CHAPTER 16
A thin wisp of ground fog snaked over the pasture where Lafayette, Rickyroo, Keepsake, and Aztec munched and a family of raccoons crossed toward the garbage cans in the barn. Occasionally if Sister forgot to close the tack room door the raccoons would open the desk drawer and pull out bags of bite-sized Hershey's bars. They loved sweets, as did the possums who followed them at a discreet distance.
Lafayette lorded it over the Rickyroo and Aztec, both young horses at six and five respectively. He relayed the day's hunting, from the first moment the bit was in his mouth to his wash down with warm water in the wash stall, in colorful detail.
Keepsake, eight years old and a thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, thought Lafayette was laying it on a little thick. He nibbled twenty feet away from the three thoroughbreds. He liked them well enough but he felt he was more intelligent, or at least less gullible.
He noticed the downstairs lights in the house going off, the upstairs bedroom light switching on. The blue light of the television shone from Shaker's window. He noticed Showboat, Gunpowder, and Hojo, three former steeplechasers, dozing in the adjoining pasture. Each of them had been donated to the hunt for the huntsmen's use. Sometimes that meant the horses were orangutans; no one else could handle them, so this was the last stop unless the owner shipped them off to the killers. Few foxhunters wanted to put a horse in the knacker's trailer no matter how badly the animal behaved. But the Jefferson Hunt membership had a wide sweep of contacts. Gunpowder had even spent time competing on the flat track. Having run over timber in steeplechase meets, these three disdained the jumps in the hunt field and thought any equine who even glanced sideways at such a puny obstacle, the largest being three feet six inches, was a wimp.
Keepsake could and would jump anything, so he shrugged off their air of superiority.
The night was thankfully cool and pleasant, the breeze still easterly. Sister turned off the air-conditioning and opened the bedroom windows.
The horses and hounds could faintly hear Mozart's
A
Little Night Music
floating from her bedroom. Then her phone rang.
She groaned, wondering what the problem was. A night call usually meant a problem. A master's work is endless, whether physical or political, putting out the brush fires flaring up within the hunt club, any hunt club. Some fool left a gate open, another printed up the trail riding schedule and one date was wrong. Someone else hated that cubbing started so early in the morning and they were sure this was a conspiracy to keep them home.
Any group of humans swirls about in a fog of gossip, misunderstanding, and good intentions. Political maneuvering makes for strange bedfellowsâand in many an instance the bedfellows really are in bed together. Foxhunting seems to foster even more of that than other activities. The people, by nature, are hot-blooded just like their horses.
By the end of any given day, Sister's reserves of emotional restraint ebbed.
Not all humans depleted her. The ones she loved energized her: Betty Franklin, Shaker Crown, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, and she thought she could learn to love Dr. Walter Lungrun. Maybe it was because he rented Peter Wheeler's old place and she'd loved Peter, had even been his lover for years. In some ways, Walter reminded her of her husband, a curious resemblance, although socially Walter was more reserved than Raymond. Raymond had come to life in a group, his natural element.
Because of that, Raymond had made a fantastic field master. He'd understood the hounds, but he'd loved the people.
Sister felt her husband had been a better field master than she. She would occasionally forget about the people, so intense was her focus on the hounds. But she put her field in the right place time after time, which they greatly appreciated.
Ray Junior had taken after his father. She'd assumed he'd follow her as field master and then master someday.
She often thought of her husband and son at nighttime. The house, quiet, yielded up memories. Even Golly, a naturally mouthy cat, rested her voice at night.
Melancholy and Sister were never on good terms. She wasn't one to dwell on her losses, on the sorrows that come to us all if we live long enough. They were part of life. If anything, she had learned to thank God for them. Her losses taught her about grace and true love. Her victories taught her to be generous and ultimately thankful.
Tonight as she listened to that most delicious of Mozart compositions, it occurred to her that the structure of music and literature were one and the same thing.
Then the damn phone rang just as this insight was unfolding.
“This better be good!” she growled into the receiver.
A muffled but queerly familiar voice said, “Master, look off the Norwood Bridgeâthe deep end.”
“I beg your pardon.” She sat bolt upright.
Both Raleigh and Rooster lifted their heads. Golly, on the pillow next to Sister, pricked forward her ears to better hear the voice on the other end of the line.
“A fifty-five-gallon drum.”
“Who is this?”
“Hotspur.” With a click, the call ended.
Her hand shaking, she called the sheriff. He'd once given her his cell phone and his home numbers, which she'd prudently placed by the kennel, stable, kitchen, and bedroom phones.
She reached Ben and related her bizarre phone call. Then she hung up, slipped on her moccasins, her white terry cloth robe with her initials, JOA, stitched on the left breast pocket, and hurried down the back stairs into the kitchen. She charged out the back door, running toward Shaker's.
All the horses trotted along with her in their paddocks.
Trident, gazing at the stars, still thrilled from his first hunt, saw her dash to the huntsman's cottage.
“What's
Sister doing?”
Asa, also outside for a walkabout, said,
“Go to sleep,
son. You've had a big day.”
But he knew something was coming down.
Sister knocked on Shaker's door knocker, a brass crown. “Shaker, Shaker, forgive me for disturbing you.”
He opened the door, bare-chested, toothbrush in hand. “What's happened?”
“Oh, Shaker, I heard a voice from the dead.”
CHAPTER 17
The Norwood Bridge curved out below a bluff above the Upper James River. Even this far from where its mouth poured into the Chesapeake Bay, the James proved a formidable river. Strong currents, sudden fluctuations in volume, and rough patches of rapids followed by successive small falls meant anyone navigating these waters best be wary.
At times the waters could become surprisingly clear; other times rains pulled down earth from the Blue Ridge Mountains, sending cascades of runoff flowing into the James, making it muddy for days, even weeks.
The village of Norwood, named for Norwood Plantation, still a working farm, clung to the bluff above the river, the source of transportation and commerce well into the 1840s when the bateaus were replaced by the railroads. A small redbrick former church, its steeple pleasingly proportionate to its base, served as the town's post office. While small homes perched along the river roads, larger dwellings sat grandly on the bluff itself, where they had been surveying the river and its passing traffic for three centuries.
Sheriff Ben Sidell watched divers, three of them, submerge then rise again. The Norwood Bridge connected Nelson County with Buckingham County. This was not the deepest part of the Upper James, but was, however, one of the most undisturbed parts of the river.
Few motorized vessels plied these waters. Tubers, rollicking along, would cascade by until they were stopped by the first set of rapids, if indeed they lasted that long. Canoers enjoyed this stretch as the river straightened out from its northern bend. They paddled past fishermen, quietly waiting in their rowboats.
Once a year the bateau festival filled the small town. Flatboats heading downriver and people in period costume drew droves of tourists to watch.
Although it was Sunday, August fourth, Ben acted immediately upon hearing about Sister Jane's mysterious phone call.
After a long talk with Shaker, she'd also called Walter, who agreed to spend the day with Ben Sidell. Sister wanted a hunt club person there and she felt Walter, both by training and temperament, was a good choice.
“If a body was tossed off this bridge, even if sufficiently weighted, it surely would have been carried downstream,” Ben said, “be nothing left.”
“Two hurricanes tore through here since 1981,” Walter replied, “plus plenty of gully washers. But if you follow the direction of the current, a body would have eventually snagged on the shore, maybe there”âhe pointed to an eddy on the Buckingham sideâ“or hung up farther down on the next big arc. Surely someone would have seen it.”
“Well, there might only be old shoes to see. Nature's aquatic garbagemen work very efficiently.” Ben sighed.
“The murder weapon might have been tossed off the bridge.”
Ben pursed his lips. “Yes, but that would work its way downriver as well. Obviously, it's hard to say what killed Nolaâa rock or a hammer or even the butt end of a revolver. The side of her skull was shattered. Almost like the murderer had snapped into a killing frenzy.”
“The reptilian brain.” Walter crossed his arms over his chest. “See it with animals. A few will go crazy with killing. That old part of our brain usually means violence.”
The temperature was rising, the heavy river smell rising with it.
“I see a lot of strange things in my business,” the sheriff said. “As the social controls have eroded, it seems self-control has eroded with it. We're becoming more violent, not less.”
“Rwanda.”
“Yugoslavia. Attacks on our country.” The sheriff, a pleasant-looking man about the same age as Walter, in the prime of life, squinted as the reflection of the sun off the water temporarily blinded him. “People can usually find a reason to harm someone else. Mix religion into it like the Islamic terrorists and you've glamorized humankind's worst instincts.”
Walter half smiled. “Whoever killed Nola didn't need an ideology or national cause.”
“And given that she was buried with that huge sapphire on her finger, it sure wasn't robbery. No, her death was about rage or lust.”
“Let's go back to the murder weapon for a minute. Assuming that Sister's caller is telling the truth, if whatever was tossed over this bridge was heavy enough, like a sledgehammer, isn't it possible it sank headfirst into the silt, stuck there, and has been covered and uncovered and probably covered again over the last two decades?” Walter put on his sunglasses, blue elliptical lenses.
“I suppose.” Ben leaned against the bridge rail, back to the sun. “Walter, you're a member of the hunt. Why do you think Sister Jane got this call?”
“Trust.”
“Huh?”
“He trusts her.”
“Hmm.” Ben turned this over in his mind. “If it was Guy Ramy he would call her instead of his own mother?”
“You don't know that he hasn't been in contact with Alice. She'd never tell.”
“True.” Ben nodded.
“If he's guilty, he wants us to find whatever is in this river.”
“But he doesn't want us to find him.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“I wonder if he'd tell Sister where he is.”
“I don't know. But Guy would be about forty-eight now. That's a long time to carry around guilt. He may have killed her, but he also loved her.”
“You were in junior high, right?” Ben had talked to a lot of people and his memory was good.
“Seventh grade.”
“You didn't really know these people?”
“We lived in Louisa County. I saw them at horse shows. My mother and father knew the hunt club crowd. Dad owned a small tire company in Charlottesville. My mother worked there, too. Sooner or later, everyone would need their tires replaced on trucks or trailers.”
“Funny, when I go out to question people, whatever the crime, I sweep up a lot of dust.”
“Guess you do.”
“In your line of work, I'm sure you pick up a lot, too.”
“People usually talk to their doctors.” Walter jingled the keys in his pocket.
“There's jockeying for power in the hunt club. Hey, maybe it was a crank call. People are worried about Sister getting too old,” Ben said.
Walter took his hand out of his pocket, waving away this thought. “She'll outlive us all.”
Ben laughed. “She just might.”
One of the divers surfaced, flipped up his face mask, and clung to the side of the boat.
Carl Walsh, sitting at the oars, cupped his hand to his mouth and hollered, “Sheriff, found the top of a fiftyfive-gallon drum. Can't see the rest of it, it's sunk all the way in the mud.”
Ben crossed the bridge to the northerly side. “Well, see if they can get chains around it.”
“Bet there's a stove and a refrigerator down there, too.” Walter crossed over with him.
“Just one?” Ben hid his anticipation behind humor.
An hour later, a black fifty-five-gallon drum rested on the shore directly under the bridge. The label had long since washed away, but it appeared to be an old oil drum, maybe a paint drum. A few holes, tiny, had been punched into the metal by rocks or fast-moving debris.
What was curious about it was that the top was welded into place. A rattle could be heard inside when the drum was jostled. And it was heavy, off balance.
“Must be someone in Norwood with an acetylene torch.” Ben didn't want to move the drum any more if he could help it. “Carl, call in for a department photographer, too.”
Another forty-five minutes passed before Frank Kinser, a distant relative of Doug's, was there with his torch. The photographer arrived, too.
Walter stood back as the blue sparks flew.
Within minutes the lid, cleanly cut, was lifted off.
“Jesus Christ!” Frank cut off his torch, his eyes wide.
A few scraps of cloth clung to a jumble of bones. In the bottom of the drum was a blacksmith's anvil.
The photographer clicked away. Ben carefully observed the remains but did not touch or remove them.
Walter felt that there would be hell to pay.