Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown Page A

Standing out there on the lawn are Vietnamese, Poles, Ecuadorians, Nigerians, Scots, you name it. They raise their hands, and this is after they’ve demonstrated a knowledge of the Constitution, mind you, and they swear allegiance to this nation. I figure after that they’re as American as we are.”
    â€œYou are a generous soul, Harry.” Warren slapped her on the back. “Here, I’ve got something for you.” He handed her a carton of the rubber paving bricks. It was heavy.
    â€œThank you, Warren, these will come in handy.” She was thrilled with the gift.
    â€œOh, here. What kind of a gentleman am I? Let me carry this to the truck.”
    â€œWe could carry it together,” Harry offered. “And, by the bye, I think you should run for the state Senate.”
    Warren spied a wheelbarrow and placed the carton in it. “You do? Well, thank you.” He picked up the arms of the wheelbarrow. “Might as well use the wheel. Just think if the guy who invented it got royalties!”
    â€œHow do you know a woman didn’t invent the wheel?”
    â€œYou got me there.” Warren enjoyed Harry. Unlike his wife, Ansley, Harry was relaxed. He couldn’t imagine her wearing nail polish or fretting over clothes. He rather wished he weren’t a married man when he was around Harry.
    â€œWarren, why don’t you let me come on out here and bush-hog a field or two? These bricks are so expensive, I feel guilty accepting them.”
    â€œHey, I’m not on food stamps. Besides, these are an overflow and I’ve got nowhere else to use them. You love your horses, so I bet you could use them in your wash rack . . . put them in the center and then put rubber mats like you have in the trailer around that. Not a bad compromise.”
    â€œGreat idea.”
    Ansley pulled into the driveway, her bronzed Jaguar as sleek and as sexy as herself. Stuart and Breton were with her. She saw Harry and Warren pushing the wheelbarrow and drove over to them instead of heading for the house.
    â€œHarry,” she called from inside the car, “how good to see you.”
    â€œYour husband is playing Santa Claus.” Harry pointed to the carton.
    â€œHi, Harry,” the boys called out. Harry returned their greeting with a wave.
    Ansley parked and elegantly disembarked from the Jag. Stuart and Breton ran up to the house. “You know Warren. He has to have a new project. But I must admit the barn looks fabulous and the stuff couldn’t be safer. Now, you come on up to the house and have a drink. Big Daddy’s up there, and he loves a pretty lady.”
    â€œThanks, I’d love to, but I’d better push on home.”
    â€œOh, I ran into Mim,” Ansley mentioned to her husband. “She now wants you on the Greater Crozet Committee.”
    Warren winced. “Poppa just gave her a bushel of money for her Mulberry Row project—she’s working over our family one by one.”
    â€œShe knows that, and she said to my face how ‘responsible’ the Randolphs are. Now she wants your stores of wisdom. Exact words. She’ll ask you for money another time.”
    â€œStores of wisdom.” The left side of Harry’s mouth twitched in a suppressed giggle as she looked at Warren. At forty-one, he remained a handsome man.
    Warren grunted as he lifted the heavy carton onto the tailgate. “Is it possible for a woman to have a Napoleon complex?”

18
    The human mouth is a wonderful creation, except that it can rarely remain shut. The jaw, hinged on each side of the face, opens and closes in a rhythm that allows the tongue to waggle in a staggering variety of languages. Gossip fuels all of them. Who did what to whom. Who said what to whom. Who didn’t say a word. Who has how much money and who spends it or doesn’t. Who sleeps with whom. Those topics form the foundation of human discourse. Occasionally the human can discuss work,