However, he didn’t much crave it today. He parked behind a huge bank barn, pulled on his galoshes, and stomped through over a mile of slush to Blair Bainbridge’s farm next to Harry’s place.
He knew Harry was keeping an eye on the farm in Blair’s absence. The great thing about a small town is that most people know your schedule. It was also the bad thing about a small town.
Harry usually sorted Blair’s mail at work and put it in an international packet so he’d get it within a few days unless Blair happened to be on a shoot in a very remote area or in a political hot spot. She’d stop by Blair’s Foxden Farm on her way home from work.
The squish of mud dragged him down. Hard to run in galoshes, and Samson was in a hurry. He had a two o’clock appointment at Midale. That listing, once the property sold, meant a healthy commission for Samson. He needed the money. He was listing the estate at $2.2 million. He thought Midale would sell between $1.5 and $1.8 million. He’d work that out with his client later. The important thing was to get the listing. He’d learned a long time ago that in the real estate business if you give the client a high price, you usually win the listing. Occasionally, he would sell a property for the listing price. More often than not, the place would sell for twenty to thirty percent less and he covered himself by elaborately explaining that the market had dipped, interest rates varied, whatever soothed the waters. After all, he didn’t want a reputation for being an unrealistic agent.
He checked his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Damn, not much time. Two o’clock would roll around before he knew it.
The lovely symmetrical frame house came into view. He hurried on. At the back screen door he lifted the lid of the old milk box. The key dangled inside on a small brass hook.
He put the key in the door, but it was already unlocked. He opened and closed the door behind him.
Ansley rushed out from the living room, where she’d been waiting. “Darling.” She threw her arms around his neck.
“Where’d you park your car?” Samson asked.
“In the barn, out of sight. Now, is that a romantic thing to say?”
He squeezed her tight. “I’ll show you my romantic side in other ways, sweet thing.”
14
The County of Albemarle wasted little money on the offices of the sheriff’s department. Presumably they saw fit to waste the taxpayers’ money in other ways. Rick Shaw felt fortunate that he and his field staff had bulletproof vests and new cars at regular intervals. The walls, once painted 1950s grade-school-green, had at least graduated to real-estate-white. So much for improvements. Spring hadn’t really sprung. Rick was grateful. Every spring the incidence of drunkenness, domestic violence, and general silliness rose. Cynthia Cooper attributed it to spring fever. Rick attributed it to the inherent vile qualities of the human animal.
“Now, see here, Sheriff, is this really necessary?” Oliver Zeve’s lips narrowed to a slit. A note of authority and class superiority slithered into his deep voice.
Rick, long accustomed to people of higher social position trying to browbeat him, politely but firmly said, “Yes.”
During this discussion Deputy Cooper marched back and forth, occasionally catching Rick’s eye. She knew her boss really wanted to pick up the director of Monticello by the seat of his tailored pants and toss him out the front door. Rick’s expression changed when he spoke to Kimball Haynes. “Mr. Haynes, have you found anything else?”
“I’m pretty sure that the body was buried before the fire. There’s no ash or cinder below the line where we discovered him—uh, the corpse.”
“Couldn’t the fire have been set to cover the evidence?” Rick doodled on his desk pad.
“Actually, Sheriff, that would have jeopardized the murderer if the murderer lived at Cabin Four or worked on the estate. You see, these fires were woefully common. Once the fire burned itself out and people could walk in the ruins, they would shovel up the cold ash and scrape the ground back down to the hard earth underneath.”
“Why?” The sheriff stopped doodling and made notes.
“Courtesy more than anything. Every time it rained, whoever had lived in the cabin would smell that smoke and ash. Also, what if after the fire they used the opportunity to enlarge the cabin or to make some improvement? You’d want to start on a good, flat surface. . . .”
“True.”
“Burning the cabin would only have served the purpose of making it appear the victim had died in the fire. Given the obvious status of the victim, that would be peculiar, wouldn’t it? Why would a well-to-do white man be in a slave’s cabin fire? Unless he was asleep and died of smoke inhalation, and you know what that would mean,” Kimball offered.
Oliver’s temper flared. “Kimball, I vigorously protest this specious line of reasoning. This is all conjecture. Very imaginative and certainly makes a good story but has little to do with the facts at hand. Namely, a skeleton, presumably almost two hundred years old, is found underneath the hearth. Spinning theories doesn’t get us anywhere. We need facts.”
Rick nodded gravely, then stung quickly. “That’s exactly why the remains must go to the lab in Washington.”
Caught, Oliver fought back. “As director of Monticello, I protest the removal of any object, animate or inanimate, human or otherwise, found on the grounds of Mr. Jefferson’s home.”
Kimball, exasperated, couldn’t restrain his barbed humor. “Oliver, what are we going to do with a skeleton?”
“Give it a decent burial,” Oliver replied through clenched teeth.
“Mr. Zeve, your protest is duly noted, but these remains are going to Washington and hopefully they’ll be able to give us some boundaries concerning time, if nothing else, sex, and race,” the sheriff stated flatly.
“We know it’s a man.” Oliver crossed his arms over his chest.
“What if it’s a woman in a man’s clothing? What if a slave had stolen an expensive vest—”
“Waistcoat,” Oliver corrected him.
“Well, what if? What if she wanted to make a dress out of it or something? Now, I am not in the habit of theorizing, and I can’t accept anything until I have a lab report. Do I think the skeleton is that of a male? Yes, I do. The pelvis in a male skeleton is smaller than that in a female. I’ve seen enough of them to know that. But as for the rest of it—I don’t know much.”
“Then may I ask you to please not theorize about the possibility of the victim’s dying by smoke inhalation? Let’s wait on that too.”
“Oliver, that was my, uh, moment of imagination.” Kimball shouldered the blame since Oliver wanted to assign it. “Miscegenation is an old word and an ugly word, but it would have been the word and the law at the time. I understand your squeamishness.”
“Squeamish?”
“Okay, wrong word. It’s a delicate issue. But I return to my original scenario, and being an archaeologist, I have some authority here. In the process of preparing the burned cabin for a new building, the killer would run the very real risk that a spade would turn up the corpse. That is one strong reason against a fire having been set to cover up the evidence. The other, far more convincing data is that the layer of charred earth—again, scraped back as best they could—was roughly two feet above the corpse, allowing for the slight difference between the actual floor of the cabin and the floor of the hearth.”
“Is there any record of this cabin burning?” Rick listened to the slow glide as the soft lead crossed the white page. He found it a consoling sound.
“If the murder occurred in 1803, as it would appear, Jefferson was in his first term as president. We have no record in his own hand of such an event, and he was a compulsive record-keeper. He’d even count out beans, nails—just compulsive. So, if he were home at the time, or visiting home from Washington, we can be certain he would have made a note of it. I’m sorry to say that the overseer lacked Mr. Jefferson’s meticulous habits,” Kimball replied.
“Unless the overseer was in on it and wanted no attention called to the cabin.”
Rick stopped writing.
An edge crept into Oliver’s tone. “I guess after years on the job you would naturally think like that, Sheriff.”
“Mr. Zeve, I understand that at this moment we seem to be in an adversarial position. In as plain a language as I can find: A man was murdered and it was covered up, forgive the pun, for nigh onto two hundred years. I am not the expert that you are on the end of the eighteenth century, the beginning of the nineteenth, but I would hazard a guess that our forefathers were more civilized and less prone to violence than we are today. I would especially think this is true of anyone who would have worked at Monticello, or visited the estate. So, whoever killed our victim had a powerful motive.”
15
In the parking lot the cool, clammy evening air caused Kimball to shudder. Oliver added to his discomfort.
“You weren’t helpful in there.” Oliver tried to sound more disappointed than angry.
“Usually you and I work easily together. Your position is far more political than mine, Oliver, and I appreciate that. It’s not enough for you to be an outstanding scholar on Thomas Jefferson, you’ve got to play footsie with the people who write the checks, the National Historic Trust in D.C., and the descendants of the man. I’m sure I’ve left out other pressures.”
“The people and artisans who work at Monticello.” Oliver supplied this omission.
“Of course,” Kimball agreed. “My one concern is discovering as much as we can about Mulberry Row and preserving the architectural and even landscaping integrity of Monticello at the time of Mr. Jefferson’s peak. My interpretation of peak, naturally.”
“Then don’t offer up theories for the good sheriff. Let him find out whatever there is to find out. I don’t want this turned into a three-ring circus and certainly not before the two hundred fiftieth birthday celebration. We need to make sure that celebration has the correct focus.” He inhaled and whispered, “Money, Kimball, money. The media will turn somersaults on April thirteenth, and the attention will be a godsend to all our efforts to preserve, maintain, and extend Monticello.”
“I know.”
“Then, please, let’s not give anyone ideas about white men sleeping in slave cabins, or with slave women. Smoke inhalation.” Oliver pronounced the two words as though they were a sentence of doom.
Kimball waited, turning this over in his mind. “All right, but I can’t turn away the opportunity to help Sheriff Shaw.”
“Of course not.” Oliver intoned, “I know you well enough to know that. I’m in an optimistic frame of mind and I think whatever comes back from the lab will put this to rest. Then we can put the remains to rest in a Christian burial.”
After saying good-night, Kimball hopped into his car. He watched Oliver’s taillights as he backed out behind him and then sped away. A moment of darkness enveloped him, a premonition perhaps or a sense of sorrow over his disagreement with Oliver, who could bounce him right out of a job. Then again, maybe thinking about murder and death, no matter how far distant, casts a brooding spell over people. Evil knows no time. Kimball shuddered again and chalked it up to the cool, cloying dampness.
16
The biting wind on Monticello Mountain made the forty-five-degree temperature feel like thirty-five. Mim huddled in her down jacket. She wanted to wear her sable, but Oliver Zeve warned her that wouldn’t look good for the Friends of Restoration. The antifur people would kick up a fuss. Made her spit. Furs had been keeping the human race warm for millennia. She did admit that the down jacket also kept her warm and was much lighter.
Montalto, the green spherical anchor at the northern end of Carter’s Ridge, drifted in and out of view. Ground clouds snaked through the lowlands, and they were slowly rising with the advent of the sun.
Mim admired Thomas Jefferson. She read voraciously what he himself had written and what had been written about him by others. She knew that he had purchased Montalto on October 14, 1777. Jefferson drew several observatory designs, for he wished to build one on Montalto. There was no end to his ideas, his drawings. He would return to projects years later and complete them. He needed little sleep, so he could accomplish more than most people.
Mim, greedy for sleep, wondered how he managed with so little. Perhaps his schemes held loneliness at bay when he sat at his desk at five in the morning. Or perhaps his mind raced so fast he couldn’t shut it off—might as well let it be productive. Another man might have gone on the prowl for trouble.
Not that Thomas Jefferson lacked his share of trouble or heartache. His father died when he was fourteen. His beloved tomboy older sister, Jane, died when he was twenty-two. His wife died on September 6, 1782, when he was thirty-nine, after he stayed home to nurse her for the last four painful months of her life. He sequestered himself in his room for three weeks following her death. After that he rode and rode and rode as if his horse could carry him away from death, from the burden of his crushing sorrow.
Mim felt she knew the man. Her sorrows, while not equal to Jefferson’s, nonetheless provided her with a sense that she could understand his losses. She understood his passion for architecture and landscaping. Politics proved harder for her to grasp. As the wife of Crozet’s mayor, she glad-handed, fed, and smiled at every soul in the community . . . and everybody wanted something.
How could this brilliant man participate in such a low profession?
A sound check in the background brought her out of her reverie. Little Marilyn pulled out a mirror for her mother. Mim scrutinized her appearance. Not bad. She cleared her throat. Then she stood up as she saw a production assistant walking her way.
Mim, Kimball, and Oliver would be discussing the corpse on Wake-up Call, the national network morning show.
She was to deflect any suggestions of miscegenation, as Samson Coles put it to her on the phone. Wesley Randolph, when she called on him, advised her to emphasize that Jefferson was probably in Washington at the time of the unfortunate man’s demise. When Mim said that perhaps they’d have to wait for the pathology report from D.C., her rival and friend harrumphed. “Wait nothing. Don’t be honest, Mim. This is politics even if centuries have passed. In politics your virtues will be used against you. There’s private morality and public morality. I keep telling Warren that. Ansley understands, but my son sure doesn’t. You get up there and say whatever you want so long as it sounds good—and remember, the best defense is a good offense.”
Mim, poised at the edge of the lights behind the camera, watched as Kimball Haynes pointed to the site of the body.
Little Marilyn watched the monitor. A photo of the skeleton flashed on the screen. “Indecent.” Mim fumed. “You shouldn’t show a body until the next of kin are notified.”
A hand gripped her elbow, guiding her to her mark. The sound technician placed a tiny microphone on the lapel of her cashmere sweater. She shed her jacket. Her perfect three strands of pearls gleamed against the hunter-green sweater.
The host glided over to her, flashed his famous smile, and held out his right hand, “Mrs. Sanburne, Kyle Kottner, so pleased you could be with us this morning.”
He paused, listened to his earphone, and swiveled to face the camera with the red light. “I’m here now with Mrs. James Sanburne, president of the Friends of Restoration and the moving force behind the Mulberry Row project. Tell us, Mrs. Sanburne, about slave life during Thomas Jefferson’s time.”
“Mr. Jefferson would have called his people servants. Many of them were treasured as family members and many servants were highly skilled. His servants were devoted to him because he was devoted to them.”
“But isn’t it a contradiction, Mrs. Sanburne, that one of the fathers of liberty should own slaves?”
Mim, prepared, appeared grave and thoughtful. “Mr. Kottner, when Thomas Jefferson was a young man at the House of Burgesses before the Revolutionary War, he said that he made an effort at emancipation which failed. I think that the war diverted his attention from this subject, and as you know, he was sent to France, where hi
s presence was crucial to our war efforts. France was the best friend we had.” Kyle started to cut her off, but Mim smiled brightly. “And after the war Americans faced the herculean labor of forming a new kind of government. Had he been born later, I do believe he would have successfully tackled this thorny problem.”
Amazed that a woman from a place he assumed was the sticks had gotten the better of him, Kyle shifted gears. “Have you any theories about the body found in Cabin Four?”
“Yes. I believe he was a violent opponent of Mr. Jefferson’s. What we would call a stalker today. And I believe one of the servants killed him to protect the great man’s life.”
Pandemonium. Everyone started talking at once. Mim stifled a broad smile.
Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, Susan, and Market were watching on the portable TV Susan had brought to the post office. Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter stared at the tube as well.
“Slick as an eel.” Harry clapped her hands in admiration.
“Stalker theory! Where does she come up with this stuff?” Market scratched his balding head.
“The newspapers,” Susan answered. “You’ve got to hand it to her. She turned the issue of slavery on its head. She controlled the interviewer instead of vice versa. Until the real story surfaces, if it ever does, she’s got the media chasing their tails.”
“The real story will surface.” Miranda spoke with conviction. “It always does.”
Pewter flicked her whiskers fore and aft. “Does anyone have a glazed doughnut? I’m hungry.”
“No,” Tucker replied. “Pewter, you have no sense of mystery.”
“That’s not true,” she defended herself. “But I see Mim on a daily basis. Watching her on television is no big deal.” Pewter, waiting for a comeback from Mrs. Murphy, was disappointed when none was forthcoming. “What planet are you on?”
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