Рита Браун - Full Cry

“Thanks.” Rory saw the money inside the folded paper.

“Oh, yeah, if you think of anything else about Mitch or Tony, let me know.”

“I will. Weird.” Rory stubbed out his cigarette, which he’d smoked down to his nicotine-stained fingers. “Your brother living with you?”

“No. The home place is so bad he can’t stand it.”

“Gray always was the kind of guy who buffed his nails.” Rory laughed uproariously. “Expensive suits. Expensive women.”

“He’s rented a cottage at Chapel Cross. He’s looking for a place. If you do want some help, I got a room for you after.”

A mixture of gratitude and even a flicker of hope crossed Rory’s once attractive features. “You’re okay, Sam. You’re okay.”

“Here.” Sam handed him the rest of a pack of Dunhills, red box.

“Shit, man, you must be living good.”

“My boss has more money than God. He doesn’t mind that I smoke, but he says he can’t stand the smell of cheap cigarettes, so every Monday morning, he puts a carton of Dunhill reds in the tack room. Funny guy. He’s a real hardass son of a bitch, but he has a kind of sweet streak.”

“Who?”

“Crawford Howard.”

“Heard of him. Owns Beasley Hall. Beastly Hall.” He laughed sarcastically. “Guess he does have more money than God.” Rory examined the beautiful pack, a rich red edged in gold. “No filters. Anyone who smokes filtered cigarettes or lights, you know, man, no balls. No balls. I don’t even respect women who smoke that shit. All they get is additives. Worse for them than real tobacco.” Rory said this with some enthusiasm.

Sam smiled. “Yep. You know, if you were a few shades darker, Rory, you’d be a real bro’.”

Rory laughed, a genuine laugh. “Sam, you always were full of it.” Then he stopped and said slowly, “You look good, Sam; you look good. I’m proud of you.”

As Sam walked back to the ancient Toyota, parked up on Main Street, he sent up a little prayer that the good Lord would help Rory find his way. And he prayed for Tony and Mitch. Something wasn’t right, his sixth sense warned.

CHAPTER 14

The mist rose off the earth like silver dragon’s breath. Eighty-two people quietly rode past the old Mill Ruins. Its two-story water wheel slowly turning, the lap of water comforting. Tiny ice crystals clung to the millrace, the straight chute of water feeding the mill.

Thanks to the presence of British photographer Jim Meads, Saturday’s hunt brought out every Jefferson Hunt member not flattened with a cold or flu, as well as cappers from surrounding hunts. Vanity, a spur even to those who deny it, ensured the assemblage dazzled in their best.

To Sister’s surprise, Dr. Dalton Hill was there, well turned out, riding a handsome Cleveland bay that suited him.

Artemis must have had a fond spot for the indefatigable Mr. Meads, because she granted perfect hunting conditions. Light frost glittered on grass, stones, pin oak limbs, and the old vines hanging from trees. As the sun rose, this silvery coating turned to pink, then salmon, then scarlet in early-morning light.

Sister upset people by casting hounds at sunup, but the sun rose at seven-fifteen on January 17, and it would afford Jim spectacular photographs. As Jim had flown in all the way from Wales, she could certainly get everyone’s nether regions in the saddle just as the pulsating rim of the sun crested the horizon.

Sister beheld each sunrise with hope. Today’s promise hovered with the slightly rising temperature, the light frost, the sweet faint breeze out of the west.

As hounds moved past the old mill, the mercury registered thirty degrees. Shaker would cast on the east side of the slopes, hoping for enough warmth that scent might lift off the fields. The temperature felt as though it would climb into the midforties by noon; scent should improve by the hour. The Weather Channel’s radar screen had shown a large band of rain clouds, circling counterclockwise. The first streaky clouds might sneak in from the west by nine o’clock. As further clouds moved in, the scent would— with luck—stay down.

Sister kept a detailed hunting journal. She noted the temperature when starting, the wind, its direction, the first cast and draw, the couple of hounds hunting, her mount, the number of people. She religiously wrote in her journal as soon as she got into the house. She tried to be accurate, to remember each sweep of the hounds. She saved decades of journals. Perhaps years hence, some future master would profit from her attention to detail.

Crawford spared no effort in his turnout. Sam Lorillard, although in an old habit, looked fine. His coat had been cut for him, as had his still serviceable boots.

Walter wore his black swallowtail coat. Other members, ladies with colors, wore derbies with their frock coats. Sister liked that look. Because a shadbelly or a weaselbelly isn’t worn as often as a frock coat, many people didn’t own them, even though they might be entitled to wear them. Shelling out eight hundred dollars for the High Holy Day hunts or those special days with other hunts proved tough on the pocketbook, or too much for those inclined to be tight. So a well-cut bespoke frock, or one off the rack that had been modified by a hunting tailor, always created a smart appearance. The entire Vajay family wore perfectly cut frock coats of darkest navy, which was as correct as black. What a good-looking group they were.

Jim, at six feet four inches and rail lean, had gotten the photographs he wanted as the field filed past the water wheel. He wore sturdy shoes, tough pants to repel thorns, and a much-loved waterproof jacket. Running kept him warm, so he wasn’t bundled up. He was already up ahead, skirting along the side of the farm road. He eagerly snapped away as Shaker, twenty-four couple of sleek hounds, and the two handsomely mounted whippers-in rode by him.

Originally Sister had planned on entertaining the outgoing Jim, but Crawford begged to have him at Beasley Hall. Crawford reasoned that with his servants, and an extra car, Jim would luxuriate in amenities after his long journey. And Sister could always catch up with her favorite former British airman at tea. She gave in. Because she had a political agenda for Crawford, she wanted to make him happy. Crawford took this as a sign that he truly was on track to be named joint-master.

Ronnie and Xavier smiled as they rode past Jim. Even Xavier’s weaselbelly didn’t help him look slimmer. He was disgusted with himself and Ronnie didn’t help matters by asking him when the blessed event would occur.

Ronnie, always in shape, sat his horse smugly, his weaselbelly faded to the best shade of scarlet, his cream colored vest points protruding at the correct length, his fourfold stock tie, so white it hurt the eyes, tied with such aplomb that Ronnie was the envy of all who aspired to such splendor. Ronnie, like many gay men, had a way with clothes.

Try as Crawford might, he looked too flash, though he was perfectly correct in his turnout. Ronnie, however, had pegged it just right.

Clay looked good, too, although not as polished as Ronnie. He had a satisfied smile on his face since Izzy continued to thank him for the 500SL. Nothing like wake-up loving to put a man in a great mood. Izzy had already joined the Hilltoppers.

Sister turned in the saddle, inspecting the long line behind her, snaking through the mist lifting off the millrace. Keepsake, gleaming, felt her turn. He kept his eyes and ears on the pack thirty yards ahead. His powers of smell, not as profound as a hound’s, were good, far better than any human’s. He detected a number of scents and wished Sister could as well. Both human and horse were passionate hunters, but Keepsake felt sorry that his rider’s nose was woefully underdeveloped. Humans couldn’t help it. They had fewer olfactory receptors, and with those pitiful little nostrils, how could anyone suck up scent?