The Windsor Knot

Medical Register for a nurse named Aurelia Grey, or Aurelia anything. He says he’ll wager she kept her name, though.”

Clay nodded. “That’s the old sister who supposedly died in Florida. We questioned Miss Geneva Grey about that. She was pretty calm.”

“Well, she’d just committed murder to keep her secret. Our informant there contends that she and Miss Aurelia arranged the fake death to accomplish two purposes: first, it would get Miss Aurelia out of Chandler Grove so that she could work like she wanted to, and second, it would let Miss Geneva inherit her insurance money so she wouldn’t have to work.”

“Why didn’t Aurelia Grey just get a job here?”

“I think they needed more money than that. House upkeep, taxes. I don’t know. We’ll probably be able to ask her soon. Young Mr. Chandler is pretty sure she’ll come back when she hears what her sister has done.”

“And what was the request he made?”

The sheriff looked bemused. “He wants us to take two days to complete the investigation before we arrest her. He says she has a wedding dress to finish.”

After dinner Aunt Amanda announced that she would bring coffee into the living room, to which Elizabeth replied that it seemed like an excellent time to open the rest of the wedding presents.

“You might as well,” said Aunt Amanda. “The more thank-you notes you get out of the way before the wedding the better. Especially as you are going abroad.”

“And are you going back to Scotland so soon?” Captain Grandfather asked Cameron’s mother.

“No,” said Margaret Dawson. “Elizabeth has kindly agreed to lend us her car. We are going to do a bit of sight- seeing.”

“Perhaps you’d like to go to the Highland games next week?” asked Geoffrey with a straight face.

Ian hooted. “No chance! I want to see Florida.”

“I believe I know someone in Florida,” said Geoffrey offhandedly. “But I doubt if she’ll be there next week.”

Charles Chandler, who had slunk in several minutes late for dinner, chose this moment to ask if he could be excused. He said he wasn’t feeling well.

“Is anything the matter, dear?” asked Aunt Amanda.

“I think it’s a touch of swine flu,” said Geoffrey.

They adjourned to the living room, where Elizabeth began to pile the unopened packages on the rug in front of the sofa. “Sit here,” she said to Cameron. “You open the gifts and I’ll make a note of who sent the package and what it is. For the thank-you notes.”

“I hope you’re going to write them,” said Cameron. “After all, I ground out all those invitations.”

“I sent out more than you did!”

“Oh, there’s nothing to thank-you notes,” said Geoffrey. “Just say Thanks for the lovely teapot. Of all the teapots we got, yours was our favorite.”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “On no account should you say that. Go on, open something.”

One crystal vase, a toaster, and two cookbooks later, Elizabeth said, “Why don’t you open the big one from New York? It’s awfully heavy, and I’ve been dying to know what’s in it.”

“New York?” said Cameron. “I didn’t invite anybody in New York. Isn’t that one of your lot?”

Elizabeth pointed to the label. “It’s addressed to Dr. Cameron Dawson and Fiancee. Hardly proper,” she sniffed, “but I think it leaves no doubt that the present is from one of your friends.” Her tone implied that her friends had better manners.

“Return address The Package Store, Jamaica, New York; sent UPS. Well, we’ll soon see,” said Cameron, cutting the twine with his penknife.

Half a minute later, he had cut open the top of the cardboard box and slit one side, so that the box could be folded back to reveal its contents. “Here goes!” said Cameron with a flourish. He peered inside and reeled back at once. “Bloody hell!”

“Oh, a garden gnome,” said Aunt Amanda politely. “How very British. But that’s a very unusual one.

“It certainly is,” said Cameron, over Ian’s howls of laughter.

“He’s quite an old friend,” said Margaret Dawson. “I wonder how he got here.”

“United Parcel Service,” said Geoffrey kindly.

The red-hatted garden gnome was wearing sunglasses and his face was painted with a bronze suntan. Pinned to his recently acquired Hawaiian shirt was an invitation to Cameron Dawson’s wedding.

“Is that your gnome from Edinburgh?” asked Elizabeth.

“The stolen one. Yes. Came over for the wedding.” Cameron laughed in spite of himself.

“There’s no card saying who it’s from. I wonder who sent it?” asked Elizabeth, looking suspiciously at Geoffrey. “It was taken from Edinburgh, so I suppose that lets you off the hook.”

“It wasn’t I,” said Geoffrey.

“Then who did it?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, cousin. I only take murder cases.”

CHAPTER 14

ELIZABETH STOOD AT the top of the Chandlers’ oak staircase, clutching her father’s arm. Beneath the veil her dark hair curled about her shoulders, and the satin dress with the low rounded bodice made her look like a Renaissance princess. Draped across one shoulder was the red and blue tartan of Clan MacPherson. In front of her stood two blonde bridesmaids in yellow dresses, carrying bouquets wrapped with tartan ribbons.

“Don’t be nervous!” whispered Jenny Ramsay, tapping her on the shoulder. “Everything will be fine.”

“Fine?” hissed Elizabeth, over the strains of the organ music. “Are you serious? My wedding dress was delivered by the sheriff!”

“Yes, wasn’t it sweet of him? He’s staying for the wedding, too, isn’t he?”

“You ought to be glad Miss Geneva insisted on finishing it in her cell,” said Mary Clare.

“I’ll never live it down,” moaned Elizabeth. “I’m getting married in a dress made by a murderess.”

“I suppose that could count as your something blue,” drawled Mary Clare. “Now shut up. They’re starting the wedding march.”

With great precision, Jenny Ramsay began to march down the stairs in time to the music. She had assumed her Solemn Weather Princess mode, the one she used for religious occasions and forecasts of hurricanes. A murmur of recognition from the crowd signaled her arrival downstairs.

When Mary Clare, the other bridesmaid, had reached the bottom step, Elizabeth nodded to her father and they began to walk down the stairs. Elizabeth, while pretending to keep her eyes focused on nothing, could see her mother, Mrs. Dawson, and Aunt Amanda, all in blue, in the front row, looking gratifyingly misty. And in various places in the audience, she glimpsed Jake Adair, Tommy Simmons (clutching a briefcase full of documents), and Wesley Rountree. The ushers-Bill, Charles, and Geoffrey-were now standing off to the side. Cameron, in a dress suit and his Duke of Edinburgh tie, was standing at the altar beside Ian, looking rather like a prince himself.

Elizabeth looked modestly down at her bouquet. There was a tiny note sticking in among the white roses. As unobtrusively as she could, Elizabeth maneuvered the note out of the arrangement and eased it open. In Geoffrey Chandler’s unmistakable handwriting was the advice for the wedding night that Victorian mothers were said to give to their just-married daughters: Close your eyes and think of England.

Elizabeth giggled all the way to the altar.

“A fete worse than death,” muttered Cameron as they walked toward the grounds of Holyroodhouse.

“They could have arranged better weather for it,” agreed the new Mrs. Dawson, huddling under her umbrella. “At least it isn’t a steady rain.”

“No. We’ll have time to dry out a bit between bursts. Have you got the invitation?”

“It’s in your coat pocket,” said Elizabeth. “I checked three times.”