Claws and Effect, page 24
“And I don’t know anything.” Harry shrugged. “Wish I did.”
“What do the Cramers have to do with Harry?”
“Well, uh, we were going to hunt together tomorrow. They’re in the hospital business and—”
“Mrs. Sanburne, I promise you I’ll fill you in as soon as we’re—” He paused, searching for the right words. “Over the hump. Now could I ask you to intercept your daughter before she gets in here? Just give me two minutes with Harry.”
Mollified slightly, Mim stood up, walked over, flipping up the divider, and caught Marilyn just as her hand was on the doorknob. She ushered her back toward the car across the street.
“Rick. Let the Cramers hunt. It will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. We’ve got Graham, we’ve got Dennis. They’re military men. They’re horsemen. They know what they’re doing. They can protect the Cramers. Dennis is riding down with them in their rig and he’ll ride back. I really believe we can shake our gorilla out of the tree tomorrow.”
“It’s a hell of a chance.” Rick ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He knew Harry had a point but he hated to risk civilians, as he thought of them.
“Coop, I know we can do this. I wouldn’t use the Cramers as bait if I didn’t think it would flush him out,” Harry pleaded.
“Yeah, Harry, I know, but I just saw Tussie Logan.”
Rick and Coop stared at one another.
Rick puffed, then put down his cigarette. “Okay.”
* * *
44
The Hunt Club hounds met at Tally Urquhart’s farm at ten in the morning. Rose Hill, one of the oldest and most beautiful farms in Albemarle County, was a plum fixture, fixture being what meeting places are called.
The home itself, built of bricks baked on-site in the mid-eighteenth century, glowed with the patina of age. Tally herself glowed with the patina of age at ninety-two. She said ninety-two. Mim, her niece, swore that Tally was a hair older but at least everyone agreed she was triumphantly in her nineties.
Tally would stride into a room, still walking mostly upright, shake her silver-headed cane, a hound’s head, at the congregation and declare, “I am two years older than God so do what I say and get out of my way.”
And people did. Even Mim.
Years ago, back in the 1960s, Tally had been Master of the Jefferson Hunt. Her imperiousness wore thin but her ample contributions to the treasury ensured a long mastership. She finally retired on her eightieth birthday, amid much fanfare.
Everyone thought Mim would vie to be Master but she declined, saying she had enough to do, which was true. But truthfully, Mim wanted to keep her hunting pure fun and if she were Master it would be pure politics. She practiced that in other arenas.
Jane Arnold found herself elected Master and had remained at her post ever since.
A chill from the mountains settled into the meadows. Harry’s hands were so cold she stiffly fastened Poptart’s girth. She had introduced Laura and Joe Cramer to Jane per custom. There was no need to introduce Graham Pitsenberger, Joint-Master of Glenmore Hunt, nor Lt. Col. Dennis Foster, the Director of the Master of Foxhounds of America Association.
Master and staff didn’t know the true reason for their company. Jane graciously invited these guests to ride up front with her.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. If Joe and Laura were up front, nothing much could happen that she could foresee. If they fell behind, well, anything was possible.
Aunt Tally waved everyone off, then hurried back to the house before the chill could get her. Also, she was hosting the breakfast and it had to be perfect.
Dennis and Graham had conferred by phone before the hunt. Each man wore a .38 under his coat, low near the belt so the gun could be easily retrieved if needed.
Susan, Little Mim, and Harry rode behind Big Mim, who rode immediately behind the Cramers and the two men. It would never do to pass Big Mim in the hunt field, but since her Thoroughbreds were fast and she was a consummate rider, there was little chance that would happen.
The hounds hit right behind the cattle barns and within minutes everyone was flying up the hill behind the barns, down into the narrow ravine, across the creek, and then they boomed over open meadows which would soon be sown with oats.
Sam Mahanes rode in the middle of the pack, as did the bulk of the field. A few stragglers, struggling at the creek, brought up the rear.
Dr. Bruce Buxton rode back with the Hilltoppers since he was trying a new horse. Being a cautious rider, he wasn’t ready to ride a new horse in the first flight.
They flew along for fifteen minutes, then stopped. The hounds, noses to the ground, tried to figure out just where Reynard lost them. A lovely tricolored female ran up a large tree, blown over in a windstorm, its top branches caught in the branches of another large tree. The angle of the fallen tree must have been thirty degrees. The top of the tree hung over a large, swift-moving creek.
Finally a brave hound plunged into the creek and started working on the other side.
“He’s on this side,” the hound called out to his companions.
“I knew it!” the tricolor female, still on the tree, shouted. “He ran up this tree and dropped into the creek. Swam to the other side. Oh, he’s a smart one, he is.”
Within a minute the whole pack had crossed the creek. The humans and horses, however, slipped and slid, trying to find a negotiable crossing. Jane, leading the humans, rode about one hundred yards downstream to find a better place. She motioned for the others to follow her quickly for the hounds were streaking across the meadow.
Laura Cramer, sitting her horse beautifully, jumped down the bank, trotted across the creek, and then jumped out. Her husband followed. Mim, of course, rode this as though she were at Madison Square Garden. Everybody made it except for a little girl on a pony. The water swirled up over the saddle. She let out a yell. Her mom retrieved her, and both walked back home, the kid crying her eyes out, not because she was cold and wet but because her mother made her stop hunting. She didn’t care if she caught a cold. It would mean she might miss some school. Mothers could be mean.
Harry and Poptart observed a movement out of the corner of their eyes. The fox had turned, heading back toward the creek.
Harry stopped, turned her half-bred in the direction of the fox, took off her hunt cap, counted to twenty to give the fox a sporting chance, and then said, “Tally Ho.”
Jane raised her whip hand, stopping the field. Everyone got a splendid view of a medium-sized red fox rolling along at a trot. He reached the creek, jumped in, but didn’t emerge on the other side. He swam downstream, finally jumping out, and he then walked across a log, stopped, checked where the hounds were. Then he decided to put some distance between himself and these canine cousins.
Graham stood up in his stirrups and laughed. He was a man who enjoyed being outsmarted by this varmint. Dennis noticed the First Whipper-In flying along the top of the ridge ahead of the hounds but to the right of the fox. No hunting person, staff or field, ever wants to turn the fox.
The Huntsman watched proudly as his hounds curved back, soared off the bank into the creek, coming out on the other side. Now they had to find the scent, which was along the bank but a good football field or more downstream. The Huntsman jumped straight down the bank.
Laura whispered to Joe, “Think we’ll have to do that?”
“You go first.” He laughed.
Jane wheeled back, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor. She’d recross at their original crossing site and then gallop along the stream to try and catch up, for she knew the Huntsman would push his hounds up to the line of scent as fast as he could.
Within minutes the hounds sang out. Harry’s blood raced. Susan giggled. She always giggled when the pedal pushed to the metal.
They slopped across the creek, jumped up the bank, and thundered alongside it, jumping fallen logs, dodging debris. The path opened up; an abandoned meadow beckoned ahead, a few scraggly opportunistic cedars marring it.
They shot across that meadow, hounds now flying. They crossed a narrow creek, much easier, and headed up the side of a steep hill, the tree line silhouetted against a gray, threatening sky.
Once they reached the crest of the hill, the hounds turned toward the mountains. The field began to stretch out. Some whose horses were not in condition pooped out. Others bought some real estate, mud stains advertising the fact. About half the field was still riding hard when the crest of the ridge thinned out, finally dipping into a wide ravine with yet another swift-running creek in it.
They reached the bottom to watch all the hounds furiously digging at an old tree trunk. The fox had ducked into his den. There was no way the hounds, much too big for the den, could flush him out, plus he had lots of hidden exits if things grew too hot. But the Huntsman dismounted to blow, “Gone to ground.” The hounds leapt up, dug, bayed, full of themselves.
The fox moved farther back into the den, utterly disgusted with the noise. Why a member of the canine family would want to live with humans baffled the fox. Humans smelled bad, plus they were so dumb. No amount of regular food could overcome those flaws.
After a fulsome celebration, the Huntsman mounted back up.
“Shall I hunt them back, Master?”
“Oh, why not?” She smiled.
On the way back they picked up a bit of scent but by the time Tally’s farm came into view, fingers and toes craved warmth.
Everyone untacked their horses, threw sweat sheets and then blankets over them, tied them to the trailers, and hurried into Tally’s beautiful house.
Harry thought to herself, “So far, so good.”
* * *
45
“Why, the fences were four feet then. We rode Thoroughbreds of course and flew like the wind.” Tally leaned on her cane. It wasn’t her back that had given out on her but her left knee and she refused to have arthroscopic surgery. She said she was too damned old to have some doctor punching holes in her knee.
Dennis listened, a twinkle in his eyes. The fences were always bigger when recalled at a distance of decades but in truth, they were.
A crowd filled the house: Miranda, Ned Tucker, Jordan Ivanic, Herb Jones, plus stablehands, more lawyers and doctors, and the neighbors for miles around. When Miss Tally threw a hunt breakfast, best to be there.
“Sam,” Joe Cramer greeted him warmly. “I didn’t have time to talk to you during the hunt. Say, it was a good one, wasn’t it?”
“Those creek crossings—” Sam noticed Bruce out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I haven’t seen you for some time, Joe. I’m glad you could come on down and hunt with us.”
“Yes, Harry invited us,” Joe almost said but caught himself.
Cynthia Cooper brushed by, a plate loaded with food, including biscuits drenched in redeye gravy, her favorite.
Bruce joined Joe and Sam. He spoke to Joe. “Forgive me. I know I’ve met you but I can’t recall where.”
“Salvage Masters. Joe Cramer.” Joe held out his hand. “We rehab infusion pumps, every brand.”
“Why, yes, of course.” Bruce warily shook his hand. “What brings you to Crozet?”
“Harry Haristeen invited my wife and I to hunt today. You know, February is usually a good month.”
Laura glided up next to her husband. “The dog foxes are courting.”
“My wife, Laura. Laura, this is Dr. Bruce Buxton and Sam Mahanes, director of Crozet Hospital.”
“Glad to meet you.” She shook their hands.
“You ride quite well,” Sam said admiringly.
“Good horse,” she said.
“Good hands.” Graham Pitsenberger, smiling, squeezed into the group, the fireplace immediately behind them providing much needed warmth. “Time to thaw out.”
“My butt’s cold, too.” Bruce smiled.
“Sam.” Joe held his hands behind his back to the fire. “You know, your infusion pumps are way overdue on a cleaning.” Joe just blurted this out in the excitement of it all. He was supposed to say nothing.
Sam paused a moment. “They are?”
“Years.”
“I’ll look into that. I can’t imagine it because our plant manager, Hank Brevard, was meticulous in his duties. I’ll check the records.”
Troubled, Bruce cleared his throat. “We’ve had a shake-up at the hospital, Mr. and Mrs. Cramer. You may have heard.”
Joe and Laura played dumb, as did Graham.
Sam, jovially, touched Joe’s elbow as he spoke to Bruce. “No need to go over that, Bruce. Foxhunting shouldn’t be plagued with work troubles. Joe, I’ll get out the files Monday and give you a call.”
“Here’s my card.” Joe slipped his hand into his inside hacking jacket, producing a business card printed on expensive paper, really printed, not thermographed.
He’d changed from his hunting coat to a hacking jacket for the breakfast, which was proper. Not that Tally would have pitched a fit. She didn’t care if anyone came into her house in a muddy or torn frock or melton so long as they regaled her with stories. She did draw the line at lots of makeup in the hunt field though. Tally felt that hunting favored the naturally beautiful woman while exposing the artificial one.
Sam took the card, excusing himself. As he headed for the bar, Bruce tagged after him.
“Sam, what’s going on? The equipment is overdue for cleaning.” He gulped down his drink. “Why the hell won’t you listen to me about this—our reputation is taking a beating.”
“Let’s have this discussion at another time.”
“It’s a damned sorry mess if we’re using pumps that need work. It’s beyond sorry.”
“Bruce.” Sam’s voice was firm but low. “As far as I know those infusion pumps are working beautifully. The nurses would report it to the head nurse in a heartbeat. You know that. But I will definitely check the records. Hank would never let anything get out of hand or worn down. He just wouldn’t and I don’t think Bobby Minifee will either, once he feels comfortable in his position.”
Rick Shaw and Big Mim whispered to one another in the corner for a moment.
“When will Tussie’s death be written up in the paper?”
“Tomorrow.” Rick sighed. “I used every chit I had to hold the story. The only people who know are you, Marilyn, Harry, and Randy.”
“Rescue Squad.”
“They understand perfectly well. Diana Robb can shut up the two people who came out with her for another twenty-four hours.”
“I hope so.” Mim’s eyes darted around the room.
“Randy called the hospital and told her boss that Tussie had a family emergency. She wouldn’t be in to work until Sunday.”
“If this ruse works, Rick, our fox should bolt the den.”
Rick smiled. “You hunters crack me up.”
She smiled and they parted to mix with the others.
Little Mim cleverly maneuvered toward Bruce Buxton who, face flushed, was now talking with Harry, Susan, and Miranda.
“You all will be receiving invitations to one of Mother’s teas,” Little Mim said, her luxurious chestnut hair falling straight to her shoulders.
“More mail to sort.” Harry winked.
Miranda’s stomach growled. She put her hand on it, saying, “News from the interior.”
“Time to eat,” Susan added. “Harry, you’ve only eaten once. You must be ready for another plate.”
“Cold makes me hungry.”
The three women made a beeline for the table, leaving Marilyn to flirt with Bruce, who didn’t seem to mind.
Fair strode through the door.
Tally called out to him. “Why didn’t you hunt today?”
“Breeding season, Miss Urquhart. But I had to drop by to see you.”
“Liar. You dropped by for the food!” He kissed her cheek.
“I came to see you.” He kissed the other cheek. “Prettiest girl in the county.”
“You go.” She blushed a little. “Go on, your girlfriend’s back at the table. She can eat, Fair, my, how she can eat. In my day a lady hid her appetite. Of course, she never puts on a pound. Me neither.”
“Your figure is the envy of women half your age.”
“Fifty!” Tally triumphantly said.
“Actually, I was thinking more like thirty-five.”
“Mercy. You get out of here before I forget myself.” She pushed him toward the dining room.
Fair cut into the line to be with Harry.
