Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
“As you know, I am here to discuss the estate—if we can call it that—of Miss Eileen Chandler.” He paused, clearing his throat before taking the first hurdle. “I—er—hope that no one will object to the presence of Sheriff Rountree and Deputy Taylor in the family conference. As an attorney, I might venture to say—”
“We just thought we’d save Mr. Simmons the trouble of going through it twice,” said Rountree from the doorway. “That is, if nobody minds.”
Dr. Chandler summoned a pale smile. “Come in, Wes,” he said softly.
They eased into the room, with Taylor looking as if he wanted to tiptoe across the thick blue carpet. The silver coffee service had been set up on the table next to the window, and Dr. Chandler motioned them toward it. With the help of Dr. Shepherd, they assembled extra cups and napkins from a sideboard and fixed their own coffee. Amanda Chandler sat motionless on the sofa, oblivious to it all.
When the officers had poured their coffee and found empty chairs, Tommy Simmons began again. “Now this is a purely unofficial discussion of finances, concerning”—he glanced at the papers in front of him —“concerning the immediate family.” Simmons paused tentatively.
“Then I shall excuse myself,” said Elizabeth quickly. She hurried to the door before anyone could think of a reason to detain her.
Alban, who had started to get up when Elizabeth spoke, turned to Dr. Shepherd. “I think they can spare us, too, Doctor. Why don’t we go out for a walk?”
Shepherd glanced at the tense faces around him and nodded to Alban. As they rose to leave, Wesley Rountree leaned over to Dr. Chandler and said: “Robert, let me just get this in real quick. We’re going to have to drag that lake in the morning. Can I get your okay on that?”
“Of course, Wesley,” whispered Chandler. He gave an encouraging nod to Simmons, who looked inquiringly at the sheriff. Wesley smiled and nodded. As the door closed behind Shepherd and Alban, Simmons began, “I always feel that in awkward situations it’s best for the parties involved to sit down and talk things out—”
Amanda’s head jerked up. She seemed to notice him for the first time. “I have yet to learn that my daughter’s death is an awkward situation!” she snapped.
Simmons looked pained. “I was speaking
legally.”
“And are you about to render a dramatic reading of the will?” Geoffrey inquired.
“It is an unusual will. She wrote it herself, you see, and—”
“All the women in this family write silly wills!” snapped Captain Grandfather. “Look at Augusta’s piece of nonsense. Reminds me, where’s Louisa?”
“She called and said she isn’t feeling well,” said Charles.
“Her presence is not necessary. She isn’t mentioned,” said Simmons.
Michael Satisky flushed. He felt them all looking at him, but he did not raise his eyes to see whether they were or not. He wondered if he should request permission to leave, but that would only draw more attention to himself.
“I think I’ll just go ahead and read this,” said Simmons. He held up the piece of stationery. He glanced
up nervously at the expectant faces, then plunged into the narrative.
“This is the last will and testament of me, Eileen Amanda Chandler, being of sound mind, despite opinions to the contrary. I think of a will as being an expression of consolation from the dead person to those who will miss her. To Captain Grandfather I leave the wooden ship he carved for me when I was a little girl with my thanks. Captain Grandfather—‘may there be no moaning of the bar, when I put out to sea.’ To Daddy, I leave my paintings, because he said he liked them. To Charles, I leave my picture—in case he has forgotten me already. To Geoffrey I leave my stuffed animals, because they often comforted me when I needed them. I want Mother to have the dressmaker’s dummy in the sewing room and all my clothes; that way she may never notice I’m gone. And to Michael Satisky, my husband-to-be, I leave Great-Aunt Augusta’s money and my copy of
Sonnets from the Portuguese
, with all my love. Signed: Eileen Amanda Chandler.” Simmons looked up to indicate that he was finished.
Amanda Chandler was already on her feet. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she hissed. “My daughter would never have written such a spiteful thing to her mother!”
Simmons held out the sheet of paper. “It’s hand-written. You are all welcome to examine it.” He turned to Satisky, who was staring at the floor with a dazed expression. “Of course, the legacy from her Great-Aunt was not hers to give, since your marriage did not take place.”
“She knew,” murmured Satisky, without looking up.
“Robert, what did she mean by that?” his wife demanded. “Dressmaker’s dummy! I was a good mother to her!” Her voice rose, and she pitched forward, steadying herself on the arm of the sofa. “Ungrateful little—”
Captain Grandfather and Dr. Chandler sprang up, one on each side of her. “Amanda! That’s enough!”
“It isn’t decent for her to leave a thing like that!” she screeched at Simmons.
“Amanda! Hush!” Dr. Chandler attempted to get her
to sit down on the sofa, but she lurched away from him and continued to shout at the lawyer.
“Excuse her,” said Captain Grandfather. “She’s overwrought.”
“I quite understand,” said Simmons, who had smelled the bourbon fumes from several feet away. He wrinkled his nose distastefully.
“Let’s get her upstairs,” said Captain Grandfather briskly.
Throughout the disturbance Michael and the young Chandlers looked embarrassed, while the sheriff and his deputy sat still and tried to look as if nothing were happening. It was a family situation, Wesley reasoned. He had unobtrusively motioned Clay to remain seated; the less notice they took of it, the easier it would be on the family’s feelings.
Simmons put the letter in his briefcase, taking an inordinate amount of time on the locks and untying the folder string. He, too, felt that such an exhibition should not be witnessed by outsiders.
“She was laughing at me! She always blamed me when we sent her away, Robert! Never you! Oh, no!” Amanda grew steadily louder and less coherent. Finally the two of them half carried her to the door.
Unable to restrain his curiosity, Clay Taylor stole a glance at Geoffrey, who returned his gaze levelly. Clay turned away quickly. “Want to get out of here, Wes?” he whispered.
“Can’t do it,” said Wesley softly. “I still need to talk to the doctor about that lake. I sure do hate to bother him, though. As if he hasn’t got enough troubles.”
Clay nodded. “That’s for sure.”
Elizabeth stood in front of the wall of books opposite the fireplace, running the tip of one finger over the book titles. Wedged among leather-bound classics and tattered paperback war novels, she found a set of encyclopedias. Her hand hesitated at the volume marked “L,” but instead she continued to examine the rest of the bookcase. A few more minutes of searching turned up nothing more helpful. There were books on ships, decorating,
and many medical volumes, but not many histories or biographies. She reached for the encyclopedia; it was better than nothing.
When she had settled in the wing chair with the book in her lap, Elizabeth reached into her skirt pocket and drew out the Mailgram.
“If this is a joke, I’ll kill him.”
Through the closed door, Elizabeth heard faint sounds of upraised voices, which made her wonder what Eileen had written in her mysterious will, but since it had evidently created a scene, she was just as glad that she had not stayed to hear it. She would ask Geoffrey later what the fuss had been about, but just now Bill’s message intrigued her more than the distribution of Eileen’s possessions.
She read the Mailgram again.
“READ UP ON LUDWIG/TELL SHERIFF/BUTT OUT. BILL.”
Now what was that supposed to mean? At first she had suspected that it was a satirical puzzle to tell her when the family would arrive for the funeral, or an attempt to goad her into delusions of detection. Bill’s sense of humor occasionally approached Geoffrey’s in appreciation of the bizarre, but the more she considered these possibilities, the less likely they seemed. Bill had not been in a joking mood on the telephone when she told him about Eileen’s murder; he had been very serious indeed. “TELL SHERIFF/BUTT OUT.” It sounded unusually urgent coming from Bill. That phrase “Butt out” reminded her of the time the hearth rug at home had caught fire. She and Bill had both dived for it at the same time, but he had pushed her away. “Butt out!” She ran to the kitchen for a pitcher of water, but by the time she got back with it, he had beaten out the flames. His hands had stayed bandaged for a week. Elizabeth smiled, remembering their father’s comment on the incident: “You should trade in some of your courage as a down payment on judgment.”
She looked at the message again and sighed, wondering if it would be worth it to call the apartment manager again and ask him to rout Bill out of his apartment
so that she could demand an explanation. On second thought, that seemed like more bother than following the instructions in the message. Tell the sheriff what? A history lecture from an encyclopedia? What did that have to do with anything? She had been meaning to read up on Ludwig, anyway, though, in case Alban dredged up any more unpleasantries about the Bonnie Prince. Shaking her head in resignation, she opened volume ten and turned to the article on Ludwig II of Bavaria.
The entry on Ludwig took only half a page, and was accompanied by a small photograph of a weak-chinned young man in an elaborate military uniform. He looked like a dreamer, Elizabeth decided; the sort who today read science fiction and play role-games in which they are wizards or paladins. She wondered what he had done besides building fairy-tale castles in his insignificant kingdom. She read the article twice, the second time slowly, her finger tracing out each word in the last paragraph. That must be the connection, but its significance escaped her. Perhaps the sheriff would know what Bill was getting at. Elizabeth slid the Mailgram into the book to mark her place and left the room.
Clay Taylor, who was sitting nearest the door, heard the tapping. Shoving his pencil behind his ear, he signaled for the others to remain seated, and got up to see who it was. Dr. Chandler and the old man had not come back downstairs yet, so Wesley had decided to go ahead with the order to drag the lake. He was on the phone now making the arrangements.
“Well, where
is
Hill-Bear, Doris? I need to talk to him!” Wesley was shouting into the phone.
Clay hastened to open the door. “Oh, hi!” he said, brightening at the sight of Elizabeth. “Do you want to come back in?”
“I need to talk to the Sheriff,” she said, looking past the deputy into the parlor. She could see Rountree hunched over an end table talking excitedly into an extension phone. His conversation drowned out the murmur of voices from the corner of the room, where
Tommy Simmons was talking with Geoffrey and Charles. Satisky had picked up a decorating magazine from the coffee table and was leafing through it with no indication of interest.
“Wes is on the phone. He’s trying to get the number of the rescue squad people from Doris. He had to get permission from Dr. Chandler so that we could drag the pond. At least, I expect we could have done it anyway, since this is a homicide, but Wesley says, ‘Never stomp when you can tiptoe.’ So we asked first. They agreed, of course. So he’s setting that up now for tomorrow morning.” He paused for breath, noticing that she hadn’t seemed to be listening. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I was supposed to tell the sheriff, but … where’s Dr. Shepherd?”
“He left just after you did. He and Alban—Mr. Cobb, that is—said something about going for a walk by the lake. Guess they knew that this meeting would—”
Elizabeth thrust the book at him. “Look, I can’t wait! Just see that he reads this as soon as he gets off the phone. There’s a Mailgram in there, too. I’ll be at the lake!”
“But you haven’t—” Taylor shrugged. She was gone. He leaned against the door and began to flip through the book.
A
LBAN AND
C
ARLSEN
S
HEPHERD
had slipped out the back door of the house, taking the footpath that led to the lake.
“I’m glad we got out of there,” Shepherd confided.
Alban nodded, eyeing the doctor’s baggy khakis and faded tee shirt. “I thought you might prefer it out here.”
“I was sure there was going to be a scene. It’s been building up to one. Professionally, I have to take this sort of thing in stride, but personally, I’d rather not watch.”
It was early evening. In the shadowy parts of the path, the trees were becoming less distinct, blending into gray shapes beyond the bushes that lined the path. Behind them, the shade trees on the lawn cast long shadows in the fading sunlight. The house stood black against the bright sky, but as they entered the untended woods that surrounded the lake, the twilight deepened.
Shepherd was thinking how little he liked this sort of landscape. Although the path was dry, he could smell
wet ground around him—from the underground stream that fed the lake, he supposed. Short dogwoods and matted underbrush of shrubs he did not recognize made it difficult to see much beyond the path itself. The tangle of bushes choked the land around the tall pines and hardwoods, making him feel closed in. He eyed the spider webs stretched between tree branches, imagining the cotton stickiness on his face if he should stumble into one stretched across the path. He had been watching the ground as much as possible, expecting every branch to coil and strike at him.
“Is it far to the lake?” he asked when he could stand it no longer.
“No. Less than a mile. We ought to be there before dark. It’s pretty country, isn’t it?”
Shepherd grunted.
They walked on for a few more minutes in silence. Alban seemed to be deep in thought, and while Shepherd would have welcomed any conversation that would distract him from the unpleasant terrain, he found himself unable to think of any topic that would not lead back to the death of Eileen Chandler.
“Do you suppose we should have stayed to hear what the sheriff had to say?” he ventured.