Free Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown Page A

would be buried under a cabin. If the death was, uh, legitimate, wouldn’t the body be in a cemetery? Even slaves had cemeteries.” Market said.
    Both Harry and Mrs. H. knew the body didn’t belong to a slave. So did Mrs. Murphy, who said so loudly to Pewter. They had exhausted themselves and lay together in the bottom of the cart.
    â€œHow do you know that?”
the gray cat wondered.
    â€œBecause I saw the corpse,”
Mrs. Murphy bragged.
“The back of the skull was caved in like a big triangle.”
    â€œYou aren’t supposed to give out the details,”
Tucker chided.
    â€œOh, bull, Tucker. The humans can’t understand a word I’m saying. They think Pewter and I are in here meowing and you’re over there whining at us.”
    â€œThen get out of the cart so we can all talk,”
Tucker called up.
“I saw the body too, Pewter.”
    â€œDid you now?”
Pewter grasped the edge of the cart with her chubby paws and peered over the side.
    â€œDon’t listen to him. All he wanted was Mrs. Hogendobber’s chicken.”
    â€œI saw the body as plain as you did, bigmouth. It was lying facedown under the hearth, maybe two feet under where the floor must have been at the time of death. So there.”
    â€œYou don’t say!”
Pewter’s eyes widened into big black balls.
“A murder!”
    â€œGood point, Market.” Samson cupped his chin in his hand for a moment. “Why would a body be buried—what did they say, under the fireplace?”
    â€œHearth,”
the dog called out, but they didn’t pay attention.
    â€œMaybe the man died in the winter and they couldn’t dig up the frozen ground. But the ground wouldn’t be frozen under the hearth, would it?” Market threw this out. He didn’t necessarily believe it.
    â€œI thought the people at that time had mausoleums, or something like mausoleums anyway, dug into rock where they’d store bodies until the spring thaws. Then they’d dig the grave,” Miranda added.
    â€œDid they really?” Market shivered at the thought of bodies being stacked up somewhere like cordwood.
    â€œWell, they were frozen, I suspect,” Miranda answered.
    â€œGruesome.” Samson grimaced. “Has Lucinda come in today?”
    â€œNo,” Harry answered.
    â€œI can’t keep track of my own wife’s schedule.” His affable tone belied the truth—he didn’t want Lucinda tailing him. He liked to know her whereabouts because he didn’t want her to know his.
    â€œWhat’d she think of the Monticello discovery?” Mrs. Hogendobber asked politely.
    â€œLucinda? Oh, she didn’t think it would be positive publicity, but she can’t see that it has anything to do with us today.” Samson tapped the countertop, admiring Mrs. Hogendobber’s handiwork. “I hear Wesley Randolph doesn’t like this one bit. He’s overreacting, but then, he always does. Lulu’s interest in history isn’t as deep as mine,” he sighed, “but then, she doesn’t have my connections to Mr. Jefferson. A direct line from his mother, Jane, you know, and then, of course, on my father’s side I’m related to Dolley Madison. Naturally, my interest is keen and Lulu’s people were new. I don’t think they got over here until the 1780s.” He stopped for a second, realized he was unrolling his pedigree to people who could recite it as well as he could. “I digress. Anyway, Lulu reads a good amount. Like me, she’ll be glad when this episode is behind us. We don’t want the wrong kind of attention here in Albemarle County.”
    â€œSamson, we’re talking about almost two centuries between then and now.” Market chuckled.
    â€œThe past lives on in Virginia, the mother of presidents.” Samson beamed a Chamber of Commerce smile. He couldn’t have known how true was that