“Excuse me. Ask away,” said Charles, settling back in the sunlight.
“Are you, by any chance, contemplating marriage?” asked Rountree.
Charles opened one eye. “You mean with a woman? You’re not speaking metaphysically or anything like that?”
Rountree kept a straight face. “I never speak metaphysically,” he drawled. “I mean regular old ’til Death Do Us Part’ type marriage.”
“Then the answer is a definite no,” said Charles. “There aren’t even any contenders. Why ever do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just thinking of that interesting legacy in your family. The one that goes to the first one of y’all to get married.”
“Oh, that,” said Charles in a bored voice. “No, thank you. I am quite above bribery.”
“Well… do you happen to know if anybody else has got wedding plans?”
“You’ll have to ask them, Sheriff. I’m not really interested in that sort of thing. You might ask my brother Geoffrey. Knowing things about people always amuses him. Offhand, I’d say my cousin Elizabeth was the hausfrau type. Oh, and not to forget my cousin Bill. He’s also eligible for the wedding sweepstakes, and I must say the MacPhersons need the money more than we do.”
“Bill?”
“Elizabeth’s older brother. But he’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Law school, they tell me. We’re not pen pals,” said Charles.
“And your other cousin-the one across the street. Alban?”
“Really, Sheriff. I have no idea. You might ask Elizabeth. She’s been spending a lot of time with him. In fact, she was over there last night.”
Rountree grunted. “I see that the society news is not your neck of the woods. Let’s move on to something else. Did you ever see that picture your sister was painting?”
“No. She was quite a fanatic about the secret. I don’t even know what she was painting-but we all assumed it was the lake, since she painted there.”
Rountree considered this. “The lake. Anything particular about that lake that you know of?”
“No, Sheriff,” said Charles with an indulgent smile. “It’s just an ordinary little lake with mediocre fishing. No sunken Spanish galleons.”
“No,” said Rountree carefully. “Just a lot of sunken whiskey bottles. You know anything about that?”
Charles’s smile faded. “I can’t say that I do,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“Oh, I think you could. I guess you know who put the bottles there, too.”
“Not I.”
“No, not you. Your mother’s drinking problem accounts for those bottles, don’t you reckon?”
Charles regarded them steadily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wesley Rountree stared back into Charles’s expressionless face for a few moments, and decided that he did indeed know what they were talking about. Rather than press the point, though, Rountree merely said, “Well, we won’t talk anymore about it now. If you’ll just give my deputy the name of somebody at your-er, where you live-to verify your statements, we won’t trouble you anymore right now.”
“Oh, all right,” grumbled Charles. “I guess you would check anyway. Go and bother Roger Granville, then. That will give him something to do.” Clay approached the lawnchair, notepad in hand. “Here give me that,” said Charles. “I’ll write down the phone number at our place.”
Wesley Rountree picked up Charles’s book. “More physics, huh?”
“Yes. Roger and I are working together on a little project. I’m just doing research.”
“Which university are you with?”
Charles flushed. “People always ask me that! As a matter of fact, we’re on our own just now, but we’re thinking of applying for a grant.”
“I bet you are!” said Rountree cheerfully. “Physics isn’t cheap.”
“That’s another thing people are always saying!” snapped Charles. “But did you know that Einstein worked out his whole theory of relativity with just a pencil and paper?”
“And what are you working on?” asked Rountree, beaming with fascination.
“Uh… well, it’s a bit technical, Sheriff.”
“Is it wave particle duality? I always liked that! Or-not the unified field theory? You think there’s anything to that?” There were times when even Wesley Rountree felt an urge to show off. He told himself that this approach might get more information out of Charles than his usual folksy manner, and besides, people who equated “drawl” with “dumb” annoyed him.
Charles blinked at the sheriff, wondering if Reader’s Digest had included a physics article in its latest issue. Clay, whose duties included returning the sheriff’s books to the county library, was less surprised; Wesley would read anything. Last month had been a biography of Einstein and a book on sea urchins.
“Well, actually, Sheriff, our project is so far ahead of conventional physics that we don’t think any university will have the foresight to fund us. As a matter of fact, it does have to do with relativity. Time is relative, you know. We think that the high rotational energy of a body would enable us to cross the event horizon into the past, so to speak. Ideally, we would need a black hole-a collapsed star, you know, whose density will not even release light-but we think we can prove the hypothesis on a sub-atomic level, perhaps with a linear accelerator-”
“Now you’re talking money!” Wesley put in.
“Uh-yes. We want to bombard a spinning electron with-”
“Guess you could use that inheritance of your great-aunt’s, couldn’t you?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t buy one, Sheriff! Those things run into the millions. Oh, before you go, could I just have a piece of paper from your notepad to make a few calculations? You don’t have an extra pencil, do you?”
Clay tore out a few sheets from the back of his notepad and fished the stub of a pencil from his pants pocket. As they walked away, Charles was already scribbling calculations.
“Did you understand that project of his, Wes?” asked Clay, when they were out of earshot.
“Generally speaking.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A time machine.”
Clay shook his head. “You think he’d kill his sister to finance that?”
Rountree shrugged. “Sure is turning into a scorcher out here today, isn’t it? Reckon we can find somebody around with a water jug?”
Taylor nodded, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. The midday sun glinted on the tin roof of the shed, casting short shadows in the grass. “I’m surprised there’s not a garden out back here, aren’t you, Wes? It looks like the sort of place that would have one.”
“Well, I think there was one once,” Rountree replied. “Back when they kept a pony in the shed. But the gardener in the family seems to be the castle-lady-Mrs. Cobb. She sure does grow beautiful roses.”
“Yeah. I don’t think Mrs. Chandler gets much pleasure from gardening.”
“Might be better if she did,” grunted Rountree. “Who do we talk to next?”
Clay consulted his notebook. “Well, you haven’t talked to the other son yet.”
They found Geoffrey Chandler in the sunny breakfast room, sipping coffee at the glass-topped table as he read the morning paper.
“No, you’re not disturbing my breakfast,” he assured them.
When they had settled themselves, with glasses of ice water supplied by the kitchen, Rountree explained that they were in the process of questioning all the family members, and that it was now his turn to be interviewed.
“Am I the last one?” asked Geoffrey. “I don’t know why, but people seem to dread talking to me. Perhaps I have no small talk. Do you think that’s it?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Rountree with a slight cough. He studied Geoffrey’s morning attire: tight white trousers, red tank top, and sandals. “I see you’re not observing mourning.”