Murder With Peacocks

by Murder

  "James," Mother warned.

  "Well, anyway, they'll be able to tell," Dad went on, unabashed. "But there's one more important thing about the fracture."

  "What's that?" I said.

  "Consider the location and angle," Dad said. Pam and Mother frowned in puzzlement. I fingered my own skull with one hand, recalling Dad's description.

  "You think it's homicide," I said.

  Dad nodded with approval.

  "Homicide? Why?" Pam demanded.

  Dad looked expectantly at me.

  "Try to visualize it," I said. "The fracture was on the top of her skull. It's a little hard to figure out how she could do that falling. Unless she fell while trying to stand on her head. Sounds more like what would result if someone hit her on the head with a golf club or something."

  "She fell off the cliff," Pam said. "If she was falling head over heels, couldn't she have landed smack on her head?"

  "From forty feet up? It would have been like dropping a melon on--"

  "James!" Mother exclaimed.

  "Well, it would have," Dad protested. "Consider the velocity of a straight fall. She would have sustained far more extensive injuries, particularly to the cranium if that's where she landed. And if her fall was broken one or more times by the underbrush or by intermediate landings, why were there no significant abrasions or contusions elsewhere on the body? No torn clothing, no leaves or twigs caught in her hair or clothes? I don't believe she fell from that cliff, before or after her death," he stated firmly. "I believe she was murdered and then left on the beach. The sheriff may not realize it yet, but I do. And I'm going to do my damnedest to prove it."

  Well, at least someone was happy. I went to bed trying to fight off the uncharitable thought that thanks to Mrs. Grover's inconveniently turning up dead almost in our backyard, I was now yet another day behind in my schedule. And I had no doubt further interruptions would be coming thick and fast.

  Friday, June 3

  Either the sheriff had come around to Dad's way of thinking or he was taking no chances that Dad might be right. When I woke up the next day, the bluffs were swarming with deputies. Well, six of them, anyway, which was a swarm by local standards, being exactly half of the law enforcement officers available in the county. They were searching the beach and the top of the bluff, and had even gotten the cherry picker from the county department of public works, which they drove down to the beach and used to search the side of the bluff. About the only thing of interest they'd found was the missing Spike.

  One of the deputies spent several hours and a whole truckload of Police Line--Do Not Cross tape cordoning off the bluff and the beach for half a mile on either side of where Mrs. Grover's body was found. Which seemed idiotic until the crowds began showing up.

  Everyone in the neighborhood turned out to watch the excitement, and not a few people from the rest of the county. Mother organized about a dozen neighboring ladies to provide tea, lemonade, and cookies, and the whole thing turned into a combination wake, block party, and family reunion, with Mother holding court on the back porch.

  The only good thing about the gathering was that I met Mrs. Thornhill, the inexpensive calligrapher Mrs. Fenniman had recommended, and turned over Samantha's invitations and guest list to her. What a nice, motherly woman I thought, as I watched her drive off, her backseat piled high with stationery boxes. Of course Samantha was paying her, but it still felt as if she were doing me a favor by lifting that enormous weight off my shoulders.

  The forces of law and order knocked off at sunset, leaving a lone deputy standing guard. The festivities went on long after dark. About ten o'clock I snuck off to my sister, Pam's, to sleep.

  Saturday, June 4

  The show resumed at dawn, and since it wasn't a work day, the crowds were even larger. I pointed out to the sheriff that anyone he might possibly need to interrogate about Mrs. Grover's death was probably milling about in our yard or the neighbors', rapidly replacing whatever genuine information they might have with the grapevine's current theory--which seemed to be that Mrs. Grover, arriving early for her appointment with Dad, either fell over the bluff or was coshed on the head and heaved over the edge by a prowling tramp.

  So the sheriff was using our dining room as an interrogation chamber and enthusiastically grilling a random assortment of witnesses, suspects, and fellow travelers. He was concentrating on our whereabouts on May 31, and what we had seen then. Mother and Jake were of no use, of course, since they'd spent the entire day together running errands. I thought it was a very lucky break for Jake that they had. Dad is fond of remarking that in small towns, people tend to kill people they know. The sheriff had heard this often enough to have absorbed it, and Jake was the only one who really knew Mrs. Grover. And might have had reason to do her in, considering the quarrel I'd overheard. But if her death did turn out to be a homicide, not only Mother but half a dozen sales clerks and waitresses would be able to prove that he hadn't been within fifteen miles of our neighborhood between 7:00 A.m. and 9:00 P.m.

  The sheriff was particularly interested in the fact that between ten and two-thirty or so I'd been sitting on our back porch making phone calls. Evidently that was a critical time period, and the stretch of the bluff I could see from the porch was the most likely spot for Mrs. Grover to have gone over the cliff, if that was indeed what happened to her.

  "And at no time did you see Mrs. Grover or anyone else enter the backyard," he said.

  "No," I replied. "I didn't see anyone except for the birthday party going on in the yard next door and Dad on the riding lawn mower."

  He didn't look as if he believed me.

  Dad, on the other hand, believed me implicitly, but that was because my evidence supported his theory that Mrs. Grover had not fallen or been pushed but had been deposited on the beach.

  With the exception of Mother and Jake, nobody else in the neighborhood had anything that even vaguely resembled an airtight alibi for the time of the murder. Of course, the sheriff had yet to uncover anything vaguely resembling a motive, either, so the dearth of alibis was not yet a problem for anyone in particular. I began to wonder if there was a homicidal maniac hidden among the horde of locals, who, from their sworn statements, appeared to have spent the day after Memorial Day wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood, borrowing and lending cups of sugar and garden tools and feeding each other light summer refreshments.

  Before Mother could organize another neighborhood soiree, I hid in our old treehouse with a stack of envelopes and a couple of good books. I couldn't concentrate on either, though, and found myself gazing down on the crowd, wondering if Dad was right and one of them was a murderer.

  I didn't buy the idea of a wandering tramp. I doubted any stranger could pass through our neighborhood without getting noticed by at least half a dozen nosy neighbors and being reported to the sheriff long before he'd had the chance to knock anyone off.

  Even residents would cause talk if they did anything out of the ordinary. Long before we noticed Mrs. Grover's disappearance and had reason to be suspicious, someone like Mrs. Fenniman would be sure to ask, "What on earth were you doing standing around in the Langslows' backyard waving that blunt instrument?"

  But a neighbor doing something perfectly normal would be ignored. People wouldn't be suspicious--in fact, they wouldn't even remember seeing an everyday sight like--what? I pondered, wondering if I'd done the same thing myself: omitted mentioning a possible suspect.

  A bird-watcher. No one would notice a habitual bird-watcher like Dad strolling along the bluffs with binoculars, I thought. Or a gardener. Gardeners also tended to wander rather casually from yard to yard, borrowing tools and admiring each other's vegetation. A dog owner could pretty much wander at will, I realized, seeing Michael stroll into our yard leading Spike.

  At least as long as he or she had a pooper scooper of some sort. Or a neighbor carrying something that looked like prepared food and heading for Mother's kitchen, I thought, seeing three more neighbors a
rrive with covered dishes.

  This is not getting anywhere, I told myself. Ninety percent of the neighborhood falls into one or another of those categories.

  Besides, even if I'd forgotten to mention a passing bird-watcher or food-bearing neighbor, I'd have noticed someone getting close to the bluff. The edge is fragile and crumbling; I grew up having it drummed into me to stay away from the edge of the bluffs. And I admit, I've been a little hyper about it myself ever since the Fourth of July when Rob was seven and got carried away while watching the fireworks over the river. Watching your kid brother suddenly disappear, along with a large chunk of ground on which he had been standing, and then seeing him excavated, undamaged except for a broken arm, from a mound of rubble--that sort of thing tends to stay with you. I'd have noticed anyone even approaching the edge of the bluffs, much less someone getting close enough to shove a person, live or dead, over the edge.

  So perhaps I should start from the other end. Who had reason to kill Mrs. Grover?

  I didn't like the answers. Aside from Jake, secure behind his alibi, most of the other possible suspects were people I knew and liked. Hell, half of them were family. Although Mother was graciousness itself, I could tell she had taken an intense dislike to Mrs. Grover. I didn't suspect my own mother, of course, but someone else might. And while she had been gallivanting about the county with Jake at the time of the crime, I could think of several friends and relatives who would throw themselves over a cliff--to say nothing of an unpleasant stranger--if they thought it would please Mother.

  The sheriff would be high on that list, which could account for his being so slow off the mark investigating. But if he was a cold-blooded killer he was certainly a much better actor than I'd imagined. He'd established what he called an observation post on our diving board, and was standing with a glass of iced tea in his hand, watching his deputies' frenzied activity with a mixture of pride and bewilderment. Then again, it could simply be that he was a little out of his depth dealing with a murder other than the occasional domestic dispute down in the more rural end of the county.

  I suspect Dad might have brought himself to dispose of Mrs. Grover if he thought it was absolutely necessary to protect Mother's life, but his idea of how to deal with Mrs. Grover as an annoyance was the mild-mannered, rather entertaining plan of harassment we'd developed during the party. He was rational enough to realize that he would be overreacting if he killed Mrs. Grover merely to spare Mother embarrassment and irritation. At least I thought he was. And no matter how much Dad had always longed to have a homicide to investigate, I knew he wouldn't go overboard and actually commit one. That would be crazy, even for Dad.

  Pam. Ordinarily, my sister would be the last person I'd expect to do anything as outlandish as murdering somebody. She could shrug off nearly anything; if someone really did cross her, Pam's natural reaction would be to toss off a few witty remarks and then make sure the culprit's name was mud throughout the county. But if she thought Mrs. Grover was harming one of her kids? She'd be capable. Where they were concerned, she could exterminate a hundred Mrs. Grovers as matter-of-factly as she would an equal number of cockroaches. Pam was not crazy, but she was very, very focused.

  Mrs. Fenniman, now. She was a little crazy. Fond as Mother was of her, Mrs. Fenniman was indisputably crazy enough to fit right into my family. In fact, she was a relative, more or less. After twenty-five years of intense genealogical discussion, she and Mother had finally found that the sister of one of our ancestors had apparently been married to the nephew of one of Mrs. Fenniman's forebears, so they'd declared each other relatives. I could see Mrs. Fenniman taking matters into her own hands. During a visit to Richmond, she had once discouraged an armed mugger by stabbing him with her hatpin. And she was convinced that she had never been burgled because everyone in the county knew she slept with her great-grandfather's Civil War saber at her bedside, ready to deal with any intruders. The fact that at least 99 percent of the townspeople had never been burgled either was, of course, irrelevant.

  Mrs. Fenniman was wandering about in the yard below, wearing--good heavens, no!--a deerstalker hat. That was all we needed, another would-be amateur detective. I was relieved when she spotted Dad and hurried over to deposit the deerstalker on his shining crown. Dad beamed gratefully. He and Michael were talking, somewhat apart from the crowd--though it was hard to tell whether this was because they were sharing inside information on the crime or simply because people tended to steer clear of Spike, who lunged, snarling and snapping, at any human who came within a few feet.

  Michael. He wasn't a relative or an old friend, but I found myself strangely reluctant to consider Michael in the role of suspect. But what, after all, did I really know about him? He seemed like a nice person. But who knew what secrets he might be concealing? Secrets worth killing for? As I watched, he offered Spike a sliver of cheese. Kind-hearted of him, considering how nasty the little beast was. Spike gobbled the cheese, and then, when he'd barely swallowed it, lunged at the hand that had just, literally, fed him. What a pity there was no possibility of Mrs. Grover being killed by a wild animal. We could make Spike the fall guy; he certainly qualified.

  Then again, Spike had his uses. He whirled and nearly took a chunk out of Barry, who was still dogging Dad's footsteps.

  Barry. One of the few people who might possibly be large enough to have heaved Mrs. Grover into the river. Or over it, if he wanted. Or tucked her under his arm and hauled her down to the beach as easily as I could carry a loaf of bread. He was staying at Eileen's father's house, with the path to the beach not ten feet away. He'd had a run-in with Mrs. Grover at one of the parties. He and Dad alibied each other, but incompletely. Barry claimed to have been with Dad all day, helping in the garden, but I overheard Dad explaining to the sheriff that he'd done his best to "park" Barry whenever possible-- to find a chore Barry could do unsupervised and then leave him there where he was out of Dad's hair. It didn't work all that well, I gather--Barry seemed to need to hunt Dad down at regular intervals to ask rather idiotic questions. But still, there were vast stretches of time during which Dad was reveling in Barry's absence and Barry could have been doing away with Mrs. Grover. I would be crushed to find out that any of my family or friends was a murderer. But I thought I could bear up under the loss if it turned out to be Barry. I briefly contemplated life without Barry, or rather with Barry behind bars. I liked the prospect. No more having Barry hang around my booth at craft fairs, scaring away any other, more attractive men who might want to talk to me. No more showing up at Steven and Eileen's to find out they'd arranged to have Barry over at the same time.

  Whoa. Steven and Eileen. They would be crushed if it turned out to be Barry. Ah, well, I suppose I would have to hope it wasn't him either, for their sakes.

  "Hi, Aunt Meg!" I started; I hadn't even noticed my nephew Eric climbing the tree with Duck under his arm.

  "Hi."

  "Samantha was looking for you." Drat. "Don't tell her where I am," I said. I tried to think of a reason to give him, but Eric didn't seem to find my request at all strange.

  "Okay," he said. Sensible child. He and Duck settled down beside me.

  I scanned the crowd until I found Samantha. She was striding purposefully around, stopping from time to time and questioning people. Still looking for me. I drew back a little from the edge of the platform and made sure I was well hidden behind some leaves. Samantha had also argued with Mrs. Grover during the party. Perhaps she was the murderer, I thought, and then was appalled to realize how much savage, triumphant joy that thought gave me.

  I really don't like her, I told myself. I could take her or leave her when she and Rob were dating, but after five months of helping her organize the wedding, I truly didn't like her. By the end of the summer, I would probably loathe her. Of course my relationship with Eileen was a little strained at the moment--or as strained as a relationship could be between two people when one of them was so charmingly oblivious. But that was different. After the wedding
was over, Eileen and I would still be good friends. But Samantha. I realized I'd somehow been looking forward to her wedding day as if it were the end of my relationship with her instead of only the beginning.

  I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of having to see her year in, year out. And felt guilty about feeling that way. I was beginning to suspect Samantha's friendliness toward me when she first got engaged was all a fake. A deliberate ploy to sucker me into doing for her the million and one things I was doing for my own mother and for Eileen, who was not only motherless but perpetually disorganized. Samantha's mother was about on a par with Eileen when it came to practical matters, but I was beginning to think Samantha could have organized her own wedding singlehanded if she had to. But she didn't. She'd trapped me into doing it all instead. I sighed.

  "What's wrong, Aunt Meg?" Eric said. "Are you worried about the bad man?"

  "What bad man?"

  "The one who hurt Mrs. Grover."

  "No, I'm just tired. I think I'll take a nap."

  "Okay," Eric said. He closed his eyes and curled up to take a nap, too. I was glad. I wasn't sure what I could tell him if he kept asking questions. That there wasn't a bad man? That there was nothing to worry about? I'm not big on lying, even to protect kids. There could be a bad man out there. Or a bad woman.

  Please, let it have been an accident. Maybe she was walking on the beach and a stone tumbled down the cliff and hit her on the head. I made a mental note to discuss this idea with Dad, just before I dropped off to sleep.