Murder With Peacocks

by Murder

  Through all this, Mother remained preoccupied. She failed to respond to any of my conversational gambits. If she was having second thoughts, she was keeping them to herself and not letting them slow the momentum of the day.

  "What's wrong?" Michael asked when he arrived in the early afternoon.

  "I have this strange feeling Mother's having second thoughts."

  "Is that so bad?"

  "No, except that it's a little inconveniently late. I mean, I really wish people would think things like weddings through before they go and ask their friends and relations to spend literally months of their lives working like dogs to arrange ceremonies they have no intention of going through with."

  "Or following through with, in Samantha's case," Michael said.

  "Precisely," I said, testily. "If you're not entirely sure you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, it seems to me that the last thing you'd want to do is to set in motion a very lengthy, time-consuming, expensive, and highly public process designed to lead inexorably to just that."

  Michael nodded sympathetically and went to supervise the arrival of the Be-Stitched ladies, along with (in addition to our dresses) their husbands, children, and extended families. At the last minute, Mother had invited them en masse. Why not? It wasn't as if we'd really notice a hundred or so extra people.

  Mother finally allowed me to see my dress, although she did make me put a paper bag over my head until the ladies put it on me. I held my breath as she reached to whisk off the bag. I stared into the mirror, astonished.

  "Do you like it, dear?" Mother asked, a little nervously.

  "It's beautiful," I said. And, for a wonder, it really was. The rose color went perfectly with my complexion and the cut made the best of my figure. Mother looked more cheerful as she went off to put on her own dress.

  "I told you so," Michael said. "You look really great; I knew you would."

  "This almost makes up for the velvet and the hoops," I said.

  Relatives began arriving in the middle of the afternoon, well aware that the parking would run out long before five. I'd arranged to have two vans available so Rob and Mal could run a shuttle service for guests who'd had to park half a mile away. The sheriff had borrowed some deputies from two neighboring counties to carry out the regular patrol work for the day so his entire staff could direct traffic and then attend the wedding.

  Jake looked positively cheerful. I almost didn't recognize him. Perhaps he really was deeply in love with Mother and finally felt confident that the wedding was really going to happen. Or perhaps he was merely looking forward to getting the ceremony over withand leaving town. He kept looking in his inside jacket pocket and patting an airline ticket folder with obvious satisfaction.

  Dad, on the other hand, was wandering about looking forlorn, with periodic intervals during which he had obviously told himself to keep his chin up. I found myself siding with Dad. If one of the weddings had to misfire, couldn't it have been this one? I really didn't want this one to come off.

  And so, of course, before you knew it we were marching down the aisle--Pam and I, followed by Mother on Rob's arm. At the last minute, Mother had decided to have Rob give her away.

  "To take his mind off everything, poor dear," she said.

  I'd have thought that the best thing to take his mind off the everything in question was to have nothing whatsoever to do with weddings. I hoped he was really as cheerful as he seemed. I hoped Dad wouldn't be too depressed. I hoped Mother really knew what she was doing. If she didn't, it was a little late to do anything; the wedding was underway.

  "If anyone here can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony," Cousin Frank intoned, "Let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

  Seemingly expecting no reply, he was drawing breath to continue when Dad spoke up.

  "Actually, I have one small objection," he said. The wedding party turned around to look at him, and in the back of the crowd you could see people craning for a better view and shushing each other. After a suitably suspenseful pause, Dad continued.

  "You see, I have a pretty good idea that old Jake here bumped off his first wife, and I really don't want to see him do the same to my Margaret."

  A hush fell over the entire crowd. I looked at Dad, who was beaming seraphically at us. At Mother, who was gazing from him to Jake with rapt attention. At Jake, who had turned deathly pale. At the miles of Spanish moss festooning every tree in the yard. At the masses of out-of-season flowers, the regiment of caterers gamboling over the lawn, at the bloody $1200 circus tent on top of which, despite all our diversionary tactics, the least decorative of the newly acquired Langslow family peacock flock was now roosting.

  "Honestly, Dad," I said, "couldn't you have brought this up a bit sooner?"

  Smothered titters began spreading through the audience, and Dad brought down the house by replying, "But Meg, I've always wanted to see someone do that in real life."

  "I have no idea what he's talking about," Jake said. "The man must be crazy."

  "I think an analysis of your late wife's ashes might prove very interesting, don't you?" Dad said. Had the chemists finally found something, I wondered.

  "If you could analyze them," Jake countered. "You'd have a hard time doing it; I scattered them, just as she wanted."

  "No," I said. "You scattered Mother's great-aunt Sophy. Dad has your wife."

  Jake looked a little shaken.

  "Well, if someone did poison Emma, I'd like to know about it. But it wasn't me."

  "You can prove he did it, can't you?" the sheriff said to Dad.

  "Moreover, I believe you're really responsible for Mrs. Grover's death," Dad went on. More oohs and ahhs from the crowd. Jake looked pale. I cringed inwardly. If Dad had proof that Jake had murdered his first wife, he'd have produced it. He was changing the subject. He was bluffing.

  "That's impossible," Jake said. "You know very well I was nowhere near here when she was killed."

  "Yes, but I suspect an analysis of your financial records will show you hired someone to do it."

  "Nonsense," Jake said, much more confidently.

  Bad guess, Dad. "Look all you want."

  Dad looked crestfallen. No doubt he was expecting Jake to jump up and confess when accused, the way people do in the movies. People don't do that, Dad, I wanted to say. The crowd was shuffling around, looking embarrassed, and I imagined that any minute now, Cousin Frank would call things to order and suggest they get on with the ceremony. Do something, Dad! But he was simply staring at Jake, obviously waiting for something. Jake stared back, unruffled. He wasn't going to make a slip.

  Or had he already? Something that had been tugging at the back of mind suddenly clicked into place. Don't worry, Dad, I think we've got him.

  "That was an interesting slip of the tongue, Mr. Wendell," I said. Jake whirled to face me. Dad's face brightened.

  "You said that you'd like to know if anyone poisoned your wife," I continued. "Dad didn't say anything about poisoning. He just said he thought you killed her. I think "bumped off" was the exact phrase he used."

  "Well ... I assumed ... from the ashes ..." Jake spluttered. The sheriff looked interested, but unconvinced.

  "But you're right, it's a long time ago," I went on. "It would be very hard to prove he did it anyway. So, Sheriff, why not just arrest him for murdering Mrs. Grover?"

  "If you have any idea who he hired, I'd be happy to look into it," the sheriff replied.

  "He didn't have to hire anyone," I said. "He did it himself."

  "But how?" Dad said, eagerly. I could hear the words "cast-iron alibi" muttered from several directions in the crowd, and the sheriff was shaking his head regretfully.

  "I wasn't anywhere near here when Jane was murdered," Jake said, smugly. "So how could I possibly have done it?"

  "The storage bin," I said. "That's how you did it. And where you did it."

  Jake froze.

  "She was accusing you of sellin
g her sister's possessions or giving them to Mother," I went on. "I overheard you telling her that the jewelry was in the safety deposit box and the furniture and paintings were safe in your storage bin. She didn't want to wait, did she? The bank wasn't open on the weekend, but you promised her that you'd take her to the storage bin as soon as the party was over. And you did. But she never came back. Not alive, anyway."

  "This is ridiculous," Jake said. But his voice was shaky.

  "Did you drug her coffee with her sleeping medication? Or did you hold a gun on her and force her to take it? Either way, you knocked her out, drove her out to your storage bin, tied her up, and left her there. Then the next day, in between a couple of errands, you asked Mother if she'd mind if you dropped by your storage bin for a minute. What was it you said you wanted?"

  "His golf clubs," Mother said, frowning slightly. "He wanted to take them with us on the honeymoon."

  "And of course Mother didn't want to go inside your stuffy old storage bin. Right? I bet she stayed in the car reading a bridal magazine while you bashed Mrs. Grover's head in with a blunt object--I'm guessing one of the golf clubs--and stowed her in the trunk of Mother's car."

  "In my car?" Mother said, faintly. "We were riding around with a dead body in my car?" I saw gleams in the eyes of the two cousins who sold cars.

  "He couldn't use his, Mother," I said. "It's a hatchback. And then that night, after we all went to bed, you snuck back and put her on the beach. You figured it didn't matter that the autopsy would show she'd been moved from wherever she'd been killed, because everyone would know you weren't anywhere nearby to have killed her. The fact that the body wasn't found for another whole day made it even harder to prove anything."

  "That's all very interesting, Meg," the sheriff began. "But I think you're letting your imagination run away with you."

  "Check his storage bin," I said, turning to the sheriff. "The U-Stor-It on Route Seventeen, bin number forty-three. Check his golf clubs for traces of blood. I bet you'll also find a lot of other interesting things in his bin, things he didn't plant in Samantha's room, like traces of foxglove plants and leftover stuff from that bomb he planted in Barry's jack-in-the box and a brand-new gorilla suit and--"

  Suddenly I felt an arm grab me around the neck and a cold, metal circle pressed against the middle of my back.

  "Everyone stay away! I have a gun!" Jake shouted, dragging me with him as he backed slowly away from the sheriff.

  "Now, Mr. Wendell," the sheriff said, in his most soothing tone. "You don't want to make things any worse for yourself."

  "Any worse! I like that! You're going to put me away for murder, and it's all his fault," Jake shrieked, pointing at Dad with the gun for a moment before sticking it in my back again. Everyone looked at Dad in bewilderment. "When we got home from the damned party, Jane told me that she knew how I'd done it," Jake said. "It was Langslow and his damned garden that tipped her off. He was going on about common household poisonings. She recognized Emma's symptoms."

  "And she threatened to turn you in?" the sheriff asked. Good. Get him interested in talking and maybe he'll wave the gun again. I was too surprised to make a break the first time, but if it happened again, I'd be ready.

  "She said she'd tell if I didn't pay her off," Jake said.

  "She tried to blackmail you?"

  "She said if I didn't pay her five-hundred-thousand dollars, she'd give Emma's ashes to the sheriff. She seemed to think you'd still be able to tell she'd been poisoned."

  "So Dr. Langslow inadvertently enlightened Mrs. Grover on how you killed her sister, your late wife, and you killed Mrs. Grover to prevent her from blackmailing you?"

  "You can't give in to blackmailers," Jake said, very earnestly. "They're like crabgrass; you never get rid of them. And I already had one on my back. It was going to be hard enough to get rid of her."

  "Someone else was blackmailing you?" Dad asked.

  "Of course," Jake shouted, jerking his head in Mother's direction. "She was!" There were murmurs of astonishment from the crowd, Jake seemed to be enjoying himself now. It was nice that someone was. The crowd was hanging on his every word, and in case they missed anything the first time around, Aunt Esme was repeating everything he said at the top of her voice into Great-Aunt Matilda's good ear. I hoped the sheriff and his deputies weren't getting so interested that they'd forget to rescue me if the opportunity came up.

  "Well, I never!" Mother said, in her chilliest manner. "I can't imagine what would ever have given you that idea."

  "She kept at me," Jake continued. "She kept telling me that she knew exactly what I had done, and it was all for the best. She even told me she knew all about the rice pudding." Everyone looked at Mother.

  "Well, I did," Mother said, perplexed. "I knew how much Emma liked it, and you were so good to learn how to make it for her. So few men would go to that much bother. I don't see what rice pudding has to do with it, anyway."

  "That was what I fed her the poison in," Jake shouted. Please, Mother, I thought; don't get him any more excited. "I thought you knew that! And I almost had a heart attack when I found out you expected me to marry you to keep you quiet!"

  "I can't imagine what could possibly have given you that idea," Mother said stiffly.

  "You kept going on about married couples keeping each other's little secrets."

  "I'm sure you were asking something highly personal about Dr. Langslow."

  "I was asking if he knew what you knew."

  "Knew what?" Mother asked.

  "About Emma!" Jake shouted.

  "You needn't shout, Jake," Mother reproved. "If he did, he certainly didn't tell me, or I would never have accepted your proposal."

  "Are you suggesting," Pam asked, "that although Mother knew you had killed your first wife, she was so eager to marry you that she was willing to blackmail you into doing it?" Put like that, it seemed so implausible that even Jake was taken aback.

  "Well," he waffled, "it seemed so at the time."

  "And then Mrs. Grover tried to blackmail you, and you killed her," Dad picked up the tale. "But you realized that you'd never feel safe as long as I was around asking difficult questions about Mrs. Grover's death. So you decided to shut me up by getting rid of me. And Meg, once you decided she was a threat."

  "No you don't," Jake said, suddenly, dragging me with him as he whirled about to look behind him. Some of the deputies had edged their way around there. I assume they were trying to surprise him.

  "Get out of my way," Jake snarled, and dragged me with him until he had his back to the garage. "Someone bring my car around. We're leaving."

  Great. From maid of honor to hostage. I suddenly realized that I was still holding my bouquet in the hand that wasn't clutching at the arm that was choking me.

  "Jake, you don't have to do this," Mother said in her most soothing tones, and started to walk toward us as she talked. "I'm sure Dr. Langslow knows a psychiatrist who could help get you off. Why don't you just turn Meg loose and we'll sit down and talk to him--"

  "You stay away from me," Jake wailed. "Stand back or I'll shoot her! I swear I will!"

  Everybody stood back. Stalemate. What did Jake have in mind--fleeing the country with me as his hostage?

  Suddenly we heard the usual unearthly peacock shrieks coming from directly overhead. Two peacocks were fluttering down from the roof toward us. Jake dodged to one side to avoid them, dragging me with him, and I could feel that the barrel of the gun was no longer pointed at my back. The peacocks were followed almost immediately by Michael, who landed with a thud where Jake would have been if he hadn't dodged. But the diversionary tactic worked--Jake loosened his grip on me and started to point the gun at Michael.

  Here was my chance! I jerked Jake's arm skyward, the gun started firing, guests began screaming and dropping to the ground.

  Luckily my ironwork had given me a great deal more upper body strength than most women have. A lot more than Jake, too. I could keep the gun pointed harmlessly in
the air until it was empty. Then I shoved Jake away from me and watched as he was tackled, first by Mother, then by Michael, and then, belatedly, by the sheriff and most of the deputies and ersatz cousins. The lawmen began fighting over who got to handcuff him, their efforts hampered by Mother, who had one knee on Jake's neck and was beating him over the head with her wedding bouquet.

  "Of all the nasty, mean things!" Mother said, punctuating her remarks with blows. "I hope they put you under the jail!"

  "Now, Margaret," Dad said. "I think the sheriff can take care of him. Come and have some champagne."

  Mother allowed Dad to help her up and, after they were sure I was unharmed, they waltzed off toward the refreshment tent. A few guests stayed to gawk as Jake was led away to the car by six of the deputies, or to shake my hand or pat me on the shoulder soothingly. Most of the herd wandered off behind Mother and Dad and started in on the champagne and the buffet. I shooed away the well-wishers, sat down in one of the folding chairs, and put my head in my hands.

  "Here, have some champagne," Michael said, waving a glass of it under my nose. "Or I could get some water if you're feeling faint."

  "I'm not feeling faint," I said, glancing up. He looked worried.

  "Sorry I ran away with your rescue attempt," I said.

  "Once again, you didn't need much rescuing," he said, with a grin. "I don't know why I bother with these useless acts of chivalry."

  "It gave me the chance I was looking for," I said. "And now I know what was bothering me last night. Leaving Mother in the car while I went in to fetch the cake, and then seeing Dad hiding in the tool shed. It was staring us all in the face. I should have realized then how Jake got away with it. He was miles away from here when Mrs. Grover was killed--but so was she. He knew exactly how to manipulate Mother to give himself that cast-iron alibi."