Рита Браун: Fox Tracks

“Young Brian has to be dumb as a sack of hammers to ignore the advice of not just two senior hunts, but hunts with politically astute masters,” said O.J. “He’s going to have a less than easy time as master.”

“Yes and no,” said Sister. “Times are hard. Everywhere. Many hunts are having to breed fewer hounds, cut back on staff. We’re all doing what we can to keep operating and to make sure all the hounds and horses in our care receive the best of everything. You can cut corners, but not there. And my feed bills just go up and up.” Sister twirled her forefinger upward. “We had to hire a professional whipper-in; it was necessary for both parties, so our budget is imperiled.”

“Mmm,” the younger woman murmured to herself. “Money. So you’re telling me Brian took Crawford’s money knowing he was inviting a man who runs an outlaw pack over your territory? And I doubt Crawford fixes one bloody fence if he knocks it down.” O.J. frowned.

“Rumor has it that Crawford had spent about twenty-five thousand dollars at the Navy Man’s Hunt,” said Sister, sharing gossip about the hunt founded by a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis.

O.J. folded her hands. “That’s being a master. You solve problems. You look ahead. You do your best, knowing there’s always someone who thinks they could have done it better, and maybe they could, but they aren’t sitting in the driver’s seat.”

Both Sister and Gray nodded. “Imagine what it’s like being President of the United States?” said Sister.

“At least we can ride out and feel the wind in our face, hear the hounds at full cry, see a beautiful red fox shoot across emerald meadows or fields of snow,” said O.J. “What does he get?”

“Power over others,” Gray remarked. After a long career in Washington, he’d seen enough of it.

“That’s a peculiar type of person, isn’t it?” asked O.J. “Someone who thinks they know better than you do about your own life, and wants to force their ways on you.” The lovely woman stood up.

“Crawford is one of those types,” Sister replied.

“I don’t envy you him, but I do envy you your territory. You have some of the most beautiful hunting grounds in America.” O.J. leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again. “My dance partner is searching for me. He doesn’t have GPS.”

As O.J. left, the girls returned with their dates, both good-looking young men clearly on the football or lacrosse teams. Big boys.

Jefferson Hunt paid for two tables. Charlotte Norton, Headmistress of Custis Hall and her husband, a physician; Walter Lungrun, jt-MFH, and his date; the Bancrofts; and Tariq Al McMillan, a handsome Egyptian teacher at Custis Hall, sat at the second table. While it wasn’t written in stone, it was advisable that each table be headed by a master.

Tariq, single, in his mid-twenties, had come to the Ball and to visit friends at the Egyptian consulate, for he remained an Egyptian citizen. Some of the young men he had gone to college with worked at the consulate as well as the embassy in D.C. All were bright, beautifully educated, and carried the hope of leadership later in their lives. Egypt, still unstable, kept them all watchful, careful of conversation. Even with old friends, Tariq was circumspect. Above all, he did not want to be called home, which could happen for any number of reasons.

From the Jefferson Hunt standpoint, he was handsome and single. Always a great idea to have extra males, and since Tariq taught at Custis Hall, so much the better for his inclusion pleased the Headmistress. Tariq was a walking advertisement for the progressiveness of Custis Hall.

Tootie, seated with her date, Baxter Chiles, felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Miss Harris, may I have this dance?” Tariq beamed at his former student.

Smiling, she rose, touching her date on the shoulder as she left.

Baxter found this an excellent time to get a drink from the bar. Parched, he paid for tonic water. Not yet being twenty-one, he was smart enough to know he could compromise his hosts if he did purchase a real drink. Baxter figured he had the rest of his life to drink.

“Derek, sit here next to me for a minute.” Gray patted the seat. “Val, oops, turn around.”

The tall blonde, who had not yet sat down, turned just as one of the masters of Farmington Hunt was about to tap her on the shoulder.

Pat Butterfield asked, “May I have this dance?”

Pat and his wife, both educators, knew Val and Tootie from Custis Hall, as Farmington is the adjacent hunt to the Jefferson.

“Keep in touch with me as your studies continue,” Gray said, sizing up the young man. “You’re a junior, right?” Derek Joyner hadn’t been drinking, nor had the girls. That boded well for these young people, and, Derek, especially, as he wanted to go into accounting, his sights being set on campaign finance.

“Thank you, Mr. Lorillard. Val told me all about your career in Washington. People don’t think accounting is exciting. I bet you could tell some stories that would disprove that.”

Gray smiled, his even teeth bright under his silver moustache. “It was exciting for me, and so many of the people I went to college with became CFOs of corporations. Oddly enough, only one other classmate went into campaign finance. He ran the numbers for the Democratic Party for years. I never worked for either party but for individual candidates, and then wound up as partner of the firm. At that point, all the action was in taxes so I had the field to myself. Well, too much about me. Call me.” Gray reached inside his scarlet, pulling out a card. “The finance laws change by the minute. You will need to know exactly what’s on the books in your state and nationally. But you know that.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek looked away to see Val and Pat. “He’s a good dancer, isn’t he?”

“Pat Butterfield? Yes, he is. Good rider, too.”

“I’ve never been on a horse. Val, well, you know.” Derek took a breath. “She wants me to learn to ride and I’m a little afraid.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell her.” Gray was stern. “Whether you and Val wind up in a long romance or not. Any woman who comes into your life, tell her the truth. Be who you really are, fears and all.”

“Val’s such a strong person. I don’t want to look weak.”

Gray reached over and grasped Derek’s muscular shoulder. “Derek, trust me. You’ll look strong, not weak. It’s the sorry twits putting up a big front who always, always crash. She’ll respect you for it. I’ve known Val for four years. Trust me.”

“Yes, sir.” And Derek did.

Just then Crawford with Marty, his wife, swept past the table. He paused as his wife, who liked Sister a lot, tugged at him to move on.

“Ah, Sister, found another corpse, did you?” Crawford growled.

“Pity it wasn’t you, Crawford,” Sister snapped back, which wasn’t like her.

His mouth fell open and he took a step toward the table, Marty tugged him back.

Sister rose from her chair, six foot three in her high heels.

Gray stood beside her. “Honey, what’s gotten into you?” he whispered.

Marty succeeded in pulling away her slightly overweight husband.

Sister looked at Gray, surprised at how anger had just taken control of her. “I have no idea.”

“You’ve had a shock,” he said. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

“I’m all right. You were such a big help coming down for Tootie and me—well, Val and the boys came, too. And it made everyone an hour late to the Ball. But you don’t know how glad I was to see you right then.”

“Thank God for cell phones.”

“Apart from the discovery of Adolfo, you know what else surprised me? How good the New York Police Department is.”