Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (15 page)

Gray walked over to a wall with square shelves, all of equal size, like a big bookcase. Shirts filled the squares, each one having a brass plate at the bottom, indicating neck circumference and sleeve length. Gray found the square with spread collars.

Mercer joined him. “Go ahead, buy a pink shirt.”

Gray turned to him. “Mercer, I’m not afraid to wear pink or peach or sea green. But only for casual wear. There is no way I can wear a shirt like that with a suit in D.C. Now stop sounding like my mother or your mother.”

“I could never sound like your mother,” said Mercer, imitating Graziella’s intonation, making Gray laugh.

Sam walked through the store’s entrance, looked around, spotted them and walked over.

“Get hit up by Crawford as you were leaving?” Mercer asked.

“No. Tootie and Dr. Hinson swung by. Marty’s horse has an abscess. I told Crawford I soaked Tonie.” He named the horse. “As I’ve been doing for the last three days. It will pop soon enough. But Crawford has to have an expert’s opinion, so he called Penny Hinson. He just came back from dragging himself all over the northeast to check curriculums. I’ll give him one thing, he is indefatigable and, of course, it helps to have your own jet.”

Gray and Mercer smiled.

Mercer appraised Sam. “You need a new jacket.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t go out at night.”

“Because you don’t have any clothes.” Mercer was half right.

The other half of the reason was that although Sam had stayed sober for years, nighttime carried the whiff of temptation.

“What I really need is a new pair of boots. Crawford says he’ll buy them if I go up to Horse Country for the February Dehner sale.”

Dehner, a boot company in Omaha, Nebraska, sent a representative to measure one’s foot, calf, instep. The customer then picked the type of leather, the color, the cut, and type of sole. A new pair could run $1,000 plus with the extras and, of course, everyone wanted the Spanish cut, which was a bit more leather on the outside knee, making one’s leg appear longer. Very elegant. Bespoke boots lasted for decades if one cared for them, which somewhat justified the price. When you’re in boots for most of the day, comfort becomes important.

“Go on up, then,” Mercer counseled.

“Guess I’d better.”

Gray and Mercer bought their ties and Mercer bought two shirts he liked.

In the parking lot, Mercer slid behind the wheel of his Lexus
SUV and said to the brothers standing nearby, “Follow me. Lunch is on me.”

The two brothers drove behind their cousin a very short way to a nice restaurant near Brooks Brothers.

Once seated at a booth, the two brothers waited for Mercer to speak as he had asked them to lunch, a rare occurrence.

“You all are quiet,” the dapper fellow remarked.

“We’re waiting for you,” Gray replied.

Mercer launched in: “The funny thing about the body in Benny Glitters’s grave is the little dog elicited more sympathy than the human. The story got a lot of play in the media in Kentucky but it received a mention on national media, too.”

Sam was surprised. “It did?”

“You never watch the news,” Mercer chided him.

“Well, I missed it, too,” Gray confessed.

“It was there for one day, a brief splash. Anyway, I called the detective in charge. Granted this isn’t a red-hot case, but because of all the attention they make a stab at it. I asked if I find any of my grandfather’s dental records, will they compare them to the skeleton’s teeth? He said yes.”

“Mercer, do you have Harlan Laprade’s records?” Gray asked.

“I wasn’t half-assed about this.” Mercer paused dramatically. “Mother called Peter Zazakos, whose father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were dentists.
Mirabile dictu,
they kept all the records.” Mercer was almost jubilant.

For a moment, Gray and Sam said nothing, then Sam said, “I guess we should give him a decent burial in the Lorillard graveyard. That’s where we’re always planted. I know that’s Grandpa Laprade. They should know shortly in Kentucky. There can’t be that many murders in Lexington in February.”

“One hopes not,” Gray replied.

“Where’s Auntie D in all this?” Sam asked, about Mercer’s mother Daniella.

“Lashing me on. She’s quite caught up in the drama.” This was an unexpected comment from her son on Daniella Laprade, who at ninety-four retained most of her good qualities and all of her bad ones.

“She’s used to getting her way.” Gray’s eyebrows flickered for a second.

“We can solve this murder.” Mercer sounded so confident. “Mother says she knows in her bones. Those bones are her father and he was killed.”

“Mercer, you’ve fallen off your perch.” Sam used the old country expression. “Her, too!”

“No, I haven’t. I can’t say about Mother.” He smiled. “Sam, you’ve got good research skills. Think of all those term papers you wrote at Harvard.”

Sam got to the point. “Mercer, just what do you want?”

“I want you to research whorehouses in Lexington, especially the high-class ones. Lot of men with money to spend in Lexington. Times were good.” He paused. “We know that the fancy houses of prostitution for the white boys often had a few drop-dead gorgeous ladies of color, Chinese girls, other women considered exotics. International trade.” Mercer could always see the business angle of any transaction. “Might even be exciting. You know, his clothes were left folded in the laundry room.”

“Maybe the killer was in a hurry,” Sam suggested.

“Then why take off his clothes?” Mercer pointed a fork at Sam.

“That is a puzzle.” Gray took a swig of his hot coffee.

“Well, I guess I could do it.” Sam was a little intrigued.

“Gray, you investigate gambling parties,” his cousin ordered. “Poker. Dice. Horses. I’ve got a hunch a wide net of gambling was part of this.”

“Mercer, I think the dead should be left alone,” Gray interjected quietly.

Quick to seize on something he could use, Mercer agreed
warmly. “Right, but Harlan Laprade is disturbed, so we might as well find out what happened. It would mean so much to Mother and to your mother, too, were she here.”

Hard to argue against this. Graziella died five years earlier of an aneurism. She rested in the Lorillard graveyard.

Gray sighed deeply. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Given our business, Gray, I expect you know every trick in the book, how to make money illegally, how to hide gambling wins and losses. That sort of thing. And people keep records, even if it’s chits. They have to remember who owes what to whom.”

“I’ll try.”

“Oh, the dog. It was a Norwich terrier. A vet looked at the skeleton. Didn’t need DNA.”

To change the subject, Gray asked, “You hunting tomorrow?”

“I am. After All is one of my favorite fixtures. It’s perfect, really.” He mentioned the Bancroft farm, everything arranged for foxhunting. Trails, jumps, creek crossings, all were maintained by the Bancrofts. People always liked driving through the covered bridge to arrive at the stables and thence up to the house.

“I’ll be with Crawford,” said Sam. “He’s hunting down in Buckingham County tomorrow, a huge fixture, about fifteen thousand acres of pine.”

“But Buckingham is Oak Ridge’s territory,” said Gray, referring to the hunt club that had the right to hunt there.

“Crawford is happy to spread his brand of contempt for others all around. Rules be damned. Sooner or later, the chickens will come home to roost.” Mercer hoped Crawford would get his comeuppance.

Sam was envious. “You all should have a good hunt.” Tuesday’s hunt in what was known as The Jefferson Hunt’s home territory would prove just that. For those who believe in prophecy, it would prove haunting.

Comet, hunting on the Bancroft property, heard the trailers rumbling down the long gravel drive, then they rattled through the covered bridge at After All Farm. The covered bridge amplified the sound.

Comet, like all The Jefferson Hunt foxes, knew when a hunt was to occur. Not that he kept a fixture card in his den. He didn’t need one. Every time Sister’s trailers left the stables and the kennels, it was hunt day away from the farm. When humans wore their kit, hounds yipped with excitement in the kennels, and Sister’s trailers stayed put. The hunt would be at the farm.

The only days that confused this healthy gray fox were when the trailers left the farm to go all the way around to Foxglove Farm on the other side of Soldier Road. If they had ridden up over Hangman’s Ridge, then down into the often swampy meadow below, they’d cross Soldier Road and wind up at lovely Foxglove Farm, owned by Cindy Chandler. Sometimes they’d strike a line and then the red Foxglove fox would cross Soldier Road, the meadow, Hangman’s Ridge, and shoot to Sister’s house. So he was on Comet’s
territory. For whatever reason that fellow loved her house and had various ways to wiggle under it. Once the Foxglove fox leapt into an open window of the gardening shed. What a mess. The red fox was just thrilled with the damage he’d caused. Comet was less thrilled. What if it made Sister mad at all the foxes? He liked his treats she left out.

On this Tuesday, February 11, Comet felt confident he would be far ahead of hounds should Shaker cast down Broad Creek. He was three-quarters of a mile from the bridge. He listened intently. Human babble fascinated him. They uttered so many sounds; some high, some low, and their laughter especially fascinated him. Big bellow laughs, little titters; some people laughed like woodpeckers,
rat ta tat tat.
While Comet was too far away now to detect the titters, the low guffaws, he could hear big laughs and he could always hear a high-pitched sound. Thank God for the horn. He always knew where Shaker was.

Comet, full, for hunting had been successful, sat until no more trailers passed through the covered bridge. The youngsters in the pack, once scent was found, usually ran right up front. While this was not a blindingly fast pack, it was fast enough so that Comet, who owed much of his health to Sister’s feeding and worming program, plus the fact that as a youngster he’d been trapped and given his seven-in-one shots, headed for Pattypan Forge. He, too, was fast, also having the advantage of more nimbleness. If they did pick up his line once the pack reached Pattypan Forge, they would become confused for a time.

Aunt Netty kept an immaculate den in the old forge. Occasionally, Uncle Yancy would visit. The old stone building—the stones square-cut, quite large—held scent inside on a moist day. Today, at nine-thirty, the mercury had just nudged up to 34°F and clouds hung low, ranging in color from dove gray to charcoal. The rawness in the air promised snow flurries. Scenting would be pretty good, so why not throw them off early?

Pattypan, abandoned for close to a century, had the additional advantage of being overgrown. The place was full of rabbits, always a plus in a fox’s mind, and other foxes did come around thinking the same as Comet: game. Crows would hang around and a medium-sized barn owl lived up in the rafters, keeping to himself. He loathed commotion and if Aunt Netty and Uncle Yancy screamed at each other, this foxy fellow would tell Bitsy, the screech owl who nested in a tree hollow at Sister’s farm. This was like telling the town crier as Bitsy, believing in a free press, more or less kept every animal current with the latest gossip.

Shaker blew two short toots that meant “Pay attention.” This was really for the humans. Comet knew it was time to move on. He trotted along Broad Creek while a downy woodpecker clinging to a tree trunk swiveled his head to see the gray ghost below.

“Morning,”
the bird called.

“Morning
,” Comet called out.
“Good eats?”

“Tree’s a supermarket.”
The downy pecked to prove his point, extracting a cocoon that Comet could see in his beak.

As Comet moved on, Shaker moved out with twelve couple of hounds, a decent number, although Sister especially loved those days when she’d ride out with thirty couple. The sound remained in one’s memory forever. But twelve couple allowed youngsters—and he had half his pack as young entry and second-year entry—to step up to the plate. One must develop future leadership among hounds the same as among humans. Both the Senior Master and the huntsman believed this and planned for it.

Betty, per usual, rode on the right, Sybil on the left, while Tootie rode in the field with Felicity, who took Tuesdays off. The two had been classmates at Custis Hall, the prep school. Felicity needed a break from her curious, active child. The two school friends had ridden together all four years at Custis Hall. Felicity became pregnant, graduated, then married, a surprise to all. Gray, Ronnie,
Xavier, Phil, Mercer, Kasmir, his old school chum, High Vijay, the Bancrofts, Walter, Ben Sidell, Ed Bancroft, the Sheriff, and Freddie rode out, along with a guest this Tuesday. The guest, a drop-dead gorgeous lady in her early thirties, perfectly turned out in ratcatcher, was visiting from North Carolina. The clothes for informal days were usually a tweed jacket, a tie, or colored stock tie. One had more room for personal expression wearing ratcatcher. Many men in the field fervently hoped this would be the first of many visits from Alida Dalzell. Plus she rode a stunning, 16H flea-bitten gray Thoroughbred/​Quarter Horse cross. They were a vision.

Shaker headed down Broad Creek. The draw intensified the moisture. Even during one of those awful Virginia dry spells, awful when they occur during hunt season and not especially wonderful during hay season either, the scenting along creeks or around ponds and lakes might hold, if ever so briefly. Today a carpet of enticing odors curled into hound nostrils: rabbits, two bobcats, a gopher, a few minks, turkeys, turkeys, turkeys, and the lovely powdery scent of a woodcock.

“Oh, this is sweet.”
Giorgio closed his eyes.

“Bobcat. We’ll get a fox soon enough,”
Cora counseled.

Dragon, who would jostle to take the lead, only to be put in his place by bared fangs and a snarl from Cora, smarted off.
“Giorgio, you wouldn’t know a bobcat if he bit you in the ass.”

“No, but you’d know if I tore into yours.”
Cora shot him a dirty look, which the other hounds called
“the freeze.”