Sick Of Shadows

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ELIZABETH SLEPT BADLY that night. Even though she locked her door and got up twice to make sure the bedroom window was fastened, she half waked at every creak the house made. A fitful early-morning dream about looking for an Indian village in the stacks of the university library abruptly changed into a funeral scene in which Aunt Amanda was nailing Eileen into a pine box. In her dream, Elizabeth suddenly became the one in the box, and she could feel the blows of the hammer vibrating against her upturned face. When she finally struggled to consciousness, she found that the pounding was coming from the bedroom door.

“Honey, you got a phone call!” Mildred was saying. “He says he’s your brother.”

Elizabeth shook her head and yawned. The clock on the nightstand said 7:15. In haste she grabbed the terry-cloth robe at the foot of her bed. She was still struggling to knot the cord around her waist when she reached the bottom of the stairs. The receiver was lying on the hall table, and Mildred was nowhere in sight.

“Hello… Bill?” said Elizabeth carefully. “Why are you calling at this hour? What do you mean you just got in? Did Milo tell you why I called? Oh, Bill, it’s awful!”

“One thing I can’t figure out, Wes,” said Clay Taylor, reading the lab report. “If somebody threw her in that boat on the top of a snake, is that murder or just assault? I mean, the snake did the killing, if I’m reading this report right. Does that mean the person who hit her on the head isn’t responsible, or do we just consider the snake an exotic murder weapon?”

Wesley Rountree sighed in exasperation. “I’ll tell you what I consider it, Clay. I consider it the prosecutor’s problem. All we got to worry about is finding him somebody to prosecute. Now let me alone a minute. I got to make up a list of things for Hill-Bear to do today.” Rountree reared back in his swivel chair and considered his list.

Taylor put down the lab report and went over to check the electric percolator atop the filing cabinet. Its cord was loose, so that if he didn’t keep jiggling it, the water never would get hot. “Don’t forget the capias we got on Johnse Still well.”

“Oh yeah. Another bad check. I’ll put it on here. Anything else?”

“The Bryces went to the beach this week, and they wanted us to pay particular attention to the house while they’re gone.”

Rountree grunted. “Hope they remembered to stop the paper this time.”

“The water’s hot, Wes. Want some coffee?”

Rountree shook his head. “No. I’m meeting with Simmons this morning, and he doesn’t use instant. I’ll wait.”

Taylor considered this as he poured his own cup of coffee and ladled sugar into it. “Chandler case, huh?”

“Yep. Consult the family lawyer.”

Clay settled back at his own paperless desk. Months of neatness-by-example had failed to effect any change at all in Rountree’s habits. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “this case could be tricky. I didn’t come up with any fingerprints on the easel and paintbox, except those of the deceased. We don’t even know why she was killed.”

“No, but we got a lot of whys to choose from,” snapped the sheriff. “An inheritance, a reluctant groom, and let’s not forget that damned picture that nobody can find.”

Taylor smiled. “Aw, you don’t think somebody killed her for a picture, do you, Wes?”

“Not to hang it in their dining room, no. But somebody sure wanted to get rid of it. And she was painting by the lake.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Clay, in a puzzled voice.

“Well, I don’t either,” Rountree admitted. “But you’re going back out there right now, and check it out. Maybe you can come up with a few answers, instead of so many questions.”

“Diving gear?” said Taylor hopefully. Since he had taken the scuba diving course the previous fall, he had been on the lookout for opportunities to use his skills in the line of duty, but so far there had been no drownings or aquatic emergencies. The Chandler pond would be the perfect excuse to test his newly learned diving prowess.

“No. Not diving gear,” Rountree growled. “Whatever she was painting had to be visible to somebody standing on the shore. Just walk around and look on the banks and in the shallows. Report anything unusual that you find.”

“I’m on my way.”

Rountree deposited his note on Doris’s desk. It was five minutes after eight; she should be arriving anytime in the next ten minutes without an excuse, or in the next half hour with one. “Meet me at Brenner’s at eleven. I’ll wait on Doris and Hill-Bear.”

“Right.”

“Oh, Clay! If you find a sunken treasure in that lake, call me at Simmons’s office!”

Taylor closed the door to the sound of the sheriff’s chuckle.

“Robert, I assure you that I am perfectly capable of carrying on,” said Dr. Chandler’s wife in a cold voice.

Amanda Chandler had come downstairs after breakfast, looking haggard, but without a sign of tears. Her stiff black dress was so severe and unfashionable that it could only have been used for mourning. Refusing all nourishment except a glass of grapefruit juice, she took her customary place in the den.

“Someone must see to these things,” she informed her husband. “May I ask what arrangements have been made?”

“Arrangements? But, Amanda, there hasn’t been time! It hasn’t even been-”

She nodded triumphantly. “There. You see? No one has done a thing. I am not even allowed to mourn my child in peace, because I am the only practical soul in this house. So many people to be notified. Telegrams! Do they have black-bordered ones? And what does one do about gifts? Perhaps Louisa would know, since Alban’s wedding was cancelled so abruptly.”

Dr. Chandler blinked before the onslaught of such efficiency. “Must we do all this now, Amanda?”

“It is certainly my duty,” said Amanda severely. “I’m sure you can cancel your rounds at the hospital, but you’ll be of no help to me. You might send Elizabeth in, though. I would appreciate some assistance from her. I may also need Geoffrey. Please tell him not to make plans for today. I suppose Father Ashland has not been called?”

“Now, Amanda, you know he hates to be called ‘father’-”

“Then he should have been a Baptist. As an Episcopalian, I assure you that my term is correct. Now, may we get back to my task, while I still have the strength?”

Chandler bowed his head. “All right.”

“Thank you. Before anything can be planned, I need to know when we may put her to rest. Have you received word?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But if you are going to plan funeral arrangements, I’ll ask Michael to come in and see you.”

Amanda stared. “Robert, whatever for?” she demanded.

“Well, they were nearly married…”

“Nearly is immaterial. He is not family. His preferences in the matter do not interest me in the least. Now, please go and find Elizabeth.”

Dr. Chandler opened his mouth to continue the conversation, thought better of it, and turned to go. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

When he had gone, Amanda settled back in her chair and studied the invitation list, making small pencil marks in front of the names of out-of-town guests. Those to be notified by telegram she underlined. This afternoon, Todd and O’Connor would have to be called and consulted about the final arrangements. A small funeral, perhaps, under the circumstances. Surely there would be no reporters or-she shuddered-television crews present? She must ask Azzie Todd about that, not that he was likely to know. Perhaps Father Ashland could help. She sighed. It would be up to her, in the end; it was always up to her. And, of course, Dad would know what to do.

Amanda Chandler had long ago amended her list of “advisors” to exclude her husband. Her feelings toward him had faded into a mixture of disappointment and maternal responsibility which she concealed in brisk efficiency. Robert Chandler’s feelings and opinions had long since ceased to register with her; the truth was, at nearly fifty years of age, Amanda Chandler was “Daddy’s girl.”

When she tried to remember why she had married Robert, the answers were always vague. He was studying medicine, which had pleased her. His determination to become and remain a country doctor was something that she had discovered later. It had all seemed so romantic at the time. Second cousins falling in love-risking the taint of two-headed babies, or whatever that old superstition was. Perhaps she had insisted on the marriage as another show of spirit for her father’s benefït. She had expected him to fly into a paternal rage and forbid the marriage. He had done nothing of the sort. William Chandler had been polite and hearty to the prospective groom, and affectionately distant to her. It was as if he were backing away from her emotionally. Years later, when he retired from the navy, he came to live with them, and he still got on well with Robert and the children, but Amanda could not help feeling a silent reproach in his attitude toward her. She finally realized that he was disappointed in her: she had not become successful and independent; she had not even married a titan; and worst of all, she had not made either of them happy. Daddy’s little girl was a failure.

Amanda tipped the reading glasses down to the end of her nose and squinted at the wall clock: 9:15 in the morning. Too early. But then, she was under an enormous strain, and she hadn’t taken a sedative since the night before. She opened the cabinet and took a decanter of Old Grand-Dad from behind a stack of women’s magazines.

It was a short walk from Wesley Rountree’s office in a wing of the courthouse to the Main Street office of Bryce and Simmons. He took his time, because his appointment was set for 9:30, and he didn’t want to be early. Doris had come in about eight-thirty while he was still reviewing the day’s schedule with Hill-Bear, and he had ended up having coffee with them and telling them about the Chandler case.

Rountree frowned at a candy wrapper on the sidewalk. Clay always picked them up; said he couldn’t abide litter, and Rountree would ask if he’d stop chasing a bank robber to pick up a beer can. Still, it was a civic-minded thing to do. Rountree sighed. No bank robbers in sight. Self-consciously, he bent down and picked up the wrapper, stuffing it in his pocket until he could get to a trash can.

“Morning, Wesley! I see you’re on the job!”

Rountree straightened up. Marshall Pavlock, editor of The Chandler Grove Scout, had that eager look of one who has just discovered his lead story in time for paste-up. “You got a minute, Wes?” he asked politely.

Rountree sighed. It was bound to get out sooner or later, he reasoned, and Marshall might as well have it. He was usually pretty responsible; he had to be; all his potential newsmakers were also his neighbors. When Vance Wainwright was arrested for drunk and disorderly, Marshall could be trusted to leave out the details, like the pathetic notes he’d scrawl on the windows of his ex-wife’s trailer. Most people in Chandler Grove already knew those kinds of details long before the paper came out anyway, and they agreed that such goings-on didn’t belong in print. Marshall Pavlock saved his urge for detail for the place where it was appreciated: the society page. He not only told his readers what the bride and bridesmaids wore, but who made the dress, and who baked the wedding cake, not to mention who cut it, and who was there to eat it. He had been reserving half a page to do such a report on the Chandler-Satisky wedding, but now Eileen would be featured on another page.

“What can I do for you, Marsh?” Rountree grinned.

Marshall grinned back. “You should’a been a poker player, Sheriff. You know very well what you can do. Tell me about the Chandler girl!”

Rountree had long since given up trying to trace the origin of county news. It was enough to make a person believe in telepathy. In this case, though, he discarded ESP in favor of more obvious suspects: Doris, Jewel Murphy, and Mildred Webb. “You heard about that, huh?”

Marshall fished a notepad out of the pocket of his jacket. “I heard that ya’ll took the body to the medical examiner yesterday, and that there’s some question about cause of death. You wanna fill me in?”

Rountree glanced at his watch. “Well, I have an appointment in just a few minutes, so we’ll have to make this fast.”

“She didn’t commit suicide, did she?”

“No, Marshall, I can promise you that. According to Mitchell Cambridge, death occurred sometime yesterday morning as a result of the bite of a poisonous snake-”

“Accident! Why, that poor-”

“-which she got when somebody hit her over the head and threw her on top of the snake,” finished Rountree, noting with satisfaction that Marshall Pavlock was staring at him openmouthed. “In the obituary, you just put died ‘suddenly,’ like you always do. For the news story, I’ll get back to you later. Just say the usual: Sheriff Wesley Rountree and his men are still investigating, blah, blah, blah.”

“But-”

“I gotta go now, Marshall. ’Bye!”

Tommy Simmons did not usually work on Saturdays. It was one of the reasons he had become a lawyer, so that he could keep eating at dinner parties while his doctor friends were called away for emergency appendectomies. This Saturday was an exception; just as it was exceptional for one of his clients to be involved in a violent crime, even as the victim. Meetings with Rountree were fairly routine, but usually on lesser matters. Simmons heard the front door open and close.

“Open up in the name of the law!” called Rountree from the reception room.

Simmons swung open his office door with a grin. “You got a warrant, mister?”

The sheriff waved a packet of saccharin. “Nope! Just a prayer for coffee!”

“Well, get you some and come on in!”

When Rountree was settled in the captain’s chair across from Simmons’s desk, he opened the file in front of him and studied its contents.

“This is a sad business, Wes,” the lawyer said in a sincere voice that might get him elected to something one day. “You know, I was only talking to her day before yesterday.”

“That’s what I heard,” said Rountree. “What was that all about?”

Simmons looked wary. “I don’t know how much I ought to reveal about a client’s affairs-”

“Tom, I know that when I told you the girl was dead, you assumed accident-or suicide maybe,” he amended, reading Simmons’s expression. “But now I can tell you that we’re contending with a murder here.”

“Oh,” said Simmons faintly.

Rountree explained the circumstances of Eileen’s death. “Now, I understand there’s a will mixed up in this.”

“Well, Wesley, there was,” Simmons said, “but she doesn’t get the money, because she didn’t go through with the wedding.” He explained the terms of Augusta’s will.

Rountree considered this. “I guess somebody could have killed her for a shot at the inheritance money.”

“It’s about two hundred thousand dollars or so, before taxes,” offered Simmons.

“So you were out there to discuss the inheritance with her?”

“Yes. But while I was there, she gave me a will of her own.”

“We’ll come to that in a minute. Who was the executor of this first will, the one leaving all that money?”

“That would be Captain William Chandler, the brother of the legator. The money is, of course, invested, and he-”

“Okay. Now if Eileen Chandler is no longer eligible to receive that money, who’s got the next shot at it?”

Simmons blinked. “Well, nobody in particular. I mean-”

“You? Me?”

He smiled. “All right, Wes. I see what you mean. The possible legatees are: Alban Cobb, Charles Chandler, Geoffrey Chandler, Elizabeth MacPherson, and William D. MacPherson. The first of them to marry inherits.”

Rountree ticked them off on his fingers. “Well, now we got five suspects.”

“Four,” Simmons corrected him. “I don’t believe William MacPherson came down for the wedding.”

“Four, then. How about the boyfriend? You said Eileen Chandler made a will. What if she specified that the money was to go to him?”

Simmons hesitated a moment before pulling out a handwritten document on stationery. “Well, it wouldn’t matter, Wes. She couldn’t leave that money to him unless it was legally hers first. I mean, I could leave you the Brooklyn Bridge, but unless I owned it…”

“Okay, I see. Is that her will?” Rountree held out his hand.

“Okay, Wes, I’ll let you see it. But before you do, I’d better tell you that this will is the damnedest thing!” Shaking his head, he handed it across his desk to the sheriff. “The damnedest thing.”

Geoffrey pulled back the curtain and peered at Alban’s castle, white in the morning sunlight. “Did he say he was coming over?”

“I expect he’ll be over later,” said Elizabeth, “but he really didn’t say. Would you like me to call him?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “I suppose not. He can’t do anything. And I can always talk to you, can’t I?”

Elizabeth was puzzled. “About what?”

Geoffrey waved vaguely. “Oh… about this rather theatrical situation we find ourselves in. It’s sort of the reverse of Hamlet, isn’t it? That line about ‘the funeral-baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.’ Only the other way around.”

“You’re always going on about Hamlet,” she observed. “I hope you’re not planning to mention that to any reporters who happen to call. That allusion might be catchy enough to make headlines.”

“No fear, Cousin,” said Geoffrey grimly. “I have no desire to encourage sensationalism, or to gain immortality between the pages of a crime magazine. I just want to find out who did it.”

“Even when you know, it probably won’t make any sense,” sighed Elizabeth. “It will probably be some drifter that we never even heard of, and even he won’t know why he did it.”

“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” snapped Geoffrey.

“Would it be better to find out that it was someone we do know?”

“Just as long as we know. And I don’t think it was just a senseless act of violence. A casual murder. Getting back to Hamlet: ‘Yet there’s method in it.’ ”

“More Hamlet,” muttered Elizabeth.

“It’s called barding,” Geoffrey informed her. “You should hear Sinclair doing it. He can bard through a whole conversation. It’s marvelous!”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I must call him today. The play will have to be put off. I think Mother would insist on six months. Or perhaps they could do a play without me in the meantime.” He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out the large volume of quotations. Flipping to the Ss, he ran his finger down the page and then intoned: “ ‘Our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown.’ ”

“I think it’s cheating if you use the book,” said Elizabeth.

“I just wanted to check to see what act it was in.”

“Hamlet, of course?”

“Of course.”

The duel was interrupted by the sound of the door chimes. “ ‘The bell invites me,’ ” Elizabeth said, hurrying out. “ ‘Hear it not, Duncan-” ’

“You would quote Macbeth!” Geoffrey called after her.

A few moments later she came back to find Geoffrey still leafing through the Dictionary of Quotations. “That was Deputy Sheriff Taylor,” she told him. “He wanted to let us know that he was doing more investigating at the scene of-at the lake.”

Geoffrey nodded without looking up.

“I told him that it would be all right.” She sat down again and picked up her book. She had found it on one of the shelves in the Chandler library: Digging for Troy: The Romance of Archeology.

“You know, it’s unlucky to quote from Macbeth,” he remarked.

“Why? It’s my favorite play.”

“It would be. It’s just terribly unlucky. All theater people are shy of it. Sinclair was telling me that the boy actor who was to play the first Lady Macbeth took ill before the first performance, and the Bard himself had to play the part. The boy supposedly died while the play was going on.”

“Coincidence,” remarked Elizabeth.

“No, really. Two actors in the thirties took sick after having been given the title role, and when Olivier played it, the tip of his sword broke off and struck a member of the audience, who had a heart attack.”

“Oh, dear!” said Elizabeth.

“Lots of actors won’t even say the title, much less quote from it! They call it ‘The Scottish Play.’ ”

“Alban was quoting from it last night. When I told him about Eileen, he said, ‘She should have died hereafter.’ I hope it won’t bring him bad luck.”

“One can never tell. Years from now he may be forced to sit through a bagpipe concert-”

Someone tapped on the library door. A moment later, Dr. Chandler opened the door with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, Elizabeth. Could I possibly disturb you? Your Aunt Amanda is asking for you. She’s downstairs in the den. I can’t persuade her to rest. She keeps insisting that there’s too much to be done. She’s a brave woman, Elizabeth. Just don’t let her exhaust herself.”

“I’ll try,” murmured Elizabeth, wondering how anyone could be expected to prevent Amanda from doing something she’d set her mind to.

When she reached the pine-paneled den (or as Geoffrey termed it, “Mother’s Lair”), Elizabeth saw that Amanda was making notations on the back of an envelope. With her auburn hair pinned in an untidy bun and her glasses balanced precariously on the tip of her nose, she looked like the classic picture of a school-marm.

“Here I am, Aunt Amanda.”

“Elizabeth. Good. There is just so much to be done. Scads of things. You’re very sweet to offer to help me.” Elizabeth blinked at this, and Amanda continued, “I thought that we would just carry the burden ourselves and not disturb poor Michael with any of it. Don’t you agree?” Amanda patted the cushion of the couch next to her chair.

Elizabeth hurried to the couch and sat down.

“The first thing we must do is to compose a telegram to notify the invited guests from out-of-town. Oh, and I do wish you would call Todd and O’Connor. They’re in the phone book, and… let’s see…”

She leaned over to hand the scribbled envelope to Elizabeth. Without meaning to, Elizabeth pulled away. What was that smell? It took her a moment to place it, only because she would never have associated Aunt Amanda with whiskey. Elizabeth studied her aunt with a new interest. Amanda, mistaking this attention for dedication to the task, went on detailing the day’s obligations.

What a strange reaction to Eileen’s death, Elizabeth thought. I wonder if I ought to tell Uncle Robert. She forced her attention back to the problem of the funeral arrangements, and found that Amanda was repeating herself and rambling on about trivial details.

“… Todd and O’Connor. Did I tell you to call ’em? Silly-looking man, Azzie Todd. Like a stick with ears…” Amanda giggled.

“I’ll call them, Aunt Amanda,” said Elizabeth loudly.

Amanda nodded happily. “Flowers, of course. Got to send flowers to the out-of-town guests…”

Elizabeth sighed. This is impossible, she told herself. Telling a potted sophomore to go to bed and sleep it off is one thing, but one’s bereaved aunt is quite another matter. There was a certain dignity to Amanda’s condition, which made it sad. I can do the calling and the arranging, Elizabeth decided, but I cannot deal with this. With a murmured excuse, she fled.

Dr. Chandler was not in the living room or the library, both of which were empty. Elizabeth decided to check the morning room in case he had gone in for a midmorning cup of coffee. He was not there, but Carlsen Shepherd was, dividing his attention between French toast and the Atlanta newspaper.

“Where’s Uncle Robert?” Elizabeth asked without preamble.

“He went to the community hospital; said he’d be back before noon. And good morning to you, too,” said Shepherd.

Elizabeth flushed. “I’m sorry. I guess I got caught up in things. I just have to talk to Uncle Robert, because-” Her eyes widened. “Oh! You’re a doctor, too!”

Shepherd put down the newspaper with a weary sigh. “Not me. I’m a shrink. I don’t carry cold tablets, I don’t prescribe Valium, and I don’t know poison ivy from hives. Sorry.”

“This is serious!” said Elizabeth, lowering her voice to an undertone. “I think my Aunt Amanda has been drinking!”

Shepherd speared another piece of French toast. “Umm-hmm.”

“Is that normal?” she hissed.

“Well, it is for her, of course.”

“To react to Eileen’s death that way, you mean?”

“No. It’s normal for her to drink. She’s an alcoholic. Pretty close to the chronic stage, I’d say.”

“I beg your pardon?” stammered Elizabeth.

“Yep. I only mention it because you came charging in here asking for Dr. Chandler, presumably to report all this to the poor guy. So I thought I’d head you off and save some embarrassment all the way around. Want some toast?”

Elizabeth sat down. “He knows?”

Shepherd nodded. “It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? The psychological reasons are all there, of course: domineering woman married to a passive man; the daddy-fixation; perfectionist. Textbook stuff. The little signs that you seem to have missed. How she stays in her room after dinner and nobody sees her again until morning. That’s drinking time. And the fact that she eats so little. Her moods…”

Elizabeth nodded absently. She was reviewing every detail of the past few days with Aunt Amanda. It made sense-now that someone had spelled it out for her.

“So, now that you know, I guess you can do like everybody else around here and ignore it. Pretend it’s another family eccentricity, like theater or sailing ships.” Shepherd’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Elizabeth considered this. “Shouldn’t she be getting help?”

“And your next words will be ‘You’re a psychiatrist,’ ” snapped Shepherd. “Look, her drinking problem has been going on for years, and it’s not going to clear up in a ten-minute chat with me, the pope, or anybody else. She has to want help. At this stage, she wouldn’t even admit to the problem.”

“Oh.”

“So I’m not going to offer her any advice, because she doesn’t want it, and it would be an embarrassment to her and a waste of time for me. I’ll give you some advice though. Okay?”

“Please.”

“Go back in there and pretend that nothing is wrong. Do all the calling and writing and arranging that the poor woman wants you to do, and get it done as quickly as possible. Then tell her that you know she’s devastated, or whatever, and send her up to her room to sleep it off. She should be all right by this evening.”

“I guess I can do that. Just treat it as a form of grief?”

Shepherd nodded. “Well, it is. Only, she’s been unhappy for a very long time.”

Clay Taylor would never admit to being uneasy as he followed the footpath to the Chandlers’ lake. In making as much noise as possible, brushing aside branches and trampling twigs, he attempted to be the picture of unconcern, complete with whistled accompaniment. The tune he had chosen was “Marching to Zion,” and it was just as well that he did not dwell on its implications, because he was in fact more nervous than he cared to be. He had given up distracting himself with thoughts of the Tuesday night softball game or with attempts to compose a shopping list without paper. Finally he settled on picturing such outlandish dangers that he became entertained by the “movie in his mind,” to the exclusion of more probable dangers. A large fin-footed swamp creature, twenty million years old, had awakened in the depths of Chandlers’ pond, and…

As he arrived at the edge of the lake, the reverie was ending with himself in diving gear, having just harpooned the fish-creature, destroying monster eggs at the bottom of the lake. Clay looked out at the peaceful lake scene and grinned. He had not brought his crime kit with him this time because all the death scene procedures had been done the day before. His only assignment today was to look for unusual features about the lake and its surroundings. Something a painter might notice. He had brought a gunny sack to take back evidence. Did Wesley want him to photograph the stuff in place first? he wondered. Well, he hadn’t brought the camera, so if he found anything, they’d just have to take his word for it. He reached the spot where the easel had been. There was a mark in the grass; he looked toward the forest. Trees… a lot of underbrush. Not too much visibility. Nothing out of the ordinary. He had read in some crime text about hikers finding a rag on a bramble bush that had turned out to be a piece from the shirt of a missing child whose body was found buried nearby. From his vantage point, he examined each bush within the range of sight. No rags signaled a forest grave. Taylor shrugged. The lake, then. Something floating in the lake? A bank bag, maybe? Showing where the loot from some holdup had been deposited in watertight containers? Except that nobody had robbed any banks around there since ’52, and that money had been recovered. Taylor pictured Rountree shaking his head and saying, “Stop detecting, boy, and keep looking.” Obedient to the phantom Rountree, he looked. Blue sky, pine trees, greenish brown lake, couple of dragonflies that had better watch out for bass, sun glinting on the water. He looked back, squinting, at a bright spot near the shore. Now what was that? He walked to the water’s edge for a closer look. Just some brown glass in the shallows that had happened to catch the light. Taylor looked again. A lot of glass, he mused. Wonder what it is? He pulled out his handkerchief, because even if he didn’t have to worry about fingerprints, there was broken glass to consider, and pulled out the shiny fragment. The label read “Old Grand-Dad.” The deputy snorted. Some discovery! He was about to heave the glass into the center of the lake, when another thought occurred to him. There wasn’t anything else, so maybe… With his mind busy on the implications of his find, Clay Taylor pulled the rest of the bottle out of the shallows. And another, and another, and another…

Half an hour later, Taylor was driving back toward town with a half-filled gunny sack of wet liquor bottles deposited in the back. Somebody was putting those bottles in the lake because they didn’t want them to show up in the garbage can. Too many bottles. He glanced at the dashboard clock. He still had more than an hour before he was supposed to meet Rountree for lunch. Maybe he could find out something by then. Where do you buy that stuff if you don’t want people to know that you drink it? Not in Chandler Grove, he thought, grinning. He stopped at the intersection of Hinty’s Crossing. The road sign said: Chandler Grove 5, Milton’s Forge 12, with arrows pointing in opposite directions. After a moment’s consideration, Taylor turned left, toward Milton’s Forge.

By the time he reached the Milton’s Forge ABC store, Taylor had thought out his line of questioning. True, he had no jurisdiction in Milton’s Forge, which was in the neighboring county, but he decided that it didn’t take official status to ask a few polite questions of a clerk. It was only a hunch, after all; he’d just ask a couple of questions, which might not have anything to do with the case at all.

Entering the liquor store, Taylor straightened his holster and tried to look as official and serious as possible. He put the empty whiskey bottle-one of the unbroken ones-on the counter.

“We don’t give refills, buddy,” drawled the clerk.

Taylor’s mouth twitched with annoyance. He pulled out his identification and handed it to the clerk. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” he said sternly.

“And we don’t sell to minors, neither.”

Taylor sighed. “Could I just ask my question?”

The clerk shrugged. “Might as well. Doubt if I can help, though.”

“I need to know if you carry this brand.”

The man smiled. “Third aisle to the right. Help yourself.”

“I don’t want to buy the stuff! Do you sell much of it?”

“So-so. Not as much as some. The one with the horse on it is our biggest seller.”

“Okay, so if somebody bought a lot of this, you’d remember it, right?”

“I s’pose.”

“Well, does anybody buy a lot of it?” Clay was beginning to wish he had brought a warrant. Or perhaps a judge.

The clerk thought it over. “You mean a lot at a time, or just reg’lar?”

“Either one. Anything you can remember about people liking this brand!”

“Oh. Well, Old Man Twiny from up around Barnard’s Way picks up a bottle from time to time…”

“Anybody else?”

“And Delbert. Now, before he died, Delbert could-”

“Anybody else!”

The clerk blinked. “Oh, some woman comes in every couple of weeks for some. Says she’s giving a party. Sure gives a lot of parties, that woman. Course, the way she dresses and with that car she drives, I reckon she can afford to.”

“Any idea who she is?” asked Clay eagerly.

“Naw. Drives a big green car, though.”

The Chandlers had a green car, Clay thought with satisfaction. The hunch was working. “What does she look like?”

The clerk frowned. “Like your fifth grade teacher,” he said flatly. “You could just see her taking a ruler to your behind. Redheads have ferocious tempers anyway, and when they get older-”

According to the clock behind the clerk, Taylor had half an hour to get back for his meeting with Rountree, so he thanked the man hastily, saying he might be back later. He didn’t need anything else for a preliminary report to the sheriff: it was as good a description as he could think of for Amanda Chandler.

Brenner’s Cafe, known for its reasonable prices and country-cooking rather than for its decor, was the favorite luncheon place for most of Chandler Grove. Those who lived too far from the office to eat at home could usually be found at a booth in Brenner’s, socializing over a bowl of chili or the country ham plate special. Clay found the sheriff in his favorite booth, under the palomino-cowgirl calendar, with a can of diet cola in front of him.

“Thought I’d wait ’til you got here to order,” Rountree grunted, as Clay slid opposite him in the booth. “I’m in no hurry.”

Clay nodded. Today was Saturday, which meant that Rountree’s lunch would consist of a salad and diet cola, a self-imposed regimen which the sheriff followed on days with a u in them. Taylor studied the menu board above the counter, wondering what he could order that would not annoy Wesley too much.

When they had both ordered salads, and the pony-tailed waitress had moved out of earshot, Clay leaned across the table and said: “I found out something.”

Rountree sighed. “Figured you did. You been sitting there with a grin on your face like a wave on a slop bucket. Somebody confess?”

“Next best thing.” Clay began to tell him about finding the liquor bottles in the lake, hardly stopping to chew forkfuls of salad when it arrived. He described his interview with the ABC store clerk in Milton’s Forge, and concluded with his theory that the purchaser of the whiskey was Amanda Chandler, mother of the deceased. “What about that?” he ended happily.

Rountree listened to the entire story without interrupting. “The mother, huh?” he said. “That wasn’t the way my ideas were going.”

“I know. It’s odd. I figure a society-minded woman like that wouldn’t want people to know she drank so much,” said Clay, still delighted with his powers of deduction. “Aren’t people funny? Picture Vance Wainwright killing somebody ’cause they found out he drank.”

Rountree snorted. “Anybody that don’t know Vance Wainwright drinks is already dead.”

“What do we do now, Wes?” Taylor wondered if it would be necessary to go back to the office for the rifles.

“I reckon we’ll go out and talk to the lady,” sighed Rountree.

“So you agree that I’m right?”

“Well… I reckon you could be,” said Rountree doubtfully.

Taylor grinned.

Rountree scooped up the check. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

Elizabeth had managed to finish all the telephoning, ten letters, and the preparing of a lunch of sandwiches by the time Wesley Rountree interrupted their work session. Amanda, who had been composing the obituary for the Scout for the entire morning, was reading snatches of it aloud to Elizabeth while they ate in the den.

“… devoted daughter and an accomplished expressionist painter. Ought I to say ‘painteuse’? Elizabeth, what do you think?”

Rountree appeared rather uneasily in the doorway, twisting his white Stetson, while Deputy Taylor and Mildred hovered in the hall behind him. Elizabeth nodded slightly toward the door, and Amanda turned to look. She recognized the sheriff with a nod of satisfaction.

“Yes, officer? What is it?”

“Well, ma’am, we’d just like a word alone with you if we may,” said Rountree in his politest tone. At all costs he wanted to avoid an outburst of hysterics, but the questioning had to be done.

Amanda regarded him carefully for a moment. “Just run along now and see how your grandfather is doing, dear, while I have a word with these gentlemen.”

Elizabeth picked up the lunch tray and edged past the two officers. When the door had closed behind her, Wesley Rountree seated himself on the chintz couch, motioning Clay to a nearby chair. Unobtrusively, Clay took out his notepad and pen, and waited expectantly for the questioning to begin.

Murder suspect or not, Rountree was determined to remain courteous. It was force of habit as much as anything else; he had little liking for social lionesses. “Ma’am, you should know if we had anything to report about this unfortunate business.”

“Yes. I should certainly think you’ve had time enough.”

“Well, we’ve been working at it. First thing this morning we examined the lake, on account of the painting being missing and all. We wanted to see if we could find any hint as to what she might have been painting. And we have a theory.”

Amanda was unimpressed. “May I know what this ‘theory’ of yours is?”

Rountree hedged. “Fact is, we figure that your daughter’s death was an accident. Not a complete accident-I mean, a human-originated accident. Somebody did hit her over the head all right, but we don’t believe that person was aiming to kill her. I think, under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be right to push for first-degree murder. Why, it might even go to trial as manslaughter, provided the defendant cooperated.”

Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “And just why are you explaining all this to a grieving mother?”

The sheriff shifted uneasily. This part required careful handling, if hysterics were to be avoided. “Well, we figure that your daughter painted something that she wasn’t supposed to, and that it had to do with the lake, since she always painted there. So this morning I sent Clay down there to see if he could find anything that somebody might not want in a painting.” He looked at her encouragingly. It wasn’t going to be easy, Rountree thought. “And sure enough he found something. You want to tell her about it, Clay?”

The deputy focused his eyes on the floor and said in an apologetic tone: “In the shallows of the lake, closest to the house, I found a bunch of empty whiskey bottles. You could see them from the place where the easel stood. All the same brand, too. Old Grand-Dad.”

“Good. That should enable you to find the tramp who did this. Look for a man who drinks that brand,” said Amanda evenly.

“No, ma’am,” Rountree replied. “First place, I don’t know of any vagrants who could afford to drink that stuff. Now if we were talking eighty-nine-cent wine bottles, I’d say you had a point.”

“Anyway, there were too many bottles to have been left at one time,” said Clay. “Some were older than others. Anyway, I checked at the store in Milton’s Forge, and I…” His voice trailed off.

Rountree nodded. Might as well tell her and get it over with. “We know that you bought them, ma’am. We could prove ownership with fingerprints, too, you know. Glass is good for prints.” He looked sternly at the deputy as he said this, warning him not to mention the effects of immersion on prints.

Clay was obediently silent, as was Amanda, for several minutes. “I see,” she said quietly. Nothing more.

“Now we don’t think that-this person we’re looking for meant for Eileen to die,” said Rountree soothingly. “We think it was just a tragic… tragic accident. There she is, this young girl, probably not even knowing the significance of what she was painting. Meaning no harm. But somebody saw the painting and knew that a picture of all those bottles was going to let out a family secret. ’Course, alcoholism is just a disease, same as cancer, but some people don’t see it like that.” He hoped he was making it respectable enough for her to confess to. “So the plan was to stun the girl just long enough to steal the painting-maybe put her in the boat ’til she came to, not seeing the snake…”

Amanda watched him, her face a mask of calm. After a moment, Rountree continued, still watching the face of his audience of one.

“-And if it hadn’t been for the snake, everything would have been all right, don’t you reckon? The girl would have woke up with a headache, and the painting would be gone, but maybe even she would have wanted it that way, if she’d known the truth about what she’d painted, and how it would hurt… somebody…” He started to say more, then shook his head and was silent.

The woman in the chair said nothing.

Wesley Rountree tried again. “Mrs. Chandler, Mrs. Chandler… come on now. We know you bought that whiskey. We know about your drinking-nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t you want to tell us how it happened?”

Amanda’s eyes widened. “Do I understand that you are suggesting I murdered my daughter?”

“Of course not!” Rountree assured her. “We know it was an accident. That you acted in a fright-”

Fixing him with a malevolent glare, Amanda Chandler leaned forward. “You stupid man!” she hissed. “So you think you’ve uncovered a great secret, do you?”

The two officers blinked at her.

“Do you really think my family doesn’t know?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Well, ask them!” She waved toward the closed door. “Go on! Ask any of them! Oh, we don’t discuss it. We pretend it doesn’t exist, but I assure you, Mr. Rountree, that my family is perfectly aware of the situation. As was Eileen. And whatever it was in that painting, it was not liquor bottles! We are a family of standards, Sheriff, and I assure you that my daughter would never have painted that!”

“Yes, we all knew about it,” Robert Chandler told the officers a few minutes later. He had received them in his book-lined study, where they had sought him out, with the explanation that certain points of his wife’s statements required confirmation.

He sat hunched before his dented typewriter, his hand covering his eyes. “It is… not a recent development. I tried to reason with her about it; she denies it, of course. Says that Mildred steals the whiskey, that kind of thing. And she has steadfastly refused counseling, so we have made up our minds to live with it as… as quietly as possible.” He smiled apologetically. “It isn’t really bad, except occasionally, when she feels anxious about something. I was afraid that the wedding would set her off-and now, this!”

Wesley Rountree nodded sympathetically. “Doctor, it was our theory that your daughter might have painted those liquor bottles into the picture. Then, of course, when your wife saw the picture, she’d have got het up and tried to knock her out, so she could steal the picture. We think the whole thing was an accident.”

“No,” said Robert Chandler. “My wife’s form of panic is-drinking.”

“But you realize that your daughter was probably killed on account of that painting-probably by somebody in the household-don’t you, sir?”

Dr. Chandler sighed. “Since you tell me it is so, I suppose I must believe it.”

“Well, it would sure help us out if you told us who you thought it might be,” Rountree prompted.

“That would be of no use to you, Wesley. I could only tell you who I wanted it to be,” said the doctor with a tight smile.

“I’d sure settle for that.”

For a moment, Rountree thought that the doctor was going to confide in him, but after a long silence he merely said, “I’m afraid that would not be ethical.”

Deciding that it would be useless to argue with him, Wesley Rountree thanked him for his cooperation and went off in search of another family member to question. They met Elizabeth in the hall. She was not immediate family, Wesley decided, and not a likely suspect. He’d talk to her later. “Excuse me,” he said genially. “Can’t seem to find anybody around here.”

“Who are you looking for?” asked Elizabeth doubtfully.

Rountree picked one. “Charles Chandler,” he said decisively.

“Oh. He’s outside, I expect. He spends a lot of time sunning. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

“Does he have a favorite rock?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Like a lizard, you mean? No. He uses a chair.” Deciding that the conversational ice had been broken, she ventured a question. “How are you coming along with the investigation?”

“Like a pregnant mule,” Rountree declared. “I know what to do, but nothing seems to come of it.”

“Mules are sterile,” Clay explained to a bewildered Elizabeth.

“Oh.” A thought occurred to her, and she brightened. “Tell me, Sheriff Rountree, how do you like being in law enforcement?”

“Being sheriff is a pretty good job. I like it. I’m the only law officer mentioned in the constitution, you know. They don’t say beans about your chiefs of police or your highway patrol. But ‘sheriff’-it’s right there in black and white, from the founding fathers. And we have a nice quiet county, so things stay friendly, most of the time. You thinking about going into police work?”

Elizabeth considered it. “I don’t know,” she said, “I just got out of college…”

“Oh,” said Rountree knowingly. “Well, I wish you luck. I was a sociology major, myself.”

They found Charles sprawled in a lawnchair with his book. Elizabeth had pointed him out and slipped back toward the house, while Taylor and Rountree advanced on their next suspect. Charles, who heard them approach, hastily put down his book.

“My turn to be interviewed?” he asked, squinting up at them. “Can we stay right here while you do it? I came out here to get away from all of that in the house, and I’m in no hurry to get back.”

With a grunt of annoyance, Clay Taylor took out his pen and notepad and settled himself on the grass near Charles’s chair. Rountree continued to stand.

“You don’t live here all the time, do you?” he asked.

“No. I suppose that’s it. I’m not used to it.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Chandler?”

Charles supplied the address. “It’s a group of friends,” he explained. “My family calls it a commune; seem to think I spend my time playing Indian. Actually, we are all scientists of one sort or another. My own interest is theoretical physics, though in fact I might be able to give you a pointer or two in forensics.”

Rountree coughed. “Thank you. But we don’t handle that. Use the state labs.”

“Ah. Tell me, how are you coming along with the case?”

“Tolerable. I’m in the question-asking stage right now,” said Rountree, with a meaningful look at Charles.

“Excuse me. Ask away,” said Charles, settling back in the sunlight.

“Are you, by any chance, contemplating marriage?” asked Rountree.

Charles opened one eye. “You mean with a woman? You’re not speaking metaphysically or anything like that?”

Rountree kept a straight face. “I never speak metaphysically,” he drawled. “I mean regular old ’til Death Do Us Part’ type marriage.”

“Then the answer is a definite no,” said Charles. “There aren’t even any contenders. Why ever do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just thinking of that interesting legacy in your family. The one that goes to the first one of y’all to get married.”

“Oh, that,” said Charles in a bored voice. “No, thank you. I am quite above bribery.”

“Well… do you happen to know if anybody else has got wedding plans?”

“You’ll have to ask them, Sheriff. I’m not really interested in that sort of thing. You might ask my brother Geoffrey. Knowing things about people always amuses him. Offhand, I’d say my cousin Elizabeth was the hausfrau type. Oh, and not to forget my cousin Bill. He’s also eligible for the wedding sweepstakes, and I must say the MacPhersons need the money more than we do.”

“Bill?”

“Elizabeth’s older brother. But he’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Law school, they tell me. We’re not pen pals,” said Charles.

“And your other cousin-the one across the street. Alban?”

“Really, Sheriff. I have no idea. You might ask Elizabeth. She’s been spending a lot of time with him. In fact, she was over there last night.”

Rountree grunted. “I see that the society news is not your neck of the woods. Let’s move on to something else. Did you ever see that picture your sister was painting?”

“No. She was quite a fanatic about the secret. I don’t even know what she was painting-but we all assumed it was the lake, since she painted there.”

Rountree considered this. “The lake. Anything particular about that lake that you know of?”

“No, Sheriff,” said Charles with an indulgent smile. “It’s just an ordinary little lake with mediocre fishing. No sunken Spanish galleons.”

“No,” said Rountree carefully. “Just a lot of sunken whiskey bottles. You know anything about that?”

Charles’s smile faded. “I can’t say that I do,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“Oh, I think you could. I guess you know who put the bottles there, too.”

“Not I.”

“No, not you. Your mother’s drinking problem accounts for those bottles, don’t you reckon?”

Charles regarded them steadily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wesley Rountree stared back into Charles’s expressionless face for a few moments, and decided that he did indeed know what they were talking about. Rather than press the point, though, Rountree merely said, “Well, we won’t talk anymore about it now. If you’ll just give my deputy the name of somebody at your-er, where you live-to verify your statements, we won’t trouble you anymore right now.”

“Oh, all right,” grumbled Charles. “I guess you would check anyway. Go and bother Roger Granville, then. That will give him something to do.” Clay approached the lawnchair, notepad in hand. “Here give me that,” said Charles. “I’ll write down the phone number at our place.”

Wesley Rountree picked up Charles’s book. “More physics, huh?”

“Yes. Roger and I are working together on a little project. I’m just doing research.”

“Which university are you with?”

Charles flushed. “People always ask me that! As a matter of fact, we’re on our own just now, but we’re thinking of applying for a grant.”

“I bet you are!” said Rountree cheerfully. “Physics isn’t cheap.”

“That’s another thing people are always saying!” snapped Charles. “But did you know that Einstein worked out his whole theory of relativity with just a pencil and paper?”

“And what are you working on?” asked Rountree, beaming with fascination.

“Uh… well, it’s a bit technical, Sheriff.”

“Is it wave particle duality? I always liked that! Or-not the unified field theory? You think there’s anything to that?” There were times when even Wesley Rountree felt an urge to show off. He told himself that this approach might get more information out of Charles than his usual folksy manner, and besides, people who equated “drawl” with “dumb” annoyed him.

Charles blinked at the sheriff, wondering if Reader’s Digest had included a physics article in its latest issue. Clay, whose duties included returning the sheriff’s books to the county library, was less surprised; Wesley would read anything. Last month had been a biography of Einstein and a book on sea urchins.

“Well, actually, Sheriff, our project is so far ahead of conventional physics that we don’t think any university will have the foresight to fund us. As a matter of fact, it does have to do with relativity. Time is relative, you know. We think that the high rotational energy of a body would enable us to cross the event horizon into the past, so to speak. Ideally, we would need a black hole-a collapsed star, you know, whose density will not even release light-but we think we can prove the hypothesis on a sub-atomic level, perhaps with a linear accelerator-”

“Now you’re talking money!” Wesley put in.

“Uh-yes. We want to bombard a spinning electron with-”

“Guess you could use that inheritance of your great-aunt’s, couldn’t you?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t buy one, Sheriff! Those things run into the millions. Oh, before you go, could I just have a piece of paper from your notepad to make a few calculations? You don’t have an extra pencil, do you?”

Clay tore out a few sheets from the back of his notepad and fished the stub of a pencil from his pants pocket. As they walked away, Charles was already scribbling calculations.

“Did you understand that project of his, Wes?” asked Clay, when they were out of earshot.

“Generally speaking.”

“Well, what is it?”

“A time machine.”

Clay shook his head. “You think he’d kill his sister to finance that?”

Rountree shrugged. “Sure is turning into a scorcher out here today, isn’t it? Reckon we can find somebody around with a water jug?”

Taylor nodded, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. The midday sun glinted on the tin roof of the shed, casting short shadows in the grass. “I’m surprised there’s not a garden out back here, aren’t you, Wes? It looks like the sort of place that would have one.”

“Well, I think there was one once,” Rountree replied. “Back when they kept a pony in the shed. But the gardener in the family seems to be the castle-lady-Mrs. Cobb. She sure does grow beautiful roses.”

“Yeah. I don’t think Mrs. Chandler gets much pleasure from gardening.”

“Might be better if she did,” grunted Rountree. “Who do we talk to next?”

Clay consulted his notebook. “Well, you haven’t talked to the other son yet.”

They found Geoffrey Chandler in the sunny breakfast room, sipping coffee at the glass-topped table as he read the morning paper.

“No, you’re not disturbing my breakfast,” he assured them.

When they had settled themselves, with glasses of ice water supplied by the kitchen, Rountree explained that they were in the process of questioning all the family members, and that it was now his turn to be interviewed.

“Am I the last one?” asked Geoffrey. “I don’t know why, but people seem to dread talking to me. Perhaps I have no small talk. Do you think that’s it?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Rountree with a slight cough. He studied Geoffrey’s morning attire: tight white trousers, red tank top, and sandals. “I see you’re not observing mourning.”

“In my heart,” said Geoffrey, placing his hand in the appropriate place. “Is the absence of black taken as a sign of guilt?”

Sheriff Rountree refused to be drawn into this discussion. With a frown of distaste, he continued the interview.

“You are Geoffrey Thomas Chandler-”

“Of the home,” finished Geoffrey in funereal tones.

“And what do you do?”

“Do?” He looked quizzically from Rountree to Taylor. “I am at a loss.”

“For a living,” Taylor prompted, his pencil poised.

“Ah! I toil not, neither do I spin. I am, however, working on a play which I hope will spark the renaissance of the American theater-”

Clay wrote down “unemployed.” Further particulars concerning Geoffrey’s age and education were given in much the same style. When these had been recorded, more prosaically than they were given, Rountree said, “Now, I expect you already know that we think your sister was murdered.”

Geoffrey inclined his head, indicating that this was so.

“Well, is there anybody that you know of who would profit by her death?”

Geoffrey sighed. “Are you talking about that will of Great-Aunt Augusta? You seem to be under the impression that this is some matrimonial sweepstakes. Somebody or other once said not to marry for money because it is cheaper to borrow it from a bank. Most of us here subscribe to that theory-except perhaps the bereaved groom.”

“You saying he was marrying her for the money?” Rountree barked.

“That thought did occur to me,” murmured Geoffrey vaguely.

Rountree considered this. “Well… you know, if that’s a fact, it clears him of suspicion in the case. After all, her dying before the wedding eliminates him from the sweepstakes, as you put it.”

Clay Taylor, who had just scribbled down “Thinks Satisky was marrying for $,” looked up to catch Geoffrey’s reaction to this remark, but there was none.

“Then there’s that painting she was working on to consider,” the sheriff continued thoughtfully. “Sure would help if we knew what was in it. Did you happen to get a look at it?”

“No.”

“We thought it might have shown all those whiskey bottles in the lake,” Taylor suggested.

Geoffrey favored the deputy with a cold stare. “As I was about to say, she did not show the painting to anyone, but once I asked her how it was coming along, and she remarked that she had a difficult time doing portraits-or faces. Something to that effect.”

“Faces!” echoed Rountree. “Well! That is interesting!”

“I thought you might find it so,” commented Geoffrey.

“Was anybody posing for her?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

Rountree thought for a moment. “Charles sure does spend a lot of time out of the house, don’t you think?”

Geoffrey smiled. “Really, Sheriff. A portrait of Charles would make a rather peculiar wedding gift for one’s betrothed, would it not?”

Rountree was still puzzling over the implications of this bit of information when Elizabeth came in from the hall. She glanced at him nervously, appealing for permission to interrupt, so he gave her a nod.

“Excuse me, but Aunt Amanda sent me to get Geoffrey, if… if he’s able to come, that is.”

Geoffrey held up both hands. “No manacles as yet adorn my wrists!” he announced. “Sheriff, may I go to my grieving mother?”

“Please do,” said Rountree politely.

“And while I am gone… let’s see… what can you amuse yourselves with? The family album? I know! Cousin Elizabeth, why don’t you stay and tell them about the last time you sat for a portrait?”

He swept majestically out of the room, leaving Elizabeth stammering at the two officers who were inexplicably interested in that subject.

“My portrait?” she was saying. “Well… do you count my graduation picture? What’s the matter? Why are you both staring at me?”

June 12

Dear Bill,

Get me out of here. (And bring your alibi when you come.) First I had to address wedding invitations; now I’m having to write to people about the funeral. I feel like an apprentice monk. If somebody doesn’t rescue me, I’ll be here in December doing illuminated Christmas card lists!

Actually, I couldn’t leave even if you came down to get me-which I know you too well to expect. Technically, we are all suspects. I’ve been questioned by the sheriff twice! That wasn’t so bad, but everyone else here is getting on my nerves. Geoffrey has gone from manic to depressive; Michael Satisky is terrified that we’ll find a way to pin the murder on him; and Aunt Amanda turned out to be an alcoholic. I don’t mean that she took up drinking out of grief-it’s been going on for years, according to Dr. Shepherd. Don’t be smug and say you knew it all along, because I know perfectly well you didn’t. By the way, could you check up on Dr. Shepherd at the med school? He seems like a very nice person, but when he first arrived, Eileen took one look at him and ran. It might just have been her nerves, but it was unusual for her to be so dramatic. I can’t help wondering if there was something strange about their doctor-patient relationship. (Yes, I’m keeping my door locked.)

Thanks for returning my call this morning-although you would do it so early in the morning that I was incoherent. I’m trying to remember what I haven’t told you. I hope you’ve remembered to notify Mother and Dad. The main purpose of this letter is to remind you to do so, and to warn you not to lay on the horrors with them. I am perfectly fine. In fact, I wish I were more upset. Eileen was such a mousy little creature that I can’t even claim to miss her, which makes me feel terrible. I catch myself not being sad at all, thinking that I’d like to meet Milo (do not broadcast that!), and then being angry with myself for not missing her more. I’m not even terribly interested in knowing who did it, because it might turn out to be someone very nice like Dr. Shepherd, which would only compound the tragedy. I’m sure you’re dying to know who did it, though, so when the sheriff solves the case, I’ll notify you. Heaven knows when they’ll let me leave.

If you think of anything to cheer me up (such as Milo mentioning that he found me fascinating), write me at once, or better yet, call-collect!

The Prisoner of Chandler,

Elizabeth