Hotspur

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I think every person in our hunt field feels that except one.”

  “Who?”

  “The killer.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “She’s going to be fine,” Walker enthusiastically reported to Sister on the vixen’s surgery.

  “What good news! We could use a little good news around here,” Sister, on the kennel phone, said warmly.

  After more details on the recovery of the vixen, whom Walter had named Bessie, Sister hung up the phone and she gave Shaker a full report. When she was done, she told Shaker something that had been running around, unarticulated, in the back of her mind for quite some time. “You know, it’s the most curious thing, Walter reminds me of Raymond. He even moves like Raymond. Same jaw, square shoulders. He’s a touch shorter and quieter than Raymond, but it’s uncanny. It’s one of those realizations that’s grown on me.” She looked brightly at Shaker. “Have you noticed it?”

  “Uh, well, I suppose,” Shaker fumbled.

  Sister knew in an instant that her huntsman knew more than she did. “Ah.” A long silence followed. “Does Walter know?”

  “No.” Deeply embarrassed, he gave a small shrug.

  “Shaker, don’t fret. I should have figured it out. It’s as plain as the nose on my face.”

  “Things happen.”

  “With Raymond they certainly did.” She spoke with conviction, breathed, then smiled. “How did you know?”

  “He confessed in a weak moment.”

  “Aided by scotch?”

  “Scotch and emphysema. He asked me to watch out for Walter.”

  “I see. She was pretty, as I recall, Walter’s mother.”

  “They were all pretty, but Janie, not one of them was as good a woman as you.” Shaker’s voice rose and he looked her straight in the eye.

  “Thank you. But I have my failings.” She glanced down at her hands, the red clay ground within. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.”

  “You weren’t stupid.”

  “Not about that.” She smiled sadly. “Not about that. But I think I’ve been half in love with Walter. Now it makes sense.” She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “Younger men don’t look at older women. I guess I just realized how drawn I am to him.” She sighed. “Love never dies.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not good at those things.”

  She paused a moment. “Well, I’ve had my revelation. Love never dies.” She fell quiet again, then suddenly sat up and said with much animation, “Shaker, that’s it!”

  “What?”

  “Love never dies! The killer is still in love with Nola or with Guy.”

  CHAPTER 37

  For the remainder of the day, Sister felt as though she had a red-hot marble rolling around in her brain. The mental discomfort was excruciating.

  When troubled, the stable provided solace.

  She brushed down Rickyroo, Lafayette, Keepsake, and Aztec and then turned them out. The horses calmed her, helped her organize her thoughts.

  She cleaned out the brushes, hung up the wipe-down towels, inhaled the bracing mix of liniment, hay, and eau de cheval.

  Golliwog nestled on a cooler, gray and gold, folded on the huge tack trunk that originally belonged to Raymond’s grandfather, John “Hap” Arnold. Raleigh and Rooster flopped on their sides in a stall and snored, each exhale sending tiny motes of hay dust upward. The large wall clock above the tack room door read three-thirty.

  Sister firmly believed the more horses were allowed to be horses the better they behaved. The animal is meant to graze and walk, graze and walk. Being cooped up in a stall, fed all manner of hopped-up grains, makes for a lunatic. She brought them in each morning, and fed them sweet feed in their individual stalls, because each of her boys needed time alone. She also added crimped oats and as much high-quality hay as they would eat. Then she’d go to the kennels to help Shaker feed and clean. By the time she returned, usually after about two hours, each horse had cleaned his plate. Then she turned them back out.

  People complimented her on the condition of her horses, their glistening coats, their good hooves. Their eyes were bright, their attitudes cheery.

  She replied that her methods were common sense. Avoid fads. Listen to the feed salesmen respectfully, but remember they’re there to sell you a lot of stuff you don’t need. Take excellent care of your pastures and your pastures will take excellent care of your horses. Keep your horses on a routine. Animals, including humans, like a routine, and this includes regular exercise. Be sure you work with the best equine dentist, vet, and blacksmith in the area. While you’re at it, take yourself to the best dentist and doctor, too. You may skip the blacksmith.

  Newcomers often asked questions, and Sister was glad when they did. Better to ask than to be taken to the cleaners by the guy who wants to put automatic waterers in your barn or the dealer who wants to sell you a fortune in vitamin supplements. Not that automatic waterers might not be useful for some people and vitamins useful for others, but if you didn’t know horses, thousands of dollars would fly out the window.

  One thing never changed. Over the forty years of her mastership she had watched new person after new person buy exactly the wrong horse. The only way to become a foxhunter is to buy a made horse, a seasoned veteran who can teach the human. He’s better than an insurance policy. He is your insurance policy. But in all her years, she had only known a handful of people to exhibit such sense. Walter was one. His gelding, Clemson, lacked in the looks department, was a little clunky, even big-headed. He had age on him, but that horse knew his job. He was giving Walter tremendous confidence. Walter could hunt and listen for hounds instead of riding in terror.

  The Clemsons of the world should be gold-plated. In their own way they are as much treasures as a Secretariat.

  She watched Aztec, Lafayette, Rickyroo, and Keepsake play with one another in their pasture and thought of the people she had come to know through foxhunting. Any hunt club reflects the history of its region. She thought of the older people, her idols from her childhood, her own peers, and now the young ones coming up behind her. She had learned a lot from all those people; she was still learning.

  Leaning over the fence, she sniffed the first tang of the odor of turning leaves. The fiery marble in her brain had stopped rolling. She had a plan.

  She found Shaker walking puppies, a task requiring strong shoulders since they pulled and leapt about. He smiled as she fell in with him and took a leash from his hands.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Shaker, I have an idea. It’s unorthodox, but I think I can bolt our killer from his den, flush him right out. We’ve been running over him, you know.”

  “Darby, boy, steady.” Shaker’s low voice quieted a yapping young fellow. “Well, he’s been in the covert, that we know.”

  “It’s going to take some work on our part and a little luck.” She was nearly pulled off her feet by Doughboy.

  “The luck part”—Shaker’s bushy eyebrows rose— “that’s interesting.”

  Before she could spin out her idea, Ben Sidell drove onto the farm. He cut the motor, stepped outside the squad car, and walked over to them. “Afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Ben. What can we do for you?” Sister set her feet wide so Doughboy couldn’t yank her off balance again.

  “Wanted you to know the gun that killed Ralph was a .38. Can’t trace it, so it has to be an old gun sold before registrations or one sold on the black market.”

  “What about the used market?” Shaker knew you could buy a used side arm without going through the computer checks.

  “Possible. Do you have people in your field who carry guns?”

  “Yes. Both whippers-in carry a .22 filled with ratshot which, I am happy to say, they have not had occasion to use for years, and Bobby Franklin carries a .38 hidden in his jacket.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t want to upset people,” Sister forthrightly replied.

 
“No, I don’t mean that.” Ben stifled a smile as he folded his arms across his chest. “I mean, why would he carry that caliber? Why not a .22?”

  “Should a horse break its neck, or a hound, we want to end its suffering as soon as possible. And again I’m happy to say the last time we had to do so was in 1984.”

  Shaker added, “And sometimes the deer hunters don’t finish the job. They don’t track their deer, or it gets away. We have to kill them.”

  “Very upsetting.” Sister reached down to pat Doughboy, who sat quietly observing the sheriff. As he was only five months old, she was very proud of him.

  “I see. Well, I would imagine that many of your members have old weapons.”

  “Probably.” Sister’s voice rose upward.

  “You have members, older members, many of whom might have guns that they bought back in the fifties or sixties.”

  “I suppose. What would you like me to do?”

  “Get them. I want to test them. I can go to each house and demand them, but I think the most efficient method is to have you ask for them.”

  “I’d be glad to do that. Did you drive the whole way out here to ask me that?”

  “Uh, yes.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And”—he paused a moment—“it’s such a beautiful place here. I like visiting your farm. And I was wondering if you might advise me, which I will keep to myself because I realize the position you’re in, I was kind of wondering if you could suggest someone I could ride with—take lessons, that is.”

  “Ah.” She smiled, as did Shaker. “Lynne Beegle. Actually, I should ask what kind of riding.”

  “Foxhunting. The more I find out about this sport, the more it intrigues me. It’s complicated.”

  “Oh, just keep the horse between your legs.” Shaker laughed.

  “There is that.” Ben smiled.

  “As I recall, Ben, you’re from Ohio, and there are some good hunt clubs there. Rocky Fork Headley, Chagrin Valley, Miami Valley, Camargo, Grand River, and Gully Ridge. And they’ve been there for a long time. I think Chagrin Valley was founded in 1908.”

  “Camargo and Rocky Ford Headley were founded in 1925,” Shaker added.

  “How do you remember all that?”

  “You tend to remember what you like. I just thought you might have seen hunting in Ohio.”

  “No. Not until I got here.”

  “Well, it’s a way of life in Virginia.”

  “A way of death, too,” Ben commented, a wry tone to his voice. “You don’t need to hunt the fox, you’re so busy hunting one another.”

  Sister exhaled, which brought Doughboy’s ears up. He looked at her quizzically. “These truly are extraordinary circumstances.”

  Shaker murmured his agreement with that statement.

  After Ben drove away, the two walked the puppies back to the puppy palace, as they called it.

  “Want to hear my plan?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “Janie, are you sure?” Tedi’s lovely blue eyes were sorrowful.

  “Yes. But I can’t prove a thing yet.”

  Tedi, Edward, Walter, Shaker, and Sister sat around Sister’s kitchen table. She had thrown together a quick dinner for them. Each had come with the express instructions to tell no one where they were going that night. Not a soul.

  Sister started the bowl of peas around to the left. “Tedi and Edward, I know this is most disquieting.”

  “We’ll handle it.” Edward spoke with authority.

  “The killer has to be Sybil, Ken, Xavier, or Ron. If you think about each one, each has benefited since Nola’s and Guy’s deaths. When Ron first hung out his lawyer’s shingle, you used him and you also switched insurance over to Xavier. Right?” Walter asked.

  “Right.” Edward nodded. “Ken encouraged us, and both men gave us very good service.”

  “They all ran around together,” Tedi added. “Our support in the early stages of their business lives was beneficial.”

  “And would it be possible for Sybil to divert some of her monies to either Ron or Xavier without either of you knowing about it?” Sister added.

  “Up to a point,” Edward succinctly replied. “If the sums were excessive, I think I’d know.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Hotspur.” Sister changed the subject. “The only way that Henry IV could defeat him was to divide and conquer. He picked Hotspur off before he could join up with his father. Had the two been united, Sir Henry Percy’s father would have sat on the throne. They were much better soldiers than the king. I believe our killer separated Nola and Guy. She’d been unfaithful to Guy.”

  Edward interrupted, “But it’s not like she was married to him!”

  “No, but love isn’t rational. It would seem to me that both Nola and the killer had something to lose. Nola would lose Guy, and she had finally fallen in love with Guy. What the killer would lose, I don’t know. If we knew the answer to that I think we’d solve this.” Sister looked at Walter; she couldn’t stop staring at him, but she made sure he didn’t see her doing it. “Well, perhaps I make too much of this Hotspur thing. My mind works in fits and starts. They don’t all lead in the right direction, but they do fire me up.”

  “Me too.” Shaker reached for the fried chicken, then handed the plate to Tedi on his left. “And I find the older I get the more wood I need to get fired up. Sister, let’s get down to brass tacks here.”

  “Well, yes. I digress. I want Walter to grow a military mustache or paste one on and play a key part. And I want us to find two actors who can ride who resemble Guy and Nola.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Edward sat up straight in his chair.

  “Maybe there isn’t much of it left to lose. Now hear me out before you become ruthlessly logical, Edward. I believe our killer is still in love with Nola or Guy. We’ve got to shake him or her out of the covert. Bolt our fox.”

  “Ah.” Walter was getting it, as was Tedi.

  “Perhaps you have noticed how much Walter resembles Raymond. With a mustache, the resemblance will be impossible to miss.”

  All eyes were on Walter, who blushed.

  “Uncanny.” Tedi blinked.

  “Remember Raymond’s big hunter, A. P. Hill? Found a horse who looks much like him and is very kind.” She smiled at Walter. “We’ll take care of you, Walter.” She said to the others, “I want to place Walter far enough away so when he is glimpsed—and it will be just a glimpse—people won’t really know if they’ve seen him or not. And I want Nola and Guy together down by Cindy’s two ponds at Foxglove Farm. There’s got to be someone we can use—call Central Casting, if we must. I want to blast this murderer into the open. Let us resurrect our dead. They’ll beckon to the killer. However, we can’t use a Ralph stand-in. We can’t do that to Frances.”

  “It’s lunacy.”

  “Edward, we have no hard evidence. I’d rather be a lunatic than do nothing,” Tedi said, touching Nola’s ring.

  Sister softly said, a bit of humor in her voice as she hoped to defuse Edward’s resistance, “I know, Edward, you won’t overestimate my faculty for constructive thought. I’ve had to resort to imagination.”

  “Well, I’ll do it,” Walter said with determination.

  “You lead the field. What are you going to do when people see these apparitions?” A note of sarcasm dripped into Edward’s voice.

  “Maybe I won’t see these apparitions.”

  “Ah. You’ll be up front. By the time someone tells you, they’ll fade away.” Tedi was catching on.

  “Sybil will be whipping-in that day.” Edward could not believe for one instant that his daughter was a killer.

  “I’ll put her in the field and let Jennifer whip. She doesn’t know but so much, but she knows enough to keep the hounds between her and the huntsman. Can’t ask for more than that. Will you all help me?” She touched Shaker’s forearm as they had discussed it. She knew he would do it, and Walter had just agreed.

 
“I will. I’ll do anything to get Nola’s killer, and this will clear Sybil’s name. I know people suspect her. The gossip eventually seeps under the door.”

  “Impossible! Sybil would never have killed Nola.” Edward’s face turned crimson. “I can’t believe anyone would say something like that about Sybil.”

  “I’m willing to try anything.” Tedi leaned toward Sister. “I’ll help you find our Guy and Nola. I have all of Nola’s clothes.”

  “And we can all pray,” Sister breathed in. “A bit of mist. Just a bit.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Sister and Tedi worked like demons.

  Tedi, thanks to friends in the film business, found two physically appropriate actors who could ride a little. She flew them to Richmond. Her friend, senior master of the Deep Run Hunt, Mary Robertson, put them up so no one would see them back in Jefferson Hunt territory. She also, prudently, worked with them a bit on their riding.

  Actors, eager for employment, regularly overstate their credentials. The young lady, Melissa Lords, had ridden once or twice in a Western saddle.

  Mary had her work cut out for her. But she’d managed to get the beautiful Melissa somewhat comfortable at the trot.

  When Tedi drove down to check on their progress, she burst into tears at the sight of Melissa.

  The actor, Brandon Sullivan, had more riding experience. His fabulous looks kept the barn girls in a twitter.

  Mary would deliver the horses, Melissa, and Brandon to Roughneck Farm early in the morning of the hunt. She’d ride as a guest that day. This would stir no suspicions, as Sister often drove down for a day’s sport at Deep Run and Mary Robertson, Tom Mackell, Red Dog Covington, and Ginny Perrin, the joint-masters, returned the favor.

  Walter would park in the hay shed to hide his truck that morning.

  Sister chose the day by calling Robert Van Winkle, the weatherman, a local celebrity who had a genuine passion for studying weather.

  He told her there might be a bit of ground cover October fourth or fifth. An edge of chilly air should be cutting into central Virginia then.

  True to her word, she asked the membership to allow the sheriff to test their .38s. People complied with her request. Nothing came of it, which was no surprise.