The Hunt Ball

by Rita Mae Brown

  “She’s a beautiful woman. All men look at Lorraine.”

  “Not the way he does.” Shaker closed his lips tight.

  “He has strayed off the reservation. I can understand how you feel, but I don’t think Crawford would be stupid enough to cross you or Marty. He’s learned his lesson.”

  The trail wasn’t as bad as they thought it might be.

  “Wonder if that old den is in use again.”

  “The one just above the wildflower meadow? I don’t know. Let’s see.” She was always eager to keep tabs on her foxes, with whom she felt a spiritual affinity.

  “The young ones left their home dens around the beginning of November. We might have a new tenant.”

  “We used to have a wonderful running fox that lived there six years back.”

  He started to say that with the deer season upon them and coyote mating season firing up, the leaves brittle on the ground, releasing a pleasing but pungent odor, the next few weeks would be difficult for hunting, but she knew that. Shaker and Sister felt every nuance of their environment.

  They slowed; the old den was on their right. With some of the underbrush now leafless, the den could be clearly seen. A clever location, it afforded good privacy, had many entrances and exits, and was less than two hundred yards from a clear, fast-moving feeder stream to Broad Creek. The wildflower field to the west was nice enough from a fox’s point of view, but the hayfields to the east, the hay rolled and stacked alongside the edge of the fertile field, provided field mice, rabbits, and voles lovely places to make their homes. It was a convenience store for foxes.

  Shaker noticed the clump first. “What the hell?” He quickly dismounted as Sister held HoJo’s reins.

  “I can’t really see in there. What is it?”

  He picked up a piece of cloak. “Zorro.”

  C H A P T E R 1 5

  The front moving through kicked up gusts of twenty knots, not enough to knock one down but enough to cut through a thin jacket. The cold was settling in along with the night.

  Athena and Bitsy sat in the branches of a scrubby pine. Their luminous eyes observed everything. Both birds kept their backs to the wind.

  Young Georgia, Inky’s half-grown vixen daughter, huddled in the back reaches of her many-chambered den. She listened to the commotion at the wide entrance. This particular den, like an old pre–Revolutionary War home, had undergone many improvements over time. Hearing Sister’s voice reassured Georgia that she had a friend out there among the other humans, but she loathed the fuss at her main entrance.

  Given the grade of the topography, Ben Sidel couldn’t set up tripod lights. Ty held a powerful beam, as did Gray Lorillard. Shaker was also pressed into service. Ben wanted foxhunters with him on this task. The only person he brought out from the department was Ty Banks, who had a real feel for police work.

  Sister, on her hands and knees with Ben, pointed out the scraps of material.

  Ben, wearing plastic gloves, carefully teased out long pieces of light wool, although most of the cloak, which Shaker first pulled out, was intact.

  Shaker shone his flashlight right onto the spot.

  “The cub has been working at it,” Sister replied.

  “It looks like the fox was pulling it in.”

  “She was. See.” She pointed to triangular holes at the edge of the cloak, the lining torn, the chain just showing. “This will make wonderful bedding.”

  “Then why are other parts of the cloak outside the den?” Ben, like most foxhunters, knew precious little about their quarry.

  In Ben’s defense, he was new to the sport, but the majority of foxhunters do not study foxes. They listen to hearsay or read an article here and there. The only way to learn about foxes is to observe them, to live by them, although reading about them doesn’t hurt.

  “She took what she needed. The cloak isn’t torn much,” Sister replied.

  “M-m-m.” He started to reach down into the hole.

  “Ben, don’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the cub is in there. The reason Shaker and I came this way was to check the path and to see if the den had a new occupant. She or he will bite you, and believe me, it hurts.”

  “Sheriff, you need prophylactic rabies shots,” Gray suggested.

  “Too late now,” Ben grunted. “Ty, give me that flashlight.”

  Ty handed him the heavy flashlight run on a nine-volt battery. Ben tilted it to illuminate the deeper recess of the entranceway.

  “Nothing,” Sister remarked.

  “How do I know this fox doesn’t have more in the den?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Then I’ve got to dig the critter out.”

  “Shaker and I will do that. We can trap the cub without harming the animal or ourselves. We’ll move her—I think it’s a vixen—to another den. Shaker, how about that one in the apple orchard?”

  “Yeah, that’s empty.”

  “Why won’t she come back here?” Ben was curious.

  “We do a soft release. We’ll put her in a big hound crate, with food and water. We’ll put the crate in front of the new den. Every day we’ll check on her. The third day, we’ll put fresh straw by the den, a little sweet-smelling hay, and a five-pound feed bin with a lid on it, a small hole drilled in the bottom. We’ll tie that to the closest tree. Come nightfall, we’ll open the gate. She might run off for a few hundred yards, but it’s too good a location. She’ll be back.”

  “Why hasn’t some other fox used it?” Ben handed the flashlight back to Ty.

  “Oh, it was Uncle Yancy’s and he’s fickle that way. He moves around. If he were human he’s the kind that would redecorate every year. You know the type.”

  Ben laughed. “You know the foxes as well as you know your hounds.”

  “Some. We’ll pick up a fox on a new fixture or during breeding season, courting foxes. That’s exciting because we’re trying to figure them out. They’ve got us figured out.”

  “How long do you need to get the fox out of here?”

  “If you and Ty will go down to the house and wait for me, Shaker and I should be able to do this pretty quickly. The reason I ask you to go to the house is that she can smell you, hear you. The more people there are, the more frightening for her. She might fight harder.” She stood up. “Gray, will you go down with them and bring back the caller, the little trapping cage, and the heavy gloves? They’re in the kennel storage room. Oh, bring a shovel, too. We’ll have to stop up the other getaways.”

  “Georgia isn’t going to like this,” Bitsy chirped.

  “Sister’s right, though, the orchard den is much better than this one.” Athena heard mice scuttling to their homes as the wind was stronger now.

  “Little apples are tasty to foxes.”

  Athena, full of the devil, egged Bitsy on. “While all the humans are here, why don’t you give them a song?”

  The small screech owl puffed out, warbling what she thought was a little ditty she’d heard on the barn radio. “Since my baby left me—”

  “Jesus!” Ty jumped out of his skin.

  Even Shaker and Gray froze for a moment, then laughed.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Son, that’s Bitsy, the screech owl.” Sister had to laugh at him. “She lives in the barn.”

  “Well, what’s she doing up here?” He regained his composure.

  “Bitsy’s the social sort. She likes to know what’s going on.” Sister enjoyed the little owl with her big eyes. “Sometimes she hangs out with the great horned owl. Bitsy’s song might scare you, but Ty, if Athena ever flies over your head, that really will put the fear of God in you. She’s huge and you don’t know she’s there until she’s right on top of you. If she balls up her claws they are as big as your fists. Shaker and I call her ‘The Queen of the Night.’ ”

  “Hoo ho, hoo hoo.” Athena let out her deep, soothing call.

  “That’s her,” Shaker said.

  “These animals
are like people to you, aren’t they?” Ty, a suburban boy, found it all strange.

  “No, they are what they are, but we live with them and respect them. They have powers beyond what we can imagine. This earth belongs to all of us.”

  “Chiggers, too,” Gray called over his shoulder as he started down the steep path.

  Once the three men were out of sight, Sister and Shaker turned off their flashlights.

  Wind at their backs, they squatted by the den, the dark aroma of fox filling the air.

  Neither one spoke for a long time.

  Bitsy flew closer, landing on a branch of a young fiddle oak. “Did you like my song?”

  “Ha ha,” Athena chortled, then joined Bitsy.

  Sister and Shaker could see the outline of the two birds.

  “She really is nosy.” Shaker had grown accustomed to Bitsy.

  She’d emerge from the rafters at twilight. If he was still in the kennels, she’d perch on a branch or even the weather vane to watch him.

  “She reminds me of my aunt, who lived in great fear that she’d miss something. If she were alive today I expect she’d be the first person to buy a wrist TV.” Sister grinned remembering Aunt Sian.

  “Some people are like that.”

  “Did you all like my song?” Bitsy then broke into the chorus.

  “Bitsy, for God’s sake, have mercy.” Sister grimaced.

  “Ha ha,” Athena laughed louder now.

  “I remembered the words,” Bitsy said and prepared for another go.

  “Save your voice, dear. The night is young.” Athena appealed to the little owl’s ego.

  “You’re so right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Bitsy ruffled her light-colored chest feathers. “Winter’s here.”

  “Yes.” Athena watched the two humans sitting quietly. “They have owl-like qualities, those two. They silently watch. Neither one is quick to move until sure of the game.”

  “Still think it’s a pity about their eyes.” Bitsy made a crackling sound with her sharp beak.

  “We don’t need them mucking about in the dark. They’d just get in the way. There’s enough trouble with the coyote coming in and hunting at night. Imagine if the humans were out there with them. Between the two of them, they’d flush our game.”

  When Gray arrived with the required items, it didn’t take Sister and Shaker longer than twenty minutes to get the pretty young gray fox into the cage. One of the reasons, apart from their skill, was that Athena called down to Georgia, telling her she’d be better off cooperating and a much better home awaited her.

  Upon seeing her, Sister remarked, “She’s dark gray but not black like her mother. Bet she has her mother’s intelligence.”

  While Shaker settled Georgia into the big traveling crate, Sister met with Ben and Ty waiting in her kitchen.

  Gray offered the men a drink, which they declined, but they eagerly downed Sister’s fresh coffee. It might be a long night for them.

  “I hope you can lift a print.” Gray sat across from Ben at the old kitchen table.

  “Not much chance, but we can always hope. A better shot is a strand of human hair, anything like that, a spot of blood.”

  Sister commented, “Whoever it is knows where the dens are. Has to be someone who has hunted with us for years.”

  “Could be a deer hunter.” Ben had to consider every angle.

  “Yes, it could. Donnie Swiegart knows where the dens are. Not that he’d kill Al Perez.” Swiegart was a local man who was as passionate about deer hunting as she was about foxhunting, the difference being that he ate what he brought down whereas she never brought anything down.

  Shaker opened the door to the mudroom. They heard him stamp his feet. He hung up his worn buffalo plaid coat, then opened the door into the kitchen.

  “Coffee?”

  “How about green tea?”

  “Green tea?” Ben’s eyebrows raised.

  “Lorraine got me hooked on drinking green tea at night.” He smiled. “You know, I really feel better. I feel clean from the inside out, sort of.”

  “Better try it, Chief,” Ty said, suppressing a smile.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sister directed this at Ben.

  “Nothing. I have a little insomnia, that’s all.”

  “Green tea will help.” Shaker flicked the round black knob on the big gas stove.

  “So will milk. Ben, you have too much on you and this county just doesn’t give you and your department enough money. No wonder you can’t sleep. You can only do but so much. If you don’t take care of yourself we’re all up a creek without a paddle.” Sister was sympathetic.

  “Right.” Ty smiled shyly at the master, then glanced at his mentor and superior.

  The fire cracked in the huge walk-in fireplace, topped by a wooden mantel, the ax lines cut in 1788 still visible. The kitchen was the oldest part of the house. The rest had been built when the federal style was prevalent.

  Gray leaned forward. “Two Zorros.”

  “Yes, it seems that way,” Ben replied. “Charlotte and Carter passed a Zorro on the way to their car that night, then passed Zorro again going in the opposite direction. They assumed Al had forgotten something in his office.”

  “It’s baffling. Al was in full costume when he was found, and now this.” Sister rose as the teapot boiled.

  “Boss, I’ll get that.” Shaker got up, too.

  “I want one myself.”

  “Go sit down. I’ll do it.”

  She returned to her seat.

  “Bill Wheatley said there had only been one, the one Al checked out when I questioned him the day after the murder. He’d gone straight to the costume storage area to make certain the costume Al wore really was from Custis Hall. It was.” Ben tapped his forefinger on the table.

  “Two Zorros,” Sister echoed Gray. “It occurs to me that while people thought they were seeing Al, they were seeing the second Zorro.”

  “Possible.” Ben turned toward Ty. “Check out costume rentals in Virginia tomorrow. Might get lucky.”

  “I wonder if Al knew there was a second Zorro?” Gray found this all disquieting.

  “You’d think he wouldn’t willingly go off with another Zorro, now wouldn’t you?” Shaker was baffled.

  “You’d think.” Ben dropped his eyes. “Like I told you last week, Sister, Al did not die by a clean snap of the neck. He strangled up there. Whoever killed him didn’t or couldn’t do it fast. And there wasn’t a mark on him. No sign of a struggle.”

  Sister’s eyes widened. “An ugly way to die.”

  Gray considered the situation. “Well, honey, if Al had been cleanly killed before he was hanged, that would be one thing. Actually, it would make this easier to understand. You’d think he’d fight like hell even with hands bound not to climb that ladder. Did he willingly put his neck in the noose or was he tricked into it?”

  “He couldn’t be that dumb,” Shaker exploded.

  “Dumb? Or trusting?” Sister evenly replied.

  C H A P T E R 1 6

  “Careful.” Professor Kennedy’s voice sharpened.

  “Sorry.” Pamela, wearing thin plastic surgical gloves as did the others, placed an iron snaffle bit on white cloth.

  As she arranged it, Felicity, using a digital camera, snapped photos.

  Pamela started to pick it up.

  “Pamela, where is your mind today?” The good professor was becoming irritated. “Tootie has to measure it.”

  “I forgot. I think my blood sugar is low.” Pamela did not sound convinced by her own excuse. Then she laughed. “My father’s sister says, ‘Got the suga’, suga’ runs in the family.’ ”

  “Does. It’s more prevalent among us than whites.” Professor Kennedy leaned over with her magnifying glass. Finding nothing too interesting in the bit, which had been made in a mold, then sanded for smoothness, she indicated that it should be replaced.

  Tootie thought the smoothness of the metal impressive. She tapped the small measuring tap
e, bright yellow, against her thigh.

  Professor Kennedy brought out a pair of epaulettes. “H-m-m, color much better than I would have anticipated. Military uniforms were big business throughout Europe, Russia, the whole New World. When uniforms began to simplify, thousands of people were out of work. It’s the little things like that that make history real.”

  Pamela gingerly took the epaulettes, the hanging gold tendrils of metallic thread springing slightly. Professor Kennedy took them back from her and peered intently through her magnifying glass. She said nothing but placed them herself on the white cloth.

  “Shoot?” Felicity asked.

  “Yes. And then shoot upside down, carefully. I need both sides.”

  Valentina, books under her arm, walked by as the bell rang. “Hey, I got out two minutes early. Hello, Professor Kennedy. I’m here to help.”

  “Good. You can—” She didn’t finish, as Knute Nilsson walked up from the wide hall leading to the administrative offices.

  “Professor Kennedy, I’m surprised your eyes aren’t red from mold and dust,” he joked.

  “Visine,” she briskly replied, then added, “The cases and the objects are cleaner than I expected.”

  “Good. Good.” He smiled broadly. “Mrs. Norton can’t stand one gum wrapper on the floor. She runs a tight ship. Have you found anything that surprises you?”

  Canny, she lied, “No. Not yet anyway. As you know, there’s a wide range of articles here and authenticating some of them will take time. The dresses made in Paris, still lovely, aren’t they?” He nodded yes and she continued, “Those of course are much easier because the French dressmakers to the aristocrats kept excellent records, measurements, types of materials. Many even made drawings, colored, too, to remind them of what their patronesses had ordered. Then, as now, no two ladies wish to appear at the same ball wearing the same gown.”

  “Easier for us men, isn’t it?”

  “Today, yes. But can you imagine the layers for your full-dress military uniform? Gentlemen had batmen, dressers, because no man could do it himself.”

  “How could they dance in boots?”