Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
“Of course I didn’t!” Satisky blurted out. “I wanted to call it off myself! That’s what I went out there …” His voice trailed off, as he realized what he was saying.
Rountree smiled grimly. “Well, so much for your grief. Now, as to the subject of the argument, I guess we’d better discuss that with ol’ Geoffrey.”
Satisky glanced at Clay’s scribbled notes. “Do you want me to sign that?”
“No,” said Clay. “You have to be able to read what you’re signing. Doris will have to type it up.”
“I’ll be seeing you by and by, Mr. Satisky,” Wesley assured him. “And thank you for coming to me with this.” He patted Satisky’s shoulder.
Michael basked in official approval. “Well, I’m glad to help
y’all
, Sheriff.”
“You know, Northerners always make that mistake,” Wesley told him seriously. “Y’all is not used when talking to one person. It’s second person plural, like vos in Latin.”
“Oh … er, yes, of course.”
“You’ll get the hang of it. ’Bye now.” Rountree turned away.
Satisky hurried back to the house, attempting to reassess his image of the county sheriff, and wondering what explanation he would give in case anyone had
seen him talking to Rountree and Taylor. Of course, if Rountree questioned Geoffrey about it, it would all come out soon, anyway. He’d better go up to his room and pack, just in case.
“Wasn’t that interesting?” asked Wesley, when Satisky had gone. “Geoffrey had a fight with his sister at the death scene.”
“I’m surprised that guy came to us about it,” said Clay. “I’d expect him to blackmail Geoffrey with it, instead.”
“Well, he is hard up for money,” Rountree said. “We established that in our boardinghouse talk. But if Geoffrey is the murderer, that would be a good way to share double billing with the original deceased. Satisky may have just enough brains to have figured that out. But my guess is that he doesn’t have the nerve to approach Geoffrey for blackmail or anything else. This business of sneaking behind his back is more in Satisky’s line of country. I’ll bet he enjoyed getting Geoffrey in trouble, don’t you?”
“I think it settled a few scores between them,” said Clay. “I take it we’re going to discuss this with Geoffrey now?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed we are.”
They walked back to the front door, where Mildred presently appeared and informed them that Geoffrey had gone out for a walk about twenty minutes earlier.
“What do you want to bet he’s gone down to that lake?” asked Rountree. “Morbid so-and-so.”
“We’ve finished up there, haven’t we? I mean, he can’t destroy evidence now.”
“Not unless you missed something. We didn’t find the murder weapon, but I bet that’s in the lake. Mitch says it was a piece of wood, like a branch.”
“Oh, I looked all right. It’s not around the lake. Let’s go.”
Geoffrey had not gone to the lake, however. When they finally found him, nearly half an hour later, he was sitting under an apple tree with his script of
The Duchess of Malfi
.
“Eagles commonly fly alone; they are crows, daws, and starlings that flock together. Look, what’s that follows me?”
He looked up in mock surprise. “Oh, hello, Sheriff. Just learning my lines.”
“Learning your lines?” Wesley repeated.
“Yes. For the community theater production. We’re doing
The Duchess of Malfi
. Do say you’ll come and see it, Sheriff. I shall be so honored.”
“I read that in English class!” said Clay eagerly. “It’s about a guy who has his sister killed because he’s in love with her!” He faltered, as he realized the implications of this.
Rountree brightened. “No! Is that the truth?”
“Somewhat oversimplified,” Geoffrey retorted. “It has to do with the honor of a noble family.”
“I’d say your family is a pretty noble one around here.” Rountree sank gingerly to the grass beside Geoffrey, and motioned for Clay to follow.
“If you are under the impression that I am conducting an al fresco seminar on medieval drama, you are misinformed,” snapped Geoffrey, closing the book.
“Fact is, we came to talk about your sister’s murder. Or rather, an incident that happened shortly before.”
“And what is that, pray?”
“You tell us. You were there. What did you and your sister argue about on the day she died?”
Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “What makes you ask?”
“You were overheard. We’re just giving you a chance to tell your side of it.” Rountree held up a restraining hand. “But don’t start yet. Just let me read you your rights. I’m not charging you with anything—yet. I just want to make sure you know where you stand before you say anything.”
Geoffrey stared off into space while Rountree fished out his “rights” card, and read it in the cheerful tones of a radio announcer. When he finished, he put it back in his wallet and beamed expectantly at Geoffrey. There was a minute of silence.
“Well?” prompted Rountree encouragingly.
Geoffrey sighed and shook his head. Finally, he said,
“All right, Rountree. We’ll have our little talk, on certain conditions …”
“Now, plea-bargaining is strictly the province of the district attorney,” Rountree began warningly.
“It’s not that. I am about to discuss personal family matters which, I might add, have no bearing on this case. I don’t want my statement to be discussed at the diner. I don’t want it mentioned to my family. And I don’t want Doris Guthrie to type up my statement, because she has the biggest mouth in the state of Georgia.”
“Police matters are always confidential—” Clay began.
“Type it up yourself, Clay. He’s right about Doris. Okay, Mr. Chandler. You have my word on it. This interview will be confidential insofar as it can be. You know, confessions of murder—even accidental killings—can’t be our little secrets. But why don’t you just tell me what happened that day, and let’s take it from there, shall we?”
“If I thought I could refuse to answer you without being charged with murder, I would certainly do so,” Geoffrey sighed. “And my only objection to that would be that it would deter you from finding the real killer. I would not deny him his rightful place in the penitentiary, I assure you. Very well—my discussion with Eileen. Who told you about it, by the way?”
“We can’t discuss that,” said Rountree.
“I believe I can guess,” offered Geoffrey.
“Now, what time Friday morning did you go to the lake?”
“About eight o’clock.” He acknowledged their look of surprise with a slight nod. “Yes, such an admission would shock my family, because I’ve trained them not to expect to see me before ten in the morning, but nevertheless it is true. In fact, I even changed back into my dressing gown for breakfast later so as not to impair my reputation for sloth.”
“And you found your sister painting by the lake?”
“Yes. And I know what you are thinking. I must
have seen the painting. I wish I had. It was my intention to do so.”
“That’s why you went down there? Just to see the painting?”
Geoffrey sighed. “I know my sister very well, Sheriff. Better than any of the rest of the family. And there was some reason for her not showing us that picture. Some reason other than the one she gave.”
“Uh-huh,” mused Rountree, who had come to the same conclusion. “And what was that reason?”
“I don’t know. But I was worried. She had been acting very distraught the day before, and I knew she was afraid of something. She broke a mirror in the upstairs hall, and made a scene in front of Dr. Shepherd, which is not like my sister at all.”
“We’ve discussed your sister’s medical history with Dr. Shepherd.”
“Yes. Well, in the early days of her illness, she used to say that she saw things—things that weren’t there. And she couldn’t stand mirrors. So … when she broke the mirror Thursday night, I began to be afraid that she was getting sick again.”
“Did you discuss that possibility with Dr. Shepherd?”
“Of course not! I didn’t want him to know!”
“Why not?”
Geoffrey gestured impatiently. “Because they’d lock her up again! And Eileen doesn’t—didn’t—need to be put away. She needed to feel safe and happy away from this house! At first I thought that she might be able to do that with Satisky, but it didn’t seem to be working. She had him, and the symptoms were still coming back! I was so afraid for her. She was going to blow it, and get sent away again.”
“And you told her this?”
“Yes—eventually. Not the way I’d planned. When she saw me at the lake that morning, she put the painting away immediately. And I asked her if I could see it. She said no; something about being sensitive to criticism. I told her to come off it. I knew her symptoms as well as she did. I told her that she’d been acting strangely, and that if she turned up the day before the
wedding with a painting of purple-eyed demons, then she could find the wedding cancelled right out from under her.”
“I don’t imagine she took kindly to that.”
“She started to cry. Said that Michael loved her and nothing could stop them.”
“And what did you say?”
“I’m afraid I lost my temper. I told her that if she didn’t control herself better, she would ruin things all by herself.”
“You wanted her to be able to go through with the wedding?”
Geoffrey rested his chin against his knees. “Well, Sheriff,” he said, “it’s like the fairy tale Snow White—to put things on your level: I wanted her to get away from the Wicked Queen and her magic mirror, even if she had to live in the woods with seven little men to be able to do it.”
Rountree paused for a moment, phrasing his question carefully. “Geoffrey … did you, in this quarrel with your sister, get madder than you intended? Did you hit her or knock her down? Not on purpose! Did she fall on a rock, for instance, and get knocked out? And maybe you panicked and tossed her into the boat?”
“No, Rountree. The brave man uses a sword. I did it with a bitter look.”
Rountree and Taylor looked at each other and shrugged. Another quote. Finally the sheriff said, “I take it that means you didn’t cause her death, accidental or otherwise.”
“Right, Sheriff. I did not cause her death.”
“What would you say her state of mind was when you left her?”
Geoffrey looked away. “She told me to go away. That there was nothing the matter with her. And she accused me of trying to break up her romance with Satisky. She said …” His voice trembled.
“Yes?” prompted Rountree softly.
“She said: ‘Which one of us are you jealous of?’ ”
* * *
“What did you think of that?” asked Clay.
Rountree shrugged. “I stopped trying to spot killers a long time ago.”
“I didn’t mean that, Wes. It seems kind of strange, though, that he’s taking it so hard. And you notice he didn’t volunteer that information about the fight they had. How do we know it went like that?”
The sheriff snorted. “I guess you want that man from Atlanta to come up here with his lie detector, so you can plug everybody in and see what’s what.”
Taylor knew he was being laughed at, but he couldn’t see why. It did seem like a pretty good idea, at that. “I guess we’d have to charge him first.”
“Just keep taking notes, Clay, and stop trying to think up TV tricks to improve law enforcement.” Taylor reddened and gave a quick nod. “Besides, you wouldn’t learn a lot. Lie detectors can be beat.”
“Oh, sure, I’ve heard that,” mumbled Clay.
“I did it myself,” said Wesley complacently.
The Chandler house loomed in front of them, but Wesley didn’t seem to want to go back in. He circled around the garage and headed for the front driveway. Taylor followed along, wondering if they were through for the day. If they finished before three, he could usually get Doris to type up his notes.
“How’d you beat the lie detector, Wes?”
The sheriff grinned. “Well, it was while I was in the M.P.s. We had one of those things laying around, so we got an expert in to give us a course in it. He asked for volunteers to demonstrate how the thing worked, and I went up there and let him strap me in and ask me questions. The thing works on your breathing and movements—on the notion that it makes you nervous to lie, I reckon. So I lied up a storm, and it never registered, because my mind wasn’t on the questions.”
“Yeah?”
“S’right. He’d ask me if my name was Henry, and I’d say ‘yes,’ just as calm as cow dung, ’cause all the while I’m naming off the parts of my rifle in my head, trying to get them in the order you break it down. So I’m answering the questions without really thinking
about them, because in my head I’m saying: ‘Pin, charging handle, bolt, stock …’ And, you know, I never trusted one of those things since, ’cause I figure that if an honest fellow like me can get past that machine, think what a real liar could do! How are we doing with those interviews, anyway?”
Taylor ticked off the names in his notebook. “That seems to be everybody. You want to interview anybody else today?”
“Yeah,” said Rountree thoughtfully. “I think I want to talk to the Emperor.”
“Oh. Yeah. I hope he’s home. I’d sort of like to look inside that place myself.”
The sheriff smiled. “Now, try not to be impressed.”
“Oh, it’s
immoral
, of course,” said Taylor hastily. “I certainly don’t think anybody should live in a place like that while so many people are doing without electricity and indoor plumbing, but from an aesthetic point of view … well, as long as he’s built it, I might as well look at it.”
“Might as well, Clay. Only try to keep your mind on the investigation while you’re taking inventory, okay?”
They crossed the road and approached the castle.
“Sure is a lot of steps,” Rountree remarked, looking up at the front door a flight above them. He took the steps at a leisurely pace, while Clay bounded to the top and began to thud on the brass dragon door-knocker. Rountree joined him just as the door opened, and a short frowning woman peered out at them.
“This ain’t no museum,” she warned.
“Hello, Mrs. Murphy,” said Clay. “Remember me?”
The door opened wider. “Clay Taylor! How in the world are you?”
“Doing fine. Here on business, though. Sheriff, this is Willie Murphy’s mother. You working here now, ma’am?”