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 birdwatcher 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 arrive 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 birdwatcher 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.
Sunday, June 5
ATTENDANCE AT GRACE EPISCOPAL WAS UNUSUALLY HIGH THE next morning, almost rivaling Christmas and Easter. I went with Mother largely to keep her in line. She was trying to plan an elaborate funeral for Mrs. Grover; I wanted to get Reverend Pugh to contact Mrs. Grover’s clergyman or friends back home to make arrangements. I wondered if, knowing Mother, he could be persuaded to utter a small white lie and tell Mother that Mrs. Grover wanted to be cremated quietly, with no service or other fuss. Preferably back in Fort Lauderdale.
Reverend Pugh correctly deduced that Mrs. Grover’s death was the reason for the high attendance and preached a very moving sermon on the general theme “Even in the midst of life we are in death.” At least I suppose it was moving for those who were able to hear it. I was sitting in the back, where Mrs. Fenniman and the other professional town gossips were busily updating each other on new developments in “the case.”
I fled home immediately after the service, but my hopes of getting anything done were dashed by an unusually large infestation of visiting relatives.
Monday, June 6
EVEN ON MONDAY, ACCOMPLISHING ANYTHING WAS AN UPHILL battle. No one wanted to talk about weddings; everyone wanted to hear about Mrs. Grover. I stopped by the Brewsters’ house after lunchtime to give Samantha some photographers’ samples.
Of course, since my arms were completely full, no one answered when I knocked. I juggled the books with one arm and let myself into the kitchen.
“Anyone home?” I called, poking my head into the family room. I interrupted Samantha in the midst of a phone call.
“I’ll have to call you back later,” she said, and hung up in a distinctly furtive manner. How odd; furtive wasn’t usually Samantha’s style at all.
“Coordinating your alibi with your co-conspirators?” I teased. To my surprise, she jumped.
“Alibi! What do you mean alibi?” she snapped.
“Where were you on the afternoon of May 31 when the late Mrs. Grover disappeared?” I said, melodramatically.
“I don’t think that’s the least bit funny. The poor woman is dead.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s particularly funny either; I’ve just had it up to here with people putting on their lugubrious faces and wanting to hear all about it.”
“Who wants to hear all about it?” Samantha asked. “Hasn’t everyone around here heard enough already?”
“Yes, but all day, everyone with whom I’ve tried to discuss menus, flowers, photo packages, and tuxedo sizes has wanted to hear all about Mrs. Grover before doing any business.”
“That’s so tacky,” she sniffed.
“Yes, but in a small town, one can’t afford to offend the limited number of vendors available,” I pointed out. “So I give them a thrill by telling them the inside scoop, and with any luck I can turn it to our advantage.”
“Well, that’s sensible, I suppose,” Samantha said, absently. I gave her the photographers’ books and beat a retreat. She seemed to want to be left alone, which was highly unusual. Normally she’d have wanted to interrogate me on my progress and natter on for hours about her latest inspirations. Perhaps I had been too hard on her, I thought, as I strolled home. Perhaps she had really been affected by Mrs. Grover’s death. I doubted she could have gotten to know Mrs. Grover well enough to be mourning her personally, but perhaps the death had momentarily jarred her out of her monumental self-absorption. A sobering reminder of mortality in the midst of celebration and plans for the future and all that. Maybe that was why she had seemed so furtive; perhaps she was embarrassed to have her frivolous preoccupation with finger bowls and flower arrangements compared with the grief suffered by Mrs. Grover’s loved ones. Whoever they might be.
Then again, perhaps Samantha’s touchiness on the subject of the murder was due to irritation about the attention it was drawing away from her wedding. And as for behaving furtively, she was probably up to something. Coming up with some new complication—another one of those “small details that really make the occasion”—as well as making mountains of work for me. Doubtless she’d unveil her new plan, whatever it was, as soon as she was sure she’d figured out how it could cause the maximum amount of trouble for me.
I spent the afternoon fretting alternately about what Samantha was up to and what the sheriff was up to, becoming so preoccupied that I actually misspelled several relatives’ names on their invitations and had to rewrite them.
“Meg,” Dad said that evening, “I’m having a hard time convincing the sheriff how extremely unlikely it was for Mrs. Grover to have fallen from the bluff without sustaining a more serious injury. Could you help me for a while tomorrow?”
“Why not?” I said, rashly. If I couldn’t forget about the murder long enough to address a few envelopes properly, I might as well help Dad out and perhaps get it out of my system. And of course my brother, Rob, who was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, was up for anything that didn’t involve sitting indoors with his law books, so Dad succeeded in recruiting him as well.
Tuesday, June 7
I WAS GETTING READY TO THROW AN IMPOSSIBLY HEAVY SANDBAG off the bluff the next morning when Michael came along walking Spike.
“What are you doing?” Michael said.
“Helping Dad help the sheriff with his investigation.”
“Ready!” Dad called up from the beach.
I took a deep breath and then grappled with the sandbag.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Michael said, looking for somewhere to tie Spike’s leash.
“No, no!” I said. “That would spoil the test.”
“Test? What test? That thing must weigh a ton.”
“A hundred and five pounds, actually,” I puffed. “Stand clear.” I wrestled the bag as close to the edge of the bluff as I dared, gave it a desperate heave over the side, and fell back panting. I heard the bag crashing through the brush on the way down. “One more to go,” I said, as I collapsed onto the ground by the last sandbag.
“I assume this has something to do with the murder?” Michael said, sitting down on the grass beside me. “Was that all she weighed, a hundred and five pounds?”
“Was that all? You try lugging one of these,” I said. “Actually, a hundred and two, according to the medical examiner, but Dad decided to add three pounds for clothes. We’re doing some testing for the sheriff.”
“Ready!” Dad called again.
“Testing what?” Michael asked. “And why do you have to throw them?”
“If you want to throw some next, that would be fine with Dad. And great with me, I’m done in, and Rob’s beat, too, and we both want to keep Dad from doing too much of the throwing. He’s very fit but he’s not invulnerable. But seeing how much strength it would have taken to have thrown her over is one of the things we’re testing. I’m pretty damned strong for a woman, and it’s about as much as I can do to drag them to the edge and shove them over. Here goes.”
I slung the bag over the side, but this bag didn’t go as far and stuck in the bushes. “Damn,” I said, and grabbed up the garden rake. I shoved at the bag until it finally toppled over and went crashing down the side.
Murder, with Peacocks Page 9
