Рита Браун - Murder At Monticello

Cynthia, trained as an observer, watched the cat jump sideways as though playing and return each time to repeatedly touch the same piece of the skull. Each time she would twist away from an exasperated Harry. “Wait a minute, Harry.” She hunkered down in the earth, still soft from the rains. “Sheriff, come back here a minute, will you?” Cynthia stared at Mrs. Murphy, who sat opposite her and stared back, relieved that someone got the message.

“That Miranda makes mean chicken.” He waved his drumstick like a baton. “What could tear me away from fried chicken, cold greens, potato salad, and did you see the apple pie?”

“There’d better be some left when I get out of here.” Cynthia called up to Mrs. Hogendobber. “Mrs. H., save some for me.”

“Of course I will, Cynthia. Even though you’re our new deputy, you’re still a growing girl.” Miranda, who’d known Cynthia since the day she was born, was delighted that she’d received the promotion.

“Okay, what is it?” Rick eyed the cat, who eyed him back.

For good measure, Mrs. Murphy stuck out one mighty claw and tapped the triangular skull piece.

He did notice. “Strange.”

Mrs. Murphy sighed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Cynthia whispered, “Oliver’s deflected us a bit, you know what I mean? We should have noticed the odd shape of this piece, but his mouth hasn’t stopped running.”

Rick grunted in affirmation. They’d confer about Oliver later. Rick took his index finger and nudged the piece of bone.

Harry, mesmerized, knelt down on the other side of the skeleton. “Are you surprised that there isn’t more damage to the cranium?”

Rick blinked for a moment. He had been lost in thought. “Uh, no, actually. Harry, this man was killed with one whacking-good blow to the back of the head with perhaps an ax or a wedge or some heavy iron tool. The break is too clean for a blunt instrument—but the large piece here is strange. I wonder if the back of an ax could do that?”

“Do what?” Harry asked.

“The large, roughly triangular piece may have been placed back in the skull,” Cynthia answered for him, “or at the time of death it could have been partially attached, but the shape of the break is what’s unusual. Usually when someone takes a crack to the head, it’s more of a mess—pulverized.”

“Thank, you, thank you, thank you!” Mrs. Murphy crowed. “Not that I’ll get any credit.”

“I’d settle for some of Mrs. Hogendobber’s chicken instead of thanks,” Tucker admitted.

“How can you be sure, especially with a body—or what’s left of it—this old, that one person killed him? Couldn’t it have been two or three?” Harry’s curiosity was rising with each moment.

“I can’t be sure of anything, Harry.” Rick was quizzical. “But I see what you’re getting at. One person could have pinned him while the second struck the blow.”

Tucker, now completely focused on Mrs. H.’s chicken, saucily yipped, “So the killer scooped the brains out and fed them to the dog.”

“Gross, Tucker.” Mrs. Murphy flattened her ears for an instant.

“You’ve come up with worse.”

“Tucker, go on up to Mrs. Hogendobber and beg. You’re just making noise. I need to think,” the cat complained.

“Mrs. Hogendobber has a heart of steel when it comes to handing out goodies.”

“Bet Kimball doesn’t.”

“Good idea.” The dog followed Mrs. Murphy’s advice.

Harry grimaced slightly at the thought. “A neat killer. Those old fireplaces were big enough to stand in. One smash and that was it.” Her mind raced. “But whoever did it had to dig deep into the fireplace, arrange the body, cover it up. It must have taken all night.”

“Why night?” Cynthia questioned.

“These are slave quarters. Wouldn’t the occupant be working during the day?”

“Harry, you have a point there.” Rick stood up, his knees creaking. “Kimball, who lived here?”

“Before the fire it was Medley Orion. We don’t know too much about her except that she was perhaps twenty at the time of the fire,” came the swift reply.

“After the fire?” Rick continued his questioning.

“We’re not sure if Medley came back to this site to live. We know she was still, uh, employed here because her name shows up in the records,” Kimball said.

“Know what she did, her line of work?” Cynthia asked.

“Apparently a seamstress of some talent.” Kimball joined them in the pit, but only after being suckered out of a tidbit by Tucker. “Ladies who came to visit often left behind fabrics for Medley to transform. We have mention of her skills in letters visitors wrote back to Mr. Jefferson.”

“Was Jefferson paid?” Rick innocently asked.

“Good heavens, no!” Oliver called from the food baskets. “Medley would have been paid directly either in coin or in kind.”

“Slaves could earn money independently of their masters?” Cynthia inquired. This notion shed new light on the workings of a plantation.

“Yes, indeed, they could and that coin was coveted. A few very industrious or very fortunate slaves bought their way to freedom. Not Medley, I’m afraid, but she seems to have had quite a good life,” Oliver said soothingly.

“Any idea when this fellow bit the dust, literally?” Harry couldn’t resist.

Kimball leaned down and picked up a few of the coins. “Don’t worry, we’ve photographed everything, from numerous different angles and heights, drawn the initial positions on our grids—everything is in order.” Kimball reassured everyone that the investigation was not jeopardizing the progress of his archaeological work. “The nearest date we can come to is 1803. That’s the date of a coin in the dead man’s pocket.”

“The Louisiana Purchase,” Mrs. Hogendobber sang out.

“Maybe this guy was opposed to the purchase. A political enemy of T.J.’s,” Rick jested.

“Don’t even think that. Not for an instant. And especially not on hallowed ground.” Oliver sucked in his breath. “Whatever happened here, I am certain that Mr. Jefferson had no idea, no idea whatsoever. Why else would the murderer have gone to such pains to dispose of the body?”

“Most murderers do,” Cynthia explained.

“Sorry, Oliver, I didn’t mean to imply . . .” Rick apologized.

“Quite all right, quite all right.” Oliver smiled again. “We’re just wrought up, you see, because this April thirteenth will be the two hundred fiftieth anniversary of Mr. Jefferson’s birth, and we don’t want anything to spoil it, to bleed attention away from his achievements and vision. Something like this could, well, imbalance the celebration, shall we say?”

“I understand.” Rick did too. “But I am elected sheriff to keep the peace, if you will, and the peace was disturbed here, perhaps in 1803 or thereabouts. We’ll carbon-date the body, of course. Oliver, it’s my responsibility to solve this crime. When it was committed is irrelevant to me.”