Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (9 page)

The board had wisely corralled a bank president, head of one of the best local law firms, and one music star—who worked very hard, to everyone’s surprise, as they thought she’d more or less show up for one meeting a year. Turned out that Mary Sewell Wainwright was as enthusiastic about all the arts as Sister was about the natural sciences.

The two women clicked, despite a thirty-year age gap.

Elected just last year and still finding their way were Phil Chetwynd and Mercer Laprade. The Chetwynds served on many boards but this was Phil’s first turn at Custis Hall, where his oldest daughter was a sophomore. Mercer was determined to create scholarships for young women of color, a much cherished goal.

Nancy Hightower, also African American, addressed the gathering. “My fear is that this interference will create a backlash.”

She referred to the S.O.L.’s, the Standard of Learning rules laid down by the federal government and then enforced by the state government.

“Not for us.” Phil put his pencil down. “Custis Hall exceeds all the criteria.”

“Let me be more clear, the backlash I fear is accusations about elitism. We outperform most every state school and we are right up there against St. Catherine’s and St. Christopher’s, Collegiate, St. Gertrude’s, Foxcroft, Madeira. We hold our own and better.”

“Private schools can’t be compared to state schools,” said Phil. “We can be far more demanding than the state.”

“Yes, we can and we should be,” Mercer agreed, his light voice clear, pleasant. “But the bulk of our students come from homes that are stable, value education, and strongly support same. We need more scholarship students.”

“Mercer, forty percent of our students receive some form of student aid,” said Isadore Rosen, head of personnel.

Now in his midfifties, Isadore had taken his job decades ago, thinking it would be temporary. But he had found his calling and stayed, to the benefit of all.

The six o’clock news anchor at a network station in Richmond and a Custis Hall alumna, Frances Newcombe agreed. “Mercer has a point. Private schools are seen as elitist and there is resentment about children not getting in because they can’t afford it. We all at this table know it takes more than money, what it really takes is aptitude,
a willingness to work hard and frankly, there’s not enough of that as I would wish. This is a generation that expects to have everything given to them.”

Sister weighed in. “With all due respect, Frances, there are plenty of young people out there who would make good use of an education here if they could swing it. Custis Hall is expensive as are all the prep schools. It’s not just the expansion of scholarship funding, it’s also the housing, the food. You all see our budget statements. Lord, just keeping the physical plant and the grounds up to form costs us thousands upon thousands. And then if we could increase enrollment of scholarship students, could we raise the money to pay for it? Where would we build a new dorm without risking the historical character of this place? Custis Hall is one of the most beautiful secondary schools in the United States.”

In his commanding voice, Crawford said, “There is another way.”

The eleven other trustees stared at him as did the headmistress, Isadore, and the two other school administrators present.

“How?” Charlotte asked.

Never averse to being the center of attention, Crawford paused for a moment, then launched in. “We can’t create scholarships without creating more infrastructures as has been noted.” He couldn’t bring himself to credit Sister but she enjoyed that he had to acknowledge her concerns. “Custis Hall can create outreach programs. There’s no reason why we can’t rent space for early evening classes, weekend classes in Charlottesville, Waynesboro. Bringing in students who don’t live on campus is cheaper than construction. Yes, it takes planning and we would need to augment salaries for those on the faculty willing to do this. But even if we had to hire some new people, it’s more cost-effective than housing twenty or thirty new students on campus.”

A long silence followed this, then everyone talked at once, sparked by Crawford’s vision.

Sister, who always made a point of sitting next to him on the principle that you keep your enemies close, touched his forearm. “Brilliant, Crawford. Thank you.”

He nodded, then looked up as Phil called over the chatter, “Crawford, the old Chetwynd offices are serviceable in downtown Charlottesville. They need a bit of rehab but I could do that as a gift to Custis Hall if the board pursues this.”

Charlotte pounced but softly. “Phil, that is extraordinarily generous. Well, Crawford, you’ve given us all something exciting to consider. I don’t want this to slip away, frittered away in committees, so may I ask the following to be done for our next meeting? Crawford, would you examine our curriculum and determine what you think would be suitable for satellite locations or even e-courses? Most all students have access to a computer now.”

Apart from the reception to his idea this flattered Crawford, who assumed she’d always limit his input to financial matters. “Of course.”

“Phil, given your family’s long association with the area, might you explore other potential locations?”

“Are you willing to decentralize enough so that we could offer classes in Waynesboro and over by Zion Crossroads?” Phil inquired. “In that way, we could bring in students from western and eastern counties. Zion Crossroads could serve Louisa, Fluvanna, possibly even Orange. There are a lot of bright kids out there.”

“Hear. Hear,” Mercer said.

“Mercer, are you willing to secure, or even procure, the numbers of students in area schools who score in the top ten percent at their school, the ones with good grades?”

“Of course, but Charlotte, there are kids who aren’t doing well scholastically who would if we could just reach them.” Mercer truly cared.

The headmistress smiled for she, too, wanted to find those diamonds in the rough. “You’re right, but we may have to work up
to that or find an efficient way to identify them. I know test scores aren’t always the answer; the answer is and always will be educators who take an interest in their students, which brings me to you, Lucas.” She addressed Lucas Diamond, who had worked in the State Education Department. “Find those teachers.”

He looked up at the ceiling, then around the table. “Well, if you all can do what you’re going to do, I will do my part.” Then he laughed.

“What about me?” Mary Wainwright asked plaintively.

“Mary, this board and me in particular are going to shamelessly abuse you.” That got everyone’s attention. “Once we have a plan, you are going to give a concert to raise money.”

All eyes were on Mary as she dramatically breathed in, then said saucily, “I will raise so much money you’ll be able to build a satellite campus.”

The room cheered. Sister thought it was the best board meeting she’d ever attended.

As it broke up, knots of people conferred and she found herself with Phil and Mercer by the long polished sideboard against the wall.

“Hey, to switch the subject, Sister, I know Lafayette is getting on. That fellow has to be fourteen or so, right?” asked Phil.

“We’re both getting up there.” She smiled at the thought of her aging horse.

“Keepsake and Rickyroo must be close to their early teens, too, if I recall,” Phil continued.

Mercer teased, “I feel a horse deal coming on.”

“I have a two-year-old and a three-year-old. One is by Guns and Roses and the other by St. Boniface, out of solid mares but they don’t have the speed for the track. They have good minds. Why don’t you come have a look?”

Crawford joined the group. “Phil, thank you for bringing my hounds back the other day.”

Knowing the history between Crawford and The Jefferson Hunt, Phil said, “It was Sister’s idea.”

As this transpired, Mercer glanced at his iPad, which showed he had a new e-mail. He checked on the message. “Sister, thank you,” Crawford said, doing the right thing.

“Crawford, they hunted wonderfully well under Shaker and they are in good flesh. Very handsome hounds.” Sister smiled.

Clearing his throat he responded, “Thank you.”

“What the hell?” Mercer exclaimed, then looked up. “Sorry.”

“Well, what the hell?” Sister teased him.

“Justin Sautter, with the help of Meg and Alan, have gone through the family papers and found a note about the delivery of Benny Glitters’s slate memorial. Roger Chetwynd”—Roger was old Tom Chetwynd’s son—“Lucius Censa, the Chetwynd’s stable manager, and a Negro worker accompanied the memorial. The Kentucky forensic people said the skeleton is that of an African American male, early forties, old break in the left leg. Anyway, they think the skeleton might be of the man who accompanied the slate memorial from here in Virginia to there. They also found a note in Lela’s hand about the slate and the man escorting it, whom she described as a ‘fine dark man with an adorable little dog.’ I’ll bet that was my grandfather!” Mercer said with excitement.

“I thought your grandfather walked into a whorehouse and never walked out,” Phil remembered.

“Am I missing a good story?” Sister leaned toward Mercer.

“Grandpa Harlan did,” said Mercer, “but I didn’t mention that the whorehouse was in Lexington, Kentucky.”

Phil calmly replied, “Mercer, even if it is your grandfather, why would he end up in a grave with a horse and a dog? It makes no sense.”

“It makes sense to someone,” Mercer’s voice rose.

“I’m sure they are all dead,” Phil replied.

“Well, they may be but that doesn’t mean someone who is alive
doesn’t know,” Sister stated as Crawford, Mercer, and Phil looked at her.

“If you all will excuse me, I’m going to concentrate on the living.” Crawford withdrew.

“Me, too.” Phil smiled.

Mercer drew close to Sister. “You’re right. Someone might know. Wait until I tell Mother. I want to know who killed my grandfather and why. Mother’s become very intrigued, too.”

“I can understand that, Mercer, but you don’t know for sure that this body was your grandfather’s. As it was 1921, he must have had late children.”

“He did and my father, his son, had me in his middle years. In my family, we stay, um, virile and healthy a long time.”

“I hope so.” She winked at him.

Cold seeped into Uncle Yancy’s bones. At ten, for a red fox he was old. Quick thinking and cleverness kept him alive when other foxes fell by the wayside. He wondered when his spouse would leave her earth, a spacious den. A nag, Aunt Netty had plucked his last nerve and he had moved out. She said she threw him out. Over the last three years Netty’s expulsions became an annual event based, she said, on his messy ways. She prided herself on a clean den. His version was she didn’t know what she wanted and had turned into an old crank.

Then spring would come, Aunt Netty would need help with one project or another, something usually involving killing rabbits, and she’d woo him back.

This night, twenty-two degrees outside but cozy in the mudroom at the Lorillard home place, Uncle Yancy swore he wouldn’t fall for it this spring … if spring ever arrived.

Yancy had chewed a hole through the floorboards from underneath the mudroom to crawl up next to the tack trunk. A few of the floorboards were rotten, which made it easier. Sam Lorillard
had thrown a pile of washed red rags in the corner, then forgot them. The fox, smelling crumbs and other tidbits would push the rags aside, enter through, then push them back. Once in the mudroom he had many places to hide, including jumping from shelf to shelf until he was on the highest one. To him, the mudroom was a little bit of heaven. The temperature inside hovered in the low fifties. The grasses and old towels in his den in the graveyard, another under the front porch, were all right if he curled up, but this was true luxury.

Uncle Yancy recognized the Lorillard brothers, Gray and Sam. The two kept the home place, having bought out their snotty sister, Nadine, who was now a leading light in Atlanta, wanting nothing to do with country life. She certainly wanted nothing to do with Sam.

Gray would stay home maybe two nights a week, less if he was called in for a consulting job in Washington where he retained a convenient small apartment. The rest of the time he stayed at Sister’s.

Uncle Yancy knew many of the humans in his territory. The Bancrofts’ farm touched the Lorillard farm on the Lorillards’ western edge. He also knew Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil and he even recognized some people in the hunt field. From time to time the hounds, all of whom he also knew, would pick up his scent and he’d lead them a merry chase until he tired of it. Usually he’d dump them at Hangman’s Ridge, an eerie place. Too many ghosts and too many minks—those nasty little devils with their sharp teeth. He hated them. It was mutual, but their strong odor almost always threw off the hounds, and many’s the time when Uncle Yancy walked down the backside of Hangman’s Ridge. Just in case, he marked every gopher hole and abandoned fox den along the way. You never knew when you’d need it.

On the top shelf, he rested his head on his outstretched right arm.

The kitchen was next door, a wood-burning stove heating most
of the wooden house with a little help from a newly installed heat pump. There Sam sat on a chair, bucket between his feet, bridle in his hands. Uncle Yancy could smell the special saddle conditioner, a type of saddle butter, that the wiry man always ordered from Grangeville, Idaho.

The men’s voices carried into the mudroom and the fox found their deep timbre oddly soothing. He liked Sam, who he saw more than Gray. Something sad and lonely about the man affected the creature. Most all of the higher vertebrates can sense emotions in others. Humans deny this ability in animals, but then they also deny their own emotions. Uncle Yancy had nothing to hide, therefore he was open to all information.

“That stuff really is the best.” Gray leaned back in the wooden chair. “But it takes so long. First you have to strip down the leather, wash it good, use some saddle soap, then let it dry. Half the time I don’t have the time.”

“Brother, when do you clean your own tack? You pay Tootie to do it for you.”