The Hunt Ball

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I do. You’re a good mother, Betty, you never pushed your kids. Yes, you made them do homework and all that, but you allowed them to be themselves.”

  “Christmas is hard, Janie.”

  “Betty, you are a good mother. Cody blew up her life. You didn’t. As for Jennifer, she’s a fabulous kid and having her and Sari back for Christmas vacation will be a joy. I love having kids in the house. I expect Sari and Lorraine will be here more than they’ll be at Alice’s. Well, they’ll spend some time with Alice.”

  “Wonder if Shaker will marry Lorraine?”

  “He will, but he has to approach this in his own way. He’s so cautious now.” Sister patted Keepsake on the neck as she led him first into the trailer.

  The tailgate was light since Thursday’s field was small.

  Soon, Sister and Betty followed the hound party wagon down the winding dirt road to the paved road on the way home.

  “What’s wrong?” Betty flatly asked.

  “Preoccupied.”

  “Jane Arnold.”

  Sister glanced at Betty, then back at the road since she was driving the rig. “Betty, Ben Sidel has asked me to keep quiet until Monday, as in not speak to anyone. And I will talk to you then, but I have to honor my promise. I am preoccupied. Something is very, very wrong at Custis Hall. Al Perez’s death will lead us to something, if I only knew what.”

  “You think other people will be killed?”

  “I do.”

  Betty grimaced. “Good God. What’s worth killing over?”

  “Motive, means, opportunity. We know the means. We know the window of opportunity for Al’s murder. We lack the motive.”

  “Money or sex.”

  “Betty, that sounds good, but as I get older I think there are a lot more motives.”

  “Like what?”

  “Prestige, not losing one’s status. Religious fanaticism or political fanaticism. Even economic fanaticism. People will kill when a new technology displaces them or if they think a current one is evil. I mean what about that American physician in 2004 going over to England and encouraging the antivivisectionists to kill the doctors engaging in experiments? People will kill for anything that makes sense to them. Doesn’t have to make sense to us.”

  “Vivisection is wrong. Just flat wrong.”

  “I totally agree, but I’m not going to a lab and blowing up people in white lab coats. You can make change out of the barrel of a gun—thank you, Chairman Mao, another fat hypocrite for you—but it doesn’t stick. Sooner or later, when the people have the ability, they sabotage or organize against the change. Or they try to turn back the clock. The only way change can work is with consensus, and that takes time, talking to people, listening to people, respecting the differences. It’s the longer route, the seemingly harder route, but, ultimately, the successful route, and Betty, there is no other way. We have all of history to prove that point.”

  “Well,” Betty thought a long time, “you’re right. But who is going to listen to two middle-aged country women?”

  “One middle-aged country woman. This girl is old.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You say the nicest things to me.”

  They laughed, then Betty returned to the murder. “I’m glad Christmas vacation is coming. I’m glad those girls will be out of here.”

  “Me, too. This thing isn’t finished.”

  C H A P T E R 2 9

  Her heels clicking on the highly polished floor, Charlotte walked through the Main Hall on her way to her office.

  Bill Wheatley and Knute Nilsson stood in front of the case containing Washington’s epaulettes.

  “Knute, you look mournful,” Charlotte said.

  “I was thinking about the lemonade stand I had when I was six. I made two dollars and I thought I was rich. Well, I was. I went home and that night I bragged to my father how much lemonade I sold. He seemed proud of me, but he warned me, ‘Now that you have assets, you have to protect them.’ I look at all this stuff and I see assets.” He waved his hand as if this was boring. “You’ve heard it all before. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  Bill, his usual ebullient self, put his arm around Knute’s shoulder. “You don’t have to figure it out before Christmas vacation. You don’t even have to figure it out when Professor Kennedy’s report comes in. You are perfectly within your rights to ask the board of directors for suggestions and help. Doesn’t do you any good to carry the weight of the world, or at least Custis Hall, on your shoulders. Besides, Knute, there’s Christmas to celebrate.”

  “An excuse to waste money.”

  “Knute, stuff cloves in oranges and give them as gifts. Won’t cost more than twenty dollars and they smell wonderful,” Charlotte suggested with a hint of merriment.

  “I know, I know, you two think I’m Scrooge.”

  “We think no such thing.” Bill let his arm slide off Knute’s back. “We know! Except for your sailing hobby you are tighter than the bark on a tree.”

  “All right. I’m leaving.” Knute half-smiled and headed toward the hall containing the offices.

  Bill turned to Charlotte. “He’ll worry himself into a heart attack. There is such a thing as being too conscientious.”

  “Perhaps, but that’s why we depend on you, Bill, to lighten the mood.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Do. I hear that you and some of the students in your department have come up with a fantastic theme for the hunt ball. Marty Howard told me the best thing she ever did was get you all involved.”

  “You just wait and see.” He winked. “Silver and white. Crawford and Marty appear to have a limitless budget. Even Knute and Yvonne are going to come, and you know how hard it is to get him in a tuxedo.”

  “That puzzles me. If a gentleman wears scarlet, that’s tails. So why aren’t hunt balls white tie?”

  “Technically, they should be, but I guess allowing men to wear tuxedos is a nod to the wallet. More men own a tuxedo than black tails. Of course, if they would wear white tie the effect would be smashing.” He glowed; he loved costumes and staging. “You’ll be in white or black?”

  “I surprised myself and my husband. I bought a white gown from Nordstrom. I am sick of wearing black.”

  “You’ll look beautiful no matter what.”

  “Bill, you flatter me and I am grateful. Okay, I have one more question since you study these things. Since Jane Arnold is master, why can’t she wear scarlet?”

  “Well, that’s a good one. If she wanted to upset the applecart, she could. She’s the master, right? Who could stop her? But convention and unwritten laws are stronger than the written ones. A hunt ball decrees that women wear white or black. That’s it and you know as well as I do that Sister is a slave to tradition. She doesn’t wear scarlet in the hunt field, and many American lady masters do.”

  “Actually, Bill, given our recent uproar here, I’d not use the word ‘slave.’ ” The corners of her mouth turned upward. She knew how much Bill devoured a tête-à-tête and this little comment would delight him.

  He lowered his head, whispering in her ear, “A servant to fashion.”

  She whispered back, “I look forward to all of us being servants to fashion.” She gazed into the display case. “Those epaulettes look brighter than I remember.”

  “When Professor Kennedy took everything out to examine and photocopy, she had the girls clean them. Pamela, wearing surgical gloves, began to repent of her protest when all that dust and mold shot up her nose.” He laughed.

  “Well, maybe we won’t have to clean for another few decades.” She paused. “Guess not, huh?”

  “Hey, for all I know, Knute will install a system where the air circulates and the objets d’art or d’histoire clean themselves. Actually, I shouldn’t poke fun at him; it really has become one hell of a burden.”

  “I guess it’s like his father said, protect your assets. Bill, back to my desk, though I’d much rather talk to you. I really do
look forward to seeing what you all do for the ball.”

  “You’ll never forget it.”

  C H A P T E R 3 0

  “Nine more days,” Marty fretted as she twirled her pencil around in her fingers.

  Sorrel, sitting across from her at the table in Marty’s opulent kitchen, checked her yellow notepad. “We’re sold out. At least we don’t have to get on the horn and push for RSVPs. People don’t RSVP like they used to do. I can’t decide if it’s because they don’t know any better or everyone’s on overload.”

  “A little of both, maybe.” Marty peered down at her own notebook, a lavender-paged stenographer’s notebook, pages covered with names, numbers, arrows pointing up, down, right, and left and some squiggling along the margins.

  “Bill says he and the girls will be at the Great Hall at seven A.M. I’ll be there, too.”

  “That’s a good idea. It’s probably also a good idea to just let him run the show. If he needs more bodies, we can supply them, but Bill can do this in his sleep.” Marty thought snagging Bill Wheatley was one of her biggest coups.

  “You’ve checked the silent auction list?”

  “Yes. We still need more high-ticket items. We’ve got caps from other hunts, always a nice idea. We’ve got framed prints, a weekend at Grand Cayman Island, another weekend with theater tickets in New York. Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses have donated a case of their wine. Jay Tomlinson donated one free shoeing. Nothing like a good blacksmith to keep your horse right.” Marty tapped the pencil on her frosted lipstick. “I know we need things that are affordable for most people but we need one or two very spectacular items like the weekend in New York.”

  “I’ve racked my brain.” Sorrel leaned back in the ladderback chair—not an easy thing to do, so she tipped on the back legs.

  “What about jewelry? A gorgeous antique pair of studs, you know, gold foxhead studs with ruby eyes for a gentleman and maybe a brooch with a foxhunting theme. What about those painted crystals from England? You know, the round things, oh, they can be earrings or pins or even cuff links.”

  “Marty, you can’t find antique ones. No one gives them up until death, and a new pair of cuff links might cost $2,500. We can’t even buy them wholesale to put them in the auction.” She read down the list again. “The Lionel Edwards prints ought to fetch at least $2,500, don’t you think?”

  “I hope so. Those,” she read her own notes, “were donated by Henry Xavier, God bless him.”

  “Riding lessons from Sam Lorillard.” Marty smiled. “I didn’t have to lean on him. He wanted to do it.”

  “What about a tax review by Gray?” Sorrel wondered.

  “Well, he’d do it, but that’s not exactly a festive item. He’s already donated a white vest; how many of those do you see?” Marty thought she might bid on it for her husband, then realized that Gray was more fit and slender than Crawford, who was fighting the battle of the bulge.

  “I guess we can’t ask Bill to take on a decorating job, you know, someone’s den?” Sorrel didn’t want to go to the well too often.

  “No, maybe Dolly Buswell would give a consultation. Now, that’s pretty appealing.” Marty cited a local interior decorator.

  “I’ll call her.”

  They sat there, then Marty said, “It’s a good list. You’ve done a great job.” Then she paused. “It’s that one spectacular item that eludes us.”

  “Free breeding to Salem Drive and Tom Newton also donated a breeding to Harbor Man.” Sorrel thought that was pretty good as both Thoroughbreds had useful bloodlines for foxhunters.

  “Sure, that appeals to horsepeople, but I’m thinking of a spectacular piece of jewelry, an antique car, or a carriage or buggy. Now, the sculpture Crawford donated is good. I’m thinking along those lines. Big-ticket items.”

  “Do we have any pals at Tiffany’s?” Sorrel lusted after a pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings priced at $16,500. Not that she could afford them.

  “Not good enough to donate the earrings,” Marty said with a sigh.

  Sorrel sighed, too. “We have nine days. Maybe I can find a pal at Tiffany’s. Well, we’ve got to keep pushing.”

  They double-checked the menu; the open bar would last for an hour, then switch to a paying bar. Finally they settled into an exchange of news and views over hot chocolate.

  “She’s so drawn. I hope she’s not sick.” Marty was referring to Charlotte Norton.

  “I expect she’s worried half to death. Until Ben Sidel nails Al’s murderer, she has to feel vulnerable. You know parents will have long talks with their kids over Christmas vacation, and I’m sure some won’t return to Custis Hall. I’m surprised more weren’t yanked out of here.”

  “Charlotte’s a brilliant headmaster. She’s contained the damage as much as she can, reassured students and parents as much as she can.”

  “Sorrel, isn’t it funny how people respond to things? Sister says little, keeps going, but since she saw that hanging and it was on Hangman’s Ridge, you know that brain is whirring at high speed. And she won’t rest until the killer is found either. Then there’s Bill Wheatley. Cried about Al’s death, then bounced right back, his old jolly self. As for Ben, it’s his business. Can’t expect him to be emotionally involved. Crawford says the board meetings are strained, everyone is worried, but at least no one is blaming anyone else or fighting out of frustration. But he said they are all affected by this.”

  “Someone stands to gain something. Hard to imagine, though.” Sorrel reflected on her own experiences. “I still wonder if this doesn’t lead to sex. You just never know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  The back door opened. Crawford stepped into the kitchen—all marble tops, recessed lighting, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and an Aga stove. The cost of the kitchen exceeded the cost of most homes. The heart pine flooring provided what visual warmth there was, that and the huge step-down fireplace, a nod to Sister’s fireplace, except this one was all gorgeous veined white marble that echoed the marble on the counters.

  “Hello, Sorrel, how are you?”

  “Fine, and yourself?”

  “Cold.”

  “Sit down, honey, I’ll make you a hot chocolate.” Marty rose as Crawford removed his coat.

  “Oh, hey.” He reached into the pocket as he hung it up. “Here. Put that in the auction since I see you’ve got out your lists.” He dropped a ring into Sorrel’s hands.

  “That’s pretty.”

  “Might get a hundred dollars.”

  Marty walked over to inspect it. “Good gold. The onyx is lovely. Where’d you buy that? I thought you were out with Sister today fixing jumps. X crashed into that timber jump,” she hastened to add. “Wasn’t his fault. By the time he reached it the footing was horrendous.”

  “We fixed that first and then you know Sister. She always kills two birds with one stone. She had buckets of feed on the back of the pickup. I mean she had the entire bed filled with fifty-pound bags. We used them. Anyway, this was outside a den at Tedi and Edward’s. Sister said it was Target’s den. She remembers every fox. Don’t know how she does it. They look red or gray to me.” He was in a good mood.

  “Isn’t that odd?” Marty poured the milk onto the cocoa.

  “She said some foxes are pack rats. They can’t resist shiny things, toys. I peeked into his den and there was a baseball in there. She said he’ll take any toy the dogs leave out and so will Uncle Yancy, another of her foxes. But she said Uncle Yancy prefers clothing more than toys. He’ll steal hats, T-shirts, barn rags.” He shook his head. “She loves these animals. I think she loves them almost as much as her hounds.”

  “Hey, why don’t we put, ‘donated by Target, red fox living at After All.’ ” Sorrel sat up straight, eyes bright.

  Crawford shrugged. “Might bring another hundred dollars.”

  C H A P T E R 3 1

  Mill Ruins, so named because of the massive stone gristmill, and the huge waterwheel still turning the gears inside, had been the estate of Pete
r Wheeler. Given Peter’s penchant for losing money, the word “estate” was used loosely. To the now-deceased Peter’s credit, he hung on, never selling one acre of land. He thought the mill would be a tourist attraction and he ground grain there. This provided enough cash to feed his horses, though not himself. Peter finally hired himself out as a lawyer, a profession he hated despite his training at the University of Virginia.

  Christmas Hunt had been held at the Wheeler place—Peter was the seventh-generation Wheeler to live at the mill—since 1887. The hunt was usually held on the Saturday before Christmas unless that Saturday happened to be Christmas Eve. This year Saturday was December 24, so Christmas Hunt was December 17. Many clubs did go out on Christmas Eve, but long ago prior masters at the Jefferson Hunt determined it was too busy a day for most people to braid horses and spend four hours, more or less, in the saddle.

  The “ruins” referred to the rest of the place as it began to fall into rack and ruin. Although he made a decent living at the prestigious law firm eager to have the Wheeler name attached to it, he spent only on his mill, his horses, his fencing, and his feed. At the end of his life, he lived mostly in the kitchen, with its fierce wood-burning stove, and a bed he put in the large pantry off the kitchen. He drove his 454 Chevy pickup proudly down to the office. His turnout, at work and in the hunt field, was always correct—he just didn’t care about the rest of it.

  He fought daily with his neighbor, Alice Ramy. He knew foxhunting and he loved true foxhunters, which meant he loved Jane Arnold best of all. Their affair lasted for close to twenty-five years. A big, booming, rugged man with refined manners, Peter kept his looks way into his seventies. He loved Sister because she was strong, smart, and thought like a fox. Each was the other’s grand passion as far as people were concerned. Their true grand passion was foxhunting.

  When Peter died peacefully sitting in his kitchen chair, he had willed Mill Ruins to Jefferson Hunt as well as the Chevy 454. Rooster, his young harrier, he personally willed to Sister.

  As she sat atop Aztec gazing over the large field on this nippy Saturday morning, she thought of how fortunate she’d been with the men in her life. They were real men, accustomed to physical exertion; no task was too dirty or too difficult. Sister never could warm to soft men. Then again, she scared the bejesus out of them, so it worked out just fine.