Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Rita Mae Brown

  Tootie then told her about the call at Broad Creek Stables, how lovely the foal was and then the discussion with Phil.

  “Never thought of that, I mean lawsuits over bloodlines. Once the Jockey Club started having Thoroughbreds tattooed in 1947 I should think that would have cut down on unethical representatives of Thoroughbreds.”

  “Some letters and numbers can be altered,” said Tootie. “A T can be made to look like an F.”

  “Well, yes. I would think Phil has few worries. His stallions and mares have produced good foals, good runners, for close to a century. The Chetwynds are both lucky and smart. Takes both in the horse business.”

  Though tired, Tootie polished with energy. A slick shine gleamed on the old black boots.

  “Did you know that Hail to Reason’s dam?” Tootie named one of the great horses of the twentieth century. “Nothirdchance raced ninety-three times in six years and went on to breed?”

  The mother of Hail to Reason clearly evidenced stamina and soundness.

  “Well, I didn’t know that name but I did know that Turn-To bred a lot of tough mares to compensate for his unsoundness. From his line we got Hail to Reason in 1958, Sir Gaylord, so many great horses.”

  “How do you remember all that?”

  “Honey, it’s easy to remember what you lived through, and I was a horse-crazy kid. Still am. If you want an interesting project, given that you were over at Broad Creek Stables, check the pedigree on Navigator, the horse that put Broad Creek on the map long before even I was born.” She laughed. “Hey, that’s a good shine.”

  “So Turn-To bred tough mares and produced tough mares who then produced tough foals, regardless of sex?” Tootie asked.

  “When it all went right, yes, and luckily it went more right than wrong. You know breeding higher vertebrates isn’t exactly like breeding Mendel’s pea. Seems to me there’s a lot more variety.”

  “I guess. Oh, Dr. Hinson sent all the research stuff to Phil Chetwynd. I mean since he asked her about DNA and stuff. Does that ever happen to you?”

  “What? I don’t know but so much about genomes and DNA.”

  “Sorry. I meant sometimes do you get obsessed about something and you can’t let it go? You have to find everything about it?”

  “I do. I only wish that when I was young I had done more research about some of the men I was attracted to. Would have saved a world of trouble.”

  They both laughed.

  Then Sister said, “Actually, Tootie, physical attraction isn’t logical so I don’t know if the research would have prevented my mistakes, and wisdom comes if you learn from your mistakes. You’ll notice some people make the same mistake over and over.”

  “Kind of like they’ve got one foot nailed to the floor and spin in circles.”

  “One way to put it.”

  “Sister, is Mercer gay?”

  Sister looked up from her boot. “No, why?”

  “Well, he’s never married. He’s kind of emotional.”

  “I’m not sure emotional stuff has anything to do with it. No, Mercer never married because his mother never released her claws. Daniella would have destroyed any woman he did marry. No one was ever good enough.”

  Sister picked up the boots, putting them in the mudroom. The two house dogs and Golly slept on the floor, the kitchen being warm.

  “You know, I think that’s the best shine my boots have ever had. Thank you.” She looked down at the threesome. Raleigh the Doberman let out a long sigh.

  “You’d think they’d hunted today.” Sister laughed.

  “What a day.” Tootie smiled.

  It was and it wasn’t over yet.

  The Chetwynds, Phil and Cheri, hosted a small dinner party for seven people: Kasmir, Alida Dalzell, Freddie Thomas, High and Mandy Vijay, and Sybil Fawkes. Mercer’s account of his disgrace added to the high spirits. This followed his story about his presumably murdered grandfather; he was certain it was his grandfather, given the history: Harlan’s horse transport by train in the old days, the slate memorial, Mercer’s mother’s many axioms for a happy life, which could be reduced to “Have a bad memory.”

  Mercer was at his best. As another round of after-dinner drinks enlivened the proceedings in the high-ceilinged living room, Mercer piped up again. “Phil, can I go through Broad Creek’s account book and files from the twenties? Just in case I find something?”

  Phil thought for a moment. “What you’ll find is mildew, but sure. Just put everything back where you found it.”

  Next to Mercer on the sofa, Alida said, “What a fascinating story, your trip to Kentucky, the freezing fog and sleet storm and then finding a body.”

  Phil smiled. “It was an unforgettable hunt, pretty much as today’s was.”

  Sybil leaned toward Mercer. “You got off lightly.”

  “Sister was in a good mood.” He sighed happily.

  Thinking out loud, Alida said, “Maybe there’s some kind of symbolism about your grandfather and his dog being buried with Benny Glitters.”

  Phil was curious. “Symbolism?”

  “He rode to heaven on a horse,” Alida responded.

  “Or the other place.” Mercer shrugged.

  “No, Mercer, that will be you.” Phil lifted his glass to Mercer. They all laughed, lifting their glasses, too.

  CHAPTER 16

  A stiff breeze swept across the front of the main Broad Creek Stables barn. Patches of snow dotted pastures facing north. Otherwise, the mud-brown landscape offered no promise of spring, not even an early crocus.

  Phil stood next to Sister and Tootie while Phil’s manager, Ignatius, trotted a yearling.

  “Let-down hocks aren’t going to be a problem foxhunting and they might not even be a problem racing.” Phil pushed his gloved hands into the pockets of his down jacket, as he focused on the hind legs. “But racing, as you know, can be hard. I’d rather not see him end up there.” He broke into a smile. “He’ll have a wonderful life as a hunter.”

  Sister replied, “Conformation is always worth studying. We’ve all seen horses with less than perfect conformation who were fabulous winners. Seattle Slew for starters. Ignatius”—she smiled at him—“hold him up a minute.”

  Sister walked over to the colt with Tootie. Phil stayed put. The older woman touched the youngster on the neck, ran her fingers down his neck, then over the muscles on both sides of his spine. He didn’t flinch, nor did he move away from her. She continued over his hindquarters, felt his stifle, then stepped back. She returned to his front, knelt down and ran her hands, gloves off, down each leg, then picked up a hoof. The colt stood calmly. She moved to the rear, picked up the hind hooves.

  Coming back to his head, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a delicious peppermint, which he happily ate off her palm. She liked that he had been handled, had ground manners. Quality was already there: bone, a wonderful sloping shoulder, a good frame. He would muscle up naturally if he came to Roughneck Farm, and with no steroids.

  She never asked Phil if he used steroids or doses of growth hormone. They were illegal but not that hard to get. Walking up and down hills, running around the huge pastures, gave youngsters a solid foundation. At three, a horse would begin to learn his trade. Sister rarely hunted a horse until the animal was four. She preferred five. Like people, some mature more quickly than others, but she believed in bringing a horse along slowly, no drugs. Usually the horse told her when he was ready, and she listened.

  This handsome one looked at her with a large soft eye, nickered, and was rewarded with another peppermint.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Midshipman.”

  “Your Navigator line then?”

  Phil nodded. “Yes, so you know he has stamina.”

  “I do.” She patted him on the neck, offered one more peppermint.

  Ignatius returned Midshipman to his field.

  The horses at pasture had large three-sided run-in sheds, backs to the wind. They were warm enough. Phil always had th
em deep in straw. Once in work, they would get their own stall, plus plenty of turn-out in the pastures.

  After Midshipman thundered across his large paddock to join his friends, Phil waited as Ignatius brought out another three-year-old. Sister carefully watched the colt move. He was fluid.

  “Okay,” Phil called. “Trot him right toward the Master.”

  Ignatius did, then turned and trotted the horse about 16.1 hands away from her.

  “Tracks well,” Tootie said low.

  By this she meant his legs didn’t flay out to the side, nor did he have an odd way of moving. As Sister would say, “Has a hitch in his giddy-up.”

  Then Ignatius slowly trotted the horse in a circle in each direction.

  After this, Sister checked out the colt just as she had with Midshipman.

  “So, Phil, you gelded him.”

  “I did. He’s sort of a number-two guy, you know? I figured he’d be better off gelded with other geldings. We broke him, worked him on the track, and truthfully, he’s slow.”

  She laughed. “Your slow isn’t my slow.”

  “Exactly.” He laughed, too. “Both of these boys have good minds, manners. No one is afraid, rolling their eyes, avoiding people. They’re curious. When I mentioned these fellows to you I was way wrong about their ages. Both are three years old.”

  “What do you want for them?” asked Sister.

  “Come on into my office, get out of this cold and we’ll talk.”

  Sister glanced at Tootie. They briskly followed Phil through the stable and into his wood-paneled office. How good it felt to be warm.

  “Sit down, ladies. Anything to drink?”

  “No. Don’t butter me up, Phil. Oh, what’s the three-year-old’s name?”

  “How do you know I wasn’t offering you coffee or tea? I know liquor won’t work.” He smiled genially as he peeled off his coat. “The three-year-old’s name is Matchplay. He’s got that Wimbledon blood if you go back a bit. He’s pretty easygoing.”

  “Okay. How much?”

  “Well, I’ve put time and money into the boys. They’re sweet guys. I’ll send them over. You live with them for a month. If you like, Sister, how about two thousand dollars apiece?”

  “Phil, that’s generous.”

  “Not so generous, Sister. With the economy the way it is, you can’t give away horses. I try to help out the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund, as I know you do, too. It’s depressing but I figured you’d hit it off with these two. They’re your kind of horses. Mostly I’m trying to get back what I put in. I’ll never recoup the stud fees but two thousand dollars covers food, trimming, and shots.”

  “I appreciate that. Let me think it over. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Before she could rise, she heard a heavy thud from the secretary’s office next door.

  “Dammit!” Mercer’s voice grumbled.

  A woman’s voice could be heard, Phil’s secretary. “Mercer, sit down. I’ll pick it up.”

  Phil rose. “Excuse me a minute.” Opening the door between the two offices, Phil stuck his head in the other one. “Are you mistreating Georgia?”

  Georgia’s voice carried. “Mistreating me. He’s a pain in the ass. Look what he’s done to my office.”

  “Oh, Georgia, I have books spread out,” said Mercer. “It’s not that bad. I’ll put everything away.”

  “Phil, why did you tell him he could go through records from the early years? I could strangle you.”

  Phil laughed. Mercer and Georgia could be heard laughing, too.

  Sister couldn’t stand it so she got up to position herself in the opened door. “Georgia, strangling is too good for him. Did you hear what he did on the hunt yesterday?”

  “I did and Sister, you were too kind to him. Should have thrashed him with your whip. Or tied him to a tree.”

  “We could still do that,” Phil offered.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Mercer sat down at the small second desk. “Well, Sister, I’ve been busy, so before you all sit in judgment of me”—he stared hard at Georgia—“I found the cost of Benny Glitters’s slate slab, the bill for the engraving, and the bill for shipping. And, best of all, the cost of Harlan Laprade’s travel to Lexington, Kentucky, with the memorial slab.”

  Phil folded his arms across his chest. “Anything else?”

  “I was looking for lodging.”

  “Mercer, obviously Harlan went to the house of ill repute,” said Phil. “I really doubt my grandfather would note that in the official records. He wouldn’t put in a rate for lodging, I just know it.”

  “Oh, hell, Phil, none of us know what our grandfathers would countenance. I just wanted to see what the slate cost. For giggles, I went to the old studbooks—on the computer, of course—and pulled up Benny Glitters’s pedigree. Blue chip. Too bad he washed out at the track.”

  “A lot do.”

  “Yeah, but Domino for a sire?”

  Phil listened. “Mercer, you’d better put everything back in its place. If you don’t, I have to hear about it from Georgia.”

  “You can hear about it now.” She threw a paper clip at Mercer.

  “Oh, Georgia, you just want my attention.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Phil closed the door. “I must have been out of my mind to let him root through the old account books and files.”

  “Phil, Mercer can talk a dog off a meatwagon.” Sister laughed.

  “Yes, and I had imbibed entirely too much wine.” He sighed. “I suppose I hoped he would wear himself out with this research stuff; 1921 was a long time ago and he isn’t going to find anything to help him solve what happened. And for all we know,” Phil whispered, “Harlan Laprade may have deserved it. He inflamed someone’s anger. I’m not going to say that to Mercer, and I sure won’t say it to Daniella. She orders him about. She orders me about.”

  Sister couldn’t help but laugh, which made Phil laugh, too. “There are people who leave an indelible impression.”

  Phil’s eyes brightened. “She used to swing a cricket paddle at us. Oh, yes, she’d come to the barns because we’d usually be here after school and she was ready for any manner of boyish wrongdoing. Neither of us liked school. We went to different ones, of course. I don’t know whose was worse, mine, which was private and cost Dad an arm and a leg or his, public.” He frowned. “Another trip down Memory Lane. I’ve heard so much about Mercer’s family, now I’m doing it. Hey, let me get Georgia to run off the pedigrees of Midshipman and Matchplay.”

  Phil opened the office door again and Sister and Tootie heard, “I haven’t done a thing. Stop checking up on me.”

  “This has nothing to do with you. Georgia, run off the pedigrees of Midshipman and Matchplay.”

  The sound of a chair being rolled could be heard, then Mercer appeared in the door frame.

  “Sister, aren’t those two good-looking horses?” he asked.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “I admire you for looking at young horses. Means you think you’ll live a long time.” He ducked back into the office before she could say something.

  Driving to the farm, Sister smiled as Tootie read the pedigrees. “I hope I’ll live a long time.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A lone red-tailed hawk watched from high up in a pin oak.

  Hounds worked diligently below, scuffling and snuffling. High winds postponed Tuesday’s hunt to this Saturday. They were glad to be out. No fool, the hawk knew hounds might stir a mouse, who’d zip out from under leaves. Presto, lunch.

  Dragon moved ahead of the pack. The wet leaves had packed down but an enticing delicate hoof stuck out from under a deep layer of decaying leaves. The large, powerful hound nosed over, inhaled deeply, yanked the deer leg out from under. The foreleg, still jointed, dangled from his jaws. Tail upright, he circled the pack, tempting them with his treasure.

  Sister fretted over anything that brought a hound’s head up when working. Deer carcasses, what was left of them, lay in all the fixtures, although some more than others. />
  This fixture, Mousehold Heath, had more than others because the Jardines, a young couple, both worked during the day. Poachers made good use of their absence. The terrible thing about poachers is sometimes they would wound a deer but not be able to track it and kill it, for fear of getting caught. The poor animal suffered for days, weeks even. In other cases poachers were trophy hunters, would take the antlered head, leaving the remains. Of all the misdeeds of irresponsible hunters, this enraged Sister the most. When so many are hungry, to waste food, to not share, to her it was an unforgivable sin.

  Well, Dragon’s prancing wasn’t unforgivable, but she hoped he’d pay for it soon and he did. Sybil swept up upon him.

  “Leave it,” the strong rider ordered.

  He slunk away and that did it. She popped her lash, catching him right on the rump.

  Ever the dramatist, Dragon howled. “I’m being murdered!”

  His sister, disgusted, walked right by him, nose down. Didn’t look up.

  Nor did any other hound. At one time or another, Dragon had offended every four-legged creature out there. He did, however, get back to business.

  Rain started. Even with your tie tight around your neck, water would slide down your back. The mercury, hanging at 43°F, intensified the effect.

  As it was a Saturday hunt, February 15, everyone endured it.

  “We’ve been out here a long time,” complained Twist, one of the second T litter, a year younger than the first.

  “Keep trying,” Cora encouraged her. “Sometimes in bad conditions, you’ll hit a line.”

  “In this stuff?” wondered Thimble, Twist’s littermate.

  “Oh, come on now, Thimble, you’ve hunted in the rain before,” Ardent, older, teased her.

  “I don’t remember it raining this hard,” the elegant tricolor replied.

  Within five minutes, the rain bumped up from a light steady patter to a barely-can-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face downpour.

  Sister would hunt through any weather but she knew few people felt as she did. She was ready to turn back to the trailers when Pickens, a young entry, spoke.