“I wasn’t even invited to the shower,” Dad protested.
“Yes, but the killer could have guessed you’d show up to nibble on the food before the party started,” I said. “Everyone in town knows to fix more food than they need for a party, to feed the nibblers. And you’re king of the nibblers.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dad said, but his face had turned a bright red that suggested he saw the truth, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
“It’s a good thing you were busy elsewhere all day,” I went on. “If two bowls of salsa split among twenty people did all that damage, imagine what it would have done to you if you’d scarfed down a whole bowl the way you usually do with salsa. The only reason we had two bowls of the stuff is that you usually finish off one before the guests get to it, so Pam always makes one for you and one that she hopes you won’t find.”
“Oh, well,” Dad said, looking shaken and not bothering to protest. “Good point, I suppose. Anyway, there’s no way Pam could have accidentally introduced a potentially fatal dosage of a highly toxic vegetable alkaloid into the salsa.”
“That’s a relief.”
“The question is, who tampered with the salsa after Pam finished with it?”
“And why? Was it aimed at you, or Meg, or just at causing maximum death and injury?” Michael put in.
“Dad, you’ve got to be careful,” I said. “We all do.”
“Right. No nibbling.” Michael said.
“Yes, we should all be very careful indeed,” Dad said. And with that, he patted my hand and trotted away, no doubt to confer with the sheriff and the ME.
“Why the hell hasn’t your sheriff done something?” Michael asked, with irritation. “Called in the FBI or something.”
“Well, up until the bomb, I don’t think anyone was that worried,” I said. “The sheriff still seemed to think the fuse box incident and Mrs. Grover’s death could have been accidents. And after all, when it comes to homicides, Dad has rather a history of crying wolf.”
“I wasn’t sure I believed him myself, before,” Michael said. “But after this weekend, I’m sold. Whatever you and your dad have been doing with your detecting, you’ve definitely scared somebody. And that somebody’s after you.”
I closed my eyes briefly and shuddered at the idea of a coldblooded killer stalking my occasionally demented but thoroughly lovable Dad. I didn’t want to believe it. And I hadn’t even begun to sort out how I felt about joining Dad on the killer’s most wanted list. Why me? Had I found out something vital? If I had, it was news to me.
“I really don’t need this,” I said. “I have enough on my mind without this. These damned weddings are enough to worry about, without having a homicidal maniac on the loose.”
“Yes, life in Yorktown is getting very complicated,” Michael said. “Don’t walk on the bluffs, don’t play with fuse boxes, don’t open any packages, and don’t eat the salsa. Anyway, you look tired; I’ll let you sleep. I think I’ll go home and start harassing some law enforcement agencies to take action.”
“Good idea.”
“Anything I can do for you on my way out?”
“Yes,” I said, handing him a bag. “Take this herb tea and ask Dad to take a look at it to see if it’s safe to drink.”
“You think someone is trying to poison you again?” he asked, holding the bag as if it contained another ticking bomb.
“Not deliberately, but I’ve learned to distrust Eileen’s home remedies. And take these damned lilies of the valley away, too. Give them to Mrs. Tranh and the ladies if you like.”
“Are they poisonous too?” he joked.
“Actually, yes. Highly toxic. Warn them not to eat them. Even the water they’ve been soaking in could kill you.”
“I can see why you don’t want them around.”
“I don’t want them around because they’re from Barry,” I said, rather peevishly. “I thought he was safely off at a craft fair with Steven and Eileen for the weekend, but he showed up here instead. I’d be tempted to feed him the damn flowers and be done with him if I thought there was any chance they could decide on a new best man in time. But come July Sixteenth, Barry had better watch out.”
“Until they catch whoever spiked the salsa, all of us better watch out,” Michael said gravely. “Be careful.”
Thursday, July 7
FORTUNATELY FOR MY PEACE OF MIND, IT WASN’T UNTIL THURSDAY afternoon that I was reminded of what was in store for me over the weekend. Undeterred by the dramatic events at the shower, the Brewsters were going full steam ahead with plans for a weekend house party for a number of Samantha’s and Rob’s friends. Actually, mostly Samantha’s friends. Rob was being firmly but gently detached from any of his circle of friends of whom Samantha did not approve. Which generally meant the interesting ones, as far as I could see.
The house party had seemed like such a good idea when Mrs. Brewster first suggested it. I’m not, as a rule, a keen partygoer, and spending the evening in a roomful of Samantha’s friends was on a par with visiting one of the lower circles of hell. But I had been having difficulty getting some members of the wedding party to come in for final fittings. It occurred to me as soon as the party was suggested that it would be just the thing to lure any holdouts into town where they could be fitted and, if necessary, read the riot act while I had them in my clutches. So Samantha and her mother had planned a fun-filled weekend of parties and picnics, and I had suggested that they pay overtime to have Michael’s ladies on standby all weekend.
But I’d completely forgotten about the whole wretched thing until Mother glided into my room early Thursday morning. Considerably earlier than I had been intending to wake up.
“I think you should plan on getting up today,” she said. “You need to start getting your strength back.” She was probably right. I sighed.
“Pammy is fixing us a nice breakfast,” she continued. I was touched.
“And after breakfast you can both help me plan a new menu for the tea party I’m giving for Samantha and her little friends on Sunday.”
I pulled the covers back over my head and refused to budge until noon. Which only meant that we did the menu-planning after lunch.
“Meg, I’m beginning to think that blue fabric has been stolen,” Mother said that evening. “We should go down tomorrow and see if they can order some more.”
“Why don’t you let me look for it first?” I said. Great; now I had to find a way to lure Mother out of the house, sneak down to Pam’s, lug the fabric back, and hide it someplace where Mother could be convinced she hadn’t already looked. I didn’t feel up to it. I collared Dad and Michael after dinner and asked them if they would take care of it.
“Of course,” Dad said, patting my hand.
“Provided you’ll vouch for us if we’re caught,” Michael added.
“I’ll keep Mother well out of the way,” I said.
“I wasn’t thinking of your mother,” Michael said. “I was thinking of how the neighbors will react when they see the two of us sneaking about with wrapped parcels about the size and shape of human bodies.”
“We won’t sneak,” Dad said. “You can get away with almost anything as long as you act as if you have a perfect right to be doing whatever you’re doing.”
“Perhaps that’s how our murderer got away with it,” I said.
“I should think that even around here it would be a little hard to shove someone over the bluffs without exciting comment from the neighbors,” Michael objected.
“Not if they thought shoving that particular someone was the reasonable thing to do,” I said, testily, spotting Samantha heading down the driveway.
“And besides,” Dad protested, “I thought I’d made that clear: she couldn’t possibly have been shoved over the cliff.”
“True, but what about Meg’s theory that she was walking on the beach when a stone hit her on the head?” Michael replied.
They ambled off to Pam’s house, cheerfully debating their various theori
es about Mrs. Grover’s death. I eluded Samantha and went to help Mother prepare for her Sunday afternoon tea. By dint of looking wan and pale—I’d had a lot of practice over the past several days—I managed to talk her out of having me cook all kinds of complicated goodies. We drove down to three of the local bakeries and placed orders with each for a supply of their specialties.
Driving home, I wondered if placing the order several days ahead of time was such a good idea. Plenty of time for anyone to find out, duplicate one of the pastries we were serving, and prepare a doctored batch. I’d have to pick them up myself. And then hide them until the party. Perhaps there was some way I could mark them so I’d know they were the ones I’d picked up. And then if I saw someone lifting a pastry without the telltale mark, I could dash it from her hands …
You’re just being silly, I told myself. At least I hoped I was. Then again, if I were one of the out-of-town bridesmaids who’d lived through last weekend, I wouldn’t be that quick to eat the local cuisine. Or open any packages. Or come to Yorktown at all, for that matter.
Friday, July 8
I SPENT MOST OF THE DAY SUPERVISING THE CLEANING CREW Mother hired to get ready for Sunday’s tea. And then trying to keep Dad from tracking in garden debris. And cleaning up after the kitten, whom I really would have to return before everyone got too attached to him. And sorting out wedding presents. The sheriff’s office had been very cooperative about testing all the packages before we opened them, but they had failed to grasp the importance of keeping the cards with the presents. In some cases I had to figure out not only who sent the present but also whether it was for Mother or Samantha. I made a note to stay and supervise their inspection of the next batch.
Despite all this, I was ready early for the Brewsters’ party, largely because Mother was out for the evening and I could dress without any nuptial or decorating interruptions. I went over to see if the Brewsters needed any help. When I walked in, I wasn’t surprised to find Dad and Reverend Pugh parked by the buffet, discussing orchids. They had finished off a huge bowl of shrimp cocktail and were starting in on the bean dip.
“I thought we’d all agreed to avoid nibbling,” I said with some irritation. Dad froze, holding a stick of celery loaded with bean dip. The reverend shoveled in another mouthful. Well, if it hadn’t already killed him, one more bite wouldn’t hurt.
“After last weekend’s poisoning, you know,” Dad said, putting down the celery—which had already lost its load of bean dip to his lapel.
“Oh,” Reverend Pugh said, reluctantly moving away from the bean dip.
“You promised,” I said, fixing Dad with a stern glare.
“I suppose it’s all right for someone else to be poisoned instead of me,” Dad said, indignantly. “I suppose I should have let Pugh eat some of it and waited to see if he keeled over.”
From the way the rector was eyeing the ham croquettes, I expected he was about to volunteer to put his life on the line again for the good of the party.
“I suppose that’s why Mrs. Brewster asked us to guard the food,” he said, brightly.
“Guard, not devour,” I said. The two nibblers made a quick retreat. I concentrated on figuring out which neighbor would either have some shrimp around or be able to get some in time to replace what they’d eaten before Mrs. Brewster noticed.
I shouldn’t have bothered. With the exception of a few dozen oldsters like Dad and the Pughs, who left early, most of the crowd wasn’t seriously interested in food. In fact, most of Samantha’s friends focused on getting drunk as rapidly as possible and crawling off somewhere private with the most presentable person of the opposite sex they could get their hands on. Not only did I have to dodge the ever-present Scotty, but apparently not all of Samantha’s male friends went for the bleached blond anorexic type. By the time the third keg was being opened, I dodged a particularly persistent (and intoxicated) suitor by literally crawling out a bathroom window.
As I turned up the driveway toward home, I heard a shout.
“Meg! Wait up!” It was Michael. I waited for him to catch up with me.
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Not even midnight and you’re home from the party. I thought you were supposed to be a night owl.”
“Oh, not you, too. Officially I’m still a little under the weather from the poisoning. Unofficially, Samantha’s friends can be a real drag. Where’s Spike? Lost again?”
“At home, as far as I know. I dropped by on the chance either you or your mother would be here. She said you had found the jacquard and I should come by to pick it up. What is jacquard, and what am I supposed to do with it when I’ve got it? I presume it’s something to do with the shop?”
“Jacquard? Oh, I suppose she means those five bolts of blue fabric you and Dad retrieved from Pam’s. I think I shoved them in my closet; hang on and I’ll haul them down. Mother must still be out at her cousins',” I added, seeing that the house was dark.
“I can do the hauling if you show me where they are,” Michael offered.
“Ordinarily, my stubborn independent nature would compel me to insist on doing it myself. But after a week like this one, I’ll even let people open doors for me.”
“I gather the other bridesmaids are fully recovered from the shower, then?” Michael asked, as we climbed the stairs.
“Mostly recovered,” I said. “Of course, most of them aren’t worrying about saving any energy for the second party tomorrow night, Mother’s tea on Sunday, and whatever nonsense we’re going to have to go through with the fittings tomorrow,” I added.
As we walked into my room, Michael and I were both startled to see the closet door fly open. Scotty jumped out, holding half a dozen bedraggled roses and wearing nothing but a tipsy grin.
“Meg, baby,” he cried, opening his arms wide. Then he saw Michael. The smile faded slowly, and after a few moments, it occurred to him to use the roses in place of a fig leaf.
“I could leave if you like,” Michael said, with one eyebrow raised.
“If you do, I’ll kill you,” I told him. “Scotty, what on earth are you—never mind, stupid question. Those are from Mother’s rose bushes, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he said, the smile returning.
“She’ll be very upset when she finds out they’ve been cut,” I said. “She was saving them for her wedding.”
“Oh.” His face fell again, and he clutched the roses nervously, as if he expected me to demand that he hand them over.
“You’d better apologize to her.”
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow,” Michael put in.
“Right,” Scotty said.
“I think you should leave now,” I said. Scotty slouched out. Michael watched carefully until the screen door slammed downstairs, then shook his head. “Hope those roses don’t have thorns,” he remarked. I giggled at that.
“It would serve him right if they do. That’s the material, those bolts he was standing on. I hope the mud washes out.” Michael hoisted the bolts and turned to leave. “Hang on a second and I’ll get the doors for you,” I told him. “I want to have a vase full of water handy just in case.”
“In case he brings back the roses?”
“God, no! I’d throw them back in his … face. In case he starts singing under my window.”
“Does he do that often?” Michael asked, peering over the bolts at me.
“He’s never done it to me before. But it’s what he usually does when someone he’s interested in tells him to get lost. He fixated on Eileen when we were in high school, and it became a regular nightly routine for a while. Her father tried to set the dogs on him, but all dogs like Scotty.”
“No doubt he makes them feel superior.”
“There, you see?” From down in the backyard, we could hear Scotty launching into an off-key version of “Hey, Baby.”
“Scotty!” I yelled out the window, waving the vase. “If you don’t shut up this minute I’ll throw this!”
“Is he dressed?” Mich
ael asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Unfortunately not. Scotty! I mean it!”
Scotty continued to bray, so I threw the contents of the vase at him.
“Good shot,” Michael observed. “But it doesn’t seem to be working. Try this,” he said, fishing a small plastic squeeze bottle out of his shirt pocket and handing it to me. I aimed it at Scotty and was pleased to see that when the contents of the bottle hit him, he stopped in mid-verse, looked up at me reproachfully for a few moments, then sighed and stumbled off.
“Ick, what was that?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at the rank smell rising from the bottle.
“I have no idea,” Michael said. “Some esoteric brew Mrs. Tranh concocts for Mom. It’s supposed to repel dogs. The idea is to squirt it at any larger dogs who fight back when Spike picks on them.”
“Well, it did the trick,” I said, handing back the bottle. “At least for now. Oh, please let this be a temporary aberration! First Steven’s Neanderthal brother and now this. I just can’t deal with Scotty on top of everything else. If one more oaf comes near me …” I said, shaking my head and leading the way to the stairs.
“Define ‘oaf',” Michael said, moving away slightly.
“The way I feel at the moment … any member of the male sex.”
“No exceptions?” he asked, plaintively.
“Dad. He’s totally bonkers, but he’s not an oaf.”
“Agreed,” Michael said.
“Rob … I think.”
“You think? Your own brother and you’re not sure?”
“His taste in women is highly questionable,” I said.
“No argument there. Anyone else?”
“Michael, if you’re fishing for compliments, I’ll grant you provisional exemption from oafhood on the grounds that you helped rescue me from Scotty, and have refrained from asking what I could possibly have done to encourage him to leap out of the closet at me like that.”
“Like you said before, somehow I don’t think Scotty needs much encouragement.”
“The wrong men never do.”
Murder, with Peacocks Page 19
