Murder With Peacocks (38 page)

  "Every home should have a few peacocks." 

  "If you really feel that way, I could write  your name on a couple of the eggs."

  "Eggs?"

  "Of course, I've only seen one so far, and  I have no idea how many they hatch at one time.  But if you keep your eyes open, you'll notice  you don't see most of the hens. They're off ...  somewhere. Incubating, we think. Dad and Eric have  put in a special order at the bookstore for  books on peafowl and general poultry care, so  within a week or two the entire family will be  walking experts on peacock husbandry."

  "I can hardly wait," Michael said.

  "I can."

  "I think you need to get away from your family  for a little while."

  "That's what I'm doing right now," I  explained.

  "Out here in full view, where anyone who  wants to find you can just walk right up and find you?"

  "Well, what do you suggest?"

  "Let's go to dinner someplace," he said.  "Someplace that is not run by any of your mother's  family or anyone who even knows you and will come up  and start babbling about the weddings."

  "I wish I could," I said. "But I shouldn't.  Not until after the wedding. Things are too crazy.  I shouldn't be sitting here doing nothing now."

  Still, I was considering changing my mind and taking  him up on it when Dad and Pam came running out  of the house.

  "Meg! Michael! You'll never guess  what's happened?" Pam called.

  "They've tracked Samantha down in Rio  de Janeiro and are trying to get her  extradited for Mrs. Grover's murder," I  said.

  "Rats! Who told you?" Pam said crossly. "But you're wrong about Rio;  it was the Caymans."

  "Are you serious?" Michael asked. 

  "Yes! I suppose the sheriff told you,"  Pam said.

  "I actually thought I was kidding," I said. 

  "Perhaps you knew it, subconsciously," she  said. "After all, the sheriff said it was your idea."

  "It was?"

  "Yes. After she and Ian ran off. Don't  you remember? You said to search her room for  evidence," Pam said. "The sheriff took you  seriously and went to Uncle Stanley to get a  search warrant. And do you know what they found?"

  "Two years' worth of back issues of  Bride's magazine?"

  "Evidence!" Pam chortled. "Books about  poisons! Samples of some of the poisons she's  used this summer! Books about car maintenance and  electrical wiring. And stuff that she probably  used to rig the fuse box and the lawn mower and  Dad's car!"

  "Books? Doesn't sound like Samantha's  style," I mused.

  "And some papers that the sheriff thinks may  prove that she and Ian really did steal the money  her first fianc`e was supposed to have embezzled.  Ian was an old college friend of his, you know."

  "You were right all along," Michael said.  So why didn't I feel happier about the  outcome?

          Tuesday, July 26

  I was planning to sleep late. I'd decided  that everything really essential that needed to be done for  Mother's wedding had been done, and the more I worked, the  more things she would think offor me to do. I managed  to sleep through her departure for a facial and was  planning to drag myself out of bed just in time to greet  the relatives she'd invited over for lunch.

  But around nine o'clock, when I turned over,  stretched, and prepared to go back to sleep for the  second time, I heard Spike barking outside  my window.

  Damn. Couldn't Michael keep the little  monster quiet?

  Apparently not. The barking continued. I rolled  out of bed, stumbled over to the side window, and peered  down at the yard. Spike was dancing around the foot of a large dogwood tree, barking  frantically.

  Damn. I heard no outraged peacock  shrieks, so I assumed Spike had finally  intimidated and treed the kitten. I turned  to put on some clothes so I could go downstairs  to rescue the kitten. I'd have to name the kitten  sooner or later, I reminded myself.

  But the kitten was inside. When I turned  around, I saw him. Peeing on a silk blouse  I'd neglected to hang up.

  Perhaps I wouldn't be naming the kitten after all,  I thought, as he stepped delicately off the  blouse, shaking his paws. Perhaps Pam's  household could absorb another animal. Perhaps  the animal shelter was open today.

  But wait. If the kitten was inside, what had  Spike treed?

  I peered out at the dogwood again. There was a  lump swaying in its upper branches, directly  opposite my window. Not a small, round,  Dad-shaped lump, festooned with vines. Not a  long, thin, Michael-shaped lump either. An  enormous, ungainly, disgustingly bovine lump.  It could only be--

  "Barry!" I shrieked. "You pervert!"  He had the grace to look embarrassed.

  I grabbed some clothes, quickly dressed--in the  bathroom--and ran downstairs, stopping on my  way through the kitchen to pick up a piece of  cheese for Spike.

  "Good dog, Spike," I said, flicking the  cheese at him. He gobbled it and resumed  barking.

  "Take him away, can't you?" Barry whined. 

  "Me? Are you crazy? Michael's the only  one who can do anything with him. You'll have to wait  till Michael shows up."

  And wait we did. I fetched the mystery  I'd been trying to read all summer and settled  in a lawn chair. Spike got tired of barking  after a while and curled up under the tree where he  could keep an eye on things and resume barking  whenever Barry moved a muscle. I tossed  Spike a bit of cheese from time to time, to keep his  energy up, and devoted myself to my book. Barry,  showing greater sense than I'd previously given  him credit for, remained very, very quiet.

  Michael showed up around noon.

  "So there he is," Michael said, in exasperated tones. "What's going on  anyway?"

  "Spike has treed a desperate  criminal," I said, tossing the dog another bit  of cheese. Spike took this as a signal for  renewed vigilance and began barking energetically.

  "A desperate criminal?" Michael said,  peering upward. "Isn't that Barry?"

  "Yes."

  "What's he done?"

  "He's a peeping Tom," I said. "A  low-down, sneaking, miserable, perverted peeping  Tom," I added, loudly, shaking my fist at the  tree.

  "Meg, I'm so sorry," Barry began.

  "Save it for the sheriff," I said.

  "The sheriff?" Michael said. "You're going  to call the sheriff? Good!"

  I heard a whimper from the dogwood.  "No need to call him," I said. "He's coming  over for lunch, I believe."

  Sure enough, the sheriff showed up a few  minutes later, along with fifteen or twenty  other ravenous relatives--some, fortunately,  bearing covered dishes. I related Barry's  misdeeds as dramatically as possible--somewhat  exaggerating the state of undress I'd been in  when he'd spied on me. Considering my  family's tendency to barge into rooms, day or  night, with minimal warning, I'd learned better  than to sleep in anything see-through or skimpy.

  The sheriff took me aside.

  "Are you planning to press charges, Meg?" 

  I sighed.

  "I'd say hell, yes ... but he is  Steven's brother. Can you just take him down to the  station and scare the hell out of him? Don't let  anyone hurt him or anything, but make him think  twice before he does something like this again?"

  The sheriff pondered.

  "I'll do that, but while I'm scaring him,  I'm going to check for priors. And where does he  live?"

  "Goochland County."

  "Great; the sheriff there's an old hunting  buddy of mine. I'll just have a word with him, see  what he thinks. If I hear anything that gives  me second thoughts about letting him off so easy,  I'll get back to you this afternoon."

  The sheriff might be weak in the area of homicide investigations, but he had few  equals when it came to inducing guilt and putting  the fear of God into wayward fifteen-year-olds.  Which as far as I could see was about Barry's  emotional age. I had a feeling the sheriff was  about to solve my long-standing Barry problem.

  The family dissected Barry's sins and  shortcomings over lunch. Apparently everyone had  had their doubts about him all along, but had  politely refrained from voicing them. He was  too nice. He had shifty eyes. Lucky for  Barry that they'd unmasked Samantha, or they'd  be stringing him up for the murders as well. Needless  to say, lunch was a resounding success.

  Everyone in the neighborhood was in a wonderful  mood except for me. Well, and possibly the  Brewsters, who after a talk with the sheriff had  remained in residence, but in hiding. No one was  sure whether to commiserate with them for the way their  daughter had treated them or consider them her  accomplices.

  Everyone assumed that seeing the FBI agent at  the reception triggered Samantha's flight. I  wasn't so sure. I didn't think she'd  reacted at all when she saw the agent. I thought  she'd planned to run away all along. Well,  for some days anyway.

  "That's silly," Pam said. "If she  planned to run away, why did she go through with the  wedding?"

  "She spent months arranging it; I can't see  her letting a little thing like having chosen the wrong  groom spoil it."

  Everyone seemed to think I was joking.  I couldn't account for the bad mood I was in.  The local serial killer was out of business.  Rob had been saved from a truly disastrous  marriage. Barry was probably out of my hair  for good. In less than a week, all my wedding  chores would be over. Well, okay, maybe two  or three weeks if you count all the cleanup.  So why was I alone in such a lousy mood?

  Well, maybe not quite alone. Dad was moping.  "What's eating you, anyway?" I asked him.

  "It's Emma Wendell," Dad said.

"They've run any number of tests, but they  haven't found anything."

  "Maybe that's because there isn't anything to be  found."

  "I suppose," Dad said. He sighed. "It all seemed to fit together so nicely. This  really has messed up all my theories."

  "I don't think you're going to be able to prove  that Jake's a cold-blooded murderer," I  told him. "You might have to find some other way of  changing Mother's mind. If that's what you want."

  He wandered off, giving no sign of having  heard me.

  I went off to run last-minute errands and perform  last-minute tasks. Everywhere I went, people  congratulated me. They seemed to think that it was my  suggestion that made the sheriff search Samantha's  room. And that I was solely responsible for  catching her.

  "And how clever of you not to let on to anyone  until you had the goods on her," one aunt  enthused.

  I protested that if I'd known she was a  murderer, I'd have told the sheriff about her before  Saturday, and spared us all the trouble of the  ceremony. And poor Rob all the bother of  getting an annulment. No one listened.  Everybody thought I was just being modest. I gave  up trying.

  But I couldn't help wondering if it wasn't  all a little too convenient. Samantha disappears,  and suddenly we discover that she's responsible for  Yorktown's homemade crime wave. Somehow  it didn't quite add up.

  Something suddenly struck me: what if Mrs.  Grover showed up early that morning to meet Dad  for a bird-watching trip and saw a furtive  figure lurking in the trees outside my room?  What if she was the first to unmask Barry as a  peeping Tom, and threatened to call the police or  tried to blackmail him? What if Barry had  taken drastic measures to avoid exposure?

  What if we had the wrong murderer?

  I began to wonder if letting Barry off with a  warning was a good idea after all. I called and  left a message on the sheriff's answering  machine: "call me--I'm having second thoughts  about letting Barry go."

         Wednesday, July 27

  But I didn't hear from the sheriff the next  day, and he was nowhere to be found. Only more  hordes of relatives bent on congratulating  me. Rumor had it that the missing millions had been found with Samantha, and everyone  who'd lost money was going to get it back. My  popularity was reaching new heights.

  "I'm really tired of being hailed as  Yorktown's answer to Nancy Drew," I  told Michael when he dropped by during his  morning walk with Spike.

  "Well, you did have her pegged as one of the  prime suspects," he said.

  "Yes, but I didn't find any evidence of  anything. I was just mouthing off when I suggested  searching her room. And I'm beginning to have serious  doubts about whether--"

  "Michael!" Dad exclaimed, popping round  the corner of the house. "Just the man I was looking  for! My wedding present for Margaret should arrive  tonight, and I was wondering if you could help me with  it?"

  "Sure," Michael said. "How?"

  "Well, could we park the truck behind your house  so she won't see it?"

  "I don't see why not," Michael said,  shrugging.

  "What kind of truck?" I asked,  suspiciously.

  "One of your cousin Leon's trucks," Dad  said.

  "We're talking an eighteen wheeler, then,"  I said, looking at Michael.

  "As long as it doesn't block the  driveway, I guess it's fine."

  "And if you'd like to help us put it up tomorrow,  you're welcome," Dad said. "Mrs.  Fenniman is going to go with Margaret to the beauty  parlor and then take her to lunch, so as soon as    they leave, everyone we can find will be coming over  to put it up so it will be there when she comes back."

  "Sure," Michael said. "Just what will we be  putting up?"

  "You know how I've been trying to get the yard  in shape so it will look really nice for the wedding?"  Dad said. "Well, I thought of one thing  Margaret likes that would make it just perfect, so  I called some cousins in South Carolina--"

  "Oh, no," I said.

  "And they agreed to help, so I sent our cousin  Leon down there with the truck--"

  "Dad, do you have any idea how much you can fit  into one of those trucks?"

  "That's why I'm getting as many people as possible to put it up, Meg," Dad said.

  "Put what up?" Michael asked. 

  "Spanish moss." Dad beamed.

  "Spanish moss?" Michael said,  incredulous.

  "It's that gray, trailing stuff you see  hanging from all the trees in the Deep South,"  Dad explained.