The Windsor Knot (13 page)

“Well, how are things going with
you?”
asked
Elizabeth. “I mean, besides the job. Are you seeing anybody?”

Jenny shook her head. “I have so many commitments to worthy civic projects that I hardly have time to do my laundry.” She laughed merrily. “But of course I do. My laundry, I mean. I just love the smell of clean sheets, don’t you?”

Elizabeth noticed a waitress hovering at Jenny’s elbow. “I think she wants us to order.”

The waitress blushed to the ruffle on her Martha Washington cap. “Oh, yes, ma’am! I’ll take your order if you’re ready, but I was wondering if Miss Ramsay would sign my pad here?”

Jenny opened her purse and pulled out a postcard with her photograph on it. “If you’d like to have one of these …”

“Oh, could I? Would you make it out to Kimberly?”

“Of course, Kimberly. How do you spell that?”

Elizabeth retreated behind her menu while this transaction took place, surfacing only long enough to order a chef salad and iced tea for lunch. Jenny asked for crabmeat salad and a white-wine spritzer.

“I’m sorry about the interruption,” whispered Jenny when the waitress had left. “I’m used to it by now, but I realize that it must seem strange to you.”

“I don’t mind,” said Elizabeth. “I’m glad that things are going well for you. I remember when your major role model was a television genie.”

Jenny made a face. “And now I am one!” She laughed. “Okay! That’s enough shoptalk. Now tell me all about this fiancé of yours!”

Elizabeth spent a happy ten minutes discussing Cameron Dawson and then went into detail about the wedding plans. Jenny toyed with her salad and nodded encouragingly.

“And the best part,” said Elizabeth, “is that we are invited to the Royal Garden Party in Edinburgh, and I will get to see the Queen!”

“Really!” cooed Jenny.

“Oh, not that we’ll actually have tea with the Queen, of course,” said Elizabeth, feeling that modesty was in order. “Thousands of people are invited to the garden party. Everybody queues up on the lawn of the palace of Holyroodhouse, and they have their tea standing up, while the Queen and her attendants take tea in a little tent in sight of the crowd.”

Jenny wrinkled her nose. “Poor dear.”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an honor to be invited.”

“I meant the Queen,” said Jenny. “I know
exactly
how she feels. Every year the station has a Fourth of July picnic and people sit in the park with their little sandwiches and
watch
while we eat lunch in our marquees. And do you know the first thing Badger and I do when the picnic is over? We go out to
lunch
, because you can’t really eat anything with four thousand people staring at you every minute.”

“I suppose not,” said Elizabeth with a little laugh. She indicated her own half-eaten salad. “It’s hard to eat when you’re contemplating being the center of attention at a formal wedding, too!”

Jenny studied her carefully. “Well, I’m sure you’ll benefit from the fast,” she said judiciously. “Are you in an exercise program?”

Elizabeth was saved from a reply by the approach of a silver-haired lady who wanted to know if Miss Ramsay would autograph her napkin.

   Cameron Dawson, wearing an ancient navy guernsey and needlecord jeans, was changing the
air filter on the family Micra. He liked to accomplish these little tasks when he was at home because Ian was hopeless as a handyman and their mother never got around to seeing that anyone professional undertook the maintenance of the car—or the plumbing or the boiler. Cameron’s first chore upon arriving for a visit was to determine what was leaking, malfunctioning, or needed cleaning. He then set aside a portion of each day to put everything right again.

The air filter looked as if it had been rolled down a chimney. Cameron frowned, making a mental note to draw up a schedule of when things ought to be done for the car. Now that he was working outside the U.K., he couldn’t be sure of getting home often enough to keep the car from being destroyed by neglect. He must impress on them the need for regular upkeep. While he was about it, perhaps he ought to find an honest mechanic. Preferably someone who made house calls.

“Here you are,” said Ian, wheeling his bicycle in and propping it against the wall by the tool bench. “I went into the house just now, but no one was about. I might have known I’d find you here. Busy?”

“Obviously,” snapped Cameron. “I would have a good deal more leisure if you would learn how to take care of things around here.”

“Probably not,” said Ian cheerfully. “I expect I’d only render them unfixable. Machines seem to sense that I am afraid of them. It makes them hostile. I thought I’d let you know that the afternoon post has arrived.”

The only reply was a grunt from beneath the hood of the Micra.

“Seeing how you carried on so the last time you didn’t get a letter the instant it got here, I thought
I would hunt you up and notify you this time. Sorry I couldn’t manage a fanfare of trumpets.”

Cameron, with a smudge of grease on one cheek, emerged from the depths of the engine and leaned against the wing (known to Elizabeth as the fender). “Well? Did I get anything?”

“A package from your betrothed. The customs form says
Invitations
, so I have taken care to make plans for this evening. You may address them yourself, and good luck to you. I can let you have some stamps, though, at a price.”

Cameron sighed. He had finished the air filter and was now cleaning spark plugs. “Anything else?” he called out.

“Letter from the Queen, by the look of it. Royal seal and all. You’d better wash your hands before I give it to you.”

“Read it to me.”

“Hold on. Let me set the rest of this stuff down. I wouldn’t want to tear the letter, in case you want to frame it.” He slit the envelope carefully with his penknife. “Just another invitation to the garden party. This one is to Dr. and
Mrs
. Cameron Dawson. So that’s all right. Elizabeth can rest easy now. It has a funny sound to it, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Dr. and Mrs. Makes you seem quite old, somehow.”

Cameron nodded. “I know what you mean. Well, I’ll have to call Elizabeth and tell her the good news. Really, though, I don’t think she ever doubted that she’d be allowed to attend.”

“Touching faith in authority, that. Oh, by the way, we did get one more piece of mail.”

“Yes?”

“Postcard from the gnome.”

Cameron left the car and went to see for himself.
“Bloody hell!” He grinned. “Not another one! Where is he this time?”

Ian held out the card. “Alaska.”

“Not—”

“I’m afraid so.
Nome.”

The front of the card bore the word
Alaska
in large red letters and pictured a team of grinning huskies pulling a sled. Cameron flipped the card over and read the inscription:
To boldly go where Gnome man has gone before
.

W
ESLEY
R
OUNTREE WAS
wedged into the corner of the back room of Lucy’s Country Garden Flower Shop, trying not to bump into the shelf of bud vases situated perilously close to his left shoulder. On the table in front of him was a fax machine, being attended by Lucy herself, who looked as solemn as a death-row chaplain.

“I have to warn you, Wesley,” she whispered. “This machine doesn’t do too good on photographs. It’s mainly for transmitting paperwork, and it keeps you from having to be on the phone all the time. But don’t expect the picture to come out looking all that great.”

The sheriff sighed. “It probably wouldn’t, anyway. With Emmet being dead and all.”

“Well, I just wanted to warn you,” said Lucy, straightening her pink smock with an air of one who has done her duty. “I hope you can tell if it’s him or not.”

Clay Taylor, lounging in the curtained doorway, held up Clarine Mason’s photograph of her late husband. “We can compare it to this,” he said. “It’ll give us something to go on.”

“And please, Lucy,” said Wesley, “don’t go spreading news about this around town. We don’t know that there’s any crime at all connected with
this. It’s probably some mistaken-identity business, and I’d hate to get Clarine all upset with rumors.”

Lucy was a picture of injured innocence. “If you don’t trust me, Wesley, you could have gone to the highway patrol at Milton’s Forge and used whatever it is the police are
supposed
to use.”

“Officer Vega is sending me a copy of the picture and a set of fingerprints, Lucy. Second-day air. I just wanted a general idea of what the fellow looked like.”

Lucy glanced at the photograph in the deputy’s hand. “Well, if Conway Twitty has gone and died on the L.A. Freeway, you will be none the wiser,” she sniffed.

The machine beeped, then clicked into action, commanding their immediate attention.

“I hope it’s not another flower order,” muttered Clay.

The florist glared at him. “Thanks a lot!”

“No,” said Wesley, peering at the edge of the paper emerging from the machine. “It says
Los Angeles
at the top. We’ll know in a minute here.”

They waited in silence while the machine thermo-printed the message from California. When it had finished, Wesley eased the sheet of paper out of the machine and motioned for Clay to bring the photograph. Officer Vega had sent them a copy of the black-and-white Polaroid photo of the deceased and a photocopy of a California driver’s license identifying the man as Emmet J. Mason.

Wesley squinted at the photo. Since shades of gray do not transmit in fax communications, the image was a stark contrast of black and white, omitting age lines and other details that might have helped in the identification process. He set the picture down beside the framed photo of Emmet Mason. He looked from one to the other.

“It’s hard to say, isn’t it?”

Lucy tossed her head. “I told you about sending pictures!” she sniffed.

“There’s a definite resemblance,” said Clay. “And the ears are the same shape. They always say that’s a big tip-off in identifying people.”

The sheriff nodded. “I’d say the likeness is good enough to justify me asking a few more questions, even before we get the official photo.” He turned to the florist with his most disarming smile. “Lucy, I thank you for your hospitality. And I sure do appreciate your discretion. When I get ready to donate some flowers to the church in honor of my parents’ anniversary, I’ll give you a call.”

When they were outside, Clay asked, “What do you reckon this means?”

Wesley sighed. “I’d say it means that reports of Emmet Mason’s death were a trifle premature. And I reckon I have to drive back out there and tell Clarine that she’s a widow.”

“That won’t be news.”

“No, but it won’t be pleasant, either. Damn that Emmet! I wonder what he was about.”

“That’s not the half of it,” grunted Clay. “I wonder who’s in that urn on your desk.”

   Elizabeth MacPherson was curled up on the chintz sofa in the den, reading a hymnbook. “It’s so difficult to decide what music to choose,” she said, running her finger down the list of titles. “I wonder what they play for weddings in Scotland.”

“‘Amazing Grace,’” said Geoffrey. “Though it’s considered bad form to use it if that happens to be the bride’s name.”

“I think ‘Greensleeves’ is a very nice tune,” she mused.

Geoffrey looked up from his playscript of
Twelfth
Night
. “Since the other title of that melody is ‘What Child Is This,’ I implore you not to use it. You know how people jump to conclusions. What else are you considering?”

“I have a list of songs that were used at some of the royal weddings,” she said, picking up another book. “Prince Charles and Princess Diana had ‘I Vow to Thee My Country.’”

“Very appropriate for them, Elizabeth, but in this case it rather implies that you are handing Georgia over to the Redcoats.”

Elizabeth scowled. “That was several wars ago.”

“It would be worse if you were marrying a Yankee,” Geoffrey conceded, “but I advise you to abandon the idea all the same. What are the other choices?”

“‘O Perfect Love.’”

“Not bad. Who used that one?”

“The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.” She sighed. “Oh, dear, I wouldn’t like to identify with
her
on my wedding day, poor thing. She’d had two husbands before Edward. Her husband’s family hated her. Her mother-in-law Queen Mary never spoke to her.” Elizabeth shuddered. “And everybody blamed her for the King’s abdication.”

“Cameron is not required to give up seals or porpoises on your account, I trust?”

“No. And everybody seems very calm about the prospect of our marriage. Congratulations, but no confetti, if you know what I mean. Not wildly ecstatic.”

“You’re thinking of Princess Diana, I suppose? I’ve always thought that Prince Charles would have been driven to marry her by public and family opinion alone.”

“No. Actually I was thinking of Charles’s grandmother, Elizabeth of York. The Queen Mum.
She was old Queen Mary’s
other
daughter-in-law. There was no way poor divorced American Wallis could compete with
her
. Of course, she had a better pedigree than Wallis Simpson. When the future George VI proposed to her, she was the daughter of a Scottish earl, living in Glamis Castle in the Highlands.”