By Jacqueline L. Salmon
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, September 14, 1997; Page B01

THE PLAINS, Va. — The moist Virginia air hung over the Great Meadow Polo Club as the six ponies raced up and down the field, their helmeted riders swinging mallets down in an arc toward the ball bobbing amid hooves. But the player getting the most attention from the crowd wasn't in the match. Only snapshots of him were there, being passed around the arena.

He was Roberto Villegas, star of the Friday night tournaments, a magnetic Argentine professional polo player who dazzled the crowds with his horsemanship and skill. Last Sunday, Villegas, 38, was shot to death in the kitchen of the Fauquier County mansion he shared with his lover and employer, Susan Cummings, the daughter of an international arms merchant.

Cummings now stands accused of murdering him, and her attorney says she was acting in self-defense.

The sensational crime has stunned the affluent circle of polo-playing friends with whom Susan (pronounced like Suzanne) Cummings, 35, and Villegas rode and socialized.

It also has provided a glimpse of life inside the rarefied world of competitive polo, which has emerged as the sport of choice among one element of the county's high society -- not the old money but the younger and newly affluent professionals who have followed the rich to the rocky hills of northern Fauquier.

In this world, wealthy players hire expert players such as Villegas and pay tens of thousands of dollars for horses and equipment.

It also is a world where love affairs between the circuit's professional polo players and the women they coach are not unknown. But the relationship between Cummings and Villegas went deeper, and in recent months there was talk of marriage.

Now, if convicted, Cummings faces life in prison and the loss of her affluent lifestyle in the Virginia countryside. And Villegas's friends and family are left to cope with the violent death of a man who had struggled out of poverty to reach the international ranks of polo.

On Thursday, about 100 mourners turned out for his funeral at St. Stephen's Catholic Church in the tony village of Middleburg in neighboring Loudoun County. At Friday night's polo match, participants held a moment of silence and dedicated the fourth chukker, or period, to Villegas.

Match announcer Tom Monaco, also Great Meadow's general manager, groped for a way to explain the tragedy. "They were always together," he said. "They seemed to be so happy. I have no idea what happened."

Although only 50 miles west of Washington, Fauquier is still 90 percent rural. Its southern end has farms and a few middle-class neighborhoods; its northern end is home to some of the wealthiest families in the United States.

Among the 300 estates (residents prefer to call them farms) that sprawl across northern Fauquier are those owned by Paul and Bunny Mellon, Jack Kent Cooke's estate (now inhabited by his widow), developer John T. "Til" Hazel Jr., Washington Post Co. Chairman Donald E. Graham and actor Robert Duvall.

Cummings and Villegas socialized with a small but burgeoning group of younger Washington area professionals with money to burn -- telecommunications executives, doctors and executives at federal contracting companies.

Many in this crowd shun the sports enjoyed by the tweedy, old-money horse set -- fox hunting, show jumping and steeplechase. For them, weekend life revolves around the four-year-old Great Meadow Polo Club, started by Peter Arundel, 37, the publisher of the Fauquier Times-Democrat and several community newspapers in the area.

Cummings and Villegas were regulars at Great Meadow polo events and, friends say, important members of the organization. Cummings had pledged to build a polo field for club members on her property. And, club members say, Villegas was a main factor in attracting the increasingly large crowds -- as many as 300 -- that gather every Friday night in the summer at the club's arena.

"He was the star, our best arena player," said Richard Varge, the club's president.

Friends say Villegas excelled in the fast-moving game of arena polo, which is played in an enclosed outdoor arena about the size of a football field. Fans say it is a more exciting game and cheaper (relatively speaking) than "field" polo, which is played on a field the size of six football fields and requires more horses and equipment.

Villegas "could ride like the wind," Varge said. "He was an unbelievable horseman. He could ride horses that nobody else could."

It was easy to see why Cummings was attracted to Villegas, friends say. Wiry and compact, like most good polo players, Villegas had thickly muscled forearms and dark hair that dipped over his forehead. He had a wide, warm grin that seemed to touch his ears.

He was part of a nomadic group of foreign polo players, mostly Argentine, who travel from polo club to polo club in the United States. In the winter, they play in resort towns in Florida. They gravitate north in the summer, hiring themselves out to wealthy amateur polo players who become the players' "patrons" (pronounced paTRONES). The professionals play on their patrons' teams, coaching them and training their horses.

The annual price tag for such an operation starts at $15,000 and can run into the millions, polo devotees say.

"I've always said it's an addictive game," said Bill Ylvisaker, 63, a Chicago businessman who owns a Middleburg estate and was Villegas's patron until Cummings took over. "People never give it up unless they die or go broke."

For Villegas, polo was a ticket out of his poor farming village in southern Argentina. In that country, the game is second only to soccer in popularity, and Villegas began playing on neighbors' horses when he was 15. He came to the United States as a groom at age 20 and apprenticed himself to a top-ranked Argentine player. He rarely returned home, although friends say they believe he regularly sent money to his family.

While playing for Ylvisaker's team two years ago, Villegas met Cummings, who was just learning the game. They dated for a while, and last year, Cummings decided to form her own team. Villegas moved to Ashland Farm, the 300-acre estate just west of Warrenton that Cummings has shared with her twin sister, Diana (pronounced Dee-YANA), since 1984. The sisters, who were raised in France and speak with accents, are the daughters of Samuel Cummings, a former CIA agent who made his fortune selling arms throughout the world.

Cummings and Villegas "planned to get married and have children," said Villegas's best friend, Omar Cepeda, 33, also an Argentine professional player. "He had big plans with her."

If so, it would have meant a major life change for Cummings, who despite her great wealth, couldn't seem to find anything or anyone to engage her interest.

She lavished her attention on animals -- adopting several dogs from the pound and building an elaborate doghouse -- but had few friends and seemed lonely, flitting from hobby to hobby, said Amy Worden, who boarded her horse at Ashland Farm from 1987 until 1994. Cummings dabbled in art for a while and was interested in steeplechasing for a time. But those infatuations soon faded.

"She always had plans, but she was definitely slow on the follow-through," Worden said. "It seemed like every time I went out there, there was a new project."

When Cummings embraced polo, she began taking lessons at Great Meadow. After Villegas moved to her estate, he sold her his horse trailer and the half-dozen or so polo ponies he had accumulated and, in the winter, skipped his usual tour in Florida to stay with her.

Despite his relationship with Cummings, Villegas never seemed flush with cash. In the winter, while living on the estate, Villegas worked at an orchard in Rappahannock County to make extra money, friends say.

In the spring, Villegas showed up at Edward "Skeeter" Hembry's tack shop in Warrenton with an old saddle he wanted repaired, but he changed his mind when he learned the job would cost about $400. A few hours later, Cummings called, Hembry said, and had him do the job so she could surprise Villegas on his birthday.

In recent months, subtle signs of tension in the relationship began to emerge. Friends say Susan appeared to be growing possessive of Villegas, telling him when he could play polo and with whom. She was jealous of any attention her easygoing boyfriend paid to other women.

Cummings's attorney, Blair Howard, who defended Lorena Bobbitt, who in 1993 sliced off her husband's penis with a kitchen knife, says Cummings was growing increasingly afraid of Villegas. She ended their relationship and, about two weeks before the shooting, met with a Fauquier County investigator. At the meeting, Howard said, she expressed her fears about Villegas. She scheduled another meeting for last Monday, during which, according to Howard, she planned to ask about a restraining order against Villegas.

But friends say they saw no signs that Cummings feared her boyfriend or that they had broken up. The couple planned a trip to Montana to check out 2,000 acres Cummings was getting ready to buy, Great Meadow general manager Monaco said.

Friends do recall that the couple had argued that week about whether to play in a fund-raising polo match in Pittsburgh that was scheduled for the day before the shooting. In the end, they did go and seemed happy at the event, friends say.

But Sunday morning in the stone mansion at Ashland Farm, something went terribly wrong.

Howard said Villegas attacked Cummings, scratching her on the arm and cheek with a sharp instrument. Fearing for her life, she shot her lover in self-defense, Howard said. She then called 911.

When police arrived a little before 9 a.m. Sunday, they found Villegas in the mansion's small kitchen, dead from shots to the neck and chest. Cummings was arrested and charged with first-degree murder and use of a firearm in the commission of a felony. She was released on $75,000 bond.

The final, saddest part of Villegas's long journey from a small farming village to the highest ranks of polo took place Friday. That's when his body was loaded onto American Airlines Flight 1567 at Dulles International Airport and shipped back to his mother and sister in Argentina. He will be buried tomorrow.

Staff writer Maria Glod and special correspondent Sarah L. Greenhalgh contributed to this report.