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.
CHAPTER 8
WESLEY ROUNTREE 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.