The Windsor Knot

CHAPTER 11

IF SHERIFF WAYNE Dupree was delighted to see his friend and colleague from the neighboring county, he managed to conceal it with admirable restraint. After receiving the unexpected summons from Wesley Rountree, he had dispatched the mobile crime lab and set out for the crematorium, where he intended to get some answers as to what Wesley thought he was doing discovering dead bodies in someone else’s jurisdiction.

He found Sheriff Rountree sitting in his patrol car on the gravel driveway, listening to a Statler Brothers tape. Motioning for his men to cordon off the crime scene and get to work, Wayne Dupree ambled over to Rountree’s patrol car to discuss the situation.

“’Afternoon, Wayne,” said Wesley amiably. “You gonna read me my rights? I got my Miranda card here if you’d like to borrow it.”

Wayne Dupree’s frown deepened. “You wanna tell me what’s going on here?” he growled. It was his opinion that Wesley Rountree was almost as clever as he thought he was. This combination of arrogance and cunning always made Wayne a little uneasy. He suspected Wesley of being up to something at nearly every encounter they had, be it sheriff’s-association politics or a jurisdictional dispute over a suspect.

Wesley Rountree was mildness itself. “Honest to Pete, Wayne,” he said, holding up a hand in protest, “I just drove over here to question this individual. I didn’t even have the notion of getting a warrant-and arrest was definitely not on my agenda. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure I have a crime.” He looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess I’m sure now, considering what happened to my witness.”

“He was dead when you got here.”

Wesley nodded. “Cold. Rigor mortis was passing off. I had to check to see if he was beyond help, but other than that I didn’t disturb anything. I called you and walked right out.”

Wayne Dupree was looking anxiously toward the cinderblock building, where his investigators were performing their tasks.

Wesley looked sympathetic. “You want to go over there and see what’s going on, Wayne? I’ll go with you.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t told me-”

“I’ll tell you while we watch,” said Wesley soothingly.

“Good,” grunted the older sheriff. “They can fingerprint you while they’re at it.”

They made their way to the waiting-room side of the crematorium office, where they could observe the bustle of activity without being in anyone’s way. Wesley carefully explained the events of the past few days to an increasingly skeptical Wayne Dupree.

“… And that’s about it,” Wesley concluded with a sigh. “I reckon if Emmet Mason had had enough common sense to use a fake name once he got out there to California, none of this would have happened. He could have just died as John Smith, or whoever he wanted to be, and nobody here would ever have known the difference. I guess he must have kept his old Georgia driver’s license for sentimental reasons. Or maybe he wanted to make sure he’d get back home when the time came.”

Sheriff Dupree shook his head in disapproval. “What about the insurance money?”

“The money his widow received five years ago, you mean?” asked Wesley. “That has pretty well stumped our insurance agent, let me tell you. He is not used to complexities of this nature. The way he figures it, she wasn’t entitled to the money because her husband wasn’t dead, but by the time they discovered the fraud, her husband was dead, so they would owe her the money after all. He practically had smoke coming out of his ears by then, so I told him to call the home office in Atlanta and ask them to put one of their company lawyers on the case.”

“Was the wife in on the fraud?”

“No, indeed. She’s madder than a scalded cat.”

“So you think this establishment here provided the ashes that helped perpetrate the fraud?”

“Well, I had to ask,” said Wesley. “I didn’t see how Emmet Mason could have known anybody in California who would fix him up with a fake urn, unless those folks advertise in magazines, which doesn’t seem likely and doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“The fact that somebody murdered old Jasper seems to confirm your suspicions,” Wayne Dupree admitted.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Who was this Jasper Willis anyhow?”

They turned and looked at the form in the dark suit, presently being outlined in chalk.

“Oh, he’s local,” said the sheriff. “I didn’t know him too well, of course. My county is bigger than yours.” He smirked.

Wesley thought up a rude reply, but did not say it.

“His dad owned a big funeral home downtown, which he left to his two sons: Jasper and the older boy, Jared. That’s the brother I’m acquainted with. He does a lot of civic work. Jared Willis is a good man, knows his business, pillar of the community, but Jasper was just so much dead wood. Didn’t want to go into the funeral business. Couldn’t seem to make a go of a regular job. Finally, Jared Willis got the idea of investing in a crematorium to service the whole region. He knew it wouldn’t make much money now-might even be a tax loss, he told me once-but he figured that in case the environmentalist movement really caught on here, the place could become profitable in ten years or so.”

“Maybe so,” said Wesley politely.

“Meanwhile, he put Jasper out here to run it, with some help from the other mortuary employees on an as-needed basis. There wasn’t a lot to do, so Jasper couldn’t make too much of a mess of things.” The sheriff looked again at the crime scene and frowned. “Apparently, though, he managed to do it, anyhow.”

Wesley digested this information. “Say, Wayne,” he said thoughtfully, “you said Jasper didn’t want to be a funeral director. Do you have any idea what he did want to be?”

Sheriff Dupree considered it. “Nothing sinister,” he said at last. “Not like drugs or racing stock cars, or anything. Let’s see, what was it?” He looked at the office, and suddenly his face cleared. “I’ve got it! He wanted to be a travel agent.”

Wesley nodded. “You know, Wayne, I believe he was.”

Visitors to Chandler Grove were often a bit disconcerted to learn that the Grey House was actually a bright yellow Colonial with green shutters, but the locals would explain to them that the name of the house referred to its owners rather than to its physical attributes.

It had been built around 1930 by Dr. Sanford Grey, at that time the only physician in the county. He had made house calls at all hours of the day or night, braving the red clay roads on a large bay mare named Daisy, who was more reliable on uncertain terrain than the cars of that era. The doctor had accepted payment for his services in hams and fresh eggs, if need be. Somehow, despite these sacrifices, he had managed to become quite wealthy, and he had married well, which is always useful, if one happens to be of a charitable nature in business. Dr. Grey and his wealthy but mousy wife Evangeline had built a grand and spacious house and raised two daughters, neither of whom ever married, though perhaps for different reasons. Local gossip had it that Miss Geneva was too shy to be courted, and Miss Aurelia was too fierce to be wanted.

In the Forties the teenaged sisters went away to a genteel girls’ school-and then came home again. Miss Geneva had acquired expert instruction in fine sewing, a collection of Victorian poetry, and the ability to play the complete works of Stephen Foster on the piano. The only oversight in her otherwise well-spent four years was neglect in finding a husband, but, as she seemed disinclined to remedy the matter, her parents welcomed her back into the fold, and she resumed her previous duties of sewing and flower arranging as if her mind had not been sullied by Latin verbs and plane geometry.

On the other hand, Miss Aurelia had graduated cum laude with a degree in nursing, much disapproved of by her mother, but at last it was decided that propriety would be served if she only worked as an assistant to her father, where her contacts with the unsavory side of life could presumably be monitored by her ever-watchful parent. What Miss Aurelia thought of this was not discussed outside the family, but those who knew her in later years suspected that the argument had taken place fortissimo and almost entirely in words of Anglo-Saxon derivation. Nevertheless, in this case age and treachery overcame youth and skill, and Aurelia Grey, after discovering that no medical personnel were inclined to hire her (a quiet word from the doctor was always suspected in this matter), she settled into Chandler Grove to serve as her father’s assistant. By all accounts, she had been good at her job; indeed, had she belonged to a later generation, she would have become a doctor herself, but unfortunately hers was not to be a lasting career.

In the late Fifties, Dr. Grey died of a heart attack while smoking his third cigar of the evening at the annual church barbecue. By the time the old doctor had passed away, his neurasthenic wife was well on her way to becoming a picturesque invalid. The practice was passed on to other physicians (most notably Robert Chandler), and Miss Aurelia devoted her nursing skills to the care of her mother. Despite Mrs. Grey’s delicate constitution (vaguely described to appropriate inquirers as female trouble), old Mrs. Grey had managed to live to be eighty-four, thanks perhaps to the devoted nursing of her daughters. When at last she died, Miss Geneva was quite prostrate with grief, while her sister tidied up her mother’s legal affairs, parceled out her clothes, and-as soon as she could safely leave her grieving sister-departed for a vacation in Florida.

People thought that it was high time Aurelia Grey had a bit of fun in life, and no one could have been more surprised than Chandler Grove to learn two weeks later that Aurelia herself had died suddenly while visiting the Everglades. All things considered, her sister took the additional loss rather well, and she continued to live on in the house, pursuing her routine of church work and fine sewing just as she had before. Everyone said they would have thought that Miss Geneva would be the first to go, being delicate like her mother; but the more progressive town gossips noted that Type-A personalities like Dr. Grey and his eldest daughter were the best bets for an early demise. Overengined for the beam, they declared.

By the time she had arrived for a consultation with Miss Geneva Grey, Elizabeth had been thoroughly briefed on the family history, because Southerners believe that who you are has very little to do with present circumstances. Elizabeth had, of course, been instructed to mention none of what she had been told, and indeed, under no circumstances was she to allow the word Everglades to be uttered in conversation with Miss Geneva.

She parked her car in the driveway under the oak tree and was heading up the cement walk toward the front door when a quick blast from a sports-car horn signaled the arrival of the maid of honor. Jenny emerged from her car, looking like a collector doll from the Danbury Mint. Her hair was a confection of spun gold and her scoop-necked garden dress in an English rose pattern looked like formal daywear. Two sizes larger, thought Elizabeth, and I could wear it to the Royal Garden Party. Okay, three sizes larger.

“Isn’t this exciting?” cried Jenny in her best Sparkle Plenty voice. “I just love dress fittings! If we had time, I know some places in Atlanta… Oh, but they’re a little expensive.”

“I’m sure this will be fine,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve brought some material and a pattern, but we can do some alterations in the design, if she’s up to it.”

Jenny looked at the bride-to-be appraisingly. “Honey, you did pick an A-line, didn’t you?”

Geoffrey Chandler did not limit his love of drama to the confines of the theatre. Indeed, he felt that the little comedies and melodramas played out in his native village afforded just as much entertainment as anything ever written by the Bard of Avon. Geoffrey was not necessarily inclined to gossip, as he saw no reason to share the best bits with anyone else, but he did enjoy keeping himself informed about the little dramas that were going on about him.

When his cousin Elizabeth had let slip her news about the reprise of Emmet Mason’s death scene and the subsequent suspicion that some of the local dearly departed had not gone so far as the hereafter when they exited Chandler Grove, he had resolved to pursue a quiet inquiry of his own. Geoffrey had no desire to be helpful to the police in this matter-or even to share his findings with other interested parties; he simply thought that it would be amusing to know.

“At least it would save one the bother of trying to call them up on the Ouija board, if one learns that they are presently residing in Escondido, California,” he remarked to himself. As soon as Elizabeth had left for her dressmaker’s appointment, Geoffrey went out to his own car and headed for the one-block section of downtown Chandler Grove.

He decided to forgo a look at the courthouse records. “I wouldn’t pass the time of day with Susan Davis to find out if I were dead,” he muttered.

Five minutes later, he strolled into the office of the Chandler Grove Scout, where Marshall Pavlock was hard at work, pasting up the Piggly Wiggly ad. He was a heavyset man with a shock of white hair and a mild expression somewhat at odds with his eyes.

“Hello, Marshall,” said Geoffrey, edging past the customers’ counter. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“I won’t,” said the editor and owner of the newspaper. “Not unless you’ve brought an ad about the new playhouse production.”

“Not yet,” said Geoffrey. “Ripeness is all.”

Marshall Pavlock frowned. “That’s Lear. I thought you were doing Twelfth Night.”

“Well, we are. Oh, never mind. Anyhow I’ve come about something else.” Geoffrey did not enjoy barding to an overeducated audience. It spoiled the spontaneity. “I’d like to look at the back issues of the Scout.”

The editor looked up from his ad with a puzzled expression. “Is there a scavenger hunt going on in town or something?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re the second person asking to see those papers. Now ordinarily we don’t get more than a dozen requests a year like that, and most of those are from high-school kids. I just wondered why all of a sudden it has become such a popular pastime.”

“Who was the other person who asked to see them?”

“The deputy. Clay Taylor. I got the impression from him that it was police business.”

“I expect it was,” said Geoffrey smoothly. “We probably want to see the papers for entirely different reasons.”

“Maybe so,” said Marshall. “But if you’re onto anything that would be useful as a news story, you let me know about it.” He motioned Geoffrey to the back room where the bound copies of the Scout were kept.

“Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something,” muttered Geoffrey, but he took care that Marshall Pavlock should not overhear him.

An hour later Geoffrey emerged from the back room with a notepad full of interesting facts gleaned from the obituary columns of the Scout. He did not, however, share his findings with the editor of that publication.

Elizabeth and Jenny were having tea with Geneva Grey, who had recovered somewhat from her surprise upon meeting them. Or, rather, upon meeting Jenny. She had seemed quite equal to the honor of greeting Elizabeth, but when she had turned to welcome her second visitor, her face registered recognition, shock, and then delight in short order.

“Aren’t you-why, you’re my weather girl!” she cried, glancing at the television set as if in search of evidence of Jenny’s escape.

Jenny Ramsay smiled her demure princess smile, and her eyelids fluttered. “Oh, I can’t believe you recognized me!” she murmured. “Aren’t you sweet? I’m afraid I look like a dishrag in this old thing.”

Miss Grey, a small-boned woman with shining white hair and a dazzling smile of her own, had beamed back at the Weather Princess. “And you’re getting married!” she exclaimed.

“No, sorry,” said Elizabeth, with a little wave of her hand. “Over here. Yes, me. I’m the bride.”

The seamstress’s smile decreased in voltage ever so slightly. “Well, of course you are!” she said, patting Elizabeth on the arm. “I remember now. You told me all about your bone work on the telephone. It completely slipped my mind when I saw Jenny here. And afterward, you’re going to fly over to England and see the Queen.”

“Scotland, actually,” said Elizabeth, blushing.

“Well, do come in, and let’s talk about this exciting event.” She cast a last beaming smile at Jenny. “Just wait till I tell folks I had the Channel Four weather girl in for tea!”

She settled them on a faded velvet love seat in the parlor, then she bustled into the kitchen to make the tea. When they were alone, Jenny leaned over to Elizabeth and whispered, “I’m sorry. You must be about ready to kill me!”

Elizabeth summoned up a pale smile. “No, of course not, Jenny. I think it’s wonderful for you.” Privately she wondered how Jenny Ramsay would look in malarial yellow.

“You know, we never did talk about exactly where your aunt’s house is,” said Jenny. “I have to be able to find it on Saturday, you know!”

“You can’t miss it,” said Elizabeth. “It’s Long Meadow Farm. There’s a Bavarian castle across the road.”

“Oh my,” said Jenny, wide-eyed. “Are you related to them?”

“Sure. Amanda Chandler is my mother’s sister. In fact, her sons Charles and Geoffrey are part of the wedding party. They didn’t go to school in Chandler Grove, though. Did you ever meet them?”

Jenny laughed pleasantly. “I meet so many people,” she said. “If they ever served on a civic committee, I’m sure I’ve crossed paths with them. Are they cute?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “They’re… interesting.”

“Well,” said Jenny, “anybody with that much money is interesting.”

Presently, Miss Grey returned, bearing a silver tray on which a Spode tea service rested in newly rinsed splendor. Beside it was a plate of home-baked cookies. “Now,” she said, beaming at them, “I want to hear all about it!”

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “I’m afraid it’s short notice, because the wedding is only a week away, but I’ve been dieting, you see, and-”

“You’re not sweet on that Badger Darnell, are you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth, losing her train of thought. “What did you say?”

Jenny gave a little cough. “I believe she means me, honey.” She directed another princess look at their hostess. “No, ma’am, I’m not at all involved with Badger. Why, I think of him as a big brother, and that’s all. He’s like family. But he certainly is an eligible bachelor, so if you want him, you go right ahead.”

Geneva Grey gave a little squeal of laughter and tapped Jenny playfully on the arm. That line always did go down well with the little old ladies.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then she reached for a cookie. “As I said, we have very little time, but I did bring a pattern that you might want to look at.” She reached into her totebag and brought out the thick envelope containing the dress pattern.

Miss Grey studied the cover drawings with a practiced eye. “Yes,” she said, “I like that neckline. Are you going to want it in satin?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve already bought the material. What do you think?” She handed the totebag to the seamstress.

“Yes. Very nice. So you want it just like the picture, then?”

“Well, no. There is one alteration that I’d like.” She explained her plan.

“Well, that will make a change, won’t it?”

“Can you do it?”

“Well, certainly. I’ll just get some measurements. But first, we ought to decide what Jenny’s going to wear.”

“There are two bridesmaids,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, where’s the other one?”

“She can’t make it to Chandler Grove until the day before the ceremony, but she said to tell you that she’s a size nine.”

Miss Grey looked doubtful. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I can manage.”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about it,” said Elizabeth. “After all, everyone will be looking at me.”

Jenny Ramsay smiled sweetly. “Have another cookie, Elizabeth?”

Wesley Rountree managed to get back to the office just as Clay was going off duty. “Is Hill-Bear off on patrol yet?” he asked, checking his desk for messages.

“You just missed him,” said Clay, sitting back in his swivel chair. “How’d it go?”

“Well,” said Wesley. “I damn near got arrested. How are things with you?”

Without a word, Clay walked over to the apartment-sized refrigerator under the counter and took out a Diet Coke. Solemnly, he popped the tab and handed the can to the sheriff.

“Thanks, Clay. I guess that means you want to go first.”

Wesley sipped his drink while Clay explained about his exercise in futility at the records office, and his subsequent trip to the Scout offices to read the obituaries. “Actually,” he said, “Azzie Todd’s memory was pretty good. He only left out a couple of people who died out of the county. Mostly old folks in nursing homes, or who had gone to live with their kids.”

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Wesley sadly. “Not many young people can afford to live around here.”

“Yes,” said Clay. “But if we let industry come in to create jobs, what would it do to the land?”

“I didn’t say I had any answers, Clay. Do you have that list of people who died out of the county?”

Clay handed him a neatly typed list. “I made you a copy.”

“Okay. I guess we’ll get started on this tomorrow. Thanks, Clay.”

The deputy looked embarrassed. “No problem,” he muttered. “At least I didn’t get arrested.”

“Well, neither did I,” said Wesley. “But only because nobody was granting Wayne Dupree any wishes today.” Between swigs of cola, he explained about finding the body of Jasper Willis, and the subsequent investigation by the minions of the neighboring sheriff’s department.

Clay listened in silence. Finally he said, “Did they find out anything?”

“Stabbed in the throat,” said Wesley. “The coroner over there thought he might have been approached from behind. Maybe while he was sitting at his desk. They haven’t identified the weapon yet, but it wasn’t present at the scene. They don’t seem to think it was a knife, though. At least not a particularly well sharpened one.”

The deputy shuddered. After a moment’s pause he said, “Well, it’s too bad he was killed before you could question him. That leaves us back where we started.”

“He’s dead, Clay. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t lead us anywhere, and we don’t have any proof.”

“No, but I have some fascinating bits of speculation. Sheriff Dupree gave me some significant evidence. He said that Willis always wanted to be a travel agent. There were travel posters decorating his office, too.”

“So?”

“Couple that with the name of his business, and what do you get?”

Clay Taylor pondered the term Elijah’s Chariot for a good half minute. “He did tours of the Holy Land?”

“Classical education,” said Wesley triumphantly. “I always said there was nothing to beat it. Your generation grew up playing with the hamster at the back of the classroom when you should have been studying literature.”

“It’s from the Bible,” said Clay in defense of his grade school.

“Right. And what do you remember about Elijah?”

“Wait a minute. We had him in Sunday school. He was the baldheaded prophet that the little boys made fun of. And so he called some she-bears out of the woods and they ate up forty-two of them.”

“That was Elisha,” snapped Wesley. “And judging from your version of the tale, you must have the Jerry Clower translation of the Gospel.”

“I never forgot it,” said Clay. “It made me downright scared of preachers. But I can’t seem to place Elijah.”

“Elijah was the prophet who recruited Elisha. First Book of Kings.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Clay, concentrating mightily. “Didn’t you mention this before? He went to heaven in a chariot of fire.”

“Exactly,” said Wesley, slapping the desk. “And there’s just one more important fact about that little journey of Elijah’s. He was the only person in the Bible who went to heaven without having to die.”

“Elijah’s Chariot,” murmured Clay, considering the name again. “A fiery departure, but no death. You reckon people figured that out?”

Wesley sent his Coke can spiraling toward the wastebasket. “I bet Emmet did.”

“So who killed the provider of this handy little service?”

Wesley Rountree grinned. “Somebody who wouldn’t be caught dead, I reckon.”