Murder With Peacocks (24 page)

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?" Michael 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 midverse,  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."

  "What about the right ones?"

  "I'll let you know if I ever meet one,"  I said.

  "Speaking of which, have you ever considered--"  Michael began, and then was drowned out by a frightful  commotion in the yard. Scotty, still unclad,  suddenly burst through the azalea patch and streaked  across our yard, closely pursued by all three  of the Labradors from next door.

  "That's odd," I said, "the Labs usually like  Scotty." Spike popped out of the azalea  patch, barking fiercely, and disappeared in the  direction Scotty and the Labs had taken.

  "Oh, God," Michael said. "It must be  Mom's dog repellent. Though why a dog  repellent should make dogs chase him I have no  idea. I suppose I should go see if he  needs help." I wasn't sure whether he  meant Scotty or Spike, but I didn't  feel much like helping either of them, so after watching Michael lope off in the general  direction of the furor, I went to bed. After making  a note in my indispensable notebook to borrow  the so-called dog repellent from Michael before the  next time Barry showed up.

  Tired as I was, I had a hard time tuning  out the barking noises, steadily increasing in  volume and variety, that seemed to come first from one  end of the neighborhood and then the other.

          Saturday, July 9

  Having gone to bed before midnight, I was up  by eight and feeling virtuous about it. I joined  Mother for breakfast on the porch, and felt  suitably rewarded when Dad dropped by with fresh  blueberries and Michael with fresh bagels.

  "We certainly had a lively time around here  last night," Mother remarked over her second  cup of tea. Michael and I both started. I  had thought Mother safely out of the way during  Scotty's unconventional visit, the ensuing  mad dash around the neighborhood, and the countywide  canine convocation that had reportedly dragged the  sheriff and the normally underworked dogcatcher out of their  beds at 3:00 A.m. Michael had a  suspiciously innocent look on his face.

  "Could you hear the party all the way down at  Pam's?" I asked.

  "Oh, no, dear," Mother said. "But I think  some of Samantha's friends must have gotten just a little  too exuberant."

  "Most of them were totally sloshed, if that's what  you mean," I said. "But that's nothing new."

  "Yes, but it really is too bad about the side  yard," Mother said.

  "What about the side yard?" I said. Had  Scotty and the pack returned to our yard after I  dropped off?

  "So very thoughtless," she continued. "And not at all  what one would expect from well-brought-up young people."

  "What, Mother?" I asked, beginning to suspect  it would be easier to get an answer from the side  yard.

  "Someone has torn up some of your father's nice  flowers. You know, dear," she said, turning  to Dad, "those nice purple spiky ones."

  "Purple spiky flowers?" Dad and I said  in unison, looking at each other with dawning  horror.

  "Oh, no!" I gasped, and Dad  exclaimed "Oh, my God!" as we  simultaneously jumped up and ran out to the side  yard. Mother and Michael followed, more slowly.

  "I'm sorry, dear," Mother said, looking  puzzled. "I had no idea you'd be that upset  about it."

  "They were fine when I watered them yesterday  afternoon," Dad said.

  "A lot of the damage is trampling," I  said, as Dad and I crouched over the flower bed.

  "Yes, but I don't think all the plants  are here," Dad said. "I think some of them are  missing. What do you think?"

  "I think a lot of them are missing," I said.  "Whoever did this did a lot of trampling to cover  it up--or maybe someone else came along and  trampled it afterwards--but there are definitely a  lot of plants missing, too."

  "Does it really make that much of a difference  whether the vandals dragged them off or not?"  Michael asked. "They look pretty well  ruined to me; you couldn't replant them or anything  in that condition, could you? And are they really that  valuable?"

  "It's not that they're valuable," Dad said.  "They're poisonous."

  "Why does that not surprise me, in your  garden?" Michael said, with a sigh. "What are  they, anyway?"

  "Foxglove," I said. "Which means that if it  wasn't just vandalism--"

  "Which I don't believe for a minute," Dad  fumed, shaking a fist full of limp foxglove  stalks.

  "Then someone--"

  "Someone who's up to no good--" Dad put  in.

  "Has just laid in a large enough supply of  digitalis to knock off an elephant."

  "Several elephants," Dad added. "This is  very serious."

  "Digitalis!" Michael exclaimed.

  "Is it dangerous, dear?" Mother asked.

  "Meg and her friends might very well have died if  that salsa had contained digitalis," Dad said.

  "It felt as if we were going to anyway," I  said.

  "I do hate to criticize, dear," Mother  began. "But we wouldn't have this little problem if you wouldn't insist on growing all these  dangerous plants." She looked over her  shoulder with a faint shudder, as if half expecting  to find a giant Venus flytrap sneaking up on  her.