Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“Yes. I should certainly think you’ve had time enough.”

“Well, we’ve been working at it. First thing this morning we examined the lake, on account of the painting being missing and all. We wanted to see if we could find any hint as to what she might have been painting. And we have a theory.”

Amanda was unimpressed. “May I know what this ‘theory’ of yours is?”

Rountree hedged. “Fact is, we figure that your daughter’s death was an accident. Not a complete accident-I mean, a human-originated accident. Somebody did hit her over the head all right, but we don’t believe that person was aiming to kill her. I think, under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be right to push for first-degree murder. Why, it might even go to trial as manslaughter, provided the defendant cooperated.”

Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “And just why are you explaining all this to a grieving mother?”

The sheriff shifted uneasily. This part required careful handling, if hysterics were to be avoided. “Well, we figure that your daughter painted something that she wasn’t supposed to, and that it had to do with the lake, since she always painted there. So this morning I sent Clay down there to see if he could find anything that somebody might not want in a painting.” He looked at her encouragingly. It wasn’t going to be easy, Rountree thought. “And sure enough he found something. You want to tell her about it, Clay?”

The deputy focused his eyes on the floor and said in an apologetic tone: “In the shallows of the lake, closest to the house, I found a bunch of empty whiskey bottles. You could see them from the place where the easel stood. All the same brand, too. Old Grand-Dad.”

“Good. That should enable you to find the tramp who did this. Look for a man who drinks that brand,” said Amanda evenly.

“No, ma’am,” Rountree replied. “First place, I don’t know of any vagrants who could afford to drink that stuff. Now if we were talking eighty-nine-cent wine bottles, I’d say you had a point.”

“Anyway, there were too many bottles to have been left at one time,” said Clay. “Some were older than others. Anyway, I checked at the store in Milton’s Forge, and I…” His voice trailed off.

Rountree nodded. Might as well tell her and get it over with. “We know that you bought them, ma’am. We could prove ownership with fingerprints, too, you know. Glass is good for prints.” He looked sternly at the deputy as he said this, warning him not to mention the effects of immersion on prints.

Clay was obediently silent, as was Amanda, for several minutes. “I see,” she said quietly. Nothing more.

“Now we don’t think that-this person we’re looking for meant for Eileen to die,” said Rountree soothingly. “We think it was just a tragic… tragic accident. There she is, this young girl, probably not even knowing the significance of what she was painting. Meaning no harm. But somebody saw the painting and knew that a picture of all those bottles was going to let out a family secret. ’Course, alcoholism is just a disease, same as cancer, but some people don’t see it like that.” He hoped he was making it respectable enough for her to confess to. “So the plan was to stun the girl just long enough to steal the painting-maybe put her in the boat ’til she came to, not seeing the snake…”

Amanda watched him, her face a mask of calm. After a moment, Rountree continued, still watching the face of his audience of one.

“-And if it hadn’t been for the snake, everything would have been all right, don’t you reckon? The girl would have woke up with a headache, and the painting would be gone, but maybe even she would have wanted it that way, if she’d known the truth about what she’d painted, and how it would hurt… somebody…” He started to say more, then shook his head and was silent.

The woman in the chair said nothing.

Wesley Rountree tried again. “Mrs. Chandler, Mrs. Chandler… come on now. We know you bought that whiskey. We know about your drinking-nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t you want to tell us how it happened?”

Amanda’s eyes widened. “Do I understand that you are suggesting I murdered my daughter?”

“Of course not!” Rountree assured her. “We know it was an accident. That you acted in a fright-”

Fixing him with a malevolent glare, Amanda Chandler leaned forward. “You stupid man!” she hissed. “So you think you’ve uncovered a great secret, do you?”

The two officers blinked at her.

“Do you really think my family doesn’t know?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Well, ask them!” She waved toward the closed door. “Go on! Ask any of them! Oh, we don’t discuss it. We pretend it doesn’t exist, but I assure you, Mr. Rountree, that my family is perfectly aware of the situation. As was Eileen. And whatever it was in that painting, it was not liquor bottles! We are a family of standards, Sheriff, and I assure you that my daughter would never have painted that!”

“Yes, we all knew about it,” Robert Chandler told the officers a few minutes later. He had received them in his book-lined study, where they had sought him out, with the explanation that certain points of his wife’s statements required confirmation.

He sat hunched before his dented typewriter, his hand covering his eyes. “It is… not a recent development. I tried to reason with her about it; she denies it, of course. Says that Mildred steals the whiskey, that kind of thing. And she has steadfastly refused counseling, so we have made up our minds to live with it as… as quietly as possible.” He smiled apologetically. “It isn’t really bad, except occasionally, when she feels anxious about something. I was afraid that the wedding would set her off-and now, this!”

Wesley Rountree nodded sympathetically. “Doctor, it was our theory that your daughter might have painted those liquor bottles into the picture. Then, of course, when your wife saw the picture, she’d have got het up and tried to knock her out, so she could steal the picture. We think the whole thing was an accident.”

“No,” said Robert Chandler. “My wife’s form of panic is-drinking.”

“But you realize that your daughter was probably killed on account of that painting-probably by somebody in the household-don’t you, sir?”

Dr. Chandler sighed. “Since you tell me it is so, I suppose I must believe it.”

“Well, it would sure help us out if you told us who you thought it might be,” Rountree prompted.

“That would be of no use to you, Wesley. I could only tell you who I wanted it to be,” said the doctor with a tight smile.

“I’d sure settle for that.”

For a moment, Rountree thought that the doctor was going to confide in him, but after a long silence he merely said, “I’m afraid that would not be ethical.”

Deciding that it would be useless to argue with him, Wesley Rountree thanked him for his cooperation and went off in search of another family member to question. They met Elizabeth in the hall. She was not immediate family, Wesley decided, and not a likely suspect. He’d talk to her later. “Excuse me,” he said genially. “Can’t seem to find anybody around here.”

“Who are you looking for?” asked Elizabeth doubtfully.

Rountree picked one. “Charles Chandler,” he said decisively.

“Oh. He’s outside, I expect. He spends a lot of time sunning. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

“Does he have a favorite rock?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Like a lizard, you mean? No. He uses a chair.” Deciding that the conversational ice had been broken, she ventured a question. “How are you coming along with the investigation?”

“Like a pregnant mule,” Rountree declared. “I know what to do, but nothing seems to come of it.”