Murder With Peacocks

by Murder

  "Dad can eat everything," Pam remarked.

  "And frequently does," I said. "How well did you hide the desserts?"

  "Here, Meg," Mother said, handing me a plate. "Have some potato salad."

  "I don't like potato salad, Mother," I said.

  "Nonsense, it's very good," Mother said. "Mrs. Grover made it." Not, to my mind, a recommendation. I examined it for telltale signs of ground glass or eye of newt.

  "Oh, Meg, there's your friend Scotty!" Mother said, pointing out a new arrival. "Scotty and Meg grew up together," she explained to Michael, who was looking dubiously at Scotty's disheveled, potbellied form.

  "I've been a little more successful at it," I said. "Scotty's in training to become the town drunk."

  "Meg!" Mother said. "Is that necessary?"

  "Well, somebody has to do it. Scotty's certainly the best qualified."

  "He's had a little trouble finding himself," Mother said. "I'm sure he'll do just fine as soon as he finds something that suits his abilities."

  "Mother," I said. "Scotty is thirty-five years old. If he hasn't figured out what he wants to do when he grows up by now, I would say the chances of his ever doing so are slim and getting slimmer by the minute."

  "I'm sure he'll turn out all right," Mother said. "He just needs encouragement." She floated over to talk to some newly arriving cousins, graciously bestowing an encouraging word on Scotty in passing. He jumped guiltily away from the beer cooler at the sound of her voice and began combing his unwashed hair with his fingers. Then, when he realized she was gone, he furtively fished out another can.

  "Actually, he doesn't usually need much encouragement at all," I said as Scotty had caught sight of me and hurried over. Scotty cherished the fond delusion that we were childhood buddies.

  "Meg," he said, approaching with open arms.

  "Hello, Scotty, have some potato salad," I said, shoving my plate into his hand to ward him off. He didn't seem to mind. Scotty was used to rejection.

  "Isn't it great?" Scotty said. "We're going to be in a wedding together."

  "Scotty's an usher in Samantha and Rob's wedding," I explained.

  "His father is a partner in the firm," Samantha added, giving Scotty a withering look. He sidled off. I wondered, not for the first time, why Samantha had ever included Scotty as an usher. Granted he was rumored to be reasonably presentable when sober and washed, but other than that ... well, his father must be a great deal more important to Mr. Brewster's law firm than I'd previously thought. Samantha marched off haughtily in the opposite direction. Scotty looked as if he might return, but noticed that Dad was organizing an impromptu work detail to weed Professor Donleavy's flowerbeds. Scotty vanished around the side of the house. He was all too familiar with Dad's tendency to find work for idle hands. Barry, Eric, and one of Eric's classmates had already begun weeding.

  "I see Dad's putting Barry to some good use," I said.

  "They seem to be getting along pretty well," Michael remarked with a frown.

  "Stuff and nonsense. I suspect Eileen has told Barry to get in good with Dad if he hopes to make a favorable impression on me, which is why he's been hovering over Dad even more than me since he got here."

  "And getting in good with your Dad isn't important to making a favorable impression on you?" Michael asked. Dad saw us, waved, and began walking our way.

  "It is, but I doubt if Barry has any chance of doing it," I replied.

  "What a remarkably obtuse young man," Dad said, shaking his head as he joined us. Michael chuckled.

  "I quite agree," I said. "Mother thinks he's very sweet."

  "Really," Dad said.

  "Of course, she has incredibly bad taste in men--present company excepted, of course."

  "Of course," Dad said.

  "She always liked Jeffrey, she's very taken with Barry, and she's even rather fond of Scotty the Sot," I said.

  "Your mother strikes me as the sort of person who would be a sucker for stray animals, too," Michael remarked.

  "Oh, she is." Dad beamed.

  "But since we kids started going off to college and weren't around full time to feed them for her, she's gotten very good at getting other people to adopt them," I added.

  I left Dad and Michael to entertain each other and strolled through the lawn, greeting friends and neighbors and adding to my napkin collection. One of Eileen's aunts gave me the new address for sending her invitation. A neighbor knew a calligrapher. Mrs. Fenniman knew a cheaper one. An aunt's new (third) husband was starting a catering business. By midafternoon I had to make a trip into the house to empty out my napkin collection.

  When I came back out, I paused and looked over the lawn, bracing myself to dive back into the crowd. I noticed Samantha and Mrs. Grover standing a little apart at one end of the pool. From the looks of it, they weren't exchanging pleasantries.

  I admit it, I'm nosy. I went over to join them.

  "I'm sure you wouldn't want that to get out," Mrs. Grover was saying as I strolled into earshot.

  "I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to," Samantha said in an icy tone.

  "Well, we'll talk about it some other time, dear," Mrs. Grover said, so softly I could barely hear her. For a few seconds, she and Samantha appeared to be having a staring contest, and although neither appeared to take any notice of me, I knew perfectly well that both were acutely conscious of me and that my arrival had interrupted--what? As far as I knew, Samantha and Mrs. Grover had only just met. What could possibly be causing this undeniable antagonism between Samantha and her fiance's future stepfather's first wife's sister? What did Mrs. Grover know that Samantha wouldn't want to get out?

  "Aunt Meg!" My melodramatic speculations were interrupted by Eric, who had appeared at my side and was tugging at my arm. "Come see what Duck did!"

  "I can't imagine," I muttered, following him to a spot in the shrubbery. Mrs. Grover tagged along.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Duck laid another egg," Eric said. "Aunt Meg, what am I going to do with it? I don't have another shirt pocket, and I could put it in my pants pocket, but--"

  "In warm weather like this, I think it will be fine until we get the incubator," I said. "Don't worry about it."

  "Okay," Eric said. Spotting some newly arrived cousins, he ran off to play, presumably entrusting the care of Duck's egg to me.

  "He's remarkably dependent on that bird," Mrs. Grover said, in a disparaging tone.

  "Children are devoted to their pets," I said.

  "Not exactly a normal sort of pet, though, is it?" she said, in a slimy, insinuating tone that seemed to imply that most arsonists and ax murderers started on the road to ruin through unnatural attachments to waterfowl.

  "They have a number of dogs, too," I said, defensively. "But only one Duck."

  "Yes, and I rather think we can keep it that way, don't you?" Mrs. Grover said, and before I realized what she was doing, deliberately squashed Duck's egg with the heel of her shoe.

  "Don't! Eric's pet laid that!"

  "Ugh," she said, as the contents of the egg splattered her foot. "The nasty thing is all over me."

  "Well, what did you expect? Did you think ducks laid hard-boiled eggs? Don't touch that!" I said, swatting her hand away as she reached to strip a clump of leaves off one of Professor Donleavy's more fragile tropical bushes. "Don't touch any of the bushes; hasn't Dad warned you about all the galloping skin rashes you can get from the foliage around here?"

  "Then get me some napkins," she ordered, shaking her foot and spattering me with droplets of egg, while scrubbing her hand on her dress.

  "Get your own napkins," I snapped. "And don't let Eric see you. We're going to have a hard enough time explaining why the egg's gone; you have no idea how upset he'll be if he sees you with egg all over your foot."

  I snagged a few napkins from the buffet table, cleaned the splatters of egg off my dress as best I could, and retreated to the opposite side of the yard to fume.

  "Wh
at's wrong, Meg?" Michael asked, appearing at my elbow. I jumped.

  "Don't sneak up on me like that!" I said.

  "Especially when I'm already feeling guilty about contemplating homicide."

  "Really," he said, handing me a fresh glass of wine. "Who's the intended victim?"

  "Mrs. Grover."

  "You may have to stand in line," he replied. "What's she done to you?"

  "She deliberately smashed Duck's latest egg. I know it's trivial, but she very nearly did it in front of Eric, and you saw how upset he was at the very idea of something happening to the first egg. It was just so ..."

  "Cold," Michael said. "Very cold. I know exactly how you feel. She sets my teeth on edge."

  "Who's that?" asked Dad appearing so suddenly that I jumped again. "Goodness, you're nervous today, Meg."

  "That's understandable," Michael said. "She's contemplating homicide."

  "Mrs. Grover, of course," Dad said, nodding. "I do hope she won't come to visit often when they're married. I hate to think of Margaret having to put up with her all the time."

  "Mother's probably the only one of us who's a match for her," I said.

  "Meg!" Dad exclaimed. "Your mother is nothing like Mrs. Grover!"

  "I didn't say she was like her," I protested. "I said she was a match for her. As in, I defy Mrs. Grover to get Mother's goat the way she's getting to everyone else around here."

  "Your mother feels things more than she shows sometimes," Dad said, reprovingly. "I plan to do whatever I can to see that she doesn't have Mrs. Grover on her hands any more than necessary this summer. She doesn't need that with everything else she has to do to get ready for the wedding."

  "All the things she's doing!" I began, but before I could get much further, Dad had trotted off.

  "He looks like a man with a purpose," Michael remarked.

  "Yes, but what purpose, I have no idea," I said. "Not to rescue Mother, certainly. Mrs. Grover seems to have latched on to Barry at the moment, and I'm all for letting him go unrescued for as long as possible."

  "Amen," said Michael.

  In fact, I was definitely hoping no one would interrupt Mrs. Grover's tete-a-tete with Barry, since she seemed to be accomplishing the hitherto unknown feat of getting him hot under the collar. He was frowning and getting very red in the face; you could almost see the steam pouring out of his ears. He seemed to be looking for rescue. He kept glancing in my direction and then frowning all the harder. He would have to wait a long time before I rescued him. Unless--a sudden thought hit me. He wasn't just glowering at me, he was glowering at us. Michael and me. I would be willing to bet almost anything that Mrs. Grover was trying to make him jealous of Michael. Only Barry would be dim enough to fall for that one, I supposed. But the ridiculousness of it wouldn't necessarily prevent Barry from taking some violent action if he got much madder. He should avoid getting angry, I thought. It didn't suit him at all. His eyes got small and piggy and he reminded me more with each passing moment of the bull in a cartoon bullfight, snorting and pawing the earth and preparing to charge. Michael, who would be playing the part of matador if Barry did charge, didn't seem the least bit alarmed.

  I finally decided that it would be better to rescue Barry, for Michael's sake if nothing else, and had actually gotten within earshot when Dad bustled up.

  "I have a wonderful idea!" he said. "You don't mind, do you, Barry?" he said, taking Mrs. Grover by the elbow and leading her off. No, Barry didn't mind a bit, though Mrs. Grover looked rather like a cat when you take away a wounded bird that the cat's not quite finished playing with.

  "Fetch some punch, Barry," I said, rather brusquely, thrusting my cup into his hand and giving him a shove in the direction of the food and drink. I watched to make sure he was really leaving, then dashed off after Dad and Mrs. Grover, partly to avoid being around when Barry returned with the punch and partly to hear what Dad's wonderful idea was. I was appalled to see that he appeared to be making a date with her. To go bird-watching.

  Since Dad's bird-watching trips start an hour before dawn and include trekking through some of the local streams and marshes to view the waterfowl, Mrs. Grover was proving less than enthusiastic, even after Dad offered to lend her his spare pair of hip boots. But from the way Dad persisted, I realized he must have some ulterior motive. Very few people can hold out when Dad persists. Mrs. Grover finally agreed, with a visible reluctance that seemed to escape Dad, to meet him in Mother's backyard an hour before dawn for a few hours of nature appreciation.

  "Now, tell me why you're so eager to go hiking through the woods with Mrs. Grover," I said, when she finally escaped Dad's clutches.

  "I think a little taste of healthy, outdoor exercise would be beneficial," Dad said. "Perhaps a fishing trip in the rowboat would be a good idea, too."

  "You could borrow an outboard motor from someone."

  "No, that wouldn't do at all," Dad said. "The rowboat's the thing. I could teach her how to row."

  "Dad, I doubt if Mrs. Grover has any interest in learning how to row. If you're trying to chase her out of town, why don't you take her over to Mother's cousin's farm and show her the hogs."

  "That's a splendid idea," Dad said. "Perhaps he could arrange to slaughter a few while we're there. Any other little ideas you have to keep her out of your mother's hair and make her homesick for Fort Lauderdale, you just speak up anytime." And he trotted off happily in search of the hog-owning cousin. I sighed.

  "What now?" Michael asked, once more appearing at my elbow. He was getting very good at that.

  "Dad has found a new purpose in life," I said, pointing to where Dad was enthusiastically talking to Mrs. Grover.

  "Mrs. Grover?" he said, incredulously.

  "In a way. He's decided Mother needs protecting from Mrs. Grover."

  "Your mother?" he said, even more incredulously.

  "Precisely. He's planning to kill her with kindness. Strenuous dawn nature hikes, visits to cousins who live under rigorously rustic conditions--all sorts of supposedly fun things that aren't. Keeping her out of Mother's hair and if possible, encouraging her to flee."

  "She could always refuse to go along."

  "You don't know him yet," I said, shaking my head. "Dad's the only human being on the face of the earth who can talk Mother into doing something she doesn't want to do. Mrs. Grover's a pushover compared to Mother."

  "Well, I must say, I won't be sorry if he succeeds in running her out of town," Michael said. "She keeps coming up to me and insisting she knows me from somewhere. I'm sure if she does she remembers me from my acting days. Before I went back to school for my doctorate, I was one of those rare actors who actually earned a living at it. Mostly in soap operas. I assume that's how Mrs. Grover knows me."

  "Have you told her that?"

  "Yes, but she keeps saying "No, that's not it. But it will come to me sooner or later." As if she expects me to break down and confess, "Yes, yes, you've seen through me! It was I on the grassy knoll, and what's more, I can tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is buried!""

  "Really? I always heard it was somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike," said a cousin who was the family's leading conspiracy enthusiast. His uncanny ability to turn up at moments when his pet subjects are mentioned is one of the most persuasive arguments for mental telepathy I've ever known. I confess, I abandoned Michael to him and hunted down Dad.

  "Dad, about your trip to the farm with Mrs. Grover," I said. "Do they still have that old outhouse around for local color?"

  "Yes," Dad said, a blissful smile spreading over his face as he dashed off to talk to the cousin.

  Maybe it wasn't going to be such a bad summer after all.

  I kept one eye on Mrs. Grover's progress through the crowd--it was easy to track her by the comparatively bare spot in the crowd that tended to form around her whenever she paused anywhere for more than a minute. I was surprised she hadn't yet burst forth to accuse Mother of robbing her dead sister, but perhaps she was saving that for the grand finale. I wa
ndered over to where Mother and Samantha were talking to the current and former rectors of Grace Episcopal Church. The retired rector, the aptly named Reverend Pugh, was an old family friend. Mother had recently granted tentative approval to his successor after a mere eighteen-year probationary period. She now referred to him as "that nice young man" rather than simply "that young man." At this rate, he had a very real chance of achieving "dear rector" status by the time he retired.

  "And here's Meg," the rector said, as I strolled up. "Your mother and Samantha have been telling me about all the things you're doing to get ready for their weddings." Telling him in mind-numbing detail, I suspected, from the desperate note in his voice. I'd long ago stopped wondering why all three brides showed such a distressing inability to understand how anyone they came in contact with could fail to be fascinated with the minutiae of their weddings.

  "I'm sorry I'll have to miss them all," he continued, somewhat disingenuously, I suspect. "The day after tomorrow I'm taking the wife and kids on that trip to the Holy Land. Finally going after all these years!"

  "Do you mean you're not going to be here in July?" Samantha demanded. "Then who's going to do my wedding? I've booked the church." The rector and I exchanged worried glances.

  "Yes, well, if you'd talked to me I'd have told you I was going to be gone this summer," he stammered. "When you didn't, I assumed you were making your own arrangements with my substitute."

  "And who is that?" Samantha asked.

  "Why, me, of course," Reverend Pugh answered, beaming. Fortunately his eyesight was very bad--not unusual at ninety-seven--and he failed to notice the expression of outrage that crossed Samantha's face. I could see she was horrified at the mere thought of his decrepit and highly unaesthetic self officiating at her wedding.

  "Don't worry, Samantha dear," he said, reaching to pat her hand and getting Jake's by mistake. "I've got it down in my calendar already. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

  I'd often heard of people having conniption fits, but I'd never actually seen a genuine, unmistakable example before. I was briefly tempted simply to let things run their course, but reason prevailed, and I knew I had to defuse the situation. Nothing brilliant came to mind, so in desperation I made a conspiratorial gesture to Samantha and whispered the first thing that came to mind: "Just humor him! I'll fill you in later."