Рита Браун: Out Of Hounds

“I doubt it.” Sister smiled back. “I am so very sorry. You owned and protected a national, I mean international, treasure.”

“Sheriff Sidell said it would not appear on the open market. It would be sold privately and the buyer may have instigated the theft.” Crawford was calming down, thanks to the praise, which he did deserve.

Sister shook her head slightly. “It’s hard to believe. For one thing, sooner or later whoever has it will feel compelled for friends to know about it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Crawford put his cup in the saucer. “But if the buyer is, shall I say, a crazy, rich Asian, the lawsuits will drag on for years.”

Sister nodded. “One doesn’t have to be a crazy, rich Asian; I suspect you are right about ego finally trumping good sense.”

Marty crossed her legs. “Did you know the Chinese are building a horse city? They want to attract world-class riders for five-star events. Honey, where is that?”

“Tianjin, near Beijing. I hear they may be having flu problems. No matter. We aren’t taking horses there.”

“I was reading in my London Times. ” She then added, “China is so big there’s bound to be winter bugs. The government says they aren’t worried. But they sure are competitive. They want five-star equine events in China.”

“Fair Hills won the competition for the second five-star location in our country. Much as I wish Morven Park had secured the win,” Sister named a wonderful equine setting in Northern Virginia, “Fair Hills sits right where Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware plus Maryland itself, come together, or almost come together. Will Dupont created it. Well, the Duponts also saved Montpelier, then Will’s sister, Alice, took it over. Same color scheme, dark hunter green with white trim on the old buildings. Stunning, really. Now, if a venue like that had bought the painting, we could understand—not that you would sell it.”

“I would never ever sell a Munnings, any Munnings, nor would I sell a Stubbs.”

“Yes.”

“How was today’s hunt? Mousehold Heath? Right?” Marty inquired.

“So-so. A few bursts, but that was it. And Thursday we had our best hunt of the year. You never know.”

“About anything,” Marty agreed. “Sister, you are an amateur enthusiast of sporting art. Have you any thoughts on what might have happened to our painting?”

“No, but if you will allow me, I will call the Sporting Library and Museum in Middleburg, as well as the Museum of Hounds and Hunting at Morven Park. Given their training and contacts, they might be able to think of something. You know Sheriff Ben Sidell will do a good job, but the art world, the museum world, like any other, contains people who know one another or know about one another.”

“What about the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts?” Marty asked.

“I’m sure our sheriff has already called them. As the museum has the Paul Mellon collection of equine art, you know they know the painting’s history…or provenance, as it is called. And I will call Ben to remind him, if the VMFA doesn’t, that Yale’s museum has some of Mr. Mellon’s collection. He was a Yale man.”

“So was Cole Porter.” Crawford sighed.

“Honey, the day will come when Indiana University touts you as one of their outstanding graduates.” Marty smiled.

“I suppose if I built a new football stadium, they would.” He shrugged. “Sister, I have to get that Munnings back.”

“I hope you do. I will make those calls.” Sister sipped the last of her tea. “Thank you for allowing me in here, as I reek of eau de cheval. ”

“Best perfume on earth.” Marty smiled. “You were kind to come.”

“ Violet Munnings with Isaac is one of the great paintings of the twentieth century. We have never discussed art but I do think Sargent, Whistler, and Munnings to be outstanding. When so-called modern art came along they were overshadowed, but that is shifting. Good work is good work and fashions in art are like hemlines.”

“An awful thought, really,” Marty chipped in. “Human nature, I expect.”

“Ever really think about what humans want no matter the century?” Crawford sat up a bit straighter. “Power over others. Greed. Doing whatever they please without consequences. Think of the Greek gods.”

Sister knew they, too, paid consequences, but arguing with Crawford, or offering any form of correction, was never well received. “At least the Greek gods had good taste.” She half laughed then added, “And so did your thieves.”

Marty thought a moment. “Well, I guess they did.”

“Time and the tides. We’ll see.” Sister rose to leave.

Driving out of the too showy estate, Sister really felt sorry for Crawford. His need to be the center of attention, to run the show, would never change but he had learned what money could and couldn’t buy in central Virginia. His labors to restore a historically important home and grounds, Old Paradise, brought him some of the respect he had squandered when first moving to the area. He hired a historian and archaeologists who, using the latest technology, uncovered graves grown over by trees, decades of growth since the second decade of the nineteenth century. Many of the graves contained slaves but some may have been graves of Monacan Indians, the humans who preceded African Americans and Europeans. Irritating as he could be, Crawford did good things, things few could afford to do.

As she turned off the two-lane state road to her farm, she thanked the powers-that-be that her late husband, Ray, left her comfortable but not disgustingly rich. Too much of anything isn’t good. Then again, some people have to be king. Crawford was one of them. What was the man like who took that extraordinary painting?

CHAPTER 5

February 10, 2020 Monday

“Good thing Crawford hasn’t seen this.” Sam Lorillard lifted one eyebrow.

“He’d…well, you know.” Skiff Kane, Crawford’s huntsman, kept the rest of the thought to herself.

Best not to criticize or bite the hand that feeds you.

Sam, older, wasn’t one to complain but the sight of Showoff Stables alerted him to the fact that big money had been spent.

“Anyone home?” Skiff walked to the main office.

Sam waited with the empty trailer as Skiff walked back.

Horses, blankets on them, the expensive Irish kind, played in the large paddocks. A lone figure walked up from the farthest paddock, bucket in gloved hand. As he reached the trailer, he hung the bucket on the fence post.

“Hello. You Crawford Howard’s people?”

“Yes, Sir.” Sam reached out his hand to shake the middle-aged man’s hand, as did Skiff.

He did not remove his glove to shake hands, a small breach of manners but it was cold.

“Skiff Kane.”

Sam smiled. “I should have introduced the lady. Well, we’re here to pick up the blood bay mare. Mr. Howard has already paid, which you probably know.”

“Parker Bell.” He gave his name. “Boss said all was ready. Follow me. I put her in a stall.”

The three walked into the cavernous, light stable, where Parker stopped, a snort inside greeting him.

“A true blood bay,” Skiff said admiringly.

Parker nodded. “Don’t see many.” He walked into the stall, slipped a halter on her, the good leather ones from Fennell’s in Lexington, Kentucky, leading her out with a Fennell’s lead shank. “She goes by Sugar. Come on, Sugar.”

Obediently, the stunning horse followed him out. He removed her light sheet, her indoor rug, to reveal her glistening coat.

“Beautiful shoulder.” Sam admired her.

“Good athlete. Long stride. You need to coax her across water but she’ll do it if she knows you mean it.”

“Well, let’s load her up.” Sam smiled.