Read Online Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown - Free Book Online Page A

morning?”
    â€œLocal and Richmond.”
    â€œLulu, did the Richmond paper say anything about the cause of death?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOr who it is? The
Courier
was pretty sparse on the facts.”
    â€œRichmond too. They probably don’t know anything, but we’ll find out as soon as they do, I guess. You know, I’ve half a mind to call Mim and just bitch her out.” Lucinda stubbed out her cheroot.
    â€œYou won’t.” An edge crept into Ansley’s voice.
    A long silence followed. “I know—but maybe someday I will.”
    â€œI want to be there. I’d pay good money to see the queen get her comeuppance.”
    â€œAs she does a lot of business with both of our husbands, about all I can do is dream—you too.” Lucinda bid Ansley goodbye, hung up the phone, and reflected for a moment on her precarious position.
    Mim Sanburne firmly held the reins of Crozet social life. She paid back old scores, never forgot a slight, but by the same token, she never forgot a favor. Mim could use her wealth as a crowbar, a carrot, or even as a wreath to toss over settled differences—settled in her favor. Mim never minded spending money. What she minded was not getting her way.

11
    The gray of dawn yielded to rose, which surrendered to the sun. The horses fed and turned out, the stalls mucked, and the opossum fed his treat of sweet feed and molasses, Harry happily trotted inside to make herself breakfast.
    Harry started each morning with a cup of coffee, moved her great-grandmother’s cast-iron iron away from the back door—her security measure—jogged to the barn, and got the morning chores out of the way. Then she usually indulged herself in hot oatmeal or fried eggs or sometimes even fluffy pancakes drenched in Lyon’s Golden Syrup from England.
    The possum, Simon, a bright and curious fellow, would sometimes venture close to the house, but she could never coax him inside. She marveled at how Mrs. Murphy and Tucker accepted the gray creature. Mrs. Murphy displayed an unusual tolerance for other animals. Often it took Tucker a bit longer.
    â€œAll right, you guys. You already had breakfast, but if you’re real good to me, I might, I just might, fry an egg for you.”
    â€œI’ll be good, I’ll be good.”
Tucker wagged her rear end since she had no tail.
    â€œIf you’d learn to play hard to get, you’d have more dignity.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped onto a kitchen chair.
    â€œI don’t want dignity, I want eggs.”

    Harry pulled out the number five skillet, old and heavy cast iron. She rubbed it with Crisco after every washing to help preserve its longevity. She dropped a chunk of butter into the middle of the pan, which she placed on low heat. She fetched a mixing bowl and cracked open four eggs, diced a bit of cheese, some olives, and even threw in a few capers. As the skillet reached the correct temperature, the butter beginning to sizzle, she placed the eggs in it. She folded them over once, turned it off, and quickly put the eggs on a big plate. Then she divided the booty.
    Tucker ate out of her ceramic bowl, which Harry placed on the floor.
    Mrs. Murphy’s bowl, “Upholstery Destroyer” emblazoned on its side, sat on the table. She ate with Harry.
    â€œThis is delicious.”
The cat licked her lips.
    â€œYeah.”
Tucker could barely speak, she was eating so fast.
    The tiger cat enjoyed the olives. Seeing her pick them out and eat them first made Harry laugh every time she did it.
    â€œYou’re too much, Mrs. Murphy.”
    â€œI like to savor my food,”
the cat rejoined.
    â€œGot any more?”
Tucker sat down beside her empty bowl, her neck craned upward, should any morsel fall off the table.
    â€œYou’re as bad as Pewter.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou two are chatty this morning.” Harry cheerfully drank her second cup of coffee as she thought out loud to the