Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

“You know, we never did talk about exactly where your aunt’s house is,” said Jenny. “I have to be able to find it on Saturday, you know!”

“You can’t miss it,” said Elizabeth. “It’s Long Meadow Farm. There’s a Bavarian castle across the road.”

“Oh my,” said Jenny, wide-eyed. “Are you related to them?”

“Sure. Amanda Chandler is my mother’s sister. In fact, her sons Charles and Geoffrey are part of the wedding party. They didn’t go to school in Chandler Grove, though. Did you ever meet them?”

Jenny laughed pleasantly. “I meet so many people,” she said. “If they ever served on a civic committee, I’m sure I’ve crossed paths with them. Are they cute?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “They’re… interesting.”

“Well,” said Jenny, “anybody with that much money is interesting.”

Presently, Miss Grey returned, bearing a silver tray on which a Spode tea service rested in newly rinsed splendor. Beside it was a plate of home-baked cookies. “Now,” she said, beaming at them, “I want to hear all about it!”

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “I’m afraid it’s short notice, because the wedding is only a week away, but I’ve been dieting, you see, and-”

“You’re not sweet on that Badger Darnell, are you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth, losing her train of thought. “What did you say?”

Jenny gave a little cough. “I believe she means me, honey.” She directed another princess look at their hostess. “No, ma’am, I’m not at all involved with Badger. Why, I think of him as a big brother, and that’s all. He’s like family. But he certainly is an eligible bachelor, so if you want him, you go right ahead.”

Geneva Grey gave a little squeal of laughter and tapped Jenny playfully on the arm. That line always did go down well with the little old ladies.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then she reached for a cookie. “As I said, we have very little time, but I did bring a pattern that you might want to look at.” She reached into her totebag and brought out the thick envelope containing the dress pattern.

Miss Grey studied the cover drawings with a practiced eye. “Yes,” she said, “I like that neckline. Are you going to want it in satin?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve already bought the material. What do you think?” She handed the totebag to the seamstress.

“Yes. Very nice. So you want it just like the picture, then?”

“Well, no. There is one alteration that I’d like.” She explained her plan.

“Well, that will make a change, won’t it?”

“Can you do it?”

“Well, certainly. I’ll just get some measurements. But first, we ought to decide what Jenny’s going to wear.”

“There are two bridesmaids,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, where’s the other one?”

“She can’t make it to Chandler Grove until the day before the ceremony, but she said to tell you that she’s a size nine.”

Miss Grey looked doubtful. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I can manage.”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about it,” said Elizabeth. “After all, everyone will be looking at me.”

Jenny Ramsay smiled sweetly. “Have another cookie, Elizabeth?”

Wesley Rountree managed to get back to the office just as Clay was going off duty. “Is Hill-Bear off on patrol yet?” he asked, checking his desk for messages.

“You just missed him,” said Clay, sitting back in his swivel chair. “How’d it go?”

“Well,” said Wesley. “I damn near got arrested. How are things with you?”

Without a word, Clay walked over to the apartment-sized refrigerator under the counter and took out a Diet Coke. Solemnly, he popped the tab and handed the can to the sheriff.

“Thanks, Clay. I guess that means you want to go first.”

Wesley sipped his drink while Clay explained about his exercise in futility at the records office, and his subsequent trip to the Scout offices to read the obituaries. “Actually,” he said, “Azzie Todd’s memory was pretty good. He only left out a couple of people who died out of the county. Mostly old folks in nursing homes, or who had gone to live with their kids.”

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Wesley sadly. “Not many young people can afford to live around here.”

“Yes,” said Clay. “But if we let industry come in to create jobs, what would it do to the land?”

“I didn’t say I had any answers, Clay. Do you have that list of people who died out of the county?”

Clay handed him a neatly typed list. “I made you a copy.”

“Okay. I guess we’ll get started on this tomorrow. Thanks, Clay.”

The deputy looked embarrassed. “No problem,” he muttered. “At least I didn’t get arrested.”

“Well, neither did I,” said Wesley. “But only because nobody was granting Wayne Dupree any wishes today.” Between swigs of cola, he explained about finding the body of Jasper Willis, and the subsequent investigation by the minions of the neighboring sheriff’s department.

Clay listened in silence. Finally he said, “Did they find out anything?”

“Stabbed in the throat,” said Wesley. “The coroner over there thought he might have been approached from behind. Maybe while he was sitting at his desk. They haven’t identified the weapon yet, but it wasn’t present at the scene. They don’t seem to think it was a knife, though. At least not a particularly well sharpened one.”

The deputy shuddered. After a moment’s pause he said, “Well, it’s too bad he was killed before you could question him. That leaves us back where we started.”

“He’s dead , Clay. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t lead us anywhere, and we don’t have any proof.”

“No, but I have some fascinating bits of speculation. Sheriff Dupree gave me some significant evidence. He said that Willis always wanted to be a travel agent. There were travel posters decorating his office, too.”

“So?”

“Couple that with the name of his business, and what do you get?”

Clay Taylor pondered the term Elijah’s Chariot for a good half minute. “He did tours of the Holy Land?”

“Classical education,” said Wesley triumphantly. “I always said there was nothing to beat it. Your generation grew up playing with the hamster at the back of the classroom when you should have been studying literature.”

“It’s from the Bible,” said Clay in defense of his grade school.

“Right. And what do you remember about Elijah?”

“Wait a minute. We had him in Sunday school. He was the baldheaded prophet that the little boys made fun of. And so he called some she-bears out of the woods and they ate up forty-two of them.”

“That was Elisha,” snapped Wesley. “And judging from your version of the tale, you must have the Jerry Clower translation of the Gospel.”

“I never forgot it,” said Clay. “It made me downright scared of preachers. But I can’t seem to place Elijah.”

“Elijah was the prophet who recruited Elisha. First Book of Kings.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Clay, concentrating mightily. “Didn’t you mention this before? He went to heaven in a chariot of fire.”

“Exactly,” said Wesley, slapping the desk. “And there’s just one more important fact about that little journey of Elijah’s. He was the only person in the Bible who went to heaven without having to die.”

“Elijah’s Chariot,” murmured Clay, considering the name again. “A fiery departure, but no death. You reckon people figured that out?”

Wesley sent his Coke can spiraling toward the wastebasket. “I bet Emmet did.”

“So who killed the provider of this handy little service?”