Murder at the Holiday Flotilla (3 page)

Once that was done she moved on about three feet, stooped, and cut a second hole. And then another, and another. All the while the dogs grew nearer.

She rose swiftly and ran to our side.

“
What are . . .?”

“
Shush,” she silenced me. “Be quiet.”

We stood waiting and watching. For what I couldn’t imagine. The barking of the dogs grew incessant and frantic from the other side of the fence.

Then suddenly a small animal popped through one of Amy’s holes. A red furry animal about the size of a house cat. Catching sight of us, it ran furiously in the opposite direction, away from us, toward the rear of Amy’s property until it vanished into the thick bushes. The animal disappeared in the underbrush.

Just as I was about to turn to Amy to ask her to explain what I was seeing, another red furry animal broke through the fence. Pointy little snoot, red bushy tail. A fox. I was looking at a fox. How small they were. I’d never seen one up close before. And this one broke away, running furiously as it followed the scent of the first fox.

Suddenly, a gray fox pushed through the fence opening as a pack of foxhounds missed it by inches. They howled, and scrambled, trying to break through the fence. Some leapt against the fence, attempting to scale it. Others began pawing the dirt, trying to dig under it. Another tried to squeeze through the hole in the fence only to get caught and with great effort managed to wiggle back to the interior.

In a violent outburst, Amy threw the wire cutters on the ground. “Damn him!” she cried. “Damn him to hell!”

Jon and I looked at each other helplessly. What had we stumbled into? The Amy Wood I knew was a gentle, loving caretaker of babies. My boys took to her right away. Now I was seeing another side of the pediatrician.

Just then a grimy black pickup truck came roaring up the lane, flying, a cloud of dense dust spreading in its wake. The driver braked with a screech mere inches from the rear of our Escalade. Jon dashed toward the man who jumped out of the cab, the door left hanging open, the engine running.

“
You almost hit my car,” Jon shouted.

The man strode by Jon, as if he wasn’t there. He broke into a trot and didn’t stop until he was face to face with Dr. Wood. “You bitch! You did it again. I called the sheriff. Destruction of private property, that’s what this is. We’ll take you back to court. This time they’ll lock you up.”

He flung out a hand as if to shove her

“
Stop that!” Jon cried. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on her.” He ran toward her, to defend her.

I was speechless. What in the world was going on?

But Amy was too quick for the thick, balding man. She reached down, grabbed up the wire cutters, and with a quick thrust jabbed the blunt tip into the man’s chest. He backed off, yelling, “Now I’ll bring charges for assault!”

“
You’re on my property,” Amy cried. She drove the wire cutters further into his chest forcing him to back up. “You’re trespassing. Ashley! Call 9-1-1. I’ve got a restraining order against this killer.”

She kept pushing the man with the clippers. “Git, you spineless worm. I’ll see you in hell. And your spineless boss too.”

“
You’re out of control, woman,” the man shouted, but was frantically backing away and backing down from the quarrel.

“
You think I’m going to stand by and permit your dogs to rip those helpless creatures to shreds. No way! You tell that scoundrel you work for I won’t rest until I see him in jail. Or dead. Whichever comes first. And I hope it’s death.

“
Now git off my land!” She was holding the wire cutters by their long handles now, swinging them like a baseball bat, aiming for the man’s bullet-shaped head.

He turned and ran. As he swung up into his truck, he looked back and called, “You’re crazy, you bitch! You know that. You’ll see. You’re the one going to jail.”

Watching the truck drive down the lane, Amy Wood seemed to be in another world. Vaguely, she turned to us, sighed deeply, and started toward the house. “Come on inside. I’ll pour us some iced tea, calm down, and try to explain what’s been going on.”

We stepped onto a screened porch and followed her into the old-fashioned kitchen. At a quick glance, the kitchen had not been updated since the Fifties. But I had lost interest in appraising the house. “Who was that wild man?” I asked.

“
That’s Dewey Carter. He manages the place.”

“
And what did he mean by he’d take you back to court? Has he taken you to court over this feud?”

Amy was sullen. “Yes, but the judge threw it out. The county wants to keep a low-profile on this penned fox hunt controversy.”

“
But why are the foxes penned?” I asked.

Apparently Jon knew more about the subject than I. “Are they running a penned fox hunt over there?” he asked, anger making his face flush red.

Amy leaned into the refrigerator, withdrew a pitcher of iced tea, then turned and moved toward the kitchen counter. “That’s exactly what they’re doing.”

“
What’s a penned fox hunt?” I asked.

Amy reached up into the cupboard for three glasses, set them on the counter, and concentrated on pouring tea. Suddenly she stopped what she was doing and pressed her hand over her heart. “I’ve got to sit down.”

I was nearest to her. I took her by the arm and led her over to the kitchen table. “Sit here, Dr. Wood. And let’s get you a glass of water, not tea. You don’t need caffeine if your heart is racing. Jon, fill a glass with water for her.

“
Dr. Wood, are you all right?”

She looked up at me as if truly seeing me for the first time since we arrived. “Yes. I’m OK. They just make me so mad. What they are doing is cruel and inhumane, barbaric, and all for a few measly dollars.”

I dropped down into the chair next to her. “Would one of you explain what I just saw? Those were foxes. And foxhounds. And you made the holes big enough for the foxes but too small for the hounds. How did they get inside that fence anyway?”

“
They’re trucked in,” Amy said. She drank some of the water Jon had set before her. “They’re penned up. There’s no way for them to escape. And then hunters bring their hounds here for field trials. It’s how they train the hounds to hunt foxes, by letting them run down foxes with no way to escape. That’s how they teach the dogs to kill.”

“
I’ve heard about this,” Jon said. “And I agree with you, Amy. It’s inhumane. A deplorable practice. The owner of the hunt farm charges about $25 per dog. He admits ten or twelve dogs and makes about $250. All for doing nothing.”

“
But who brings the foxes?” I asked. “Where do they get them?”

“
Trapping is legal in this state,” Jon said. “It’s a cowardly way for anyone to make a living but some do. Rednecks. Uneducated. Trained to do nothing but set out traps for helpless animals to wander into. Other animals get caught in their traps and often die before they’re found and turned loose. Dogs and cats. Domestic pets.

“
The foxes they trap that aren’t good enough for the fur industry get sold for this. Brought to penned fox hunt farms, or ‘canned hunt’ farms as they’re sometimes called.”

Amy said, “But while trapping is legal, the transporting of wild animals is illegal. I’ve been fighting those buzzards over there ever since I moved back home. And I won’t stop until I win,” she declared as if there could be no other outcome. “I’ll free every single fox they put over there.”

“
But who’s responsible?” I asked. “Who owns that farm? Who’s behind this?”

Amy lifted her head and smiled a mirthless smile. “That pompous ass, Buddy Henry. The hypocrite.”

“
Buddy Henry? The state senator?”

“
None other than our holier-than-thou, swindles old people out of their land, state senator.”

3

After dinner that evening, we snapped the babies’ infant seats into the second row bucket seats in the Escalade. Then we loaded the double stroller, diaper bag, tote bags, and jackets into the back of the roomy SUV.

I had still not calmed down over what I had witnessed that afternoon. We never did examine the house. We decided to inspect the house another time. Amy was not in the mood. Neither were we. And it just didn’t seem like a good time to bring up the subject of genealogy and inquire if we were indeed related. Nor did we stop at St. Philip’s Church before returning home.

We discussed the ugly confrontation on the drive back to town, and Jon repeated what he knew about the inhumane and cruel practice of penned fox hunting. Then we decided to drop the subject, to try to salvage what was left of our day.

After being exposed to the ugly side of human nature, all I wanted was to get home to my wholesome babies and take a nap with them.

Piling baby equipment into the SUV, Jon said, “It’s a good thing we didn’t trade the Escalade for a smaller vehicle, even though it was something we seriously considered doing.” While we wanted to support a green environment, with twins we needed the larger vehicle.

At six o’clock it was already dark but the temperature was mild for late November. Otherwise, I’d never have taken my babies out in the night air. They were wide awake but quietly sucking on their pacifiers, as if in patient anticipation of a fun evening.

“
Do you think they know they’re off on their first adventure?” I asked Jon as he shifted gears into reverse and we backed out into Nun Street.

“
I’m sure they sense something is different. They’re our kids after all so you know they’re smart.”

“
And brave and handsome like their daddy,” I said, and let my hand trail up the inside of his thigh.

Jon glanced my way and gave me that special smile he reserves for me alone. “Keep that up and you can forget about going to see the Christmas lights. I’ll pull back up into the driveway and unpack this vehicle faster than you can say Airlie Gardens.”

I gave his thigh a squeeze. “Later,” I promised. “I had a nice nap with the twins. I feel rested and ready for anything.”

I turned on our XM Sirius radio to the Broadway station. My children have displayed a decided preference for show tunes, something they inherited from their Aunt Scarlett I supposed. We drove out Oleander listening to Gene Kelly singing “Almost Like Being in Love” from Brigadoon. I have to confess to being partial to show tunes myself.

Two police officers directed traffic outside the gates at Airlie Gardens. In no time at all, we drove through the gates, handed out our tickets to the attendant, and followed his directions to the parking area. But unloading took some doing, and then getting the twins transferred into their Eddie Bauer side-by-side stroller required unsnapping their car seats from the car, then re-snapping the seats into the stroller. But our golden boys did not fuss. Eyes wide, they seemed enthralled with all the excitement going on around them.

As prearranged, we met Melanie and Cam, and Aunt Ruby and Binkie under the Airlie oak. Spotlights illuminated the huge, ancient live oak tree that dripped with Spanish moss. Experts believe the famous oak began life as an acorn sometime around the year 1545. That would have been about twenty years after Giovanni da Verrazano made landfall on the North Carolina coast just several miles from Airlie in the area that is now known as the Landfall community.

Airlie’s sixty-seven acres of gardens were decorated for Christmas with thousands of brightly colored lights shaped into very tall Christmas trees. There was an indigo blue Christmas tree next to a bright red tree. Some were gold, some were bright green. In the blackness of the night, the trees stood out vividly. Many families were out enjoying the mild evening, partaking of our town’s first Christmas event.

Cam and Jon walked on ahead with Jon wheeling the stroller. Every once in a while the buzz of their deep manly voices interspersed with the cooing and gurgling of my babies drifted back to my ears. My heart thrilled with happiness. My boys were having a good time – the big ones with their deep throated voices, and the little ones with their soft baby mewling.

Melanie, Aunt Ruby, Binkie and I trailed along behind the boys. But Melanie knows just about everyone, and we made slow progress as she was stopped by her many friends in the real estate business. They too were out with their families, observing this time-honored Christmas tradition.

“
Oh my stars, look at that,” Aunt Ruby cried. “It’s a frog – a Christmas frog.” On a stone path sat a frog made of bright green lights and wearing a red stocking hat.

Binkie pointed. “And just see the palm trees.”

There in the distance were two palm trees, their trunks crafted of golden lights, their palm branches made of green.

The property known as Airlie was part of a 640-acre land grant from King George II in 1735. A little less than two centuries later, in 1901, Sarah Jones, wife of Pembroke Jones, created the formal gardens. The Joneses were wealthy industrialists well-known for their exuberant entertaining and love of lavish parties. Tales of Mrs. Jones’ inventiveness include a party where she had platforms erected in the live oak trees. Guests enjoyed dinners in the tree tops on tables set with fine linens and china. Famous entertainers such as The Great Caruso came to entertain Sarah and Pembroke's friends who traveled to Wilmington from Newport and New York by private railroad car. Many believe the expression, “Keeping up with the Joneses,” originated with Sarah and Pembroke Jones. And why would it not, given their flair for the dramatic.