“True. You know, come to think of it, the way the murderer has kept missing your Dad does suggest one interesting thing about his or her personality.”
“I’m all ears.”
“The murderer has come up with a number of rather clever ways to bump off your Dad in the course of his usual activities. So we know the murderer has a relatively good idea of your Dad’s tastes and habits. But each of the attempts failed—or succeeded with the wrong person—because your father didn’t happen to be doing what the murderer expected him to be doing at any given time.”
“Always a serious mistake, expecting Dad to be where he’s supposed to be.”
“Exactly. I’ve only known him since the beginning of the summer, but I’ve picked up that much. The murderer, however, despite knowing rather a lot of useful details about your Dad, has apparently not grasped this critical aspect of his character. I suspect the murderer is a person of limited imagination and very regular habits. Enough imagination to come up with a series of ideas, but not enough to think them through and make them foolproof. Not enough to recognize that there were going to be an awful lot of external events around this summer to interrupt everyone’s usual habits. And that your dad doesn’t have very many usual habits anyway.”
“So the murderer, who has a highly organized but pedestrian mind, knows Dad reasonably well but doesn’t really understand him.”
“Precisely,” Michael said.
“Unfortunately, it seems to me that the people who best fit that description are the very suspects we’ve already been looking at.”
“True,” Michael said. “We need more.”
“He or she has some basic knowledge of poisons.”
“Thanks to your dad, that doesn’t eliminate anyone in the county.” We both thought in silence for several miles.
“Mechanical ability,” Michael said at last. “Whoever did it knew how to tamper with cars and lawn mowers and fuse boxes. That should eliminate a few people.”
“Mother, certainly, if we hadn’t already counted her out. And Dad, for that matter.”
“Samantha, too, I should think,” Michael said.
“Now, don’t you be a chauvinist like A.J. I know she gives the impression that she’d die before she’d lift a finger to do anything mechanical, but that only applies when there’s someone else around who’ll do it for her if she bats her eyes. Remember how she bailed us out when we were trying to reinstall my distributor cap?”
“I stand rebuked. Return her to the top of the suspect list. What about the bomb? Surely most of our suspects have little or no experience with bombs.”
“No, but I hear you can build one with fertilizer, which everyone in town has by the ton, and these days I’m sure any eight-year-old could find step-by-step instructions on the Internet.”
We both glanced at the back of the car, where the troop of eight-year-olds appeared to be sound asleep, oblivious to the new level of destructiveness they could be achieving with a little initiative.
We continued to dissect the case all the way home, without coming up with anything else useful. Was the murderer really that brilliant, or were we all being particularly dense?
Wednesday, July 20
I WAS HELPING DAD WITH SOME GOPHER STOMPING THE NEXT MORNING when Aunt Phoebe showed up to introduce a visiting cousin.
“Cousin Walter?” Dad said. “I don’t remember a Cousin Walter.”
“I’ll explain the genealogy to you later, Dad,” I said, poking him with my elbow.
Cousin Walter was about six two, very physically fit, with a crew cut and a bulge under one arm of his bulky, unseasonably heavy navy sports coat. I’d never heard of Cousin Walter either, but if the FBI or the SBI or the DEA or whatever law enforcement agency sent him wanted us to pretend he was a cousin, that was fine with me.
No one in town would be fooled—we were all chuckling already about the half-dozen locals who’d introduced relatives nobody had ever met before or even heard of. Everybody was going along with the joke—we were glad to have them. I apologized for not inviting our newfound cousin to the wedding, he graciously accepted an oral invitation, and Dad and I returned to our gopher stomping. We were still at it when Michael showed up.
In my book, gopher stomping is useless but fun. Dad is convinced that if you systematically destroy a gopher’s tunnels by treading on them to cave them in and then stomping to pack the dirt, the gopher will eventually get discouraged and go elsewhere. I think that far from discouraging them it probably pleases them immensely; they get to have the fun of digging all over again. But Dad likes to do it, and I help him out. Besides, with an outdoor wedding coming up, to which at least half a dozen middle-aged or elderly relatives would insist on wearing spike heels, reducing the pitfalls in the yard seemed like a good idea.
“I’ve come to a fork,” Dad announced. “Are you at a dead end, Meg?”
“No, I’m still going strong,” I replied.
“Michael, would you like to take one?”
“One what?” Michael asked.
“One fork of the gopher trail,” Dad explained, stopping for a moment and mopping his face with a bandanna. “Come over here and I’ll show you.” After Dad demonstrated the basics of gopher stomping, we all three stomped a while in silence. Michael looked as if he wasn’t sure whether or not we were putting him on.
“By the way,” Michael said, pausing to stretch, “I was actually looking for Spike. Have you seen him?”
“No, not for several days,” Dad said. “How did he get loose?”
“Took off after the peacocks and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Do I detect a note of concern?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’re actually getting fond of the beast.”
“I wouldn’t say fond,” Michael replied. “But after two months of feeding him and walking him and giving him so many doggie treats Mom will probably have to put him on a diet when she gets back, we’ve reached a sort of truce.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “He hardly ever bites me anymore. Unless I try to take away something he ought not to be chewing. Or give him a flea bath. Or wake him suddenly. Or sometimes when he gets too frustrated at not being able to kill the postman.”
“Next thing you know he’ll be fetching your pipe and slippers,” Dad remarked.
“Hardly.” Michael snorted. “But just when I was beginning to think we could get through the summer without one of us killing the other, he disappears like this. What am I going to tell Mom?”
“We’ll put the word out on the neighborhood grapevine,” I said.
“And we’ll add that you’ve offered a small monetary reward for information leading to his capture,” Dad added.
“Every kid in the neighborhood will be scouring the bushes for him,” I said.
“Remember to warn them he bites,” Michael said.
“I think the entire county has figured that out by now,” Dad remarked. “Well, I think that will discourage the little critters for a while,” he added, finishing off his trail with a crescendo of stomping around an exit hole. “Let’s go find the local urchins.”
The local urchins had a lively afternoon looking for Spike, but things quieted down by late afternoon. The storm we’d been expecting all day broke about five o’clock. The power went out almost immediately, of course. It always did when we had a thunderstorm. Mother had had the foresight to be visiting a cousin in Williamsburg, and called to say she’d be staying the night.
Rob went out with his bar exam review group to celebrate getting through the bar exams. Celebrating was a little premature if you asked me; he wouldn’t know for months if he’d passed. But even if he hadn’t, at least he wouldn’t have to study night and day for a while, which I suppose was worth celebrating. I didn’t expect him home till the wee hours, if at all.
Usually I like a good thunderstorm, especially since there was hope that it would break the latest heat wave. But tonight the candles I’d li
t made the house look unfamiliar and creepy, and I was abnormally conscious of being by myself. The kitten was under the bed, spitting and wailing occasionally. The peacocks, who by rights should have been roosting somewhere, were awake and shrieking. I found myself starting at shadows, jumping at every clap of thunder, and straining to hear the suspicious noises that I was sure were being muffled by the steady drumming of the rain. Or drowned out by the menagerie.
When the rain let up at about nine-thirty, I decided to go out for some air. The ground was soaked, and it looked as if it would start raining again any time, but I couldn’t stand being cooped up in the house any more. I put on my denim jacket and fled to the backyard. I found myself staring down at the river from the edge of the bluff, wondering if we’d ever find out the truth about Mrs. Grover’s death. Morbid thoughts. Here I was in the backyard of the house I’d grown up in, and yet I found myself looking over my shoulder for shadowy figures. But it was only because I was so on edge, and straining to hear the slightest noise, that I heard the faint whining coming from somewhere down the bluff.
I peered down. I caught a faint glimpse of movement, a flash of something white.
“Hello,” I called. I heard a feeble little bark.
Spike.
I suppose I should have waited until I could find someone else to help me, but Michael had been looking for Spike for several days. The poor animal could be starving, injured—I couldn’t wait. I rummaged in Dad’s shed until I found a rope that seemed sound, tied one end to a tree and let myself down, half rappelling and half climbing hand over hand down the rope, toward the whining sounds. It was starting to rain again, of course. About twenty feet down, I found a vine-tangled ledge that I could stand on, and there at one end of the ledge, was Spike.
He cringed away from me, whining softly. His collar was caught on a branch, and I could see that he’d rubbed his neck raw trying to get out of it. Upon closer examination, I began to doubt that Spike had gotten into this mess by accident. It almost looked as if someone had deliberately buckled his collar around the branch. I felt a surge of anger. How could anyone treat a helpless animal that way! The poor thing was sopping wet, trembling like a leaf—
And still as nasty-tempered as ever. When I reached toward him, he lunged at me, teeth bared, and I jerked back. As I did, a long, horribly sharp blade about two feet long snapped out of the pine-needle-covered floor of the ledge between me and Spike and buried itself in the side of the bluff. It passed through the place where my throat would have been if I hadn’t suddenly leaped back to avoid Spike’s teeth.
Spike and I sat there for a while in silence. He looked as stunned as I felt. When my pulse had slowed down to a mere twice its normal rate, I leaned over and examined every square inch of the ground around me as carefully as I could without touching anything. The machete was attached to one side of a set of steel jaws that must have come from an animal trap. The other side was anchored in place, so when you tripped the spring the blade sprang up from the ground, sliced through the air in a lethal semicircle and buried itself in the side of the bluff. The whole contraption was invisible, hidden under leaves and pine needles on the floor of the ledge. The spring that made it snap shut like a mousetrap had been placed just where I’d have put my hand if Spike hadn’t lunged at me. In an unprecedented display of common sense, Spike waited patiently while I searched. The rain and darkness didn’t make the job any easier, and I was still more than a little nervous when I finally gave up the examination, prodded the machete—or whatever it was—with a stick to make sure it wasn’t going to move anymore, and turned back to Spike.
“Seeing as how you saved my life, I might forgive you one or two little nibbles,” I told him. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t object to a little gratitude.”
He only snapped a few times, not even really trying, while I untangled his collar. As soon as I freed him, he kicked dirt in my eyes trying to scramble up the bank before falling back onto the ledge, panting with exhaustion. He made several more feeble attempts to climb up, then subsided, and looked at me, shivering piteously, with a peevish, expectant look on his face.
“I suppose now you expect me to haul you up the bank,” I said. He growled, then whined and cringed at a particularly violent clap of thunder. It was raining steadily now, and dozens of little waterfalls and rivulets were making the side of the bluff even more slippery than ever.
“Oh, all right.” I took off my jacket and managed to wrap him up in it—without getting bitten—so that only his head stuck out. I buttoned it up, tied the arms together, slung it over my shoulder, and began the precarious climb up to the top of the hill. Hoping that whoever put that blade there considered one booby trap enough.
I slipped and nearly fell half a dozen times, skinned my hands badly on some rocks, and was covered with mud to the teeth. At least Spike was too exhausted to cause trouble. I could feel him shivering against me. I was just pulling myself over the edge of the bank when suddenly a figure loomed up above me. I almost lost hold of the rope and gave a small, startled shriek, and then a flash of lightning showed that it was Michael.
“My God, what happened?” he said, hauling me up the last few feet.
“Found Spike,” I panted. “Oops!” I was so tired from all my climbing that my knees gave out when I tried to stand. I had to grab onto Michael to keep from falling.
“I can’t believe you’d risk your life to save that damned little monster,” Michael said, wrapping an arm around me to keep me upright. “You’re incredible. Are you all right?”
To tell the truth, I was light-headed, partly from exhaustion and partly because I was rather irrationally enjoying the feeling of having Michael’s arm around me. Don’t be an idiot, I told myself, and I could tell that Michael felt uncomfortable as well, because his smile was suddenly replaced with a very serious look. But before I could pull back to a more suitable distance—
“Damn!” I yelped, as Spike suddenly became impatient and bit me on the arm. Snarling and growling, he wriggled out of the sling I’d carried him in and ran barking off into the night. Of course when he bit me, I’d jumped, and that caused the bank to start crumbling under my feet, and I would have fallen over the bluff if Michael had not pulled me after him to safety.
“Thank you,” I said, as I examined my latest wound. “Unlike Spike, I appreciate having my life saved.”
“He’s had his shots,” Michael said. “I’d better come and help you clean it, though.”
“Don’t be silly, Michael,” I said, pulling away. “I crawled fifteen feet up the damned bluff; I can crawl a few more feet to my own back door.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “That was uncalled for. It’s just that—is your phone working?”
“No, it went out hours ago,” he said. “Why?”
“Never mind, I’ll tell you in the morning.”
And calling the sheriff would have to wait until the morning, too. I decided that any clues not already washed away would still be there in the morning. I was so exhausted that I barely managed to pull my clothes off and make it to the bed before I fell asleep.
Thursday, July 21
THE NEXT MORNING I CALLED MICHAEL AND DAD AND ASKED them to meet me at the bluff, and then called the sheriff. I had to leave a message; the dispatcher had no idea where he was or when he’d be back. By the time I’d convinced one of the deputies to hunt the sheriff down, Michael was already waiting by the bluff.
“The suspense is killing me,” he said. “What is the life-or-death matter you mentioned over the phone?”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Here comes Dad; I wanted him to see this, too.”
“Is this important, Meg?” Dad said. “I really ought to be over at the Brewsters'. Their gardener has no idea how to get the lawn ready for an outdoor event. And I want to finish before everyone gets here tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll help you stomp gophers later, Dad,” I said. “This is very important.�
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My rope was still tied to the tree, but I didn’t think I wanted to climb down it again, and I didn’t think Dad should. Under my direction, the two of them maneuvered Dad’s longest ladder into place against the bluff and we climbed down that way.
They were both appalled at the sight of the booby trap.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Michael said, looking pale.
“And I hope you took a shower last night before you went to bed,” Dad said, in what seemed, even for him, a monumental non sequitur.
“Dad, I was bone-tired and already soaking wet,” I said. “What does it matter if I took a shower or not?”
“Meg, these are poison ivy vines!” Dad exclaimed.
“Oh, no,” Michael and I said in unison.
“Don’t worry, Michael,” Dad said, shooing us back up the ladder, “If you take a long, hot shower with plenty of soap, you should have no trouble. Washes off the sap that causes the irritation.”
“I can’t possibly have poison ivy,” I wailed. “I have to be in a wedding in two days.”
“Just as soon as the sheriff has finished looking at this, I’m going to hack down all of the poison ivy,” Dad announced. “Of course the children shouldn’t be down here, but you can’t always keep them from wandering. And Michael, you’d better wash that dog of yours. He could be carrying the sap on his fur.” With that, he trotted off to shower.
“Oh, great,” Michael said. “Do you have any idea how thrilled Spike is going to be when I try to wash him?”
“Probably about as thrilled as he was to be tied up on that ledge. If we want to find out who set that trap, I think we should keep our eyes open for anyone with fresh Spike bites.”
“I guess that makes me a suspect,” Michael said. “I’m always covered with fresh Spike bites.”
“And poison ivy,” I said. “Don’t forget the poison ivy.”
With these comforting thoughts, we both headed off for the showers. To no avail, at least in my case. By evening, I was starting to break out in blisters all over my arms and shins. The sheriff, wisely, inspected the booby trap from afar. When Dad showed up around dinnertime, I asked him to prescribe something for the itching.
Murder, with Peacocks Page 26
