“No, but we got a lot of whys to choose from,” snapped the sheriff. “An inheritance, a reluctant groom, and let’s not forget that damned picture that nobody can find.”
Taylor smiled. “Aw, you don’t think somebody killed her for a picture, do you, Wes?”
“Not to hang it in their dining room, no. But somebody sure wanted to get rid of it. And she was painting by the lake.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Clay, in a puzzled voice.
“Well, I don’t either,” Rountree admitted. “But you’re going back out there right now, and check it out. Maybe you can come up with a few answers, instead of so many questions.”
“Diving gear?” said Taylor hopefully. Since he had taken the scuba diving course the previous fall, he had been on the lookout for opportunities to use his skills in the line of duty, but so far there had been no drownings or aquatic emergencies. The Chandler pond would be the perfect excuse to test his newly learned diving prowess.
“No. Not diving gear,” Rountree growled. “Whatever she was painting had to be visible to somebody standing on the shore. Just walk around and look on the banks and in the shallows. Report anything unusual that you find.”
“I’m on my way.”
Rountree deposited his note on Doris’s desk. It was five minutes after eight; she should be arriving anytime in the next ten minutes without an excuse, or in the next half hour with one. “Meet me at Brenner’s at eleven. I’ll wait on Doris and Hill-Bear.”
“Right.”
“Oh, Clay! If you find a sunken treasure in that lake, call me at Simmons’s office!”
Taylor closed the door to the sound of the sheriff’s chuckle.
“Robert, I assure you that I am perfectly capable of carrying on,” said Dr. Chandler’s wife in a cold voice.
Amanda Chandler had come downstairs after breakfast, looking haggard, but without a sign of tears. Her stiff black dress was so severe and unfashionable that it could only have been used for mourning. Refusing all nourishment except a glass of grapefruit juice, she took her customary place in the den.
“Someone must see to these things,” she informed her husband. “May I ask what arrangements have been made?”
“Arrangements? But, Amanda, there hasn’t been time! It hasn’t even been-”
She nodded triumphantly. “There. You see? No one has done a thing. I am not even allowed to mourn my child in peace, because I am the only practical soul in this house. So many people to be notified. Telegrams! Do they have black-bordered ones? And what does one do about gifts? Perhaps Louisa would know, since Alban’s wedding was cancelled so abruptly.”
Dr. Chandler blinked before the onslaught of such efficiency. “Must we do all this now, Amanda?”
“It is certainly my duty,” said Amanda severely. “I’m sure you can cancel your rounds at the hospital, but you’ll be of no help to me. You might send Elizabeth in, though. I would appreciate some assistance from her. I may also need Geoffrey. Please tell him not to make plans for today. I suppose Father Ashland has not been called?”
“Now, Amanda, you know he hates to be called ‘father’-”
“Then he should have been a Baptist. As an Episcopalian, I assure you that my term is correct. Now, may we get back to my task, while I still have the strength?”
Chandler bowed his head. “All right.”
“Thank you. Before anything can be planned, I need to know when we may put her to rest. Have you received word?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. But if you are going to plan funeral arrangements, I’ll ask Michael to come in and see you.”
Amanda stared. “Robert, whatever for?” she demanded.
“Well, they were nearly married…”
“Nearly is immaterial. He is not family. His preferences in the matter do not interest me in the least. Now, please go and find Elizabeth.”
Dr. Chandler opened his mouth to continue the conversation, thought better of it, and turned to go. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.”
When he had gone, Amanda settled back in her chair and studied the invitation list, making small pencil marks in front of the names of out-of-town guests. Those to be notified by telegram she underlined. This afternoon, Todd and O’Connor would have to be called and consulted about the final arrangements. A small funeral, perhaps, under the circumstances. Surely there would be no reporters or-she shuddered-television crews present? She must ask Azzie Todd about that, not that he was likely to know. Perhaps Father Ashland could help. She sighed. It would be up to her, in the end; it was always up to her. And, of course, Dad would know what to do.
Amanda Chandler had long ago amended her list of “advisors” to exclude her husband. Her feelings toward him had faded into a mixture of disappointment and maternal responsibility which she concealed in brisk efficiency. Robert Chandler’s feelings and opinions had long since ceased to register with her; the truth was, at nearly fifty years of age, Amanda Chandler was “Daddy’s girl.”
When she tried to remember why she had married Robert, the answers were always vague. He was studying medicine, which had pleased her. His determination to become and remain a country doctor was something that she had discovered later. It had all seemed so romantic at the time. Second cousins falling in love-risking the taint of two-headed babies, or whatever that old superstition was. Perhaps she had insisted on the marriage as another show of spirit for her father’s benefit. She had expected him to fly into a paternal rage and forbid the marriage. He had done nothing of the sort. William Chandler had been polite and hearty to the prospective groom, and affectionately distant to her. It was as if he were backing away from her emotionally. Years later, when he retired from the navy, he came to live with them, and he still got on well with Robert and the children, but Amanda could not help feeling a silent reproach in his attitude toward her. She finally realized that he was disappointed in her: she had not become successful and independent; she had not even married a titan; and worst of all, she had not made either of them happy. Daddy’s little girl was a failure.
Amanda tipped the reading glasses down to the end of her nose and squinted at the wall clock: 9:15 in the morning. Too early. But then, she
It was a short walk from Wesley Rountree’s office in a wing of the courthouse to the Main Street office of Bryce and Simmons. He took his time, because his appointment was set for 9:30, and he didn’t want to be early. Doris had come in about eight-thirty while he was still reviewing the day’s schedule with Hill-Bear, and he had ended up having coffee with them and telling them about the Chandler case.
Rountree frowned at a candy wrapper on the sidewalk. Clay always picked them up; said he couldn’t abide litter, and Rountree would ask if he’d stop chasing a bank robber to pick up a beer can. Still, it was a civic-minded thing to do. Rountree sighed. No bank robbers in sight. Self-consciously, he bent down and picked up the wrapper, stuffing it in his pocket until he could get to a trash can.
“Morning, Wesley! I see you’re on the job!”
Rountree straightened up. Marshall Pavlock, editor of
Rountree sighed. It was bound to get out sooner or later, he reasoned, and Marshall might as well have it. He was usually pretty responsible; he had to be; all his potential newsmakers were also his neighbors. When Vance Wainwright was arrested for drunk and disorderly, Marshall could be trusted to leave out the details, like the pathetic notes he’d scrawl on the windows of his ex-wife’s trailer. Most people in Chandler Grove already knew those kinds of details long before the paper came out anyway, and they agreed that such goings-on didn’t belong in print. Marshall Pavlock saved his urge for detail for the place where it was appreciated: the society page. He not only told his readers what the bride and bridesmaids wore, but who made the dress, and who baked the wedding cake, not to mention who cut it, and who was there to eat it. He had been reserving half a page to do such a report
