Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

Shaker opened the door to the mudroom. They heard him stamp his feet. He hung up his worn buffalo plaid coat, then opened the door into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“How about green tea?”

“Green tea?” Ben’s eyebrows raised.

“Lorraine got me hooked on drinking green tea at night.” He smiled. “You know, I really feel better. I feel clean from the inside out, sort of.”

“Better try it, Chief,” Ty said, suppressing a smile.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sister directed this at Ben.

“Nothing. I have a little insomnia, that’s all.”

“Green tea will help.” Shaker flicked the round black knob on the big gas stove.

“So will milk. Ben, you have too much on you and this county just doesn’t give you and your department enough money. No wonder you can’t sleep. You can only do but so much. If you don’t take care of yourself we’re all up a creek without a paddle.” Sister was sympathetic.

“Right.” Ty smiled shyly at the master, then glanced at his mentor and superior.

The fire cracked in the huge walk-in fireplace, topped by a wooden mantel, the ax lines cut in 1788 still visible. The kitchen was the oldest part of the house. The rest had been built when the federal style was prevalent.

Gray leaned forward. “Two Zorros.”

“Yes, it seems that way,” Ben replied. “Charlotte and Carter passed a Zorro on the way to their car that night, then passed Zorro again going in the opposite direction. They assumed Al had forgotten something in his office.”

“It’s baffling. Al was in full costume when he was found, and now this.” Sister rose as the teapot boiled.

“Boss, I’ll get that.” Shaker got up, too.

“I want one myself.”

“Go sit down. I’ll do it.”

She returned to her seat.

“Bill Wheatley said there had only been one, the one Al checked out when I questioned him the day after the murder. He’d gone straight to the costume storage area to make certain the costume Al wore really was from Custis Hall. It was.” Ben tapped his forefinger on the table.

“Two Zorros,” Sister echoed Gray. “It occurs to me that while people thought they were seeing Al, they were seeing the second Zorro.”

“Possible.” Ben turned toward Ty. “Check out costume rentals in Virginia tomorrow. Might get lucky.”

“I wonder if Al knew there was a second Zorro?” Gray found this all disquieting.

“You’d think he wouldn’t willingly go off with another Zorro, now wouldn’t you?” Shaker was baffled.

“You’d think.” Ben dropped his eyes. “Like I told you last week, Sister, Al did not die by a clean snap of the neck. He strangled up there. Whoever killed him didn’t or couldn’t do it fast. And there wasn’t a mark on him. No sign of a struggle.”

Sister’s eyes widened. “An ugly way to die.”

Gray considered the situation. “Well, honey, if Al had been cleanly killed before he was hanged, that would be one thing. Actually, it would make this easier to understand. You’d think he’d fight like hell even with hands bound not to climb that ladder. Did he willingly put his neck in the noose or was he tricked into it?”

“He couldn’t be that dumb,” Shaker exploded.

“Dumb? Or trusting?” Sister evenly replied.

C H A P T E R 1 6

“ Careful.” Professor Kennedy’s voice sharpened.

“Sorry.” Pamela, wearing thin plastic surgical gloves as did the others, placed an iron snaffle bit on white cloth.

As she arranged it, Felicity, using a digital camera, snapped photos.

Pamela started to pick it up.

“Pamela, where is your mind today?” The good professor was becoming irritated. “Tootie has to measure it.”

“I forgot. I think my blood sugar is low.” Pamela did not sound convinced by her own excuse. Then she laughed. “My father’s sister says, ‘Got the suga’, suga’ runs in the family.’ ”

“Does. It’s more prevalent among us than whites.” Professor Kennedy leaned over with her magnifying glass. Finding nothing too interesting in the bit, which had been made in a mold, then sanded for smoothness, she indicated that it should be replaced.

Tootie thought the smoothness of the metal impressive. She tapped the small measuring tape, bright yellow, against her thigh.

Professor Kennedy brought out a pair of epaulettes. “H-m-m, color much better than I would have anticipated. Military uniforms were big business throughout Europe, Russia, the whole New World. When uniforms began to simplify, thousands of people were out of work. It’s the little things like that that make history real.”

Pamela gingerly took the epaulettes, the hanging gold tendrils of metallic thread springing slightly. Professor Kennedy took them back from her and peered intently through her magnifying glass. She said nothing but placed them herself on the white cloth.

“Shoot?” Felicity asked.

“Yes. And then shoot upside down, carefully . I need both sides.”

Valentina, books under her arm, walked by as the bell rang. “Hey, I got out two minutes early. Hello, Professor Kennedy. I’m here to help.”

“Good. You can—” She didn’t finish, as Knute Nilsson walked up from the wide hall leading to the administrative offices.

“Professor Kennedy, I’m surprised your eyes aren’t red from mold and dust,” he joked.

“Visine,” she briskly replied, then added, “The cases and the objects are cleaner than I expected.”

“Good. Good.” He smiled broadly. “Mrs. Norton can’t stand one gum wrapper on the floor. She runs a tight ship. Have you found anything that surprises you?”

Canny, she lied, “No. Not yet anyway. As you know, there’s a wide range of articles here and authenticating some of them will take time. The dresses made in Paris, still lovely, aren’t they?” He nodded yes and she continued, “Those of course are much easier because the French dressmakers to the aristocrats kept excellent records, measurements, types of materials. Many even made drawings, colored, too, to remind them of what their patronesses had ordered. Then, as now, no two ladies wish to appear at the same ball wearing the same gown.”

“Easier for us men, isn’t it?”

“Today, yes. But can you imagine the layers for your full-dress military uniform? Gentlemen had batmen, dressers, because no man could do it himself.”

“How could they dance in boots?”

“They didn’t. They wore their dress uniform but with silk stockings, expensive breeches, and equally expensive pumps. Society required money and lots of it.” She warmed to her subject.

“Still does,” Pamela said sourly. “My mother spends enough on clothes to pay for Argentina’s army.”

“I’m sure she’s quite beautiful,” Professor Kennedy replied.

“She is. Pamela’s mother was Thaddea Bolendar, the famous model back in the late seventies. She made the cover of Vogue .” Knute, like most men, went weak at the knees at the sight of Pamela’s mother.

Professor Kennedy, a woman and therefore far more sensitive to the mother-daughter dynamic, instantly appreciated the source of some of Pamela’s unhappiness, for Pamela, a little overweight, resembled her father more than her mother. In short, she would never be a beauty, but if she worked at it, she could be attractive. Her sharp eyes took in six-foot-one-inch Valentina’s unforced, athletic beauty, all that gorgeous blonde hair, those blue eyes. Then there was petite Tootie, standing right next to Pamela. Poor Pamela suffered by comparison, for Tootie in her way was every bit as stunning as Pamela’s famous and spoiled mother. As for Felicity, she was simply pretty. One had to study Felicity before realizing how pretty she was.