Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

“Finally!” An exasperated Dragon bolted along Snake Creek.

For all his eagerness and everyone else’s the day was a blank. No master wants a blank day even if Jesus Christ himself couldn’t get a fox up on a day with a high-pressure system overhead, dry, bright, and now seventy-two degrees. Still, everyone enjoyed a gorgeous ride and came back to the trailers in two hours. Even at the leisurely pace at which they moved along some people managed to part company with their horses.

As the hounds drank water back at the party wagon, Crawford walked over and said to Shaker, “That bitch has drive.”

He had pointed to Dragon.

“Dog hound,” Shaker simply replied.

“Ah, well, you ought to breed him.” Then Crawford walked toward his wife, who had just emerged from their dressing room in the horse trailer.

Shaker seethed.

Sister shrugged. “He has to be the authority.”

“No authority on manners and doesn’t know squat about hounds.” Shaker stroked Diddy’s head.

“You’re right about that.”

A hunt member should never presume to tell staff or the master what to do or how to do it. Crawford had told the huntsman what hound to breed, thereby committing two sins. First, he had breached etiquette. Second, he had revealed a dangerous ignorance should he ever get the opportunity to breed a pack. Beware being seduced by a brilliant individual. Always study the families, study the bloodlines.

The breakfast exceeded even the last Opening Hunt breakfast. This time Tedi and Edward brought down an oysterman from the Chesapeake Bay who shucked oysters right out of an ice-crammed barrel. There were clams, too. Half a pig turned on the outdoor spit over open coals, as did half a lamb on a second spit, the roasting pit glowing orange. Twelve people had been employed to serve the guests; blue-and-white-striped tents set up outside provided shade since it proved so hot.

Two bars, four bartenders, worked feverishly. Foxhunters have hollow legs, but in the heat even the abstentious developed a powerful thirst.

The muffin hounds, like Knute Nilsson, who didn’t ride but came for the party, to see friends off, were in line for breakfast, which started at noon. The riders needed to sponge down their horses, water them. Tedi and Edward, having hosted many a breakfast, knew to keep the food coming. No rider should go home hungry.

Each long table had a low fall display, sheaves of wheat, with a miniature French hunting horn in the middle.

Tedi thought of everything. Sister, Walter, Tedi, and Edward moved from table to table making sure everyone had what they needed.

The girls from Custis Hall, thrilled to be part of the big day, and equally thrilled not to be eating Custis Hall food even though it was pretty good, sang, and then prompted others to join in.

Bill stood up, held up his hands like a conductor, and they belted out “Do ye ke’en John Peel.”

At the last chorus everyone joined in. Many guests now felt no pain.

Charlotte, who managed to attend Opening Hunt after all, touched Sister’s sleeve as she passed the table. “Thank you, Master. Another wonderful Opening Hunt.”

“Given the temperature, we could have gone fishing instead.” Sister laughed.

Charlotte pulled her down and whispered in her ear, “I’ll talk with Bill on Monday. I wanted to do some investigating of my own first and I thank you, too, for alerting me to something so sensitive.”

Sister squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder and moved on.

Ben Sidel, elbow to elbow with Henry Xavier, nicknamed X, a boyhood friend of RayRay’s and therefore dear to Sister, was extolling the virtues of his horse, Nonni.

Sister chatted with the men, then moved along.

As Ben’s eyes followed her, X remarked, “I’ll bet she’s pissed about Al Perez being hanged on her property.”

Ronnie Haslip, another childhood friend of RayRay’s, said, “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yes, but the difference is she’ll figure it out. No offense to you, Ben,” X declared, his vest unbuttoned since he really was becoming rotund.

“No offense taken,” the genial Ben replied.

“Any ideas?” Ronnie liked being close to the action and gossip, and he liked the sheriff.

“Ideas are one thing, hard facts are another. The only thing I can tell you is he was hanged to death. He wasn’t killed somewhere else, then strung up.”

Ronnie shuddered. “Hope it was fast.”

“It wasn’t. He didn’t drop far, so his neck didn’t snap. He strangled to death.”

Ronnie and X looked at each other, then at Ben.

X dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He may have been fat, but he was dainty. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“It will. Once all the pieces are in place there’s something inevitable about the puzzle.” Ben knew talking business was part of his job, just as being a doctor meant you heard everyone’s symptoms. He noticed Walter Lungrun getting an earful from neighbor Alice Ramy.

As Sister swept by one of the end tables she noticed a small bespectacled figure walking toward the tents. A woman, perhaps in her early fifties, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes searching, came toward Sister as Sister extended her hand.

“Hello, I’m Jane Arnold, welcome.”

In a faltering voice, the lady held out her small hand. “I’m Professor Frances Kennedy from Brown University. Is Mrs. Norton here?”

“She is. Let me take you to her, but please make sure you get something to eat. Can I get you a drink?” Sister also noticed that she wore beautifully made monkey’s fist gold earrings and one simple old ring, oval, with a black onyx stone, a crest engraved thereon.

“No, thank you,” Professor Kennedy respectfully declined.

Sister noted, making her way through the people, that Professor Kennedy was frail, not just thin. She wore a pleated skirt in the Kennedy tartan, a crisp white blouse, a Celtic brooch on her left shoulder. Her features were Caucasian, although she was African American, which made Sister wonder if her people weren’t originally Ethiopian, as they so often have sharp features.

People’s ancestry fascinated Sister, but that could be said of most Virginians, who, try as they might to avoid it, find that chickens come home to roost in middle age. By that time you look like your people. Blood tells.

“Charlotte, this is Professor Frances Kennedy. Professor Kennedy, this is Mrs. Charlotte Norton, headmistress of Custis Hall.”

The look on Charlotte’s face, welcoming but questioning, left Sister to wonder just what was going on. Then she noticed that Pamela Rene beat a hasty retreat to the smorgasbord.

Charlotte made the student next to her give her seat to Professor Kennedy and she sent Valentina for a plate of food and Tootie for a drink once she extracted what libation the quiet-spoken lady preferred.

“I’m here to examine your artifacts.” Professor Kennedy smiled shyly as she gratefully sipped iced tea, a sprig of mint floating on top.

C H A P T E R 1 4

Face flushed even to the roots of his wavy silver hair, Bill Wheatley sputtered, “I demand to know who is spreading filth and calumnies about me!”

“Bill,” Charlotte’s voice remained calm, “I can understand your being upset, but no one is spreading filth. This came as an observation from students and I took the precaution of calling former students. No one has accused you of improper conduct or sexual harassment.”

“Well, they’re calling me a Peeping Tom!”

“Now, Bill, what the girls have said is that you often walk in and out of their costume fittings and changes. Peeping Tom hasn’t escaped anyone’s lips. Just try to remain calm and explain this, uh, habit to me.”

“I’m head of the theater department for Christ’s sake, Charlotte. I oversee all the plays, every aspect of production. And you know, costume design was where I made my name before marriage and three children forced me to think about job security.”