Geoffrey’s expression suggested that he considered the two terms mutually exclusive.
“I called Miss Grey, the dressmaker, yesterday, and she has promised to do the dresses. I have an appointment with her this afternoon, to be measured and so on. I must call Jenny and see if she can go as well.”
“I take it that no atrocities are planned for the male hostages in this event?” asked Geoffrey. “Not kilts or anything?”
“No, Geoffrey. Just don’t wear your velvet cloak.”
He managed a taut smile. “I am saving that for my visit to you in Edinburgh-when you are the Lady Elizabeth.”
She sighed. “That sounds awfully nice, doesn’t it? Unfortunately it’s impossible.”
“Is Cameron not knighthood material, then?”
“I have no idea,” said the bride-to-be. “But even if he’s knighted, I wouldn’t be Lady Elizabeth. If he becomes Sir Cameron, I would be Lady Dawson, and if I received a knighthood, I’d be Dame Elizabeth. The only women who can use lady before their first names are the daughters of earls. Or dukes.”
“Like Lady Diana?”
“Yes. And, by the way, the same thing applies to the term princess. I know that the Princess of Wales is called Princess Diana, but that is not correct. She is Lady Diana-because she is the daughter of the Earl of Spencer-or she is the Princess of Wales. But not Princess Diana. Only the Princess Anne is entitled to use the title before her given name.” Elizabeth sighed. “Titles are not easy to come by. Anyway, I’ll never be Lady Elizabeth: I had the wrong parents.”
“At the risk of prompting another lecture out of Debrett, may I wish your bridegroom a knighthood?” said Geoffrey courteously.
From the recesses of the front hall, the doorbell chimed. “Oh, dear!” cried Elizabeth. “I hope that isn’t the sheriff again!” She set her napkin beside her plate and hurried to answer the door.
Geoffrey took advantage of this blessed interruption to draw the curtains to the French windows and to pour himself another cup of coffee.
Charles peered over the top of the newspaper and pushed his own empty cup out for a refill. “What did she mean, she hopes it’s not the sheriff? What is she up to?”
“When I awaken, I shall ask her,” Geoffrey promised.
They sipped their coffee in companionable silence for a few moments until Elizabeth returned. “Postman,” she announced, still beaming. “He brought another wedding present. Huge box-I could barely lift it. From New York. It’s addressed to Cameron Dawson and Fiancée, though, so I’ve left it until he gets here. Probably one of his marine-biologist cronies. Just think, Cameron will be here in four days!” She clapped her hands in glee, much to her cousins’ disgust.
Geoffrey crumpled his napkin and threw it up in the air.
“Oh, by the way, Charles,” said Elizabeth, pushing down the top of his newspaper and ignoring the ensuing scowl. “There was also a letter for you. From Snow White?”
Charles stifled a cough. “Just a little joke,” he muttered, snatching the letter. He hurried out of the room before anyone could comment further.
Elizabeth stared after him. “What is he up to?”
“We were just about to ask you the same thing,” Geoffrey replied. “What was that remark of yours about hoping the sheriff hadn’t come back?”
“He was consulting me about a case,” said Elizabeth in her grandest manner. “Forensic anthropology.”
“Wesley Rountree has a case? What is it? Chicken thieves?”
“No, Geoffrey. It involves fraud and people pretending to be dead. I had to identify cremated remains.”
Geoffrey snickered. “I assure you, cousin, that anyone who has been cremated is not merely pretending to be dead.”
Elizabeth was so stung by this mocking interruption of her serious (and self-congratulatory) discussion that she explained the entire case to him in the haughty tones of an expert witness. She told him about Emmet Mason’s second demise, and about the mixture of bodies in the cremation urn, emphasizing her own skills as a forensic anthropologist in identifying the mysterious remains. “I told Miss Grey about it on the telephone when I called about my dress. She had read the engagement announcement in the paper, and so she knew that I was an anthropologist. She said that it was wonderful how clever girls of my generation are. She’s quite right! I was brilliant,” she assured him. “But of course, I shan’t take any further interest in the matter,” she declared. “Because I’m getting married next week, which is much more important.”
Geoffrey looked thoughtful. “It is an interesting case, though,” he murmured.
Wesley Rountree supposed that there could be worse names for a crematorium than Elijah’s Chariot, Inc. Other biblical titles might be even more unfortunate: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego’s, for example, which would be an oblique reference to the fiery furnace of Old Testament fame. Or maybe Lot’s Wife and Company-after the lady in Genesis who was turned into a pillar of salt in a sort of divine and instantaneous cremation. Wesley felt that names could be a tricky matter in a business like that. Any suggestion of the flames of hell and your business would go right up in smoke.
Still, it made him suspicious, and he was very interested in meeting the joker who had given such an unusual name to a most uncommon business. He had thought about it all morning as he sat in court waiting to testify in the reckless-driving case. Strictly speaking, he supposed that he ought to notify the law enforcement agency of the county he was going to, but he doubted that they’d want to be bothered. There was not as yet any evidence that a crime involving their jurisdiction had taken place. At this point Wesley figured that he was just on a fishing trip: questioning a witness who might or might not be involved. If it turned out later that he was involved, then Wesley would tip off Wayne Dupree, sheriff of Roan County, and turn the case over to him. Right now he just wanted some answers.
He enjoyed the drive on the corkscrew county roads, and the view of rolling meadows and the green mountains thick with hardwoods. He was far enough back in the hills now so that there weren’t any cute subdivisions with names like Brook Valley edging out the pastureland. He wondered why a crematorium should be so far out in the country. So as not to make the neighbors nervous, he told himself. He slipped a Statler Brothers cassette into the tape deck and sang along, enjoying the sunshine and the beauty of a June day in the hills of Georgia; but in the back of his mind a list of questions was forming.
Clarine Mason fingered the crystal pendant around her neck and took three deep breaths. She really was feeling better. It was quite amazing. The pendant was absorbing all her negative feelings, just like they said it would. Perhaps the herbal tea had been a help, too. She resolved to buy more of it; after all, they had been kind to her and they needed the business, and after all, ginseng really might be an antidepressant.
Clarine poured hot water into the teapot and waited for the herbs to steep. The kitchen was sunny and comforting in the morning light. She felt happy to be on her own among her plants and her cross-stitched samplers. She was all right in the kitchen; it was the parlor that bothered her, with that blatant bare spot on the mantel that used to be a memorial to Emmet.
She had wanted to talk to somebody about her anger and her sense of humiliation at Emmet’s betrayal, but as she considered her friends one by one, she could find no one in whom she wanted to confide. Most of her friends were older women like herself, and although they would never admit it, her plight would make them uncomfortable. Somewhere, she thought, under their professions of sympathy, there would be a spark of satisfaction that this had happened to her. That the humiliation had been meted out to her, and not to them. That she was gullible to have believed in Emmet’s death in the first place with only a blue jar for proof.