Murder With Peacocks (25 page)

  "I'd better call the sheriff," Dad said,  trotting off with Mother trailing behind him,  gracefully wringing her hands.

  "You know," Michael said, as we watched them  leave, "your mother's right. Your dad's garden is rather  a dangerous thing to have around."

  "Nonsense," I said, automatically  parroting the Langslow party line. "I'm sure  more people die in car accidents every year than from eating  poisonous plants." But I must admit that I  said it with less conviction than usual. Somewhere,  probably very nearby, someone could be concocting a  deadly potion out of Dad's plants. I had no  idea how one would actually do this, but that didn't  ward off the vivid visions of a determined  poisoner bent over a black kettle on his--or her--stove, distilling digitalis from  Dad's beautiful little purple flowers.  Probably highly inaccurate, but I couldn't  shake the picture.

  "Let's go and find out what you would do with  foxglove to make it into a poison," I said,  starting for the door.

  "You're not serious."

  "Deadly serious. The more we know about how the  poison is made, the better we can watch for  signs that anyone we know is up to no good."

  Dad gave us a highly technical lesson  on the chemistry of digitalis. He was partial  to the idea of our plant thief distilling the  foxglove leaves to extract the poison, but it  sounded to me as if almost any way you could get the  plant into someone's system would be highly  effective. Michael and I were both in a  depressed state when we headed off to the day's  tasks--the shop for him, and for me, frog-marching  wedding participants into the shop to be fitted.  Samantha and her friends spent their day racketing  up and down the river on speedboats, so I  spent most of mine dashing up and down the river in  Dad's not very speedy boat, capturing  recalcitrant ushers and bridesmaids and  ferrying them back to shore and hauling their wet,  bedraggled, beer-bloated carcasses  into Be-Stitched.

  "No offense," Michael said, toward  the end of the day, "But your brother has highly  questionable taste in friends."

  "On the contrary. Rob has excellent taste  in friends. These are Samantha's friends."

  "That would account for it," Michael said.  "I have to keep telling myself that it would do no good  to throttle them; we'd only have to detain and  outfit a new set."

  "Let's hope our foxglove bandit isn't  targeting them too. I'm not sure I could take  another day like this."

  Samantha was having another party that night. I  passed. I stayed home. I did my  laundry, balanced my checkbook, and cleaned the  bathrooms. I had a lot more fun than I'd  had Friday night.

          Sunday, July 10

  By the next day, everyone in the neighborhood--  probably everyone in the county--knew about the theft  of Dad's foxglove plants. Dozens of people  called up wanting to know what foxglove looked  like. Five of the more notable local  hypochondriacs dropped by to be examined for  symptoms of digitalis poisoning. The leading  local miser, an elderly uncle of Mother's who  had a heart problem, dropped by to insist that Dad  give him instructions for making his own  digitalis, so he could "cut out the middleman and  stop lining the pockets of the big drug  companies." He went off mad because Dad tried  to talk him out of it, and it was weeks before we were  really convinced he wasn't going to experiment on  himself. I don't know if our family was  typical--I suspect that for once it was--but  we spent the greater portion of an otherwise  lovely Sunday dinner discussing digitalis.  The more squeamish souls, like Rob and Jake, ate  sparingly.

  The whole neighborhood also knew the  details of Scotty's misadventure.  Apparently the next-door neighbors had seen  his unclad form leaving our yard. I had been  forced, in self-defense, to reveal the whole  story, calling Michael as a witness.

  "Sorry to drag you into this," I said, after the  seventeenth time he'd been forced to produce the little  squeeze bottle for inspection and say that no, he had no idea what was in it, but he'd  be sure to ask his mother the next time he called  her.

  "It gives me great pleasure to defend your  honor against this rank calumny," he said, with a  sweeping bow.

  "Hang my honor. It's my taste and my  sanity you're defending. And possibly  Scotty's life; if I see him around here  anytime soon, I'll probably rip up the  remaining foxgloves and shove them down his  throat."

  "Don't exaggerate, Meg," Mother said. 

  "I'm sure you wouldn't do that," Barry chirped up.

  I looked around the porch at the assembled  family and friends. They were all smiling and nodding as  if they thought Scotty's behavior were the most  amusing thing in the world. Except for Michael, who  looked as exasperated as I felt. And Jake,  who was cringing back in the shadows at the edge of the  porch as if he were afraid I would confuse him with  Scotty.

  Just then--speak of the devil--Scotty appeared  around the corner of the porch.

  "Hi," he said cheerfully, waving at me. I  could hear muffled titters from several places on  the porch. Scotty had the good grace to look  embarrassed.

  "I came to apologize," he said, still looking  at me. I crossed my arms and glowered at him.

  "That's all right, Scotty," Mother said,  graciously. "Just be more careful in future."

  Careful? I gave her an exasperated  look. So, I noticed, did Samantha.  Obviously Scotty's fitness for usherhood was  seriously in question.

  "I saw the oddest thing last night," Scotty  went on. He glanced at Dad, who had his  nose buried in the Merck manual, and then back  at me.

  "Really? You too?" I said, coldly. More  titters from somewhere on the porch.

  "Saw? Or hallucinated?" Samantha said,  even more coldly. Scotty looked startled.

  "No, saw," he said. "I wanted to tell  you, Meg."

  "Some other time," I said, losing patience. I  went back to the kitchen and took my irritation out  on some greasy pots and pans. Michael followed shortly afterward.

  "Need some help?" he asked. I handed him a  soap pad and a particularly awful pot. He  tackled it energetically. "Aren't you curious  what the odd thing was?" Michael asked.

  "Not particularly, but tell me anyway." 

  "He didn't say," Michael replied.

"He left after you did."

  "Probably nothing important."

  "And you're not the least bit curious?"  I sighed.

  "I suppose I ought to go find out what it  is," I said. "After all, I suppose it is  possible that he saw the foxglove bandit and  wasn't too drunk to remember who it was."

  But by the time I got back outside, Scotty  was long gone. I'd tackle him later.

  Eileen and Steven arrived late that night from  their last craft fair before the wedding. They called  up to invite me to go to dinner with them the next day.  I agreed to meet them at Eileen's house at  five o'clock the next evening. I had plans for  them.

          Monday, July 11

  Mother, Pam, and I spent the morning helping  Dad pick out a new gray suit for Rob's  wedding. He'd ruined his last gray suit a few  weeks ago, shinnying up a pine tree to look  at a buzzard's nest. We planned to hide this  one until the day of the wedding. Then I spent the  afternoon ferrying back another enormous pile of  inspected wedding presents from the sheriff's office  and inventorying them.

  Steven and Eileen were a little surprised when I  showed up at Professor Donleavy's house  at five sharp, bearing a bag of sandwiches and a  large stack of their notecards.

  "I thought we were going to take you out to dinner,"  Steven said.

  "Our treat," Eileen added.

  "I thought of something that will be an even bigger  treat for me," I said. "You're going to write  thank-you notes for your presents."

  They turned a little pale, but once they  realized I had already gotten a list of donors  and gifts all organized for them--or perhaps once they realized there was no escaping--they  gave in and cheerfully sat around writing notes.

  I stood over them, doling out the index cards  on which I'd written the name and address of each  donor and what they'd given, then taking back the  finished notes, proofing them, addressing them, and  sealing them.

  It was slow work, much like forcing restless children to do homework.

  "What's an ee-perg-nay?" Steven would  ask.

  "A what?" 

  "Every-people-every-rather-go-not-every," Steven said.

  "Oh, epergne," I said, correcting his  pronunciation. "Eileen's aunt Louise sent  it."

  "Yes, I see, but what is it?" 

  "What do you care?" I said. "Just thank her for  it."

  "How can I thank her if I don't know what  it is?"

  "It's that giant silver compartmented bowl on a  pedestal."

  "Oh, that thing," he said, frowning. "What on  earth will we ever do with it?"

  "You serve fruit or desserts in it." 

  "You've got to be kidding," he said.

  "Then stuff it in the attic, unless you want  to trip over it the rest of your lives," I said.  "Just tell her you'll think of her whenever you use  it."

  "Well, that's honest," he said. 

  "Do you think there's a market for these if I  did them in clay?" Eileen said, holding up a  set of silver placecard holders.

  "An exceedingly small one," I said. "Who  cares? Just write."

  "Another silver tray?" Steven said. "How  many does this make."

  "You have twelve in all," I said. "Don't  worry, you can return them."

  We finished up around midnight, and I turned  down their offer to see me home. They looked as  if they'd rather be alone, anyway. I was cutting  through their yard to the street when I saw a familiar  figure.

  Jake. Carrying a box that looked  suspiciously like the one I'd found in Mrs.  Grover's room. The box that he probably  did not suspect now contained Mother's great-aunt Sophy rather than his late wife.

  How odd. Jake was taking the path to the beach.  I lurked in the bushes until he'd passed.  Then I put down the box of thank-you notes and  quietly followed him. It wasn't hard; I  had been using that path since I was a small child and  knew every stone. I could follow it very silently.  Jake was trying to sneak, but having a hard time.  Every few steps he'd trip over a root or  stone and swear quietly.

  He finally made his way down to the beach, although  I could tell he was going to have some bruises in the  morning. I did some more lurking in the shrubbery a  little way up the path. He went out to the end of the  Donleavys' dock. He peered up and down the  shore. Then, evidently thinking no one was  watching, he opened the box and flung the ashes out.  Without any particular ceremony, as far as I could  see. I felt a pang of guilt.

Great-Aunt Sophy deserved better.

  Jake then ripped the cardboard box into a  dozen or so pieces and flung those into the river.  He watched for a few minutes--waiting for the  pieces to sink, no doubt--then turned and headed  back for shore.

  I scampered back up the path. By the time  Jake arrived at the street, I was back  to skulking in the roadside bushes. I watched as  he nonchalantly strolled down the street that led  to his house.

  I couldn't wait to tell Dad about this, although  I knew it would have to wait till morning. Dad  went to bed early, and it was already twelve-thirty.  Closer to one by the time I found where I'd left the  thank-you notes.

  As I was approaching Samantha's house, I  noticed a car waiting at the end of their  driveway. Skulking was getting to be  habit-forming; I slipped into the bushes and  watched. After a few minutes, I saw a  figure slipping out of the car. Samantha. She  shut the door, being careful not to slam it, and  tiptoed down the driveway. The car started up and  drove off. Perhaps the driver simply forgot, but  I noticed that the headlights stayed off until it  was well out of sight.

  Curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll  would say. I could sympathize if Rob and  Samantha had decided to sneak away from the  neighborhood to get some privacy. The cloak-and-dagger antics were a bit over  the top, but perhaps Rob was growing into the family  penchant for theatrics. But I really didn't  think that had been Rob's car. It was smaller  than Rob's battered gray Honda, and ran a  lot more quietly. It wasn't Samantha's red  MG either, that much I could tell. And it had headed  away from our house, not toward it. Anyway,  Rob was supposed to have gone with a friend to the bar exam  review course.

  I extracted myself with difficulty from the  Brewsters' holly bushes and continued on home,  very thoughtful. When I reached our driveway, I  confirmed that Rob's car was still there. Odd. What  was Samantha up to?

  Just as I was entering the front door, I heard  a car again. Another car, older and noisier than  the one that had dropped Samantha off. It paused  at the end of our driveway, a door slammed,  and then it drove off.

  I heard careful footsteps coming up the  driveway. I waited inside the front door  until I heard the footsteps just outside, then  I turned on the porch light and flung open the  door. There was Rob, blinking against the sudden  glare, with a pile of books and papers under his arm.  Law books. How odd; why would he feel the  need to sneak in after a bar exam review session?

  "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.