Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“They’re on the case,” said Rountree. “Called ’em before we left the office. They said for us to bring them the body in the station wagon, and they’ll do the autopsy there. I thought I’d have Clay do it when I finish here.”

“Fine.”

“Oh-I’ll have to schedule an inquest. Would Tuesday be all right for that? You’ll need to be making arrangements with Mr. Todd down at the funeral home, I reckon.”

“Yes, of course,” whispered Dr. Chandler. “Excuse me. My wife will be needing me.” He turned away from the lake and hurried up the path toward the house.

“She would have been married next week,” Charles explained. “Now, instead of a wedding, we have to plan a funeral.”

Wesley Rountree heaved a sigh of discomfort. This case was going to be a sticky one! What a case! Hysterical women, grief-stricken relatives, and not a hope in hell of getting any straight answers. He gazed at the blank white face below him. What had she really been like? Crazy, according to the local gossip. Suicide, maybe? If so, you’d never catch the family admitting it. If there had been a note, it sure wouldn’t have been left for him to find. A lot of spiteful things were said in suicide notes; a person getting the last word wanted to make it worthwhile. People were funny about suicides, anyhow. Took it as a criticism of the family; well, maybe it was a lot of times. Still, a girl a week away from getting married wasn’t a likely candidate for suicide. He’d known a few grooms that might have considered it, but brides were different. Unless there was something about this couple that hadn’t come to light. He made a mental note to ask the medical examiner about the possibility of pregnancy.

Turning to Captain Grandfather and Charles, Rountree said, “Y’all go back to the house now. Clay and I will finish up here and get the body loaded in the car, and we’ll take it on out to the lab. I’ll be back later this evening. I want to get preliminary statements while it’s still fresh in everybody’s mind.”

“I assure you, Sheriff, we are not likely to forget,” said Captain Grandfather. He turned and followed Charles up the path.

Clay Taylor set the camera down carefully in the grass, and began to examine the ground around the easel. The family had pretty much trampled the place looking for the girl, so he couldn’t really tell if there had been an intruder or not. Still, he guessed he’d better do his stuff while the evidence was still there-just in case it turned out to be a homicide.

“What do you know about these people, Clay?” asked Wesley Rountree when they were alone. “Aren’t you about the same age as the Chandler boys?”

“Yeah, but I never knew them,” said Clay. “They went off to private school. I’ve seen ’em around.”

“What about the daughter? Didn’t I hear some story about her being crazy?”

“I think they’d prefer to call it a nervous breakdown,” said Clay impassively.

“Whatever. You ever hear anything about suicidal tendencies?”

“No. But you’d do better to ask the family,” said Clay.

Wesley Rountree gave his deputy a pitying look. “Oh, son, if you believe that, you got a lot to learn about police work.”

When they had finished the crime-scene work, Clay drove the car into the Chandlers’ backyard, parking it as close to the path and as far from the house as he could. He took the body bag from the trunk and carried it down to the lake, where Wesley was waiting beside the body. Together they lifted Eileen’s body out of the boat and fitted it into the canvas carrier.

“Let’s get this loaded and get on out of here,” said Wesley. “I don’t think the family needs to see this. You want some help?”

“Not really,” said Clay. “She’s real light.”

They walked in silence up the path. Rountree occasionally went ahead to clear branches out of the deputy’s way. When they reached the car, Clay said, “You want me to transfer her to the station wagon at the office and take it on up to the lab?”

Rountree shook his head. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s go from here. I’d like to have a word or two with Mitch Cambridge on this one. Seeing as how it’s Dr. Robert’s daughter, and all.”

“Okay.”

“That ought to put us back here late this afternoon to talk to these people. I hope they’ve calmed down some by then.”

The Chandler house was silent for most of the afternoon. The family and guests had followed Amanda’s example and retired to their rooms, except for Captain Grandfather, who had remained in the study. He had tried to call Elizabeth’s parents, but there was no answer; they were still away at the sales convention. When he telephoned Louisa, Mrs. Murphy had answered the phone and informed him that Alban had driven his mother to a garden show in Milton’s Forge. They were not expected back until early evening. He spent the remainder of the afternoon sketching designs for a sailing vessel, with the name “Eileen” carefully pencilled on the prow.

When Rountree and Taylor returned late that afternoon, the Captain answered the door himself and ushered them into the library.

“Now, we don’t know a thing yet,” Rountree cautioned him, interrupting a spate of questions. “I’ve asked Dr. Cambridge to get on it right away and to call me as soon as he knows anything. I promise you, I’ll let y’all know just as soon as I hear. Now, would you be good enough to get everybody together for me? Right here in this room would be fine.”

A few minutes later, Rountree addressed the small group assembled in the library. “This is going to be a purely preliminary investigation,” he announced. “We don’t know the cause of death yet, but I can tell you that there will be an inquest, so I’m going to need a few facts from y’all: information about that little girl’s state of mind; when she was last seen; that kind of thing. Clay, do you have everybody’s name, and so forth?”

Taylor handed him the list of persons present, and Rountree glanced over it. “Mrs. Chandler?” he inquired, looking around the room.

“My daughter is upstairs,” said Captain Grandfather with a trace of disapproval. “Her husband is attending her.”

Rountree nodded and went back to the list. “Miss MacPherson? That must be you. Only lady present.” He smiled reassuringly at Elizabeth, and then returned to the names. His finger stopped at the next name. “Dr. Carlsen Shepherd. Doctor? There’s another doctor here! Why didn’t somebody-”

Carlsen Shepherd half rose from his seat. “I am a psychiatrist, Sheriff, and if you were referring to an examination of the body just now, I assure you that you did the wisest thing by consulting your state pathology department. It’s been a long time since I did anatomy.”

“Not too long, from the look of you,” Rountree grumbled. “Psychiatrist, huh? Was the deceased, by any chance, your patient?”

“Well, yes, she was, but-”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“But, Sheriff-”

“In a minute, doctor. Excuse me, could I just get everybody to clear out of here for a little bit and let me talk to this fellow? I’ll call you back if I need to talk to you. Go on now, please.” He shooed them with reassuring noises and comments about the routine nature of the proceedings, but with the oak doors firmly shut behind the last of them, the genial county lawman was transformed into an unsmiling, efficient investigator.

“Now, Doctor, you were about to tell me about your patient.”

“Well… it depends,” said Shepherd, shifting uneasily in his chair. “I’ve never had to discuss a patient with the police before. What do you want to know?”

“Pertinent facts, Doctor, that’s all,” said Rountree. Catching Shepherd’s look of surprise, he grinned. “Were you surprised at that five-dollar word? Don’t be. My accent may slip a little now that we’re alone. When I was in the air force, I discovered that folks just naturally relax around a country accent. They seem to think a fellow can’t know much if he talks so funny, and that little discovery proved to be such an asset to my chosen profession that I have done my durndest ever since to see that I keep one.”