Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

The creature who most appreciated the lilies was Golly, lurking behind one on the Sheraton side table in the dining room. She knew she couldn’t launch onto the table, but she could hide. This unnerved a few guests who, oogling the arrangements, found themselves staring into brilliant green eyes.

“I accept tribute.” Golly purred.

She actually received some treats.

The dogs were in the upstairs bedroom, which they hated, especially since Golly had the run of the house and could not have cared less that someone had been buried. They, at least, were sensitive to the occasion.

Seated close to the library door, Aunt Daniella chatted with everyone as people moved through the house.

Weevil came to her, kissed her hand. “Do you forgive me?”

“You were very convincing and yes, I do forgive you. You brought back vivid memories.” She beckoned him closer. “How did you know I was close to your grandfather?”

“There were hints in my grandmother’s letters to my step-grandmother, but when I saw you, I knew. You are beautiful.”

To be ninety-four, more or less, and be told you are beautiful…Aunt Daniella glowed and gave him a kiss.

Hours later, the guests began to leave, most on their own steam, a few with assistance.

Marion and Monica, facing a two-and-a-half-hour drive home if there was traffic, walked over to Weevil.

Monica said, “I must have walked right by you when I was working on my project at the museum.”

“I was behind the door to the Huntsman’s room,” he admitted, then turned to Marion.

“I apologize for breaking into the case.” Weevil had had no chance to really talk with her until now. “I knew the scrimshaw meant something, but I didn’t know what. I hoped it might help me flush out the killers.”

She nodded. “Well, you were right.”

“I assume you want the horn back?”

“Yes,” she simply answered.

“Hold on.” He ran upstairs, grabbed it, came down—acknowledging people as he moved along—and handed her the treasure.

She ran her fingers over it. “Weevil, you were a cheeky devil to make the video for my iPhone.”

He smiled his grandfather’s smile. “Miss Maggiolo, my mother didn’t show me the letters until I was thirty. She felt I needed to know something about my people, as she put it, but I would have been too hotheaded before. So I read the letters, where the horn’s design was mentioned. It took me a year to come up with a plan I hoped would work.”

“You come up and see me at the store anytime. I’ll drive you up to Morven Park if you like, although I know you’ve seen the exhibit.”

“I would like that.”

The last guest left. Kasmir’s team cleaned up everything, except a few missed tidbits behind Golly’s lilies.

Exhausted from the day, and the emotions it stirred, Sister, Gray, Beverly, and Weevil had collapsed in the library. Raleigh and Rooster, finally free, plopped on the floor.

“Weevil, be sensible,” Beverly chided him.

“Mother, take the jewelry.”

One of the first things Sister did when Beverly arrived from Canada was to give her the silver box, which she had polished. When Beverly read the letter she wept. Weevil, mist in his eyes, comforted his mother. Now he felt, people gone, this should be resolved.

“I don’t want the jewelry, and when I die that will be one more complicated thing to figure out and bring here.”

He had told his mother he wanted to stay in Virginia.

Gray echoed Beverly. “She’s right.”

“I feel that the jewelry belongs to Mother. She is Weevil’s daughter. I’m the next generation.”

Sister spoke. “Margaret left that jewelry for future generations. She was clear about that, and prophesied that it would keep generations of Carruthers. She was right.”

“What am I going to do with it?”

Gray, quietly but with authority, for who knew money better than he, said, “You are a rich man and you, Beverly, a rich woman. Divide up as you wish; keep some in a safety deposit box, or purchase a huge vault for your home. Sell a piece—all you each need is one—invest a portion of it and use the rest for living. Neither one of you seems like the spendthrift type. This jewelry is worth a fortune. Beverly, you could also make a claim against the DuCharme estate.”

Weevil looked at his mother. She looked back.

With a deep sigh Beverly firmly stated, “They can keep their damned money.” She then turned to Weevil. “Son, your future is ahead of you. Mine is past. Keep those jewels here. If I need more than the one piece I will choose, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, Mother, I don’t know.”

“Listen to your mother,” Sister ordered nicely.

A long silence followed this.

Finally, Weevil agreed. “All right.” He turned to Gray. “Am I really rich?”

“Indeed you are.” Gray smiled broadly.

“I told Mom I want to stay here, hunt with Jefferson Hunt. I guess I need a green card, because I’m a Canadian citizen.”

“I can help there,” Gray offered, and given his connections, he truly could.

A lot of people in Washington owed him favors.

“Madam,”—Weevil addressed Sister now as his Master—“I whipped-in at Toronto and North York. I would like to whip-in here. Since I am rich, I don’t need a salary. I don’t want to take money that can go to the hounds. Will you have me?”

“That is exceedingly generous and I would be thrilled as will be my other whippers-in.”

Weevil smiled at his mother. “Mother, I know I’m not going to change the world. I belong with horses and hounds. I belong outside, and now I can do what I love without working a full-time job. I am so grateful to the grandfather and grandmother I never knew. I’m not even sure I belong in this century, but I belong here.”

True mother that she was, a teary Beverly responded, “Son, as long as you’re happy.”

Sister couldn’t resist, she leaned toward Weevil. “If you’re going to whip-in for Jefferson Hunt, remember silence is golden.”

He replied, “And duct tape is silver.”

They all laughed. Sister felt, heard, an echo of her son RayRay, who could shoot from the lip. For the first time in her life, she knew the future of The Jefferson Hunt was secure.

AFTERWORD

Randolph D. Rouse, MFH, mentioned in this book, passed away after it was finished. He knocked out his last win as a horse trainer after his 100th birthday. Obviously, Randy was highly intelligent, fair-minded, physically tough, and great fun. How lucky we were to have had this incandescent presence for so long.

J. Harris Anderson, another writer and hunter, wrote in a remembrance in In and Around Horse Country, the official publication of the Virginia Steeplechase Association, Volume XXIX/Number 3 Summer 2017, that it was always a special moment at a hunt ball when Randy would sing “Young at Heart.”

Indeed.

He is survived by his energetic wife, Michele. Everyone notes that Michele was thirty-eight years younger than Randy. She had to be. Who else could keep up with him?

THE MATERNAL GRANDSIRE EFFECT

For centuries this generational hop has been noted by Thoroughbred breeders and hound breeders. The study of this is relatively new. It is not within the scope of this novel to explain what is happening genetically. I can produce this in my kennel with many of my hounds and I have produced it with a horse or two. That doesn’t mean I understand it, even though I can often effect it.

Please research The Maternal Grandsire effect if you are curious. I think of it as train signals being switched on and off but gender produces the flip.

You see this in humans, as well, but I have assiduously avoided breeding same.

Ever and Always,