Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“It is certainly my duty,” said Amanda severely. “I’m sure you can cancel your rounds at the hospital, but you’ll be of no help to me. You might send Elizabeth in, though. I would appreciate some assistance from her. I may also need Geoffrey. Please tell him not to make plans for today. I suppose Father Ashland has not been called?”

“Now, Amanda, you know he hates to be called ‘father’-”

“Then he should have been a Baptist. As an Episcopalian, I assure you that my term is correct. Now, may we get back to my task, while I still have the strength?”

Chandler bowed his head. “All right.”

“Thank you. Before anything can be planned, I need to know when we may put her to rest. Have you received word?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But if you are going to plan funeral arrangements, I’ll ask Michael to come in and see you.”

Amanda stared. “Robert, whatever for?” she demanded.

“Well, they were nearly married…”

“Nearly is immaterial. He is not family. His preferences in the matter do not interest me in the least. Now, please go and find Elizabeth.”

Dr. Chandler opened his mouth to continue the conversation, thought better of it, and turned to go. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

When he had gone, Amanda settled back in her chair and studied the invitation list, making small pencil marks in front of the names of out-of-town guests. Those to be notified by telegram she underlined. This afternoon, Todd and O’Connor would have to be called and consulted about the final arrangements. A small funeral, perhaps, under the circumstances. Surely there would be no reporters or-she shuddered-television crews present? She must ask Azzie Todd about that, not that he was likely to know. Perhaps Father Ashland could help. She sighed. It would be up to her, in the end; it was always up to her. And, of course, Dad would know what to do.

Amanda Chandler had long ago amended her list of “advisors” to exclude her husband. Her feelings toward him had faded into a mixture of disappointment and maternal responsibility which she concealed in brisk efficiency. Robert Chandler’s feelings and opinions had long since ceased to register with her; the truth was, at nearly fifty years of age, Amanda Chandler was “Daddy’s girl.”

When she tried to remember why she had married Robert, the answers were always vague. He was studying medicine, which had pleased her. His determination to become and remain a country doctor was something that she had discovered later. It had all seemed so romantic at the time. Second cousins falling in love-risking the taint of two-headed babies, or whatever that old superstition was. Perhaps she had insisted on the marriage as another show of spirit for her father’s benefït. She had expected him to fly into a paternal rage and forbid the marriage. He had done nothing of the sort. William Chandler had been polite and hearty to the prospective groom, and affectionately distant to her. It was as if he were backing away from her emotionally. Years later, when he retired from the navy, he came to live with them, and he still got on well with Robert and the children, but Amanda could not help feeling a silent reproach in his attitude toward her. She finally realized that he was disappointed in her: she had not become successful and independent; she had not even married a titan; and worst of all, she had not made either of them happy. Daddy’s little girl was a failure.

Amanda tipped the reading glasses down to the end of her nose and squinted at the wall clock: 9:15 in the morning. Too early. But then, she was under an enormous strain, and she hadn’t taken a sedative since the night before. She opened the cabinet and took a decanter of Old Grand-Dad from behind a stack of women’s magazines.

It was a short walk from Wesley Rountree’s office in a wing of the courthouse to the Main Street office of Bryce and Simmons. He took his time, because his appointment was set for 9:30, and he didn’t want to be early. Doris had come in about eight-thirty while he was still reviewing the day’s schedule with Hill-Bear, and he had ended up having coffee with them and telling them about the Chandler case.

Rountree frowned at a candy wrapper on the sidewalk. Clay always picked them up; said he couldn’t abide litter, and Rountree would ask if he’d stop chasing a bank robber to pick up a beer can. Still, it was a civic-minded thing to do. Rountree sighed. No bank robbers in sight. Self-consciously, he bent down and picked up the wrapper, stuffing it in his pocket until he could get to a trash can.

“Morning, Wesley! I see you’re on the job!”

Rountree straightened up. Marshall Pavlock, editor of The Chandler Grove Scout , had that eager look of one who has just discovered his lead story in time for paste-up. “You got a minute, Wes?” he asked politely.

Rountree sighed. It was bound to get out sooner or later, he reasoned, and Marshall might as well have it. He was usually pretty responsible; he had to be; all his potential newsmakers were also his neighbors. When Vance Wainwright was arrested for drunk and disorderly, Marshall could be trusted to leave out the details, like the pathetic notes he’d scrawl on the windows of his ex-wife’s trailer. Most people in Chandler Grove already knew those kinds of details long before the paper came out anyway, and they agreed that such goings-on didn’t belong in print. Marshall Pavlock saved his urge for detail for the place where it was appreciated: the society page. He not only told his readers what the bride and bridesmaids wore, but who made the dress, and who baked the wedding cake, not to mention who cut it, and who was there to eat it. He had been reserving half a page to do such a report on the Chandler-Satisky wedding, but now Eileen would be featured on another page.

“What can I do for you, Marsh?” Rountree grinned.

Marshall grinned back. “You should’a been a poker player, Sheriff. You know very well what you can do. Tell me about the Chandler girl!”

Rountree had long since given up trying to trace the origin of county news. It was enough to make a person believe in telepathy. In this case, though, he discarded ESP in favor of more obvious suspects: Doris, Jewel Murphy, and Mildred Webb. “You heard about that, huh?”

Marshall fished a notepad out of the pocket of his jacket. “I heard that ya’ll took the body to the medical examiner yesterday, and that there’s some question about cause of death. You wanna fill me in?”

Rountree glanced at his watch. “Well, I have an appointment in just a few minutes, so we’ll have to make this fast.”

“She didn’t commit suicide, did she?”

“No, Marshall, I can promise you that. According to Mitchell Cambridge, death occurred sometime yesterday morning as a result of the bite of a poisonous snake-”

“Accident! Why, that poor-”

“-which she got when somebody hit her over the head and threw her on top of the snake,” finished Rountree, noting with satisfaction that Marshall Pavlock was staring at him openmouthed. “In the obituary, you just put died ‘suddenly,’ like you always do. For the news story, I’ll get back to you later. Just say the usual: Sheriff Wesley Rountree and his men are still investigating, blah, blah, blah.”

“But-”

“I gotta go now, Marshall. ’Bye!”

Tommy Simmons did not usually work on Saturdays. It was one of the reasons he had become a lawyer, so that he could keep eating at dinner parties while his doctor friends were called away for emergency appendectomies. This Saturday was an exception; just as it was exceptional for one of his clients to be involved in a violent crime, even as the victim. Meetings with Rountree were fairly routine, but usually on lesser matters. Simmons heard the front door open and close.