Free The Hunt Ball by Rita Mae Brown Page A

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.
    â€œMrs. Howard hunting tomorrow?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œCan’t picture Al Perez,” Rory said as he finished the scrubdown.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œThose guys make the best crooks.”
    â€œWhat guys?”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œâ€”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.”
    â€œWe’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