The Windsor Knot

CHAPTER 12

THE WEDDING WAS three days away. Well, four, if you counted today. Elizabeth’s reckoning depended entirely upon the subject uppermost in her mind at the moment of calculation. If she was worrying about whether her dress would be finished on time, there were four days left. If she was on the verge of hysterics from sheer panic and overexertion, there were only three days to be endured. Anyhow it was Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of June. In ninety-one hours or so, momentous things would happen. The Princess of Wales would turn twenty-eight, the Fourth of July weekend would get off to a rousing start, and Elizabeth MacPherson would be getting married.

Despite an occasional bout of wedding nerves, she had to admit that things had gone very well indeed, thanks, in large part, to the organizing skill of her aunt Amanda. Elizabeth was convinced that if Aunt Amanda had been in charge of the Confederates at the Battle of Atlanta, General Sherman would have had very little time for private study.

With military precision, she had managed to secure the services of an organist and a photographer; commandeered a suitable minister; negotiated with the florist to her own satisfaction; and in a rout reminiscent of the first Battle of Manassas, she had subdued the Earthling catering company-so that in exchange for her guarantee of a generous donation to Greenpeace, they promised to serve both animal flesh and politically incorrect vegetables at the MacPherson-Dawson wedding reception.

Elizabeth had been to a dress fitting the day before and she was very pleased with the look of her wedding gown.

Definitely the tension was beginning to subside, at least as far as the preparations went. Next would come the arrival of all the people from out of town, which would involve a whole new realm of anxiety, along the lines of: what will my mother think of his mother-and is Daddy going to tell that awful joke about the Scottish minister, the priest, and the rabbi?

The clock on her bedside table read 8:11. Even now the Dawsons would be in flight over the Atlantic, having left Prestwick in the early morning Scottish time (about five hours ago) for their flight to Atlanta. Elizabeth smiled, thinking how wonderful it would be to see Cameron again, especially since they had sworn off phone calls last week as an economy measure. Her own parents had returned from Hawaii on Tuesday, but they were waiting until Thursday to drive down with Bill, who was unable to escape from work any sooner.

She climbed out of bed and put on a T-shirt and jeans, which was all the sartorial effort she could summon upon first getting up. “Now if only I didn’t look like a dead rat,” she said, peering at herself in the mirror and ruffling her dark hair. “Beauty parlor today.”

A discreet tapping at the bedroom door distracted her. “Come in!” called Elizabeth, eyeing her rumpled jeans. “I’m as ready as I’m going to get.”

Geoffrey sailed into the room, looking like someone on his way to a regatta. Elizabeth stared at the white cotton sweater and white slacks and then up at Geoffrey to make sure that it was indeed her cousin who had just entered the room. “You must have been up all night,” she declared flatly.

“On the contrary,” said Geoffrey, “I find sleep less beguiling when I am busy.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” muttered Elizabeth. “Just what are you up to?”

“Why, trying to be helpful with the wedding, of course. In order to relieve Mildred of the more mundane cleaning chores so that she can give her full attention to the coming nuptials, I have straightened my own room and I am now gathering the dirty clothes to take downstairs to the laundry room. So far I have mine, and Charles’s, which I obtained just now by tiptoeing into his room and collecting it off the floor. He is sleeping like a stoat, so I didn’t wake him, but I doubt if he will notice anything amiss. Is there anything you would care to contribute to the basket?”

Elizabeth regarded him with undisguised suspicion. “You’re not having a yard sale, are you?”

Geoffrey put his hand over his heart. “Moi?”

“I suppose I mustn’t be ungrateful about it,” she muttered. “Although this is so unlike you that I think you probably ought to have a CAT scan.” She gathered up a few items of clothing and placed them on the top of the clothes basket. “Anyway, thank you.”

“Not at all,” said Geoffrey smoothly. “Virtue is its own reward, in clever little ways.” He picked up the basket and turned to go, but, as if struck by an afterthought, he set it down again and said, “Have you heard anything more from the sheriff about the cremation case of his?”

Elizabeth yawned. “No, Geoffrey. I told you, I’m not going to get involved in it.”

“I found the news of the murder of a crematorium director over in Roan County most interesting.

“It could be a coincidence.” She shrugged. “Maybe the business was a cover for a moonshining operation.” This was not so much a serious suggestion as a demonstration of her complete indifference to the lure of detection.

“I found it interesting all the same. Thought I might put out a question or two here and there.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Geoffrey, if you get yourself killed and spoil my wedding, I’ll have you barbecued!”

“I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you by my death.”

“Good. And don’t meddle in things, either! Knowing you, you’ll end up getting the minister arrested for murder and the whole wedding will be a shambles!”

“Father Ashland is safe from me,” Geoffrey promised. “Should I witness him torching an orphanage and dancing naked among the fire hoses, my lips will be sealed.”

“Good.”

“To further assure you of my benevolence, I wonder if there are any little errands that I can undertake for you today?”

Elizabeth eyed him suspiciously. “Might this end up in my receiving on the day of the wedding a purple wedding cake, or two hundred unhousebroken doves? You’re not planning to sabotage my wedding, are you, Geoffrey?” Her voice ended on a plaintive note close to tears.

“I’m not,” said Geoffrey, dropping his usual affectations. “Really. I have no pranks in mind at all. I say this to put your mind at rest while I ask you a rather irrelevant question, the answer to which will not, I vow, be used against you.”

Elizabeth glared at her cousin. “This had better not be about sex.”

“No!” said Geoffrey, sounding quite shocked. “I merely wanted to inquire if you knew what an automobile distributor cap looked like?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Oh, do you know that story about the Queen? During the war when Princess Elizabeth was eighteen, she served as a subaltern in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, and she took a course in ATS vehicle maintenance. You know, how to read maps, drive in convoy, and vehicle service and maintenance.”

Geoffrey looked restive. “About the distributor cap-”

“I’m coming to that.” Elizabeth was enjoying her story. “When she had finished the course, her father the King went to Camberly on an inspection tour, and the princess was going to show off what she had learned by starting an engine she’d just serviced. But she couldn’t get the motor to start! After a few awkward moments, King George admitted to having taken off the distributor cap.”

“Hilarious,” said Geoffrey gravely.

“I learned about distributor caps so that I could fix the car if any malicious relative ever did that to me.” She fixed Geoffrey with a meaningful stare.

“My own motives exactly,” said Geoffrey. “You know what pranksters theatre people are. It’s just the thing they might do to my car. Do tell me where it is and what it looks like.”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “It’s a domelike plastic thing in the middle of the engine with little chimneys on the top or sides and it has wires going out of it to the spark plugs. They’re usually held on with spring clips. Cameron taught me that.” Her eyes misted again. “Now, please, Geoffrey, assuming that you would have the intelligence to find one in a car, much less remove it, please don’t do this to us after the wedding!”

“You have my solemn word,” said Geoffrey. “I will use the information only for purposes of defense.”

“All right,” said Elizabeth, wiping her eyes. “In that case, I guess you can take the final guest list to the caterer. They’re making little place cards in calligraphy for the guests. You might check at the florists-see if Lucy’s flower orders came through yet. And you could take this zipper to Miss Geneva. I bought the wrong kind and had to get another one.”

“It shall be done,” Geoffrey promised, looking particularly pleased.

“Good,” said Elizabeth. “Then I can spend the day getting my hair done and taking care of about a million other things I should have thought of earlier. Cameron and his mother and brother will be here this evening. We’re making it kind of a party dinner. You’ll be around for that, won’t you?”

Geoffrey considered the possibility. “I have an early-evening appointment, but if dinner is later than seven, I’m sure I can manage.”

“Eight-thirty, then,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “I should be through by then.”

Deputy Clay Taylor felt a little uneasy about going out to question the people at Earthling. He had always found them to be very sincere and committed individuals and he had partaken of many a beans-and-rice potluck in support of their causes in Central America. He consoled himself with the thought that he was not, in fact, in charge of the interrogation, but merely accompanying a colleague as a guide and observer.

Since the murder of crematorium director Jasper Willis had occurred in Roan County, the task of investigating it fell to Wayne Dupree’s organization, but since many of the suspects were in Wesley Rountree’s jurisdiction, the two departments had decided to team Clay with an officer from Roan County to carry out the questioning. Meanwhile, Dupree’s other deputies were checking the possibility of faked deaths in their own county.

“Though they might not be as likely suspects,” Wesley had explained to his fellow sheriff, “because they didn’t know about Emmet’s reappearance, so they had no reason to become nervous. If you didn’t know about Emmet, you’d think you had still gotten away with the scheme.”

So far Clay and the Roan deputy had been working together for three days. They were nearly finished with the list of suspects. So far they had turned up nothing suspicious and no one had admitted any knowledge of Emmet Mason’s reappearance. Clay would be glad when the partnership was over, because, while Charlie Mundy was an excellent officer as far as Clay could determine, he was also a humorless, narrow-minded pain in the patoot. He was a burly six-footer who looked like the ex-linebacker that he was, and he was a combat veteran from the Marine Corps, all of which may have enabled him to become a first-rate law enforcement officer, but it had done nothing for his somewhat canine personality. It was like going on patrol with a pit bull, Clay had thought-often during the last three days. Charlie Mundy had a perpetual squint of suspicion and a crooked smile that he employed when he was least amused. Clay, who managed to combine a career as a peace officer with what he hoped were noble sentiments about the rights of man and the responsibility of the human species to the ecological well-being of the planet, was profoundly uncomfortable in his massive colleague’s sneering presence.

“Will you look at this?” Mundy was saying, in his most disdainful tone. He had just pulled into the parking lot of the old gristmill and was presently leaning on the steering wheel, staring malevolently at the Earthling sign above the door. “Earth Shoe people!” He reminded Clay of a shark in a swimming pool.

At the risk of deflecting the attack toward the vicinity of his own soft tissues, Clay ventured a mild defense of the potential suspects. “Actually, Charlie, I know most of them socially. They’re very gentle people.”

Charlie Mundy sneered. “I don’t like cults.”

“Actually,” murmured Clay, “a cooperative community bears very little resemblance to a cult-”

But Charlie Mundy had already slammed the car door behind him and was slouching toward the door of the herb shop. Clay hurried after him, hoping that he could salvage some of law enforcement’s positive image by toning down Mundy’s attack.

Rogan Josh met them at the door, looking politely terrified. “May I help you?” he quavered. A glance at Clay indicated that he recognized the deputy, but would not venture to say so.

Charlie Mundy whipped out a notebook. “Name?”

Some minutes later, the entire Earthling contingent had been rounded up and their names had been duly recorded by an ever-more contemptuous Charlie Mundy. His expression suggested that anyone whose name was not a classic English appellation of one syllable was a self-proclaimed eccentric and potential criminal. Considerable time had been taken up in the spelling of the Earthling monikers.

His attitude certainly commanded the full attention of the huddled group, but their cooperation was less apparent. By the time he finally got around to the salient questions, the Earthlings would have denied all knowledge of tofu, much less anything more relevant.

“Christopher Greene?” said Shanti vaguely. “That was Ramachandra, wasn’t it?”

A couple of others nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, we had him cremated. He requested it,” another one offered. “We still have the will, of course.”

Charlie Mundy scowled at the assembled suspects. “And he left his money to you?”

They all looked down at the floor. “Oh, money,” one of them remarked. “It’s of so little consequence.”

“Didn’t we give it all to the Central American Freedom Fighters?” asked another.

“Or was it the Endangered Wildflower Fund?”

“We want to see financial statements,” Charlie informed them. “Tax records. I’ll check the courthouse.”

“Of course,” said R. J.

Clay almost burst out laughing, picturing the courthouse encounter between the snarling Charlie Mundy and the surly Susan Davis. It would either be a match made in heaven (or thereabouts) or a window-rattling dogfight.

Serenely unaware of the encounter that awaited him, Charlie Mundy pursued his next line of inquiry. “Did you know about the case of another local individual, one Emmet Mason, who was supposed to have died five years ago, but who reappeared in California?”

“That’s great, man,” said Shanti with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “But we’re not surprised.”

“No?”

“Oh, no. We believe in reincarnation.”

When Geoffrey Chandler appeared at the old gristmill some twenty minutes later, the Earthling community was still assembled, discussing the just-departed officers.

“Now that was a major personality disorder, heavily into power and subjugation,” said R. J.

“Are you surprised?” asked Shanti. “He probably eats enough red meat to turn himself into a werewolf!”

They stopped talking suddenly when Geoffrey appeared at the shop door, but he could tell that they were disturbed, and he could guess why. “Don’t let me interrupt!” he said cheerfully, pretending to have a look at the various plastic tubs of spices. “I know you all must be frightfully upset. Have you thought to make tea? Chamomile, I think.”

A young man with rimless glasses and a ponytail shook his head. “Betony.”

There was a moment’s silence and then a bearded man in overalls said, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“Ah, no,” said Geoffrey gently. “I know as much as they, but I dress better. Actually, you’re catering a wedding at my house this Saturday. I have been sent to deliver the final guest list for the calligrapher.”

Their expressions suggested that the Dawson-MacPherson wedding, or more probably their recent encounter with Charlie Mundy’s soulmate Amanda the Hun, was not a topic they cared to dwell on, but a moon-faced woman in braids took the list from him.

“I, for one, am quite looking forward to your wonderful vegetarian recipes at the reception,” said Geoffrey heartily, if untruthfully. Seeing that he had his audience again, he continued: “I am also an old acquaintance of Emmet Mason’s.” That much was certainly true. Geoffrey had played the Stage Manager to Emmet’s Mr. Webb in the Chandler Grove production of Our Town.

“So have you heard the latest news about him?” asked Shanti.

“That the initial reports of his death were grossly exaggerated? So I understand. Clarine must be badly hurt by that.”

“Absolutely,” Shanti agreed. “Her self-esteem is in the low registers and she is letting a lot of negative ionization take place in her brain waves.”

Geoffrey took what appeared to be a sympathetic pause, but in fact he was thinking furiously. “I hope you were able to help her,” he said at last. “Was she receptive?”

“Sort of. She said she’d start coming to meditation classes and I gave her a crystal to neutralize the unhealthy feelings.”

“But it might take a few days to work,” said Geoffrey, in a tone suggesting that crystal therapy was his life’s work. “When did she come to you?”

“Last Thursday. Her first session is tomorrow.”

Geoffrey almost smiled. Thursday. The day before the Willis murder! So they did know. He wondered, though, if they had a motive. The news article about the death of tobacco heir Christopher Greene had not escaped his notice, but framing a question regarding fraud on the part of the group would call for large measures of tact and skill. He was glad that various group members had chosen to argue among themselves as to what methods would best serve Clarine Mason’s spiritual ailments. Pretending to listen, he cogitated.

Finally he thought of an angle. “You know,” he began, as if divulging a confidence, “call me unorthodox, but, really, the damage to Clarine’s feelings is all I see wrong with old Emmet’s little deception. I mean, so what if the insurance companies had to pay up? They’ve soaked it to poor people for years. If someone without close ties did it-or did it with his family’s knowledge-I don’t see the harm. Especially if the money were going to a cause, instead of for personal gain.”

“That’s what we thought,” said the bearded man. “It sure beats robbing banks to get funding.”

“Of course, it could be a bit sticky if the supposed deceased were ever discovered,” said Geoffrey, in casual tones stressing the philosophical nature of the discussion.

Shanti smiled. “But if that person should happen to be in the Amazon rain forest teaching agricultural methods to the Yamomano Indians, there would seem to be very little cause for concern.”

“Very little cause,” said Geoffrey with a nod of thanks. “No more than a cup of betony tea’s worth.”

Charles Chandler shaved twice that day. He wanted to make sure that he looked his absolute best for the meeting with Snow White that evening. His black hair was newly washed and staying in place for a change, and he had cleaned his fingernails. The choice of clothes was another matter. Strictly speaking, Charles didn’t have a choice, except his Sunday suit, which fortunately fit him as well as it did in high school. He briefly considered swiping something out of Geoffrey’s considerable hoard of finery, but he was a bit larger than his brother and he would look even more ridiculous in a jacket that did not reach his wrists.

What, he wondered, did one say to a strange young woman who could not be assumed to be familiar with Bohr’s law or the Doppler effect?

Beneath all his personal anxieties, another fear lurked. Suppose this Snow White person had lied about her attributes? Three days left. Should he marry her anyway, even if he found her repulsive? Charles decided to postpone a decision on that. The degree of repulsion would have to be measured against the monetary value of the estate.

Geoffrey’s next stop was the Grey House on Main Street, to deliver the promised zipper to the seamstress. Noting that Miss Geneva’s little Buick was in the driveway, Geoffrey parked behind her and hurried up the familiar front steps. He remembered trick-or-treating at this house as a child. The garden was better kept then, he thought sadly, and the paint on the house had been fresher. He supposed that Miss Geneva was having a hard time trying to cope without her efficient elder sister.

At that moment, Miss Geneva drew aside the curtain and peered through the glass panel on the front door. Recognizing him, she flung open the door and ushered him in. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” she cried. “I just can’t get over how tall you two boys have grown.”

Geoffrey made suitable noises in reply. He looked around at the shabby parlor, much in need of an upholsterer.

“Have you brought that zipper I needed for your cousin’s dress?” Geoffrey held out the paper bag. Miss Geneva took it with exclamations of joy at his cleverness for remembering, for finding her house, and so on. Geoffrey decided that Southern belles of her generation were a lost treasure; women no longer bothered to lay it on so thick.

“Well, how are you, Geoffrey?” she asked, motioning for him to sit down.

“Oh, tolerable,” he answered with a lazy smile. “Actually, I came to see how you were. Has someone from the sheriff’s department been by?”

She frowned. “Why, yes. Just a little while ago. One of them was quite a handsome man-reminded me of my father. Very forceful way about him. I’m sure he’s an excellent officer.”

“They think that fellow Willis was involved in fraud, you know. Isn’t it odd about Emmet Mason?” said Geoffrey in his most confiding tone.

“Yes, your cousin was telling me about that. How sad for poor Clarine.” She smiled briefly. “There are some consolations to never having married, and I found this to be one of them.”

Geoffrey nodded. “I’m sure you must miss your sister, though.”

“Aurelia was company for me, of course,” Miss Geneva agreed. “But we didn’t always get along. She could be a Tartar in her way, and of course she said the same about me.”

“It’s hard for me to think of Miss Aurelia as dead,” said Geoffrey. “I guess it’s because I was away at school when she passed on, and so I didn’t get to the memorial service. It was a memorial service, wasn’t it, rather than a funeral?”

“Oh, yes. She’d always said she wanted to be cremated, so I did as she asked.”

“Was the body shipped back to Chandler Grove, then?”

“No. Directly from the Florida mortuary to Mr. Willis’s establishment. But we had the memorial service here at the church. It would have been such a long way for people to drive, all the way over there in Roan County. Even I didn’t go for the actual-you know, the process. I went and collected the ashes the next day.”

Unable to help himself, Geoffrey looked up on the mantelpiece, but there was no metal urn in evidence. “And what did you do with her, Miss Geneva?”

The old lady smiled sweetly. “Why, I put her on the roses, Geoffrey. I think she’d have liked that.”

“Well, I must be going now,” said Geoffrey, getting up. “How are the dresses coming along, by the way?”

“I must say I don’t like to be so rushed. I should have been allowed a week per dress. Really, these modern girls! Marry in haste, you know. But since the patterns are simple, I believe I will finish them on Friday evening. Indeed, I must, mustn’t I?”

“The sooner the better,” said Geoffrey in a tone of some urgency.

In his law office Tommy Simmons was working late. It was after six-thirty, and he still had paperwork that had to be finished. When the phone rang, he hoped that it would be an invitation to dinner, because surely no clients would call at this hour. “Hello,” he said in his off-duty voice, “Tommy Simmons here.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you in,” said the voice. “This is Geoffrey Chandler.”

Tommy held the phone away from his ear as if he were planning to peer into it. “Where are you calling from?”

“A bar, actually. Look, can you answer me two quick questions?”

Members of your family are always asking me two quick questions, thought Tommy, remembering his grocery-store encounter with Charles. “Yes, Geoffrey, I’ll try,” he said aloud.

“Good. First of all, have you put things in motion for my cousin Elizabeth to receive the inheritance from Aunt Augusta?”

“Yes,” said Tommy cautiously. “The papers are drawn up, but of course, it’s not official-”

“And is it a substantial amount?”

“It has increased considerably in recent years. I don’t know if you know anything about real estate-”

“Mercifully little,” said Geoffrey. “But is it, say, a million?”

“Thereabouts.”

“I see. And now to change the subject entirely. Settle a bet for me, would you? Is there a waiting period in Georgia before one can get married?”

“Geoffrey, you wouldn’t…?”

“Not for worlds, Tommy. But please answer the question.”

“Three days before the license is granted. Your cousin and her fiancé will just make it. I’ve already spoken to your mother about this.”

“Good. Good. What about South Carolina and Florida?”

“Florida is three days. South Carolina-one day before license is granted. I think. I could look it up.”

“No, that’s okay. It probably doesn’t matter. I must go in a moment. To change the subject, Tommy, how is Miss Geneva Grey getting along?”

Tommy couldn’t figure out where this conversation was going. “I don’t see what-”

“My cousin is thinking of making her a monetary gift,” Geoffrey lied.

“Well, I won’t say she couldn’t use it, Geoffrey. Her parents left a good sum of money, but nobody in that family made a dime after the doctor died, which was some thirty years ago, and they dipped into the capital against all advice to the contrary. I’d say that all that’s keeping Miss Geneva going is the life-insurance money from the death of her sister. Would your cousin like me to draw up a deed of gift-”

“That can wait, thanks. Let’s get her married first. Got to run, Tom!”

The lawyer was left holding a buzzing phone and wondering what the previous two minutes had been about.

Geoffrey checked his watch. Nearly seven o’clock. He had to be back at the house in an hour, and the bar was getting crowded. He took another sip of Campari, all the while studying the sea of people. Suddenly he noticed the sign that he was looking for: a girl in a white jacket with a rose in her lapel. She was very pretty indeed.

Geoffrey eased his way past several knots of chatting yuppies and appeared at the blonde girl’s side. “Good evening,” he said softly. “Have I the honor of addressing Snow White?”

The girl’s face lit up with recognition. “Aren’t you Geoffrey Chandler?” she cried. “I met you at a theatre fund-raiser! I’m-”

“Jenny Ramsay,” said Geoffrey nodding. “I never miss a broadcast of the weather. Would you care to sit down?”

As he steered her to a recently vacated booth, Jenny said, “But I thought it was someone named Charles who wrote that letter!” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is this a joke?”

“It was intended to be a very nasty joke,” said Geoffrey. “And the butt of it was to have been my cousin Elizabeth. Let me explain.” In a few sentences he outlined Charles’s plan to grab the inheritance, judiciously omitting the part in which he searched his brother’s room under the pretense of collecting laundry, and discovered the letter from Snow White.

Jenny was stunned. “You mean he wanted me to marry him tomorrow?”

“In order to secure the inheritance. I believe so.”

“But I’m Elizabeth’s maid of honor! I wouldn’t do that to her!”

“Charles did not, alas, know the identity of Snow White.”

Jenny sighed. “Wasn’t that silly? I was just trying to find a way to meet somebody who wouldn’t start out being dazzled by my being a celebrity.”

“Try dating someone whose opinion of himself is equally high,” Geoffrey suggested.

“True,” said Jenny thoughtfully. “There is always Badger.” She looked around the bar. “Oh, what if Charles shows up here and finds us?”

“I think not,” said Geoffrey. “I have stolen his distributor cap. A little trick I picked up from Queen Elizabeth.”

Jenny Ramsay smiled a real smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”