Murder At Monticello

59

Diana Robb swept aside the ambulance curtains as Rick Shaw pulled the sheet off Larry Johnson.

The bullet had narrowly missed the right side of the good doctor’s heart. It passed clearly through his body. The force of the blow, the shock, temporarily knocked him unconscious. When Charmalene discovered him, he was awakening.

Rick Shaw, the instant he knew Larry would live, bent over the older man who, just like a doctor, was giving orders as to how to handle him. “I need your help.”

“Yes.” Larry assented through a tight jaw.

“Who shot you?”

“That’s just it. I left the front door open. I was expecting Warren Randolph sometime late morning. I walked out of the living room into the front hall. Whoever shot me—maybe Warren—must have tiptoed in, but I never saw him.” These five sentences took Larry a long time to utter, and his brow was drenched in sweat.

“Help me, Larry.” The doctor nodded yes as Rick fervently whispered, “I need you to pretend you’re dead for twenty-four hours.”

“I nearly was.”

Rick swore Charmalene to secrecy as well as the ambulance staff. When he crawled into the back of the vehicle he had but one thought, how to bait and trap Warren Randolph.

60

Back in the office Rick Shaw banged his fists against the wall. The staff outside his office jumped. No one moved. Rarely did the man they obeyed and had learned to admire show this much emotion.

Deputy Cooper, in the office with him, said nothing, but she did open a fresh pack of cigarettes and made a drinking sign when a fresh-faced patrolman snuck by. That meant a cold Coca-Cola.

“I let my guard down! I know better. How many years have I been an officer of the law? How many?”

“Twenty-two, Sheriff.”

“Well, you’d think I would have goddamned learned something in twenty-two years. I relaxed. I allowed myself to think because of circumstantial evidence, because the bullet matched the thirty-eight that killed Kimball, that we had an open-and-shut case. Sure, Samson protested his innocence. My God, ninety percent of the worst criminals in America whine and lie and say they’re innocent. I didn’t listen to my gut.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The case against Samson looked airtight. I was sure a confession would be a matter of time, once he figured out he couldn’t outsmart us. It takes time for reality to set in.”

“Oh, Coop.” Rick slumped heavily into his chair. “I blame myself for Larry Johnson’s shooting.”

The patrolman held up the cold Coke at the glass window. Cynthia rose, opened the door, took the Coke, and thanked the young officer. She winked at him too, then gave the can to Rick, whose outburst had parched him.

“You couldn’t have known.”

The sheriff’s voice dropped. “When Larry called me about Braxton Fleming, I should have known the other shoe hadn’t dropped. Kimball Haynes wasn’t killed over Samson’s stealing escrow money. I know that now.”

“Hey, the state Samson Coles was in when we arrested him, I would have believed he could have killed anybody.”

“Oh, yeah, he was hot.” Rick gulped down some more soda, the carbonation fizzing down his throat. “He had a lot to lose, to say nothing of his affair with Ansley blowing out the window.”

“Lucinda Coles took care of that at Kimball’s memorial service.”

“Can’t blame her. Imagine how she felt, being put in a social situation with the woman who’s playing around with her husband.”

They sat and stared at each other.

“We’ve got twenty-four hours. If an obit notice doesn’t appear in the papers after that, it’s going to look awfully peculiar.”

“And we’ve got to hold off the reporters without actually lying.” He rubbed his chin. Larry Johnson’s wife had died some years before, and his only son was killed in Vietnam. “Coop, who would place the obituary notice?”

“Probably Mrs. Hogendobber, with Harry’s help.”

“You go over there and enlist their cooperation. See if they can stall a little.”

“Oh, brother. They’ll want to know why.”

“Don’t—don’t even think about it.” He twiddled the can. “I’m going to the hospital. I’m pretty sure we can trust Dr. Ylvisaker and the nurses. I’ll set up a twenty-four-hour vigil, just in case.” He stood up. “I’ve got to go get the rest of the story.”

“I thought he never saw his attacker.”

“He didn’t. Before he passed out he told me this had to do with his partner, Dr. Jim Craig.”

Cooper inhaled sharply. “Dr. Craig was found shot in the cemetery one icy March morning. I remember, when I first came on the force, reading through the files on the unsolved crimes. I wonder how it all fits?”

“We aren’t home yet, but we’re rounding second toward third.”

61

Sunday morning at six-thirty, the air carried little tiny teeth of rain, not a whopping big rain, but a steady one that might lead to harder rain later.

Harry usually greeted the day with a bounce in her step, but this morning she dragged out to the barn. Larry’s murder weighed heavily upon her heart.

She mixed up a warm bran mash, which was Sunday’s treat for the horses, plus a bit of insurance against colic, she believed. She took a scoop of sweet feed per horse, a half-scoop of bran, and mushed it up with hot water and a big handful of molasses. She stirred her porridge together and for an extra treat threw in two quartered apples. That along with as much timothy hay as Gin and Tommy would eat made them happy, and her too. Except for today.

She finished with the horses, climbed the loft ladder, and put out a bag of marshmallows for Simon, the possum. Then she clambered down and decided she might as well oil some tack since she’d fallen behind in her barn chores over these last few crazy weeks. She threw a bridle up on the tack hook, ran a small bucket full of hot water, grabbed a small natural sponge and her Murphy’s Oil Soap, and started cleaning.

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, feeling her sorrow, quietly sat beside her. Tucker finally laid down, her head between her paws.

She jerked her head up. “That’s the smell.”

“What?” Mrs. Murphy’s eyes widened to eight balls.

“Yes! It’s not a crepe sole, it’s this stuff. I swear it.”

“Eagle’s Rest.” The cat’s long white whiskers swept forward then back as her ears flattened. “But why?”

“Warren must be in on the escrow theft,” Tucker said.

“Or connected to the murder at Monticello.” Mrs. Murphy blinked her eyes. “But how?”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” The tiger’s voice trembled with fear, not for herself, but for Harry.

62

“‘No laborious person was ever yet hysterical,’ ” Harry read aloud. Thomas Jefferson wrote this to his teenage daughter, Patsy, while she studied at the Abbaye Royale de Panthemont in the France of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.

“Sensible but not really what a young girl is inclined to wish to hear.” Mrs. Hogendobber, fussy today and low over the loss of her old friend, reset the stakes for her sweet peas one more time as the Sunday sunshine bathed over her. The early morning rains had given way to clear skies.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, who had escaped Market one more time, and Tucker watched as the squarely built woman walked first to one side of the garden outline, then to the other. She performed this march every spring, and she turned her corners with all the precision of a Virginia Military Institute cadet on drill.

“The garden will be like last year’s and the year’s before that. The sweet peas go along the alleyway side of her yard.” Pewter licked her paws and washed her pretty face.

“Don’t deny her the pleasure of worrying about it,” Mrs. Murphy advised the gray cat.

“We know who the killer is.” Tucker shadowed Mrs. Hogendobber’s every move, but from the other side of the garden.

“Why didn’t you tell me the instant you got here? You’re hateful.” Pewter pouted.

Mrs. Murphy relished Pewter’s distress for a moment. After all, Pewter lorded it over everybody if she knew something first. “I thought you weren’t interested in human affairs unless food was involved.”

“That’s not true,” the cat yowled.

“Harsh words are being spoken, and on the Sabbath.” Mrs. Hogendobber chastized the two cats. “Harry, what is the matter with your dog? If I walk, she walks. If I stop, she stops. If I stand, she stands and watches me.”

“Tucker, what are you doing?” Harry inquired of her corgi.

“Being vigilant,” the dog responded.

“Against Mrs. Hogendobber?” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

“Practice makes perfect.” The dog turned her back on the cats. Tucker believed that the good Lord made cats first, as an experiment. Then He created the dog, having learned from His mistake.

“Who?” Pewter cuffed Mrs. Murphy, who sat on her haunches and cuffed the gray cat right back. Within seconds a fierce boxing match exploded, causing both humans to focus their attention on the contenders.

“My money’s on Pewter.” Mrs. Hogendobber reached into her voluminous skirt pocket and pulled out a wrinkled dollar bill.

“Mrs. Murphy.” Harry fished an equally wrinkled bill out of her Levi’s.

“Pewter’s bigger. She’ll have more pow to her punch.”

“Murphy’s faster.”

The two cats circled, boxed, then Pewter leapt on the tiger cat, threw her to the ground, and they wrestled. Mrs. Murphy wriggled free of the lard case on top of her and tore across the middle of the garden plot then up a black gum tree. Pewter, close behind, raced to the bottom of the trunk and decided to wait her out as opposed to climbing in pursuit.

“She’ll back down the tree and then shove off over your head,” Tucker told Pewter.

“Whose side are you on?” Mrs. Murphy spat out.

“Entertainment’s.”

Mrs. Murphy backed down just as Tucker had predicted, but then she dropped right on top of the chubby gray and rolled her over. A fulsome hissing and huffing emanated from the competitors. This time it was Pewter who broke and ran straight to Mrs. Hogendobber. Mrs. Murphy chased up to the lady’s legs and then reached around Mrs. H.’s heavy English brogues to swat Pewter. Pewter replied in kind.

“They’re going to scratch me and I’ve got on a new pair of nylons.”

“Shut up, Mrs. Hogendobber, we aren’t going to touch your nylons,” Pewter crabbed at her, though relishing the attention too.

“’Fraidy-cat,” Mrs. Murphy taunted.

“Of what, a skinny alley cat? Dream on.” Another left jab.

“Fatty, fatty, two by four, can’t get through the bathroom door!” Mrs. Murphy cat-called.

“That is so childish and gross.” Pewter twirled on her rear end and stalked off.

“Hey, you started it, bungbutt,” Mrs. Murphy yelled at her.

“Only because you had to get high and mighty about who the killer is. Why should I care? It’s human versus human. I’m not a candidate for the graveyard.”

“You don’t know,” Mrs. Murphy sang out. “It’s Warren Randolph.”

“No!” The gray cat spun around and ran right up to Mrs. Murphy.

“We’re pretty sure.” She nodded toward Tucker.

As Tucker padded over to fully inform Pewter, Mrs. Hogendobber and Harry laughed at the animals.

“Spring, wondrous spring—not a season associated with sorrows, but we’ve had plenty of them.” Miranda blinked hard, then consulted her garden blueprint. “Now, Harry, what were you telling me about Patsy Jefferson Randolph before these little scamps put on such an adorable show?”

“Oh, just that her father might not have known how to talk to young women. But she was said to be a lot like him, so I guess it wasn’t so bad. The younger sister never was as close, although she loved him, of course.”

“Must have been quite an education for Patsy, being in an expensive French school. When was that now? Refresh my memory.”

“You’ve been studying Patsy’s and Polly’s children. I’ve been studying Thomas Jefferson’s brothers and sister and his own children. Otherwise you’d have these dates cold. Let’s see. I think she enrolled at Panthemont in 1784. Apparently there were three princesses there also and they wore royal blue sashes. Called the American among them ‘Jeffy.’ ”

“How fortunate Patsy was.”

“She didn’t feel that way when she had to read Livy. Of course, I didn’t either. Livy and Tacitus just put me into vapor lock.” Harry made a twisting motion at her temple, as though locking something.

“I stopped at Virgil. I didn’t go to college or I would have continued. What else about Patsy?”

“Mrs. Hogendobber, you know I’d help you. I feel silly sitting here while you figure out your garden.”

“I’m the only one who can figure it out. I’d like to stop those Japanese beetles before they start.”

“Don’t plant roses, then.”

“Don’t be absurd, Harry, one simply cannot have a garden without roses. The beetles be damned. If you’ll pardon my French.” She smiled a sly smile.

Harry nodded. “Okay, back to Panthemont. Patsy conceived a desire to be a nun. It was a Catholic school. That put her father’s knickers in a twist and he paid the bill for both Patsy and her sister in full on April 20, 1789, and yanked those kids out of there. Pretty funny. Oh, yeah, something I forgot. Sally Hemings, who was about Patsy’s age, traveled to France with her as her batman, you might say. What do you call a batman for a lady?”

“A lady’s maid.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough. Anyway, I’ve been thinking that the experience of freedom, the culture of France, and being close to Patsy like that in a foreign country must have drawn the two together. Kind of like how Jefferson loved Jupiter, his man, who was also his age. They’d been together since they were boys.”

“The self on the other side of the mirror,” Miranda said with a dreamy look in her eye.

“Huh?”

“Their slaves who were their ladies’ maids and batmen. They must have been alter egos. I never realized how complex, how deep and tangled the emotions on both sides of that mirror must have been. And now the races have drifted apart.”

“Ripped apart is more like it.”

“Whatever it is, it isn’t right. We’re all Americans.”

“Tell that to the Ku Klux Klan.”

“I’d be more inclined to tell them to buy a better brand of bedsheet.” Miranda was in fine fettle today. “You know, if you listen to the arguments of these extremist groups or the militant right wing, there’s a kernel of truth in what they say. They have correctly pinpointed many of our society’s ills, and I must give them credit for that. At least they’re thinking about the society in which they live, Harry, they aren’t indulging in mindless pleasures, but their solutions—fanatical and absurd.”

“But simple. That’s why their propaganda is so effective and then I think, too, that it’s always easier to be against something than to be for something new. I mean, we never have lived in a community of true racial equality. That’s new and it’s hard to sell something new.”

“I never thought of that.” Mrs. H. cupped her chin in her hand and decided at that instant to shift the sweet peas to the other side of the garden.

“That’s what makes Jefferson and Washington and Franklin and Adams and all those people so remarkable. They were willing to try something brand new. They were willing to risk their lives for it. What courage. We’ve lost it, I think. Americans have lost their vision and their appetite for struggle.”

“I don’t know. I remember World War Two clearly. We didn’t lack courage then.”

“Miranda, that was fifty years ago. Look at us now.”

“Maybe we’re storing up energy for the next push toward the future.”

“I’m glad one of us is an optimist.” Harry, by virtue of her age, had never lived through an American epoch in which people pulled together for the common good. “There’s another thing, by the way. Sally and Betsey Hemings were like sisters to Medley Orion, although she was younger than they were. Apparently they were three beautiful women. It must have been fun to sit outside in the twilight, crickets chirping, and listen to Sally’s tales of France before the Revolution.”

Pewter meanwhile disagreed with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker over Warren Randolph as murderer. She countered that a man with that much money doesn’t have to kill anyone. He can hire someone to do it for him.

Mrs. Murphy rejoined that Warren must have slipped a stitch somewhere along the line.

Pewter’s only response was “Gross.”

“Regardless of what you think, I don’t want Mother to get in trouble.”

“She’s not going to do anything. She doesn’t know that Warren’s the killer,” Pewter said.

The sweet purr of the Bentley Turbo R caught their attention. Mim got out of the car. “Miranda, have you spoken to Sheriff Shaw about Larry’s obituary notice and funeral?”

Miranda, stake in hand poised midair, looked as though she were ready to dispatch a vampire. “Yes, and I find it mighty peculiar.”

Mim’s crocodile loafers fascinated Mrs. Murphy as she crossed the lawn to join Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber.

“Those are beautiful,” the tiger cat admired.

“Piddle. It’s a big skink, that’s all.” Pewter compared the exotic crocodile skin to that of a sleek lizard indigenous to Virginia.

As the three women consulted, worried, and wondered about Rick Shaw’s request, Harry noticed that Mrs. Murphy was stalking Mim’s shoes. She bent down to scoop up her cat, but Mrs. Murphy scooted just out of reach.

“Slowpoke,” the cat taunted.

Harry did not answer but gave the cat a stern look.

“Don’t get her in a bad mood, Murph,” Tucker pleaded.

In reply, Mrs. Murphy flattened her ears and turned her back on Tucker as Mim strode over to her Bentley to retrieve her portable phone. Miranda walked into her house. After ten minutes of phone calls, which left Harry reduced to putting in the garden stakes, Miranda reappeared.

“No, no, and no.”

Mim’s head jerked up. “Impossible.”

Miranda’s rich alto boomed. “Hill and Woods does not have the body. Thacker Funeral Home, ditto, and I even called places in western Orange County. Not a trace of Larry Johnson, and I don’t mind telling you that I think this is awful. How can the rescue squad lose a body?”

Harry reached for Mim’s mobile phone. “May I?”

“Be my guest.” Mim handed over the small, heavy phone.

“Diana”—Harry reached Diana Robb—“do you know what funeral parlor has Larry Johnson’s body?”

“No—we just dropped him off at the hospital.” Diana’s evasive tone alerted Harry, who’d known the nurse since their schooldays.

“Do you know the name of the hospital admissions clerk?”

“Harry, Rick Shaw will take care of everything. Don’t worry.”

Acidly Harry replied, “Since when do sheriffs arrange funerals? Diana, I need your help. We’ve got a lot of work to do here.”

“Look, you talk to Rick.” Diana hung up.

“She hung up on me!” Harry’s face turned beet red. “Something is as queer as a three-dollar bill. I’m going down to the hospital.”

“Don’t do that—just yet.” Mim smiled. She reached out for the phone, her frosted mauve fingernails complementing her plum-colored sweater. She dialed. “Is Sheriff Shaw there? All right, then. What about Deputy Cooper? I see.” Mim paused. “Try and get her out of her meeting, if only for an instant.”

A long pause ensued, during which Mim tapped her foot in the grass and Mrs. Murphy resumed stalking those crocodile loafers. “Ah, Deputy Cooper. I need your assistance. Neither Mrs. Hogendobber, Mrs. Haristeen, nor I can locate Larry Johnson’s body at any of the funeral parlors in either Albemarle or Orange County. There are many arrangements to be made. I’m sure you appreciate that and—”

“Mrs. Sanburne, the body is still at the hospital. Sheriff Shaw wanted more tests run, and until he’s satisfied that Pathology has everything they need, the body won’t be released. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“I see. Thank you.” Mim pushed down the aerial and clicked the power to off. She related Cynthia’s explanation.

“I don’t buy it.” Harry crossed her arms over her chest.

“I suppose once the blood is drained out of the body, the samples won’t be as, uh, fresh.” Mim grimaced.

Now Miranda grabbed the phone. She winked. “Hello, this is Mrs. Johnson and I’d like an update on my husband, Dr. Larry Johnson.”

“Larry Johnson, Room 504?”

“That’s right.”

“He’s resting comfortably.”

Mrs. Hogendobber repeated the answer. “He’s resting comfortably—he ought to be, he’s dead.”

A sputter and confusion on the other end of the phone convinced Miranda that something was really amiss. The line was disconnected. Miranda’s eyebrows shot into her coiffure. “Come on, girls.”

As Mrs. Hogendobber climbed into the front seat of the Bentley, Harry unlocked the back door of the post office, shushing the two cats and crestfallen dog inside.

“No fair!” was the animal chorus.

Harry hopped in the back seat as Mim floored it.

“By God, we’ll get to the bottom of this!”

63

The front desk clerk at the Martha Jefferson Hospital tried to waylay Mim, but Harry and Miranda outflanked her. Then Mim, taking advantage of the young woman’s distress, slipped away too.

The three women dashed to the elevator. They reached the fifth floor and were met, as the doors opened, by a red-haired officer from the sheriff’s department.

“I’m sorry, ladies, you aren’t permitted up here.”

“Oh, you’ve taken over the whole floor?” Mim imperiously criticized the young officer, who cringed because he knew more was coming. “I pay taxes, which means I pay your salary and . . .”

Harry used the opportunity to blast down the corridor. She reached Room 504 and opened the door. She screamed so loud, she scared herself.

64

“What a dirty, rotten trick.” Mim lit into the sheriff, who was standing at Larry’s bedside. This was after Harry, Miranda, and Mim cried tears of joy upon seeing their beloved friend again. They even made Larry cry. He had no idea how much he was loved.

“Mrs. Sanburne, it had to be done and I’m running out of time as it is.”

Mim sat on the uncomfortable chair as Harry and Miranda stood on the other side of Larry’s bed. Miranda would not release the older gentleman’s hand until a sharp glance from Mim made her do so. She then remembered that Larry and Mim were once an item.

“Still jealous,” Miranda thought to herself.

Larry, propped up on pillows, reached for a sip of juice. Mim instantly supplied it to him. “Now, Larry, if we fatigue you, we can leave and the sheriff can fill us in. However, if you can talk . . .”

He slurped and handed the drink back to Mim, as unlikely a nurse as ever was born. “Thank you, dear. I can talk if Sheriff Shaw allows me.”

A defeated Rick rubbed his receding hairline. “It’s fine with me, because I think if these girls”—he came down heavy on “girls”—“hear from your own lips what happened, then maybe they’ll behave.”

“We will,” came the unconvincing chorus.

“Harry, I have Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and that funny Paddy to thank for this.”

“Mrs. Murphy again?” Rick shook his head.

“They led me to where Jim Craig, who was killed before you were born, had hidden his diaries. He was my partner, as you may know. Actually, he took me into his practice and I would have purchased part of it in time—with a considerable discount, as Jim was a generous, generous man—but he died and, in effect, I inherited the practice, which afforded me the opportunity to become somewhat comfortable.” He looked at Mim.

Mim couldn’t meet his gaze, so she fiddled with the juice glass and the fat, bendable straw.

He continued. “Jim’s diaries commenced in 1912 and went through to the day he died, March 5, 1948. I believe that either Colonel Randolph killed him, or Wesley, who was right out of the Army Air Corps at the time.”

“But why?” Miranda exclaimed.

Larry leaned his white head back on the pillows and took a deep breath. “Ah, for reasons both sad and interesting. As detection advanced with the electron microscope, it was Jim who discovered that Wesley and his father carried the sickle cell trait. Now, that didn’t give them leukemia—you can develop that disease quite apart from carrying the sickle cells—but what it meant was that no descendant of the colonel or Wesley could, uh, marry someone of color—not without fear of passing on the trait. You see, if the spouse also carried the trait, the children could very well contract the full-blown disease, which has painful episodes, and there’s no cure. The accumulated damage of those episodes can kill you.”

“Oh, God.” Mim’s jaw dropped. “Wesley was, well, you know . . .”

“A racist.” Harry said it for her.

“That’s a harsh way of putting it.” Mim smoothed out the bed sheet. “He was raised a certain way and couldn’t cope with the changes. But if he knew about the sickle cell anemia, you’d think he would soften.”

“Or become worse. Who is more anti-Semitic than another Jew? Who is more antigay than another homosexual? More antifeminist than another woman? The oppressed contain reservoirs of viciousness reserved entirely for their own kind.”

“Harry, you surprise me,” Mim primly stated.

“She’s right though.” The sheriff spoke up. “Tell people they’re”—he paused because he was going to say “shit”—“worthless, and strange behaviors occur. Let’s face it. Nobody wants to ape the poor. They want to ape the rich, and how many rich black folks do you know?”

“Not in Albemarle County.” Miranda began to walk around the small room. “But the Randolphs don’t appear to be black in any fashion.”

“No, but it’s in the blood. With rare exceptions, sickle cell anemia affects only people with African blood. It must be inherited. It can’t be caught as a contagion, so to speak. This disease seems to be the only remaining vestige of Wesley Randolph’s black heritage,” Larry informed them.

“And Kimball Haynes found this out somehow.” Harry’s mind was spinning.

“But how?” Larry wondered.

“Ansley said Kimball never read the Randolph papers,” Harry chipped in.

“Absurd! It’s absurd to kill over something like this!” Miranda exploded.

“Mrs. Hogendobber, I’ve seen a fourteen-year-old boy knifed for the five-dollar-bill in his pocket. I’ve seen rednecks blow each other away because one got drunk and accused the other of sleeping with his wife or called him a faggot. Absurd?” Rick shrugged.

“Did you know?” Harry, ever direct, asked Larry.

“No. Wesley came in for his physical occasionally through the years but always refused to have his blood taken. Being rich, he would fly out to one of those expensive drying-out or treatment clinics, they would take a blood test, and he’d have them read me the white cell count. I accepted that he had leukemia. He wouldn’t let me treat him for it and I assumed it was because I am, after all, a country doctor. Oh, he’d come in for a flu shot, stuff like that, and we’d discuss his condition. I’d push and he’d retreat and then he’d check into the Mayo Clinic. He was out of reach, but Warren wasn’t. He hated needles and I could do a complete physical on him only about once every fifteen years.”

“Who do you think killed Jim Craig?” Mim spoke.

“Wesley, most likely. The colonel would have hated it, but I don’t think he would have killed over the news. Jim wouldn’t have made it public, after all. I could be wrong, but I just don’t think Colonel Randolph would have murdered Jim. Wesley was a hothead when he was young.”

“Do you think the Randolphs have always known?” Harry pointed to Mrs. Hogendobber, busily pacing back and forth, indicating that she sit down. She was making Harry dizzy.

“No, because it wouldn’t have been picked up in blood tests until the last fifty years or so,” said Larry. “All I’m saying is that in medical terms earlier generations would not have known about the sickle cell trait. What else they knew is anybody’s guess.”

“Never thought of that,” Sheriff Shaw said.

“I don’t care who knew what. You don’t kill over something like that.” Miranda couldn’t accept the horror of it.

“Warren lived under the shadow of his father. His only outlet has been Ansley. Let’s face it, she’s the only person who regarded Warren as a man. When he found out she was carrying on with another man, right after his father’s death, I think it was too much. Warren’s not very strong, you know,” Harry said.

“I thought Samson Coles was the one carrying on. Not Ansley too?” Miranda put her foot in it.

“Look no further.” Mim pursed her lips.

“No.” Harry, like Miranda, found the scandal, well, odd.

“Why don’t you arrest Warren?” Mim drilled the sheriff.

“First off, Dr. Johnson didn’t see his would-be killer, although we both believe it was Warren. Second, if I can trap Warren into giving himself away, it will make the prosecution’s task much easier. Warren is so rich that if I don’t nail him down, he’ll get off. He’ll shell out one or two million for the best defense lawyers in America and he’ll find a way out, I can guarantee it. I had hoped that keeping Larry’s survival under wraps for twenty-four hours might give me just the edge I need, but I can’t go much further than that. The reporters will bribe someone, and it’s cruel to have everyone mourning Larry’s death. I mean, look at your response.”

“Most gratified, ladies.” Tears again welled up in Larry’s eyes.

“Why can’t you just go up to Warren and say Larry’s alive and watch his response?” Mim wanted to know.

“I could, but he’d be on guard.”

“He won’t be on guard with me. He likes me,” Harry said.

“No.” Rick’s voice rose.

“Well, do you have a better idea?” Mim stuck it to the sheriff.

65

As the Superman-blue Ford toodled down the long, winding, tree-lined road, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker plotted. Harry had been talking out loud, going back and forth over the plan, so they knew what she’d found out at the hospital. She was wired, and Sheriff Shaw and Deputy Cooper were positioned on a back road near the entrance to Eagle’s Rest. They would hear every word she and Warren said.

“We could bite Warren’s leg and put him out of commission from the get-go.”

“Tucker, all that will happen is you’ll be accused of having rabies.” The cat batted the dog’s upright ears with her paw.

“I’ve had my rabies shots.” Tucker sighed. “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

“I could pretend I’m choking to death.”

“Try it.”

Mrs. Murphy coughed and wheezed. Her eyes watered. She flopped on her side and coughed some more. Harry pulled the truck to the side of the driveway. She picked up the cat and put her fingers down her throat to remove the offending obstacle. Finding no obstacle, she placed Mrs. Murphy over her left shoulder, patting her with her right hand as though burping a baby. “There, there, pussywillow. You’re all right.”

“I know I’m all right. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Harry put Mrs. Murphy back on the seat and continued up to the house. Ansley, sitting on the side veranda under the towering Corinthian columns, waved desultorily as Harry, unannounced, came in sight.

Harry hopped out of the truck along with her critters. “Hey, Ansley, I apologize for not calling first, but I have some wonderful news. Where’s Warren?”

“Down at the stable. Mare’s ready to foal,” Ansley laconically informed her. “You’re flushed. Must be something big.”

“Well, yes. Uh, come on down with me. That way I don’t have to tell the story twice.”

As they sauntered to the imposing stables, Ansley breathed deeply. “Isn’t this the best weather? The spring of springs.”

“I always get spring fever,” Harry confessed. “Can’t keep my mind on anything, and everyone has a glow—especially handsome men.”

“Heck, don’t need spring for that.” Ansley laughed as they walked into the stable.

Fair, Warren, and the Randolphs’ stable manager, Vanderhoef, crouched in the foaling stall. The mare was doing just fine.

“Hi.” Fair greeted them, then returned to his task.

“I have the best news of the year.” Harry beamed.

“I wish she wouldn’t do this.” Mrs. Murphy shook her head.

“Me too,” Tucker, heartsick, agreed.

“Well, out with it.” Warren stood up and walked out of the stall.

“Larry Johnson’s alive!”

“Thank God!” Fair exploded, then caught himself and lowered his voice. “I can’t believe it.” Luckily his crescendo hadn’t startled the mare.

“Me neither.” Warren appeared dazed for a moment. “Why anyone would want to kill him in the first place mystifies me. What a great guy. This is good news.”

“Is he conscious?” Ansley inquired.

“Yeah, he’s sitting up in bed and Miranda’s with him. That’s why I tore over here without calling. I knew you’d be happy to hear it.”

“Did he see who shot him?” Warren asked, edging farther away from the stall door.

“Yes, he did.”

“Watch out!” Tucker barked as Ansley knocked over Harry while running for her car.

“What in the hell?” Warren bolted down the aisle after her. “Ansley, Ansley, what’s going on?”

She hopped into Warren’s 911, parked in the courtyard of the barn, cranked it over, and spun out of the driveway. Warren ran after her. In a malicious curve she spun around—and baby, that car could handle—to bear down on her husband.

“Warren, zigzag!” Harry shouted from the end of the barn aisle.

“Get him back in here,” Fair commanded just as the foal arrived.

Warren did zig and zag. The car was so nimble, Ansley almost caught him, but he darted behind a tree and she whirled around again and gunned down the driveway.

“Warren, Warren, get in here!” Harry called out. “In case she comes back.”

Warren, sickly white, ran back into the stable. He sagged against the stall door. “My God, she did it.”

Fair came out of the stall and put his arm around Warren’s shoulder. “I’m gonna call the sheriff, Warren, for your own safety if nothing else.”

“No, no, please. I can handle her. I’ll take care of it and see she’s put in a good home. Please, please,” Warren pleaded.

“Poor sucker.” Mrs. Murphy brushed against Harry’s legs.

“It’s too late. Rick Shaw and Coop are at the end of the driveway,” Harry told him.

Just then they heard the roar of the Porsche’s engine, the peal of the siren and squealing tires. Ansley, a good driver, had easily eluded the sheriff and his deputy, who hadn’t set up a roadblock but instead were prepared to roar into Eagle’s Rest to assist Harry. They thought Harry could pull it off—and she did. The sirens faded away.

“She’ll give them a good run for their money.” Warren grinned even as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Yep.” Harry felt like crying too.

Warren rubbed his eyes, then turned to admire the new baby.

“Boss, he’s something special.” Warren’s stable manager hoped this foal would be something good for a man he had learned to like.

“Yes.” Warren put his forehead on his hands, resting on the lower dutch door of the foaling stall, and sobbed. “How did you know?”

Harry, choking up, said, “We didn’t—actually.”

“We had our wires crossed,” Mrs. Murphy meowed.

“Suspicion was that it was you.” Fair coughed. He was hugely embarrassed to admit this.

“Why?” Warren was dumbfounded. He turned and walked to the aisle doors. He stood looking out over the front fields.

“Uh, well,” Harry stammered, then got it out. “Your daddy and well, uh, all the Randolphs put such a store by blood, pedigree, well, you know, that I thought because—I can’t speak for anyone but me—I thought you’d be undone, just go ballistic about the African American blood. I mean about people knowing.”

“Did you always know?” Fair joined them in front of the barn and handed Warren his handkerchief.

“No. Not until last year. Before Poppa’s cancer went into remission he got scared he was going to die, so he told me. He insisted Ansley should never know—he’d never told Mother. I’m not making that mistake with my boys. All this secretiveness eats people alive.”

The sirens were heading back toward Eagle’s Rest.

“Damn. We’d better get someplace safe—just in case,” Tucker wisely noted.

“Come on, Mom. Let’s move it.” Mrs. Murphy, no time to be subtle, sank her claws into Harry’s leg, then ran away.

“Damn you, Murphy!” Harry cursed.

“Run!” Tucker barked.

Too late, the whine of the Porsche drowned out the animals’ worries.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Harry beheld the Porsche heading straight for them.

Warren started to wave his wife off, but Fair, much stronger, picked Warren up and threw him back so she couldn’t see him. Ansley swerved, nearly clipping the end of the barn, and headed down a farm road. Seconds behind her, Rick and Cooper, in their squad cars, threw gravel everywhere. In the distance more sirens could be heard.

“Can she get out that way?” Harry asked as she peered around the door.

“If she can corner the tight turn and take the tractor road around the lake, she can.” Warren was shaking.

Harry stared at the dust, the noise. “Warren, Warren.” She called his name louder. “How did she find out?”

“She read the diaries after Kimball did. She opened up the safe and gave him the papers to defy me, and then sat down and read them herself.”

“You didn’t hide them?”

“I kept them in the safe, but Ansley didn’t have much interest in the family tree. I knew she’d never read them, but I never figured on—”

He didn’t finish his sentence as the support cars drowned out his words.

Harry started to run down the farm road.

“Don’t, Mom, she might come back again,” the cat sensibly warned.

The sirens stopped. The cat and dog, much faster than their human counterparts, flew down the lane and rounded the curve.

“Oh—” Tucker’s voice trailed off.

Mrs. Murphy shuddered as she watched Ansley drowning in the Porsche which had skidded into the lake. Rick Shaw and Cooper had yanked off their bulletproof vests, their shoes, and dived in, but it was too late. By the time the others reached the lake, only the rear end of the expensive 911 was in view.

66

The grand library of Eagle’s Rest smelled like old fires and fresh tobacco. Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, Mim, Fair, Deputy Cooper, and a composed but subdued Warren had gathered around the fireplace.

“I have already read this to my boys. I’ve tried to explain to them that their mother’s desire to protect them from this—news”—he blinked hard—“was a mistake. Times are different now, but no matter how wrong she was about race, no matter how wrong we all were and are, she acted out of love. It’s important for them to have their mother’s love.” He couldn’t continue, but slid the dark blue book over to Harry.

She opened the pages to where a ribbon, spotted and foxed with age, marked the place. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, curled up at her feet, were as still as the humans.

Warren waved her on and excused himself. At the doorway he stopped. “People talk. I know some folks will be glad to see the Randolphs humbled. Some will even call my boys niggers just to be hateful. I want you all to know the real story, especially since you’ve worked with Kimball. And—and I thank you for your help.” He put his hand over his eyes and walked down the hall.

A long, long moment of silence followed. Harry looked down at the bold, clear handwriting with the cursive flourishes of another age, an age when one’s handwriting was a skill to be cultivated and shared.

The diary and papers wedged into it, other people’s letters, belonged to Septimia Anne, the eleventh child of Patsy Jefferson and Thomas Randolph. Septimia’s letter to her mother was either lost or in someone else’s possession, but Patsy’s response, written in 1834, was interesting so Harry started there. In the letter she recalled a terrific scandal in 1793, three years after she married Thomas Mann Randolph, the same year in which they acquired Edgehill for $2,000. At the time the farm was 1500 acres. Slaves were also acquired in this lengthy transaction.

Thomas Mann Randolph’s sister, Nancy, embarked on an affair with yet another sister’s husband, who was also their cousin. This monkey in the middle was Richard Randolph. At Glynlyvar in Cumberland County, Nancy, visiting at the time, suffered a miscarriage. Richard removed the evidence. He was charged with infanticide. Patrick Henry and George Mason defended Richard and he was found not guilty. The law had spoken and so had everyone who lived in the thirteen colonies. This was gossip too good to be true.

Patsy counseled Septimia that scandals, misfortunes, and “commerce” with slave women were woven into the fabric of society. “People are no better than they ought to be.” She quoted her own mother, whom she vividly remembered, as she was three weeks short of her tenth birthday when her mother died.

She made a reference to James Madison Randolph, her eighth child and Septimia’s older brother by eight years.

“The more things change the more they stay the same,” Harry said out loud. She turned pages wrapped up in notations about the weather harvests, floods and droughts, births and deaths. The death of Medley Orion riveted them to their chairs.

Harry read aloud:

Dear Septimia—

Today in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and Thirty-Five, my faithful servant and longtime companion, Medley Orion, departed this life, surrendering her soul gladly to a Higher Power, for she had devoted her earthly days to good works, kind words, and laughter. The Graces fitted her with physical beauty of a remarkable degree and this proved a harder burden to bear than one might imagine. As a young woman, shooting up like a weed and resembling my beloved father, not necessarily a benefit for a daughter, I resented Medley, for it seemed cruel to me that a slave woman should have been given such beauty, whereas I was given only some small wit.

Sally Hemings and I played together until such time as our race is separated from theirs and we are taught that we are the master. This happened shortly after my dearest mother died, and I felt I was twice removed from those I loved. No doubt many Southerners harbor these same feelings about their sable playmates. As Medley was younger than Sally and me, I began to watch over her almost as I watched over our dear Polly.

Medley remained at Monticello while I journeyed to France with my father and Sally, who for a year or two was no help at all, being too dazzled by the enticements of the Old Order. How Sally managed to find enticements at Abbaye Royale de Panthemont, I still do not know. When I would visit my father at the Hotel de Langeac on Sundays, I did notice that Sally, a beauty herself, seemed to be learning quite quickly how to subdue men.

Upon our return to our sylvan state, our free and majestic Virginia, I again became acquainted with Medley. If ever a woman was Venus on earth, it was she, and curious to note, she evidenced no interest in men. I married. Medley appeared chaste in this regard until that New World Apollo, Braxton Fleming, the boldest rider, the most outrageous liar, the incarnation of idle charm and indolent wit, arrived one day on the mountaintop to seek my father’s assistance in a land matter. The sight of Medley as she walked along Mulberry Row unstrung his reason, and Braxton had precious little in the first place.

He laid siege to Medley, encouraged no doubt by the all too evident fact that Peter Carr had made Sally his mistress and Sam Carr enjoyed the favors of Betsey, her sister. And he could not have been ignorant of the condition of my uncle, John Wayles, a good man in most respects, who took Betty Hemings, Sally and Betsey’s mother, as his mistress. The Federalists accused my father of being the sultan of a seraglio. Far from it, but politics seems to attract the coarsest forms of intelligence with a few luminous exceptions.

Medley eventually succumbed to Braxton’s flambouyant infatuation. He dropped gold coins in her apron as though they were acorns. He bought her brocades, satins, and the sheerest silks from China. I believe he truly loved her, but two years passed, and his wife could no longer bear the whisperings. He was good with horses and bad with women and money. He drank, grew quarrelsome, and would occasionally take a strap to Medley.

At this time I was domiciled at Edgehill with my husband, but the servants would come and go between Edgehill and Monticello and I heard the tales. Father was president at this time. He was spared much of it, although I do fear his overseer at the time, Edmund Bacon, a trusted and able man, may have burdened him with it.

Braxton decayed daily in a manner we were later to see in the husband of Anne Cary. But I will greet the Almighty in the firm conviction that Charles Lewis Bankhead should have been placed in the care of an institution for dypsomaniacs. Braxton was a horse of a different color. He had not much mental power, as I have noted, but he was a sane man. However, circumstance and the crushing weight of impending financial ruin sapped whatever reserve and resolve he possessed. Upon learning that Medley was to bear his child, he—and this was reported to me by King, one of your grandfather’s most loved servants—appeared to collapse in on himself. He was reputed to have gone to his wife and spurned her before their children. He declared the intention to divorce her and marry Medley. She told her father, who conducted a meeting with his son-in-law, which must have been incendiary. The man, now deranged, arrived at Monticello and plainly stated to Medley that since they could not live together they must die together. She should prepare to meet her Maker with a clean breast, for he was going to murder her. He, as the suicide, would bear the stigma for this deed. “Even in death I will protect you,” he said.

Despite her love for Braxton, Medley felt she could not save him. She once said to me years later, “Miss Patsy, we were like two bright things caught in a spider’s great web.”

More, Medley wished for the unborn child to live. When Braxton turned from her, she seized her iron and smote him as hard as she could upon the back of the head. He perished immediately, and while it may be wicked to wish death upon another, I can only believe that the man was thereby released from his torments.

King, Big Roger, and Gideon buried his body underneath her hearth. That was May 1803.

The fruit of that union is the woman you know as Elizabeth Goorley Randolph. You are charged with protecting her children and never revealing to any her odyssey.

After the crisis Medley came to me, and when the baby was born, I recognized the child, even more beautiful than her mother, and a child who bore no trace of her African blood.

I believe no good can come from a system wherein one race enslaves another. I believe that all men are created equal, and I believe that God intended for us to live as brothers and sisters and I believe the South will pay in a manner horrible and vast for clinging to the sin of slavery. You know my mind upon this subject, so you will not be surprised that I raised Elizabeth as a distant cousin on the Wayles side.

Father knew of this deception. When Elizabeth turned seventeen I gave her seventy-five dollars and secured for her a seat on the coach to Philadelphia, where she would be joining Sally Hemings’s brother, who made his life in that city after Father freed him. What I did not know was that James Madison Randolph wished to honor the lady with his heart and his life. He followed her to Philadelphia, and the rest you know. James, never strong, surely hoped to live longer than the scant twenty-eight years allotted to him, but he has left behind two children and Elizabeth. I am too old to raise more children, my dear, and I have heard death’s heavy footfall more and more often in the twilight of my years.

I will not live to see an end to slavery, but I can die knowing I was an agent of sabotage and knowing, too, that I have honored my father’s truest intentions on this issue.

I no longer fear death. I will rejoice to see my father in the bloom of youth, to see my husband before his misfortunes corrupted his judgment. I will embrace my mother and seek my friend Medley. The years that God bequeaths us are as moths to the flame, Septimia, but with whatever time we own we must endeavor to make the United States of America a land of life, liberty, and happiness for all her sons and daughters.

Yours,

M.J.R.

“God bless her soul.” Mrs. Hogendobber prayed. The little group bowed their heads in prayer and out of respect.

67

Mrs. Murphy sat beside Pewter in Mrs. Hogendobber’s garden. The stakes for the peas and tomatoes all had been driven into place at last.

“I guess you all are lucky to be alive.”

“I guess so. She was crazy behind the wheel of that car.” Mrs. Murphy knocked a small clod of earth over one of the rows. “You know, humans believe in things that aren’t real. We don’t. That’s why it’s better to be an animal.”

“Like a social position?” Pewter followed Mrs. Murphy’s train of thought.

“Money, clothes, jewelry. Foolish things. At least Harry doesn’t do that.”

“Um. Might be better if she did believe in money a little bit.”

Mrs. Murphy shrugged. “Ah, well, can’t have everything. And this color thing. It doesn’t matter if a cat is black or white as long as it catches mice.”

Tucker nosed out of the back door of the post office. “Hey, hey, you all. Come around to the front of the post office.”

The cats trotted down the tiny path between the post office and the market. They screeched to a halt out front. Fair Haristeen, bestride a large gray mare and wearing his hunting clothes, rode into the post office parking lot. Mim Sanburne stood out front.

Harry opened the front door. Mrs. Hogendobber was right on her heels. “What are you doing? Vetting a horse on Main Street?”

“No. I’m giving you your new fox hunter and I’m doing it in front of your friends. If I took her to the farm, you’d turn me down because you don’t like to take anything from anybody. You’re going to have to learn how, Harry.”

“Hear. Hear.” Mim seconded the appeal.

“She’s big—and what bone.” Harry liked her on sight.

“Take the horse, Mom,” Tucker barked.

“May I pet him?” Miranda tentatively reached out.

“Her. Poptart by name and she’s got three floating gaits and jumps smooth as silk.” Fair grinned.

“I can arrange to pay you over time.” Harry folded her arms over her chest.

“No. She’s a gift from Mim and me to you.”

That really surprised Harry.

“I like her color,” said the gray cat.

“Think Mom will take her?” Tucker asked.

Mrs. Murphy nodded. “Oh, it will take a while, but she will. Mother can love. It’s letting someone love her. That’s what’s hard. That’s what this is all about.”

“How’d you get so smart?” Tucker came over and sat next to the tiger cat.

“Feline intuition.”

Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:

Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I’ve developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don’t, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!

Just so the humans won’t feel left out, I’ve designed a T-shirt for them.

If you’d like to see how creative I am, write to me and I’ll send you a brochure.

Sneaky Pie Brown

c/o American Artists, Inc.

P.O. Box 4671

Charlottesville, VA 22905

In felinity,

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you!

Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

WISH YOU WERE HERE

REST IN PIECES

MURDER AT MONTICELLO

PAY DIRT

MURDER, SHE MEOWED

MURDER ON THE PROWL

CAT ON THE SCENT

SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

CLAWS AND EFFECT

CATCH AS CAT CAN

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

WHISKER OF EVIL

Books by Rita Mae Brown

THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

IN HER DAY

SIX OF ONE

SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

SUDDEN DEATH

HIGH HEARTS

STARTING FROM SCRATCH:

A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL

BINGO

VENUS ENVY

DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

RIDING SHOTGUN

RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

LOOSE LIPS

OUTFOXED

HOTSPUR

FULL CRY

Don’t miss the new mystery from

RITA MAE BROWN

and

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

Whisker of Evil

Now available in hardcover

from Bantam Books

Please read on for a preview . . .

Whisker of Evil

on sale now

Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.

Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.

Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.

“Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.

The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.

“Jugular,” fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.

Gently, Harry took the young man’s hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.

Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.

Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn’t climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.

It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.

“Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.

That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.

Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek’s edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.

“Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I’m going to run to Tally’s and phone the sheriff.”

If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally’s stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.

As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.

“What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?” Pewter’s pupils widened.

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.

The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.

“I don’t smell bear,” Tucker declared. “That’s an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”

Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry’s corpse disturbed her equilibrium. “Let’s be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”

“Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”

Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. “You mean like car tracks?”

“Yes, or animal tracks,” Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. “Even though coyote scent isn’t as strong as bear, we’d still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don’t smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don’t even realize they’re there.”

Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. “No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either.”

“I don’t see anything. Not even a birdie foot,” Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.

“Well, go across the creek then and look over there.” Mrs. Murphy’s patience wore thin.

“And get my paws wet?” Pewter’s voice rose.

“It’s a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”

Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she’d gotten her hind paws wet.

If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.

“I can’t identify the animal that tore him up.” The tiger shook her head.

“Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.” Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.

“He was killed lying down,” the cat sagely noted. “If he was standing up, don’t you think blood would be everywhere?”

“Not necessarily,” the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.

“Pewter, have you found anything on that side?”

“Deer tracks. Big deer tracks.”

“Keep looking,” Mrs. Murphy requested.

“I hate it when you’re bossy.” Nonetheless, Pewter moved down the dirt road heading west.

“Barry was such a nice man.” Tucker mournfully looked at the square-jawed face, wide-open eyes staring at heaven.

Mrs. Murphy circled the body. “Tucker, I’m climbing up that sycamore. If I look down maybe I’ll see something.”

Her claws, razor sharp, dug into the thin surface of the tree, strips of darker outer bark peeling, exposing the whitish underbark. The odor of fresh water, of the tufted titmouse above her, all informed her. She scanned around for broken limbs, bent bushes, anything indicating Barry—or other humans or large animals—had traveled to this spot avoiding the dirt road.

“Pewter?”

“Big fat nothing.” The gray kitty noted that her hind paws were wet. She was getting little clods of dirt stuck between her toes. This bothered her more than Barry did. After all, he was dead. Nothing she could do for him. But the hardening brown earth between her toes, that was discomfiting.

“Well, come on back. We’ll wait for Mom.” Mrs. Murphy dropped her hind legs over the limb where she was sitting. Her hind paws reached for the trunk, the claws dug in, and she released her grip, swinging her front paws to the trunk. She backed down.

Tucker touched noses with Pewter, who had recrossed the creek more successfully this time.

Mrs. Murphy came up and sat beside them.

“Hope his face doesn’t change colors while we’re waiting for the humans. I hate that. They get all mottled.” Pewter wrinkled her nose.

“I wouldn’t worry.” Tucker sighed.

In the distance they heard sirens.

“Bet they won’t know what to make of this, either,” Tucker said.

“It’s peculiar.” Mrs. Murphy turned her head in the direction of the sirens.

“Weird and creepy.” Pewter pronounced judgment as she picked at her hind toes, and she was right.

Welcome to the charming world of

MRS. MURPHY

Don’t miss these earlier mysteries . . .

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

When winter hits Crozet, Virginia, it hits hard. That’s nothing new to postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen and her friends, who keep warm with hard work, hot toddies, and rabid rooting for the University of Virginia’s women’s basketball team. But post-game high spirits are laid low when contractor H.H. Donaldson drops dead in the parking lot. And soon word spreads that it wasn’t a heart attack that did him in. It just doesn’t sit right with Harry that one of her fellow fans is a murderer. And as tiger cat Mrs. Murphy knows, things that don’t sit right with Harry lead her to poke her not-very-sensitive human nose into dangerous places. To make sure their intrepid mom lands on her feet, the feisty feline and her furry cohorts Pewter and corgi Tee Tucker are about to have their paws full helping Harry uncover a killer with no sense of fair play. . . .

“You don’t have to be a cat lover to enjoy Brown’s 11th Mrs. Murphy novel. . . . Brown writes so compellingly . . . [she] breathes believability into every aspect of this smart and sassy novel.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

CATCH AS CAT CAN

Spring fever comes to the small town of Crozet, Virginia. As the annual Dogwood Festival approaches, postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen feels her own mating instincts stir. As for tiger cat Mrs. Murphy, feline intuition tells her there’s more in the air than just pheromones. It begins with a case of stolen hubcaps and proceeds to the mysterious death of a dissolute young mechanic over a sobering cup of coffee. Then another death and a shooting lead to the discovery of a half-million crisp, clean dollar bills that look to be very dirty. Now Harry is on the trail of a cold-blooded murderer. Mrs. Murphy already knows who it is—and who’s next in line. She also knows that Harry, curious as a cat, does not have nine lives. And the one she does have is hanging by the thinnest of threads.

“The[se] mysteries continue to be a true treat.”

—The Post Courier (Charleston, SC)

CLAWS AND EFFECT

Winter puts tiny Crozet, Virginia, in a deep freeze and everyone seems to be suffering from the winter blahs, including postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen. So all are ripe for the juicy gossip coming out of Crozet Hospital—until the main source of that gossip turns up dead. It’s not like Harry to resist a mystery, and she soon finds the hospital a hotbed of ego, jealousy, and illicit love. But it’s tiger cat Mrs. Murphy, roaming the netherworld of Crozet Hospital, who sniffs out a secret that dates back to the Underground Railroad. Then Harry is attacked and a doctor is executed in cold blood. Soon only a quick-witted cat and her animal pals feline Pewter and corgi Tee Tucker stand between Harry and a coldly calculating killer with a prescription for murder.

“Reading a Mrs. Murphy mystery is like eating a potato chip. You always go back for more. . . . Whimsical and enchanting . . . the latest expert tale from a deserving bestselling series.”

—The Midwest Book Review

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

“You’ll never get old.” Each member of the class of 1980 has received the letter. Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, who is on the organizing committee for Crozet High’s twentieth reunion, decides to take it as a compliment. Others think it’s a joke. But Mrs. Murphy senses trouble. And the sly tiger cat is soon proven right . . . when the class womanizer turns up dead with a bullet between his eyes. Then another note followed by another murder makes it clear that someone has waited twenty years to take revenge. While Harry tries to piece together the puzzle, it’s up to Mrs. Murphy and her animal pals to sniff out the truth. And there isn’t much time. Mrs. Murphy is the first to realize that Harry has been chosen Most Likely to Die, and if she doesn’t hurry, Crozet High’s twentieth reunion could be Harry’s last.

“This is a cat-lover’s dream of a mystery. . . . ‘Harry’ is simply irresistible. . . . [Rita Mae] Brown once again proves herself ‘Queen of Cat Crimes.’. . . Don’t miss out on this lively series, for it’s one of the best around.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

CAT ON THE SCENT

Things have been pretty exciting lately in Crozet, Virginia—a little too exciting if you ask resident feline investigator Mrs. Murphy. Just as the town starts to buzz over its Civil War reenactment, a popular local man disappears. No one’s seen Tommy Van Allen’s single-engine plane, either—except for Mrs. Murphy, who spotted it during a foggy evening’s mousing. Even Mrs. Murphy’s favorite human, postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, can sense that something is amiss. But things really take an ugly turn when the town reenacts the battle of Oak Ridge—and a participant ends up with three very real bullets in his back. While the clever tiger cat and her friends sift through clues that just don’t fit together, more than a few locals fear that the scandal will force well-hidden town secrets into the harsh light of day. And when Mrs. Murphy’s relentless tracking places loved ones in danger, it takes more than a canny kitty and her team of animal sleuths to set things right again. . . .

“Told with spunk and plenty of whimsy, this is another delightful entry in a very popular series.”

—Publishers Weekly

MURDER ON THE PROWL

When a phony obituary appears in the local paper, the good people of Crozet, Virginia, are understandably upset. Who would stoop to such a tasteless act? Is it a sick joke—or a sinister warning? Only Mrs. Murphy, the canny tiger cat, senses true malice at work. And her instincts prove correct when a second fake obit appears, followed by a fiendish murder . . . and then another. People are dropping like flies in Crozet, and no one knows why. Yet even if Mrs. Murphy untangles the knot of passion and deceit that has sent someone into a killing frenzy, it won’t be enough. Somehow the shrewd puss must guide her favorite human, postmistress “Harry” Haristeen, down a perilous trail to a deadly killer . . . and a killer of a climax. Or the next obit may be Harry’s own.

“Leave it to a cat to grasp the essence of the cozy mystery: murder among friends.”

—The New York Times Book Review

MURDER, SHE MEOWED

The annual steeplechase races are the high point in the social calendar of the horse-mad Virginians of cozy Crozet. But when one of the jockeys is found murdered in the main barn, Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen finds herself in a desperate race of her own—to trap the killer. Luckily for her, she has an experienced ally: her sage tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy. Utilizing her feline genius to plumb the depths of human depravity, Mrs. Murphy finds herself on a trail that leads to the shocking truth behind the murder. But will her human companion catch on in time to beat the killer to the gruesome finish line?

“The intriguing characters in this much-loved series continue to entertain.”

—The Nashville Banner

PAY DIRT

The residents of tiny Crozet, Virginia, thrive on gossip, especially in the post office, where Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen presides with her tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy. So when a belligerent Hell’s Angel crashes Crozet, demanding to see his girlfriend, the leather-clad interloper quickly becomes the chief topic of conversation. Then the biker is found murdered, and everyone is baffled. Well, almost everyone . . . Mrs. Murphy and her friends Welsh corgi Tee Tucker and overweight feline Pewter haven’t been slinking through alleys for nothing. But can they dig up the truth in time to save their human from a ruthless killer?

“If you must work with a collaborator, you want it to be someone with intelligence, wit, and an infinite capacity for subtlety—someone, in fact, very much like a cat. . . . It’s always a pleasure to visit this cozy world. . . . There’s no resisting Harry’s droll sense of humor . . . or Mrs. Murphy’s tart commentary.”

—The New York Times Book Review

MURDER AT MONTICELLO

The most popular citizen of Virginia has been dead for nearly 170 years. That hasn’t stopped the good people of tiny Crozet, Virginia, from taking pride in every aspect of Thomas Jefferson’s life. But when an archaeological dig of the slave quarters at Jefferson’s home, Monticello, uncovers a shocking secret, emotions in Crozet run high—dangerously high. The stunning discovery at Monticello hints at hidden passions and age-old scandals. As postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen and some of Crozet’s Very Best People try to learn the identity of a centuries-old skeleton—and the reason behind the murder—Harry’s tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, and her canine and feline friends attempt to sniff out a modern-day killer. Mrs. Murphy and corgi Tee Tucker will stick their paws into the darker mysteries of human nature to solve murders old and new—before curiosity can kill the cat . . . and Harry Haristeen.

“You don’t have to be a cat lover to love Murder at Monticello.”

—The Indianapolis Star

REST IN PIECES

Small towns don’t take kindly to strangers—unless the stranger happens to be a drop-dead gorgeous and seemingly unattached male. When Blair Bainbridge comes to Crozet, Virginia, the local matchmakers lose no time in declaring him perfect for their newly divorced postmistress, Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen. Even Harry’s tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, and her Welsh corgi, Tee Tucker, believe he smells A-okay. Could his one little imperfection be that he’s a killer? Blair becomes the most likely suspect when the pieces of a dismembered corpse begin turning up around Crozet. No one knows who the dead man is, but when a grisly clue makes a spectacular appearance in the middle of the fall festivities, more than an early winter snow begins chilling the blood of Crozet’s Very Best People. That’s when Mrs. Murphy, her friend Tucker, and her human companion Harry begin to sort through the clues . . . only to find themselves a whisker away from becoming the killer’s next victims.

“Skillfully plotted, properly gruesome . . . and wise as well as wickedly funny.” —Booklist

And don’t miss the very first

MRS. MURPHY

mystery . . .

WISH YOU WERE HERE

Small towns are like families. Everyone lives very close together . . . and everyone keeps secrets. Crozet, Virginia, is a typical small town—until its secrets explode into murder. Crozet’s thirty-something postmistress, Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, has a tiger cat (Mrs. Murphy) and a Welsh corgi (Tee Tucker), a pending divorce, and a bad habit of reading postcards not addressed to her. When Crozet’s citizens start turning up murdered, Harry remembers that each received a card with a tombstone on the front and the message “wish you were here” on the back. Intent on protecting their human friends, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker begin to scent out clues. Meanwhile, Harry is conducting her own investigation, unaware that her pets are one step ahead of her. If only Mrs. Murphy could alert her somehow, Harry could uncover the culprit before another murder occurs—and before Harry finds herself on the killer’s mailing list.

“Charming . . . Ms. Brown writes with wise, disarming wit.”

—The New York Times Book Review

MURDER AT MONTICELLO

A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Bantam hardcover edition published December 1994

Bantam mass market edition / October 1995

Bantam mass market reissue / April 2004

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 1994 by American Artists, Inc.

Illustrations copyright © 1994 by Wendy Wray

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-16711

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

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eISBN 0-553-89863-9

Published simultaneously in Canada

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