Murder With Peacocks (34 page)

  "I really think we should send those creatures  over to the Brewsters'," Mother said.

  "I'd rather keep them here. I think what scared  them was a prowler."

  Mother closed her eyes, and leaned against the  doorway. She looked very unlike herself--almost  haggard. And scared.

  "What is going on here?" she asked,  faintly. "What on earth is going on here?"

  "I wish I knew. I'm going to have some tea  to calm down. Want some?"

  "The caffeine will only keep us up," she said,  sitting down at the table.

  "You can have Eileen's herbal muck if you  prefer."

  "I'll have Earl Grey, thank you," she said,  more like her usual self.

  We sat together, quietly sipping our tea.  I was kicking myself for not having caught the prowler,  desperately curious to find out what the prowler  wanted, and generally distracted. I noticed that  Mother, too, seemed preoccupied. I wondered  what was bothering her--the possibility of a prowler,  or something else?

  You'll probably never know, I told myself.  I could sometimes predict what Mother would do, but  I'd given up trying to figure out what she was  thinking. Unless, of course ...

  "Mother," I began, "Can I ask you something?" 

  "Of course, dear? What did you want  to know?"

  What did I want to know? The answer to about a  million questions. What do you think's happening around  here? With all your sources of gossip and information,  do you know anything that might help solve the murders? And why did you divorce Dad, anyway, and why are you marrying Jake?  What do you see in him? What do you know about him?  Do you really approve of Rob marrying  Samantha? Do you trust her?

  But she suddenly looked so vulnerable that I  realized there was no way I could ask her any  probing questions. Or any questions that would upset her.

  "When are you going to let me see the dress  I'm wearing in your wedding?"

  She smiled.

  "Not till the wedding day," she said. "I want  it to be a lovely surprise."

  We squabbled amiably about this for a little while,  which seemed to put her in a much more normal, cheerful  mood. We went to bed well past midnight. I  locked all the doors and windows. I felt almost  guilty doing it. Here in Yorktown, it just  wasn't done.

  But then, here in Yorktown it had never been  open season on my family before.

          Friday, July 22

  None of the aunts, uncles, and cousins said  anything about the noises in the night. Did they  all sleep through it, or did they all assume this  was just a normal occurrence around the Langslow  house?

  Michael dropped by after breakfast, leading a  creature that looked, at first glance, like a small  pink-and-white spotted rat.

  "What on earth is that?" I asked, looking  at it with alarm.

  "Spike. Clipped and daubed with lotion for his    poison ivy. The vet says he must be  unusually sensitive; dogs aren't normally  affected."

  He was certainly unusually subdued. His  tail was between his legs, and his head hanging down  near the floor. I knelt down beside him.

  "I know just how you feel, Spike," I said,  tentatively patting him. He whined and wagged his  tail feebly.

  "So, are you looking forward to the rehearsal and the  dinner?" Michael asked.

  "I'd rather have a root canal. Something is  sure to go horribly wrong."

  Famous last words.

  The rehearsal went well enough, considering. It was a good thing I'd insisted on trying out  our costumes, because we only discovered at the  church that the hoops were too wide to allow the  bridesmaids to march in side by side. The  organist would just have to play another half-dozen  verses of "Here Comes the Bride." We had to do  some ingenious arranging to find enough space for us all  to stand around the altar. It was hot, the church was  stuffy, and Samantha was in a touchy mood.

  "If we can't do this properly, we might as  well not do it at all," she said, not once but  several dozen times during the rehearsal, whenever  anything went wrong. If I hadn't known  better, I'd have thought she was looking for an  excuse to cancel.

  It was a relief when we turned over our  costumes to the waiting hands of Michael's  ladies and piled into our cars to go to the hotel for the  rehearsal dinner.

  The festivities started with what was supposed  to be a cocktail hour--actually hour and a half--and seemed more like a wake. Samantha's ill  temper had poisoned the atmosphere, and  despite the presence of air-conditioning and  alcohol and the promise of food, no one seemed  particularly jolly. Though some of us were trying.  Mother glided about the room, telling everyone how  beautiful they looked, how well they had done, and  how nice tomorrow's ceremony would be. Dad bounced  from person to person, cheerfully predicting that it  wouldn't be quite as hot tomorrow and reciting the wonders  of the coming dinner.

  "There's going to be caviar on the buffet, and  cold lobster, and a Smithfield ham," I  heard him tell several people near me. I grabbed  his arm and dragged him to one side.

  "What was that you were saying about the buffet?" 

  "They've got caviar and lobster and--"

  "Any escargot? Mango chutney?"

  "I don't know; I'll go and check."

  "No, you won't," I said. "You're not going  anywhere near the buffet until everyone else  does."

  "That's silly. The sheriff and his men are  keeping an eye out--

  "If you eat one bite of it before the dinner  begins, you'll be sorry," I said.

  "Now, Meg--"

  "I mean it, Dad," I warned. "One  bite, and I tell Mother what you did with her great-aunt Sophy."

  He turned pale and disappeared--not, I  noticed, in the direction of the supper room. One  small victory. Of course, he was right; the  sheriff and his deputies and all the clean-cut  pseudo-cousins were swarming about keeping an eye  on things, but still, no harm in making sure Dad  behaved himself.

  I checked my watch. Still half an hour to go.  Perhaps the hotel manager could start the dinner  earlier than planned. At least when everyone  started eating, their disinclination to talk would be less  obvious. Assuming anyone was still vertical after  another half an hour.

  "Meg?" I looked up to see Michael at  my shoulder. Mr. Brewster suddenly appeared  before us.

  "We still have time before dinner," Mr. Brewster  said with false heartiness, handing us each another  glass of champagne. "Drink up!"

  "Cheers," Michael said, taking a healthy  swig from the glass. "Meg, can I talk to you about  something?"

  "Sure; why not?"

  "Not here," he said, taking my arm and tugging me  toward the hall door.

  "Careful of my poison ivy."

  What the hell, I wondered, as I followed  Michael down the hall. The party's a bust,  anyway. He pulled me into the Magnolia  Room, where we would be dining shortly. A  deputy lurking in the hall gave us a sharp  glance and then relaxed when he recognized us.

  The outsized chandeliers were not turned on yet,  and no waiters were scurrying about, but the table was  already set. The silver and crystal of the place  settings gleamed even in the dim emergency light,  and steam was rising from a couple of covered dishes  whose lids were ajar.

  "Good," he said, glancing quickly around. "The  coast is clear. Lock that door behind you."

  "Good grief, Michael," I said. "You're  acting very strangely. How much of the champagne have  you had?"

  "Enough, I hope," he muttered. "Enough  to make me decide to--Meg, are you listening  to me?"

  I confess; I wasn't, really. I was  looking over his shoulder. I lifted my finger and  pointed at an ominously still figure slumped at the head table.

  "Michael, look," I said in a quavery  voice. "I think it's the Reverend Pugh."

  Michael whirled, swore grimly, and leaped  over one of the tables to reach the minister. I followed  more slowly. Reverend Pugh, seated in a chair  near the center of the table, was face down in a bowl  of caviar. His left hand was clutching his chest, and  his right hand dangled down beside him, still holding a  small piece of Melba toast.

  "Call 911," Michael said. "There's a  phone on the wall."

  I ran to the phone, but I had a feeling it was  useless. Michael lifted the minister's head out  of the bowl, and I could see that the old man's eyes  were wide and staring and there was an expression of great  surprise fixed on his face--or as much of it as  I could see under the coating of caviar. The phone  only connected with the front desk, but I figured  that would do just as well. The Reverend Pugh had  gotten the jump on his fellow diners for the last  time.

  "Call 911," I said, slowly and clearly.  "One of your guests seems to be in cardiac  arrest in the Magnolia Room." I was  surprised at how calm I sounded.

  "I'll see if Dad is here," I said.  Michael nodded; when I left the room he was still  staring at the reverend and absently wiping caviar from  his hands with one of the napkins.

  By the time I returned with Dad, trailed by the  many of the wedding party, the hotel manager was already  on the scene, obviously torn between his desire  to express sympathy and his panic at the thought of the  litigation and negative publicity that the hotel  could suffer. Dad pronounced the reverend dead, and  shook his head grimly at Mother's suggestion that  he try to resuscitate the patient.

  "Too late for that," he said. "But I think  we'll need to call the sheriff in on this."

  "Oh, dear," Mother said. "Not again." Dad  scanned the crowd and then turned to the hotel  manager.

  "Please page the sheriff," Dad said.  "He's probably in the bar. Tell him what  has happened, and tell him Dr. Langslow  believes that due to medical evidence found on the  scene this death should be treated as a potential  homicide."

  The hotel manager amazed us by proving it was possible for him to turn even paler than  he had already, and vanished without a word.

  "Got homicide on the brain if you ask  me," someone at the back of the crowd muttered.

  "Let's all clear out of here," Dad said.  "The sooner we get things organized, the less  chance we'll all end up staying here all night."  I failed to see what we were going to organize  or how clearing the room would get us all home  any earlier. Obviously Dad just wanted to get  us all out from underfoot.

  "We will all wait in the lounge while Mrs.  Brewster and I see the manager immediately  to arrange a change of rooms," Mother announced  firmly, taking Mrs. Brewster by the arm and  guiding her out. The rest followed, sheeplike.  Dad stopped me as I started out.

  "The sheriff will want to talk to you and Michael  about finding the body," he said apologetically.

  I found a window seat just outside the  Magnolia Room and watched the comings and goings  of the sheriff and his deputies for what seemed the  millionth time. The various clean-cut  pseudo-relatives were blowing their cover to join the  investigation, and looking chagrined that another murder  might have happened right under their noses.

  Mother came back to tell me that they had  decided to cancel the dinner after all, and the guests were  going home. Michael went and fetched us both  sandwiches. From outside the hotel.

  "Thanks," I said, through a full mouth. "I  didn't realize how hungry I was."

  "I think we're all a little in shock."  "And I feel so guilty."

  Michael started.

  "Guilty? Why?" he asked. "You didn't  have anything to do with his death."

  "No. But I keep thinking I ought to be  feeling grief. Or empathizing with his family.  Or concentrating on what the sheriff might need  to know. And instead, all I can think about is getting  this over with so we can start getting the wedding back  on track. Do you have any idea how hard it is  going to be to find a minister less than  twenty-four hours before the ceremony?"

  "Don't scratch your arms," Michael  advised. "You'll only make your blisters  worse."

  It was clear that by the time the sheriff was finished with  all of us and we could go home, it would be late.

  In fact, it was already too late to call  anyone. So I collared Mother, Mrs.  Brewster, and Mrs. Fenniman. We compiled a  list of possible substitute ministers. Mother and  Mrs. Fenniman thought of most of the names, of  course. I coaxed Michael into helping me  look up their addresses and numbers in the phone  book. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman even had very  definite--and I hoped accurate--ideas of how  early we dared call each minister without offending.  Since Mother and Mrs. Fenniman knew most of  them, they ranked the names, divided up the calling  list according to who was best acquainted with each  potential victim, and agreed to meet at our  house at 6:00 A.m.

         Saturday, July 23.

         Samantha's wedding day.

  I dragged myself up at five-thirty to help  with the minister search. We got Mother installed in her  study and Mrs. Fenniman in the living room with the  Brewsters' cellular phone. I transcribed  their notes on to our master list, kept strong  coffee flowing, and started cooking breakfast to keep  from biting my nails.

  Samantha and Mrs. Brewster came over about  eight.

  "The bad news is that they're nearly through the  original list and haven't found anyone yet,"  I reported, pouring coffee for them, although I  wondered if I shouldn't have made it decaf,  given the obvious state of their nerves. Or iced  tea; apparently the weather gremlins wanted  Samantha's wedding day to be at least as hot as  Eileen's and were getting an early start. "The good    news is that the few ministers we've been able  to reach have suggested another couple of dozen, and there  are a few more in the phone book that we could just  call blind."

  "We'll have to cancel the wedding," Samantha  said, tight-lipped. It was only about the hundredth  time she'd said that since we found Reverend Pugh.  If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she  wanted to cancel the wedding.

  "Oh, no, dear," Mother said, coming in to refill  her coffee cup and nibble on the fruit I had  laid out. "You could always have the wedding at home.  If we run out of ministers, there's always Cousin  Kate. She's a justice of the peace; she could perform the ceremony. And it would be no  trouble, since she's coming to the wedding anyway." I  could see a look of panic cross Samantha's  face. Cousin Kate is five feet tall and  twice my weight. She has a hogcaller's  voice, and what my mother tactfully refers to as  an earthy sense of humor. She'd been known  to boom out no-nonsense advice about the  procreative side of matrimony in the middle  of the ceremony. I could just see her officiating at  Rob and Samantha's wedding, but I suppressed  the grin that the thought provoked. Apparently  Samantha had met Cousin Kate as well.