Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (20 page)

“Is it always like this?” Tootie’s voice wavered.

“Like what?” Sister asked.

“Is life so sad?”

“Sometimes, yes, but you get through it,” Sister said.

Raleigh came over, putting his head under Tootie’s hand.

“They know. Animals always know.” Tootie cried a bit more.

“They do,” Gray agreed.

“I bet there’s an animal that knows who killed Dr. Hinson.” Tootie dabbed her nose.

The rain streaked across the windowpanes.

“Maybe so.” Sister put her palm on Tootie’s smooth cheek.

Tootie looked up. “Maybe this is about an animal.”

Gray and Sister looked at each other, then Tootie.

Sister said, “It’s possible. Let a little time pass, perhaps things will fall into place.”

Uncle Yancy watched the somber group of humans make their way to the Lorillard cemetery. Yesterday two men had dug a neat rectangular grave, flinging mud over their shoulders. Sitting on the back stoop they had not noticed him, but today, the thirty-two people arrived. Uncle Yancy needed to hide. From under the front porch, the view was clear. Human behavior interested the older fox. Sometimes he thought he understood it, other times he found it very mysterious.

Mercer pushed his mother’s wheelchair, sending specks of mud onto his trousers. At the front of the stone-walled cemetery, the wooden gate with a cross cut into it was open. Plain yet aesthetically perfect for the place, the tombstones, some over two hundred years old, worn smooth, stood in neat rows. No tombstone was huge or gaudy. Some graves were covered with slate like Benny Glitters’s grave. Harlan Laprade’s grave would rest at the end of the middle row, next to his wife. Graziella Lorillard, sleeping forever, would be next to her sister when that time came.

Gray and Sam’s sister, Nadine, walked on the left side of Daniella
Laprade. Both women, wrapped in furs against the cold, emitted streams of breath from their mouths. The ground, frozen since last night, forced people to take care where they put their feet.

After Kentucky authorities had confirmed the skeleton as Harlan Laprade’s, Mercer, his mother, and Nadine—who now insisted upon being called Chantal—had chosen Friday for the bones’ interment.

Most of the mourners were hunt club members who had taken off work. Phil Chetwynd walked to the right of Aunt D, as he called Daniella Laprade, thanks to the long association of the Laprades with the Chetwynds.

The service included a reading from the Old Testament, one from the New Testament, an invocation, and a prayer for the peace of the soul.

Sister thought Friday a bad day to bury anyone. In some parts of the United States and Europe, executions were held on Friday, considered to be the Devil’s day. Of course, she kept this to herself. Gray had enough on his hands. Gray and Sam’s sister had flown up from Atlanta to be with Aunt D, who she loved more than she had her own mother. Nadine also intruded into decisions her male relatives had made without her.

Mercer had picked a funeral director to receive Harlan’s bones, plus the dog’s bones sent from Kentucky. The authorities saw no reason to keep what was left of the fellow. This was an old crime. Like any urban area Lexington had more pressing ones, not that Lexington considered itself urban. Cincinnati was urban, Louisville was urban, Lexington was beautiful. They had a point.

Nadine wanted a regular casket. Mercer, Sam, and Gray balked. A child’s casket would do, for there wasn’t enough to put into a large casket. The savings would be considerable.

She screamed, “You are rearranging your grandfather’s bones to save money?”

So Mercer and Gray had then split the normal-sized casket
costs. Sam had driven to Arvonia, Virginia, in Buckingham County to pick up a beautiful piece of slate donated by Bill and Carolyn Yancy from their slate quarry. Then Sam, who barely had two nickels to rub together, paid to have the thick slate engraved with name, date of birth, and date of death—or, as close as they could approximate Harlan’s date of death. Ever sensitive, Sam also added under Harlan’s name, “His beloved dog sleeps at his feet.”

Nadine was one step ahead of a running fit. This in front of Daniella, ninety-four, whom Nadine had supposedly come to comfort. Earlier, the screaming, tears, and outpourings had taken place in Daniella’s living room, with the old lady present.

After twenty minutes of prime-time emotion, Daniella bellowed, her voice strong, “Shut up, Chantal. The boys have paid for everything. You haven’t paid a red cent. Furthermore, Phil has arranged for a catered lunch in the home place and the hunt club has paid for all the liquor. Shut your big flannel mouth.”

In a plaintive voice, Nadine warbled, “I paid for my plane ticket.”

Now, Harlan’s remaining daughter and grandchildren stood beside his grave. The men bowed their heads. Not one of them looked at Nadine while she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She handed one to Daniella, who clutched it in her begloved hand.

After the service, the assembled trod back to the house, spotlessly clean, as Gray had hired a cleaning service for their place. Not that it was so bad, but Sam worked long hours and Gray shuttled between D.C. and central Virginia. Also, they were two men—enough said.

At the front steps, Sister paused, sniffed. Eau de
Vulpes vulpes.
Ah, yes, the graveyard fox, which was how she thought of Uncle Yancy. Filling her lungs, a small smile at the corners of her lips, she stepped into the center hall.

After having been lifted up the stairs by all three of “the boys,” as she thought of them, Daniella reposed by the living room’s roaring
fireplace, fruitwood lending a wonderful aroma to the gathering.

Nadine helped the nonagenarian out of her coat. The elderly well-dressed lady could walk with two canes, but the wheelchair was more reliable. She was loath to give it up. Nadine wasn’t the only drama queen in the family.

As Nadine hurried upstairs to hang her aunt’s coat, Daniella, hair white, close-cropped, crooked a finger at her son. “Bourbon,” she ordered.

“Yes, Mother.”

“A double.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“No cheap stuff, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mother.” Mercer sped to the kitchen, where Gray and Sam had set up a makeshift bar the night before.

Behind the bar, Xavier said, “Nice service. The slate was impressive. A lot of people here.”

The last act of the burial had the two gravediggers, in black suits, lift up the slate to lay it exactly right over the freshly dug grave. It was still to be filled in but the slate covered it for the mourners. Mercer had wanted people to see it. With the help of the generous Yancys, Sam had done a good job.

“If slate was good enough for Benny Glitters, it should be good enough for him. Thanks.” Mercer took the drink, hastening back to his mother.

Without a word, she grasped the offered libation and tossed it back. Handing him the empty, she ordered, “Another double with a chaser of ginger ale. I want old-fashioned ginger ale. The stuff that bites your tongue. I need more than a water chaser today.”

The boys knew her habits and her favorite brand rested under the bar with her name written on it.

Mercer reappeared in the kitchen. “Another double. A ginger ale chaser,” he told Xavier.

“Mercer, there’s not a lot of your mother to absorb this. Want me to lighten it?”

“Hell no. I would wheel her back here, drop a siphon in the Woodford Reserve, and she’d suck it right up. You’d never know the difference.”

“I don’t remember her drinking so much when we were kids.”

“Because we were drinking too much ourselves. Didn’t notice.” Mercer laughed, taking the drinks, one in each hand, to again attend to Mother.

Sister was talking—well, listening actually—to Daniella. She smiled weakly as Mercer approached.

“I tell you, that man could do anything with a horse. Had an eye, could calm the most fractious.” The crotchety old woman paused, then said loud enough for Phil, standing near her, to hear, “And our family built the business with the Chetwynds.”

On cue, Phil turned. “Good luck for both families.”

“Not for my father, ultimately.” She swallowed half the bourbon, then downed the ginger ale.

Mercer watched wordlessly. “Mother, I’ll be right back but I need a drink myself.”

Chin jutting upward, she appraised him. “I’ll expect you back here shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Turning her face up to Sister, voice low, Daniella said, “I told my nephews to make Artillery Punch. Just knock people out. You need it after a funeral.”

“Excellent advice, Daniella.”

And indeed, an enormous punch bowl borrowed from the Bancrofts contained a lethal concoction.

With Phil kneeling to chat with Daniella, Sister walked over to Mercer.

“You are very good to your mother.” She recounted Daniella’s description of Harlan as an expert horseman.

Mercer burst out laughing as they reached the bar. “She has a vivid imagination. She was small. I doubt she remembered much of Harlan. No way. I expect she listened to her own mother. Me, I just nod my head.”

This made Sister envision a bobblehead doll in Mercer’s image. She put her arm through his for a moment. “You have much to bear.”

He shrugged. “We all do in our own way, don’t we?” Xavier handed Sister a tonic water with a lime wedge and a stiff bourbon for Mercer, who, eager to change the subject, said, “The attorney general for Kentucky ruled that Instant-Racing is a pari-mutuel game. Good. But the Kentucky Supreme Court passed the buck, excuse the pun, and wouldn’t make a ruling on the legal status of Instant-Racing. So it’s been bounced to the Franklin Circuit Court. That will be a circus, all the pros and cons argued before the bench.” He looked straight into her light hazel eyes. “You know, Sister, it’s the same old, same old. Doesn’t matter the issue.”

“There’s a lot of truth to that,” she agreed.

A brief interlude at the bar allowed Xavier to listen. “Mercer, what’s Instant-Racing?”

“An electronic racing game that the racetracks will run and they set the take-out. See, it’s gambling but it’s not casino. Indiana, as you know, has really put the hurt on Kentucky and the Kentucky legislature—well, don’t get me started. You all read my letter to
The Blood Horse.
Anyway, it will put money in the coffers.” Mercer wished he hadn’t used that word—too close to coffin.

“If it gets through the Franklin Circuit Court,” Xavier remarked.

“Yeah, there is that. But it’s not a bad idea, you know?” He heard his mother bellow out his name. “Back to it.”

Sister and Xavier glanced at each other just as Kasmir walked in.

“Master, I can only wonder what’s next,” he said.

“Kasmir, we’re on the same page there. First the discovery of
Mercer’s grandfather. The watch. I will forever see that finger in the dirt and the hint of gold from the watch. Mercer was determined to prove it was his grandfather and he did.”

Xavier chimed in, “And now Penny Hinson.”

“A supreme shock,” Kasmir murmured quietly.

“These events are unrelated, of course, but still, two murders almost a century apart,” Xavier said, then they all paused, for Nadine’s voice from the living room was so loud even Uncle Yancy under the front porch heard her.

“Don’t you call me that! Don’t you dare call me that, you worthless drunk!” Nadine spit into Sam’s face.

Gray stepped between them as Mercer tried to shield his mother, who observed with disdain.

“Our mother named you Nadine,” Sam shouted back. “What is this Chantal shit? Everyone in this room knows who you are.”

“Sam, come on. It’s the wrong place, the wrong time.” Gray grabbed his brother’s elbow, hauling him back, whispering in his ear, “The bitch isn’t worth it. Don’t give her the satisfaction of getting under your skin.”

Mercer bent down. “Mother, I see your glass is empty.”

She handed it to him with one hand, but held him with the other. “Don’t go just yet.” Then she looked up at Nadine. “Chantal, comport yourself. Today is a day to honor my father, your grandfather. I don’t want to hear another cross word.” With that, she nodded to Mercer, who headed for the kitchen.

Nadine burst into tears, left the room, and could be heard thumping up the stairs.

In the kitchen, Xavier, having gotten the drink ready just in case, handed it to Mercer.

Mercer wordlessly took it, hurrying back to the living room. He feared what his cousins might do next, especially Nadine, who trouped down the stairs again.

All eyes upon her, Daniella handed the immediately empty
glass back to her son, and hoisted herself up on her canes. Phil hurried over to help steady her. No one made a peep.

“Mom?” Mercer whispered.

Ignoring him, she addressed the gathering. “This has been a disturbing time for our family. My father is at peace but we are not.” Taking a long pause, she, too, raised her voice, “Revenge. I want my father avenged.”

Mercer said nothing. Then Phil gently lowered her back into the wheelchair. He whispered to Mercer, “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

A shiver crept down Sister’s spine. On the contrary, she thought: Give the Devil his due.

The day after the proper burial of Mercer’s grandfather, The Jefferson Hunt met at Orchard Hill, the farm on the northeast corner of Chapel Cross. Sister and Walter had recently secured an additional farm, also large, which abutted Orchard Hill to the east. Named Tollgate, as before the railroad came through there was a tollgate there, it now had new, more sporting ownership. The club could hunt through first Orchard Hill, then Mud Fence, then Tollgate. Put together, the fox and hounds could run over three thousand, five hundred acres, not an enormously large fixture but certainly an ample one for Virginia.

As always, Saturdays drew the largest number of riders, this February 22 being no exception.

George Washington, one of the best riders of his generation, a passionate foxhunter with his own pack of hounds, was born February 22, 1732, so this was always a special day. Washington’s huntsman was a slave whom he respected greatly. General Washington was the only Founding Father, and indeed one of the few men of his generation, who freed his slaves upon his death. Men, both
North and South, owned other human beings then. Sport brings people together no matter what the century and in many ways, no matter the circumstances of those who pursue it. In Washington’s day, the chance for hard riding, beautiful vistas, and catching up on all the news afterward at a breakfast created closeness. No phones, radio, television, Internet—back then, you learned what was afoot from your neighbor or perhaps a broadside. Newspapers were few and far between in our country’s early days. People always want to know the latest news. Then as now, spicy scandal is cayenne for conversation. And again, then as now, foxhunting enlivened the blood, causing some people to forget the restraints of monogamy.