Outfoxed (10 page)

Diana stopped at the highest point looking to the east. There, sunning herself on a rock, was a luxurious vixen, gray. She had little interest in the proceedings.

“Look.”

Archie stopped to see the fox.
“She's not the hunted fox. But oh, this is tempting.”

The pack came to a halt. Sister, too, saw the sunbathing vixen.

She paused, waiting for her hounds, and Crawford, the damned fool, bellowed, “Tallyho.”

This brought a chorus of tallyhos behind her. The hounds all brought their heads up. Shaker stopped; the hounds stopped, then turned. The gray fox, disgusted, shot off her rock. The hounds picked up the scent, red-hot, and ran full speed ahead.

Sister squeezed Lafayette. They roared over the meadow, cleared the four slip-rail fence into the next meadow, and approached a trick drop jump at the edge of that. The slope on the other side was mossy, which meant horses slipped. The drop wasn't all that steep; it was the footing. Of course, the horses collected themselves in no time. It was the people that didn't.

Sister gracefully leapt over, barely leaning back in the saddle. She stayed over Lafayette's center of gravity regardless of the jump.

Crawford kicked Czapaka too hard. The horse had no intention of refusing but then over the jump Crawford looked down, panicked, and snatched the seventeen-hand fellow in the mouth, infuriating him. Czapaka skidded, Crawford hung up on his neck, and as the horse brought his hind end up under him, he let out a serious buck. Crawford was launched into space. Having relieved himself of the lump on his back, Czapaka turned around and jumped back over the jump, which brought Walter Lungrun to grief as he was approaching the jump. On the other side Czapaka galloped back toward the trailers, which in his estimation were three miles back.

Walter and Crawford picked themselves up simultaneously on both sides of the jump.

“Goddamn him! Goddamn that brute,” Crawford screeched as the field receded from view.

Ralph cleared the jump, having ascertained that Walter was fine. “Crawford, you in one piece?”

“Yes, goddammit!”

“Know your way back to the trailer?”

“Yes, goddammit.” Crawford was linguistically stuck.

Walter's horse, an old hunter named Clemson, wise in the ways of the sport, stood still. It was neither his fault nor Walter's that they parted company. Czapaka, crazed with freedom, crashed into them on their approach. Walter was already in his two-point position and the big Holsteiner knocked Clemson, a 16.1-hand appendix quarter horse, nearly off his feet.

Walter, not the best rider, was nonetheless a caring one. He checked Clemson's legs, walked him, reins over his head, to make sure the old fellow wasn't banged up.

“I'm fine. I can't abide warm-bloods. Dumb-bloods!”
Clemson said.

Walter patted him on the neck, then swung up into the saddle. A hair under six feet, Walter looked much taller because of his terrific build. He slipped his feet in the stirrups.

“Ready?”
Clemson asked, and was squeezed lightly in return.

They cleared the upright in good order as a still-cursing Crawford walked down to the eight-foot gate and struggled with the rusted chain and latch. This brought forth a torrent of verbal abuse.

Walter hid his laughter and trotted to catch up. He saw no reason to fly like a bat out of hell, since he could hear hoofbeats ahead.

Just as Walter found the group, Fontaine and the hilltoppers found Crawford, walking across the high meadow.

“It's a glorious morning for a walk, Mr. Howard.”

“Shut up, Fontaine.”

“All in a day's sport.”

“I'll see your ass on the ground before the season's over.” Crawford slapped his own thigh with his crop.

“Ah well, your ass is there now and buddy, there's so much of it.” Fontaine laughed, riding on. The hilltoppers followed, suppressing giggles.

It never occurred to Crawford that not one of the hilltoppers asked if he was all right.

By the time he reached the trailers his feet hurt as much as his pride. Czapaka stood at the trailer as though an angel of reason. If Peter Wheeler weren't still on the truck bed, Crawford would have taken the crop to Czapaka. Which wouldn't have been a good idea no matter the horse but most especially Czapaka, who never forgot and never forgave.

“Horse's all a lather,” Peter called out.

“Yes, he was a bad boy.” Crawford tried to be sociable. He was glad that Martha worked Thursdays. He would have hated to have her see his debacle. Fontaine would tell her in lurid detail the minute he got back to the office.

He loaded up his horse and drove off, waving good-bye to Peter.

When Crawford drove out, Sister Jane and the field had pulled up two meadows beyond the high meadow. The fox disappeared. No den was in sight. No stream to wash away scent. Not even cow patties to foul scent.

The hounds worked the ground but they couldn't find even a sliver of hope.

“Let's call it a day,” Sister advised Shaker, who was standing beside her.

“Cagey devil.”

“Related to my reds. Must be. They're too smart to be foreign foxes.”

She did recognize foxes. She made scent stations, kept track of litters in the spring, threw out dead chickens given her by farmers. The chickens were shot full of wormer, which helped to keep the parasite loads down.

Sister was proud of her healthy foxes.

As they turned back for the trailers, Shaker blew in Douglas and Betty Franklin. The morning proved better than he thought it would. He was happy. Sister was happy. The hounds were happy. Only Crawford was unhappy, and that was his own damn fault.

Once at the trailers, the hounds loaded, Betty broke out her hamper basket, as did other members. These impromptu breakfasts, sitting on the ground, delighted everyone.

Hunting port made the rounds, as well as iced tea. Sister kept a cooler full of soft drinks in her trailer.

After she'd made sure the hounds and horses were fine, she sat down, leaning against Betty's trailer.

“I ought to get you a director's chair.” Betty handed her a saddle pad to sit on.

“I ought to get one myself. Too many things to do,” Sister replied.

“Dr. Lungrun, come on over here and feed your face.” Betty waved him over and he gratefully accepted.

Everyone talked, laughed about Crawford, asked questions of Walter, praised the hounds.

“Tabor Lungrun?” Bobby Franklin asked him.

“My father.”

“Ah. We're glad to have you with us and hope you'll come back out.”

“Dr. Lungrun, join us.”

He smiled at Sister Jane, finding her the most beautiful older woman he had ever seen. “I need two sponsors, do I not?”

“I can't sponsor you because I'm the master.”

Bobby held out his hand and shook Walter's. “I'd be happy to sponsor you, Doctor. My pleasure.”

Fontaine, quick to curry favor with Sister Jane, held out his glass. “Me, too. Your father was a good man ruined by a not so good one. We'd be pleased to have a Lungrun in the fold.”

The only reason Fontaine brought up that unhappy episode was so that no one would forget it. Small worry. No one in Virginia ever forgot anything. Misdeeds from 1626 were recounted with as much relish as if they'd happened yesterday. But Fontaine, who knew better than to point out another man's misery, also wanted that joint-mastership. Since it was Crawford Howard who'd destroyed Walter's father in what Crawford said was a bad business deal and others said was calculated greed, Fontaine wanted everyone to remember right that moment.

“I'd be happy to ride with Jefferson Hunt.” Walter bowed his head a moment. “Mrs. Arnold, I apologize for calling you after nine-thirty. I've been informed that you go to bed early.”

“Beauty sleep,” Betty teased her.

“Then I need to be comatose.” Sister laughed at herself.

“Hear. Hear. A beautiful woman need not disparage herself.” Fontaine held up his glass and the men drank to the master, who rather enjoyed it.

As the group broke up, Douglas sought out Betty.

“Mrs. Franklin, I thought Cody was hunting today?”

She liked Douglas and often wondered why he bothered with Cody, who treated all men badly. “Douglas, both of my girls are in a drug rehab program. They must stay at the hospital for a week and then they'll be back with us but still part of the program on an outpatient basis.”

Bobby, in the trailer tack room, stuck his head out the door. “Betty, people don't have to know that.”

“They know already. About drugs. We were the last to know.” She turned to Douglas. “Because we didn't want to know, I'm afraid. Anyway, they're both doing something about it.”

“Is Cody allowed to see people?”

“Not this first week. After that, as I said, she'll be out. You knew. I mean you knew about the drugs?”

He nodded that he did.

Bobby stepped down with an oomph. His knees hurt from carting around all that weight. “Guess there are no secrets in this club.”

“You don't have to answer this, but do you take drugs?”

“No. I'll drink sometimes but I can pretty well keep a lid on it.”

“Thank you for being honest with me.” Betty touched his shoulder.

On the way home Bobby fumed first about that conversation but then about Fontaine. “He's going to tear this club apart. He's going to undo all the good that Sister and Raymond built over the years. He didn't have to bring that up about Tabor Lungrun. We all know why he brought it up.”

“The young people don't remember.”

“They'll know now. They'll ask and the whole thing will be like fresh paint.”

“It was murky.”

“Murky. It was business, Princess. Crawford put up the money and Tabor put up the work. They went into the cattle business together twenty years ago. The market crashed. Tabor lost everything. Crawford could take it as a tax write-off. That's not dishonest.”

“Buying Tabor's farm at a bargain basement price is dicey.”

“Business, Princess, business. The Lungruns never had much anyway. He had to sell the farm to keep the family going.”

“Well, he loved that farm. He'd worked and scratched and scrimped. You know the Lungruns are made fun of in these parts, poor whites. He pulled himself up and then was brought down. Crawford could have floated him a loan or helped. No. He took advantage of him.”

“Crawford is from Indiana. He doesn't think like we do. To him it was a matter of numbers.”

“That poor man loved every blade of grass on that farm. Luckily he didn't live to see Crawford sell it eight years later at an enormous profit. No, by that time he'd shot himself, the poor bastard.”

Bobby softened somewhat. “Terrible thing. Leaving those little kids with no father.”

“And Libby Lungrun about killed herself working two jobs. She did kill herself. I think cancer can be brought on by worry.”

“Honey, you read too many books about that stuff.” He exhaled as they turned into their small farm entrance. “She was something to look at, Libby Olson.” He called her by her maiden name.

Betty cast him a sly glance. “Yes.”

“When a man stops looking he's dead.”

“Just so you don't punish me for the same thing. That son of hers could have stepped right out of a movie. The old movies when they were all handsome.”

“Guess he could.”

As they pulled in front of the small, neat barn Betty said, “Bobby, you ought to reconsider supporting Crawford. It's not going to work.”

“Well, it's not going to work with Fontaine either!” He tried to change the subject. “Walter's made something of himself. Lost track of him after he graduated from high school.”

“I'm warning you. This is going to blow up in your face. We have enough trouble as it is with two girls in the hospital and everyone in the county buying laser printers. Let's tend to our own business. Jane will do what's right.”

“Sister Jane doesn't have many choices.”

“Crawford isn't one of them!” Betty slammed the truck door hard and stomped to the back of the trailer. She let the ramp down with a thud, narrowly missing her foot.

 

CHAPTER 19

Sister Jane and Douglas stood up, groaning. Without thinking about it they mirrored each other, putting their hands in the small of their backs.

She laughed when she saw him. “You're too young to ache.”

“Bending over like that really gets me.”

They'd examined each hound that hunted that morning. When hounds came off the party wagon they walked back into the draw run and then each hound was pulled out, paws inspected, everything checked, and then sent back to their various kennel runs. The only way to properly do this was to bend over or kneel down. If you knelt down, your knees hurt. If you bent over, your back hurt. They alternated pains.

Shaker slipped on arriving back at the kennel, going down hard. He must have clenched his jaw with special force because he cracked a back tooth and part of the filling fell out. He would have finished his kennel chores despite his discomfort but Sister forced him to get right back in the farm truck and hurry to the dentist. She believed the farther away a pain was from your head the less it hurt.

“We deserve a reward. Come on. I'll make you a fried-egg sandwich.”

Doug happily trailed after her. They walked into the kitchen, where Golly had tossed bell peppers on the floor.

“Now why would she want to do that?”

“Meanness,”
Raleigh answered.

Douglas bent over, handing one to Sister. “She's bitten holes in this one.”

“I wonder if I could get a video of that? You know that TV show, home videos or pet videos. Whatever. Golly can just start earning her keep here.”

From the next room a strong meow was heard.
“I do earn my keep.”

Smiling, Sister Jane tiptoed to the swinging door between the kitchen and the pantry, which then opened onto a huge dining room with a fireplace so gigantic a person could stand up straight in it. On the middle shelf of the pantry, nestled in the dish towels, reposed the calico.

“Aha.”

“Got bored.”

“Imagine what would have happened if I'd done that,”
Raleigh, still in the kitchen, complained.

“What would have happened is you would have drooled over everything and then stepped on a pepper and squashed it. I merely sank my fangs in. A simple test for freshness.”

Golly's jabber amused Sister, who reached down into a square basket, retrieving fresh eggs. “I'm making fried-egg sandwiches. If you care to join us, I'll fry you an egg.”

“I'll come if you fry bacon.”
Golly rolled over to show her tum-tum.

Sister walked back in. “She's talking a whole row.”

“Cats are funny.”

As she greased the skillet, Sister chatted and then asked, “Did you know about Cody's drug problems?”

A silence followed. Then Doug said, “I did.”

“Don't worry. You aren't betraying a confidence. Betty called me yesterday and told me both girls are at rehab or in rehab. I wonder what's correct? Anyway . . . Bobby's not much help. He's pretending it's like a broken leg.”

“Mrs. Franklin told me this morning.”

“But you knew about the drugs, I mean?”

“Well, I did, sort of. Cody goes on and off. I wasn't sure about Jennifer. I don't see her except when we're hunting and usually she's fine then.”

“Yes. I had no idea. I wonder what else I miss.” She buttered the whole wheat bread as the bacon sizzled.

Golly graced them with her presence, entering with a flourish as the bacon was flipped out of the pan.

“Don't even think about stealing my bacon.”
Raleigh frowned.

“I'll do as I please and if you value your eyes, you'll do as I please.”
She cackled.

Sister tore up a strip of bacon in small pieces, putting it on the counter for Golly. She gave Raleigh a whole strip when he sat. Then she put plates on the table.

“Drugs are all around.” Doug opened his sandwich to put pickles on the egg.

“I guess they are”—she sat opposite him—“if you know where to look.”

They both looked at the door because they heard a car drive into the driveway.

“Let's hope it's UPS so we can eat in peace.”

It wasn't. It was Crawford Howard in his big-ass Mercedes, the V-12, the top of the top.

He knocked on the back door, then charged on through the mudroom into the kitchen. Most old friends walked in on Sister Jane, although she'd never considered Crawford an old friend.

“I'm sorry. I'll come back.”

“Would you like a fried-egg sandwich?”

“No. I've already had my lunch. Thank you.”

“Sit down. A Coke?”

“I'll get it.” He opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a Coke, got a glass of ice, and sat down.

Sister winked at Doug when Crawford's back was turned. “Doug, stay a few minutes after feeding tonight.”

“Sure.”

Crawford sat heavily in the chair. He'd had a face-lift, a good one. He'd gotten some fat sucked off his middle, too. While it improved his appearance it didn't much improve his personality. “Doug, I'm glad you're here. I'll pay you twenty dollars a ride if you'll work with my horse. I'll board him here. Sister, what's full board?”

“Four hundred. Field board is two-fifty for hunt members.”

“The Haslips get five hundred.”

“I know, but we do try to limit ourselves to members, giving them a discount.”

“Can't think like that, Sister. Business means whatever the market will bear. You've got to make hay while the sun shines.”

“I'll consider it.” Sister remained noncommittal.

“I'd be happy to work with Czapaka. He's a talented horse.” Doug wiped his mouth with a napkin, rose, and carried his plate and glass to the sink. He washed them off, putting them in the drying rack. Sister hated dishwashers. Pretty much she hated most appliances. “Well, I'll be working the greenies if you need me.”

Sister, wishing she could go with him to ride the young horses, waved as he left by the back door.

Crawford hunched over the table. “I'll get to the point.” Being a Yankee, Crawford felt this was the superior approach, the waste-no-time approach. He never gave a thought to the fact that spending time with someone shouldn't be wasting time. “I have money. I have contacts. I have vision. I want to help the club. If you appoint me joint-master I will expect to contribute fifty thousand a year plus whatever overruns we have. You are the senior master. I can't hope to know what you know about hunting and hounds but I can learn.”

This was a generous offer from an ungenerous man, in most respects. She placed both hands around her cool glass. “I appreciate your financial acumen. Just keeping the territory open costs us roughly twenty thousand a year, as you know. And you do have vision. I have a lot to think about, Crawford, and I'd like to make a decision before the season is over.”

“I thought you wanted to make a decision by opening hunt?”

“That's two weeks away and I'm on the horns of a dilemma. I do truly appreciate your special skills but there is strong support in the club for Fontaine Buruss.”

“Yes, I know.” Crawford's jaw clenched.

“He's a foxhunting man.” Which was to say he was better qualified in many ways than Crawford, although Sister would never be so crude.

“He's also an irresponsible person. His sexual peccadilloes alone will—well, you know. His latest is Cody Franklin and I'm not so certain he doesn't give her drugs. Supply her.”

This startled Sister. She wondered if Douglas knew. “That's a disturbing accusation.”

“I've hired detectives.”

“You what?”

He nodded, grinning. “Oh, yes. I take the reputation of this club seriously. There's a century of history in Jefferson Hunt. We must protect that.”

“Can you prove this about Fontaine?”

“I think I can. I also know he's been in meetings with Gordon Smith, the developer around Dulles airport. Now, I ask myself what would someone of Smith's stature want with Fontaine? To develop.”

“Does he?”

“I called him and he said the talks were merely preliminary. Smith said he was interested in developing along the Route Twenty-nine corridor. He's not interested in gobbling up hunting fixtures. He was plain about that but then he's a hunting man, too. I think Fontaine is doing this to make himself look good. He doesn't really have much to offer Mr. Smith.”

“He has contacts. He knows everyone.”

“Well . . .”

“Can you prove this about the drugs?”

“By opening hunt, Sister, I think I can prove a lot of things.”

“I hope you're wrong. I truly hope you're wrong.”

Crawford dimly realized he'd upset Sister. He thought the news would be disturbing and put him in a good light. Now he wasn't so sure.

“We can't have someone like that as a joint-master.”

“No, we can't, Crawford, but you can't hang a man without evidence. I beseech you not to discuss this—”

He jumped in. “Of course I won't. Fontaine would get wind of it; then I can't nail him.”

“Do you intend to turn this over to the sheriff?”

“Yes. I do. Absolutely.”

“I see.”