Murder at Monticello

by Rita Mae Brown

  “He said that?” Susan Tucker asked.

  “Private Lives,” Mim filled in. Mim was sitting on the school chair that Miranda had brought around for her from the back of the post office. Larry Johnson, who hadn’t told anyone about the diaries, Fair Haristeen, and Ned Tucker stood while Market Shiflett, Pewter next to him, sat on the counter. Mrs. Hogendobber paced the room, enacting the details to give emphasis to her story. Tucker paced with her as Mrs. Murphy sat on the postage scale. When Miranda wanted verification she would turn to Harry, also sitting on the counter, and Harry would nod or say a sentence or two to add color.

  The Reverend Jones pushed open the door, come to collect his mail. “How much did I miss?”

  “Almost the whole thing, Herbie, but I’ll give you a private audience.”

  Herb was followed by Ansley and Warren Randolph. Mrs. Hogendobber was radiant because this meant she could repeat the adventure anew with theatrics. Three was better than one.

  “Oscar performance,” Mrs. Murphy laconically commented to her two pals.

  “Wish we’d been there.” Tucker hated to miss excitement.

  “I’d have thrown up. Did I tell you about the time I threw up when Market was taking me to the vet?” Pewter remarked.

  “Not now,” Mrs. Murphy implored the gray cat.

  When Mrs. Hogendobber finished her tale for the second time, everyone began talking at once.

  “Did they ever find the murder weapon? The gun that killed Kimball Haynes?” Warren asked.

  “Coop says the ballistics proved it was a snub-nosed .38-caliber pistol. It was unregistered. Frightening how easy it is to purchase a gun illegally. The bullets matched the bore of the .38 they found in Samson’s car. It had smashed the passenger window to bits. Must have had it on the seat next to him. Looks like he really was going to do in Lulu. Looks like he’s the one that did in Kimball Haynes.” Miranda shook her head at such violence.

  “I hope not.” Dr. Johnson’s calm voice rang out. “Everyone has marital problems, and Samson’s may be larger than most, but we still don’t know what happened to set this off. And we don’t know if he killed Kimball. Innocent until proven guilty. Remember, we’re talking about one of Crozet’s own here. We’d better wait and see before stringing him up.”

  “I didn’t say anything about stringing him up,” Miranda huffed. “But it’s mighty peculiar.”

  “This spring has been mighty peculiar.” Fair edged his toes together and then apart, a nervous habit.

  “Much as I like Samson, I hope this settles the case. Why would he kill Kimball Haynes? I don’t know.” Ned Tucker put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “But we would sleep better at night if we knew the case was closed.”

  “Let the dead bury the dead.” The little group murmured their assent to Ned’s hopes.

  No one noticed that Ansley had turned ghostly white.

  49

  Samson Coles denied ever having seen the snub-nosed .38. His lawyer, John Lowe, having argued many cases for the defense in his career, could spot a liar a mile away. He knew Samson was lying. Samson refused to give the sheriff any information other than his name and address and, in a funny reversion to his youth, his army ID number. By the time John Lowe reached his client, Samson was the picture of sullen hostility.

  “Now, Samson, one more time. Why did you threaten to kill your wife?”

  “And for the last time, we’d been having problems, real problems.”

  “That doesn’t mean you kill your wife or threaten her. You’re paying me lots of money, Samson. Right now it looks pretty bad for you. The report came back on the gun. It was the gun that killed Kimball Haynes.” John, not averse to theatrics himself, used this last stunner, which was totally untrue—the ballistics results hadn’t come back yet—in hopes of blasting his client into some kind of cooperation. It worked.

  “No!” Samson shook. “I never saw that gun before in my life. I swear it, John, I swear it on the Holy Bible! When I said I was going to kill her, I didn’t mean I really would, I wouldn’t shoot her. She just pushed all my buttons.”

  “Buddy, you could get the chair. This is a capital-punishment state, and I wasn’t born yesterday. You’d better tell me what happened.”

  Tears welled up in Samson’s eyes. His voice wavered. “John, I’m in love with Ansley Randolph. I spent money trying to impress her, and to make a long story short, I’ve been dipping into escrow funds which I hold as the principal broker. Lucinda saw the ledger—” He stopped because his whole body was shaking. “Actually, she showed it to Kimball Haynes when he was over to read the family histories and diaries, you know, to see if there was anything that could fit into the murder at Monticello. There wasn’t, of course, but I have accounts beginning in the last decades of the seventeenth century, kept by my maternal grandmother of many greats, Charlotte Graff. Kimball read those accounts, meticulously detailed, and Lucinda laughed that she couldn’t make sense out of my books but how crystal clear Granny Graff’s were. So Lucinda gave Kimball my ledger to prove her point. He immediately saw what I’d been doing. I kept two columns, you know how it’s done. That’s the truth.”

  “Samson, you have a high standing in Crozet. To many people’s minds that would be more than sufficient motive to kill Kimball—to protect that standing as well as your livelihood. Answer me. Did you kill Kimball Haynes?”

  Tears gushing down his ruddy cheeks, Samson implored John, “I’d rather lose my license than my life.”

  John believed him.

  50

  Obsessed by his former partner’s diaries, Dr. Larry Johnson read at breakfast, between patients, at dinner, and late into the night. He finished volume one, which was surprisingly well written, especially considering he’d never thought Jim a literary man.

  References to the grandparents and great-grandparents of many Albemarle County citizens enlivened the documents. Much of volume one centered on the effects of World War I on the returning servicemen and their wives. Jim Craig was then fairly new to the practice of medicine.

  Z. Calvin Coles, grandfather to Samson Coles, returned from the war carrying a wicked dose of syphilis. Mim’s paternal line, the Urquharts, flourished during the war, as they invested heavily in armaments, and Mim’s father’s brother, Douglas Urquhart, lost his arm in a threshing accident.

  All the patients treated, from measles to bone cancer, were meticulously mentioned as well as their character, background, and the history of specific diseases.

  The Minors, Harry’s paternal ancestors, were prone to sinus infections, while on her mother’s side, the Hepworths, they either died very young or made it into their seventies and beyond—good long innings then. Wesley Randolph’s family often suffered a wasting disease of the blood which killed them slowly. The Hogendobbers leaned toward coronary disorders, and the Sanburnes to gout.

  Jim’s keen powers of observation again won Larry’s admiration. Being young when he joined Jim Craig’s practice, Larry had looked up to his partner, but now, as an old man, he could measure Jim in the fullness of his own experience. Jim was a fine doctor and his death at sixty-one was a loss for the town and for other doctors.

  With eager hands Larry opened volume two, dated February 22, 1928.

  51

  Jails are not decorated in designer colors. Nor is the privacy of one’s person much honored. Poor Samson Coles listened to stinking men with the DTs hollering and screaming, bottom-rung drug sellers protesting their innocence, and one child molester declaring that an eight-year-old had led him on. If Samson ever doubted his sanity, this “vacation” in the cooler reaffirmed that he was sane—stupid perhaps, but sane.

  He wasn’t so sure about the men in the other cells. Their delusions both fascinated and repelled him.

  His only delusion was that Ansley Randolph loved him when in fact she did not. He knew that now. Not one attempt to contact him, not that he expected her to show her face at the correctional institute, as it was euphemistically called. She co
uld have smuggled him a note though—something.

  Like most men, Samson had been used by women, especially when he was younger. One of the good things about Lucinda was that she didn’t use him. She had loved him once. He felt the searing pain of guilt each time he thought of his wife, the wife he’d betrayed, his once good name which he had destroyed, and the fact that he would lose his real estate license in the bargain. He’d wrecked everything: home, career, community standing. For what?

  And now he stood accused of murder. Fleeting thoughts of suicide, accomplished with a bedsheet, occurred to him. He fought them back. Somehow he would have to learn to live with what he’d done. Maybe he’d been stupid, but he wasn’t a coward.

  As for Ansley, he knew she’d fall right back into her routine. She didn’t love Warren a bit, but she’d never risk losing the wealth and prestige of being a Randolph. Not that being a Coles was shabby, but megamillions versus comfort and a good name—no contest. Then, too, she had her boys to consider, and life would be far more advantageous for them if she stayed put.

  In retrospect he could see that Ansley’s ambitions centered more on the boys than on herself, although she had the sense to be low-key about them. If she was going to endure the Randolph clan, then, by God, she would have successful and loving sons. Blood, money, and power—what a combination.

  He swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He’d turn to pure fat in this place if he didn’t do leg raises and push-ups. One good thing about being in the slammer, no social drinking. He wanted to cry sometimes, but he didn’t know how. Just as well. Wimps get buggered in places like this.

  How long he sat there, dangling his legs just to feel some circulation, he didn’t know. He jerked his legs up with a start when he realized he was aptly named.

  52

  The buds on the trees swelled, changing in color from dark red to light green. Spring, in triumph, had arrived.

  Harry endured a spring-cleaning fit each year when the first blush of green swept over the meadows and the mountains. The creeks and rivers soared near their banks from the high melting snow and ice, and the air carried the scent of earth again.

  Piles of newspapers and magazines, waiting to be read, were stacked on the back porch. Harry succumbed to the knowledge that she would never read them, so out they went. Clothes, neatly folded, rested near the periodicals. Harry hadn’t much in the way of clothing, but she finally broke down and threw out those articles too often patched and repatched.

  She decided, too, to toss out the end table with three legs instead of four. She’d find one of those unfinished-furniture stores and paint a new end table. As she carried it out she stubbed her toe on the old cast-iron doorstop. This had been her great-grandmother’s iron, heated on top of the stove.

  “Goddammit!”

  “If you’d look where you were going, you wouldn’t run into things.” Tucker sounded like a schoolteacher.

  Harry rubbed her toe, took off her shoe, and rubbed some more. Then she picked up the offending iron, ready to hurl it outside. “That’s it!” She joyously called to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. “The murder weapon. Medley Orion was a seamstress!”

  53

  Holding the iron aloft, Harry demonstrated to Mim Sanburne, Fair, Larry Thompson, Susan, and Deputy Cooper how the blow would have been struck.

  “It certainly could account for the triangular indentation.” Larry examined the iron.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sat tight against each other on the kitchen table. Although Mrs. Murphy would rather lose fur than admit it—she liked having a feline companion. Pewter did, too, but then, Pewter camped out on the kitchen table, since that’s where the food was placed.

  Tucker circled the table. “Smart of Mom to call Big Marilyn.”

  “Mim is head of the restoration project.” Mrs. Murphy glanced down at her little friend. “This way, too, Mim can tell Oliver Zeve and Coop can tell Sheriff Shaw. It’s a pretty good theory.”

  “I believe you’ve got it.” Larry handed the iron to Mim, who felt its weight.

  “One solid blow pushing straight out or slightly upward. People performed so much physical labor back then, she was no doubt strong enough to inflict a fatal blow. We know she was young.” Mim gave the iron to Miranda.

  “The shape of this iron would help when pressing lace or all the fripperies and fancies those folks wore.”

  “May I borrow the iron to show Rick? If he doesn’t see it with his own eyes, he’ll be skeptical.” Cynthia Cooper held out her hands for the iron.

  “Sure.”

  “We hear that Samson categorically denies killing Kimball even though that gun was in his car.” Mim hated that Sheriff Shaw didn’t tell her everything. But then, Mim wanted to know everything about everybody, as did Miranda, though for different reasons.

  “He’s sticking to his story.”

  “Has anyone visited Lulu?” Susan Tucker asked. “I thought about going there this evening.”

  “I’ve paid a call.” Mim spoke first, as the first citizen of Crozet, which in essence she was. “She’s terribly shaken. Her sister has flown up from Mobile to attend to her. She wonders how people will treat her now, and I’ve assured her that no blame attaches itself to her. Why don’t you give her a day or two, Susan, and then go over.”

  “She loves shortbread,” Mrs. Hogendobber remembered. “I’ll bake some.”

  The rest of the group raised their hands and Miranda laughed. “I’ll be in the kitchen till Easter!”

  “I’m still not giving up on finding out the real story behind the corpse in Cabin Four.” Harry walked over to the counter to make coffee.

  “And I was thinking that I’d read through Dr. Thomas Walker’s papers. He attended Peter Jefferson on his deathbed. Quite a man of many parts, Thomas Walker of Castle Hill. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a reference to treating a broken leg. There was another physician also, but I can’t think of his name off the top of my head,” Larry said.

  “We owe it to Kimball.” Harry ground the beans, releasing the intoxicating scent.

  “Harry, you never give up.” Fair joined her, setting out cups and saucers. “I hope you all do get to the bottom of the story just so it’s over, but more than anything, I’m glad Kimball’s murderer is behind bars. That had me worried.”

  “Does it seem possible that Samson Coles could kill a man in cold blood?” Mim poured half-and-half into her cup.

  “Mrs. Sanburne, the most normal-looking persons can commit the most heinous crimes,” stated Deputy Cooper, who ought to know.

  “I guess.” Mim sighed.

  “Do you think Samson did it?” Pewter asked.

  Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail. “No. But someone wants us to think he did.”

  “The gun was in his car.” Tucker wanted to believe the mess was over.

  The tiger cat’s pink tongue hung out of her mouth for a second. “It’s not over—feline intuition.”

  Miranda asked, “Did Kimball ever get to the Randolph papers?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” Harry paused, then walked over to the phone and dialed.

  “Hello, Ansley. Excuse me for bothering you. Did Kimball ever get to read your family papers?” She listened. “Well, thanks again. I’m sorry to bother you.” She hung up the phone receiver. “No.”

  “We still have a few more stops in duplicating Kimball’s research. Something will turn up.” Mrs. H. tried to sound helpful.

  54

  “What a wuss,” Mrs. Murphy groaned about Pewter. “It’s too far. It’s too cold. I’ll be so tired tomorrow.”

  Tucker’s dog trot ate up the miles. “Be glad she stayed home. She would have sat down and cried before we’d gone two miles. This way we can get our work done.”

  Mrs. Murphy, following feline instincts, felt the whole story was not out, not by a long shot. She convinced Tucker to head out to Samson Coles’s estate late at night. The game little dog needed no convincing. Besides, the thrill of finding the books in the fireplace hadn
’t worn off. Right now they thought they could do anything.

  They cut across fields, jumped creeks, ducked under fences. They passed herds of deer, the does with newborn fawns by their sides. And once, Mrs. Murphy growled when she smelled a fox. Cats and foxes are natural enemies because they compete for the same food.

  As Lucinda and Samson’s place was four miles by the path they took, they arrived around eleven o’clock. Lights were on upstairs as well as in the living room.

  Massive walnut trees guarded the house. Mrs. Murphy climbed up one and walked out a branch. She saw Lucinda Coles and Warren Randolph through the living room window. She backed down the tree and jumped onto the broad windowsill so she could hear their conversation, since the window was open to allow the cool spring air through the house, a welcome change from the stuffy winter air trapped inside. The cat scarcely breathed as she listened.

  Tucker, knowing Mrs. Murphy to be impeccable in these matters, decided to pick up whatever she could by scent.

  Lucinda, handkerchief dabbing her eyes, nodded more than she spoke.

  “You had no idea?”

  “I knew he was fooling around, but I didn’t know it was Ansley. My best friend, God, it’s so typical.” She groaned.

  “Look, I know you’ve got enough troubles, and I don’t want you to worry about money. If you’ll allow me, I can organize the estate and do what must be done, along with your regular lawyers, of course. Just don’t act precipitously. Even if Samson is convicted, it doesn’t mean you have to lose everything.”

  “Oh, Warren, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  He sighed deeply. “I still can’t believe it myself. You think you know someone and then—I guess if the truth be told, I’m more upset about the, uh, affair than the murder.”

  “When did you know?”

  “Behind the post office. Tuesday. He slipped, made a comment about something only my wife could have known.” He hesitated. “I drove over here one night and cut the lights off. I was going to come in and tell you, and then I chickened out in the middle of it. Well, I saw his car in the driveway. So, like I said, I backed out. I don’t know if it would have made any difference if you’d known a few days ago instead of today.”