“Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something,” muttered Geoffrey, but he took care that Marshall Pavlock should not overhear him.
An hour later Geoffrey emerged from the back room with a notepad full of interesting facts gleaned from the obituary columns of the Scout. He did not, however, share his findings with the editor of that publication.
Elizabeth and Jenny were having tea with Geneva Grey, who had recovered somewhat from her surprise upon meeting them. Or, rather, upon meeting Jenny. She had seemed quite equal to the honor of greeting Elizabeth, but when she had turned to welcome her second visitor, her face registered recognition, shock, and then delight in short order.
“Aren’t you-why, you’re my weather girl!” she cried, glancing at the television set as if in search of evidence of Jenny’s escape.
Jenny Ramsay smiled her demure princess smile, and her eyelids fluttered. “Oh, I can’t believe you recognized me!” she murmured. “Aren’t you sweet? I’m afraid I look like a dishrag in this old thing.”
Miss Grey, a small-boned woman with shining white hair and a dazzling smile of her own, had beamed back at the Weather Princess. “And you’re getting married!” she exclaimed.
“No, sorry,” said Elizabeth, with a little wave of her hand. “Over here. Yes, me. I’m the bride.”
The seamstress’s smile decreased in voltage ever so slightly. “Well, of course you are!” she said, patting Elizabeth on the arm. “I remember now. You told me all about your bone work on the telephone. It completely slipped my mind when I saw Jenny here. And afterward, you’re going to fly over to England and see the Queen.”
“Scotland, actually,” said Elizabeth, blushing.
“Well, do come in, and let’s talk about this exciting event.” She cast a last beaming smile at Jenny. “Just wait till I tell folks I had the Channel Four weather girl in for tea!”
She settled them on a faded velvet love seat in the parlor, then she bustled into the kitchen to make the tea. When they were alone, Jenny leaned over to Elizabeth and whispered, “I’m sorry. You must be about ready to kill me!”
Elizabeth summoned up a pale smile. “No, of course not, Jenny. I think it’s wonderful for you.” Privately she wondered how Jenny Ramsay would look in malarial yellow.
“You know, we never did talk about exactly where your aunt’s house is,” said Jenny. “I have to be able to find it on Saturday, you know!”
“You can’t miss it,” said Elizabeth. “It’s Long Meadow Farm. There’s a Bavarian castle across the road.”
“Oh my,” said Jenny, wide-eyed. “Are you related to them?”
“Sure. Amanda Chandler is my mother’s sister. In fact, her sons Charles and Geoffrey are part of the wedding party. They didn’t go to school in Chandler Grove, though. Did you ever meet them?”
Jenny laughed pleasantly. “I meet so many people,” she said. “If they ever served on a civic committee, I’m sure I’ve crossed paths with them. Are they cute?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “They’re… interesting.”
“Well,” said Jenny, “anybody with that much money is interesting.”
Presently, Miss Grey returned, bearing a silver tray on which a Spode tea service rested in newly rinsed splendor. Beside it was a plate of home-baked cookies. “Now,” she said, beaming at them, “I want to hear all about it!”
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “I’m afraid it’s short notice, because the wedding is only a week away, but I’ve been dieting, you see, and-”
“You’re not sweet on that Badger Darnell, are you?”
“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth, losing her train of thought. “What did you say?”
Jenny gave a little cough. “I believe she means me, honey.” She directed another princess look at their hostess. “No, ma’am, I’m not at all involved with Badger. Why, I think of him as a big brother, and that’s all. He’s like family. But he certainly is an eligible bachelor, so if you want him, you go right ahead.”
Geneva Grey gave a little squeal of laughter and tapped Jenny playfully on the arm. That line always did go down well with the little old ladies.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then she reached for a cookie. “As I said, we have very little time, but I did bring a pattern that you might want to look at.” She reached into her totebag and brought out the thick envelope containing the dress pattern.
Miss Grey studied the cover drawings with a practiced eye. “Yes,” she said, “I like that neckline. Are you going to want it in satin?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve already bought the material. What do you think?” She handed the totebag to the seamstress.
“Yes. Very nice. So you want it just like the picture, then?”
“Well, no. There is one alteration that I’d like.” She explained her plan.
“Well, that will make a change, won’t it?”
“Can you do it?”
“Well, certainly. I’ll just get some measurements. But first, we ought to decide what Jenny’s going to wear.”
“There are two bridesmaids,” said Elizabeth.
“Well, where’s the other one?”
“She can’t make it to Chandler Grove until the day before the ceremony, but she said to tell you that she’s a size nine.”
Miss Grey looked doubtful. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I can manage.”
“Oh, don’t worry too much about it,” said Elizabeth. “After all, everyone will be looking at me.”
Jenny Ramsay smiled sweetly. “Have another cookie, Elizabeth?”
Wesley Rountree managed to get back to the office just as Clay was going off duty. “Is Hill-Bear off on patrol yet?” he asked, checking his desk for messages.
“You just missed him,” said Clay, sitting back in his swivel chair. “How’d it go?”
“Well,” said Wesley. “I damn near got arrested. How are things with you?”
Without a word, Clay walked over to the apartment-sized refrigerator under the counter and took out a Diet Coke. Solemnly, he popped the tab and handed the can to the sheriff.
“Thanks, Clay. I guess that means you want to go first.”
Wesley sipped his drink while Clay explained about his exercise in futility at the records office, and his subsequent trip to the Scout offices to read the obituaries. “Actually,” he said, “Azzie Todd’s memory was pretty good. He only left out a couple of people who died out of the county. Mostly old folks in nursing homes, or who had gone to live with their kids.”
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Wesley sadly. “Not many young people can afford to live around here.”
“Yes,” said Clay. “But if we let industry come in to create jobs, what would it do to the land?”
“I didn’t say I had any answers, Clay. Do you have that list of people who died out of the county?”
Clay handed him a neatly typed list. “I made you a copy.”
“Okay. I guess we’ll get started on this tomorrow. Thanks, Clay.”
The deputy looked embarrassed. “No problem,” he muttered. “At least I didn’t get arrested.”
“Well, neither did I,” said Wesley. “But only because nobody was granting Wayne Dupree any wishes today.” Between swigs of cola, he explained about finding the body of Jasper Willis, and the subsequent investigation by the minions of the neighboring sheriff’s department.
Clay listened in silence. Finally he said, “Did they find out anything?”
“Stabbed in the throat,” said Wesley. “The coroner over there thought he might have been approached from behind. Maybe while he was sitting at his desk. They haven’t identified the weapon yet, but it wasn’t present at the scene. They don’t seem to think it was a knife, though. At least not a particularly well sharpened one.”
The deputy shuddered. After a moment’s pause he said, “Well, it’s too bad he was killed before you could question him. That leaves us back where we started.”
“He’s dead, Clay. Don’t
you find that suspicious?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t lead us anywhere, and we don’t have any proof.”
“No, but I have some fascinating bits of speculation. Sheriff Dupree gave me some significant evidence. He said that Willis always wanted to be a travel agent. There were travel posters decorating his office, too.”
“So?”
“Couple that with the name of his business, and what do you get?”
Clay Taylor pondered the term Elijah’s Chariot for a good half minute. “He did tours of the Holy Land?”
“Classical education,” said Wesley triumphantly. “I always said there was nothing to beat it. Your generation grew up playing with the hamster at the back of the classroom when you should have been studying literature.”
“It’s from the Bible,” said Clay in defense of his grade school.
“Right. And what do you remember about Elijah?”
“Wait a minute. We had him in Sunday school. He was the baldheaded prophet that the little boys made fun of. And so he called some she-bears out of the woods and they ate up forty-two of them.”
“That was Elisha,” snapped Wesley. “And judging from your version of the tale, you must have the Jerry Clower translation of the Gospel.”
“I never forgot it,” said Clay. “It made me downright scared of preachers. But I can’t seem to place Elijah.”
“Elijah was the prophet who recruited Elisha. First Book of Kings.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Clay, concentrating mightily. “Didn’t you mention this before? He went to heaven in a chariot of fire.”
“Exactly,” said Wesley, slapping the desk. “And there’s just one more important fact about that little journey of Elijah’s. He was the only person in the Bible who went to heaven without having to die.”
“Elijah’s Chariot,” murmured Clay, considering the name again. “A fiery departure, but no death. You reckon people figured that out?”
Wesley sent his Coke can spiraling toward the wastebasket. “I bet Emmet did.”
“So who killed the provider of this handy little service?”
Wesley Rountree grinned. “Somebody who wouldn’t be caught dead, I reckon.”
CHAPTER 12
THE WEDDING WAS three days away. Well, four, if you counted today. Elizabeth’s reckoning depended entirely upon the subject uppermost in her mind at the moment of calculation. If she was worrying about whether her dress would be finished on time, there were four days left. If she was on the verge of hysterics from sheer panic and overexertion, there were only three days to be endured. Anyhow it was Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of June. In ninety-one hours or so, momentous things would happen. The Princess of Wales would turn twenty-eight, the Fourth of July weekend would get off to a rousing start, and Elizabeth MacPherson would be getting married.
Despite an occasional bout of wedding nerves, she had to admit that things had gone very well indeed, thanks, in large part, to the organizing skill of her aunt Amanda. Elizabeth was convinced that if Aunt Amanda had been in charge of the Confederates at the Battle of Atlanta, General Sherman would have had very little time for private study.
With military precision, she had managed to secure the services of an organist and a photographer; commandeered a suitable minister; negotiated with the florist to her own satisfaction; and in a rout reminiscent of the first Battle of Manassas, she had subdued the Earthling catering company-so that in exchange for her guarantee of a generous donation to Greenpeace, they promised to serve both animal flesh and politically incorrect vegetables at the MacPherson-Dawson wedding reception.
Elizabeth had been to a dress fitting the day before and she was very pleased with the look of her wedding gown.
Definitely the tension was beginning to subside, at least as far as the preparations went. Next would come the arrival of all the people from out of town, which would involve a whole new realm of anxiety, along the lines of: what will my mother think of his mother-and is Daddy going to tell that awful joke about the Scottish minister, the priest, and the rabbi?
The clock on her bedside table read 8:11. Even now the Dawsons would be in flight over the Atlantic, having left Prestwick in the early morning Scottish time (about five hours ago) for their flight to Atlanta. Elizabeth smiled, thinking how wonderful it would be to see Cameron again, especially since they had sworn off phone calls last week as an economy measure. Her own parents had returned from Hawaii on Tuesday, but they were waiting until Thursday to drive down with Bill, who was unable to escape from work any sooner.
She climbed out of bed and put on a T-shirt and jeans, which was all the sartorial effort she could summon upon first getting up. “Now if only I didn’t look like a dead rat,” she said, peering at herself in the mirror and ruffling her dark hair. “Beauty parlor today.”
A discreet tapping at the bedroom door distracted her. “Come in!” called Elizabeth, eyeing her rumpled jeans. “I’m as ready as I’m going to get.”
Geoffrey sailed into the room, looking like someone on his way to a regatta. Elizabeth stared at the white cotton sweater and white slacks and then up at Geoffrey to make sure that it was indeed her cousin who had just entered the room. “You must have been up all night,” she declared flatly.
“On the contrary,” said Geoffrey, “I find sleep less beguiling when I am busy.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” muttered Elizabeth. “Just what are you up to?”
“Why, trying to be helpful with the wedding, of course. In order to relieve Mildred of the more mundane cleaning chores so that she can give her full attention to the coming nuptials, I have straightened my own room and I am now gathering the dirty clothes to take downstairs to the laundry room. So far I have mine, and Charles’s, which I obtained just now by tiptoeing into his room and collecting it off the floor. He is sleeping like a stoat, so I didn’t wake him, but I doubt if he will notice anything amiss. Is there anything you would care to contribute to the basket?”
Elizabeth regarded him with undisguised suspicion. “You’re not having a yard sale, are you?”
Geoffrey put his hand over his heart. “Moi?”
“I suppose I mustn’t be ungrateful about it,” she muttered. “Although this is so unlike you that I think you probably ought to have a CAT scan.” She gathered up a few items of clothing and placed them on the top of the clothes basket. “Anyway, thank you.”
“Not at all,” said Geoffrey smoothly. “Virtue is its own reward, in clever little ways.” He picked up the basket and turned to go, but, as if struck by an afterthought, he set it down again and said, “Have you heard anything more from the sheriff about the cremation case of his?”
Elizabeth yawned. “No, Geoffrey. I told you, I’m not going to get involved in it.”
“I found the news of the murder of a crematorium director over in Roan County most interesting.
“It could be a coincidence.” She shrugged. “Maybe the business was a cover for a moonshining operation.” This was not so much a serious suggestion as a demonstration of her complete indifference to the lure of detection.
“I found it interesting all the same. Thought I might put out a question or two here and there.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Geoffrey, if you get yourself killed and spoil my wedding, I’ll have you barbecued!”
“I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you by my death.”
“Good. And don’t meddle in things, either! Knowing you, you’ll end up getting the minister arrested for murder and the whole wedding will be a shambles!”
“Father Ashland is safe from me,” Geoffrey promised. “Should I witness him torching an orphanage and dancing naked among the fire hoses, my lips will be sealed.”
“Good.”
“To further assure you of my benevolence, I wonder if there are any little errands that I can undertake for you today?”
Elizabeth eyed him suspiciously. “Might this end up in my receiving on the day of the wedding a purple wedding cake, or two hund
red unhousebroken doves? You’re not planning to sabotage my wedding, are you, Geoffrey?” Her voice ended on a plaintive note close to tears.
“I’m not,” said Geoffrey, dropping his usual affectations. “Really. I have no pranks in mind at all. I say this to put your mind at rest while I ask you a rather irrelevant question, the answer to which will not, I vow, be used against you.”
Elizabeth glared at her cousin. “This had better not be about sex.”
“No!” said Geoffrey, sounding quite shocked. “I merely wanted to inquire if you knew what an automobile distributor cap looked like?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Oh, do you know that story about the Queen? During the war when Princess Elizabeth was eighteen, she served as a subaltern in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, and she took a course in ATS vehicle maintenance. You know, how to read maps, drive in convoy, and vehicle service and maintenance.”
Geoffrey looked restive. “About the distributor cap-”
“I’m coming to that.” Elizabeth was enjoying her story. “When she had finished the course, her father the King went to Camberly on an inspection tour, and the princess was going to show off what she had learned by starting an engine she’d just serviced. But she couldn’t get the motor to start! After a few awkward moments, King George admitted to having taken off the distributor cap.”
“Hilarious,” said Geoffrey gravely.
“I learned about distributor caps so that I could fix the car if any malicious relative ever did that to me.” She fixed Geoffrey with a meaningful stare.
“My own motives exactly,” said Geoffrey. “You know what pranksters theatre people are. It’s just the thing they might do to my car. Do tell me where it is and what it looks like.”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. “It’s a domelike plastic thing in the middle of the engine with little chimneys on the top or sides and it has wires going out of it to the spark plugs. They’re usually held on with spring clips. Cameron taught me that.” Her eyes misted again. “Now, please, Geoffrey, assuming that you would have the intelligence to find one in a car, much less remove it, please don’t do this to us after the wedding!”
The Windsor Knot Page 16
