Ideally, we would need a black hole-a collapsed star, you know, whose density will not even release light-but we think we can prove the hypothesis on a sub-atomic level, perhaps with a linear accelerator-”
“Now you’re talking money!” Wesley put in.
“Uh-yes. We want to bombard a spinning electron with-”
“Guess you could use that inheritance of your great-aunt’s, couldn’t you?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t buy one, Sheriff! Those things run into the millions. Oh, before you go, could I just have a piece of paper from your notepad to make a few calculations? You don’t have an extra pencil, do you?”
Clay tore out a few sheets from the back of his notepad and fished the stub of a pencil from his pants pocket. As they walked away, Charles was already scribbling calculations.
“Did you understand that project of his, Wes?” asked Clay, when they were out of earshot.
“Generally speaking.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A time machine.”
Clay shook his head. “You think he’d kill his sister to finance that?”
Rountree shrugged. “Sure is turning into a scorcher out here today, isn’t it? Reckon we can find somebody around with a water jug?”
Taylor nodded, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. The midday sun glinted on the tin roof of the shed, casting short shadows in the grass. “I’m surprised there’s not a garden out back here, aren’t you, Wes? It looks like the sort of place that would have one.”
“Well, I think there was one once,” Rountree replied. “Back when they kept a pony in the shed. But the gardener in the family seems to be the castle-lady-Mrs. Cobb. She sure does grow beautiful roses.”
“Yeah. I don’t think Mrs. Chandler gets much pleasure from gardening.”
“Might be better if she did,” grunted Rountree. “Who do we talk to next?”
Clay consulted his notebook. “Well, you haven’t talked to the other son yet.”
They found Geoffrey Chandler in the sunny breakfast room, sipping coffee at the glass-topped table as he read the morning paper.
“No, you’re not disturbing my breakfast,” he assured them.
When they had settled themselves, with glasses of ice water supplied by the kitchen, Rountree explained that they were in the process of questioning all the family members, and that it was now his turn to be interviewed.
“Am I the last one?” asked Geoffrey. “I don’t know why, but people seem to dread talking to me. Perhaps I have no small talk. Do you think that’s it?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Rountree with a slight cough. He studied Geoffrey’s morning attire: tight white trousers, red tank top, and sandals. “I see you’re not observing mourning.”
“In my heart,” said Geoffrey, placing his hand in the appropriate place. “Is the absence of black taken as a sign of guilt?”
Sheriff Rountree refused to be drawn into this discussion. With a frown of distaste, he continued the interview.
“You are Geoffrey Thomas Chandler-”
“Of the home,” finished Geoffrey in funereal tones.
“And what do you do?”
“Do?” He looked quizzically from Rountree to Taylor. “I am at a loss.”
“For a living,” Taylor prompted, his pencil poised.
“Ah! I toil not, neither do I spin. I am, however, working on a play which I hope will spark the renaissance of the American theater-”
Clay wrote down “unemployed.” Further particulars concerning Geoffrey’s age and education were given in much the same style. When these had been recorded, more prosaically than they were given, Rountree said, “Now, I expect you already know that we think your sister was murdered.”
Geoffrey inclined his head, indicating that this was so.
“Well, is there anybody that you know of who would profit by her death?”
Geoffrey sighed.
“You saying he was marrying her for the money?” Rountree barked.
“That thought did occur to me,” murmured Geoffrey vaguely.
Rountree considered this. “Well… you know, if that’s a fact, it clears him of suspicion in the case. After all, her dying before the wedding eliminates him from the sweepstakes, as you put it.”
Clay Taylor, who had just scribbled down “Thinks Satisky was marrying for $,” looked up to catch Geoffrey’s reaction to this remark, but there was none.
“Then there’s that painting she was working on to consider,” the sheriff continued thoughtfully. “Sure would help if we knew what was in it. Did you happen to get a look at it?”
“No.”
“We thought it might have shown all those whiskey bottles in the lake,” Taylor suggested.
Geoffrey favored the deputy with a cold stare. “As I was about to say, she did not show the painting to anyone, but once I asked her how it was coming along, and she remarked that she had a difficult time doing portraits-or faces. Something to that effect.”
“Faces!” echoed Rountree. “Well! That is interesting!”
“I thought you might find it so,” commented Geoffrey.
“Was anybody posing for her?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
Rountree thought for a moment. “Charles sure does spend a lot of time out of the house, don’t you think?”
Geoffrey smiled. “Really, Sheriff. A portrait of Charles would make a rather peculiar wedding gift for one’s betrothed, would it not?”
Rountree was still puzzling over the implications of this bit of information when Elizabeth came in from the hall. She glanced at him nervously, appealing for permission to interrupt, so he gave her a nod.
“Excuse me, but Aunt Amanda sent me to get Geoffrey, if… if he’s able to come, that is.”
Geoffrey held up both hands. “No manacles as yet adorn my wrists!” he announced. “Sheriff, may I go to my grieving mother?”
“Please do,” said Rountree politely.
“And while I am gone… let’s see… what can you amuse yourselves with? The family album? I know! Cousin Elizabeth, why don’t you stay and tell them about the last time you sat for a portrait?”
He swept majestically out of the room, leaving Elizabeth stammering at the two officers who were inexplicably interested in that subject.
“My portrait?” she was saying. “Well… do you count my graduation picture? What’s the matter? Why are you both staring at me?”
June 12
Dear Bill,
Get me out of here. (And bring your alibi when you come.) First I had to address wedding invitations; now I’m having to write to people about the funeral. I feel like an apprentice monk. If somebody doesn’t rescue me, I’ll be here in December doing illuminated Christmas card lists!
Actually, I couldn’t leave even if you came down to get me-which I know you too well to expect. Technically, we are all suspects. I’ve been questioned by the sheriff twice! That wasn’t so bad, but everyone else here is getting on my nerves. Geoffrey has gone from manic to depressive; Michael Satisky is terrified that we’ll find a way to pin the murder on him; and Aunt Amanda turned out to be an alcoholic. I don’t mean that she took up drinking out of grief-it’s been going on for years, according to Dr. Shepherd. Don’t be smug and say you knew it all along, because I
