Murder at Monticello

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Hey! What about me?”

  “We’ll open the door, Tucker.” Mrs. Murphy gracefully sailed through the window after Paddy and landed on a sawdust-covered floor. She hurried to the door of the addition, which as yet had no lock, although the fancy brass Baldwin apparatus, still boxed, rested on the floor next to it. Mrs. Murphy pushed against the two-by-four propped up against the door. It clattered to the floor and the door easily swung open. The corgi hurried inside.

  “Where are you?” Mrs. Murphy couldn’t see Paddy.

  “In here,” came the muffled reply.

  “He’s crazier than hell.” Tucker reacted to the sound emanating from the large stone fireplace.

  “Crazy or not, I’m going in.” Mrs. Murphy trotted to the cavernous opening, the firebrick a cascade of silky and satiny blacks and browns from decades of use. The house was originally constructed in 1824; the addition had been built in 1852.

  Tucker stood in the hearth. “The last time we stood in a fireplace there was a body in it.”

  “Up here,” Paddy called, his deep voice ricocheting off the flue.

  Mrs. Murphy’s pupils enlarged, and she saw a narrow opening to the left of the large flue. In the process of remodeling, a few loose bricks had become dislodged—just enough room for an athletic cat to squeeze through. “Here I come.” She sprang off her powerful haunches but miscalculated the depth of the landing. “Damn.” The tiger hung on to the opening, her rear end dangling over the side. She scratched with her hind claws and clambered up the rest of the way.

  “Tricky.” Paddy laughed.

  “You could have warned me,” she complained.

  “And miss the fun?”

  “What’s so important up here?” she challenged him, then, as her eyes became accustomed to the diminished light, she saw he was sitting on it. A heavy waxed oilskin much like the covering of an expensive foul-weather coat, like a Barbour or Dri-as-a-Bone, covered what appeared to be books or boxes. “Can we open this up?”

  “Tried. Needs human hands,” Paddy casually remarked although he was ecstatic that his find had produced the desired thrill in Mrs. Murphy.

  “What’s going on up there?” Tucker yelped.

  Mrs. Murphy stuck her head out of the opening. “Some kind of stash, Tucker. Might be books or boxes of jewelry. We can’t open it up.”

  “Think the humans will find it?”

  “Maybe yes and maybe no.” Paddy’s fine features now came alongside Mrs. Murphy’s.

  “If workmen repoint the fireplace, which they’re sure to do, it’s anyone’s guess whether they’ll look inside here or just pop bricks in and mortar them up.” Mrs. Murphy thought out loud. “This is too good a find to be lost again.”

  “Maybe it’s treasure.” Tucker grinned. “Claudius Crozet’s lost treasure!”

  “That’s in the tunnel; one of the tunnels,” Paddy said, knowing that Crozet had cut four tunnels through the Blue Ridge Mountains in what was one of the engineering feats of the nineteenth century—or any century. He accomplished his feat without the help of dynamite, which hadn’t yet been invented.

  “How long do you think this has been in here?” Paddy asked.

  Mrs. Murphy turned to pat the oilskin. “Well, if someone hid this, say, in the last ten or twenty years, they’d probably have used heavy plastic. Oilskin is expensive and hard to come by. Mom wanted one of those Australian raincoats to ride in and the thing was priced about $225, I think.”

  “Too bad humans don’t have fur. Think of the money they’d save,” Paddy said.

  “Yeah, and they’d get over worrying about what color they were because with fur you can be all colors. Look at me,” Tucker remarked. “Or Mrs. Murphy. Can you imagine a striped human?”

  “It would greatly improve their appearance,” Paddy purred.

  Mrs. Murphy, mind spinning as the fur discussion flew on, said, “We’ve got to get Larry over here.”

  “Fat chance.” Paddy harbored little hope for human intelligence.

  “You stay here with your head sticking out of the hole. Tucker and I will get him over here. If we can’t budge him, then we’ll be back, but don’t you leave. Okay?”

  “You were always good at giving orders.” He smiled devilishly.

  Mrs. Murphy landed in the hearth and took off for the door, Tucker close behind. They crossed the lawn, stopping under the kitchen window, where a light glowed. Larry was fixing his cup of morning coffee.

  “You bark, I’ll jump up on the windowsill.”

  “Not much of a windowsill,” Tucker observed.

  “I can bank off it, if nothing else.” And Mrs. Murphy did just that as Tucker yapped furiously. The sight of this striped animal, four feet planted on a windowpane and then pushing off, jolted Larry wide awake. The second thud from Mrs. Murphy positively sent him into orbit. He opened his back door and, seeing the culprits, thought they wanted to join him.

  “Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, come on in.”

  “You come out,” Tucker barked.

  “I’ll run in and right out.” Mrs. Murphy flew past Larry, brushing his legs in the process, turned on a dime, and ran back out through his legs.

  “What’s the matter with you two?” The old man enjoyed the spectacle but was perplexed.

  Again Mrs. Murphy raced in and raced out as Tucker ran forward, barked, and then ran a few steps away. “Come on, Doc. We need you!”

  Larry, an intelligent man as humans go, deduced that the two animals, whom he knew and valued, were highly agitated. He grabbed his old jacket, slapped his porkpie hat on his head, and followed them, fearing that some harm had come to another animal or even a person. He’d heard about animals leading people to the site of an injured loved one, and a flash of fear ran through him. What if Harry’d been hurt on her way in to work?

  He followed them into the addition. He stopped after walking through the door as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker dashed to the fireplace.

  “Howl, Paddy. He’ll think you’re trapped or something.”

  Paddy sang at his loudest, “‘Roll me over in the clover/Roll me over/Lay me down and do it again.’ ”

  Tucker giggled as Mrs. Murphy leapt up to join Paddy, although she refrained from singing the song. Larry walked into the fireplace and beheld Paddy, his head thrown back and warbling for all he was worth.

  “Got stuck up in there?” Larry looked around for a ladder. Not finding one, he did spy a large spackling compound bucket. He lifted it by the handle, discovering how heavy it was. He lugged it over to the hearth, positioned it under the opening, where both cats now meowed piteously, and carefully stood on it. He could just see inside.

  He reached for Paddy, who shrank back. “Now, now, Paddy, I won’t hurt you.”

  “I know that, you silly twit. Look.”

  “His eyes aren’t good in the dark, plus he’s old. They’re worse than most,” Mrs. Murphy told her ex. “Scratch on the oilskin.”

  Paddy furiously scratched away, his claws making tiny popping noises as he pulled at the sturdy cloth.

  “Squint, Larry, and look real hard,” Mrs. Murphy instructed.

  As if he understood, Larry shielded his eyes and peered inside. “What the Sam Hill?”

  “Reach in.” Mrs. Murphy encouraged him by back-stepping toward the treasure.

  Larry braced against the fireplace with his left hand, now besmirched with soot, and reached in with his right. Mrs. Murphy licked his fingers for good measure. He touched the oilskin. Paddy jumped off and came to the opening. Mrs. Murphy tried to nudge the package, but it was too heavy. Larry tugged and pulled, succeeding in inching the weighty burden forward until it wedged into the opening. Forgetting the cats for a moment, he tried to pull out the oilskin-covered bundle, but it wouldn’t fit. He poked at the bricks around the hole and they gave a bit. Cautiously he removed one, then two and three. These bricks had been left that way on purpose. The two kitty heads popped out of the new opening. Larry squeezed the package through and almost fell off the
bucket because it was so heavy. He tottered and jumped off backward.

  “Not bad for an old man,” Tucker commented.

  “Let’s see what he’s got.” Mrs. Murphy sailed down. Paddy came after her.

  Larry, on his knees, worked at the knot on the back side of the package. The three animals sat silent, watching with intent interest. Finally, victorious, Larry opened the oilskin covering. Inside lay three huge, heavy volumes, leather-bound. With a trembling hand Larry opened the first volume.

  The bold, black cursive writing hit Larry like a medicine ball to the chest. He recognized the handwriting and in that instant the man he had admired and worked with came alive again. He was reminded of the fragrance of Jim’s pipe tobacco, his habit of running his thumbs up and down under his braces, and his fervent belief that if he could cure human baldness, he’d be the richest doctor on the face of the earth. Larry whispered aloud, “‘The Secret Diaries of a Country Doctor, Volume I, 1912, by James C. Craig, M.D., Crozet, Virginia.’ ”

  Seeing his distress, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat next to him, pressing their small bodies against his own. There are moments in every human life when the harpoon of fate rips into the mind and a person has the opportunity to perceive the world afresh through his own pain. This was such a moment for Larry, and through his tears he saw the two furry heads and reached out to pet them, wondering just how many times in this life we are surrounded by love and understanding and are too self-centered, too human-centered to know what the gods have given us.

  44

  A warm southerly breeze filled breasts with the hope that spring had truly arrived. Snowstorms could hit central Virginia in April, and once a snowstorm had blanketed the fields in May, but that was rare. The last frost generally disappeared mid-April, although days warmed before that. Then the wisteria would bloom, drenching the sides of buildings, barns, and pergolas with lavender and white. This was Mrs. Murphy’s favorite time of the year.

  She basked in the sun by the back door of the post office along with Pewter and Tucker. She was also basking in the delicious satisfaction of delivering to Pewter the news about the books in the hiding place. Pewter was livid, but one good thing was that her brief absence had allowed Market to overcome his temper and to make peace with Ellie Wood Baxter. The gray cat was now back in his good graces, but if she had to hear the words “pork roast” one more time, she would scratch and bite.

  The alleyway behind the buildings filled up with cars since the parking spaces in the front were taken. On one of the first really balmy days of spring, people always seem motivated to buy bulbs, bouquets, and sweaters in pastel colors.

  Driving down the east end of the alleyway was Samson Coles. Turning in on the west end was Warren Randolph. They parked next to each other behind Market Shiflett’s store.

  Tucker lifted her head, then dropped it back on her paws. Mrs. Murphy watched through eyes that were slits. Pewter could not have cared less.

  “How are you doing with the Diamonds?” Warren asked as he shut his car door.

  “Hanging between Midale and Fox Haven.”

  Warren whistled, “Some kind of commission, buddy.”

  “How you been doing?”

  Warren shrugged. “Okay. It’s hard sometimes. And Ansley—I asked her for some peace and quiet, and what does she do but let Kimball Haynes go through the family papers. ’Course he was a nice guy, but that’s not the point.”

  “I didn’t like him,” Samson said. “Lucinda pulled the same stunt on me that Ansley pulled on you. He should have come to me, not my wife. Smarmy—not that I wished him dead.”

  “Somebody did.”

  “Made your mind up about the campaign yet?” Samson abruptly changed the subject.

  “I’m still debating, although I’m feeling stronger. I just might do it.”

  Samson slapped him on the back. “Don’t let the press get hold of Poppa’s will. Well, you let me know. I’ll be your ardent supporter, your campaign manager, you name it.”

  “Sure. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” Warren headed for the post office as Samson entered Market’s by the back door. With remarkable self-control Warren acted as though not a thing was wrong, but he knew in that instant that Ansley had betrayed his trust and was betraying him in other respects too.

  It never crossed Samson’s mind that he had spilled the beans, but then, he was already spending the commission money from the Diamond deal in his mind before he’d even closed the sale. Then again, perhaps the trysting and hiding were wearing thin. Maybe subconsciously he wanted Warren to know. Then they could get the pretense over with and Ansley would be his.

  45

  Since Kimball had kept most of his private papers in his study room on the second floor of Monticello, the sheriff insisted that nothing be disturbed. But Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber knew the material and had been there recently with Kimball, so he allowed them, along with Deputy Cooper, to make certain nothing had been moved or removed.

  Oliver Zeve, agitated, complained to Sheriff Shaw that lovely though the three ladies might be, they were not scholars and really had no place being there.

  Shaw, patience ebbing, told Oliver to be grateful that Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber knew Kimball’s papers and could decipher his odd shorthand. With a curt inclination of the head Oliver indicated that he was trumped, although he asked that Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stay home. He got his way on that one.

  Shaw also had to pacify Fair, who wanted to accompany “the girls,” as he called them. The sheriff figured that would put Oliver over the edge, and since Cynthia Cooper attended them, they were safe, he assured Fair.

  Oliver’s frazzled state could be explained by the fact that for the last two days he had endured network television interviews, local television interviews, and encampment by members of the press. He was not a happy man. In his discomfort he almost lost sight of the death of a valued colleague.

  “Nothing appears to have been disturbed.” Mrs. Hogendobber swept her eyes over the room.

  Standing over his yellow legal pad, Harry noticed some new notes jotted in Kimball’s tight scribble. She picked up the pad. “He wrote down a quote from Martha Randolph to her fourth child, Ellen Wayles Coolidge.” Harry mused. “It’s curious that Martha and her husband named their fourth child Ellen Wayles even though their third child was also Ellen Wayles—she died at eleven months. You’d think it’d be bad luck.”

  Mrs. Hogendobber interjected, “Wasn’t. Ellen Coolidge lived a good life. Now, poor Anne Cary, that child suffered.”

  “You talk as though you know these people.” Cynthia smiled.

  “In a way we do. All the while we worked with Kimball, he filled us in, saving us years of reading, literally. Lacking telephones, people wrote to one another religiously when they were apart. Kind of wish we did that today. They left behind invaluable records, observations, opinions in their letters. They also cherished accurate judgments of one another—I think they knew one another better than we know each other today.”

  “The answer to that is simple, Harry.” Mrs. H. peeked over her shoulder to examine the legal pad. “They missed the deforming experience of psychology.”

  “Why don’t you read what he copied down?” Cooper whipped out her notebook and pencil.

  “This is what Martha Randolph said: ‘The discomfort of slavery I have borne all my life, but its sorrows in all their bitterness I never before perceived.’ He wrote below that this was a letter dated August 2, 1825, from the Coolidge papers at U.V.A.”

  “Who is Coolidge?” Cooper wrote on her pad.

  “Sorry, Ellen Wayles married a Coolidge—”

  Cooper interrupted. “That’s right, you told me that. I’ll get the names straight eventually. Does Kimball make any notation about why that was significant?”

  “Here he wrote, ‘After sale of Colonel Randolph’s slaves to pay debts. Sale included one Susan, who was Virginia’s maid,’ ” Harry informed Cynthia. “Virginia was the sixth child of Thomas M
ann Randolph and Martha Jefferson Randolph, the one we call Patsy because that’s what she was called within the family.”

  “Can you give me an abbreviated history course here? Why did the colonel sell slaves, obviously against other family members’ wishes?”

  “We forgot to tell you that Colonel Randolph was Patsy’s husband.”

  “Oh.” She wrote that down. “Didn’t Patsy have any say in the matter?”

  “Coop, until a few decades ago, as in our lifetime, women were still chattel in the state of Virginia.” Harry jammed her right hand in her pocket. “Thomas Mann Randolph could do as he damn well pleased. He started out with advantages in this life but proved a poor businessman. He became so estranged from his family toward the end that he would leave Monticello at dawn and return only at night.”

  “He was the victim of his own generosity.” Mrs. Hogendobber put in a good word for the man. “Always standing notes for friends and then, pfft.” She flipped her hand upside down like a fish that bellied up. “Wound up in legal proceedings against his own son, Jeff, who had become the anchor of the family and upon whom even his grandfather relied.”

  “Know the old horse expression ‘He broke bad’?” Harry asked Cooper. “That was Thomas Mann Randolph.”

  “He wasn’t the only one now. Look what happened to Jefferson’s two nephews Lilburne and Isham Lewis.” Mrs. Hogendobber adored the news, or gossip, no matter the vintage. “They killed a slave named George on December 15, 1811. Fortunately their mother, Lucy, Thomas Jefferson’s sister, had already passed away, on May 26, 1810, or she would have perished of the shame. Anyway, they killed this unfortunate dependent and Lilburne was indicted on March 18, 1812. He killed himself on April tenth and his brother Isham ran away. Oh, it was awful.”