The Purrfect Murder

length of speeches, that seems inevitable.”
    “I’d give more money if there weren’t speeches.” Susan smiled.
    “Wouldn’t we all,” Tazio agreed. “However, the organizers need to be thanked, the chair always has to blab, and the politician of the moment really blabs on. And, of course, the director of restoration must speak. That I’ll enjoy. The rest of it is pure torture.”
    “Aren’t you going to speak?” Susan asked.
    Tazio’s hand flew to her bosom. “Me? God, no. I hate speaking in public.”
    “Ned can give you lessons. He’s become one of those politicians, you know.” Susan loved her husband but had noted a certain amount of garrulousness creeping into his conversation.
    “Bet he can,” Tazio wryly replied.
    Harry, ever eager to keep on track—except when she veered off—said, “This is a big platform.”
    “There will be a lattice behind it with fake ivy and wide ribbons woven through. That will be backlit. I’ve got to keep the generators somewhat quiet. With the restoration there’s a lot we can’t do, but the house isn’t wired for this kind of draw, anyway, hence the generators.”
    “When you figure out how to silence a generator, let me know.” Harry appreciated the problem.
    “I’m building domed ventilated housing. You’ll hear a hum but it will be muted, and the roof of the small little hives will be soundproofed.”
    “That is so clever.” Susan admired Tazio’s creativity as an architect and practicality as a woman.
    “Taz, what are you going to do on the platform?” Harry was impatient.
    “It’s supposed to be a surprise, but I can tell you a few things. Okay, when people park, they will be led back to the lawn by servants in livery. And all the manner of the early nineteenth century will be in force. So each person will be addressed with their honorific, which was terribly important then, as was a graceful bow.”
    “Great. I can be introduced as Farmer Haristeen.”
    “You all will be Doctor and Lady Haristeen. Ned and Susan will be the Honorable and Lady Tucker, and so forth. Anyway, trays of drinks will be circulated, plus there will be a discreet bar under the arcade right over there.” She pointed to the arcade under the southern portico. “Then trays of hors d’oeuvres from the periods. Okay. So far so good. Nothing unusual. Then it’s time to sit and eat what would have been a feast in 1819. A feast now, too. I’m not giving away the menu. Folly would shoot me. But there will be a presentation, a tableau, and music while people eat.”
    “A play?” Harry didn’t like the idea.
    “No, Harry, a tableau. People will be in scenes, then the scenes will change. We aren’t doing a play, because you can’t really eat and watch a play. Dinner theater never works.”
    “A pretty thing but no major distraction.” Susan figured it out.
    “Right. Plus, it’s set on the southern side here, and people can watch the sun set over the Blue Ridge Mountains, as well, since the views are good to the west. It should be fantastic unless it rains.”
    “Long-range predictions?” Harry watched the Weather Channel the way some people watched porn. “Clear. Cross your fingers.”
    Tazio exhaled. “Okay, then come the speeches, and I will do everything in my power to keep them short, but you know how that goes.”
    “Then what?” Harry was becoming intrigued.
    “Then a little surprise.”
    “On the platform?” Harry prodded more.
    “Umm, some on the platform. You’ll see. It really will be so lovely, and this place deserves it. Everyone knows about Monticello and the University of Virginia as expressions of Jefferson’s creativity in architecture. Some even know about the state house in Richmond, but so few know about Poplar Forest, even in Virginia, which surprises me.”
    “Oh, we learned about it in fifth grade, but it went in one ear and out the other.” Susan recalled their venerable fifth-grade teacher at Crozet Elementary. “You were in St. Louis, so you missed Mrs. Rogers’s breathless reenactments of Virginia history.”
    “The moans while she died of tuberculosis were particularly compelling.” Harry grinned.
    “Don’t forget her yellow-fever death,” Susan said.
    “Or being shot by a minnie ball.”
    Tazio stopped this romp down Memory Lane. “Was her husband an undertaker? One death after another.”
    “Mr. Rogers ran the Esso station. Exxon now. She was a frustrated actress and figured out that death scenes carried