Murder With Peacocks

by Murder

  "Most of the town are related to us, one way or another. At least the ones who have been here a generation or two. And the rest have just been around us too long."

  "That must be it," he said. "You see, shortly after I got here, something happened that seemed to give everyone the bizarre idea that I--" He froze, looking over my shoulder, and I turned around to see Samantha and one of the bridesmaids.

  "Hello, Meg," Samantha said. "You look comfortable." I felt as guilty as a night watchman caught sleeping on the job.

  "No reason not to be comfortable while I work," I said. "We've been discussing the gowns. Michael has some ideas for making the hoops more manageable."

  I felt guilty picking on Michael that way, but he rose to the occasion. After enduring a seemingly endless conversation on how the hoops could be better constructed to allow us to fit through normal doorways, sit in the limos, and go to the bathroom without too much outside assistance, I excused myself and fled outside on the pretext of seeing if Dad needed help. Michael jumped up and followed me out.

  "Nice of you to come all the way out here from town," I said.

  "It's just down the street, really," Michael said. "I'm staying at Mom's house."

  "Which one is that?"

  "Your mother calls it the Kaplan bungalow."

  "Oh, yes," I said. "Not that any Kaplans have lived there for fifteen years."

  As we went out the back door, we ran into Eric, sporting an extremely large and already dirty bandage and followed, naturally, by Duck.

  "Hi, Aunt Meg," Eric said. "Who's he?" I suppose he had been too concerned with his finger earlier to notice Michael on the porch.

  "This is Michael Waterston," I said, in my best formal manner. "His mother runs the dress shop. Michael, this is Eric McReady, my nephew." Michael leaned down to shake the rather sticky hand Eric was offering. "And this is Duck." Michael won Eric's heart instantly by solemnly turning to Duck and offering his hand, which Duck pecked.

  "I've seen you two around," Michael said. "Yes," I said, "Duck follows Eric around just like a dog."

  "Duck's better than any old dog," Eric said, loyally. "Come see what he did." Eric led us to a spot in the bushes where a single duck egg was resting.

  "Duck laid an egg," Eric said.

  "That's very smart of her," I said. "Him," Eric corrected. I decided it wasn't my job to explain that one to him.

  "What should we do with it?" Eric asked. I looked at Duck, who showed no apparent interest in sitting on the damned thing.

  "Well," Michael said, "I suppose you could always eat it."

  "No!" Eric wailed. "I'm not going to let you eat Duck's babies! No, NO, NO!" He flung himself down to protect the egg with such violence that I was sure he would crack it. Duck began quacking hysterically.

  "Hush, Eric," I said, glaring at Michael. "Nobody's going to eat Duck's babies."

  "I didn't mean eat it," Michael said, desperately, "I meant heat it! Heat it! So it will hatch."

  Eric looked around, still suspicious, but with noticeably less distress.

  "That's what you have to do to hatch eggs," Michael went on. "You heat them. Most ducks sit on the eggs to heat them, but Duck seems to prefer following you around, so we have to figure out some other way to keep her ... his egg warm."

  "Like what?" Eric asked, sitting up and cradling the egg in his hand.

  "Well, when I was a kid I had a little machine that you plugged in and it kept the eggs the right temperature for them to hatch. An incubator, it's called. I hatched some chicks from hen's eggs that way."

  "Where do you get a ink-ink-was--"

  "In-cu-ba-tor," Michael said. Eric mouthed it after him. I could see the dollar signs in his little eyes; he was going to dash right off and collect twenty cents from his grandfather for learning a new, four-syllable word. "Where do you get one?" he asked. Michael and I looked at each other.

  "I suppose a pet store would have one," Michael suggested.

  "Aunt Meg, you could find a pet store with an incubator," Eric said, in the sort of tone that implied that only his incomparable Aunt Meg could perform such a miracle.

  "I suppose I could try," I said.

  "Try real hard!" Eric pleaded.

  "I will, I promise."

  "And soon!" he wailed. "What if Duck's egg gets cold while you're looking?"

  "I'll try real soon. Meanwhile, why don't you keep Duck's egg in your shirt pocket? Of course you'll have to be really careful not to shake it, but that should keep it warm enough."

  "Okay," Eric said. He carefully placed the egg in his pocket, and he and Duck trotted off--slowly--to find Dad.

  "And what happens if he falls and breaks it?" Michael asked, shaking his head.

  "Well, at least he can't blame either of us," I said. "And since there isn't any Mr. Duck around to fertilize the egg, it's not going to hatch no matter how long we incubate it. Eric accidentally breaking it might be the best solution; the kids could have a funeral. Pet funerals are very popular around here, especially since Dad came back from a trip to Scotland with a set of bagpipes for each of the grandkids."

  "They really play the bagpipes?" Michael asked.

  "No, but they can march around making such an ungodly amount of noise that they completely forget to be upset about the dear departed."

  "Let's hope the egg survives. You've got quite enough to do as it is; I'll see if I can find an incubator. Since it was all my fault in the first place."

  "You're on."

  "By the way, Meg, I was wondering if you would like to go--" Michael began, only to be interrupted by Mother calling and beckoning to us from the porch.

  "Michael, you will come to dinner tomorrow, won't you?" Mother asked as we arrived at the porch. "Jake's sister-in-law arrived this morning to spend the summer and help with the wedding, and we want to have a few people over to welcome her. Nothing formal," she insisted, "just a little light refreshment by the pool. Meg, dear, I have something to show you," she said, taking Michael's acceptance for granted and moving to the next item on her agenda. "It's about the dining room ..."

  I waved at Michael and went off with Mother to spend the rest of the afternoon fruitlessly trying to talk her out of totally redecorating the dining room in addition to the living room. I hoped Mrs. Brewster wouldn't up the ante in the decorating competition by decorating three rooms so that Mother would feel obliged to do the family room as well. I hoped Jake was more than reasonably well heeled. I hoped Michael would have the sense to realize that Mother's idea of "nothing formal" meant that guests weren't actually required to wear black tie and tails. I hoped the summer would be over soon.

  Sunday, May 29

  I'd gone to bed Saturday night expecting a relaxing Sunday. At least the morning, when Mother and all her cronies would gather at Grace Episcopal, dressed to kill and waiting with decorative impatience for the service to be over so they could get down to the serious business of catching up with the week's gossip. I planned to sleep late, read the paper, and rest. But I woke early and got up when I couldn't stop worrying about my to-do list.

  I padded downstairs, fixed coffee, and sat at the kitchen table waiting for it to take effect. I was enjoying the peace and quiet of the empty house. I suppose I was halfway asleep again when a noise at the kitchen door startled me. I jumped and whirled, only to see Jake, halfway through the door. He started and looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He was clutching a brown paper bag in both hands with a convulsive grip.

  "I thought everybody was in church," we said, almost in unison. I laughed when I realized we'd both said the same thing. Jake didn't. No sense of humor, either, I thought. What on earth does Mother see in him?

  "I just came by to drop off some things for the party," he said, opening the kitchen door a fraction more and then slipping in sideways and over to the refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the inside, already crowded with containers of food.

  "I suppose I should bring this back later," he sai
d, shifting from foot to foot and rolling the top of the bag a little tighter.

  "Oh, no; I'm sure we can find a space," I said. I opened the refrigerator door wider and began shifting around Tupperware containers and foil-covered casseroles. "What is it you've brought? Can we slip it here on top of the ham or--" I heard a slight noise and turned to find the kitchen empty. "Mr. Wendell?" I peered out the back door. I could see Jake scuttling around the corner.

  Irritating little man. I seemed to make him nervous. Probably senses that you don't like him, I told myself. Perhaps trying to get to know him was a lost cause. Perhaps I should just ignore him.

  On the other hand, if Mother had asked him to bring over something for the party, she would expect to see it. I gulped the rest of my coffee and went after him.

  Jake was making better time than I was. By the time I arrived at his house, a block and a half away, he was nowhere in sight. I trudged up the porch steps and was lifting my hand to knock on the screen door when I heard a female voice say, "So there you are!"

  I whirled, and saw no one.

  "I just went down the street to Margaret's," came Jake's voice from inside the house. I realized the woman was inside, too, and not talking to me.

  "To hide something, I suppose?" the voice continued. "Something of Emma's? The missing jewelry, maybe?"

  "Just some food for the party," Jake said, meekly. "I told you, Jane; all of Emma's jewelry is in the safety deposit box. Emma was very careful about that. I'm sure the key will turn up."

  Ah, I thought. This must be the sister-in-law. Emma, presumably, was Jake's late wife. And here I'd arrived in the midst of a family quarrel. Over missing jewelry, no less. I was tempted to stay and eavesdrop, but my conscience won out. I turned and began sneaking quietly off the porch.

  "I'll bet you've given it all to that blond hussy you're marrying," Jane went on. I paused. I'd heard Mother called many interesting things--had called her a few myself--but "blond hussy" was a new one, even for Mother.

  "No, no, no! Margaret doesn't know they're here--or in the safety deposit box, rather. I told her all Emma's good things had gone to pay the medical bills that the insurance didn't cover."

  "Well, they've gone somewhere, haven't they? The Sheridan console that used to be here, and the Wyeth--"

  "I told you, Jane; it's all in storage."

  "We'll see about that. We'll see if your fiancee happens to have a Sheridan console like Emma's."

  "Please don't do that. You'll upset her."

  "I've a mind to go over there right now," Jane said. Hearing her footsteps coming my way, I whirled and ran pell-mell for home.

  I need to exercise more, I told myself, as I sprawled, panting, on my chair in the kitchen, awaiting the onslaught of Jake and his sister-in-law. I'll just have to tell them I was doing my exercises, I thought. Oh, sure; Jake will certainly believe that, having seen me semicomatose in the kitchen a few minutes before. I stood up and did a few jumping jacks to add a note of realism for their arrival. After a few minutes I switched to sit-ups. When five or ten minutes passed with no sign of irate sisters-in-law, I abandoned my charade and went back to the kitchen for more coffee.

  Damn Jake, anyway. At least he'd talked his sister-in-law out of storming over here immediately, but I had a premonition that trouble was still coming. Did Jake really think he had to put his late wife's possessions in storage to keep them out of Mother's clutches? And why didn't he just show them to his sister-in-law? Probably no time; she'd only just arrived a few hours ago. I hoped he did it soon. The way she sounded, I suspected that when she didn't find her sister's jewelry and furniture here, she'd accuse Mother of selling them. Which was nonsense. I could see Mother appropriating a piece of jewelry or furniture she thought was about to become hers anyway, and having to be gently but firmly told to give it back. I couldn't possibly see her selling them.

  Mother arrived back from church just before noon, followed almost immediately by about fifteen or twenty relatives and neighbors, bearing flowers, extra plates and glasses, and more food in amazing quantities. The expected chaos reigned right up until the party began. I was a nervous wreck, expecting Jake's sister-in-law to arrive any moment shrieking accusations. The fact that she hadn't shown up yet was no relief; I was sure she was postponing the confrontation till the party, where she'd have a bigger audience. At least that's what Mother or any of my aunts would have done.

  In retrospect, it seems appropriate that the summer's first known threats of homicide were uttered during the party preparations--although unlike at least one other local resident, I wasn't serious. My nerves were shot, and I was only trying to keep Dad and several of the uncles from decimating the buffet before the other guests arrived.

  Mother is fond of remarking that she looks forward to the hour when a party begins because then she can stop working and start having fun. That may be true for her--although Pam and I have noticed that any work she does is purely supervisory. For me, the start of a party only means a change from the tangible, boring, but satisfactory work of cooking, cleaning, and decorating to the unpredictable and far more difficult task of keeping several hundred neighbors and family members from injuring each other or driving me crazy before the end of the evening.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when Mother glided over to me with another woman in tow and said, "Meg, this is our guest of honor--Jane Grover, Jake's sister-in-law."

  At first glance, Mrs. Grover seemed harmless. She was a short woman with badly hennaed hair and a loud print dress. She and Mother didn't look as if they'd had a quarrel. But after a second I realized that her smile looked artificial and her eyes cold.

  "How nice to finally meet you, my dear," Mrs. Grover said, with a look that somehow seemed to insinuate that she had witnessed my shameless eavesdropping on the porch. "We must talk later."

  I stammered a greeting and escaped as soon as possible. In the direction of the bar. I watched her and Mother making the rounds of the party. Well, at least they were both on their best behavior.

  The party was in full swing, and I'd already confiscated firecrackers from two small cousins and a golf club from an inebriated uncle when Michael arrived.

  "Didn't your mother say she was just having a few people over?" he said, incredulously, as he stood at the edge of the sea of guests in our backyard.

  "For Mother, this is a few people," I said.

  "She doesn't count family," Pam said. "At least half of the horde's family."

  "The weirder half," I added.

  "Oh, by the way," Michael said, holding out a bunch of flowers.

  "Mother will be charmed," I said. "I'll lead you to her so you can present them in person. Don't get in the way of the croquet players," I warned, giving the flying mallets a wide berth. Michael paused to watch the game.

  "Croquet!" he exclaimed, taking in the spectacle of a dozen middle-aged and elderly aunts in flowery summer dresses and sun hats posing among the wickets. "It's wonderful! Like something out of a Merchant Ivory film."

  "Yes, the croquet clique do tend to dress the part, I'll give them that," I said. "But if you're under the impression that croquet is a genteel, civilized, Waspy way to spend a summer afternoon, don't look too close--they'll spoil all your illusions. It's a blood sport for them."

  "Really?" Michael said, incredulously. Just then, one aunt hit another's ball out with a swing that would have been more at home on a golf course than the croquet grounds.

  "Ball!" shrieked all the croquet players, and most of the assembled guests-- family, anyway--either dropped to the ground or flung their arms over their heads. The ball landed harmlessly in the swimming pool. Its owner, after a few minutes of waving her mallet around and verbally abusing her rival, stormed over to cajole Eric into diving for her ball.

  Yes, the party was definitely hitting its stride. One of the uncles had taken his favorite perch on the diving board and was enthusiastically conducting a program of chamber music. My niece was lurking near the CD player in the hop
es of slipping the 1812 Overture into the program and seeing him fall off the board again. About the usual number of relatives had pretended to think the picnic was a masquerade and had come in costume, including Cousin Horace in his well-used gorilla suit. Eric and Duck were paddling around in the pool, quacking at each other and bobbing for bits of food that the guests threw at them. Mother sat fanning herself with an antique Victorian fan and beaming goodwill near and far.

  "Oh, thank you, Michael!" she said, as he handed her the bouquet. "Isn't it nice to have everyone together like this? Though I do wish Jeffrey could have come down for the holiday weekend," she added, turning to me. "You should have tried harder to convince him, Meg."

  "Mother, pay attention," I said. "Jeffrey is history."

  "Now, Meg."

  "Jeffrey has been history for months, and I wouldn't get back together with him if he were the last human male on earth--which would be impossible anyway, because Jeffrey is not human, he is a vaguely humanoid reptile. Please delete Jeffrey from your memory banks. This is a recording."

  "I still think Jeffrey is a very nice boy," Mother said.

  "Good riddance to bad rubbish I say," Dad put in.

  Dad has remarkably sound ideas on what my personal Mr. Right should be like. I should have known something was wrong with Jeffrey when Dad didn't take to him.

  "Ball!" came the cry again, and we all hit the deck except for Mother, who watched with mild interest as the croquet ball missed her ear by two inches and landed in a bowl of potato salad on the buffet table. This ball apparently belonged to Mother's best friend, Mrs. Fenniman, who firmly believed that you weren't allowed to touch the ball with anything other than the mallet. Pam and several of the saner cousins hurried to move the rest of the dishes off the table so Mrs. Fenniman could climb up, dig the ball out with the mallet, and thwack it over the heads of the crowd to the croquet field.

  "It's almost as good as the croquet game with flamingos and hedgehogs in Alice in Wonderland," Michael said, watching Mrs. Fenniman with morbid fascination.

  "Don't give them ideas," I said, noticing absently that since Mrs. Fenniman was dressed in her usual somber colors with a black straw hat precariously attached to the side of her head, her perch made her look even more like a raven than usual. Ravens, flamingos ... something tugged at my memory. "Oh, Dad, do you know of anyone who sells or rents peacocks?"