Clay began to examine the death records for 1985. He wondered if Susan’s personality would change when she was no longer young and pretty, or if her nearest and dearest were already looking into untraceable poisons.
Elijah’s Chariot, Inc., was a modest-looking building of whitewashed cinder block set in a field among boxwood shrubs and cedar trees. One white Nissan hatchback was parked on the circular gravel driveway. There were no other cars in sight. Wesley supposed that the business would require only part-time help, if that, and that one person would be sufficient to mind the store. They didn’t seem to be too busy today. He noted with relief that no smoke was issuing from the vent pipe in the roof.
Wesley parked his sheriff’s car behind the Nissan and went in search of the proprietor. Since it was a place of business, Wesley decided that it would be unnecessary to knock at the front door. He eased it open and went in, calling out, “Hello? Anybody here?”
The front room was an ordinary office. There was an old wooden desk and office fixtures on one side of the room, and the other side contained couches and Queen Anne chairs, much like a doctor’s waiting room. The waiting-room walls were decorated with landscapes in the Starving Artist school of hasty realism, while the office portion of the premises was adorned with framed travel posters. A brass plate on the desk announced it to be the domain of Jasper Willis, but Mr. Willis was not in any state to receive visitors. Judging from the amount of blood on the floor beside him, Mr. Willis had just become a prospective client for his own services.
“Well, damn!” said Wesley. He pulled out his handkerchief and draped it over the telephone receiver as he lifted it. “Now I’ve
In the privacy of his bedroom, Charles Chandler stared at the letter as if he were afraid it might explode. Finally, after days of silence, the lovely blonde from the
“I hope she’s desperate,” he muttered, opening the letter.
It was written in ink, in that rounded handwriting that young women usually outgrow before they are thirty. She wasn’t lying about her age, he decided. There was no return address or phone number given, he noticed, but all the same it didn’t seem to be a rejection. The lady was wary. Charles decided that she was wise to be cautious, considering the nature of the communication. After all, anybody could buy a magazine and answer the ads. He thought that she would be wise not to answer letters postmarked Leavenworth or San Quentin. Charles read the letter through twice, once for content and once for clues.
CHAPTER 11
IF SHERIFF WAYNE Dupree was delighted to see his friend and colleague from the neighboring county, he managed to conceal it with admirable restraint. After receiving the unexpected summons from Wesley Rountree, he had dispatched the mobile crime lab and set out for the crematorium, where he intended to get some answers as to what Wesley thought he was doing discovering dead bodies in someone else’s jurisdiction.
He found Sheriff Rountree sitting in his patrol car on the gravel driveway, listening to a Statler Brothers tape. Motioning for his men to cordon off the crime scene and get to work, Wayne Dupree ambled over to Rountree’s patrol car to discuss the situation.
“’Afternoon, Wayne,” said Wesley amiably. “You gonna read me my rights? I got my Miranda card here if you’d like to borrow it.”
Wayne Dupree’s frown deepened. “You wanna tell me what’s going on here?” he growled. It was his opinion that Wesley Rountree was almost as clever as he thought he was. This combination of arrogance and cunning always made Wayne a little uneasy. He suspected Wesley of being up to something at nearly every encounter they had, be it sheriff’s-association politics or a jurisdictional dispute over a suspect.
Wesley Rountree was mildness itself. “Honest to Pete, Wayne,” he said, holding up a hand in protest, “I just drove over here to question this individual. I didn’t even have the notion of getting a warrant-and arrest was definitely not on my agenda. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure I have a crime.” He looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess I’m sure now, considering what happened to my witness.”
“He was dead when you got here.”
Wesley nodded. “Cold. Rigor mortis was passing off. I had to check to see if he was beyond help, but other than that I didn’t disturb anything. I called you and walked right out.”
Wayne Dupree was looking anxiously toward the cinderblock building, where his investigators were performing their tasks.
Wesley looked sympathetic. “You want to go over there and see what’s going on, Wayne? I’ll go with you.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t told me-”
“I’ll tell you while we watch,” said Wesley soothingly.
“Good,” grunted the older sheriff. “They can fingerprint you while they’re at it.”
They made their way to the waiting-room side of the crematorium office, where they could observe the bustle of activity without being in anyone’s way. Wesley carefully explained the events of the past few days to an increasingly skeptical Wayne Dupree.
“… And that’s about it,” Wesley concluded with a sigh. “I reckon if Emmet Mason had had enough common sense to use a fake name once he got out there to California, none of this would have happened. He could have just died as John Smith, or whoever he wanted to be, and nobody here would ever have known the difference. I guess he must have kept his old Georgia driver’s license for sentimental reasons. Or maybe he wanted to make sure he’d get back home when the time came.”
Sheriff Dupree shook his head in disapproval. “What about the insurance money?”
“The money his widow received five years ago, you mean?” asked Wesley. “That has pretty well stumped our insurance agent, let me tell you. He is not used to complexities of this nature. The way he figures it, she wasn’t entitled to the money because her husband wasn’t dead, but by the time they discovered the fraud, her husband
