Murder at Monticello

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Of course. I’m sure Reverend Jones will assist in this matter also.”

  “Well?” Harry had her mind on business.

  “Well, what?”

  “Sheriff. Please.” She sounded like a clever, pleading child at that moment.

  Rick quietly looked at Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber, then at Cynthia, who was grinning in high hopes. “Women.” They’d won. “The Coleses have agreed to allow us access to their libraries. The Berrymans, Foglemans, and Venables too, and I’ve got a list here of names that Kimball drew up. Mim, you’re first on the list.”

  “When would you like to start?”

  “How about after work today? Oh, and Mim, I need to bring Mrs. Murphy and Tucker along, otherwise I’d have to run them home. Churchill won’t mind, will he?”

  Churchill was Mim’s superb English setter, a champion many times over. “No.”

  “Pewter too.” Miranda reminded Harry of her visitor.

  “Ellie Wood still hasn’t recovered from the pork roast incident. Which reminds me, I think she is distantly related to one of the Eppes of Poplar Forest. Francis, Polly’s son.”

  Polly was the family nickname for Maria, Thomas Jefferson’s youngest daughter, who died April 17, 1804, an event which caused her father dreadful grief. Fortunately her son Francis, born in 1801, survived until 1881, but he, along with Jefferson’s other grandchildren, bore the consequences of the president’s posthumous financial disaster.

  “We’ll leave not a stone unturned,” Mrs. Hogendobber vowed.

  40

  That evening, as Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Deputy Cooper worked in Mim’s breathtaking cherrywood library, Fair worked out in the stables. Book work soured him. He’d do it diligently if he had to, but he wondered how he’d gotten through Auburn Veterinary College with high honors. Maybe it was easier to read then, but he sure hated it now.

  He was floating the teeth of Mim’s six Thoroughbreds, filing down the sharp edges. Because a horse’s upper jaw is slightly wider than the lower one, its teeth wear unevenly, requiring regular maintenance, or at least inspection. If the teeth are allowed to become sharp and jagged, they can cause discomfort to the animal when it has a bit in its mouth, sometimes making it more difficult to ride, and often this situation can cause digestive or nutrition problems because of the animal’s restricted ability to chew and break down its food.

  Mim’s stable manager held the horses as Mim sat in a camp chair and chatted. “You made a believer out of me, Fair. I don’t know how I lived without Strongid C. The horses eat less and get more nutrition from their food.” Strongid C was a new wormer that came in pellet form and was added to a horse’s daily ration. This saved the owner those monthly paste-worming tasks that more often than not proved disagreeable to both parties.

  “Good. Took me a while to convince some of my clients, but I’m getting good results with it.”

  “Horse people are remarkably resistant to change. I don’t know why, but we are.” She pulled a pretty leather crop out of an umbrella stand. “How are the Wheelers doing?”

  “Winning at the hunter shows and the Saddlebred shows, as always. You ought to get over there to Cismont Manor, Mim, and see the latest crop. Good. Really good.” He finished with her bright bay. “Now, I happen to think you’ve got one of the best fox hunters in the country.”

  She beamed. “I do too. So much for modesty. Warren’s cornered the market on racing Thoroughbreds.”

  “What market?” Fair shook his head. The depression, laughingly called a recession, coupled with changes in the tax laws, was in the process of devastating the Thoroughbred business, along with many other aspects of the equine industry. As most congressmen were no longer landowners, they hadn’t a clue as to what they had done to livestock breeders and farmers with their stupid “reforms.”

  Mim spun the whip handle around in her hands. “I tell Jim he ought to run for Congress. At least then there’d be one logical voice in the bedlam. Won’t do it. Won’t even hear of it. Says he’d rather bleed from the throat. Fair, have you seen a reasonably priced fox hunter in your travels?”

  “Mim, what’s reasonable to you may not be reasonable to me.”

  “Quite so.” She appreciated that insight. “I’ll come directly to the point. Gin Fizz and Tomahawk are long in the tooth and you know Harry doesn’t have two nickels to rub together—now.”

  He sighed. “I know. She absolutely refused alimony. My lawyer said I was crazy to want to pay. I do her vet work for free and it’s a struggle to get her to go along with that.”

  “The Hepworths as well as the Minors have always been prickly proud about money. I don’t know who was worse, Harry’s mother or her father.”

  “Mim, I’m—touched that you’d be thinking of Harry.”

  “Touched, or amazed?”

  He smiled. “Both. You’ve changed.”

  “For the better?”

  He held up his hands for mercy. “Now, that’s a loaded question. You seem happier and you seem to want to be friendlier. How’s that sound?”

  “I wearied of being a bitch. But what’s funny, or not so funny, about Crozet is that once people get an idea about you in their heads, they’re loath to surrender it. Not that I won’t step on toes, I’ll always do that, but I figured out, thanks to a little scare in my life, that life is indeed short. My being so superior made me feel in charge, I guess, but I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t making my husband happy, and the truth is, my daughter detests me underneath all her politeness. I wasn’t a good mother.”

  “Good horsewoman though.”

  “Thank you. What is there about a stable that pulls the truth out of us?”

  “It’s real. Society isn’t real.” He studied Mim, her perfectly coiffed hair, her long fingernails, her beautiful clothes perfect even in the stable. The human animal could grow at any time in its life that it chooses to grow. On the outside she looked the same, but on the inside she was transforming. He felt the same way about himself. “You know, there’s a solid 16.1½-hand Percheron cross that Evelyn Kerr has. The mare is green and only six, but Harry can bring her along. Good bone, Mim. Good hooves too. Of course, it’s got a biggish, draft-type head, but not roman-nosed, and no feathers on the fetlocks. Smooth gaits.”

  “Why is Evelyn selling the horse?”

  “She’s got Handyman, and when she retired she thought she’d have more time, so she bought this young horse. But Evelyn’s like Larry Johnson. She’s working harder in retirement than before.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her? Sound her out for me? I’d like to buy the mare if she suits and then let Harry pay me off over time.”

  “Uh—let me buy the mare. In fact, I wish I’d thought of this myself.”

  “We can share the expense. Who’s to know?” Mim swung her legs under the chair.

  41

  The night turned unseasonably cool. The Reverend Jones built a fire in his study, his favorite room. The dark green leather chairs bore testimony to years of use; knitted afghans were tossed over the arms to hide the wear. Herb Jones usually wrapped one around his legs as he sat reading a book accompanied by Lucy Fur, the young Maine coon cat he’d brought home to enliven Elocution, or Ella, his older first cat.

  Tonight Ansley and Warren Randolph and Mim Sanburne joined him. They were finishing up planning Kimball’s memorial service.

  “Miranda’s taking care of the music.” Mim checked that off her list. “Little Marilyn’s hired the caterer. You’ve got the flowers under control.”

  “Right.” Ansley nodded.

  “And I’m getting a program printed up.” Warren scratched his chin. “What do you call it? It’s not really a program.”

  “In Memoriam,” Ansley volunteered. “Actually, whatever you call it, you’ve done a beautiful job. I had no idea you knew so much about Kimball.”

  “Didn’t. Asked Oliver Zeve for Kimball’s résumé.”

  Mim, without looking up from her list, continued checking off jobs. “Park
ing.”

  “Monticello, or should I say Oliver, is taking care of that?”

  “Well, that’s it, then.” Mim put down her pencil. She could have afforded any kind of expensive pencil, but she preferred a wooden one, an Eagle Mirado Number 1. She carried a dozen in a cardboard container, the sale carton, wherever she journeyed. Carried a pencil trimmer too.

  The little group stared into the fire.

  Herb roused himself from its hypnotic powers. “Can I fetch anyone another drink? Coffee?”

  “No thanks,” everyone replied.

  “Herb, you know people’s secrets. You and Larry Johnson.” Ansley folded her hands together. “Do you have any idea, any hunch, no matter how wild?”

  Herb glanced up at the ceiling, then back at the group. “No. I’ve gone over the facts, or what we know as the facts, in my mind so many times I make myself dizzy. Nothing jumps out at me. But even if Kimball or the sheriff uncover the secret of the corpse at Monticello, I don’t know if that will have anything to do with Kimball’s murder. It’s tempting to connect the two, but I can’t find any link.”

  Mim stood up. “Well, I’d better be going. We’ve pulled a lot together on very short notice. I thank you all.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, much as I like working with everyone.”

  Warren and Ansley left about ten minutes later. Driving the dark, winding roads kept Warren alert.

  “Honey . . .” Ansley watched for deer along the sides of the road—the light would bounce off their eyes. “Did you tell anyone that Kimball read the Randolph papers?”

  “No, did you?”

  “Of course not—make you look like a suspect.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because women rarely kill.” She squinted into the inky night. “Slow down.”

  “Do you think I killed Kimball?”

  “Well, I know you sent that letter with the cut-out message to Mim.”

  He decelerated for a nasty curve. “What makes you think that, Ansley?”

  “Saw The New Yorker in the trash in the library. I hadn’t read it yet, so I plucked it out and discovered where your scissors had done their work.”

  He glowered the rest of the way home, which was only two miles. As they pulled into the garage he shut off the motor, reached over, and grabbed her wrist. “You’re not as smart as you think you are. Leave it alone.”

  “I’d like to know if I’m living with a killer.” She baited him. “What if I get in your way?”

  He raised his voice. “Goddammit, I played a joke on Marilyn Sanburne. It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but it was fun considering how she’s cracked the whip over my head and everyone else’s since year one. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “I will.” Her lips clamped tight, making them thinner than they already were.

  Without letting go of her wrist he asked, “Did you read the papers? The blue diary?”

  “Yes.”

  He released her wrist. “Ansley, every old Virginia family has its fair share of horse thieves, mental cases, and just plain bad eggs. What’s the difference if they were crooked or crazy in 1776 or today? One doesn’t air one’s dirty laundry in public.”

  “Agreed.” She opened the door to get out, and he did the same on the driver’s side.

  “Ansley.”

  “What?” She turned from her path to the door.

  “Did you really think, for one minute, that I killed Kimball Haynes?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.” Wearily she reached the door, opened it, and without checking behind her, let it slam, practically crunching Warren’s nose in the process.

  42

  Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Deputy Cooper exhausted themselves reading. Mim’s connection to Thomas Jefferson was through the Wayles/Coolidge line. Ellen Wayles Randolph, his granddaughter, married Joseph Coolidge, Jr., on May 27, 1825. They had six children, and Mim’s mother was related to a cousin of one of those offspring.

  Slender though it was, it was a connection to the Sage of Monticello. Ellen maintained a lively correspondence with her husband’s family. Ellen, the spark plug of Maria’s—or Polly’s—children, inherited her grandfather’s way with words just as her older brother, called Jeff, inherited his great-grandfather’s, Peter Jefferson’s, enormous frame and incredible strength.

  One of the letters casually mentioned that Ellen’s younger brother, James Madison Randolph, had fallen violently in love with a great beauty and seemed intent upon a hasty marriage.

  Harry read and reread the letter, instantly conceiving an affection for the effervescent author. “Miranda, I don’t remember James Madison Randolph marrying.”

  “I’m not sure. Died young though. Just twenty-eight, I think.”

  “These people had such big families.” Deputy Cooper wailed as the task had begun to overwhelm her. “Thomas Jefferson’s mother and father had ten children. Seven made it to adulthood.”

  Miranda pushed back her half-spectacles. When they slid down her nose again she took them off and laid them on the diary before her. “Jane, his favorite sister, died at twenty-five. Elizabeth, the one with the disordered mind, also died without marrying. The remainder of Thomas’s brothers and sisters bequeathed to Virginia and points beyond quite a lot of nieces and nephews for Mr. Jefferson. And he was devoted to them. He really raised his sister Martha’s children, Peter and Sam Carr. Dabney Carr, who married Martha, was his best friend, as you know.”

  “Another Martha?” Cynthia groaned. “His wife, sister, and daughter were all named Martha?”

  “Well, Dabney died young, before thirty, and Thomas saw to the upbringing of the boys,” Miranda went on, absorbed. “I am convinced it was Peter who sired four children on Sally Hemings. A stir was caused when Mr. Jefferson freed, or manumitted, one of Sally’s daughters, Harriet, quite the smashing beauty. That was in 1822. You can understand why the Jefferson family closed ranks.”

  Officer Cooper rubbed her temples. “Genealogies drive me bats.”

  “Our answer rests somewhere with Jefferson’s sisters and brother Randolph, or with one of his grandchildren,” Harry posited. “Do you believe Randolph was simple-minded? Maybe not as bad as Elizabeth.”

  “Well, now, she wasn’t simple-minded. Her mind would wander and then she’d physically ramble about aimlessly. She wandered off in February and probably died of the cold. Poor thing. No, Randolph probably wasn’t terribly bright, but he seems to have enjoyed his faculties. Lived in Buckingham County and liked to play the fiddle. That’s about all I know.”

  “Miranda, how would you like to be Thomas Jefferson’s younger brother?” Harry laughed.

  “Probably not much. Not much. I think we’re done in. Samson’s tomorrow night?”

  43

  Pewter grumbled incessantly as she walked with Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker to work. The fat cat’s idea of exercise was walking from Market’s back door to the back door of the post office.

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Will you shut up!” Mrs. Murphy advised.

  “Hey, look,” Tucker told everyone as she caught sight of Paddy running top-speed toward them. His ears were flat back, his tail was straight out, and his paws barely touched the ground. He was scorching toward them from town.

  “Murph,” Paddy called, “follow me!”

  “You’re not going to, are you?” Pewter swept her whiskers forward in anticipation of trouble.

  “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Murphy called out.

  “I’ve found something—something important.” He skidded to a stop at Harry’s feet.

  Harry reached down to scratch Paddy’s ears. Not wanting to be rude, he rubbed against her leg. “Come on, Murph. You too, Tucker.”

  “Will you tell me what this is all about?” the little dog prudently asked.

  “Well spoken.” Pewter sniffed.

  “Larry Johnson and Hayden McIntire’s office.” Paddy caught his breath. “I’ve found something.”

&nb
sp; “What were you doing over there?” Tucker needed to be convinced it really was important.

  “Passing by. Look, I’ll explain on the way. We need to get there before the workmen do.”

  “Let’s go.” Mrs. Murphy hiked up her tail and dug into the turf.

  “Hey—hey,” Tucker called, then added after a second’s reflection, “Wait for me!”

  Pewter, furious, sat down and bawled. “I will not run. I will not take another step. My paws are sore and I hate everybody. You can’t leave me here!”

  Perplexed at the animals’ wild dash toward downtown Crozet, Harry called after them once but then remembered that most people were just waking up. She cursed under her breath. Harry wasn’t surprised, though, by Pewter’s staunch resistance to walk another step, having been quickly deserted by her fitter friends. She knelt down and scooped up the rotund kitty. “I’ll carry you, you lazy sod.”

  “You’re the only person I like in this whole wide world,” Pewter cooed. “Mrs. Murphy is a selfish shit. Really. You should spend more time with me. She’s running off with her no-account ex-husband, and that silly dog is going along like a fifth wheel.” The cat laughed. “Why, I wouldn’t even give that two-timing tom the time of day.”

  “Pewter, you have a lot on your mind.” Harry marveled that the smallish cat could weigh so much.

  As the three animals raced across the neat square town plots, Paddy filled them in.

  “Larry and Hayden McIntire are expanding the office wing of the house. I like to go hunting there. Lots of shrews.”

  “You’ve got to catch them just right because they can really bite,” Mrs. Murphy interrupted.

  “It’s easy to get in and out of the addition,” he continued.

  The tidy house appeared up ahead, with its curved brick entranceway splitting to the front door and the office door. The sign, DR. LAWRENCE JOHNSON & DR. HAYDEN MCINTIRE, swung, creaking, in the slight breeze. “No workmen yet,” Paddy triumphantly meowed. He ducked under the heavy plastic covering on the outside wall and leapt into the widened window placement. The window had not yet been installed. The newest addition utilized the fireplace as its center point of construction. A balancing, new fireplace was built on the other end of the new room. It matched the old one.