Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (31 page)

She rose, phoned Ben, told him what they had, and her fears for the wonderful people at Walnut Hall. Finally, she sat back down. “We’re between the Devil and the deep blue sea.”

Gray put his large, strong hand over hers. “Janie, don’t go out tomorrow.”

“Sweetheart, I have to. It’s a big Saturday joint meet. O.J. and Tootie are up there at Horse Country buying out the store with the rest of the Woodford gang. We can’t disappoint them. And I suspect we are safer in the hunt field than inside.”

“Mercer wasn’t.”

She thought long and hard. “True, but the pogonip provided opportunity. Tomorrow it’s supposed to be clear.”

“All we have is circumstantial evidence. With a little luck, maybe we can flush him out in the open. Ben can’t make an arrest just yet, but we can help him. It seems impossible and yet …” Gray gazed off in the distance for a moment. “And yet it makes sense.”

“Let me make a suggestion. Have Sam take Daniella to the home place. Just the outside chance that she might get close to figuring this out and endanger herself—because I know she’ll pick the phone right up for a loud accusation.”

“Kill Daniella? That’s crazy,” Gray said.

“Exactly. But he is now a little crazy.”

Smoke curled upward, then flattened out from the two chimneys at the Lorillard Farm. Given Saturday off by Crawford so he could help his aunt, Sam fed the wood-burning stove. The fireplace in the living room also roared. The mantelpiece had the flourish of a Grecian scroll. The fire screen, almost as old as the house, had a hunt scene in metalwork across the center. Made at Pattypan Forge along with the fireplace utensils, it bore witness to the artistic urges of those long-dead workers.

Aunt Daniella, wrapped in a rich cashmere shawl, watched him feed more large heavy oak logs to the living room fire, then replace the screen. “You could have ridden today. Mercer would have liked that.”

“Mercer would have liked it but Crawford wouldn’t. He hunts on Saturdays, too.”

She pursed her lips, a thin line of dark lipstick spread on them. “Foolish”—she took a breath—“but entertaining. Mercer never could get him interested in racing. You’d think someone with that big an ego would have jumped right in.”

“A big ego but also a big brain. Very few people make money racing. Crawford believes in profit.”

“Foxhunting is hardly profitable,” she fired back.

“No, but he feels he gets a lot of bang for his buck. His words.”

“Common. Such a common expression.” She sniffed. She shifted in the comfortable chair placed before the fire. “While I enjoy your company, Sam, I don’t see why I must be here. I’m perfectly fine at home.”

“Of course you are, Auntie D, but the sheriff thought you might be tempted to go back into Mercer’s house before they do.”

“He gave us permission to select his funeral attire and Ben allowed Phil to take the current billing file since we have copies and”—she paused—“is there anything else?”

“No.” He lied, nor was he about to tell her about Gray taking the miscellaneous file, which he had already replaced. Gray had gone early to Mercer’s house, before the hunt. “Auntie D, did Mercer ever talk to you about horses’ bloodlines?”

“All the time.” She smiled.

“Did it ever interest you?”

She tugged at the corner of the cashmere shawl. “Not so much, although last week he was completely transfixed—transfixed, I tell you—with DNA stuff. Related to bloodlines, but he started off about a horse bone that is seven hundred thousand years old. He was so caught up—truly caught up and excited—I let him rattle on. That was the only way with Mercer. Even as a child. Remember when he decided to become the marbles champion of central Virginia? I told him there was no marbles champion.” She waved her hand. “So he trooped down to the county courthouse and wrote out a plan for a marbles tournament, handing it to the county commissioners.” She laughed.

“I remember he beat me all the time.” Sam stood up, thinking this would be a good day for hunting as opposed to marbles. “But he didn’t call your attention to anything peculiar last week?”

“Not in so many words, but he was troubled. Penny Hinson’s murder deeply upset him.” She sighed. “He was too sensitive. And overly curious about other people’s lives.” She spoke a bit louder. “Oh, I told Chantal to stay in Atlanta. No need to return. We’ll take care of my boy. I think she was offended but she can be claustrophobic. Well, she makes me feel claustrophobic, although I know she means well.” She gave Sam a sharp look. “Is there no making peace with her?”

“You can answer that better than I. I’m polite.”

“Mmm.” She pursed her lips together, one of her signature expressions.

As the two talked, Sam didn’t let on that Ben didn’t want Aunt Daniella left alone until the department had a bit more clarity, which he hoped might occur today.

Meanwhile, Uncle Yancy had returned to the Lorillards’ mudroom. Knowing two people sat in the house, he was circumspect. That quickly evaporated as Aunt Netty popped up through the hole he’d dug in the floorboards, casting away the rag pile.

“How cozy.”
She beamed.

“Netty, what are you doing here?”
Burled up in old saddle pads, he lifted his head.

“I wanted to see your place. You have two dens over here, plus this room. My, aren’t you living high? Anyway, I miss you.”

He knew that was a major fib.
“What do you want, my beloved?”

“A little warmth. My den at Pattypan is cold.”
She was half telling the truth.

“How can it be cold? You’ve got the den lined with straw and grass, every rag you could find and the old roof and sides still stand. That cuts the wind.”

“It’s the chill, Yancy. I feel such a chill.”

He stated flatly,
“Life gets colder.”

They shut up and listened intently as Sam had walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, then closed it.

“Does he ever throw out anything good?”

Yancy whispered,
“Juicy bones, coffee grounds which are too bitter, but he’s been eating a lot of soybeans and he throws out the shells. I’ve gotten fond of them.”

“Enough for two?”

“Netty, you are not living with me. You’ll try to throw me out again and I’m not leaving.”
He paused.
“And I’m not leaving Sam. He’s a sweet fellow but sad, so very sad. Every now and then I’ll show myself and he stands still as a statue. I make him happy.”

She frowned.
“It doesn’t do to care too much about humans.”

“I know, but I like some of them, and look at Inky. She lives in the old orchard and knows the silver-haired Master well. She gets treats all the time.”

Aunt Netty considered this.
“That’s a Master and a Master takes care of foxes. By and large it’s best to be wary of humans, if for no other reason than that they are sublimely stupid. Name another animal that breeds past the food supply or uses up all the water. Remember the new people who ran their well dry, then dammed up the creek? See? No brains.”

“I don’t remember that.”
He stopped, cocked his head.
“The horn. They’re at the covered bridge.”

With her fabulous ears she, too, heard the hunting horn. The sound carried this morning. Using the farm roads, After All lay a mile and a half from the Lorillard place.

“They might pick up my line if they head east,”
Aunt Netty said.
“Doesn’t matter, we’re safe.”

The “we’re” alerted him.
“You can’t stay.”

“I need the warmth.”

“Then take some rags and be gone. He’s got piles of them, the dirty ones and the neatly folded ones.”

“Throwing me out when hounds are running? You can’t be serious!”
She fumed.

“After the hunt then.”
He listened as Shaker blew for hounds to move off.
“Let’s hide on the top shelf. In case Sam opens the mudroom door. He likes to hunt, but today he’s got old Auntie D with him.”

“She’s two years older than God.”
Aunt Netty giggled as she leapt from shelf to shelf.

Yancy wanted to say,
“So are you!”
Then realized he was, too. He kept that to himself.

Seventy-one people rode out this Saturday as Sister had sent an e-mail asking members to come to honor Mercer with this joint meet with Woodford hounds. She also requested that The Jefferson Hunt members wear black armbands. Most everyone had to make one, but that was easy enough. Mercer would have been touched.

There were low clouds and decent footing—at least it wasn’t icy. A starting temperature of 42°F promised a good day, perhaps even a great one. Sister asked O.J. to ride up with her as always. Other First Flight Woodford people could also ride forward. The Bancrofts, Phil, Ronnie, Gray, Xavier, Kasmir, Alida, Freddie, and Felicity all rode up behind them. Lila Repton was trying First Flight again and After All Farm was a good place for a novice First Flight rider; the jumps were so well set, most creek crossings were solid. Second Flight found Bobby Franklin leading, and Ben Sidell rode with him. If necessary, Ben would move up.

The sheriff had men placed at strategic points in After All, Roughneck Farm, and the Lorillard place, as all abutted one another. He did not put any officers on the other side of Soldier Road, figuring the hunt would stay on the south side.

The clatter of seventy-one sets of hooves reverberated through the red-painted covered bridge. Hounds, sterns held high, couldn’t wait to be cast, but all their training ensured they didn’t scoot off.

On the right, Betty crossed the creek, as did Sybil on the left, neither one riding through the bridge. The steep crossings didn’t faze the whippers-in.

Shaker was on Kilowatt, a Thoroughbred of great power. He had planned to ride to the front fields of After All, then turn inward, avoiding the woods and riding toward Roughneck Farm.
Then he would ultimately turn eastward again after drawing the Roughneck fields, jump back into After All and draw through the woods. Given the promising conditions, he thought this would allow people to see the hound work—at least in the beginning.

And they did, but not as Shaker planned.

Once cast, Diana loped into the middle of the field, streaks of snow still in the deeper folds. She stopped, stern upright. She blew out of her nostrils, then sucked air in. Pickens desperately wanted to be a forward hound, so he immediately ran over to the reliable, driven Diana.

Putting his nose down, he whimpered for a moment,
“Umm.”

Diana sharply told him,
“Open or shut up.”

She continued on, nose down, and he shut up but by now the whole pack spread out around her. Everyone knew she had something, but would it heat up or grow cold?

Aztec jigged a little. He wanted to go and so did Sister.

To Diana’s right, Thimble opened, followed by Diana who ran on the line up to where a bouquet of fox scent just burst into her nose. Everyone spoke at once, tore off at first in a line, then bunched up, running a bit like a rugby scrum.

The field witnessed this beautiful sight; it sends chills down a foxhunter’s spine and often does the same to someone seeing for the first time hounds work as a team.

The fast pace right off the mark thrilled Sister. Much as she loved hunting, there were times when she was eager to find a line, or disappointed on a poor day. Impatience, a fault with her, had to be curbed. A lovely jump—twenty-four feet long, three fence panels long—sat square in the fence line. Edward Bancroft had built this stone jump thirty-five years ago and it held up. He actually bought the stone because he wanted to practice stone fences. Sister and O.J., grinning and laughing—they couldn’t help it—took that fence as a pairs team, as did many of the riders behind them. If two
or three people can clear an obstacle together, so much the better. That got everyone high; hearts beat faster. Poor Bobby had to hustle to a gate but many of the Second Flight people managed to catch up, observing the wonderful jumping in pairs and determining then and there they would be doing that next year.

Flying through the second large field, hounds hooked sharply left; they took the hog’s-back jump first, followed by Shaker, then Sister, then O.J.—as this jump was maybe twelve feet long. Although three feet by six and using thick railroad ties, it was not a solid jump; one could see through the ties. Not that it was terribly airy, but a horse not encountering a hog’s-back before might well put on the brakes. Not one did today because the pace was too good and The Jefferson Hunt horses had flown over this jump many a time. The Woodford horses were Thoroughbreds and that had to count for something.

Those seventy-one people thundered over the field, jumped a coop into the wildflower field between Sister’s and the Bancrofts’, roared up to the ruins, and stopped. Hounds crawled over the ruins.

Inside his den, Comet remained silent. He’d retreated to the deepest part of his lair. Happy for a rousing start, Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised everyone. He took Kilowatt’s reins from Kasmir, who had ridden up at Sister’s direction to hold Shaker’s horse.

Stepping on the wall ruins, Shaker threw his leg over.

“Thanks, Kasmir.”

“My pleasure.” Kasmir slightly inclined his head, then rode back to Alida Dalzell. He was resplendent in a weazlebelly and top hat, riding his flaming chestnut mare, Lucille Ball. That mare had such a fluid stride the sight of her moving could bring tears to the eyes of any true horseman.

Sister smiled at O.J. As Masters, both knew to be asked to perform any service in the field was a singular honor. The harder, dirtier,
or more dangerous the chore, the greater the honor. And while this was an easy chore, it did mean all eyes fell on Kasmir. He was marked by Shaker as a trusted man.

Sometimes, riding back to the trailers after a hard hunt, Sister would muse that this was one of the last sports where the warrior ethic prevailed. The point of foxhunting was not to make the sport easy but to make it superb sport enhanced by elegance. She could hear her mother’s words, “Jane, face danger with elegance!”