Murder at Monticello (17 page)

38

A tea table filled with tarts and a crisp apple pie aroused the interest of Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter. The humans at that moment were too upset to eat. Mrs. Hogendobber, a first-rate baker, liked to experiment with recipes before taking them to the Church of the Holy Light for suppers and benefits. The major benefit was to Harry, who was used as the guinea pig. If Harry ever stopped doing her high-calorie-burning farm chores, she'd be fat as a tick. Mrs. H. had planned to bring the treats to work tomorrow, but everything was up in the air.

“That bright young man. He had everything to live for.” Miranda wiped her eyes. “Why would anyone kill Kimball?”

Fair sat next to her on one side of the sofa, Harry on the other.

Harry patted her hand. An awkward gesture, but it suited Mrs. Hogendobber, who was not a woman given to hugs or much public display of affection. “I don't know, but I think he stuck his nose too far in somebody's business.”

Mrs. Hogendobber lifted her head. “You mean over this Monticello murder?”

“Not exactly. I don't know what I mean.” Harry sighed.

Fair's baritone filled the room. “Crozet is a town filled with secrets, generations deep.”

“Isn't every town full of secrets? The precepts for living don't seem to take into account true human nature.” Harry smelled the apple pie. Pewter crouched, making ready to spring onto the teacart. “Pewter, no.”

“Nobody else is going to eat it,”
the cat sassed her.
“Why waste good food?”

Her anger rising because Pewter not only refused to budge but wiggled her haunches again for the leap, Harry rose and chased the cat away from the cart. Pewter ran a few steps away and then sat down defiantly.

“You're pushing it,”
Mrs. Murphy warned her.

“What's she going to do? Smack pie in my face?”
Pewter wickedly crept closer to the sweet-laden cart.

“Listen, let's eat some of this before Pewter wears me out.” Harry sliced three portions of pie, the rich apple aroma deliciously filling the room as the knife opened up the heart of the pie.

“Oh, Miranda, this is beautiful.” Harry handed out three plates. She sat down to eat, but Pewter's creeping along toward the cart disturbed the peacefulness, which had been disturbed enough. Giving up, she cut a small slice for the two cats and a separate one for Tucker.

“You spoil those animals,” said Mrs. Hogendobber.

“They're great testers. If they won't eat something, you know it's bad—not that your pastries could ever fall into that category.”

“Many times I wished I weren't such a baker.” She patted her stomach.

They enjoyed the pie until their thoughts returned to Kimball. As they talked, Harry got up and poured coffee for everyone. She often felt better if she could move around. Harry's mother used to say she had ants in her pants, which wasn't true, but she thought better if she walked about.

“Super. The best, Mrs. H.,” Fair congratulated her.

“Thank you,” she replied listlessly, then a tear fell again. “I hate crying. I keep thinking that he never had the chance to be married or to have children.” She placed her cup on the coffee table. “I'm calling Mim. Surely she's heard.”

Harry, Fair, and the animals watched as she dialed and Mim came on the line. A long conversation followed, but as Mim did most of the talking, Miranda's audience could only guess.

“She's right here. Let me ask her.” Mrs. Hogendobber put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Mim wants us to meet with the sheriff tomorrow. Oliver Zeve has already been questioned. Noon?”

Harry nodded in the affirmative.

Miranda continued. “That's fine. We'll see you at your place, then. Can we bring anything? All right. Bye.”

“Take her some of this pie,” Fair suggested.

“I think I will.” She remained by the phone. “Sheriff Shaw is doing a what-do-you-call-it, ballistics check? They're hoping to trace the gun.”

“Fat chance.” Harry put her face in her hands.

“Maybe not.” Fair thought out loud. “What if the killer acted in haste?”

“Even if he acted in haste, I bet he's not that stupid—or she,” Harry countered. “And to make matters worse, the rains washed out any chance of making a mold from tire tracks.”

“And washed out the scent too,”
Tucker mourned.

“This is so peculiar.” Mrs. Hogendobber joined them on the davenport.

“We need to go through the papers that Kimball read. I'm sure that Rick Shaw has already thought of that, but since we're somewhat familiar with the period and the players of that day, maybe we could help.”

“And expose yourselves to risk? I won't have it,” Fair said flatly.

“Fair, you didn't give me orders when we were married. Don't start now.”

“When we were married, Mary Minor, your life was not in danger. If you don't have the sense to see where this is leading, I do! There's a man dead because he uprooted something. If he found it, chances are you'll find it, especially given your disposition toward investigation.”

“Unless the killer removes the evidence.”

“If that's possible,” Mrs. Hogendobber said to Harry. “This may be a matter of going over those records and diaries and putting two and two together. It may not be one document—then again, it may.”

“And I am telling you two nitwits”—Fair's voice rose, making Tucker prick up her ears—“what Kimball Haynes found may be something of current interest. In his research he might have stumbled over something that's dangerous to someone right now. It's very hard to believe that Kimball would have been killed over a murder in 1803.”

“You've got a point there,” Mrs. Hogendobber agreed, but she felt uneasy, deeply uneasy.

“I'm going through those papers.” Harry was as defiant as Pewter had been. The gray cat watched in astonishment. Mrs. Murphy, privy to a few Mr.-and-Mrs. scenes, was less astonished.

“Harry, I forbid it!” He slammed his hand on the coffee table.

“Don't do that,”
Tucker barked, but she didn't want her mother in danger either.

“Settle down, you two, just settle down.” Mrs. Hogendobber leaned back on the sofa. “We know for certain that Kimball read through Mim's family histories, and the Coleses'. Don't know if he got the Randolphs' yet. Anyone else?”

“He kept a list. We'd better get that list or get Rick to let us photocopy it.” Harry, mad at Fair, was still glad he cared, although she was confused as to why that should make her so happy. Harry was slow that way.

Fair crossed his arms over his chest. “You aren't listening to a word I'm saying. Let the police handle it.”

“I am listening, but I liked Kimball. We were also helping him piece together the facts on this thing. If I can help catch whoever did him in, I will.”

“I liked him too, but not enough to die for him, and that won't bring him back.” Fair spoke the truth.

“You can't stop me.” Harry's chin jutted out.

“No, but I can go along and help.”

Mrs. Hogendobber clapped. “Bully for you!”

“What do you think, Tucker?”
Mrs. Murphy picked up her tail with a front paw.

“He's still in love with her.”

“That's obvious.”
Pewter lay down, far more interested in the pastries than human emotions.

“Yeah, but will he win her back?”
the tiger asked.

39

“No.” Sheriff Shaw shook his balding head for emphasis.

“Rick, they have a sound argument.” Mim defended Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber. “You and your staff aren't familiar with the descendants of Thomas Jefferson or the personal histories of certain of his slaves. They are.”

“The department will hire an expert.”

“The expert is dead.” Mim's lips pressed tightly together.

“I'll hire Oliver Zeve,” the frustrated sheriff stated.

“Oh, and how long do you think that will last? Furthermore, he wasn't exactly interested in pursuing this case, nor was he as interested in the genealogies as Kimball. Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber were working with Kimball already.”

“Fair Haristeen called me this morning and said you both ought to be locked up. I'll make that three.” He cast his eyes at Mim, who didn't budge. “He also said that whatever Kimball discovered must be threatening to somebody right now. And you all are obsessed with this Monticello thing.”

“And you aren't?” Harry fired back.

“Well—well—” Rick Shaw stuck his hands in his Sam Browne belt. “Focused but not obsessed. Anyway, this is my job and I am mindful of the danger to you ladies.”

“I'll work with them,” Cynthia Cooper gleefully volunteered.

“You women sure stick together.” He slapped his hat against his thigh.

“And men don't?” Mim laughed.

“Yeah, I bet Fair chewed your ears off because he thinks we're in danger. He's being a worrywart.”

“He's being sensible and responsible.” Rick fought the urge to enjoy another piece of Mrs. Hogendobber's pie. The urge won out. “Miranda, you ought to go into business.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Does anyone know if there will be a service for Kimball?” Harry inquired.

“His parents removed the body to Hartford, Connecticut, where they live. They'll bury him there. But that reminds me, Mrs. Sanburne, Oliver wants you to help him plan a memorial service for Kimball here. I doubt anyone will journey to Hartford, and he said he'd like some kind of remembrance.”

“Of course. I'm sure Reverend Jones will assist in this matter also.”

“Well?” Harry had her mind on business.

“Well, what?”

“Sheriff. Please.” She sounded like a clever, pleading child at that moment.

Rick quietly looked at Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber, then at Cynthia, who was grinning in high hopes. “Women.” They'd won. “The Coleses have agreed to allow us access to their libraries. The Berrymans, Foglemans, and Venables too, and I've got a list here of names that Kimball drew up. Mim, you're first on the list.”

“When would you like to start?”

“How about after work today? Oh, and Mim, I need to bring Mrs. Murphy and Tucker along, otherwise I'd have to run them home. Churchill won't mind, will he?”

Churchill was Mim's superb English setter, a champion many times over. “No.”

“Pewter too.” Miranda reminded Harry of her visitor.

“Ellie Wood still hasn't recovered from the pork roast incident. Which reminds me, I think she is distantly related to one of the Eppes of Poplar Forest. Francis, Polly's son.”

Polly was the family nickname for Maria, Thomas Jefferson's youngest daughter, who died April 17, 1804, an event which caused her father dreadful grief. Fortunately her son Francis, born in 1801, survived until 1881, but he, along with Jefferson's other grandchildren, bore the consequences of the president's posthumous financial disaster.

“We'll leave not a stone unturned,” Mrs. Hogendobber vowed.

40

That evening, as Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Deputy Cooper worked in Mim's breathtaking cherrywood library, Fair worked out in the stables. Book work soured him. He'd do it diligently if he had to, but he wondered how he'd gotten through Auburn Veterinary College with high honors. Maybe it was easier to read then, but he sure hated it now.

He was floating the teeth of Mim's six Thoroughbreds, filing down the sharp edges. Because a horse's upper jaw is slightly wider than the lower one, its teeth wear unevenly, requiring regular maintenance, or at least inspection. If the teeth are allowed to become sharp and jagged, they can cause discomfort to the animal when it has a bit in its mouth, sometimes making it more difficult to ride, and often this situation can cause digestive or nutrition problems because of the animal's restricted ability to chew and break down its food.

Mim's stable manager held the horses as Mim sat in a camp chair and chatted. “You made a believer out of me, Fair. I don't know how I lived without Strongid C. The horses eat less and get more nutrition from their food.” Strongid C was a new wormer that came in pellet form and was added to a horse's daily ration. This saved the owner those monthly paste-worming tasks that more often than not proved disagreeable to both parties.

“Good. Took me a while to convince some of my clients, but I'm getting good results with it.”

“Horse people are remarkably resistant to change. I don't know why, but we are.” She pulled a pretty leather crop out of an umbrella stand. “How are the Wheelers doing?”

“Winning at the hunter shows and the Saddlebred shows, as always. You ought to get over there to Cismont Manor, Mim, and see the latest crop. Good. Really good.” He finished with her bright bay. “Now, I happen to think you've got one of the best fox hunters in the country.”

She beamed. “I do too. So much for modesty. Warren's cornered the market on racing Thoroughbreds.”

“What market?” Fair shook his head. The depression, laughingly called a recession, coupled with changes in the tax laws, was in the process of devastating the Thoroughbred business, along with many other aspects of the equine industry. As most congressmen were no longer landowners, they hadn't a clue as to what they had done to livestock breeders and farmers with their stupid “reforms.”

Mim spun the whip handle around in her hands. “I tell Jim he ought to run for Congress. At least then there'd be one logical voice in the bedlam. Won't do it. Won't even hear of it. Says he'd rather bleed from the throat. Fair, have you seen a reasonably priced fox hunter in your travels?”

“Mim, what's reasonable to you may not be reasonable to me.”

“Quite so.” She appreciated that insight. “I'll come directly to the point. Gin Fizz and Tomahawk are long in the tooth and you know Harry doesn't have two nickels to rub together—now.”

He sighed. “I know. She absolutely refused alimony. My lawyer said I was crazy to want to pay. I do her vet work for free and it's a struggle to get her to go along with that.”

“The Hepworths as well as the Minors have always been prickly proud about money. I don't know who was worse, Harry's mother or her father.”

“Mim, I'm—touched that you'd be thinking of Harry.”

“Touched, or amazed?”

He smiled. “Both. You've changed.”

“For the better?”

He held up his hands for mercy. “Now, that's a loaded question. You seem happier and you seem to want to be friendlier. How's that sound?”

“I wearied of being a bitch. But what's funny, or not so funny, about Crozet is that once people get an idea about you in their heads, they're loath to surrender it. Not that I won't step on toes, I'll always do that, but I figured out, thanks to a little scare in my life, that life is indeed short. My being so superior made me feel in charge, I guess, but I wasn't happy, I wasn't making my husband happy, and the truth is, my daughter detests me underneath all her politeness. I wasn't a good mother.”

“Good horsewoman though.”

“Thank you. What is there about a stable that pulls the truth out of us?”

“It's real. Society isn't real.” He studied Mim, her perfectly coiffed hair, her long fingernails, her beautiful clothes perfect even in the stable. The human animal could grow at any time in its life that it chooses to grow. On the outside she looked the same, but on the inside she was transforming. He felt the same way about himself. “You know, there's a solid 16.1½-hand Percheron cross that Evelyn Kerr has. The mare is green and only six, but Harry can bring her along. Good bone, Mim. Good hooves too. Of course, it's got a biggish, draft-type head, but not roman-nosed, and no feathers on the fetlocks. Smooth gaits.”

“Why is Evelyn selling the horse?”

“She's got Handyman, and when she retired she thought she'd have more time, so she bought this young horse. But Evelyn's like Larry Johnson. She's working harder in retirement than before.”

“Why don't you talk to her? Sound her out for me? I'd like to buy the mare if she suits and then let Harry pay me off over time.”

“Uh—let me buy the mare. In fact, I wish I'd thought of this myself.”

“We can share the expense. Who's to know?” Mim swung her legs under the chair.