Рита Браун - The Tell-Tale Horse

The two walked to the back staircase of the oldest building on campus, once serving multiple functions but now confined to housing administrators.

Sister kissed Felicity on her cheek. “You’re on your way.”

Solemn, a little nervous, Felicity said, “Will you be godmother to our baby?”

Without a second’s hesitation Sister replied, “I would consider it a great honor.”

Felicity felt tears well up in her eyes again. She struggled to know herself because she wasn’t given to emotions and now they skimmed on her surface. “Thank you.”

Sister kissed her again. “Go on, young ’un.”

Inside the reception room to Charlotte’s office, Teresa Bourbon, Charlotte’s able and discreet assistant, waved Sister in.

The silver tea service, expensive then, a fortune now, given to the president by the class of 1952 back in 1952, sat on the coffee table, steam spiraling out of the teapot spout.

“Egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches for starters.” Charlotte stepped out behind her desk. “And your favorite afternoon tea, real orange pekoe.”

“I need it.” Sister sank onto the sofa as Charlotte poured a bracing cup and handed it to her.

Then she poured one for herself and sat next to Sister. She picked up the tray of sandwiches. “Nourishment.”

“I really am famished.”

They ate their sandwiches, drank their tea, and talked forth-rightly, for over the years the two women had taken each other’s measure.

“Got the job.”

“I’m glad,” Charlotte replied. “Much as I’d like to see her at Princeton, I know she’s strong-willed and I hope this will work.”

“Wonder if they’ll all get into Princeton?”

Charlotte leaned back. “They have the qualifications but I doubt if admissions is going to take three girls from the same school.”

“There is that.” Sister reached for another delicious sandwich. “You know, Charlotte, I have a feeling about Felicity. Like I get a feeling about hound puppies. That girl is going to be a success, a big success. She has drive. Fate appears to be handing her a bad card, but I think it will be the making of her.”

“I hope so.” Charlotte didn’t sound 100 percent convinced. “Her parents flamed me like a blowtorch.”

“Immature people need a target for their anger.”

“Felicity is more mature in many ways than her parents.” Charlotte poured another cup of tea for Sister and herself. “You’d be surprised how many times I see that here.”

“Bet I wouldn’t.”

Charlotte spoke next of the unavoidable subject. “I’ve hired extra security. There’s always fat in every budget, so I squeezed some out. Chances are, whoever this perverse killer is, he isn’t interested in Custis Hall, but I can’t be too careful, and both victims were young and good-looking. Who’s to say?”

“I certainly hope the girls are safe. You did the right thing. The only common thread I can find—well, two—for the victims is that both were quite beautiful and both had knowledge of wireless technology.”

“Yes, I thought of that too. Naturally, I don’t want to alarm the girls but I did have the career counselors give each girl a questionnaire concerning last year’s summer jobs. It’s not obvious—there are lots of questions because it’s designed to support finding a job this summer for those who want to do that as well as supporting life experience information for college applications—but there are a few questions about working for cell phone companies and computer chip companies. Just in case.” Charlotte smiled a tight smile. “As it turns out, Val worked last summer for Alltel back home.”

“You’re way ahead of everyone else,” Sister replied. “Let’s hope Val’s knowledge is limited, just in case.”

Charlotte held a plate of chocolate cookies and shortbread ones. “One good thing that’s come out of this is that interest has spiked in the early Middle Ages.” She paused. “It was taught to me as a low point in European history—well, not as low as the so-called Dark Ages but low—and I don’t think it was at all. The advances in agriculture were significant.”

“And the clothing design was gorgeous,” Sister added.

“Twelfth century. The lines,” Charlotte enthused, for she believed clothing revealed a great deal about a culture’s dreams as well as its reality.

“Long fluid lines.” Sister agreed with her. “I think the true Dark Ages for European culture was the twentieth century. A sea of blood.”

“Exactly.” Charlotte paused. “You know, the sum of suffering was so great we can’t apprehend it. But we can understand two dead Lady Godivas. Understand and fear.”

“Do you think the killer wants us to be afraid?”

“I don’t know. I am.”

“I wonder if he’s laughing at us.”

“Is it possible he wishes us to be both fearful and amused?”

CHAPTER 25

On Thursday, March 6, Sister and a large contingent who managed to get off work or had already retired drove up to Casanova territory, east of Warrenton. Ashland Bassets were meeting at Eastern View, owned by the Fendleys.

Hunting on foot separated those with wind and those without, which became apparent twenty minutes into the hunt.

Joyce and Bill Fendley ran along, as did Marion, who took off early from Horse Country because Ashland hounds cast at two in the afternoon.

Sister had to laugh because Cabel Harper showed up in brush pants, very intelligent decision, and a true tweed jacket to repel thorns, topped off with a hunter-green Robin Hood hat, a pheasant feather stuck in for allure. Ilona confined herself to a baseball hat, while Betty Franklin, remembering those nasty thorns, also wore brush pants but she tied a wool scarf around her neck, tucking it into her jacket. The last time she hunted with the bassets she had cut her throat, and blood had poured over her shirt and jacket.

Charlotte Norton allowed the Custis Hall girls to hunt so long as they wrote a paper about it for class. Val drove them in her lime-colored Jeep. By the time the kids reached Eastern View, all but Val agreed a Wrangler wasn’t meant for long trips. Their fillings rattled in their teeth.

Al Toews, Master of Bassets, held the horn this March 6 and his joint master, Mary Reed, whipped in to him. Al and Mary had been in the custom of taking turns hunting the hounds but Al declared he would give it up to Mary after season’s end because his wind was shot. No one believed him since he could outrun anyone, but this declaration was made with solemnness. Al’s wife, Kathleen King, also whipped in to him today. The two were psychic when they hunted together. Aggie de la Garza, Miriam Anver, Frank Edrington, Sherrod Johnson, Mary Dobrovir, and Nancy Palmer whipped in as well.

Camilla Moon and Diana Dutton acted as first flight field master and second accordingly, although they didn’t exactly specify it that way, but the field seemed naturally to break into two groups as time ran on and so did the bunnies.

At a check, Tootie whispered to Sister, “Why so many whippers-in?”

“Bassets are harder-headed than foxhounds. Need more control,” Sister whispered back.

Camilla, a true canine student, turned as the Jefferson Hunt people were behind her, the Ashland members gracefully allowing the guests pride of place. “Second-best noses in dogdom.”

Tootie already knew that bloodhounds possessed the best so she rightly figured that foxhounds must come in third.

Naturally, harrier people, coonhound folks, and beagle devotees could argue the point. Even Plott hound lovers who run bear would argue, but foxhunters, like all hound people, prove marvelously resistant to others’ opinions.

Al bounded into a hateful covert of brambles, a thin swift-running blade of water, deep-sided, cutting it in two, a perfect abode for the cottontail.