Murder With Peacocks

by Murder

  "Commendably businesslike," Michael said.

  "But not very illuminating," I said. I stood up and looked around. "Something's missing here."

  "Like any sign that the man has a personality." Michael had wandered over to the shelves on either side of the fireplace. They were largely empty, except for a few pieces of bric-a-brac that were presumably either too large for Mrs. Grover to hide or too cheap for her to bother with. There were maybe two dozen books, all paperback copies of recent best-sellers.

  "Doesn't he have any more books?" Michael asked.

  "Good question."

  We looked. Not in the guest room. Not in the bedroom, which looked more lived in than the rest of the house but still depressingly tidy. Not in the dining room or the upstairs bath or the kitchen. Not in the basement, where Spike lay in wait for us under the water heater, growling. Not in the attic.

  "Depressing," I said. "Irrelevant, but depressing."

  Just then we heard a car go by, and peering out, I saw it was Jake's.

  "We'd better leave; Jake may drop Mother off and come back soon," I said.

  We lured Spike out from under the furnace and left the way we came.

  "That was a bust," Michael said. "Well, we do have corroboration for his alibi."

  "I thought we had that already."

  "The sheriff had it," I said. "Now that I've seen it myself, I believe it."

  And, as I admitted to myself before falling asleep that night, I was more than a little hoping to find some evidence against Jake because deep down I just didn't like him. How much of that was justifiable and how much due to my resentment that he was taking Dad's place, I didn't know. But I had to admit, I'd found nothing against him, other than further confirmation that he was a bland, boring cipher.

  I pondered the other, more viable suspects. I could certainly find the opportunity to sneak into Samantha's room ... Barry's van ... even Michael's mother's house, although if I were seriously considering him a suspect, I had already made a big mistake by letting him find out I was snooping. Two big mistakes if you counted letting him paw through Jake's things. It all seemed rather pointless.

  "I give up," I told myself. "Let Dad do the detecting. I have three weddings to organize."

  Monday, June 20

  On Monday morning, I coerced Pam into waiting for the electrician while I traipsed down to Be-Stitched for some fittings--along--with Samantha and Mother and half a dozen hangers-on. I wondered for the umpteenth time if my presence was really necessary at every one of Samantha's fittings. Having to stand perfectly still while Mrs. Tranh and the ladies did things with pins and tape measures seemed to throw Samantha's brain even further into overdrive, and she used the energy to cross-examine me on my progress (or lack thereof).

  "How is the calligrapher doing?" she asked, as Mrs. Tranh frowned over some detail of the sleeves. "Are the invitations back yet?"

  "She wanted a full week," I said, glossing over the fact that the week had been up the previous Friday and I'd had no luck getting in touch with Mrs. Thornhill, the calligrapher, over the weekend. Best not to upset Samantha until absolutely necessary.

  "What about the peacocks?" she asked.

  "I've got some leads."

  "It's nearly the end of June," she complained.

  "Yes, have you been to see Reverend Pugh for the premarital counseling yet?" I asked, partly to change the subject, partly to see her squirm, and partly because it was another item I'd like to get checked off my list.

  "Yes, you really must get that out of the way," Mother chimed in. Samantha looked uncomfortable.

  "Well, not yet," she admitted. "We have been wondering if he is quite the right minister," she added, glaring at me because she didn't dare ask aloud how the search for a substitute was going.

  "Fat chance finding another this late," Mrs. Fenniman remarked.

  "Why shouldn't he be?" Mother asked.

  "Well, isn't he rather ... elderly?" Samantha said. "Are you sure he's up to the strain?" What a very tactful way of saying that he was older than the hills, looked and acted peculiar even by local standards, and she didn't want him within five miles of her elegant wedding.

  "Oh, he'd be so hurt if we didn't let him," Mother said. "And he still does a lovely ceremony."

  "He's had so much practice," I said, trying to imply that even the eccentric Reverend Pugh could probably manage to get through something as well known as the standard Book of Common Prayer wedding service without difficulty. "Besides, the Pughs have been marrying, burying, and baptizing Hollingworths for generations."

  "Though not in that order, I hope," Michael said under his breath.

  "Generations," Samantha repeated, looking very thoughtful. "Well, if it's a family tradition." I'd hoped she would fall for that one. She disappeared into the dressing room, still pondering, followed by the mothers and Mrs. Fenniman.

  "Reverend Pugh, eh?" Michael said. "Should be a hoot."

  "You've met him?"

  "No, only heard stories. So has Samantha, apparently; clever the way you brought her round."

  "I've found that with Samantha nothing works like snob appeal. Bet you five bucks that before the week is out, Samantha will find at least half a dozen occasions to remark, "But of course, the Pughs have performed all the Hollingworth family weddings for generations." Hooey."

  "You mean it's not true?"

  "Oh, it's true. For about two generations; before that the Hollingworths were Methodists and considered the Pughs carpetbaggers. But no need for her to know that."

  "My lips are sealed," Michael said, raising an eyebrow at me.

  "They'd better be. Anyway, I'm getting nowhere trying to find a substitute, and I've got to find some way to convince her to put up with Reverend Pugh. There seems to be a puzzling shortage of clergy in this part of the country at the moment; or perhaps not so puzzling if word has leaked out about what Yorktown is like in the summer."

  "Or word about what Samantha is like all year round," Michael muttered through a fixed smile as the bride in question sailed out of the dressing room.

  Thanks to my rapidly improving talents for prevaricating and changing the subject, I managed to get through the rest of the day without taking on more than two small new jobs and without admitting to Samantha exactly how slowly I was progressing on some of her odder requests. When I arrived home and found that Barry had shown up and invited himself for dinner and I'd missed a call from the calligrapher, I decided that I was feeling poorly and retired to my room with a cold plate and a hot new mystery. I fell asleep over chapter two.

  Tuesday, June 21

  Thanks to all the time I'd had to waste oohing and ahhing over Samantha's and the bridesmaid's gowns, I'd managed to spend the better part of Monday in Be-Stitched without getting anywhere near the inside of a dressing room myself. After making a quick return call to the calligrapher--who wasn't home again; I was going to have to find the time to drop by her house in person--I headed down Tuesday morning to see if I could squeeze in a fitting before a series of appointments with assorted caterers and florists. Unfortunately, I let Eileen tag along.

  "How are the rest of my costumes going?" she asked, before I could get a word out. I thought her choice of words accurate; they were very beautiful, but much more like costumes than normal wedding garb.

  "Splendidly!" Michael said. "They've already done most of the priest's outfit. Would you like to see it? I can try it on for you; your cousin and I seem to be much the same size."

  Of course she wanted to see it. It was for her wedding. Like Mother and Samantha, she would happily spend hours contemplating a placecard holder for her own wedding, while begrudging every second I spent on anyone else's wedding, even something as critical as finding out if I would fit into my dress. But I had to admit I was curious about the priest's outfit, especially if Michael was proposing to model it. Michael disappeared into the dressing room. We heard a few words in Vietnamese, muffled giggles, and the jangle of a dropped hanger. Eileen bro
wsed in a few of the magazines--which made me nervous; one of them had a rather spectacular article on a wedding with a Roaring Twenties theme that I was hoping would not catch her eye until after her wedding. If ever.

  Suddenly, the curtain was thrown violently aside, and out stepped Michael, in costume and very much in character. The long, flowing vestments were all black velvet, white linen, and gold lace, and made him look even taller and leaner than usual. He'd obviously decided to adopt the persona of a powerful, sinister prelate--perhaps one of the Borgias, or a grand inquisitor of some sort. He stalked slowly across the floor toward us, catlike, Machiavellian, almost Mephistophelean, and I found myself imagining him in a dark, paneled corridor in a Renaissance palazzo, lit by candles and flaring torches--a secret passage, perhaps--and he was striding purposefully along to ... to do what? To foil a devious plot, or arrange one? Counsel the king, or betray him? Rescue a fair maiden, or seduce one? And as he turned and looked imperiously at us--

  "Oh, it's absolutely fabulous!" Eileen gushed, jarring me from my reverie. Suddenly I became aware once more of the mundane real world around me, the steady mechanical humming of a sewing machine, a scrap of incomprehensible conversation from behind the curtain, and the heavy, oppressive heat of a Virginia summer. Or perhaps it wasn't the heat I felt so much as a blush, when I realized how ridiculous I must look, staring at Michael with my mouth hanging open. I really would have to see him act sometime, I decided.

  "Think your cousin will like it?" he asked, reaching to answer the phone. "Be-Stitched. Yes, Mrs. Langslow, she's right here." He handed the phone to me. "Your mother. Something about peacocks?"

  "Meg, dear," Mother trilled. "I have splendid news! Your cousin has found us some peacocks, but you'll have to go over there today to make the arrangements."

  "Over where?" I said. "And why can't we just call?"

  "He doesn't have a phone, apparently, or it's not working. I'm not sure which. And he won't take a reservation unless he has a cash deposit, so you'll have to go there immediately to make sure they're available. Think how terrible it would be if after all this we finally found the peacocks and someone else snapped them up just before you got there, which I'm sure could happen if anyone else finds out about them. There are two other weddings in town the same weekend mine is, and--"

  "All right, Mother. I'll go and put a down payment on the peacocks."

  I couldn't prevent Mother from giving me directions, which I ignored because she was sure to have gotten them mixed up. I called my cousin to get real directions, rescheduled all the other appointments on my list, and dashed off into the wilds of the county. Even with directions, I got lost half a dozen times. How can you turn right at a millet field if you have no idea what millet looks like? But I found the farm and only stepped in one pile of manure while I was there. The peacocks' owner agreed to bring them over a week or so before Samantha's wedding, so they'd have time to settle down, and leave them till a few days after Mother's wedding. I managed not to yawn during his lengthy stories about how he came to have a flock of peacocks and the difficulties of breeding them and how they were better than dogs for warning him whenever strangers came to the farm. And I left a deposit that would still have seemed excessive if the damned peacocks were gold-plated. Considering the cost involved, his lack of a telephone must have been sheer cussedness rather than a sign of economic hardship.

  I was feeling very pleased with myself until bedtime, when I realized I'd spent the entire day running around in order to cross off just one item. I tried to reach Mrs. Thornhill, the calligrapher, so I could cross that off, but there was no answer. Again. Ah, well. Tomorrow was another day. I wondered, briefly, where Dad had been for the past several days, and what he had done or was doing with Great-Aunt Sophy.

  Cool it, I told myself. Let Dad play detective. You have enough to do.

  Wednesday, June 22

  I got an early start and had crammed a truly awesome number of caterer and florist inspections into the morning. Not to mention half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to reach Mrs. Thornhill, the feckless calligrapher. Although still suspicious of what Dad was up to, I was just as happy to have heard nothing about homicide for several days. I was feeling optimistic about the possibility of getting back on schedule when Eileen showed up unexpectedly to have lunch with us. I immediately wondered what she was up to.

  "Are you doing anything this afternoon?" Eileen said, finally. Here comes the bombshell, I told myself.

  "I'm going in to Be-Stitched for a fitting. My dress for Samantha's wedding."

  "I'll go in with you," Eileen said. "I have something I want to ask Michael about."

  Doubtless another sign of rampant paranoia on my part, but on the way, as Eileen chattered happily about Renaissance music, I worried about what she wanted to ask Michael. Doubtless some new scheme that would make more work for me. I would have interrogated her then and there, but thought it might be more tactful to wait and see. Besides, I felt sure Michael would help me out if she pulled anything really outrageous.

  "Michael," she said, as we came in, "I've had the most wonderful idea, and I wanted to see if it was okay with you first."

  "What is it?" he asked, surprised and a little wary. Not actually suspicious, but then he didn't know Eileen as well as I did.

  "I'm going to have everyone in costume," she announced happily. "I want to see if you can make the costumes if necessary."

  "I thought we already were having everyone in costume," Michael said. "Bride, groom, maid of honor, best man, father of the bride, ring bearer, flower girl, four ushers, and four bridesmaids. And your cousin the priest. The musicians, you said, would be providing their own costumes. Who else is there?"

  "Eileen, not the guests," I said.

  "Yes!" She beamed. "Won't it be splendid?"

  "Oh, God, no," I moaned.

  "How many people have you invited?" Michael asked.

  "Six hundred and seven," I said. "At last count."

  "Of course they won't all come," she said, looking a little hurt and puzzled at our obvious lack of enthusiasm. "And some of them already have Renaissance costumes."

  "How many?" I asked. "A dozen or two? That still leaves several hundred costumes, even if half the guest list doesn't show up."

  "Well, yes," Eileen admitted.

  "Have you considered how much it would cost for guests to buy, rent, or make their costumes? It could be several hundred dollars apiece. I don't think you can ask people to spend that much just to come to your wedding. On top of what they'll already have to spend in airfare and hotels. A lot of people would stay away and feel hurt. Unless you're thinking of sticking your father with the bill. I'm sure he'd like that; feeding and clothing the multitudes."

  "Maybe we could rent a bunch of costumes from a theater," Eileen said, looking hopefully at Michael.

  "I suppose you might be able to," Michael said, "But you certainly wouldn't want to."

  "Why not?"

  "Most theatrical costumes are designed to look good from a distance," he said. "Up close, the way guests would see each other, they don't look so hot, even if they're brand new, and if they've been used they could be more than a little ragged around the edges. Also, up close, no matter how well cleaned they were, you'd probably be able to tell that people had been wearing them and sweating under hot lights for hours on end. You'd smell more than just the greasepaint." Bravo, Michael, I thought.

  "Perhaps we could send them all patterns," she suggested. "So they could make their own costumes."

  "I'm sure the few who know how and have the time have other things they'd like to be sewing," I said.

  "I'm sure there must be some way we can manage it," Eileen said, turning stubborn.

  "Tell you what: let's ask Mother," I said. "She's the best one I know to tell us whether it's suitable and if so, how to get it done. Michael, why don't you let Eileen take a look at how her dress is coming while I call to see if Mother's home or at Mrs. Fenniman's."

  Eileen
cheered up again at this, and obediently followed Michael back to the sewing room while I phoned home to enlist Mother.

  "She's going to try the dress on while she's here," Michael said, reappearing a few minutes later.

  "Good," I said. "That will give Mother time to round up Mrs. Fenniman and Pam and meet us back at the house to talk Eileen out of it."

  "Are you sure they'll talk her out of it?" Michael asked. "No offense, but it seems to be just the sort of ... charmingly eccentric idea your mother would encourage."

  "Charmingly eccentric," I said. "That's tactful. Totally loony, you mean. Yes, it's just the sort of circus Mother normally likes to encourage, and normally she'd be the first one down here trying to make sure her costume outshines all the rest. But I have carefully explained to her how much time this would take to coordinate. How much of my time, which Mother would rather have me spending on her wedding. She'll talk Eileen out of it, never fear."

  "I see why you wanted to get your mother involved," Michael said. "Brilliantly Machiavellian."

  "If all else fails, I'll try to convince Eileen that costumes would be more fun for one of the prewedding parties. Last I heard she was still planning several of those."

  "You know, some people pay other people good money for what you're doing for these three weddings," Michael remarked.

  "Not enough," I said, fervently. "They can't possibly pay them enough."

  "I don't mean to be nosy," Michael said, "but your mother does seem to have a lot of very definite ideas about what she wants done, and you always seem to be the one who ends up doing everything. I was wondering ... uh ..."

  "Is she always like that, and why do I put up with it?"

  "Well, yes, more or less."

  "She's not usually this bad," I said, with a sigh. "I think it's sort of a loyalty test."

  "Loyalty test?"

  "She's making me pay for having taken Dad's side in the divorce."

  "Did you really?" Michael asked. "Take his side, I mean."