Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“Since that would be the murderer…”

“Oh! Well, I can’t go that far! I mean, I didn’t see anything. But I was out walking that morning on the path near the lake.”

“Why?” asked Rountree.

“I wanted to talk to Eileen. I was going down to the lake to find her, when I heard angry voices. There was an argument going on by the lake, and it sounded quite vociferous. Naturally I-”

“Just a minute,” said Clay.

“Yes?”

“Is that i-r-o-u-s ?”

“What?”

“Vociferous.”

“No. It’s an e . Now shut up, Clay, and let him get on with it.”

“Well, as I said, there seemed to be quite a scene going on, but since it was a family matter, I felt that the polite thing to do would be to leave. I didn’t want to embarrass them-”

“Embarrass who?” demanded the sheriff. “You remind me of one of those old movies where the witness talks around and around a thing until somebody shoots him before he can ever say it.”

“It was Geoffrey,” Satisky said promptly. “Geoffrey was shouting at Eileen. He sounded quite hysterical, if you ask me.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes. Has he told you about the incident?”

“No,” said Clay. Rountree shot him a warning glare.

Satisky smiled. “I thought not. That is the reason I felt that I could not shirk my responsibility.”

“Well? What were they arguing about? You?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot help you there. In order to get close enough to hear the words distinctly, I would have had to get close enough to be seen. It was broad daylight.”

“And you didn’t want to be seen by Geoffrey,” offered the sheriff.

Satisky hesitated. “It would have been unpleasant. I had no desire to intrude.”

“I understand. I also understand why you didn’t tell us before. Admitting that you overheard the fracas also means admitting that you were out by the lake that morning, too. Who’s to say that the fight wasn’t about you? Maybe that fellow convinced his sister not to marry you after all, and you snuck back later on when she was alone, argued about it, and killed her.”

“Of course I didn’t!” Satisky blurted out. “I wanted to call it off myself! That’s what I went out there…” His voice trailed off, as he realized what he was saying.

Rountree smiled grimly. “Well, so much for your grief. Now, as to the subject of the argument, I guess we’d better discuss that with ol’ Geoffrey.”

Satisky glanced at Clay’s scribbled notes. “Do you want me to sign that?”

“No,” said Clay. “You have to be able to read what you’re signing. Doris will have to type it up.”

“I’ll be seeing you by and by, Mr. Satisky,” Wesley assured him. “And thank you for coming to me with this.” He patted Satisky’s shoulder.

Michael basked in official approval. “Well, I’m glad to help y’all , Sheriff.”

“You know, Northerners always make that mistake,” Wesley told him seriously. “Y’all is not used when talking to one person. It’s second person plural, like vos in Latin.”

“Oh… er, yes, of course.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. ’Bye now.” Rountree turned away.

Satisky hurried back to the house, attempting to reassess his image of the county sheriff, and wondering what explanation he would give in case anyone had seen him talking to Rountree and Taylor. Of course, if Rountree questioned Geoffrey about it, it would all come out soon, anyway. He’d better go up to his room and pack, just in case.

“Wasn’t that interesting?” asked Wesley, when Satisky had gone. “Geoffrey had a fight with his sister at the death scene.”

“I’m surprised that guy came to us about it,” said Clay. “I’d expect him to blackmail Geoffrey with it, instead.”

“Well, he is hard up for money,” Rountree said. “We established that in our boardinghouse talk. But if Geoffrey is the murderer, that would be a good way to share double billing with the original deceased. Satisky may have just enough brains to have figured that out. But my guess is that he doesn’t have the nerve to approach Geoffrey for blackmail or anything else. This business of sneaking behind his back is more in Satisky’s line of country. I’ll bet he enjoyed getting Geoffrey in trouble, don’t you?”

“I think it settled a few scores between them,” said Clay. “I take it we’re going to discuss this with Geoffrey now?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed we are.”

They walked back to the front door, where Mildred presently appeared and informed them that Geoffrey had gone out for a walk about twenty minutes earlier.

“What do you want to bet he’s gone down to that lake?” asked Rountree. “Morbid so-and-so.”

“We’ve finished up there, haven’t we? I mean, he can’t destroy evidence now.”

“Not unless you missed something. We didn’t find the murder weapon, but I bet that’s in the lake. Mitch says it was a piece of wood, like a branch.”

“Oh, I looked all right. It’s not around the lake. Let’s go.”

Geoffrey had not gone to the lake, however. When they finally found him, nearly half an hour later, he was sitting under an apple tree with his script of The Duchess of Malfi .

“Eagles commonly fly alone; they are crows, daws, and starlings that flock together. Look, what’s that follows me?” He looked up in mock surprise. “Oh, hello, Sheriff. Just learning my lines.”

“Learning your lines?” Wesley repeated.

“Yes. For the community theater production. We’re doing The Duchess of Malfi . Do say you’ll come and see it, Sheriff. I shall be so honored.”

“I read that in English class!” said Clay eagerly. “It’s about a guy who has his sister killed because he’s in love with her!” He faltered, as he realized the implications of this.

Rountree brightened. “No! Is that the truth?”

“Somewhat oversimplified,” Geoffrey retorted. “It has to do with the honor of a noble family.”

“I’d say your family is a pretty noble one around here.” Rountree sank gingerly to the grass beside Geoffrey, and motioned for Clay to follow.

“If you are under the impression that I am conducting an al fresco seminar on medieval drama, you are misinformed,” snapped Geoffrey, closing the book.

“Fact is, we came to talk about your sister’s murder. Or rather, an incident that happened shortly before.”

“And what is that, pray?”

“You tell us. You were there. What did you and your sister argue about on the day she died?”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “What makes you ask?”

“You were overheard. We’re just giving you a chance to tell your side of it.” Rountree held up a restraining hand. “But don’t start yet. Just let me read you your rights. I’m not charging you with anything-yet. I just want to make sure you know where you stand before you say anything.”

Geoffrey stared off into space while Rountree fished out his “rights” card, and read it in the cheerful tones of a radio announcer. When he finished, he put it back in his wallet and beamed expectantly at Geoffrey. There was a minute of silence.

“Well?” prompted Rountree encouragingly.

Geoffrey sighed and shook his head. Finally, he said, “All right, Rountree. We’ll have our little talk, on certain conditions…”

“Now, plea-bargaining is strictly the province of the district attorney,” Rountree began warningly.

“It’s not that. I am about to discuss personal family matters which, I might add, have no bearing on this case. I don’t want my statement to be discussed at the diner. I don’t want it mentioned to my family. And I don’t want Doris Guthrie to type up my statement, because she has the biggest mouth in the state of Georgia.”