Murder at Monticello (21 page)

50

Obsessed by his former partner's diaries, Dr. Larry Johnson read at breakfast, between patients, at dinner, and late into the night. He finished volume one, which was surprisingly well written, especially considering he'd never thought Jim a literary man.

References to the grandparents and great-grandparents of many Albemarle County citizens enlivened the documents. Much of volume one centered on the effects of World War I on the returning servicemen and their wives. Jim Craig was then fairly new to the practice of medicine.

Z. Calvin Coles, grandfather to Samson Coles, returned from the war carrying a wicked dose of syphilis. Mim's paternal line, the Urquharts, flourished during the war, as they invested heavily in armaments, and Mim's father's brother, Douglas Urquhart, lost his arm in a threshing accident.

All the patients treated, from measles to bone cancer, were meticulously mentioned as well as their character, background, and the history of specific diseases.

The Minors, Harry's paternal ancestors, were prone to sinus infections, while on her mother's side, the Hepworths, they either died very young or made it into their seventies and beyond—good long innings then. Wesley Randolph's family often suffered a wasting disease of the blood which killed them slowly. The Hogendobbers leaned toward coronary disorders, and the Sanburnes to gout.

Jim's keen powers of observation again won Larry's admiration. Being young when he joined Jim Craig's practice, Larry had looked up to his partner, but now, as an old man, he could measure Jim in the fullness of his own experience. Jim was a fine doctor and his death at sixty-one was a loss for the town and for other doctors.

With eager hands Larry opened volume two, dated February 22, 1928.

51

Jails are not decorated in designer colors. Nor is the privacy of one's person much honored. Poor Samson Coles listened to stinking men with the DTs hollering and screaming, bottom-rung drug sellers protesting their innocence, and one child molester declaring that an eight-year-old had led him on. If Samson ever doubted his sanity, this “vacation” in the cooler reaffirmed that he was sane—stupid perhaps, but sane.

He wasn't so sure about the men in the other cells. Their delusions both fascinated and repelled him.

His only delusion was that Ansley Randolph loved him when in fact she did not. He knew that now. Not one attempt to contact him, not that he expected her to show her face at the correctional institute, as it was euphemistically called. She could have smuggled him a note though—something.

Like most men, Samson had been used by women, especially when he was younger. One of the good things about Lucinda was that she didn't use him. She had loved him once. He felt the searing pain of guilt each time he thought of his wife, the wife he'd betrayed, his once good name which he had destroyed, and the fact that he would lose his real estate license in the bargain. He'd wrecked everything: home, career, community standing. For what?

And now he stood accused of murder. Fleeting thoughts of suicide, accomplished with a bedsheet, occurred to him. He fought them back. Somehow he would have to learn to live with what he'd done. Maybe he'd been stupid, but he wasn't a coward.

As for Ansley, he knew she'd fall right back into her routine. She didn't love Warren a bit, but she'd never risk losing the wealth and prestige of being a Randolph. Not that being a Coles was shabby, but megamillions versus comfort and a good name—no contest. Then, too, she had her boys to consider, and life would be far more advantageous for them if she stayed put.

In retrospect he could see that Ansley's ambitions centered more on the boys than on herself, although she had the sense to be low-key about them. If she was going to endure the Randolph clan, then, by God, she would have successful and loving sons. Blood, money, and power—what a combination.

He swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He'd turn to pure fat in this place if he didn't do leg raises and push-ups. One good thing about being in the slammer, no social drinking. He wanted to cry sometimes, but he didn't know how. Just as well. Wimps get buggered in places like this.

How long he sat there, dangling his legs just to feel some circulation, he didn't know. He jerked his legs up with a start when he realized he was aptly named.

52

The buds on the trees swelled, changing in color from dark red to light green. Spring, in triumph, had arrived.

Harry endured a spring-cleaning fit each year when the first blush of green swept over the meadows and the mountains. The creeks and rivers soared near their banks from the high melting snow and ice, and the air carried the scent of earth again.

Piles of newspapers and magazines, waiting to be read, were stacked on the back porch. Harry succumbed to the knowledge that she would never read them, so out they went. Clothes, neatly folded, rested near the periodicals. Harry hadn't much in the way of clothing, but she finally broke down and threw out those articles too often patched and repatched.

She decided, too, to toss out the end table with three legs instead of four. She'd find one of those unfinished-furniture stores and paint a new end table. As she carried it out she stubbed her toe on the old cast-iron doorstop. This had been her great-grandmother's iron, heated on top of the stove.

“Goddammit!”

“If you'd look where you were going, you wouldn't run into things.”
Tucker sounded like a schoolteacher.

Harry rubbed her toe, took off her shoe, and rubbed some more. Then she picked up the offending iron, ready to hurl it outside. “That's it!” She joyously called to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. “The murder weapon. Medley Orion was a seamstress!”

53

Holding the iron aloft, Harry demonstrated to Mim Sanburne, Fair, Larry Thompson, Susan, and Deputy Cooper how the blow would have been struck.

“It certainly could account for the triangular indentation.” Larry examined the iron.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sat tight against each other on the kitchen table. Although Mrs. Murphy would rather lose fur than admit it—she liked having a feline companion. Pewter did, too, but then, Pewter camped out on the kitchen table, since that's where the food was placed.

Tucker circled the table.
“Smart of Mom to call Big Marilyn.”

“Mim is head of the restoration project.”
Mrs. Murphy glanced down at her little friend.
“This way, too, Mim can tell Oliver Zeve and Coop can tell Sheriff Shaw. It's a pretty good theory.”

“I believe you've got it.” Larry handed the iron to Mim, who felt its weight.

“One solid blow pushing straight out or slightly upward. People performed so much physical labor back then, she was no doubt strong enough to inflict a fatal blow. We know she was young.” Mim gave the iron to Miranda.

“The shape of this iron would help when pressing lace or all the fripperies and fancies those folks wore.”

“May I borrow the iron to show Rick? If he doesn't see it with his own eyes, he'll be skeptical.” Cynthia Cooper held out her hands for the iron.

“Sure.”

“We hear that Samson categorically denies killing Kimball even though that gun was in his car.” Mim hated that Sheriff Shaw didn't tell her everything. But then, Mim wanted to know everything about everybody, as did Miranda, though for different reasons.

“He's sticking to his story.”

“Has anyone visited Lulu?” Susan Tucker asked. “I thought about going there this evening.”

“I've paid a call.” Mim spoke first, as the first citizen of Crozet, which in essence she was. “She's terribly shaken. Her sister has flown up from Mobile to attend to her. She wonders how people will treat her now, and I've assured her that no blame attaches itself to her. Why don't you give her a day or two, Susan, and then go over.”

“She loves shortbread,” Mrs. Hogendobber remembered. “I'll bake some.”

The rest of the group raised their hands and Miranda laughed. “I'll be in the kitchen till Easter!”

“I'm still not giving up on finding out the real story behind the corpse in Cabin Four.” Harry walked over to the counter to make coffee.

“And I was thinking that I'd read through Dr. Thomas Walker's papers. He attended Peter Jefferson on his deathbed. Quite a man of many parts, Thomas Walker of Castle Hill. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a reference to treating a broken leg. There was another physician also, but I can't think of his name off the top of my head,” Larry said.

“We owe it to Kimball.” Harry ground the beans, releasing the intoxicating scent.

“Harry, you never give up.” Fair joined her, setting out cups and saucers. “I hope you all do get to the bottom of the story just so it's over, but more than anything, I'm glad Kimball's murderer is behind bars. That had me worried.”

“Does it seem possible that Samson Coles could kill a man in cold blood?” Mim poured half-and-half into her cup.

“Mrs. Sanburne, the most normal-looking persons can commit the most heinous crimes,” stated Deputy Cooper, who ought to know.

“I guess.” Mim sighed.

“Do you think Samson did it?”
Pewter asked.

Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail.
“No. But someone wants us to think he did.”

“The gun was in his car.”
Tucker wanted to believe the mess was over.

The tiger cat's pink tongue hung out of her mouth for a second.
“It's not over—feline intuition.”

Miranda asked, “Did Kimball ever get to the Randolph papers?”

“Gee, I don't know.” Harry paused, then walked over to the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Ansley. Excuse me for bothering you. Did Kimball ever get to read your family papers?” She listened. “Well, thanks again. I'm sorry to bother you.” She hung up the phone receiver. “No.”

“We still have a few more stops in duplicating Kimball's research. Something will turn up.” Mrs. H. tried to sound helpful.

54

“What a wuss,”
Mrs. Murphy groaned about Pewter.
“It's too far. It's too cold. I'll be so tired tomorrow.”

Tucker's dog trot ate up the miles.
“Be glad she stayed home. She would have sat down and cried before we'd gone two miles. This way we can get our work done.”

Mrs. Murphy, following feline instincts, felt the whole story was not out, not by a long shot. She convinced Tucker to head out to Samson Coles's estate late at night. The game little dog needed no convincing. Besides, the thrill of finding the books in the fireplace hadn't worn off. Right now they thought they could do anything.

They cut across fields, jumped creeks, ducked under fences. They passed herds of deer, the does with newborn fawns by their sides. And once, Mrs. Murphy growled when she smelled a fox. Cats and foxes are natural enemies because they compete for the same food.

As Lucinda and Samson's place was four miles by the path they took, they arrived around eleven o'clock. Lights were on upstairs as well as in the living room.

Massive walnut trees guarded the house. Mrs. Murphy climbed up one and walked out a branch. She saw Lucinda Coles and Warren Randolph through the living room window. She backed down the tree and jumped onto the broad windowsill so she could hear their conversation, since the window was open to allow the cool spring air through the house, a welcome change from the stuffy winter air trapped inside. The cat scarcely breathed as she listened.

Tucker, knowing Mrs. Murphy to be impeccable in these matters, decided to pick up whatever she could by scent.

Lucinda, handkerchief dabbing her eyes, nodded more than she spoke.

“You had no idea?”

“I knew he was fooling around, but I didn't know it was Ansley. My best friend, God, it's so typical.” She groaned.

“Look, I know you've got enough troubles, and I don't want you to worry about money. If you'll allow me, I can organize the estate and do what must be done, along with your regular lawyers, of course. Just don't act precipitously. Even if Samson is convicted, it doesn't mean you have to lose everything.”

“Oh, Warren, I don't know how to thank you.”

He sighed deeply. “I still can't believe it myself. You think you know someone and then—I guess if the truth be told, I'm more upset about the, uh, affair than the murder.”

“When did you know?”

“Behind the post office. Tuesday. He slipped, made a comment about something only my wife could have known.” He hesitated. “I drove over here one night and cut the lights off. I was going to come in and tell you, and then I chickened out in the middle of it. Well, I saw his car in the driveway. So, like I said, I backed out. I don't know if it would have made any difference if you'd known a few days ago instead of today.”

“It wouldn't have saved the marriage.” She cried anew.

“Did he really threaten to kill you?”

She nodded and sobbed.

Warren wrung his hands. “That should make the divorce go faster.” He glanced to the window. “Your cat wants in.”

Mrs. Murphy froze. Lucinda looked up. “That's not my cat.” That fast Mrs. Murphy shot off the windowsill. “Funny, that looked like Mrs. Murphy.”

“Tucker, vamoose!”

Mrs. Murphy streaked across the front lawn as Tucker, who could run like blazes, caught up with her. The front door opened and Lucinda, curious as well as wanting to forget the pain for a moment, saw the pair. “Those are Harry's animals. What in the world are they doing all the way over here?”

Warren stood beside her and watched the two figures silhouetted against silver moonlight. “Hunting. You'd be amazed at how large hunting territories are. Bears prowl a hundred-mile radius.”

“You'd think there'd be enough mice at Harry's.”

55

The crowd had gathered along the garden level at Monticello. Kimball Haynes's memorial service was held in the land he loved and understood. Monticello, shorn as she is of home life, makes up for it by casting an emotional net over all who work there.

At first Oliver Zeve balked at holding a memorial at Monticello. Enough negative attention, in his mind, had been drawn to the shrine. He brought it before the board of directors, each of whom had ample opportunity to know and care for Kimball. He was an easy man to like. The board decided without much argument to allow the ceremony to take place after public hours. Somehow it was fitting that Kimball should be remembered where he was happiest and where he served to further understanding of one of the greatest men this nation or any other has ever produced.

The Reverend Jones, Montalto looming behind him, cleared his throat. Mim and Jim Sanburne sat in the front row along with Warren and Ansley Randolph, as those two couples had made the financial arrangements for the service. Mrs. Hogendobber, in her pale gold robes with the garnet satin inside the sleeves and around the collar, stood beside the reverend with the choir of the Church of the Holy Light. Although an Evangelical Lutheran, Reverend Jones had a gift for bringing together the various Christian groups in Crozet.

Harry, Susan and Ned Tucker, Fair Haristeen, and Heike Holtz sat in the second row along with Leah and Nick Nichols, social friends of Kimball's. Lucinda Coles, after much self-torture, joined them. Mim, in a long, agonizing phone conversation, told Lulu that no one blamed her for Kimball's death and her presence would be a tribute to the departed.

Members of the history and architecture departments from the University of Virginia were in attendance, along with all of the Monticello staff including the wonderful docents who conduct the tours for the public.

The Reverend Jones opened his well-worn Bible, and in his resonant, hypnotic voice read the Twenty-seventh Psalm:

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
of whom shall I be afraid?

When evildoers assail me,
uttering slanders against me,

My adversaries and foes,
they shall stumble and fall.

Though a host encamp against me,
my heart shall not fear;

Though war rise up against me,
yet I will be confident.

One thing have I asked of the Lord,
that will I seek after;

That I may dwell in the house of the Lord
all the days of my life—

The service continued and the reverend spoke directly of sufferings needlessly afflicted, of promising life untimely cut down, of the evils that men do to one another, and of the workings of faith. Reverend Jones reminded them of how one life, Kimball Haynes's, had touched so many others and how Kimball sought to help us touch those lives lived long ago. By the time the good man finished, there wasn't a dry eye left.

As the people filed out to leave, Fair considerately placed his hand under Lulu's elbow, for she was much affected. After all, apart from her liking for Kimball and her feelings of responsibility, it was her husband who stood accused of his murder. And Samson sure had a motive. Kimball could have blown the whistle on his escrow theft. Worse, Samson had bellowed that he would kill her.

Ansley stumbled up ahead. High-heeled shoes implanted her in the grass like spikes. Lucinda pulled Fair along with her and hissed at Ansley. “I thought you were my best friend.”

“I am,” Ansley stoutly insisted.

Warren, high color in his cheeks, watched as if waiting for another car wreck to happen.

“What a novel definition of a best friend: one who sleeps with your husband.” Lucinda raised her voice.

“Not here,” Ansley begged through clenched teeth.

“Why not? Sooner or later everyone here will know the story. Crozet is the only town where sound travels faster than light.”

Before a rip-roaring shouting match could erupt, Harry slid alongside Lucinda on the right. Susan ran interference.

“Lulu, you are making a career of disrupting funerals,” Harry chided her.

It was enough.