Murder At Monticello

Tucker obediently left, but Mrs. Murphy didn’t. She batted at the skull. “Look, you dummies.”

“She thinks everything is a toy.” Harry scooped up the cat.

“I do not!” Mrs. Murphy puffed her tail in fury, squirmed out of Harry’s arms, and jumped back to the ground to pat the skull piece again.

“I’m sorry, Cynthia, I’ll put her back in the truck. Wonder if I could put her in Monticello? The truck’s a ways off.”

“She’ll shred Mr. Jefferson’s bedspread,” Tucker warned. “If it has historic value, she can’t wait to get her claws in it. Think what she’ll say to Pewter, ‘I tore up Thomas Jefferson’s silk bedspread.’ If it has tassles on it, forget it. There won’t be any left.”

“And you wouldn’t chew the furniture legs?” the cat shot back.

“Not if they give me one of those bones, I won’t.” The corgi laughed.

“Stop being an ass, Tucker, and help me get these two nincompoops to really look at what they’re seeing.”

Tucker hopped into the dig and walked over to the skeleton. She sniffed the large skull fragment, a triangular piece perhaps four inches across at the base.

“What’s going on here?” Harry, frustrated, tried to reach for the cat and the dog simultaneously. They both evaded her with ease.

Cynthia, trained as an observer, watched the cat jump sideways as though playing and return each time to repeatedly touch the same piece of the skull. Each time she would twist away from an exasperated Harry. “Wait a minute, Harry.” She hunkered down in the earth, still soft from the rains. “Sheriff, come back here a minute, will you?” Cynthia stared at Mrs. Murphy, who sat opposite her and stared back, relieved that someone got the message.

“That Miranda makes mean chicken.” He waved his drumstick like a baton. “What could tear me away from fried chicken, cold greens, potato salad, and did you see the apple pie?”

“There’d better be some left when I get out of here.” Cynthia called up to Mrs. Hogendobber. “Mrs. H., save some for me.”

“Of course I will, Cynthia. Even though you’re our new deputy, you’re still a growing girl.” Miranda, who’d known Cynthia since the day she was born, was delighted that she’d received the promotion.

“Okay, what is it?” Rick eyed the cat, who eyed him back.

For good measure, Mrs. Murphy stuck out one mighty claw and tapped the triangular skull piece.

He did notice. “Strange.”

Mrs. Murphy sighed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Cynthia whispered, “Oliver’s deflected us a bit, you know what I mean? We should have noticed the odd shape of this piece, but his mouth hasn’t stopped running.”

Rick grunted in affirmation. They’d confer about Oliver later. Rick took his index finger and nudged the piece of bone.

Harry, mesmerized, knelt down on the other side of the skeleton. “Are you surprised that there isn’t more damage to the cranium?”

Rick blinked for a moment. He had been lost in thought. “Uh, no, actually. Harry, this man was killed with one whacking-good blow to the back of the head with perhaps an ax or a wedge or some heavy iron tool. The break is too clean for a blunt instrument—but the large piece here is strange. I wonder if the back of an ax could do that?”

“Do what?” Harry asked.

“The large, roughly triangular piece may have been placed back in the skull,” Cynthia answered for him, “or at the time of death it could have been partially attached, but the shape of the break is what’s unusual. Usually when someone takes a crack to the head, it’s more of a mess—pulverized.”

“Thank, you, thank you, thank you!” Mrs. Murphy crowed. “Not that I’ll get any credit.”

“I’d settle for some of Mrs. Hogendobber’s chicken instead of thanks,” Tucker admitted.

“How can you be sure, especially with a body—or what’s left of it—this old, that one person killed him? Couldn’t it have been two or three?” Harry’s curiosity was rising with each moment.

“I can’t be sure of anything, Harry.” Rick was quizzical. “But I see what you’re getting at. One person could have pinned him while the second struck the blow.”

Tucker, now completely focused on Mrs. H.’s chicken, saucily yipped, “So the killer scooped the brains out and fed them to the dog.”

“Gross, Tucker.” Mrs. Murphy flattened her ears for an instant.

“You’ve come up with worse.”

“Tucker, go on up to Mrs. Hogendobber and beg. You’re just making noise. I need to think,” the cat complained.

“Mrs. Hogendobber has a heart of steel when it comes to handing out goodies.”

“Bet Kimball doesn’t.”

“Good idea.” The dog followed Mrs. Murphy’s advice.

Harry grimaced slightly at the thought. “A neat killer. Those old fireplaces were big enough to stand in. One smash and that was it.” Her mind raced. “But whoever did it had to dig deep into the fireplace, arrange the body, cover it up. It must have taken all night.”

“Why night?” Cynthia questioned.

“These are slave quarters. Wouldn’t the occupant be working during the day?”

“Harry, you have a point there.” Rick stood up, his knees creaking. “Kimball, who lived here?”

“Before the fire it was Medley Orion. We don’t know too much about her except that she was perhaps twenty at the time of the fire,” came the swift reply.

“After the fire?” Rick continued his questioning.

“We’re not sure if Medley came back to this site to live. We know she was still, uh, employed here because her name shows up in the records,” Kimball said.

“Know what she did, her line of work?” Cynthia asked.

“Apparently a seamstress of some talent.” Kimball joined them in the pit, but only after being suckered out of a tidbit by Tucker. “Ladies who came to visit often left behind fabrics for Medley to transform. We have mention of her skills in letters visitors wrote back to Mr. Jefferson.”

“Was Jefferson paid?” Rick innocently asked.

“Good heavens, no!” Oliver called from the food baskets. “Medley would have been paid directly either in coin or in kind.”

“Slaves could earn money independently of their masters?” Cynthia inquired. This notion shed new light on the workings of a plantation.

“Yes, indeed, they could and that coin was coveted. A few very industrious or very fortunate slaves bought their way to freedom. Not Medley, I’m afraid, but she seems to have had quite a good life,” Oliver said soothingly.

“Any idea when this fellow bit the dust, literally?” Harry couldn’t resist.

Kimball leaned down and picked up a few of the coins. “Don’t worry, we’ve photographed everything, from numerous different angles and heights, drawn the initial positions on our grids—everything is in order.” Kimball reassured everyone that the investigation was not jeopardizing the progress of his archaeological work. “The nearest date we can come to is 1803. That’s the date of a coin in the dead man’s pocket.”

“The Louisiana Purchase,” Mrs. Hogendobber sang out.

“Maybe this guy was opposed to the purchase. A political enemy of T.J.’s,” Rick jested.

“Don’t even think that. Not for an instant. And especially not on hallowed ground.” Oliver sucked in his breath. “Whatever happened here, I am certain that Mr. Jefferson had no idea, no idea whatsoever. Why else would the murderer have gone to such pains to dispose of the body?”

“Most murderers do,” Cynthia explained.

“Sorry, Oliver, I didn’t mean to imply . . .” Rick apologized.

“Quite all right, quite all right.” Oliver smiled again. “We’re just wrought up, you see, because this April thirteenth will be the two hundred fiftieth anniversary of Mr. Jefferson’s birth, and we don’t want anything to spoil it, to bleed attention away from his achievements and vision. Something like this could, well, imbalance the celebration, shall we say?”

“I understand.” Rick did too. “But I am elected sheriff to keep the peace, if you will, and the peace was disturbed here, perhaps in 1803 or thereabouts. We’ll carbon-date the body, of course. Oliver, it’s my responsibility to solve this crime. When it was committed is irrelevant to me.”

“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. Everybody.” 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.

12

The old walnut countertop gleamed as Mrs. Hogendobber polished it with beeswax. Harry, using a stiff broom, swept out the back of the post office. The clock read two-thirty, a time for chores and a lull between people stopping in at lunchtime and on their way home from work. Mrs. Murphy, sound asleep in the mail cart, flicked her tail and cackled, dreaming of mice. Tucker lay on her side on the floor, made shiny from the decades of treading feet. She, too, was out cold.

“Hey, did I tell you that Fair asked me to the movies next week?” Harry attacked a corner.

“He wants you back.”

“Mrs. H., you’ve been saying that since the day we separated. He sure didn’t want me back when he was cavorting with BoomBoom Craycroft, she of the pontoon bosoms.”

Mrs. Hogendobber waved her dust cloth over her head like a small flag. “A passing fancy. He had to get it out of his system.”

“And so he did,” came Harry’s clipped reply.

“You must forgive and forget.”

“Easy for you to say. It wasn’t your husband.”

“You’ve got me there.”

Harry, surprised that Mrs. Hogendobber agreed with her so readily, paused a moment, her broom held off the ground. A knock at the back door brought the broom down again.

“Me,” Market Shiflett called.

“Hi.” Harry opened the door and Market, who owned the grocery store next door, came in, followed by Pewter.

“Haven’t seen you today. What have you been up to?” Miranda kept polishing.

“This and that and who shot the cat.” He smiled, looked down at Pewter, and apologized. “Sorry, Pewter.”

Pewter, far too subtle to push the dog awake, flicked her fat little tail over Tucker’s nose until the dog opened her eyes.

“I was dead to the world.” Tucker blinked.

“Where’s herself?” Pewter inquired.

“Mail cart, last time I saw her.”

A gleam in her eye betrayed Pewter’s intentions. She walked to the mail cart and halted. She scrunched down and wiggled her rear end, then with a mighty leap she catapulted herself into the mail cart. A holy howl attended this action. Had Mrs. Murphy not been a cat in the prime of her life, had she been, say, an older feline, she surely would have lost her bladder control at such a rude awakening. A great hissing and spitting filled the bin, which was beginning to roll just a bit.

“Now, that’s enough.” Market hurried over to the mail cart, where he beheld the spectacle of his beloved cat, claws out, rolling around the heavy canvas bag with Mrs. Murphy in the same posture. Tufts of fur floated in the air.

Harry dashed over. “I don’t know what gets into these two. They’re either the best of friends or like Muslims versus Christians.” Harry reached in to separate the two, receiving a scratch for her concern.

“You fat pig!” Mrs. Murphy bellowed.

“Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat,” Pewter taunted.

“You ought not to make light of religious differences,” Mrs. Hogendobber, faithful to the Church of the Holy Light, admonished Harry. “Cats aren’t religious anyway.”

“Who says?” Two little heads popped over the side of the cart.

This moment of peace lasted a millisecond before they dropped back in the cart and rolled over each other again.

Harry laughed. “I’m not reaching in there. They’re bound to get tired of this sooner or later.”

“Guess you’re right.” Market thought the hissing was awful. “I wanted to tell you I’ve got a special on cat food today. You want me to save you a case?”

“Oh, thanks. How about a nice, fresh chicken too?”

“Harry, don’t tell me you’re going to cook a chicken?” Mrs. Hogendobber held her heart as though this was too much. “What’s this world coming to?”

“Speaking of that, how about them finding a body up at Monticello?”

Before either woman could respond, Samson Coles blustered in the front door, so Market repeated his question.

Samson shook his leonine head. “Damn shame. I guarantee you that by tomorrow the television crews will be camped out at Mulberry Row and this unfortunate event will be blown out of all proportion.”

“Well, I don’t know. It does seem strange that a body would be buried under a cabin. If the death was, uh, legitimate, wouldn’t the body be in a cemetery? Even slaves had cemeteries.” Market said.

Both Harry and Mrs. H. knew the body didn’t belong to a slave. So did Mrs. Murphy, who said so loudly to Pewter. They had exhausted themselves and lay together in the bottom of the cart.

“How do you know that?” the gray cat wondered.

“Because I saw the corpse,” Mrs. Murphy bragged. “The back of the skull was caved in like a big triangle.”

“You aren’t supposed to give out the details,” Tucker chided.

“Oh, bull, Tucker. The humans can’t understand a word I’m saying. They think Pewter and I are in here meowing and you’re over there whining at us.”

“Then get out of the cart so we can all talk,” Tucker called up. “I saw the body too, Pewter.”

“Did you now?” Pewter grasped the edge of the cart with her chubby paws and peered over the side.

“Don’t listen to him. All he wanted was Mrs. Hogendobber’s chicken.”

“I saw the body as plain as you did, bigmouth. It was lying facedown under the hearth, maybe two feet under where the floor must have been at the time of death. So there.”

“You don’t say!” Pewter’s eyes widened into big black balls. “A murder!”

“Good point, Market.” Samson cupped his chin in his hand for a moment. “Why would a body be buried—what did they say, under the fireplace?”

“Hearth,” the dog called out, but they didn’t pay attention.

“Maybe the man died in the winter and they couldn’t dig up the frozen ground. But the ground wouldn’t be frozen under the hearth, would it?” Market threw this out. He didn’t necessarily believe it.

“I thought the people at that time had mausoleums, or something like mausoleums anyway, dug into rock where they’d store bodies until the spring thaws. Then they’d dig the grave,” Miranda added.

“Did they really?” Market shivered at the thought of bodies being stacked up somewhere like cordwood.

“Well, they were frozen, I suspect,” Miranda answered.

“Gruesome.” Samson grimaced. “Has Lucinda come in today?”

“No,” Harry answered.

“I can’t keep track of my own wife’s schedule.” His affable tone belied the truth—he didn’t want Lucinda tailing him. He liked to know her whereabouts because he didn’t want her to know his.

“What’d she think of the Monticello discovery?” Mrs. Hogendobber asked politely.

“Lucinda? Oh, she didn’t think it would be positive publicity, but she can’t see that it has anything to do with us today.” Samson tapped the countertop, admiring Mrs. Hogendobber’s handiwork. “I hear Wesley Randolph doesn’t like this one bit. He’s overreacting, but then, he always does. Lulu’s interest in history isn’t as deep as mine,” he sighed, “but then, she doesn’t have my connections to Mr. Jefferson. A direct line from his mother, Jane, you know, and then, of course, on my father’s side I’m related to Dolley Madison. Naturally, my interest is keen and Lulu’s people were new. I don’t think they got over here until the 1780s.” He stopped for a second, realized he was unrolling his pedigree to people who could recite it as well as he could. “I digress. Anyway, Lulu reads a good amount. Like me, she’ll be glad when this episode is behind us. We don’t want the wrong kind of attention here in Albemarle County.”

“Samson, we’re talking about almost two centuries between then and now.” Market chuckled.

“The past lives on in Virginia, the mother of presidents.” Samson beamed a Chamber of Commerce smile. He couldn’t have known how true was that pronouncement, or how tragic.

As Samson left, Danny Tucker and Stuart and Breton Randolph boisterously rushed into the post office. Danny looked like his mother, Susan. Stuart and Breton also strongly resembled their mother, Ansley. Every mouth jabbered simultaneously as the teenage boys reached into the mailboxes.

“Eii—” Danny let out a yell and jerked back his hand.

“Mousetrap?” Stuart’s sandy eyebrows shot upward.

“No such luck,” Danny sarcastically replied.

Breton peeped in the mailbox. “Gross.” He reached in and pulled out a fake eyeball.

Harry whispered to Mrs. Hogendobber. “Did you do that?”

“I won’t say I did and I won’t say I didn’t.”

“Harry, did you put this eyeball in the mailbox?” Danny, accompanied by his buddies, leaned on the counter.

“No.”

“Mother’s not fond of rubber eyeballs,” Mrs. Murphy disclosed.

Reverend Herb Jones walked into the hubbub. “A prayer meeting?”

“Hi, Rev.” Stuart adored the pastor.

“Stuart, address Reverend Jones properly,” Miranda ordered.

“I’m sorry. Hello, Reverend Jones.”

“I always do what Mrs. H. tells me.” Reverend Jones put his arm around Stuart’s shoulders. “I’d be scared not to.”

“Now, Herbie . . .” Miranda began to protest.

Breton, a sweet kid, chimed in. “Mrs. Hogendobber, we all do what you tell us because you’re usually right.”

“Well . . .” A long, breathless pause followed. “I’m glad you all realize that.” She exploded in laughter and everyone joined in, including the animals.

“Harry.” Herb put his hand on the counter as he laughed. “Thanks for calling me the other day about my flat tire. Fixed it—now just got another one.”

“Oh, no,” Harry responded.

“You need a new truck,” Market Shiflett suggested.

“Yes, but I need the money, and so far—”

“No pennies from heaven.” Harry couldn’t resist. This set everyone off again.

“Reverend Jones, I’ll help you change your tire,” Danny volunteered.

“Me too.” Breton jumped in.

“Me three.” Stuart was already out the door.

As they bounded out, Danny flashed his rubber eye back at Harry, who made a cross with her fingers.

“Good kids, I miss Courtney. She’s loving her first year at college. Still hard to let go.” Market, a widower, sighed.

“You did a wonderful job with that girl,” Miranda praised him.

“Too bad you didn’t do better with Lardguts,” Mrs. Murphy called out.

“Thanks,” Market replied.

“I resent that,” Pewter growled.

“Well, back to the salt mines.” Market paused. “Pewter?”

“I’m coming. I’m not staying here to be insulted by a—a string bean.”

“Oh, Pewter, where’s your sense of humor?” Tucker padded over to her and gave her a nudge.

“How do you stand her?” Pewter liked the corgi.

“I tear up her catnip toys when she’s not looking.”

Pewter, at Market’s heels, gaily sprang out the door as she thought of a catnip sock shredded to bits.

Harry and Miranda returned to their chores.

“You are the culprit. I know it.” Harry giggled.

“An eye for an eye . . .” Mrs. H. quoted her Old Testament.

“Yeah, but it was Susan who put the rubber spider in the box, not Danny.”

“Oh, darn.” The older woman clapped her hands together. She thought, “Well, help me get even.”

Harry tipped back her head and roared. Miranda laughed too, as did Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, whose laughter sounded like little snorts.

13

Samson Coles’s bright red Grand Wagoneer stuck out like a sore thumb on the country roads. The big eight-cylinder engine harnessed to a four-wheel drive was essential to his business. He’d hauled prospective buyers through fields, forded rivers, and rumbled down old farm roads. The roominess inside pleased people, and he was disappointed when Jeep discontinued the boxy vehicle to replace it with a smaller, sleeker model, the Grand Cherokee. The Grand Cherokee suffered from a Roman nose and too much resemblance to the rest of the Jeep line, he thought. The wonderful thing about the old Wagoneer was that no other car looked like it. Samson craved standing apart from the crowd.

However, he didn’t much crave it today. He parked behind a huge bank barn, pulled on his galoshes, and stomped through over a mile of slush to Blair Bainbridge’s farm next to Harry’s place.

He knew Harry was keeping an eye on the farm in Blair’s absence. The great thing about a small town is that most people know your schedule. It was also the bad thing about a small town.

Harry usually sorted Blair’s mail at work and put it in an international packet so he’d get it within a few days unless Blair happened to be on a shoot in a very remote area or in a political hot spot. She’d stop by Blair’s Foxden Farm on her way home from work.

The squish of mud dragged him down. Hard to run in galoshes, and Samson was in a hurry. He had a two o’clock appointment at Midale. That listing, once the property sold, meant a healthy commission for Samson. He needed the money. He was listing the estate at $2.2 million. He thought Midale would sell between $1.5 and $1.8 million. He’d work that out with his client later. The important thing was to get the listing. He’d learned a long time ago that in the real estate business if you give the client a high price, you usually win the listing. Occasionally, he would sell a property for the listing price. More often than not, the place would sell for twenty to thirty percent less and he covered himself by elaborately explaining that the market had dipped, interest rates varied, whatever soothed the waters. After all, he didn’t want a reputation for being an unrealistic agent.

He checked his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Damn, not much time. Two o’clock would roll around before he knew it.

The lovely symmetrical frame house came into view. He hurried on. At the back screen door he lifted the lid of the old milk box. The key dangled inside on a small brass hook.

He put the key in the door, but it was already unlocked. He opened and closed the door behind him.

Ansley rushed out from the living room, where she’d been waiting. “Darling.” She threw her arms around his neck.

“Where’d you park your car?” Samson asked.

“In the barn, out of sight. Now, is that a romantic thing to say?”

He squeezed her tight. “I’ll show you my romantic side in other ways, sweet thing.”

14

The County of Albemarle wasted little money on the offices of the sheriff’s department. Presumably they saw fit to waste the taxpayers’ money in other ways. Rick Shaw felt fortunate that he and his field staff had bulletproof vests and new cars at regular intervals. The walls, once painted 1950s grade-school-green, had at least graduated to real-estate-white. So much for improvements. Spring hadn’t really sprung. Rick was grateful. Every spring the incidence of drunkenness, domestic violence, and general silliness rose. Cynthia Cooper attributed it to spring fever. Rick attributed it to the inherent vile qualities of the human animal.

“Now, see here, Sheriff, is this really necessary?” Oliver Zeve’s lips narrowed to a slit. A note of authority and class superiority slithered into his deep voice.

Rick, long accustomed to people of higher social position trying to browbeat him, politely but firmly said, “Yes.”

During this discussion Deputy Cooper marched back and forth, occasionally catching Rick’s eye. She knew her boss really wanted to pick up the director of Monticello by the seat of his tailored pants and toss him out the front door. Rick’s expression changed when he spoke to Kimball Haynes. “Mr. Haynes, have you found anything else?”

“I’m pretty sure that the body was buried before the fire. There’s no ash or cinder below the line where we discovered him—uh, the corpse.”

“Couldn’t the fire have been set to cover the evidence?” Rick doodled on his desk pad.

“Actually, Sheriff, that would have jeopardized the murderer if the murderer lived at Cabin Four or worked on the estate. You see, these fires were woefully common. Once the fire burned itself out and people could walk in the ruins, they would shovel up the cold ash and scrape the ground back down to the hard earth underneath.”

“Why?” The sheriff stopped doodling and made notes.

“Courtesy more than anything. Every time it rained, whoever had lived in the cabin would smell that smoke and ash. Also, what if after the fire they used the opportunity to enlarge the cabin or to make some improvement? You’d want to start on a good, flat surface. . . .”

“True.”

“Burning the cabin would only have served the purpose of making it appear the victim had died in the fire. Given the obvious status of the victim, that would be peculiar, wouldn’t it? Why would a well-to-do white man be in a slave’s cabin fire? Unless he was asleep and died of smoke inhalation, and you know what that would mean,” Kimball offered.

Oliver’s temper flared. “Kimball, I vigorously protest this specious line of reasoning. This is all conjecture. Very imaginative and certainly makes a good story but has little to do with the facts at hand. Namely, a skeleton, presumably almost two hundred years old, is found underneath the hearth. Spinning theories doesn’t get us anywhere. We need facts.”

Rick nodded gravely, then stung quickly. “That’s exactly why the remains must go to the lab in Washington.”

Caught, Oliver fought back. “As director of Monticello, I protest the removal of any object, animate or inanimate, human or otherwise, found on the grounds of Mr. Jefferson’s home.”

Kimball, exasperated, couldn’t restrain his barbed humor. “Oliver, what are we going to do with a skeleton?”

“Give it a decent burial,” Oliver replied through clenched teeth.

“Mr. Zeve, your protest is duly noted, but these remains are going to Washington and hopefully they’ll be able to give us some boundaries concerning time, if nothing else, sex, and race,” the sheriff stated flatly.

“We know it’s a man.” Oliver crossed his arms over his chest.

“What if it’s a woman in a man’s clothing? What if a slave had stolen an expensive vest—”

“Waistcoat,” Oliver corrected him.

“Well, what if? What if she wanted to make a dress out of it or something? Now, I am not in the habit of theorizing, and I can’t accept anything until I have a lab report. Do I think the skeleton is that of a male? Yes, I do. The pelvis in a male skeleton is smaller than that in a female. I’ve seen enough of them to know that. But as for the rest of it—I don’t know much.”

“Then may I ask you to please not theorize about the possibility of the victim’s dying by smoke inhalation? Let’s wait on that too.”

“Oliver, that was my, uh, moment of imagination.” Kimball shouldered the blame since Oliver wanted to assign it. “Miscegenation is an old word and an ugly word, but it would have been the word and the law at the time. I understand your squeamishness.”

“Squeamish?”

“Okay, wrong word. It’s a delicate issue. But I return to my original scenario, and being an archaeologist, I have some authority here. In the process of preparing the burned cabin for a new building, the killer would run the very real risk that a spade would turn up the corpse. That is one strong reason against a fire having been set to cover up the evidence. The other, far more convincing data is that the layer of charred earth—again, scraped back as best they could—was roughly two feet above the corpse, allowing for the slight difference between the actual floor of the cabin and the floor of the hearth.”

“Is there any record of this cabin burning?” Rick listened to the slow glide as the soft lead crossed the white page. He found it a consoling sound.

“If the murder occurred in 1803, as it would appear, Jefferson was in his first term as president. We have no record in his own hand of such an event, and he was a compulsive record-keeper. He’d even count out beans, nails—just compulsive. So, if he were home at the time, or visiting home from Washington, we can be certain he would have made a note of it. I’m sorry to say that the overseer lacked Mr. Jefferson’s meticulous habits,” Kimball replied.

“Unless the overseer was in on it and wanted no attention called to the cabin.” Rick stopped writing.

An edge crept into Oliver’s tone. “I guess after years on the job you would naturally think like that, Sheriff.”

“Mr. Zeve, I understand that at this moment we seem to be in an adversarial position. In as plain a language as I can find: A man was murdered and it was covered up, forgive the pun, for nigh onto two hundred years. I am not the expert that you are on the end of the eighteenth century, the beginning of the nineteenth, but I would hazard a guess that our forefathers were more civilized and less prone to violence than we are today. I would especially think this is true of anyone who would have worked at Monticello, or visited the estate. So, whoever killed our victim had a powerful motive.”

15

In the parking lot the cool, clammy evening air caused Kimball to shudder. Oliver added to his discomfort.

“You weren’t helpful in there.” Oliver tried to sound more disappointed than angry.

“Usually you and I work easily together. Your position is far more political than mine, Oliver, and I appreciate that. It’s not enough for you to be an outstanding scholar on Thomas Jefferson, you’ve got to play footsie with the people who write the checks, the National Historic Trust in D.C., and the descendants of the man. I’m sure I’ve left out other pressures.”

“The people and artisans who work at Monticello.” Oliver supplied this omission.

“Of course,” Kimball agreed. “My one concern is discovering as much as we can about Mulberry Row and preserving the architectural and even landscaping integrity of Monticello at the time of Mr. Jefferson’s peak. My interpretation of peak, naturally.”

“Then don’t offer up theories for the good sheriff. Let him find out whatever there is to find out. I don’t want this turned into a three-ring circus and certainly not before the two hundred fiftieth birthday celebration. We need to make sure that celebration has the correct focus.” He inhaled and whispered, “Money, Kimball, money. The media will turn somersaults on April thirteenth, and the attention will be a godsend to all our efforts to preserve, maintain, and extend Monticello.”

“I know.”

“Then, please, let’s not give anyone ideas about white men sleeping in slave cabins, or with slave women. Smoke inhalation.” Oliver pronounced the two words as though they were a sentence of doom.

Kimball waited, turning this over in his mind. “All right, but I can’t turn away the opportunity to help Sheriff Shaw.”

“Of course not.” Oliver intoned, “I know you well enough to know that. I’m in an optimistic frame of mind and I think whatever comes back from the lab will put this to rest. Then we can put the remains to rest in a Christian burial.”

After saying good-night, Kimball hopped into his car. He watched Oliver’s taillights as he backed out behind him and then sped away. A moment of darkness enveloped him, a premonition perhaps or a sense of sorrow over his disagreement with Oliver, who could bounce him right out of a job. Then again, maybe thinking about murder and death, no matter how far distant, casts a brooding spell over people. Evil knows no time. Kimball shuddered again and chalked it up to the cool, cloying dampness.

16

The biting wind on Monticello Mountain made the forty-five-degree temperature feel like thirty-five. Mim huddled in her down jacket. She wanted to wear her sable, but Oliver Zeve warned her that wouldn’t look good for the Friends of Restoration. The antifur people would kick up a fuss. Made her spit. Furs had been keeping the human race warm for millennia. She did admit that the down jacket also kept her warm and was much lighter.

Montalto, the green spherical anchor at the northern end of Carter’s Ridge, drifted in and out of view. Ground clouds snaked through the lowlands, and they were slowly rising with the advent of the sun.

Mim admired Thomas Jefferson. She read voraciously what he himself had written and what had been written about him by others. She knew that he had purchased Montalto on October 14, 1777. Jefferson drew several observatory designs, for he wished to build one on Montalto. There was no end to his ideas, his drawings. He would return to projects years later and complete them. He needed little sleep, so he could accomplish more than most people.

Mim, greedy for sleep, wondered how he managed with so little. Perhaps his schemes held loneliness at bay when he sat at his desk at five in the morning. Or perhaps his mind raced so fast he couldn’t shut it off—might as well let it be productive. Another man might have gone on the prowl for trouble.

Not that Thomas Jefferson lacked his share of trouble or heartache. His father died when he was fourteen. His beloved tomboy older sister, Jane, died when he was twenty-two. His wife died on September 6, 1782, when he was thirty-nine, after he stayed home to nurse her for the last four painful months of her life. He sequestered himself in his room for three weeks following her death. After that he rode and rode and rode as if his horse could carry him away from death, from the burden of his crushing sorrow.

Mim felt she knew the man. Her sorrows, while not equal to Jefferson’s, nonetheless provided her with a sense that she could understand his losses. She understood his passion for architecture and landscaping. Politics proved harder for her to grasp. As the wife of Crozet’s mayor, she glad-handed, fed, and smiled at every soul in the community . . . and everybody wanted something.

How could this brilliant man participate in such a low profession?

A sound check in the background brought her out of her reverie. Little Marilyn pulled out a mirror for her mother. Mim scrutinized her appearance. Not bad. She cleared her throat. Then she stood up as she saw a production assistant walking her way.

Mim, Kimball, and Oliver would be discussing the corpse on Wake-up Call, the national network morning show.

She was to deflect any suggestions of miscegenation, as Samson Coles put it to her on the phone. Wesley Randolph, when she called on him, advised her to emphasize that Jefferson was probably in Washington at the time of the unfortunate man’s demise. When Mim said that perhaps they’d have to wait for the pathology report from D.C., her rival and friend harrumphed. “Wait nothing. Don’t be honest, Mim. This is politics even if centuries have passed. In politics your virtues will be used against you. There’s private morality and public morality. I keep telling Warren that. Ansley understands, but my son sure doesn’t. You get up there and say whatever you want so long as it sounds good—and remember, the best defense is a good offense.”

Mim, poised at the edge of the lights behind the camera, watched as Kimball Haynes pointed to the site of the body.

Little Marilyn watched the monitor. A photo of the skeleton flashed on the screen. “Indecent.” Mim fumed. “You shouldn’t show a body until the next of kin are notified.”

A hand gripped her elbow, guiding her to her mark. The sound technician placed a tiny microphone on the lapel of her cashmere sweater. She shed her jacket. Her perfect three strands of pearls gleamed against the hunter-green sweater.

The host glided over to her, flashed his famous smile, and held out his right hand, “Mrs. Sanburne, Kyle Kottner, so pleased you could be with us this morning.”

He paused, listened to his earphone, and swiveled to face the camera with the red light. “I’m here now with Mrs. James Sanburne, president of the Friends of Restoration and the moving force behind the Mulberry Row project. Tell us, Mrs. Sanburne, about slave life during Thomas Jefferson’s time.”

“Mr. Jefferson would have called his people servants. Many of them were treasured as family members and many servants were highly skilled. His servants were devoted to him because he was devoted to them.”

“But isn’t it a contradiction, Mrs. Sanburne, that one of the fathers of liberty should own slaves?”

Mim, prepared, appeared grave and thoughtful. “Mr. Kottner, when Thomas Jefferson was a young man at the House of Burgesses before the Revolutionary War, he said that he made an effort at emancipation which failed. I think that the war diverted his attention from this subject, and as you know, he was sent to France, where his presence was crucial to our war efforts. France was the best friend we had.” Kyle started to cut her off, but Mim smiled brightly. “And after the war Americans faced the herculean labor of forming a new kind of government. Had he been born later, I do believe he would have successfully tackled this thorny problem.”

Amazed that a woman from a place he assumed was the sticks had gotten the better of him, Kyle shifted gears. “Have you any theories about the body found in Cabin Four?”

“Yes. I believe he was a violent opponent of Mr. Jefferson’s. What we would call a stalker today. And I believe one of the servants killed him to protect the great man’s life.”

Pandemonium. Everyone started talking at once. Mim stifled a broad smile.

Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, Susan, and Market were watching on the portable TV Susan had brought to the post office. Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter stared at the tube as well.

“Slick as an eel.” Harry clapped her hands in admiration.

“Stalker theory! Where does she come up with this stuff?” Market scratched his balding head.

“The newspapers,” Susan answered. “You’ve got to hand it to her. She turned the issue of slavery on its head. She controlled the interviewer instead of vice versa. Until the real story surfaces, if it ever does, she’s got the media chasing their tails.”

“The real story will surface.” Miranda spoke with conviction. “It always does.”

Pewter flicked her whiskers fore and aft. “Does anyone have a glazed doughnut? I’m hungry.”

“No,” Tucker replied. “Pewter, you have no sense of mystery.”

“That’s not true,” she defended herself. “But I see Mim on a daily basis. Watching her on television is no big deal.” Pewter, waiting for a comeback from Mrs. Murphy, was disappointed when none was forthcoming. “What planet are you on?”

The gorgeous eyes widened, the tiger cat hunched forward and whispered, “I’ve got a funny feeling about this. I can’t put my paw on it.”

“Oh, you’re hungry, that’s all.” Pewter dismissed Mrs. Murphy’s premonition.