Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown

made outsiders surly.
    When Warren finished, Harry returned to the flooring. “Mind if I ask how much this stuff costs?”
    â€œEight dollars a square foot and nine fifty for the antistumble edge.”
    Harry calculated, roughly, the square footage before her and arrived at the staggering sum of forty-five thousand dollars. She gulped. “Oh” squeaked out of her.
    â€œThat’s what I said, but I tell you, Harry, I haven’t any worries about big knees or injuries of any sort of this stuff. Before, I used cedar shavings. Well, what a whistling bitch to keep hauling shavings in with the dump truck, plus there’s the man-hours to fetch it, replenish the supply in the aisle, rake it out, and clean it three times a day. I about wore out myself and my boys. And the dust when we had to work the horses inside—not good for the horses in their stalls or the ones being exercised, so then you spend time sprinkling it down. Still use the cedar for the stalls though. I grind it up a bit, mix it in with regular shavings. I like a sweet-smelling barn.”
    â€œMost beautiful barn in Virginia.” Harry admired the place.

    â€œMouse alert!”
Mrs. Murphy screeched to a stop, fishtailed into the feed room, and pounced at a hole in the corner to which the offending rodent had repaired.
    Tucker stuck her nose in the feed room.
“Where?”
    â€œHere,”
called Mrs. Murphy from the corner.
    Tucker crouched down, putting her head between her paws. She whispered,
“Should I stay motionless like you?”
    â€œNah, the little bugger knows we’re here. He’ll wait until we’re gone. You know a mouse can eat a quart of grain a week? You’d think that Warren would have barn cats.”
    â€œProbably does. They smelled you coming and took off.”
Tucker laughed as the tiger grumbled.
“Let’s find Mom.”
    â€œNot yet.”
Mrs. Murphy stuck her paw in the mouse hole and fished around. She withdrew a wad of fuzzy fabric, the result of eating a hole in a shirt hanging in the stable, no doubt.
“Ah, I feel something else.”
    A piece of paper stuck to Mrs. Murphy’s left forefinger claw as she slid it out of the hole.
“Damn, if I could just grab him.”
    Tucker peered down at the high-quality vellum scrap.
“Goes through the garbage too.”
    â€œSo do you.”
    â€œNot often.”
The dog sat down.
“Hey, there’s a little bit of writing here.”
    Mrs. Murphy withdrew her paw from her third attempt at the mouse hole.
“So there is. ‘Dearest darling.’ Ugh. Love letters make me ill.”
The cat studied it again.
“Too chewed up. Looks like a man’s writing, doesn’t it?”
    Tucker looked closely at the shred.
“Well, it’s not very pretty. Guess there are lovers at the barn. Come on.”
    â€œOkay.”
    They joined Harry as she inspected a young mare Warren and his father had purchased at the January sale at Keeneland. Since this was an auction for Thoroughbreds of any age, unlike the sales specifically for yearlings or two-year-olds, one could sometimes find a bargain. The yearling auctions were the ones where the gavel fell and people’s pockets suddenly became lighter than air.
    â€œI’m trying to breed in staying power. She’s got the bloodlines.” He thought for a moment, then continued. “Do you ever wonder, Harry, what it’s like to be a person who has no blood? A person who shuffled through Ellis Island—one’s ancestors, I mean. Would you ever feel that you belong, or would there be some vague romantic attachment, perhaps, to the old country? I mean, it must be dislocating to be a new American.”
    â€œEver attend the citizenship ceremony at Monticello? They do it every Fourth of July.”
    â€œNo, can’t say that I have, but I’d better do it if I’m going to run for the state Senate.”
    â€œI have.