Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

Sister laughed. “Those protuberances can get in the way. I used to wrap mine with the tape used to wrap ankles. You know, that stretchy fabric. At least it was soft, but then again I am not as generously endowed as yourself.”

“You’re a C. That’s enough to hurt when you run or take a big jump.”

“Well, when you’re young, or at least for me, I noticed, but it wasn’t awful. Tell you what, when those first support bras came out for athletes, I bought one. Helps. Originally the material didn’t breathe, so you sweated like a horse. Then things improved.”

“Has. Look at the knee braces we can wear that don’t interfere with riding. Those are made out of elastic cloth. My left knee has gotten to the point where I hate to climb the stairs.”

“Operation?”

Betty groaned. “I guess. Maybe this summer. I lack enthusiasm but I hate losing mobility.”

“Honey, sooner or later age humbles you.”

Betty rejoined, “I was born humble.”

“I’d better duck before one hits me.”

As Tootie and Weevil turned to come back across the meadow, a few shoots peeking up, they beheld two women laughing at each other; they couldn’t hear what was being said, but more laughter.

“They never stop,” Tootie remarked.

“Good to have a friend like that. Do you think women make friends easier than men? Deeper friendships?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the way we go about it is different. Men like to do things together. Women sit around and talk. I’m not much of a talker.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She dropped her head and smiled. “But when Val and some of my classmates from Custis Hall and I get together, usually over their college vacations, I’ll talk. ’Course, no one can outtalk Val. I hope she runs for public office someday. She has that gift, you know?”

“I’ve never met her.”

“If Princeton lets people out early maybe she’ll stop by. She’s as tall as Sister. Maybe a little taller, a terrific athlete, blonde, blue-eyed, the American dream. She really is beautiful.”

“Tootie, she couldn’t be more beautiful than you.” He worked up his courage and it wasn’t a false compliment.

“I, well, thank you. I’ve always been in Mom’s shadow. I’m happiest in hunt clothes, that’s my idea of getting dressed up. The rest of the time, you can see.”

“A turtleneck sweater, jeans, and cowboy boots. Very sensible.” He smiled.

She laughed. “From the rear people will call me ‘Sir.’ ”

“Tootie, all you have to do is turn around. I bet they’re speechless.”

She laughed again. “They’re embarrassed.”

“I love you, Tootie.” Trident slid his head under her hand and the pack moved up a tiny bit to be close to the humans they all loved.

“I feel better with animals.”

“I do, too,” Weevil replied. “They’re honest and they try so hard for you. And I thank you because you try so hard as a whipper-in. You can ride like the devil.” He grinned a lopsided grin.

“You think?”

“I do. I don’t say much when we’re out there because my focus is on the quarry and the hound. I do try to thank you all after a hunt. That’s only proper for a huntsman. And Sister thanks us.”

“Sister’s hunting manners are impeccable. No matter what, even something right out of the blue, she’s calm, cool, collected, and diplomatic. I have to bite my tongue,” Tootie confessed.

“Me, too. Can you believe some of the dumb stuff people do and say, and this is a pretty wonderful hunt club? Still, every now and then I’ll look back or someone will yell out and I just want to paste them.”

They reached the two friends.

“Paste who? Wait, I mean whom. I’m standing next to a grammar queen.” Betty gave Sister a look.

“I am not.”

“You always correct me with lie and lay. ”

“I never argue when you say you got laid.” Sister burst out laughing, as did everyone, most of all Betty.

“There are children present.” Betty blushed.

“Betty, they know more than we do. Think what Weevil and Tootie have been exposed to? I mean stuff we didn’t even know existed until our forties, and my forties precede yours.”

“It’s the Internet.” Weevil stopped and hounds stopped, sitting down, loving being out and being with staff.

“Our idea of racy was to smoke a cigarette.” Sister reached down to pet Diana.

“Not anymore. Everyone would jump down your throat,” Tootie said.

“Isn’t it amazing how many people want to live your life for you?” Sister’s voice lifted up. “As we walk back let me ask you two a favor. I’ve been rereading Munnings’s autobiography. Nearing the end of the last volume, the third. Will you do me a favor, since you can do anything with a computer, and research Captain Gilbert Evans? He was a friend of Munnings. They became estranged over the woman that was Munnings’s first wife and she, unfortunately, killed herself in 1914. But root out anything you can, including descendants.”

“Okay.”

“She’s on a mission,” Betty filled them in.

“I am. What I’ll be doing as you all are doing that is digging up great art thefts in the last century. The theft of the Munnings and now the Pater are bad, bold. It’s not the Mona Lisa but it’s, well, it seems to me, well coordinated.”

“Was the Mona Lisa stolen?”

“In 1911,” Sister informed them.

“What a memory you have,” Betty teased her.

“Betty, I am not the Ancient of Days. Granted, I’m no longer young, but anyway, I’ve been researching. The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911. Took a full day for anyone to notice.”

“That’s impossible.” Betty couldn’t believe it.

“It doesn’t say much for the staff at the Louvre at the time, but those were different times. Anyway, Pablo Picasso was a suspect.”

Weevil looked over his shoulder. “Picasso?”

“He was living in poverty at the time and he was suspect because he had unwittingly purchased sculpture stolen from the museum. Obviously, this was prior to this major theft. He had no idea and he handed them over. Picasso had some major flaws as a human being but thievery wasn’t one of them.” Sister had indeed been doing research.

“Well, what happened?” Tootie’s curiosity rose up.

“The painting was missing for two years. The fellow who stole it was an Italian carpenter, Vincenzo Peruggia. He wore his work coveralls and walked in on August 21, stole the painting, and hid in a broom closet until late. He wrapped his coveralls around the painting, which he removed from its case. He walked right out. Actually, he thought the Mona Lisa belonged to Italy. After all, Leonardo da Vinci was Italian. He believed the painting was stolen by Napoleon and his troops. So it should be returned to Italy.”

“Incredible.” Tootie opened the draw pen and the hounds walked inside, as did the people.

“How did they catch him?” Weevil knelt down to check feet.

“He sold the painting to an Italian museum. The Italians celebrated for two weeks then returned the painting to the Louvre. Da Vinci had painted it for King Francis I so it was always French.”

“Did he go to jail?” Weevil wondered.

“He was given a one year and fifteen day sentence but released after seven months. Peruggia returned to France and worked as a house painter. The war broke out, he enlisted in the Italian army. Lived, married, had a daughter, and seems to have troubled no one.” Sister opened the door to the girls’ pen.

“That’s incredible,” Tootie exclaimed, again.

“Well, the truth is stranger than fiction.” Betty watched the girls prance into their quarters.