Sick Of Shadows

on the Chandler-Satisky wedding, but now Eileen would be featured on another page.

“What can I do for you, Marsh?” Rountree grinned.

Marshall grinned back. “You should’a been a poker player, Sheriff. You know very well what you can do. Tell me about the Chandler girl!”

Rountree had long since given up trying to trace the origin of county news. It was enough to make a person believe in telepathy. In this case, though, he discarded ESP in favor of more obvious suspects: Doris, Jewel Murphy, and Mildred Webb. “You heard about that, huh?”

Marshall fished a notepad out of the pocket of his jacket. “I heard that ya’ll took the body to the medical examiner yesterday, and that there’s some question about cause of death. You wanna fill me in?”

Rountree glanced at his watch. “Well, I have an appointment in just a few minutes, so we’ll have to make this fast.”

“She didn’t commit suicide, did she?”

“No, Marshall, I can promise you that. According to Mitchell Cambridge, death occurred sometime yesterday morning as a result of the bite of a poisonous snake-”

“Accident! Why, that poor-”

“-which she got when somebody hit her over the head and threw her on top of the snake,” finished Rountree, noting with satisfaction that Marshall Pavlock was staring at him openmouthed. “In the obituary, you just put died ‘suddenly,’ like you always do. For the news story, I’ll get back to you later. Just say the usual: Sheriff Wesley Rountree and his men are still investigating, blah, blah, blah.”

“But-”

“I gotta go now, Marshall. ’Bye!”

Tommy Simmons did not usually work on Saturdays. It was one of the reasons he had become a lawyer, so that he could keep eating at dinner parties while his doctor friends were called away for emergency appendectomies. This Saturday was an exception; just as it was exceptional for one of his clients to be involved in a violent crime, even as the victim. Meetings with Rountree were fairly routine, but usually on lesser matters. Simmons heard the front door open and close.

“Open up in the name of the law!” called Rountree from the reception room.

Simmons swung open his office door with a grin. “You got a warrant, mister?”

The sheriff waved a packet of saccharin. “Nope! Just a prayer for coffee!”

“Well, get you some and come on in!”

When Rountree was settled in the captain’s chair across from Simmons’s desk, he opened the file in front of him and studied its contents.

“This is a sad business, Wes,” the lawyer said in a sincere voice that might get him elected to something one day. “You know, I was only talking to her day before yesterday.”

“That’s what I heard,” said Rountree. “What was that all about?”

Simmons looked wary. “I don’t know how much I ought to reveal about a client’s affairs-”

“Tom, I know that when I told you the girl was dead, you assumed accident-or suicide maybe,” he amended, reading Simmons’s expression. “But now I can tell you that we’re contending with a murder here.”

“Oh,” said Simmons faintly.

Rountree explained the circumstances of Eileen’s death. “Now, I understand there’s a will mixed up in this.”

“Well, Wesley, there was,” Simmons said, “but she doesn’t get the money, because she didn’t go through with the wedding.” He explained the terms of Augusta’s will.

Rountree considered this. “I guess somebody could have killed her for a shot at the inheritance money.”

“It’s about two hundred thousand dollars or so, before taxes,” offered Simmons.

“So you were out there to discuss the inheritance with her?”

“Yes. But while I was there, she gave me a will of her own.”

“We’ll come to that in a minute. Who was the executor of this first will, the one leaving all that money?”

“That would be Captain William Chandler, the brother of the legator. The money is, of course, invested, and he-”

“Okay. Now if Eileen Chandler is no longer eligible to receive that money, who’s got the next shot at it?”

Simmons blinked. “Well, nobody in particular. I mean-”

“You? Me?”

He smiled. “All right, Wes. I see what you mean. The possible legatees are: Alban Cobb, Charles Chandler, Geoffrey Chandler, Elizabeth MacPherson, and William D. MacPherson. The first of them to marry inherits.”

Rountree ticked them off on his fingers. “Well, now we got five suspects.”

“Four,” Simmons corrected him. “I don’t believe William MacPherson came down for the wedding.”

“Four, then. How about the boyfriend? You said Eileen Chandler made a will. What if she specified that the money was to go to him?”

Simmons hesitated a moment before pulling out a handwritten document on stationery. “Well, it wouldn’t matter, Wes. She couldn’t leave that money to him unless it was legally hers first. I mean, I could leave you the Brooklyn Bridge, but unless I owned it…”

“Okay, I see. Is that her will?” Rountree held out his hand.

“Okay, Wes, I’ll let you see it. But before you do, I’d better tell you that this will is the damnedest thing!” Shaking his head, he handed it across his desk to the sheriff. “The damnedest thing.”

Geoffrey pulled back the curtain and peered at Alban’s castle, white in the morning sunlight. “Did he say he was coming over?”

“I expect he’ll be over later,” said Elizabeth, “but he really didn’t say. Would you like me to call him?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “I suppose not. He can’t do anything. And I can always talk to you, can’t I?”

Elizabeth was puzzled. “About what?”

Geoffrey waved vaguely. “Oh… about this rather theatrical situation we find ourselves in. It’s sort of the reverse of Hamlet, isn’t it? That line about ‘the funeral-baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.’ Only the other way around.”

“You’re always going on about Hamlet,” she observed. “I hope you’re not planning to mention that to any reporters who happen to call. That allusion might be catchy enough to make headlines.”

“No fear, Cousin,” said Geoffrey grimly. “I have no desire to encourage sensationalism, or to gain immortality between the pages of a crime magazine. I just want to find out who did it.”

“Even when you know, it probably won’t make any sense,” sighed Elizabeth. “It will probably be some drifter that we never even heard of, and even he won’t know why he did it.”

“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” snapped Geoffrey.

“Would it be better to find out that it was someone we do know?”

“Just as long as we know. And I don’t think it was just a senseless act of violence. A casual murder. Getting back to Hamlet: ‘Yet there’s method in it.’ ”

“More Hamlet,” muttered Elizabeth.

“It’s called barding,” Geoffrey informed her. “You should hear Sinclair doing it. He can bard through a whole conversation. It’s marvelous!”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I must call him today. The play will have to be put off. I think Mother would insist on six months. Or perhaps they could do a play without me in the meantime.” He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out the large volume of quotations. Flipping to the Ss, he ran his finger down the page and then intoned: “ ‘Our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown.’ ”

“I think it’s cheating if you use the book,” said Elizabeth.

“I just wanted to check to see what act it was in.”

“Hamlet, of course?”

“Of course.”

The duel was interrupted by the sound of the door chimes. “ ‘The bell invites me,’ ” Elizabeth said, hurrying out. “ ‘Hear it not, Duncan-” ’

“You would quote Macbeth!” Geoffrey called after her.