Murder at Monticello (16 page)

35

Ansley, in defiance of Warren, allowed Kimball Haynes to read the family papers. She even opened the safe. After she heard about Lulu's trouble with Samson, she figured the girls ought to stick together, especially since she didn't see anything particularly wrong with allowing it.

Reflecting on that later, she realized that she felt a kinship with Lulu since they shared Samson. Ansley knew she got the better part of him. Samson, a vain but handsome man, evidenced a streak of fun and true creativity in bed. As a young man, he was always in one scrape or another. The one told most often was how he got drunk and ran his motorcycle through a rail fence. Stumbling out of the wreckage, he cursed, “Damn mare refused the fence.” Warren had been riding with him that day on his sleek Triumph 750cc.

They must have been wild young bucks, outrageous, still courteous, but capable of anything. Warren lost the wildness once out of law school. Samson retained vestiges of it but seemed subdued in the company of his wife.

Ansley wondered what would happen if and when Lucinda ever found out. She thought of Lucinda as a sister. Conventional emotion dictated that she should hate Lucinda as a rival. Why? She didn't want Samson permanently. Temporary use of his body was quite sufficient.

The more she thought about why she allowed Kimball access to the papers, the more she realized that Wesley's death had opened a Pandora's box. She had lived under that old man's thumb. So had Warren, and over the years she lost respect for her husband, watching him knuckle under to his father. Wesley had displayed virtues, to be sure, but he was harsh toward his son.

Worse, both men shut her out of the business. She wasn't an idiot. She could have learned about farming or Thoroughbred breeding, if nothing else. She might have even offered some new ideas, but no, she was trotted out to prospective customers, pretty bait. She served drinks. She kept the wives entertained. She stood on high heels for cocktail party after cocktail party. Her Achilles' tendon was permanently shortened. She bought a new gown for every black-tie fund-raiser on the East Coast and in Kentucky. She played her part and was never told she did a good job. The men took her for granted, and they had no idea how hard it was to be set aside, yet still be expected to behave graciously to people so hideously boring they should never have been born. Ansley was too young for that kind of life. The women in their sixties and seventies bowed to it. Perhaps some enjoyed being a working ornament, the unsung part of the proverbial marital team. She did not.

She wanted more. If she left Warren, he'd be hurt initially, then he'd hire the meanest divorce lawyer in the state of Virginia with the express purpose of starving her out. Rich men in divorce proceedings were rarely generous unless they were the ones caught with their pants down.

Ansley awoke to her fury. Wesley Randolph had crowed about his ancestors, notably Thomas Jefferson, one time too many. Warren, while not as bad, sang the refrain also. Was it because they couldn't accomplish much today? Did they need those ancestors? If Warren Randolph hadn't been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he'd probably be on welfare. Her husband had no get-up-and-go. He couldn't think for himself. And now that Poppa wasn't there to tell him how and when to wipe his ass, Warren was in a panic. She'd never seen her husband so distressed.

It didn't occur to her that he might be distressed because she was cheating on him. She thought that she and Samson were too smart for him.

Nor did it occur to Ansley that a rich man's life was not necessarily better than a poor man's, except in creature comforts.

Warren, denied self-sufficiency, was like a baby learning to walk. He was going to fall down many times. But at least he was trying. He pored over the family papers, he studied the account books, he endured meetings with lawyers and accountants concerning his portfolio, estate taxes, death duties, and what have you. Ansley had waited so long for him to be his own man that she couldn't recognize that he was trying.

She took a sour delight from the look on his face when she told him that Kimball had read through the family papers from the years 1790 to 1820.

“Why would you do a thing like that when I asked you to keep him and everyone else out—at least until I could make a sound decision. I'm still—rocky.” He was more shocked than angry.

“Because I think you and your father have been selfish. Anyway, it doesn't amount to a hill of beans.”

He folded his hands as if in prayer and rested his chin on his fingertips. “I'm not as dumb as you think, Ansley.”

“I never said you were dumb,” came the hot retort.

“You didn't have to.”

Since the boys were in their bedrooms, both parents kept their voices low. Warren turned on his heel and walked off to the stable. Ansley sat down and decided to read the family papers. Once she started, she couldn't stop.

36

The dim light filtering through the rain clouds slowly faded as the sun, invisible behind the mountains, set. The darkness gathered quickly and Kimball was glad he had driven straight home after leaving the Randolphs'. He wanted to put the finishing touches on his successful research before presenting it to Sheriff Shaw and Mim Sanburne. He was hopeful that he could present it on television too, for surely the media would return to Monticello. Oliver would not be pleased, of course, but this story was too good to suppress.

A knock on the door drew him away from his desk.

He opened the door, surprised. “Hello. Come on in and—”

He never finished his sentence. That fast, a snub-nosed .38 was pulled out of a deep coat pocket and Kimball was shot once in the chest and once in the head for good measure.

37

The much-awaited movie date with Fair turned into an evening work date at Harry's barn. The rain pattered on the standing-seam tin roof as Fair and Harry, on their knees, laid down the rubberized bricks Warren had given her. She did as her benefactor suggested, putting the expensive flooring in the center of the wash stall, checking the grade down to the drain as she did so. Fair snagged the gut-busting task of cutting down old black rubber trailer mats and placing them around the brick square. They weighed a ton.

“This is Mother's idea of a hot date.”
Mrs. Murphy laughed from the hayloft. She was visiting Simon as well as irritating the owl, but then, everyone and everything irritated the owl.

Tucker, ground-bound since she couldn't climb the ladder and never happy about it, sat by the wash stall. Next to her was Pewter, on her sleepover visit as suggested by Mrs. Hogendobber. Pewter could climb the ladder into the hayloft, but why exert herself?

“Don't you think the horses get more attention than we do?”
Pewter asked.

“They're bigger,”
Tucker replied.

“What's that got to do with it?”
Mrs. Murphy called down.

“They aren't as independent as we are and their hooves need constant attention,”
Tucker said.

“Is it true that Mrs. Murphy rides the horses?”

“Of course it's true.”
Mrs. Murphy flashed her tail from side to side.
“You ought to try it.”

Pewter craned her neck to observe the two horses munching away in their stalls.
“I'm not the athletic type.”

“You're awfully good to help me.” Harry thanked her ex-husband as he groaned, pulling a rubber mat closer to the wall. “Want a hand?”

“I've got it,” he replied. “The only reason I'm doing this, Skeezits”—he used her high school nickname—“is that you'd do it yourself and strain something. For better or for worse, I'm stronger.” He paused. “But you have more endurance.”

“Same as mares, I guess.”

“I wonder if the differences between human males and females are as profound as we think they are. Mares made me think of it. The equine spread is narrow, very narrow. But for whatever reason, humans have created this elaborate code of sexual differences.”

“We'll never know the answer. You know, I'm so out of it, I don't even care. I'm going to do what I want to do and I don't much care if it's feminine or masculine.”

“You always were that way, Harry. I think that's why I liked you so much.”

“You liked me so much because we were in kindergarten together.”

“I was in kindergarten with Susan, and I didn't marry her,” he replied with humor.

“Touché.”

“I happened to think you were special once I synchronized my testosterone level with my brain. For a time there, the gonads took over.”

She laughed. “It's a miracle anyone survives adolescence. Everything is so magnified and so new. My poor parents.” She smiled, thinking of her tolerant mother and father.

“You were lucky. Remember when I totaled my dad's new Saab? One of the first Saabs in Crozet too. I thought he was gonna kill me.”

“You had help. Center Berryman is not my idea of a stable companion.”

“Have you seen him since he got out of the treatment center?”

“Yeah. Seems okay.”

“If I was ever tempted by cocaine, Center certainly cured me of that.”

“He came to Mim's Mulberry Row ceremony at Monticello. One of his first appearances since he got back. He did okay. I mean, what must it have been like to have everyone staring at you and wondering if you're going to make it? There are those who wish you well, those who are too self-centered to care, those that are sweet but will blunder and say the wrong thing, and those—and these are my absolute faves—those who hope you'll fall flat on your face. That's the only way they can be superior—to have the next guy fail. Jerks.” Harry grimaced.

“We became well acquainted with that variety of jerks during our divorce.”

“Oh, Fair, come on. Every single woman between the ages of twenty and eighty fawned over you, invited you to dinner—the poor-man-alone routine. I got it both barrels. How could I toss out my errant husband? All boys stray. That's the way they're made. What a load of shit I heard from other women. The men, at least, had the sense to shut up.”

He stopped cutting through the heavy rubber, sweat pouring off him despite the temperature in the low fifties. “That's what makes life interesting.”

“What”—she was feeling angry just remembering—“dealing with jerks?”

“No—how we each see a slice of life, a degree or two of the circle but not the whole circle. What I was getting while you were getting that was older men like Herbie Jones or Larry Johnson on my case.”

“Herbie and Larry?” Harry's interest shot into the stratosphere. “What did they say?”

“Basically that we all fall from grace and I should beg your forgiveness. Know who else invited me over for a powwow? Jim Sanburne.”

“I don't believe it.” She felt oddly warmed by this male solicitude.

“Harry, he's an unusual man. He said his life was no model but that infidelity was his fatal flaw and he knew it. He really blew me away because he's much more self-aware than I reckoned. He said he thought he started having affairs when he was young because he felt Mim lorded it over him, his being a poor boy, so to speak.”

“He learned how to make money in a hurry.” Harry always admired self-made people.

“Yeah, he did, and he didn't use a penny of her inheritance either. Fooling around was not just his way to get even but a way to restore his confidence.” Fair sat down for a minute. Tucker immediately came over and sat in his lap.

“Oh, Tucker, you're always sucking up to people,”
accused Pewter, who was the original brown-noser the minute the refrigerator door opened.

“Pewter, you're jealous,”
Mrs. Murphy teased.

“No, I'm not,”
came the defensive reply.
“But Tucker is so—so obvious. Dogs have no subtlety.”

“Pewter, you're just a chatty Cathy.” Harry reached over and stroked her chin.

“Gag me,”
Tucker said.

“Why do you think you fooled around?” Harry thought the question would shake her, but it didn't. She was glad it was finally out there even if it did take three years.

“Stupidity.”

“That's a fulsome reply.”

“Don't get testy. I was stupid. I was immature. I was afraid I was missing something. The rose not smelled, the road not taken. That kind of crap. I do know, though, that I still had a lot of growing-up to do even after we were married—I spent so much of my real youth with my nose in a textbook that I missed a lot of the life experiences from which a person grows. What I was missing was me.”

Harry stopped putting in the brick and sat down, facing him.

He continued. “With a few exceptions like wrecking the Saab, I did what was expected of me. Most of us in Crozet do, I guess. I don't think I knew myself very well, or maybe I didn't want to know myself. I was afraid of what I'd find out.”

“Like what? What could possibly be wrong with you? You're handsome, the best in your field, and you get along with people.”

“I ought to come over here more often.” He blushed. “Ah, Harry, haven't you ever caught yourself driving down Garth Road or waking up in the middle of the night, haven't you ever wondered what the hell you were doing and why you were doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Scared me. I wondered if I was as smart as everyone tells me I am. I'm not. I'm good in my field, but I can sure be dumb as a sack of hammers about other things. I kept running into limitations, and since I was raised to believe I shouldn't have any, I ran away from them—you, me. That solved nothing. BoomBoom was an exercise in terrible judgment. And the one before her—”

Harry interrupted. “She was pretty.”

“Pretty is as pretty does. Anyway, I woke up one morning and realized that I'd smashed my marriage, I'd hurt the one person I loved most, I'd disappointed my parents and myself, and I'd made a fool of myself to others. Thank God I'm in a business where my patients are animals. I don't think any people would have come to me. I was a mess. I even thought about killing myself.”

“You?” Harry was stunned.

He nodded. “And I was too proud to ask for help. Hey, I'm Fair Haristeen and I'm in control. Six-foot-four men don't break down. We might kill ourselves working, but we don't break down.”

“What did you do?”

“Found myself at the good reverend's house on Christmas Eve. Christmas with Mom and Dad, oh, boy. Grim, resentful.” He shook his head. “I flew out of that house. I don't know. I showed up at Herb's and he sat down and talked to me. He told me that no one's a perfect person and I should go slow, take a day at a time. He didn't preach at me either. He told me to reach out to people and not to hide myself behind this exterior, behind a mask, you know?”

“I do.” And she did.

“Then I did something so out of character for me.” He played with the edge of the rubber matting. “I found a therapist.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, I really did, and you're the only person who knows. I've been working with this guy for two years now and I'm making progress. I'm becoming, uh, human.”

The phone cut into whatever Fair would have said next. Harry jumped up and walked into the tack room. She heard Mrs. Hogendobber almost before she picked up the phone. Mrs. H. told her that Kimball Haynes had just been found by Heike Holtz. Shot twice. When he didn't show up for a date or answer his phone, she became worried and drove out to his place.

Harry, ashen-faced, paused for a moment. “Fair, Kimball Haynes has been murdered.” She returned to Mrs. H. “We'll be right over.”