Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

Tedi sipped a perfect old-fashioned, which her husband had the bartender make for her. Crawford had hired a professional bartender as well as the caterer.

Ed came alongside. “What a hunt, and wasn’t the hound work at the chapel spectacular?”

“Was.” Both women agreed.

Sister made her way to Tom Tipton and Aunt Daniella, seated side by side in front of the mahogany-paneled tack room, which gave off a faint whiff of fox. Gray, on duty, fetched the drinks. Sara, juggling plates, brought their food.

“Oh, how I wish I had ridden today.” Tom glowed.

“Next best thing, riding with Sara.” Sister smiled.

“Who is the hound that found the scent on the tombstones? Sara thought it was one of your Ds but we were a bit behind.”

“Diana.”

“Extraordinary.” He reached up to squeeze her hand.

“Gray has been keeping all this from me.” Daniella lifted her chin. “I must come out more often.” She turned to Tom. “Seeing you has lifted my spirits.”

Shaker and Skiff talked hounds, enlivened by what they loved.

“You know, if you want to walk your hounds with ours it will be fine. Sister would like it. Well, you know the history. We need to get Crawford on board. No more potshots,” Shaker suggested.

Chewing, as delicately as she could, a piece of divine roast beef, she swallowed. “Today ought to go a long way toward that.”

Just then Crawford tapped a glass. Eventually silence prevailed.

“Allow me to show you what I’m doing at the big house.”

With him leading the way, they trooped, drinks in hand, well fed, over to the four majestic in-line columns, with the long marble pediment on top. Having backfilled the foundation, the workmen now refitted any cut slabs for the basement floor, while another group checked the blueprints.

Men carried lumber, sawhorses, and tools to begin reconstruction of the house. At its prime the exterior had been a thin smooth whitish marble over the timber frame. It was supposed to resemble the mansions outside of Venice, those designed by Palladio.

As Crawford explained everything, the workmen stopped from time to time to listen.

Alfred DuCharme, Margaret’s father, drove up, got out to join them.

Seeing Tom Tipton, he hurried over to greet him. “Tom, how good to see you. My mother thought the world of you. She’d say ‘Watch Tom. He’s a good whipper-in.’ Those were happy days, weren’t they?”

The workmen stopped as Crawford nattered on. Also, Yvonne was certainly not lost on the men, but they were workers so they couldn’t flirt. When Tootie came and stood next to her mother, the resemblance was astonishing. Sister noticed the men looking from one woman to the other.

Earl prayed for the people to leave. So much food had been dropped in the center aisle he would have his own feast.

Much as people admired the plans, what had already been achieved with the stables and outbuildings, they wanted to return to the food and the well-stocked bar. Alfred especially wanted to visit the bar.

Tom, transfixed, stared up at the top of the Corinthian columns.

“Come on, Huntsman. Bourbon calls.” Sara followed his gaze upward. “Do you think anyone knows how to build like this anymore?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “But this kind of beauty isn’t valued now. You go on, Sara. I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to”—he paused—“remember. I was so young. It seems like yesterday.”

“Okay.” Sara left him as the workers started back to it.

Alone, looking out from the top of the forty-feet-long footsteps, Tom leaned on a corner column. The faces of the departed came to him, as did the feel of his favorite Thoroughbred, General Ike. How he loved that dark bay. He could almost hear Andrew, a sensational hound, along with Dietrich, a superb girl. Tears came.

“You were a good whipper-in,” a familiar voice praised him.

Tom grabbed the huge column for support even though he barely could get his arms around it. He was afraid to look behind him.

“We’ll never see days like that again. Fewer people, fewer roads, fewer cars. People understood hunting, even those in cities. Remember?”

Forcing himself to turn, Tom faced his huntsman. “I do. Weevil, you’re dead.”

Devilish smile on his handsome face, Weevil laughed low. “Maybe. But I’m here.”

“How?” Tom felt his heart race.

“There are so many dimensions in life. We don’t see them. The animals do. But we deny what we can’t prove. I’m here. I needed to come back to Jefferson Hunt one more time. Maybe I came back to find the Old Paradise treasure. But I’m here.”

Shaking, voice low, Tom managed to get out, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

Head back, laughing, Weevil answered, “If I was going to hurt you I would have done it when the trains still stopped at Tattenhall Station.”

Scared or not, Tom shot back, “That wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s always the whipper-in’s fault.” Weevil, smiling, pointed a finger at him. “Luckily, the whole pack made it across. Tom, you’re white as a ghost.”

“I’m talking to a ghost.” Tom hadn’t lost his wits.

“One question. Who is still alive? Who is still alive who remembers?”

“Daniella Laprade. Most everyone else is gone on. Their children, many of them, are gone, too, but there’s still a lot in their sixties. Christ, we’re getting old.”

“Happens.” Weevil paused. “When I disappeared, Brenden DuCharme accused me of stealing his wife’s jewelry. I did not.” Then Weevil turned, walking toward the old hay barns, all the old restored equipment sheds that lined the farm road past the stone stables.

Tom, still holding the column, breathed deep breaths. Sweat rolled down his forehead. He couldn’t walk. His legs were jelly.

Below him, at the stables, the breakfast continued.

Sara, plotting with Sister about adding fixtures, hunt territory, changed the subject.

“I left Tom at the big house. He should be back here by now. A trip down memory lane can’t take that long.”

“I’ll go out with you. Maybe all this commotion pooped him out.”

The two Masters, one active, one retired, left the stables by the enormous open wooden doors, leaded glass on top of the heavy, heavy oak.

“Uh-oh.” Sara started to trot, followed by Sister.

Running up the steps like teenagers, they reached Tom, grasping the columns.

Sara put her arm around his waist. “I’ve got you. Sister’s here. Where do you hurt?”

He shook his head but he did let go. “I saw Weevil. He spoke to me here. Right here.” He took a ragged breath. “He hasn’t aged.”

CHAPTER 15

“Sara, let’s walk him to the trailers. We can sit in the cab of your car. Too many people.” Sister inclined her head toward the stable.

Once in Sara’s roomy vehicle, Tom loudly declaimed, “I am not crazy. I saw a dead man.”

“Dead man walking.” Sara repeated the common phrase.

Sister, voice quiet, reassured the shaken man. “We don’t think you are crazy. Here.”

Pulling out her cellphone from the inside of her tweed jacket, she played the video.

“God” was all he could say.

Sister explained how she and Marion found the video. “We don’t know what to make of it.”

“You feel okay?” Sara then added, “I can go fetch you a drink.”

“No. Sober. I need to stay sober.” He folded his hands, age spots on them, in his lap. “He looks exactly as I remember him. His voice, maybe a little scratchier, but same height, build, hair, eyes, and cocky as always.”

“What did he talk about?” Sister inquired.

“Old times. He wanted to know who was still alive.”

“What did you say?” Sister gently pressed.