Whiskers in the Dark Page 2

  “Glad as I am that the founders of the National Beagle Club had the foresight to buy all this, it is a lot to maintain,” Clare posited.

  “Is, but there’s no place like it.” Harry stood up with Susan. “Cold though, isn’t it?”

  “Going to be a late spring.” Arlene knew she should rouse herself, but she was ready to fall asleep where she was.

  Harry and Susan left the building, hurrying to their cabin, smoke curling out of the chimney since Harry had built a solid fire before they joined the others. As the humans opened the door, the dogs awakened, hurried up, tails wagging.

  “Oh, I missed you.” Tucker, the corgi, licked Harry’s hand.

  “Me, too,” the growing giant, Pirate, agreed.

  One eye now open, fat, gray Pewter, grumbled, “Suck-ups.”

  Mrs. Murphy, sprawled on the comforter on the narrow bed with Pewter, flicked the tip of her tail. “We can at least purr.”

  Harry carefully placed two more logs on the fire, adjusting the grate cover. “That should see us through the night.”

  “You build good fires. I kind of think there’s going to be a lot to do.”

  “Yeah.” Harry agreed with Susan. “Wasn’t Clare in the Navy?”

  “She speaks fluent Russian. She was, according to her, mostly on a giant ship out in the Gulf of Finland, listening to the Russians, not far away.”

  “I wouldn’t have the patience for that. Would you?”

  “I suppose I could do it, but I wouldn’t like it. Well, I wouldn’t mind being on a ship for months at a time.” Susan took off her shoes and socks, stripped off her clothes, quickly jumped into bed. “I’d think of it as a long respite from housework.”

  The room was warm but the bed would be warmer.

  “I am not moving,” Pewter announced as Harry also stripped down, turned back a corner of the covers.

  “Pewter, I need to get into bed.”

  “I was here first.”

  “Come on, move over.” Harry pushed the large cat a bit away from where the covers were turned back.

  “Abused. I am being abused!”

  “Shut up,” Tucker, in front of the fire, called out.

  “Lickspittle!” Pewter replied.

  “Come on, you two. I need to sleep,” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

  “Here we are in this cabin, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happens here. I feel boredom already. I am a saint to come along. Really,” Pewter whined.

  “I would hardly call being in Loudoun County the middle of nowhere.” Mrs. Murphy felt a pair of feet slide under her.

  “Isn’t it the most populous county in Virginia?” Tucker questioned.

  “If it isn’t, it soon will be,” Mrs. Murphy replied. She listened to everything Fair, Harry’s husband, read aloud from the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

  “Night, Harry.”

  “Night, Susan. Night babies.”

  “Night,” came the chorus.

  2

  April 6, 2018

  Friday

  “Wish the buds would open. You can see the color, but so far, nothing,” Harry remarked to Susan.

  “We have a few warmish days and then bam, cold again.” Susan cleared a tree limb from a footpath far from the Institute building.

  The earth, hard underneath, wore out one’s legs after a time, made one’s feet hurt. The two had been at their labors all day. Their bodies were beginning to talk back to them.

  “Jeez, that’s a big one.” Harry exhaled.

  Susan stood and looked over the massive uprooted tree from which the limb had been torn. “I thought we suffered horrible windstorms. Had to be worse up here.”

  “Northern Virginia’s weather is different from ours. What are we, an hour and a half away, and yet it really is different. Well, girl, let’s start at the thinnest end and do this in small sections. That way, we can pull them to the side of the path as we go.”

  “Okay.”

  They worked six feet from each other, fired up their chain saws, wisely placing them under the tree limb, cutting up at an angle, stopping as they neared the top. Then each woman slipped the chain saw down and cut from the top, thereby lessening the chances of it slicing through the limb faster than they anticipated and cutting a thigh. Happened all the time to people not accustomed to operating chain saws. As these were two country girls, they handled equipment—chain saws, posthole diggers, tractors—with ease.

  These old friends had been in the cradle together, and primary and high school, then Harry went to Smith and Susan went to William and Mary. For vacations they’d team up together, sometimes traveling to other countries. They adored each other’s husbands, shared friends and some passions, especially gardening. Susan was the better gardener, Harry the better farmer.

  Cutting off their chain saws, they each moved a hunk of tree limb to the side.

  “What do you think?” Susan asked.

  “Well, beagles and bassets can pass. People, too, if they look where they’re going.” Harry studied the opening they were cutting through the trees. “You know, the competitions are only two weeks away. There will be dozens more people here than on a regular trials weekend. Basset trials on Friday, beagle trials on Saturday, cocktail parties both nights, and a dance party and pig roast. It’ll be quite a party, but no one anticipated so much damage could happen in the month since the Triple Challenge. The trails will be ready, but it will take many hands. It’s so important.” Harry hastened to add, “We all want the event to go well.”

  The Triple Challenge, sponsored by the National Beagle Club, a three-day event, tested both hounds and humans. Three phases included the hunting talent of the individual hound, the ability to contribute to the working pack, and the qualities of conformation, movement, condition, and temperament.

  Hounds F4R Heroes, a competition later in April, not only showed off the beagle’s versatility but also the basset’s. The competitions hunted on different days since one didn’t hunt bassets and beagles together. Last year Hounds F4R Heroes contributed twenty thousand dollars to veterans.

  Each year the event grew as more people learned about it. All the beagle and basset hunters wanted to contribute however they could.

  Beagle packs and basset packs had foot followers. People stayed in good shape as they walked the hounds in the off-season, ran after them during the season. Both types of hounds chased rabbits. Anyone who had ever called a rabbit a “dumb bunny” hadn’t chased one. Bunnies managed to elude the hounds, but sometimes the run might go on for an hour or even longer. What a thrill that was for the huntsman, the whippers-in, and the people running their butts off behind the hounds.

  Harry and Susan followed the Waldingfield Beagles, the oldest pack in America, having been founded in 1885. Harry and her husband also foxhunted, but Susan and her husband weren’t much for riding so Harry started running along with her friend and found that she loved it. She never could jog—bored her to tears—but following a flying pack enlivened her. Being in good shape anyway, she was now in even better shape.

  “How far are we from the cabin?” Harry wondered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes,” Susan guessed. She looked up at the sky. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

  “What was it Satchel Paige said, ‘Don’t look, something might be gaining on you’?”

  Susan laughed. “Don’t look back. Well, girl, I’m about done. Bet the other work parties are, too. Let’s head back.”

  “Sounds good.” Harry put her fingers between her lips, emitting a loud whistle.

  Tucker, Harry’s corgi, and Pirate, who Harry and Fair had taken in when his owner was killed, lifted their heads.

  “Time to go,” the obedient corgi announced.

  “Oh, this smells really good.” The already large dog waffled.

  Tucker am
bled over, put her nose to the ground, inhaled. “Yes, it does smell good, but you don’t want to meet this guy. A bear. Even bigger than you when you’re full-grown.”

  Pirate’s lovely brown eyes widened. “A bear. Like we see on TV sometimes?”

  “Yeah. Mom watches those nature shows. Black bears don’t want trouble but best to keep your distance. Actually, it’s even best to keep your distance from some deer. Not every animal likes dogs.” Tucker turned, trotting in the direction of the whistle. “Come on. If we show up late, she’ll fret.”

  Taking a brief breather, the two friends sat on an old fallen tree off the road.

  “I’m feeling my age.” Susan shook her head.

  “At forty-three?”

  “Forty-two!” Susan squinted at Harry.

  “Just wanted to see if your mind was going.” Harry giggled.

  “Better be careful. I know how to get even.” Susan punched Harry’s arm lightly.

  “Oh, but Susan, you’re such a good Christian.”

  “You’re pushing it.” Susan laughed as she noticed the two dogs, smiles on their faces, coming toward them.

  “I smelled a bear,” the puppy enthused.

  Tucker added, “And a mess of turkeys. I don’t know how many rabbits there are here, but you could sure hunt turkeys.”

  Harry dropped her hand on Pirate’s head as Susan petted Tucker. “Isn’t this the ridge near where the First Massachusetts Cavalry was slaughtered? Is that what I’m looking at over there?” She pointed in the direction of the bend in the old road west of the farmhouse. Neither the Union forces nor the Confederate expected to encounter one another that seventeenth of June 1863, but encounter they did, and the First Massachusetts was cut to ribbons.

  “That’s supposed to be it.” Susan loved history, having been a history major at college. “People don’t realize that sixty percent of that war was fought in Virginia. There was a reason we didn’t want to secede. We knew those soldiers would cross the Potomac long before they’d get into Georgia or other parts.” She sighed. “But this engagement was fought piecemeal. Brigadier General Judson Kilpatrick, in command of the Massachusetts Brigade, never sent scouts ahead. None of the Union commanders did. And let us never forget, we grew up riding. Those New England boys did not.”

  “How many men are in a brigade?”

  “Varies. A lot of times, the papers reported bigger numbers than there were to try to scare the enemy. Didn’t work. But maybe a thousand. Anyway. There was a curve—we’ll pass it once we hit the rise where the Confederates held their position. The Federals never had a chance.”

  Harry rubbed Pirate. “There’s no such thing as a good war.”

  Susan nodded. “No, but there are necessary wars. Got my wind back.” She stood up.

  “There’s our little red wagon, waiting for us up ahead. I’ll be glad to dump my chain saw. It gets heavy after a while.”

  Overhead the birds started to head home as the women placed their tools in the wagon. Harry took first turn pulling while the dogs tagged along.

  They reached the kennels, wooden structures for the different packs, well built, but a tree limb had smashed right through the roof of one kennel, knocking down the fence as well.

  “Guess they’ll get to that tomorrow,” Susan noted.

  Harry paused a moment. “The main stone building really is impressive. It was a hospital during the war. It seems as good as the day it was built. The white porch and railing set off the stone. Like I said, impressive.”

  “Stone lasts,” Susan replied.

  “Does.” Then Harry said, “Yet I feel this tug of sorrow when I look at it.”

  “What’s strange is that so many died when it was a hospital, and no one is sure where they are buried. But the limbs, the amputated limbs, are supposed to be over there.” Susan pointed to a long, low mound.

  “Odd.” Harry grimaced.

  They trudged to their cabin, eager to reach it.

  As they reached the cabin, sitting on the front porch were Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.

  “Killed a platoon of mice. We set a world record!” Pewter puffed up.

  As she was given to overstatement, the dogs looked to the far more reasonable tiger cat.

  “Barn is full of them.” Mrs. Murphy verified Pewter’s bragging.

  The mouse infestation was the reason the cats had been allowed to visit. Of course, none of the house pets could come to the fundraiser, but they were useful right now and happy to be along despite Pewter’s complaining.

  Once cleaned up, food put down for the animals, a fire renewed in the fireplace, for it was really getting cold, Harry and Susan walked over to the stone house for supper. The food was always wonderful. Everyone had worked up an appetite.

  About twenty people sat at the tables, all talking at once about respective work parties.

  Harry, next to Amy Burke Walker, a member of the board of directors and a whipper-in for the Waldingfield Beagles hunted by Dr. Arie Rijke, mentioned the mound.

  Amy agreed. “Right, no one knows where the bodies are but people say they’ve seen ghosts out and about. Some have been seen in this building.”

  Liz Kelly, a young archivist, leaned toward them from the opposite side of the table. “For over one hundred years people here have claimed to see Civil War ghosts.”

  Liz Reeser, the assistant treasurer, piped up. “I swear I saw one. A young man who walked right by me in the middle of the night. But I wasn’t afraid. I don’t know why.”

  Betsy Park, from Sandanona Hounds in New York, smiled. “Oh, people always say that about a war hospital.”

  Mary Reed, Master of Bassets for Ashland Bassets, agreed. “They do, don’t they? Still?” She raised her eyebrows.

  Jason Holzknect smiled. “When I was in Turkey, every part of any city or little town hosted ghosts. There were ghosts from the fifth century B.C., ghosts from Justinian’s time, ghosts from Atatürk’s takeover. More ghosts than the living. I never saw one.” He laughed.

  Arlene tweaked him. “Maybe you scared them off.”

  He laughed back. “Could be.”

  Jason rose high in his profession, got good postings, finally ending his career in Paris, owned a car dealership outside of D.C. in Maryland. He’d made a great deal of money. Of course, Clare helped.

  “Well, I wasn’t in Turkey like you, but I did see Istanbul,” Arlene said to Jason. “It is exciting. The Russians still lust after it. Always will.”

  “We have everything in this country,” Mary Reed added. “Deepwater ports on both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Great rivers. Good soil. When you travel, you realize Mother Nature made us rich.”

  “True,” Susan agreed, then turned to Arlene. “Did you ever see ghosts in your travels?”

  A long pause followed this.

  “I’m not sure. Once I thought I saw something but”—she shrugged—“who knows?”

  As the humans chatted away, the two cats and two dogs sat on the porch of the cabin, fur fluffed out to ward off the cold, although Pewter was ready to go inside and sit by the fire. Miss Pewter liked her creature comforts.

  “Who’s that?” Tucker noticed a beagle in front of the stone house.

  “I thought we were the only animals here.” Pewter sat up for a better look as the beagle moved toward them.

  The little dog stopped. The four friends could see its tricolor, its handsome head, but somehow the animal appeared insubstantial.

  Mrs. Murphy, whiskers forward, called out. “Who are you?”

  The dog stared at them, did not answer, and turned, heading for the tree line behind the kennels.

  Pirate, puzzled, remarked, “I can see through that dog.”

  All four, now on their feet, watched the disappearing beagle.

  Tucker, voice low, declared, “That’s a ghost.�
�

  3

  April 7, 2018

  Saturday

  Rich Shaw, sheriff of Albemarle County, thought golf would help him stop smoking. How he arrived at this conclusion remained a mystery. He was out on Farmington Country Club’s golf course puffing on his Shepheard’s Hotel like a chimney. That was the other problem. He smoked only expensive foreign cigarettes, Dunhill being his other favorite.

  Playing with him on a notoriously cool day were Cindy Chandler, Nelson Yarbrough, D.D.S., and Catherine Hanlon, M.D., a physician visiting from New Jersey. None of these people said a word about Rick, who did exhale downwind of everyone.

  The greens, tended even throughout winter, proved better than expected. The maintenance of any golf course costs a bundle. An old grand course like Farmington really cost. Like all golfing places, it had been added to over time: driving ranges, more parking, and another back course. Poor people did not play at Farmington, but then, in general, poor people did not play golf.

  Despite the cold, all four were glad to be outside. There’s something in the back of a golfer’s mind that if you get out at the first hint of spring, winter will be behind you.

  Nelson made par a lot, as did Cindy, whose putter was golden this Saturday. Catherine, a beginner, broke 90, to her excitement and that of the others. A natural athlete, she was determined to master this notoriously difficult game.

  Grateful for their sweaters and heavy socks, they finished their game in good humor. Dropping their two carts at the small parking area, the cart garage, they were soon seated at the nineteenth hole, shedding their sweaters, glad for indoor warmth.

  They replayed every hole until Nelson changed the subject, asking Rick, “You never found out about the body in St. Luke’s graveyard, did you? The one where I looked at the teeth.”

  “A body?” Catherine’s antennae picked up. “In a graveyard, of course.”