“Why was she painting pictures at a time like this? What’s it of, anyway?”
“It was to be her wedding gift to Michael. And she wouldn’t show it to anybody. But we think it must have been a view of the lake, because she always went there to work.”
“Did Miss Chandler seem depressed to you in your talk with her last evening?”
She considered this. “No. Not if you mean suicidal. I think she was impatient to have the whole thing over with, but she really wanted to marry Michael.”
“Michael,” Rountree repeated. “Let’s talk about him awhile. I understand you had an interesting conversation with the prospective groom. What did he have to say?”
Elizabeth sighed in exasperation. “I guess he must have told you already, or you wouldn’t be asking. He said that he didn’t really want to go through with the wedding. I think he was terrified of feeling like that, but also very much afraid of hurting my cousin.”
“Did he tell her how he felt?”
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t planning to.”
“Then why did he tell you?”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. “I think because I was an outsider, too. Maybe he felt that I might understand.”
“And did anybody else listen in on this conversation?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“But if by some chance the bride had slipped downstairs and overheard all this, that might change her state of mind, don’t you reckon?”
“I guess it could have. I told him to be quiet about it, because he was certainly making me nervous by talking about it.”
“What was making you nervous? That he was transferring his affections to you?” asked Rountree casually.
“Of course not!” snapped Elizabeth. “I certainly didn’t want him!”
“Even for all that money?”
“Well, Clay, what do you think?” asked Rountree when they were alone. “Suicide, or accident-or something else?”
Clay Taylor shook his head. “This one’s too close to call,” he said, leafing through his notes. “I’ll believe anything the lab tells us this time. There’s evidence for almost anything. Suicide-she was a psychiatric patient, and her fiance would have been glad to ditch her; murder-she was an heiress, or she would have been. Accident? Well, they do happen, even to people whose death would be convenient. I wouldn’t even bet you a Coke on this one, Wes.”
“Well, I would,” Rountree grumbled. “I’d bet a whole raft of Cokes on a nice little old homicide because her death was mighty damn convenient for a bunch of folks, and I didn’t see anybody genuinely grieved at losing her. Did you?”
The deputy looked startled. “Well…” he faltered. “Her mother?”
“Clay, we haven’t even seen Amanda Chandler yet,” Rountree reminded him. “And when we do, you look real carefully at her. And ask yourself if you’re seeing a mother grieving over a lost child or a property owner mad as fire because something belonging to her got taken.”
“I still think it might have been suicide,” said the deputy. “We still have a lot of people left to talk to, and we haven’t found anybody who saw her since last night.”
“Nobody admitting it, anyway. That’s the trouble with you, Clay. You always go around believing everything.”
“What do you believe, Wes?”
“I believe I need more to go on.” Rountree grinned. “And I believe I’ll have a cheeseburger at Brenner’s while I wait for the lab report. Let’s go tell all these people we’ll be back tomorrow, when we know something definite.”
Robert Chandler closed the door to his wife’s bedroom and went down the stairs to the library. Captain Grandfather and Charles were sitting at the gate-leg table, dispiritedly pushing little fleets and armies around a map of the eastern hemisphere.
Captain Grandfather glanced up from the board. “How is she, Robert?”
Chandler sighed. “Asleep. Finally. I don’t want her disturbed.”
“It’s all right. Sheriff Rountree left a little while ago. Said they’d be back in the morning, and that they should have the lab report by then. I expect they’ll want to talk to us then-and to Amanda as well.”
“Where are Geoffrey and Elizabeth?”
“In the kitchen making sandwiches,” Charles replied.
“And our other-guests?”
“In their own rooms, I believe,” declared Captain Grandfather. “They didn’t seem to know what to say. Bit awkward all around. I for one am glad they’re not underfoot.”
“What do you think, Dad?” asked Charles.
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know, Charles. I want to believe it was an accident, but I can’t think what she would have been doing in that boat.”
“Maybe she wanted another perspective for the painting,” Charles suggested.
“The painting! That’s another thing. I keep asking myself what’s become of the painting.”
“So do I,” said Captain Grandfather quietly. “So do I.”
“Charles, did you by any chance see the painting she was working on? When you went to the lake at dinner?”
“No, Dad. I didn’t go get her for dinner. That was Alban. You’ll have to ask him if he saw what she was working on, but I doubt it. She wouldn’t let any of us see it. You know how secretive she was.”
“But she kept on painting by the lake,” mused Dr. Chandler. “So it must have been a lake scene. Now, why is the painting missing?”
“How can it be important?” asked Charles. “If she painted the lake, there’s no point in stealing the painting. Anybody could look at the lake and see what Eileen saw.”
The telephone rang insistently. Dr. Chandler hurried from the room to answer it. Charles and Captain Grandfather turned their attention back to their game.
“Fleet: St. Petersburg to Norway,” Charles murmured. “Have you told Alban and Aunt Louisa yet?”
“Still not home last time I checked,” grunted Captain Grandfather.
Charles got up and peered through the curtains. “I see some more lights on. I think they must be back.” He settled back in his chair and studied the board. “You know, it seems strange that they don’t know yet. It’s as if Eileen is still alive in their minds, because they haven’t been told. I believe Hegel deals with that concept-”
“Well, Elizabeth or Geoffrey can tell them,” snapped the old man. “I’m not going to relive it in the telling. She was a sweet little girl, Eileen was. But she grew up so troubled. You couldn’t reach her. When you’d ask her anything, she’d shy away, as if it were an intrusion. Guess we should have insisted. Should have intruded. Maybe things would have been different. This family sets too damn much store on peace and quiet!”
“Sir?” Charles blinked.
“What’s wrong with making a few waves? Good storm clears the air, dammit!”
“Uh-it’s your move, Captain Grandfather.”
“Oh, put it away. I don’t want to play anymore.”
Charles stood up. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go upstairs and do some reading.”
Captain Grandfather waved him away impatiently. “You go on. I’ll put this away myself.”
He was still arranging the wooden blocks in the proper compartments when Dr. Chandler returned, closing the door behind him. “That was Wesley Rountree,” he said. “He’s got the lab results.” He sank down wearily on the sofa.
“So it was murder,” said Captain Grandfather.
“It was murder.”
