Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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
D
ESPITE
G
EOFFREY’S GLOOMY
supposition, he was not the last family member to be interviewed. That honor was reserved for Captain Grandfather, whom they found in Robert Chandler’s study in front of a black-and-white portable television.
“Silent Service
reruns,” he said gruffly, turning down the volume. “Not very accurate, but good drama. Those were the days! You wanted a word with me, I suppose?”
Rountree perched on the side of the doctor’s paper-strewn desk. “Sorry to come barging in like this, but we’re talking with everybody in the family.”
“To find out if we know who did it?
I
wouldn’t, you know. My granddaughter … I knew her as a child, Sheriff. She liked ponies, and coffee ice cream, and a song called ‘Froggy Went A-Courtin’; but when children grow up, you lose track of their real selves. Eileen, now, I can tell you her bloodline down to the last cousin, but I have no idea who she was inside.”
“Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?”
said Clay.
Rountree closed his eyes. “If we could just get back to this case …” He always dreaded the second phase of grief. When the shock had worn off a little, the deceased became preserved in memory as a wax figure without flaws or feelings. A few more days and Eileen Chandler would turn into a fairy-tale princess who had never made a mistake in her life.
The old man watched a submarine churn beneath the waters of the North Atlantic. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to ask me?”
“You’re an early-riser, aren’t you, sir?”
Captain Grandfather nodded. “Always have been. Stood me in good stead in the service.”
“I expect it did,” said Rountree. “Reason I asked is: you must have been the last person we know of to see Eileen on the day she died. Am I right?”
“As far as I know, Sheriff, nobody saw her that day. I came downstairs at a little past seven—I’d been up late reading the night before. Anyway, I came into the breakfast room, and there was a used cereal bowl on the table, which I took to be Eileen’s. But I didn’t see her, no.”
“Well, it was a thought,” sighed Rountree. “I had hopes of finding someone who’d seen her. Well, what can you tell me about her state of mind?”
“Next to nothing. Eileen was always nervous. Didn’t get enough exercise, if you ask me.”
Clay looked up from his notepad. “What does that have to do with—”
“Well, let’s get on to motive,” said Rountree hastily. “Tell me about this inheritance she was due to get.”
Captain Grandfather told him, in no uncertain terms and with considerable scorn expressed for his sister’s life-style, judgment, and malice aforethought in making such a will. “—And the little witch, knowing full well how I would feel about such a piece of foolishness, had the unmitigated, unsurpassed, sheer feline gall to name me as executor of the damned thing!”