Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  “Is this a family obsession as well?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” I said. “But it’s hard not to pick up a few tidbits over the years.”

  “I won’t need your dad’s tour, then. You can do the honors.”

  “Ah, but Dad would tell you the scientific names of each poison and describe the effects in vivid, clinical detail.”

  “Sounds as if it takes a strong stomach,” Michael said, with one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes. Mrs. Grover seems to be enjoying it more than most people do,” I said. She was asking rather a lot of questions and peering with those cold eyes at each plant as if committing it to memory. Perhaps some of her sister’s shrubbery was missing as well.

  “Could it be her way of flirting with your dad?” Michael asked.

  “More likely she’s planning on poisoning someone herself,” I replied. “Seems in character.”

  “Poisoning someone? Who?” Michael and I both turned in surprise to see a startled Jake behind us.

  “No one’s poisoning anyone, Mr. Wendell,” I said, gently. “It was only a joke; we were both commenting on how patient your sister-in-law is being about listening to Dad’s lecture on poisonous plants.”

  “Ghastly,” Jake said, and edged away.

  “Do I sense that he didn’t enjoy his tour?” Michael said, chuckling. I frowned slightly at him; Dad was coming over with Mrs. Grover in tow. I braced myself.

  “And this is my daughter Meg, who’s down for the summer to help her mother with the wedding, and Michael Waterston, who’s filling in this summer for his mother, who runs our local dress shop. How’s your mother’s leg?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Michael said. “Making good progress, the doctor says. I’m hoping it won’t quite be all summer before she comes back.”

  “Well, tell her not to rush it,” Dad said. “You’d be amazed how many people do themselves a permanent injury trying to do too much too soon.”

  “Her sister is looking after her,” Michael said. “Aunt Marigold won’t let her get away with anything she shouldn’t.”

  “Marigold? Tell me, is your mother Dahlia Waterston?” Mrs. Grover asked.

  “Yes,” Michael said, startled. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Grover said. “I come from Fort Lauderdale, you know. I know your Aunt Marigold, and as it happens, I saw your mother not very long ago.”

  “Really,” Michael said, oddly nervous.

  “It must have been just before her accident,” Mrs. Grover said. “Her leg, was it?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “Quite a bad fracture.”

  “Really,” Mrs. Grover said. “We must talk about her sometime.”

  I found myself rather disliking her sly, insinuating manner. She seemed to say one thing and mean another, and I wondered what there could be in that short conversation to make Michael so uneasy. Perhaps he was afraid that Mrs. Grover had found out he was gay and would reveal it to his mother when she went home. Perhaps she’d found it out from his mother and he was afraid she would reveal it here, not knowing that it was already common knowledge. Or perhaps … oh, but don’t be silly, I told myself. She’s just a woman with a rather unpleasant manner. Stop letting your imagination run wild.

  “Speaking of Florida, we have some very interesting tropical plants over here,” Dad said, hauling the conversation by brute force back to his pet topic. He trotted over to another section of the yard with Mrs. Grover in tow. Michael and I both breathed sighs of relief.

  “What an irritating woman,” Pam said, appearing at my elbow. “If her sister was anything like her, perhaps even Mother would be an improvement.”

  “Why, what’s she done?” I asked.

  “What hasn’t she done?” Pam countered. “One of the aunts leaves in tears after Mrs. Grover tells her how natural her wig looked—which it does, but you know how sensitive people are when they’ve lost their own hair, and Mrs. Grover goes and announces it in front of at least a dozen people who probably didn’t realize it was a wig. She suggests that perhaps Mrs. Fenniman has had enough wine, which she has, but you know how contrary she is; she’s off swilling it down now and will probably have to be carried home. And then—well, she said something very unkind about Natalie’s looks, so I suppose you have to call me a biased witness. Oh, no, she’s talking to Eric,” Pam said, cutting short her tirade. “Excuse me while I rescue him; I don’t fancy seeing her torture both kids on the same evening.”

  But before Pam had gone two steps, Mother swept over and led Mrs. Grover off. For the rest of the party, whenever I saw Mrs. Grover, she had Mother at her elbow and a vexed look on her face. Bravo, Mother.

  That evening, as I was preparing for bed, I found myself getting depressed. I wasn’t quite sure why. The anticipated explosion from Mrs. Grover hadn’t happened. I’d actually enjoyed myself far more than I usually did at a family party. I’d spent much of the time with Michael. We had a great many interests in common, not to mention similar senses of humor. He seemed to enjoy the company of my eccentric relatives without actually appearing to be laughing at them. Unlike most of the theater people I’d ever met he didn’t seem to have an overdeveloped ego and an underused brain—although maybe that was because he was a theater professor, not a working actor. And he was certainly easy on the eyes. Just my luck that I was the wrong gender to suit the only genuinely attractive, intelligent, witty, and interesting male to come along in years. I told myself that it was definitely destructive to my peace of mind to spend too much time with Michael What-a-Waste. I vowed that tomorrow, at Eileen’s party, I would mingle. After all, while her father’s guest list was unlikely to include anyone as gorgeous as Michael, it might offer someone who was not only unmarried but actually eligible.

  Monday, May 30

  HOWEVER, I RECKONED WITHOUT MICHAEL’S APPARENT ENTHUSIASM for my company. Obviously he’d decided I was a kindred spirit here in the wilderness. Or perhaps only the least unpalatable female camouflage available. Whatever. In the light of day, surrounded by dotty relatives, my resolution not to waste time on ineligible bachelors evaporated rapidly. And so from the start, the second party seemed almost as a continuation of Mother’s.

  “I have a sense of deja vu,” Michael said, shortly after arriving. “Didn’t I picnic with these same people yesterday?”

  “Yes, and ate much the same menu you’ll get today,” I said. “Welcome to smalltown life.”

  “Speaking of food,” Rob said, and he and Michael headed for the buffet table.

  “Michael’s right,” I told Pam. “This picnic has almost the same cast of characters as Mother’s.”

  “It’s a pity the return performances include Mrs. Grover,” Pam said. “After all the stories I’ve heard about her antics yesterday, I’d have thought she’d be persona non grata everywhere in town.”

  “She does have a gift for offending people, doesn’t she?” I replied. “I suppose we’re underestimating the local dedication to Southern hospitality.”

  “Or Mother’s ability to twist arms.”

  “Also a pity Barry had to come,” I said, glancing around to see if he was nearby.

  “Oh, which one is he?” Pam asked.

  “The one following Dad around like a puppy,” I said, pointing. “He’s been doing it all afternoon.”

  “Is Dad that entertaining today?” Pam asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been avoiding them. Actually, I think Barry’s doing it to make a good impression on me. Steven and Eileen probably put him up to it.”

  “Hmph,” Pam said. “I don’t see them.”

  “They stopped over on Cape May on the way back from a fair.”

  “So we’re partying without the guests of honor.”

  “Yes. Theoretically, they’re supposed to be down here tomorrow so we can go pick her dress.”

  “I’m not holding my breath,” Pam said.

  “Neither am I.”

  I felt it was very shortsighted of Eileen not to come
. Both other brides were using the occasion to assign me new projects and extract progress reports on the old ones. Although if I reciprocated by trying to get either of them to make a decision or cough up information, they would gently rebuke me for being a workaholic and ruining such a nice social occasion. I hadn’t expected to need the notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe at a party, dammit, so I was taking notes on napkins. With two out of three brides present at the picnic, my pockets were getting rather full of napkins.

  I joined the mob at the buffet table and discovered, to my irritation, that there was only a small bowl of Pam’s famous homemade salsa, and that was nearly gone. Rob and Michael were industriously shoveling down what little remained.

  “Is that all the salsa left?” I demanded. Michael and Rob froze, then edged away guiltily.

  “Dad got into it,” Pam explained.

  “He always does,” I said, scraping a few remnants off the side of the bowl. “You should have made two bowls and hidden one.”

  “I always do,” she retorted. “It’s not my fault he found them both this time. He’s getting better at it.”

  “You mean your dad ate two whole bowls of salsa?” Samantha asked incredulously.

  “Dad’s very fond of my salsa,” Pam said.

  “It’s very good,” Barry pronounced.

  “Wonderful digestion for someone in his sixties,” Jake remarked. “I can’t even look at the stuff without having heartburn for days.”

  “Dad can eat everything,” Pam remarked.

  “And frequently does,” I said. “How well did you hide the desserts?”

  “Here, Meg,” Mother said, handing me a plate. “Have some potato salad.”

  “I don’t like potato salad, Mother,” I said.

  “Nonsense, it’s very good,” Mother said. “Mrs. Grover made it.” Not, to my mind, a recommendation. I examined it for telltale signs of ground glass or eye of newt.

  “Oh, Meg, there’s your friend Scotty!” Mother said, pointing out a new arrival. “Scotty and Meg grew up together,” she explained to Michael, who was looking dubiously at Scotty’s disheveled, potbellied form.

  “I’ve been a little more successful at it,” I said. “Scotty’s in training to become the town drunk.”

  “Meg!” Mother said. “Is that necessary?”

  “Well, somebody has to do it. Scotty’s certainly the best qualified.”

  “He’s had a little trouble finding himself,” Mother said “I’m sure he’ll do just fine as soon as he finds something that suits his abilities.”

  “Mother,” I said. “Scotty is thirty-five years old. If he hasn’t figured out what he wants to do when he grows up by now, I would say the chances of his ever doing so are slim and getting slimmer by the minute.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn out all right,” Mother said. “He just needs encouragement.” She floated over to talk to some newly arriving cousins, graciously bestowing an encouraging word on Scotty in passing. He jumped guiltily away from the beer cooler at the sound of her voice and began combing his unwashed hair with his fingers. Then, when he realized she was gone, he furtively fished out another can.

  “Actually, he doesn’t usually need much encouragement at all,” I said as Scotty had caught sight of me and hurried over. Scotty cherished the fond delusion that we were childhood buddies.

  “Meg,” he said, approaching with open arms.

  “Hello, Scotty, have some potato salad,” I said, shoving my plate into his hand to ward him off. He didn’t seem to mind. Scotty was used to rejection.

  “Isn’t it great?” Scotty said. “We’re going to be in a wedding together.”

  “Scotty’s an usher in Samantha and Rob’s wedding,” I explained.

  “His father is a partner in the firm,” Samantha added, giving Scotty a withering look. He sidled off. I wondered, not for the first time, why Samantha had ever included Scotty as an usher. Granted he was rumored to be reasonably presentable when sober and washed, but other than that … well, his father must be a great deal more important to Mr. Brewster’s law firm than I’d previously thought. Samantha marched off haughtily in the opposite direction. Scotty looked as if he might return, but noticed that Dad was organizing an impromptu work detail to weed Professor Donleavy’s flowerbeds. Scotty vanished around the side of the house. He was all too familiar with Dad’s tendency to find work for idle hands. Barry, Eric, and one of Eric’s classmates had already begun weeding.

  “I see Dad’s putting Barry to some good use,” I said.

  “They seem to be getting along pretty well,” Michael remarked with a frown.

  “Stuff and nonsense. I suspect Eileen has told Barry to get in good with Dad if he hopes to make a favorable impression on me, which is why he’s been hovering over Dad even more than me since he got here.”

  “And getting in good with your Dad isn’t important to making a favorable impression on you?” Michael asked. Dad saw us, waved, and began walking our way.

  “It is, but I doubt if Barry has any chance of doing it,” I replied.

  “What a remarkably obtuse young man,” Dad said, shaking his head as he joined us. Michael chuckled.

  “I quite agree,” I said. “Mother thinks he’s very sweet.”

  “Really?” Dad said.

  “Of course, she has incredibly bad taste in men—present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dad said.

  “She always liked Jeffrey, she’s very taken with Barry, and she’s even rather fond of Scotty the Sot,” I said.

  “Your mother strikes me as the sort of person who would be a sucker for stray animals, too,” Michael remarked.

  “Oh, she is.” Dad beamed.

  “But since we kids started going off to college and weren’t around full time to feed them for her, she’s gotten very good at getting other people to adopt them,” I added.

  I left Dad and Michael to entertain each other and strolled through the lawn, greeting friends and neighbors and adding to my napkin collection. One of Eileen’s aunts gave me the new address for sending her invitation. A neighbor knew a calligrapher. Mrs. Fenniman knew a cheaper one. An aunt’s new (third) husband was starting a catering business. By midafternoon I had to make a trip into the house to empty out my napkin collection.

  When I came back out, I paused and looked over the lawn, bracing myself to dive back into the crowd. I noticed Samantha and Mrs. Grover standing a little apart at one end of the pool. From the looks of it, they weren’t exchanging pleasantries.

  I admit it, I’m nosy. I went over to join them.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t want that to get out,” Mrs. Grover was saying as I strolled into earshot.

  “I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to,” Samantha said in an icy tone.

  “Well, we’ll talk about it some other time, dear,” Mrs. Grover said, so softly I could barely hear her. For a few seconds, she and Samantha appeared to be having a staring contest, and although neither appeared to take any notice of me, I knew perfectly well that both were acutely conscious of me and that my arrival had interrupted—what? As far as I knew, Samantha and Mrs. Grover had only just met. What could possibly be causing this undeniable antagonism between Samantha and her fiancé’s future stepfather’s first wife’s sister? What did Mrs. Grover know that Samantha wouldn’t want to get out?

  “Aunt Meg!” My melodramatic speculations were interrupted by Eric, who had appeared at my side and was tugging at my arm. “Come see what Duck did!”

  “I can’t imagine,” I muttered, following him to a spot in the shrubbery. Mrs. Grover tagged along.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Duck laid another egg,” Eric said. “Aunt Meg, what am I going to do with it? I don’t have another shirt pocket, and I could put it in my pants pocket, but—”

  “In warm weather like this, I think it will be fine until we get the incubator,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay,” Eric
said. Spotting some newly arrived cousins, he ran off to play, presumably entrusting the care of Duck’s egg to me.

  “He’s remarkably dependent on that bird,” Mrs. Grover said, in a disparaging tone.

  “Children are devoted to their pets,” I said.

  “Not exactly a normal sort of pet, though, is it?” she said, in a slimy, insinuating tone that seemed to imply that most arsonists and ax murderers started on the road to ruin through unnatural attachments to waterfowl.

  “They have a number of dogs, too,” I said, defensively. “But only one Duck.”

  “Yes, and I rather think we can keep it that way, don’t you?” Mrs. Grover said, and before I realized what she was doing, deliberately squashed Duck’s egg with the heel of her shoe.

  “Don’t! Eric’s pet laid that!”

  “Ugh,” she said, as the contents of the egg splattered her foot. “The nasty thing is all over me.”

  “Well, what did you expect? Did you think ducks laid hard-boiled eggs? Don’t touch that!” I said, swatting her hand away as she reached to strip a clump of leaves off one of Professor Donleavy’s more fragile tropical bushes. “Don’t touch any of the bushes; hasn’t Dad warned you about all the galloping skin rashes you can get from the foliage around here?”

  “Then get me some napkins,” she ordered, shaking her foot and spattering me with droplets of egg, while scrubbing her hand on her dress.

  “Get your own napkins,” I snapped. “And don’t let Eric see you. We’re going to have a hard enough time explaining why the egg’s gone; you have no idea how upset he’ll be if he sees you with egg all over your foot.”

  I snagged a few napkins from the buffet table, cleaned the splatters of egg off my dress as best I could, and retreated to the opposite side of the yard to fume.

  “What’s wrong, Meg?” Michael asked, appearing at my elbow. I jumped.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” I said. “Especially when I’m already feeling guilty about contemplating homicide.”

  “Really,” he said, handing me a fresh glass of wine. “Who’s the intended victim?”

  “Mrs. Grover.”