Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

“We have good manners,” Rooster bragged. “We could get into rich homes.”

“Maybe,” Raleigh corrected him. “Some people are weird about dogs.”

“I doubt this is someone young. Has to be someone established. Okay. I say this is a man or woman, middle-aged, smooth manners, attractive, can talk to anybody. Actually, we have some men in the club who fit that bill. Gray is handsome, can deal with senators, corporate heads; Kasmir; Crawford, but he’s rough around the edges; umm, Walter. Now there’s something. A doctor can go anywhere. Hadn’t thought of that. Carter, another smoothie, and his friend Buddy Cadwalder. Gigi Sabatini has a big business but he’s not really smooth. He’s not badly mannered, but the polish isn’t there. You guys, now what?”

“Wait for another murder or theft?” Rooster offered.

“Hey, someone’s coming.” Raleigh stood up and barked.

The motor cut off. Sister rose, went to the outside door. “Good God.” She opened the door. “Come in.”

Jordan Standish stepped into the tack room, inhaling for the first time the aroma of oiled leather and eau de cheval. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were at the 1780 House?”

“You didn’t ask. Sit down. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Will those dogs bite?”

“No, not unless you threaten me. You were lucky no one was hurt yesterday. No horse spooked. No one fell off.”

Jordan fiddled with the zipper of his heavy jacket, running it down, for the room was seventy degrees. “Are you going to press charges?”

“No. You weren’t trespassing on my land. You trespassed on Kasmir Barbhaiya’s land.”

His lower jaw jutted out slightly. “Can you ask him not to do that?”

“No.”

“We won’t disrupt a hunt again.”

“Once was enough. You really were lucky no damage was done to people or property.” She remained cool.

He heated up a little. “Foxhunting is cruel. All hunting is cruel.”

“People kill one another every day. Women and children are raped and beaten. First, I don’t think hunting is cruel if responsibly done. Second, why don’t you focus on the big issues?”

His face reddened. “It’s elitist.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Are you more concerned about us chasing foxes we don’t kill than you are about the violence humans inflict upon one another?”

He sat there mute as maggots…finally, “It’s so frivolous.”

“Beating women or hunting?”

“What purpose does it serve? Hunting, I mean.”

“Well, I keep moving, for one thing. I’m, we are all, out in fresh air, we must keep fit, and we see the beauty of nature. There’s no such thing as a foxhunter who is not an environmentalist. But Mr. Standish, what do you think of golfers? Skiers? Surfers? What about someone who goes out in the bay with a small sailboat? Have you no hobbies? Are you intent on removing all passions and joys? A modern Oliver Cromwell?”

“I want to improve Virginia.”

He knew little about Cromwell.

“Banning foxhunting isn’t the way to do it. Try this, Mr. Standish, one out of eleven children in this state has slept on the streets at night; Virginia, the best-managed state in the union. At least that’s what those kind of listings say. For years we top that list. So how about addressing that instead of fooling around with foxhunting?”

“New people are pouring into Virginia. They don’t believe in foxhunting, shooting, you know, guns.”

“And you intend to be their leader? Have you ever shot skeet?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“It’s a good hobby. Need hand-eye coordination and you can do it pretty much by yourself, with one person to loosen the target. Or clays; anything, really. It’s relaxing. Just you and an inanimate, moving target. But perhaps you can’t enjoy anything that doesn’t align with your purpose.”

“So you will not willingly stop foxhunting?” He evaded her questions.

“No and neither will any other hunt club. Have you any idea how much money horse-related activities pour into this state? Over one billion dollars. One billion. Do you want to be the elected official, say you get elected, who costs the state one billion dollars? And the horse world is a clean world. No pollution discharged into our rivers, no destroying our beautiful land for housing developments. You really ought to think this through.”

“I knew you wouldn’t listen.”

“I have listened. You do as you wish with your campaign but those who agree with you aren’t, shall we say, our people. Few will have been born here. Even if you continue to think badly of us, you have to make compromises to lead.”

“Our president doesn’t.”

“Mr. Standish, he makes compromises every day, even if he denies them. So did every prior president.”

“Did you vote for Trump?”

“Did you?”

“Never. I’ll vote Democratic.”

“You think they aren’t hypocrites?”

This made him squirm. “The rich are the problem. The corporations are the problem.”

“Given your refusal to answer my questions, I will assume women and children are the problem as well as any man who doesn’t think like you.”

“I never said that.” He raised his voice.

“You can’t go around attacking people’s pleasures. I am sure Mr. Barbhaiya will press charges. He is his own man. If you want to succeed in politics, focus on the big issues. Creating an uproar over less important matters might arouse emotions, gain you followers, but you’ll be like every other half-wit who lies his way into office, sits on his fat ass, and does nothing.”

“I’ll make things better.” He paused. “You are not what I expected.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She smiled, an irresistible smile. “Now let me ask you something that has nothing to do with politics. If you masterminded a plan to steal valuable art, million dollars’ worth of art, what would you do with it?”

“I would, uh…” He paused. “Find a black market.” He thought again. “Not in America. How can you hide a million-dollar painting?”

“I agree. When you go home, look up on your computer Sir Alfred Munnings. Four of his paintings have been stolen within a month. Not a trace of them or even a lead as to who has stolen them. Equine art, much of it about foxhunting and racing, I should add. Worth millions, some of his works are over three, four million apiece, the big ones.”

“Big as in size?”

“Yes.”

He stood up. “I will think on what you’ve said.”

“Ditto. You can come to a hunt anytime you wish. I will have someone drive you around. I bear you no ill will, Mr. Standish, but I will fight if I must.”

As he drove away in a fairly new Honda Accord, a nice car, she watched the exhaust curl out of the tailpipe.

“Ah, Raleigh and Rooster, even the politically correct emit carbon dioxide. And you know, there is no way to live out in the country without driving distances. No public transportation. Not much of anything. One has to be self-reliant. Oh well, come on. I’ve made my list. I know something about our killer. I think of the mastermind as the killer; even if he didn’t strangle anyone, he gave the orders. My hunch is, not only does this person understand equine art, he is part of or at the edges of the horse world or the art world. Not a happy thought.”

Unbeknownst to her, other unhappy thoughts lurked just around the corner.

CHAPTER 29

March 9, 2020 Monday

Matchplay and Midshipman, two almost five-year-old Thoroughbreds walked along the farm road. Weevil and Tootie worked with them. Both horses had hunted, Midshipman a touch older than Matchplay. Next year they’d be ready for consistent hunting, the big hunts. Following behind rode Sister on Matador and Betty on Outlaw. They’d trotted a half mile, walked, trotted again up hills, and now walked once more.