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THE ART OF DETECTION
“Where are you?’ asked my friend. “They need to get their phone checked, wherever you are; this is a lousy connection.”
“I’m in a rowboat in the middle of the river. I’m using a cell phone.”
“I know I’m going to regret asking, but why?”
“Dad’s driving up and down the bank, releasing flocks of numbered milk jugs at intervals. To test the speed and direction of the current and narrow down the sites where Mrs. Grover’s body could have been dumped. I’m keeping a log of exactly where each one was released. I’m out here to record my observations. Scientifically.”
“And what have you observed, so far? Scientifically speaking.”
“That there are getting to be a truly remarkable number of milk jugs bobbing around out here, but unless they start showing a great deal more enthusiasm, none of them are going to make it to the beach anytime this century. Most of them don’t seem to be going anywhere at all.”
“Rather tedious for you.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” I said. It’s amazing how much you can get done even in the middle of the river with a cellular phone. And I brought the wedding invitations so I can keep on with the addressing …”
“This first novel is so clever, funny and original that lots of wannabe authors will throw up their hands in envy.”
—Contra Costa Times
“MURDER WITH PEACOCKS is a very humorous satirical cozy … Readers will quickly understand why Donna Andrews’ debut novel won the 1998 St. Martin’s Malice Domestic Award even as they will want more jocularity starring Meg, Michael, and their kin.”
—The Midwest Book Review
Other Meg Langslow Mysteries By
Donna Andrews
Cockatiels At Seven
The Penguin Who Knew Too Much
No Nest for the Wicket
Owls Well That Ends Well
We’ll Always Have Parrots
Crounching Buzzard. Leaping Loon
Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos
Murder with Puffins
Murder With Peacocks
Donna Andrews
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
MURDER WITH PEACOCKS
Copyright © 1999 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from Owls Well That Ends Well copyright © 2005 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from No Nest for the Wicket copyright © 2006 by Donna Andrews.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-46254
ISBN: 0-312-97063-3
EAN: 978-0-312-97063-5
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / January 1999
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2000
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
20 16 15 14 13 12
Contents
Chapter 1 - Tuesday, May 24
Chapter 2 - Wednesday, May 25
Chapter 3 - Thursday, May 26
Chapter 4 - Friday, May 27
Chapter 5 - Saturday, May 28
Chapter 6 - Sunday, May 29
Chapter 7 - Monday, May 30
Chapter 8 - Tuesday, May 31
Chapter 9 - Wednesday, June 1
Chapter 10 - Thursday, June 2
Chapter 11 - Friday, June 3
Chapter 12 - Saturday, June 4
Chapter 13 - Sunday, June 5
Chapter 14 - Monday, June 6
Chapter 15 - Tuesday, June 7
Chapter 16 - Wednesday, June 8
Chapter 17 - Thursday, June 9
Chapter 18 - Friday, June 10
Chapter 19 - Saturday, June 11
Chapter 20 - Sunday, June 12
Chapter 21 - Monday, June 13
Chapter 22 - Tuesday, June 14
Chapter 23 - Wednesday, June 15
Chapter 24 - Thursday, June 16
Chapter 25 - Friday, June 17
Chapter 26 - Saturday, June 18
Chapter 27 - Sunday, June 19
Chapter 28 - Monday, June 20
Chapter 29 - Tuesday, June 21
Chapter 30 - Wednesday, June 22
Chapter 31 - Thursday, June 23
Chapter 32 - Friday, June 24
Chapter 33 - Saturday, June 25
Chapter 34 - Sunday, June 26
Chapter 35 - Monday, June 27
Chapter 36 - Tuesday, June 28
Chapter 37 - Wednesday, June 29
Chapter 38 - Thursday, June 30
Chapter 39 - Friday, July 1
Chapter 40 - Saturday, July 2
Chapter 41 - Sunday, July 3
Chapter 42 - Monday, July 4
Chapter 43 - Tuesday, July 5
Chapter 44 - Wednesday, July 6
Chapter 45 - Thursday, July 7
Chapter 46 - Friday, July 8
Chapter 47 - Saturday, July 9
Chapter 48 - Sunday, July 10
Chapter 49 - Monday, July 11
Chapter 50 - Tuesday, July 12
Chapter 51 - Wednesday, July 13
Chapter 52 - Thursday, July 14
Chapter 53 - Friday, July 15
Chapter 54 - Saturday, July 16. Eileen’s wedding day
Chapter 55 - Sunday, July 17
Chapter 56 - Monday, July 18
Chapter 57 - Tuesday, July 19
Chapter 58 - Wednesday, July 20
Chapter 59 - Thursday, July 21
Chapter 60 - Friday, July 22
Chapter 61 - Saturday, July 23. Samantha’s wedding day
Chapter 62 - Sunday, July 24
Chapter 63 - Monday, July 25
Chapter 64 - Tuesday, July 26
Chapter 65 - Wednesday, July 27
Chapter 66 - Thursday, July 28
Chapter 67 - Friday, July 29
Chapter 68 - Saturday, July 30. Mother’s wedding day
Tuesday, May 24
I HAD BECOME SO USED TO HYSTERICAL DAWN PHONE CALLS THAT I only muttered one halfhearted oath before answering.
“Peacocks,” a voice said.
“I beg your pardon, you must have the wrong number,” I mumbled. I opened one eye to peer at the clock: it was 6:00 A.M.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Meg,” the voice continued. Ah, I recognized it now. Samantha, my brother, Rob’s, fiancée. “I just called to tell you that we need some peacocks.”
“What for?”
“For the wedding, of course.” Of course. As far as Samantha was concerned, the entire universe revolved around her upcoming wedding, and as maid of honor, I was expected to share her obsession.
“I see,” I said, although actually I didn’t. I suppressed a shudder at the thought of peacocks, roasted with the feathers still on, gracing the buffe
t table. Surely that wasn’t what she had in mind, was it? “What are we going to do with them at the wedding?”
“We’re not going to do anything with them,” Samantha said, impatiently. “They’ll just be there, adding grace and elegance to the occasion. Don’t you remember the weekend before last when we all had dinner with your father? And he was saying what a pity it was that nothing much would be blooming in the yard in August, so there wouldn’t be much color? Well, I just saw a photo in a magazine that had peacocks in it, and they were just about the most darling things you ever saw …”
I let her rattle on while I fumbled over the contents of my bedside table, found my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, flipped to the appropriate page, and wrote “Peacocks” in the clear, firm printing I use when I am not in a very good mood.
“Were you thinking of buying or renting them?” I asked, interrupting Samantha’s oration on the charms of peacocks.
“Well—rent if we can. I’m sure Father would be perfectly happy to buy them if necessary, but I’m not sure what we would do with them in the long run.” I noted “Rent/buy if necessary” after “Peacocks.”
“Right. Peacocks. I’ll see what I can turn up.”
“Wonderful. Oh, Meg, you’re just so wonderful at all this!”
I let her gush for a few more minutes. I wondered, not for the first time, if I should feel sorry for Rob or if he was actually looking forward to listening to her for the rest of his life. And did Rob, who shared my penchant for late hours, realize how much of a morning person Samantha was? Eventually, I managed to cut short her monologue and sign off. I was awake; I might as well get to work.
Muttering “Peacocks!” under my breath, I stumbled through a quick shower, grabbed some coffee, and went into my studio. I flung open all the windows and gazed fondly at my unlit forge and my ironworking tools. My spirits rose.
For about ten seconds. Then the phone rang again.
“What do you think of blue, dear?” my mother asked.
“Good morning, Mother. What do you mean, blue?”
“The color blue, dear.”
“The color blue,” I repeated, unenlightened. I am not at my best before noon.
“Yes, dear,” Mother said, with a touch of impatience.
“What do I think of it?” I asked, baffled. “I think it’s a lovely color. The majority of Americans name blue when asked their favorite color. In Asian cultures—”
“For the living room, dear.”
“Oh. You’re getting something blue for the living room?”
“I’m redoing it, dear. For the wedding, remember? In blue. Or green. But I was really leaning to blue. I was wondering what you thought.”
What I thought? Truthfully? I thought my mother’s idea of redoing the living room for the wedding had been a temporary aberration arising from too much sherry after dinner at an uncle’s house. And incidentally, the wedding in question was not Rob’s and Samantha’s but her own. After the world’s most amiable divorce and five years of so-called single life during which my father happily continued to do all her yard work and run errands for her, my mother had decided to marry a recently widowed neighbor. And I had also agreed to be Mother’s maid of honor. Which, knowing my mother, meant I had more or less agreed to do every lick of work associated with the occasion. Under her exacting supervision, of course.
“What sort of blue?” I asked, buying time. The living room was done entirely in earth tones. Redoing it in blue would involve new drapes, new upholstery, new carpet, new everything. Oh, well, Dad could afford it, I suppose. Only Dad wouldn’t be paying, I reminded myself. What’s-his-name would. Mother’s fiancé. Jake. I had no idea how well or badly off Jake was. Well, presumably Mother did.
“I hadn’t decided, dear. I thought you might have some ideas.”
“Oh. I tell you what,” I said, improvising. “I’ll ask Eileen. She’s the one with the real eye for color. I’ll ask her, and we’ll get some color swatches and we’ll talk about it when I come down.”
“That will be splendid, Meg dear. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work now. See you in a few days.”
I added “Blue” to my list of things to do. I actually managed to put down my coffee and pick up my hammer before the phone rang a third time.
“Oh, Meg, he’s impossible. This is just not going to work.”
The voice belonged to my best friend and business partner, Eileen. She with the eye for colors. The he in question was Steven, since New Year’s Eve her fiancé, at least during the intervals between premarital spats. At the risk of repeating myself, I should add that I was, of course, also Eileen’s maid of honor.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“He doesn’t want to include the Native American herbal purification ceremony in the wedding.”
“Well,” I said, after a pause, “perhaps he feels a little self-conscious about it. Since neither of you is actually Native American.”
“That’s silly. It’s a lovely tradition and makes such an important statement about our commitment to the environment.”
I sighed.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Just one thing … Eileen, what kind of herbs are we talking about here? I mean, we’re not talking anything illegal, are we?”
“Oh, Meg.” Eileen laughed. “Really! I have to go, my clay’s ready.” She hung up, still laughing merrily. I added “Call Steven re herbs” to my list.
I looked around the studio. My tools were there, ready and waiting for me to dive into the ironwork that is both my passion and my livelihood. I knew I really ought to get some work done today. In a few days, I would be back in my hometown for what I was sure would be a summer from hell. But I was already having a hard time concentrating on work. Maybe it was time to throw in the towel and head down to Yorktown.
The phone rang again. I glared at it, willing it to shut up. It ignored me and kept on ringing. I sighed, and picked it up.
Eileen again.
“Oh, Meg, before you go down to Yorktown, could you—”
“I won’t have time to do anything else before I go down to Yorktown; I’m going down there tomorrow.”
“Wonderful! Why don’t you stop by on your way? We have some things to tell you.”
On my way. Yorktown, where my parents and Eileen’s father lived and where all the weddings were taking place, was three hours south of Washington, on the coast. Steven’s farm, where Eileen was now living, was three hours west, in the mountains. I was opening my mouth to ask if she had any idea how inconvenient stopping by was when I suddenly realized: if I went to Steven and Eileen’s, I could force them to make decisions, extract lists and signatures. I would have them in my clutches. This could be useful.
“I’ll be there for supper tomorrow.”
I spent the day putting my life on hold and turning over my studio to the struggling sculptor who’d sublet it for the summer. I went to bed feeling virtuous. I intended to spend the next several days really getting things done for the weddings.
Wednesday, May 25
I WAS HOPING TO GET OUT OF TOWN BY NOON, BUT BY THE TIME I packed everything, fielded another half-dozen phone calls from each of the brides, and ran all the resulting last-minute errands, it was well into the evening rush hour. Needless to say I was late arriving at Steven and Eileen’s. Eileen, bless her heart, didn’t seem to mind. In fact she didn’t even seem to notice.
“Guess who’s here,” Eileen said as she met me at the door wearing a dress of purple tie-dyed velvet, splattered here and there with flour. “Barry!”
“Really,” I said, with considerably less enthusiasm. Ever since December, when I’d broken up with my boyfriend, Jeffrey, various friends and relatives had been trying to set me up with their idea of eligible men. Steven and Eileen’s candidate was Steven’s younger brother, Barry. Barry had taken to the idea immediately. I had not.
“The minute we told him you were coming, he came right up,” Eileen burbled. “Isn’t that sweet?
”
“I really wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why, Meg?” Eileen said, wide-eyed.
“Eileen, we’ve been over this half a dozen times already. You and Steven may think Barry and I are made for each other. I don’t.”
“He’s crazy about you.”
“So what? I don’t happen to like him.”
“I don’t see why not,” Eileen said. “He’s so sensitive. And such a deep thinker, too.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve never heard him put two consecutive sentences together.”
“And so attractive,” Eileen went on, while attempting, in vain, to tidy her flyaway mane and succeeding only in covering it with flour marks.
“Attractive? He’s an overgrown ox,” I said. I could see Eileen bristle. Oops. Not surprisingly, Barry bore a strong fraternal resemblance to Steven. “All right, he’s not as attractive as Steven, but he’s okay if you like his type.” The hulking Neanderthal type. “But he just doesn’t appeal to me.”
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