Fox Tracks (4 page)

“I got spoiled at Custis Hall.” Tootie was born and raised in
Chicago. “Princeton reminds me of why I love Virginia. Four seasons of equal length. No long winters. I have good professors but, Sister, I hate it. I want to be an equine vet. I don’t need to go to Princeton, but Dad swears he will cut off the money if I don’t finish.”

“Princeton is one of the best universities in this country, honey. You can go to vet school after your undergraduate work. That gives you three more years, well, three and a half, to work on the parental units. I’m assuming your mother is in league with your father.”

“I guess,” Tootie responded with no enthusiasm.

After another big blast smacked them, Sister ducked into a doorway. The two women huddled there for a moment as Sister opened her bag, fishing for her cell phone.

“Oh no, I left my phone on the counter.” She sighed. “You go on back to the hotel. No point in both of us being out in this.”

“How can I ever dream of whipping-in if I can’t take a little bad weather on foot? We can sprint.”

They did, despite the slippery pavement.

Pushing the door open, they laughed to be out of the storm but they did not see Adolfo behind the counter.

“Maybe he’s in the humidor room.” Tootie shook the snow off her head, then passed the counter as she walked toward the large climate-controlled room. She turned slightly as Sister triumphantly spotted and retrieved her cell phone: right on the counter where she left it.

“Sister!” Tootie called, before running for the back of the counter.

The older woman followed Tootie, now kneeling down.

“Dear God!” Sister exclaimed, for Adolfo Galdos lay on his back, beautiful green eyes staring straight up to Heaven. He’d been shot neatly between the eyes. On his chest lay a pack of American Smokes cigarettes.

A
glorious swirl of red, white, and black filled the ornate ballroom of The Pierre. Tradition dictates that all hunt balls should be white tie, but over the years they had devolved into black tie for those men not awarded their colors.

From her table, Sister watched the men entitled to wear evening scarlet: formal tails with the colors of their hunt on the lapel. Hard to fault even a hefty fellow in such splendor. The women in attendance wore white or black gowns. A few refined ladies even wore long evening gloves.

Concentrating on how much she wished the other less stylish gentlemen had worn black tails with white tie, Sister tried to keep her mind off Adolfo’s shocking murder. It wasn’t working.

Gray, usually on the dance floor, returned with a glass of alcohol for her. “Not bad.”

“You would know better than I.” She took the glass.

He slightly flipped up his scarlet tails to take the seat next to Sister. “Runs in the family,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Indeed it did. His brother, Sam, a Harvard graduate, once lived at the train depot in Charlottesville, being moved nightly along with the other alcoholics. They slept under whatever bridge, overpass, or deep doorway they could find, until again being chased off. Over the years, Gray and his sister, a total snob, would discuss Sam, but only Gray would actually drive down from Washington to talk to his brother. Three years ago, Sam agreed to dry out, which he did. This more or less had a happy ending except that Sam was now employed by Crawford Howard, Sister’s enemy. After just five years of habitation in Charlottesville, Crawford was the only person to give Sam a chance. People who had known him all his life worried that sooner or later Sam would backslide.

Sister found herself wishing she and Tootie had found Crawford Howard shot instead of Adolfo. However, furious as the pompous, rich, underhanded Crawford could make Sister, she had to admit he didn’t shy away from reformed alcoholics, and to help young people, he would do anything—even, like Sister, sitting on the board of Custis Hall.

“Well?” Gray said with eyebrows raised, waiting for her verdict on the sparkly drink.

“Oh.” Sister took a sip. “Bubbly. Tickles my tongue.”

“It’s odd that alcoholism shows up in every generation in the Lorillards, black or white, but my sister and I are unaffected. My Uncle George could empty a liquor store and still remain upright.”

“People say it’s in the blood or the genes or whatever but I also think it’s in the culture.” She took another sip. “No one has ever been a drunk in my family, both sides, but you know, there’s still time.”

At this, they both laughed, for Sister was a one-drink-a-night girl and that was that.

Hailing from Lexington, Kentucky, where she was Master of the Woodford Hunt, Jane Winegardner walked across the ballroom
straight toward Sister, evening gown swishing as she did so. She leaned over Sister, kissing her on the cheek.

As Sister’s Christian name was Jane and she was the elder by quite a bit, Jane Winegardner was referred to within these circles, as “O.J.”—the other Jane.

“You doing okay?” asked O.J.

“I am, really.”

“What a shock.” O.J. sat next to Sister in one of the empty chairs at their table. Tootie, her date, and Val and her date, were off dancing.

“You know, it really was,” said Sister. “Adolfo was a delightful gentleman.” She thought for a moment. “Well, you and I have endured shocks before.”

“Life.” Jane looked up to wave at Lynn Lloyd, MFH, from Red Rock in Nevada. “But when we had our adventure, we found out why it all happened.”

Sister well remembered the dreadful mess they had stumbled upon when hunting together in Kentucky.

Gray joined the conversation. “He was from Cuba. He came here as a teenager in 1959. That’s what he told my beautiful date. I can’t help but wonder if some of his talk about the old Cuban fortunes before the Revolution has something to do with his murder.”

“Well, could be,” O.J. said, considering it. “You let me know if there’s anything I can do. And come hunt with me! It’s been a first-rate season.”

“For us, as well.” Sister smiled. “Good weather, an abundance of healthy foxes. The pack just thrills me as they’re so good and our hunt staff is working so smoothly together.”

“Working with hounds is easier than working with people.” O.J. laughed, a mellow rolling chuckle.

“Isn’t that the truth.” Sister leaned toward her friend. “But our
field is in good shape, no dramas. Well, once we got rid of Crawford, the dramas did abate.”

“What’s he doing here tonight?” O.J. asked, wrinkling her nose.

Gray leaned toward Sister to speak to O.J. over the loud music. “New master up in eastern Maryland. Crawford’s been shining on Brian Bocock, taking hounds, giving him tidy sums of money for this and that, hunting up there with this kid about once a month. So, without knowing Crawford’s unsavory history—I mean the man runs an outlaw pack, for Christ’s sake—Brian invites him to his table at the ball.”

“What next?” Jane threw up her hands. “You’d think someone would have told him.”

“The folks from Green Springs did. I think Elkridge-Harford did, too,” Sister said, naming two solid hunts in Maryland.

Green Springs, established in 1892, occasionally hunted over the course for the Maryland Hunt Cup, and its masters over the years had ridden in that competition. You’d best be able to fly on a Thoroughbred at Green Spring Valley. And Elkridge-Harford did not countenance sloppy turnout, dirty tack, that sort of thing. Both hunts had the highest of standards and took excellent care of their hounds.

“Young Brian has to be dumb as a sack of hammers to ignore the advice of not just two senior hunts, but hunts with politically astute masters,” said O.J. “He’s going to have a less than easy time as master.”

“Yes and no,” said Sister. “Times are hard. Everywhere. Many hunts are having to breed fewer hounds, cut back on staff. We’re all doing what we can to keep operating and to make sure all the hounds and horses in our care receive the best of everything. You can cut corners, but not there. And my feed bills just go up and up.”
Sister twirled her forefinger upward. “We had to hire a professional whipper-in; it was necessary for both parties, so our budget is imperiled.”

“Mmm,” the younger woman murmured to herself. “Money. So you’re telling me Brian took Crawford’s money
knowing
he was inviting a man who runs an outlaw pack over your territory? And I doubt Crawford fixes one bloody fence if he knocks it down.” O.J. frowned.

“Rumor has it that Crawford had spent about twenty-five thousand dollars at the Navy Man’s Hunt,” said Sister, sharing gossip about the hunt founded by a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis.

O.J. folded her hands. “That’s being a master. You solve problems. You look ahead. You do your best, knowing there’s always someone who thinks they could have done it better, and maybe they could, but they aren’t sitting in the driver’s seat.”

Both Sister and Gray nodded. “Imagine what it’s like being President of the United States?” said Sister.

“At least we can ride out and feel the wind in our face, hear the hounds at full cry, see a beautiful red fox shoot across emerald meadows or fields of snow,” said O.J. “What does he get?”

“Power over others,” Gray remarked. After a long career in Washington, he’d seen enough of it.

“That’s a peculiar type of person, isn’t it?” asked O.J. “Someone who thinks they know better than you do about your own life, and wants to force their ways on you.” The lovely woman stood up.

“Crawford is one of those types,” Sister replied.

“I don’t envy you him, but I do envy you your territory. You have some of the most beautiful hunting grounds in America.” O.J. leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again. “My dance partner is searching for me. He doesn’t have GPS.”

As O.J. left, the girls returned with their dates, both good-looking young men clearly on the football or lacrosse teams. Big boys.

Jefferson Hunt paid for two tables. Charlotte Norton, Headmistress of Custis Hall and her husband, a physician; Walter Lungrun, jt-MFH, and his date; the Bancrofts; and Tariq Al McMillan, a handsome Egyptian teacher at Custis Hall, sat at the second table. While it wasn’t written in stone, it was advisable that each table be headed by a master.

Tariq, single, in his mid-twenties, had come to the Ball and to visit friends at the Egyptian consulate, for he remained an Egyptian citizen. Some of the young men he had gone to college with worked at the consulate as well as the embassy in D.C. All were bright, beautifully educated, and carried the hope of leadership later in their lives. Egypt, still unstable, kept them all watchful, careful of conversation. Even with old friends, Tariq was circumspect. Above all, he did not want to be called home, which could happen for any number of reasons.

From the Jefferson Hunt standpoint, he was handsome and single. Always a great idea to have extra males, and since Tariq taught at Custis Hall, so much the better for his inclusion pleased the Headmistress. Tariq was a walking advertisement for the progressiveness of Custis Hall.

Tootie, seated with her date, Baxter Chiles, felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Miss Harris, may I have this dance?” Tariq beamed at his former student.

Smiling, she rose, touching her date on the shoulder as she left.

Baxter found this an excellent time to get a drink from the bar. Parched, he paid for tonic water. Not yet being twenty-one, he
was smart enough to know he could compromise his hosts if he did purchase a real drink. Baxter figured he had the rest of his life to drink.

“Derek, sit here next to me for a minute.” Gray patted the seat. “Val, oops, turn around.”

The tall blonde, who had not yet sat down, turned just as one of the masters of Farmington Hunt was about to tap her on the shoulder.

Pat Butterfield asked, “May I have this dance?”

Pat and his wife, both educators, knew Val and Tootie from Custis Hall, as Farmington is the adjacent hunt to the Jefferson.

“Keep in touch with me as your studies continue,” Gray said, sizing up the young man. “You’re a junior, right?” Derek Joyner hadn’t been drinking, nor had the girls. That boded well for these young people, and, Derek, especially, as he wanted to go into accounting, his sights being set on campaign finance.

“Thank you, Mr. Lorillard. Val told me all about your career in Washington. People don’t think accounting is exciting. I bet you could tell some stories that would disprove that.”

Gray smiled, his even teeth bright under his silver moustache. “It was exciting for me, and so many of the people I went to college with became CFOs of corporations. Oddly enough, only one other classmate went into campaign finance. He ran the numbers for the Democratic Party for years. I never worked for either party but for individual candidates, and then wound up as partner of the firm. At that point, all the action was in taxes so I had the field to myself. Well, too much about me. Call me.” Gray reached inside his scarlet, pulling out a card. “The finance laws change by the minute. You will need to know exactly what’s on the books in your state and nationally. But you know that.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek looked away to see Val and Pat. “He’s a good dancer, isn’t he?”

“Pat Butterfield? Yes, he is. Good rider, too.”

“I’ve never been on a horse. Val, well, you know.” Derek took a breath. “She wants me to learn to ride and I’m a little afraid.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell her.” Gray was stern. “Whether you and Val wind up in a long romance or not. Any woman who comes into your life, tell her the truth. Be who you really are, fears and all.”

“Val’s such a strong person. I don’t want to look weak.”

Gray reached over and grasped Derek’s muscular shoulder. “Derek, trust me. You’ll look strong, not weak. It’s the sorry twits putting up a big front who always, always crash. She’ll respect you for it. I’ve known Val for four years. Trust me.”

“Yes, sir.” And Derek did.

Just then Crawford with Marty, his wife, swept past the table. He paused as his wife, who liked Sister a lot, tugged at him to move on.

“Ah, Sister, found another corpse, did you?” Crawford growled.

“Pity it wasn’t you, Crawford,” Sister snapped back, which wasn’t like her.