The Kill (16 page)

“For God’s sake, Anne, you’d be crazy to even consider the puddle jumper, especially traveling with the children. I spoke with Doug this morning and I’ll repeat for your benefit what I told him: I know the last thing Richard would want is for the two of you to cut short your trip. There’s just no sense in you rushing home. It won’t bring Richard back.”

“I know, Doug told me what you said, but we want to come home.”

Margaret exchanged a look with Cyndi. “Okay. It’s your decision. Just remember what Richard said about you and Doug going on the cruise, even though you wouldn’t be here for the races: after all you and Doug have been through this past year, you’d be crazy to let hunt business interfere with your family plans. He insisted you go. I’m sure if he were here today he’d say the same thing about you hopping on the next plane and flying halfway around the world to be here to lay him to rest.”

“Thanks for saying that, Margaret.” The rustle of papers crackled from the speaker. “So, let’s get started. As you know, I drafted Richard’s will. The original, which you have in front of you, was kept in our safe deposit box. Cyndi scanned it and emailed a copy to me.”

Cyndi flipped open a file folder, turning it to face Margaret as she pushed it across the table.

“It’s my understanding from Richard that he discussed with you his desire that you be named executor under his will.”

“Yes, he did.”

“So, as you can see in the first paragraph under Article One, you, Margaret Huntington Southwell, are named as executor and I am named as successor executor. Can I assume you are willing to serve in that capacity?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then let’s skip the boilerplate language and get to the meat of the will. If you look about halfway down the first page you’ll see the heading
Article One, Special and Specific Bequests
. Do you see that?”

Margaret ran her finger down the page. “Okay, yes, I’m there.”

“All right. Let me read this section out loud and you can follow along. Richard was very specific about the wording used here. After we go through it, I can fill you in on the background so you better understand his intent behind some of these bequests.”

“Go ahead. I’m with you.”

“‘Many individuals have meant much to me in my life and I give the following gifts to those individuals, if they survive me, as follows:

“‘To my niece Abigale Clarke Portmann, all interest I have in the real estate designated as Dartmoor Glebe. Abigale, this land is in your blood. It is the childhood home of your mother, my beloved sister Caroline, and has been the source of much joy and love for our family throughout the last eighty-plus years. With this bequest, I place the future of Dartmoor Glebe solely in your hands. It is my hope that in so doing, I will help you find peace with your past and open your heart to the future.

“‘To my godson Manning Southwell, all interest I have in horses, hounds, vehicles, tack, equipment, and any and all hunt assets not named herein. Furthermore, all interest I have in the real estate designated as the Middleburg Foxhounds Kennels. Manning, in making this bequest it is my desire that you assume the role of Master of the Middleburg Foxhounds. Ultimately this decision will be made by the Board of Governors of the hunt, but I trust they will see the wisdom of my wishes. Undoubtedly, you possess the necessary skills as a horseman. Financial responsibility, you can learn. Leadership, I believe you can earn.’”

Margaret stared at the will, barely able to believe what Anne had just read aloud.
What in the hell had Richard been thinking?
Richard had always looked after Manning, sometimes despite her wishes to the contrary, but, still—
leaving the hunt and the kennels to Manning?
Good God.

“Are you aware of the fact that although the hunt kennels are located adjacent to Richard’s farm, the facilities actually sit on a separate parcel?” Anne asked.

“I seem to recall Richard saying at one point that there were separate lots, but I never paid it much mind. I always just thought of the kennels as being at Dartmoor Glebe,” Margaret replied.

“And for practical purposes, Richard treated the property that way. But Dartmoor Glebe proper encompasses just over two hundred acres, and the kennels an additional fifty. Because of where the kennels are situated at the back of the farm with no road frontage, Richard created an easement through Dartmoor Glebe for the access drive.”

Margaret’s mind raced, imagining what effect Richard’s bequest would have on the hunt—and on Manning.

Anne said, “Anyway, I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the real estate configuration. Let me continue with the will. ‘As the cost of operating the hunt is considerable and hunt revenues do not cover operating expenses, I direct my executor to set aside in the Manning Southwell Middleburg Foxhounds Hunt Trust an amount equal to five years of operating expenses for the hunt, to be paid to Manning Southwell in equal monthly disbursements. The hunt trust document more specifically addresses the requirements that must be met in order to receive the monthly disbursements, including the stipulation that said disbursements be used solely for hunt-related expenses and not other personal expenditures.

“‘Furthermore, I bequeath to the hunt trust the additional sum of one million dollars. If at the end of the five-year period, the Middleburg Foxhounds still operates as a recognized hunt in good standing with the Masters of Foxhounds Association and Manning Southwell fulfills the requirements set forth under the terms of the hunt trust, the trustees of the hunt trust shall pay to Manning Southwell outright the sum of one million dollars, as directed under the terms of the hunt trust agreement. If the hunt is not in good standing and/or Manning Southwell does not fulfill the requirements set forth under the terms of the hunt trust, the sum of one million dollars will be gifted to various charities, as specified in the hunt trust agreement.’

“Let me stop here and see if you have any questions,” Anne said. “I assume Richard told you about these bequests, but I know the legal language can be confusing.”

Margaret sank back in her chair. “Actually, no, Richard did not discuss his intentions with me.”

“Really? I’m surprised. He told me he planned to do so. Although…”

“What?”

“I guess I’m not breaking confidence by revealing this to you, Margaret. Richard has voiced some concerns about Manning. He felt Manning’s lifestyle had him on a downward spiral. Before I left on our trip, Richard told me he was going to talk to Manning and tell him about the terms of his will. He said he was going to give Manning an ultimatum, tell him that if he did not seek help for his drinking he was going to revise his will. Perhaps Richard didn’t want to mention the bequest to you until after he’d had the conversation with Manning.”

A
bigale followed the drive as it meandered past the house toward the barn. She parked in back, using the key Margaret had given her to enter her uncle’s house through the mudroom door. She expected the house to feel vacant, but instead was greeted by the smell of leather and boot polish and the sight of a row of Uncle Richard’s boots tucked tidily beneath an array of coats and jackets stacked on brass horse-head hooks along the wall. Next to the door, a horseshoe-shaped painted plaque showed the hind-end view of a gray horse and a rider in a scarlet coat, with the words GONE HUNTING arched across the top. Along the outer edge, several sets of keys dangled on hooks formed from blacksmith nails. Abigale looped Margaret’s keys over one of the nails.

Slipping off her jacket, Abigale draped it over a waxed raincoat on one of the hooks along the wall. Uncle Richard’s tweed cubbing jacket hung next to it. She picked a flake of shavings off the shoulder and buried her face in the sleeve, inhaling the musty scent of wool mingled with the earthy aroma of hay. Memories flooded her, misting her eyes. She let the sleeve slip from her fingers.

Abigale followed the stone passageway that led from the mudroom to the kitchen, a spacious room that she remembered as always being warm and cheery, a hubbub of activity. Sunlight streamed in through wide casement windows, revealing a thin layer of dust on the large round-topped walnut table that squatted in the center of the slate floor.

The front hall opened into a large gathering room. Fluffy-cushioned sofas and chairs rested on a green-and-gold-hued oriental carpet that stretched across the wide-planked oak floor. A grand piano stood in one corner and a stone-chimney fireplace ate up a good portion of the far wall. Abigale rubbed her arms, imagining how good it would feel to have a crackling fire roaring in the hearth. She glanced at the stack of logs and crumpled newspaper deftly arranged on the fox-head andirons. All she’d have to do is strike a match. And then what? Sit in the enormous room by herself?

She slipped into the foyer, where oil paintings lined the mustard-colored walls almost to the ceiling. Horses mostly, of almost every size and color. Some pastoral scenes with gnarled trees, and sheep, and broad-faced cows. And a smattering of portraits: a young blond girl with a calico cat curled on her aproned lap; an old black man with the gray stubble of a beard and intelligent, smiling eyes; and a sun-beaten-looking woman wearing a faded blue dress and white bonnet. A gleaming mahogany hutch along the side wall supported an almost life-sized bronze of a well-muscled foxhound, his nose to the ground and stern held high as if he’d just picked up a scent. Abigale ran her hand along the arm of the velvet love seat nestled beneath the stairwell, once her favorite spot to curl up with her nose in a book, waiting for Manning to come and take her on one sort of adventure or another.

Gripping the hand-carved banister, she climbed the winding staircase that led to the second floor. The door to Uncle Richard’s bedroom stood open near the top of the stairs. Abigale paused in the doorway, eyed the king-sized sleigh bed, its bedspread tucked military-tight across the high mattress, then stepped back and gently closed the door. She wasn’t ready for this room yet.

Her mother’s bedroom was next to Uncle Richard’s and Abigale passed by without entering, heading for the room at the far end of the hall. The door was closed, and Abigale hesitated for a moment, then grasped the crystal handle and pushed against the door. It creaked open and she broke into a smile, remembering Manning’s theory that Uncle Richard deliberately left the squeak in the hinges so he’d be alerted if she tried to sneak out in the middle of the night.

A shiver pricked her arms. The room was just as she remembered it: the canopy bed still swaddled with the girlish lavender bedding ensemble she had selected; the furniture the same white princess pieces adorned with pink and purple hearts. She recalled that when she’d outgrown the girlish décor Uncle Richard had offered to redecorate the room in a more sophisticated style, but she’d refused.

Abigale stepped onto the plush ivory carpet and approached the bed. Plunked in the center of a mass of frilly pillows was a grayish lop-eared bunny, a frayed lavender ribbon tied in a limp bow around its neck. She lifted it gently, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Hi, old friend,” she whispered, smoothing the matted fur between its ears. “There’ve been a couple of nights over the years when I could have used you.”

Hugging the stuffed animal to her chest, Abigale opened the mirrored closet door. Her riding clothes hung in an orderly fashion, one show jacket still wrapped in dry-cleaner plastic; stacks of jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters were folded neatly on the shelves. Someone had obviously tidied the room since she’d last stayed there.

Her Disney princess jewelry box sat on one shelf, next to her hunt horn and the pair of spurs Uncle Richard had ordered custom-made for her. Abigale set the bunny on the shelf and ran her fingers over the neck of one spur, delicately curved into the form of a horse hoof. She picked up the hunt horn, its shine tarnished from years on the shelf, and pressed it to her lips. The note she blew was weak and tinny. Shaking her head, she wet her lips, sucked in a breath, and tried again. Despite the dent in the bell of the horn, she eked out some clear notes, then blew “gone away” with an intensity that left her ears ringing. Breathless but grinning, she lowered the horn and closed her hand around the misshapen bell. The dent marred the beauty and hindered the performance of the horn, but back when it had happened, her seventeen-year-old mind had viewed it as symbolic of Manning’s devotion to her and she’d refused to have it repaired or replaced.

Abigale felt a burn creep up her face. She could picture that day so vividly: Manning as he’d ridden up to the barn, soaked to the skin, thunder rumbling in the distance. He wasn’t wearing a riding helmet and his hair dripped in ringlets around his face. He slid from his horse and she’d flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck before he even had a chance to roll up his stirrups.

“Whoa, hey, what’s going on?” he’d asked, wrapping an arm around her.

She clung fiercely to him, paying no heed to his soggy clothes, anger and relief boiling inside her. “What were you thinking going back out to look for my horn with a storm brewing?” she demanded. “And what are you doing riding without a helmet?”