“Okay,” said the hostess, consulting her list. “It could be a few minutes. We’re pretty busy. Is the other party here yet?”
Solemnly Elizabeth pointed to the crowd. “I’m having lunch with Jenny Ramsay.”
“Oh! Well, I’ll show you to your table whenever she’s ready, ma’am.”
Since Clay was no longer reading Sergeant Luger: Crack Shot when the sheriff returned, he assumed that it had been a slow afternoon at the office. “I’m back,” he announced, checking his desk for notes. Not finding any, he cleared off a spot near the pencil mug and set down a blue cloisonné urn.
“No messages?”
“Not a thing. Hill-Bear came in a little while ago. He’s out on patrol now.”
Hill-Bear Melkerson, the other deputy, was a human St. Bernard who made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in intellect. His name was actually Hubert, but he had changed it permanently to Hill-Bear after his high-school French teacher informed him that this was its correct pronunciation. Hill-Bear was excellent at crowd control, good at breaking up fights, and passable as a traffic patrolman, but he could never be an investigator. Wesley planned to assign Clay to assist him on the Mason case while Hill-Bear attended to the normal routine.
“Finished the book, did you?” asked Wesley.
Clay shrugged. “I just skim ’em. Nice vase. You decorating the office now?”
“No. This is evidence. I want it photographed, fingerprinted, and anything else you can think of to do to it, short of opening it.”
“Is that from the Mason place? What’s going on out there?”
Wesley shook his head. “It’s a new one on me, that’s for sure. You remember when Emmet died, out there in California?”
“Vaguely.”
“About five years ago. Clarine gets a phone call telling her about the wreck. Then she gets a package containing this urn and a death certificate. I brought it along, too.”
“Fingerprints and photos, too? Okay. So, as far as Chandler Grove is concerned, Emmet is history, right? And then today Mrs. Mason gets another call from California telling her that her husband is dead?”
“Right. But this time she has more presence of mind. She writes down the officer’s name and the phone number. L.A. area code: 213. I got it here. Gene Vega. And she gets details about the accident.”
“Was it the same as before? Burned beyond recognition?”
“No. I called them back while I was out at Clarine’s place. She insisted. Wanted to get it straight as soon as possible. I got Sergeant Vega and, sure enough, he’s a real California police officer. Seemed kind of put out that we doubted him, but then I explained that we’d been through this before. He grumped a bit about clerical irregularities, but said he’d check.”
“Everything’s on computer out there,” said Clay.
Wesley made a face. “Thank you, Sergeant Luger. I know that. Anyway, he hit a few keys and told me that they had no record of an earlier demise of Emmet Mason of Chandler Grove, Georgia, in a wreck or any other way, but he was here to tell me that the present Emmet Mason was deader’n a mackerel in the L.A. morgue. I thought I might have to go out and see about it, but what do you reckon he said then?”
“Fax, of course,” said Clay, looking bored.
The sheriff sighed. “I hate a know-it-all. But, yes, he said that in view of our limited technology hereon account of the county commissioners’ views on budget deficits-that he couldn’t use the machine they normally use to transmit data from one police department to another. But he said that they would take a picture of the corpse and fax it to us here in Georgia, and we’d see if it was all a big mistake.”
“We don’t have a fax machine, either,” Clay pointed out.
“No,” said Wesley. “But we will have when I tell the commissioners that they are laughing at us in California. Meanwhile, I scouted up a machine on my second try, and he’s sending it there.”
The deputy thought hard. “Newspaper office?”
“And let Marshall get wind of this? He was my last resort. I was going for confidentiality.”
“The florist shop!” cried Clay. “No,” he said, thinking better of it. “You said confidentiality, and there’s no way that Lucy-”
Wesley scowled. “I swore her to secrecy.”
Clay kept a straight face. “Uh-huh.” He nodded toward the blue urn on the sheriff’s desk. “And when are you going to open that?”
“I hope I don’t have to,” said Wesley.
“It’s so good to see you again!” said Jenny Ramsay, still with a hint of italics in her voice. “And just think! You’re getting married. Isn’t that exciting!”
Elizabeth smiled. “You seem to be having a pretty exciting time of it yourself, Jen.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it silly?” She giggled. “It’s just part of the job, though.”
“It seems very strange for someone who’s supposed to be responsible for weather.”
“The station feels that the news team should serve as community leaders,” said Jenny. “So I do a lot of charity work and public appearances, and people seem to think they know me-because they watch me on TV every day.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I think a lot of people are very lonely,” Jenny said, lapsing into her broadcaster-sincere tone. “When I attend one of these public events, I try to be as kind and gracious as I can, and to-you know-say something meaningful, because I know that some of those people will treasure what I have to say for the rest of their lives.”
“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.”