Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown Page A

date we can come to is 1803. That’s the date of a coin in the dead man’s pocket.”
    â€œThe Louisiana Purchase,” Mrs. Hogendobber sang out.
    â€œMaybe this guy was opposed to the purchase. A political enemy of T.J.’s,” Rick jested.
    â€œDon’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?”
    â€œMost murderers do,” Cynthia explained.
    â€œSorry, Oliver, I didn’t mean to imply . . .” Rick apologized.
    â€œQuite 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?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œSurely, no one is in danger today. They’re all”—he swept his hand outward—“dead.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI’m waiting.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œHarry, I’ve known you since little on up. What’s going on?” Mrs. Hogendobber tapped her temple.
    â€œOliver. He ought to work for a public relations firm. You know, the kind of people who can make Sherman’s March look like trespassing.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œOkay, a man was murdered on Mulberry Row. He had money in his pockets, I wonder how much by today’s standards. . . .”
    â€œKimball will figure that out.”
    â€œHe wore a big gold ring. Not too shabby. What in the hell was he doing in Medley Orion’s cabin?”
    â€œPicking up a dress for his wife.”
    â€œOr 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. . . .”
    â€œSoon, I should think.”
    â€œMim will fry.” Harry couldn’t help smiling.
    â€œShe already knows,” Mrs. Hogendobber informed her.
    â€œDamn, you know everything.”
    â€œNo.