Full Cry (9 page)

Cruising out the driveway, thinking of Tedi's comment and all the money Izzy had spent to achieve the pared-down look, Sister laughed. She also noted a brilliant silver Mercedes 500SL, which passed her at the entrance gate. Bill Little, one of the men at Brown Mercedes on the Richmond road, carefully navigated the treacherous road. An enormous yellow ribbon and bow rested on the driver's seat next to him.

She waved to Bill. He waved back.

On the way home she wondered just what Izzy did to get such a fabulous birthday gift. Then she laughed out loud, imagining she had a pretty good idea. Even as an adolescent, Clay exhibited an intense interest in sex.

Come to think of it, Sister thought to herself, Izzy earned that Mercedes.

CHAPTER 8

“Those High Holy Days take it right out of me.” Sister leaned over the counter at her equine vet's office. “Wish you'd come on out sometime.”

The assistant, Val, a trail rider, shook her head. “You all are crazy.”

“It helps.” She rolled her fingertips on top of the counter—one, two, three, four—a habit of hers when she was trying to set something in her mind. “If the weather holds, how about if I bring that mare down next Wednesday?”

Val checked the computer screen. “That's fine. I'll tell Anne.”

Anne Bonda, the vet, had a flourishing practice, although her clinic was located a little out of the way in Monroe, Virginia.

Sister had delivered many a foal in her time, but Anne had delivered thousands. If something were to go wrong, having the vet attending was far preferable to calling in the middle of a snowy night and asking for help. Yes, it might add a thousand dollars to the vet bill, but a healthy baby was worth it.

Sister bred for stamina, bone, and brain. She pored over thoroughbred pedigrees, studied stallions and their get. She needed the old, staying blood, blood now woefully out of fashion.

Rally, this particular mare, carried Stage Door Johnnie blood, blood for the long haul, and she'd been bred to an extremely beautiful son of Polish Navy, called Prussian Blue, standing in Maryland.

This year she'd bred three mares. Secretary's Shorthand didn't catch, a bitter disappointment since she was an old granddaughter of Secretariat. When an ultrasound was done on Shorthand, an embryo couldn't be observed. Curtains Up, Sister's other mare, was bred to an interesting, tough horse named Arroamanches. She took. You just never knew with mares.

Driving home, she noticed a line of Princess trees bordering a pasture. The dried fruits hung on the tree along with spring's fat buds. The force of life may be sleeping, but is ever present. Four months from now, on some warm April day, huge clusters of lavender flowers would cover the tree, bringing a smile to all who beheld such beauty.

Thanks to traffic on Route 29, a highway she hated, she arrived at the Augusta Cooperative an hour later.

She pushed open the glass doors and called to Georgia at the cash register, “Forgot birdseed last week.”

“You just wanted an excuse to see me,” Georgia drolly replied.

“There's truth to that. This is Gossip Central.”

“We have hot competition in the country club and Roger's Corner,” Georgia fired back.

“Different kind of gossip,” Sister replied.

Georgia wrinkled her nose. “Not as wild.”

“All those Episcopalians.” She hoisted a twenty-fivepound bag of birdseed on the counter. “I say that being one.”

“You're the exception that proves the rule.” Georgia, whose lipstick snuck up into the cracks of her upper lip, winked.

“An exceptional exception.” Sheriff Ben Sidell emerged from an aisle. He pushed a big wire cart, filled with a plumbing snake, bags of dog and cat food, a fifty-pound salt block, plus other items tucked between and behind the big ones.

“I didn't recognize you there for a minute without your uniform and out of your riding clothes,” Sister said.

“Did you notice me with the Hilltoppers yesterday?”

“I did, and I'm so glad you're sticking to your riding lessons.”

He leaned over the handle of the cart. “I had no idea there was so much to foxhunting. People see riders in their scarlet coats, ‘What a bunch of snobs,' they think. Not like that at all. I'm trying to hang on my horse, my wonderful Nonni, but every now and then, I'll notice something, like when the temperature changes, everything changes with it.”

“You're observant. Professional training,” Sister complimented him. “Strange things happen. For instance, the prevailing wisdom is that only gray foxes climb trees, and yet I have seen a red do it. That isn't supposed to happen.” She played with the signet ring on her little finger. “Fortunately, for us, foxes don't read books about how they're supposed to behave.”

Ben smirked. “Be better off if people threw the books out as well. Everyone spouts watered-down psychology, another form of excusing bad behavior. Every criminal was abused. Well, I'd better stop before I—”

“Don't. I'm interested. You know more about this than we do. I've always thought that some people were born bad. We can't rehabilitate them.” Georgia looked at him.

Ben ran a hand through his close-cropped black hair. “There is not one doubt in my mind that there is such a thing as a criminal mind. Some people are born psychopaths, sociopaths, or just plain liars. Men born with an extra Y chromosome usually wind up in prison, usually can't control their violent impulses.”

“Ben,” Sister's deep, pleasing voice contained a hopeful note, “surely some men in prison really are there because of circumstances, something as mundane as falling in with the wrong crowd as a kid.”

Turning his brown eyes to look into hers, she was startled for a moment at their clarity and depth. “There are. Things happen. People can be in the wrong place at the wrong time or make a stupid decision, but I'm ready to go to bat and say that ninety percent of the men in prison are either of low normal intelligence or truly criminal. You can't fix them. Can't fix a child molester.”

“I got a fix for them.” Georgia pushed her eyeglasses on top of her abundant, colored hair.

“Yeah, well, I'm with you, Georgia,” Ben said, “but the laws don't allow that.”

“What about rapists?” Sister was curious since she had so little contact with or knowledge about criminals or the prison system.

“Much more difficult.” Ben moved his cart back so another customer could pass. “There is an awful lot of debate in law enforcement concerning when rape becomes rape.”

“If she says no, it's rape.” This seemed perfectly clear to Georgia.

Sister nodded. “But men are raised to believe that when a woman says maybe, it means yes, and when she says no, she means maybe. Whether we like it or not, there are an awful lot of women out there who use sex as a weapon. Sooner or later, some of them pay for that.”

“Yes, but it's often the wrong woman.” Georgia nailed that one.

“This culture is still so dishonest and foolish about sex,” mused Sister. “I'm surprised we don't have more damage than we do in the form of rapes and murders. It's twisted.”

Ben blinked. He hadn't expected to hear that from Sister, even though he knew she wasn't a narrow-minded woman. “Twisted?”

“Ben, sex is used to sell everything except caskets. Every single day Americans are fed images of sexual content allied to commercial purpose. Popular music is one long note of masturbation; excuse me for being blunt. At the same time, young people are counseled not to engage in sex. Women are told no, no, no, and young men are given a mixed message. Twisted like a pretzel.”

“Hmm.” Georgia turned this over in her mind. “What you said about criminals, that people are born that way, Sheriff, do you think that's true about alcoholics?”

“Yes.” Ben replied without hesitation.

Sister joined in. “I say yes, too, but what makes that dicey is no one puts a gun to your head and says ‘Drink.' There is a matter of choice.”

“Make mine a margarita.” Georgia started whistling a Jimmy Buffet song.

“Interesting question.” Ben watched a customer load up his Volvo. “About drunks.”

“Runs in my family,” Georgia stated flatly.

Sister smiled at Georgia. “I expect it runs in most everyone's family.”

“The Sidells have contributed their share of alcoholics to the nation,” Ben said ruefully.

Georgia put her pencil back behind her ear. “What do you think about those two guys poisoned down at the train station?”

Ben sighed. “They'll drink anything. Sterno, rubbing alcohol. I doubt they tasted anything in their bottle—if it was murder, I mean. At this point, we don't know if their deaths were a mistake or intentional. Those fellas won't stay at the Salvation Army. And the nights when both men died, it was bitterly cold, down in the teens. They don't feel the cold. If they don't die of alcohol poisoning, they freeze to death. We'll round them up and throw them in jail, but you'll recall the weather was filthy. I had on duty every officer because of wrecks. That was a real department test.”

“You know, I never heard the names of the men who died,” Sister said.

“We're trying to find next of kin.”

“Sam Lorillard might know. He used to be one of them,” Sister suggested.

“You can tell us, Sheriff. My folks have been here since the earth was cooling and Sister, too. We might know.”

“Anthony Tolliver and Mitchell Banachek.”

“Dear God,” Sister exclaimed, “what a sad end for Anthony. I can't believe it.”

As they stared at her, she added, “We went from grade school through high school together. I adored him.”

“Awful.” Georgia frowned.

“An awful waste.” Sister sighed, remembering a high-spirited, green-eyed kid with gangly limbs.

“Do you know his people?” Ben inquired.

“They've all passed away. He was an only child. If there's distant kin in other parts, I never heard of them.”

“Mmm, well—” Ben folded his arms across his chest. “—another expense for the county.”

Georgia's eyes widened. “You mean to bury him?” When Ben nodded in affirmation, she blurted out, “Can't the medical school use his body?”

“I'll inquire,” Ben replied.

“Don't. I'll take care of this. Let me know when I can claim the body.”

“Sister, that's extremely generous.”

“Let's hope he's in a better place now.” She paused, then said, “There but for the grace of God. We're lucky. Anthony wasn't.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I look over schoolmates and friends, as I'm sure you all do, and most people stayed on track. Some surprise you by becoming a great success, and others, like Anthony, surprise you by becoming a great failure. He had everything going for him. I'm sorry you didn't know him then.”

“I'll get everything squared away for you.” Ben glanced at the floor, then up into her luminous eyes.

“Sister, could he have cured himself? I mean, do you believe in rehabilitation?” Georgia asked earnestly.

“Actually, I don't.” She paused for a moment. “But I do believe in redemption.”

“What's the difference?” Georgia asked as she checked out work gloves, lead ropes, and a big can of Hooflex for a customer.

“Rehabilitation comes from outside the person. That's why it doesn't work,” Sister clarified. “People are forced into programs whether they're alcoholic or in a crumbling marriage or whatever. You know what I mean. There's a huge industry in America now for the purpose of getting people to improve themselves or stop destructive habits. Redemption comes from within. If you want to save yourself, you can and you will. Of course, prayer helps.”

“Put that way, I see your point.” Ben inclined his head slightly.

“To change the subject—” Sister waited until the customer had left the store. “—if you find that Mitch, too, drank or ate poison, then we might have someone who thinks they're cleaning up the town by killing the drunks.”

“That's terrible!” Georgia's hand flew to her mouth.

Ben quietly replied, “The thought had occurred to me.”

“Well, if it turns out that way, I give you fair warning. If I find that sorry son of a bitch, I'll kill him myself.”

Georgia and Ben were surprised at the comment, the steely tone in Sister's voice.

She even surprised herself.

CHAPTER 9

Bitsy, the soul of extroversion, flew out of the turreted stable at Beveridge Hundred, an estate first farmed in the mid–eighteenth century. Like all Piedmont estates back in those early days, the folks bending their backs to the task of clearing and plowing lived in a log cabin. Even then, many were second- or third-generation Americans, although they thought of themselves as English. Few owned slaves. That trade exploded in the colonies at the turn of the seventeenth to eighteenth century.

Colonists, even in Puritan Massachusetts, needed hands, strong backs, stout legs. And so the Boston traders constructed the unholy triangle of rum, tobacco, and slaves, picking up one at one port, selling it at the next. The Africans suffered in those New England winters. Penny-wise New Englanders quickly discerned that owning slaves wasn't profitable. However, this did not prevent the sea captains disembarking from New London, Boston, or Newport from doing business with the Portuguese, then dumping their human cargo only in southern ports. A bargain with the devil had been struck, enriching the captain, his investors, and the planter. As years passed, those morally upright people living in the great mansions built with slave money along the cobblestone streets of Boston contracted a specific form of amnesia: they forgot where that money originated.

The Cullhains kept good records. By 1781, the end of the Revolutionary War, the sons and daughters of the first owners of Beveridge Hundred had done so well they could afford twenty-five slaves: wealth indeed. By 1820, during a boom cycle, the number swelled to 159 souls. By the standards of the day, they treated their people—as they thought of them—well.

Thanks to God's beneficence, by 1865, Beveridge Hundred had not been burned to the ground by Yankees. Half of the slaves, now freed, left. Half remained. Their descendants lived around Beveridge Hundred, taking Cullhain as their surname. The white Cullhains remained as well, their daughters marrying into some of the great Virginia families and some of the not-so-great Virginia families.

Xavier had married a descendant of the Cullhains, Dee, descended on her maternal side. When the insurance business grew, X bought the old place from Dee's great aunt and uncle, who could no longer keep it up.

Year after year, X poured money into the plantation, gradually lifting it up, if not all the way back to its former glory. Some years he had more money than others, but it was a sure bet the funds would be spent on Beveridge Hundred.

Bitsy found this place a rich trove of gossip as well as mice. The little owl would fly over from Sister Jane's barn, ready to hear all from the resident owl: a chatty barn owl.

Xavier liked Bitsy and the resident barn owl, who was much larger than Bitsy. He'd put out sweet corn for her and watch her while she ate it.

The first trailer, the party wagon, rolled down the snow-packed lane.

“Ah, time to pull me boots on.” He chucked her some more corn.

“You've got another forty-five minutes.”

Xavier smiled as Bitsy chirped and burped—at least that's what he heard. He hoped she would not emit one of her famous shrieks. The barn owl clucked: an endurable sound.

The hunt promptly took off at ten, with a field of fortyfive people.

Bitsy shadowed it for a time on her way back home. The foxes gave short runs and then returned to their dens. Treacherous footing kept the foxes close to their dens and kept Sister, Shaker, and the hounds moving slowly, too. Freezing and thawing had coated the fencerows in ice.

After two hours of this torture, Sister called it a day. Still on horseback they carefully walked back to the trailers; Sister fell in with Edward, Tedi, Xavier, Crawford, Walter, and Marty.

“. . . recovered completely.” Walter beamed.

He hadn't been talking about a patient, but rather Bessie, a young vixen he and Sister had rescued last year. She'd had to have her front paw amputated after an infection had destroyed much of the bone. She'd become a quiet house pet, even learning to go outside to go to the bathroom. Walter was devoted to Bessie, though her habit of burying food tried his patience.

“Can you breed her?” Xavier asked.

“That's up to Sister.” Walter turned to the master.

“If we ever run short of foxes, I suppose we could, but right now the supply is good, and they're healthy. I don't remember seeing such shiny coats.”

“Walter, would you like me to send over Fannie and Kristal next Saturday?” She named her cook and head maid. Marty lived well.

“Thank you, Marty, that is so kind of you, but I hired Chef Ted once I knew I was having the big breakfast.”

“Oh, that's right. The photographer Jim Meads is flying over from Wales. Guess we have to braid.” Crawford sounded as though it would be his fingers that cramped up, not Fairy's joints. “You'll be glad to see your old friend, I know.”

“Up to you,” Sister replied. “And I can't wait to see Jim. He'll be in the lap of luxury, staying at Beasley Hall.” She wanted Jim to herself, but she knew Marty and Crawford would knock themselves out to entertain him plus buy numerous photographs. She'd host him some other time.

“His photographs are shown all over the world. I mean, even the Prince of Wales sees them. He's been in some of them, wearing, I can't remember which hunt's colors, whether it was the Quorn or the Duke of Beaufort.” Crawford couldn't wait to be snapped by Mr. Meads.

Edward and Tedi remained silent. Of course they would braid. Why ask?

“My field always looks proper and rises to any occasion,” said Sister. “Jim Meads will be impressed as always when he sees the Jefferson Hunt.”

“And Mill Ruins is a romantic fixture,” Tedi said.

“As is Beveridge Hundred.” Sister smiled at Xavier.

Xavier laughed. “Beveridge Hundred would be a lot more photogenic if I'd paint the outbuildings. Even though it doesn't last.”

“Nothing lasts anymore since they took the lead out of the damned paint,” Crawford grumbled.

Showoff that he was, every fence on his property was four board—not three board but four board—white. Men toiled, painting throughout each summer. With a half million dollars worth of fencing at Beasley Hall, Crawford aspired to perfection.

Most everyone else used Fence Coat Black, a special mixture from a paint supply in Lexington, Kentucky. Sister shipped it in fifty-five-gallon barrels. The stuff lasted almost eight years if one put on two coats.

However one looked at it, fencing was a necessary expense.

“Where's Clay today? Or Ron?” Tedi inquired.

“Some kind of Heart Fund do,” Sister said. Both sat on the board for the County Heart Fund.

They rode up on the Hilltoppers.

Bobby Franklin, face ruddy from the cold, said, “Filthy, filthy footing.”

“You've still got the horse between your legs,” Sister told him.

“And everything else, too, I hope,” Walter teased.

“Bunch of perverts.” Bobby shook his head.

Ben Sidell, on Nonni, chimed in, “You just figured that out? That's why I moved here from Ohio. I thought being sheriff in a county full of perverts would be, well, a challenge.”

“And are we disappointing you?” Tedi sweetly inquired.

He laughed. “Mostly there's good people, but there's just enough of the other kind to keep me busy.”

“Nonni's a packer, isn't she?” Bobby admired the tough mare; being a packer meant she could take care of a green rider.

Nonni knew more than the human atop her, which made her special.

“Thank God,” Ben agreed. “Oh, Sister, you were right, by the way. Sam Lorillard did know Mitch Banachek. The other men down at the railroad station were either too drunk or too afraid to tell us. Whenever they see a squad car, if they can, they walk.”

Crawford, on hearing his trainer's name, spoke a little too rapidly. “Not in trouble, is he?”

“Not at all, Mr. Howard.” Ben swiveled to look behind him. “Sam was very helpful in locating next of kin to the two men who died down at the train station.”

“Good, good.” Crawford cleared his throat.

No one said anything because Gray Lorillard rode behind them. He'd been at the back of the First Flight, and Crawford hadn't realized that when he asked Ben about Sam. Of course, he might have asked it anyway, while other riders, had it been their question, would have waited.

Sister slowed for other riders. “Go on—” She then smiled. “—you can ride in front of the master.”

She waited for Gray to come alongside. “Gray, would you mind terribly coming back to my farm for lunch? The girls are with me today, Jennifer and Sari. They can clean your horse and tack. They'll put your horse in a stall, and, when you're ready, you can load him right back up again. If we each go home, see to our horses, clean up, we won't get to the club until three or four. Let's just eat a relaxed lunch in my kitchen. You can take me to the club on a non-hunting day.”

His teeth shone bright white when he smiled, his military mustache drawing attention to his teeth. “What a good idea. Are you sure the girls won't mind?”

“No. They are two wonderful kids.”

She checked the hounds at the party wagon, thanked her whippers-in, and quietly told Betty she'd be having a têteà-tête with Gray. She then handed her horse over to Jennifer. As she walked by Ben, he motioned her to come over.

“Sister, the results came back on Mitch. Hemlock. Same as Tony.”

She grimaced, imagining their last moments. “Hope it's some kind of fluke. My throat constricts just thinking about them drinking that poison.”

“You can claim Anthony tomorrow if that suits.” He lowered his voice.

“I'll have Carl Haslip,” she named one of the local funeral homes run by one of Ronnie's relatives, “go to the morgue tomorrow. If nothing else, Anthony will have a Christian burial.”

She gingerly walked back to her truck, thinking about the total loss of self-respect those men at the station exhibited. She had noticed how oddly some walked, their legs wide apart in a strange kind of lurching shuffle. She'd realized they had peed themselves so many times that the skin on their legs was burned. Their pants, encrusted, rubbed them raw. When a human sank that low, maybe he wouldn't even notice hemlock, or maybe he had tired of the slow suicide of alcoholism and had elected a swifter route. Then she also recalled their raucous laughter at times when she'd seen them at the downtown mall. Suicide didn't ring true. Nor could she imagine Anthony Tolliver wanting to kill himself. He'd hang on for one last drink.