Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

“My own motives exactly,” said Geoffrey. “You know what pranksters theatre people are. It’s just the thing they might do to my car. Do tell me where it is and what it looks like.”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “It’s a domelike plastic thing in the middle of the engine with little chimneys on the top or sides and it has wires going out of it to the spark plugs. They’re usually held on with spring clips. Cameron taught me that.” Her eyes misted again. “Now, please, Geoffrey, assuming that you would have the intelligence to find one in a car, much less remove it, please don’t do this to us after the wedding!”

“You have my solemn word,” said Geoffrey. “I will use the information only for purposes of defense.”

“All right,” said Elizabeth, wiping her eyes. “In that case, I guess you can take the final guest list to the caterer. They’re making little place cards in calligraphy for the guests. You might check at the florists-see if Lucy’s flower orders came through yet. And you could take this zipper to Miss Geneva. I bought the wrong kind and had to get another one.”

“It shall be done,” Geoffrey promised, looking particularly pleased.

“Good,” said Elizabeth. “Then I can spend the day getting my hair done and taking care of about a million other things I should have thought of earlier. Cameron and his mother and brother will be here this evening. We’re making it kind of a party dinner. You’ll be around for that, won’t you?”

Geoffrey considered the possibility. “I have an early-evening appointment, but if dinner is later than seven, I’m sure I can manage.”

“Eight-thirty, then,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “I should be through by then.”

Deputy Clay Taylor felt a little uneasy about going out to question the people at Earthling. He had always found them to be very sincere and committed individuals and he had partaken of many a beans-and-rice potluck in support of their causes in Central America. He consoled himself with the thought that he was not, in fact, in charge of the interrogation, but merely accompanying a colleague as a guide and observer.

Since the murder of crematorium director Jasper Willis had occurred in Roan County, the task of investigating it fell to Wayne Dupree’s organization, but since many of the suspects were in Wesley Rountree’s jurisdiction, the two departments had decided to team Clay with an officer from Roan County to carry out the questioning. Meanwhile, Dupree’s other deputies were checking the possibility of faked deaths in their own county.

“Though they might not be as likely suspects,” Wesley had explained to his fellow sheriff, “because they didn’t know about Emmet’s reappearance, so they had no reason to become nervous. If you didn’t know about Emmet, you’d think you had still gotten away with the scheme.”

So far Clay and the Roan deputy had been working together for three days. They were nearly finished with the list of suspects. So far they had turned up nothing suspicious and no one had admitted any knowledge of Emmet Mason’s reappearance. Clay would be glad when the partnership was over, because, while Charlie Mundy was an excellent officer as far as Clay could determine, he was also a humorless, narrow-minded pain in the patoot. He was a burly six-footer who looked like the ex-linebacker that he was, and he was a combat veteran from the Marine Corps, all of which may have enabled him to become a first-rate law enforcement officer, but it had done nothing for his somewhat canine personality. It was like going on patrol with a pit bull, Clay had thought- often during the last three days. Charlie Mundy had a perpetual squint of suspicion and a crooked smile that he employed when he was least amused. Clay, who managed to combine a career as a peace officer with what he hoped were noble sentiments about the rights of man and the responsibility of the human species to the ecological well-being of the planet, was profoundly uncomfortable in his massive colleague’s sneering presence.

“Will you look at this?” Mundy was saying, in his most disdainful tone. He had just pulled into the parking lot of the old gristmill and was presently leaning on the steering wheel, staring malevolently at the Earthling sign above the door. “Earth Shoe people!” He reminded Clay of a shark in a swimming pool.

At the risk of deflecting the attack toward the vicinity of his own soft tissues, Clay ventured a mild defense of the potential suspects. “Actually, Charlie, I know most of them socially. They’re very gentle people.”

Charlie Mundy sneered. “I don’t like cults.”

“Actually,” murmured Clay, “a cooperative community bears very little resemblance to a cult-”

But Charlie Mundy had already slammed the car door behind him and was slouching toward the door of the herb shop. Clay hurried after him, hoping that he could salvage some of law enforcement’s positive image by toning down Mundy’s attack.

Rogan Josh met them at the door, looking politely terrified. “May I help you?” he quavered. A glance at Clay indicated that he recognized the deputy, but would not venture to say so.

Charlie Mundy whipped out a notebook. “Name?”

Some minutes later, the entire Earthling contingent had been rounded up and their names had been duly recorded by an ever-more contemptuous Charlie Mundy. His expression suggested that anyone whose name was not a classic English appellation of one syllable was a self-proclaimed eccentric and potential criminal. Considerable time had been taken up in the spelling of the Earthling monikers.

His attitude certainly commanded the full attention of the huddled group, but their cooperation was less apparent. By the time he finally got around to the salient questions, the Earthlings would have denied all knowledge of tofu, much less anything more relevant.

“Christopher Greene?” said Shanti vaguely. “That was Ramachandra, wasn’t it?”

A couple of others nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, we had him cremated. He requested it,” another one offered. “We still have the will, of course.”

Charlie Mundy scowled at the assembled suspects. “And he left his money to you?”

They all looked down at the floor. “Oh, money,” one of them remarked. “It’s of so little consequence.”

“Didn’t we give it all to the Central American Freedom Fighters?” asked another.

“Or was it the Endangered Wildflower Fund?”

“We want to see financial statements,” Charlie informed them. “Tax records. I’ll check the courthouse.”

“Of course,” said R. J.

Clay almost burst out laughing, picturing the courthouse encounter between the snarling Charlie Mundy and the surly Susan Davis. It would either be a match made in heaven (or thereabouts) or a window-rattling dogfight.

Serenely unaware of the encounter that awaited him, Charlie Mundy pursued his next line of inquiry. “Did you know about the case of another local individual, one Emmet Mason, who was supposed to have died five years ago, but who reappeared in California?”

“That’s great, man,” said Shanti with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “But we’re not surprised.”

“No?”

“Oh, no. We believe in reincarnation.”

When Geoffrey Chandler appeared at the old gristmill some twenty minutes later, the Earthling community was still assembled, discussing the just-departed officers.

“Now that was a major personality disorder, heavily into power and subjugation,” said R. J.

“Are you surprised?” asked Shanti. “He probably eats enough red meat to turn himself into a werewolf!”

They stopped talking suddenly when Geoffrey appeared at the shop door, but he could tell that they were disturbed, and he could guess why. “Don’t let me interrupt!” he said cheerfully, pretending to have a look at the various plastic tubs of spices. “I know you all must be frightfully upset. Have you thought to make tea? Chamomile, I think.”