Murder at Monticello

by Jane Langton

  As a man of action Homer sometimes blundered, and sometimes his wits failed him in a crisis. It was certainly true that his great size was as much a liability as a blessing. (Homer had an unhappy history of crushing antique chairs.) But there were other times when his eccentric intellect grasped the nature of a problem and pounced on a solution. This was one of the times.

  When Fern came panting around the corner, he thrust her roughly aside, and then, with a single powerful shove, he sent George Dryer spinning into the ice pit.

  Chapter 56

  … decended to the Mississippi and down that river to St. Louis at which place we arrived about 12 oClock. we Suffered the party to fire off their pieces as a Salute to the Town. we were met by all the village and received a harty welcom from it’s inhabitants.

  … had all of our skins &c. suned and stored away.… In the evening a dinner &c Ball

  Captain William Clark, September 23 and 25, 1806

  Next day the festivities began on schedule. Henry Spender sailed through the day in a catatonic state.

  He had arrived early, happy and ready to go, freshly showered and wearing a new suit, only to find the place teeming with police officers, Secret Service personnel, a medical examiner, and a team of forensic technicians.

  Chief Pratt conducted him into the parlor and across the parquet floor to something shocking. “Mr. Spender,” said Pratt, “can you identify this person?”

  “Oh, dear me,” said Henry, bowing over the body, “I’m afraid I can. It’s poor old Augustus Upchurch.” He wanted to reach down and close Mr. Upchurch’s blue eyes, which were staring up at the portrait of Benjamin Franklin on the wall, or perhaps they were gazing at the Roman frieze, which— Henry told himself in a fit of scholarly irrelevance—had been copied by Thomas Jefferson from a book. Turning to Pratt, he whispered, “My God, what happened?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Pratt crooked his finger at Henry. “There’s something else.”

  “Wait,” said Henry, looking back at the body, the blood on the floor, the floodlights, the men and women dodging around Jefferson’s chairs and tables. In the mottled glass of one of the tall French mirrors he could see his own white face. “The celebration, Mr. Pratt. The President, the Prime Minister, they’re all coming.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Chief Pratt. “We’ll be through here in a jiffy.” He put his arm reassuringly around Henry Spender’s shoulders and led him back through the entrance hall and down the steps of the East Portico.

  A couple of stretcher-bearers were crossing the lawn. “Good Lord,” said Henry, “it’s not another one?”

  “No, not exactly,” said Pratt, smiling. “This one’s not dead, at least not yet. They’ve just fished him out of the ice pit.”

  “You mean he fell in?” A terrible thought gripped Henry Spender. “My God, what if he sues us for criminal negligence!”

  Pratt laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “It won’t ever happen.”

  “It won’t? How can you be so sure?”

  “Trust me,” said Pratt.

  Over their heads on the roof of the East Portico, the weathervane glittered like gold and swiveled on its axis in the gentle breeze blowing over the mountain. By ten o’clock, the sky was a faultless blue, the dew was dry on the grass, the President’s helicopter had touched down safely, and all the invited guests had been shuttled up the hill to the west lawn.

  During the mild confusion as they were guided to their seats, the Richmond String Quartet entertained them with delicate Mozart airs. In eighteenth-century outfits and spunnylon wigs, the four players were squeezed into an angle of the portico.

  “He played the fiddle himself, you see,” explained the Lieutenant Governor of Virginia, leaning across the Governor’s wife to impart this information to his chief.

  “I know he played the fiddle himself,” said the Governor testily.

  But the day was too fine, the air too fragrant, the bunting too bright for any of the four hundred assembled guests to be anything but cheerful. As the quartet played a last merry chord, there was a general gasp as a hot-air balloon rose above the trees, looming soundlessly out of the valley.

  “He was interested in ballooning, you see,” whispered the Lieutenant Governor, again leaning over the Governor’s wife.

  This fact was new to the Governor, but he said, “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Shhh, shhh,” said his wife, because the President of France was mounting the steps to speak. They listened as he began his talk with a salute to Jefferson’s great friend the Marquis de Lafayette, who had been such a crucial supporter of the American colonies in their struggle to free themselves from Great Britain.

  At this point the Lieutenant Governor was eager to explain that Lafayette had once been Jefferson’s guest, right here at Monticello, but this time the Governor’s wife, feeling his weight shift in her direction, said, “Please!”

  Then it was the turn of the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Under the circumstances, he had no choice but to tell a few modest jokes at the expense of his own nation. He did so gracefully and subsided in favor of the President of the United States.

  A staff researcher had written the President’s speech. He had come up with a jolly fragment of history, a remark made by founding father John Adams, declaring that the Fourth of July ought to be solemnized with Pomp and parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.

  It was a perfect choice. The President delivered it well, and there was a tumult of applause.

  So the events of the day rolled on. The catered luncheon was delicious—there were finger sandwiches as well as asparagus rolls—and then everyone sat down again to hear a dramatic reading of the entire Declaration of Independence by the famous Hollywood leading man.

  He had rehearsed it well, he knew it by heart. Now his voice rose in outraged indignation at the perfidious behavior of King George the Third. “He has PLUNDERED our seas, RAVAGED our coasts, BURNT our towns, and DESTROYED the lives of our PEOPLE! He is transporting large armies of foreign MERCENARIES to complete the work of DEATH, DESOLATION and TYRANNY scarcely paralleled in the most BARBAROUS ages, and totally unworthy THE HEAD OF A CIVILIZED NATION.”

  While the rest of the audience went wild, the Prime Minister of Great Britain clapped politely, muttering to himself, “Poor silly old George the Third. It was hardly his fault.”

  The afternoon ended with the singing of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” led by a famous African-American gospel singer. Most of the audience couldn’t reach the high notes, and they didn’t remember the words, but it didn’t matter. The singer’s mighty voice carried them along.

  Throughout the day, Mary Kelly and Ed Bailey had been saving a seat for Homer.

  “Where on earth do you suppose he is?” said Mary for the fiftieth time, looking anxiously around.

  “Oh, don’t worry about good old Homer,” said Ed. “He’ll turn up sooner or later. Hey, wow, will you look at that! Here comes the champagne.”

  Chapter 57

  about 12 oClock we arived in Site of St Louis fired three Rounds as we approached the Town.… The people gathred on the Shore and Hizzared three cheers.… Now we look for boarding in Town and wait for our Settlement and then we entend to return to our native homes to See our parents once more as we have been so long from them.—finis.

  Sergeant John Ordway, September 23, 1806

  While the four hundred invited guests assembled on the west lawn of Monticello, and Henry Spender tried to collect his wits, and an ambulance from the University of Virginia Medical Center raced along Highway 20 with the broken body of George Dryer, Homer Kelly shepherded Fern Fisher home to the safety of her own soft bed and then flopped down on her sofa to catch a few winks. At dawn he jerked himself awake just long enough to make a belated 911 emergency call (setting in motion a frantic chain of events), before sinking back again with a bliss
ful smile.

  When Fern at last poked Homer awake at noon, Oliver Pratt was back in City Hall. His office door was shut against interruptions because the Chief was trying to nerve himself to call the family of Augustus Upchurch.

  Oliver hated informing an expired person’s relatives that their nearest and dearest was dead. Courageously he dialed the number, hoping no one would answer.

  But Roger Upchurch picked up the phone at once. Oliver cleared his throat and said mournfully, “Mr. Upchurch?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Upchurch, I’m afraid I have some very bad news about your father.”

  Roger Upchurch seemed startled, but he listened gravely as Oliver explained what had happened, then said “Thank you” politely, and hung up.

  Of course the news shocked them all, especially the little girls, who burst into tears.

  “But, Roger, what happened?” said his wife, gathering her daughters in her arms. “What on earth was your father doing at Monticello at that time of night?”

  She never found an answer to this question, but she learned other things about her father-in-law’s death after the funeral in Christ Episcopal Church on West Jefferson Street. As the family filed out of the sanctuary, red-eyed, deeply moved by the rector’s praise of Augustus, someone touched Roger’s arm.

  She was a stranger, weeping. “Oh, Mr. Upchurch, my name’s Fern Fisher. Your father saved my life.”

  Then Fern explained what had happened. She described the frightening apparition of George Dryer in the parlor of Monticello and the gallant intervention of Mr. Upchurch. “He was a hero. He sacrificed his life to give me time to run away.”

  “Good heavens, I didn’t know that,” said Roger. He shook her hand warmly. And then they all crowded around her, grateful to know that Augustus had died so heroically.

  Of course Roger’s wife again asked her bewildered question, “Do you know what he was doing there the night before the celebration?”

  “I have no idea,” said Fern. If she guessed at a possible reason, she kept it to herself.

  When one of the guards opened the door of Tom’s cell in the Charlottesville-Albemarle Regional Jail and gave him papers to sign and conducted him outside, two people were waiting for him.

  One was his father. Arthur Dean was eager to bundle his son into his car. He put a commanding arm around Tom’s shoulders.

  But Homer Kelly was there too, grinning at him. “Mary’s expecting you for dinner. She’s made a blueberry pie, worked her fingers to the bone.”

  Tom paused. He wasn’t choosing between his father and Homer Kelly. He was looking around for someone else, but she wasn’t there.

  “Oh, well, then,” said Tom, “we can’t let Mary down.” He shrugged his shoulders at his father and climbed awkwardly into Homer’s car.

  Arthur Dean was left open-mouthed on the sidewalk. A guard said, “Hey, guy, you his dad?” and handed him a bag of dirty laundry.

  Fern had not heard a word from Tom. Her feelings were hurt. Now that he was free, why didn’t he call her?

  Tom, in the meanwhile, after borrowing his mother’s car to clear out his camp in Jefferson’s sacred grove, began living uneasily at home, where he was the object of intense interest on the part of sister, mother, father, and grandmother.

  Topmost in their concern was the importance of his return in good standing to medical school. Topmost in Tom’s mind were three entirely different things.

  One was his anxiety about the unfinished time line in the Dome Room at Monticello. Had it been ripped off the wall and thrown away?

  The second was his fear for the painted river on the ceiling. Had it been painted over?

  His third concern was for Fern, who had so nearly become another victim of the brutal killer George Dryer. Was she all rights? Why hadn’t she called him? Well, it was obvious why she hadn’t called him. She was all mixed up with somebody else now, her old boyfriend from Baltimore.

  A week after his release from prison, Tom was again invited to dinner at the house on University Circle.

  Mary was waiting for him on the porch. She hugged him hard. Homer slapped him on the back. Then a dim person rose from a folding chair at the far end of the porch and stood stiffly upright. In classic fashion her chair collapsed with a bang.

  They all laughed. “I’ll fix it,” said Homer, and he wrestled with it manfully, but the chair understood its melodramatic role in this crisis, and once again fell flat. At this they all laughed harder than ever.

  But there was some sort of impasse. At the table Homer and Mary had to carry the burden of the conversation all by themselves. Slightly illuminated by two glasses of wine, Homer babbled gaily about nothing in particular. Mary was embarrassed. “Homer, please, you’re talking our ears off.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem,” said Homer. “Don’t worry. You just stick ’em back on with library paste.”

  Mary turned apologetically to Fern. “You’ll have to forgive Homer. He can’t help it. He was born babbling.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” cried Homer, flourishing his serving spoon. “As soon as I popped out, do you know what I said I said, ‘Hi, Ma!’ The doctor was amazed.”

  Fern and Tom smiled politely. They still had nothing to say to each other. As Homer passed around the plates of lasagna, he told himself that a couple of wild animals wouldn’t make such a big thing of it. They’d go right at it, whereas highly educated humans merely pussyfooted around and shuffled their feet and then trotted off in two entirely different directions.

  The butterscotch cake was a safe subject of conversation. Tom was lavish in his praise. He had three helpings, Fern two.

  It was a hopeful beginning. Then Mary had a good idea. “How would you people like to take the dog for a walk while Homer and I clear up?”

  “Well, okay,” said Tom.

  “Certainly,” said Fern.

  Trembling with joy, Doodles yipped noisily as Tom attached her leash. Then they set out, the little dog trotting ahead, Tom and Fern ambling after her down the driveway. At the sidewalk Tom turned to the left, and they walked in the direction of Rugby Road. “How’s your friend Jim?” he said, elaborately casual.

  “Jim?” Fern was bewildered. “What Jim?”

  Tom looked at her in surprise. “Isn’t there some guy named Jim?”

  “Oh, you mean Jim Reeves.” She laughed. “He’s gone back to Baltimore.”

  “Wasn’t he—?”

  “Wasn’t he what?”

  Tom grinned and dropped the subject. At the corner he urged Doodles to the right. “This way,” he said. “I want to show you something. It’s just a little way down the street.”

  It was the Beta Bridge, a short piece of asphalt between lumpy cement walls.

  Tom said nothing. He merely glanced at Fern to see if she noticed. When she walked nearly all the way across the bridge without looking at the wall, his heart sank. He had spent half the night painting it in the light of a camping lantern while passing students snickered and made remarks.

  Then she saw them, the silly orange words, TOM + FERN, on a background of Day-Glo green.

  “Oh,” said Fern. “It says—” Then she stopped, because it was probably some other Tom, some other Fern.

  “Fern—”

  “Does it really mean—?”

  Swiftly Tom cleared the matter up, Doodles found a perfect patch of weedy dandelions, and everyone was glad.

  Chapter 58

  A ROLL OF THE MEN WHO ACCOMPANIED CAPTAINS LEWIS AND CLARKE ON THEIR LATE TOUR TO THE PACIFIC OCEAN …

  George Drulyard [Drouillard, “Drewyer”] Interpreter. A man of much merit; he has been peculiarly useful from his knowledge of the common language of gesticulation, and his uncommon skill as a hunter and woodsman; those several duties he performed in good faith, and with an ardor which deserves the highest commendation. It was his fate also to have encountered, on various occasions, with either Captain Clarke or myself, all the most dangerous and trying sce
nes of the voyage, in which he uniformly acquitted himself with honor.…

  Meriwether Lewis,

  Captain 1st U.S. Reg’t Inf.,

  City of Washington, January 15, 1807

  The identification of the dying killer in the intensive-care unit of University Hospital turned out to be child’s play. George had been careless, or perhaps he had simply been cocky.

  Homer’s monster book devoted a whole chapter to the subject. Your typical serial killer feels himself invulnerable, godlike, under divine protection.

  The gray van was found in the woods, the mud was washed off the license plate, and the glove compartment ransacked. The plate number soon led to the name of the owner, one George Dryer.

  There were no papers in the glove compartment, no registration, no flashlight, no dark glasses, no handy tools, nothing but a petrified doughnut and a plastic library card. The name on the card was George Dryer.

  Chief Pratt passed the information on to Homer, who found it hard to believe.

  “A library card? Not a Handy-Dandy Manual for Serial Killers? In-credible.”

  “So, anyway, Homer, how about visiting him in the hospital? See if you can get him to say something. You know, just ask him a few questions before he goes to a better world—or, in his case, a worser”

  “You mean, interrogate a dying man, grill him on his deathbed?”

  “Well, yes. That’s it exactly.”

  The intensive-care unit in University Hospital was a ring of small rooms. All were open to the center, where a team of nurses kept track of all the patients at once.

  George’s shattered leg was in traction and he was suffering from uncontrollable internal bleeding, but he was wide awake and talkative, even garrulous. He didn’t seem to recognize Homer as the attacker who had hurled him into the ice pit. Instead he whispered eagerly, “Aren’t you the Harvard man?”

  “What?” It wasn’t at all what Homer had expected.