Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

Half an hour later, Taylor was driving back toward town with a half-filled gunny sack of wet liquor bottles deposited in the back. Somebody was putting those bottles in the lake because they didn’t want them to show up in the garbage can. Too many bottles. He glanced at the dashboard clock. He still had more than an hour before he was supposed to meet Rountree for lunch. Maybe he could find out something by then. Where do you buy that stuff if you don’t want people to know that you drink it? Not in Chandler Grove, he thought, grinning. He stopped at the intersection of Hinty’s Crossing. The road sign said: Chandler Grove 5, Milton’s Forge 12, with arrows pointing in opposite directions. After a moment’s consideration, Taylor turned left, toward Milton’s Forge.

By the time he reached the Milton’s Forge ABC store, Taylor had thought out his line of questioning. True, he had no jurisdiction in Milton’s Forge, which was in the neighboring county, but he decided that it didn’t take official status to ask a few polite questions of a clerk. It was only a hunch, after all; he’d just ask a couple of questions, which might not have anything to do with the case at all.

Entering the liquor store, Taylor straightened his holster and tried to look as official and serious as possible. He put the empty whiskey bottle-one of the unbroken ones-on the counter.

“We don’t give refills, buddy,” drawled the clerk.

Taylor’s mouth twitched with annoyance. He pulled out his identification and handed it to the clerk. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” he said sternly.

“And we don’t sell to minors, neither.”

Taylor sighed. “Could I just ask my question?”

The clerk shrugged. “Might as well. Doubt if I can help, though.”

“I need to know if you carry this brand.”

The man smiled. “Third aisle to the right. Help yourself.”

“I don’t want to buy the stuff! Do you sell much of it?”

“So-so. Not as much as some. The one with the horse on it is our biggest seller.”

“Okay, so if somebody bought a lot of this, you’d remember it, right?”

“I s’pose.”

“Well, does anybody buy a lot of it?” Clay was beginning to wish he had brought a warrant. Or perhaps a judge.

The clerk thought it over. “You mean a lot at a time, or just reg’lar?”

“Either one. Anything you can remember about people liking this brand!”

“Oh. Well, Old Man Twiny from up around Barnard’s Way picks up a bottle from time to time…”

“Anybody else?”

“And Delbert. Now, before he died, Delbert could-”

“Anybody else!”

The clerk blinked. “Oh, some woman comes in every couple of weeks for some. Says she’s giving a party. Sure gives a lot of parties, that woman. Course, the way she dresses and with that car she drives, I reckon she can afford to.”

“Any idea who she is?” asked Clay eagerly.

“Naw. Drives a big green car, though.”

The Chandlers had a green car, Clay thought with satisfaction. The hunch was working. “What does she look like?”

The clerk frowned. “Like your fifth grade teacher,” he said flatly. “You could just see her taking a ruler to your behind. Redheads have ferocious tempers anyway, and when they get older-”

According to the clock behind the clerk, Taylor had half an hour to get back for his meeting with Rountree, so he thanked the man hastily, saying he might be back later. He didn’t need anything else for a preliminary report to the sheriff: it was as good a description as he could think of for Amanda Chandler.

Brenner’s Cafe, known for its reasonable prices and country-cooking rather than for its decor, was the favorite luncheon place for most of Chandler Grove. Those who lived too far from the office to eat at home could usually be found at a booth in Brenner’s, socializing over a bowl of chili or the country ham plate special. Clay found the sheriff in his favorite booth, under the palomino-cowgirl calendar, with a can of diet cola in front of him.

“Thought I’d wait ’til you got here to order,” Rountree grunted, as Clay slid opposite him in the booth. “I’m in no hurry.”

Clay nodded. Today was Saturday, which meant that Rountree’s lunch would consist of a salad and diet cola, a self-imposed regimen which the sheriff followed on days with a u in them. Taylor studied the menu board above the counter, wondering what he could order that would not annoy Wesley too much.

When they had both ordered salads, and the pony-tailed waitress had moved out of earshot, Clay leaned across the table and said: “I found out something.”

Rountree sighed. “Figured you did. You been sitting there with a grin on your face like a wave on a slop bucket. Somebody confess?”

“Next best thing.” Clay began to tell him about finding the liquor bottles in the lake, hardly stopping to chew forkfuls of salad when it arrived. He described his interview with the ABC store clerk in Milton’s Forge, and concluded with his theory that the purchaser of the whiskey was Amanda Chandler, mother of the deceased. “What about that?” he ended happily.

Rountree listened to the entire story without interrupting. “The mother, huh?” he said. “That wasn’t the way my ideas were going.”

“I know. It’s odd. I figure a society-minded woman like that wouldn’t want people to know she drank so much,” said Clay, still delighted with his powers of deduction. “Aren’t people funny? Picture Vance Wainwright killing somebody ’cause they found out he drank.”

Rountree snorted. “Anybody that don’t know Vance Wainwright drinks is already dead.”

“What do we do now, Wes?” Taylor wondered if it would be necessary to go back to the office for the rifles.

“I reckon we’ll go out and talk to the lady,” sighed Rountree.

“So you agree that I’m right?”

“Well… I reckon you could be,” said Rountree doubtfully.

Taylor grinned.

Rountree scooped up the check. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

Elizabeth had managed to finish all the telephoning, ten letters, and the preparing of a lunch of sandwiches by the time Wesley Rountree interrupted their work session. Amanda, who had been composing the obituary for the Scout for the entire morning, was reading snatches of it aloud to Elizabeth while they ate in the den.

“… devoted daughter and an accomplished expressionist painter. Ought I to say ‘painteuse’? Elizabeth, what do you think?”

Rountree appeared rather uneasily in the doorway, twisting his white Stetson, while Deputy Taylor and Mildred hovered in the hall behind him. Elizabeth nodded slightly toward the door, and Amanda turned to look. She recognized the sheriff with a nod of satisfaction.

“Yes, officer? What is it?”

“Well, ma’am, we’d just like a word alone with you if we may,” said Rountree in his politest tone. At all costs he wanted to avoid an outburst of hysterics, but the questioning had to be done.

Amanda regarded him carefully for a moment. “Just run along now and see how your grandfather is doing, dear, while I have a word with these gentlemen.”

Elizabeth picked up the lunch tray and edged past the two officers. When the door had closed behind her, Wesley Rountree seated himself on the chintz couch, motioning Clay to a nearby chair. Unobtrusively, Clay took out his notepad and pen, and waited expectantly for the questioning to begin.

Murder suspect or not, Rountree was determined to remain courteous. It was force of habit as much as anything else; he had little liking for social lionesses. “Ma’am, you should know if we had anything to report about this unfortunate business.”