Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

Rountree shrugged. “You know. For confessions. We have to warn people first about their rights, so the court won’t throw it out. I have the card in my billfold someplace.” He reached for his hip pocket.

“I am not confessing!” Satisky said shrilly. “I have nothing to confess!

“Well, it was a thought,” sighed Rountree. “What did you want to say?”

“I wanted to know if I could leave,” snapped Satisky.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “And miss the funeral of your loved one?” he drawled.

Satisky opened his mouth and closed it again.

Rountree nodded. “Actually, I do understand,” he said in a softer tone. “This place makes you kinda nervous, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it does,” Satisky admitted. “These people are all strangers, and I know they all think I did it. Is there any necessity for me to stay?”

Rountree chewed on this thought for a minute. “Have you been asked to leave?”

Satisky blinked. “Well… no.”

“Then stay put.”

“I have to stay?” Satisky persisted.

Rountree thought about it. “Well, no,” he admitted, and Satisky brightened at once. “You don’t have to stay exactly here, but while the investigation is going on, you can’t leave the county. We haven’t even had the inquest yet. But so long as you are somewhere nearby-why, I’ve no objections to you making a change of venue, as we say in legal terms.”

Taylor changed his laugh into a discreet cough, and began to study his notepad.

“In fact,” Rountree was saying, “I may even be able to make a suggestion. Say, Clay, doesn’t Doris’s mother still rent out rooms over at her place? You’d have to share a bathroom with the kids, of course, but I bet it wouldn’t set you back more than forty bucks a week. Meals are extra, of course, but Brenner’s Cafe makes a real good cheeseburger. Right, Clay?”

“Uh-uh-sure, Wes.”

Rountree leaned toward the phone. “If you want, I can even give Doris’s mom a call and put in a word for you. The place might fill up with reporters, you never know. Now what was her number?”

“No! Don’t call!” Satisky said hurriedly. “I mean-well…”

He nearly reached for his own hip pocket to count his money, but it wasn’t necessary. In his mind, he could see a ten, two fives, and three ones: the price of pride was, as usual, beyond his means. The thought of an inheritance from Eileen flickered through his mind. He was afraid to ask about it, though. It would shout a motive for murder to those for whom he was already a favorite suspect, or so he imagined. Besides, he was in no particular hurry to hear news that would almost certainly be bad. Eileen had died before they were married; therefore, the inheritance could not be claimed.

Wesley Rountree’s bland smile suggested that he required no explanation from the young man, but as he was not vindictive toward the technically innocent, he merely said, “I understand. You don’t want to risk hurting these good people’s feelings by refusing hospitality.”

Satisky stammered that this was the case and was left feeling like an utter fool as Rountree and the deputy left. He was still brooding over the awkwardness of the interview a few minutes later when Geoffrey sauntered in. Satisky, whose natural inclination was to flee from Geoffrey, rose to leave.

“Please!” said Geoffrey. “Don’t get up. I feel that I must have interrupted you. No doubt you are ferreting out a few appropriate quotations to drop at the funeral.”

Satisky looked away. “It isn’t like that,” he mumbled. “I just find it hard to express my feelings. I’m not very verbal, I guess.”

“Not very,” Geoffrey agreed. He had pulled out the drawer of the desk and was leafing through the leather address book, occasionally making notes on a piece of paper.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Satisky ventured another remark. “Have the funeral arrangements been made?”

Geoffrey paused and laid down his pen. “They have, actually. It will be on Tuesday. I hope that’s convenient for you. Oh, perhaps we should have consulted you.”

“Well-”

“In case you wanted to read one of your own poems at the service.”

Satisky flushed. “I tried to leave. The sheriff says I have to stay until after the inquest.”

“Just in case,” remarked Geoffrey, flipping pages in the address book.

“You think I did it, don’t you?” Satisky’s voice quivered with rage, as he approached the desk with more decision than usual.

“One can but hope,” murmured Geoffrey without looking up.

“Why would I kill her?” Satisky demanded. “I could have just broken off the engagement if I wanted to. And if it was the money I was after, don’t you think I would have waited until we were married so that I would inherit it? As it is, I don’t get anything.”

Geoffrey fixed him with a frosty stare. “That, dear Michael, is the one point in your favor-and to me, the only consolation.”

“But you admit that I am very unlikely as a suspect?”

“Wishing will not make it so,” Geoffrey conceded. “The only crime of which I can be sure of your guilt is the petty larceny of my sister’s affections. If you will excuse me!” Conscious of a good exit line, he swept out.

Even after Geoffrey had gone, Satisky was unable to think of a suitable retort. Geoffrey was really quite odious, Satisky thought. He could certainly divulge a thing or two. Especially about Geoffrey, who deserved to be made uncomfortable.

He peered out the front window. Rountree and the deputy were standing in the driveway talking. He could approach them if he chose. Still smarting from his last bout with Geoffrey, Satisky considered his moral stance. After all, one had a civic duty to assist the police, which meant telling what one knew. Certainly the truth could harm no one. Eileen’s death must be avenged, and it was his duty to her memory to shed all the light he could on the inquiry. His personal feelings for Geoffrey were of no consideration: this was above petty revenge. Duty must be done.

Thus fortified with nobility of purpose, Satisky hurried to the front door, pausing only long enough to ensure that he was not seen, and called: “Sheriff! I must speak to you!”

Wesley pushed his Stetson back from his forehead and sighed. “Wonder what he wants now?”

“Police protection, probably,” snorted Clay. “And the way that family feels about him…”

Satisky began to run down the driveway toward them, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the front windows. He stumbled into a hedge during one of these backward glances, nearly falling into the gravel, while Rountree and Taylor waited by the squad car with solemn expressions.

“I have something very important to tell you,” gasped Satisky, still breathless from his dash down the driveway. “You may want to take notes,” Satisky informed Clay.

Glancing at Rountree for confirmation, Clay obligingly extracted his notepad from his hip pocket and scratched Satisky’s name at the top of a clean page.

“You wanna go ahead?” drawled Wesley.

Satisky drew a dramatic breath. “I haven’t told you this before because I did not wish my motives to be misinterpreted. Those with petty minds might conclude that I am telling you this information out of spite, but I wish to see justice served.”

Rountree frowned. “Is that a quote?”

Satisky’s eyes widened. “Er-no.”

“Oh. Just checking. I was going to guess Benedict Arnold. My mistake. Go ahead.”

Satisky peered at the sheriff, wondering if he were being ridiculed, but the sheriff looked perfectly serious. Reassured on that point, he continued: “Am I correct in assuming that it would assist you to know the last person who saw my fiancée alive?”