Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

Taylor nodded. “Anyway, I don’t think doctors work on their own relatives. I know I couldn’t. What will they do?”

“Who? The state boys? We’ll do the routine lab work here, like we always do, and then we’ll send the body to the state medical lab for an autopsy. You brought the kit, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. In the trunk.”

Rountree swung the car into the driveway of the red brick mansion. “I’ll just stop in at the house and tell them we’re here. You go on out to the lake.”

Wesley Rountree straightened his holster, adjusted his tan Stetson, and headed for the front door. He had worked with Dr. Chandler before, on the inevitable county death cases: summer drownings, wrecks, and hunting accidents; but never on a murder case. The doctor had always been quietly competent, easy to work with. He wondered what to expect this time, with the case so much more personal.

The Chandler family had assembled in the library, where Captain Grandfather had herded them, and where he now stood guard over them, dispensing coffee and sternly discouraging any attempts at hysteria.

Charles and Dr. Chandler had remained by the lake to wait for the sheriff, leaving the old man in charge of the family.

“Someone should call Louisa,” Amanda kept saying, making ineffectual gestures toward the telephone.

“Not yet you won’t,” growled Captain Grandfather. “You’re quite enough to contend with as it is. I won’t have two caterwauling women on my hands. Or do you want her questioned, too?”

Amanda sniffled that she couldn’t be expected to think of things like that, but surely someone ought to realize that arrangements must be made.

“I’ll call her myself later, Amanda; and Margaret, too, if you want me to. Now you get hold of yourself!”

Amanda dabbed her eyes, and looked around the room. “Dr. Shepherd! I should like you to prescribe a sedative for me, please!”

Shepherd, who had been sitting in a corner talking quietly to Elizabeth, looked up at the sound of his name. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chandler?”

Amanda repeated her request in the crisp tones of a command.

Shepherd shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You are not under my care. Professional ethics, you know.”

Amanda bristled. “Young man, I should think that in a crisis such as this, your physician’s instinct would compel you to-”

“Aunt Amanda!” Elizabeth interrupted. “There’s some brandy in the dining room. Shall I get you some?”

“Yes, thank you, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Geoffrey quickly. “Let’s all just be brave, shall we? More coffee, Mother?”

“I wish I knew what to do,” Elizabeth whispered to Shepherd.

“It’s perfectly normal to feel inadequate in a crisis,” he whispered back. “Just don’t create any more problems than there already are.”

“Well, at least I wish I could do something about him.” She nodded toward the bereaved groom, curled up in the wing chair and leafing methodically through the Oxford Book of Verse .

Dr. Shepherd frowned. “I know; but if you try to talk to him, you’ll only force him to try to think up things to say. It can be a great strain for some people-trying to act bereaved. It would be much kinder to leave him alone.”

“Trying to act?” Elizabeth echoed. “Don’t you think he really is?”

Wesley Rountree opened the door, hat in hand. “Afternoon, everybody. Captain, sir. Sure am sorry to be here under these circumstances.” He looked around, embarrassed at his own calm in a room that radiated strain, perhaps grief. “Is Dr. Robert down with the-er, down at the lake?”

Captain Grandfather set down his coffee and went over to shake hands with the sheriff. “I’ll walk you down there, sir, while I tell you what we know. This way.” He turned back to his daughter, who sat on the sofa twisting her handkerchief. “Amanda, you’re to stay here. Don’t do anything until we get back.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to go.

Wesley Rountree edged past him and said to the others, “Y’all please stay close at hand, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back directly to take statements.” He closed the door behind him.

“It couldn’t be called ungentle, but how thoroughly departmental,” Geoffrey remarked.

“Robert Frost,” said Satisky, without looking up from his book.

Amanda Chandler rose majestically. “I am going to my room,” she announced, glaring in the direction of the wing chair. “When Mr. Rountree returns, tell him that I may be up to seeing him tomorrow.” She swept out of the room.

“I guess I’d better try to reach my folks,” murmured Elizabeth.

“Better wait until we know more,” Shepherd suggested. “You’ll only worry them without being able to tell them anything for sure. And, remember, you won’t be able to leave yet.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Is there some stationery in that desk?”

Wesley Rountree stared down at the small figure crumpled in the bottom of the boat. After a respectful silence of several minutes, he said softly, “You don’t know the cause of death, do you, Doctor?”

Robert Chandler shook his head. “We didn’t touch anything-except that I touched her to confirm that-” He turned away.

“You did right,” Rountree assured him. “And just as soon as Clay takes some pictures, we’ll get her out of there. You want to go on back to the house now?”

“No. No. I’ll stay here,” the doctor replied. “She was going to be married, you know. Next Saturday.”

“Pretty girl,” said Rountree politely. “It’s a pitiful shame. Now, you don’t have to talk about it right now, if you’d rather not, Dr. Robert. Clay and me have to do some routine stuff right now; taping, measuring-you know, the same stuff we always do. I understand she was painting down here. Is that the easel over there?”

“Yes. We haven’t disturbed it either.” He straightened up to look at the easel and shook his head. “I just don’t understand how this could have happened. This boat is never used. Eileen didn’t even care for boats.”

“You say she was painting,” said Rountree quickly. “Painting what? I don’t see a picture on that easel.”

“That’s just it,” Charles put in. “It’s gone.”

“You’re the one that found her?”

“This is my son Charles, Wesley,” said Dr. Chandler.

Wesley nodded. “Uh-huh. And you found her, did you?”

“Well, when she didn’t come down for breakfast, Mother sent me to look for her. I got here and she was gone. So I went back to the house and got Dad, we took the boat out and-and we found her.”

“But the painting was not there when you first came looking for her?”

“Right.”

Clay Taylor lowered his camera and stared at Charles. “Are you saying that somebody stole the painting?”

Charles shrugged.

“Get over to that easel, Clay,” said Rountree impatiently. “I want a shot of it, and also one of the ground around it. Look sharp for footprints. If you see any, give a holler.”

Taylor nodded, and left the dock.

“Now, Dr. Chandler, do you mind if I just start filling out this report? I know you want it done as quick as possible.”

“Go ahead, Wes,” sighed Robert Chandler.

“Name of the deceased?”

“Eileen Amanda Chandler.”

When he had filled in the preliminary data-age, date of birth, and so forth-Rountree asked, “Now, Dr. Chandler, did your daughter have any medical problems that might explain this? Heart or something?”

“No. Nothing.”

“You wanna speculate on the cause of death? Can we rule out drowning?”

Chandler waved him away. “Please… I’d rather have the state lab do it.”