The Windsor Knot

the door. “Earth Shoe people!” He reminded Clay of a shark in a swimming pool.

At the risk of deflecting the attack toward the vicinity of his own soft tissues, Clay ventured a mild defense of the potential suspects. “Actually, Charlie, I know most of them socially. They’re very gentle people.”

Charlie Mundy sneered. “I don’t like cults.”

“Actually,” murmured Clay, “a cooperative community bears very little resemblance to a cult-”

But Charlie Mundy had already slammed the car door behind him and was slouching toward the door of the herb shop. Clay hurried after him, hoping that he could salvage some of law enforcement’s positive image by toning down Mundy’s attack.

Rogan Josh met them at the door, looking politely terrified. “May I help you?” he quavered. A glance at Clay indicated that he recognized the deputy, but would not venture to say so.

Charlie Mundy whipped out a notebook. “Name?”

Some minutes later, the entire Earthling contingent had been rounded up and their names had been duly recorded by an ever-more contemptuous Charlie Mundy. His expression suggested that anyone whose name was not a classic English appellation of one syllable was a self-proclaimed eccentric and potential criminal. Considerable time had been taken up in the spelling of the Earthling monikers.

His attitude certainly commanded the full attention of the huddled group, but their cooperation was less apparent. By the time he finally got around to the salient questions, the Earthlings would have denied all knowledge of tofu, much less anything more relevant.

“Christopher Greene?” said Shanti vaguely. “That was Ramachandra, wasn’t it?”

A couple of others nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, we had him cremated. He requested it,” another one offered. “We still have the will, of course.”

Charlie Mundy scowled at the assembled suspects. “And he left his money to you?”

They all looked down at the floor. “Oh, money,” one of them remarked. “It’s of so little consequence.”

“Didn’t we give it all to the Central American Freedom Fighters?” asked another.

“Or was it the Endangered Wildflower Fund?”

“We want to see financial statements,” Charlie informed them. “Tax records. I’ll check the courthouse.”

“Of course,” said R. J.

Clay almost burst out laughing, picturing the courthouse encounter between the snarling Charlie Mundy and the surly Susan Davis. It would either be a match made in heaven (or thereabouts) or a window-rattling dogfight.

Serenely unaware of the encounter that awaited him, Charlie Mundy pursued his next line of inquiry. “Did you know about the case of another local individual, one Emmet Mason, who was supposed to have died five years ago, but who reappeared in California?”

“That’s great, man,” said Shanti with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “But we’re not surprised.”

“No?”

“Oh, no. We believe in reincarnation.”

When Geoffrey Chandler appeared at the old gristmill some twenty minutes later, the Earthling community was still assembled, discussing the just-departed officers.

“Now that was a major personality disorder, heavily into power and subjugation,” said R. J.

“Are you surprised?” asked Shanti. “He probably eats enough red meat to turn himself into a werewolf!”

They stopped talking suddenly when Geoffrey appeared at the shop door, but he could tell that they were disturbed, and he could guess why. “Don’t let me interrupt!” he said cheerfully, pretending to have a look at the various plastic tubs of spices. “I know you all must be frightfully upset. Have you thought to make tea? Chamomile, I think.”

A young man with rimless glasses and a ponytail shook his head. “Betony.”

There was a moment’s silence and then a bearded man in overalls said, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“Ah, no,” said Geoffrey gently. “I know as much as they, but I dress better. Actually, you’re catering a wedding at my house this Saturday. I have been sent to deliver the final guest list for the calligrapher.”

Their expressions suggested that the Dawson-MacPherson wedding, or more probably their recent encounter with Charlie Mundy’s soulmate Amanda the Hun, was not a topic they cared to dwell on, but a moon-faced woman in braids took the list from him.

“I, for one, am quite looking forward to your wonderful vegetarian recipes at the reception,” said Geoffrey heartily, if untruthfully. Seeing that he had his audience again, he continued: “I am also an old acquaintance of Emmet Mason’s.” That much was certainly true. Geoffrey had played the Stage Manager to Emmet’s Mr. Webb in the Chandler Grove production of Our Town.

“So have you heard the latest news about him?” asked Shanti.

“That the initial reports of his death were grossly exaggerated? So I understand. Clarine must be badly hurt by that.”

“Absolutely,” Shanti agreed. “Her self-esteem is in the low registers and she is letting a lot of negative ionization take place in her brain waves.”

Geoffrey took what appeared to be a sympathetic pause, but in fact he was thinking furiously. “I hope you were able to help her,” he said at last. “Was she receptive?”

“Sort of. She said she’d start coming to meditation classes and I gave her a crystal to neutralize the unhealthy feelings.”

“But it might take a few days to work,” said Geoffrey, in a tone suggesting that crystal therapy was his life’s work. “When did she come to you?”

“Last Thursday. Her first session is tomorrow.”

Geoffrey almost smiled. Thursday. The day before the Willis murder! So they did know. He wondered, though, if they had a motive. The news article about the death of tobacco heir Christopher Greene had not escaped his notice, but framing a question regarding fraud on the part of the group would call for large measures of tact and skill. He was glad that various group members had chosen to argue among themselves as to what methods would best serve Clarine Mason’s spiritual ailments. Pretending to listen, he cogitated.

Finally he thought of an angle. “You know,” he began, as if divulging a confidence, “call me unorthodox, but, really, the damage to Clarine’s feelings is all I see wrong with old Emmet’s little deception. I mean, so what if the insurance companies had to pay up? They’ve soaked it to poor people for years. If someone without close ties did it-or did it with his family’s knowledge-I don’t see the harm. Especially if the money were going to a cause, instead of for personal gain.”

“That’s what we thought,” said the bearded man. “It sure beats robbing banks to get funding.”

“Of course, it could be a bit sticky if the supposed deceased were ever discovered,” said Geoffrey, in casual tones stressing the philosophical nature of the discussion.

Shanti smiled. “But if that person should happen to be in the Amazon rain forest teaching agricultural methods to the Yamomano Indians, there would seem to be very little cause for concern.”

“Very little cause,” said Geoffrey with a nod of thanks. “No more than a cup of betony tea’s worth.”

Charles Chandler shaved twice that day. He wanted to make sure that he looked his absolute best for the meeting with Snow White that evening. His black hair was newly washed and staying in place for a change, and he had cleaned his fingernails. The choice of clothes was another matter. Strictly speaking, Charles didn’t have a choice, except his Sunday suit, which fortunately fit him as well as it did in high school. He briefly considered swiping something out of Geoffrey’s considerable hoard of finery, but he was a bit larger than his brother and he would look even more ridiculous in a jacket that did not reach his wrists.

What, he wondered, did one say to a strange young woman who could not be assumed to be familiar with Bohr’s law or the Doppler effect?

Beneath all his personal anxieties, another fear lurked. Suppose this Snow White person had lied about her attributes? Three days left. Should he marry her anyway, even if he found her repulsive? Charles decided to postpone a decision on that. The degree of repulsion would have to be measured against the monetary value of the estate.

Geoffrey’s next stop was the Grey House on Main Street, to deliver the promised zipper to the seamstress. Noting that Miss Geneva’s little Buick was in the driveway, Geoffrey parked behind her and hurried up the familiar front steps. He remembered trick-or-treating at this house as a child. The garden was better kept then, he thought