The Windsor Knot

“Well, where’s the other one?”

“She can’t make it to Chandler Grove until the day before the ceremony, but she said to tell you that she’s a size nine.”

Miss Grey looked doubtful. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I can manage.”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about it,” said Elizabeth. “After all, everyone will be looking at me.”

Jenny Ramsay smiled sweetly. “Have another cookie, Elizabeth?”

Wesley Rountree managed to get back to the office just as Clay was going off duty. “Is Hill-Bear off on patrol yet?” he asked, checking his desk for messages.

“You just missed him,” said Clay, sitting back in his swivel chair. “How’d it go?”

“Well,” said Wesley. “I damn near got arrested. How are things with you?”

Without a word, Clay walked over to the apartment-sized refrigerator under the counter and took out a Diet Coke. Solemnly, he popped the tab and handed the can to the sheriff.

“Thanks, Clay. I guess that means you want to go first.”

Wesley sipped his drink while Clay explained about his exercise in futility at the records office, and his subsequent trip to the Scout offices to read the obituaries. “Actually,” he said, “Azzie Todd’s memory was pretty good. He only left out a couple of people who died out of the county. Mostly old folks in nursing homes, or who had gone to live with their kids.”

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Wesley sadly. “Not many young people can afford to live around here.”

“Yes,” said Clay. “But if we let industry come in to create jobs, what would it do to the land?”

“I didn’t say I had any answers, Clay. Do you have that list of people who died out of the county?”

Clay handed him a neatly typed list. “I made you a copy.”

“Okay. I guess we’ll get started on this tomorrow. Thanks, Clay.”

The deputy looked embarrassed. “No problem,” he muttered. “At least I didn’t get arrested.”

“Well, neither did I,” said Wesley. “But only because nobody was granting Wayne Dupree any wishes today.” Between swigs of cola, he explained about finding the body of Jasper Willis, and the subsequent investigation by the minions of the neighboring sheriff’s department.

Clay listened in silence. Finally he said, “Did they find out anything?”

“Stabbed in the throat,” said Wesley. “The coroner over there thought he might have been approached from behind. Maybe while he was sitting at his desk. They haven’t identified the weapon yet, but it wasn’t present at the scene. They don’t seem to think it was a knife, though. At least not a particularly well sharpened one.”

The deputy shuddered. After a moment’s pause he said, “Well, it’s too bad he was killed before you could question him. That leaves us back where we started.”

“He’s dead, Clay. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t lead us anywhere, and we don’t have any proof.”

“No, but I have some fascinating bits of speculation. Sheriff Dupree gave me some significant evidence. He said that Willis always wanted to be a travel agent. There were travel posters decorating his office, too.”

“So?”

“Couple that with the name of his business, and what do you get?”

Clay Taylor pondered the term Elijah’s Chariot for a good half minute. “He did tours of the Holy Land?”

“Classical education,” said Wesley triumphantly. “I always said there was nothing to beat it. Your generation grew up playing with the hamster at the back of the classroom when you should have been studying literature.”

“It’s from the Bible,” said Clay in defense of his grade school.

“Right. And what do you remember about Elijah?”

“Wait a minute. We had him in Sunday school. He was the baldheaded prophet that the little boys made fun of. And so he called some she-bears out of the woods and they ate up forty-two of them.”

“That was Elisha,” snapped Wesley. “And judging from your version of the tale, you must have the Jerry Clower translation of the Gospel.”

“I never forgot it,” said Clay. “It made me downright scared of preachers. But I can’t seem to place Elijah.”

“Elijah was the prophet who recruited Elisha. First Book of Kings.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Clay, concentrating mightily. “Didn’t you mention this before? He went to heaven in a chariot of fire.”

“Exactly,” said Wesley, slapping the desk. “And there’s just one more important fact about that little journey of Elijah’s. He was the only person in the Bible who went to heaven without having to die.”

“Elijah’s Chariot,” murmured Clay, considering the name again. “A fiery departure, but no death. You reckon people figured that out?”

Wesley sent his Coke can spiraling toward the wastebasket. “I bet Emmet did.”

“So who killed the provider of this handy little service?”

Wesley Rountree grinned. “Somebody who wouldn’t be caught dead, I reckon.”

CHAPTER 12

THE WEDDING WAS three days away. Well, four, if you counted today. Elizabeth’s reckoning depended entirely upon the subject uppermost in her mind at the moment of calculation. If she was worrying about whether her dress would be finished on time, there were four days left. If she was on the verge of hysterics from sheer panic and overexertion, there were only three days to be endured. Anyhow it was Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of June. In ninety-one hours or so, momentous things would happen. The Princess of Wales would turn twenty-eight, the Fourth of July weekend would get off to a rousing start, and Elizabeth MacPherson would be getting married.

Despite an occasional bout of wedding nerves, she had to admit that things had gone very well indeed, thanks, in large part, to the organizing skill of her aunt Amanda. Elizabeth was convinced that if Aunt Amanda had been in charge of the Confederates at the Battle of Atlanta, General Sherman would have had very little time for private study.

With military precision, she had managed to secure the services of an organist and a photographer; commandeered a suitable minister; negotiated with the florist to her own satisfaction; and in a rout reminiscent of the first Battle of Manassas, she had subdued the Earthling catering company-so that in exchange for her guarantee of a generous donation to Greenpeace, they promised to serve both animal flesh and politically incorrect vegetables at the MacPherson-Dawson wedding reception.

Elizabeth had been to a dress fitting the day before and she was very pleased with the look of her wedding gown.

Definitely the tension was beginning to subside, at least as far as the preparations went. Next would come the arrival of all the people from out of town, which would involve a whole new realm of anxiety, along the lines of: what will my mother think of his mother-and is Daddy going to tell that awful joke about the Scottish minister, the priest, and the rabbi?

The clock on her bedside table read 8:11. Even now the Dawsons would be in flight over the Atlantic, having left Prestwick in the early morning Scottish time (about five hours ago) for their flight to Atlanta. Elizabeth smiled, thinking how wonderful it would be to see Cameron again, especially since they had sworn off phone calls last week as an economy measure. Her own parents had returned from Hawaii on Tuesday, but they were waiting until Thursday to drive down with Bill, who was unable to escape from work any sooner.

She climbed out of bed and put on a T-shirt and jeans, which was all the sartorial effort she could summon upon first getting up. “Now if only I didn’t look like a dead rat,” she said, peering at herself in the mirror and ruffling her dark hair. “Beauty parlor today.”

A discreet tapping at the bedroom door distracted her. “Come in!” called Elizabeth, eyeing her rumpled jeans. “I’m as ready as I’m going to get.”