Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
In theory, Deputy Taylor and Sheriff Rountree were ideological enemies, each one representing all the things the other held most in contempt; but actually, they got along well enough. Rountree still sneered at leftist demonstrators on the six o’clock news, but he allowed as how his deputy was all right. Couldn’t fault a man for being nice to people, he’d grumble. Taylor still saw the establishment personified by a fat and drawling old man in a white suit (though he had never seen one), but he generously classified his boss as a well-meaning but unenlightened tool of the system. He
made efforts from time to time to make Rountree see the error of his ways—so far, without notable success.
“Bet that house cost quite a bit,” remarked Rountree with a hint of a smile.
Clay sighed. “And I’m supposed to say that it isn’t fair, one person having so much money, while the sharecroppers sleep five in a room.”
Rountree frowned at having his conversational bait so easily spotted. “Just making chitchat,” he said hastily. “Did you tell Doris to call the state boys?”
“Yeah, but you never did say why. We haven’t even seen the body yet, Wes. Might just be a drowning.”
“Well, we got to be sure, whatever happened. They said they found her in a boat. That sound like a drowning to you? Anyway, when the victim is the coroner’s own daughter, I don’t see what else we can do but go for outside help,” growled Rountree. “Not that I don’t trust the doctor, mind you. He’s a mighty fine man, but it’ll look better at the inquest to have somebody else stating the particulars.”
Taylor nodded. “Anyway, I don’t think doctors work on their own relatives. I know I couldn’t. What will they do?”
“Who? The state boys? We’ll do the routine lab work here, like we always do, and then we’ll send the body to the state medical lab for an autopsy. You brought the kit, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. In the trunk.”
Rountree swung the car into the driveway of the red brick mansion. “I’ll just stop in at the house and tell them we’re here. You go on out to the lake.”
Wesley Rountree straightened his holster, adjusted his tan Stetson, and headed for the front door. He had worked with Dr. Chandler before, on the inevitable county death cases: summer drownings, wrecks, and hunting accidents; but never on a murder case. The doctor had always been quietly competent, easy to work with. He wondered what to expect this time, with the case so much more personal.
The Chandler family had assembled in the library, where Captain Grandfather had herded them, and
where he now stood guard over them, dispensing coffee and sternly discouraging any attempts at hysteria.
Charles and Dr. Chandler had remained by the lake to wait for the sheriff, leaving the old man in charge of the family.
“Someone should call Louisa,” Amanda kept saying, making ineffectual gestures toward the telephone.
“Not yet you won’t,” growled Captain Grandfather. “You’re quite enough to contend with as it is. I won’t have two caterwauling women on my hands. Or do you want her questioned, too?”
Amanda sniffled that she couldn’t be expected to think of things like that, but surely someone ought to realize that arrangements must be made.
“I’ll call her myself later, Amanda; and Margaret, too, if you want me to. Now you get hold of yourself!”
Amanda dabbed her eyes, and looked around the room. “Dr. Shepherd! I should like you to prescribe a sedative for me, please!”
Shepherd, who had been sitting in a corner talking quietly to Elizabeth, looked up at the sound of his name. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chandler?”
Amanda repeated her request in the crisp tones of a command.
Shepherd shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You are not under my care. Professional ethics, you know.”
Amanda bristled. “Young man, I should think that in a crisis such as this, your physician’s instinct would compel you to—”
“Aunt Amanda!” Elizabeth interrupted. “There’s some brandy in the dining room. Shall I get you some?”
“Yes, thank you, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Geoffrey quickly. “Let’s all just be brave, shall we? More coffee, Mother?”
“I wish I knew what to do,” Elizabeth whispered to Shepherd.
“It’s perfectly normal to feel inadequate in a crisis,” he whispered back. “Just don’t create any more problems than there already are.”
“Well, at least I wish I could do something about
him.”
She nodded toward the bereaved groom, curled
up in the wing chair and leafing methodically through the
Oxford Book of Verse
.
Dr. Shepherd frowned. “I know; but if you try to talk to him, you’ll only force him to try to think up things to say. It can be a great strain for some people—trying to act bereaved. It would be much kinder to leave him alone.”
“Trying to act?” Elizabeth echoed. “Don’t you think he really is?”
Wesley Rountree opened the door, hat in hand. “Afternoon, everybody. Captain, sir. Sure am sorry to be here under these circumstances.” He looked around, embarrassed at his own calm in a room that radiated strain, perhaps grief. “Is Dr. Robert down with the—er, down at the lake?”
Captain Grandfather set down his coffee and went over to shake hands with the sheriff. “I’ll walk you down there, sir, while I tell you what we know. This way.” He turned back to his daughter, who sat on the sofa twisting her handkerchief. “Amanda, you’re to stay here. Don’t do anything until we get back.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to go.
Wesley Rountree edged past him and said to the others, “Y’all please stay close at hand, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back directly to take statements.” He closed the door behind him.
“It couldn’t be called ungentle, but how thoroughly departmental,” Geoffrey remarked.
“Robert Frost,” said Satisky, without looking up from his book.
Amanda Chandler rose majestically. “I am going to my room,” she announced, glaring in the direction of the wing chair. “When Mr. Rountree returns, tell him that I may be up to seeing him tomorrow.” She swept out of the room.
“I guess I’d better try to reach my folks,” murmured Elizabeth.
“Better wait until we know more,” Shepherd suggested. “You’ll only worry them without being able to tell them anything for sure. And, remember, you won’t be able to leave yet.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Is there some stationery in that desk?”
Wesley Rountree stared down at the small figure crumpled in the bottom of the boat. After a respectful silence of several minutes, he said softly, “You don’t know the cause of death, do you, Doctor?”
Robert Chandler shook his head. “We didn’t touch anything—except that I touched her to confirm that—” He turned away.
“You did right,” Rountree assured him. “And just as soon as Clay takes some pictures, we’ll get her out of there. You want to go on back to the house now?”
“No. No. I’ll stay here,” the doctor replied. “She was going to be married, you know. Next Saturday.”
“Pretty girl,” said Rountree politely. “It’s a pitiful shame. Now, you don’t have to talk about it right now, if you’d rather not, Dr. Robert. Clay and me have to do some routine stuff right now; taping, measuring—you know, the same stuff we always do. I understand she was painting down here. Is that the easel over there?”
“Yes. We haven’t disturbed it either.” He straightened up to look at the easel and shook his head. “I just don’t understand how this could have happened. This boat is never used. Eileen didn’t even care for boats.”
“You say she was painting,” said Rountree quickly. “Painting what? I don’t see a picture on that easel.”
“That’s just it,” Charles put in. “It’s gone.”
“You’re the one that found her?”
“This is my son Charles, Wesley,” said Dr. Chandler.
Wesley nodded. “Uh-huh. And you found her, did you?”
“Well, when she didn’t come down for breakfast, Mother sent me to look for her. I got here and she was gone. So I went back to the house and got Dad, we took the boat out and—and we found her.”
“But the painting was not there when you first came looking for her?”
“Right.”
Clay Taylor lowered his camera and stared at
Charles. “Are you saying that somebody stole the painting?”
Charles shrugged.
“Get over to that easel, Clay,” said Rountree impatiently. “I want a shot of it, and also one of the ground around it. Look sharp for footprints. If you see any, give a holler.”
Taylor nodded, and left the dock.
“Now, Dr. Chandler, do you mind if I just start filling out this report? I know you want it done as quick as possible.”
“Go ahead, Wes,” sighed Robert Chandler.
“Name of the deceased?”
“Eileen Amanda Chandler.”
When he had filled in the preliminary data—age, date of birth, and so forth—Rountree asked, “Now, Dr. Chandler, did your daughter have any medical problems that might explain this? Heart or something?”
“No. Nothing.”
“You wanna speculate on the cause of death? Can we rule out drowning?”
Chandler waved him away. “Please … I’d rather have the state lab do it.”
“They’re on the case,” said Rountree. “Called ’em before we left the office. They said for us to bring them the body in the station wagon, and they’ll do the autopsy there. I thought I’d have Clay do it when I finish here.”
“Fine.”
“Oh—I’ll have to schedule an inquest. Would Tuesday be all right for that? You’ll need to be making arrangements with Mr. Todd down at the funeral home, I reckon.”
“Yes, of course,” whispered Dr. Chandler. “Excuse me. My wife will be needing me.” He turned away from the lake and hurried up the path toward the house.
“She would have been married next week,” Charles explained. “Now, instead of a wedding, we have to plan a funeral.”
Wesley Rountree heaved a sigh of discomfort. This case was going to be a sticky one! What a case! Hysterical
women, grief-stricken relatives, and not a hope in hell of getting any straight answers. He gazed at the blank white face below him. What had she really been like? Crazy, according to the local gossip. Suicide, maybe? If so, you’d never catch the family admitting it. If there had been a note, it sure wouldn’t have been left for him to find. A lot of spiteful things were said in suicide notes; a person getting the last word wanted to make it worthwhile. People were funny about suicides, anyhow. Took it as a criticism of the family; well, maybe it
was
a lot of times. Still, a girl a week away from getting married wasn’t a likely candidate for suicide. He’d known a few grooms that might have considered it, but brides were different. Unless there was something about this couple that hadn’t come to light. He made a mental note to ask the medical examiner about the possibility of pregnancy.
Turning to Captain Grandfather and Charles, Rountree said, “Y’all go back to the house now. Clay and I will finish up here and get the body loaded in the car, and we’ll take it on out to the lab. I’ll be back later this evening. I want to get preliminary statements while it’s still fresh in everybody’s mind.”
“I assure you, Sheriff, we are not likely to forget,” said Captain Grandfather. He turned and followed Charles up the path.
Clay Taylor set the camera down carefully in the grass, and began to examine the ground around the easel. The family had pretty much trampled the place looking for the girl, so he couldn’t really tell if there had been an intruder or not. Still, he guessed he’d better do his stuff while the evidence was still there—just in case it turned out to be a homicide.
“What do you know about these people, Clay?” asked Wesley Rountree when they were alone. “Aren’t you about the same age as the Chandler boys?”
“Yeah, but I never knew them,” said Clay. “They went off to private school. I’ve seen ’em around.”
“What about the daughter? Didn’t I hear some story about her being crazy?”
“I think they’d prefer to call it a nervous breakdown,” said Clay impassively.
“Whatever. You ever hear anything about suicidal tendencies?”
“No. But you’d do better to ask the family,” said Clay.
Wesley Rountree gave his deputy a pitying look. “Oh, son, if you believe that, you got a lot to learn about police work.”
When they had finished the crime-scene work, Clay drove the car into the Chandlers’ backyard, parking it as close to the path and as far from the house as he could. He took the body bag from the trunk and carried it down to the lake, where Wesley was waiting beside the body. Together they lifted Eileen’s body out of the boat and fitted it into the canvas carrier.
“Let’s get this loaded and get on out of here,” said Wesley. “I don’t think the family needs to see this. You want some help?”
“Not really,” said Clay. “She’s real light.”
They walked in silence up the path. Rountree occasionally went ahead to clear branches out of the deputy’s way. When they reached the car, Clay said, “You want me to transfer her to the station wagon at the office and take it on up to the lab?”
Rountree shook his head. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s go from here. I’d like to have a word or two with Mitch Cambridge on this one. Seeing as how it’s Dr. Robert’s daughter, and all.”
“Okay.”
“That ought to put us back here late this afternoon to talk to these people. I hope they’ve calmed down some by then.”
The Chandler house was silent for most of the afternoon. The family and guests had followed Amanda’s example and retired to their rooms, except for Captain Grandfather, who had remained in the study. He had tried to call Elizabeth’s parents, but there was no answer; they were still away at the sales convention. When he telephoned Louisa, Mrs. Murphy had answered the phone and informed him that Alban had driven his
mother to a garden show in Milton’s Forge. They were not expected back until early evening. He spent the remainder of the afternoon sketching designs for a sailing vessel, with the name “Eileen” carefully pencilled on the prow.
When Rountree and Taylor returned late that afternoon, the Captain answered the door himself and ushered them into the library.
“Now, we don’t know a thing yet,” Rountree cautioned him, interrupting a spate of questions. “I’ve asked Dr. Cambridge to get on it right away and to call me as soon as he knows anything. I promise you, I’ll let y’all know just as soon as I hear. Now, would you be good enough to get everybody together for me? Right here in this room would be fine.”