Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
The bride-to-be, looking most unromantic in faded jeans and an Edinburgh T-shirt, was sitting on the chintz sofa with her legs tucked up behind her, leafing through a back issue of
Bride’s
.
“Let’s just make sure that we have everything straight now,” said Aunt Amanda, peering at Elizabeth over the top of her reading glasses.
Elizabeth put down the magazine and searched through the papers on the coffee table for her own copy of the list marked
Wedding—To Do
. “All right. I found it.”
“The invitations are addressed and mailed?”
“Check. Some time ago.”
“The minister has been asked.” Amanda put a star beside that item on her list. “I did that by telephone. He said that he would drop by to meet the two of you when Cameron arrives. When is that, by the way?”
“The middle of next week. They’re flying in to Atlanta. Uncle Robert is picking them up.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d want to go along, but it’s out of the question. We have very little time as it is. Let’s see. What’s next. Ah! The caterers have been notified?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I spoke to Earthling, but is there anyone else we could get to do the reception?”
“Whatever is the matter? Can’t they manage a simple wedding reception?” Aunt Amanda looked stern. “You didn’t ask for haggis, did you?”
Elizabeth explained about Rogan Josh and his
politically inspired menu. “I just didn’t think I could cope with him. If I argued with him, I’d feel like a social oppressor and if I didn’t, I’d feel that I’d been bullied by a crank. I don’t know what to do.”
Amanda Chandler’s expression changed from bewilderment to annoyance. “Leave them to me!” Her eyes flashed.
“Gladly. I went to the florist yesterday—the one you recommended.”
“Oh, yes. Lucy in Chandler Grove. I’ve always been pleased with her work. She did the—” Amanda’s voice faltered. “You know, the funerals.”
Elizabeth reddened, babbling on to cover the awkwardness. “We had quite a nice talk. I ended up telling her all about forensic anthropology, and she told me that a florist leads a more interesting life than you’d think. Apparently, the sheriff had consulted her about something that day.”
“You haven’t time to stand about gossiping with shopkeepers. Did you happen to choose the flowers?”
“Oh, she was very helpful. I think I have all the planning taken care of for the decorations. She’s doing baskets of spring flowers for the house—I told her I didn’t care what was in those. I expect she knows best about arrangements. And for the bouquet we compromised.”
“How so?”
“I wanted white roses and white heather, but she says heather is out of the question. She thinks she can get thistles, though. They grow wild in the mountains at this time of year.”
“Be careful how you carry it then,” Amanda advised. “Thistles and roses. That’s a lot of thorns. Aren’t you worried about the symbolism?”
“The thistle is the symbol of Scotland, so I
thought I was all right on that score. Besides, you can go crazy if you worry too much about symbolism.”
“Which brings us to
something old, something new….”
“I’ll worry about that later!”
“But do you have a sixpence? That’s the last line you know:
And a sixpence in her shoe.”
“I’ll call Cameron. They don’t use them anymore, of course, since Britain went off the lovely monetary system they used to have for a boring old decimal system. I expect he can find one, though. What’s next?”
“Flowers for the bridesmaids, boutonniere for the groom and ushers, corsages for the mothers.”
“All done. Cameron is getting one white rosebud and a thistle for his boutonniere.”
“And your attendants?”
“Red roses, white baby’s breath, and thistles, with tartan ribbon.”
Amanda nodded her approval. “That brings us to the wedding gown. I cannot believe that you have left it this late.”
Elizabeth sucked in her stomach. “I was waiting until the last possible pound,” she admitted.
“Well, have you any idea what you want?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I thought I’d buy a pattern and material and have it made. You do have a seamstress around here, don’t you? Because otherwise: malls of Atlanta, here I come.”
“We have a seamstress,
if
she is not already too busy. This is bride season, you know. Fortunately prom time is past. Her name is Miss Geneva Grey. She and her sister Aurelia used to do quite a bit of fine sewing. Their father was a country doctor here years ago, even before your Uncle Robert went into practice. Old Dr. Grey was one of the founders of
the county hospital. His daughters never married. They kept that big old house all by themselves and they do sewing as much to keep busy as for the money. Though I suppose in these days of taxation, everyone could use more money.”
“Probably so,” said Elizabeth, whose thoughts were elsewhere.
“The sisters were very different, though. Geneva was the shy one, but Aurelia had spunk. We were all quite surprised that she should be the first to go. Passed away on a trip to Florida.”
Elizabeth was more concerned with her wedding gown than with local gossip. “But the surviving sister still does sewing?” she persisted.
“Of course. Miss Geneva tries to accommodate everyone who needs sewing done.”
“I’ll call her right now,” Elizabeth promised. “I’ll need to get Jenny in for a fitting, too.”
Before they arrived at the next order of business, the door chimes sounded. “I’ll get it,” said Elizabeth. “It’s probably the UPS truck bringing more wedding presents.”
Aunt Amanda drew aside the curtain and peered down at the driveway. “I don’t think so. There’s a sheriffs car parked on the circle.”
“I’ll go anyway,” said Elizabeth. “I wonder what he wants.”
In Edinburgh it was seven
P.M
., still broad daylight in this land near the midnight sun, but time for dinner, anyhow. Cameron Dawson and his mother and younger brother were sitting in the small dining room, eating the first course of their meal: homemade cucumber soup. Traveller the cat, while too proud to beg, was lying under the sideboard in readiness, just in case anything should fall from the table.
“No mail today, then?” asked Cameron, tilting his bowl away from him to get the last bit of soup.
“No,” said Margaret Dawson. “Only some bits of advertising.”
“What were you expecting?” asked Ian. “Wedding presents?”
“Actually, I thought we might be due for another postcard,” his brother replied. “That gnome is certainly getting around, isn’t he?”
They glanced out the window at the sunny garden, where a bare patch of earth under a bush was the only trace of the missing garden ornament.
Ian nodded. “He’s been to Alaska, Italy, and Ibiza. There seems to be no pattern to it. I wonder where he’ll turn up next. Hong Kong, perhaps? He seems about due for Asia.”
“Melbourne,” Cameron suggested.
“Have you any idea who is doing this?” asked Margaret. “It seems to me a very odd sort of joke.”
Ian shook his head. “I have asked every lunatic I know,” he said. “Honestly. I even rang up the ones in Aberdeen and Glasgow. They all swear they didn’t do it—but they wish they’d thought of it!”
“Now you’ve done it!” his mother remarked cheerfully. “There’ll be a rash of gnome thefts in Scotland! Anyhow, that’s one set of friends accounted for. What about yours, Cameron?”
“Mine?”
cried young Dr. Dawson, with an expression of wounded dignity. “None of my friends would stoop to such a thing. You might as well ask the minister if
he
did it!”
“Cameron has a point,” said Ian, reaching for the bread. “None of his friends has the nerve to pull it off, much less the imagination. You don’t suppose it was the minister?” he added hopefully.
His mother shook her head. “None of my friends finds it funny. They all think it’s a prelude to a
burglary. I must say they have me quite worried about leaving home.”
“Nonsense!” said Cameron. “We’ve enlisted the entire neighborhood to watch the house. It will be perfectly all right to go.”
“It’s a pity we can’t contact the gnome and tell him that we’ll be leaving home shortly,” Margaret Dawson mused. “Suppose he writes us while we’re off in America.”
“Then Dr. Grant will keep the card for us until we get back, just as he’s doing with the rest of the mail,” said Ian reasonably. “Honestly, you act as if it’s a lost dog we’re talking about.”
“Well, it does seem quite alive now that it’s corresponding with us, doesn’t it?” She looked thoughtful. “Although it never says anything
personal
, does it? It never addresses us by name on the cards, or says anything about seals or estate agents, or anything that would indicate that he knows much about us.”
“It’s hard to eavesdrop when you’re stuck out under a forsythia bush in the garden,” Ian pointed out.
“No, I see what she means,” said Cameron. “We can’t tell from the postcards whether the people who took the gnome are personally acquainted with us or not.”
“I think they must be,” said Margaret Dawson. “But I can’t imagine who it is.”
“A salesman, perhaps?” suggested Ian. “Someone who travels frequently on business? Maybe someone in the North Sea oil industry? An RAF pilot? Do any of us know someone like that?”
They all shook their heads. No one of their acquaintance fit such a description.
“Well,” said Margaret Dawson, collecting the empty soup bowls, “we’re off to America next week.
I wonder where our garden gnome will be going next?”
When Elizabeth opened the front door, she found Sheriff Wesley Rountree standing on the porch, wearing his khaki uniform and dress Stetson. He was holding a large blue cloisonné vase.
“Come in!” cried Elizabeth, ushering him into the hall. “It is so nice to see you again, Sheriff. I haven’t seen you since …” She faltered. The mention of one cousin’s murder and another cousin’s guilt would be inappropriate on a social occasion, she thought. “Well, I had no idea you’d remember me after all this time,” she went on happily. “But this is so
nice
of you. You really shouldn’t have!”
“Uh … well, ma’am … I mean …”
The sheriff seemed at a loss for words, but Elizabeth, who wasn’t, took no notice of his reply. “This is such a lovely vase!” she cried. “I’ll just put it on the table with the rest of the wedding gifts. Really, this is so sweet of you, Sheriff. You shouldn’t have!”
Wesley cleared his throat loudly. “The fact is, ma’am, I didn’t!” he called to her as she hurried away with the vase.
Elizabeth turned in midstride, her smile still plastered in place. “Beg your pardon?”
“About that vase,” said Wesley, who had just remembered to take his hat off. “I apologize for the misunderstanding and I just feel like a hill of beans about it. But what with you being a bride and all, I can certainly understand how you’d come to the conclusion you did.” Wesley had a theory that apologies sounded more sincere in Southern dialect and he always adjusted his accent accordingly.
Elizabeth looked down at the blue vase and then back at the sheriff, still confused about the purpose of the visit.
“It isn’t a wedding present at all,” Wesley explained. “And I’m sure you won’t want it when I tell you what it is.”
Elizabeth contemplated the blue enamel jar, which—she now noticed—had a lid and felt too heavy to be empty. “Oh shit,” she whispered, setting the object on the coffee table.
Wesley looked at her sadly. “I see you figured it out, ma’am.”
“Call me Elizabeth,” she said. “Now sit down here and tell me what you’re doing wandering around Chandler Grove with a funeral urn.”
Wesley settled in on the sofa and explained about Emmet Mason’s encore performance as a traffic fatality, which had naturally led to curiosity on the part of his widow as to just
who
had been sitting in the middle of her mantelpiece in a blue metal urn for the last five years. “And when I read the announcement about your engagement in the local paper—for which congratulations, by the way—I couldn’t help noticing that you were a forensic anthropologist. So I said to myself,
Now there’s the person I need to talk to about this!”
Wesley beamed at the clarity of his explanation.
Elizabeth blinked. “You want to consult me on a case?”
“I do. You are the one who’s studying forensic anthropology, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve had some experience analyzing human remains and so on?”
“A couple of years, yes.”
“Then I sure would appreciate it if you could give me some expert opinions here.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Surely the state of Georgia has people who do this.”
“Whole crowds of them, I expect,” said Wesley
amiably. “But they don’t hang out around these parts. So if I wanted to consult one of them, I’d have to take a day off from regular duties, which would play hell with the patrol schedules, and the county would probably have to pay them a consulting fee, which I expect I would hear about from the board of commissioners.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Go on.”
“Now I wouldn’t mind the consulting fee if there was a crime involved, but I can’t be sure of that. Why, for all I know that could be pig’s knuckles stuck in that jar. Besides that, going off to hunt up a consultant in Atlanta would take up time, and out of consideration for that poor Mrs. Mason—she’s the widow—I wanted to get some answers to this just as quick as I could. She’s mighty upset, as I’m sure you can understand. So I thought that the fastest and easiest recourse would be to drive over here and ask you two questions.”
“What two questions?”
Wesley’s face took on a solemn expression, which meant that having charmed his way into a free consultation with a medical expert, he was ready to talk business—and to learn something. “Can you tell anything from cremated remains?”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell?”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched in the briefest of smiles. “Is that your second question?”
“No. Rephrasing of the first. Could you elaborate on that first answer, please?”
“Okay. Most people think that the ashes of a cremated person will look like the residue you find in a wood-burning fireplace: fine, papery ash. But that is not the case. Human remains
can
be made to look that way, if they are milled after the cremation process is complete, but unless the family requests
that, it usually isn’t done. The general rule is: if you tell the mortuary that the ashes are going to be scattered, they will be more likely to mill them, but if you plan to just keep the ashes in an urn in a vault, or”—she shrugged—“on a mantelpiece, then they’ll just put them in the container the way they look when they come out of the furnace.”