went off in search of another family member to question. They met Elizabeth in the hall. She was not immediate family, Wesley decided, and not a likely suspect. He’d talk to her later. “Excuse me,” he said genially. “Can’t seem to find anybody around here.”
“Who are you looking for?” asked Elizabeth doubtfully.
Rountree picked one. “Charles Chandler,” he said decisively.
“Oh. He’s outside, I expect. He spends a lot of time sunning. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
“Does he have a favorite rock?”
Elizabeth giggled. “Like a lizard, you mean? No. He uses a chair.” Deciding that the conversational ice had been broken, she ventured a question. “How are you coming along with the investigation?”
“Like a pregnant mule,” Rountree declared. “I know what to do, but nothing seems to come of it.”
“Mules are sterile,” Clay explained to a bewildered Elizabeth.
“Oh.” A thought occurred to her, and she brightened. “Tell me, Sheriff Rountree, how do you like being in law enforcement?”
“Being sheriff is a pretty good job. I like it. I’m the only law officer mentioned in the constitution, you know. They don’t say beans about your chiefs of police or your highway patrol. But ‘sheriff’-it’s right there in black and white, from the founding fathers. And we have a nice quiet county, so things stay friendly, most of the time. You thinking about going into police work?”
Elizabeth considered it. “I don’t know,” she said, “I just got out of college…”
“Oh,” said Rountree knowingly. “Well, I wish you luck. I was a sociology major, myself.”
They found Charles sprawled in a lawnchair with his book. Elizabeth had pointed him out and slipped back toward the house, while Taylor and Rountree advanced on their next suspect. Charles, who heard them approach, hastily put down his book.
“My turn to be interviewed?” he asked, squinting up at them. “Can we stay right here while you do it? I came out here to get away from all of that in the house, and I’m in no hurry to get back.”
With a grunt of annoyance, Clay Taylor took out his pen and notepad and settled himself on the grass near Charles’s chair. Rountree continued to stand.
“You don’t live here all the time, do you?” he asked.
“No. I suppose that’s it. I’m not used to it.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Chandler?”
Charles supplied the address. “It’s a group of friends,” he explained. “My family calls it a commune; seem to think I spend my time playing Indian. Actually, we are all scientists of one sort or another. My own interest is theoretical physics, though in fact I might be able to give you a pointer or two in forensics.”
Rountree coughed. “Thank you. But we don’t handle that. Use the state labs.”
“Ah. Tell me, how are you coming along with the case?”
“Tolerable. I’m in the question-asking stage right now,” said Rountree, with a meaningful look at Charles.
“Excuse me. Ask away,” said Charles, settling back in the sunlight.
“Are you, by any chance, contemplating marriage?” asked Rountree.
Charles opened one eye. “You mean with a woman? You’re not speaking metaphysically or anything like that?”
Rountree kept a straight face. “I never speak metaphysically,” he drawled. “I mean regular old ’til Death Do Us Part’ type marriage.”
“Then the answer is a definite no,” said Charles. “There aren’t even any contenders. Why ever do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just thinking of that interesting legacy in your family. The one that goes to the first one of y’all to get married.”
“Oh, that,” said Charles in a bored voice. “No, thank you. I am quite above bribery.”
“Well… do you happen to know if anybody else has got wedding plans?”
“You’ll have to ask them, Sheriff. I’m not really interested in that sort of thing. You might ask my brother Geoffrey. Knowing things about people always amuses him. Offhand, I’d say my cousin Elizabeth was the hausfrau type. Oh, and not to forget my cousin Bill. He’s also eligible for the wedding sweepstakes, and I must say the MacPhersons need the money more than we do.”
“Bill?”
“Elizabeth’s older brother. But he’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Law school, they tell me. We’re not pen pals,” said Charles.
“And your other cousin-the one across the street. Alban?”
“Really, Sheriff. I have no idea. You might ask Elizabeth. She’s been spending a lot of time with him. In fact, she was over there last night.”
Rountree grunted. “I see that the society news is not your neck of the woods. Let’s move on to something else. Did you ever see that picture your sister was painting?”
“No. She was quite a fanatic about the secret. I don’t even know what she was painting-but we all assumed it was the lake, since she painted there.”
Rountree considered this. “The lake. Anything particular about that lake that you know of?”
“No, Sheriff,” said Charles with an indulgent smile. “It’s just an ordinary little lake with mediocre fishing. No sunken Spanish galleons.”
“No,” said Rountree carefully. “Just a lot of sunken whiskey bottles. You know anything about that?”
Charles’s smile faded. “I can’t say that I do,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“Oh, I think you could. I guess you know who put the bottles there, too.”
“Not I.”
“No, not you. Your mother’s drinking problem accounts for those bottles, don’t you reckon?”
Charles regarded them steadily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wesley Rountree stared back into Charles’s expressionless face for a few moments, and decided that he did indeed know what they were talking about. Rather than press the point, though, Rountree merely said, “Well, we won’t talk anymore about it now. If you’ll just give my deputy the name of somebody at your-er, where you live-to verify your statements, we won’t trouble you anymore right now.”
“Oh, all right,” grumbled Charles. “I guess you would check anyway. Go and bother Roger Granville, then. That will give him something to do.” Clay approached the lawnchair, notepad in hand. “Here give me that,” said Charles. “I’ll write down the phone number at our place.”
Wesley Rountree picked up Charles’s book. “More physics, huh?”
“Yes. Roger and I are working together on a little project. I’m just doing research.”
“Which university are you with?”
Charles flushed. “People always ask me that! As a matter of fact, we’re on our own just now, but we’re thinking of applying for a grant.”
“I bet you are!” said Rountree cheerfully. “Physics isn’t cheap.”
“That’s another thing people are always saying!” snapped Charles. “But did you know that Einstein worked out his whole theory of relativity with just a pencil and paper?”
“And what are you working on?” asked Rountree, beaming with fascination.
“Uh… well, it’s a bit technical, Sheriff.”
“Is it wave particle duality? I always liked that! Or-not the unified field theory? You think there’s anything to that?” There were times when even Wesley Rountree felt an urge to show off. He told himself that this approach might get more information out of Charles than his usual folksy manner, and besides, people who equated “drawl” with “dumb” annoyed him.
Charles blinked at the sheriff, wondering if
“Well, actually, Sheriff, our project is so far ahead of conventional physics that we don’t think any university will have the foresight to fund us. As a matter of fact, it does have to do with relativity. Time is relative, you know. We think that the high rotational energy of a body would enable us to cross the event horizon into the past, so to speak.
