Рита Браун - Murder At Monticello

Jim crossed his feet on the hassock. “Do they have any idea when the person died or even what sex the body is?”

“No. Well, yes, they’re sure it’s a man, and Oliver said an odd thing—he said the man must have been rich. I was so shocked, I didn’t pursue it. We’re to keep a tight lip. Guess I’d better wait to call the others but, oh, Jim, they’ll be so put out, and I can’t lie. This could cost contributions. You know how easy it is for that crew to get their noses out of joint.”

“Loose lips sink ships.” Jim, who had been a skinny eighteen-year-old fighting in Korea, remembered one of the phrases World War II veterans used to say. He tried to forget some of the other things he’d experienced in that conflict, but he vowed never to be so cold again in his entire life. As soon as the frosts came, Jim would break out his wired socks with the batteries attached.

“Jim, he’s been dead for a hundred seventy-five to two hundred years. You’re as bad as Oliver. Who cares if the press knows? It will bring more attention to the project and possibly even more money from new contributors. And if I can present this find to the Randolphs, Coleses, and Berrymans as an historic event, perhaps all will yet be well.”

“Well, sugar, how he died might affect that.”

8

Bright yellow tape cordoned off Cabin Four. Rick Shaw puffed on a cigarette. As sheriff of Albemarle County, he’d viewed more than his share of corpses: shotgun suicides, drownings, car accident after car accident, killings by knife, pistol, poison, ax—even a piano bench. People used whatever came to hand. However, this was the oldest body he’d studied.

His assistant, Cynthia Cooper, recently promoted to deputy, scribbled in her small notebook, her ballpoint pen zipping over the blue lines. A photographer for the department snapped photos.

Rick, sensitive to the situation, arrived at six-thirty P.M., well after five P.M., when Monticello closed its doors for the night, allowing for the departure of straggling tourists. Oliver Zeve, arms folded across his chest, chatted with Heike Holtz. Kimball looked up with relief when Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber walked down Mulberry Row. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker trailed behind.

Oliver excused himself from Heike and walked over to Kimball. “What in the hell are they doing here?”

Kimball, nonplussed, stuck his hands in his back pockets. “We’re going to be here some time, people need to be fed.”

“We’re perfectly capable of calling a catering service.” Oliver snapped.

“Yes,” Kimball smoothly replied, “and they’re perfectly capable of babbling this all over town as well as picking up the phone to The Washington Post or, God forbid, The Enquirer . Harry and Miranda can keep their mouths shut. Remember Donny Ensign?”

Kimball referred to an incident four years past when Mrs. Hogendobber served as secretary for the Friends of Restoration. She happened one night to check Donny Ensign’s books. She always did George’s books and she enjoyed the task. As treasurer, Donny was entrusted with the money, obviously. Mrs. H. had a hunch, she never did say what had set her off, but she had quickly realized that Mr. Ensign was cooking the books. She immediately notified Oliver and the situation was discreetly handled. Donny resigned and he continued to pay back a portion of what he had siphoned off until the sum, $4,559.12, was cleared. In exchange, no one reported him to Rick Shaw nor was his name destroyed in the community.

“Yes.” Oliver drew out the word even as he smiled and trotted over to the two women. “Here, let me relieve you lovely ladies of this burden. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re bringing us food. Kimball thinks of everything, doesn’t he?”

Rick felt a rub against his leg. He beheld Mrs. Murphy. “What are you doing here?”

“Offering my services.” She sat on the toe of the sheriff’s shoe.

“Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber, what a surprise.” A hint of sarcasm entered Rick’s voice.

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Sheriff.” Miranda chided him. “We aren’t going to interfere in your case. We’re merely offering nourishment.”

Cynthia hopped out of the site. “Bless you.” She scratched Tucker’s head and motioned for Harry to follow her. Tucker followed also. “What do you make of this?”

Harry peered down at the skeleton lying facedown in the dirt. The back of his skull was crushed. Coins lay where his pockets must have been, and a heavy, crested ring still circled the bones of the third finger on his left hand. Tatters of fabric clung to the bones, a piece of heavily embroidered waistcoat. A bit more of the outer coat remained; the now-faded color must have once been a rich teal. The brass buttons were intact, as were the buckles on his shoes, again quite ornate.

“Mrs. H., come here,” Harry called.

“I don’t want to see it.” Mrs. Hogendobber busily served sandwiches and cold chicken.

“It’s not so bad. You’ve seen far worse at the butcher shop.” Harry deviled her.

“That isn’t funny.”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker shouldn’t have been in the site, but so much was going on, no one really noticed.

“Smell anything?” The cat asked her companion.

“Old smoke. A cold trail—this fellow’s been dead too long for scenting.” The corgi wrinkled her black nose.

Mrs. Murphy pawed a piece of the skull. “Pretty weird.”

“What?”

“Well, the guy’s had his head bashed, but someone put this big piece of skull back in place.”

“Yeah.” The dog was fascinated with the bones, but then, any bones fascinated Tucker.

“Hey, hey, you two, get out of here!” Harry commanded.

Tucker obediently left, but Mrs. Murphy didn’t. She batted at the skull. “Look, you dummies.”

“She thinks everything is a toy.” Harry scooped up the cat.

“I do not!” Mrs. Murphy puffed her tail in fury, squirmed out of Harry’s arms, and jumped back to the ground to pat the skull piece again.

“I’m sorry, Cynthia, I’ll put her back in the truck. Wonder if I could put her in Monticello? The truck’s a ways off.”

“She’ll shred Mr. Jefferson’s bedspread,” Tucker warned. “If it has historic value, she can’t wait to get her claws in it. Think what she’ll say to Pewter, ‘I tore up Thomas Jefferson’s silk bedspread.’ If it has tassles on it, forget it. There won’t be any left.”

“And you wouldn’t chew the furniture legs?” the cat shot back.

“Not if they give me one of those bones, I won’t.” The corgi laughed.

“Stop being an ass, Tucker, and help me get these two nincompoops to really look at what they’re seeing.”

Tucker hopped into the dig and walked over to the skeleton. She sniffed the large skull fragment, a triangular piece perhaps four inches across at the base.

“What’s going on here?” Harry, frustrated, tried to reach for the cat and the dog simultaneously. They both evaded her with ease.