Murder at Monticello (6 page)

“Surely, no one is in danger today. They're all”—he swept his hand outward—“dead.”

“I'd like to think the architect of this place would not find me remiss in my duties.” Rick's jaw was set.

A chill shivered down Harry's spine. She knew the sheriff to be a strong man, a dedicated public servant, but when he said that, when he acknowledged his debt to the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence, the man who elevated America's sense of architecture and the living arts, the man who endured the presidency and advanced the nation, she recognized that she, too, all of them, in fact, even Heike, were tied to the redheaded man born in 1743. But if they really thought about it, they owed honor to all who came before them, all who tried to improve conditions.

As Oliver Zeve could concoct no glib reply, he returned to the food baskets. But he muttered under his breath, “Murder at Monticello. Good God.”

9

Riding back to Crozet in Mrs. Hogendobber's Falcon, Mrs. Murphy asleep in her lap, Tucker zonked on the back seat, Harry's mind churned like an electric blender.

“I'm waiting.”

“Huh?”

“Harry, I've known you since little on up. What's going on?” Mrs. Hogendobber tapped her temple.

“Oliver. He ought to work for a public relations firm. You know, the kind of people who can make Sherman's March look like trespassing.”

“I can understand his position. I'm not sure it's as bad as he thinks, but then, I'm not responsible for making sure there's enough money to pay the bills for putting a new roof on Monticello either. He's got to think of image.”

“Okay, a man was murdered on Mulberry Row. He had money in his pockets, I wonder how much by today's standards. . . .”

“Kimball will figure that out.”

“He wore a big gold ring. Not too shabby. What in the hell was he doing in Medley Orion's cabin?”

“Picking up a dress for his wife.”

“Or worse.” Harry frowned. “That's why Oliver is so fussy. Another slave wouldn't have a brocaded vest or a gold ring on his finger. The victim was white and well-to-do. If I think of that, so will others when this gets reported. . . .”

“Soon, I should think.”

“Mim will fry.” Harry couldn't help smiling.

“She already knows,” Mrs. Hogendobber informed her.

“Damn, you know everything.”

“No. Every
body
.” Mrs. H. smiled. “Kimball mentioned it to me when I said, sotto voce, mind you, that Mim must be told.”

“Oh.” Harry's voice trailed off, then picked up steam. “Well, what I'm getting at is if I think about white men in slaves' cabins, so will other people. Not that the victim was carrying on with Medley, but who knows? People jump to conclusions. And that will bring up the whole Sally Hemings mess again. Poor Thomas Jefferson. They won't let that rest.”

“His so-called affair with the beautiful slave, Sally, was invented by the Federalists. They loathed and feared him. The last thing they wanted was Jefferson as president. Not a word of truth in it.”

Harry, not so sure, moved on. “Funny, isn't it? A man was killed one hundred ninety years ago, if 1803 was the year, and we're disturbed by it. It's like an echo from the past.”

“Yes, it is.” Miranda's brow furrowed. “It is because for one human being to murder another is a terrible, terrible thing. Whoever killed that man knew him. Was it hate, love, love turned to hate, fear of some punishment? What could have driven someone to kill this man, who must have been powerful? I can tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“The devil's deep claws tore at both of them, killer and killed.”

10

“I told Marilyn Sanburne no good would come of her Mulberry Row project.” Disgusted, Wesley Randolph slapped the morning newspaper down on the dining table. The coffee rolled precariously in the Royal Doulton cup. He had just finished reading the account of the find, obviously influenced by Oliver Zeve's statement. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” he growled.

“Don't exercise yourself,” Ansley drawled. Her father-in-law's recitation of pedigree had amused her when Warren was courting her, but now, after eighteen years of marriage, she could recite them as well as Wesley could. Her two sons, Breton and Stuart, aged fourteen and sixteen, knew them also. She was tired of his addiction to the past.

Warren picked up the paper his father had slapped down and read the article.

“Big Daddy, a skeleton was unearthed in a slave's cabin. Probably more dust than bone. Oliver Zeve has issued what I think is a sensible report to the press. Interest will swell for a day or two and then subside. If you're so worked up about it, go see the mortal coil for yourself.” Ansley half smiled when she stole the description from
Hamlet
.

Warren still responded to Ansley's beauty, but he detected her disaffection for him. Not that she overtly showed it. Far too discreet for that, Ansley had settled into the rigors of propriety as regarded her husband. “You take history too lightly, Ansley.” This statement should please the old man, he thought.

“Dearest, I don't take it at all. History is dead. I'm alive today and I'd like to be alive tomorrow—and I think our family's contributions to Monticello are good for today. Let's keep Albemarle's greatest attraction growing.”

Wesley shook his head. “This archaeology in the servants' quarters”—he puffed out his ruddy cheeks—“stirs up the pot. The next thing you know, some council of Negroes—”

“African Americans,” Ansley purred.

“I don't give a damn what you call them!” Wesley raised his voice. “I still think ‘colored' is the most polite term yet! Whatever you want to call them, they'll get themselves organized, they'll camp in a room underneath a terrace at Monticello, and before you know it, all of Jefferson's achievements will be nullified. They'll declare that
they
did them.”

“Well, they certainly performed most of the work. Didn't he have something like close to two hundred slaves on his various properties?” Ansley challenged her father-in-law while Warren held his breath.

“Depends on the year,” Wesley waffled. “And how do you know that?”

“Mim's lecture.”

“Mim Sanburne is the biggest pain in the ass this county has suffered since the seventeenth century. Before this is all over, Jefferson will be besmirched, dragged in the dirt, made out to be a scoundrel. Mim and her Mulberry Row. Leave the servant question alone! Damn, I wish I'd never written her a check.”

“But it's part of history.” Ansley was positively enjoying this.

“Whose history?”

“America's history, Big Daddy.”

“Oh, balls!” He glared at her, then laughed. She was the only person in his life who dared stand up to him—and he loved it.

Warren, worry turning to boredom, drank his orange juice and turned to the sports page.

“Have you any opinion?” Wesley's bushy eyebrows knitted together.

“Huh?”

“Warren, Big Daddy wants to know what you think about this body at Monticello stuff.”

“I—uh—what can I say? Hopefully this discovery will lead us to a better understanding of life at Monticello, the rigors and pressures of the time.”

“We aren't your constituency. I'm your father! Do you mean to tell me a corpse in the garden, or wherever the hell it was”—he grabbed at the front page to double-check—“in Cabin Four, can be anything but bad news?”

Warren, long accustomed to his father's fluctuating opinion of his abilities and behavior, drawled, “Well, Poppa, it sure was bad news for the corpse.”

         

Ansley heard Warren's Porsche 911 roar out of the garage. She knew Big Daddy was at the stable. She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Lucinda,” she said with surprise before continuing, “have you read the paper?”

“Yes. The queen of Crozet has her tit in the wringer this time,” Lucinda pungently put it.

“Really, Lulu, it's not that bad.”

“It's not that good.”

“I never will understand why being related to T.J. by blood, no matter how thinned out, is so important,” said Ansley, who understood only too well.

Lucinda drew deeply on her cheroot. “What else have our respective husbands got? I don't think Warren's half so besotted with the blood stuff, but I mean, Samson makes money from it. Look at his real estate ads in
The New York Times
. He wiggles in his relation to Jefferson every way he can. ‘See Jefferson country from his umpty-ump descendant.' ” She took another drag. “I suppose he has to make a living somehow. Samson isn't the brightest man God ever put on earth.”

“One of the best-looking though,” Ansley said. “You always did have the best taste in men, Lulu.”

“Thank you—at this point it doesn't matter. I'm a golf widow.”

“Count your blessings, sister. I wish I could get Warren interested in something besides his so-called practice. Big Daddy keeps him busy reading real estate contracts, lawsuits, syndication proposals—I'd go blind.”

“Boom time for lawyers,” Lulu said. “The economy is in the toilet, everybody's blaming everybody else, and the lawsuits are flying like confetti. Too bad we don't use that energy to work together.”

“Well, right now, honey, we've got a tempest in a teapot. Every old biddy and crank scholar in central Virginia will pass out opinions like gas.”

“Mim wanted attention for her project.” Lulu didn't hide her sarcasm. She'd grown tired of taking orders from Mim over the years.

“She's got it now.” Ansley walked over to the sink and began to run the water. “What papers did you read this morning?”

“Local and Richmond.”

“Lulu, did the Richmond paper say anything about the cause of death?”

“No.”

“Or who it is? The
Courier
was pretty sparse on the facts.”

“Richmond too. They probably don't know anything, but we'll find out as soon as they do, I guess. You know, I've half a mind to call Mim and just bitch her out.” Lucinda stubbed out her cheroot.

“You won't.” An edge crept into Ansley's voice.

A long silence followed. “I know—but maybe someday I will.”

“I want to be there. I'd pay good money to see the queen get her comeuppance.”

“As she does a lot of business with both of our husbands, about all I can do is dream—you too.” Lucinda bid Ansley goodbye, hung up the phone, and reflected for a moment on her precarious position.

Mim Sanburne firmly held the reins of Crozet social life. She paid back old scores, never forgot a slight, but by the same token, she never forgot a favor. Mim could use her wealth as a crowbar, a carrot, or even as a wreath to toss over settled differences—settled in her favor. Mim never minded spending money. What she minded was not getting her way.

11

The gray of dawn yielded to rose, which surrendered to the sun. The horses fed and turned out, the stalls mucked, and the opossum fed his treat of sweet feed and molasses, Harry happily trotted inside to make herself breakfast.

Harry started each morning with a cup of coffee, moved her great-grandmother's cast-iron iron away from the back door—her security measure—jogged to the barn, and got the morning chores out of the way. Then she usually indulged herself in hot oatmeal or fried eggs or sometimes even fluffy pancakes drenched in Lyon's Golden Syrup from England.

The possum, Simon, a bright and curious fellow, would sometimes venture close to the house, but she could never coax him inside. She marveled at how Mrs. Murphy and Tucker accepted the gray creature. Mrs. Murphy displayed an unusual tolerance for other animals. Often it took Tucker a bit longer.

“All right, you guys. You already had breakfast, but if you're real good to me, I might, I just might, fry an egg for you.”

“I'll be good, I'll be good.”
Tucker wagged her rear end since she had no tail.

“If you'd learn to play hard to get, you'd have more dignity.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped onto a kitchen chair.

“I don't want dignity, I want eggs.”

Harry pulled out the number five skillet, old and heavy cast iron. She rubbed it with Crisco after every washing to help preserve its longevity. She dropped a chunk of butter into the middle of the pan, which she placed on low heat. She fetched a mixing bowl and cracked open four eggs, diced a bit of cheese, some olives, and even threw in a few capers. As the skillet reached the correct temperature, the butter beginning to sizzle, she placed the eggs in it. She folded them over once, turned it off, and quickly put the eggs on a big plate. Then she divided the booty.

Tucker ate out of her ceramic bowl, which Harry placed on the floor.

Mrs. Murphy's bowl, “Upholstery Destroyer” emblazoned on its side, sat on the table. She ate with Harry.

“This is delicious.”
The cat licked her lips.

“Yeah.”
Tucker could barely speak, she was eating so fast.

The tiger cat enjoyed the olives. Seeing her pick them out and eat them first made Harry laugh every time she did it.

“You're too much, Mrs. Murphy.”

“I like to savor my food,”
the cat rejoined.

“Got any more?”
Tucker sat down beside her empty bowl, her neck craned upward, should any morsel fall off the table.

“You're as bad as Pewter.”

“Thanks.”

“You two are chatty this morning.” Harry cheerfully drank her second cup of coffee as she thought out loud to the animals. “Guess being up at Monticello has made me think. What would we be doing if this were 1803? I suppose, getting up at the same time and feeding the horses wouldn't have changed. Mucking stalls hasn't changed. But someone would have had to stoke a fire in an open hearth. If a person lived alone, it would have been a lot harder than today. How could anyone perform her chores, cook for herself, butcher meat—well, I guess you could have bought your meat, but only a day at a time unless you had a smokehouse or the meat was salted down. Think about it. And you two, no worm medicine or rabies shots, but then, no vaccines for me either. Clothing must have been itchy and heavy in the winter. Summer wouldn't have been too bad because the women could have worn linen dresses. Men could take off their shirts. And I resent that. If I can't take off my shirt, I don't see why they can.” She carried on this conversation with her two friends as they hung on every word and every mouthful of egg that was shoveled into Harry's mouth. “You two aren't really listening, are you?”

“We are!”

“Here.” Harry handed Mrs. Murphy an extra olive and gave Tucker a nibble of egg. “I don't know why I spoil you all. Look at how much you've had to eat this morning.”

“We love you, Mom.”
Mrs. Murphy emitted a major purr.

Harry scratched the tiger cat's ear with one hand and reached down to perform the same service for Tucker. “I don't know what I'd do without you two. It's so easy to love animals and so hard to love people. Men anyway. Your mom is striking out with the opposite sex.”

“No, you're not.”
Tucker consoled her and was very frustrated that Harry couldn't understand.
“You haven't met the right guy yet.”

“I still think Blair is the right guy.”
Mrs. Murphy put in her two cents.

“Blair is off on some modeling job. Anyway, I don't think Mom needs a man who's that pretty.”

“What do you mean by that?”
the cat asked.

“She needs the outdoor type. You know, a lineman or a farmer or a vet.”

Mrs. Murphy thought about that as Harry rubbed her ears.
“You still miss Fair?”

“Sometimes I do,”
the little dog replied honestly.
“He's big and strong, he could do a lot of farmwork, and he could protect Mom if something went wrong, you know.”

“She can protect herself.”
True as this was, the cat also worried occasionally about Harry being alone. No matter how you cut it, most men were stronger than most women. It was good to have a man around the farm.

“Yeah—but still,”
came the weak reply.

Harry stood up and took the dishes to the porcelain sink. She meticulously washed each one, dried them, and put them away. Coming home to dirty dishes in the sink drove Harry to despair. She turned off the coffeepot. “Looks like a Mary Minor Haristeen day.” This meant it was sunny.

She paused for a moment to watch the horses groom one another. Then her mind drifted off for a moment and she spoke to her animal friends. “How could Medley Orion live with a body under her fireplace—if she knew? She may not have known a single thing, but if she did, how could she make her coffee, eat her breakfast, and go about her business—knowing? I don't think I could do it.”

“If you were scared enough, you could,”
Mrs. Murphy wisely noted.