Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“Open up in the name of the law!” called Rountree from the reception room.

Simmons swung open his office door with a grin. “You got a warrant, mister?”

The sheriff waved a packet of saccharin. “Nope! Just a prayer for coffee!”

“Well, get you some and come on in!”

When Rountree was settled in the captain’s chair across from Simmons’s desk, he opened the file in front of him and studied its contents.

“This is a sad business, Wes,” the lawyer said in a sincere voice that might get him elected to something one day. “You know, I was only talking to her day before yesterday.”

“That’s what I heard,” said Rountree. “What was that all about?”

Simmons looked wary. “I don’t know how much I ought to reveal about a client’s affairs-”

“Tom, I know that when I told you the girl was dead, you assumed accident-or suicide maybe,” he amended, reading Simmons’s expression. “But now I can tell you that we’re contending with a murder here.”

“Oh,” said Simmons faintly.

Rountree explained the circumstances of Eileen’s death. “Now, I understand there’s a will mixed up in this.”

“Well, Wesley, there was,” Simmons said, “but she doesn’t get the money, because she didn’t go through with the wedding.” He explained the terms of Augusta’s will.

Rountree considered this. “I guess somebody could have killed her for a shot at the inheritance money.”

“It’s about two hundred thousand dollars or so, before taxes,” offered Simmons.

“So you were out there to discuss the inheritance with her?”

“Yes. But while I was there, she gave me a will of her own.”

“We’ll come to that in a minute. Who was the executor of this first will, the one leaving all that money?”

“That would be Captain William Chandler, the brother of the legator. The money is, of course, invested, and he-”

“Okay. Now if Eileen Chandler is no longer eligible to receive that money, who’s got the next shot at it?”

Simmons blinked. “Well, nobody in particular. I mean-”

“You? Me?”

He smiled. “All right, Wes. I see what you mean. The possible legatees are: Alban Cobb, Charles Chandler, Geoffrey Chandler, Elizabeth MacPherson, and William D. MacPherson. The first of them to marry inherits.”

Rountree ticked them off on his fingers. “Well, now we got five suspects.”

“Four,” Simmons corrected him. “I don’t believe William MacPherson came down for the wedding.”

“Four, then. How about the boyfriend? You said Eileen Chandler made a will. What if she specified that the money was to go to him?”

Simmons hesitated a moment before pulling out a handwritten document on stationery. “Well, it wouldn’t matter, Wes. She couldn’t leave that money to him unless it was legally hers first. I mean, I could leave you the Brooklyn Bridge, but unless I owned it…”

“Okay, I see. Is that her will?” Rountree held out his hand.

“Okay, Wes, I’ll let you see it. But before you do, I’d better tell you that this will is the damnedest thing!” Shaking his head, he handed it across his desk to the sheriff. “The damnedest thing.”

Geoffrey pulled back the curtain and peered at Alban’s castle, white in the morning sunlight. “Did he say he was coming over?”

“I expect he’ll be over later,” said Elizabeth, “but he really didn’t say. Would you like me to call him?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “I suppose not. He can’t do anything. And I can always talk to you, can’t I?”

Elizabeth was puzzled. “About what?”

Geoffrey waved vaguely. “Oh… about this rather theatrical situation we find ourselves in. It’s sort of the reverse of Hamlet , isn’t it? That line about ‘the funeral-baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.’ Only the other way around.”

“You’re always going on about Hamlet,” she observed. “I hope you’re not planning to mention that to any reporters who happen to call. That allusion might be catchy enough to make headlines.”

“No fear, Cousin,” said Geoffrey grimly. “I have no desire to encourage sensationalism, or to gain immortality between the pages of a crime magazine. I just want to find out who did it.”

“Even when you know, it probably won’t make any sense,” sighed Elizabeth. “It will probably be some drifter that we never even heard of, and even he won’t know why he did it.”

“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” snapped Geoffrey.

“Would it be better to find out that it was someone we do know?”

“Just as long as we know. And I don’t think it was just a senseless act of violence. A casual murder. Getting back to Hamlet: ‘Yet there’s method in it.’ ”

“More Hamlet,” muttered Elizabeth.

“It’s called barding,” Geoffrey informed her. “You should hear Sinclair doing it. He can bard through a whole conversation. It’s marvelous!”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I must call him today. The play will have to be put off. I think Mother would insist on six months. Or perhaps they could do a play without me in the meantime.” He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out the large volume of quotations. Flipping to the Ss, he ran his finger down the page and then intoned: “ ‘Our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown.’ ”

“I think it’s cheating if you use the book,” said Elizabeth.

“I just wanted to check to see what act it was in.”

“Hamlet , of course?”

“Of course.”

The duel was interrupted by the sound of the door chimes. “ ‘The bell invites me,’ ” Elizabeth said, hurrying out. “ ‘Hear it not, Duncan-” ’

“You would quote Macbeth!” Geoffrey called after her.

A few moments later she came back to find Geoffrey still leafing through the Dictionary of Quotations . “That was Deputy Sheriff Taylor,” she told him. “He wanted to let us know that he was doing more investigating at the scene of-at the lake.”

Geoffrey nodded without looking up.

“I told him that it would be all right.” She sat down again and picked up her book. She had found it on one of the shelves in the Chandler library: Digging for Troy: The Romance of Archeology .

“You know, it’s unlucky to quote from Macbeth,” he remarked.

“Why? It’s my favorite play.”

“It would be. It’s just terribly unlucky. All theater people are shy of it. Sinclair was telling me that the boy actor who was to play the first Lady Macbeth took ill before the first performance, and the Bard himself had to play the part. The boy supposedly died while the play was going on.”

“Coincidence,” remarked Elizabeth.

“No, really. Two actors in the thirties took sick after having been given the title role, and when Olivier played it, the tip of his sword broke off and struck a member of the audience, who had a heart attack.”

“Oh, dear!” said Elizabeth.

“Lots of actors won’t even say the title, much less quote from it! They call it ‘The Scottish Play.’ ”

“Alban was quoting from it last night. When I told him about Eileen, he said, ‘She should have died hereafter.’ I hope it won’t bring him bad luck.”

“One can never tell. Years from now he may be forced to sit through a bagpipe concert-”

Someone tapped on the library door. A moment later, Dr. Chandler opened the door with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, Elizabeth. Could I possibly disturb you? Your Aunt Amanda is asking for you. She’s downstairs in the den. I can’t persuade her to rest. She keeps insisting that there’s too much to be done. She’s a brave woman, Elizabeth. Just don’t let her exhaust herself.”