Рита Браун: Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

“Sister, isn’t it creepy to think someone has been down there for one hundred and thirteen years and no one knew?”

“That’s just it. Someone did know.”

CHAPTER 4

Clutching a bottle of hyaluronic acid, Crawford Howard leaned over the counter of the Westlake Equine Clinic. Barbara Engles, the receptionist, printed out the receipt just as one of the partners in the clinic emerged from the rear of the facility.

“Crawford, how are you and how is Czpaka?” asked the veterinarian, Penny Hinson.

“Good. This stuff works. I take it myself. Physicians warn us not to use vet products but hyaluronic acid is hyaluronic acid and it’s a lot cheaper here.”

Wise in the ways of bumping up any human pharmaceutical cost, Penny nonetheless didn’t want to counter a human doctor’s caution. She smiled. “So both you and your horse have good working joints.”

“Marty’s horse, too,” he said, mentioning his wife and her horse.

Kasmir Barbhaiya came through the door. “A convocation!” he exclaimed.

Crawford Howard, a self-made man originating along with his fortune from Indiana, respected Kasmir. Crawford felt that anyone who made wagonfuls of money was smarter than someone who didn’t. “How’s Nighthawk?”

A large smile wreathed the kind fellow’s face, for Kasmir, like most foxhunters, dearly loved his equine partner. “A bad boy. Oh my, yes, a very bad boy.”

Penny unzipped her coveralls, smears of mud and some blood on them. “What did he do now?”

“Stole my Borsalino. Oh, a lovely navy hat it was, and he snatched it right off my head.”

“Did he put it on his?” Penny smiled at Kasmir.

“No, he ran all the way to the end of his paddock, all the way back, then dropped it in his water trough.”

Crawford chuckled. “Give him credit for good taste. You never wear anything shabby.”

“You are too kind,” Kasmir demurred. “I wish you would rejoin the hunt club, Crawford. Yes, I do.” Kasmir held up both hands palm outward as this was a vexing subject. “You must hear what happened in Lexington, Kentucky. A most remarkable thing.”

He told the three about the sudden pogonip, the sleet, the long ride back to the barns and then the discovery at the Walnut Hall dinner.

“A gold watch?” Crawford stroked his chin.

“Oh, that poor little dog.” Barbara couldn’t care less about the watch.

“Did they find a body?” Penny got down to business.

“I read The Lexington Herald online,” Kasmir informed them. “They did, but whose body they don’t know. A stray skeleton, ah, too many deaths, I think.”

“How do they go about notifying the next of kin if they can’t identify the remains?” Crawford remarked.

“Who would know?” Kasmir replied.

“Exactly,” Penny sensibly said as Mercer Laprade came through the door.

“Ah, Mercer,” said Kasmir. “I was just telling the ladies and Crawford about the branch cracking the slate covering the horse’s tomb.”

Mercer was careful around Crawford, as he hoped one day the rich man would breed Thoroughbreds to Mercer’s profit. “It was a joint meet with one excitement after another.”

“You two should come hunt with me.” Crawford then added with vigor, “The hell with the MFHA and who would know? My Dumfriesshires are good hounds.”

He mentioned the Master of Foxhounds Association of America and a type of hound that originated in Scotland, hence the name. As Crawford ran or tried to run an outlaw pack, members of recognized hunts could not hunt with him without jeopardizing their status with other recognized hunts. The rub was how does one enforce this and Crawford well knew it. He had no intention of submitting to MFHA rules, hence the term outlaw pack.

Kasmir inclined his head in a small bow. “You are most hospitable.” Then he quickly changed the subject, turning to Mercer. “You would remember, what was the name of the horse whose memorial covering was smashed?”

“Benny Glitters,” Mercer quickly answered as he, too, wanted to slide away from the outlaw pack discussion.

“Yes, yes, that’s it.”

Mercer was eager to share his knowledge, hoping Crawford would be a bit impressed. “Benny Glitters was a son of the great Domino. Captain Brown, who owned him and the farm then called Senorita, thought he would equal his sire on the track. A beautiful fellow, Benny. Alas, he went up like a rocket and came down like a stick, which was unusual since Domino usually passed on talent. His son, Commando, for example, another great horse.”

Crawford placed the bottle back on the counter. “Benny washed out?”

“The farm was bought by L.V. Harkness, who changed the name to Walnut Hall,” said Mercer. “One of his daughters fell in love with Benny, who more or less went with the farm. He lived to a ripe old age, twenty-nine. He was so loved he was buried at the farm, the only Thoroughbred in the graveyard. So that’s how Benny wound up where he did. His father, by the way, is buried at Hira-Villa, Kentucky. Domino died in 1897. A great, great horse. You can never trace pedigree back far enough.”

“It’s worked for you.” Crawford nodded, acknowledging Mercer’s success. For Crawford, success meant money, which led to prestige.

“A bit of care and most people can see some profit in Thoroughbreds.” Mercer was shrewd and knew not to push it. He also did not expand on his views concerning the upsetting graveyard incident.

“Um.” Crawford picked up the bottle again. “Well, I’m on my way to Old Paradise.”

Both Kasmir and Mercer held their breath for an instant, and Penny’s eyebrows rose.

“A place steeped in history.” Kasmir always felt the romance of Old Paradise. His holding, Tattenhall Station, lay across the road from Old Paradise. Both places encompassed thousands of acres.

“Steeped in history and stupidity,” said Crawford. “The DuCharme brothers, thanks to their ridiculous feud, never realized the profits the place could bring. The last smart DuCharme was the one who created the place and that was after the War of 1812. The rest drifted along.” Obviously, he disdained the distinguished old family.

“Perhaps,” Kasmir said noncommittally. Although a recent resident of this beautiful area, he took pains to learn the history of the farms as well as the people.

“Perhaps? The brothers are idiots and all over a woman. This was back in the 1960s.” He laughed. “And it’s not like Binky’s wife is Helen of Troy.”

No one said a word.

Then Penny remarked diplomatically, “Your efforts are bringing the place back. The sad Corinthian columns, all that’s left from the great fire—the sight of them always gives me chills.”

“Marty says that, too.” Crawford had often heard this from his wife.

“Crawford, you like history.” Mercer fed him a compliment. “The boars on top of the pillars to your entrance were the symbol of Warwick the Kingmaker, the man who put Edward the Fourth on the throne.”

Crawford lapped it up. “A man who knew how the world truly works. I have always admired him and when I first went to England I visited where he is buried.”

“Back to dead bodies again.” Penny giggled.

“The truth will all come out sooner or later,” Mercer replied.

“Did the dog carry the gold pocket watch?” Barbara couldn’t resist.

They all smiled.

“Well, I’d better get over there to see Arthur and Margaret.” Crawford named Arthur DuCharme’s daughter, a sports physician. Arthur was Binky’s brother.

“I do hope you will allow us to continue on to Old Paradise if the hunted fox leaves Tattenhall and crosses the road.” Kasmir smiled.

As Kasmir had more money than Crawford, the late-middle-aged man softened his words. “Of course. I respect the traditions, but it goes in reverse, Kasmir. You won’t throw me off of Tattenhall if my hunted fox heads east.”