty of heart girth and, behind, powerful loins and quarters, like a big engine in a Porsche, pushed them seemingly effortlessly forward.

The music filled the countryside. In the far distance, Sister saw Faye Spencer hurry out onto her front porch, pulling on a parka. Faye, widowed young when her husband was killed in the second Iraq War, waved. Sister took off her cap, two short ribbons streaming, and waved back. She made a mental note to stop by Faye’s for a visit; she hadn’t seen her since the hunt Christmas party. Where did the time go?

Faye, quite good-looking, hadn’t lacked for suitors once a year passed after Gregory’s death. She appeared in no hurry to favor anyone.

Valentina “Val” Smith, one of the students from Custis Hall, caught Cabel Harper shooting Faye the bird and raised her eyebrows.

A double fence line between two pastures loomed ahead, a coop in each fence and a bounce in between which meant no stride; the horse must clear one coop and then immediately launch to clear the second. Sister liked bounce jumps so long as she remembered to keep her leg on her horse. Sometimes she would become so enthralled with the hound work that she took a jump without realizing it. Thank God, her horses were fabulous and loved to hunt. They could think for her.

Aztec, a bit younger than her other hunters, did need more attention, so as he launched smoothly over the first coop she clucked when he landed, giving him a hard squeeze, hands forward, and if he thought to hesitate he gave no sign of it. He took the second coop a little big; she lost her right stirrup iron on the muddy landing. No matter. Foxhunters learn to pick up stirrup irons on the run, and it’s a poor trainer who doesn’t teach his or her charges such valuable lessons. This isn’t dressage at Devon. This is survival. Ride without if you must.

Fishing for the stirrup iron longer than she would have wished, Sister finally slipped her boot into it—couldn’t feel her toes anyway—and turned her head for a moment to see how her field was negotiating the bounce jump.

Ilona Merriman, riding a half-Thoroughbred half-warmblood mix, hit it perfectly. Behind her, Cabel Harper bobbled on the second jump but hung on, laughing when she righted herself. Saturdays their husbands hunted too. Good thing this was a Tuesday, because neither Ramsey nor Clayton were good riders. Chances are the bounce jump would have unhorsed them.

Interesting as the sight was, Sister turned away from the spectacle as hounds now roared like an organ, full throttle.

The pack ran close together, Cora and Dragon fighting for the lead, Diana, anchor hound, steady in the middle front. If hounds overran the line, Diana usually brought them back. If she failed, the tail hounds, older, a touch slower but very wise, called the pack back to rights. All young entry—Peanut and Parson of the P litter, Ammo and Allie of the A litter—acquitted themselves with honor.

No overrunning today for this young red. Tricks exhausted, or too young to know more, he now flew for all he was worth. Well, he sure was worth a great run. Fifteen minutes later, the pack dug into his den behind the tidy Episcopal Church at Chapel Cross. Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground,” and got back up. He couldn’t feel his feet either. It was a happy huntsman that turned for home. Sister, too, felt exhilarated at how beautifully her hounds had worked.

Wind at their backs made the twenty-minute ride a trifle more pleasant. Close to Tattenhall Station, the tertiary state road, stone and crushed stone now mud, made the going slower.

A field master can ride in front alone when the hunt is done or allow people to come up and chat. Three years ago, an old lover of Sister’s, who had long become a precious friend, passed away. She and Peter Wheeler had so often ridden back together that she’d spent the first half of the season after his death holding back her tears and riding alone. She’d gotten herself together a bit by the second half and begun chatting with folks again on the ride home. She could now remember Peter with warmth and gratitude for his gifts to her.

Today Tedi, Edward, and Gray all came alongside.

Bunny Taliaferro, riding coach at Custis Hall, rode right behind. Anne “Tootie” Harris, Val Smith, Felicity Porter, and Pamela Rene, all students, had earned the privilege to go out with Jefferson Hunt. After each ride they were required to write about their experiences, bringing in geography, topography, plants, animals, weather conditions, and history. They’d be able to fill pages today, since Tattenhall Station mirrored the history of America’s railroads, particularly the spur lines.

Back at the trailers, most people checked their horses, removed bridles and martingales, took off saddles, and threw rugs in their stable colors over their horses’ backs. Sister loosened the girth of her saddle but didn’t take it off. She worried about the cold on that big sweaty spot even with a nice heavy blanket on the horse.

Tootie came up. “Master, Val’s taking care of Iota”—she named her horse—“so I can take care of Aztec.”

Sister handed her Aztec’s bridle, squeezing Tootie’s shoulder. She just loved this kid. “Thanks, honey.”

Jennifer Schneider, a new member, already had the table set up, and people brought their dishes to it. Jefferson Hunt tailgates flourished in sleet, snow, or rain. Occasionally they had the use of a building, but no matter what this group could eat.

High Vajay, talking to Garvey Stokes, owner of Aluminum Manufacturing, nodded when Sister approached them.

“Master, what a wonderful hunt. Thank you.” High’s manners added to his considerable appeal. “I want you to have a chance to talk to my college friend. Once Garvey and I resolve the economy, I’ll bring Kasmir to you.”

Sister didn’t even try to untangle the caste system of India, but she knew whatever High was it was at the top. He’d started out in the diplomatic service but quickly realized he’d be at the whim of changing administrations, so he took a job at Craig and Abrams, a large multilayered electronics corporation. Intelligent and driven, he had steered his division toward wireless phones twenty years ago and retired at forty-five. He’d learned to love Virginia when working in Washington, D.C., for half a year for the company. He’d vowed to return, and two years ago, a free man, he did. Once nestled in the Blue Ridge foothills, none of the Vajays ever looked back.

“How are you doing?” Garvey took Sister’s gloved hand in his.

She’d been his master when he was a child, and earlier this year she had helped him through a dreadful time. He thought of her as a second mother but wisely did not say so. Most women in the company of handsome younger men do not wish to be considered motherly.

“I’m all right, but what a jolt.”

“How’s Marion?” High inquired.

“Watchful but okay. Obviously, we’re all worried for her. The sheriff still doesn’t know who the woman is—I mean, was.”

“He’s thorough. He called my wife and then me. I guess he figured anyone from India would know someone else from India.”

“Doesn’t India have over a billion people?” Garvey asked, his thick eyebrows rising upward. “And six million of them have AIDS?”

“True.” High couldn’t resist reaching for a tiny cinnamon bun, although he resisted commenting on the AIDS explosion, which could undermine, in time, much of India’s recent gains. “But that wasn’t as naïve as it might seem, because expatriates in any country often find one another. He e-mailed me photos. I didn’t recognize her.”

“It’s possible she’s an American citizen of Indian descent,” Sister opined.

Garvey smiled. “We have everything here.”

“You have us.” High slapped him on the back.

Valentina and Felicity waited for Sister to leave the men.

“Girls.”

“No one fell off. With this footing. A miracle.” Val got to the point, part of her direct character. “No bottles.”

If someone came off, a bottle was owed to the club.

As senior class president, the tall lovely blonde exuded a natural air of authority. She was one inch taller than Sister, which made Sister smile, since rarely was she topped by another woman.

“You didn’t get one bottle.” Felicity smiled shyly, a young lady of unforced reserve yet warm.

“I know, and the bar is getting low.”

“If we come off you only get a six-pack of soda.” Val turned. “Here comes the African queen.”

She teased Tootie, diminutive at five foot four and lavishly gorgeous. Tootie was African-American, hence “African queen.” Tootie was high yellow, a term only old folks, black and white, would have used. Tootie’s skin, creamy, shimmering like light café au lait, signified someone of high blood from way back. Tootie didn’t give a damn about any of that in any case; her generation hadn’t suffered from racism to the degree that their parents had. Good as this was, it didn’t mean there wasn’t a reservoir of stupidity out there for which these youngsters were often unprepared.

“If I were Tootie, I’d hit you in the mouth,” Felicity said quietly.

“Ef you.”

“Val, one dollar. Actually two. That was ugly.”

The three girls had made a pact at the beginning of their senior year that when any one of them swore they had to give Felicity, the banker, one dollar. At the end of their senior year, this ever-growing sum would go to a party.

Pamela Rene, also African-American, walked with Tootie. The two didn’t much like each other, but most times they managed a truce.

Pamela smiled at Sister. “Thank you, Master.”

“You’re most welcome.” Sister was pleased that Pamela’s hunting manners were up to form, for one should thank the master.

“The pack”—Tootie paused, eyes shining—“you could have thrown a blanket over them.”

One of the many reasons Sister so loved this seventeen-year-old was the girl loved hounds. She rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride.

“I was proud of them. The four young ones in there ran like old pros,” Sister agreed.

She’d seen these girls grow up in their years at Custis Hall as she’d seen so many juniors in her over thirty years as master. All people under twenty-one were usually styled juniors for foxhunting clubs and the dues were much lower than for those of voting age. When a young person came back after college, more likely returning to hunting in their early thirties, she was wildly happy. She hoped these girls would find their way back to her or, if not to her, then to another master at another hunt.

“Sister, I’ve gotten an early acceptance at Ol’ Miss.” Pamela beamed.

“You didn’t tell me.” Val shot her mouth off before Sister could reply. “Oops, sorry.”

“Congratulations, Pamela. I know you Custis Hall ladies will receive other acceptances. Any college would be fortunate to have you.”

“I really want to go to Ol’ Miss.” Pamela truly was excited.

Anything to put distance between her super-rich magnate father and her critical former-model mother. Oxford, Mississippi, was a long whistle from Chicago, where the Renes lived.

“Her mother will kill her,” Val said offhandedly.

“Well, Pamela, you’ll make the right decision.” Sister considered her words carefully. “No one wants to disappoint her parents, but you have to follow your heart, you know.” She winked. “Takes a Yankee girl with guts to go down into the Delta.”

Pamela’s face registered the compliment. “Thank you, Master.”

Val giggled and said to Sister in a low voice. “Mrs. Harper shot the bird at Mrs. Spencer.”

Sister’s eyebrows raised. “Whatever for?”

Val shrugged, and Sister shook her head at this odd deed.

Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, a boyhood friend of Sister’s deceased son, called out, “Master, we need you.”

She turned to see Ronnie, her joint master Walter Lungrun, Betty, Bobby, and Sybil and wondered what it could be. Well, they were smiling so it couldn’t be too bad.

“Excuse me, girls.” As she walked toward the adults she wondered what she could do to help Felicity, two months pregnant. Her parents didn’t know; Charlotte Norton, headmistress at Custis Hall, didn’t know. The hunt season would be over in less than a month. Sister had the feeling that a lot was going to happen between now and then, and not just to Felicity.

“Are you all ganging up on me?” Sister put one hand on Ronnie’s shoulder, another on Walter’s, drawing the two men near her.

They slipped their arms around her small waist.

Betty, hand on hip, shook her head. “You are shameless with men.”

Ronnie, who adored Betty as most members did, said, “She’s tall, gorgeous, and rides us all into the ground. You’re shorter, pretty as a peach, but so-o-o married. All that virtue”—he clucked—“so dull, darling.”

Betty laughed. “It’s true. Should I have an affair just to prove I can do it?” She paused, glancing at her husband, overweight and suffering on another diet. “Can’t do it. I’m still crazy about the guy.”

Walter, still on an adrenaline high from the chase, squeezed Sister closer to him. “Ronnie, let her go. She’s mine.”

“Never,” Ronnie replied. “Let me cut to the chase, Master. As you know, Kilowatt is available.”

Kilowatt, a fantastic Thoroughbred, was formerly owned by a physician now deceased. His estate evidenced little desire to pay board bills. The executor, Cookie Finn, a lawyer of unimpeachable reputation, had approached Walter.

Sister nodded. “I see. He’s a fine horse.”

“Your bench is deep enough, but Shaker has only Showboat, Hojo, and Gunpowder.” Ronnie pushed on. “Showboat is fourteen. Hojo is eight, plenty of good years there, but Gunpowder, great as he is, is eighteen. We should buy Kilowatt for Shaker.”

“Ronnie, I can’t believe you’re suggesting we dip into the treasury. You’re usually tight as a tick, plus we’ve lost the wonderful monetary gifts Crawford used to make. That really hurts.”

Crawford Howard was a wealthy member who had resigned from the club in a huff.

“I know, I know.” Ronnie let go of her waist and held up his hand to stay protest. “What I would like to do, with your permission, is pass the hat. It is the responsibility of the club to mount professional staff. We aren’t rich enough to perform this service via our much-called-upon treasury, but if I can canvass the elected”—he used the word Calvinists use for those with a ticket straight to heaven—“might could.”

Betty put in her two cents. “Sister, everyone knows we took a big hit when Crawford pissed off. Forgive my French.”

“Guess they do,” the older woman agreed.

“I’ll put up five hundred. I’m sure Mom and Dad will be generous,” Sybil volunteered.

“Honey, your mother and father give so much to this club I’d be embarrassed to ask for more.”

“I’m not.” Ronnie smiled.

“We know that.” Sister smiled back at him. She looked to Walter.

“I don’t see any other way.” Walter slid his hand from her waist to hold her right hand.

“Before I say yes, how much?”

“Fifteen thousand. He’s been vetted sound, by the way,” Ronnie added. “Cookie started at twenty-five. Really, Kilowatt would be snapped up at that price if he were shown at the northern Virginia hunts.”

“That’s the truth.” Sister acknowledged the deep pockets riding in those fabled hunts, as well as the fact that Kilowatt was supremely talented as well as beautiful.

“I give my blessing with one caveat: Go to the Bancrofts last. See if you can’t secure the sum before leaning on Tedi and Edward.”

“I promise.” Ronnie inclined his head, a polite bow to his superior.

“All right, then. Let’s do the shake-and-howdy.” Sister kissed Ronnie on the cheek, then Walter.

“What about me?” Betty pretended to pout.

“All right.” Sister made a face, then kissed Betty. “Sybil, I have enough for all.” She kissed the much younger woman’s cold cheek. “Now come on, we’ve got to mix and mingle. We have cappers.”

Cappers were guests, people who joined the hunt for the day, paying a cap fee. They always added a little dash of paprika to the stew.

Ben Sidell, sheriff, drove up in his squad car slowly, the road being slick.

“You missed a good one,” Sister said in greeting him.

“I’ll be out Saturday. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by.”

“Trouble?”

“Someone shot out Faye Spencer’s barn light. Nothing major.” He waved to Val, who noticed him.

“Give everyone the benefit of your personality,” Sister teased him.

High Vajay bounded up, wearing his dark navy frock coat, top hat, and cream string gloves, then slipped on the ice, going down on one knee.

“That’s how you should address your master.” Sister made light of his predicament and reached out her hand, which he grasped for balance to stand.

“Mandy looked out the window this morning and declined to brave the elements. She’ll be sorry when she hears how good it was. I’m delighted I came out.” He paused. “People think India is hot, but we come from the north by the mountains. Snow and ice descend upon us, but I must confess I never hunted in cold weather before moving here.”

“High, it was a lucky day when your family came on board.” She meant it; their buoyant spirits and natural warmth lifted everyone up.

Kasmir, stepping much more carefully, joined them. “A most delightful day. Thank you, Master.”

“Mr. Barbhaiya,”—she breathed an inward sigh of relief that she had remembered his name correctly—“we are honored to have you. Your turnout is perfect and, sir, you can ride!”

Pleased, he smiled, his teeth sparkling under his bushy mustache. “I find myself in London often. I do believe the best tailors for gentlemen are on Jermyn Street.” Indeed, the street he named was famous for such establishments.

“No doubt, although should you ever find yourself in Lexington, Kentucky, there is a tailor on Red Mile Road, Le Cheval, who does a credible job. I have my vests and coats made there. And you must go to Horse Country. That’s where I buy everything else, plus the really heavy winter frock coats are just the warmest. The clothing is ready-made but alterations can be effected.”

“Ah, yes, I stopped into that enticing establishment.”

High laughed. “He made Marion very happy. Three thousand dollars happy.”

Kasmir lifted his eyes to heaven. “Ah, I am a weak mortal. When Miss Maggiolo took me under her wing I became distracted by her skin, her mane of steel-gray hair, her very graciousness.”

Bemused, Sister asked, “Did you convey these sentiments to my dear friend?”

“I conveyed a bottle of Mumm de Crémant via messenger after I left the store. This was the Saturday morning of the ball. I was favored by two dances that evening and a tête-à-tête stroll down the hall.” He paused. “I am not a handsome fellow like High here. I am middle-aged, portly, and a widower. It will take a long siege, I think, to gain favor with Maid Marion.”

“Mr. Barbhaiya, Marion is not superficial, I can promise you. A good kind heart will count heavily in your favor. And, sir, you underrate your looks.” She thought to herself how subtle he had been to send Mumm de Crémant and not a flashy brand.

This especially delighted him. For all his sparkling personality, he was a lonely man in the small hours and wondered if he would ever again find a woman to truly love him and not his money. “Please call me Kasmir. I would be honored.”

“Kasmir, the honor is mutual.”

“He’s going to settle here,” High declared matter-of-factly. “Leave Mumbai forever. Kasmir says his late wife came to him in a dream and told him he would find happiness here.”

Kasmir blushed. “It is true.”

“If there is anything I can do to help you, please allow me to do so.” Sister genuinely meant this. She understood how it felt to lose your spouse and force yourself to go on.

“I am most obliged. Good evening, Master.” He bid her farewell correctly, even though it was just noon.

Sister was thrilled Kasmir gave the proper address of “Good evening, Master.” As the two men started to walk away, she stepped forward. “Kasmir, excuse me.” The two men stopped. “Norfolk and Southern will sell Tattenhall Station, three hundred acres surrounded by commanding views and some gorgeous building sites.” She paused. “And as High owns Chapel Cross”—this was the estate named for the crossroads—“you would be country neighbors. I can give you the number of the person to call. The company has at long last decided to sell these small stations, while still retaining rights to the spur lines, the actual tracks. The only reason I know this is because the decision was made just last week. A friend of mine is a corporate officer and knows how much Tattenhall Station means to us. It will be publicly offered next month.”

After writing out the number, Sister made her way to the tailgate but was waylaid by Cabel Harper. “I was so sorry to hear what happened to you and Marion after the ball. It must have been a terrible shock.”

“It was.”

“Makes you wonder.”

“Does,” Sister agreed. “By the way, Ilona mentioned how wonderful she thought the Casanova Ball was.”

Both women looked to Ilona, now conversing with Kasmir and High.

“The decorations exceeded my expectations. Did Trudy Pontiakowski come up with the theme? She was the chair, you know.” Cabel rubbed her cold hands together.

“Trudy never does anything halfway. I expect the theme was voted on by the ball committee and passed by the masters.”

“Why don’t we try a theme next year? Our decorations are too predictable.”

“That’s a good idea.” Sister waited a moment, smiled, and then sprang, just like a fox leaping on an unsuspecting mouse. “Please accept the honor and the hard labor of being next year’s ball chairman. You’re so creative.”

Cabel, knowing she was caught but rising to the challenge, said, “I will. And I know beforehand it will be one long agony with Ronnie over the budget.”

“That’s possible, but given your persuasive powers I’m sure you can get things donated. You have a wealth of contacts.”

“I’m going to start right this minute. Ilona doesn’t know it, but she’s donating a winter’s supply of bottled gas for the auction.”

The Merrimans owned a local gas company, selling natural gas and oil to heat houses. Their reputation for service was spotless. Ramsey ran the company, the third generation of Merrimans to do so, while Ilona successfully played the stock market.

Sister watched as Cabel spoke to Ilona, who seemed to brighten during the conversation. Praise a fool, Sister thought to herself.

Later, back in the kennels, horses put up, rubbed down, and very happy, Sister went over the list of hounds who had hunted that day.

Shaker fed everyone, checked them for cuts and soreness, and then put the girls back with the girls, the boys with the boys.

Both humans were grateful for the quiet time together in the functional office, filled with photos of Jefferson Hunt dating back to 1887.

“Good idea today, swooping down to Chapel Cross.”

Shaker rubbed some cream into his hands, now sore and chapped. “Thanks, but on fine scenting days any huntsman looks good.”

“True, it’s the in-between days that show up a good huntsman. On the bad days, Jesus H. Christ himself couldn’t get a fox up.”

Shaker smiled. “Maybe he could.”

“Well, all right. Say, I heard they got the roof on Crawford’s chapel. St. Swithin will be pleased.”

“Asshole.”

“St. Swithin? He’s a good saint.”

“Crawford.” Shaker laughed. “Good he got it under roof, though. He must have three crews working there.”

“Sam says he’s possessed.”

Sam Lorillard was Gray’s brother, a talented horseman and recovering alcoholic.

“Whose day is it today?” Shaker asked.

“Empty.”

“Really?”

“According to my Oxford Dictionary of Saints it is,” Sister replied.

She possessed an odd talent for dates and kept the saints’ days for herself, feeling those former figures deserved to be remembered. She’d consult her saints’ book if she couldn’t recall whose feast day it was. February 19 was the day Henry the Fourth defeated the rebels at Bramham Moor in 1408, and the beginning of the battle of Iwo Jima in 1945, which lasted until March 17.

“Hmm,” was his reply. “I’ve been thinking.”

“I’m scared.” She tapped him with the clipboard with the hound names on it.

“No, really. About what happened in Warrenton.” His craggy face, serious, briefly made him look older than his forty years. “Do you think that woman was put there for Marion to see as a warning?”

“I don’t know. She was meant as some kind of warning. Whether it was for Marion or not, who knows?”

“And that huge punch bowl was stolen, right?”

“Yes. That thing is heavy. I lifted it once to help Marion clean it.”

“You and Cabel keep competing for it in the Corinthian Hunter Class. Actually, a lot of our members want their names inscribed on that bowl. Worth a fortune.”

“Worth a lot, that’s for sure. But you know, Shaker, it doesn’t add up.”

“No, it’s like one of those in-between days you mentioned for scenting. You have to find a line, and even when you do, it breaks. Hounds cast and find again. The day is like that, hard close work between huntsmen and hounds, but you can turn it into reasonably good sport if you and hounds keep thinking, keep feeling temperature changes and wind currents. Why am I telling you this? You know.”

“True.” She nodded.

“Well, what crossed my mind is maybe Lady Godiva is a clue.”

A car pulled up outside. They heard the door slam.

Ronnie Haslip burst through the kennel office door, waving a check. “Kasmir paid for the whole thing!” He slapped the check on the big square schoolteacher’s desk.

Sister, eyes wide, stared at it, picked it up, and uttered the old expression: “Jesus H. Christ on a raft.”

Shaker looked at Ronnie, then Sister. “What’s up?”

“Kasmir Barbhaiya bought Kilowatt for you. Gunpowder’s getting age on him, Showboat’s no spring chicken.” Ronnie glowed.

“That’s a great horse!” Shaker clapped his hands together.

Sister hugged Ronnie. “How’d you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything. High and Kasmir came up to me. Kasmir said, his exact words, Please allow me the pleasure to help your most excellent and beautiful master.”

“He said beautiful?” Sister felt a flush.

“He did!” Ronnie puffed out his chest, his victory making him giddy.

Sister smiled. “From now on, February nineteenth is St. Kasmir Day.”