Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
Rountree coughed. “So they tell me, Captain.”
“Can you imagine? Expecting me to take an interest in the wedding plans of a bunch of children who would
probably get on a good deal better in life without Augusta’s money! Do them good! They’d grow some backbone!”
“They might do better in character without it, but it might not stop some of ’em from wanting it,” the sheriff pointed out.
William Chandler laughed bitterly. “No argument there! That much money would solve every trifling problem the bunch has!”
“Problems?”
“It would buy Charles a reactor, or whatever thing it is he and his crowd seem to think is standing between them and a Nobel prize. It would set Margaret’s son Bill up in law practice in pretty good style, or buy Elizabeth some time to chart the course of her life—archeology, last I heard” —he snorted—“and Geoffrey—God knows what he’d do with it! Something arty, I expect, like try to start a Shakespeare festival in Chandler Grove!”
“What about Alban?”
“Perfect example! You see what Walter’s money has done for him! Took his castle in the air and built it for him! What ambition has he got?”
“Maybe he doesn’t need to be ambitious,” Clay suggested.
Captain Grandfather sighed. “I’ve nothing against being eccentric,” he said at last. “Or being well-off. If it buys you independence, that’s fine—but—since Eileen died, I keep thinking that it didn’t do her any good. The money was almost hers, you know, and it didn’t make her happy. It wasn’t going to, either. She wanted that young man, and there was no use trying to tell her any different, but … some things you ought not to try to buy.”
“Do you think he killed her?” asked Rountree.
“No. I’ve seen his type in the service many a time. He’s weak and selfish—don’t trust his loyalty in a pinch, and don’t put him in charge of the canteen on the lifeboat—but to call him a killer would be overestimating him.”
“There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about,”
said Rountree cautiously. “It might be a touchy subject, but it’s got to be dealt with.” He explained the finding of the whiskey bottles in the lake and their theory that Amanda Chandler had accidentally killed her daughter while trying to steal the painting.
“That’s hogwash!” snapped the old man. “Amanda may have her problems, but she’s not a coward! A picture wouldn’t scare her like that. If she didn’t like it, she’d have bullied the girl until it was changed. And it would be changed, I promise you that. Amanda runs a tight ship.” He shook his head and sighed. “I doubt that the painting was like that, anyway.”
Rountree straightened up. “Did you see it?”
“No. Why? Is it important?”
“Yeah. Because we can’t find it. That bothers me. But if we knew for sure what she was painting, it would be a load off my mind. Did that lake mean anything special to her?”
Captain Grandfather rested his head in his hand. “Did it?” he muttered. “That sounds familiar … I think. Right at the time of her breakdown, there
was
something about the lake, or water, or something. Can’t recall what. My son-in-law might know.”
“If anybody knows anything around here, they’re not telling!” snapped Rountree. “I’m beginning to wonder if there’s some reason folks might not want this case solved. Are you afraid one of the young people killed Eileen to get a shot at the inheritance?”
“No, Sheriff. I’m afraid of not knowing them well enough to be sure; but then, the captain is always the last to know of a mutiny.” He watched the two officers leave the study, and with a placid smile, he turned again to his television.
Closing the door behind him, Rountree muttered, “Make a note for me to interview the lawyer again, Clay. If the old gentleman is so against any of them getting that money, I just want to make sure it’s still there to be gotten! After all, he is the executor.”
“But I didn’t think an executor could touch money in trust, Wes.”
“I aim to find out.”
“Excuse me, Sheriff!” Michael Satisky was waiting for them in the hall. He was leaning up against the wall, clutching the small Chandler Grove telephone book. “Could I speak to you for just a moment?”
Rountree frowned. “Talk? I reckon. How about the library?” He opened the door and peered in. “Okay, nobody’s in there. You go on in and have a seat. Listen—do I have to read you your rights or anything? Clay, got your notebook out?”
Satisky sank down in the armchair with a strangled cry. “My
rights!”
Rountree shrugged. “You know. For confessions. We have to warn people first about their rights, so the court won’t throw it out. I have the card in my billfold someplace.” He reached for his hip pocket.
“I am
not
confessing!” Satisky said shrilly. “I have
nothing
to confess!
“Well, it was a thought,” sighed Rountree. “What did you want to say?”
“I wanted to know if I could leave,” snapped Satisky.
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “And miss the funeral of your loved one?” he drawled.
Satisky opened his mouth and closed it again.
Rountree nodded. “Actually, I do understand,” he said in a softer tone. “This place makes you kinda nervous, doesn’t it?”
“Well, it does,” Satisky admitted. “These people are all strangers, and I know they all think I did it. Is there any necessity for me to stay?”
Rountree chewed on this thought for a minute. “Have you been asked to leave?”
Satisky blinked. “Well … no.”
“Then stay put.”
“I have to stay?” Satisky persisted.
Rountree thought about it. “Well, no,” he admitted, and Satisky brightened at once. “You don’t have to stay exactly here, but while the investigation is going on, you can’t leave the county. We haven’t even had the inquest yet. But so long as you are somewhere nearby—why, I’ve no objections to you making a change of venue, as we say in legal terms.”
Taylor changed his laugh into a discreet cough, and began to study his notepad.
“In fact,” Rountree was saying, “I may even be able to make a suggestion. Say, Clay, doesn’t Doris’s mother still rent out rooms over at her place? You’d have to share a bathroom with the kids, of course, but I bet it wouldn’t set you back more than forty bucks a week. Meals are extra, of course, but Brenner’s Cafe makes a real good cheeseburger. Right, Clay?”
“Uh—uh—sure, Wes.”
Rountree leaned toward the phone. “If you want, I can even give Doris’s mom a call and put in a word for you. The place might fill up with reporters, you never know. Now what was her number?”
“No! Don’t call!” Satisky said hurriedly. “I mean—well …”
He nearly reached for his own hip pocket to count his money, but it wasn’t necessary. In his mind, he could see a ten, two fives, and three ones: the price of pride was, as usual, beyond his means. The thought of an inheritance from Eileen flickered through his mind. He was afraid to ask about it, though. It would shout a motive for murder to those for whom he was already a favorite suspect, or so he imagined. Besides, he was in no particular hurry to hear news that would almost certainly be bad. Eileen had died before they were married; therefore, the inheritance could not be claimed.
Wesley Rountree’s bland smile suggested that he required no explanation from the young man, but as he was not vindictive toward the technically innocent, he merely said, “I understand. You don’t want to risk hurting these good people’s feelings by refusing hospitality.”
Satisky stammered that this was the case and was left feeling like an utter fool as Rountree and the deputy left. He was still brooding over the awkwardness of the interview a few minutes later when Geoffrey sauntered in. Satisky, whose natural inclination was to flee from Geoffrey, rose to leave.
“Please!” said Geoffrey. “Don’t get up. I feel that I must have interrupted you. No doubt you are ferreting out a few appropriate quotations to drop at the funeral.”
Satisky looked away. “It isn’t like that,” he mumbled. “I just find it hard to express my feelings. I’m not very verbal, I guess.”
“Not very,” Geoffrey agreed. He had pulled out the drawer of the desk and was leafing through the leather address book, occasionally making notes on a piece of paper.
After a few moments of heavy silence, Satisky ventured another remark. “Have the funeral arrangements been made?”
Geoffrey paused and laid down his pen. “They have, actually. It will be on Tuesday. I hope that’s convenient for you. Oh, perhaps we should have consulted you.”
“Well—”
“In case you wanted to read one of your own poems at the service.”
Satisky flushed. “I tried to leave. The sheriff says I have to stay until after the inquest.”
“Just in case,” remarked Geoffrey, flipping pages in the address book.
“You think I did it, don’t you?” Satisky’s voice quivered with rage, as he approached the desk with more decision than usual.
“One can but hope,” murmured Geoffrey without looking up.
“Why would I kill her?” Satisky demanded. “I could have just broken off the engagement if I wanted to. And if it was the money I was after, don’t you think I would have waited until we were married so that I would inherit it? As it is, I don’t get anything.”
Geoffrey fixed him with a frosty stare. “That, dear Michael, is the one point in your favor—and to me, the only consolation.”
“But you admit that I am very unlikely as a suspect?”
“Wishing will not make it so,” Geoffrey conceded. “The only crime of which I can be sure of your guilt is the petty larceny of my sister’s affections.
If
you will excuse me!” Conscious of a good exit line, he swept out.
Even after Geoffrey had gone, Satisky was unable to think of a suitable retort. Geoffrey was really quite
odious, Satisky thought. He could certainly divulge a thing or two. Especially about Geoffrey, who deserved to be made uncomfortable.
He peered out the front window. Rountree and the deputy were standing in the driveway talking. He could approach them if he chose. Still smarting from his last bout with Geoffrey, Satisky considered his moral stance. After all, one had a civic duty to assist the police, which meant telling what one knew. Certainly the truth could harm no one. Eileen’s death must be avenged, and it was his duty to her memory to shed all the light he could on the inquiry. His personal feelings for Geoffrey were of no consideration: this was above petty revenge. Duty must be done.
Thus fortified with nobility of purpose, Satisky hurried to the front door, pausing only long enough to ensure that he was not seen, and called: “Sheriff! I must speak to you!”
Wesley pushed his Stetson back from his forehead and sighed. “Wonder what he wants now?”
“Police protection, probably,” snorted Clay. “And the way that family feels about him …”
Satisky began to run down the driveway toward them, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the front windows. He stumbled into a hedge during one of these backward glances, nearly falling into the gravel, while Rountree and Taylor waited by the squad car with solemn expressions.
“I have something very important to tell you,” gasped Satisky, still breathless from his dash down the driveway. “You may want to take notes,” Satisky informed Clay.
Glancing at Rountree for confirmation, Clay obligingly extracted his notepad from his hip pocket and scratched Satisky’s name at the top of a clean page.
“You wanna go ahead?” drawled Wesley.
Satisky drew a dramatic breath. “I haven’t told you this before because I did not wish my motives to be misinterpreted. Those with petty minds might conclude that I am telling you this information out of spite, but I wish to see justice served.”
Rountree frowned. “Is that a quote?”
Satisky’s eyes widened. “Er—no.”
“Oh. Just checking. I was going to guess Benedict Arnold. My mistake. Go ahead.”
Satisky peered at the sheriff, wondering if he were being ridiculed, but the sheriff looked perfectly serious. Reassured on that point, he continued: “Am I correct in assuming that it would assist you to know the last person who saw my fiancée alive?”
“Since that would be the murderer …”
“Oh! Well, I can’t go that far! I mean, I didn’t see anything. But I was out walking that morning on the path near the lake.”
“Why?” asked Rountree.
“I wanted to talk to Eileen. I was going down to the lake to find her, when I heard angry voices. There was an argument going on by the lake, and it sounded quite vociferous. Naturally I—”
“Just a minute,” said Clay.
“Yes?”
“Is that
i-r-o-u-s
?”
“What?”
“Vociferous.”
“No. It’s an
e
. Now shut up, Clay, and let him get on with it.”
“Well, as I said, there seemed to be quite a scene going on, but since it was a family matter, I felt that the polite thing to do would be to leave. I didn’t want to embarrass them—”
“Embarrass who?” demanded the sheriff. “You remind me of one of those old movies where the witness talks around and around a thing until somebody shoots him before he can ever say it.”
“It was Geoffrey,” Satisky said promptly. “Geoffrey was shouting at Eileen. He sounded quite hysterical, if you ask me.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes. Has he told you about the incident?”
“No,” said Clay. Rountree shot him a warning glare.
Satisky smiled. “I thought not. That is the reason I felt that I could not shirk my responsibility.”
“Well? What were they arguing about? You?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot help you there. In order to get close enough to hear the words distinctly, I would have had to get close enough to be seen. It was broad daylight.”
“And you didn’t want to be seen by Geoffrey,” offered the sheriff.
Satisky hesitated. “It would have been unpleasant. I had no desire to intrude.”
“I understand. I also understand why you didn’t tell us before. Admitting that you overheard the fracas also means admitting that you were out by the lake that morning, too. Who’s to say that the fight wasn’t about you? Maybe that fellow convinced his sister not to marry you after all, and you snuck back later on when she was alone, argued about it, and killed her.”