Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (12 page)

“Chiseler.” Phil smiled at him.

Mercer pocketed the flashlight, made in China. “I’m just recognizing your marketing skills.”

“Get out of here.” Phil laughed at him. “See you in the morning.”

A light shone in Daniella Laprade’s living room window at six-thirty that same evening. Mercer pulled into his mother’s driveway, stepped out of his Lexus SUV, glad for the lamppost at the walkway to the front door, for darkness enveloped everything. A stream of cold breath gave evidence to the plunging mercury. Hurrying to the red front door, he knocked, then opened it.

“Mother.”

Daniella looked up from
By the Light of Other Suns,
which she was reading with intense interest. “Where’s your coat, son?”

“Left it in the car.”

“Well, it won’t do you any good there. Are you trying to die before I do?” She closed the heavy book, carefully marking her place with a satin ribbon.

“You’ll outlive us all, Mother.” He leaned over, kissed the 94-year-old on her rouged cheek, then sat opposite her in a chintz-covered comfortable chair. “Good book?”

“Remarkable. It’s about the diaspora of our people after 1865. Of course, we never left.”

Mercer smiled. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

“Indeed. Laprades and Lorillards live by that.” Her diamond earrings, bracelet to match, long wool navy skirt, and cowl-necked sweater marked Daniella as a proper woman of a former generation.

Smartly turned out even at home, Daniella was always presentable, should an unannounced caller arrive. A lady can never be too careful about her appearance, age be damned.

Tapping her finger on the volume, she ordered, “Fetch me a drink. Make one for yourself. We could both use a lift.”

Mercer repaired to the well-stocked bar tucked into a corner of an equally well-stocked pantry with wooden folding doors to hide the cans. He quickly returned, a stiff bourbon in one hand and a cut crystal glass filled with ice cubes and locally made ginger ale in the other. Then he returned, poured himself a thimble of scotch with his own ginger ale chaser. The ginger ale sometimes seemed to pack more punch than the liquor. That stuff could pucker your lips. The Laprades regarded clear spirits as inferior. If you were going to drink, it had better be bourbon, whiskey, scotch, or rye.

Sinking in the chair as his mother drank half her bourbon with one smooth draw, he held up his scotch, stuck his tongue in first, then took a tiny sip. A wonderful warm sensation traveled down his throat.

Daniella raised her glass, “God bless the state of Kentucky.”

He nodded, holding up his shot glass. Then he said, “Mother, how are you feeling?”

“Now? Good.” She placed her glass on the coaster. “Good, all things considered. I haven’t been idle today. I called Dr. Zazakos about my father’s dental records. As you know our family has used the Zazakos family since the earth was cooling and they keep records. Well, they keep everything, don’t they?” She referred to each generation’s habit of collecting something. “I swear they never see
a piece of paper they don’t want to save. Naturally, the wives throughout the years are far more intelligent. They collect diamonds.” She half smiled.

“Well, Mother, you didn’t do so bad yourself.”

“I had many admirers. In my day, men showed their appreciation in useful fashion. Don’t you want to know what I found out?”

“I expect you’ll tell me.”

“They have Harlan’s records and Peter Zazakos promised to e-mail them to the Lexington authorities. This should hasten the identification of those bones which I know, I know in my own bones, are my father’s.”

“Indeed, you haven’t been idle,” Mercer said admiringly.

“Did you and Phil find anything?”

“Let’s say that the Chetwynds are not like the Zazakos family but we found some things that Old Tom, then Roger saved: old photographs.”

“Well?”

“A few, the old sepia kind, showed Harlan standing horses.”

“You’d think the Chetwynds would have saved more things. They have every trophy they ever won.”

“Silver,” Mercer replied simply.

“I used to have scrapbooks but when I left my first husband, a worthless worm if ever there was one but handsome, oh so very handsome, he burned everything before I could come back to move them. Even burned my hats. Spiteful and silly.”

“Mother, that is the most I’ve ever heard you say about your first husband.”

She half laughed. “I married in haste and repented at leisure. Back then, son, if a woman wasn’t married by twenty she was an old maid.”

“You were and remain beautiful. I bet you were besieged.”

She loved hearing that and recalled, “Graziella and I had our gentlemen callers and I must admit, Graziella married better than
I. More sensible. But I learned.” She inhaled. “How I learned. Your father, my third husband, like you, was a good, responsible man. My second husband was, too, but World War Two claimed him like so many.” She held up her glass. “Might you fetch me another?”

He did as he was told, then settled again opposite her, flicking a speck of dust from his cashmere sweater.

“Son, how much did that cost?”

“The sweater?”

“I’m not looking at your shoes.”

He stalled, then confessed. “Four hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“Mercer.” Her voice rose.

“Mother, I deal with ultrawealthy people. I can’t look unsuccessful. Failure has a scent, you know, and so does success.”

“True.” She nestled more deeply in her chair. “Tomorrow you will call the Lexington authorities, I have the number by the phone, and inquire about the dental records. If they have had time to compare. They need to hear from more than me and you have a voice that can get attention.”

Mercer did not think he had such a voice but he knew an order when he heard one. “Yes, Mother.”

She sat upright. “I want to know and I want to know what happened. I put this out of my mind and then it rushes back again like a swarm of hornets circling, or maybe a wind. I don’t know.” She waved her hand. “I can usually express myself but I find I become overwhelmed. Daddy died while I was so very young.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Finishing her drink she lowered her voice. “A restless soul, painful and never good. We must lay those bones and that soul to rest.”

He believed as did his mother and he, too, lowered his voice. “I wonder sometimes, I wonder about all those people killed in wars throughout time. Never properly buried if they were buried at all.
Are they out there wandering? There’s so much we don’t know, Mother, spiritual things, things that so many people would ignore today or think we were unintelligent for feeling this way.”

“Son, the truly stupid people are the ones who think they know everything.”

Water sprayed off Mill Ruins’s water wheel, thousands of rainbows flying with it. Saturday, February 8, welcomed The Jefferson Hunt Club members, hounds and horses, with pale sunshine and a temperature of 36°F by 9:30
A
.
M
. This tempered by nine-to-ten-hour winds from the north northwest.

Her senses keen from having hunted since childhood, Sister knew the mercury would rise, but not dramatically. Desirable as that was, a tricky wind could bump up quickly. You never knew about winds cascading from the north northwest, sliding down the mountains, which at Mill Ruins lay twelve miles west. The view always delighted people the first time they beheld the old mill and the clapboard house, some of which dated back to 1730. This had been Peter Wheeler’s home. Evidence of Peter’s unique personality lingered among his beloved boxwoods, his curving paths laid out to “alleviate the boredom of symmetry,” as he would counsel Sister. Peter had believed his tall paramour was overfond of straight lines, squares, and quadrangles. She was.

Presently, her Joint Master could be glimpsed in the stable, below tremendous oak beams holding it all together for close to three hundred years plus a few. Walter babied Clemson, his hunter, even though Sister would chide him, “You spoil that horse.”

“Look who’s talking” would come his swift reply.

Sister was a woman who couldn’t live without close relationships to men. A few, especially when younger, were sexual but most unfolded like Peter’s roses, revealing surprising depth of color. Men trusted her and loved her. She felt the same.

Fortunately, she also loved her girlfriends like Betty, Tedi Bancroft, and young women like Tootie, but for whatever reason she gravitated toward men.

As a Joint Master, Walter dealt with Sister almost every day, usually on the phone or texting. He’d traveled so much this hunt season from one medical conference to another that he’d missed a lot of the season. His specialty was cardiology and every day something new transpired in his field. He wanted to keep current so that his patients benefited from the latest procedures, as well as Walter’s deep concern. Walter was called to medicine the same way that Sister was called to hounds and horses.

She always told him his life was worth more than hers: He saved people. Walter would reply that she saved them in a different way.

“Oh, this will take fifteen minutes.” Atop her former steeplechaser, Matador, Sister laughed as she saw Walter run up Clemson’s girth.

Walter needed to walk Clemson around for five minutes, slide the girth two holes higher, and this would go on until the girth was tight enough for him to mount. But Clemson knew the trick of blowing out his stomach so once Walter—tall, with long legs—was tight in the tack, the horse would exhale. His stable boy would crank it one more time and, of course, Clemson would shy
away from the side being worked on, usually the left. He was a stinker.

He was also plated in gold in the hunt field so one endured the horsey hijinks.

Betty, driving the rig, pulled on the long side of the barn, where Shaker had preceded them with the hound trailer.

With a minimum of drama, staff mounted. Betty, Sybil, and today, Tootie, remained behind at the hound trailer with Shaker.

At least once a week Sister put Tootie out with a whipper-in. If a visitor or one of the hunt members needed a buddy in the hunt field, then Tootie was assigned to ride near them. The young woman also worked young horses for others when time permitted. They paid her for this so she earned more pocket money. At the moment, Sister had no youngsters but when she found some, Tootie would be perfect to bring them along.

As Sister rode Matador toward those already mounted, a riderless Clemson hurried up to her.

“What have you done?” She grabbed his reins, leading him back to the stable.

“Nothing”
came the unconvincing reply.

Sam Lorillard with his coworker, Rory, hurried out to take Clemson.

“Did Walter fall off?” asked a concerned Sister.

“No.” Sam smiled. “Dismounted for one more bathroom run. Clemson took off before I could grab his bridle.”

“How come you’re here today? I would have thought Crawford would be out.”

“He’s in Connecticut at Westover,” said Sam. “He wanted to talk to someone face-to-face about curriculum. He’s going to Miss Porter’s, a lot of those expensive schools out of state. He’s also contacting Andover, Exeter, Taft, Choate, St. Paul’s.”

“Got the bit between his teeth.” She paused. “Good.”

“Edgy took sick, called me so I came over. Walter needs someone in the stable.” Sam smiled.

“As do we all.”

Edgy, the stableboy, had gotten his name for his bad haircuts, which the young man declared were “edgy” so he was ahead of the curve.

Sister rode back to the ever-growing crowd. All were in their formal turnout, as Saturday’s rides were formal.

Vicki Van Mater and Joe Kasputys, in perfect turnout, waited with the others. Sister smiled and called to them as they had hauled their horses down from Middleburg, two and a half hours north.

The wind kept the pines rustling. Sister looked up to see the treetops bending. Just no telling what the day would bring. Like any day, she supposed.

Finally, everyone was up in the saddle. She used to just take the hounds and leave, but so many laggards created havoc trying to catch up that Sister now used the tactic of waiting while staring at them. Somewhat helped.

Henry Xavier, always called Xavier, Ronnie’s best friend, was present today. Sister noted he had lost one hundred pounds since undergoing the operation to shrink his stomach. He looked almost as he did when he was a boy, when he and Ronnie and RayRay, her son, would ride out in high spirits. Xavier never lost his baby face, which everyone had attributed to the fat, but his face remained youthful without the fat.

Looking over these people, some of whom she had known since they were born, others for at least forty years, others just a year or two, she thought Fate had brought them together. This touch of philosophy or superstition evaporated when Parker, a young hound, looked up at her and howled.

She laughed. “Well then, folks, we have our marching orders.” To Shaker, “Hounds, please.”

“Come along,” he called and hounds followed him over the arched bridge, past the huge turning water wheel that always startled horses unaccustomed to it, the
slap, slap
as well as the sight unnerving them. They headed past the mill, curved left on the wide farm road, patches of shimmering ice in the low potholes.

On other side of the road, two fenced fields beckoned. The original dry laid stone walls, rehabilitated by Walter, stretched a half mile down to the woods at the end of the pastures. At that point the fencing became three-board fencing, for who could afford new stone fences? Walter used what stone he could find to make jumps, but for keeping stock penned in, it was three-board—which was expensive enough. Those locust posts, if one could find them, cost a pretty penny. The left pasture ran easterly while the right was westerly and longer.

Sometimes hounds would pick up a fox behind the mill but not today.

“My feet are already cold,” Mercer grumbled.

Phil counseled, “A hard run will take care of that.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Okay, they’ll still be cold but you won’t notice.”