Рита Браун - The Tell-Tale Horse

“If I were Tootie, I’d hit you in the mouth,” Felicity said quietly.

“Ef you.”

“Val, one dollar. Actually two. That was ugly.”

The three girls had made a pact at the beginning of their senior year that when any one of them swore they had to give Felicity, the banker, one dollar. At the end of their senior year, this ever-growing sum would go to a party.

Pamela Rene, also African-American, walked with Tootie. The two didn’t much like each other, but most times they managed a truce.

Pamela smiled at Sister. “Thank you, Master.”

“You’re most welcome.” Sister was pleased that Pamela’s hunting manners were up to form, for one should thank the master.

“The pack”—Tootie paused, eyes shining—“you could have thrown a blanket over them.”

One of the many reasons Sister so loved this seventeen-year-old was the girl loved hounds. She rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride.

“I was proud of them. The four young ones in there ran like old pros,” Sister agreed.

She’d seen these girls grow up in their years at Custis Hall as she’d seen so many juniors in her over thirty years as master. All people under twenty-one were usually styled juniors for foxhunting clubs and the dues were much lower than for those of voting age. When a young person came back after college, more likely returning to hunting in their early thirties, she was wildly happy. She hoped these girls would find their way back to her or, if not to her, then to another master at another hunt.

“Sister, I’ve gotten an early acceptance at Ol’ Miss.” Pamela beamed.

“You didn’t tell me.” Val shot her mouth off before Sister could reply. “Oops, sorry.”

“Congratulations, Pamela. I know you Custis Hall ladies will receive other acceptances. Any college would be fortunate to have you.”

“I really want to go to Ol’ Miss.” Pamela truly was excited.

Anything to put distance between her super-rich magnate father and her critical former-model mother. Oxford, Mississippi, was a long whistle from Chicago, where the Renes lived.

“Her mother will kill her,” Val said offhandedly.

“Well, Pamela, you’ll make the right decision.” Sister considered her words carefully. “No one wants to disappoint her parents, but you have to follow your heart, you know.” She winked. “Takes a Yankee girl with guts to go down into the Delta.”

Pamela’s face registered the compliment. “Thank you, Master.”

Val giggled and said to Sister in a low voice. “Mrs. Harper shot the bird at Mrs. Spencer.”

Sister’s eyebrows raised. “Whatever for?”

Val shrugged, and Sister shook her head at this odd deed.

Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, a boyhood friend of Sister’s deceased son, called out, “Master, we need you.”

She turned to see Ronnie, her joint master Walter Lungrun, Betty, Bobby, and Sybil and wondered what it could be. Well, they were smiling so it couldn’t be too bad.

“Excuse me, girls.” As she walked toward the adults she wondered what she could do to help Felicity, two months pregnant. Her parents didn’t know; Charlotte Norton, headmistress at Custis Hall, didn’t know. The hunt season would be over in less than a month. Sister had the feeling that a lot was going to happen between now and then, and not just to Felicity.

“Are you all ganging up on me?” Sister put one hand on Ronnie’s shoulder, another on Walter’s, drawing the two men near her.

They slipped their arms around her small waist.

Betty, hand on hip, shook her head. “You are shameless with men.”

Ronnie, who adored Betty as most members did, said, “She’s tall, gorgeous, and rides us all into the ground. You’re shorter, pretty as a peach, but so-o-o married. All that virtue”—he clucked—“so dull, darling.”

Betty laughed. “It’s true. Should I have an affair just to prove I can do it?” She paused, glancing at her husband, overweight and suffering on another diet. “Can’t do it. I’m still crazy about the guy.”

Walter, still on an adrenaline high from the chase, squeezed Sister closer to him. “Ronnie, let her go. She’s mine.”

“Never,” Ronnie replied. “Let me cut to the chase, Master. As you know, Kilowatt is available.”

Kilowatt, a fantastic Thoroughbred, was formerly owned by a physician now deceased. His estate evidenced little desire to pay board bills. The executor, Cookie Finn, a lawyer of unimpeachable reputation, had approached Walter.

Sister nodded. “I see. He’s a fine horse.”

“Your bench is deep enough, but Shaker has only Showboat, Hojo, and Gunpowder.” Ronnie pushed on. “Showboat is fourteen. Hojo is eight, plenty of good years there, but Gunpowder, great as he is, is eighteen. We should buy Kilowatt for Shaker.”

“Ronnie, I can’t believe you’re suggesting we dip into the treasury. You’re usually tight as a tick, plus we’ve lost the wonderful monetary gifts Crawford used to make. That really hurts.”

Crawford Howard was a wealthy member who had resigned from the club in a huff.

“I know, I know.” Ronnie let go of her waist and held up his hand to stay protest. “What I would like to do, with your permission, is pass the hat. It is the responsibility of the club to mount professional staff. We aren’t rich enough to perform this service via our much-called-upon treasury, but if I can canvass the elected”—he used the word Calvinists use for those with a ticket straight to heaven—“might could.”

Betty put in her two cents. “Sister, everyone knows we took a big hit when Crawford pissed off. Forgive my French.”

“Guess they do,” the older woman agreed.

“I’ll put up five hundred. I’m sure Mom and Dad will be generous,” Sybil volunteered.

“Honey, your mother and father give so much to this club I’d be embarrassed to ask for more.”

“I’m not.” Ronnie smiled.

“We know that.” Sister smiled back at him. She looked to Walter.

“I don’t see any other way.” Walter slid his hand from her waist to hold her right hand.

“Before I say yes, how much?”

“Fifteen thousand. He’s been vetted sound, by the way,” Ronnie added. “Cookie started at twenty-five. Really, Kilowatt would be snapped up at that price if he were shown at the northern Virginia hunts.”

“That’s the truth.” Sister acknowledged the deep pockets riding in those fabled hunts, as well as the fact that Kilowatt was supremely talented as well as beautiful.

“I give my blessing with one caveat: Go to the Bancrofts last. See if you can’t secure the sum before leaning on Tedi and Edward.”

“I promise.” Ronnie inclined his head, a polite bow to his superior.

“All right, then. Let’s do the shake-and-howdy.” Sister kissed Ronnie on the cheek, then Walter.

“What about me?” Betty pretended to pout.

“All right.” Sister made a face, then kissed Betty. “Sybil, I have enough for all.” She kissed the much younger woman’s cold cheek. “Now come on, we’ve got to mix and mingle. We have cappers.”

Cappers were guests, people who joined the hunt for the day, paying a cap fee. They always added a little dash of paprika to the stew.

Ben Sidell, sheriff, drove up in his squad car slowly, the road being slick.

“You missed a good one,” Sister said in greeting him.

“I’ll be out Saturday. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by.”

“Trouble?”

“Someone shot out Faye Spencer’s barn light. Nothing major.” He waved to Val, who noticed him.

“Give everyone the benefit of your personality,” Sister teased him.

High Vajay bounded up, wearing his dark navy frock coat, top hat, and cream string gloves, then slipped on the ice, going down on one knee.