Murder at Monticello

by Jane Langton

  Tom’s troubles had concentrated his mind. He held his arms wide, as though to enfold her, and his lips shaped words she couldn’t understand.

  She waved her hand very slightly and said, “Goodbye, Tom, goodbye.”

  The newly arrived visitors were Tom’s mother and father. As they passed Fern in the corridor they stared at her blankly. She looked straight ahead and whistled softly through her teeth.

  Chapter 45

  … all the party except a guard went with Capt Lewis to take up the other large canoe. we got it under way verry well but She took a Swing on us and broke away and rid the high waves down the rapids. then all hands went at packing the baggage past the portage which is 1½ miles.… one of the Squaws told us in the Clatsop tongue that She had Slept with the white tradors.…

  Sergeant John Ordway, April 12, 1806,

  returning up the Columbia

  “Who was that woman?” These were the first words of the loving mother to her incarcerated son.

  “What woman”

  “That woman in the hall. She whistled at us.”

  “Oh, that woman. Her name’s Fern. Friend of mine. Professional whistler.”

  Tom’s father took the phone. “Why the hell didn’t you call us? We didn’t know a thing about it until Myrna saw it on TV.”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders.

  His father sighed, but he was prepared to be generous. “I’ve hired a prominent Richmond attorney to defend your case. Top of the line, a thousand dollars a day.” Mr. Dean raised his hands in wonder at his own heroic sacrifice. “After all, who wants a forty-foot sloop anyway?”

  “Oh, God,” said Tom. “Please don’t. I don’t need an attorney. I’ve already got one.”

  An argument ensued, insistence on one side, stubborn refusal on the other.

  At last Tom’s father, deeply hurt, agreed to speak to Homer Kelly, the interfering stranger.

  Then Mrs. Dean gave Tom a parting stare that meant, Oh, Tom, we’re so ashamed, and at last they went away, leaving Tom gasping for air.

  Arthur Dean did not bother to call Homer to make an appointment. The matter was too urgent. With Grandmother Dean and Tom’s sister, Myrna, in the back seat, the sport-utility vehicle bombed right over to the house on University Circle. The entire family spilled out of the car and marched up the porch steps. Mr. Dean leaned angrily on the doorbell.

  The weather was still sweltering. All the air conditioners in Albemarle County had been turned on at once, sucking energy from the power company. Refrigerators shuddered and worked overtime. A transformer failed. Blackouts were predicted.

  When he heard the doorbell, Homer was in the shower trying to cool off. He swore, climbed out of the tub, wrapped himself in a towel, and came downstairs in his bare feet.

  Even when he was dressed, Homer Kelly’s great height and alarming growth of whisker made him something of a human spectacle. Now, standing damply in the doorway in his enormous towel, he looked like a wild man, an escapee from the circus—pink shoulders steaming, whiskers dripping, a frenzy of gray hair standing out from his head. His towel, in fact, said FRANKLIN PARK ZOO.

  “Good afternoon,” he said politely, gazing in surprise around the circle of staring faces.

  Arthur Dean was a tall man, accustomed to cowing lesser mortals. Now he had to look up, way up, at Homer. “Mr. Kelly? My name is Arthur Dean.”

  “Well,” said Homer affably, “why don’t you all come in?” He stood back while they paraded past him, daughter Myrna shrinking away from the bulge of Homer’s stomach. When they were settled on chairs and sofas, he galloped upstairs to snatch up his bathrobe and slippers. As he plunged downstairs again, Mary came in the back door. She had been walking the dog. Homer rolled his eyes, and she wisely retreated to the kitchen.

  Arthur Dean came to the point at once, beginning on a friendly note. “I understand you have taken upon yourself the role of defense attorney for my son.”

  “I have?” Homer’s brain processed this information instantaneously and analyzed it from top to bottom. He had taken an immediate dislike to the entire family. “Oh, yes, that’s right, you’re right, I have, I certainly have.”

  Chapter 46

  … we divided our store of merchindize amongst our party for the purpose of precureing some roots &c. of the nativs … to take us over those Great snowey Barriers (rocky mountains).… They are at this time covered deep with snow.…

  Captain William Clark, May 21, 1806,

  among the Nez Percés

  On July 3, the day before the Monticello celebration, Henry Spender was the center of a storm of last-minute preparations. He had a fearful headache.

  Heavy rain was forecast for the next day. Rain was unthinkable. It would be a disaster.

  People kept popping into Henry’s office with urgent questions. Through some appalling oversight, the Governor of West Virginia had received no invitation. Would Henry make a personal phone call? And would he call the agent of the famous film star, who was trying to back out?

  Also—a highly ticklish predicament—the organization of the blood relatives of Thomas Jefferson had invited only a few of the descendants of Sally Hemings, the ones whose claim of kinship was backed by DNA evidence. The rest were boiling mad.

  And that wasn’t all. One of the caterers wanted to substitute finger sandwiches for the asparagus rolls, and was that all right? Because if it was, it meant the enraged withdrawal of the other.

  And there were glitches with the film crew and the phone banks.

  “Sorry to bother you, Henry,” said Richard Barbaro, Henry’s second in command, “but the loudspeaker system is failing. None of their stuff works. I need your authority to fire the whole damn outfit and call in the competition. Is that okay by you?”

  There was a pause, then Henry said sarcastically, “You know, Richard, a million miles in outer space at the remotest edge of the solar system in a temperature of absolute zero, the shutters of space-exploration cameras open at the touch of a computer keyboard back on earth. Why is it, in the name of Almighty God, that public-address systems here on earth never, never EVER WORK?”

  Henry had reared up from his chair, he was roaring. Then, collapsing back down and holding his throbbing head, he whispered, “I ask you that, Richard, simply for my own information, as a matter of philosophical inquiry.”

  Gail Boltwood was unaware of the fragile state of the curator’s nerves. Putting her head around the door, she said, “Henry, there’s a problem about the schoolchildren.”

  “The schoolchildren?” said Henry softly, looking at her with a dangerous gleam in his eye.

  “You remember we had a lottery, way last May, to see which kids would be invited. Now the teacher of another class claims the lottery was rigged.”

  Howie Plover heard the explosion as he ascended the stairs. Wisely, he postponed his complaint about the ice house. And anyway, it certainly wasn’t his fault. Howie had done his part all right, removing the dead rats, but the iron gate had not been replaced.

  The truth was, they should have hired a more ordinary blacksmith. This one was not your typical mighty man with arms like iron bands, nor was he like the simple lads who had hammered nails in Thomas Jefferson’s own Nailery, right here at Monticello.

  He was a craftsman, an artist, skillful in the design and manufacture of rood screens for Anglican churches, works of art splendid with spear points and interwoven spirals. His fame was widespread.

  A mean little job like fashioning a new metal grille for an ice pit after the removal of dead rats was not the sort of job the blacksmith cared about. He kept putting it off.

  The last time Howie had called him to ask about the gate for the ice house, the blacksmith had stared at the iron rod cooling on his forge and said vaguely, “Oh, certainly. I’ll get to work on it right away.”

  Chapter 47

  Decended the mountain to Travellers rest leaveing these tremendious mountains behind us, in passing of which we have experienced cold and hun
ger of which I shall ever remember.…

  Weather Diary of Captain William Clark,

  June 30, 1806

  On the morning of July third, Homer woke early and stared up at the ceiling, where there was a water stain in the shape of a coffin.

  Why did fits of depression come upon him without warning? On the other hand, why should he expect life to be one thing all the time, and not a perpetual alternation from one moment to the next of regret, shame, pride, guilt, confusion, despair, pleasure, affection, loathing, gluttony, and lust? Why, indeed

  “You know,” he said aloud, “it’s really sad.”

  “What, Homer?” Keeping her eyes closed, Mary turned over and put her arm around him. “What’s sad?”

  “My ambition in life, that’s what’s sad. I used to look forward to glorious triumphs, magnificent achievements, castles in the air. Now all I want is to keep from making a fool of myself. It’s my single supreme ambition. Don’t you think that’s sad?”

  “Oh, Homer.” Mary kissed him. “You know what? I like you better this way.”

  They lay quietly on their backs, lost in thought. “Fern has a boyfriend,” murmured Mary. “Did you know that?”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “Guy named Jim Reeves, old flame. Drove down from Baltimore yesterday.”

  The phone rang. Homer reared up, reached for it, and said a gruff hello.

  “Mr. Kelly?” The voice was loud and peremptory. “Is that you? Arthur Dean here.”

  After a slight pause, Homer said, “Oh, Mr. Dean, good morning.”

  “I just want to know, Mr. Kelly, speaking as a father, how your investigation is progressing?”

  It was an uncomfortable conversation, with Arthur Dean doing most of the talking, while Homer made noncommittal noises.

  After a while it was Mrs. Dean’s turn. She was anxious to know whether her son would be permitted to carry on his studies while he had so much time in prison with nothing whatever to do. She was eager to impress on Homer the fact that Tom had been the valedictorian of his high-school class and a member of Phi Beta Kappa at the University of Virginia.

  Nor was Homer spared a whining complaint from Tom’s sister, Myrna, who wanted him to know how embarrassing it was to have all her friends know about her brother.

  When Homer visited the jail that afternoon, he was no longer separated from Tom by a window of glass. As Tom’s officially designated attorney, he was permitted to sit with him in one of the compartments devoted to client-attorney interviews. A camera monitored their conversation, but Tom didn’t want to talk about his case anyway.

  Leaning his elbows on the table, he delivered a rambling lecture about Sacagawea, the Shoshone woman who had accompanied the Corps of Discovery all the way to the Pacific and back.

  “She was just sort of an accident,” said Tom. “They brought her along because she happened to be the wife of the French interpreter, and because she could speak Shoshone. There she was, this teenager, nine months pregnant, giving birth right there in the Mandan camp. Only she couldn’t do it. I mean, the baby wouldn’t come. So you know what Lewis did?”

  Homer was amused. “No, what?”

  “He ground up the rattle from a rattlesnake and made her a potion, and it worked.”

  “She delivered the baby?”

  “Right. And then this baby”—Tom broke off—“actually it was Fern who pointed it out—the baby went all the way up the river and across the Rockies to the mouth of the Columbia and back again in the cradleboard on Sacagawea’s back. Nobody talks much about the kid in the journals, but she must have nursed it and cared for it the whole way. The Indian woman, that’s what they called her.”

  Homer laughed. “All those tough, gristly men, deerslayers, killers of grizzlies, can you see them disemboweling a carcass while this woman was sitting nearby, nursing her child? You mean they never mention the baby?”

  “Hardly ever. Fern thinks it’s really strange. When I told her that Sacagawea didn’t get a red cent at the end, while all the men were paid in money and land, she was disgusted. And she’s right, it was terrible that Sacagawea got nothing, after she saved their necks three or four times. Fern hates that statue.”

  “Statue? What statue?”

  “In Lewis and Clark Square. The big bronze monument on the traffic island, those two big heroes gazing westward while this humble little Indian maiden crouches at their feet.”

  “Oh, right, I see what she means.”

  Tom’s eyes were half closed. He was murmuring something, changing the subject. “Homer, you know the Beta Bridge?”

  “No. You mean alpha, beta, and so on?”

  “Bridge across the tracks on Rugby Road, made of cement. Kids at the university, they paint things on it.”

  Homer humored the boy. “They do? What sort of things?”

  “Josh loves Maureen, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, right. Matter of fact, I’ve seen it, the bridge. We’re staying just around the corner.”

  “And sometimes they paint proposals of marriage. You know.”

  “Proposals of marriage, I see.”

  “Prison library, it’s not that bad.”

  Homer was bewildered by the sudden leap from proposals of marriage. “They let you borrow books?”

  “Right, so I’ve been reading about Thomas Jefferson. I mean, I don’t have anything else to do. And I’ve sort of been coming to a conclusion. You know, about Lewis and Clark. He was right there with them the whole entire time.”

  “He?” Homer made a wild guess. “You mean Thomas Jefferson?”

  “They don’t say so, not in their journals, but he must have been like a wind at their backs the whole way, through every goddamn thing that happened, cold, hunger, the long portages, the rapids, the attacks by grizzlies.” Tom shrugged. “You know. Whatever.”

  “Another case of obsession,” said Homer, whose entire life was driven by obsession.

  Tom changed the subject. “Have you seen her?”

  Homer smiled. “My boy, you need a lesson in how to talk good. When you say ‘her,’ do you mean Fern?”

  “Yesterday was visitation day, but she didn’t show up.”

  “Oh, I suppose she’s busy with her old boyfriend.”

  “Old boyfriend?” Tom stared at Homer, his dreamy expression changing to sharp attention. “What old boyfriend?”

  Homer regretted that he had brought it up. “Oh, some guy’s come to town, name’s Jim Reeves.”

  After an unhappy pause, Tom said, “Oh.”

  Their time was up. A guard touched Homer’s shoulder. He stood up, smiled at Tom, and left the prison. Tom was conducted back to his solitary cell.

  Chapter 48

  I arrose early this morning and sent out Drewyer and the Fieldses to hunt.… Returned from the chase unsuccessfull. I now ordered the horses saddled smoked a pipe with these friendly people and at noon bid them adieu.… These affectionate people our guides betrayed every emmotion of unfeigned regret at seperating from us.…

  Captain Meriwether Lewis, July 4, 1806,

  among the Nez Percés

  Augustus Upchurch knew perfectly well that his presence was distressing to young Fern Fisher. And yet he couldn’t live without seeing her, talking to her, pleading with her.

  At least he could call her. Surely she wouldn’t mind a simple phone call?

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Upchurch.” Once again Fern sounded distracted and far away.

  “My dear, I wonder how you’re coming with the—with the river?”

  It was the right thing to say. At once Fern sounded more lively. “Oh, it’s moving right along. I’ve got as far as Butte, Montana, only of course it wasn’t Butte, Montana, in the year 1805.”

  “No, of course not.” Augustus cleared his throat. “I wonder if—I just wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me. Oh, wait, just something simple! What about one of those student places near the university?”

  Fern was no fool. She was well aware that Au
gustus Upchurch was far too interested in her. It was terribly embarrassing. And she was furious because she had read in yesterday’s paper that Mr. Upchurch was Tom’s first accuser. His information had been directly responsible for the terrible thundering on the stairs, the bursting in, the capture.

  But now, pulling herself together, she tried to be kind. “Oh, Mr. Upchurch, if you could only see what it’s like around here. Henry Spender’s nearly out of his mind. So many things still have to be done. And there’s some kind of big emotional problem with one of the caterers, and Security is all upset because of the hot-air balloon.”

  “Balloon?”

  “There’s this hot-air balloon club, they want to come over Monticello during the President’s speech. Security’s going ballistic. What if they have sharpshooters up there aiming down at the President?”

  “But surely, my dear, the Jefferson Studies scholar doesn’t have to be involved in all these preparations?”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I’m making name tags for all the folding chairs. Four hundred of them, hand-lettered.”

  Augustus was in anguish. “Oh, Fern. Oh, my dear.”

  “So I’m sorry, Mr. Upchurch, but I’m afraid I can’t come to supper.” Fern tried to soften the blow. “Are you coming to the celebration tomorrow?”

  “I have an invitation,” said Augustus with dignity.

  “Well, then,” said Fern cheerily, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Gently she put down the phone.

  In the dark den of the gloomy house on Park Street, Augustus hear the soft click and the buzz of disconnection. Bowing his head, he nearly wept.

  He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stay away. Almost without willing it, he found himself behind the wheel of his car, zooming it backward out of the garage and then plunging down Route 20 in the direction of Monticello. Surely they would let him in. As a personal friend of Henry Spender’s and a substantial contributor, he would certainly be welcomed just as usual.