Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown

the back of an ax could do that?”
    â€œDo what?” Harry asked.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œThank, you, thank you, thank you!”
Mrs. Murphy crowed.
“Not that I’ll get any credit.”
    â€œI’d settle for some of Mrs. Hogendobber’s chicken instead of thanks,”
Tucker admitted.
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œGross, Tucker.”
Mrs. Murphy flattened her ears for an instant.
    â€œYou’ve come up with worse.”
    â€œTucker, go on up to Mrs. Hogendobber and beg. You’re just making noise. I need to think,”
the cat complained.
    â€œMrs. Hogendobber has a heart of steel when it comes to handing out goodies.”
    â€œBet Kimball doesn’t.”
    â€œGood 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.”
    â€œWhy night?” Cynthia questioned.
    â€œThese are slave quarters. Wouldn’t the occupant be working during the day?”
    â€œHarry, you have a point there.” Rick stood up, his knees creaking. “Kimball, who lived here?”
    â€œBefore 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.
    â€œAfter the fire?” Rick continued his questioning.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œKnow what she did, her line of work?” Cynthia asked.
    â€œApparently 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.”
    â€œWas Jefferson paid?” Rick innocently asked.
    â€œGood heavens, no!” Oliver called from the food baskets. “Medley would have been paid directly either in coin or in kind.”
    â€œSlaves could earn money independently of their masters?” Cynthia inquired. This notion shed new light on the workings of a plantation.
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œAny 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