The Hunt Ball Read online

  “What?”

  “Shrouds have no pockets. I don’t know why that popped into my mind, except that a lot of money flowed through his hands.”

  C H A P T E R 8

  Hounds ate at six-thirty this Sunday to the sound of the power washer cleaning the kennels. The jets of water hit the walls and floors with such force, every speck of debris and dirt was dislodged, swirling into a huge central drain, a big trap underneath it. Shaker cut off the washer.

  Sister, who had slept fitfully, walked into the feeding room. Raleigh and Rooster remained in the kennel office. They got along with the hounds but it wasn’t wise to allow them into the feeding room. They hated being separated from Sister, grumbling whenever they were left.

  Shaker walked back into the feeding room just as Sister did. He took one look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Al Perez was hanged last night at Hangman’s Ridge.” She gave him the details as she knew them.

  “Jesus, there are sickos out there. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You rarely get time to yourself. I figured after the firehouse party you spent the night out.”

  “Yep.” He paused. “Gruesome end, gruesome. I liked Al. He was a nice guy.”

  “It wasn’t clear whether he was hung to death or dead before he was hung. I studied the body as best I could under the circumstances. I didn’t smell blood or powder burns. And my nose is pretty good.” She then apologized to her hounds. “For a human my nose is good, but no one is as good as you all.”

  Trident, a lovely young hound, smiled at Sister before diving back into the feed trough.

  “Why’d you go up there, or did Ben come for you?”

  “Forgot to tell you that. I heard the screams. Woke me up. I didn’t think too much of it since I knew the boys had planned their Halloween surprise. Then I heard the sirens.”

  “You would have heard someone drive through here.”

  She replied, “No one did.” She switched gears. “How are the puppies?”

  “Nursing. Delia’s a good mother. Even if you’d been sound asleep next to her, she would have warned you if someone drove through the farm. You would have known. It’s a crazy thing, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Sooner or later, they’ll catch ’em.”

  “One hopes.” She reached for a gallon of corn oil.

  Shaker opened the door for the fed group of young hounds to return to their runs. He then washed out the troughs, refilling them with kibble. Sister poured a line of corn oil over the feed as Shaker opened another run door for older hounds to enter. They rushed up to Sister in greeting, then dove for the chow.

  “It’s supposed to rain Tuesday, temperature’s supposed to drop, too.” Shaker checked with the Weather Channel constantly.

  “Yeah, I saw that, too. But I’m betting the rain will come in after we wrap it up at Mud Fence.” She named that day’s fixture, an old estate whose fences in the mid-eighteenth century were made of mud. The first settlers lacked the money for nails. They could fell trees and plane boards but nails were very expensive. Eventually they built snake fences once the work of clearing began in earnest. One didn’t need nails for that. Some folks had to make do with a mud fence until they could clear more land, get more timber.

  “Want to bet?”

  “Five dollars.”

  “Bet.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “Boss, ever consider murder?”

  “You mean me killing someone or someone killing me?”

  He laughed. “Ever consider what drives someone to it?”

  “Sure.”

  “I expect any of us can kill. Just need the right or wrong circumstances.”

  “We might be mad enough to kill yet we don’t. We don’t step over the line.” She listened to the hounds chewing their kibble, a comforting sound. “If one of these hounds kills another hound, why does it happen?”

  “Sometimes they know a hound is weak, sickening. They take him out. Maybe that’s canine mercy killing. Doesn’t happen often.” He thought a bit more. “If there’s a fight, it’s a challenge, a top-dog thing.”

  “Same with horses. They rarely kill but they can sure kick the powder out of one another if they take a notion.”

  “You’re saying we murder, they don’t.” Shaker kept an eye on Dragon, growling. “That’s enough, Dragon, shut up.”

  “Apart from war or self-defense, if we kill it’s revenge, that’s straightforward. Sex killing or serial killing is men against women. Sickness and anger, I reckon. Then there’s money. Always that.”

  “And a challenge to authority. The top-dog deal.” Shaker’s auburn curls caught the light.

  “Right. For the life of me I can’t figure out how Al Perez, a mild fellow, fits any category. Can’t see him as a sex criminal taken out by an enraged victim or father of same.” She noted Shaker’s expression. “Well, Custis Hall bursts with girls becoming women. That’s a potent cocktail for a certain kind of man. Money? He raised millions for the school. But he didn’t work on a percentage basis. Yes, he received a big Christmas bonus. Being on the board, I’m privy to the financial life of the school, but I can’t divulge details. He could have gotten resentful and figured he should get more given all that he raised for the school. It’s possible.”

  “Yep.”

  “As to the challenge idea. I can’t even imagine him challenging a dog.”

  “People can fool you.” He whistled low to Asa, an older hound, who had finished his breakfast.

  Asa walked over, put his head under Shaker’s hand. “Isn’t it a good morning?”

  Sister smiled when Asa crooned. “You’re a gentleman, Asa.”

  “Now, Boss, your curiosity getting up, is it?”

  “Isn’t yours?”

  “Some.”

  “In a community as tight as ours, any death touches the rest of us eventually. I’m afraid of what we don’t know.”

  C H A P T E R 9

  “When the Good Lord jerks your chain, you’re going.” Sam Lorillard brushed Easy Able, one of Crawford Howard’s steeplechase horses, a big rangy fellow who was winning the brush races.

  Rory Ackerman scrubbed down the wash stall with disinfectant. Sam, in charge of the ’chaser stable, was fanatical about cleanliness, although this sense of organization was not reflected in his own house. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it,” the wiry African American said. “You die when you are supposed to die. Now, we can all be horrified at Perez’s murder, but if he didn’t die that way, he would have gone to glory another way. It was his time and no one can change that.”

  “Then how do you explain that I was just about dead when you hauled me down to Fellowship Hall? You saved my life.” Rory, an alcoholic like Sam, both recovering, thought fate no substitute for free will.

  “You’d have stunk up heaven with Thunderbird. God prefers better fragrances.” Sam laughed, for Rory used to reek of cheap liquor.

  The square-built dark-haired man cut off the hose while he scrubbed the wash stall walls with a long-handled brush. “Whatever the reasons, I’m glad I’m still here and I’m glad Crawford hired me.”

  “He’s a funny guy.” Sam ran both hands down Easy’s forelegs. “Doesn’t know squat about horses. Likes to make a big noise, you know, be the man, but he’s all right. He’s fair. How many of our fine-born Virginians would have given you or me a chance? He did.”

  “That’s the point. He didn’t grow up with us.” Rory laughed as he turned the water back on, squirting down the yellowish foam on the walls.

  “Well—” Sam didn’t finish as Crawford strode into the barn.

  Inhaling the scent of cedar shavings, ground to a fine grade, Crawford rubbed his hands, for this Monday morning was overcast, quite cool. “Hell of a note.”

  “Perez?”

  He nodded his head, yes. “Charlotte’s called an emergency board meeting tonight. Ought to be interesting.”

  Rory, quiet, continued washing.
Not a horseman, but he was strong, liked physical labor, happy to do whatever Sam told him. He watched Sam because he wanted to learn, not to ride, but to learn on the ground how to properly care for a horse.

  “Who do you think did it, Mr. Howard?” Sam politely asked.

  “Damned if I know. I can’t see that Alfonso Perez was worth hanging. Milktoast. A man’s got to have balls. This ‘the meek shall inherit the kingdom of heaven’ is exactly right because they won’t inherit a damned thing on earth.”

  “Right.” Sam stayed on the good side of Crawford by keeping most of his personal opinions to himself. He’d tell the boss what he thought about horses, tracks, running conditions, other trainers and horses but he kept his mouth shut otherwise, if possible.

  “Unless this emergency meeting goes into the wee smalls,” he meant late into the night, “I’m going to hunt tomorrow. Might not be a bad day to bring out a young horse.”

  “What time, sir?”

  “We ought to pull out of here by six-thirty. Gives us time just in case.”

  Since the country roads, two lanes, bore all traffic, one could crawl behind a timber truck hauling logs to the sawmill or a school bus that stopped every fifty feet. You stopped with it when the lights flashed. The other early-morning hazard was the paper delivery lady, who flew along the roads like an amphetamine-crazed maniac.

  “Mrs. Howard hunting tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll be ready to roll,” Sam said. “Six-thirty.” Crawford reaffirmed the time and then left.

  Fairy Partlow worked Crawford’s hunters while Sam managed the whole equine operation at Beasley Hall. In a way, Fairy had been demoted since she worked for Crawford before Sam’s arrival. If she minded, she didn’t show it. Sam thought Fairy was happy not to have too much responsibility. All she wanted to do was make and ride the hunters. So far things were smooth as glass.

  “Can’t picture Al Perez,” Rory said as he finished the scrubdown.

  “You’ve seen him plenty of times.” Sam rubbed a little Absorbine on Easy’s back, gently massaging the long muscles by the spine. Easy groaned in pleasure.

  “Those guys make the best crooks.”

  “What guys?”

  “The ones you don’t remember.”

  That evening, the board of directors convened in the large conference room on the second floor of Old Main. A huge painting of the first headmistress, the founder herself, hung behind the headmistress’s chair. Paintings of subsequent headmistresses surrounded those seated at the oblong walnut table.

  The faculty representatives—Amy Childers, William Wheatley, and Alpha Rawnsley, notebooks in front of them—sat on one side of the table, along with Christopher Stoltenfuss.

  The administration was represented by Knute Nilsson and Jake Walford, in charge of maintenance, along with Charlotte, of course.

  Apart from Christopher, the other community members were Sister Jane, Crawford Howard, Darla Coleridge, a stockbroker in her early forties and an alumna, and Samson “Sonny” Shaeffer, president of Farmers Trust Bank, married to an alumna, Liz, now in her early sixties.

  With dignity, Charlotte opened the meeting. She assured the board that counselors were available for the students and that an assembly had taken place that morning to comfort them.

  “—get to the bottom of this. I know you want this as devoutly as I do and I ask your help in solving this terrible crime, in restoring balance at Custis Hall.”

  Behind her, Teresa Bourbon took notes in shorthand, rarely raising her head.

  Sonny spoke first. “Charlotte, board members, this is a profound shock to us all and I can’t look at the empty seat without thinking of Al, who efficiently and with no fanfare accomplished all that was asked of him. It doesn’t seem real, yet when I look at his seat, I know it is.” He looked at Knute, the treasurer, then back to Charlotte. “We can expect some students to be withdrawn, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re doing all we can to reassure the parents,” Charlotte forthrightly added, “but until whoever committed this heinous act is brought to justice . . . what can I say to you,” she looked at Alpha, Amy, then Bill, her faculty members, “to reassure parents and students. Also, at this point there is no motive,” she paused, “and that’s deeply disquieting.”

  Bill Wheatley, voice equal to the occasion, thanks to decades of training, said, “There are some things we can say that might help allay these justifiable fears. One is that this is not a crime against women. Obvious as that may seem, it may need to be expressly stated. This is a girls’ preparatory school. They are becoming young women, and sexual predators are a sad fact of life. But this is not such a crime. The other thing we can do—and I know, Charlotte, that you and Knute have already taken measures—is we must hire additional security. It will greatly help all, even ourselves, to see a protective presence until this dreadful thing is behind us. Our campus police are too few in number.” Diplomatically, he did not mention that the campus police were not up to the job.

  Knute spoke up, “We’ve hired Abattis Security and Jack has oriented them, given them maps, whatever they need. They are already on the job.”

  “Strong beginning,” Crawford said as he folded his hands. “Charlotte, I want to congratulate you on how you handled the television interviews. Being able to present yourself is an advantage. It’s print reporters like Greg Baghout who ought to be horsewhipped. His article in the paper was inflammatory, irresponsible. He insinuated that Al’s murder is connected to the issue of slavery in Custis Hall’s heritage. He’s a menace.”

  “Menace he may be, but until more facts are brought to light, menace he will continue to be.” Alpha Rawnsley, wise, watchful, and now worried, carefully chose her words.

  A silence followed. Charlotte asked almost plaintively, “Does anyone here have any idea how this could happen? What is going on?”

  “I can tell you what is going on,” Knute, face now red, said. “Someone hated Al.”

  “Or hates Custis Hall,” Amy Childers replied. “Wants to make us look racist.” When everyone stared at her, she added, “He was Latino, you know. We’re in the middle of this, um, slave labor stuff.”

  Charlotte looked at the attractive science teacher and thought how nine years ago, when she became headmistress, Amy had been a fresh, enthusiastic woman eager for life. She was turning into an embittered woman, entering the lists of early middle age.

  “For God’s sake!” Knute threw up his hands. “That’s far-fetched.”

  “We do represent the old WASP ways,” Bill intoned.

  “We have the best diversity program on the East Coast”—the color rose to Charlotte’s cheeks—“second to none.”

  “But not in terms of faculty hiring,” Amy bluntly stated.

  Sister, her voice deep, soothing, finally spoke. “Stereotypes die hard: the money-grubbing Jew, the lazy black, the Mafia-connected Italian, the sex-crazed homosexual. Even though this institution has reached out to the community, done a wonderful job of attracting the best students of all races, the general perception is still that Custis Hall serves rich, spoiled white girls who will go on to Mt. Holyoke. Sorry, Alpha,” she nodded to Alpha, a Mt. Holyoke graduate from the early 1970s, “Smith, Radcliffe, Wellesley, and marry a rich white boy from Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Dartmouth. Now, untrue as that stereotype may be, I doubt it is cause for murder. And I doubt the lack of Hispanics or a better proportion of African Americans on the faculty or administration is cause for murder.”

  “Well, what then?” Amy was upset, shaken, and frustrated.

  “One kills out of passion, greed, or self-protection. Normal people kill. Abnormal people hear voices or whatever and they kill for quite different reasons, it seems to me. Hanging Al Perez from Hangman’s Tree, if you think about it, was brilliant.” Sister held up her hand to forestall comments. “It’s hard to give credit to such a repulsive act when everyone is grieving, but here we are focusing on the repercussions of that act. A great deal of energy
and money will be spent to calm students, parents, and the faculty. The killer has us all focused, worried. I have learned from my quarry, the fox, that things are not always what they seem. Al’s killer has distracted us from his scent.”

  “What exactly do you mean?” Bill leaned forward, eyebrows quizzically raised, since he hunted when he could.

  “I mean our fox has fouled his scent. The public nature of the act stunned all of us. He’s scooted away for now.”

  “But he’s close?” Charlotte understood the language.

  “Charlotte, board members, forgive me for using foxhunting terminology,” Sister gravely said. “He is close, he is part of this community, and he obviously has powerful reasons to kill. He’s a fox in the henhouse.”

  Crawford bit his lips.

  Knute blurted out, “Good God. But I still can’t see why anyone would take out Al. We all worked with Al. He was so good-natured, so good with the alumnae. You had to like him. Everyone liked him.”

  Bill twiddled his pencil. “Maybe he was running drugs that came in through Mexico. Amy made a point about his background. Well, he’d be able to talk to people in a way we couldn’t. It’s not impossible, you know, that he may have been involved in something criminal.”

  “Oh, Bill, really.” Alpha’s eyelids fluttered.

  “We have to think of everything no matter how absurd,” Bill defended himself.

  “He’s right, Alpha. Much as we all liked Al, we can’t neglect the possibility that there may have been unsavory aspects to Al’s life.” Knute slumped a bit in his seat, weary from the weight of the hours. “But I can’t think of a one.”

  “Sister, you divided killers into normal and abnormal categories. Hanging a man from a tree at the place of former public executions the night of a Halloween party in front of children, that doesn’t seem normal to me,” Amy remarked.

  Christopher answered his sister, “Maybe that’s just what the killer wants us to think, that he’s some nutcase.”

  “Sick as it is, I don’t think our killer is a nutcase. What we do know,” Sister’s voice was hypnotic, “is that he or she is strong, strong enough to string up a grown man. Bold. The killer was on that ridge not fifteen minutes before the girls and boys arrived. He knew the territory, never forget that. He knows us, and he understands symbolism.”