Sick Of Shadows

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ALTHOUGH SUNDAY proved to be a day of respite from the inquiries of the law, to Elizabeth it was the most tedious day of all. The shock of Eileen’s death had begun to wear off, leaving raw nerves among personalities already too inclined toward drama. Funeral arrangements and notifications had been completed, so that the tragedy could no longer be obstructed through routine tasks; it loomed large in the empty day. Breakfast had been a tense and silent meal, presided over by Amanda, who was a fierce antithesis to her former hostess-self. She seemed to begrudge every mouthful to those who were callous enough to eat in the presence of her sorrow. She herself sipped coffee and shredded a piece of dry toast on her plate.

After breakfast, while everyone was scrambling for sections of the Atlanta newspaper, Amanda appeared at the door in a black linen suit and gloves, informing them that church services began in one hour.

Satisky mumbled something about “keeping the Sabbath staying at home,” and Geoffrey, recognizing the reference, snapped, “Oughtn’t you to be celebrating it in a garden in Amherst, Massachusetts, then?”

As the Chandlers regretfully surrendered their newspaper sections and prepared to go upstairs and dress, Carlsen Shepherd remarked that there was an interesting old Baptist Church he’d seen in Milton’s Forge on the way in, if anyone would care to join him in visiting it. Since he was looking at Elizabeth as he said this, she accepted the invitation at once.

Half an hour later, the two of them were in Shepherd’s car on the road to Milton’s Forge-Shepherd looking more presentable than usual in a navy three-piece suit.

“I didn’t know you were interested in old churches,” Elizabeth remarked.

“I’m not. I just thought the two of us could use some time off.”

“It’s getting to you, too?” asked Elizabeth, incredulous.

“Sure. And please don’t say ‘But you’re a psychiatrist.’ Give me a break. I treat patients; I don’t move in with them.”

Elizabeth nodded. “It’s like waiting for a storm, isn’t it? Sometimes I wish that Aunt Amanda would have her hysterics and get it over with.”

Shepherd nodded. “Maybe she’ll do it while we are gone. By the way, I mentioned that we might not be back in time for lunch. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes! With Aunt Amanda glaring at us during breakfast, I could hardly swallow!”

“It’s a difficult time to be an outsider. I wonder when the sheriff will settle all this so that we can leave.”

“Do you think we’ll have to stay until he finds the murderer?” asked Elizabeth, considering that unpleasant possibility for the first time.

Shepherd shook his head. “I don’t know. They asked me what I thought about it, but it’s hard to guess why she was killed when we don’t know much about her family situation.”

“I thought you did.”

“Now, remember, I’ve only been seeing her as a patient for a year. Dr. Kimble did most of the therapy. I was just someone to talk to if she had adjustment problems. We didn’t go into great detail about her childhood or anything like that.”

“Well, since you’re a psychiatrist, can’t you just sort of look at the crime and figure out who would have done something like that?”

Shepherd grinned. “You mean relate the snake to Oedipal impulses, and stuff like that?”

“Well-I guess so.”

“But you can’t rule out coincidence. Maybe the murderer didn’t even know the snake was in the boat. Or maybe it was just a businesslike murder for money, and the killer took advantage of a handy time and place. Sorry-I think the sheriff is going to have to solve this one on his own.”

“Psychiatry sounds pretty interesting. Aside from the crime element, I mean. Do you like it?”

Elizabeth’s consideration of psychiatry as a potential career continued until they arrived at the church and was resumed after the service over a platter of fried chicken in Brody’s Roadside Inn.

“It’s nearly one-thirty,” Shepherd told Elizabeth, when they had finished their meal. “Should we start back?”

“What’s the alternative?” asked Elizabeth.

“Well, there’s a little historical museum in Milton’s Forge; we could visit that. You know: quilt exhibits and potters. I should do some sight-seeing while I’m down here.”

“What tourist attraction could compare with the one in the front yard?”

“Maybe he’ll offer a tour.”

“I shouldn’t joke about it,” said Elizabeth with a guilty look. “He said I was his favorite cousin, and here I am making fun of him. I told my brother Bill that, and he said that Alban’s taste in cousins is consistent with his taste in architecture.”

“Your brother sounds like one of the family, all right.”

“It’s a zoo. I wonder why you let yourself in for it. Why did you come?”

Shepherd looked uncomfortable. “You know, I wondered if anybody would ask me that. I don’t go to all my patients’ weddings. I guess you could say I had a hunch about this one.”

Elizabeth stared. “You mean… you knew-”

“Oh, no! Not about the murder. I’m perceptive, but not psychic. I just thought this wedding might not come off. From what I’d seen of Satisky and what I’d heard of the family, I just thought-well, there could be trouble. I thought I’d come down as a friendly neutral, in case I was needed. And if the worst did happen-no wedding-I figured Eileen would need me for sure.”

“That was very nice of you,” murmured Elizabeth.

“Professional ethics,” said Shepherd, getting up. “How about a museum?”

After several hours of admiring colonial handicrafts, Shepherd and Elizabeth returned to find no one at home but Mildred, who informed them that the family had gone to Todd & O’Connor’s Funeral Home to view the body. The coroner had authorized the transfer of Eileen’s body to the local funeral home sometime that afternoon.

“Do you suppose we ought to drive out there?” asked Elizabeth in hushed tones.

“Do you want to?” asked Shepherd.

“No.” She shivered, picturing the emotional storm breaking in the funeral home.

“Then don’t. There’s always tomorrow. I think I saw a chess set in the library. That doesn’t seem like a frivolous game, does it? Even in a house of mourning. Come on. It’ll take your mind off all of this.”

They played until after nine o’clock, when the flash of headlights in the driveway sent them scurrying tactfully to their rooms.

The next morning, Dr. Shepherd accepted an invitation from Robert Chandler to tour the county hospital and to meet some of the local physicians. Elizabeth passed most of the day reading in her room. Dinner loomed ominously in her thoughts: another opportunity for family melodrama. She considered skipping the meal altogether, but after some reflection decided that her presence would exert a calming influence. If it would avert a nasty scene, she’d better go.

When she came downstairs at a quarter past five, Geoffrey was in the hall, about to go into the dining room. “Ah, there you are, Elizabeth! You have been quite the hermit today, haven’t you? Very wise! Who knows who’ll be next?”

Elizabeth frowned disapprovingly. “Not funny. It’s just that I don’t have your tolerance for drama in everyday life.”

“Then you will be distressed to hear that this evening’s floor show will consist of a performance by Tommy Simmons in his legal capacity, followed by Sheriff Rountree’s feats of mental marvels.”

“They’re coming to dinner?”

“Mercifully not. But they will be expecting us to convene in the drawing room at seven. Try not to think about it; it might curdle your Hollandaise sauce. Stress is fatal to digestion.”

“What does Rountree want now?”

Geoffrey struck a pose. “I applied for the job of Watson, but the offer was not well received.” Then, in a serious voice: “Surely you don’t expect me to know? Something trivial, I expect.”

“I suppose so. He has already talked to all of us.”

They went into the dining room, where Amanda and Captain Grandfather, already seated, were talking together in low voices. Elizabeth made her way to the other end of the table, where Charles and Dr. Shepherd were sitting. Geoffrey started to follow her, but then he seemed to remember something and hurried back out into the hall.

A moment later he was back, waving a blue and white envelope. “I nearly forgot, Elizabeth! This Mail-gram came for you today. Perhaps an offer from one of those supermarket newspapers to tell your side of the crime!”

He handed her the envelope, and everyone stopped and looked at her while she opened it. Elizabeth read the message twice, and slid the paper back into the envelope.

“From Margaret?” asked Amanda.

“No,” murmured Elizabeth. “From Bill.”

“No doubt he is informing you of when they will be down for the funeral.”

“Well… they’re not sure yet.”

Alban appeared at the door. “At dinner already! Oh dear. Shall I go away?”

The question was addressed to Amanda, but Captain Grandfather answered it. “You might as well stay, Alban. I just had a call from Wesley Rountree and he’s coming back out to talk to us this evening. Tommy Simmons has asked for a conference with us, and Wes will be sitting in on that as well.”

“Stay to dinner?” asked Dr. Chandler.

“If it’s no trouble. Shall I call Mother and let her know about the meeting?” He sauntered toward Elizabeth’s end of the table.

“Yes, please, Alban,” said Amanda. “I spoke to her about the Simmons meeting earlier today, but she may need to be reminded. She said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“No. She’s hardly been out of her room today.”

“Perhaps I’d better step across and see her,” said Captain Grandfather quietly.

Amanda’s jaw tightened. “Of course, if anyone ought to be taking this in seclusion, it is I. None of you can possibly understand the strain that all this has been…”

“Can’t we have just this one meal in peace?” snapped her husband.

“Robert, I will express my grief! And my concern that my daughter’s murderer be-”

“Do you want him caught?” thundered Captain Grandfather. “Damned if I do!”

The bickering leveled out to a series of strident tones, which washed over Michael Satisky, leaving no meaning to soak into his consciousness. He was trying to think about Eileen. There should be grief somewhere in his mind. He was sure that if he could burrow through the tension of the enforced stay as a houseguest, and his terror that the police might obligingly arrest “everybody’s favorite suspect,” he would feel some sorrow for Eileen herself. Each time he tried to find her in his mind, he encountered a wave of relief that he was freed from an awkward relationship. The temptation of so much money had finally been removed, so that he could go back to being the sincere and unworldly person he was sure he was. Poverty dragons were much easier to slay than the monsters Eileen had presented him with. He was glad to be released from the commitment, but it bothered him that he could not grieve for the sad little princess he had loved. He was sure that beneath his personal anxieties he was devastated. Of course he was! A person of his perception and sensitivity might take years to get over such a tragedy. A slim book of verse perhaps… “The Lady of the Lake and Other Poems” by Michael Satisky… His thoughts drifted lazily toward similes and imagery.

“Hello, Elizabeth, I haven’t seen much of you lately,” said Alban, taking a seat beside her.

“Well, Carlsen and I went to church yesterday, and then we visited a museum.” She was surprised to feel herself blushing.

“I see,” said Alban quietly. Without another word he began to eat his salad.

Elizabeth looked down at her plate and tried to think of something to say. Her mind was not blank-that was just the problem. It abounded with possible topics of conversation. “Are you jealous that I was out with Dr. Shepherd?” “When is the inquest?” “Do we have to attend?” “Do you think one of us is a murderer?” Since none of those subjects seemed likely to produce peaceful dinner conversation, she was trying to clear her mind of them and find something more neutral to talk about. She was worried about Geoffrey. Despite his breezy repartee in the hall, he had been unusually quiet since they sat down to dinner. This might be a sign of tactfulness-perhaps he had foresworn a natural urge to torment certain of his table partners-but she thought the odds were against Geoffrey doing anything from altruistic motives. At the moment, his face was a courteous blank; she wished she knew the state of the mind behind it.

Charles looked up suddenly from his squash and rice casserole and remarked to no one in particular, “Actually, I find it comforting to think of death as the great benefactor of mankind. Death has made possible natural selection, which allowed for genetic improvement. Reproduction by mitosis merely duplicates the existing organism.”

Geoffrey sent his fork clattering into the center of his plate and ran from the room.

“Don’t go after him!” said Shepherd, as Elizabeth rose from her chair. “He works so hard at that brittle façade of his. He won’t thank you for seeing him without it.”

“He’s been so quiet. I wondered what he was thinking.”

“I think he feels it very much,” Shepherd told her. “Just from casual observation, I’d say that like most defensively witty people, Geoffrey is awed by real-how shall I put it-innocence. He seemed very protective of his sister.”

“Did she ever say anything about him?” asked Elizabeth.

Shepherd smiled. “You really mustn’t ask.”

“He’s right, though,” said Alban. “Geoffrey was always quite human with Eileen.”

“Which is more than he is with anyone else,” snapped Satisky.

“He shows his feelings, yes,” offered Shepherd. “I find it commendable that he has any to show.”

Satisky smiled maliciously. “Or else he finds it necessary to put on a show-for other reasons!”

Alban set down his coffee cup with a clatter. “Enough! Just stop all this talk about the murder! If you just let it alone, time will fix it-”

“Time-is-relative!” chanted Charles, pointing a fork at Alban.

Alban seemed about to roar back across the table, but suddenly he checked himself. “I’m very sorry,” he mumbled. “All of this is getting on my nerves, I’m afraid. I don’t like scenes, you know. Never have. I think people ought to be well-bred about things. I hate it when people go raking things up.”

Elizabeth stared. Raking things up? So Alban’s attitude about Eileen’s death had come down to “least said, soonest mended.” She wondered if he would be so forgiving if one of his precious antiques had been smashed-but then Eileen hadn’t been worth much, had she? Just a colorless young woman, not even pretty enough to interest the crime magazines.

Setting her napkin beside her plate, Elizabeth stood up. “Excuse me, please.”

It took her half an hour to find Geoffrey. She had checked his room, Eileen’s room, and the fields near the house before she thought of the attic that used to serve as a playroom when they were children. She remembered it as she was walking back to the house from the apple orchard, when she caught sight of the round window beneath the eaves. They used to pretend it was the porthole of the Nautilus. The other end of the attic had been converted into a kitchen-sized laboratory for Charles, although he rarely used it anymore, but the part of the attic that had been the Nautilus (and Richmond and Valhalla) had not been changed. She wondered if Geoffrey had thought of it.

Elizabeth hurried up the narrow stairs which led to the eaves. The door was unlocked. Afternoon light filtering in through the circular windows enabled her to see the dressing-up trunks and cast-off toys which furnished the attic. When her eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness, she saw Geoffrey, hunched up against the far wall with his arm clasping his knees. He did not look up.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment. Comforting did not come easily to her, particularly when it was a grief whose magnitude she could not share. At such times there was an awkwardness to her conversation, and she could make no move without consciously planning it. I may be worse than nothing, she thought. Somehow, though, it was better here than in the dining room. Geoffrey’s grief made her uneasy, but the attitude of the others had disgusted her. If there had been anyone else to comfort Geoffrey, she would have left them to it, but there was not.

Brushing aside an old bride doll, she sat down on the floor beside him. “I thought you might come to Valhalla,” she murmured.

“I was Frey and you were Brunhilda, the Valkyrie. Did we get that from Alban, do you suppose? We should have played Greek gods, Elizabeth. There was no death on Olympus.”

“I’m sorry about what they said downstairs. I left, too.”

“Well, you won’t find me very good company this evening. My supply of wit to fling in the face of adversity is depleted. I should be back in form soon, never fear, but… not… just… now.” His voice had a brittle lightness, and Elizabeth was terrified that he would cry.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked finally.

Geoffrey sighed. “Nothing. Everything at once. I find it helps to think of a lot of different things at the same time, so as not to dwell on any one long enough to feel it.” He fingered the yellow bride doll lying facedown on the floor. “That was Princess Grace. Eileen used to play royal wedding by the hour. Once she caught Hans, the old tomcat, and dressed him up in doll clothes to be the prince. He escaped, of course. We chased him all around the house, but we never caught him. I wonder if Eileen was afraid that her prince would escape.”

“I think so,” said Elizabeth, wondering if she should say more.

“I think so, too. And I think she blamed us for it.”

“You? Why?”

“Oh, because… It wasn’t until he came here that he began to have doubts about it, I guess, and-”

“You weren’t very kind to him, you know.”

“I’m not very kind to anybody. But he alternately cringed and fawned. Eileen wanted St. Michael the Archangel to slay her dragon, and he was afraid of his own shadow. St. Michael, indeed!”

“Do you think he killed her? Oh, I guess you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No to both. It isn’t murder I’m trying to come to terms with yet. It’s death. And the fact that nobody seems to mind.”

“Your mother…”

“Mother! Yes! She’s giving a convincing portrayal of a bereaved mother, isn’t she? Actually, I think Mother is relieved. After all these years, she finally has a good reason for being unhappy. A legitimate sorrow to drown. And everyone else is being correctly solemn.”

“Perhaps they don’t show their feelings. You don’t show yours.”

He laughed bitterly. “Don’t I?”

“You were very close to Eileen, weren’t you?” Elizabeth struggled to understand this new side of Geoffrey. How would she feel if Bill had died? Angry… She couldn’t get past that to see what would come after it.

Geoffrey was looking beyond her at the scattered toys. “Yes. I was close to her. Eileen was kind. She was the one really kind person I have ever known. It wasn’t just an act to make people like her. I suppose it surprises you that I would value that, since people who like me are attracted by my viciousness. I get by on being clever. But I was always a little awed by my sister’s kindness. She always seemed to know what to say to people. I haven’t the foggiest myself. If they don’t care for repartee, I manage to be civil until they go away. Eileen knew more about the damned maid than I know about Charles!”

Elizabeth realized that she was trying to sort out the difference between gentleness and unintellectual naïveté, but she pushed the ungracious thought away. Kindness, she thought. Well, whatever it is, I haven’t got it either.

“I keep thinking about her dying. It should have been me. You realize that, don’t you? One day I should have uttered one quip too many and been bashed over the head by an inarticulate bridge club member! Damn it! She’s dead, and all I can do is analyze it!”

“You have to feel it in your own way,” said Elizabeth gently.

“I wish I could be sure that I was feeling it! Part of me is standing off a little way watching me grieve and checking my utterances for clichés! Eileen wasn’t like that. If I were dead, she would cry for me!”

“It won’t help to feel guilty about it.”

“Not now, it won’t. It’s ironic that Alban should trot out that Macbeth line: ‘She should have died hereafter.’ I can’t even say that. I don’t think she was ever going to be happy. I just wish she’d had a better time while she was alive. I could have been more understanding. I could have stopped bringing out the worst in that sniveling beast she brought home.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Geoffrey looked at her. “If I tell you, you won’t understand. Even she didn’t understand.”

“Tell me anyway,” prompted Elizabeth.

“Because he was wasteful! Oh, that’s the wrong word, but it’s as close as I can come. Just-there are so few good, real people in the world, that they should be cherished for the miracle they are. And he couldn’t see how special she was. He thought she was a shy crazed girl that he was doing a favor by marrying! A favor! She built him a soul. Eileen saw a wonderful prince charming in a piece of shit!”

Elizabeth thought about this for a moment. She agreed that Eileen’s vision of Michael did not appear to tally with reality, but she wondered why that misconception bothered Geoffrey so much.

“Maybe he only saw a reflection of himself,” Eileen said slowly. “Or what he wanted to see. He wanted to think he was doing her a favor…”

Geoffrey nodded. “And I wanted to see someone who would love me even when I wasn’t being clever. Tell me, Elizabeth-how did you see Eileen?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t think I saw her at all.”

Tommy Simmons, somberly attired in his charcoal gray wool, felt that he presented the proper attitude of dignified efficiency. Black would have been overstating the case. He modulated his voice to hushed reverence and endeavored to convey an air of “money is not important at a time like this, but the formalities must be observed.” A professor of his had once said that all attorneys were actors manqué. Fortunately this was not difficult, since his audience was intent upon maintaining the same façade. He ruffled his papers, glancing up at the Chandlers who were sitting pale and erect, waiting for him to begin. He had been forced to delay the meeting for a few minutes until Geoffrey and the scatty cousin had arrived. His audience was now complete and properly attentive, and he decided that it would be appropriate to begin. He hoped things went smoothly; Tommy’s fondness for acting did not extend to melodrama.

“As you know, I am here to discuss the estate-if we can call it that-of Miss Eileen Chandler.” He paused, clearing his throat before taking the first hurdle. “I-er-hope that no one will object to the presence of Sheriff Rountree and Deputy Taylor in the family conference. As an attorney, I might venture to say-”

“We just thought we’d save Mr. Simmons the trouble of going through it twice,” said Rountree from the doorway. “That is, if nobody minds.”

Dr. Chandler summoned a pale smile. “Come in, Wes,” he said softly.

They eased into the room, with Taylor looking as if he wanted to tiptoe across the thick blue carpet. The silver coffee service had been set up on the table next to the window, and Dr. Chandler motioned them toward it. With the help of Dr. Shepherd, they assembled extra cups and napkins from a sideboard and fixed their own coffee. Amanda Chandler sat motionless on the sofa, oblivious to it all.

When the officers had poured their coffee and found empty chairs, Tommy Simmons began again. “Now this is a purely unofficial discussion of finances, concerning”-he glanced at the papers in front of him -“concerning the immediate family.” Simmons paused tentatively.

“Then I shall excuse myself,” said Elizabeth quickly. She hurried to the door before anyone could think of a reason to detain her.

Alban, who had started to get up when Elizabeth spoke, turned to Dr. Shepherd. “I think they can spare us, too, Doctor. Why don’t we go out for a walk?”

Shepherd glanced at the tense faces around him and nodded to Alban. As they rose to leave, Wesley Rountree leaned over to Dr. Chandler and said: “Robert, let me just get this in real quick. We’re going to have to drag that lake in the morning. Can I get your okay on that?”

“Of course, Wesley,” whispered Chandler. He gave an encouraging nod to Simmons, who looked inquiringly at the sheriff. Wesley smiled and nodded. As the door closed behind Shepherd and Alban, Simmons began, “I always feel that in awkward situations it’s best for the parties involved to sit down and talk things out-”

Amanda’s head jerked up. She seemed to notice him for the first time. “I have yet to learn that my daughter’s death is an awkward situation!” she snapped.

Simmons looked pained. “I was speaking legally.”

“And are you about to render a dramatic reading of the will?” Geoffrey inquired.

“It is an unusual will. She wrote it herself, you see, and-”

“All the women in this family write silly wills!” snapped Captain Grandfather. “Look at Augusta’s piece of nonsense. Reminds me, where’s Louisa?”

“She called and said she isn’t feeling well,” said Charles.

“Her presence is not necessary. She isn’t mentioned,” said Simmons.

Michael Satisky flushed. He felt them all looking at him, but he did not raise his eyes to see whether they were or not. He wondered if he should request permission to leave, but that would only draw more attention to himself.

“I think I’ll just go ahead and read this,” said Simmons. He held up the piece of stationery. He glanced up nervously at the expectant faces, then plunged into the narrative.

“This is the last will and testament of me, Eileen Amanda Chandler, being of sound mind, despite opinions to the contrary. I think of a will as being an expression of consolation from the dead person to those who will miss her. To Captain Grandfather I leave the wooden ship he carved for me when I was a little girl with my thanks. Captain Grandfather-‘may there be no moaning of the bar, when I put out to sea.’ To Daddy, I leave my paintings, because he said he liked them. To Charles, I leave my picture-in case he has forgotten me already. To Geoffrey I leave my stuffed animals, because they often comforted me when I needed them. I want Mother to have the dressmaker’s dummy in the sewing room and all my clothes; that way she may never notice I’m gone. And to Michael Satisky, my husband-to-be, I leave Great-Aunt Augusta’s money and my copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese, with all my love. Signed: Eileen Amanda Chandler.” Simmons looked up to indicate that he was finished.

Amanda Chandler was already on her feet. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she hissed. “My daughter would never have written such a spiteful thing to her mother!”

Simmons held out the sheet of paper. “It’s hand-written. You are all welcome to examine it.” He turned to Satisky, who was staring at the floor with a dazed expression. “Of course, the legacy from her Great-Aunt was not hers to give, since your marriage did not take place.”

“She knew,” murmured Satisky, without looking up.

“Robert, what did she mean by that?” his wife demanded. “Dressmaker’s dummy! I was a good mother to her!” Her voice rose, and she pitched forward, steadying herself on the arm of the sofa. “Ungrateful little-”

Captain Grandfather and Dr. Chandler sprang up, one on each side of her. “Amanda! That’s enough!”

“It isn’t decent for her to leave a thing like that!” she screeched at Simmons.

“Amanda! Hush!” Dr. Chandler attempted to get her to sit down on the sofa, but she lurched away from him and continued to shout at the lawyer.

“Excuse her,” said Captain Grandfather. “She’s overwrought.”

“I quite understand,” said Simmons, who had smelled the bourbon fumes from several feet away. He wrinkled his nose distastefully.

“Let’s get her upstairs,” said Captain Grandfather briskly.

Throughout the disturbance Michael and the young Chandlers looked embarrassed, while the sheriff and his deputy sat still and tried to look as if nothing were happening. It was a family situation, Wesley reasoned. He had unobtrusively motioned Clay to remain seated; the less notice they took of it, the easier it would be on the family’s feelings.

Simmons put the letter in his briefcase, taking an inordinate amount of time on the locks and untying the folder string. He, too, felt that such an exhibition should not be witnessed by outsiders.

“She was laughing at me! She always blamed me when we sent her away, Robert! Never you! Oh, no!” Amanda grew steadily louder and less coherent. Finally the two of them half carried her to the door.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, Clay Taylor stole a glance at Geoffrey, who returned his gaze levelly. Clay turned away quickly. “Want to get out of here, Wes?” he whispered.

“Can’t do it,” said Wesley softly. “I still need to talk to the doctor about that lake. I sure do hate to bother him, though. As if he hasn’t got enough troubles.”

Clay nodded. “That’s for sure.”

Elizabeth stood in front of the wall of books opposite the fireplace, running the tip of one finger over the book titles. Wedged among leather-bound classics and tattered paperback war novels, she found a set of encyclopedias. Her hand hesitated at the volume marked “L,” but instead she continued to examine the rest of the bookcase. A few more minutes of searching turned up nothing more helpful. There were books on ships, decorating, and many medical volumes, but not many histories or biographies. She reached for the encyclopedia; it was better than nothing.

When she had settled in the wing chair with the book in her lap, Elizabeth reached into her skirt pocket and drew out the Mailgram.

“If this is a joke, I’ll kill him.”

Through the closed door, Elizabeth heard faint sounds of upraised voices, which made her wonder what Eileen had written in her mysterious will, but since it had evidently created a scene, she was just as glad that she had not stayed to hear it. She would ask Geoffrey later what the fuss had been about, but just now Bill’s message intrigued her more than the distribution of Eileen’s possessions.

She read the Mailgram again.

“READ UP ON LUDWIG/TELL SHERIFF/BUTT OUT. BILL.”

Now what was that supposed to mean? At first she had suspected that it was a satirical puzzle to tell her when the family would arrive for the funeral, or an attempt to goad her into delusions of detection. Bill’s sense of humor occasionally approached Geoffrey’s in appreciation of the bizarre, but the more she considered these possibilities, the less likely they seemed. Bill had not been in a joking mood on the telephone when she told him about Eileen’s murder; he had been very serious indeed. “TELL SHERIFF/BUTT OUT.” It sounded unusually urgent coming from Bill. That phrase “Butt out” reminded her of the time the hearth rug at home had caught fire. She and Bill had both dived for it at the same time, but he had pushed her away. “Butt out!” She ran to the kitchen for a pitcher of water, but by the time she got back with it, he had beaten out the flames. His hands had stayed bandaged for a week. Elizabeth smiled, remembering their father’s comment on the incident: “You should trade in some of your courage as a down payment on judgment.”

She looked at the message again and sighed, wondering if it would be worth it to call the apartment manager again and ask him to rout Bill out of his apartment so that she could demand an explanation. On second thought, that seemed like more bother than following the instructions in the message. Tell the sheriff what? A history lecture from an encyclopedia? What did that have to do with anything? She had been meaning to read up on Ludwig, anyway, though, in case Alban dredged up any more unpleasantries about the Bonnie Prince. Shaking her head in resignation, she opened volume ten and turned to the article on Ludwig II of Bavaria.

The entry on Ludwig took only half a page, and was accompanied by a small photograph of a weak-chinned young man in an elaborate military uniform. He looked like a dreamer, Elizabeth decided; the sort who today read science fiction and play role-games in which they are wizards or paladins. She wondered what he had done besides building fairy-tale castles in his insignificant kingdom. She read the article twice, the second time slowly, her finger tracing out each word in the last paragraph. That must be the connection, but its significance escaped her. Perhaps the sheriff would know what Bill was getting at. Elizabeth slid the Mailgram into the book to mark her place and left the room.

Clay Taylor, who was sitting nearest the door, heard the tapping. Shoving his pencil behind his ear, he signaled for the others to remain seated, and got up to see who it was. Dr. Chandler and the old man had not come back downstairs yet, so Wesley had decided to go ahead with the order to drag the lake. He was on the phone now making the arrangements.

“Well, where is Hill-Bear, Doris? I need to talk to him!” Wesley was shouting into the phone.

Clay hastened to open the door. “Oh, hi!” he said, brightening at the sight of Elizabeth. “Do you want to come back in?”

“I need to talk to the Sheriff,” she said, looking past the deputy into the parlor. She could see Rountree hunched over an end table talking excitedly into an extension phone. His conversation drowned out the murmur of voices from the corner of the room, where Tommy Simmons was talking with Geoffrey and Charles. Satisky had picked up a decorating magazine from the coffee table and was leafing through it with no indication of interest.

“Wes is on the phone. He’s trying to get the number of the rescue squad people from Doris. He had to get permission from Dr. Chandler so that we could drag the pond. At least, I expect we could have done it anyway, since this is a homicide, but Wesley says, ‘Never stomp when you can tiptoe.’ So we asked first. They agreed, of course. So he’s setting that up now for tomorrow morning.” He paused for breath, noticing that she hadn’t seemed to be listening. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I was supposed to tell the sheriff, but… where’s Dr. Shepherd?”

“He left just after you did. He and Alban-Mr. Cobb, that is-said something about going for a walk by the lake. Guess they knew that this meeting would-”

Elizabeth thrust the book at him. “Look, I can’t wait! Just see that he reads this as soon as he gets off the phone. There’s a Mailgram in there, too. I’ll be at the lake!”

“But you haven’t-” Taylor shrugged. She was gone. He leaned against the door and began to flip through the book.