Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (24 page)

“What, worm?”
Aztec called over the fence.

“Get on that machine,”
the young Thoroughbred answered.

“Kid, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
Keepsake laughed.

Midshipman prudently said nothing.

Back in the house, the two women hung their coats in the mudroom, eagerly stepping into the warm kitchen.

“Some days I feel colder than others, even if the temperature is the same,” said Tootie.

“Weird, isn’t it?”

The two sat down to pore over the pedigrees. Gray came into
the kitchen and Sister told him the two geldings had arrived. He sat down at the table with them.

“Would you all like anything hot to drink?” Tootie offered. “I’m still cold.”

“Sure,” Sister said. “Surprise me.”

“Me, too.” Gray allowed Golly to jump onto his lap. “Just got off the phone with Ben. He asked for you to call him.”

“Ah. I will after”—she turned her head—“the hot chocolate.”

“He asked me to recommend a forensic accountant. Not from the area.”

“I suppose you can’t mention the case.”

“Actually, I can. Ben wants someone to go over Penny Hinson’s books—anything relating to billing, accounts receivable, and cost of supplies.”

“Someone not from here?”

“Well, it is better, and I recommend Toots Wooten in South Carolina. She won’t miss an errant comma.” He smiled. “Being an accountant in some ways is consoling because you do find answers in black-and-white. The problem is when you start thinking life is black-and-white.”

Tootie placed three mugs on the table. “Real milk.”

“Perfect.” Gray appreciated real hot chocolate.

Sister held the mug in her hands as Gray said to her, “I’ve been thinking about Benny Glitters, what you said the other night, and I don’t think we should tell Mercer. For now.”

“He’ll run to his mother with it?” Sister’s voice lifted up.

“Yes, then who else will he tell? And God only knows what Aunt D will do.”

Sister spoke to Tootie, “While you were reading Surtees after the hunt, Gray and I pulled up Benny Glitters’s pedigree. He is Domino’s son. Then Gray got his race record. Started out pretty good, then back of the pack—pretty much what we’d heard his story was.”

“Doesn’t Mercer know all that?” Tootie inquired.

“He does, but Crawford said something at the breakfast, kind of an offhand remark. He said it wasn’t the human in the tomb that mattered, it was the horse.”

This startled Tootie. “That’s strange.”

“This is me—not Gray or anyone else—but I have a feeling I can’t shake. Penny Hinson’s murder is somehow connected to all this.”

Tootie said, “How?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Let me call Ben back.” Sister rose, walked into the library and dialed.

Whenever possible, Sister used a landline. If the government wanted to, they could put on a tap like in the old days, but all the new technology—cell phones and computers—attracted them more because more people used them. Also, they were easier to hack. Corporations could spy on one another, too. It wasn’t that she had anything to hide, it was just that she was of a generation that valued privacy.

“Ben.”

“Good of you to call,” the sheriff said. “You asked for any bloodline research on Dr. Hinson’s computers. She had the breeding for all of her patients—I guess I call them patients—who had breed registrations. In the case of a backyard horse, she listed the parents if the owners knew. But she did have all the breed registrations and she also did research as you mentioned concerning the, I can’t pronounce it—”

“Przewalski, forget the Pr, say it like a Cz.”

“I expect the only way to speak Polish right is to be born to it,” he replied good-naturedly. “Penny had looked into that; she’d investigated gene splitting. Her research was what one would expect of a woman of her intelligence and dedication. But nothing that shouts out ‘danger.’ ”

“Ben, any signs of clients with a drug addiction? Not that she
would be dishonest, but sometimes clients can order drugs they don’t really need, even needles, and then they sell them.”

“No. There are bills for needles and ’bute. But again, nothing that would indicate abuse. Let me get back to her DNA research for a minute. Again, I don’t know about any of this, but is it possible to manipulate DNA?”

“In theory, yes. In practice, not so easy.” Sister inhaled. “You’re thinking, can someone duplicate the DNA of a great stallion and not pay the stud fee? Get DNA from a son or daughter? Well, it wouldn’t be an exact duplication, but when you consider that some stud fees soar well over $100,000, the motive is there.”

“It occurred to me.”

“Again, in theory, yes. In practice, no. It’s still too complicated. Too few veterinarians would be able to do this and ultimately, they could fall under suspicion.”

“So one would need to be highly specialized for that sort of trickery?”

“For now. In time these things will be simplified, like using stem cells to cure some conditions in horses is specialized, but more and more veterinarians can now do it. Also, Ben, all this takes a fair amount of investing in the technology. But something’s there. Something is right under our noses.”

He breathed deeply. “If only I had a hint as to what she had or knew that was so valuable or dangerous. But then again, Sister, Penny’s murder may not be related to her profession.” He paused. “But I’m on your train. I think it is, too.”

After that call, Sister walked back into the kitchen. “I have an idea. Let’s find every photograph we can of Domino, his sons and daughters, and Benny Glitters.”

Aztec picked his way over timbered acres; an inviting snow-covered pasture beckoned the horse to the western side. Hounds drew through the slash. This last Tuesday in February proved that February was actually the longest month in the year, with grim, cold, sleety, snow-filled days. However, fox breeding was in full swing so frozen toes or not, a true foxhunter gladly mounted up.

Soldier Road ran east to west, with Hangman’s Ridge on the south of that paved road. When Sister hunted from Cindy Chandler’s farm, Foxglove, the ridge loomed as ominously as it did from her farm on the other side of the high, long, flat former execution ground. Driving toward Charlottesville on Soldier Road, one would arrive at Roger’s Corner, a clapboard convenience store at the first crossroads going east from the Blue Ridge. Traveling west, if you drove a four-wheel vehicle you’d eventually come to dirt roads but you could snake your way up and over the Blue Ridge Mountains, finally reaching a two-lane paved state road between Waynesboro
and Verona. A turnoff on the left side of Soldier Road would take you to Route 250, a much easier passage over the Rockfish Gap.

All along this Appalachian chain, rounded by time, gaps allowed inhabitants before colonists to travel east to west and vice versa. However, the Native tribes on either side of the famous fall line engaged in killing, capturing, and harassing one another, so little traffic took place.

The fall line runs roughly southwest to northeast, traveling northward. The angle, not acute, allows a sense of direction even for those born without this sense. Then again, if you can see the mountains, you always know where you are. However, you can’t see them from the fall line where the state of Virginia lowers to the Atlantic Ocean many miles away. There the soil changes, the land flattens out. The three great rivers—the Potomac, the Rappahannock, and the James—enriched those flat lands. Even heading west, the alluvial deposits were generous.

On the east side of the line lived the Algonquin-speaking tribes; to the west were Sioux speakers.

Sister often thought of different peoples colliding—be they Indian or European, and then the later importation of Africans. Somehow out of bloodshed, truces, broken truces, and the superior technology of the Europeans, Virginia became what she now saw, a state of breathtaking beauty laden with natural treasures.

Like Aztec, she peered over the slash to the pasture beyond, distinguished by snake fencing, an inviting yellow clapboard house circa 1816, a true white stable and a red barn in the distance. She was excited. She had wanted to hunt this new fixture before the season ended mid-March. Close Shave was so named because survival there had been a close shave.

She’d hunted since childhood and had been a Master for close to four decades. She knew not to rush into a new fixture, throw up jumps everywhere. You needed at least a year to study the
land and your foxes—or perhaps coyote—as Close Shave sat hard by the mountains. Once a Master and huntsman had a grasp of the fox’s running patterns, jumps could be put in the best places to keep close to the fellow. Naturally, the foxes figured this out but by that time, the humans knew the territory well enough to compensate for the latest clever ruse.

Today’s field, just fifteen people, did make it a bit easier. A large field on a first day can be as difficult for staff as it is for the field.

Mercer, Kasmir, Freddie, Alida, Phil, Tedi and Ed, Walter, Cindy Chandler, Sam Lorillard, Ronnie, Xavier, Tootie and Felicity, and Gray, all wore their heaviest coats, and were eager to see the new territory. Staff had ridden it at the end of the summer and once again mid-fall to get their bearings. Cindy Chandler had secured this place for the club, as it abutted the westernmost part of Foxglove. Like Tollgate, it was owned by new people; middle-aged, neither Derek or Mo Artinstall rode. Cindy, charm personified, shepherded them to social-club functions, sent a personal invitation to the panorama of Opening Hunt while giving them glorious coffee-table photograph books of foxhunting. They had such a good time, they gladly gave permission for the club to ride across their land.

Cora stopped at a large walnut. The timbering in these parts had been select cut, and were pine only.
“Damn, this is a tough day,”
said the hound.

Diana touched the same spot.
“Old. But if we fan out, maybe this line will heat up.”

Ardent, also in her prime, inhaled.
“A signature. A calling card. I say we’ll get lucky. Come on, girls.”

Trident grumbled behind these three to Trooper.
“I really get sick of the girls thinking they are better than we are.”

“Me, too!”
Trooper agreed.

Thimble, sweet but not always as astute as one would wish, piped up.
“We have more drive. Shaker and Sister always say that.”

The two males whirled toward her with angry faces, and the sweet girl dropped her ears and eyes.

“Sorry.”

Dasher, an older male, coming up behind this little knot, cheerfully said,
“Hey, who cares what anyone says? If there’s a fox, we’ll find him.”

Hounds spread out. Reaching the snake fencing, they jumped over, continuing to search through the pasture.

Dreamboat, right up with Diana and Cora now, pushed toward a brook, not really wide enough to be a creek. On the western side of this fast-running water were rock outcroppings. Blue ice frozen from the crevices stood like a wall. These deep gray rocks, a few two stories high, contained larger crevices, suitable for housing critters. The rocks continued on for forty yards, then abruptly stopped, giving way to firm ground in heavy woods.

Dreamboat flung himself into the brook.

Diana trotted to the edge of the brook as Dreamboat crawled out under the rocks.
“Cora, he’s on a roll.”

He was, too. Dreamboat had finally come into his own, out from under the shadow of his aggressive brother, Dragon, who’d been left behind at the kennel that day.

Sister and Shaker found out the hard way that when you assemble your pack for the day’s hunt, you had to select with care. Not every hound would hunt with Dragon. Maybe they should have drafted him out, but he was brilliant. Sister always thought of this as her batting lineup for the game. Dragon was Number 3 while Diana was Number 4 when together. Apart, they did better and both could be number 4s, no jostling for position.

Cora hit the water, too. Within two minutes, the twelve-couple pack worked on the rock side of the brook.

Tails feathered. Hounds moved faster. Noses touched the ground, lifted up a moment, then touched again.

“Let’s boogie!”
Trooper shouted with glee and off they ran.

From their exploratory rides, Shaker knew where a nice crossing was. He quickly got over. Betty and Sybil found the going a bit harder because once over the water, they needed to find some kind of deer trails. The undergrowth was almost impenetrable, easily as bad as Pattypan Forge.

Sister followed Shaker. That summer, the club had cut a big cross through the woods, a trail large enough for horses and one that terminated on each of the four sides of the large woods.

In front of the hounds ran twenty wild turkeys. Hounds ignored them. A few horses found the sharp-eyed birds unnerving.

The lead turkey, an old turkey hen, cast a hard, bright eye at Aztec, the imposing horse leading the field.

“Mind your manners. I can fly right up in your long face.”

“Bother,”
exhaled Aztec, who saw turkeys in the pasture often.

“Pauline, don’t start something,”
the turkey immediately behind the lead turkey advised.

“This is our territory. These creatures need to be put in their place.”
Pauline flickered her long tail, but she did scurry away just a bit faster.

X-man, a green horse ridden by Sam Lorillard, snorted.
“What if they all fly up? I hate that sound.”

Sam would ride Crawford’s green horses with The Jefferson Hunt to season them. As it was his day off, Crawford felt he was getting free labor although he was loath to admit a day with Sister helped a horse more than a day with him.

Nighthawk, Kasmir’s beloved best mount, advised X-man,
“They have brains the size of a pea. Ignore them.”

“I resent that. You’re the peabrain.”
The last turkey at the rear of the line clucked as she hurried to catch up.

As the line disappeared in tall grass their movements reminded
Sister of that old dance the Turkey Trot, except that the turkeys did it better.