Full Cry (2 page)

Tall, elegant Edward Bancroft touched the top of his hunt cap with his crop.

Sister rode up to Shaker, tears in his eyes from laughing.

“Oh, God, that man is dumb as a sack of hammers.”

She laughed, too. “Donnie Sweigert isn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but to make amends I'm letting him hunt the peach orchard Monday morning. He'll forgo
eau de vulpus.
”

At this they both laughed so loudly a few of the hounds laughed out loud, too. That only made the humans laugh harder. The hounds took this as a cue to sing.

“All right, all right.” Shaker wiped his eyes as the hounds ended their impromptu carol.

“We've had a pretty good day, all things considered. Let's lift these hounds and go home.”

“Yes, boss.” He touched his cap with his horn.

Later at the breakfast held at Orchard Hill's lovely 1809 white clapboard house, the mirth increased with each person's retelling of the situation.

Clay Berry told everyone that come Monday morning he'd present Donnie with a bottle of cologne. He'd also give Donnie a fixture card so he could stay away from fox hunts.

“Do you really think humans can disguise their scent? Would a deer have been fooled?” Jennifer Franklin, Betty's teenage daughter, asked Walter. She had a crush on Walter, as did every woman in the hunt club.

“I don't know.” Walter smiled. “You'll have to ask Sister that one.”

He motioned for Sister to join them. Walter was a well-built man; he'd played halfback at Cornell, and even during the grueling hours of medical school and his internship, he had worked out religiously. Sister stood next to him. At six feet, she was almost as tall as he. She'd lost an inch or so with age.

Those meeting Jane Arnold for the first time assumed she was in her middle fifties. Lean, strong, her silver hair close cropped because she couldn't stand “hat head” from her hunt cap, she had an imposing yet feminine presence.

Walter repeated the question. She thought a moment, then replied as she touched Jennifer's shoulder. “I expect a deer or any of us can be fooled for a little while, but sooner or later your real odor will rise on up, and then you'll be standing like truth before Jesus.”

On weekends Jennifer Franklin, a senior in high school, and her best friend, Sari Rasmussen, cleaned and tacked up the horses for Sister, Shaker, and Betty. When the hunt was over, the girls would cool down the horses, wash them if necessary, clean all the tack. When the horses were completely dry, they'd put on their blankets and turn them out, an eagerly anticipated moment for the horses.

The two attractive girls would then attack five pairs of boots, which included their own two. However, this Saturday their high school was having a special late-afternoon basketball tournament, so Sister had given the two girls time off.

During weekday hunts, Betty saw to the horses while Sister and Shaker fed the hounds after a hard hunt. This gave them time to check each hound, making sure no one was too sore or had gotten torn by thorns or hateful barbed wire. If anyone sustained an injury, he or she would be taken to the small medical room, lifted on the stainless steel table and washed, stitched if necessary, or medicated. The hardy hounds rarely suffered diseases, but they did bruise footpads, rip ears, cut flanks.

When Betty finished with the horses, Sister would usually be finished with the hounds. Then the two women would stand in the stable aisle cleaning their tack, the bucket of warm water loosening stiffened, cold fingers as well as softening up the orange glycerin soap.

While the ladies performed this convivial task, Shaker used a power washer on the kennels. Sister would clean his boots when she cleaned hers during the weekdays.

The familiar routine was comforting, but the hunt club really did need at least one more employee. While wealthy members like Crawford would build show grounds because it was flashy, they didn't throw their money in the till for a worker. An employee lacked the social cachet of a building, and the slender budget left no room for another pair of hands. Since Sister and Shaker performed most all of the work, their days were long: sunup to past sundown.

Sister and Betty stood side by side, cleaning their bridles. They were almost finished.

“Read the paper this morning?” Betty asked.

“I don't get to it until supper. What have I missed?”

“Oh, those antique furniture and silver gangs are at it again. The
Richmond Times-Dispatch
had an article about how they're moving through the west end.”

“Every couple of years that happens in Richmond. Smart thieves,” Sister said.

“Well, what I found interesting was these rings work full-time. They move through Richmond, Charlotte, Washington, even the smaller cities like Staunton or ritzy places like Middleburg. Apart from knowing real George II silver from silver plate or a Sheraton from a Biedermeier, they're obviously well organized.”

“I get the Sotheby's catalogues. Some of those pieces sell for the gross national product of Namibia.”

Betty laughed. “I've always wondered why people become criminals. Seems to me if they put all that energy into a legitimate career, they'd make enough money.”

“I wonder. I can understand a thirteen-year-old kid in the slums not wanting to work for McDonald's when he or she can realize a couple of thousand a month dealing and delivering drugs. But a furniture gang? I know what you mean. The same effort could just as well produce profit in an honest trade.”

“Well, maybe there's more profit than we realize. Guess there's a chain of people to make it all work, too, like crooked antique dealers.”

“Hmm. It's one thing to steal money, but family silver, furniture—so much emotion tied up in those things. Like all those little silver plates and big trays we won in horse shows when we were young.”

“Or my great-grandmother's tea service.”

“Are you going to lock your doors?”

“Oh, they won't come out here.”

“Hope not, but still, glad I've got my Doberman,” Sister said.

The phone rang. As Sister hung up her tack on the red bridle hook, she picked it up. Betty reached up next to her, putting up her hunting bridle with the flat brow and nose-bands, its simple eggbutt-jointed snaffle gleaming from rubbing.

“Hello, Ronnie, I'd thought you'd had enough of me today.”

He laughed. “It's all over town, hell, all over the county about Donnie Sweigert being, uh, quarry. Guess his nearest and dearest will take to calling him fox urine.”

“Bet they shorten that.”

“Bet they do, too.” He laughed harder.

Ronnie, a man who, besides being fashionable, needed to be the first to know everything, enlivened every hunt. Usually discreet, he could let it rip and surprise everyone.

“What can I do for you? I hope you aren't calling about the board meeting. It's not for three more weeks, and I haven't even thought of my agenda. Well, except for more money.”

“Oh, that.” His voice registered sympathy. “I say we get each hunt club member to buy a lottery ticket for a dollar each week. If they win, they give half to the hunt club.”

“Ronnie, that's a great idea!” Betty leaned close to the earpiece of the phone upon hearing Sister's enthusiasm. Sister put her arm around Betty's waist. A fabulous thing about being a woman was touching, hugging, being close to other women without worrying about repercussions. Men misunderstood affection for sexual interest, and it caused no end of difficulty.

“I was joking.”

“But it's a great idea, I mean it. Oh, please propose it at the board meeting. And Betty's right here next to me. I'll tell her all about it so you have two passionate supporters.”

“Really? I mean, really?” His tone rose.

“I mean it. You are so creative.”

“Actually, that's not why I called.” He breathed in, a moment of anticipation and preparation. “You are not going to believe this. I just heard it from Marty Howard at the Subaru dealership. She was picking up her Outback, and I was dropping mine off for its sixty-thousand-mile service.”

“I'm waiting. . . .”

“I'm setting the stage.” He loved to tease a story. “Anyway, we chatted. I so like Marty, and I will never know why she puts up with that man, but that's another story, so—waiting with bated breath?”

“Yes. So is Betty, whose ear is also jammed to the phone.”

“Ah, a larger audience. Well, here it is. Ta da!” He sang the “ta da.” “Ready?”

“Ronnie, I'll slap you the minute I next see you.”

“I might like it. Well, my dear master, Crawford Howard has hired Sam Lorillard to train his steeplechasers.” The silence was so long Ronnie raised his voice. “Sister, did you hear me?”

“I'm trying to fathom the information.”

“Can you believe it?”

“No.”

Betty shook her head. “Me, neither,” she said into the mouthpiece.

“Isn't this gossip too good to be true?”

“I'll say.” Sister released her hold on Betty's waist.

Betty reached for the phone. “May I?”

“Of course.” Sister then pressed her ear to the earpiece as the women reversed positions, Betty's arm around Sister's thin waist. “Ronnie, it's the Big Betts here.”

“Cleavage.”

“As if you cared.”

“I do care. I'm a highly attuned aesthetic being.” He was proud of Betty losing twenty-five pounds last season, and she was working hard on the last ten. “Knowing you, you'll pepper me with questions.”

“Right. Since I haven't heard a breath of this, and I know you didn't either or I'd already know, shall I assume Crawford didn't talk to any of the gang?”

“Yes.”

“Did Marty say how he hired Sam?”

“She did. We must have talked twenty minutes. The landscape business always slows down to nothing in winter, so she had all kinds of time. Anyway, madam, what she said was, and I quote, ‘Crawford called trainers in Maryland, Pennsylvania, and South Carolina, all the big names. They swore that Sam had oo-scoobs of talent.' ”

“Did she really say ‘oo-scoobs'?”

“Yes.”

Betty replied, “I thought only Southerners used that expression.”

“She's acclimating. Anyway, I asked her if she knew about Sam's history.” He paused. “She said she knew he's fought his battles, hit the bottom, but he's recovered.”

“Recovered?” Sister spoke into the phone.

“His brother, Gray, who made all that money in Washington, D.C., put him in a drying-out center. He was there for a month.”

“So that's why we haven't seen him passed out on a luggage cart down at the train station?” Betty mentioned one of the favorite hangouts of the county's incorrigible alcoholics. The downtown mall was another.

“How long has he been dry?” Sister again spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Do you want the phone back?” Betty asked.

“Actually, you ask better questions than I do.”

“According to Marty, Sam has been sober four months. She said that they extensively interviewed him. They also spent two hours with Gray, and they're satisfied that Sam's the man for the job. Crawford intends to get into chasing in a big, big way.”

Betty took a long time. “Well, I hope it all works out.”

“But you don't think for a skinny minute that it will, do you?” Ronnie sounded almost eager.

“Uh, no.”

Sister took the phone back, “What do you think?”

“I think there's going to be hell to pay.”

Sister sighed, then brightened. “In that case, let's hope Crawford's bank account is as big as we think it is.”

After they hung up the phone, Sister and Betty just looked at each other for a moment.

Betty finally said, “He
is
good with a horse, that Sam.”

“And with a woman.”

They said in unison: “Jesus.”

CHAPTER 2

Heavy snow forced Sister to drive slowly to the Augusta Cooperative, usually just called the co-op. Since the Weather Channel predicted this storm was going to hang around for two days, she figured she'd better stock up on pet food, laying mash, and kerosene for the lamps, in case the power cut. She also took the precaution of putting the generator in the cellar. Shaker did likewise for the kennel, as well as for his attractive cottage, also on the property of Sister's Roughneck Farm. In these parts, such a structure was called a dependency.

Last year, Sister broke down and bought a new truck for her personal use. The truck used to haul the horses and hounds, an F350 Dually, could pull a house off its foundation, but those Dually wheels proved clunky for everyday use. Installed in her new red half-ton truck was a cell phone with a speaker so she didn't have to use her hands.

“Shaker.”

“Yes, boss.”

“I'm on my way to the co-op. Need anything?”

“Mmm, late thirties, early forties maybe, good sense of humor, must like hounds and horses and be in good shape.”

“Get out.” She laughed.

“Mmm, pick up some Espilac if they have any,” he said, referring to a milk replacer for nursing puppies. “And if you want extra corn oil for kibble, might could use some.”

“Okay. I'll drop it in the feed room at the kennel. Oh, hair color preference?”

“Bay or chestnut.”

“I'll keep my eyes wide open, brother.”

Ending the call, she maintained a steady fifty miles an hour. The snowplows kept the main arteries clear, and even the secondary roads remained in good shape. If the storm kept up, the volume of snow would overwhelm the state plows, the dirt roads would become difficult to negotiate, and even the major highways would be treacherous. Sister knew that as soon as he hung up the phone, Shaker would pull on his down jacket, tighten the scarf around his throat, jam that old lumberjack hat on his head, and crank up the huge old tractor with the snowplow. He'd keep their farm road open, not an easy task; it was a mile from the state road back to the farm, and there were the kennels and the farm roads to clear out, plus the road through the orchard. Apart from being a fine huntsman, Shaker was a hard worker who could think for himself.

She pulled into the co-op's macadam parking lot, trucks lined up, backs to ramp. The ramps, raised two feet above the bed of a pickup, made it easy for the co-op workers to toss in heavy bags of feed, seed, whatever people needed. Huge delivery trucks fit the ramps perfectly. A man could take a dolly and roll straight into the cavernous storage area.

Each section of the co-op had its own building. The fertilizer section off to the side even housed a shed for delivery and spreading trucks. The special seed section was to the right of the fertilizer building. Catty-corner to both these buildings stood the main brick building, which contained animal food, gardening supplies, and work clothes.

As Sister pushed open the door to the main section, she saw many people she knew, all doing the same thing as she.

Alice Ramy, owner of a farm not far from Sister's, rolled her cart over. “Heard you chased an interested quarry today. I always did think Donnie Sweigert's elevator didn't go all the way to the top.”

“Poor fellow. He was stiff with fear.” Sister laughed. “He thought the hounds would tear him apart.”

“Would we miss him?” Alice tartly remarked.

“I reckon we would. Now Alice, all souls are equal before God.”

They both laughed, then rolled down separate aisles to wrap up their shopping before the storm worsened.

As Sister reached for milk replacer, another cart whizzed by her before stopping.

“Jane Arnold,” a deep voice called.

She turned to look into the liquid brown eyes of Gray Lorillard, a man of African American descent. Gray was the name of his maternal family, and everyone had always teased him about it when he was a kid. Few teased him these days; he was a powerful, wealthy tax lawyer and partner in a top-notch Washington, D.C., firm.

“Gray, how good to see you. We hardly ever do see you. Home for Christmas?”

He leaned on his cart. “I retired.”

“I hadn't heard that. How wonderful.”

“Well, I turned sixty-five last August, and I said, ‘I don't want to do this for the rest of my life.' I want to farm. Took me this long to wrap things up. Kept the apartment in D.C., still do consulting, but Sister, I am so glad to be back.”

“Will you be at the old home place?” She referred to the Lorillard farm, which abutted the eastern side of After All, the Bancrofts' enormous estate.

He looked her directly in the eyes. “Have you seen it?” “I drive by.” She tactfully did not mention its state of disrepair.

“Sam didn't even change the lightbulbs when they blew out.” He breathed in, lowering his voice. “I won't be living there with him, though I think he's beat the bottle this time. God, I hope so.”

“I'm amazed he's still alive,” Sister honestly replied.

“Me, too.” He smiled, his features softening. “I expect this storm will have us all holed up. But it has to end sometime.” He hesitated a moment. “When it does, may I take you to lunch at the club? We can catch up.”

“I hope it ends tomorrow.” She smiled.

All the way home, Sister thought about the Lorillards: Sam, Gray, and Elizabeth, each with different destinies. Elizabeth, the middle child, married well, a Chicago magazine magnate. She sat on the city council of the expensive suburb in which she lived, Lake Forest. She evidenced no interest in the home place, Virginia, or, more pointedly, Sam. Gray, a good athlete and horseman, won an academic scholarship to Syracuse, going on to New York University Law School. Sam, also a good athlete and horseman, won a scholarship to Michigan, finished up, then returned to attend the University of Virginia's Darden School of Business. He couldn't stay away from the horses, which everyone understood, but he couldn't stay away from women either. These disruptions and his ever-escalating drinking seemed intertwined.

Sister had ridden with Gray and Sam when they were young. It baffled her how someone like Sam could throw away his life as he did. Not being an addictive personality, she failed to understand willful self-destruction.

The Lorillards' tidy and tight farmhouse had fallen down about Sam's ears. Until four months ago, one often found him down at the old train station, sitting on the baggage carts knocking back Thunderbird with the other drunks.

It pained Sister to see those men. One, Anthony Tolliver, had been the first boy she ever danced with and loved. They remained friends until he lost the battle with the bottle. Anthony, well born, lost everything. On those times when she did see him, he would smile, happy for her presence. The fumes from him made her eyes water. She alternated among disgust, anger, and pity. Bad as he was, Anthony could bring back wonderful childhood memories. She couldn't understand why he couldn't get control of his drinking.

Sister had lived long enough to know you couldn't save someone from himself. You can open a door, but he still must walk through it. It sounded as though Sam had at long last walked through the door his brother opened for him.

At the kennels, she unloaded the corn oil. Shaker walked in. As he took off his cap, snow fell to the floor in white clumps.

“Thanks for plowing the road.”

“I'll give it another sweep before the sun goes down.”

“Four-thirty. We're just on the other side of the solstice. I miss the light.” Sister stacked the Espilac on the shelf.

“Me, too.” He shook the remaining snow from his cap as he stamped his boots.

“Ran into Gray Lorillard. Said he's retired and just moved back.”

“Ah, that will be a good thing. Maybe he'll start hunting again.”

“Hope so. I think he went out with Middleburg Hunt when he worked in D.C. Anyway, we're having lunch once the storm is over. I'll get the scoop.”

“Where's my girlfriend?”

She snapped her fingers. “I knew I forgot something. Next trip.”