One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] (6 page)
Read One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] Online
Authors: Carolyn McSparren
Peggy plopped it on her head.
“Hey! Not like that. Calm down. Take some deep breaths. I promise you we’ll find you the proper hat.”
“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry.” Peggy’s shoulders slumped. “This has not been the best day of my life.”
“I heard. Look at it this way. Nobody’s hurt, horses, people and harness are all in good shape.”
“I look like an incompetent lunatic.”
“If you promise to settle down, I’ll fit you with the right hat, show you how to wear it, and regale you with some of my worst driving moments. Deal?”
Peggy nodded. “Deal.”
“Merry,” Marguerite said, “Go away. Groom a horse or something. Don’t come back for at least an hour.”
“But . . .”
“Trust me.”
So I left them alone and went over to the refreshment tent, where I gorged myself on Diet Coke and sausage biscuits.
I wasn’t kidding about the prices of driving hats. Men generally wore tweed caps or bowlers in informal driving, top hats in formal classes and hard hats in marathons. Straightforward. Sort of. But as with most customs involved in carriage driving, top hats for gentlemen drivers differed from top hats worn by liveried grooms and coachmen.
Theoretically, both men and women could always wear hard hats in any class without penalty. In practice, except in marathons where both hard hats and body protectors were required, lady drivers tended to channel Queen Mary—not the bloody one, but the one who married George the Fifth. The fashion went back to the glory days where wealth and social standing were measured by the carriage and team.
A lady driver between classes might be wearing unzipped paddock boots with her driving apron stuffed into the waistband of her slacks, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But she’d also be wearing a hat for which a half dozen bantam roosters and at least one cock pheasant sacrificed tail feathers. I prayed Marguerite would somehow keep a lid on Peggy. A relatively simple lid.
Stuffed with sausage, I wandered back up the hill toward the tents and spent a few minutes lusting after the latest driving jewelry I wouldn’t wear and couldn’t afford, and looking at paintings of horses that would look wonderful in my new house if I could afford them. Which I couldn’t.
As I neared Marguerite’s tent, I heard her say, “Just like that. Perfect! That hat will stay on in a hurricane.” I closed my eyes and said a prayer to the hat god.
As I entered the tent, I saw it was a blue hat, but not the one she’d plumped on her head before I’d left. This one was a lighter teal with French ribbon that matched the colors in Peggy’s driving jacket, and only a few small feathers. No tulle.
“It’s wonderful,” I said. “Marguerite, I should have trusted you.”
“Apology accepted,” Marguerite said with a grin. “I was showing Peggy how to pin it on so it won’t go flying off in the dressage arena and scare the horses.” She pulled an elaborately painted hatbox from under the dressing table. “Remember, Peggy, remove the pin first, then lift the hat straight up—don’t go yanking.”
“I don’t want to be around for this part,” I said.
“What part?” Peggy asked.
“The credit card part.”
Once the hatbox was carefully stowed on the back seat of our truck, I could tell Peggy’s mood had definitely improved.
“My mother always said that having the proper clothes for a sporting event is half of winning it,” Peggy said with a satisfied grin.
“Then you’ll be a champion.”
Merry
Since we’d been eliminated from this event because of our little debacle in the marathon, Peggy and I found the volunteer coordinator and offered our services if they needed us during the afternoon classes. The high fun classes like turnout, carriage dog, and scurry classes were scheduled after lunch. The marathon would be completed by then.
For many competitors, that meant a change of carriage to something fancier and more in keeping with Victorian traditions. The ladies pinned their fancy hats on and donned their jackets, the men their top hats, and everyone brought out the aprons to cover their legs. I won’t go into all the regulations. Just take my word for it that competitive carriage driving has rules on top of its rules.
I have to admit I was annoyed, but not surprised, that Raleigh was leading after the marathon. He didn’t do well in his afternoon tests, however. You can bully horses just so long. Then they simply refuse to listen to you.
Peggy and I were straightening up our tackroom in the trailer, when we heard the thud of hooves and the jingle of tack coming much too fast from the dressage arena. A moment later, we heard Raleigh’s voice.
“Call yourself a groom?” he shouted. “You couldn’t groom a poodle. Get the hell off my carriage. Where the hell is Brock? Brock, dammit! Get over here and take care of these horses.”
“Daddy . . .”
So Raleigh was yelling at Dawn, his daughter, again.
“Shut up, just shut up. Get out of my face. You’ll be damned lucky if I don’t cut you out of my
life
as well as my will. I’ve got more options than
you
now.
Tell that polo playing gigolo if he expects to live off you, go take a job at Walmart.”
Raleigh’s stable manager, Brock, a lanky guy who looked like a cowboy, ambled up to the side of Raleigh’s carriage. He didn’t seem bothered by Raleigh’s tirade, but then, he was undoubtedly used to them.
“ Goddammit, Brock,
I pay you to look after my horses, not to lounge up here in the shade.”
Peggy reached across me and slammed the door to the trailer tack room. It didn’t completely cut off the sound of Raleigh’s voice, but deadened it a tad.
I really wanted to listen. If a little schadenfreude—enjoying your enemy’s discomfort—makes me a bad person, then I’m a bad person. I felt sorry for Dawn and Brock. Most of all I felt sorry for the horses. Raleigh deserved a couple of well-placed hooves right in the gut.
He’d be hell on wheels at the exhibitors’ party.
Merry
Some exhibitors’ parties are held outside or in stables. A few are real dress-up affairs, though by the time the day is over, usually competitors are too tired to do more than throw on a clean pair of jeans. What most of them want is a drink—generally alcoholic—lots of good food and a chance to rehash the day’s driving with their frenemies. The parties don’t generally last far into the night. People are tired, and competitors are facing the cones competition on Sunday morning. If you’re weaving from bourbon the night before, you certainly won’t be any good at weaving through cones the next day.
This party was halfway between barbecue and pheasant under glass. The Tollivers’ house wasn’t old as southern mansions go. Nouveau-Tara style, it was built in the mid-twenties before the Wall Street crash and passed down the generations. Some of the land was sold off over the years, but the Tollivers still raised prize Limousine cattle and Rhinelander horses for driving and riding on the thousand or so acres they had left.
There’s an old story about a Texas matron who said she didn’t own but ten acres of land. They called it Downtown Houston. The Tollivers owned a little less city acreage. They called it downtown Atlanta.
You’d never know that if you met either of them on the street. Juanita mucked stalls and cleaned tack right along with her grooms. She did usually wear thick gloves, however. Her six-carat engagement ring tended to catch otherwise, and she made certain her Patek Philippe watch could stand up to immersion in horse liniment. She’d once told me she thought Rolexes were tacky.
Happily retired from banking and now a full time farmer, Harry Tolliver shot skeet, drove his horses, played with his golf clubs and his grandchildren, and generally enjoyed himself. He’d lost a step or two the last couple of years, and his weight and blood pressure worried Juanita, but he refused to give up his early breakfasts at the local café with the other good ole boys.
Surprisingly, Giles sauntered onto the Tollivers’ patio in full charm mode.
Peggy narrowed her eyes at him and whispered to me, “What’s with the shake and howdy?”
“Probably improved his mood by dismembering the last remaining specimen of some endangered species on his way over here from his trailer,” I whispered back as he approached us.
“Good evening, Peggy, you dry off yet?” He guffawed, bent over her hand, and might even have kissed it if she hadn’t snatched it out of his way.
“How kind of you to inquire, Mr. Raleigh.” Anyone other than Giles would have frozen solid from her breath.
“Oh, come now. Call me Giles. And how are you this evening, Merry? Hope I didn’t upset you two fine ladies this morning. Sometimes my alligator tongue overwhelms my hummingbird brain when I’m on a marathon. Please accept my apologies.”
My first thought was that he was drunk out of his gourd. But he was known as a bad drunk, not an eloquent one. Had he been hitting Sarah Beth’s tranquilizers? He was too calm to be on cocaine or crystal meth. “Um-hm,” I said, but he’d already brushed past us and wiped us from his memory bank. Both Peggy and I turned to follow his progress through the crowd.
“Catherine, don’t you look lovely this evening,” he said, and leaned over to give her an air kiss and a whisper in her ear. Prurient, probably. Offered to take
her
to bed.
Catherine Harris, still in technical delegate mode, flinched and gave him a stare that would have pickled okra in the field.
“You and I have to sit down and have us a long chat this weekend,” he said. He turned and held out his hand. “And I must have a talk with that fine young man Troy I’ve heard so much about. I’m sure you rely on him
heavily
.”
“Ooooh,” Peggy whispered. “Nasty.”
Giles swept on, nodding to left and right. It was like watching a monarch process through a palace garden party. The monarch being Ivan the Terrible or Genghis Khan.
Troy hadn’t heard Giles’s remark. He was too engrossed with the tall, elegant post deb he was staring at. She was indeed beautiful, but I didn’t like the way her eyes kept sweeping the room like a submarine periscope. Not wary, exactly, but alert.
“Do you see Sarah Beth?” I asked Peggy. “Is she here?”
“Maybe she’s spending time fixin’ herself up. If she doesn’t show soon, we can fix her a plate and take it down to her.”
“Good excuse,” I said. “Hey, Dick. You do clean up well.”
Dick Fitzgibbons leaned over and kissed Peggy’s cheek. He didn’t bother to kiss me, but I already knew he had a thing for Peggy and she had a thing for him. He considers me more like a daughter, anyway.
“What’s with Raleigh?” he asked. “Did he just evict a bunch of nice old people from their retirement homes?”
“He’s certainly happy enough,” Peggy said. “Those yellow feathers sticking out of his alligator jaws worry me. And Sarah Beth’s not here. I’m going to walk down and check on her right now instead of waiting.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“No. Stay here and keep an eye on Raleigh. If he’s cheerful because he’s been knocking her around, I don’t want him running off before I can call the cops.” We separated at the buffet table. Peggy filled a plate for Sarah Beth while I filled one for me.
The barbecued ribs were to die for, and I watched Raleigh surreptitiously while I gnawed. I lost him when he went to the bathroom, and once I saw him down at the end of the terrace texting on his cell phone. Most men over thirty don’t have the thumbs to text, but he was grinning and tearing up that keyboard on his iPhone or his Droid or whatever it was. Something top of the line, no doubt. Must be cancelling somebody’s construction loans for fun.