Elizabeth.”
Jenny Ramsay smiled a real smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”
CHAPTER 13
ELIZABETH HAD BEEN pacing by the front windows since before the Dawsons’ British Airways flight had touched down in Atlanta. “Where are they?” she fumed. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”
“Not for at least another hour, dear,” said Aunt Amanda, who was trying to read.
Elizabeth looked guiltily at the pile of wedding presents on and about the trestle table. “Do you think I ought to write the letters to Cameron’s friends as well?”
“Certainly,” said Amanda, turning a page. “He deserves at least the public illusion that he has acquired a dutiful wife.”
“Well, all right. I think I ought to wait until he gets here to open them, though.”
“That still gives you a good many others to write thank-yous for,” her aunt pointed out.
Charles Chandler appeared just then, looking well dressed but angry. “Mother, could I borrow your car keys?”
“What is the matter with your car, dear?”
“I don’t know! It won’t start, and I’m late for an engagement.”
Aunt Amanda looked up at her son. “Surely anyone who is a theoretical physicist ought to be able to figure out a simple combustion engine.”
Charles reddened. “It isn’t the same thing at all, Mother! And I just had it serviced. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with it.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes carefully turned to the window. “Have you checked the distributor cap, Charles?”
It was nearly an hour later that Dr. Chandler’s Lincoln pulled into the driveway, signaling his arrival with discreet beeps of the horn.
“They’re here!” cried Elizabeth, abandoning her thank-you note in midword. With a last-minute pat at her newly styled hair, she hurried out the front door to meet the Dawsons.
“How was your flight?” asked Aunt Amanda, when the initial frenzy had died down.
“Quite tedious,” said Margaret Dawson. “I expect it will take me ages to get used to the time. My body says it’s past midnight.”
“Just on eight,” Amanda assured her. “We have dinner prepared. I think we shan’t bother to wait for Charles and Geoffrey under the circumstances. And after that, we will take you across the street to my sister’s.”
Margaret Dawson glanced nervously in the direction of the castle. “That is an unusual residence,” she ventured. “Cameron keeps telling me that
“I believe not,” Amanda replied. “It was built by her son, and as you may have noticed she has a For Sale sign in front of it. She says that castles are expensive to maintain, impossible to heat, and very lonely to live in.” Remembering that her guest was British, she added kindly, “Of course, I expect it’s different for royalty.”
“Much worse, I should imagine,” said Margaret Dawson. “When you’re royal, you’ve got whole crowds of people living there in the castle with you. Really, out of all that space in the royal palaces, the Queen has only a tiny apartment in each. She might as well have a service flat for all the room
“Thank you,” said Aunt Amanda equably. “I’ve always fancied it a kingdom of sorts.”
Elizabeth, having made Cameron sure of his welcome, had launched into a nonstop account of the wedding preparations, while Ian asked Dr. Chandler to show him around the place so that he could stretch his legs.
They had just reassembled to troop into the dining room for dinner when Geoffrey appeared. “Don’t let me keep you!” he called, hurrying past them and up the stairs. “I just need to make a phone call, and then I’ll be right down to join you!”
“Have you seen Charles?” Aunt Amanda called after him.
“I expect he’ll come home soon,” said Geoffrey, disappearing into the stairwell. “He might as well,” he muttered to himself.
“Don’t you hate the end of the month?” asked Wesley Rountree with a mouth full of hamburger. “This paperwork is about to kill me.”
Clay Taylor nodded in sympathy. “They ought to let us hire some clerks.”
“The commissioners wouldn’t part with a nickel to make anybody else’s job easier,” Wesley grumbled. “But you notice they did air-condition their chambers.”
“Well, I couldn’t argue with a thing you’ve said, but even paperwork can’t depress me tonight,” said Clay, leaning back in his chair with a happy smile. “Because today was my last day with that Roan County sourpuss Charlie Mundy.”
“Finished questioning our local suspects, did you?”
“That’s right. It’s going to be all routine scut-work from here on in-and they are welcome to it. They’ve got more manpower than we have, anyhow.”
“How are things over in Roan County. Did Mundy mention it?”
“The coroner thinks Willis was stabbed with scissors; certainly not a knife. And judging from the angle and the place that the wound was inflicted, he didn’t think it took much force. They don’t have any suspects they like in Roan, though. Word hadn’t got out over there about Emmet Mason’s reappearance.”
“I think it will be somebody around here,” Wesley agreed. “It surprises me that Wayne is smart enough to agree with me. But you do think that he found some more faked-death cases over in Roan?”
“At least one person over yonder got scared enough to admit that his dearly departed hadn’t gone so far as to die, and there are a couple of other cases that look like people who just ran out on their families, the way Emmet did. I expect most of them had the sense to change their names, though.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Wesley. “So our theory was correct, then. Jasper Willis was running a travel agency for people who wanted to disappear, and for a fee he’d call up their families with a story about an accident, then send them an urn full of miscellaneous ashes as proof.”
“That’s what they’ve been told. I figure that any day now the insurance companies ought to be coming in here like a wolf on the fold.”
The phone rang and Wesley reached for it. “Sheriff’s office.”
Clay went back to his paperwork, but he glanced over at the sheriff from time to time. Wesley had assumed his hunting-dog mode: tense posture, faraway look in his eyes, an expression of complete concentration. The deputy couldn’t make out the particulars of the conversation, though. Wesley just kept saying, “Yep,” and “Is that right?” and occasionally he’d scribble a few words on his notepad.
After a few minutes of this, Clay noticed that Wesley seemed to relax, and his face spread into a grin. “Well, sir,” he said, “I will certainly be mindful of that. And of course we wouldn’t want to make an arrest prematurely. How long do you reckon it’ll take? Two days? Oh, fine. I’m sure it will take us at least that long to compile the evidence. Meanwhile, we’ll keep an eye on things, and don’t you meddle in things anymore, either, hear?” He was still grinning when he hung up the phone.
“What was that all about, Wesley?”
“What you might call a tip from a concerned citizen,” said Wesley. “I reckon the Roan County boys would have reached the same conclusion, but this saves some time.”
“A tip?” said Clay. “You mean about the Willis murder?”
“That’s right. Mr. Geoffrey Chandler had a couple of suggestions for us-and one request. First, he thought we should check Miss Geneva Grey’s dressmaking scissors for latent bloodstains.”
“If she’s smart, she’s thrown them away.”
“He thinks not. She needs them rather urgently just now. And he also recommended that we check the Florida
