“Though they might not be as likely suspects,” Wesley had explained to his fellow sheriff, “because they didn’t know about Emmet’s reappearance, so they had no reason to become nervous. If you didn’t know about Emmet, you’d think you had still gotten away with the scheme.”
So far Clay and the Roan deputy had been working together for three days. They were nearly finished with the list of suspects. So far they had turned up nothing suspicious and no one had admitted any knowledge of Emmet Mason’s reappearance. Clay would be glad when the partnership was over, because, while Charlie Mundy was an excellent officer as far as Clay could determine, he was also a humorless, narrow-minded pain in the patoot. He was a burly six-footer who looked like the ex-linebacker that he was, and he was a combat veteran from the Marine Corps, all of which may have enabled him to become a first-rate law enforcement officer, but it had done nothing for his somewhat canine personality. It was like going on patrol with a pit bull, Clay had thought-often during the last three days. Charlie Mundy had a perpetual squint of suspicion and a crooked smile that he employed when he was least amused. Clay, who managed to combine a career as a peace officer with what he hoped were noble sentiments about the rights of man and the responsibility of the human species to the ecological well-being of the planet, was profoundly uncomfortable in his massive colleague’s sneering presence.
“Will you look at this?” Mundy was saying, in his most disdainful tone. He had just pulled into the parking lot of the old gristmill and was presently leaning on the steering wheel, staring malevolently at the Earthling sign above the door. “Earth Shoe people!” He reminded Clay of a shark in a swimming pool.
At the risk of deflecting the attack toward the vicinity of his own soft tissues, Clay ventured a mild defense of the potential suspects. “Actually, Charlie, I know most of them socially. They’re very gentle people.”
Charlie Mundy sneered. “I don’t like cults.”
“Actually,” murmured Clay, “a cooperative community bears very little resemblance to a cult-”
But Charlie Mundy had already slammed the car door behind him and was slouching toward the door of the herb shop. Clay hurried after him, hoping that he could salvage some of law enforcement’s positive image by toning down Mundy’s attack.
Rogan Josh met them at the door, looking politely terrified. “May I help you?” he quavered. A glance at Clay indicated that he recognized the deputy, but would not venture to say so.
Charlie Mundy whipped out a notebook. “Name?”
Some minutes later, the entire Earthling contingent had been rounded up and their names had been duly recorded by an ever-more contemptuous Charlie Mundy. His expression suggested that anyone whose name was not a classic English appellation of one syllable was a self-proclaimed eccentric and potential criminal. Considerable time had been taken up in the spelling of the Earthling monikers.
His attitude certainly commanded the full attention of the huddled group, but their cooperation was less apparent. By the time he finally got around to the salient questions, the Earthlings would have denied all knowledge of tofu, much less anything more relevant.
“Christopher Greene?” said Shanti vaguely. “That was Ramachandra, wasn’t it?”
A couple of others nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, we had him cremated. He requested it,” another one offered. “We still have the will, of course.”
Charlie Mundy scowled at the assembled suspects. “And he left his money to you?”
They all looked down at the floor. “Oh, money,” one of them remarked. “It’s of so little consequence.”
“Didn’t we give it all to the Central American Freedom Fighters?” asked another.
“Or was it the Endangered Wildflower Fund?”
“We want to see financial statements,” Charlie informed them. “Tax records. I’ll check the courthouse.”
“Of course,” said R. J.
Clay almost burst out laughing, picturing the courthouse encounter between the snarling Charlie Mundy and the surly Susan Davis. It would either be a match made in heaven (or thereabouts) or a window-rattling dogfight.
Serenely unaware of the encounter that awaited him, Charlie Mundy pursued his next line of inquiry. “Did you know about the case of another local individual, one Emmet Mason, who was supposed to have died five years ago, but who reappeared in California?”
“That’s great, man,” said Shanti with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “But we’re not surprised.”
“No?”
“Oh, no. We believe in reincarnation.”
When Geoffrey Chandler appeared at the old gristmill some twenty minutes later, the Earthling community was still assembled, discussing the just-departed officers.
“Now that was a major personality disorder, heavily into power and subjugation,” said R. J.
“Are you surprised?” asked Shanti. “He probably eats enough red meat to turn himself into a werewolf!”
They stopped talking suddenly when Geoffrey appeared at the shop door, but he could tell that they were disturbed, and he could guess why. “Don’t let me interrupt!” he said cheerfully, pretending to have a look at the various plastic tubs of spices. “I know you all must be frightfully upset. Have you thought to make tea? Chamomile, I think.”
A young man with rimless glasses and a ponytail shook his head. “Betony.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a bearded man in overalls said, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
“Ah, no,” said Geoffrey gently. “I know as much as they, but I dress better. Actually, you’re catering a wedding at my house this Saturday. I have been sent to deliver the final guest list for the calligrapher.”
Their expressions suggested that the Dawson-MacPherson wedding, or more probably their recent encounter with Charlie Mundy’s soulmate Amanda the Hun, was not a topic they cared to dwell on, but a moon-faced woman in braids took the list from him.
“I, for one, am quite looking forward to your wonderful vegetarian recipes at the reception,” said Geoffrey heartily, if untruthfully. Seeing that he had his audience again, he continued: “I am also an old acquaintance of Emmet Mason’s.” That much was certainly true. Geoffrey had played the Stage Manager to Emmet’s Mr. Webb in the Chandler Grove production of Our Town.
“So have you heard the latest news about him?” asked Shanti.
“That the initial reports of his death were grossly exaggerated? So I understand. Clarine must be badly hurt by that.”
“Absolutely,” Shanti agreed. “Her self-esteem is in the low registers and she is letting a lot of negative ionization take place in her brain waves.”
Geoffrey took what appeared to be a sympathetic pause, but in fact he was thinking furiously. “I hope you were able to help her,” he said at last. “Was she receptive?”
“Sort of. She said she’d start coming to meditation classes and I gave her a crystal to neutralize the unhealthy feelings.”
“But it might take a few days to work,” said Geoffrey, in a tone suggesting that crystal therapy was his life’s work. “When did she come to you?”
“Last Thursday. Her first session is tomorrow.”
Geoffrey almost smiled. Thursday. The day before the Willis murder! So they did know. He wondered, though, if they had a motive. The news article about the death of tobacco heir Christopher Greene had not escaped his notice, but framing a question regarding fraud on the part of the group would call for large measures of tact and skill. He was glad that various group members had chosen to argue among themselves as to what methods would best serve Clarine Mason’s spiritual ailments. Pretending to listen, he cogitated.