Fox Tracks (31 page)

“We know,” both brothers said in unison.

Tariq, also in the backseat, remarked, “Neither was I.”

“When were you born?” Sam looked at him.

“1986.”

“Well, buddy, it goes fast,” said Sam.

Gray turned on his windshield wipers as he neared a large tractor plowing snow, the driver snug in a heated cab.

“Wonder what he makes an hour?” Sam mused.

“More than you do,” Gray replied.

“Everyone makes more than I do.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Gray said, then added, “Did Crawford make it home before the storm really hit?”

“Just made it and, you know, a couple of those pellets were close to his eyes,” said Tariq. “He’s actually okay about it. I mean, he’s not mad at Art because he says Art’s too stupid to get mad at. Actually he said, ‘Not the sharpest tool in the shed.’ ”

They crept along, finally able to go thirty-five miles an hour on the freshly cleared part.

Tootie stared out the window, the land resplendent in fresh snow. “It’s good to get out of the house.”

“We were about to drive my beloved crazy,” said Gray.

“Don’t forget we have a five-gallon bucket of kibble with corn oil in it,” Tootie said.

“Why is that?” Tariq inquired.

“Sister says there’s a fox in the barn at Old Paradise. Hounds were heading straight for it. She doesn’t think Crawford knows enough to tend to his foxes so she’ll do it until someone, not her, can teach him.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Sam said. “Tariq, bet you wish you were back with Jefferson Hunt.”

“I do, but he took care of the Rickman mess. I’m grateful and he lends me horses.”

“You’re doing him a favor by riding them in the field,” said Sam. “I can’t ride them all, and Marty, while not a bad rider, can’t really handle a green horse.”

Gray glanced at Tariq in the rearview mirror. “I never asked you where you learned to ride.”

“My father got me lessons as a child in Egypt. Riding, wherever you find yourself, opens many doors. I learned a lot in England,
too. In the old days, Nasser and a lot of Army officers rode. Our Olympic teams were pretty much made up of officers or former officers.”

“Used to be that way here, too,” said Gray. “They came from the cavalry and competed in uniform. Looked wonderful. I don’t remember it, but I saw pictures of them.” Gray slowed again as they turned on the road to Tattenhall Station and beyond.

“This hasn’t been plowed,” said Sam. “Bet they don’t get to it until Thursday.” He peered out the window.

“One set of tracks so someone got out.” Gray made sure to get his vehicle in those tracks.

It took them a half hour to reach the entrance to Old Paradise whereas it usually took fifteen minutes.

Turning, Gray noticed that the tracks they followed came from Old Paradise. He passed Alfred’s tidy cottage, then Margaret’s, and finally Art’s, from which the tracks had come.

“Well, Art was the one who got out,” Sam simply noted.

“I’m sure he had a delivery given these long dark nights.” Gray laughed.

“A delivery?” Tariq asked.

“Oh, Art makes moonshine,” said Sam. “Well, he used to. Maybe he had other important business.” Sam paused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was over at Crawford’s. He does have to see him face-to-face.”

“I was loading up horses. Never saw it, just heard it,” Sam mentioned.

“Me, too,” Tariq said. “I turned and saw Sam running to Crawford. It was snowing hard. So I ran. Art was down on his hands and knees with Crawford.”

“It’s always something,” Gray said, pulling his vehicle near the snowbound two cars. “Let’s see what we can do here.”

They stopped, piled out, and retrieved two snow shovels from the back of the Land Cruiser where a five-gallon bucket with some baling twine wrapped around the handle also sat.

Tariq dug out his car and Sam dug out his.

“Want me to take a turn?” Tootie asked.

Sam grunted. “No, honey. If I can’t dig out my car, I need help.”

“All right then.” She knocked on the window of Sam’s car, where Gray had started the motor, letting it idle.

He rolled the window down. “Yes?”

“I’m going to take the feeder bucket inside.”

“Fine. Let me know if you smell fox.” Gray rolled the window back up.

Tariq had started his car, too, hoping the heat from the exhaust would melt a bit of snow. His years in England taught him a little bit about functioning in snow and cold, but he would never become accustomed to it, beautiful as it was.

He got out, picked up the shovel, and started shoveling out his front wheels.

Tootie slogged to the barn, tried to kick away snow from one door so she could slip in. Without a shovel, this was unpromising. She knelt down in the snow to use her hands. Finally she’d cleared just enough from the front of one of the big doors to crack it open and slip inside.

Looking up, she beheld the rustic beauty of this structure, built to last centuries. February sunlight filtered through the stall windows. They had mesh over them so if they did break they wouldn’t shatter all over the place. The beams were squared tree trunks. She noted everything: the stalls, the old wrought-iron fittings, the hard-packed dirt floor.

Dripping with cobwebs, the inside seemed surreal and majestic. She wondered about the horses who had lived in those stalls.

And, yes, she did smell fox. Carefully walking down the center aisle, she peeked into each stall, for the Dutch doors were opened, fastened to the side.

She found the stall with a large hole in it, a pile of earth around it. The bottom door opened with a creak. She walked softly inside.

Roger heard her and smelled her but the fox didn’t peek. He stayed still to listen.

She looked around for a spot to tie the bucket. No nails protruded low and the hooks for the long-disappeared water buckets hung too high. The thick-planed oak boards for the stall had no spaces between. Defeated on that count, she set the bucket down in the middle of the space. She unwound the baling twine and walked out, closing the door. She knew foxes well enough to know a healthy fox could easily jump to the top of a Dutch door, the bottom part.

Fascinated, she soaked up everything. She touched the saddle racks by each stall door, all made from planed and sanded wood to hang down flat when not in use.

She opened the tackroom door. Again, cobwebs festooned the twenty-by-twenty room. It was planed heavy oak, little lines of caulking between the boards to make it airtight. Bridle half moons lined one wall, permanent saddle racks lined another in two vertical rows. Everything else was handmade of wrought iron, even the lanterns hanging on the walls. Covered with dust outside, their candles were still inside.

Tootie knew this was the saddle horse barn. She wondered how many workhorse barns there had been at Old Paradise—mule barns, carriage barns—all fallen down now, probably. Or if they were still here, she didn’t know where, as she had only hunted Old Paradise a few times while at Custis Hall.

She stood in the tack room marveling at the handiwork, imagining the grooms bustling in and out, knowing that many had been
slaves. One couldn’t really appreciate the hands that made this country hum until you saw their fine work.

She could almost hear the talk about poultices, the right bit for a young horse, the pride in breeding fine horses and driving horses, too.

Curiosity got the better of her. Laying the baling twine down, she climbed into the huge hayloft, saw the remains of barn swallow nests tucked into eaves and places where joists were. The birds would be back in the summer. Swallows were reliable that way. Looking all the way up, she saw the barn owl’s nest in the cupola. The barn owl looked down at her.

Gave her a chill.

She took a deep breath. Another one. Tobacco.

She followed her upturned nose until she found the place where the hay remnants were completely flattened. The odor was stronger here.

“You in here?” Tariq called out.

“I am.” She walked to the side of the hayloft.

“We’re ready to go,” Tariq said. “Think both Sam and I can make it.” He held up his hand to her.

“I’ll back down.”

After climbing down, she bent over once in the center aisle to pick up the baling twine she’d left there. Silly, but she didn’t want to leave any debris. A pack of the bogus American Smokes fell out of her breast pocket. She bent over to pick them up, a cigarette falling on the floor. She also scooped that up, slipping it back into the soft pack.

“Tootie Harris, when did you start smoking?” asked Tariq.

“I don’t, really.”

“You just carry around cigarettes for your friends?” He laughed at her. “I’ve never seen that brand.”

“Contraband.” She smiled broadly. “Really, I don’t smoke. It’s a long story.”

“If you do smoke, let me give you a Cleopatra.” Tariq reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a pack. “I never smoke on the grounds at Custis Hall.”

“I really don’t smoke. I’m just carrying this around for Sister. Actually, she doesn’t know I filched a pack.” Tootie lifted her shoulders in an innocent gesture, then smiled.

The young woman was so beautiful, Tariq, transfixed for a moment, had to snap back to reality. “Let’s go.”

With Gray leading the way, both men managed to drive their cars off the property.

In the passenger seat of Gray’s Land Rover, Tootie enthused about the barn on her way back. “Know what was really weird?”

“What?”

“It smelled like tobacco in the hayloft.”

Gray pulled over at Tattenhall Station, waved on Sam and Tariq, then called Ben Sidell.

The sheriff arrived an hour later, thanks to the roads. Gray had turned around and they had driven back to Old Paradise.

In the barn, Roger heard the door open and ducked back into his den. The corn oil on the kibble was delicious.

Tootie, Gray, and Ben hurriedly climbed the ladder.

Hands on hips, Ben said, “Sure smells like tobacco.”

“Here, smell this.” Tootie pulled out the pack, fetching one cigarette.

“It is or was tobacco,” Gray firmly noted.

Ben took the pack from Tootie’s hand. “What in the hell are you doing with this?”

Tootie explained why she had the pack.

Ben took her by the arm, looked into her eyes, and said, “You get rid of these. Better yet, give them to me.” He turned to Gray. “It’s one accident after another. Gray, you’re in charge of that crazy woman. Burn the packs. I will call her myself. I will cuss her out, too!”

W
ater gushed from drain spouts, ran across low spots in roads, filled streams to the top of their banks and threatened to overflow. Tuesday’s cold temperatures were followed by mid-fifties on Wednesday, and even the low sixties on Thursday.

Unpredictable as central Virginia weather can be, this provoked comment from everyone. The elderly swore they’d never seen anything like this temperature bounce. Weathermen produced graphs, other dates in history, and all concluded this had to be in the top five temperature fluctuations. Sister canceled Tuesday’s and Thursday’s hunts, hoping still for Saturday. The weather report for the weekend predicted mid-forties, some clouds, no precipitation. She hoped it would be so.

Her mud boots were green wellies, but appeared brown right up to the tops. The house décor now included muddy paw prints. Even though Raleigh and Rooster had their sisal rug to wipe their paws on, there was just too much mud out there. When Golly made a foray outside, she allowed herself the pleasure of walking all over
the cars, then shot back inside where she exhaustingly groomed her paws.

What’s the point of trying to keep the house clean? Sister decided she’d wait until the mud dried before mopping floors and wiping down all the surfaces. No matter how hard they tried, the humans, too, tracked in bits of mud, even after taking off their boots.

Betty and Sister stood next to each other in Sister’s big bathroom with the double sinks, washing their faces. Somehow, mud covered their faces, too.

Betty wiped off the brown. “That hot water feels good.”

“Did you ever use one of those face steamers?”

“No, did you?”

“Yeah. It did get the dirt out. But it’s like everything else, Betty, you have to make a regimen of it. Finally, I gave up.”

Cleaned up, they repaired to the den, where Sister checked her emails and Betty sat down with a stack of old studbooks for hounds. The two had promised each other to go back with Asa’s bloodlines to find the perfect nick to one of the girls’ bloodlines. If only it were that simple.

“After you check your emails, put in the MFHA disc on bloodlines, will you?” Betty asked.

“Hmm.” Sister read avidly. “Well, Betty, score one for the narrow-minded.”

“What?”

“Charlotte Norton has sent Tariq’s resignation letter to the board. He states this will be his last semester. He doesn’t wish to cause problems for Custis Hall and he feels he must go back to his family during these tumultuous times. There’s more, but that’s the essence.”

“Rickman did recant.” Betty opened another small red stud-book. “Don’t you wonder what Crawford threatened him with?”

“Money. Campaign funds from Crawford and his friends. You no sooner get in the House of Representatives than you have to run again, so Rickman is already fund-raising. Maybe there’s more to it than that, but I expect that’s the meat of it.”

“If I had that much money, I wouldn’t waste it on politicians.” She scribbled some names and dates—foxhunting club names, too—in her hound notebook. “Janie, you haven’t told me the whole story about Ben.”

“Uh, I guess I deserved it, but he told me in vivid terms to never do anything like making those cigarette packs without talking to him. He said I was exposing myself and others to serious danger.”

“Any more?”

“No. He also said acts like that could compromise an investigation.” She slipped the MFHA disc into her computer. “He’s right. I didn’t think our sheriff’s department was working seriously on this contraband matter but I guess they are. It’s not my business. Obviously, they have more on their plate than that Carter Weems murder, which is old, I mean in police terms—at least I guess it is.”