The Windsor Knot (24 page)

E
LIZABETH HAD BEEN
pacing by the front windows since before the Dawsons’ British Airways flight had touched down in Atlanta. “Where are they?” she fumed. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“Not for at least another hour, dear,” said Aunt Amanda, who was trying to read.
“Do
stop pacing. Write some thank-you notes.”

Elizabeth looked guiltily at the pile of wedding presents on and about the trestle table. “Do you think I ought to write the letters to Cameron’s friends as well?”

“Certainly,” said Amanda, turning a page. “He deserves at least the public illusion that he has acquired a dutiful wife.”

“Well, all right. I think I ought to wait until he gets here to open them, though.”

“That still gives you a good many others to write thank-yous for,” her aunt pointed out.

Charles Chandler appeared just then, looking well dressed but angry. “Mother, could I borrow your car keys?”

“What is the matter with your car, dear?”

“I don’t know! It won’t start, and I’m late for an engagement.”

Aunt Amanda looked up at her son. “Surely anyone who is a theoretical physicist ought to be able to figure out a simple combustion engine.”

Charles reddened. “It isn’t the same thing at all, Mother! And I just had it serviced. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with it.”

Elizabeth kept her eyes carefully turned to the window. “Have you checked the distributor cap, Charles?”

It was nearly an hour later that Dr. Chandler’s Lincoln pulled into the driveway, signaling his arrival with discreet beeps of the horn.

“They’re here!” cried Elizabeth, abandoning her thank-you note in midword. With a last-minute pat at her newly styled hair, she hurried out the front door to meet the Dawsons.

“How was your flight?” asked Aunt Amanda, when the initial frenzy had died down.

“Quite tedious,” said Margaret Dawson. “I expect it will take me ages to get used to the time. My body says it’s past midnight.”

“Just on eight,” Amanda assured her. “We have dinner prepared. I think we shan’t bother to wait for Charles and Geoffrey under the circumstances. And after that, we will take you across the street to my sister’s.”

Margaret Dawson glanced nervously in the direction of the castle. “That is an unusual residence,” she ventured. “Cameron keeps telling me that
Dallas
is not at all representational of American life, but really … does your sister like it?”

“I believe not,” Amanda replied. “It was built by her son, and as you may have noticed she has a For Sale sign in front of it. She says that castles are expensive to maintain, impossible to heat, and very lonely to live in.” Remembering that her guest was British, she added kindly, “Of course, I expect it’s different for royalty.”

“Much worse, I should imagine,” said Margaret Dawson. “When you’re royal, you’ve got whole
crowds of people living there in the castle with you. Really, out of all that space in the royal palaces, the Queen has only a tiny apartment in each. She might as well have a service flat for all the room
she’s
got. And because it’s an historic treasure, she can’t really redecorate much, can she?” She looked around approvingly. “I like
your
house.”

“Thank you,” said Aunt Amanda equably. “I’ve always fancied it a kingdom of sorts.”

Elizabeth, having made Cameron sure of his welcome, had launched into a nonstop account of the wedding preparations, while Ian asked Dr. Chandler to show him around the place so that he could stretch his legs.

They had just reassembled to troop into the dining room for dinner when Geoffrey appeared. “Don’t let me keep you!” he called, hurrying past them and up the stairs. “I just need to make a phone call, and then I’ll be right down to join you!”

“Have you seen Charles?” Aunt Amanda called after him.

“I expect he’ll come home soon,” said Geoffrey, disappearing into the stairwell. “He might as well,” he muttered to himself.

   “Don’t you hate the end of the month?” asked Wesley Rountree with a mouth full of hamburger. “This paperwork is about to kill me.”

Clay Taylor nodded in sympathy. “They ought to let us hire some clerks.”

“The commissioners wouldn’t part with a nickel to make anybody else’s job easier,” Wesley grumbled. “But you notice they did air-condition their chambers.”

“Well, I couldn’t argue with a thing you’ve said, but even paperwork can’t depress me tonight,” said Clay, leaning back in his chair with a happy smile.
“Because today was my last day with that Roan County sourpuss Charlie Mundy.”

“Finished questioning our local suspects, did you?”

“That’s right. It’s going to be all routine scut-work from here on in—and they are welcome to it. They’ve got more manpower than we have, anyhow.”

“How are things over in Roan County. Did Mundy mention it?”

“The coroner thinks Willis was stabbed with scissors; certainly not a knife. And judging from the angle and the place that the wound was inflicted, he didn’t think it took much force. They don’t have any suspects they like in Roan, though. Word hadn’t got out over there about Emmet Mason’s reappearance.”

“I think it will be somebody around here,” Wesley agreed. “It surprises me that Wayne is smart enough to agree with me. But you do think that he found some more faked-death cases over in Roan?”

“At least one person over yonder got scared enough to admit that his dearly departed hadn’t gone so far as to die, and there are a couple of other cases that look like people who just ran out on their families, the way Emmet did. I expect most of them had the sense to change their names, though.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Wesley. “So our theory was correct, then. Jasper Willis was running a travel agency for people who wanted to disappear, and for a fee he’d call up their families with a story about an accident, then send them an urn full of miscellaneous ashes as proof.”

“That’s what they’ve been told. I figure that any day now the insurance companies ought to be coming in here like a wolf on the fold.”

The phone rang and Wesley reached for it. “Sheriff’s office.”

Clay went back to his paperwork, but he glanced over at the sheriff from time to time. Wesley had assumed his hunting-dog mode: tense posture, faraway look in his eyes, an expression of complete concentration. The deputy couldn’t make out the particulars of the conversation, though. Wesley just kept saying, “Yep,” and “Is that right?” and occasionally he’d scribble a few words on his notepad.

After a few minutes of this, Clay noticed that Wesley seemed to relax, and his face spread into a grin. “Well, sir,” he said, “I will certainly be mindful of that. And of course we wouldn’t want to make an arrest prematurely. How long do you reckon it’ll take? Two days? Oh, fine. I’m sure it will take us at least that long to compile the evidence. Meanwhile, we’ll keep an eye on things, and don’t you meddle in things anymore, either, hear?” He was still grinning when he hung up the phone.

“What was that all about, Wesley?”

“What you might call a tip from a concerned citizen,” said Wesley. “I reckon the Roan County boys would have reached the same conclusion, but this saves some time.”

“A tip?” said Clay. “You mean about the Willis murder?”

“That’s right. Mr. Geoffrey Chandler had a couple of suggestions for us—and one request. First, he thought we should check Miss Geneva Grey’s dressmaking scissors for latent bloodstains.”

“If she’s smart, she’s thrown them away.”

“He thinks not. She needs them rather urgently just now. And he also recommended that we check the Florida Medical Register for a nurse named Aurelia Grey, or Aurelia anything. He says he’ll wager she kept her name, though.”

Clay nodded. “That’s the old sister who supposedly died in Florida. We questioned Miss Geneva Grey about that. She was pretty calm.”

“Well, she’d just committed murder to keep her secret. Our informant there contends that she and Miss Aurelia arranged the fake death to accomplish two purposes: first, it would get Miss Aurelia out of Chandler Grove so that she could work like she wanted to, and second, it would let Miss Geneva inherit her insurance money so she wouldn’t
have
to work.”

“Why didn’t Aurelia Grey just get a job here?”

“I think they needed more money than that. House upkeep, taxes. I don’t know. We’ll probably be able to ask her soon. Young Mr. Chandler is pretty sure she’ll come back when she hears what her sister has done.”

“And what was the request he made?”

The sheriff looked bemused. “He wants us to take two days to complete the investigation before we arrest her. He says she has a wedding dress to finish.”

   After dinner Aunt Amanda announced that she would bring coffee into the living room, to which Elizabeth replied that it seemed like an excellent time to open the rest of the wedding presents.

“You might as well,” said Aunt Amanda. “The more thank-you notes you get out of the way before the wedding the better. Especially as you are going abroad.”

“And are you going back to Scotland so soon?” Captain Grandfather asked Cameron’s mother.

“No,” said Margaret Dawson. “Elizabeth has kindly agreed to lend us her car. We are going to do a bit of sight-seeing.”

“Perhaps you’d like to go to the Highland games next week?” asked Geoffrey with a straight face.

Ian hooted. “No chance! I want to see Florida.”

“I believe I know someone in Florida,” said Geoffrey offhandedly. “But I doubt if she’ll be there next week.”

Charles Chandler, who had slunk in several minutes late for dinner, chose this moment to ask if he could be excused. He said he wasn’t feeling well.

“Is anything the matter, dear?” asked Aunt Amanda.

“I think it’s a touch of swine flu,” said Geoffrey.

They adjourned to the living room, where Elizabeth began to pile the unopened packages on the rug in front of the sofa. “Sit here,” she said to Cameron. “You open the gifts and I’ll make a note of who sent the package and what it is. For the thank-you notes.”

“I hope you’re going to write them,” said Cameron. “After all, I ground out all those invitations.”

“I sent out more than you did!”

“Oh, there’s nothing to thank-you notes,” said Geoffrey. “Just say
Thanks for the lovely teapot. Of all the teapots we got, yours was our favorite.”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “On no account should you say that. Go on, open something.”

One crystal vase, a toaster, and two cookbooks later, Elizabeth said, “Why don’t you open the big one from New York? It’s awfully heavy, and I’ve been dying to know what’s in it.”

“New York?” said Cameron. “I didn’t invite anybody in New York. Isn’t that one of your lot?”

Elizabeth pointed to the label. “It’s addressed to
Dr. Cameron Dawson and Fiancée
. Hardly proper,” she sniffed, “but I think it leaves no doubt that the present is from one of
your
friends.” Her tone implied that
her
friends had better manners.

“Return address The Package Store, Jamaica, New York; sent UPS. Well, we’ll soon see,” said Cameron, cutting the twine with his penknife.

Half a minute later, he had cut open the top of the cardboard box and slit one side, so that the box could be folded back to reveal its contents. “Here goes!” said Cameron with a flourish. He peered inside and reeled back at once.
“Bloody hell!”

“Oh, a garden gnome,” said Aunt Amanda politely. “How very British. But that’s a very unusual one.

“It certainly is,” said Cameron, over Ian’s howls of laughter.

“He’s quite an old friend,” said Margaret Dawson. “I wonder how he got here.”

“United Parcel Service,” said Geoffrey kindly.

The red-hatted garden gnome was wearing sunglasses and his face was painted with a bronze suntan. Pinned to his recently acquired Hawaiian shirt was an invitation to Cameron Dawson’s wedding.

“Is that your gnome from Edinburgh?” asked Elizabeth.

“The stolen one. Yes. Came over for the wedding.” Cameron laughed in spite of himself.

“There’s no card saying who it’s from. I wonder who sent it?” asked Elizabeth, looking suspiciously at Geoffrey. “It was taken from Edinburgh, so I suppose that lets you off the hook.”

“It wasn’t I,” said Geoffrey.

“Then who did it?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, cousin. I only take murder cases.”

E
LIZABETH STOOD AT
the top of the Chandlers’ oak staircase, clutching her father’s arm. Beneath the veil her dark hair curled about her shoulders, and the satin dress with the low rounded bodice made her look like a Renaissance princess. Draped across one shoulder was the red and blue tartan of Clan MacPherson. In front of her stood two blonde bridesmaids in yellow dresses, carrying bouquets wrapped with tartan ribbons.

“Don’t be nervous!” whispered Jenny Ramsay, tapping her on the shoulder. “Everything will be fine.”

“Fine?” hissed Elizabeth, over the strains of the organ music. “Are you
serious?
My wedding dress was delivered by the sheriff!”

“Yes, wasn’t it sweet of him? He’s staying for the wedding, too, isn’t he?”