Murder at Monticello

by Rita Mae Brown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He did notice. “Strange.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do what?” Harry asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You’ve come up with worse.”

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

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

  “Bet Kimball doesn’t.”

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

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

  “Why night?” Cynthia questioned.

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

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

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

  “After the fire?” Rick continued his questioning.

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

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

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

  “Was Jefferson paid?” Rick innocently asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Most murderers do,” Cynthia explained.

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

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

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

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

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

  A chill shivered down Harry’s spine. She knew the sheriff to be a strong man, a dedicated public servant, but when he said that, when he acknowledged his debt to the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence, the man who elevated America’s sense of architecture and the living arts, the man who endured the presidency and advanced the nation, she recognized that she, too, all of them, in fact, even Heike, were tied to the redheaded man born in 1743. But if they really thought about it, they owed honor to all who came before them, all who tried to improve conditions.r />
  As Oliver Zeve could concoct no glib reply, he returned to the food baskets. But he muttered under his breath, “Murder at Monticello. Good God.”

  9

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

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

  “Kimball will figure that out.”

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

  “Picking up a dress for his wife.”

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

  “Soon, I should think.”

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

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

  “Damn, you know everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?”

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

  10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “African Americans,” Ansley purred.

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

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

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

  “Mim’s lecture.”

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

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

  “Whose history?”

  “America’s history, Big Daddy.”

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

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

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

  “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Really, Lulu, it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not that good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Local and Richmond.”

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

  “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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