Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

Far in the distance, a mournful echo, deep, returned “Gone to Ground.”

“Echo,” Gray whispered.

The echo continued after Shaker ceased the distinctive notes. Deep, deep the sound seemed to linger forever.

Sister, intently listening, knew this was no echo. This was the call of an old hunting cowhorn, the timbre unmistakable. She shivered a moment.

Shaker interrupted her reverie, if that word could be applied to what she was feeling. “Master?”

“Yes.” She blinked.

“How about I hunt back?”

“Good idea. Shaker, you heard that?”

“Did. Curious what sound does.” A crooked grin appeared on his rugged face. “Sounded like my old papaw blowing.”

“I wonder.”

“Madam?” He addressed her properly.

If a woman was your master it was either master or madam, if one was a hunt servant. Half the time they both forgot in the heat of the moment and he called her “Boss.” She almost always properly called him “Huntsman” during a hunt if he called her “Boss,” but she readily forgave him. They had worked together for years in such harmony as to make even the most trying of days a joy.

“Just thinking. A beautiful sound, that low call. Well, yes, let’s go back. I’d like to get out of here before Crawford shows up, if he’s around.”

Shaker’s grin widened. “He’s not. If he were, he’d be here cussing us like a dog.”

A half hour later, at a trot, no new scent, everyone was at Tattenhall Station.

Tattenhall Station’s walls reverberated with the laughter, the chat. The breakfast was in full swing.

Kasmir asked Freddie, “How do you like your saddle? You look comfortable in it.”

“I nearly died paying for it, I swear, but my riding has improved, and my horse is happier, especially this young one. It was worth every penny, plus the countless fittings.” She smiled. “I never really believed a saddle could help one be a better rider, but I do now.”

Alida Dalzell, a warm, highly intelligent woman in her early forties, dating Kasmir, talked to Sister. “Wasn’t that something, the fox running with the deer?”

“They are so smart. He was a little guy with a big brain.” Sister smiled. “Inexperienced whippers-in go after the hounds. They don’t think to look for the fox.”

“Half grown, you think?”

“Yes. He’ll be looking for his own den if he doesn’t already have one. By October or November, the fathers have pushed out all the sons. They have to make their way in life. I think the fox we ran is by Earl, the handsome red who lives in the stone stables at Old Paradise.”

“You can tell?”

“Often you can. Like dogs, they have distinguishing features, family traits.”

Alida laughed. “Like people.” She paused, sipped her refreshing gin and tonic. “It’s still warm enough for gin and tonic.” She held up her glass. “Sister, I cherish your advice. I travel up from Carolina twice a month, Kasmir comes down. I am thinking about relocating here. What do you think?”

“We’d be lucky to have you, and Kasmir would be beside himself.”

“There’s a lot to think about. I’ve built a good business there. It’s how Freddie and I met, at a conference. I gave a talk about forensic accounting, we discovered we both hunted, she invited me here, and I couldn’t believe it. You all have been so kind to me.”

Sister touched Alida on the shoulder. “Honey, it’s easy to be kind to someone who rides as well as you do; you actually listen to people, and you make Kasmir laugh. You know how I love him. If they’re all like him halfway across the world then it will be India’s turn to conquer.”

“He wants to take me there to see where he grew up. I think I will be overwhelmed. Just to think of how ancient the culture is, how rich the history, how mixed-up the politics.” She laughed a bit.

“You don’t have to go to India for that.” Sister clinked glasses with her. “You come here. I will help in any way I can.” She then called out over the heads of a small group.

“Sara. You had one of those Tad Coffin saddles made, too. Alida loves hers.”

“After a few adjustments, I agree. Now what are you up to? I know there’s more coming.” Sara laughed.

Sister explained. Her phone was in the truck, but as Sara had never known Weevil, she offered to show her the video. Sara needed to haul her horse, Shane, back, and said she’d watch it later but not right now.

“Before you go, let me know. I brought the treasurer’s reports that I copied for Dale.”

“Without receipts I don’t know what he can tell.”

“Me neither, but I thought if something proved really amiss in the books Dale would know.”

“You think this has something to do with money? From 1947 to 1954?”

“Well, don’t most murders involve love or money?”

Sara smiled. “I think you’d know by now. That’s sixty-three years ago.”

Sister brought her drink to her forehead to cool off for a moment. “You’re right. I don’t know why this has gotten under my skin.”

Sara nodded. “Love or money.”

True enough, but in a way neither woman could have predicted.

Hours later, back at Roughneck Farm, horses cleaned, fed, and turned out, hounds the same, Sister and Gray had taken their showers and collapsed out on the verandah to drink and drink in the long, long twilight.

“How did Crawford take it?” He sipped his Scotch.

She pulled her sweater tighter over her shoulders. “Surprisingly well. It’s dawning on him that he actually needs us.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, really. Maybe it’s Marty.” Crawford’s wife. “Or Skiff. But I think he’s beginning to realize we can divert the Master of Foxhounds Association from blowing this outlaw pack thing up. He thought he was bigger than the MFHA. Richer, yes. Bigger, no.” She breathed in the delicious evening air. “It will take time to play out.”

A brand-new shiny blue Lincoln Continental crept down the farm road, slowed by the turnoff to the house, kennels, and barns, then moved forward. They heard the car stop, the door slam.

Tootie’s small house couldn’t be seen from the main house but one could hear, especially on a night like this.

A knock on the door and then, “Tootie!”

Sister sat bolt upright. “What?”

Gray now sat upright with her.

They heard the door open and Tootie’s voice, her surprise clear in her tone, answer. “Mother.”

“Dear God,” Sister blurted out.

Dear God didn’t cover it.

CHAPTER 7

“W hat’s going on over there?” Young Taz called from the boys’ large play lot.

Tootie’s house sat away from the kennels at a forty-five-degree angle, perhaps a quarter of a mile. Hounds could hear and smell everything. An unrecognizable car alerted everyone. They heard Tootie’s voice, saw the limbs of the huge old walnut tree by the ruins of what had been the original cabin sway in a gentle breeze.

Gentle or not, it carried coolness as the twilight faded; night air brushed everyone.

Surprised, shocked really, Tootie opened the door wide. “Mother, come in. Do you need me to carry anything?”

“Later.” The elegant, if drawn, Yvonne stepped into the pleasing cabin, a white clapboard addition looking old attached to the original cabin.

The job, well done, disguised the newness of everything. The stone chimney poked out of the slate roof. Another stone chimney was visible in the roof of the addition.

Striding as though still on the runway at the height of her modeling career, Tootie’s mother walked into the big main room. Old cabins lacked either center halls or entrance halls. One walked right into the living space. The kitchens were usually at the rear of the big room. A summer kitchen was outside at a distance of twenty-five yards. All old colonial buildings in the South had summer kitchens. No one could stand the heat of cooking in June, July, August. Maybe they could in New Hampshire, but they certainly couldn’t in Virginia. Those states farther south often used the outside kitchens for six months.