Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

People thought that it was high time Aurelia Grey had a bit of fun in life, and no one could have been more surprised than Chandler Grove to learn two weeks later that Aurelia herself had died suddenly while visiting the Everglades. All things considered, her sister took the additional loss rather well, and she continued to live on in the house, pursuing her routine of church work and fine sewing just as she had before. Everyone said they would have thought that Miss Geneva would be the first to go, being delicate like her mother; but the more progressive town gossips noted that Type-A personalities like Dr. Grey and his eldest daughter were the best bets for an early demise. Overengined for the beam , they declared.

By the time she had arrived for a consultation with Miss Geneva Grey, Elizabeth had been thoroughly briefed on the family history, because Southerners believe that who you are has very little to do with present circumstances. Elizabeth had, of course, been instructed to mention none of what she had been told, and indeed, under no circumstances was she to allow the word Everglades to be uttered in conversation with Miss Geneva.

She parked her car in the driveway under the oak tree and was heading up the cement walk toward the front door when a quick blast from a sports-car horn signaled the arrival of the maid of honor. Jenny emerged from her car, looking like a collector doll from the Danbury Mint. Her hair was a confection of spun gold and her scoop-necked garden dress in an English rose pattern looked like formal daywear. Two sizes larger , thought Elizabeth, and I could wear it to the Royal Garden Party. Okay , three sizes larger .

“Isn’t this exciting?” cried Jenny in her best Sparkle Plenty voice. “I just love dress fittings! If we had time, I know some places in Atlanta… Oh, but they’re a little expensive.”

“I’m sure this will be fine,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve brought some material and a pattern, but we can do some alterations in the design, if she’s up to it.”

Jenny looked at the bride-to-be appraisingly. “Honey, you did pick an A-line, didn’t you?”

Geoffrey Chandler did not limit his love of drama to the confines of the theatre. Indeed, he felt that the little comedies and melodramas played out in his native village afforded just as much entertainment as anything ever written by the Bard of Avon. Geoffrey was not necessarily inclined to gossip, as he saw no reason to share the best bits with anyone else, but he did enjoy keeping himself informed about the little dramas that were going on about him.

When his cousin Elizabeth had let slip her news about the reprise of Emmet Mason’s death scene and the subsequent suspicion that some of the local dearly departed had not gone so far as the hereafter when they exited Chandler Grove, he had resolved to pursue a quiet inquiry of his own. Geoffrey had no desire to be helpful to the police in this matter-or even to share his findings with other interested parties; he simply thought that it would be amusing to know.

“At least it would save one the bother of trying to call them up on the Ouija board, if one learns that they are presently residing in Escondido, California,” he remarked to himself. As soon as Elizabeth had left for her dressmaker’s appointment, Geoffrey went out to his own car and headed for the one-block section of downtown Chandler Grove.

He decided to forgo a look at the courthouse records. “I wouldn’t pass the time of day with Susan Davis to find out if I were dead,” he muttered.

Five minutes later, he strolled into the office of the Chandler Grove Scout , where Marshall Pavlock was hard at work, pasting up the Piggly Wiggly ad. He was a heavyset man with a shock of white hair and a mild expression somewhat at odds with his eyes.

“Hello, Marshall,” said Geoffrey, edging past the customers’ counter. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“I won’t,” said the editor and owner of the newspaper. “Not unless you’ve brought an ad about the new playhouse production.”

“Not yet,” said Geoffrey. “Ripeness is all.”

Marshall Pavlock frowned. “That’s Lear . I thought you were doing Twelfth Night.”

“Well, we are. Oh, never mind. Anyhow I’ve come about something else.” Geoffrey did not enjoy barding to an overeducated audience. It spoiled the spontaneity. “I’d like to look at the back issues of the Scout.”

The editor looked up from his ad with a puzzled expression. “Is there a scavenger hunt going on in town or something?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re the second person asking to see those papers. Now ordinarily we don’t get more than a dozen requests a year like that, and most of those are from high-school kids. I just wondered why all of a sudden it has become such a popular pastime.”

“Who was the other person who asked to see them?”

“The deputy. Clay Taylor. I got the impression from him that it was police business.”

“I expect it was,” said Geoffrey smoothly. “We probably want to see the papers for entirely different reasons.”

“Maybe so,” said Marshall. “But if you’re onto anything that would be useful as a news story, you let me know about it.” He motioned Geoffrey to the back room where the bound copies of the Scout were kept.

“Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something,” muttered Geoffrey, but he took care that Marshall Pavlock should not overhear him.

An hour later Geoffrey emerged from the back room with a notepad full of interesting facts gleaned from the obituary columns of the Scout . He did not, however, share his findings with the editor of that publication.

Elizabeth and Jenny were having tea with Geneva Grey, who had recovered somewhat from her surprise upon meeting them. Or, rather, upon meeting Jenny. She had seemed quite equal to the honor of greeting Elizabeth, but when she had turned to welcome her second visitor, her face registered recognition, shock, and then delight in short order.

“Aren’t you-why, you’re my weather girl!” she cried, glancing at the television set as if in search of evidence of Jenny’s escape.

Jenny Ramsay smiled her demure princess smile, and her eyelids fluttered. “Oh, I can’t believe you recognized me!” she murmured. “Aren’t you sweet? I’m afraid I look like a dishrag in this old thing.”

Miss Grey, a small-boned woman with shining white hair and a dazzling smile of her own, had beamed back at the Weather Princess. “And you’re getting married!” she exclaimed.

“No, sorry,” said Elizabeth, with a little wave of her hand. “Over here. Yes, me. I’m the bride.”

The seamstress’s smile decreased in voltage ever so slightly. “Well, of course you are!” she said, patting Elizabeth on the arm. “I remember now. You told me all about your bone work on the telephone. It completely slipped my mind when I saw Jenny here. And afterward, you’re going to fly over to England and see the Queen.”

“Scotland, actually,” said Elizabeth, blushing.

“Well, do come in, and let’s talk about this exciting event.” She cast a last beaming smile at Jenny. “Just wait till I tell folks I had the Channel Four weather girl in for tea!”

She settled them on a faded velvet love seat in the parlor, then she bustled into the kitchen to make the tea. When they were alone, Jenny leaned over to Elizabeth and whispered, “I’m sorry. You must be about ready to kill me!”

Elizabeth summoned up a pale smile. “No, of course not, Jenny. I think it’s wonderful for you.” Privately she wondered how Jenny Ramsay would look in malarial yellow.