Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  “That’s nice, dear,” Mother said. “Does she know that?”

  “She will soon,” I replied. “I am picking her up at five minutes to nine. We will drive in to Be-Stitched and stay there until she selects something. If she hasn’t decided by lunchtime, I will go out for pizza. If she hasn’t decided by closing time, we will do the same thing Tuesday if necessary, and Wednesday, and Thursday. If by noon Friday she hasn’t picked anything, I will select whatever Michael tells me can be most easily completed between now and mid-July, and she will have to live with it.”

  “This I gotta see!” chortled Mrs. Fenniman.

  “Eileen is so fortunate to have you taking care of things,” Mother remarked. “Perhaps Mrs. Fenniman and I could help. We could try to gently influence her toward some gowns that would be appropriate and flattering.”

  “With no hoops!” Mrs. Fenniman snorted.

  I considered the offer. Logically speaking, one would assume that having more people involved would prolong rather than streamline things. But Mother could not only talk anyone into anything, she could probably make Eileen think it was her own idea. The trick was to get Mother properly motivated. I needed a mother determined to help Eileen reach a quick decision, not a bored mother finding entertainment by helping Eileen dither for the rest of the week.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, that would be a help. Perhaps the problem is that Eileen doesn’t quite trust my advice on clothing, but of course with you two there that wouldn’t be a problem. And it would save time in the long run. As soon as I’ve gotten a decision from Eileen, I can really concentrate on getting the rest of your invitations out and running all those errands you need for the redecorating.”

  I was afraid I’d been a little too obvious, but they fell for it. It only took me ten minutes to put on my shoes and find my car keys, but when I went outside they were standing impatiently by the car in their full summer shopping regalia (including hats), and had begun jotting down a list of criteria for Eileen’s dress. I felt encouraged that the first item was “No hoops!”

  “We’ve all come to help Eileen decide on her dress,” I announced to Michael as the parade filed into the shop. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman settled on either side of Eileen on the sofa in the front window and dived efficiently into their task.

  “I’m not holding my breath,” Michael said, too quietly for the others to hear.

  “Have faith,” I muttered back. “The end is in sight. I’ve pretended to Mother that I’ll have absolutely no time to work on her wedding till Eileen’s gown is chosen. Five bucks says she has a decision by lunchtime.”

  “No bet,” Michael said, laughing.

  By eleven-thirty, I was beginning to be glad we hadn’t wagered. I wouldn’t exactly say Mother and Mrs. Fenniman had been unhelpful. They’d talked Eileen out of a number of truly horrible dresses, usually with graphic descriptions of how awful Eileen would look in them. But we didn’t really seem any closer to a decision.

  “Perhaps it’s time to order in lunch,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Michael said, and strolled over to the counter to pick up the phone book.

  “They have lovely salads and pastries at the River Cafe,” Mother said brightly. “It’s just two blocks down.”

  “Do they do carryout?” I asked. “We’re not leaving till Eileen makes a decision.”

  “I suppose they might, but you can’t carry out a nice pot of tea. Why don’t we just—”

  “Tea?” Michael said. “I’ll be happy to make some tea. Mom and the ladies have quite a selection. Earl Grey, jasmine, Lap-sang souchong, gunpowder, chamomile, Constant Comment, plain old Lipton tea bags …”

  Deprived of the prospect of an elegant luncheon, Mother lapsed into decorative melancholy after I placed our sandwich order with the cafe. Even Mrs. Waterston’s best jasmine tea in a delicate china cup produced little improvement.

  “I can see why Eileen is having so much trouble,” she sighed to Mrs. Fenniman. “They simply don’t make gowns like they used to. I mean the styles, of course,” she said quickly to Michael.

  “I like to split a gut laughing the first time I saw a bride in a miniskirt,” Mrs. Fenniman cackled. “And that Demerest girl last year—out to here!” she exclaimed, holding her hand an improbable three feet from her stomach. “It’s a wonder she didn’t go into labor right there in the church, and her in a white gown with a ten-foot train.”

  “I always thought the gowns Samantha had made for her other wedding were really sweet,” Mother mused.

  “Her other wedding?” Michael and I said in unison.

  “Oh, dear,” Mother said. ‘That’s terribly bad luck, two people saying the same thing like that. You must link your little fingers together, and one of you has to say, ‘What goes up a chimney?’ and then the other has to say, ‘Smoke.'” Michael was wearing the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look that was becoming habitual these days. At least when my family was around.

  “Just do it,” I said, extending my little finger. “For the sake of all our sanity. What goes up a chimney?”

  “Smoke.”

  “I hope that was in time,” Mother said. “Well, you’ll know next time; at least you will, Michael. Meg is so stubborn.”

  “I’ll work on it,” he said. “Tell us about Samantha’s other wedding.”

  “You remember, Meg, it was supposed to be at Christmas, a year and a half ago. She was engaged to that nice young boy from Miami.”

  “Oh, yes, the stockbroker,” I said. “I remember now. And how many millions of dollars was it he embezzled? Or perhaps I should say cruzeiros; he skipped to Brazil if I remember correctly.”

  “No, dear, that was his partner. They arrested Samantha’s young man in Miami before he got on the plane. And he said his partner got away with all of the money. The partner claimed otherwise, of course, but they never found a penny of it.”

  “Poor thing! So Samantha dumped him and went after Rob,” I said.

  “That’s so cynical, Meg,” Eileen said, looking up from her catalog.

  “That’s me, town cynic,” I said.

  “Anyway, I do think her first gowns were lovely,” Mother continued. “Not that the new ones aren’t lovely too. But these were rather unusual, too, and your mother’s ladies did such lovely work on them.”

  “Mom made them?” Michael asked, surprised.

  “Why, yes,” Mother said. “They might still be here; I remember when we told her about Samantha and Rob’s engagement she said something about hoping Samantha would finally take them off her hands, but of course Samantha didn’t want anything to remind her of that ill-fated first engagement.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if your mother breaking her leg just now was entirely an accident,” I said to Michael.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, with a start.

  “Perhaps subconsciously she preferred to break it rather than stick around for Samantha’s second wedding.” He laughed.

  “Why blame her subconscious? Seems like a rational decision to me.”

  “I thought it was her arm she broke,” Mother said.

  “No, I’m sure Michael said it was her leg,” Mrs. Fenniman said. They both looked at Michael.

  “Both, actually,” he said, nervously. “They knew the leg was broken right away, and at first they only thought the arm was sprained, but then when they x-rayed they found the leg was a simple fracture and the arm was some sort of more serious kind of break so we were more worried about the arm and I might have forgotten to mention the leg at that point, but now we know they’re both broken, but mending nicely.” Only a trained actor could have gotten that out in one breath, I thought.

  “Poor thing,” Mother said. “How did she do it, anyway?” Michael looked nervous again and hesitated.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know,” he said finally. “She’s told me several completely different stories, and I’ve decided she probably did it while doing something she thinks I would disapprove of or worry about.
We may never know the whole truth.” He walked over to the curtained doorway and called out something in—Vietnamese? Whatever. Mrs. Tranh appeared and they talked rapidly for a few moments, then Mrs. Tranh disappeared behind the curtain.

  “Mrs. Tranh says the gowns Samantha originally ordered are, indeed, here, and she’s going to bring some of them down.”

  “Oh, how interesting,” Mother said.

  “If by some miracle they appeal to you, Eileen, we can probably give you a really good deal. At cost, even; they’ve been hanging around taking up space for nearly eighteen months now.”

  And tying up cash, no doubt; I felt sure that if Samantha’s family had paid for them, they’d have the gowns in their possession. I wondered how they managed to weasel out of paying. I would have to consult the grapevine on that one. If it were my wedding I would never stoop to taking Samantha’s castoffs, but I suppressed the thought. At this point, I’d like anything Eileen could be persuaded to choose. Mrs, Tranh and one of the other ladies appeared lugging garment bags taller than they were, and Samantha’s rejects were pulled out and lovingly displayed.

  “Oooohhhh,” Eileen said as the bridal gown emerged from the bag. I hurried over to see what we were in for.

  Maybe it was seeing the actual garments instead of a lot of pictures. Maybe she’d had a brief attack of frugality and focused on the words “at cost.” Probably it was because Eileen has always longed to live in another century—any other century—and these gowns were in a rather ethereal pseudo-medieval style. The more Eileen looked at the bride’s dress, the more infatuated with it she became, and she was just as enchanted with the bridesmaids’ dresses. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were also oohing and ahhing. The owner of the River Cafe, arriving with our lunch, was equally enthusiastic. Mrs. Tranh and the other lady were beaming and pointing out wonderful little details of the construction and decoration and I was the only one paying any attention to the practical side of things.

  “Eileen,” I said. “They’re made of velvet. Your wedding is in July, Outside!” I was ignored.

  “I’m so sorry,” Michael said.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but even at cost, those things aren’t going to be cheap. All that velvet and lace, and the pearls and beads stitched on by hand.” He winced and shook his head. “And they look as if they were made either for Samantha’s current flock of bridesmaids or one similarly sized. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed this, but Samantha’s friends are all borderline anorexics and Eileen’s friends tend more to be earth mother types, so they’ll need alterations. Major alterations. You may even have to make some of them from scratch.” He nodded.

  “If I’d had any idea—” he began.

  “Skip it,” I said. “It’s done.”

  “Look on the bright side. She’s made a decision.”

  “In front of plenty of witnesses,” I added.

  “And Mrs. Tranh and the other ladies will be so happy.”

  “True.”

  “And Mom won’t have to take the Brewsters to small claims court as she’s been threatening.”

  “Or hold Samantha’s new gowns for ransom a couple of days before her wedding, which I hate to admit is what I’d be tempted to do if the Brewsters still owed me for the last set.”

  “See? Everybody’s happy,” Michael said.

  “Ah, well,” I said, softening. “They are beautiful.” Michael went over to the happy crew and extracted a dress. The bride’s gown was white velvet trimmed with white and gold brocade and ribbon, the bridesmaids’ gowns dark blue velvet with blue and yellow, and this one, the maid of honor’s dress, in deep burgundy and rose. He spun me around to face one of the mirrors and held it in front of me.

  “Look how good that is with your coloring,” he said, coaxing. “You’re going to look smashing!”

  “Assuming I can ever get into it.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen Mrs. Tranh and the ladies pull off bigger miracles. It’s not that far off, really. Take a look.” He slipped the dress off the hanger and had me hold it at the neckline while he fitted it snugly to my waist with his hands. “Not bad at all,” he murmured, looking over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror, and then down at me for my reaction. I found myself slightly breathless, even though I knew that the flirtatiousness in his voice was meaningless and that the warmth in those incredible blue eyes was probably due to his relief at getting a decision out of Eileen and unloading the unsold dresses.

  “Yeah,” I said, reluctantly pulling away and handing him back the dress. “We’ll all die of heatstroke, but we’ll make beautiful corpses. Why don’t we leave them alone to coo while we discuss our no doubt very different definitions of the phrase ‘really good deal'?”

  It wasn’t such a bad deal after all. Either Michael was a lousy bargainer, or he was very eager to unload the unsold dresses. Or eager not to have Eileen underfoot dithering for another whole day. Although the total was going to be significantly more than we’d originally planned, Eileen was so deliriously happy that I didn’t worry about it. I’d figure out somewhere else to skimp. We’d gotten her to choose a dress, the last major outstanding decision. I figured the worst was over.

  I figured wrong.

  We dropped her off at her dad’s house to call Steven. Several hours later she showed up with Barry in tow, just in time to join Mother, Pam, Mrs. Fenniman, and me for a light supper.

  “Steven loves the dresses,” she announced happily.

  “Steven hasn’t even seen them yet,” I said.

  “Yes, but I’ve told him about them and he loves the idea. Meg, we’ve decided—that’s going to be our theme!”

  ‘What, letting Steven make decisions sight unseen? Sounds efficient.”

  “No! The Renaissance! Isn’t it wonderful!” Eileen said, clasping her hands together. “We’ll have an authentic period wedding!”

  “It’s a complete change of plans,” I protested. In vain. During the rest of the meal, I watched, helpless, as the four of them made plans that rendered every bit of work I’d done over the last five months totally useless.

  After dinner I fled to my room and began major revisions to my list of things to do. Okay. Renaissance music wouldn’t be too bad. I knew some craftspeople who worked the Renaissance Fair circuit; I could probably find some musicians through them. Or the college music department. The florist wouldn’t be a problem. Flowers are flowers. Decorating the yard wouldn’t have to change much. Floral garlands and perhaps a few vaguely heraldic banners. I was sure I could work something out with the caterer. Perhaps a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth would lend a proper note of Renaissance splendor to the festivities. Later on I could probably talk Eileen into using plastic goblets; if not, her grand scheme of making several hundred souvenir ceramic goblets and inscribing them with the date and their initials would keep her harmlessly occupied and out of my hair for the next few weeks. I was reasonably sure that in the light of day the notion of hiring horse-drawn carriages for the arrival and departure of the bridal party would seem excessive. They’d been rewriting the language of their vows for months now, and I shuddered at the thought of their very politically correct script rewritten in pseudo-Shakespearean language. But, then, it wouldn’t make any work for me, so the hell with it. And, on the bright side, it would probably kill the Native American herbal purification ceremony, and perhaps Dad would obsess about the Renaissance instead of true crime.

  I’d gotten into the habit of looking at my list each evening and rating the days as well or badly done, depending on how much further ahead or behind I’d gotten. As I looked at the three-and-a-half pages of new items that Eileen had just added to the list, I felt seriously depressed.

  Tuesday, June 14

  I CALLED MICHAEL FIRST THING IN THE MORNING TO KICK OFF THE costuming side of things.

  “Michael,” I said. “Are you sitting down?”

  “I can be. What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve created a monster. Eileen has decided to redo t
he entire wedding in a Renaissance theme.”

  “Oh,” he said, after a pause. “That’s going to take some doing, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think there is any possibility that your seamstresses can cut down one of the extra dresses to make a flower girl’s dress and make seven doublets or whatever you call them—six adult and one child—to coordinate with the dresses? By July Thirtieth?”

  “Let me check with Mrs. Tranh.”

  “Great. I’ll see what I can do about getting the ushers in for measuring as soon as possible.”

  “Good idea.”

  “If Barry’s still loitering with intent, I’ll send him in tomorrow. If it should happen to take an unconscionably long time to measure him, no one around here will mind.”

  “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll keep him around the shop long enough to pick up conversational Vietnamese,” Michael offered. “As for the rest, I assume you had them measured somewhere for tuxedos or whatever else they were originally going to be wearing.”

  “Ages ago.”

  “Maybe those measurements would be enough for us to get started. Normally I stay clear of Mrs. Tranh’s area of expertise, but as an old theater hand I can testify that they never have as much trouble making the costume fit the understudy in a Shakespearean production, what with all the gathers and lacings.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “But we haven’t yet finished notifying them all of the change of plans yet. There isn’t really any point in sending you measurements for an usher who categorically refuses to prance around in tights and a codpiece.”

  “Good point. We’ll stand by. I hate to add a note of gloom, but what if you can’t find enough ushers willing to prance around in tights?”

  “Steven knows a lot of history buffs who like to dress up in chain mail on weekends and thwack each other with swords. He’s sure he can find enough volunteers.”