By Rita Mae Brown
Mrs. Murphy digs into Virginia history—and will get her paws on a killer.
The most well-liked citizen of Virginia has been lifeless for almost a hundred and seventy years. That hasn't stopped the nice humans of tiny Crozet, Virginia, from taking satisfaction in each element of Thomas Jefferson's lifestyles. but if an archaeological dig of the slave quarters at Jefferson's domestic, Monticello, uncovers a stunning mystery, feelings in Crozet run high—dangerously high.
The beautiful discovery at Monticello tricks a hidden passions and age-old scandals. As postmistress Mary Minor "Harry" Haristeen and a few of Crozet's best possible humans attempt to study the id of a centuries-old skeleton—and the explanation in the back of the murder—Harry's tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, and her canines and tom cat buddies try and sniff out a modern day killer. Mrs. Murphy and corgi Tee Tucker will stick their paws into the darker mysteries of human nature to unravel murders previous and new—before interest can kill the cat—and Harry Haristeen.
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Extra info for Murder at Monticello (Mrs. Murphy, Book 3)
It was twenty yards to the hearse waiting at the curb: a long way. The funeral director, usually all smooth, inconspicuous moves and black-suited calm, clasped his hands in dismay. Confrontational funerals were poor advertising for the Elysian Glen Mortuary. He urged the pallbearers forward. Nikki lifted her chin and followed, her face like varnished wood, sunglasses hiding her swollen eyes. A snub-nosed woman jutted forward from the crowd. ‘‘Slut lovers! Queer lovers! ’’ Mourners deliberately looked past the protesters.
It was a six-foot-by-four-foot cartoon, reworking The Last Supper as a scene from Platoon. It showed Christ and the Apostles in combat fatigues, with camouflage paint striping their faces, weapons at the ready. Beneath the drawing ran the tagline: He’s back . . and this time, it’s scriptural. I gaped at it, appalled. Not because it depicted Jesus juiced on steroids and brandishing an M16. No. I stood horrified because it forced me to see the truth. Peter Wyoming did not speak in metaphors. He slapped the poster.
The Catholic Church was a lie, nothing but witchcraft. Latin was a lie. Yup, Latin, a pagan tongue, supposed to be a dead language—but it wasn’t dead; it’s been kept alive as . . what? As the language of law, and science, and the Mass, and sorcery. ’’ Mexican came out meskin. ‘‘Am I right? It’s not coincidence. Can’t you see, people, how they’re all connected? ’’ I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. I turned, saw a young woman in the back row looking at me, a teenager whose Kewpie-doll mouth punctuated her moon-round face.