Рита Браун - Hotspur

Inky knew spirits existed. Just like Hamlet told Horatio, there were more things in heaven and earth than we knew, but that didn’t mean she wanted any part of them.

She raced back toward her den, deciding not to visit Diana tonight. A whippoorwill disturbed by her passing let out its characteristic call.

She dashed into her den, snuggling in the fresh hay she’d lined there.

“How sad humans are,” she thought to herself. “They hurt others and they hurt themselves and their misery flows down through the centuries. Maybe there really is original sin for them.” She closed her eyes and prayed to God, who, for her, looked like a beautiful gray fox. “Thank you, dear God, thank you for making me a fox.”

CHAPTER 11

“I’ve always loved this spot, but now . . .” Sybil’s voice trailed off. Tears rolled down her cheek.

“Honey, try not to think about it.” Ken Fawkes thought that idea comforting, but it was impossible for either of them not to stare at the newly packed earth and not think about where Nola had lain for two decades and one year.

“When we were little girls, we’d sit up there, where Peppermint is buried now, and we’d look back over the creek and the meadows. I loved this time of year because it was cooler here and the cornflowers bloomed. Nola’s eyes were cornflower blue. She said I had iris eyes. Most times they’re pale blue, so that was nice of her.” Sybil sobbed harder.

Ken wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. “You have lavender eyes. The most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Ken, what do we do now?”

He couldn’t answer right off. “Well, we keep on keeping on.”

“Did you notice Mother wearing the sapphire?”

“Yes.”

“I asked her why. She said she’d made a promise. The sapphire would remind her to keep it.”

A horsefly buzzed near Ken’s head, then moved away as he slapped at it, releasing his grasp on his wife. “Bad luck, that ring.”

Sybil smoothed her glossy hair. “I wonder. Maybe we just invest objects with our emotions. They’re neutral.”

“Well, don’t you wear that goddamned ring.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” She noticed color coming up on his cheeks.

Ken stuck his boot toe in the turf, scuffing at it like a petulant child. “Talked to this new sheriff guy who hardly inspires confidence. I’m starting to think if his brains were BBs they’d be rolling around a six-lane highway.”

“Paul Ramy must have had one BB, then,” Sybil ruefully replied.

“A good ol’ boy in the good old days. Shit.” Ken grimaced. “Things are supposed to be different. I don’t know if this Sidell is able to investigate roadside kill, much less this. The questions he asked me were pointless.”

“Twenty-one years. I guess from his standpoint it’s not pressing. No one else is in danger. If they were, more blood would have been spilled back in 1981.”

“You’re right.” Ken slapped at another fly. “Biting. Must be rain coming up.” He smiled. “Tuesday’s a good day for rain. Better now than the weekend.”

Domino and Merry Andrew trotted up from the other side of the hill. After nuzzlings and pats on the neck, they left the two humans.

“Ken, I don’t think we should let Mom or Dad collect Nola. What’s left of her.” A dark note of bitterness and loss crept into Sybil’s well-modulated voice. “They’ve been through enough. You and I should go get her. I didn’t ask Sidell when they’d release her remains to us.”

“Shouldn’t be much longer. They photographed the grave, her position in the earth. They’ll measure the bones. Scrape whatever they can scrape and send it to the lab. Guess it will tell them something. I’m not a scientist.”

“She was healthy as a horse.” Sybil scanned the western sky; a few gray cumulus tops were peeping over the mountains. “The horseflies watched the weather report.”

“They always bite before rain.” Ken checked his expensive watch, tapping the crystal, a habit. “Still time to call the sheriff today. I’ll see if I can make arrangements to get her.”

“I think you’d better call the funeral director first.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think family members can pick up corpses. I think the law is, a funeral director or employee has to do it. I’m pretty sure. You can’t just carry her out in a bag.”

“No.” Ken’s voice became a bit indignant. “I was going to get a proper coffin and put her in that. There’s nothing but bones. It’s not, well, you know . . .”

Sybil acknowledged with a nod that she did know. One doesn’t grow up in the country without a good sense of the disintegration of dead things. She knew, intellectually, that buzzards, worms, and beetles had their work to do. Without them the whole earth would be piled miles high with corpses. But why couldn’t the Lord have made it a tidier process? The stench alone was horrible. To think of her sister’s body decaying in the earth . . . she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She struggled to remember her sister’s staccato laugh, to snatch at something lovely.

The backfire of an engine drew their attention to the farm lane leading to the covered bridge. Jimmy Chirios coasted over the small rise, the farm truck emitting small puffs of dark smoke.

“That truck burns too much oil.” Sybil was glad to switch to another subject.

“Your father refuses to buy a new one.”

Edward, despite his wealth, was no more sensible about personal expenditures than the rest of humanity. He would squander money on some things, yet he was tight as a tick about others.

The dark green Dodge rattled across the bridge.

Jimmy pulled up to the couple. “Storm’s coming. Heard on the radio. Coming fast. Flash floods.”

The minute they hopped into the cab the wind shifted gears. The willows by the creek swayed like geishas.

“You did a good job filling in that . . . the grave,” Ken awkwardly thanked the young man.

“Oh.” Jimmy couldn’t muster a smile even though he was being complimented. The thought of that whole mess upset him deeply. “Why’d they make me wait a week? Nothing else there.”

“Can’t be too careful.” Ken drummed on the edge of the door, his elbow on the armrest. “Cops, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Jimmy drove them back to the big house. No sooner had Sybil and Ken reached the front door than the first big raindrops splattered across the immaculate lawn.

Sybil called out, “Mom.”

“In the den.”

They walked into the richly paneled den, a glowing cherry wood, its patina enhanced by age. Moroccan leather-bound volumes—dark blue, red with gold, green, black, saddle-leather tan—filled the shelves. Photographs, some among the very first made in the nineteenth century, also dotted the shelves, each sepia-toned image encased in either its original filigree frame or a plain, sterling silver one. There was so much silver at After All, it could have filled one of the legendary Nevada mines.

Tedi was seated on the chintz sofa, an album spread out before her on the coffee table. Images of Nola in her Christmas dress, her senior year at Madeira; images of Nola in ratcatcher, reins in hand, Peppermint, young and handsome, by her side; images of Nola at twenty-two, accepting her diploma from Mount Holyoke, where she distinguished herself on the show-jumping team but not in the classroom; images of Nola as maid of honor at Sybil’s wedding, and even a photograph of Nola at Opening Hunt in 1980, Guy Ramy in the background staring at her with a big grin on his face. Maybe he did love her. Tedi smiled back from those photographs, too. She was in her twenties, then thirties, forties, fifties, sixties. She remained thin, well groomed, and youngish thanks to excellent plastic surgery.