Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
“Three days a week,” she sighed. “And you couldn’t hardly call that enough. I don’t know how those people managed without electric floor-polishers in them days.” She pointed to the gleaming marble staircase, and the squat machine on the first landing.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing the work,” said Rountree, “but we need to see Mr. Cobb if he’s around.”
“He’s upstairs. I’ll get him for you. Who do you want me to say is looking for him?”
“The sheriff,” said Wesley. With a trace of a smile, he added: “Of Nottingham.”
Alban was still laughing when he came downstairs to meet them. He escorted them into his study and installed them on the velvet sofa. Clay reached for his notepad.
“You, I suppose, are Robin Hood,” Alban said grinning. “Actually, Sheriff, you have mistaken your castle. This one is not twelfth-century English. It’s nineteenth-century German.”
“Very impressive,” said Wesley politely.
“Look, I know you didn’t come here on the Garden Club tour. What can I do for you? Can I get you some coffee?” He sank down in the wing chair and put his head in his hands.
“None for me, thanks,” said Wesley. “But you look like you could use some. Anything wrong?”
Alban looked up in amazement. “Quite a lot is wrong, don’t you think? I’m afraid I have a rather bad headache. Probably stress. But please don’t think I’m trying to put you off. I believe I will get some coffee, so you just go right ahead and talk.”
Wesley watched as Alban poured coffee into a beer stein with a stag painted on it. “This is just routine,” he remarked, settling back against the curve of the sofa. “We’ve interviewed everybody across the way, and we thought you might be able to give us some information about your cousin.”
“Could you tell me first—what has happened? I’d like to sort out all the tales I’ve heard about maurauding tramps and—er—houseguests. Is there a suspect?”
“A whole raft of them. All I’m prepared to say for sure is that Miss Eileen was supposed to be painting a picture down by that lake. Everybody says it was a wedding gift for her fiancé. Did you happen to get a look at it?”
“Judging from the other samples of her work, I’d have expected an abstract, Sheriff.”
“Can you think of a reason for someone to kill her because of an abstract?”
Alban smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid Eileen’s work was not so promising.”
“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone. From what we can make of it, she was painting early that morning by the lake, and someone sneaked up behind her and hit her.”
“You haven’t found the weapon that killed her?”
“The weapon that
hit
her, no,” Wesley corrected him. “I may have to drag that damn lake yet. What killed her is another thing. According to the coroner’s report, death was caused by snake venom. She was thrown into an old rowboat pushed up in the weeds, and there was a water moccasin in the bottom. Must have been a big one. He got her in the jugular vein, and a full load of undiluted venom hit her heart about a minute later. That did it. We haven’t found the snake, either,” he added drily.
Alban sighed. “My poor cousin’s death was certainly more dramatic than her life.”
“This is about the most unusual case I’ve ever come across,” Wesley remarked. “Where were you on the day of Miss Chandler’s death, by the way?”
“Escorting my mother to a flower show in Milton’s Forge.”
“And you left when?”
“Around nine, I should think.”
“Had you had any conversations with Miss Chandler about her forthcoming marriage?”
“Only to wish her well. My conversations with Eileen consisted mainly of pleasantries. We were not close. She has been away so long that we scarcely knew what to say.”
“How about the groom? What do you think of him?”
Alban shrugged. “He’s rather quiet. The family attitude seemed to be polite tolerance, so I followed their example.”
“Ummm. How about the rest of the family? Did she have problems with any of them?”
“Eileen wasn’t a fighter, Sheriff. She faded. When my charming Aunt Amanda became overbearing, Eileen just wasn’t there; physically if she could manage it, mentally if not. In any family skirmish she was definitely neutral. Even Geoffrey exempted her from his verbal barbs. Eileen kept to herself.”
“Well, she must have been in somebody’s way.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much help. I really think in this case a trespasser might actually be the answer to the problem.”
Rountree puffed his cheeks and let off a sigh of exasperation. “Vagrants don’t have art collections, Mr. Cobb.”
“It always comes back to the painting, doesn’t it?”
“Yep. And you have no idea what could have been in that painting?”
“Well, a couple of nights ago, Eileen was late for dinner, and I happened to be a guest of the Chandlers myself, so I volunteered to go and get her. Aunt Amanda is a stickler about meals. When I got down to the lake, she was just packing up her painting gear. I just got a glimpse of it, not even worth mentioning—the light was going and I was quite a distance away. But my impression is that it was the lake—though perhaps in abstract.”
“The lake. That’s what everybody figures. And it gets us nowhere. Why should anybody take a painting of the lake? Any ideas?”
“Dozens of them,” said Alban grinning. “All ridiculous. Would you like a few examples? Well, I thought that perhaps Cousin Charles had a marijuana plantation around the lake, and that Eileen had painted the leaf fronds too accurately. Or the Governor might have some secret ship model that he’s testing for the government, and Eileen put it in the painting. Shall I go on?”
Rountree stood up. “We’ll just muddle along by ourselves, if it’s all the same to you. That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there!”
Alban looked around him. “I thought you might have guessed that already, Sheriff.”
“Um. I see what you mean. We’ll be going now, Mr. Cobb. If you can think of anything else, please call me. Hope your headache gets better.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Perhaps I can persuade my cousin Elizabeth to go riding with me. That used to relax me considerably.”
When they were outside, Rountree, who had been pondering this last remark, said, “I haven’t seen any horses around here, have you?”
Taylor shrugged. “Maybe they’re in the guest room.”
A
LTHOUGH
S
UNDAY
proved to be a day of respite from the inquiries of the law, to Elizabeth it was the most tedious day of all. The shock of Eileen’s death had begun to wear off, leaving raw nerves among personalities already too inclined toward drama. Funeral arrangements and notifications had been completed, so that the tragedy could no longer be obstructed through routine tasks; it loomed large in the empty day. Breakfast had been a tense and silent meal, presided over by Amanda, who was a fierce antithesis to her former hostess-self. She seemed to begrudge every mouthful to those who were callous enough to eat in the presence of her sorrow. She herself sipped coffee and shredded a piece of dry toast on her plate.
After breakfast, while everyone was scrambling for sections of the Atlanta newspaper, Amanda appeared at the door in a black linen suit and gloves, informing them that church services began in one hour.
Satisky mumbled something about “keeping the Sabbath staying at home,” and Geoffrey, recognizing
the reference, snapped, “Oughtn’t you to be celebrating it in a garden in Amherst, Massachusetts, then?”
As the Chandlers regretfully surrendered their newspaper sections and prepared to go upstairs and dress, Carlsen Shepherd remarked that there was an interesting old Baptist Church he’d seen in Milton’s Forge on the way in, if anyone would care to join him in visiting it. Since he was looking at Elizabeth as he said this, she accepted the invitation at once.
Half an hour later, the two of them were in Shepherd’s car on the road to Milton’s Forge—Shepherd looking more presentable than usual in a navy three-piece suit.
“I didn’t know you were interested in old churches,” Elizabeth remarked.
“I’m not. I just thought the two of us could use some time off.”
“It’s getting to you, too?” asked Elizabeth, incredulous.
“Sure. And please don’t say ‘But you’re a psychiatrist.’ Give me a break. I treat patients; I don’t move in with them.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It’s like waiting for a storm, isn’t it? Sometimes I wish that Aunt Amanda would have her hysterics and get it over with.”
Shepherd nodded. “Maybe she’ll do it while we are gone. By the way, I mentioned that we might not be back in time for lunch. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes! With Aunt Amanda glaring at us during breakfast, I could hardly swallow!”
“It’s a difficult time to be an outsider. I wonder when the sheriff will settle all this so that we can leave.”
“Do you think we’ll have to stay until he finds the murderer?” asked Elizabeth, considering that unpleasant possibility for the first time.
Shepherd shook his head. “I don’t know. They asked me what I thought about it, but it’s hard to guess why she was killed when we don’t know much about her family situation.”
“I thought you did.”
“Now, remember, I’ve only been seeing her as a patient
for a year. Dr. Kimble did most of the therapy. I was just someone to talk to if she had adjustment problems. We didn’t go into great detail about her childhood or anything like that.”
“Well, since you’re a psychiatrist, can’t you just sort of look at the crime and figure out who would have done something like that?”
Shepherd grinned. “You mean relate the snake to Oedipal impulses, and stuff like that?”
“Well—I guess so.”
“But you can’t rule out coincidence. Maybe the murderer didn’t even know the snake was in the boat. Or maybe it was just a businesslike murder for money, and the killer took advantage of a handy time and place. Sorry—I think the sheriff is going to have to solve this one on his own.”
“Psychiatry sounds pretty interesting. Aside from the crime element, I mean. Do you like it?”
Elizabeth’s consideration of psychiatry as a potential career continued until they arrived at the church and was resumed after the service over a platter of fried chicken in Brody’s Roadside Inn.
“It’s nearly one-thirty,” Shepherd told Elizabeth, when they had finished their meal. “Should we start back?”
“What’s the alternative?” asked Elizabeth.
“Well, there’s a little historical museum in Milton’s Forge; we could visit that. You know: quilt exhibits and potters. I should do some sight-seeing while I’m down here.”
“What tourist attraction could compare with the one in the front yard?”
“Maybe he’ll offer a tour.”
“I shouldn’t joke about it,” said Elizabeth with a guilty look. “He said I was his favorite cousin, and here I am making fun of him. I told my brother Bill that, and he said that Alban’s taste in cousins is consistent with his taste in architecture.”
“Your brother sounds like one of the family, all right.”
“It’s a zoo. I wonder why you let yourself in for it. Why
did
you come?”
Shepherd looked uncomfortable. “You know, I wondered if anybody would ask me that. I don’t go to all my patients’ weddings. I guess you could say I had a hunch about this one.”
Elizabeth stared. “You mean … you
knew—”
“Oh, no! Not about the murder. I’m perceptive, but not psychic. I just thought this wedding might not come off. From what I’d seen of Satisky and what I’d heard of the family, I just thought—well, there could be trouble. I thought I’d come down as a friendly neutral, in case I was needed. And if the worst did happen—no wedding—I figured Eileen would need me for sure.”
“That was very nice of you,” murmured Elizabeth.
“Professional ethics,” said Shepherd, getting up. “How about a museum?”
After several hours of admiring colonial handicrafts, Shepherd and Elizabeth returned to find no one at home but Mildred, who informed them that the family had gone to Todd & O’Connor’s Funeral Home to view the body. The coroner had authorized the transfer of Eileen’s body to the local funeral home sometime that afternoon.
“Do you suppose we ought to drive out there?” asked Elizabeth in hushed tones.
“Do you want to?” asked Shepherd.
“No.” She shivered, picturing the emotional storm breaking in the funeral home.
“Then don’t. There’s always tomorrow. I think I saw a chess set in the library. That doesn’t seem like a frivolous game, does it? Even in a house of mourning. Come on. It’ll take your mind off all of this.”
They played until after nine o’clock, when the flash of headlights in the driveway sent them scurrying tactfully to their rooms.
The next morning, Dr. Shepherd accepted an invitation from Robert Chandler to tour the county hospital and to meet some of the local physicians. Elizabeth passed most of the day reading in her room. Dinner loomed ominously in her thoughts: another opportunity for family melodrama. She considered skipping the meal
altogether, but after some reflection decided that her presence would exert a calming influence. If it would avert a nasty scene, she’d better go.
When she came downstairs at a quarter past five, Geoffrey was in the hall, about to go into the dining room. “Ah, there you are, Elizabeth! You have been quite the hermit today, haven’t you? Very wise! Who knows who’ll be next?”
Elizabeth frowned disapprovingly. “Not funny. It’s just that I don’t have your tolerance for drama in everyday life.”
“Then you will be distressed to hear that this evening’s floor show will consist of a performance by Tommy Simmons in his legal capacity, followed by Sheriff Rountree’s feats of mental marvels.”
“They’re coming to dinner?”
“Mercifully not. But they will be expecting us to convene in the drawing room at seven. Try not to think about it; it might curdle your Hollandaise sauce. Stress is fatal to digestion.”
“What does Rountree want now?”
Geoffrey struck a pose. “I applied for the job of Watson, but the offer was not well received.” Then, in a serious voice: “Surely you don’t expect me to know? Something trivial, I expect.”
“I suppose so. He has already talked to all of us.”