Murder at Monticello

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Is it true that Mrs. Murphy rides the horses?”

  “Of course it’s true.” Mrs. Murphy flashed her tail from side to side. “You ought to try it.”

  Pewter craned her neck to observe the two horses munching away in their stalls. “I’m not the athletic type.”

  “You’re awfully good to help me.” Harry thanked her ex-husband as he groaned, pulling a rubber mat closer to the wall. “Want a hand?”

  “I’ve got it,” he replied. “The only reason I’m doing this, Skeezits”—he used her high school nickname—“is that you’d do it yourself and strain something. For better or for worse, I’m stronger.” He paused. “But you have more endurance.”

  “Same as mares, I guess.”

  “I wonder if the differences between human males and females are as profound as we think they are. Mares made me think of it. The equine spread is narrow, very narrow. But for whatever reason, humans have created this elaborate code of sexual differences.”

  “We’ll never know the answer. You know, I’m so out of it, I don’t even care. I’m going to do what I want to do and I don’t much care if it’s feminine or masculine.”

  “You always were that way, Harry. I think that’s why I liked you so much.”

  “You liked me so much because we were in kindergarten together.”

  “I was in kindergarten with Susan, and I didn’t marry her,” he replied with humor.

  “Touché.”

  “I happened to think you were special once I synchronized my testosterone level with my brain. For a time there, the gonads took over.”

  She laughed. “It’s a miracle anyone survives adolescence. Everything is so magnified and so new. My poor parents.” She smiled, thinking of her tolerant mother and father.

  “You were lucky. Remember when I totaled my dad’s new Saab? One of the first Saabs in Crozet too. I thought he was gonna kill me.”

  “You had help. Center Berryman is not my idea of a stable companion.”

  “Have you seen him since he got out of the treatment center?”

  “Yeah. Seems okay.”

  “If I was ever tempted by cocaine, Center certainly cured me of that.”

  “He came to Mim’s Mulberry Row ceremony at Monticello. One of his first appearances since he got back. He did okay. I mean, what must it have been like to have everyone staring at you and wondering if you’re going to make it? There are those who wish you well, those who are too self-centered to care, those that are sweet but will blunder and say the wrong thing, and those—and these are my absolute faves—those who hope you’ll fall flat on your face. That’s the only way they can be superior—to have the next guy fail. Jerks.” Harry grimaced.

  “We became well acquainted with that variety of jerks during our divorce.”

  “Oh, Fair, come on. Every single woman between the ages of twenty and eighty fawned over you, invited you to dinner—the poor-man-alone routine. I got it both barrels. How could I toss out my errant husband? All boys stray. That’s the way they’re made. What a load of shit I heard from other women. The men, at least, had the sense to shut up.”

  He stopped cutting through the heavy rubber, sweat pouring off him despite the temperature in the low fifties. “That’s what makes life interesting.”

  “What”—she was feeling angry just remembering—“dealing with jerks?”

  “No—how we each see a slice of life, a degree or two of the circle but not the whole circle. What I was getting while you were getting that was older men like Herbie Jones or Larry Johnson on my case.”

  “Herbie and Larry?” Harry’s interest shot into the stratosphere. “What did they say?”

  “Basically that we all fall from grace and I should beg your forgiveness. Know who else invited me over for a powwow? Jim Sanburne.”

  “I don’t believe it.” She felt oddly warmed by this male solicitude.

  “Harry, he’s an unusual man. He said his life was no model but that infidelity was his fatal flaw and he knew it. He really blew me away because he’s much more self-aware than I reckoned. He said he thought he started having affairs when he was young because he felt Mim lorded it over him, his being a poor boy, so to speak.”

  “He learned how to make money in a hurry.” Harry always admired self-made people.

  “Yeah, he did, and he didn’t use a penny of her inheritance either. Fooling around was not just his way to get even but a way to restore his confidence.” Fair sat down for a minute. Tucker immediately came over and sat in his lap.

  “Oh, Tucker, you’re always sucking up to people,” accused Pewter, who was the original brown-noser the minute the refrigerator door opened.

  “Pewter, you’re jealous,” Mrs. Murphy teased.

  “No, I’m not,” came the defensive reply. “But Tucker is so—so obvious. Dogs have no subtlety.”

  “Pewter, you’re just a chatty Cathy.” Harry reached over and stroked her chin.

  “Gag me,” Tucker said.

  “Why do you think you fooled around?” Harry thought the question would shake her, but it didn’t. She was glad it was finally out there even if it did take three years.

  “Stupidity.”

  “That’s a fulsome reply.”

  “Don’t get testy. I was stupid. I was immature. I was afraid I was missing something. The rose not smelled, the road not taken. That kind of crap. I do know, though, that I still had a lot of growing-up to do even after we were married—I spent so much of my real youth with my nose in a textbook that I missed a lot of the life experiences from which a person grows. What I was missing was me.”

  Harry stopped putting in the brick and sat down, facing him.

  He continued. “With a few exceptions like wrecking the Saab, I did what was expected of me. Most of us in Crozet do, I guess. I don’t think I knew myself very well, or maybe I didn’t want to know myself. I was afraid of what I’d find out.”

  “Like what? What could possibly be wrong with you? You’re handsome, the best in your field, and you get along with people.”

  “I ought to come over here more often.” He blushed. “Ah, Harry, haven’t you ever caught yourself driving down Garth Road or waking up in the middle of the night, haven’t you ever wondered what the hell you were doing and why you were doing it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Scared me. I wondered if I was as smart as everyone tells me I am. I’m not. I’m good in my field, but I can sure be dumb as a sack of hammers about other things. I kept running into limitations, and since I was raised to believe I shouldn’t have any, I ran away from them—you, me. That solved nothing. BoomBoom was an exercise in terrible judgment. And the one before her—”

  Harry interrupted. “She was pretty.”

  “Pretty is as pretty does. Anyway, I woke up one morning and realized that I’d smashed my marriage, I’d hurt the one person I loved most, I’d disappointed my parents and myself, and I’d made a fool of myself to others. Thank God I’m in a business where my patients are animals. I don’t think any people would have come to me. I was a mess. I even thought about killing myself.”

  “You?” Harry was stunned.

  He nodded. “And I was too proud to ask for help. Hey, I’m Fair Haristeen and I’m in control. Six-foot-four men don’t break down. We might kill ourselves working, but we don’t break down.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Found myself at the good reverend’s house on Christmas Eve. Christmas with Mom and Dad, oh, boy. Grim, resentful.” He shook his head. “I flew out of that house. I don’t know. I showed up at Herb’s and he sat down and talked to me. He told me that no one’s a perfect person and I should go slow, take a day at a time. He didn’t preach at me either. He told me to reach out to people and not to hide myself behind this exterior, behind a mask, you know?”

  “I do.” And she did.

  “Then I did something so out of character for me.” He played with the edge of the rubber matting. “I found a therapist.”

&n
bsp; “No way.”

  “Yeah, I really did, and you’re the only person who knows. I’ve been working with this guy for two years now and I’m making progress. I’m becoming, uh, human.”

  The phone cut into whatever Fair would have said next. Harry jumped up and walked into the tack room. She heard Mrs. Hogendobber almost before she picked up the phone. Mrs. H. told her that Kimball Haynes had just been found by Heike Holtz. Shot twice. When he didn’t show up for a date or answer his phone, she became worried and drove out to his place.

  Harry, ashen-faced, paused for a moment. “Fair, Kimball Haynes has been murdered.” She returned to Mrs. H. “We’ll be right over.”

  38

  A tea table filled with tarts and a crisp apple pie aroused the interest of Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter. The humans at that moment were too upset to eat. Mrs. Hogendobber, a first-rate baker, liked to experiment with recipes before taking them to the Church of the Holy Light for suppers and benefits. The major benefit was to Harry, who was used as the guinea pig. If Harry ever stopped doing her high-calorie-burning farm chores, she’d be fat as a tick. Mrs. H. had planned to bring the treats to work tomorrow, but everything was up in the air.

  “That bright young man. He had everything to live for.” Miranda wiped her eyes. “Why would anyone kill Kimball?”

  Fair sat next to her on one side of the sofa, Harry on the other.

  Harry patted her hand. An awkward gesture, but it suited Mrs. Hogendobber, who was not a woman given to hugs or much public display of affection. “I don’t know, but I think he stuck his nose too far in somebody’s business.”

  Mrs. Hogendobber lifted her head. “You mean over this Monticello murder?”

  “Not exactly. I don’t know what I mean.” Harry sighed.

  Fair’s baritone filled the room. “Crozet is a town filled with secrets, generations deep.”

  “Isn’t every town full of secrets? The precepts for living don’t seem to take into account true human nature.” Harry smelled the apple pie. Pewter crouched, making ready to spring onto the teacart. “Pewter, no.”

  “Nobody else is going to eat it,” the cat sassed her. “Why waste good food?”

  Her anger rising because Pewter not only refused to budge but wiggled her haunches again for the leap, Harry rose and chased the cat away from the cart. Pewter ran a few steps away and then sat down defiantly.

  “You’re pushing it,” Mrs. Murphy warned her.

  “What’s she going to do? Smack pie in my face?” Pewter wickedly crept closer to the sweet-laden cart.

  “Listen, let’s eat some of this before Pewter wears me out.” Harry sliced three portions of pie, the rich apple aroma deliciously filling the room as the knife opened up the heart of the pie.

  “Oh, Miranda, this is beautiful.” Harry handed out three plates. She sat down to eat, but Pewter’s creeping along toward the cart disturbed the peacefulness, which had been disturbed enough. Giving up, she cut a small slice for the two cats and a separate one for Tucker.

  “You spoil those animals,” said Mrs. Hogendobber.

  “They’re great testers. If they won’t eat something, you know it’s bad—not that your pastries could ever fall into that category.”

  “Many times I wished I weren’t such a baker.” She patted her stomach.

  They enjoyed the pie until their thoughts returned to Kimball. As they talked, Harry got up and poured coffee for everyone. She often felt better if she could move around. Harry’s mother used to say she had ants in her pants, which wasn’t true, but she thought better if she walked about.

  “Super. The best, Mrs. H.,” Fair congratulated her.

  “Thank you,” she replied listlessly, then a tear fell again. “I hate crying. I keep thinking that he never had the chance to be married or to have children.” She placed her cup on the coffee table. “I’m calling Mim. Surely she’s heard.”

  Harry, Fair, and the animals watched as she dialed and Mim came on the line. A long conversation followed, but as Mim did most of the talking, Miranda’s audience could only guess.

  “She’s right here. Let me ask her.” Mrs. Hogendobber put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Mim wants us to meet with the sheriff tomorrow. Oliver Zeve has already been questioned. Noon?”

  Harry nodded in the affirmative.

  Miranda continued. “That’s fine. We’ll see you at your place, then. Can we bring anything? All right. Bye.”

  “Take her some of this pie,” Fair suggested.

  “I think I will.” She remained by the phone. “Sheriff Shaw is doing a what-do-you-call-it, ballistics check? They’re hoping to trace the gun.”

  “Fat chance.” Harry put her face in her hands.

  “Maybe not.” Fair thought out loud. “What if the killer acted in haste?”

  “Even if he acted in haste, I bet he’s not that stupid—or she,” Harry countered. “And to make matters worse, the rains washed out any chance of making a mold from tire tracks.”

  “And washed out the scent too,” Tucker mourned.

  “This is so peculiar.” Mrs. Hogendobber joined them on the davenport.

  “We need to go through the papers that Kimball read. I’m sure that Rick Shaw has already thought of that, but since we’re somewhat familiar with the period and the players of that day, maybe we could help.”

  “And expose yourselves to risk? I won’t have it,” Fair said flatly.

  “Fair, you didn’t give me orders when we were married. Don’t start now.”

  “When we were married, Mary Minor, your life was not in danger. If you don’t have the sense to see where this is leading, I do! There’s a man dead because he uprooted something. If he found it, chances are you’ll find it, especially given your disposition toward investigation.”

  “Unless the killer removes the evidence.”

  “If that’s possible,” Mrs. Hogendobber said to Harry. “This may be a matter of going over those records and diaries and putting two and two together. It may not be one document—then again, it may.”

  “And I am telling you two nitwits”—Fair’s voice rose, making Tucker prick up her ears—“what Kimball Haynes found may be something of current interest. In his research he might have stumbled over something that’s dangerous to someone right now. It’s very hard to believe that Kimball would have been killed over a murder in 1803.”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Mrs. Hogendobber agreed, but she felt uneasy, deeply uneasy.

  “I’m going through those papers.” Harry was as defiant as Pewter had been. The gray cat watched in astonishment. Mrs. Murphy, privy to a few Mr.-and-Mrs. scenes, was less astonished.

  “Harry, I forbid it!” He slammed his hand on the coffee table.

  “Don’t do that,” Tucker barked, but she didn’t want her mother in danger either.

  “Settle down, you two, just settle down.” Mrs. Hogendobber leaned back on the sofa. “We know for certain that Kimball read through Mim’s family histories, and the Coleses’. Don’t know if he got the Randolphs’ yet. Anyone else?”

  “He kept a list. We’d better get that list or get Rick to let us photocopy it.” Harry, mad at Fair, was still glad he cared, although she was confused as to why that should make her so happy. Harry was slow that way.

  Fair crossed his arms over his chest. “You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying. Let the police handle it.”

  “I am listening, but I liked Kimball. We were also helping him piece together the facts on this thing. If I can help catch whoever did him in, I will.”

  “I liked him too, but not enough to die for him, and that won’t bring him back.” Fair spoke the truth.

  “You can’t stop me.” Harry’s chin jutted out.

  “No, but I can go along and help.”

  Mrs. Hogendobber clapped. “Bully for you!”

  “What do you think, Tucker?” Mrs. Murphy picked up her tail with a front paw.

  “He’s still in love with her.”

  “
That’s obvious.” Pewter lay down, far more interested in the pastries than human emotions.

  “Yeah, but will he win her back?” the tiger asked.

  39

  “No.” Sheriff Shaw shook his balding head for emphasis.

  “Rick, they have a sound argument.” Mim defended Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber. “You and your staff aren’t familiar with the descendants of Thomas Jefferson or the personal histories of certain of his slaves. They are.”

  “The department will hire an expert.”

  “The expert is dead.” Mim’s lips pressed tightly together.

  “I’ll hire Oliver Zeve,” the frustrated sheriff stated.

  “Oh, and how long do you think that will last? Furthermore, he wasn’t exactly interested in pursuing this case, nor was he as interested in the genealogies as Kimball. Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber were working with Kimball already.”

  “Fair Haristeen called me this morning and said you both ought to be locked up. I’ll make that three.” He cast his eyes at Mim, who didn’t budge. “He also said that whatever Kimball discovered must be threatening to somebody right now. And you all are obsessed with this Monticello thing.”

  “And you aren’t?” Harry fired back.

  “Well—well—” Rick Shaw stuck his hands in his Sam Browne belt. “Focused but not obsessed. Anyway, this is my job and I am mindful of the danger to you ladies.”

  “I’ll work with them,” Cynthia Cooper gleefully volunteered.

  “You women sure stick together.” He slapped his hat against his thigh.

  “And men don’t?” Mim laughed.

  “Yeah, I bet Fair chewed your ears off because he thinks we’re in danger. He’s being a worrywart.”

  “He’s being sensible and responsible.” Rick fought the urge to enjoy another piece of Mrs. Hogendobber’s pie. The urge won out. “Miranda, you ought to go into business.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Does anyone know if there will be a service for Kimball?” Harry inquired.

  “His parents removed the body to Hartford, Connecticut, where they live. They’ll bury him there. But that reminds me, Mrs. Sanburne, Oliver wants you to help him plan a memorial service for Kimball here. I doubt anyone will journey to Hartford, and he said he’d like some kind of remembrance.”