Elizabeth explained the terms of Great-Aunt Augusta’s will, leaving her fortune to the first of the cousins to marry. “But I think Eileen left it all to Michael, anyway,” she concluded.
“Well,” drawled Rountree, “if I understand you right, she didn’t accomplish much there. She only got the trust fund when she was married-which she never was. So she had nothing to leave, did she?”
Elizabeth stared at him. “I never thought of that,” she said slowly.
“So there’s an inheritance up for grabs. This gets more interesting all the time. Is anybody else engaged? How about yourself?”
“Well, no, I’m not.”
“How about the others?”
“Not that I know of. My Cousin Alban was engaged once, about four years ago, but the girl broke it off, and he hasn’t seen her since. I haven’t heard of Charles or Geoffrey being interested in anybody, and my brother-oh, but he’s not even here! So-no, I don’t think any of us is considering getting married.”
“Bet you will now,” said Rountree.
When Elizabeth did not reply, Rountree tried another approach. “Now, Miss MacPherson, we need to get an idea about your cousin’s state of mind. I’d be obliged if you’d tell me when you saw her last.”
“Umm… last night after dinner. I went up to her room to see how she was.”
“Any reason why you might be worrying about her?”
Elizabeth recounted Eileen’s reaction to Dr. Shepherd’s arrival.
“Didn’t she want Dr. Shepherd here?”
“She didn’t seem to,” Elizabeth admitted. “But that doesn’t make sense. She invited him here herself.”
“Who told you that?” asked the sheriff.
“Well-he did. Dr. Shepherd.”
Rountree glanced over at Clay Taylor, who was still scribbling furiously.
“So you went up after dinner-to see if Miss Chandler was feeling better.”
“Yes. We talked for a little while, and she said she was nervous about the wedding-”
“Why do you suppose that was?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Probably because my Aunt Amanda is turning it into a three-ring circus. Poor Eileen was feeling like an exhibit. I’d have been nervous, too.”
“Could be. Anything else you can think of?”
“Well, I thought she might be overtiring herself trying to finish the oil painting she was working on. She’d work on it for hours every day.”
“Why was she painting pictures at a time like this? What’s it of, anyway?”
“It was to be her wedding gift to Michael. And she wouldn’t show it to anybody. But we think it must have been a view of the lake, because she always went there to work.”
“Did Miss Chandler seem depressed to you in your talk with her last evening?”
She considered this. “No. Not if you mean suicidal. I think she was impatient to have the whole thing over with, but she really wanted to marry Michael.”
“Michael,” Rountree repeated. “Let’s talk about him awhile. I understand you had an interesting conversation with the prospective groom. What did he have to say?”
Elizabeth sighed in exasperation. “I guess he must have told you already, or you wouldn’t be asking. He said that he didn’t really want to go through with the wedding. I think he was terrified of feeling like that, but also very much afraid of hurting my cousin.”
“Did he tell her how he felt?”
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t planning to.”
“Then why did he tell you?”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. “I think because I was an outsider, too. Maybe he felt that I might understand.”
“And did anybody else listen in on this conversation?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“But if by some chance the bride had slipped downstairs and overheard all this, that might change her state of mind, don’t you reckon?”
“I guess it could have. I told him to be quiet about it, because he was certainly making me nervous by talking about it.”
“What was making you nervous? That he was transferring his affections to you?” asked Rountree casually.
“Of course not!” snapped Elizabeth. “I certainly didn’t want him!”
“Even for all that money?”
“Well, Clay, what do you think?” asked Rountree when they were alone. “Suicide, or accident-or something else?”
Clay Taylor shook his head. “This one’s too close to call,” he said, leafing through his notes. “I’ll believe anything the lab tells us this time. There’s evidence for almost anything. Suicide-she was a psychiatric patient, and her fiancé would have been glad to ditch her; murder-she was an heiress, or she would have been. Accident? Well, they do happen, even to people whose death would be convenient. I wouldn’t even bet you a Coke on this one, Wes.”
“Well, I would,” Rountree grumbled. “I’d bet a whole raft of Cokes on a nice little old homicide because her death was mighty damn convenient for a bunch of folks, and I didn’t see anybody genuinely grieved at losing her. Did you?”
The deputy looked startled. “Well…” he faltered. “Her mother?”
“Clay, we haven’t even seen Amanda Chandler yet,” Rountree reminded him. “And when we do, you look real carefully at her. And ask yourself if you’re seeing a mother grieving over a lost child or a property owner mad as fire because something belonging to her got taken.”
“I still think it might have been suicide,” said the deputy. “We still have a lot of people left to talk to, and we haven’t found anybody who saw her since last night.”
“Nobody admitting it, anyway. That’s the trouble with you, Clay. You always go around believing everything.”
“What do you believe, Wes?”
“I believe I need more to go on.” Rountree grinned. “And I believe I’ll have a cheeseburger at Brenner’s while I wait for the lab report. Let’s go tell all these people we’ll be back tomorrow, when we know something definite.”
Robert Chandler closed the door to his wife’s bedroom and went down the stairs to the library. Captain Grandfather and Charles were sitting at the gate-leg table, dispiritedly pushing little fleets and armies around a map of the eastern hemisphere.
Captain Grandfather glanced up from the board. “How is she, Robert?”
Chandler sighed. “Asleep. Finally. I don’t want her disturbed.”
“It’s all right. Sheriff Rountree left a little while ago. Said they’d be back in the morning, and that they should have the lab report by then. I expect they’ll want to talk to us then-and to Amanda as well.”
“Where are Geoffrey and Elizabeth?”
“In the kitchen making sandwiches,” Charles replied.
“And our other-guests?”
“In their own rooms, I believe,” declared Captain Grandfather. “They didn’t seem to know what to say. Bit awkward all around. I for one am glad they’re not underfoot.”
“What do you think, Dad?” asked Charles.
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know, Charles. I want to believe it was an accident, but I can’t think what she would have been doing in that boat.”
“Maybe she wanted another perspective for the painting,” Charles suggested.
“The painting! That’s another thing. I keep asking myself what’s become of the painting.”
“So do I,” said Captain Grandfather quietly. “So do I.”
“Charles, did you by any chance see the painting she was working on? When you went to the lake at dinner?”
“No, Dad. I didn’t go get her for dinner. That was Alban. You’ll have to ask him if he saw what she was working on, but I doubt it. She wouldn’t let any of us see it. You know how secretive she was.”
“But she kept on painting by the lake,” mused Dr. Chandler. “So it must have been a lake scene. Now, why is the painting missing?”
“How can it be important?” asked Charles. “If she painted the lake, there’s no point in stealing the painting. Anybody could look at the lake and see what Eileen saw.”