Wish You Were Here. Rest In Pieces. Murder At Monticello

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

52

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

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

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

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

“Goddammit!”

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

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

53

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“He’s sticking to his story.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess.” Mim sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

54

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had no idea?”

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

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

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

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

“When did you know?”

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

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

“Did he really threaten to kill you?”

She nodded and sobbed.

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

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

“Tucker, vamoose!”

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

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

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

55

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lord is my light and my salvation;

whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life;

of whom shall I be afraid?

When evildoers assail me,

uttering slanders against me,

My adversaries and foes,

they shall stumble and fall.

Though a host encamp against me,

my heart shall not fear;

Though war rise up against me,

yet I will be confident.

One thing have I asked of the Lord,

that will I seek after;

That I may dwell in the house of the Lord

all the days of my life—

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

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

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

“I am,” Ansley stoutly insisted.

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

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

“Not here,” Ansley begged through clenched teeth.

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

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

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

It was enough.

56

Dr. Larry Johnson, carrying his black Gladstone bag of medical gear, buoyantly swung into the post office. Tucker rushed up to greet him. Mrs. Murphy, splayed on the counter on her right side, tail slowly flicking back and forth, raised her head, then put it back down again.

“I think I know who the Monticello victim is.”

Mrs. Murphy sat up, alert. Harry and Miranda hurried around the counter.

Larry straightened his hand-tied bow tie before addressing his small but eager audience.“Now, ladies, I apologize for not telling you first, but that honor belonged to Sheriff Shaw, and you will, of course, understand why I had to place the next call to Mim Sanburne. She in turn called Warren and Ansley and the other major contributors. I also called Oliver Zeve, but the minute the political calls were accounted for, I zoomed over here.”

“We can’t stand it. Tell!” Harry clapped her hands together.

“Thomas Walker, like any good medical man, kept a record of his patients. All I did was start at the beginning and read. In 1778 he set the leg of a five-year-old child, Braxton Fleming, the eighth child of Rebecca and Isaiah Fleming, who owned a large tract along the Rivanna River. The boy brokehis leg wrestling with his older brother in a tree.” He laughed. “Don’t kids do the damnedest things? In a tree! Well, anyway, Dr. Walker noted that it was a compound fracture and he doubted that it would heal in such a manner as to afford the patient full facility with the limb, as he put it. He duly noted the break was in the left femur. He also noted that the boy was the most beautiful child he had ever seen. That aroused my curiosity, and I called down to the Albemarle County Historical Society and asked for help. Those folks down there are just terrific—volunteer labor. I asked them if they’d comb their sources for any information about Braxton Fleming. Seems he trod the course a wellborn young fellow typically trod in those days. He was tutored in Richmond, but then instead of going to the College of William and Mary he enrolled in the College of New Jersey, as did AaronBurr and James Madison. We know it as Princeton. The Flemings were intelligent. All the surviving sons completed their studies and entered the professions, but Braxton was the only one to go north of the Mason-Dixon line to study. He spent some time in Philadelphia after graduating and apparently evidenced some gift for painting. Well, it was as hard then as now to make a living in the arts, so finally Braxton slunk home. He tried his hand at farming and did enough to survive, but his heart wasn’t in it. He married well but not happily and he turned to drink. He was reputed to have been thehandsomest man in central Virginia.”

“What a story!” Mrs. Hogendobber exclaimed.

Larry held up his hands as if to squelch applause.“But we don’t know why he was killed. We only know how, and we have a strong suspect.”

“Dr. J., does anyone know what happened to him? You know, some kind of mention about him not coming home or something?”

“Yes.” He tilted his head and stared at the ceiling. “His wife declared that he took a gallon of whiskey and set out for Kentucky to make his fortune. May 1803. No more was ever heard from Braxton Fleming.”

Harry whistled.“He’s our man.”

Larry stroked Mrs. Murphy under her chin. She rewarded him with important purrs.“You know, Fair and I were talking the other day, and he was telling me about retroviruses in cats and horses. He also mentioned a feline respiratory infection that can pass from mother to child and may erupt ten years later. Feline leukemia is rampant too. Well, Mrs. Murphy, you look healthy enough and I’m glad of it. I hadn’t realized life was so precarious for cats.”

“Thank you,” the cat responded.

“Larry, you must let us know if you find out anything else. What a detective you are.” Praise from Mrs. Hogendobber was high praise indeed.

“Oh, heck, the folks down at the historical society did most of the work.”

He picked up his mail, blew them a kiss, and left, eager to return to Jim Craig’s diaries.

57

Diseases, like rivers, course through human history. What might have happened if Pericles had survived the plague in fifth-century B.C. Athens, or if the Europeans nearly two thousand years later had discovered that the bubonic plague was transmitted to humans by rat fleas?

Mrs. Murphy’s ancestors saved medieval Europe, only to be condemned in a later century as accessories to withcraft, then hunted and killed.

And what might have been Russia’s fate had Alexei, the heir to the throne, not been born with hemophilia, a blood disease passed on by Queen Victoria’s offspring?

One never realizes the blessings of health until they are snatched away.

Medical science, since opening up a cadaver to prove there was such a thing as a circulatory system, became better at identifying diseases. The various forms of cancer no longer were lumped together as a wasting disease but categorized and named as cancer of the colon, leukemia, skin cancer, and so forth.

The great breakthrough came in 1796, when Sir William Jenner created the vaccine for smallpox.

After that, human hygiene improved, preventative medicine improved, and many could look forward to reaching their fourscore and ten years. Yet some diseases resisted human efforts, cancer being the outstanding example.

As Larry read his deceased partner’s diagnoses and prognoses late into each night, he felt like a young man again.

He was pleased to read that Dr. Craig gruffly wrote down,“Young pup’s damned good,” and he was excited as he delved again into the 1940s cases he’d seen himself.

Vividly he recalled the autopsy they performed on Z. Calvin Coles, Samson’s grandfather, in which the old man’s liver was grotesquely enlarged and fragile as tissue paper.

When he prepared to write alcoholism on the death certificate as the cause of death, Jim stayed his hand.

“Larry, put down heart failure.”

“But that’s not what killed him.”

“In the end we all die because our hearts stop beating. Write down alcoholism and you break his wife’s heart and his children’s too.

Through his mentor, Larry had learned how to diplomatically handle unsavory problems such as venereal disease. A physician had to report this to the state health department. This both Dr. Craig and Dr. Johnson did. The individual was to warn former sexual partners of his or her infectious state. Many people couldn’t do it, so Dr. Craig performed the service. Larry specialized in scaring the hell out of the victims in the hope that they would repair their ways.

From Dr. Craig Larry learned how to tell a patient he was dying, a chore that tore him to pieces. But Dr. Craig always said,“Larry, people die as they live. You must speak to each one in his or her own language.” Over the years he marveled at the courage and dignity of seemingly ordinary people as they faced death.

Dr. Craig never aspired to being other than what he was, a small-town practitioner. He was much like a parish priest who loves his flock and harbors no ambition to become a bishop or cardinal.

As Larry read on, he was surprised to learn of the termination of a pregnancy for a young Sweet Briar College junior, Marilyn Urquhart. Dr. Craig wrote:“Given the nervous excitability of the patient, I fear having a child out of wedlock would unhinge this young woman.”

There were secrets Dr. Craig kept even from his young partner. It was part of the old man’s character to protect a lady, no matter what.

The clock read two thirty-five A.M. Larry’s head had begun to nod. He forced his eyes open to read just a bit more, and then they popped wide open.

March 3, 1948. Wesley Randolph came in today with his father. Colonel Randolph seems to be suffering from the habitual ailment of his clan. He hates needles. The son does also, but the old man shamed Wesley into getting blood pulled.

My suspicion, quite strong, is that the colonel has developed leukemia. I sent the blood to U.V.A. for analysis, requesting that they use the new electron microscope.

March 5, 1948. Dr. Harvey Fenton asked me to meet him at the U.V.A. Hospital. When I arrived he asked me of my relation to Colonel Randolph and his son. I replied that relations were cordial.

Dr. Fenton didn’t say anything to my reply. He merely pointed to the electron microscope. A blood sample, underneath, showed an avalanche of white cells.

“Leukemia,” I said. “Colonel Randolph or Wesley?”

“No,” Fenton replied. He slid another sample under the microscope. “Look here.”

I did, and a peculiar shape of cell was prominent.“I’m not familiar with this cell deformation,” I said.

“We’re learning to identify this. It’s a hereditary blood disease called sickle cell anemia. The red blood cells lack normal hemoglobin. Instead, they contain hemoglobin S and the cells become deformed—they look like a sickle. Because of the awkward shape, the hemoglobin S blood cells can’t flow like normal cells and they clog up capillaries and blood vessels. Those traffic jams are extremely painful to the sufferer.

“But there’s a less serious condition in which red blood cells have half normal hemoglobin and half hemoglobin S. Someone with this condition has the sickle cell trait, but he won’t develop the disease.

“However, if he marries someone else with the trait, their children stand a twenty-five percent chance of inheriting the disease. The risk is very high.

“We don’t know why, but sickle cells occur among blacks. Occasionally, but rarely, someone of Greek, Arab, or Indian descent will display the trait. The whole thing is baffling.

“You know all those jokes about Negroes being either lazy or having hookworm?—well, in many cases we’re realizing they had sickle cell anemia.”

I didn’t know what to say, as I have observed since childhood that the white race delights in casting harsh judgments on the black race. So, I looked at the blood sample again.

“Did the Negro from whom you obtained this blood die?”

“The man this blood was drawn from is alive but failing from cancer. He has the trait but not the disease.” Dr. Fenton paused. “This is Colonel Randolph’s blood sample.”

Stunned, I blurted out,“What about Wesley?”

“He’s safe, but he carries the trait.”

As I drove back home I knew I’d have to tell Colonel Randolph and Wesley the truth. The happy portion of the news was that the colonel was in no immediate danger. The unhappy portion of the news is obvious. I wonder what Larry will make of this? I want to take him down to Dr. Fenton to see for himself.

Larry pushed the book away.

Jim Craig was murdered March 6, 1948. He never got to tell Larry anything.

Legs wobbly and eyes bleary from so much reading, Larry Johnson stood up from his desk. He put on his hat and his Sherlock Holmes coat, as he called it. He hadn’t paced the streets of Crozet like this since he tried to walk off a broken heart when Mim Urquhart spurned him for Big Jim Sanburne back in 1950.

As the sun rose, Larry felt his first obligation was to Warren Randolph. He called. Ansley answered, then put Warren on the phone. All the Randolphs were early risers. Larry offered to drive over to see Warren, but Warren said he’d come over to Larry’s later that morning. It was no inconvenience.

What was inconvenient was that Larry Johnson was shot at 7:44 Saturday morning.

58

Harry, Miranda, Mim, Fair, Susan, Ned, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker watched with mounting grief as their dear friend’s body was rolled away under a sheet on a gurney. Deputy Cooper said Larry’s maid, Charmalene, had found him at nine, when she came to work. He was lying in the front hall. He must have opened the door to let in the killer and taken a few steps toward the kitchen, when he was shot in the back.Probably the man never knew what hit him, but this was cold comfort to his friends. The maid said the coffee he’d made was fresh. He’d made more than usual, so maybe he expected company. He was probably awaiting the arrival of his killer, who then ransacked his office. Sheriff Shaw climbed in the back of the ambulance and they sped away.

Tucker, nose to the ground, picked up the scent easily enough, but the killer wore crepe-soled shoes which left such a distinct rubber smell that the dog couldn’t catch a clear human signature. Unfortunately, the ambulance workers trudged over the footprints, for the killer, no fool, tiptoed on the sidewalk and put a foot down hard only in the driveway, probably when disembarking from the car.

“What have you got, Tucker?” Mrs. Murphy, worried, asked.

“Not enough. Not enough.”

“A trace of cologne?”

“No, just this damned crepe-sole smell. And a wet smell—sand.”

The tiger bent her own nose to the task.“Is anyone else doing construction work? There’s always sand involved in construction.”

“Sand on a lot of driveways too.”

“Tucker, we’ve got to stick close to Mom. She’s done enough research to get her in trouble. Whoever the killer is, he’s losing it. Humans don’t kill one another in broad daylight unless it’s passion or war. This was cold-blooded.”

“And hasty,” Tucker added, still straining to place the rubber smell. She decided then and there to hate crepe-soled shoes.

Fair Haristeen read Larry’s notes on a piece of blue-lined white paper as Cynthia Cooper held the paper with tweezers.

“Can you make some sense of this, Fair? You’re a medical man.”

“Yes, it’s a kind of medical shorthand for sickle cell anemia.”

“Don’t only African Americans get that?”

“Mostly blacks are affected, but I don’t think there’s a hundred percent correspondence. It passes from generation to generation.”

Cooper asked,“How many generations back?”

Fair shrugged,“That I can’t tell you, Coop. I’m just a vet, remember.”

“Thanks, Fair.”

“Is there a nut case on the loose in Crozet?”

“That depends on how you define nut case, but it’s safe to say that if the killer feels anyone is closing in on the truth, he’s going to strike.”

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. Thatalong 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 catcalled.

“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 walkeddown 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 withwomen 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.”