Murder at Monticello

by Jane Langton

  By the time he turned off on Route 53, Augustus was sweating heavily. His eyes bulged as he imagined Fern’s arms twining around his neck. Monticello, which had once been for him such a sacred shine, was now a place of feverish desire.

  What had happened to Augustus? He was in torment.

  Chapter 49

  J. Fields … had carelessly laid his gun down.… One of the indians … sliped behind him and took his gun and that of his brother.… J. Fields … called to his brother who instantly jumped up and pursued the indian … whom they overtook … s[e]ized their guns and rested them from him and R. Fields as he seized his gun stabed the indian to the heart with his knife .…

  Captain Meriwether Lewis, July 27, 1806,

  among the Blackfeet

  George was sick of hearing about the exploits of Thomas Arthur Dean. The TV stations couldn’t get enough of him. They kept gabbling about the amazing fact that this super-duper honor student had been accused of nine fatal assaults on the women of Albemarle County.

  It was about time the son-of-a-bitch was exposed as an imposter.

  George mopped the plastic top of the kitchen table and polished it dry. Then he washed his hands, pulled on his gloves, and sat down with his marking pen and a slip of paper.

  Frowning, he gazed for a moment at the view out the window over the sink, the back yard with its freshly raked dirt and patches of new grass, the valley of dead shirts.

  Then he bowed his head over the slip of paper. It would be the last note about the Mandan camp—

  THE HEAD-CHIEF OF THE MANDAN NATION.

  There, that did it. It was the end of the sentence. It rounded out the last four Jeanies. He’d take it up to Monticello and find the new Jeanie and ram the wig down on her head, the one he’d taken from that ugly old witch in the woods. What a joke.

  Actually, the old witch had been a shock, not part of his plan at all. George had been working his way up the hill at Monticello, meaning only to take a look at the place and maybe see the Jeanie he’d spotted a couple of times in the Bargain Mart, and then this old hag had found him in the tent and croaked something about a perp, a twerp, a burp. Crazy old fool. She wasn’t Jeanie, but he couldn’t leave her alive.

  The TV was muttering. George went into the bedroom to turn it off, but his attention was caught by the current scene at Monticello, the Secret Service roadblock at the entrance, the helicopter view of tents going up on the lawn and people running back and forth, getting ready for the Fourth of July.

  Excited, George smacked his fist on the top of his dresser and laughed. In spite of his reclusive habits, he loved crowds. He loved the sense of himself as a secret hero, rubbing shoulders with strangers who had no idea who he was. Three heads of state would be there tomorrow. George loved celebrities. He’d be a celebrity himself someday.

  And Jeanie would be there for sure.

  But he’d never get past Security tomorrow. They’d be swarming all over the place. It would have to be tonight. He’d park a couple of miles away and walk in.

  George took a bath, keeping his eyes closed as usual. Then he ran a razor around his chin, patted his cheeks with aftershave, put on his new underwear, took the pins out of his new shirt, shook it out, and put it on. His jeans were new too, and so were his socks. His shoes were spotless.

  He had an itemized list for his backpack, and he checked things off as he put them in:

  Water bottle

  Candy

  Couple bananas

  Knife and chain

  Plastic apron

  Clean shirt

  Towel

  Zip bag wet washcloths

  Plastic bag laundry

  What else? The wig. George stuffed it in another plastic sack.

  The note. He folded it carefully and tucked it in his shirt pocket. He studied his hands, which were pink and wrinkled from the bath. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. He looked nice. He was cleanshaven, his bristle cut was freshly dyed, his clothes were neat and new.

  The mirror did not show the red and gristly globe surrounding George, the ugly boil crisscrossed with clotted veins. But it was there. He lived inside it, but he was so used to it, he didn’t see it.

  Oh, one more thing. George picked up two of the pins he had taken from his new shirt and stuck them beside the second button. There, he was ready.

  But when he stepped outside, he had to put his backpack down, because the grass had grown an inch. He couldn’t leave without mowing the lawn.

  Chapter 50

  … having no doubt but that they would pursue us with a large party … no time was therefore to be lost and we pushed our horses as hard as they could bear.…

  Captain Meriwether Lewis, July 27, 1806,

  escaping from the Blackfeet

  Homer came away from the Charlottesvile-Albemarle Regional Jail deeply concerned about Tom.

  The poor kid seemed uninterested in his own fate. He had been loquacious about Sacagawea’s infant son, he had talked about that crazy bridge on Rugby Road with its sentimental messages, and then Homer had opened his big goofy mouth and told him about Fern’s old boyfriend. What a jerk.

  Poor old Tom, passing his time reading books about Jefferson. It occurred to Homer that the kid wasn’t the only Tom in trouble. True, this one had been arraigned on nine counts of murder, not to mention arson, trespass, and the possession of an illegal substance, but there was a case against the other Tom as well. Thomas Jefferson had been charged by the historical revisionists with every sort of public failure and personal disgrace.

  Grimly Homer told himself that he was powerless to resurrect the reputation of the presidential Tom. He was responsible only for saving the life of young Tom Dean. And somehow he’d have to do it all alone, because Chief Pratt had given up the search. It wasn’t his problem anymore, the Chief said. It was entirely up to the courts. He had other things to think about, he said. “You know, trying to work with the guys from the Secret Service tomorrow at Monticello. And, Homer, that’s not all. You’ll never believe it, it’s such an honor. I’ve been invited to give a paper before the Philological Society of Philadelphia—‘Philological Musings on the Declaration of Independence.’ What do you think of that?”

  The invitation was obviously the darling of Oliver’s heart. Well, so much for any help from the Charlottesville Police Department. And Homer suspected that the FBI profilers at Quantico Naval Base were equally uninterested in the case of Thomas Arthur Dean.

  He was all alone, and he resented it. He didn’t know where to begin.

  For the moment, the only problem was how to find his way home. By now Homer had patches of the map of Charlottesville in his head. Surely if he dodged to the right on Avon it would take him to High Street, and on High Street he’d turn left, and the rest would be a piece of cake.

  But no, High Street didn’t look right. Homer had a sinking feeling he’d made this mistake before.

  Well, what about the next right, Park Street? Following a sudden inspiration, Homer swung the wheel and turned onto Park, because it was the street where Augustus Upchurch lived, the old guy who had borrowed pornographic library books on the day the librarian was killed, the one who had called 911 and accused Tom of murdering Flora Foley.

  At the first house he stopped to inquire. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you tell me where Mr. Upchurch lives?”

  The woman merely jerked her head sideways, and slammed the door.

  “Well, thanks a bunch,” growled Homer. Stepping back on the grass, he looked up at the house next door.

  It was a substantial homely dwelling from the same era as the house on University Circle. Homer pushed the doorbell, and then, hearing no ring, he rapped on the glass panel and peered into the gloom of the front hall. Inside he could see a lily-shaped bronze lamp, an umbrella stand, a Panama hat on a coatrack, and a shield-shaped plaque on the wall. Squinting, Homer could just make out the words Charlottesville Rotary Club.

  No one answered his knock. No se
x-crazed old gentleman emerged from one of the shadowy rooms. Augustus Upchurch was not at home.

  From Park Street, Homer found his way back to University Circle by a series of random dodges and strokes of luck.

  On the front porch he found Ed Bailey and Mary at a table covered with cameras. Mary’s was automatic, simple, and cheap. Ed’s were complex and expensive.

  Ed was scornful. “My dear girl, you won’t get good pictures tomorrow with that thing. Idiot camera, right? Point and shoot?”

  Mary was incensed. She appealed to Homer as he climbed the steps. “Homer, tell Ed about my Venice pictures. They were pretty good, weren’t they? I shot twenty-four rolls, and some of them were just fine.”

  “Well,” said Homer tactfully, “one of your pictures made a big difference.” He explained it to Ed. “There was this picture Mary took, it changed everything.”

  Ed wasn’t listening. He was full of his own expertise. Homer went inside and closed the screen door gently behind him, while Ed explained the superior features of his Minoltas and Nikons and Hasselblads.

  Oh, God, where should he start? In the untidy room they used as a study, Homer sat down in a fraying wicker chair and leafed through his notes. A lot of his scribbles were passages copied from the gruesome book loaned him by Chief Pratt.

  After a while the notes slipped from his fingers. His head drooped on his chest.

  Five minutes later Homer woke up and sprang to his feet. “Public places,” he boomed to the glass-fronted bookcases, the faded curtains, the framed Old Testament prophets. “Public places full of crowds. Sometimes these freaks are just crazy about crowds, that’s what the books say.”

  At once he hurried back out on the porch, where Mary was loading film into her idiot camera and Ed was packing his fancy equipment into form-fitting cases.

  “So long, you people,” said Homer, beaming at them. “I’m off to the celebration.”

  They stared at him blankly. “But, Homer dear,” said Mary, “it isn’t until tomorrow, the Fourth of July. This is only the third.”

  “Oh, I know, but I need to get there early,” said Homer importantly. “I mean really early.”

  “This early?” said Ed.

  “Oh, sure. I want to look around. Case the joint. You know.”

  “But, Homer, they’ll never let you in. Wait a minute.” Mary wrestled with the contents of her handbag. “Here’s your ticket. But it’s for tomorrow, not today.”

  “It’s okay,” said Homer, waving away the ticket. “I’m buddy-buddy with Chief Pratt. He’ll let me in.”

  “The man’s out of his mind,” said Ed, watching him go.

  Full of purpose, his fingers tightly gripping the wheel, Homer lost his way only once. To his surprise, he found himself breezing down a residential street with small houses left and right. He was reminded of something Chief Pratt had said, He’s here, God’s whiskers, he’s right here in Charlottesville, I swear he is. Maybe we can’t find him because he’s in plain sight, like the purloined letter.

  Driving slowly, Homer wondered if one of these small dwellings was the purloined letter. What would the creature’s house or room or rat hole look like? Maybe a filthy pigsty. On the other hand—Homer remembered his foolish observation that the women’s bodies had been mutilated quite neatly—maybe the place occupied by the killer was trim and tidy, just like the houses on this street.

  Look at that guy mowing his lawn, for instance. It doesn’t even need mowing. Super-meticulous kind of guy.

  Homer glanced at the mailbox as he drove by. The name painted on it in big block capitals was GEORGE DRYER.

  Chapter 51

  … I now told them that it was my determination that if we were attacked in the plains on our way to the point that the bridles of the horses should be tied together and we would stand and defend them, or sell our lives as dear as we could.

  Captain Meriwether Lewis, July 28, 1806,

  escaping from the Blackfeet

  It took Fern far into the evening to finish labeling the chairs. On the west lawn she moved slowly along the first ten rows, attaching her ribboned name tags one by one. Awestruck in spite of herself at the sublimity of some of the names, she had been far too painstaking with the calligraphy. It had taken her all day.

  The light was fading. On the West Portico, behind the rostrum with its red, white, and blue bunting, a couple of men in uniform stood with folded arms, talking quietly. Several of Chief Pratt’s men, removed from traffic duty, roamed among the flowerbeds, inspecting the rows of chairs. Beyond the dying larch tree—one of the last survivors from Jefferson’s time—another platoon moved down into the Grove.

  A sense of anticipation electrified the air. The flowers had been fussed into an orgy of blossoming. The great trees swelled in even greater splendor. The sunset blazed from the west windows. The house waited in calm perfection.

  Down the hill to the northeast, the fireworks were ready for the match—the titanium salutes, the whistling serpents, the two-color chrysanthemum showers, the four-inch shell reports, and all the rest, including the grand finale—a ground display of the American flag and a fiery portrait of Thomas Jefferson.

  At eight o’clock, Henry Spender went home in a state of exhausted euphoria. After the wild scramble and the disastrous portents of the past week, everything had fallen into place.

  The furious captains of the catering teams had settled their differences and fallen into each other’s arms. The public-address system was working at last. The offended Governor had accepted an apology. The phone banks were a miracle of electronic ingenuity. The film star had decided to come after all, and even the sparring Jeffersonian descendants had been reconciled.

  To cap all these triumphs, a starry-eyed Gail Boltwood had bounced into Henry’s office with the news that an unexpected weather front was passing through. Tomorrow there would be no thunderstorms, no rain, no summer hail. The day would be clear and cool.

  “Look!” said Gail, pointing out the window at the crescent moon, a delicate bauble in the treetops.

  In a rapture of thanksgiving, Henry pulled on his jacket. An avowed atheist, he almost regretted his cynicism as he drove out of the parking lot. Perhaps there was a God in heaven after all.

  Chapter 52

  I was in the act of firing on the Elk a second time when a ball struck my left thye.… I instantly supposed that Cruzatte had shot me in mistake.… I called out to him damn you, you have shot me.…

  Captain Meriwether Lewis, August 11, 1806

  So they were all there at once, in the dusk of evening.

  George Dryer moved silently up through the trees, dodging the uniformed officers patrolling the woods. He was just in time to catch sight of Fern as she tied the last of her labels to the chairs on the west lawn.

  Once again George had the sensation of being in two places at once—both here and not here. Another George Dryer was looking down at Jeanie from a great height. His eyes were all-seeing. They followed her as she moved back into the house, carrying a cardboard box.

  For Augustus Upchurch, permission to enter the grounds was not easy, in spite of his friendship with the curator and his standing as a major donor.

  A security officer stopped his car as it turned into the driveway. “I’m sorry, sir. No one is permitted to enter.”

  “But I have an appointment with Miss Fisher.”

  The officer consulted a list. “Miss Fern Fisher? We haven’t checked off her departure. She must still be on the premises.” He took a phone out of his pocket, consulted the list again, and pushed buttons. Augustus, waiting, was aware of the pounding of his heart.

  “Sorry, sir, she’s not in her office. She doesn’t answer her phone.” The security officer looked up doubtfully. It was an impasse.

  Augustus tried another tack. “Mr. Spender! Call Henry Spender. He’ll be astonished that there should be any question about admitting me.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Spender has left for the day.”

  Augustu
s was desperate. In spite of the coolness of the evening, his seersucker jacket was damp with sweat. “Well, why don’t you call him at home?”

  The security officer sighed, then leaned over backward. Probably the old guy was important enough to get him in trouble. Once more he consulted his list.

  When the phone rang in the Spender household, Henry was reclining happily in his bath. A telephone and a glass of whiskey sat side by side on the floor beside the tub. He was in a jovial mood. He picked up the phone and said, “Henry Spender here. What’s that? Mr. Upchurch Why certainly. Anything Mr. Upchurch wants is okay with me. Good old Mr. Upchurch. Glad to oblige.”

  So Augustus was permitted to drive up the curving road while the officer at the gate called the other checkpoints along the way. A couple of women in uniform waved him on, and at last Augustus pulled into the privileged parking lot below the gift shop.

  He was trembling so badly, he stumbled as he walked up the brick steps to the east lawn. Then, hurrying around the house beside the South Terrace Walk, he was stopped by another security officer. “Sir, may I ask your name?”

  Augustus was badly out of breath. He could only gasp, “Upchurch, Augustus Upchurch.”

  The officer smiled at him. “Carry on, Mr. Upchurch.”

  Trying to look purposeful, Augustus walked quickly to the end of the terrace walk and peered around the corner. At once he saw Fern mounting the steps of the West Portico, carrying a box.

  He wanted to cry out. If he shouted at her she would surely turn her head and look at him. But he was overcome with shyness. What could he possibly say? Fern would be startled, she might even be frightened. Somehow she would guess at the kind of daydreams that were teeming in his head. She would know why he was there.

  Homer Kelly had only a little trouble getting past the guard at the gate. Reaching his long arm out the car window, he took the guard’s list, stared at it, and put his finger on the name Oliver Pratt, Chief, Charlottesville Police. Cowed, the guard called the number.