Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  “Hi, Meg,” he said, with studied casualness. And then he jumped as the kitten climbed his trouser leg. The pile slipped, papers flew everywhere, and a small box fell to the floor, where it popped open, spilling out a clutter of lead figures and brightly colored four-, six-, ten-, and twenty-sided dice.

  “Role-playing games?” I asked. He winced. “I thought you were studying for the bar exam. What are you doing playing games?”

  “But I’m not playing,” he protested. “A classmate and I have invented a game. We’re calling it Kill All the Lawyers. Or possibly Lawyers from Hell. I thought of it during finals, and we’ve been working on it all summer. We’re running a test session now. Everyone loves it, and we think we can market it to one of the big game companies.”

  “Rob,” I began. And then gave up. If he wasn’t worried about what Samantha would do if she caught him inventing games instead of studying for the bar, I certainly wasn’t worried. Maybe it would be the best thing.

  But if Rob was sneaking out to play Lawyers from Hell, where had Samantha been? And with whom? And why had Jake suddenly decided to scatter his wife’s ashes?

  I would have to have a talk with Dad tomorrow.

  Tuesday, July 12

  “HAVE YOU DECIDED WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO WEAR FOR ROB AND Samantha’s wedding?” I asked Mother over breakfast. Besides getting out another large batch of Mother’s last-minute additional invitations, my day’s to-do list included taking her in to Be-Stitched to let Michael and Mrs. Tranh talk her into something if she hadn’t yet made a decision. Otherwise Michael’s ladies would still be sewing when Rob and Samantha’s grandchildren got married.

  “Not exactly, dear,” Mother said. “I was thinking of that suit with the lace-trimmed jacket.”

  “Mother. It’s white. You can’t wear white to a wedding unless you’re the bride.”

  “Yes, dear, I know. I wasn’t thinking of doing that.” The hell she wasn’t. “But I was thinking I could dye it a nice pastel. Or perhaps Michael’s ladies could make something just like it in a pastel.”

  “Excellent idea. You’ve always looked great in that suit, and it’s so unusual that there’s no way Mrs. Brewster will have anything even similar. Pink would look great.”

  “Ye-es. In a nice raw silk, I think.”

  “Let’s go down to Be-Stitched and talk to them this morning.”

  “After lunch, dear. Mrs. Fenniman and I are going to visit your Aunt Phoebe this morning. Would you like to come?”

  “Love to, but I still have some invitations to do,” I lied. The last time we’d visited Aunt Phoebe, I’d gotten ill listening to her descriptions of operations—hers and other people’s. Or possibly from drinking her truly vile homemade dandelion wine.

  After seeing Mother and Mrs. Fenniman off I took my stack of notepaper and Mother’s instructions and settled down under my favorite shade tree on the lawn. When I heard the riding lawn mower start up, I ran over to talk to Dad, but for once he’d let someone else use his favorite toy. Scotty Ballister was merrily cruising up and down the front lawn on the mower. I returned to my lawn chair, keeping a weather eye open for Dad so I could tell him about all the night’s adventures.

  I had paused over a note to a cousin who lived in Santa Monica. I was lost in a reverie of a trip to California several years ago, when I’d spent hours on the beach watching the surf with no responsibilities hanging over my head. I was relaxed, at peace—all right, I was nearly asleep—when Michael’s voice jolted me awake.

  “I’ll join you if I may,” he said, setting up a lawn chair next to mine. “I came to drop off some fabric samples for your mother, but she’s not here.”

  “She’ll be back for lunch,” I said, jerking upright. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in addressing a few envelopes while you’re here?”

  “Sure,” he said, obligingly taking a stack and a pen. “I thought the invitations were all out by now.”

  “Mother thought of a few more intimate friends and immediate family members.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I shouted over the lawn mower as Scotty came around the corner on the lawn mower. “They’re not your family.”

  Michael said something in reply, but I couldn’t hear him for the lawn mower.

  “Sorry, I missed that,” I said, when Scotty was far enough off.

  “It figures.”

  “What figures?” I asked. Scotty cruised by, slightly closer.

  “I thought your dad never let anyone else ride the mower,” Michael shouted.

  “He usually doesn’t,” I shouted back. “Especially not Scotty.”

  We gave up on conversation and worked away quietly—except for the buzz of the lawn mower, but by this time I had gotten so used to it that it seemed just another pleasant part of a sunny summer afternoon. Scotty was working his way steadily toward us, driving a more or less straight line back and forth, rattling quickly down the slope to the bushes at the edge of the bluff and then grinding slowly uphill again to the pine trees at the other side of the yard. As he got closer, he would slow down each time he drove past us to wave or wink.

  “At least he’s dressed today,” Michael remarked. “I only hope he’s reasonably sober.”

  “Dad wouldn’t have let him on the mower if he weren’t. I’m more worried about whether he’ll be sober for the wedding. Or so hung over from the party the night before that he can’t walk down the aisle straight.”

  “That’s right; he’s in one of the weddings, isn’t he?” Michael asked.

  “Samantha’s. Usher,” I said. “His father’s a partner in Mr. Brewster’s firm.”

  “Must be an important partner,” Michael remarked. “I can’t imagine why else Samantha would put up with him.”

  “He’s rumored to be reasonably presentable when properly clothed,” I said. Michael chuckled.

  “I suppose we should move and let him get this part of the lawn,” I said finally, beginning to gather up my envelopes and lists, while keeping an eye on Scotty, who had once more narrowly avoided hitting the trees when he turned at the top of the yard and was heading downhill toward us again.

  “Give it one more pass,” Michael said, putting down his stack and stretching luxuriously. I did the same.

  “I have an idea,” Michael said. “Let’s go—”

  But just then he saw my look of surprise and turned to see Scotty careen past us at full speed, waving his arms and legs wildly, and then crash through the bushes to drive straight off the bluff.

  “What the hell—” Michael began. We heard the lawn mower, still running, ripping through the underbrush on the way down, and then a wet, gurgling noise as the motor choked and died.

  “I’ll go down and see if he’s all right,” Michael said, running in the direction of the ladder in the neighbors’ yard. “You go dial 911.”

  “Dialing 911 is getting to be a habit around here,” I muttered as I raced to the house.

  Scotty was not all right at all. I could tell that much from the top of the bluff. His unwilling dive had ended on a large rock at the foot of the bluff.

  “You don’t want to go down there,” Michael said, appearing at the top of the ladder looking very shaken. “You don’t want anyone going down there. I think we should post a guard at each end of the beach to keep people away. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I ever doubted your dad; he’s right, there’s no way Mrs. Grover fell over that cliff.”

  I called some neighbors to arrange guard details, and then we waited. The rescue squad showed up too late to help poor Scotty. They were followed shortly by the sheriff and Dad. The sheriff and Dad seemed to find our description of Scotty’s last wild ride highly interesting.

  “Waving both arms and both legs, you say?” the sheriff asked. For about the thirteenth time.

  “That’s right,” I said. Michael nodded.

  “You’re sure?” the sheriff persisted.

  “Absolutely,” I said.


  “That’s certainly what it looked like,” Michael said.

  “Then I think we’d better have a look at that lawn mower when they fish it up,” the sheriff said. “Those things have a deadman switch on ‘em. No way it could just keep going without his foot on the pedal …”

  “Unless it was tampered with,” Dad finished. They both looked grim and headed off in the direction of the bluff.

  Needless to say, we did not make it in to Be-Stitched that afternoon. The lawn mower was examined, and the sheriff hauled it away to be examined some more.

  “And just think, we still have the foxglove to look forward to,” Michael said that evening.

  Wednesday, July 13

  NOTHING IMPROVES SOMEONE’S CHARACTER IN THE PUBLIC mind like dying suddenly and young. The same people who last week criticized Scotty’s family for not kicking him out to earn his own living were now remarking what a waste it was and what potential Scotty had. Potential for what they didn’t say.

  We were treated to another up-close-and-personal look at our local law enforcement officials in action. I was not impressed. If I were still a registered voter in York County, I’d be looking for a new candidate for sheriff come the next election. I’d even vote for Mrs. Fenniman, the only opposition candidate who’d come forward so far.

  The state police were a lot more impressive, but either the law or the unwritten code of the old boys’ network seemed to keep them from getting too involved without the sheriff’s consent. And the sheriff definitely wanted to squelch any talk of murder.

  “First Mrs. Grover and now Scotty,” Mother said, “and that nice Mr. Price, too.”

  “Mr. Price wasn’t killed, Mother,” I said.

  “It was a near thing. What if there’s a murderer among us?”

  “I grant you, we’ve had a run of unfortunate accidents this summer,” the sheriff said, cautiously. “But it’s a long stretch from there to murder.”

  “You know, I really do think it most odd of Mrs. Waterston to just go off like that. So suddenly, and right at the beginning of the wedding season,” Mother said.

  “Mother! She didn’t just go off, she broke her leg while visiting her sister and she’s staying there till she recuperates,” I explained to the sheriff.

  “But it was very odd of her to just go off to visit her sister at the last minute and abandon her clients.”

  “She didn’t go off at the last minute; she went off in May.”

  “Well, that was the last minute for all the June weddings, dear.”

  “Yes, but anyone with any sense picked out her dress months ago. And she didn’t just abandon you. She left Michael to take care of things.”

  “Yes, he does seem to have taken hold and settled right in.”

  For a paranoid moment I wondered if Mother was evolving a theory that Michael was the murderer. Perhaps she was about to suggest that Michael’s mother was not down in Florida with a broken leg, but dead somewhere. That he planned to worm his way into our confidence, then announce that his dear mother had died of complications, and take over her business. Perhaps he wasn’t even her son. And Mrs. Grover and Scotty had been killed and Mr. Price nearly killed because they somehow discovered his secret. For a few moments, I found myself seriously considering Michael as a cold-blooded killer. And rejecting the idea outright.

  “Mother,” I said, “what on earth are you suggesting?”

  “I think,” she said, leaning closer to the sheriff and me, “that Mrs. Waterston may have had a Premonition.”

  “A premonition,” the sheriff repeated.

  “A Premonition of Danger,” Mother elaborated.

  “Ah,” the sheriff said, nodding sagely. I have often wondered if he ever realizes how much being Mother’s cousin has contributed to his success as an elected official. After five decades of dealing with Mother, he can listen with a perfectly straight face to almost any inanity uttered by a constituent.

  “I don’t want to worry your mother,” he said to me as I showed him out. “We can’t be one hundred percent sure, but there is something real strange about Scotty’s death. You keep an eye on your folks, you hear?”

  Did the man think I was an idiot? I intended to keep a very close eye on my parents, particularly Dad. Scotty had been killed riding a lawn mower that everyone in the neighborhood knew Dad almost never let anyone else use. Scotty had died, but I would bet anything Dad was the intended victim.

  And I remembered the night Scotty had dropped by to apologize to me. He’d said something about seeing something odd. And I’d cut him off. I mentally kicked myself. Scotty had probably seen something that would have solved Mrs. Grover’s murder and the other strange incidents. And had been mistakenly killed instead of Dad before he could reveal it.

  Then again, what if the murderer had heard Scotty say that and deliberately killed him? Even if the odd thing Scotty saw had nothing to do with the murder, what if the killer’s guilty mind jumped to that conclusion? In which case the killer might have been aiming at Scotty after all, and not Dad.

  I thought of mentioning it to Dad, but decided not to. Whatever Scotty had seen, it was gone for good now. Reminding Dad that we’d had a chance to hear it and failed would only frustrate him further.

  And of course, there was the depressing task of recruiting a suitable usher to replace Scotty. After much discussion of the candidates, Samantha dragged in Rob to rubber-stamp her choice: someone named Ian who, although apparently not a close personal friend of either of the principals, was tall, dark, and handsome enough to please the bridesmaids and well connected enough to suit Samantha and her mother.

  Thursday, July 14

  THE NEXT CASUALTY—NOT, FORTUNATELY, A FATALITY—WAS from Eileen’s wedding party.

  “Oh, Meg, my nephew Brian has the measles!” she wailed.

  “Well, so much for a ring bearer,” I said.

  “Oh, Meg, we have to have a ring bearer,” Eileen said. “The costume is so darling, and I don’t want poor Caitlin to have to walk down the aisle alone.” Caitlin, I suspected, would rather prefer to have the limelight all to herself, but I doubted Eileen would see this.

  “Don’t you have any other little boy cousins?” I asked.

  “There’s little Petey, but he’s only two.”

  “No way. What about Eric? I think he’ll fit the costume.”

  “Oh, that would be perfect, Meg!” Eileen enthused, and hung up reassured.

  Now all I had to do was talk Eric into it. I ended up having to promise to take him and several of his friends to ride the roller coasters at the nearest amusement park as a bribe. Dad was so touched by this show of auntly devotion that he offered to foot the bill. No one else volunteered a damned thing.

  “By the way, Dad,” I said, “one more thing.”

  “I have to run, Meg,” he said. “I have to talk to the medical examiner.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you later about Jake scattering Great-Aunt Sophy in the river, and Samantha sneaking out of her house late at night with someone other than Rob, and what Rob’s been doing instead of studying for the bar exam.”

  That got his attention. His listened intently as I gave him a dramatic account of everything I’d witnessed while skulking about the neighborhood.

  “How odd,” he muttered, when I was finished.

  “My words exactly.”

  “This doesn’t add up at all,” he said. He wandered off, looking very puzzled.

  “Well, don’t bother telling me anything,” I said to his departing back. “It’s not as if I’ve contributed anything to this investigation.”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. The hell with it. Let Dad detect; I had to go over to the Donleavys’ to keep Steven and Eileen from getting up to anything. Like changing the theme of the wedding at the last minute.

  Like everyone else in town, I kept looking over my shoulder, watching for sinister figures lurking in the shadows. And seeing them; although so far all the reports of prowlers had turned out to be plai
nclothes state police scouting the neighborhood.

  Friday, July 15

  MICHAEL AND THE LADIES MANAGED TO GET ERIC’S OUTFIT READY for Friday evening’s wedding rehearsal. We’d decided to hold it in partial costume, so everyone could get used to some of the unusual gear they’d be wearing. The bridesmaids adapted easily to the trains, but it took a while for the men to learn to walk without tripping over the swords.

  “What do you think?” Michael asked, as we surveyed the bridal party.

  “I think most of these men ought to have known better than to agree to wear tights. And arming them was another mistake,” I added, watching two of the ushers draw their supposedly ornamental swords and strike what I’m sure they thought were dashing fencing poses.

  “Let’s go and straighten them out,” Michael said. “The same thing happens whenever we do a period play with weapons. Everyone starts thinking he’s Zorro.”

  “Oh, give it a few minutes,” I said, as one overzealous usher narrowly missed skewering the beastly Barry in a particularly painful place. “Maybe his aim will improve.”

  I glanced at Michael, who was leaning elegantly against a tree trunk and watching the ushers’ antics with lofty amusement. I sternly suppressed the distracting mental picture of how much better he would look in tights than any of the ushers.

  Or, for that matter, in the elaborate Renaissance priest’s costume he’d modeled for us in the shop. Like Michael, Father Pete was inspired by the costume to do a little swashing and buckling. Unfortunately, aside from his height, he bore no resemblance at all to Michael. He was only a little on the pudgy side, but his round, fair, freckled face, and thinning sandy hair looked distinctly incongruous atop the elegant sophistication of his costume. Ah, well.

  The rehearsal went about as well as could be expected, which meant it fell slightly short of being an unmitigated disaster.