Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

She looked at the message again and sighed, wondering if it would be worth it to call the apartment manager again and ask him to rout Bill out of his apartment so that she could demand an explanation. On second thought, that seemed like more bother than following the instructions in the message. Tell the sheriff what? A history lecture from an encyclopedia? What did that have to do with anything? She had been meaning to read up on Ludwig, anyway, though, in case Alban dredged up any more unpleasantries about the Bonnie Prince. Shaking her head in resignation, she opened volume ten and turned to the article on Ludwig II of Bavaria.

The entry on Ludwig took only half a page, and was accompanied by a small photograph of a weak-chinned young man in an elaborate military uniform. He looked like a dreamer, Elizabeth decided; the sort who today read science fiction and play role-games in which they are wizards or paladins. She wondered what he had done besides building fairy-tale castles in his insignificant kingdom. She read the article twice, the second time slowly, her finger tracing out each word in the last paragraph. That must be the connection, but its significance escaped her. Perhaps the sheriff would know what Bill was getting at. Elizabeth slid the Mailgram into the book to mark her place and left the room.

Clay Taylor, who was sitting nearest the door, heard the tapping. Shoving his pencil behind his ear, he signaled for the others to remain seated, and got up to see who it was. Dr. Chandler and the old man had not come back downstairs yet, so Wesley had decided to go ahead with the order to drag the lake. He was on the phone now making the arrangements.

“Well, where is Hill-Bear, Doris? I need to talk to him!” Wesley was shouting into the phone.

Clay hastened to open the door. “Oh, hi!” he said, brightening at the sight of Elizabeth. “Do you want to come back in?”

“I need to talk to the Sheriff,” she said, looking past the deputy into the parlor. She could see Rountree hunched over an end table talking excitedly into an extension phone. His conversation drowned out the murmur of voices from the corner of the room, where Tommy Simmons was talking with Geoffrey and Charles. Satisky had picked up a decorating magazine from the coffee table and was leafing through it with no indication of interest.

“Wes is on the phone. He’s trying to get the number of the rescue squad people from Doris. He had to get permission from Dr. Chandler so that we could drag the pond. At least, I expect we could have done it anyway, since this is a homicide, but Wesley says, ‘Never stomp when you can tiptoe.’ So we asked first. They agreed, of course. So he’s setting that up now for tomorrow morning.” He paused for breath, noticing that she hadn’t seemed to be listening. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I was supposed to tell the sheriff, but… where’s Dr. Shepherd?”

“He left just after you did. He and Alban-Mr. Cobb, that is-said something about going for a walk by the lake. Guess they knew that this meeting would-”

Elizabeth thrust the book at him. “Look, I can’t wait! Just see that he reads this as soon as he gets off the phone. There’s a Mailgram in there, too. I’ll be at the lake!”

“But you haven’t-” Taylor shrugged. She was gone. He leaned against the door and began to flip through the book.

ALBAN AND CARLSEN SHEPHERD had slipped out the back door of the house, taking the footpath that led to the lake.

“I’m glad we got out of there,” Shepherd confided.

Alban nodded, eyeing the doctor’s baggy khakis and faded tee shirt. “I thought you might prefer it out here.”

“I was sure there was going to be a scene. It’s been building up to one. Professionally, I have to take this sort of thing in stride, but personally, I’d rather not watch.”

It was early evening. In the shadowy parts of the path, the trees were becoming less distinct, blending into gray shapes beyond the bushes that lined the path. Behind them, the shade trees on the lawn cast long shadows in the fading sunlight. The house stood black against the bright sky, but as they entered the untended woods that surrounded the lake, the twilight deepened.

Shepherd was thinking how little he liked this sort of landscape. Although the path was dry, he could smell wet ground around him-from the underground stream that fed the lake, he supposed. Short dogwoods and matted underbrush of shrubs he did not recognize made it difficult to see much beyond the path itself. The tangle of bushes choked the land around the tall pines and hardwoods, making him feel closed in. He eyed the spider webs stretched between tree branches, imagining the cotton stickiness on his face if he should stumble into one stretched across the path. He had been watching the ground as much as possible, expecting every branch to coil and strike at him.

“Is it far to the lake?” he asked when he could stand it no longer.

“No. Less than a mile. We ought to be there before dark. It’s pretty country, isn’t it?”

Shepherd grunted.

They walked on for a few more minutes in silence. Alban seemed to be deep in thought, and while Shepherd would have welcomed any conversation that would distract him from the unpleasant terrain, he found himself unable to think of any topic that would not lead back to the death of Eileen Chandler.

“Do you suppose we should have stayed to hear what the sheriff had to say?” he ventured.

Alban shrugged.

“Maybe they’ve set a date for the inquest. I’d like to know when I can plan on leaving. I expect they’ll want to drag the lake first, though.”

Alban turned and stared at him. “Drag the lake?”

“Sure. In case whatever she got hit with was thrown into the lake. And maybe the painting was thrown in. The sheriff has to be able to say he tried all the possibilities.” Now that Shepherd had begun to talk about the case, he seemed unable to stop. His thoughts poured out in a rush of words, requiring no responses for priming. “I’ve been thinking about the psychological implications of this case, trying to come up with a pattern. The actions of every mind arrange themselves into some kind of order, which, if you study it carefully, should tell you something about the personality of the individual. There’s not much to go on in this case, though, and of course everything could have six different meanings. Depends on whose subconscious you’re looking at. Take the snake for example. Now, is that a coincidence or a phallic symbol, or what?”

Alban had thrust his hands in his pockets and walked a few feet ahead. “I’m sorry,” he said absently. “What did you say?”

It was obvious that he had not heard a word of Shepherd’s unburdening, which was just as well, Shepherd decided. Perhaps the sound of his own voice had been so soothing in itself that the sense of the words had been unnecessary. He certainly felt better for having voiced his thoughts, even if they went unheard.

A small tendril of honeysuckle draping over the path brushed Alban’s cheek. He shrank back, flailing at the white flowers with a startled cry before he recognized them. With a grunt of anger, he snapped off the branch and ground it into the dirt.

Shepherd watched him thoughtfully. “This has been very upsetting for you, hasn’t it?” he said at last.

Alban nodded, turning away. “That was childish,” he muttered. “I’m jumpy, I guess.”

“Very understandable,” said Shepherd encouragingly. “I’ve seen about ten snakes so far myself, but they all turned out to be sticks.”

“I haven’t been able to sleep,” Alban said softly. “Did I tell you about my headaches?”