One of the letters casually mentioned that Ellen’s younger brother, James Madison Randolph, had fallen violently in love with a great beauty and seemed intent upon a hasty marriage.
Harry read and reread the letter, instantly conceiving an affection for the effervescent author. “Miranda, I don’t remember James Madison Randolph marrying.”
“I’m not sure. Died young though. Just twenty-eight, I think.”
“These people had such big families.” Deputy Cooper wailed as the task had begun to overwhelm her. “Thomas Jefferson’s mother and father had ten children. Seven made it to adulthood.”
Miranda pushed back her half-spectacles. When they slid down her nose again she took them off and laid them on the diary before her. “Jane, his favorite sister, died at twenty-five. Elizabeth, the one with the disordered mind, also died without marrying. The remainder of Thomas’s brothers and sisters bequeathed to Virginia and points beyond quite a lot of nieces and nephews for Mr. Jefferson. And he was devoted to them. He really raised his sister Martha’s children, Peter and Sam Carr. Dabney Carr, who married Martha, was his best friend, as you know.”
“Another Martha?” Cynthia groaned. “His wife, sister, and daughter were all named Martha?”
“Well, Dabney died young, before thirty, and Thomas saw to the upbringing of the boys,” Miranda went on, absorbed. “I am convinced it was Peter who sired four children on Sally Hemings. A stir was caused when Mr. Jefferson freed, or manumitted, one of Sally’s daughters, Harriet, quite the smashing beauty. That was in 1822. You can understand why the Jefferson family closed ranks.”
Officer Cooper rubbed her temples. “Genealogies drive me bats.”
“Our answer rests somewhere with Jefferson’s sisters and brother Randolph, or with one of his grandchildren,” Harry posited. “Do you believe Randolph was simple-minded? Maybe not as bad as Elizabeth.”
“Well, now, she wasn’t simple-minded. Her mind would wander and then she’d physically ramble about aimlessly. She wandered off in February and probably died of the cold. Poor thing. No, Randolph probably wasn’t terribly bright, but he seems to have enjoyed his faculties. Lived in Buckingham County and liked to play the fiddle. That’s about all I know.”
“Miranda, how would you like to be Thomas Jefferson’s younger brother?” Harry laughed.
“Probably not much. Not much. I think we’re done in. Samson’s tomorrow night?”
43
Pewter grumbled incessantly as she walked with Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker to work. The fat cat’s idea of exercise was walking from Market’s back door to the back door of the post office.
“Are we there yet?”
“Will you shut up!” Mrs. Murphy advised.
“Hey, look,” Tucker told everyone as she caught sight of Paddy running top-speed toward them. His ears were flat back, his tail was straight out, and his paws barely touched the ground. He was scorching toward them from town.
“Murph,” Paddy called, “follow me!”
“You’re not going to, are you?” Pewter swept her whiskers forward in anticipation of trouble.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Murphy called out.
“I’ve found something—something important.” He skidded to a stop at Harry’s feet.
Harry reached down to scratch Paddy’s ears. Not wanting to be rude, he rubbed against her leg. “Come on, Murph. You too, Tucker.”
“Will you tell me what this is all about?” the little dog prudently asked.
“Well spoken.” Pewter sniffed.
“Larry Johnson and Hayden McIntire’s office.” Paddy caught his breath. “I’ve found something.”
“What were you doing over there?” Tucker needed to be convinced it really was important.
“Passing by. Look, I’ll explain on the way. We need to get there before the workmen do.”
“Let’s go.” Mrs. Murphy hiked up her tail and dug into the turf.
“Hey—hey,” Tucker called, then added after a second’s reflection, “Wait for me!”
Pewter, furious, sat down and bawled. “I will not run. I will not take another step. My paws are sore and I hate everybody. You can’t leave me here!”
Perplexed at the animals’ wild dash toward downtown Crozet, Harry called after them once but then remembered that most people were just waking up. She cursed under her breath. Harry wasn’t surprised, though, by Pewter’s staunch resistance to walk another step, having been quickly deserted by her fitter friends. She knelt down and scooped up the rotund kitty. “I’ll carry you, you lazy sod.”
“You’re the only person I like in this whole wide world,” Pewter cooed. “Mrs. Murphy is a selfish shit. Really. You should spend more time with me. She’s running off with her no-account ex-husband, and that silly dog is going along like a fifth wheel.” The cat laughed. “Why, I wouldn’t even give that two-timing tom the time of day.”
“Pewter, you have a lot on your mind.” Harry marveled that the smallish cat could weigh so much.
As the three animals raced across the neat square town plots, Paddy filled them in.
“Larry and Hayden McIntire are expanding the office wing of the house. I like to go hunting there. Lots of shrews.”
“You’ve got to catch them just right because they can really bite,” Mrs. Murphy interrupted.
“It’s easy to get in and out of the addition,” he continued.
The tidy house appeared up ahead, with its curved brick entranceway splitting to the front door and the office door. The sign, DR. LAWRENCE JOHNSON DR. HAYDEN MCINTIRE, swung, creaking, in the slight breeze. “No workmen yet,” Paddy triumphantly meowed. He ducked under the heavy plastic covering on the outside wall and leapt into the widened window placement. The window had not yet been installed. The newest addition utilized the fireplace as its center point of construction. A balancing, new fireplace was built on the other end of the new room. It matched the old one.
“Hey! What about me?”
“We’ll open the door, Tucker.” Mrs. Murphy gracefully sailed through the window after Paddy and landed on a sawdust-covered floor. She hurried to the door of the addition, which as yet had no lock, although the fancy brass Baldwin apparatus, still boxed, rested on the floor next to it. Mrs. Murphy pushed against the two-by-four propped up against the door. It clattered to the floor and the door easily swung open. The corgi hurried inside.
“Where are you?” Mrs. Murphy couldn’t see Paddy.
“In here,” came the muffled reply.
“He’s crazier than hell.” Tucker reacted to the sound emanating from the large stone fireplace.
“Crazy or not, I’m going in.” Mrs. Murphy trotted to the cavernous opening, the firebrick a cascade of silky and satiny blacks and browns from decades of use. The house was originally constructed in 1824; the addition had been built in 1852.
Tucker stood in the hearth. “The last time we stood in a fireplace there was a body in it.”
“Up here,” Paddy called, his deep voice ricocheting off the flue.