“You have my solemn word,” said Geoffrey. “I will use the information only for purposes of defense.”
“All right,” said Elizabeth, wiping her eyes. “In that case, I guess you can take the final guest list to the caterer. They’re making little place cards in calligraphy for the guests. You might check at the florists-see if Lucy’s flower orders came through yet. And you could take this zipper to Miss Geneva. I bought the wrong kind and had to get another one.”
“It shall be done,” Geoffrey promised, looking particularly pleased.
“Good,” said Elizabeth. “Then I can spend the day getting my hair done and taking care of about a million other things I should have thought of earlier. Cameron and his mother and brother will be here this evening. We’re making it kind of a party dinner. You’ll be around for that, won’t you?”
Geoffrey considered the possibility. “I have an early-evening appointment, but if dinner is later than seven, I’m sure I can manage.”
“Eight-thirty, then,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “I should be through by then.”
Deputy Clay Taylor felt a little uneasy about going out to question the people at Earthling. He had always found them to be very sincere and committed individuals and he had partaken of many a beans-and-rice potluck in support of their causes in Central America. He consoled himself with the thought that he was not, in fact, in charge of the interrogation, but merely accompanying a colleague as a guide and observer.
Since the murder of crematorium director Jasper Willis had occurred in Roan County, the task of investigating it fell to Wayne Dupree’s organization, but since many of the suspects were in Wesley Rountree’s jurisdiction, the two departments had decided to team Clay with an officer from Roan County to carry out the questioning. Meanwhile, Dupree’s other deputies were checking the possibility of faked deaths in their own county.
“Though they might not be as likely suspects,” Wesley had explained to his fellow sheriff, “because they didn’t know about Emmet’s reappearance, so they had no reason to become nervous. If you didn’t know about Emmet, you’d think you had still gotten away with the scheme.”
So far Clay and the Roan deputy had been working together for three days. They were nearly finished with the list of suspects. So far they had turned up nothing suspicious and no one had admitted any knowledge of Emmet Mason’s reappearance. Clay would be glad when the partnership was over, because, while Charlie Mundy was an excellent officer as far as Clay could determine, he was also a humorless, narrow-minded pain in the patoot. He was a burly six-footer who looked like the ex-linebacker that he was, and he was a combat veteran from the Marine Corps, all of which may have enabled him to become a first-rate law enforcement officer, but it had done nothing for his somewhat canine personality. It was like going on patrol with a pit bull, Clay had thought-often during the last three days. Charlie Mundy had a perpetual squint of suspicion and a crooked smile that he employed when he was least amused. Clay, who managed to combine a career as a peace officer with what he hoped were noble sentiments about the rights of man and the responsibility of the human species to the ecological well-being of the planet, was profoundly uncomfortable in his massive colleague’s sneering presence.
“Will you look at this?” Mundy was saying, in his most disdainful tone. He had just pulled into the parking lot of the old gristmill and was presently leaning on the steering wheel, staring malevolently at the Earthling sign above the door. “Earth Shoe people!” He reminded Clay of a shark in a swimming pool.
At the risk of deflecting the attack toward the vicinity of his own soft tissues, Clay ventured a mild defense of the potential suspects. “Actually, Charlie, I know most of them socially. They’re very gentle people.”
Charlie Mundy sneered. “I don’t like cults.”
“Actually,” murmured Clay, “a cooperative community bears very little resemblance to a cult-”
But Charlie Mundy had already slammed the car door behind him and was slouching toward the door of the herb shop. Clay hurried after him, hoping that he could salvage some of law enforcement’s positive image by toning down Mundy’s attack.
Rogan Josh met them at the door, looking politely terrified. “May I help you?” he quavered. A glance at Clay indicated that he recognized the deputy, but would not venture to say so.
Charlie Mundy whipped out a notebook. “Name?”
Some minutes later, the entire Earthling contingent had been rounded up and their names had been duly recorded by an ever-more contemptuous Charlie Mundy. His expression suggested that anyone whose name was not a classic English appellation of one syllable was a self-proclaimed eccentric and potential criminal. Considerable time had been taken up in the spelling of the Earthling monikers.
His attitude certainly commanded the full attention of the huddled group, but their cooperation was less apparent. By the time he finally got around to the salient questions, the Earthlings would have denied all knowledge of tofu, much less anything more relevant.
“Christopher Greene?” said Shanti vaguely. “That was Ramachandra, wasn’t it?”
A couple of others nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, we had him cremated. He requested it,” another one offered. “We still have the will, of course.”
Charlie Mundy scowled at the assembled suspects. “And he left his money to you?”
They all looked down at the floor. “Oh, money,” one of them remarked. “It’s of so little consequence.”
“Didn’t we give it all to the Central American Freedom Fighters?” asked another.
“Or was it the Endangered Wildflower Fund?”
“We want to see financial statements,” Charlie informed them. “Tax records. I’ll check the courthouse.”
“Of course,” said R. J.
Clay almost burst out laughing, picturing the courthouse encounter between the snarling Charlie Mundy and the surly Susan Davis. It would either be a match made in heaven (or thereabouts) or a window-rattling dogfight.
Serenely unaware of the encounter that awaited him, Charlie Mundy pursued his next line of inquiry. “Did you know about the case of another local individual, one Emmet Mason, who was supposed to have died five years ago, but who reappeared in California?”
“That’s great, man,” said Shanti with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “But we’re not surprised.”
“No?”
“Oh, no. We believe in reincarnation.”
When Geoffrey Chandler appeared at the old gristmill some twenty minutes later, the Earthling community was still assembled, discussing the just-departed officers.
“Now that was a major personality disorder, heavily into power and subjugation,” said R. J.
“Are you surprised?” asked Shanti. “He probably eats enough red meat to turn himself into a werewolf!”
They stopped talking suddenly when Geoffrey appeared at the shop door, but he could tell that they were disturbed, and he could guess why. “Don’t let me interrupt!” he said cheerfully, pretending to have a look at the various plastic tubs of spices. “I know you all must be frightfully upset. Have you thought to make tea? Chamomile, I think.”
A young man with rimless glasses and a ponytail shook his head. “Betony.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a bearded man in overalls said, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
“Ah, no,” said Geoffrey gently. “I know as much as they, but I dress better. Actually, you’re catering a wedding at my house this Saturday. I have been sent to deliver the final guest list for the calligrapher.”
Their expressions suggested that the Dawson-MacPherson wedding, or more probably their recent encounter with Charlie Mundy’s soulmate Amanda the Hun, was not a topic they cared to dwell on, but a moon-faced woman in braids took the list from him.
“I, for one, am quite looking forward to your wonderful vegetarian recipes at the reception,” said Geoffrey heartily, if untruthfully. Seeing that he h
ad his audience again, he continued: “I am also an old acquaintance of Emmet Mason’s.” That much was certainly true. Geoffrey had played the Stage Manager to Emmet’s Mr. Webb in the Chandler Grove production of Our Town.
“So have you heard the latest news about him?” asked Shanti.
“That the initial reports of his death were grossly exaggerated? So I understand. Clarine must be badly hurt by that.”
“Absolutely,” Shanti agreed. “Her self-esteem is in the low registers and she is letting a lot of negative ionization take place in her brain waves.”
Geoffrey took what appeared to be a sympathetic pause, but in fact he was thinking furiously. “I hope you were able to help her,” he said at last. “Was she receptive?”
“Sort of. She said she’d start coming to meditation classes and I gave her a crystal to neutralize the unhealthy feelings.”
“But it might take a few days to work,” said Geoffrey, in a tone suggesting that crystal therapy was his life’s work. “When did she come to you?”
“Last Thursday. Her first session is tomorrow.”
Geoffrey almost smiled. Thursday. The day before the Willis murder! So they did know. He wondered, though, if they had a motive. The news article about the death of tobacco heir Christopher Greene had not escaped his notice, but framing a question regarding fraud on the part of the group would call for large measures of tact and skill. He was glad that various group members had chosen to argue among themselves as to what methods would best serve Clarine Mason’s spiritual ailments. Pretending to listen, he cogitated.
Finally he thought of an angle. “You know,” he began, as if divulging a confidence, “call me unorthodox, but, really, the damage to Clarine’s feelings is all I see wrong with old Emmet’s little deception. I mean, so what if the insurance companies had to pay up? They’ve soaked it to poor people for years. If someone without close ties did it-or did it with his family’s knowledge-I don’t see the harm. Especially if the money were going to a cause, instead of for personal gain.”
“That’s what we thought,” said the bearded man. “It sure beats robbing banks to get funding.”
“Of course, it could be a bit sticky if the supposed deceased were ever discovered,” said Geoffrey, in casual tones stressing the philosophical nature of the discussion.
Shanti smiled. “But if that person should happen to be in the Amazon rain forest teaching agricultural methods to the Yamomano Indians, there would seem to be very little cause for concern.”
“Very little cause,” said Geoffrey with a nod of thanks. “No more than a cup of betony tea’s worth.”
Charles Chandler shaved twice that day. He wanted to make sure that he looked his absolute best for the meeting with Snow White that evening. His black hair was newly washed and staying in place for a change, and he had cleaned his fingernails. The choice of clothes was another matter. Strictly speaking, Charles didn’t have a choice, except his Sunday suit, which fortunately fit him as well as it did in high school. He briefly considered swiping something out of Geoffrey’s considerable hoard of finery, but he was a bit larger than his brother and he would look even more ridiculous in a jacket that did not reach his wrists.
What, he wondered, did one say to a strange young woman who could not be assumed to be familiar with Bohr’s law or the Doppler effect?
Beneath all his personal anxieties, another fear lurked. Suppose this Snow White person had lied about her attributes? Three days left. Should he marry her anyway, even if he found her repulsive? Charles decided to postpone a decision on that. The degree of repulsion would have to be measured against the monetary value of the estate.
Geoffrey’s next stop was the Grey House on Main Street, to deliver the promised zipper to the seamstress. Noting that Miss Geneva’s little Buick was in the driveway, Geoffrey parked behind her and hurried up the familiar front steps. He remembered trick-or-treating at this house as a child. The garden was better kept then, he thought sadly, and the paint on the house had been fresher. He supposed that Miss Geneva was having a hard time trying to cope without her efficient elder sister.
At that moment, Miss Geneva drew aside the curtain and peered through the glass panel on the front door. Recognizing him, she flung open the door and ushered him in. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” she cried. “I just can’t get over how tall you two boys have grown.”
Geoffrey made suitable noises in reply. He looked around at the shabby parlor, much in need of an upholsterer.
“Have you brought that zipper I needed for your cousin’s dress?” Geoffrey held out the paper bag. Miss Geneva took it with exclamations of joy at his cleverness for remembering, for finding her house, and so on. Geoffrey decided that Southern belles of her generation were a lost treasure; women no longer bothered to lay it on so thick.
“Well, how are you, Geoffrey?” she asked, motioning for him to sit down.
“Oh, tolerable,” he answered with a lazy smile. “Actually, I came to see how you were. Has someone from the sheriff’s department been by?”
She frowned. “Why, yes. Just a little while ago. One of them was quite a handsome man-reminded me of my father. Very forceful way about him. I’m sure he’s an excellent officer.”
“They think that fellow Willis was involved in fraud, you know. Isn’t it odd about Emmet Mason?” said Geoffrey in his most confiding tone.
“Yes, your cousin was telling me about that. How sad for poor Clarine.” She smiled briefly. “There are some consolations to never having married, and I found this to be one of them.”
Geoffrey nodded. “I’m sure you must miss your sister, though.”
“Aurelia was company for me, of course,” Miss Geneva agreed. “But we didn’t always get along. She could be a Tartar in her way, and of course she said the same about me.”
“It’s hard for me to think of Miss Aurelia as dead,” said Geoffrey. “I guess it’s because I was away at school when she passed on, and so I didn’t get to the memorial service. It was a memorial service, wasn’t it, rather than a funeral?”
“Oh, yes. She’d always said she wanted to be cremated, so I did as she asked.”
“Was the body shipped back to Chandler Grove, then?”
“No. Directly from the Florida mortuary to Mr. Willis’s establishment. But we had the memorial service here at the church. It would have been such a long way for people to drive, all the way over there in Roan County. Even I didn’t go for the actual-you know, the process. I went and collected the ashes the next day.”
Unable to help himself, Geoffrey looked up on the mantelpiece, but there was no metal urn in evidence. “And what did you do with her, Miss Geneva?”
The old lady smiled sweetly. “Why, I put her on the roses, Geoffrey. I think she’d have liked that.”
“Well, I must be going now,” said Geoffrey, getting up. “How are the dresses coming along, by the way?”
“I must say I don’t like to be so rushed. I should have been allowed a week per dress. Really, these modern girls! Marry in haste, you know. But since the patterns are simple, I believe I will finish them on Friday evening. Indeed, I must, mustn’t I?”
“The sooner the better,” said Geoffrey in a tone of some urgency.
In his law office Tommy Simmons was working late. It was after six-thirty, and he still had paperwork that had to be finished. When the phone rang, he hoped that it would be an invitation to dinner, because surely no clients would call at this hour. “Hello,” he said in his off-duty voice, “Tommy Simmons here.”
“Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you in,” said the voice. “This is Geoffrey Chandler.”
Tommy held the phone away from his ear as if he were planning to peer into it. “Where are you calling from?”
“A bar, actually. Look, can you answer me two quick questions?”
Members of your family are always asking me two quick questions, thought Tommy, remembering his grocery-store encounter with Charles. “Yes, Geoffrey, I’ll try,” h
e said aloud.
“Good. First of all, have you put things in motion for my cousin Elizabeth to receive the inheritance from Aunt Augusta?”
“Yes,” said Tommy cautiously. “The papers are drawn up, but of course, it’s not official-”
“And is it a substantial amount?”
“It has increased considerably in recent years. I don’t know if you know anything about real estate-”
“Mercifully little,” said Geoffrey. “But is it, say, a million?”
“Thereabouts.”
“I see. And now to change the subject entirely. Settle a bet for me, would you? Is there a waiting period in Georgia before one can get married?”
“Geoffrey, you wouldn’t…?”
“Not for worlds, Tommy. But please answer the question.”
“Three days before the license is granted. Your cousin and her fiancé will just make it. I’ve already spoken to your mother about this.”
“Good. Good. What about South Carolina and Florida?”
“Florida is three days. South Carolina-one day before license is granted. I think. I could look it up.”
“No, that’s okay. It probably doesn’t matter. I must go in a moment. To change the subject, Tommy, how is Miss Geneva Grey getting along?”
Tommy couldn’t figure out where this conversation was going. “I don’t see what-”
“My cousin is thinking of making her a monetary gift,” Geoffrey lied.
“Well, I won’t say she couldn’t use it, Geoffrey. Her parents left a good sum of money, but nobody in that family made a dime after the doctor died, which was some thirty years ago, and they dipped into the capital against all advice to the contrary. I’d say that all that’s keeping Miss Geneva going is the life-insurance money from the death of her sister. Would your cousin like me to draw up a deed of gift-”
“That can wait, thanks. Let’s get her married first. Got to run, Tom!”
The lawyer was left holding a buzzing phone and wondering what the previous two minutes had been about.
The Windsor Knot Page 17
