Sick Of Shadows

CHAPTER TEN

“HE WASN’T MUCH HELP, was he?”

Clay shrugged. “Well, if she was suicidal, and he didn’t know it, it won’t look so good for him professionally.”

“Oh, hogwash!” sneered Rountree. “Her state of mind could have changed something awful since she got home. That’s what we got to figure out: what’s been going on around here-and could it have made her want to kill herself?”

Michael Satisky, who had been sent in by Shepherd, halted in the doorway. “Kill herself?” he echoed, forgetting his nervousness. “Is that what happened? Are you sure?”

“Will you sit down,” moaned Rountree. “And don’t jump to so dad-burned many conclusions. You probably know more than we do right now. So, what do you think? Did she kill herself?”

“How-how could I know?” Satisky stammered. The sheriff’s genial drawl did not make him feel at ease. It reminded him of the easy, philistine confidence of the high school athletes who had made his life miserable as a teenager. He felt that he was being baited, and he became even more tense.

“Well, since you were going to marry her, we thought you’d be able to tell us a little something about her state of mind,” said Rountree with heavy sarcasm.

Satisky winced. “She was upset about something,” he admitted. “But I don’t know why. It wasn’t about our engagement, because she didn’t know-”

Rountree pounced. “Didn’t know what?”

“Oh… well… nothing important. I mean, she didn’t know, so it couldn’t very well be relevant, could it?”

“I think I’d better hear this,” said Rountree. “You’d be surprised at what people know. They got the darndest ways of finding out-listening at doors and I don’t know what-all.”

Satisky blushed, remembering his opening words of the interview.

Rountree pretended not to notice that his shot had hit home. “Anyway, you never can tell what’s going to be important, so I think you’d better tell us what this is all about.”

“It’s nothing really,” Satisky insisted. “I was just… you know… getting nervous. About the wedding and all-uh, this is hard to discuss with police officers…”

Rountree snorted. “You think this is hard? You should have tried explaining to the bride that you’d changed your mind.”

“Well, I hadn’t actually made any decision…”

Too spineless to go through with it, Rountree’s look suggested; but he merely asked: “Are you sure Eileen Chandler couldn’t have figured this out?”

Satisky hesitated. “Well… I did mention something about it to her cousin last night.”

“Her cousin. Who would that be?”

“Elizabeth MacPherson.”

“Oh, that pretty little gal with the dark hair. I see!” Rountree beamed at him with understanding.

“No! I’m sure you don’t see at all. I merely mentioned to Elizabeth that I was somewhat apprehensive. I certainly did not make any advances of the kind that you suggest!”

“Talks just like a book, don’t he?” Rountree beamed happily at Clay.

Clay nodded. He had seen Rountree’s clown act pay off too many times to question it, but he couldn’t join in on the spirit of it. He contented himself with playing straight man.

“So, we know you had a little confidential talk with ‘Cousin Elizabeth,’ right here in the house of your intended. Is that right?”

“Uh-yes,” said Satisky miserably.

“Now, are you sure you couldn’t have been overheard?”

“Oh, I don’t think so! I mean, no one has mentioned it!” Rountree and Taylor exchanged glances of exasperation. “Anyway,” Satisky continued shrilly, “I don’t think that had anything to do with it! And I don’t think she killed herself! I think she was murdered for money. Have you heard about the will? Well, find out about that! If you ask me, she was murdered!”

“Yes, I witnessed the will,” Elizabeth told them a few moments later. “She had her lawyer come out to talk to her about the inheritance, and she asked him to draw one up. But she had a handwritten one already done, and he told us it was legal-though he didn’t seem to like the idea much.”

“A will,” mused Rountree. “Did she have a lot to leave?” He wondered what the Chandlers would consider “a lot.”

Elizabeth explained the terms of Great-Aunt Augusta’s will, leaving her fortune to the first of the cousins to marry. “But I think Eileen left it all to Michael, anyway,” she concluded.

“Well,” drawled Rountree, “if I understand you right, she didn’t accomplish much there. She only got the trust fund when she was married-which she never was. So she had nothing to leave, did she?”

Elizabeth stared at him. “I never thought of that,” she said slowly.

“So there’s an inheritance up for grabs. This gets more interesting all the time. Is anybody else engaged? How about yourself?”

“Well, no, I’m not.”

“How about the others?”

“Not that I know of. My Cousin Alban was engaged once, about four years ago, but the girl broke it off, and he hasn’t seen her since. I haven’t heard of Charles or Geoffrey being interested in anybody, and my brother-oh, but he’s not even here! So-no, I don’t think any of us is considering getting married.”

“Bet you will now,” said Rountree.

When Elizabeth did not reply, Rountree tried another approach. “Now, Miss MacPherson, we need to get an idea about your cousin’s state of mind. I’d be obliged if you’d tell me when you saw her last.”

“Umm… last night after dinner. I went up to her room to see how she was.”

“Any reason why you might be worrying about her?”

Elizabeth recounted Eileen’s reaction to Dr. Shepherd’s arrival.

“Didn’t she want Dr. Shepherd here?”

“She didn’t seem to,” Elizabeth admitted. “But that doesn’t make sense. She invited him here herself.”

“Who told you that?” asked the sheriff.

“Well-he did. Dr. Shepherd.”

Rountree glanced over at Clay Taylor, who was still scribbling furiously.

“So you went up after dinner-to see if Miss Chandler was feeling better.”

“Yes. We talked for a little while, and she said she was nervous about the wedding-”

“Why do you suppose that was?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Probably because my Aunt Amanda is turning it into a three-ring circus. Poor Eileen was feeling like an exhibit. I’d have been nervous, too.”

“Could be. Anything else you can think of?”

“Well, I thought she might be overtiring herself trying to finish the oil painting she was working on. She’d work on it for hours every day.”

“Why was she painting pictures at a time like this? What’s it of, anyway?”

“It was to be her wedding gift to Michael. And she wouldn’t show it to anybody. But we think it must have been a view of the lake, because she always went there to work.”

“Did Miss Chandler seem depressed to you in your talk with her last evening?”

She considered this. “No. Not if you mean suicidal. I think she was impatient to have the whole thing over with, but she really wanted to marry Michael.”

“Michael,” Rountree repeated. “Let’s talk about him awhile. I understand you had an interesting conversation with the prospective groom. What did he have to say?”

Elizabeth sighed in exasperation. “I guess he must have told you already, or you wouldn’t be asking. He said that he didn’t really want to go through with the wedding. I think he was terrified of feeling like that, but also very much afraid of hurting my cousin.”

“Did he tell her how he felt?”

“I don’t think so. He wasn’t planning to.”

“Then why did he tell you?”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “I think because I was an outsider, too. Maybe he felt that I might understand.”

“And did anybody else listen in on this conversation?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“But if by some chance the bride had slipped downstairs and overheard all this, that might change her state of mind, don’t you reckon?”

“I guess it could have. I told him to be quiet about it, because he was certainly making me nervous by talking about it.”

“What was making you nervous? That he was transferring his affections to you?” asked Rountree casually.

“Of course not!” snapped Elizabeth. “I certainly didn’t want him!”

“Even for all that money?”

“Well, Clay, what do you think?” asked Rountree when they were alone. “Suicide, or accident-or something else?”

Clay Taylor shook his head. “This one’s too close to call,” he said, leafing through his notes. “I’ll believe anything the lab tells us this time. There’s evidence for almost anything. Suicide-she was a psychiatric patient, and her fiancé would have been glad to ditch her; murder-she was an heiress, or she would have been. Accident? Well, they do happen, even to people whose death would be convenient. I wouldn’t even bet you a Coke on this one, Wes.”

“Well, I would,” Rountree grumbled. “I’d bet a whole raft of Cokes on a nice little old homicide because her death was mighty damn convenient for a bunch of folks, and I didn’t see anybody genuinely grieved at losing her. Did you?”

The deputy looked startled. “Well…” he faltered. “Her mother?”

“Clay, we haven’t even seen Amanda Chandler yet,” Rountree reminded him. “And when we do, you look real carefully at her. And ask yourself if you’re seeing a mother grieving over a lost child or a property owner mad as fire because something belonging to her got taken.”

“I still think it might have been suicide,” said the deputy. “We still have a lot of people left to talk to, and we haven’t found anybody who saw her since last night.”

“Nobody admitting it, anyway. That’s the trouble with you, Clay. You always go around believing everything.”

“What do you believe, Wes?”

“I believe I need more to go on.” Rountree grinned. “And I believe I’ll have a cheeseburger at Brenner’s while I wait for the lab report. Let’s go tell all these people we’ll be back tomorrow, when we know something definite.”

Robert Chandler closed the door to his wife’s bedroom and went down the stairs to the library. Captain Grandfather and Charles were sitting at the gate-leg table, dispiritedly pushing little fleets and armies around a map of the eastern hemisphere.

Captain Grandfather glanced up from the board. “How is she, Robert?”

Chandler sighed. “Asleep. Finally. I don’t want her disturbed.”

“It’s all right. Sheriff Rountree left a little while ago. Said they’d be back in the morning, and that they should have the lab report by then. I expect they’ll want to talk to us then-and to Amanda as well.”

“Where are Geoffrey and Elizabeth?”

“In the kitchen making sandwiches,” Charles replied.

“And our other-guests?”

“In their own rooms, I believe,” declared Captain Grandfather. “They didn’t seem to know what to say. Bit awkward all around. I for one am glad they’re not underfoot.”

“What do you think, Dad?” asked Charles.

The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know, Charles. I want to believe it was an accident, but I can’t think what she would have been doing in that boat.”

“Maybe she wanted another perspective for the painting,” Charles suggested.

“The painting! That’s another thing. I keep asking myself what’s become of the painting.”

“So do I,” said Captain Grandfather quietly. “So do I.”

“Charles, did you by any chance see the painting she was working on? When you went to the lake at dinner?”

“No, Dad. I didn’t go get her for dinner. That was Alban. You’ll have to ask him if he saw what she was working on, but I doubt it. She wouldn’t let any of us see it. You know how secretive she was.”

“But she kept on painting by the lake,” mused Dr. Chandler. “So it must have been a lake scene. Now, why is the painting missing?”

“How can it be important?” asked Charles. “If she painted the lake, there’s no point in stealing the painting. Anybody could look at the lake and see what Eileen saw.”

The telephone rang insistently. Dr. Chandler hurried from the room to answer it. Charles and Captain Grandfather turned their attention back to their game.

“Fleet: St. Petersburg to Norway,” Charles murmured. “Have you told Alban and Aunt Louisa yet?”

“Still not home last time I checked,” grunted Captain Grandfather.

Charles got up and peered through the curtains. “I see some more lights on. I think they must be back.” He settled back in his chair and studied the board. “You know, it seems strange that they don’t know yet. It’s as if Eileen is still alive in their minds, because they haven’t been told. I believe Hegel deals with that concept-”

“Well, Elizabeth or Geoffrey can tell them,” snapped the old man. “I’m not going to relive it in the telling. She was a sweet little girl, Eileen was. But she grew up so troubled. You couldn’t reach her. When you’d ask her anything, she’d shy away, as if it were an intrusion. Guess we should have insisted. Should have intruded. Maybe things would have been different. This family sets too damn much store on peace and quiet!”

“Sir?” Charles blinked.

“What’s wrong with making a few waves? Good storm clears the air, dammit!”

“Uh-it’s your move, Captain Grandfather.”

“Oh, put it away. I don’t want to play anymore.”

Charles stood up. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go upstairs and do some reading.”

Captain Grandfather waved him away impatiently. “You go on. I’ll put this away myself.”

He was still arranging the wooden blocks in the proper compartments when Dr. Chandler returned, closing the door behind him. “That was Wesley Rountree,” he said. “He’s got the lab results.” He sank down wearily on the sofa.

“So it was murder,” said Captain Grandfather.

“It was murder.”

Wesley Rountree rolled up his napkin and pitched it at the wastebasket beside Clay’s desk. “Bingo! You know, if I keep eating cheeseburgers from Brenner’s for dinner, pretty soon Mitch Cambridge’ll be doing an autopsy on me.”

Clay Taylor stopped typing, his two index fingers poised in midair. “If I were you, Wes, I’d worry about those diet drinks you’ve been having. No telling what’s in those artificial sweeteners.”

Rountree grunted. “Nobody lives forever, Clay. Sometimes I think I’m lucky to have made it this long. My mama was always after me to quit the highway patrol ’cause she was afraid I’d get killed in a highspeed chase, and now you’re trying to take my diet sodas away from me.” He shook his head. “Ain’t nothing safe.”

“Not even getting married,” said Clay.

“Lord, who ever told you that was safe? Oh! You mean the Chandler girl?”

“Is Cambridge sure about the results?”

“Now, you know Mitch Cambridge. If he wasn’t positive, you couldn’t get an answer out of him with a stick! The official cause of death, to which he will testify at the inquest, was the bite of a poisonous snake-”

“Water moccasin?”

“Yep, which bit her four times on her neck and upper back. He thinks she fell on the snake in the boat.” “And it wasn’t an accident?”

“No indeed. See, there’s also a subdural hematoma, which is what Mitch likes to call a bruise, on the back of her head. Skull was fractured due to a sharp blow to the”-he consulted a piece of paper on the desk in front of him-“to the occipital bone.”

“So somebody hit her on the head and threw her in the boat.”

“That’s about the size of it, Clay.”

Rountree scooted forward in his swivel chair, and began to root in the papers that littered the top of his desk. He had what Clay liked to call an archeological filing system: the papers nearest the top were the most recent. He generally managed to find what he was looking for, though. Eventually. Really important items, such as warrants, were kept under the bronze sphinx paperweight at the top center of his desk. Rountree had inherited the desk along with his job from the late Sheriff Miller, who had kept both for thirty years. “I don’t want to change nothing except the calendar,” Rountree had vowed when the office became his. It gave him a sense of continuity with the past, as though Nelse Miller were still around somehow, backing him up.

“Have you seen the mail today?” Rountree asked, momentarily giving up the search.

“Doris always puts it on your desk,” said Clay, between taps at the typewriter.

“I was afraid of that,” sighed Rountree.

He pawed through another stack of papers and pulled out a small bundle of letters bound by a red rubber band. “This must be it,” he muttered, flipping through them. “Hardware store sale, light bill, something from the community college.” He opened the yellow circular and scanned it briefly. “Seems they’re advertising their courses for this fall.”

“Yeah, I got one at home,” said Clay. “They must’ve put me on their mailing list, since I took their scuba diving course.”

“How would you like to take another one?” asked Rountree. “I see one in here that would be mighty useful for a deputy.”

“Oh, the judo course? I’ve been thinking about it.”

“No. That isn’t the one I had in mind,” said Rountree, running his finger down the page. “It’s this one, B-14: Beginning Shorthand.”

Taylor gave him a sour look and went back to typing.

“Well, admit it. You do more note-taking than fighting,” Rountree persisted.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” said Clay.

“It’s useful, all the same. Is that what you’re typing up now?”

“The notes on the Chandler case, yeah. I thought you might want to see them.”

“That’s the honest truth,” sighed Wesley. “These people not being what I’m used to is sure throwing me off my stride. You take our average cases now. When Vance Wainwright gets drunk and disorderly, where’s he gonna go?”

“To his ex-wife’s trailer,” said Taylor promptly.

“Right. And when the statue of the pioneer is missing from the high school lawn, where do we look?”

“All over the grounds of Milton’s Forge High.”

“Right.” Rountree chuckled. “Remember the time we found him on the fifty-yard line? But this case is in a class by itself.”

“Looks like it’s going to take a while,” mused Clay.

“That reminds me,” said Wesley, lifting the telephone and extracting the phone book, which he kept underneath it for quick location. “You and I are going to be tied up and out of the office for most of the day tomorrow, so I’d better call Doris and tell her we need her here to keep the office open.”

“On Saturday?” Clay whistled. “Don’t hold the phone too close to your ear.”

“And I’ll call Hill-Bear Melkerson, while I’m at it,” said Rountree, ignoring Taylor’s last remark. “He can take the car out on patrol while you and I are conducting this investigation.” He was dialing the number as he talked. “Hello, let me speak to Hill-Bear. This is Sheriff Rountree calling,” he said into the phone.

When people heard the name Hill-Bear Melkerson, they usually expected to meet an American Indian, but this was not the case. Hill-Bear, a squat and solid Anglo-Saxon, had picked up the name in his French class at Chandler Grove High. He had previously been known by his given name, which was Hilbert. For seventeen years he had endured life as Hilbert, occasionally squashing adolescent comedians who teased him about it, but in high school French all that changed. On the first day, the teacher had assigned everyone French names: John became Jean and Mary, Marie. When she came to Hilbert, the teacher informed him that his name was already French, but that in class it would be pronounced “Hill-Bear.” Hilbert Melkerson had been so delighted with the sound of this sobriquet that he had insisted on being called that ever since. By that time, he was a 230-pound tackle on the Chandler Grove varsity squad, so he got his way. Hill-Bear he became.

“Hill-Bear, is that you?” Rountree cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, while he scribbled on a notepad in front of him. “I’m fine; how ’bout yourself? That’s good. Listen, Hill-Bear, we’re gonna need you to work tomorrow if that don’t interfere with your plans too much. Oh, just regular patrol in the squad car. Doris will be here in the office, keeping an eye on things. No, I won’t be off. Fishing? I wish I was. No, I’m afraid something pretty serious has happened out at the Chandler place and Clay and I will be investigating. No, it wasn’t a break-in. Listen, Hill-Bear, I don’t want to be talking about this on the phone. When I see you tomorrow morning, I’ll fill you in. Okay. Around eight. All right. ’Bye now.”

“He’s coming in?” asked Clay.

“Oh, yeah. He’ll be here at eight.” Rountree flipped through the card file on a metal stand beside the phone. “Hill-Bear’s a good old boy. You can always count on him.”

Hill-Bear Melkerson was not a full-time employee of the sheriff’s department as Taylor was. He worked for Rountree part-time on an as-needed basis, when he wasn’t on his regular job at the paper mill in Milton’s Forge. He usually handled the parking at Chandler High football games or at the county fair, and filled in for Rountree or Taylor on their days off. He was good for New Year’s Eve road patrols, too. No one was ever drunk enough to argue with Hill-Bear.

“Guess I better call Doris,” Rountree groaned. “I sure do hate to ask her to come in tomorrow.”

“You can’t be that concerned about spoiling her weekend, Wes,” said Clay.

“No, the fact is I’m not,” Rountree admitted. “But if I ask her to come in, she’ll want to know why, and if I tell her, it’ll be all over the county by morning.”

Geoffrey had been cutting tuna fish sandwiches in resolute silence for several minutes. Elizabeth had not talked to him, partly because she was preoccupied and partly because she didn’t know what to say. Any expression of sympathy might provoke either tears or an outburst of mordant wit, neither of which she was prepared to deal with. She had confined her utterances to basics: pass the mayonnaise, is there more bread? The rest of her mind retraced the sequence of the day’s events and tried to make sense of them.

She stole a glance at Geoffrey, still working like an automaton on the pile of sandwiches. “Do you think this will be enough, Geoffrey?”

“What? Oh. I suppose so. I won’t be eating any. Are you hungry?”

“Just a little,” Elizabeth admitted. She was starving.

Geoffrey set the last sandwich precariously on the heap. “I guess we’re finished. I seem to have run out of things to do.”

“Geoffrey, listen, about Eileen-”

“I’ll just carry the tray into the library,” he said quickly. “Then I’m going to my room.”

Elizabeth put away the bread and mayonnaise, lingering over her self-appointed task of cleaning the kitchen. Mildred would take care of it tomorrow when she arrived. To hell with Mildred, Elizabeth thought, she needed something to do right then. She tried to decide why she was so reluctant to join the family in the study. Because I feel like an outsider, she thought. Geoffrey’s grief and the fierce restraint of the others made her awkward. She couldn’t pretend, but to exhibit a lack of bereavement within the family seemed unnecessarily rude. The best course would be to go to her room, but she needed to talk. She felt that if she could hear herself talk, things would sort themselves out. She rinsed the tuna fish bowl and washed the knives while she considered the matter further.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth picked up the yellow wall phone by the refrigerator. “Long distance, please.” Soon she was connected with the proper city.

“Hello, Brookwood Apartments? Are you the manager? I’m calling long distance. My brother is a tenant of yours. In Apartment 208, and he doesn’t have a phone, but there has been an emergency in the family. A death, in fact, and I must speak to him.”

Elizabeth paced the length of the phone cord while she waited for Bill to be fetched from his lair. If he didn’t feel like listening to her in the manager’s apartment, which was probable, maybe he could call her back from a pay phone. She decided that it would be very comforting to talk to Bill, as long as they got it straight right from the beginning that he was to listen to her as a brother, and not as a student of criminal law. I know I have the right to remain silent, she quipped to herself; I waive that right just now. She heard the phone being picked up.

“Hello?”

“Bill! I have to talk to you. It’s urgent. Don’t interrupt. Can you talk or shall I give you the number here? You can call me back collect, just-”

“Uh-Elizabeth? I’m sorry, but Bill isn’t here right now.”

“He isn’t? Who is this?”

“Milo.”

“Milo! Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m looking forward to meeting you.” Even in an emergency, we don’t forget our manners, Elizabeth thought grimly. “But listen, we have a sort of family emergency, and I really need to talk to Bill. Where is he?”

“What’s the matter? Where are you?”

He sounded quite concerned, as though he were ready to throw down the phone and come to her rescue. Elizabeth felt slightly better. “I’m all right,” she assured him. “I’m at Chandler Grove for my cousin’s wedding. At least, there was supposed to be a wedding, but she’s dead. The sheriff has been called in, and they’re investigating. They seem to think it was murder, but-” She was about to launch into the whole story, when she pictured Milo standing uncomfortably in a strange apartment, with the manager glaring at him. “I’m so sorry to be going on like this, Milo. I’ve never even met you.”

“It’s okay. Bill told me about your relatives. He was expecting melodrama, but I don’t think he would have predicted this. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. I just wanted to talk to somebody. Where’s Bill?” Much as she needed to talk, she didn’t feel like beginning at the beginning with even as kind a stranger as this. With Milo, she would only be reciting facts; with Bill she could progress to feelings.

“I’ll have him call you as soon as he comes in, of course, but I haven’t seen him since last night. I think he pulled an all-nighter with some other law students, something about a case…”

“Law or beer?” snapped Elizabeth.

“I just got home myself. My class is doing site work at some Indian mounds near here, and-well, don’t get me started about that… Bill should turn up soon. If you give me your phone number, I’ll have him call as soon as he comes in.”

Elizabeth supplied the number, and a brief account of the situation. She thanked Milo and assured him that some other time she would very much like to hear about Indian mounds, and then she hung up, unreasonably annoyed with Bill for not being in. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she felt better. Milo was all right. Idly she wondered if he had brought home any more bones for the kitchen table. With a weary sigh, she prepared to join the mourners in the library.

To her relief, she found that only Captain Grandfather remained downstairs. He was sitting at the table, making sketches on a notepad.

“The others have gone to bed,” he told her. “I have so much trouble sleeping that I have abandoned even the pretense tonight.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” asked Elizabeth.

“No. More coffee will only make the improbable impossible. Have you eaten anything?”

“That’s what I-no. I guess I will.” She sat on the couch with a napkin in her lap, and helped herself to sandwiches.

“The sheriff called Robert a little while ago. Says they got the results of the autopsy.”

“Oh? What was it? Heart failure?”

“They claim that Eileen was hit on the head, then thrown into that boat. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? It isn’t as if she were a stranger.”

Elizabeth considered this. “I know what you mean,” she said at last. “I always think of violent death as something that happens to people I don’t know. How is-everybody?”

“I can’t say that I took the trouble to find out. I let Robert handle them. He’s a doctor; he’s used to it.”

“And Dr. Shepherd?”

“He went up to his room hours ago. The boys are all right. It’s just Amanda.”

Elizabeth nodded. It would be. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“Not that I-oh yes, there is one thing. I promised Amanda hours ago that I’d let them know across the street.” He inclined his head toward the castle. “It completely slipped my mind.”

“Would you like me to tell them? I could go in a few minutes.”

“Please. They’re back now. Been to some flower show all day. You tell Alban that it’s a murder case, and that the sheriff will be back in the morning questioning all of us.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Captain Grandfather, do you think Eileen’s fiancé killed her?”

Captain Grandfather snorted. “Him! It would surprise me if he had the guts to shuck an oyster, missy. And there’s going to be enough turmoil in this house without you taking up detection as a hobby. Just stick to making sandwiches, that’s my girl.”

Elizabeth bristled. Make sandwiches, indeed! “I’ll have you know I finished college,” she snapped. “I wasn’t the one who was planning to get married and be a housewife!”

Captain Grandfather eyed her speculatively. “No? Well, what are you planning to do?”

“I’m going to have a career, of course.”

“I see. Well, as soon as you know what it is, let us all in on the secret.”

“I already know!” said Elizabeth with great dignity. “I am going to be an archeologist!”

She tossed her napkin on the silver tray and left the room.

The night air was chilly, and Elizabeth wished she had brought a shawl or a sweater. Still, it wasn’t far-just down the wide lawn and across the road. The quarter moon cast a gray light on the long grass and the live oaks lining the drive. Elizabeth was nearly halfway across the yard-silent, except for the sound of her feet in the grass-when she realized that there might be a murderer loose somewhere on the grounds. She should have waited for someone to come with her, she thought with sudden panic; or at least, she might have called to let Alban know she was coming. She found herself watching the shadows among the trees, looking for shapes that moved. It was too quiet.

The lights on the first floor of the castle twinkled from between the folds of heavy curtains. Safety was a hundred yards away. With a sob of terror, Elizabeth fixed her eyes on the steep front steps and began to run. As her feet pounded against the asphalt of the road, she imagined dark shapes gliding across the lawn in pursuit. At last she reached the great double doors, her breath coming in heaves, and her mind reeling with the sinister figures she had conjured from the darkness. There didn’t seem to be a bell, and she took no time to search for one, pounding on the door as hard as she could.

After a few moments, the door opened to the dimly lit hallway, and there stood Alban, incongruous but safe-looking in his red sweatshirt and faded jeans.

“Elizabeth, what a pleasant-What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

Without waiting for an answer, he shepherded her into his study and settled her onto the velvet loveseat. “Now, you just sit right there and take deep breaths,” he advised her. “Don’t talk!” He went to the sideboard, took out a cup and saucer, and began to arrange spoons and napkins on a tray.

“No coffee, please!” she called to him. “I’ve been drinking it all day!” Her voice broke as she finished.

“I am fixing you tea,” said Alban, pouring water into a small china teapot. “You cannot drink and cry at the same time. Scientific fact. So you’re going to drink. And then you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

He brought the tray over, and set it down on the marble-top table beside the loveseat.

Elizabeth took a few tentative sips of the tea. She settled back against the cushions and concentrated on untensing her muscles. Somewhat to her surprise, Alban was not hovering. Instead he poured himself some tea, then walked to his desk and returned his attention to the checkbook and bank statement in front of him. Elizabeth watched as he worked.

There was very little family resemblance among the Chandler cousins. The Chandler genes must be recessive, she thought. Their looks ranged from the tall, sandy blondness of Bill MacPherson to the Scotch-Irish look of Alban: a short, trim Celt, with dark hair against too-white skin and cold blue eyes. Eileen had been the middle ground: mousy. Elizabeth decided that she looked more like Alban and Geoffrey-the dark Celts of the family. The Highlanders of Clan MacPherson would approve, she thought to herself, and she smiled for the first time in several hours. Alban looked up just then and returned her smile. “Feeling any better, fair lady?”

“As much as I’m going to,” Elizabeth replied. “I have some bad news, Alban.”

He heard the urgency in her tone and stopped smiling. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Eileen is dead! They think it was murder, and the sheriff was here, and-”

“Stop. Right there. You’re going off again. Take another sip of tea.”

Elizabeth picked up her cup, and gulped a swallow of tea. After taking a deep breath to compose herself, she recounted the day’s events, ending with Captain Grandfather’s news of the sheriff’s call to say that Eileen had been murdered.

“… which was just a little while ago, and then I came over to tell you. It was dark outside, and I was about halfway here when I suddenly realized that the murderer might still be around. I just panicked. When you opened the door-I was never so glad to see anybody in my whole life!”

But Alban was not listening anymore. He stared down at the rug as if she were no longer there.

“Alban?” said Elizabeth, touching his shoulder. “Alban!”

“How do they know?” he murmured.

“Know what?”

“That she was-that somebody put her in the boat. How do they know?”

“Oh.” He was looking at her again, but his attention was now on the events themselves, not on comforting her. Stifling a flicker of annoyance, Elizabeth answered, “The lab report said that she had been hit on the head. But they seem to think it was the snake that actually killed her. Do you think the killer knew that the snake was in the boat?”

Alban shook his head, uninterested in the question. “Poor Eileen. You know, every year, Miss Brunson from the high school brings her class up here when they’re studying Macbeth.”

Elizabeth nodded, wondering what this had to do with Eileen.

“I give them a tour of this place-even though it has nothing at all to do with Scotland. And well, she even talked me into reading the Tomorrow soliloquy for them this year.” He smiled, remembering himself at the top of the staircase quoting Shakespeare to thirty restless seniors. “I started with the line ‘She should have died hereafter.’ That’s what this made me think of. That line-‘She should have died hereafter.’ ”

“I know.”

“How are they taking it?” he asked.

Elizabeth frowned. “Oh, different ways, but they’re putting up a good front.”

“Is there anything I can do, do you think?”

“The sheriff will probably want to talk to you tomorrow. And you might try to keep Satisky occupied. He’s underfoot, nauseating everybody with quotes. In fact, when we found her body, he started spouting poetry. From The Lady of Shalott by Tennyson.”

“Oh, you recognized it?”

“No. Geoffrey told me later. But I thought it was very insensitive of him. Oh, another thing you might do, Alban, is to tell your mother about this…”

“Tell me what?” Louisa, bundled in a lavender bathrobe, stood smiling in the doorway. “Oh, tea! Splendid!”

Alban brought her another cup, and she poured tea for herself. “Now what is this all about?” she demanded.

“I’m afraid it’s bad news, Mother.”

“Well-are you going to tell me or not?”

They told her, in rambling and what they believed to be diplomatic terms. Louisa, however, immediately pressed for details.

“Who do you suppose did it?” asked Louisa with lively interest. “Are the migrant workers here yet?”

“Mother!”

“Well, who else could it have been? That nervous young man she’s engaged to? I don’t see why he’d do it. It wasn’t as if she had been unfaithful to him, like-”

“Mother, the sheriff will take care of the investigation!” said Alban sharply. “I think we should worry about what we can do to help Uncle Robert, don’t you?”

“Yes, Alban,” said Louisa in a more subdued tone. “It’s such a shame. Eileen did so want to be happy. I don’t think she would have been with that young man of hers, but I wish she had been given the chance anyway.” She walked to the desk and began to rearrange the roses in a crystal vase. “Why is it that every time Amanda and I plan a wedding, something terrible happens? How is Amanda, by the way?”

“She went up to her room and we haven’t seen her since,” said Elizabeth.

“Just like her. Oh dear, Alban, do you think the white roses are past their prime? Or should we just go with the red?”

Elizabeth stood up. “I’d really better be getting back,” she whispered to Alban.

“All right. I’ll walk you to the door,” said Alban, following her into the hall.

“Just to the door?”

“I’d better stay with Mother. Why? Are you so afraid?” Then he smiled and patted her shoulder. “Oh, you’ll be safe, Cousin Elizabeth. As long as you stay off of boats. Now, do you want me to walk you back?”

“No,” murmured Elizabeth. “I guess I don’t.”

With a hasty good night, she let herself out the front door, and hurried across the dark road.

By the time she remembered to worry about lurking murderers she had arrived at the front door of the Chandler house. The porch light had been left on for her, and the door was unlocked. She closed the front door as quietly as possible and tiptoed down the hall.

“Is that you, Elizabeth?” called a voice from the kitchen.

She peeped around the corner and saw that the kitchen light was on. “Geoffrey?” she called out in a stage whisper.

“No. It’s me. Charles. I found some cookies. Want some?”

He was sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.

“Well, maybe just one,” said Elizabeth, taking the other chair. “Thank you for waiting up for me.”

“Nah. Had to get up to answer the phone anyway. Your brother’s roommate called. He said Bill wasn’t back yet, and since it was getting so late, he’d have him call first thing in the morning. Want a glass of milk?”

“I guess so,” sighed Elizabeth. If people keep comforting me with liquids, she thought, I’ll have to carry a bedpan around with me.

He took a plastic milk jug from the refrigerator and filled another glass. “There you are.”

“I guess everybody else has gone to bed.”

“Yep.”

“Couldn’t you sleep?”

“No.”

As conversations go, this one wasn’t going far. Elizabeth cast about for a new topic.

“So Charles, what do you know about anthropology?”

Charles peered at her over the rim of his glass, which he had been about to drink from. “Anthropology?”

“Yes. Well, really, archeology. You know: digging for lost cities and all.”

“Elizabeth, I’m a physicist.”

“Well, of course, I know that.” She coughed. “I-er-just thought that since it was science, you might know something about it.”

Charles was puzzled. “But why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. I just…”

His face lit up with mistaken comprehension. “I see! You mean because of the dating process!”

Elizabeth blushed. “Well, actually I haven’t even met him-”

“Carbon-fourteen dating! Of course! It’s practically indispensable in archeology. They use it to determine the age of their finds. Wonderful trick, really. Here, I’ll explain how it works.”

“But, Charles, I-”

“-heavy radioactive isotope of carbon, mass number fourteen, and-”

Elizabeth nodded politely through the explanation of half-life and radioactive traces. She reasoned that if she admitted her real interest in archeology-a misty image of herself and Milo discovering Atlantis together-she would sound much more foolish than she cared to. Sitting through Charles’s lecture seemed to be the easiest way out. After several minutes of animated explanation, Charles wound down. Noticing a glass coffee pot on the stove, Elizabeth asked: “Were you planning to make coffee? The water’s not on.”

“Good Lord! I’d forgotten all about it. Thanks for reminding me! I’d better move it before somebody tries to make tea with it.”

He moved the beaker of water from the stove to the countertop, in slow cautious movements.

Elizabeth watched him wide-eyed. “It won’t explode, will it?”

“What, this? It’s just salt and water.”

“It looks clear to me,” said Elizabeth. Like nitroglycerin.

“I supersaturated the water with salt while it was boiling. That’s why you can’t see it. That was hours ago. While we were waiting for the sheriff to call, and I didn’t have anything to do.”

“What is it?”

“Oh… just an experiment. Or maybe a statement. I dunno. Here, I’ll show you. I boiled water in this glass container, and I dumped salt into the boiling water-lots of it. More than it would hold if it were room temperature. Got that?”

“Yeah. You wasted a box of salt. So?”

“Then I left it covered and waited a few hours for it to cool.”

“Okay. And you want to see what will happen?”

Charles looked pained. “I know what will happen. Don’t you?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No.”

He shook a few grains of salt into his hand. Carefully extracting a few grains from his palm, he blew the rest away. “Now. I have between my fingers a grain or so of salt. Watch.”

He walked over to the glass pot on the countertop and lifted the lid. Elizabeth followed him, peering closely at the clear liquid inside. With a dramatic flourish, Charles dropped the salt grains into the liquid. As Elizabeth watched, the solution around the new grains began to thicken into a bog of oatmeal consistency, the reaction spreading outward from the grains second by second until the entire liquid had become a mass of soggy salt.

“Hey! I didn’t even see any salt before!”

“I know. You want to know why I did this?”

Still watching the beaker, Elizabeth nodded.

“This wasn’t an experiment. It was a prediction. I think that solution was like our family. There were a lot of things floating around, so to speak, but you couldn’t see them. And Eileen’s death is that little grain of salt I dropped into the pot, which makes everything crystallize.”

He dumped the contents of the beaker into the sink and rinsed the pot. “Good night, Elizabeth,” said Charles, strolling off toward the stairs.

Elizabeth stared after him, wondering for the first time if Charles might also be a poet.