Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

Satisky hesitated. “Well… I did mention something about it to her cousin last night.”

“Her cousin. Who would that be?”

“Elizabeth MacPherson.”

“Oh, that pretty little gal with the dark hair. I see!” Rountree beamed at him with understanding.

“No! I’m sure you don’t see at all. I merely mentioned to Elizabeth that I was somewhat apprehensive. I certainly did not make any advances of the kind that you suggest!”

“Talks just like a book, don’t he?” Rountree beamed happily at Clay.

Clay nodded. He had seen Rountree’s clown act pay off too many times to question it, but he couldn’t join in on the spirit of it. He contented himself with playing straight man.

“So, we know you had a little confidential talk with ‘Cousin Elizabeth,’ right here in the house of your intended. Is that right?”

“Uh-yes,” said Satisky miserably.

“Now, are you sure you couldn’t have been overheard?”

“Oh, I don’t think so! I mean, no one has mentioned it!” Rountree and Taylor exchanged glances of exasperation. “Anyway,” Satisky continued shrilly, “I don’t think that had anything to do with it! And I don’t think she killed herself! I think she was murdered for money. Have you heard about the will? Well, find out about that! If you ask me, she was murdered!”

“Yes, I witnessed the will,” Elizabeth told them a few moments later. “She had her lawyer come out to talk to her about the inheritance, and she asked him to draw one up. But she had a handwritten one already done, and he told us it was legal-though he didn’t seem to like the idea much.”

“A will,” mused Rountree. “Did she have a lot to leave?” He wondered what the Chandlers would consider “a lot.”

Elizabeth explained the terms of Great-Aunt Augusta’s will, leaving her fortune to the first of the cousins to marry. “But I think Eileen left it all to Michael, anyway,” she concluded.

“Well,” drawled Rountree, “if I understand you right, she didn’t accomplish much there. She only got the trust fund when she was married-which she never was. So she had nothing to leave, did she?”

Elizabeth stared at him. “I never thought of that,” she said slowly.

“So there’s an inheritance up for grabs. This gets more interesting all the time. Is anybody else engaged? How about yourself?”

“Well, no, I’m not.”

“How about the others?”

“Not that I know of. My Cousin Alban was engaged once, about four years ago, but the girl broke it off, and he hasn’t seen her since. I haven’t heard of Charles or Geoffrey being interested in anybody, and my brother-oh, but he’s not even here! So-no, I don’t think any of us is considering getting married.”

“Bet you will now,” said Rountree.

When Elizabeth did not reply, Rountree tried another approach. “Now, Miss MacPherson, we need to get an idea about your cousin’s state of mind. I’d be obliged if you’d tell me when you saw her last.”

“Umm… last night after dinner. I went up to her room to see how she was.”

“Any reason why you might be worrying about her?”

Elizabeth recounted Eileen’s reaction to Dr. Shepherd’s arrival.

“Didn’t she want Dr. Shepherd here?”

“She didn’t seem to,” Elizabeth admitted. “But that doesn’t make sense. She invited him here herself.”

“Who told you that?” asked the sheriff.

“Well-he did. Dr. Shepherd.”

Rountree glanced over at Clay Taylor, who was still scribbling furiously.

“So you went up after dinner-to see if Miss Chandler was feeling better.”

“Yes. We talked for a little while, and she said she was nervous about the wedding-”

“Why do you suppose that was?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Probably because my Aunt Amanda is turning it into a three-ring circus. Poor Eileen was feeling like an exhibit. I’d have been nervous, too.”

“Could be. Anything else you can think of?”

“Well, I thought she might be overtiring herself trying to finish the oil painting she was working on. She’d work on it for hours every day.”

“Why was she painting pictures at a time like this? What’s it of, anyway?”

“It was to be her wedding gift to Michael. And she wouldn’t show it to anybody. But we think it must have been a view of the lake, because she always went there to work.”

“Did Miss Chandler seem depressed to you in your talk with her last evening?”

She considered this. “No. Not if you mean suicidal. I think she was impatient to have the whole thing over with, but she really wanted to marry Michael.”

“Michael,” Rountree repeated. “Let’s talk about him awhile. I understand you had an interesting conversation with the prospective groom. What did he have to say?”

Elizabeth sighed in exasperation. “I guess he must have told you already, or you wouldn’t be asking. He said that he didn’t really want to go through with the wedding. I think he was terrified of feeling like that, but also very much afraid of hurting my cousin.”

“Did he tell her how he felt?”

“I don’t think so. He wasn’t planning to.”

“Then why did he tell you?”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “I think because I was an outsider, too. Maybe he felt that I might understand.”

“And did anybody else listen in on this conversation?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“But if by some chance the bride had slipped downstairs and overheard all this, that might change her state of mind, don’t you reckon?”

“I guess it could have. I told him to be quiet about it, because he was certainly making me nervous by talking about it.”

“What was making you nervous? That he was transferring his affections to you?” asked Rountree casually.

“Of course not!” snapped Elizabeth. “I certainly didn’t want him!”

“Even for all that money?”

“Well, Clay, what do you think?” asked Rountree when they were alone. “Suicide, or accident-or something else?”

Clay Taylor shook his head. “This one’s too close to call,” he said, leafing through his notes. “I’ll believe anything the lab tells us this time. There’s evidence for almost anything. Suicide-she was a psychiatric patient, and her fiancé would have been glad to ditch her; murder-she was an heiress, or she would have been. Accident? Well, they do happen, even to people whose death would be convenient. I wouldn’t even bet you a Coke on this one, Wes.”

“Well, I would,” Rountree grumbled. “I’d bet a whole raft of Cokes on a nice little old homicide because her death was mighty damn convenient for a bunch of folks, and I didn’t see anybody genuinely grieved at losing her. Did you?”

The deputy looked startled. “Well…” he faltered. “Her mother?”

“Clay, we haven’t even seen Amanda Chandler yet,” Rountree reminded him. “And when we do, you look real carefully at her. And ask yourself if you’re seeing a mother grieving over a lost child or a property owner mad as fire because something belonging to her got taken.”

“I still think it might have been suicide,” said the deputy. “We still have a lot of people left to talk to, and we haven’t found anybody who saw her since last night.”

“Nobody admitting it, anyway. That’s the trouble with you, Clay. You always go around believing everything.”

“What do you believe, Wes?”

“I believe I need more to go on.” Rountree grinned. “And I believe I’ll have a cheeseburger at Brenner’s while I wait for the lab report. Let’s go tell all these people we’ll be back tomorrow, when we know something definite.”

Robert Chandler closed the door to his wife’s bedroom and went down the stairs to the library. Captain Grandfather and Charles were sitting at the gate-leg table, dispiritedly pushing little fleets and armies around a map of the eastern hemisphere.