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.”
“Surely, no one is in danger today. They’re all”—he swept his hand outward—“dead.”
“I’d like to think the architect of this place would not find me remiss in my duties.” Rick’s jaw was set.
A chill shivered down Harry’s spine. She knew the sheriff to be a strong man, a dedicated public servant, but when he said that, when he acknowledged his debt to the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence, the man who elevated America’s sense of architecture and the living arts, the man who endured the presidency and advanced the nation, she recognized that she, too, all of them, in fact, even Heike, were tied to the redheaded man born in 1743. But if they really thought about it, they owed honor to all who came before them, all who tried to improve conditions.
As Oliver Zeve could concoct no glib reply, he returned to the food baskets. But he muttered under his breath, “Murder at Monticello. Good God.”
9
Riding back to Crozet in Mrs. Hogendobber’s Falcon, Mrs. Murphy asleep in her lap, Tucker zonked on the back seat, Harry’s mind churned like an electric blender.
“I’m waiting.”
“Huh?”
“Harry, I’ve known you since little on up. What’s going on?” Mrs. Hogendobber tapped her temple.
“Oliver. He ought to work for a public relations firm. You know, the kind of people who can make Sherman’s March look like trespassing.”
“I can understand his position. I’m not sure it’s as bad as he thinks, but then, I’m not responsible for making sure there’s enough money to pay the bills for putting a new roof on Monticello either. He’s got to think of image.”
“Okay, a man was murdered on Mulberry Row. He had money in his pockets, I wonder how much by today’s standards. . . .”
“Kimball will figure that out.”
“He wore a big gold ring. Not too shabby. What in the hell was he doing in Medley Orion’s cabin?”
“Picking up a dress for his wife.”
“Or worse.” Harry frowned. “That’s why Oliver is so fussy. Another slave wouldn’t have a brocaded vest or a gold ring on his finger. The victim was white and well-to-do. If I think of that, so will others when this gets reported. . . .”
“Soon, I should think.”
“Mim will fry.” Harry couldn’t help smiling.
“She already knows,” Mrs. Hogendobber informed her.
“Damn, you know everything.”
“No. Everybody.” Mrs. H. smiled. “Kimball mentioned it to me when I said, sotto voce, mind you, that Mim must be told.”
“Oh.” Harry’s voice trailed off, then picked up steam. “Well, what I’m getting at is if I think about white men in slaves’ cabins, so will other people. Not that the victim was carrying on with Medley, but who knows? People jump to conclusions. And that will bring up the whole Sally Hemings mess again. Poor Thomas Jefferson. They won’t let that rest.”
“His so-called affair with the beautiful slave, Sally, was invented by the Federalists. They loathed and feared him. The last thing they wanted was Jefferson as president. Not a word of truth in it.”
Harry, not so sure, moved on. “Funny, isn’t it? A man was killed one hundred ninety years ago, if 1803 was the year, and we’re disturbed by it. It’s like an echo from the past.”
“Yes, it is.” Miranda’s brow furrowed. “It is because for one human being to murder another is a terrible, terrible thing. Whoever killed that man knew him. Was it hate, love, love turned to hate, fear of some punishment? What could have driven someone to kill this man, who must have been powerful? I can tell you one thing.”
“What?”
“The devil’s deep claws tore at both of them, killer and killed.”
10
“I told Marilyn Sanburne no good would come of her Mulberry Row project.” Disgusted, Wesley Randolph slapped the morning newspaper down on the dining table. The coffee rolled precariously in the Royal Doulton cup. He had just finished reading the account of the find, obviously influenced by Oliver Zeve’s statement. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” he growled.
“Don’t exercise yourself,” Ansley drawled. Her father-in-law’s recitation of pedigree had amused her when Warren was courting her, but now, after eighteen years of marriage, she could recite them as well as Wesley could. Her two sons, Breton and Stuart, aged fourteen and sixteen, knew them also. She was tired of his addiction to the past.
Warren picked up the paper his father had slapped down and read the article.
“Big Daddy, a skeleton was unearthed in a slave’s cabin. Probably more dust than bone. Oliver Zeve has issued what I think is a sensible report to the press. Interest will swell for a day or two and then subside. If you’re so worked up about it, go see the mortal coil for yourself.” Ansley half smiled when she stole the description from Hamlet.
Warren still responded to Ansley’s beauty, but he detected her disaffection for him. Not that she overtly showed it. Far too discreet for that, Ansley had settled into the rigors of propriety as regarded her husband. “You take history too lightly, Ansley.” This statement should please the old man, he thought.
“Dearest, I don’t take it at all. History is dead. I’m alive today and I’d like to be alive tomorrow—and I think our family’s contributions to Monticello are good for today. Let’s keep Albemarle’s greatest attraction growing.”
Wesley shook his head. “This archaeology in the servants’ quarters”—he puffed out his ruddy cheeks—“stirs up the pot. The next thing you know, some council of Negroes—”
“African Americans,” Ansley purred.
“I don’t give a damn what you call them!” Wesley raised his voice. “I still think ‘colored’ is the most polite term yet! Whatever you want to call them, they’ll get themselves organized, they’ll camp in a room underneath a terrace at Monticello, and before you know it, all of Jefferson’s achievements will be nullified. They’ll declare that they did them.”
“Well, they certainly performed most of the work. Didn’t he have something like close to two hundred slaves on his various properties?” Ansley challenged her father-in-law while Warren held his breath.