Murder at Monticello (14 page)

30

“If you light another cigarette, then I'll have to light one too,” Deputy Cynthia Cooper joshed.

“Here.” Sheriff Shaw tossed his pack of Chesterfields at her. She caught them left-handed. “Out at first,” he said.

She tapped the pack with a long, graceful finger, and a slender white cigarette slid out. The deep tobacco fragrance made her eyelids flutter. That evil weed, that scourge of the lungs, that drug, nicotine, but oh, how it soothed the nerves and how it added to the coffers of the great state of Virginia. “Damn, I love these things.”

“Think we'll die young?”

“Young?” Cynthia raised her eyebrows, which made Rick laugh, since he was already middle-aged.

“Hey, you want another promotion someday, don't you, Deputy?”

“Just a beardless boy, that Rick Shaw.” She placed the cigarette in her mouth, lighting it with a match from a box of Redbuds.

They inhaled in sweet silence, the blue smoke swirling to the ceiling like a slow whirling dervish of delight.

“Coop, what do you think of Oliver Zeve?”

“He took the news as I expected. A nervous twitch.”

Rick grunted. “His press statement was a model of restraint. But nothing, nothing, will beat Big Marilyn Sanburne advancing her stalker theory. She's good. She's really good.” Rick appreciated Mim's skills even though he didn't like her. “I'd better call her.”

“Good politics, boss.”

Rick dialed the Sanburne residence. The butler fetched Mim. “Mrs. Sanburne, Rick Shaw here.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“I wanted to give you the report from Washington concerning the human remains found at Monticello.” He heard a quick intake of breath. “The skeleton is that of a white male, aged between thirty-two and thirty-five. In good health. The left femur had been broken in childhood and healed. Possibly the victim suffered a slight limp. The victim was five ten in height, which although not nearly as tall as Jefferson's six foot four, would have been tall for the times, and given the density of bone, he was probably powerfully built. There were no signs of degenerative disease in the bones, and his teeth, also, were quite good. He was killed by one forceful blow to the back of the skull with an as yet undetermined weapon. Death, more than likely, was instantaneous.”

Mim asked, “How do they know the man was white?”

“Well, Mrs. Sanburne, determining race from skeletal remains can actually be a little tricky sometimes. We're all much more alike than we are different. The races have more in common than they have dissimilarities. You could say that race has more to do with culture than physical attributes. However, forensics starts by considering the bone structure and skeletal proportions of a specimen. Specifically, the amount of projection of the cheekbones, the width of the nasal aperture, and the shape and distance between the eye sockets. Another factor is the amount of projection of the jaw. For instance, a white man's jaw is generally less prominent than a black man's is. Prognathism is the term for the way the jaw figures more prominently in the faces of those of African descent. There is also in many white skeletons the presence of an extra seam in the skull, which extends from the top of the nasal arch to the top of the head. Perhaps even more helpful is the amount of curvature in the long bones, especially the femur, of an individual. A white person's skeleton tends to have more twisting in the neck or head of the femur.”

“Amazing.”

“Yes, it is,” the sheriff agreed.

“Thank you,” Mim said politely, and hung up the phone.

“Well?” Cooper asked.

“She didn't succumb to the vapors.” Rick referred to the Victorian ladies' habit of fainting upon hearing unwelcome news. “Let's run over to Kimball Haynes's. I want to see him away from Oliver Zeve. Oliver will shut him down if he can.”

“Boss, the director of Monticello isn't going to obstruct justice. I know that Oliver walks a tightrope up there, but he's not a criminal.”

“No, I don't think so either, but he's so supersensitive about this. He'll put the crimp on Kimball somehow, and I think Kimball is the one person who can lead us to the killer.”

“I think it's Medley Orion.”

“How often have I told you not to jump to conclusions?”

“Eleventy million times.” She rolled her big blue eyes. “Still do it though.”

“Still right most of the time too.” He kicked at her as she walked by to stub out her cigarette. “Well, I happen to agree. It was Medley or a boyfriend, father, somebody close to her. If we could just find the motive—Kimball knows the period inside and out and he's got a feel for the people.”

“Got the bug.”

“Huh?”

“Harry told me that Kimball eats and sleeps this case.”

“Harry—next she'll have the cat and dog on it too.”

31

The night air, cool and deep, carried stories to Tucker's nose. Deer followed the warm air currents, raccoons prowled around Monticello, a possum reposed on a branch of the Carolina silver-bell near the terrace which Mrs. Murphy, like Kimball, thought of as a boardwalk. Overhead, bats flew in and out of the tulip poplar, the purple beech, and the eaves of the brick house.

“I'm glad Monticello has bats.”
Mrs. Murphy watched the small mammals dart at almost right angles when they wanted.

“Why?”
Tucker sat down.

“Makes this place less august. After all, when Thomas Jefferson lived here, it probably didn't look like this. The trees couldn't have been this grand. The garbage had to go somewhere—know what I mean?—and it must have been filled with noises. Now there's a reverential silence except for the shuffling of human feet on the tours.”

“It must have been fun, all the grandchildren, the slaves calling to one another, the clanging in the smithy, the neighing of the horses. I can imagine it, and I can envision a bright corgi accompanying Mr. Jefferson on his rides.”

“Dream on. If he had dogs out with him, they would have been big dogs—coach dogs or hunting dogs.”

“Like Dalmatians?”
Tucker's ears dropped for a moment as she considered her spotted rival.
“He wouldn't have owned Dalmatians. I think he had corgis. We're good herding dogs and we could have been useful.”

“Then you would have been out with the cattle.”

“Horses.”

“Cattle.”

“Oh, what do you know? Next you'll say a cat sat by Jefferson's elbow when he wrote the Declaration of Independence.”

Mrs. Murphy's whiskers twitched.
“No cat would ever have allowed the phrase ‘All men are created equal' to pass. Not only are all men not created equal, cats aren't created equal. Some cats are more equal than others, if you know what I mean.”

“He wrote it in Philadelphia. Maybe that affected his brain.”
Tucker giggled.

“Philadelphia was a beautiful city then. Parts of it are still beautiful, but it just got too big, you know. All of our cities got too big. Anyway, it's absurd to plunk an idea like that down on parchment. Men aren't equal. And we know for sure that women aren't equal. They weren't even considered at the time.”

“Maybe he meant equal under the law.”

“That's a farce. Ever see a rich man go to jail? I take that back. Every now and then a Mafia don gets marched to the slammer.”

“Mrs. Murphy, how could Thomas Jefferson have dreamed of the Mafia? When he wrote the Declaration of Independence, only a million people lived in the thirteen colonies and they were mostly English, Irish, Scottish, and German, and, of course, African from the various tribes.”

“Don't forget the French.”

“Boy, were they stupid. Had the chance to grab the whole New World and blew it.”

“Tucker, I didn't know you were a Francophobe.”

“They don't like corgis. The Queen of England likes corgis, so I think the English are the best.”

“Jefferson didn't.”
The cat's silken eyebrows bobbed up and down.

“Not fair. George III was mental. The whole history of the world might have been different if he'd been right in the head.”

“Yeah, but you could pick out any moment in history and say that. What would have happened if Julius Caesar had listened to his wife, Calpurnia, on March fifteenth, when she begged him not to go to the Forum? Beware the Ides of March. What would have happened if Catherine the Great's attempt on her looney-tunes husband's life had failed and she was killed instead? Moments. Turning points. Every day there's a turning point somewhere with someone. I think the creation of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals gets my vote as most important.”

Tucker stood up and inhaled.
“I pick the founding of the Westminster Dog Show. Say, do you smell that?”

Mrs. Murphy lifted her elegant head.
“Skunk.”

“Let's go back in the house. If I see her, then I'll chase her and you know what will happen. The odor of skunk in Monticello.”

“I think it would be pretty funny myself. I wonder if Jefferson would like the idea of his home being a museum. I bet he'd rather have it filled with children and laughter, broken pottery and wornout furniture.”

“He would, but Americans need shrines. They need to see how their great people lived. They didn't have indoor plumbing. Fireplaces were the only source of heat in the winter. No washing machines, refrigerators, stoves, or televisions.”

“The last would be a blessing.”
Mrs. Murphy's voice dripped disdain.

“No telephones, telegraphs, fax machines, automobiles, airplanes . . .”

“Sounds better and better.”
The cat brushed up against the dog.
“Quiet except for natural sounds. Just think, people actually sat down and really talked to one another. They were under an obligation to entertain one another with their conversational abilities. You know what people do today? They sit in their living room or family room—isn't that a dumb word? Every room is a family room—they sit there with the television on and if they talk they talk over the sound of the boob tube.”

“Oh, Mrs. Murphy, they can't all be that crude.”

“Humph,”
the cat replied. She did not consider the human animal the crown of creation.

“I'm surprised you know your history.”
Tucker scratched her ear.

“I listen. I know human history and our history and no matter what, I am an Americat.”

“And there is an Ameriskunk.”
Tucker scurried to the front door, which was open just enough so she could squeeze in as a fat skunk at the edge of the lawn hastened in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Murphy followed. The two ran to the narrow staircase behind the North Square Room, turned left, and scampered up to Kimball's makeshift workroom.

Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Kimball, now bleary-eyed, had sifted through as much correspondence as they could. Martha Jefferson, the future president's daughter, married Thomas Mann Randolph on February 23, 1790. Together they produced twelve children, eleven of whom gained maturity and most of whom lived to a ripe old age. The last died in 1882, and that was Virginia Jefferson Randolph, born in 1801. Martha's children in turn begat thirty-five children. Maria, her sister, had thirteen grandchildren through her son Francis Eppes, who married twice, which brings that generation's count to forty-eight. They, too, were fruitful and multiplied—not that everyone lived to breed. A few grew to adulthood and never married, but the descendants were plentiful even so.

Mrs. Hogendobber rubbed her nose. “This is like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“But which needle?” Harry joined her chorus.

“Which haystack, Martha or Maria?” Kimball was also wearing down.

“You'd think someone would say something about Medley or her child.” Harry noticed her friends enter the room. “What have you two been up to?”

“Discussion of history,”
Mrs. Murphy answered.

“Yeah, deep stuff.”
Tucker plopped at her mother's feet.

“The sad truth is that back then black lives weren't that important.” Mrs. Hogendobber shook her head.

“There sure are enough references to Jupiter, Jefferson's body servant, and King and Sally and Betsey Hemings, and well, the list could go on and on. Medley gets a footnote.” Kimball started pulling on his lower lip, an odd habit indicating intense thought.

“What about Madison Hemings? He sure caused a sensation. A dead ringer for Thomas Jefferson with a deep brown tan. He waited on the dinner guests. Bet he gave them a start.” Harry wondered what the real effect must have been upon seeing a young mulatto man in livery who surely shared the president's blood.

“Born in 1805, and as an old man he said he was Jefferson's son. Said his mother, Sally, told him.” Kimball abruptly leapt up. “But that could be a desire to be the center of attention. And Jefferson had a wealth of male relatives, each and every one capable of congress with Sally or her pretty sister, Betsey. And what about the other white employees of the plantation?”

“Well, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, Martha's oldest son, who was born in 1792 and lived to 1875, swore that Sally was Peter Carr's favorite mistress and Sally's sister, Betsey, was mistress to Sam Carr. Those were Jefferson's nephews, the sons of Dabney Carr and Martha Jefferson's younger sister. Wild as rats they were too.” Kimball smiled, imagining the charms of a black purdah with one white sultan, or, in this case, two.

“Wonder if Sally and Betsey thought it was so great?” Harry couldn't resist.

“Huh”—he blinked—“well, maybe not, but Harry, you can't remove sexual fantasy from the life of the male. I mean, we all want to imagine ourselves in the arms of a beautiful woman.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry grumbled. “The imagining isn't so bad, it's the doing it when one is married. Oh, well, this is an ancient debate.”

He softened. “I get your point.”

“And who slept with Medley?”
Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail.
“If she was as pretty as she is reputed to have been, she would have turned a white head or two.”

“What a loud purr.” Kimball admired Mrs. Murphy.

“You should hear her burp.”
Tucker wagged her nontail, hoping to be noticed.

“Jealous.” Mrs. Hogendobber said matter-of-factly.

“She's got your number, stumpy.”
Mrs. Murphy teased her friend, who didn't reply because Kimball was petting her.

“Is it me or is there a conspiracy of silence surrounding Medley Orion and her child?” Harry, like a hound, struck a faint, very faint scent.

Both Kimball and Mrs. Hogendobber stared at her.

“Isn't that obvious?” Kimball said.

“The obvious is a deceitful temptation.” Mrs. Hogendobber, by virtue of working with Harry, picked up the line now too. “We're overlooking something.”

“The master of Monticello may not have known about whatever Medley was up to or whoever killed that man, but I bet you dollars to doughnuts that Martha did, and that's why she took Medley. She could easily have been sold off, you know. The family could have ditched this slave if she became an embarrassment.”

“Harry, the Jeffersons did not sell their slaves.” Kimball almost sounded like Mim. It wasn't true though. Jefferson did sell his slaves, but only if he knew they were going to a good home. Jefferson's policy demonstrated more concern than many slave owners evidenced, yet the disposal of other humans seemed both callous and mercenary to some of Jefferson's contemporaries.

“They could have given her away after Thomas died.” Mrs. Hogendobber shifted in her seat, a surge of energy enlivening her thoughts. “One or both daughters protected Medley. Martha
and
Maria.”

Kimball threw his hands in the air. “Why?”

“Well, why in the hell did not one family member suggest they pack off Sally and Betsey Hemings? My God, Jefferson was crucified over his alleged affair with Sally. Think about it, Kimball. It may have been two hundred years ago, but politics is still politics and people have changed remarkably little.” Harry nearly shouted.

“A cover-up?” Kimball whispered.

“Ah”—Mrs. Hogendobber held up her forefinger like a schoolmarm—“not a cover-up but pride. If the Hemingses were ‘dismissed,' shall we say, then it would have been an admission of guilt.”

“But surely keeping them on this hill fed the gossipmongers too,” Kimball exploded in frustration.

“Yes, but Jefferson didn't buy into it. So if he's mum, what can they do? They can make up stories. Any newspaper today is full of the same conjecture posing as fact. But if Jefferson levitated above them all in his serene way, then he stole some of their fire. He never sweated in front of the enemy is what I'm saying, and he made a conscious decision not to bag the Hemingses.”

“Harry, those slaves came from his mother's estate.”

“Kimball, so what?”

“He was a very loyal man. After all, when Dabney Carr, his best friend, died young, he created the family cemetery for him, and would lean on his grave and read to be close to him.”

Harry held up her hands as if asking for a truce, “Okay. Okay, then try this. Sally and Betsey's mother, Betty Hemings, was half white. The skinny from the other slaves was that her father was an English sea captain. Thomas Jefferson freed Bob and James, Sally and Betsey's brothers, in 1790. Except for another daughter, Thenia, who was acquired by James Monroe, all the Hemingses stayed at Monticello. They had a reputation for being good workers and for being intelligent. Sally was never set free, but her daughter was, by Jefferson, in 1822. At least, that's what I'm getting out of all these papers.”

“I know all that,” Kimball fretted.

“I don't.” Mrs. Hogendobber made a sign indicating for Harry to continue.

“Jefferson made provision for Sally's sons Madison and Eston to be freed upon reaching the age of twenty-one. Now, he wouldn't have done that if he didn't think these people could earn a living. It would be cruel to send them into the world otherwise. Right?”

“Right.” Kimball paced.

“And the lovers of Sally and Betsey may
not
have been the Carr brothers. The slaves said that John Wayles took Sally as, what should I say, his common-law wife, after his third wife died, and that Sally had six children by him. John Wayles was Martha Jefferson's brother, T.J.'s brother-in-law. Jefferson took responsibility, always, for any member of his family. He loved Martha beyond reason. His solicitude makes sense in this light. Of course, others said that John Wayles was the lover of
Betty
Hemings, so that Sally and Betsey would have been Martha's cousins. Guess we'll never really know, but the point is, Sally and Betsey had some blood tie, or deep-heart tie, to T.J.”